“I’m told my daughter is a fine cook.”

James MacArron’s husky voice pulled Leana from her thoughts. Looking up from her meal, she saw the Devil of the Highlands standing in the doorway. At this moment, he looked not so much like a pirate, but a man making an effort to seem a proper gentleman. He’d buttoned his collar to the throat, and his thick golden-brown hair had been swept into an orderly style. He could not, however, disguise the rogue beneath the respectable clothing. With a spark of challenge in his green eyes and the scar that created a permanent reminder he’d done battle in his life, MacArron would never fit the role of a staid country squire. No amount of snug collars could achieve such a feat. Especially when he wore his plaid slung around his lean hips, and his plain linen shirt emphasized the power in his broad, sleekly muscled shoulders.

Her rebellious thoughts wandered to a provocative image of undone buttons, firm, hard male chest, and crisp, light brown hair feathered over muscle and sinew. What would his skin feel like beneath her touch?

As if with a will of its own, her hand tightened around her fork. She batted the scandalous notions from her mind and forced her fingers to relax. Good heavens, what had come over her?

Quickly, she reined herself in. Such decadent thoughts had no place in her life. Heaven knew she couldn’t afford to desire MacArron—or any other man, for that matter. Emotion would only complicate matters.

Isla beamed with pride as her father strode into the dining room. He smiled down at his daughter. Faint lines feathered the corners of his eyes.

“I presume ye’ve saved some for me, lass,” he said as he closed the distance between them.

“Of course, Da,” the girl said. What seemed genuine joy infused her voice as she offered him a slice of bread. “I was wondering when you’d join us.”

“I had some business to attend,” he said, nodding to his brother and the men who followed him into the room. “But ye know I wouldna miss a meal ye’ve had a hand in preparing.”

Mrs. Taylor came to the table, carrying a serving tray laden with mutton and assorted vegetables. “’Tis a good thing I made extra portions.” Her gaze shot to Mr. Howell and Mr. McKown. “I was not expectin’ guests.”

“This day is filled with surprises.” MacArron’s bland tone did not match the flinty gleam in his eyes as he threw Leana a glance.

“Some pleasant,” Mrs. Taylor said. Her attention flickered back to Mr. McKown. “Some not.”

“Ye’ve never forgiven me for breakin’ yer heart, have ye?”

The cook’s glare might’ve cowed a dragon. “Dinna flatter yerself, ye old fool.” With that, she marched out of the room in a huff.

Leana braced herself for a retort, but silence seemed to hover over the room. She turned to MacArron. “I take it they’re acquainted.”

“Ye could say that.” The faintest of smiles quirked his sensuous, full mouth at one corner. “Retire to the country, they said. Make a life away from the sea… Bah, my existence was more peaceful boarding a blockade runner than it is in this house.”

The touch of humor in his voice made the low, husky tones all the more appealing.

Isla fixed her father with her most hopeful expression. “You will take me to sea with you, won’t you, Da?”

“Someday.”

The girl pursed her lips. “I want to see the world, far away from this damp, dingy old place.”

MacArron cocked a brow. “This is the home of yer ancestors. Ye should respect it.”

Isla shot him a scowl that rivaled any he might’ve formed. The captain could never deny the girl as his own. Her hair was the same golden brown as her father’s, and her chin bore the same stubborn set. Only her eyes were different. They were a deep, grayish blue, keenly intelligent and utterly lovely. But challenge flashed in her gaze, a defiance she did not hesitate to display.

“Someday, I’ll go to London. Just like Mama did before she married.” Isla turned to Leana. “She told me so many stories of those days. She so loved it.”

“I’ve never been to the city,” Leana said. “I’m told it’s quite fascinating.”

“My mother said it was her favorite place on all the earth. She wanted to go back…she was going to take me with her.” The child’s face sagged. Her lower lip quivered as she swiped away a tear drop. “But that can never happen now.”

Leana reached out and cupped her hand over the girl’s smaller one. “You miss her very much. I do understand.”

Another tear streamed down her cheek. “Did your mum leave you?”

“She became ill. And then, she died,” Leana explained gently, still holding her hand over the child’s to reassure her. “She didn’t want to leave me. Just as your mum did not wish to leave you.”

MacArron’s eyes flashed with an emotion Leana could not read. “Isla, your mother was a good woman. She would want you to be strong.”

The girl gulped, her throat visibly constricting as she swallowed against her tears. Did the child often feel she had to be brave and hold in her grief? A dull pain stabbed at Leana’s chest. Words sprang to her tongue, heartfelt but foolish to voice to this man whose shelter she needed at least for the time being.

Still, she could not hold them back. She would not allow the girl to feel shame for expressing an emotion as natural as taking a breath.

“Strong?” she questioned, meeting his eyes. “Your daughter’s emotions are only natural and should be freely expressed.”

MacArron’s brows hiked as his mouth pulled taut. At his side, his brother frowned and gave a slight shake of his head, seeming to signal Leana to hold her tongue.

“This does not concern you, Miss Fraser.”

“I’m afraid it does, Captain. Grief is not a matter of strength. It is a matter of a hurt that never quite heals, of a loss that comes roaring back when we least expect it. Your daughter must be allowed to express her sorrow. If not, the sadness will become a festering sore.”

She braced herself, anticipating a harsh rebuke. Instead, he regarded her silently for a long moment.

Finally, he pinned her with a scowl. “Roaring back, eh? I’d no idea governesses had such a talent for the dramatic.”

She held his gaze. “I assure you, I have no taste for drama. I speak from experience.”

That look flashed again in his eyes, deepening their hue to the color of a forest at twilight. Not with anger. But rather, a sense of amazement that she’d dared to challenge him swept over his features. He seemed to study her, his stubble-coated jaw hard as granite.

“Do ye, now? Am I to believe a woman as well-mannered and educated as yerself was a beleaguered orphan Mr. Dickens might’ve written about in one of his tales of woe?”

“My childhood was not so very harsh. In fact, it was rather pleasant. I was fortunate to have a loving father…one who understood a young girl’s sadness as well as the importance of setting reasonable expectations for my conduct. If you take my meaning, sir.”

Rory shook his head again, more urgently this time. The other men joined in, their expressions filled with silent warning.

A muscle ticked in MacArron’s jaw. “Indeed, I take yer meaning, Miss Fraser. Am I to presume ye intend to provide me with instruction on the duties of a proper father while teaching my daughters to be well-behaved young lasses over the course of the next ten days?”

The voice of logic whispering in her ear urged her to issue an apology for her boldness and keep to her place. Pity her heart was having none of it. She would not cower like an obedient little mouse when a young girl’s well-being was at stake.

“As a governess, it is my duty to see to the welfare of my charges. As such, I may be compelled to offer insights into the parenting of young girls which a man of the world might not possess.”

He nodded slowly, acknowledging her words. “Miss Fraser, this man of the world can send ye packin’ to the blasted agency where ye came from. Have ye lost sight of that fact?”

At her side, Isla squeezed Leana’s hand, as if to reassure her to hold her ground. The girl seemed pleased to have found an ally in this household of men and dour matrons.

Emboldened, she firmed her chin. “Captain MacArron, I am well aware you may send me away whenever it pleases you. But I believe you are a man of your word. You set the terms—ten days to prove myself. I have faith you will abide by our agreement.”

His brother slanted him a glance. “Ye did say that.” A twinge of amusement colored Rory’s voice.

“Aye, so I did.” MacArron scowled at his brother. “In the future, Miss Fraser, I will thank ye to express your guidance to me away from my daughters’ ears. The lasses are impressionable, and I won’t have them believing a slip of a woman has taken charge of this household. Dinna try my patience. Or I will cast ye out of this house, traveling bag and all.”

Pacing back and forth as he tended to do when something had him riled up, Rory paused long enough to toss a dart at the board in the study. Jamie watched as the barb hit an inch shy of the target.

“The lass has fire in her belly,” Rory said.

If you take my meaning, sir. Miss Fraser’s challenge-laden words played in Jamie’s thoughts. She was a bold one, he’d give her that. Unlike the last governess the agency had sent, a mealy-mouthed spinster who shuddered with revulsion every time one of his associates muttered an epithet, this lass squared her shoulders, met his gaze, and made no attempt to mince words. He wasn’t sure if he detested her insolence—or if it appealed to him for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom.

“If that’s what ye want to call it.” Jamie hurled the barb in his hand, biting back a groan as it went far off target.

Hunkered down in the corner, engaged in a spirited game of draughts, McKown and Howell looked up from the board.

Howell laughed under his breath. “Ye might’ve done a better job blindfolded.”

His brother chuckled. “Aye, Jamie, ye’re goin’ to make this too easy on me.”

“Keep telling yerself that. Overconfidence will work in my favor.”

“I canna blame ye,” Rory said with a smirk. “After all, ye’ve got a governess under yer roof whose tongue is as tart as her face is bonny.”

“I couldna say I give a damn about her bonny face.”

“Are ye tryin’ to tell me ye haven’t taken notice of those dark eyes of hers?” Rory went on. “Damned shame every time she looks at ye, she scrunches up her face like she spotted a foul beast.”

“Foul beast? Bluidy hell, what have ye been drinkin’?”

“No more than you. But I know a bonny lass when I see one. A woman like her makes a man think of getting down on one knee.”

Jamie hiked a brow. “Judging from what I’ve seen, it is a distinct possibility—especially after the lass embeds her dainty knee in yer bollocks.”

“Ah, ye’ve misjudged Miss Fraser. She’s a fine woman. Ye can tell from the way she carries herself and the way she speaks,” Rory said.

“Something about her doesna ring true. Ye willna convince me otherwise.”

Rory slowed long enough to hurl another dart at the board. His eyes flashed with triumph at the barb’s precise placement. “Isla has warmed up to her. Ye’re tellin’ me that’s not a miracle in itself?”

“Miss Leana Fraser is trouble, pure and simple. I need to end this farce before she sets my own daughters against me.”

“Ye gave the lass yer word.”

Rory’s admonishment came just as Jamie hurled another dart. This time, the barb missed the board entirely, piercing the fine oak paneling.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

“And ye ask me what I’ve been drinking? Judgin’ from yer game tonight, I’d say ye’d had the whole barrel.”

“If you’d shut yer trap, I could concentrate.”

“Am I the one making it hard for ye to concentrate?” Rory hiked a brow. “Or is it the bonny dragon in petticoats ye’ve got under yer roof, stirring a mutiny against ye this very moment?”

God above, how many times did his brother intend to use the word bonny in one conversation? Without a doubt, the governess had caught Rory’s eye. Of course, he was young—young enough to be foolish over a woman. Since her arrival less than twelve hours earlier, she’d stirred his brother’s interest, forged a tentative alliance with his cook and his housekeeper, and dared to stand up to him with clear defiance in her eyes—in the presence of his crewmen and his daughters, no less. If the woman had any desire to hold her position in his household, she sure as hell didn’t act the part.

If he had any sense, he’d put an end to it, sooner rather than later. He’d send her away before she wreaked havoc with what little peace he’d found in this place. He’d expected a gentle, deferential woman who knew her place. A governess who’d teach his daughters to host teas with fine china, read the classics, and play a tune on the piano with passable skill—or whatever the hell it was young women of refinement were supposed to learn.

Instead, he’d been saddled with a keen-eyed beauty who possessed as much steel in her spine as clever wit in her head. Miss Fraser wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. Rather, she embraced it.

Not for her sake.

But for Isla’s.

That truth was the only thing keeping him from sending her on her way, flowery carpet bag in hand.

She hadn’t spoken up to shield herself.

No, she’d been protecting Isla—not from blatant abuse, but from a father’s unknowing lack of understanding. Miss Fraser knew the pain of grief from a perspective far different from his own. He’d mourned his mother’s passing, but he’d been nearly a man at the time, not a wee young lass who’d not only lost her mum but had been there the cursed night when Siobhan had fallen to her death.

Allowing Rory’s taunt to pass without comment, Jamie hurled another barb at the board. This time, the dart landed near the center. Not a grand achievement, by any means. But far better than what he’d done earlier, throws a half-drunk circus beast might have bested.

Rory picked up a dart and without pausing to focus, tossed it toward the board. Damned if the barb didn’t strike the bull’s eye despite his lack of concentration. Jamie shook his head in amazement. God above, his brother had a keen eye and skill with a target. He was a better shot than Jamie, deadly accurate with a pistol or a long gun.

He’d put his skill to use the night Siobhan was killed—the night a lad had been forced to do a man’s job because Jamie wasn’t there to defend her.

The bitter memory slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

Rory didn’t know the truth—not all of it, at least. His brother was more than a decade younger than himself—their mum had dubbed him a surprise. Jamie had been gone most of Rory’s childhood, making his fortune as a privateer in a war an ocean away. Upon Jamie’s return to the Highlands, Rory had regarded him as a hero, his youthful eyes perceiving only the glory in what Jamie had done and none of the sins.

Privateer was a far more civilized word than pirate, but that’s what he’d been.

Rory didn’t know the ugly truth of Jamie’s life. He’d never witnessed the ruthlessness Jamie had employed like a weapon in plying his trade on the seas. As captain of the Highland Sorceress, Jamie had justified the violence, assuring himself his cause was on the side of what he believed was right. But the raids he’d led during the American war and afterwards had ruined fortunes. Ruined lives.

In the process, he’d made powerful enemies.

One of those enemies had taken his revenge.

Damned shame Siobhan had paid the price for his sins.

Turning away, he lifted his glass and took a drink. The whisky dulled the edge of the pain.

But it could not heal the wound.

Nothing would heal the damage Ellis Lachland had inflicted that night.

He should’ve been there.

Instead, he’d carry the regret in his heart to the end of his days.