Mary’s sister and the chambermaid nearly fell into Don when he opened the door. Flustered, both dipped into a curtsey.

“How is she?” asked Lilas.

Don glanced over his shoulder. “She’s resting. Perhaps a healer should have a look at the ankle.”

“No need to call for the healer.” Mary lifted her foot slightly and rolled her ankle. “It feels better already.”

Don frowned and lowered his voice. “I do not believe it for a minute. One of you must have a look and if there’s any swelling, summon the healer.”

“Yes, Sir Donald,” said Lilas, grasping the servant by the arm and pushing past him with a daft smile on her face. “Janie will tend her—you mustn’t worry.”

Letting the door close behind him, Don adjusted his doublet and took a deep breath, thankful to pass Mary’s care along to someone more capable than he. What in God’s name did he know about twisted ankles, especially female twisted ankles?

“He carried you all the way from the old sycamore?” Miss Lilas’ high-pitched voice resounded through to the stone passageway followed by a shrill giggle.

It was a stroke of mercy Don wasn’t called upon to carry the younger sister above stairs. From what he’d seen at the gathering last eve, Miss Lilas was as flighty as a hen hatching an egg. He strode directly for the stairwell. Perhaps carrying Miss Mary to her chamber demonstrated a wee bit too much overzealousness. He realized that after he’d kissed her hand. The lass had gone glassy-eyed. Lord only knew what prompted him to linger when he kissed her. Thank God no one else saw.

But by the saints, he couldn’t just pass her off to a guard. She was the lady of the keep, regardless if she had climbed a tree.

Grown women don’t climb trees, blast it all. Miss Mary must be addled in the mind. Yesterday I found her wearing men’s clothing, in public of all places, and today she ran away from her troubles and hid in a tree?

Truly it would have been disconcerting for the lass to find her father in such a compromising position, but running away for the solace of an old sycamore? In a castle as large as Dunscaith, there surely would be someplace quiet she could have gone—a place far less public, especially given the Castleton MacDonalds were hosting the gathering.

’Twasn’t a wise decision on her part.

Don’s conviction grew deeper. Indeed, Mary was the hostess of this fete, yet she had not the maturity to push her personal woes aside and hold her chin high. She should have been outside watching the games. In fact, Don had noticed her atop the wall-walk earlier. She should have stayed up there until they broke for their nooning.

When Don exited the stairwell, Narin, the Dunscaith henchman approached. “Laird John has requested an audience with you in his solar.”

“Now?”

“Aye, Sir Donald. Unless you’ve other matters to attend?”

Don scratched his chin. “Do you ken what he wants? The afternoon games will commence soon.”

“I’m sure he’s aware of that, sir. Please, just a moment of your time.”

Grumbling under his breath, Don followed the burly man. Why in God’s name did Miss Mary have to fall from the tree? And now Sir John wants a word? I should have let her limp back to the keep.

Don rifled through the turn of events, clarifying the story in his mind. Because the lass was injured and walking clearly caused her pain, he’d carried her to her chamber, hollering for the chambermaid loud enough for everyone to hear. So not to risk impropriety, he didn’t dare venture to examine her ankle. Thank God he’d had enough sense to tell the lasses to tend Miss Mary’s leg when he met them in the passageway—else the chief might attempt to trap him.

By the time they arrived at the solar door, Don stood with confidence, tugging on his lapels. He had done nothing but act as a gentleman ought.

Narin pulled down on the latch. “Donald MacDonald of Sleat, m’laird.”

Sitting at the head of the table in his wheeled chair, Sir John beckoned with his hand. “Come in, Sir Donald.” He flicked his wrist at the henchman. “That will be all, Narin.”

Don moved toward the table as the door closed.

Sir John smiled, though his appearance was rather withered for a man the age of one and fifty. He gestured toward the sideboard. “Will you pour us each a dram afore you sit?”

“By all means.”

“Apologies for not serving you with my own hand. Being a peg-leg makes some things rather difficult.”

“I can imagine how challenging things must be for you, especially living in a castle with so many stairs.” Don pulled the stopper off the flagon, his thighs aching a bit from climbing up the stairwell with Mary in his arms. “I’ll never forget your heroics at the Battle of Dunkeld.”

“If only we had won.”

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Don wished he could forget. “It was a debacle for us all—we completely lost our momentum.”

“Aye, the clans disbanded—went home to lick their wounds.”

“And the Government has been squeezing us ever since.” Don placed a dram of whisky in front of the chieftain. “I’ll never forgive William of Orange and the Campbells for their massacre at Glencoe.”

Sir John frowned, a dark shadow passing across his face. “Nor will I.”

After Don took a seat, the two men stared at their whisky for a moment. Whenever anyone mentioned the Government’s horrendous actions at Glencoe, a moment of silence always ensued.

“Slàinte.” John raised his cup.

Don returned the salutation and sipped. “Mm. ’Tis fine spirit.”

“Indeed,” the old chieftain agreed. “Sir Coll of Keppoch brought it as a gift—pure Speyside gold it is.”

Don shifted in his seat. “I’ll agree with you there.” Having made the appropriate amount of small talk, Don looked the man in the eye. “To what do I owe the honor, sir?”

A grin twisted the corners of John’s mouth. “With three daughters and one crippled leg to carry out my bidding, can you not guess?”

Sitting back, Don crossed his arms and his legs. “You ken I’m embroiled in negotiations to establish Jacobite trade in the Americas?” He whispered the word Jacobite—for though they were among loyalists, one never knew who might be listening. Furthermore, Donald never dared to utter the word in Glasgow.

“Aye.” John smoothed his finger around the clan brooch at his shoulder. “But how does the cause preclude you from taking a wife?”

He cleared his throat. “I cannot possibly risk having my mind distracted from business matters. Besides, if I were to marry anyone, the poor lass would be ignored for God kens how long.”

Sir John raised his cup and sipped, closing his eyes as if either enjoying the taste or collecting his thoughts—or both. “Miss Mary is a fine Highland lass. Had to grow up too fast on account of her mother’s death after the birth of my only son—then had to play both mother and father after I fell at Dunkeld. She’s tough as nails, mind you—runs the keep more efficiently than I ever did.” He looked up. “And she’s bonny—those wee freckles are as Scottish as the Highlands.”

“Och, I have no doubt Miss Mary will make a fine wife, but not for me—not unless she wants to wait a decade.” Perhaps by five and thirty Don might be ready to settle down.

The chieftain plucked a snuff box from his waistcoat pocket. “I can offer you lands south of Tokavaig.”

Devil’s breath, Don knew as well as anyone John could ill afford to lose the rents those lands brought in. “I wish I could humor you on this account, but timing prevents me doing so.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “If there is nothing else, I must haste back to the games. I wouldn’t want to miss the first round of the archery contest.”

“Tell me.” John’s lips thinned while he pinched a bit of snuff and sniffed. “Was Mary too injured to make her own way back to the keep after her fall from the tree?”

Ah ha—now he asks. “In my opinion she was. When she tried to stand, she yelped and fell. I acted as any gentleman would have done given the circumstances.” Lord, news traveled faster at Dunscaith than at Duntulm.

After a hearty sneeze into a white kerchief, the chieftain’s face fell along with his shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to make an appeal to Sir Robert Stewart next. He would be my second choice for my daughter.”

Don clenched his fist and bowed. “Do what you must,” he said through gritted teeth. What else could he say? He’d told the man the cause came before his personal happiness. He should have known before he’d arrived Sir John would be looking for suitors for his eldest—mayhap he wanted to secure betrothals for all three lassies.

Excusing himself, he hastened away. Bloody Robert Stewart was a good man, though a bit too young to handle a spirited lass the likes of Mary of Castleton. A fiery woman such as Mary would give any man difficulty. She needed to be harnessed—to be introduced to society and trained in the art of feminine grace. Aye, she might run Dunscaith Castle with an iron fist, but she would be a duck out of water in Glasgow. Society would eat her alive—and then she’d go sulk in a tree. Such behavior simply wouldn’t do for the wife of a baronet—or any man with important business connections and vast property.

No, no, Don must be ever mindful of the Jacobite cause. He must think of his clan. Thousands of people were depending on him—on his ability to build new trade routes so the clans in turn would have the means to rebuild their armies. He had been clear on his task when he sailed from Glasgow and, by God, he would not forget it now.