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Her hands shot up to stop him. “Not another step, my lord. You’re not welcome on this side of the room.”

He paused, raising his eyebrow. “My, we are in a temper, aren’t we?”

“Why, I have no idea what you mean, my lord.” Her voice was as sweet as a treacle tart, but her green eyes had narrowed to slits. “I think only of your comfort.”

“ My comfort!” He edged closer to her, his heart pounding in his chest. “That’s kind of you, Miss MacLeod, but what makes you think I’d rather sleep on the floor than beside you in the bed?”

She didn’t back away, but thrust her chin higher, as if she were daring him to keep coming. “Please, my lord. Let’s be frank with each other, shall we? You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want me.” She jerked her chin toward the bedding on the floor. “I should think you’d be relieved.”

“ Don’t want you? ” He took another step toward her, then another, until he was close enough to reach out and touch her. “Is that what you think, Cat?”

Of course, it was. What else was she meant to think, when this morning he’d been as skittish as a maiden on her wedding night? Yet, it surprised him still that she could believe he didn’t desire her, when he wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees for her.

How could she not know it?

“I don’t wish to discuss it!” She snatched another pillow from the bed, hurled it to the floor, and pointed one dramatic finger at it. “There’s your bed. Go to sleep, Lord Ballantyne.”

* * *

Lord Ballantyne didn’t go to sleep.

No, he kept coming, slowly, stealthily, and dear God, he’d never looked quite so resolved as he did now in the dim light, his body tensed to spring, his breeches accentuating his long, muscular legs.

Some emotion rushed through her, sudden and warm, like an unexpected burst of sunshine escaping the clouds, but she couldn’t define it.

It felt a little like panic, but the sort of panic inextricably tied to anticipation, excitement, her belly quivering with it, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

He caught his breath, his gaze on her mouth. “Nibble all you like, Cat. It won’t stop me.”

“S-stop you from what?”

But she knew. Of course, she knew. She wasn’t fooling anyone.

Not him, and not even herself.

Not any longer.

The corners of his lips twitched. “I think you know, Cat, but I’d be pleased to show you.”

He edged closer—one step, another, the firelight behind him casting him in shadow until he was standing before her, far closer than was wise, so close his breeches brushed against her skirts, his heady scent of vetiver and woodsmoke dizzying her.

This was the moment to turn away from him, to retreat to the other side of the bedchamber—or better yet, to escape the room entirely—but instead of diving for the door, she merely stood there watching him, as if her feet were rooted to the floor.

“Shall I show you, Cat?” he murmured as he eased closer, the hard plane of his chest like a wall bearing down on her.

She parted her lips with a soft gasp, and then he was there, his arms around her waist, stilling her as his lips found hers, and he surged inside with a breathless groan, his mouth hard and hot and wild.

Then suddenly, the floor beneath her feet was gone.

“Oh!” Had she swooned from a kiss? Was that a thing that could happen?

“There,” he whispered against her ear. “That’s much better.”

She hadn’t swooned. He’d scooped her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a bird and sat her down on the edge of the bed. Her lips were still tingling from his kiss, the familiar melting warmth gathering in her belly.

Now he would kiss her again, and again, and she’d find herself in just the same humiliating position as she’d been in this morning. No, she wouldn’t allow it to happen a third time.

She had her pride, dash it.

So, when he took a step toward the bed, her hand flew up to stop him. “Not another step, if you please, my lord.”

He didn’t listen to her. He kept coming, but just as she was about to scramble over the bed to the other side, he dropped down onto his knees in front of her.

She froze. “W-what are you doing?”

“I told you, Cat. We have unfinished business between us, but first.” He took her hand, his touch gentle, as if he feared he’d frighten her away. “Would a man who didn’t want you, didn’t desire you, kiss you that way?”

She lifted her hand to her mouth and pressed her fingers to her trembling lips. “I—I don’t know.”

But she did know, despite having only ever kissed two gentlemen. Bryce Fraser—although that was more a case of him forcing an unwanted kiss upon her—and Hamish Muir.

The first one she’d rather forget, but the second . . .

Nothing in her life had ever made her feel the way kissing Hamish Muir did. He was like the slow curl of a flame around a log in the fireplace, one that smolders with a bright red glow before it catches alight and explodes into a roaring blaze.

And she . . . well, she was the log. It was hardly a flattering comparison, but his touch made her feel as if she were bursting into flames.

She was no expert on kisses, but a lady should be able to tell instinctively when a man wanted her. She’d felt Hamish’s tightly leashed desire when he held her, his body straining to get closer, the wild thump of his heart under her palm.

He’d kissed her two times now, and both times he’d wanted her. Or she’d thought he did, right up until the moment he’d pulled away.

She didn’t require a third rejection to conclude she’d made a mistake.

“Catriona.” He tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. “I do want you. I’ve never wanted any woman the way I want you. Don’t you understand? You drive me mad.”

A part of her—the absurd, credulous, dim-witted part—wanted to believe him, but the other part of her—the part that knew better, the part that lived deep inside of her that questioned everyone and doubted everything—cursed herself for a fool.

“For a gentleman as consumed by passion as you claim to be, my lord, you’ve had remarkable success resisting me. ”

“Do you think so? I would have said it’s just the opposite. If I have resisted you, it isn’t because I don’t want you. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He caught her hands gently in his and drew her toward him, his forehead meeting hers. “You’ve bewitched me, Catriona.”

“Bewitched you? What an interesting choice of words. You sound just like the villagers in Dunvegan. Do you think me as wicked as they do, Lord Ballantyne?” He wouldn’t be the first to accuse her of casting an evil spell upon him.

“I don’t think you’re wicked at all, Catriona.” He reached for a lock of her hair, caressing it with his fingertips. “I think you’re lovely, and brilliant, and brave.”

Brave . She had been brave, once, but it had been a long time since she’d thought of herself that way. Of all the words he might have chosen, why had he settled on that one?

It made sudden tears well in her eyes, but she didn’t let them spill onto her cheeks. Over these past few months, she’d cried enough tears to last her lifetime.

“Why, then?” She raised her chin and met his eyes. “This morning, I thought—”

“I know what you thought, Cat, and you may believe me when I say it took all my restraint to leave you alone in that bed, but there’s something I haven’t told you yet, and it may change the way you feel about me.”

Oh, no. Yet another secret.

“I want you, Cat, but I don’t make a habit of taking innocent young ladies to my bed, and I certainly don’t tell lies to them to get them there.”

More secrets and more lies. She had a childish urge to slap her hands over her ears, but she was no longer a child. “The unfinished business you mentioned, I suppose?”

“The unfinished business, yes.” He drew in a breath, then let it out again in a long, slow sigh. “The lugger that came to Castle Cairncross, that first time—”

“No.” She shot up from the bed, nearly knocking him backward, and hurried to the other side of the room.

Suddenly, she didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

It was going to change everything—she knew it as surely as if he’d already confessed.

“I’m not brave, Hamish. I’ve been terrified every moment since my father’s death. I’m a coward.”

“No. There is no bravery without fear, Cat.” He rose to his feet. Behind him, the fire climbed higher in the grate, the flames curling around the log, devouring it. Their shadows flickered against the wall, his becoming one with hers. “Being afraid and being a coward aren’t the same thing.”

Then she was both—afraid and a coward, because everything inside her was screaming at her to stop him from speaking another word and shattering the fragile trust she’d found in him when she’d thought she’d never trust anyone again.

Even if it was the truth.

“The lugger, Cat. The first one that came to Castle Cairncross in July.” He swallowed. “I . . . I sent it.”

He’d sent it? No, she must have misunderstood him. “You? But . . . but why?”

Dear God, had there ever been a more foolish question than that? There’d only ever been one reason, and his reason would be the same as all the others.

He was the same as all the others.

“I sent two of my cousins to Castle Cairncross to fetch the treasure. Dougal and Clyde wouldn’t have hurt you and your sisters. They were only there to secure the treasure.”

Cold enveloped her, heavy and sluggish, seeping into her veins until her entire body went numb with it. “And when they didn’t find it, my lord? What then? You can’t possibly know whether they would have hurt us or not, once they learned of their disappointment.”

But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Worse than that.

She dropped down into a chair near the window, her strength draining out of her.

Everything that came after that first lugger—the accusations of sorcery, the villagers’ scorn, the loss of Mr. and Mrs. Duffy, and the two other luggers that had followed the first to the shores of Castle Cairncross—all of it had started with that first lugger.

And he . . . he’d been the one to send it? He’d been the cause of all this misery. He’d brought it all down upon their heads! Hers, Freya’s, and Sorcha’s lives would never be the same again, because of him.

She’d trusted him. She, who never trusted anyone, had trusted him .

Why? Because he was a dashing marquess, with an elegant bottle-green coat and glossy leather boots? Because of a few kisses and a few pretty words whispered in her ear.

Dear God, what a fool she was!

He’d made no secret of the reason he’d come to Castle Cairncross. He’d told her what he wanted from the very start. He’d shown her who he was, yet against her better judgment—no, against reason itself—she’d trusted him.

Because of a handsome face and a pair of bright blue eyes.

It wasn’t even his lie that was the worst of it. After months of suspicion, months of scrutinizing every face she saw, she’d at last let her guard down enough to trust someone again, and he’d betrayed her.

Her, and her sisters.

She could no longer trust herself.

“Cat, listen to me.” He knelt by her chair and took one of her hands in his. “If I’d known what would happen—”

“It’s all right, my lord,” she said dully, drawing her hand away. “I don’t blame you. I blame myself.”

“No! Cat, please listen to me—”

“No, I think . . . if you’d be so good as to excuse me, I think I’d like to go to bed now.” She rose unsteadily from the chair and crawled into the bed without bothering to remove her cloak or even her boots.

Instead, she turned her back to him, drew the coverlet over her head, and squeezed her eyes closed.