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  When she opened them again a man she’d never seen before stood over her, legs wide, hands on hips. The dying sunlight haloed his gray hair, made shadows on his strong jaw.

  “Well, Rab,” he said in a deep voice, stroking the dog, “what have you brought me this time?”

  “Don’t touch me,” Elizabeth whispered as the man bent toward her.

  “If you’re worried I’ll harm you in any way, young woman, you needn’t be. I’m the MacGregor and you’re on my land. Why is Bronwyn’s dog with you?” He eyed her English clothes.

  Elizabeth was tired, weak, hungry, but she wasn’t dead. The way this man said Bronwyn told her they were friends. Tears began falling down her cheeks. Now she’d never get home. No friend of the MacArrans would return her to England, and Roger’s capture by a Montgomery could start a private war.

  “Don’t greet so, lass,” the MacGregor said. “Soon you’ll be in a nice safe place. Someone will tend to your cuts and we’ll feed you and—What the hell!”

  Elizabeth, as the man leaned closer, had pulled his dirk from its sheath and aimed for his stomach. Sheer weakness had made her miss.

  Lachlan MacGregor sidestepped, took the dirk from her and flung her over his shoulder in one quick movement. “Give me no more trouble, lass,” he commanded when she started to struggle. “In Scotland we don’t repay kindness by stabbing someone.”

  He tossed Elizabeth on his horse, whistled for Rab to follow and the three of them set off at a furious pace.

  Chapter 9

  ELIZABETH SAT ALONE IN A BIG ROOM IN THE MACGREGOR castle, the oak door barred. The room was mostly bare except for an enormous bed, a chest and three chairs. A fireplace was along one wall, filled with logs, but no fire warmed the cold stones.

  Elizabeth huddled in one of the chairs, the plaid from Bronwyn wrapped about her, her sore knees drawn in to her chest. It had been several hours since the MacGregor had tossed her in the room without so much as a backward glance. No food had been sent to her, no water for washing, and the dog, Rab, had bounded away at the first sight of the MacGregor fortress. Elizabeth was too tired to sleep, her mind in too much of a turmoil to allow her much rest.

  When she first heard the familiar voice, muffled through the heavy door, her first reaction was one of relief. But she quickly recovered from that. Miles Montgomery was as much her enemy as anyone else.

  When Miles opened the door and walked in boldly, she was ready for him. She sent a copper and silver goblet from the mantelpiece flying at his head.

  Miles caught the object in his left hand and kept walking toward her.

  She threw a small shield from the wall at him and he caught that in his right hand.

  With a little smile of triumph, Elizabeth grabbed a battered helmet from the mantel and drew back her arm to throw it. He had no more hands with which to catch this object.

  But before she could throw the helmet, Miles was before her, his arms drawing her close to him.

  “I was very worried about you,” he whispered, his face buried against her cheek. “Why did you run away like that? Scotland isn’t like England. It’s treacherous country.”

  He didn’t hold her very tightly, at least not enough to cause her to want to struggle, but instead she almost wished he’d pull her closer. As it was, she had to stand very still or else his arms might drop away altogether. At his idiot words, though, she did move away. “I am attacked by wolves, nearly fall into the sea and some man throws me about like a sack of grain and you tell me this is treacherous country!”

  Miles touched her temple and she did not move away from him. There was an unusual light in his eyes. “Elizabeth, you make your own problems.”

  “I did not ask to be delivered into my enemy’s hands nor to be brought as a prisoner into this hostile country and as for that man—”

  Miles interrupted her. “The MacGregor was quite angry at your taking a knife to him. A few months ago he nearly died from Bronwyn’s using a knife on him.”

  “But they seemed to be friends.”

  Before she could speak another word, the chamber door opened and in walked two brawny Scotsmen carrying an oak tub. Behind them came a dozen women bearing buckets of hot water. The last woman held a tray with three decanters and two goblets.

  “Knowing your propensity for not bathing, I have taken the liberty of ordering a bath.” Miles smiled at her.

  Elizabeth didn’t answer him but put her nose into the air and turned toward the cold fireplace.

  When the room was empty of people except for the two of them, Miles put his hand on her shoulder. “Come and bathe while the water is hot, Elizabeth.”

  She whirled on him. “Why should you think that I’d do for you what I haven’t done for other men? I ran away from you at Larenston and now you seem to think I’ll leap into your arms because you’ve shown up here. What difference does it make whether I’m held prisoner by the MacGregor or a Montgomery? If the truth be known, I prefer the MacGregor.”

  Miles’s jaw hardened and his eyes darkened. “I think it’s time some things were made clear between us. I have been more than patient with you. I have stood by silently while you hurt Sir Guy. I have shared my son with you. I have watched as you put the entire Clan MacArran in turmoil and now you’ve come close to injuring the MacGregor. The peace between the MacGregors and MacArrans is too new and fragile. You could have destroyed what it’s taken Stephen a year to build. And look at you, Elizabeth! Have you seen yourself? There is dried blood all over you, you’re obviously exhausted and you’ve lost much weight. I think it’s time I stopped letting you have your own way.”

  “My…!” she sputtered. “I do not want to be held prisoner! Do you understand me? Can I get anything through your thick head? I want to go home to my brothers and I will do whatever I can to get there.”

  “Home!” Miles said through clenched teeth. “Do you have any idea what the word means? Where did you learn how to break men’s toes? How to use a knife so efficiently? What made you decide all men were evil creatures? Why can’t you abide any man’s touch?”

  Elizabeth just looked at him sullenly. “Edmund is dead,” she said after a while.

  “Will you always live under a cloud, Elizabeth?” he whispered, his eyes soft. “Will you always see only what you want to see?” After a long sigh, he held out his hand to her. “Come and bathe before the water cools.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to bathe.”

  She should have been used to Miles’s extraordinary quickness, but as usual she was unprepared for it.

  “I’ve had enough of this, Elizabeth,” he said before tossing the damp plaid from her. “I’ve been patient and kind but from now on you’re going to learn a little obedience—and trust. I am not going to harm you; I have never harmed any woman but I cannot stand by and allow you to hurt yourself.”

  With that, he tore the front of her dress away, exposing her breasts.

  Elizabeth gasped, crossed her arms in front of her and jumped back.

  Easily, Miles caught her, and in two swift tears he had her nude. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to her body as he picked her up and carried her to the tub where he gently set her into the water.

  Without a word, he picked up a cloth, soaped it and began to gently wash her face. “Struggle and the soap will be in your eyes,” he said, making her hold still.

  She refused to speak to him while he washed the upper half of her body, glad for the soap that hid her red face as his hands glided lingeringly over her high, firm breasts.

  “How did you hurt yourself?” he asked conversationally as he soaped her left leg, careful of the ugly cuts and scrapes on her knee.

  The water was relaxing her and there was no reason not to tell him. She lay back in the tub, closed her eyes and told him of the night she’d spent along the cliff road. Halfway through the story, a glass of wine touched her hand and she drank of it thirstily. The intoxicant immediately went to her head and, dreamily, she kept ta