Annalia's brows drew together when she recalled how Pascal had smiled at her last night in a way she might describe as lovingly. She'd determined that how strong and proud and good he appeared was directly proportional to how evil he was. Remembering his charisma and startlingly handsome visage in the candlelight, she concluded that yes, he would harm his own daughter.

But then, Annalia thought as she rushed out of her room to meet him, she was ready to take that risk.

After the ordeal of dinner was over, and Pascal had escorted her from the table, Annalia asked for permission to go to her room to rest for an hour. He assured her that she would need her rest for he had much to teach her at week's end, then leaned in to kiss her.

When she dared to give him her cheek, patting his chest before turning toward the doorway, he chuckled behind her. "Ah, Annalia," he sighed as she strolled from his sight.

Once alone, she sprinted up the stairs to her room, then wedged a chair against the doorknob. She scrubbed her face with water before sitting at the mirrored vanity, staring blankly. She would become a shell of her old self under Pascal's "tutelage."

She'd said six or half a dozen, but now that she knew Pascal, if she had to relinquish her innocence to one or the other, it would definitely be to MacCarrick. At least she wasn't personally aware of his atrocities.

The general was more handsome than the Scot—more handsome than any man she'd ever imagined—but it didn't matter. Next to Pascal's engaging smile, soft hands, and murderous impulses, the Highlander's scarred face, blunt speech, and aggression were practically seductive.

And still the hours until her wedding kept creeping by. My wedding.

People had wondered how she could be around Aleix and Mariette, so completely in love and devoted to each other and not crave her own marriage. It was because of their love that she couldn't. She'd seen what God in heaven had had in mind for a man and a woman, had seen their fidelity to each other, and never would she have knowingly slighted herself with a loveless marriage.

Especially not to the degree that I'm about to… She couldn't think like that! She was able to help Aleix now. She had a value with which to bargain—

Guns went off, their shots popping, making her jump. The lowbrow revelry of the deserters consisted of drunken yells and shooting pistols in the air. Adding insult to injury, her hair was curling, escaping its pins. She reached for her brush. She liked the clacking sound her bracelet made as she raised her arm, and the strokes across her hair were soothing.

Her mind drifted again to thoughts of the Highlander. "I'll no' work for you for anything less than you," he'd said in that rumbling, gruff voice. Despicable man. She prayed Vitale would heed the last command she'd given before riding away—that he stay clear of him. She wished she had…. She froze, the brush halting in midstroke.

On that night in the study, had MacCarrick said he'd seen her hair? He had! Her hair and the other treasures she'd hidden.

She slammed down the brush. The only place she wore it loose was in the bedroom. MacCarrick had spied on her while she slept! Why would she expect anything different from an ill-mannered ogre like him? He would always do what he wanted regardless of other people's desires and without respect for their feelings.

Annalia was sick and tired of men running roughshod over her. What about her wants? She hated having no control. She confined her hair more tightly than usual, then adjusted her choker, tightening it, still furious—

Something scraped outside near her window. The music trilled on, punctuated by shots, but she thought she heard a noise coming from just below the sash. Maybe the breeze had stirred a lantern.

A huge boot slipped in through the window, followed by a man unfolding to his full height. She scrambled to her feet. "I know you! You were with MacCarrick." He was the oldest one. "Tell me why you're here or I'll scream!"

Another followed him into the room. Oh, not the whelp!

"We're here to take you to safety, lass," the first said as he advanced on her. "And you ken they canna hear you scream."

"To hell with you both!" Mercenaries! Bloody, cursed mercenaries. Taking her to safety, her foot! When the young one captured her wrist she screeched, "Why can't you all just leave me alone?" then lashed out, her nails and teeth bared.

"Ach, Gavin!" he exclaimed, releasing her. "She bit me. I say we tie the little witch!"

"No, no, son, let me handle—Bloody hell! She got me, too! And he forced this task on us to avoid the fighting?" Gavin muttered angrily as he reached for her again. "Lass, we will no' hurt you, you ken? We're saving you."

"If I leave here, you're condemning my brother!" She kicked at his legs, but her skirts got in the way. "So I'm not leaving!" When he seized her wrists she struck wildly, yet it was only a matter of time. To her fury, he bound her hands.

"Listen—MacCarrick is checking the jail for him right now. If he's there you'll both be freed and we'll take you to a safe place."

Her stomach roiled. "But he's not in the jail!"

Gavin frowned at that. "Truly?" he asked as he forced a gag on her. "Well, we'll, uh, we'll let Court figure this one out."

She shouted against the gag and swung her bound hands at him, but he deflected the blow.

"Liam!"—he jerked his chin at her traveling bags—"Grab those and stow some clothes."

Liam set to work punching ball gowns and lace and stockings without a care.

She shook her head forcefully and spoke against the cloth. Idiot! Pascal would kill him!

"Ach, wee one, we will no' treat you poorly. Everything will work out as it should," Gavin assured her, as he tossed her over his shoulder.

She dug her nails into his back with every ounce of frustration she felt. When he tensed but continued on, she screamed in fury yet only heard a pitiful, muffled sound.

Stealing Annalia was proving disappointingly easy. A bribe for information, a bout of sequestered fighting with Spanish deserters drunk from the festival, and a twenty-minute decoy were all that had separated Court's men from her.

From a distance, Court spotted Liam giving him a salute. Farther ahead rode Gavin with Annalia. Court frowned to see her kicking within his arms before Gavin spurred his horse to ride for the lodge.

Court had decided not to take the time to meet the rest of his crew, and since he thought she'd go eagerly once they'd told her their plan, he'd sent his oldest and youngest to retrieve her.

At the same time, Court, Fergus, Niall, and MacTiernay had fought deserters and checked the jail, opening every cell just for the hell of it, but Llorente wasn't there. Annalia might be unwilling now, but once she recovered from the news of her brother, she'd be glad they'd saved her.

He raised his rifle, resting the warm barrel against his shoulder, then signaled the others to ride out in the opposite direction. They took a false route away from town, then doubled back toward the northeast corner of Andorra, heading for the lodge. From there they followed a hidden smuggler's route, speeding through the winding ravines that continued ever upward in elevation.

When the trail tapered and the terrain made them slow their pace, Niall rode up alongside him. "I've been thinking."

"What about?" he mumbled.

"About the way you've been treating the bonny Andorran. And about why you slept in her room last night."

Court turned back to see if the others could hear. Fergus was nodding off and MacTiernay was too far back. "More comfortable bed, Niall. Now drop it."

"We've established that your behavior is off."

"No—"