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and ran into the shadows.
    Connor glanced at the girl. Under her long, lightweight dark cloak, her satin gown was the color of bright embers. With her blond hair slipping loose about her face and shoulders, she glowed in the mist and moonlight like a fairy queen.
    For a moment he wished that he could make her happy as his bride. He was not off to a good start.
    But life’s recent lessons had taught him that he was not destined for happiness, beyond what scraps he could claim for himself—his music, his books, a few peaceful hours now and then for dreaming of a future that might never be.
    Broken man, laird, unrepentant Jacobite, and dedicated cattle thief, Connor had become a dark legend in these hills. Once he would have been a suitablehusband for the sister of a clan chief. He had been rightful heir to a fine holding, the son of a viscount, educated in France.
    In the last three years he had seen his father arrested and taken to his execution, had lost his home and his mother, had seen the inside of a jail cell himself. He had looked through the loop of a noose straight into the face of death.
    As for home and family, as for love—aye, he wanted that. Always had, and always would. How long would Kate MacCarran stay with him, he wondered, once she learned about her husband’s role in her brother’s troubles—and perhaps in his death? She would hate him for it, Connor thought. Either way, she would not care to play Lady Kinnoull to his landless Lord Kinnoull.
    Well, he would do his best to keep her safe for a little while, and guard her from whatever threat Duncrieff had perceived. He would keep her long enough to fulfill his promise. That would have to be enough. A lifetime of contentment and love was a daft expectation.
    And this night’s work was not going to net that dream for him.

Chapter 4
    H olding the rope taut to assist the girl, Connor led her over the crest of another hill. The route was rough with rock, exposed to wind, and so steep in places that they had to follow the shoulders of the slopes. But it was the safest track, for he knew that no one would pursue them here.
    The girl struggled behind him, so uncomplaining that he had to admire her spirit. He had removed her gag, worried that it compromised her breathing. Since then she had stayed quiet. No doubt she had little air to expend on words.
    Frankly, he was concerned for her. “How are you faring?” he asked, stopping to allow her a chance to catch her breath.
    She shot him a sour glance. “I’m on my feet and following along—what more do you expect?”
    “Well, you sicked up earlier,” he said. “I’m not heartless, though I know you may think it.”
    “I do think it,” she retorted.
    Connor grunted in wordless reply and turned, tugging on the rope to lead her along.
    The mist had nearly dissipated here, though it filled the glen below. Overhead, the moon drifted in and out of clouds. There would be rain soon, Connor thought, glancing up.
    He turned and walked backward for a bit to guard her progress, going slowly to set a comfortable pace for her sake.
    She looked like a Renaissance angel in that fancy gear, he thought, the dark cloak fanning like wings, that red-gold gown with its snug bodice and billowy skirts shining like flame. The silver chain and pendant at her throat sparked like a star.
    She was delicately made, her shoulders, arms, and hands slim and pale, her feet small in a pair of pointed shoes that must be beastly uncomfortable. Soft flaxen curls haloed her head and slipped down to frame her face with its perfectly shaped features, her beautiful eyes, the exquisite swell of her lips, the lovely but stubborn line of her chin.
    He had not expected Katherine MacCarran to be a beauty.
    Well, he had simply not thought about it. Having never met her in person, he had seen her from a distance and thought her bonny. But he had avoided encounters with her to safeguard his involvement, and hers, in Jacobite activities. He remembered