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look like a ghost, Miss Babcock.” He couldn’t help grinning.
    Her expression darkened. “You must think me very naïve, Mr. No Name.” She moved to the bed and began to tug at the knot in the bandage around his thigh. She made quick work of unwrapping it, grimacing when she saw the wound. This shot had not been so clean, and was made even uglier from the removal of the lead. It looked as if someone had dug with a shovel in his thigh. Miss Babcock was looking a little gray at the sight of it, and honestly, Jamie felt a little gray himself.
    He took the cloth from her hand, jabbed it into the bowl she held, and ignored her gasp as he dabbed the ghastly stuff onto the wound. He hissed at the burn, then did it again, putting a generous dollop into the cavity of the wound. He’d either die of gangrene or he’d heal, but in either case, he would move things along.
    The English rose was still gaping at his wound, so he grabbed up the fresh bandage and wrapped it around his leg himself, then tied it off. “There’s a good lass—fetch my plaid.”
    “What?”
    He nodded to the plaid, folded neatly and draped on the back of the chair.
    She did as he asked, fetching it from the chair and unfolding it, approaching him as if she meant to drape it over him like a blanket.
    “Lay it flat on the bed beside me,” he said, patting the bed. “Aye, that’s it. Now, please turn your back.”
    “Why?”
    “I intend to dress,” he said, and began to move the sheet from his body. “And I fear your tender nature will cause you to faint.”
    She whirled about so quickly that her braid swung out wide. “You mean to dress ?”
    “To don clothing. But as the buckskins I was wearing seem to have disappeared, I shall dress in the traditional garb of the Highlanders. Is it no’ what the English tourists prefer from a Scot now? To see us clothed in the breacan feile ?”
    “I don’t prefer anything from a Scot,” she said. “I am quite content with England, thank you.”
    Bloody good for her.
    “But you can’t dress. You can scarcely sit up in your bed.”
    “You don’t know the will of a Highlander,” he said, and clenched his jaw against the pain as he eased himself onto the plaid and wrapped it around his waist, rolling a bit to get it around him.
    “Perhaps not. But I am well acquainted with the stubborn nature of men in general,” she said pertly.
    Behind her, Jamie rolled his eyes. He grabbed up the soiled bandage she’d unwrapped from his leg and used that to belt the plaid to him. “All right then, give us a hand.”
    She glanced over her shoulder; Jamie was slowly inching his way to the edge of the bed. He beckoned her near, but the lass seemed dumbstruck. With a grunt, Jamie tried to stand. His injured leg buckled beneath him and a wave of dizziness came over him. She rushed to him then, and he quickly pulled her against his side with an arm draped heavily around her shoulders. Leaning against her, he tested his weight as she braced her hands on his back and abdomen, struggling to hold him upright.
    “Augh,” he uttered as he shifted forward, moving his injured leg.
    “I beg you not to do this! Please go back to your bed before you hurt yourself. It’s too soon!”
    “Never known a man to heal by lying about in his bed,” he muttered. Something wasn’t right. The far edges of his vision were beginning to swim. The salve. Jamie cursed in his native tongue. That witch—if she couldn’t force it down his throat, she would put it in his wound.
    “Oh dear, you don’t look well at all,” he heard the lass say, but her voice seemed disembodied. He looked down at her and watched her features melt just before he felt his legs give way beneath him.

Seven
    W HEN THE MAN fell, he took Daria with him. She landed half on top of him, half off, and had to work her arm out from beneath his shoulder. She put her hand beneath his nose. She felt the warmth of his breath and a rush of relief went through her.
    She lay