Mrs. Davidson summoned Leana to supper as the sun was setting over the mountains to the west of the castle. As she entered the modest dining room, hand-in-hand with the wee lass, Bridget, Leana spotted the older of her new charges in the kitchen. With the cook looking on proudly, Isla brought out a plate of bread she’d baked as Leana and Bridget took their seats at the table.

“Please, have a piece,” Isla urged. “You must be famished.”

“Thank you,” Leana replied, taking slices of the fresh-baked loaf for Bridget and herself. Her first bite confirmed the bread tasted as good as it smelled.

“Ah, ye’ve made oat bread again. I could smell it as soon as I came inside. Niece, do ye intend to feed me so well I bust the seams on my clothing?” Rory said with a ready smile. A pair of older, rough-and-tumble men flanked him, their gazes on Leana as they made their way to the table.

“Uncle Rory, I dinna recall forcing you to eat it,” Isla said, grinning as he broke off a hunk and took a bite.

“I canna resist,” he said. “Someday, lass, ye’re goin’ to make some fellow a good wife.”

“Bah,” the young lass scoffed. “I’ve no intention of ever bein’ a bride. I’ve far too many things I want to do, places I want to see. Who knows—I might even join Da at sea.”

“It’ll be a cold day in—” Rory caught sight of Mrs. Taylor’s scowl and stopped in the nick of time. As if to disguise his motives, he took another bite of bread before turning to Leana and introducing the men as members of his brother’s crew.

The older of the pair, a man whose long, graying hair was well in need of a good trim, shook his head. Peter McKown’s unkempt strands draped his eyes like a curtain. Brushing the strands aside, he regarded her with a skeptical gaze.

“Pleased to meet ye, lass. But are ye sure ye’re up to the task?”

She squinted at him, trying to decipher his question. “Whatever do you mean?”

He flashed a craggy grin. “Tryin’ to teach these lasses to be fine young ladies? Why, a soul who’s up to that challenge may not exist.”

Isla’s smile transformed to a smirk, even as her eyes betrayed a flicker of pain at the man’s words. Leana squared her shoulders and pressed her palms to the table before her. These girls were not untamable hellions. The cruel comments needed to stop.

She flashed Isla a speaking glance, then directed her attention to the gray-haired crewman.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. McKown,” Leana said in a warm tone. Deliberately, she hiked her chin and infused ice into her voice. “Though I must admit, I am taken aback by your words. These girls have suffered a great loss. They require a bit of guidance, nothing more.”

The younger of the pair, a lean man with a neatly trimmed beard and a full head of curly red hair, scoffed under his breath. Pinning him with her gaze, Leana slowly rose to her feet.

“Mr. Howell, do you care to elaborate? I see nothing humorous in my statement.”

“I meant no harm. It’s only that—well, I’ve seen these young lasses send stout-hearted women runnin’ for the door. I do wish ye luck. I suspect ye’re goin’ to need it.”

“From this moment forward, I will thank the both of you to keep your opinions regarding these girls to yourself.” She slanted Isla another glance. The girl’s eyes had gone wide as the hint of a smile played on her mouth. “Unless, of course, you would like to compliment Isla on her delicious bread. That would certainly be in order.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rory fold his arms at his waist. As he observed the situation, the faintest trace of amusement played on his mouth. That, at least, was a relief. If he’d taken offense at the way she’d issued a set-down to his associates, he did not show it.

Mrs. Taylor shot him a pointed look. “My, my, Rory MacArron, I’d think you’d know better than to bring those two in here while the ladies are dining.” Her attention shifted to the older of the two. “And you, Mr. McKown…when’s the last time a barber touched a scissors to your hair?”

The man named McKown shrugged, even as a light came to his eyes. “I canna say as I recall. Are ye volunteering for the job?”

“Not on yer life, Mr. McKown,” the matron replied, her indignation a bit too pronounced to be genuine.

“Never say never, Mrs. Taylor.”

With a little huff, she turned on her heel and marched back to the kitchen. Isla motioned to her uncle to join them. “Dinna listen to her. Come and join us, all three of you. We’ve more than enough food.”

“Thank ye, niece, but we’ve business with yer da. Our meals will have to wait ’til later.”

“Da is not dinin’ with us tonight?” Isla’s young voice wavered slightly with disappointment.

“Ah, I’m sorry t’be the bearer of bad news. But he willna be dinin’ with ye tonight.”

Lower lip trembling, Isla watched as her uncle turned to the door. The quiver intensified as the trio made their way down the corridor, away from the dining room.

Mrs. Taylor quietly entered the room and moved to the girl. “Isla, there’s no cause to make a scene. Yer da’s a busy man. Ye know that.”

“Of course I do,” the girl said. “If he’d hadn’t gone away…if he’d have been home that night…our mum would still be alive.”

In the quiet of his study, Jamie went to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and took out a photograph of the woman he’d loved, the woman who’d asked him to leave behind the life he’d known on the seas.

For Siobhan, he’d willingly turned his back on the Highland Raiders, the league of mercenaries and privateers who’d raided the shipments of smugglers and thieves on behalf of whichever government was willing to pay them the richest bounty for their spoils. Eager to make his fortune, he’d joined his first crew at the age of seventeen. By twenty-three, he was made captain of the Highland Sorceress by its owner, John McKay, a Scottish aristocrat with more money than Carnegie and a taste for adventure. Under Jamie’s command, the privateer and its crew had carried out increasingly daring attacks on ships running the Union blockade off the Atlantic coast during America’s Civil War. Operating under the terms of a secret bargain with high-ranking officials in Washington, his crew raided dozens of ships carrying munitions and arms intended for the Confederates—the weaponry was turned over to the government, while the smuggled goods and treasure intended to aid the Rebels was the ship’s to keep. McKay grew wealthier with each raid, and wisely shared the bounty with his captain and crew. By the end of the war, Jamie had made a fortune and gained a name—Devil of the Highlands.

Truth be told, he’d savored the name. The rush of adrenaline fueling every raid was a heady thing—even more thrilling than the riches they seized. After the war, Jamie and McKay turned to another privateering venture, this one even more lucrative. Pursing smugglers on behalf of the Crown, the Highland Raiders brought in bounty after bounty. Received with fanfare, Jamie and his crew were portrayed as bold heroes in the press.

But in the eyes of the curs whose schemes they’d ruined, they were the enemy.

An enemy that needed to be destroyed.

And they’d damned near succeeded.

Stretching out his legs, he studied the image. Siobhan had been a beauty. Her stormy blue eyes had flashed with emotion. At first, he’d seen passion in her gaze, until she grew weary of life with a man of the sea. The fire he’d adored had been replaced by a layer of frost she couldn’t hide.

Damn it, tormenting himself served no purpose. He returned the portrait to the drawer and locked it. Leaning back, he stared aimlessly at the ceiling. His gaze wandered to the window. Beyond the horizon, the sun was low in the sky. He’d retreated to this room, seeking quiet to clear his head. So far, he was doing a damned poor job of it.

He’d been a blasted fool to give Miss Fraser ten days to prove herself. The woman’s arrival had set his plans off kilter. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not at all. If he’d had a brain in his thick skull, he’d have sent her packing without a moment’s discussion. She wasn’t what he needed. Why the hell had he relented? He was the Devil of the Highlands, not some milquetoast fop. He should’ve stood his ground, no matter how hopefully Bridget clung to the woman’s skirts. He had one weakness—his daughters—and both Bridget and Isla knew how to take full advantage of that chink in his armor.

He’d intended to set out on a new venture, a return to his partnership with McKay—a shipping company, designed to transport cargoes at a rapid pace, shaving half the time off the current rate of sail. Confident his bairns were in the competent hands of a well-seasoned governess, he’d be able to take the girls aboard the ship from time to time. How in Hades could he venture out to sea with his daughters under the care of a beauty who’d tempt every man on the crew?

He lifted the tumbler of whisky he’d set beside him and took a hearty draught. As the Scotch flowed down his gullet, the thud of footsteps beyond his door set him on alert—at least three men, from the sound of it. Who the hell was here?

His brother entered without bothering to knock. Why the bluidy hell was he here—with McKown and Howell, no less? The sight was not a welcome one. Jamie hadn’t laid eyes on the members of his crew since their last voyage. Whatever had dragged them away from town, from the taverns and willing women they preferred over the seclusion of his home, it could not be good.

“I know ye dinna like to be disturbed, but ye need to hear this,” Rory said directly, closing the door behind him.

“What’s happened to bring the two of ye here?” Jamie asked, shifting his gaze between McKown and Howell.

McKown was the first to reply. “There’s some fellow in town looking for ye, goes by the name of Finch. The man’s not a captain…or a sailor, for that matter. He doesna look like he could bear a week at sea.”

“The high-and-mighty bastard says he represents an investor lookin’ to make a deal with ye,” Howell added.

“I take it ye both spoke to him,” Jamie said.

“Aye. He knew we were part of yer crew. We didna tell him how to find ye. But we’ve no doubt he will. He was laying down coin on the bar for anyone who’d give him information.”

Jamie took another drink. “Did ye recognize him?”

The men shook their heads. “Never seen the likes of him before. He doesna fit in these parts, I’ll tell ye that. Why, the suit the smug blighter was wearing was worth more than everything I own,” McKown said.

“That would not be saying much,” Rory said, chuckling under his breath. “Yer funds go on women and whisky.”

“Ye speak as if there’s a problem with that,” McKown retorted. “At least I know what t’do with a lass when I get my hands on a randy one.”

“Enough.” Jamie’s tone brokered no dissent. “Did Finch say who sent him after me?”

“He didn’t name the bloke. The bastard who hired him doesn’t want his identity known, but he’s after somethin’…somethin' he thinks ye can get for him.”

“I’ve no interest in whatever the man’s got to say.” Jamie took another drink. “I do appreciate ye givin’ me fair warning. I’ll be prepared to slam the door all the harder in Finch’s face.”