Where have ye got to, ye daft dog?” the man bellowed.

Will and Josette ran into each other trying to reach the window. Josette scrubbed at the pane to peer out, but the glass was too grimy and pitted to let them see much. The man below, whoever he was, began to sing.

Will headed for the door, his long legs taking him through to the stairs several strides ahead of Josette. She noted, as he plunged down the staircase and through the passages, that he’d already learned his way around the keep.

Ladies scurried from the kitchen and elsewhere, fear on their faces. Will signaled them to stay put. Glenna, poker in hand, tried to follow, but Josette shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Stay hidden. Back to the kitchen with you.”

Glenna did not obey, too curious for that, but at least she remained in the hall and did not try to follow Josette or Will.

The keep’s main door was bolted with a stout piece of wood. It was a makeshift bolt, as Josette and the women had found the door lying smashed in the weeds when they’d first arrived.

Opening the door now involved lifting it from the frame, the hinges useless, but Will managed it with ease. He gave Josette a warning look and soundlessly slipped outside.

Josette saw no one in what was left of the courtyard. The walls surrounding the keep had fallen, except for the outer gate, which stood forlornly, guarding nothing.

Will moved to the tumbled stones of the ruined wall, silent as smoke. If Josette had ever thought she could keep Will here against his will, he now proved, before her eyes, that he could vanish whenever he liked.

A huge gray dog trotted around a clump of wall and made unerringly for Will. It was an enormous hunting dog, its wiry hair matted with grass and mud. Its tongue hung out as it gamboled to Will, tail wagging.

The situation might have been comical—the ghostlike Will Mackenzie easily spotted by a hound—except the dog barked in greeting, and the singing, which had warbled in the distance, ceased.

“Beitris! Where are ye, lass?”

The voice was thickly Scots, but speaking English. The owner of the voice ambled around the stones, a large walking stick propelling him.

He wore breeches of homespun cloth, a flapping linen shirt that had once been fine, and an open coat. The man had light brown hair loosely bound in a queue, tattered gloves, and boots that had seen much walking.

He called again to the dog, irritably, then spotted Will and hesitated, hand snaking to his side. Reaching for a knife or pistol?

Will stepped from the wall and stood fully upright in the sunshine. His plaids, once brightly dyed blue and green, floated on the stiff breeze that hadn’t calmed since the ladies had arrived in this glen. Will looked like a warrior of old, ready to defend his castle from all enemies.

The man facing him stared, mouth open. The dog, oblivious to the tension, circled Will once then caught sight of Josette and ambled her way, joy in its brown eyes.

Will and the other man motionlessly assessed each other, while the dog bumped Josette’s thigh. She absently pet it, her heart racing as she waited to see whether the man would attack before Will could strike.

Then the man threw open his arms. “Willie!” he yelled to the skies. “Will Mackenzie, as I live and breathe! I thought ye dead and gone, old son.”

Will roared a wordless sound. The two men embraced, Will lifting the visitor off his feet as easily as he had Glenna. Will shook him like a bear toying with its prey, then dropped the man on his feet and thumped his shoulders with both hands.

Josette gripped the doorframe in worry, poised to rush to his aid. The thumping and hugging didn’t mean Will trusted the intruder—he probably was checking him for weapons.

Will pasted a wide grin on his face. “Bhreac Douglas. What are you doing so far north? Or I should say, on this side of hell?”

Bhreac stepped back comfortably. “Roaming. The Borderlands are the devil of a place these days. Bloody British soldiers all over it. I thought you dead, my friend. Saw your name on the rolls—broke my heart. No, I said, not old Will. It’s a trick. Must be. I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”

He seized Will’s arms and dragged him back against him.

Once the two had danced around again, Will untangled himself. “I am dead, Bhreac. Right? You’ve never seen me. Now that you’ve gone and shouted it to all the Highlands.”

“Not a soul around to hear. Except …”

The man’s sharp blue gaze went straight to Josette in the doorway, with the dog now sitting at her feet. He laughed heartily.

“I see why ye’ve holed up here, Willie. Ye’ve found yourself a beautiful lass, Geordie’s men are far away, and ye can live out your life in bliss. You always land on your feet, don’t ye, old friend?”

“Aye, this is my Josette,” Will said. “Come out, love. Meet a reprobate.”

Josette left the sanctuary of the drafty doorway and walked carefully across the broken stones of the courtyard. She smiled in welcome, as though dwelling in a ruined castle far from anywhere was perfectly normal. The dog, which had latched itself to her, walked beside her, tucked against her thigh.

“Good morning, monsieur.” Josette gave him a little curtsy, putting just enough coquettishness into the greeting.

“French, are ye?” Bhreac’s eyes took on an interested gleam. “Very wise, very wise. Scottish lasses can be deadly.”

Josette hid amusement—the Scottish lasses inside must be avidly listening.

“This is Bhreac Douglas, ancient enemy of the Mackenzie clan,” Will said. “It’s been so long, no one remembers why or what the original feud between our families was about. We celebrate it now. Another excuse for a dram.”

“Aye, that it is,” Bhreac said in a loud voice. Ye don’t have one, do you, Willie? Roaming’s thirsty work.”

“Of course. Seventeen barrels of finest Mackenzie malt stored in the cellars.”

Bhreac looked eager, and Will laughed out loud.

“Sorry to disappoint you, lad. Weak ale is the best I’ve got. I’m hiding out for me life, you know.”

Bhreac’s expression turned somber. “When I heard of you all dying, I shed a tear, I’m not ashamed to say. But you’re well and alive. What about your brothers? Your dad? Is it all a lie? Please say it is.”

Will shrugged, a bleakness in his eyes. “I wish it were. Duncan is dead—went down at Culloden. Angus in a skirmish in the north. The rest ...” He opened his hands.

Will was always adept at telling the truth while at the same time skirting around it.

“I’m that sorry,” Bhreac said. “You Mackenzies are good men, no matter what others say of ye. I’m glad ye escaped—I take it Cumberland and his ilk have no knowledge?”

“And I’d be obliged if ye kept it that way,” Will answered.

“Damned if I’ll speak to a lot of British soldiers. Your secret is safe with me, Willie. And Madame.” He gave Josette a flourishing bow. “Now then, I wasn’t joking about thirst. Can ye spare me a bit of that weak ale? Maybe something edible? Haven’t had a meal in I can’t remember how long. I’m a stoic Scot, but even I have a limit.”

Josette glanced at Will, waiting for his cue.

“Come inside.” Will stretched out his arm to usher Bhreac into the keep. “Love, see what’s in the kitchen, and we’ll share it in the parlor. We live in the lap of luxury here, my friend—you’ll see.”

Josette nodded, understanding what he was telling her. Will would let Bhreac in—it would be strange to not offer hospitality to an old friend—but the ladies would remain hidden for now.

The wolfhound waited with Josette until Will and Bhreac had ducked inside. Bhreac turned to look for the dog and grinned when he saw it remaining with Josette.

“She likes you,” he said. “Don’t ye, lass? She’s called Beitris.”

Beitris wagged her tail, which was neither short nor long, the appendage banging Josette’s skirt. She seemed happy enough to stay with Josette while the men disappeared into the castle.

Will gave Josette a look over his shoulder as he led Bhreac into a room that held a few stools and nothing more. He made a joke about elegant drawing rooms, but Josette caught the underlying message.

She hurried to the kitchen to explain what had happened and to keep the ladies quiet. The game had begun.

“Are they truly all gone, Will?” Bhreac asked as he sipped the ale Josette had brought in.

Josette had withdrawn, cheerfully saying she’d leave the menfolk to it, but Will knew she lingered outside, listening to every word. She didn’t trust Bhreac, which was wise, but even more, she didn’t trust Will. He knew he was considered a prisoner here, despite the fact he wasn’t chained or locked in.

“Aye.” Will decided to keep his answers simple. “Culloden finished us.”

Bhreac took a thoughtful sip of ale. “That means you are Duke of Kilmorgan now. If you’re the last.”

Will looked horrified. “No, no. I’m not interested in any duking. The title has probably already been taken by the crown, King Geordie thinking ‘good riddance to bad rubbish.’ I’ll stay plain Will Mackenzie, thank ye kindly.”

Bhreac continued to study him, interest in his light blue eyes. “But if you prostrated yourself before the king, claimed ye never took up arms against him—I don’t recall one man actually seeing you in battle—ye might be granted the title in your own right. Ye could save yourself and your family’s name.”

Will shook his head. “They’d never believe me. And I’m not falling on my knees in St. James’s Palace and begging for His Hanoverian’s forgiveness. The words would choke me.”

“Ah, I have it—ye dress up like a vacant-headed dandy and pretend you’re a long lost Mackenzie come to claim the land. Cousin to a cousin. Ye’ve been in Canada or some such place, and don’t even know who Charles Edward Stuart is.”

Will pretended to consider this. Bhreac was always full of schemes and scams, getting away with them by the skin of his teeth. “What about all the Highlanders who’d recognize me on the spot?”

“Ye take a house in London, put on a wig, and mince about with lots of flowing lace. No one will twig it’s you.”

Will had to grin. “The point of being Duke of Kilmorgan is Kilmorgan. I’d want to go home.”

As soon as Will said the word, longing gripped him. Unbidden came the memory of wind battering at the old castle, while inside, all was warm and filled with laughter—and because they were Mackenzies, shouting and arguing. The acrid odor of Alec’s paints, the bite of whisky when a ten-year-old cask was broached, the sound of the pianoforte coming to life under Will’s fingers—all flowed back at him and made him ache.

“Ye convince enough English lords you’re the true heir, and you’d be able to go to Kilmorgan,” Bhreac continued. “Your people there would know who ye truly were, aye, but they’d never betray you.”

That was true. Kilmorgan men were loyal. “Why are you so adamant I take the title back?” Will asked him. “Looking to touch me for cash?”

Bhreac raised his hands. “I know I usually have something up my sleeve, but not this time. I just hate to see ye turned to a vagabond, eking out an existence here.” He observed the bare stone walls and sticks of furniture in distaste. “Even when this was a proper home it was remote and melancholy. I remember it as a lad. If times are so hard, Will, go to the Americas. Always something for a resourceful man there.”

“You’re looking after me, as a friend, are you?”

“Why else?”

Will sent him a wise look. “When Bhreac Douglas gives ye fair words, beware.”

Bhreac looked hurt. “I’d never betray you, old friend. I owe you too much.”

Will sipped ale while he thought about how to answer, then he made a face and set down the tankard. First order of business—procure some decent drink.

“Yes, you would betray me if enough was in it for you,” Will said good-naturedly. “You have before. But you do owe me, in fact. Now might be time to call in some favors.”

“Ask away.”

Bhreac waited, his demeanor affable. He had to be up to something, because he generally was.

His clothes were threadbare and travel-worn, but they’d begun as a costly suit, tailored for him, if Will were any judge. Bhreac’s brown hair was thick and sleek, if dusty, the mane of a healthy man. He’d not fallen on hard times; he’d been wandering the Highlands for reasons of his own—with a giant dog Will had never seen before.

“Where did you get Beitris?” he asked.

“Won her.” The answer was too matter-of-fact to be a lie. “Dicing with fools in Glasgow. They kept her muzzled and hobbled, that afraid of her. But they had it in their heads she was a guard dog—she growled and lunged at them often enough. Can’t blame her. Poor thing just wanted a bit of a run in the open. She’s a hunting dog with the sweetest nature, which they’d have known if they’d bothered to release her.”

Bhreac had always been softhearted to animals and children, one reason Will had decided to rely on him on their first adventure long ago. Will had needed to warn a Highland man that the Black Watch was coming for him, but there were too many eyes on him. Bhreac, who’d sometimes worked for the Black Watch, had volunteered to take the message to the man to get himself and his wee daughters out of Scotland. Bhreac had completed Will’s mission with skill, and the two had become friends.

“Very well, ye’ve won me over,” Will said. “Ye can stay. First thing ye do is tramp over yonder hills and bring us back some decent ale and whisky. Maybe some oats so we can at least be eating bannocks. And if ye find any stray cattle, persuade them over this way. I’ll make ye a list.”

Bhreac laughed. He drained the last of his ale and wiped his mouth. “You’re putting me on procurement duty? That I can do. And then ye’ll tell me why you’re holed up here instead of in a mansion in France with that lovely bit of stuff. What can ye be thinking?”

The dog remained behind. She stayed near Josette as Bhreac pulled a tricorn hat down over his eyes and tramped away with a stout walking stick he’d cut from debris in the courtyard. He took the donkey that had pulled Will to the castle with him, needing it to help him carry back supplies.

Josette and Will—and the dog—watched him go from what had been a battlement over the main door.

“You know you gave him our only means of transportation,” Josette remarked, shivering in the cool breeze. She’d slung on a plaid shawl she’d found discarded in the castle, but it wasn’t much help—the fabric had worn thin long before their arrival. Beitris leaned on Josette’s legs and provided a bit of warmth. “Do you trust him?”

Will, characteristically, shrugged. “I have in the past. Doesn’t mean he’s entirely trustworthy, but he has no reason to betray me at the moment.”

“I haven’t heard you speak of him before.” Not that Will was forthcoming about all his acquaintance. He’d told Josette much when they’d pretended to be married a few years ago, but the name Bhreac Douglas hadn’t come up. Probably because it hadn’t been necessary.

“He’s a Borderlander,” Will said. “His family has switched sides more often than your morning bacon. If it’s expeditious to be loyal to the English, they are. When the Scots have the advantage, they’re back over to the other side. His ancestor, Margaret Douglas, niece to the wife-killer, Henry the Eighth, was quite the intriguer. Bhreac’s inherited some of that ability, though he mostly uses it to win at dice.”

“A harmless trickster, then?”

Will watched Bhreac disappear into the mist. “I wouldn’t say harmless. But he’s a font of information. The trick is to pry it out of him without giving away what you don’t want him to know.”

“Like the whereabouts of a hoard of French gold?”

“Exactly, my love.”

Will’s flashing glance made her shiver again, but this time not from cold. “He sounds much like you,” she said.

Will shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“The trick is to pry it out of him without giving away what you don’t want him to know,” Josette repeated. “You try precisely the same strategy with me.”

He blinked. “Do I?”

“You know you do,” Josette said with conviction. “You tell me only what you wish. I’ve shared your bed and some of your life, and yet I know so little about you.”

Surprise flickered in his whisky-colored eyes. “Do you think so?”

“I know so. Sometimes you’re the Scot with the broad accent, wrapping yourself in plaid and rhapsodizing about bannocks. Sometimes you have no accent at all and dress in sober frock coats, going on about Latin historians and Sir Isaac Newton. Sometimes you speak as foul as a gutter urchin and gamble away your coins with tattered gloves. And then you’ll quietly watch a sunrise as though you’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” Josette took the sleeve of his shirt between her fingers. “Which of these is the real Will Mackenzie?”

A shadow crossed Will’s face, elusive, gone before Josette could catch it. “All of them,” he said softly. “And none of them.”

His hand went to her cheek, warm against the wind tugging at Josette’s hair and his frayed plaid.

Yesterday when he’d tried to touch her, Josette had stepped away. Today, Josette couldn’t stop herself from closing her eyes and leaning into him.

She’d missed him, desperately missed him, though she’d been the one to tell him to go.

If things had been different—if she’d not had Glenna to protect, if Will hadn’t insisted on chasing danger for the fun of it—she’d have gladly stayed with him. She’d have disguised herself as anyone he wished, joined him in his spying and intrigue, and laughed with him as they lay together in the night.

But she’d been a mother first and had known Will would never leave his perilous adventures behind him.

Will cupped her face with both hands. He traced her cheekbones with his thumbs, then his breath touched her mouth.

Josette snapped her eyes open. Will was so close, his eyes fixed on her like golden sunshine before his gaze flicked to her lips. Josette’s heart pounded as Will closed the distance between them and gently kissed her.

His lips parted hers cautiously, as though he expected her to shove him away, turn her head, or tell him to leave her be.

Josette’s reason said this was what she ought to do. Her heart and body, on the other hand …

She sank her fingers into his plaid and swept her tongue into his mouth, craving his familiar taste. Will stilled a moment, and then all his gentleness fled.

He dragged Josette against him, his hands hard on her back, and let the kiss turn fierce.