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forget the smooth, sensual lips, the proud nose with the aristocratic slant, the hair as black as the devil's own heart, and those eyes that missed nothing. And when he walked from her bedside to the door, she could almost hear music playing, for he moved with such a graceful, sensual ease that it made her want to call him back.         
    But she could not call him back, for it would do no good. He was an honorable man, a leader who would never trust her, because he did not believe her lies. She wished that she could take back everything she had said and start over. Would that she could simply tell him the truth— but she knew she could not. No, not yet, for she had no way of knowing where his loyalties lay.
    If he were loyal to the crown he would turn her over to the English in a heartbeat. If he was a Jacobite, and a follower of the man they called Bonnie Prince Charlie, he would turn her over to the French. Either way, she would lose, for either of these choices would soon land her in the Duke of Rockingham's bed. She shuddered at the thought of being the wife of such a horrid excuse for a man.
    The only way she could get any sleep was to resolve this issue once and for all, so she told herself that once she learned of Jamie Graham's leanings, and had the inward assurance that he would not hand her over to either king, she would tell him the truth. She hoped when that happened, it would not be too late. If she waited too long and he found out the truth for himself, he would turn his back on her, and she would never, ever stand a chance to gain his help, or win his heart.
    A man like Jamie Graham would love and love deeply, but even that would not be enough to hold his heart if the woman he loved ever betrayed him.
    If only it were possible. If only he was a man like those of the legends of yore, a man who would defy heaven or hell to love and protect her, and keep her forever by his side.
    She drifted off to sleep, feeling acutely the loss of love, before ever having experienced it.
     
    Four
     
     
     
    Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. —Thomas   Gray   (1716-1771),   English poet. "On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes" (1748). The Poems of Thomas Gray: William Collins: Oliver
    Goldsmith
    Jamie went below stairs and poured a glass of wine, then slumped into an empty chair—the same chair Sophie had sat in earlier.
    His mind quickly went over the assorted array of thoughts vying for attention, the primary one being his suspicions about the sudden appearance of a certain French lass in his life and how she managed, in a short while, to complicate everything.
    He knew so little about her, which naturally fueled his suspicions. And there was the fact of her lack of memory, and the vagueness of some of her answers. Yet his doubts isolated him, for there was no lonelier feeling than to distrust someone you desperately wanted to trust and believe in.
    He had a responsibility to his country, his clan, his family, and even to the lass now in his care, and that made him wonder how much more complicated things could become.
    The situation in Scotland was tenuous, and likely to get worse, for Bonnie Prince Charlie was stirring things up with his claim to the British crown. Because he had many followers in the Highlands, the British were worried. If Charlie were to win enough French support, he could attempt to gain the crown.
    In the British mind, preventing a war was much easier than winning one, so they attempted to trample all Stuart support into the ground, before it became a greater threat.
    Jamie knew they would not stop until they reached their ultimate goal—the complete annihilation of the Highlanders. The names of acquaintances arrested as Jacobites was growing, and he rarely picked up the newspaper without seeing the name of a friend who had been imprisoned.
    Spies were everywhere. He would not put it past the English to