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T he bedchamber was the size of a pocket handkerchief.

“It’s not much, but you’ll be comfortable enough. I’m off to see about that foundering ship. Can’t let all that tea and rum end up in the wrong hands, can I?” Donigan winked at Cat. “I won’t return by morning. I wish you both a pleasant journey back to Dunvegan.”

Cat was staring at the bed, but she turned and offered him a weak smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Donigan. We’re grateful to you.”

“Anything for one of Rory’s girls.” With that, Donigan stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with Hamish.

Alone, in a deserted cottage, in a bedchamber so diminutive one couldn’t get from one side of the room to the other without crawling over the bed.

Everything, from the braided rug on the floor to the chair tucked into one corner to the dressing table with the wee pitcher and basin atop it, was so tiny it was like stepping into a doll’s house.

Everything, that is, except the bed. It was a massive, sprawling thing with four wooden posts, a pretty carved headboard, and a thick blue coverlet.

The only thing in the room more intimidating than that monstrosity of a bed was Hamish himself. How had she forgotten how potent he was? She’d grown so accustomed to riding beside him in the tight confines of the carriage it had quite slipped her mind.

But as soon as he stepped into the tiny room he seemed to swell in size, the width of his shoulders expanding, his muscular legs in his tight breeches doubling in length, and the top of his head nearly touching the ceiling.

All at once, he was the mighty Marquess of Ballantyne again, and she was meant to spend the night with him in a bedchamber no larger than a teacup. Why, they’d be right on top of each other, so close if she dared to draw a breath, his lungs would expand with it.

“You needn’t look so dismayed, Catriona. I’m not going to leap upon you. I am a gentleman, you know.”

Leap upon her? My goodness. “Don’t be absurd, my lord. I’m not dismayed. Why should I be dismayed? I assure you I’ve never in my life been less dismayed than I am right now.”

Except, of course, she was dismayed. Disturbed, even, and not only because he dominated every inch of the tiny space. That alone was bad enough, but to make matters worse, he was in, er . . . a shocking state of undress.

He’d removed his blood-stained cravat as soon as they’d sat down with Donigan, and as their conversation had worn on into the wee hours, he’d abandoned his coat, as well.

She was alone in a bedchamber with a half-dressed marquess. A vigorous, half-dressed marquess in tight breeches that accentuated his long, muscular legs and a loose, white linen shirt, the open neck of which revealed a patch of sun-bronzed skin and a handful of fascinating, crisp dark hairs.

Any young lady in her place would be dismayed to find herself in such a predicament, only . . . well, perhaps she wasn’t quite as dismayed as she should be.

“It’s, ah, cozy, is it not? All but the . . .” He cleared his throat and gestured awkwardly toward the bed. “All but the bed.”

“The bed, yes.” There was no ignoring that bed, was there?

They both stood there staring at it, neither one of them daring to look at the other, until at last, Hamish cleared his throat. “Are we returning to Dunvegan tomorrow?”

“Dunvegan?” she repeated stupidly, as if she’d never heard the name before.

“Yes, Catriona. Dunvegan. On the Isle of Skye? Surely, you’ve heard of it?” He gave her a teasing grin. “I hear there’s a trio of redheaded witches living in an ancient castle there.”

“My, you are amusing this evening, my lord. As far as returning to Dunvegan tomorrow, I think we should put off our return for another week, and go to Tongue, instead.”

“Not Lochaber?”

“No.” She couldn’t explain why, but everything inside her—every telltale flutter and twitch, was urging her to go to Tongue.

“You recall what Mr. Duffy said about Rory’s gold coin?

He was in Eilean nan Ron right before he returned to Dunvegan with the coin.

Eilean nan Ron is only eight miles from Tongue.

Besides, I have a feeling about Tongue.”

She eyed Hamish, biting her lip. It was one thing for her to trust her flutters and twitches, but it was quite another to ask him to trust them. Tongue was a long way to go only to find out she’d made a mistake.

“Very well, then.” He retreated to the chair in the corner and began removing his boots. “We’ll leave for Tongue tomorrow morning.”

He was . . . that was all? Tongue was another six days’ journey from here, and he’d agreed to undertake it on top of the six days it had taken them to get to Ballantrae, all because she had a feeling ?

Had anyone outside of her own family ever had such faith in her before?

No. That was the sort of thing she’d remember.

He noticed her staring at him and froze with one boot still hanging off the end of his foot. “If you’d rather I didn’t . . . if you’d rather I not remove my boots, Miss MacLeod, then I will, of course, yield to your preference.”

His boots? Why would she object to . . . oh.

Oh.

He thought she’d object to him removing his clothing. But these were his boots, for pity’s sake. Surely, no harm could come from her catching a glimpse of his feet. “I have no objection whatsoever, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Was he blushing? Lord Ballantyne, blushing ! She never imagined she’d see such a thing. Still, a man with nefarious designs on a lady’s virtue didn’t blush when he accompanied her into a bedchamber.

She was perfectly safe with him.

Perfectly, unquestionably, undeniably safe.

She stifled a sigh, retreated to the other end of the bedchamber, and began unbuttoning her cloak, her own cheeks heating.

His head jerked up. “What, ah . . . what are you doing?”

Her hands went still on the buttons. “Removing my cloak? It’s a bit damp.”

“Right. Yes, of course. Please do carry on, Miss MacLeod.”

Dear God, neither of them would get a wink of sleep at this rate, and they had a long drive ahead of them tomorrow. Perhaps it would be best to just acknowledge the awkwardness of it outright, so they might get past it.

As the lady, it fell to her to do it. Hamish had a bit of the fashionable rogue in him—this was undoubtedly not his first time alone in a bedchamber with a lady—but he was still far too much of a gentleman to suggest there was any tension or, ah . . . physical awareness between them at all.

She opened her mouth, but before she could say a word he rose to his feet and nodded down at the chair he’d just vacated. “I’ll sleep here.”

“What, in the chair?” She looked at him, then looked at the chair.

“Certainly.” He glanced at the chair and couldn’t quite hide his grimace. “I’ll be, er . . . perfectly comfortable, I assure you.”

“You will not sleep in that chair, my lord. It’s far too small for you.”

“The floor, then.”

The floor? With his long legs? He’d have to tuck them under the bed or brace them upright against the wall.

For pity’s sake, this was absurd. He couldn’t sleep in that minuscule chair or on the floor when there was a bed perfectly able to accommodate them both. Why, it was so large there was no need for their limbs to touch.

“Nonsense. You’ll sleep in the bed, my lord.”

“No, Miss MacLeod, I will not.”

He glared at her, such a picture of scandalized outrage that she was obliged to stifle a laugh. Goodness, men were ridiculous creatures.

She marched briskly to the bed and arranged the pillows down the center of it. “There we are. This side, Lord Ballantyne, is yours.” She gestured to the left of the bed. “And this side is mine, and never the twain shall meet.”

“A few pillows? That’s your solution?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You can’t really believe that makes any difference.”

“Very well, my lord.” She plucked up one of the blankets and tossed it to him. “Here. You can wrap this around yourself, and I’ll slip under the coverlet. There’s no chance of impropriety that way.”

He muttered something under his breath—something about the flimsiness of pillows and something else about . . . amorous gentlemen?

No. She must have misheard him.

In any case, she was done arguing with him. “Do as you will, my lord, but we’ve a long drive ahead of us, and it will be especially tiresome for a gentleman who hasn’t slept.”

He said nothing, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, she returned to her corner of the bedchamber and slid her cloak from her shoulders. Then she made quick use of the basin, marched to the bed, seated herself on the edge, and removed her boots.

Hamish didn’t stir, but she could feel his eyes on her the entire time, that deep blue gaze burning into her until she was certain her clothing was going to burst into flames. Only when she’d slipped beneath the coverlet at last did she meet his gaze. “Goodnight, Lord Ballantyne.”

He didn’t reply, nor did he move from his place in the middle of the room.

Well then, he might stand there all night, if he liked. She turned resolutely onto her side, and squeezed her eyes closed, but despite her exhaustion, sleep had never been further away.

She lay there, her muscles tense, listening.

It took far longer than she’d anticipated for him to give up, although perhaps it shouldn’t surprise her that he’d held out as long as he did. Over the past few weeks, she’d discovered that he was almost as stubborn as she was.

But at last— at last —he stirred, and a moment later, the chair squeaked.

Did he really intend to sleep in that blasted chair? He was the most infuriating man she’d ever—

The chair squeaked again, there was a soft pad of footsteps, and then . . .

She stilled, her breath held.

The opposite side of the bed sank under his weight. There was a soft rustling sound, and she felt him stretch out beside her.

For a long time, neither of them said a word.

But she didn’t fall asleep, either.