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“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Lord Ballantyne muttered, following her into her workroom.

“I confess I’m rather eager to see what you’ll do with your father’s hat.

” He plucked it up from the table and turned it this way and that, frowning.

“It’s not the usual sort of thing the smugglers wear, is it? ”

“No, but my father wasn’t the usual sort of smuggler.” Rory hadn’t been the usual sort of anything. His hat was proof of that.

Many of the smugglers wore simple woolen caps, but some had adopted the blue coats and navy blue or black tricorn hats the American naval officers wore.

Not her father, however. Rory had never been one to follow in another’s footsteps.

No, nothing would suit her father but a French military cavalier hat.

The left side of the brim was rakishly cocked, with an extravagant white plume tucked into a silver corded hatband on one side and adorned with a square silver buckle.

For the most part, these sorts of hats were made of felt, but Rory’s was made of supple black leather.

It was a distinctive hat, one recognized everywhere by villagers, harbor masters, and excise men alike as the hat that graced the head of the legendary smuggler, Rory MacLeod.

Which was lucky for them, as it happened.

It was a bit crazed, what she had in mind for the hat.

There was every chance that it would fail spectacularly, but they couldn’t count on the weather to assist them, and rumors already abounded about Sorcha’s sparrowhawks.

Artemis and Athena were still frightening enough, but they no longer offered the advantage of surprise.

Hence, the haunting.

It had taken her ages to prepare this. She’d spent long weeks digging in the woods, then she’d undertaken the backbreaking work of dampening, turning, and grinding until at last she’d amassed a large pile of shredded, rotting plant matter.

Then, she’d painstakingly processed it, until at last, she’d produced the jar of white powder sitting on her workroom table.

All her efforts had come down to a single jar of powdered phosphorus. There was nothing left to do now but pray it would work.

“If you’d be so good as to fetch me that large bin, Lord Ballantyne?” She nodded toward a copper tub in one corner of her workroom.

“Delighted, of course, Miss MacLeod.”

He fetched the tub and placed it in front of her on her worktable while she darted over to another shelf and took down a large glass jar filled with honey, muttering under her breath. “How much is the proper amount? Perhaps I should have used the egg yolk, instead—”

“Er, Miss MacLeod?”

“Yes?” Cat twisted the top off the jar of honey and dumped half of it into the tub. “Oh, dear. That looks like too much, doesn’t it?”

“That depends. Just what is it you’re doing with it? Making scones?”

“Scones? Why would I be making scones at a time like this, my lord? I’m making paint. Phosphorus paint, to be specific.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he moved closer, leaning over the worktable. “Are you, indeed? I’ve read about this. That German fellow—the alchemist. What was his name? Damned if I can recall.”

“Hennig Brand, and he’s a chemist, not an alchemist. Alchemy isn’t a true science, much to Herr Brand’s disappointment.” She eyed the jar of powder. How much should she use? She didn’t like to waste it, but if she used too little, it wouldn’t glow properly.

“Yes, that’s the fellow. A bit of a strange one, Brand. He thought he could turn base metals into gold by boiling—” he broke off, staring at her, aghast.

“Boiling urine, Lord Ballantyne? I believe that’s what you were going to say, but you may rest easy, my lord. This phosphorus is made from plants.”

“Plants,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I might have known.”

“Rotted plant matter, rather. It took me weeks and a mountain of detritus to make this small jar of phosphorus powder. I’ve dragged half the woods up here to my workroom. I only hope it will be enough.”

He was staring at her, his mouth agape. “How the devil did you work out that you could make phosphorus powder from plants?”

“I don’t know for certain that I can, yet.” She opened the jar of phosphorus powder and carefully added it to her honey, one teaspoon at a time. “Have you ever wandered through the woods at night, my lord?”

“No. There are no woods in London.” None to speak of, anyway.

“That’s a great pity.” She gave her concoction a stir, then paused to assess it. “It needs more powder, I think. If you had ventured into the woods at night, my lord, you would have noticed that some plants glow.”

“ Glow? What plants?”

“All manner of plants. Bishop’s weed, night phlox, white campion. Ipomoea alba is a particularly beautiful one, although I confess, I’ve only seen pictures of it.”

“Ipomo—”

“Ipomoea alba . Moonflower, my lord. It’s too cold for them to grow here, which is rather tragic. I’d dearly love to see one. If I ever have a conservatory of my own, I’ll grow dozens of them. There!” She finished stirring. “What do you think, Lord Ballantyne? Is it glowing?”

He leaned closer and peered into the tub. “By God, it is. Nicely done, Miss MacLeod! But what do you intend to do with it?”

“Cat!” Sorcha hurried into the workroom. Freya was behind her, carrying two pistols. “Come quickly. They’re altogether too close for comfort now.”

“Yes, I’m nearly done!” She yanked open one of the drawers in her workbench and snatched up the wide paintbrush she’d stolen from Freya’s art supplies. Working quickly, she smeared the phosphorus paint over the leather hat from the top to the brim, sending globs of glowing honey flying everywhere.

Then she hurried to the door with the hat balanced on her fingertips, pausing only to snatch up a walking stick she’d left in the corner.

“Please let this work, please let this work.” She repeated the words like a prayer as she ran around to the other side of the roof, where Sorcha and Freya were waiting for her.

“Is that . . . oh, Cat!” Freya covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. “How in the world did you do it? It’s magnificent!”

And it was. She’d been worried it wouldn’t glow brightly enough, but once the moonlight caught it, it was as if it had come to life, casting an eerie, faintly green glow.

“Thank God. Athena and Artemis are doing a good job of it, but the boat is still coming our way.” Sorcha took the hat from Cat and plopped it on top of the walking stick. “Do you suppose they’re close enough to see it yet?”

“I don’t think you want them any closer.” Lord Ballantyne held out his hand. “Here, give it to me, Miss Sorcha. I’m the tallest. Douse those lanterns, if you would, Miss Freya. It will spoil the effect if they see us, and the glow will be brighter without the light interfering with it.”

Sorcha handed over the walking stick with the hat perched on top of it, then she, Cat, and Freya stepped back into the shadows, nearer to the wall of the castle, and watched as Lord Ballantyne marched back and forth in front of the perimeter wall, waving the hat about.

“Does it look like a haunting?”

“It certainly looks strange.” Freya was staring at the hat with wide eyes. “Perhaps it looks haunted from a distance?”

Sorcha crept forward and peered over the edge of the wall just as a shout came from the loch below them. “I think it’s . . . oh, no. No! They’re still coming!”

No! Surely not. Cat rushed toward the wall, her heart racing.

But it was true. The men aboard the lugger were calling out to each other, and clearly uneasy, but they weren’t frightened enough to turn back.

They kept coming, closer and closer—

“Here, take this, Miss Sorcha.” Lord Ballantyne thrust the walking stick into Sorcha’s hands and disappeared into the workroom without another word.

Cat watched his broad back retreating, and a wave of despair washed over her.

Was he abandoning them?

She peered into the darkness, hoping with everything inside her that the lugger had turned back, but it was there still, close enough she could see it plainly, coming toward them more quickly now.

How had they ever imagined they could do this? They should have left the castle an hour ago when she’d first spotted the boat, just as Lord Ballantyne had advised, and now it was too late.

Before she could wholly succumb to her despair and sink to her knees in exhaustion and defeat, Lord Ballantyne came dashing back out. He was wearing her father’s coat and carrying the copper tub in his hands. “Paint the coat, Miss MacLeod. Quickly!”

“Paint the . . .” Why, it was brilliant! She snatched the paintbrush. “There’s not much paint left.”

“It’s all right. Start with the neck, then paint across my shoulders and down my arms. That will give the outline of a man. If there’s any left, paint my chest with it.”

Cat was already painting, her hands shaking, while Lord Ballantyne turned this way and that, crouching down so she could reach him.

“There! That’s the best I can do.”

“It’s perfect.” Sorcha stood back to survey the effect and gave a quick nod. “Go on, then, Lord Ballantyne, and do your best to be terrifying, won’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but there was no doubt he’d taken Sorcha’s words to heart, because he plopped the hat on top of his head, and then, in the next instant he’d leaped up onto the ledge of the wall.

Freya darted forward with a gasp. “What are you doing? If you should fall, you’ll smash your skull to bits on the rocks below! Lord Ballantyne, I must insist you come down from there at once!”

“Not to fear, Miss Freya. I have excellent balance.”

And he did . He strode back and forth across the narrow ledge as if he were strolling through a park, waving his arms about, and stamping his feet.

“Good God.” Sorcha cast an admiring glance at him. “If that doesn’t frighten them away, nothing will.”

Cat stared up at him, her mouth agape. He looked positively enormous with his broad shoulders and long legs, and her father’s hat atop his dark hair, the white plume waving wildly in the wind.

Another series of shouts rose up from the loch below, louder this time. Lord Ballantyne continued to prance about on top of the ledge like some sort of crazed ghost, and Cat didn’t know whether to fall into a swoon or burst out laughing.

Why, the man was mad! The mad marquess.

“They’re turning back!” Sorcha jumped up and down, breathless with triumph. “My God, it worked! They’re turning back!”

And so, they were. A haunted hat might not be enough to frighten off half a dozen hard-bitten smugglers, but it seemed that an actual ghost was.

The ghost of Rory MacLeod.

Once he was certain they weren’t coming back, Lord Ballantyne jumped down from the ledge in one graceful leap, as cool as you please.

“Congratulations, Miss MacLeod.” He swept the hat from his head and offered her an extravagant bow. “Castle Cairncross is now haunted.”