Seducing the Smuggler: Secrets and Lies, #1

By Ann C. Gilbert

The Ghost of Castle Lomond…

Legend says Brenna MacGregor died a tragic death four years ago, and that suits her just fine.  No one suspects she's now a notorious whisky smuggler.  Money from the whisky keeps the clan from starving, but she's set her sights on reclaiming MacGregor land stolen by a corrupt local magistrate.  She has a plan, but there's a very large and handsome problem standing in her way…

A Man of Honor…

Captain Alexander Weston excels at catching criminals.  His English regiment is in Scotland to capture a band of murdering highwaymen, but he has another, private purpose in the Highlands.  He's searching for proof his parents were married before he was born.  When a mysterious woman leaves him clues to find the outlaws, he realizes Brenna MacGregor is no ghost.  Not only does she hold the key to his investigation, but to his future as well.  He's willing to do anything to discover her secrets, including seducing them out of her…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann C. Gilbert
• Release date: Apr 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386275664

Book preview

Prologue

Castle Lomond, Scotland

September, 1794

A title was wasted on that pompous lout, Brenna MacGregor said. No doubt he expected me to welcome his lecherous attentions.

Och no, Miss, the maid said and paused in bushing Brenna’s hair. Not Lord Carrington. He’s a Sassenach gentleman.

Brenna snorted. He’s a snake with a bonnie face.

Dinner with Lord Carrington had started perfectly. He was courteous and witty, entertaining her with his charm. But as the night grew later, he used a myriad of excuses to caress her bare shoulders or accidentally brush against her bosom or derriere. He apologized each time, only to grow bolder.

Brenna peered at her reflection in the dressing table mirror, twisting to see her neck. A dark spot marred the pale skin along her jaw. The candlelight flickered, shadowing her face. Her fingers sought out the bruise and she winced when she pressed too hard.

I should have slapped him harder, she muttered.

What will ye do, Miss? her maid asked, returning the brush to the dressing table.

"What can I do? ‘Twill probably grow into a horrid purple bruise."

Not the bruise, Miss Brenna. What will ye do about Lord Carrington?

Brenna gritted her teeth. Even the mere mention of his name was enough to send the pit of her stomach trembling. She knew her father was in awe of the man, but she held no such illusions. I have no intention of—

Brenna lass? Her father gave a cursory knock and strode into the room.

She quickly averted her face, letting her hair fall about her shoulders. She picked up a perfume vial and pretended to play with the stopper.

Aye Papa?

Laird MacGregor motioned for the maid to leave. The girl shot Brenna a worried look as she hurried to do the laird’s bidding. The door closed quietly behind her.

How was your meal with Lord Carrington?

Fine. Brenna couldn’t quite meet his steady gaze. She slid out of the chair and sought refuge in the farthest corner of the bedchamber.

Only fine?

She pinned a false smile on her face. Lord Carrington’s chef is quite talented. Dessert was exquisite.

And Lord Carrington? he prompted.

Her smile turned into a sneer. He should be banished from the Highlands! Let England have him back.

I think he means to stay.

Och! So long as he stays away from me. He tried to… Revulsion thickened her voice and she fought back the memory of him pinning her to the settee as he slopped wet kisses down her throat.

He’s taken with ye, lass.

I want naught to do with him.

He will give ye every luxury.

It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in, and panic with it. Papa! Has he offered for me?

Laird MacGregor clasped his hands behind his back. No, he’s not spoken of marriage.

Och, thank Heaven. She felt as if she’d slipped the hangman’s noose. Relief buoyed her spirits. I could na marry a man like him. Besides, what use is an English title to whisky smugglers like us?

His shoulders slumped, silently chastising her for mentioning the forbidden subject yet again. But she couldn’t leave it alone. I want to help ye with the whisky. I do na care for Lord Carrington’s attention. Let the village lasses make fools of themselves fawning over him.

Och, Brenna. He massaged his temples, as if her conversation pained him. Lord Carrington can give ye things; money, respectability. Things I never will.

"I have no need of his things. The image of Lord Carrington and his groping hands darted to the fore of her mind. She choked back the bile that rose to her throat. What spell has he cast that ye keep shoving me under his nose like a tempting sweetmeat?"

He wants ye, lass.

He will na have me.

Her father stared at the fire. ’Tis too late for that, I’m afraid.

The dawning of fear troubled her brow. What do ye mean?

He sighed heavily. The money’s gone, lass. Two years gone.

Gone? She rushed to his side and grabbed his arm. But it can’t be. The rents from the tenant farms—

Most o’ the farms are gone too. Sold to Lord Carrington.

Brenna shook her head, trying to make sense of her father’s words. Ye sold our land to that…that Sassenach? All of it? What about the whisky?

Her father’s face took on a crimson hue, and he scuffed a toe against the floor. I haven’t distilled a drop this year. With no land, there’s no barley to make into whisky.

But ye said we had plenty of money. What have we been living on?

Lord Carrington extended us a loan, with certain provisions.

Her pulse pounded like a drum in her ears and her voice sounded as if it echoed down a long tunnel. What provisions?

Lord Carrington would forgive the debt in exchange for…

For me? she whispered. As his wife?

As his mistress.

She clamped her mouth shut and backed away. If she started screaming, she might never stop. How could her father do this to his own flesh and blood? She willed it all to be a nightmare. Tell me it’s a lie.

I’m sorry, Brenna lass.

"How could ye?

I had no choice.

No choice? Her bark of laughter held no mirth. "No, ye had a choice, and ye chose to barter my virtue to save your own skin. She spun away, wild thoughts racing through her mind. Ye cannot make me."

The contract is signed.

Ye already signed me over to him? Without even telling me? Tears stung her eyes. No wonder Lord Carrington had taken such liberties at dinner.

Her father tugged restlessly at the whiskers on his chin. This time he couldn’t meet her gaze.

I shall run away, she threatened, giving voice to one of the outlandish thoughts flitting in her head.

Nay! He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once. The bargain is already struck.

I do na care.

He has powerful friends in England, and no patience for our clan ways.

She shook him off. I had no hand in this bargain and I will not see it met.

I cannot cross him, lass, her father said, desperation in his eyes as he gathered her close. There’s no telling what he would do to me in retaliation.

To ye? What do ye think he will do to me? Ye must fix this. I will na be his mistress. Surely there is some way out of this contract.

No. There’s nothing. Nothing short of…

What? Brenna looked up at her father. Have ye thought of—

His fingers curled around her throat. She gasped in surprise as much as shock.

He squeezed harder, cutting off her breath.

Stop! she screamed, but no sound sprang from her mouth. She raked her nails over his hands, trying to pull them off, but he was too strong.

This is the only way, he said. His eyes glazed and he stared through her, as if she were invisible. If ye do na wish him to have ye, this is the only way.

Her throat burned from the pressure. Her lungs cried out for air. Shimmering lights danced at the edge of her vision. She gasped for air that wouldn’t come. Her frantic scratching at his hands slowed until she had no strength left to claw at him. Tears streamed down her face. Her ears buzzed with the coming darkness, and her knees buckled beneath the weight of her body.

This is the only way to keep from ruin, lass.

Chapter 1

Four years later

As dusk crept over the countryside, chilling fog, thick and heavy with dew, rolled off the loch. It settled into craggy hollows and glens, turning the bare trees into ghostly specters. A lad hunched against the damp and swayed in unison with the rickety old cart he drove over the bumpy road. The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves lulled his eyelids until they were no more than slits.

The horse nickered, pulling at the reins.

What is it, ye auld nag? His brogue was weary with fatigue. I’m too tired for these shenanigans.

The horse blew a great cloud of steam and pawed at the earth.

Och now, beastie, he said tightening his hold on the reins. What’s bothering ye? Is something out there?

The boy peered into the mist, seeing nothing, but the hair on the nape of his neck jutted to attention. Ho there! he called to the fog. Who’s there?

Silence answered him. A breath of icy wind blew past, tugging at the edges of his coat and sending a shiver down his back. Legend said these woods were haunted by a ghost, and he could well believe it. He wrapped the coat firmly around his thin shoulders. He clucked at the old bay, but the horse refused to move.

A man on horseback crept out from the mist and shadows at the edge of the forest. Another followed, then a third. The last one was no larger than the lad himself.

The three riders blocked the road. Leather masks covered their faces. The boy burrowed his chin deeper into his collar and tugged his cap low over his brow. This meeting boded ill.

What are ye doing, boy? the largest one asked.

Nothing, he squeaked and cleared his throat. A delivery ‘tis all.

Och! That wouldn’t be French wine to stock Lord Carrington’s cellars, now would it? The largest rider, most certainly the leader, pushed forward, closer to the wagon.

The boy nodded, bobbing his head.

Leave it to a Sassenach to ship French wine all the way to Scotland, when we have perfectly good whisky right here! The three of them laughed and the boy sank lower in the bench.

The leader moved closer still. I’d wager that wine is verra expensive. Lord Carrington would lose heaps o’ coin if it were all to break somehow.

Aye, said the second man. These Highland roads are verra rutted. ‘Tis dangerous for wee glass bottles. That’s why we keep our whisky in nice stout wooden barrels.

The lad’s eyes rounded like full moons.

Get down from the wagon, boy. The jesting tone had fled from the leader’s voice. He pointed a pistol at the lad. The boy clamored over the wagon seat to the ground and backed away. Once he’d put some distance between them, he dashed off into the forest.

The lead rider nodded to the smallest masked rider. The wagon’s all yours, Mac.

Mac knew he looked no older than a stable hand, and not altogether different, but looks could be deceiving. He jumped down from his horse and climbed onto the wagon seat, taking up the reins.

The leader spun his horse in a circle and called after the boy. Tell Lord Carrington he should have stayed in England. His kind isn’t welcome in the Highlands.

What about my kind? asked a man with a deep, rich voice.

Mac reached for his weapon, but the sound of a cocking pistol made him freeze. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man wore the red coat of English militia. Somehow the soldier had crept in along the side of the wagon, unseen. Now he held the black bore of a pistol at Mac’s head. Mac wasn’t scared, not yet. His mind churned frantically for a solution, but he sat rigid on the wagon, chin jutted out defiantly, teeth gritted. Sassenach.

Trying to destroy Lord Carrington’s wine? the Englishman asked. I cannot in good conscience let you do that.

Mac’s two cohorts held their distance, but both had pistols pointed at the soldier. The trouble was, Mac was between the shooters and the soldier. And he didn’t think his friends were the best of shots. The blasted man had chosen his position well.

Those are strong words for a man outnumbered. Ye cannot stop us, said the leader.

Mac eyed the English soldier’s pistol. It was too far to steal from of the man’s hand. Go about your business, Englishman, and ye may yet live, Mac said, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

The soldier moved into view. Mac looked over with hatred in his eyes, but instead gaped in surprise. The English soldier was tall, taller than their leader, with shoulders broad as an oak. He was no sniveling English milksop. His hair was a shade lighter than middling brown and he had the purest blue eyes that ever could be.

Have no fear, lad, I’ve survived worse odds. Given your size, I’d only consider it two and a half to one. His rich laugh reverberated in Mac’s chest.

Stupid Sassenach, Mac muttered, thinking furiously for a way to gain the upper hand. We want no blood shed here today, but yours will spill if ye do na leave now.

The soldier eyed the largest outlaw. I’ll take my chances.

Ye misunderstand, Sassenach. Tis I ye will fight. Mac stood to his fullest, rather short, height. But it must be a fair fight, ye ken.

Fair? The soldier chuckled, absently waving his pistol to encompass Mac small, thin body and his oversized one. I’m not certain you understand the meaning of that word.

Don’t ye think ye can best the likes of me? Mac taunted in a thick and heavy brogue.

With the pistol still pointed at Mac, the Englishman took measure, eyeing the small frame. You’re right, the fight might be closer than I originally thought, especially with that knife you have hidden in your boot. And two armed friends ready to shoot me the minute I lower my pistol.

Mac sputtered in indignation.

He knows how to fight fair, the leader said, drawing the soldier’s attention.

I just choose not to. In a blur, Mac leaped from the wagon at the English soldier. He’d timed the jump as the soldier looked away. If it all went according to Mac’s hastily constructed plan, he’d knock the soldier unconscious with a heavy boot heel and then they’d destroy all the French wine. No one would be the wiser.

But the blasted soldier reacted faster than Mac expected. The soldier spun away from the kick and caught Mac in a grip as strong as a bear’s. They toppled to the ground halfway under the wagon with Mac pinned beneath the big man.

The soldier grabbed a fistful of Mac’s collar and shook him. I don’t think you— The soldier stopped, confusion crossing his face. Mac’s cap had fallen off, revealing long, dark hair. The soldier fingered the long tresses. You’re a woman in boy’s clothing.

Mac knew there was no use denying it, even if she could catch her breath. The man lying on her chest was as heavy as a horse. Lights danced behind her eyes as she tried to suck in a breath. Panic set in as she realized she couldn’t breathe. Blast, she was going to faint.

The weight on her chest lifted enough for her to breathe. She sucked in a ragged, shaky breaths. The panic that gripped her was slow to subside and she took great gulps of air. She opened her eyes to see pale blue ones staring down at her with an amused look. She pushed at his bulk to no avail. Let me up, ye pig, or they’ll shoot ye through.

Her plan was falling apart as fast as her disguise. She snatched the knife from her boot and brandished it as she struggled to her feet. His lazy smile never wavered, as if he found her no more threatening than a pesky fly. Her anger at him redoubled. She’d just decided to test the edge of her blade on his hide when she realized a band of Sassenach soldiers circled them. They sat atop their horses, weapons drawn.

The soldier sat back on his heels in the rutted road, practically laughing at her. Her trio of outlaws was sadly outnumbered. If she wasn’t careful, they’d all end up in prison, or hanging from a noose.

She sprang to the kneeling soldier and grabbed a fistful of his hair, putting the knife to his exposed throat. Let my men go, or I spill his blood.

I thought this was a fair fight, he said, amusement still lacing his voice.

You’ve stacked the deck against us. What choice do I have now?

None of the men on horseback moved. Her two accomplices remained well within their circle.

Let them pass unharmed! she shouted. After a moment’s hesitation, she felt him nod under her hand. The soldiers circling her men moved out of the way. The smaller of the two men spurred his horse and disappeared into the forest. The second man, the leader, didn’t move. The look he gave her was none too happy.

Go, she shouted.

Reluctantly he turned and galloped off.

Despite her predicament, she was glad she’d sent them to safety. She was confident she’d find a way out of the situation. She always did.

And what about you? the soldier asked.

She looked down at him, but not by much; the top of his head almost reached her shoulder. He was even more beautiful up close. His eyes were fringed by dark lashes and he had a wide, generous mouth. He might have been too pretty with those features, but he was saved from such a fate by the sharp planes of his jaw and the strong, straight length of his nose.

I shall think of a plan, she said. Better to survive the day and plan another attack on the morrow. She was smarter than most men and would find a way safely home. This Sassenach was no match for her. She’d outsmarted others before him, and she’d do it again.

He studied her openly and she was glad for the mask that covered her face. She didn’t want him to know what she looked like. His gaze pierced the eye slits of her mask, and though she knew he couldn’t see her eyes clearly, it felt like he saw all the way to her soul.

You may, he said.

He’d caught her woolgathering and she bristled. What’s this now?

"You may think of another plan."

She narrowed her eyes and pressed the blade harder against his throat. "I know I will."

But I already have. He spun out from under the blade, leaving a chunk of hair in her hand. The thought that he’d escaped barely registered when he whirled on her, twisting the knife out of her hand. An instant later, her arms were pinned to her sides and the knife was at her throat. You think too slowly.

Ye vile…arrogant Sassenach!

Come now, Weston, said one of the other soldiers with a chuckle. It’s not polite to hold a lady at knifepoint. Even if she did it to you first.

Weston. The name burned into her brain. She’d see him gutted. Drawn and quartered. She’d….she snorted in frustration. If she survived. With a glance at the men, she was sure she saw an interested gleam or two in their eyes. Her mind churned, searching for a solution.

What do you propose I do with her then? Weston asked his men at large. A few of them chuckled in a way that made her skin crawl, confirming her worst fears. She raised her chin a notch, refusing to be cowed by their bawdy banter, no matter how much she was quaking on the inside.

She is a thief, one of them shouted.

I stole nothing, she shouted back.

True, Weston whispered in her ear. My men may not have heard your friends brag about destroying the wine, but I did. And I stopped you. Now you must face your punishment.

His breath tickled the sensitive skin on her nape and she shivered involuntarily. Ye do na scare me, English pig.

A fight, then! he called to his men. A fair fight between the young lady and myself. He released her and tossed her the knife, which she deftly caught out of the air.

She stood agape at the turnabout. Have ye gone daft, English? I have the knife now. What game are ye playing?

Weston circled and instinct spurred her knife hand to the ready.

You claimed a fair fight, then did the opposite, now I shall do the same. Maybe you will learn a lesson from it.

Learn something from a Sassenach? I think not, she countered. She slashed at him, but he danced out of reach. She hadn’t yet figured out what he was planning, other than an unfair fight. And why had he given her the knife? Did he think her so unskilled with the knife that he would still have an advantage? She would cure him of that notion.

She jutted and parried, but her reach was never long enough to slice him. Perspiration broke out on her brow and clinging tendrils of hair caught across her vision. She absently pushed it away and in that moment Weston darted in.

He kissed her.

It was no more than the barest brush of lips, but her mind faltered, making her slow.

I don’t always fight fair either, he said.

You’re mad! she cried. She leaped at him, driving him past the wagon to the edge of the forest. Would he push on until he’d stolen her virtue as well? Fear tingled through her veins. A new plan formed in her mind. One of escape. With a great arcing swing, she stretched to the limits of her range – and missed by the smallest sliver.

He jumped in behind the swing and kissed her again.

The men cheered, but it only served to make her angrier. She’d never been able to hold her temper. Impulsive, her mother had called it. Perhaps in a civilized world she would have been right, but in the world she inhabited now, her impulsiveness and her fleetness of mind always left her the victor.

Now she worried she’d met her match. Weston was like no man she’d ever met. He had a quickness of mind and body that was unlike any man she knew. He bested her at every turn, stealing kisses like it was a darkened corner of a ballroom, rather than a knife fight. She couldn’t let that continue. She needed to change the fight to her favor.

She still lunged at Weston, but she wasn’t giving it her all. In between swings she scanned the ground until she found what she was looking for. Now she just had to position herself correctly. She shifted, angling to the side. A few swipes at the Sassenach and she was next to the wagon.

With all her strength, she shot forward, driving straight at him, like a fencer, prepared to run him through. She was certain she’d caught him off guard this time. Her blade would pierce his mangy hide and she’d spill his blood.

Only that did na happen. All she sliced was empty air. She spun to follow him, but it was too late. He grabbed her wrists behind her back and pressed her against the length of his body. She bucked and tried to knee him, but he held her fast.

Stop this idiocy and release me, she said.

Why should I? You were going to destroy the wine.

But I didn’t. I stole nothing. I destroyed nothing, she said.

Weston watched her eyes behind the mask and then nodded slowly. Neither shall I.

He wrenched the knife from her hand and threw it into the underbrush. Then he released her.

She backed against the wagon. Ye have your precious wine, none the worse for wear. Now give me free passage. No more fights, fair or otherwise.

No more games, he agreed. But I have a proposition for you.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious, but said nothing.

One kiss from you, freely given, and you’ll be free to go.

Her gasp was drowned out by the shocked chorus from his men. She heard Lord Carrington’s name from more than one man and a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Lord Carrington’s reputation was widely known in the Highlands. She wanted nothing to do with the English lord.

I’ll inform Lord Carrington the outlaw’s escape was entirely my fault, he said to the soldiers. But he shouldn’t mind too much since we saved his French wine.

One kiss? she asked, her mind already spinning with an escape plan. And if I refuse?

Then I take you before Lord Carrington. He is the magistrate here, is he not? And I’ve heard he doesn’t take a kindly view of highwaymen – or women – stealing his wine.

Her gaze sought the ground again, finding what she’d seen earlier. All hope was not lost. It appears I do na have much of a choice, then. No games, mind ye. One kiss it shall be, and only one. She waggled a single finger at him.

He nodded in agreement.

She pushed off the wagon and strode toward him, as brazen as any fallen dove. Unfortunately, she wasn’t watching her footing and tripped over a large stone in the road, dislodging it. Weston caught her against his body.

I’m not usually that clumsy, she said, praying that her ruse worked. His arms surrounded her and she was enveloped in heat. Not only was he as warm as a banked fire, but he had muscles upon muscles. There was not an inch of him that was soft or paunchy. He might believe he’d won the fight, but she would best him. I can do this.

She leaned up on her tiptoes amid a smattering of hoots and bawdy calls. She brushed a feather-light kiss across his lips. In an instant he deepened it, pulling her full against his body. Weston’s scent filled her nostrils. Wood smoke mixed with wool and pine assailed her senses. She held herself rigid, waiting for it to end.

He pulled away and looked at her. His eyes went dark with passion. Something deep inside her wanted to answer, but she tamped it down. You’ve had your ki—

His mouth captured hers on a gasp and he took full advantage. He cupped the back of her head, slanting it to match his own. She’d never felt such sensations before and something bloomed deep in her core, despite her willing it to die. The strength of his kiss drove her backward until she was pressed against the side of the wagon. His arousal strained against his breeches; foreign yet intriguing at the same time.

He broke the kiss and looked at her, not bothering to hide his smile of satisfaction.

Arrogant pig, she said, but her usual vehemence was missing.

I know about the stone, he said.

Her eyes grew big and round. What are ye spouting on about, Sassenach?

The one in the road you dislodged. You were going to pick it up and use it to crush my skull. Did you really think I wouldn’t guess at such an obvious plan?

No plan of mine would be so obvious.

No? He cocked his head to one side, sure of his assumption.

No, mine would be subtle, like this. With her heavy booted heel, she drove her foot backward into the spokes of the wagon wheel. Three spokes cracked and the wheel, now unsupported, buckled under the weight of the wine.

She reversed direction and swung her knee forward, intending to unman him, but he lurched to the side and her knee glanced harmlessly off his thigh. The move had the desired effect and he released his hold on her. She darted to the edge of the forest and plucked her knife from the weeds.

Best of luck driving that cart with a broken wheel. It seems I bested ye after all, Sassenach.

He stood where she left him, but his blasted smile was still in place. Hardly, love, he said. I know you enjoyed my kiss. I win.

No! she cried. It was supposed to be a denial, but it sounded, even to her ears, more like dismay. She would have argued further, but his men spurred their horses in pursuit. She left her own horse behind, no doubt forever lost to her. She raced into the forest, through thick brambles, pushing past branches that scratched her clothes and tore at her hair. The horses fell behind, reluctant to crash through the thorny underbrush. When the sound of hooves faded away, she imagined she still heard Weston’s rich laughter mocking her, echoing through the trees.

She slowed and leaned against a tree trunk to catch her breath. The knave! The scoundrel! Her breathing slowed. He’d played her for a fool, baiting her at every turn, teasing her. She pressed her chilled fingers to her lips and her stomach gave an odd little flop. She swiped at her mouth with her rough woolen sleeve and spat in the dirt. She wasn’t supposed to like his kiss.

A few more breaths calmed her enough so she could think clearly. At least she’d dashed their plan to move the wine. The wagon couldn’t be driven. She glanced at the sky. Full dark had settled in. She walked deeper into the forest, with purpose now. She’d find a way to take away everything that bloody Sassenach soldier stood for.

Chapter 2

Over the crest of a hill , a small cottage nestled among the trees. It was plain, though in good repair. Smoke rose from the chimney in a lazy curl and the scent of wood smoke hung in the air. Mac crept toward the house and knocked softly. She heard a pair of heavy footsteps cross the cottage and the door opened. Two men glowered at her from the doorway.

Are ye daft, woman! Lachlan Ross, the one who’d played the leader, shouted. His anger colored twin spots of red on his cheeks. Ye could have been killed – or worse.

Brenna MacGregor pushed past them and threw her mask to the table. You’re welcome for saving your sorry hides.

The second man, Duncan Conroy, stroked his red beard thoughtfully and closed the door against the chill of night. Though we’re verra grateful for your bravery, Brenna, we worry ye take too many risks. That leader of theirs, I could tell he was dangerous.

Brenna turned away, lest he see the ruddy color climb up her cheeks. I bested him and slipped away. They’re nothing more than English fools.

I did na care for the way he looked at ye, Brenna, Lachlan said.

Leave her be, a female voice scolded.

Brenna looked up to see Duncan’s wife, Mary, coming down the stairs holding their young babe in her arms. Little Jamie followed along, holding his mother’s apron. The bairn gurgled with happiness and a pang of longing bloomed inside Brenna. Thank ye, Mary.

Blowing out a breath of what was surely irritation, Lachlan threw himself into a chair at the table. With each heist, it gets more dangerous. Lord Carrington never had soldiers patrol this part o’ the Highlands before. Blast it all to the devil! If we had ambushed that driver a quarter hour earlier or later, we wouldn’t ha’ run into that English patrol. The wine would’ve been naught but a stain in the dirt.

Brenna shook her head. I do na think it was a coincidence. I think Lord Carrington used the wine as bait. He meant for the soldiers to capture us.

Duncan gave a booming laugh. He failed on that score, thanks to Brenna.

We did na destroy the wine, though, Lachlan said. "Driving Lord Carrington out of the Highlands is proving harder than I thought.