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he’d have scoffed at a notion that surpassed his wildest dreams. Quietly, he added, ‘I am not a glittering match, but I have prospects.’
    The fact she did not interrupt gave him courage. ‘My lodgings in Maidstone are small, but I plan to sell my commission. We might then find a bigger house.’ He paused, meaningfully. ‘A home for both you and your child.’
    Her eyes resembled her aunt’s with their flinty coldness. ‘My child and I can do very well without you
or
my aunt’s interference.’
    He had not reckoned on her intransigence. It only served to heighten his desire.
Desire
. His upbringing had taught him desire wrought disappointment and destruction. He had thought himself well trained in not desiring what he could not have, did not deserve. He swallowed, the need for her acceptance like fire in his veins. He would be raising a cuckoo in his nest, a bastard, but what of it? Hadn’t he, too, been a cuckoo? His mother’s revenge on a husband who nevertheless treated Angus no differently from his blood-born sons? Though Emily Micklen’s child was Jack’s and would have inherited Jack’s faults had Jack lived to rear it, it was Angus who would rear and mould it. Give it love and a promising future.
    He longed to give the proud, hurt, beautiful woman before him love and a promising future.
    As a soldier, Angus had enough experience of intransigent prisoners to know when to press the advantage. Gaining confidence from her silence he said, smoothly, ‘You realise, Miss Micklen, that unmarried you will be in no position to keep your child?’
    Of course she’d know it.
    She took a shuddering breath. ‘Aunt Gemma—’ she began. Then obviously perceiving that if she threw away the only opportunity she was likely to receive to legitimise her child Aunt Gemma may prove less dependable than hitherto, she covered her face with her hands and slumped against the window.
    â€˜I know nothing about you, Major McCartney.’
    â€˜I am a soldier and a gentleman. I need a wife. You need a husband. I am offering you my name and a home, Miss Micklen. It’s intolerable you might be stripped of your child,’ Angus called on reserves of creative logic he’d not thought existed to further his cause, ‘when I am the indirect cause of your hopeless situation.’
    She raised her strained, weary face to his. ‘Your actions defy logic unless you are to be handsomely recompensed.’
    â€˜Your acceptance is recompense enough.’
    Sighing, she looked at him steadily. ‘I am not a fool, Major McCartney, and I would be one were I to reject your offer out of hand.’ Her eyes were glazed with misery as she turned to stare through the window.
    In a dull, flat voice she added, ‘Allow me a day in which to consider it. I will see you tomorrow – providing you, yourself, are not struck by just how outrageous your proposal is.’
    Exultant, he took a step forward. He wanted to take her hands, press them to his lips and reassure her he would be a kind and loving husband.
    He could not. Her despair was too overwhelming. His smile died before she turned. ‘Then I shall call again tomorrow, Miss Micklen,’ he said stiffly.
    Bowing, he took his leave.

Chapter Three
    When Emily was a child it seemed she could do no wrong. Her father had bounced her on his knee and called her his little beauty. She’d believed she was loved.
    Lucy Gilroy, her nursemaid, had painted a glowing picture of Bartholomew Micklen as a man of courage and integrity who’d created a family dynasty of which Emily must be proud.
    Each night, as Lucy brushed out Emily’s long, dark hair prior to being presented to her parents before bedtime, she’d weave magical stories about her heroic father.
    Young Bartholomew Micklen had been an Englishman with revolution in his veins, the familiar tale went. After he’d risked his life to