*Chapter 11*

Pain raged throughout his arm.

He was hot, so hot.

Maggie stood in front of him in a flowing blue gown, her lovely, long blond hair blowing in the wind, her soft brown eyes full of laughter.

"Catch me if you can," she said and ran toward the Sound of Mull.

He ran after her, laughing at first because he knew he could catch her. But the faster he ran, she ran even faster. It was as if she had wings rather than legs.

She turned and beckoned him, teasing him as she often did. He increased his pace until his heart beat so loudly it could surely be heard in Edinburgh. But still he could not close the distance between them, and she was nearing the cliff that overlooked the sound.

He tried to call out to her, to stop her, but his words were lost in the wind, and her form began to dissolve in front of him.

"Maggie!" He reached out in supplication. To bring her back. To stop her headlong flight into the sound. All he found was mist.

"Rory?"

A voice. Soft but insistent.

Maggie?

"Rory?" Louder.

'Not Maggie's voice. Maggie was gone.'

He moved again. His arm was aflame.

"My lord."

He forced his eyes open. His lids were heavy. Every movement required enormous effort.

Still he opened them, wishing instead to go back to the darkness, to the dream of Maggie standing in front of him.

He tried to focus. A lass. Red curls had escaped from her braid and framed her face ... the woman calling him back to consciousness sat on the narrow bed next to him was Janet Cameron.

Another image flashed through his mind. Arms around him, holding him. He had relaxed in them, felt comforted by them.

"Rory?"

She should have been gone. But now he remembered that Lachlan had not followed his order. She had been here, caring for a child.

"The child?" he asked.

"Alina is better," she said. "Moira and Robina are looking after her. You kept pulling off the poultice. Someone had to stay here."

He remembered. He had felt a presence next to him. Warm. Gentle. He had thought...

He did not know what he thought.

Janet Cameron stood. Her gown was stained with blood and something else, probably the mixture used in the poultice. She went to the table and returned with a cup. "You must be thirsty."

He was. He tried to sit up, and it took every ounce of determination he had. He looked at his arm, but it was covered with a poultice.

"I wish to see it," he said.

She started to shake her head, then surrendered. She carefully untied the poultice and swabbed the discharge with the towel. The arm was swollen, the small wound ugly. The skin surrounding it was hot to the touch.

"A slingshot," he said with disgust.

"A small wound is often more dangerous than a large one if not attended. And it is far better now than it was yesterday," she said. "Moira's potions are wondrous. She said she would teach me."

"Yesterday?"

"You have been asleep more than a day," she said.

'A day!'

It could not be. He could not have slept so long. There was much to be done, and Janet... she was to be on her way home.

Yet he felt comfort in her presence, and now he realized she had stayed with him these past hours.

"I was to return you to your family." It seemed all the devils in hell were foiling him in that effort. Every day delayed, though, added risk to his clan. There was no way he could defend his Macleans against a combined campaign of Campbells and Camerons, especially since both of these clans had influence in the Scottish court.

He knew he probably could not travel yet, and though he tried not to recognize it, he felt a sense of belonging with the lass, as though she was somehow meant to be here.

The notion was part of the fever. A delusion.

She replaced the poultice carefully, her fingers sure, gentle. Even then, every touch sent streaks of pain up his arm.

"You must be hungry," she said when she completed her task.

He was not, but he knew he needed nourishment. "Has no one been here looking for you?"

"Nay," she said.

He closed his eyes at that. Something was very wrong, but he could not ken what it was. Not now. His head pounded as if a dozen men with hammers were striking inside his skull.

"My thanks, Lady Janet," he said.

Her cheeks flushed. But then the room was warm. Or was it just him?

"I will fetch some soup," she said.

"Tell Douglas I wish to see him," he demanded more forcefully than he'd intended. He was in no position to give orders.

She stood her ground.

"Aye," she said, "if you swear not to try to stand."

It was an easy thing to pledge. He was as weak as a newborn kitten and had no wish to demonstrate that truth in front of her.

He nodded.

She still hesitated, then turned and left the room.

He did exactly what he had pledged not to do, but he had to test himself. He swung his feet to the side of the bed and tried to sit again. 'You can do it. You have to do it.'

He sat there a moment, using every reserve of strength he had.

He had to be strong for the Macleans.

A moment passed, or was it hours? His head ached, and his arm protested the slightest movement.

The door opened, and Douglas entered. "Thank God you are better," the steward said.

"I think it is more to do with Lady Janet and Moira than God," Rory said. "How are the others?"

"We have not lost another Maclean."

Rory closed his eyes in relief. Janet had said the lass was doing well, but...

He posed the question uppermost in his mind. Janet had said no one had asked any questions, but he could barely fathom that. She had been here a week now. "Have there been any questions about Lady Janet?"

"Nay. It feels strange. I thought we would have had a visit from the Camerons by now. A search party."

It did not make sense, and Rory did not like things that did not make sense.

"We should send the lass home," he said.

Douglas was silent for a moment. "She has been here nearly a week now," he said. "If we return her now, there could be consequences. Her reputation will be ruined. And we cannot spare the loss of another man for an escort." The steward frowned. "It was a poor decision on my part," he said. "I should not have agreed to the scheme."

"I should have taken her back myself, fever or not," Rory said. "Do we have anyone who can make his way safely into the Cameron properties and try to get information?"

"Aye. Fergus is married to a Cameron. He has taken food to her family before."

"Send him today. Give him whatever he needs. I do not want him to be obvious. Just to listen and report back as soon as possible. Tell him there will be no rent due this year."

"Aye."

"Does he know that Lady Janet is here?"

"Aye. He was with us on the raid, but he will say nothing."

Rory had been away too long to know who could be trusted and who could not. But he trusted Douglas's assessment.

Still, it was only a matter of time before word leaked out, if it had not already.

"Send him now. What about the Campbells? Can anyone enter there?"

Douglas shook his head. "I know of no one, but Archibald may."

"Talk to him. In the meantime, keep an extra guard. No one is to go in or out unless I know about it."

"Aye, my lord." Respect had crept into those words this time. Rory noted it, but he did not care.

"And the lass?"

God's eyes, but his head ached. Nearly as much as his arm. And, he feared, his heart. He would never forget the look in her face as she tended Alina. The tenderness. The compassion.

Then the warmth and life she had transferred to him as she lay against him.

He was sickened by the thought that she might pay for that compassion. She could have been gone, but she chose to stay and help care for the wounded. And himself.

What if she were blamed for his actions? Until now he had thought mostly of the harm to his clan.

But now he was beginning to realize the great harm that might well come to her on her return.

"It should be up to her," he said finally.

"And if that decision is damaging to Macleans?"

What was the worst possibility? An innocent ruined because of an action by his clan, or his clan attacked and persecuted because of the good intentions of a few men.

Where did his loyalties lie?

'The Macleans'. The walls whispered the answer. He should be their protector. Was that not why he had returned?

Yet he could not abandon a lass because of his clan's misguided actions.

"I want our men to train harder," he said. "I want them to start storing grain and food within the walls. They need to be prepared for a siege." He paused. "But I will give myself to hostage first. I will allow no harm to come here."

Douglas stared at him for a long second. "We need you, Rory."

"You need peace more," Rory said. "How will the Macleans react?"

"They will know we have a lord back," Douglas said.

Felicia returned to Rory's bedchamber with hot soup. She heard voices and hesitated before going in.

'It should be up to her.'