Chapter 4

"We have to do something," Leitis said, "or they will kill him."

The members of the clan were crowded together in Hamish's cottage. It was surprisingly neat and tidy, for the home of a man who had lived alone these past years. None of the furniture, from the benches to the shelves built against one wall, showed any signs of dust. The dishes were stacked on the shelf above the table, and the bed was neatly made.

In a vase on the windowsill were a few flowers, a common sight in the spring and summer. Leitis had always thought the bouquet was her uncle's way of remembering his wife, since she had often done the same.

The people who faced her now might have refused to betray Hamish to the English, but they were in no mood to forgive him. It wasn't only Leitis's cottage that had burned today. Malcolm was now homeless, as well as Mary and her son.

"Hamish made the choice to surrender to the English," Malcolm said bluntly. "And now you want us to rescue him."

"Would you leave him to be hanged, Malcolm?" she asked quietly.

She studied the faces of these people she'd known all her life. They had all suffered a loss in the past year, had known privation and hardship. "Not one more person should die," she said softly. "Not even if he was foolish."

"Sedgewick will not listen to us," Dora said. "Have you forgotten what he did to you?" She stared pointedly at the bruise that covered half of Leitis's face. Dora had been like a second mother to her. But that did not mean that their relationship was always easy.

"Perhaps the colonel would listen," Leitis said coaxingly.

"Why should he? He's just another Englishman," Malcolm said, looking as skeptical as Dora.

"He saved the village," Leitis said.

Malcolm fell silent at that comment.

"He would have to listen if we all went together," she said, desperate to convince them.

"All that would do," Alisdair said, "would be to get the lot of us killed."

"Very well," she said, pressing her suddenly damp hands against her skirt. "I will go alone." A bluff that she hoped would sway them. But instead of an argument, she was greeted with stunned silence. A moment later, protesting voices filled the cottage.

"You cannot be that foolish, Leitis," Dora said.

"A lone woman with all those Englishmen? Are you daft, Leitis?" Peter asked. "Send you to the sea and you'll not get salt water."

Leitis glanced at him. Peter had a saying for every occasion, and it mattered little to the old man if any of them made sense. Most of the clan had learned to ignore him.

"Hamish would not be pleased for you to sacrifice yourself in order to save him," Alisdair said.

"I'm aware of the danger," she said quietly. "But there is no other choice."

Dora moved closer, her look intent. "Do you think the English will simply release him because you ask it?"

"Should I not try, Dora, because it will be difficult?" she asked, returning the other woman's gaze. "It's a pity our men did not learn that lesson before they marched off to follow the prince."

Dora looked away.

"Will none of you come with me? Have we become such cowards?" Her question silenced them.

"Don't empty your own mouth to shame others, Leitis MacRae."

She turned and stared at Peter. "It's an honest question I've asked, Peter. Have we all lost our courage?"

"Not every shoe fits every foot," he replied.

Leitis frowned at him. His pronouncements were growing wearisome.

Mary stepped forward. Her husband had been killed at Falkirk. The child in her arms was the youngest in their clan, born after his father's death. She came and stood beside Leitis. "I'll go with you," she said calmly.

"And I," Malcolm said surprisingly. He walked to stand beside Leitis, one hand fingering his beard. Snow-white, it came to a point halfway to his waist and marked him as one of the oldest men in the clan.

"You're all fools, then," Peter said. "Just like Hamish." He left the cottage without another word. Most of the clan followed him a moment later, although more than one person looked back regretfully.

Leitis surveyed those who remained. Ada's swollen and knotted joints pained her greatly on damp days like today, but she smiled her cooperation, and Malcolm had lost the use of his left arm a few years earlier from palsy.

Mary stepped up to Dora, placed her sleeping child in her arms. "Will you care for my son until I return, then?" she asked, bending and placing a soft kiss on her child's cheek.

"And if you don't come back?" Dora asked sharply.

Mary tilted her head up proudly. "Then tell him that I was as brave as his father."

"I'll care for him," Dora said grudgingly. "As if he's my own." She glanced above the child's sleeping form to Leitis. "Your family would counsel you against this, Leitis," she said, narrow-eyed. A final remonstration, one that had the power to hurt.

Leitis took a deep breath, wishing she felt more courageous. "Hamish is my family, Dora," she said softly. With a forced smile, she left the cottage.

Patricia Anne Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, sat beside her husband, his hand held warmly between hers.

His bedchamber was a shadowed place against the bright afternoon sun. The day was fair, with not a hint of clouds in the deep blue of the sky. A faint breeze, laden with the heady scent of flowers, coaxed the thickly leafed branches of the home woods to trembling.

She had ordered the curtains and windows opened so that Gerald might enjoy the sight of Brandidge Hall in summer for one last time. But it should be a day of gloom and rain, one of wild winds and chill, because her husband was dying.

The Sherbourne estate was a splendid place, a tribute to Gerald's love of antiquity. This room was the same, a relic of another time, a life he'd lived with his first wife, Moira.

Burgundy silk covered the walls; plaster cornices painted a soft ivory adorned the ceiling. The floor was the color of roasted chestnuts and heavily polished, reflecting the elaborately carved legs of the French furniture. A delicate-looking table, heavily inlaid, sat on one side of the room, an armoire crowned with an ornately carved design of flowers on the other. Gerald's bed with thick columns and soaring headboard dominated the room, however.

A picture was mounted on the wall beside the bed, the scene one her husband had commissioned on his last visit to the continent. It depicted a series of gray and dusky steps descending down to a riverbank. The landscape held some significance for Gerald, she believed. But he'd never told her and she'd never asked. Some things were not mentioned between them.

Such as the portrait hanging above the mantel.

She glanced at it now, as she often had in the past hours. When she had first married Gerald, she'd not objected to its presence, having agreed to be his wife for reasons of property more than fondness. His estate had bordered her father's land, and his wealth had greatly exceeded her family's own dwindling coffers.

But what had begun as a marriage of convenience had altered over the years to become more, at least for her.

Gerald, however, had been a distant husband, one who insisted upon his own activities. He preferred to live in London several months of the year, or visit another one of his properties for the change of scenery. As if to placate her for his paucity of presence, he was overly generous, providing her with a large allowance and encouraging her to spend it on activities that would bring her pleasure.

As if money could ever replace the love she craved.

If he could not love her, at least he had given her David, the child of her heart.

Gerald's breathing was growing worse, and they had added camphor pots to the room and a mustard plaster to his chest. He'd only pulled it off, complaining that it burned him. His illness had come upon him suddenly, so quickly that she had no time to prepare for the eventuality of his death.

"You should sleep, my love," she said, standing and pressing a kiss upon his forehead. It was coldly damp, as if the fever were passing. Taking a cloth from the table, she blotted his face gently. "When you've rested, I'll call David."

Gerald opened his eyes and turned his head slowly to the side, his smile fleeting and weak. Tenderly, Patricia placed her palm against his cheek. Time was short, that much she knew from the waxen color of his face.

"Rest, Gerald," she said gently.

"Alec," he said, the name only a breath.

"I would send word to him, Gerald, but I don't know where he is."

He shook his head feebly. "There's not enough time," he wheezed, the effort of talking taxing his fading strength. "Tell him…"

"That you love him," she interjected. "That you've always been proud of him," she added.

He nodded weakly.

A few moments later, he spoke again. She bent close so that she could hear his words. "Tell him to care for David," he whispered.

She nodded, pressed her fingers against his cool lips. "I shall," she said, in an effort to reassure him.

Alec was under no constraints to provide for his half-brother. The Sherbourne fortune was inexorably tied to the entailed properties left to Alec as heir. A second son was expected to make his own way in the world.

Once more she glanced at the portrait. Even now she could not hate the woman seated there. Instead, she envied her. Moira MacRae Landers had been a beautiful woman, one whose vivacity shone through her blue eyes. She was depicted sitting on a carpet of green, not in a dress, as was more proper, but in a sapphire-blue riding habit. Her hand was resting on her son's shoulder while Alec's brown eyes were brimming with happiness.

Patricia bowed her head at her husband's side. Her prayers had ceased to be for his recovery, since it was so obvious that he would not live. Now she only prayed that he felt no pain.

His lips were nearly blue, and there were deep gray circles beneath his eyes. The handsome Gerald she'd once known had become an old man in the last week. She stroked the back of his hand, leaned down, and placed her cheek upon it.

"Moira," he suddenly said, rising up from the pillows, his voice strong and filled with joy. He looked at the far side of the bed where the hangings were drawn, a blinding smile on his face. Trembling, he stretched out his hand. Then he sighed, deeply and heavily, before collapsing back on the bed.

It took a moment for her to realize that he had died, left her in that instant with no more a farewell than a simple gasp. The surge of grief was so strong that Patricia felt it pressing against her chest like a giant fist.

Slowly she reached up and closed his eyes. Only then did she place her hands over her face and succumb to her tears.

As a leader of men, Alec had to be able to judge character quickly and accurately. In the case of Major Matthew Sedgewick, his initial impression did not improve as the hours passed.

The major proved to be reluctant to divulge information, contentious when questioned, and generally sullen. Alec was not accustomed to tolerating such belligerence. Yet Sedgewick posed a difficult problem.

Alec understood the major's sense of betrayal at being passed over for command. He had accomplished a great deal in the last year by constructing Fort William using unseasoned troops. His current behavior, however, was not furthering his career in an army that was growing increasingly political. Instead of simply accepting the situation as it was, he was choosing, instead, to let his resentment fester.

But then, this was a man who had struck a woman. Indication enough of the deficiencies in Sedgewick's character.

Pushing his personal feelings aside, Alec concentrated on the task at hand, a surprise inspection of a few of the soldiers' quarters.

In larger garrisons one wife was normally allowed for every hundred soldiers. Preference was given to those women who'd been on campaign before and were used to the harsh conditions, including the fact that she must share a rough cot with her husband in a chamber that housed eight men.

Each room boasted a fireplace used both for warmth as well as cooking. From the lingering odor, the inhabitants of this particular chamber preferred their rations scorched.

He opened the chest at the end of each bed. White dress gaiters lay on the bottom, covered by waist and pouch belts. An extra blanket, two lengths of toweling, and sheeting comprised a man's essentials. What other personal articles a soldier possessed were not to occupy more than a hand's width and be stored at the bottom of his chest.

A few minutes later Alec left the room, followed by Sedgewick and Harrison. The sighs of relief from the occupants of the room were premature. The soldiers stationed at Fort William were about to undergo a radical change in their duties come morning.

Alec had already completed his inspection of the magazine, ordinance, and provision stores. As he had originally suspected, Fort William was not appreciably different from other English fortifications. It was built to be self-sustaining in that it boasted a brew-house and a bakery. But he had never before seen a stable where the horses were outnumbered by the pigs and cows. The assorted grunts, lowing, and neighing rendered speech nearly impossible.

He stared at the animal stalls. Sedgewick's talents obviously did not extend to animal husbandry. The condition of the enclosures was as slovenly as that of the soldiers he'd seen.

"We've had to import the livestock, sir. As well as the grains," Sedgewick grudgingly explained.

He didn't need to elaborate. The emaciated condition of the inhabitants of the village attested to their near starvation. It was the same all over Scotland. Cumberland's orders were severe and designed to punish the vanquished Highlanders.

Alec was grateful he'd chosen to quarter at Gilmuir. The stench of men and livestock wafted through the barracks, remaining long after the three men left the courtyard.

"Have the men been treated for lice?" he asked. Each soldier in his command was required to maintain a certain order about his uniform and person. Another detail on which Sedgewick was obviously lax. The men in the courtyard had not impressed him with either their cleanliness or their discipline.

His troops could be fighting in mire that day, but before they bedded down, time would be spent cleaning their weapons, polishing their brass, and shining their boots. He had discovered years ago that discipline in the details made for better soldiers. Consequently, the men in his command were more concerned about passing morning inspection than in worrying whether or not they would survive the next battle.

"Lice?" Sedgewick asked, an answer couched in the question.

"Have them bathe in vinegar and water," Alec said. "Beginning immediately."

Sedgewick frowned but did not respond.

"I want to meet with your commanders tomorrow morning after inspection," Alec said as they walked down the narrow hallway leading to the front wall.

"Commanders, sir?"

"What is your objection now, Sedgewick?" he asked impatiently, glancing over his shoulder.

"I have had no need to delegate, sir," Sedgewick said rigidly. "I oversee the details of this command myself."

"Not an adequate way to manage a great many men, Major," Alec said sharply.

He turned to Harrison, quietly following them. "I want a staff meeting in the morning," he said.

His adjutant nodded.

"Let's see about these cannon, Major," Alec said, anxious to finish the inspection and rid himself of the other man's company.

An hour later he left Sedgewick nursing his own petulance and gratefully returned to the chamber in Gilmuir. Removing his coat, he hung it carefully on the peg beside the door. There was no armoire in this room, nothing of the studied comfort of his home in England. But then, there hadn't been for many years. Strange, how coming to Scotland had initiated in him a longing for all those things he had once set aside with such ease. Or perhaps it was not so much Scotland as it was the fact that he was weary of war and campaigning.

He hadn't realized how tired he was until this last year.

He went to the fire, stood staring down at the remnants of cold ashes. How long had they been here? Years?

His aide, Donald, had already made his presence known. In addition to moving Alec's dispatch case in here, along with a small round table and two chairs, the rubble that had littered the floor had been brushed away. The counterpane had been removed along with the mattress. In addition, Donald had placed two lanterns and a variety of stubby candles on the mantel and a thick candle in the middle of the table. Signs of progress, then, and habitation.

He sat at the table, opened his case, and retrieved his maps. His adult mind sketched in details his memory of childhood had forgotten. He divided his territory into quadrants and assigned a schedule of patrols. Beginning tomorrow, he would begin to ascertain the degree of rebellion in this section of Scotland. He doubted, frankly, that the Highlanders would ever challenge England again, so thoroughly had they been defeated.

The schedule finished, he began his report to General Wescott, his immediate superior. He carefully worded his overall impressions, along with his proposed changes in command. But he did not mention the fire or his opinion that Major Sedgewick was unfit for any type of command. Criticism of the man after only one day of observation would be seen as impulsive and rash.

But he had struck Leitis, an act Alec could not forgive.

He leaned back in his chair and surrendered to memory only hours old. Her coloring was too vibrant for her to be considered attractive in England, where a pallid appearance was all the rage. But she fit this land of sharp cliffs and rolling glens. She was taller than he had thought she would be, and too slender.

What had life been like for her since that day when the carriage had taken him home to England? Improvident thoughts, almost childish ones, as if his boyish self had escaped from the box where he'd been carefully stored all these years.

I am Ian. Words he could not speak to her. I am the boy you knew so long ago. Time had changed both of them.

He concentrated on his letter again, pushing Leitis's face from his mind with difficulty.

He sealed the dispatch and left it on the table for Donald to take to the messenger. A nicety of his rank, a courier when he wished it. As a lowly lieutenant he had not been so fortunate. Even so, his correspondence to his family had dwindled and finally stopped years ago. He couldn't remember why, now. It had simply become a habit not to write. An attrition of caring, perhaps, aided by the fact that he had not seen any of them for years.

His father had never been the same after his mother had died. Gone was the Earl of Sherbourne who had once laughed with abandon, who rode with his son and showed him the best fishing places along the River Brye. The man who'd taken his place was somber and stern, and had little time for the pursuit of pleasure just for the sake of it.

He'd married again, to a woman who had been sweet and kind to him. Patricia, Alec remembered, had sided with him when he had wanted to purchase his commission.

There had been, after all, few options open to the son of an earl. Either fritter his time away waiting for his father to conveniently die, or manage the properties soon to be left him. His nature despised indolence and his father's factors left the earl well informed and ably served. Alec had never regretted his choice to serve in the military.

What would the earl say to see his current accommodations? Or even better, he thought wryly, to witness his pleasure at such Spartan conditions?

He surprised himself by pulling another piece of paper closer, dipping his quill in the inkwell, and beginning a letter to his father.

The only residual signs of the storm were the puddles in the gravel and the slow drip from the water barrels. The air was clear, as it was after a storm, but it still tasted sourly of smoke.

The journey across the land bridge was slow out of deference to the age of two of her companions.

Leitis had not been to Gilmuir since the day the English came. That afternoon she had stood upon a high hill and watched as the castle was systematically destroyed. The cannon had sounded like thunder; the fist of God knocking the old fortress to the ground, brick by brick. It had taken two days for it to finally crumble, and she had watched the destruction of the MacRae stronghold in a bitter kind of joy.

A shameful admission, but at the time she had been grieving for Marcus and for her family. It had seemed a right and proper thing that Gilmuir should be razed. She had been so filled with rage and pain that she had wanted others to suffer as well. It appeared as if she had gotten her wish after all. All of Scotland now wept.

Fort William loomed like a squat monster on the landscape. A stark red from the distance, it appeared even uglier up close.

She gathered her courage into little parcels, tying it together with a net made of sheer bluster. She didn't pretend that their errand would be easily accomplished. But Hamish did not deserve to die for his foolishness.

She pulled down on her sleeves, a nervous gesture, but no amount of tugging would make them come below her elbows. Of pale blue, this was the least favorite and the most ill-fitting of her four dresses. Now it was the only garment she owned.

"There's no door," Ada said, staring at the front of the fort. "Only those windows."

"They're for cannon," Malcolm said, squinting at the wall.

"How do we get in?" Mary asked.

"Perhaps we should walk around to the rear," Leitis suggested.

"They have no guards about," Malcolm said.

"We don't pose much of a threat," Leitis replied.

"Still and all, I'm not in a mood to be shot because I'm skulking around an English fort."

Leitis frowned at him, led the way down the end of one long wall, only to find a courtyard, one filled with soldiers and animals. For a moment Leitis could only blink in amazement at the scene.

In the corner a man was stirring a huge wooden wash pot with a long-handled pole. And in another corner men bathed in what looked like troughs, splashing each other and yelling as an odor reminiscent of brine wafted in the air, vying with the animal smells.

"Dear Saint Columba," Mary whispered, "they're all naked as the day they were born."

"Not quite," Ada said with a chuckle. "They're a bit larger than bairns."

Malcolm sent Ada a fierce look, but she only wiggled her eyebrows back at him.

"We've come at wash day," Leitis said, startled.

"And not simply sheeting and clothes, either," Mary said.

"You'd think the lot of you had never seen a naked man before," Malcolm muttered.

"I've never seen an Englishman," Mary said, moving closer to Leitis. The four of them huddled in the corner, pressed together so tightly that they could feel each other breathe.

"What do we do now?" Ada asked.

"Find the colonel," Malcolm offered. "Unless he's bathing, too."

"Do you suppose it's some sort of English ritual?" Mary asked, peering over Leitis's shoulder.

"If it is," Leitis said, "I doubt it's repeated in winter."

"They'd freeze their…" After a quick look at Malcolm's frown, Ada's words stuttered to a halt.

"Well, we have to do something," Leitis said. "We can't simply stand here gaping."

"I'd rethink my words, lass," Malcolm said, frowning. "It's the three of you who are acting all ninny-like."

Leitis squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, stepped forward before she could lose her nerve. A man walking across the courtyard halted and stared at her. He approached her slowly, as if he feared she was only a vision.

"I need to speak with the colonel," she said resolutely. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her chin tilted up.

"You want to see the Butcher?" His accent was difficult for her to understand; the look in his eyes was not.

He had a thin, almost wolfish face, his grin revealing childlike nubbins of teeth and gums that were red and inflamed. His white shirt was stained and gaped open to reveal a hairy chest. It was evident he had not yet taken advantage of the bath.

"The Butcher?" she asked faintly.

"The Butcher of Inverness. The new commander."

"No, the colonel," she said, shaking her head. The man who saved the village could not be the Butcher of Inverness.

"That's the one," he said, nodding. He looked, she thought dully, pleased at her shock.

The Butcher of Inverness. They had all heard tales of the man. Those Scots who had escaped the slaughter of Culloden had been imprisoned at Inverness, only to be sent to their deaths on a whim. It was said that the Butcher would spare a prisoner because it amused him, or send him to the gallows because of the look in a man's eye.

The Butcher of Inverness? Her stomach clenched, and Leitis felt as if she might be ill.

The knock on the door was not unexpected, nor was Donald's face. His words, however, were a surprise.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but we've got trouble."

Donald had been with him ever since Flanders, having joined the army filled with dreams of grandeur and far-off battles. At first his light blond hair, rosy cheeks, and eagerness to please had marked him as barely out of boyhood. But in the past year Donald had been promoted to sergeant and lost the last of his innocence. There were times when his smile was a bit too forced and his laughter had an edge to it. The effect of Inverness, no doubt.

"What is it?" Alec asked.

Donald stepped inside the room. "Sir, there's a group of Scots in the courtyard, and there are women among them. It's almost a riot."

By the time Donald had finished his sentence, Alec was putting on his coat and out the door.

Four Scots stood surrounded by at least thirty men in various stages of undress. One elderly woman was holding her hands clenched to her chest and one old man looked ready for a fight. But it was the younger women the crowd was concentrating on, and one of those women was Leitis.

She took a few steps back to avoid one man's touch, only to bump into another man behind her. The man laughed as he pulled both her arms backward.

"Please," she said, "let us go."

"Give me a kiss and maybe I will," the man in front of her said.

"Evidently you have a great deal of time on your hands, Sergeant," Alec said curtly. "However, I can think of a number of tasks to occupy your time, none of which includes terrorizing women."

The soldiers surrounding Leitis and the other woman stepped back quickly when they realized that they had been overheard.

"Begging your pardon, Colonel," the sergeant said. "But she's a Scot."

It had been a long day; he had been in the saddle since dawn. Surely that was the only reason for the anger that nearly overpowered him then. It was too much like the emotion he felt on the battlefield, a visceral rage that masked his will to survive.

"What exactly does that mean, Sergeant, that she's a Scot?" he asked carefully, expunging from his voice any hint of emotion.

"Well, you know how they are, sir," the man said. "They'd do anything for a bit of bread and such." He grinned at Alec, an expression no doubt meant to convey masculine understanding. It had the effect of making Alec wish he were wearing his sword.

Leitis turned and faced him. Her face was pale, except for the mark of Sedgewick's blow darkening her skin. He frowned at it, suddenly irritated by her foolishness.

"The men stationed here haven't seen a woman for months," he said sharply. "Did you give no thought to your safety?"

She didn't answer his question, only asked one of her own. "Are you the new commander of Fort William?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. "The Butcher of Inverness?"

He nodded once.

She took a deep breath. "I am Leitis MacRae," she said. "You have my uncle here," she said. "I have come to ask for his release."

"Have you?"

She still possessed the devil's own arrogance. Who else would demand of him concessions when a hundred men surrounded her and her puny group of rescuers?

He spun around and led the way through Gilmuir, more in an effort to organize his thoughts than a wish to have privacy for their meeting.

The four of them followed him, glancing occasionally at the ruins of Gilmuir and whispering among themselves. Did they mourn the old castle's death, or did they simply condemn the invaders?

A blue and ebony horizon loomed, touched only here and there with a tinge of pink. Night came with reluctance to this land of sweeping shadows. But then, dawn was birthed with as much difficulty.

A stubborn land, one that mirrored its people well.

He stood with his back to them, ostensibly looking out over Loch Euliss where it flowed into Coneagh Firth. In actuality, he was thinking of the girl he had known, of five summers in which he had been first shy and then daring around her.

He turned and surveyed them.

Leitis stood in front of the group, her face carefully expressionless. So as not to anger the Butcher of Inverness?

"My uncle is an old man," she said. "Hamish sometimes forgets what year it is."

"Or the fact that Scotland lost its rebellion?" he asked dryly.

"Yes," she said simply.

The others aligned themselves behind her, as if they looked to her for guidance. She should not be here at all, let alone leading a misfit group.

"So I am to pity an old man," he said. "What are you offering in exchange?"

"We have nothing," she said shortly. "Your soldiers have slaughtered our cattle and trampled our crops."

He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the half wall.

"Therefore, you are relying solely on my compassion."

"Isn't that the definition of it?" she asked. "To give without thought of recompense?"

"I am the Butcher of Inverness," he said. "Am I supposed to have such sensibilities?"

She looked away, then glanced back. "Perhaps you should," she said firmly, her mouth in a thin line. As if, he thought, she were scolding him.

"I promise that he will never play the pipes again," she said in the silence.

"I could achieve that guarantee with his hanging," he said bluntly. "Do you also pledge obedience?"

"Mine," she said, nodding.

"And that of your clan?"

Her lips thinned as she looked down at the gravel path. "I have no right to speak for anyone else," she said reluctantly. "But I can promise that I will not disobey English laws."

"For this paltry promise you wish your uncle's safe return?"

"No," she said, looking up. "I also want the safety of my village guaranteed."

He faced Loch Euliss again. As a boy he'd stood here many times marveling at the view before him. Below Gilmuir the loch was narrow, surrounded by blue-tinged hills. In the distance, Loch Euliss widened into the firth, flowing beneath towering cliffs before meeting the sea.

Alec unfolded his arms, turned, and walked slowly toward her. He didn't answer her, merely studied the bruising on her jaw. The blow angered him still; so much that he mentally rearranged the major's duty schedule. A protracted patrol would not be amiss.

He suddenly wanted, unwisely perhaps, to protect her, keep her safe from the consequences of her own courage and from those who would think nothing of harming her.

Alec told himself it was because she was a link to his past, even as he realized the discord of that thought. His finger reached out and traced the line of bruising on her jaw.

His hand was slapped away by the old man at her side. "The bargain doesn't include touching our women," he said fiercely, his wrinkled face twisted by anger.

Although he could not recall his name, Alec remembered him from his childhood. Back then, he'd thought him ancient. The intervening years had not marked his face further, but the old man was trembling badly either from disease or fear. A brave man, to challenge Alec with words when he had no other weapons.

He inclined his head, conceding the inappropriateness of the gesture. "You should not have come," he said. "Send your laird to me and I'll bargain with him."

"There are so few of us left, there is no need for a leader," the old man said.

Alec wanted to ask Leitis the fate of the others, to know for certain what had happened to the laughing Fergus and the solemn James, and her father, who had always been kind to him. But he did not ask the question, preferring the ignorance of the moment to the bluntness of the truth.

"My uncle is all the family I have left," she said, as if she'd heard his thoughts. Her chin tilted up and her lips firmed into a thin line.

They exchanged a glance. He could not ease her pain and she should not know his sudden, bitter regret.

"Return to your village," he said, addressing the group. "I will release Hamish shortly."

An old woman spoke up. "Why?" He didn't recognize her. Either she had changed so much in the past years or he had simply not known her as a boy.

"You beg me for my compassion, then question it?" he asked wryly.

"An Englishman always has a price for his generosity," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Because I have a hostage for his good behavior," he said, reaching out and encircling Leitis's wrist. He knew the second she understood.

"No!" she said angrily, attempting to pull away. He held her easily.

"Leave now," he said to the others, "and I'll guarantee you safe passage. Linger, and you'll be prisoners."

The others moved away, looking back as if they challenged their own courage in doing so. They'd come to rescue one of their own and lost another.

Perhaps it would teach them that it would not be wise to act so precipitously in the future.

After all, he was the Butcher of Inverness, a soldier given that sobriquet by the Scots themselves. A man of fearsome reputation and deadly intent.

He smiled and began to walk toward the laird's chamber.