“Baboons do this all the time,” I remarked, delicately disentangling a foxtail from his thick red mane. “But I believe they eat the fruits of their labors.”

“Dinna let me prevent ye, Sassenach, and ye feel so inclined,” he responded. He hunched his shoulders slightly in pleasure as the comb slid through the thick, glossy strands. The firelight filled my hands with a cascade of sparks and golden streaks of fire. “Mm. Ye wouldna think it felt so nice to have someone comb your hair for ye.”

“Wait ’til I get to the rest of it,” I said, tweaking him familiarly and making him giggle. “Tempted though I am to try Murtagh’s suggestion instead.”

“Touch my cock hairs wi’ a torch, and you’ll get the same treatment,” he threatened. “What was it Louise de La Tour says bald lassies are?”

“Erotic.” I leaned forward and nipped the upper flange of one ear between my teeth.

“Mmmphm.”

“Well, tastes differ,” I said. “Chacun a son gout, and all that.”

“A bloody French sentiment, and I ever heard one.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

A loud, rolling growl interrupted my labors. I laid down the comb and peered ostentatiously into the tree-filled shadows.

“Either,” I said, “there are bears in this wood, or… why haven’t you eaten?”

“I was busy wi’ the beasts,” he answered. “One of the ponies has a cracked hoof and I had to bind it with a poultice. Not that I’ve so much appetite, what wi’ all this talk of eating lice.”

“What sort of poultice do you use on a horse’s hoof?” I asked, ignoring this remark.

“Different things; fresh dung will do in a pinch. I used chewed vetch leaves mixed wi’ honey this time.”

The saddlebags had been dumped by our private fire, near the edge of the small clearing where the men had erected my tent. While I would have been willing to sleep under the stars, as they did, I admitted to a certain thankfulness for the small privacy afforded me by the sheet of canvas. And, as Murtagh had pointed out with his customary bluntness, when I thanked him for his assistance in erecting the shelter, the arrangement was not solely for my benefit.

“And if he takes his ease between your thighs of a night, there’s none will grudge it to him,” the little clansman had said, with a jerk of the head toward Jamie, deep in conversation with several of the other men. “But there’s nay need to make the lads think ower-much o’ things they canna have, now is there?”

“Quite,” I said, with an edge to my voice. “Very thoughtful of you.”

One of his rare smiles curled the corner of the thin-lipped mouth.

“Och, quite,” he said.

A quick rummage through the saddlebags turned up a heel of cheese and several apples. I gave these to Jamie, who examined them dubiously.

“No bread?” he asked.

“There may be some in the other bag. Eat those first, though; they’re good for you.” He shared the Highlanders’ innate suspicion of fresh fruit and vegetables, though his great appetite made him willing to eat almost anything in extremity.

“Mm,” he said, taking a bite of one apple. “If ye say so, Sassenach.”

“I do say so. Look.” I pulled my lips back, baring my teeth. “How many women of my age do you know who still have all their teeth?”

A grin bared his own excellent teeth.

“Well, I’ll admit you’re verra well preserved, Sassenach, for such an auld crone.”

“Well nourished, is what I am,” I retorted. “Half the people on your estate are suffering from mild scurvy, and from what I’ve seen on the road, it’s even worse elsewhere. It’s vitamin C that prevents scurvy, and apples are full of it.”

He took the apple away from his mouth and frowned at it suspiciously.

“They are?”

“Yes, they are,” I said firmly. “So are most other kinds of plants – oranges and lemons are best, but of course you can’t get those here – but onions, cabbage, apples… eat something like that every day, and you won’t get scurvy. Even green herbs and meadow grass have vitamin C.”

“Mmphm. And that’s why deer dinna lose their teeth as they get old?”

“I daresay.”

He turned the apple to and fro, examining it critically, then shrugged.

“Aye, well,” he said, and took another bite.

I had just turned to fetch the bread when a faint crackling sound drew my attention. I caught sight from the corner of my eye of shadowy movement in the darkness and the firelight flashed from something near Jamie’s head. I whirled toward him, shouting, just in time to see him topple backward off the log and disappear into the void of the night.

There was no moon, and the only clue to what was happening was a tremendous scuffling sound in the dry alder leaves, and the noise of men locked in effortful but silent conflict, with grunts, gasps, and the occasional muffled curse. There was a short, sharp cry, and then complete quiet. It lasted, I suppose, only a few seconds, though it seemed to go on forever.

I was still standing by the fire, frozen in my original position, when Jamie reemerged from the Stygian dark of the forest, a captive before him, one arm twisted behind its back. Loosing his grip, he whirled the dark figure around and gave it an abrupt shove that sent it crashing backward into a tree. The man hit the trunk hard, loosing a shower of leaves and acorns, and slid slowly down to lie dazed in the leaf-meal.

Attracted by the noise, Murtagh, Ross, and a couple of the other Fraser men materialized by the fire. Hauling the intruder to his feet, they pulled him roughly into the circle of firelight. Murtagh grabbed the captive by the hair and jerked his head backward, bringing his face into view.

It was a small, fine-boned face, with big, long-lashed eyes that blinked dazedly at the crowding faces.

“But he’s only a boy!” I exclaimed. “He can’t be more than fifteen!”

“Sixteen!” said the boy. He shook his head, senses returning. “Not that that makes any difference,” he added haughtily, in an English accent. Hampshire, I thought. He was a long way from home.

“It doesn’t,” Jamie grimly agreed. “Sixteen or sixty, he’s just made a verra creditable attempt at cutting my throat.” I noticed then the reddened handkerchief pressed against the side of his neck.

“I shan’t tell you anything,” the boy said. His eyes were dark pools in the pale face, though the firelight shone on the gleam of fair hair. He was clutching one arm tightly in front of him; I thought perhaps it was injured. The boy was clearly making a major effort to stand upright among the men, lips compressed against any wayward expression of fear or pain.

“Some things you don’t need to tell me,” said Jamie, looking the lad over carefully. “One, you’re an Englishman, so likely you’ve come with troops nearby. And two, you’re alone.”

The boy seemed startled. “How do you know that?”

Jamie raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that ye’d not have attacked me unless you thought that the lady and I were alone. If you were with someone else who also thought that, they would presumably have come to your assistance just now – is your arm broken, by the way? I thought I felt something snap. If you were with someone else who knew we were not alone, they would ha’ stopped ye from trying anything so foolish.” Despite this diagnosis, I noticed three of the men fade discreetly into the forest in response to a signal from Jamie, presumably to check for other intruders.

The boy’s expression hardened at hearing his act described as foolish. Jamie dabbed at his neck, then inspected the handkerchief critically.

“If you’re tryin’ to kill someone from behind, laddie, pick a man who’s not sitting in a pile of dry leaves,” he advised. “And if you’re using a knife on someone larger than you, pick a surer spot; throat-cutting’s chancy unless your victim will sit still for ye.”

“Thank you for the valuable advice,” the boy sneered. He was doing a fair job at maintaining his bravado, though his eyes flicked nervously from one threatening, whiskered face to another. None of the Highlanders would have won any beauty prizes in broad daylight; by night, they weren’t the sort of thing you wanted to meet in a dark place.