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  Aidan’s grey eyes focused on her face. “I’m asking you to let him be. Let him live until his sickness takes him.”

  “I’m not an assassin, Mr. Grant.”

  “I saw the way you attacked that pell in the training yard.”

  Morrigan wasn’t sure if his words were spoken in seriousness or in jest. “Assassins kill without passion. And as you now know, I do have a temper.”

  “Tell me why you were following him in Inverness.”

  Morrigan considered but then dismissed the possibility of an evasion. She doubted the barrister would let her be until he had a satisfactory answer. She shrugged. “I thought I recognized him. I wanted to be sure.”

  “Do you hold him responsible for your father’s death?”

  “No,” she replied truthfully.

  “Then why the dagger? Why try to kill him?”

  “That’s what you thought?” Feint, sidestep. “I was walking in a deserted alleyway in a dangerous seaport town with no escort. Don’t you think it reasonable to be ready for any possible threat?”

  “You could have explained this to me when—”

  “Explained to you? To a stranger?” Parry, lunge. “You attacked me, sir.”

  “I knocked the knife out of your hand.”

  “In my eyes, you were a brute, showing up suddenly from behind, physically assaulting me.”

  “You nearly unmanned me.”

  “And you caused this.” She pointed to her mouth and chin.

  He jerked a thumb toward his swollen eye. “I didn’t come by this banging my head against the wall.”

  Morrigan and Aidan glared at each other.

  “How convenient. Just the two I hoped to find.”

  They turned in unison, surprised by the sound of another voice. Isabella stood, medical bag over her shoulder, near enough to have heard their discussion.

  “Is this true, Mr. Grant? You are responsible for the bruise on Morrigan’s face?”

  Isabella’s tone was sharp enough that Morrigan feared she might order Blair to throw Aidan into the dungeons.

  “I confess that I am responsible.”

  “He’s not.” Morrigan turned to him. “You’re not at fault for this at all.”

  “But I am. Clearly and regrettably.”

  She ignored him and turned to Isabella instead. “There’s an explanation. Mr. Grant misunderstood my intentions. He thought I planned to do harm to someone.”

  “I know now that Miss Drummond was seeing to business of her own. I’m entirely at fault.”

  “You, sir, have obviously not visited Dalmigavie’s cells,” she hissed under her breath at him. She turned back to Isabella. “He didn’t hurt me. I tripped and fell. But it’s true, we fought.”

  “We didn’t need to. It was wrong of me to interfere.”

  Morrigan couldn’t understand why he was being so deucedly agreeable. “It’s completely justifiable to interfere when one sees a person draw a knife on a deserted street. I’d say that’s a reasonable cause for alarm.”

  “Not if that person is a woman. You were rightfully concerned when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. I’ll not have you take the blame for this. You were in the right. I was wrong.”

  “But you simply knocked the knife out of my hand. I kicked you in the … the…” She wanted to motion toward his groin area but thought better of it.

  Isabella cleared her voice, drawing their attention back to her. She stared at Morrigan, then at Aidan, and then back at her again.

  “I suggest you two agree on a story. A good story. A plausible story. Then tell it to anyone who asks.” She shook her head in disbelief and walked away.

  Neither said anything until Isabella went into the castle through a door leading to the kitchens.

  “I have it,” Aidan said, breaking the silence. “A company of British dragoons. Dozens of them. All drunk. They cornered us. You used your knife. I used my fists.”

  With a story like that, Morrigan knew she’d never be able to leave her room, never mind the castle grounds.

  “It would be best if you allowed me to handle this. You, sir, cannot be trusted.”

  CHAPTER 8

  AIDAN

  While staying at Dalmigavie, Aidan needed a place to work. He had correspondence to keep up and legal briefs to prepare. Searc suggested the small library upstairs from the Great Hall. It had once been the domain of the laird’s sister, who’d been companion to Queen Caroline. Though it was situated next to a drawing room often used by others, the room was quiet, hardly used, and it had a small fireplace to take the autumn chill out of the air.

  After dinner, he took his satchel and went up.

  His destination was easy enough to find. Passing by the empty drawing room, he was surprised to find the door to the library open and light spilling out into the corridor. He stopped in the doorway.

  Bookcases lined one entire wall, and a writing desk stood by one of two heavily curtained windows. Two upholstered chairs flanked a small fireplace that hadn’t been lit, and a table was stacked up with four or five books and a lamp. None of that interested him as much as the figure of the woman standing on a short library ladder against the bookshelves. She had her back to him as she reached for a volume, but he recognized her immediately.

  “Miss Drummond.” He hadn’t seen her since yesterday.

  She almost fell off the ladder but caught herself. Her dark eyes flashed in the lamplight as she turned.

  “I’m very sorry.” He dropped his satchel by the door and crossed the room to her. “I didn’t mean to give you a start.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t make a habit of sneaking up on people.” She reached up and took down the volume she was after.

  “Searc said I’d be safe working up here.”

  “If Searc only knew our history.”

  The dark blue dress hugged her curves perfectly. Her pretty face still sported bruises from their skirmish. This explained why she wasn’t taking meals with everyone else at the Great Hall. Aidan held up a hand to help her down. Morrigan shot him a look that told him she needed no assistance. He remained rooted on the spot.

  “The ladder is unsteady. I’d hate to have you fall on whatever deadly weapon you’re concealing tonight.”

  “Good point … and I don’t use that word lightly.” With a quirk of her lips, she accepted his offer and descended. Her hand was warm and strong and had none of the softness of most city lasses. The skin had clearly been toughened by hours of work in the training yard. And he knew from personal experience, the time had not been ill-spent.

  He watched her. She ignored him. Studying the volume, she headed toward the table.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll be happy to come back later.”

  “Not at all. My work is done here. I have what I need. I’ll take the books back to my room.”

  Aidan eyed the stack. Each of the volumes was heavy. Altogether, it would require more than one trip. “Allow me to carry them for you, then. That’s quite a collection.”

  She separated two of the books from the others and added the one she’d just retrieved. “I don’t need any help. These three should suffice.”

  “I’m a highly skilled beast of burden.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of carrying them, thank you. But since you insist on being useful, you can help me put the others back on the shelves.”

  “As you wish.” He studied the bookcases. Spaces between volumes made it obvious where the books had been pulled from. “You tell me where they go and—”

  “If you’d like to help, then please hand them up to me.”

  She was a woman who knew her mind. He was wise and would never remind her that he was taller and had a greater reach. But he also had no desire to curtail this unexpected encounter.

  Morrigan climbed the ladder and stretched a hand down to him.

  For a moment Aidan stared, admiring the loveliness of the woman before him. Her hair spread like a blanket of soft curls aroun
d her shoulders. Her eyes were magical. Her face, when healed, would be the kind poets wrote about.

  “Do you intend to help or just strike a pose, Mr. Grant? I’m not planning to paint your portrait.”

  Her wit was as attractive as the rest of her, but he’d be a fool to give her a compliment on it. She’d cut him to ribbons.

  Aidan picked up the first book off the desk and read the title aloud. “Hungarian and Highland Broad Sword. I see you have a devoted interest in the martial arts.”

  She took the volume out of his hand and slid it on a shelf.

  “The Military Adventures of Johnny Newcome.” He read the second title. “What British fort do you plan to storm?”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Fort George? It’s handy, a wee bit more than half-a-day’s ride.”

  She found the spot for this book, as well.

  “Or are you going right for the heart of the empire. Parliament itself.”

  “I was thinking St. James Palace. I believe we should roust that fat little Hanoverian king.”

  “Very ambitious,” he said as he picked up two volumes. “Reft Rob; Or, the Witch of Scot-Muir, Commonly Called Madge the Snoover.”

  She reached for it, but he held back for a moment. “A classic of modern literature, to be sure, but it won’t help you with your military ambitions.”

  “You don’t know how useful snoovering is in a campaign.” She crooked a finger at him.

  Aidan grinned and handed it up to her. “What does snoovering mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you pulled it off the shelf.”

  “I didn’t. Or at least I don’t remember doing it. I really don’t know how that got mixed in with my books.”

  “Perhaps this one is also not one of yours. A Modern Anecdote of the Ancient Family of the Kinkvervankotsdarsprakengotchderns.”

  “Now you’re just making things up.”

  “Me? Telling stories? Yesterday, you told me that I’m horrible at it.”

  “I said no such thing. I said that you are not to be trusted.”

  “Well, what do you say to this?” Aidan opened the book and showed her the title page.

  She had to lean toward him to see. The ladder shook and Morrigan had to put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Her hair brushed against his face. The incredible softness, the fresh scent made him want to touch the silky ringlets.

  The moment was fleeing. She took the book out of his hand and turned away.

  “I’m just so curious about the range of your interests.”

  “There are lots of things that would surprise you about me. But that volume must have been sitting on the desk before I arrived here, as I don’t—”

  “These two must be yours. Love And Madness. A Story Too True.” Aidan tried to cock one eye at her, but it was too painful. “And Studies in the Nude.”

  “They are not.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll hold on to the second volume.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “On second thought, perhaps when I have more time for leisure reading.”

  Morrigan snatched the book from him. “That’s not the title at all. It’s Rowlandson’s Miseries of Human Life.”

  “So it is. The light is not very good over here. I must have misread it.”

  Morrigan shook her head at him. She turned to slide the volume into the bookcase, but he saw the smile.

  Aidan considered pulling a few more books off the shelf so they could continue to play this game. But Morrigan was too quick for him. She was down the ladder and had the selected books in her arms in an instant.

  “Thank you for the entertainment, Mr. Grant. Good night to you.”

  He bowed, regretting it as she started toward the door.

  “Have you decided what story we shall use to explain our bruises to the people of Dalmigavie?”

  “After tonight, sir, you’ve gained my confidence. Go ahead. Tell them whatever you wish.”

  And without another word, she went out.

  CHAPTER 9

  MORRIGAN

  The shutters and curtains were drawn back. The midafternoon sun illuminated the three rows of etchings arranged neatly on the desk near the window. Morrigan had lined them up in the order she’d gathered them in Inverness.

  Now, she and Maisie scrutinized each one.

  “I barely had a chance to look at them the other night with Isabella here,” Maisie said, picking up a flyer and studying it thoughtfully.

  Trying to learn where these caricatures came from was a diversion. Morrigan needed a way to distract herself. There was little else she could do about the fact that Wemys was so near. Isabella continued to visit him. Thankfully, Maisie accompanied her sister to the cottage.

  The villain was dying, Morrigan kept reminding herself. Dying a slow and painful death. She couldn’t think of anything more fitting, even if she herself wasn’t inflicting it.

  Maisie put the flyer back down in its ordered place. “I know it’s foolishness, but whenever I think of satirists—and artists in general—I assume they’re progressive and radical. That they have a natural interest in alleviating the suffering of people and use their talents to help their fellow man in some way.”

  Morrigan bumped her sister’s shoulder affectionately. “That’s because you have a good heart. A clear conscience. You always see the best in people. And you try to improve the world.”

  A year ago, Maisie and Fiona, Niall’s sister, had founded Edinburgh Female Reform Society. True idealists and revolutionaries, their efforts stopped dead and Fiona was arrested when the government used its iron fist to crush all opposition and protest. Since then, here in the Highlands, Maisie had continued her reform work, using the sharp point of her pen. And now, with Fiona again by her side, she was planning to start another chapter of the Female Reform Society in Inverness.

  “Artists generally put a signature of some kind on their work.”

  “This one is too much of a coward to put his name to them.”

  “If we look close enough, however, he might still reveal something about himself.” Her sister ran her fingers around the outside edges of one. “I’ve never known an artist who didn’t ache for some kind of recognition.”

  “When Searc or Blair get their hands on him, he’ll learn the real meaning of ache.”

  “I suspect he does this work for the money,” Maisie said. “For a Highlander to do this, I have to assume he’s starving. Maybe he has a family he needs to feed. You and I both know who’d be paying for such underhanded disparagement.”

  Morrigan knew. They all knew. Sir Rupert Burney had been moved from London to Edinburgh to Glasgow to Inverness this year to crush the reform movement and the threat Cinaed posed in Scotland.

  “The artist is also a storyteller, and there’s more than one story being conveyed here.” Maisie traced a circle on one, then the next and next. “Look at this area of each etching. Do you see the similarities? They’re all women.”

  “You’re right.” Morrigan looked closely. “Are those crosses on their coats?”

  “I believe they are.”

  “They’re nuns.” Whether the etchings depicted a mob or not, the figures were repeated, artfully worked in. “Are there any nuns living in the Highlands?”

  Maisie shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Is he saying that Catholics are behind the movement?” Cinaed and the reformers were on the same side, but these etchings cast them as opposites, with the son of Scotland depicted as corrupt, power hungry, and a potential tyrant.

  “Perhaps.” Maisie leaned closer. “But look at the smaller faces, mixed in with the nuns. Children are standing with them.”

  “School children,” Morrigan suggested. “A Catholic school?”

  They both knew that practicing Catholicism had been illegal in Scotland and England for centuries, but the faith had survived in the Highlands by going underground, particularly in the north and in the Western Isles. It had t
o. The religion had too many ties with the old Jacobite loyalty to the Stuarts.

  “Could there be such a school in Inverness?” Maisie asked.

  “Blair might know.”

  “Searc definitely would.”

  A knock on the door had both women hurriedly stacking books on top of the flyers. Despite the fact that Isabella had already seen them, she didn’t need constant visual reminders that the man she loved was at the center of a growing storm.

  She was relieved to find Fiona at the door. Sister-in-law to Maisie, the young widow had spent some time in a British prison before being freed. As of last month, she and her two daughters also had found a refuge behind the walls of Dalmigavie Castle.

  “Where are the girls?” Maisie asked.

  “Terrorizing their grandmother.”

  “How is John doing today?”

  John Gordon had helped Isabella, Morrigan, and Maisie flee Edinburgh, traveling with them to Inverness. Because of his assistance, the young Edinburgh lawyer was arrested by the dragoons pursuing them and tortured until Cinaed and Blair managed to free him.

  “Better than I’ve seen him since I arrived. He joined me and Catriona and Briana on a walk to the village and back.”

  “He clearly enjoys your company,” Maisie said.

  “We have a great deal in common.”

  A shadow crossed Fiona’s face, and Morrigan knew she was still haunted by her months in captivity. Since arriving at Dalmigavie, she wouldn’t talk of it. She never shared how she was treated or what was done to her. Morrigan understood. She knew that dwelling on some evils only made them loom larger in your mind. It only made matters that much worse.

  And then the doubts took root and sprouted. What if people looked at you differently? What if speaking about the past brought the nightmare back? What if one lost the ability to forget?

  Morrigan realized she was thinking of her own demons and not Fiona’s.

  “I heard you and John Gordon are getting married,” Morrigan teased, deciding to lighten the mood.

  Fiona planted her hands on her hips and flushed an unexpected shade of red. “Aye, right after you and that Aidan Grant fellow are wed. The word going about is that you two are long lost lovers.”