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doubtfully at Diarmid.
    “Go to the castle near Perth, on the north side of the Tay,” Diarmid said, reaching up to unfasten the silver brooch at his shoulder. “The Scots hold it. Show this to the laird there. He is a friend, and will know the cairngorm brooch of the laird of Dunsheen. Tell him that you require a horse to ride and a sturdy packhorse, and he will see that you get them.”
    “And how am I to get a great chest out of the women’s sleeping quarters without being seen?”
    “You will manage the task somehow, I have no doubt. Farewell to you, man.” Diarmid held up his hand.
    Mungo muttered something under his breath and handed Diarmid the reins to guide Michaelmas’s horse. “Farewell to you both. Give my greetings to my children, Dunsheen.”
    “I will.”
    “My thanks, Mungo,” Michaelmas said. “I will remember this favor of you.” The man nodded, then launched into a smooth, long running stride as he struck out across the valley.
    Diarmid held the reins of Michaelmas’s horse loosely in his left hand, and rode slightly ahead of her beneath the high white moon. The soft thuds of the horses’ footfalls and the sweep of the wind filled the silence as they crossed the valley.
    Michaelmas watched Diarmid he rode, his back long and agile as he rocked with the motion of his horse, his dark hair blowing free. He seemed content to ignore her as she followed behind him, and that irritated her unreasonably.
    She shifted stiffly to maintain her balance, still bound to the saddle pommel by a rope around her waist. Her arms were snug at her sides and her right leg ached from keeping her seat on the horse. “Diarmid of Dunsheen,” she called. “You did say that I was not a prisoner.”
    He stopped both horses and leaned over to undo the rope and the heavy plaid. “There,” he said, tossing the long cloth behind her saddle, “you’re free. And now that I have your promise to come to Dunsheen, I trust you will ride beside me willingly.”
    Michaelmas bit back her first answer, born of a little flare of anger. She had heard of Highland arrogance, but she had met few men from so far north as this one—and none as infuriating.
    “I will go with you,” she said. “But that is the only promise I make.”
    He gathered the reins and looked over at her. “You understand what is at risk here.”
    She felt anger sear again. “And what is that?”
    “Your chest of books,” he said easily, and launched forward.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Diarmid sat back on his heels and watched Michael sleep. She lay curled in the plaid on a slope of old heather, sunk deep in the silvery stems as if they were a feather mattress. The green and black plaid swathed most of her, while a few locks of her hair streamed free, as bright and pale as the dawn sky above. He wanted to touch those silky strands again. After she had slipped off into an exhausted sleep, he had wrapped her in the plaid and had removed her linen wimple. He remembered the wondrous feel of her hair, like fresh spring air woven into silk.
    He looked away, flexing his stiff, disfigured left hand thoughtfully, and used a stick to flip several oatcakes sizzling on an iron griddle. He had made the flat cakes from oats and salt that he carried with him when traveling, mixing them thoroughly with water so that they would be agreeably chewy. He had flinted a stone against the edge of his blade to spark a fire so the girl could eat a hot morning meal. And he had been careful not to burn the cakes.
    He expected a noblewoman such as she was to turn up her elegant nose at them, but they were food, and filling, and all he could offer. At least he had not mixed fresh blood into them, drawn from the legs of the cattle that grazed nearby. He was certain she would not eat a cake of that sort.
    A lark flew overhead, its trilling call echoing through the crisp dawn air. The girl stirred, gazing at Diarmid through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
    “Good morning to you,” he said, and turned an