The whiskered jaw clenched as Alex pulled his arm away.

"That hurts, aye?" Skelley examined Alex's flushed skin and red eyes. "She might be mending, but you're getting worse. We must have a look at that shoulder afore we leave. Have you been tending it?"

"How could I?"

"What good will ye be to her or Gealach-or us, for that matter, if ye're dead?"

That seemed to give Alex pause. He looked again at Davie, where he leaned over the woman. Skelley had never seen Alex like this. True, he'd been acting odd ever since the Annancreag raid, but since Fayth Graham had shot him he'd been deeply preoccupied. It was unlike Alex to lose his wits over a woman. But Skelley couldn't say he was unhappy about the situation. It was about time the lad became witless with something besides anger. However, Skelley feared Alex would lose more than his wits over a woman like Fayth Graham.

"You're right," Alex said, returning to Davie's side to watch over the la.s.s. "We'll head out as soon as my shoulder is tended."

Eliot was dragged to a camp several miles from where they'd been caught. It had been a highly uncomfortable journey. Since Laine had two arms, their captors had bound his wrists to drag him behind a horse. The b.o.o.bs had puzzled over Eliot's one-armed state for a good ten minutes before looping the rope around his neck and dragging him that way. Most distressing when he stumbled.

By the time their captors had thrown down the ropes-not bothering to remove their bindings-Eliot was on his knees in the mud, the rope having cut a raw furrow in his neck. Laine's hands were in much the same condition, but the lad still came over and yanked the rope over Eliot's head. The boy looked positively indignant. Eliot felt an uncommon surge of wry humor and genuine affection for the boy. This was his first kidnapping, where he was the abductee, that is. Eliot had done this before. Since Eliot was a common outlaw, he'd be treated like rubbish. Laine, however, would warrant softer confinement if he revealed his parentage.

"Tell 'em who ye are," Eliot said, his voice a broken rasp. "They'll treat ye fine."

"Unless they're naught but a pack of broken men."

"Like us?"

Eliot scanned the clearing, a.s.sessing the enemy. He knew they were Grahams, but he knew not what grayne. He suspected it was the Eden grayne, as they were the ones Alex had most recently offended in his attempt to kidnap Fayth Graham. He grew still as he surveyed the encampment. It went far back into the trees, past the clearing. There were at least one hundred men, all with horse. His gaze came to rest on a large green silk tent, indicating a lord of some standing and wealth, and half a dozen smaller canvas tents.

The flap of the green silk opened and a man emerged, his gaze seeking them out immediately. Wesley Graham. Wesley strode across the clearing, sizing them up the whole way.

"I know you. Armless Eliot, they call you. You're Red Alex's man." He leaned to the side, viewing the empty sleeve belted to Eliot's side. "Don't look completely armless to me."

"Aye, and it's as good as two of yers."

Wesley turned to inspect Laine. "And who are you, little girl?"

Laine's face turned nearly purple with rage. "I am Laine. I'm also Red Alex's man."

Wesley was unimpressed. "Have you a surname?"

Eliot waited for him to reveal his father's name, but instead, he said, "I am a Maxwell, now."

"Oh are ye, ye little b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

Even Eliot jumped when the man came out of nowhere and clouted Laine alongside the head. The boy fell over, clutching his face and rolling in the mud. Ashton Carlisle, Laine's father.

"Who is this?" Wesley asked Carlisle.

"I'm sorry to say this t.u.r.d is me son. I gave him to the monks at Rees, but he disgraced me by running away." Laine was still writhing on the ground, trying to stand up. Carlisle grabbed the boy's hair, yanking him up to look into his face. "I been looking for you, laddie."

"That's enough," Wesley said.

Carlisle turned on him. "Don't you tell me what's enough, or I'll kick yer-"

"He's a prisoner," Wesley said loudly and with a note of boredom. "And therefore I want him fit for questioning. When we're finished, you may do with him as you will." Wesley gripped Laine's biceps and helped him to his feet. "Until then, stay away from him."

Carlisle looked ready to murder Wesley, but he said no more, stalking away and disappearing into the silk tent. Eliot deduced that Carlisle was not in command and that meant only one thing. Ridley Graham was here.

"Come on," Wesley said, and followed Carlisle into the tent, Eliot and Laine trailing along behind him.

The interior of the tent was decorated like a palace. Turkish carpets covered the ground, tall candelabras were placed strategically around the perimeter with mirrors to reflect the light, making it surprisingly illuminated. A camp bed was near the back, covered with fine linen sheets and furs and partially hidden from view by a white screen bearing a painted green serpent. In the center of the room, seated behind a table, was Lord Ridley Graham, partaking of his dinner. Carlisle had joined him and was gnawing on a haunch of mutton, glaring at Laine all the while. Eliot's stomach rumbled in response.

"This is your son?" Lord Graham said.

Carlisle nodded disgustedly. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d born, but mine, if that swine he calls mother is to be believed."

Lord Graham stood, wiping his mouth and hands on a table linen. He circled the table, coming to stand before Laine, looking him up and down. "Looks like a monk's boy."

Laine's ears turned crimson, but he stood rigid, directing his blank gaze to the right.

Lord Graham stared at the boy a long moment before turning his attention to Eliot. "The one-armed rook. I've heard of you."

Eliot made an elaborate bow, flinging mud all over the fine furnishings and Lord Graham's hose and boots. "At your service, my lord."

Ridley came at him, grabbing his arm and twisting it. Eliot hadn't noticed Carlisle getting up, but now he was behind him, shoving him to his knees. Eliot's lips drew back from his teeth, hissing in pain. Terror knifed through him.

Ridley twisted his arm, pulling it up higher until Eliot thought it might twist right off. He ground his teeth together to stop from crying out. Not my arm, not my arm! His heart hammered in his ears, sweat sprang up on his face and neck.

"Think you life is difficult with one arm, Eliot? Would you like to find out what it is to live up to your name? To be truly armless?"

Please Lord, no. Eliot prayed to himself, ready to tell Lord Graham anything he wished if it would save his arm.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Father!" Laine cried, shoving Lord Carlisle so he stumbled backward. Eliot surged to his feet, relieving some of the pressure, but before he could strike out, Ridley knocked his feet from beneath him, sending him sprawling on his back. He'd thankfully released Eliot's arm.

Eliot held his arm up, to ward off any blows. But the blows didn't come. Wesley had stepped between Carlisle and Laine, stopping the old man from clouting his son again.

Ridley looked between Eliot and Laine, then said to Wesley, "Take the boy. Feed him and clean him up."

When they were gone, Ridley held out a hand, smiling apologetically. Eliot paused, his gaze darting to Carlisle, who had faded into the background, mutton chop in hand. Eliot gave Ridley his hand and got to his feet.

"The boy is of no use to me," Ridley said. "He's young, pa.s.sionate, full of foolish courage." He smiled wryly at Eliot. "You, however... You can help me." Ridley returned to the table and sat, pouring two goblets of wine. "And perhaps I can help you. Come, sit with me and talk awhile."

Eliot didn't move, still shaken from Ridley's violent threat. The man was all manners and n.o.bility now.

Eliot scanned the tent's interior suspiciously before starting forward. "I can't help you."

"Please, sit. Eat. You must be famished. Alexander Maxwell can't possibly feed you well."

Eliot was hungry and so sat down, only grabbing food he'd seen Ridley eating. "I eat well enough. Alex ain't me mum, after all."

"Of course, but it is beyond his means to care for his men in the same manner I care for mine." He gestured to the men-at-arms stationed at the back of the tent. They were braw, fat lads, well groomed and relatively clean.

Eliot said nothing, tearing into his chicken leg. It had been some time since he'd eaten aught but oatcakes, barley stew, and dried beef. The feast before him was heavenly. He ate well enough when they were at Gealach, but they'd been in the woods for months, chasing after Graham sc.u.m.

"There are many ways I reward those who serve me. Tell me. How does Alexander reward you?"