"Tell me more about your lord," she said. "Does he ever smile?"

Moira looked wistful. "He once smiled all the time."

"But no more?"

"He ha' much sorrow."

Felicia knew there were three Maclean sons. She also knew each had different mothers and each mother had died young. She knew all that because it was part of the legend and smug gossip among Campbells. Deserving, they all said.

She also knew that one of the Macleans was said to have destroyed a Campbell village years earlier. It was said that women and children had been killed then. She found it difficult to believe the man responsible for that was Rory Maclean. He had not been welcoming, but he had treated her with every courtesy. Would he do the same if he knew she was a Campbell?

She couldn't stay here in his keep to find out, yet she wondered at Moira's words.

"What sorrow?"

Moira searched her face as if trying to decide whether she was worthy to hear more. Then she nodded as if making a decision.

"He lost two wives. Inverleith is a sad place fer him."

"He loved them?" She had heard of too few love matches.

"Oh yes, particularly his Maggie. The other I did no' know, but his Maggie was a love."

'His Maggie.'

The way Moira said the words told her much. "I heard ... there was a curse."

Moira scowled. "I donna believe in curses." She set the tray down on a chair with a bang that belied her words. " 'Tis naught but foolishness," she said though her voice quivered slightly. "Women die giving birth."

Felicia couldn't help herself. "Is that what happened to Maggie?"

"Aye. Both she and the wee lad were lost."

A wave of sadness swept over Felicia. She remembered her own mother and father. They had both been taken by the same fever that had swept the nearby village.

But now she understood the aloofness of Rory Maclean. Did he worry another woman would die? Or did he fear the Camerons' wrath if she were to die?

"And Lachlan?" she asked.

Moira smiled, her eyes crinkling with affection. "He be a gentle soul."

'A Maclean a gentle soul?'

"I will be leaving ye to eat. My lord will want to hear the fever is gone."

But Felicia did not want her to go. She wanted to hear more about Rory Maclean and his brother. The more she knew, the more likely she could escape before anyone discovered she wasn't Janet Cameron.

"Will you keep me company?" she pleaded.

Moira looked pleased. "Aye."

"Is the laird here?"

"He left to see if there are parties searching fer ye."

Stark terror struck her. What if he encountered Campbells looking for her? Her web of lies would be discovered.

Moira regarded her with an odd look.

Felicia tried to act as if she'd nearly swooned. "I am still light-headed."

"Of course ye are," Moira replied sympathetically. "Men," she muttered then in a barely audible voice.

She stepped aside. "Ye eat, milady. Lord Rory will have my head if ye are not better."

"So he can send me away?"

"Aye, I fear so. I thought it a foul scheme in the beginning, but I would like to see him wed again." Again, blue eyes weighed her.

"You knew about it."

"Aye."

"And Lord Rory?"

"Nay. Archibald knew he would forbid it."

"He said it was a 'mistake.'" She did not add that she thought it might have been because she was plain and not at all what he expected. Nor did she add the hurt that the thought caused. She had not wished to be kidnapped, but neither did she wish to be a rejected prisoner. That was humiliating beyond tolerance.

"Our laird just returned from the sea. He were summoned when Patrick did not return from France, but Archibald fears he will no' stay, that he will return to the sea. He canna do that as long as there is war between the Campbells and our clan. He wishes to make a truce so he can leave again."

"He does not wish a wife? Archibald said ..."

"Archibald did not consult him."

"Then why can he not give me a horse, and I will return on my own? No one will know Macleans had aught to do with it. I will say I became lost in the fog."

Moira shook her head. "He will want to see ye safely back."

Felicia was tempted to bargain. But bargaining with Moira would do no good. She would have to make her devil's bargain with the laird himself.

"I will leave ye to eat," Moira said and left before Felicia could ask any more questions.

Famished, Felicia sat up in bed and started to eat from the tray. There were pastries and fruit and bread. Despite her hunger, the pastries were not very good. In truth, they were dreadful.

She started on the bread and that, too, was nearly leaden, not light and tasty like that made at Dunstaffnage. Even the fruit was poor, overripe and overly sweetened.

She managed only a few bites when the door opened again, and a young man with cropped auburn hair peered inside.

"May I come in?" he asked cautiously.

"Since you are the only one to ask permission, aye," she said.

He stepped inside and bowed extravagantly, despite one hand carrying a lute. "I am Lachlan, the youngest of the Macleans." He grinned. "And the most personable. Moira said you were eating. I thought to entertain you and try to counter my brother's more surly manner."

His grin and teasing words were infectious. She found herself smiling. Perhaps she could find out more about Lord Rory and how he might react if he discovered who she really was.

"Thank you, I would like that."

"Moira said you were ill."

"I was. Her good herbs and a night's rest were miraculous."

"I am glad," he said simply, and she knew he truly was. He glanced at the tray. "I but wish she was as good with food as she is with healing herbs. But I imagine you have already discovered that." He spoke the words with true amusement.

She studied him. He was slighter in build than his brother, tall and lean. His face had not Rory Maclean's striking handsomeness, but in an odd way was more attractive, since it had none of the dark wariness. His mouth was wide and expressive. He smiled easily, and when he did, his entire face lit up, and the area around his eyes crinkled. It was a face that one instinctively trusted.

"You are Lady Janet Cameron. Now that the formalities are over, I want to welcome you and wish most sincerely you suffered no ill effects as a result of a too enthusiastic quest to find my brother a wife."

"You did not approve?"

"I neither approved nor disapproved. I am rarely consulted."

"Why?"

"I am not sufficiently warlike."

"And your brother is?"

"Both of my brothers are. I am the only embarrassment. I prefer books and music to swords. I keep the estate records," he offered without rancor, as if he happily accepted the role of misfit.

She never had. Her uncle had never understood why she wanted to learn to read, but he had readily accepted Jamie's reasoning that it would enable her to better run a household. Jamie had never told him she knew little else about running a household.

Still, despite the younger Maclean's words, she recognized strength in him. Perhaps because it took strength to realize what one was and to be true to oneself. Lachlan Maclean appeared to do just that.

He sat down and started strumming the lute. He was good, very good.

"Do not let me stop you from eating, my lady," he said, looking up.

She did as he asked, despite the unappealing fare. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to learn more about the Macleans. "I have heard of a Lachlan Maclean."

"No doubt my infamous ancestor who tried to kill his wife in a most unpleasant manner."

"I pray it's not a family trait."

"Nay," he said with the grin that made her want to smile, too. "My brothers like the ladies too much."

"Lord Rory does not seem to like me." 'Why did it even matter'?

His grin faded. "Tis not you, my lady. He wants to make peace, and your... misadventure could spoil his plans. Once he decides on a course, he rarely moves away from it."

"I thought the Campbells and Macleans have fought for years."

"They have. Some of us would like to end it. It hurts both clans and benefits no one."

"And others?"

He shrugged. "They know nothing else. Hatred has existed between our clans for years. The Campbells kill Macleans, and Macleans kill Campbells."

"But your brother seeks to end it?"

"Aye." He started to finger the lute again, and she listened to the plaintive melody. Then he started to sing in a soft, true voice. It was her story, a tale of a beautiful lady who was spirited away to be the wife of a handsome lord.

"I am not beautiful," she said when he finished. "But it is a fine song."

He eyed her critically. "Why do you think you are not beautiful? Songs are written about you."

'About Janet Cameron. Not about Felicia Campbell. Everyone here must wonder about that.'

She did not answer. Instead, her mind worked furiously. Perhaps he could help her escape the walls of the keep.

But that was only if she could avoid being returned to the Camerons today or tomorrow.

"Archibald said he wanted me to wed Lord Rory, but Moira said the lord did not want to wed. I thought it might be because I am... not as he thought."

He looked at her with renewed interest. "It has nothing to do with you, Lady Janet. It's just that his ... Maggie, died here in childbirth. He lost his wee son as well. He would have gladly given his life for hers. She made him forget--"

He stopped suddenly as if he realized he had said too much.

"Forget?"

Instead, he started playing again, his head bent in concentration.

When he finished, he stood and walked toward the door. "All my songs are true," he said as he opened the door and left.

"The lass ate well," Moira reported when Rory re turned and summoned her.

"The fever?"

" 'Tis gone."

"We can leave then." He did not like the unexpected reluctance he felt. It was only because he had been too long without a woman. Since Anne's death, he had not made love to a woman.

His own private penance.

In any event, Janet Cameron was not the sort of woman who appealed to him. He liked gentleness. Compatibility. Her eyes were too challenging, her chin too stubborn. Even that unruly hair spoke of wildness.