Fayth took Laine's empty seat. She didn't particularly want to join them for either ale or conversation.

"What's your name?" Armless Eliot asked.

"Hugh," Fayth answered. She always went by her father's name when disguised as a lad. And it always sent a pleasant surge of pride through her.

"I'm Skelley," the kind-eyed man said. "And this is Eliot. We're only pa.s.sing through. It's not likely we'll buy your horse, though Eliot is always looking for a good mount, him being crippled."

Fayth glanced at the empty sleeve and back to the black eyes, which on closer inspection proved to be very dark brown. Though he had only one arm, she didn't believe he was particularly challenged. He appeared perfectly capable of inflicting considerable harm.

"I think you might like this horse." Fayth scratched at herself, leaning back on the bench. "As I said, he's extremely well trained. My... father left him to me and now I find myself short of funds and must sell him. But he's not very old, maybe four years."

"Did your father train him?" Skelley asked.

Fayth nodded.

Eliot leaned toward her, an amused light in his eye, as if this were a game to pa.s.s the time. "Who was your father?"

Fayth hesitated. Though these men were Scots, she had yet to determine their surname. But Eliot's question gave her an idea of how to introduce the subject of Mona and Sir Patrick. "Is. He's not dead. Sir Patrick Maxwell. He ran away with a black-haired witch, Mona Musgrave. I'm trying to find him. She bewitched him." A foolish story, but the version Ridley spread.

The men were both silent, their faces expressionless. Skelley dug at his ear. Eliot stroked his beard.

"How old are you, lad?" Eliot asked, letting his fingers come to rest buried in the black waves.

Though Fayth was actually two and twenty, she had no trace of a beard and was very small, so she said, "Fourteen, sir."

Eliot looked at Skelley, who shrugged and said, "Aye, 'tis possible."

Excitement surged in Fayth. Perhaps they knew Sir Patrick! "Do you know my father?"

"I might," Eliot said. "Do you?"

Fayth wasn't sure how far to take this farce. She didn't know how well these men knew Sir Patrick, if they did at all. Didn't know if they could catch her in the middle of a lie. So she said, "I know some things. Things my mother told me, things he told me the few times he visited. And I know what I've heard from others."

Skelley grinned. "And still ye think he's worth finding?"

Fayth nodded. "He's my father."

Skelley's smile faded and he dropped a heavy hand on Fayth's shoulder. "Then I know someone who can help ye."

Laine returned. He leaned over and whispered something to Skelley. Eliot still showed no signs of emotion. He stared fixedly at Fayth, dark eyes somehow both cold and hot. She could see his mouth in the thick waves of his beard, sensual, smooth.

"We might be wantin' yer horse," Skelley said. "The man who knows of yer father-methinks he'll want it." Skelley stood. "Will ye come?"

Fayth looked at the trio hesitantly. "I have to go with you?"

"No," Skelley said. "But unless ye do, no sale and no information."

Fayth looked from one man to the next, her gaze resting longest on Laine. She could probably find someone else to buy her horse with little effort-and it would certainly be easier to purchase another here at the market. But if the intelligence on Mona proved useful it might save Fayth a great deal of time.

"Where is this man?" she asked.

"To the north a bit."

"I was hoping to trade the horse for a pony, or buy one with the proceeds of the sale. Will this man have a pony for me?"

Eliot leaned forward, eyes gleaming, hand planted on the tabletop. "Oh, I think he'll have just what ye're looking for, laddie."

Fayth's eyes narrowed, but she knew not what else to do. The thought that she might actually be a step closer to locating Mona had her nearly trembling with excitement that she fought not to show.

"Very well. Take me to this man."

After two hours on horseback, Fayth was beginning to get nervous. She rode Bear, who was not alarmed by their new companions. The three men surrounded her-one on either side and Laine behind. Eliot rode well for a one-armed man, Fayth noted, and didn't doubt he could catch her if she bolted. Was she a prisoner? She wasn't clear on that, since Skelley had told her she didn't have to come. Of course she didn't have to! She was free now. A man-or male, at least-afforded much more freedom than a mere woman. They were simply riding as men do, rather than catering to womanly needs.

Skelley seemed to think his friend could help her and for some reason she trusted Skelley, as well as the boy. It was Eliot who made her uneasy, but for now, she was willing to go along with it, holding apprehension at bay, since their goals currently aligned. But if this man proved useless, she might be in trouble. A frightening thought occurred to her. What if Sir Patrick had a son? One who had committed some atrocity against their friend? Surely this mysterious man would know as soon as he set eyes on her she was not whom he sought? What if he didn't? What if it was Sir Patrick who had offended him and so he expected the son to pay for the sins of his father? Her mind churned with possibilities, none of them encouraging.

"Uh... what's your friend's name?" Fayth asked Skelley, since he was the most likely to answer.

"He'll be tellin' ye that himself soon enough."

Fayth frowned. "What? Is it a secret?"

"It's not for us to say," Laine said.

Fayth looked over her shoulder at the boy. He was grinning.

"Why? Have you nothing good to say about him?"

At that, they all chuckled foolishly, but said nothing more. Fayth was becoming irritated. They reminded her of little boys hiding a toad behind their backs, plotting to thrust it in their sister's face.

They reached a wood and traveled into the shelter of its trees. Half a mile inside they stopped. Skelley whistled three times. An answering whistle came immediately. Bear's ears p.r.i.c.ked; his muscles bunched beneath Fayth's thighs. He tried to start forward, but she held his reins hard.

Eliot gazed at the horse, then at her with black half-lidded eyes. "He seems a bit... anxious, wouldna ye say?"

Fayth licked her lips. "Yes, well, he responds to whistles... one of the means my father used to train him. But I don't whistle so well."

"I see," Eliot said and started forward.

Fayth gritted her teeth as they trod single file deeper into the wood. She was certain now things were not as they seemed. They knew she lied. Did they know she was female? Her stomach lurched. Could they be luring her into the forest to rape and murder her? Were they taking her to share with their companions?

Fayth's heart hammered in her ears, her breath coming short. This was yet another of her stupid, impulsive mistakes. Reckless, thoughtless-that's what Ridley always said, and others, too, though with kinder words. Even Red Alex had called her stupid. Her teeth clenched. She would not think of that man. She could not think of him without becoming infuriated. She needed calm, clear thought now. Her hand sought the dirk she'd stolen from Red Alex, fingers gripping the hilt.

A clearing lay ahead, filled with scattered fires. She didn't know whether to be relieved that they'd finally arrived, or even more frightened that her fate was finally upon her. A tall man approached from the clearing. Fire backlit him, making him a black shadow, moving stealthily through the trees. His build, his very walk, was vaguely familiar to Fayth.

Bear became excited again, snorting and striking the ground with his hooves. He jerked his head, as if testing her hold on the reins. The man stopped and his stance sent a chill of alarm along Fayth's spine.

"We brought ye a wee gift," Eliot said, his eyes alight with humor that Fayth had not believed possible in such a hard countenance. "Yer nephew wished to return yer horse."

The air seeped out of Fayth's lungs as she understood why the man seemed so familiar-more than familiar. He neither spoke, nor came forward. His hand went to his shoulder, which he rubbed absently. Fayth felt faint and clutched the dirk's hilt tightly so the sharp edges dug into her palm. She would not swoon before him.