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learned to shoot a bow and arrow with such deadly efficiency. He also enquired about her mother, who had died from a sudden fever when she was a girl. Logan was sympathetic and understanding when she described how the loss had affected her.
    Throughout all of this, Darach offered nothing to the conversation. He sat across the fire, staring at Larena through the flames, listening to every word spoken, watching her interactions with his brother with what appeared to be extreme aversion.
    When it was time to let the fire go out and get some rest, Logan stood up and offered his hand to help her rise from her seat. “If you find it chilly, lass, you can have my bedroll in addition to your own. I have my tartan to keep me warm.”
    “That’s very generous of you, Logan, but I’m sure I’ll be warm enough.”
    He escorted her to her bedroll and knelt beside her. “Do not worry about a thing, lass. We’ll stay close and keep watch.”
    “Thank you,” she replied. “You’ve been very good to me, Logan.”
    He rose to his feet and left their small camp.
    Larena lay down and tried to go to sleep, but it wasn’t easy with Darach sitting broodily on the other side of the fire, watching her with what appeared to be suspicion and displeasure. He raised the whisky flask to his lips and sipped it, never taking his eyes off her while Logan whistled a tune at the water’s edge.
    Tension seemed to grow thick as muck, causing Larena’s heart to pound. Feeling a sudden concern for her own welfare during the night—and that of her father’s—she glanced around at all the saddle packs and finally spotted her own. Trying not to arouse too much attention, she stood up and moved to fetch the pack that contained the King’s pardon. Carrying it back to her bedroll, she lay down and slid it under her head like a pillow.
    Before she closed her eyes, she met Darach’s looming gaze and felt a shiver of apprehension in her bones. “Why are you staring at me like that?” she boldly asked. “I don’t like it.”
    “There’s not much else to look at,” he coolly replied.
    She let out a frustrated breath and labored to fall asleep to the eerily cheerful sound of Logan’s whistling.
    * * *
    She wasn’t sure what woke her. It couldn’t have been more than an hour after she’d drifted off, for what was left of the fire was still glowing red-hot on a bed of ash. She stared at the pulsing cinders in a groggy state of bewilderment.
    Was she dreaming? No, sadly not. She remembered everything—the attack on the road, the gunfire, Rupert galloping off, and the violent, painful tumble down the hill to the creek bed below. She pressed two fingers to her temples, wishing all of it was naught but a bad dream. If only she could go back to the life she had known a fortnight ago, before any of this had begun.
    It was impossible, of course. She had no choice but to accept the current situation, and travel through valleys and forests with two MacDonald clansmen who might or might not be worthy of her trust. She had yet to learn the answer to that.
    Leaning up on one elbow, she rubbed her eyes and was surprised to see two empty bedrolls around the fire and no sign of either Darach or Logan.
    Had her worst fears been realized? Had they abandoned her already and stolen her father’s pardon?
    With a rush of panic, she checked the pack she’d been resting her head upon and found the document inside. She was relieved also to spot Rupert and the other two horses tethered to a nearby tree. But where were the Highlanders?
    Rupert nickered softly in the night. Then she heard it—the sound of voices in the distance, speaking in hushed, heated tones. Larena tossed the coverlet aside and crawled around the fire to look further down the beach.
    There, she recognized the shadowy figures of Darach and Logan, standing at the water’s edge under the ghostly glow of the moon. Logan was gesturing wildly with his hands, as if he were angry about something, though he