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T he wood smelled the same as it always had, like pine needles and damp earth.

The thick canopy of branches swayed above Cat’s head, the stiff breeze coming off Loch Dunvegan rustling her hair.

There was something reassuring about it, comforting, like stepping into a private world of shadows, with the wind whispering through the trees, the ground soft with matted leaves and moist soil, and the muted gray light filtering through the leaves above.

The hush of it, the silence.

Wandering through the woods with the scent of soil and growing things tickling her nose had always been one of her favorite things, but she rarely came here now.

She hadn’t ventured into the woods since her father’s death and the arrival of the first of the smuggler’s boats at the shores of Loch Dunvegan.

Not since the dreams started.

Everything had changed, after that. The world had shifted beneath her, and she had yet to regain her footing. Even the woods, with the pungent scent of rotting leaves tinged with a trace of salt from the breeze, had changed.

She had changed.

What had once been a welcome silence was now ominous, the shadows surrounding her no longer comforting, but threatening, the rustle of the branches in the wind and the snap of every twig under her feet making her jump.

How disappointed her mother would be if she could see her now! But after Cat’s father’s death, her eyes had been opened to the worst the world had to offer, and once that happened . . .

Well, there was no closing them again, was there?

But these woods had always been a second home to her. She’d already let her fears poison the peace she’d once felt inside the castle. Was she really going to let the same thing happen here?

No. It was ridiculous. She’d walked this path dozens of times before, and nothing unpleasant had ever happened to her. Why should it be any different this time?

She threw her shoulders back and raised her chin. Surprisingly, it helped, the little show of bravado. Her steps became less hesitant as the air around her grew heavier and wetter, the light waning as she made her way into the deepest part of the woods, pushing aside the branches as she passed.

If there was any heather to be had this late in the year, it would be further back, closer to the center of the wood, where the ground was wetter, and the plants were somewhat protected from the harsher rays of the sun.

Freya would be worrying about her by now, wondering where she’d gone, but it was already late in the season for the heather, and she didn’t want to leave it any longer. She’d just nip in, search out whatever plants may have survived the autumn cold snap, and get them safely tucked into her basket.

Then she’d be on her way back to the castle, quicker than anything.

It was the easiest thing in the world. She’d done it dozens of times before.

It would take her almost no time to extract the oil from the plants and make the liniment. She could have it finished by the day after tomorrow.

Of course, delivering it to Glynnis would mean another trip into the village. There was no use in pretending she didn’t want to avoid that, but for half a pound per jar, she’d risk the hostile stares, the ugliness of people like Mrs. MacDonald.

No good would come of dwelling on all that unpleasantness now, however.

No, she’d much better think of positive things, like Glynnis, who remained as steadfast a friend as she’d ever been.

Yes, she’d think only of cheerful things, until she was free of this oppressive wood, and tucked inside the castle with her sisters, where it was safe.

Mostly safe.

With any luck, she’d find enough heather to produce a half dozen or more jars of liniment. Then there’d be no need to return to the village for months, perhaps even into the winter. The more time that passed between her visits, the better.

She hadn’t liked the way Bryce Fraser had looked at her today, like . . . like he knew something she didn’t, and was biding his time, waiting for a chance to spring it on her.

A shudder tripped down her spine at the thought of those watery blue eyes roving over her, both cold and hot at once. But Bryce hadn’t been the only one staring at her. There were others, those she hadn’t seen watching her from behind the shop fronts as she’d made her way down the High Street.

But hadn’t she just told herself she wouldn’t think of it now?

She kept on, her footsteps silent against the soft ground, breathing the scent of damp earth deeply into her lungs.

Her basket had grown heavy on her arm and the toes of her boots were soaked through by the time she found what she sought, the bright lilac-colored flowers, with their tiny petals with the strange black tips.

She stopped and lowered her basket to the ground before stepping closer. Dash it, it was so dim this deep in the woods it was difficult to see, but heather did tend to grow in clumps.

She inched closer, taking care where she stepped, and squinted at the ground.

Yes, there it was. There wasn’t much left, and the flowers were somewhat faded, but there were a dozen or more plants with their prickly, brownish-green stalks. There didn’t seem to be another patch nearby, but there were more than enough plants here to make a half dozen jars of the liniment.

She squatted down and began digging, unearthing the plants carefully from the soil, keeping as much of the root intact as possible, which was rather difficult, as she hadn’t brought any gardening implements, and was forced to dig with her hands.

But they came up easily enough, and soon she had a nice pile of them tucked inside her basket, and another half dozen stuffed into the pockets of her cloak. Freya would scold about the dirt, but it couldn’t be helped.

There. It was done.

She straightened to her feet, ready to be on her way back to the castle, but just as she bent to take up her basket, she caught a flash of a dark purple plant behind her, tucked further back into the deeper shade directly under the trees.

It looked like . . . no, surely not.

Aconitum napellus thrived in southwest England and parts of southern Wales, but not in Scotland, especially this far north. It was too wet.

It couldn’t be, yet those smooth, palm-shaped leaves with the deep lobes, that distinctive shade of bluish-purple, the five sepals curving downward like a monk’s cowl . . .

She drew closer, breath held, until she was standing in the middle of the patch, the hems of her skirts brushing the tall stalks.

By God, it was . Monkshood, growing right here in her own woods.

Was it possible her mother had planted it? Monkshood was a slow-growing species, one that took years to reach flowering maturity, but her mother had always been a patient gardener, especially when it came to a plant as powerful as this one.

It was pretty with its lovely deep purple leaves, but its beauty was deceiving. Ingesting monkshood was fatal, yes, but the toxins could be absorbed through the skin, as well. Even the merest brush of any part of the plant against bare skin could result in poisoning.

Yet in the proper doses, monkshood was an effective treatment for nerve and joint pain, breathing difficulties, various swellings and inflammation, and heart arrhythmia.

Of course, it could also stop the heart entirely, if used improperly.

It was a tricky little plant, one where the margin between useful and deadly was exceedingly narrow. The challenge was to reduce the toxicity of the plant while still retaining its healing benefits.

She’d never had a chance to work with monkshood—had never imagined she’d ever have the chance, either, but here were more than a dozen stalks, right at her feet, just waiting to be plucked from the ground.

Did she dare?

Silly question. Her courage might have dwindled over the past few months, but when it came to plants and medicines, she’d never been a coward.

She knelt in the center of the patch, taking care not to let her skin touch any part of the plants, and fetched her gloves from her basket. She tugged them on, then pulled the sleeves of her cloak down so that the bare skin of her wrists was protected.

Then, she started picking. Carefully, of course. One didn’t just snatch at stalks of monkshood as if they were plucking daisies. Not unless they had a perverse desire for a prolonged, painful death.

Monkshood poisoning was no small matter.

As she picked, gray clouds gathered over Loch Dunvegan, darkening the sky above her head. The storm Freya had predicted was coming quickly. She’d never make it back to the castle before the heavens opened, so she’d end her day with a cold drenching.

Drat it, she’d thought she’d have more time, at least until late afternoon, but it couldn’t be helped. She reached for her basket, looped it over her arm, and rose to her feet.

It was well past time she returned to the castle.

* * *

The hill hadn’t looked quite so steep from the bottom, but then hills never seemed to be steep until one tried to climb them.

Hamish leaned an arm against a rotted tree trunk, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs, and glanced back at the tiny village crouched below, the stone cottages with their neatly thatched roofs huddled in the castle’s shadow.

He wasn’t even halfway there, for God’s sake.

This was the trouble with becoming a marquess. Titles generally came with money, and with money came luxuries like warm beds, roaring fires, and exceptionally good port.

It made a man soft.

There’d been a time when he could have scaled a hill this size without a second thought, but here he was, one arm braced against a tree trunk, gasping for breath, while Catriona MacLeod scampered up like a mountain goat.