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Rowena hadn’t even looked to the sky, but Ella was right. Clouds hung low and heavy, promising rain and hurrying twilight. They may yet run out of daylight, but so long as they could beat the rain back to the castle, they would make do. A bit of shadow would only add to the cairn’s allure.

Ten minutes more, and then they all set out on foot up the hill, through the glen. Loch Morar was just below, though on this particular hillside, it could scarcely be made out through the thick evergreens crowding about them. Rowena hung back at the rear of the group, content to listen to the exclamations of Ella and Miss Abbott, the questions of Mr. Abbott and the duke.

Mostly content, anyway. Until she paused to free her sleeve from a twig that had snatched it up and realized that no one even noticed she lagged behind.

No matter. She knew her way, could have found the cairn at midnight on a new moon, so often did she put foot to this rocky path and come here to hide away amidst faded legends and forgotten visions.

The group’s shouts of delight told her when they had reached the first of the standing stones. Perhaps there had been more at one point, but now only six remained, sketching out a perfect circle around the sunken chamber. Ella was already scurrying for the portal stones of the burial chamber, the others dispersing throughout the site.

Rowena headed for her favorite part of the clearing, where the limbs of the nearest trees seemed to reach out and embrace the circle. Standing in their shadows, she could put a hand to the cool, red-hued sandstone of the nearest upright slab and pretend she lived in that age long since gone. When Vikings raided, settled, and wove their line into the Anglos, creating that Highland blood Father was so proud of. When chiefs and princes of different lines warred for the right to be master of this place. When no one questioned that something well beyond the human was at work, always.

Perhaps it was God.

Perhaps it was . . . something else.

“Rowena.”

She started at the voice, frowning as she turned to search for Lilias in the shadows of the glen. “Lil? What are ye doing out here?”

Lilias was dressed for outdoor exercise, and the pink in her cheeks said she’d been at it for some time. “The Kinnaird asked me to check on Old Maud. Come. Look what I’ve found.”

Rowena followed Lilias through the trees, toward the loch. With what dim light remained, she noted the moisture that had gathered on her maid’s silvering hair. “How long have you been about it?”

Lilias waved a hand. “Since a few minutes after you went down to receive your guests. Have you had a good evening, Wena?”

“Aye, I suppose. Though Annie will be jealous that we have come out here without her.”

Lilias chuckled. But there was something strained in it, something not so light as usual. Perhaps the ailing crofter’s wife had not been on the mend. “Ye can take her out tomorra to make up for it. And tell her all about yer dinner with the duke.”

“Oh.” A few fingers of fog rose off the loch and slithered over her neck. “I wouldna say I had dinner with
him
. We scarcely exchanged a sentence.”

“Ach, Wena. Ye’ll have to be devising a better story than that one to entertain the wee lass, ye ken.”

Rowena chuckled, ducked under a branch . . . and paused. “Where are we going, Lil?”

Lilias turned back to face her, showing a mischievous grin and the same warm brown eyes she had looked into all her life. “Ye’ll see, lass. Trust me.”

“Lead on, then.” She ducked under another wayward twig and tracked the flight of a golden eagle soaring overhead. “Is Old Maud all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, aye. Though ye ken how she is—always dying, to her own mind. I dinna ken why yer father always takes her seriously.”

“As soon as he doesna, it’ll be the real thing. And ye ken how Father cares for her—what with her being like a grandmother, his own father’s wet nurse when he was a babe.” Rowena only saw the old woman a few times a year, lately. At nearly one hundred years old, Old Maud didn’t leave her cottage much. Though her ancient husband, every bit as old, still doted on the sheep with his son and grandson.

They walked a few minutes more, chatting about the miracle of their ages, the children that stuck close, those who had gone away. A conversation she had probably had with Lilias at least a score of times over the years. Comfortable and thoughtless and just distracting enough that it took her a long moment to realize it when they emerged from the trees at the embankment that led down into the still waters of the loch. They were a good five miles from the castle now—Rowena could see its mist-shrouded promontory in the distance. Gaoth Lodge would be beyond it. In this direction lay nothing but old abandoned crofts, their sheep long since moved to other pastures. What could Lilias possibly—?

“Trust me,” her maid said again, as if reading her thoughts. “And forgive me. It’s for your best, Rowena. Because I love you. Ye ken?”

She had somehow ended up ahead of Lilias, closer to the hillside. So she had to turn around to try to see her lady’s maid’s face, knowing her own was drawn into a frown.

Before she could register more than the anxiousness in Lilias’s eyes, those hands that had nurtured and tended found her shoulders. And pushed.

“Was that a scream?” Brice paused midstep, stopping beside one of the uprights. The
Pay attention
had been echoing in his mind all evening, though just now he wondered if he had been paying attention to the earl when he ought to have been doing so with the man’s daughter.

Lochaber lifted his brows but kept moving beyond the circle. “Impressive, sir. I’ve never met an Englishman who could hear the ghosts howling in the circle.”

Brice opened his mouth to argue but then checked himself. It was no ghost he had heard, nor had it come from the circle. But it could have been that eagle in the distance, perhaps. Or some other animal of the glen. If the earl who knew the land far better than he weren’t alarmed, he would try not to be.

Still, Brice followed uneasily. He didn’t trust his host, didn’t trust the easy smiles—not when his daughter had bruises on her wrists. He had thought that perhaps if he was to help, he could learn something from the earl.

It seemed he was wrong this time.

When they returned to Gaoth, Brice would ask Abbott what he thought of Lady Rowena, having actually spoken to her. Brice had tried a few times but had been unable to draw her out. Still, that tugging in his spirit persisted, the one that said there was something he must do concerning the young lady. But how was he to know how he might help her, what she might need, if she would not exchange two words with him, and if her father remained an enigma?

“It’s just a wee bit up the hill,” Lochaber said over his shoulder. “I canna be sure the two sites are related, of course, but—”

“Lochaber!”

The countess’s voice stopped the earl in his tracks and brought a smile to his lips. “Excuse me, sir. Continue on this path and ye’ll find it in about two minutes. I’ll catch up to you as soon as I see what my wife needs, aye?”

Left with little choice but to agree—and no great regret at a few moments on his own—Brice nodded and kept his feet on the well-worn path while his host turned back to the circle. He was no expert on ancient Celts, to know why there would be another standing stone by itself on the other side of a grove of trees, but such things were nearly as fascinating as young ladies with secrets shuttered behind their eyes.

Though walking two minutes didn’t bring him out in the promised clearing. Nor did walking another five, and at that point he became painfully aware of the fading light and heavy clouds. He would have to turn back and reunite with the rest of the group.

A pivot, a step, and then he halted again when he caught the strains of . . . crying?

The wind in the trees? An eagle? Or perhaps one of those infamous ghosts of Loch Morar? Half-expecting to feel the fool for doing so, he called out, “Hello?”

The whimpering sound stopped. Then a faint voice replaced it. “Hello! Is someone up there? Help! Please!”

A woman’s voice. Brice headed in the direction from which it had come. “Where are you? Keep talking.”

“I’ve slid down the bank and hurt my ankle.”

Bank? He drew up just in time to keep his feet from taking the last step to the edge he now saw in the twilight. Crouching down, he peered over the side and saw a familiar face looking up at him. “Lady Rowena? What are you doing out here alone?” He hadn’t even noticed her leave the group. Which made guilt slam him—he had definitely
not
been paying attention, not where he needed to be.

“My maid . . . Lilias . . .” Obvious pain cut her off when she made the mistake of shifting. “My ankle, sir. I fear I’ve broken it. Can ye go for help?”

If the fat drop of rain to hit his face were any indication, he dared not. She would be soaked through and chilled to the bone before he could return with aid. “I’ll help you up myself. Your father should be but a few minutes behind me.”

“Oh, ye mustn’t—”

“Nonsense.” Only sparing a moment’s thought to the suit of clothes that was sure to be ruined with the mud—his valet would be mumbling for ages about it, but it couldn’t be helped—Brice chose what appeared to be the most gradual way down the hillside.

The loch lapped at the bottom, and he had to bite back a choice word when he saw that the young lady’s feet had landed in its frigid waters. No wonder she shook like a leaf. He must get her back in all haste so she could warm up. “Which ankle is it, my lady?”

“My right.” Pain kept her voice tight and distorted her face.

Brice knelt beside her. “I’ll lift you and set you on your left, shall I? Then together we’ll make our way back up.”

Though she looked as if she would prefer to refuse—or to cry—she gave a quick nod and reached for him. Brice gripped her under the arms and stood, doing his best to keep the move gentle. Still she whimpered and turned her face away, though he saw the tears that slipped out.

He eased her onto her left leg, careful to support her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“’Tisn’t you.” She glanced up at him only briefly before turning her face to the hill that probably looked more like a mountain to her just now. And tried to stand without aid. “We’d better start. Daylight is fading fast.”

And the fat, cold raindrops were striking faster too. “Indeed. Don’t be afraid to lean on me, my lady. I won’t let you fall again.”

It took her a few struggling steps to capitulate on that point, but Brice kept an eye on her countenance, and on the agony that overtook it each time she put weight upon her right foot. Whatever her reasons for not wanting to accept his help, her injury demanded it, and she ended up choking back a sob and all but collapsing against him.

Climbing up the hill would have been a challenge on his own, but the rain made it trickier, and the injured lady added a level of difficulty that had perspiration breaking out on his brow and a prayer hovering constantly on his lips. He had no idea how long it took them to gain the top, but the day’s light had all but seeped away by the time they finally reached it.

Where in thunder was Lochaber?

Something went cool within him. “Your father said he would be directly behind me.”

Lady Rowena still gasped for breath. “Then he . . . he . . . that way.” She nodded toward the trail he could barely make out in the darkness.

Brice pressed his lips against the words—accusations, questions—that wanted to spill out. He wouldn’t interrogate the injured girl. Not yet. Not when it could be coincidence, misunderstanding. But as they trekked back along the path and he heard no giggling Ella, no exclamations from Abbott, no murmurs from the Lochabers, that coolness inside turned to cold, hard suspicion.

They stepped into the circle’s clearing—empty. And the rain seemed to be picking up its pace. He wasn’t a man given to cursing, but in that moment he was sorely tempted. He settled for forcing the lady to take her own weight so he could move to face her. “Where are they?”

Lady Rowena’s eyes went wide, fear dripping from them in place of tears. She stumbled back, but then her eyes widened more, her nostrils flared, and she collapsed to the ground with a high keen, hands on the injured ankle.

If she was faking the injury, she had a future on the stage.

Brice passed his fingers through his hair and turned back toward the circle, as if expecting their party to miraculously appear. No, Lochaber would have seen them well out of earshot. And what had he told Brice’s mother and sister? That he said he would meet them somewhere? Had they used the falling rain as a handy excuse, created a melee?

He must have had it well planned. Lead Brice off to where Rowena waited. Get the rest of them away. Leave them here, with no horse nor carriage, certainly no car, with darkness already upon them. The rain would only have helped his plan—and in the Highlands one could almost always count on rain.

No doubt he’d be waiting at the castle on the morrow, thunder in his brows and a demand for honor on his lips.

Brice spun back to the girl. “I’ll not be bullied. Know that now. Whatever plan this is, I’ll have no part of it, even if it means your supposed honor is besmirched. Am I understood?”