Once Sir Ewen’s small galley tacked into the Firth of Clyde, Mary stood at the bow in the crisp morning air. She watched the scenery pass while clutching her borrowed arisaid around her shoulders. She’d never been this far south—honestly, she’d only traveled off the Isle of Skye once and that was to Inverness. If only she could enjoy this voyage, but ever since they’d sailed from Corpach, she had replayed the scene from the Achnacarry courtyard over and over in her mind.

She’d been a fool to let Sir Donald kiss her—to harbor the remotest hope that he actually cared for her. She’d seen the disappointment on his face when he discovered Lady Isobel was away. Oh yes, his discontentment had been clear when he realized it would not be safe to leave Mary behind. It had been eminently obvious he intended to part ways once they reached the Cameron keep.

She felt like a leech—like an unwanted wastrel.

And now rather than sailing for the Isle of Skye, as sure as the brisk wind on her face, she was growing ever further away. Oh, how she missed Dunscaith Castle. There, people appreciated her, followed her direction. She ran the keep with efficiency. Mary had her family to look after—surely Lilas hadn’t resumed Rabbie’s lessons, or Florence’s lessons for that matter. And only heaven knew what Mrs. Watt was up to with Da.

The sooner Mary hastened home, the better.

She glanced down at her bare feet. Goodness gracious, it was midsummer and her toes were blue. Though the guardsman had given her an arisaid of red and black plaid, there had been no time to search for a pair of shoes that would fit.

Sir Donald didn’t seem to mind. He hopped around the galley working like a sailor as if he preferred bare feet.

Funny, Mary didn’t take the Baronet of Sleat for a seafaring tar. Aye, the Highlands flowed through his blood, but when he was visiting Dunscaith Castle, he played the part of gentleman. His every movement had been like watching a choreographed ballet. Beneath his velvet doublet he wore shirts with neatly tied cravats and lace at his sleeves. True, he’d earned the moniker Don of the Wars after the Battle of Killiecrankie. Perhaps there was much more to this man than she initially thought.

Curses. She didn’t want Sir Donald to have any other sides that might impress her. Mary was already impressed enough. Now that he’d kissed her, how was she to find a suitor who would live up to such lofty expectations? Was there another man in her future who could stir fire in her blood the way Sir Donald had in the box bed…and on the back of Ragnar?

And now they sailed through the Firth of Clyde with green hills rolling to the shores, the sun shining as if announcing a welcome. But no one need tell her there was nothing for Mary in a burgeoning town like Glasgow.

“Tack to portside,” Sir Donald instructed, pulling on the rudder. “We’ll be turning up the River Clyde soon. We’re fortunate this galley is small enough to sail all the way to the city.”

Mary nodded and turned her attention to the estuary ahead.

“Take the rudder,” Donald barked. His feet pattered over the rowing benches. Mary knew who it was because the other crew members wore boots with heels that clomped. Goosebumps rose across her arms as he stepped behind her. Goodness, heat radiated off him—the same heat that had kept her warm the night before.

He rested his hand on her shoulder and pointed. “See the big rock with the castle on the far shore?”

“Aye.”

“That’s Dumbarton—a major stronghold for Scotland’s west.”

Mary had heard of Dumbarton, and the news hadn’t been good. “Did they not fire cannons from her walls to celebrate when William of Orange forced King James into exile?”

Sir Donald gave her shoulder a firm pat. “Right you are, but one day the fortress will again revert to the hands of the true king. Mark me.”

Mary eyed the enormous castle. From what she knew, it had stood on that rock for centuries. Goodness, stone battlements encircled the entire promontory for miles.

As the baronet resumed his place at the stern, the galley soon sailed past Dumbarton and up the river until the buildings of a city came into view. Grey smoke hung over the settlement and as they neared, the smells of humanity grew ever pungent. Not new smells for Mary, but stronger with a dead-fish overtone.

“Things are a bit unpleasant on the waterfront,” Sir Donald hollered as if he could read her mind while he bore down on the rudder. “I’m certain you shall find the townhouse to your liking.”

The mooring proceeded swiftly while Mary watched men on the shore pulling barrows of everything imaginable from newly caught fish, to whisky barrels, to hay and bolts of Holland cloth. Beyond the embankment, all manner of wagons waited to be loaded with wares while coaches rolled past, some pulled by magnificent horses and others pulled by mules. Merchants clad in rich silks and lace with long periwigs curling well beyond their shoulders conversed in groups. Swarming around them, people dressed in tattered rags carried on with their back-breaking labor, scarcely paying attention to the gentry as they pushed barrows or carried bushels on their backs.

Such a confounding scene. Why, in Castleton everyone pitched in to unload a galley of stores. They came so rarely, it was an exciting event.

Sir Donald affixed the wooden ladder and offered his hand. “I’ll fetch us a coach quickly. And as soon as we arrive home, I’ll order proper shoes and clothing.”

She placed her fingers in his palm. Goodness, why did his touch have to make her insides flit about so? “I thank you for your kindness,” she said as indifferently as possible.

“’Tis the least I can do.”

Mary clutched the arisaid around her body, both excited and anxious about the prospect of her first ride in a coach.

Though it didn’t take Sir Donald long, the coachman regarded their shabby attire warily, gaping at Mary’s bare feet like she was a guttersnipe.

She couldn’t allow his reproachful look to pass. “Forgive our appearance. We were set upon by thieves.” Though not the complete truth it was easier than trying to explain all the details of the past few days.

Sir Donald sliced his hand through the air. “’Tis none of the coachman’s concern.” He regarded the driver. “Please take us to fifty Saltmarket.”

“What dealings have you on Saltmarket, sir?”

“I beg your pardon?” Sir Donald said as if he’d been issued a personal affront. “I live there. Now climb aboard and give us a lift.”

Looking very annoyed, the baronet offered Mary his hand and she clambered inside while glancing at his dirty feet. She smoothed her hand over the padded leather seat. It was quite luxurious compared to the wooden bench on the wagon at home. “We do look a wee bit out of sorts.”

The baronet settled beside her. “Mayhap we do, but that’s none of his concern. My coin is still the same.”

“True.” Letting it pass, Mary watched out the window while the coach began to amble along. The buildings were so different from Dunscaith Castle. Many were made of wood and they were all so very close together.

The sound of saws came from the timber yard. The stench in the air grew worse and Mary had to cover her nose with her arisaid. The source of the smell came clear when they passed a sign reading Slaughter Yard.

Sir Donald pointed. “We’ll turn up Saltmarket now and the unpleasantness of the waterfront will soon fade.”

True to his word, moments later, the entire scene had changed. All manner of folk strolled along the footpath. The buildings were all made of stone, but with no gaps between them. Some had shop fronts on their lower levels while others had bay windows from the first floor all the way up to the third—definitely looking like townhouses. Some even stood five stories high, just like a keep. They passed the coal warehouse and the cabinet maker’s shop and a block later, the store fronts gave way to stately buildings with ornate doors with stained glass. It seemed every door they passed was more lavish than the last.

Sir Donald pounded his fist on the roof of the coach and the driver pulled the team to a stop.

Mary twisted her mouth. “We didn’t travel far. Goodness, we could have walked.”

“Oh no.” The baronet hopped out, then offered his hand. “I’d not allow you to walk the streets of Glasgow wearing only a shift and a blanket.”

After he paid the driver, Sir Donald pulled a skeleton key from his sporran and unlocked the leaded-glass door made more ornate by a relief of cast-iron. Stepping inside, Mary had never seen such modern splendor. Every furnishing in the entrance hall was polished to a sheen, the hardwood floor covered with a silk Oriental carpet swirling with reds and blues.

A man wearing trews, shirt and waistcoat pattered down the stairs. “Sir, we did not expect you for another few days. Is all well?” His hawkish gaze shot to Mary.

“We had a bit of unforeseen complications with the Government troops but, with luck, William should be on his way down the shore with our cargo.”

“Donald!” said a beautiful woman, dressed in blue taffeta from the top of the stairway, seemingly to float all the way down. “I’m ever so glad you are home.”

She took the baronet’s hands and kissed both his cheeks. “How are things on Skye?”

“We had a few setbacks, but all is well, my dear.”

The hackles on Mary’s nape stood on end. His dear? He never mentioned a wife. Who is this woman?

The fair-haired beauty regarded Mary, her frown deepening as her gaze traveled from the arisaid to Mary’s bare feet. “You’ve taken in a new servant?” Then she looked to Donald’s bare feet and drew her hand to her chest. “My heavens, you both seem to have misplaced your shoes.”

“Forgive me.” Sir Donald gestured to Mary. “This is Miss Mary of Castleton, daughter of John, Chieftain of Castleton.” Then he swung his palm toward the woman. “This is my sister, Barbara. She will see to your comfort.”

Barbara offered a warm, if not quizzical smile and took Mary’s hand. “You’ve brought me a companion from Skye? And how did you come to arrive in such a disheveled state, may I ask?”

Mary cringed. “’Tis a long story.”

Barbara tugged her toward the staircase. “Oh, how I do love stories. And by my brother’s shabby appearance, I am sure this one will bring more amusement than I’ve had in a very long time.”

“Order shoes, gowns, cloak…whatever Miss Mary requires,” Sir Donald called after them.

Barbara stopped, a spark of mischief flashing in her eyes. “Honestly? This will be fun. Mr. Kerr, please send up a tub and water to the guest chamber.”

The trews-wearing valet bowed. “As you wish, Miss Barbara.”

***

Don stood and watched the women ascend the stairs while he scratched his head.

“Shall I order a bath for you as well, sir?” asked Mr. Kerr.

“You’d better.” He continued to stare after Mary. “Have there been any missives?”

“I’ve put all your correspondence on your writing desk, sir.”

“Anything from William?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Blast.” Don started up the stairs.

Mr. Kerr followed. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened? Were you not to attend the gathering at Dunscaith Castle and then sail to Trotternish with William? ’Tis a wee bit baffling, your returning with the Laird of Castleton’s daughter and not your brother.”

“Baffling is right, along with confounding, maddening and downright frustrating.” Don told him about the galley being seized, then continued up the stairs. “Please inform cook we have a guest.”

“Yes, sir. How long will Miss Mary be staying with us?”

“Until I can secure safe transport home for the lass—which I’m finding is a lot easier said than done.”

With that, he marched to the third landing and to his suite of rooms. By God, it felt good to be home. He crossed through the drawing room and straight for his bedchamber. Sorting through the missives on his writing desk, he found nothing from William. Curses, he hated not knowing. He opened another—the shipment for the Americas had been delayed by a fortnight. Thank God. That was the only shred of good news he’d had in what seemed like an age.

He sunk into his overstuffed chair, propped up his feet and started reading.

Perhaps an hour later, a knock came from the servant’s entrance. “Your bath, sir.”

“Come.” Don normally made quick work of bathing, but the big wooden tub and buckets of hot water brought in by the servants looked incredibly inviting. Lowering his paper, his exhaustion hit full force.

Mr. Kerr set the bath salts, lye and drying towel on a stool beside the bath. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you. I aim to enjoy a long soak free of interruption.”

Mr. Kerr added coal to the fire and then bowed. “Very well, sir. I’ll attend you before the evening meal as usual then.”

“Ahhhh,” Don sighed, lowering himself into the warm water. Sennights of pent up stress melted away as he leaned back and closed his eyes. Simply being home helped the tension melt from his shoulders. Though he did love Skye, his townhouse was equipped with modern conveniences—glass in the windows, no drafty chambers, hearths built to emit more heat. The worries of the cause faded in his quiet chamber which overlooked the rear courtyard and stables.

When the water started to cool, he sank down and soaked his hair, then worked up a lather, washing all the dirt away. He held the soap to his nose—lilac this time. Miss Mary’s scent. He chuckled. Mr. Kerr had a fancy for sweet-smelling, flowery scents.

Mayhap the soap would make Miss Mary feel at home. Doubtless she would be bathing with the same scented soap a floor above—naked just like him. If only he could be the one to run the bar of soap over her lily-white shoulder, to massage it in with swirls of his fingers. Oh yes, he’d splay his fingers down her back, slowly moving his hands forward—beneath her arms until he cupped her breasts. Pert, ripe breasts, the same he’d filled his palm with when he’d kissed her in the box bed at the A’chul Bothy Croft.

If only Miss Mary weren’t in his care. If only she were a nymph who’d come to tempt him, he might be able to act on his fantasies. But to take advantage of the lass would be akin to betraying the trust of the exiled King James, the trust of the Jacobites and the Highlanders he so dearly loved.

No. He couldn’t ravish Miss Mary no matter how much his cods ached. And they ached plenty. He’d practically been hard for the past sennight and there was no respite in sight.

A howl came from the floor above—the guest chamber.

Sitting up, Don’s eyes flashed wide.

Another howl sounded, followed by more muffled yelling.

Leaping from the bath, Don grabbed the drying cloth and wrapped it around his waist while he sprinted up the servant’s stairs. What had happened now? Good God, would he ever enjoy a moment’s peace?

Bursting through the guestroom door, he skidded to a stop.

Barbara looked up, her mouth agape as she stood beside Mary, sitting erect and bare naked in a wooden tub. “What on earth are you thinking, charging in here like a mad bull?”

Don glanced down at his bare chest, streaming with water that grew colder by the second. “I beg your pardon? You pair were the ones squealing as if you were being attacked by said bull. What was I to think?”

Crossing her arms over her breasts, Mary slid deeper into the tub, but not before Don got a good eyeful of sweet alabaster tipped by rose—a breast, not large, but round and so perfectly formed, merely the sight of it turned his knees to mush. Blinking away his lust, he clenched his drying cloth taut over his groin. Now was not the time to show Miss Mary exactly what her body did to him. Good God, his sister stood there gaping at him like he was some sort of lecherous swine.

He gave them both a good scowl. “What on earth were you doing?”

“Miss Mary was telling me about how you met—and the fact she won a crown in a shooting contest.” Barbara laughed. “My heavens, if only I could have been there to see the look on your face.”

Mary sank so low in the tub, only her head was visible. “Sorry,” she mouthed with a cringe.

Moving toward him, Barbara took his shoulder and turned him back toward the door. “Miss Mary needs her privacy—and ’tis a bit awkward seeing my brother with only a wee cloth wrapped around his waist. Not a good style for a baronet, I’d say.” She followed him into the servant’s passageway.

Descending the stairs, Don shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Mind your own affairs.”

As usual, his sister ignored him. “You rescued Miss Mary from a retinue of dragoons all by yourself?”

“There were only seven.” The fact that the lass had made his job easy with her escape out the back of the tent helped matters significantly as well, but repeating such to Barbara would be a waste of breath.

“Well, the lass is smitten.”

“Hardly.” Arriving at his door, he faced her. “Mary of Castleton has been sheltered all her life. How could she possibly ken what she wants?”

“You’d be surprised how much young maids know their own minds,” Barbara said like she had a great deal of experience in the matter, but at the tender age of nineteen, Don sincerely doubted such wisdom. Possessed by some sort of deep-rooted feminine insight, Barbara shook her finger under his nose. “You’d best behave. I saw the look on your face when you glimpsed her in the tub—you’re not as impervious to the lass as you may think.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You charged into her chamber with naught but a wee cloth around your hips. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”

Don scowled. How dare his little sister challenge him so? “If you hadn’t been attending Miss Mary, I would have been content to stay in my own bath—which is where I intend to return anon.”

He pulled down on the latch, but Barbara moved forward as if she planned to enter his chamber. “How long do you plan to keep her here?”

He stopped, blocking the doorway. “Until the shipment bound for the Americas sails. Only then will I have the opportunity to take her back to Skye.”

“You?” Barbara crossed her arms like an indignant waif—a knowing look fixed in place. “Why not let William do it?”

Well, he had a staunch reply to such a nonsensical barb. “If you haven’t noticed, William isn’t here.”

“I meant when he returns.”

“For your information, I believe Miss Mary is in danger. Presently, she’s safer here with me. In the interim, take her on as your project. She can use a bit of city refinement before she traipses back to the Highlands.”

Barbara rolled her eyes with a tsk of her tongue. “But she’s delightful as she is. Besides, more women should become proficient with a musket.” She covered her damned mouth when she laughed. “I still cannot believe she bested you of all people.”

“Stop. Miss Mary’s mother passed away when she was very young. I’m certain you understand what I mean when I say she can use your flair for refinement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I aim to return to the peace and tranquility of my bath while there’s still some warmth left in the water.”