Tempting The Laird. Julia London

on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.

      Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.

      “What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.

      “Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.

      “Who are you?” Catriona demanded.

      “Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.

      “How do you know my name? How did you get here?”

      “It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”

      “My laird?”

      That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”

      “Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”

      “I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”

      “It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.

      “I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.

      “Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.

      “He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.

      “Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”

      “It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”

      “The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”

      “My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”

      “Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.

      Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.

      The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.

      Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”

      “I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”

      But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”

      She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.

      Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”

      Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are to the point, my lord, so shall I be. Kishorn Abbey was used unlawfully in the aiding and abetting of Jacobite traitors who sought to displace our king in the rebellion of ’45, and in return for that treason, the property as such is forfeited.”

      Catriona and her family gasped, but her father, Arran Mackenzie, laughed. “I beg your pardon? Kishorn Abbey sits on land that has been owned by the Mackenzies for more than two hundred years. There was no aiding and abetting. We’ve been loyal subjects, sir, that we have.”

      “Kishorn Abbey was used to house fleeing rebels after the loss at Culloden and was operated by a known Jacobite sympathizer in the form of Miss Griselda Mackenzie. It is pointless to deny it, my lord—we have the witness of two of the sympathizers. As the property was used to house traitors, it is forfeited to the Crown by order of the king.”

      “By order of the king?” Cailean echoed incredulously. “Are you mad, then? Ten years have passed since the rebellion.”

      Mr. Whitson shrugged. “It was a crime then and is yet, sir.”

      “What does the Crown care for that old abbey?” Rabbie scoffed. “It’s falling down and too remote to be of any use.”

      “There is interest in it,” Mr. Whitson sniffed, and paused to straighten his lace cuffs. “There are those who believe any use would be better than housing women of ill repute.”

      Catriona gasped with outrage. “How dare you! Have you no compassion?”

      Whitson swiveled about so quickly that she was caught off guard. “There are many in these very hills who do not appreciate the likes you seek to house, Miss Mackenzie. Some are very much against it.”

      “It is no one’s affair what we do with our property,” Catriona argued. She was acutely aware of Rhona’s nervous fluttering behind her, and even more acutely aware of the anger that was seeping into her bones and warming her face.

      “I will ignore your discourtesy, Whitson, that I will, for you are no’ from these parts, aye?” her father said. “But if you ever deign to speak to my nighean in that manner again, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of Highland justice, that you will.”

      Whitson arched a thick brow. “Do you threaten an agent of the king, my lord?”

      “I threaten any man who dares speak to my family in that manner,” her father snapped. “Have you an official decree, then, or are we to take the word of a Sassenach?”

      Whitson’s eyes narrowed. “I rather thought you were a man of reason, Mackenzie. You’ve a fine reputation as it stands, but it’s best for all concerned if you do not push too hard, if you take my meaning. An official decree was delivered to Miss Griselda Mackenzie. I’ve not a copy of the decree on my person, but I can have one drawn up, if that is what you prefer.”

      “Griselda Mackenzie has departed this life,” her father said to Whitson. “Until I’ve seen official notice of it, I’ve no reason to believe you.”

      Mr. Whitson clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall have it delivered posthaste. In the interest of expediency, allow me to inform you the decree grants you and your people six months to vacate the premises of the abbey, and if, by that time, you’ve not vacated, it will be taken by force. The property is forfeited, my lord. The king’s orders