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Her burrowing fingers skimmed over thick, matted hair and warm skin, over the bud of his flat nipple and the hard curving cage of his ribs. His heartbeat was heavy and insistent beneath her palm.
    Her fingers felt a piece of metal on a thong around his neck, and she pulled at it. Finding a small metal cylinder, she gently drew the thong from around his neck and handed it to Christie. "What is this?"
    "A key for winding a wheel-lock pistol," he said, putting it inside the discarded leather pouch. "He has a fine set of pistols in his saddle. We are fortunate he did not use them on us."
    Mairi slid Christie a scowl. Then, aware suddenly that she still rested a hand on the messenger's bare, warm chest, she blushed furiously and withdrew her hand.
    As he pulled at the messenger's boot, Christie fell back with the effort when it finally loosened, and shook it upside down. Only a little dribble of water came out. "Nae paper, Mairi," Christie said.
    "I see. Well, take off his nether stockings. We need to get his feet dry."
    Christie peeled off the woolen hose and gasped playfully, as if the odor was overwhelming. Mairi shook her head in wry amusement, but sat upright when a folded paper dropped to the floor. She snatched at it.
    "The privy council's seal!" she said, waving the page.
    "Read it!" Christie said.
    The folded paper was sealed with glossy red wax. She peeled the edges apart with a flourish. "Did not even have to break the wax, the parchment is that wet. 'Tis written in Scots, not Latin. Good. But the ink is blurred," she added, frowning as she scanned the water-stained words.
    "I wish I knew some ABCs," Christie muttered.
    "I will teach you someday," she replied, studying the letter. "This says... he is Rowan Scott of Blackdrummond." She looked up in surprise.
    "Blackdrummond!" Christie stared at her, then at the messenger. "I did think he looked familiar. But I have not seen him since I was a lad. The Black Laird, they call Rowan Scott."
    "I have not heard the name. Is he kin to Alec Scott, and the Auld Laird o' Blackdrummond Tower?"
    "He is Alec Scott's elder brother. And he is the laird."
    She frowned. "But the Auld Laird holds Blackdrummond. Iain pays rent to him."
    Christie shook his head. "Auld Jock Scott lives there, but the tower rightfully belongs to Rowan. This is Blackdrummond himself. The Black Laird has come home."
    "You know him?"
    "My father rode reiving wi' the Blackdrummond Scotts. The Black Laird was clever and bold, like his brother Alec, and their father before them, and the Auld Laird himself—Jock Scott is near a legend in the Middle March. The Blackdrummond Scotts are a fierce bunch o' rascals." A slow grin spread across Christie's face. "And there'll be many who will be glad to have Rowan Scott back. But Simon Kerr will not be among them." The mischievous grin widened.
    "I've never heard of the Black Laird. But I know more than I want to know about the Scotts," she added.
    "Och, not all the Scott kin are murderers," Christie said. "The Blackdrummond Scotts are heroes in this part of the Borders."
    "Then why has he been gone?"
    "Prison, so I heard."
    "Then a Scott he surely is," Mairi drawled. "With some charm to him, since he's now carrying messages for the council." Mairi squinted at the paper, tilting it toward the feeble candlelight as she tried to decipher the blurred writing. "Listen—this says Rowan Scott has been appointed by the privy council to serve as deputy warden of the Middle March."
    "He's the warden's own man?" Christie rolled his blue eyes. "My kinsmen will enjoy that! Does the writ mention Iain?"
    "I do not see his name here. But I cannot read all of it for the wetness. Oh—it says 'messenger.'" She looked at Christie in alarm. "Do you think he's been sent to find the Lincraig highway raiders? The council must know by now that their messengers have had trouble along the Lincraig road. From us."
    "When Blackdrummond wakes up, you and I will have a prison cell faster than you can