Meggie MacLeod was the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen.

Hugh MacAulay had heard that the laird of Glen Iolair had a number of beautiful daughters, but he hadn’t bothered even imagining how beautiful until now.

He’d seen the hunger in Magnus’s eyes when she appeared, and for an instant, even MacKay had been stunned into silence. Hugh had been stunned himself—stunned to the point of forgetting his manners, all his caution and good sense turning to desire for one raw instant of unbridled lust. He’d stared at her like a green lad who doesn’t know any better. But then, for an instant, she’d stared back at him.

But he was here to propose marriage to Catriona MacVane, as had been decided by the elders of his clan. He didn’t even know his potential bride. But then, neither did the elders. They knew of her rich tocher, and the benefits of having her brother as an ally. Clan MacAulay needed the money she came with, and they didn’t trust Hugh to make a sensible choice on his own.

Ah, but they didn’t have to bed a stranger, or get heirs upon her, or call her wife.

But the decision was hardly surprising. The last three lairds of Abercorry had been lackwits. His grandfather, the mighty Ranald MacAulay, had left his clan poor, and his first heir had picked deadly fights with the neighbors while in his cups. When Eanraig MacAulay fell from his horse and died—with a pistol ball lodged in the back of his head—his brother had become laird. But Angus had a penchant for drink and married women, and when he seduced the wife of a chief at a clan gathering, the chief himself had dispatched Angus by cutting off his offending parts with a sword, and then removing his head. And that left just two choices for laird of Abercorry, heirs who carried the last proud drops of Ranald’s blood in their veins—Hugh, or Angus’s only son, a motherless wee lad of just six. By a narrow margin, they’d chosen Hugh.

Hugh had never thought he’d be laird. He hadn’t been raised to it, and he wasn’t sure he could lead his clan. At least not the way things were now. The elders weren’t sure either. They’d made Hugh laird on sufferance, a toom tabard, an empty coat, there to do as they decided. He’d wed as they dictated and manage his lands, people, and supplies precisely as they ordered. And they had decided he’d marry Catriona MacVane.

High could have refused all of it, of course—the lairdship, the wedding, and the heartless imposition on his freedom of choice—but a six-year-old old lad, small and shy for his age, would have stood no chance at all against the stubborn, opinionated old men who ruled Abercorry. And he’d have had no opportunity for a childhood. Hugh couldn’t stand by and watch a child bullied by seven men who ate and drank well, slept in fine, soft beds, and blamed others for their own bad advice to past lairds.

As laird, Hugh’s wee cousin became his ward, and he intended to do everything in his power to protect the boy, teach him. When he was grown, Sandy MacAulay would become laird of Abercorry, and Hugh would be free.

But the elders had agreed to the wardship for a price, and marrying Catriona MacVane was just the first payment.

He hadn’t even met the lass yet, but given the faces Magnus and Charlie MacKay made whenever her name was mentioned, he wasn’t hopeful.

And now he wished he’d seen her before he’d met Meggie MacLeod. What woman would compare to her? He stood staring at the door long after she’d left the hall—they all stared at it—until Charlie MacKay chuckled. “Now that’s a woman. Imagine her in your bed—”

Magnus grunted. “I don’t have to imagine it. I’ve had her.”

Charlie gaped at him. “Had her? When?”

“Some years ago—nearly eight, perhaps nine, it must be. She was just eighteen, sweet and unplucked—”

“Ye plucked her? Was this before or after ye married my sister?” Charlie asked.

“Before, but not by much. Hours, as I recall,” Magnus said. “Och, she was a sweet armful even then, but now—” He grinned. “She’s all grown up and sweeter still.”

“You’re a dog, Magnus,” Charlie said, frowning.

Hugh felt his belly turn at the idea of Meggie MacLeod and Magnus.

Magnus stroked his chin. “I’m single again, and I wouldn’t mind repeating the pleasure, since she’s here.” He chuckled. “Like a plum fallen into my lap, a fine Yule surprise.”

Hugh knew it was none of his business. He was here for Catriona. What Magnus or Meggie MacLeod or anyone else did was not his concern. He should say what he came to say and go. But the proposal stuck in his throat, and a desire to punch the smirk off Magnus’s face took its place. He wanted to warn Meggie MacLeod to flee, help her do just that, but the storm wouldn’t let anyone leave tonight.

“I think I’ll go up and dress for the meal,” he said instead.

“All the better to impress her, eh, MacAulay?” Charlie said. “Think one of us can steal her from Magnus? Someone will have to keep the luscious Meggie warm tonight.”

“She’s mine. Stay away from her,” Magnus growled.

“Is she?” Charlie asked. “She didn’t look happy to see ye. Perhaps she remembers your charms with less fondness than ye remember hers.”

“Oh, she remembers—did ye see her melt when I did naught but touch her elbow?”

Charlie laughed. “If ye’d gotten any closer, your nose would have lodged between her lovely breasts, and ye’d have suffocated.”

Magnus frowned. “I’ll do more than that once her seanmhair is abed.”

“I seem to recall she reminded ye of your obligation as her host to leave her be,” Hugh said.

“And she said she carries a dirk,” Charlie added.

Magnus glared at them both. “What of it? The MacLeod teaches his daughters to fight like men if they have to. They all have dirks in their sleeves. Not that I’ve seen Meggie’s. She left it off when last we met. And she hasn’t wed—likely that means she never found a man to compare to me.”

“Or ye put her off men completely,” Charlie said.

“Once she’s warmed up and fed, I daresay she’ll be eager to renew our, um, friendship,” Magnus said.

“I’m not so sure she’d welcome ye, Magnus,” Charlie said.

“Care to wager on it?” Magnus asked. “Ye don’t know her like I do. She’s a banked fire, a flame that needs only a little encouragement, a breath, to stir it to life.” He poked his thumb into his chest. “I know what she likes.”

“Seems to me a woman like Meggie is going to like different things than a lass of eighteen. I daresay she’s changed since ye knew her. She’s probably had other, better men,” Charlie argued.

Magnus folded his arms over his chest. “Ye saw how she blushed whenever I so much as looked at her.”

“She smiled at MacAulay sweetly enough, and at me,” Charlie said.

“What’s your point? You’re here to wed Catriona, MacKay. Remember that,” Magnus said.

Hugh looked up in surprise. Charlie MacKay was here to wed Catriona? Then he’d lost, would go home empty-handed . . .

But Charlie laughed as he slumped in his chair and set his booted feet on the table. “Perhaps.” He sighed. “Aye, I think I will take your wager.”

Warning prickled along Hugh’s neck. Magnus waited, studying his brother-in-law.

“Let’s say the first one of us who can steal a kiss from the lovely Meggie wins,” Charlie said. “Are ye game, MacAulay?”

Hugh knew he should say no, walk away, have no part in it, but his mouth watered at the thought of kissing Meggie MacLeod. “What are the stakes?”

Charlie tapped the jeweled brooch that pinned his plaid at his shoulder. “I’ll wager this—it’s an heirloom, a ruby given to the MacKays by Robert the Bruce himself. What will you wager, Magnus?”

Magnus rubbed his chin. “For a kiss? I’ll wager the sword hanging on the wall over there. It was taken from an English knight at Stirling. There’s gold and pearls in the hilt.”

Charlie nodded. “And ye, MacAulay. What will you wager?”

For a moment Hugh regarded his fellow lairds with his heart in his throat. He wanted to kiss Meggie as much as any of them, but he wouldn’t steal it, and he had nothing to wager. There were no valuable heirlooms at Abercorry, no gold. But surely there was a way to make the wager work to his advantage. Oh, not to kiss Meggie. She was out of his league. But if he lost . . .

He leaned back in his chair and bluffed. “Why don’t we increase the stakes?”

Charlie grinned. “Aye? To what?”

“First, Mistress MacLeod’s kiss must be given willingly, not stolen. And it must be a proper kiss, open mouthed and passionate. Long and slow.”

Magnus chuckled, and Charlie nodded. “Go on.”

“If it’s simply a kiss, then we have our wager—I’ll add a cask of whisky that has lain in Abercorry’s cellar for forty years, forgotten.” That was true enough. He was the only one who knew where it was, having found it as a child while hiding from his grandfather. “But if it’s more than a kiss—” he paused for dramatic effect, looked at both men. They looked eager, avid, lusty.

Magnus chuckled, a low, dirty sound. “Aye, a woman who’s willing to give a man that kind of kiss will do more, want more—seduction, a bedding.”

Hugh nearly winced, putting Meggie MacLeod in this position, but her bold confidence—and the dirk in her sleeve—suggested she could handle herself, was experienced enough to know what she wanted. He needed Charlie and Magnus focused on Meggie MacLeod . . .

“What would ye wager for a night in her bed, in her arms, in her—” Charlie asked eagerly. He rolled his eyes and shivered. “Might kill a man.”

Magnus laughed again. “Meggie MacLeod is not just a hot piece. She’s a rich woman. Her father will dower her well, and she’s Maighread MacLennan’s heir. One day Seannbrae will be Meggie’s. She’ll make the man she weds rich and powerful.” He looked at his fellow lairds. “Shall we say the winner can claim the right to be the first to pay her father a visit, offer for her? When he hears she’s been bedded, Donal MacLeod will no doubt insist on a wedding, just in case . . .” He shrugged.

Charlie regarded his brother-in-law with admiration. “Then I won’t have to wed Catriona.”

Magnus frowned, considered that. “I suppose not—but ye won’t win.”

“My brooch still stands,” Charlie replied. “And I have a hunting falcon I’ll add.”

“I’ll wager the sword, and fifty silver coins,” Magnus said.

“For Meggie MacLeod?” Charlie said. “Not enough.”

“All right—gold coins,” Magnus said. “What about ye, MacAulay?”

Hugh swallowed as they looked at him, his heart pounding. He wanted only what he came for.

“If I lose, I’ll wed Catriona.” He looked from Magnus to Charlie. “You’ll have the lass off your hands, MacVane, and ye, MacKay, won’t have to wed a lass ye obviously have no desire for.”

Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Ye’d do that? It would be a kindness indeed, but ye haven’t met her yet. It seems unfair to me, that the winner gets Meggie MacLeod in his bed and as his wife, Magnus’s gold and sword, my brooch and bird, and your cask of fine whisky, and ye get a wee shrew for a wife.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell ye what, MacAulay. If I win, ye can keep the whisky. Ye’ll need it.”

“Done,” said Hugh quietly. Charlie offered his hand to Hugh, and then to Magnus, who was scowling as if something devious had just happened he hadn’t quite figured out.

Magnus headed toward the door. “I think I’ll go and see if our guest is comfortable. If she’s cold—”

“No ye don’t,” Charlie said. “That gives ye an unfair advantage. MacAulay and I can’t just go up to her chamber.”

“Then what do ye suggest?” Magnus said impatiently.

“What’s the hurry? She’s stuck here with the weather,” Hugh said. “Yule offers plenty of chances for kissing—and more.”

Charlie sighed. “There’ll be no mistletoe for three days yet, if we stick to tradition and bring it inside on Christmas Eve. It’s tempting bad luck to bring it in before that.”

“Afraid ye’ll lose?” Magnus asked.

Charlie shook his head quickly “Not at all. A clever man can always find ways to charm a lass.”

Magnus grinned. “Aye—so go and make your plans, lads, dream of her tonight, because that’s all ye’ll get. I daresay she won’t play games long. She knows what—who—she wants. She’ll be mine by this time tomorrow night. I’m going upstairs to dress for supper. Even if I’ve agreed not to bed her tonight, I intend to start wooing her at once. I’ll see ye both for the meal.”

* * *

Hugh climbed the stairs, following the directions the servants had given him to his assigned chamber. Up the steps to the third floor, turn right toward the south tower, fifth door on the left. The keep was some three hundred years old, as solid and hard as Magnus himself. There were no tapestries in the hall, no soft edges anywhere. The walls bristled with weaponry instead. He wondered how Magnus’s wife—

He crashed into something very soft and instinctively reached out to catch the body that hurtled into his. He looked down into Meggie MacLeod’s wide eyes. The scent of summer flowers overwhelmed the bitter smell of damp stone.

Her lips were inches from his own, her face tilted up to look at him. All he could think of was the wager, and kissing her.

He stepped back at once. “My apologies,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“No, my fault. I wasn’t looking.” She scanned his face.

“And I was lost,” he insisted. “Third floor, south tower, fifth door . . .” He was babbling, and he stopped. “Are ye by chance lost yourself?”

She pointed to the door behind him. “I was going to check on my grandmother. Her chamber is just there, next to mine.”

He glanced at the partly open door of the room she must have just left. A red gown was laid out on the bed. The thought of bed and kisses made him want to—He looked away, fixed his attention back on Meggie herself.

It didn’t help.

She’d loosened the tight coif of her hair, and a single golden braid hung over her shoulder instead of being pinned up on the back of her head. There were soft golden curls springing loose around her face, and she looked younger, softer, delectable. It was easy to imagine her as a lass of eighteen, with Magnus. Hugh banished the image. He glanced at the sleeves of her gown, looking for the telltale bulge of a dirk, but the dimness of the corridor made it impossible to tell if she was armed.

“I understand the boundaries of Abercorry march with Seannbrae,” she said.

“I’m surprised ye know that,” he said.

“I’ve been visiting my grandmother for the past three months.”

He felt his stomach leap. Meggie MacLeod had been at Seannbrae, less than a dozen miles from Abercorry Castle, for months, and he hadn’t known.

Of course, Eanraig MacAulay had raided MacLennan lands, stolen cattle and sheep. Maighread MacLennan was kin by marriage to the Fearsome MacLeod, one of the most powerful lairds in all Scotland. He had no doubt that if there was cause for complaint or revenge, it would have been taken by now. He imagined a horde of MacLeods riding against Abercorry, led by a dozen golden-haired lasses carrying shields and armed with dirks in their sleeves . . . He swallowed the sudden bubble of laughter in his throat, met Meggie MacLeod’s glittering eyes. But there was no anger in her expression. There was only interest, intelligence, and genuine curiosity.

“I was simply wondering why we hadn’t met sooner,” she said when he failed to reply. She raised her brows and waited, but his mouth dried, and all he could do was stare. She tilted her head and continued on. “We received visitors from several of our other neighbors, but no MacAulays. Surely there are some at Abercorry who remember my grandmother—or my late grandfather—fondly enough to visit.”

The elders of Abercorry had not mentioned Maighread MacLennan—or her granddaughter—to him. Fools. The biggest marriage prize of all had been right under their noses. He clenched his fists at his sides against regret.

“If I had known ye were there, or that your grandmother was in need of company, I most certainly would have called,” he said awkwardly. He wasn’t one for smart conversation or clever quips, like Charlie. He didn’t have the ease of being born to be laird, like Magnus.

Her brow furrowed, and he knew she’d mistaken his gruff words. “Och, then we shall be sure to keep you updated in the future,” she said tartly. “At Glen Iolair, neighbors simply visit to say hello, or share family news. We had not had word at Seannbrae of your uncle’s death, or that there was a new laird at Abercorry. I think my grandmother was quite surprised to hear of it here today, so far away from her home and in the midst of a storm. If we’d known sooner, we should have been pleased to come to Abercorry instead, and offer condolences.”

Meggie MacLeod at Abercorry? It was a poor place compared with Gleanngalla, and no doubt her own home at Glen Iolair.

“There was no need,” he said. He backed away. “I think I may have turned left instead of right,” he said. “I’d best retrace my steps.”

For a moment, they stood and stared at each other. Her eyes roamed over his face like a touch. He felt it keenly, wondered if she saw him as he was, a reluctant laird, ill at ease and uncertain of the rules of conduct for his new station. He would have called at Seannbrae if he’d known he should, and most certainly if he’d known she was there . . .

She made a small sound in her throat, disapproval perhaps, or indignation. “Then go, Laird. Seanmhair and I will no doubt see you at supper.” She turned to her grandmother’s door, went inside, and shut the portal firmly behind her, and left him alone in the corridor.

Her perfume lingered, a sweet summer day in a dank corridor in the midst of a snowstorm. He glanced at the red gown again, and her bed, and swallowed. He backed away and went to find his own chamber.

His room was comfortable, with a brazier, a chest, and a chair, and a wide bed generously covered with furs and blankets.

It was nicer than his quarters at Abercorry.

He crossed to the window and looked out at the swirling snow, marveling at the amount that had fallen in a few short hours. It was now impossible to see past the castle’s other tower, opposite this one, where the windows were all dark.

He’d expected to come to Gleanngalla, offer for Catriona, discuss alliances and tochers, set a wedding date, and be on his way home again. But the weather made that impossible. He was stuck here in the dazzling company of Meggie MacLeod. “Och, Cailleach—you’re a cold witch indeed,” he muttered to the sky, and he turned to put on a clean shirt for supper.

* * *

Meggie slipped into Seanmhair’s room, her heart unexpectedly thumping after the encounter with the MacAulay. He was handsome, tall, and he made her feel uneasy—she, Meggie MacLeod, who was easy with everyone. He was stubborn and cold. Perhaps the bad blood between the MacAulays and MacLennans remained—but if it did, it was on his side. Seanmhair didn’t hold grudges.

“There ye are,” Maighread said with a smile as Ewan unpacked for her. “They told me ye were close by.”

“Right next door. Are you comfortable, Gran?”

“Och, of course. Ewan will see to me as he always does.”

Ewan nodded. “She’s had her medicine, and I’ll carry her down to supper as soon as she’s finished dressing.”

“Can I help with that?” Meggie asked.

Her grandmother nodded. “Ye can comb the tangles out of my hair. Ewan’s hands are too big.”

“It’s my joints—they swell with the cold,” Ewan said.

He handed Meggie the comb and brush, and she began to smooth her grandmother’s long white hair.

“Ye look flustered, Meggie,” Seanmhair said, looking at Meggie’s reflection in the wee mirror. “Is anything wrong?”

Meggie swallowed. It was being here and seeing Magnus again. He was still handsome, but harder and bigger than she recalled. Certainly older. Did that guarantee more sense, more grace? She’d begun to tremble the moment he looked at her in the hall, felt her knees shake, and when he’d touched her arm, she remembered every detail of their brief dalliance, and the regret she’d felt ever since. She’d long wondered how she would feel if she did see him again, had feared she was in some way susceptible to his charm, that she’d fall for him all over again. When she was eighteen, green and foolish, he’d been charming, bold, and handsome. She’d been so certain that she was in love, and that he loved her as well . . . She was smarter now, and if her heart pounded in his presence, and hot blood filled her cheeks, it was with scorn, not passion.

Her unexpected encounter with the MacAulay had also unsettled her. He was . . . different was perhaps the best word to describe him—from most men she knew. He hadn’t immediately tried to flirt with her, nor did he stare at her breasts. Laird MacKay had done so. So had Magnus. But MacAulay had looked at her, met her eyes, both in the hall, and in the corridor. She’d been aware of the scent of wind and wool and the faint tang of the ale on his breath. He had keen gray eyes that should have been as cold as stone, but they sparkled when he looked at her. She recognized that look—the first edge of interest, of curiosity about a pretty woman. But it was not the usual male calculation of how easy or hard it would be to seduce her. It was something else, something more, as if he were trying to understand what she was thinking. It had struck her, since men didn’t usually care one whit what was going on in her brain, or even if she had a brain.

“It’s just the weather,” Meggie murmured in reply to Seanmhair’s question.

Seanmhair sighed. “Ach, I was hoping it was the men below. The company of three fine, handsome lairds certainly sets my heart aflutter, even at my age. Laird MacVane is a widower. D’ye suppose the others are unwed as well?”

“Don’t you dare start matchmaking, Seanmhair. You do it every time you see an unmarried man. This is not a husband hunt. We’re only here for the night, and we’ll be leaving as soon as the snow stops.”

“Och, ye can’t blame me for trying, lass. It’s past time ye were wed. I was a bride at sixteen, and I had seven children by the time I was your age. Now you’re all I have left. You’re my heir, but there are things I cannot give ye. I want to see ye happy in love with the right man before I leave this earth.”

“I am very happy, Seanmhair.” Meggie said. She glanced at the snowy window. “I’ll be even happier once we’re on the road to Glen Iolair tomorrow. Perhaps we can leave early, make up some time . . .”

Maighread shook her head. “Don’t wish for that, lass. My joints say it’s going to snow for a week.” She turned and glanced at her manservant. “What does your elbow say, Ewan?”

He rubbed the joint and smiled ruefully at Meggie. “I believe she’s right, lass. It’s a very bad storm, and it will be a long one.”

Meggie’s hand tightened on the brush, and desperation rose in her breast. “Nay—you can’t predict the weather by asking your elbows!” But the storm had come with the sudden ferocity her grandmother had predicted. She felt like a caged cat. “Nay, it can’t last. Surely it’s the long ride today that has your joints aching. You need a dose of willow bark and a good night’s rest.”

Her grandmother and Ewan exchanged a look.

“Och, I know ye miss home and your sisters, but we’ll make the most of the company here,” Maighread said. She pulled Meggie down and bussed her cheek. “Go put on a pretty gown, and we’ll go down to supper.”

A pretty gown . . . Meggie blushed as she considered the one gown she’d bought with her, other than the travelling dress she had on. It was a confection of scarlet silk, red damask, and shimmering lace, fashionably low cut. Far too low cut for Gleanngalla in a snowstorm, but she’d expected to be at a lavish party at Raine Castle tonight, in very different, far easier company. Now she wished she had something modest and demure, the kind of dull dress that declared her virtuous and untouchable. She blushed yet again as she remembered just how much unvirtuous touching she’d allowed Magnus when she was eighteen and had imagined herself in love. Had it been love? She wasn’t sure she knew what love was—and Magnus was to blame for that, too. She still wasn’t ready, even after so many years, to trust another man with her heart. She envied her sisters their good luck in love and the loyal, loving, honorable men they’d married. She was sure she’d never find such a man.

She ran her fingers over the red brocade and told herself she didn’t care. The dress was worldly and beautiful, the antidote to how foolish she’d been once, and how trusting she’d been with Magnus MacVane. His promises of love had died the moment the sun came up. He’d been her first—her only—love. Since then, she’d hidden her fears and her tender heart behind flirtation, witty quips, and dazzling gowns like this one. When men looked at her, they saw a flirt, a lass who was good fun, charming company, fit for a dance or a kiss, but not for a wife.

Never a wife.

They might stare and imagine what lay beneath her lavish gowns, but no one made it past the silk and the ribbons and the lace to the vulnerable heart underneath. She never let them get that far. She avoided mistletoe and midsummer bowers and moonlit gardens. She winked and smiled and sidestepped, and never, ever, let herself be caught.

She looked at the bold gown again. She had the soft blue wool she was wearing, but the hem was damp and muddy. It was a dress for a simple country lass, a workaday thing of thick wool meant to keep her warm on the road. It was too rough for supper. And she’d worn blue the night she’d first gone walking with Magnus and allowed him to steal a kiss. The next night, she’d worn green, and things had gone further still. The third night she’d rushed to their trysting place wearing violet silk under a dark cloak, forsaking her shift and petticoats, knowing what would happen. She’d been so in love . . .

She hadn’t known that Magnus came to her straight from Eachan MacKay, where he’d signed a contract to wed Euna the very next day.

She heard the announcement of the nuptials from her father a week later, when she shyly asked if he’d had any news from Gleanngalla.

She looked out at the snow one more time and blinked back tears—not for regret at what might have been, or for a lost love, but for the shame of her own foolishness.

Defiantly, she put on the red silk. She’d rather be anywhere but here, even freezing to death on the open road, but she’d dress in red, play Meggie-the-Flirt as if nothing at all was amiss. She looked in the mirror. There was no need to pinch her cheeks for color—her face was hot enough to cook bannock, and her eyes glittered. She held her head high and practiced the smile of a hardened, carefree flirt.

Then she slid her dirk into her sleeve and went downstairs for supper.

* * *

Charlie MacKay lay on the wide bed in the usual chamber he occupied when he came to Gleanngalla. And also as usual, he had a cup in his hand and a full pitcher of whisky stood on the table beside the bed. He stared across the room at the window, mesmerized by the patterns the snow had etched on the glass panes.

“Meggie,” he drawled to himself. “Now would that be short for Margaret after the saint, or for Maighread, after her granny?”

He thought about her lush curves, her golden curls, her wide eyes—he hadn’t been able to decide if they were blue or violet, but he planned assess them further at supper. “And that mouth,” he muttered. He cupped his hand over his half-hard prick and grinned, imagining what a good use he’d put those lush lips to if he had the chance, if he won the wager.

But the idea of Meggie’s mouth on Magnus spoiled the moment, and he cursed his brother-in-law and got up to pace the room.

He owed Magnus a fortune, and Magnus wanted his money back, which is why Charlie had been invited to Gleanngalla. He’d barely been in the door five minutes when Magnus told him he’d forgive the debt if Charlie wed Catriona.

But Catriona was a shrew.,and a stubborn, difficult, irritating brat. Magnus’s half-sister was a thorn in Magnus’s thick hide, and the only person who dared to cross him.

It had looked as if Charlie might not have a choice, since he didn’t have the coin to pay the debt.

But MacAulay would take her now. Catriona would be his problem.

He poured another cup of whisky and grinned “Here’s to MacAulay,” he said. “May he be strong in the face of such a dreadful enemy.”

He’d still owe Magnus money, but at least he wouldn’t be burdened with Catriona. “I’m a lucky, lucky lad,” he said.

And if his luck held, he’d have Meggie MacLeod instead. He cupped his balls again and laughed. He’d have the coin to repay Magnus then. Hell, with Meggie’s tocher he’d be richer than Magnus a dozen times over. “And I’ll have a sweet wife I’ll never let out of bed.”

He practiced charming compliments in French, Gaelic, and even English as he donned his finest linen shirt, the one with the French lace cuffs. He topped it with his plaid and the blue velvet coat that lasses always said made his eyes sparkle irresistibly. He turned those eyes to the window, and the snow, and bowed low. “My thanks to ye in advance, Cailleach,” he said, and went downstairs for supper.