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hundred, although Jamie was definitely feeling no pain when he quit the train at Inverness.
    Davey Ross was waiting on the platform, his cap in hand, a broad smile on his face. “Mornin’, sair. You look mighty happy.”
    “Damn right. I’m escaping civilization—and I use the word loosely.”
    “You’ve come to the right place, sair. The ends o’ the earth we are. This way, sair,” he said, leading him toward the stables. “Yer flask is in yer saddlebags and a change of clothes if ye like.” This wasn’t the first time Jamie had come north from some woman’s bed. “Our sour mash turned out damned near perfect this season if I do say so meself.”
    “Excellent. Perfect whiskey, comfortable clothes, and your fine company. Surely the gods are in the heavens.”
    “Don’t know aboot that, sair. But the coverts and the salmon are prime this year. Along with that devil of a horse you like. He knew ye were acomin’ afor we did. He’s been right frisky of late.” He lifted his hand in the direction of the large black snorting and pawing the ground. “As ye can see.”
    “Hello, Athol laddie,” Jamie softly said as he came up to him and gently stroked the stallion’s powerful neck. He briefly rested his forehead against the soft coat and inhaled before raising his head and smiling widely. “Ah—the smell of heather. Now I know I’m home. Hey, hey,” he said as Athol nuzzled him. “You think I brought you something?” Pushing the horse’s nose away, he slipped his hand in his pocket, withdrew some sugar lumps he’d obtained from the bartender on the train, and held them out on his open palm.
    “That there brute squealed like he caught the scent of a filly in heat when I saddled up my mount. He weren’t about to be left behind.”
    Jamie had raised Athol from a colt. “We’re friends,” Jamie murmured, “aren’t we, laddie?”
    As if he understood, Athol lifted his head and softly snorted.
    “There, you see?” Rubbing the stallion’s ear, he grinned at Davey. When the thoroughbred was finished eating, Jamie wiped his palm on his pants, unbuckled his saddlebag, and extracted his worn flask. Drinking a long draught, he handed it to Davey, undressed in the stable yard, and soon was wearing his Highland uniform: buckskin pants, riding boots, a homespun shirt, and a jacket made from his family’s hunting plaid. “There now. I feel whole again,” he said with a smile, taking back his flask and shoving it in his pocket.
    “Ye’ll feel even better, sair, once you get a good night’s sleep. Ye’re a wee peeked, sair, from a tad too much o’ civilization—eh?”
    “A tad too much of everything, Davey,” Jamie said, swinging smoothly into the saddle and nudging his mount into a turn. “I’m looking forward to a good long rustication.”
    The two men rode slowly through town. Once into the open country, Jamie set Athol into a canter, a pace their mounts could sustain for the hours necessary to reach the hunting lodge. Travelers didn’t as a rule brave the high mountain trails, but then none of them had Davey Ross for a guide, nor bloodstock that could navigate the treacherous paths with sure-footed competence. Although the owner of Blackwood Glen could have found his way to his hunting lodge blindfolded and drunk as a lord.
    The latter very much the case that morning.
     
     
    A S THE SUN rose high in the sky over the spring green hills of the Highlands and the two riders had finally entered Blackwood land, events were unfolding halfway around the world that would seriously impact Prince Ernst. By extension, Jamie. And more extraordinarily, Sofia Eastleigh.
    Earlier that day, Rupert, Ernst’s heir, along with a small party from Vienna, had been feted with all the pomp and circumstance of the Nizam of Mysore’s opulent court. The Europeans had been splendidly entertained with sport commensurate to their rank and particular to India—a tiger shoot.
    Before dawn, Rupert and his companions had