"Everywhere I go," he said, not bothering to hide his arrogance. It was true. He was a young, rich laird, and women liked his looks. And it seemed the more drunken and cruel he became, the more they wanted him.

"So if it hadn't been me tonight, it could easily have been another woman from the tavern?"

"Easily," he replied. When he'd left, the raven-haired barmaid he'd been contemplating had cast him a hurt expression. So had her sister. He'd shrugged at them as if he hadn't cared. Because he hadn't. "One woman or two."

"Then why me?" the wife asked breathlessly, angling for a compliment he wouldn't give.

"I like married women better, find them more convenient." He never heard from them again. A married woman readily faded into the past, one among many in his memory—as she should. And if her husband was weak enough and stupid enough to get cuckolded, then he deserved it, and Ethan would oblige.

"So all I am is a convenience?" She gave a mock pout as she began unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers.

"Aye, precisely."

His callous treatment seemed to be exciting her. "Say my name with your accent," she whispered.

"Doona know it."

She smiled. "It's Sylvie—"

"Doona need to," he interrupted sharply, making her gasp with desire.

He was used to women who liked a cold, domineering male in their beds, but he sensed she might want him to be worse than that. On his solitary ride over here, he'd had time to think about the situation, and his drunken mind said something wasn't right about her.

Her perfume cloyed, but not more than that of the woman he'd had last night. She was tall, voluptuous, and dark-haired—the type that normally attracted him. Yet as she licked his chest, brushing his shirt away from his body, he again found that something about her was off-putting.