Page 31

“There’s an Irish gentleman in Carrick, South Ayrshire, near Girvan. For many years my father was the head of a smuggling crew, and this gentleman, Cormac Donigan, was his partner.”

“Yes? Go on, Miss MacLeod.”

“Mr. Donigan is still running that crew, smuggling claret, rum, and tea through a series of caves in the area.” They were a raw, rough crew, too, one made up of liars, thieves, and various other blackguards.

But it wasn’t true what they said, about there being no honor among thieves. The men in her father’s former crew were fiercely loyal to each other, and to Rory.

In life, and in death.

Especially Donigan. She’d met him once, quite a few years ago, when she was around eleven years old or so. She didn’t remember much about him, other than that he had lovely gray eyes, and he’d given her a beautiful silver hairbrush.

Stolen, no doubt, but she’d treasured it. She still used it every day.

Lord Ballantyne’s blue eyes gleamed in the lantern light. “You think this Donigan may know where the treasure is?”

“I can’t be certain of that, but I’d be surprised if he didn’t know something about it.” Whether he’d agree to reveal it was another question. He was a smuggler, after all, and could decide instead that he’d rather separate their heads from their necks.

But she didn’t think so. The loyalty Rory’s old crew felt for her father would extend to his daughter. At least, she hoped it would. It would be rather a grievous miscalculation if she was wrong.

“Girvan is a good distance from Dunvegan,” Lord Ballantyne muttered, more to himself than to her. “A six-day’s ride, but I could make it in five.”

“ You could make it in five?”

He glanced at her, as if he’d only just recalled she was there. “Perhaps four, if I have good luck with changing horses.”

He could make it in five days if he had good luck with the horses?

She stared at him, anger uncoiling in her chest. Why, he was speaking as if he were going by himself!

But no, she must have misunderstood him. “You mean, of course, that we could make it in five days. Isn’t that right, Lord Ballantyne?”

His eyebrows shot up. “No, I didn’t, Miss MacLeod.”

He had the nerve to look surprised! Did he imagine she’d stay here, lazing about the castle while he went off to play the hero? If he did find the treasure, what was to stop him from running off back to London with it?

“Have you forgotten our truce already, my lord?”

“Of course not, but our truce doesn’t include my taking a young lady three hundred or more miles to South Ayrshire to meet with cutthroats and brigands. The ghost of your father truly would haunt me if I did that.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet. “You misunderstand me, Lord Ballantyne. I’m not asking for your permission. I’m informing you that I am going, whether you approve of it or not.”

“The devil you are.” He rose as well, mimicking her, until they stood face to face.

Or rather, face to chin. “What do you intend to do, my lord? Stroll up to Cormac Donigan, announce that you’re a marquess, and demand he answer your questions?”

He shrugged. “I daresay I’ll think of something. I always do.”

“Another man with more bravery than sense!” She threw her arms up in the air, thoroughly disgusted. “You, Lord Ballantyne, are just like my father.”

“Is that a compliment, Miss MacLeod, or an insult?”

God help her, she hardly knew anymore. “If you arrive in Ballantrae without me, you can be sure Donigan’s men will carve you up and toss your bloody bits into Solway Firth.”

“What a charming description, Miss MacLeod. One can’t fault your imagination.”

“The point, my lord, is that you need me. There’s a chance Donigan will speak to Rory MacLeod’s daughter, but he doesn’t owe you any loyalty. Besides, Scottish smugglers despise the English.” It was part of the reason they were smugglers in the first place, for pity’s sake!

“I’m only half English. The other half of me is pure Scot.”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“Perhaps not, but you must see that I can’t permit you to come with me. You can’t go running all over Scotland alone, with a gentleman who isn’t your spouse. Your reputation—”

“Half of Scotland thinks I’m a witch , Lord Ballantyne. My reputation is already tarnished beyond repair. If there is one positive outcome of this mess, it’s the freedom that comes with having no reputation left to lose.”

He opened his mouth, but then he turned abruptly toward the window without a word, leaving her staring at his broad back.

He didn’t speak for some time, and when he did, his voice was quiet. “Have you forgotten, Miss MacLeod, that your sisters also need you? Or do you mean to leave them here alone for several weeks while you scurry off to South Ayrshire?”

The righteous anger swelling in her chest drained away, leaving her as limp and flat as a sail abandoned by the wind, and she fell heavily back into her chair.

Of all the things he might have said, he’d hit upon the only one that could dissuade her.

Of course, she couldn’t leave Freya and Sorcha here alone. What had she been thinking? Even if she was here, they may not be able to withstand another attack, but without her, Sorcha and Freya didn’t stand a chance.

The papers on her father’s desk blurred in front of her eyes. What was the use? No matter which way she turned, she was trapped.

“Miss MacLeod.” Lord Ballantyne came away from the window and crouched beside her chair. “Catriona. Look at me.”

“No.” If she looked at him now, she’d burst into tears.

Warm fingers touched her chin, turning her face up to his. “Look at me.”

He was so close she could see the dark prickles of hair on the curve of his jaw. Not just the shadow of his beard she’d seen a dozen times since he’d invaded her home, but each tiny, defiant pinprick emerging from his otherwise smooth skin.

Oh, dear. They were far too close to one another.

A wiser lady would have pushed him away, but she remained where she was, her back pressed against the chair.

“I’m sorry, Catriona. It’s not fair, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“I know.” She let out a breath, and the tightness in her chest eased a little. “Me, neither. Perhaps it’s for the best. After days trapped in a carriage with you, I’d almost certainly bloody your nose again.”

He chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing. No worse than monkshood poisoning, for instance.”

“There’s no need for gallantry, Lord Ballantyne.” A reluctant smile crossed her lips. “It’s perfectly acceptable for you to admit you don’t like me.”

“Is that what you think? That I don’t like you? You’re quite wrong, you know. I like you very much. This despite never, in my twenty-eight years of life, having had the misfortune to come across such a trying creature as you.”

Ah, no sweet murmurs would fall from those hard lips, then. It was just as well. They weren’t friends. How many times must she keep reminding herself of that?

But they were no longer enemies, either.

The truce between them remained an uneasy one, and yet . . .

There was something else there, as well, a strange heat that only seemed to burn hotter with every word, every glance they shared.

Passion, it seemed, cared nothing for the state of one’s heart.

Her wariness of him, her distrust and suspicion were no match for the quiver of desire in her belly, the shivers of awareness dancing down her spine.

“I assure you, Lord Ballantyne, I feel no fondness for you, either. You’re arrogant, overbearing, and presumptuous, and quite the most unpleasant man I’ve ever encountered. I can hardly bear the sight of you.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” He eased closer and caught one of her curls between his fingers. “Each of us despises the other?”

“Yes. With the heat of a thousand suns.” But her eyes felt heavy, too heavy to hold the weight of her lids, and her arms, traitorous limbs that they were, were stealing around his neck, her fingers sinking into the hair there.

It was so silky, so unexpectedly soft.

Despite everything that had passed between them, she wanted him. She shouldn’t, but she did. Deep down, a secret part of her had been aching for him since he’d woken in the bedchamber that first morning.

It was inevitable, this kiss. It had been gathering like a storm between them from the start. She’d known it would come to this from the first moment she looked into his eyes.

And now it was too late. Much too late, because he was closer now, his lips parting. “This is madness,” he murmured against the tender skin behind her ear. “Pure madness,” he said again, even as he nuzzled his face into the curve between her shoulder and neck.

A soft gasp fell from her lips, and she rested her hands on the hard, warm plane of his chest to steady herself, her eyes closing at the sensation of his heart beating steadily against her palm.

She’d known him for only a matter of days, yet somehow it felt as if she waited weeks for his kiss, a lifetime.

When it came, it was the lightest touch, the merest brush of his lips, more a trail of warm breath against her throat than a kiss.

Yet it was enough. Enough to set her entire body atremble, her doubts and misgivings falling away as she pressed closer to him, enough to tear a shaky moan from her lips.

He nipped her neck, then raised his head, his breath coming in shallow pants as he gazed down at her with hot blue eyes. “You’ve bewitched me, Catriona.”

Was that what he thought? Was he just like all the others who told tales about her, with their endless whispers about her spells and potions?

Did he imagine she’d cursed him?

Her fingers curled against his chest, either to push him away, or drag him closer. She didn’t know which, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

Because he lowered his head, and there was no time to question it, no time to do anything at all before his mouth settled on hers, his tongue sweeping against the seam of her lips.

A demand, not a request.

She couldn’t think after that. She could do nothing but give way to the seductive teasing of his tongue, to welcome him, her breath catching as he surged inside, hot and damp and slick, his hands falling to her waist to urge her closer as he ravaged her mouth.

She’d been kissed once before, but not like this.

It was as if her world had just tilted on its axis, and everything that had once been right side up was now upside down.

It put her in mind of the time Sorcha’s birds had somehow gotten into her workroom and flown about in a panic, leaving smashed glass and overturned books in their wake.

Perfect order, reduced to utter chaos in a matter of seconds.

No, she’d never been kissed like this , so she could feel it everywhere, the tips of her breasts tingling and her belly pulsing.

She gasped again, softly, more a breath than a sound, but he must have heard something in it, because his lips gentled against hers, his kiss turning from an exploration to a seduction, the tip of his tongue tracing her mouth, toying with her lower lip.

“Open for me, Catriona.” His breath was hot, his mouth trailing lower to brush the hollow of her throat, then pausing to drop a kiss on her collarbone before he was once again hovering over her parted lips, their ragged breath mingling. “Let me inside.”

She did. Oh, she did, because she could do nothing less, her head dizzy with desire for him, this man she hardly knew and didn’t trust, her body a traitor to her better judgment.

“Yes,” he hissed on a ragged breath when she opened her mouth to him once more. “So good for me, Catriona.”

It was just a kiss. It didn’t mean anything, nor did it change anything, but for this single moment, this fleeting, dizzying moment, she’d let herself have this.

Have him .

Everything inside her was clamoring for him, a spray of goosebumps puckering her skin as he slid one hand into the back of her hair and rested the other palm against her throat, stilling her for his touch.

“Kiss me, Catriona.” His eyes were blazing, two deep pools of glittering blue fire, his cheeks flushed, and his dark hair disheveled from her seeking fingers. “Kiss me back.”

Her tongue darted out eagerly to meet his, tangling in a slick, hot duel, the tenderest of battles, because it had gone too far between them for her to pretend any longer.

“Your heart is pounding.” He abandoned her lips to drop a tiny kiss onto her throat, right over her fluttering pulse. “Do you want me, Catriona?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. There was no need. He already knew the answer.

“God knows I want you.” He ran his nose up the side of her neck, inhaling deeply. “The last woman in the world I should want. Treacherous thing, desire.”

Treacherous. Yes, that was the right word for it, because even as you knew you were making a grievous mistake, you never wanted to stop.

She might not have stopped. She might have gone on until there was nowhere left to go and the word stop lost all its meaning, if he hadn’t drawn back, panting, and set her gently away from him.

“This isn’t . . . I shouldn’t have . . . you’re an innocent.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Go to bed, Catriona, before I forget I’m a gentleman.”

An innocent? A laugh threatened, but she held it back.

Yes, she supposed she was innocent, and likely to remain so into her dotage, but she’d never felt less innocent in her life than she did right now.

But even as the rejection stung, a part of her was grateful to him.

His kiss hadn’t only made her forget herself, it had made her forget her anger over the unfairness of what had befallen them, and she couldn’t let that happen. Once it did, she may never find her way back to it, and what would become of them then?

She could never allow herself to forget what she owed to her sisters, and to her father.

Gently, she pushed him back, away from her, and rose to her feet. “You’re right, of course, Lord Ballantyne. I beg your pardon.”

“Catriona.”

She’d reached the door by the time he said her name. She turned back to find him standing beside the desk, tension radiating from him, and his hands clenched into fists. “Wait. I—”

But there was nothing to wait for. “Goodnight, Lord Ballantyne.”

She didn’t pause, but turned and made her way into the corridor, and from there down the winding turret steps.

What, after all, was the point in waiting? Whatever this madness was between them, it ended here, like a flower torn from the garden before it could bloom.

Finished, before it even had a chance to begin.