Brussels

S hoved into the dank cargo hold along with his bagpipes, Niven sought solace in his music during the long voyage. He took some comfort in the fact he was still alive. If Rowan had wanted him dead, he'd already be floating face down in the mirky waters of the Thames instead of sitting jammed between pieces of artillery.

He could readily accept the Halsteads had gone to the extreme of kidnapping him to protect Willow, but he refused to believe the duke would sanction his murder.

He knew for certain that the family would never reveal their plot to Willow. She would think he'd abandoned her, that he didn't love her enough to risk everything. Her grief tore at his heart. "Willow," he pleaded into the darkness. "Dinna lose faith."

When the schooner finally bumped against a dock after hours at sea, another reality had to be faced. What did the Three Trees intend to do with him in a theater of war?

The heavy thud of marching feet went on and on above him for a long time before the answer came.

When the cargo hatch was opened, he narrowed his eyes against the glare of daylight. A dark figure moved into view, too small to be Rowan Halstead.

"It's safe to come out, Mr. King," Johnson said.

Niven climbed up onto the deck. Hundreds of vessels lay at anchor as far as the eye could see. The reek of fish guts was overwhelming. The ranks of the Cornwall regiment stood to attention on the nearby dock. Mounted on horseback, the Three Trees were stationed beside their companies, apparently unconcerned with the fate of the man they'd kidnapped.

"Antwerp," the captain explained, confirming Niven's suspicions. "Ironically, Bonaparte expanded this harbor and built the breakwater."

"What happens next?" Niven asked, a glimmer of hope flickering in his breast. "Am I to sail back with ye now they've taught me a lesson?"

"I wish with all my heart that was the case," Johnson replied. "Yon lordlings have forbidden me to take you back. Their instructions are for you to follow the regiment."

Niven almost had to laugh at the notion—a kilt-clad Highlander clutching his bagpipes while eating the dust of a regiment of the British Army in a foreign land. His amusement was short-lived. "Where are they headed?" he growled.

", about thirty miles."

In the Highlands, Niven thought nothing of walking thirty miles or more, but the intended humiliation stuck in his craw. If the Three Trees thought he wasn't up to the march, he'd show them. He'd wager the 32 nd Regiment of Foot had never before marched to the wail of the pipes.

Most of the infantrymen in Rowan's regiment were exhausted by the time they reached . He'd ridden all the way but it had been a test of his stamina. Niven had never stopped playing his infernal bagpipes, even after the sun went down.

Rowan was further irritated when several fellow officers remarked that the marching music had kept up morale among the ranks.

Confound the man! Rowan had thought King would fall behind and become hopelessly lost or drop from exhaustion. Instead, he looked like he'd been for a short walk in Hyde Park. The grateful soldiers welcomed him into their regimental barracks, despite the fact he didn't belong. The Scot would no doubt endear himself even further to the rank and file if he could lay his hands on a fiddle.

"We must get rid of him," Rowan told Ash and Thorne.

"Hold on," Ash growled. "I wasn't happy about the kidnapping. I'm not in favor of murder."

Rowan looked to the heavens for patience. "That's not what I mean. The 79 th are part of the same brigade as our regiment. He'll fit in there."

Thorne scoffed. "The 79 th might be a Highland regiment, but Niven isn't a soldier. You can't expect…"

Rowan admitted inwardly that he hadn't really thought through what might happen once they reached the European continent. As long as Niven remained with the 32 nd , whatever befell him would be on Rowan's head, but if they fobbed him off on another regiment… "Enough," he declared. "I intend to speak to Major General Kempt."

"Good luck explaining to the commander of our brigade how Niven came to be in the Netherlands," Ash quipped.

His brother was right. Rowan could hardly admit he'd kidnapped the Scot. It might be grounds for a court-martial. "I'll think of something," he replied.

The Three Trees had wandered through the barracks on several occasions but Niven might as well be invisible for all the attention they'd paid him. It seemed they had no idea what to do with him now he'd befriended several men of the regiment. He'd been quizzed as to how he'd ended up marching with them. For reasons he didn't fully understand, he'd been reluctant to admit he'd been kidnapped. The soldiers were about to face a mighty enemy and it wouldn't do to undermine their confidence in their officers. A day of reckoning would come, but this wasn't the time or place.

Sitting on his cot in the barracks one evening, Niven was eating tasteless army rations off a tin plate when he became aware the chatter around him had ceased.

Expecting to see one of the Halstead boys when he looked up, he rose immediately to greet Kenneth McKay, the piper from the Highland Regiment he'd met on the docks weeks ago. "'Tis a pleasure to see a fellow Scot," he declared, extending his hand.

"Aye, what the fyke is a highlander doin' wi' an English regiment?" McKay asked.

Niven trotted out his usual response. "'Tis a long story."

McKay frowned but didn't press him. "I heard tell ye piped all the way to ."

Niven grinned. "Aye. I did."

McKay smirked. "I also heard ye're nay a soldier. Ye've nay weapon nor uniform."

"True."

"I reckon I can rustle up a proper tartan and a uniform if ye've a mind to join our regiment."

Niven shook his head. "I wouldna be much use to ye. If I fired a musket, 'tis doubtful I'd hit anything."

McKay shook his head. "The regiment has enough men to do that. We need another piper."

It was as if Fate had brought Niven to this dangerous place. It was well known that a tune on the pipes gave men courage when they faced an enemy. He could play his part. "I accept," he said, suddenly remembering McKay's words. "Though I dinna ken what ye mean by a proper tartan."

"Ye canna seriously expect to join our ranks wearin' a MacGregor kilt? I'll find a Cameron of Erracht plaid for ye and a bonnet. And the army's Ghillie brogues will protect ye better than yon boots."

Niven wolfed down the rest of his meal, grabbed his bagpipes and bade farewell to his chums in the 32 nd .