Captain Edward Asher was going to be ill. Every breath he drew into his lungs was saturated with the smell of charred flesh. Did he dare move? Were they finally gone? Silence clung to the darkness like scum on a pond, somehow even more unnerving than the voices above him earlier. They had arrived sometime after the massacre, as he was rousing from unconsciousness. He’d remained still, knowing he was likely the only one alive whom they could question.

“It is the captain of the regiment,” one said, turning him faceup with his boot.

“I can see that,” answered another man, the cool slice of his voice warning that his patience was at an end.

Edward knew the voice and the man behind it and willed himself not to breathe. Admiral Peter Gilles, whom the Duke of Monmouth had brought back with him from Utrecht a few years ago, was here to make certain Davina was dead. Edward almost hoped she was, for if Gilles found her with a single breath left in her, he would take pleasure in cutting it out. Known to many as “de Duivel,” Gilles was the most ruthless bastard ever to wield a sword. His father, Cornelius Gilles, was a privateer who fought alongside Admiral Piet Hein, capturing the Spanish silver fleet off Cuba in 1628. The victory was won without bloodshed, and the Spanish prisoners were released. But Peter Gilles was nothing like his father. One had only to look into his pale cold eyes to know he enjoyed killing.

“My lord will be pleased,” Gilles drawled. Then, “Check the Abbey.”

“But Admiral, there’s nothing left of it,” the first man pointed out, unaware that his observation shattered Edward’s heart.

“Do it, Edgar,” Gilles ordered on a low, murderous snarl, “or I’ll flay you right here.”

Nothing in Edward’s life had ever been as difficult as lying there, seemingly lifeless at Gilles’s feet. Nothing, save knowing that Davina was dead. He had failed her. Dear God, how would he ever forgive himself? He hadn’t yet met Davina when he was told it was she he was being sent to St. Christopher’s to protect four years ago. He’d been young and ambitious and he hadn’t yet heard her laughter ringing through the somber halls, or her prayers whispered through honeyed lips for mercy for her enemies. He hadn’t known how easily she could slay him with her tongue and a soft, teasing smile. He’d wanted to tell her the truth. She deserved that much, but just when he’d finally gathered the courage to tell her, Gilles’s men had come. Now it was too late.

“Hendrick,” the Admiral called out to another of his men. “Look inside the chapel. I want body counts, regardless of what is left of them. The same for the English soldiers scattered here. I want her found.”

He knew he had no right, but Edward prayed to God to keep Davina hidden if she lived.

“Gather our fallen and pile them there. After our search, burn them.”

“Admiral?” another voice to Edward’s right asked uneasily, as if he doubted what he had just heard.

“Shall we announce to all of England that we were here, Maarten?” Gilles answered, the clip of annoyance in his voice halting any other queries.

Edward had no idea how long he lay there in the dirt and ash dreading a shout that they had found her. He waited with the stillness of death while the fallen soldiers who had attacked the Abbey this morn were dragged somewhere to his left. He had just begun to feel the heat from the fire when he heard a man call out over the crackling flames.

“The Abbey is empty from what we can tell, Admiral. No bodies, charred or otherwise.”

“Empty? Twenty-seven women resided here and you found not one?” Silence while something popped in the fire. “They must have all gone to the chapel. Go and aid Hendrick in his search. If he has found even one, alert me.”

Edward almost opened his eyes. They would find bodies in the chapel, but none of them were Davina. She had been in the Abbey. He knew it for certain because he had recognized her blue feathered arrow tip clutched in the Highlander’s fist just before he…

MacGregor.

For the first time since dawn broke, a flicker of hope sparked in Edward’s heart when he remembered the giant warrior. Had MacGregor saved her? He had not seemed interested in doing so when Edward beseeched him, but he looked fit enough to finish off what was left of Monmouth’s men and canter off with the prize. Was it possible that his Davina still lived and was safe? Where would MacGregor have taken her? His belly heaved as the stench of burning flesh and hair filled his lungs. He gritted his teeth and imagined her smile to keep from retching. She had smiled at him often, those huge, glorious eyes going soft with affection, melting his very bones. He knew she wasn’t in love with him, but that had never stopped him from loving her with his whole heart.

Sometime later, Hendrick returned to the courtyard with news of his discovery. There were bodies in the chapel but all were burned beyond recognition.

“I’ve no interest in what they looked like, Hendrick, you fool, since I’ve never seen the girl. Tell me, how many bodies did you find?”

“Hard to tell, sir, but Edgar counted six and twenty.”

Edward could almost hear Gilles deducing that somehow Davina had escaped. His heart sank even before the Admiral spoke again.

“Let us finish here. We will search for tracks in the morning.”

How long ago had it been since Edward heard those last words? Ten sickening breaths or fifty? He’d heard them taking to their mounts and leaving. He was sure of it. Or was it just the thumping of his heart? It didn’t matter. He had to find Davina before Gilles did. He opened his eyes slowly. One, and then the other, only to close them an instant later, burning and tearing from the acrid smoke. He allowed himself to cough, and then he retched until every muscle and joint in his body ached. Pushing himself to his feet, he searched, as best he could, among his fallen men until he found a sword.

He had failed her, but perhaps God was giving him another chance to save her life. He turned toward the gates. He did have a slight advantage. Gilles and his men would have to wait until morning to find any tracks. Edward didn’t need them—at least not yet. He knew who had taken her, and Highlanders lived in the north.

Rob woke the next morning to the sound of Will’s cheerful account of the time he and Rob raided the MacPherson holding with Rob’s younger brother, Tristan, and Connor Grant. It wasn’t a tale fit for a lady’s ears… or a soon-to-be nun’s. He’d nearly sighed out loud with regret when she told him she was an orphan raised in the convent and not some rich Englishman’s daughter. Was she truly a novice? Had her life been given over to God?

If it had, she gave no indication of it during Will’s interpretation… so far. She appeared unfazed while she sat with Colin and Finn, nibbling on the last remaining berries they’d picked the night before.

“We were almost away free wi’ half a dozen cattle when Tristan spotted Brigid MacPherson and her six sisters traipsin’ across the glen on their way home from their mornin’ bath.”

Finn smiled and Colin swore under his breath, both deducing where the tale was heading and each sharing a very different opinion on it.

“I suspect,” Will continued, “the MacPherson gels recognized their faither’s livestock, but hell, ye lads know that Tristan has a way wi’ lasses that makes them ferget, or no’ care aboot anything else.”

“Aye,” said Finn, his voice tinged with veneration. “I vow one smile from Tristan could steal the heart of even the king’s mistress.”

“’Tis true,” Will laughed, “and the MacPherson lasses were nae different. Why, I swear on m’ sword, it took less than ten breaths fer Brigid to strip oot o’ her…”

Rob cleared his throat as he rose to his feet and cast Will a warning look. He’d been reckless that day, risking injury to himself and to his companions for a few hours of physical pleasure. He took no pride in the retelling of it, despite their victorious raid.

Will answered with a bright grin, bid him good morn, and then turned back to his audience to finish the tale. “We all had…”

“Will, that’s enough,” Rob said more sternly this time. He didn’t want Davina hearing the rest.

He needn’t have bothered, for she was no longer listening. Her gaze was fastened on him as he strode toward her. For an instant, she looked frightened—as if her breath was caught somewhere between her throat and her lips. Suspecting that she had seldom seen any half-naked men roaming the Abbey, he tugged on the folds of his plaid draped low on his bare waist and tossed one end over the shoulder she had bandaged the night before.

She blinked and then raised her gaze higher to meet his and blushed. “How does your arm feel?”

“Better.”

“I prayed for you last night.”

“Ye have my thanks fer that.” He was tempted to smile at her. Hell, how many times had he done the like last night? ’Twas unsettling to think how easily he lost control over his own mouth when she looked at him. He’d lain awake deciding what it was about her that attached itself to his heartstrings before he had time to guard against it. She was bonnie, to be sure, but there were plenty of bonnie lasses at Camlochlin. Mayhap, it was the sweet vulnerability of her, or the spark of life that, despite the tragedy that had befallen her, had not been extinguished. She looked as if a slight wind could carry her off, but she would stand, legs braced, and face it first. She was braw. Aye, she was that. Shooting arrows at her enemies instead of running for her life. Losing everything and everyone and weeping softly as she rested her head for the night instead of wailing in her grief. He’d gone to sleep thinking that she was the kind of woman he could lose his heart to, and that he should bring her home.

But he awoke this morning with a clear head. Tristan still bore the scar on his thigh from Donald MacPherson’s arrow when the chieftain and his sons had come upon them that balmy summer morn. Rob’s lesson that day had been hard learned and not forgotten. He would give Davina aid, but that was all. He would find a refuge quickly and return to his life. He would never again let a lass rob him of his good senses and put his kin in jeopardy. Especially a lass who was responsible for the deaths of over a hundred men.

Which brought him to his other quandary. Why did Monmouth or Argyll want her dead? Will had been correct when he called her clever. She had avoided his questions by telling them all what anyone half interested in James of York might want to know. But none of it had anything to do with the massacre at St. Christopher’s. Why would King Charles’s army be guarding a novice? What else did she know that she had not read in a book? Did the attempt on her life have anything to do with the new king’s coronation? She refused to tell him anything, but it didn’t matter. He knew all he needed to know. Davina Montgomery was danger and risk, and Rob was never careless.

“There is an abbey in Ayrshire,” she said, as if reading the deep concern marring his brow. “I will be safe there.”

Rob studied her face in silence. She didn’t want to go there. It wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes that told him, but resignation—as if she had no other choice but to accept her fate. “Ye said ye would no’ be safe anywhere.”

“I’d forgotten about Courlochcraig. I was not thinking clearly.”

’Twas a solution. He could leave her at the new abbey and keep her enemies away from his kin. “Verra well. We shall escort ye to Ayrshire then.”

“I would be grateful for that,” she said, rising to her feet. She barely reached his chest but gathered her courage around her like a mantle. “My life has already cost too much. I will not have it cost you yours.”

“Nor will I.” He turned away from her before he was tempted to ponder the extraordinary beauty of her eyes. Was it the filtered sunlight streaming through the canopy of summer green leaves that changed their color to deep cerulean? Damnation, he could find satisfaction gazing into them forever, stripping away all her secrets and…

“Let’s clear up and be gone from here.” He strode to his horse, pulled a fresh tunic from his saddlebag and tugged it over his head. He disappeared behind a tree to empty his bladder, then thought better of it. He had to assume they might be followed by any soldiers who had survived the attack on the Abbey and mayhap saw him riding off with Davina. A good tracker would spot—or smell—whatever they were careless enough to leave behind.

Peering around the tree, he watched Davina share a word with Finn while they saddled the horses. She possessed no airs of superiority, the way a noble lady might. She spoke softly and seemed to be even-tempered, save for when she’d tried to kill him with his own dagger. She’d prayed for him…. He studied the heavy robes concealing much of her form and found himself wondering what she looked like underneath. She was thin, that much he could tell. The coarse wool hung off her slender shoulders in folds and bunched at her waist, barely defined by the rope she had belted there. She needed to eat something besides berries, but there was no time to hunt. He prayed they were not being followed. “If we ride hard,” he told them all, stepping out from behind the tree, “we can reach Ayrshire in a few hours.”

“Ride hard?” The lass turned to him, her eyes round with dread.

“Are ye sore?” he asked her, noting her hand slipping behind her to give her upper thighs a rub.

“I will be fine.” She offered him a quick smile then turned away.

Rob stared after her for another moment, cursing the effect her most casual smile had on him.

“We’ll need to cover our tracks from here on in,” he called out to the others. “We didna’ stop here. Will, ye and Colin haul that fallen branch atop the embers. Finn, toss some twigs around the place.” His eyes found Davina’s again. “Movin’ aboot will help ease yer soreness. Scout fer horse waste and cover whatever ye find with leaves.”

Her nose crinkled at him before she turned away to her task. This time, he couldn’t help smiling.