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He blew out the lamp, leaving the room as dark as one of the smugglers’ caves. “I intend to remain on my side of the pillows, Miss MacLeod,” he said at last, his voice hushed, yet oddly formal. “I trust that you will stay on yours.”

Despite herself, a smile rose to her lips. Did he fear for his virtue? “Of course, my lord.”

Soon afterward, Hamish fell asleep, but she lay awake for a long time, listening to the soothing sound of his deep, even breaths.

It was surprisingly nice, lying next to him this way.

Of course, she was exhausted, even more so than she’d been after the first lugger had come to the castle, and the dream had started. The bed was a comfortable one, too, and the coverlet over her soft and warm.

Yet it was more than that.

It was him, too. Hamish. Not Lord Ballantyne anymore.

Not in her head, at least. No, she’d long since started thinking of him as Hamish, though she took care not to say it aloud.

But whether she spoke his name or not, he was simply Hamish to her now, the man with the fetching lock of silky dark hair that insisted upon falling over his forehead and the unexpectedly boyish grin.

The man who’d made it possible for her to accompany him on this journey because he saw how much it mattered to her to have a hand in her own fate.

The man she’d been so certain would prove to be her own, and her sisters’, ruination.

But somehow, he hadn’t. Between the monkshood poisoning, the smugglers, and the ghost of Rory MacLeod, she’d grown to trust him.

Him , of all people. The last man in the world she ever thought she’d trust.

Since her father had died, and her world had been torn asunder, she’d begun to believe she’d never trust anyone ever again.

It was such a lonely way to live, to look at people and feel only suspicion.

Perhaps nothing would come of this journey. They might go all the way to Tongue and find nothing. The treasure might be destined to remain lost forever, and Hamish to return to London empty-handed.

But he’d leave her with something, something she’d thought she’d lost forever.

Her faith in people, and in herself. He’d given her that.

It was the last thought she had before she drifted off to sleep.

When she woke again later it was to a darkened room, but the first fingers of dawn were just beginning to light the eastern sky.

It was the cold that had woken her. She was so cold she was shivering, her bones aching with it. She lifted her head from the pillow and peered into the darkness, blinking.

Perhaps she should fetch her cloak? But it was likely still damp, and the idea of leaving her cocoon made her shudder. Instead, she turned onto her other side and tucked the coverlet tightly under her chin.

Hamish was still beside her, an indistinct shape lost in the folds of the blanket, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, his features began to emerge, one by one.

His straight nose, and angled jaw, the prickles of his beard shadowing his chin.

He was lying on his back, his dark hair, which was much too long now to be fashionable, a tousled mess of waves against the pillow beneath his head. His mouth was slightly open, his chest rising with his slow, deep breaths, those sensuous lips parted—

Sensuous? Goodness, where had that word come from?

She edged closer, propping her head on her hand and gazing down at him. He looked younger in his sleep, his face more vulnerable, the lordy aristocratic arrogance of the Marquess of Ballantyne swept away, leaving only Hamish in its place.

He didn’t appear to be cold.

What would those crisp dark hairs on his chest feel like? Would they be springy under her fingertips? Prickly, like the ones on his chin, or soft, like his hair?

Well, she wasn’t going to touch him, that was certain. Goodness, no. That would be . . . untoward.

Although it was unlikely he’d notice, as deeply asleep as he was.

He did look remarkably warm. Really, it was hardly fair that he should be so warm, while she was left to shiver.

She lifted her hand, hesitating as it hovered close to his face. Did she dare?

Slowly, she reached for him, pressed her cold fingertips to his cheek, then snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned.

He was warm, even as the fire waned, reducing the log to ashes in the grate, while outside the cold rain poured down, beating relentlessly against the window.

How did the man contrive to be warm under such circumstances? That large, solid body of his must do a wonderful job of retaining heat.

What would it be like to sleep next to such a man every night? To know if she awoke in the darkness with the cold pressing in on her, all she needed to do was move closer and press her body against his.

Not that she’d ever do such a thing, of course.

Why, she’d freeze before she allowed herself to do something so brazen, particularly after she’d promised to stay on her side of the pillows.

What if he woke, and found her nestling against him? Dear God, how humiliating that would be.

But all it would take was a moment pressed against that warm body. Perhaps if she just lay a little closer to him, she could, er . . . borrow some of his body heat? He seemed to have plenty of it.

More than enough to share.

Just for a moment, and then she’d return to her side of the bed. Once she was warm, she’d be able to drift back to sleep again.

No. It was out of the question. Why, it was scandalous to even consider such a thing.

But she was already easing closer to him, narrowing the space between them until it was no wider than a sewing needle, and . . . she took a deep breath, her eyes dropping closed as the thin sliver of space between them thawed with their combined body heat.

Stealthily, she eased a bit closer, her gaze on his face, searching for any telltale twitch of wakefulness, but there was nothing. His breathing was deep, his chest moving steadily up and down.

So, she wriggled closer, then closer still, easing the pillow between them out of the way so she might rest her arm against his.

Oh, that was much better, even though she was barely touching him.

Surely, no harm would come from moving a little closer.

My, he did have warm legs, didn’t he? And his chest was . . . well, it was an impressively solid sort of chest and no doubt as toasty as the rest of him. If she just laid her head there upon his chest, just for a little while, the shivers racking her body would cease.

She mustn’t fall asleep like this. No, it wouldn’t do to fall asleep, when she’d promised to remain on her side of the pillow barrier. Very well, then. There would be no sleeping. She’d even keep her blinking down to a minimum, just in case.

She pressed closer, so the entire lengths of their bodies were touching, rested her head against his chest, and wrapped one arm around his torso to keep herself balanced.

There! Yes, that would do very well.

He even smelled nice, like the woods, pine and cedar, and a hint of the whisky he and Donigan had been drinking tonight.

It was an unexpectedly pleasant scent. Comforting, even.

But not so much so that she’d fall asleep.

As long as she didn’t fall asleep, he’d never have to know.

* * *

Hamish had been lying still for such a long time both of his legs had fallen asleep.

When he’d felt her edging closer to him, he’d thought he was imagining it, but then her arm brushed against his, and then the side of one sweet, curved thigh, and then . . . he’d held his breath as one small hand had crept closer, and closer . . .

His patience had paid off, because her hand was now tucked against his chest, and her head was resting on his shoulder, the wisps of hair that had come loose from her bun tickling his chin.

It shouldn’t have been as titillating as it was. She was covered from head to toe in the carriage dress she’d donned when they’d left Kilmarnock this morning. It was a thick, sturdy garment, and between that, his blanket, and the coverlet, it wasn’t as if he could feel her curves against him.

But it didn’t matter. He’d known it wouldn’t, just as he knew a dozen blankets and a bedful of pillows wouldn’t matter.

It was her .

She might have been wrapped from head to toe in endless layers of cotton wool, and lying next to her in bed would still be the most arousing experience of his life.

It was a privilege to lie next to her. To tuck her small body against his and keep her warm throughout the night. There wasn’t a man alive who could share a bed with a lady like Catriona MacLeod and not wish to take her in his arms.

Even so, he never would have initiated such intimacy with her. He had no right to hold her. He’d already stolen her first kiss—a kiss he shouldn’t have taken and hadn’t deserved.

But she’d come to him tonight, and he simply couldn’t refuse her.

Whether she realized it or not, Cat had come to trust him. A lady didn’t rest her head on the chest of a man she didn’t trust.

But she shouldn’t trust him, because of all the people who’d hurt her, he’d been the one who’d hurt her the most.

He stared into the darkness, and listened to the rain falling outside, the ping of the raindrops against the window keeping time with the beating of his heart.

He’d sent the first lugger to Castle Cairncross. Everything that had come after that—the second and third boats, the rumors about Cat and her sisters, the villagers’ hostility toward them, and their dire financial situation—all of that was his fault.

Cat’s life, and her sisters’ lives had become a torment, because of him.

And she had no idea.

It hadn’t bothered him, at first, to keep it from her. He’d always been a selfish man, one who made choices according to what was easiest for him, but now . . .

Now, he wanted to be a better man, for her .

Yet all his good intentions meant nothing, if he kept lying to her.

Being the better man meant telling her the truth about Dougal and Clyde and the first lugger that had sent every smuggler in Scotland to Castle Cairncross.

No matter what it cost him and no matter the consequences.

But not tonight. For just this one night he’d hold her in his arms.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

So, he lay still, his breathing deep and even, and just held her, his senses overwhelmed by her—the slight weight of her against him, the soft locks of her hair brushing his chin, and the sweet, earthy scent of her, like green growing things, and the breeze from Loch Dunvegan that drifted through the woods at night.

She let out a soft sigh in her sleep and nestled against him, her fingers curling around a loose fold of his shirt. Only then did he allow himself to ease her closer, wrap an arm around her shoulders, and press his face into her hair.