One

Gordon land

They were waiting for him to bless the meal.

He was laird, and it was his place to begin the evening supper with a prayer. Somehow, in all the times his mother had spoken of that moment with longing in her eyes, she had never mentioned to him just how much it would remind him of facing down his enemies.

More than one man was giving him a glare that made it plain they felt they were as entitled to the position at the high table as Diocail was.

Diocail Gordon eyed the bread his staff delivered, and hesitated. It was misshapen, and when he did grasp it, his fingers sank in because it was wet, the top part soaked with water as though it had been sitting out in the rain. He cleared his throat and said the prayer before ripping the bread to indicate everyone might eat.

The hall was only half full, which surprised him. The laird provided supper for his retainers, yet it appeared a good number of them were choosing to find their meals elsewhere. The clumps of wet bread glued to his fingertips might be one reason—if a man had a wife to turn him better bread—but that didn’t account for the number of retainers missing.

Diocail sat down and watched, seeking more clues. Maids were entering the hall now, and they carried several large trays toward his table. While the bread might have been lacking, these platters were full of roasted meats that looked very good to his eyes. It was a bounty to be sure, and his predecessor’s captains began to help themselves.

Along the table that sat on the high ground were men who had served Colum, the last laird of the Gordons. Diocail had given them all a chance to challenge him, and none had. Instead, they maintained their high positions. At the moment, that entitled them to a good supper, served in front of the rest of the clan to make their position clear. There wasn’t an empty chair, and each man had a gilly behind him to take care of his needs. Some of the older captains had two young men standing at the ready, which made Diocail narrow his eyes. When a man was young, he often became a gilly to learn focus, but there was a gleam in these young men’s eyes that didn’t make sense.

Diocail didn’t suffer in ignorance for long.

Supper began to make its way into the hall, but it was far from sufficient. Men fought over what was brought, elbowing each other as they grabbed it from maids, who tossed their trays down because of the fray, afraid to get too close to the tables. There were clear pockets of friends who clustered together to defend whatever they had managed to grab from the frightened kitchen staff. Any man who tried to break into their ranks was tossed aside like a runt.

Diocail never started eating. He watched the squabbling and then realized exactly why his men were fighting when no more food came from the kitchen. Whatever a man had managed to grab was all there was, and the lucky ones devoured their fare quickly before someone else managed to rip it from their grasp.

“Colum was a miser,” Muir told him. Diocail’s newly appointed captain was making a face as he tried to chew the bread. “Dismissed the Head of House in favor of one who would be willing to serve less food without complaint. There is nary a rabbit within a mile of this keep because so many take to hunting to fill their bellies.”

Muir was disgusted too, looking at the piece of meat in his hands as though the taste had gone sour. Diocail realized it was because a young boy was looking at it as well, his eyes glistening with hunger. Muir lifted the food toward the boy, and the lad scampered up the three steps to the high ground to snatch it.

“Even though I am no’ in the habit of questioning the Lord’s will,” Muir growled out between them, “I confess, I wonder why that man was graced with such a long life when he sat at this table feasting while his own men starved.”

“It makes me see why no one else was willing to defend him,” Diocail answered. “Seems it was justice that saw him stabbed in his own bedchamber.”

“A justice ye did yer best to shield him from.” Muir sent him a hard look.

“He was me laird,” Diocail answered. “A man I had sworn to protect. His lack of character did no’ release me from the bonds of honor. Yet I confess, I am grateful I lost that battle, and I am no’ sorry to say so. The bastard needed to die for what he’s allowed the Gordons to become.”

“Aye,” Muir agreed, looking out at the hall once more. There was now a cluster of children in front of the high table, all silently begging for scraps. All of them were thin, telling him that they weren’t just intent on being gluttons.

No, they were starving.

And that was a shame.

A shame on the Gordon name and Diocail’s duty to rectify. He waved them forward. They came in a stumbling stampede, muttering words of gratitude as they reached for the platter sitting in front of him and Muir.

The platter was picked clean in moments.

Diocail stood up. The hall quieted as his men turned to listen to him. “I will address the shortage of food.”

A cheer went up as Diocail made his way down the steps from the high ground and into the kitchen. Muir fell into step beside him. The kitchen was down a passageway and built alongside the hall. Inside, the kitchen was a smoke-filled hell that made Diocail’s eyes smart and the back of his throat itch. He fought the urge to cough and hack. It was hardly the way to begin a conversation with his staff.

“The weather is fine and warm,” he declared. “Open the shutters.”

Instead of acting, all the women working at the long tables stood frozen, staring at him. Their faces were covered in soot from the conditions of the kitchen. Many of them had fabric wrapped around their heads, covering every last hair in an effort to keep the smoke from it. Muir opened a set of doors to try and clear the air. Diocail looked at the hearths and realized the smoke wasn’t rising up the chimneys. No, it was pouring into the kitchen, and the closed shutters kept it there.

The staff suddenly scurried into a line to face him. They lined up shoulder to shoulder, looking at the ground, their hands worrying the folds of their stained skirts.

“Where is the Head of House?” he asked softly. It was God’s truth that he’d rather face twenty men alone than the line of quivering females who clearly thought he was there to chastise them.

Colum had truly been a bastard of a laird. He’d made his people suffer when the true duty of the laird was to serve the clan.

One of the women lifted her hand and pointed. Diocail peered through the clearing gloom and spotted the Head of House. She was seventy years old if she was a day. Whoever she was, she was deep in her cups and sitting in a chair on the far side of the kitchen as she sang and swayed.

“Sweet Christ, little wonder the supper is a poor one,” Muir remarked next to Diocail’s ear.

“Who is her second in charge?”

The women continued to look at the floor. Two of them were beginning to whimper. Muir took a step back, but Diocail reached out and grabbed the man’s kilt. “Do nae ye dare leave me here alone,” he muttered under his breath.

“Someone must be making decisions,” Diocail said as gently as he could in an effort to coax one of the women forward. What did he know of speaking to frightened females? Two more started crying, proving his knowledge was extremely lacking. Their tears left smears down their cheeks.

“Mercy, Laird,” a younger woman wailed. “I need me position. I swear, I will serve less, please do nae dismiss me.”

The entire group suddenly dissolved into desperate pleading. They came toward him, backing him and Muir up against the wall as they begged him not to send them away.

Diocail had never been so terrified in his life.

“No one is being dismissed.” Diocail raised his voice above the wailing.

It quieted them for the most part, which allowed him to see that a good number of his retainers had made their way into the kitchen after him. Those men were now glaring at him, making it plain that these were their wives or women and they didn’t take kindly to him upsetting them.

Diocail looked at the woman who had spoken. “Mistress?”

“Eachna.” She lowered herself but looked up at him, proving she had a solid spine, and while there was a worried glitter in her eyes, there was also a flash of temper that made it clear she thought his visit was long overdue.

Christ, he’d only been back at the castle for two days.

But he’d known that taking the lairdship meant his shoulders were going to feel the weight of the burden that went along with the position. He intended to rise to meet it.

He gestured for her to straighten, and the rest of the women suddenly lowered themselves.

“Enough of that.” Diocail felt Muir hit him in the middle of his back because his voice had gained a frustrated edge. Diocail drew in a deep breath and regretted it as his lungs burned.

“I am here to resolve the issue of supper, no’ have ye all quivering. So…” He resisted the urge to run his hand down his face in exasperation. “If ye might explain the lack of food? There was no’ enough served, and I would see the men satisfied.”

He looked to Eachna, and her companions seemed quite willing to allow her to be the target of his inquiry. They shifted away from her, proving Colum had dealt harshly with his staff.

Not that such was a surprise. The old laird had been a bitter man who died with hatred in his eyes while his blood drained out of his body from stab wounds inflicted by a man hungry to take the lairdship before time claimed Colum’s life. Being killed by one of his own clansmen seemed to be something he’d earned through neglect.

“The last laird decreed it so,” Eachna answered after she took a shaky breath. “The shutters are kept closed to reduce how much wood is needed to keep the hearth fire burning.”

He gestured to the women watching him. “And this is the extent of the staff?”

“She dismissed half of us to save the coin.” Eachna pointed at the besotted Head of House. The woman was still happily singing in a voice that lacked both tone and rhythm. So soaked in ale, she hadn’t noticed anything happening around her.

Diocail lost the battle to keep from rubbing his forehead. Eachna’s eyes widened, but she stiffened her back and remained facing him.

“Double the fare ye put forth. And hire ten more women to help ye here. Someone take that woman to her home.” He pointed at the Head of House. “She’ll be provided for.”

Eachna’s eyes widened. “But we have only one hearth because the chimney fell on the other, and the roof leaks.” She pointed at the shimmer on one of the long tables from fresh rain that made the wet bread understandable. “And the wall fell off the back of the storerooms two winters past—”

“Ye’re on yer own,” Muir muttered.

Diocail sent the man a glare. “In that case, ye can look at the storerooms and decide what needs doing.”

His captain tugged on the corner of his bonnet before all but running out of the kitchen as though he’d faced demons straight from hell.

At least the smoke was thinning thanks to the door being open. His eyes were still burning, but Eachna sent him a look that made it clear she wanted him to suffer the conditions she did. He cleared his throat. “I’ve no experience in running a kitchen, mistress. Perhaps ye might speak yer mind.”

Something flashed through her eyes that impressed him because she was no meek maid. No, there was a sharp wit inside her head. He watched her fix him with a hard look before she began her questions.

“How much fare do ye want on the tables, and how much do I pay each new girl, and—”

His head was pounding. Diocail suddenly understood why the Head of House was in her cups. He needed a drink rather badly himself.

What bothered him was how none of the men clustered in the doorways seemed to be taking notes of the repairs needed. Instead, they simply looked to him to right matters.

“Whatever ye are paid…increase it a third…for all here…” There was a happy little murmur around him. “And hire whomever ye feel is fit. We’ll begin there while I see to the repairs needed.”

Eachna snapped her mouth shut and nodded. Diocail reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet out of habit before making a quick path toward the door.

Escaping the kitchen didn’t offer him any relief. His captains were waiting for him in the passageway. Each had a list of needs that took until nearly midnight to be heard. It was Muir who finally appeared with a flask of whisky and a sack that Diocail truly hoped held something to fill his belly.

“Sweet Christ, I should have let Tyree have this lairdship,” Diocail said as he took a second, longer swig. Tyree had been the man to try his hand at killing Colum, and in the end he’d succeeded in spite of Diocail’s attempts to protect his laird.

“He was a murdering swine,” Muir declared as he reached for the flask. “So I’m rather grateful ye did nae allow him his way in murdering Colum and laying the blame for the crime on ye.”

“Grateful enough to help me bring order to this madness?” Diocail asked pointedly.

Muir offered him a chunk of bread from the sack. It was rough fare, but they were accustomed to it from the years they had lived in the far north. Muir was more than a captain; he was his friend. Diocail smiled as Muir withdrew a thick slice of cheese and broke it in half. They chewed in silence for a moment before Muir answered.

“When it comes to the retainers and stables, aye. As for the running of the kitchen…” Muir cast a hopeless look toward it. “What ye need is a wife…but no’ just any woman will do.”

“Aye.” Diocail tipped the flask up again. “Eachna is a fine girl, but she has no’ been taught how to run a large house.”

They both fell silent again as they consumed more of the food and faced a topic neither had any experience with. Not many a man did. It was why men wed, and women too, because together a man and woman might combine their knowledge to make a successful home. He’d been taught the logistics of defense and negotiation needed to foster relationships with other lairds.

But how much fare to put on the tables?

He had no idea or even how to go about making sure there were ample hands to prepare the food. Diocail felt his brain throbbing as he contemplated all the things needed to run a kitchen, and those were only what he knew about. What truly nauseated him was that he knew damned well how lacking his knowledge was. He knew how many men to ride out with, how many horses, and his education included how many blacksmiths it took to make sure those horses were shoed, how many stable lads it took to make certain those animals were fit to ride, how much feed and what sort was needed to maintain a horse’s strength.

A hundred details, and a kitchen was no different. No wise man made the mistake of thinking it an easy thing to keep running smoothly. Their current circumstances were proof of that surely enough.

“Ye need a wife, one raised with the education to see this place set right. No’ that any decent girl would have this house as it is,” Muir added. “Try to contract one, and she’ll run home to her father the moment she sees the condition this castle is in. But ye need one. A wife, that is.”

“I hoped to have a bit of time before getting down to that part of being laird,” Diocail groused.

“Best set yer secretary to sorting through the offers in Colum’s study.” Muir didn’t offer him any respite.

“Do nae hold out any hope,” Diocail replied. “There is a decade of letters sitting there. Any offers are long past their time of opportunity.”

His new lairdship was proving to be far more challenging than he’d ever thought it might be. Somehow, in all the times his mother had spoken to him of the day he’d take over the Gordon clan as laird, she had never mentioned just how complicated the duty was. There was building to consider, horses, men, training—and the list went on. All things he’d been taught as a man.

Now there was the kitchen, and God only knew what else went along with running one smoothly.

Well, not God.

He let out a grunt. Here was something he knew less about than the Lord above.

Women.

And, more precisely, a lady and the duties she would have been trained to do.

There were reasons a laird wed a woman from a highborn family, and one was that she would come with an education as diverse as any given to a laird’s son. Running a kitchen was more than turning bread; it was knowing how much bread to set out to rise in the morning so that the supper table was full and how much grain was needed to make it through the winter and how many hands were needed to produce it all. His head began to ache. He didn’t know what went into bread, much less how much was needed to see an entire castle through a day, but as laird, his duty was to make certain the tables were laid with fare.

Nor did he know anything at all about helping a lady settle into the place he hoped she’d make into a home. Muir was correct; she would run back to her father before sunup.

Diocail took another swig of the whisky, wishing it would dull his senses, but all it did was warm him enough to make him conscious of the draft coming through the holes in the roof. He tipped his head back and discovered stars peeking at him where tiles were missing, likely from the winter storms. Colum was a bastard for leaving his people to such circumstances.

Laird of the Gordons. Diocail’s mother’s dream.

And his nightmare, it would seem.

* * *

It was cold.

Of course, she’d expected it to be so, standing in nothing but a shift in the street.

“Ye’re contemplating yer options now.” Gillanders chuckled at her plight and rocked back on his heels. “Ye keep thinking because it’s going to take a bit of work on yer part to soothe me injured pride. Rejecting me offer so quick as ye did, now that was nae wise on yer part. No’ with yer husband dead and ye without a single penny to yer name and the gambling debts he left as well to be accounting for. Lucky ye were that I made ye an offer at all instead of tossing ye into the gutter. Ye were quick to lift yer English nose, but that will nae keep ye from freezing, now will it? Aye, me pride is wounded. Deep. It will nae be soothed…easily.”

The pudgy innkeeper leered at her. Expectation glittered in his eyes, and his meaning was clear to anyone watching. He wanted her to prostitute herself. His gaze swept her from head to toe as he all but licked his lips over the treat he intended to make of her.

She would not bend. Not now, not even if she died in a thicket from the Scottish chill.

So what if the villain had stripped her down to her chemise and left her standing in the street outside the Hawk’s Head Tavern, where her husband had so foolishly gambled the night before being killed by the men he’d been unable to pay and leaving her to face his debts? It wasn’t as if there had been any affection between her and Henry.

She scoffed a bit as she caught sight of Gillanders’s wife watching from inside the tavern with a pinched look on her face that revealed how little liking she had for her own spouse.

Marriage was a business, and that was simply that. Men sought brides who would bring them connections in business, and fathers looked for men who they felt would ensure their wives didn’t starve.

Henry had failed rather completely when it came to his part of the marriage bargain. The truth was she’d loathed him and was going to enjoy telling her father every last detail.

At least that thought sparked a fire in her belly.

Temper is a sin.

Well, so was turning her out, so Jane decided to embrace the flicker of heat and sent the innkeeper a narrow-eyed look. “I wish you good luck in soothing your pride, sir.” Jane held her head steady and ignored the way the wind cut easily through her smock. “For I will not invest any effort to please you. Pride is a sin after all, and as you have pointed out, my kin have already left you with enough burdens.”

People were watching, and some even appeared moved by her plight, but her English accent proved to be a deterrent none of them seemed willing to challenge.

Gillanders’s eyes narrowed. “Ye will change yer mind.”

He was a very fat man.

Jane used the thought to brighten her spirits as she turned her back on him and started to walk away from the boardinghouse he ran.

Although it would be more correct to say that he shouted at his wife and daughters and nieces while they performed all the work for not a single word of praise. He was fat on excess and laziness, and the man knew well how to feed those traits of his personality. Travelers were best to be wary of him, for he plied them with wine and then took them for every last coin they had.

Of course, he wanted something altogether different from her.

He wouldn’t be getting it.

Even if her husband had promised it to him once his coin ran out and his need to gamble persisted with the aid of the drink Gillanders used to ply him.

No, she would not turn whore to settle her husband’s gaming losses. There were limits to a wife’s obedience, she had decided. By Christ there were, and she didn’t care a bit for anyone who disagreed with her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for the fact that Henry had been beaten to death by those he’d tried to cheat the night before.

All right, perhaps she was a bit…well…touched by the idea that he was dead, yet only so far as feeling remorse toward a wasted life. Henry had hidden his laziness from her father, convincing them all that he delivered wine to Scotland because the dangerous duty came with the promise of higher pay for the entire family business.

In truth, Henry had enjoyed being able to gamble and drink to excess while away from anyone who might report his lapse in moral conduct. Henry had hidden his vices well, and her father would not be making another match for her so quickly once she made it back to England.

At least she hoped not, and she refused to allow herself to doubt because she needed her hope to keep moving as good wives going about their days stopped and stared at her indecent lack of clothing.

Well, that wasn’t her shame, it was Gillanders’s, and part of her enjoyed knowing that she’d had the strength to deny him the pleasure of breaking her.

Maybe later she’d regret it.

Not now.

No, she couldn’t be weak.

So she walked on bare feet. Turned out in her shift, every last possession she owned taken because Gillanders considered it his right. She walked through the small village, refusing to look at the spot where her husband’s blood stained the ground. Henry had never been a wise man, but she wondered what possessed him to wander outside the inn in the dead of night in Scotland. It had been a foolish action that he’d warned her against. Perhaps Gillanders might have interceded, in the interest of gaining what he believed was owed to him, but no one inside the inn had heard the fight.

That much she believed, because a dead man couldn’t write to his father and beg coin to settle a debt.

She stepped on a sharp rock, and that was the end of her concern for her late husband. The only way she was going to survive was to use all of her wits for herself. Even then, she doubted she’d make it back to her father’s home in England before the weather took her life.

Well, she would bloody well try to best the odds. They had never been in her favor anyway. Born a fourth daughter as her mother tried to produce a son, her fortune had ever been a poor one. Which accounted for the choice of her husband. A third son of a wine merchant who was tasked with the duty of delivering orders into Scotland, Henry had seen her pretty face as a means to ease the costs of traveling. She’d seen him for the scheming lackwit he was.

Men might enjoy flirting, but when it came to business, they all wanted the most gain. Gillanders was certainly a fine example.

Well, she would not give him what he craved from her. Perhaps she might die in the wilds of Scotland, but she would not become a whore.

Even if she’d found marriage to be so very similar that she could barely tell the difference.

Well, now she was a widow.

* * *

“Ye could send someone else to collect rent.”

Diocail sent his captain a pleading look.

Muir chuckled as he checked the strap on his saddle. “Tired of playing laird already?”

“Another day of sitting at that high table, and I will be drooling like a daft man,” Diocail confessed. He patted his stallion’s neck. “It’s a fine time to go out and meet me tenants. Once the snow flies, I will have ample time to deal with more troubles here. For the moment, repairs are beginning. A few months and we’ll have a better idea of what to focus on next, and I’d rather show me face and quell the gossip.”

“Aye,” Muir agreed. “There will be many who will enjoy ye making the rounds. News tends to get muddled as it travels. I’ll no’ be surprised to hear that it’s being told ye had Colum drawn and quartered in the yard so as to take the lairdship.”

“He’d have deserved it for the ruin he’s allowed to befall this castle.” Diocail cast a look at the twin keeps of Gordon Castle. His mother had raised him to be its laird, but she’d also run for the north country when someone had tried to poison her, taking him along with her as a babe on her breast.

Colum Gordon had held the lairdship with an iron fist, and his sister’s bairn hadn’t been a welcome rival to his own children. Fate had decided that Colum would outlive all of his sons. Diocail didn’t think it was by chance either. No, men reaped what they sowed, and Colum had died knowing that his sister’s child was his only heir. It was his due for the selfish way he’d ruled. Instead of applying himself to the duty of being laird, he’d taken the deference of his people and given nothing in return.

However, that left Diocail with the duty of being laird, a true laird, who improved his land and eased his people’s burden. None of the Gordons expected it of him because they had never seen any better laird than Colum.

That fact filled him with determination. By Christ’s nightshirt, there was a great deal to do, and he was going to rise to the challenge.

His uncle’s senior captain looked down on him from the top of the steps. Sorley had happily passed on the duty of riding with the new laird in favor of overseeing construction. The castle was in poor repair because Colum had focused all his energy into hatred after his son Lye Rob was killed, and the condition of the stronghold reflected his inattention. The roof in the kitchen was only the beginning. Walls were crumbling, the wells were insufficient for the needs of the castle, the stable was a damn drafty place that wasn’t fit for man or beast, and the list went on. Under Colum’s rule, riding out to raid had been a priority, not keeping up the castle.

One thing Colum had done was make certain there was money in the coffers. The old man had been a miser, hoarding all manner of things he demanded as tribute from his tenants.

The truth was Diocail just might face an angry mob when he left the castle due to the amount of coin Colum had squeezed from his tenants. The Gordon people felt oppressed, and that fact was supported by all the plunder amassed in the upper rooms of the keeps. Diocail checked the last of his gear and felt his determination tighten.

Perhaps it had been his mother’s dream that he claim the Gordon lairdship, but he was planning to make it his legacy, so he’d be facing every tenant and making certain each one learned that he was a fair man.

He looked back at Sorley. Well, once the autumn had passed, Diocail would return to doing his best to right the conditions of the castle.

“I’ll make good use of the time ye are away,” Sorley claimed. “Going to finish the roof on the kitchen first.”

“Dry bread on the table when we return,” Muir declared. “We’ll no’ know what to do with that.”

Diocail mounted, his horse shifting from side to side in excitement. Sorley offered him a solid nod. “Do nae worry, Laird, we’ll be welcoming ye back when ye finish.”

There was a glimmer of respect in Sorley’s eyes that Diocail hadn’t seen before. Considering there were still a few cousins who considered their own blood a claim to the lairdship, Diocail found it a welcome sight indeed. “Do nae spare the coin. Buy what ye need, pay enough men to see the kitchen in good order before the snow flies.”

Sorley reached up and tugged on his bonnet, two other captains stepping behind him to show they supported Diocail’s claim to the lairdship. The yard behind him was full of Gordons. They stood watching and listening while keeping their expressions tight.

Not that Diocail blamed them. Respect was earned. At least, that was the way he wanted to come by keeping the position of laird.

“When we get back, ye can get on with choosing a bride,” Muir taunted from the back of his own horse.

Diocail shot Muir a sour look. “I bring a lass here as it is, and she’ll run straight back to her father.”

Yet the very real fact was that the clan expected him to wed.

And soon.

First the tenants. He raised his hand, and his men followed him out of the gates. It was just past first light, and people were starting to bring in the harvest. They rode at a slow pace due to the wagons needed. More than one family paid its rent in goods. It was a time-honored tradition, one he wouldn’t change. He shied away from thinking about the very real dilemma of putting those goods to use. There was another thing a true mistress of a large house was educated in: how to utilize the goods that came her way in order to gain what she needed to run the house.

Damned if he had any notion as to how to begin sorting the goods abovestairs or even who among his staff were due what for their loyalties. There were those among his retainers who likely harbored resentment because of what they had been denied in the way of comforts such as shoes or new shirts. He didn’t have the knowledge, only the experience of having seen his aunt presiding over quarterly meetings where she handed out such things to her own household.

Yes, he needed a wife. A lady for the clan.

He might well have to resort to raiding to get one of quality though. It was enough to make his shoulders tighten until they ached.

One task at a time, boyo…

Men looked up and tugged on the corners of their bonnets when he passed. There was a gentler mood on Gordon land these days. Diocail enjoyed seeing more smiles and children. As Colum had descended deeper into his cups and hatred, mothers had started to hide their children when he passed, fearing he might lash out at them.

Now, they played openly, their mothers watching him from their windows. Diocail rode out of the village and into the open, ready to prove himself worthy.

Very ready indeed. The challenges might be many, but he’d face them.

After all, he was laird of the Gordons, and he would not be shaming his mother’s faith in him.

* * *

Jane’s belly rumbled.

She’d ignored it for a day, but by the next morning, she simply could not any longer. Not that it changed her mind. She wasn’t returning to Gillanders and his offer to be his harlot in exchange for her keep.

Curse Henry for his gambling.

Jane regretted the thought. She knew it was unkind to think ill of the dead. Her body might ache, but she wasn’t yet ready to regret the fact that she was still drawing breath. Life might be difficult, but it was still to be treasured. She stepped on a rock and winced as she moved toward the sound of water. It was only a temporary solution, but she cupped her hand and drank until she felt some measure of relief.

She straightened, looking at the water and seeking any sign of fish. Desperation was beginning to claw at her. The chill from the night lingered in her joints, and the water wasn’t very satisfying.

No, I am not going back to the boardinghouse…

However, that meant she very well might die in the wilds of Scotland.

At least her situation made for a good tale. A hint of adventure—wasn’t that what her stepmother had gleefully informed her would be her lot when she’d decreed that Jane would wed Henry with his determination to travel into Scotland when it was so very risky?

Oh yes. How grand Jane’s life had been with Alicia. Her stepmother had taken her husband’s house in hand and made it plain that Jane and her sisters would obey her. Not that such an attitude was uncommon. Still, the happy home she’d enjoyed with her mother had vanished within months of her father taking a second wife. Of course, her father had never noticed because Alicia made certain her husband was very comfortable indeed. Complaints to her father had met with his confidence in his new wife’s ability to raise his daughters into women who could run their own households.

Jane was bitter and not one bit interested in being repentant about it. What had all of her obedience to Christian values and duties gotten her? A husband who raised his hand to her, gambling away every coin and then going so far as to promise her favors to settle his unpaid debts.

Turned out in her shift.

Indeed I was.

And still, she preferred it.

Her belly rumbled again. It hurt now, the hunger.

Well, life had not been comfortable for her for many years, so there was no reason to think today would be different. There was, however, a very real satisfaction in rising to meet the challenges as they came her way. If that was pride, so be it.

She looked back at the water and moved a bit farther upstream as she watched for signs of life. The water was tumbling out of a pool, and a fish slithered down the fall.

She blinked, thinking she’d imagined it. No, there was a plop as another fish swam too close to where the rocks gave way, and she realized someone had piled up rocks to make a dam of sorts.

Of course!

It made sense. She looked around, making sure no one was about before she pulled her smock over her head. Without a net or basket at hand, the cloth was all she had. Once wet, it would bring her even more suffering, but if sacrificing her comfort helped her fill her belly, she would take the shivers. She moved into the stream and held the ends of her garment under the water. Her belly twisted with hunger, her mouth beginning to water while she waited. Time seemed to slow down, tormenting her as she tried to maintain her confidence while ignoring how cold the water was around her bare feet.

At last there was another plop, and suddenly there was a fish flopping on the surface of her wet smock. She jumped with surprise, and the fish went sailing right out of her grasp. She whirled around, desperate to catch it. The sun shone off its body as it flailed and fought to buck itself back into the deeper part of the stream. Jane fought just as hard to reach the fish, skinning her knee as she landed next to it and clamped her hands around it.

Victory surged through her when she held it high. She carried it farther onto the bank and then struggled back into her wet smock. The fabric stuck to her body, but she smiled as she retreated into the forest in search of a way to cook her catch.

“Ye do nae have a knife.”

Jane froze, looking up from her fish to see who her company was. She let out a sigh of relief when she realized it was a boy, a rather small one who looked up at her from where he was crouched next to a rabbit snare. His face reflected his disappointment over finding the snare empty. He looked at her fish, longing in his young eyes.

“The fish are too big for me to catch,” he muttered. “Give me that one, and I’ll let ye use me knife when ye get another for yerself.”

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven winters, but it was clear his life was as challenging as hers. He was thin, his face drawn with hunger. He held out his hands for the fish, aiming a smile at her as he tried to bargain.

“I know how to gut it and put it over a fire,” he tempted her.

Fire…

“Can you start a fire?” she asked.

He was wearing only a shirt and a belt that held his knife. His feet were blackened from having no shoes.

“I can get a coal from the house,” he assured her quickly. “But I can nae go home to me ma without something to eat. I am the man of the house now.”

His eyes returned to the fish in her hands. “That’s a fine, big fish, and there are plenty more.”

Trusting him was a risk, but one she had to take unless she planned to eat her fish raw with her teeth. And a fire would warm her and help dry her shift. She hated that she was desperate enough to resort to such behavior. At least Fate was offering her another solution. Yet it would not come without a price. Handing over the fish took a great deal of effort. She watched the way his face lit up.

“I’ll be back,” he promised. “I’m going to give this to me mother and bring back a coal from the hearth like I promised.”

God, she hoped so.

He ran away from her, the fish in his hands, as she fought off tears to see it leaving.

Nonsense, she chided herself. It will be a good bargain.

At least it would be as soon as she caught another fish. Fate seemed to be in the mood to reward her because she watched another fat fish tumble down the rocks while she was getting out of her smock. This time, she was ready when a fish appeared on the fabric, clamping it against her chest and moving out of the water without tossing it into the air. Satisfaction filled her as she clothed herself once more and started to climb back up to where she’d met the boy. The truth was she wanted to catch more, but she had to quell that urge, for doing so would be a waste.

A thin taper of smoke beckoned to her. The sight of the boy leaning over a small pile of sticks made her tremble.

“Mother was very pleased.” He reached out for the fish. “Asked me how I managed it without a fish basket.” He started gutting the fish as he spoke, the fire popping as it caught. “I told her it was on the bank.” He offered her the cleaned fish on a long stick. “I know it’s wrong to lie.”

“Well,” Jane began as she placed the stick over the rocks the boy had used to ring the fire. “I was on the bank with the fish.”

His lips twitched. “Ye are poorer than we are, I think. Ye do nae have even a knife.”

“Yes,” she agreed, warming her fingers over the fire. “My husband gambled while drinking and lost everything.”

The boy watched her for a moment before he nodded. “We made a good bargain.”

“Indeed,” she answered.

He cocked his head to one side. “Are ye English?”

Jane smiled. “Yes.”

“Where are ye going?”

“Home,” she said with less enthusiasm than she might have wished for.

He seemed confused by her response. “But…England is that way.” He pointed behind her with a grubby finger.

Her victory over catching the fish died. “I see.”

He opened his mouth to speak, showing off a gap in the front of his mouth where two teeth were missing. “I did nae think there was anyone with less than us.”

He flashed her a grin before he turned and ran off. The scent of the fish cooking was a comfort but not enough to dispel the gloom from her thoughts. She tried to focus on the warmth from the fire. At last her fingers weren’t frozen and the fish was cooking slowly, promising her relief from her hunger.

Perhaps she was only prolonging her agony.

Well, wasn’t that life, after all? Each day a battle against all the things that might befall her? Perhaps she was in Scotland, in her shift, yet had that truly altered her circumstances?

Not by much.

Her stepmother’s face kept her company as she ate the fish. Alicia was the mother of sons, so Jane’s father had given her full run of the house and his daughters. Jane had thought her life hard then. She stretched out her foot and looked at her bare toes. At least she had had shoes.

It seemed she was being given a lesson in being grateful for what she had. Now, all that remained was to see if she survived the learning process. Alicia had often spoken of the way she managed the house as a kindness because she was making Jane and her sisters strong enough to face life as women. Perhaps there was truth in that sentiment, for somehow Jane had managed to reject Gillanders’s offer. No one came into life with strength; it had to be earned, forged.

Perhaps Alicia was more of a friend than a miser. The very fact that her stepmother had not pampered her seemed to be some sort of gift that Jane had been too ignorant to understand the value of until today. Now when she needed her resolve, Jane discovered it firmly rooted in her because of the way Alicia had insisted she learn to make due and find her own solutions to life’s demands.

Leaving the fire took effort, but the sun was climbing higher, and Jane had ground to cover. Her hands smelled of fish, and the scent gave her quite a bit of satisfaction.

Gillanders could choke on his offer.

And as for Alicia? Well, Jane would thank her just as soon as she made it back to England and her family. Love, it would seem, might be shown in many ways, teaching her to be strong among them. Her stepmother had taught her to be a woman, which, it seemed, was far more important than years of bruised childhood feelings.

* * *

“Laird.”

Another tenant tugged on the corner of his bonnet as he placed his rent on the small table Lachie had brought. The man was a fine secretary, or at least he was learning. Diocail stood beside the table, greeting each tenant. He looked down and pushed two of the silver coins back toward the man.

“Laird?”

“I know what the MacPhersons pay, and Gordons will nae be giving more,” Diocail responded loudly enough for the other men who were waiting to hear. “There will be fairness on Gordon land so long as I am yer laird.”

The tenant was quick to take the coins back, reaching inside his jerkin to push them deep into a pocket. The man smiled and happily knelt to pledge himself to Diocail as laird of the Gordons. Diocail watched as the scowls eased from the faces of those waiting to see him. The level of resentment dissipated as his tenants offered him a grudging respect.

Well, their regard would take time to grow.

Later that night, once the business was finished, Diocail took a moment to sit. His men were roasting a few rabbits that had been given as rent, their conversation scarlet since they were well away from womenfolk.

He chuckled at one tale. The village they were visiting didn’t have an inn, just a rather crude tavern. Many tenants who had come to pay their rent were camped nearby. The scent of their fires mixed as the evening breeze blew through, hinting at winter.

“Get your hands off of me!”

His men went silent, their jovial mood changing in an instant.

There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh and the sharp intake of breath from a female.

“Damned English bitch,” came a sharp reprimand. “Think ye’re too good for the likes of me? We’ll be seeing about that…”

A woman stumbled close enough to the light of the fire for Diocail to see her. Not that it was hard when all she wore was a linen smock splattered with dirt. The firelight shone right through the undergarment. In spite of her indecent condition, she faced off with the man bearing down on her, baring her teeth as she held up a thick stick.

“Try it and die,” she snarled at her attacker.

Diocail watched the way she lifted the branch high, ready to wield it like a club. Her would-be companion stumbled from the thicket she’d been in, staggering just a bit to betray how much whisky he’d had.

“Would ye rather freeze?” he demanded of her as he eyed her stance and weapon. “Why? Ye’re no virgin. A wee tumble is all I’m looking for. I’ll share me supper and fire with ye once ye ease the stiffness of me cock.”

“I am not a whore.”

But she was English. Her accent was as clear as the moon in the sky.

“Ye’re on Gordon land, English bitch.”

“Which makes her my concern,” Diocail interrupted.

The woman had been focused on the man chasing her. She jumped when Diocail spoke, whirling around to look at him. She masked her fear well, tightening her grip on her weapon as she tried to keep both him and her first attacker in her sights.

She had courage, he’d grant her that.

Even if it was foolish at the moment.

“Now why would ye be interfering in me fun?” the man demanded of Diocail. “Caught her sleeping on our land. That makes her a prize. Mine.”

“Yet ye have no’ caught her, and now she is mine.”

Diocail slid between her and the man, glad to see his men had joined him. There was a sound from the woman, muffled as Muir clamped his hand over her mouth.

The man didn’t care for Diocail’s opinion on the matter. His eyes narrowed as he snarled. Diocail reached into his doublet and withdrew a silver piece.

“Let us be agreed.” Diocail shook the coin so that the firelight caught on it. He watched as the man shifted his attention to the money, the glitter of lust in his eyes dying down. “Go find yerself more welcoming company, man.” He tossed the coin toward him.

The man caught the coin, turning it over a few times before holding it in his hand and trying to judge the weight. There was another sound from behind Diocail and then a grunt as one of his men misjudged the tenacity of the female. Whoever he was, there was a squeak from the woman as he applied enough strength to keep her still.

“Aye,” the man in front of Diocail said as he tucked the coin into his sporran. “But I think ye might be regretting paying so much for her. Cold English bitch will nae thank ye.”

He spat on the ground and sent a hard look toward the woman before he turned and left. Diocail waited until the sound of the man’s feet crunching the undergrowth faded before he turned to consider their newest companion.

Niven had his arms wrapped around her, one of his huge hands clapped over her lips. She glared at Diocail as he looked at her.

“Forgive me, mistress,” Diocail stated firmly. “Did ye wish me no’ to interfere then? I rather thought the way ye were threatening to hit him with that branch suggested ye were no’ very keen about accepting his offer. Of course, if I was wrong…”

Some of his men chuckled.

She blinked, clearly thinking the matter through. He watched her relax and shake her head.

“Let her go.”

She stepped away from Niven, casting a nervous look at the other men. Some of them couldn’t keep themselves from appraising her from head to toe. Diocail admitted fighting the urge himself. The fire cast enough light on her to make it plain she was a fetching female beneath her smock.

But she was not a whore, and he’d not gawk at her. No, her courage deserved more respect than that.

True to what he suspected of her, she drew herself up, set her chin, and looked him in the eye as though she stood there with a hundred men at her back to protect her. “You have my sincere gratitude, sir.”

“What are ye doing on me land?” He made his voice as gentle as possible. Now that he was closer, he saw the evidence of Fate turning ugly against her. Her toes were bleeding along with her knee. Her fine porcelain skin and high cheekbones were crisscrossed with tiny scrapes and cuts from the thicket, and there were deep circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.

She was hungry too.

Starving.

He could see the way she fought to lick her lips now that she was close enough to smell the roasting rabbit from their fire.

And courage. She had an abundance of it, which Diocail respected because the only way to cultivate it was to face hardship.

“Who turned ye out in yer shift, lass?” Muir asked as she remained unwilling to share the details of her plight.

She cut Muir a quick glance but returned her attention to Diocail. “Does it truly matter how I came to be here?”

Perhaps asking a question wasn’t very wise. Jane really didn’t know the answer herself. Every inch of her body seemed to hurt, and she was once again so hungry her head was reeling. The scent of the fish was gone from her fingers now, yet she’d found herself sniffing them in some vain attempt to satisfy her empty belly.

Right then, the scent of roasting meat was the only thing she could concentrate on. In some corner of her mind, she realized being distracted was a grave error. The man in front of her was huge. She’d rarely seen his match. He was a mountain of pure muscle with bulky shoulders and wrists she doubted she could close her hand around. He was dressed in a kilt and doublet, but he had the sleeves open and hooked behind his back, his shirtsleeves pushed up to bare his forearms as though he didn’t feel the chill of the night air.

She, on the other hand, was shivering as the cold licked her skin and cut through her smock.

“I suppose it does nae,” he answered her, tilting his head to one side as he contemplated her. He kept his attention on her face, resisting the urge to look down her body. Most of his men didn’t afford her the same respect.

What do you expect, Jane? You are nearly naked.

And starving. But Fate had delivered her here when she least expected it, so she wouldn’t allow herself to crumble beneath the weight of her circumstances.

One dilemma at a time.

“Thank you for your assistance.” She drew in a deep breath and started to walk back toward the thicket.

“Stay where ye are, woman.”

If she hadn’t realized he was in command of the men before, the tone of his voice would have driven that fact home. He was accustomed to being obeyed. When he turned his head slightly, she caught sight of his bonnet. Three feathers were secured to the side, all of them raised. She’d been in Scotland long enough to know they were the mark of a laird.

“As you have noted, I have naught, so I cannot repay you except with my gratitude.” She spoke evenly and with the poise that living beneath her stepmother’s iron rule had bred. “I have a great deal of ground to cover and must be on my way.”

“Where are ye going like that?” the man next to her demanded.

A quick look toward him, and she noticed that one of his feathers was raised. That made him a captain of some sort.

“Back to England and my father’s house,” she answered, trying not to sound as defeated by that prospect as she felt. There was no alternative, so no use dreading what had to be. “Since I am widowed.”

The men ringing her suddenly nodded, some muttering that her situation made sense. Their stances eased now that they could understand her appearance. The harsh truth was that more than one woman had been turned out in her shift when her husband was no longer alive to protect her from his family. Such was the fate of many a bride who wed against the wishes of the groom’s family. Without children or contract or powerful relatives, everything she had might be claimed as dowry and kept while she was discarded.

Tossed into the gutter…

She started to step around the man in front of her, and he shook his head. “I told ye to stay where ye are, lass.”

He was tempering his tone now, making her feel much like a mare being gentled. His words set off a shiver down her spine. There was something so very strong about him. It was more than his muscle; it was the way he watched her, the set of his jaw as he contemplated her.

“And I have told you I must be on my way.” A man such as he understood strength, so she would meet his determination measure for measure. “Excuse me.”

She made it a few steps past him, just enough for her to feel a breath of relief moving through her, before he swept her right off her feet. She gasped and choked as he tossed her up and over his shoulder. But her face nearly caught fire with shame when he slapped one of his hands down on her bottom to keep her in place as he walked back toward their camp.

“You cannot—”

He was dumping her onto the ground before she finished protesting. At the last moment, he controlled her descent and she landed with only a jolt instead of the hard impact she’d been expecting. She ended up looking at him from where he’d deposited her on her backside.

“Ye’ll be staying with us, mistress. Best set yer mind to it, for I’ve no wish to fight with ye.”

“I will do no such thing.” She stood but stepped back when one of her knees tried to collapse. She pushed her foot into the ground to steady herself and faced off with her tormentor. “You have no right to lay hands on me.”

“I am Diocail Gordon.” He didn’t move back an inch, which meant they were a single step from one another, and she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “And ye are on me land.”

“Which I will be most happy to leave,” she insisted firmly.

“The last thing I need is an Englishwoman raped on me land,” he answered her. “I do nae know who yer husband was, but it’s a good thing the man is dead because I’m of the mind to break his fool neck for wedding ye and leaving ye in such circumstances.”

His words shamed her with how kind they truly were, although gallant was more fitting once she thought it through. He was rough and hardened and so completely suited to his environment that she found herself admiring him. However, the observation revealed how very far from home she was.

“Your intentions do you much credit, Sir Diocail,” she said sweetly. “Yet I cannot stay in this company.”

“I am no knight. Ye’re in the Highlands, lass, and I am sorry to say I can nae afford ye any better circumstances than being in the company of me men. For the moment, it will be better than yon thicket and the men who have grudges against the English. Which they will have few reservations against settling at yer expense.”

His captain slid up close to her, making her shift away. He offered her a harassed look before tossing something at her. She caught it, simply out of reflex, trembling when she realized it was a thick traveling cloak.

The scratchy wool was more dear than the finest silk. She was shaking with the anticipation of being wrapped inside it.

Diocail nodded in approval toward his man. “Put that on and sit down, mistress. I’ll decide how to deal with ye in the morning. For now, me men and I are going to enjoy our supper. Kindly do nae make it necessary for one of us to hand-feed ye like a babe because we have to tie ye up so we can enjoy our meal.”

“You would not dare,” Jane exclaimed.

She realized her error immediately. This man lived for challenges.

Diocail Gordon’s lips twitched, curling up on one side into what might have been a grin if there was anything remotely attractive about the motion. No, it was menacing and too full of promise for her to dismiss. She wanted to think she might argue but knew without a doubt it was a useless fight that would cost her the advantage of being free.

And they were going to feed her and warm her.

Beggars simply couldn’t be choosers.

Well, better a beggar than a whore.

She opened the cloak and swung it around her shoulders. Made for a man, it hung down to her ankles, and she had to gather it close to her body. Diocail watched her, daring her to defy him. There was something in his gaze that hinted that he enjoyed the way she hesitated before sitting down, but the hard set to his jaw confirmed just how good he’d make on his threat to restrain her if she tried him.

Of course, with his men watching, she couldn’t really blame him. So she sat down and heard his men mutter with approval. The master of the house was never going to back down in front of his men, doubly so considering she was a woman and English. She would simply have to choose the time better if she wanted to prevail.

But she would be leaving, and Diocail Gordon would be the one adjusting to her way of thinking. By dawn, he’d agree with her anyway. It was simply the way life was. A person had to work hard to make sure their loved ones were provided for. That left little charity for strangers. Tonight, Diocail might be able to afford to be generous, and it was her good fortune, to be sure.

However, the men serving him wouldn’t agree to let her share their food when she brought nothing with her. No goods, money, or alliance. The meat they allowed her to eat had been brought to the fire through their effort, earned, and therefore their right to enjoy. They were loyal to Diocail because there was strength in numbers.

Tomorrow she’d leave. Return to her father’s house where she had a family to help protect her. Alicia might insist she wed again, but even that prospect, however distasteful, paled against remaining in Scotland while England was ever willing to declare war against its neighbor.

An Englishwoman in Scotland. It would be a far better-sounding tale than the reality of it was proving to be.

* * *

“Untie her without a dagger in hand to defend yerself, and ye’re going to be meat for the hounds. That female is so angry, I think she might bash yer skull with a rock.”

Diocail offered Muir a grin. “I gathered that all on me own.”

Behind them, their guest was snarling through the gag Niven had reluctantly tied around her head.

“And I’m no’ so sure binding her hands in front of her was wise,” Muir continued. “She has more spirit than I thought to find in an Englishwoman.”

Diocail sent Muir a deadly look. His captain wasn’t a bit repentant, grinning back at him before he reached down and patted his crotch in sympathy for the knee their unhappy guest had shoved into Diocail’s privates.

“A lucky shot,” Diocail assured him. “She only landed it because I really did nae want to truss her up.”

“Why did ye?” Muir asked, revealing what was really on his mind. “We certainly do nae need another unhappy woman in our midst. There is a kitchen full of them back at home, in case ye’ve forgotten.”

Diocail sent him a glare. “Ye’d have me allow her to leave in her shift? Think me that sort of a monster? Simply to let her walk into a harsh fate brought on by her circumstances? Clearly her husband was a fool and a bastard for no’ making sure she had a place.”

Muir looked at the ground out of shame. “Aye, ye have the right of it, and offering her our protection—that’s the honorable thing to do. But why tie her up?”

Diocail let out a stiff breath. It betrayed how frustrated he was. He didn’t care a bit for how doing the right thing was making him feel. “Because she’s a decent woman. Highborn, educated.”

Muir nodded. “That’s obvious in her bearing and speech.”

“So, a woman such as that,” Diocail explained, more than a little exasperated with the circumstances, “well, she can no’ accept being in our company. It’s no’ proper to her way of thinking—a bunch of soldiers and no female chaperone. It’s no’ acceptable. But I can nae let her walk off into the thicket to be preyed upon and call meself an honorable man.”

Muir was shaking his head by the time Diocail finished. “Aye, ye’re right. I ken that now.”

“Good, because I was no’ jesting about no’ needing a dead Englishwoman on our land. The Earl of Morton might be out of the regency now, but the young king James is set to inherit England’s crown. So me guess is he’ll no’ be wanting trouble between his two countries.”

“Such as a nobleman’s daughter found dead on Scottish soil,” Muir finished.

“Aye.”

“So what do ye plan to do with her?” Muir asked.

“I’ll decide tomorrow,” Diocail replied. “For now, let’s get what sleep we might. She may be snarling, but she needs rest more than we do by the look of those circles beneath her eyes.”

Although he doubted he was going to get very much sleep himself. Whoever their guest was, she was as foolish as she was spirited. Insisting on going on her way in nothing but a shift. Damned if he didn’t enjoy knowing she was so brazen.

And color him foolish for enjoying what would surely get her rolled into a grave on the side of the road after some man with a grudge against her blood used her flesh to satisfy his vengeance. The world was a dark, harsh place at times.

But she knew that, or at least she’d tasted it recently. Her body bore the marks of her trials, and still she boldly refused to take his protection. It was admirable, stoking something in him that he’d not encountered in connection to a woman before.

He’d come across unbridled females before. His own mother had been one and proud of her ways. Whoever this lady was, she wasn’t thumbing her nose at her place out of a need to rebel. No, it was far different from that. She had stiffened her spine and squared her shoulders to face what Fate had thrust upon her. Perhaps she had brought it upon herself by running away to wed the man of her heart. Even still, he admired the way she took her due. And that only made him wish he’d never set eyes upon her.

He had enough people looking to him for solutions. Between his mother’s dreams for him and the condition of his inheritance, the last thing he needed was a female who would have to be watched for her own good.

Diocail chuckled.

He and the woman had a great deal in common, it seemed, but he doubted she’d thank him for pointing it out to her. Which was exactly why he was enjoying the thought of doing just that.

* * *

They were watching her.

Jane rubbed her wrists and tried to appear as though she was content in her circumstances, or at least submissive to their greater strength.

Well, your belly is full…

On that account, she could not harbor any ill thoughts against the Gordons surrounding her. Not even for the ache left behind from the rope they had bound her with. It hurt far less than her hunger had the night before.

“Take yer ease and return.” Diocail surprised her by speaking to her. “If ye make me track ye down, I’ll tie ye up again. That’s a promise I do nae fancy making good on, lass.”

“Why do you persist in this?” She climbed to her feet and drew in a stiff breath as pain went shooting through her battered soles. With her hunger satisfied, it seemed the rest of her body was going to make its complaints known.

Loudly so.

“I’ve explained me reasoning.” He aimed a hard look at her. In the light of day, she realized he had warm brown eyes. “I understand yer need to argue, mistress. Any decent woman would. We’re a rough lot, no’ suitable company without a companion for ye.”

“And yet you deny me freedom when you know I must seek it?”

His expression remained unmoved. “I am laird of the Gordon. A dead Englishwoman of noble background—by yer speech and bearing—is the sort of trouble we do nae need. Protecting me clan will come before yer sensibilities. If an ill fate befalls ye, I will be called on to account for it to the king. Me men will no’ harm ye. Best ye stay with us.”

It was his solemn word on the matter. She didn’t know very much about him, but he was an honorable man. Even if he was everything she’d been raised to think of as savage. The very sight of him was straight out of a winter fireside tale constructed to titillate with fear of the Highlanders. He’d pleated up his plaid and secured it around his waist with a thick leather belt. His doublet was of recognizable design, but it was also thick, rustic wool, and he had the sleeves tied back once again, making it plain that the chill of the morning wasn’t something he considered cold.

He was a creature of strength who inspired awe in her because of the sheer magnitude of his ability to survive in his climate. She was huddled inside the cloak, still feeling the bite of the morning air through its folds.

“Go on with ye, mistress.” He’d lowered his voice, granting her some consideration for the delicate nature of the conversation. “Do nae test me, for I have no wish to put rough hands upon ye.”

It was a warning, clear and firm. His expression made it plain that he wouldn’t hesitate to make good on his words, and the memory of him tossing her over his shoulder was very fresh. She hobbled when she walked, her feet paining her more than she’d ever thought possible.

So much so that she sat on a rock once she’d seen to her more pressing needs and looked at the bottom of one foot. The sight was daunting. She had three large blisters, caked with dirt and red now. One was oozing, warning her infection was sure to set in if she didn’t tend to the wound. As well as stay off the foot.

“How long have ye been turned out?”

“Jesus!” She jumped and muffled a curse when she landed on her feet and the blisters sent pain up her legs so acute, her knees threatened to buckle. “How do you walk so silently?”

“It keeps me breathing, lass,” Diocail proclaimed with a touch of arrogance. “And makes hunting a bit more rewarding. Rabbits enjoy life as much as we do and tend to bolt if they hear me coming.”

His pride was not bluster, but earned. For some reason, she decided that it enhanced his appeal.

Savage?

Yes, he was that. Yet there was more, far more than she’d ever stopped to consider might be beneath the label handed out to his kind.

“There’s some water heating over the fire,” he continued. “Do ye know anything of cleaning wounds?”

“Yes, of course.”

He lifted one dark eyebrow. “No’ many have the skill of a healer.”

“I am not a physician,” she explained. “I assure you, Laird Gordon, I was raised well.”

“So why did yer family wed ye to a man who allowed ye to fall into such circumstances?” he demanded.

“I am a fourth daughter.” She didn’t owe him an explanation, but something in his tone made her answer him. She sensed a core of solid responsibility she realized had been lacking in her late husband.

Diocail frowned. “That’s no reason.”

“Henry was far better at acting the good suitor than he was at being a husband, and there was no finer offer.”

“A father’s duty is to make sure he does nae wed his daughter to a man who dupes him,” Diocail responded. “Did ye nae suspect?”

It was a good question, and she had resisted thinking too long upon it during the few months of her marriage. No good would come of such thoughts, after all. The vows had been spoken and consummated, so wallowing in regrets seemed a poor choice when all it might do was make her miserable.

“Scotland’s daughters decide whom they wed then?” she inquired in a tone that made it clear she knew it wasn’t so. “Do they boldly argue against their fathers’ decisions?”

Diocail wasn’t intimidated by her sarcasm. “I wonder if ye ran off with the man of yer choice.” His eyes glittered with something that sent a shiver down her spine. “Ye’re bold enough.”

She shouldn’t have enjoyed how much she liked knowing he thought of her that way.

Yet she did.

“See me as rebellious because I wanted to leave your company?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nay. That proved to me ye are a quality woman.”

He was a man who didn’t hand out false flattery. His words warmed her and took her by surprise. She started to walk back toward the fire, simply because she felt far too much was on display beneath his keen stare. Every step hurt. She tried to keep her gait easy but winced when she stepped on a rock in just the wrong place. There was a snort behind her before she was once again swept up against Diocail Gordon’s wide chest.

“Oh, do put me down.” She detested the fact that it was necessary to plead with him. However, when it came to strength, he had an abundance of it. She wasn’t used to feeling small. Her stepmother had often pointed out how unfashionably tall she was, and yet Diocail dwarfed her.

“Quiet, woman.” He delivered her to a rock near the campfire. “I ken ye do nae have it in yer nature to whine, and I am grateful for that. But I do nae need ye burning with fever while we’re on the road. So ye’ll stay off these feet until I can get ye some shoes.”

“You may leave me right here, sir, and I assure you I will do very well.”

Niven brought over a large bowl and placed it on the ground by her feet. The Gordon retainer sent her a look that made it clear he thought she was daft. Heat teased her cheeks because she knew he was very correct.

Yet it was only right to argue against being with them. She detested the fact that life was so very difficult at times.

Diocail walked to the wagon and pulled something from it. He returned and offered it to her. His expression was unreadable, and she caught glimpses of his men all slowing in their work to watch what she made of the parcel.

A test then…

What she held was a medical kit of sorts. She had to untie it. When she rolled it across her lap, there were pockets with bottles and all sorts of things needed for the treatment of wounds. She pulled some loose until she found what she needed.

Cleaning her own feet was another matter though. She might dip her feet into the bowl, but tending her own soles would be awkward. Diocail settled the matter by sitting down at her feet.

“Tell me what needs doing.”

Her voice was a squeak, but she rattled off the instructions as his men found reasons to come closer. Controlling the urge to wince took precedence though, as she gritted her teeth and wiped the few tears that escaped her eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Ye can show yer gratitude by no’ making a fuss.” He scooped her off the rock and carried her toward the wagon. Someone had cleared a space, even spread out a thick sheepskin with the fleece facing down to cushion the ride. Diocail placed her on it and slid the tailgate of the wagon into place before securing it with a thick iron rod. “I’ve business to attend to, and it will be a difficulty if me tenants see ye trussed up like a pig on the way to market. So kindly do nae make it necessary. Ye’d be foolish to try to walk on those feet or in yer shift.”

She would be.

And yet her pride stung almost as much as her feet while she sat there. Diocail Gordon let out a whistle, which called his men to order. They mounted in smooth motions that betrayed their strength and command of the beasts they rode.

Savages.

And yet the men had a majestic beauty. So adept in their environment. They neither appeared to be suffering hardships nor were burdened by their Highland home. They were jovial indeed as they set out. Diocail led them from the back of a black stallion. The wagon jolted down the road as the sun rose higher in the sky.

She’d really be a wretched creature to cause trouble today.

You are making excuses…

It was a solid truth, and yet she could not deny that her feet were not as thick as her will. For the moment, she would have to accept the hospitality of the Gordons.

Yet again, she seemed to have no other choice.

Curse Fate. She was a true shrew.