Page 24

C at tugged at her arm again, and this time, Lord Ballantyne released her.

She marched across the floor of her workroom to the corridor beyond, her back straight, but underneath her night rail, her legs were wobbling. She hurried toward the stairs without daring to look back to see if he was following her.

But as she passed the arched window just outside her workroom, a sudden uneasiness made her pause and glance out into the darkness.

A shiver darted down her spine, as menacing as it was inexplicable.

She almost felt as if she were being watched, but everything appeared much as it always did on the other side of the glass, the sky a dark canopy over the waters of the loch, and below it, the ceaseless waves nipping at the rocks.

It was just her imagination, running wild with her again. She turned her back to the window and began to make her way downstairs to her bedchamber, but just as she reached the top step of the turret, something made her go back.

This time, when she peered out the window, she saw it. A movement, just at the edge of the horizon, where the sky met the water.

Something was there. Something that shouldn’t be there.

It was nearly invisible, the black hull swallowed by the rolling swathe of gray water surrounding it, but she knew what to look for now.

The flutter of a sail, dark but unmistakable on a moonlit night like tonight, and the subtle line of white foam where the hull broke against the waves.

The blades of the oars, the water dripping from them catching the moonlight.

It was quite a way offshore still, but the wind was brisk, and it was advancing quickly, its destination unmistakable.

Another lugger, and it was coming directly toward Castle Cairncross.

She pressed closer to the glass, her knuckles going white, the rough edge of the casement scraping her fingers. Had she truly thought the last time would be the end of this?

What a fool she was.

There would never be an end to it. Lord Ballantyne was right. The boats would keep coming, again and again, until they got what they wanted.

As long as the rumors about the treasure persisted, the smugglers would haunt the shores of Castle Cairncross, and soon enough, the day would arrive when she and her sisters couldn’t hold them off any longer.

God help them, then.

She squeezed her eyes closed, and after a few shaky breaths, she managed to push back the dark wave of panic crashing down on her. That day would come, yes, but it wouldn’t be today. She, Freya, and Sorcha had done this before, and they could do it again.

They had to.

“Miss MacLeod?” Lord Ballantyne came up behind her, joining her at the window. As soon as he saw it, his entire body stiffened. “That’s not a—”

“It is. Smugglers, judging by the dark color of the sails, and they’re headed this way. I beg your pardon, my lord, but I must wake my sisters.”

She went to hurry past him, but he caught her arm. “Wait, Miss MacLeod. What can I do?”

She hesitated, her gaze finding his. He’d offered to help them tonight, but it hadn’t come from the goodness of his heart.

She wasn’t so na?ve as to think his sudden selflessness had arisen from anything other than pure self-interest, but try as she might, she could find nothing but concern in those bright blue depths.

With one slow, indrawn breath, she made up her mind. For better or worse— please let it not be worse —she was going to have to trust him.

At least, for now.

There would be time enough for questioning Lord Ballantyne’s motives, but that time wasn’t tonight. Her every misgiving about him had vanished like a sandcastle swept away by the tide as soon as she caught sight of that dark sail flapping in the wind.

She no longer had the luxury of not trusting him.

“There’s a jar of white powder on the shelf beneath the one where you found my mother’s receipt book.” She rummaged in her cloak pocket, found the iron key, and pressed it into his hand. “Bring it to my worktable, then go into my father’s study and fetch the hat on the hook behind the door.”

“His hat ?” He stared down at her as if she’d lost her wits. “What in the world do you intend to do with—”

But she was already halfway down the turret stairs, her night rail clutched in her hand and the taste of blood on her tongue from biting down hard on her cheek.

Down, down . . . dear God, had there ever been a more tedious staircase than this one, or a more treacherous one?

The steps were narrow and uneven, worn in the center from the treads of countless feet over the past two hundred years.

“It’s all right, just take care,” she muttered to herself, forcing her feet to slow and take each step carefully. If she tumbled down the stairs, tonight’s battle would be over before it began.

There was no time for her to break a limb. Not now.

Finally, after an endless eternity of stairs, she alighted on the third floor and ran down the hallway toward Sorcha’s room. It would take some time to ready Athena and Artemis, so she’d wake Sorcha first and send her straight to the roof—

“What is it, Cat? What’s happened?”

Cat stumbled to a halt in front of Sorcha’s bedchamber. Her sister, with the strange sixth sense shared by all the Murdoch daughters, was already waiting on the threshold. “Is it another boat?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We’ll need Athena and Artemis. Quickly, dearest.”

Sorcha didn’t waste any time. She merely nodded, turned, and darted back into her bedchamber.

“Cat?” The bedchamber door beside Sorcha’s burst open, and Freya hurried into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “How much time do we have?”

“Not enough.” There was never enough time for this. “I don’t suppose there’s another squall headed our way?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.” Freya had gone as white as her night rail, but she straightened her shoulders, and her gaze was steady as she met Cat’s eyes. “I’ll fetch Father’s pistols.”

“Another lantern, too, if you would, Freya.” Sorcha emerged from her bedchamber, her cloak thrown over her shoulders and a lantern in her hand. “It’s certain to be as dark as Hades up there.”

Cat ran past Freya, who was hurrying toward the main staircase, but just as she’d ducked into the alcove that led to the turret stairs, she remembered something. “Wait!”

Freya froze at the top of the staircase, and Sorcha poked her head around the corner of the alcove. “What is it, Cat?”

“Lord Ballantyne is on the roof.” The last thing she wished to explain at this moment was why she should have been up on the roof with him, alone, but if she didn’t warn Sorcha, her sister might set the birds on him as soon as she caught sight of him.

“Lord Ballantyne!” Freya exchanged an incredulous look with Sorcha. “For pity’s sake, Cat, what in the world is Lord Ballantyne doing on our roof in the middle of the night?”

“More to the point, what were you doing up there with him?” Sorcha asked, her eyebrow raised.

“He . . . I . . . there’s no time for me to explain that now, but I assure you, it was perfectly innocent. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Or never if she had her way. She couldn’t even explain it to herself.

She brushed past Sorcha, calling over her shoulder as she darted up the stairs with Sorcha on her heels. “Hurry with the pistols, Freya!”

Lord Ballantyne was standing at the perimeter wall when they came through the door, staring out at the loch. Sorcha didn’t spare him a word or a glance but hurried around the corner toward the flat space on the roof where she kept the birds’ box perches.

“How close have they come?” Cat joined him at the wall and peered out over the water, sending up a quick prayer of thanks that the moonlight had made it possible for them to see the approaching lugger at all.

They’d been lucky again, but their luck was bound to run dry. Sooner or later a day would come when they got no warning at all.

“Close enough to see the men’s hands on the oars. I can’t quite tell, but from here it looks like there are half a dozen of them. Perhaps more.”

Half a dozen? Dear God.

“You and your sisters need to leave the castle at once, Miss MacLeod. It’s not safe for you here. I’ll escort you into Dunvegan myself. No one will dare question your presence.”

“No.” If they left now, they’d never return. She knew it down to the marrow of her bones. “We’re not leaving, my lord. If you’d prefer to go—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss MacLeod.” He drew himself up with all the offended dignity of a gentleman whose honor had just been impugned. “Despite what you may think of me, I am not the sort of gentleman who abandons three helpless young ladies in need.”

“Helpless, Lord Ballantyne?” She raised an eyebrow.

Incredibly, a small smile rose to his lips. “Perhaps not. Very well, then. What do you intend to do?”

“The only thing we haven’t yet tried, my lord.” She met his gaze, the words hovering on her lips. As soon as she said them, he’d think she’d gone mad.

Perhaps she had. “We’re going to haunt the castle.”

“Haunt the . . .” he broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean by that, but whatever you intend to do, it must be done quickly. The wind is brisk, and it’s blowing west. Those villains will be on your shores before you know it.”

“I’m aware. Sorcha is readying the birds. Freya’s gone to fetch my father’s pistols, but I hope it won’t come to that.” It hadn’t, yet. They’d managed to frighten off their attackers before the boats could reach the shoreline.

But half a dozen men! What would it take to frighten half a dozen smugglers away?

She was about to find out. They all were.

“I told you I’d help you, Miss MacLeod, and I meant it, so perhaps you’d be so good as to explain how you mean to haunt your castle.”

“I’ve something in mind.” She turned and hurried back into her workroom, where she found the jar of powder she’d asked for and her father’s hat waiting for her on her worktable.