“Hush! She is Janet! Else he’ll have our heads on serving platters.”

“What happened to Janet?” Adrienne asked softly. She wasn’t surprised when the mouths of a half-dozen maids clamped shut and they turned their complete attention to dressing her in stalwart silence.

Adrienne rolled her eyes. If they wouldn’t tell her a thing about Janet, perhaps they’d talk about her bridegroom.

“So, who is this man I am to wed?” Sidhawk Douglas. What kind of name was Sidhawk anyway?

The maids tittered like a covey of startled quail.

“Truth of it is, milady, we’ve only heard tales of him. This betrothal was commanded by King James himself.”

“What are the tales?” Adrienne asked wryly.

“His exploits are legendary!”

“His conquests are legion. ’Tis rumored he’s traveled the world accompanied by only the most beautiful lasses.”

“ ’Tis said there isna a comely lass in all of Scotia he hasna tumbled—”

“—in England, too!”

“—and he canna recall any of their names.”

“He is said to have godlike beauty, and a practiced hand in the fine art of seduction.”

“He is fabulously wealthy and rumors say his castle is luxurious beyond compare.”

Adrienne blinked. “Wonderful. A materialistic, unfaithful, beautiful playboy of a self-indulged, inconsiderate man with a bad memory. And he’s all mine. Dear sweet God, what have I done to deserve this?” she wondered aloud. Twice, she brooded privately.

Lisbelle looked at her curiously. “But the rumors tell he is a magnificent lover and most comely to look upon, milady. What could be wrong with that?”

Methinks you don’t understand this world, Janet Comyn. Perhaps he was right. “Does he beat his women?”

“He doesn’t keep them long enough, or so they say.”

“Although, I hear tell one of his women tried to kill him recently. I can’t imagine why,” the maid added, genuinely puzzled. “ ’Tis said he is more than generous with his mistresses when he’s done with them.”

“I can imagine why,” Adrienne grumbled irritably, suddenly impatient with all the plucking, fastening, adorning, and arranging hands on her body. “Stop, stop.” She lightly slapped Lisbelle’s hands from her hair, which had been washed, combed mercilessly, and teased torturously for what felt like years.

“But milady, we must do something with this hair. ’Tis so straight! You must look your best—”

“Personally, I’d prefer to look like something the cat dragged in. Wet, bedraggled, and smelling like a ripe dungheap.”

Gasps resounded. “Lass, he will be your husband, and you could do far worse,” a stern voice cut across the room. Adrienne turned slowly and met the worldly-wise gaze of a woman with whom she felt an instant kinship. “You could have mine, for lack of a better example.”

Adrienne sucked in a harsh breath. “The Laird Comyn?”

“Your father, my darling daughter,” Lady Althea Comyn said with an acid smile. “Begone—all of you.” She ushered the maids from the room with a regal hand, her eyes lingering overlong on Bess. “He’ll kill the lass one day, he will,” she said softly. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a long moment.

“He explained what you must do?”

Adrienne nodded.

“And you will do it?”

Again she nodded. The Lady Comyn expelled a sigh of relief.

“If there is aught a time I may repay the kindness—”

“It’s not a kindness. It’s to save my life.”

“—you need only ask. For it saves mine own.”

Adrienne stood tall before the man of the cloth, fulfilling her part of the farce. “I am Janet Comyn,” she proclaimed loudly. God’s man paled visibly and clutched his Bible until his knuckles looked to split at the seams. So he knows I’m not, she mused. What on earth is really going on here?

She felt a presence near her left shoulder, and turned reluctantly to face the man she was to wed. Her eyes met the area slightly below his breastbone and every inch of it was encased in steel.

Adrienne started to rise and look her fiancé in the face, when she realized with horror that she wasn’t kneeling. Beyond chagrined, she tipped her head back and swallowed a thousand frantic protests that clotted in her throat.

The giant stared back with an inscrutable expression, flames from flickering candles dancing in the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.