Highland Honor. Hannah Howell

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      “Ye speak it verra weel, far better than I can speak your language. Who taught it to you?”

      “My grandmére. She was from Wales.” Gisele lightly touched the amulet she wore.

      “That explains the odd lilt to your words. Ye have the hint of the French to your words, but I did puzzle o’er that other note I could hear.” He looked at the ornate medallion she idly stroked. “She gave you that?”

      “Oui. She said the entwined circles of silver were formed by her father’s father, or even the father before that. She was not completely sure. The seven garnets mark the seven sons he was blessed with. Grandmére said it would bring me good fortune.”

      “I think it has. Ye have survived a year despite being hunted down by a verra powerful and verra rich clan. There is good fortune many would envy.”

      “Then I pray it continues to bless us,” she murmured and closed her eyes, unable to keep them open a moment longer. “If you have any more questions to ask of me, Sir Murray, I fear they must wait until the morrow.”

      Nigel laughed softly when she almost immediately fell asleep, then grew solemn as he lightly brushed a dusting of dirt from her soft cheek. She was a strong little woman, enduring a lot, but he was not sure how much more she could tolerate. There was little choice, however. He hated to see her so weary and sore, but he did not wish to see her die, either, and that was the fate awaiting her if the DeVeaux caught up with them. As he closed his eyes and welcomed a much needed sleep, he swore that he would gift her with every comfort as soon as they reached Scotland. He also swore that he would do what her own family seemed incapable of or unwilling to do—free her from the DeVeaux’s blind and unending thirst for revenge.