"Does this mean I don't get to kill these chaps?" grumbled Thor.

"If we ask enough for these warriors, and we secure an alliance with the MacKenzies, then we need never worry about being vulnerable to attack again," said Colin.

"Not only from the MacTiers," finished Melantha, "but from anyone else."

"There is just one small problem."

The little group regarded Roarke in surprise.

"Laird MacTier will never agree to your demands," he informed them seriously. "Other than the issue of his pride, which is considerable, the man is exceptionally fond of his possessions-especially his gold. And as I have already explained to you," he continued, regarding Melantha intently, "to pay a fee for our return would put all his warriors at risk of being ransomed."

Laird MacKillon looked troubled. "Have you considered this, Melantha?"

"These warriors were sent to capture the Falcon's band and are most anxious that their laird not learn that they failed miserably in their mission and are suffering the indignity of being ransomed as well. This is why they would have us believe that there is no point in holding them prisoner." She tossed Roarke a look of contempt. "Besides, how will it appear if MacTier fails to intervene on behalf of his own clansmen?"

"The la.s.s is right," Hagar concurred. "MacTier may be a greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he's not likely to let four of his own be killed just to save a few coins. I say we keep these big chaps for a while and see what MacTier says when he gets our message."

"Very well," said Laird MacKillon. "But what are we to do with them while we wait to hear from MacTier?"

"Throw them in the dungeon and let the rats gnaw on their hot, stinking entrails!" blazed Thor. "A few weeks in the dark with nothing but mossy bread and dank water, and we'll have them telling us what we want to know!"

"Your pardon, Thor, but what is it we want to know?" wondered Laird MacKillon.

"All enemies have secrets," Thor a.s.sured him. His face lit up. "If they won't tell us, we shall have to torture them!"

"We don't have a dungeon," Beatrice objected firmly. "And we certainly don't have rats."

Thor's expression fell. "Couldn't we get some?"

"All we have are the storage chambers," reflected Edwina, "and they are a terrible mess. It will take several days to clear one of them out."

"Are there any spare chambers available?" Laird MacKillon asked.

Beatrice shook her head. "Every room in the keep is occupied, I'm afraid, and many of the cottages are already housing two families. Someone will have to move out to make room for these gentlemen, or agree to share their chamber."

"Share a chamber with these thieving MacTier cutthroats?" Thor looked outraged by the suggestion. "Never, I say, never!"

"If we don't have a dungeon for them and there aren't any spare chambers, where are we to keep them?" Hagar wondered.

"Why don't we just keep them here?" suggested Magnus.

Hagar regarded him in confusion. "In the great hall?"

"Seems to me ye couldn't find a better place to keep a steady eye on them," Magnus reasoned. "After all, there's always someone in here. Should they try to escape, the place would be swarming with men in no time."

Laird MacKillon's expression brightened. "We can set up an area for them down at that end, with beds and a table and a washbasin-"

"-of course we'll need to put up a screen, so they can have a little privacy when they need it-" added Hagar.

"-and a few chairs for sitting upon-" Magnus suggested.

"-they'll be close to the kitchen, so it will be easy to bring them food-" pointed out Edwina.

"-and the fires will keep them warm at night-you know that storage room is rather chilly-" Beatrice added.

Roarke listened in bemused silence as the MacKillons made plans for imprisoning him and his men. It was clear the MacKillons despised the MacTiers, and apparently they had good reason. Yet here were the laird and his closest advisors fussing over Roarke and his men's comfort. It would be most convenient to be held in the main room of this dilapidated castle, where Roarke could witness the activities of the clan and overhear their conversations. Not that these MacKillons seemed the least bit concerned about their prisoners knowing exactly what their plans were. Roarke had no doubt he and his men would be able to escape with little difficulty. The sight of the MacKillon children in their ragged clothes, their faces hollowed by hunger, had given him pause, however. He decided he would delay his departure until he learned more about what exactly had happened here.

"It's all settled then, lads," said Magnus, interrupting his thoughts. "Ye'll stay in the hall for now, and as soon as we can make arrangements for yer comfort downstairs, ye'll have a chamber all to yerselves."

"Do let us know if there is anything else you need," invited Laird MacKillon graciously.

Eric glowered. "I need nothing from the hands of my enemies," he said savagely. "Not food, nor water, nor even-"

"Your concern for our comfort is most appreciated," interjected Donald. "Now that you mention it, a hot bath might be rather pleasant-"

"What time is dinner?" wondered Myles, hungrily eyeing the food on the table.

"They aren't guests," objected Melantha, "they're prisoners."

"Even worse, they're MacTiers!" bellowed Thor.

"Nevertheless, they deserve to be treated with decency," Laird MacKillon said. "I'll not have them being mistreated while they are in our custody-is that clear?"

Thor scowled.

"Thank you, Laird MacKillon," said Roarke, unable to resist casting an amused look at Melantha. "You are a most gracious captor."

"Not at all, lad." He smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. "Now that that's settled, let's sit down and eat, shall we? Colin, invite the others in. We will tell them of our plans to ransom these fine fellows and gain an army in the process, over dinner."

"You're not suggesting the prisoners should eat with us?" Melantha demanded, appalled.

Laird MacKillon regarded her in confusion. "Have they already dined?"

"As a matter of fact, we haven't," said Roarke cheerfully.

Melantha sent him a glare that could have frozen fire. "As prisoners, they should be fed somewhere else. Perhaps in the kitchen."

"Absolutely not," Beatrice objected. "It's crowded enough in there without these four big brutes getting in everyone's way."

Hagar scratched his balding head. "I don't see why they should have to go somewhere else, Melantha. After all, the great hall is already set up for dining."

"Come then, lads," invited Edwina, ending the debate. "Sit down and have something to eat."

"Thank you." Roarke gave Melantha an infuriating grin as he made his way to the table.

"You must sit at the laird's table, Melantha," said Beatrice, "so you can tell the clan all about the Falcon's latest adventures."

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, ye are," countered Magnus. "Ye've scarce eaten a bite in more than three days, so sit yerself down and eat."

"No," she managed, feeling bile rise in her throat.

With that she wheeled about and fled the great hall, unable to bear the sight of MacTier warriors comfortably dining in the chamber where but a few months earlier they had wrought such terror and destruction.

Roarke lay on his side, contemplating the languid flicker of the dying torches.

His b.u.t.tock was throbbing, as was much of his body, but the pain had been dulled somewhat by the enormous quant.i.ty of ale he had consumed during dinner. His men had also imbibed heavily, which accounted for the swiftness with which their snoring had rumbled through the hall, even though they were bound hand and foot. Unfortunately, the sanctuary of slumber had long been elusive for Roarke, and despite his profound weariness, tonight was no exception. The relentless ache of his battered bones and muscles, coupled with the melancholy wanderings of his mind, made it difficult to release himself to that quiet refuge. And so he lay in silence, staring at the fading light of the torches, wearily aware that he was only tormenting himself further as he studied their red-gold hue, which in that ale-clouded moment exactly matched the color of his beloved daughter Clementina's hair.

It had been several days since the memory of either his little daughter or his wife had permeated his thoughts. The realization filled him with guilt, for it demonstrated that he had abandoned them in death the same way he had abandoned them in life. He had not meant to, but there it was. He was a cold, unfeeling b.a.s.t.a.r.d-salubrious traits in a warrior, but utterly despicable in a husband and father.

I am sorry.

He knew his apology was pathetically insufficient. Not that they could hear him, anyway. They lay cold and stiff under the ground, forever sealed in a simple pine coffin, with Muriel holding their tiny daughter in her arms, their faces pale but serene. At least that was what Laird MacTier had told Roarke on that terrible day he returned from his raiding to find his small family dead and buried. They are at peace, his laird had a.s.sured him. They are with G.o.d.

Roarke had failed to see how his wife could be at peace. Despondent after the loss of her beloved three-year-old child to a fever, she had taken her own life by eating poisoned berries. But at the time he had not questioned MacTier's description. There had been a modic.u.m of comfort in imagining sweet Muriel at peace, with little Clementina safely wrapped in the loving hold of her mother's arms. He still tried to imagine them lying so, as if they were merely sleeping, and would open their eyes and smile at him if he but chose to wake them. It was ridiculous, of course. A life of raiding and battle had left him intimately acquainted with death, and he knew its foul stench and rotting ugliness too well to believe such a fanciful tale. But during those first few months the image of his wife and daughter lying in gentle slumber had soothed him, and helped to alleviate the unbearable guilt that had threatened to crush him from within.

He swallowed thickly, watching as the torchlight blurred to a watery wash of gold.

All his life he had longed for nothing other than to be a warrior. And that was exactly what he had become, G.o.d help him. As a lad it had seemed a life of unparalleled wonder, filled with adventure, daring, and exotic travel. From the time he had first swung the crude wooden sword his father crafted for him, he had known that he was destined for greater things than staying caged within the boundaries of his clan's land. Farming held no appeal for him, and the idea of living his life trapped in a dark, smoky cottage with a shrewish wife and squalling babes had terrified him. And so he had pursued his training with relentless determination, excelling at every exercise, until finally Laird MacTier realized there was nothing to be done except send him off to fight. Over the years Roarke had grown from a green, arrogant lad with more strength than brains into an experienced, arrogant warrior, who loved battle and thought no further than the next conquest. His sworn duty was to his laird and clan. All who knew him understood that. Even Muriel, who had fallen in love with him at the tender age of seventeen and begged him to marry her. Roarke had been all of twenty-nine, and had just been given command of a small army of a hundred men, which at the time was heady stuff indeed. He had informed Muriel that life as a warrior left him no time for the burden of a wife and family, and that he could not possibly be expected to stay at home to tend to them. Muriel a.s.sured him that it did not matter, for she loved him and wanted to be his wife.

To have you with me some of the time is far better than not sharing my life with you at all, she had said.

And so he married her, planted a child in her belly, and left, foolishly believing that all was well and she would be content.

Instead he had destroyed her.

"Be quiet, Patrick, or they'll hear you and cut off your head with a giant sword!" whispered an agitated voice.

Suddenly alert, Roarke shoved aside his thoughts and quickly scanned the dimness of the hall.

Three small shadows of varying height were tentatively creeping toward him. It was clear by their careful, if not entirely graceful, movements, that they were trying to make as little noise as possible.

"Why would they do a mean thing like that?" asked the smallest figure. "I haven't done anything."

"They're thieving, bloodthirsty MacTiers, aren't they?" demanded the tallest of the three shadows. "That's what they do for sport-chop the heads off small boys and take them home and eat them!"

Both the middle and small shadows halted.

"H-how small?" stammered the middle shadow.

"You needn't worry, Matthew," the tallest shadow said. "You're too quiet for them to take any notice of you. It's Patrick here who had better watch out!"

"You said it would be safe to look at them, Daniel," the small shadow protested accusingly. "Now you're saying they're going to eat me!"

"I didn't say that," snapped the tall shadow. "I just said you have to be quiet!"

The midsized figure banged into a table, sending a pitcher crashing to the floor.

All three shadows froze.

The racket was enough to rouse the dead, but miraculously, Roarke's men continued to snore. Evidently the ale had impaired their hearing along with all their other senses.

Stricken with terror, the three small shadows remained rooted to the spot. Finally, unable to detect any movement from either Roarke or his men, they exhaled the breaths they had been holding.

"That was close," breathed the tallest shadow. "Do that again, Matthew, and we'll all be dead!"

"We shouldn't have come, Daniel," Matthew whimpered. "Melantha told us not to go near the prisoners!"

"Melantha never lets us do anything," complained Daniel. "If she had her way we'd be locked in our chamber until we were old men!"

"She just wants us to be safe," Matthew countered loyally.

"Fine," said Daniel, exasperated. "You two stay here and be safe. I'm going to look at these MacTier murderers."

"I want to see them as well," chirped Patrick, which struck Roarke as remarkably courageous, given that this little one believed he was in danger of being eaten.

"I-I do too," stammered Matthew, although he didn't sound entirely sure.

Daniel sighed. "Very well-but don't make a sound!"

A little late for that, thought Roarke, watching with amus.e.m.e.nt as the three shadows began to creep toward him and his men once again.

"Are you sure they're asleep?" whispered Matthew worriedly.

"Of course they're asleep," said Daniel. "You don't think they snore like that when they're awake, do you?"

"They sound just like Thor does when he's sleeping," Patrick observed. "I thought he made that disgusting noise because he's so old."

"All men snore when they sleep," Daniel declared authoritatively. "Even our da used to."

Matthew giggled. "It sounds like they've got something stuck up their noses."

"Why doesn't the noise wake them up?" wondered Patrick.

Daniel shrugged. "I expect they're used to it."

They crept a little closer. Roarke lay perfectly still, watching them through a barely cracked eyelid. Patrick emerged from the darkness into the wavering torchlight first. He looked to be about seven years of age and sported a wildly disheveled bush of bright red hair.

"Which one do you suppose is the leader?"

"It must be that fair-haired one," decided Matthew, inching hesitantly beside him. "Just look at what a great giant he is!"

This light-brown-haired lad seemed a little older than Patrick, although his frame was slight and his legs were painfully thin, making it difficult to a.s.sess his age. Nine, Roarke decided-certainly no more than ten.

"That isn't the leader," scoffed Daniel, joining the other two.

He was lean and long limbed, with sable hair and elegantly arched brows that struck Roarke as oddly familiar. Roarke guessed his age to be about thirteen, though it was possible he was older and a lack of food had arrested his development. Given sufficient quant.i.ties of meat and exercise, the boy might grow to an impressive size.