She ran from the mist to the clear air near the fire and threw herself at him, planting kiss upon kiss to his jaw, his cheeks, his eyes, his neck. "Oh, Jamie. Jamie."

He lifted her to him. "Ye wear my colors," he said.

She laughed deeper. Because he was emotional and his Gaelic burr so thick she could barely un¬derstand him, she kissed him again and squeezed his broad shoulders. Her poor darling had probably worried himself sick after telling her to stay close to him-then her dozing off for a nap. "I'm all right. Really, I am. You can stop your worrying."

But truthfully, he didn't look worried. He looked dazed. "Ye wear my colors," he repeated.

"Aye, Jamie," she agreed, impatient to tell him she knew who had committed the murders.

"What is yer name, lass?"

"This is no time for humor. I'm trying to tell you that I know who killed-"

"I canna understand ye, lass. Is that English you're speaking?"

"It's me-Cather¬ine. Don't you know me?"

"Cameron, I challenge."

Catie glared at the men walking toward them. "Excuse me, but I need to talk to Jamie in private."

"Who are ye, lass?" an old man asked.

"Catherine," she said. Why was everyone talking in Gaelic? Why couldn't Jamie understand English?

Jamie set her down to the ground. "Catherine, ye willna be rude to yer king. Apologize."

She frowned her confusion. A ribbon of fear wound up her spine, through her stomach and chest. "My-my king?"