Beloved Imposter by PATRICIA POTTER Page A

just returned.”
    His gray eyes impaled hers. “Aye.”
    “How long?”
    “Ten years.”
    He had been here, then, when his clan had raped women and killed a child. She had hoped otherwise. She tried to keep her voice even. “Where have you been?”
    “France and Portugal, mostly. Depends on who is at war with which country,” he added wryly.
    Felicia played with her goblet of wine. “I would like to sail. At times I wish …” She stopped.
    “Wish what?” he prompted.
    “That I had the freedom to do as I wish.”
    “The sea is a dangerous place.”
    “So is Scotland,” she said. “People are abducted.”
    He had the grace to flinch, and the corner of his mouth twisted up in a half smile. “Aye, it can be.”
    Their gazes met, and again she thought she saw shadows in those gray eyes that were so watchful. There was fleeting amusement, even a flicker of appreciation, but then both disappeared. The shadows returned, and something more, an anguish that tore at her heart, and a loneliness that was stark.
    Remarkably, she wanted to ease the lines of pain bracketing his mouth. She wanted to touch the dark hair that framed the hard face.
    She struggled to return to their conversation. “Have you been in storms at sea?”
    “Every sailor has been.”
    “I like storms.”
    She saw the surprise in his eyes.
    “I doubt whether you would like one at sea,” he said. “It’s sheer terror when you are at the mercy of the sea and wind.”
    “I cannot imagine you ever feeling terror.”
    “Every man knows terror.”
    She took another sip of wine. Most men did, of course, but few would ever admit it.
    She felt the warmth from the wine, from his presence. Why was she drawn to him? He was her family’s enemy. Yet she was drawn to him as she had never been drawn to another person.
    “Tell me about France.”
    He shrugged. “They have fine silks and even better wine.”
    “They are allies of Scotland.”
    “Only when it suits them,” he said.
    “And women? I have heard they are beautiful.”
    “I prefer ours,” he said. “There are few pretenses.”
    She felt her cheeks warm. She hoped it did not show, and she turned her attention back to the food. No traps here.
    The supper seemed to last for hours as Maclean clansmen drank and grew loud and bawdy.
    “We brought you a bonny wife,” one large man said, sloshing wine over his plate.
    “And she has a worthy man,” another chimed in.
    The Maclean finally banged down his goblet of wine, some spilling over the table.
    “I will hear no more of this,” he said in a low voice that nonetheless carried across the room. “The lady is already bespoken. She will be returning home.”
    A choir of nays echoed in the great hall.
    Rory looked rueful as he turned to her. “I apologize again for the behavior of my clansmen.”
    “They care about you.”
    “They care about the clan,” he corrected.
    “That is you, is it not?” she asked.
    “It cannot be.” His gray eyes turned cool. Distant. “You will be returned home safely for your own wedding.”
    “I have been here overnight without chaperones,” she said quietly. “If it becomes known, I will be ruined. Jamie Campbell will not be wanting me.”
    “Then he would be a fool,” he said, his hand touching hers and sending unexpected jolts of lightning through her.
    She gazed up into his eyes. In her experience, wine usually dulled eyes, but his were clear and probing.
    “Still, it would be far better if no one knew I had been here.”
    “I take responsibility for what my clan does,” he said stiffly.
    “A compromise,” she offered. “You can take me almost home and watch as I enter the walls.”
    “A noble offer,” he said, but there was a hint of amusement in the words.
    Holy Mary in heaven, he seemed to read her mind.
    She took a piece of fruit and was barely able to swallow it.
    She looked down the table and noted that the wine was being consumed at a much more rapid rate than the food. There were