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Liadain Campbell. The Earl of Argyll was my brother. The viscount and I were acquainted from his visits with my brother. Please, I would be honored if ye would call me Liadain.”
    Robert’s wife smiled graciously and then suddenly turned her head. “Pray excuse me,” she murmured, placing her hand over her mouth. Taking a few steps away from them, the woman tossed her contents all over the ground.
    The gagging sounds brought Liadain’s instincts into awareness, and she immediately ran to Robert’s wife, placing a nurturing hand at her back. “’Tis all right. Ye have the sickness all day, my lady?”
    The poor woman nodded in response, still huddled over. She moaned loudly as another bout of sickness came upon her. When she finished, she could barely pull herself to stand. She gulped hard, tears slipping down her cheeks. “My apologies.”
    Robert pushed back his wife’s hair from her cheeks and his eyes were gentle, understanding. He wiped the woman’s tears with his thumb. “Let me take you inside, my love. You have been up and about all day.”
    Liadain’s hand rubbed the woman’s back. “There is nay need for apologies, my lady. I am a healer. Let me help ye. I can brew something that will assist ye with the sickness.”
    Robert’s wife smiled. “Please, call me Elizabeth.”

Five
    Declan prepared for the evening’s festivities in honor of Viscount Cranborne, donning the courtly fashions he had borrowed from his brother. Having met the viscount, he could not say what surprised him more: that Cranborne had ruined the healer or the obvious affection the man held for his wife.
    Reluctantly, Declan had to admit that the healer had handled herself with dignity and respect. He was not sure he could have done the same. When he had placed his hand at the lass’s back, she had trembled, but he was relieved to see her compassion for others beat out the urge to cause bodily harm.
    Feeling like an arse, he had tried not to overhear the conversation with Cranborne, but raised voices left him with few options. Cranborne had promised her a future, taken her innocence, and never returned. And that was why Declan had enough sense never to dally with virgins or women who were wed. They led to nothing but trouble. Cranborne had certainly made a mess of things.
    As of late, the healer had been through a great deal. Losing a brother, being a ward of the court, finding out that the man she was to spend the rest of her days with was now a viscount wed to another…It was enough to drive a sane person mad. The poor lass. This eve, he would make sure that the woman enjoyed herself. Perhaps he could stay his tongue long enough not to spar with her, or maybe he could even swallow his pride and choose another partner for her with whom to dance—not an easy feat, by any means. She clearly needed some joy in her life and he would see to it. It was but a small price to pay for her aiding his kin.
    As Declan made his way through the halls of the castle, he sorely missed the informality at Glenorchy. The solace of his own chamber, the bantering with his brothers—well, that part was not exactly peaceful. At least he could just be himself. Granted, his family drove him mad with their constant lecturing, but they were his own and they depended on each other. At court, he had no doubt someone might drive a dagger straight through his heart as soon as he turned around. He trusted no one. His mind wandered back to the peculiar conversation in the tavern. Fortunately for him, he had no interest in political machinations.
    When he entered the great hall, someone poked him in the ribs. “’Tis about time, MacGregor. Ye leave me to the wolves,” jested the healer. She wore a gold-colored gown that clung to her curves in all the right places. Her throat looked warm and shapely above a low-cut bodice. Her hair was pinned up, but one curl brushed against her slim, ivory neck.
    Closing what was left of the gap between them, Declan looked down