Kara tried to ignore her disappointment as she took her supper alone in her chamber. She reminded herself that she wasn’t staying at a quaint bed-and-breakfast with a handsome inn owner; she was the “guest” of a medieval laird who didn’t trust her. She had hoped, naively, that after their amazing kiss he'd open up.

Hurt pricked at her chest at the memory of Ronan’s cool response when she’d asked him to supper. She’d felt like a schoolgirl whose crush had turned her down to the school dance, not a grown woman on a mission.

There'd been no word from Ronan's messenger about her family's presence in the other nearby villages. So, restless and frustrated, Kara had spent the day exploring the manor. It was even larger than it appeared from the outside, with oak-paneled walls and dark hardwood floors. There were six chambers on the second floor, a massive kitchen in the rear of the manor, alongside several smaller chambers she assumed were servants' quarters, and two drawing rooms, one featuring a massive fireplace. Though Ronan hadn’t explicitly forbid her from entering any room, she'd chosen to not enter any of the closed doors on the second floor.

When she'd heard his approaching horse in the evening, she'd been eager to see him . . . until he'd summarily dismissed her.

Remember what you’re here for, she told herself now, forcing away her lingering disappointment. Find your family and get the hell back to your own time where you belong.

Kara finished her meal with resolve. Aislin, the petite freckled young chambermaid who’d tended to her since she arrived, entered her chamber.

“I can help ye prepare for bed, m'lady,” Aislin said.

Kara hesitated to respond. She knew things were different in this time but it made her uncomfortable to have a personal maid waiting hand and foot on her. She’d tried politely refusing her service in the morning, but the poor girl had looked so hurt Kara feared she’d burst into tears.

“All right,” Kara said reluctantly, not wanting to hurt her feelings again. “Thank you.”

A look of relief flashed across Aislin’s face, and she helped Kara disrobe with eagerness. As Aislin moved to a chest at the foot of the bed to retrieve a nightdress, curiosity seized her. If Ronan wasn’t going to open up to her, maybe his servants could tell her a little about him.

“How long have you worked here?” Kara asked.

Aislin looked at her with surprise. Kara realized that it was probably uncommon for a “superior” to ask her a personal question. Aislin flushed as she continued to rifle through the chest.

“Almost ten years, mistress,” Aislin said politely. Astonishment swirled through Kara's gut; she struggled to keep her face blank. Aislin couldn’t have been older than twenty or twenty-one. You’re in 1390, she reminded herself. Child labor laws were still centuries away.

“And do you like it? I won’t tell the laird if you say no,” she said with a gentle smile.

“Aye. Very much,” Aislin said, her smile genuine as she straightened and stepped forward to hand Kara a nightdress. “He’s kind like his cousin and his uncle. Not all lairds are as kind as he. He invited all the servants to share the Christmas feast with him and Laird Macleay at the castle this past winter. If any servant’s bairn falls ill he arranges for a healer. Last month, one of the chambermaids grew ill and couldnae work for weeks, but he still paid her wages so her family wouldnae starve.”

Surprise and admiration filled Kara and her heart warmed. Not that she expected Ronan to be cruel to his servants, but from what Alice had told her of medieval lairds, his kindness was exceptional.

“And when the laird has visitors,” Aislin continued, seeming eager to share word of Ronan’s kindness now, “he makes sure they treat us kindly. His cousin and uncle don’t need much looking after, but when one of the laird’s mistresses—”

Aislin stopped abruptly, her face flaming. Kara forced a smile, ignoring the jealousy that stabbed at her insides.

“It’s all right. I’m no mistress of the laird's, just his guest,” she forced herself to say, trying not to think of Ronan’s lips on hers the night before.

“When he does have—ah—lady visitors,” Aislin said, looking hesitant to continue, even as Kara gestured for her to do so, “we rarely tend tae them as they stay in the laird’s bedchamber and donnae stay long, certainly not for meals with the laird, as ye have.”

Kara's sliver of jealousy turned into a tidal wave. So Ronan was the fourteenth-century equivalent of a playboy. Of course he was. He was handsome, and from the size of this manor, wealthy.

She recalled his mouth against hers, his kiss skilled as he drew a heated response from her. Shame spiraled through her chest. How easily she’d fallen for his charms. She was surprised he hadn’t married yet. Or had he?

“Does—does the laird’s wife spend any time at the manor?” she asked, her mouth dry.

“Oh, the laird isnae wed,” Aislin said with a short laugh, shaking her head. “Are—are ye alright, mistress?” she asked suddenly, her gaze sweeping over Kara’s ashen face.

“I’m fine,” Kara said quickly, too quickly.

To her relief, Aislin left her alone with a hasty bow, and Kara slipped into bed, trying not to wallow in her ridiculous jealousy. She'd never been the jealous type, always too wrapped up in her work to worry about what her boyfriends were up to when she wasn't around. And now she was jealous over Ronan, a man she wasn’t even in a relationship with, whom she’d only just kissed, and who, most importantly, lived centuries in the past.

Get a grip, Kara, she told herself, before falling into a fitful sleep. You're here for Alice, nothing more.

* * *

The next morning Aislin brought her a tray of food as soon as she woke, telling her that Ronan had left to go to the castle for the day, but wanted her to know she was again free to wander the grounds. Kara pushed aside her disappointment that he'd left; maybe it was better they didn’t spend much time together. She needed to focus on what she was here for.

After she ate, she now felt bold enough to open those closed doors on the second floor, and poked her head into each chamber, searching for a study. She hoped to find some records to search through; records that could potentially contain information about the tenants who lived on Macleay lands.

She located such a chamber at the far end of the hall; there was no bed inside, only a long desk and several cabinets filled with what she hoped were records. But before she could step inside, a male voice behind her made her stop in her tracks.

“The laird’s study is off limits, mistress.”

She turned as a Highlander right out of central casting approached—tall, burly, and red-haired, dressed in a dark green tunic and belted plaid kilt. This was not the same stocky man who’d guarded her the day before. How many guards did Ronan have on her?

“I’m called Luag,” he said, unsmiling, as his gaze swept over her. “I’ll be yer guard while ye’re here. We’ll get along fine, lass, as long as ye donnae wander where ye donnae belong,” he added, his gaze shifting meaningfully to the study.

She glared and moved past him. She couldn’t bear to return to her stifling chamber, so she made her way to the drawing room, where a young maid practically tripped over herself to start the fire and bring her something to drink, even though Kara insisted she didn't need anything.

But she did appreciate the warmth of the fire after the maid and a male servant started it, a cup of mulled wine in her hands as she sat on a comfortable plush chair, turning to gaze out the window at the manor grounds. The world outside the manor seemed so peaceful. But this wouldn’t be the case for long. A portion of Alice’s letter entered her mind.

In the spring of 1390, records indicate a fire occurred in the middle of the night during a clan conflict in the Scottish Highlands.

A clan conflict. If she could find out if there was a conflict between Clan Macleay and another clan from Ronan, she’d be a step closer to preventing what would happen next. And she knew of an easy way to get Ronan to tell her what she needed to know—even if he didn’t fully trust her.

Good old-fashioned flirting.

Ronan was attracted to her—their kiss proved it. And now that she knew he was a ladies’ man . . . she could use the knowledge to her benefit.

“Aislin,” she said, when the young maid entered her chamber later that day with her midday meal. “Can you bring me the finest gown you have here? I want to wear it to supper with the laird tonight.”

She smiled at Aislin, trying not to think too much about which of Ronan’s former mistresses such a gown belonged to.

Aislin looked both intrigued and delighted by her request and left to return only moments later with a deep blue gown with a daringly low-cut bodice.

“Thank you,” Kara said, eyeing it. It would serve her purpose well. “This will do.”

By the time evening fell, Kara was dressed and ready. Hearing the clatter of horse hooves in the courtyard, she hurried over to her window, looking out.

Ronan dismounted from his horse, his chestnut waves sexily tousled in the damp evening air. The man seemed to grow more handsome by the day. Kara’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him and she swallowed. You’re supposed to seduce him, she admonished herself. Not the other way around.

She turned to step out of her chamber, taking a breath. It was time for Operation Seduce Ronan.