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After three days in the sick room, Moira was longing for a chamber of her own. The sick room was comfortable, warm, and clean, but there was no privacy, due to the constant comings and goings.

Meals were brought to her, but Laird McPhee had not come to see her again. She was grateful for everything that was being done for her. The Laird might be very good to look at, but he was still a man, and men were not to be trusted.

Moira rested as much as she could, and gradually the wound on her leg began to heal. Her only problem was boredom, since her active mind was impatient for some stimulation.

After another three days, Sandie inspected her injury and said in a satisfied tone, “Well, Mistress, ye are well on the way tae gettin’ better. This is healin’ very nicely. I will take the stitches out now.”

Moira flinched and drew in a sharp breath, but Sandie, seeing her, patted her on the shoulder and smiled at her. “There are only six stitches here, and it might hurt a wee bit, but it will only be for a wee minute. Stay as still as ye can now.”

Her tone was reassuring, and Moira swallowed nervously and closed her eyes tightly as Sandie cut the stitches with a small pair of clippers. She felt a series of sharp nips, but the pain disappeared almost at once, and she opened her eyes to see Sandie washing her wound before wrapping it securely in a clean bandage. There was no sign of any blood, just clean new skin.

“Ye will always have a scar there, Mistress,” Sandie said regretfully, “but I think everythin’ else is fine now, an’ ye should have nae more trouble.”

“Thank you.” Moira reached out to take Sandie’s hands in her own, surprised at how rough they were. Sandie obviously worked very hard. “Thank you, Sandie. You have been so good to me.”

To Moira’s surprise, Sandie blushed. “I am just daein’ my job, hen,” she said. “Nae need tae thank me.”

“You do it very well,” Moira said. “Laird McPhee is lucky to have you.”

“Ye are too kind,” Sandie protested, but she was smiling. “I love what I dae, so daein’ it well isnae too hard.”

“I wish I could do something like this,” Moira told her, somewhat bitterly. “It must be wonderful to know you are so useful.”

Sandie replied nothing, merely carried on with what she was doing for a while before looking up. She smiled at Moira. “I wish a’ my patients were like you. It’s nice tae be appreciated.”

Moira was astonished, and for the first time in a long while she felt warm inside. “Thank you,” she said, with a smile. The small compliment filled her with warmth, and she sighed with satisfaction. Could she possibly hope that her life was improving?

“Now,” Sandie said briskly. “I think we can move ye out o’ here an’ gie ye a room o’ your own because your leg has nearly healed up an’ doesnae need me tae bandage it every day. Come back if ye have any bother.”

“It sounds lovely,” Moira said gratefully. She had seen nothing but the same four walls for the last week and was seething with impatience and frustration. Now she could finally plan her escape.

Sandie was immediately called away to see to one of the stable hands, who had been injured by one of the horses. Moira washed quickly, combed her hair then looked at herself in the small cracked mirror, which was the only one she could find.

She had a fading bruise on her forehead, but the pain had gone, although she had more cuts and scratches elsewhere on her body. She looked passable, she thought, although definitely not her best!

Moira presumed that someone was coming to meet her to tell her where to go, but when she had waited for half an hour and no-one had shown up, she began to wonder if she had been forgotten. She did not know her way around the castle and her leg, although healed to a certain extent, was not yet able to bear her weight for a long period of time.

As well as that, she knew that if anyone did come to fetch her, and she was missing she would have no idea where to go, so she decided to move just a little way away from the sick room, but not so far away that she would miss anyone who was looking for her.

Moira was able to go a little way along the corridor outside the sick room, and was surprised to find herself looking out on the area where the guards were training from the window. As luck would have it, Laird McPhee was practising his martial skills with them that day.

She watched, wide-eyed, as he advanced towards one of his guards with a broadsword, admiring the way his powerful muscles flowed and bunched under his skin as he moved. The expression on his face was one of grim determination, his green eyes shadowed by his heavy dark brows. He truly was a magnificent specimen of manhood; indeed, she could not take her eyes off him.

His opponent was forced backwards by the Laird’s sheer strength and finally surrendered. After that, the two men laughed and shook hands, then moved on to other battles. Moira had always been of the opinion that men fought battles simply because they loved aggression and violence, while women did not.

However, she knew that there was a difference between this friendly rivalry and the kind of bullying to which she had been subjected her whole life. Although she was glad, she was a woman, she had often thought that she would love to try being a man for just one day so that she could have fought back against her husband and father. How she would love to have broken both their noses with a well-placed fist!

Then suddenly, as he turned, the Laird looked up and caught her eye. Their gazes held each other for a moment, as if unable to let go. For a second, Moira thought he was going to approach the window she was standing by, then he changed his mind and walked away in the opposite direction.

For some reason, Moira felt disappointed, then chided herself for feeling that way. Even if Niall McPhee cared to ask her how she was feeling, she reminded herself that he was a man, and men were never to be trusted. She dared not even think of the damage he could do to her.

She sighed and made her way back to the sick room, resigned to a long wait, but had not been there for more than a few moments when she heard the door opening. Expecting to see Sandie, she looked up and smiled, but her gaze met that of a kindly looking old man instead. He had receding grey hair and faded blue eyes, and had obviously been quite tall, but now he was a little stooped.

Moira frowned, puzzled.

“Mistress Jamieson?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes,” Moira answered. “And you are?”

“Gerald McNicholl,” he replied. “I am one of Niall’s councillors. He has invited you to stay as his guest, and has given you a bedchamber of your own. Let me show you.”

Moira’s leg was beginning to pain her again, but she obediently followed the man, who helped her climb stairs and open doors. At last, they arrived in a room that could not have been more suited to her had she designed it herself.

It was not too big, but was beautifully appointed, with a marble fireplace, silk brocade curtains and polished mahogany furniture. The bed was classically beautiful, its headboard and posts intricately carved, its mattress and pillows clad in maroon silk. Around the walls Moira could see a variety of paintings; portraits, landscapes, and still lives, all rendered with great skill.

“Does it meet with your approval?” the old man asked, smiling.

“It does,” Moira replied, smiling happily. “It’s one of the most beautiful rooms I have ever seen.”

McNicholl ushered her into a seat by the window and Moira sat down, feeling somewhat awkward as he took the chair beside her. What did he want to say to her?

“Niall told me about the beast you are running away from.” His voice was a growl. “Such creatures cannot be called men.”

Moira nodded slowly in agreement. The subject of her “betrothed” was making her deeply uncomfortable. Why did everyone want to know about him?

“What is his name?” Gerald asked. “And what did he do to you? Perhaps Laird McPhee can help you to mete out some justice to him.”

Moira almost panicked as she looked into the old man’s grey eyes. He seemed to be furious on her behalf, but then she hardly knew him. How could she know how sincere he was?

She looked down at her hands, which she had been twisting nervously in her lap. She could not make up a name for a person who did not even exist! As well as that, if she told one lie, she would have to tell more to prop that lie up, and before long she would become lost in a wilderness of them. It was best not to start on that journey.

“I would rather not talk about him,” she replied, unaware of how bitter her voice sounded. “I want to forget him and his name. I want to wipe everything about him from my memory.”

McNicholl did not pressure her to tell him any more about her non-existent fiancé.

“I understand,” he said kindly. “And how are you, lass? You have been through a very upsetting experience.”

“The healer says my injury is mending well,” Moira replied with a slight smile. “It is certainly not as painful as it was when I first came here.”

However, that did not satisfy the old man. “I was a warrior once,” he told her. “I was also wounded many times, but the worst injuries were the memories and the nightmares. Are you suffering from those?”

“No, fortunately not,” Moira lied.

In fact, she had had a very bad nightmare just the previous night, imagining that both her evil husband and the bandits were chasing her through the darkness. However, on this night there had been no moon, and her horse had put her hoof into a hole in the ground and toppled over, throwing Moira into the path of McDonnell. She had woken up in a cold sweat, screaming, before Sandie came to her aid.

Now, Moira waited for a reaction from McNicholl.

“I am glad for you,” he said with a warm smile. “But now that you are here, you are quite safe. Laird McPhee is a very fine young man. He is very firm and takes no nonsense from anyone, but he is also very fair. He will never favour one person over another, and all his men respect him for that.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Moira answered. “Have you known him for a long time?”

“All his life,” Gerald answered, “which is why I am so confident about his character.”

“That is very reassuring,” Moira remarked. “When I first saw him, I was quite alarmed. He is a very big man, and he looked so angry.”

Gerald laughed softly. “You are right, Moira,” he agreed. “He may look very fearsome, and he certainly is. When he demands something, he always gets it. He is a hard man, fit for battle, but if you want my opinion, he needs a wife to show him some love and bring out his tender side. I know he has one, although he likes to keep it hidden. His parents are dead, and his sister, Glennie, is his only close relative. She lives here in the castle, and he is very protective of her. I am sure you will meet her before too long.”

She listened to Gerald’s words with keen attention. The word “protective” struck her forcefully. Her husband had used that word to rationalise his treatment of her, saying that he was keeping her safe from the outside world—in other words, she would be too scared to run away from him. As well as that, he wanted her to know that a wife should always obey her husband, and he would not tolerate any disobedience.

“I hope so,” Moira remarked. “Sandie told me about her, and she sounds as strong as her brother. Perhaps I could learn something from her.”

Moira had been treated like a commodity by her father—sold to pay for his gambling debts, verbally and physically abused by both him and her husband. How could she trust another man not to do exactly the same thing?

“Thank you for seeing me to my chamber.” Moira stood up in a polite gesture of dismissal.

“No doubt we will see each other again,” McNicholl said, then he bowed and left.

Moira sat down again and quickly examined her leg, sighing. She was still in an extremely vulnerable position, since her dead husband’s brother was still on her trail. In this present situation, the only person she could trust was herself. McPhee might be a good man, but could she take the risk? She thought she could ride, since Sandie had done her work well and the wound was well padded. It was time to make her escape.

Sandie had given Moira a well-worn leather bag to replace the old one, which had been torn to shreds in the battle with the bandits. Now Moira stuffed her few belongings into it, being careful to fold her coin pouch and jewellery inside the dress that she had rolled up and placed right at the bottom. She looked regretfully around her comfortable new room before leaving.

The stables were on the outside of the castle, just behind the curtain wall, but it took Moira a long time to find them, particularly since she was trying to remain inconspicuous.

She reached them eventually. She looked around a little, and was surprised to see the horse she had grabbed the fateful night she fled standing in a stall, munching hay from a net on the wall.

Moira approached the horse, and the mare turned and greeted her with a whicker. “How are you, my girl?” Moira asked as she put her arms around the horse’s dappled grey neck, then stroked her velvet nose. “Thank you for helping me. I am so glad you’re safe. I wish I had brought an apple for you.”

Just then, a young man came up behind them. He was handsome in his own craggy way, tall, with a wiry build and a head of fiery red hair. As soon as he saw Moira, his deep brown eyes widened in an expression of surprise.

“Who are ye?” he asked at once, walking forward to meet her. Evidently, he thought she was about to steal the horse, which was what she was about to do, although, of course, she was not going to tell him that.

“I’m a guest of the Laird,” she replied, and smiled at him. “Who are you?”

The young man blushed. “Ritchie Young,” he answered. “The head groom.”

He looked away from her as he reached to close another one of the stall’s gates. He was obviously using this as a distraction, since Moira had been aware of his gaze travelling up and down her body as they spoke. She was used to this kind of reaction from men, however, although she had never really understood it.

“I came to visit this horse,” Moira told him. “I was attacked by bandits, and she protected me. I am so glad to see that she is well taken cared of”

“The men brought her in just after you came,” Ritchie told her. “She was a bit shaken up, but she is a’ right now, are ye no’, wee lassie?”

“You love horses,” Moira observed, smiling at him.

He nodded and patted Katie’s neck. “Aye,” he replied. “They are lovely creatures.”

Suddenly, he looked up towards the entrance to the stables, and Moira saw a tall, well-built young woman striding towards them, every line of her body taut with anger.

She looked very familiar, Moira thought, but it only took her a moment to realise why. All her features, from her tawny hair, green eyes, full lips and sculpted cheekbones, were slightly more delicate, feminine versions of Niall McPhee’s.

So this is the sister, Moira thought, intrigued. She was as beautiful as Niall was handsome, and everything about her suggested the same physical and mental strength as her brother.

Then, it occurred to Moira that any chance she had had to escape was utterly ruined. First the groom, and worse still, the mistress of the castle had seen her.