Page 28

“H ere you are, at last, Miss MacLeod. I’d begun to fear you’d forgotten me.”

Cat paused on the third-floor landing. Lord Ballantyne was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face upturned, and one imperious eyebrow raised.

Goodness, he did take up a great deal of space, didn’t he? Castle Cairncross boasted soaring ceilings, a massive carved mahogany staircase, and a sweeping stone floor, yet somehow, he managed to dwarf it all.

The moment he spoke, he was all she could see.

Forget him? No, there was no forgetting him .

A lady didn’t forget to brush her hair, or lace her boots, or don a proper pair of gloves before leaving the house, and she didn’t forget that a tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed marquess would be waiting for her when she emerged from her bedchamber of a morning.

Especially not this marquess. Not after what had happened last night.

His dark hair was mussed this morning, and the bottle-green coat she’d once thought so elegant was now rumpled and shapeless.

His boots were muddy, and what had once been a flawless cravat was now in sad disarray.

He was wrinkled and besmirched, and he was frowning as well, his brow furrowed as he glared down at the pocket watch in his hand.

He looked more like a cantankerous schoolmaster than a fashionable aristocrat. There was absolutely no reason, then, that her heart should be fluttering like a panicked bird behind her breastbone at the sight of him.

It was ridiculous, and she wouldn’t allow it.

He’d done them a good turn last night, yes. There was no denying it. No doubt, some would even claim he’d behaved heroically, leaping up onto the ledge as he’d done, and risking his own neck to frighten away their intruders.

Not her , of course, but other, more impressionable people.

He did seem to have won over Freya with his ghostly antics last night. Even Sorcha, who wasn’t the sort of lady to be impressed by anyone or anything, had grudgingly admitted he wasn’t entirely useless. It was high praise, coming from Sorcha.

She was grateful to him, of course. Fetching her father’s coat just when they’d been on the verge of ruin had been a stroke of genius, and the way he’d leapt onto the ledge without the slightest hesitation had been impressive.

Stirring, even. The man had exceptional, ah . . . balance. She wasn’t going to deny credit where it was due.

But gratitude wasn’t trust, and she didn’t trust Lord Ballantyne.

No matter how adorably boyish he looked this morning, with the locks of his silky dark hair standing upright at the back of his head, and—

“I believe we agreed to meet at nine o’clock.” He peered down at the face of his pocket watch. “You’re late.”

“Late? Nonsense.” She swept down the staircase with as much dignity as she could command. Just as she reached the bottom step and joined him in the entryway, the grandfather clock struck the nine o’clock hour. “It’s just nine now.”

“It’s a minute past nine, according to my pocket watch.”

“Your watch is wrong, my lord.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He tapped the watch face, frowning down at it. “It’s a Thomas Mudge.”

“Is that a spot of blood on your coat?” She squinted at the dark red speck.

Oh, dear, it did look very much like blood.

“It is, indeed, Miss MacLeod. Noses bleed rather copiously when they’re struck, I’m afraid. I considered leaving my coat behind, but a gentleman does not make a call on their neighbor without a proper coat.”

Her lips gave a traitorous twitch. My, he was every inch the fashionable London lord, wasn’t he? “I daresay Duffy and Mrs. Duffy will appreciate your, ah, sartorial efforts, my lord, but if you’re at all uncomfortable, I’m perfectly able to make this call on my own.”

“That didn’t take long, did it?” He snapped his watch closed, tucked it into his pocket, and turned to her, that haughty eyebrow ticking up another notch.

“You’ve only just come down the stairs, and already you’re trying to wriggle out of our agreement.

Shame on you, madam. You disappoint me excessively. ”

“I’m not trying to wriggle out of anything, Lord Ballantyne.” Not entirely, that is. “I only thought you might prefer to—”

“I prefer we get on our way, Miss MacLeod.” He offered her an extravagant bow and opened the front door for her. “Shall we?”

She stepped outside, stifling her sigh.

They had reached a truce of sorts last night, but it was a truce of necessity, not inclination. Those were the most uneasy sorts of truces, and perhaps it would be best if it remained that way.

It wouldn’t do to become too comfortable with him. It would only muddy the waters.

She and Lord Ballantyne weren’t friends, and they wouldn’t be friends once this was over, either. This was a business arrangement, nothing more, and she’d do well to remember that whenever he turned that charming grin on her.

But she had agreed to the truce and given her suspicions about the Louis d’Or ten-pieces, it was only fair for him to accompany her on her visit to Duffy this morning.

Although his presence would be difficult to explain—

“Have you decided which lie to tell yet?” he asked, as if he’d read her mind. “Distant cousin, or a hopeful suitor, perhaps?”

Suitor? She held back a snort.

Duffy was getting on in years, but he would have had to have lost his wits entirely to believe any of the wicked MacLeod witches had a suitor. “We’ll tell them you’re a friend of my father who happened to be in Dunvegan.”

“Does anyone ever happen to be in Dunvegan, Miss MacLeod?” He shot her a grin. “It’s not the sort of place one stumbles upon, is it?”

She didn’t want to smile back at him, but her lips insisted upon curving upward. “Not often, no.”

“May I carry your basket for you, Miss MacLeod?” He nodded at her marketing basket. She’d removed the broken handle and replaced it with a bit of thick leather cording.

“That’s not necessary, Lord—”

“I insist.” He grasped the piece of cording and slid the basket gently from her arm. “Good Lord, it’s heavy. What have you got in here? Not monkshood, I hope.”

“ ‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog,’ of course.” She gave him a sly smile. Perhaps it was the fresh air or the watery sunshine that had broken through the clouds, but as soon as they’d stepped outside the castle, her spirits had lifted.

“Good God.” He stopped on the pathway and held the basket out to her with another one of those irrepressible grins. “Perhaps you should carry it after all.”

She laughed. “You’ve nothing to fear, my lord. It’s just a few jars of Freya’s orange marmalade for Mrs. Duffy, some Dundee cake, a wee dram of whisky for Duffy’s achy joints, and the last of the bay leaf from my mother’s kitchen garden.”

He lifted the cloth and peered into the basket. “So it is. How kind of you, Miss MacLeod.”

“One doesn’t pay a call on a friend in Dunvegan without bringing a gift, Lord Ballantyne.” Skye wasn’t London, but it wasn’t as if they were utter savages.

“How civilized of Dunvegan.” He tucked the cloth back in place with an amiable nod. “I approve wholeheartedly.”

They made their way down the castle’s drive in an easy silence, skirting the woods in favor of the pathway that led toward the west side of Dunvegan.

Away from the village, thank goodness.

She’d promised Glynnis she’d bring that liniment in today, but she couldn’t bear another trip into town just yet. She hadn’t made up the liniment, in any case. She’d have to do it tonight. No doubt she’d be awake by midnight, wandering the castle just as she always did.

Then again, last night she’d slept as soundly as an infant cradled in its mother’s arms.

It made no sense that last night, of all nights, should be the first in months she’d slipped easily into a dreamless slumber. She’d reconciled herself to a sleepless night after that harrowing scene with the smugglers.

At the very least, she’d expected to be tossing and turning with nightmares about an enormous, glowing marquess, his mouth frothing from monkshood poisoning, chasing her back and forth across a narrow ledge with nothing but empty darkness on the other side of it.

But she’d fallen asleep the moment her head found her pillow and hadn’t so much as twitched for the rest of the night. There’d been no terrifying dash through the woods, no pitchfork-wielding villagers, and no heavy hand on her shoulder dragging her down to the ground.

It had been months since some part of her night—and on occasion, the entire night—hadn’t been given over to nightmares.

She didn’t care to speculate on why that should have changed last night, but maybe . . . well, she and her sisters had lost so much these past few years. First her mother, then her father, then Duffy and Mrs. Duffy, and now the castle itself was threatening to slip through their fingers.

There’d been a part of her that had feared they’d keep losing things until there was nothing left. And while Lord Ballantyne’s presence in the castle was hardly reassuring, it was a presence.

A warm body, where before there’d been none.

Not that her restful night had anything to do with him , of course. Not a thing—

“You and your sisters are close to the Duffys, I think?”

“As close as people can be, yes. Duffy served as our butler, but he’s always been much more than that to us. He was a dear friend of my father’s, and my grandfather before him, and Mrs. Duffy was nursemaid to me and my sisters when we were younger. They’re like grandparents to us.”

“But I believe you told me you recently dismissed them?”

Had she told him that? No, she didn’t think so, but someone had.

She cast him a sidelong glance. Lord Ballantyne had been gossiping about her family when he was staying in Dunvegan. It wasn’t surprising, but it was a timely reminder.

They weren’t friends, and she must be careful what she said to him.