He knocked at the door, opened it slightly, and saw nothing. Then he heard the melody of a lullaby in the next chamber. He knew without seeing that it was Janet Cameron. Her voice was pure and strong and sweet. Some of his tension began to fade.

When the song ended, he knocked lightly on the door. He heard a sharp bark and took it as an invitation, and entered. A small dog at Janet Cameron's feet growled at him. His eyes went to her face.

He had thought her appealing but not beautiful. But looking at her now, he changed his mind.

Her sapphire-blue eyes were filled with compassion, and her lips curved in a gentle smile as she looked up from the child. Her eyes widened, and she started to rise, but he gestured her to sit back down.

The woman seated on the other side of the bed also started to stand. "Milord," she said.

"Do not stand," he commanded.

She sat back down, consternation on her face, as if she worried that he would not approve of her and her daughter occupying such a fine room. He wondered whether he was really that forbidding.

He knelt next to the small figure in the big bed. He ignored the small dog that growled at him.

"Alina," he said softly.

The child's wide brown eyes stared back at him. She tried to move, and he shook his head. "Stay as you are, lass. I just thought you and your mother would like to know we found your brother, Alex. He is well, and decided to stay with his fa to rebuild your croft. He is a brave lad."

"He is no' hurt?" the mother asked anxiously.

"Nay. His friend, John, was hurt, and Alex got him up a mountain to a place of safety. He was afraid to leave his friend alone."

"Is John ... will he ... ?" The question came from Alicia.

"I suspect he will recover. The lad apparently took on a troop of Campbells all on his own." He looked down at the child. "But I want to know how you fare."

Alina's thin face was drawn with pain. She looked at Janet for reassurance. Even protection. 'Against him.'

The child's frightened look reminded him how long he had been away, how little they knew of him. When he was a lad, he had earned a reputation as a fierce fighter. It was a reputation he deeply regretted. He hoped that Janet would never learn of it.

His gaze moved to Janet. She had been silent since he'd entered, but her eyes, which had been soft as she looked at the child, turned wary as she returned his glance.

That hurt more than the throb in his shoulder. He remembered the kiss they'd shared, the soft touches, the passionate response. He thought he saw a flash of memory in her eyes as well.

"I thought that you would be home," he said. "Another apology is owed."

"Nay, I was ill. Then I was needed."

"Your family ..."

"My family is in Edinburgh, and the retainers are probably too frightened to inform them of my absence."

He had puzzled over the lack of any outcry. Perhaps her explanation answered that question.

He swayed. God's eyes, but he was weary.

Lady Janet quickly stood. Her gaze went to his sleeve for the first time. "My lord, you are hurt."

"I only need a little rest."

"More than a little, I think," she said.

She smelled of flowers, and he was aware again of his appearance. "I should bathe," he said. "But I wanted to see how the lass fared." He told himself that was his purpose for coming here, but he'd not lied to himself in a very long time, and he did not wish to start now.

The fact was that he had wanted to see Janet, that the past few days had done nothing to diminish his desire for her.

She approached him and pulled up his sleeve. She breathed deeply when she saw his arm. "You have infection, my lord." Her brow knitted as a tremor rocked his body.

He took a step and realized his legs were weak. Janet caught him and wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders.

"Where is your chamber?" she asked.

"Above," he said. "I can walk alone."

"You cannot," she said. "We can stand here and discuss it, or I can help you there."

He realized he might need her steadying presence. He did not particularly wish to fall on the floor in front of her. Or anyone else for that matter. And he was growing more light-headed by the minute.

She took a step, and he moved with her. He tried to use her only to balance, but each step was becoming more and more difficult.

She was surprisingly strong and steady. They reached the curving stone steps. They looked endless.

A mere slingshot! It was humbling.

One step at a time. He found himself leaning more and more on Janet.

When they reached the top of the stairs and his chamber, he slipped his arm from her and fell rather than sat on his bed. Unlike those in her room and the laird's chamber, his bed was narrow and hard, much like that on his ship.

The room was cold. The fireplace held only ashes.

He saw her surprise.

But he saw no reason to explain that he did not intend to stay here, that he merely wanted to hold the clan together until Patrick returned.

She poured water from a pitcher on the table into a tankard and handed it to him.

He took a sip, then drank it thirstily.

"You need tending," she said.

"Nay, it is but a scratch."

"Why do men always believe they are indestructible?"

He could not stop a small smile. "Oh, I do not believe I am indestructible, but a slingshot?"

She raised an eyebrow. "A slingshot?"

"From a lad."

She sighed. "And what did you do?"

"He was trying to protect his friend against Campbells. 'Tis difficult to be angry."

Something flickered in her eyes, but he was too tired to try to define it.

"I will make one of Moira's poultices," she said. "They seem to work wonders."

"The lass needs you more than I."

"Her mother is there."

"I only need sleep."

"You need a bath as well."

He was only too aware of that.

"Do you not have a manservant?"

"Nay. I am accustomed to caring for myself. And I have been home only a short while." The heat was intensifying in his arm, as was the insistent throbbing.

Janet poured water into a washbowl, and found a folded towel. She dipped it into the water and returned to his side.

She felt his face, and her hands felt cool and comforting against his hot skin.

He saw her worried frown above him, then she said something and left the room.

Rory did not want her to leave. Her hands had been gentle. So gentle. For a moment, he no longer felt alone.

He tried to sit up, but he could not quite manage it. Tired. He was so tired.

Fear pulsed through Felicia.

She had seen fast-moving infections before. He had been injured slightly, and like most men had not the sense to do anything about it. Instead he had pushed himself until he could barely stand.

He'd looked terrible when he'd entered the room, yet he had been gentle with Alina and more than kind. It was obvious that he had true concern about his crofters.

She had never seen her uncle treat his tenants kindly. He cared about their production, no more. If they did not produce, he forced them off the land. Jamie hadn't liked it, but there had been little he could do, other than vow he would not do the same when he became the Campbell chief.

She prayed Jamie would never change.

But now her worry was all for her enemy. Her uncle's enemy. Jamie's enemy.

Felicia hated leaving him but knew the infection required immediate attention. She hurried down to the kitchen. She knew now where to find Moira's herbs.

Together, she and Robina boiled water with the herbs, then soaked linen cloths in the earthy smelling mixture. Before long she was back in Rory's bed chamber with a hot poultice.

"Maggie," he mumbled when she leaned over him. "Maggie." His voice sounded as if it was coming straight from hell.

She uncovered the wound. It had been small, but now an angry red covered much of the arm. She placed the poultice on his arm, and he threw it off.

She tried to wake him, but she could not.

Felicia replaced it and lay down on the bed next to him, holding it firm. She listened to his labored breathing, heard the beating of his heart, felt the heat from his skin.

She knew how quickly infection could kill.

She prayed for a Maclean.

Jamie listened to William, the Dunstaffnage steward, with outrage.

"My father intended Felicia to marry Morneith?"

"Aye."

"And she knew it?"

"She knew there would be an escort to take her to Edinburgh late next week."

"I know Morneith," he said, his stomach roiling at the thought of his cousin marrying the man.

"Your father said the king wished the alliance. He could no' say no."

Jamie knew now why he had been sent to London on an errand that meant little. His father knew he would oppose the match, though he could probably do naught about it.

"Where did she disappear?"

"Near the Cameron property."

"It is also near the Macleans."

A muscle twitched in William's face. It was obvious that he'd also considered the possibility that the lass had encountered Macleans. It would be his head if anything happened to her.

'Where would she have gone?'

To find him? If he knew his cousin, she'd probably headed to London. She would know he would do anything he could to help her, even see her out of the country. What would she do if she could not find him? But if she had tried to reach London, he should have encountered her along the way. There was but one road.

His gut tightened. Macleans were not above abduction and ransom. Or murder. If they happened to run into a Campbell...

He would find out whether a woman was being held at the Macleans' keep. If not, he would travel back to London and try to find her. She was brave and smart, and she had a huge heart. Janet had come to love her as much as he. It had been an added bond between them.

For a moment he wondered whether Janet could have been involved in any way, but he dismissed it. She did not have Felicia's recklessness.

He would find Felicia. And he would start at the Macleans.