Olivia had thought she was keeping it a secret, but no, Olivia was going to have to explain, and in terms more delicate than "In another month, I'll be the only one wearing your clothes." She repeatedly knocked her forehead against her hand on the table. Llorente owed her this marriage.

"I suppose it's a good thing," Annalía offered.

Olivia wearily raised her head.

"Since he was just going to let me go."

"You clearly want to be with him"—Olivia leaned forward as if imparting a secret—"so don't let him let you go."

"Don't let him—?" Annalía's brows drew together. "That's what you're doing with Aleix."

Olivia sat back and propped her half-boots on the table. "So far it's working. He has to return to me because I have his sister hostage." She briefly put her fingertips to her lips. "Did I just say that? I mean I'm protecting the baby sister and earning his trust."

After a few moments more of pacing, Annalía admitted, "I must say this is better than crying."

Olivia threw her hands up. "What have I been telling you? And you've got it even easier than I do. Llorente doesn't love me—yet—but MacCarrick loves you."

Annalía frowned, then said with increasing conviction, "He did love me. I might be inexperienced to a ridiculous degree, but I should be able to tell, right? A man couldn't simply pretend that."

He could with ease! But Olivia knew that wasn't the case here. "Right!" she declared with a firm nod. "Now you stew over your plan of attack while I go find some food in this place. If we have to subsist on tea and biscuits, then we'll start hoarding tins up here." At the door she turned back. "And, Annalía, if I come back and see that you've been crying"—Olivia made a clawing gesture with her "unattractive" nails—"I will give you something to cry over."

During Olivia's absence, Annalía had time to bathe, dress, and conclude two things. First of all, there was no way she was giving up MacCarrick without a fight. She quite liked this idea of simply not allowing him to throw away what they had. It gave her a feeling of some control over her life.

Second? Though she still had concerns about Olivia—Annalía couldn't determine if Olivia was intermittently evil or handily the strongest woman she'd ever met—Annalía knew she would've gone bloody mad in this tense, foreign household without her future sister-in-law to berate her….

Olivia returned then, breezing in the doorway, her arms full of biscuit tins. Evidently, they were, in fact, hoarding. She stowed her loot inside the wardrobe, then drew out a smaller package from her skirt pocket, tossing it to her. "This came for you."

Annalía caught it. From a jeweler but addressed to Court?

"The guard dogs downstairs opened it, of course. Well, go on. I want to see jewelry."

Annalía pried open the velvet box and found her mother's stone inside, though without its ribbon choker. Instead, he'd had it set on a chain so delicate, so precious, it was like gossamer.

Olivia swiped it from her hand. She didn't cackle and abscond with it as Annalía expected, but whirled Annalía in front of the mirror, to fasten it around her neck. "I remember this stone. I considered owning this stone. The necklace makes it more valuable. Good for you," Olivia said, as if she'd earned it from MacCarrick.

Annalía stared in the mirror. He'd somehow figured out what it meant to her, what its significance was, and he'd turned something hurtful into something beautiful for her. The necklace was so exquisite it was like a caress over her neck and chest. God, she missed him!

Did he send this as a good-bye?

"You know that Gaelic phrase you were telling me about?" Olivia elbowed her from the mirror so she could try on the rings on the dressing table, modeling her wiggling fingers in the mirror. "What would you give me if I told you what it means? Would you give me an antique ring once worn by a queen?"

"Right now, the best I'll offer is that I won't slap you if you tell me."

Olivia raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed with the threat of violence. "Very well, I will tell you." She paused dramatically. "It means, 'You are mine. I bind you to me always.' According to my sources, if MacCarrick told you that, then you're a breath away from being married."

Annalía's eyes widened. "You lie! How do you know that?"

"I asked the Scottish woman downstairs. I wouldn't have asked for you, but I truly did expect you to give me one of—"

"What Scottish woman?"

"A new one."

"I don't believe you."

Olivia caught Annalía's eyes in the mirror. "I swear on all that is valuable that I own."

Annalía rocked on her heels. It was true! Her thoughts came hectic. He had planned for them to be together! Why hadn't he told her? He should have. She supposed he did repeatedly, but not in any language Annalía could discern. She'd learn Gaelic! She'd dreamed he'd come to her that last morning and tenderly brushed her hair from her face. Maybe not a dream? She took a deep breath, wondering why her stomach felt so unsettled. Last night she'd mindlessly eaten something kippered or coddled or some dish sounding equally as foreign and unsolid, and she must be paying for it now—

"So you are Courtland's," a voice said from behind them. "The servants wrote telling me as much. But I scarcely believed them."

Annalía whirled around, feeling dizzy. She'd stopped whirling, but her head seemed to delight in continuing. A tall, beautiful woman stood there. The woman in the portrait, Annalía realized with a gasp.

"I'm his mother, Lady Fiona." She was very genteel as she offered her hand to Annalía, but her eyes were lifeless and dark. And suspicious. "And you are Lady Annalía Llorente. I attempted to garner information about you from Olivia"—she cast Olivia a puzzled glance—"but after tea I realized I'd somehow divulged more than I'd learned."

When Olivia gave her a convincingly innocent expression, Lady Fiona returned her attention to Annalía. She tilted her head and examined her as if she were a stray—not cruelly but with detachment. "I never thought of Court falling for a tiny Castilian. Even one as pretty as you. But by all accounts—and even by his own words—he has." The woman's expression grew stern. "It matters naught. Lass, do you ken that you canna have him?"

Annalía, formerly the most gracious woman in social situations, the mistress of all decorum, promptly threw up all over the woman's skirts.

Chapter Thirty-five

When Court, Hugh, and Llorente rode up the plateaus to Llorente's home, they had to dodge villagers camping out, weaving around the clothes hanging on their lines, their children playing, and their goats grazing.

They'd learned that most of the deserters had been scattered and that small parties raided the valleys, forcing the villagers to come to the one place they could be safe.

Oddly enough, the place where the Highlanders were.

Court noted that at the first sight of plaid, Llorente's hands clenched so tightly on the reins they should've disintegrated.

"And I believe Court's crew is in residence," Hugh muttered.

At the front door, Liam greeted them, graciously showing them into the home. He slapped the seething Llorente on the back and said, "Any friend of Court's is a friend of ours. You look familiar. Do you like wine? Whisky? Just tell me whatever you need."

Inside, Niall and still more men played cards, ate fruit, and snacked on river trout grilled on slate, delicacies that Vitale, of all people, ensured they had plenty of.

Court's men saw him and cheered, asking, "Where's our bonny Andorran?"

This made Llorente's look of fury turn murderous. He yanked Vitale along to the other side of the room, and Court heard him demand, "I understand about the villagers, but how could you let these Scots overrun us?"

Vitale appeared sorry but unbending, his only concern about Annalía.

Court jerked a chin at Niall, and he rose. "Doona worry about old man Vitale," Niall said as he joined them, slapping their backs. "Prickly sort till you save his arse from deserters enough times."

"We need to discuss some plans with you," Hugh said, all business.

"Well, there's a salon in the front we can go to." Niall pointed out the direction. "By the dismal look on our Court's face, I think he'll be wantin' to avoid the study and the desk."

Hugh raised his eyebrows, and Court scowled.

Niall again slapped Court hard on the back. This time in sympathy. "Lass steal your heart?"

Court surprised himself by answering, "I'll no' be gettin' it back."

Hugh called for Llorente, who reluctantly followed them to the salon, looking dazed with anger. He sat silently and stiffly, appearing uncomfortable in his own home. Court knew no man had ever hated him as much as Llorente. He shrugged.

Once they'd all taken seats, Niall outlined the situation. "Andorra was chaos with people fleeing to high peaks and the deserters battling to escape when the main route to Spain was blocked. We've cleaned the countryside of them, collecting the bounties, but there's a group of about two hundred huddled down around Pascal."

"How many Rechazados are left?" Court asked.

"We took out six in the shootout at the border." Niall looked up to the ceiling, remembering. "Poor MacMungan, the younger one, lost an ear. MacTiernay got shot through his hand. A hole only as big as a beer stein, so it was no' too terrible—"

Hugh interrupted, "Seven more down in addition to that. Niall, we're leaving today to assassinate Pascal and take out the remaining Rechazados for good."