“Gracious,” she said, setting her sleeping infant down in a basket. “He’s one strapping giant of a Highlander. What happened to him?”
“Hefelloff his horse and hit his head,” her husband answered skeptical y, giving her a sharp look.
“What’s your name, lass?” the woman asked. Her tone was direct but not without kindness.
“Amelia.” She decided not to mention her family name or title. They did not need to know she was the daughter of an aristocrat.
The woman stared at her curiously. “I’m Beth,” she said,
“and this is my husband, Craig. We’re MacKenzies, and you met my father at the door. He’s a MacDonald.”
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” Amelia replied, nodding respectful y at the old man who stood hunched over his cane in the center of the room, not looking at her. His angry, incredulous eyes were fixed on Duncan.
«Well, let’s see if we can bring this clumsy Highlander around,” Beth said, reacting casual y to the tension in the room while she crossed to the rough-hewn table. “He’s your husband, you say?” She did not meet Amelia’s eyes.
“Yes. Can you help him?”
Beth exchanged another dubious glance with Craig, but Amelia could not concern herself with their suspicions now.
Allshe wanted was for Duncan to wake up.
“We’lldo our best.” Beth picked up a plate and mashed its contents with a wooden spoon. “You said he was wounded, so I prepared an ointment of foxglove leaves while you were gone. This should do, but if it’s a serious head wound, there might beswellingof the brain and there’s not much anyone can do but wait and pray.”
Amelia suppressed her fear, then glanced uneasily at the old man, who backed away toward thewalland watched her with dark, menacing eyes. The old man’s expression harkened straight back to the terrifying nightmares of her childhood.
* * *
Later, when Craig went outside to tend to the pony and wagon, Beth looked Amelia in the eye. “Tel me the truth now, lass. He’s not your husband, is he?”
She and Beth sat down at the table. “No.”
Beth’s father, the white-haired MacDonald, was sitting in a chair by the fire with his gnarled fingers folded over the top of his cane, glaring irately at her.
“Don’t mind him,” Beth whispered, leaning forward slightly.
“He can’t hear half of what anyone says anyway.”
“He heard enough to know I was English.”
Beth shrugged. “Aye. He’s cautious, nothing more. So how is it you know this big-boned Scot?” She gestured toward Duncan, resting quietly on the bed.
Amelia turned her gaze toward him and felt a sharp pang of anxiety. What if he did not recover?
“He stole me away from my fiancé,” she careful y replied.
Beth’s blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So the two of you are lovers, then?”
Amelia knew Beth did not believe that. She was just trying to draw out an explanation. “No, we are not.”
The old man tapped his cane on the floor three times, as if he wanted something brought to him. Beth held up a finger.
“You can dispense with the secrets, lass,” she whispered.
“I know who this man is, and I know you’re not his beloved.”
Amelia fought to stay calm. “How would you know such a thing?”
She pointed at the round shieldstillstrapped to Amelia’s back. “That’s the Butcher’s shield. Everyone knows it holds the stone taken from the weapon of his ancestor—Gilleain na Tuaighe.”
