A sudden stroke almost took her to her knees. But she was able to turn and strike at his knees, which Douglas had hit earlier. She was so much shorter than him that it was easy.

But he wasn't going to go down again. She heard the grunt of pain, but he remained standing.

Then he struck hard against the shield. She felt the jolt through every muscle. Yet she realized it was not as hard as it could have been. If it had been, she would have gone down. He would not hold back in training.

He knew ... he'd recognized her.

'How?'

She struck back with all her strength, hearing the clang of her sword against his shield. It echoed through her being, the power of the thrust placing her at a disadvantage. Her sudden desperation had caused her to make a mistake.

But instead of a blow, he stepped back and kneeled in a sign of respect.

She stood there.

Shouts rang throughout the courtyard. They were for a young lad who had taken on the laird and nearly defeated him.

But she had not!

She had not wanted to be indulged. She wanted to fight a battle. Anger churned inside her. Holding her dignity intact, she turned and went inside the tower, even as she heard the sound of questions: who was the lad?

But Rory Maclean knew. And instead of fighting her, he humiliated her by not doing his best, by holding back, by pretending.

As he had pretended from the beginning.

She went straight to her room, taking the armor, the mail, and sword with her. By all the saints, she would not mind plunging it into some sensitive part of Rory Maclean.

*Chapter 24*

Rory had recognized Felicia almost immediately when she presented herself on the field. He had been amused at first, and then his amusement faded as he discovered she was very good, and he had to work hard not to be defeated by a slip of a lass.

He was tired. Douglas, though aging, was a superb tactician. And though Rory had the advantage of strength, he knew he could not use it against her. She was quick, and wily, and competent. She knew exactly where to land blows. And he had to withhold some of his power. He had not wanted to injure her.

How in the devil had she learned to fight with a sword?

His salute at the end did the opposite of what he intended. He had meant to honor her, but she obviously took it as an insult. He saw it in her stiff shoulders as she marched away to the keep.

He tried not to listen to the speculation. Everyone was wondering who the young lad was. No one had recognized her but himself. And that was because he knew her better than anyone.

He knew those blue eyes, and the particular grace with which she moved. He also now knew the determination. She had meant to best him. And she almost had.

Another side of the intriguing Felicia Campbell. She continued to startle him. She sang with the voice of an angel. She had joined in serving food from the kitchen when no one required it. She had healing skills as well.

And now a warrior.

He took off his helmet and ran his ringers through the sweat-drenched hair. He needed to wash, then he would visit Felicia.

'Not wise.'

She was obviously angry with him, and he understood why. He had bedded her, then left with little more than a careless lover's worthless words. He had offered to take care of her, realizing too late that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Now he knew how wrong. She took pride in taking care of herself. He had treated her little better than a paid woman. He had not meant it. He had, instead, been too involved in accusing himself of being all kinds of a knave to consider her feelings. He had wanted to assure her he would help her. In truth he had already put a second plan into action in the event that Jamie and Lachlan failed. Trapping Morneith had always been risky, and Rory had no idea how good a conspirator James Campbell was.

But he'd used all the wrong words. And he had left hurriedly because he feared committing even more sins. But in trying to avoid more pain, he'd obviously committed the greatest hurt of all.

God's eyes but he was a fool.

He ignored questions as he strode toward the keep and took the steps two at a time. Once in his room, he took off the plaid and washed. He changed to a clean linen shirt, trews, and a leather jerkin.

He took a deep breath, wondering how this had happened. How a mere lass could turn him inside out? How she could make him question everything he said and did?

He trod down the stairs. She was not in her chamber. He went to the one next to hers and opened it. Alina looked up at him.

"I am looking for Lady Felicia."

"She was here earlier," Alina said. "She is teaching me letters."

The depth of his disappointment struck him. So did alarm. Where would she have gone?

He returned to her chamber. She had been here. A helmet was on a chair, as was the mail. The lad's clothing was in a pile at the end of the bed.

It looked a forlorn pile.

A lump in his throat made breathing difficult. He closed his eyes as he suddenly realized how she must have felt these last days. He thought he was being noble. Instead he had been cowardly. He had taken her, and left her. He had fought her, yet not given her the respect of being honest in the contest.

The room felt of desolation.

He was the reason.

He cared--no, he more than cared--about her. And he had hurt her, just as he had hurt every woman who had ever cared about him. Now he had to find her. He had to find some way of making amends.

And then what?

The curse still followed his family. His own personal devils made him a solitary, haunted man.

'Leave her be.'

His mind told him that. His heart had a different instruction.

He had to find her.

He went down to the stable and to the stall holding mother and foal. No sign of a young lass with short hair. The stable lad said she had not been there.

"Inform me if she does," he said curtly.

The lad look startled, then touched his forehead. "Aye, milord."

The kitchen!

He strode quickly to the kitchen. It was filled with newcomers. Moira looked up from huge pot several helpers were placing in the great fireplace.

"Milord?"

"Is Lady Felicia here?"

"Nay, I have no' seen her since she helped with the midday meal." Her brows knitted together. "She could be with Alina."

"She probably is," Rory said, not wishing to raise an alarm until he knew more. There was no way for her to leave Inverleith. The gates had been closed most of the day except for a small stream of men who went to guard the cattle outside.

'Except...'

He had left orders that every person entering or leaving be identified by another one.

He was learning exactly how devious and inventive she could be. He left the kitchen and strode to the gates. They were closed. The sentries seemed alert.

"Has anyone left here in the past hour?" he asked.

"Nay," said one. "We have not open the gates."

"You know my orders. No one is to leave unless he is identified by others."

"Aye," one said, then another.

He turned away. She had not left then. Where would she have gone?

She was not in the great hall. He started up to the stairs. Knowing something about Felicia now, he suspected she had explored the tower in the first few days. She would probably know all its many rooms.

He inspected all the rooms on her floor, coming at last to the nursery.

He hesitated outside. He had not been in it since Maggie's death. The two of them had often visited the room and talked of their coming child. The pain was still in him, the lingering sorrow for what had been lost. But the sharp edge of agony had faded.

He opened the door and was, oddly, not surprised when he saw her sitting next to the cradle.

She looked up at him. Dusk had fallen, and the room was full of shadows.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I looked everywhere else," he admitted.

"You thought I had escaped."

He kneeled, his face level with hers. "I had hoped you would not wish to."

"Why would I not?"

Her eyes were in the shadows, and her gaze darted away from him, as if she did not want him to see what was in them.

"Why here?" he asked.

"I explored the keep the first night I was here. I knew this room was ... no longer used."

"It is not. We have not had bairns here in a long time."

"That is sad." If it had been a mere comment on the obvious, he could have accepted it. But there was a longing and regret in her voice that reached out to him.

"Aye." He knew the emotion he'd tried to keep at bay was in the crack of his voice.

Their gazes met, and the anger in hers faded in the empathy he felt reaching out to him. She knew sadness, and regret. He realized he had never asked her how she had come to be the ward of Angus Campbell. He had, in fact, asked little. He had not wanted to know. To know was to care. And he was too afraid to care.

He had taken much.

He'd given nothing.

Yet something in her reached out to him, just as it had to Moira and Alina and others.

He stretched out a hand, taking her slender one in his. She tried to withdraw it, but he tightened his grasp.

"You are a good warrior," he said.

"You allowed me to win," she accused.

"I was tired."

"You knew who I was."

He knew lying would not help him now. "Aye, I did. I have come to know you."

She glared at him, and his heart contracted. She looked so fierce and yet moments earlier so vulnerable.

"But you certainly tested me," he added.

"You did not try."

"I tried to protect myself. You are a dangerous opponent."

Her gaze turned suspicious. "I do not need humoring."

"I do not think I would dare," he said.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. He thought for a moment she might hit him.

Instead she stood with great dignity, this time successfully pulling her hand from his. "I have need of better company."