She changed the subject. "What is your name?"

"Mine, milady?" He looked startled to be asked.

"Aye."

"'Tis Hector, milady," he replied, his face growing bright pink.

"I will not forget it," she said. Nor would she. She needed every ally she could find.

She had to delay tomorrow's journey to the Cameron property and find an opportunity to get outside the walls. Every moment she stayed here, she risked her freedom. Perhaps, even, her life.

Reluctantly, she left the stable and returned to her room. She had not accomplished all she wished, but at least she knew more about the bailey and the walls.

She only wished she'd discovered more about the laird. Despite his courtesy, his eyes appeared to miss little. They were always watchful, always cautious. He would not be as easy to trick as the unsuspecting Camerons had been.

When she returned to her room, a fretful Moira was waiting for her. Several dresses lay on the bed. Robina was with her.

"Milady, ye should not be wandering in these drafty halls," Moira scolded with the authority of someone who knew her position was safe. "Robina will help ye dress. I must go and see about supper." She turned and left the chamber.

Felicia's gaze went immediately to an underdress of pale green and a surcoat of a darker green trimmed with fur. 'Twas out of fashion but the color suited her.

"These are for me?"

"Aye, milady," Robina said. "Moira chose them."

Felicia tried on the garments, and they fit perfectly.

"Oh, milady, 'tis perfect with yer coloring," Robina exclaimed as she stood back. "Now yer hair."

Unfortunately Robina knew nothing about taming Felicia's wild curls. Felicia brushed it, and Robina attempted to confine it with pins, but nothing worked. Felicia finally plaited it into her usual long braid even as she wished she had Janet's hair that fell in silky waves to her waist.

Why did she care? The Maclean was an enemy, an impediment to her escape.

She 'did' care. She'd once overheard her uncle telling Jamie that it was unfortunate she had not inherited her mother's beauty instead of the plain features of Felicia's father. It had wounded her deeply, and even Jamie's reply had not helped. He had praised her intelligence and spirit.

Jamie never knew she had overheard the conversation. He had, in truth, often told her she was bonny. But she'd known he lied.

So how, she wondered, had the Macleans accepted the tale that she was a famed beauty?

When she rose from the chair, Robina beamed as if she was indeed a beauty.

No one else would believe it, though. She only prayed that no one at the table had seen Janet.

A knock came at the door. Felicia stiffened as Moira opened it.

She did not want to see the disappointment in Rory Maclean's face when he saw her, but not to look would be cowardly, and she prided herself on being brave.

To her surprise, she did not see disappointment or disapproval, but a certain glint that warmed his eyes considerably. It disappeared quickly enough that she wondered whether she had actually seen it.

"My lady," he acknowledged, respect in his voice.

Startled, she found herself speechless. She felt totally inadequate standing there.

"Am I that frightening?" Lord Maclean queried, apparently taking her silence for fear.

"Nay, my lord," she said, "though your reputation and that of your clan is fierce."

"Only toward our enemies," he said.

That did not comfort her.

She did not move away as he offered his arm and approached the stairs. She needed his steadiness. Her legs felt suddenly weak, and her skin unexpectedly warm.

She mused for a moment that perhaps she really was ill, then his hand steadied her. As his strength and warmth surrounded her, she realized the flutter in her heart was not from any illness. Far too aware of his impact on her, she stumbled and was suddenly in his arms. The warmth turned to white-hot heat.

"The steps are rough, my lady."

She did not reply. She feared she would babble.

She was relieved when they reached the foot of the stairs and his hand relaxed on her arm. He did not release her immediately. Nor did she wish him to. She felt safe. Safe and protected and wanted.

'Illusion'. He thought her an heiress of a friendly clan. That was all. His interest would fade quickly enough if he knew the truth. Most likely it would turn to hatred, just as her uncle and cousin hated the Macleans.

As she should. The Macleans had been responsible for the spilling of Campbell blood, even that of women and children.

For now, though, she was aware only of the tingling of her blood, the heat crawling up her spine, the exhilaration of being in his presence, the unexpected pleasure of seeing his rare smile.

The Maclean accompanied her to the great hall, which was filled with male voices. There were no women in attendance except for the servants.

She thought that most odd. Except for Moira, she had seen few other women and certainly no well-dressed gentlewomen.

The keep itself also looked as if it had had no mistress for a long while. Dust was everywhere. Fireplaces looked as if they had not been cleaned in months, windows were dark with grime, and there was a general feeling of neglect.

Well, the former laird had been dead these past three years, and apparently there had been no one in charge until Rory appeared. Was he indifferent to it? Or did he not care because he intended to leave soon for the sea?

How she wished to hear of his adventures. How she longed to sail the world herself.

Not for the first time she wished she had been born a man. But for the first time, she felt the thrill of being a woman.

It was perverse, the devil playing a nasty trick.

Nonetheless, all eyes were on her as the Maclean led her to the head table and seated her next to him. Avid eyes studied her.

Among the men were those who had abducted her for their lord. Their faces beamed as they watched their lord treat her with courtesy. It was obvious they had not surrendered hope. Perhaps she could play on that as well.

She noticed an empty seat to her left, and before she could wonder about it, Lachlan appeared. His dress was disheveled, but he sported a wide grin. It seemed to be aimed directly at her.

"You are late," Rory Maclean said.

"Aye, a foal," he said. "It came faster than I expected. Perhaps Lady Janet would like to see her later."

Janet's heart jumped. "The black mare?"

Lachlan looked at her with surprise.

"I saw her earlier."

"Aye, it was a quick birth."

"And the foal?"

"A filly. Would you like to visit her?"

"Thank you, I would like that."

"Tonight?"

"Aye," she agreed and turned toward the platters of food being displayed. Rory Maclean poured her wine from a pitcher, and she sipped it. In contrast to the food, it was a very good wine.

"It comes from France," he said as he watched her.

She took another sip. Mayhap she could act as if she had drunk too much.

She tasted the partridge. It was underdone. She tried a piece of meat, and it was charred, too hard to eat. She took some bread and nibbled at it, knowing she needed the strength.

He said in a low voice, "I have no' had the time to find a new cook, and Moira tries hard."

She admired the loyalty. Her uncle had little loyalty to any of his servants.

She bent her head and tried to eat again. She would need food in her stomach if she were to escape tomorrow. Perhaps after viewing the foal, she would ask Lachlan to accompany her on a ride at dawn. She would try to lose him. Or bargain with him.

"I hope you are comfortable," the older Maclean said.

"Moira and Robina have been very attentive," she said. She sipped the wine. "I heard you have been at sea and have just returned."

His gray eyes impaled hers. "Aye."

"How long?"

"Ten years."

He had been here, then, when his clan had raped women and killed a child. She had hoped otherwise. She tried to keep her voice even. "Where have you been?"

"France and Portugal, mostly. Depends on who is at war with which country," he added wryly.

Felicia played with her goblet of wine. "I would like to sail. At times I wish ..." She stopped.

"Wish what?" he prompted.

"That I had the freedom to do as I wish."

"The sea is a dangerous place."

"So is Scotland," she said. "People are abducted."

He had the grace to flinch, and the corner of his mouth twisted up in a half smile. "Aye, it can be."

Their gazes met, and again she thought she saw shadows in those gray eyes that were so watchful. There was fleeting amusement, even a flicker of appreciation, but then both disappeared. The shadows returned, and something more, an anguish that tore at her heart, and a loneliness that was stark.

Remarkably, she wanted to ease the lines of pain bracketing his mouth. She wanted to touch the dark hair that framed the hard face.

She struggled to return to their conversation. "Have you been in storms at sea?"

"Every sailor has been."

"I like storms."

She saw the surprise in his eyes.

"I doubt whether you would like one at sea," he said. "It's sheer terror when you are at the mercy of the sea and wind."

"I cannot imagine you ever feeling terror."

"Every man knows terror."

She took another sip of wine. Most men did, of course, but few would ever admit it.

She felt the warmth from the wine, from his presence. Why was she drawn to him? He was her family's enemy. Yet she was drawn to him as she had never been drawn to another person.

"Tell me about France."

He shrugged. "They have fine silks and even better wine."

"They are allies of Scotland."

"Only when it suits them," he said.

"And women? I have heard they are beautiful."

"I prefer ours," he said. "There are few pretenses."

She felt her cheeks warm. She hoped it did not show, and she turned her attention back to the food. No traps here.

The supper seemed to last for hours as Maclean clansmen drank and grew loud and bawdy.

"We brought you a bonny wife," one large man said, sloshing wine over his plate.

"And she has a worthy man," another chimed in.