Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish Highlands

Unruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumors surrounding the dark duke. Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers.

Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. But he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoing.

Also By Julia London

The Cabot Sisters

The Trouble with Honor

The Devil Takes a Bride

The Scoundrel and the Debutante

The Highland Grooms

Wild Wicked Scot

Sinful Scottish Laird

Hard-Hearted Highlander

Devil in Tartan

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Tempting the Laird

Julia London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08349-2

TEMPTING THE LAIRD

© 2018 Dinah Dinwiddie

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Praise for New York Times bestselling author Julia London

“Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander

“Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.”

—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter

“An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.”

—Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot

“Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance [one that] readers will be sad to leave behind.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot

“London is at the top of her game in this thrilling tale of political intrigue and second chances.”

—Booklist, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot

“The fascinating love triangle, set amid the wilds of Scotland, creates a page-turning read that will resonate with fans of Highland romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hard-Hearted Highlander

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Family Tree

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

GLOSSARY

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Kishorn Lodge, Scottish Highlands, 1755

THERE’D BEEN A spirited debate among the Mackenzies of Balhaire over where to bury the remains of the venerable Griselda Mackenzie. Arran Mackenzie, her much beloved cousin, wanted her buried at the clan’s seat at Balhaire alongside two hundred years of Mackenzies. But Catriona, his youngest daughter—who had been as close to her “Auntie” Zelda as her own mother—wanted to bury her at Kishorn Lodge, where Griselda had lived most of her remarkable life.

In the end, a compromise was struck. Auntie Zelda was buried in the family crypt at Balhaire, but a fèille in her honor was held at Kishorn a month later. This arrangement satisfied Catriona, as it was the celebration she wanted for a woman who had lived life very much on her own terms.

Unfortunately, the weather turned foul on the eve of her fèille. Kishorn was remote, far into the Highlands, reachable practically only by boat. Therefore, only the most immediate Mackenzie family was able to attend, rowing up from Balhaire, past the Mackenzie properties of Arrandale and Auchenard, and across Loch Kishorn to the point where the loch met the river for which it was named.

There was scarcely anything or anyone this far into the Highlands. A village and prime hunting grounds had once graced the banks of the river, but they were long gone. A Mackenzie ancestor had built the lodge on the ruins of the village. Zelda, who had always preferred her freedom to a confining marriage, and had been indulged by her father, had taken possession of the abandoned lodge as a young woman and had made it her home, lovingly repairing and adding to it over the years.

The only thing left of that ancient village was a crumbling abbey, built on a hilltop overlooking the river glen. It was small as abbeys went, and no one could say whose abbey it had been. Zelda had decided it was hers and had made half of the original structure habitable again. The other half—what had once been the sanctuary—was missing its walls, and only a few beams and arches remained of the roof. It served no useful purpose, other than to provide a wee bit of respite from the weather for the cows that wandered in from time to time.

If only they’d had a respite from the cold rain that continued to beat a steady rhythm against the paned windows on the day of the fèille.

Catriona was quite undone by it—she’d planned this event to rival all such celebrations for years to come. “I’m bloody well cross with God this day, that I am,” she said to the women gathered around the fire blazing in the hearth. They included her mother, the Lady of Balhaire, and Catriona’s sister, Vivienne. Also present were her sisters-in-law, Daisy, Bernadette and Lottie. “It rained the day we buried her, and here it rains again. She deserved better, she did,” Catriona said as she carelessly held up her wineglass to be refilled.

“Zelda would not care a whit about rain, Cat,” her mother assured her. “She would care only that you carried on with the fèille in spite of it. Can’t you hear her laughing? She’d say, ‘Did you expect cherubs and bluebirds to herald my arrival? No, lass, heaven weeps when I knock at the door.’”

“Mamma,” Catriona said gravely, but she couldn’t help a small smile. Zelda would have indeed said something like that.

“I miss that old crone,” her mother said fondly, and lifted her glass in solemn salute. “She was incomparable.”

That was high praise coming from Margot Mackenzie. She and Zelda had maintained a fraught relationship through the years, had never quite seen eye to eye for reasons Catriona still didn’t fully understand. She knew that Zelda couldn’t bring herself to forgive her mother for being English, which, to be fair, was a sin in the eyes of many Highlanders. But Zelda had also seemed determined to believe the absurd notion that Catriona’s mother was a spy, of all things. Once, Catriona had asked her father why Auntie Zelda said her mother was a spy, and he’d given her a strange look. “Some things are better left in the past, aye?” he’d said. “You canna believe everything Zelda says, lass.”

He had not, Catriona had noted, denied it.

In spite of the ancient discord between the two women, in the last months of Zelda’s life, when she’d been ill more often than she’d felt well, Catriona’s mother had come once a week from Balhaire to sit with her. The two of them would argue about events that had occurred during their long lives, but they’d laughed, too, giggling with one another about secret things.

One of the serving women refilled Catriona’s wineglass. She drank it like water.

With all the Mackenzies crowded into the lodge, there was little room for the games Catriona had planned, and little else to occupy them. Frankly, Catriona had fallen into her cups. No, that wasn’t correct—she was swimming in her cups, an idea that made her giggle.

“There ought to be dancing,” Lottie complained, and shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the bairn she was holding. Another boy. “Something.”

“What do you mean?” Vivienne said. “You canna dance, Lottie.” She nodded to the bairn. Lottie had only recently delivered Carbrey. The birth of a second son had Catriona’s brother Aulay strutting about Balhaire like a bloody peacock.

“Aye, but you can dance,” Lottie said, nudging Vivienne. “And I should like to watch.”

“Me? I’m too old and too fat for it, that I am,” Vivienne complained, and slumped back in her chair, one hand across her belly. Bearing four children had left her with a full figure. “Bernadette will dance.”

“By myself?” Bernadette, wife of Catriona’s brother Rabbie, bent down to stir the logs in the hearth. “Shall I hum the music, as well?”

“And what of me?” Daisy asked. She was wed to Cailean, Catriona’s oldest brother. “I’m not too old for a reel.”

“Or too fat,” Lottie agreed.

“No, but your husband is too old,” Vivienne said, and nodded toward Cailean. He was seated near a brazier with their father, his legs stretched long. A tankard of ale dangled from two fingers.

“’Tis a pity that Ivor MacDonald is no’ here to dance with our Cat,” Catriona’s mother said, and smiled devilishly at her daughter.

Catriona’s inhibitions had been drowned by the good amount of wine she’d drunk, and she groaned with frustration. “You’ll no’ rest from seeing me properly wed until you meet your demise!”

“And what is wrong with that, I ask you?” her mother asked sweetly.

“Yes, what is wrong with that?” Daisy asked. “Why will you not accept Mr. MacDonald’s attentions, Cat?” she asked curiously. “He seems rather nice. And God knows, he is smitten with you.”

Ivor was a thick man, the same height as Catriona, with hair that drooped around his face. In the weeks since Zelda had died, he’d offered his condolences so many times she’d lost count. “He may smite all he likes, but I’m far too restless to tie my lot to a shipbuilder,” Catriona said imperiously, and drained the rest of the wine from her glass. Actually, his occupation had little to do with it—it was most decidedly his lack of a neck.

“I think that’s incorrect,” Lottie said, looking puzzled as Catriona held her glass up again. “He hasn’t smited you, but rather, you’re the one who’s done the smiting, are you no’?”

Catriona clucked at her. “You know verra well what I mean, aye?”

“Aye, I know verra well,” Lottie agreed. “But you’re three and thirty, Cat. Sooner or later you must accept that the last sheep at market must take the price offered or be turned to mutton.”

“Lottie!” Bernadette gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”

Catriona gave the remark a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Aye, but it’s the truth, is it no’? I am firmly planted on the bloody shelf of spinsterhood. I’ve quite accepted I’m to remain without husband or child all my life, aye? That’s what Zelda did, and quite by choice. I know what I’m meant to do—I’m meant to carry on Auntie Zelda’s work.”

“I should like to think you are destined for something other than living at Kishorn, removed from all society,” her mother said. “You are not Zelda, after all.”

Well, that was just the thing—there was no society for her. There was nothing for her here but endless days stretching into more endless days, with nothing to occupy her but this blasted abbey in the middle of nowhere. “What society, Mamma? Do you mean the Mackenzies and all their married men? Or perhaps you mean the MacDonalds and their representative, Ivor?”

“If you don’t care for Mr. MacDonald, there is more society for you to explore,” her mother argued. “But spending all your time at Kishorn has isolated you from the world.”

“Mmm,” Catriona said skeptically. “I think I may safely say I have explored all available society in the Highlands, and like my dearly departed auntie, I’ve found it wanting, I have. And besides, the women and children of the abbey need me, Mamma. Why should I no’ have a grand purpose?” she asked, and gestured so grandly that she spilled wine onto the stone floor. “I’ve learned all that I could from Zelda. The women of the abbey have no other place to go, and I’m determined to carry on, that I am, for there is still so much to be done, and Zelda would have wanted it so. Donna try and dissuade me, Mamma.” She sat up and turned around. “Where is that serving girl?”

“Catriona, darling,” her mother pleaded.

But Catriona was in no mood to discuss her future plans. “Diah save me,” she said, and stood up, swaying when she did, and catching herself on the back of the chair before she tumbled. She was exhausted from discussing her situation. She felt as if she’d been discussing it for years and years. Poor Catriona Mackenzie, whatever will they do with her? She’s no prospects for marriage, no society, nothing to occupy her but a run-down abbey full of misfits. “I think I should like to dance, then. Is Malcolm Mackenzie about? He’s brought his pipes, I’m certain of it.”

“For the love of God, sit, Cat.” Bernadette caught Catriona’s hand and tried to tug her back into her seat. “You’re pissed—”

“I’ve scarcely had a drop!” Catriona insisted. “That’s the English in you, Bernie,” she said, and wagged a finger at her sister-in-law. “We Scots are far better dancers with a wee bit of wine in us, aye?”

“You could hurt someone,” Bernadette said, and tugged on her hand again.

“You really shouldna drink so,” Vivienne said disapprovingly.

“I shouldna drink, I shouldna dance,” Catriona said irritably. Her few drops of wine were enough to make her feel a wee bit stubborn, and she yanked her hand free of Bernadette’s. But in doing so, she misjudged her balance and stumbled backward into someone. She managed to right herself and turn about and laughed with delight when she saw who had caught her. Rhona MacFarlane was the abbess at Kishorn. Rhona wasn’t really an abbess—she had a heart of gold, but she was no nun. Nevertheless, everyone called her the abbess, as she had been working alongside Zelda for twelve years.

“Aye, look who has come to jig with me, then! Thank you, Rhona, dearest. You’ve saved me from a scolding, and I should verra much like to dance.” Catriona made a flourish with her hand and bowed low, very nearly tipping over.

“There’s no music,” Rhona said.

“A fair point,” Catriona conceded, and grabbed Rhona’s arms and teased her by trying to make her dance. “We donna need music!”

“Miss Catriona!” Rhona said, and pulled her arms free.

“Aye, all right, I’ll find Malcolm,” Catriona said petulantly.

“Miss Catriona, we have visitors,” Rhona said.

Catriona gasped with delight. “Visitors! Who has come?” She whirled around to the door, expecting to see the MacDonalds from Skye, all of whom had known Zelda well. But the men at the door were not MacDonalds—Catriona could tell by their demeanor they were no friends of the Mackenzies or Kishorn. She was suddenly reminded of the two letters Zelda had received in the last months of her life. Letters written on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.

Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.

“What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.

“Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.

“Who are you?” Catriona demanded.

“Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.

“How do you know my name? How did you get here?”

“It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”

“My laird?”

That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”

“Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”

“It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.

“I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.

“Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.

“He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.

“Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”

“It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”

“The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”

“My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”

“Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.

Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.

The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.

Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”

“I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”

But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”

She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.

Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”

Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are to the point, my lord, so shall I be. Kishorn Abbey was used unlawfully in the aiding and abetting of Jacobite traitors who sought to displace our king in the rebellion of ’45, and in return for that treason, the property as such is forfeited.”

Catriona and her family gasped, but her father, Arran Mackenzie, laughed. “I beg your pardon? Kishorn Abbey sits on land that has been owned by the Mackenzies for more than two hundred years. There was no aiding and abetting. We’ve been loyal subjects, sir, that we have.”

“Kishorn Abbey was used to house fleeing rebels after the loss at Culloden and was operated by a known Jacobite sympathizer in the form of Miss Griselda Mackenzie. It is pointless to deny it, my lord—we have the witness of two of the sympathizers. As the property was used to house traitors, it is forfeited to the Crown by order of the king.”

“By order of the king?” Cailean echoed incredulously. “Are you mad, then? Ten years have passed since the rebellion.”

Mr. Whitson shrugged. “It was a crime then and is yet, sir.”

“What does the Crown care for that old abbey?” Rabbie scoffed. “It’s falling down and too remote to be of any use.”

“There is interest in it,” Mr. Whitson sniffed, and paused to straighten his lace cuffs. “There are those who believe any use would be better than housing women of ill repute.”

Catriona gasped with outrage. “How dare you! Have you no compassion?”

Whitson swiveled about so quickly that she was caught off guard. “There are many in these very hills who do not appreciate the likes you seek to house, Miss Mackenzie. Some are very much against it.”

“It is no one’s affair what we do with our property,” Catriona argued. She was acutely aware of Rhona’s nervous fluttering behind her, and even more acutely aware of the anger that was seeping into her bones and warming her face.

“I will ignore your discourtesy, Whitson, that I will, for you are no’ from these parts, aye?” her father said. “But if you ever deign to speak to my nighean in that manner again, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of Highland justice, that you will.”

Whitson arched a thick brow. “Do you threaten an agent of the king, my lord?”

“I threaten any man who dares speak to my family in that manner,” her father snapped. “Have you an official decree, then, or are we to take the word of a Sassenach?”

Whitson’s eyes narrowed. “I rather thought you were a man of reason, Mackenzie. You’ve a fine reputation as it stands, but it’s best for all concerned if you do not push too hard, if you take my meaning. An official decree was delivered to Miss Griselda Mackenzie. I’ve not a copy of the decree on my person, but I can have one drawn up, if that is what you prefer.”

“Griselda Mackenzie has departed this life,” her father said to Whitson. “Until I’ve seen official notice of it, I’ve no reason to believe you.”

Mr. Whitson clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall have it delivered posthaste. In the interest of expediency, allow me to inform you the decree grants you and your people six months to vacate the premises of the abbey, and if, by that time, you’ve not vacated, it will be taken by force. The property is forfeited, my lord. The king’s orders are quite clear.”

Catriona’s head began to swim; she thought she might be sick. There were twenty-three souls at the abbey, all but one of them women and children who had been cast out of society. Where would they all go?

“Aye, and you’ve a quarter of an hour to vacate these premises, sir, or be removed by force, as well,” her father said, and with that, he turned his back on the strangers.

“Expect your decree to be delivered by week’s end,” Mr. Whitson said icily. He turned about and started for the door.

“Have you no conscience?” Catriona blurted as he walked past her.

He paused. He slowly turned his head and set his gaze on hers, and Catriona felt a shiver run through her. “My advice to you, madam, is that you keep to the charitable works of proper women.”

“Get out,” Rabbie said in a voice dangerously low.

Whitson walked out of the room, his assistant hurrying after him with his soggy cloak.

All of them remained silent for several moments after the intruders had gone. Catriona’s head was spinning. She thought of the women of the abbey: there was Molly Malone, who had been beaten so badly by her husband that she’d lost the child she was carrying. She’d slipped away in the dead of night with her two young children and a single crown in her pocket. And Anne Kincaid, who, as a lass, had been cast out by a father who had no regard for her. She’d been forced into prostitution to survive. And Rhona, dear Rhona, such a godsend to Kishorn! When her husband had died, there had been no one to take her in. She had done piecework for a year but couldn’t pay her rents. Her landlord had offered her a bargain—her body for a roof over her head. Rhona had endured it for three months before refusing him. He’d forced her onto the streets without a second thought.

There were more of them, many of them with children, and Catriona could not bear to think of what would become of them. She sank onto a chair, her gut churning with disbelief, her heart racing with fear and her head beginning to pound.

“Well, then,” Catriona’s mother said.

“Airson gràdh Dhè, what are we to do with this news?” Aulay asked.

“What can we do that has no’ been tried before?” her father returned as he carefully resumed his seat. “The MacDonalds fought to have property seized by the Crown returned to their heirs and were no’ successful.”

“Aye, but the land they wanted returned was arable land,” Cailean reminded him. “It was more valuable than this,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the window.

“Aye, ’tis no’ worth a farthing for planting,” the laird agreed. “But this is a valuable glen for a Sassenach who means to run sheep.”

“Can they no’ put their sheep in the glen and leave the abbey?” Catriona asked.

Vivienne snorted. “They donna want the abbey or the women who live here.” She paused and glanced sheepishly at Rhona. “My apologies, Rhona.”

“’Tis no’ necessary,” Rhona said. “We know verra well who we are.”

“I’ve a suggestion,” Catriona’s mother said. “I think Catriona ought to deliver Zelda’s letter to my brother sooner rather than later.”

Her father looked at his wife curiously. “A letter? What letter?”

“Zelda wrote a letter to my brother that has not yet been delivered. You know Knox nearly as well as I, Arran. If there is anyone who might help us, it’s him. He knows everyone in places high and low, and it so happens he is summering in Scotland.”

All of Catriona’s brothers groaned.

The Earl of Norwood’s summering had been a sore spot for them all. He was one of the wealthy Englishmen who had benefited from the forfeitures and seizures of Scots’ land after the rebellion. He’d bought a small estate near Crieff from the Crown and had once crowed he’d purchased the property for as much as a horse.

“Zelda’s letter has naugh’ to do with this,” Catriona said as she looked around for her wineglass.

“Nevertheless, you promised Zelda to see it personally delivered, didn’t you, darling? That’s why you must go to him, and while you are there, you can appeal to him for his help with the abbey.”

“Go to him!” Catriona said, and having located her wineglass, she swiped it up. It was empty again? “I canna leave the abbey now, Mamma. Diah, we’ve only just lost Zelda!”

“They have Rhona,” her mother said, and took the empty wineglass from Catriona’s hand. “Rhona is quite capable of seeing after them.”

Catriona shook her head. “’Tis no’ the same—”

“Aye, Mamma is right,” Vivienne chimed in. “Auntie Zelda would have gone to Uncle Knox straightaway, if that’s what it took, Cat. You’re the abbey’s only hope, you are, and Uncle Knox is your only hope. And besides...” She paused and exchanged a look with her mother. “You could do with a bit of distance, could you no’?”

“Distance?” Catriona repeated, confused, as she tried to retrieve her wineglass from her mother. “From what, pray?”

“From Balhaire. From Kishorn,” her father said.

“Pardon?” The churning in her gut was taking on a new urgency. Something wasn’t right, but she was having a wee bit of trouble thinking clearly.

“You were a blessing to my cousin, God knows you were,” he said. “But you’ve tended her deathbed for months, and now it is time you saw to your own life.”

Catriona blinked. Her thoughts were suddenly very clear—they’d been discussing her. Her own family, talking in secret about her! She could see it in the faces of her parents, of her siblings, of her sisters-in-law. They surrounded her now, looking at her with varying expressions of determination and sympathy. “What’s this, then, you’ve discussed my life and determined a course, have you? How dare you speak ill of me behind my back.”

“Criosd, Cat, no one has spoken ill of you!” Rabbie said. “But for the last few months, you mope about and drink your fill of wine and brandy every night, aye?” Rabbie said. “You donna attempt to have any society about you.”

“What society?” she exclaimed loudly. “Where is it, Rabbie, do point me in that direction, aye? And in the course of it, perhaps you might point to something that I might do.”

He frowned. “Do you no’ see what we all see? You’re letting your life slip between your fingers, you are.”

She felt strangely exposed. Uncomfortable. Not angry, really, but...but she didn’t like this, not at all. What did they expect of her? None of them had ever been a spinster, with nothing to look forward to, without any hope of ever being a mother, or a wife. “What would you have me do? I’ve no occupation, no’ a bloody thing to do with my time but mope about and drink wine and brandy!” She felt on the verge of tears. She felt annoyed, she felt betrayed, she felt as if they’d all left her behind. Every one of them had families and loves and occupations, and purpose, for God’s sake, but she, by virtue of being born female and at a time when suitable men were scarce, could do nothing but float from one gathering to the next, looking for something to do with her time.

The only meaningful thing in her life at present was the abbey. Zelda had given a purpose to Catriona’s life, and they would take it away?

Blast it, but the tears began to slip from her eyes again.

“Diah, I didna say it to make you cry,” Rabbie said gruffly.

Her mother walked to Catriona’s seat and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Go to your uncle Knox, allow him to help you, and please, darling, take a bit of time to care for yourself.”

“I canna leave them,” she said tearfully, and took the handkerchief Daisy offered her and blew her nose.

“Aye, Miss Catriona, you can.”

Catriona stilled. The mutiny was complete, then. “You, too, Rhona?” she asked in a whimper.

Rhona colored slightly. “We’ll be quite all right for the summer, aye?” she said nervously. “Your lady mother, she...well, she’s right, she is. You deserve happiness, Miss Catriona. You’ve no’ had it at Kishorn.”

Catriona wanted to argue that she was happy, but it was a lie. She was desperately unhappy with her situation, and apparently, in spite of her best efforts to hide it, they all knew it.

“Rhona and I had opportunity to speak,” her mother said. “We agree everyone might look after themselves. But I very much miss my bright daughter.”

Her “bright daughter” had withered away a very long time ago, and in her place, a lonely Catriona stood.

“I’ll help at the abbey while you’re away,” Lottie said.

“So will I,” Bernadette offered.

“Me, too!” Daisy joined in. “All of us.”

“Aye, well, you’ll no’ know what to do, any of you,” Catriona said petulantly. “You’ll make a mess of things.”

“We verra well might,” Aulay agreed, and leaned down to kiss the top of Catriona’s head. “But you’ll put it all to rights when you return, aye?”

Catriona rolled her eyes. “I’ve no’ said I’ll go,” she warned them.

But by the end of the week, Catriona was on a Balhaire coach bound for Crieff and Uncle Knox.

CHAPTER TWO

THE JOURNEY FROM Balhaire to Crieff was tiresome, particularly given that the roads were single track and many of them used so infrequently that the coachmen were forced to stop more than once to clear debris from their path. Every day for a week they bounced along to a mean inn, then woke up and started the day over again.

Contrary to her family’s wishes, Catriona’s bleak mood was not improved by the travel.

It seemed weeks had passed instead of days when at last the coach rolled onto the High Street at Crieff and came to a halt at the Red Sword and Shield Inn. It was midday, but Catriona was so weary she all but fell out of the coach and into the hands of the young Mackenzie coachman who caught her and set her upright.

“Here you are, then, Miss Mackenzie,” he said. “We’ll be back for you in a fortnight, perhaps three weeks, aye?”

In that moment, she didn’t care if they ever returned for her, because she could not fathom putting herself in that coach once more.

“There she is!” called a voice very familiar to her.

She turned about and smiled at her uncle Knox, who strode across the cobblestones to her, his coat flapping in time to his gusto. “My dear, dear girl, you’ve come at last!”

Her beloved uncle met her with such verve and enthusiasm that she was propelled a step or two backward, and her cap was knocked from her head. He wrapped her in a hearty embrace, smashing her face against his chest, then laid several kisses on her cheek before standing back, holding her at arm’s length, admiring her as the coachmen tried to hand her the hat. “Still a beauty, my little one,” he said proudly.

Still? She supposed that now she was three and thirty, he was expecting her looks to have begun to fade away into spinsterhood. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Knox,” she said. “You’ve no idea.”

Her uncle had grown a wee bit more corpulent since the last time she’d held him. What was it, a year or so ago? He’d come from England to visit his sister, Catriona’s mother—and to pay a call to Auntie Zelda at Kishorn. Aye, he was a wee bit rounder, but quite handsome with his glittering pale green eyes and graying hair, which he’d bobbed with a black velvet ribbon. His coat was fine wool, and his waistcoat had been embroidered with gold thread that matched the embroidery along the center front of his coat. His neckcloth was snowy white and tied into an elaborate knot. Catriona felt quite plain in comparison.

“Come, come, you must be thirsty. And hungry, too, are you? Here you are, my good men, a night’s lodging and all the wine and women you might want,” he said, tossing a bag of coins to the driver. “Don’t hasten back now. I should like time with my most favored niece.” He wrapped an arm around Catriona’s shoulders and wheeled her about. “It’s such a dreadfully long way from Balhaire, is it not? I’ve always said to Margot that there ought to be an easier way to reach her, but alas, she has long loved your father and refuses to leave him.”

“Leave him?” Catriona exclaimed.

“You’ve come alone, have you? No girl to tend you? Nothing but those brutes to drive you and handle your trunk?” he asked as he hurried her along the cobblestones toward the entrance of the inn’s public room. Bright red poppies graced the window boxes, and tables and chairs had been arranged outside, yet there was no one enjoying the sun.

“I’ve a girl for you if you haven’t one, although I can’t vouch for her skills. She seems to do well enough to my eyes, but my guest, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe, claims she is wretched, and yet Chasity looks rather pretty to these old eyes.”

Guests! Catriona should have known—Uncle Knox constantly surrounded himself with a retinue of friends and acquaintances, gathered from far-flung corners and questionable establishments. Catriona felt suddenly self-conscious as he bustled her along. She could smell herself, felt wretched in her traveling clothes and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a wee bit of brandy.

“Between you and me, love, the Wilke-Smythes are a bit demanding,” Uncle Knox said in a low voice. “And a bit too far on the side of the Whigs, if you take my meaning.” He waggled his brows at her.

She did not take his meaning.

“But you will find great company in them, I am certain of it, and if not, there is Countess Orlov and her cousin, Vasily Orlov. Now, there is a colorful pair if ever there was.” He leaned his head to hers and whispered, very dramatically, “Russians.”

“I beg your pardon, Uncle. You didna mention you were already entertaining guests in your reply to my request to join you.”

“Why, I’ve hardly any!” he declared. “And besides, I should have an entire assembly under my roof and turn them all away if it meant I might spend a summer with my much beloved niece.”

“No’ a summer, Uncle. A fortnight—”

“Here we are!” he declared, ignoring her, and with one arm around her, he used the other as a sort of battering ram and shoved open the door of the inn, then loudly proclaimed, “She’s here!”

The small group of people gathered at a table in the center of the room looked at her. Those were her uncle’s guests, she gathered, as the only other people in the inn were two men standing at the counter in the back with tankards before them.

Uncle Knox dragged Catriona forward to the table and introduced her to his company: Mr. and Mrs. Wilke-Smythe and their daughter, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe. Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe resembled her mother so much that the pair looked a wee bit like twins in their powdered hair and matching coats. The former, at first glance, seemed scarcely old enough to be out.

She then met Countess Orlov, an elegant woman with a discerning gaze, and her cousin, the handsome, yet foppish, Mr. Vasily Orlov. “You must call me Vasily,” he said, his name rolling off his tongue as he bowed over her hand.

Next was Mrs. Marianne Templeton, whom Catriona knew as the widowed sister of Uncle Knox’s neighbor in England. Her mother had mentioned her once, had said she was quite eager to make Uncle Knox her next husband. She looked a wee bit older than Uncle Knox and examined Catriona from the top of her head to the tips of her boots. And last, an elderly gentleman with thick, wiry brows. Lord Furness, an old friend, her uncle said, scarcely glanced at her.

Uncle Knox sat her between Lord Furness and Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe and ordered tots of whisky for them all. “In honor of my niece. The Scots are fond of whisky, is that not so, Cat?”

“Ah...many are, aye,” she agreed.

“When in Scotland, lads, we drink as the Scotch do,” Uncle Knox said, and held his tot aloft. “To Scotland!”

“To Scotland!” his guests echoed.

Catriona tolerated whisky well enough, but she was so parched today that she downed the tot and set the small glass firmly on the table. That was when she noticed everyone was staring at her. “It was just a wee tot,” she said a bit defensively. She was still bruised from the apparent censure she’d received from her family on that rain-soaked afternoon at Kishorn.

“Another!” shouted Uncle Knox. “Another round for us all!”

The whisky had the effect of making the group a bit merrier. They began to laugh and talk over one another, correcting each other’s accounting of what had happened the night before, which, from the sound of it, had been a game of Whist gone horribly wrong. Catriona listened, and she smiled and nodded where she thought she ought, but she felt nothing but fatigue weighing her down. She leaned far back in her chair so that Lord Furness could speak over her to Miss Wilke-Smythe. The inn was beginning to fill, and she prayed that meant Uncle Knox would soon see them to Dungotty, the estate he’d allegedly purchased for a song. Unfortunately, he showed no sign of leaving, ordering kidney pies for all, and moving them from whisky to ale when Mrs. Templeton began to laugh a little too loudly.

Another hour passed. Catriona felt herself sliding down her wooden seat and glanced at the watch pinned to her gown to gauge the time. When she wearily lifted her gaze, her eyes landed on the back of a man. He was quite tall. He was wearing a cloak that, from even a bit of distance, she could see was made of the finest wool. His snowy-white collar covered the back of his neck, and his hair, as black as his cloak, was bobbed into a queue with a single green ribbon. She had not seen him come in. He had taken a seat near the window, quite alone, and sat with one leg crossed over the other, one arm slung across the back of an empty chair, and gazed through the windowpanes at the goings-on in the street.

Catriona was suddenly nudged with an elbow. “I can’t believe he’s come in,” whispered Miss Wilke-Smythe.

“Pardon?”

The young woman nodded in the direction of the tall man with the green ribbon. “That is the Duke of Montrose,” she whispered excitedly. “Look, there’s the coach from Blackthorn,” she said, nodding toward the window.

Catriona looked at the man’s back again.

“You’ve no doubt heard of him, haven’t you?” asked Miss Wilke-Smythe.

Catriona shook her head. “Should I have?”

“Yes!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said in a near squeal. She clamped her hand down on Catriona’s arm and squeezed with alarming strength. “He’s quite notorious,” she said, her brown eyes glittering.

He didn’t seem so notorious to Catriona. “Why is that, then?”

Miss Wilke-Smythe leaned even closer, so that Catriona could feel her breath on her neck, and whispered, “They say he murdered his wife.”

“What?” Catriona blinked. She turned her head to look at the young woman. “You jest,” she accused her.

“Not in the least! Everyone says so—they say she simply disappeared. One night, she hosted a table set with so much china and silver that armed guards stood before the mansion. And the next day, she vanished, just like that,” she said with a snap of her gloved fingers. “One moment she was here, and the next, vanished. No one has seen her since.”

Catriona looked at the broad back of the man at the window. “That’s impossible.”

“You must hear it from Lord Norwood!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said, referring to Uncle Knox, who happened to be the Earl of Norwood. “He relayed it all to me.”

“All right, then, that’s enough of this,” her uncle suddenly said, and stood up, swaying a bit on his feet. “Time I see my darling niece home, I should think. Where are her trunks? Has someone got her trunks?”

“Well, I haven’t got them,” Lord Furness said, and staggered to his feet, too. In fact, there was a lot of rattling about as they all stood, casting around for discarded cloaks and reticules, hats and bonnets. In the flurry, Catriona tried to get a look at the duke’s face, but his back was very much to the door, and Vasily Orlov chose that moment to sidle up to her with a leering sort of smile. “Norwood was remiss in mentioning the beauty of his niece,” he purred.

Catriona stepped away from him and followed her uncle as he and his party stumbled into bright sunlight.

The Balhaire coach was gone, and in its place, a large barouche coach waited. It sported red plumes at every corner, and the gold seal of Montrose was emblazoned on its doors, much like the sort of coach Catriona had seen at Norwood Park when she was a child.

“By devil, has Montrose shown his face in town?” Uncle Knox said as he linked Catriona’s arm through his.

“He has indeed,” Lord Furness said as they stood together, admiring the coach. “Did you not see the gentleman in the inn? It can be no one but him, not with the garish signet ring he wore.”

“What? In the inn? I did not,” Uncle Knox said. “Jolly well brave of him to come round, I’d say. Come along, Cat darling, you are with me. I’ve a new buggy, a cabriolet. From France,” he said, as if that pleased him.

“What of my trunks?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder for them.

“Someone will bring them.”

“Uncle, I—”

“There now, darling, don’t fret about a thing. All is taken care of. I should not be the least surprised to see your trunks already delivered safely to your suite at Dungotty. The Scotch are surprisingly efficient.”

She wondered if she ought to be offended by his surprise or his generalized view of her fellow countrymen, but her attention was drawn to her uncle’s new carriage. It had two seats, a hood and two horses to pull it.

Uncle Knox helped her up first, but as he was unsteady on his feet from the ale and whisky, it took two attempts for him to haul himself into the seat beside her.

“Do you mean to drive?” she asked, alarmed.

“I had a mind to, yes. Don’t look so frightened of it, darling! Do you not trust your dear old Uncle Knox?”

“No!”

He laughed. “Well, then, if you prefer, you may drive,” he said gallantly.

“I prefer.”

He clucked his tongue at her. “So like Zelda you are. It’s uncanny.” He gladly handed her the reins. “Look here, look here!” he called to his companions. “My niece means to drive! That’s the way of it in Scotland, the women are as hard as brass!”

“Uncle!”

“I mean that in the most complimentary way,” he said as he settled back against the leather squabs. “My own sister is more Scot than English now, can you believe it? To think how she fought against being sent to Scotland to marry your father,” he said, and laughed heartily before pointing. “Take the north road.”

Catriona set the team to such a fierce trot that Uncle Knox had to grab on to the side of the carriage to keep from being tossed to the ground.

He was eager to call out points of interest as they drove, but Catriona scarcely noticed them, she was so tired. But when the road rounded a thicket, she did indeed notice, sitting at the base of a hill, an estate so grand, a house so vast, that she thought it must belong to the king.

The stone was dark gray, the dozens of windows, even from this distance, glistening in the afternoon sun. There were so many chimneys that she couldn’t possibly count them as they rolled by. “What is it?” she asked, awestruck.

“That, my dear girl, is Blackthorn Hall, the seat of the Duke of Montrose.”

The house disappeared behind more thicket. They climbed a hill in the cabriolet, and the road twisted around, at which point they were afforded another view of Blackthorn Hall and the large park behind it. A small lake was in the center, the lawn perfectly manicured. There was a garden so expansive that the colors of the roses looked like ribbons in the distance. The stables were as big as Auchenard, the hunting lodge near Balhaire that belonged to Catriona’s nephew, Lord Chatwick.

“Quite grand, isn’t it?” Uncle Knox remarked.

The road curved away from Blackthorn Hall, and Catriona returned her attention back to the road. “Did he really kill his wife, then?”

“You’ve heard it already! That is indeed what the locals say, but I don’t know that he did. Perhaps he sent her off to a convent. Whatever happened, it seems to be fact that she disappeared one night and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since.”

“And no one has looked for her?” Catriona asked.

“Oh, I suppose they have,” he said. “She was, by all accounts, a ginger-haired beauty, beloved by the tenants. I have heard it said she was a bright spot of light in a dismal man’s shadow. How he must have resented her,” Uncle Knox mused.

“Why?”

Uncle Knox laughed. “Don’t you know, Cat? Gentlemen of a certain disposition do not care to be overshadowed by the weaker sex.”

“But murder?” Catriona asked skeptically.

“Yes, well, some men are driven to mad passion by the right woman, darling.” He tapped her hand. “Mind you remember that.”

Catriona rolled her eyes. “Have you met him, then?” she asked. “The duke?”

“What? Why, no,” he said, sounding as if he’d just realized it and was surprised by it.

“If I lived here, I should make a point of meeting him,” Catriona said. “I’ll no’ believe such rumors without meeting the man.”

“So much like your aunt Zelda, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “She would have walked up to Blackthorn and banged the knocker and asked his grace, ‘Did you murder your wife?’”

Catriona smiled.

Her uncle suddenly sat up. “There it is, there is Dungotty!” he said, swiping his hat off his head to use as a pointer.

Dungotty was a glorious house. It was half the size of Blackthorn Hall, but quite bigger than Catriona had expected, and rather elegant. It was at least as big as Norwood Park, her uncle’s seat and her mother’s childhood home. Dungotty was nestled in a forest clearing, and a large fountain spouted water from the mouth of three mermaids in the middle of a circular drive. They were arranged with their arms around each other, their faces turned up to the sun as if they were singing.

As Catriona steered the team into the drive, two men in livery and wigs emerged and took control of the team and helped Catriona and her uncle down.

“I’ve the perfect suite for you, my love,” Uncle Knox said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “It was once inhabited by the dowager of Dungotty.”

“Who was the family, then?” Catriona asked, casting her gaze up at the frieze above the grand entry.

“What family?”

Catriona gave him a sidelong glance. “The family that was forced to forfeit.”

“Ah, of course! You still harbor tender feelings, I see. I believe they were Hays. Or perhaps Haynes. Well, no matter. It was a very long time ago, and we should allow bygones to be bygones.”

“Spoken like an Englishman,” she muttered.

Uncle Knox laughed. “You might change your thinking when you see the rooms I’ve set aside for you.”

Well, as it happened, Uncle Knox had a point. The rooms he showed her to were beautiful—a bedroom, a sitting room and a very large dressing room. The suite had been done in pink and cream silks, and a thickly looped carpet warmed the wood-planked floors. The bed had an elaborate canopy, and the view out the three floor-to-ceiling windows featured a trimmed lawn and a picturesque glen with hills rising up on either side beyond. In the sitting room, a fire blazed in the hearth. It boasted upholstered chairs, a small dining table and a chaise. But perhaps the most welcome site was the brass tub in the dressing room.

“What do you think?” Uncle Knox asked.

“Aye, it’s bonny, uncle,” Catriona said, and looked up at the ceiling painted with an angelic scene. “Thank you.”

He smiled with pleasure. “Rest now, love. I’ll send a girl and a bath to you before supper. We’ve a fresh ham in honor of your arrival!”

Catriona wasn’t certain if he was more excited by her arrival or the prospect of fresh ham. She was excited by the prospect of a nap and a bath. “Before you go, uncle,” she said, catching her uncle before he disappeared through the door. “I’ve a letter,” she said, reaching into her pocket.

“My sister is determined to rule my life,” he said with a chuckle. “This will be the third letter I’ve received from her in as many weeks. What now?”

“No’ Mamma,” Catriona said. “It’s from Zelda.”

Uncle Knox’s expression softened. He looked at the letter Catriona held out to him. “She wrote me,” he said, his voice full of wonder.

“Aye, that she did. She left three for me to deliver, she did. One for my father. One for the reverend. And one for you.”

Uncle Knox took the letter and ran the tip of his finger over the ink where she’d written his name. “Thank you, my darling Cat,” he said, and hugged her tightly to him.

Catriona was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion. “You’ll help me, will you no’, Uncle Knox?” she asked into his collar. “You’ll help me preserve what Zelda worked so hard to build, aye?”

“There now, lass, of course I will. But we will save talk of it until later, shall we? You need to rest from your journey and your loss.”

“But I—”

“We’ve plenty of time,” he said, and kissed her temple. “Rest now, darling.” He went out, his gaze on the letter.

Catriona closed the door behind him, then lay down on the counterpane of her bed and closed her eyes with a weary sigh. But as she drifted off to sleep, she kept seeing a broad back, a neat queue of black hair, held with a green ribbon, an arm stretched possessively over the back of an empty chair.

It was impossible to imagine that a man who looked as virile as he would find it necessary to kill his wife. Could he not have seduced her instead? Of course he could have—he was a duke. She’d never known a woman who could not be seduced with the idea of being a duchess.

What, then, had become of her?

CHAPTER THREE

HAMLIN GRAHAM, THE Duke of Montrose, Earl of Kincardine, Laird of Graham, was brushing a ten-year-old girl’s hair. It was not his forte, nor his desire.

These were the true troubles of a notorious duke.

“It’s too hard,” the girl, his ward, complained.

“What am I to do, then?” he asked brusquely, annoyed with the task and his clumsiness at something that seemed so simple. “You’ve a bird’s nest on your head.”

The girl, Eula—Miss Eula Guinne, to be precise—giggled.

“Why do you no’ have your maid brush your hair, then? She’s surely better than me.”

“I donna like her,” Eula said.

“Aye, and why no’?”

“Because she’s quite old. And she smells of garlic.”

Hamlin couldn’t argue—he’d caught a whiff of garlic a time or two from Mrs. Weaver.

“I should like a new maid.”

Hamlin rolled his eyes. “I’ll no’ let Mrs. Weaver go, Eula. She came all the way from England to serve me and has been in my employ for many years, aye?” There was also the slight problem of finding a suitable replacement were he to lose Mrs. Weaver, given his black reputation.

“But she’s no’ a maid, no’ really. She’s a housekeeper. I want a maid.”

Eula was very much like her cousin, Glenna Guinne, the woman Hamlin had once called wife. Glenna had wanted for things, too—all things, and always more things. It had been a loathsome burden to try to please her.

He took one of the jewel-tipped hairpins from an enamel box and set a thick curly russet tress of Eula’s hair back from her face. He did the same on the other side of her head.

“They’re no’ even,” Eula said petulantly, examining herself closely in the mirror.

It took Hamlin two more attempts before she was satisfied. When she was, she turned around and eyed him up and down. “You’re no’ properly dressed, Montrose.”

“I’ve told you, ’tis no’ proper for a young miss to address a duke by his title,” he said. He glanced down at his buckskins, his lawn shirt and a pair of boots that needed a good polish. “And I’m perfectly dressed for repairing a roof.”

“Which roof?”

“One of the outbuildings.”

“What happened to it?”

“It’s gained a hole.”

“Why must you do it, then? A footman or a groundskeeper ought to be the one, no’ you.”

Hamlin folded his arms and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon, then, lass, but are you the lady of Blackthorn Hall now?”

She shrugged. “Cousin Glenna said dukes are no’ to work with their hands. Dukes are meant to think about important matters.”

“Well, this duke happens to like working with his hands, he does.” Hamlin put his hand on her shoulder and pointed her toward the door. “It’s time for your studies.”

“It’s always time for my studies,” Eula said with the weariness of an elderly scholar.

“Off with you, then, lass.”

Before Eula could skip out the door, Hamlin stopped her. “Are you no’ forgetting something, lass?”

She stopped mid-skip, twirled around, ran back to her vanity, picked up her slate and quit the room.

Hamlin walked in the opposite direction, striding down the carpeted hallway lined with portraits of Montrose dukes and their ladies. He swept down the curving staircase to the marble foyer and strode through the double entry doors a footman opened as he neared, and onto the portico.

He jogged down the brick steps and onto the drive, where he paused to look up at a bright blue sky. The summer had been unusually dry thus far, which created crystal clear days such as this.

He struck out, walking purposefully to a group of outbuildings that housed tools and a tack room. Men were waiting for him, their workbenches and tools arrayed around the edge of a storage building that had been damaged by a late spring storm.

“Your grace,” said his carpenter, inclining his head.

“Mr. Watson,” Hamlin said in return. “Fine day, aye?”

“’Tis indeed, milord.” He handed him a hammer.

Hamlin took it and ascended the ladder that had been placed against the wall. There was a time the servants of Blackthorn had spoken to him as if he were a person and not someone to be feared. Good day to ye, your grace. Been down to the river? Trout are jumping into the nets, they are.

When he had positioned himself on the roof, he leaned to his side. “A plank, Watson.”

“Aye, milord.” With the help of a younger man, Watson climbed the ladder with a plank of wood and helped Hamlin slide it into place. Hamlin held out his hand for nails. Nails were placed in his palm. He set them in his mouth save one, which he began to hammer.

He had not been entirely clear with Eula. It wasn’t the work he enjoyed, it was the hammering. He liked striking the head of a nail with as much force as a man could harness. He liked the reverberation of that strike through his body, how powerful it made him feel. Wholly in control. Capable of moving mountains and forging rivers. He’d not always felt that way. He’d not always been able to pound out his frustrations to feel himself again.

“Your grace,” Watson said.

“Hmm,” he grunted through a mouthful of nails.

“Your grace, someone comes, aye?”

Hamlin stopped hammering. He glanced up, saw a sleek little cabriolet behind a team of two trotting down the drive toward his house. He was surprised to see any conveyance coming down the road at all—no one called at Blackthorn now. There was no such thing as a social call. He spit the nails into the palm of his hand. “Who is it, then?” he asked of no one in particular.

“I donna recognize it,” Watson said.

Hamlin sighed irritably. He wanted to hammer nails. He wanted to repair this hole and feel as if he’d done something meaningful today. He wanted to feel his strength, and then his exhaustion. But he handed everything to Watson and climbed down the ladder, reaching the ground just as the carriage was reined to a halt...and not a moment too soon, as it happened. If the driver hadn’t reined when he did, the team would have run him over. As Hamlin waved the dust from his face, he squinted at the pair in the cabriolet. It was a woman who held the reins.

A gentleman, older than Hamlin by two dozen years or more, soft around the middle, climbed down, then held out his hand to help the driver. But that one had leapt like a stag from her seat on the opposite side of the cabriolet. The force of her landing knocked her bonnet slightly to one side, and he noticed she had hair the color of wheat. She righted her hat, then strode forward to join the older man.

There was something about the woman that struck Hamlin as odd. Perhaps it was the way she walked as they approached him and his men—confidently and with purpose, her arms moving in time with her legs. He was accustomed to women walking slowly and with swinging hips, in ways that were designed to attract a male’s eye. This woman moved as if she had someplace quite important to be and not a moment could be spared.

The other notable thing about her was that she looked him directly in the eye, and not the least bit demurely. She was not complicated, but rather easy to read. Women used to smile at him in ways that made him question if he knew anything at all. But this woman gave him pause—generally, when anyone looked at him with such undiluted purpose, it was to request something or to accuse him.

“How do you do, sir?” the older man asked.

Hamlin shifted his gaze to the gentleman.

“Be a good man, will you, and send someone to inform the duke we’ve called. Knox Armstrong, Earl of Norwood,” he said, and bowed his head.

Hamlin stared at him. Norwood. He was English, quite obviously. Should he know him? He didn’t recall the name and wondered what in bloody hell he was to be accused of now.

The woman cleared her throat.

“Ah. And my niece Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire,” he added.

Hamlin looked again at the woman. She smiled prettily.

A moment passed as Hamlin considered the two of them. Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire arched a brow as if to silently remind him he was to fetch the duke. And then, in the event he did not recall what he was to do, she said, “If you would be so kind as to tell the duke we’ve called, then.”

Her voice lilted with a Scottish accent. It was a lovely, lyrical voice, and he imagined her reading stories to children, soothing them to sleep. It was a voice quite at odds with her direct manner.

“You might tell him yourself,” Hamlin said.

Norwood’s eyes widened with surprise, and he exchanged a look with his niece. The two of them suddenly burst into laughter, startling Hamlin and his men.

“Good God, man, we cannot simply waltz into a grand house and announce our presence, can we? That is not the way things are done. One must inform the duke we’ve called, and he must decide if he shall receive us.”

“Is that how it is done, then?” Hamlin drawled, aware that the niece was looking at him with amusement shining in her eyes.

“Well,” the earl said, smiling jovially, “perhaps I should say that is how we do it.”

Aye, the English thought themselves superior in every wee thing. Hamlin folded his arms across his chest. “I am the duke.”

The niece looked startled, but Norwood seemed quite diverted by it, as if they were playing a game. “You are Montrose?”

“I am.”

He looked at the men behind Hamlin, and whatever he saw there convinced him that Hamlin was telling the truth. “The devil you say. Well, then!” he said, smiling broadly now. “A pleasure to make your esteemed acquaintance, your grace.” He bowed low. “You will forgive me for not recognizing you straightaway, but you can imagine my confusion, seeing you whale away at a nail as you were.”

“Why should that confuse you, then?”

Norwood blinked.

“Because we’ve never known a duke to lift more than a cup, have we, uncle?” the niece said, and laughed.

Hamlin shifted his gaze back to her. This woman had not an ounce of conceit in her. Nor an ounce of manners, as one might expect, given that she was the niece of an English earl.

“Aye, well, this duke is no’ afraid of a hammer. Or a cup.”

“Apparently no’,” she said with a pert smile, and her gray-blue eyes glittered like the surface of the lake in bright sunlight. Hamlin was momentarily blinded by it...until he realized that all gathered were waiting for him to speak.

He turned toward Watson. “Go, then, and inform Stuart we’ve visitors, aye?” he said low. He turned to his guests and said, “If you will be so kind as to carry on to the entrance. My butler will show you in. I’ll join you shortly.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Norwood said, and gestured for his niece to come along.

Hamlin watched her ascend to the driver’s seat once more, then stepped out of the way of the cabriolet, which proved to be a wise decision, for the niece started up the team with such enthusiasm that they practically launched into space with the small carriage flying behind them.

Hamlin looked around at his men. They were all staring at him as if they’d seen a comet. “Aye,” he said, in taciturn agreement. No other words were needed—to a man, they all understood that what they had just witnessed was not the natural way of things.

CHAPTER FOUR

STUART, A PRIM and proper butler, as thin as a reed, his neckcloth tied as tightly as a garrote, showed Catriona and her uncle into a small drawing room with brocade drapes, furnishings upholstered in silk and a wall of books. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes for them.

“He means to make us wait,” Catriona said as she made her third restless trip around the room.

Uncle Knox had made himself quite comfortable on the settee and was currently examining a porcelain figurine of a small Highland fiddler. “Well, darling, we did make a rather unfortunate mistake in thinking him someone other than the duke.”

“Who could blame us?” Catriona asked. “He looked like a carpenter, he did.” A strong, strapping, handsome carpenter. His eyes were as black as his hair, his lashes as black as his eyes. His shoulders were as broad as a horse and his hips as firm as a—

“We should not judge a man by his appearance,” her uncle absently opined.

It was too late. She’d judged him by his appearance and had found him ruggedly appealing. “No,” she agreed. “But might we judge him a wee bit? He doesna look a murderer, does he?”

“I hardly know, darling. I am not acquainted with any murderers. I’m uncertain what to look for, precisely.”

Well, she’d never known a murderer, either, but she was convinced the duke did not look like a murderer. He looked like someone who ought to be wearing a crown, or leading an army of Highland soldiers, or breaking wild horses. He had a commanding presence—even more so once she’d realized with a wee thrill that he wasn’t a tradesman after all, but a duke and all that entailed—but not for a moment did he look the sort to murder. Catriona would be bitterly disappointed if she discovered he was.

She made her fourth trip around the room. She’d never been very good at waiting. In fact, she had coaxed her uncle into calling at Blackthorn Hall today because she couldn’t bear to wait another moment to discuss the abbey, which Uncle Knox was reluctant to do. He wanted her to put it out of her mind for a time, and enjoy her visit. But Catriona could not put it out of her mind for any length of time, really, and certainly not without something to divert her instead. So she’d cajoled him into calling on the mysterious Duke of Montrose.

She paused at the shelving to examine his books. The duke had a collection of tomes concerning history, astronomy and philosophy. No plays, no sonnets. A serious man, then. Daisy brought Catriona novels from England, tales of chivalry and love and adventure on the seas. Did the duke read nothing for pleasure? Was the man who inhabited that physique opposed to the simplest diversion?

“Sit, Cat, my love. You’re wreaking havoc on my nerves.”

“I canna sit and wait like a parishioner for the end of the sermon,” she complained.

Just then, the door swung partially open. A russet-haired head popped around the edge of the door about knob high. The head slid in just so that two brown eyes were visible. And then the door slowly swung open.

Uncle Knox gained his feet, clasped his hands at his back, then leaned forward, squinting at the creature who peeked around the door. “Good day,” he said.

The child moved, presenting enough of her body to know that it was a lass who eyed them. The other half remained hidden behind the door. “I’m Eula,” she said. “Who are you, then?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Eula,” Uncle Knox said. “Lord Norwood.” He bowed. “And this is my niece Miss Mackenzie.”

Catriona curtsied.

The lass looked at Catriona, her gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the hem of Catriona’s gown, which had been embroidered with vines and bluebirds. “Did you come to call on Montrose?”

Uncle Knox exchanged a look with Catriona.

“That’s the duke,” the lass said. “He lives here, too.”

“Aye, we have,” Catriona confirmed.

“Are you his friends?”

“Not as yet,” said Uncle Knox. “But we do mean to change that.”

The girl slid all the way into the room, her back to the wall. “He doesna have any friends,” she said, staring at them suspiciously.

Uncle Knox covered a laugh behind a cough.

“Aye, we’ve heard it said,” Catriona agreed.

The lass pushed away from the door and came closer to Catriona, peering at her curiously, her gaze taking in every bit of Catriona’s gown, her face, her hair. “You’re verra bonny.”

“Thank you kindly,” Catriona said. “So are you, Miss Eula. Do you live here, then, with his grace?”

She nodded. “I’ve my own suite of rooms.”

“How wonderful. I should imagine them quite grand, aye?”

“They are,” the lass agreed matter-of-factly, and traced her finger over the figurine that Uncle Knox had been examining. “I have two rooms, I do, but one is for sitting, and one for sleeping. That’s the way of proper ladies.”

“I see,” Catriona said.

“Eula.”

The deeply masculine voice was quiet but firm, and Eula was so startled that she knocked the figurine to the carpeted floor. Catriona bent down and picked it up. She smiled and winked at Eula before she rose, and returned the figurine to the table. She looked over the lass’s head at the duke. He’d donned a proper coat, but he was still lacking a collar or neckcloth. And he had not, she noted, combed his thick, black hair.

“You’re to be at your studies,” he said coolly.

“But we have callers,” Eula said.

“Rather, I have callers. You have studies. Go on, then.”

“Aye, all right,” Eula said with dejection, and began to slink to the door, but at the pace of a slug, pausing to examine the tassel on a pillow, an unlit candle. When she at last reached the door, she glanced back.

“Feasgar math,” Catriona said with a smile.

The lass’s pretty brown eyes widened with surprise.

“Good afternoon,” Catriona translated.

Eula smiled with delight. She waved her fingers and sort of slid around the duke. As she went out, the duke ran his hand affectionately down her arm. So he cared for the wee minx. Which meant he wasn’t entirely reprehensible.

The duke closed the door behind Eula and looked at Catriona and Knox expectantly.

“Very kind of you to receive us, your grace,” Uncle Knox said. “I should have sent a messenger—”

“Aye,” he said curtly.

Catriona arched a brow. Was he miffed with them still, or merely unpleasant?

“Well, then, we are agreed. In our considerable defense, we’ve only just arrived at Dungotty.”

The duke said nothing.

“It’s ours now, you see,” Uncle Knox said.

Still nothing.

“It was an exceptionally good investment,” Uncle Knox added quite unnecessarily. Catriona politely cleared her throat, which caught her uncle’s attention.

“Yes, well, I have come for the summer, which is what brings us here today, your grace. I should like to extend an invitation to you to dine at Dungotty. I have invited my neighbors to the north, the MacLarens. Are you acquainted?”

The duke regarded Uncle Knox a long moment before responding. “I am.”

“Splendid! We will have a fine evening of it. I’ve brought a cook from France, and I do not overstate his culinary skill, I assure you. You will not be disappointed, your grace.”

The duke folded his arms across his chest as if he anticipated Uncle Knox would say more. His eyes, black as coal, moved to Catriona and flicked over her.

“You need not answer straightaway, of course,” Uncle Knox continued. “You will need time to consult your diary, quite obviously, busy man that you must be. We should like to dine on Thursday evening if it pleases you, so if you would be so kind to grant us the favor of your reply by Wednesday, it would be most appreciated.”

The duke stared at Uncle Knox with a clenched jaw. It was curious that he should be so tense in the face of an invitation to dine. Curious and rude. Uncle Knox, quite unaccustomed to taciturnity in anyone, looked helplessly at Catriona.

She stepped forward and took her uncle’s arm. “At any other time we would be delighted to stay for tea, your grace, but as it happens, we’ve many calls to make today.”

His gaze narrowed. “I didna invite you to tea.”

“No?” she said cheerfully. “Then I do beg your pardon. I must have assumed you would as it would be the courteous thing to do, aye?”

“Oh,” Uncle Knox muttered, and squeezed her hand. “Oh, no. No, Cat,” he muttered.

But the duke was not bothered by her pointed remark because he said, “I donna disagree,” and moved to one side and opened the door, thereby giving them a clear path to an exit.

“Thank you,” Catriona said, and curtsied deeply. “We do look forward to your favorable reply, despite your obvious displeasure with the invitation.”

“Oh, dear me,” Uncle Knox said. “Your grace,” he said with a nod of his head, and with his hand firmly on her elbow, he escorted Catriona past the duke. She wouldn’t know if the duke watched them go or not, for she refused to look at him.

In the hallway, Stuart appeared seemingly from nowhere, and with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the path to the main doors, then walked briskly ahead of them. When they reached the foyer, a footman was on hand to open that door so they would not be hindered for even a moment in their departure with a bothersome wait for someone to turn a knob. And no sooner had they stepped onto the landing than the door closed behind them so suddenly that Catriona turned her head to assure herself that her gown had not been caught.

“Well,” Uncle Knox said, yanking on his sleeves, “I’ve scarcely met a ruder man.”

“He’s absolutely diabolical, is he no’?” Catriona asked with gleeful terror as the two of them began their walk down the steps. “I’m more determined than ever to know if he is a murderer, that I am.”

“I would caution you in pressing your cause, darling, for if he is indeed a murderer, he may very well determine you ought to be murdered.”

“True,” she said thoughtfully. “Then again, he might no’, aye?” She winked at her uncle.

“I’ve indulged you in this chase, but I’ve done all that I can for you, darling. You should have heard the hue and cry Mrs. Templeton unleashed when I said we meant to invite him to dine. One would think she was being murdered that very moment. If you want my opinion, you should not concern yourself with him at all. He has a black reputation. They say he is a candidate for the House of Lords, but I can’t see how that could possibly be, given his sour demeanor and penchant for disposing of unruly wives.” He paused. “Or perhaps that is the very thing that recommends him.”

“You believe it!” Catriona said triumphantly. “You believe he’s done something awful to his wife. You do, Uncle Knox!”

He patted her hand. “I’ve not yet made up my mind, but after today’s interview, I am leaning toward the affirmative. Hopefully, he will agree to dine with us so that we might glean something.”

Catriona laughed.

They climbed into the cabriolet. She took the reins from a groomsman and guided the team around. She had the strongest desire to look back at the massive ducal seat as they rode away, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Still, she had the strangest feeling they were being watched. Perhaps he was studying her back, determining where, precisely, to insert the dagger. Perhaps the ghost of the duchess was watching her.

* * *

THEIR NEXT ORDER of business was to call on the MacLarens. Uncle Knox had only recently met the influential laird MacLaren, and he was rather taken with him. Catriona could instantly see why when she was introduced—MacLaren had the same build as her uncle, was roughly the same age and possessed a booming laugh that he employed frequently. “You will be amazed at my collection of American tobacco products,” he crowed as he and his wife led Catriona and her uncle into a receiving salon.

“Ah, American tobacco. A finer cheroot I’ve not enjoyed,” Uncle Knox said as he took up a position at the hearth.

Catriona looked at him curiously. “How have you come upon American cheroots?”

“My dear, my acquaintances stretch round the globe,” he said, and drew a large circle in the air.

Mr. MacLaren burst into loud laughter. “Then you must have a look at my American tobacco, sir, aye? You’ve no’ had as fine as this, on that you may depend.” And with that, he whisked Uncle Knox away to some lair to admire tobacco.

Mrs. MacLaren summoned tea for the two of them. Like her husband, she was jovial, and the small salon felt as gay as its mistress.

“How long will you grace us at Dungotty, then?” she asked Catriona as she poured tea.

“No’ long at all,” Catriona said. “Perhaps a fortnight, but no more. I’ve pressing business at home.”

Mrs. MacLaren did not inquire as to the pressing business as Catriona had hoped—she welcomed any chance to talk about Kishorn. “No’ for the summer? Dungotty is so lovely this time of year, what with all the peonies. The Hays, the former occupants, took great pride in their gardens.”

She had no doubt they did before they were summarily ousted. “They are indeed bonny,” she said. She picked up her teacup. “By the bye, we invited the Duke of Montrose to dine with us Thursday evening.”

Mrs. MacLaren’s surprise was evident in the manner her dark brows rose almost to her powdered hair. “Really,” she said, and put down her teacup, as if she couldn’t hold the delicate china and absorb the news at the same time. “That’s...surprising. He so rarely leaves Blackthorn.”

“Oh?” Catriona asked innocently. “Perhaps, but he’s our neighbor all the same. It would be rude not to have extended the invitation, aye?” She sipped her tea, then said coyly, “I’ve heard what is said of him.”

Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”

“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.

Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”

“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”

Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.

“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?

“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”

Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.

“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”

“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?

“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.

“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.

“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”

That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”

“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”

“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.

“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.

Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.

Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.

Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.

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