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Hamish had heard that rumor before. It was said that the crew of Le Prince Charles Stuart made away with some of the gold when they’d been forced to flee their foundering ship.

They’d escaped on foot under cover of night, taking as much of the gold as they could carry with them.

They’d set off on a march toward Inverness, nearly a hundred miles south, where supplies were being amassed for the triumphant return of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“Thousands of pounds in gold coins scattered across the ground! My goodness.” Cat patted her chest. “If that’s the case, it must have been a great stroke of luck for the villagers, as I daresay they made off with it.”

“Well, if they did, you can be sure they didn’t say so!

” Mrs. Geddes cackled. “Others claim the crew dumped all the gold into Lochan Hakel, the little freshwater loch at the southern end of the Kyle. To hear them tell it, villagers were plucking gold coins from that loch for years to come. Why, there’s one farmer as tells a tale about finding a gold coin wedged in the hoof of one of his cows after the animal had been wading in the loch. ”

Lochan Hakel? Now that was interesting. The fleeing crew of Le Prince Charles Stuart hadn’t made it to Inverness.

They’d never even made it out of Tongue.

A contingent of men led by Captain George Mackay, the son of Lord Reay, the chief of Clan Mackay had intercepted them at the head of the Kyle, not far from Lochan Hakel.

A battle had ensued. Five or six of the Jacobite men had been killed, and others wounded, and the rest were forced to surrender to Clan Mackay.

Whatever gold the clan didn’t take for themselves was allegedly returned to George II’s government, but if that wasn’t the case—if the crew of Le Prince Charles Stuart had dumped the gold—Lochan Hakel was a logical place to have done it.

“This is all quite fascinating, Mrs. Geddes. I’ve never heard any of this.” Cat turned to Hamish. “Have you, Mr. Muir?”

“Not a word of it, Mrs. Muir. What other stories do you have for us, Mrs. Geddes?”

Mrs. Geddes hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Well, there was one other tale that’s been bandied about, but I can’t testify to the truth of it. I didn’t see it myself.”

Hamish tensed. Mrs. Geddes had been having a wonderful time teasing them, drawing out her story bit by bit as if she were tossing out breadcrumbs, but suddenly she’d gone as somber as a church sermon.

“See what, Mrs. Geddes?”

Mrs. Geddes glanced around them, but no one was paying them any attention. “It may be that a few members of Le Prince’s crew escaped the Sheerness’s soldiers and Clan Mackay and they didn’t go away empty-handed, neither.”

“Oh? Who were they, Mrs. Geddes?”

“No one knows, but old Mr. Leith swears he saw three lads—young lads, no more than sixteen or seventeen years by the looks of them go aboard a small fishing boat that came out of nowhere, manned by a rough-looking gentleman with red hair.”

Red hair! Cat glanced at him, and he knew she was thinking the same as he was.

Could the three young men have been Archie Muir, Malcolm Ross, and Angus Dunn? And the man in the boat . . . could he have been Rory MacLeod?

For weeks now, Hamish had racked his brain trying to figure out how his father had crossed paths with Rory MacLeod all those years ago. It must have been a rather extraordinary occurrence, as the two men had lived quite different lives.

They knew from Mr. Duffy that Rory had been in Eilean nan Ron near the time the Skirmish at Tongue had taken place. Eilean nan Ron was less than eight miles from Tongue, and Duffy had said when Rory returned to Castle Cairncross from Eilean nan Ron, he’d had the Louis d’Or ten-piece with him.

But his father had never mentioned the Skirmish of Tongue to him, nor had he said a word about having served on the Le Prince Charles Stuart .

But then his father never spoke much about his past, particularly those parts of it that might have irritated the sensibilities of his aristocratic father-in-law.

The Skirmish of Tongue took place in March of seventeen forty-six, and his father hadn’t married his mother until September of seventeen forty-seven . . .

Was it possible his father, along with Malcolm Ross and Angus Dunn had been aboard the doomed Le Prince Charles Stuart , but that by some strange stroke of luck or providence, they’d escaped with a portion of the gold?

Of course, it was. Anything was possible, and if there’d been a battle afoot between the Jacobean soldiers, Clan Mackay, and the English Crown, God knew Rory MacLeod would have found his way into it. He’d had no love for Clan Mackay and would have delighted in foiling them.

But if this was true, then what had happened to the treasure? “You know, this is all quite fascinating, Mrs. Geddes. I’d love to hear more about it. I’d like to pay a call on Mr. Leith. Where would I find him?”

Mrs. Geddes blinked. “You don’t find him at all, Mr. Muir. He’s been six feet under these past five years or more.”

Oh. Well, that was unfortunate.

“But there’s others who may be able to tell you something about it.” Mrs. Geddes nodded at an old man who was sitting at an adjacent table, nursing a pint of ale. “That’s Mr. Laing, just there. He was a good friend of Mr. Leith’s, God rest his soul. Mayhap he can tell you more.”

“I daresay Mr. Muir would love to share a pint with Mr. Laing.” Cat gave him a significant glance before she rose to her feet. “I believe I’ll retire to our bedchamber, however. Mrs. Geddes is right. I’m quite done in.”

“Are you sure?” Hamish rose as well, and leaned closer to speak directly into her ear. “This looks promising.”

“Yes, it does, but there are, ah, too many curious eyes in here.” She nodded toward the other end of the table, where a man with dark hair half-hidden under a woolen cap was staring intently at her.

“You just go right on, lass, and I’ll see to it that bath is sent up to you.” Mrs. Geddes gave her a kind smile. “That and a good night’s sleep will set you to rights quick enough.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Geddes.”

Hamish jumped to his feet. “If you’d be so good as to send Mr. Laing another ale, or perhaps a dram of your finest whisky, with my compliments, Mrs. Geddes? I’m going to see my wife to our bedchamber, but I’ll come back down.”

Mrs. Geddes nodded, smiling. “Aye, I’ll do just that. Mary? Come here, lass, and show Mr. and Mrs. Muir to the blue room, will you? There’s a good girl.”

Hamish ushered Cat out of the dining room, his hand resting on the arch of her back, and they followed Mary up the staircase to a spacious, comfortable chamber in a quiet part of the inn.

“Oh, how pretty.” Cat strode across the room to a large window that offered a sweeping view of the Kyle of Tongue. “It reminds me a little of Castle Cairncross, though the coastline is not as rugged.”

“The room will do, then?” It was by far the best room they’d been given since leaving Ballantrae. There was plenty of space on the floor for him to spread out, unlike that hovel of a bedchamber in Aviemore. His back still hadn’t recovered.

Cat turned from the window and gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, it will do nicely.”

“You’re certain you don’t wish to hear for yourself what Mr. Laing has to say?” From the start, she’d insisted on being a part of this, and it wasn’t like her to beg off.

“No. I can’t abide being stared at, and I think it’s best this way. Gentlemen of Mr. Laing’s age tend to be more comfortable with other gentlemen. You’ll get more from him without me there.” She turned back to the window. “I’ll want to hear everything he tells you, of course.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Well, then. Goodnight, Cat.”

“Goodnight, Lord Ballantyne,” she said, without turning around.

It was plain enough that she wished to get rid of him, so he left her staring out the window and made his way down the stairs, his heart like an anvil in his chest.

* * *

Baths were glorious things. It had been so long since she’d soaked in one, she’d quite forgotten it.

She let her head rest against the back of the tub and gazed out the window. It was dark now, but moonlight offered just enough of a glow to illuminate the waters of the Kyle of Tongue rippling in the gentle breeze.

It didn’t really look much like Castle Cairncross. She’d only said it did because it had been so dreadfully awkward standing here with Hamish, she’d been desperate to fill the silence, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Awkward still, even after so many days of spending every moment in each other’s company. If she could judge by how quickly he’d taken to his heels, he must feel the same way.

His efforts not to inflict his presence on her should have gratified her, but instead, it made her unbearably sad.

If she’d only been able to hold onto her righteous anger against him, this all would be a great deal easier, but not even a day after his confession, her anger had already slipped through her fingers.

No one was more surprised at it than she was, but nothing—not her anger, her confusion, or her hurt feelings—was a match for the desire that burned like a conflagration between them.

Now she hardly knew what she felt anymore. Her emotions shifted by the minute. No sooner did one settle on her than another took its place, like a butterfly landing on an outstretched hand, only to fly away again in a blur of bright color.

If she’d had her wits about her, she’d do the wise thing and leap through the window and scurry right back to Castle Cairncross, where it was safe. Anything, but permit her desire for a man like this to overcome her reason.

Hamish had lied to her. A lie of omission, yes, but a lie was still a lie.

Wasn’t it? She didn’t know anymore.

The only thing she did know beyond any doubt was that the Hamish Muir who’d lied to her was the same Hamish Muir who followed her through the woods, accused her of poisoning him, and threatened to take her to the magistrate.

That Hamish Muir had said he’d rip her castle apart, one stone at a time.

If he’d still been the same Hamish Muir she’d so heartily despised in those first few days, she’d be enjoying her bath instead of thinking about the forlorn look on his handsome face when he’d left the bedchamber earlier.

But that haughty, arrogant marquess wasn’t the same man who’d helped save her and her sisters from the last lugger, or the man who’d walked with her to the Duffys the following day, a grin on his face and her basket over his arm.

He wasn’t the man who’d kissed her with such tender passion in her father’s study, or the man who’d fiercely defended her against Donigan’s henchmen, despite the blade pressed to his neck.

He wasn’t the man who’d confessed the truth about that first lugger.

He could have lied about it. She never would have found out the truth if he hadn’t confessed it. He might have finished what they’d begun in Donigan’s bedchamber in Ballantrae without ever experiencing so much as a twinge of conscience over it.

But he hadn’t, because he wasn’t that man.

He wasn’t like any man she’d ever known before.

To be fair, aside from Bryce Fraser, she hadn’t known any men at all.

Bryce was the only man who’d ever tried to court her.

Goodness knew a lady could scarcely find a man worse than Bryce, but Hamish wasn’t only a good man in comparison to the monster Bryce was.

He was a good man, period.

And she was . . . alas, she was who she was. She squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out the sight of the moon floating in the darkened sky.

Hamish had called her brave, but it wasn’t true.

She had been brave once, but she wasn’t the lady she’d once been. Since her father’s death, and everything that had followed afterward, she was no longer able to look at people as she’d once done.

Now she regarded them all with suspicion. Fear, even.

She could forgive Hamish for sending the first lugger—she had forgiven him—but she couldn’t ever trust him again. Not because what he’d done was unforgivable, or because he deserved her distrust, but because she didn’t trust anyone anymore.

It was simply who she was now.

Hamish deserved better than that. Better than her.

She gripped the sides of the bathtub and rose to her feet, shivering as the cooling water streamed down her legs and back. She fetched the towel the maidservant had left, wrapped it around herself, and dropped into the chair in front of the fire to dry her hair.

It was quiet in the room, the only sound the low crackle of the fire, and the distant chime of the tavern clock hanging on the wall of the dining room below.

She pulled the towel closer around her throat, watched the flames dancing in the grate, and did her best to think of nothing.