A barely audible creaking, like a floorboard, came from the sitting room. Her stomach knotted. Perhaps Clive was coming to check on her; he had moved into a room across the hall. Or maybe it was one of his horrible men. Day and night, one of them waited outside the laird's door. Since the laird's valet was ancient and infirm, Haldoran was in theory lending his servants to help in the sickroom. In practice, she was as much a prisoner as if she were locked in a dungeon.

Another faint sound. She composed her features, glad she had lain down fully dressed instead of donning a nightgown.

She opened the door to the sitting room. At first glance all was normal. Then a dark figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and powerful, it moved toward her with the supernatural silence of death. And most frightening of all, the creature had no face. She gave a soft, involuntary cry.

A hard hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her voice. She shoved wildly at her assailant, feeling the solid weight of reality, not the chill of a phantom.

With one lithe movement, he pinned her against the wall, immobilizing her with his weight. "Quiet!"

She recognized the feel of his body even before she saw the green eyes blazing in the blackened face. Michael had returned.

"I'll take my hand away if you promise not to scream," he whispered. "Nod if you agree."

She nodded. He wore his menacing warrior's face, and she was not sure whether she was more afraid of him or for him. Nonetheless, her heart surged with involuntary pleasure in his presence.

"Given your record, I'm a fool to take your word," he said in an iron voice as he released her. "Remember that I can silence you quickly enough if necessary."

Wondering whether she dared tell him the truth or if she should try to send him away for his own safety, she asked warily, "Why are you here?"

His icy gaze bored into hers. "To learn what's really going on. When I thought things through, I realized your behavior didn't make much sense. Was Haldoran threatening you?"

If he had deduced that much, she would never be able to deceive him again. "Worse," she said with searing relief. "He has Amy."

"Damnation!" He closed his eyes for an instant, his expression rigid. "How?"

"On his trip to London, he called on the Mowbrys and told Anne I'd sent him to bring Amy to Skoal. Since he'd escorted them in Belgium, she saw no reason to doubt him." The defenses that had sustained her crumbled, leaving desolation. "Michael, I'm sorry, so sorry for what I did. I had no choice."

Desperate for his support, she reached out to him. After a moment of hesitation, he took her into his arms. She was shaking all over. His wool jersey was warm and softly scratchy against her cheek, as comforting as he was. Yet even in the midst of her grief, she recognized that he was different, more guarded than he had been before. That was not surprising. Though his mind might accept that she had acted under coercion, his emotions had taken a battering that would not easily heal. But for a few moments, she basked in the illusion of safety.

When she regained a measure of control, she said starkly, "It was Haldoran who killed Colin, not the Bonapartists."

"The bastard." Michael released her, his expression deadly. "So he's been planning this for some time."

"He said that if I didn't obey, he would kill you. And… and he made a point of saying that the island's legal marriage age is twelve, and Amy will be twelve next year."

Michael swore again. "Killing is too good for him. We must get Amy away immediately. Is she in the castle?"

"She's at Ragnarok. We haven't been able to talk, but Haldoran took me there yesterday and let me watch her walk in the garden. She's guarded whenever she leaves her room."

"Is she unharmed?"

"Yes. She doesn't know anything is wrong yet. He told her I was too busy nursing the laird to see her, and that she must be a good soldier and follow orders. But soon she'll start to become suspicious." Catherine swallowed. "I'm terrified that when she realizes she's a captive, she might do something reckless. She's like her father-utterly without fear."

"We'll have her before that happens," Michael promised.

Catherine rubbed her forehead, trying to think amid the tempest of her emotions. "Haldoran is sleeping in a room across the hall. He has four convicts working for him. I think two are here in the castle, one just outside the door. Thank heaven he didn't hear me cry out."

Michael glanced at the bed. "How is the laird?"

"A little better, I think, but still unconscious."

"No help there." He frowned. "If you leave him, will he be in any danger from Haldoran?"

It had occurred to Catherine how easily her grandfather could be smothered with a pillow. "I don't think so," she said, her voice troubled. "There's no advantage to killing him while I'm alive and the heir-but I don't know what Clive will do. I think he's half mad."

"Not mad. Evil." Michael ushered her toward the balcony. "It's time we were away."

The hall door opened and Haldoran swaggered into the room with a wolfish smile. Behind him were Doyle and another convict, both carrying shotguns. "Neither of you is going anywhere," Haldoran said curtly. "You shouldn't have given that charming little squeal of surprise when your lover arrived, Catherine, and the two of you shouldn't have wasted time talking."

Before Haldoran could say more, Michael sprang into action, hurling himself toward the intruders. At the same time, he shoved Catherine to one side so that she fell behind the sofa.

She was knocked breathless. For an instant she lay gasping, braced for the blast of a gun. It didn't come. Instead, there were sounds of smashing furniture.

Guessing that Haldoran didn't want to shoot for fear of waking the sleeping servants, she peered around the end of the sofa. Michael's swift assault had been effective, and Haldoran and Doyle lay stunned on the floor. Michael was now engaged in a ferocious struggle with the other convict. As she watched, he wrested the gun away and swung the stock in an arc. It smashed into the man's jaw with an ugly sound of breaking bone.

Haldoran leaped up and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. Catherine bolted from behind the sofa, crying, "Look out!"

Michael was pivoting and raising the shotgun when Haldoran cracked the poker against his skull. He crumpled to the floor, the gun falling beside him.

Catherine was gathering herself for a desperate assault when Haldoran snatched the shotgun and wheeled on her. A vicious bruise was forming on his jaw where he had been struck. "Don't try it, cousin. I'll blow you to pieces and tell the servants that your jealous husband shot you before we killed him. And if they don't believe me, I'll kill them, too."

She halted, knowing it would take very little to trigger lethal violence. In the tense silence, Michael groaned and shifted, on the verge of consciousness.

Haldoran snapped to Doyle, "Tie him up. It would be too messy to kill him here, so we'll have to take him to the cliffs. A rock on the skull and a few weeks in the water will take care of him nicely." His gaze raked Catherine.

"Shall I kill you with your lover, or gamble that you'll behave when he is dead?"

Though her face was expressionless, her mind was raging. If she hadn't cried out when she first saw Michael… if they had left immediately instead of talking… if she had warned him about Haldoran an instant sooner…

She cut off the useless regrets. Michael was doomed, and probably her with him. As for Amy…

It was the blackest moment of her life. Yet she could not give up and leave her daughter to Haldoran's evil. Trying desperately to sound persuasive, she said, "I always take the best opportunity available. Once again, that is you."

Haldoran scowled at her, clearly unconvinced, while Doyle searched Michael's limp body with rough efficiency. The convict removed a concealed pistol and boot knife, then lashed Michael's wrists together.

By the time Doyle was finished, Michael was conscious again. Blood oozed crimson from his scalp when he sat up, but the dark force that was so much a part of him was blazing like hell's own fire. "Congratulations, Haldoran," he said contemptuously. "You managed to bring me down with the help of only two other men. You must be terribly proud of yourself."

Haldoran glared at him. "I could have beaten you alone."

"Oh?" The lift of Michael's brows was eloquent with scorn. "I can outshoot you, outfight you, and I let you draw blood when we fenced because I was bored with your company and wanted to leave. You're an amateur, Haldoran. You fancy yourself a great sportsman, but you've never had the courage to face a real test."

Catherine's heart clenched as her glowering cousin took a step forward. "Rubbish. I'm the best rider to hounds in Britain, and I've defeated Jackson in his own boxing salon."

"Jackson is a clever fellow," Michael said with a mocking smile. "It's good business to let his vainer customers win now and then. I repeat: you're an amateur. Instead of joining the army and competing in the greatest game of all, you chased foxes in England and smirked about what a fine fellow you are. So much easier than actually risking your life."

Michael came very near death in that instant. Catherine made an anguished sound as Haldoran whipped the shotgun to his shoulder and prepared to fire.

Checking his fury, Haldoran contented himself with kicking Michael in the stomach, sending him sprawling again. "It's easy for you to taunt, but notice who's in control here."