Page 23

They sat there, each of them eyeing the other in silence.

She’d treat him to the sharp edge of that clever tongue of hers now, then she’d gather that cloak around her shoulders and march off in a cloud of offended dignity.

All at once, the thought of her leaving was unbearable. It was startling how badly he wanted to keep her there. “I beg your pardon. Perhaps I shouldn’t have—”

She interrupted him with a long sigh. “I suppose there’s no use in explaining once again that I didn’t try to poison you, is there, Lord Ballantyne?”

Was there any use in it? Less than half an hour ago, he would have said no.

But now . . . he toyed with the tarnished brass scales on her worktable, setting them bouncing with a touch of his finger as he considered it. If she hadn’t poisoned him, how had he ended up flat on his back in the woods?

She must have done something to him, but he couldn’t recall what, nor could he imagine what a lady as threatening as a butterfly could have done during their brief tussle that had knocked a man of his size off his feet.

He let out a sigh of his own, his gaze meeting hers. “Shall we see? Give me your explanation of the events in the woods yesterday, Miss MacLeod. You may yet be able to persuade me you did not, in fact, attempt to murder me.”

Strangely enough, it was the truth. For all her secrets, he’d never come across a lady who seemed less like a criminal than Catriona MacLeod.

Of course, she could just be an accomplished actress.

She was certainly lying about the treasure—a few mesmerizing words about gout and festering wounds wasn’t going to change his mind about that —yet somehow, he couldn’t quite make himself believe that a lady who took such tender care of her sisters was a vicious murderess.

If she truly had poisoned him, why hadn’t she left him in the woods to die? Why would she go to the trouble of poisoning him only to draw the line at dumping his lifeless corpse into Loch Dunvegan, never to be heard from again?

Instead, she’d brought him back here and tucked him into bed. It didn’t make any sense. Neither Catriona MacLeod nor her sisters wanted him anywhere near their castle—that much was obvious—yet here he was.

“Miss MacLeod?”

She dropped onto one of the stools, and sat for some minutes without replying, staring down at her folded hands in her lap, but then she rose and took up a basket that was sitting at the other end of her worktable.

A basket with a broken handle.

It was the same one she’d carried to the village yesterday. She reached in, took out a small, dark glass bottle, and held it up. “This is what Glynnis gave me in the mews yesterday.”

She uncorked the bottle, took up a clear glass flask sitting on her worktable, and tipped a small pool of pale yellow oil into it. A strong herbal scent redolent with mint rose between them. “Do you know what this is, Lord Ballantyne?”

He joined her at the other end of the worktable. “Cantarella?”

“Goodness, no. Cantarella is a white powder, and one can’t simply wander into an apothecary’s in Dunvegan and purchase Cantarella. This isn’t Versailles, my lord. This is pennyroyal oil.”

“Pennyroyal?” That was all? Pennyroyal was harmless enough. “What, like the tea? It smells like mint.”

“It does, yes, and pennyroyal leaves do make rather a nice tea. It’s perfectly safe in small doses, even beneficial, but concentrated pennyroyal oil, like what you see in this bottle, is a dangerous poison if ingested.”

“Are you telling me, Miss MacLeod, that you poisoned me with pennyroyal oil?” It didn’t seem likely. He’d remember it if she’d poured that stuff down his throat.

“No, my lord. As I said before, I didn’t poison you at all. I’m explaining to you that the presence of this pennyroyal oil in my basket is the reason your threat to see Glynnis Fraser taken up by the magistrate was an effective one.”

“I don’t understand. If they sell this oil at the apothecary, then why—”

“Because she sold it to me , Lord Ballantyne. Anyone else in Dunvegan can wander into the apothecary’s, purchase a bottle of pennyroyal oil, and march right back out again without anyone thinking twice about it, but if one of the wicked MacLeod witches attempts it—”

“It raises suspicions.”

She gave a short laugh. “To say the least, yes.”

“The villagers are not as trusting as you might like?” In fact, they were downright hostile. He’d seen the way the men at Baird’s Pub had looked at her as she’d passed by the window.

“I’m afraid not.”

“But you ventured into the village anyway.”

“Yes. I had a half dozen bottles of maidenhair syrup to sell to Glynnis.” She replaced the stopper in the glass bottle and set it aside.

“I buy pennyroyal oil for the same reason everyone else in Dunvegan does—to rid the castle of rats. But as you said yourself, I doubt the magistrate would see it that way.”

Good God, what had he brought down upon the MacLeod sisters’ heads when he’d sent Clyde and Dougal here to retrieve the treasure? He couldn’t have predicted they’d turn sorceresses to defend themselves, but was it any wonder they’d resorted to extremes?

It was a bloody miracle neither Dougal nor Clyde had been shot. It should have been him who’d come to Dunvegan that first time and approached the sisters directly, no matter what he thought of Rory MacLeod.

Instead, he hadn’t spared a single thought for what might happen to the MacLeod sisters. Not a single thought for three young women who’d lost their father only months earlier, who were now left alone in this old castle without even a servant for protection.

If Catriona MacLeod ever discovered he’d been the one who sent that first lugger, that he’d been the one responsible for destroying all their peace . . . well, she never could find out. It was as simple as that. It would cause all manner of trouble, and he didn’t have time for delays.

He glanced from the bottle of oil on the table back to her face. “If it wasn’t the pennyroyal oil that made me ill, what did?”

“This.” She reached into the basket again, withdrew a pair of gloves, and slipped them over her hands.

He’d seen those gloves before, hadn’t he? Yes. She’d donned a pair of cotton gloves before she picked the purple flowers. He remembered it because they’d appeared unnaturally white in the gloom of the woods.

Those purple flowers—

“Monkshood, Lord Ballantyne.” She rummaged in the basket and withdrew a small clutch of flowers wrapped in a handkerchief.

She laid the bundle on the worktable, peeled the handkerchief aside, and carefully took up one of the stalks, holding it up to show him.

“Every part of the plant is poisonous, and you don’t need to ingest it to suffer from its effects.

Just a brush against the skin is enough to cause monkshood poisoning. ”

Just a brush against the skin . . .

After the chase, when they’d both tumbled to the ground, hadn’t one of those purple flowers gotten stuck to his lip? Yes! There’d been a half dozen or so of them scattered over the ground near him, as well.

He’d peeled the stalk off his lip, and it had been only an instant afterward that he’d become too dizzy to remain on his feet. Within seconds, he’d lost consciousness entirely.

Good God. Catriona MacLeod had been telling the truth all along.

She hadn’t poisoned him. It had been an accident. A strange accident to be sure—it wasn’t every day a marquess tumbled into a pile of poisonous monkshood—but an accident, nonetheless.

She was no murderess. On the contrary, she’d saved him.

And he’d repaid her by accusing her of being a murderess and threatening her with the magistrate. Hadn’t he also said something about seeing her neck fitted for a noose?

He had , damn it. Twice.

If she was telling the truth about this, wasn’t it possible she was telling the truth about the treasure, too?

It would change everything if she was, but how far could he trust Catriona MacLeod?

If the treasure really was here inside the castle walls, she had every reason in the world to lie to him about it.

But be that as it may, she hadn’t been lying about the poison. “It seems I owe you an apology, Miss MacLeod. I beg your pardon for, ah . . .”

“Calling me a thief and a murderess? Accusing me of lying and threatening to see me hung?”

“Er, yes. All those things.” His cheeks were hot—an unusual occurrence, to say the least—but he was a gentleman, and a gentleman apologized when he’d done something wrong.

No matter how painful it was.

“I beg your pardon most sincerely, Miss MacLeod. I should not have accused you when I couldn’t remember what happened. Indeed, it seems as if you went to rather exceptional efforts to help me. I’m most appreciative.”

She didn’t reply at once, only regarded him with narrowed eyes, as if he were one of her curious plants. Devil’s Claw, perhaps. Yes, that would be fitting.

“Are you saying, Lord Ballantyne, that you no longer intend to drag me before the magistrate?”

He hesitated. The magistrate was his bargaining chip, the one bit of leverage he had over her. As soon as he admitted he had no intention of seeing her taken up, she’d toss him out of her castle and bar the door behind him.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to carry on with the threat, all the same. Not now that he knew the truth. “You didn’t commit a crime, Miss MacLeod. I have no reason to bring you before the magistrate.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not quite the resounding affirmative I’d hoped to hear, my lord, but I suppose it will have to do.

” She wrapped the handkerchief around the monkshood, returned it to the basket, then drew her gloves off.

“I daresay you’ll be on your way back to London first thing tomorrow. ”

She turned away from him, but he caught her wrist before she could flee back to her bedchamber. “Not so fast, if you please, Miss MacLeod. There’s still the matter of the missing treasure to resolve.”

“There is no treasure, Lord Ballantyne, and thus, nothing to resolve.”

She tugged at her arm, but he didn’t release her. “Alas, it’s not as simple as that. You see, despite my no longer believing you’re a murderess, I haven’t yet decided you’re not a liar.”

“Then we’ve reached an impasse, my lord.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, but he could see her uncertainty, the shadows of hopelessness in her dark green eyes.

Catriona MacLeod was no fool. She must know it was only a matter of time before another lugger came, its body painted black, its dark sails billowing as it skimmed across Loch Dunvegan to the shores below Castle Cairncross.

She must know she and her sisters couldn’t keep on as they had been. “I’m afraid an impasse isn’t good enough, Miss MacLeod. I came to Dunvegan for my father’s sake, to fulfill a promise to him, and that’s exactly what I mean to do.”

“Well, I suppose you could tear apart my castle, as you threatened to do earlier.”

He hid a wince. He had threatened that, hadn’t he? Perhaps it was time to cease making threats and extend an olive branch. “There’s no reason for us to be at odds, Miss MacLeod. We could help each other, instead.”

“Ah, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You see, I don’t trust you, Lord Ballantyne, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“What of it? I don’t trust you either, Miss MacLeod, but deep suspicion and distrust is no reason there shouldn’t be a fruitful partnership between us.” He gave her a winning smile. “We want the same thing, after all.”

She didn’t return the smile. “What do you think I want, Lord Ballantyne?”

“To be free of the burden of the treasure, of course.”

“I told you, there isn’t—”

“Yes, I know you claim there is no treasure, but whether that’s true or not, it won’t keep the smugglers from attacking your castle.

As long as they believe it’s here, the luggers will keep coming.

Stealthy things, luggers, with their black-painted bodies and dark sails. Difficult to detect, you know.”

She didn’t reply, merely regarded him in silence, her expression unreadable.

Surely, she must see how impossible her situation was. “You and your sisters will have no peace, Miss MacLeod, until the rumors are put to rest for good.”

“Just what is it that you want from me, my lord?”

What did he want? It was a damned good question. It had been clear enough yesterday, before he’d seen her outside Baird’s Pub, with that one rebellious lock of auburn hair fluttering in the breeze, but since then, nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

It must be the monkshood poisoning. Yes, it was certainly that, and not because the glow from the lantern behind her turned the loose wisps of her hair into a red-gold halo.

“I want to fulfill my promise to my father. I want the fortune back in the hands of the clans, where it belongs. And I want to help you and your sisters.”

It was the truth. It hadn’t been at first, but somehow, it was now.

“That’s generous of you, my lord, but there’s still one thing I don’t understand.”

“Yes? I’m listening, Miss MacLeod.”

“I never said a single word to you about the luggers. How then, Lord Ballantyne, do you happen to know so much about the smugglers who attacked the castle?”

He gazed down into her dark green eyes, gleaming in the lantern light.

Such a clever little witch, but not as clever as she supposed. “You sound suspicious, but you must know everyone in Dunvegan talks of little else. I hadn’t been in the village a day before I’d heard dozens of wild stories about the MacLeod sisters and Castle Cairncross.”

“Stories, yes. That’s an apt word for them.” She gave him a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a gossip, my lord.”

“There’s a grain of truth to every rumor, Miss MacLeod.”

“A grain of truth is like a drop in the ocean, Lord Ballantyne. In the end, a single drop matters very little. Now, if you’d be so good as to unhand me. I’m weary and wish to return to my bedchamber.”