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Rowlly immediately recognized the name, and he spit on the ground as any good Macnachtan would. “I thought they had only males.”
    “They did, until she was born.” Heath stepped forward.
    In London, they called her the Unattainable and she was rumored to be worth three times her weight in gold.
    He’d seen her once in the city. She’d been followed by a flock of male admirers who trailed in her wake like lap dogs. The crowds on the street craned their necks for a better look as if she were the queen herself.
    Heath had been struck by the blueness of her eyes and the perfection of her figure. Hers was a face no man could ever forget. They fought over her, they begged for her favors, they worshipped her—and yet they said her heart had never been claimed.
    That day, almost five years ago, Heath had gazed upon her and told his fellow officers he had the feeling that one day their paths would cross again. They had assured him he was deluding himself. A beauty of that caliber would not waste herself upon a Scot, especially a Highlander. They’d enjoyed much sport over his infatuation.
    But Heath’s belief had not been so outlandish. She was a Chattan; he a Macnachtan. Their histories were entwined by legend.
    And now she was dead and here in his wood.
    So young, so lovely . . . and without a mark on her.
    The other bodies were battered almost beyond recognition. Her skin was clear and pink—and then he realized the truth.
    She was alive. She had survived.

Chapter Three
    M argaret feared she would not wake up. She struggled to bring herself out of the darkness, but her eyes refused to open.
    It was the smell of baking bread that finally alerted her senses.
    She had slept hard and well. The bed was comfortable, the sheets fresh. But the time had come to leave this place.
    The time had come to wake.
    She struggled for consciousness . . .
    M argaret opened her eyes.
    The light was blinding and she quickly closed them again. Her lungs hurt. She had to pull deep to gain a decent breath and her arms and legs felt as if they were weighed down with lead.
    Someone gasped, the sound close at hand, followed by footsteps. A door opened.
    “She’s awake ,” a girl’s voice exclaimed with the lilt of a Scots accent. She sounded very young. “Miss Anice, Miss Laren, my lady, she’s awake.”
    Panic forced Margaret to lie very still. She did not recognize the names.
    Where was she?
    And then the memories came.
    Her mind was remarkably clear. Only moments ago, she and Smith had been tossed around the coach like dice being shaken in a cup. She had been thrown into the air and landed on rock—
    Margaret remembered the pain. She recalled lying in the mud and snow, her body broken.
    And Smith was dead.
    What of the others?
    “When did she wake?” a woman’s voice came from the hall.
    “Just this moment,” the girl reported. “I sat there, as you told me to, and her eyes opened.”
    More Scottish voices, their accents musical—and Margaret became aware of why she was in Scotland.
    In her mind, the accident had happened only moments ago. She could still smell the blood, the fear, the scents of wet wool and rotting winter leaves. She could see the bodies, the death.
    But she was far away from that right now.
    She wasn’t even wearing the same clothes.
    They entered the room and she sensed their presences as they approached the bed. She could open her eyes, and she would, once she knew she was safe.
    “She’s not awake,” a woman’s disappointed voice said.
    The girl spoke. “I saw her open her eyes. Just this moment.”
    A woman’s voice from the other side of the bed said, “I’m certain you did, Cora. Remember what Mr. Hawson said, Anice. Patients in a coma can give the appearance of rousing. Perhaps she isn’t ready.”
    The one called Anice said, “Why do you suppose Lady Margaret Chattan is here, Laren? It’s so far from London, from anything that would interest her.”
    They knew who she was. But who were