A rooster’s crow stirred Leana from a fitful slumber. She’d awakened several times during the night, her nerves on edge as she listened for any sign of Bridget’s cries. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted toward the window. Faint slivers of light filtered around the drapes, casting the room in a soft haze.

Turning onto her side, she thumped her pillow to even out the lumps and closed her eyes. As she drifted back into the twilight of sleep, a sound in the room next to hers—Isla’s bedchamber—pulled her back to alertness.

A sound like a chair being dragged over the floor made it through the barrier of the walls. A heavy thud followed. What in heaven’s name was the child doing at this early hour?

Springing from the comfort of her bed, she tugged on her wrapper and tiptoed to the girl’s chamber. She called her name softly, and the girl opened the door.

Clad in her nightdress, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a braid, Isla regarded her with curious eyes.

“Why are ye here?” she asked bluntly.

“I heard a noise—I wanted to be sure you were well.”

The girl smiled. “Ye must’ve heard the chair. It squeaks a bit.”

“What I heard was not a squeak. It sounded like something fell.”

Isla pointed to the thick book on the floor. “It was on the high shelf and I dropped it. Ye’ve no need to worry. Not about me, at least.”

Leana peeked past the girl. Everything looked in order. Still, why was the child up before the dawn?

“Very well. Do try to get a little more rest.” Leana glanced at the tome, an illustrated guide to astronomy. “We’ll begin your lessons today. I was informed you’ve quite an aptitude for mathematics as well as languages.”

Isla frowned. “I thought we’d make Bridget’s doll today.”

“We’ll get to the doll after your lessons. We will focus on your studies after breakfast, and then I’ll work with Bridget on her letters.”

“Whatever we do, it won’t matter. Ye should know that.”

“Of course it matters. Your father wants you and your sister to have an excellent education.”

“Ye will not be here long enough to teach me more than I already know.” Isla said matter-of-factly. “None of my tutors have lasted more than a week. Maybe two.”

“Why is that, Isla?”

The girl met her question with an unconvincing look of innocence. “They dinna like it here.”

“Did you want them to leave?”

“Yes.” Isla didn’t hesitate.

“Why?”

“They didn’t belong here.” The girl dropped her gaze to her toes. “I made sure they didna stay.”

“So I’ve heard. But I’m made of sterner stuff than that.”

Isla folded her arms at the waist as she lifted her gaze. “Even if I dinna want ye to leave, ye will. I liked Miss Thompson. She could make me laugh, and she was patient with Bridget. And then, one day, she got a letter. Her ma was sick, she told us. She left Bridgie and me. And she never came back.”

“I’m not going to leave the two of you, Isla. You have my word.”

The girl’s chin trembled, but she hardened her gaze. “Ye’ll leave. They all do.”

Leana spotted MacArron through the open door to his study. Standing at his desk with his back to her, his long fingers splayed wide as he pressed his hands down upon a map, he conferred with the men who’d arrived the night before.

Rory shook his head in warning as she marched up to the desk.

“Captain MacArron, I require a few moments of your time.”

He slowly turned. At his full height, he stood more than a head taller than herself. Leana swallowed against a sudden flutter of nerves. Perhaps she’d been too bold. Too abrupt. But she hadn’t laid eyes on him since the night before—if he’d eaten a morning meal, he had not taken it with his children, and she’d seemed to miss him at every turn as she sought him out to discuss her observations of his daughters. This was, after all, a matter of considerable importance.

He’d donned dark trousers, and his white shirt was opened at the collar again, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Golden brown hair feathered over his muscular forearms. His eyes narrowed as his attention swept over her from head to toe, taking in her plain, dove gray dress and prim white collar. Fighting a wave of nervous tension, she toyed with the black braid at her cuffs, even as she met his gaze.

“Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Davidson can see to whatever you need.” Though civil, his dismissive tone irked Leana like a pebble in her shoe.

“I’m afraid that won’t do. I must speak with you about your daughters. In private.”

He cocked a brow and shifted his attention to Rory. “See to it Miss Fraser has whatever it is she requires.”

“Your brother will not be of much help in this matter,” she said, bracing herself. “What I require is your time. Actually, your daughters are the ones who truly need that evidently rare commodity.”

Something resembling a smile played on his mouth. “Rare commodity, eh?” He shot Rory a glance. “If I were at sea, I’d say I have a mutiny on my hands.”

She expected him to add something or other about sending her packin’ to the blasted agency to underscore his displeasure, but he spared her the threat.

“Ye didna want a mealy-mouthed spinster like the last one. What was her name—Whitman? Whitson?” Rory replied. “Damned if I can even remember the whey-faced woman’s name.”

“Aye, I got more than I bargained for with this governess, didn’t I?”

She planted her hands on her hips, a gesture which carried far more authority with her young charges than with pirates who towered over her.

“If I’ve come at an inopportune time, I’m willing to wait,” she said, feeling quite reasonable.

“Well, lass, I’ve no idea why ye’d think this would be a good time. Can’t ye see I’m in here with my crew, planning where we might go raiding and pillaging and generally raising hell?”

She cocked her chin. He was teasing her. At least, she hoped he was. “I’d been told you were no longer a pirate…um…privateer.”

“Ye were right the first time.” Rory made no attempt to hide his amusement.

MacArron leaned back against his desk and stretched out his long legs. Light glimmered off his polished brown boots.

“So, that’s what they’re telling lasses at the agency now, is it?”

She shook her head. “I’d seen it…in the papers some time ago.”

His eyes flashed, darkened with curiosity. “Am I to take it ye read all about the Devil of the Highlands and felt ye’d test yer luck with a scoundrel?”

“Not at all. I came here to care for yer girls. The fact you were here did not signify.”

“A noble calling, if ever I heard one,” Rory said, drawing a glare from his brother.

“In any case, Captain, might we set a time for a meeting?” she persisted.

“A private meeting?” His husky voice gave the word undue emphasis. Had he done so deliberately? Was he trying to intimidate her into leaving?

Well, he would not succeed. She’d dealt with far worse. If need be, she’d leave this one in an unconscious heap as well, take a horse from his stable, and be on her way.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Away from Mrs. Taylor’s and Mrs. Davidson’s ears. And mouths.”

MacArron’s expression became unreadable. “I take yer point. I’ll meet with ye after supper. After ye’ve had a full day to teach my daughters.”

At night. Here. Alone.

Oh, dear.

The very thought was rather scandalous. The housekeeper and the cook would lead the staff in tongue-wagging about their meeting. But there was little choice. She had to do whatever it took to gain insight into the girls and what troubled them.

“Very well, Captain.” She held her voice even and steady. “Will you be dining with us tonight?”

“I’ll make a point of it. I intend to assess yer daily progress with my bairns. Until the tenth day, when I’ll see ye on yer way out the door.”

The door closed behind Miss Fraser with a crisp thwack, louder than necessary, but not quite a slam. Jamie smiled, then quickly caught himself in the act and resumed an appropriate scowl. He couldn’t afford to allow his men to see any sign of softness in him, let alone for a doe-eyed governess who dared to intrude into his private study.

If she’d come seeking something for herself—funds for a wardrobe to replace a dismal gray dress too modest for a vicar’s wife came to mind—he’d have reacted far differently to her intrusion. But as it stood, she’d come after him out of concern for his daughters.

Her regard for the girls stood in stark contrast to the others who’d shown up here intending to be governesses. Those women had been either spineless mice who’d allowed Isla and Bridget to run roughshod over them or harridans who neither needed nor wanted his input where his bairns were concerned—so very unlike Miss Fraser.

She’d known exactly what to do to comfort Bridget through her nightmare. The woman had enfolded the wee lass with tenderness, calming her and offering her a solution which might ease her fears for days and weeks to come. Unlike the shrewish Mrs. Humphries, Miss Fraser didn’t urge the girl to have a stiff upper lip and dismiss her fears. She’d welcomed his efforts to soothe his child, to be a father to the girl and not merely the master of the house.

“Someone’s here.” Rory moved to the window. “Finch?”

Howell joined him in peering down to the cobblestone road beyond the castle. “The coach is fine enough. It could be him.”

“Go see what the bastard wants,” Jamie said.

Rory gave a mocking salute. “Aye, Captain.”

A few minutes passed before the steady thud of Rory’s boots signaled his return. A man followed, a single step behind his brother. With his graying, neatly trimmed hair and his well-pressed suit, the visitor resembled every solicitor Jamie had ever encountered. Jamie met the man at the door, blocking his entrance to the study.

“Captain MacArron,” the visitor began, a slight hesitation in his voice. “My name is Harold Finch. I represent an investor who would like to remain anonymous.”

“I’ve no use for cowards who hide behind solicitors,” Jamie said.

“My client is no coward. But he does not wish to draw attention to his endeavors. I have come to discuss a proposition with you.” His attention darted to the others. “Alone.”

“Howell. McKown. Give us a few minutes. It willna take longer than that.”

“Aye, Captain,” they replied in unison, brushing past the man in the suit as they made their exit.

The visitor slanted Rory a glance. “I said alone.”

Jamie shook his head. “Ye dinna dictate terms under my roof. Whatever ye’ve got to say, ye can say it in front of my brother.”

The man pulled his lips tight as he nodded in reluctant agreement. “As you wish. I presume he can be trusted to keep his mouth closed.”

Jamie rocked back on his heels. This bastard was too damned bold. Keep his mouth closed. Much more talk, and the fellow would be speaking without benefit of his teeth.

“Come in. Make this fast,” he said coolly.

“You will find this interesting. I guarantee it.” As the door closed behind them, Finch removed a map from his leather case. “My client offers a proposition—you will add to your wealth and settle your debt.”

Jamie nodded. “Debt? What in hell are ye talkin’ about?”

“My client was engaged as a merchant during the American war. One of his shipments—arms Jefferson Davis was willing to pay a premium to obtain for the Army of Richmond—came under attack by a crew of mercenaries. Am I to understand you were a privateer for hire during that unfortunate conflict?”

“Ye know damned well I was, or ye wouldn’t be here today.”

Finch nodded slowly. “Privateer—quite a civilized word for piracy.”

“What I did a decade ago is none of yer bluidy business. Nor yer blasted client’s for that matter.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. MacArron. My client considers it very much his business. In his eyes, you are a thief. You profited from the theft of his property and cost my client a great deal of money in the process.”

“Whoever the bastard is, he’s a fool.”

“Bastard?” Finch cocked a brow. “I assure you, that is far from the case. When you commandeered my client’s cargo, you robbed him of a fortune. During another of your raids, you seized a priceless relic—the Bloodhead Sword.”

The man’s softly spoken words plowed into Jamie, a blow he hadn’t seen coming. In his mind’s eye, he saw the centuries-old sword with its ruby-tipped hilt and long, lethal blade. He’d recognized the piece on sight—the weapon was the stuff of legends, said to have been carried in battle by Robert the Bruce.

“Get the hell out of here,” Jamie growled through his teeth.

“Not yet, Captain MacArron. Believe me, you need to hear what I have to say. A great deal depends on your understanding—and your cooperation.”

“I do not bargain with cowards who hide their faces behind a well-spoken solicitor.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Finch tapped the map with his forefinger. “My client is most generous in offering you an opportunity to settle your debt.”

“I owe no claim to any man.”

“Captain, if you do not heed my words, your arrogance will cost you dearly. My client seeks an arrangement, a bargain which will clear your debt and further enrich you in the process. After you seized the Bloodhead Sword, you claimed it for Scotland and delivered it to the Highland authorities. Locked away under heavy guard, it was beyond reach. Only a fool would have attempted to get to it. For years, my client has waited patiently—the opportunity is now here.”

“What the bluidy hell are ye talkin’ about?” Rory asked.

“The Bloodhead Sword and a cache of antiquities are to be transported to the British Museum on a ship sailing out of Aberdeen. You are to intercept the vessel and take possession of the sword on behalf of my client.”

“Ye’re as daft as yer client if ye think I’m goin’ after a transport ship with such a cargo. It would be a suicide mission.”

“I will not tell you how to do it. But I must remind you it’s in your best interests to accept this generous offer.”

“Bugger off,” Jamie gritted between his teeth.

“The Bloodhead Sword must not make it to London,” Finch said, his voice rising. “If you do not retrieve it, you will live to regret your refusal.”

Summoning every ounce of discipline he possessed, Jamie resisted the urge to smash his fist into the cur’s smug face. He eyed his collar, deciding upon the precise spot he’d grab to hoist him up if the man uttered one more civilized threat.

Finch folded the map into a neat rectangle. “I’ll leave this with you,” he went on. “The details of the shipment are noted on this document. Don’t be a fool, Captain. You will not like the consequences.”

Jamie’s restraint frayed. He lunged forward, seizing the solicitor at the throat and pinning him to the wall behind him. His fingers splayed over his throat, making it clear he was more than capable of silencing him permanently.

“Ye dare to come under my roof and utter threats. If ye try that again, I’ll wring yer scrawny neck.” His fingers twitched, emphasizing his point. Reining in the impulse, he shot Rory a glance. “Get this bugger out of here. Now, before he says somethin’ to make me forget I’m a patient man.”

“Aye, it’ll be my pleasure.”

Jamie released his hold. Finch grabbed at his throat, gasping for air. Crumpling over his knees, the solicitor looked up. His eyes blazed with icy contempt. “You will regret that, Captain.”

Rory seized the solicitor by the arm. “Come along now. And be quiet about it, while ye still have all yer—”

“That will not be necessary.” Finch shook himself free. “I’ve said all I needed to say. For now. My employer will expect your answer within forty-eight hours. Think carefully before you make a mistake you will regret until the end of your days.”

Sipping whisky from a tumbler in his hand, Jamie stared into the flames crackling in the fireplace. Behind him, Rory hurled barbs at the dartboard, as if doing so would release his angry tension.

“The solicitor traveled in a fine conveyance. His employer has no shortage of funds,” Rory remarked between throws.

“I dinna give a damn if the bluidy prime minister sent him. He’s not to be allowed on the property again. Make sure the crew knows to be on the alert. God only knows what the blackguard has in mind.”

You will not like the consequences—

Finch, if that was indeed his name, didn’t know how lucky he was to have departed with all his teeth intact.

“Ye think he’s connected with the Lachlands?” Rory tossed another barb, hitting the target dead center.

“It’s possible.”

“One thing is certain—whoever sent him here knows the part ye played in reclaiming the Bloodhead Sword for Scotland.”

Jamie shrugged. “That means little. The press covered the return of the sword to the museum. This could all be an elaborate lie.”

“Ye think Finch is tryin’ to dupe ye into doing his bidding?”

“At this point, there’s no way to know. But if the cur dares to threaten my family again, Finch and his cowardly employer will regret ever crossing this threshold.”

Tossing the last dart in his hand far off the mark, Rory muttered an epithet under his breath. He went to the door. “Mrs. Taylor’s made a stew. Come get somethin’ to eat before Howell and McKown eat their fill. God knows they willna leave much in the pot.”

“I’ll join ye shortly.”

“Aye,” his brother responded, closing the door behind him.

Jamie stretched out his legs, some of the tension easing from his body. Taking another drink, he allowed his thoughts to wander. Truth be told, there were times when the sea in all its wildness called to him. He still sailed with a crew, a respectable merchant seaman now—a life worlds removed from his years as a privateer. He’d left the violence behind. Or so he’d thought.

Had his past come back to haunt the present?

Trouble was brewing. By hellfire, he felt it in his bones.

In his life as a raider, he’d fought. And he’d killed.

But he hadn’t been able to protect Siobhan.

The memory dug into him like jagged talons. Gazing into the fire, he made a silent vow.

He would protect his bairns.

At any cost.