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“If ye’ve any further need of me, my lord, ye have only tae shout.”
    “Be sure I will,” Rory retorted, “but I shall wait until you are sound asleep before I do. ’Tis what you deserve for treating me as if I were still the eight-year-old lad I was when you first came to me.”
    Thomas winked. “I’ll bid ye a good nicht then, my lord.”
    “Good night, you old fraud.”
    When Thomas had gone, Rory knelt to stir up the fire, adding peat from the basket near the hearth in the hope that if it burned fiercely it would smoke less. When he stood, he saw for the first time that Thomas had put a flagon of wine and a pewter goblet on the bench in the window aperture. Picking up the flagon, he saw that it was the same excellent brandy he and Patrick had shared, and feeling much more in charity with his manservant, he filled the goblet half full. Then he opened the shutter that Thomas had closed and bolted before his arrival.
    Pale moonlight glinted along the dark waters of Loch Linnhe from a quarter moon rising at the upper end of the loch. On its west coast, the mountains of Morven rose black and solid looking, except for a single light that glowed from a cottage or house. He could hear the water below lapping at the rocky shore of the islet, and looking down, he thought of Allan Breck and wondered where the villain was just then, and what mischief he was brewing. A chilly breeze drifted into the room, its salty tang mixing with smoke that persisted in eluding the chimney.
    Breathing deeply of the fresh air, he sipped his brandy and savored the mysterious beauty of the loch. If he lived to be a hundred, he hoped such things would never fail to stir him. The Highlands were magnificent by day or by night.
    A light scratching at the door was the only warning he had before it opened. She stood on the threshold, and he knew at once that he ought to have asked Patrick to think of something other than a warming pan for her to fetch. She held the long-handled, hot-coal-filled implement like a weapon of defense, and the way her eyes glittered, he did not doubt for a moment that she was thinking of using it as one.

Three
    D IANA STOOD STILL, KNOWING the instant her gaze met Calder’s that he remembered her. She had suspected it when Patrick himself had ordered her to bring a warming pan to this chamber instead of relaying the order through someone else, but she had not dared to make excuses. Patrick had seemed amused, which meant he did not yet suspect her of helping Allan, and that meant Calder had not told him about her mother’s escape from Edinburgh Castle. It was a pity, she thought, that her scruples forbade bashing his lordship over the head with the warming pan, and that circumstances prevented her instant departure from Castle Stalker.
    The stillness grew unnerving. The warming pan felt heavy in her hands, and she jumped when a spark cracked in the fire. He seemed to fill the room, but still he did not speak. Instead, he watched her, perhaps waiting for her to say something, to condemn herself with her own tongue. He looked thoughtful but wary as his gaze flicked from her face to the warming pan and back.
    Drawing a breath to steady herself, she said with forced calm, “I didna mean tae disturb ye, my lord. The master said I was tae bring the pan and warm your bed.” The instant the words left her tongue she wished them unsaid. With heat flooding her cheeks, she added hastily, “That is, he said I were tae thrust this here warming pan beneath yon kivers … and … and—” She broke off, unnerved even more by the enigmatic glint in his eyes.
    He said quietly, “I do want my bed warmed. Shut the door.”
    She kicked it shut with her foot, shuddering at the dull thud of finality that cut off her last chance of escape. The red-gold firelight, flickering candles, and a haze of acrid smoke in the air made her fancy she had entered the devil’s realm. Licking dry lips, she turned resolutely toward the narrow,