Then there was the intrepid Ramsay Logan. Nobody had to convince Jillian the black-clad Ramsay was dangerous. He dripped peril from every pore.

Grimm Roderick was another matter. He would certainly not push for her hand, but his simple presence was bad enough. He was a constant reminder of the most painful and humiliating days of her life.

Three barbarians who had been hand-selected by her own da to seduce and marry her lurked in her home. What was she going to do? Although it appealed to her immensely, fleeing didn’t make much sense. They’d only come after her, and she doubted she’d ever make it to one of her brother’s homes before Hatchard’s men caught up. Besides, she brooded, she would not leave her home just to get away from him.

How could her parents do this to her? Worse yet, how could she ever go downstairs again? Not only had two of the men seen her without a stitch of clothing on, they were obviously planning to pluck the overripe, or so her parents had concluded without so much as soliciting her opinion, berry of her virginity. Jillian squeezed her knees together protectively, dropped her head in her lap, and decided things couldn’t get much worse.

It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’ nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat. She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing was amiss.

Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps if she met up with one of the oversized brutes the combination of darkness and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes on yet.

Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit, winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?

As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon, lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of whisky and there’s not a maid about.”

Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from her chambers?

“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she said coolly.

“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.

“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.

“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing has changed.”

Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good looks can suffer.”

Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.

“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.

“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am not an old maid.”