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to the moss and pine needles.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bess kneel beside him and felt her studying him. He did not turn his head.
    “What are you staring at?” he murmured. He was so bloody tired.
    “A man,” she said.
    “A man,” he repeated, “how very observant.”
    “I’m looking at a man who isnae at all what I know evil to be.”
    “What did you think evil should be?”
    “Not like ye.”
    “Isn’t that a good thing?”
    I dinnae ken, perchance…you are most odd.”
    Ian turned toward her. Their faces were a fraction apart. She did not move, held herself so steady, scrutinizing him. He returned the same to her, but could not help catching the puff of her breath against his face. Warm, taking away the chill in the air for a second or two. Her skin was flawless from this vantage, fresh and smooth. Sunlight had not touched it much. This was no California girl. She could very well be a real Scot, not just acting like one. He raised his bound hands and brushed the back of one finger against her cheek. Like porcelain.
    She did not flinch. Her emerald gaze held him.
    Slowly, he brought his face closer, his lips ready to capture her in a kiss that would certainly be the right step forward to gain him freedom. He cupped his fingers under her chin and drew her close. He closed his eyes and tilted his head. This would be one hell of a great kiss. She would have to let him go after she thanked him for it.
    Her lips were cold.
    Ian snapped his eyes open and pulled back. The imprint of his lips slowly faded to nothing on the polished blade of a short, but lethal-looking knife. Beyond it, Bess’s eyes blazed as hot as the flames of her hair.
    “I dinnae give a farthing about your life, MacLean,” she said, slipping the knife into a small leather sheath fastened under her arm. “And I will just as soon end it than take ye to Stirling if ye ever try that again.”
    She stood.
    Ian leaned against a tree, giving her a wink. “You’re lying,” he said. “There’s a part of you that wanted to break whatever character you are playing and kiss me.”
    She stared at him, her eyes softened just for a second before turning away from him.
    “Oh, aye,” Ian whispered to himself. “I’ll find out who she really is, win her over, and then get the hell out of here.”
    * * * *
    Bess did not lie until this evening. She had lied to herself when she denied Ian MacLean his kiss. She had wondered what it would be like to kiss him. His grin, a crooked line, was a lie to the turbulence she saw in the amber cuts of his eyes. She was not the only one who had spoken a falsehood a moment before, only she had used words.
    She wanted more from him, but at the moment it had nothing to with desire for a handsome visage and well-muscled body. She forced herself to ignore those physical trappings Ian bore so well. It would do her clan no good for her to act like a woman.
    She stole a glimpse at Ian MacLean as he sat on the ground, his legs splayed before him covered in those black breeks strained against the bulk of his leg muscles. She sighed and slipped her gaze up his legs, to another place behind a row of pewter-colored buttons, where the fabric strained even more.
    “Getting a good look there, Blaze?” he asked, gaze trained on her.
    Bess turned away, startled. “My name is Bess.”
    “Unh-uh, doesn’t suit you.”
    “’Tis not for ye to decide what does and what doesnae suit me,” she snapped. “Haud yer wheesht.” She unbuckled the claymore from her back and leaned it against a pine just beyond the flicker of the firelight.
    “You’re such a sweet talker, Blaze.” He grinned.
    “And ye’re a dead man if ye call me Blaze again.”
    Bess turned from him and stepped to the fire, absently picking bits of twigs and leaves from her braid. Hunting was dirty work. At least they would have supper. Her and Ian MacLean. Maybe she should have let Alasdair stay.
    She had sent him off to reconnoiter the road to Stirling,