Lizzie knew it was useless to try to make her loyal maidservant understand. By no stretch of the word could Lizzie possibly be considered beautiful, but try explaining that to anyone in her family and they looked at her as if she were addled.
Her family just didn't see her the way other people did. To them she was a prize. A woman any man would be proud to have by his side.
They loved her too much to view her stammering as anything other than a minor inconvenience. Usually, they were right. Lizzie stammered only in large groups or when she was nervous or anxious, and now almost not at all. She supposed there was one reason to be grateful to John. The past two years, she'd devoted endless hours to speaking softly and slowly in the effort to further control her stammer, determined never to allow herself to be made the butt of anyone's mockery again.
“Perhaps not,” Lizzie agreed, anxious to avoid the subject.
“Then what is it? Are you worried that your cousin will betroth you to a man you cannot abide? The earl loves you too much to ever see you unhappy.”
“He would never do that,” Lizzie agreed. She was lucky. Not only did she have the love of her family, but they also respected her in a way that was hardly typical of the position of most women in today's world. She'd been educated by tutors alongside her brothers before they went to Tounis College, and was as knowledgeable about Highland politics as any man.
Indeed, it wasn't her cousin's choices in husbands that had proved the problem. John Montgomery had actually been her choice. The two men her cousin had picked for her would have been infinitely better choices, but circumstances beyond her control had forced them apart.
Her first betrothal, to James Grant, had been arranged when she was a child, but it had been broken by Duncan's treason.
Duncan. The brother she'd idolized, lost to her almost ten years ago. God, how she missed him. Despite the proof against him, Lizzie had never believed him guilty of the betrayal that had cost the Campbells the battle of Glenlivet and ultimately their father his life. She hoped one day to see him return to prove it. She'd begged him to do so many times in the occasional letter she managed to smuggle to him. Their communication was the one secret she kept from her family. But she was enormously proud of the name he'd made for himself on the continent after having it erroneously blackened at home.
Lizzie had also welcomed her second betrothal. She'd known Rory MacLeod since she was a child, and would have been hard-pressed not to have been at least a little besotted with the handsome chief. Unfortunately for her, he'd been ordered by the king to handfast with Isabel MacDon-ald and had fallen in love with his beautiful bride.
“Then why are you so upset?” Alys asked. “Do you not wish to be married?” She sounded as if the very idea were unfathomable.
“Of course I do. It's just that I want …” Lizzie stumbled over the words, embarrassed. It sounded silly, particularly after her disappointment with John. Women in her position married for duty, not for love. Feeling the telltale rush of anxiety that precipitated a stammer, she took a deep breath, counted silently to five, and then forced herself to speak slowly and softly. “I want what you have.”
Alys's eyes widened with understanding. It had probably never occurred to her—or to any of Lizzie's family, for that matter—that she would wish for something so fanciful and not be content simply to do what was expected of her, as she always did. She would do her duty, of course, but that didn't mean she could completely quiet the whispers in her heart.
The maidservant studied Lizzie's face for a long moment before answering. “Aye, I want that for you, too, lass. But you've nothing to worry about. The earl will find you a good husband, and once he gets to know you, the man won't be able to stop himself from loving you.”
Alys said it with such conviction, Lizzie realized that arguing was futile. It sounded so much like something her mother would have said that tears blurred her eyes, and she had to turn away. Not a day went past that she didn't miss her mother. Her death only months before that of Lizzie's father had been a cruel blow that Lizzie felt every day.
She gazed out the window to distract herself from the memories, the countryside rolling by in a vivid panoply of green. The heavy spring rain had reaped its munificent bounty, turning the glens thick with grass and the trees dense with leaves.
The light dimmed as the hours passed and they moved deeper into the forest, sending shadows dancing across the walls. The carriage slowed, and an eerie quiet descended around them. It felt as though they were being swallowed up. Like a sponge, the canopy of trees took hold, soaking up the noise and light. Unconsciously, Lizzie's fingers circled the hilt of the small dirk she wore strapped to her side, as she silently thanked her brothers for insisting that she learn how to use it.
The coach jerked hard to the side, knocking Lizzie from her seat once again. But this time the carriage did not right itself, and they came to a sudden stop.
Something didn't feel right. It was too quiet. Like the still before the storm.
Her pulse quickened. Tiny bumps prickled along her skin, and the temperature seemed to drop as the chill cut to her bones.
They'd come to rest at an angle so that both women had settled on the right side of the carriage opposite the door. It took a bit of maneuvering to get themselves up.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Alys asked, giving her a hand. Lizzie could tell from her quick, high-pitched tone that the maidservant was nervous as well. “A wheel must be stuck—”
A primal cry tore through the shrouded trees, sending an icy chill straight down Lizzie's spine. Her eyes shot to Alys's in shared understanding. Dear God, they were under attack.
She could hear the voices of her cousin's guardsmen outside, shouting orders back and forth, and then the name clear as day: “MacGregors!”
Lizzie couldn't believe it.The outlaws must be mad to risk …
Her blood went cold.
Or so desperate, they have nothing to lose.
Fear started to build along the back of her neck. A whis-pery breath at first, then an icy hand with a tenacious grip. She fought to catch the frantic race of her pulse, but it kept speeding ahead.
A shot fired. Then another.
“Donnan!” Alys cried, lurching for the door handle.
