THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

examined his long, well- shaped fingers and heavy calluses. With it he had brought her to the heights of ecstasy and the pits of despair. Whether she chose to stay or not, he had forever changed her view of life.
    “Duncan, I honestly believe everything happens for a reason. I could have drowned in my time, but didn’t. I could have died in that coach, but was spared.” She didn’t add he could have severed her head just moments ago, too. He had, after all, apologized and was upset enough.
    She took a deep breath. “I believe I’m here to give you an heir.”
     
     
     
    Chapter 23
     
    Without warning, Flora began walking along Oban’s rutted roads at a fierce pace. Rachael growled as she tried to keep up, doggedly dodging harried wives, venders, dogs, and waste along the town’s sodden ways.
    To her relief Flora finally slowed before the market stalls. When Flora came to a full stop before a woman selling flasks of perfumed oil, Rachael, gasping, sent a thankful prayer to heaven. Flora started negotiating with the vender and Rachel relaxed, her attention drifting to the next cart overflowing with fresh greens.
    She finally held up a nice clump of watercress to ask Flora’s opinion and found her gone.
    Rachael’s panic quickly shifted to aggravation. How Flora had slipped away unnoticed mattered naught at this point. She was gone. Finding her without asking their guards for help—for they could not know of Duncan and Isaac’s suspicions—would take precious time from her shopping. Oban might not be London or even Glasgow, but it did have merchants and peddlers on market day that she normally had no access to in her little corner of the world.
    Teeth gritted, Rachael cursed Flora, lifted her skirts and raced along the rutted roadway fronting the loch. Here she could no longer wear her stylish French pattens—her high wooden overshoes to keep her feet dry and her hems clean—for fear of twisting an ankle. Stepping into a puddle, she cursed Flora once again.
    She peeked in every window and doorway she could find. Not seeing so much as a glimpse of her wayward charge in the obvious places, Rachael began a methodical search of all the mews and stables.
    Thirty minutes later, annoyed beyond words and desperately thirsty, she entered a public house and heaved a sigh of relief. There sat Flora in a dark corner across from a man Rachael didn’t recognize.
    “‘Tis here ye be!” Out of breath, Rachael didn’t remark on Flora’s startled expression but wiggled in beside her on the bench. She caught the tavern maid’s attention as she set her basket of greens at her feet.
    She smiled at Flora and the pox-marred man across the table. After waiting a respectful amount of time for an introduction and receiving none, she said to the man, “I am Madame Silverstein, and you be...?”
    “Richard of Oban.”
    “‘Tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.” The tavern lass appeared at her elbow. She ordered a tankard of ale and wondered why the man neglected to mention a surname. She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with her handkerchief. “Flora hasna mentioned that she has been keeping company with a gentleman.” She elbowed her charge playfully. “Naughty girl.” To the man she asked, “So how did ye come to court our full fair and fetish friend?”
    He turned scarlet at Rachael’s question and well he should, she thought. From the sour odor wafting across the table, Rachael could only deduce he’d not bathed since her son, Jacob, had been born. Too, half the man’s teeth had hied off with most of his auburn hair, no doubt in an effort to escape the stench she now labored under. What remained had a decidedly yellow cast.
    “I met Mistress Campbell...” He blinked and brought his tankard to his lips, apparently seeking the answer to her question on the pewter bottom.
    “If ye must know,” Flora interjected, not quite masking her annoyance, “I commissioned Richard to make our liege and lady a marriage gift.”
    “Ah.” Rachael waited expectantly. When nothing materialized she asked, “May I see it?”
    Flora heaved a resigned sigh as she delved into her pocket and pulled out a fist-sized packet. “‘Tis a small token.” She uncovered a brass enseignes—-broach—with two doves carved into it.
    “‘Tis lovely! What fine craftsmanship.”
    Thank heaven, Flora thought. She’d purchased the piece from a peddler only a week ago in the event she got caught with the odious man