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like a bit of iron drawn to a lodestone. He had shown kindness toward her and her father, but she needed to remain wary. He was a guest in Musgrave's castle and a comrade in some English scheme.
    "Why do you support Musgrave's plan?" she asked.
    "Should I not?" He pulled the placket close over her breasts as he fastened the buttons. Subtle sensations went through her as his hands moved down. Just the warm woolen doublet, she told herself.
    "I have heard stories of your father," she said, though her breath was curiously affected by his moving hands. "I have heard ballads about his deeds—the Rogue o' Rookhope."
    "Aye," he said gruffly, concentrating on a button.
    "Allan Scott was a bold reiver, they say. Yet no matter what trouble he stirred, he never took from Scots, only English."
    "I know my father's history. What is your point?"
    "I wonder how the son of such a man can take up with the English in some black scheme."
    "Since neither of us knows the full scheme, we cannot judge if it be black or white."
    "Jasper Musgrave would do naught but wickedness. What did you agree to?"
    "That," he said, sliding his hands downward, "is none of your concern." He drew the doublet together over the juncture of her thighs. The bloom of feeling in her lower body was so strong and immediate that she nearly leaped back.
    "It is my concern," she insisted, "if it affects Da and me."
    "It affects neither of you if you heed me and get away from here quick as you can." He got to his feet, looking down at her like some mythic warrior, hands resting on his hips, shirt loose over his chest, legs widespread and powerful in long, gleaming leather boots and black breeches.
    "Musgrave has full right to arrest you and Archie," he said. "The Scottish council would not protest if he executed you both. The lives of a petty reiver and a gypsy are minor to some."
    "'Twould be more honorable to hang," she snapped, "than to side with you and Musgrave."
    "Perhaps so. But you have little choice."
    "You had a choice!"
    "I did," he murmured. "I did indeed." He held out a hand to her, palm outspread, to help her stand.
    She looked at his wide palm and touched a fingertip to the long line that sloped across its center. "Your hand says you have a keen mind." She peered closer in the low light. "These lines say you are strong in many ways—in will, in heart, in body. So I why do you take up with a naughty man like Jasper Musgrave?"
    He closed his hand. "What nonsense is this, Gypsy?" he asked softly. "I gave you no leave, nor coin, to read my fortune in my hand."
    "Consider it payment for your good advice."
    He huffed. "See that you take that good advice on the morrow." Then he turned and left the dungeon.
    Her father snored and the guards murmured in the corridor outside. Tamsin sighed and leaned her head against the wall. She closed her eyes, but could not still her thoughts and emotions.
    William Scott lingered in her thoughts—his face, his voice, his touch, and his kindness, all of it stayed with her, especially the moment when he had sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists. The cut on her wrist was small, but its importance was great.
    William Scott—Rookhope—had touched his skin to hers, mingled his blood with hers, though inadvertently. He had not know what he had done, but she knew. The Romany custom of sharing cuts and crossing blood, shared with a vow, made a marriage. She had witnessed the ceremony many times in the gypsy camps. Archie had married her mother that way, she knew.
    But to have it happen spontaneously was puzzling. She did not know what it meant. Her father and her grandparents, had they witnessed the incident, would regard it as significant, a marriage made by the hand of fate. A special union.
    Even if a marriage bond had been made between her and William Scott, she must keep her silence. Yet it was ironic—she never thought to marry. Her father and her grandfather had searched for a husband for her among Scotsmen and Romany. But