Where, one had to wonder, did the sheep show their spots? Never mind that Michael had never heard of a sheep contracting spotted fever, or any other farm animal for that matter. They weren’t to worry, she assured them, she’d be back soon, and she promised to bring down some of Cook’s splendid raspberry jam, which, as they all knew, was unmatched by any confection in London. – -from Helen Stirling to her son, the Earl of Kilmartin, two years and four months after his departure for Indiaįrancesca had always been a rather good liar, and, Michael reflected as he read the short letter she’d left for Helen and Janet, she was even better when she could avoid face-to-face contact and do it in writing.Īn emergency had arisen at Kilmartin, Francesca had written, describing the outbreak of spotted fever among the sheep in admirable detail, and it required her immediate attention. We all miss you, and you do have responsibilities that cannot be fulfilled from abroad. … I am pleased that you are thriving in India, but I do wish you would consider returning home. She ran to her bedroom, and then the next day she ran to her mother.Īnd then the day after that, she ran all the way to Scotland. The words came faster, but not in greater numbers. His chin was dipped, and his face was slightly turned, but he was still staring at her, his eyes searing and intense. She didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t not do it. “No,” she said, and she wrenched herself free. “Francesca,” he murmured, his lips trailing along her cheek to her ear. His fingers caressed her shoulder, slid down her arm, and then over to her breast.īut Michael was too far gone to notice he cupped her, moaning audibly as he squeezed.

His hand slid up her back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

When he was wicked