Magnus chuckled. "Got a real fire in yer ballocks, don't ye, laddie? Ye remind me of myself when I was a lad. What ye need, if ye don't mind my sayin' so, is a good, strong woman to put out some of those flames."

"I was just saying the very same thing," said Donald, amused.

"I could tell ye tales that would make yer eyes pop right out of yer heads!" bragged Magnus, pulling himself up onto his horse. "I'll have ye know that in my youth, I was known all across Scotland for the glorious feats I performed." His eyes twinkled with pleasure as he settled into his saddle and urged his mount forward. "Of course in those days, I was known as Magnus the Magnificent...."

She hated them.

Her animosity festered like a weeping wound, filling her with such acrid loathing she was scarcely aware of anything else. Not hunger, nor weariness, nor even the pain of her aching muscles could detract from the emotions roiling through her as the little party rode north.

There was bitter irony to the fact that she was taking these MacTiers to her holding, as opposed to trying to drive them away. Here she was, leading this murdering sc.u.m back to the very place where they had already inflicted horrendous misery and destruction. MacTier had sent his forces once before. For one hideous day they had held her people in the jaws of terror, slaughtering men, terrorizing the women and children, and stripping the cottages and castle of every object of beauty or value. It had been the end of Melantha's life, or at least the end of the life she had known. In those agonizing hours she went from being a laughing girl, who had lived safely sheltered within the glorious heather-covered mountains that surrounded the MacKillon lands, to being an inferno of pain and rage that threatened to consume her within its flames if she but let it.

Her people would be terrified when they arrived, of that there could be no doubt. But once they understood that these despicable warriors were the key to forcing Laird MacTier to make rest.i.tution for all he had wrought upon them, her clan would see she had made the right decision. The only other choice was to murder these men, and despite the suffering the MacTiers had so cruelly inflicted upon her and her people, somehow she could not bring herself to do that. Magnus was right-she and her men were thieves, not cold-blooded murderers. Her loathing of the MacTiers was absolute, but she would not permit them to turn her into one of them. To do so would be to let them wrest away the last few shreds of her integrity, leaving her but a cold, vacant sh.e.l.l of the girl she had once been.

She would not let them have that final victory.

"The light is falling," observed Colin, riding up to her. "We should find a place to make camp."

Melantha studied the soft glaze of slate and peach seeping through the canopy of trees overhead. Afternoon had melted into early evening, and the air was cool and fragrant with the scent of crushed pine and sweet earth. It was as good a moment as any to stop. But she had been away from her younger brothers for well over a week, and she was longing to see them again. The prospect of closing the distance between her and Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick, even by just a few more miles, was far more enticing than the promise of rest.

"Do you think Magnus is tired?" Her voice was low so the old man would not hear her.

"He doesn't seem to be," Colin replied, glancing back at the white-haired elder.

"...and then I raised my rusty sword," Magnus was boasting, lifting his sword in the air for effect, "which was so blunt ye could scarce have used it to carve b.u.t.ter, and with my broken arm hanging at my side, I cut down every one of those murderin' rascals, till all eight of them lay in a twitching, b.l.o.o.d.y heap before me...."

The MacTier warriors kept their expressions politely composed as Magnus recited his wildly exaggerated tale. Magnus mistook their skeptical silence for rapt fascination, and immediately launched into another story.

"We will ride on," Melantha decided. "That way there will be less of a journey tomorrow."

"It has been a long day, Melantha," Colin reminded her gently.

"I'm fine, Colin."

"I wasn't thinking of you-I was thinking of me having to endure another hour of Magnus's outlandish stories." He smiled, then turned his horse and rode back to join the others.

"...and then there was the time I had to battle a terrible, two-headed beastie," Magnus continued excitedly, "with naught but my trusty sword, which nearly melted when the horrible creature breathed its ghastly fire upon it...."

Melantha inhaled deeply, savoring the spicy tang of pine and earth. The smell of life, her father used to call it. Breathe deep, la.s.s, he would say, thumping his great barrel of a chest. Breathe deep, my bonny Mellie, and know that the woods and meadows and sky and dirt of this blessed place are part of you. Never forget that, my sweet la.s.s. G.o.d has blessed you by making you part of the most glorious place on earth. And Melantha would puff out her skinny little chest and draw in a great gasp of air until she thought she would surely burst, and as she held it her cheeks would swell into two bulging apples, which would always make her father laugh.

She would have given anything to hear her father's laughter again.

A rustling sound tore her from her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw a deer burst from the trees, then disappear. Melantha instantly bent low over Morvyn and urged him into a gallop as she freed an arrow from her quiver. There was no time to inform the others-the deer was moving too fast. She could not risk losing it to the thick forest and the rapidly fading light. She and Morvyn thundered in and out of trees, heedless of the branches that clawed at them. Morvyn snorted with excitement as he pounded through the woods, sensing Melantha's urgency and eager to please her.

It had been a long time since her people had enjoyed the taste of venison, for the animals that had once crowded the woods on their lands had been all but eradicated by a devastatingly cold winter. By the time spring finally arrived, most of the poor beasts lay frozen and starved, their bodies shredded by wolves. Hunting parties had only produced small game, which was scarcely adequate to feed her people, especially since the MacTiers had either stolen or slaughtered all their livestock. This single deer could not begin to feed Melantha's entire clan, but its precious meat and hide would be a welcome treasure nonetheless. She thought of her brothers with their thin little arms and rawboned legs, and the pleasure that would light their gaunt faces when she returned home with a fine deer.

"Faster, Morvyn," she urged. "Come on, faster!"

Morvyn snorted and flew forward. The light dulled to a flat gray as they pressed deeper into the woods, but Melantha's hunting senses were keen and she knew the deer was not far ahead. Another few yards and they were nearly upon it. She took careful aim, guiding Morvyn with her legs as she kept her gaze locked upon her prey.

A ma.s.sive fallen tree suddenly obstructed their path. She scrambled to grab the reins and pull Morvyn back, but he had already begun to jump. Melantha clutched wildly at his thick mane as he struggled to heave his ma.s.sive body over the unexpected barricade.

His right foreleg slammed into the heavy trunk, making an ugly crunching sound. Morvyn screeched in agony while Melantha cried out and vainly tried to shield herself as they crashed to the ground.

"...and then there was the time I had to rescue my fair Edwina from a rascal band of Campbells," continued Magnus excitedly, "who were so bewitched by her comeliness that I had to hack them into b.l.o.o.d.y, steaming chunks of-here now, what's that noise?"

"Sweet Jesus!" swore Roarke, hearing Melantha's cry. He kicked his heels deep into his horse and galloped into the woods ahead.

"Here, now, ye can't be ridin' off like that!" protested Magnus, fumbling for his bow and arrow. "Ye're a prisoner!"

"You'll have to forgive him," apologized Donald. "I'm afraid he doesn't have much experience with being held captive."

"Stay with the others!" snapped Colin to Lewis and Finlay before thundering after Roarke.

Roarke tore through the woods as fast as his mount would carry him, heedless of the pain of his wound. A trail of broken branches and freshly churned earth indicated the path Melantha and her horse had taken, but the light had waned, making it difficult to follow the course at such a reckless speed. After a few moments he cursed in frustration and abruptly stopped, uncertain which direction to pursue. A pain-filled whicker reverberated through the trees. Roarke urged his charger forward again, crashing through the forest like a madman. Finally he saw her horse lying helplessly on the ground, whinnying in pain. Melantha lay in a crumpled heap beside him, unmoving.

Roarke dismounted quickly and limped toward her. Kneeling down, he grasped her shoulders with his bound hands and turned her over. Her face was pale and still, save for a crimson stream leaking from a deep gash in her forehead. A faint gust of breath trickled from her, thin and shallow as a baby bird's, but there nonetheless.

"Melantha."

Her eyes flickered open. Once again the hard edge of her anger had softened, transforming her into a far different girl from the one who had snapped that if he died it would merely save her the trouble of killing him. The woman he held in his lap was as beautiful and enigmatic as she was fragile. They were enemies, but in this shadowy, stolen moment, as she gazed up at him with those magnificent forest-colored eyes, he found he was drawn to her.

It had been nearly two years since he had touched a woman, for the coa.r.s.e, unwashed wh.o.r.es who had been available to him and his army as he fought on behalf of his clan and King Alexander had held no appeal to him whatsoever. He had all but forgotten what it was like to feel the soft silk of a woman's lips caress his own, to know the sweet pulse of her breath as it fluttered against his cheek, warm and filled with promise. He longed to touch the creaminess of Melantha's earth-smudged cheek, to trace his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, and rake his fingers through the dark tangle of her hair.

Unable to control himself, he bent his head and captured her mouth with his.

The whisper of her breath froze and her body stiffened, but she did not push him away.

"Get the h.e.l.l off her, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The words crashed over them like freezing water. Roarke shifted Melantha off his lap and clumsily rose, preparing to face Colin's rage.

"No!" shrieked Melantha, scrambling to her feet. She threw herself against Roarke, knocking him back a step before turning to face Colin.

"I'm going to kill him!" he vowed savagely, his sword raised.

"It isn't what you think, Colin!"

His eyes grew wide. "My G.o.d, Melantha, you're bleeding!"

She raised her hand to her forehead, then stared in confusion at the scarlet staining her fingertips.

"You fell from your horse," Roarke explained. "You must have struck your head in the fall."

Melantha turned her gaze to the injured beast. "Morvyn!"

Her mount attempted to rise, then whickered in pain and collapsed to the ground once again.

"Oh, G.o.d," cried Melantha, racing over to him. "You're all right, my sweet lad, you're fine," she crooned, gently stroking the animal as she surveyed his legs, trying to ascertain which one he had injured. "Colin, please help me with Morvyn," she pleaded brokenly.

"If you try to escape, I will slaughter your men," Colin promised Roarke. "Do you understand?"

Roarke nodded.

" 'Tis his right foreleg," Melantha reported as Colin knelt beside her.

Colin expertly ran his hands over Morvyn's rapidly swelling leg. The horse whinnied with pain and tried to pull away.

"Easy, now," said Colin, stroking the horse to calm him. "Rest easy."

Morvyn studied him a moment, his velvety nostrils flaring with each rapid breath, his eyes dark and filled with suffering. Colin continued to stroke the animal's neck, murmuring low words of rea.s.surance. Finally Morvyn lay back against the ground and permitted Colin to finish his examination.

"Is it bad?" asked Melantha, biting her lip.

Colin eased the horse's swollen foreleg onto the ground. "I fear it's broken, Melantha."

"No." She shook her head.

"Poor Morvyn must have struck it very hard when he tried to clear this tree." Colin's tone was low and soothing, as if he were speaking to a distressed child. "His bones are not as strong as they once were, and his leg just cracked."

"It isn't cracked," Melantha insisted, laying her hand protectively on Morvyn's sweat-soaked shoulder. "It's just sore and swelling a bit, that's all."

"He cannot stand, Melantha," Colin pointed out, gently placing his hand over hers. "He cannot move." He hesitated a moment before quietly stating, "We've no choice but to end his pain."

"No!" She knocked Colin's hand away. "You'll not touch him, Colin, do you understand? Not you, nor anyone else. It's my fault he's injured. I'll tend to him."

"We've no time for that, Melantha. We have to get these MacTier prisoners back to our holding-"

"The MacTiers can wait," Melantha interrupted. "It will soon be dark, so we have to stop anyway. We'll make camp right here, and I'll tend to Morvyn, and by morning the swelling in his leg will have eased and he'll be fit enough to stand."

Colin regarded her with aching regret. "He'll never stand again, Melantha. You must accept that."

"You're wrong. And I'll not let you kill him when it's my fault for riding him so fast when the light was falling and he was tired. I caused him to miss that jump, Colin," she said, her voice nearly breaking. "I'll not let you slay him for something that was my fault."

Roarke studied her. He had thought her cold and unfeeling, but he had been mistaken. The same woman who had shown not the tiniest fragment of concern for him when he had been wounded was now almost shattered by the possibility of losing her beloved horse.

At that moment he would have let her build a cottage around the d.a.m.n animal and stay here for as long as she wished, as long as it made her happy.

"Very well, Melantha," Colin relented. He laid his hand with tender familiarity upon her cheek, a gesture that Roarke found both telling and a little irritating. "We will make camp here, and you can tend to him."

Melantha swallowed thickly. "Thank you."

"But if he cannot stand come morning," Colin continued seriously, "we have to end his misery."

"He will stand," Melantha a.s.sured him in a small, fierce voice. "I will see to it."

"So this is where ye be hidin'," said Magnus, emerging through the trees. "We've been searchin' all of G.o.d's green earth tryin' to find-good Lord, la.s.s, what's happened to yer head?"

"It's nothing," Melantha a.s.sured him.

"Ye've cracked yer pate and ye're halfway to bleedin' to death, and ye call that nothing?"

"It's Morvyn who has been injured," Melantha said adamantly. "I need some strips of linen or wool to bind around his leg to stop the swelling. Lewis, have you any extra fabric in your bag?"

Lewis shook his head. "You're welcome to have my plaid, Melantha."

"Now, there's a sight I don't much care to see," said Finlay. "Little Lewis's freckled a.r.s.e polishing his saddle all through the mountains."

Lewis regarded Finlay with irritation. "Melantha needs some fabric. Besides, my shirt is almost long enough to cover me."

"I've a better idea, Lewis," said Colin. "Each of you take your dirks and cut a length off your plaids, but not so much that you can't secure them around your waists. Between the four of us, we should have enough cloth to bind poor old Morvyn's leg."

"You'll have more than enough between the eight of us," interjected Roarke.

Melantha looked at him in surprise. "You would spare us some of your plaid?"

Roarke shrugged. "I hate to see an animal in pain."

"Of course you do." Colin's tone was flagrantly sarcastic. "That's what you MacTiers are known for-your soft hearts."

Roarke ignored him and kept his gaze fixed on Melantha. "You may take whatever you need from our plaids."

"You seem to forget, you're our prisoners," pointed out Finlay. "We don't need your permission to take something from you."

"Now, Finlay, let's not be rude," scolded Magnus. " 'Tis most obliging of Roarke here to make such an offer. Most obliging."

Melantha stared at Roarke a long moment. His expression was utterly composed, revealing no trace of the kiss they had shared moments earlier. Her body stirred at the memory. Shame washed through her, making her feel small and soiled.

Had her father been alive to hear that she had not resisted the touch of her clan's sworn enemy, he would have been mortified.

"I don't want your plaid," she said coldly.

Roarke shrugged. "If you change your mind, my offer stands."

"She won't be changing her mind," Colin snarled, glaring at Roarke. "Lewis, cut the plaids and help Melantha tend to Morvyn. Magnus and Finlay, get these MacTiers secured to trees so we can make camp. We will stop here for the night." He shoved Roarke toward a tree.

Pushing aside her shame for the moment, Melantha focused on the task of helping Morvyn. She ordered Lewis to cut the swaths of fabric he collected from the other men into narrow strips while she went to a nearby stream and filled a leather pouch with water. Then she tied the strips of wool together, dipped them into the frigid water, and carefully wrapped the sodden bandage around Morvyn's swollen leg. He endured her ministrations stoically, although it was clear it pained him to have his foreleg handled. Once the leg was thickly sheathed in cold wrapping, Melantha poured more icy water on it, trying to chill his throbbing flesh and keep the swelling to a minimum.

"Shall I fetch more water for you, Melantha?" asked Lewis.

She nodded. "Fill this pouch, and empty my saddlebag and see if it will hold water as well. Morvyn must be thirsty by now, and I'm going to have to keep chilling this bandage through the night if I'm to get the swelling down. The cold will help to ease his pain as well."

"How's he farin', la.s.s?" asked Magnus, going over to join her as Lewis left.

"Better." Melantha gently stroked her horse's neck. In truth she could not discern any improvement, but she was not about to admit that. "I'm certain by tomorrow he'll be able to stand."

"Of course he will, la.s.s," Magnus agreed. "A few hours of rest, and old Morvyn will be as fit as ever. A true warrior can't be kept down by something as paltry as a banged shin, ye know. Why, courage runs thick as oatmeal in his veins, just as it did in yer father's."

Melantha nodded.