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bottom lip.
    Caden nearly groaned watching those lips, so soft, so perfectly formed.
    “Aye.” His gaze moved from her lips back to her lash-framed eyes. “We have set a bargain. Donald, make certain a tent is set up for Lady Boswell so that she may dress and sleep.”
    Donald hurtled away from them.
    “And Donald, not a word to the men yet. I will tell them about our guest.”
    “You may call me Meg,” she said. “I don’t hold tightly to formalities and we have a long way to go.”
    Caden watched her pull the blanket up to cover the bare shoulder and frowned. “Get some sleep. We leave England at dawn.” He turned on his heel, dismissing her. The wave of lust, however, was harder to ignore.
    Was she frowning at his rude departure, her lovely eyes glaring at his back? Meg Boswell was certainly no fainting flower. She had spirit and courage. She was most definitely glaring.
    Caden let out a long breath. They’d be back on Scottish soil on the morrow. Why, then, did he welcome an excuse to slice someone through?
    Ewan jogged to keep up with Caden’s long strides across the camp.
    Caden stopped and turned to him. “Alert the men that we leave at dawn for home. Make sure they understand that Meg ,” he said, stressing the name she bade him use, “is our guest.”
    “Are you going to tell her—?”
    “Not until I have to.” Caden walked purposely toward the cold stream. Perhaps another icy swim would remind his body about his goal. He slapped a low branch out of the way as he strode into the darkness of the trees, tearing the green limb from the trunk of a slender birch. He should be celebrating, not scowling. After all, he had completed his mission on his very first day in England. He had captured Meg Boswell, and she didn’t even know it.

Chapter Three
    27 July 1517 – Garlic: strong odor, green stalk that flowers white or pink in early summer, white bulb hides underground. Search among the rocks near the mountains of the north. Lorg an lus seo ann an uamh, an fuar uamh le moran na frith-rathaidean agus an blath cridhe anns am meadhon.
    Prevents wounds from oozing. Relieves breathing ailments. Helps stomach pains. Raw juice or boiled for half a day mixed with clean water should be drunk to expel the evilness from the body, although its stench drives away all but family.
    Meg spent the first two hours of the next morning checking behind her, but no one raced after them. The Macbains rode two across with a scout up ahead, Meg in the middle. They traveled so slow, too slow for her. Her journey would be faster if she progressed alone, though who knows where she’d end up? Lord, give me patience.
    She sighed and pulled her mother’s journal out and opened it across her lap. Balancing in Pippen’s familiar sway, she thumbed through the sections of her mother’s notes. After all these years, she knew the words by heart. The more she learned from Aunt Mary about the art of healing with plants, the more she realized that some of her mother’s notes were not quite correct, even though her mother was considered a miraculous healer.
    They stopped for a midday meal of honey cured meat and cold bannocks. Meg checked on Hugh and changed the dressing on his stump. He was still weak from blood loss and had been riding with another soldier.
    Donald Black sat next to her, by a tree.
    “You make a fine lady’s maid,” she said in Gaelic, and smiled at Donald, who handed her a skin filled with water.
    Instead of smiling, he seemed confused.
    “Or perhaps you are my guard,” she teased.
    Donald choked and she patted him hard on the back. Her sensitive touch told her that his heart rate had sped up. Perhaps she’d embarrassed him by naming him her maid.
    “Milady?”
    “No milady, just Meg,” she chided. “I am sorry, Donald. I was only teasing.” She indicated the water and food he’d brought. “You seem to have been stuck with the task of making sure I don’t starve or wander off. I don’t mean to be a