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Tears filled the corners of his eyes. He eased himself upright, the ropes beneath the mattress squealing in protest when he moved. The sound tore through his head, but he fought through the pain.

Leaning gingerly against the headboard, James searched his scattered memory for details. They had met on the hilltop, in their secret place. Davina had smiled and teased and kissed him with her usual passion and excitement. His heart had been near bursting with emotion when he asked her to be his wife and when she had agreed—och, his joy had been boundless.

But then . . . then . . . they had been set upon by brigands. A foul group of outlaws intent on causing them harm. He had fought fiercely, had killed several of them, but there were too many to defeat. He remembered striking his final opponent in the heart with his dirk, but after that there was only blackness.

What happened to Davina? Had she escaped? Been kidnapped? Been killed?

Ignoring the pulsing pain racking his body, James again whispered his beloved’s name, then began shouting, “Davina! Davina!”

The bedchamber door flew open. The silhouette of a burly man loomed in the doorway. “Are ye awake?”

“Aye,” James croaked. He felt appallingly weak and confused.

“I’ll get the laird.”

The man left before James could question him. Frustrated, James forced himself to remain calm. Finally, Laird Armstrong entered the chamber, two men at his side. James recognized one of them as the captain of the guard. The other was unknown to him.

“I see ye’ve decided to join the living again,” Laird Armstrong said, his booming voice rattling James’s aching head.

Ignoring the expression of discontent clouding the laird’s features, James asked, “Where is Davina?”

“She’s confined to her bed.” The laird’s eyes grew dark. “She’s in a terrible, disgraceful state. Bruised and beaten. She shudders with nightmares, cries out in terror. My men found ye both miles from the castle, struck down and bleeding. What happened?”

Davina lives!James’s heart beat with elation, followed swiftly by sadness. Alive, aye, yet badly injured.

“We were attacked,” James replied.

“By who?”

“Brigands. Outlaws.”

“My men saw no one. There was no looting in the village, no crops destroyed, no cattle stolen.” The laird lifted his brow. “What can ye tell us of them?”

James took a deep breath, shuddering at the searing pain it caused in his chest. “There were six men. None wore plaids or carried shields with clan markings. They surprised us.”

“I can only imagine what ye were doing in such a private, secluded place with my niece that caused ye to be so distracted,” Laird Armstrong growled.

James grit his teeth and jerked his head in denial. He would not stand for Davina’s honor to be questioned, even by her own kin. “I love Davina. I would never do anything to compromise her honor or virtue.”

Laird Armstrong snorted in disbelief. “Six men approach and ye heard nothing? I thought the McKenna trained his men better.”

He did. Guilt, swift and sudden, stabbed through James. He lowered his chin in shame. “The men were on foot, not horseback. They had the advantage of surprise when they ambushed us.”

The laird’s eyes sparked with sudden anger. “We’ve not had any trouble with brigands on our lands fer years.”

“Not while Robert the Bruce was king,” the captain of the guard added.

James nearly shouted in frustration. He had no care for the political implications of the attack. His main concern was finding the criminals and punishing them for hurting Davina.

“It could have been a group of English scum,” the other man suggested.

“We’re too far north for the English to be troubling us,” the laird insisted.

“Nay, they were Scots. I could tell by their swords; to a man they carried Claymores.” James’s voice felt choked and tight. “I killed two of them and wounded two others. After that . . .” he said, his voice trailing off in confusion.

“We found no bodies,” the captain of the guard challenged.

James drew in a ragged breath, fighting the need to argue. “They must have taken the dead and wounded away.”