McWilliam took the stairs two at a time. He wanted to check on Rhona before she retired for the night. Worry that she was unwell churned his stomach.

"Rosa?" She walked right into his chest. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her from falling backwards.

A gasp slipped from her mouth, and she froze like a rabbit caught in a trap her sky-blue eyes wide.

Just an hour's separation and she already looked even more God damn radiant. How was that possible?

"What are you doing?" he asked. She was standing on the top step and it looked like she'd been planning to leave the tower.

"Like you don't already know," she snapped, pulling free. "But if you honestly thought that foolish stunt would trick me into stealing your ring, you're even more barbaric than I first thought."

"What are ye going on about, wee lass?" She was like a whirlwind. She never did anything by halves, his Thistle. Loving or fighting, she threw herself into it wholeheartedly.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, the urge to gather her into his arms almost unbearable. His body remembered only too well the feel of her pressed against his chest, not an inch between them. And she'd kissed him with a beautiful innocence, letting him take control of her mouth just the way he liked it.

His blood ran south, and his groin stirred.

If only he hadn't decided to abandon his belted plaid today of all days. The folds of fabric hid his body's rebellions, unlike these bloody breaches, dammit. If she looked down she was in for a nasty surprise.

Rosa pressed her fists to her hips and glared up at him with unmistakable fury. "Don't you pretend it wasn't you who unlocked my door."

"I didn't. Wait, someone let you out?"

"Yes." She blinked. "It wasn't you?"

"Nay." He rummaged in his pocket for the key. It was still there, right where he'd left it. But, there wasn't the one blasted key. There was another and he knew exactly who had it. "Where were you going anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

Rosa shrugged. "Just stretching my legs, my lord." She glanced at her feet. In anyone else he would have said it was a tell—a sign that she was lying—but she lied all the time and had never glanced towards her feet before.

"I'm on my way to see Rhona so—"

"So you're just going to lock me back up?" she finished for him, disgust colored her voice.

"You're a criminal awaiting trial." His mother's old bedchamber was more than she deserved. If this crumbling castle had a dungeon, he would have locked her up there.

"I'm not a criminal," she said brusquely.

"Don't you ever get sick of lying?"

"I'm not—"

"Come on," he interrupted, steering her around and back up the stairs.

Her feet dragged. "I don't want to go back, Lord Laird," It came out a whisper so soft he could have pretended he hadn't heard. But something inside him twinged. She'd been locked up in that room for days on the end, her only respite an hour or two at a grave and then being attacked by a Scotsman. More guilt.

Perhaps, maybe, after this morning, he could give her a little leeway.

She turned towards her room but he caught her wrist, tugged lightly. "Let me show you something. Just for a moment," he added in what he hoped was a menacing tone. He didn't want her to think he was softening.

Because he wasn't.

Not at all.

She followed him up the final flight of stairs to the top floor of his family's residence, her booted feet barely making a sound. Here, his father had knocked down the internal walls, turning the space into one large room. Or to be more precise, one large library.

Bookshelves lined the walls, while a collection of miss-matched chairs were clustered in the center around a small table. A thin layer of dust covered everything.

"Are those..." Her voice faded away as she walked towards the table as if in a trance. "Broadsheet!" She ran her hands over the already yellowing pages of the London Public Ledger and the Edinburgh Evening Courant.

"They're my father's." Were his father's.

Hearn had collected newspapers for as long as McWilliam could remember. But it wasn't like any of them were in date. It took so long for anything to reach the Lowlands that everything was old news by the time it arrived.

He raked a hand through his hair. He'd forgotten the newspapers would be up here waiting for him. All of the ones on the table would have arrived since his father's death. That's why they hadn't be stored away yet.

For three weeks, McWilliam had avoided this room. It had been this father's refuge. It had been lonely up here without Hearn. Now, he couldn't say why but it didn't seem so lonely with Rosa. And then she smiled and his breath hitched.

"Oh my," Rosa gasped, staring over his shoulder. Stuffed into the bookshelves along one entire wall, were hundreds, if not thousands, of newspapers, some crumbling they were so old. "How wonderful!" She darted across the room to run a fingertip along one shelf of papers, barely brushing the delicate edges. "I can't believe you have so many."

"My father was a collector." He'd kept meticulous records of most newspapers published since 1723. The papers at the top of the bookcase, right near the ceiling were the oldest. There were even a couple dated the day of McWilliam's birth in 1719.

He'd never understood his father's fascination. What good was old news?

Rosa turned to face him, her eyes sparkling. She looked as bright and fresh as a spring morning. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so happy.

"My father collected newspapers too. Or at least, he did by accident." She returned to the table, picking up the newest paper amongst the collection. It was dated six days ago. "He loved to read. Even when he was drunk and could barely see straight, he read the paper. And he never threw a single one out. You should have seen our house! The corridors were so packed visitors could barely get past the door." Her smile faded. "I had to throw them all away when he died."

"When you became a governess?" She wasn't looking at her feet now.

"I would have liked to have stayed in London. But it turned out he'd spent all our money on drink and I had to sell the townhouse to pay off his debts. I couldn't afford not to get a job." She absentmindedly turned the pages of the paper without really looking at it, her gaze frosty as if trapped in a memory. "The Wrights took me in; even though it was obvious I hadn't had the most usual of upbringings. I was a little too..." She tapped her forehead as though trying to think of the right word.

"Feisty?" he suggested.

"A little too feisty for their tastes, my lord." She agreed with a shudder as through regretting that she possessed such a less-than-ladylike quality. "Mind you," she added darkly, "no experienced governess was willing to work for the wages they were offering. But I had to take what I could get."

Was that why she'd stolen his money? Because the Wrights hadn't been paying her enough. How much did a governess earn anyway? Rhona had never had one.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the decanter tucked away on one of the shelves, he watched as Rosa sorted through the papers on the desk, stacking them into piles by publication house and release date. Her fingers moved with the dexterity of a women long familiar with a newspaper.

Then again, Rosa didn't seem to be the type who relished money. She didn't seem to pay much attention to the secondhand clothes she was wearing, nor did she wear any jewelry or appear to favor the drink as her father supposedly had.

Maybe she really hadn't stolen his money. He nipped that idea in the bud. Just because she didn't appear greedy didn't mean anything. Perhaps selling her family house hadn't been enough to pay off her father's stifling debts.

He shouldn't have brought her up here.

What was it about Rosa Blair? He just couldn't keep away from her, dammit.

And his feelings— He'd never been this conflicted in his whole life. Guilt, desire, anger, longing.

Hellfire, he was weak!

He hadn't had much time for women since Mary and that had been nearly fifteen years ago. Sure, there had been other women, but none of those relationships had been very serious. And he certainly hadn't planned to fall for an English thief.

Love?

Hold up. Who'd said anything about damn love? Why had he even thought that? He lusted after Rosa, nothing more, nothing less. He absolutely didn't love her.

He took a swig of the whiskey, and it burnt a passage down his throat.

Aye, she was feisty and beautiful and intelligent. And she wasn't short of courage. Aye, she stood up to him like no woman ever had. And she didn't seem disheartened by his size or his rough ways.

Sure, he might have, in completely different circumstances, eventually, somehow have fallen in love with a lass like Rosa Blair. But right now, with everything that was between them, it was impossible to think of a future together.

His groin pulsed with need. God damn it, not again.

* * *

"The sassenach is missing." Cameron appeared at the top of the stairs. "The thief is miss..." His voice faded away as his eyes fell on Rosa still bent over the small table, her back to the door.

She glanced around a second later, startling a little as if she hadn't heard the others arrive, being so focused on the papers before her.

"Rosa Blair." Cameron glanced between them, his gaze stopping on McWilliam "What are you doing?" He spoke out one side of his mouth as though Rosa wouldn't be able to hear if he didn't speak his words in her direction.

Fenella appeared behind Cameron, and McWilliam blinked. They must really have been worried to be standing in the same room as each other. Normally they avoided each other at all costs.

Rosa stared at him, a furrow appearing at the center of her brow. She locked her hands behind her back and McWilliam saw a flash of paper disappear into the folds of her grey skirt.

"Right." Cameron was clearly not satisfied with their silence and McWilliam could feel another argument brewing.

"Uncle," he said, forestalling the inevitable, "Show Rosa back to her room. I'd like a word with Fenella."

Cameron bristled at being dismissed again, but didn't argue. They disappeared from sight, Rosa making sure to keep her hands hidden.

"The nerve of that woman," Fenella huffed. "She swiped one of your father's newspapers. Ye saw that, didn't ye?"

"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He took a final swig, placing the empty glass back on the shelf. Fenella had been with his family for longer than he'd been alive, probably longer than his father had been alive. She had practically helped raise him and Rhona after their mother died. But today she'd overstepped the mark.

"Ye unlocked Rosa's door."

"I—" she spluttered, her fuzzy hair springing back and forth as she shook her head. "I certainly did not."

"Other than me you're the only one with a key to her room."

"But that—" Her hand dropped to the chatelaine hanging from her belt from which dangled a key to every room in the castle. Splotches of color travelled up her fat neck to her wrinkled face. "I did it for your own good."

"For me?" He kept his voice level.

"She's never ever going to admit stealing that shipment. She's crafty and evil. And... English!" She held her hands out towards him imploringly. "It was the only way we could get proof that she's really a thief. I had to let her out."

"Ye set her up." That's what Rosa meant by his ring. Fenella had set it up so that Rosa would find her door unlocked and, unable to resist temptation, steal something. "She's guilty. We don't need more proof."

"But we might." Fenella said, lamely. Her white cap slipped to the side. "I just cannot bear the thought of her not being punished, not after all the work ye and your Pa put into restoring this estate."

His shoulders dropped. He couldn't stay mad at Fenella, not even when she drove him crazy with her meddling. "Don't worry, nobody or nothing is going to get in my way. I intend to make this estate great again, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Rosa sat cross-legged on her bed, her back against the headboard. She held the stolen broadsheet between her hands.

Before today she'd never known there were London papers in the Lowlands, let along an entire library of them. And right above her head.

Cameron obviously hadn't been happy. The last time—and only other time—she'd met him, he'd been stand-offish and grumpy. Today, he'd been practically aggressive. And what did sassenach even mean?

If he knew she'd taken the broadsheet—

A stolen newspaper didn't even compare to a stolen ring, she reassured herself. It was nothing; futile. Besides, she'd return it as soon as she'd finished absorbing every glorious word. McWilliam, or Cameron, need never ever know.

She plumped her pillow, settling down for a serious read.

An hour or so later, the sun had completely disappeared beyond the horizon and shadows covered her room, but Rosa kept reading, straining her eyes by the half-light of the fireplace.

Bennie Cooke had been busy on the 26th April. Three whole articles in the Public Ledger were attributed to him, including—her heart leapt into her mouth—a piece on her.

She scrambled off the bed, leaning closer to the flickering flames, her pulse beating panic and excitement through every inch of her body. Bennie Cooke had written about her, bluestocking wallflower Rosa Alice Blair.

Thief Escapes Bow Street Runner by Bennie Cooke

'Making her escape out a window of the Dancing Horse coaching inn, on the 22nd April, ROSA BLAIR, late of the town of Bradford and county of West Yorkshire, was arrested for theft. The said Rosa Blair is about 20 years of age, five feet two inches, slender make, swarthy complexion, long brown hair, blue sully eyes; had on, when she escaped, a red faded traveling mantle with pearl buttons and brown ankle boots.

'Whoever will secure the said Rosa Blair, and give notice to the Keeper of the House of Correction, Leeds, shall receive a reward of TWO GUINEAS.'

She tossed the paper onto the bedside table. Two guineas: was that all she was worth? She was an escaped criminal, possibility violent. A man had died during that robbery, and another badly injured.

She plopped back onto the bed, kicking her shoes off.

Last year, when Percy Guy had escaped from Marshalsea Prison, the Principal Officer had offered a five guinea reward and he hadn't even stolen anything like 3,000 pounds. Perhaps McWilliam had been right and nobody cared so much because she'd only stolen Scottish money.

Come to think of it, there'd been absolutely no mention of anything relating to Scotland or the Uilleim Estate. Did that mean nobody knew she'd crossed the border? How would anyone know to look for her here?

But that was fine, she told herself, blatantly ignoring the thumping that was her heart pounding at the rate of a speeding curricle. With shaking fingers, she spread her skirts out over the blankets, brushing out the creases, and stared down at her stockinged feet. She was fine. She had an escape plan and needed nobody's help.