Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series “How could I have believed your lies?” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Epilogue Copyright

Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series

Pride of Lions

“Fantastic! 5Bells!!!”

—Bell, Book and Candle

Lion’s Lady

“...a luscious romance....5s.”

—Affaire de Coeur

Lion’s Legacy

“Suzanne Barclay certainly takes her place amongst the finest of Medieval writers...”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Lion of the North

“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you’re reading the best.”

—The Medieval Chronicle

Lion’s Heart

“...a special and unforgettable work. 5s”

—Affaire de Coeur

“How could I have believed your lies?”

“I did not lie to you, except—”

“How could I have lain with you? How could I have loved you?” The tears Catlyn had held at bay slid down her cheeks.

Ross grabbed hold of her shoulders. “We nearly burned down the night with our loving. You cannot think that was a lie.”

Her eyes bright with loathing, her voice cold, she said, “I think you are a skilled lover and an even more skilled manipulator of people. You used me to try to gain control of Kennecraig.”

Ross groaned. “If you would only let me tell you the whole story, I—”

“Oh, you are very good at that...at twisting words and things to suit you.” She stepped back, and he let her go. “But now I am wise to you, and I do promise you will not succeed.”

Dear Reader,

Heroes come in many forms, as this month’s books prove—from the roguish knight and the wealthy marquess to the potent gunslinger and the handsome cowboy.

The roguish knight, Ross Lion Sutherland, appears in Taming the Lion, a new medieval novel by Suzanne Barclay Critics have described this award-winning author in many ways, including “a great superstar,” “a magician with words” and “one of the best authors today in historical romance!” In this continuation of THE SUTHERLAND SERIES, Ross sets aside his honor to steal a clan’s secret for whiskey-making, only to fall in love with the clan’s lovely leader.

Golden Heart winner Julia Justiss brings us Nicholas Stanhope, the devastatingly handsome Marquess of Englemere who marries a friend in trouble and finds a profound love in The Wedding Gamble. And you must meet Sheriff Delaney, the smooth but kindhearted ex-gunslinger who inherits a house—and a beautiful young widow—in The Marriage Knot.

Rounding out the month is Will Brockett, the magnetically charming wrangler who uncharacteristically finds his soul mate in tomboy Paulie Johnson in A Cowboy’s Heart by Liz Ireland. Don’t miss it!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadians P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Taming The Lion

Suzanne Barclay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUZANNE BARCLAY considers herself sublimely lucky to be writing historical romances. What other career would allow her to watch old Errol Flynn movies and call it research? Or day-dream and call it work?

On those rare moments when she can tear herself away from the stories she is creating, she enjoys walking in the woods with her two dogs, Max and Duffy, whipping up exotic meals for her husband of twenty-three years and pawing through the local antique marts for special pieces to decorate her office/study.

Suzanne freely admits that she has trouble keeping track of all the Sutherlands and Carmichaels who people her stories, and has prepared an updated family tree detailing the various characters, their marriages and their children. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.

Prologue

Stirling, Scotland

August 10, 1407

Hakon Fergusson paused in the doorway of the Running Fox. Squinting against the pall of smoke from the torches rimming the long room, he surveyed the establishment with a critical eye.

The tavern appeared to be a cut above the others he had visited tonight. The benches and tables sat in orderly rows, scarred from use but lacking the layers of filth tolerated by drunken patrons and careless owners. The serving wenches who moved through the crowded room dispensing food and drink were comely, their gowns snug but not slatternly.

Lastly Hakon studied the customers themselves. Though it was just past nine on a Saturday night and every table was occupied, it was a remarkably orderly crowd. At the nearest table, four men amiably argued the merits of chain mail over boiled leather vests. Six others sat before the empty hearth, their heads bent over a game board. Elsewhere, men drank and laughed and talked in civil tones. Torchlight winked on golden jewelry and shimmered on garments of silk and velvet.

Clearly these were men who appreciated the best. And would be willing to pay for it.

“This is the place,” Hakon murmured to the man behind him.

“’Bout time.” Seamus shifted the whiskey keg on his shoulder. “This damn thing’s heavy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have sold it at the first inn.”

“We can get more here.” Hakon needed every coin he could lay his hands on if his plans were to succeed.

Four months ago, he had received the pleasant news that his uncle and two cousins had died after eating tainted meat at a truce day feast hosted by the church, leaving him heir to a Highland estate. Hakon thought it a sad end for a Fergusson. All the male members of his Border branch of the clan—and a few of the women besides—had died with swords in their hands or dangling at the end of the hangman’s rope.

Still the idea of having his own tower, even if it meant leaving the rough and ready Borders he loved, had appealed. Especially since at the time, the Border Warden had Hakon high on his list of men to be caught and hanged. So Hakon had gathered his band of hardened fighters, thumbed his nose at Lord Hunter Carmichael and headed north.

To say the inheritance was a disappointment was a vast understatement Dun-Dubh consisted of one broken-down keep, a few acres of stony ground and two hundred hungry mouths. Hakon had been all for selling off what he could: his relatives’ clothes, furniture and the like, abandoning the two hundred unwanted burdens and taking his men back to the Borders. He’d changed his mind when he’d learned that the neighboring Boyds possessed. a prosperous distillery.

Unfortunately, Thomas Boyd had proved to be more tenacious and far cannier at holding on to what was his than any other victim Hakon had tried to best. Months of planning and scheming it had taken him to get this far. With any luck, he’d come away from the Running Fox with the wherewithal to win.

“Well, let us see how much we can get for the Boyds’ whiskey.” Hakon pasted on a genial smile and entered the tavern. Curbing his usual swagger, he walked with the cautious air of a merchant offering wares to a new client.

He approached the long wooden serving bar and hailed the man behind it. “Would you be Brann of the Side?” His tone was respectful but not groveling.

“Aye. Who’s asking?” Brann’s fleshy face folded into a series of frowns as he looked Hakon over. He had a barrel chest, thick arms and the sharp eyes of a tradesman.

“Robert Dunbar.” The lie came easily to a man who often found his own name too infamous. “I heard ye have the finest tavern in Stirling.”

“That it is.” Brann’s chest puffed out.

“Oh, I could not agree more.” Hakon looked about the room and sang its praises. Chuckling to himself, he watched Brann relax, completely taken in by the act. Da would be proud of him, Hakon thought. The thieving old bastard who had sired him had always said Hakon’s looks were his greatest weapon. He was tall and blond with pleasing features and brown eyes he had trained to hide his thoughts.

“This yer first visit to town?” Brann asked.

He took them for bumpkins. That made Hakon smile. Before setting out tonight, he’d taken pains with his appearance, choosing a blue tunic and black hose that had belonged to his dead uncle because they were a trifle small and patched at the knees and elbows. They were the garments of a poor man who prided himself on neatness. In them, he looked sober and honest. Just the sort of man other men trusted. “Aye, first time.”

“Well, ye’ll find that taverns like this are a bit, er, more expensive than the ones down under the hill.”

What grated on Hakon was the knowledge that his uncle’s mean castoffs were better than his own few garments. Looking about at the finely clad nobles, he vowed that when the Boyds’ distillery was his, he’d buy a dozen velvet tunics.

“What’ll it be? Ale? Wine?” Brann asked.

“Actually, I’ve something here I’d like you to try.” Hakon motioned Seamus forward, took the keg and set it on the bar.

Brann eyed it as he might a pile of manure. “I’ve got my own sources for ale and—”

“Whiskey.”

“That, too,” Brann growled. “My customers are particular.”

Which was exactly why Hakon had chosen this place. Particular people paid more. “So am I. What I offer is of the highest quality. The finest whiskey in all Scotland.”

“They all say that.” But Brann licked his lips and glanced at the keg again.

“Would you like to taste it?”

Brann shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Perhaps your customers would sample it, as well.” Hakon smiled genially, hiding his annoyance and impatience. In order for his plans to succeed, he needed money for arms and bribes.

“How much will it cost me?” Brann asked.

“Nothing for a taste. If your customers like the whiskey and want more, I’ve ten more kegs I will sell you.”

“Ten is not many.”

It was all Thomas Boyd had with him at the time he’d been unlucky enough to wander into Hakon’s ambush. “I’ve more at home.” Or rather, the Boyds did. All Hakon had to do was figure out how to wrest it from them. “If we reach an agreeable price, I can send ye regular shipments.”

“Seems fair enough.”

Hakon smiled. He always seemed fair. And open. And honest. The guise had lured more than one victim into his web.

“If yer man’ll tap the keg,” Brann said.

Hakon glanced at Seamus. The wiry little man had ridden with his father. He was adept at many things—spying, tracking, thieving and slitting the occasional throat—but the only way he’d ever broached a keg was with the edge of an ax. “It’s yer tavern, Master Brann. We’ll leave that to ye.”

Brann nodded, pulled a small metal hook from beneath the bar and expertly drew the bung. Keeping one eye on them, he bent and sniffed suspiciously. He straightened so quickly it was comical, his eyes wide with astonishment and new respect.

“Well?” Hakon asked.

“It smells right promising. The subtle blend of smoke and fire.” Fumbling in his haste, Brann poured a measure into a wooden cup, lifted it and breathed deep. “Ah.” Reverently he sipped. His eyes closed. His head tipped back to let the liquid run down his throat. He sighed again.

Got him, Hakon thought, winking at Seamus.

Master Brann slowly lowered the cup and opened his eyes. “It is, er, not too bad,” he murmured, obviously a man used to bargaining. “Ye did say my customers could try a measure?”

Hakon nodded. “Just a sip, mind.”

While Brann called for cups and fussed over the keg, Hakon and Seamus moved away from the bar and leaned against the wall.

“A Fergusson giving something away?” Seamus shook his head. “Yer da’s likely spinning in his grave.”

“Nay, he’d understand. Master Brann will pay twice what we ask if his customers are clamoring for the stuff.”

Seamus grunted and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “So we sell the lot for a tidy profit, then what?”

“We bribe someone inside Kennecraig to tell us if Thomas spoke true about having black powder kegs tied to his stills.” Ready to be set off if Hakon attacked the keep.

“He was lying. What fool would blow up his whole tower to stop us from getting it?”

“A desperate one.” Last month, Thomas Boyd had died a horrible death rather than surrender Kennecraig to Hakon. “And the Boyds will be even more cautious now their laird’s gone.” Hakon was certain they blamed him, even though he had gone to considerable lengths to make Thomas’s murder look accidental so as to not rouse their suspicions. “Damn, I wish Guthrie had controlled himself. Thomas was worth more alive than dead.”

“Yer lad’s got his grandsire’s taste for killing, that’s sure,” Seamus said with a hint of awe.

“Killing Thomas was damned inconvenient. With him as a hostage, we’d have gotten inside Kennecraig shck as ye please.”

“Aye, but we’ll win. They’ve got a lass leading them now.”

Hakon grunted. Catlyn of Kennecraig might be only a lass, but she had thus far proved to be no weak-willed miss. When Hakon had ridden over to offer sympathy and protection for her now leaderless clan, the little witch had stood atop her walls and denounced him as a murderer. She had loudly rejected Guthrie as a potential husband, though how she had chanced to hear about the maid he had carved up in Doune Town, was a mystery. She had ended her tirade by threatening to blow up the stills Hakon coveted if he tried to attack the keep.

“Damn.” Hakon spit on the floor. “Who’d think a Fergusson could be kept at bay by a lass and a clan of distillers.”

“Our time will come. Ye’ll think of something. Some plan.”

“Aye, but what? Catlyn Boyd’ll not let a Fergusson within a mile of her gates. And I do mean to have those stills.” Just thinking of the piles of gold they’d bring made his palms itch.

The door to the tavern opened, and a group of men spilled in, bringing fresh damp air and cheery laughter.

Hakon’s lip curled. They were just the sort he despised. Young, handsome and well dressed. Sprigs off some noble bough, wearing their arrogance as naturally as their velvets and silks.

“Dod!” Seamus exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“I recognized one of them. The tall one with the black hair and the pretty face.”

Hakon picked him out of the jovial crowd. Taller than the rest, with impossibly broad shoulders, his glossy black hair swept back from a face too perfect to be believed. Apparently the maids thought so, too, for they fell all over themselves making the man and his companions welcome. “Who is he?”

“Ross Lion Sutherland.”

“Hunter Carmichael’s nephew?” Hakon hissed.

“Aye. Young Ross is not a man ye’d forget I saw him from a distance at Keastwicke when I went to claim yer da’s body.”

Hakon stiffened, hatred curdling low in his belly. Hunter had not killed Aedh Fergusson, but he had led the retaliatory raid that had ended in Aedh’s death. And the Warden had been a thorn in Clan Fergusson’s side from the day he’d taken the post. Righteous bastard, always ranting on about peace on the Borders. Thanks to his patrols, it became nigh impossible for a man to conduct a successful raid or lift a head of cattle. Why, Hunter and his ilk had practically starved the Fergussons to death.

Through narrowed eyes, Hakon watched as a trio of chattering maids led the newcomers to a table at the far side of the room. His hatred congealed as he studied Ross Sutherland’s handsome, laughing face. There he sat like a bloody king, ordering food and drink, patting the maids on the cheek and pressing coins into their palms.

“It would be a pleasure to bring that lordling down,” Hakon murmured.

“Want I should kill him?” Seamus fingered his dirk.

Hakon shook his head slowly. Unlike his father and his son, Hakon had never found death a satisfactory form of punishment. Death was too final. But if someone who had wronged you could be made to suffer...

Ah, that was the best form of revenge.

“Well, he’s got a way with the lassies, that’s sure.” Seamus grinned wistfully. “There’s not a one of them wouldn’t sell her soul to end up in his bed tonight. Providing he stays sober enough to satisfy her. Looks like he’s taken a fancy to our whiskey and is trying to buy—”

“Master Robert.” Brann bustled up, his face alight with greed. “Lord Ross would like to buy a keg. A whole keg. He and his men have been coming in here for a week, and he always pays in coin. If we can fix a price...”

“I am sure we can.” Hakon looked at Ross and nodded.

Lord Ross wore the easy smile and slightly bored expression of a man well used to getting whatever he wanted. A man who likely indulged in the usual vices: women, drink, gaming.

Vices were something Hakon understood, and used.

Excitement stirred in Hakon’s blood, and an idea began to take shape in his fertile mind. A plan that would use Ross Sutherland’s looks to good advantage and make him suffer into the bargain. “Donald, fetch the rest of the kegs.”

“Donald?” Seamus blinked, the recalled that he was Donald Dunbar while they were in Stirling. “Oh, aye.” He scurried out of the tavern, grinning like a fool.

Hakon had a plan! And it was bound to succeed, because Hakon was a deucedly clever bastard. Ask anyone who had ever run afoul of one of Hakon’s schemes.

Chapter One

Kennecraig Keep, Scotland

August 17, 1407

Thunder rumbled across the broad-shouldered Grampian Mountains and down the narrow cleft that was Fmglas Glen. As it collided with the walls of the keep set on the lip of the glen, the low, ominous roll accented the drama unfolding in the chamber beneath the keep.

The tasting of the uisge beatha.

The water of life.

The life’s blood of Clan Boyd.

Clad in a gown of virgin white wool, her honey-colored hair falling free to her waist, Catlyn Boyd stepped into the high-ceilinged room. This was the moment she had trained for nearly all her life. Her palms were slick from nerves, but the anticipation she should have felt was clouded by sorrow.

“Papa,” she whispered. “You were taken from us too soon.” Sweet Mary, how she missed him, the patience with which he’d answered her hundreds of questions over the years, the wisdom he had unstintingly shared with her, the courage he’d shown in insisting she be named heir after her brother died.

“I need you, Papa, now more than ever.”

Silently she scanned the room, gathering what strength she could from the familiar. It was not a large chamber, measuring twenty feet by twenty, but rich in history. On the walls hung the tapestries woven by her mother, her grandmother and so on back for six generations. Two stone columns supported the vaulted ceiling from which hung an iron wheel set with a dozen tallow candles. The light gleamed softly on the only piece of furniture, an oaken table nigh as old as the keep. In its center sat an heirloom of even greater age. The chalice.

The tiny scallop shells on the base were white and worn smooth from use. The bowl formed of rock crystal was so clear the torchlight passed right through the dark amber liquid in it. Centuries ago, a restless ancestor, Henri of the Boyd, had returned from trading in the Mediterranean with the chalice and the recipe for distilling spirits from grain. Each succeeding generation of Boyds had improved upon the original.

Family pride and a sense of destiny filled her as her eyes moved from the chalice to the kinsmen assembled in the golden circle of light. Each man was here because tradition dictated it, and because he had a stake in the whiskey’s making. Roland the brew master’s narrow face was tight with anxiety. If the whiskey was found lacking, he could lose the position held by his father and his father before that. His son and apprentice, Wesley, grinned at her with the confidence of youth. Gordie the cooper stared at the small keg on the floor beside the table, grateful, no doubt, to see it did not leak.

Lastly Catlyn looked at Adair, the craggy-faced captain who was mentor to her as he’d been friend to her father.

Oh, Papa. Pain squeezed tight in her chest. Even after a month, it was hard to accept the fact that he was gone, the bluff, generous man who had guided her steps as a babe and taught her the craft when fate decreed she would succeed him.

“’Tis time, lass,” Adair said gently. In his level brown eyes she saw grief held at bay by the prod of duty.

Catlyn nodded, took a steadying breath and moved to the table. Without hesitation, she lifted the chalice and let the pungent fumes waft up her nose. Strong and so sharp they nearly stole her breath. Just as it should be for whiskey that was only a year old. She had been bred and raised for this, educated in the ways of marrying barley mash and fire while other lasses learned needlework and housework.

It was time to put theory into practice.

The cool liquid burned in her mouth. She tilted her head, let it slide achingly down her throat to set her belly afire. The heat lingered on her tongue then receded. In its wake subtle nuances tickled the back of her pallet. Earth and smoke and fire. Intriguing, but it was the underlying hint of sweetness that soothed away the sting and demanded to be sampled again.

“How can ye tell if it’s fit?” demanded Roland, scowling.

Catlyn jerked, swallowed a second sip too quickly and choked, something she had not done since she’d had her first taste at age five or so.

“That strong, is it?” Adair plucked the cup from her hand and clapped her on the back.

“Whiskey’s a man’s drink,” grumbled Roland. “Laird Thomas should have left one of us in charge of the stills.”

The implication that she was not fit to succeed her father dried Catlyn’s tears and brought her chin up. “I worked by Papa’s side from the time I could walk.”

“Watching and doing’s two different things.” Old Roland filled a plain horn cup and drank. The others, even Catlyn, held their breath. “It’ll do,” he growled.

Wesley let out a whoop and grabbed up a cup of his own. He filled and drained it, then sucked in air. “Dod,” he wheezed, eyes round and wet. “It fair steals yer breath, it does.”

“Just as it should.” Roland took the cup. “And ye’ll be showing more respect for my brew, not swilling it like a drunken sailor in a dockside alehouse.”

“Aye, Da.”

“Best in several years, I’d say.” Adair took another sip, rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed.

“And why not? Laird Thomas knew what he was about. Had the touch, he did. And experience.” Roland looked down his hooked nose at Catlyn, clearly hinting she lacked both.

“I know I am young,” Catlyn said, her gaze meeting each man’s in turn. “But Papa said I had the nose and pallet.”

“Ye’ll need more than that if ye’re to keep Hakon Fergusson from taking everything we’ve got,” Roland said darkly.

Adair glared at the brew master. “Kennecraig has never been taken, and it won’t be while I’ve breath in my body.”

“Brave words. Laird Thomas said much the same when Hakon came sniffing around. Look where he is,” Roland muttered.

“Dead,” Wesley whispered.

Catlyn shivered, fighting sorrow and fear. “We have Hakon over a barrel. He cannot attack for fear we will destroy the distillery and the whiskey he covets.”

“He’s stymied for the moment,” Roland allowed. “But—”

“Papa said he was the sort of bully who expects his victims to roll over and give him what he wants. When he sees he cannot best us, he will go off in search of easier prey”

Roland grunted. “Well, last year’s whiskey is ready for the kegs and the four-year-old is ready for market. But how will we get it there with Hakon lurking about like an evil spider?”

“That is my worry,” said Adair. “If we had the coin, I would hire mercenaries to guard the shipment.”

“We are over a barrel of our own. Till we sell some of the Finglas, we’ve no money. Not even for food, and God knows if we do not get supplies soon, we will all starve and save Hakon the trouble of attacking the keep.” Roland looked almost pleased.

Did he want her to fail so badly he wished them all ill? Catlyn wondered. The weight on her shoulders felt even heavier, yet she dared not show any weakness. “I will find a way to—”

A knock sounded at the door. For a stunned instant, they all looked at one another. It must be something important to interrupt the sacred ceremony.

Adair scowled, then went to open it a crack, revealing Eoin’s handsome face. “I told you that you were not welcome here,” Adair growled.

Catlyn’s former betrothed lifted his chin. “There’s a party of men at the gate seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Fergussons,” Roland whispered. The word echoed ominously off the stone walls.

“Nay,” Eoin said quickly. “They are travelers. I think—”

“No one cares what you think,” Adair snapped.

Catlyn laid a hand on her captain’s arm. He could not forgive Eoin for supposedly breaking her heart, but this bickering divided them when they most needed to pull together. “Thank you for bringing word, Eoin. I’ll come see for myself.”

Up the steps from the distillery she went, down the dimly lit corridor and out into the courtyard. The wind tugged at her skirts and whipped her hair about, carrying with it the damp promise of rain. Overhead, thunder rumbled and lightning raked through a sea of bilious gray clouds.

“Best hurry before you get wet,” Eoin advised. He trotted along beside her like a faithful hound.

Nay, not faithful. He had betrayed her with the woman who had once been her dearest friend. Despite her best efforts, Catlyn could neither forgive nor forget their treachery. Dora had accepted this and stayed out of Catlyn’s way as much as possible. Perversely, Eoin seemed determined to win her back.

“Careful, the steps are steep.” He reached to help her up the stairs of the guardhouse.

Catlyn neatly avoided his grasp. “I have been climbing them all my life,” she said through clenched teeth. Clinging to the wall with one hand, she battled through the wind to the top of the tower. Looking down, she spied a group of men huddled in the lee of the gate. “Oh, dear, we must do something.”

“We cannot let them in,” Adair said.

“I know, but Papa is doubtless spinning in his grave to see us turn travelers away in such weather.”

“If we let them in and they prove to be Fergussons, we’ll be moldering in our graves,” Adair reminded her.

At her other side, Eoin snorted. “What Fergusson ever dressed so fine? That’s chain mail they’re wearing under their cloaks, and the leader has full armor.”

“They are mercenaries, then,” said Adair.

“Hakon couldn’t afford to buy one man, much less—”

“He could if he pledged to pay them after he’d gotten his hands on our distillery,” Adair growled.

Eoin stuck his handsome face into Adair’s weathered one. “Lot you know, old man. Mercenaries want coin, not promises.”

“Hush, the both of you. I cannot think what to do with you ripping at each other.” Catlyn returned her gaze to the man who had hailed them moments ago. Ross Sutherland was the name he had given Eoin when he sought shelter for his band. He claimed they were travelers lost on their way to Inverness.

In defiance of the biting wind, Ross Sutherland sat straight in the saddle, controlling his restive mount with ease. His face was raised expectantly toward the gatehouse window where Catlyn stood, but there was nothing of the supplicant in his pose. Arrogant, he was, from the tilt of his head to the stubborn set of his square jaw. The rest of his face was hidden in the shadows cast by his visor, but she knew his eyes would be as dark and imperious as his bearing.

“Not Fergussons,” Eoin said. “I say we send someone down to look them over closely and—”

“You get no say,” Adair snapped.

Eoin flushed. His eyes—the big brown ones that had looked so sincere all the while he lied about giving her a lifetime of love and devotion—slid to Catlyn. “The decision is yours.”

She resisted the urge to slump beneath this latest burden. “We cannot afford to let them inside. If they were fewer.” Five and twenty, she’d counted. True there were one hundred men of fighting age under her roof, but...

“I know it pains your tender heart to leave them to the elements.” Eoin laid a hand on her arm. “Let me go down and speak with them, see if I can learn their intent.”

Catlyn extracted her arm from his grasp. Once his touch had made her blood warm with possibilities. That was before she had learned Eoin had been warming Dora’s bed all the while he’d been courting her. “’Tis a kindly offer, but if they captured you—”

“Good riddance,” Adair grumbled. He’d been all for tossing Eoin out for breaking Catlyn’s heart.

Catlyn scowled at her captain. “If they took Eoin, we’d be forced to bargain with them.” Pleasant as it was to think of life without Eoin trailing after her.

“Hello the keep!” shouted Ross Sutherland.

Catlyn whipped back to the window and opened her mouth.

“We cannot let you in,” Adair leaned out and bellowed.

“Not very Christian of you.”

“A man’s gotta look to his own.”

“We mean you no harm.”

“The world is full of liars.” Adair glanced at Eoin.

A rumble of thunder cut off Sutherland’s reply. A few fat raindrops began to fall from the darkening sky.

Catlyn flinched. “A moment, sir knight,” she called down, ignoring Adair’s grunt of disapproval.

Ross Sutherland’s mouth swept up in a smile, his teeth a slash of white in the gloom. “My thanks for your intervention, my lady. It is getting right wet.”

“Oh, we cannot let you inside, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have food and blankets lowered to you.”

The smile became an angry slash. “We’ve blankets aplenty. Yours would no doubt soak through as quickly as ours. What we need is a roof over our heads ere this storm breaks loose.”

Catlyn glanced at Adair and sighed. “I—I am sorry, Sir Ross, but we cannot.” Pride made her add, “Please do not think us uncharitable, but we’ve a powerful enemy hereabouts and dare not take the chance that you are allied with them.”

“So be it.” Ross Sutherland obviously had his pride, too, for he wheeled his great horse and started down the narrow road to the plateau below.

Kennecraig Tower sat on the edge of a deep cleft in the mountain, stark and nearly unassailable. The only access to it was up this trail. Archers on the walls could send a withering stream of arrows or even hot pitch down on the attackers who must move single file up the trail. Every Boyd knew that Kennecraig could not be taken, except by treachery.

Reason enough to turn the Sutherlands away, Catlyn thought. Still she hated doing it. Cupping her hand to her mouth, she called out, “There’s a thick stand of pines along river.” She expected no reply and got none, but she watched them anyway.

When they reached the plateau, the troop stopped abruptly. The reason came clear, for a horde of men suddenly stepped out from behind the huge boulders rimming the plateau.

Catlyn gasped, recognizing their dark plaid with its distinctive threads of red and white. “Fergussons!” And in the fore was Hakon, of the sparse figure and long blond hair.

“Hakon’s leading them.” Eoin scowled. “What are they doing this close to Kennecraig?”

“They must have been waiting to attack us,” said Adair. “If these Sutherlands had not spotted them—”

“Sweet Mary. You don’t think Hakon will harm them.”

“I do not know.”

“But these men have done nothing to Hakon.” Catlyn held her breath and watched the drama unfold in the gathering gloom. She saw Ross Sutherland gesture toward Kennecraig, the wind whipping his cloak back from wide shoulders as he explained their predicament. ’Maybe Hakon will take the travelers back to Dun-Dubh and give them shelter.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Hakon drew his sword. The Boyds’ gasps of horror were drowned out by a sharp clap of thunder. Lightning flashed across the sky. In the spats of dark and light, the battle was joined. The Sutherlands fought valiantly, but the Fergussons were pressing them back. When the first Sutherland fell, Catlyn made her decision.

“Adair! We must do something,” she cried.

“Aye. Archers to the wall!” Wheeling, Adair ran down the tower steps with a swiftness that belied his forty years. Eoin and Catlyn scrambled after him.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded, grabbing Adair’s arm at the base of the steps.

“Get the Sutherlands inside if I can.”

“You won’t have to go out there, will you?” A hundred fears crowded her mind. Concern for her kinsmen’s welfare. Terror that the Fergussons would somehow sneak inside Kennecraig.

“Aye.” Already the creak of chains and gears accompanied the winching up of the portcullis whose iron bars shielded the gate. “But the archers’ll cover us and see no Fergusson gets up the road. Stay inside, mind,” he admonished, patting her cheek. “You’d best be ready with bandages and the like.”

He was gone before Catlyn could protest. As she turned away from the gate, she nearly fell over a knot of household servants. They clung together, whimpering and shivering. Before Hakon Fergusson entered their lives, the folk of Kennecraig had not known fear or violence.

“Is it true?” asked Ulma. “Is it Hakon?” Her maid’s normally ruddy face was white, her merry blue eyes stark.

“It is.” Her parents had taught her that the truth, even a terrible truth, was better than a lie. “But his plans were foiled by the Sutherlands. Some of them have been wounded,” she continued briskly. “We must make preparations to tend them.”

“What shall we do?” a frightened voice cried.

“Dora will know what needs...” Catlyn stopped. Dora was no longer housekeeper here. Catlyn had little training in such matters. Between them, Dora and Catlyn’s mother had run the keep, but Catlyn had dismissed Dora when she’d found her with Eoin, and Lady Jeannie had not been herself since Thomas died.

“Maybe we should tell Old Freda to ready her medicine chest,” Ulma said gently.

“Of course.” Catlyn nearly kissed the old woman. “Freda will know what should be done. Go along, all of you, and help her gather what is necessary.”

Feeling grossly inadequate, Catlyn raced back up into the gatehouse. Buried beneath the grief of her father’s loss and the weight of her new responsibilities, she had given little thought to who was running the keep. Tomorrow she must remedy that.

From the window, she watched Adair and a score of Boyds trot down the path. It had begun to rain in earnest now. Their weapons—swords, spears and a few fearsome Lochaber axes—shimmered in the cascading lightning. For a moment, she feared Adair planned to take her men into battle against the Fergussons, but halfway to the plateau, he halted.

“To me, Sutherlands!” Adair cried.

The battle seemed to stop as Fergussons and Sutherlands turned and looked up the mountain.

“Retreat!” Adair screamed. “Come within! We offer succor!” To punctuate the offer, he hurled a spear at the nearest Fergusson, catching the gaping man full in the chest. As he toppled off his horse, the gruesome tableau scattered.

Hakon Fergusson roared something coarse and pithy.

The Sutherlands wheeled and spurred back up the hill.

The Fergussons raced after them, swords aloft.

“Archers!” Catlyn screamed, turning to the men pressed shoulder to shoulder on the walls.

The night sky filled with arrows. Metal tips glistening against the lightning-raked sky, they arched high then fell just behind the retreating Sutherlands.

Catlyn grinned as she watched the Fergussons halt, their mouths wide with rage. Their mounts danced in agitated confusion, hooves perilously close to the edge of the ravine. “Again! Another volley,” she shouted.

The second flight of arrows kept the Fergussons at bay while the Sutherlands clattered through the gate, with the Boyds streaking in just after them.

Catlyn hurried down the steps and into the courtyard looking for Adair so she might congratulate him. All was chaos: servants darting to and fro like fish in a barrel, horses pawing and shivering with latent excitement, men shouting triumphantly and clapping one another on the back.

One voice rose above the others.

Catlyn whirled around just as a man swung down from an enormous black stallion. She instantly recognized Ross Sutherland by his size and commanding air.

“God damn!” He tore off his helmet and flung it on the ground. “Ambushed. Of all the heathen deeds.” Rain slicked inky hair back from a tanned face too rugged to be called handsome. Arresting, more like. Even dripping wet, he exuded strength and power, like some dark, raging beast. A wolf. Nay, a dragon.

Catlyn gaped in astonishment. She had never seen anyone remotely like this large, fierce-looking warrior. Around her, all activity ceased.

“Don’t stand about like you’ve been struck dumb,” the knight growled, voice sharp as thunder. “Gordie, go up on the wall and make certain the ambushing bastards are gone. Lang Gil, see to the horses. Nigel, take stock of our wounded.”

His men scrambled to obey. The Boyds hung back. Huddled together in anxious knots, they eyed the knight as they might some strange and fearsome beast.

We never should have let him in, Catlyn thought. Out of habit, she looked for Adair. He stood a few paces away, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his worried gaze on Sir Ross.

“Who is in charge here? Who ordered the gate opened to us?” Ross Sutherland raked the crowd with narrowed eyes.

Catlyn, who had always met trouble head-on, fought an unaccustomed urge to flee.

“I am captain here.” Adair stepped forward.

“Ah.” Ross crossed to them in two long, determined strides. “I am indebted to you.” His eyes flicked to Catlyn, then widened. “You were in the gatehouse.” She’d been wrong about his eyes. They were not dark at all, but a clear, pale blue. In the flickering torchlight, he appeared even more formidable than he had in the shadows. His face was lean and rugged. His wide shoulders and broad chest strained the seams of his chain mail.

Dark, powerful and uncomfortably large.

A shiver worked its way down Catlyn’s spine. Fear, she thought. Nay, not fear, not exactly. There was an untamed quality about this knight that made her feel skittish, she who had worked alongside men all her life. “I—I am Catlyn Boyd, lady of Kennecraig,” she stammered, shaky and unsettled.

“Indeed?” His unusual eyes widened and skimmed her from head to toe. Something flared in them. Something that could have been triumph or smugness or a trick of the light. “Well, I am grateful to you for letting us inside, Lady Catlyn.” He purred her name, then smiled, a slow, dazzling grin that transformed his face from arresting to sinfully handsome.

Catlyn stared at him, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her mind empty.

Adair cleared his throat. “We’d best be getting inside. The rain grows worse. I’ll see to your men and horses.”

“I would appreciate that.” Ross looked away from Catlyn, but still she found speech impossible.

“Dry clothes, hot food and the care of your wounded is the least we owe you,” said Adair. “Had you not discovered him lurking at our gates, Hakon might well have attacked us the next time we ventured from our keep.”

“Hakon?” The knight scowled.

“Hakon Fergusson. That is the name of the fiend who so foully ambushed you.”

“Is it?” Ross Sutherland glared at the gate once more. “Fiend is an apt description. I begin to see he is more ruthless than I’d supposed.” He turned away and gave orders for his men to disarm.

Catlyn started for the keep, feeling gauche and damp and a little dazed.

Ross stomped across the muddy courtyard in the wake of his reluctant hosts. So, Robert Dunbar had lied about his name. Hakon Fergusson. That name set off a distant bell in Ross’s head, but his mind was so full it scarcely made a dent.

Instead, he cursed the Fates that had brought him here. And he cursed Lady Catlyn for looking younger and more beautiful than he had expected. In her pure white dress, her honey-colored hair flowing loose about her shoulders, she looked exactly right for the part she must play. The virgin sacrifice. The innocent victim of Robert Dunbar’s fiendish plot.

Nay, Hakon Fergusson.

Furious with himself, but mostly with Hakon for forcing him into this, Ross glanced over his shoulder and picked out a narrow, crafty face among the familiar ones of his men.

Donald Dunbar grinned smugly. If that was his name.

Ross cursed and dropped back to walk beside the wiry man sent along, ostensibly to guide them to Kennecraig. “Are you a Fergusson, too?” he hissed.

“Aye, Seamus Fergusson’s the name, but it’d doubtless be safer if ye continued to call me Donald.”

What Ross wanted to do was strangle the man. “Did you know your master planned to attack us?”

“Well...” Seamus shrugged. “He said he might have to do something if yer good looks and glib tongue weren’t enough to talk us inside.”

“Two of my men were wounded,” Ross growled.

“And a dozen Fergussons, as well.”

“Serves them right. Of all the foul—”

“Got us into the keep, didn’t it?”

Ross looked ahead to the litter bearing the still, bloody form of his young squire and his hatred of Hakon intensified. “Your master promised me there’d be no bloodshed.”

“Aye, well, yer men are not like to die from their hurts. And himself is that determined to have the Boyds’ fine whiskey-making secrets for himsclf. By the looks of things, he did well in choosing ye for the task of getting it.” Seamus chuckled. “Young Catlyn was fair struck dumb by that pretty face of yers. Should be child’s play for ye to pry what we need from her.”

“I will get what he wants.” Ross had no other choice. The safety of his clan was at stake. “But I will do it my way.” He glared at Seamus. “And there’s to be no more bloodshed.”

“Like my master, I will do what is needful to win,” Seamus whispered as they crested the steps and entered the keep. “He said as how I was to watch ye close like. At the first sign ye’re failing, I’m to take matters into my own hands.”

Chapter Two

Catlyn sat in her accustomed place beside Adair at the supper table. Her hands clenched tight in her lap, her cheeks still burning with humiliation.

She had acted like a fool earlier in the courtyard, staring at Sir Ross like a green lass. You would think she had never seen a handsome man before.

Catlyn shifted on the bench, cursing the impulse that had led her to don these trappings of a fine lady. The pins holding her comet of braids pressed into her head, making it ache. The high-necked woolen gown itched. She had wanted to appear mature and assured when she encountered the knight again. Instead, she felt foolish, like a child dressed up in her mother’s clothes.

Around her, the folk of Clan Boyd talked and sipped ale while they waited for the Sutherlands to arrive. They did not gossip or engage in idle chatter. Uppermost in everyone’s mind was the all-important whiskey. Roland and Wesley argued the merits of triple distilling. Eoin, Rabbie and Cinaed, chief crofter, went over the plans for bringing in the barley.

Catlyn chafed to be away from here. “’Tis obvious they are not coming,” she said to Adair. “I will take a bowl of stew and go down to my counting room.”

Adair laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Patience, lass. I am sure they will be along directly. It takes time to get men and horses settled into a new place.”

“There is no reason why I must be here to greet them,” she grumbled. “They are not guests, only wayfarers.”

“Hmm.” His sharp eyes roved over her feast-day clothes.

Catlyn lifted her chin. “I did not lace myself into this uncomfortable gown out of vanity, but to show these warriors what sort of lady holds sway here.” And to prove something to Sir Ross, whispered a traitorous voice. She tamped it down.

“I know it is not your way to preen for a man. Has one of these Sutherlands caught your fancy?” His eyes twinkled. “Sir Ross seemed to stare at you quite boldly.”

“Him.” Catlyn snorted. “I’d say he is the sort who stares at every lass that way, hoping he can coax her into his bed. Well, we will have none of that while he is here.”

“Quite right.” Adair frowned. “Still it is time and past you found a man to wed.”

“I know my duty,” she replied stiffly. She would need an heir, a child of her blood to be the guardian of the family legacy. But after Eoin’s betrayal, she could not imagine trusting any man enough to wed with him, to make him privy not only to her clan’s business but to her person. Her heart.

“Perhaps when we go to the Doune Fair to sell the Finglas Water you will meet someone who’ll take your fancy.”

“I have already met them all, and none will do.”

“Gillegorm MacAdam is a fine, upstanding lad.”

“He has buckteeth, clammy hands and not a lick of sense between those two great ears of his.”

“Aye, well, you won’t look at any of the handsome ones.”

Catlyn ground her teeth in exasperation. “Just because I will not wed a pretty, faithless rogue does not mean I want an ugly husband. Would you have my bairns look like Gillegorm?”

“Nay.” Adair chuckled. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am. I have my work, my friends, my kin.” And hopes that one day her mother would come to her senses. “What need I with some troublesome male?” She pursed her lips. “Speaking of which, how long must we let the knights stay?”

“A day or two. Till the storm passes and their wounded are on the mend.”

“Good. I do not like having strangers in the keep. I know I asked to have them brought inside,” she added before Adair could. “But I...” I did not know how oddly Sir Ross would affect me. His darkly handsome face, the barely leashed power in his unusual eyes, played havoc with her senses.

“I’ve got men watching them, if it makes you feel easier.”

It did not. Deep inside, she knew she would not be comfortable till he was gone. “You do not trust them, either?”

“These days we must be on guard against everyone. But they’ve been orderly thus far and given me no cause for alarm.”

Catlyn wished she could say the same. Remembering the way Sir Ross had looked in the courtyard, his eyes changing from anger to appreciation as they moved over her, made her heart trip. She steadied it with the iron will that had gotten her through so many trials. “I suppose we owe them a few nights’ lodging for saving us from Hakon.”

“Aye, that they did.” Adair took a swallow of ale. “They are skilled fighters, that’s sure. You should have seen Sir Ross handle that claymore of his.” He shook his head in wonder. “And he sets high standards for his men.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Little things. One man was cut down while guarding Sir Ross’s back. The knight delayed his retreat, put himself in danger, to rescue the fallen man. Carried him in over his saddlebow, he did. And, too, each of the Sutherlands saw to the comfort of his mount before settling in himself. They washed their weapons and themselves ere they accepted our invite to dine. They’ve demanded nothing and expressed gratitude for what we have given them.”

Catlyn nodded, recalling the arrangements Adair had made. Sir Ross and Sir Mathew were lodged in her solar, it being the only suitable chamber. The others were sleeping in the barracks. Old Freda had seen to their wounds. The smithy would mend the dents in their weapons and shields.

Catlyn was astute enough to realize that these “little things” spoke volumes about a man’s character. “I suppose you think me foolish for being wary of them.”

“Not at all.” Adair patted her hand with his callused paw. “You are unused to such warlike men.” He sighed. “But we could use such a troop of experienced swordsmen just now.”

“Surely you are not suggesting we hire them.” Saints above, if a few moments in Sir Ross’s company tied her belly in knots, how would she survive having him around for days? Weeks?

Instead of a quick denial, Adair heaved another sigh. “Even if we had the coin to pay them, I’d be remiss in my duties if I suggested we take on men whose mettle we do not know.”

Relief coursed through her veins. “My thoughts exactly.” The sooner Sir Ross left, the better.

“The Sutherlands are come,” someone called above the chatter in the crowded room. Instantly a cheer went up.

Catlyn whipped her head around, eyes narrowing against the thin pall of smoke hanging on the damp air.

Ross Sutherland stood on the threshold, his head high, inky hair blending with the stark tunic he wore over close-fitting black hose. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her clansmen’s gratitude, like a prince accepting his due.

The fine hair on Catlyn’s nape prickled. She did not like him. He was too assured, too haughty by half.

“I’ll say one thing, this knight has the look of a man who lets nothing stand in the way of what he wants,” Adair muttered.

“Aye,” Catlyn said weakly. He was a force to be reckoned with. At that moment, Sir Ross’s eyes pounced on her. There was no other way to describe the manner in which his gaze latched onto hers. The rest of the room faded into nothingness. She wanted to look away but couldn’t, held prisoner by the searing focus of his attention. Such power. Such intensity.

“Catlyn.” Adair poked her in the ribs.

She jerked her head around. “What?”

“You should stand and bid them welcome.”

She wanted to run. Years of adherence to duty propelled her to her feet. “Come, join us in a simple meal, good sirs.” She was grateful her words did not knock together like her knees.

“Thank you, my lady.” Ross Sutherland’s deep voice echoed like thunder off the ancient stone walls. His gaze still full on her face, he entered the hall. His big body moved with fluid grace as he strode between the rows of tables. Behind him trailed his men, their faces freshly scrubbed, their chain mail replaced by dark hose and tunics.

“Sir Ross seems keen to reach you,” Adair murmured.

“I am sure you are mistaken.” But a thrill raced down Catlyn’s spine as he drew nearer. His eyes shone with determination, glinting like silver in the torchlight. For some reason, her blood heated.

“See what you can find out about him,” Adair whispered.

“Wh-what?” Then his meaning sank in. “I cannot.”

“The more we know of him, the better we’ll both feel.”

“But...but I have no skill at talking with men.”

“You talk with men all the day.”

Not men like this. “That is work, this is...” Impossible. She could not even look at him without having her tongue knot.

“I’ll seat his men elsewhere. So as you can be alone.”

“Nay, I—”

“Just ask him a few questions. Men are ever eager to boast of their exploits.”

“Wait!” she cried softly, but already Adair had left her and was moving to intercept the line of men. With sinking heart, she watched her friend, the man sworn to protect her, divert the Sutherlands to other nearby tables and leave her in danger.

“My lady.” Ross Sutherland stopped a few paces away and inclined his head. “I apologize for our lateness. It took us some time to get settled and make ourselves presentable.”

Presentable? He was that and more. Tall, perfectly proportioned and so fair of face it was sinful. The finely woven tunic and hose he wore, so different from the loose saffron sherts and plaids worn by her clansman, showed -off his broad chest and muscular legs. Every woman in the hall, even those who were happily married, watched him with ill-disguised hunger. The only flaw Catlyn could find was the smugness in his gaze. He knew what a fine specimen he was and doubtless used his looks to ensnare hapless females.

Just like Eoin.

The comparison struck Catlyn hard, wrenching the blinders from her eyes. This knight was no larger-than-life being, but a conceited oaf who thought to charm his way into her bed. Disgust flooded her. She welcomed it as an antidote to her earlier fascination with him. “Do not trouble yourself over it, sir,” she said coolly. “We do not stand on ceremony here, and the meal is a simple one. We were not expecting, er, guests.”

“Nor were we expecting such a rowdy welcome.” His grin hinted at a wry sense of humor. Worse, it made him look as guileless as a lad. “Again, my thanks for taking us in.”

“And ours to you for foiling the Fergusson’s plans to attack Kennecraig.”

“Hmm.” He winced slightly and shifted his weight.

“Oh, how thoughtless of me to keep you standing here.” Catlyn plopped down onto her bench and motioned for him to take the one across from her. Better than to have him sit beside her, she reasoned, signaling the maids to serve them.

“Allow me, my lady.” Sir Ross courteously spooned stew into her bowl, then presented it with a flourish so grand it might have been fillet of beef he was offering.

“Thank you.” Catlyn brought a spoonful of stew to her lips and found it as hot as her temper. His every charming word, his every seductive glance infuriated her.

“May I say how lovely you look this evening?”

Catlyn groaned. Next he would be composing verses that compared her hair to honey and her eyes to autumn leaves. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

Shy, Ross thought as he stared at the top of Lady Catlyn’s head. If she bent any closer to her bowl, she’d have her nose in the mutton stew. He found her shyness as endearing as the pains she had taken with her appearance. Gone was the ethereal maiden from the courtyard. In her place sat a lovely woman, as regal in bearing as any he’d met at court. And yet, he’d seen the vulnerability in her eyes and her awareness of him as a man. He must play on both, God help him, if he was to redeem the note he had signed last week.

Dieu, was it only a week ago he’d been sitting in the Running Fox, enjoying a victory celebration with his men? And then, the man calling himself Robert Dunbar had slithered into his life like the serpent into the Garden of Eden, offering whiskey whose smoothness hid its deadly effect.

“The smoothest in the Highlands,” Hakon had boasted.

Oh, it had gone down smooth, all right. And exploded like fire in his head. Ross, unused to strong liquor for he liked to keep his wits clear, had only the vaguest recollection of his men drifting off to bed. The pack of cards Robert had produced was an even dimmer memory. Next morning, through a haze of misery and stale whiskey fumes, Ross had recognized his signature on the note pledging Stratheas Keep in exchange for his debts.

One night—one damned night—it had taken Ross to gamble away the keep that had been in his mother’s family for generations. And the only way he could get it back was to steal from these people who had rescued him from ambush.

Why had Hakon lied about his name? How had he known that the Boyds would offer sanctuary to the Sutherlands?

Ross sighed and studied the folk he’d come to rob. He’d expected living conditions as wild and desolate as these stark mountains, yet found order and civility. The ancient walls had been brightened by a coat of whitewash. Woven tapestries lent color and warmth to the long, crowded room. More banners hung from the vaulted ceiling two stories above the rush-strewn floor. The well-run hall, the thread of camaraderie made Ross’s gut twist with remorse. Kennecraig and the Boyds reminded him of Edin Valley, the home he had turned his back on a year ago. The home and the clan he had betrayed as despicably as he was about to betray the Boyds.

The key to redeeming his pledge was this shy, gentle lass who, according to Hakon, was heir to the family’s whiskey recipe. However much he disliked it, Ross would pry from her the secret Hakon demanded in exchange for Ross’s note.

Poor little bird, Ross thought, gazing at the top of her head. He guessed Catlyn was a simple lass, not used to dealing with men, while he not only possessed a quick and highly educated mind, he had over a dozen years’ experience with the lasses. From the time his voice had changed, women had been chasing after him. Not that he minded. He found them delightful creatures, full of soft promise and earthy mystery. He enjoyed exploring the differences that made each woman unique. It pleased him to give pleasure, in and out of bed, to share a meal, a song or a quiet moment watching the sunrise. It hurt him immeasurable that he must lie, cheat and steal from this compassionate young thing. But he would do whatever he had to to gain the information he needed.

With a heavy heart, Ross began his campaign. “The food is very good,” he murmured. Indeed, it was, mutton stew, barley bread and cheese washed down with ale.

“Cook does his best, but the time just before harvest is always lean and monotonous,” said the lady, her head still down.

Again Ross thought of Edin Valley, the hills lush with grain ready to cut, the sheep fattened by summer grazing. There, too, the harvest was only a few weeks away. If he did not succeed here, Hakon would be reaping the benefits of the Sutherlands’ hard work. Or trying to. Though Ross had pledged his estate to Hakon, his sire and clansmen would not give up an inch of Edin Valley without a bloody fight.

And that blood would be on his head.

Ross gritted his teeth. “The harvest fast approaches.”

“Aye.”

“What crops do you raise so far north?”

She raised her head, spearing him with surprisingly intelligent hazel eyes. “Why do you ask when you cannot care?”

Ross blinked, startled as much by her candor as her vehemence. “I was but making conversation.”

“To what purpose?”

Betrayal. Thievery. “I would know you better.”

“Why, when you will be leaving in a day or so?”

So the Boyds were anxious to be rid of him. Perhaps they were not as trusting as he had supposed. Which meant the Boyds who had trailed after him had not only been helping him settle in but watching him. Inconvenient, that. It would make it more difficult for him to locate the stills and make a drawing of the equipment. “It is a thing people do. A courtesy.”

“Something you use on the ladies at court in Edinburgh?”

“What makes you think I’ve been to court?”

“You speak French.”

Ross recalled the orders he had bawled at his men when they’d arrived, and vowed to watch himself. “You must speak it, too.”

“One does not have to speak a language to recognize it.”

“True.” Ross inclined his head, surprised anew by her facile mind. And sharp tongue. “You are wroth with me?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

Oh, aye. “I can think of none.”

“Then I cannot possibly be angry with you.” She shut him out again by lowering her head.

Damn and blast, he’d coaxed women into his bed with less effort than this Puzzled by her coolness, especially after the way she had acted in the courtyard, he took another bite of stew and looked about.

Dressed in dark wool adorned by nary a gold chain or a sparkling gem, the Boyds had made his own troop welcome. For a clan supposedly in possession of the perfect recipe for whiskey, they drank little. Indeed, their manner was as subdued as their clothing. He wondered at that, for Ross was a man who liked people, male and female. The subtle nuances that made one person different from another fascinated him. It was part of his charm, claimed his mother. “People sense that you are genuinely interested in them, and so they confide in you.”

Apparently that charm was lost on Lady Catlyn. A pity, for he found her more and more appealing. While he had been changing into dry clothes, she had exchanged her white gown for a simple one of dark green wool. The color was a perfect foil for her pale skin and honey hair. She wore it up, but a few tendrils had worked loose to froth around her face. He had an unaccountable urge to demolish that braid and bury his hands in her hair, a nearly uncontrollable need to kiss the starch from the prim pink mouth that spoke to him so coolly and disapprovingly.

Did she dislike all men? Or did she sense that his interest in her was dangerous? Either way, winning her trust would be a challenge. One he might have relished had the stakes not been so high. “Did you create the lovely wall hangings?”

“Nay, they are my mother’s work.”

He heard the pain in her voice and dropped his own tone to a sympathetic murmur. “Is she gone?”

“Nay.”

Ross groaned. What would it take to break through that shell of hers?

“My lady?” A young serving maid stood beside their table, a flagon and cups in hand. “Adair thought ye might like a dram of whiskey to warm yer bones.”

“None for me,” Ross said quickly.

Lady Catlyn raised her head. “You do not care for whiskey?”

“Nay.”

“We distill this ourselves.” A vengeful light danced in her eyes. “It would please me if you tasted it.”

Witch. “How could I refuse?” Ross forced himself to take the cup the maid held out. But as he raised the cup to his lips, the sharp, smoky fumes filled his senses. Damn, he knew that smell. His head thumped. His belly rolled, threatening to rebel if he took even one sip.

It was the very same liquor that had done him in. Ross knew in a heartbeat that the whiskey Hakon had served him that fateful eve had come from this stock.

What dreadful irony.

What a test of his internal fortitude.

Could he get it down without losing his supper?

Conscious of Lady Catlyn’s gaze, Ross took a tiny sip. He swallowed it three times before his belly grudgingly kept it.

“You do not like the Finglas?” Catlyn asked incredulously.

“Strong.” Ross wheezed, keeping his teeth closed just in case his stomach rose again.

“Whiskey is supposed to be strong. Most men like it.” Her eyes measured him and obviously found him lacking.

“I am sure.” He had liked this whiskey too much. And that unaccustomed lapse now threatened everything he held dear. Ross swallowed again, determined to brazen this out. “Is there a difference?” he asked. It was too much to hope she’d just spill the information he had come to steal. But then, women, even one as canny as this one, were flighty.

“Of course there is. Anyone with a nose can tell that.” She looked down her nose at him. “If you like, tomorrow I can arrange for you to taste a few cups from different years.”

Cups? Dod, he’d never keep down even one cup. “I doubt I’d notice the difference, but I would like to see how it is made.”

Her gaze turned frosty. “I am afraid that is not possible.”

“Why?” Did she suspect something?

“This is a busy time of year. You would be underfoot.”

“I am quick on my feet and good at staying out of the way.”

“The better to avoid those you cuckold?”

“What?” Ross exclaimed, though her meaning and her contempt could not have been plainer. “My lady, I assure you that I never dally with married women.” Not knowingly, at any rate.

“It is of no interest to me.” She turned away and spoke to an old man at the next table. “Roland, what say we make an early start on the morrow to make up for the time lost today?”

“Aye.” Roland’s tone was curt. His dark eyes glowered at her from either side of his hooked red nose. “In fact, I’ve a mind to get at it tonight.”

“Nay. ’Tis late, and we’ve had a busy day. We’ll be all the fresher for a good night’s sleep.”

“We’ll start at dawn, then.” Roland heaved his bulk off the bench. “Come along, lads. We’d best turn in.”

The Boyds, with the exception of those sitting with Ross’s men, rose from their seats and drifted toward the door in an orderly procession. Those who passed close by wished Catlyn good sleep. The warmth of her smiles as she bid them sleep well were a revelation to Ross. If she was not cold and caustic by nature, why had she taken such a dislike to him? It was lowering. It was infuriating. Worst of all, it endangered his mission.

By force of will, Ross kept a bland mask in place. “If we could help with your work, we’d be happy to.”

Catlyn glared at him. “There is no need.”

“Oh, but I disagree.” Ross gave her his most winning smile, his temper fraying further when it made no dent in her scowl. “You saved our lives, and we’d like to repay you.”

“We neither require your help nor want it.” Her chin was high, her tone that of a queen to a lowly knave.

Never in his life had he been treated so by a woman. “My lady, there must be something I can do to express my thanks.”

“Aye, there is. You can leave on the morrow.”

Leave? Without the whiskey recipe? Impossible. “Do you not think you owe my wounded men a few days in which to heal?”

Her expression softened. “I suppose.” Very grudgingly. “I will consult with Freda tomorrow and see how long she thinks you need stay.” With that, she turned away.

Ross caught her wrist. The flesh was warm and surprisingly firm. The beat of her pulse against his palm sent a ripple through his lower belly. “My thanks for your hospitality, Lady Catlyn.” He said the words through his teeth, barely holding on to civility. “On the morrow, when you are rested—and mayhap more congenial—let us see if we cannot find some way in which I might repay you.” He gave her a slow, burning smile, the one that never failed to melt opposition.

Beneath his hand, her pulse skittered, but her skin remained cool. “I will be busy—” she loosened his grip, one finger at a time “—for the foreseeable future. I wish you good journey to Inverness.”

“But...” Ross moved to block her retreat.

A yellow-haired man pushed in between them. He was large, muscular and handsome, despite angry brown eyes and a pugnacious expression. “Do not touch her,” this newcomer growled at Ross.

“I can take care of myself, Eoin.” The lady looked even more displeased with her champion than she was with Ross.

“He is bothering you,” Eoin grumbled.

Lady Catlyn sighed. “You are both annoying me.”

“Let me escort you to your room.” Eoin reached for her arm.

Catlyn avoided his grasp. “Stay and keep Sir Ross company.”

“But Catlyn,” Eoin whined. “I should go with you.”

“My lady,” Ross protested. “I thought we might talk.”

“Talk with Eoin.” Eyes glittering with mockery, she glanced at each of them in turn. “I think you have much in common.” Lifting her skirt, she moved away.

Ross watched her leave, thinking that the queen had never made as regal an exit. But with her went his only hope of recovering his family property.

“Leave her alone,” Eoin growled. His face flushed with hostility, he stalked off in the lady’s wake.

“Plans going awry?” Mathew Sutherland, Ross’s cousin and second in command, strolled over to join him.

“For some reason, the lady has taken a dislike of me.”

“Inconvenient.”

“Damnably so.”

“What will you do?” Mathew whispered.

Leave at first light. But he could not. Ross clenched his teeth. “I will just have to find a way to charm the lady into revealing her secrets.”

“That should not be difficult for a man with your skill at wooing the lasses.” Mathew winked lewdly.

“This one is made of ice.” It rankled to chase after a woman who obviously disliked him. Yet her rudeness made him feel less guilty about what he must do. “Were you able to learn anything from the Boyds you dined with?”

“Just that they seem to be simple, hardworking folk who think of little else besides their whiskey making. Adair did ask several sharp questions of us.”

Ross grunted. “I marked him for a canny man. Our lads?”

“Have quick wits and careful tongues.”

That they did, for they had been trained in the fine art of thief-catching by Ross’s uncle, Hunter Carmichael, Warden of the Scottish Middle March. “This is not so different from other tasks we’ve performed for Uncle Hunter. We need information before we can decide how best to get what we came for. Have the lads find out where the stills are located, who has access to them and, if possible, where their records are kept.”

Mathew nodded. “I will see to it immediately.”

“I trust you had enough to eat,” Adair said as he joined them. “This is a busy season for us,” added the older man. “We retire early and, much as I dislike forcing guests to do the same, I must ask you to seek your beds.” Behind the grizzled warrior stood a quartet of beefy Boyds.

“Guards?” Ross exclaimed.

“Aye.” Adair’s level gaze offered no apology. “We are pleased to offer you shelter, but you are strangers to us.”

“Are we to be locked up like prisoners?” Ross demanded.

“Only if you will not follow a few rules.”

“Such as?”

“Keep to your rooms, the great hall or the courtyard and do not attempt to evade those set to watch you.”

The rules were reasonable. No more than he’d have insisted upon himself if the situation were reversed. Ross was in no mood to be reasonable. And guards would make it difficult for his men to move about freely. But arguing would only raise more suspicions. “We agree,” Ross grumbled. “But tell me this. Was it your lady who ordered that we be watched?”

“Nay. I have charge of such things. Why do you ask?”

“She does not like me.”

“Oh.” One of Adair’s gray brows rose. “Why is that?”

“I did not insult her, if that is your meaning. Quite the contrary. The more charming my manner, the colder hers grew.”

“And why would you be wanting to charm our Catlyn?”

Ross blinked. “Because...because I owe her a debt.”

“A debt, is it?” A grin tugged at the corners of Adair’s lined mouth, and a knowing gleam entered his dark eyes. “Well, since we’re owing you a debt as well—for thwarting Hakon’s plans—I’ll be telling you the lass is not much one for charm.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Adair’s grin spread to lighten his weathered face. “If you are around long enough, you may just find that out.” He winked at Mathew. “And now, lads, I’ll bid you good-night. We’ve put the pair of you in Catlyn’s solar, it being the only chamber that’s not occupied. I’m told the maids took up sleeping pallets, blankets and such. If you need anything, just ask.”

Anything but freedom. Still Ross could not fault their caution. Nodding, he followed the pair of guards up two flights of narrow, winding stairs, conscious of Mathew’s suppressed tension. His cousin was canny enough to hold his tongue till the door to their borrowed chamber had shut behind them.

“By the rod!” Mathew exclaimed. “Do you think they plan to keep us prisoners here? Murder us in our—”

“Shh.” Ross drew Mathew across the long, spacious room to the window. “If they meant to harm us, they’d have taken our weapons. Their wariness is reasonable, if damned inconvenient.”

Mathew’s tense shoulders relaxed. “What now?”

“We find the stills,” Ross said softly.

“Oh, and how will we get out of here?”

“Climb, I hope.” Ross unbarred the double shutters covering the window and eased open one side. Cool, damp air swirled in as he leaned out. “Ah, only three stories to the ground.”

“Only,” Mathew gasped.

“Aye, and there’s a wee ledge just below.”

“You cannot be thinking of walking that!” he whispered.

Ross just grinned. He had always had a penchant for climbing, whether it was a tree to filch apples or down a cliff side after falcon chicks to train for hunting.

“Idiot.”

“I just don’t have your fear of heights.”

“Respect. I respect the fact that birds fly and men were meant to keep their two feet on the ground.”

“I will be careful.” His mind made up, Ross turned and surveyed the room.

Like everything at Kennecraig, it was neat and clean if sparsely furnished. An attempt had been made to make them comfortable. At one end, a large table held a trio of pitchers, cups and a bowl for washing. Surprisingly, there were also stacks of books and what looked like writing materials. Did Lady Catlyn read, or were these her father’s?

There was no bed, of course, but the promised sleeping pallets had been laid out before the hearth at the other end, where a small fire crackled. Blankets and pillows lay nearby, along with their saddle packs.

Ross made for his pouch, pawed through it and found the thin coil of rope at the bottom. “It pays to be prepared.” Grinning, he straightened and looped the rope around his torso.

“And what am I to do while you are off risking your fool neck?” Mathew whispered fiercely.

Ross scanned the chamber again as he had so many others in his career as a thief-taker. “Conduct a thorough search.” He pointed to the two large tapestries that brightened the long walls. “Look behind the hangings for hidden passageways or safe-holes. It is doubtless too much to hope that she has left this recipe laying about, but examine the books and papers on yon table.” He frowned, surprised to find little evidence the lady spent time on the traditional female pursuits—no needlework frame, no mending basket.

But then, Catlyn Boyd was a most unusual lady. One he wished he had met under different circumstances. If he was to steal her secrets, he must know her better.

Chapter Three

Catlyn found herself standing before the double doors to the distillery with no memory of how she’d gotten there after fleeing the great hall. There was no other word for the way in which she had run from the hall, from Ross Sutherland’s touch. Even now her wrist still prickled where his callused hands had encircled it. And her heart beat much too swiftly.

The man was a menace to womankind. And it was a blow to her pride to find she was not as immune to him as she should be. Awash with shame, she leaned her forehead against the door, drawing strength from steel-banded oak.

There were too many people counting on her, too many decisions to be made without cluttering her head with silly thoughts of Ross Sutherland. It was just that he was handsome. And strong. Curiously his size and warrior skills appealed to her even more than his poet’s face. Part of her wanted to acquiesce to Adair’s suggestion and hire the knight.

Oh, and would that not be the most foolish thing she had ever done.

Agitated, Catlyn pulled open the right-hand door and stepped into the distillery’s anteroom. Immediately, the familiar scent of the Finglas wrapped itself around her. To her, this was the heart of Kennecraig, the center of her world for as long as she could remember. She knew and loved every inch of this ancient tower, from the keg maker’s workshop on the floor above to the cellars beneath housing the mash tuns and stills. On this main floor were the settling rooms and her workroom. Her province, her responsibility.

Catlyn sighed. Small wonder she craved a champion. Even before Hakon had come into their lives, her days had been hectic and full. Now, as she passed through the entryway and into the maze of dimly lit rooms beyond, she felt weighed down by all that must be done. Always before there had been others to share the burden, but her father was gone, her mother as good as.

Oh, Roland and his men would perform the manual tasks associated with each phase of the whiskey making, but it was up to her to record these steps in the journals. It was up to her to decide if the Finglas from four years ago was up to Boyd standards and how much of it should be sold, how much kept by for her father’s pet project.

Tucked away in a darkened corner of the still rooms were kegs from as far back as ten years ago. Thomas had reasoned that whiskey became smoother and more drinkable every year. At ten years, he felt it had reached its peak. If he had been able to, he would not have sold a drop of the Finglas till it was ten years old. But in order to provide for his clan, he’d been forced to sell most of each year’s production.

This year, he had intended to offer the ten-year-old Finglas to a few discriminating customers in Edinburgh. Among them, the king.

Now it was up to Catlyn to make her father’s dream reality. But was she strong enough to do it? Would the nobles deal with a Highland distiller who was also a woman?

Frowning, she wandered into the settling room. It was twice the size of the great hall, the ceilings one and a half stories above the stone floor. During the day, air and light filtered in through narrow openings at the rafter line. By night, only a single lantern, such as the type used on ships, was left burning in a center table, for flame and liquor were an explosive mix.

Row after row of shelves filled the room, so it resembled a maze. They were lined with single rows of whiskey kegs. Each keg bore a label with a date and batch number inscribed in Catlyn’s precise hand. The numbers were recorded in her ledger books, and from them she could tell what barley fields had been used in the distilling, how many times the liquor had been run through the stills and, of course, how old it was. The chimneys that vented away the smoke from those stills ran up through the middle of the room and thence through the second-story cooperage.

Bypassing the shelves, Catlyn took the lantern from the table and continued on to her counting room. The door was always locked unless she was inside, not out of fear someone would steal the records but because it had been done so from the beginning and the Boyds were great ones for tradition.

She took the key from the pouch at her waist, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Immediately she felt her remaining anxiety melt away. Small and cozy, with a fireplace to keep the damp at bay, the chamber had served the lords of Kennecraig as a record room for generations. Ever since her great-great-grandfather had added this building to house the distillery.

The shelves lining two of the walls of the record room were crammed with the leather-bound ledgers and crumbling parchment rolls that chronicled every step of the distilling process for each year going back six generations. Some were written in Latin, others in French.

As a child, Catlyn had sat on the floor and fashioned dolls from wood curls while her brother, Thom, studied the languages and ciphering essential to every lord of Kennecraig. She’d been far more interested in his lessons than the silly dolls, which was fortunate. When Thom had died at age fifteen, Catlyn had assumed the heir’s role. There had been grumblings among some of the men, but her father had stood firm. “The lass has my head for details and her grandsire’s nose for the brew.”

That she’d stepped in to fill her papa’s role far too early saddened her. Yet she loved this craft. Every step held its own fascination. The earthy pleasure of visiting the fields and assessing the barley, of judging when the grain was at its peak and ready to be married to the purest burn water. The careful mixing of barley and water, in just the right portions, appealed to her sense of order. But nothing equaled the thrill she felt when the first drop of liquor fell from the coil of hammered steel tubing.

A grating sound from the main room had her spinning in the doorway.

“Who is there?” she called, raising the lantern. Its pale golden light bounced off the nearest kegs but was swallowed up by the darkness beyond. A shiver worked its way down her spine. She had never been afraid to come here, even at night and alone, but that was before Hakon had come to the mountains.

She thought about the barrels of black powder sitting next to the stills in the cellars. Her father’s desperate scheme to keep Hakon from attacking them. Thus far it had worked, but what if one of his men sneaked into Kennecraig and moved the barrels away? It would take time and many strong men.

Like the Sutherlands.

She swayed for a moment, terrified. Then she remembered the injuries Hakon had inflicted on the Sutherlands. Nay, Ross was not a danger to them. At least not that way. And the doors to the cellars were kept locked except when Roland and his men were working there.

Still it might be wise to post guards here until the Sutherlands were gone.

Catlyn felt a bit better till she glanced at the papers piled on her worktable. She should spend an hour or two on them, but her eyes were gritty, her nerves frayed. And she had one more duty to perform before she retired. Resolving to be down here at first light, she shut the door and locked it.

Ross crouched down behind one of the keg-laden shelves and watched Catlyn walk past, confident the shadows would hide him. Still he did not let go the breath he had been holding till he heard the door clang shut.

“Dieu, that was close,” he whispered into the gloom. He had found what appeared to be the distillery by following his nose. Surprised there were no guards outside, he had cautiously opened one side of the door and eased inside. The stench of whiskey had made his eyes sting and his belly roll. He’d ignored both.

Used to sneaking about in darkened places, he had slipped into the cavernous room and started his search for the stills themselves. Only a small amount of pale light came in from some openings high above. A locked set of double doors just off the entryway looked promising, but he had moved on, down row after row of kegs. The neatness impressed him. He rapped his knuckles gently on a few and judged them to be full. Full of whiskey. If Hakon knew the Boyds had so much on hand, he’d have worked harder to get inside and steal it.

Then he had seen the light spilling from a chamber cut into the wall. It drew him, but before he could get close enough to see what was inside, an incautious step betrayed his presence.

Ross looked toward the door, then back to the one Catlyn had so carefully locked before leaving. Possibly it led to the stills, or to a room where the accounts were kept. Orderly as everything was, he did not doubt that the Boyds, had a scribe who kept a record of how much whiskey was produced and sold. Tempted as he was to see if the lock would yield to the tip of his dirk, the time was not right.

Keeping to the shadows, Ross retraced his steps down the long corridor, out the back door and around the side of the tower. Up the rope he’d left and onto the ledge.

Tomorrow night he’d come prepared, with parchment and charcoal to sketch the stills.

Catlyn paused outside the chamber that had been her parents’, dreading what she’d find when she entered.

On the day Adair brought her father’s body back to Kennecraig, Catlyn had also lost her mother. Jeannie Boyd had taken one look at her departed husband and faded into a stupor from which she had yet to emerge. The pain of watching her mother retreat further and further into herself was almost more than Catlyn could bear.

She bowed her head, her heart aching. She would give all she owned, aye, even the precious stills, to have her mother whole again. “Please, please let me find her better.”

Bracing herself for disappointment, Catlyn knocked softly. She did not expect an answer. Even before her husband’s death, Jeannie Boyd had been considered a bit fey. She would immerse herself so thoroughly in the scenes she created with needle and thread, that she paid scant attention to the real world around her. Now her mind seemed to have permanently retreated into one of those imaginary worlds. A better world, where her husband was not dead, just away.

Catlyn pushed open the door and immediately spied her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her husband’s clothes chest. It was empty now, every garment Thomas had possessed arrayed around Lady Jeannie in neat piles.

“Mama, how nice to see you up.” Hope buoyed Catlyn’s steps as she crossed the room. Could it be her mother had regained her senses and was finally setting Papa’s things to rights?

Jeannie raised her head, her once glorious mane of chestnut hair dull, her eyes red rimmed. “Thomas is due back any day, and I cannot find his best plaid.”

Catlyn’s knees went weak, and she sank down beside her mother. They had buried her father in his bloodied tartan. “He may not need it with the weather so warm,” she said gently.

“He counts on me to keep it in good repair. He teases me sometimes...says ’tis the only practical thing I do. And now... I—I can’t understand where it’s got to.” She picked up a saffron shirt and shook it, as though expecting the eight-foot length of plaid to fall from it onto her lap.

“It will turn up.” Catlyn captured her mother’s fluttering hands, found them icy cold and painfully thin. She chafed them between her own hands. “Let me put you to bed, Mama.”

“I cannot sleep till I’ve found the plaid.” She freed her hands and went back to shifting through the clothes.

Catlyn watched through a veil of tears. It seemed her mother was wasting away before her eyes, her plump body gaunt, her once golden skin pale from hours indoors. “Tomorrow we will take a walk on the battlements. The fresh air would do you good, Mama. You have not been outside since...” Catlyn choked on a sob. “It’s been so long since you’ve been out.”

“I will not leave this room till I have his plaid.” Frowning, Jeannie picked up a pair of worn woolen hose. “These are Thomas’s favorites. I know he’ll be surprised I’ve mended them so the hole barely shows, but he’ll be most displeased if I cannot find the plaid.”

The door to the chamber opened.

Catlyn turned toward it, her already low spirits plummeting when she saw Dora standing awkwardly in the doorway, a covered tray in her hands It was surely the cruelest of ironies that the one woman upon whom her mother depended was Eom’s mistress.

“Oh, Dora,” Jeanme exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re back. You’ve got to help me find Thomas’s plaid.”

“Aye, my lady.” Blue eyes downcast, Dora sidled into the room and set her burden on the table. She was slender, blond and so radiantly beautiful that men, even those who’d known her all her life, stared when she passed by.

Small wonder Eoin had been tempted to dally with her while courting the plain wren of a woman who was heir to the distilleries, Catlyn thought. Even her mother preferred Dora’s company. Where Catlyn attempted to coax her mother back into this world, Dora seemed to slip readily into Jeannie’s.

“It may be that one of the maids took the plaid to wash,” Dora said. “Tomorrow we’ll go down and look about.”

“Let us go now.” Jeannie got awkwardly to her feet.

Dora swiftly put a hand under her elbow, steadying her. “Oh, nay, my lady. ’Tis night, now, and the maids will be asleep. You should be abed, too.”

“I am not sleepy,” Jeannie protested.

“Come sit by the hearth, then,” Dora coaxed. “I’ve brought up a cup of warm milk.”

“All right. But at first light, we must go down and search. Search everywhere.” Jeannie dutifully walked to her chair.

Dora glanced quickly, apologetically, at Catlyn. “I know ’tis a futile errand,” she whispered. “But the fresh air and a wee bit of exercise might do my lady good.”

“Aye.” Catlyn jumped up and crossed to her mother. She should be glad her mother had someone in whom she could confide and trust, but instead, she was jealous of Dora. Again. “I will ready Mama for bed, Dora. Eoin is doubtless waiting for you.”

“Nay, that is over. He...he is wroth with me.” Her hand absently fluttered over a bruise at her temple.

“Did he do that?” Catlyn exclaimed.

“Nay.” Dora shook her head so violently her long blond braids flew back, revealing another dark mark below her ear.

“Dora.” Horrified, Catlyn went to her, took her gently by the shoulders. “Tell me true if Eoin has beaten you.”

“Nay, at least I do not think it was him.”

“Tell me what happened,” Catlyn demanded.

“Accidents. A stone flying out of the darkness.”

“Oh, Dora, I had no idea.”

Dora turned her head aside. “Please let it go. It is right that I be punished. I should not have let him kiss me knowing he was promised to you, but I have been so lonely since Alan died. One minute Eoin and I were speaking of the past, the next...” A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Catlyn’s eyes filled with tears. “It is not your fault. It is Eoin’s, taking advantage of your grief.”

Dora raised her head, looking Catlyn in the eye for the first time since Catlyn had found them together. “I swear it was the first time, and it went no further than a few kisses.”

Catlyn believed that as surely as she now believed that she had not really loved Eoin. She had agreed to wed him out of duty and respect for her father’s wishes. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Now tell me who threw these rocks at you.”

“Someone who wishes me punished.”

“I will put a guard on you and alert Adair to watch.”

“Nay.” Dora grasped Catlyn’s hand. “It would only make matters worse if they thought I had complained.”

“Very well, I will say nothing.” Directly, but she meant to spread the word that she would not tolerate such behavior.

“I am sorry I ruined things for you.”

Catlyn smiled faintly, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Dora, I begin to think you did me a very great favor. For all he was my father’s foster son and lived here ten years, I realize I did not truly know Eoin. He has revealed his true nature, the charming, self-serving rogue. Had we wed, he would likely have pursued other women.” She chuckled. “And I would have been forced to cut out his cheating heart.”

Dora managed a watery smile. “Thank you for not turning me out. You are truly the most generous of women.” She grabbed Catlyn’s hands and kissed them.

Embarrassed, Catlyn freed her hands and patted Dora awkwardly on the shoulder. “You have amply repaid me by caring for Mama.” She looked over at her mother, who stared into the empty hearth as though it contained the secret of life.

“She will regain her senses,” Dora murmured.

“I pray you are right.” Catlyn walked over and hunkered down at her mother’s knee. “Mama, shall I read you a story?”

Her mother glanced at her and smiled brightly. “I think that’s why my Thom has stayed away so long,” she said. “Because he knows the plaid’s not mended. He’ll not come back to me till I’ve found it and set it to rights.”

“Aye, Mama,” Catlyn said softly. Her heart aching, she stood and walked toward the door.

“We must be up and looking at first light,” Jeannie said.

Dora’s reply was lost in the closing of the door, but doubtless it was something soothing.

Catlyn stood outside the room, shaking, her emotions a shambles. After a moment, she found the strength to move down the hall to her own chamber.

Why? Why had these things happened to her clan?

Father Griogair, the priest who had come over from the town of Doune to bury her father, said that God visited such hardships as these on folk as a penance for past ill deeds. If so, she was paying a very high price for having teased her brother when he was alive and tormented their tutor with her endless questions. Of course, if Eoin was to be believed, she also suffered from the sins of being cold, inflexible and indifferent to a man’s natural need for a mistress.

Did Ross Sutherland have a mistress?

Without a doubt. He was a rogue, the sort of handsome rascal who thought all women worshiped him. It would be folly to have him here, luring her maidservants into trysts in darkened corners. Oh, and he’d be good at that, Catlyn thought, shivering as she recalled what it was like to be the focus of his searing blue eyes.

He made a woman, even one as cautious as herself, feel as though she were the most important creature on earth. It was all a lie, of course, an act. But she would not have him here, breaking hearts.

Through the slits between the window shutters, Ross watched Catlyn make her exit. How lonely and sad she looked, he thought, her shoulders bowed, her steps slow.

He transferred his gaze to Catlyn’s mother. Clearly the death of her husband had unhinged Lady Jeannie’s mind. His heart contracted in an unwelcome spurt of sympathy. He tried to push it away, reminding himself he could not afford to feel anything for the lass he’d come to rob. But his own mother was dear to him, though Lady Laurel probably did not realize how much he loved her. He had disappointed both his parents with his refusal to settle down and accept the responsibilities for the estates he’d one day inherit.

The land he had lost in that drunken wager.

Just let him get back that damned note from Hakon, Ross vowed, and he would spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy of his parents’ love

“Come to bed, my lady,” murmured the maid.

Ross watched the stunningly beautiful Dora help Lady Jeannie to her feet. It was not surprising that Eoin had trysted with the maid. Doubtless he preferred her warmth to Lady Catlyn’s haughty coldness. And yet, the lady had displayed an unexpected compassion in dealing with the girl. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lady Catlyn, the puzzle he must solve if he hoped to regain his property.

Ross turned away. Stepping carefully, he moved past the window, placing his feet with great care on the narrow ledge that ran around the tower. The stone was rain slickened beneath his boots, making the adventure a bit more dangerous than he’d expected, but well worth the risk. Not only had he discovered the location of the distillery, but the scene between Lady Catlyn and Dora had provided him with important information.

Considering what he’d learned, Ross inched past the last barred window. He had no more than cleared it than the shutters were abruptly thrown open. A curse hissed between his teeth as he flattened himself against the wet stone wall of the tower.

A pair of slender hands appeared on the sill. Someone sighed, the sound filled with longing. “The air smells so fresh after a rain,” murmured Catlyn Boyd.

Ross shrank back, praying she did not lean out.

“Ye’ll catch the ague breathing in that dampness,” grumbled a rough female voice.

“I’m used to it, Ulma. Besides, I must ride out tomorrow to see if the storm flattened the barley.”

“There’s no need for ye to muck about in the muddy fields. ’Tis Eom’s job to manage the crops.”

“So it is, but Papa always checked such things himself. I also need to record the amount of rainfall in the gauge and measure the height of the crops for the book.”

The book? Ross’s ears pricked up. Did this book also contain the recipe Hakon sought?

Ulma sniffed. “Ye do too much, lass.”

“I do no more than what is required. It just takes me longer because I am new at doing some things.” She sighed again. “These days I need to be two people.”

“Well, if Eoin had not proved such a deceitful rascal, ye’d have a husband to bear part of the burden. Ye should have turned that...that bastard out the very night ye found him and—”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Catlyn said fiercely. “And Papa would have exiled him, no matter that Eoin was his foster son.” Her voice grew softer. “But once I was over the initial shock, I realized how important Eoin was to the clan, and knew we could not dispense with him to ease my pride.”

“Ye think too much of others and not enough of yerself.”

Ross heartily agreed. How many women would have put their clan’s needs above pride? Or revenge?

“Such is the way of things when you are laird, or so Papa always told Mama when she chided him for overworking.”

“True as that may be, ye’ll be fit for nothing if ye don’t get more rest,” muttered the maid. “So it’s off to bed with ye.” Work-worn hands drew Lady Catlyn inside and closed the shutters. Their voices were muffled as they moved farther into the room.

For one instant, Ross was tempted to creep over and peek between the wooden slats. Not to listen, but to look, to see if the lady’s body was as enticing unclothed as he suspected.

Wretch.

He slunk to the corner of the building, carefully worked his way around it and down the narrow end of the tower to the other long side. Midway along the wall was the window he had crawled out of a dangerous hour ago. It was still open, though no light glowed from within.

“Mathew?” Ross whispered.

“Dieu. ” His cousin appeared in the opening. He reached out, steadying Ross, guiding him over the sill. “I thought you’d either been caught or fallen.”

“Neither, thank God.” Ross leaned gratefully against the inner wall for a moment. “Though the ledge was narrower and a bit more slippery than I’d expected.”

“You and your foolish risk-taking will be the death of me, yet,” Mathew whispered as he lit a candle.

Ross closed his eyes against the flare of light. “You were safe in here.”

“Oh, aye, but my heart’s been racing fit to burst since you crawled out there.” Mathew pressed a cup into Ross’s hand.

Ross sniffed suspiciously. Ale. He drank deep of the cool liquid then looked toward the door. “Our friends?”

“One’s sitting with his back to our door. The other leans against the wall across the way. Did you find the stills?”

“Possibly.” Keeping his voice low, Ross told his cousin about the orderly storage rooms and the two locked doors.

“Lady Catlyn was there by herself?”

“Aye.” It had disturbed him to see her alone like that. What if he had been Seamus? “Clearly she takes her duties seriously.” Ross was uneasy with his changing image of her.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing, I... oh, hell,” Ross muttered. “I never could keep anything from you.” Reluctant, but not sure why, he told Mathew of the conversations he had overheard. “Personally, I do not think he stands a chance of winning back Lady Catlyn.” He hesitated, then added, “I am surprised she did not turn Dora out over this. She is more generous and softhearted than I had supposed.”

“You cannot afford to admire her,” Mathew warned.

“I do not,” Ross grumbled. “I was but going over what I learned, deciding how I could use it to gain my ends.”

Mathew grunted but looked unconvinced. “You have that gleam in your eyes, the one you get when you’ve spotted a lass you consider worthy of chasing.”

“This is not that kind of chase,” Ross grumbled. “Hakon said that she alone possessed the secret of the whiskey making. To get it, I must win her trust. I see now that I used the wrong strategy. She rebuffed my attempts to charm her because she has ample reason to distrust such shallow flattery ” A welcome change from the women he’d met at court, who not only lapped up praise like cats did cream, but became petulant if a man did not wax poetic over their beauty. Bah, he could not dwell on that. “She even said that Eoin and I were much alike.”

“How does this aid our cause?”

“On the morrow, Catlyn will meet a different Ross Sutherland. One who does not utter meaningless phrases, but who...” Ross scowled. “What should I say to win her over?”

Mathew shrugged, a grin lurking around his lips. “You are the master in this field, not I. But offhand, I’d say that the lady Catlyn is not like any other lass you’ve wooed.”

“I am not wooing her, I am here to...to...”

“Betray her?” Mathew whispered.

Aye. And therein lay the problem.

Chapter Four

Dawn came slowly, pale fingers of light stealing over the jagged mountain peaks and in through the window in Catlyn’s narrow bedchamber. She greeted the sight with a sigh of relief and climbed from bed.

Sleep had been long in coming last night and filled with dreams when it did. Dreams of a magnificent black-haired man with eyes of sizzling blue.

Ross Lion Sutherland.

Groaning, Catlyn dragged herself across the chilly room, washed her face, braided her hair and pulled on a faded brown gown. She tried to keep her mind on the tasks. ahead of her today, but it kept drifting back to the strange dreams.

She and Ross had been walking through a field of golden barley. Her field. She should have been busy seeing to the harvest; she had preferred being with him. He laughed, and her heart felt lighter than it had in months. He held out his hand, and she wanted to take it. To follow where he led, even though it meant leaving Kennecraig.

Catlyn shivered and chafed the gooseflesh from her arms. It was a dream, nothing more. She would never leave Kennecraig. That she had vowed on her father’s soul.

She threw a light cape over her arm, for the cellars were cold, even in summer, and hurried into the dim corridor. Habit slowed her steps outside her mother’s door. Hoping her mother had slept better than she had, Catlyn headed for the great hall.

“Lady Catlyn!” The deep voice of the man she had hoped to avoid echoed down the corridor from behind her.

Run, urged her instinct for survival. Pride stayed her steps. She stopped, braced herself and looked over her shoulder.

He advanced toward her through the gloom, his movements quick and lithe, his smile a white slash in his tanned face.

“Were you lying in wait for me?” she asked sharply. Eoin had taken to doing that till Adair threatened to turn him out.

“Nay.” He halted close to her, so close the tips of his boots nudged the hem of her skirt.

Catlyn fought the urge to run. “I thought you were, er—”

“Confined to my room, or rather, your solar?” He grinned, something he did often. “Adair said we might be about the keep.”

“Oh.” She fumbled for words. “Why are you are up so early?”

“It is my custom, but today I was up before the sun, anxious to check on my wounded men.”

“Ah. How fare they?”

“Well enough. One of the men-at-arms took an arrow to the arm, but is already up and about. My squire...” He sighed.

“The lad? He is worse?”

“A little fevered and restless. I feared he’d tear out the stitches your Freda set in his shoulder, so I came up to fetch this.” He held out a dark object. “I should have asked before borrowing it, but I did not realize you would be awake.”

Catlyn squinted. “A book?”

“Yours, or at least it and two others were in the solar. The Green Knight. I thought the tale might entertain Callum.”

“It is in French.”

“You already pointed out that I speak it.”

“And read it?”

“Not as well as Father Simon would have liked.” His smile turned rueful. “As a lad, I was more interested in swordplay and the like, but Mama and Papa insisted we all learn.”

“My brother felt the same way about studies,” she said.

“You have a brother?”

Into her mind flashed the image of Thom, lying cold and still in a pool of blood. Guilt rose in her throat.

Catlyn shook her head and shoved the memory away. “He died when he was ten and five.”

“I feel for you,” he said gently.

And Catlyn believed he did. As she stared into his eyes, she fancied she saw her own pain reflected there. “Thank you.”

“I have two younger brothers and a sister. Much as they did plague me when we were growing up, I do love them dearly.”

“You are fortunate to have a large family.”

“Aye.” Something shifted in his eyes, a shadow of remorse or a trick of the light? “I did not fully appreciate how much they meant to me until just lately.”

“I, too, took my family for granted,” her heart contracted, “not realizing how precious they are till they are gone.”

“Or threatened.” His voice went hard and flat. “When your family is in danger, you will do anything to protect them.”

Catlyn nodded, understanding that grim determination. Sharing it. “My father died a month ago while taking a shipment of whiskey to Doune. I know Hakon had a hand in it, though I cannot prove it. As I stood over Papa’s grave, I vowed on his soul that Hakon would not get Kennecraig, too.”

“That is a large undertaking.”

“For a woman?”

“For anyone. From what I saw, he is ruthless and canny.”

“We will survive.”

His eyes locked on hers, and his expression changed. What looked like respect flickered in their azure depths, along with something else. Something strong and earthy.

Catlyn’s pulse quickened, and her skin prickled. She could not move, could only stare into those compelling eyes, acutely aware of him on some new level. She inhaled sharply, her senses filled with the unique scent of soap and man. This man. Never before had she felt so small, fragile and wholly female.

“Catlyn,” he whispered.

Never had her name sounded so beautiful and lush. “Aye,” she murmured, her body warming, melting.

“I...” He lifted a hand, grazing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I am sorry, I—” He started, dropping his hand as though he’d been burned, shattering the moment.

Catlyn blinked. “What?”

“I am sorry,” he said again, eyes flat and shuttered.

For touching her? Confused, Catlyn turned away from him, tripped over her hem and would have fallen had he not grabbed hold of her elbow. Even that slight contact sent a jolt up her arm. She looked at him again and saw her dazed features reflected in his eyes. Or was he as confused as she? “What is it? What is happening?” she whispered.

For a long moment, he did not reply, just studied her, as though seeing her for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh. “You are a most unusual lass.”

Catlyn tried not to be hurt. “Thank you, I think.” She dredged up a smile and freed her arm. “If you will excuse me, I have much to do today.” It astonished her that she had wasted so much time talking to him. It frightened her that she had felt at ease doing it. Turning away, she started down the hall.

He kept pace beside her. “I wonder if I could beg a favor?”

Glancing sidelong at him, she saw the easy smile was back. “I doubt you have ever begged anything from a woman.”

He laughed, the sound, deep and infectious. How could a large man manage to look like a lad caught in a falsehood?

Catlyn couldn’t help but smile. “What do you want?”

“Hmm.” He arched one black brow, teasing. “You should not ask a man that, lass. Gives him all sorts of ideas.”

“I am not the sort of woman men get ideas about,” she said crisply, braced for a flood of false compliments.

“Then you’ve not met the right sort of man.”

“Mmm.”

“But as to the boon,” he said as they reached the stairwell. “Would you read to Callum? I speak French well enough, but I read so slowly the story would suffer.”

“I am far too busy,” Catlyn said quickly. Too quickly.

“Are you?”

Catlyn sighed and stopped. Because they’d spoken openly about losing family, she felt she owed him the truth. “I cannot be near the wounded.” She looked down at her knotted fingers. “It’s the blood.” No matter how she fought it, the sight of blood turned her stomach. Even saying the word made her shudder.

“Why? What happened?”

“I cannot speak of it.” She gritted her teeth, trying not to remember the horrible way she’d found her brother.

“Callum’s wound is completely bandaged.”

“It would not matter. I...I would know.” She shivered.

“Easy. I am sorry to upset you.”

Catlyn nodded. “And I am sorry I cannot do as you ask. It is my mother’s book in any case. I have no time for romances.”

“Indeed?” He cocked his head. “You should find time.”

Catlyn shrugged, uncomfortable with the subject. “You must be fond of your squire to worry so.”

“It is my fault. Had he not placed himself between me and a Fergusson ax, he’d not have been wounded.”

Catlyn gasped. “You were nearly killed?”

“Nay, my armor would have blunted the worst of the blow, but it cut right through—” He cleared his throat. “Suffice to say, he was hurt in my place.”

“I see,” Catlyn mumbled, shaken to learn he could have been hurt. Last night it would not have mattered so, but something had changed while they stood talking this morning. She had begun to see him not as a shallow rogue, but as a compassionate man who cared for his family, his men and even for her losses. She could not afford to care about him. “I will pray for Callum’s swift recovery.” And your swift departure from my life. Picking up her skirts, she scampered down the stairs.

Catlyn half feared, half hoped he would follow her. That spark of anticipation worried her. She must find Old Freda and ask when the wounded would be able to ride.

Ross stared after Catlyn till she turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Tempted as he was to go after her, he knew better than to press the slender advantage he’d gained.

It had been worth the hour spent lurking outside her door for the chance to waylay her. And the book had worked as well as he had hoped, giving them a common interest, a base from which to launch his assault on her defenses. They had not crumbled, but there were chinks in them.

The victory left a sour taste in his mouth.

You cannot afford to admire her, Mathew had said last night.

Ross doubted his cousin would be pleased to hear that he not only respected her but lusted after her as well.

There was no other word for the flash of heat that had passed between them as they gazed into each other’s eyes. The unexpected quickening sensation had rocked him, mocked him. It was surely the greatest perversity that he should desire the woman he had come to betray.

For one mad moment, Ross considered following Catlyn, telling her why he was really here and...

And what? Throwing himself on her mercy? She had no reason to help him, not when it would mean betraying her clan.

Growling a curse, he slapped the flat of his hand against the stone wall of the stairwell.

He had no choice but to go ahead.

Ross walked quickly to the sickroom on the ground floor, his soul in turmoil. The room was unadorned but clean and comfortable. It touched him that the Boyds had given his injured squire this bit of quiet space. “Sorry I was so long, lad, but I’ve brought back the book I mentioned.”

Callum smiled wanly, his face paler than usual beneath a shock of thick red hair.

“Is something wrong?” Ross hurried to the bed.

“Nay, only...” Callum’s eyes strayed to the book. “I’d rather be fighting than hearing about it.”

“Ah.”

“I thought it was just a ruse to speak with the lady.”

“In part it was.”

Callum levered himself up on the pillows, wincing slightly. “Did it work? Did you get what we came for?”

“Not yet, but I think she trusts me a bit more.” It struck Ross ill that he’d involved this innocent lad in his sordid business. He had considered leaving him at Stirling, but had foolishly thought Callum would be safer with him than fending for himself. “About the battle we fought with the Fergussons...”

“Freda said I would have a scar.” Callum beamed. “Not as big a one as you’ve got on your leg, but proof I was in battle.”

Ross grunted and strolled over to the bed, shaken by how close he’d come to losing the boy. “I know you reacted out of instinct, but next time you see a man coming from my blind side, call out to me instead of stepping up to take the blow.” The gentleness of his tone belied the horror he’d felt when he’d heard Callum scream.

“Mathew says a squire’s first duty is to guard his lord’s back,” Callum replied defensively.

“But not with your body.” Ross laid a hand on Callum’s unhurt shoulder. “I mean to see you knighted.”

“’Tis my fondest dream, too, my lord.”

“Then see you are alive to do so.”

“Aye.” Callum looked down, but his meekness lasted only a moment. His head came up, his brown eyes dancing again. “A maid brought me broth while you were gone. I had to let her feed me, but I asked her questions.”

“Oh, Callum.”

“I was clever about it.”

“I am certain you were, but—”

“Brita is her name, and her father is Roland, the head distiller. She helps with preparing the barley mash. She told me that Lady Catlyn keeps records of everything they do in a book.”

“Callum.”

“But this could be what you’re looking for,” the lad cried.

Ross groaned and sat down on the stool beside the bed. “Aye, it could be, but I do not want you endangering yourself by prying into things.”

“I wanted to help.” His lip came out. “Dallas came by to see how I was. He said that he and the other lads are gathering information. I just wanted to help,” he said again.

“You can help by getting well. But not too quickly.”

“What?”

Ross smiled and ruffled Callum’s carrot red hair. “The Boyds are a wary lot. The only reason they have let us stay is because you and Ned were hurt. Ned took an arrow to the arm, but he’s already up and about. Once you are well enough to ride, they will doubtless send us on our way.”

“Even if we have not found the recipe.”

“I can not use that as an excuse, can I?” Ross asked dryly.

“That is true,” Callum said seriously.

Ross hid a smile. “But if you were to act weak-like.”

“They would have to let us stay,” Callum said.

“It will not be easy, lad. You must pretend to sleep a lot and not ask questions. Sick men have not the strength or the will for that.”

“I suppose.”

“Meantime, I will look for this book you’ve mentioned.”

Callum smiled. “You can count on me, my lord.”

“Visiting the patient, Sir Ross?” inquired a dry voice. Freda stood in the gloomy corridor. Old and gnarled as an ancient tree, she leaned heavily on a walking stick and stared at him out of dark, suspicious eyes.

How much had she heard? Ross wondered.

“Freda,” Callum whispered. “I’m glad you’ve come. My shoulder aches something fierce.” He had slumped against the pillows, his usually pale skin adding to the deception.

“Oh, dear.” The old woman swept into the room, stick thumping out a frantic tattoo as she crossed to the bed. Muttering under her breath, she fussed with the bandage, then laid a hand on his forehead. “Ye don’t feel warm.”

“Inside I do,” Callum said weakly.

Ross rolled his eyes. Is this what he had become, a man who encouraged the honest youths in his care to lie? It little eased his conscience that the safety of his clan was at stake.

“Hmm, well, I dinna suppose it would hurt to dose ye with my sorrel tonic, just to be safe.” Freda straightened and looked at Ross. “My lady inquired after the lad a bit ago. I told her he was mending fine and like to be fit for the saddle in a day or so, but if the fever takes him...”

Ross nodded, glad this was only an act. “I would not be able to lme with myself if something happened to him,” he honestly replied.

“Hmm. Catlyn said ye were fond of this scamp.” The healer smiled at Callum, then hobbled to the chest in the corner and began to rummage through it. “Where is that sorrel?”

Callum grinned slyly at Ross.

Ross scowled. “Take care you do not overdo, Callum. I leave him in your capable hands, then, Dame Freda.”

“Aye.” She waved him off with a weathered hand. “Run along but mind ye stay out of trouble. Don’t need any more injured men cluttering up the place.”

Ross grunted. “I’ll be back later, Callum. See you mind Dame Freda.” As he stepped into the corridor, a figure materialized from the gloom. Ross’s hand fell to his sword.

“Easy.” His cousin, Dallas MacLellan, moved into a pale circle of torchlight, his expression taut. He made an excellent spy, for his brown eyes and unremarkable features attracted little attention. Few guessed that beneath that plain exterior dwelt a mind as sharp as flint. “I strolled past the doors you believe lead to the distillery, but a pair of guards now stands watch before them.”

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