It was the pain that woke him - waves of pain coursing from his head to the soles of his feet and twisting a vicious, agonizing spiral around his chest and abdomen. The blessed oblivion of unconsciousness was pushed aside by the pain and by the terrible nausea that threatened at any moment to overwhelm him. Alistair groaned miserably, wondering what drug or potion could make a man pray so earnestly for death.

He lay still, even the slightest movement sent new spasms of misery shivering through his body, and slowly his senses began to tell him something of where he was. He was lying on his side, hard wood beneath his head, but hay tickled his cheek and the familiar stable smells of oats, leather and horses rose around him. His wrists were tied behind him, but the careless knots revealed that whoever had bound him believed the drugs would hold him fast enough. A little pale daylight filtered into the stall; even that paltry illumination tormented him and he kept his eyes closed against it. Rain lashed against the building and as a gust of wind whistled through the thin walls, Alistair realized that he was achingly cold.

What a miserable place to die. Like some tedious Elizabethan tragedy, Alistair saw scene after scene of his wasted life playing against his closed eyelids. His parents dismay as he announced to them his intention to study medicine - the poor Highlander, just a boy, dying beneath his hands on Culloden moor as he tried so desperately to save him - the grim face of the Colonel who stripped him of his military insignia in that sad ritual of shame and dishonor - Sylvia's screeching denunciation of him, the bitter words she flung after him as he rode away - Kenneth lying in a pool of his own blood, surely now as dead himself as Alistair would shortly be - a wretched end to a wretched life.

He heard his mother singing to him, the hymn she'd always sung him to sleep with as a little boy. "My shepherd will supply my need, Jehovah is his name..." Alistair wondered dazedly why his mother should be singing in Hell, and as if he'd summoned the demons themselves, a fresh spasm of pain wracked him and he groaned again.

"The poison has done its worst." That was not his mother's voice after all, but it was familiar all the same. Or perhaps God hadcursed him with madness instead of the death he'd prayed for. The calm, gentle voice went on, "I think that you will begin to feelbetter soon."

Alistair summoned all his strength to open his eyes and look around the stall until he saw the woman sitting in the opposite corner. He let his head sink back down and gasped, "Well met Mrs. Carlyle. Are you my jailer?"

"I, Dr. Erskine?" She began to sing again, " 'In pastures fresh he makes me feed beside the living stream'... No, indeed I am not."

She was silent then, but something about her silence prompted Alistair to lift his head and look at her again. This time he saw that she was bound, too and the rope around her wrists fastened to a ring bolted to the wall behind her. Her lovely dark hair hung loose and unkempt around her pale face, and an ugly bruise darkened over her left cheek. "Sweet Mother of God," he whispered, slowly levering himself upright, "Who has used you so ill?"

Rosemary turned her face away, hiding the bruised cheek from him. "I came from India to find my sister, just as I told you. I was left all alone when my husband died. My... my cousin, Cecily, the woman who took me away from the inn..." her quiet voice faltered, "You were quite wrong to accuse me of lying. I was trying so hard to find Anne before Cecily could find me..."

Alistair remembered the bitter words he had flung at her in the innyard and now, his voice rough with shame, said, "I am deeply sorry, Mrs. Carlyle. You have my most profound apologies."

Rosemary looked up at him again and this time a tiny smile curved her lovely mouth. "I thank you for that, sir." The smile faded and she said, "But what does Cecily want with you?"

"An I knew that, madam, I should be free of your cousin's gracious hospitality." Another great spasm of pain shot through him, sending him gasping back down to the floor. When he could speak again he whispered, "I gather your cousin does not hold you in esteem?"

"Cecily and her father, Sir Paul Tillbury, esteem nothing but their own gain. Sir Paul is dead now and Cecily will have inherited everything - but she is never content, never satisfied. Primat, my ayah, who came with me from India calls her 'the snake.' I never believed that Cecily was as evil as Primat believed her to be, until now." Rosemary was silent for a moment, "You must think me a very great fool."

Alistair managed once again to lift himself to his knees. "I think that you are most unfortunate in your relations." He looked around the stall, his blue eyes searching for something that would serve. Finding at last a rough-hewn nail sticking out of the wall near him, Alistair turned his back to the nail and began scraping the rope that bound his wrists against it.

Even that small effort taxed him, and though he could feel the rope beginning to loosen, he had to pause to draw deep breaths of the frigid air into his aching lungs. "Do you know where we are?" he asked.

Rosemary shook her head. "I was as senseless as you when I was put here. But in the coach, I thought I heard Cecily speak of London... that the General would reward her when she brought me to London."

"The General!" Alistair laughed and began to work at the rope again. "How could you be of any possible use to a general?"

And then memory came flooding back - the mewling cries of a newborn babe and the coppery smell of a mother's blood. The dying woman thrusting the great emerald into his hands with her last strength and telling him some outlandish tale of stolen jewels, treasonous plots and a mysterious man everyone feared, who was known only as "the General."

The rope broke apart and Alistair's drug-clouded mind finally realized why he was so cold. He was wearing only his linen shirt and breeches; his cloak, greatcoat and waistcoat were gone. "Damn!" Furious, he drove his fist into the wall. Why had he not been more careful with the hateful thing - he'd sewn it into the lining of his coat, but no doubt that lining was nothing but shreds now and the emerald in the hands of evil, ruthless men.

"Dr. Erskine?" Rosemary's voice was small and frightened. Alistair cursed himself again; she had already met with violence once today. Mastering his temper, he knelt beside her and began to free her wrists, speaking gently now. "I think it is no accident that we are both here, and I do not believe the General and Miss Tillbury plan to entertain us to tea and whist."

Rosemary rubbed her aching wrists and said, "We cannot be in London yet. I don't think we are more than a day's journey from the Fife and Drum and I have not heard any city sounds."

Alistair stood and looked around the stall again. "Yes, we must still be deep in the country. They would want to keep us far away from curious and prying eyes. "He tried the stall door and found it bolted fast. "Someone will have to come eventually. They surely do not mean to starve us..."

The wave of pain and sickness that swept over him was a thousand times worse than anything he had yet experienced. His knees buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto the hard wood floor, his muscles cramping and useless, the breath driven out of him in one, sharp agonized cry. "Dear God," he prayed desperately, "don't let me die now - they will kill her surely - she is all alone."

In the grip of fierce convulsions, Alistair lost all conscious thought, aware now only of the wracking pain and horrible weakness. He spun back toward the darkness, helpless to resist its pull, sinking back down into the miserable abyss. And then, just as he began to slip over the edge, he felt himself gathered into an embrace and drawn back to safety. 'When I walk through the shades of death, thy presence is my stay; one word of thy supporting breath drives all my fears away...' It was his mother's hymn again, but he knew that it was Rosemary Carlyle who sang it now, rocking him tenderly against her breast and smoothing his tumbled hair.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished, leaving him weak and shaken. He lay quiet against her, hearing the steady, life-sustaining beat of her heart, breathing in the faint scent of sandalwood that clung to the fibers of her gown. Her dark, silken hair tumbled around her shoulders, making her look like a Spanish Madonna. How in heaven's name could he ever have thought her plain? Rosemary smiled gently down at him, still holding him in her arms. "I am sure that is the last seizure. I felt amazingly well once it was past."

"Did you endure that alone?" he whispered, astonished that she could speak so calmly of so hideous an experience. "You are far stronger than I." Without knowing what he did, Alistair lifted his hand and traced the outline of the ugly bruise on her cheek. "I will kill the man that did this to you..."

Someone shouted a command outside and heavy footsteps pounded toward the stable. There was no time to plan, no time even to speak. Alistair thrust himself away from Rosemary and curled himself back into the wretched position he'd woken in. Rosemary returned to her corner, but their captor would soon realize that she was no longer bound. As the heavy bolt securing the door began to slide free, Alistair saw the coil of rope that had tied her wrists lying in the middle of the stall. With one superhuman effort, he sprang up, wrapped the rope around his own wrists and fell back down onto his side, trying to slow his breathing and the desperate beat of his heart.

"Well, my dear," a cultured, and faintly familiar voice drawled, "I see your companion has not had much to say to you. I fear you have been bored."

It was the man who had called himself Ralph Verten at the Fife and Drum. His booted feet crossed the floor into Alistair's line of sight. He stood there a moment and then gave Erskine a contemptuous prod in the side. "He is a weakling and a coward," Verten said, "But he has served his purpose. Now that we have the emerald, there's naught to do but kill him."

"No!" the cry burst from Rosemary and the boots whirled around to face her.

"No?" Verten queried silkily. "Why, my little Mrs. Carlyle, have you developed a tendre for this pathetic fool?"

"He... he is innocent," Rosemary stammered desperately. "He has done nothing to hurt you..."

"Oh, this man has done a great deal to hurt me my dear. And I will hurt him very much more before I kill him. But!" Alistair heard Rosemary cry out as Verten seized her arms and dragged her to her feet. He steeled himself to lie still, silently cursing the man and waiting for his chance. "But I see you have been very naughty, my dear. You have managed to untie yourself - that must be punished at once."

Verten's voice sank lower, "You know that I can punish you, my little Indian delight, but perhaps, if you are nice to me, I'll not be so hard on you..." Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Verten pull Rosemary closer to him, one hand beginning a rough exploration of her bodice while his hot, hungry mouth nipped at her throat.

She gave a little, shuddering cry - Alistair heard fabric tear, and then rage exploded in him like gunpowder. Like a ravening lion he leapt into the air, tore Verten away from Rosemary and wrapped the length of rope around the man's throat, twisting it into a powerful garrotte. Verten gurgled and clawed wildly at the rope, but Alistair's outrage only tightened his grip. In just a few moments, Verten slumped purple-faced at Alistair's feet.

Alistair stepped across the body and took Rosemary's hands in his. "I am sorry," he gasped, "I am sorry that I could not keep him from touching you..."

A choking sound behind him drew his attention back to the man on the floor. "This carrion is not dead," Alistair reached for the rope again, "I swore that I would kill him for you."

"Please!" Rosemary spoke at last, her voice frantic with terror. "Please do not! I do not want his death on either your hands or my soul. Please, I want to leave this place!"

The red haze of his anger began to fade. There was silence outside their prison; no one had heard the struggle, no one had raised an alarm. It was an incredible chance and it might prove to be their only opportunity for escape. He turned back to her and took her hands in his once more.

"You must listen to me," he said softly and urgently. "I do not know where we are. We haven't time to take more than one horse. You will have to ride with me, saddle or no. I will do everything in my power to get you safely to your sister..."

"No," Rosemary shook her head, "No. We must stop Cecily and the others. I can ride with you, I am not afraid, but we must ride toward London."

"Mrs. Carlyle, you..." Alistair's protest was cut off as Rosemary laid her gentle fingers against his lips.

"I am quite resolute, sir," she whispered, a glorious gleam suddenly shining in her beautiful eyes.

His heart turned over inside him. Alistair took her hand from his mouth and pressed a kiss into her palm, then held her hand against his own breast for one heart-stopping moment. Then he released her, and made her a deep, sweeping bow. "Very well, madam," he said gallantly, "Let us ride."

Leaving their erstwhile prison proved to be far easier than determining where they were once they'd escaped. It was difficult to know, in the gloom of the cloud-ridden late afternoon, which direction was which but Alistair was nearly certain they were headed south. Amazingly enough, Rosemary - Mrs. Carlyle - still had his cloak, the one she'd been wearing when her villainous cousin had drugged and kidnapped her. He'd insisted that she wear it, but Mrs. Carlyle had been just as adamant that he needed the protection, as she was dressed for traveling and he was sans jacket of any sort. They had compromised by having her ride in front of him, with the cloak wrapped around both of them. If he hadn't felt so miserable he would likely have enjoy the circumstances more. As it was, they needed to find a dry shelter and warm food sooner rather than later. Rosemary's shivers matched his, and he wondered that they didn't shake the horse as well.

He peered anxiously ahead; surely somewhere on this road they'd find an inn or a cottage. The possible danger of their enemies catching up with them paled before the certain threat of death by exposure. Ah, was that a roof line there? No smoke from the chimney, more's the pity, but he could build a fire.

"Mrs. Carlyle? I believe we've found a place to stay the night."

He felt her stir in his arms, lifting her head from his shoulder to look about. The scent of sandalwood rose again from her garments as she moved.

"Dare we stop?" Her voice was husky with sleep, low and soft. Alistair caught himself bowing his head to hear it better.

"We daren't travel on tonight. We're both weakened by that witch's brew and the rain and cold are more implacable enemies even than your cousin Cecily and the General."

He swung down from the horse, catching at the saddle to steady himself a moment before knocking at the cottage door. Now that they were closer, he couldn't see any signs of life. Well, they would have to break in and take what hospitality they could find and compensate the inhabitants later.

To his surprise, the door opened. He found himself looking down into the wide, scared eyes of a small girl.

"Oh, sir! Oh, sir, can you be a helpin' of Da? He be hurt bad, and I don' know what ta do..."

Beyond the girl he could see a man lying on a bed, his arm wrapped in bloody bandages. For a moment, the horrors of battle washed over him, the stench of blood and filth in his nostrils, the screams and curses of the wounded in his ears. The need for escape nearly sent him racing down the road, but a light touch on his arm somehow anchored him in place, a soft voice and the scent of sandalwood somehow overwhelmed the dark memories.

He met Rosemary's concerned yet confident gaze, gave himself a great shake, and entered the cottage to do his poor best.

Alistair sat back in the rickety chair, nearly as exhausted as his patient from the ordeal of stitching the ugly gash closed. God willing, the man would have a fine scar to show for this day's work. He stared blindly at his bloody hands and the dark blotches on his breeches. His shirt had been sacrificed for bandages. He should wash. He should ask the child for one of her Da's shirts. He should see that Mrs. Carlyle was getting warm and find her something to eat. There was something else niggling about in his brain, something incredibly important, but he was too tired to pin it down. He stared at his hands. He should wash-

"Dr. Erskyn? He's resting comfortably now. Come over to the fire." Her warm hand touched his shoulder and pulled gently at his arm, urging him to rise and making him realize how cold he was still.

"My patient..." That had something to do with his important, illusive thought.

"Mary will sit with her Da. You'll be right here if you're needed." That had something to do with it too.

Where her touch and voice had held him before, now they coaxed him into making the enormous effort to rise and walk to the fireside. She'd apparently had the same effect on the chair, too, since it was waiting for him when he got there.

She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and began washing his blood-stained hands. He thought that he should protest, but it was too pleasant having her soft hands touch his, her slight weight leaning against his knees as she worked.

She went away for a moment, and he idly tried to capture that important, illusive thought. She returned with a well-worn shirt and he obediently put it on. When she handed him a bowl of soup, he took that as well. She refilled it for him when he'd emptied it.

"It was a cot like this one."

Mrs. Carlyle looked at him sharply when he spoke but must have been reassured by what she saw, for she settled on the low stool on the other side of the small hearth.

"The regiment was quartered in and around a small village. Word got around that the physician wasn't averse to practicing on civilians as well as military folk. I'd managed to establish a reasonably cordial relationship with the local midwife, even. So I wasn't too surprised when I was called to attend a young woman having a very difficult birth.

"When I got there, the midwife said she could do nothing more for the poor wicked lass and she'd been called for another she could help. If I could save the poor child or if I couldn't, it was in God's hands. So I found myself alone in a cold little hovel with a girl obviously in great distress.

"We battled mightily, the lass, the babe, and I. But when the bairn at last consented to enter the world, it was clear that the girl was dying. She pulled at a small bag hung around her neck. She'd been gripping it during her pains and I thought it held some charm or the like. But when I opened it for her, the emerald fell out into my hand.

"She said her lover had been eager to make enough money to set them up well in the colonies. He'd taken up with some folks she hadn't liked, but he insisted that in just a little while they'd have all the money they needed.

"Then one night he came tearing in, hauled her out of bed, grabbed her clothes and dragged her outside. They hid in a ditch until three men had come and gone. He was terrified, shaking and sweating. He hung the bag around her neck, telling her the General wanted it to do harm to the Royal family."

Rosemary gasped at this. He risked a glance at her rapt, horrified face and continued his miserable narrative. "They started off for London then, but he was staggering and shaking, mumbling and starting at things that weren't there. And then he dropped dead at her feet.

"She was too frightened to stay with his body, and too scared to go on to London, so she came home to Scotland. But her mother had died and her brother had gone off to join the rebels, and no one believed her when she tried to say she was a widow. And she ended up dying in a hovel, with a king's ransom in a single gem around her neck.

"She said it was cursed. I believe her."

"Oh, Alistair." He looked up from the fire to see her magnificent eyes bright with tears. "What became of the child?"

"The child?" He blinked at her, thoughts of his own accursed life dissipating. "I found a husband and wife who were willing to take it in. I helped them emigrate to America. It seemed - right."

"How good of you."

He felt a flush warm his cheeks. "Someone needed to do something with the child."

"And you did." Rosemary sighed and shifted on her stool.

"I'd failed the poor mother. It was the least I owed her - to see her child well-settled in life."

"Do you take it so personally always?"

"Take what personally?"

"Death. The death of a patient."

"Not always. Or rather, he's not always an Enemy. Sometimes he comes as a Liberator. But when he comes for a new mother, or a young person. Yes, I take it very personally."

Rosemary glanced behind him at the still form on the bed. "Is he likely to come for him?"

Instead of answering, he got up and went to check on his patient. He was sleeping quietly, his color was good, even in the hand on his wounded arm. There was, so far, no sign of fever. He and Death were unlikely to wrestle over this patient of his.

This patient of his. If he had a patient, he must be a physician. He felt like a physician again. For the first time in nearly forever, he was himself again. A physician Ü a healer.

He'd lost the accursed emerald and regained himself.