His head lowered, and his lips captured hers, hard and demanding. There was nothing gentle this time. No searching. No asking. He meant it as punishing.

Still, she responded in kind. Her body needed no urging as he pulled her into his arms. The embers that had glowed between them flared, enveloping them in a circle of fire and need.

For a moment, she lost herself in his arms, in the feel of his lips against hers. The yearning deepened as her body pressed into his.

Then he wrenched away from her, turning again to the window, leaving her to stand alone. Her body ached from wanting, from the burning sensations his nearness aroused in her.

"What would you do to save him?" he asked suddenly.

Her thoughts and body still occupied with what had just happened, it took her a moment to understand what he was saying. Then she understood, just as she remembered why she had returned to this chamber. To beg, to bargain for her cousin's life.

"Anything," she whispered, startled, then horrified at the change in conversation, at the sudden implication of what he was saying ... of what she was admitting. How could she have forgotten Jamie even for a moment? Especially in the arms of the man who held his life in balance?

"Anything?" he repeated, and she did not quite understand the sudden bleakness in those gray eyes.

"Aye. He must have come to look for me. It is my fault he ... that you ..." She looked up at him. "Let him go. Keep me. I will do anything you wish."

"Such devotion," he said. "But not a very good bargain for me. Jamie Campbell is a valuable hostage."

"I am, as well," she said. "The king--"

She stopped suddenly.

"What about the king?"

"He arranged the marriage," she said in little more than a whisper. "So you see, I can be a valuable hostage."

"You would go back to Dunstaffnage, to a marriage you abhor for your cousin?"

"Aye," she said in a small voice.

"It would be a poor bargain for Macleans," he said curtly. "Campbells will not attack Inverleith as long as I hold the heir. And why bargain with you, when I already have you?"

"You will not harm him?"

"Not as long as he is of use to me."

"I want to see him."

He gave her a long, level stare. "I think not." He went to the door and paused there. "You will not leave this room."

"I want to see Alina."

"You were ready to leave her easily enough," he said.

"Not easily," she whispered. "Not easily at all."

He hesitated, then nodded his head. "Just the two rooms. I want your word that you will not go beyond them. If you do, you will be confined to this one."

She swallowed hard. The heat she'd felt so recently had turned to ashes, cold and bitter. She shivered.

For a moment, his eyes seemed to warm, but then he turned away. "I will send Robina to you. And some water. It appears you need a bath."

And then he was gone.

She leaned against the wall, drained by all the emotions that had just rampaged through her. Her heart became a great yawning hole.

She didn't know the man who had just left. She had thought she had learned something about him, but she knew now it was not nearly enough.

She did not know what he would do.

God's blood but she was a mystery to him. Or was it sorcery? Why else had he kissed her?

She had stood so bravely in front of him, her face smudged and her shorn hair, dark with soot, clinging to her face. She looked like a sprite who had been hiding in the woods.

Her hair, the coppery curls, were gone, and he could not even imagine what the loss had cost her. And she had obviously cut it before he had returned. To run away from Inverleith. From him.

She had not given him a chance to help her. It was astounding how much that realization hurt.

Neither had he been able to block the jealousy that had flooded him when he discovered she would risk all for her cousin, and that the young Campbell would risk all for her. Her eyes had softened when she talked of him, when she had said she would do anything to help him. 'Anything.' Even, apparently, bed Rory.

She had not trusted him at all. She still did not trust him. He felt he still did not have the full story behind her escape. What woman would flee her home alone? Where had she planned to go after London? Had she hoped Campbell would flee with her?

The church frowned upon unions between first cousins, but still they occurred.

He had no right to jealousy. He had no hold on her, could never have one. Campbells and Macleans did not marry. The one time they did had ended in disaster.

Her family would never permit a union. Neither, he knew, would his. They were already aching for James Campbell's blood. It was complete irony--or the devil's doing--that the only woman who had even tempted him in nearly a decade belonged to the family that had cursed his.

More than tempted. God's blood, but he had found something in her that had restored at least part of his heart.

All he had, really, was a weapon he did not want, but, for the sake of his clan, would be forced to use. And if Felicia Campbell wasn't lying about the interest of the king--and why would she?--then he had two. If Morneith wanted her, he would pay handsomely for her return.

His gut rebelled at the thought. He knew Morneith. He was a corrupt man who owed his loyalty to no one king. If King James thought he could buy Morneith's loyalty with a young lass, he was mistaken.

The London court was filled with French spies, and Rory had done business with Paris officials. He knew that Morneith had pledged his support to Henry in London as well as to James of Scotland. The man was a traitor as well as one known for his excesses in women, drink, and other vices.

Knowing she'd risked her life to escape Morneith, how could he allow Felicia to wed him? If Morneith's treachery was ever proved, Felicia would be at risk as well.

Yet interfering with the king's business could endanger his entire clan.

That dilemma, and that damnable jealousy, had made him lash out at her. It was unfair. He'd known it. And he detested himself even as he'd said the words.

He'd hoped the anger would cool the passion she always aroused in him, the yearning to keep her at his side, the instinctive knowledge that she would fill the vast void within him.

It had not. He had watched the proud tilt of her head, thought of the courage it took to defy a king.

He heard his own groan, deep as an animal in pain.

He had returned to save his clan. He saw no way to do that without destroying an innocent. One innocent life against so many.

He went next door and entered after a brief knock. Alina was sitting up and eating soup from a spoon her mother held.

"My lord," her mother said. She was wreathed in smiles. "Alina is much improved."

"I can see," he said gently. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Nay. You and Lady Janet have been so kind."

'Lady Janet'. What would happen when she knew Lady Janet was really Lady Felicia Campbell, a member of the clan that had inflicted her daughter's wound? He considered telling her. Not to cause Felicia harm, but to prevent hurt, to take the brunt of any anger.

He thought of her bravery moments earlier when she had confronted him, tried to explain. She would want to tell Alina in her own way.

He left the room. He felt aimless. And empty. Lonely. He thought he had conquered that, but knew now he had not. There was no one with whom he could confide. Not Douglas or Archibald. Neither would understand.

Lachlan? But Lachlan lived in his own world, studiously avoiding responsibility.

He would have to depend on his own instincts.

Felicia Campbell had destroyed his instincts.

He went to his chamber. There was always wine there.

Once there, he took off his plaid and linen shirt. He looked at the bandage protecting his arm and took it off. It still ached, was a little warm but far better than it had been.

He needed to shave, but that could wait. He needed rest. Yet while his body was weary, his mind was far too active to rest. Images flickered through it. The golden-haired Campbell heir. The woman he'd thought was Janet Cameron smiling up at him with dazed eyes after his first kiss. Felicia Campbell with her cropped hair and defiant gaze.

Their fates were in his hands, and he damned well did not want them there.

He pulled on a fresh shirt and trews. After a moment's hesitation, he filled a tankard with wine from a cask he had brought from Paris. It was early morning, but he'd had no sleep. Neither had his prisoner.

He went down to the dungeon. He felt the increasing chill as he went down the steps. He saw the glow of two candles impaled on iron spikes. Two of his men sat at a table, playing a game of chance.

Both stood immediately.

He looked around. He had not been here since he was a lad, when he and Patrick had explored the place. He still remembered the chills that ran through him, though he had been determined not to show it as Patrick strutted around.

He shivered from the cold.

"Where is he?"

"At the end, milord. We gave him food and blankets as ye ordered."

He nodded. "I want to see him."

A guard took one of the lanterns and a large key and led the way down the corridor to the last door. An iron-grated window allowed him to look inside.

James Campbell was lying down on straw, but he quickly stood as the light penetrated the cell. He blinked for a moment, then his gaze met Rory's.

"Open it," Rory told the guard, "then you can return to your game."

The guard fitted the key in the lock. The door creaked and grated as it opened. Rory doubted whether it had been used in years.

"I will git ye a chair, milord."

Rory nodded and took the lantern. He did not worry about Campbell escaping. There was, quite simply, no place for him to go.

Blond bristles stubbled the man's face. His eyes were tired. But Rory didn't see fear. He saw the same defiance that had been in Felicia's eyes.

The guard returned with a chair, then disappeared again. Rory didn't sit but put a foot on the chair.

He saw a bowl on the floor. A cup. Several blankets.

Still, it was icy inside. And damp.

He held out the tankard to Campbell, who regarded it much as he would a vial of poison.

"It is good wine," Rory said, and took a taste himself before handing it to Campbell.

"To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" the Campbell asked, still not accepting it. "And your wine?"

Rory wondered the same thing. He shrugged. "I remember it being cold and damp."

"And you care?"

"A dead hostage does me little good."

"Then I will humor you," Campbell said. He finally took the tankard and took a sip, then another. His gaze went back to Rory. "My cousin?"

"She is unharmed."

"You have talked to her?"

"Aye."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"You should worry about yourself, Campbell."

"If you misuse her--"

"You are in no position to threaten," Rory said. He felt the unreasoning anger rising in him again. He tamped it down.

"Not at the moment," Campbell retorted.

They glared at each other.

"It was a fool's errand, coming here alone," Rory said after a moment's silence.