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He’d said something about a pact between their fathers, about the coin in his possession having come from Castle Cairncross. Lord Ballantyne was almost certainly a liar, but it was difficult to believe he was lying about this.

It was simply too unusual an occurrence to be brushed off as a coincidence. It was impossible that her father and Archibald Muir, Lord Ballantyne’s father, should both be in possession of such an unusual coin without there being some connection between them.

As to what the connection might be, well . . . that was anyone’s guess.

A lost treasure, perhaps? If it had been anyone other than her father, she would have dismissed the idea as pure fantasy, but lost treasures had been Rory’s stock in trade.

Or stolen treasure, rather.

He’d been a smuggler, after all. Wine, brandy, tea, an occasional bolt of silk or lace, and yes, jewels and gold coins. In his lifetime, Rory had gained and lost several fortunes, and none of it by honest means.

But he was dead now, and it didn’t matter anymore.

What did matter was the coin.

She unlocked the desk, slid the lower drawer on the left side open, and removed the false bottom, as she’d seen her father do a hundred times before.

A tiny key lay nestled in the shallow alcove underneath.

It was slippery in her hands as she slid it into the lock in the top middle drawer. It rolled smoothly open, and tucked inside, just where it had always been, was a small, green velvet pouch, a gold tasseled drawstring tying it closed.

She scooped it up but stilled at the soft clink of coins, the weight of it in her hand.

There was more than one coin inside.

Slowly, her fingers clumsy, she plucked at the drawstring and upended the contents of the pouch into her palm.

Then she sat there, frozen, staring at them.

There were three coins. Three, where before there’d only been one.

She took each coin up, one by one, and held them up to the moonlight to see the dates.

Sixteen hundred forty, sixteen hundred forty, and sixteen hundred forty. All three coins were identical to the one Lord Ballantyne had shown her in the library today.

But where had the other two coins come from? And when had they come?

She sat with them clutched in her hand and tried to recall the last time she’d opened the pouch. It had been some months ago, weeks before Rory had gone off on his last ill-fated adventure.

The one that had ended in his death.

She’d come into this room to leave some letters for him, found the pouch lying on top of the desk, and paused to peek inside. It was a beautiful coin, exquisitely carved, with finely milled edges. She rarely let a chance to admire it pass her by.

There’d only been one coin in the pouch that day. She was certain of it.

She fell back against the chair, her head spinning.

Something was amiss with this entire business, and it had been from the start. Rory had given up smuggling after her mother’s death, but then out of the blue one day, he’d announced he intended to embark on an adventure, one final quest for treasure.

By the following morning, he was gone, without another word of explanation to any of them.

She closed her eyes, her fingers curling tightly around the coins.

Did she dare to share this information with Lord Ballantyne? She didn’t trust him. In truth, she didn’t trust much of anyone these days, but especially not him . Nothing would change that. Not after he’d shown himself so willing to lie to suit his purposes, then threatened to tear her castle apart.

She’d taken one risk already when she’d told him the truth about her father’s missing treasure. Rory had returned from his mysterious quest a few weeks after his departure without any treasure and maddened with a raging fever from a pistol ball embedded in his leg.

What she hadn’t confessed to Lord Ballantyne, however—or indeed, to anyone, not even her sisters—was the nature of his ravings as she’d nursed him in those last weeks before he died.

He’d gone on and on about a promise he’d sworn to keep and a fortune in gold coins buried where no one would ever find them.

He’d babbled names at her, names she hadn’t recognized at the time—Archie, Malcolm, and Angus—and clutched at her hand, his skin burning hot to the touch, and begged her to help him keep his word.

None of it had made any sense, and she’d dismissed it all as fevered delusions.

Now, however . . . well, perhaps she’d been too hasty, because here was Hamish Muir, the son of a gentleman named Archibald Muir, or Archie, presumably, insisting there was a treasure and a pact between their fathers, and essentially repeating everything her father had tried to tell her.

Was it possible there actually was a treasure? That Rory had gone in search of it, that it had somehow eluded him and remained buried somewhere, waiting to be discovered?

A fortune in Louis d’Or gold coins . . .

The money was of no consequence to her. It didn’t belong to her, and she didn’t want as much as a single gold coin of it. But if the treasure could be found and turned over to Lord Ballantyne as he demanded, then there’d be no need for the smugglers to continue their assault on Castle Cairncross.

Mightn’t there be some way she and Lord Ballantyne could help each other? He wanted the treasure, and she had both Rory’s deathbed confessions and his maps and notes right in front of her. If there truly was a treasure, she might be able to help him find it.

Until the rumors of the hidden treasure were put to rest, she and her sisters were trapped between the villagers on one side, who grew more suspicious of them with every day that passed, and Loch Dunvegan on the other, where it was only a matter of time before another band of smugglers would attempt to storm the castle.

If there was some truth to this rumor about Rory’s treasure, and the treasure could be found, it would put an end to this business for good. They’d be rid of Lord Ballantyne, and rid of the smugglers, and they might go back to things as they’d been before the villagers began to turn on them.

There was only one problem. She’d sooner trust Bryce Fraser or Mrs. MacDonald than she would Lord Ballantyne.

He’d followed her. He’d chased her, for pity’s sake. Her encounter in the woods with him was the closest she’d ever come to having one of her nightmares come true.

Since then, every time he opened his mouth, either a lie, a threat, or an accusation had come tumbling out. He’d accused her of lying to him, of poisoning him, and he’d threatened to take her to the magistrate. He’d threatened to take Glynnis to the magistrate.

He’d said he was going to tear her castle apart.

How could she ever bring herself to trust such a man?

The answer was as plain as day. She couldn’t .

She’d already told him too much, and he’d wasted no time making her regret it. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. No, it was out of the—

Thump!

She jumped, and the coins slipped from her fingers and fell onto Rory’s desk with a heavy clunk.

Oh, no. That thump had sounded like the thud of a boot heel on the stone floors.

She crept to the door and peeked through the gap, and yes, she could see shadows dancing against the walls as someone passed through the lantern light.

Someone large. Far larger than Freya or Sorcha.

That left Lord Ballantyne. He was snooping about inside her workroom!

Quickly, she snatched up the tiny key she’d left on the desk, and after a bit of fumbling, managed to slide it into its hiding place before fitting the false bottom back into the drawer.

Then she shoved the coins into the pouch, tucked the pouch back into the middle drawer of the desk, and locked the desk again before hurrying into her workroom.

“Good evening, Miss MacLeod.”

He was standing in the dim pool of light cast by the lantern, casually turning over the leaves of a large book he’d spread out on her worktable.

“Following me, again?” Had there ever been a more arrogant, infuriating man than he? “Tell me, Lord Ballantyne. Do you make a habit of following young ladies when your presence is not welcome?”

“That depends entirely upon the young lady, Miss MacLeod.”

“Are you reading my books? Why, how dare you?”

He didn’t look up but continued turning over the pages, pausing every now and again to read. “What are Strangeway Drops?”

“What?”

“Strangeway Drops.” He tapped the page in front of him. “Myrrh, sweet almond, roots of Angelica, half a pint of wine—”

“Is that my mother’s remedy book?” By God, it was! She could make out the familiar worn dark green binding in the light cast by the lantern.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He let out a sigh as if she were excessively tiresome. “What are Strangeway Drops?”

“If you must know, it’s a cure for inflammation, but you have no business—”

“Snakeroot! Good Lord. Any self-respecting chemist should know a patient doesn’t want snakeroot in their wine.” His gaze swept over her, his expression unreadable.

Oh, dear. Her ankles and toes were bare. She couldn’t be alone in a dimly lit room with Lord Ballantyne while her ankles were bare. It wasn’t proper.

“Having trouble sleeping, Miss MacLeod?”

“No. Why should I be?” She shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot as she tried to hide her bare feet from him, but her heels got caught up in the voluminous hems of her night rail.

She grabbed the corner of her worktable as she stumbled forward, and the iron key slipped from her fingers and landed with a ringing thud on the floor by her feet.

His bright blue eyes roved over her face before darting to the key on the floor between them. “Perhaps a guilty conscience is keeping you awake.”

“Nonsense. I haven’t a thing to be guilty about.” She leaned down to snatch up the key and stuffed it back into the pocket of her cloak, cursing it as a troublemaker.

But it was too late. By then, he’d seen everything she wished to hide from him—the key, the doors behind her half-hidden by the cabinet, and the guilty flush staining her cheeks.