Chapter 3

It was freezing that night, and Maxwell's fingertips were so cold that they had become numb. Despite his best efforts, he knew that he might well have died before morning, especially since there was no fuel in his body to keep him warm. The touch of the young woman's warm hands was akin to having his fingers wrapped in a soft woolen blanket. By giving him the apple, she had quite possibly saved his life. He gripped her hand more tightly, driven by a primitive survival instinct. At that moment she was his lifeline.

Still, although he knew she could trust him, he had to ask himself if he could trust her. How did he know she was not going to lead him into a trap? She had blindfolded him, and she could be taking him anywhere. Without his sight, he was absolutely helpless, and he had to fight down panic as they went along. He also had to think of a convincing story to explain how he had entered the castle. If he had told her that Lachlan had shown him one of the escape tunnels, it would have put her in an extremely awkward position and might even make her give him up.

Yet he had to take his chances with her. It was that or die, but at that moment he realized that dying might be the lesser of two evils. He was in Invercree Castle, right in the dragon's lair, and if this woman turned him over to the guards or alerted the laird, he would likely meet his maker at the end of a rope.

What if she was merely lulling him into a false sense of security? He had no real idea of where she was taking him, after all. Was it likely that a woman who had just met a stranger hiding from view in the darkest part of the castle, with no really plausible story, would take him to safety? Perhaps she was leading him into a trap, but if she was, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Nevertheless, he followed her through a door in the wall, although the only reason he knew what it was was that he could hear the key turning in the lock. Maxwell knew he would never be able to find it again in a thousand years.

From there, she led him up one staircase, down another, through half a dozen doors and several narrow passages before she finally opened one last door. By now he was so completely disoriented that there would have been no need for a blindfold, he realized, because he would never have been able to retrace his steps through this maze unless he followed a trail of breadcrumbs.

A gust of blessed warmth and the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread told him he was in the kitchen. He could feel the heat of a stove and hear the young woman feeding it with more wood before she pulled a rough wooden chair in front of it.

"Sit," she said brusquely, pushing him into it before she went to close and lock the door they had just come through.

Then, unexpectedly, she removed his blindfold, and he rubbed his eyes, blinked, and looked around. He tried to see the door they had come through, but there were so many shadows he would never have been able to find it again.

She had been clever to insist on the blindfold, but he suspected that she had deliberately brought him into the castle by some convoluted route on purpose in order to confuse him even more. Yet he was too exhausted to think about it anymore because he knew he was absolutely at her mercy.

Maxwell sat down gratefully and held his hands out to the flames with a great sigh of relief. He felt his fingers and toes beginning to tingle as feeling returned to them, and gradually warmth spread over his whole body, making him realize how cold he had been. The heat wrapped around him like a blanket, and he sighed.

"Here."

The young woman put a cup of warm milk into his hands and he sipped it, closing his eyes as he savored its heat flowing down his throat. He had sampled many fine ales and whiskies, many exquisite wines and exotic liqueurs, but the simple cup of hot milk was the most glorious thing he had ever tasted.

He watched the woman as she bustled about the kitchen, and although the light from the fire and the dying lamp was quite dim, he could see her form quite well, and he decided that it was well worth seeing.

The first thing he noticed about her was the magnificent river of hair that fell to her waist in shining waves of golden brown. Sadly, the light was too bad to see the color of her eyes, but he could discern that they were light, probably blue or green. She had a tiny waist and generously curved hips, and her neck was long and swanlike. She was quite simply gorgeous, and to his surprise, a sensation he had not experienced for months began to assail him, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal.

The tasks she was doing were menial—as she gathered together bread, fruit, and other assorted food—but she moved with such grace that everything she did seemed to be almost a dance.

He was hypnotized by her, never having seen such a woman before. He knew he was being fanciful. He knew that people did not dance when they moved, and it was likely his hunger that was making him think such foolish thoughts. He was beginning to feel a little dizzy, but just as he felt that he might pass out, she handed him a cup of warm spiced ale.

"Follow me," she instructed, "and do not make a sound, or we will both be in a great deal of trouble. Do you understand?"

For the first time, he felt a flash of irritation.

"I do," he replied tersely. "I am not a simpleton."

"Of course, if you prefer, you can spend the night in the stables!" she snapped. "Or I could alert the guards. You choose."

She stood in front of him, hands on hips, looking at him with a challenge in her eyes.

At once, Maxwell realized that he had made a mistake. He groaned.

"Forgive me," he said wearily. "I am not usually so rude. Perhaps I am too hungry or tired. I have had a few bad days."

The woman nodded but said nothing. She did not replace his blindfold, and this time she led him up several flights of stairs he presumed must be used by servants. He could feel only bare stone under his feet, and the walls were rough and unpainted.

Presently they arrived at a door and stepped out into a carpeted hallway. Even in the dim light of the lantern, Maxwell could see that it was of poor quality and made of canvas. This was obviously the staff quarters, and although he had been to Invercree Castle many times, this was a part of it he had never seen before.

The young woman led him along the corridor to the very end, where there was another door, one which looked like the entrance to a cupboard. However, she reached into her pocket for the key and opened it, then locked it securely behind them.

Inside was a second door, but this one had no lock. They stepped into a small chamber, which was thankfully almost as warm as the kitchen had been due to the bright fire burning in the grate. Once more, he made straight for the source of the heat as he stood in front of the fire, holding his hands out to it. He usually hated the feeling of pins and needles that accompanied the returning of blood to his frozen flesh, but now it was like a caress.

"Sit here."

She ushered him to a chair beside a small table, and as he looked around, he realized for the first time that he was in a bedroom. It was rather a small chamber; in fact, compared to the one he had slept in until a few months previously, it was minute. There was a window next to him, but it was shuttered against the cold, and he could not see the view beyond. He was about to ask her about it when she placed another cup of ale in front of him, as well as a plate of bread, several different kinds of cheese, and pieces of cold meat. They were all morsels, but there were plenty of them.

His mouth did not have time to water. He dived into the food and wolfed it down as if it was the last meal he would ever eat. When he had finished, he sat back and sighed deeply.

"Thank you," he breathed. "I don't think I have ever eaten a more delicious meal."

"It was only a few scraps." The young woman shrugged but smiled. "I have more ale if you wish." She held up a jug.

Maxwell shook his head. "I don't think that is a good idea. I really don't want to become inebriated." He stood up and went over to the fireplace again. "You will have to show me the way out. I don't think I could find it on my own."

She looked at him for a while, uncertain, before shaking her head.

"You might die out there, and I will not have that on my conscience. You can sleep on my floor or in my chair if you wish. I will lend you a blanket."

He was astounded. "Thank you," he said in wonder. "But you don't know me. How do you know you can trust me? I am a big man, and although I am sure you are a very strong lady, I don't know how you would defend yourself against me."

"I do," she answered, then whipped the dagger he gave her out of her pocket. "I have this, and believe me, I know how to use it!" She was glaring at him from beneath lowered brows.

For a moment, he stared at her. "I believe you."

There was something about her, an assurance and confidence that he had only seen in soldiers before. How was it that this woman, who was almost a head smaller than he was, had the ability, not exactly to frighten him, but to make him unsure of himself? It was as though she had a secret power over him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"You tell me yours, and I will tell you mine," she replied, folding her arms and tilting her chin upward in an attitude of defiance.

Somehow, he was not surprised by her answer.

"My name is Ewan Montgomery," he replied.

It was the name of a friend he had known in his youth and was the first name that had sprung to mind when she asked him.

"I am Kenna Bowie," she replied.

"Kenna." He rolled the name around his mouth as if he was tasting it. "I have always loved that name. It was the name of a cousin of mine whom I loved very much, but she died when we were both twelve years old."

Kenna looked as though she was completely disinterested in his family history, which, in fact, she was, but she was obviously too polite to say so. He felt embarrassed as she mumbled, "I am sorry to hear that. Now, I will fetch you some water to wash, and you can prepare yourself to go to sleep. I am sorry I don't have another bed for you to sleep in."

"Please don't be sorry," he replied, smiling. "You are a very kind woman who has taken pity on a complete stranger who might have frozen to death. Anyway, I am used to sleeping on the earth or on stone floors. A carpet is a luxury."

Maxwell could almost read her mind as her eyes traveled from his head to his feet and back again.

What a disgrace. He must be a drunk or a tramp. Perhaps I should tell him to go.

However, he was at her mercy, so he waited for her to speak.

Yet Kenna merely shrugged. "As I told you, I could not leave you there. It would haunt me, knowing I could help you and did nothing, especially if anything bad happened to you."

Then she opened the door, walked out, and locked it firmly behind her.

A moment later she returned with a basin of water for him to wash in, as well as not one but two warm blankets. She turned to face the window while he completed his ablutions.

Kenna picked up her knitting and began to work on it, humming a little melody as she did so. He was enchanted as he watched her fingers flying over her needles. She worked so fast that she must be an expert, he thought.

"I am finished," he announced at last.

He was decently attired once more, and although his clothes were still torn and dirty, she still kept her gaze away from him.

She spread a blanket on the floor and placed one of her own pillows on it, then gave him the other.

"I am afraid this carpet is too coarse to sleep on," she explained ruefully. "We are not given silk and woolen ones here, only linen and hemp."

"I am perfectly happy with this," he replied, smiling. "It is far, far better than a stable."