THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

wander the halls in the tissue thin nightgown someone—she hoped it had been a woman—put on her, she looked for her clothes. Not finding her jeans or sweater, she donned a green silk sleeveless cloak.
    She peeked into the hall and heard someone stirring below.
    Her unease only grew as she reached the third level. The floor plan of this keep was identical to hers, but the décor wasn’t.
    This castle hadn’t been modernized. Oil sconces lined the walls and brittle rushes crunched under foot. The owner had to be a purest. Wondering if the owner had opened his home to tourists—-which would explain why the place looked like an armory—-she turned a corner and collided with a small, dark-haired woman of about thirty years dressed in a period costume.
    “I’m so sorry.” Beth steadied the startled woman carrying a mountain of cloth. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”
    “Um..., ” The woman, her dark eyes growing round, looked about helplessly.
    Beth, deciding the woman had to be new here as well, gave the petite woman’s arm a pat. “Never mind. I’ll find it myself.” As she turned to go, the woman tugged Beth’s sleeve and pointed in the direction she’d just come from. Great. She’d managed to pass the bathroom.
    Following the woman, Beth wondered how far from home she’d landed. Would someone be available to give her a lift back to Drasmoor right away? The Silversteins were probably having a fit thinking she’d drowned. She needed to call them. Surely her host had a phone for emergencies, if nothing else.  
    Arriving back in the solar, Beth groaned. If she didn’t find the bathroom soon, she’d explode.
    The woman, murmuring in French, held out the bundle of clothing. Beth smiled as best she could. “Miss, I need to find a bathroom. Now.” She placed a hand on her lower belly and started to jig. The woman’s face lit with understanding.
    The lady laughed. “ Ah, oui, oui, madame .”
    “Yes, I have to wee wee, as soon as humanely possible, if you don’t mind.”
    To Beth’s astonishment, the woman reached under the bed and pulled out a chamber pot.
    “Ah.” Apparently, her host not only turned his back on electricity but on indoor plumbing, as well. Perhaps this castle was a museum. There were a plethora of them listed on maps and in tourist guidebooks. She took the crazed pot from her hostess’s hand. When in Rome...
    ~#~
    Duncan, having no appetite, pushed his still full trencher away. He’d not slept, being sore and fevered, and now felt far worse. Adding to his misery, he’d peeked into the solar late last night to be sure his bride still breathed and been shocked by her state. Not only was the woman bruised and battered, she was as plain as porridge. How he would garner the enthusiasm to bed the woman was beyond knowing. But it had to be done—and soon—if he wanted to keep all he’d slaved over.
    “Duncan, why so glum?”
    He looked up to find Flora Campbell, his first wife’s sister, at his elbow. As usual she looked the vision of womanhood draped in a vivid blue damask cotehardie that enhanced the tone of her milk white skin. Her deep chestnut eyes laughed at him—danced above a perfectly bowed grin. “Where is thy fair new lady?”
    Flora had no doubt heard all that had transpired last night, right down to the finest details about his new wife’s appearance. Having little patience for Flora’s taunting humor on the best of days, he felt the sudden urge to wipe the smug expression from her face with the back of his hand. “Good morn, Flora.”
    “Can I offer ye something else?” She leaned forward—giving him a clear view down her décolleté—and tipped his trencher. “Ye apparently have no appetite for what ye’ve been given.”
    As always, Flora wielded her tongue like a double-edged claymore. If ye took offense, she’d claim ye’d misconstrued her meaning. And if a willing man waylaid her after she’d flirted outrageously, she acted the wounded party. Lord knew he’d broken up many a fight after a night’s mead had loosened his men’s inhibitions—and her tongue—to pay any heed to her beauty. Which, according to Angus, was reason enough for her taunting him.
    Duncan had put forth five good men—not close friends—in the hopes of marrying her off, but to no avail. Regrettably, Flora was not a domina —a wealthy widow entitled to one third of her husband’s estate, so he’d not been able tempt a greedy man with land. Nor was she