If he was one of Pascal's men, she'd simply have to heal him, then kill him herself.

After plodding past the crystal lake Casa del Llac derived its name from, she and her baggage arrived in the manor's central courtyard. "Vitale!" Annalía called for her steward but received no answer. Where was he?

Smoking, no doubt. Over dice. "Vitale!" This whole place was going to ruin without her brother. "I know you're smoking behind the stable, and I don't care just now!"

Vitale leVieux peeked his craggy face around the side of the stable. "Yes, mademoiselle—" he began before he gasped at the injured man, smoke wafting from his open mouth. His crinkly gray hair bounced as he rushed to her side. "What have you done?" he exclaimed, his French accent sharp. "He's Scottish—look at the plaid."

"I saw the plaid," she said in disgust. Spotting Vitale's ancient dice partners lining up to see the spectacle, she said in a hushed voice, "We shall discuss this inside."

Undeterred, he cried, "He must be one of the blood-drinking Highlanders the general hired!"

One of Vitale's friends mumbled, "Highlander, you say?" When Vitale nodded emphatically, his compadres called goodbyes and shuffled off with their canes for hills unknown.

Apparently everyone had heard the tales of their brutality.

"Why would you save him?" Vitale demanded when they were alone.

"What if he isn't one of the mercenaries?"

"Oh, of course, he must be here for the…" He trailed off, scratching his head as though stumped, then flashed an expression of realization. "I have just recalled—there's nothing here to see!"

And everyone wondered where she'd gotten her sarcasm.

She gave him a lowering look. "Are you going to help me? I need you to get the doctor."

"The doctor went north to join your brother's men." Vitale looked the man over, all nine feet of him, it seemed. "Besides, we bring the injured to you."