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chief.”
    “Are you betrothed? Is that why you wore his bracelet?”
    “Aye. He called the bracelet a betrothal gift, and the priest was to come this morn
     to witness—”
    “Then you are not truly betrothed.” A flicker of something—relief?—crossed his features.
     “I see no reason to return you.”
    The ruin her mother’s beloved Abbotsford would become if she did not wed MacDougall
     taunted her. “But…I-I love him.”
    At that, her captor leaned indolently against the wall and scoffed in disbelief.
    “Love is a word men bandy about to coax hesitant wenches into their beds.”
    “’Tis not so,” she protested, eyes wide. “Mistrals sing prettily of love—”
    “To entertain,” he cut in.
    “Chivalrous knights fight to protect their loves.”
    “Think you men need an excuse to make war?” He raised a challenging brow.
    His tone called her foolish and naïve, and it raised her hackles.
    “You must return me. My home—”
    “Will still be standing when I am through with you.”
    “But its people—”
    “Will not suffer in your absence.”
    “Stop interrupting me, you…you varlet. My people will suffer greatly in my absence!”
    He grunted, neither his face nor voice showing concern as he stood again. “What did
     you seek from this match?”
    “You refuse to listen to me, so I’ve naught to say.” She crossed her arms over her
     chest.
    “Would you have me believe this is a love match?” he said, disbelief heavy in his
     voice. “Is it MacDougall’s fat coffers that attract you most? Is that love to you?”
    She glared at him. “Of course not. ’Tis more.”
    “But you do not deny that you sought his funds.”
    “Nay, but I think him a fine man.”
    “Fine?” he grunted bitterly.
    “He is, you fiend!” This knave would never convince her to think ill of the man she
     planned to wed.
    “Thick-witted wench,” he grumbled.
    She raised her chin, refusing to heed his insults, his contempt. “You know me not.”
    “What little I know is enough,” he spat. “Though why a wily wench like you should
     wish to wed a scoundrel like Murdoch befuddles me.”
    He peered at Averyl, as if she were a puzzle he sought to solve. But she would not
     explain her dream of a caring husband, of a life filled with joy and love absent since
     her mother’s death, to him. He would only mock her further.
    “Do you believe yourself so unworthy that you cannot fathom a better man would want
     to wed you?” he asked.
    Shock zipped through Averyl at his intimate knowledge of her fears. “How…how did you
     know?”
    She did not realize she had blurted out her question until he answered. “I know much,
     my lady.”
    He’d invaded her life, storming her very soul as he had Dunollie’s defenses. She turned
     a burning glare on him. Fury assailed her. “God’s blood, what do you want with me?”
    “Tell me precisely what you seek from this betrothal.” The flickering firelight revealed
     the determined heat in his fathomless, black-fringed eyes.
    “It is my duty to marry as my father sees fit.”
    He shot her a suspicious stare. “Though you may possess many virtues, you’ve not shown
     me much obedience.”
    She resisted an urge to run across the room and kick him. “Why should I not wed a
     wealthy man with enough soldiers to protect my crumbling keep? I want a husband and
     children and money in our coffers. I refuse to wonder any longer if my home will fall
     about my feet and our vassals will starve come winter.”
    “Your conditions are harsh?” His voice reflected the same surprise evident in his
     frown.
    “Entire families die each year we cannot feed them.”
    He paused, seeming to weigh her answer, and raked a hand through his dark hair. Finally,
     something seemed to penetrate his armor of arrogance.
    “Could you not find another husband to provide all you require?”
    “Not anyone wealthy enough to overlook our impoverishment.” Or blind enough to overlook my