Page 14

A perfectly healthy man—some might even say a virile man—didn’t fall into a swoon for no reason, and it wasn’t as if roving bands of footpads frequented the remote Scottish woods.

The answer was right there, hovering just out of reach, but his brain was too sluggish to grasp it.

Think, man!

He’d been chasing after her, and he’d grabbed ahold of her cloak. Bloody foolish thing to do, except . . . hadn’t she fallen? Yes! He’d caught her just as she’d pitched forward, but they’d both gone down hard anyway.

Had he fallen on top of her?

No. He’d caught her, hadn’t he? Yes, he’d caught her, and turned her just in time to keep her from smacking face-first into the ground, and then . . .

Then he’d toppled over like a felled tree.

All he could remember after that was a pale, heart-shaped face looking down at him, a crown of wild red curls, and eyes the same dark green as the deepest depths of the forest.

Deceptively innocent, those eyes.

What a fool he’d been not to pay closer attention to Munro’s warning! The man had tried to tell him the MacLeod sisters weren’t as harmless as they appeared.

Sorceresses , he’d said.

Nonsense, of course. Sorceresses, mystics, conjurers—it was all nonsense—yet Munro had been right about one thing. The MacLeod sisters were a great deal more dangerous than they looked.

A trio of clever, wily vixens, and now they had him trapped in their lair.

Except one-third of the trio seemed to be missing. The most worrying one of all.

Where was Catriona MacLeod?

“I still don’t understand how he ended up in this state.” It was the first voice. Freya. “None of this makes any sense. I think you’d better explain it all from the start again.”

Someone should bloody well explain it, as he’d quite like to know what had—

“Later, Freya.” There was a long sigh, and someone shifted near the bed. “I’m exhausted, and it’s all muddled in my head.”

It was her . He knew it at once, although he’d never heard her speak before.

“Go on off to bed, both of you. It’s late. I’ll keep an eye on him for the rest of the night.”

There was another rustle of skirts and the light sound of footsteps, then silence.

“You ruined my basket, you know.” Her voice was a whisper, close to his ear. “The handle is crushed.”

They were hardly words of seduction, but dear God, that voice. Just those few murmured words in that velvety whisper sent a rush of heat over every inch of his body.

Not the bad kind of heat, either, but the good kind.

The rhythm of it was like music, and the texture warm and rich, like a sweet melting on his tongue. Yes, that was it. Hers was the only voice he’d ever heard that had a taste . Honey, thick and sweet, dripping from the end of a silver teaspoon.

How could a vixen like Catriona MacLeod have a voice like that? The woman was as close to being a murderess as he’d ever come across, but somehow, she’d been gifted with a voice that made every nerve in his body jerk to sudden, aching attention.

But perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, really.

The animals with the deadliest venom were always the most beautiful.

And she wasn’t finished with him yet.

If she had been, she’d have left him where he fell and made her escape. She’d attacked a marquess , for God’s sake. What sort of murderess lingered at the scene of a crime that could see her hanged?

An incredibly foolish one, or a madwoman.

Possibly both.

Unless . . . had she brought him here to finish him off in the privacy of her castle?

Because God knew she was up to something. Something nefarious.

She shifted again, and he watched her through slitted eyes as she rose to her feet and fetched his coat from the chair next to the bed. She began rifling through it, those small, busy hands poking into his pockets.

A thief as well as a murderess, then. How delightful.

It was rather a wasted effort on her part, however, as there wasn’t anything much for her to steal. The only things he had of any value were his pocket watch and fob and a small gold ring, which he kept with him always.

The watch had belonged to his grandfather, and the ring to his father. The ring bore a crest—a recognizable crest, even here up in the northern wilds of Scotland, so he’d slid the ring off his finger and into an inside pocket of his coat this morning.

No sense in drawing unwanted attention to himself.

But that didn’t stop Catriona MacLeod. The lady, it seemed, didn’t miss a thing, because no sooner had he recalled the ring than she found it, and with a practiced flick of her fingers, liberated it from its hiding place.

He remained as he was and waited to see what she’d do now that she had a bit of gold in her hand.

Stuff it into her own pocket, no doubt.

But that wasn’t what she did. Instead, she turned the ring over, studying it from every angle, and paying particular attention to the crest. Did she recognize it? Their fathers had been friends, once upon a time. She might have seen it in correspondence between them.

God, he hoped not. The last thing he needed was for her to figure out who he was before he had a chance to explain what he—

“Ballantyne.”

It was just one word, uttered so softly he might have thought he’d imagined it if it hadn’t been followed by a sigh.

Damn it. She did seem to know who he was, and now that she did, it didn’t take particularly sharp powers of deduction to figure out what he’d come for.

This wasn’t good. Not at all.

She’d already tried to kill him once, even before she discovered his identity. What was to stop her from smothering him with a pillow right now?

He could feel her gaze on his face, those green eyes, watchful and wary, awaiting the slightest twitch that would give him away, but he lay still, fighting the instinct to snatch the ring from her hand.

In the end, it wasn’t necessary.

Catriona MacLeod didn’t steal his ring. Instead, as stealthy as any thief, she slid the ring back into his coat pocket with one quick move, then she came back toward the bed.

Ah. Not a thief, after all. Small mercies.

Still a murderess, though. Or at least an attempted murderess, and here he was, not at all in a forgiving sort of mood.

She lingered beside the bed, gazing down at him. Did she regret nearly killing him? Or was she merely reconsidering the wisdom of leaving him alive?

Either way, she wouldn’t get what she wanted.

He was done playing games with Catriona MacLeod, and he wasn’t likely to get a second chance as good as this one.

Quickly, before he could reconsider it, he reached out and snatched her wrist. It was a rather impressive move, really, considering he was half-dead from poisoning.

“Oh! Let go!” She struck out at him, that tiny fist aiming for his nose, but he held her back, his fingers tightening around her wrist.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss MacLeod. You see, you and I have some unfinished business between us. Let’s begin with the attempted murder, shall we?”