Hallelujah.

That’s it, she silently willed. Go on, Fluffy. That’s a girl. It’s been a long, lonely winter under that rock. But you’re ready now.

A blue claw appeared.

Then receded.

Shameless tease.

“Stop being so missish.”

At last, the female’s full head came into view as she rose from her hiding place.

And then someone rapped at the door. “Miss Gracechurch?”

That was the end of that.

With a blub-­blub-­blub, Fluffy disappeared as quickly as she’d emerged. Back under her rock.

Drat.

“What is it, Becky?” Maddie called. “Is my aunt ill?”

If she’d been disturbed in her studio, someone must be ill. The servants knew not to interrupt her when she was working.

“No one’s ill, miss. But there’s a caller for you.”

“A caller? Now that’s a surprise.”

For an on-­the-­shelf Englishwoman residing in the barren wilds of the Scottish Highlands, callers were always a surprise.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It’s a man.”

A man.

Now Maddie was more than surprised. She was positively shocked.

She pushed aside her ruined dragonfly illustration and stood to peer out the window. No luck. She’d chosen this tower room for its breathtaking view of the rugged green hills and the glassy loch settled like a mirror shard between them. It offered no useful vantage of the gate or entryway.

“Oh, Miss Gracechurch.” Becky sounded nervous. “He’s ever so big.”

“Goodness. And does this big man have a name?”

“No. I mean, he must have a name, mustn’t he? But he didn’t say. Not yet. Your aunt thought you had best come and see for yourself.”

Well. This grew more and more mysterious.

“I’ll be there in a moment. Ask Cook to prepare some tea, if you will.”

Maddie untied her smock. After pulling the apron over her head and hanging it on a nearby peg, she took a quick inventory of her appearance. Her slate-­gray frock wasn’t too wrinkled, but her hands were stained with ink and her hair was a travesty—­loose and disheveled. There was no time for a proper coiffure. No hairpins to be found, either. She gathered the dark locks in her hands and twisted them into a loose knot at the back of her head, securing the chignon with a nearby pencil. The best she could do under the circumstances.

Whoever this unexpected, nameless, ever-­so-­big man was, he wasn’t likely to be impressed with her.

But then, men seldom were.

She took her time descending the spiraling stairs, wondering who this visitor might be. Most likely a land agent from a neighboring estate. Lord Varleigh wasn’t due until tomorrow, and Becky would have known his name.

When Maddie finally reached the bottom, Aunt Thea joined her.

Her aunt touched a hand to her turban with dramatic flair. “Oh, Madling. At last.”

“Where is our mysterious caller? In the hall?”

“The parlor.” Her aunt took her arm, and together they moved down the corridor. “Now, my dear. You must be calm.”

“I am calm. Or at least, I was calm until you said that.” She studied her aunt’s face for clues. “What on earth is going on?”

“There may be a shock. But don’t you worry. Once it’s over, I’ll make a posset to set you straight.”

A posset.

Oh, dear. Aunt Thea fancied herself something of an amateur apothecary. The trouble was, her “cures” were usually worse than the disease.

“It’s only a caller. I’m sure a posset won’t be necessary.”

Maddie resolved to maintain squared shoulders and an air of good health when she greeted this big, nameless man.

When they stepped into the parlor, her resolve was tested.

This wasn’t just a man.

This was a man.

A tall, commanding figure of a Scotsman, dressed in what appeared to be military uniform: a kilt of dark green-­and-­blue plaid, paired with the traditional redcoat.

His hair was overlong (mostly brown, with hints of ginger), and his squared jaw sported several days’ growth of whiskers (mostly ginger, with hints of brown). Broad shoulders tapered to a trim torso. A simple black sporran was slung low around his waist, and a sheathed dirk rode his hip. Below the fall of his kilt, muscled, hairy legs disappeared into white hose and scuffed black boots.

Maddie pleaded with herself not to stare.

It was a losing campaign.

Taken altogether, his appearance was a veritable assault of virility.