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clouts. There are clothes that should fit you in the wardrobe here. Can you get yourself clean, dressed, and to the dining hall by seven?”
    “I am not here of my own free will. If you could spare me a modicum of hospitality, I’d appreciate it.”
    “Hospitality!” she cried. “Do ye not realize you’re alive , under the protection of my clan, eating my food, and sleeping in my bed?” Her cheeks warmed as she realized how that last phrase sounded. “On top of that, you’ve just blackmailed me. What additional hospitality should I be offering?”
    Those eyes turned gray, and she saw the tiniest flash of hurt. “Well, you could start by asking my name.”
    Oh.
    She could hear her mother’s voice. Abigail Ailich Kerr, I raised you better than that.
    “I—I beg your pardon.” Abby made an unsteady curtsy. “Today has been a mess”—she forbore naming the reasons why, since they prominently included him—“and dinner promises to offer more of the same. I am Abby Kerr of Clan Kerr.”
    “And I’m Duncan MacHarg.” He offered his hand.
    She hesitated. She had little desire to deepen their friendship. But a handshake was a greeting from a man to a man. She liked that. She took his hand. It was warm and firm—and large enough to make hers look like a small bird nesting in it.
    “Abby Kerr,” he said, the incaution in those eyes replaced by something kinder and a wee bit spellbinding. “I’ll do nothing to harm your relationship with Sir Alan. I know what it is to have a lot riding on a meeting. I may be the last person you wanted to attend tonight, but I promise you may depend on me.”
    Nora, one of the younger kitchen maids, appeared in the doorway, and Abby pulled her hand free. The girl stared at Duncan with wide eyes.
    “What is it?” Abby demanded, inexplicably flustered.
    “Mrs. Michaels needs to know what dishes ye want to serve.”
    Abby exhaled. “Whatever can be salvaged from this afternoon. Tell her to use her best judgment.”
    Nora scampered away.
    “I beg your pardon, MacHarg,” Abby said. “I am needed elsewhere—everywhere, it seems.”
    He followed her to the hall, and they nearly bumped when she stopped to give him a second curtsy. This one was made even more self-conscious by the sight of Rosston peering at them from the doorway to his room.
    “I’ll see you at seven,” Duncan said. “And I shall speak only to you.”
    “No, that’s not what I—” She stopped. She could tell by the gleam in his eyes there was nothing to be gained by trying to correct him. She slipped her still-tingling hand in her pocket and hurried to the staircase.

Six
    Duncan watched the self-assured bounce of the brown waves as she floated down the stairs. Being tall, Scottish, and reasonably good-looking, he was used to reducing women in America to tongue-tied teenagers. Abby, on the other hand, seemed entirely immune to his charms. He might as well be…well, a swineherd.
    When he finally lifted his gaze, he saw they had not been alone. Rosston stood in the arch of a doorway, partially obscured by a statue. Duncan nodded coolly, a silent acknowledgment that Rosston’s observation had not gone unnoticed, and Rosston turned and disappeared.
    So that’s how it’s to be?
    A servant dropped off a pitcher, ewer, and a roll of cotton wool as promised, and in a few moments Duncan had washed and bandaged himself. He imagined what it might have been like for Abby to do the tending instead.
    He had to assume she was the de facto chief of Clan Kerr, but what sort of woman runs a clan? The last time there were working clan chiefs of any gender in Scotland, not to mention clashes between English soldiers and Scots clansmen, George II was king. The thought made Duncan dizzy.
    How had Abby succeeded to the title? Had she no brothers? Duncan thought of the room full of aggressive, determined traders he managed, hardly more civilized than a regiment of bloody-minded clansmen. How did a lass of twenty-three or