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remaining heir would turn out to be a ragged-assed Scot with no decent name but the one garnered from the pile of rocks where he’d been found.
    “My apologies, Mrs. Mulgrave,” he corrected and shushed the old bitterness. What did he have to be bitter about, anyway? He was the acknowledged laird of the isle of Teleere. So what if he’d spent a few years amidst a bevy of sailors who were as likely to slit his throat as look at him? It had taught him the art of sleeping light. “But you see, I have a problem.”
    She stared at him for a full five seconds before speaking. “The lowest of men can change his temperament if he so wishes.”
    It took a moment for him to understand her meaning, and when he did he didn’t try to contain his grin. Little Megs hada smart mouth— and mind-numbing lips , Hoary added with a nod. Great, now he was starting a dialogue.
    “You think my temperament a problem?” he asked, and circled her slightly. His intention was to reach the caneback chair that accompanied his desk, but he would not mind a view of her in profile—or from the rear if that opportunity presented itself.
    “You did threaten to hang me,” she reminded him.
    “And, of course, you don’t deserve to be hanged.” He admitted that he said the words with some sarcasm as he placed a hand on the top of the chair. She kept her chin up and turned to face him. It denied him a view of her profile. But full frontal gave him nothing to complain about.
    “Nay, I most certainly do not,” she said.
    “And, of course, neither did Wheaton.” He tried to continue with his causal tone, but the very thought of Wheaton twisted his stomach. Months ago he had vowed to obtain revenge. He was laird of this isle. How hard could it be to execute one man? One brigand! One murderer!
    “As I have told you—”
    “Aye. You told me,” he growled, and, lifting the chair in one fist, slammed it back down against the hardwood floor beneath.
    Her gasp spilled into the room. He gritted his teeth and watched her, calming his nerves, easing his tension.
    “Tell me the truth, Megs, or I swear your bonny looks will not save you from the consequences.”
    “My name is not Megs.” Her words were no more than a whisper.
    “You lie.” Easing his hand from the chair, he approached her slowly. “But damned if you don’t do it well.”
    He watched her swallow. Watched her lift her chin so as to keep her gaze on his face as he neared her.
    “’Tis not gentlemanly to accuse a lady of untruth,” she said.
    “Gentlemanly,” he said, and laughed. “I could almost believe you are from abroad,” he said. “With such foolish talk. Except that you speak the Gaelic so perfectly.”
    She stared at him with eyes as wide as the heavens, or as infinite as hell.
    “No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman,” he said, and touched her cheek. The skin was as soft as the heather blossoms of his homeland. “Tell me where to find him.”
    She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his face.
    “What has he done to gain such loyalty?” he mused, then thought of a new idea. “Or is it fear? Do you think he will harm you if you spill the truth, lass? Is that it?”
    She opened her mouth to speak, but he slipped his fingers over the plump rise of her lips, shushing her. They were ungodly soft and unusually full. Hoary stirred, and he scowled, remembering to concentrate.
    “Don’t speak,” he ordered. “But listen. Wheaton is dangerous. I don’t know what he’s told you—what he’s promised you, but you can’t trust him. Tell me where he is, and I will make certain he never harms you.”
    They stared into each other’s eyes. She shook her head.
    “I cannot.”
    He stopped the curse before it reached his lips. “Then I have little choice but to imprison you, lass.”
    “For refusing to say what I cannot?” Her voice was hushed, but he discerned no desperation, no panic.
    He forced a smile. “For withholding information from your sovereign