Chapter Three

"I dunnae ken of any missions ye can currently join," Alasdair's cousin Ollie said in answer to his question. Alasdair sighed and pressed a thumb against his aching temple. He glanced at the dozen men standing around waiting for the contest to begin. The man, Benedict, was an arse. Not only for the way he'd treated the lass but because he was purposely making them all stand in the hot sun, giving himself an inflated sense of importance. Alasdair should say something, but after tripping the man, he knew he was dangerously close to getting himself barred from the competition. He could not do that, no matter how much he wanted to put him in his place.

"I told ye coming here was a bad idea," Calan grumbled.

Alasdair shot a glare at Calan. "'Tis nae a bad idea because I will win the competition—"

"Then gods be willing another lass does nae come along that ye oddly feel compelled to champion," Calan inserted, exchanging a grin with Ollie.

Alasdair exhaled slowly, irritated that Calan was right about the lass and his reaction to her predicament. It had been an odd and very strong response to a lass he didn't even know, though he didn't care to see any lass mistreated and it did seem unfair to him that she not be allowed to join in simply because she was not a man.

"Och," Ollie said and waved his hand at Calan. "Quit teasing him. I'm glad to see ye interested in a lass again, Alasdair. It's nae natural for ye to remain alone."

Alasdair stiffened. "I'm nae interested in that lass or any other," he said. "All I'm interested in is getting enough coin to feed the clan through the winter."

"Aye, well, sorry if I misspoke. I thought ye had finally come to a place where ye were over Mariot."

That place did not exist, but he'd not say it aloud. Anyone who had never given their heart to another could not understand that he could not simply get over Mariot because she was gone. The person who once held his heart took a piece of it when she left, and the piece was so great that his heart simply did not work as it once had. Saying this to either of these men was pointless as neither of them had ever given their hearts to anything but warring and wenching. So, instead, he said, "If ye do hear of anything at all I might do for coin—"

"Actually," Ollie said, his face brightening, "I do ken of something ye may be interested in. I kinnae pursue it now, given I've the mission for the McPherson clan I told ye about that will take me to England."

"What is it?" Alasdair asked, shooting a glance toward Benedict to ensure the contest hadn't begun, but no, the man still sat on his large arse stuffing hunks of bread in his mouth and swigging from his wine skin.

"Do ye ken the tale of the lost children of Sir Gilbert Stewart, the Lord of Lorn?"

"Aye. Of course. When Stewart's castle was invaded by the Lord of the Isles, his children were nae ever seen again. Some say they were killed and burned to death, but others say Stewart, being wise and canny, sent them away to safety. I tend to believe they were burned to death because if they were nae, why would they still be in hiding? Or I suppose the children are nae children anymore, so why would they nae have returned to claim their rightful inheritance since it was proven recently that their father was nae a traitor as has long been thought?"

"One of the lost children returned," Ollie said, grinning.

"When did this occur?" Alasdair asked. Either it had just happened, or he had been so preoccupied with his clan problems that he had not paid attention to the goings-on of the world around him. "Did ye ken of this, Calan?"

Calan shook his head. "But I'm nae surprised," Calan said. "We are far removed where we live, and given the news dunnae concern us, it travels much slower. So when did one of the lost Stewarts return?"

"Oh, nearly a year and half ago," Ollie said.

"Which lost child appeared, and what does it have to do with a mission?" Alasdair asked.

"The eldest, Ross Stewart, who's now the Lord of Lorn, Laird Stewart."

"Where was he?" Calan asked.

"Well, as I heard it, when the Stewart Castle was attacked by the Lord of the Isles back in 1460, the laird was astute enough to ken he'd been betrayed by his friend, and as such, he feared for his children and their future. So the night of the attacks, he sent each bairn with a different trusted person with instructions to go in three different directions, and told them to keep the children safe and hidden until he either sent word or they could ascertain for themselves that it was safe to bring the children home once more. The laird and his wife were murdered, as ye both ken."

Alasdair and Calan nodded.

"Well, the eldest was carried off that night by Bran Stewart—"

"The Lord of Lorn's right hand?" Alasdair asked.

"Aye," Ollie replied. "Bran ferreted him away to the stronghold of the Northern Watch, and there he kept him hidden all these years as the tide had turned against the Stewarts, so Bran feared what would happen to the new rightful Lord of Lorn."

"But then the King of England admitted 'twas not the Lord of Lorn who conspired with him so long ago, as everyone believed," Alasdair said, inserting the history he knew.

"Aye," Ollie said. "We all came to find out it was the Lord of the Isles who had been conspiring to oust the king years afore, and knowing the honorable Lord of Lorn would go against him and try to stop him, he framed and murdered him."

All three men spit toward the ground to show their lack of respect for the ousted and disgraced former Lord of the Isles.

"I'm surprised the men of the Northern Watch, given how secretive they are, would allow Bran Stewart to hide away there all those years—and with a young lad, at that," Calan said.

"Bran's brother is head of the Northern Watch," Ollie supplied, "and I suppose Bran likely sought him out, but he changed his name and that of the lad's to protect them both, until the truth of matters with the Lord of Lorn came to light." Ollie shrugged. "Anyway, the truth has a way of finding people, whether they want it to or nae," Ollie continued, "and the truth found the Lord of the Isles. I dunnae ken the rest of the story because the new Lord of Lorn did nae offer it."

Alasdair drew his gaze back to Ollie, as he had looked over to see if the contest was about to begin, but Benedict didn't look any closer to getting off his arse than when Ollie had begun the tale. Impatience niggled at Alasdair, but he reminded himself that if was were not trying to exert what little power he possessed to make himself feel better about being tripped earlier, then there would not have been time for Ollie to tell this story, and Alasdair may have never heard of whatever opportunity was at hand. Though in true Ollie style, the end of the tale was painfully slow.

There was a part of Alasdair that wanted to know how his cousin came to be sharing tales with the new Lord of Lorn, but the gods only knew how long that story would take to unfold, and then Alasdair may never learn of the mission that could provide the coin to save his clan. So, instead of asking a question that could lead Ollie astray, Alasdair asked, "What exactly is the mission, Ollie?"

"The Lord of Lorn is trying to find his missing siblings. He sent Bran Stewart, as well as a dozen of his other warriors to uncover traces that would lead to his younger brother and sister, but so far, nae anyone has been successful in locating them."

"Have any clues been discovered regarding the whereabouts of either sibling?"

"Aye," Ollie said, his green eyes twinkling, "which is why I was privy to the meeting Laird Stewart called. "There has been some evidence of the whereabouts of the laird's sister, Margaret Stewart, but as of yet, there has nae been any traces of the younger brother, Graeme."

"I assume ye were invited to the meeting because of yer great reputation as a tracker and a mercenary," Alasdair said, trying to hurry things along because out of the corner of his eye, he could see Benedict finally rising from his seat.

"If that were the case," Ollie said, "ye would have been invited because we all ken ye are the best tracker there is in Scotland. I think it was more that clues of the lass's whereabouts all point here, to the Isle of Skye."

"Which particular area of Skye?" Alasdair asked.

"Well, if anyone knew that, the lass would surely be discovered by now," Ollie replied. "But the trail that Bran uncovered apparently went cold after it led him here, and Bran took a fall from his horse and broke his leg, so he had to abandon the search for the lass nearly five months ago. Since then, the laird has had dozens of his warriors scouring this area but nae to any avail, so now he wishes to offer a reward for his sister's discovery and safe return to the Stewart stronghold."

"Is the reward great?"

"It would feed yer clan for at least the next three years as well as shore up yer defenses and fix yer crumbling stronghold."

Alasdair and Calan whistled at the same time, and Alasdair said, "If the sum is that great, it would draw back the warriors who left for fear of starvation."

"I dunnae ken the new Laird Stewart, but he sounds like a generous man to offer a reward for the return of a sister he dunnae ken and who could well be wed and then nae be of any worth to him," Calan said.

"A woman's worth is nae measured simply by the strong alliance her marriage can bring," Alasdair said, irritated with Calan's view. But in fairness, it was the view of most men he knew. He had happened to be raised by parents who did not believe women should be married off to a man simply to strengthen the clan.

"I kinnae speak with any certainty to Laird Stewart's character. I only spent a few hours in his presence, and I was one of many, at that. He seemed nice enough at supper and he took gentle care with his wife, whom he could nae seem to tear his gaze away from. What I can speak of with certainty is that his sister was apparently betrothed at birth to Brody Campbell, who is now Laird Campbell, and he has nae wed as of yet and has agreed to wed Margaret Stewart if she is alive and her innocence is intact. That union would make the Stewart and Campbell clans the strongest in the Highlands."

"It sounds as if Laird Stewart does nae simply wish a reunion with his sister after all," Alasdair said, a sour taste in his mouth.

Ollie cocked a bushy red eyebrow. "Does that mean ye dunnae wish to hear the rest of the details that would help ye identify the lass?"

"How does Laird Stewart remember what his sister looks likes if they were separated at such a young age?"

"Bran Stewart remembers her well, as do other servants in the castle."

Alasdair nodded as he thought of his clan and his children. There was no choice but to learn the details, search for the lass, and then return her to her brother. It could be, he reasoned, that she would be eager to be reunited with her family. It could be also that she was already wed, so there would be no chance of returning a lass to a home to be forced to wed a man she did not wish to wed. It could be that she would be thrilled to be presented with the opportunity to wed a great laird of a powerful clan, no matter what he might be like.

A chuckle from Calan filled the silence between the men. "This is too easy!" Calan exclaimed.

"How do ye suppose?" Alasdair asked.

"If our searching leads to naught, we can simply procure a lass, take her there, and say she's the long-lost sister."

Alasdair thumped Calan on the side of his head. "That is nae only dishonorable, but I feel certain there is something in place to prevent such treachery."

"Aye," Ollie said. "As I was told by Bran Stewart himself, Margaret Stewart will have an L3 branded on her arm—it should have been given to her by whomever ferreted her away. The L is for property of the laird, and the number is for her place in line as heir."

Calan scowled. "Well, that does nae mean it would be impossible to present a different lass and say she's the one."

"Stop suggesting that," Alasdair growled and thumped his old friend upside the head again.

"Laird Stewart gave us other markers to look for as well."

"Such as?"

"Hair like a flame."

"The lass's hair could have changed colors," Alasdair said.

"Aye, but they think it unlikely," Ollie said, shrugging. "And she will have blue eyes."

Calan took a step away from both men. He was putting himself out of reach, no doubt because he was about to say something clot-heided again. "Nae either of those traits makes it impossible to follow the alternate plan I offered, should we be unable to find the lass."

Alasdair scowled at Calan. "Are there any other traits that would identify her?"

Ollie nodded. "One dimple on her right cheek—" Calan opened his mouth to say something, but Ollie held up a silencing hand "—and she's missing a toe apparently. She was swimming as a bairn and cut it on a rock. It got infected and had to be cut off to save the leg."

"Which toe?" Calan demanded.

Alasdair snorted. "Would ye truly cut off a woman's toe to pass her off as the missing Stewart lass?"

"Only if she wished it," Calan said with a wink.

"Well, ye would be out of luck because Laird Stewart would nae tell us which toe was missing. He said, in fact," Ollie continued, smirking at Calan, "that's how he'd prevent anyone from thinking they'd bring a lass who was nae his sister."

"How many men were called to this meeting?" Alasdair asked, looking now to the cobbled streets of the village that he now noticed were teeming with warriors.

"Two dozen," Ollie supplied. "And I can assure ye they are all here on Skye stopping every red-haired, blue-eyed lass they see and demanding to see her toes." All three men burst out laughing at that as the bell began to chime, announcing the contest was about to begin.

Alasdair clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "Thank ye for telling me, and rest assured that if I do discover the lass and return her for the reward, I'll share it with ye."

Ollie nodded. "I ken ye will, which is why I told ye. If I could get out of my mission, I would."

"Why can ye nae get out of it?" Alasdair asked, rising to make his way to the contest.

"'Tis for the king," Ollie offered.

"Oh, aye?" Alasdair said. "It must be important."

"It is," Ollie responded but offered no more, which wasn't really a surprise, given his discretion was one of the reasons he was offered so many missions.

"Best of luck to ye, Ollie. When do ye depart?"

"Oh, soon enough," Ollie replied. "In fact, I need to be returning home to ready myself or I'd stay to watch ye compete."

"Well, I'm glad I came to find ye at yer cottage and ye walked with us for a short visit." The other contestants were already lining up, and there, in the middle of the line, was the lass from earlier. Oh, she was dressed as a man, and her hair was hidden with a cap pulled so low that he couldn't even see her eyes, and she'd caked mud on her face to disguise it, but as she had lifted her bow to practice he saw that tan twine was wound around her right wrist. It was too much of a coincidence that the lass from before and the slight man before him would both have twine wound around the same wrist. Alasdair swept his gaze over the contestants, but no one else seemed to notice the twine or the significance of it. It wasn't surprising. Most men would not notice such a thing, but tracking as he had for years made him especially observant.

"Hey! Are ye going to walk yer arse to the line to take yer place in the contest or nae?" Calan asked, snapping Alasdair out of his musings.

He gave a nod, bade Ollie farewell, and strode toward the line and the lass. Benedict stopped in front of her and said something, then moved along. As Alasdair grew closer to the line, their gazes met, and she flinched before going instantly pale and fluttering a hand to her head to no doubt make certain her cap was in place.

She recognized him and feared he recognized her. He had a surprising urge to reassure her, so he leaned close to her and said, "Dunnae fash yerself. Yer secret is safe with me. 'Twas the twine that gave ye away."

Her lips parted in shock and she instantly drew her hands down and slipped off her twine, holding it so that it could no longer be seen. "I'm a fool," she muttered under her breath, and he wasn't entirely certain if she was talking to herself or him.

"A fool for wearing the twine?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded. "'Tis my lucky twine my mama gave me," she said, cheeks staining red with her admission. "I'll surely lose since I'm nae wearing it."

The misery in her voice made him want to comfort and protect her, just as he had earlier. "Well, ye're holding it, so I believe it can still be lucky, and I'm certain yer mama will agree."

She frowned at him. "My mama is long dead," she said, her tone low, but not so low he did not pick up on the note of sadness in her voice.

Before he could offer his apologies, Benedict bellowed, "Take yer places."

Alasdair inclined his head to the space to her right. "Do ye mind?"

"Why should I mind?" she asked, her voice pitching a fraction higher and the blush from her cheeks travelling to her neck. He found himself instantly curious whether the blush colored any of the skin hidden in her clothing, and the thought surprised him.

"Well," he said, "I thought my presence might befuddle ye," he said in a teasing voice that also shocked him. He hadn't teased a lass since... since... well, since Mariot. It had to be the heat outside and his lack of food since their journey that was making him act so oddly.

A derisive noise came from her chest, and he thought his comment irritated her, except her lips tugged upward in a half smile for a breath before she managed to control her mirth.

"Listen up, men," Benedict said. "The dummy targets are tied around the trees in front of each of ye—" Benedict motioned down toward the end of the embankment. There, rushes had been stuffed into bags to form shapes of men. The bags had heads, arms, and legs, and they had been painted with eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a heart with what looked to be red berry. "I'll give ye specific instructions for each round. Ye only move to the next round if ye win or tie the shot. Do ye all understand?"

A chorus of ayes went up as Alasdair nocked his first arrow and aimed his bow at the tree in front of him. "Whoever wins the most rounds wins the contest. If there be a tie, we will have a speed contest. I have the final say as to the winner, and I have the only say. Arguing with me will nae help ye. The horn blow is the start. Yer first shot is to hit the right eye dead center. Get ready."

Alasdair drew his arrow back, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lass do the same, her chin jutted with determination. He had no fear that she'd best him, but he was curious if she was any good. He'd seen a lass once before who could outshoot most men, but she'd been the only lass he'd ever met that could do so, and she'd been the youngest of six sons who had all treated her as a boy.

All talk fell away and left in its wake only the rustling of leaves by the faint breeze, the lapping of the loch water against the embankment, and the steady breathing of the men hoping to take the prize. Suddenly, a deep horn split the silence, and Alasdair took a half breath to aim before releasing his arrow. It flew half a measure ahead of any other arrow, then hit the target in what appeared to be dead center of the right eye. He'd soon know for certain.

From somewhere behind Alasdair, Calan let out a whoop, presumably because he judged Alasdair's shot as dead center as well. Beside him, the lass grumbled, "God's blood!"

He looked to her arrow, judged it to be nearly at center and then glanced at her. She chewed on her lip, and her right hand balled into a fist of frustration. "What would ye do with the coin if ye won?" he asked, feeling a surprising surge of regret that he'd bested her.

She turned her head toward him, and he wished he could see her eyes to judge the depth of her worry. He didn't like to be the cause of her anxiety, even if he had to do so for his clan. Likely it would be better not to know how desperate her plight, because if it was truly horrid, that was going to make it much more distasteful to best her. Presently, the only thing visible was the tip of her nose, which had a smattering of freckles on it. "Why do ye care?" she asked, her tone short.

He didn't take offense. Her tension rolled off her. Her question was fair, but he didn't have an answer for her. He didn't know why he cared. He should not. She was a stranger, and her plight was not his concern. Except there was something inside of him, some needling something, that needed to know. He stole a glance toward Benedict to ensure he had not returned from judging the targets. Benedict still trudged along toward the targets, moving side to side as much as forward, hindered by his excessive weight.

Alasdair brought his attention firmly to the lass once more and took one step closer to her so as not to be overheard. "If ye are willing to risk the lashing ye'd get if ye were discovered by Benedict, then ye must be in dire straits."

"Ye like to hear of other people's troubles, do ye?" The irritable sarcasm strumming through her dripped from every word.

"Nay, lass. I thought mayhap I could help." He frowned at the words that left his mouth. He had not even known that was what had driven the original question, but there it was: his once-persistent need to come to the rescue of any lass in need. What a damned inconvenient time for it to resurrect itself.

"How can ye help me?" she demanded in a whisper-shout that would have been comical if the desperation in her tone was not so obvious. He opened his mouth and closed it, trying to think what to say. He had to look like a fish gasping for its last breath. "'Tis as I thought," she said, her voice derisive. "Ye kinnae aid me. Ye still intend to try to win the next round, do ye nae?" He opened his mouth to confirm that he did, but she said, "If ye want to aid me then lose it. Ye'd be one fewer person I'd have to concern myself with besting."

"I thought ye were confident ye could win," he said, parrying the hostility she was shooting at him.

"I was," she said, "but I did nae expect ye, and I dunnae have my lucky twine on," she said, wiggling her left hand where he could see she'd balled the twine for safe keeping.

He grinned then, and the spontaneous happiness was so foreign that he touched a cheek to make certain he was indeed doing what he thought he was.

"Ye are the finest shot I've ever seen," she grumbled.

He started to thank her, but Benedict bellowed, "The winner of the first round is Laird MacLachlan. Prepare for the next round, which is to hit the left eye dead center," Benedict finished as he raised the horn to blow it.

Alasdair quickly situated himself to shoot, nocked his arrow and drew it back right as the horn was blown again. He didn't hesitate. He released his arrow but was shocked to see another flying beside it. He was usually a breath ahead of everyone else. The two arrows flew well ahead of the others, and they struck the targets at the exact same time, both appearing to land dead center.

When the lass gasped her excitement, his heart tripled in beat, but not for fear of losing the contest. He felt certain he'd hit his target dead center, but he was glad she had a moment of happiness. He'd glimpsed her chapped hands, and he suspected her moments of happiness were few and far between. He glanced toward Benedict, saw that he was trudging to the targets to examine them, and he looked toward the lass, who turned her head toward him at the same moment.

"I've bested ye." She didn't sound boastful, only factual.

"Nay," he said in as gentle a tone as possible, "I dunnae think ye have, but I must admit I was surprised to see yer arrow sailing next to mine. Who taught ye to shoot? Yer da?"

She snorted at that. "All my da has ever taught me is to stay away from men with a belly full of mead, and he's always got that, so I've spent my life staying clear of him or tending to bruises when I forget."

He instantly hated her father. "Is that why ye've entered the contest?" he asked, knowing full well that learning more about her, discovering anything that might further tease out his instinct to protect her, was very dangerous for him.

"Aye, but getting away from my da is nae the only reason. I need to get my sister away as well."

God's blood . He'd done it now. A war erupted once more between what he needed to do for himself, his family, and his clan, and what she needed.

"Laird MacLachlan is the winner again!"

"Nay!" she cried out, and her despair took away any enjoyment that was to be found in the victory. The man to the other side of her turned to look her way, Alasdair knew it was because her voice had been a little too loud, a little too feminine, and she was in danger of giving herself away.

"What are ye staring at?" he barked at the smaller man. He didn't normally use his size to intimidate, but in this case, he'd make an exception.

"Nae anything," he quickly answered and turned away.

To the lass, Alasdair said in a low tone, "Ye need to keep yer voice down. 'Tis distinctly feminine."

"Why do I care?" she choked out, the tears in her voice obvious and like a punch in his gut. "Ye're going to best me. A lashing will nae be the worst I face if I'm caught."

Fear for her streaked through him. "Then ye should take care and keep yer voice down."

A single tear fell down her face through the dirt she'd undoubtedly rubbed on it. He had the surprising urge to reach out and brush her tear away, but Benedict saved Alasdair from himself by bellowing, "Prepare for the third round, which is to hit the heart in the middle."

Alasdair took his stance once more, nocked his arrow, and drew it back along his bow. The horn blew, and he waited one half a beat, then released his arrow. It flew a blink of an eye behind the lass's arrow, as he knew it would. He'd decided to give her this one round. He had to take the competition, but he could give her this one moment of hope. That was better than none, wasn't it?

"Thank the gods," she said, her voice low with relief soaking every word. "I best ye, this time," she said, her voice still low. "I... I did nae think I could, but I believe I have. I—" Her words jerked to a halt, so he looked to her. She was nibbling on her lip and shifting back and forth where she stood. "Why have ye entered the competition? Do ye have a dire need, or is it for one more win, one more bag of coin to add to yer overflowing coffers?"

The worry in her voice was obvious. She had a good heart, and she was as conflicted as he had been a moment ago. She wanted to win, needed to win, but to do so at the detriment of another was a bittersweet victory, indeed. "It's simply another win," he lied, not wanting her to be burdened with guilt as he was. He would best her, so he could give her this.

She nodded. "Ah, then." Her relief was as loud as a crack of lightning.

"McPherson, ye are the winner!" Benedict bellowed the false name the lass had given.

Beside him, she grinned ear to ear as the men around them grumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Calan waving at him. When their gazes met, Calan mouthed, "What. Are. Ye. Doing? Think of the clan."

Irritation flew through Alasdair. There was never a moment he was not thinking of the clan, but he understood Calan's worry. "Dunnae fash yerself," he mouthed silently back, meaning it.

"If I win this next round," the lass said, drawing Alasdair's attention back to her, "it will only be ye and me left in the competition." There was so much hope in her voice that he was now assailed by regret that he'd given her false hope. He'd made the wrong choice. He'd let her win a round to spare his own feelings of guilt. He'd had hope for a long life of love with his wife and look where that hope had left him. Empty. Broken. To have no hope, to have never met Mariot, sometimes seemed as if it might have been better, but then that would mean no Beatie and Hew, and that would not do.

"I'm going to best ye in the next round lass," he said, gently.

Before she could answer, Benedict called out, "Prepare for the fourth round. The target is the mouth, dead center."

Once again, they all prepared, but the mood was quiet and a tension ran through the group, as most of them knew they had to win this round, or they'd be out. "Shoot," Benedict called out, and as Alasdair started to release his arrow, the lass groaned, as if something were wrong. He ticked his arrow a bit too much to the left, and he knew, before the arrow lodged in his target, that he was not dead center. He didn't look to his target first, though. He looked to the lass, who was grinning from ear to ear. Her face turned toward him, but her eyes were still hidden. "Dunnae ever underestimate a woman with a purpose."

"Ye tricked me," he said, shocked, a tad irritated and a bit impressed. It was a strange mixture of emotions.

"I did nae trick ye," she said, her voice smooth and confident. "I used the weapons at my disposal. Tis the two of us left in the competition," she said.

"There's just me," he replied, having to harden himself against the tug to soften. He had his clan to think of.

"McPherson is the winner!" Benedict called out.

The lass cried out, "aye!"

And then things happened in a blur. The man beside her grabbed her by the shoulder, twisted her toward him, and said, "ye distracted the rest of us on purpose." He swung his fist at her before Alasdair knew what was happening. She ducked, the man's fist grazed her cap, which fell backwards off her head. Red hair tumbled over her shoulders in a wild disarray of silken waves. His breath caught in this chest at the enticing sight she presented. His long dormant desire flamed up hot and consuming as chaos erupted.

The man lunged toward her again, other men bellowed, and Alasdair inserted himself between her and the man who seemed intent on hitting her. "If ye touch her," Alasdair seethed, "ye'll answer to me."

"Sorcha MacGregor!" Benedict bellowed as he strode toward them. "Ye are in for a thrashing now!"

"I hope yer staff rots off!" the lass bellowed back, and she turned, no doubt to flee. Alasdair stole a glimpse over his shoulder to see if she could get away, and behind her was a guard. He went to grab her but got only a handful of her tunic, which ripped down the length of her right arm from shoulder to wrist. She gasped, clutched it at the shoulder, and twirled out of the guard's reach to run away. He turned back around in time to stop the man who had tried to hit her from going after her.

"Back up, or ye'll find my dagger in yer gut."

"And mine," Calan said, moving to stand by Alasdair.

"I'll deal with Sorcha MacGregor, I swear it," Benedict bellowed, "but now, prepare to start again. The first competition is now invalid."

Cheers went up around Alasdair, and he and Calan exchanged a look before Calan said, "Will ye protest?"

"Nay. I can easily best these men."

"Aye, I figured ye'd say that. The only true competition was that flame-haired lass."

Calan's casually offered description of the lass was like a smack across the face that woke Alasdair up, and he blinked at the possibility that had just entered his mind. Flame-haired lass. Ollie had said the missing sister of Laird Stewart was red-headed. No. Alasdair was grasping at threads out of desperation for coin, but still, he couldn't simply dismiss the possibility. She'd also had blue eyes, though Scottish lasses with red hair and blue eyes were not a rare occurrence.

The competition was called to a start once more, so he dismissed the foolish idea that the lass Sorcha could in any realm of truth really be Margaret Stewart. But when the five new rounds were over and he was declared the winner, Benedict dropped the coin purse while handing it to him. Alasdair bent down to pick it up and stared in surprise at Sorcha MacGregor's good luck twine. She must have dropped it in the final scuffle. He picked it up along with the coin and stared at it as he thought about the lass once more. He didn't remember a dimple or if she had bright blue eyes, and certainly, he'd not seen all her toes, but what he did remember was that she'd been quick to grab her torn tunic sleeve on her right arm, and that fact, for a man who'd been reared to track since childhood, was too much to ignore.

This little piece of string was the perfect excuse to seek her out and silence the questions in his mind. He could say he had done so to return it to her, and while he was there, he would look for the other markers Ollie had told him. And if it was her, well, he'd do what he must for the survival of his clan, despite the bitter taste it left in his mouth.