Mary awoke before Janie came to add peat to the fire. Last eve she’d had a wonderful excuse to stay away from the festivities. Too embarrassed to see Sir Donald again, she’d fallen asleep early. Goodness, the clan chiefs and their retinues couldn’t leave soon enough. Thank heavens this was their last day.

She tested her ankle, slowly sliding out of bed and transferring her weight to it. Still a little sore, she lifted her shift and peered down. A little swelling—a bit purple. Gingerly, she made her way to the hearth, stoked the fire and used a twig to light the candles. The more she moved, the better her ankle felt. Thank goodness. She didn’t want to be seen parading around Castleton with a limp when most of the eligible Jacobite chieftains were present. Honestly, she’d done nothing to encourage any of them and doubted a one would give her a second look…

Aside from Sir Donald.

He might look twice and then race to his sea galley and sail as far away from her as he could go. How poorly she must have appraised in his eyes. There she was, a grown woman, crashing out of a tree and nearly falling on top of the poor man.

And, oh, how Father’s hopes would be dashed. Not that he’d given her any instruction on how to be charming. Mary stepped up to the looking glass and examined the freckles dotting across the bridge of her nose. God certainly had a sense of humor when he made her. At least her red hair matched the spots. She swept her curls forward to cover her cheeks a bit and then gave herself a sideways look. Better.

But Mary couldn’t fool herself. She was nothing like the portraits she’d seen of countesses and highborn ladies with their smooth skin. Why on earth did every woman in Scotland have to have porcelain skin except for her?

Groaning, she limped to the ewer and bowl, cleaned her teeth, splashed water on her face and dressed in a simple kirtle. She had best stop behaving like a silly gel and remember she was still the lady of this keep regardless of what Da was doing with Mrs. Watt.

Though the menu was set well before the games, Mary had stayed away from the kitchens long enough. After securing her hair in a plait, she headed for the smell of baking bread. Cook always set the bread to baking before daylight.

Fortunately, her ankle warmed as she moved and by the time she reached the great hall, it didn’t bother her too much. Doubtless, it would be perfectly fine in a day or two.

“Good morrow, Raymond,” she greeted the cook. “How are the preparations for the morning meal?”

“Och, Miss Mary, I’m glad you’re here,” the dear, rotund man said with a flabbergasted wheeze. He stopped stirring the big cast-iron pot suspended from the immense hearth and glanced back. “How’s your leg?”

“Better, thank you.” She moved toward him. “So, what’s afoot? I ken that burdened tone when I hear it.”

He nearly shook the bonnet off his head with his grumble. “Of all the sennights in a year, the blasted hens have decided to go on strike. We’ve but five dozen eggs and I need five bushels full.”

“What about Mrs. Whyte? Have you sent anyone to fetch eggs from her?”

“Goodness, you are a hard task master. ’Tisn’t even daylight yet.”

Mary moved to the window and looked eastward. “There’s a pink glow in the sky. Dawn is upon us.”

“And so will be a few hundred hungry Highlanders in about an hour.”

“That is a problem.” She feigned a sigh. “No use stirring the lads. I’ll fetch the eggs myself.”

Raymond frowned. “But what about your ankle?”

Goodness, Mary yearned to jump at any opportunity to spirit away—even for a short jaunt to fetch some eggs. “I’ll take the horse and cart. As you said, we must do something afore the guests start to rise.” Mary took a plaid from the hook by the door and draped it over her head and shoulders. “Unless we miscalculated, we should be fine for bread, sausages and haggis?”

“Right you are.”

“Good. If Mrs. Whyte’s hens have also decided to mutiny we’ll not starve.”

“Haste ye.”

Mary opened the door. “There you go, ordering me about.” Laughing, she didn’t wait for the cook’s reply.

An expert horsewoman, Mary had her horse hitched to the wagon faster than the stable hand could have done. Good thing, because she had no time to waste and the stable hand was still abed.

Slapping the reins, she drove the horse at a trot out the gates and up the hill. At this pace, she’d return before their guests had even stirred. Cresting the hill, the horse sidestepped.

“Oh no, there’s no time to head for the daisies for a snack.” Mary made loud kissing sounds, tugging the gelding back on path and snapping the crop for added encouragement. But the horse whinnied and veered further off course.

Moving to the edge of her wooden bench, she raised up high enough to peer above the crest of the hill.

Then she wished she hadn’t.

Followed by a band of redcoats, Lieutenant Balfour MacLeod ran toward her rig and latched on to the horse’s bridle. “Whoa, laddie,” he said before giving Mary a crooked grin. “What have we here? ’Tis a bit early for a morning ride, even for you, miss.”

At least a dozen men surrounded the wagon—all on foot. Odd.

“Leave me be.” Mary slapped the reins, but the lieutenant maintained his hold. “I’m off to fetch eggs from Mrs. Whyte. I’ve no time to waste. Release me and I’ll be on my way.”

“I think not.” The officer smirked and regarded his men. “We cannot risk letting you return to the castle to sound the alarm.”

“Pardon? What on earth are you talking about?” Mary didn’t wait for an answer. Jerking back her crop, she slapped the horse’s rear with all her might. “Haste ye!”

The horse reared. Throwing back her arm, Mary eyed her target as the lieutenant lost his grip. Before she could issue another slap, MacLeod launched himself into the wagon. His arm whipped around her midriff. Mary slammed him with her elbow and jerked aside, ready to jump. The lieutenant held fast.

“Help!” she screamed. “Hel—”

He clapped a hand over her mouth and tugged her off the wagon. Kicking her feet and slamming her elbows into his chest, she fought with every ounce of strength she had.

“Someone grab a rope afore the bitch pummels me half to death,” MacLeod growled with cold indifference. He’d always been an unpleasant sort, but never disrespectful toward Mary.

The lieutenant barely removed his hand from her mouth when a cloth gagged her.

“Tie it firm,” he commanded. “We want to spirit away afore the guests wake—and afore the sun’s light peeks above the horizon. Mark me, they outnumber us by sixteen to one—and I do not recommend sailing with a barrage of musket balls piercing the hull.”

Mary struggled while a dragoon tied her wrists behind her back, the hemp rope cutting into her wrists. They were stealing a galley? But Sir Donald had said they would sail this day—and Lieutenant MacLeod hadn’t challenged him.

The dastard sauntered straight up to her face with a smug grin on his lips.

Mary jerked her arms against her bindings. “You won’t get away with this,” she garbled through her gag.

“You’re wrong.” MacLeod dropped his gaze to her breasts, the blackguard. “I’m fully within my rights to seize anything I like. Including you, Miss Mary.” Bending down, the accursed officer hefted her over his shoulder and marched for the pier.

Mary bucked and squirmed, only to be met with Balfour’s palm planted flush against her backside. “Remove your hand from my person,” she seethed.

The cur had the audacity to laugh. “You’d best settle…ye wouldn’t want to be violated, now would you, lass?”

Her blood pulsed like ice beneath her skin. He wouldn’t dare!

***

Sleeping in the guest wing, Don awoke a bit bleary-eyed. Like anyone, he enjoyed fine whisky and rich ale, but there was nothing like a gathering of Highland clans to keep him up into the wee hours. When he’d finally found his bed, he’d toppled across the bedclothes and didn’t move until someone entered his chamber to light the fire.

This morrow his head throbbed like he’d been hit over the skull with a mallet. After cleaning up, he took a sip of whisky from the wee flagon he kept in his sporran. Though he rarely imbibed during the day, he hoped the tot might benumb the merciless throbbing.

Foolish idea. He now added dizziness to his list of maladies.

Fastening his belt and weapons, Don bucked up and made his way to the great hall where most of his men camped for the night—the hapless sore-headed souls. Thank God this was the last day of the games else they’d all perish from overindulgence.

“Sir,” a sentry bellowed, running toward Don with a slip of parchment in his fist. “Your galley has been seized.”

Blinking while the pain from the man’s ridiculously loud voice rattled in his head, Don grabbed the writ of seizure and read. Crumbling it in his palms, he growled. “Where in God’s name were the guards?”

“Don’t know, sir. My men and I started our rounds and found this first thing—thought we should bring it to you straight away.”

“Men, follow me,” Don said, racing for the postern gate. “I want words with the night guard afore they head to their pallets.”

The sentry kept pace. “Are you going after them, sir?”

“Bloody oath I will—and I’ll use John of Castleton’s boat while I’m at it. If the laird cannot protect his keep from poaching Government troops, then he can very well lend us his galley.” He flipped his wrist at the man. “Now fetch the night watch.”

William met him on the beach, his face blanched. “I should have slept on the ship myself.”

“Aye,” Don growled, his stomach churning at the sight of the empty mooring where his boat had been tied. “The lot of us should have camped in the hull with our muskets loaded.”

“I didn’t think the bastard would seize the ship—not after you told him we’d be on our way.”

“’Tis downright thievery.” The pounding in Don’s head threatened to burst his skull apart. “The milk-livered curs stole into the night like petty tinkers. Well, I’ll not stand for it.”

Sir Ewen Cameron strode to the beach, his men in his wake. “You cannot engage them in battle. All that we have built will be ruined.” Why the hell hadn’t the redcoats stolen Cameron or Stewart’s boat? They both had eighteen oars.

“Aye?” Don faced the elder chieftain. “I cannot stand by while a sniveling maggot thieves my galley out from under my nose. Christ, there are two hundred Highland warriors here. Had he approached us in daylight, he wouldn’t have taken a skiff without meeting his end.”

“I urge you to exercise caution.” Ewen raised his palms. “Think of the trade. We all need to feed our families come winter.”

“Aye,” William agreed. “And keep our men from being shipped to the American penal colony.”

Don balled his fists. “You think me dull-witted? I’ll retrieve my boat right out from under MacLeod’s nose, just as he did to me.”

Sir Ewen grasped Don’s shoulder and squeezed. “I say you go straight to Fort William. Ask Colonel Hill to intervene. He’s the only backstabber I trust.”

“We cannot chance doing anything to cause Government suspicion.” William nodded as well. “We’ll sail at once then?”

Don cast his gaze down the coast. They’d lost a great deal of time—and he had no intention of wasting another minute. “I do not—”

“Sir Donald!” The stable hand ran toward them with the cook in his wake. “I fear they’ve taken Miss Mary as well.”

Don’s guts dropped to his toes. Dear God, only that bonny, redheaded lass could manage to get herself captured at a time like this. Unless she’d up and fallen out of another tree. “Pardon? The bastards ferreted their way into the keep?”

“No,” said the cook, wheezing with exertion. “She went off to fetch some eggs from Mrs. Whyte but never returned.”

“The horse and cart came back without a driver.” The stable boy threw his thumb over his shoulder. “I galloped back to Mrs. Whyte’s place and Miss Mary didn’t even make it that far.”

Devil’s breath. Now he not only had to find his galley, but the blundering misfit of all Highland lasses had fallen victim to the redcoat’s skullduggery? “Blast it all to hell,” he cursed. Worse, her disappearance twisted his heartstrings far tighter than it should have. Damnation, the lass had found a way to confound him at every turn since his arrival.

William nudged Don’s elbow. “What now?”

If things couldn’t go from bad to worse. Now everyone looked to Don—the Baronet of Sleat. His title made him the commander of this gathering of Jacobites. It would be a hell of a lot easier to issue orders if Mary of Castleton weren’t involved, but now all eyes focused on him for a decision—and her life hung in the balance. To make matters unbearable, for some reason, he felt responsible to find her. “Sir Robert—your lands aren’t far from Fort William. Can you take my brother to lodge a formal complaint with Colonel Hill?”

“Aye,” agreed the Stewart Chieftain.

“But what about the shipment?” William asked.

“After you’ve met with the colonel, take a transport to Trotternish. I’ll meet you there.” Don turned to his men. “I need a crew to come with me and three volunteers to accompany William. I hate dividing our forces, but it must be done.”

“We’ll back you up, sir,” Sir Ewen gestured to the crowd that gathered. “We all will.”

“My thanks.” Don looked to the stable hand. “Where is this Balfour MacLeod stationed?”

“Around the Aird of Sleat at Teangue.”

Don threw his hands to his sides. “Are you mad? It would be faster to ride. Why in God’s name didn’t someone say something sooner? Saddle the horses and we’ll be off.”

“But—”

“What is it now?” He glared at the lad.

“We only have three ponies fit enough to take the saddle.”