THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

religious enough to become a voweress, one of those mature women who chose to devote their lives to God in some distant nunnery. Flora was only a beautiful, poorly dowered woman who chose remain unmarried just to annoy him.
    About to tell her to leave him in peace, a murmur rose in the hall. He looked up to find his bruised bride standing in the doorway beside his advisor’s wife, Rachael. Studying his ladywife, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done that she should be foisted upon him. He shrugged. It didn’t matter at present, for his new ladywife appeared more than a wee bit frightened as her gaze swept the crowded hall.
    He made his way toward her. When her gaze made contact with his, she blanched then swayed. He was nay the bonniest of men to be sure, but that was ridiculous, definitely not a good sign that she was again ready to faint at the mere sight of him before one and all.
    “My lady.” He took her cold hand in his to steady her.          
    Beth’s breath caught. Duncan’s calloused hands felt not warm but hot as they swallowed hers.
    And it was true.
    Her ghost was now flesh and blood, tall and gloriously handsome despite his high flush. But how could this be? And who were all these people staring at her? She knew she looked frightful without make-up, but staring bordered on rude. And why were they all dressed for a costume party at dawn?
    With a hand at her waist, Duncan guided her through the throng to the opposite end of the hall. He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to take a seat. With effort, she tore her gaze from the women in their odd headdresses and the bearded men wearing broadswords only to see the very falcon chairs she’d retrieved from the storeroom. Her heart slammed into her ribs.  
    She grasped Duncan’s hot hands with her now frigid ones. Shaking, fearing the answer, she asked, “Where the hell am I?”
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    Anger roiled in Duncan’s belly. He’d suffered through three loveless political marriages and now the house of Stewart had foisted a raving lunatic on him.
    Mutely, he watched as his new wife, muttering and wringing her hands, pace the solar. He understood only a scattering of words, for she spoke her English quickly and with an unfamiliar accent. His efforts to calm her using French and Gael had been for naught. She only shook her head as she continued her frantic muttering and pacing.
    Feeling a strong kinship with the biblical Job and annoyed beyond endurance, he finally bellowed, “Katherine, sit ye!”
    She jumped, blanched, and with mouth agape stared at him. She then took a deep breath and glared back. “I’m Beth.” She tapped her chest. “Beth.”
    “Beth?”
    “Aye.” She crossed the room and tapped his chest. “Duncan.” She tapped her own. “Beth.”
    Ah, she wanted him to call her Beth. Fine, he’d call her rhubarb if would stop her damn muttering and pacing. “Beth.”
    She waved her hands about asking another rapid question, and he shook his head in confusion. Sighing in apparent exasperation, she took his hand and pulled him to the window.
    “Where am I?” She asked the question very slowly—as if she spoke to a bairn—and pointed to the village.
    “Drasmoor.”
    “And this?” She waved a fluttering hand around the room and to the floor.
    They were finally making progress. Perhaps she was not wode—-mad—but merely simple. He could only pray. “Blackstone. I am the MacDougall, yer laird and husband.”
    When her eyes grew huge, he stood straighter. She was obviously impressed, as well she should be. She then mewed, “ ooh ,” in what could only be described as agony and crossed the room. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Confused, he went to her side and lifted her chin to find a disturbing flood of tears. “What ails ye, lass?”
    “What year is this?”
    “Doth not ye ken?” When she shook her head, he sighed. Slowly he told her, “‘Tis the year of our Lord one thousand, four hundred and eight.”
    “How?”
    Aye, how indeed, had life passed so quickly? Not knowing the answer himself, he merely opened his hands and shrugged.
    The simple gesture nearly brought him to his knees. He grabbed the bedpost for support as beads of sweat erupted across his face and icy chills swept his limbs. His innards started to churn. Damn Eleanor and her blade .
    “Duncan?” His new bride’s shaking hand flew to his forehead. “My Lord! What’s wrong?”
    He pushed her