“We’re birds of a feather, you and I.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Kilgore. Whatever I’ve done, it’s been because I care for Maggie. You, on the other hand, would as soon see her drowned in the ocean as tip your hat to her.”

Eleanor sighed prettily. “Are you implying that I would murder?”

Without warning of any sort, Duncan grasped Eleanor by the bodice of her dress and, using both hands, he hauled her across the table. Her feet dangled off the floor and she could feel his breath in her face as he warned, “Do anything to hurt Maggie—anything, Miss Kilgore—and you’ll find me a relentless and formidable enemy.”

Besides fear, Eleanor felt a certain excitement. She nodded and Duncan let her slide the length of him, until her feet touched the floor again. Her heart was beating too fast and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

“There is only one way to keep you out of mischief, miss,” Duncan informed her in a hoarse undertone as his lips drew ever closer to hers. “And that’s to keep you so busy that you’ll have no time left for scheming. I’ll want a bath when I get back from the fields, and I’ll want you.”

Sweet shivers went through Eleanor as she lowered her eyes and permitted herself a half smile. “Your bed and your bath will be as you wish, Mr. Kirk,” she said softly.

Duncan caught his hand under her chin and wrenched it upward. She saw emerald fires burning in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You know my secret; I want to know yours.”

Eleanor had not craved any one man as much as this—not even Reeve McKenna—since Jamie. Duncan’s hand strayed inside the bodice of her dress and cupped her breast and she closed her eyes, half sick with the wanting. “The child—Elisabeth. Sh-she’s mine—mine and Jamie’s.”

Duncan’s fingers tightened and then went slack. “My God—you’re Jamie McKenna’s wife?”

“I was only his woman,” Eleanor confessed, and she was surprised that so much of the pain lingered even after more than four years. Desperately, she covered Duncan’s hand with her own, at her silent urging, and he began to caress her again.

Mercy burst into the cookhouse, where Maggie was peeling carrots. “He’s back, missus. Mr. ’Kenna’s back!”

Hastily, Maggie threw down both carrot and paring knife. She hurried through the doorway opposite the one where Mercy had entered and waited outside until Reeve and the other men were seated at the long trestle table and Kala was serving them their midday meal.

Then, after smoothing her tumbledown hair and drawing a deep breath, Maggie entered the cookhouse, smiling. The men sitting on either side of Reeve made room for her, and she sat down at his right.

“You’re filthy,” she remarked.