As Fayth was thrust into the saddle before him she wished for free hands and big dirk. She trembled with ill-contained rage, her thoughts murderous. His face was in her hair, his mouth near her ear. She jerked away and almost tumbled from the horse. He guffawed as she fought to right herself.

His mouth was there again. "Alex never told ye, la.s.s?"

"Told me what?"

He spurred the horse forward. "That I was the one that did the deed." When she didn't respond, he murmured, "Fancy that."

Why Alex would protect the b.a.s.t.a.r.d behind her was a mystery, but he had and this was how Eliot repaid his friendship. It sickened her.

"Alex is your kin, your friend. How can you do him such a turn?"

"My friend?" Eliot spat. "He's naught but a thief, an outlaw. No better than me or anyone else and yet he thinks he deserves Gealach, that it should be all his."

"That's what Ridley promised you, isn't it? Gealach?"

"What if it is?"

"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought. He's using you."

Eliot smacked the back of her head. "Shut up. I'm sick of yer prattle."

Fayth pressed her lips together, staring blindly ahead. There must be a way to escape. She wiggled her wrists, but the hemp tying them was secure. She couldn't believe she'd thought Alex a murderer and all along it was the loch-sc.u.m behind her who'd killed Jack. Everything she knew of Alex proved he wouldn't kill indiscriminately. She had seen that, had been confused by it. She wished he'd told her that Eliot was the one who'd ruined her life and murdered Wesley's best friend. The will to revenge swelled in her, near to bursting. She must act or she would faint from the pressure.

Fayth's anger and desperation was such that wild schemes began to fill her mind. She tried to school herself for calm, to think and consider each move reasonably. But reason had fled. She was captive of the monster who had murdered Jack. She was being taken to Carlisle to wed. She refused to suffer any man but Alex's touch. She considered nothing too drastic to extricate herself from this situation.

They had skirted the trees and were traveling near the coast. The road was high above the sh.o.r.eline, descending sharply into a rocky sh.o.r.e. Fayth gauged how badly she would be hurt if she threw herself from the horse. How far could she run, before they caught her? The possibility of breaking an arm or leg-or neck-was high. Or smashing her face up. She would chance a broken arm or a marred face if it meant success.

Eliot's arm brushed her fingers as he adjusted his grip on the reins. Her hands curled into fists. Of course. She wouldn't go down alone.

The blood pumped furiously through her veins, her heart hammered against her chest, but she remained still, watching for the right place to execute her plan. Ahead there was a break in the sharp rocks-a trail-leading to the beach below. In one swift movement Fayth grabbed Eliot's arm and threw herself back and to the right. He inhaled sharply, sliding off the saddle, but to her horror he managed to catch himself, yanking his arm easily from her grip. Fayth kept going, headfirst, the ground rushing up to her face, then she was jerked to a halt. Eliot caught her around the knee.

His horse, however, did not appreciate this new fashion of riding and reared up angrily. Eliot released her to grab at the reins and Fayth crashed headfirst to the ground. She couldn't get her hands up quickly enough to protect her head. Lights burst through her skull, her shoulder jarring painfully as she rolled onto her back. The horse screamed and Fayth forced her eyes open in time to see flailing hooves near her face. She jerked her head back just as Eliot spilled to the ground beside her.

Pain wracked her body, but she had to move. Eliot was clearly dazed. She rose to her knees and s.n.a.t.c.hed his dirk from his boot, clutching it tightly in her hands. She struggled to her feet. Without looking back, she ran for the break in the rocks, gripping the dirk tightly in her bound fists.

Though she didn't hear immediate pursuit, she knew they would not be far behind. She must find a place to hide. She staggered along the path, her knee nearly giving way, her head pounding dully, her filthy and torn skirts catching on the jagged rocks. On the beach she stayed close to the rocky outcropping, so no one could see her from the road. A cl.u.s.ter of boulders was ahead. Fayth hurried into them, sinking down to her knees behind one. Her kneecaps throbbed brightly and she noticed a crimson stain midway down her skirts.

Fayth manipulated the dirk until the blade was pointed toward her body, sliding it beneath the hemp rope. She began to saw awkwardly, her hands shaking so she almost dropped the dirk.

Calm. She must remain calm. If she did not succeed, she might never see Alex again. That one thought sustained her. She must race to Annancreag-to Alex.

The dirk sliced her fingers and palms, poked at her forearm, but she kept at it, even as blood slicked her hands, making it more and more difficult.

"Come out, wee la.s.sie," Eliot called and not but a hundred feet away. "If ye dinna come out, I'll beat ye senseless when I find ye."

In her panic, the dirk slid from her wet fingers and clattered to the stones. It sounded like gla.s.s shattering to Fayth's ears. She yanked hard at the bindings and felt them give. The surf roared, obscuring any sounds of approach. Fayth tried to force her arms apart with all her might, pain stabbing through her wounded arm. The rope snapped and coiled to the ground around her knees.

Fayth twisted around just as Eliot ventured into her hiding place. His eyes lit on her, noting the cut rope and bloodied dirk. Fayth lunged for it. He ran at her. Fayth's hand closed around the hilt, but his boot kicked her hand, sending pain radiating up her arm and the dirk scuttling across the rocks.

Fayth leaped for it again, scrabbling across the pebble-and rock-strewn ground like a crab. She grasped the hilt again just as his boot connected with her rib cage. The air whooshed out of her as she rolled away, still clutching the dirk. She moaned, her vision black, trying desperately to breathe and get to her feet. He grabbed a wad of her hair and hauled her up.

Fayth stabbed at him, but he easily evaded her. She had an advantage. He couldn't hold her and disarm her at the same time, not with only one arm. Until his men appeared, she still had a chance.

He held her at arm's length, dragging her out of her hiding place. Fayth swung the dirk at his chest, but the blade missed its mark by inches. On impulse she thrust the blade into his biceps. He howled with pain, releasing her. But she didn't release the dirk, she yanked it from his arm and came at him again, this time burying it in his chest.

She stepped back, her entire body quaking. He slid down a rock, grasping the hilt in his hand. She had stabbed a man and it had been much easier than she'd antic.i.p.ated. Her stomach churned, threatening to bring up the ale. She pressed her hands to her forehead, willing her senses to return. His men might have heard him yell. She knew she should retrieve the dirk, she would need it, and yet she could not approach him. Her stomach roiled with fear and revulsion at what she'd just done.

She ran into the rocks, until she reached the embankment. She climbed upward, rocks showering down around her, never looking back until she reached the road. The horses had been hobbled and were untended. Fayth looked back and saw the four men on the beach, searching for her. One spotted her on the road and yelled, pointing. Fayth removed the rope from the horses' legs. She slapped four of them on the haunches and sent them racing into the trees. She mounted the fifth, digging in her heels just as the men gained the road, and raced away, leaving them in her wake.

Fayth stopped in a village to beg food and drink. She had no coin. The tavernkeeper was a fat, sweaty woman. A film of coa.r.s.e black hair coated her upper lip and her thick black brows met in a point over her nose. She looked Fayth over shrewdly. Fayth was uncomfortably aware of her disheveled appearance. She was dirty, her fine clothes were ruined and blood spattered, blood clotted her hair and her hands were mangled. She'd lost her shoes at some point, though she had no recollection of it, and filthy toes peeked out from beneath her skirts. Her hair bushed wildly about her scratched and raw face.

The tavernkeeper went to the door and stared out at Fayth's mount. Fayth stood quietly against the wall, waiting for the verdict. Her muscles quivered with fatigue, her head buzzed, every cut and sc.r.a.pe burned and throbbed. She wanted food and a bed. She prayed the woman would not make her work for a meal. People milled about, having their dinner or drinking and gaming. Fayth raised her eyes to none of them, her gaze fixed either on the floor or the tavernkeeper.

The tavernkeeper came back. "The saddle."

Fayth blinked at her. She would have to ride the horse bareback. She'd done that before. She should be angry-what the woman asked was larceny-but Fayth found her head bobbing forward in agreement.

The tavernkeeper's expression softened. "Here. Ye sit. I'll send me girl down to wash yer cuts and bring ye dinner."

Fayth sat on the low stool offered to her. Her hands lay limp in her lap and she stared down at them, shocked at how ravaged they were. Her palms were laid open like raw meat, her fingers lined with deep cuts. Fayth's shaking grew violent. She pressed her hands into her bodice and stared out at the milling bodies filling the tavern.

She had to think hard to even recall where she was. A small fishing village, just past the Machers, on Luce Bay. She had ridden as long and hard as she could, wanting nothing more than to be at Annancreag with Alex, siege be d.a.m.ned. But she could not go on, not without food and sleep. She was close to collapse. Though she could forage and sleep in the woods as well as any reiver, she was exhausted and wounded. When she saw the little village it was like a vision, beckoning her closer.

A girl of about twelve approached carrying a basin and rags. Fayth said nothing as the girl knelt before her, taking her hands and uncurling them. She muttered something in thickly accented Scots and set to cleaning out the cuts. Fayth stared down at the dark head bent over her hands. The girl was not gentle and Fayth hissed and jerked as she dug dirt and tiny pebbles from the wounds. Fayth wondered what they thought, a woman traveling alone and in such a state. Laughter bubbled in Fayth's chest, inappropriate and unstoppable.

The girl looked up, an eyebrow arched in question. "Are ye well, miss?"

Fayth smiled wanly. "I know not."

Fayth slowly became cognizant of the room and people around her. The interior of the tavern was dim and hazy from candle smoke. It smelled of ale and meat and sweating bodies. The people were indistinct forms in the murk, their voices a loud drone, punctuated with shouts and laughter. A flash of raven hair caught Fayth's eye. Her first thought was that Eliot lived and had followed her. Her feet were braced on the floor, ready to bolt, when she realized it was the back of a woman's head, moving toward the door.

Fayth stared after the woman, recognition jolting her. She knew that walk, that shape. She surged to her feet, but before she could shout her stepmother's name, a hand clamped over her mouth, the clean scent of lavender soap filling her nostrils.

"Shh..." Ridley whispered in her ear, "We can't have her know we're here, now can we?"

0="20"20.

BY THE TIME Gealach was in sight, Alex and his men were near collapse. They'd slept little since they left their home four days ago. They'd fought a battle, sending the Johnstones scurrying home, and left immediately, riding hard to return to Gealach. Alex prayed he wasn't too late, but his heart was heavy, knowing a great deal could occur in four days.

The sight of Gealach was not a welcoming one. Gone was Alex's banner from the tower's walls. In its place an enormous green silk banner snapped in the wind, bearing a white serpent, coiled and ready to strike.

Alex didn't know what it meant. Had Ridley merely taken the tower? Or was the deed done-Fayth wed to Carlisle and the tower legally in Ridley's possession? Alex surveyed his weary group of men, no match at their best for Ridley's hundreds, but now, wounded and exhausted. Despair edged his anger. He supposed he should not be surprised Ridley ignored his king's summons, but he was. He had underestimated the opposition, believing even Ridley must answer to someone. And he must... eventually, but he would obviously do it in his own time.

Alex's men gathered round, watching him expectantly, waiting for their orders.

"We'll go to the village and get news," he said. "Perhaps we can gain access by the cove, if they haven't already discovered that." If Eliot had a hand in this, they already knew.

They took the long way to the village, to ensure they weren't sighted by the Graham guards on the walls of Gealach, and entered the village at dusk. There was a great deal of activity for so late. The shops were all open and bustling with business. Wagons were trundling slowly up the tower road leading to Gealach. The villagers knew Alex well, and as he and his men straggled onto the main road, they were greeted and blessed by many.

They stopped in front of the alehouse. A wagon was being loaded with casks of ale and wine. Alex called to the driver.