Not that his magnificent physical presence was all she appreciated about him, though his taut, sweaty maleness was a shock indeed to her body. But more than that, more than his roguish appeal, and even more than what she liked to think of as his unexpected moments of thoughtfulness, she’d been taken aback by just how bright Aidan was.

And it wasn’t just that he knew about farms and could speak with authority on the tending of sheep—though how reassuring it was to have a man speak with confidence on things about which she felt so at sea. It was that he was not merely world-wise, but quick too, with a sharp wit and ready understanding. It was clear in his words, in the way he expressed his thoughts.

He was a torch that burned brightly, but crudely yet, like a great, unruly blast of flame, his mind ablaze with opinions and questions that, though he didn’t always give them voice, she could read in his eyes.

She’d spent the past hour dithering about what excuse she could devise that’d bring her out of the house to see him down at the pasture. As she dabbed a fine sheen of sweat from her brow, it hit her. It was an unusually warm day, with no wind to cool the bright sun, and the man would be thirsty.

The shade of their tiny cottage had cooled the morning’s milk, and before she could change her mind, she filled their best pewter cup and set out to find him.

The sight of him stole her breath, as it always did. Stole her breath, and broke her heart. He hauled the heavy rocks with such ease, placing them with the skill of experience, and the overly masculine display set her heart tripping. But it was heartbreaking too, to think how he’d come by that experience, how he’d earned the thick cut of those muscles on his arms and torso.

He must’ve sensed her there, standing across the glen, because he looked up. Shading his eyes, he gave her a mute nod. Even from the distance, she saw the exertion writ plain on his body.

The day was uncharacteristically clear, with no clouds to shield the sun. Aidan wore his plaid, which must’ve felt like a blanket around him, and his linen shirt was soaked through with sweat.

He nestled a stone into place, and using a sleeve to wipe his brow, he came and met her halfway. She watched his stride, so powerful and sure. Was this how he’d looked aboard ship? She imagined his mouth curling into a cocky grin. He’d call out to his men, and with a nimble leap, would race up the rigging as graceful as a cat.

She blinked hard to clear the image from her head.

As he got closer, she saw he really was soaked through with sweat. Even so, he refused to take his shirt off like other farmhands she’d seen.

The tropics had turned him a burnished brown. She’d tried and not been able to find any end to that tanned skin through the V of his collar. Did that mean he’d shucked his shirt while he worked?

And yet here he was, the fringe of his brown hair slicked black with sweat, and he hadn’t even pushed up his sleeves. Why would he choose to stay covered in such heat?

Was it because he was branded? She’d heard rumors he had been, and fretted over where the mark might be and what it might look like. Were they initials? An image? Was it on his buttocks, or chest, or back? The thought of him undergoing such suffering chilled her.

The cup was warming in her hand, and she cursed her foolishness. She’d brought him milk when what he really needed was water, and an entire bucketful at that.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, reaching her.

“You are?” Her heart swooned.

He greeted her with a kiss. “I can’t make it through the day without you … the sight of you, like a cool stream, refreshes me.”

She twined bold fingers through his hair. “And yet, you enflame me. You, a fire which cannot be doused.”

“I’ve been mucking through sheep shit all day. The beasts need to spread out more. How far does your pasture reach?” He pointed away from their cottage into the distance. “Does your father own just the glen, or does he have rights to that hillside beyond?”

“Oh …” She followed his line of sight. “He … I … we maintain the house, down across the glen, just to the base of the hill.”

He scowled. “It’s narrow, your valley.”

She needed no reminders of how little she claimed in this world. “I know.”

He turned to get back to work. Leaving too soon.

“I have milk,” she blurted. She stepped up behind him, and he almost knocked into her as he spun back around.

He stared at her cup as though she’d offered a mug of hemlock tea. Her cheeks burned hot, realizing she was a naive fool. A dangerous man like him—he was nearly a pirate, after all—was surely only interested in harder drink, like whiskey or rumbullion.

“It’s just I thought you must be thirsty. In this heat.” Backing away from him, she stumbled on a clump of dirt, spilling some of the milk onto her hand.

Elspeth recovered her footing and masked her clumsiness by spinning and heading straight for the old paddock. It had the side benefit of concealing her furiously blushing face as she wiped spilled milk onto her skirts.

She felt him follow her, making her intensely conscious of her every move. They kept a barrel of rainwater outside the gate, and she busily retrieved the dipper. “We also have water. Unless you don’t drink water.”

He reached beyond her, grabbing the dipper from her hand. “I drink water like any other man.”

His voice had been brusque. Was he annoyed? Simply thirsty? She had no way to know.

She watched his throat work as he guzzled the water. It spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto his chest. Damp bloomed across his shirt, making it translucent. The fabric stuck to him, and she couldn’t pull her eyes from the carved muscle of his torso and the dark halo of hair leading from his chest down the line of his belly.

When he came up for air, their gazes caught. He looked like a wild man, a true rogue, dirty and panting, his sweaty hair skewed every which way. She’d never seen a more handsome man. Remembering herself, she closed her mouth and swallowed hard.

“That’s better,” he said.

For a split second, she thought he referred to the way she’d been gaping like a fish, but then realized he was merely referring to the drink. “Yes. It’s water. I mean, rainwater. It’s fresh rainwater.” She cringed.

Something softened on his face, and pointing at the cup in her hand, he asked, “Might I really try that?”

“Oh.” Nodding eagerly, she held out her cup. “Aye.”

“I don’t remember the last time I tasted milk. As a boy, I didn’t think of it. Until I couldn’t have it.” As he reached, his sleeve inched up to reveal a wide braid of skin, paler and smoother than the rest, wrapping around his wrist like a bracelet.

Or a shackle. She stifled her gasp with a fake cough.

Aidan was scarred. Of course he was. That was why he never pushed up his sleeves. What other atrocities did that thin layer of linen hide?

He brought the milk to his lips and, shutting his eyes, drank slowly, savoring it like he hadn’t the water. Finishing, his eyes opened, and he met hers with a smile. “All those years, all those sheep, and never a cup of milk.”

Elspeth’s heart had been cracking since she’d first laid eyes on him, but those words marked the moment it broke for good. The sight of him relishing such a simple pleasure had her mourning the childhood he’d never known. One like hers, with ladlefuls of fresh milk, and innocently snatched apples, and rare sunny days in the glen, narrow though it may be.

She vowed to steal him an apple the first chance she got.

“Do they have apples?” she asked abruptly. “In the Indies, I mean. Did you eat apples?”

He gave her a puzzled look, but didn’t seem annoyed, and that struck her as a small triumph. “No, no apples. Cornmeal boiled with sheep scraps, salt bread, salt meat … not an apple in sight.”

She ached for the child he’d been, living on cured meats and scraps. Glimpsing his scar had made her blood run cold. Had he been shackled as a child? Had he been in and out of shackles his whole life?

She believed Aidan hid other scars, on both body and soul. And she now believed the hideous rumor must be true, that he concealed a brand somewhere on his body. Her eyes inadvertently skimmed his shirt. She knew she’d never be able to discern it through his clothing, but still she couldn’t tear her eyes away, straining to see altered texture or color through the fabric, scanning his chest, down his arms, to the flat sheen of scar at his wrist.

She looked up and blanched.

Aidan had noticed her scrutiny and was staring at her through slitted eyes. Stiffening, he tugged his sleeve back over his wrist. “Enough of this,” he snapped. “It’s time to work.”

He left her standing there, an empty cup in her hand and an ache in her soul.

Just when he’d been enjoying himself, enjoying the Scottish air in his lungs and home soil beneath his feet, living the fantasy of an honest day’s work with an honest woman by his side, he’d looked up to find her staring at the cursed scar on his wrist. Staring at him as though he were a monkey in a cage.

Sitting shrouded in darkness at the edge of his bed, he studied his wrist, the guttering candle casting yellow light on the slick band of skin. Shackles. It was merely one of the many marks that others had carved upon him, like dogs pissing on their territory. He’d been mutilated, swaths of his skin buckled and gnarled into ribbons of scars. From shackles on wrists and ankles. The whip at his back. And the brand on his forearm that would forever announce him the property of Wellcome Plantation.

Elspeth’s eyes had gone wide when she’d seen his wrist. If she flinched so at that, how would she react to his brand? How she’d pale. It would disgust her, terrify her. Shock her even more than she was already.

Tugging up his sleeve, he glared at the crudely shaped letters. WP.

His tutor seemed too good to be true. Meek and nervous, thoughtful and kind. Such a woman would probably be too frightened, too repulsed even to touch him.

She’d touched him once, with a light hand on his, guiding his quill. But what would it feel like to have her hands on his body? His chest ached to imagine it.