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D ear God. Oh, dear God , what had she done?

Cat dropped to her knees beside the man sprawled on the ground and snatched the limp stalk of monkshood from between his slack fingers.

But what if it was already too late for that?

Please don’t let it be too late for that . . .

She stared down at him, the cold rain dripping from the end of her nose into her open mouth, then at the heather and monkshood scattered on the ground near her overturned basket.

He must have touched one of the monkshood stalks when he’d fallen!

Quickly, she gathered up the monkshood, taking care to make certain the stalks only touched her gloves, then wrapped them in her handkerchief and stuffed them into the bottom of her basket before piling the heather on top of them.

But again, it was rather too late now, wasn’t it?

She’d already poisoned someone. Someone who was not Bryce Fraser.

He was as far from being Bryce Fraser as a man possibly could be.

The shock of silky dark hair hanging over his forehead was as unlike the pale strands that covered Bryce’s skull as nighttime was from daylight, and his face—goodness, she’d never seen a man with such noble cheekbones or so perfectly angular a jaw.

As for the rest of him, well . . . at first glance, Bryce gave the impression of being a commanding figure of a man on account of his barrel chest, but one couldn’t help but notice the thin shoulders and spindly legs upon a second glance.

Not this man. There wasn’t anything spindly about him.

He was big everywhere .

His shoulders, and his chest, and his hands . . . goodness, she’d never seen hands as large as his before, with long fingers and palms the width of dinner plates, and that was to say nothing of his long, muscular legs, his thighs—

Never mind his thighs.

The point was, if she’d ever laid eyes on him before, she’d remember it.

Where had he come from? He wasn’t from Dunvegan, that was certain. Possibly not even from Scotland at all, with his elegant dark green coat and silk hat, and his fine leather boots.

No, he was a stranger. She’d poisoned a stranger.

A stranger who’d chased her. A stranger who’d stalked her through the woods, caught her around the waist, and hurled them both to the ground.

He’d followed her and accosted her, for pity’s sake!

God only knew what he might have done next if she hadn’t happened to be carrying those stalks of monkshood.

Poisonous monkshood, and she’d been skipping through the forest with it as if it were as harmless as a handful of daisies and she intended to make daisy chains, or daisy crowns, or a bouquet.

A bouquet of poisonous monkshood? If this incident should come to light, there wouldn’t be a soul in Dunvegan who’d believe that . Yet it had all been perfectly innocent. She’d only wanted a chance to study the plant. It wasn’t as if she’d meant to poison him.

It had been an accident, nothing more. Why, it might have happened to anyone.

But she wasn’t anyone. She was Catriona MacLeod, one of the wicked MacLeod sisters, and if tales of this debacle should reach the magistrate, her fate was as good as sealed.

No one would believe this elegantly dressed stranger had chased her through the woods.

They wouldn’t believe he’d followed her, grabbed her . . .

They wouldn’t listen to a single word out of her mouth.

If he died, she’d end up swinging from a noose for murder.

She stared down at him, her heart lodged like a stone in her throat. “Sir? Wake up!” She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him hard, or as hard as she could, given the size of his shoulders and the body they were attached to. “Please wake up!”

Nothing. He was as limp as a large, brawny rag doll, his skin pale and clammy, and his eyes slits of bright blue jumping under his eyelids.

Oh, dear. He didn’t look well at all.

Right, then. Think. She had to think .

Monkshood poisoning caused nausea, vomiting, seizures—dear God, please don’t let him have a seizure.

Dizziness, heart arrhythmias—

She squeezed her eyes closed, muttered a quick prayer, and pressed her hand over the center of his chest. Underneath her palm, his heart was thrashing about like a wild thing, and his breathing was labored.

No, no, no. How could this be happening?

“Dear God, please .” She gave his shoulders another desperate shake, but it was no use. There wasn’t a thing she could do for him. There was no antidote for monkshood poisoning, no way to counteract it.

All she could do was remain by his side, wait, and pray he’d wake up again.

Except . . . well, there was one other thing she could do.

She could sneak off and leave him where he’d fallen. It wasn’t as if anyone had seen what had happened. There was no one about, and aside from Glynnis, no one even knew she’d gone to the woods today. Not even her sisters knew.

Surely, she didn’t owe the man who’d accosted her any courtesies.

She glanced down into his pale face and for an instant—for one shameful, cowardly instant, she began to rise to her feet.

She didn’t get far.

This man was undoubtedly a scoundrel and a villain, but even so, she couldn’t quite make herself leave him here to die alone.

Not die! He wasn’t going to die , for pity’s sake.

He’d wake up soon enough. Of course, he would.

Wouldn’t he?

Oh, she didn’t know! She’d found the stalk of monkshood in his hand, but there was no telling if it had touched any other part of him. If it had been anywhere near his mouth . . .

No! She couldn’t bear to think about it.

There was just as much chance he’d only touched the stalk with his hand.

Why, it might have been just the merest brush against his skin, hardly more than a graze, barely a touch at all.

And he was a giant of a man, tall and broad-shouldered and muscular.

Such a tiny amount of poison swimming about in such a large body wouldn’t do any harm.

Would it?

She bit her lip as she peered down into his pale, sweat-sheened face.

Any more harm, that is. Because if the truth were told, he didn’t look to be in the pink of health.

What was to be done? She couldn’t simply leave him here to die, but the only other option . . . she glanced over her shoulder at the thick wooden door that led into the castle cellars.

Her only other option was to take him into the castle.

Into her home , amongst her sisters .

She dropped onto her backside next to him and wrapped her arms around her raised knees. It would be fully dark soon, within the next hour, and the temperature would plummet, and that was to say nothing of the storm that was quickly descending on them.

A bad one, Freya had said.

If the monkshood didn’t finish him, exposure to the elements might do so.

But to bring this dangerous stranger into the sanctuary of her home, the home they’d gone to such extreme lengths to protect! Was she meant to let it all come crashing down now, after everything they’d done, everything they’d sacrificed to remain safe and keep their home intact?

This, all because some man she’d never laid eyes on had taken it into his head to chase her through the woods. If he did die, it was no less than he deserved!

Except . . . well, there was no denying she’d been preoccupied with poisonous plants recently.

Why, only last night she’d been thinking about monkshood.

Wasn’t there a chance she’d subconsciously intended to do him harm?

The chase through the woods had been so much like her dream!

Mightn’t she have lost her wits when the dream turned frighteningly real and done the unthinkable?

Wasn’t there just the tiniest possibility that she wasn’t entirely innocent in this debacle?

Oh, she didn’t know! All she knew was that no matter how she looked at this situation, she lost. Either she left him here to suffer the consequences of his own actions, or she had to allow a potentially dangerous man into her home, amongst the sisters she loved more than anything else in the world.

How could she even be considering it? No, she couldn’t permit him to get a single step closer to the castle than he was right now.

It was all over for them if he did.

But how could she leave him out here to die?

Dear God, what abominable choices!

Unless . . .

She could give him her cloak. It was a voluminous garment, with a full skirt and a deep, wide hood, and it was a warm one, made of thick, sturdy wool. It would keep him warm enough.

Of course, he might still die of monkshood poisoning, but at least she could reassure herself she hadn’t left him out here to freeze.

It was something, anyway.

She struggled out of her cloak and laid it over the top of him.

There. That would do quite nicely—

No, dash it! It only covered his torso and a part of his chest! He looked like he was wearing a child’s apron.

She shot him a resentful glance. How had she gotten herself into such a tangle?

Who was he? They didn’t get many visitors in Dunvegan, but this man was certainly a stranger.

It was all so odd. She hadn’t any idea who he was, and even less why he’d followed her into the woods.

What did he want from her? What was he doing in Dunvegan, and what did he mean, chasing her as he’d done?

Really, if a man didn’t fancy a poisoning, he should know better than to chase a young lady through the woods.

But he had followed her, and she’d inadvertently, er . . . poisoned him, and there was no going back from it now.

The only question was, what was she to do about it?

A minute passed, then another as she sat there in an agony of indecision.

By now the cold had seeped into her bones.

Her lips were trembling with it, and she was shaking violently.

She pressed her knees against her chest and tucked her frozen fingers under them, but her thin wool day dress was no match for such a dousing, and it didn’t help that her wet hair was dripping down her back.

Why, she had half a mind to take her cloak back. Not that it would do much to warm her in its soaked, bedraggled state.