Page 17

H amish had half expected to wake in the night with a pillow over his face—or worse, not to wake at all—but he was still breathing the following morning.

Catriona MacLeod had given him her word that she’d do as he bid her, and she was as good as her promise. So far, that is. He wasn’t such a fool as to believe she wouldn’t try and turn the tables on him the instant she saw an opportunity.

Strangely enough, he was almost looking forward to it.

He glanced at where she was slumped at the edge of the bed, dozing with her head pillowed on top of her crossed arms. She’d been sitting upright in the chair beside him when he finally succumbed to sleep, but sometime in the night, she must have shifted.

She had such an angelic face, for such a diabolical lady!

She was far from being the withered crone Dougal and Clyde had made her out to be. But perhaps that wasn’t so surprising. They both fancied themselves dangerous smugglers. They were hardly going to admit they’d been frightened away by a tiny chit who was about as terrifying as a newborn foal.

He stared at her, lingering on her red, rosebud lips, her elegant cheekbones, and small, upturned nose.

She couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old, but she looked even younger in her sleep, with that smooth, pale skin and the hint of vulnerability in her full lower lip.

Some of her hair had come unbound from the twist at the back of her neck, and long curls straggled over her shoulders and spread across the coverlet in a tangled auburn wave.

Even in sleep, there was a most unsettling crease between her brows.

That anxious little crease was almost enough to cause him an uncomfortable twinge of regret. Or it might have been if he ever bothered with such useless emotions as regret.

What’s done was done. What was the use in sniveling about it?

This was an unfortunate business, but as fate would have it, he’d made a promise to his father—a deathbed promise, no less—that he’d see it through to the end, and that was what he intended to do.

Still, he might have been a bit more gentlemanly about it.

“Cat?” Quick footsteps pattered down the corridor, and a young lady rushed into the bedchamber, a flurry of words bursting from her lips. “I hardly slept a wink last night for worrying! We never should have left you alone with . . . oh!”

She broke off with a gasp when she saw him, and he stared back at her, nearly as surprised as she was.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten there were two more MacLeod sisters, but it had, er .

. . slipped his mind? Self-preservation, no doubt.

The first sister had nearly killed him, and now he had two more vixens to contend with.

It would be a bloody miracle if he didn’t end up at the bottom of Loch Dunvegan.

This new one had the same curly hair and strange, dark green eyes as her sister, but this new MacLeod chit didn’t have Catriona’s, er .

. . well, a gentleman didn’t like to call a lady menacing , but there was no denying the eldest MacLeod sister was a ferocious little thing, for all that she was as sturdy as a bit of dandelion fluff.

This sister’s eyes were softer, her face rounder, her chin a gentle curve instead of a stubborn angle.

They were both petite, dainty even, but this girl, with her long, slender neck and pale, fluttering hands had a fragility her sister was lacking.

Even her hair was a softer color, a muted reddish gold version of her sister’s vibrant auburn.

She didn’t look like the sort of young lady who’d attempt to poison a man. What a pity she wasn’t the sister who’d come to the village yesterday. If she had been, he wouldn’t be struggling not to cast up his accounts all over the crisp white coverlet.

He’d taken command of the situation last night, yes—and he’d done a masterful job of it, too—but he hadn’t yet recovered from the poisoning. His mouth was as dry as dust, and his head felt as if it had come untethered from his neck and was floating into the beamed ceiling above them.

“Cat?” The girl nudged her sister, her throat moving in a rough swallow. “H-he’s awake.”

“Freya?” Catriona stirred and let out a groan. “Who’s awake?”

Ah, so this was Freya MacLeod, the middle sister. The one who could conjure a violent storm from a clear blue sky, according to Munro. He stifled a snort. A violent storm, indeed. She looked as if she’d struggle to coax a kitten into her lap.

“The man.” Freya backed away from him, her eyes wide. “Your, ah . . . the man you brought here last night. Why is he awake?”

Cat bolted upright, shoving the tangle of hair out of her eyes, and leapt to her feet. “It’s all right, Freya.” She held out her hands, as if she were attempting to calm a cornered animal. “I promise you it’s going to be all right.”

“All right? How can it be all right?” A strangled sound tore from Freya’s throat. “And he’s bleeding ! Why is he bleeding?”

Bleeding? He glanced down at himself, blinking at the blood decorating his shirt. Oh, right, he was bleeding, wasn’t he? It wasn’t just a little blood, either, but great, rusty streaks of it, a startlingly dark red against his white linen shirt.

Good Lord, it looked as if he’d been beheaded.

Cat glanced at him, biting her lip. “Er, well, there was a bit of a mishap last night—”

“A mishap ? Is that what you’d call it, Miss MacLeod?” Hamish raised an eyebrow. “You struck me in the face. It was hardly a mishap.”

Freya sucked in a breath, her gaze darting to her sister. “Struck him!”

“He wouldn’t let go of my wrist. If he’d simply released me when I demanded it, I wouldn’t have struck him.”

Catriona’s voice was calm, but if the green sparks shooting from her eyes had been daggers, he would have been a dead man. She was quite magnificent, really, in a demonic sort of way. “I would have gladly released you, Miss MacLeod, if you hadn’t tried to poison me.”

“Poison!” Freya MacLeod repeated, her voice faint. “He knows about the poison?”

“I know plenty, Miss Freya. More than enough to drag your sister to the magistrate. The Crown doesn’t look upon murderesses with a friendly eye.”

“Murderess!” Freya paled, staggering against the bed post.

Despite being hardly able to keep himself upright, he lurched for her, fearing a swoon, but Catriona MacLeod darted between them, her eyes flashing fire, and caught her sister around the waist. “Don’t touch her. Not a single finger, Lord Ballantyne.”

He stilled, the strangest feeling sweeping through him as he stared into her glittering green eyes, something that was both anger and grudging admiration at once.

The girl was a termagant. She was a thief, just as her father had been, and quite possibly a murderess, as well, but there wasn’t a bit of cowardice in her.

Looking at her now, with her snapping green eyes and those red curls in a wild riot around her face, he could almost believe she was .

. . not a sorceress, no, but there was something different about her, something he could feel, but couldn’t explain.

Long moments passed, but neither of them moved, each staring silently at the other.

God only knew how long they might have remained that way if the bedchamber door hadn’t burst open, slamming against the wall behind it with a mighty crash. “Is something amiss? I heard shouting.”

“No, it’s fine.” Catriona broke their stare and turned toward the door. “Good morning, Sorcha.”

“Do you think so, Cat? I beg to differ.”

Sorcha MacLeod was tiny, smaller even than her sisters, but he recognized at one glance that she wasn’t the sort of lady a man should underestimate.

What had Munro said of her? That she was the wickedest of the three sisters.

Now that he could believe.

She looked him up and down, her penetrating green eyes seeming to see everything in a single glance, then she just as quickly dismissed him, as if she found a large, bloodied stranger lounging in one of her bedchambers every day. “He’s still alive? Pity.”

“Sorcha!” Freya gasped.

“What? You can’t deny it would be a great deal easier for us if he’d had the decency to die. It’s what a proper gentleman would have done.” She plopped down on the chair beside the bed. “Why does Freya look as if she’s about to fall into a swoon?”

Cat let out a sigh and took Freya’s hand. “Her nerves are a bit frayed. Last night was . . . rather trying.”

“This morning, as well. I’ve been to the village.”

“The village!” Cat and Freya said at once, identical expressions of horror on their faces.

“Why in the world would you do such a thing?” Cat demanded. “Did we not agree it’s best if you stay away from—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, calm down, will you? It’s not as if I attacked anyone.”

“Not this time,” Freya muttered under her breath.

“I merely went to see if anyone had missed him.” She jerked her chin toward Hamish. “No one has, thankfully. Do we know who he is yet?”

Hamish, who’d had quite enough of being discussed as if he were invisible, struggled upright. “I’m Hamish Muir, the Marquess of Ballantyne.”

“A marquess?” Sorcha MacLeod huffed. “Useless creatures, marquesses. Whatever does a marquess want with us?”

“He wants Rory’s treasure.” Catriona’s voice was grim. “Just like the rest of them.”

Sorcha had remained expressionless throughout this discussion, but at mention of the treasure, her lips curled upward. “Is that so? You haven’t told him, then?”

Told him? He looked from one sister to the next. “Told me what?”

Sorcha’s smile widened. “Ah, now this should be entertaining. Shall we go to the library? I’ve lit the fire, and Freya can lie down. She looks as if she’s about to topple over.”

Catriona shook her head. “No. Take Freya upstairs, Sorcha. I’ll explain everything to his lordship.”

“Where’s the fun in that? But very well. If you prefer it. Come on then, Freya.” Sorcha rose to her feet and marched to the door, but turned at the last minute, her cool gaze moving over his bloody shirt. “Is that your handiwork, Cat?”