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free, MacLeod."
    "Who sold you this doubtful bit of goods?"
    "Her father, the Squire. A true Sassenach." Malcolm's grimace seemed to convey his exact impression of Squire Cuthbertson.
    "Her father?"
    "Aye."
    "Are you saying her father traded her?" Despite his intentions, his voice lost the restrained tone he had managed in the last few minutes, and rose to a roar.
    "He's no a likable mon, MacLeod."
    "Is she deformed?" He had not seen her, only felt the strong resistance of her thin frame bouncing against his. That, and the violent thrust of her head against his nose. He fingered the bridge of it gently.
    "No, MacLeod, she's no deformed. Just a mite skinny."
    "So you bring her here, to feast on turnips and cabbages and potato pancakes," he said sardonically.
    "Aye, and mutton, too."
    Alisdair stared at his old friend, now only a black shape in the darkness, and tried to prevent his lips from twitching, but it was a losing battle. He finally could not stop his laughter.
    Alisdair wondered later what the hell he found so amusing.
     
     

CHAPTER 3
     
     
    His head hurt, but Alisdair would pay that price gladly.
    He and Malcolm had sampled a few bottles of Squire Cuthbertson’s brandy. How the old Scot had acquired it, Alisdair had not asked. There were some things he preferred not to know. The squire, however unwittingly, had provided the two of them a glorious night of celibate debauchery. Well, it had been a glorious drunk, anyway. Heather ale was all well and good, but brandy, now there was a drink. Not as smooth as Scots whiskey, of course, but still, a fine golden taste on the tongue. In his youth, in Edinburgh and in Belgium, he had consumed many a glass of strong spirits, with never a thought to the cost. But drink, like all other things youth thought so necessary, now demanded a price both in pain of the body and in good honest coin that was too dear.
    Alisdair felt every day of his thirty-two years.
    He shifted, and wondered why his bed was so hard. He slitted open one eye and gazed at the feeble rays of sunrise through the gate. Good God, he had slept in the courtyard all night. He looked to his left, but Malcolm was gone.
    He blinked, flinching with the pain of that simple gesture. God, he hurt. Something was rolling around in his head, a thought that he must remember.
    Woman..... Wife.....
    He'd forgotten.
    He levied himself up on his knees and tried to pretend that the pain in his head was only a temporary thing. Pressing both hands against his temples seemed to be a necessary action in order to prevent his brain from oozing out his ears. His stomach urged him to retch and wouldn't that be a waste of a good drunk?
    He finally managed to straighten by the simple trick of leaning against the wall until the dizziness eased somewhat and he could bear it. He was getting too old for this. He wondered how Malcolm did it. He hoped, fervently, that the old man was suffering in a similar way.
    God saw fit to deny his prayer.
    He heard his cheerful whistle before he saw him, and with a last, stoic effort, Alisdair raised himself straight and stepped away from the wall, hoping that his face did not look as green as it felt.
    "Good morning, MacLeod," Malcolm said, cheerfully, "an' a fine, fine mornin' it is."
    Alisdair nodded weakly.
    He asked about the woman's whereabouts, and Malcolm's response was a taciturn growl and an equally short-tempered snarl.
    "And why would ye be wantin' to know?" Malcolm slitted his eyes at him, and Alisdair scowled at the condemnation in their depths. Malcolm should feel the inside of his head - he doubted his dour friend would feel such charity, then.
    "To beat her, of course," he said caustically, leveling an intent look at his companion. It was a look that several members of his clan would correctly identify as a warning - one that cautioned against pursuing a certain course of action. In Malcolm's case, it did not deter him one bit.
    "I'm thinkin' ye'll be leavin' the lass alone. She should