She looked at the lust in the man's eyes and could see her father's forbidding face. It was difficult to be a dutiful daughter on visits to England; all these men of property vying for the attention of a pretty girl. Rowena couldn't understand why they didn't just pay a visit to a brothel and work through their lustful thoughts that way.

"I've only ribbons and threads," she said, watching as he looked quickly over her wares. "Nothing here for a gentleman such as yourself."

"I think a woman with a face such as yours would always have something for a gentleman."

The words were softly spoken, his English accent now fully realised, but she winced at them despite the gentle tone. He was so typical of what she found littering the waysides of the English counties; crude of phrase with lust in his loins. There was nothing there to recommend him beyond his fine hands. Hands like those could do wonders with anything, be it herbs or potions – or a woman's body. And yet, he had a cast to his eyes that was at odds with the simple boisterousness of the town he lived in.

"You are from far shores, my Lord."

She liked the word lord; Rowena had never yet had the opportunity to apply it to a real Lord, and she was sure it wouldn't have the same potent affect as when she applied it to the upstarts that lusted after such a title. But this man seemed dismayed by the use of the word; his face grew hard and distant.

"I would take a yard of your finest goldspun." He reached into his tunic and withdrew a small purse. He was prepared to pay for it, as so many of the men she met were not.

"I do not have real gold, my lord, but a good interpretation of the metal. It is woven well, and your lady would never know, not unless she was a spinner herself."

The look he gave her told her all she needed to know about his lady. There was admiration there, not the desire for possession that he had displayed towards her. He was in the thrall of powerful people, and he would clearly do the most mundane tasks to please them.

"Then you would be better with the haberdashers of your own town rather than relying on my shoddy wares to win her hand." She lowered her eyes, making ready to disengage from this stranger. A middle-aged woman jostled against him, bending her head to feel the quality of the ribbons that were arranged prettily at the front of the table. Rowena was amused to see that he appeared to be struggling with the need to obtain thread and the desire to stay and admire her.

"Give me a yard of the gold," he said, dipping into his purse. "How much?"

She took a length of glittering thread, winding it carefully around a small wooden bobbin before handing it to him. "You may have it for nothing. A lady's hand should have no price."

He looked at her again, shadows crossing his striking face. "You are generous."

"You are a good man." She looked astonished at the words that had fallen from her mouth. She had not meant to say that; hadn't even been aware she was thinking it. He did not seem displeased by her words, smiling as she passed the thread to him.

The spark that was created when their hands touched made the browsing woman jump with alarm. She looked to them both, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"That ain't normal! What dark magic is that?" She pulled her shawl across her chest and scurried away, all thought of cheap ribbon forgotten. Her question remained unanswered as Rowena and Salazar regarded each other carefully. He broke the steady appraisal first by tucking the thread into his purse and putting it away.

"Is it?" Rowena asked quietly, glancing around her, hoping that the bustle around them would mean their conversation could go on unheard.

"Is it what?"

"Magic."

She could tell he was trying to guess whether she knew true magic; his mind was turning several thoughts over and she wondered when he would speak again.

"Are you bedding down in this town tonight?" he asked finally, seeming to have reached a decision.

"I am. We stay here for two days and two nights, and then we leave for London."

"I will meet with you this evening, after my lady has retired for the night. No one must know of it, you understand."

Rowena cocked her head to one side, her sharp features forming into a frown.

"I hope you are not considering an act of faithlessness using me."

"Certainly not!" He looked indignant, as if infidelity had been the last thing on his mind. "I wish to speak with you, that is all. I have felt that spark once before, with a young man of my Lord's acquaintance. I am not in a position to question him, but I trust you will be a little more forthcoming about this – energy – we appear to possess."

"You know not what it is?" She was amused, his lack of knowledge strangely endearing. Her mind's eye turned itself towards the croft that she had shared with her mother and father as a child; the magic that had regularly tumbled from it would surely have captivated this young man. "But it is strong in you; I can feel the heat of it without the need for touch."

"You see that building, with the trough at its door?"

Rowena nodded.

"That is Godwin Culompton's house. I will meet you behind it at dusk. There is a hovel in which he kept his sheep, before they were taken by a violent curse of an illness. It is empty now and will provide adequate shelter should the weather turn against us."

"You seem sure that I shall appear. Would you be terribly disappointed if I did not?" There was a hint of coyness about her as she smiled at him.

"You will come," he said; it wasn't a threat, but she knew he was right.

"Take the thread back to your lady; she will be impatient for it. Pay her attention while she desires it and she will be untroubled when you leave the house later. And take care, Salazar, for there are others who would take your prize from you. Your honour is more important than money; remember that. Now, go, I am losing trade."

He bowed his head to her in the same manner he did to the lady Isabelle. It wasn't until he had turned his back, and she had become lost in a mesh of customers, that he recognised the fact that she had used his name. And yet, he had never introduced himself.

"You spent a long time selling a wee bit of thread." Duncan stopped by her stall, watching as she packed away her goods. He was tall and fierce of face, a typical MacDonald.

"It pays me to do so, brother. More time spent with customers means more thread sold, and therefore more money to take home to father. Your expeditions cost money." There was no resentment in her tone of voice, but nevertheless, there was accusation in her words.

Her brother's face remained rigid. "It is my expeditions that keep our land safe, sister, as well you know."

"Does that include your long journeys into Edinburgh that seem to grow in frequency? I don't recall many marauders coming from that direction. I was always under the impression that the place was filled with whores and thieves."

"My business is no concern of yours. Am I not here to offer you and your siblings protection. And you did not seem to make money from all of your clients today. Did I not see you take no payment for an item?"

His gaze made her defiant and uncomfortable all at the same time. "It is my thread to do with as I wish. My gifts are mine to give. Have you not received enough of them in the past?"

"Just be sure, sister, that you bring nothing undesirable back from this trip. No bastards or foreigners." He leaned across the now empty table and she only just managed not to recoil from the stench of beer on his breath. How many bastards had he left in unwelcome places throughout the land? "Father has one picked out for you, and he would not want spoiled chattel, now would he?"

He drew back and glared at her, pleased with his power to dominate. This stepsister had proved troublesome, less biddable than his natural sisters. Had propriety not forbidden him, he would have taken her by now and shown her the true power he had over women.

Rowena watched him walk away with a cold feeling in her marrow. He was a danger, this wild brother, a law unto himself with a small clan of his own once their father died. Once his father died. With her ribbons and threads safely stored in the bag she now carried, she made her way back to their camp, which had been set up on the outskirts of the town. The smell of cooking fires would have guided her there even had she not been able to see the tops of the tents.

She had been treated with suspicion ever since her mother, Helen Ravenclaw, had married Hamish MacDonald. Her mother had been regarded by the rest of her new clan as the strange woman from the hills whose first husband had died – how, no one quite knew. Still, Rowena wasn't as tied to the MacDonalds as her poor sisters were. Alice, Morag and Jane all had no choice but to bow to their brother's wishes. Being the only son was a dangerous thing for a young man; it made him feel invulnerable with no challenge from a male rival.

Morag was there now, standing at the opening to the tent, which had been constructed by the team of men brought along to help with such practical things. Her child-like face scanned the crowds, probably looking for Duncan, ready to please him with rough stews and a smiling face. Rowena kicked at stones viciously, not looking forward to an evening spent in such a constrained atmosphere. The remembrance of Salazar lightened the gloom somewhat, though. His graceful face banished Duncan to the position of mild irritant, and she allowed herself the luxury of feeling happy about their meeting later.

Already a plan was forming in her mind, but she wasn't sure she could execute it in the two days available to her.