Dressed as a chimney sweep, Balfour hid in the recesses of the close across the street from the Baronet of Sleat’s townhouse. God, he hated this town. The streets were cluttered with beggars and filth. It hadn’t been difficult to find his garb—flicked a bob at an urchin who gladly removed his shirt and bonnet, scampering after the coin like a dog. The only problem was it stank worse than a sewer.
Balfour nearly retched with every inhale. Christ, when he removed these tattered garments, he would burn them. But not yet. Licking his lips, he watched the windows and doors of the ritzy city home—a vile abode in truth. It lacked everything Balfour loved from the Highlands. But just like the Baronet of Sleat, it stood as a false façade. Behind its doors hid the evil of the Jacobite Party and their miserable code of clan law.
Not long after Balfour had slipped into his hiding place, he’d seen the baronet head out with his brother. He chuckled silently at the grave expressions on their faces. Last eve, he’d drawn a great deal of satisfaction when, from afar, he watched the warehouse burn to the ground—watched the guttersnipes battle the blaze in vain, throwing useless buckets of water onto the inferno. Unfortunately, MacDonald had been too fast—cunning even—using the damned siphon to pump water onto the flames. But Balfour had hurt the man and he doubted Donald MacDonald’s deep pockets would weather the setback.
Word on the street was Smith would give his business to whoever could fill his cargo hold and MacDonald’s salt pans were too far away. Balfour laughed again. The baronet would also be forced to wait two seasons to shear his sheep again. His wool was lost and with luck, his clan would starve.
Balfour froze when Mary of Castleton exited the front door with Don’s sister with those two Highland cads accompanying her. They all wore smiles on their faces as if nothing were amiss—all except Miss Mary. Something didn’t seem quite right with her, though she opened her parasol and rested her hand on Sir Kennan’s offered elbow. Christ, the slobbering maggot looked upon Miss Mary as if she were the only woman in the county.
What the devil? Balfour’s gut turned upside down. The wench could be involved in all manner of immoral practices behind the doors of the baronet’s townhouse. Was she whoring with every Jacobite laird in Scotland? Ballocks to that. Walking in front of Mary, Sir Donald’s sister and Coll of Keppoch were fawning over each other like a pair of shameless dogs.
Balfour’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the handle of his chimney broom. He’d best do something fast or there would be no turning Miss Mary to his way of thinking. She was his, goddammit. No one else’s.
***
“Come,” Don responded to the light rap on the door. It could be only one person.
Miss Mary popped her head inside. “You sent for me?”
“Yes.” He gestured to a chair then held it for her. “Please be seated.”
“My thanks.”
You’ll not be thanking me after you’ve heard what I have to say. Don took the seat opposite. “I’m sure you’re aware my cargo is lost.”
White teeth scraped over her full bottom lip. “All of it?”
“Aye, even the wool. But William and the crew are hastily making repairs to my galley.”
“Thank heavens.”
“Regardless, there’s little chance we’ll make the next shipment to the Americas.”
“But there’s always the next one,” she said, her eyes too bright and hopeful.
Don looked away, refusing to allow her optimism to sway his good judgement. “Possibly, but last eve’s fire was a terrible setback, terrible.”
She nodded, her smile faltering a bit.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped the arms of his chair. “I sent for you because I wanted you to hear from me first that we are sailing north on the morrow.”
The smile now gone, a hushed gasped slipped through her lips. “Oh? So soon?”
“We’ve not a moment to lose.” He drummed his fingers. “I must retrieve another shipment from Trotternish, and I’d be remiss in my duty as the leader of the Defenders if I did not take you home to your father.”
Mary’s face blanched. “To Dunscaith?” she muttered as if forgetting her roots.
“I thought you’d be happy with the news. Are you not looking forward to being reunited with your family?”
She stared at him, mouth agape as if she were holding something inside. Though her eyes flashed with disbelief, the slight parting of her lips made her look more kissable than she’d ever been. Don swiped his hand over his sore eyes and tender nose. He could not be influenced by her wiles at a time like this.
“I beg your pardon, but after last eve, I thought…” She pressed those luscious lips into a thin line.
Don knew full well what she’d nearly uttered. But she’d silenced herself before voicing what would have been an embarrassment for both of them—improper as well. His fingernails bit into the armrests as he fought to remain impartial. His very existence was in peril. It was no time to allow a young woman to twist her desires around his heart, no matter how much the goddamned organ wanted her to do so. “You must ken I cannot make promises.” He didn’t need to give her an explanation, but for some reason, he felt he must explain. And she sat there looking like a puppy that had been left out alone in the snow on the coldest night imaginable. “God bless it, Mary, the cause is in crisis.”
She squared her shoulders and looked him directly in the eye—the redheaded minx. “Och aye, the cause. ’Tis far more important than people’s feelings, or families or…or love.”
Jesus, she had to use that bleating four-letter word. “Mary, I—”
Shoving away her chair, she stood and backed toward the door. “What about Sir Coll and Sir Kennan?”
Don marched around the table, fists balled at his sides. “Why the devil are you bringing them up at a time like this?”
She tilted her defiant face up to him. “Are they sailing north as well?”
“Aye. They’re returning to their clans. ’Tis time.”
“Did you decide it was time? Did you discuss such inconvenient timing with your sister?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re speaking gibberish.”
She took a daring step toward him. “Only because you are completely blind.”
Don planted his fists on his hips, refusing to back down. “I beg your pardon?”
Mary snorted as if Don were a blasted numbskull. “Barbara is in love with Sir Coll of Keppoch.”
Every muscle in his body clamped taut. His sister could not possibly be in love with anyone without Don’s consent. “Preposterous! I’m her guardian and have heard nothing of the sort.”
“That’s because you’ve had your nose so deep in the Oxford Gazette you pay no attention to the world around you.”
For the love of God, this woman could be so infuriating. And she was standing so damned close her scent had his mind completely flummoxed. Who could manage a rational thought with oil of lilac radiating around him while the most perfect heart-shaped face regarded him with such heated fury? Ruby lips, blue eyes the color of sky, hair as red as her temper. By God, Mary would bring any man to his knees with merely the arch of an eyebrow. Coughing out an exasperated growl, he grasped her face between his palms and devoured her mouth with the deepest, most probing kiss he’d ever imparted to a woman.
His ploy seemed to work because she moaned and melted like honey, sliding her lithe fingers around his waist. Dear God, he was harder than a stallion in a mating paddock filled with mares in heat. He’d hoped his release last eve would quell his hot-blooded desires. He’d never been more wrong in his life. The deeper he probed, the more his body demanded he pull her taut to his chest, feel those pliant breasts mold against his flesh. Mm, yes, just as he was doing now.
Mary pulled away breathless. Her kissable lips swollen and puckered. Her face flushed as if ready for a romp in the bedroom. “You see?” That damned look of defiance flashed through her eyes. “You cannot even face your own feelings. You kiss me like a rapturous suitor and yet you’re planning to leave me in Castleton, hoping to never see me again.”