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face against her back. “Tell me when we arrive. If we do.”
    Given the battering force of the wind and the dizzying height of their perch, Pamela should have been equally fearful they were about to plunge to their deaths. But their mount started forward with brisk confidence, no less sure-footed than his master.
    They were halfway to the castle when icy needles of rain began to spill from the sky. Before Pamela could tug up her bonnet to cover her hair, both the rain and the cloud that had spawned it were gone, blown on their way by a chill gust of wind. Instead of cursing the mercurial weather as she might have done earlier, Pamela threw back her head and laughed aloud, feeling a strange exhilaration at thebeauty and wildness of it all. It was as if they were riding straight into a fairy tale on the wings of a dragon.
    As a second cloud passed over the moon, bathing the highwayman in shadow, her smile slowly faded. It still remained to be seen if their guide was prince or ogre.
     
    The great chasm between castle and land should have formed a natural moat impenetrable to men and the brutality of their cannons. But as they passed beneath what must have once been the castle gatehouse, Pamela saw that it had failed miserably in its duty.
    The highwayman drew their mount to a halt in the courtyard of the mighty fortress. The once gentle moonlight now seemed harsh and unforgiving, spilling without mercy over the shattered walls and heaps of crumbled stone. It seemed the fairy tale castle was only an illusion after all, no more real than a painted backdrop in a production of King Lear . As she surveyed the ruins of what must have once been one of the crown jewels of the eastern coast, the pang beneath Pamela’s breastbone felt oddly like grief.
    Even in its advanced state of decay, there was no denying the melancholy beauty of the place. Although some chambers and towers appeared to be intact, all that remained of the castle’s chapel was a lone wall overlooking the sea, its stark silhouette standing guard over a crumbling white cross hewn from limestone. Moss had crept over every inch ofexposed stone, softening the jagged edges with a thick veil of green.
    A gaping window that must have once housed a bell was set high in the wall. Pamela could almost hear the ghostly echo of its pealing, calling those who were long dead to worship or battle.
    With nothing but the endless indigo sweep of sky and sea beyond the wall, it was as if they’d reached the edge of the world itself.
    “What is this place?” she asked, lowering her voice to a reverent whisper without realizing it.
    The rich timbre of the highwayman’s voice paid its own respects to any lingering ghosts. “This is where Clan MacFarlane made their last stand against the forces of Cromwell’s army over a hundred and fifty years ago. Rather than let the castle fall into the hands of their enemies, they blew it up themselves—set the charges and went marchin’ off into the night, their bagpipes wailin’ a final farewell.”
    As she gazed around them at the heaps of rubble and the shattered dreams they represented, Pamela wanted to weep at the tragic waste of it all. “Are you one of these MacFarlanes? Were they your clan?”
    A cloud skittered across the moon, casting a fresh shadow over his face. “I’m afraid my grandfather lacked both the courage and the scruples of old Angus MacFarlane. He sold out our clan at Culloden for thirty pieces of English silver.”
    An involuntary shiver danced down Pamela’s spine. She’d never heard the word English utteredwith such icy contempt. Before she could consider digging her heels into the horse’s sides and making a mad dash for freedom, the clouds parted to reveal the highwayman gazing up at her, his expression guarded.
    “So here we are,” he said. “All the comforts of home. I’d help you down but…” He shrugged his broad shoulders to remind her of his bound hands.
    “That’s all right. We can manage,”