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O f all the cold, gray villages tucked into Scotland’s darkest, most desolate corners, Dunvegan was the dreariest Hamish had ever encountered.

Although, did the term “village” really apply here? It seemed a generous description of this tiny, rain-soaked shred of muddy earth. If Dunvegan held more than three dozen crofts within its borders, he’d eat his hat.

Well, perhaps not his hat. It was rather a nice one. A black silk jockey, of course, as the latest fashion in London dictated, but he’d much better have left it at home, as it would be a miracle if his cockade survived this incessant drizzle.

He emerged from the inn—the Merry Maiden by name, incongruously enough, as there was a shocking lack of both maidens and merriment in Dunvegan—and onto the High Street.

If one could call it that. The apothecary’s shop crouched at one end of it, and Baird’s Pub at the other, with little to be found in between them aside from a joinery, a stonemason, and a tiny bakery, which admittedly did make a nice barley cake.

And just beyond the High Street . . .

He turned and shaded his eyes from the pale November sunlight filtering through the clouds. There it was, looming over the village like a hulking giant.

Castle Cairncross, the source of all his frustrations.

Like most things in Dunvegan, it was misnamed. It boasted neither cairn nor cross, and neither was it named after Clan MacLeod, though it had been theirs since the dawn of time.

There was some sort of trickery there, no doubt. The MacLeods were a wily lot.

It was a horror of a place, done in rough, dark stone with a narrow turret to one side that was too tall for its width, jutting into the sky like a broken bone. The few muted rays of gray light that passed for sunshine in Dunvegan were no match for the shadows that atrocity threw over the village.

Beyond it, a gray horizon stretched to infinity.

If the MacLeod sisters had been anyone else—or, more accurately, if they’d had any other father—he might have felt a twinge of pity for them. It was unfair that three women should be doomed to spend their lives trapped inside that monstrosity.

But Rory MacLeod’s daughters were no concern of his, or they wouldn’t be, soon enough. He’d save his pity for those who deserved it, and from what he’d heard about the MacLeod sisters, they didn’t .

Not even one of them had appeared in the village this past week. That was reason enough for him to despise them, but their absence was the least of their rumored sins.

The worst of their sins? Why, that they were wicked, treacherous crones, of course.

Or so the gossips would have it. Some claimed the MacLeod sisters were simply doing the best they could to survive, while others maintained they were wily enough, but not dangerous.

But there were those who insisted that the sisters were positively Machiavellian, redheaded mythical beings—sirens or sorceresses—with the power to cast spells and curses.

A shame, that. He was partial to both redheads and wickedness, but a man didn’t want to take a witch to his bed, did he?

To be fair, that bit about the spells had come from his cousins Dougal and Clyde, who’d made such a mess of this whole business weeks earlier that he’d been obliged to come to Dunvegan himself to separate the truth from the figments of their overly fertile imaginations.

They were good lads, Dougal and Clyde, but perhaps not the brightest of the Muir bloodline.

Sorceresses, for God’s sake. Hideous harpies, too, if Clyde and Dougal’s hysterical ramblings could be trusted, all bent and gnarled, with bulging eyes and wiry red hair protruding from their heads like a nest of snakes.

It was utter bollocks, no doubt. At least, the sorceress part was. The sisters may well be as ghastly as Clyde and Dougal claimed.

One thing was certain. They were maddeningly elusive.

He’d been in Dunvegan for a week on an errand that should have taken no more than a day or two.

He couldn’t laze about here for months on end, waiting for some vixen to make up her mind to go shopping.

If they refused to come to the village, how was he meant to charm them into inviting him into their castle?

If one of them didn’t appear sooner or later, he’d be forced to either stroll up the front drive or storm the castle from Loch Dunvegan like a proper brigand. Neither approach was advisable, as they’d see him coming from a mile off from the top of that blasted turret of theirs.

That wouldn’t do. The MacLeod sisters may not be sorceresses, but they were shrewd, guileful lasses, and sure to rain hellfire down upon him if they saw him coming. If he’d learned anything from Dougal and Clyde’s failure, it was not to attempt to approach the castle directly.

At least, not without an invitation.

No, he’d much better wait for one of them to appear in the village, introduce himself, and simply explain—logically, rationally, and above all, charmingly—that he’d come to Dunvegan to relieve them of the fortune their father had stolen from his father.

Of course, that discussion was bound to be a trifle unpleasant.

If he’d been anyone other than the ruthlessly charming, diabolically captivating Hamish Muir, the Marquess of Ballantyne, it might have proved a rather thorny problem, but if there ever was a gentleman who could coax his way into the good graces of a recalcitrant lady, it was him .

But alas, without a MacLeod witch to charm, his talents were utterly wasted.

It was all excessively trying.

He eased away from the doorway of the Merry Maiden and made his way down the street toward Baird’s Pub.

If a man wanted information, the pub was the best place to find it, inebriated men being, upon the whole, much less discreet than sober ones.

Drunken louts were worse than women when it came to telling tales.

If he hadn’t yet learned all there was to know about the MacLeod sisters, he’d find it out here.

The door let out a rusty squeal when he entered.

The place smelled strongly of ale and whisky, as if the dark, heavy beams in the ceiling had been soaked in it, the stone walls bathed in it.

Half a dozen long, rough wooden tables were scattered about, and a handful of men lounged upon the benches, glasses of ale clutched in their fists.

Every eye in the place turned his way, all of them narrowed, none of them friendly.

He’d ventured into Baird’s twice before, earlier in the week—there was little else for a visitor to do in Dunvegan but go to the pub—but these sorts of tiny villages didn’t always take kindly to strangers in their midst, and no one had spoken to him.

No matter. They’d all be best friends soon enough.

He strode across the room and sat himself down at a table in the corner near the window, where he had a clear view of the High Street. If one of the MacLeod sisters did venture into the village today, she’d have to pass by Baird’s to get to any of the other shops along the street.

He waved a hand at the barkeep. “Two pints of ale. One for me, and one for my friend here.” He raised an eyebrow at the man seated at the other end of the table.

“Name’s Munro,” the man grunted.

“Munro.” Munro was a big one, with a headful of black hair and huge, meaty fists. “How do you do, friend?”

The man stared at him for a moment, taking his measure. “Haven’t seen you around here before this week.”

He’d expected this. Dunvegan was too remote a place for an unfamiliar face to pass unnoticed. “I’ve never been here before this week.”

“Aye? What brings you here now, then?”

Hamish almost smiled. These tiny villages were all the same. Scotland, England, Ireland—it didn’t matter where he was. He’d yet to come across one where everyone wasn’t salivating over their neighbors’ business.

“I had a matter to see to in Portree.” Portree was the largest town on Skye, and a busy port town, at least by Scottish standards, so this was a believable enough lie. “Since I was so close, I figured I’d stop and visit Rory MacLeod. He was a friend of my father’s.”

That part was true enough.

Munro grunted again. “Mayhap he was once, but not anymore. Rory’s dead.”

Yes, he was, and thus not at all likely to contradict Hamish’s story.

Useful, that.

“He is, indeed.” Hamish raised the pint glass the barkeep had set before him. “To Rory MacLeod, Heaven keep him.”

Or hell, more likely. The best that could be said of Rory MacLeod was that he was good and dead, but there weren’t many Scots who’d fail to raise a glass to him.

The man had been a smuggler and a thief, but he’d been good at his trade.

Rory’s exploits against the English had made him something of a legend in Scotland.

Hamish waited with his glass raised.

Three, two, one . . .

“To Rory MacLeod, the scourge of England.” Munro raised his own glass and knocked it against Hamish’s with such enthusiasm ale sloshed over the sides.

“A scourge, indeed. God rest the old devil.”

Munro looked him over, his eyes narrowed. “You English?”

“Half. My father was a Muir.” This was also true. It was best to stick as closely to the truth as possible when telling lies. It made them more believable.

As for the other half, well . . . best not to mention his English mother, or the title he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather. If there was one thing the Scots despised, it was an English nobleman.

Understandable, really. English noblemen were useless creatures.

“Ye sound English to me. Ye look English, too.”

“I drink like a Scot, though.” Hamish drained his pint in one swallow, then waved to the barkeep. “Two more pints for me and my friend Munro here.”

There. That should do it.

Munro ran a hand over his grizzled jaw, but the appearance of a fresh pint in front of him went a long way toward easing his suspicions. “We don’t get many strangers up this way. Not much to interest visitors in Dunvegan.”