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passion. She’d listened to poems that spoke of that sort of thing, and never truly believed a person might see such a thing in another, but she had. But that was where her comparison between sweet, rhyming couplets and Quinton Cameron ended.
    The man was no gallant knight, full of honor and chivalry. He was a Highlander, solid and sturdy. He’d do whatever it took to achieve his goal, and the man was very much at home in the wilds of upper Scotland. In fact, he thrived in the remote places that the English feared and even the Roman legion had failed to conquer.
    Deirdre cast her gaze about, peering into the darker shadows as she tried to decide if there was anyone hiding in them.
    “Hurry,” she whispered, but there was no masking the urgency in her tone.
    “Yes… we shall.”
    The queen tripped when she took her first step, because she forgot to lift her hem. She stumbled and snapped a stick lying on the ground. The pop of the wood made Deirdre flinch, for it sounded too loud compared to the quiet of the night. Her ears were straining to hear even the most distant rumble of horses. Her own breathing sounded harsh, while her heart was thumping too hard.
    Deirdre drew in a slow breath to steady herself. She led the others forward, then sighed when they reached the first trees. It felt as good as entering the kitchen after being outside during the dead of winter. The dark branches with their newly grown leaves were as welcoming as a mother’s arms. She pushed her way deeper into their comforting shelter, still listening to every sound in dread.
    The faintest whispers touched her ears. Deirdre froze and bent her knees to lower herself to the forest floor. The night wind slapped the leaves against one another, but it also carried the unmistakable sound of human conversation.
    The queen held her tongue for once, and Deirdre turned to discover the woman sealing her lips with one of her hands pressed tightly over her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear as she hunched down behind her.
    It was a wonder the woman had not been captured. She had determination, but little skill when it came to crossing the land. Deirdre eased forward, watching the ground to keep from placing her feet on fallen branches that would be brittle. They moved closer, and the sounds continued, becoming clearer.
    “There are my men.” Joan stood up straight. “I know their voices well.”
    Deirdre reached up and pulled the queen back down with a sharp tug. “Yer grace, those seeking ye would nae bother yer men if ye were no’ among them but instead sit back and wait to see if ye appeared.”
    “Oh God. You are correct.” Joan stifled a whimper with her hand. “I am ignorant of how men hunt other men.”
    Deirdre was not trained in the art of warfare either, but she had listened to a great deal of boasting by the fireside. She doubted such conversation was common at court, though.
    “Do nae fear until we have a reason to. The Camerons rode out quickly when their search of the abbey failed to discover ye hiding there,” Deirdre instructed her. “If we frighten ourselves into whimpering like children, it is certain we shall be captured.”
    “Wise words, Deirdre Chattan.” Joan leaned close so her words did not drift. “Are you sure your father didn’t think you a son? You seem to have the knowledge of a Highlander.”
    “I was raised as a woman. I assure ye, madam.” Deirdre smiled as she considered the nights in the great hall of Chattan Castle with her father’s retainers all talking over their mugs of ale. “Men talk while the ale flows, and they seem to forget we women are the ones serving their tables.”
    The queen snorted. “It is the same at court. Those arrogant lords all think to keep us in our place by insisting we serve their fine suppers, but they never stop to consider what is falling from their lips while we shuffle so meekly behind their tables. I wonder why they believe we are struck with deafness whenever it will suit