The sound of the horn echoed through the keep.

It was followed by a shout, "Riders approaching!"

The alarm came from the rampart, then echoed as other Macleans took up the call.

Rory left his supper and took the stone steps quickly to join the sentry.

Rain had fallen most of the day, but the sun had peeked between the clouds in the past hour. It was setting now, coloring the sky with scarlet and golden hues. Shadows made it difficult to identify the riders approaching the gate, but one was obviously Archibald. No one could mistake his size.

Rory signaled his men to open the gate and watched his riders file inside. Archibald led a white mare that was carrying a small but bulky figure.

'A woman!'

Rory suddenly understood the sly looks, the evasive answers.

His men had stolen a bride for him.

Such actions were not that unusual in Scotland, he knew. Brides had been stolen before. But he had made his feelings about marriage very clear.

His hands clenched into fists.

His clansmen would not have dared disobey his father, or Patrick. Rory was an unproven leader to them, but by God, they would learn now.

"Find Douglas," he told the man standing next to him. "Tell him to meet me in the courtyard."

He strode toward the stairs, took them quickly, and reached the riders as they dismounted.

Archibald stood in front of him and removed his helmet.

"What is the lady doing here?" Rory demanded, his anger barely contained.

"I...".

Douglas appeared at his side. "Rory?"

Rory turned on him. "What have you done?"

"Milord," Archibald said in a low voice. "Douglas did nothing. It was my doing alone. We brought you Janet Cameron to be your bride. She is said to be pleasing and gentle."

Only then did Rory look up at the rider on the white mare. Her back was ramrod straight, and she was covered head to toe by a fur cloak and hood that protected her face from the cold. He wondered if she had heard Archibald's words.

He went to her side and offered his hand to her. She ignored it and started to dismount on her own. He caught her by her waist and eased her down, surprised at how much lighter she was than she looked. "My apologies, my lady," he said.

She looked at him with dark blue eyes that were quite remarkable. They roiled with emotion, but he could not decipher it. Fear? Anger? A combination?

He tried to reassure her. "My men acted without my approval. I will be sending you home as soon as you are well rested."

She shivered, and he was not sure whether it was from fear or the cold Highland wind that blew through the bailey. All her clothes were damp. Her eyes regarded him warily.

He had heard of Janet Cameron. There had even been talk of an alliance between her and Patrick. He also knew that she was pledged to Jamie Campbell. He tried to tamp the fury bubbling inside. The Campbells most assuredly would retaliate. That meant more Maclean deaths.

The lady did not reply. He could not blame her. She had been stolen by men she did not know, forced to ride long and hard in wet, cold weather.

Any gentle maiden would be stunned with fear.

He turned to Archibald. "She will be returning. Rest your horses and prepare to ride on the morrow." He turned back to the woman. "My cook will make you comfortable and find you warm clothing. We have no lady's maids, but there are scullery maids that can assist you." He did not like feeling awkward and in the wrong. It didn't matter that others had put him there. He was responsible, God help him.

She still didn't speak. Why did she not rage at him? The silence made him feel even worse.

Even in Edinburgh, he had heard of Lady Janet Cameron's beauty. He searched for a hint of it, but it eluded him.

He told himself that if he had been hauled across many miles in a cold Scotland mist, he, too, might look worse than he would like.

He bowed. "I am Rory Maclean, Lady Janet. I assure you this is a mistake," he said, afraid she hadn't understood his earlier attempt to explain. "You will not be harmed in any way, and I will see you returned immediately."

Her gaze did not waver as she regarded him, but he could read little in it.

"Your men were considerate," she said. She spoke in a low mellow voice. Only the slightest tremor was audible.

"As well they should have been," he said abruptly, his anger barely under control. But he did not wish to frighten her. "I will see to your comfort and send word to the Camerons," he said.

She swayed slightly at that. She was obviously exhausted.

He took her arm and guided her toward the great hall, but her foot slipped in the mud. He caught her as she started to fall, and her body leaned into his as she struggled to remain upright. She looked up at him as the hood slipped from her head.

Despite her reputation as a beauty, her face was plain except for her eyes. Her face was more square than oval, her mouth too wide, and her nose small, like a button. He could tell little about her hair, but a dark red ringlet curled tightly against her face. Although it wasn't beautiful, it was an intriguing face, an appealing one.

What was extraordinary was her controlled expression. There was no hysteria, nor apparent anger, and that stunned him.

She should be angry. Fearful. Indignant at the very least.

He picked her up to avoid getting her skirts muddier than they already were and confirmed his earlier impression that the bulk was more cloth than body. Her clothes smelled of damp wool, but there was another scent as well. Light and flowery.

It reminded him of another woman. Too much. A jolt of heat struck him.

He saw a satisfied smile on Archibald's face and knew it was long past time to have a discussion with his captain of the guard.

A clansman ran ahead and opened the door.

Rory entered and set the lady back on her feet, ignoring the stunned look on her face. He wondered whether she had felt the same jolt that he had. But no, that was ridiculous. He had been long without a woman. 'Twas only natural urges.

"Moira," he bellowed and noticed that Janet Cameron flinched slightly.

"She will see to your comfort," he said, anxious that his reluctant guest feel safe until he could send her home without bringing harm to her reputation or his rebellious clan.

He would send word ahead to the Camerons.

Then he caught himself. He needed to know the exact circumstances of the abduction. Had anyone been wounded? Killed?

He would like to wound Archibald at this very moment.

Moira appeared, her size testament to her love of sweets.

"Moira, this is Lady Janet Cameron. She will be a guest this eve. See her to my mother's chamber and fetch her anything she might need." He looked back at the captive. "Do you have any dry clothes?"

She shook her head.

"She is to have whatever she needs from my mother's wardrobe."

"Aye," Moira said, her lips pursed with disapproval. "Puir child," she said, clucking like a mother hen. "Ye come wi' me."

Rory suddenly realized that Moira knew exactly what had happened. Bloody hell, had everyone known about Archibald's plan but him?

He watched as they mounted the steps together. Midway, Moira looked back to order hot water for a bath. He noted at the same time that the Cameron woman moved with uncommon grace despite the bulk of her clothes.

Rory strode back outside to where Archibald, his bearded face apprehensive, remained standing.

Rory glared at him. "I would have a word with you." He turned and strode into the great hall where a log blazed. He whirled around to confront Archibald. "Who is lord here?"

Archibald's pale blue gaze met his. "Ye are."

"I had no wish to return," Rory said. "Now that I have, I am laird. I will no' have anyone doubting that."

"We need an heir," Archibald insisted stubbornly.

"You will not be getting one from me. If that was all you wanted, you should have looked elsewhere. I have made my wishes clear. They will be respected. Dammit, man, Lady Janet is betrothed to a Campbell."

"All the better," Archibald muttered.

"I will not continue warring with the Campbells. It may please you, but it does nothing to help our clan. 'Twas not your crofts burned out, but theirs."

"Ye canna' make bargains with the devil."

"My ancestor was at fault. I will not have it said that the Macleans continue to mistreats ladies."

"Ye would be a fine husband. Far better than a Campbell. She was not mistreated. She dinna say she was."

"Of course not. She was probably frightened half to death."

"No' that one," Archibald said in a barely audible voice.

Rory narrowed his eyes. "I do not ken your meaning."

"Not a cry. Not a protest. 'Twas almost as if she were ... relieved."

Rory thought that only an excuse, though he also thought the woman far too calm under the circumstances. "How many men were killed?"

"No' even one."

Rory stared at his captain of the guards with disbelief. "Are you saying her escort did nothing to protect her?"

"She was no' with them. We were following. We heard noise. Curses. Little Willie snuck up and said some had lost their saddles, then he saw the lady turning away. Confused or frightened in the mist, mayhap. Ye could say we found her."

"Then no one knows she is here?"

"Nay. She disappeared in the mist."

"She did not scream?"

"Well..."

"Well what?"

"I might have had my hand over her mouth."

Rory sighed. "I will talk to her. If she will say we rescued her, then no harm done. If she does not..."

"A Cameron alliance would help us against the Campbells," Archibald said hopefully. "She would not say nay to you. Any lady--"

Rory's temper was near explosion. "I will hear no more about marriage. She returns tomorrow. Let us hope that she is agreeable. King James has made it clear he does not want the clans feuding. It is my neck you are risking, Archibald. And those of the crofters. If you had not helped raise me, I would see you gone this day."

He strode off before he said more. Archibald and Douglas had been a part of his life since he had been a wee lad. Archibald had instructed him in warrior arts, and Douglas had taught him to read and write. Both had been more father to him than his own sire.

Mayhap that was the problem. They both saw him as a lad, not as a man of three and thirty years, a man who had commanded a ship for the last six of those years.

He was hesitant to exert authority for that same reason. He had never wanted to be laird. He held this place for his older brother, nothing more.

Rory retreated to his room and poured himself a tankard of wine from a jug on the table, then went to the window that overlooked the sea. It was low tide, and the rock where his ancestor chained his wife jutted upward from the beach. Waves washed around it, splashing water high into the air.

He could only imagine the lady's terror as she watched the waves rise slowly, as her body was buffeted and frozen by wind and icy spray.

He brushed the images from his mind and thought about the woman in the chamber below him. It was the room his mother had used years ago before her death, the same room that Patrick's and Lachlan's mothers had inhabited.

He had not taken the chamber next to it, the one which belonged to the laird. Although it had been prepared for him upon his arrival. He felt the chamber belonged to Patrick. Rory preferred the plain, stark chamber of his youth.

He turned away from the window and took another sip of wine as he considered how to approach the lady, how to convince her that she had not been abducted at all.

Felicia followed Moira. She tried to control the small tremors that racked her. They did not all come from the cold winds that had buffeted her all day.

She had never been a timid person, but she was in the enemy's lair, and she knew she had to keep her wits about her.

She had expected a villain. According to her Campbell clansmen, every Maclean was a fearsome being. Corrupt, brutal, and untrustworthy. She had expected someone like Morneith, only younger.

Instead, the Maclean had been courteous, apologetic, and solicitous. Even charming with his unexpected apologies. He'd appeared to be as confused by her kidnapping as she had been. Mary help her, but he was also as handsome a man as any she had seen.

She kept telling herself he was an enemy, yet he had been nothing but kind. He was tall and well formed. His eyes were steel gray and his hair a dark brown, almost black. His face was hard, and his lips unsmiling, but he had a face that attracted attention. In that, he reminded her of Jamie.

But while Jamie was open and frank, Rory Maclean seemed surrounded by shadows despite his outward courtesy. His eyes were guarded, and despite polite words, there had been no smile. His touch had been electric, and when he'd so unexpectedly lifted her, she'd felt a brief impression of confidence and strength. She'd even felt safe.