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onto her knees, assured that it was now safe. This was her chance to escape to Spedlin and rescue Stivin, because a lock of her hair wasn’t going to do the job. If the Johnstone brothers would just refrain from tossing her over their shoulders and into pits long enough to actually hear—
    “The laird said ta help wi’ yer bath.” A sullen voice broke into her thoughts.
    Amber started, her gaze flicking to the arched doorway to see a robust woman of about two score years standing there. A halo of red-orange frizz escaped the braid draped across her shoulder to frame a rounded, ruddy face. Too late, Amber realised that she’d never heard the outer door squeak closed.
    The idea of bathing was fairy dust to her weary body and battered spirit, and almost worth postponing her escape for, but Amber wasn’t smiling yet. At Spedlin, a bath was a wooden barrel sectioned off by a thin sheet strung across a kitchen corner. She’d tried it once, and that was once too many. The only baths she’d since enjoyed were courtesy of the frigid stream or a quick rub down in her chamber.
    Muttering, “I’ve nae the time ta sit abou’ repeatin’ myself aw day,” the woman shook her head and disappeared from sight.
    Amber threw off the covers and slid from the bed. She peeked behind the bear fur, but found only a series of arrow slits in the stone wall that were too narrow to squeeze through. The bed itself was pushed up against an oak door and, though she held little hope, Amber tested the knob. It turned, but the door was either locked or jammed. The only way out, it seemed, was through the archway.
    The adjacent chamber was a living area. Two padded stools were arranged around a chess table. A set of chairs with wide seats, carved backs and sturdy arms graced the hearth. There was another table for more general use, tapestries on the walls and woven rugs to walk upon.
    When Amber’s gaze reached the far wall, she found what she was looking for. An opening as large as a door led to a stone rampart that could only be part of the battlement wall. The large tapestry usually covering it had been looped up by two hooks on either side, allowing the dwindling daylight in.
    The round-faced serving woman was on her knees with her back to the room, sorting through items on a low shelf. Amber would have to wait, and was more than happy to take that bath while doing so.
    She walked deeper into the room, saw a large chest against one wall and a good-sized metal tub tucked away in an alcove. The air above the tub shimmered from the rising heat. A lightness stole over her mood at the prospect of a decent hot bath and imminent freedom.
    The woman came back with a length of Johnstone plaid and a small vial that released the aroma of sun-kissed roses when a few drops were added to the bath water.
    Amber smiled with delight, and the woman’s scowl deepened. Shrugging a shoulder, Amber removed her shift and stepped into the tub. Pleasure cascaded over her skin as she slipped low into the warm, fragrant water.
    Turning a friendly grin to where the woman stood with crossed arms, Amber asked, “What is your name?”
    Muddy brown eyes gave her a long, sour look. “Isla.”
    “Do I know you?” Amber said, wondering what she’d done to earn the obvious disfavour. “Do you know me?”
    “I ken ye fer a Jardin.”
    Amber raised an eyebrow, waiting for more, but apparently the explanation was complete. She’d assumed the feuds and hate to be a singularly male pastime, as was the case in Cornwall, where women were insulated from the realities of war and seldom, if ever, came face to face with the enemy. A silly assumption, she acknowledged, considering her current hostage status.
    Her fingers trailed drops of water over her thighs and abdomen as she mused on the ridiculous notion of an English lady being held captive by a close neighbour. But then again, neither could she entertain the picture of any gentleman she’d grown up with executing a raid—on