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Elizabeth stared at the black kettle. A wisp of steam wafted out the spout, swirling like the mist that had swirled up and around Evan MacGregor as he came through the front door. How could she have forgotten the impact of his eyes?

“Milady, did you not hear me?” Krissy asked.

“Oh!” Elizabeth yanked her gaze from the steam and made a futile, belated effort to compose her face. “What was that, Krissy?”

“Och, I knew it! Ya felt it, din’t ya?” Krissy executed a fey pirouette between the worktable and the stove, on amazingly nimble feet for one of her years. Her voice sounded so wishful, she could have been reading Elizabeth’s mind.

“Did ya ever see such a bonnie mon? Why, what one of me friends at home would believe I saw the bra’ MacGregor himself, striding out of the mists... across our own step...in London! Do ya no’ realize, lass, that he’s the first of the Gregarach born in ten generations to walk tall and proud, boasting his true name, in London, afore God, king and country? I never thought to see such a sight, ever!”

“You’re exaggerating just a trifle, Krissy,” Elizabeth commented, without a trilling burr in her speech.

“Faith! I din’t!”

“Every MacGregor we know took back their clan name the day the proscription ban was lifted,” Elizabeth argued.

“Tha’s no’ the same thing.” Krissy shook her head vehemently. “God strike the bleeding Sassenach all around us, din’t the mon walk straight in from the mist, with his head still attached to his shoulders? He did! The old laird, God rest his soul, never set a foot in England in his life. He didna trust the English. There’s a new breed of Scotsmen a-coming, and don’ tell me I didna just lay eyes upon one who’s no’ afraid of any mon.”

“Krissy, the tribulations of the Children of the Mist aren’t important right now,” Elizabeth reasoned.

“He’s no cadet, lassie. He’s the Man of the Mist, the MacGregor!” Krissy insisted, gravely insulted by Elizabeth’s apparent lack of respect.

“I’ve more important things on my mind. Nor is this the time to delve into the tangled history of the clans, Krissy. Save your tall tales for Robbie.” Elizabeth folded a hotpad and took a firm grip on the steaming kettle. “The water’s boiling.”

More important to Elizabeth was to discover how her oldest brother had wound up in the company of the dangerous Evan MacGregor. What mischance had brought Evan from the wars on the Continent at the same time that Elizabeth had to be in town herself?

“Come along, Krissy.” Elizabeth hurried through the swinging door to the back stairs.

Krissy harrumphed deeply and followed, muttering under her breath, “Och, ya got no proper upbringing, lassie, ya din’t.”

Elizabeth was much too troubled to pay heed to what Krissy said. Why hadn’t she left Krissy to bring the water up when it was ready? What was she thinking of, leaving Tullie and MacGregor alone? Worse, why had she let Amalia go up without her? What if Evan let slip their secret?

At the landing on the second floor, Elizabeth took a deep breath, stamping an iron resolve on her composure. “I’ll take it from here, Krissy Please go and stay with Robbie. I’ll come to bed as soon as I can.”

“Och, the wee wean willna turn over once he’s to sleep. Are you sure you don’ want more help than that?” Krissy asked incredulously.

“I’m sure,” Elizabeth answered firmly. “Please make certain Robbie doesn’t wake up and go wandering out of his room. We mustn’t forget, this is a new house to him. He’s never been to London before. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but just keep an eye on him tonight, Krissy. I’m sure we’ll have a new nanny for him soon.”

“Yes, mum. I’ll do me best.” Krissy bobbed a curtsy and hurried up the steps to the third floor.

Elizabeth swallowed down the dryness choking her throat as she watched the plump woman retreat up the back stairs. Elizabeth took another moment to remind herself that no one knew the truth about Robbie... no one, not even her sister Amaha. She didn’t have to feel so frightened...just because Evan MacGregor was in the house.

Chapter Two

The marquess’s valet opened the door of Tullie’s room at Elizabeth’s knock. The valet appeared unflappable as ever as he took the steaming kettle from Elizabeth’s hands. He had a kind glance for the worry knotting her brow as she asked, “How bad is it this time?”

“Not so bad as it would seem, milady. You may speak with His Grace, if you would like. Perhaps you can help keep his howls to a minimum as Corporal Butter removes the bullet.”

Elizabeth didn’t hesitate to attend her brother. Murray women were known for their fortitude. She marched across the chamber and found Tullibardine seated on his barber’s chair.

Four lamps had been placed on the marble-topped commode at his side. He’d been stripped to the waist, and the lamplight made his fair skin seem unnaturally pale. Elizabeth spared a quick glance at his windburned face before looking for the wound that threatened him.

A small, circular hole steadily seeped blood and fluid just below the upthrusting ridge of his collarbone. The wound mutely testified that a bullet had entered at an acute angle. The freckles glazing John’s shoulder were stretched to odd shapes because of internal swelling. Elizabeth thought it was a good thing he’d been hit on the right, being that her brother was irrevocably left-handed.

“Not very pretty, my lord,” Elizabeth announced, withholding her questions about the darkening bruises and knots on his face. It was obvious on close inspection that he’d been involved in an exchange of fisticuffs. Funny, she thought, even the battered twenty-nine-year-old John Murray looked more boyish than the grim-jawed Highlander attending him, though Evan was only twenty-three.

Elizabeth’s eyes reflexively went past Corporal Butter to seek Evan. He’d shed his coat and was in the process of rolling up the sleeves of an immaculate linen shirt. He turned his back to her and stooped to scrub his large hands in a basin of hot water.

The linen strained at the seams across his shoulders, which had widened considerably since the last time Elizabeth had seen Evan. Her gaze followed the long curve of his back, reluctantly noting that he hadn’t gained an ounce of surplus flesh in five years. Maturity had not caused him to let out his belt.

Her mouth tasted drier than ashes, and she tried in vain to moisten it with swallowing. She had as much luck whetting her tongue as she had tamping down the memories that sent her pulse singing and heightened the color staining her cheeks... Evan MacGregor had come home at last.

Elizabeth drew in a shuddering breath and turned to her brother, determined to focus only on him. Amalia grimly handed a glass of amber liquid to Tullie, ordering, “Drink this, my lord.”

“How do you feel, John?” Elizabeth asked, in a shaken voice.