'And if that decision is damaging to Macleans?'

'I want our men to train harder.'

For the first time, she realized what she had done. In fleeing headlong and stubbornly staying here, she might well be responsible for their deaths. Moira. Lachlan. Rory. Robina. Alina.

She'd heard it said that the Campbells had been searching for a woman when they raided the village. They had been looking for her. Reason enough to destroy a village. At least for Campbells.

When Alina was first brought in, Felicia had been struck with guilt that her clansmen had committed such acts. But now she knew her own actions--her own blind thoughtlessness--could bring much worse upon the Macleans, as well as her own clan. Her desires--freedom from a wretched marriage--had cost other people far more than she'd ever expected.

Now she had to leave, not to escape to London, but to return and to try to put things right. It no longer mattered what happened to her. Alina's life mattered. Moira's life mattered. Rory's life mattered.

She heard the weakness in his voice, the pain not only of his wounds but of the decisions she had forced him to make. He had been willing to sacrifice his life for her.

For her.

No, not for her. For Janet Cameron, the daughter of a neighboring clan, which, while not completely an ally, was not an enemy, either.

How could she now tell him who she was?

She thought of the acceptance she'd had in the past days, the feeling of worth she'd gained by it. How could she now brave the hatred and disgust sure to come?

There was but one thing to do. She had to leave and return home before anyone discovered where she had been. She would tell William that she had been hiding in caves all this time and be there in time for her father's escort. She had three or four days. No more.

At least she'd had a taste of life, of passion. Regret warred with determination, despair with acknowledgment of what had to be done. She balanced the tray with the bowl of soup, a tankard of ale, and bread and knocked, then entered.

Rory was sitting up on the bed. As before he wore no shirt, only hose, and they molded his lower body well, too well. They clung to his muscled stomach. She dared not look lower.

Sweat dampened his face, which was rough with new beard. His jaw was clenched, as if it took every bit of his concentration to remain upright.

His mouth softened as he saw her, but there was a hard glint of resolve in his eyes.

"Douglas, leave us," he said. "And make sure our man leaves immediately."

"Aye, my lord," Douglas said. He bowed to Felicia. "My lady," he said. "We are all grateful."

She had not thought she could feel worse.

She placed the tray on the table and watched him struggle to rise. "Stay in bed," she ordered.

"Nay, there is much to do."

"More reason for you to rest. You cannot help anyone if you get worse."

He paid no attention to her but struggled to his feet. He swayed, and she moved to his side. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and stumbled rather than walked to the table. The reliance startled her. The laird was not a man to lean on anyone, even now. His touch sent now familiar frissons of heat steaming through her. He looked at her through pain-clouded eyes, but he could not hide the attraction any better than she could.

She wanted to hold on to him.

She closed her eyes for a moment, prayed for the strength she knew she needed. Not physical strength but the strength to leave him and go to another man.

They were still for a moment, as if caught in a painting.

Then he slid in the seat, nearly taking her down with him. She heard him mumbling. It sounded like an oath.

She felt like uttering one herself. Duty and need, truth and lies were tearing her apart.

Her gaze returned to his face. He was regarding her with frustrated need, combined with pain.

She felt his brow. It was not as hot as it had been earlier, though it was warmer than natural. Perhaps rest and Moira's magic were working. She prayed so.

"Eat, my lord," she said.

"Moira's soup?" he said.

"Aye, but I added a few herbs."

He tasted it, winced.

"I had hoped it would be improved," she said, though she had tasted it as well and found little improvement. Still, she had hoped.

"It is," he replied, but she saw the lie for what it was. She wished now that she had not allowed herself to be dismissed from the Dunstaffnage kitchen so easily. To be truthful, she had not tried overly hard. She would rather drive an arrow with a bow.

She should find a way to depart the keep before it was impossible. Yet she wanted these few moments with him. She wanted far more. She wanted to assure herself that he would defeat the fever. How could she leave without knowing that?

How could she not leave?

He stopped eating, and his gaze met hers.

"We need to talk, my lady," he said.

She had heard enough outside the door to know what he wanted to talk about. How could she sit there and allow him to agonize over choices that were necessary only because of her reckless adventure?

She did not say anything.

"Do you wish to marry James Campbell?" he said.

How could she say aye, when she had kissed him so passionately so recently?

"It does not matter what I want," she said. "I am only a woman. My ... family makes that decision."

"Many women marry for love."

"Do they?" she asked skeptically. "I think they are few."

"Then you do not love the Campbell?"

She did, but not the way he meant. She did not know how to reply, but he apparently took her silence for agreement.

"Lachlan seems to think you may be reluctant. Or afraid."

"You have talked to him?"

"Only briefly, when I first returned."

She was silent again.

"Is Campbell a monster then?"

"Nay."

A muscle in his jaw worked. "Then do you fear returning because you have spent time here, without a chaperon?"

Her gaze met his, and she knew hers must be roiling with emotion. She did not want to lie to him. Not even by omission. He was not the kind of man who tolerated dishonesty. She had already seen and heard enough to know he had not wanted to return, but did so because of duty. She knew he had loved well and had given his heart.

She'd learned all that about Rory Maclean in a week's time.

She also realized he would never forgive her if lies brought death to his clan.

But she had to lie to save him. "Nay, I do not fear that," she said.

His gaze was unwavering, as he searched her face.

"And I do love James Campbell. We had an argument. I ran away because I wanted to think ... and it was an adventure."

"You want to return then?"

"Aye." Her heart was breaking.

She was still standing, and he stood. Again she saw what the effort cost him. But he stepped closer to her and brushed his lips against hers. The unwounded arm went around her and pulled her closer.

She trembled from the resulting waves of sensation that swept over her, that raced through her body. She felt the rising and falling of his chest, his heart beat, the lingering heat from the fever.

She must have the fever as well. This was madness.

With a lump in her throat and sick emptiness in her stomach, she knew he was seeking the truth, and the truth was one thing she could not offer him.

His lips moved slowly, sensuously, across her face, awakening even more sensations both gentle and fierce. Then they turned questioning, asking questions she could not answer.

His lips pressed harder, this time demanding not asking. She knew suddenly that she had been waiting all her life for this warmth, this wanting.

She heard a soft groan, and his lips became seeking, as if he, too, were trying to find his way in an unknown thicket of tangled emotions. Anger was at the edge of them, but the core was pure, raw desire.

Fear squeezed her heart. She could not love this man. She could not.

'Pull away!'

She felt a sudden wetness on her cheeks, a growing tightness behind her eyes.

He stilled, then slowly released her lips. His eyes reflected a sorrow that stabbed to the core of her being. He lowered his arm, and he looked weary and defeated.

"You must sit, my lord."

He said nothing but went to the bed and sat down, his hand catching hers. "I am sorry, lass. I had no right. I wanted to know the truth of it. I wanted to know if you truly loved the Campbell."

"And you know now?" she said. Her voice sounded strange even to her. Husky. Hoarse with emotion and need and sadness.

"Aye. I do not think you love him."

"Because you kissed me?"

"Because of the way 'you' kissed me, lass."

"And you had no feeling at all?"

His hand tightened around hers. "Aye, I did. But I have had no luck at marriage, and my wives have had less luck. I will no' be passing on death to another."

"Will you tell me about them? You kept calling for Maggie."

His mouth tightened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. The dimple in his chin seemed to deepen. "She died in childbirth, as did the child. She loved life and laughter, and she did no' deserve her fate."

His face was a study in pain and guilt. Her heart broke. Did his pain come from the Campbell curse, or his belief in it?

He lifted the finger of his good hand and wiped away a tear from her face. "I should no' be burdening you with this," he said. "It is enough that I cannot marry again, and I want you to be safe. I wish I knew how to make it so."

The uncertainty of a certain man touched her to the core. She had never met anyone who cared as much as he did for his people. For his sense of honor. For her.

'Except Jamie.'

She touched his face. It was still warm. She knew he was still in pain.

Well, she would have her own honor as well. "I will go home," she said. "I wish to go alone. Now."

He looked at her for a long moment. "You cannot go alone. You are my responsibility. I want to know that you will not be hurt because of something we did. I have sent someone to the Camerons."

'And he will know that Janet Cameron is at home.'

"It is not your fault," she said. "And Archibald thought he was doing a fine thing."

He shook his head. "They think wives are like saddles. Lose one and gain another."

Most men did. At least, that had been her observation. It was her fortune--or misfortune--to find the one who did not. And he was forbidden to her for so many reasons.

She lifted her chin. If he would not let her leave, then she would have to find a way. It seemed more than a little ironic, that not long ago he had wanted her to leave and she had been plotting how to stay.

*Chapter 12*