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You claiming the bairn as well?”
    Thayne nodded and the pounding behind his eyes accompanied it.
    “I see.”
    He did indeed. Dunn-Fyne saw all of it and enjoyed it immensely, if the grin splitting his beard was any indication. Thayne felt like a salmon: hooked, netted, and then lifted nakedly to be appraised for delectation. He concentrated on the thud of ache in his head, coming with each rapidly increased heartbeat.
    “I doona’ ken the kidnap, though.”
    “Ken? What is this word ken ?” the lass asked.
    “You were gagged. Bound. I’ve decided the why of the gag. With your sharp tongue, I’d have silenced you, too. After beating you senseless.”
    Her gasp was impossible to hide. As was her jerk backward. Thayne tipped his head sideways to avoid another bruising, while tightening his grip on her waist to keep her seated.
    “Your wife needs a heavy hand, MacGowan,” Dunn-Fyne informed him.
    “Why do you think she’s bound?” Thayne replied.
    “Foolish wench.” Dunn-Fyne was amused again. “Now that I find difficult to believe.”
    “How so?” he inquired.
    “You? Wedded? Fair enough . . . although ’tis powerful odd to do it like this. Unlike your brother, you’re levelheaded. Honorable. Trustworthy. Leastways you’ve that reputation . . . until now.”
    Thayne didn’t answer. No one said anything. So the man started filling the space with more words as if they were needed. “I’ve been surmising some things as we’ve talked, though. And after a bit of viewing of your bride, I believe I do accept it. Even if she is one of them .”
    They all knew what he meant, except maybe the lass. Thayne would have to start thinking of her with her given name. He didn’t recollect it, though. He’d have to ask her for it again. The bairn started another bit of wailing, high-pitched and weak-sounding through the mist. Dunn-Fyne turned to listen. Everyone watched.
    “Your offspring does na’ sound to have much strength.” Dunn-Fyne had a sneer to his mouth when he turned back.
    Thayne lowered his eyelids to regard the man, ignoring the ache behind his eyes that came with each heartbeat. “So?” he finally asked.
    “This must come from mingling Highland blood with Sassenach.” The man spit after the last word, making it sound even more insulting.
    “Lowlander,” Thayne replied. It sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth because he was. There wasn’t any way to hide it.
    “Lowlander? Borderlands, then?”
    “Aye.”
    “My condolences.”
    Dunn-Fyne burst into a large guffaw of laughter that echoed weirdly in the fog once he finished. Nobody joined him. They might as well all be stone.
    “Accepted,” Thayne replied.

Chapter 3
    What a wretched turn of fate. As well as being completely and totally outside her control or realm of experience . . . or even her imagination, vast as that was. She’d never believe any of this if she wasn’t living it.
    Amalie had often engaged in wordplays and playacts with her brother Edmund. They’d spent hours together pretending to be explorers, or warriors, or anything other than what they were. Not only did the hours pass quicker, but it was the lone way to escape the sickbed into which Edmund had been born. He’d probably find this entire debacle amusing, if he’d lived. But if he’d lived, none of this would have happened. She’d never have been ordered to accept the Duke of Rochester’s heir’s hand in wedlock and put on bread and water until Father thought she’d acquiesced. Foolish man. He should know his only surviving offspring wasn’t the fainthearted sort. Nor was she one to sit back and let fate deal her a losing hand. Oh no. She was in charge of her destiny. All she had to do was pretend at being cowed and beaten, do the best acting of her life, and then follow her escape when it appeared.
    Such self-reliance, imagination, and courage were her saviors more than once. And she’d have done anything to escape Rochester. Amalie