Page 35

Ballantrae, South Ayrshire Six days later.

“T hat’s the smuggler’s den?” Hamish squinted at the neat fisherman’s cottage on the crest of the hill above them. “What sort of smuggler keeps a flower garden? It looks like some wee grandmother’s cottage.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much use to the smugglers if it did look like a smuggler’s cottage, would it?

” But despite her bravado, Cat’s spine prickled with uneasiness.

Of all the places one might imagine a thieving villain would live, this sweet little cottage with its whitewashed walls and cheerful garden seemed the least likely.

Had she mistaken the location? Or had Donigan abandoned the cottage for one of the many hidden caves tucked along the shore of Ballantrae Bay? For all she knew, he might have returned to Ireland by now.

If he had, they’d never find him, and their quest would end here.

But after six long days of bumping along the endless roads from Skye to Girvan, her bones rattling with every mile and the dirt from the road insinuating itself into every wrinkle and fold of her skirts, was she really going to scurry off back home without even daring to knock on the cottage’s door?

Cowardice begets cowardice . . .

“Perhaps the garden is filled with poisonous plants?” Hamish nodded toward the tiny bit of land on one side of the cottage door. “Monkshood, Hemlock, and Deadly Nightshade? Such a garden as that might prove useful to a smuggler.”

“There’s one way to find out, I suppose.” She clambered down from her perch next to him on the box seat, stumbling a little as her boot heels sank into the ruts the carriage wheels had made in the soft dirt.

Hamish had brought the carriage to a stop on the road well below the hill, out of sight of anyone who happened to be peering out the windows. One didn’t like to reveal themselves to a band of hardened smugglers before they were ready.

Such a thing could prove dangerous. Or deadly.

There was a dozen different ways this could go wrong. She may have mistaken the cottage. Even if she had found the right one, who was to say Donigan was even here?

The only way they were getting inside that cottage was if Donigan recognized her as Rory MacLeod’s daughter.

Otherwise . . . well, perhaps it was wiser not to dwell on what might happen otherwise, but smugglers weren’t known for their hospitality toward unexpected visitors. If they walked into that cottage, there was a chance they might never walk out of it again.

But they were here now, and she wouldn’t give in to her fears. Not this time, even if her hands had gone clammy and she was shaking in her boots. “We’d better walk up the hill. They’ll hear the carriage coming.”

The deep violet purple of twilight had taken over the sky. In this dim light, they should be able to sneak up the side of the hill without anyone noticing them.

“Another bloody hill,” Hamish muttered, but he jumped down from the box readily enough. “I’ll go alone, first. If all is well, I’ll come back for you.”

“No, indeed. You’ve forgotten, my lord, that you need me. I don’t imagine Mr. Donigan will be pleased to find an English marquess on his doorstep.”

“I don’t like this, Cat. We’re far too exposed. Anyone could snatch you up and drag you inside before I can stop them.”

“There’s no other way. We already agreed on this, my lord.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it closed and dragged his hands through his hair. “Yes, all right, but you’ll stay behind me. Do you understand?”

She did, and she would—right up until they reached the cottage door, that is. If Donigan was here, it was important that he saw her first.

“Very well.” She was filthy and exhausted from days of driving, and her backside would likely never recover from the abuse the carriage seat had inflicted on it, but somehow, she managed a grin for him. “After you, Lord Ballantyne.”

They began to climb. It wasn’t a steep hill, but it was difficult to navigate the loose rocks and tree roots. They skidded along, making more noise than they should have, but no one leapt out from the shadows at them, and the front windows of the cottage remained dark.

They paused again below the crest of the hill and peeked over the top.

Now they were this close, she could see the muted glow of one lamp burning in a back room, but otherwise, there wasn’t any sign that any human, smuggler or otherwise, had ever inhabited the place. The cottage sat in the middle of the small, deserted garden, still and silent.

On the one hand, the calm was reassuring, but on the other, well . . . if they were set upon by a gang of smugglers on their way to the door, there was no one about to help them. “I don’t suppose there’s anything for it but to go knock on the door, is there?”

“By all means, let’s knock on the smugglers’ door.” Hamish clambered over the last rise, then held his hand out to assist her. “What could possibly go wrong?”

A dozen grisly answers to that question flitted through her mind, but she pushed them aside. They’d gotten this far, hadn’t they? This wasn’t the time to let her courage fail her.

She took his hand, and they made their way toward the door. One step, another, a dozen more, her heart pounding heavily as if each one took them another step closer to their doom, but there were no footsteps behind them, no blood-curdling screams, no pistol shots shattering the silence around them.

Perhaps it was some wee grandmother’s house, after all?

“You don’t suppose I made a mistake with the direction, do you?” There were dozens of cottages nearly identical to this one scattered around the bay. It would be the easiest thing in the world to mistake one for another. “Perhaps we should have waited until tomorrow and come when it’s light out.”

He didn’t answer.

“Hamish?” She turned, a whispered question on her lips, but it died on her tongue before she could utter it.

A man dressed all in black had one meaty arm wrapped around Hamish’s neck. He’d come upon them so quickly, so silently, that for a moment, she thought she must be imagining him.

Until she saw the blade.

It was long and curved, glinting in the moonlight, and the wicked edge of it was pressed to the vulnerable skin of Hamish’s neck.

“No!” She leapt toward him instinctively, her heart vaulting into her throat, but she didn’t make it even one step before another man caught her around the waist, and without a single hesitation, wrenched both her arms behind her back.

That was when she heard the voice.

It was deep and rough, with just a touch of amusement, the man’s fetid breath hot on her neck as he leaned closer. “Where do ye think you’re going, lass?”

“Don’t. Bloody. Touch. Her.”

Hamish was deadly calm, his voice as cool as the winter wind when it blew off Loch Dunvegan, but the thread of dark menace and the way he bit off each word sent a chill down Cat’s spine.

She’d never heard him speak that way before, not even when he’d accused her of poisoning him.

For all his charming smiles and that alluring twinkle in his bright blue eyes, Hamish Muir wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

“Yer not in any position to be making demands, mate.” His captor angled the blade slightly, and a thin stream of blood trickled down Hamish’s neck.

“Don’t!” Her voice was trembling with such fear she hardly recognized it.

But Hamish only laughed. Laughed , even as the man increased the pressure on the blade, and the drops of blood turned into a thick rivulet and a scarlet bloom appeared in the folds of his white cravat.

“Is that so? Very well, then you can explain to Mr. Donigan why you’ve attacked the daughter of his dear old friend, Rory MacLeod. ”

The moment he uttered her father’s name, everything—from the grip the man had on her arms to the very air around them—shifted, turning heavy and tense.

Finally, the man who held Cat’s arms found his voice. “Rory’s dead.”

“He is, indeed. Well done. But a man can be dead, and his daughters still be very much alive. It’s not terribly difficult. Surely, you can see how that works?”

Cat stared at him. Was he mocking the man? Mocking the man with the six-inch glittering blade even now embedded in his flesh! She was shaking with fear, but a hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat.

Dear God, he was as mad as a Bedlamite.

But for all the riskiness of it, it was working, because Hamish’s captor cast an uncertain glance at the man holding Cat, and his hands loosened around her arms.

“How do we know she’s Rory’s girl?” the first one said. “I never seen her before.”

Hamish shot the man a disdainful glance. “Miss MacLeod, would you be so good as to remove your hat?”

Her hair. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that? The MacLeod red was distinctive, even amongst so many redheaded Scots. Anyone who’d known Rory might recognize her hair to be the same shade as her father’s.

“Let go.” She tried to squirm free, but the man who held her didn’t yield. Instead, he reached up and without a single word, tore Cat’s hat from her head. Half her hairpins went with it, and a few locks of her hair tumbled over her shoulders.

A low, harsh noise that sounded distinctly like a growl rumbled from Hamish’s chest. “You’ll pay for that, mate .”

But neither man seemed to hear him. They were both staring at her hair. “That’s Rory’s red, right enough,” Hamish’s captor said, his throat moving in a rough swallow. “Bring the lass in. I’ll take care of this one.”

“No!” Panic rushed over her, and she began to struggle in earnest, squirming and twisting and flailing like a wildcat. “He’s my . . . my husband! He’s Rory’s son-in-law, and a much beloved one!”

The man behind her uttered a curse and began dragging her toward the door. “Bring him in. We’ll let Donigan decide.”

The two men hustled them through a narrow hallway to a back room, where the lantern she’d noticed through the window sat in the center of a long, narrow table.