The whisky Don had shared with Mr. Smith roiled in his gut and burned the base of his throat while a cold sweat broke out across his skin.

Fire?

“Heaven’s no.” Miss Mary grasped his arm. “What can I do to help?”

“Ah…” Craning his neck, his men and sister approached as the hall turned into a mass of pandemonium with people running everywhere. “Stay out of trouble,” Don growled in her ear as his men approached.

“Coll, Kennan—see the women home. William, come with me.”

With no alternative but to make haste, he left Mary and Barbara in his wake as he dashed outside. Just as he feared, with coaches vying for position, the tumult inside was nothing compared to the mishmash of horses and drivers and men yelling, practically causing a riot.

William pointed in the direction of the Clyde. “Look. You can see the flames against the sky.”

He gulped against his horror. A deathly orange glow radiated above the trees. “There’s no time to waste.” Don beckoned with his hand as he started to run. “We’ll travel faster on foot.”

Why the devil he must be clad in his finery at this very moment added insult to the irony. If anything happened to his galley or his cargo, he might as well dive into the Clyde and let the current wash him out to sea—At least he was dressed for his funeral.

“Dear God,” William cursed as they rounded the corner to the Glasgow Bridge. “The entire waterfront is ablaze.”

Bright licks of fire and smoke leapt across the scene. His warehouse was ablaze, but so were the boats moored along the shore. If he lost his ship, he’d be ruined.

“The galley,” Don shouted as flames leapt up her mast. “Haste!”

He sped his pace, leaving his brother in his wake. Thank the Almighty, the crew was already there with buckets. Sprinting, he couldn’t cross the bridge fast enough, but as he neared the far shore, heat from the burning warehouses seared his face.

All cannot be lost.

Up and down the shore, moored galleys and skiffs were alight with their crews fighting to douse the flames. Everywhere Don looked, groups of men hauled buckets of water as tongues of fire teased them.

Drawing his arm across his face, the smoke burned his eyes as he rushed to his boat. “Reverse the siphon!” he bellowed, running up the gangway. No one seemed to hear while the men shouted and worked with buckets, throwing water at the threatening flames.

The fire had taken the sail and mast, and licked its way over the timbers. Don leaped through the blaze, rushing to the siphon he used for emptying the bilge. Levering it over the side he pumped with all his strength, using his foot to angle the hose toward the fire, but the thing grew a mind of its own. “Someone take charge of the blasted hose afore the galley goes down with us in it.”

Having caught up, William hopped down from the gangway, his feet barely touching the deck as he dashed over benches to take up the hose. “Pump faster,” he hollered, pointing it at the elusive flashes of fire leaping over the timbers.

Don pumped like a machine while river water gushed through the hose. Standing fast, William swept the stream back and forth across the base of the blaze.

In seconds they doused the fire while the crew stood, mouths agape, their buckets dangling.

“How the bloody hell…?”

“No time.” Don pointed over his shoulder. “The boat behind is going down unless we help.”

“The hose won’t reach,” said William.

“Put a plank across. Hurry!” Don’s gaze shot to the warehouse—too far away for the pump to be of any good there.

Understanding flashed across William’s face as he helped Don pull the pump across. By the time they doused the fire, the neighboring galley was listing in the river—taking water like a sieve.

But Don couldn’t stop and survey the damages to either boat. “To the warehouse. Quickly.”

Running from Saltmarket Street, Coll and Kennan met them in the midst of the mayhem.

“The galley?” Coll asked.

“Still afloat. Fire doused.” Don pointed. “The warehouse needs us more. We must haste!”

But the line of buckets had stopped. Soot-faced men stood shoulder to shoulder, dumbly watching the inferno.

“What the hell?” Don barked. “You dimwits, the flames are growing higher. We cannot stand down.”

“’Tis lost,” said Kennan. “There’s no use.”

Don’s ears rang. Ice pulsed through his blood.

No.

Don’s hands shook with the rage coursing through his blood. Was everyone against him? His finery was blackened with char and smoke and the young pup standing beside him saying all was lost hadn’t a strand of hair out of place.

His entire world was burning before his very eyes. His hopes, his dreams, his plan for the cause. In the span of an evening all was lost?

Over my dead body.

He glared at the Cameron heir with steam ready to burst out his ears, his nose, his eyes. The mule-brained lad had slavered all over Miss Mary at the ball. Placed his hands on her. Had behaved much too familiar than any young tom ought with a maiden. Good God, Kennan needed a lesson. A string of curses hurled to the tip of Don’s tongue, but all he managed was a bellow that reverberated through his chest and roared out his mouth. His legs took over, launching his body at the unsuspecting whelp.

Kennan’s eyes flashed wide before Don crashed into him.

Both men toppling over, Don swung back and crashed his fist into that pretty jaw as they hit the ground.

“Bastard,” he spat, throwing another punch. By God, someone would pay for this night.

“You’re mad.” Kennan’s eye’s rolled like a raging bull as he slammed the heel of his hand into Don’s nose.

Reeling back, the damned appendage felt like it had been shoved to the back of his brain. Eyes blurring with tears, Don threw a blind punch, grazing a cheek.

“Get off me, you crazed fiend,” Kennan’s voice ratcheted up to a shriek.

Fingers of iron clamped around each of Don’s arms. “’Tis lost,” William growled in one ear.

“Save your ire for someone who deserves it,” came Coll’s voice in the other.

Don’s nostrils flared as he bore down, wrenching his arms to free himself. Back and forth he twisted but the two men refused to release their damned grips. “This is not over,” Don growled. “I will kill anyone who had a hand in this.”

Rising up, Kennan brushed himself off. “You think I did?”

Of course the Cameron heir had nothing to do with it. Tightness gripped Don’s chest. He’d needed to hit something and that bonny face was the closest target in sight. “You look like shite.”

The young man sauntered up. Cocking his head to one side and eying Don’s nose, he let out a rueful chuckle. “I reckon I broke it. Serves you right. You’re a bastard even if you are a baronet.”

Don glanced down at his bloodstained shirt. His nose aching like a son-of-bitch. In the heat of the moment, he’d felt little pain, but now if the throbbing was any indication, his nose would soon be bigger than his face. “Lucky punch, you wee maggot.”

Kennan rubbed his jaw, moving it side to side. “Yours, too.”

“Come,” said William, finally releasing Don’s arm—now he’d stopped fighting. “’Tis late and there’s naught we can do until morning.”

“You go.” Don stared at the flames, his face hot. “I need to think.”

***

Wearing a dressing gown over her shift, Mary paced the bedchamber and wrung her hands.

First he ignored me as soon as we arrived at the ball—disappeared whist I danced with Sir Kennan for ages. Then he has the gall to tell me to stay out of trouble?

Is that what he thinks of me?

I’m a useless urchin he casts aside at the first sight of adversity?

I could have helped.

Right?

I could have carried buckets just like everyone else.

Mary hated being ordered to stay out of trouble like a child—to be thrust into a coach with Barbara and hauled to the townhouse on a circuitous route to ensure they avoided the fire. While Sir Donald and his men ran into peril.

Dear God, what if something happens to them?

She’d been pacing forever and yet the house remained silent. How on earth would she be able to sleep knowing the men were putting their lives in danger? She hadn’t seen much of the fire, but the glimpses she’d caught from the coach were horrific. The entire street was lit bright as day by the flames.

A door opened and closed on the floor below, followed by footsteps.

Though she hadn’t visited the baronet’s chamber, she knew it was right below hers. Just as she knew the servant’s door that Hattie used led straight to the den of the man Mary wanted to know better, wanted to impress, wanted something from—something she couldn’t even admit to herself. It seemed like ages ago when Sir Donald had used the servant’s stairs and had caught her in the bath.

Tightening the sash on her robe, she took the candle from her nightstand and opened the door to the passageway. White-painted, stone walls curved, leading to a stairwell—one similar to those in Dunscaith. Mary ran one hand along the cold stone as she descended, holding her candle high.

She stepped out of the well at the first landing. The wooden door with blackened iron nail-heads looked ominous. Biting her bottom lip, Mary glanced back up the stairwell.

Why had she come?

Something banged loudly on the other side of the door accompanied by a curse.

Jolting, wax from her candle dribbled down Mary’s fingers.

With a hiss, she steadied her nerves and knocked.

No sound came from within.

Her trembling fingers reached for the latch.

She really should turn around.

Wrapping her fingers tight, she pulled down the handle.

The door clicked.

Aye, she’d just step inside and ensure all was well.

“Sir Donald?”

Seated at an oblong table, the man looked up, his eyes red with dark bruises beneath, his periwig lying askew beside him, and next to that, a flagon of whisky and a glass. Mary hardly recognized Sir Donald’s black stare. Sorrow, rage, and something even more dangerous oozed from his expression.

He turned the glass between his fingertips. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“W-what happened to your face?”

When he looked up, anger radiated from his gaze. “It met the wrong end of Kennan’s hand.”

“Oh, my heavens.” She covered her mouth with her fingers. “Are you all right?”

He held up his glass and sipped. “I’ll feel no pain after a few more of these.”

She took a wee step closer. “I-I couldn’t sleep without news...”

“Did you not see enough?” His eyes narrowed, almost as if he hated her—as if the whole disaster had been her fault. “Did you not see the flames of the warehouse licking the heavens?”

“’Tis grave?”

He tossed back the whisky and slammed the glass on the table. “I’m ruined, damn it. We all are ruined.”

“Surely there is—”

“No, blast you!” he shouted, looking as if he might strike out with his fist. With a glower, he pushed back his chair, stood and started around the table. “How many ways do you want me to put it? A man is ruined and you want to dream up miracles?”

“I didn’t say that.” Mary slipped along the opposite side of the table, her gaze darting to the door. Truly the situation was weighty, but if only he’d allow her to speak.

“Oh? And did you fancy yourself falling in love with a dashing baronet and living a grand life in a fancy townhouse?”

“How can you be so crass? After we—”

“What? After you bewitched me into kissing you?”

Drawing her eyebrows together, she regarded him. “How much whisky have you consumed?”

“Enough to be dangerous.” He sauntered after her.

Mary slipped to the head of the table and snatched the neck of the flagon. “Am I in peril, sir?”

“I said you shouldn’t have come.”

Unable to help herself, Mary’s gaze slid from his disheveled mop of tawny locks, down his soot-stained satin shirt and breeches. Dear Lord, the man appeared more devilishly fetching than ever before.

But he’s hurting.

Taking a deep breath, she acted on her instincts, though definitely against her better judgement. With one last look at his eyes, she turned. After steadying her hand, she set her candle down, took another glass from the sideboard and poured. “Since you were not gentlemanly enough to offer me a tot, I take it you’ll not object if I help myself?”

“Ladies do not imbibe in spirit.”

“Unless their lives are ruined.” Keeping her back turned, she raised the glass to her lips and took a wee sip. Holy Moses, the liquid burned a fire from her mouth all the way down her throat. Eyes watering, Mary fought back her urge to cough and tapped the back of her hand to her lips.

The floorboards creaked behind her. And though she couldn’t see him, she sensed his nearness, so close heat radiated from his body as if he’d brought the flames from the waterfront into his chamber.

A rush of hot anticipation thrummed through Mary’s blood while his fingers brushed the curls away from her neck. Hot breath skimmed across her flesh. “Come,” he uttered in a low growl. “I’ll take you back to your chamber afore I do something we’ll both regret.”

Closing her eyes, Mary swooned into him. Heaven help her, how she wanted those full lips caressing the skin at her nape. Whenever she looked at the man, she’d craved his touch ever since the night they’d spent in the box bed. Dreamed of kissing him over and over again. Imagined his hard body pressed against hers. Wished she could spend an entire night in his arms. If only he felt something for her, felt the way she did, wanted her more than his blessed business transactions.

“Must you?” her voice rasped as if the sound came from outside her body.

***

Good God, could the woman make things more difficult? Merely her scent tantalized his aching nostrils and made his mind run amuck. Not that his mind wasn’t already in a muddle. Don needed something—anything to take the pain away. But he couldn’t use Miss Mary. No, not now when he had nothing to give her.

Damn it all. He should have sent the lady back to her father as soon as the galley arrived. Mary of Castleton was not Don’s responsibility. He’d been a fool to bring her here, convincing himself that she needed to learn gentility from Barbara. Mary of Castleton was perfect as she was—musket and all.

The woman lifted the glass to her lips. Her gaze met his as she took the slightest of sips.

Then a rosy flush fled up her face and her eyes watered.

Chuckling, Don took the glass. “You’re a swiller of spirit from the cradle, I see.”

She patted her chest. “I find it quite—ah—invigorating.”

He swallowed the contents with one smooth swig, relishing the rush as the whisky burned its way down to his empty stomach. Leaning closer to her intoxicating lilac scent, he twirled a lock of hair around his finger. Ever so soft, her tresses felt like spun silk. “Invigorating,” he whispered, as he repeated her word—though his meaning was quite different. Moving the curl to his lips he plied it with a kiss.

Mary tightened the sash on her dressing gown. Dear God, she wasn’t even dressed. Her shift peeked through the neckline of her red robe—a thin bit of linen. Not only had she come to his chamber, all he had to do was tug the sash around her waist and shove the damned robe from her shoulders. Were her nipples erect? With little effort, he could slip his hand inside her neckline and cup her breast, run his thumb over the rosy tips he ached to suckle.

But, God’s teeth, he couldn’t take advantage of her. Not a woman like Miss Mary. “Come,” he said again, fighting every fiber in his body. Only steps away was the door to his bedchamber—a place he’d never taken any woman. But by the saints, he wanted to take Mary there now. Bury himself deep inside her core and forget this night. If only he could spread those lily white thighs and make love to her—take her to a place of ecstasy where she would cry his name over and over until her world shattered.

Her pink tongue slipped out and moistened her lips.

By the saints, did she have any idea how sensual she looked?

He took her hand and tugged.

Squeezing his fingers, she tugged back, her face rosy and ever so kissable. “Will you…?” Mary stepped into him, raising that damned beautiful face, her eyes dark and full of desire. He’d seen that look on a woman’s face before. Aye, he knew what she wanted, and it took every thread of strength he could muster not to give it to her and more. Bloody oath, the look in her eyes made him hard. Worse, he’d been hard for a damned month.

“I’ll see you to your chamber,” he forced out in a tone much gruffer than he’d intended.

Her face fell, twisting his heart into a knot. He’d hurt her. The last person Don wanted to hurt was Mary of Castleton, but she had to understand. He hadn’t wanted to be trapped before and, now, even if he wanted to court the lass, he couldn’t. His entire life hung on a precipice and he just might lose everything on the morrow, including the townhouse in which they stood.

He needed to think, and with the lady’s scent distracting him as well as the throbbing ache in his cock, he had to be free of her—had to polish off that flagon of whisky and drift into a drunken stupor.

Swallowing his self-loathing, he strode to the door and ushered her through.

Mary uttered not a word as she climbed, but at the top of the servant’s stairs, she stopped and faced him, placing her palm over his heart.

Don gasped at her gentle touch. Every inch of his flesh tingled. His breath came in short bursts. His knees wobbled while he grasped her arm.

“My only wish is that the tenderness we shared when on the trail could have meant as much to you as it did to me,” she said with a warbling voice.

Praying she wouldn’t cry, a lump the size of the Isle of Skye formed in his throat. If only he could tell her how much she meant to him, how often he’d wanted to pull her into his arms and smother her with kisses. But all he did was gulp back declarations of adoration and nod.

Rising to her toes, Don’s heart hammered as she kissed him. Pressed her delicious, petite lips to his warm lips—lips that could make his heart swell so goddamn enormously, the organ would burst from his very chest. His mind couldn’t focus but for one thing. Pushing through those delectable lips with his tongue, all the restraint Don had exercised in the last month shattered into a thousand shards.

A wee moan escaped Mary’s throat as she returned his kiss with a passion that burned hotter than the fire on the waterfront.

Running one hand up her slender spine, Don fumbled for the latch with the other.