And then he would have decisions to make. Decisions that could mean the survival of his clan.

He fought the emptiness that suddenly overwhelmed him. He could not get beyond the lies. She had played on his loneliness like a master musician.

Lachlan and the two men were waiting for a decision.

"We will take him to Inverleith," he said. "We should be able to use him to good advantage."

He watched as they brought out the Campbell.

Janet--no, Felicia--would probably watch them ride in. She would realize that her... masquerade was over.

He forced his emotions into a box in the back of his mind, as Campbell, his hands still tied behind him, was assisted onto his horse.

Rory needed time to think. He needed time to temper the anger.

It went deeper than anger. He had actually thought he might be able to care again.

Now he knew it had been naught but an illusion.

*Chapter 14*

Jamie suffered the furies of the damned as he sat astride a horse being led by a Maclean.

Their going was slow. Night clouds filled the sky yet again, making the trail difficult to follow. Jamie's horse had stumbled more than once on the narrow path that wound around the hills.

Time to think. Too much time to think. He might well have condemned Felicia. And himself. He could live with the latter, but not the former.

He knew he had made a terrible--perhaps fatal--mistake when he had identified the woman the Macleans held as his cousin.

If only he had known they 'had' held a woman.

He'd thought if they had her, the Maclean would have said something. And he had been at a loss to explain why he'd been on Maclean property. Searching for a lost lass seemed as good as any explanation. He even thought for an instant he might be able to talk himself out of a problem. Most Scots would offer to join the search for an innocent lass.

He had ignored the fact he was dealing with Macleans.

He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he could take that instant back. He would gladly give his own life to do that.

If the Maclean did not kill him, most assuredly his father would want to do the deed. His father did not tolerate failure, nor would he tolerate his son's walking into the arms of his greatest enemy.

God's blood, but his shoulders and wrists hurt. The ropes bit into his flesh, and they pulled his shoulders back. His legs were free to hug his mount, but the reins were held firmly by the man riding in front of him.

The physical discomfort paled in comparison to his concern over his cousin. He had watched the Maclean's face when the man realized he had Felicia rather than Janet. Emotion had flitted across his face. Disbelief. Anger. And something more.

How had his cousin ever convinced him she was Janet? The two looked nothing alike. Janet was a true beauty. Felicia ...

He tried to think of her as a female, not a cousin who was as close as a sister. She was not beautiful, yet he had always enjoyed her company. She was intriguing and challenging. While he admired those characteristics in a friend, he was not sure he would be similarly enamored as a husband.

Or would he?

His interest in Janet had spiraled when he'd discovered she was not the obedient lady he had always thought. He'd always believed he wanted a complacent and pleasant wife. Now he knew how bored he might have become.

He might never have a chance to explore this adventurous side of Janet.

He looked at the rider ahead. The Maclean's back was stiff, as if he was keeping himself tightly in control.

Something was brewing here. Perhaps he could use it.

If he--and Felicia--lived long enough.

Felicia was jolted awake by Alina's mother. The woman looked rested, though Felicia was exhausted.

She had stayed at Alina's side for hours, trying to convince herself that the wee lass would fare well without her. Her heart ached and cried for the child, as well as for herself. She would return to Dunstaffnage, for that was best for both Macleans and Campbells. She could suffer the proposed marriage, knowing that by doing so she would not be putting others at harm.

She held Alina's hand, reveled in the trust she saw in the child's eyes.

She did not want to leave. In a matter of days, she had found a place for herself. She had found what being a woman was about. She suspected she would never again feel the fevered desire she had felt--still felt--for the Maclean lord.

A place secured by a lie, she told herself. By a mountain of lies, both uttered and made through silence.

She left when Alina's mother returned before dawn, rested and ready for the kitchen. Felicia went to her chamber and located the lad's clothes under the mattress. She thanked the keep's careless housekeeping that they were still there.

She hurriedly changed, then tried to push her hair under a cap. The more she tried to tuck her hair up, the more it came tumbling out. She went to the window. Dawn was not far away, and she had to be gone with the first group of tenants to leave the gates. Some left for their fields. Others were charged with bringing in wood.

She looked in the small mirror and knew the truth. She would never get all her hair under the cap.

What would happen when she returned home, sheared like a sheep?

She had no choice. It was the only possible way of leaving. She had taken a dirk with her from home and had hidden it along with the lad's clothing. She touched the blade with her finger and drew a fine line of blood.

It was sharp enough.

Reluctantly, she took a handful of curls in one hand and began to cut. Red curls dropped around her feet. She cut more until she had only a cap of curls. She felt naked as well as much lighter, but she had no time for regret. She got down on her hands and knees and pushed the hair under the bed, suspecting it would not be found for another decade or so. Not unless a housekeeper appeared magically.

She took some ash from the fireplace and rubbed it in her hair until it became a dingy black, then she placed the cap on her head. She rubbed her hand across her cheek, trailing more ash across it.

She would not bear close scrutiny but perhaps she could pass in a crowd. In any event, it was the only chance she had.

She made a bundle in the bed. She hoped it looked like a sleeping person. She doubted anyone, especially shy Robina, would try to wake her. They had all been trying to convince her to get more rest.

With only a brief, regretful glance back, she left the chamber, keeping to the shadows. She said a small prayer. Surely God would be with her. She wanted only to rectify her mistakes, her misguided flight that had resulted in such unintended consequences.

She left her room and went down to the great hall where the Maclean clansmen slept this night.

They had been coming in all day--men, women, and children. The hall was filled, particularly the area around the fireplace. She had helped find blankets for them all and assisted in the kitchen by adding more and more water, potatoes, and meat to great pots of stew.

But now the keep was still, except for the soft snoring of several hundred Macleans from small villages. Their cattle were just outside the walls. At the first sign of trouble, they would be brought inside.

Felicia planned on being one of those leaving at dawn to replace those tending the cattle. The tenants were on foot, not on horses, and she hoped she could get lost in their midst. She would then have a chance to separate from them and make her way back to the Camerons. She would have to travel on foot, avoiding the paths and roads, relying only on the stars to guide her. She had already prepared a story about getting lost and the Macleans' kindness in caring for her.

She could no longer try for London, nor to find Jamie. Too many people would discover she had been at Inverleith, and her disappearance would cast blame on the Macleans. She would not be responsible for more slaughter. Nor could she admit her true identity to the Macleans. She could not bear to see affection and respect turn to hatred, nor was she sure that she would not be used as a pawn. In any event, she would be returned to her uncle, probably with a demand for ransom.

She managed to leave the tower without being seen, and she went around to the back of the stables. Then she leaned against the wall and allowed herself to slide down to the ground. An hour or so of sleep before dawn, before the gates would open.

But she could not sleep. She thought of Rory Maclean, of his kisses and gentleness. A tear trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away impatiently. She had to do this.

Rory pushed both men and horses. He wanted to get back to Inverleith. He wanted to confront Janet. No, not Janet. Felicia.

'Felicia'. He kept reminding himself.

He wanted to see the truth in her face. He wanted to see her reaction when she knew he'd learned the truth. What lies would she utter then?

The kisses had been nothing but more lies. Her tender caring a facade to keep from being unveiled.

'She had no choice. She had been taken by his men.'

But that truth couldn't fill the sudden void he felt, or the anger at being misled into caring about a Campbell.

He realized that part of his anger was directed at the situation he now was in. Through no intent of his own, he held both the son and niece of the second most important person in Scotland, just below the king.

He should be pleased. He had gone from being the unknown and unproven second son of a clan of diminishing strength and influence to someone who held the Campbells' future in his hands. The Campbells would not dare lay siege to Inverleith, not without risking the life of their only direct heir.

But unlike the Campbells, he had no wish to play with lives, not that of James Campbell and certainly not that of a woman. He did not mistreat or use women, no matter the last name. It mattered not that he had been deceived or, even more excruciating, that she had touched a part of him he thought well protected.

'Why was she traveling as Janet Cameron?'

And why had there not been a hue and cry for Felicia Campbell? Why had her cousin come alone rather than with an army of Campbells?

Rory did not like mysteries. He did not like lies. He did not like Campbells.

They approached Inverleith. He stopped and rode to Campbell's side. He took out his dirk and cut a piece of cloth from the man's mantle, then wrapped the cloth around his prisoner's eyes.

He did not want James Campbell to see how few men he had, how unprepared Inverleith was. Felicia Campbell would have seen much of Inverleith, but he hoped she did not have the understanding that a warrior would. He ached at the thought she might betray him, but then he knew how foolish that thought was. She had not come to spy.

He swore under his breath as he finished tying the knot. James Campbell was still. He asked no questions, nor did he try to avoid the blindfold. Yet Rory could see the muscles tense in his shoulders, the strain in his face.

He looked up at the sky. The first fingers of dawn touched the hills, lighting them with a soft glow. The castle would soon be stirring. Would Felicia go to the window when she heard the horn? Would she recognize the Campbell with the blindfold covering most of his face? Still, his hair was an unmistakable color of gold.

Would she try to flee?

He spurred his horse, and the men behind him did the same, leading the Campbell's horse at a trot.

The gates opened, and they entered, then he ordered that the gates be closed and no one allowed to leave.

No one without his personal permission.

He stopped near the entrance to the tower. He picked three men from those gathering about the courtyard.

"Take him to one of the cells below. The first level. He is to be given food and water and blankets, but no one is to see him other than myself," he said. "The blindfold stays on until he is inside a cell."

"Who is he, milord?" one of the men asked.

"James Campbell," he said shortly.

The name spread quickly. More and more of his men and villagers appeared in the courtyard, whispering loudly. Some swore, others wondered at the man's fate. It was obvious some would like to dispatch him immediately.

Campbell slid a leg over the saddle and slid down with surprising grace since his hands were tied behind him. He must have heard Rory's orders, the angry taunts of Macleans, but he gave no sign that any of it rattled the icy calm he maintained.

"Nothing is to happen to him," Rory added in a low voice. "If there is any punishment, I will be the one inflicting it."

One of the selected men--he knew all three, and, to the best of his admittedly short knowledge, they were to be trusted--looked disgruntled at the order.

"Is that clear?" he asked.

"Aye," one said reluctantly. "What about his bonds?"

"Cut them once he is locked in the cell."

He turned his attention back to Campbell. "Try to escape, and my blacksmith will fit you with irons."

He saw a muscle flex in the man's throat and realized he was not as relaxed as he tried to appear.

"Take him," he said.

He watched as two of the assigned men took Campbell's arms and led him around to the back of the keep, to the stairs that would take them to the dungeon below. The cells were cold and always damp from the moisture that seeped into the rocks. There was no light other than that furnished by the guards. It was a mean place, but at the moment Rory felt no regret.

Ordinarily, a prisoner--a hostage--was asked to give his parole and was housed in the residence area of the keep, but he could not stop thinking about the way Felicia Campbell had fooled the whole of Inverleith. If she had such talents, who was to say her cousin would not as well?

The Campbells were not known for either their civility or their honor. He had to admit that neither did his clan have a better past. His ancestor had cast a stain on the clan that would be forever etched in its history.

He watched until the Campbell disappeared, then he went to look for Felicia Campbell / Janet Cameron. He would discover what he wanted to know, and then he had decisions to make.

"What are you going to do?" Lachlan suddenly appeared at his side. His brother had been to the rear of the party, but Rory had no doubt he had heard his orders.

"I am no' sure," he said, falling back into boyhood brogue.

"Remember, we took her. She did not come of her own free will."

Rory spun on him, his anger barely under control. 'Twas true that the lass had not come of her own free will, but she had certainly returned his kisses of her own free will.

Or had she? Had that been part of her masquerade as well?