Beloved Imposter by PATRICIA POTTER Page A

said hurriedly. “I am just too weary to eat.”
    The woman looked unconvinced. She curtsied and took the tray. “Robina will stay here and see to yer every need,” she said.
    That would not do at all. As tired as she was, Felicia had scouting to do this night.
    “I would prefer to be alone,” she said with a touch of haughtiness. Haughtiness, she thought, would probably be expected when a high-born lady was spirited away from home and clan. She was not quite sure, since she did not feel high born at all.
    Robina looked as if she were about to cry.
    Felicia was being put in the very strange position of trying to comfort her captors. The lass obviously, desperately, wanted to succeed in this duty.
    “I would like my garments laundered,” Felicia said.
    “Aye, milady,” the lass said hopefully as she gathered up the clothing and fled.
    Felicia wondered for a fleeting second whether the girl had any idea as to how to launder. But of course she would.
    Moira took the tray. “I wish ye a good night, milady.”
    The door closed behind the serving woman. Felicia waited to hear a latch fall. It did not.
    So she was not to be locked inside.
    By orders of the lord?
    She’d felt fear when she’d learned where she was going. The stories of the Macleans were told repeatedly in the Campbell keep. Then she had come face-to-face with the man she had been taught to hate. Not only was he a striking looking man, but there had been no cruelty in his face. To the contrary, there had been only concern for her. There was no sign of the demon she’d been taught to fear, the Maclean who had butchered women and children years ago.
    But then he had mistaken her for Janet Cameron, and he had reason to be conciliatory. And charming.
    For a fleeting traitorous moment, she had thought that prospect not an unwelcome one.
    He was , as his man had said, well favored. He wore his dark hair short, like a soldier, and he had cool, gray eyes. His body—when she had stumbled into it—was hard and muscled, and he had lifted her as easily as she might lift a feather.
    That had shocked her beyond reaction. So had the heat that had rushed through her. When he had put her back on her feet, her legs barely held her, and she’d been mesmerized by his flinty eyes.
    She knew then she had leaped from the pot into the fire. If the Macleans learned who she really was, she would be returned immediately or held for ransom. The latter did not concern her as much as the former, though she doubted the same amount of cordiality would be accorded her, under those circumstances.
    And when would her uncle discover she was missing? No doubt, there would be a hue and cry, and the Macleans would realize who they had.
    Certainly they must already understand they didn’t have the beauty that Janet was known to be. How much time did she have? She would have to escape again, before her true identity was discovered.
    She probably should have wailed and trembled and cried many tears. Yet she hadn’t been able to force them. She never cried. She couldn’t feign outrage when she was at fault. She truly regretted that honest streak.
    There was no choice but to continue the masquerade until she could run once more. The lad’s clothes hidden beneath the mattress, and the jewels sewn into the cloak were her tools of escape. She had to believe it and to make it so.
    A knock came at the door. From the impatient sound, she knew exactly who stood outside. She did not answer. After a few seconds, the door opened, and Rory Maclean strode in.
    He filled the room with his presence. He paced back and forth before saying anything, then looking as if he had steeled himself, he confronted her. “You are not frightened,” he said. “Why?”
    “Mayhap I am,” she challenged him. “Mayhap I just choose not to display it to my captors.”
    His gaze speared her, then a small mirthless smile played on his lips. “I am not sure you are afraid of anything, milady.”
    But she was frightened