She paused a moment, wondering if she should knock. Nonsense, this was her chamber, and no one should be there. She reached for the doorlatch and heard a moan. She snatched her hand back. Was the castle haunted? More nonsense. It was just the wind soughing around the castle towers. Perhaps someone had left a window uncovered.

She grasped the latch firmly and opened the door. Striding into the room, she set the lantern on a nearby table and noted the fire burning in the hearth—not just coals. Despite her orders, someone had made up the fire. She would thank them in the morning. She began to take down her hair and remove her clothing, placing everything on a chest set against the wall close by the hearth. She looked for her baggage but saw nothing familiar. When she was down to her shift she turned to the bed, all the curtains were pulled. Perhaps to keep the ticking warm from hot bricks or a warming pan. She really must thank the staff but instruct them that if she said not to do a thing, they would not do it.

As she approached, the curtains moved, yet she felt no current of air. What in the world was going on in her chamber?

She drew the cloth aside, the rings rattling on the upper bar that held them.

A man lifted his head. “Who are you?”

She peered at him. I should have kept the lantern. He looked something like her husband as she remembered him, though far more disheveled and very naked—at least what she could see of him. Unaccountably her nipples pebbled, scraped against the loose linen of her shift and sent shivers coursing through her body. Really Castle Trossachs was entirely too drafty, she would see to repairs as soon as possible.

“I am Countess MacTavish.”

“My wife?” He grinned at her with straight white teeth set between full lips. Blond hair wreathed his face in wild disarray. Blue eyes devoured every inch of her as he looked her up and down. “Nay, it’s not possible. Craigdon sent word, she’d not arrive before Vespers today at the earliest and it is not yet Prime.

“I insisted, Sir Craigdon push on. I’d no wish to spend another night on the ground in the snow.”

“You really are my wife?” Astonishment chased the grin from his face, and his lake blue eyes grew wide.

“Indeed sir. Now . . .”

“You hear that lassies, my wife is here.”

The blankets lifted as he spoke, and three feminine faces stared out at her.

“Y’. . . yo . . . you’re fornicating. In my bed!”

The earl’s brow wrinkled then smoothed. He hiccoughed drunkenly, and his grin returned. “Well, to be precise it is my bed, and most of the fornicating’s over, but we can start again if you like.”

The odor of whiskey wafted toward her as he spoke. He puffed out his very fine chest, as if he’d invited her to a ball at the royal court. Prideful, and not a hint of guilt or remorse for so mortal a sin. No wonder he’s called Wild Iver. “No man nor beast I know of would invite a mate to join in copulating with other females. It is a heathenish practice fit for naught but the devil’s disciples.”

She’d known of his profligate reputation, and during the few days he’d spent at her home last June, she’d seen for herself his careless catering to selfish, fleshly needs.

She frowned at the women staring wide-eyed at the conversation between the earl and his lawful wife. “Get out you sluts. Get out now. If you value your hides, you’ll go to the chapel where I’ll find you in the morning on your knees praying God’s forgiveness for your adultery.”

The women scrambled from the bed and snatched up some clothing to cover their bodies as they fled.

“Now, Keeva, there’s no cause to get upset.”

So, he had not figured out yet she’d replaced Keeva in the proxy ceremony that sealed their wedded vows. She’d sent copies of the proxy documents ahead so he would know to whom he was legally wed and they could discuss the circumstances like reasonable adults. Even now, he might have known she was not Keeva, had the light not been too poor for him to see her hair was not red but raven’s wing black. Now was probably not’ the best time to enlighten him. “You have not seen anything, if you think I’m upset now. Get out of my bed. I wish to sleep.”

His gaze narrowed. “This is my bed, and I’ll not be leaving it until I wish. However, you must join me, since you sent my lasses away.” He rose and reached for her.

Bridghe stepped back, but his arms were very long, and he’d risen up on his knees. The blanket fell revealing that he was entirely naked, and she stared at . . . at . . . . Then his hand grasped her wrist. He hauled her onto the bed, clasped one arm around her waist and pulled her so close their bodies touched from breast to knee. His other hand found her face, caressing her cheek until she looked up at him. Then he kissed her, before she could protest or even ask his intent.