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they never let her forget it. She was married the first time at fifteen to a man nearly four times her age. The second to a husband who was murdered. The third she never spoke of. And the last, Flora’s father, was another much older man. Finally, on his death, Janet was too old to have children, and for the first time in her life she was free. But it was already too late.
    The damage had been done.
    Flora straightened her back and turned away from the beautiful vistas. “I prefer the city to the wilds.” Like the others of his ilk, this Highland warrior had abducted her for his own ends. With no care to the plans he’d upset. “And the company of gentlemen to barbarians.”
    His face hardened, and he took a dangerous step toward her. “Like the gentleman who left you without a backward glance?”
    She flinched. Flora was more hurt by Lord Murray’s abandonment than she wanted to admit. “I’m sure he only thought to get help.”
    “He only thought to save his foul hide.”
    “I’m sure you’re wrong.” She didn’t know why she was defending Lord Murray. Her pride stung. Both that she’d been wrong about him and at how quickly he’d left her. The Highlander might have opened her eyes, but she wouldn’t thank him for doing so. What woman wanted to be publicly humiliated by the man who was supposed to be her husband? Who was supposed to care for her, but had so little regard for her that he would leave her to the company of brigands?
    But they weren’t brigands. They were Macleans. She hoped there was a difference.
    He reached down and took her chin in his hand. Holding firm when she tried to jerk away. His eyes were truly remarkable. A crisp and vivid blue.
    “Don’t count on a rescue, my sweet. Not from him. He’s not likely to run back to Edinburgh shouting to the rooftops of a failed elopement—or of his own lack of honor.” He dropped her chin. “If you are done with the flagon, I have need of it.” She handed it to him. “We will be leaving soon. Be ready when I call.” He turned and walked away, leaving her feeling strangely unsettled. A feeling she was becoming used to when he was around.
    She watched him return to his men, continuing on toward the edge of the loch. Her pulse jumped. Though it seemed an odd time for a swim, he quickly removed his plaid, leather jerkin, and boots and waded into the water.
    She couldn’t look away. He was a striking man. Not just handsome, but blatantly masculine. His features seemed forged of iron, strong and hard. His damp shirt molded against an impressive array of stomach muscles. In his shirt and leather trews, she realized that he was less bulky than she’d initially thought. Muscular and broad-shouldered, but honed tight as a bow. It somehow made him seem more dangerous.
    She gasped. Even from here she could see the enormous dark red stain that covered his shirt from under his arm to his waist. He winced as he used the water to loosen the cloth, pulling it away from his skin. She realized what he was doing. Cleaning the wound where she’d stabbed him.
    She bit her lip. It must hurt something horrible, but he barely reacted. She turned away, refusing to feel guilty, and found another rock to sit on—this one she made sure was not part of a circle. She sat down and waited.
    Her gaze slid to his men. They’d finished tending the horses and had started to build a fire. From the looks of it, a very hot fire.
    She frowned, perplexed by the odd behavior.
    Her abductor emerged from the loch and sat on the bank, pulling on his boots. The man who looked like a Viking—Allan, she’d heard him called—handed him the flagon. Her abductor grabbed it with a nod and took a long swig. Handing it back to the Viking, he said something that seemed to cause a minor disagreement.
    Her heart pounded as if she almost guessed what it was about. He lifted his shirt.
    No.
    He turned to look at her, as if she’d said it out loud, as the Viking poured from the flagon onto