With a grunt, Millie pulled her tattered shawl tighter. “Now. What’s your business with me?”

Evie swallowed past the thickness in her throat and plunged ahead. “The fates have been kind enough to give me a second chance at marriage.”

Millie’s brows winged high. “Indeed. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ll be leaving for Scotland.” She swallowed again, the lump back. “Shall be married before the week is out.”

“Congratulations.” Millie rose and opened the grate to add more coals from her dwindling supply.

“Yes, but I find myself nervous about . . . er, the wedding night . . .”

Millie turned, a frown marring the tired lines of her face. “You’ve been with a man before. What’s to be nervous about?”

Heat licked Evie’s cheeks. “Yes, that was some time ago. I was scarcely a woman.”

“That bad, huh?”

Her cheeks burned hotter. “No,” she hastened to say. “I was merely young. Inexperienced. Really, it’s all a . . . blur—”

“Isn’t the first time usually?”

“I would like for it to be better . . . er, more memorable.” She choked on the words. “I want to appear—”not a virgin“—natural with the entire process.”

“I see.” Millie stared at her intently, and Evie fought not to fidget.

To fill the sagging silence, she asked, “Do you have any tips on how I might come across as more proficient?” She wet her lips. “How I might please him?”

So that he doesn’t notice how woefully inept I am and reach the obvious conclusion?

Evie bit her lip and waited.

Millie’s lips twitched. “Aye, I’ve a tip or two that always worked for me.” She dropped back on the sofa, flinging her arms along the back. “They might offend your fine sensibilities, though.”

Evie shook her head. “Please speak plainly. I’m ready.”

“Are you now?”

Evie’s thoughts flew to the man sleeping in her bed. Was she ready?

For marriage?

For him?

She fidgeted on the sofa, suddenly restless. “Yes.” She inhaled deeply through her nose. “Please proceed.”

Well over an hour later, Evie departed Millie Anderson’s room with her cheeks afire and a low throb pulsing in her belly.

She had a difficult time accepting everything the woman imparted as fact. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on the way she viewed it—Millie’s information included detailed descriptions, which resulted in vivid images permanently etched in her mind. Scandalous images of Evie and Lockhart acting out every one of the ribald scenarios described.

Now that she was informed, could she behave so boldly? Could she perform the intimacies Millie had described? To convince Lockhart of her experience, did she have any choice?

On the bottom floor, stalls that smelled like they hadn’t been cleaned in over a year lined the walls. Pressing a hand to her nose, she hurried forward, jerking to a halt when the burly blacksmith stepped in her path.

Wiping his hands on his stained leather apron, he pressed close. “Have a nice talk with Millie, Missus?” His dark eyes skimmed her figure insolently.

“Quite so.” She lifted her chin, scanning him distastefully and thinking of poor Millie crushed beneath his sweaty hulking form. At that thought, she fished the coin from her reticule that Millie had refused to accept. “See that Miss Anderson has fresh coal supplied to her room every day.”

With narrowed eyes, he snatched the coin.

“And you’ll deliver just coal . . . not your”—she wrinkled her nose—”unwelcome person on her.”

His fleshy lip curled over stained teeth. “What do you care happens to some tart?”

Staring at the blacksmith’s red, bulbous face, she simply couldn’t stomach the thought of Millie suffering his attentions another day. “If she cannot pay your rent, see me,” she ground out. She’d worry about explaining that expense to her husband later.

“The arrangement I have with Millie suits me well enough.”

Pig. “If you refuse my money, I’m sure we can find Miss Anderson quarters elsewhere. Perhaps your wife might recommend somewhere else?”

“Very well,” he bit out, his ruddy face burning red.

Evie smiled brightly, suddenly feeling lighter inside. “Thank you. Good day.” She pulled her shawl tight and started toward home. For the first time, the future did not loom quite so grimly. She could manage this—manage her husband.

Wrong or not, she permitted herself to feel hope. What were a few months if she and her loved ones gained lifelong security?

Chapter 10

Lockhart joined Evie for a private dinner that evening. It was Mrs. Murdoch’s idea. Dinner was usually a noisy, boisterous affair with her son leading the charge. They all dined at one table—Aunt Gertie, the Murdochs, Amy, and Nicholas.

She’d been unable to pay the Murdochs or Amy a proper wage for nearly a year. They remained only out of love and goodwill. Considering that, Evie refused to be waited upon. And yet tonight, Mrs. Murdoch insisted on serving, claiming the evening required more dignity. She even arranged for Amy to take Nicholas to bed early . . . leaving Evie to dine alone with her future husband.

He sat across from her, stiff with military bearing. His firm lips fell hard and unsmiling as he sat rigidly in his chair. An eternal soldier . . . or did he simply regret his proposal? She didn’t know—didn’t know him enough to hazard a guess.

With her dinner tasteless in her mouth, she chewed and tried not to fret over the future. The entire matter was decided. They would leave the day after tomorrow. Lockhart wanted to be off sooner, but he didn’t stand a chance against the intractable Mrs. Murdoch. According to the housekeeper, he would be fit for travel only then. No one suggested calling Sheffield back for his expert opinion on the matter.

It was settled. She would be a married woman before the week was out. Evie reached for her small glass of sherry and downed it in a swift gulp. Mrs. Murdoch’s eyes widened from where she stood sentinel along the paneled wall.

Her future husband lifted an arrogant brow at her.

“How is the sole?” The sound of her voice breaking the silence almost startled her.

He looked up. “Fine. Delicious.”

She nodded, glad for that at least. Mrs. Murdoch had worked a small miracle, trading some of her special drawing salve for fresh fish in the village. Otherwise the night’s fare would likely have been stew. Mrs. Murdoch knew how to stretch out a broth.

He studied her in that intense, almost frightening way. Her stare fell to his mouth. Full, well-carved lips for a man. A man that seemed incapable of smiling. He was handsome, true, but so very stoic. Her mind wandered to her conversation with Millie.

Would he even want her to put her lips . . .

She shook free of the scandalous thought.

He wanted her in his bed. He had admitted as much. She shivered, pressing a hand to an overly warm cheek. No, needed. He needed her in his bed. He needed an heir. He’d said nothing of wanting her. There was a distinction, and she would do well to remember that. Even if he entranced her and made her feel warm in places she never knew could feel, she must keep their marriage in proper perspective.

At that moment Nicholas broke into the room in his nightshirt, bare feet flying, an apologetic Amy fast on his heels. Clambering onto her lap, indifferent to the dishes he sent rattling with his flailing elbows, he demanded his good night kiss.

With Lockhart watching in brooding silence, Evie rained kisses on his sweet little face, feathering his shock of dark hair off his brow. “Now off to bed with you.”

Nicholas paused before returning to Amy, eyes landing on Lockhart with a curious intensity. “Are you going to marry my mother?”

Evie sucked in a breath and shot a questioning look to Amy. Her friend shrugged.

She should have been prepared for this. Nicholas was a precocious child, and earlier today she had explained to him that she would be leaving for a short time and that when she returned, she would be married. Still, Evie had not thought he’d fully understood. Coward that she was, she judged it best to leave him with only a vague sense of the changes to come. She did not wish to rip away all that was comfortable and familiar. At least not too suddenly.

Her husband-to-be stared solemnly at her son. “Yes, Nicholas. I am.”

“Will you be my father then?”

She blinked. Such an innocent question. Yet to hear it from her child’s lips, she felt as if she had been struck a blow. Had he wanted a father so very much then?

“Yes,” Lockhart said again, his voice solid and firm.

She closed her eyes, grateful for the answer, for the unflinching promise that gleamed in his gaze.

“Would you like that?” he added.

Nicholas cocked his head, clearly considering. “I don’t know. Will you take me fishing?”

“If you like.”

Nicholas nodded fiercely. “Very much. Mr. Murdoch takes me fishing, but I’ve never fished with a father before.”

A breath shuddered from her.

Satisfied, Nicholas moved toward Amy, stopping at the last moment to rush back toward Lockhart. Without invitation, he climbed up into his lap and pressed his little mouth to his cheek. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Lockhart returned, his lips a little softer now, almost bending into a smile. His eyes had changed as well, glowing softly as he watched Nicholas hop down and depart the dining room.

Alone with him again save for Mrs. Murdoch, Evie stared down at the buttery peas on her plate. She chased a glistening pearl onion slowly with her fork, focusing on suppressing the hot sob that rose in her throat.

Had she been a fool all this time, convincing herself that Nicholas didn’t need a father? That he didn’t want one? That he would never feel the lack?

She gave her head a small, violent shake. Not even five years old, but he already understood that a father had been missing from his life.

Any lingering doubts fled. She settled her gaze on Spencer Lockhart. Nicholas needed this man. It was enough. Enough that her son needed him.

Even if she did not. Even if she could not permit herself to feel anything more than gratitude toward him. The loyalty a wife felt toward her husband.

She could not afford to need him, and could not risk more than she already had. She could not risk her heart.

After dinner, Evie walked the garden alone, her thoughts on the man occupying her bedchamber for the night. He had tried to give her back her room, but she’d refused and taken the smaller guest room, along with its drafts, for herself. He was already healing from an arrow wound; she would not have him catch ague.

She inhaled the chill night air and stared out at the neat rows of her barren vegetable garden. No crows in sight. Her lips twitched. Aunt Gertie would be pleased.

She would miss this place. She had felt safe here during the last years. After Barbados, she had so badly needed to feel safe. And purposeful. The thought of leaving, even for a short while, made her feel like a child preparing to give up a favored blanket. Lengthening her strides, she chafed her arms against the brisk air.

Soon. Soon, she would be back. Married, yes, but otherwise unchanged. Well, perhaps with child if Lockhart achieved his goal. Her heart tightened, not liking the notion of becoming some man’s broodmare. Shaking off the vile comparison, she reminded herself that she was being more than compensated. Lifelong security for Nicholas and herself—for all her dependents—was no small matter.

But where was the love? Desire and affection between two people?

An image of Lockhart’s hands filled her mind. She saw them so clearly—broad-palmed and masculine, a light sprinkling of hair at the wiry wrists. They had fixated her at dinner. Her belly fluttered at the memory . . . at the prospect of those hands moving languidly over her body.