The laird spread butter on a slice of toast. "Clive's back from London. I want to speak with the two of you this morning."

Michael asked, "Am I specifically excluded?"

"Yes. You'll find out what I have to say soon enough."

Catherine stared at her coddled eggs. Surely the meeting was about the laird's choice of heir. The practical questions she had been avoiding would have to be answered, and soon.

Davin Penrose entered the breakfast parlor and greeted everyone, then helped himself to a cup of tea. Michael asked him, "What is on today's schedule?"

"That depends." The constable took a chair. "Do you know much about cannons, Captain Melbourne?"

"I've had some experience with horse artillery, but I'm no expert."

"You're bound to know more than anyone on Skoal. The island militia is quite efficient-the laird is the colonel, and I'm the captain. Besides muskets, we have two six-pound cannon that were sent to repel Napoleon if he should choose to invade us." Amusement gleamed in his eyes. "A good thing the emperor had other goals in mind, because the government didn't see fit to tell us how to use the blasted things."

Michael laughed. "That's His Majesty's army for you. I take it you want to fire them and need some lessons."

"Aye. Rocks are crumbling from an overhanging cliff in the harbor and endangering the boats moored below. I thought a few rounds of camion shot might bring the weak bits down without hurting anyone. It would be much appreciated if you could show us how to shoot without killing ourselves."

"I know enough for that." Michael turned to Catherine. "Since you'll be busy, I'll go with Davin. It will take most of the day to condition the guns and train men to use them safely."

"Perhaps I'll come and watch later," she said. "One of the nice things about this island is that you can't go too far away."

He gave her an intimate smile, then left with Davin.

"Come to my study in an hour," the laird ordered. "Clive will be here then." Briskly he wheeled his chair from the room.

Alone in the breakfast parlor, Catherine frowned as she thought about the upcoming meeting. She had not yet decided what to do about Skoal. She no longer needed the inheritance; in fact, the responsibilities that went with the legacy would be burdensome after she and Michael married. Yet she had grown fond of the island and its inhabitants, and she wanted to see them well governed. Her cousin Haldoran seemed too self-absorbed and capricious to be a good laird.

She shrugged her shoulders philosophically. The choice was her grandfather's. If he had already decided in Clive's favor, the matter was out of her hands. But if he had chosen her, she would have to do some hard thinking.

When Catherine went to the laird's study, her grandfather was behind his desk talking to Haldoran. The men broke off speaking when she arrived. She gave her cousin a courteous smile. "Hello, Clive. I hope your journey to London went well."

He rose politely. His expression changed when he saw her, something hard and angry showing in his eyes. It was gone in an instant, replaced by practiced charm. "An excellent trip. I achieved exactly what I wished."

The laird said, "Sit down, both of you."

Catherine complied. "Grandfather, are you ever polite?"

He gave a bark of laughter. "Can't see the point. There's always a thousand things to do. Why waste time with words?" His humor vanished, replaced by steely command. "You both know why you're here. Clive, I've decided to make Catherine my heir. You're capable and you've known the island longer, but your interests lie elsewhere. I think Catherine and her husband will do better by Skoal."

A few days earlier, she would have been limp with relief to hear that. Now her feelings were more complex. She felt honored, and a little trapped. She gave a sidelong glance at her cousin. Haldoran's face was rigid, rather like the time Michael had proved himself to be a better shot. However, his voice was smooth when he said, "You're quite sure this is what you wish?"

"When have you known me to be indecisive? Yesterday my solicitor came from the mainland to change my will in Catherine's favor." The laird tapped a sheaf of papers. "I have a copy here. I want you both to read it so there will be no surprises when I'm gone."

"Your desire for clarity is admirable, Uncle. What a pity that your granddaughter doesn't share it."

His mocking tone made Catherine stiffen with foreboding. The laird snapped, "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"I am second to no one in admiration for my beautiful cousin." Haldoran's contemptuous gaze went to Catherine. "However, it is my sad duty to inform you that your only granddaughter is a liar and a whore, and she's been making a fool of you ever since she set foot on the island."

As Catherine froze with horror, her grandfather growled, "Damn you, Clive, you always were a filthy loser. That's one reason I don't want you to have Skoal. Don't think you can change my mind with a parcel of lies."

"It's true I don't like losing, but the lies are all Catherine's," Haldoran said icily. "The real Colin Melbourne died in France in April. Because your greedy little granddaughter feared losing her chance for a fortune, she talked one of her lovers into masquerading as her husband. While you've been debating her worthiness, she's been fornicating and laughing behind your back. Go ahead, ask her to deny it."

The laird's head swung toward Catherine, his face an alarming shade of red. "Is there any truth to what Clive says?"

Her shock and humiliation were tempered with relief that she would not have to lie anymore. Unevenly she said, "It's true that Colin is dead, killed by a Bonapartist. However, I don't have hordes of lovers." Stretching a point, she went on, "Michael is my fiance. Soon, he will be my husband. I'm truly sorry for deceiving you, Grandfather. It seemed necessary at the time, but every day I've regretted it more."

"You sly little trollop!" Ignoring the latter part of her statement, her grandfather pushed himself to his feet, bracing his trembling hands on the desktop. His eyes burned with rage, and the pain of betrayal. "To think I was ready to trust Skoal to you! Well, you can think again, missy. You're no granddaughter of mine." He pressed one hand to his temple. "G… going to ch… change…"

Alarmed by his intemperance, she exclaimed, "Grandfather, please, calm down! If you want me to go away and never bother you again, fine, but don't make yourself ill over this."

Oblivious to her, he said thickly, "Ch-change my will…" He collapsed, falling forward onto his desk, then crashing heavily to the floor in a cascade of papers and quill pens.

"Dear God!" Catherine raced around the desk and dropped to her knees beside him. He was unconscious, and the left side of his face had gone flaccid. "He's having an apoplectic fit."

"Congratulations, cousin," Haldoran drawled. "Not only did you deceive him, but you've apparently killed him as well."

She shot him a look of furious dislike. "You're equally responsible, cousin. I was going to tell him the truth, but I would have chosen a less inflammatory way of doing it." Her probing fingers found a thready pulse in his throat. "Thank God he's still alive. Ring for a servant to go for help."

Haldoran did not move from the chair where he was lounging. "Why bother? There's no doctor on Skoal. It would take at least half a day to bring one from the mainland, and even then, it's doubtful that a physician could help him."

He was right, blast him. She must do what she could herself. Most of her nursing experience was with men who were wounded or diseased, but several times she had seen apoplectic patients in the field hospitals. She sat back on her heels and tried to remember what kind of treatment they had received. Ian Kinlock had said that bloodletting often helped apoplexy. And if it were done, it should be as soon as possible.

She stood and rummaged in the desk for a penknife. "I'm going to bleed him. Is there some kind of basin here?"

Looking martyred, Haldoran got to his feet and lifted a bowl of roses from a side table. After tossing the flowers into the fireplace, he brought her the bowl. "Here you are, but you're wasting your time. He had a similar attack last year. He came through that one, but I believe a second is usually fatal."

"Not necessarily." Praying that she was doing the right thing, she knelt by the laird again and rolled his sleeve above the elbow. Then she made a careful nick in the vein.

Her grandfather's blood splashed into the bowl as forcefully as if it were coming from an artery.

Clive opened a box on the desk and took out a cigar. "Do you mind if I smoke, cousin?"

"I don't care if you burn! How can you be so callous?"

He found a tinder box in the desk and lit the cigar. "There's nothing I can do, so why flap about like a guillotined chicken? Speaking of chickens, don't count yours before they're hatched. You think you've won because he's already changed his will." He drew on the cigar, then slowly released a mouthful of smoke. "You're wrong. I want the island, I want you, and I intend to have them both."

"You're talking utter rubbish," she said impatiently, her gaze on her grandfather and the slowing stream of blood. "Neither Skoal nor I are trophies to be won."

"Ah, but you are," he said calmly. "When Lord Michael returns, you will tell him to leave the island because you've decided to accept my most flattering offer of marriage. You and I will rule Skoal together, the last feudal monarchs in the British Isles."