“Samantha.” She shook Lucy’s hand. “Duncan’s wife.” Duncan’s wife. That was the first time she’d actually said those words. How strange they’d sounded to her ears. Duncan’s second wife, she could hear her mother say.
If Lucy found it strange, as Sam did, she didn’t let on. “You’re an American,” Lucy said, not even trying to hide her curiosity. “How did he find you?”
“Actually I found him,” Sam said. “I was looking for a pilot.”
Lucy threw back her head and laughed. “And you hired our canny Scot as a pilot?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Sam said, aware of Duncan’s interest in the conversation. “And he didn’t tell me who he was.”
“Oh, now I remember!” Lucy’s face lit up. “You’re the one who was in the plane crash with Duncan.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “I’m the one.”
“We were flooded with reporters after that,” Lucy said, shaking her head, “but Glenraven proved so boring they finally went back to London.”
“Aye,” said Duncan. “We protect our own.”
He and Lucy bantered back and forth and Sam found herself struck by the real affection between them. William Dixon had displayed the same warmth with Duncan, as had his clerks. God knew, Old Mag and Robby were devoted to him. What was there about her husband that inspired such loyalty?
“You’re here to eat, not talk,” Lucy said, glancing from Duncan to Sam. “The soup is good today, but the stew is better.”
“Stew,” said Duncan, “and a Guinness.”
“Soup,” said Sam, “and a glass of milk.”
You could have heard a pin drop. It seemed to Sam that everyone in the crowded pub stopped talking and turned to stare at her.
“Milk,” Lucy repeated, her eyes widening. “Can it be—”
“Aye,” said Duncan, looking both proud and embarrassed. “It can.”
Lucy let out a shriek of delight. “Duncan’s having a baby!” she called, and next thing Sam knew, she was surrounded by happy, laughing strangers, all of whom had congratulations and good advice to offer her.
Duncan accepted the teasing with good-natured grace, but Sam couldn’t help but notice the muscle twitching alongside his jaw. He’d never expressed anything but happiness over the baby—or at least, that’s how she had perceived his reaction. Was it possible she’d misread the signals? When you came down to it, he was a stranger to her. She couldn’t pretend to know how he felt about anything at all, except maybe the child she was carrying.
Now, looking at him as he fielded congratulations from his neighbors, she found herself wondering what he really thought about the changes in his life. Up until that moment she’d accepted everything he said at face value, not once questioning his feelings about becoming a father. Was he happy? Sad? Did he feel trapped by circumstances? Had he ever really thought about what the rest of his life would be like?
And, more to the point, had she?
SAMANTHA WAS QUIET on the way to the castle. She hadn’t said much at all during lunch. They’d spent most of their time surrounded by well-wishers, and he’d seen the strain on her face by the time they said goodbye. The good citizens of Glenraven were an enthusiastic lot, but to his American bride, they must have sounded like jabbering monkeys. She’d get used to it one day but right now she looked exhausted.
“You didn’t eat much,” he observed as he negotiated one of a series of hairpin curves between town and home.
“I ate,” she said.
“Is it the morning sickness?”
She chuckled softly. “At four in the afternoon?”
“Aye,” he said, warmed by the sweet sound of her laughter. “That couldn’t be the answer.”
“Thank you for taking me into town,” she said, sounding very prim and formal. “William Dixon is a miracle worker.”
“He will be if your purchases arrive on time.”
“They will,” she said. “I have confidence in him.”
And in me, lassie? Do you have confidence in your husband?
In his studio that morning he’d felt the connection that had brought them together the first time. That sizzle of awareness that had sealed his fate. She’d been all softness and yielding curves, and it had taken all of his self-control to keep from taking, her there in his studio.
They’d detailed how they would handle everything in their prenuptial agreement. Money. Work. Geography. But not how they would handle passion. No, they had an answer for every other problem life might throw their way—every one but that.
He parked the car around back and opened the door for Sam. She favored him with a quick impersonal smile and climbed from the car.
“I think I’m going to putter around the office,” she said as they walked toward the kitchen door. “Try to figure out where I’ll put things.”
“You’ll need help,” he said.
“You should go back to your studio,” she said. “That’s what you should do. I’ll worry about my office.”
“How about this. I’ll help you get the office ready then you can come back to the studio with me.”
She hesitated just long enough for him to feel the fool. Was he that transparent then, his need for her shining through his simplest words? He raised his hand between them, as if the gesture could erase those words.
“An idea, lassie, and not a good one. My help doesn’t come with strings attached.”
Her expression softened and she placed a hand gently on his arm. “I never thought it did.”
He followed her up the path to the kitchen door. Old Mag was stirring something at the stove when they stepped inside.
“Good thing you’re back,” she announced the second she saw Duncan. “If it’s a telephone operator you want, then you best be hiring one.” She pointed toward the kitchen table with her ladle. “Your messages.”
The stack was almost an inch thick. Duncan picked them up and sifted through them. “These are for you,” he said, handing a half dozen to Sam.
Her brow pleated. “For me?” She glanced at the messages and some of the furrows smoothed out. “Invitations!” she said, turning to Duncan. “This
