“Is that your question?”

“You ken it's not.” Smiling, he nodded at her glass, indicating that she still needed to empty it.

“I know, I know.” S he picked up her glass, willing away the anticipatory roiling of her belly. Accustomed now to its bite, she gulped the whisky back and this time actually enjoyed the feel of its smoky fingers wending their way through her veins.

He merely stared silently at her. “I've never seen a lass able to stomach whisky.”

“Well,” she managed, “'they do say it's 'spunkier than tea,' right?”

“Do they, then?”

“Yeah, like the song.” She felt loose now. Not yet drunk, but pleasantly tipsy. She poured another dram into the cup, and, holding it aloft, she sang a line from her father's favorite Irish drinking tune. “You're sweeter, stronger, decenter, you're spunkier than tea.” She let it rip, her Irish brogue blooming round and thick in imitation of her dad. “Ohh whisky you're me darlin' drunk or sohhh -ber.”

He laughed again, and she laughed too, from deep in her belly, then instantly clutched her hands to her torso in pain.

“Och, easy lass.” MacColla shot to his feet. He looked unsure what to do, and took up the decante r to pour more into her glass. “More of this might help the pain.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh, aye, lass.”

“Uhh… ” Her tipsy good cheer was suddenly replaced by a searing melancholy. “It's not helping.” The reason she wanted to get drunk in the first place slamme d into her gut, as great a shock to her system as her torn muscles.

She was trapped, somehow sent back to the seventeenth century. Alone but for this man, famous for his vicious feats in battle. Alone, and with no way to get back.

“Come.” His voice was so low, she wasn't entirely certain he'd spoken. And then she felt his hands. He'd moved to stand behind her, to massage the bruised muscles of her back and sides.

She'd studied those hands earlier, could picture them now in her mind's eye. The fingers, long and strong, and his palms, wide, coarse. Those huge hands spanned her back easily. Moved up and down, gently probing the tender spots between ribs until he found the source of her pain. Haley had never considered herself a small woman - she wasn't a small woman - and yet she felt almost delicate in that broad, muscular grip.

“I… ” She attempted to speak, but couldn't. She had to get a hold of herself. This was entirely unexpected. Alasdair MacColla. Giving her a back massage? It was too much.

Desperate to regain the upper hand, her voice cracked,

“What can you tell me of James Graham?”

He stilled for a just a moment, then continued. “I think the question is, lass, what can you tell me?”

“That he was captured.”

“Aye.”

“An… and… ” His thumb grazed a knot. She gasped, and MacColla kneaded it slowly, tenderly. She hadn't realized how clenched her muscles had been until his fingers found the knot, released it, loosening a warm rush of blood through her torso. Her rib cage opened, and she took her first deep inhale since her injury. Oh God, pure heaven.

Wait. Concentrate. “And then… then he was paraded through the countryside.”

“All know that.”

She blinked her eyes for a moment, gathering her wits. The sudden openness in her chest made her light-headed.

“And… hanged?” she ventured.

“So they say.”

“Mmhm.” So they say. That's just it, she thought. Fact? Or hearsay.

Haley was about to probe more, when MacColla's thumb grazed the underside of her breast. It seemed innocent enough. He was intent on massaging her tight muscles. The brush was accidental. And yet, even as her muscles released, her breasts beaded tight. Her breath came short, despite the newfound openness of her lungs.

“But… but did anyone see… ” Her breath hitched. A quick, sharp inhalation. His fingers now, rubbing along the sensitive slope just underneath her nipple.

“See what, Fitzpatrick?” His tone was no -nonsense.

Simply mild curiosity. He seemed not to have any suspicion of what she asked, or of what his touch was doing to her.

“See… ” Oh God. She turned slightly. Purposefully. Angling toward him. She had to know if his touch was deliberate.

God help her, she hoped it was.

“Aye?” His voice was ragged, low. Did she hear an echo of her own desire there?

A throat cleared, and MacColla was instantly apart from her. It was Scrymgeour, standing in the doorway, watching.

“I thought we could retire to my sitting room, MacColla.” Scrymgeour's eyes scanned the room, and Haley wasn't sure if what she read there was judgment, curiosity, surprise, or a little of all three.

“Aye.” MacColla's nod was curt. “If… if you'll excuse me,” he told her.

Excuse him. Were his words loaded? Had he meant to touch her just then? Had she sensed his intent, or was she simply imagining it?

“Yes,” she replied. “Of course.”

As he left, she shuddered an exhale. The movement caused a fresh twinge, sharp along her side. But with it came focus.

And so this time, Haley welcomed her pain.

Chapter Thirteen

“Are you trying to kill me?” Haley pulled the blanket over her face, turning her back to MacColla's sister. A drumbeat pounded in her head, and daylight brought it to a crescendo that she thought would cleave her skull.

Her eyeballs hurt, her throat was dry, her brain was scrambled, and, whatever that home -distilled whisky was, it had given her a hangover so painful she imagined surely that, if Jean only listened hard enough, she'd be able to discern the thumping in Haley's head with her ears alone.

And then there was the whole issue of safety. She tried not to consider the various technologies employed by modern distillers that made liquor fit for consumption. The concept of pasteurization had occurred to her more than once, each time bringing with it a fresh throbbing that reverberated all the way down her spine.

Jean made a small, exasperated sound, and Haley peeked tentatively out from beneath the blanket. The girl was still there, standing stricken, bearing the cup she'd brought. The white viscous liquid wavered in her trembling hand, and Haley added nausea to her list of ailments.

“Really. Jean,” she croaked, “I'm grateful, but… ”

“It always helps my brothers, aye?” She took a step closer to Haley's bed. “They call it their Morning Glory. Though I dare say, you missed the morning by a fair piece.”

She ignored the sharp pang at the memory of her own brothers, shining bright in her mind's eye. How long had she been gone? Would they think her dead by now?

Oh guys… forgive me. Then quick on the heels of that came a bright light, an idea like a cartoon bulb flashing over her head. Brothers.

Haley hadn't considered it before, but the best source of information could be standing right in front of her. Of course MacColla would've had brothers. She'd known of his father, knew vaguely of an older brother, but that was the extent of her knowledge. If she ingratiated herself with his sister, she might be able to learn more about the man. And in so doing, perhaps gain some insight into the fate of James Graham.

Haley grudgingly took the glass, and the smile that bloomed onto the girl's face was startling. She was downright pretty when she wasn't pulling her meek act, and the realization made it almost worthwhile.

Until she smelled the stuff in the glass.

Shuddering, she quickly foisted it back in Jean's direction.

The girl merely smiled and shook her head.

“Okay,” Haley conceded, “but can I at least hear what's in it?”

“Drink it first. Once you see it down, then I'll tell.”

Haley scowled. Was that a smile on Jean's face? She sniffed the liquid again. A little foul and a little sweet. The worst combination.

Haley held it up to the light. Opaque, grayish white. She shrugged. What could it hurt? Her current hangover had to be about as low as a human could go.

“Bottoms up,” she said, and tossed the glass back.

Her stomach clenched in revolt. The shivers she'd experienced drinking MacColla's whisky were nothing compared to the revulsion that crawled up her body now, convulsing her muscles and turning her stomach.

“Oh God.” Haley wiped the tears from her eyes. “What… ?”

“Eggs. Sugar. Cream. And a dram of whisky.”

“Oh God, you are trying to kill me.”

“That's what my brothers say.”

Unreasonable hatred swelled in Haley. “You're enjoying this.” She mustered every evil look she could and shot them all in Jean's direction.

“Aye, and they say that too.” His sister smiled again, and Haley didn't know what to make of this new side of her. Jean took the glass back and wiped Haley's mouth with a rag. And Haley was so stunned, she allowed it. Jean added saucily. “And they always manage to survive.”

Haley had to chuckle then, at the unexpected verve. She hadn't known MacColla's sister had it in her.

“I suppose you make them drink it too?”

“Oh, aye. they'd not tell me no.”

“I… ”

“You don't believe me.” It was a statement, and Haley realized it was true. She'd discounted Jean, and the girl had known it. She tucked the rag at her waist and added, “Well, not all can act as you do. Just because I don't swagger around ”-

“I don't swagger-” Haley protested.

“Because I don't swagger about like a man, doesn't mean I can't get a man to listen to me. I dare say, my brothers mind me more than they do each other.”

“Why aren't you married?” The question struck Haley suddenly. Surely Jean was old by seventeenth-century standards.

“I was.” Though her tone brooked no questions, the pain that flickered momentarily across Jean's features was impossible to miss. “He died. I'm a widow.”