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“A ttempted murder? You’re mad! I never tried to murder you!”

“No? How curious.” He gave her wrist a quick tug, unbalancing her, and she stumbled against the side of the bed. “I could have sworn I just heard you admit to poisoning me.”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“I . . . you . . . I demand you release me this instant!”

“Demand it, do you?” He snorted. “You’re not in a position to demand anything at all, madam.”

Cat squirmed and flailed, but the man had a grip like an iron trap. How in the world could he have so much strength when he’d been poisoned with monkshood?

Accidentally poisoned with monkshood, that is, but alas, the facts were the facts.

She’d spent the past eight weeks moldering away inside the castle, and no sooner did she venture a toe outside the door than she poisoned someone!

She hadn’t expected her foray into the village would be a pleasant one, but she’d never imagined it could go so terribly, so fatally wrong.

No matter how awful things seemed to be, they could always get worse, and here was the proof of it.

“Release me this instant! Or are you in the habit of manhandling young ladies?”

“Young ladies? No. Murderesses? Yes. Now stop squirming, if you please, madam. You’re trying my patience.”

She kicked and thrashed, but it was hopeless. Even weakened with the poison as he was, he was simply too strong for her. So, she did as he ordered, and forced herself to still, going limp against him.

He let out a satisfied grunt, his fingers loosening. “Ah, now there’s a good lass.”

Good lass, indeed. She put all the strength she had into the blow, and miraculously, her fist connected. There was a sickening crunch, and blood spurted like a dark red fountain from his nose, but the vile curses that should have followed never came.

Instead, his lips split in a bloodthirsty grin. “Why, you cunning little hellion.”

Was he amused ? Good Lord, the man truly was mad.

She tried once again to scramble away, but even poisoned and bleeding, he had disappointingly quick reflexes. She didn’t even have a chance to get one foot underneath her before his hand snaked out, and he caught a fold of the cloak she still wore over her damp dress.

“I could have told you this cloak would be your undoing. Ridiculous garment. It’s far too large for you. Rather handy for me, though.” His grin widened as slowly, inexorably, he tugged her closer, then closer still.

She dug her heels in, her fingers scrabbling at the coverlet, but it was no use.

With one mighty tug, he jerked her onto the bed and clamped an arm the size of a tree trunk around her waist, trapping her in place.

“I admit this is a bit untoward, but it will have to do. You see, ever since you poisoned me, I feel I can’t trust you. Pity, but you understand, of course.”

If he imagined he could trick her into some kind of confession, he was sadly mistaken.

He may have some vague idea of poisoning, but there was no way he could know it was the monkshood, and she wasn’t going to enlighten him.

“Understand? No, indeed. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.

I must insist, sir, that you release me at once. ”

He let out a short laugh. “I do hate to disappoint a lady, but you’re not going anywhere. I’m well within my rights to detain you, given the circumstances. Poisoning is a nasty business. Don’t you agree?”

Oh, why hadn’t she left him to his fate and fled while she still had the chance? She should never have brought him here. It was the worst thing she could have done, aside from picking the monkshood in the first place. Why could she never leave well enough alone?

This was no trifling error, but a serious misstep, the sort that was certain to have, er . . . unfortunate repercussions.

Prison, for one. Hanging, for another.

Let it be a lesson to her: the next time she accidentally poisoned an enormous marquess, she should flee at once rather than fetching her sisters and dragging him back to her home.

Especially not one who’d sneaked into the woods behind her, then spent all afternoon creeping after her like a large, aristocratic spider waiting for a hapless fly to fall into his trap.

Because he must have followed her, mustn’t he? There was no way he’d simply stumbled upon her, not as deep in the woods as she’d been.

Ballantyne, Ballantyne . . . no, the name didn’t mean anything to her.

But that elegant coat and those glossy boots? He hadn’t meant to end up in the woods today. He’d seen her in the village, recognized her, and followed her.

None of this was accidental.

She stared at him, her heart beginning to pound, beads of sweat gathering at the back of her neck as the puzzle pieces connected in her head.

The outside world didn’t trouble itself much about tiny, remote, little villages like Dunvegan. This corner of Skye was like a world unto itself, but then out of nowhere a strange gentleman appears, and takes it into his head to follow her into the woods, chase her, and accost her?

This was no chance encounter. It was impossible.

He’d come here for her .

No, not her , specifically, but for all of them.

She, her sisters, and her father.

Of course! How could she have been so dull-witted as not to see it at once? They’d known all along that someone else would come, and here he was. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“I already told you. We have unfinished business between us, Miss MacLeod.”

Miss MacLeod .

There it was. He knew exactly who she was, and exactly what he was doing. “Your business was with my father, not me.”

“Your father is dead, madam.”

Dead, yes. Dead, and buried, yet there was no escaping the repercussions of being Rory MacLeod’s daughter. He continued to haunt them even now. “I’m aware of that, sir.”

“Sir? Come now, Miss MacLeod, there’s no need to pretend. You know very well who I am. You recognized the crest on the ring you liberated from my pocket.”

He’d been awake when she’d been rifling his pockets.

Dear God, could she have made any more of a mess of this? “Ballantyne. Some lord or other, judging by your clothing.” He’d likely never once ventured past the manicured paths of Hyde Park in those shiny boots of his.

“The Marquess of Ballantyne, yes. Very good. I imagine you also know why I’m here?”

Of course she knew. He’d come for the same reason they all did. He might be a marquess, but he was a thief, just like the rest of them.

The only difference was, he’d been cleverer about it than the others had. Why, anyone with their wits about them could see there was no way to approach Castle Cairncross via Loch Dunvegan without being seen well before they could reach the shore.

It left plenty of time for the wicked sirens to cast their spells.

Yet none of the others had thought to come to the village first and waylay one of them. How long had Lord Ballantyne been waiting in Dunvegan for either her or her sisters to venture into the village? Days? Weeks?

He was a wily one, yes, but in the end, he was no different from any of the others.

They all came here for one reason. They all wanted the same thing.

And now he was inside the castle with her, Freya, and Sorcha, and all of them utterly unprepared for this new danger that had just landed on their doorstep.

“Miss MacLeod? I asked you a question.”

“Yes, my lord. I know why you’re here.” Why he was here, and why he might just as well have remained where he was. Edinburgh, or London, or wherever gentlemen wore shiny boots. “You’re after my father’s treasure.”

He stiffened. “I hate to disillusion you, Miss MacLeod, but that treasure doesn’t belong to your father. It never did.”

No, it didn’t. It didn’t belong to anybody.

She didn’t say so, however. The Marquess of Ballantyne wasn’t her friend, and she didn’t owe him any explanation.

Instead, she let out a short laugh. “Well, no. Of course not. My father was a smuggler, Lord Ballantyne. None of the treasures he procured over the past twenty years belonged to him. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more than that, as I didn’t involve myself in my father’s business affairs. ”

“It seems not. Allow me to elucidate the matter for you, then. It’s quite simple, really.

Your father didn’t undertake this last venture of his alone.

My father and two other gentlemen were his, ah .

. . shall we say partners, for lack of a better word?

Three-quarters of the bounty is ours to do with as we see fit. ”

Three-quarters of the bounty? My, he was going to be disappointed, wasn’t he?

This was just like Rory. It wasn’t bad enough he’d set off on some ridiculous hunt for buried treasure without a single word of explanation to any of them. He had to involve others in his mad schemes, as well. Not that she’d waste much sympathy on the Marquess of Ballantyne, or his partners.

They should have known better than to trust her father.

The only thing Rory had succeeded in doing was painting a target on her and her sisters’ backs.

Every smuggler, pirate, and scoundrel had the castle in their sights now, thanks to this fabled treasure, and none of them was the sort to rest until they got their hands on it.

They’d rip the stones from the floors to find it, batter down the walls of the castle in search of jewels and gold coins.

They’d reduce her home to rubble to get what they wanted, without a second thought.

And she and her sisters? They had no money, no protection, and no place else to go. The only thing they did have was rumors of black sorcery, conjuring, and wicked deeds of magic that would follow them wherever they went now.

“You look puzzled, Miss MacLeod. Do you mean to make me believe you weren’t aware your father had business partners?”

He sounded so skeptical, so outraged at that idea that another hysterical laugh swelled in her throat. “As I said before, my lord, my father wasn’t in the habit of discussing his business dealings with me.”