Beloved Imposter by PATRICIA POTTER

heart was not from any illness. Far too aware of his impact on her, she stumbled and was suddenly in his arms. The warmth turned to white-hot heat.
    “The steps are rough, my lady.”
    She did not reply. She feared she would babble.
    She was relieved when they reached the foot of the stairs and his hand relaxed on her arm. He did not release her immediately. Nor did she wish him to. She felt safe. Safe and protected and wanted.
    Illusion . He thought her an heiress of a friendly clan. That was all. His interest would fade quickly enough if he knew the truth. Most likely it would turn to hatred, just as her uncle and cousin hated the Macleans.
    As she should. The Macleans had been responsible for the spilling of Campbell blood, even that of women and children.
    For now, though, she was aware only of the tingling of her blood, the heat crawling up her spine, the exhilaration of being in his presence, the unexpected pleasure of seeing his rare smile.
    The Maclean accompanied her to the great hall, which was filled with male voices. There were no women in attendance except for the servants.
    She thought that most odd. Except for Moira, she had seen few other women and certainly no well-dressed gentlewomen.
    The keep itself also looked as if it had had no mistress for a long while. Dust was everywhere. Fireplaces looked as if they had not been cleaned in months, windows were dark with grime, and there was a general feeling of neglect.
    Well, the former laird had been dead these past three years, and apparently there had been no one in charge until Rory appeared. Was he indifferent to it? Or did he not care because he intended to leave soon for the sea?
    How she wished to hear of his adventures. How she longed to sail the world herself.
    Not for the first time she wished she had been born a man. But for the first time, she felt the thrill of being a woman.
    It was perverse, the devil playing a nasty trick.
    Nonetheless, all eyes were on her as the Maclean led her to the head table and seated her next to him. Avid eyes studied her.
    Among the men were those who had abducted her for their lord. Their faces beamed as they watched their lord treat her with courtesy. It was obvious they had not surrendered hope. Perhaps she could play on that as well.
    She noticed an empty seat to her left, and before she could wonder about it, Lachlan appeared. His dress was disheveled, but he sported a wide grin. It seemed to be aimed directly at her.
    “You are late,” Rory Maclean said.
    “Aye, a foal,” he said. “It came faster than I expected. Perhaps Lady Janet would like to see her later.”
    Janet’s heart jumped. “The black mare?”
    Lachlan looked at her with surprise.
    “I saw her earlier.”
    “Aye, it was a quick birth.”
    “And the foal?”
    “A filly. Would you like to visit her?”
    “Thank you, I would like that.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Aye,” she agreed and turned toward the platters of food being displayed. Rory Maclean poured her wine from a pitcher, and she sipped it. In contrast to the food, it was a very good wine.
    “It comes from France,” he said as he watched her.
    She took another sip. Mayhap she could act as if she had drunk too much.
    She tasted the partridge. It was underdone. She tried a piece of meat, and it was charred, too hard to eat. She took some bread and nibbled at it, knowing she needed the strength.
    He said in a low voice, “I have no’ had the time to find a new cook, and Moira tries hard.”
    She admired the loyalty. Her uncle had little loyalty to any of his servants.
    She bent her head and tried to eat again. She would need food in her stomach if she were to escape tomorrow. Perhaps after viewing the foal, she would ask Lachlan to accompany her on a ride at dawn. She would try to lose him. Or bargain with him.
    “I hope you are comfortable,” the older Maclean said.
    “Moira and Robina have been very attentive,” she said. She sipped the wine. “I heard you have been at sea and have