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  Less than a year later, Roger had written that the Scottish heiress, Bronwyn MacArran, had pleaded to be allowed to marry Roger but Stephen Montgomery was forcing the poor woman to become his bride. Roger had challenged Stephen in an attempt to protect the MacArran woman, and during the fight, Montgomery had cleverly made it appear that Roger attacked his back. As a result, Roger was disgraced.

  She wasn’t sure why Brian had left his home; Roger would never say. But she was sure it had to do with the Montgomerys. Brian was sensitive and gentle. Perhaps he could no longer stand all the horrors that had been done to his family because of the Montgomerys. But whatever made Brian leave had nothing to do with the lies she’d heard today. She doubted if Roger even knew the Montgomery men had a sister.

  All during the long ride, she’d idly been tucking the torn shoulder of her dress inside the high neckline. When Miles called a halt to the procession, she was startled to see that it was growing dark. Her thoughts had kept her occupied for hours.

  Before them was an inn, half timbered, old but prosperous-looking. The landlord stood outside, his big red face split by a welcoming grin.

  Miles stood beside her. “Elizabeth”—he held up his arms for her—“do not embarrass yourself by refusing me,” he said, a twinkle in his eye as he glanced at her raised foot.

  Elizabeth considered for a moment, then allowed him to help her from her horse, but she stepped away from his touch as soon as she was on the ground. Two of his men entered the inn first while Miles caught Elizabeth’s arm.

  “I have something for you.” Watching her closely, he held out a lovely, intricately wrought gold brooch of a pelican, its beak tucked under its outstretched wing, standing on a band of diamonds.

  Elizabeth’s eyes didn’t flicker. “I don’t want it.”

  With a look of exasperation, Miles pinned the shoulder of her gown together. “Come inside, Elizabeth,” he said flatly.

  Obviously, the innkeeper was expecting them, for the bustle of activity within was enormous. Elizabeth stood to one side as Miles conferred with Sir Guy while the landlord waited for their commands.

  It was a large room set with tables and chairs, a big fireplace to one side. For the first time, Elizabeth really looked at Miles’s men. There were an even dozen of them and it seemed they gave remarkably little trouble. Now they walked about, opening doors, quietly checking for any hidden danger. Did Miles Montgomery have so many enemies he must always be wary—or was he just cautious?

  A pretty young maid curtsied before Miles and he gave her his little half-smile. Elizabeth watched curiously as the maid blushed and preened under Miles’s gaze.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said, smiling, bobbing up and down. “I hope ye like the meal I’ve cooked.”

  “I will,” Miles said so matter-of-factly that it made his enjoyment seem a sure fact.

  With another blush, the girl turned back to the kitchen.

  “Are you hungry, Elizabeth?” Miles asked, turning back to her.

  “Not for what you seem to inspire.” She nodded toward the maid’s retreating back.

  “How I wish there were jealousy in those words. But I have patience,” he added with a smile and gave her a little push toward the table before she could answer.

  Miles and she sat at a small table, apart from his men but in the same room. Dish after dish was brought to them but Elizabeth barely ate.

  “You don’t seem to have a big appetite at best.”

  “If you were held prisoner would you gorge yourself on your captor’s food?”

  “I would probably not lose a moment in planning my captor’s death,” he answered honestly.

  Elizabeth glared at him in silence and Miles concentrated on his food.

  Halfway through the long, silent meal, Miles caught the hand of one of the maids placing a dish of fresh salmon on the table. As Elizabeth looked up in surprise, she saw that the maid’s hands were scratched and raw.

  “How have you injured yourself?” Miles asked gently.

  “The berry brambles, milord,” she answered, half frightened, half fascinated by Miles’s attention.

  “Landlord!” Miles called. “See that the girl’s hands are cared for and she’s not to put them in water until they heal.”

  “But my lord!” the man protested. “She’s only a scullery maid. She’s serving tonight because my regular girl has the pox.”

  Sir Guy slowly rose from the head of the table of Miles’s retainers, and all that was needed was the size of the giant and the landlord took a step backward.

  “Come, girl,” the landlord said angrily.

  “Thank…thank you, my lord,” she bobbed a curtsy before she fled the room.

  Elizabeth cut herself a slice of French cheese. “Did Sir Guy come to your defense for the girl’s sake or his own?”

  Miles’s expression went from amazement to amusement. He caught her hand and kissed the palm. “Guy doesn’t like fights over scullery maids.”

  “And you do?”

  Smiling, he shrugged. “I prefer to avoid fights about anything. I am a peaceful man.”

  “But you would have fought a fat, congenial landlord over the scratched hands of a worthless girl.” It was a statement.

  “I do not consider her worthless. Now”—he dismissed the subject—“you must be tired. Would you like to retire?”

  Miles’s men all bid her goodnight and she nodded toward them, following Miles and the landlord up the stairs to the single room—and single bed—that awaited them.

  “So! You have waited until now to force me to your bed,” she said when they were alone. “Perhaps the tent walls were too thin to muffle my cries.”

  “Elizabeth,” he said, taking her hand. “I will sleep on the windowseat and you may have the bed. I cannot allow you to have a room alone because you’d find some way to leave.”

  “Escape, you mean.”

  “All right, have it your way, escape. Now come here. I want to talk to you.” He pulled her to the windowseat, sat down and pulled her to sit beside him. When he drew her back against his chest, she began to protest.

  “Relax, Elizabeth. I will leave my hands here about your waist and not move them, but I’ll not let you up until you relax and talk to me.”

  “I can talk sitting up, away from you.”

  “But I cannot keep from touching you,” he said with feeling. “All the time I want to caress you, to soothe away your hurt.”

  “I am not hurt.” She pushed at his arms holding her to him. He was a large man, tall and broad, and the outward curve of his chest just fit the arch of her back.

  “But you are hurt, Elizabeth, probably more than you know.”

  “Ah yes, I see now. There is something wrong with me because I don’t salivate with adoration whenever you are near me.”

  Miles kissed her neck, chuckling. “Perhaps I deserved that. Hold still or I’ll kiss you more.” Her abrupt stillness made him wince. “I want you to tell me what you like. Food does not interest you, nor pretty dresses. Gold and diamonds don’t even make you blink. Men don’t rate a glance from you. What is your weakness?”

  “My weakness?” she asked, thinking about it. He was stroking her hair at her temple and in spite of herself, she was beginning to relax. The last two days of tension and anger were draining her strength. His long legs were stretched out on the windowseat and she was between them. “What is your weakness, Montgomery?”

  “Women,” he murmured, dismissing the question. “Tell me about you.”

  The muscles in her neck were relaxing and her weight was easing against him. It wasn’t a bad feeling to be held so safely by such strong arms when the man wasn’t pawing at her, tearing her clothes, hurting her. “I live with my two brothers, both of whom I love and who love me. I am far from being a pauper and I have but to hint at a jewel or gown I’d like and my brother Roger purchases it for me.”

  “And…Roger”—he tripped over the name—“is good to you?”

  “He prot