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as cold as stone. Sutton Kensington had never shown an ounce of compassion for the victims of his swindles, and he would have scorned any such feeling of pity in his son. Even though Jack had escaped both the man and his schemes, he knew that he remained, like his father, merely a carefully crafted shell of a gentleman. He had no inbred code of honor, no inclination toward pity. He was not a man to be afflicted with guilt.
    Besides, he had no reason to feel guilty, he reminded himself. It was not his fault the woman had lost her home. He had not cheated her brother; he had won fairly. If Jack had not accepted Baillannan as payment, it would only mean that Sir Andrew would have lost it at some later time.
    The devil take the man! What had the fool been thinking, tossing his home into a wager as if it were a mere bagatelle? Until Jack saw the house, he had assumed it was Sir Andrew’s lodge, a place where he retreated to hunt or fish or have a bit of quiet—though, Lord knows, Jack could not envision that young wastrel doing any of those. Jack had not realized Baillannan was Rose’s ancestral estate. Even less had he imagined that he would be turning a young woman out of her home.
    Shaking the thought from his mind in irritation, he watched the couple in the yard below. They were deep in conversation, the man bending solicitously over Miss Rose. Who was the fellow and what was he to her? He was dressed in the plain, rough trousers and shirt of a worker, not the clothes of a gentleman, so he could not be a suitor. But acloseness in their pose denoted familiarity, even affection, and tenderness was in the man’s face as he gazed down at her. Could the lovely and genteel Miss Rose have taken a plebeian lover?
    He should have found the thought amusing, but somehow it only added to his annoyance, and he turned away from the window with an impatient gesture, glaring down the long, inhospitable hallway. This damnable place! The belligerent servants . . . the unpleasant room . . . the wet, bleak landscape. There was nothing here to please the eye or lighten the spirit.
    Worst of all, it seemed he could not get rid of the image of Isobel Rose, her face paling, her eyes stark, when he’d told her that her home was no longer hers.

    Isobel rushed out the side door, her cloak billowing around her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she brushed them aside impatiently as she strode toward the loch—and the comfort that the still, gray water always brought. She had taken only a few steps before she saw Coll Munro coming toward her, his face drawn into a black scowl. Well, at least she would not have to put up a brave front with Coll.
    “Izzy!” In a sign of Coll’s own agitation, he called her a childhood nickname rather than the formal “Miss Isobel” that he deemed appropriate for their stations now. He had come out without his jacket or cap, and his shaggy blond hair was wind tossed, his cheeks flushed. She wasn’t sure whether the cold had put the red in his cheeks or anger, for his square jaw was pugnaciously set and his blue eyes werebright, as if he’d been lit from within. “Where is the blackguard? I’ll throw him out.”
    “No.” Isobel shook her head, but she felt warmed by his anger on her account. She could always count on Coll. “There is no use.”
    “What do you mean, no use? Katie said some Sassenach scoundrel was claiming to own Baillannan.” Coll half turned as though he were about to go on to the house.
    “It’s not just a claim.” She put her hand on his arm. “It’s real. He owns it.”
    “What? How could that be? You’re not making sense, lass.” Coll bent toward her, his anger turning to a gentler concern.
    “Andrew gave it to him!” she burst out. “He wagered Baillannan and lost.”
    Her words effectively silenced Coll, who could do no more than gape at her. Finally he said, “Can he do that? Surely it has to stay in the Rose family.”
    “Baillannan is not entailed; Papa left