How many had been burned out, their homes destroyed, their crops spoiled, their animals taken? How many babies would die this year?

He knew overtures to the Campbells and the Scottish king would dismay his clan, perhaps alienate them. He was chief by consent. He could well be displaced.

But by whom?

As if summoned by his thoughts, his younger brother approached him. Rory stopped and glared, his anger--and despair--finding a new target.

"No need to glower at me, brother," Lachlan said with his easy grin.

Lachlan had always been able to charm, even though he was unaware of the impact he had. Perhaps his charm came from a refreshing lack of guile and ambition.

Rory relaxed. He always did in his younger brother's presence.

He had always competed with Patrick. It had been expected, and he'd usually been bested by his older brother. Patrick was a natural warrior. Rory always had to work at it. But Lachlan had avoided competition and physical tests. He'd always preferred music and books.

"Are you here to tell me I should wed again?"

"You should know me better, brother. I dislike interfering in the lives of others for fear they might try to interfere with mine."

"Patrick does that anyway."

"Aye, he does. He wants to make me into himself. But you never have."

"I like you as you are."

"My lack of ambition appeals to you?"

"Nay. Your music does. Your good nature does."

"You once played the lute. You were very good."

"It was a boyish pastime."

"Was it?" Lachlan said. "Then I hope I am always a lad."

"You want me to sing of lost loves, Lachlan. Unlike you, I've tasted the pain. I have no desire to sing of it."

Lachlan's handsome face clouded. "I am sorry. You know I loved Maggie. We all did."

"I know."

Maggie had loved Lachlan more than any other member of the family. They sang together, walked together, told stories to each other. Rory would have been jealous if he had not loved them both so much and known that they loved him as well. Maggie had made him appreciate Lachlan's gentleness, something Patrick constantly belittled.

They--Maggie and Lachlan--had a connection he'd never quite understood.

"She would want--"

"Lachlan, you cannot know what she would want. You were not her husband."

He turned and strode away from his brother, not understanding the sudden, overwhelming anger he felt. Why for God's nails wouldn't everyone leave him alone? He did not even want to be here.

The sea was solace. Scotland was pain.

Felicia tried not to touch the body of her abductor.

The cloth was taken from her mouth after several miles. She was warned, though, that any cry would mean that the gag would be returned.

She had no intention of screaming. She was frightened. Beyond frightened. But she was equally terrified of being returned to her home. And to her prospective groom.

They stopped after several hours. She was gently dropped to the ground, and food was offered. It was naught but rough bread and cheese, but she was hungry.

She glanced around as she ate. The mist had lifted, but clouds kept the sun at bay, and it was cold and dreary. There were no more than five men. 'Twas odd, but she felt no threat from them. She should. She knew that. She had been abducted by men unknown to her.

She only knew that they had been respectful. That boded well.

"My lady?"

The speaker was the same large man who had lifted her onto the horse. He looked even more fearsome as she sat on a fallen log, staring up at him. His beard was red and long, and he had but one visible eye. The other was covered by a patch.

Despite his wicked appearance, there was a soft courtesy in his voice.

"Why have you taken me?" she asked.

"For yer good and the good of my lord," he said.

"My good?" she asked incredulously. "I do not understand."

"An alliance between the Camerons and Macleans would be good for both," he said. "My lord is a handsome man, a man of strength and wealth, and he be needing a bride."

'Maclean.'

Dear Mother in Heaven. 'The Maclean'. Everyone knew the Macleans and Campbells were mortal enemies.

Suddenly she realized what had happened. They thought they had Janet.

What would happen to the courtesy when they realized they had abducted a Campbell as bride for their lord? Their courtesy would unquestionably vanish.

Her blood turned to ice. If he discovered who she was, the Maclean would hold her hostage, if not slay her. She had to continue the masquerade. Only now it was even more important. If the Camerons had discovered her identity, they would merely have returned her home. But the Macleans were known for their ferocity. One had even chained one of her ancestors to a rock in hopes she would drown. Others had raided Campbell properties. Only fifteen years ago, a Maclean had led a party that had raped women and killed children.

Could it be this Maclean?

She tried to contain the new terror. Maclean was worse even than Morneith.

She would have to pretend to be amenable to the match, then escape before they discovered her true identity.

How soon would an alarm be raised? How quickly would her uncle discover that she had been abducted? And what would they do to the Macleans? And the Macleans, in turn, do the Campbells? To her cousin Jamie?

'Dear Mary in Heaven, what have I done?'

The food she'd just consumed rose in her throat.

"My lady," the man, obviously alarmed at her distress, tried again. "My lord is a fair and true mon."

She would be expected to protest.

"How dare you?" she said. "My family--"

"Your family canna but be pleased. We have had long alliances."

"Is that why you felt free to abduct me?" she asked with the indignation he would expect.

"My lord. He ... he ..."

The man was stammering. His large face flushed red. It was such a strange reaction that apprehension ran rampant inside her.

"Is he a monster that he needs to abduct a wife?"

"Nay, lady. You will find him well favored and of mild temperament. It is only--"

"Only what?"

"He does not wish to wed again. But men speak of your beauty. He will surely be ..."

Just then his gaze met her eyes. The cloak had fallen from her head, and her hair had come out from under the cap. She knew it was plastered to her head. Even at the best of times, she was certainly no beauty. Now she must look like a drowned rat.

Janet was the beauty, not her.

When would they discover their mistake?

She realized now they must have heard that Janet was to return home. The Macleans must have followed the escort, and when she had veered away they had followed. They probably couldn't believe their luck. No battle. No casualties. And they had their heiress.

What if Janet had accompanied the escort?

Well, she had much less to lose than Janet.

Felicia had no man she loved. And Janet was not being forced into a marriage with a man she detested.

The big man tried to reassure her. "I am Archibald," he said. "Know that no harm will come to ye while under our protection. We will reach Inverleith tonight, and you will be made most comfortable."

"My family will not be pleased," she said haughtily.

"They would no' be displeased at the match."

"I am betrothed to Jamie Campbell."

The man spat on the ground. "A Campbell. Ye can do far better than that."

"I love him."

"Ye have not yet met our lord."

"The king will be most displeased."

Archibald shrugged as if King James was of no matter. " 'Tis time to continue."

"You said your lord does not wish to be wed," she said desperately. "You can let me go now, and I will say naught."

"I must admit ye are no' what I thought to be bringing to my laird," he said, his gaze wandering over her face and her rather large size caused by her several layers of clothes.

The observation wounded. To be disparaged by a criminal Maclean was adding insult to injury.

"You, sir, are a brigand and thief and have no right to judge me."

Archibald grimaced. "Ye should be grateful to avoid a wedding with a Campbell," he said. "Any good Scot would say so."

The words confirmed the seriousness of her situation. What would happen when they learned who she was?

They could not. They simply could not discover she was not Janet Cameron.

Not until she escaped again.

But she realized it would not be as easy as it had been when she'd had Janet's help.

The Camerons had not known what she intended. They had trusted her.

This man would not do that. He had taken her captive and meant to keep her one until she did their bidding.

If she succumbed too easily, would she be suspected?

Or should she fight them?

Humility and fear would disarm them. Would allow her to escape again.

She forced tears, hiding the hurt and rage within her.

She really wanted to stab the bloody man with a sword. 'No' what I thought, indeed'.

Mayhap she would get the chance.

That thought produced a momentary satisfaction. The Macleans would discover this Campbell had a sting.

*Chapter 4*