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shaved chin, and run her hand over his shorn head, but the only thing she managed to say was, “We’ll have to get you a bonnet, lest you catch cold.”

RESTLESS NIGHTS

    Braden retrieved the tray of food Lady Charlotte had told him would be left outside the door of his chamber. She’d departed rather hastily several hours ago, mayhap in search of the bonnet she wanted him to wear. A bonnet! Hopefully it meant something different now than it did when he was alive.
    Fool, you’re still alive.
    The food looked and smelled delicious. Cold roast chicken with white fluffy stuff and several kinds of root vegetables, served on a fine pewter plate. He wasn’t sure how to use the silver tools, so he picked up one of the chicken legs and bit into it. He scooped up a dollop of the white mush on the end of his finger and licked. Too bland for his taste. He’d have preferred a serving of kale and a bowl of oats. The two silver containers with wee holes in the top intrigued him until he tipped one upside down and suddenly had salt on his chicken. He brushed it off with the linen napkin.
    He ought to be relishing the feast. He hadn’t eaten decent food for some time. But a worry gnawed at him, stealing away his appetite.
    Who was Lady Charlotte and why was she doing this for him? It was evident she didn’t want his presence generally known. One minute she was aloof, cold and decisive; the next she trembled, stammered and blushed.
    He pushed aside the half eaten meal. Mayhap if he got hungry during the night he’d finish it off. He sniffed the glass of amber liquid that had things floating in it, but the smell of aniseed put him off. However, he drained the tankard of ale which went down smoothly, and the sliver of rich creamy cheese was tasty.
    A long nightshirt had been laid out on the bed, but indoors he preferred to sleep naked. He stripped off his new garments and folded them neatly, chuckling at the thought of his mother’s surprised delight. His experience in the hell-hole had given him a new appreciation for clothes, and the shirt and leggings Charlotte had provided were of better quality than anything he’d ever worn. Trews , she’d called them. They were a mite uncomfortable in the groin but that was probably because of the shearing.
    He padded his way to the garderobe, frowning at the hairless body that stared back from the highly polished mirror. Daniel’s ministrations had been thorough, if embarrassing, but Braden had to admit he felt better. And the hair would grow back, hopefully faster in some places than in others.
    He took care of his needs then pulled back the linens on the bed and eased between the sheets. It was like lying inside a silken purse. A man might enjoy some serious lovemaking in such a bed—with a refined woman like Charlotte. She certainly aroused him. Crivvens ! What she did to him was more than arousing. He was so smitten he turned into a babbling yokel whenever he spoke to her. Cooties indeed! His Da would have boxed his ears!
    He blew out the candle, then clasped his hands behind his head. Far off sounds of the castle came to him, voices, horses, pots, pans, footsteps. He thought of the men still languishing below in the hell-hole. He was a fool if he believed Charlotte would be interested in a lost soul who couldn’t explain what he was doing at Inbhir Nis three centuries after he’d been born.
    George Robertson had commended him to his chief at Dunalastair. When Lady Charlotte sent him on his way, he’d seek out the place. Perhaps there was a chance to learn more of what had become of Margaret’s betrothal to Robert Stewart. If she’d married a regicide it was likely she’d been executed with him. His gut clenched at the prospect of his fun-loving tomboy sister dying a gruesome death.
    Mayhap the Ogilvies were cursed.
    ~~~
    Charlotte teetered in front of the door of Braden Ogilvie’s chamber. She was a wreck, kept awake by erotic dreams of lying naked with the blonde Highlander