Alana rode with Fergus against her back, and the way he and Quinn called back and forth to each other told her he was in high spirits. It did her heart good to know it and meant one less thing for her to fret over.

There was already more than enough.

Her right wrist still smarted somewhat, thanks to Brice’s rough handling. She hadn’t felt it at the time. There had been no feeling anything but his unyielding chest and his arm about her.

None of them commented on her silence. Likely they supposed she was more anxious and sullen the closer they came to the earl’s land.

“Are we in England yet?” she asked at one point, roughly halfway through the morning. Her thighs were already sore, and her hands chapped and aching thanks to the reins, and there was still nearly an entire day to go. Her misery seemed never-ending.

“Aye,” Rodric replied. “I believe we crossed the border this morning. We ought to come to a village soon, and we’ll be certain then.”

They hadn’t seen a village yet, not since riding through the one just outside Stewart territory. The road they’d traveled had been nearly empty for the duration of the journey. It only just occurred to Alana then, at that very moment, that the men had deliberately avoided anywhere she might have the chance to blend in with villagers and escape.

The realization might have sent her into a fit of rage when they first met. Now though, riding along with Fergus, the memory of Brice’s warmth and strength still fresh in her mind, she could only smile in spite of herself. They had foreseen her attempted escape from the first.

Brice rode ahead of them, beside Rodric. Only once every so often did he turn back to look at her, though she would’ve guessed his intent was to check on his brother.

They had come so close to… something. Closer than they’d come before. She doubted they could have done much there in the open, in the daylight, with the rest of the group awaiting their return—but it was still promising.

On the rare occasion that their eyes met, a silent knowing passed between them. The presence of something the others were unaware of, something which bound the two of them together.

She might still be able to tempt him.

The thought of it sent a thrill through her, making her tremble slightly. She’d been afraid before, uncertain, not knowing whether she even wanted to be that close to him or how his nearness would make her feel.

She knew now. It made her feel… alive. Aware in a way she’d never been before. As though something had awoken after lying dormant.

This time, she would be successful. There would be no other opportunity.

Remembering the breathless anticipation of their near-kiss between the two pines, she thought she might even enjoy it.

Her gaze fell on him as they rode; he and Rodric were having a quiet conversation while their horses progressed down the rather narrow section of road, and another thought struck her. Left her with greater hope than ever before.

He did want her. It was plain as day how much he did. He’d been all but ready to kiss her, by the stream—perhaps more than that, had there been the opportunity.

The knowledge bolstered her courage, and she suddenly felt a great deal more cheerful as they began their journey through English soil.

* * *

“It would be best to take a room at the inn tonight.” Rodric looked about the village which was slowly beginning to take shape around them, buildings appearing on both sides of the widened road.

“What makes ye say that?” A room? That would spoil her plans. Alana had spent the day’s ride plotting and imagining exactly how to lure Brice into her arms, and none of those imaginings had involved a room.

“We shall reach Earl Remington’s castle tomorrow,” he informed her, a bit of a rueful smile touching his lips. “You’ll want to be well-rested and as clean and presentable as possible, lass.”

“Aye.” She fixed her gaze upon the space between the gelding’s ears, refusing to look elsewhere as she absorbed this bit of news.

It did make sense for her to spend time washing and grooming herself. Perhaps the inn would allow for the use of a washtub, where she might clean her hair and rest her aching muscles in hot water.

All for a man she had no desire to meet, much less marry.

The village was a thriving one, by all appearances. They passed three buildings in the process of being constructed as they rode into the heart of the place, where the road they traveled crossed another wide, bustling thoroughfare.

Alana’s eyes bulged at the sight of people jostling one another out of the way, of teams of horses and livestock being driven down the center of the road while single riders and horse-drawn carts attempted to navigate at the same time.

The stench was palpable, enough to make her raise an arm to cover her nose.

“Rather strong, is it not?” Fergus asked with a grunt of disgust. “Ye become accustomed to it when you make a village your home.”

“So this is how it smelled all the time for you?” she asked. It was little wonder he’d want so badly to leave, if so.

“Aye, perhaps not as woeful, as our village was not as large as this. Summer was worst. And the flies everywhere.” He shuddered. “As I say, a body grows accustomed. I suppose that’s the way of life. We adjust to things until they’re no longer uncomfortable.”

She snickered to herself at his choice of words. Were they deliberate? Was he trying to offer reassurance? That her life might not be such a struggle if only she would allow herself to grow accustomed?

Or was she merely imagining things?

Sitting at the corner of two intersecting trails which jutted off of the main road was what could only be an inn. Two floors, thatch-roofed, with windows lining the front which would allow a guest a view of the people and animals below.

“I shall see about securing rooms for us,” Rodric offered, dismounting. Quinn went along with him, leaving Brice.

“Are ye certain we shouldn’t all go?” Brice asked, frowning.

“Nay, she could need protecting,” Rodric grunted, nodding in her direction.

She sensed the anxiety and turned to Fergus. “What is the trouble?”

“We’re in England, lass,” he murmured, eyes moving back and forth. “The English do not take well to the Scots—especially Highlanders.”

“I’m half-English,” she replied with greater confidence than she felt.

“Aye, but not by the looks of ye. We might do well to hang a sign from your neck, though, if it would make ye feel better.”

“All right,” she grumbled, seeing his point. There was no way to tell by looking at a person whether they were English, but the rough, wild appearance of her escorts spoke of their origins.

And, knowing how the English felt about men such as they, she now noticed the cold and sometimes outright hostile expressions on the faces of those passing their horses.

Brice only seemed to be at ease, anyone who knew him even as little as she would see how he tensed, ready to fight should need to arise.

She could hardly look at him, suddenly overcome by nerves. What was wrong with her? What had changed so suddenly?

He was still Brice. Just as he’d always been, with a talent for being disagreeable.

Why did the momentary meeting of their eyes make her cheeks flush so? Why did her hands tremble?

“Do you have any pain?” he asked Fergus, pointedly ignoring her.

She did not pay any mind and was, in fact, grateful for the distraction.

“Nary a bit,” Fergus assured him. “I’ve suffered much worse, of which you’re well aware.”

“Worse than this?” Alana asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Aye. I once took a sword to my side. I would show you the scar, but it would mean being rather immodest.” His eyes twinkled.

“I assume this was during the war?”

“Nay, ‘twas a lass I jilted. How she managed to heft the sword is still a mystery.”

She laughed along with him.

Brice, however, did not see the humor. “It was no laughing matter at the time,” he reminded Fergus.

To his credit, Fergus contained himself. “Aye, you’re right at that. Such a wound would have sent me home, were the war not already drawing to an end and my time nearly up. But that was true pain, I’ll tell ye. And I had not the services of a lovely lass such as yourself to cheer me.”

Alana smiled at the compliment, though the fact of her playing a part in his being wounded hung unspoken between them. He truly did not seem to hold it against her, something she could scarcely understand.

Rodric emerged from the inn, a satisfied smile on his face. “Once I let it slip that we’re accompanying an important person to the earl’s castle, the man who owns the place became much more amenable,” he informed them. “And the rooms became much more affordable.”

A sick pit of dread formed itself in her stomach. Why did he insist on announcing her? The earl would know she had arrived in the village. He would know she was on her way.

It would make everything more real.

It confirmed the fact that she had no chance of escape.

None of them noticed her stricken expression.

None of them but Brice. He seemed to peer into her very thoughts.

She avoided his gaze, knowing that if their eyes met, it would be too much. She would be reduced to tears, out there in the middle of the bustling crowd.

“Come,” he said, swinging a leg over the saddle. “I’ll see to the horses while the rest of you are settled in.”