Victoria distinguished muffled sounds of battle before the cottage door flew open. She gripped her skirt in readiness to run while David Robertson scanned the dark room. He took a few paces into the shadows that protected her and she dashed for the door. As she tore past him, a hard yank on her hair brought Victoria to her knees, wrenching a cry from her. In one quick motion, David wound a handful of hair around his hand, jerked her to her feet, and brought the back of his hand across her cheek. She reeled, stopped from being thrown back by his hold on her.

“Is striking a woman universally practiced among cowards?” she hissed.

He gave her hair another vicious yank. Despite the flash of light that blurred her vision, Victoria laughed. A foreign taste seeped into her mouth. She spat, realizing it was blood. David released her hair. Gripping her arm, he dragged her out into the night.

Victoria caught sight of the horse he was headed for. She twisted, kicking at him, but her intention to break away was halted by the fighting she glimpsed between the cottages. “MacPherson plaid,” she whispered. Curling her fist, Victoria swung as hard as she could at David Robertson’s face.

“Bloody—” David’s oath died as she shoved away from him.

His grasp slipped downward and closed around her sleeve. A yank was followed by a ripping sound and cold air rushed across her back. David’s fingers tightened, catching the tender flesh of her arm and pinching hard.

He jerked her to him. “Try that again and you will find yourself with naught but rags to cover your body.”

“Preferable to being your prisoner.”

Victoria spat in his face and reared back to swing at him again, but he brought the back of his hand across her mouth in another brutal blow. Pain shot through her. Her knees weakened, then gave away altogether, and she slumped against him as darkness washed over her in a crushing wave.

“Coward,” she mumbled, vaguely aware rough hands had grasped her waist and lifted her from the ground.

She twisted, seeking soft flesh to sink her teeth into, but a final blow across her jaw left her with the memory of the arms that tightened around her like a vise.

* * *

Iain scanned the room for the hundredth time that morning, looking for any clue as to what had become of David Robertson. The cottage, larger than the rest and modestly furnished, was lavish in comparison to the other cottages. Just the sort of abode a man like Robertson would insist on even as an outpost.

Since discovering the disappearance of David Robertson and Victoria last night, they had combed the village and surrounding area a dozen times. Iain fought back panic. This situation was nothing like the dream when she’d fallen by Edwin’s sword. He would find her. Iain forced his thoughts from the memory of Victoria falling lifeless into his arms and focused on Edwin Hockley.

“I warn you, Sassenach, if you know anything about the whereabouts of this dog or my wife…” Iain pinned him with his good eye.

The earl’s expression turned patronizing. “If I knew where she was, would I not be there as well?”

“I am certain,” Iain put in savagely, “you had no intention of being caught here.” He shrugged.

“You are sure this is the cottage David used?” Iain asked again.

“Quite sure,” Hockley replied.

“And you have no idea where my wife was held?”

He shook his head. “They separated us.”

“I am still at a loss as to how you allowed that.”

A slight smile curved one edge of his mouth. “I would imagine, very much the same way you left her to find her way home alone from a meadow.”

The two men glared at one another, and Iain caught the smallest flicker in the earl’s eyes. “It is your choice, Hockley.” Iain hadn’t stripped the Englishman of his sword.

He regarded Iain, then said, “Death is not what you fear most, is it, MacPherson?”

Iain clenched then unclenched his jaw. “Death is the very thing you should fear.”

Thomas stepped through the door, shifting Iain’s attention from Hockley.

“Well?” Iain demanded.

“No sign of her,” Thomas reported.

“You are sure the Robertson men spoke the truth?”

Thomas exhaled. “We were very persuasive. At this point, I think they would have little reason to lie.”

“You searched the other cottages again?”

Thomas nodded. “But it would not matter which one she had been kept in, she is not there now, and for all the evidence she never was.”

“His men have no idea where Robertson has taken himself off to?”

“There were not many left after the battle,” Thomas said. “It is possible those who knew either ran like the rats they are or were killed.”

“I will have Carrigan sent for,” Liam’s voice came from the doorway. Iain shifted his attention onto him.

“He is the finest tracker I have.”

“Good,” Iain said. “Meanwhile, we will begin our own search.”

* * *

Pain seared through Victoria’s consciousness. Up, up, her mind swam, past the deep throb that worked against every stroke she took toward full awareness. Muddled understanding wove a slow course through her mind and she shifted on the saddle.

“Do not move a muscle.”

The rough voice recalled her to a vague sense of danger. Victoria squinted, looking up past the trees at the stirrings of dawn. Another moment brought full memory, and she was unable to stifle a small cry.

David’s grunt reverberated through her body. “So you remember,” he said.

Nay, she hadn’t forgotten and sat still as stone with the recollection. Her heart pounded against her chest. When had they left the barren hills for the lush foliage they now rode through? David Robertson had the horse at a canter. Had they ridden at that pace throughout the night? No. He would have ridden hard at first in an effort to put as much distance between himself and the MacPherson forces. She closed her eyes. Had Thomas found Iain and, if so, was he dead or alive?

Half an hour later, the sun broke over the horizon and shafts of sunlight streamed through the trees. A lone rider shot out of the trees onto the path in front of them. Victoria gave a cry and David jerked back on the reins, narrowly averting a collision with the stranger. She blinked at the bearded rider who wore a wide-brimmed turban and sat atop a steed as black as night.

A rumble forced her attention from the man and onto an ornately painted wagon emerging from the forest behind him. David pulled back on the reins, backing the horse up several steps. His muscles tensed when at least two dozen men rode into sight behind the wagon. Another wagon followed, then another, and yet another.

“Egyptians.” The word from David Robertson held the slur the name entailed.

A tingle ran through Victoria. Gypsies. The memory of her singular encounter with the Gypsies on that first trip to Fauldun Castle surfaced even as the small door behind the seat of the lead wagon opened, revealing an exquisite woman. Dark hair cascaded down strong shoulders, and Victoria looked into eyes she knew had seen far too much of the world. A corner of the woman’s mouth curved upward almost as if she’d read Victoria’s mind.

Victoria bolted upright from David’s chest. “Help me! This man has kidnapped me from my husband—”

David’s hand clamped over her mouth, wrenching her head back against him. “Silence wench,” he hissed.

Her heart pounded harder when David turned his horse’s head and it looked as if no one would help her. But before he turned, the man who had cut them off made a clicking sound with his tongue and his steed lurched forward, barring their path.

“What does the woman speak of?” he demanded.

“Do not stick your nose into something that does not concern you,” David warned.

The man’s attention shifted to Victoria, who pleaded with her eyes while struggling to pry David’s hand from her mouth.

The man returned his gaze to David. “What crime has she committed?”

“The worst crime a woman can.”

Victoria ceased struggling. The voice had come from the woman in the wagon. She stepped to the ground.

“Or nearly the worst.” The woman laughed as she approached.

“Aurari.” The man glanced over his shoulder.

“Do not bother telling me to mind my own business, Evan.” She stopped beside him, her eyes on Victoria. “The woman speaks the truth. This man has stolen her from her husband.” Aurari canted her head. “And he has no intention of returning her.”

The words, spoken matter-of-factly, sent fresh alarm through Victoria.

“Be about your business,” David growled. “The world will not miss a few more Egyptians.”

Aurari’s attention never left Victoria as she said,

“It is time.”

David shifted abruptly and Victoria realized he was reaching across her for his sword. His grip on her loosened and she bit down on the edge of his palm. David stiffened, but still slid his claymore from its scabbard.

Evan urged his mount close and jammed the point of his sword against the back of David’s neck.

“Release her.”

David eased his weapon back into place. He gripped Victoria’s shoulders. Too late, she comprehended his intention. His fingers bit into her flesh, and she was hurled to the ground. She landed on her side. A sudden high neigh rang out, and David’s horse reared. Victoria watched the powerful hooves of the stallion hang motionless in mid-air before beginning their descent toward her.

“Move!”

Aurari’s shout broke the spell. Victoria rolled away an instant before hooves met solid ground. She lay unmoving as Evan’s sword pierced David Robertson’s neck. In one great spasm, David keeled forward, then dropped to the ground beside her with a sickening thud, blood pooling under his neck.

In the chaos that followed, Victoria was lifted from the ground and carried to Aurari’s wagon. The Gypsy women chattered as they patted her shoulder, offered her tea, and pointed to the high bed in the back of the wagon. Victoria didn’t miss the fact that Aurari slipped out the door. Victoria stood and, despite the loud objections, stumbled through the door and down the steps. Men had already begun digging a grave alongside where David Robertson’s body lay where it had fallen.

“What sort of fool are you?” a loud male voice riveted Victoria’s attention onto the man talking to Evan.

“Manouche,” Evan said in a calm voice.

Aurari glanced over her shoulder at Victoria. “That one is a fool.” She pointed at Manouche. “He believes helping you was a mistake.” Without waiting for comment, Aurari strode to the two men and said, “Leave this old woman to his babbling. He should join the other women, hiding in the wagons.”

Manouche looked at Aurari. “This is a grave error.”

“Manouche,” Evan began again, “Aurari has never led us astray.”

Manouche’s lips pursed. “She is wrong this time. We should not return the Englishwoman to her husband. You know as well as I do the Gajikane will slaughter us in payment for our kindness.”

“Coward,” Aurari said with a low snort.

“Aurari,” Evan admonished. “You should not speak to him in that manner. His father will not like it.”

Her mouth twisted with derision. “I care not if he is chief tomorrow. I will never bow to him.”

“You will do more than bow to me.” Manouche looked at Aurari as a man would a possession. Victoria expected him to deal Aurari a blow just as David had her, but instead Manouche turned back to Evan.

“You allow beauty to influence you in matters where it has no place.” With that, Manouche strode away.

Evan sighed. “You will someday regret your actions, Aurari.”

“Perhaps.” She tossed her hair in a manner that said she had little faith in Evan’s prediction.

* * *

Victoria spread the MacPherson tartan across her shoulders and looked at the sun, sunk low in the sky. She closed her eyes, her body rocking with the slow rhythm of the wagon. Not one night had yet passed since her rescue. Many days of travel still lay ahead. How was she to deal with not knowing if her husband lived or died? A chill ran through her. What if it was Edwin who discovered him first? Would Iain have allowed Edwin to walk away alive? Had Edwin kept his word and freed Iain? The wagon swayed. Victoria opened her eyes to see Aurari swinging up onto the wagon next to her.

“I woke you?” Aurari asked.

“Nay,” Victoria replied. “I feel as though I will never again be able to sleep.”

They lapsed into silence, and Victoria fell to studying the men who rode before them.

“You find my people interesting?” Aurari broke the silence. “Aye.”

“But still somewhat odd.”

There was no question in her words, and Victoria didn’t pretend ignorance. “You are foreign to me. But

I am not such a fool to think it bad.”

“And not such a fool to accept it as good.” “I have seen nothing terrible.”

Aurari’s mouth twitched. “You have seen us kill a man.”

“Indeed,” Victoria answered, “and for that, I offer my gratitude.”

There was a flicker of something in Aurari’s eyes. Curiosity, Victoria thought, but the Gypsy woman turned her attention forward again.

“The men will be hungry soon.”

Victoria glanced up at the first stars in the evening sky. “We are far north. The journey is nearly a week.”

Aurari’s face showed surprise. “You read the stars?”

“I have found it…useful.”

A laugh, throaty and full, came from the Aurari.

“Ah, a woman who has lived by her wits?”

Heat crept across Victoria’s cheeks. “Perhaps, but such secrets are better left alone.”

Another lusty laugh followed by Aurari giving her own knee a hearty slap. “I never knew the English possessed such wit. You need not worry, I am no mind reader.”

Victoria studied her companion for no more than an instant before concluding the Gypsy woman was not above stretching the truth.

As if reading her mind, Aurari’s eye twinkled. “Mayhap there has been a time or two I have seen inside another soul, but it is the darkness that reaches out to me.” She opened the lower half of the door behind their seat. “Come, we will begin the night’s meal.”

Aurari dropped through the door onto the floor of the wagon with Victoria close behind. Bent low, Victoria took two steps until she cleared the overhead bed. Aurari opened a cupboard located next to the rear door and retrieved a bowl, then placed it on the top of the wood-burning stove sitting a few feet away against the right wall. The stove’s ventilation pipe went straight up and out the top of the wagon.

As Aurari pulled flour, salt, and sugar from the cupboard, Victoria made a closer inspection of the surroundings her mind had barely registered earlier. Her gaze fixed on the long wooden seat built into the side of the wagon. Wine colored velvet cushions covered the seat, leaving the finely crafted back and sides waxed and buffed to a shine.

Two more seats with a high counter between them sat to the left of the seat. She studied the S shaped ornamentation carved into the wood and realized it was the same as that on the front door, which stood to the right of the seats. Victoria turned to the large bed in the rear. Beneath the bed, and on each side, were tall, narrow chests of drawers. She ran a hand over the coverings of the bed.

“Fantastic. I had no idea.”

“What?” Aurari said. “That because we travel, we still live like civilized people?”

“It had never occurred to me. But had it, I would not have conceived of such beauty.” She traced the S pattern carved into the drawers. “It is just—” she stopped to find Aurari looking at her. “Just what, mistress?”

Victoria started to deny what she knew her fleeting glance at Aurari’s shabby clothes had given away, but stopped herself.

“Our men are skilled traders,” Aurari said. “It is their task to acquire our homes. Our women, however,” she glanced down at her worn clothes, “are not so accomplished.”

“Surely you have other skills?”

“Perhaps.”

Victoria studied her. “You are not afraid?”

“Of what?” Aurari asked as she pried a cover off a tin container. “Retribution?”

Victoria nodded. “Once David Robertson’s clan discovers he has been murdered, there will be

bloodlust in the air.”

“It would not be the first time.” Candle in hand, Aurari bent and lit the kindling that lay in the belly of the stove. The wood sparked and caught fire. She straightened, facing Victoria. “And you have assured us safe passage.”

“Aye,” Victoria said. “And you shall have it, but

Evan did not know that when he killed David

Robertson.”

“I knew you must be returned to your husband.”

“How?”

Aurari shrugged and began doling out a measure of flour from the tin.

“I am of a mind you do not make a habit of killing men,” Victoria persisted.

“Murder?”

“You call it that?”

Aurari laughed. “What matters is what your husband will call it.”

Victoria frowned. “I think he would not care.” He protects his possessions all too well. Was that how he saw her? “Do you regret having married me?” he had asked in the meadow. She recalled Lily’s journal and the boy who had grown up knowing he wasn’t wanted. Did he realize he had also learned that if a man wanted a woman he took her? Warmth flushed through her. Did the fact he had taken her by force mean he had never wanted a woman the way he did her? Should she be distressed or comforted by that possibility?

A sudden jolt to the wagon yanked Victoria back to the present. She grabbed the side of the bed.

“Something is amiss?”

The Gypsy woman was staring, and Victoria could have sworn she had read her mind. Aurari smiled. “One of the disadvantages of a home that travels.” She pulled butter and eggs from the pantry over the stove.

Victoria picked up the bowl and began stirring the ingredients. “How did you know I spoke the truth when you saw me with David Robertson? You took my word as a woman?”

“As a woman?” Aurari grunted. “Women are far more cunning than men. Nay. I knew our paths were

destined to cross again.”

Victoria ceased stirring, her mouth parting in astonished realization. “So it was you I saw the day we traveled to Fauldun Castle.”

“You are surprised?”

She studied Aurari. “Are you a witch?”

“Nay.” Aurari located a flat pan from a low cupboard next to the stove. “I do not practice the black arts.”

“But you knew everything, even then.” Aurari added water to the biscuit dough.

“Everything? What is everything?”

Victoria stiffened at the indulgent note in the

Gypsy’s voice. “It is clear I need not say.”

Aurari took the bowl from her. “There was something that day I saw you.” She began stirring the mixture. “You are an open book, mistress. It does not take second sight to understand you hide much.”

“Yet you know exactly what I speak of?”

“Nay,” she said. “I have offended you. How?”

“How did you know I was to marry Iain

MacPherson?”

“I never said I knew that.” She glanced at Victoria. “This is what bothers you—you think I knew?” Aurari smiled as she deftly shaped a portion of the dough into a small ball. “True, I could have, or at least if the knowledge so chose, it could have come to me. But in this case, I used the same methods you might.” She smiled. “I asked your husband who you were.”

Victoria blinked. “You…asked?”

“He told me. Though it was clear he considered it none of my business. He answered the question for the benefit of my male companions.”

“What was that answer?”

“That you were an English noblewoman sent by King Henry to marry him.” Victoria gasped, and Aurari’s head swiveled in her direction. She raised a brow. “A lie?”

“Surely you knew?”

“I did not.” Aurari returned her attention to the dough. “But you did marry him.”

“But I had no intention of doing so,” Victoria replied.

“Why were you sent to him, then?”

Victoria reached into the bowl and began shaping dough in a haphazard manner.

Aurari’s brows lifted as she surveyed the biscuit Victoria nearly flung onto the pan. “My people are sure to wonder how the English eat supper.”

Victoria looked down at the misshapen dough.

“And I would not blame them one wit.” 

* * *

Red and yellow blended throughout the leaves of the trees, deceiving the eye as to where one color began and the other ended. Yet the early autumn colors only served to remind Victoria they were in the sixth day of their journey.

“Something is wrong?” Aurari asked.

The wagon bumped over a rut in the road.

“We are on MacPherson land,” Victoria motioned with her head at the countryside. “We should reach

Fauldun Castle today.”

“You do not seem pleased.”

Victoria looked at her. In the short time they had been together she had learned to read the Gypsy woman’s intense gaze. “There is much to consider. I have been away almost a week.”

Aurari’s expression turned uncharacteristically sober. “Perhaps you should have ridden on ahead as I first suggested.”

“Nay,” Victoria replied, remembering Evan’s consternation at Aurari having recommended they break up the small band. “Evan is right. It was unsafe for me to be with the two men he felt could be spared.”

Aurari’s gaze pinned Victoria. “I expect, mistress, it was more your belief that you could protect us, than it was the idea we could not protect you.”

Before further comment could be given, the wagons were surrounded by MacPherson men. “It seems that theory is about to be tested,” Aurari whispered as the lead man urged his mount forward and stopped in front of Evan.

“Oh ho! What have we here?” he said.

“Egyptians,” one of the men behind him said.

The lead man caught sight of Victoria and Aurari. “From the looks of things, some fine lasses among them.”

He made to urge his horse past Evan, but the Gypsy men drew their swords. A chorus of steel answered as the MacPherson men drew their weapons in response.

Victoria shot to her feet. “I command you to sheathe your weapons!”

The man who had spoken first blinked, and Victoria knew that, for once, her English accent had proven useful. She saw his gaze flick from her to Evan, then back to her again, his eyes narrowing.

“Are you deaf?” she demanded. “Sheathe your swords.”

This time, the man laughed. “By whose authority? Not these?” He jabbed his claymore in the direction of the Gypsies.

“By mine.”

“Yours?”

“Or my husband’s.” Scooping up the tartan that lay beside her, Victoria climbed from the wagon. The Gypsy men on horseback parted as she strode to the man and halted before him. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the tartan Victoria swirled in a flourish around her shoulders.

“You recognize the plaid?” she demanded.

“’Tis the laird’s plaid,” one man breathed.

“Quiet, you fool,” the leader commanded. “It is not necessarily the tartan she is supposed to have worn.” Then to her, “For all we know, you took that from a dead woman.”

“Are you willing to wager?” Without waiting for a reply, Victoria faced Evan. “We will press on, sir. I wish to reach Fauldun Castle before this day ends.” “You will not be going anywhere,” the Highlander cut in.

Victoria whirled. “Do you wish to inform my husband you were the fool who refused me assistance? Or shall I tell him you had the good sense to see me safely home?”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and Victoria forced back the demand to know if her husband had survived the rescue attempt. She could show no fear. If the Gypsy men feared they wouldn’t come under MacPherson protection once they reached Fauldun Castle, they might attempt fighting the Highlanders now.

The leader eyed the Gypsy men. “These will remain.”

“They will not. Now,” Victoria scanned the group of MacPherson men, “unless you propose to kill every

last one of us, prepare to ride as guard.”

“As guard? For—”

“Enough!” Victoria cut off the affront she knew was on the tip of his tongue. “You will be silent, or I promise you, Lord MacPherson will deal with you.” The man hesitated, then shot another glance at

Evan. “They must sheathe their swords.”

Victoria turned to Evan. “If you would, sir.”

Without taking his eyes from the MacPherson warrior, Evan jerked his head, and his men slid their weapons back into their scabbards.

Victoria forced her legs to remain steady on the slow walk back to the wagon.

* * *

As if the gods of old had lowered themselves to the level of mortal man and showered gold upon them, streaks of sunlight blazed from what seemed the highest peaks of the Grampians. Points of light were at last discernible in the shadows of those great summits, and something stirred deep within Victoria at the realization she was seeing sconces from Fauldun Castle’s battlements.

Home, she thought, even as a small voice answered, Fool. Wed but a week, and you are easily forgotten.

She had not thought to ever see Fauldun Castle— or Iain MacPherson—again. She had left with Edwin. Would he believe she had been kidnapped by David Robertson? Would he welcome her home or send her back to England?

The hour that passed before the keep broke into sight seemed as long as the week had been. The MacPherson men who rode as escort identified themselves to the guards on the castle walls. The discussion that passed between the two groups livened up at the announcement of Victoria’s presence. Their speech unexpectedly turned to Gaelic, and it was obvious that the Gypsies were now the topic of conversation.

The gate opened and Thomas emerged.

“He is not here,” she whispered.

He approached the wagon, face grim.

“Something is amiss,” Aurari said. “Need we fear?”

Victoria placed a hand over hers. “Nay, ’tis Thomas. He will protect you even as my lord would.” “I am sorry, mistress,” Aurari said.

Victoria ignored the pain the understanding in Aurari’s voice called forth as her attention remained on Thomas. His eyes never wavered as he passed through the crowd, coming to a halt in front of her. He lifted Victoria from her seat on the wagon and, to her great surprise, clasped her hand to his lips and fell to one knee at her feet.

“We had given you up for dead,” he murmured the words against her hand.

“Dead?” she repeated. Victoria pulled at his hand in an effort to force him to his feet, but he paid her no heed. “Thomas,” she whispered, keeping the trembling in her body from her voice, “I am well.”

He looked up at her. She gave him a reassuring smile and he rose.

Victoria laid a hand on his arm. “Where is my lord? The rescue attempt, it was…not successful?” She gripped his arm as her knees buckled.

Thomas grabbed her around the waist. “Take heart, your husband is in the north, scouring

Robertson and Menzies territory for you.”

Panic shot to the surface. “Robertson?” “My lady.” Thomas steadied her. “Are you ill?” Victoria shook her head.

“Courage,” he said. “You have come so far.”

“Please, Thomas,” she said, choking inwardly at the thought of the word courage being associated with the emotions that swept through her, “may we go inside?”

He began leading her through the Gypsy’s ranks, and Victoria asked, “He is well?” The hesitation in his eyes frightened her. “Do not spare me. Quickly, what is it?”

“He has all but given you up for dead. Indeed, I, too, thought you were gone. Though he searches day and night, I know he fears the worst.”

Victoria’s knees weakened. He fears for you. The thought rang through her mind and a cloud seemed to envelope her. Dim awareness of a shout from Thomas and movement when MacPherson men began to surround the Gypsies drew Victoria’s attention.

“Nay—nay! You shall not touch them!” She ran to where the Gypsies stood, positioning herself between them and the men who now clearly reveled in the possibility that their thirst for Gypsy blood might yet be slaked.

“They are friends.” Victoria said, looking around at the men, her gaze settling on Thomas. “No one lays a hand on them. They are under my protection—and my lord’s.”

Thomas cast a critical gaze on the Gypsies. “I assume there is sufficient reason for this promise?”

“Aye,” she answered. “They saved my life.”

* * *

The evening meal would have been the most joyful of her life if not for the empty chair to her right. Victoria looked at Thomas and wasn’t surprised to discover his gaze on Aurari’s face. The man’s attention hadn’t wavered from her since introductions had been made. Even Katherine was subdued, her head bowed as if to avoid Victoria’s gaze from across the table.

“There is no safer place you can be, Aurari,”

Victoria had assured her when Evan protested against Aurari lodging the night within the castle walls. “Is there, Thomas?”

“Aye.” He stepped forward and raised Aurari’s hand to his lips. “I will guard her door myself.”

The look on Evan’s face at that pronouncement read so plain, Victoria had laughed. “Rest easy, Evan.” She laid a hand on his arm. “The door is barred from within.”

Amusement faded as another memory imposed

itself on the recollection. “I must go to him,” she had told Thomas a few short hours ago.

“Iain could be anywhere, my lady. I can imagine his anger were he to return and find you gone in search of him.”

“You care more about his anger than easing his mind?” she demanded.

Thomas’s expression softened. “Nay.”

“What then?”

“His sadness.”

That had stopped her cold.

Thomas smiled, but no pleasure lurked in his expression when he said, “Iain would not last another day knowing you had come and gone.”

Those final words had reduced her to tears, and Victoria allowed herself the luxury of a friend’s strong arms while her body gave into sobs.

* * *

Seated on the couch in her bedchamber’s anteroom, Victoria found herself alone for the first time since her return to Fauldun Castle. A wave of nausea washed over her, and her hand shook as she pressed the back of her fingers to her mouth. In the last five days, she still hadn’t reconciled the possibility that her husband might not return home with the fear of facing him when he did.

Victoria reached for the linen handkerchief she had stuffed into her bodice. A sudden ruckus outside the room drew her attention to the door. It flung open. Hard wood banged against the thick stone wall, and she was on her feet only to collapse back onto the couch when her knees gave way.

No sound, save that of boots across carpeted floor, met her ears. Even before he reached her, Victoria was in tears, not out of surprise, but at sight of the bruises that were clear remnants of a severe beating on her husband’s thin face.

Iain fell to his knees, burying his face in her lap. She looked up helplessly at Thomas, who offered a gentle smile, then clicked the door shut behind him. She stroked Iain’s hair and startled at the tremble in his body. His grip on her waist tightened as he shook his head from side to side.

“Do not fret my lord,” Victoria said. “I am no worse for wear.”