Castleton, Isle of Skye. June, 1695

With a deafening crack, the musket ball missed the target by a furlong. Mary cringed. Perhaps she’d exaggerated the distance of the miss, but after an hour of instruction she expected her little brother to show some improvement. With a sigh, she cast her gaze to the puffy, white clouds sailing above. Would the lad ever catch on?

She pulled the stopper from the powder horn with her teeth. “Give it to me,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

“Och, Mary.” Rabbie inclined the musket her way. Goodness, the thing was longer than the nine-year-old was tall. “I lined up my sights just like you said.”

She snatched the barrel and tilted it away from her face to ensure the gun didn’t grow a mind of its own and misfire. “Aye? Then what went wrong?”

The lad rubbed his arm and winced. “Don’t ken. But my shoulder feels like Florence stomped on it with one of her wooden heels.”

“Then it’s the kick. ’Tis forcing you off sights.” Mary poured in the powder and jammed a lead musket ball down the barrel with the ramming rod. “You need to push your shoulder into the butt like so.” She demonstrated, lifting the wooden stock and taking aim. “Then close your left eye and line up your sights with your right.”

“I did all that.” Rabbie clapped his hands over his ears as she pulled the trigger and fired.

The ball smacked straight through the center of the bullseye painted red on the straw target. Mary lowered the weapon and gave her little brother a nod. “Ready to give it another go?”

“Aye, and I’ll top your shot this time for certain.”

He’d been saying that since yesterday at the evening meal when they’d discussed doing some target practice. The lad was keen to prove himself with a musket. After all, before sunset this day every Jacobite chieftain in the Highlands would be arriving at Dunscaith Castle for the games—hosted by the MacDonalds of Castleton for the first time since the secret meetings had begun two years past.

“Just try to hit the target first.” She again charged the barrel with powder.

Rabbie held out his hand. “Give me the ball. I’ll ram it myself this time.”

“Very well.” After dropping the piece of lead in his palm, she passed him the musket. Then Mary stood back and folded her arms, saying a prayer he’d have some luck this go round.

Pulling back the cock, he lined up his sights. Then her ginger-haired, freckle-faced brother gave her a cheeky grin. Gracious, if Mary had been a lad, she would have looked just like him when she was a wee lass—though at one and twenty she was twelve years her brother’s senior.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She tipped up her chin. “The question is are you ready?”

“Och aye, sis.”

She held her breath.

The musket fired and recoiled with a ferocious boom. The scrawny lad tottered backward while Mary waved her hand in front of her face to clear the smoke. “Merciful fairies, you hit it!”

Rabbie slung the musket over his shoulder and ran to the target. “I told you I’d do it.”

She chuckled. At least he’d hit the outer edge of the target.

“Hey you pair,” Lilas hollered, running over the hill with Florence in her wake. “A birlinn has landed and there are more sailing in behind it.”

“So soon?” Mary regarded her attire. I must slip in the postern gate afore anyone sees me.

“I hit the target,” Rabbie yelled, pointing.

Ignoring him, Mary eyed her younger sisters. “Do you ken what clan?”

“Nay.” Florence caught up and planted her fists on her hips, giving Mary an exaggerated once-over. “Heaven’s stars, why are you wearing trews?”

Mary had actually borrowed the whole get up from Da—bonnet and all. “I cannot very well teach Rabbie how to shoot wearing a kirtle and arisaid, now can I?” It was the same hunting costume Da had worn when teaching her how to handle a musket—in the years before the Battle of Dunkeld when he lost his leg.

“Why not?” The lad came up behind them. “You always wear a dress.”

“Aye, but you couldn’t see my feet. After the last disaster, I thought it would help some and it did.” Mary glanced to her sisters and pointed to the target. “He hit it. Did you see?”

“I saw,” an incredibly deep voice said from behind. “Having a bit of target practice afore the games are you?”

The nape of Mary’s neck tingled while she spun on her heel. The guests were expected to begin arriving after the midday meal—three hours hence. She bit her bottom lip while her gaze swept down and then back up.

Holy Moses.

The voice belonged to a very tall man, grinning from ear to ear and carrying a musket under his arm. He wore a proper Highland bonnet covering tawny tresses, tied back with a ribbon. Goodness, the nearer he came, the girth of his shoulders grew ever so much wider. His sporran swung to and fro atop his dark plaid while he walked—sword sheathed in the belt across his shoulder, dirk at the front of his hip as if he were ready for battle. Mary’s chin dropped. The muscles in his legs flexed like nothing she’d ever seen before.

At seven and ten, Lilas cleared her throat and nudged Mary’s arm. “Gracious,” she whispered as if she were gazing upon a god.

Giving her sister a subtle elbow, Mary prayed she hadn’t turned as red as Lilas. She threw her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the target. “Teaching the lad how to shoot.”

The big man gave Mary the most quizzical look. His stare was most unnerving. Aside from being perhaps the most handsome man she’d chanced to regard, his dark blue eyes made it difficult to breathe. Aye, as dark as midnight those eyes. His gaze started at her man’s bonnet and meandered down to her trews before he looked to Rabbie. “Is that so?”

“Och aye. I’ll be joining the rebellion soon.” The lad never lacked in self-confidence for certain.

The man glanced behind as one eyebrow arched. “You’d best keep your voice down when uttering such fervent words.”

Mary stepped in. “Why? Have you not come for the games?”

“Aye, lad.” He studied her with a pinch to his brow, as if she posed a confounding sight. “But I spotted a camp of redcoats not fifty miles down the coast.”

Mary pursed her lips with a brisk nod. “That would be Lieutenant Balfour MacLeod and his regiment of upstarts.” She groaned with a huff. “He’s a spineless weasel if you ask me.” The officer always looked at her like a starved fox. Worse, he hated everything Jacobite, and insured everyone on her part of Skye suffered in the stocks if they were but a day late with their taxes.

“Aye, he’s vile.” Lilas batted her eyelashes at the Highlander like a harlot. The lass was incorrigible.

“Then I suggest you stay well away from the likes of him.” The man raised his powder horn. Odd, he didn’t give Mary’s flirting sister a second glance. “Care for a wager?”

“With me?” Mary’s jaw nearly hit the ground.

He again regarded her from head to toe. “Thought you said you were teaching the lad to shoot.”

“Aye—since our da cannot.” Mary took the gun from Rabbie. “A farthing?” Good heavens, she’d never placed a wager in her life.

Frowning, the big Highlander scratched his chin. Merciful fairies, his eyes were an intriguing shade of blue—not like the sky, but more like the sea made angry by a winter storm. “How about a crown?” he asked as if it were a trifle.

Her gaze shifted to the target. She’d hit the bullseye five times today—missed by an inch once. Odds were she’d win…and if she lost, she had a few crowns tucked away in the chest in her bedchamber. But those were intended for her future. No, she’d best not lose. She bit down on the cork and pulled it from the powder horn like she always did. “All right. You first.”

Florence caught Mary’s eye and mouthed, a crown?

Mary knit her eyebrows and batted her hand through the air. “Wheesht,” she said so quietly, the shush was barely audible. “Go back to the keep and tell Da the guests are arriving.” The last thing she needed was her two sisters giggling behind her and ogling the Highlander.

Nonetheless, Lilas made googly eyes at him. “Do we have to?”

“Aye. And now,” Mary said, shooing them away.

“Best of three?” The man still appeared oblivious to her sister’s antics.

Mary cringed considering his question. Is that what men do when they place a wager? “Certainly.”

“Laddie, go fetch us a bit of charcoal. You can mark the shots so we will not lose track.”

Rabbie’s eyes sparkled as if he’d been commanded by King James himself. “Straight away, sir.”

Aye, the man looked dapper with his hair the color of burnt honey neatly tied back with a bow at his nape—his silk waistcoat was of fine tailoring as well, but he couldn’t be a chieftain. Could he? The man’s laird must have alighted the birlinn and headed straight to the keep to greet their da.

By the time they charged their weapons, Rabbie returned, grinning from ear to ear. Mary wasn’t sure if his excitement was because her brother wanted to see her bested or if he was happy to have a brawny man there to learn from.

“Do you mind if I fire off a practice shot?” he asked with a hypnotic burr. “I’m afraid my legs think they’re still at sea.”

Mary gave a polite nod. “By all means.” Then a wicked grin spread across her lips. “But only one.”

She swayed a bit, watching the man line up his sights. He planted his feet firm, closed one eye, his bold forehead angled down to the barrel. Dear Lord, his concentration was as impressive as his bonny countenance. A tic twitched above his eye just before his finger closed on the trigger. The blast cracked with a puff of smoke.

Mary hardly flinched. “Did you travel far?”

The man peered at her over the musket’s stock. “Glasgow.”

Goodness, he had come quite a long way. “Was the sea calm for your journey?”

He lowered his weapon. “Och, you’re awful chatty for a lad.” He squinted at her. “How old are you?”

Mr. Handsome thought her a lad? Just as well. Mary cast a thin-lipped glare at Rabbie, sending him a silent message to keep his mouth shut. “Forgive me for talking too much,” she said, avoiding the question about her age. At one and twenty, she wasn’t about to admit her advanced years to a stranger. She stole a downward glance. Ah yes, her breasts were concealed beneath her father’s oversized waistcoat.

Mary hastily gestured to the target. “Carry on.”

He again charged his musket and lined up his sights. This time she pursed her lips to prevent her mouth from distracting the man whilst he fired.

With a thunderous boom, his musket kicked more than hers ever had.

Mary’s gaze snapped to the target. He hit the outer edge of the bullseye. “Nice shooting.”

“My thanks.” He grinned, seemingly satisfied with his mark.

Palms perspiring like never before, Mary stepped up to the line. Curses, even her hands shook a bit. She wiped them on her trews and took a deep breath. She wasn’t about to lose a whole crown—a farthing mayhap, but not a crown. Positioning the butt against her shoulder, she eyed the bullseye. Confidence surged from her heart as her finger closed on the trigger.

When the smoke cleared, Rabbie was already running to the target. He marked both spots.

“Mine’s a hair closer.” Mary smiled.

The man squinted. “Perhaps, but there are two more to go.”

After the second round, the contest was too close to call—even for Mary. The man had a keen eye for certain, but so did she. By the looks of his attire, losing an entire crown would make no difference to his purse. But it would mean a great deal to her.

His last shot hit the bullseye much like his first.

Mary blew on her palms. This was it. She had to win. Rabbie gave her a nod. With a subtle nod back, she raised the musket, lined up her sights and took a shallow breath. Before she blinked, her finger closed on the trigger.

“Lord in heaven,” the man said. “Spot on the middle.”

Grinning, Mary held out her palm. “Would you like another round?” Only the fairies knew what prompted her to say that. Holy Moses, she needed to hasten to her bedchamber and change into a kirtle. For heaven’s sake, she was the lady of her father’s keep. Thank goodness no one important had arrived as of yet. She’d be mortified to be discovered wearing a pair of trews by someone like the Baronet of Sleat.

He ignored her outstretched palm. Those hawkish eyes focused on her while he sauntered forward, rubbing his palm over the pommel of his dirk. “You have no other weapons?”

She took a wee step back. “N-no.”

He smirked. “Are you ready to fight for the cause should you be called?”

She nodded.

His eyes shifted aside.

The hairs on the back of Mary’s neck prickled.

With her next breath, the world reeled. Hands as powerful as a vise clamped on her shoulders and spun her around. Before she knew what happened, her arms were trapped, his dirk leveled at her neck. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Nay, laddie, you’ll not be ready for battle until you build a bit o’ muscle…can take on a man like me.” The deep tenor of his voice rumbled through her entire body—made gooseflesh rise across every inch of skin.

Mary shook right down to the tips of her toes. Mercy, his body was warmer than a brazier and his arm clamped around her torso like iron. Lips parting, she chanced a glance over her shoulder. “Yes, s-sir.”

I must not allow him to flummox my sensibilities.

Who was this man? And how dare he manhandle her, even if he thought her a lad?

With a rueful chuckle, he released his grip. “I suggest you wait until your beard comes in afore you join the wrestling competition.”

“She’s not going to wrestle.” Throwing back his shoulders, Rabbie dashed forward and kicked the man in the shin. “Remove your hands from my sister!”

“Ow.” The man’s jaw dropped. “Sister?” His gaze snapped to Mary’s face. “Bloody, miserable, bleating hell. You’d best don a proper gown afore you trick anyone else out of a crown.”

Crossing her arms, Mary scooted away. “As I recall, you were the one who placed the wager.”

“Aye,” said Rabbie. “And I haven’t seen your coin, mister.”

The man looked at Rabbie as if he could shoot daggers through his eyes. With a growl, he dug in his sporran. “Do not tell me your father is John of Castleton?”

Mary’s stomach turned over. Da wouldn’t be happy if he found out she was wearing his trews, let alone placing wagers. But she raised her chin and held out her palm. “What if he is?”

“Good God.” The man slapped the coin in her hand. “I would have thought more from his offspring.”

Please, this cannot be someone important. “Pray tell, what is your name, Mr.…?”

“MacDonald.” He turned on his square-toed shoe and headed toward the keep.

She smoothed her fingers over the coin while studying his retreating form. Holy Moses, he posed a sight—tall, well-muscled, well-dressed. She bit her bottom lip. Aye, Mr. MacDonald had to be someone important for certain. He called Da by the familiar.

With luck, he’d soon forget this morning’s events. Looking to the wispy clouds sailing above, Mary clapped her hands together and prayed it would be so.

Da had never allowed her to attend the games before—and growing up in Castleton on the Isle of Skye didn’t give her much of an opportunity to meet anyone interesting. And goodness, nearly everyone in these parts was named MacDonald. Several of the clans who’d be here for the games were MacDonalds as well…and Camerons, and Grants, and MacDougalls. Her mind boggled. She’d best hurry. Dunscaith Castle kitchens would need oversight for certain—and she didn’t want to be caught by any of the great men due to arrive this afternoon.

***

Marching toward the keep, Sir Donald MacDonald, the Baronet of Sleat, clutched his musket under his arm. Bloody oath, the castle looked as if it were crumbling. And he’d just been bested by John of Castleton’s daughter? Covered with freckles, a Highlander’s bonnet pulled low over her forehead with her hair hidden, the lass looked more masculine than her little brother—aside from those heart-shaped buttocks. Damnation, he kent something was amiss when he wrestled her into his grip. Not only did she smell like a garden of lilacs, she weighed no more than seven stone. ’Tis why he asked his—rather—her age.

Don shook his head. He would have bested the wench if he hadn’t been navigating a birlinn through the rough swells of the North Sea since dawn yesterday. He needed a good meal and a healthy tot of whisky to regain his land legs.

Bloody hell, he’d been looking forward to this jaunt to the Highlands. He didn’t need a parcel of children in his way. He had serious matters to discuss with the Highland Defenders—the Jacobite chieftains who had pledged their fealty to the cause. Aye, one day they’d see King James returned to the throne and oust the usurper, William of Orange. To add insult, the false king’s wife, posing as Queen Mary II, was James’ very daughter. No greater backstabber hath ever worn a crown.