‘You, Madeleine Lafayette, are a captivating wee witch.’

‘I am not a witch,’ Madeleine said, flustered and indignant. She could feel the heat of his body, though they were hardly touching.

‘No? Maybe a fairy, then,’ Calumn said, wondering fancifully if she had indeed cast a spell on him. Mere foolishness—but he hadn’t come across her like before, and he didn’t seem to be able to make himself stop what he knew he shouldn’t be doing. For he wanted suddenly, urgently, to kiss her. He leaned closer and caught a trace of her scent, remembered that too, from last night, like the wisps of a dream.

‘What are you doing? Let me go.’ Madeleine’s lungs seemed to have stopped working. Her heart was pumping too hard. Calumn’s eyes sparkled blue like the summer sea. He looked as if he was going to kiss her. Surely he would not dare? Surely she would not …?

Calumn kissed her. It was the softest of kisses, just a touch of his lips on hers. A warmth, a taste, a curl of pleasure inside her, and it was over. ‘Oh! You should not …’

AUTHOR NOTE

In the eighteenth century it was relatively common for young Scotsmen like Calumn, the hero of my story, to join the British army as part of their education—just as the sons of English noblemen were accustomed to do. Prior to the ‘45 Rebellion there was little conflict between the British Government and the Highland clan system, since both operated almost independently.

The Young Pretender changed all of this. Contrary to popular myth, the Jacobite uprising wasn’t a case of Highlanders led by Bonnie Prince Charlie fighting an English army. It was a much more complex and far more harrowing scenario than that.

The forces of the Crown, led ultimately by the King’s brother, the Duke of Cumberland, were made up from the regular army, supplemented by a number of clans loyal to the King (mostly but not exclusively Presbyterian, including my local clan, the Campbells of Argyll), who did not want to see the Catholic Stuarts on the throne. Though efforts were initially made to keep Highland regiments out of the fighting, by the time of Culloden there were four Scottish regiments involved. Ranged against them, the Jacobite army comprised a mixture of Highland clans (largely Catholic and Episcopalian), lowland recruits, plus French, Irish and even some English volunteers and mercenaries. Kin faced kin across the battlefield, just as Calumn finds himself doing.

Following the defeat of the Jacobites, the feudal power of the clans was systematically removed and the landscape of the Highlands changed for ever, regardless of whether the laird had supported the Government, as Calumn’s father did, or Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Charles Edward Stuart fled to France from where, having become an embarrassment to the French court, he was packed off to Switzerland. He eventually died in Italy, reputedly of drink. He never returned to Scotland.

The retribution which followed Culloden—the disarming of the clans and the ban on Highland dress, the confiscation of lands, the burning of crofts and the decimation of the population (commonly known as the Clearances)—which is depicted in my story—is entirely factual. ‘Butcher’ Cumberland’s nickname, and reputation, was well earned.

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise—a decision which was a relief both to her and to the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her at: Marguerite_Kaye@hotmail.co.uk

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM

(part of Summer Sheikhs anthology) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

The Highlander’s Redemption

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Johanna, Catriona and Fiona, who amazingly claimed to be flattered to have a lochan named after them!

Prologue

The wind ripped mercilessly across the bleak, rolling moorland, driving the icy sleet straight into the grimly set faces of the Jacobite forces ranged opposite. Calumn peered through the haze of smoke at the ragged Highland line in a desperate attempt to make out the Macleod colours, but it was useless. There was no doubt Rory was among them somewhere. Best not to know exactly where.

The big three-inch guns pounded across the narrow gap which constituted no-man’s land. The air was acrid with the stink of gunpowder. Calumn’s ears rang with the noise—the tumultuous blast of artillery, the drums, the snorting and whinnying of the Dragoons’ horses stationed on the left flank. And above it all the eerie banshee wail of the wind.

He readied his company of fusiliers for battle, rousing the men, straightening the line, barking lastminute orders. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it even above the thud, thud, thud of the guns. He was afraid, but not of death. He cared not a jot for his own life, but he was terrified none the less. Terrified that he would look up in the heat of battle and come face to face with his brother.

A spine-tingling roar, starting low and rising to a crescendo, as if from the maw of a thousand lions, carried across the moor from the Jacobites. A fearsome, chaotic line of Highlanders, standards flying, began to charge. Calumn automatically checked the fixing on his bayonet. Saw Cumberland give the signal. Gave his own company the nod. And slowly, inexorably, moved forward into the hellish fray.

A shot whistled past his ear. Traitor, traitor, the voice in his head sang out, yet onwards he went, step after disciplined step, towards the heaving mass of wild-eyed clansmen in their plaids. His feet sank into the brackish water of a burn. The wounded screamed, crumpling beside and in front of him. The ferrous smell of fresh blood rent the air, mingling with the heart-wrenchingly familiar scent of sodden wool coming from the filleadh begs worn by the Highlanders. With leaden arms, he raised his musket, aimed and fired. High. Mutinously high. Far above the heads of the men who were his kin.

A riderless horse bolted, the high-pitched whinny like the scream of a frightened child. He saw the Macleod colours directly in front of him and paused, frantically searching, seeking Rory’s distinctive mane of gold hair, the exact same colour as his own. A hissing noise, which he thought at first was the wind changing direction, made him look up just in time to see the murderous glint of metal arc through the air towards him. In time to turn away from its fatal path, but not in time to avoid it completely. The heavy, double-bladed claymore sliced into the flesh of his belly, the force of the impact sending him flying backwards into his own line. Finally, he saw Rory. As he cried out his brother’s name, his legs gave way beneath him and he felt himself falling, falling, falling …

Calumn woke with a start as he always did, sweating profusely. The dryness of his mouth told him he had been shouting in his sleep. Trembling, like a man with the ague, he reached for the decanter of whisky he had taken to keeping on the nightstand by his bed, gulping down a generous dram of the fiery golden liquid. He touched the large scar, which weaved a jagged path across the taut muscles of his abdomen. The physical wound had long since healed, but on nights like this the scar felt burning hot, inflamed and aching, as though he had been branded by an iron.

Eventually the vivid memory of the nightmare faded. Calumn slumped back against the damp pillows, clutching his glass. The furious beating of his heart slowed. The sheen of sweat on his chest dried.

But other, less visible scars still burned, deep in his psyche. The all-pervading sense of desolation. And the heavy blanket of guilt which enveloped his soul.

Chapter One

Edinburgh—July 1747

Madeleine Lafayette huddled forlornly in the entranceway of a close, the narrow passageway leading to the tenements which Edinburgh’s residents called home. Even in the dim glow cast by the flare of the nearby brazier which served as a street light, it would have been obvious to any passer-by that the young woman was no native Scot. Her slim figure was clad in garments of a decidedly foreign cut, the dark blue tippet she clutched around her shoulders woven in an intricate design that was neither plaid nor stripe. Her flaxen hair showed almost white in the ghostly light, but her skin had neither the pallor of the city dweller nor the swarthiness of the Gael. Rather it was translucent, like a pearl tinged with colour by the sun. With a generous mouth, the soft pink of coral, and slanting green eyes under fair brows, she had the appearance, against the grey of the city’s sandstone and granite, of an exotic sea-creature out of her element.

Shivering, Madeleine hugged her tippet closer. At the top of Castlehill she could see the dark hulk of the castle looming, forbidding and—as she had discovered to her dismay—impregnable. Perhaps it had been a mistake, coming all this way alone with no contacts and no plan, nothing save the one objective in her mind. To find Guillaume.

The exhilaration of her impetuous flight and the trials of the rough sea voyage with the Breton fishermen had prevented her from thinking too much about the danger she was courting in coming here alone, the overwhelming odds which were stacked against her, or the terrifying possibility that despite all her certainty she was wrong. That Guillaume really was dead.

No! He was alive. He must be alive.

Above her, from the castle ramparts, someone barked out a staccato order. Footsteps rang out over the cobblestones as another rushed to obey, then silence descended again.

At home in Brittany her father would be asleep, for in the summer months they both rose with the sun. She loved those early morning rides around the estate, checking on the progress of the year’s planting. The scent of dew-drenched grass beneath the hooves of their horses mingled with the tang of salt and the sweet smell of the crops in the fields. By the time they returned for breakfast, the mist from the sea which hung over the land like a cloak of the finest lace would have burned away to reveal the clear azure of the Breton sky. Here in Edinburgh the air smelled so different, of stone and people and dust and dirt. Though she knew the slate-grey North Sea was only a matter of miles away, she could detect no trace of it. A pang of homesickness clutched her.

Guillaume had been here, in Edinburgh. She knew that much from his early letters home. This morning, landing in the port of Leith just to the north of the city, the castle had been her first thought. She’d made straight for it, for she’d been told that Jacobite prisoners were held there still. The discovery that she could not gain entry had been a blow to her hopes. The sensible thing then would have been to look for lodgings, but she had been unable to tear herself away, tormented by the thought that Guillaume might be just yards away on the other side of those thick walls. An endless stream of people passed in and out of the garrison, but all were checked by the vigilant guards. By the time Madeleine had concluded that she must enlist the help of someone with legitimate business there, it was dusk and the city gates were locked. With no clue as to how to go about finding a bed for the night, she fought the urge to shed some tears of self-pity.

She wondered how Papa had reacted to her flight. Perhaps he was regretting the harsh words which had triggered it. He had been so changed since Maman died, throwing himself into the management of the estate as if he needed to fill the void in his life, leaving no room for dealing with his grief. At home, he had retreated into his shell, like one of those hermit crabs she and Guillaume used to race across the sands, teasing them with sticks to make them scuttle forwards—though mostly they went sideways. Without doubt Papa would be furious to find her gone, knowing full well whither she had come, though she had left no note. Recalling the extent of her wilfulness, Madeleine shuddered.

A burst of hearty laughter startled her out her reverie. A group of soldiers were staggering up the steep incline towards their barracks. Instinctively, she shrank back into the gloom of the passageway, but it was too late, they had spotted her. Three of them, clad in the distinctive red coats and white gaiters of the British army, loudly and raucously drunk.

‘What have we here, lads?’ the largest of the group said with a lascivious grin. Faced with a pair of large green eyes set in a strikingly lovely face framed by white-blonde hair, he whistled. ‘A beauty, by God.’ Grimy fingers grasped Madeleine’s chin, forcing it up so that he could examine her face. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

‘Laissez-moi, let me go,’ Madeleine said haughtily. She was frightened, but not overly so. They had obviously taken her for a lady of the night, and would leave her be when they realised their mistake. She shook herself free.

The man laughed and tried to snake his arm around her waist. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said, manoeuvring Madeleine so that her back was against the sandstone of the close wall. The other two joined him, grinning and egging him on. She could smell the ale on their breath, the dirt and sweat on their bodies. Now she was afraid. There were hands on her, touching her face, her hair, her breasts. She struggled. ‘Let me go,’ she said again, her voice betraying her fear, but the man merely tightened his hold, so she kicked out, her foot in its sturdy boot making contact with his shins.

He yelped. ‘You little wild cat, you’ll pay for that.’

On the other side of the street, Calumn Munro was returning from an evening in his favourite tavern down in the Cowgate where the whisky, which came from the landlord’s own illegal still, was mellow, and the company convivial. As he made his erratic way home, a woman’s cry for help pierced the balmy night air, causing him to halt abruptly.

Across the road, at the foot of Castlehill, a group of men were bundling something—or someone—into a close. Despite the potent effects of the whisky swirling around his brain, Calumn’s body was immediately on full alert. He strode purposefully towards them, his long legs covering the short distance effortlessly, his golden hair and the heavy skirts of his coat flying out behind him. When he arrived his fists were already clenched in readiness. There were three of them, soldiers in uniform, he saw with disgust, surrounding their victim. He caught a glimpse of pleading eyes and fair hair, noted that the woman was young and extremely pretty. She was also struggling frantically.

Concern for her plight and loathing for its perpetrators filled his mind and fuelled his body. With a roar like a battle cry, Calumn launched himself at the soldiers, with nary a thought for his own safety. He took the largest of the three first, hauling him clear of his intended victim before landing his own mighty fist smack in the middle of the man’s face. With immense satisfaction he heard the crunch of bone. A swift follow-through with a double punch to the abdomen, and with a whoosh of breath the man collapsed, moaning. Calumn turned his attention to the other two, fighting dirty, using his feet as well as his fists.

Heart pounding, legs shaking, a cold sweat breaking out on her brow, Madeleine leant back against the wall and took deep, gulping breaths of air while in front of her, in the narrow space, her rescuer set about the soldiers with a devilish fury. He was a tall man and, beneath his expensive evening clothes, a very well-built one, with broad shoulders and powerful thighs. His hair, the colour of ripe corn, unpowdered and untied despite his formal dress, flew out in a bright halo of colour behind him as he dealt efficiently with her assailants. Of his face she could make out little, gaining only a fleeting impression of cold menace.

A cruel blow to the jaw took his second opponent out. A vicious kick and an arm-twisting had the last one at his mercy. On the stairway which wound its way from the close up to the first of the tenements, a man appeared in a nightcap, brandishing what looked like a poker. Her rescuer glanced up, telling him curtly to go back to bed, at the same time frogmarching the third soldier out of the close and hurling him into the gutter. Madeleine forced herself to move. Quickly retrieving her small bundle of belongings from beneath the stairwell, she picked her way over the comatose bodies of her attackers out into the street where her rescuer waited.

‘Are you all right?’ he said anxiously, his voice a soft, attractive lilt, very different from the harsh tones of the soldiers.

Madeleine nodded. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she managed through lips made stiff with fear. Seeing he was not yet convinced, she tried to reassure him. ‘Truly, I’m all right, I took no hurt.’

The tension in him eased, his mouth curling into a smile, the fierce lines on his face relaxing, so that she saw he was young, perhaps five or six and twenty, and almost unfairly handsome. His eyes were dark blue, his smile engaging. Despite her ordeal, she could not but return it.

‘Calumn Munro,’ he said with a flourishing bow, ‘I’m happy to have been of service.’

‘I’m most happy to meet you, Monsieur Munro,’ Madeleine said with a curtsy which was almost steady.

‘You’re French,’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘Mais oui.’

She was enchantingly pretty, all big green eyes and silken hair, with a mouth made for kissing. Alone, at such a late hour and in the vicinity of the castle, he had assumed she must be a courtesan, but, looking at her more closely, he wasn’t so sure. Of a certainty, she was no common harlot. ‘May I know your name, mademoiselle?’

‘I am Madeleine Lafayette.’

‘Enchanté.’ His exertions, on top of the whisky, were beginning to take their toll on Calumn. He needed his bed, but he could not simply abandon the poor lass to the whim of the next group of soldiers who were even now making their raucous way up the hill. ‘Let me escort you home, mademoiselle,’ he said, proffering a gentlemanly arm. ‘It’s not safe for any woman to be out on her own here at this hour.’

His knuckles were bleeding. There was a bruise forming on his cheekbone. She saw now what she had not noticed before, that he was—albeit charmingly—in his cups. ‘I am thinking that you too should be in your bed, monsieur,’ Madeleine said, ‘you look as if you have had too much wine.’

‘Not too much wine, too much whisky,’ Calumn corrected her gravely. ‘Let’s get you home. Come now, which direction?’

The words were very slightly slurred. She began to fear that he would collapse if they stayed here for much longer. ‘Which direction are you taking?’ she asked, and when he pointed vaguely down the hill, told him that she, too, was going that way. She would see him to his own door and then claim to have lodgings nearby. She tugged on his arm. ‘Come along, monsieur.’

‘Calumn, my name’s Calumn,’ he said, taking her bundle and throwing it casually over his shoulder before tucking her hand into his other arm. ‘En avant!’ He seemed to rally, setting off down the brae with an easy grace, the loping stride of an animal built for speed, not the mincing step of a city man. Clinging to his arm, Madeleine had to run to keep up.

They crossed into the Lawnmarket, which during the day teemed with tradesmen selling butter and cheese as well as the wools and linens for which the place was famed. At this time of night it was eerily quiet, difficult to imagine that in just a few hours it would be nigh on impossible to get from one side of the street to the other without running the full gamut of maids, merchants and pickpockets.

At the far end, Calumn stopped at Riddell’s Court where his family kept rooms. ‘Where to now?’

Madeleine shrugged. ‘Not far. I can make my own way from here,’ she said, trying for a confidence she was far from feeling. The reality of having to spend the night outside and alone was only just starting to sink in.

She reached for her bundle of belongings, but Calumn held on to it, seeming to notice for the first time what it actually was. ‘You’ve just arrived, haven’t you?’

Madeleine nodded reluctantly.

‘And you’ve nowhere to stay?’

‘No, but there is no need to …’

‘You’d best come up with me then.’

Madeleine shook her head.

‘I don’t blame you, after what you’ve been through, but you’ve nothing to worry about. Apart from anything else, I’m fit for nothing but sleep. I’ve a spare room with a lock on the door that you’re welcome to, and I promise I won’t try to take advantage. Word of a Munro.’

She had a fleeting sense of a shadow when he said his name, like a cloud crossing the sun, then it was gone. Weighing up a bed in a house and a door with a lock, against a draughty stairwell and a backdrop of late-night marauders, Madeleine was extremely tempted to accept his offer. Instinctively, she felt Calumn Munro was trustworthy. Had he not already proved himself a knight errant? She nodded her cautious acceptance. ‘You’re very kind, monsieur. ‘

Calumn led her through the wrought-iron gate which protected the close entrance into the courtyard and up the steep wooden stairs to the second of the building’s four storeys. He had some difficulty in fitting the heavy key into the lock, but eventually threw the door open with a flourish. ‘Here we are.’ He pulled Madeleine into a narrow hallway and thrust the door shut behind them.

Inside, in the warmth, the after-effects of the whisky hit him abruptly. In the light of the lamp which burned on the table by the door, she watched the colour drain from his face. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Calumn said, waving vaguely at a door almost directly opposite. ‘I’ll just stop here for a wee minute.’ He started to slip down the wall.

Though she was taken aback by the rapidity of his decline, Madeleine gamely tried to catch him before he fell unconscious on to the floorboards. ‘You can’t go to sleep here.’ Placing Calumn’s arm around her shoulders, she staggered as she heaved him upright. ‘Which is your chamber?’ she asked, and then all but dragged him towards the door he indicated.

‘No, no, I’ll be very well where I am,’ he mumbled in protest, but she continued to propel him forwards, managing to reach the bed just before the weight of him pulled them both on to the floor. ‘You’re a fine lass,’ he muttered appreciatively, collapsing backwards onto the bed without releasing his hold on her. Madeleine tumbled forwards, sprawling full length on top of her host. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured happily, pulling her closer, one arm around her waist, the other hand proprietarily on her bottom, before falling instantly asleep.

Pressed tight against his body, Madeleine could not decide whether to be shocked, annoyed or amused. She could not move. Her head was tucked into the crook of his shoulder, her face pressed into his neckcloth. He smelled of clean linen and warm man. Different, but not at all alien or repellent as her attackers had been. Reassuring almost. It must be his size. He was not just tall, but solid muscle and bone. The contours of his body seemed to complement hers, as if they were two halves of something designed to fit. Her curves melded into his hollows. It was an unexpectedly pleasant feeling. Though she knew it was imprudent, she was not at all inclined to move just yet. Guillaume had never held her like this. That last day, before he had sailed to the aid of the Scottish Prince, he had not held her at all.

The buttons on Calumn Munro’s jacket were digging into her chest, and something else was pressing insistently against her further down. His hand tightened on her robe. She could feel his heart beating slow and steady through his jacket. She could hear him breathing, feel his breath on her hair. His proximity was making her hot. A trickle of sweat ran down the valley between her breasts. She realised what the something else was which she could feel through the layers of her petticoats. A shiver arrowed through her.

Minutes crept by, and still Madeleine lay pliant on top of him, listening to his breathing in the dark of the room. She stopped thinking. Exhaustion rolled over her like a mighty breaker on to the beach. The temptation to close her eyes and give in to sleep was almost overpowering. Two days it had taken the fishing boat to sail from Roscoff to the port of Leith. She’d felt its rocking under her feet for hours after she had landed. The bustle and noise of the sailors and stevedores at the port had been intimidating. Edinburgh itself was smaller than she had expected, but much more foreign, too. Had it been a mistake, coming here?

Beneath her, the tone of Calumn’s breathing changed and his grip on her loosened. Madeleine inched cautiously off the bed, back out to the hallway. Picking up the lamp, she opened the door at the far end and found herself in a large reception room with a huge fireplace. The boards were polished and scattered with rugs. Two enormous wooden chairs of carved black wood sat side by side at the hearth, with a settle opposite. Under the window was a chest of the same wood, the fittings brightly polished brass. A table and four chairs sat in another corner. Heavy rafters showed dark against the tempered walls, on which were two companion portraits. A fierce man in full Highland dress with Calumn’s deep blue eyes, and a woman, golden-haired and very beautiful, equally stern. His parents, unmistakably. They were obviously a wealthy family.

A muffled groan drew Madeleine back to the bed chamber where Calumn lay sprawled on top of the covers. She ought to make him more comfortable. Placing the lamp carefully on the nightstand beside a decanter of amber liquor, she unlaced his shoes. He did not stir, so she unrolled his stockings. His calves were muscular and finely shaped. His legs, with their cover of dark golden hair, felt rough and warm. His feet were long and narrow. Bare, they made him look vulnerable.

The water in the china jug was cold, but she poured some into the bowl anyway, and found a clean linen towel which she used to carefully bathe his knuckles. She had nothing with which to bandage them, but judged they would heal more quickly exposed to the air in any case. The bruise on his cheek was purpling. At home she would have applied an arnica paste for the swelling.

Engrossed in her task now, Madeleine set about removing Calumn’s jacket, a more difficult operation, for the dark-green velvet fitted tight across his broad shoulders. By the time she had finished she was out of breath. His silk waistcoat was easier. She unwound his neckcloth and placed it at the foot of the bed beside his jacket. His shirt fell open at the neck, giving her a glimpse of his chest she could not resist touching. His skin was cool. A dusting of hair. Not an ounce of spare flesh. She should not be doing this.

With an immense effort, she rolled Calumn to one side, tugged up the heavy counterpane and sheets and rolled him back. He sighed and snuggled his head deeper into the feather bolster. His profile was so perfect it could have been sculpted, save for the tiny cleft in his chin. A long strand of gleaming golden hair caught in his lashes. Madeleine smoothed it back. It was surprisingly soft.

‘Bon nuit, Calumn Munro,’ she said, pressing a tiny kiss to his brow. Treading softly, she retrieved her bundle and opened the second door leading off the hallway. It was a small windowless chamber obviously intended for a maidservant, simply furnished with an iron bedstead, a wooden chair and a wash stand. As Calumn had promised there was a lock in the door and a key in the lock. Madeleine hesitated, then turned it. Quickly disrobing, she placed her shawl, dress and stockings on the chair and sank gratefully on to the rather lumpy mattress, pulling the rough woollen blanket over her. Within minutes she was asleep.

The next morning Madeleine padded through to the scullery on bare feet with her tippet wrapped over her shift and poured herself a glass of water from a large stone jug. Returning to the main reception room, she walked straight into Calumn, who growled something low and vicious in an unfamiliar language. Startled, she jumped back, spilling some of the water down her shift. He towered over her, clad in a long woollen robe tied loosely at the waist. In the bright light of day his eyes were dark blue and heavy lidded. The stubble on his jaw was a tawny colour, darker than his tousled golden hair, giving him a raffish look.

‘Who in the devil’s name are you?’ he barked.

Madeleine’s heart sank. ‘Madeleine Lafayette. You don’t remember?’

‘You’re French?’

She smiled nervously. ‘Yes, I’m still French.’

To her relief, Calumn’s flash of ill temper faded. He raked his hand through his hair and grinned ruefully. ‘French, and obviously not a housebreaker. I need coffee.’ He opened the door leading out onto the stairwell. ‘Jamie,’ he roared, ‘where are you?’

A patter of feet preceded the arrival of an urchin of some nine or ten years with a mop of dirty blond hair and a face which would benefit from the application of a washcloth. ‘Nae need to ask how you are this morn, Mister Munro,’ the lad said with a cheeky grin, handing over a tray on which was an enamel pot of coffee and a large jug of ale. ‘You’re like a bear wi’ a sore head.’

Calumn took the tray wordlessly. Tossing the boy a coin, he caught Jamie’s curious glance towards Madeleine. ‘I’ll not be the only one with a sore head if I catch you blathering, do I make myself clear?’

‘Clear as day, Mister Munro. I didn’t see nobody.’ Whistling tunelessly and somehow managing to grin at the same time, a feat which impressed Madeleine immensely, Jamie banged the door shut behind him.

Calumn poured them both a cup of coffee before helping himself to a long reviving draught of ale. ‘Jamie’s family live on the ground floor,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Andrew Macfarlane, his father, is dead. His mother takes in lodgers and looks after me, too.’ He dropped gracefully into one of the seats opposite Madeleine. Under his robe he still had his shirt on, but not his breeches.

Embarrassingly aware of her own dishabille, Madeleine pulled her tippet closer and tried to redistribute her shift, a manoeuvre which simply succeeded in drawing Calumn’s attention to her bare ankles. Shuffling her feet as far back under the settle as she could manage, she shook out her hair in an effort to disguise the flush creeping over her cheeks. ‘Do you remember nothing of last night, monsieur?’

Calumn inspected his knuckles ruefully. ‘Aye, it’s coming back to me now.’ His mouth thinned as an echo of the menacing look from last night traced a path across his handsome countenance. ‘It’s men like that who give soldiers a bad name. You took no harm?’

Madeleine shuddered as the image of the men’s faces flickered into her mind like evil spirits. ‘None, thanks to you. You were very brave to take on three of them alone. You could have been killed.’

He gave a twisted smile. ‘Perhaps that was my intent. I sometimes think I’d be as well dead.’ His eyes glittered, like the glint of granite on a Highland peak.

Madeleine shivered, frightened by the bleakness in this expression. ‘You should not talk so.’

‘Should I not now?’ he growled at her. ‘And what business, mademoiselle, would that be of yours?’ he demanded, frowning fiercely and staring off into space, so that she dared not reply.

Fortunately he did not seem to expect her to. His frown eased, then as suddenly as it came on, his mood shifted and his attention refocused on his visitor. She looked mighty uncomfortable in her state of undress. Far too uncomfortable to be the type of woman he had taken her for. And she was younger than he had taken her for, too. What the devil had he got himself into?

‘It was a sorry introduction to Scotland for you, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you were asking for trouble, hanging around the castle like that. They no doubt mistook your calling. I did so myself, but I take it I was wrong?’

Madeleine stared at him in consternation. ‘Indeed, you are mistaken,’ she said indignantly, clutching her tippet even more tightly.

‘That’s what I just said,’ he responded, unmoved by her embarrassment. ‘But as I’ve also just said, you can’t blame me for thinking it, anyone would have made the same mistake.’

She could not deny this, so remained silent.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing there? Had you no money for a lodging?’

In the cold light of day, after a night’s refreshing sleep, Madeleine struggled to come up with an answer to this perfectly reasonable question. Her actions seemed stupid even to herself. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling singularly foolish. ‘I mean—yes, I had money, but I don’t know why I didn’t find a place to sleep.’

‘Do you know why you’re here, at least? In Edinburgh, I mean?’

‘Of course I do,’ she responded, drawing herself up haughtily. ‘I was trying to get into the castle, but they wouldn’t let me pass.’

‘Why on earth …?’

‘I wanted to speak to the prisoners there. I’m looking for someone.’

‘A man, I presume.’

Madeleine nodded.

‘And what has this man done?’

‘Nothing,’ Madeleine said indignantly. ‘He’s not a criminal.’

‘Then why—ah, your man is a Jacobite.’ He waited on her nod. ‘And what makes you think he’s in there?’ Despite his pleasing lilt, the worlds were sharply spoken.

‘I don’t. I don’t know where he is.’ Madeleine paused, swallowing hard as the many, many things she didn’t know about Guillaume and his fate threatened her ability to think clearly. ‘The castle is as good a place to start as any. I thought someone in there—one of the other Jacobites—might know him, or of him, might be able to help me trace him.’

‘It’s a bit of a shot in the dark if you ask me.’ Calumn pressed a hand to his brow. His head had begun to thump. His tried to think, but his thoughts fled from his grasp like a hare from a hound. ‘How do you come to speak such good English?’

‘A woman in our village, Madame le Brun, who is married to the school teacher, is from a place called Dover.’ Confused by the sudden change of subject, Madeleine eyed her host warily. ‘She teaches me embroidery—or she tries to—as well as English. She would be pleased at the compliment,’ she said with an attempt at humour, ‘for she despairs of my stitchery.’

Calumn rubbed his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear away the fog befuddling his brain. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the leaded panes of the window, making him wince. Too much whisky, but at least it stopped him from dreaming. He focused his gaze on his unexpected houseguest. She was a slight thing, with long flaxen hair trailing down her back. Beautiful in a fey, ethereal way. ‘You look like a mermaid,’ he said.

His smile curled like smoke. His voice had a teasing quality, a lilting, sensual tone, which connected to her senses at a very basic level. Looking at him from under her lashes, the sunlight making his hair a burnished halo, Madeleine thought anew how strikingly attractive Calumn Munro was. Perhaps his ill temper was simply morning crotchets. ‘My mother used to say that, too,’ she said.

His eyes crinkled as his smile deepened. ‘Did you put me to bed?’

‘I just made you comfortable.’ The vivid memory of being held hard against him made Madeleine’s toes curl up into the soft pile of the rug at her feet.

‘Did I behave myself?’

She wondered nervously if he knew that it was she, not he, who had taken liberties. ‘You behaved perfectly. You promised you would. Word of a Munro, you said.’

Calumn’s smile faded. His eyes darkened, as if a light had gone out. ‘Word of a Munro,’ he repeated, his tone bitter. ‘I must have been drunk.’

He got up and stretched, rolling his shoulders, which were stiff from tension. He needed food and fresh air. ‘I can’t think on an empty stomach. We’ll get some breakfast and you can tell me your story properly.’

‘You’ve done too much for me already,’ Madeleine protested, but it was half-hearted. She was ravenous. Calumn Munro looked like a man with influence, and last night had proven him also a man of action. What’s more, he was her only friend in this foreign country; she would be foolish to turn down the opportunity to enlist his help.

Foolish, but also wise? She knew nothing of him, found not only his uncertain temper but his very presence unsettling. But … she trusted him. And he intrigued her. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said with an uncertain smile. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’

‘I’ll get Jamie to fetch you some hot water,’ Calumn said, suiting action to words with a bellow which would have awoken the dead.

With the hot water, Jamie brought a letter which had just arrived. When he had washed and dressed, Calumn broke the seal reluctantly, his frown deepening to a scowl as he scanned the closely crossed sheets of his mother’s elegant hand. Father weaker … demise imminent … factor requiring constant supervision … your return required urgently. All the usual phrases, although the bit about the attack on the western lands was new. Revenge by a Jacobite clan … to be expected given the Munroes’ stand, his mother wrote. Calumn’s stomach clenched in anger as he read this paragraph more closely. Bad enough the mess the Rebellion had left in its wake, now they must be feuding amongst themselves! If they were to survive in the Highlands, the clans must stick together, could they not see that!

Beg of you to return. Your father … not likely to live much longer. If his father died, the lands would be his. His to change and to renew, his to care for and nurture rather than work to exhaustion, his to do all the things he’d thought about and planned during the last few years. But they weren’t his yet, nor likely would be in the near future. His father might be weak, but his grip on life was a lot more tenacious than his mother gave him credit for. And anyway, what was the point in dreaming, when the fact was he couldn’t go home. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The usual feelings of frustration and anger and pointless railing at fate, roiled in his gut, making him nauseous. Calumn crumpled the letter up in disgust and threw it into the empty hearth just as Madeleine rejoined him. She raised her brows, wondering what could have inspired such fury, but seeing the deep frown which marred his face, chose wisely not to comment. He was dressed in breeches and top boots teamed with a dark coat, the clothes expensive and well cut. He had shaved and tidied his hair, though it was not tied back but swept away from his brow, curling almost to his shoulders. It was unusual for a man of his obvious standing to go without powder or wig, but Madeleine thought it becoming.

Calumn gave himself a shake, pressing his thumb into the furrow of his brow as if to smooth away the thoughts which formed it. ‘Come on, then,’ he said, holding open the door for her, ‘my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

They made their way down the stairs, out of the dark close and into the Lawnmarket, which was now teeming with hawkers and traders. Vendors vied for supremacy in the calling of their wares. Horses and carriages clattered on the cobblestones. Chairmen shoved and pushed their precarious way through the hordes thronging up Castlehill and down the High Street towards the Parliament buildings and the solid hulk of the Tollgate prison. The appetising scent of fresh bread, strong cheese and the dry, fusty smell of the many bales of cloth fought a losing battle with the stench from the sheughs, the steep gutters running either side of the street.

Madeleine paused, wide-eyed, in the close entranceway, waiting for a gap in the heaving crowd. Calumn took her arm. ‘Hold on tight to me.’

She needed two steps to keep up with his one. The crowd seemed to part for him like magic as his long legs strode effortlessly through the busy market. Madeleine clung to his arm for dear life, with her free hand keeping a firm hold on her small supply of money through the slit in her petticoat where it was tucked into one of the embroidered pockets tied securely around her waist.

Noticing the trepidation on her face, Calumn pulled her closer. ‘I take it you’re not from the city?’

‘I’m Breton, from a place near the town of Roscoff on the coast.’

‘I’ve not been to Brittany, though I’ve been to France. So you’re a country girl, then?’

‘Absolument.’

He had not slowed his pace. They took the steep road down West Bow, Calumn leading the way unerringly through a warren of dark closes and narrow wynds to an inn on the Grassmarket where he greeted the landlord by name and demanded breakfast immediately. They were ushered into a dusty back parlour, away from the curious group of ostlers, coachmen and passengers awaiting the public conveyances, and shortly were served thick slices of bacon, eggs and blood pudding. Though Calumn ate heartily, Madeleine was more cautious, deciding against the heavy black pudding after a suspicious sniff.

‘Tell me about this Jacobite you’re looking for.’ Calumn pushed his empty plate aside.

‘He came to Scotland with a battalion called the Écossais Royeaux.’’

‘The Royal Scots. A mix of French and Scots, and a fair few mercenaries too. Under Drummond’s command, am I right?’

‘Yes. How do you know all this?’

He ignored her. ‘All the French were pardoned, you know, rounded up and packed off home long since. How can you be certain this man of yours is still alive?’

She traced a pattern on the scarred wooden table with a fork. ‘I just am. I can’t explain, but if he was dead—well, I would know. I would feel it.’

Rory’s dead, Calumn. It’s been almost six months. He’s dead, we have to accept that, all of us. Heronsay is yours now. His mother’s words echoed, making him close his eyes in an effort to block out the painful memory. His own reply floated into his mind, so strangely reminiscent of Madeleine Lafayette’s. He’s alive. If he was dead I would know. I would feel it.

Calumn blinked, and found that same Madeleine Lafayette’s big green eyes watching him with concern.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Instinctively, she reached out her hand to his.

Her fingers were long, the nails well cared for, buffed and shaped. He laid his other hand on top of hers, noting the stark contrast between her smooth and creamy-white skin and his own, rough and tanned. Her hand felt good nestling there, fragile yet resilient. He twined his fingers into hers, liking the way her fingertips grazed his knuckles, fitting so perfectly, though she was so much smaller than he. He remembered then, last night, how the rest of her body felt, pressed close to his, fitting just as snugly, feeling just as right. It was as if he knew her. Had known her. Which was ridiculous. He dropped her hand, sat back and shook his head firmly. ‘There’s nothing wrong. I know what you mean, that’s all, when you say you’re sure he’s alive.’

Just for a second he had looked lost. Vulnerable. ‘You’ve obviously felt the same about someone,’ Madeleine prompted carefully.

A door slammed shut. His eyes refocused. ‘So who is he, this Jacobite of yours?’ Calumn asked brusquely.

‘His name is Guillaume, the Comte de Guise.’

‘A nobleman. That should certainly make it a bit easier to track him down.’

‘‘Oui, that’s what I thought,’ Madeleine agreed with relief. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to the other Jacobites at the castle. I know it’s unlikely, but I have to start somewhere.’

‘It’s highly unlikely, especially after all this time. Why have you waited so long? It’s been over a year since Culloden.’

‘You think I don’t know that!’ Madeleine’s lip trembled. ‘A whole year of trying everything in my power to find out what has become of him, but no one will tell me anything. I’ve written countless letters to the authorities and to the army, but all they will tell me is that Guillaume is not on any list, either of men who have been sent back, nor of any of the—the fallen, or the men who have been executed. It is so out of character for him not to get in touch. I don’t understand it—where could he be?’ Huge eyes swimming with unshed tears gazed up at Calumn beseechingly. The strain of the last year, the ordeal of the last few days, were beginning to take their toll.

‘Do you not think, mademoiselle, that the time has come to accept that he is—’

‘No!’ Her gaze was fierce, her rejection absolute. ‘No,’ she said again more quietly, though no less resolutely, ‘I won’t listen, you sound just like everyone else.’

The accusation stung. Once again, Calumn was reminded of a similar scenario not six months ago, his own no-less-vehement rejection. His hand clenched into a fist. He had held out, held on, waited, but he could not forget the doubts. He had not been so steadfast in his belief as this woman was. Though he had held fast in public, in private he had questioned. Was not this certainty simply the guilt of the survivor? A stubborn unwillingness to confront the truth? He had survived his wound because fate, ill fate, had placed him on the side of the victors. Rory, who had chosen to fight with his kin, had most likely not been so fortunate. Yet still Calumn had waited, because not to wait would be to admit the inadmissible. The price he had paid, would continue to pay, for his own choices, was high enough without that.

‘I’m sorry, I should not have been so rude.’ Madeleine’s voice broke into his thoughts. She was gazing at him searchingly. Too searchingly.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Calumn replied gruffly. ‘What you believe is not for me to question.’

She smiled tentatively. Whatever was going on in that handsome head to make his tempter so volatile, it was more than the after-effects of whisky. ‘I know Guillaume is probably dead, I know that it’s irrational of me to think otherwise in the circumstances, but I still find it impossible to accept. You understand, I think. It’s the lack of certainty.’

His nod was reluctantly given, but it was eventually given all the same. ‘What is this man to you?’ he asked sharply.

‘Guillaume and I are—friends.’

‘Friends! You’ve come all this way, after all this time, for a friend? He must be a very particular friend.’

Piercing blue eyes, disconcertingly penetrating, searched her face. Madeleine returned to playing with her cutlery. She was strangely reluctant to tell him the truth. She put the fork back on the table and forced herself to meet Calumn’s gaze. ‘We have known each other since childhood. Guillaume is my best friend.’ That, at least, was true.

Calumn raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘And how came you to be here in Edinburgh alone?’

‘Everyone else thinks Guillaume is dead. No one will listen to me, I had no option but to come.’ The truth was, she had run away, but if she told this man the truth she doubted he would help her. More likely he would insist on packing her back to her father, and she could not risk that, not when she had already risked so much just to get here.

‘Won’t you be missed?’

She shrugged, deliberately offhand. ‘They will guess where I am.’

‘I see,’ Calumn said drily, thinking he did, now. She was obviously in love with the missing Comte, in all likelihood had been his mistress, and had equally obviously been abandoned. If he was not dead, this Guillaume de Guise, he had most likely taken up with another woman. Calumn had seen it himself many a time with his own men, stationed far from home for months on end, falling for a pretty local girl and abandoning all thought of the one waiting for them back home. Whether her swain was dead or unfaithful, Madeleine Lafayette was doomed to disappointment.

Callous bastard, not even to have the guts to tell her! If Guillaume de Guise had been one of his men! Calumn sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re probably on a wild goose chase, you know,’ he said gently.

A film of tears glazed her eyes, but Madeleine shrugged fatalistically. The defensive little gesture touched his heart more than her tears. He did understand, of course he did. He’d been the same, all those months when Rory was lost to them. Calumn felt in the pocket of his waistcoat for his handkerchief and handed it to her. Wild goose chase or no, she’d been very brave to come here like this all on her own, so determined and so steadfast in her belief. He, of all people, could not but admire her for that. She deserved to find out the truth, even though she was heading for heartache. Why not help her?

He took her hand in his again, enjoying the feel of it again. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘I’m not promising, but I think I can get you into the castle, if you’re set on it. And I have a friend here in Edinburgh who can check the records, make sure de Guise’s name isn’t on any of our lists for deportation or—or anything else.’

‘I knew you understood,’ Madeleine said softly.

The intensity of her gaze made him uncomfortable. Calumn threw some coins on to the table. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can do about finding this precious Guillaume of yours.’

Chapter Two

Calumn set off at a brisk pace with Madeleine hurrying along breathlessly at his side, buoyed up by the prospect of making progress at last. The Grassmarket was the disembarkation point for most coaches coming in and out of Edinburgh. At the far end stood the gallows, and towering high above it, perched on its plug of volcanic rock, stood the castle.

‘Everything here is so tall.’ She gazed up in wonder at the lofty buildings climbing four, five, some six storeys high. To one whose experience of a metropolis was limited to the small Breton market town of Quimper, the Scottish capital, with its crowded thoroughfares and bustling populace, was like an alien world. The houses were packed so tightly against one another it seemed to her that they, like the people on the street, were jostling for space and light. Inns and coaching houses took up most of the ground-level accommodation, separated from each other by the narrowest of alleyways. The skyline was a jumbled mass of steeply gabled roofs and smoking chimneys, with washing lines strung out on pulleys from the tenement windows, fluttering like the sails of invisible ships. ‘So many people living on top of each other, I don’t know how they can bear it. It’s like a labyrinth,’ Madeleine said.

‘Aye, and a badly built one at that, down in this part of town,’ Calumn replied. ‘Some of these wooden staircases are treacherous. The problem is there’s too many people and nowhere to build except up, because of the city walls.’ He pulled her adroitly out of the path of a dray loaded with barrels of ale.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see a friend of mine.’ He led the way through a wynd, which rose sharply between the two streets it connected, then turned left into a small courtyard where more rows of laundry took up most of the cramped space, flapping on lines stretched between poles across its width. ‘Mind these stairs. See what I mean about treacherous?’

The staircase wound up the outside of the building, almost like a wooden scaffold attached rather precariously to the stone tenement. Madeleine lifted her petticoat and climbed nervously, relieved when they stopped at the first floor.

‘Jeannie,’ Calumn called, rapping briskly on the door.

A young woman answered, her pretty face lighting up with pleasure when she saw the identity of her visitor. ‘Calumn, what a surprise.’

Her vibrant red hair was caught up in a careless knot on top of her head. Her figure was lush, with rather too much of her white bosom on display through her carelessly fastened shift, Madeleine decided prudishly.

‘I brought Mademoiselle Lafayette to meet you. Madeleine, this is Jeannie.’

‘Good day to you, mademoiselle,’ Jeannie said, bobbing a curtsy. ‘Come away in, the pair of you, before we have the rest of the close wanting to know our business.’

Despite the fact that she was obviously not a respectable female, Madeleine warmed to her. Jeannie ushered them into a room which seemed to serve for living, sleeping and eating all at once. A huge black pot simmered over the fire, suspended on a hook which hung from a complicated pulley-and-chain device inside the chimney breast. A large table and an assortment of chairs took up most of the space, all covered with piles of neatly folded clothing. In the far corner a recess in the wall, like a cupboard without a door, was made up as a bed. Jeannie bustled about clearing some chairs and bade them sit down. ‘I’m sorry about the clutter,’ she said to Madeleine.

‘Jeannie takes in laundry,’ Calumn said, leaning comfortably back on a rickety wooden chair, clearly quite at home in the crowded room. ‘She washes my shirts and I give her young brother fencing lessons in return. She also does the washing for some of the prisoners up at the castle.’

‘Those that can afford it, any roads. I’m up there most days. It’s a sorry sight, I can tell you. Some of those poor souls have been locked up there for years.’

Realisation finally began to dawn on Madeleine. ‘You mean you can talk to the prisoners,’ she exclaimed.

‘Aye, of course.’

‘Mademoiselle Lafayette is looking for someone who may be held there,’ Calumn said, responding to Jeannie’s enquiring look. ‘A Frenchman called Guillaume de Guise.’

‘What does he look like?’

If only she possessed a miniature! Madeleine screwed up her eyes in an effort to picture Guillaume’s face, but after so long without seeing him it was as if his image had blurred. She could remember things about him—his smile, the way he strode across the fields, the sound of his voice calling to his dogs—but she couldn’t see his face clearly. Instead, she described his portrait, taken for his twenty-first birthday and a good likeness. ‘Tall, though not as tall as Monsieur Munro. Slimmer too, with dark hair, though he usually has it cut short, for he wears a wig. Blue eyes, though not like Monsieur’s either, paler. And he is younger, he will be twenty-three now.’ She looked at Calumn, lounging with careless grace on the chair next to her. He had such presence, an aura of power, of—of maleness—that she could not imagine ever forgetting what he looked like. In contrast, the memory of Guillaume appeared boyish, disappointingly ephemeral.

Jeannie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t recall having seen anyone like that.’

‘Wait a bit though, did you not say that Lady Drummond’s being held in the Black Hole?’ Calumn asked.

‘Aye, she’s there with her two daughters, and a damn shame it is too, to see such a proud woman brought so low. I have some of their shifts to take back today. Beautiful stitching on them.’

‘Lord Drummond was the commander of the Écossais Royeaux, the regiment for which de Guise fought,’ Calumn explained. ‘He was executed some months ago now, but they don’t have the right to send his wife the same way. She’ll be worth talking to.’

‘You can’t expect me to take her there, Calumn, it’s a terrible place.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Madeleine declared determinedly, ‘and I would be very, very grateful if you would help me. Will you, please?’

Jeannie pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘We’ll have to do something about those clothes of yours, they’re far too fine for a laundry maid. I’ll give you an apron to put over them, and you can wear a cap, but you’ll need to keep your hands out of sight. Anybody with a wheen of sense can see those have never done a day’s washing.’

‘Thank you!’ Madeleine leapt to her feet and impulsively pressed a kiss on Jeannie’s cheek. ‘You have no idea how much this means to me.’

‘Don’t be daft, I just hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for. Away with you just now. Meet me at the bottom of Castlehill at two.’

‘She’s nice, I like her,’ Madeleine said to Calumn as she once again found herself executing a little running step to keep up with his pace. ‘She’s your chère-amie, isn’t she?’

Calumn laughed. ‘Lord, no, Jeannie’s a grand lass, but she’s a friend, that’s all.’

‘And what does it mean, to be a grand lass?’ Madeleine asked, articulating the strange phrase carefully. ‘Am I one?’

They had reached the close which was the entranceway to Calumn’s rooms. Smiling at her lisping attempt at the Scots tongue, he pushed the gate open and ushered her through into the courtyard. As she moved past him, the swell of her hip brushed his leg, and he remembered last night again. Her body had been so soft and pliant, on top of his own. He thought of the way her hand felt so at home in his after breakfast this morning too, and before he could stop himself he wondered if her lips would fit his in the same way.

She had stopped to wait on him as he shut the gate. As she made to walk to the stairs he caught her arm and pulled her towards him, startling himself almost as much as her. ‘You are far too pretty to be called a grand lass,’ he said. ‘You, Madeleine Lafayette, are a captivating wee witch.’

‘I am not a witch,’ Madeleine said, flustered and indignant. She could feel the heat of his body, though they were hardly touching.

‘No? Maybe a fairy then,’ Calumn said, wondering fancifully if she had indeed cast a spell on him. Mere foolishness, but he hadn’t come across her like before, and he didn’t seem to be able to make himself stop what he knew he shouldn’t be doing, for he wanted, suddenly, urgently, to kiss her. He leaned closer, and caught a trace of her scent, remembered that too, from last night, like the wisps of a dream.

‘What are you doing? Let me go.’ Madeleine’s lungs seemed to have stopped working. Her heart was pumping too hard. Calumn’s eyes sparkled blue like the summer sea. He looked as if he was going to kiss her. Surely he would not dare? Surely she would not …

Calumn kissed her. It was the softest of kisses, just a touch of his lips on hers. A warmth, a taste, a curl of pleasure inside her, and it was over. ‘Oh! You should not—’

A hooting noise interrupted her. It was Jamie, standing on the bottom step, a dog comprised mostly of terrier wriggling in his arms. ‘Me ma says to remind you that this is a respectable close.’

‘As if she would ever let me forget,’ Calumn muttered, straightening up. ‘Here, go and put your washerwoman’s apron on. I’ve a bit of business to attend to. I’ll be back in time to escort you up to the castle.’

He handed Madeleine the key to his lodgings. Madeleine took it, trying not to imagine what kind of woman Jamie’s mother must be imagining her, to be caught kissing in public, even though he had kissed her without the slightest bit of encouragement! They would think her the same type of woman that Calumn obviously imagined her to be! For the first time since she had arrived, she was glad to have the North Sea between herself and her home. If her father had—but he had not seen, and would never know, and she would make sure it didn’t happen again, so it was pointless to worry. ‘There’s no need to come back for me,’ she said to Calumn, thinking that perhaps the less she was in his company the better, ‘I know the way now.’

His lips thinned. ‘You’ll do as I say,’ he said implacably.

It would be a waste of breath to argue; besides, she had much more important things to do right now. Madeleine nodded her agreement and made her retreat.

An hour later, her transformation to laundry maid was complete. She had tucked her petticoat and shift up at the waist, exposing her ankles in the way she noticed all the women did here, for the very practical reason of keeping their clothes from trailing in the stinking gutters. The closed robe she wore, the only one she had with her, was of cerulean blue with a darker stripe, and though the material, a blend of wool and silk, was of excellent quality, the long starched cotton apron Jeannie had given her covered much of it. She’d taken off her saque-backed jacket, and made sure that the frills of her shift showed at the neckline of her dress and at the hems of her tight sleeves, which she had pushed up to the elbows.

‘Well, do I look the part?’ Giving a little twirl before curtsying low in front of Calumn, she unwittingly granted him a delicious view of her cleavage.

He had thought her slender, but her curves were now clearly revealed. She had a delightful body. The slim arms emerging from the fall of lace at her elbow were white, the fragile bones at her wrists and ankles, and the elegance of her long, tapering fingers, her neck, all were somehow emphasised by the changes she had made to her clothing. The soft mounds of her breasts had the lustre of pearls against the white of her shift. Her mouth, with its full lower lip, was pink and luscious.

‘You look more like a princess playing at dressing up. Here, let me.’ He carefully tucked her hair back under the cap, giving her a marginally less just-got-out-of-bed look. Up close she smelled as sweet as she looked. Lavender and sunshine. ‘I’m not so sure it’s such a good idea after all, letting you go to the castle like this. Can you not pull the neckline of that dress a bit higher? You’ll have half the garrison lusting after you.’

‘I’ll be with Jeannie.’

‘Exactly. I should never have introduced you to her. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

Madeleine giggled. ‘You weren’t thinking very much at all. You had the headache from all that wine—no, I forgot, whisky—last night. You shouldn’t drink so much.’

‘If you had to live in my head, you’d know I can’t drink enough,’ Calumn flashed angrily.

Taken aback at the acrimony in his voice, she flinched. ‘And does it work?’

‘What do you mean?’

Resolutely, she held his gaze. ‘Mostly, people drink to forget something.’ ‘I am not most people.’

No, he most certainly was not. But he was trying to forget, none the less. Madeleine decided it was probably best not to say so, however.

They arrived at the bottom of Castlehill to find Jeannie waiting with two large baskets of laundry. She surveyed Madeleine and shook her head doubtfully. ‘They’ll have you for breakfast if we’re not careful.’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ Calumn agreed, picking up both the baskets, carefully stacking one on top of the other.

‘Don’t speak to anyone unless I tell you to,’ Jeannie said, setting off up the hill towards the castle at a pace which rivalled Calumn’s. ‘And don’t catch anybody’s eye, especially not Willie MacLeish, the head gaoler, he’s a lecherous old devil.’

Madeleine struggled to keep up in more ways than one, for Jeannie spoke as quickly as she walked, in a broad lowland dialect that she found difficult to follow. She was reduced to nodding and smiling as Jeannie continued to rap out instructions and advice, concentrating all her efforts on keeping abreast of her two companions. By the time they reached the entrance way to the castle she was out of breath and panicky.

‘I’ll wait for you here,’ Calumn told her. ‘Just do what Jeannie says, she’ll keep you right. Bonne chance. ‘

Madeleine smiled bravely, wishing desperately that he was coming with her. He had an air of authority which she was horribly conscious she lacked. Without him she felt strangely bereft and extremely nervous.

‘Stick close and you’ll be all right,’ Jeannie said reassuringly and set off apace. The guards at the portcullis nodded them through, casting a curious glance at Madeleine, but making no attempt to stop her. They hurried on up the spiralling incline to another gate and finally entered the heart of the castle. A company of soldiers were being drilled in the courtyard. The distinctive clang of metal on metal came from the armoury in the far corner. A group of Redcoats lazed idly in the afternoon sunshine. To Madeleine’s relief there was no sign of her attackers from last night. Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.

The familiar scent of horse was strong. She wondered if Perdita, her own faithful white mare, was missing her daily outing. She wondered what Calumn was doing. He was a strange mixture, that one, as fiery as the whisky he consumed to escape his devils. As golden in appearance, too, and, she suspected, every bit as addictive. A pleasure to be paid for with a sore head—or a sore heart, maybe.

‘Auld Willie MacLeish.’ Jeannie’s warning voice intruded on her thoughts. A middle-aged man with wispy tufts of hair looking comically as if they had been glued on to his pate and a complexion like porridge awaited them at the entrance to the castle vaults. ‘Keep behind me,’ Jeannie hissed. She dumped her laundry basket in front of the man, neatly preventing him from coming any closer, and did the same with the basket Madeleine was carrying. ‘Here you are, Willie, I hope your hands are clean.’

Willie’s toothless grin was like a dank cave. He proceeded to rake through the neatly folded linen, causing Jeannie’s displeasure when he shook out a shirt and threw it back in carelessly. ‘Aye, that all seems to be right,’ he said eventually. ‘I see you’ve help with you the day, Jeannie—who’s this wee thing?’

‘She’s just a friend lending a hand.’

‘And what’s your name, girlie?’

Madeleine shrank back as the full impact of Willie’s body odour hit her.

‘Do you think we’ve got all day?’ Jeannie said sharply, poking the man in the ribs. ‘I’ve plenty other customers to see to after this, you know.’

Willie cackled. ‘I bet you have, Jeannie Marshall,’ he said with a leer, but to Madeleine’s relief he led the way towards a heavily studded door and began to apply his keys.

Though she had been warned, Madeleine was appalled by the conditions, unprepared for the human suffering which confronted her. Her admiration for Jeannie grew as she watched her call out cheery greetings before producing an astonishing assortment of goods from the capacious pockets of her petticoats, including tobacco and some flasks of whisky. Many of the prisoners were Jacobites, but some were common felons awaiting the gallows. With Jeannie’s help Madeleine spoke to any who would listen to her, but none had anything to say about either the Royal Scots or Guillaume, the Comte de Guise.

Deeper down the cells were much smaller, the prisoners manacled and the requirement for laundry sparse. It was with relief that Madeleine followed Jeannie back to the main door. ‘Have you known Calumn long?’ she asked as they waited for the gaoler to return and let them out.

Jeannie drew her a knowing look. ‘I met him when he came back to Edinburgh after he left the army. He’d been a Redcoat, even been stationed here at the castle once, so he told me. My brother Iain has ambitions to join the army too, so I asked Calumn if he could give the boy a bit of a head start. That’s when he offered the sabre lessons. Calumn’s good company, we have a bit of a laugh and a joke together, but that’s all there is between us.’

‘He was a soldier?’

‘A captain, no less. He doesn’t talk about it, mind, I’m not sure why. It’s a touchy subject with him.’

‘Did he fight in the Rebellion?’

‘I don’t ken. I told you, he doesn’t talk about it, and if I were you I wouldn’t go prying. Calumn Munro’s not someone who would take kindly to your poking your nose into his business.’

‘What about his family?’

Jeannie shrugged. ‘They’ve lands somewhere in the Highlands. He doesn’t talk about them either. Calumn has been a good friend to me and my brother, but you’d be wise not to get any ideas about him. He’s what we call a charmer.’ She picked up her basket at the sound of the key grating in the lock. ‘That’ll be Willie. He’ll take us to Lady Drummond.’

The Black Hole was above the portcullis, so that the prisoners held there were under almost constant surveillance by the sergeants of the guard. The conditions in the other vaults were unhealthy, but the Black Hole was positively inhumane. Lady Drummond, a tall, thin woman with a Roman nose and piercing grey eyes, shared the small space with her two daughters. She greeted Jeannie in a friendly manner, but, seeing Madeleine, immediately looked suspicious. ‘And who are you?’ she asked in a cultured voice with the lilt of the Gael.

Madeleine dropped a curtsy. ‘Madeleine Lafayette, madame. I’ve come in search of news of someone who fought under your husband.’

‘A Frenchman? They’ve all been deported, so I’m told.’

‘Yes, but Guillaume has not come home.’

‘Guillaume?’

‘Guillaume de Guise, the man I am searching for. Do you know of him?’

‘The Comte? I remember him, certainly,’ Lady Drummond conceded. ‘May I ask what he is to you?’

Quickly, Madeleine told her. ‘Please, if you know what became of him, I beg of you to tell me.’

Lady Drummond’s face softened marginally. ‘You must understand, mademoiselle, that the little I do hear I cannot be certain of. Rumours reach me, it is true, and I have my own means of communicating with the outside world, but—knowledge can be a very dangerous thing, in times like these. If I am discovered …’

The door at the foot of the stairs was opened and Willie MacLeish’s voice bid them hurry before they got him into trouble. Despairingly, Madeleine picked up her basket. ‘You’ve lost everything because your husband chose the Prince. I’m trying to prevent the same thing happening to Guillaume.’

Lady Drummond pursed her lips. ‘There is something. It surprised me, for it did not sound like the de Guise I knew, but—there is no saying what war will do to a man, and there cannot be two men with such a distinctive name. I can’t promise anything, mademoiselle, but if you’ll give me a little time I think I can find out his whereabouts. I’ll send a message through Jeannie, one way or another. Tomorrow, the next day at the latest.’

‘Thank you, madame, thank you so much,’ Madeleine said fervently, kissing Lady Drummond’s hand and dropping a deep curtsy before she hurried down the steep stairs. The temptation to look up as she passed under the portcullis was strong, but she resisted.

Calumn was waiting near the top of Castlehill. Madeleine and Jeannie made a pretty picture as they approached, striking enough for most men on the busy thoroughfare to take a second glance. Jeannie sashayed confidently through the crowds, casting flirtatious sidelong glances to the left and right, the deep red of her hair glinting in the sunshine like a summons. Beside her, Madeleine’s fey looks and flaxen hair were ethereal, her step as graceful as a dancer’s. ‘I take it your visit was a success then,’ he said when they came into earshot.

‘I’ll know soon. Lady Drummond has promised to send me a message through Jeannie.’

They were at the junction of West Bow. Jeannie stopped to take her baskets from Calumn. ‘This is where I leave you. I’ll be in touch once I’ve had word from her ladyship.’

‘Remind your brother to expect me on Wednesday,’ Calumn said.

Jeannie glanced over at Madeleine. ‘Aye, provided you don’t get distracted,’ she said with a teasing smile, heading off down the hill.

Back at his lodging, Calumn steered Madeleine towards the settle in the reception room. ‘I’ve asked Jamie’s mother to serve us dinner. I’ve told her you’re a distant relative, on your way to London to take up a post as a governess.’

‘A governess!’

‘I had to think of something to save her sensibilities,’ Calumn said, ‘though God knows, you look no more like a governess than a laundry maid. You can use my spare room again tonight, it will save you the hunt for other lodgings.’

‘You are very kind, but I don’t think it would be right.’ It would most definitely be wrong. Once again, Madeleine thanked the stars for the cold grey sea which, she sincerely trusted, would protect her hitherto spotless reputation. There would be questions when she returned, but she was relying on Guillaume’s presence and her father’s relief at their safe return to plug any gaps which her own imagination could not fill. It grieved her to think of deceiving Papa, but really, it was his own fault for not believing.

‘I could ask Jamie’s mother to recommend somewhere,’ she suggested, strangely loath to do so. Because she was tired, she told herself, not because she actually wanted to stay here.

‘You could, but you’ve seen how crowded the city is, you’d likely have to share.’

‘I didn’t think about that. But it wouldn’t be right for me to stay here. People would think—they would say that—it wouldn’t be proper.’

Calumn laughed. ‘I’ve told you, they think you’re a distant relative. Anyway, isn’t it a bit late to be worrying about the proprieties after last night?’

She stared into those perfectly blue eyes of his, searching for his meaning. Did he remember? Madeleine folded her arms nervously across her chest, realised how defensive the gesture was and placed her hands once more in her lap. ‘You’re right. I should have thought about it before. I shouldn’t have stayed here last night.’

‘Why not?’ Calumn sprawled in the seat, but he was looking at her with unnerving penetration.

She twisted her hands together, suddenly nervous, and moved to the large chair opposite him. ‘I should have told you before. I’m not what you think I am. In fact, I am Guillaume’s betrothed,’ she confessed baldly.

Calumn looked remarkably unperturbed. ‘I guessed it must be something like that, even though you did your best to lead me into believing you were just his mistress.’

‘You guessed!’

‘You’re not a very good liar. That vagueness about your family, and when I saw you with Jeannie—it was obvious you were gently bred,’ Calumn explained matter of factly. ‘Then there was the fact that as de Guise’s discarded mistress you can’t have had much to gain in coming looking for him, whereas if you were his affianced bride—it had to be something like that to make you run away, which is what I presume you’ve done?’

Madeleine stared at him in astonishment. ‘Yes, but.’

‘And why should you tell me the truth, after all?’ Calumn continued in a musing tone. ‘You’re in a foreign country, you’ve been attacked by three drunken soldiers and we have known each other less than twenty-four hours. Frankly, I’m impressed that you’ve had the gumption to get this far without a fit of the vapours.’

Madeleine smiled weakly at this. ‘Thank you.’ She fell to pleating the starched apron Jeannie had lent her. ‘I won’t go home. You won’t make me go home, will you? You know what it’s like, don’t you, the needing to know what happened? You know what it’s like to have to wait and wait and wait, and all the time everyone is telling you that you’re wrong?’ Her big green eyes had a sheen of tears. ‘You do understand that, don’t you, Calumn?’

For the second time that day, her words evoked memories he spent most of his waking hours suppressing and much of the night time reliving. The months of waiting, the guilt of the survivor gnawing away at his guts, adding to the agony of the betrayal he had been forced into and the lingering pain of his slow-to-heal scar. He did not want to remember. Calumn ran his fingers through his hair. ‘We’re talking about you, not me. What family have you back in France?’

‘There’s just Papa and me. I’m an only child—my mother died last year.’

‘Just Papa. Who will no doubt be insane with worry. Did you say you left no word of where you were going?’

‘No,’ Madeleine whispered, shrinking from the thought of the upset her disappearance must have caused, ‘but he will guess where I am.’

‘You left his care without telling him and you left it alone. He will be imagining all sorts, any father would be,’ Calumn said sternly. ‘You must write to him, put his mind at rest, as soon as you have word from the castle. What possessed you to do something like this after so much time has passed?’

‘Guillaume’s cousin has started legal proceedings to have him declared dead. If he succeeds, all Guillaume’s lands will pass to him—a man who has spent all his life in Burgundy,’ Madeleine said contemptuously. ‘Guillaume loves La Roche, it would break his heart to lose it. Papa would not listen to me, he said I should forget Guillaume, that coming here to look for him would be too painful, but I couldn’t stand by and let La Roche fall into a stranger’s hands.’

‘Ah. So it’s about land.’

The sudden change in Calumn’s tone made Madeleine wary. ‘And Guillaume.’

‘An arranged match, I assume?’

‘We were betrothed when I was five years old, and certainly it is the dearest wish of my papa to see me settled so close, for our estates share a border and a son of mine would be able to inherit where I cannot, but—’

‘Very touching, but it’s still an arranged match.’

‘Guillaume is my best friend. I know him as well as I know myself. He is like the son my father never had, and—I don’t need to justify my marriage to you. Yes, it is an arranged match, but I am very happy with it. It will make me happy.’

‘How does it make you happy?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘De Guise gets you and, through your son, your father’s lands. Your father gets to keep his estate in the family and his daughter next door. But what about you, what do you get out of it?’

‘Get out of it?’ He did not sound angry, but there was a tightness about his voice she could not understand. ‘You make it sound like a business transaction. It is what I want.’

‘Really? ‘Tis not my experience that fulfilling the expectations of others leads to happiness. You’d have done better to stay at home. At least that way you’ll avoid being shackled to a man you are marrying only to please your father.’

‘You know nothing of the situation,’ Madeleine said indignantly. ‘Of course I want to do this for Papa, but I am not just doing it for him, and I am certainly not being forced into doing something I dislike. In any case, what is wrong with wanting to do what I know will make others happy?’

‘Nothing at all, unless it makes you unhappy.’

‘Why should doing what I know is the dearest wish of those nearest to me make me unhappy?’ Madeleine asked in bewilderment.

‘You subscribe to the view that duty is its own reward, do you? Aye, well you’re right in one way. In my experience duty is always rewarded handsomely. By misery. You’re fooling yourself, Madeleine. You’re not in love with Guillaume de Guise.’

‘Guillaume is the dearest person in the world to me since Maman died.’

‘Like a brother, maybe, but are you in love with him?’

‘I’ve known him since we were children, of course I love him.’

‘Love, not in love. That’s not the same thing at all.’

She stared at him wordlessly, feeling out of her depth. She could not read his face. He did not seem angry, but he had a look in his eye she did not trust, a tightness about the mouth she was wary of. He was watching her too closely. His coat hung open, the full skirts trailing on either side almost to the floor. He crossed one long leg negligently over the other, so casually, yet there was something about him that was most definitely not casual. He was baiting her. Setting a trap for her, if only she knew what it was.

‘Answer the question, Madeleine.’

Unexpectedly perturbed by the turn the conversation had taken, Madeleine got restlessly to her feet, tugging Jeannie’s cotton cap off her head. Several long strands of her hair unfurled, curling over her cheeks and down her neck. ‘Love, in love, it’s the same thing,’ she said with a certainty she was by no means feeling. ‘I love Guillaume as my friend. When we are married I will love him as my husband. I will love him because he is my husband, and because in making him my husband I know I am making both him and my family happy.’ She said the words like a catechism, as if by articulating her feelings in this way they would acquire more heft. Tugging impatiently at the bow which held her apron in place, she managed to pull it into a tangle.

‘Come here.’ Calumn sat up. ‘Let me do that.’

She stood with her back to him. His knees brushed the sides of her petticoat. His fingers pulled at the bow. ‘Closer, it’s worked itself into a knot,’ he said, tugging her nearer, so that if she leaned back just the tiniest fraction their bodies would be touching. He bent his head and it brushed against her back.

‘There,’ Calumn said and the strings of Jeannie’s apron unravelled.

He turned her round, putting his hands on her waist. Then he stood up, still holding her, giving her a look that could be mistaken for a smile, a curl of his mouth that seemed to reach up inside her like long fingers, squeezing her, slowly squeezing the breath out of her in the most curious way. Her lips were level with his throat. If he kissed her again, she would have to stand on her tiptoes. Not that she was going to kiss him. Or allow him to kiss her. What on earth was she thinking?

Calumn’s voice, softer now, interrupted her thoughts, which seemed to have strayed far beyond the bounds of what was decent. ‘Being in love is a different matter entirely from feeling affection for someone. The fact you don’t understand that tells me you’re not. And just to prove it, Mademoiselle Lafayette, I’m going to kiss you again.’ He tilted up her chin.

‘No,’ Madeleine whispered.

He put his arms around her.

‘No.’ Her heart raced, as if she had been running. Calumn leaned towards her, and a long lock of hair, bright as new-minted gold, fell over his cheek. She gazed into his eyes as he lowered his lips to hers, knowing she should move away, but something contrary and stronger in her kept her there, because she wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by him. Properly. Just so she would understand what he meant.

She couldn’t move. She gazed at him like one mesmerised, her lips parting just the tiniest fraction, the movement so small she was not even aware of it.

Calumn hesitated. She should not be here. He should not be doing this. Not even to prove her wrong.

But her mouth was made for kissing. He hadn’t thought of much else since that tantalising taste of her earlier in the day. She felt as if she were made for him, though who would have guessed it to look at her, so fragile compared to his own solid bulk. His hand tightened on her waist. He should not, but how could he resist when she was looking at him, unblinking, with her bewitching eyes, as if she saw into his soul? As if she was luring him towards her, exactly as mermaids do to sailors. She wanted him to kiss her. And it was for her own good, was it not? He could not resist. He simply could not. So he kissed her.

He kissed her and Madeleine sighed, the sound of the dying wind playfully ruffling a sail at sunset. Calumn’s mouth was warm as before. Soft as before. Gentle as before. It fitted over hers perfectly, his lips moulding themselves to hers, sipping on hers, as if tasting, encouraging her to do the same. She twined her fingers into his hair, relishing its springy softness, and pressed her lips against his, relishing the different softness and now the taste of him. She felt her blood heat. He kissed her and she kissed him back, liking the way his breath came just a bit faster, the way his fingers clenched just a bit tighter on her waist, the way his excitement fuelled her own. His tongue touched hers, turning warm into scalding hot. His fingers tangled in her hair. His tongue on hers again, a flash of heat that made her insides quiver and an answering surge in him, for she could feel the hardening of his arousal nudging against her.

She sighed and this time it sounded like a moan. She thirsted for more. His kiss became less gentle and she liked that, too. She pressed, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, flesh to muscle, her softness against his hardness. His hand slipped up from her waist to cup her breast. No one had ever kissed her like this. No one had ever touched her so intimately. No one. Not even—what was she doing!

Madeleine wrenched her mouth away. ‘Non!’ She wriggled free of his embrace. Heat turned to cold in seconds, as if her blood had been flushed with ice, though her lips were burning. She tried to cool them against the back of her hand. She forced herself to meet Calumn’s gaze. His eyes were glazed, his hair in wild disorder. A dark flush suffused his cheek bones. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Shamed, she realised she probably looked the same.

Calumn shook his head, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘you’re right, that was more than enough to prove my point.’

‘What point?’

‘You would not have kissed me like that if you really were in love with de Guise.’

Madeleine blushed furiously. ‘It is none of your business how I kiss Guillaume, and none of your business to be kissing me. You should not have done so. I told you to stop. I said no, I—’

‘You’re deluding yourself, mademoiselle,’ Calumn said with infuriating calm. ‘You wanted to kiss me, just as much as I wanted to kiss you.’

Madeleine stared at him in consternation, desperate to contradict him, but instinctively knowing that to do so would be foolish. ‘I …’

Just then, there was a soft rap on the door. ‘Your dinner’s here, Master Munro,’ a female voice called.

‘Saved,’ Calumn said with an infuriating smile as he left the room to relieve Mrs Macfarlane of her loaded tray.

Chapter Three

Mrs Macfarlane’s plain but excellent repast eased the tension between them. As they ate their way through chicken stew served with a dish of peas and greens, Calumn directed the conversation to less personal matters. Perhaps he felt he had made his point, perhaps he wished simply to enjoy his food without further contretemps; whatever it was, Madeleine was happy to follow his lead. Banishing the whole kissing episode to the back of her mind, she regaled Calumn with a highly coloured version of her two days at sea in a Breton fishing boat. It made him laugh, and encouraged him in turn to recount some of his own—carefully edited—traveller’s tales. His description of a meal of pig’s trotters he had eaten in a Paris café encouraged Madeleine to recall the plate of pig’s fry she had been presented with as a child, after attending the ceremonial slaying of the said pig by one of her father’s tenants.

‘It was an honour, you know,’ she said with a grin, ‘but I was only about five, and I said to Papa, I don’t like worms.’

‘Did you eat it?’

‘Oh, yes, Papa would not have his tenants insulted. It didn’t taste of anything much.’ The clock on the mantel chiming the hour surprised them both. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late,’ Madeleine said in dismay.

‘You’ll stay here, then? It’s far too late for you to go looking for somewhere else now, and at least if you’re here I’ll know you are safe.’

Though he phrased the words as a question, his tone indicated that he would brook no argument. Madeleine was inclined to dispute this assumption of responsibility, but common sense and an inclination to spend more time in his rather-too-appealing company made her keep quiet. ‘Thank you. I would like to stay, if you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ Calumn pushed back his chair. ‘I’m going out for a while. Have you everything you need?’

She was disappointed, but realised he was being tactful. ‘Yes. And thank you, Calumn, you’ve been very kind.’

‘Until the morning, then.’ The door closed behind him, leaving the rooms resoundingly quiet. Loneliness threatened. To keep it at bay, Madeleine tried to think about what she would do when—no if, it must be if—Lady Drummond sent her a message with Guillaume’s whereabouts. But that set her into a panic about how she would do whatever she had to do, so she took herself to bed, and despite being absolutely certain she would lie awake all night worrying, Madeleine fell into a sound sleep.

The company at the White Horse was thin, and Calumn was not in the mood for gambling. Returning early, he lay awake, all too aware of Madeleine in bed next door.

Her situation was abominable. He knew too well what it felt like, that wanting to know. If de Guise was alive, the bastard deserved a whipping for not having the guts to face her. He did not deserve her, any more than he deserved to have her save his lands, for he must have known his cousin would claim them in his absence. In fact, de Guise seemed altogether too careless with all his property. Of a certainty he didn’t deserve it. Unless of course he really was dead, which, the more Calumn thought about it, seemed the most likely thing.

Except that Madeleine seemed so sure. Just as Calumn had been, against all the odds. What if he’d given up, as his mother had begged him to? How would that have looked, on top of everything else? Angrily, he closed his mind to that path of thought. Betrayal was betrayal. A matter of degree made no difference.

Back to Madeleine, an entrancing enough diversion.Such a shame it would be for such a lovely one as she to throw herself away on someone who didn’t deserve her. Her response to his kisses had taken him aback. His own response had been equally surprising. Calumn was not a man accustomed to losing control, but there was a depth of sensuality in her which was obviously yearning to be released.

Releasing it was absolutely none of his business, Calumn told himself. None, no matter how tempting the idea was. Misguided Madeleine might be in choosing to marry for the sake of her family, but at the end of the day, it was her decision. And as to seducing her just to prove a point—no! No matter how attractive the proposition was, it was strictly against his own rigid rules of conduct. But that did not prevent him from thinking about it.

Madeleine awoke the next morning to an insistent tapping on the door of her chamber. Still befuddled with sleep, she tumbled out of bed and opened it, wearing only her shift. Calumn stood on the other side, already dressed, filling the small room with his presence. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, gazing up at him in bewilderment.

He reached down to twist a long coil of her platinum hair around his finger. ‘You look even more like a mermaid than usual, with your hair down like that.’ His eyes widened as he took in her state of undress. The neck of her shift was untied, revealing the smooth perfection of her breasts.

She caught the direction of his gaze and blushed, placing her arms protectively over herself, trying to bat away the hand which toyed with her hair. It was a nice hand. Warm. The fingers long and tapered. Not soft but work-roughened. He had not the hands of a gentleman, but nor were they of a common labourer. He had interesting hands. Realising she had been holding on to one of them for far too long, Madeleine dropped it.

‘It’s a bonny day,’ Calumn said. ‘I thought I could show you a bit more of Edinburgh while you wait on her ladyship getting in touch.’

‘That would be lovely, but I’m sure you must have business to attend to.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait, and at least if you’re with me I can be sure you’re not getting into any trouble.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Don’t look like that, you know perfectly well you shouldn’t be going about a strange city on your own, and you know perfectly well you don’t really want to. Allow me to be your guide. I want to.’

The clank of a pail heralded Jamie’s arrival with hot water. It was an appealing idea charmingly proposed. After clearing the air last night, and spending such a pleasant dinner, Madeleine could think of no reason to refuse it. ‘Thank you. I’d like that,’ she said, with a smile she tried hard to restrain.

‘We’ll go out by the Bow Port,’ Calumn said, taking her arm at the gate of Riddell’s Court half an hour later, ‘then we can walk through the royal park. I’ll show you where Prince Charles Edward stayed in the lap of luxury while he was in Edinburgh—and where his men were forced to camp in less salubrious conditions.’

They proceeded in their usual fashion through the Edinburgh streets, Calumn striding with graceful ease through the crowded thoroughfares and mazelike wynds. ‘Thank you for taking the time to show me around. Despite what you said, I am sure you have other things you should be doing,’ Madeleine said, clinging to his arm.

Calumn cast her a shrewd glance. ‘Are you fishing?’

Her dimples peeped. ‘A little. You don’t strike me as a man who would be content to be idle. Jeannie told me you’d been teaching her brother how to fight with a sword.’

‘Did she now? And no doubt she told you I’d been in the army too?’

Remembering Jeannie’s warning about Calumn’s reticence on the subject, Madeleine nodded warily.

To her relief Calumn seemed not to take offence. ‘I joined up at sixteen. ‘Twas my father’s idea. I was in need of some discipline, he said, and to be honest I was relieved to get away from him—I was just beginning to see that what he called the old ways were more or less tyranny. We were forever at outs. A couple of years’ service is all he intended, enough for me to learn how to do as I was bid, then I was to come home and do as he bid.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But the army made me; my regiment was more like a family to me than my own blood. After two years, though my father ordered me home, I stayed on. Two years became six, the rift between us became a gulf, but the more he created the less inclined I was to obey and as for him—even now he’s on his last legs, there’s no give in him.’ Calumn’s face darkened, then he shrugged. ‘I was a good officer and I worked hard to earn the respect of my men. There’s any number of wee laddies in these parts like Jeannie’s brother who think to escape as I did, though what they’re running from is poverty rather than despotism. I spend a fair bit of my time teaching them the tricks of the officer’s trade. Not that any of them will be able to afford a commission, mind, but if they know how to use a sabre and a foil, if they have some education and understand the basic rules of warfare and command, it will give them an advantage in moving up the ranks.’

‘I imagine you are an excellent teacher—though with that temper of yours, I would not envy the boy who gets it wrong.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.