The Duke’s Scottish Bride

Chapter One

“Me lady, please put that knife down!”

Catriona MacFarlane did not. The blade kept its brisk rhythm through coltsfoot and mullein, neat little green moons piling on the scarred chopping block. Steam rolled from the kettle slung over the hearth, filling the castle kitchen with the clean, damp scent of winter herbs.

“Is something amiss, Malina?” Catriona asked calmly without looking up.

The maid’s pale hands hovered, eager to snatch the knife. One arched look from Catriona sent them skittering back.

“Me lady,” Malina sighed, her tone softer now. “I beg ye, stop taking things upon yerself. There is nay need. Even with the Laird gone, bless his soul, we are still devoted to ye.”

Catriona’s plump pink lips let out a laugh as she scooped up the finely chopped herbs and dropped them into the sieve.

“I am thankful for yer blessings and yer devotion, Malina, but neither is in question,” Catriona replied gently, moving to the steaming kettle above the fireplace.

“Then why—”

“Because I am eight-and-twenty and, for the first time in my life, I am allowed to do these things on my own. I want to cook. I want to forage. And when my son is sick, I want to be the one who can nurse him back to health, not a stranger. So please stop yer fidgeting, and calm yerself. All is well in hand.”

Catriona leaned down to pull the kettle from the flames, but at the last minute, she straightened and threw her long braid of silver hair behind her back. A habit she would have had to learn from her first experience with handling anything with flames. She had only singed the tail of her braid the last time, but the smell was awful, and it was a mistake she did not want to repeat.

There had been many mistakes made since her husband, Laird MacFarlane, had passed a year ago, and Catriona had started to teach herself these life skills. Yet every mistake had sharpened her mind, and as the months passed, she became better skilled than the time before—leaving her feeling a little less helpless with each attempt. A feeling she had always wished to rid herself of.

“You wish to share your thoughts, Malina?” Catriona asked, pouring the hot water onto the sieve of herbs attached to a clay cup.

She dashed a look over to the maid, who had at least stopped fidgeting. The worrisome look on her beautiful, clear-complexioned face, though, had not ceased.

“This is just nae done, me lady,” Malina replied, sounding defeated. “Learning herbs I can understand, but the rest? Cooking? Chopping wood in this cold, as the other able-bodied servants stood by? Fetching yer own bath water!”

The maid’s voice rose to a shrill, and Catriona worried the woman was going to send herself into a fit.

“I am not an invalid, Malina,” Catriona sighed, wiping up her mess. “Besides, it was the middle of the night. I could not sleep. I wanted a warm bath, and I did not find it suitable to wake others just for my comfort.”

“Yet that is what they are here for,” Malina replied. “To see to yer comfort!”

“I managed fine on my own,” Catriona answered calmly. “Did I spill a drop or set the castle aflame?”

“Nay, but—”

“I am a lady, Malina; this is true. And because of that, I am able to do as I want, and what I want is to learn to care for myself and my son,” Catriona went on. “Do ye wish to deny me that when ye know how life was for me before?”

Malina looked trapped by Catriona’s question, then her shoulders sagged and she hung her head, clearly feeling defeated.

“Nay, me lady,” she sighed. “Though, if ye would please, allow me to finish cleaning the kitchen for ye. The young Laird is asking for ye, and I am sure the tea ye have brewed him shall help greatly with his cough.”

Catriona’s defenses lowered a little, and she turned her attention to spooning honey into Ewan’s tea.

“Thank ye.” Catriona stirred in a spoon of honey, breathing the warm sweetness as if to steady her own pulse. Since Roland’s death a year past, she had made a religion of learning how to boil a simple broth, how to light the stove without blistering, how to read the sky for a storm. Each mistake she survived made her feel a shade less helpless.

Malina nodded with a look of relief and went about emptying the discarded sieve and cleaning the rest of the kitchen.

As Catriona wound her way through the familiar halls toward the grand stone staircase of the vast castle, she thought of her words. She had not meant to be so curt with the well-meaning maid, but Catriona needed this sense of independence more than anyone could understand.

Under Roland’s thumb, she and their ten-year-old son, Ewan, had been kept indoors like pets, ignoring pleas to ride or simply walk the hills. They were to act and dress the way Roland wanted and were not allowed to do anything without his permission. Though she had borne the weight of such loveless confines rather well, she feared her son, Ewan, had not.

Hurt scurried through her heart as she recounted the many times the young boy had pleaded with his father to take him hunting, teach him to shoot, or do positively anything that would show a fatherly affection toward him. No matter how much he pleaded, though, Roland had always said no and insisted Ewan stay by Catriona’s side and out of his sight.

Catriona regularly wondered if being constantly forced indoors was the reason why Ewan often became ill any time the two of them went beyond the castle walls. It was as if his body did not know what to do with being in fresh air, but she was determined to help him. She told herself the lungs would learn; she would teach them, as she had taught her hands.

So entangled in her thoughts, Catriona barely noticed that she had made it up the stairs to the second floor, where their bedrooms and Roland’s old study were situated. It was not until she was passing the shut door to the said room and heard Ewan’s name spoken that she stopped, and pulled her focus to the outside world.

“—the brat will nae live to see his inheritance.”

The words seeped through the door of Roland’s old study like smoke. Ada’s voice came first, sharp as vinegar. “I am sick and tired of this. Living with the abandoned bride and her whelp. Roland should have left us something!”

Catriona’s fair brows furrowed as she recognized the voice of her late husband’s cousin. Though she was not prone to eavesdropping, the snarl in Ada’s voice had the hairs on Catriona’s arms standing up, and she immediately took another step toward the closed door.

Douglas answered, lower, colder. “He left it all to his bairn. His bairn. Is that justice to his blood?” A pause. “We do the just thing.”

“Do we have to, though?” Malcolm asked, sounding bored. He was the third and final cousin left from the MacFarlane bloodline—and also the simplest. “The lad is oft sick or lying about as if he is about to waste away,” Malcolm went on. “Once he dies, the titles and lands go to us.”

“Aye, but that wench of a mother fancies herself a witch of the wood,” Ada remarked. “Every time she pulls herbs from the forest, the laddie gets better. Besides, I dinnae want to wait for an ‘if.’ I want me share of the inheritance, and I want it now. This year has been long enough.”

Catriona’s heart beat once, hard enough to sting. She should move. Instead, she leaned closer, the tea trembling in her hand.

“Aye. I agree. So we take care of the brat tonight,” Douglas answered.

“It will not take much, I suppose,” Malcolm answered in the same bored tone. “When do we do it?”

“Are ye daft, Malcolm? I said tonight! Everyone is asleep; they would nae hear a thing,” Douglas snapped, then Catriona heard a sharp sound of a slap followed by a howl.

“Och! What ye do that for?” Malcolm whimpered.

“We do it tonight,” Douglas said, clearly ignoring Malcolm’s whining, “once the lad is asleep. We will take care of him first, then we get rid of the witch, and I become the Laird as is right.”

Catriona moved away from the door so fast she stumbled and dropped the tea. She lifted the skirts of her green gown and ran as fast as she could to her son’s room.

I will not let them get their hands on my son, even if I have to fight them myself.

Her skirts snatched at her calves as she flew down the corridor. Someone shouted behind her. Footsteps answered. Catriona reached Ewan’s door, slammed the bolt, and turned to find him pushing up on his pillows, gray eyes muzzy with sleep.

“Mama,” Ewan greeted, smiling warmly at her as she rushed into the room. “What took ye so… what is wrong?”

He sat up in bed, the movement causing him to cough.

She winced at the sound, but she would have to help him get better later. There was no time left.

“Mama, what is happening?” Ewan’s eyes widened as the pounding on the door became more frantic.

Ada’s voice was honeyed now. “Catriona, sweet. Open up. We only want a word.”

Ewan’s fingers dug into hers. “Mama—”

“Come with me, my love,” she urged, helping him out of his bed. “We are leaving.”

“Leaving?” Ewan echoed, stumbling and coughing as she led him to the tapestry on the far wall. “Why? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she said. “Hush now, I will explain everything to ye later,” Catriona whispered, then flung back the tapestry to reveal a secret door. Cold air licked the room as she wrenched it aside and pressed the hidden latch. The panel gave with a reluctant groan.

She ushered Ewan through the narrow opening and eased the panel back. Darkness swallowed them whole. The walls were close and damp; the stairs pitched steeply down. Somewhere below, water murmured.

Behind the wall, the pounding moved to blows. The latch rattled. A male snarl—Douglas—promised what would happen when the door gave.

The chill bit through her gown, ate through to bone. Ewan shivered, then shuddered. “Mama, I’m—”

“Brave,” she said. “Ye are brave. Ye are my lion.” Her voice did not shake. She would not let it.

Above them, wood splintered. A shout. Another blow.

“Mama, I’m scared.”

“Shhh, my love. Everything will be all right. I will protect ye. I promise.”

Catriona snatched Ewan under her arms and hoisted her son onto her hip. Even with the added weight, she moved faster, made it down the treacherous dark steps of the hidden corridor, and burst out into the cold snowfall of the night.

Then, Catriona set her jaw and ran.

Chapter Two

Four Days Later

“Kitty?” Morgan Draven, Duke of Westfield, called out into the snow-covered garden.

His steel-gray eyes scanned the darkening space, finding nothing but snow-covered shrubbery and statues. Night was quickly approaching, as was another snowstorm, and the thought of his daughter caught in the darkness and cold chilled him to the bone.

“Kitty, where are you?” he barked, adding more bass to his already deep voice.

He turned toward Miss Bailey, his daughter’s governess, who trailed behind him, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“You said she was with you,” Morgan said sharply.

“I swear it, Your Grace,” the woman stammered, clutching at her shawl. “We were together in the drawing room, but she slipped away. She moves so fast sometimes—”

Morgan’s expression darkened. “You lost her?”

As soon as Miss Bailey burst into tears and ran inside, the gardener appeared, removing his cap. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” he said, “but I believe I saw the young lady by the bushes not a moment ago. She was gathering flowers.”

“Flowers?” Morgan repeated incredulously, glancing toward the heavy drifts of snow. “Kitty, come out right this instant!”

An annoyed groan came from the other side of the snow-covered gooseberry bushes, and a little red bonnet popped up. Morgan let out a grumbled sound of relief and watched as his ten-year-old daughter walked around the bushes and came to him.

“What on earth do you think you are doing, Kitty?” Morgan snapped. “We should get you inside this instant!”

“It is going to snow, Papa!” Kitty whined as she walked defeatedly toward him, her red mitten already outstretched toward his waiting hand. “I wanted to feel the flakes this time. Not just watch them fall through the window.”

Her rosy-cheeked face turned up to him as she grasped his hand, her expression of annoyance matching his own. Steel-gray eyes—his eyes—flashed up at him in challenge.

Obviously, I am not going to get an apology for this insubordinate behavior.

“You know better than that, Kitty,” Morgan quipped back, taking her hand and leading her back inside. “You are not to go outside in this weather. Especially by yourself!”

“It is just snow, Papa! Miss Bailey would not let me,” Kitty grumbled.

“What was that?” Morgan demanded, shooting her a warning look.

“Nothing,” Kitty grumbled, averting her gaze.

Once back inside the warmth of their estate, Kitty’s governess, Miss Agnes Bailey, rushed toward the little girl and forced her into a smothering hug.

His daughter let out an oomph as the woman’s skinny arms snaked around her, and Morgan watched Kitty wrinkle her nose in annoyance.

“Lady Kitty, my goodness!” Miss Bailey exclaimed. “You had your father worried sick! Why did you run away from me like that?”

“Do please let me go, Miss Bailey,” Kitty implored, her voice muffled by Miss Bailey’s coif of tight brown curls. “Your perfume is making me quite ill.”

Miss Bailey’s pale blue eyes widened as her already rouged cheeks grew redder, and Morgan rolled his eyes and turned his head away from the overdramatic display.

“Do not be nasty with me, Kitty,” Miss Bailey implored, “I was worried about you. As so clearly was your father.”

“It is your job to look after her, Miss Bailey,” Morgan stated, letting go of Kitty’s hand. “If you can no longer accomplish what is required, I will be forced to find a more suitable governess who will ensure Kitty stays indoors.”

Miss Bailey rose from her knees, turning away from Kitty as if she no longer cared, and took a far too intimate step toward Morgan.

“Oh, please do not be cross with me, Your Grace,” Miss Bailey begged, batting her lashes. “I am trying to teach her obedience, but she is such a willful child. I am afraid she needs to be disciplined more strictly.”

Morgan shut his eyes, trying to block out both Miss Bailey’s pleading expression and the overly applied rose perfume his daughter had just complained of. Kitty was right. It was an overbearing odor that instantly made his head ache.

“What! I am bored, not willful,” Kitty remarked, removing her mittens and coat and tossing them on the floor. “I am never allowed to do anything!”

“Watch your tone, Kitty,” Morgan warned, his eyes snapping open as he ignored Miss Bailey, who began gathering the articles of clothing, and he looked down at his daughter. “You are to listen to me and obey my rules.”

“But it is true!” Kitty remarked, meeting his glare with her own stubbornness. “Every time I ask for something, you find a reason to say no. All I am allowed to do is sit inside and read or play in my room.”

Morgan parted his sculpted lips to negate her, but stopped himself. It was the truth. Even if it was a harsh one. He had not quite loved Kitty’s mother, but he did not want to lose his daughter as he had lost his late wife. However, that was not a reason meant for a child’s ears, so he snapped his mouth shut and walked away.

“Go to the nursery, Kitty,” Morgan commanded over his shoulder. “And Miss Bailey? If you do lose sight of her again, you will be finding new employment.”

He left his daughter and her governess in the foyer and retreated to his study, where he had been working when news of his missing daughter had been reported by the teary-eyed woman who was supposed to have been watching after her.

He had barely sat back down behind his desk when his study door opened again, and Kitty walked in.

“Kitty, I said—” he began to say, but the look of sadness in his daughter’s eyes had him cutting his words short.

“I am dreadfully sorry I worried you, Papa,” Kitty apologized, giving him a pleading look. “But I want to be outside! I want to play in the snow!”

Morgan rubbed along his right brow, trying to prod his new headache away.

“Kitty, I forbid such things for your safety. That is my duty,” he said, forcing a gentler tone.

“Yes, but I had thought that if I went out, and you were to come find me, that we could play in the snow together. Or take a horseback ride, gather winter flowers, and go skating on the lake,” she replied.

Guilt poured through Morgan as he heard her despondent tone.

“You know these activities are out of the question, Kitty,” he said with a sigh. “They are too dangerous, and you could hurt yourself. Besides, just because we are in the countryside, it does not mean that work in London or Wexford stops. That is why I have purchased you so many dolls and other toys. So that you may occupy your time between lessons.”

“I do not want any more dolls!” she shouted, glaring at him. “I want to play outside! I will not get hurt if I am careful or if you are with me. Grandmama says that Uncle Jordan and other papas do not work so much over the holidays!”

More of Morgan’s worry and frustration slipped away as he looked on at his young daughter and wished she did not seem so miserable.

“I shall try to make more time in the future,” he promised, his tone laced with a rare gentleness, though he knew that would not keep his word. He would let her down like he always did, but at least she would be safe. “But until then, you must obey my rules and listen to Miss Bailey.”

Kitty frowned, her little nose crinkling.

“I do not like Miss Bailey,” she muttered. “She wears strange perfumes, and she is always so… dramatic. She cries more than I do, Papa!”

Morgan let out a dry, humorless laugh as he stood up and rounded his desk.

“I confess she is not my favorite person either,” he agreed. “But she was the only governess willing to come this far out into the country. At least until springtime, I am afraid you and I are stuck with her.”

Kitty let out a huff of exasperation as she rolled her eyes.

“But I don’t—”

“Run along,” Morgan commanded, pointing with his chin toward the door. “Up to your rooms now. Tell Miss Bailey to draw you a bath. You are covered in mud.”

“But, Papa, I—”

“Kitty,” Morgan snapped in warning. “I will not hear another word. Now, be a good girl and stick to the rules.”

Her dark little brows drew down again, and she glared at him.

“I hate your rules,” she whispered, voice trembling with anger. “And I hate you. I wish Mama were here instead. Maybe she would have loved me!”

Kitty’s words would have sliced through Morgan’s heart if it were not so black and hardened. Still, it caused him to flinch a little as she ran from his study and slammed the door loudly behind her.

Morgan dropped his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and pulled in a deep breath as he fought a sudden bout of exhaustion. It probably would have been better for his daughter if he had died, but that was not how fate had unfolded.

Morgan closed his eyes, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He might have called her back, might have softened his words—but habit and guilt had hardened him too long ago.

He had only just stepped into the hall to go after her when his butler appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Oh, devil take me, now what?” he snarled.

Norman, his longtime butler, was usually emotionless and used to such arguments between father and daughter, but his usually impassive face was uncharacteristically troubled.

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace,” Norman replied. “But there is a… lady here demanding to speak to the dowager.”

Demanding?

“I have lost too much time as it is,” Morgan stated, shaking his head as he retreated into his study. “Tell her my mother is not here and send her away.”

Again, Norman gave him a flustered look as he followed after him.

“I have tried, Your Grace, but she refuses to—”

“Refuses?” Morgan repeated, incredulous. “What woman dares—”

Norman suddenly stepped sideways as a slim arm shot out from the hallway and shoved him aside. Morgan’s eyes widened with surprise as the most ethereal-looking woman he had ever seen in his life strode into his study and pinned him with her deep green stare.

“My name is Lady Catriona MacFarlane,” she stated, her mild Scottish brogue and her soft voice colliding almost violently against Morgan’s ears. “Tell yer duke I will not be going anywhere until I have an audience with the dowager.”

Chapter Three

Rage, fascination, and… something perilously close to desire all collided with one another as Morgan took in the woman before him. Her jewel-like green eyes glittered with determination upon a slim, almost pixie-like face that was as white and flawless as the snow outside. Her long hair, mussed in the long braid she wore it, nearly matched her complexion. He reckoned he would be more terrified if it were not for the soft pink glow of life in her cheeks and those rosy lips that even from where he stood appeared plump.

This was not a ghost coming to haunt him, coming to chastise him for his gruffness or sins, but a beautiful, fiery woman. Though she looked intent on chastising him all the same.

The woman came toward him, her rumpled and muddied emerald green dress wrapped so deliciously around her curves, swishing against the thick carpet beneath her feet.

“Yer Grace!” she snapped, breaking Morgan out of his reverie. “Are ye just going to stare at me like that, or are ye actually going to speak?”

“What did you say?” His rage took over his fascination as a sneer formed on his lips, and he strode toward her. “You will watch how you speak to me,” he commanded, towering over her. “Here in England, we do not just barge into other people’s homes without an invitation. I said you are leaving, and you are leaving now.”

Lady MacFarlane did not so much as shrink even a hairbreadth from him as he stared down into her eyes, but in fact took a willful step toward him.

“And I said I am not leaving until I have spoken with the Dowager Duchess of Wexford,” she replied, her whispered voice laced with determination.

The sneer on Morgan’s lips elongated as he shot a glare over the woman’s shoulder toward Norman.

“Norman, why are you still standing here? I told you to send her away, and you just let this madwoman walk in?” he demanded, ignoring the woman’s command.

“I… I told her to wait outside, Your Grace,” Norman stammered. “She would not listen… I did not know that she had followed me.”

“You and I will be having a discussion about your duties later,” Morgan warned. “For now, get back to your post.”

Norman scurried away as Morgan snatched the stubborn woman’s wrist and began pulling her out of his study.

“Unhand me!” she seethed, fighting his grip. “I said I am not leaving until I speak to the dowager!”

Morgan snickered.

“My mother? She is not here. But you would know that if you actually were a friend of hers.”

“I will have ye know that she has invited me here for the holidays!” Catriona retorted.

“Invited you? Do you take me for a fool? Where is your invitation, then? Have you brought a letter? A card?” Morgan asked, ignoring the way her free hand clawed at his grip. “If my mother is expecting you, surely you would have verification.”

Lady MacFarlane stopped clawing at his hand, and he felt a little less resistance as he walked her back to the foyer of his home.

“I… I do not have one,” she said, her tone suddenly much softer.

Morgan flicked a surprised look back to her, a strange tremor of feeling running through his chest at the sudden shift in her tone. He ignored it, and once he reached the foyer, he turned with her back to the door and let her go.

“But I know I am welcome,” Lady MacFarlane went on, facing him again. Her hand moved as if she were about to massage the wrist he had gripped, but she stopped herself and lifted her chin.

“As I said, the Dowager Duchess gave me an open invitation for the holidays,” she stated.

“An open invitation,” Morgan chortled, rubbing his brow. “Well, did your ‘open invitation’ inform you that she is not here? That she is spending her holidays in London with her friends and other members of our family?”

Though he did not know how it was possible, the woman’s face grew paler, and that determined look shifted to worry. He felt another ripple of that strange feeling and hated it.

“No, I—”

“I am not a fool, madam, and I do not appreciate such dramatic displays and lies. You will leave my home right this instant,” he stated, turning to head for the stairs.

“Please,” her tone shifted into a plea as she took a step toward him. “You do not understand. I need to find the dowager. I need her protection, and I know that she often resides here.”

Morgan paused on the staircase and looked at her over his shoulder. Genuine fear glimmered in her wide, desperate stare; all of that stubborn determination was long gone.

“What do you mean that you need her protection?” he asked, turning his body toward her.

“My mother told me long ago that if I ever needed help, I could come to the dowager,” Lady MacFarlane explained, taking another tentative step toward him. “I admit I have not seen her in quite some time, but I know she will recognize me. She is my godmother.”

Morgan let out a mirthless chuckle, causing the woman to redden in fury.

“Is that supposed to account for something? My mother must have twenty or so goddaughters,” Morgan replied. “Do not count yourself as special, as she takes in nearly every stray she finds.”

“How dare ye! I am not a stray!” Lady MacFarlane snapped as she took another step toward him, her wide, worried eyes narrowing at him with open vitriol. “She means something to me, and I know I mean something to her,” she went on, almost toe to toe with him now.

“Why should I believe all those lies?”

“I am not lying! If she is truly not here, I accept that, but I must find her. I will venture to London tomorrow if that is where she is, but for tonight, I must insist that ye allow my horses to rest. We have been riding for days; we are exhausted!”

“We?” he asked.

That softness appeared in Lady MacFarlane’s startling green eyes again, but before she could answer, a small voice called her by the door. She turned as Morgan looked to the door, and a small, pale young boy with ruined shoes and muddied pants stepped into the foyer. The moment she saw him, Lady MacFarlane flew down the stairs and kneeled before the boy.

“Ewan, darling,” she said softly, wrapping the cloak on his shoulders tighter around him. “I told you to stay by the front door until I could get our arrangements sorted.”

The boy’s teeth chattered as he looked up from his mother to Morgan, then back to her again.

“I… I am sorry, Mama,” he chattered. “I am still just too cold.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, my love,” Lady MacFarlane apologized, pulling him into her arms. “I am so sorry.

“Where did that boy come from?” Morgan demanded, taking a step toward them. “You have a son?”

Catriona turned to him with a glare.

“Yes, he has been standing here the entire time. Ye were just too busy yelling at me and trying to throw me out that ye didn’t notice!” she said accusingly, holding the boy closer to her.

The boy let out a wicked cough, then began to tremble so badly in his mother’s arms that Morgan feared he would drop on the very spot.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Morgan snapped, coming down the stairs. “Bring him in here; there is a fire going in the parlor.”

For the first time since her arrival, Lady MacFarlane had no retort to give him, and she picked up her son and hurried after Morgan as he led them to the fire.

He waited, watching them closely as the mother situated her son on the plush carpet before the fireplace and whispered words of comfort in the boy’s ear. Once more, Morgan looked them over. For a lady and a young lord, they certainly did not look the part, although he could tell the ruined gown was made out of fine fabric, and the boy’s pants were of the same caliber. What was odder was that they were not dressed for the season or for travel, and their health appeared frail at best.

“How did you get here?” Morgan asked.

“By carriage,” Lady MacFarlane replied, leaving her son’s side. “Though the roads were quite rough. I got lost quite a few times.”

Morgan’s dark brows furrowed.

“You got lost?” he asked. “Not your driver?”

Lady MacFarlane cast another glance at her son before she stepped toward Morgan and lowered her voice.

“There was no time to wake a driver,” she told him. “When we left, we had no time to do things properly. I probably should have just taken a horse, but I knew there were furs in the carriage, and I wanted to keep my son warm on the journey. He was already troubled with a cough when we left. I did not wish to make it worse.”

Morgan shifted his stance as he cocked his head.

“So you are telling me that you left Scotland on your own? With no directions, no protection, and no provisions?”

Lady MacFarlane dropped her gaze to their feet, and she shook her head.

“There was no time,” she murmured again, fidgeting with her fingers. “When I overheard what they were going to do to him, I just took him and ran. My son is in danger.”

At first, Morgan was too stunned to speak as he processed the information. “So you are telling me that you traveled all the way from Scotland on your own because someone wants to kill your son? Well, forgive me if I tell you that this story of yours is even more outlandish than the last.” Morgan scoffed, and Catriona glared at him, ready for another round of arguing.

From the hall, loud, repetitive knocking echoed from the front door. The sound made Catriona jump, and as if on instinct, she grabbed his arm. Morgan looked down at her tight hold on him, and as if she too had just realized what she had done, she snatched her hands back as her breath grew rapid and she began walking backward.

“It is them,” she whispered, her eyes growing wide with fear. “Ye have to believe me.” Her eyes shot up to his as she took another frightened step back toward her son. “Please, Yer Grace,” she pleaded. “Ye do not wish us to stay, then we will not. We shall leave the moment they are gone, but please do not tell them we are here! They will kill us if they find us!”

Morgan narrowed his eyes at her. He was still not sure if all of her story was true, but in that moment, it was clear that the need for the protection she had spoken of earlier was no lie. This woman was purely terrified of whoever was at his door.

“Your Grace,” Norman said, appearing in the parlor doorway. “There are two… Scottish men and a woman outside urgently requesting an audience with you.”

Catriona gave him another pleading look as she went silent and gave a small shake of her head.

“Please,” she breathed.

“Are they inside?” Morgan asked, still staring at Catriona.

“No, Your Grace. I locked the door this time.”

“Good. Go back to the door and do not open it until I give my command,” Morgan ordered Norman, then moved around Catriona to speak to Ewan.

“Can you follow orders, boy? Like a soldier?” Morgan asked, going down to Ewan’s eye level.

“Aye, Yer Grace,” the boy replied with a nod of his head.

“I shall test you,” Morgan replied, motioning for him to stand. “Go down this hall and make a left at the very end, then follow that hallway until you find a flight of stairs. I want you to walk up one floor and take the first door on your right. That is my daughter Kitty’s nursery. You will tell her and her governess, Miss Bailey, that I commanded that you go there and that all three of you are to stay put. If I do not find the three of you in that room, I will be very, very cross. Understand?”

The boy nodded hurriedly.

“Go,” Morgan commanded, and the boy took off.

“You,” he ordered, pointing at Catriona as he walked up to her. “Go back along the path you took to find my study and hide yourself in one of those rooms. Do not open the door. I will come for you.”

“Thank ye,” Catriona whispered, already hurrying out the parlor door.

Morgan took a deep breath as he scanned first the patio and the hallway for any evidence that he had just received guests.

“Clean that mud and melted snow from the floor,” he snapped to a maid.

She instantly fell to her knees, pulling a rag from her apron, and began wiping up the mess. When she finished, Morgan dismissed her and looked up to Norman.

“Let them in,” he commanded, straightening his jacket. “I shall escort them to my study myself.”