“It’s been a while since I’ve put my fingers to the keys, but I will give it my best.”

Seated at the gleaming mahogany grand piano in the drawing room, Mrs. Taylor played a scale, then another in a higher key. Before Leana had removed the heavy white cloth covering it and ushered the cook in to serve as pianist for her dancing lesson with Isla, the instrument looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years.

As the matron pressed her fingers to the ivory keys, Leana smiled to herself. Who would’ve guessed the stern-faced cook possessed a love for music and was happy to put her talents to work for Isla’s benefit?

“My father was the vicar in our village, and I’d often play the piano in the chapel before Da gave his sermon. My mum taught me the notes and chords.” Hammering out the notes of her warm up, Mrs. Taylor struck a sharp which didn’t quite belong. A strangely discordant flat followed, and the rhythm was not quite what it should’ve been. As Isla scrunched her face, the cook cringed, then threw up her hands in defeat.

Leana comforted her with a gentle touch. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Perhaps you should play the instrument. I’m badly out of practice,” Mrs. Taylor said. “It’s been such a very long time.”

“You will be fine,” Leana encouraged. “I cannot play and teach Isla the steps at the same time. This means so much to her.”

The cook glanced down at her uncooperative fingers and sighed. “I shall try. For the girl’s sake.”

“Thank you,” Leana said.

Mrs. Taylor began again. As her fingers warmed and memory took over, the music began to flow. They didn’t need perfection. They only needed the melody and, most of all, the rhythm.

“Shall we begin?” Leana said, turning to Isla.

Isla grinned, and step by step, Leana guided her in the motions of the dance. She’d never actually led before, but she managed to assume the gentleman’s role without too much difficulty.

Seated on the edge of a plump, overstuffed chair bearing a brightly flowered upholstery cover, Bridget giggled with delight at the sight.

“Come here, little one,” Isla said, coaxing her sister to join her. As Mrs. Taylor played the melody, the girl took her young sibling’s hands and twirled her about, as if they were dancing in a grand ballroom.

“I am a princess,” Bridget said with joy.

“I’ve no wish to be a princess,” Isla said. “Only me. Someday, I shall dance at a ball celebrating a grand discovery I’ve made.”

“Oh, will ye now?” Rory chimed in, crossing into the room, a cheerful smile on his face.

“Of course,” Isla said. “I may discover a star at the edge of the galaxy. Or perhaps a new comet.”

Rory gave a nod. “I dinna doubt it, lass. Ye’re quite the clever one. Just like yer mum.”

Isla beamed. Placing her hands on her hips, she proudly tilted her chin. “Did ye see me…did ye see me dancing?”

“Aye. Ye’ll be the belle of the ball when ye’re grown into a lovely lass.” Rory raked his long fingers through his dark hair. “Miss Fraser, I was wonderin’ if ye might be of assistance to me.”

Leana turned to him as Mrs. Taylor hit another sour note. “How may I be of service?”

“He wants to go courtin’,” Mrs. Taylor said with a laugh. “I can see it on his face.”

“Courtin’?” Isla’s brow furrowed. “Miss Fraser doesna want the likes of ye, Rory.”

Rory threw Mrs. Taylor a glance, then met Leana’s questioning gaze. “She’s right. And the lass in question wishes to be treated like a lady.”

I take it dancing is important to a fine lass.

His words at supper the night before came to mind. She bit back a knowing smile. “Ah, this lass wishes to dance at a ball.”

“That would seem to be the case,” he said. “Sadly, the man ye see before ye knows little more than how to put one foot in front of the other.”

With his granite-cut jaw, silky sable hair, and those dark, appealing eyes, Rory MacArron would likely charm the young woman in question even without benefit of the waltz. But if he saw the dance as the key to the lass’s heart, who was Leana to question his assessment?

“It would be my pleasure to teach you. I’m not so very talented at the art of the dance, but I manage not to tread on too many toes.”

A grin pulled at his mouth. “I was hopin’ ye’d say that, Miss Fraser.”

In a show of surprising enthusiasm, Mrs. Taylor pounded out the notes of every waltz in her limited repertoire as Leana guided Rory in the steps of the dance. Moving in time to the music, he proved an adept pupil. Though mechanical in his motions at first—one-two-three, one-two-three—before long, he’d eased into the rhythm with an innate grace.

His large, warm hand rested at her waist, and he smiled down at her, evidently pleased with his progress.

“I don’t know who you’ve got your eye on, but I suspect she will be utterly charmed,” Leana said.

“Ah, she’s got her pick of suitors. I’ve little to offer a lass like her.”

“I’m afraid I have to disagree. She’d be fortunate to have a man like you come calling,” Leana said. “But the heart is a fickle thing, indeed. If you do not win her over, she’s not the one for you.”

“Sage advice,” Captain MacArron said from the doorway. As he strolled into the room, Leana’s heart picked up a beat, then another. How long had he been standing there, observing in his keen-eyed way?

Rory didn’t miss a step, even as he threw his brother a scowl. “Bah, ye dinna think much of my chances.”

“All young men are fools,” the captain said. “That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

“Ye’ve grown sour in yer old age,” Rory shot back.

A dark brow shot up, and MacArron laughed. “I’m old enough to know better than to go chasing skirts—” His glance slanted to his daughters seated on the chaise, and his other brow lifted, as though he’d realized their presence a heartbeat too late.

Isla appeared to bite back a giggle. No doubt she’d heard far worse with her father’s rough-hewn brother and crew in the place.

Rory’s mouth turned down. Had his brother’s dour attitude dampened his spirits?

Leana met the younger man’s eyes. “Well, for what it’s worth, I believe any gentleman or gentlewoman benefits from an essential knowledge of music and the dance, regardless of one’s motives for acquiring the skills.”

Captain MacArron folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Aye, I hadna thought of it that way. If we’re ever trying to fend off an attack at sea, my first mate can now deftly maneuver away from a saber. One-two-three. One-two-three. Eh, Rory?”

“Bug—” Rory glanced at the girls who hung on his every word and cut off his retort.

“Really, Captain,” Leana paused to flash a restrained smile. “If I did not know better, I’d think you were a bit intimidated to see that your brother and daughter have acquired a skill you do not possess.”

In response, he rubbed his jaw, as if in contemplation. Mrs. Taylor stopped playing in mid-note, sending Leana a concerned frown.

Something dangerous and yet far-too-intriguing flashed in his eyes. “Intimidated, eh?”

Oh, dear. I’ve made a muddle of things, haven’t I? Again.

If only I could keep my lips sealed.

Her first instinct was to tiptoe away and begin to pack her things before he could toss her out on her bum. She resisted the impulse, but her second instinct wasn’t much braver. Perhaps she could wriggle her way out of the verbal muck hole she’d both dug and stepped in up to her knees.

And then, she caught the look of challenge in those compelling eyes and on his seductive mouth. No, she thought. I will not retreat. That isn’t what he wants. Far from it.

She squared her shoulders. “Intimidated might not be the precise word. Perhaps disconcerted would be a better fit. After all, it’s not every day a powerful man learns that in at least one area, he is not the most accomplished member of his household…or his crew.”

His other brow lifted. “Ye assume I dinna know the waltz. Why is that, Miss Fraser?”

Oh, my. She hadn’t expected this reply. Had she made the mistake of underestimating him?

Hiking her chin ever so slightly, she met the challenge glittering in his gaze. “One could infer from your remarks—”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Ye’ve reached an incorrect conclusion.” The captain approached her, motioning to his brother to step away. “Mrs. Taylor, if ye will be so kind.”

“T’would be my pleasure, Captain,” the cook said pleasantly, then tapped the keys in the opening strains of one of Chopin’s most beautiful compositions.

“May I have this dance, Miss Fraser?” MacArron reached for her hand. His other hand settled gently at her waist. Through the fabric of her dress, his heat seared her with an unexpected awareness. Rory’s touch had left her entirely unmoved. But the captain’s brought her senses to life. How maddening!

“Of course,” Leana said, even though he’d made the decision for her the moment he took her hand in his.

Guiding her across the polished wood planks of the improvised ballroom, he held her gently—and quite properly—as the tinny strains of the music played in her ears. In a show of instinctive rhythm and masculine grace, he led Leana in the dance. The touch of his lean, hard body stirred a pounding of her pulse in her ears, threatening to drown out the notes Mrs. Taylor struck on the piano.

His mouth had curved into a slight smile, its warmth genuine, as the gleam continued to dance in his eyes. Did he have any idea how his nearness affected her? Could he possibly know how the restrained strength in his gentle hold stirred a wanting in her, a longing she should not—absolutely, definitely, positively could not—afford to feel?

He dipped his head, his voice little more than a whisper. “Dinna make assumptions about me, Miss Fraser. Ye dinna know me—nor what I am capable of.”

He’d spoken matter-of-factly, without the slightest hint of malice. Yet something in his tone struck a clear warning in Leana’s heart.

He released her then, taking a step back as Mrs. Taylor clanged another misplaced sharp.

Well, she would not let him get the better of her. She managed a pleasantly bland tone. “Most impressive, Captain MacArron.”

“I’ve no desire to impress ye, Miss Fraser. Merely to set the record straight.” He strode to the doorway, glancing over his shoulder as he crossed the portal. “A man should not have to change himself to impress a woman—any woman. I learned that lesson long ago, Rory. I’d suggest ye keep it in mind.”

So the slip of a woman thought she’d get the better of him, did she? Mulling the thought, Jamie left the house and went seeking the peace to be found at the water’s edge. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, even to himself, the governess’s refusal to meekly hold her tongue and avoid confronting him at all costs was a refreshing change from the whey-faced lasses who took one glance at him, decided the Devil of the Highlands was an apt moniker, and refused to even look him in the eye.

God knew one could never say as much about Miss Leana Fraser. Why, the lass would walk the blasted plank before she’d censor herself. Given she had fewer than ten days to prove herself a suitable governess, he’d expected her to treat his word as law without daring to question what came out of his mouth. If deferential behavior was indeed one of his criteria for keeping Leana on as a member of the household staff, she would’ve been in a carriage headed back to the agency the first night after her arrival.

The lass challenged him at every turn. Why the hell did he tolerate her insolence?

Was it because her eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit and a genuine kindness? Or was it the true delight she took in his daughters’ blossoming after only a few days in her care?

Gazing at the waves crashing against the shore, he drank in the sights and smells of the coastline. Since he’d been a lad, the sea had been like a second home, the place where he felt the most invigorated, the most alive. How he’d loved sailing in those early days.

Until the sea had become a place of battle, a place to pillage and plunder and wield the advantages of clever strategy, to win at all costs, with ships designed to outpace the enemy at every turn.

Against his will, Miss Fraser’s smiling face flitted into his thoughts. Banishing the image from his mind’s eye proved as challenging as sending away the living, breathing woman from his home. When the time came—and it would come, and not soon enough—his daughters would not welcome the turn of events.

He scowled to himself. Damnation, he’d set himself up as a villain in this piece, hadn’t he? Isla and Bridget would not be happy when he ultimately sent Miss Fraser on her way. Christ, what a bluidy understatement. If he had any sense, he’d get the task over and done with. Every passing day made it harder to dismiss her. But fool that he was, he would honor his agreement.

Then, she’d have to go.

He had to find a governess who would pose no temptation to the crew. Or to him. He could not go out to sea with his daughters in tow unless he had a capable woman on board to watch over them—a competent teacher who would not present a distraction, not a beauty who’d have his crew falling over themselves trying to win her favor.

He’d fully expected Miss Fraser to fail miserably. It had been a reasonable assumption, hadn’t it? Only one of the other governesses had managed to break through Isla’s defiance. Miss Thompson—if that was her blasted name—had been summoned to Edinburgh to care for an ailing relative. After he sent Miss Fraser back to wherever the hell it was she’d come from, he’d dispatch his solicitor to inquire about Miss Thompson’s interest in a return to Castle MacArron.

He pictured the waif-thin woman in his mind. Miss Thompson had been competent, and she’d never gone against his word. And by thunder, she did not tempt him beyond his limits.

He was drawn to Miss Fraser, more than he had any right to be. For her good as well as his own, he needed to see her on her way.

There was no future here for her.

No future with his children.

No future with him.

By hellfire, he shouldn’t have danced with her. The moment he took Leana’s hand and led her in a blasted waltz, he’d cast his good sense to the wind.

What the bluidy hell had he been trying to prove?

If he hadn’t known better, he’d think he was jealous of his own brother. In truth, he couldn’t be sure his impulsive actions were not spurred by jealousy. Had he needed to demonstrate to the governess that he was more than a pirate? More than the Devil of the Highlands?

His fingers went to his cheek, tracing the length of the scar. He’d never been a vain man. But the razor-sharp blade had left its mark. Not only on his face. But on his soul.

After he’d returned from that mission, his wife had never looked upon him the same. She’d shown no sign of revulsion. No hint of contempt. But rather in her gaze, he’d seen her uncertainty, as though he’d gone into battle and returned a different man from the one she’d known, the man she’d loved. Siobhan had grown cold. Distant. In her eyes, he was no longer a man to be looked upon with tenderness.

He’d been marked by rage, a man who would always bear a symbol of violence. Of hatred.

He was a man most feared on sight.

Even Siobhan had seemed to harbor a deep-seated fear. Though he’d never raised a hand to her, had never spoken to her in anger, she seemed to sense the danger shadowing him.

In the end, she’d been right.

She’d died because of what he’d done.

Lovely Siobhan had paid the price for the violence he’d wrought to make his fortune. Even though he’d walked away from the pirate’s life—left the Highland Raiders behind and took up a life as a respectable merchant—there’d been no escaping it.

As the sea battered the rocks below him, a merciless gust struck a chill through his body. If he had a brain left in his thick skull, he’d return to the comfort of his home rather than stand here while the wind’s icy fingers reached to the bone.

His brother’s voice carried to his ears. Leaving the cliff’s edge, he pulled his coat tighter around him.

“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ye,” Rory called. “The wind is bitter enough to freeze yer bits.”

“Can a man find any peace on his own land?’ Jamie asked.

“A messenger arrived. He’s come and gone, but he left this for ye. He said it’s a matter of consequence.”

Jamie took the envelope from his brother’s hand. A single initial embossed the wax seal. L. Tearing open the envelope, he took in the neatly penned message.

“What is it, Jamie? Ye seem as if ye’ve looked into the eyes of the devil himself.”

He reread the missive, convincing himself his eyes had not played a fiendish trick.

“Take it,” he said, extending the letter.

Rory stared down at it, his eyes narrowing in anger and shock. “The bloke wants to spur ye into doin’ his biddin’. This canna mean—”

Anger surged in Jamie’s veins. Bluidy good thing Finch was not around at that moment. He might well have killed the no-good cur.

Who will be the next to pay for your crime? The time for penance is now—before all is lost.