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She resisted, though it took great self-control, satisfying herself with a stroke of her finger down the length of the engraved blade.

The symbols there were unlike any she’d seen before, though they seemed similar to those on the unrolled scroll lying next to the box.

Not numbers, not any letters she knew of, these were entirely foreign markings.

Only with a great force of willpower was she able to step away from the intense lure emanating from the box. She wasn’t here to steal from the laird, she reminded herself. Only to kill him. She might travel with Tinklers, but she was not one.

The thought had barely formed before a wave of guilt washed over her.

Nothing she’d experienced of the Tinklers supported the rumors she’d heard her whole life.

They’d been nothing but kind to her, and they’d certainly done nothing to make her think they were thieves.

If anything, the minstrels were more likely to fit that mold than the Tinklers.

Another step back from the table and the pull of the sword weakened enough to allow Brie to collect her thoughts.

She was here for information, not treasures. Information that could help her determine the best way, the best time, the best place to gut the beast who’d murdered her father.

She turned her attention upward, to the tall ceiling and the unshuttered window high on the wall. Her eyes trailed down, to the landing under the window and the four stone stairs leading down to the floor where, on a pallet of pillows, lay the naked body of the fearsome laird of the MacDowylt.

Her breath sucked in between her teeth as if some other being were responsible for the action. Or perhaps it was only the natural result of her heart pounding so hard within her chest, likely trying to push the contents of her stomach back down where they belonged.

She waited, heart pounding loudly enough to wake the dead, expecting at any moment he would open his eyes and cry out for his guards to take her away.

Instead, he lay unmoving, eyes closed, as if he were the very dead she feared awakening.

Panic bubbled in her chest as the sounds of breathing assailed her ears . . . until she recognized that the breathing was her own.

Fool!

She was warrior born, not some dewy-eyed milkmaid to scurry away at the first sign of danger. Repeating that in her mind, she approached the body for a closer inspection.

What was wrong with him? It was as if he were a carving of a man, not actually the man himself.

And a beautiful carving, at that.

She’d seen him from a distance, on the landing of his great staircase, possessively surveying his courtyard.

Up close, so close she could reach out and touch him, he was the very definition of beauty.

Golden hair flowed out around his head, highlighted by two pure white streaks, one leading back from each temple like stripes on some exotic animal.

Taut muscles shaped the skin of his arms, his legs, his torso, forming a perfect ripple along his chest, leading her eyes down to his—

Brie jerked her gaze back to his chest, her thoughts in turmoil. His manhood was not for her investigation, no matter how handsome he might be.

She needed to know if he slept, or if someone had already done her work for her. Did his heart beat still?

She could wonder, or she could be certain.

Against her better judgment, her hand stretched forward, hovering over his chest. Would his skin be warm with life or as cold as the statue he resembled?

As if she’d been snared in some invisible web, she waited, unmoving, transfixed by the man in front of her. He was beyond handsome. He was magnificent. He was perfection.

Pain radiating up her arm brought her to her senses and she shook her head in an effort to rid herself of whatever it was that had held her back. For how long she’d remained there, she couldn’t say, only that it had been long enough that her arm ached from the strain of holding it out.

Her will once again her own, she dipped her hand, allowing her fingers to rest lightly on the perfect stretch of muscled skin.

Not beauty, not perfection, but pure evil incarnate waited under her touch.

Brie jerked her hand away, her fingertips burning as if she’d placed them in the flames of the fireplace.

Panic drove her steps backward until she stumbled and fell to sit, her legs stretched out in front of her, her back against a tapestry-covered screen.

Could some powerful Magic surround the laird? Powerful enough to confuse her purpose and steal her strength of will? Something certainly had and, given more time, she might devise a way around such intense feelings. But such time was not a luxury available to her at the moment.

A noise, like the beat and rustle of a great pair of wings, sounded from the open window, sending her scuttling on hands and knees to hide behind the screen.

Brie huddled on a tiny seat, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as if the self-imposed dark might aid her in regaining her courage.

Some semblance of calm returned and she leaned her forehead against the wood of the screen, realizing as she did she could see through the tiny slit between the pieces of wood.

An owl, the largest she’d ever seen so close, perched on the sill of the opening, his head cocked first to one side and then the other as if he scanned the room for intruders.

For her.

Another wave of panic washed over her and she fought the overwhelming need to step from behind the screen and surrender herself. She held her breath, terrified when she heard a great gasp for air that the sound might be coming from her.

Not from her, she realized, but from the laird, sucking in air as if he’d been holding his breath as well, but for much, much longer.

Her eyes tracked back up to the empty window. Where the owl had gone, she had no idea, nor did she have time to spend in wondering.

Torquil MacDowylt had risen to his feet.

He placed a hand to his chest, cocking his head from side to side, much as the owl had, before striding to the table where he slowly and with great care worked the open scroll into a tight roll and placed it inside the wooden box.

With the box under his arm, he crossed to the great fireplace, only feet away from her hiding spot.

Brie concentrated on maintaining her silence, picturing herself in the trees on a hunt, invisible to her prey.

His hand moved from one stone to another below the mantel until at last he pulled one stone free and shoved the box into the opening, before returning the stone to cover any trace of the hiding place.

Again he paused, his head swiveling back and forth, before he turned to cross back to his resting spot.

Rather than lying back down, he lifted his clothing, one piece at a time, shook each one, and quickly dressed.

With one last look around the room, he lifted a hand and all the candles were extinguished at once as if snuffed out by a chorus of maids in unison.

Magic! She’d suspected it before, but what she’d just seen was proof. She’d heard her father’s stories of the MacDowylt having descended from his people’s ancient gods, but she’d never believed them.

She didn’t move, not even when she heard the laird cross the room and shut the door behind him. She waited on her little stool, realizing only after her legs began to cramp and she at last stood, that the stool was in fact a pot, apparently used as the laird’s own private privy.

An almost hysterical giggle formed in her throat, contained only with a great reassertion of self-control.

Brie continued to wait for what felt like hours, but in reality was much more likely minutes. Her sense of time was as skewed at the moment as her nerves.

At last, after she felt sure MacDowylt was well and good away, she silently stepped from behind the screen and crossed the room to slip out the door and pull it shut behind her.

Once it was closed, she leaned against it, gulping great draughts of cold air to steady her resolve before she sprinted from the tiny anteroom.

Never before had she experienced the likes of what she’d encountered behind that door.

Dinna trust yer eyes, lass. Looks can be deceiving. Her father’s warning rang in her mind as she raced down the narrow staircase, desperate to get outside the gates of this wretched place.

Never had her father’s words made more sense. For all Torquil MacDowylt’s beauty, one touch had stripped it all away, confirming what her eyes had doubted at first sight of the man.

The laird’s body housed naught but pure, unadulterated evil Magic.