"Where did you find me? And how far are we from the village?"

"Straight down this mountain on the banks of the Valira, four mountain passes to the south."

Four passes away? He wondered if his men thought him dead. He needed to send a message—

"I would ask the name of my…guest." She indicated him with a nod.

He studied her face, noting the high cheekbones and bright hazel-green eyes that matched the green-gold stone at her neck. She looked familiar to him—though he didn't see how he could ever have met then forgotten her—and he had a vague impression that she didn't like him. So why was she "caring" for him? "I'm Courtland MacCarrick."

"You are a Scot."

"Aye." At his answer, he could have sworn there was a flash of sadness in her eyes.

"And you are in Andorra because…" She trailed off.

The truth whispered in his mind: Because I was hired to tyrannize the people here. "I was just passing through."

The sadness he'd sensed disappeared, and she said in a haughty voice, "You chose to pass through a tiny country in the Pyrenees known for some of the highest mountain passes in Europe? For future reference, most simply go around."

Her condescending tone annoyed him, and his body was rapidly becoming a mass of pain. "I'm a Highlander. I like high lands."

She glared at him, then turned to leave, as if she couldn't wait to be away from him, but he needed information.

"Was I out for an entire day?" he hastily asked.

She looked longingly at the door, but then faced him. "This is your third day here."

Christ, three days? And from the feel of his ribs, he'd be another week healing before he could even sit a horse. "How did I come to be here?"

She hesitated before saying, "I found you on the shore and dragged you up here."