Next she would meet Vitale, who would have her hat that she continually forgot, and then they would speak for a few moments. He was impertinent to her and she allowed it, even sometimes cocking a hip out and looking up at the sky with clear frustration. They had an unusual rapport, but they obviously cared for each other.

Like clockwork, the old man met her on the path just downstairs. They didn't talk for long before she was off to the stable for her ride. Damn it, he wanted to look at her for longer. She always wore the choker, but something was different today. Was she wearing new jewelry? Earrings that dropped down?

Enough of this. He wanted more information, and he was getting strong enough to where he could begin demanding it. When she left, Court knocked on the glass and motioned for Vitale—who'd bemoaned Court's recovery and had placed his food on the ground "as was fitting for an animal"—to come up.

The old man gave him a lewd hand gesture, but the front door did sound soon after.

"Tell me about her," he asked when Vitale had unlocked and entered the room.

He cast Court a sour expression. "And why would I do that?"

"Because if you do I'll no' be so disposed to beating you down when I recover fully," Court informed him as he leaned against the windowsill.

Vitale swallowed hard.

"I ken what you're thinking, old man. You're wondering what harm could come of it. None could. I harbor no ill will toward the woman who saved my life."

"What do you want to know?" he asked hesitantly.

"Where's her family?"

"Her parents are dead and her brother is away." He added, "On business."

A vague answer, but Court didn't press. "No husband? No other family she could stay with?"

"She and her brother are estranged from their relatives. And she was about to be married when Pascal came to power. Now escaping his notice is our top priority. Since you are his hired killer, I suppose we should have escaped your notice as well."

Court ignored the last comment. "And why is this place so deserted?"

"Many fled Pascal. Some have gone to fight him. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you?" He shook his head. "I told her to take you back to the river and let you rot, but she never listens—"

"Pascal ordered this done to me," he interrupted. "How much loyalty do you think I have to the man who sought to kill me? I barely escaped into the river."

Vitale eyed him, clearly trying to determine if he spoke the truth, then asked, "Who beat you?"

Court admitted, "Two Rechazados."

His eyes went wide, scanning the room wildly. "My God, you'll bring them down on this house. Every day you're here already weighs on her terribly. If you are in league with Pascal, she fears you'll lead his men here. Now when I tell her what you've told me, she'll know that Pascal's assassins will be searching for you to finish the job."

Pascal would be searching, but there weren't enough of his prized assassins to spare. "He will no' waste any Rechazado for a task like me." Their order never numbered more than forty-nine based on a twisted reading of the seven letters of the Apocalypse, and if they lost men they still only inducted new ones twice a year. "Besides, they'll have thought I died."

Vitale marched to the second window to peer out though he couldn't have expected to see Annalía. Court knew she'd be well out of sight by now. "Why should I trust what you say?"

"You probably should no'." He unsuccessfully crossed his arms, too late remembering the bloody cast she'd forced on him. "I want to talk to her, but she will no' come back. Get her to."

"The mademoiselle? Attend you now that you're awake?" He snorted.

"If she will no' come to me, then I'll have to stumble out to find her." His expression turned cold. "You ought to warn her that I might feel…put out when I catch her."

He stepped back. "I will see that she comes tomorrow."

"After her ride?"

Vitale scowled at that. "If she knew you spied on her, she'd be very uneasy. She's an extremely private person. But yes, after her ride."

Court nodded. "I need to get a message to my men. If I give you directions, can you see that it is done?"

"Again, why would I do that?"

"The sooner I contact them, the sooner I can leave."

"I'll return directly with pen and ink."

Court debated how to handle Annalía when she came for their meeting, and had to admit he was at a loss with a woman like her. She seemed complicated and mysterious, which meant she wasn't like straightforward Highland women at all.

And as much as he was unused to a woman like Annalía, she was surely accustomed to gentlemen, to polite behavior and nonthreatening men. So he decided to stay in bed and act as though he couldn't rise easily, to appear less intimidating, but the gentlemanly behavior was proving elusive. Court didn't exchange pleasantries because he wasn't a pleasant person. He was brusque and direct. She would not respond well to brusque and direct.

When she glided in hours after her ride, smelling of the flowers she'd been tarrying among earlier, he bit out, "Good afternoon." He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that phrase, when in fact it hadn't been a better-than-average afternoon.

"To you as well." She appeared surprised by his gruff words, then suspicious. "Vitale said you desired to speak with me. What do you require?"

Her words rolled from her tongue in that foreign way, and he found he liked listening to her, even as her obvious reluctance to be near him grated. A woman whom he found beautiful and who was kind to others was disgusted with him. He felt like a caged animal she was wary of—and all because he was Scottish?

And perhaps he'd found the exact chink in her armor and had hurt her that first day, a voice in the back of his mind reasoned.

"I'd like to ask you a few more questions." Pleasant enough.

She gave one tight nod.

"How have you escaped Pascal's notice this far?" Court had never heard of this place and wondered why Pascal hadn't looted it.

She didn't hesitate to say, "Probably by not dragging his mercenaries into my home."

"I answer to him no longer."

"His ex-mercenary, then," she said with a flick of her hand as if the difference was trifling. "Vitale told me as much."

At his irritated look, she added, "I don't know why we've been spared." She was clearly lying, but he let it go.

"I have another question."

She remained there, though she didn't deign to meet his eyes, and he found the question he'd meant to ask forgotten, replaced by, "Why do you hate Scots?"

She blushed to the tips of her small ears, her skin pinkening against her crisp white blouse and her ever-present choker. "If you please, I would rather not discuss my dislike of Scots with a Scot."

"You can tell me. I will no' bite."

She gave him a wide-eyed look that said she wasn't sure on that count at all and hadn't thought about the possibility until he'd brought it up. Finally she said, "I've heard very unfavorable things about them—about you. Worse than any of the other outsiders Pascal has lured here."

Court exhaled, reckoning it might be time to admit that his crew's Highlander tales had worked too well.

Whenever they arrived in a new area, his men spread rumors to the people underlining the Highlanders' brutality, their lust for blood, and their enjoyment of torture. Then, when the thirty-five Scots in their company, some painted, some in kilts, all nearing or exceeding six feet tall, gave a savage battle yell and charged with the requisite crazed look in their eyes, the combatants ran. They almost always ran.

The farmers and ranch hands in Andorra had fled so fast that even his quick cousin Niall could barely swat the last one on the arse with his sword.

Only one leader and his men had stood their ground….

Court's eyes followed her slim hand when she smoothed an already immaculate crease in her skirt—today a bright red one. "And what did you think of Scots before we came here?"

She frowned, appearing genuinely confused. "I didn't think of Scots."

He scowled at that. "And now?"

"Now that you've come, you've shown yourself to be the epitome of all I've heard."

He waved her on with his cast.

She crossed her arms over her chest and took a breath. "Violence surrounds you, as shown by your beating, but also by the gashes on your fingers. I'd wondered how you could receive such a peculiar injury, then concluded you'd cut them on someone's teeth when you hit him in the face."

Court nodded, extremely impressed. That was exactly what had happened. He nearly smiled remembering the satisfaction of splitting the Spaniard's lips, of the blood he'd spat for at least an hour afterward….

"You have a history of it as demonstrated by the scars covering you. I'd heard that your people live in bands—"

"Clans," he grated. "They're called clans."

She shrugged. "And that these clans fight with each other constantly because you are a bloodthirsty people more concerned with warring than with culture or refinement." He noticed she'd begun pressing one finger after another against her crossed arms as she ticked off points. "You are mannerless. Your halfhearted gratitude to me for saving your life bespeaks a sense of entitlement—"

"It bespeaks lack of practice in being beholden."

She raised her eyebrows in an expression that said if he continued to talk, she would cease. "You look like a blackguard. Except when you are angry. Then you look like a brute that could readily kill me. Your insulting me that first day was hurtful and uncalled for. I've heard it's that way with your people—a complete lack of delicacy. There's little thought behind your eyes…."