After MacArron marched away, Mrs. Taylor showed Leana into the drawing room while a chamber was prepared for her stay.

“I’ll let the housekeeper know you’re waiting in here. Fair warning, Mrs. Davidson is not a very pleasant sort. She’s prickly, if you know what I mean,” Mrs. Taylor said matter-of-factly.

“I will do my best to avoid upsetting her.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.” Mrs. Taylor offered a thin smile. “The only reason she’s here is to keep a roof over her head. Her husband served as the captain’s navigator for years. When he took ill, they came here until he passed on to his reward. Tilly’s son and his wife are in Edinburgh, but they say there’s no room in their home for their dear old mother. So the captain keeps her on here. She appointed herself the housekeeper, and she runs a tight ship. Do your best to keep the captain’s girls out of mischief, and you’ll have a friend in her.”

“The captain’s daughters—what are their ages?”

Mrs. Taylor’s brow furrowed. “The little one, Bridget, is just turned four, and Isla is nearing her tenth birthday. They’re sweet bairns, really. ’Tis not their fault they’ve had no one reining them in. Captain MacArron adores those girls. Truly, he does. But he will not discipline them. Especially the little one. I suppose it’s hard for him, seeing their mother every time he looks at their little faces.”

“Might I ask how long they’ve been without her?”

The arch of Mrs. Taylor’s brows sagged into a frown. “I would’ve thought they’d have told you at the agency. It’s goin’ on three years now since it happened. Little Bridget was just a wee babe. The poor child never even knew her mum. A tragedy, I tell you. Of course, they might’ve kept the full truth from you—they wouldn’t want to frighten you.”

“Frighten me?”

Mrs. Taylor leaned closer, lowering her voice to not quite a whisper. “Mrs. MacArron did not die a natural death. You see, she toppled from a high window. The captain had been at sea. He returned that night, but it was too late.”

A shiver snaked along Leana’s spine. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep them from quivering. “I did not know.”

Mrs. Taylor’s frown deepened. “I fear I’ve said too much. Please, do not tell a soul what I’ve told you.”

Questions danced on the tip of Leana’s tongue, but the caution in Mrs. Taylor’s expression urged against uttering them. There’d be time later to learn more about his wife’s death.

“I won’t mention it. Not to anyone.”

“Especially not to the captain.” Mrs. Taylor turned to the door. “I’ll go and find the housekeeper. There’s a fine room used by the previous governesses. She keeps it at the ready, so it won’t require more than a bit of freshening.”

“Might I ask how many governesses have attended the children?”

A hint of a smile played on the matron’s lips. “You’ll be the third since Hogmanay.”

“The third?”

Mrs. Taylor nodded. “One of them didn’t last a week. The crow-faced woman found no humor in Bridget’s antics. She didn’t take to bairns like I do.”

If the cook realized the irony in her statement given her own reaction to the child’s adventures with baking flour, her expression did not betray it.

Oh, dear. “I do not anticipate any difficulties with the girls.” Leana said, shoring up her confidence.

“You’ll do well, dear. I feel it in my bones.” With that, Mrs. Taylor bustled from the room, leaving Leana to her own devices.

While she awaited the cook’s return, Leana scanned the walls of the elegantly wall-papered room. Taking in the large, gilded-framed portraits on the walls, she studied each image. Dignified men in their plaids and beautiful women in their elegant dresses stared down at her, each attired with the tartans of their clans, their expressions as intimidating as the flesh-and-blood man who’d reluctantly agreed to let her stay. Pausing before a portrait of a fair-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to James MacArron, she took in his carved features and piercing eyes. No look of welcome could be found in the forbidding gaze the portraitist had captured centuries earlier. A family trait, no doubt.

Her fingers tightened around the leather handle on her satchel. If the men wondered at her lack of a proper trunk and a wardrobe, they hadn’t expressed the question. Truth be told, she was fortunate to have the contents of that meager bag. She’d fled the house with only the clothes on her back while Gilford lay unconscious in his study. Thankfully, a sympathetic housemaid had gathered as many of Leana’s garments as she could sneak away without drawing suspicion and enlisted a hack to transport the flowery carpetbag to the home of Leana’s elderly uncle. Her wardrobe was sparse, but it would have to do until she could find a way to purchase more clothing.

Leaving the room, she slowly moved along the length of the corridor, taking in more portraits she assumed to be MacArron’s ancestors. At the end of the hall, she stopped suddenly, transfixed by the last portrait in the row.

Unlike the others, this portrait depicted a woman wearing clothing she herself might have donned, a gown in a rich shade of blue that brought out the striking color of her eyes. The young beauty smiled down at her, radiantly lovely with honey-gold hair. In a flash of understanding, she saw the resemblance between this woman and the tiny imp who’d scurried away from Mrs. Taylor. Her breath caught. Was this the girls’ mother? Was this MacArron’s wife?

“There ye are. I was afraid ye’d come to yer senses and run from here.”

Startled, she whipped around, meeting the dark-eyed gaze of Rory MacArron.

“I’ve no intention of doing any such thing.”

He pretended to shudder. “Aye, I wouldna be so sure if I were you. Let’s see what ye say after a week with those girls.”

“I cannot imagine why a grown man would allow children to get the better of him.”

“I suspect ye’re goin’ to find out.” He grinned, the humor in his eyes as appealing as his smile.

“I take it the girls have been without a mother for quite some time.”

He cocked a dark brow. “Mrs. Taylor’s been runnin’ her mouth again?”

“I would not describe it as such.”

Throwing the portrait a glance, he motioned Leana to the stairs. “After my brother lost his wife, everything changed. I’ll say no more on the matter, other than to tell ye I believe those lasses will warm to ye. Ye’ll do well with them.”

Mrs. Taylor hurried down the stairs. At her side, a lean woman with a careworn face and a mass of graying ringlets cast an appraising gaze over Leana. Judging from the woman’s expression, this had to be the prickly Mrs. Davidson.

“So you’re the new governess,” the newcomer said.

“For the time being. Leana Fraser, at your service.”

Mrs. Taylor introduced the woman, confirming Leana’s suspicion. Mrs. Davidson pursed her lips, as if considering her words carefully.

“Come along, dear,” the housekeeper said, her words more pleasant than her tone. “I’ve prepared your room.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Mrs. Davidson’s eyes narrowed as her gaze lit on Leana’s bag. Her attention shot to Rory MacArron. “I’ll ask you to make yourself useful. Please bring Miss Fraser’s trunk to her room.”

Quickly, Leana shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Not necessary? Lass, you cannot think of carrying a heavy case yourself when there’s a strong lad around. It would be unseemly.”

She offered another shake of her head. “I did not bring a trunk, only this traveling case.”

If Leana had declared she could sprout wings and could fly to London, Mrs. Davidson’s expression might have been less incredulous. She pursed her lips tight, as if she’d just taken a bite of lemon. Her gaze returned to the bag, then shot to Rory. “Well, then, if this isn’t a first. Take the lady’s bag and show her to her room. Please.”

“My pleasure,” he said, performing an overly formal bow before taking the bag from her hand. “My back thanks ye, miss. It was startin’ to ache at the mere thought of a steamer trunk weighted down with a miss’s wardrobe.”

“There’s nothing heavy in there. Not at all,” she said.

“So much the better for me,” he said and headed up the stairs. “Settle in, lass. Ye’ve some busy days ahead of ye.”

Leana’s gaze trailed up the massive spiral staircase, watching as he made short work of the steps. With his long, powerful legs and lean build, he bounded up two at a time. She hurried behind as quickly as she could without tripping over her skirts. Taking a tumble certainly wasn’t in her plans. He waited for her at the top of the stairs, flashing a grin.

“Ye’ve no need to rush, lass. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He gave his head a small shake. “I dinna know how ye do it.”

“Do it?” she called up the steps. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“It’s a mystery to me how you ladies are able to go about yer lives in those cumbersome skirts. At least ye’re not wearing one of those ridiculous contraptions under yer skirt.”

“You mean a bustle?”

“Or a hoop. The girls’ mum wore one under her skirts before she came here to live. I’ve seldom seen anything more absurd than a lass trying to sit like a lady in one of those blasted things.” As Leana stepped onto the landing, he motioned her to his right. “Yer room’s down here. If ye have a problem with anything, be sure to let me know.”

She followed his brisk steps, moving quickly to keep up as he led her down the corridor. He opened the fifth door down, set her bag inside, then moved out of her way.

Leana stepped through the door. The room was modest in size, scrupulously clean, and boasted not one but two windows. Heaven! She flung open the cheerful yellow curtains and drank in the fresh, clean breeze blowing in the window.

“This is lovely,” she said, turning to Rory. “I’ll be quite comfortable.”

“Let me know if ye’re needin’ anything, and I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you,” she said as he turned and closed the door behind him.

She scanned the room, taking it in. The furnishings were modest—a bed covered by a charming, hand-stitched quilt, a dresser chest, a small wardrobe, and a woven rug that had seen better days. But the room suited as well as a more lavishly appointed space. She’d be safe and comfortable in this house, and she’d no cause to bolt her door for fear of being interrupted by the man of the house. Which certainly had not been the case with her former employer, cad that he was.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, she sighed with relief. All in all, things had gone far better than they might have. Now, to secure her position here. Surely it would not be so difficult to win over MacArron’s daughters and convince the pirate to keep her on.

She lay back on the patchwork coverlet, running her fingers over the soft cotton sewn into a starburst pattern. Someone had put a great deal of love and effort into the quilt.

Had MacArron’s wife stitched the intricate design? His mother? Or was it merely the product of talented hands out to make a living?

With a little sigh, she closed her eyes. She’d rest for a few moments then freshen up before the evening meal.

A soft rap upon the door broke through her solitude. Mrs. Davidson called softly through the stout wood panel.

“I wanted to check on you and see how you’re settling in,” the housekeeper said, brushing a gray curl off her cheek as Leana admitted her.

“This is such a comfortable room,” Leana said. “Why, the floors are so clean, they shine.”

Mrs. Davidson beamed. “I do pride myself on keeping this house up to snuff. As you can imagine, it’s a challenge. I thank the heavens the captain doesn’t use the entire castle for living space. The east wing is closed down, has been for decades. No one has used the space since his great-grandfather returned from showing Napoleon’s admirals what’s what.”

“Captain MacArron’s ancestor was a naval officer?”

“No, Seamus MacDougall wanted no part of the Royal Navy.” Mrs. Davidson’s face creased into a warm smile. “The man was far too bold for that.”

“Then how…how did he best the admirals?”

“Ah, the old man was a pirate. The fiercest of his time, or so they said. He took pleasure besting the French captains and seizing their cargos. As the story goes, an English admiral was so impressed by Captain MacDougall’s daring attacks, he secured a letter of marque for the man. As a privateer, Seamus MacDougall did what he’d done all along, but with the Crown’s blessing. After the war, he was knighted by the king, though he cared little about such an honor.”

“Did you know the man?”

A fine mist dampened the housekeeper’s gray eyes. “I was a young girl—only twelve or so—when Captain MacDougall and his bride moved into his ancestral home after the war. My da had been his head groundskeeper, my mum his housekeeper, just as I am for Captain MacArron. I still remember the sight of Seamus MacDougall, so tall and proud, with that wavy hair of his and those shiny black boots. I’ll admit, my heart went to pounding just a bit faster than it should’ve when I laid eyes on him. He was a handsome one, he was.”

Just like his great-grandson.

“What was it like, living with a pirate and his family?”

“You’ll know the answer to that question soon enough,” the older woman said, nodding softly. “Captain MacDougall was a kind man, utterly devoted to his wife and his son. But sadly, he was not destined to find happiness here.” She sighed. “Well, then, I must be going. I’ll have your bath drawn whenever you’re ready.”

“Why, Mrs. Davidson, surely you don’t expect me to wait for the rest of the story.” Leana smiled. “You must tell me what happened.”

“Very well,” the matron said, nibbling her lower lip. “There was a wildness in Seamus MacDougall. He loved his wife—Beth was her name—but he seemed caged in here, and before long, he returned to the sea. One night during a spring storm, his ship was caught up in the pounding waves and ran aground, tearing the vessel in two. At first, some believed he’d died. When they carried the awful news to his wife, the poor dear was heartsick. She was heavy with their second child, you know, and in her grief, she collapsed and birthed the babe too soon. My father rode into town and brought back a midwife, but nothing could be done. The mother and babe were lost before the captain could return home.” Anguish uneased by the passage of time gave Mrs. Davidson’s voice a ragged edge. She sniffled, unable to choke back a tear.

“How very sad,” Leana said.

Mrs. Davidson swiped at the teardrop on her cheek. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the misery in the captain’s voice when he learned the horrible news. I never heard such a sound again until many years later, on the night Captain MacArron returned home from a voyage. If he’d made it back a few hours earlier, he might’ve saved his wife.” Dabbing at her eye with a corner of her apron, she went to the door. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to say anything to distress you. I do not intend to drive you away.”

“Drive me away?” Leana reached out, lightly pressing her fingers over the woman’s trembling hand. “Rest assured, you did not say anything to cause distress. It hurts my heart to think that you and this family have had to endure such sadness.”

“Thank you, lass. I do not wish to frighten you, but I feel it’s my duty to tell you there’s talk…of a curse.” Excitement glimmered in the housekeeper’s eyes as she lowered her voice. “After Mrs. MacArron died…well, there are some who believe the castle itself is cursed. Heaven only knows what happened here over the centuries.”

A little shiver brushed over Leana’s nape, even as she dismissed the notion as superstition. “Do you agree with them?”

Mrs. Davidson shook her head. “I put little stock in tales spread by whispers. But I do have reason to suspect a ghost or two might hide away in the secret passages.”

“Secret passages?” Leana repeated, unable to stop herself. My, this place was becoming more fascinating by the moment. Mrs. Davidson was turning out to be a fountain of information.

“These castles were built to protect their occupants. They were also built to hide treasure and anything the Scots did not wish to fall into the hands of their enemies. If you look carefully, you’ll find any number of hidden spaces. But stay away if you do uncover one. I’m told they are treacherous, nearly impossible to navigate even with a lamp to guide you.”

“You can be sure I will not go exploring.”

“Please, do not tell the captain what I’ve said. He’s a fiercely private man.”

“Rest assured our conversation will go no further than this chamber.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Davidson said as she took her leave.

After the door closed behind the housekeeper, Leana went to the window and drew in a deep breath of fresh air tinged with a faint scent of salt from the coastal waters. A fresh chill danced over her skin.

Turning from the window, she sat on the small wing chair in the corner. What had she gotten herself into?

A sigh escaped her as she closed her eyes. She was letting Mrs. Davidson’s dramatic tone get to her. Whatever she faced here—whether it was a phantom peeking through the wall, an ancient curse, or a madwoman in the attic, it was preferable to facing the very real, very much alive, and very angry man she’d left behind in the city. Curses and ghosts were minor considerations compared to the possibility Lord Gilford might track her down. He would not forgive what she’d done.

If Lord Gilford found her, he’d see her dead. Of that, she had no doubt. She’d assaulted a blasted earl, of all things. No one would care that she’d acted only to defend herself. Who would take her word over his, a man whose title dated back to the reign of Queen Elizabeth? Even if they did believe her, who would care? She was a governess, a hired servant. She lightly touched her upper arms, feeling the tender spots where he’d dug in his fingers and squeezed. Terror had filled every cell in those moments, leaving her mindless and wild, frantic to survive. She’d done what she had to do to get away.

Just as she’d do now.

But if he found her here—would he dare to confront the Devil of the Highlands?

Her eyes opened wide at the thought. James MacArron had no reason to put his neck on the line for her. He had no reason to defend her.

But he would. As long as she was here, in his home, he would protect her. Honor would not permit him to do any less.

She came to her feet and went to the dresser, poured water into the basin, and splashed it on her face. Tormenting herself with what-if served no purpose. If the danger did follow her, she’d face it.

Just as she had that horrid day.

She dabbed the water off her face with a soft, clean towel and opened her traveling case. Her fingers curved around the handle of the sghian dubh she’d hidden within the tangle of hurriedly packed garments. As she pulled the dagger from the bag, sunlight gleamed on the lethally sharp weapon and the emerald embedded in its handle. Though the blade was not long, well-placed, it could kill a man. Her heart sped slightly at the thought. By now, Lord Gilford had surely realized she’d taken the dagger. He’d seek to reclaim the ancient weapon. Its value must be considerable. She hadn’t taken it for its worth. It had merely been convenient, the first weapon she’d spotted after she’d bashed the high-and-mighty scoundrel over the head.

Someday, once this was over and done and she was safe again, she’d see it returned to the earl’s family. She was no thief. She’d needed protection, not riches.

And for now, she’d do whatever it took to survive.