THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

placing her under lock and key in the west wing.”
    After his and his ladywife’s wee talk in the solar, he had ordered the mason to break through two of the storage room walls to make a reasonably spacious prison apartment for her. He wasn’t, after all, an uncaring man. She would live in relative comfort until she or he passed to their heavenly reward. The last one to survive would be declared the winner.
    ~#~
    Beth heaved a sigh staring at the wilting kelp she’d wrapped in bits of twine and hung from the east wing’s storage room rafters. Her foray into the sea—her hope of escaping this archaic world—had been a freezing disaster. Nothing had changed except her body temperature and the condition of her gown. She had to escape. Her ego couldn’t take much more.
    Unlike the compassionate tease Duncan had been in her time, the real Duncan remained distant, as if she were unfit for decent company. Nor could she take much more of Miss “I’m Too Sexy for My Clothes” Flora Campbell hovering about. It hurt for some inexplicable reason seeing Duncan’s gaze rake over the pretty woman. Beth stared again at her kelp.
    Once dried and ground into a fine powder, the kelp—with the aid of oatmeal and a few egg whites—should make a passable face wash. She hoped. She couldn’t continue using the butter and rose petal concoction Rachael had loaned her much longer. Her face would turn into zit-central by week’s end and without make-up...
    She shuddered and headed toward the great hall in search of Rachael.
    Isaac’s petite wife had offered to help her alter the third wife’s gowns. The project held little appeal—-no one in their right mind wanted to wear a dead madwoman’s castoffs, but she needed clothing and wife number three’s gowns were the only ones that came close to fitting.
    Beth found the hall crowded with anxious, milling clansmen. Finally finding Rachael among the throng, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
    “Tis the Laird. He collapsed in the bailey.”
    Fear churned in Beth’s belly as she glanced at the clansmen, from one concerned expression to another. “Where is he? I want to see him.”
    Rachael patted Beth’s arm. “Nay to fash, madame .”
    “I want to see Duncan, now .”
    Rachael heaved a sigh. “As ye luste.”
    On the third floor, Rachael led Beth to a familiar looking, barrel-chested man standing before a closed door. He’d been introduced to her as Duncan’s second in command. Rachael whispered to him and he shook his head.
    He bowed toward Beth. “My lady.”
    “Good day. I would like to see my husband.”
    He crossed his arms. “Nay, my lady, ye canna.” What followed she could only guess at, but his meaning was clear; he wasn’t about to move aside.
    She’d dealt with his kind in the past at the St. Regis and assumed a haughty stance and tone. “What is your name?”
    His face flushed and his scowled deepened. The first time she’d seen him—-the night Duncan had pulled her from the coach—his hands and clothing had been covered in blood. It was painfully apparent the man was not used to being challenged. Particularly, by a woman.
    “Angus MacDougall, my lady.”
    “Step aside, Mr. MacDougall. I will see my husband. Now .”
    “Nay. Ye are not welcome, so sayith yer husband and yon doctor.”
    Doctor? Beth’s heart tripped with foreboding. Men of Duncan’s ilk only resorted to doctors when facing death’s door. She glared at Angus and reached for the door latch.
    His bulk shifted to block her way and his right hand settled on the hilt of his dirk. “ Nay , lady. I luste ye take leave with Rachael. The MacDougall will spake with ye when he is wont.”
    So, the man wanted her gone. Rachael apparently did, too. She kept tugging at Beth’s arm. Well, she had news for both of them. She was going in. The man lying on the other side of the door Angus so effectively blocked was her damn husband !
    Beth jerked her arm free of Rachael and stared at the burly Scot. Since anger and haughtiness hadn’t worked, she had to change tactics.
    She stepped closer and patted the Angus’s massive chest. “We both want what is best for Duncan, don’t we?” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. He nodded. “Good. I’m Duncan’s wife and I’m worried. In order to help him, I must know what ails him. And I can’t do that from this side of the door.” She absently brushed a few crumbs from his tunic. “Do you understand?” He nodded. “Grand, then please step