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that the full cut of his breeches was not from fashionable horsehair stuffing, but from gathered thick woolen cloth. She knew because his hipbone felt lean and hard beneath her palm.
    Blushing, she moved her hand to lay it on his chest, where even through the doublet, the firm beat of his heart under her fingertips was full of vital strength, and vastly reassuring. She was guilty of highway robbery and abduction only. Not murder.
    "There's naught here," she said, and unhooked the doublet.
    "Nor here," Christie said, holding one long black boot upside down. Water dripped onto the stone floor.
    "Ach," Mairi whispered. "Where have you put the order, messenger?" Pulling open the doublet, she tugged at his damp shirt and slid her hand inside the drawstring waistband of his breeches.
    Warm, firm skin, tight over muscle and softened by thick hair, met her touch. His abdomen rose and fell beneath her hand. A curious tingling sensation swirled in her stomach. Mairi withdrew her fingers as suddenly as if she had been burned.
    "He's a strong man," she said. "We'll need a stout rope."
    "Aye," Christie grunted, yanking at the other boot. The messenger's dark head lolled with the motion.
    "Go careful, Devil's Christie," she said. "He's injured." Shifting, she sat cross-legged and lifted the messenger's head into her lap. He was so still, his beard-shadowed cheeks pale, his black hair soft under her hands. "And he's chilled to the bone. We must get these wet things off and get him warmed. Go, hurry to Jennet's house."
    "I will." Christie frowned, looking young in the flickering candlelight. "What if he dies, Mairi?"
    "He'll do fine, but we must help him. If we'd left him in the bog, he'd have died and we'd be guilty of murder."
    "Perhaps we should tell my kinsmen—"
    "The Armstrongs would ransom him for certain."
    Christie began to tug again on the boot, but stopped. "I heard that the March warden already told the council that Iain is a thief and a spy. He urged the English to take Iain to trial."
    "I cannot understand why Simon Kerr does this to his own cousin!" Mairi smoothed the damp folds in the messenger's doublet. "Simon insists Iain is guilty. Perhaps 'tis because Iain rode with Alec Scott, and the Kerrs and Scotts have a long feud between them."
    "Simon Kerr was in the inn the day I was there," Christie said. "He said King James will send a warrant o' execution for Iain. But he did not boast so loud when someone reminded him that he cannot find Alec Scott."
    "Alec Scott knows the truth about the Spanish gold they say Iain carried." Mairi sighed. "Mercy of God, I hope the king does not approve Iain's execution."
    "You've had nae word from your father?"
    She shook her head. "This has been a year for storms, and the gales continue. My letter may take months to reach my father in Denmark. I paid well for the posting of it, but I heard that the ship has not even sailed yet because of the weather. Even when my father receives the letter, he will not be able to sail back here or send a reply in time to help us. His duty is to the king just now."
    "King James's marriage negotiations will keep your parents in Denmark for a year, I'd wager," Christie said.
    "At least that long. And my other brothers are all away and cannot help us either. We are alone in this, Christie."
    "To do well by Iain," he reminded her.
    Nodding, Mairi undid the clasp of her cloak and swept it over the still man whose head and shoulders were balanced in her lap. She so missed her parents and brothers, whose support would have been immediate had they known of Iain's predicament. Some design of fate had left her to take the task on herself—and she would not fail her twin brother.
    She tucked the cloak around the messenger. Though damp with rain, the fur-lined inside would warm him. "We must get him dry or he'll be ill," she said. "And we must find that paper."
    "Perhaps 'tis inside his shirt," Christie suggested.
    Mairi slid her hand beneath the damp, bunched linen.