Her startled gaze met his. Despite his words, even he heard the love in them.

"No honest talents?" she asked with a breathless catch in her voice.

She had an abundance of those as well. She had a huge, courageous heart. She had a way with children.

God's eyes, but she had a way with him. He would have to tell her that... soon.

He leaned down and kissed the dusting of freckles on the tip of her nose, then drew back quickly. For now he would have to tell her exactly what he, Lachlan, and her cousin had planned, and he knew she would hate him for it. But he knew now he must. She would keep running away, trying to save him and his people. And the next time she might not encounter people as decent as the crofters.

First he wanted these few moments. He wanted to see himself reflected in eyes that now brightened with trust, and hope.

He shook his head in dismay. How could one slender woman have wrapped herself so intimately around his heart?

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I tried to think like you think."

She grinned at that. "It must have worked."

"Aye. It is frightening."

She laughed, a happy bell-like sound. He could not recall her laughing before. He loved the sound of it, even though he knew that in the next few moments she would probably hit him.

He delayed an explanation a few moments longer.

Instead, he offered his hand and led her to the pool. He scooped up crystal clean water for them to drink, then offered her a meat pie.

She scooped up a bite with her ringers and ate. His own hunger was forgotten as he watched her enjoyment. He had never thought eating a particularly sensual activity before, but she made it one. She ate with relish, and little crumbs of pastry sprinkled her lips. He couldn't help himself. He leaned over and tasted them.

His lips played on hers with a slow sensuality as he licked every vestige of crumbs before indulging an appetite of an entirely different nature. Her mouth opened to his, and her hand went up to his neck, coaxing him nearer.

Rory knew he would regret this. Worse, he knew she would regret it, once he told her everything.

It did not matter at the moment. A bright sun bathed them with rare warmth. Birds sang in nearby trees. The laughing sound of the waterfall was a lullaby.

She filled his senses.

He felt the immediate reaction of his body to her, the swirling eddies of desire that overruled every warning. He felt her quickened breath, and his heart raced. His hand loosened the leather ties of the plain woolen doublet she wore. A rough shirt lay underneath, and he undid the ties to reveal her breasts.

His lips nuzzled one, then the other until her nipples hardened and thrust outward. He felt the same hunger in her as that tormented him.

"Felicia." His voice was a groan that echoed throughout his being. It was part protest, part surrender. And all need.

He wanted to touch and be touched. He wanted the reality of her, not another ghost that would haunt him.

His mouth pressed harder, his tongue urging hers to open to him. As she readily acquiesced, he explored and teased. He recognized her urgency as well. It was in the growing pressure of her hands, in the glow of her eyes. His body tensed with desire too long held in check.

He pulled off her doublet with his hands and then the rough trews she wore. Only her shirt remained. He felt himself harden under his plaid, and he undid the belt and unwound the long piece of cloth until he, too, wore only the long flowing linen shirt.

His hands went under her last remaining garment and caressed her body until he felt her tremble.

He hesitated then. He should tell her first. He should confess that he had lied, that he had allowed her to believe her cousin had deserted her. He had allowed her to fear for him.

"No," she protested, her hand pulling him to her with a plea that broke his will.

His lips returned to hers.

She felt his hesitation.

His eyes looked tormented, and everything in Felicia melted at the sight. He had never been a man to show emotions. He had guarded them as if his life depended on it.

But then his lips pressed back on hers again, and all was right with the world.

Her blood had felt like warm honey when he first touched her, as his lips had explored and tested. But as they pressed down, and her body fitted into his, it turned to hot lava. She knew what to expect now, the magic of desire and love and satisfaction. She had dreamed about it since that first time. She had dreamed and yearned and felt the heat in her body and worried that she would never know it again.

Her arms went around his neck, her finger catching and fondling a thick lock of slightly curling hair. His mouth pressed harder, his tongue urging hers to open to him. As she complied, his tongue probed, igniting sensations in every sensitive part of her body.

All the loneliness and despair she had felt earlier exploded in raw need. She wanted his soul. She wanted his heart. And she wanted him deep inside until they merged into one. Her hands tightened around his shoulders, urging him closer. His shirt rode up, and so did hers. His body melded against hers, and he entered her slowly, creating an aching, agonizing need. She moved against him with instinctive circular motions, drawing him farther and farther inside. His strokes increased in rhythm and power until the two were riding the crest of an incredible wave, a giant force that swept them along with unthinking madness, drowning them in waves of pleasure.

He gave one last stroke, and she felt rocked by bursting sensations. His warmth flooded her, and she knew a completeness that she had never felt before. He collapsed on her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as their bodies quivered in exquisite reaction.

They lay next to each other, silent, for several moments. She treasured the quiet intimacy, the shared wonder and quiet profound happiness she felt. "I love you," she said.

It was a difficult admission for her. She'd so seldom felt loved or loveable, and now she was holding out love and fearing it might be rejected.

He turned to her, and her heart thumped, and her blood turned cold. His eyes did not answer as she'd hoped. She'd known a match between them was impossible. She'd known yet...

But something in his face frightened her, and when he reached out his hand to her, she refused it.

"Something is wrong," she said. She should have seen it earlier, but she had been so happy to see him. She had run from him but had felt such unexpected joy when she saw him that she had not asked questions.

He sat up, and she did the same. Her eyes did not leave his.

A muscle in his throat jerked. She had seen it before, and she knew it meant something she would not like.

"There is something I must tell you," he said.

She did not answer. Her body was still singing its own song, but her mind was warning her.

"What?" she said in a low voice.

"We wanted to protect you," he said.

She felt a sudden tightness in her heart, and it was not from lovemaking. She knew from his expression she was not going to like what he had to say.

He touched her face. "I should have told you, and you would not have endangered yourself."

Her body tensed. The warm sensations seeped away, leaving only a chill.

She waited.

"Lachlan and your cousin did not escape. It was planned."

She tried to put pieces together. "I do not understand."

"I had heard that the Earl of Morneith was a traitor, that he had sold his loyalty to the English king. We ..."

"We?"

"Lachlan, James, and myself... thought we might be able to trap him into an admission. You would be free."

She stared at him. The words echoed in her head. She had thought Jamie had abandoned her. That Lachlan was not whom she thought he was. That Rory had been betrayed.

She had felt an emptiness that drained her soul.

"Why did you not tell me?" Her voice was impersonal.

"I feared you would do what you just did. Try to help."

"And be foolish enough to ruin everything?" The betrayal she had felt days ago was nothing like the one she felt now. She had been lied to. Repeatedly. She had not been trusted. She had worried about Rory and Jamie meeting in combat. She had ...

She swung her hand back and hit him with every ounce of strength she had.

*Chapter 28*

The blow was stronger that Rory expected. His head snapped back, and his face stung with the power of it.

But just as punishing was the stricken, wounded look on Felicia's face.

"I am sorry, lass. We were trying ... we wanted to protect you."

"You and Jamie lied to me. You did not trust me."

She wore only the too-large shirt that fell to her knees, yet she looked every bit the warrior. She radiated defiance. Anger. And worst of all, betrayal.

He wanted to take her back into his arms, wanted to feel her body against his once more, but he knew that was the worst thing he could do. He had betrayed her trust, and he knew he would have to work to get it back.

She was not ready for any overtures, though. "You did not trust me," she stated again.

"You would have wanted to help."

"And I am so helpless and foolish that you have to lie to me for fear I would endanger Jamie and your people on a whim?"

"No one is less helpless than you, lass," he replied wryly. "That is the problem. You have too much courage. And it was important that Morneith and Campbell thought you were being held for ransom. That meant Macleans had to believe it as well."

" 'Tis my life, not yours," she said. "I may be given few choices, but I choose for myself what I can."

He was silent. She was right. He should have told her. He had no right to make decisions for her. He was as bad as Angus Campbell.

"I am sorry, lass. I thought..."

A tear glimmered in one eye. It seemed to be caught there, glistening, and then it started to roll down her face. It shattered his heart far more than harsh words or a torrent of tears. He lifted a finger to wipe it away, but she stepped back.

She took another step, then spun around and found her discarded clothes. Without comment, she pulled them on.

Sensing it was best to leave her be for the moment, he went to his saddle bags. It was time to change clothes. He did not want to wear the plaid where he was going. Instead he pulled on a pair of fine wool hose and a serviceable leather doublet. He added a flat-brimmed hat with a feather. It was the costume of a merchant, clothes he often wore when visiting foreign cities.

She stood and watched, her face closed, her mouth drawn in a tight line. There were no more tears.

"Come," he said.

"I will not go back to Inverleith."

"We are going to Edinburgh," he said.

"Why?"

"I have to know what is happening with your cousin and Lachlan. They might need help."

Her eyes widened. "You are taking me?"

"I am certainly not sending you back to Inverleith alone," he said with a small smile. "I would have no idea where to find you next."

Her solemn blue eyes searched his. "Would you want to?"

"Aye, lass. I would have you safe."

A curtain dropped over her face. It was not the answer she wanted. It was not the answer he wanted to give. He wanted to tell her he loved her. That he had been terrified for her. That he wanted her beside him always.

God's truth, but he loved her.

He could do none of those things. There was still the bloody curse. The stain that lingered on his soul. And Campbell would never approve a match.

So why had he just damned himself by taking her?

He put a finger under her chin and lifted it up to meet his gaze. "You must do as I tell you," he said. "Do you promise?"

"I will tell you when I cannot," she replied.

It was not a satisfactory answer but he suspected it was as good a one as he was likely to get.

"I am a merchant, and you are my apprentice," he said.