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  Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.

  His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.

  Hell.

  Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny dark red curls swam through his vision as his sister Kendra moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.

  Hell. It was hot as hell in here.

  He blinked once, then again. "Where—where am I?" he stammered out.

  Kendra whirled. "At Cainewood, Jason. Home." She rushed to his bedside and swabbed his brow with a warm, damp cloth. Her familiar lavender scent wafted around him. Her light green eyes were filled with concern.

  Kendra, his sweet, exasperating sister Kendra, so full of life—but her expression worried him. And the heat.

  "Damn, I'm hot." He pushed at the covers—two thick quilts and a velvet counterpane—and tried to sit up. Pain knifed through his body. He fell back, touching his shoulder and chest gingerly. Thick bandaging. "What happened?"

  A quick frown marred her wholesome features, then was gone. "Don't you remember? You were shot."

  It all came screaming back: the limestone Market Cross, the weight of the rapier in his hand, the shock as it sank into flesh. Gothard, that whoreson, pulling a man from the crowd to use as a shield.

  "Holy Christ," Jason whispered.

  He'd killed an innocent man.

  "You're going to be fine," Kendra rushed to reassure him. "It was naught but a shoulder wound, and the ball came clean. The surgeon said you'll be fine."

  No, he wouldn't. He'd never be fine again.

  Jason shut his eyes and turned his head to hide the hot, unmanly tears that threatened. He was always so level-headed; whatever had possessed him to take the law into his own hands?

  Rage, that was what. Black, unreasoning rage. The sight of Clarice Bradford's ghost-white face and her motionless, bruised young daughter. Just remembering made his blood seethe anew.

  "Mary?" he croaked.

  "She still lives. But she's no better." Kendra smoothed her lemon-yellow skirts, a cheery color that seemed to clash with the sadness clouding her face. She put a hand to his forehead. "You don't feel hot. You're not feverish." She swiped at her own damp brow. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like hell. It's hot as hell in here."

  "The surgeon said to keep you warm."

  "Surely you took him too literally."

  She bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. "I'll go get Ford." Giving his hand a quick squeeze, she sighed, then hurried from the room to fetch her twin.

  Jason lay still, staring at the familiar stone walls of his ancestral home. Colorful tapestries lent the cavernous chamber an intimate feel and kept the drafts to a minimum. Cainewood Castle had always made him feel safe, peaceful.

  But not today.

  Pangs of guilt swept him in waves, only to be swamped by anger at Geoffrey Gothard's actions. This was no longer just about Jason's villagers—the coward had used a blameless man as a shield. A man who would live today if Jason had chosen to wait for the authorities.

  But damn it, he hadn't gone there to kill Gothard, let alone an innocent bystander. He'd intended to see Gothard detained, brought to justice…

  The pain in his head intensified.

  He knew also the Gothard brothers would have been long gone had he not acted immediately upon hearing word of their whereabouts. Law enforcement in these parts was sorely lacking.

  He raised a hand to his aching head. Why the devil did Gothard consider him an enemy?

  Ford sauntered in at Kendra's heels, flashing a hopeful smile. "How do you feel?"

  "Like hell," Jason and Kendra said together, way too loudly.

  Wincing, Jason pushed the long black hair from his eyes.

  "It's the laudanum." Ford stated the facts like the analyst he was. "The surgeon gave you enough to fell a middling-sized horse. Said you'd need it to survive the trip home, but that it may well give you a headache."

  "He may well have been right." Jason closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath before opening them again. The candlelight seemed brighter than usual. Too bright. He blinked at the cobalt blue canopy overhead. "What day is it?"

  "Friday. Evening." Ford cleared his throat and leaned against one carved, twisted bedpost. "You were out over twenty-four hours. Damn, it's hot in here."

  Kendra glared at her twin. "I'll open a window."

  "The door as well. And for God's sake, bank that fire." Ford turned to Jason, smiling at their sister's overzealousness. Then his expression sobered. "I believe Gothard thinks you're dead. You were covered in blood—"

  "That of the man I killed." Jason's chest constricted painfully. "Who was he?"

  Ford blinked. "I don't know. I rushed to care for you, and when I looked up, he was gone."

  "He was with two other men. They must have taken him. We'll have to make inquiries—"

  "In due time." One hand on her hip, Kendra frantically fanned the door open and closed. "Cooler now?"

  Her face was flushed to match her dark red hair. Jason smiled, though even that movement hurt his head. "Sit down, Kendra."

  The bed ropes creaked as she sat gingerly on the mattress. "I rode into the village this morning." One of her fingers traced idle circles on the blue velvet counterpane. "I talked to Clarice."

  "She's talking?" He struggled up on his elbows, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the throbbing in his head. After the incident, Clarice had uttered nothing but Gothard's name. He had to go to her, see if he could do anything for her daughter, get the answers to his questions—

  "Take it easy," Ford warned.

  Ignoring his brother's advice, Jason tried to swing his legs off the bed, then stopped with a defeated groan. "I'm not going anywhere," he muttered, his head dropping back to the pillow. "What have you learned?" He looked to Kendra. "How did Clarice know Gothard?"

  "She'd seen him around the village."

  "He made no attempt to hide his identity while he was here," Ford added.

  "True." Frowning, Jason steepled his fingers atop the counterpane. "The brothers registered at the inn. They talked to people; I was able to get descriptions for the broadsides and the sketch from Martinson." The blacksmith was known for his clever characterizations.

  Ford paced the carpeted floor. "It's clear the Gothards didn't come here intending to do this."

  Kendra nodded. "Clarice told me that when all was said and done, they were each furious with the other. And frightened at the consequences. That's why they ran before finishing the…"

  "Rape," Jason ground out. "You can say it, Kendra. Thank God at least Clarice was spared that." She'd been badly hurt, though, and his hands clenched as he vowed no one would ever hurt another woman like that while she was under his protection. "But why? Why did they do it?"

  Kendra's gaze dropped to her folded hands. "Clarice said he told her…"

  "If he couldn't have your castle, instead he'd have your woman," Ford finished for her.

  His woman? Jason's head felt blank, until suddenly it dawned on him. "My mistress?" he said incredulously. "He thought Clarice was my mistress? A villager?"

  "She's pretty enough." Ford shrugged. "He saw you hugging Mary and handing her to Clarice. He believed she was your daughter."

  "My daughter?" Marriage and family were so far off in Jason's plans, his mind boggled at the mere thought. "How…what happened…with Mary?"

  "She wouldn't stay quiet." Kendra's eyes turned misty. "Geoffrey threw her against the wall to shut her up. Forever, it seems. The doctor says she'll never wake."

  "Holy Christ." He could picture her, the sweet little girl he'd come to know, limp and motionless, slipping into death.

  And somehow, he was responsible.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Leslie, Scotland

  "Married? I haven't any plans to get married!"

  The last strains of the fune
ral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie's ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father's desk.

  As though it weren't enough she had to bury Da today, now this. Unbelievable. "Have I misheard you?"

  Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. "There's nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. All of Leslie is Adam's…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you'll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren't sufficient to support a man."

  "At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed," Cait's cousin Cameron put in dryly.

  "God forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his own pleasure," Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark-blond plaits. "It's been five years since he's been home for more than a visit." She closed her eyes momentarily, then focused on the lawyer. "Crivvens, this cannot be."

  "It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you." MacLeod's arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. "While it's rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn't unprecedented. Your father's wishes will stand against a challenge."

  "Nay, that wasn't what I meant." Caithren stared at her father's desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. "Da told me that if Adam didn't mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part isn't surprising." She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He'd always been there to lean on. "It's the marriage requirement that makes no sense."

  Taking her by the shoulders, Cam gently pushed her across the flagstone floor and into a brown leather chair. He perched his tall form on the arm and looked toward the lawyer expectantly. "Maybe if you read that wee portion of the will again. I don't think Cait quite heard it."

  MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. "'I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you're twenty-one already—'" The lawyer broke off and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. "He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—"

  "Aye, while I was naught but a bairn." Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung wildly up and down as she talked. "Now, having attained the advanced age of twenty-two, I imagine I'm a confirmed spinster—"

  "'As you're twenty-one already,'" MacLeod rushed to continue, "'I find myself concerned for your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you're hearing these words, it's apparent I failed to live long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother's wishes are granted. I know you'll do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother's incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know it's for your own good.'"

  Silence enveloped the small study, the pitter-patter of the rain unnaturally loud against the window. Caithren stared up at the timber-beamed ceiling.

  Cameron's hand brushed her arm. "It's sorry I am for you, sweet. This is a hard day for you, I know."

  "Da suffered. It's a blessing he's gone. Didn't everyone tell me that today?"

  But despite having decided she was done crying, her throat seemed to close painfully, and something in her eyes was blurring her vision.

  She blinked hard. "I have no intention of marrying."

  Rising to tower over her, Cameron wiped his palms against the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he'd worn for the funeral. "Never?"

  "Ever." Cait tightened her arms around her laced bodice, hugging herself.

  "But—but so many have courted you," Cam sputtered, running a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair. "Surely there must be one man…" He blinked, then focused. "Duncan. Maybe you'd consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever tittering over his good looks—"

  "He's a fool." When Caithren stood, Cam stepped back in self-defense. "He'd be no better for Leslie than Adam. And he'd never let me have a hand in running things, or you, for that matter."

  Cameron blinked. "James, then. James is no fool."

  "Aye, you've the right of it there. But James isn't one for the land. He keeps his nose in a book all the day. He'd be no better than Adam, either."

  Cam walked to the window and gazed out at the pouring rain. "Surely there must be someone." His voice bounced muffled off the uneven glass. "What sort of life would you live, then? Your folks were so happy…don't you want as much for yourself?"

  She joined him there and watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyond a stone wall, the ponies she and Cameron were breeding fed in a nearby field, swishing their long tails. Tenant farmers worked in the distance—people she knew as well as her own kin.

  She'd lived her entire life in this fortified house that looked like a wee, turreted castle. Da had built it for her mother—he'd always treated Mam like a queen. Love owercomes the reasons o' mind, Mam used to murmur when she walked up the path to her home; the heart always rules the head. But she'd said it with a laugh and a blush of pleasure.

  Aye, Mam had been loved. But she'd still been the property of a man.

  "For all Da loved her, Mam had nothing to call her own. I want to be independent, free to run Leslie—with you, Cam, the way we've been doing it since Da fell ill. Together. Any husband of mine would inherit my property upon marriage, and no man would allow you an equal partnership." One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. "We'd never realize our grand plans. Even my own dear father plotted to manipulate me from the grave. All men are the same."

  "Not all men, Cait."

  When she turned to him, Cam's eyes held a challenge.

  "Maybe not all," she conceded. "Not you." Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.

  Then hope leapt in her breast as it occurred to her. "You!" She whirled to face him. "I shall marry you! Leslie should be yours in any case—how many times have I said it?"

  Cameron stared, incredulous. "Me? Are you daft? We're kin."

  "First cousins." MacLeod's voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him. "I've heard it said that such inbreeding can result in diseased children."

  "Inbreeding?" Cam was still sputtering beside her. "Cait, I…I love you, but not that way. More like a sister."

  "I knew as much." She paused for a breath. "And my love for you is much the same. I never expected to wed at all, much less for romantic love." She felt a lump rise in her throat as her excitement gave way to defeat. "It's hopeless."

  Her fingers went absently to play with her laces as she wandered back to MacLeod, tears swimming in her eyes. "Is there no other way? Must I wed or see it all go to Adam?"

  "Well…" The family lawyer met her gaze, then looked away.

  "Aye? What are you thinking?" Slapping her palms onto the desk, she leaned toward him. "You've an idea, don't you?"

  MacLeod glanced heavenward. "May your father forgive me for circumventing his plans." He straightened his fine wool doublet. "If you could persuade your brother to sign over his rights—"

  Caithren's heart galloped in her chest. "That would work? Such a paper would be legally binding?"

  "I cannot see why not. It wouldn't be signed under duress, and who would there be to challenge? I assume, in exchange for a generous allowance for his keeping, that Adam would jump at the chance to relinquish his responsibilities. If I know your brother at all—"

  "Aye, you do," Cameron said in wry confirmation. He walked closer to Cait. "And he'd still have the title. Sir Adam Leslie, Baronet. Not that he deserves it."

 
"I don't care about that, but it's all he cares about, which is why this should work." Caithren turned around to think. "I must go to Adam." She spun back to her cousin. "My letters never seem to reach him, and he may be off to India soon."

  "India?" Cameron frowned. "Do you know where he is now?"

  "A letter came just yesterday." She hurried to the desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. "He mailed it the first of August, from Chichester." She scanned the single page. "He said he was in the company of two friends on their way to West Riding near Pontefract, where Lord Scarborough had invited them hunting. Then to London for Lord Darnley's wedding on the thirtieth. And he hopes to make it home for Hogmanay, but there's talk of a voyage to India." She looked up. "He should still be at Scarborough's. Pontefract is about halfway to London, isn't? Not so far."

  "I'll go."

  "Nay, Cam. I must ask this of Adam myself."

  "You don't trust me to ask him to sign a piece of paper?"

  Caithren winced at the hurt look on her cousin's face. "It wouldn't be the same request, coming from you." Setting the letter aside, she put a hand on his arm. "I do love him, you know, but I also see him for what he is."

  Cam's hand covered hers and squeezed. "Then I'll accompany you—"

  "Nay, it's here you're needed. The harvest approaches." She raised a palm to stem his next protest. "You may see me to Edinburgh and put me on the public coach, but then it's back to Leslie where you belong. I can deal with Adam."

  "I don't like to think of you traveling alone."

  The thought of a solo journey did make a wee tingle of fear flutter in her stomach. But she pushed it away. "We can hire a chaperone in Edinburgh. You may choose her personally, if that will make you feel better."

  When Cam's shoulders slumped, she sensed her victory. He took her chin in one hand and tilted her face up. "There's no arguing with you, is there, sweet Cait?"

  "Nay, and there never was." She rose to her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm thinking it's about time you learnt it, cousin."

  He gave a wry shake of his head, followed by a speculative smile. "Do you know, I reckon you may be right."

  "Aye?"