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Tongue, Scotland Five days later.

I f a man didn’t enjoy any peace of mind after admitting to an unpleasant truth, did it mean he might just as well have kept his sordid secrets to himself?

As it turned out, confession wasn’t as good for the soul as he’d been led to believe, and the truth didn’t always set one free. If either of those things had been true, he would have been covered in the glory of a deed well done and staggering under the weight of his own virtuousness.

But of course, these things never went the way they were meant to go. Instead, his soul was as blemished as it had ever been, and as for the truth, that whole business about it setting a liar free had been greatly exaggerated.

Five days had passed since he’d confessed the truth to Cat about the first lugger, and he was more miserable now than he’d ever been when he was a liar.

It was a just punishment, and he was reconciled to it, but for one thing.

Cat was miserable, as well. She never said so, but he’d learned to read her, as if her heart had been laid bare in the pages of a book and he’d memorized every syllable.

Not a single reproach fell from her lips, but the hurt was there in every blink of her eyes, every sigh on her lips, her hunched shoulders, and the way her gaze darted away from his when he tried to catch her eye.

Her strained civility and her excruciating politeness were far more painful than a reproach could ever be.

Unlike most ladies, Cat’s tongue hadn’t grown sharper after he’d confessed his betrayal, it had grown sweeter. Sweeter and colder, every word she spoke like a shower of ice crystals.

“That’s curious.”

He’d been staring at the carriage ribbons wound between his fingers, but at Cat’s voice, he roused himself from his morbid reflections. “What is?”

“That inn, just there.” She nodded toward an inn on one side of the road, a sprawling old place done in painted white stone, the arched front in the middle of a squat turret set into the facade of the building. “Do you suppose the name is merely a coincidence?”

To the left of the entrance, a painted black sign hung from two chains fixed to an iron pole, the chains creaking in the breeze coming off the Kyle of Tongue, the name of the establishment emblazoned on it in scrolling gold lettering.

The Golden Coin.

He turned to her. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

Behind the inn, the sun was setting in vibrant streaks of pink and bright orange, the wash of colors staining the sky. She shaded her eyes from the light as she considered the sign for a moment. “I don’t. Shall we go and speak to the proprietor?”

The fading glow caught at the loose wisps of her hair, plucking at the countless red-gold threads hidden among the darker auburn. It turned her curls into a symphony of color, and he looked away, swallowing.

“By all means.” He jerked his attention away from her and back to the ribbons, stifling the roar of despair echoing in his chest. It was torture to be so close to her he could inhale her scent, and not be able to touch her, but he had no one to blame for it but himself.

“Well, now, what have we here?” A cheerful woman as round and squat as the turret out front was bustling about inside the dining room, slapping down frothing pints of ale on the long tables that stretched from one end of the room to the other, but she paused when Hamish and Cat entered.

She wasn’t the only one. Every head seemed to turn in their direction, and the chatter in the room quieted.

“Why, you poor wee thing.” The squat lady bustled over, frowning as she took Cat in from head to toe. “You look right peaked, you do. Now you just come on over here, lass, and sit down before you topple over, eh?”

Cat shot him a startled glance, but she made her way to the place the lady indicated and sat obediently enough. “You’re too kind, madam.”

“It’s Mrs. Geddes, lass. You look done in, you do. Have you come a long way?”

“All the way from Ardross, yes.” Hamish took the seat beside Cat. “I’m Mr. Muir, and this lady is my wife, Mrs. Muir.” He’d shed his title after they’d left Barrhead, English marquesses not being a favorite with the Scots.

“Are you, now? He’s a strapping one, isn’t he?” Mrs. Geddes scrutinized him, then turned to Cat with a sly grin.

“He’s, ah . . . well, I suppose he is rather . . .” Cat glanced at him, then trailed off, blushing up to the roots of her hair.

Mrs. Geddes let out a loud cackle. “Why, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” She patted Cat’s hand. “I’m just teasing, Mrs. Muir. Don’t you pay me any mind. What will you have? I’ve got some lovely Scotched scallops and gooseberry pie. Shall I fetch two plates?”

Hamish’s stomach growled at the mention of gooseberry pie. “Yes, and please be so good as to bring me a pint of ale, Mrs. Geddes, and some wine for my wife.”

“Of course, Mr. Muir. Right away.”

As it turned out, Mrs. Geddes was the proprietress of The Golden Coin. Her white hair and lined face hinted at a lady well advanced in years, but she was as nimble as a cricket, and her gooseberry pie was one of the best he’d ever eaten.

“There now, that put some pink in your cheeks, Mrs. Muir.” Mrs. Geddes beamed at their empty plates.

Cat smiled. “It was lovely, Mrs. Geddes.”

“Thank you, lass.” Mrs. Geddes plucked up their plates with one hand and ran a clean cloth over the table with her other. “Now, will you be wanting a room tonight, Mr. Muir?”

Hamish drained the last of his pint, the bitter ale making quick work of the last of the dust coating his mouth and throat, then set his empty glass on the table. “Yes, please, if you have one.”

“Oh, aye, I’ve a lovely large room at the back. It’s nice and quiet, and the window looks out onto the Kyle of Tongue. Right pretty it is at night, and the bed’s a good one,” she added, with a wink for Cat.

“Er, that sounds perfect, Mrs. Geddes. If you could send a bath up as well, I’d be most appreciative, but before we retire for the evening, I’m curious about something.”

“Oh? What’s that, lass?”

“I wondered how you came to name your establishment The Golden Coin. It’s rather an unusual name, isn’t it?”

“Eh, not so much around these parts, on account of the lost treasure, you know.” Mrs. Geddes leaned closer, lowering her voice. “That was twenty-nine years ago now, you ken, but Scots don’t forget such things.”

Cat exchanged a glance with Hamish. “Lost treasure, Mrs. Geddes? What lost treasure?”

“Why, don’t say you’ve never heard of the Skirmish of Tongue, lass?”

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Geddes. Every Scot knows about the Skirmish of Tongue, and the fate of the ship Le Prince Charles Stuart .”

“Why, it happened right in front of our noses, right out there in the Kyle of Tongue. That ship ran aground just offshore, ye ken, and there was naught to be done about it, once it did.” Mrs. Geddes shook her head. “Those poor Scottish lads didn’t have a chance.”

No, and neither had the Jacobean cause. Le Prince Charles Stuart had been carrying a fortune in gold from King Louis XV of France to help fund the Jacobite Rebellion. It had been a staggering blow for the Jacobites when the English recovered the gold.

“It’s a tragic story, but I never heard of there being any lost treasure in connection with it.” Cat toyed with her empty wine glass, turning it between her fingers, but she kept her gaze on Mrs. Geddes. “But perhaps there’s more to the story than I realized.”

“Ach, well, there always is, isn’t there, lass? Not many skirmishes take place in British waters that don’t involve money in one way or another, Mrs. Muir.” Mrs. Geddes leaned closer. “Thirteen thousand pounds of it in the case of Le Prince Charles Stuart , if the rumors are true.”

“But that skirmish was a rout, wasn’t it? By the time Clan Mackay and the English forces aboard the Sheerness finished with the Jacobean crew of Le Prince Charles Stuart , all that money was gone. What Clan Mackay didn’t take was meant to have been returned to George II’s coffers.”

“Well, now, lass, that depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Geddes’s blue eyes were twinkling. “If you’d asked George II at the time, I’m sure he’d have told you his men recovered every penny. That was the official story, ye ken, but a story’s only as good as the person telling it.”

Cat’s slumped shoulders straightened, the weariness from a long day of travel seeming to fall away from her like water shaken from a dog’s coat.

“And if I didn’t ask George II, Mrs. Geddes?

” she asked. “If, for instance, I asked one of the villagers in Tongue? One who was living here at the time the Skirmish took place?”

“Well, then I daresay you’d get another answer.” Mrs. Geddes gave Cat a wise nod. “The truth’s a complicated thing, Mrs. Muir. It tends to vary, depending on who tells it.”

“Indeed, it does.” Cat was quiet for a moment, considering her words carefully, then, “Did you happen to live here in Tongue when the Skirmish took place, Mrs. Geddes?”

“Aye, Mrs. Muir, I did. I was not but a wee young girl at the time, of course, but it may be that I remember a thing or two.” Mrs. Geddes gave them a coy smile. It was clear she’d told this story dozens of times and took great pleasure in it.

Cat, who now seemed to be enjoying the game as much as her hostess, was grinning back at her. “Oh? What sort of things would those be?”

“Ach, well, mostly just rumors, you know, and not the sort of thing you’d put much stock in, but there are those who say the lads aboard the Le Prince Charles Stuart stuffed their pockets with gold and left it scattered on the ground when they knew they were being overtaken by their enemies.”