Ending up by forethought near the stair, we swirled to a close with his arm about my waist. Here we paused, and he made a short speech, mixed in Gaelic and English, which was received with further applause, particularly when he reached into his sporran and tossed a small wash-leather bag to the landlord, instructing that worthy to serve whisky so long as it lasted. I recognized it as his share of the wagers from his fight at Tunnaig. Likely all the money he had in the world; I thought it could not have been better spent.

We had made it up to the balcony, followed by a hail of indelicate good wishes, when a voice louder than the others called Jamie’s name.

Turning, I saw Rupert’s broad face, redder than usual above its bush of black beard, grinning up from below.

“No good, Rupert,” called Jamie. “She’s mine.”

“Wasted on ye, lad,” said Rupert, mopping his face with his sleeve. “She’ll ha’ye on the floor in an hour. No stayin’ power, these young lads,” he called to me. “Ye want a man who doesna waste his time sleepin’, lass, let me know. In the meantime…” He flung something upward.

A fat little bag clanked on the floor at my feet.

“A wedding present,” he called. “Courtesy of the men of the Shimi Bogil Watch.”

“Eh?” Jamie stooped to pick it up.

“Some of us dinna spend our day idlin’ about the grassy banks, lad,” he said reprovingly, rolling his eyes lewdly at me. “That money was hard earned.”

“Oh, aye,” said Jamie, grinning. “Dice or cards?”

“Both.” A raffish grin split the black beard. “Skint ’em to the bone, lad. To the bone!”

Jamie opened his mouth, but Rupert held up a broad, callused palm.

“Nay, lad, nay need o’ thanks. Just give her a good one for me, eh?”

I pressed my fingers to my lips and blew him a kiss. Slapping a hand to his face as though struck, he staggered back with an exclamation and reeled off into the taproom, weaving as though drunk, which he wasn’t.

After all the hilarity below, the room seemed a haven of peace and quiet. Jamie, still laughing quietly to himself, sprawled out on the bed to recover his breath.

I loosened my bodice, which was uncomfortably tight, and sat down to comb the tangles out of my dance-disordered hair.

“You’ve the loveliest hair,” said Jamie, watching me.

“What? This?” I raised a hand self-consciously to my locks, which as usual, could be politely described as higgledy-piggledy.

He laughed. “Well, I like the other too,” he said, deliberately straightfaced, “but yes, I meant that.”

“But it’s so… curly,” I said, blushing a little.

“Aye, of course.” He looked surprised. “I heard one of Dougal’s girls say to a friend at the Castle that it would take three hours with the hot tongs to make hers look like that. She said she’d like to scratch your eyes out for looking like that and not lifting a hand to do so.” He sat up and tugged gently on one curl, stretching it down so that, uncurled, it reached nearly to my breast. “My sister Jenny’s hair is curly, too, but not so much as yours.”

“Is your sister’s hair red, like yours?” I asked, trying to envision what the mysterious Jenny might look like. She seemed to be often in Jamie’s mind.

He shook his head, still twisting curls in and out between his fingers. “No. Jenny’s hair is black. Black as night. I’m red like my mother, and Jenny takes after Father. Brian Dhu, they called him, ‘Black Brian,’ for his hair and his beard.”

“I’ve heard that Captain Randall is called ‘Black Jack,’ ” I ventured. Jamie laughed humorlessly.

“Oh, aye. But that’s with reference to the color of his soul, not his hair.” His gaze sharpened as he looked down at me.

“You’re not worrying about him, are ye, lass? Ye shouldna do so.” His hands left my hair and tightened possessively on my shoulders.

“I meant it, ye know,” he said softly. “I will protect you. From him, or anyone else. To the last drop of my blood, mo duinne.”

“Mo duinne?” I asked, a little disturbed by the intensity of this speech. I didn’t want to be responsible for any of his blood being spilt, last drop or first.

“It means ‘my brown one.’ ” He raised a lock of hair to his lips and smiled, with a look in his eyes that started all the drops of my own blood chasing each other through my veins. “Mo duinne,” he repeated, softly. “I have been longing to say that to you.”

“Rather a dull color, brown, I’ve always thought,” I said practically, trying to delay things a bit. I kept having the feeling of being whirled along much faster than I intended.

Jamie shook his head, still smiling.

“No, I’d not say that, Sassenach. Not dull at all.” He lifted the mass of my hair with both hands and fanned it out. “It’s like the water in a burn, where it ruffles over the stones. Dark in the wavy spots, with bits of silver on the surface where the sun catches it.”

Nervous and a little breathless, I pulled away in order to pick up the comb I had dropped on the floor. I came up to find Jamie eyeing me steadily.

“I said I wouldna ask for anything you did not wish to tell me,” he said, “and I won’t, but I draw my own conclusions. Colum thought perhaps you were an English spy, though he couldna imagine in that case why you’d no Gaelic. Dougal thinks you’re likely a French spy, maybe looking for support for King James. But in that case, he canna imagine why you were alone.”

“And what about you?” I asked, pulling hard at a stubborn tangle. “What do you think I am?”

He tilted his head appraisingly, looking me over carefully.

“To look at, you could be French. You’ve that fine-boned look through the face that some of the Angevin ladies have. Frenchwomen are usually sallow-faced, though, and you have skin like an opal.” He traced a finger slowly across the curve of my collarbone, and I felt the skin glow beneath his touch.

The finger moved to my face, drawing from temple to cheek, smoothing the hair back behind my ear. I remained immobile under his scrutiny, trying not to move as his hand passed behind my neck, thumb gently stroking my earlobe.

“Golden eyes; I’ve seen a pair like that once before – on a leopard.” He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye could be French, but you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve talked with you a good deal; and listened to you besides. Dougal thinks you’re French because you speak French well – verra well.”

“Thank you,” I said sarcastically. “And the fact that I speak French well proves I’m not French?”

He smiled and tightened his grip on my neck. “Vous parlez tres bien – but not quite as well as I do,” he added, dropping back into English. He released me suddenly. “I spent a year in France, after I left the castle, and two more later on with the army. I know a native speaker of French when I hear one. And French is not your mother tongue.” He shook his head slowly.

“Spanish? Perhaps, but why? Spain’s no interests in the Highlands. German? Surely not.” He shrugged. “Whoever you are, the English would want to find out. They canna afford to have unknown quantities at large, with the clans restless and Prince Charlie waiting to set sail from France. And their methods of finding out are not very gentle. I’ve reason to know.”

“And how do you know I’m not an English spy, then? Dougal thought I was, you said so.”

“It’s possible, though your spoken English is more than a little odd too. If you were, though, why would you choose to wed me, rather than go back to your own folk? That was another reason for Dougal’s makin’ ye wed me – to see would ye bolt last night, when it came to the point.”

“And I didn’t bolt. So what does that prove?”

He laughed and lay back down on the bed, an arm over his eyes to shield them from the lamp.

“Damned if I know, Sassenach. Damned if I know. There isna any reason able explanation I can think of for you. You might be one of the Wee Folk, for all I know” – he peeked sideways from under his arm – “no, I suppose not. You’re too big.”