“What is this?” Ysmaine asked, stalling for time, looking from one of the tall, wide-shouldered guards to the other.

They knew. They had to know. They must have been looking for her in the harbor, knowing that she and her escorts should have arrived long before then if they had set sail from Inverness. The Marquis had sent a pair of men to inquire.

And the innkeeper had told them where to find her. She noted the way he slipped off as soon as he’d delivered the two of them to the guards.

“You do not belong in that uniform,” one of the guards smirked, shaking his head at Quinn. “You are not one of us.”

Her mind whirled, her thoughts moving in a hundred directions. What should she say? One of them held the letter she had written, meaning they had intercepted the young man, or that the young man had known all along that the Marquis to whom she’d written was looking for a young Scottish woman.

The wax seal was broken. They had read the letter. Meaning they would believe Quinn truly kidnapped her and had been awaiting ransom. She could not defend him, or they would know she had been lying when she wrote it.

She had entered the inn with Quinn and had not reported her captivity to the innkeeper. He could easily relate this to the Marquis if called upon to do so.

They had made the wrong decision at every turn, both of them, and ensnared themselves.

This went through her head in a flash, while the two guards took hold of Quinn’s arms.

“Wait, please,” she begged. “This man has not harmed me.”

“Has not harmed you?” one of the guards laughed. “Why did you write your letter, then? How are we to believe this man did not coerce you into asking for his reward?”

One look from Quinn stopped her from replying. “It is all right,” he assured her with a smile. “You do not have to lie any longer. I kidnapped ye, I dragged ye to France, this is what I deserve.”

“No, no!” she protested, tears flowing down her cheeks. They would kill him.

“The Marquis will wish to see you,” one of the two men informed her. “We have a carriage waiting outside.”

She had no choice but to follow, and she knew it. If she fought, they would merely mistreat her as they mistreated Quinn, who they shoved out of the inn and into the street.

The carriage which waited was a fine one, black and shining, the door bearing the d’Orsay crest in gold. Two beautiful black geldings were hitched to the front, reminding her of the pair they’d ridden through Scotland.

“You won’t be needing this,” one of the guards snarled as he tore the sword from Quinn’s belt, then, for good measure, he took Quinn’s dirk.

“Or this,” said the other, stripping him of the purse he wore about his waist.

Ysmaine clapped a hand over her mouth. That was everything he had in the world, everything he had worked for to save his brother.

“I will take that,” she said, holding out a hand. “He stole it from me, after all.”

Even in spite of the terrible state he was in, one corner of Quinn’s mouth quirked up in a smile which quickly disappeared under the scrutiny of the guards.

“You stole this from her?” One of the guards shoved him into the carriage, his body landing with a thud inside. Meanwhile, the other handed her the purse, and her heart sang. At least Quinn would be able to keep what he had earned—or, rather, stolen.

It was so easy for her to forget the true nature of their acquaintance.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the guard so as to curry whatever favor she might. “I thought I had seen the last of my treasure.”

“Has the dog harmed ye?” the guard asked, helping her into the driver’s box while Quinn and the other guard remained inside the carriage.

“No, in fact,” she added, wishing to shine a favorable light upon him, “he saved my life on more than on occasion. That was why I grew alarmed when you first took hold of him, as he treated me so well.”

“And how did he do that?” The guard joined her, taking the reins and tapping then against the horses’ backs.

“I will tell you the tale as we ride,” she promised with a smile.

Just like that, they were off. Away from the harbor, away from the inn and its dishonest owner.

Her stomach twisted in knots all the way, the dark, shadowy woods doing little to soothe her troubled soul. Quinn would surely pay the price for having taken her, and that was the last thing she wanted. If only she might convince the Marquis that he meant no harm, that he was nothing more than a desperate man hoping to help his family.

Would it matter? She knew not. But her leg bore the evidence of his care and consideration. If he had not cared for her well-being, he would not have taken her to a healer.

She knew by then that the best they could hope for was to save Quinn’s life. He would no longer collect a ransom, and that was a terrible pity.

But as long as he remained alive, and if she could somehow return the purse to him, he might still be able to return to Scotland and do whatever it took to earn the rest.

Not the ideal outcome, but the one they had been given to work for.

A wolf howled, making her jump. The guard chuckled. “Not to worry. The Marquis’s horses are the swiftest in Cherbourg, along with being the most beautiful. They can outrun anything.”

“I am glad to know it,” she whispered, meaning every word. There was no escaping the sense of eyes staring at her from the darkness, eyes which glowed with a ravenous light. She had always hated the woods in the dark—never more so than just then, when her nerves were all but destroyed and the humble supper she’d shared with Quinn on the ship threatened to revisit her in a most gruesome fashion.

What was she going to do?

The moon had fully risen by the time they crested one final hill, allowing them a view of the entirety of the Marquis’s estate which stretched out below.

Even in her panic, Ysmaine noted the imposing, impressive which sat in the center of it all, the river which ran through the estate coursing past the long, tall walls of gray stone. At two corners were rounded towers which stretched above the tops of the crenelated walls, and from inside the walls rose a tall, square tower from which guards must have kept watch.

All around it was some of the loveliest land she had ever laid eyes upon, covered at the north and west by juniper trees which glowed silver in the moonlight. The river, cutting from west to east, sparkled in the same light, reminding her of the river by which she had lived her entire life.

Was her grandfather’s estate anything like this? If so, she would not know what to do with it.

Quinn asked the guard inside the carriage a question which Ysmaine could not make out, but it was enough just to hear his voice and remember the great danger he was in. Why had they not formed a plan in case of emergency? Had they been foolish enough to believe nothing would go wrong?

They rode over a stone bridge which spanned the river, then followed the road straight up to the castle door. Ysmaine craned her neck to peer up at the tower, knowing someone up there was looking down at her.

And that they had likely sent word to the Marquis of her arrival.

Two young men opened the double doors, revealing the whirl of activity inside the castle walls. The guard drove the horses through and into a courtyard, where another pair of lads were quick to unhitch the animals while the guard helped Ysmaine from the carriage.

He began to lead her away, into the keep, where an old woman in a head scarf waited.

“Might I not speak to him first?” Ysmaine asked, casting a look over her shoulder to where the second guard pulled Quinn from the carriage.

She had once watched a flock of birds fall upon a wounded rabbit and tear it to pieces. One moment, there had been not a bird in sight. The next, the entire world went black as one shiny black bird after another came seemingly from nowhere at all to join in the feast.

This was what the sight of so many guards descending upon Quinn brought to mind. She bit her lip to hold back a cry of pure anguish even as her feet carried her to the front door of the castle’s keep.

“So, this is the young woman we’ve awaited so anxiously,” the old woman said, examining Ysmaine with a shrewd eye. “So be it. The Marquis will be glad to have you here at last.”

Something about this seemed strange to Ysmaine, though she could not understand exactly what set her instincts aflame. As far as the Marquis and his household were concerned, she was nothing more than a guest of the house. There to conduct the business of settling her grandfather’s estate.

Then again, she reasoned, if the two of them were close, it made perfect sense for him to regard her with a proprietary air. Like as not he’d promised her grandfather to take care of her.

“Come,” the woman bade, waving for Ysmaine to follow her. “You’ll want to bathe, I’m sure, and to change out of that filthy rag.”

Her kirtle had once been the finest garment she owned. Her mother had seen to its creation. She ran her hands down the front of it as she followed the fleet-footed woman through stone-floored corridors, passing beneath massive iron chandeliers and pointed archways.

“It does need a washing,” she admitted, chuckling more from nerves than humor.

The woman snorted. “It needs to burn in the fire, that’s what it needs.”

Ysmaine bristled at this slight, though she did her best to conceal her ire. “Just the same, I have nothing else. I lost my trunk in Scotland, on the road.”

“Not to worry, my dear.” The old woman led her up a wide set of stairs, then down a corridor and into a bedchamber where a metal washtub sat in front of a blazing fire. Two young women were only just in the process of filling it with steaming water when Ysmaine entered.

They curtsied and went back to their work, leaving the room in haste once they’d finished. The old woman clasped her hands together, looking about the lavish room. “Well, then. I will leave you alone to have your bath, unless you require assistance in washing your hair, or anything of the sort.”

“N—no,” Ysmaine stuttered. “I haven’t lived with servants, so I am accustomed to performing such tasks on my own.”

What struck her as amusing was the way in which the woman—clearly a member of the household’s workers—wrinkled her nose in distaste at the notion of a young woman living without servants. Ysmaine would have wagered nearly anything that the woman had never received the assistance of a servant girl in all her life.

“Very well, then,” was the reply. “There is a fresh kirtle for you on the bed, along with underdrawers and stockings. I suppose you will be a bit thin for them, but they will suffice.”

Clothing had been laid out for her…?

“Thank you very much.” It was Ysmaine’s deepest desire to be alone with her thoughts, of which there were many. She hurried the woman from the room and leaned against the closed door, taking in her surroundings once again.

It was quite grand, on the whole. Stone walls held up a ceiling of wooden boards with thick beams stretching from the far wall to the one behind her, in the center of which hung an iron chandelier such as those she had seen throughout the keep.

Touching the center of the wall to her left was the head of a large, wooden bed with carved posters at the corners and rich, heavy velvet curtains in deep emerald green.

Opposite the foot of the bed sat the large fireplace, logs crackling away inside as they burned. A pair of chairs sat off to the side, moved away to make room for the washtub. Beside it stood a small table which held a cake of brown soap and several linen sheets for drying.

Just as the servant woman had promised, a fresh kirtle had been laid out across the bed. She fingered the fine cloth, dyed a lovely shade of blue, and admired the softness of the stockings and undergarments lying beside.

She merely wondered what all of this was about. Why did she deserve this? While she may have been a family friend, she was a stranger. Was the Marquis truly this hospitable? She did not know how French nobility conducted themselves in such matters, after all.

She knew nothing of any nobility whatsoever.

The washtub called to her, its contents still sending up steam in thin wisps. She was quick to strip down, then to unwind the bandage from her leg. She touched tender fingers to the closed, healing wound and was pleased to see how well it looked. There would be a scar, like as not, running from the outside of her mid-thigh nearly to her knee, but that was preferable to losing her leg.

Or her life.

It was a struggle not to think of Quinn as she lowered herself into the hot water, her muscles relaxing deliciously as she did. The water was scented with some wonderful oil, perfuming her skin and hair as she washed.

When she ran the soap over her leg, she remembered how gently Quinn had applied her bandage at the inn. Hours had passed since then, though it might just as well have been a lifetime.

Wherever he was, it was likely that he did not bathe in perfumed water.

No more than half of an hour passed before there was a brisk knock at the door. Before she could answer, having just stood and wrapped herself in a sheet, the old woman entered the room once again.

“You are not yet dressed.” It was not a question.

“I am sorry, I was not aware of the need to hurry,” she apologized.

The woman sighed, her already wrinkled forehead wrinkling further in displeasure. “Just as well, I suppose. I will send one of the girls in to brush and braid your hair, do not protest, please,” she added, holding up a hand when Ysmaine opened her mouth to do just that.

She was quick to dry and dress after that, fearing what might happen if she did not put on speed. A young girl entered moments later with a comb which she worked through Ysmaine’s wet curls with deft motions. She spoke not a word, and thus it was a surprise when she stepped away.

Ysmaine touched the smooth braid. “Thank you,” she smiled.

The girl smiled back but gave no reply.

“Now, then,” the old woman declared, clapping her hands together twice to signal the entrance of the same young women who had filled the tub, “it is time to see the Marquis. He has been waiting most anxiously for your arrival.”

Evidently so.

All Ysmaine could do was wonder why.