Iain scoured the Shepherd’s Rest’s common room, looking for the proprietor. He saw only carousers, though he did earn a few owlish stares. Most of the men lining the tables ignored him, their gazes on the bawd as she undid the lacings of her bodice to free the heavy globes of her breasts.

“A plaguey stewhouse,” he muttered, turning away.

And hoping he did so swiftly enough to prevent Madeline from witnessing the woman’s lewd behavior.

“My apologies, lass.” He tightened his arm about her shoulders and kept scanning the smoke-hazed murk for the ale-keeper.

“It is not your fault, and you needn’t worry.” Madeline gripped his hand, squeezing it. “I shan’t swoon. I’ve heard all alehouses are frequented by one or two such women,” she said, glancing at him. “Even fine inns.”

He arched a brow. “Say you?”

“I do.” She dropped back onto the bench. “There isn’t much privacy in a keep, however large. Men in halls talk, especially late of a night when they’ve had too much ale. A nip into the kitchens provides an even greater education.”

“Be that as it may-”

“It simply is.”

“You are a lady.” Iain also sat, but displeasure rolled off him, heating the air around them. “I am at fault. I should ne’er have touched you. To kiss you was unforgivable.”

“It was my wish.” Madeline pressed two fingers to his lips, silencing further argument. “I gave you little choice. And here we are now, come what will.”

Turning away, she looked again to the joy woman. She’d now hooked arms with her newly lured customers – Silver Leg’s men - and was drawing them into the shadowy realm of the common sleeping room, where Madeline suspected she surrendered a portion of her profits for a well-stuffed pallet in a dark corner.

“She is gone now.” Madeline reached for her cup, took a sip of ale. “She will ply her trade out of view, harming none.”

Iain started to argue again, but waited as a serving lass brought them another fresh jug of ale.

“Whether such women are welcomed in an establishment or nae, a lady should no’ be confronted by them,” he said when the lass moved on to another table. “You should no’ be bothered by the knowledge of such affairs.”

“I know of much that weighs on my heart.” Madeline pushed away her cares before they could crush her. “Greater concerns than one joy woman and her night’s trade.”

She sighed.

And wished for the thousandth time that she wasn’t privy to all she knew.

Iain eyed her sharply, his eyes dark with silent questions. His jaw looked tense again, so she smoothed her fingers along his cheek until his face relaxed.

“As I just soothed you, so does the joy woman serve a need,” she said, thinking of Nella.

She drew the borrowed arisaid closer about her shoulders, repressed a shudder. Not that her common-born friend had ever trod as lamentable path as an alehouse whore.

Even so, Nella had known her own sorrows, fetched as she’d been at the first bloom of her womanhood to bear sons for a landed man whose barren wife couldn’t produce heirs.

A faint echo of Nella’s long-ago anguish rippled through Madeline. She shivered and hugged her waist, grateful the years had changed Nella’s pain to numb resignation.

But Madeline’s indignation over her friend’s past had never lessened.

Straight teeth, clear eyes, and robust health had decided Nella’s fate, thrusting her into a life she’d come to accept and even to joy in – until she’d made the mistake of showing too much affection to the young boys she could never claim as her own.

And falling in love with the well-born man whom she still refused to name.

Her admiration for Nella steeling her backbone, Madeline cast another glance toward the sleeping hall. Its low-arched entry loomed empty, but her gift let her pick up the heated blood and carnal arousal, the muffled grunts and rasp of heavy breathing now filling the hall’s shadowy depths.

She turned back to Iain. “If anything,” she said into the hush stretching between them, “such women are to be pitied.”

They should not be scorned.

Nor could she condemn a single one amongst their ranks – not even if she wished to do so.

Hadn’t she, mere moments before, strained against her shadow man’s chest? Known wonder at the hard-slabbed contours of his muscles, evident even beneath his leather hauberk and the folds of his plaid?

Indeed, she’d reveled in the solidness and warmth of his masculine strength, breathed deep of the essence of him – and ached for more.

She’d gloried in his kisses, all but begging him to deepen each one. She’d felt excitement when he’d thrust his tongue between her lips and let it tangle with her own. She’d even wished he’d done so far more often than he had.

Truth be told, she was almost ready to beg him to kiss her again.

Now, this moment. Uncaring who saw. She only needed, her womanly passion thrumming inside her, demanding…

Her breath hitched. “Oh, dear…”

“Aye, most dear,” Iain agreed, his earlier anger gone. He hooked a finger beneath her chin, lifted her face – looking at her as if he could see into her soul. “Dear, and far too sweet.”

“Too sweet?”

“Aye. Leastways for the likes of me.” He took the new ale jug, replenished their cups. “And much too desirable to suffer a life spent behind convent walls, no matter how many bumbling poltroons are after you.”

She blinked. “You knew?”

“My great lacking is my inability to hold my temper. There is no’ anything wrong with my wits.” He gave her a lopsided smile, its very imperfection splitting her heart.

He leaned in, dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Or dare I hope you find me so irresistible you couldn’t help but throw yourself into my arms?”

“If I do?” Madeline blurted, too light-headed to check her words.

“So, good sir!” The ale-keeper swept up to their table. “All is readied.”

Iain turned to face him. “Our room is prepared?”

“None too soon, it would seem.” The man glanced at Madeline, his words and the look leaving no doubt that he’d seen them kissing.

“My husband and I thank you.” She thought fast. “We have only just wed.”

“Ah, well.” The man beamed. “A long happy life to you, and many strapping bairns.”

“We thank you.” Iain supported her explanation. “Regarding our lodgings, the chamber is clean? I’ve nae wish to sleep fully clad. No’ this night, you’ll understand?”

“So I do.” The proprietor used his drying cloth to mop at his glistening brow. “My own wife saw to the tidying. The room is fine as any and better than most. You can see we’re full to the rafters, but you’ll find it well-appointed and” – he slid another glance at Madeline – “private enough to serve your needs.

“More than one freshly wed pair has enjoyed that room,” he added, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard only praise for its comforts.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Iain said, sounding pleased indeed.

Madeline could only smile when the man looked at her, clearly expecting similar enthusiasm.

Her heart beat faster than the rain striking the window shutters, so she glanced aside, letting the chill air pouring through the slats cool her heated cheeks.

In the same moment, feminine laughter came from the sleeping hall. Hearing it – aware of its source – sent a rush of nerves down her spine.

“One other matter.” Iain’s tone changed. “The room is no’ used for…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Nae worries.” The man took a lantern off a shelf and lit its wick. That done, he gestured to a narrow, dark stairway at the back of the room.

“None save quality climb thon steps.” His barrel chest swelled a bit. “All others take their pleasure belowstairs. You, my lord, shall pass the night in a blessed haven.”

“Then take us there.” Iain stood, helping Madeline to her feet as well. “We are ready.”

“An honor, sir.” The ale-keeper nodded, clearly pleased. “Follow me,” he added, and raised his lantern.

Turning, he struck a swift path through the crowded tables, making for the far wall and the spiral stairwell cut into its thickness.

Iain strode after him, his grip on Madeline’s wrist giving her no choice but to follow, her gaze on the looming threshold. Dimly lit by a few sputtering wall torches, the steps wound upward into the shadows. Truth be told, she knew exactly what awaited her beyond the well-worn steps.

If she allowed her passions to get the better of her.

But she wouldn’t.

No matter how much she wanted more of Iain’s kisses. And despite the way her heart clutched at the thought of sharing darker, deeper intimacies with him. The kind they’d enjoyed countless times in her most secret dreams.

Hitching her skirts, she tried to ignore the lurid images. They whirled across her senses, threatening to trample everything she held as right and honorable.

But she climbed the stair behind him, the conflicting emotions inside her waging a fiercer battle with each ascending step.

“Have a care, lass, the stair is uneven,” Iain warned over his shoulder. Releasing her wrist, he laced his strong, warm fingers with hers.

His words almost made her laugh.

A nervous laugh, for he had no idea how much care she was already taking. Even his simple words of caution, spoken in his smooth, deep voice, melted her.

Jellied her knees so badly she could hardly manage the steps, slanting or not.

Feeling trapped, apprehensive, and excited in one, she followed him onto the landing, and the moment she set foot on the creaky wood-planked floor, a cold wave of jitters swept away the last remnants of her courage.

For good or ill, she was about to spend the night with her shadow man.

Candlelit hours alone with the man she’d now styled Master of the Highlands. The compelling man who’d branded his claim on her soul the very first time she’d felt him wrapping himself so warmly around her heart. His own broken one reaching out to her, needing her.

Now…

“That be your room,” the ale-keeper declared with pride, his voice loud in the quiet of the landing. “The last one down,” he added, gesturing to the end of the poorly lit passage where soft yellow light shone from beneath a door.

“You’ll be well pleased.” He started forward, his lantern casting shadows on the walls, each one seeming to point long, accusing fingers at Madeline.

“I’ve nae doubt.” Iain squeezed her hand, but the gesture he’d surely meant to be comforting only flustered her more. That wee physical contact sent little bolts of flame skimming across her skin.

As if he knew, he glanced over his shoulder at her, one brow lifted in silent question.

Was she ready?

She nodded, sparing herself the shame of voicing a lie.

Beyond him, the ale-keeper had reached the end of the darkened passage and was already opening the door to their room. Welcoming light spilled out, its glow banishing the shadows.

Madeline’s heart leapt to her throat.

She gulped.

But then she straightened, put back her shoulders, and braced herself to make the best of what she couldn’t change.

Fleeing was no longer an option.

The same wet and windy night, but in far less comfortable quarters deep in the bowels of Abercairn Castle, Sir John Drummond, true laird of the stronghold, drew a wheezy breath of chill, musty air. It was the best he could hope for in his dungeon cell.

He thanked the saints that as a young man, his first act upon becoming laird had been to abolish use of this selfsame hellhole. A cramped and dank niche scarce larger than a garderobe and equally foul-smelling.

An abomination beyond any man’s dignity.

Sir John prided himself on being a just man, a fair and kindhearted one.

And it was his great softheartedness, the lack of steel and fire in his blood, that made him a much-loved father to his people, but a not so notable laird.

A poor leader, were anyone callous or bold enough to speak the truth.

A truth that had landed him in his present predicament and would no doubt cost him his life.

But not his beloved daughter’s.

And for her – to ensure she lived and remained unharmed – he’d draw on the strength of the more stalwart Drummond lairds who’d gone before him.

He’d do so for her, for Madeline. Even though she’d never know. He would. His daring would be his last gift to her, the daughter he loved more than life.

“Speak!” His gaoler, Sir Bernhard Logie, kicked his leg, the pain sharp and fiery. “Where are the jewels?”

Sir John shook his head. “Have none,” he rasped.

“Aye, you do.” Logie kicked him again, this time in the ribs. “English booty. All ken your father harvested riches from the slain English after Bannockburn. Many say he spent days gathering English swords and armor, simply to pry away the jewels. Word is he even cut off beringed fingers, anything to get gemstones – and with the Bruce’s sanction!”

Logie peppered him with the same questions he shot at him every day. “I’ve found your treasury stores, your gold and silver coin, but not the stolen English riches. Where are they?”

Pausing, he considered the fingernails of one hand, his face a tight-set mask. “It will go easier on you if you speak.”

But his threat only earned him the same blank stare Sir John gave him each time he sought to interrogate him.

Sir John pressed parchment-dry lips together in a show of defiance that, truth be known, required little effort. Just as his limbs withered by the day, becoming too thin and weak to do his will, so, too, did his cracked and parched tongue lie dead as a dried autumn leaf in his mouth.

“Where is your daughter, John? Where would she go?” Silver Leg began his second assault of asked-daily questions. “Who would harbor her?”

Ignoring him, John turned his head to the side. He fastened his stare on the narrow air slit cut high in the opposite wall and hoped Logie wouldn’t notice that if the wind caught the rain just right, a strong enough gust could send a burst of fine, wet mist into the cell.

The moisture John gleaned in that way went far in keeping him alive.

And miserable though he was at the moment, neither did he want to die. Unlike the Drummond lairds before him, he lacked the courage to look death in the eye and feel no fear.

“Think you can ignore me?” Silver Leg came closer, nudged his hip with a booted foot. “I see the serving woman brought you a plaid,” he said, leaning down to muss the length of wool Morven had so lovingly tucked around John’s shackled legs.

“She fretted you’d perish of the cold. I told her she could bring you your own plaid, the one on your bed. She declined because my two greyhounds sleep on it. She said the dog hair would make you sneeze.”

And Sir John did.

Just the mention of a greyhound’s coat was enough to set his nose to twitching, his eyes a-water.

“That bad, eh?” Silver Leg shook his head. “A pity to leave this life without knowing the companionship and loyalty of a great-hearted dog,” he added, his tone softening as he spoke of his pets. “I would not wish to be without my dogs.”

Sir John kept his face a stony mask. He struggled not to let his tormentor see he’d unwittingly trod upon another soft corner of John Drummond’s heart, for though he could never be around dogs, he’d always loved them.

“I told the serving wench you’d starve before you’d freeze to death,” Sir Bernhard’s voice turned cold again. He snapped his fingers and a pale-faced kitchen lad entered the cell with a platter of a roasted capercailzie, the large birds so plentiful on Drummond lands.

Tasty and much enjoyed throughout the Highlands, its tender, savory meat had always been one of Sir John’s favorite meals. Now the dish proved a torture as the delicious aroma filled the tiny cell.

His stomach almost convulsed with hunger. His mouth would’ve watered if only he’d had enough fluid in his body to allow it.

Silver Leg beckoned the lad to him and reached toward the platter, tearing away a roasted leg joint. He waved it in Laird Drummond’s face.

“It would be to your advantage to speak,” he advised, bringing the still-warm leg so close it almost grazed Sir John’s nose. “I know you must be famished.”

“No’ enough to oblige you,” John wheezed, narrowing his eyes at Logie.

“As you wish.” Silver Leg yanked back the roasted meat, then tossed it into a corner. There, where he’d signaled the kitchen lad to place the dinner platter, well out of Sir John’s reach.

Turning back to Sir John, he smiled. “Think hard after I leave. You might see the wisdom of being less belligerent.”

Recognizing the end of Silver Leg’s torments, Sir John gave in to his weariness and let his head fall back against the slimed stone wall behind him. The effort to hold it upright had taxed him greatly.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes and wished his sense of smell had lessened as much as his once-clear voice. His hearing also remained good, so he allowed himself a relieved sigh as he listened to Logie’s footsteps fading into the distance. For now, he would at least have his peace.

He’d survived another grilling. Sir Bernhard had failed to break him.

Nothing else mattered.

Answering the bastard’s questions would damn his daughter to certain death. Abercairn Castle did hold a considerable cache of Sassunach jewels. And it was true that they’d been taken with the Good King Robert’s blessing.

But as war booty.

Due and just reward for Drummond swords and loyalty at the Battle of Bannockburn, the hero king’s most shining triumph over the English. If Silver Leg discovered the hiding place of such a treasure, he’d have no reason to keep Madeline alive.

Sir John drew a thin breath, licked his cracked lips. With the exception of him, only his daughter knew Abercairn’s secrets.

So he kept silent.

And prayed to every saint and all the old ones to let him live long enough for his daughter to get as far away from Abercairn as her feet could carry her.