Page 33

By this point, they’d reached Fraser’s Apothecary at the end of the High Street, but he stopped Cat when she reached for the doorknob. “Give me your basket, if you please, and wait here. I’ll go inside and see to the business with Glynnis.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is there some reason, Lord Ballantyne, why I shouldn’t go into Fraser’s Apothecary?”

There were a dozen reasons, but he was no longer certain whether they were her reasons, or his. “I was under the impression you’re not fond of Bryce Fraser.”

She frowned. “I don’t recall saying anything to you about Bryce Fraser, one way or another, Lord Ballantyne.”

“But you did. Right before I slipped into a poison-induced delirium that day in the woods, you said, “ ‘You’re not Bryce Fraser.’ ”

“I—I did?”

“Yes.” He took a step toward her, his hand brushing hers as he took hold of the leather strap of the basket. “Why would Bryce Fraser have been chasing you through the woods, Cat?”

“Well, as it happened, he wasn’t , my lord. You were.”

“But you thought he was. That was why you ran, wasn’t it? Because you were desperate to get away from him. So, answer the question. Do you have some reason to be afraid of Bryce Fraser?”

She bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. “I have reason to be wary of everyone in Dunvegan, my lord.”

“But more reason to be wary of him, isn’t that right, Catriona?”

She huffed out a breath. “Very well, if you must know. After my father died, Mr. Fraser decided he wished to court me. He was quite insistent, and not at all pleased when I, er . . . declined to encourage him.”

Not at all pleased? What the devil did that mean? Was she intentionally being vague, so he wouldn’t know whether he should kill Bryce Fraser or not? “I see. And is he still insistent, Catriona?”

“Goodness, no. He gave up after the first of the boats came, and people started whispering rumors about me and my sisters.”

Ah. Well, that told him everything he needed to know about Bryce Fraser. A man who waited until a lady was vulnerable before initiating a courtship, then abandoned her at the first whiff of scandal was no gentleman.

At least one good thing had come of his sending Clyde and Dougal to Castle Cairncross, but it was only a tiny speck of brightness in a sea of impenetrable black, like the pinprick of a star in an overcast sky.

“I can only imagine Mr. Fraser was grateful to put an end to his courtship. No man wants to marry a witch, after all.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But he still bears me a grudge over it, I’m afraid.”

A grudge. Enough of a grudge she had reason to fear he’d chase her through the woods?

Good Lord, what would become of her once this business with Rory’s treasure was concluded? He’d leave Dunvegan and return to London, his promise to his father fulfilled, but Catriona would be left behind with the likes of Mrs. MacDonald and Bryce Fraser.

Just the thought of her having to tiptoe around that villain for the rest of her days made a surge of hot blood roar through him, angering his forehead vein and sending it into a frenzy.

None of this was fair. Not to Cat, and not to her sisters. She’d made it clear she wouldn’t accept his money, but there must be something he could do for her, some way to repair the damage he’d—

“Hamish—er, I mean, Lord Ballantyne? Are you all right? You look a bit strange.”

“I’m perfectly well. Let’s just get this errand finished, shall we?” They’d go inside, she’d transact her business with Glynnis Fraser, and he’d do his best not to leap over the counter and seize Bryce Fraser by the neck.

As it happened, Bryce Fraser’s neck was destined to survive for another day.

Not because Hamish’s temper had cooled by the time he and Catriona were standing at the polished wooden counter in front of a wall of tiny drawers and bottles, the sharp scent of camphor hanging in the air.

But because Bryce wasn’t there. They found Glynnis Fraser alone.

“Cat! Here you are, thank goodness. I expected you last week, and I’ve been wondering what became of you.” Glynnis’s gaze drifted over Cat’s shoulder, her eyes widening when she caught sight of Hamish. “Is, ah . . . is everything all right?”

“Yes. It just took me more time than I expected to make up the liniment. I do beg your pardon. I have it here.” Cat turned and took the basket from him, clearing her throat.

“Glynnis, this gentleman is Hamish Muir, the Marquess of Ballantyne. He’s .

. . er, our fathers were dear friends, and he’s come to Dunvegan to pay his respects. My lord, this is Glynnis Fraser.”

Miss Fraser’s gaze darted from his face back to Catriona’s, and some silent communication passed between the two of them. Whatever Glynnis gleaned from this exchange must have reassured her, because she offered him a tentative smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ballantyne.”

Hamish bowed. “Miss Fraser.”

The ladies embarked on their business then, neither of them paying him much attention as they discussed the merits of Allium sativum —otherwise known as garlic—as a remedy against bacterial infections.

It should have been the dullest half an hour of his life.

Instead, he caught himself memorizing the Latin names for the various species of the plants and, as always seemed to be the case now, watching Catriona.

She made the most fetching moue with her lips whenever she was expounding on some interesting point, and she moved her hands as she spoke as if she were coaxing music from an invisible orchestra.

Kissing her had been a mistake.

Not because she was na?ve, or innocent, or because less than two weeks had elapsed since he’d first laid eyes on her.

It wasn’t because he was a liar, or she was vulnerable, or because he was a marquess whose kiss was ungentlemanly at best, and at worst ruinous.

It wasn’t because they didn’t trust each other, or because he still believed her father to be a scoundrel and thief.

That is, those were all perfectly splendid reasons why he would have done well to keep his hands and his lips to himself, but none of them were the reason that made all the other reasons he should never have kissed her pale in comparison.

No, that reason was—

“May I offer you a bit of cordial, my lord?”

Hamish wrenched his gaze from Catriona’s face and turned to Glynnis Fraser. She was holding out a glass with a thimbleful of orange liquid in it. “What is it? It looks like Godfrey’s Cordial.”

“It has some of the same ingredients as Godfrey’s but without the laudanum.”

Hamish swirled the orange liquid in the glass. “Isn’t Godfrey’s intended for infants? It’s been some time since I suffered from colic, Miss Fraser.”

Glynnis laughed. “It is intended for infants, yes, but I can assure you it won’t do you any harm, my lord. This has a bit of ginger in it, which does wonders for treating the headache. Cat and I often test our cordials this way.”

He glanced at Cat. She offered him a demure smile, and then—God help him—she parted those sweet pink lips around the edge of her glass and took a dainty sip.

And that, right there, was the reason he shouldn’t have kissed Catriona MacLeod.

Now that he’d kissed those lips once, he could think of nothing but kissing them again. Somehow, Catriona MacLeod had managed to do what dozens of fashionable young ladies in London had tried and failed to accomplish.

She’d turned him into a besotted schoolboy.

Him , the Marquess of Ballantyne, one of the ton’s most sought-after gentlemen, admired by everyone for his charm and sparkling wit had been reduced to a pathetic, lovesick fool by a stubborn, maddening, Scottish lassie who had a preoccupation with poison.

Perhaps she was a witch, after all, and she’d cast a spell on him. A brilliant, beautiful witch with the sweetest lips he’d ever kissed.

There must be some reason why he was behaving as if he’d never kissed a lady before. Because he had , and more times than a proper gentleman should have done. He’d kissed too many pairs of lips to count, and many of them plumper, pinker, and more experienced than Catriona MacLeod’s.

Amorous widows, seductive courtesans, eager mistresses . . .

But never— never —had he obsessed over a lady’s kiss the way he was hers.

All he could think about was tracing the tip of his tongue over the slight bow in her upper lip, then nipping her plump lower lip until it was as red as ripe cherries, then lingering over the slight upward curve at each corner.

Every morning, he woke with the remembered taste of her on his lips, so sweet he’d be shaking with need before he even opened his eyes.

Meanwhile, while he was consumed with the taste, texture, warmth, and plumpness of her lips, she was putting as much distance between them as she could possibly manage.

It was driving him mad. She was driving him mad.

When he was a child, treacle tarts were his favorite sweet.

Their cook at the time, Mrs. Babington, had made an exceptional treacle tart.

To this day, he’d never tasted a better one, but she’d been a stern, hard-hearted sort of woman, and she’d taken great pleasure in denying him even the tiniest bite of the treat until it was served at the dining table after dinner.

There’d been nothing he could do but stand there, gaze at it, and want it.

Catriona MacLeod was just like that treacle tart.

Since that kiss, she’d been cool, proper, and scrupulously polite.

She’d erected a frigid wall of reserve between them and banished him to the other side, and it felt just like being a child again, his mouth watering over that perfect treacle tart.

It was torture of the most exquisite kind, so frustrating and titillating at once he couldn’t say whether he wanted it to stop or go on forever.

“There you go, Lord Ballantyne.” Glynnis Fraser gave him a cheerful smile before taking his empty cordial glass from his hand and returning it to the tray on the counter. “I daresay that will take care of any future headaches you may have had today.”