Heart of the Highlands: The Raven
Author: April Holthaus
Date: 2021-08-01 08:54:29+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Romance; Historical; Scottish
Description: A Highland tale of mystery, murder and love. Forced to wed a ruthless English Lord, Adelyn Scott welcomed death over marriage, but had no idea her wish would come true until she discovered her husband's body lying dead in his chamber on the night of their wedding. As commander for the king's personal guard, Eamon MacLeish's loyalty has never been questioned. Until the day a mysterious woman arrived seeking an asylum and stole his heart. As Adelyn and Eamon piece together clues surrounding her husband's murder, Eamon must choose between his loyalty or his heart. For one path would ultimately le

Highland Charm

First Fantasies

Four full length romance novels of Scottish myths, fantasy and legends

Table of Contents:

(Click title hyperlink to go directly to story)

Child of Awe by Kathryn Lynn Davis

Legend of the Fae by April Holthaus

Highland Burn by Victoria Zak

Just Beyond the Garden Gate by Dawn Marie Hamilton

Child of Awe by Kathryn Lynn Davis

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Other books by the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathryn Lynn Davis has published eight historical novels, the first of which, THE DAKOTAS: AT THE WIND'S EDGE, received nationwide attention when it was banned in Medora, North Dakota, the town where it is set. Her New York Times bestseller, TOO DEEP FOR TEARS (the first in the Too Deep for Tears Trilogy), rose to #5 in its seven weeks on the NYTimes list!
Kathryn has received Romantic Times awards for best Scottish Historical Fiction (CHILD OF AWE), Career Achievement Award (ALL WE HOLD DEAR, TOO DEEP FOR TEARS, SING TO ME OF DREAMS), & Best Historical Novel (SOMEWHERE LIES THE MOON).
All four of those books have now been released as e-books. Her novella A TEAR FOR MEMORY, was released in the collection  #1 Amazon bestseller HIGHLAND WINDS: SCROLLS OF CRIDHE in 2014, and individually in May, 2015. Her full-length novel SING TO ME OF DREAMS will be released as an e-book in the FALL, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product either of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright © 1987, 1990, 2013 by Kathryn Davis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover by Kim Killion www.thekilliongroup.com

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Cover photograph by Michael J. Elderman www.mjeldermanphoto.com.

PROLOGUE

Northern Scottish Highlands 1497

The mist swirled and eddied, obscuring the stars and shrouding the wan light of the moon on the night when the second Earl of Argyll heard Alex Urquart had been murdered. The Earl did not care that the man was dead, but the fools who had killed him—that was a different matter.

Argyll had been on his way home from court after many months, craving the warmth of his hearth and his wife's soft body, but when the news was brought, he smiled grimly and turned at once toward Kilravok. He realized, as his horse's powerful muscles moved beneath him, carrying him surely through the treacherous Highland night, that he had been awaiting just such a moment, though he had not known it until now. Ever since the King had made his startling announcement, the Earl had been waiting for a chance, a turn of fate that would put the advantage squarely in his hands. Now the moment had come, and he intended to make the most of it.

His heart raced with exhilaration, and his pulse quickened at the thought of the battle awaiting him. No sword would be raised, no arrow would fly; his weapon would be words and he had no doubt about the outcome.

He burst into the tiny, ill-kempt keep of Kilravok with the Campbell men-at-arms behind him, clattering into the courtyard despite the feeble protests of the guards. He did not wait for word to spread that he had come, but swung his rich fur cape, heavy with mist, away from his shoulders and pounded with both fists on the barred double doors.

They swung open too quickly, and he exchanged a disgusted look with his men, but did not pause as he stormed over the worn and battered stone threshold.

"What is't ye want? Who are ye?" a woman demanded. When her gaze fell on the Earl's brooch, symbol of Clan Campbell, the most powerful family in Scotland, she closed her mouth and clutched the child in her arms more closely. Behind her, four other women clustered, shivering and pale.

"Do the Roses of Kilravok leave the women to guard their doors, then?" Argyll demanded impatiently.

The woman straightened then met his gaze without flinching. "There's been a disturbance. My father is occupied. Our doors are not usually open to any savages who choose to come crashing through them at midnight."

The Earl contemplated the group of defenseless women. The one who had greeted him spoke steadily, angrily. Neither she nor her sisters had a weapon among them and the Campbells were heavily armed for travel. Yet he knew she would defy him, block his path if necessary, with nothing but her two hands, and those obviously cradling a baby. In spite of himself, he smiled. "Ye would dare stand against me? Do ye know I am the Earl of Argyll?"

"I'm no' blind, nor am I daft," she replied. "But aye, I would stand against ye till I know if ye come as friend or foe."

"I'm Archibald Campbell," he murmured unexpectedly, using his given name for the first time. "And ye?"

"I’m Isabel Rose—" she hesitated, "Calder."

The Earl regarded her intently. "Ah," he said. "The widow of the Thane of Cawdor." He paused. "Why are ye back in yer father's house and no' with yer husband's family?"

"Surely ye've heard, as all Scotland has, that the Calders didn't want me after my husband died," Isabel replied tonelessly. "What ye may not have heard is that I did not want them. So I came home."

Argyll was surprised by her honesty—surprised and pleased. He could not disguise his interest as he approached. She did not step back, but held her ground. "And this," he said, nodding toward the fur-wrapped bundle in her arms, "must be the Thane's child and heiress."

"'Tis my daughter," Isabel Calder said fiercely.

The Earl did not miss the slight emphasis on the word my. He tipped the fur away from the baby's face, admiring her downy white skin, thick, tousled red curls and unblinking green eyes. His face softened as he thought of his own wife and daughter, who shared the name Elizabeth—the companions of his solitude, the comfort of his days and nights away from court. "What is her name?" he asked gently, without bothering to hide the tenderness in his eyes.

Startled by the sudden change, Isabel replied without thinking. "Her name is Muriel, but we call her Muriella."

"A lovely name," he said, "sweeter and bonnier."

Isabel was touched by this unexpected gentleness in a man like the Earl of Argyll, whose reputation for ruthlessness was known all over the Highlands.

"What the devil’s going on? How dare ye enter my keep unasked at such an hour?"

Hugh Rose's harsh voice broke the spell and Isabel stepped back while Argyll's expression hardened. He turned toward the Laird of Clan Rose, noticing with disgust his sweat-stained saffron shirt and baggy trews. He wore no boots and his hand hovered above the hilt of his sword.

The Earl regarded his reluctant host with an icy stare. "Because I have business with ye, and because I am the Earl of Argyll. Where can we talk?"

Hugh Rose drew himself up taller and fingered the sword at his side. "I've no wish to speak to ye, even if ye were the King himself." He noticed Isabel and her sisters nearby and waved them away. "Leave us!"

Argyll raised his hand in protest, partly to annoy Rose and partly because he knew the wisdom of having the women present. "Let them stay. This concerns yer daughter Isabel."

Hugh's face turned red with anger as he turned on his heel and headed for the library. "'Tis my house ye're in now, Argyll. Ye can no' be telling me how to run it. Go!" he called to the women.

"Stay," the Earl repeated, sweeping through the barren hall and into the austere library. He noticed a motion out of the corner of his eye, but dismissed it. His attention was half on Rose and half on the sound of swishing skirts. The women had chosen to ignore the Laird's command and follow Argyll's. He suppressed a smile.

Isabel Calder's heart pounded dully as she followed the men. She began to fear she knew why Archibald Campbell had come. No force on earth could have kept her from that room. Her sisters and sisters-in-law were close behind.

Quietly, Isabel closed the door and watched the two men face each other across the room.

Rose glared at his daughter, growled an unintelligible curse and peered warily at the Earl. "By what right do ye invade a man's home in the middle of the night and order his family about like servants?" he demanded querulously.

Argyll remained unruffled. "By right of the King's writ. I've come on behalf of yer grandchild—the Thane of Cawdor's daughter. King Jamie has named me her guardian."

Hugh Rose stared, eyes bulging. "'Tis a lie! We're her family."

The women gasped in chorus and the Earl glanced at Isabel. She stood in front, the baby in her arms. Her sisters looked stricken, pale and flushed by turns at his disturbing revelation. Isabel alone stood rigid, unchanged. The only sign of her distress was the slight tightening of her arms around the child. He nodded his approval and turned back to her father.

"Ye're protecting her well, I see, with guards half-asleep at the gate and yer daughters waiting at the door to let me in." When Rose started to interrupt, the Earl silenced him with a wave of his hand. "But 'tis no' the only reason the King made her my ward." He lowered his voice. "The Calders are her family as well, ye see, and 'tis known they wish her ill. The King feels there's too much conflict about this little bairn. She's no' yet a year old, and already she has many enemies."

Hugh Rose let out his breath in a rush. "And ye one more."

Again, the Earl let the insult go by. "Ye would be wise to learn to recognize yer friends, Rose. Ye'd be a far happier man."

Hugh snorted. "Ye don't give a damn about my happiness."

Argyll shrugged. "As far as that goes, ye can believe what ye like. But I do give a damn about the child. And I've no intention of letting ye endanger her. The Calders are becoming a bunch of outlaws determined to have their way. Ye can't hold them off if they set their full fury upon ye. But the Campbells can. For our strength, the King has given me her care."

"For yer arrogance, I'll give ye naught. I could kill ye where ye stand or hold ye for ransom, saying ye attacked Kilravok without provocation. The King would pay a great deal to get ye back."

"Ye could, though 'twould be foolish beyond reason," the Earl said casually. "But ye won't."

"And why not?" Hugh was sweating and did not like the feeling. He did not like Argyll's certainty, nor the power he knew the other man wielded. Most of all, he did not like being backed into a corner like a helpless rat.

"Because," Argyll said softly, leaning negligently on a plain wooden chair, "the rest of my men await me on the road to Edinburgh. They have in their custody yer oldest son Hugh and his brother David. Their tunics and daggers are stained with earth and the blood of Alex Urquart. They spoiled the lands of Cromarty tonight and killed the man in front of all the servants. They acted heedlessly, did no' even try to hide who they were, but rode out of the keep as they had ridden in, plaids flying proudly. The King does not like such lawlessness and he has no patience for fools."

Hugh Rose went pale with rage and fear—at his sons, who had grown up wild and greedy and careless. Now they had endangered the entire clan. A moment before he had felt like a cornered rat, but he was less than that to Argyll: a gnat, defenseless and easily squashed beneath the Earl's thumb.

Suddenly, a whirlwind of flailing arms and legs erupted from behind a screen in the corner. A small flame-haired boy ran for the Earl, striking his knees, biting, trying to knock him down. "I want my papa. Where've ye put my papa?" he shouted.

With difficulty, Argyll disentangled himself. Hugh Rose smiled; he couldn't help it. His four-year-old grandson had nearly toppled the mighty Earl to the floor. Argyll held him at arm's length, but the boy still struggled, biting the air, snarling and swinging his fists uselessly.

"Now ye've met Hugh Rose the youngest, my first son's child," the Laird announced. When he saw the dangerous glint in Argyll's eye, he snapped, "Bridget! Take the brat and go."

"Hugh, lad, come away," Bridget said, moving from among her sisters.

"But he took my papa! He'll hurt him. I know it. I want my papa!" the child shrieked.

Bridget backed from the room, the child snarling all the way. Argyll felt eyes full of hatred burning into his back long after the door had closed. It was something to mark for the future, he thought. Something to mark well.

Hugh dismissed his grandson without a thought. "What are ye going to do?" he demanded.

"About yer sons, ye mean?" Argyll spoke calmly, hiding his unease. "I am, as ye know, Justice General of Scotland. I didn't like Alex Urquart. I doubt many will mourn his loss. Especially if the servants are made to forget what they saw. Ye know if anyone has the power to make them do it, I do."

Hugh waited. "And? What of my sons?"

"I'll keep the daggers and tunics, of course, to insure they don't forget how much they owe us. But if ye deal with me fairly, 'twill cost them no more than a small fine."

"What do ye mean by deal fairly?" Hugh asked suspiciously.

"Accept my guardianship of Muriella."

Even then Isabel made no sound. Her face had no color, and the lines between her nose and mouth were deeper, more pronounced. She was rigid, waiting, but her eyes showed no fear or weakness.

Hugh hesitated, though he knew he was trapped. "Ye already have land and wealth aplenty. To give ye Muriella would only give ye more. It makes my stomach turn to think of it."

Argyll was becoming irritated. "Yer sons brought ye to this moment, not I. Ye'd best blame them. I'm offering ye a fair exchange. Their freedom for the girl. Ye have to choose—Muriella Calder, and the Thanedom of Cawdor someday in the future, or yer sons now—yer clan, yer own survival. Choose."

Argyll could feel Isabel's breath withheld, feel its absence in the chilly air. But he did not turn. "Choose."

"Take the bairn," Rose snarled. "Take her!" He swung away, beating his clenched fist into his hand.

"No," the Earl murmured. He went to look once more into the child's innocent face. "For now, she'll stay at Kilravok. A girl-child should be with her mother, with the women of her own family." He wondered, fleetingly, if he were making a mistake, to put so much wealth into such unsteady hands. But Isabel's gaze was unwavering and he thought again of his own wife and daughter. He believed in this woman's strength. His gaze locked with hers, and there passed between them a promise—unspoken, but binding and real just the same. He reached out to touch the girl's soft cheek, smiled at her gurgle of pleasure.

Isabel sighed with relief and her grip on Muriella lessened.

"I don't want to take her from her mother till 'tis necessary. As long as ye can protect her, I'll leave her here, where she can grow and learn as she should. I need ye as an ally, Hugh Rose, not an enemy. I will give ye a bond of friendship. When ye have trouble, send word and the Campbells will come to protect ye."

"To protect her, ye mean," Rose snarled.

The Earl was looking at Isabel, though he spoke to Hugh. "All of ye. 'Tis what such a bond means, man." He smiled slightly, then whirled toward Rose, his face devoid of expression. "I'll have yer vow that ye'll send word at the first hint of trouble, that ye'll use our strength to see she is safe, that ye'll keep in yer head always the Campbell motto: 'Be Mindful.'"

He took his sword and held it, tilted out, toward Hugh Rose. The crusted ruby in silver winked in the pale firelight. "Swear and yer sons will be free, yer family safe. Swear!"

Hugh's lip curled and he felt ill as he reached toward the offered sword. Friendship indeed. When the Earl offered friendship it was best to turn and flee. But he had no choice. Damn his sons to hell. Briefly, he clasped the jeweled hilt of Argyll's sword. "I swear." He thought he would choke on the words, but they rang loud and clear.

"Remember," Argyll said, "ye're sworn to be ally to the Campbells, but more than that, ye're sworn to keep Muriella Calder safe." He turned to Isabel one last time. "And now so are ye."

She nodded, stunned by the feeling of relief that swept over her—the first moment of peace she'd known since her husband's death. The turmoil had begun long before that, if the truth were told, since the moment she'd learned she would be John Calder's wife. She kissed her daughter's smooth white brow. "Aye," she murmured. "I swear."

"Then 'tis done." The Earl felt suddenly unutterably weary. To Hugh, he said, "She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! That's the pledge," he added with a face of thunder, a face many men had quailed at the sight of. "And don't even be thinking of crossing me."

Hugh averted his eyes. "No man would be such a fool."

Argyll smiled bitterly. "I have learned that most men would rather be fools. I suspect 'tis because they choose to believe themselves stronger than they are."

Rose looked up, lip curled. "Oh, aye, but 'tis only ye who's invincible, I suppose."

Argyll glanced from Isabel, with the girl-child in her arms, to Hugh with his smirking grin. "No," the Earl said sharply. "I'm neither blind nor full of false pride. I know I'm only a man, ye see."

He took a step forward and raised his hand. "Because of that I'll survive and prosper while others fall around me. Because of that, I can make certain that the bairn," he pointed towards the bundle in Isabel's arms, "reaches womanhood, marries and has bairns of her own." He started for the door. "Ye'd be wise to remember what I've said," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the long, dark hall.

Hugh, Laird of the Clan Rose, did not choose to remember, but his daughter Isabel never forgot.

PART 1

1509-1510

Chapter 1

"Muriella!"

The voice echoed upward through the tower, bouncing off the walls until it reached the girl crouched in the recessed window of the circular room. As the sound dissipated in the late-afternoon air, Muriella Calder leaned against the chilly stone of the embrasure, tipping her head to get a breath of the clear autumn air. The day was oddly warm for October, and she wanted to be by the river, away from the walls of the tower and the oppressive presence of the men-at-arms. Her heavy skirts hung limp and her undergown clung to her thighs and ankles. Unused to the heat, she had undone the intricate laces so her gown hung open, revealing her damp kirtle.

She moved over carefully, an inch at a time, until she sat at the very edge of the wide window, where she could look down through the trees at the river. She could just see the water glistening through the layered leaves of hawthorns and oaks. As the sun struck the swells of water sharply, Muriella closed her eyes, giving herself up to the murmur of water on stones.

It was the only sound that could begin to soothe away the anxiety that had haunted her since her arrival at Cawdor Castle two days before. Her mother had told her they had come here to prepare for the girl's wedding to her cousin Hugh, which would take place on her fourteenth birthday, a little more than three months from now. But Muriella did not believe it was that simple. She had seen too many of the furtive looks cast her way in the past weeks, felt too much of the apprehension that marked the faces of everyone around her.

She had watched in confusion at Kilravok as her mother gathered their possessions in haste and made their way to the high, strong tower that was Cawdor Castle. She had listened in dismay to the unnatural silence that fell upon everyone as they settled amidst the dust and long-unused furniture on the upper floors. She had held her breath in alarm when she saw how many armed men had taken their meager furs and established themselves on the ground floor.

Muriella had not been allowed to leave the tower since. She had begun to feel restless under the weight of the somber atmosphere that still lurked in the corners of a place so long uninhabited. She missed the tapestry-hung walls of Kilravok where she had grown up. More than that, she missed Hugh and the woods and burns where they’d played and climbed and hidden from their parents all their lives.

She could not help but be aware that she was watched always.

For two days Muriella had wandered the tower, unable to stay still and unable to go out. She had pestered her mother constantly. "Why have we really come here?"

Her mother had frowned, answering abruptly, "Because we were told to do so."

"But who told us?"

Sighing, Isabel Calder had replied, "My father. ‘Tis dangerous just now at Kilravok, and he's afraid we aren't strong enough to protect"—she paused and looked away—"everyone." She added the last word stiffly, and Muriella sensed it was not the one she had meant to use. But her mother would not explain further.

She tried to learn more by leaning against the wall beside a dark-haired, tall, muscled man. “William?”

He flinched, though not in surprise that she knew his name; she made an effort to know all the men’s names. Rather, he was afraid of what she might ask. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to lie to her.

"I know ye miss yer wife and son. Would ye no’ rather be at Kilravok?"

“A soldier would always rather be at home, lass, but he’d no’ be much of a warrior if he disobeyed the Laird."

She caught his gaze, waiting, hoping for something more, but he turned away. Finally she had sought relief in climbing to the room high in the tower where the hawthorn tree grew through a hole in the floor. Lorna, the young woman who had once been Muriella's nurse, was normally at her side, but for the first time in days, the girl found herself alone. From her isolated spot, she gazed through the window at the river far beneath. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she tilted her head so she could just hear voices speaking near the window of the sewing room on the floor below.

"She's only restless here." Muriella recognized Lorna’s voice. "'Tis no' healthy to keep her so confined. If only we could let her go out, she would be more at ease. But ‘tis too dangerous."

"Then perhaps," her mother responded, "if we aren't strong enough to keep her safe, 'twould have been better to let her go."

There was a pause, and Muriella strained to hear.

"The old man is a fool, right enough." Isabel’s rose in chilly anger, "but I am more concerned for Muriella. We are weak and the Campbells are strong. They could—" She broke off abruptly.

From her precarious perch, Muriella wondered over what they said, but she could make no sense of it. What did the Campbells and Calders have to do with her? She had been raised by her mother's family, had always considered herself a Rose, though she bore the name of Calder. Shaking her head, she forced the voices into the background, but she could not make them go away altogether. As she leaned toward the river, her head began to spin with the desire to disappear through the window and reappear at the edge of the water, stretched out on the wet ground. She drew in her breath, straightening one leg, then the other, until both fell beyond the edge of the window. She pressed her hands into the stone and threw back her head when she felt the wind come up beside her.

"Muriella!"

She whirled, tangling her legs in her skirts, to stare into her mother's terrified eyes. Isabel Calder stood with her arms outstretched. "Ye could have fallen…." Her voice trailed off.

Isabel's face softened when her eyes rested on her daughter, but then the worry lines deepened—those lines that had marked her mother's skin for as long as Muriella could remember. Isabel's eyes swept her daughter up and down, betraying her apprehension.

Muriella shook the river from her head, obliterated the comfort of the cool, green water, and confronted her stern aunts. "May I go down to the river?" she asked.

Isabel glanced at her sisters, apprehension tingeing the high edges of her cheekbones pink. "Can't ye stay and sew with me?”

The girl hesitated. She wanted to ease her mother’s sadness and fear, but did not know how. Her helplessness made her heart ache. She did not know Isabel Calder well enough to comfort her. "Please, Mother," were the only words she could manage. And even then she was not certain what she was asking for. "Let me go."

Isabel, who still held her sewing in her hand, fluttered it before her daughter's face. "Ye must learn that here ye can't simply wander as ye did at Kilravok. Ye have become a woman now. Ye must stay close."

"But if I'm a woman, why am I watched like a bairn? Why can't I do as I wish?"

Isabel shook her head sadly. Taking her daughter's hand, she murmured, "No woman can ever do as she wishes, my dear. Especially ye. Ye have to understand that we don't get to choose our own fate. I'm afraid ye'll learn that for yerself sooner than ye care to."

Muriella saw the misery in her mother's face, and it was more than she could bear. She had to get away. Her eyes locked with her mother's, and the girl's gaze held the woman immobile; she could not look away. "Please may I go?" Muriella repeated.

Isabel threw up her hands and the white cloth fluttered to the floor. For a full minute she regarded her daughter in indecision, wondering if she should listen to the inner voice that bid her free Muriella from the tower. But to lose her so soon—.

She remembered vividly the tender look on the Earl of Argyll's face the night he had come to Kilravok. She remembered the unspoken promise that had passed between them. She had believed him then. She must believe him now.

She had felt Archibald Campbell's strength of will, his unbending determination. She'll stay only as long as ye can keep her safe. No' a moment more! Remember, ye're sworn, he had said to Hugh Rose, and turning to Isabel, added softly, and now, so are ye.

As if the words had been wrenched from her, Isabel said, "Go then. But ye must take one of the guards with ye." Her eyes met Lorna's, and she felt a painful band tightening across her forehead. Both women knew that a single guard would never be enough; she might as well send none at all. But she must pretend for the sake of the others who were watching her so warily. "Ye must take care, ye ken?" she added softly. "The guard will protect ye."

"As will I." Lorna touched the dagger in a sheath at her waist.

Taking a deep breath as she searched for strength, Isabel knew that for the first time, she would openly defy the men who had ordered her days, her months, her life by their will. She had made her own decision, listened to her own voices. She shivered at the thought, but pushed her doubts aside.

She ignored the denial in every inch of her woman’s body. Muriella was all she had. She did not know why she had not explained everything to her. Like Hugh Rose, she had pretended she would never lose her daughter. And in pretending, she had betrayed her daughter, bewildered her, hurt her. She didn't know how to make that right; it was too late. But she could save Muriella's life, and hope that someday her daughter would understand and forgive her.

"Lorna, will ye take her down?"

As Muriella peered up at her friend's pleasant brown eyes and broad, gentle mouth, she felt a fine, shimmering thread of hope. She, kissing her mother's outstretched hand. "Thank ye, Mother," she said. "I don't know what ye want of me, but I'll try to do as ye say."

"Never mind now. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

Muriella smiled up at her; the girl's face became vividly lovely and at the same time vulnerable. "Good day," she said.

Isabel's heart stilled as she watched the girl turn away to start down the stairs with her companion. Lorna's hand rested on Muriella's shoulder, and Isabel saw that she was at home beneath that hand. As she stared after the stranger who was her daughter, the lines of Isabel's face twisted into panic. Yet she turned away from the stairway, sinking back into the life her father had chosen for her. She bent to pick up her sewing with a sigh, though she felt the light had gone out of the room.

* * *

Muriella strained under the gentle pressure of Lorna's hand. She did not understand the pain that filled her chest, but she knew she would find comfort in the shade of the trees and the song of the river.

The guard, with his claymore at his side and his bow slung over his shoulder, followed the two, tense and alert. William had been awakened from a nap a few minutes before and was less perplexed to discover he was to accompany the girl down to the river. Still, he had always respected Isabel Calder; she was wise beyond some men he knew. If she wanted him to protect Muriella, he would do so willingly.

“William,” the girl welcomed him with a half-smile, while Lorna touched his arm softly. “Thank ye,” she murmured.

When, having struggled with the rusty bolt, William finally shoved open the heavy oak door, Muriella tumbled outside, breathing in the fresh air. She ran, stumbling, past Lorna, William, and the shadow of the tower, down the steep hill that protected the south side of the castle. Leaves, bushes, and crawling ferns blocked her path, and the bells of the hollyhock brushed her legs, but they did not slow her down. Holding her skirts above her knees, she flew as if wind-borne. Then, as the river appeared from beneath its ceiling of leaves, her face became young again and her green eyes glowed.

She did not see that Lorna paused with William beside her. Together they surveyed the trees and thick foliage between the castle and the river. It was several moments before Lorna turned toward the riverbank.

When Muriella reached the bank, she knelt in the damp moss that straggled in and out of the water. She felt the moisture seeping through the cloth at her knees and listened with delight to the harmony of water and stones and her own desire. She stretched out a hand, placing it just above the water. As she moved it to and fro, she felt the last remains of the weight of the tower leave her. She breathed the air, which was cool under the sheltering trees. At last, she smiled—slowly, exultantly.

She realized Lorna hovered nearby, watching in silence. Muriella sensed a certain tension that was uncommon in Lorna's easy nature, and she turned to consider the woman inquiringly.

"Come sit with me in the copse for a while 'Tis—more comfortable there." Lorna surveyed the landscape once more, then turned to William, who stood at her elbow. "Stay here and watch. If ye see anything—"

"Aye." The guard needed to say no more.

Lorna pulled Muriella away from the river, retreating into a group of trees with thick ferns growing beneath them. As the woman sank gratefully into the safety of the darkness, Muriella lay down beside her. The damp ground, covered by a layer of curling fronds and dead pine needles, was soft against her back.

"Lorna," the girl murmured, "why have we really come here?"

Lorna paused for a moment, then murmured, "For yer wedding."

Muriella frowned in confusion as she stared up at the shadows overhead. She knew everyone around her was tense and excited, but she also knew it had nothing to do with her marriage to her cousin Hugh. She had grown up with Hugh, after all, had always known she would wed him one day, although the two young people had not been officially betrothed until her twelfth birthday. Besides, as far as she knew, few preparations had been made for the impending ceremony. No, something else was disturbing her family. "'Tis what the others told me, but 'tis no' the truth, is it?" She knew her companion from childhood was the only one who would not lie to her.

Lorna took a deep breath, considering Muriella through half-closed lids. "Ye're right, 'tis no' all the truth." With a sigh she continued, "Ye know Cawdor Castle has belonged to ye since yer father's death?"

Muriella nodded.

"Ye never knew yer father," Lorna observed. "I wonder if 'twould have been different if ye had."

The girl wrinkled her forehead as she tried to build a picture of her father in her mind. He had died of consumption just before she was born, and though she had seen a small portrait of him once, she could not remember his face at all.

"I don't believe he really existed," she said. "I can't see him."

"But he did," Lorna assured her. "He had a troubled life, yer father, and ye have inherited so much that was his."

"I don't understand."

"No, I don't suppose ye do."

A long silence followed while Muriella lay still, her gaze wandering beyond the copse toward the castle. She could barely see the south wall of the tower from where she sat, but she had seen the rest the day before. It stood tall and severe behind the thick stone that circled it on three sides, dominating the hilly ground on which it sat, dwarfing the trees and the river that curled at its back. Staring steadily at the dull, weather-beaten stone walls, Muriella felt ill at ease. This was not her home. Her gaze moved back to the river.

Above her, Lorna tore at a leaf until it lay in tatters on her skirt. Then she said suddenly, "Muriella!"

The girl sat up at the note of alarm in her friend's voice. "What is it?"

Lorna glanced toward the riverbank, then toward the castle. She plucked at the bracken beside her, but when she caught a glimpse of the guard beyond the trees, her hand grew still. "'Tis nothing. Do ye know the history of the castle? Ye should, since 'tis yers."

Muriella bit her lip while she tried to follow Lorna's thoughts. Something of great significance was amiss; she was more and more certain of that, but just now she could not untangle her confusion. Instead she lay back and listened.

"Yer great-grandfather built the castle here," Lorna began. "There's a story that a large bird spoke to him one day, telling him to strap all his gold into a trunk and place it on his mule's back. Then he was to follow the animal wherever it might choose to go. 'And,' the bird said, 'when the mule lies down to rest, there ye should build yer castle.' So yer great-grandfather followed the animal up and down the Highlands till the mule fell down beneath a hawthorn tree and went to sleep.

"There yer relative began to build. Since he didn't want to destroy the tree, he built the castle around it. Ye were just in the room with the tree growing through its center. 'Tis the very same one.

"When he died, yer grandfather was very wealthy and a friend to James, the King. Both his son and his grandson added land and money to his original possessions, and when the land came to yer father, it included a vast fortune. Vast enough to make more than one man covet the power and wealth Cawdor would bring him."

Before Muriella could respond to the warning in her voice, Lorna continued, "John Calder married yer mother in order to end the feud between the Calders and Roses that had disrupted the lives of everyone in Nairnshire for many years. I suppose he hoped that together the two families would be strong enough to hold Cawdor in peace. But the bitterness had gone too deep. A single marriage couldn't heal it."

The girl braided her fingers together, holding them over her eyes, looking up at Lorna through the broken pattern the shadow of her fingers made on her face. She knew about the feud between the two families; she could not help but know. She had grown up hearing about the Calder raids, the thefts, the animosity that had plagued the Roses for so long. It seemed to her the hostility had intensified in the past two years. There had been more frequent raids with more than a few cattle and sheep taken, and men had lost their lives—both Calders and Roses. "Why didn't we stay here after my father died?" she asked at last.

"Yer mother was lonely and missed her sisters, so she took ye home to Kilravok."

The girl bent her head back so she could look into Lorna's face. "I think she was unhappy here. ‘Tis why she wanted to go away." A memory flickered at the back of her mind—something her cousin had told her once. "Hugh says the Calders didn't like my mother, that my Calder uncles didn't want her here."

It was not a question and Lorna did not deny it.

"But," Muriella continued before her friend could speak, "why have we come back now?"

Lorna stared up at the leaves overhead. She was troubled and did not wish Muriella to see. "Yer grandfather Rose made a promise, and now he has no wish to keep it."

"What did he promise? And why must he send me away?"

"He believes ye will be safer here."

At the slight hesitation in Lorna's voice, Muriella turned, leaning her hands on her friend’s knees. "But ye don't think 'tis safer? Can't ye tell me what they're trying to protect me from?"

Lorna closed her eyes, placing her hands on top of Muriella's with a sigh. "I don't know what to think. But yer mother and I can't help believing ye'd be better off away from the Roses and Calders. They're greedy, ye see, and ye have so much that they desire. It keeps them always bickering and makes them unwise at times. Yet I could no’ bear to see ye taken from me." She pulled the girl to her breast and held her tightly.

When she felt the tension in Lorna's body, Muriella remembered a conversation she had overheard once between her mother and her grandfather Calder. He came so rarely to Kilravok that she had been curious, and at Hugh's urging, the two children had knelt in the hallway to listen.

"Will ye never leave us in peace, old man?" her mother had said. Muriella had been shocked at the tone of disrespect in Isabel's voice; old William Calder had once been Thane of Cawdor.

"I'll leave ye in peace when I have what's mine returned to me."

"'Tis yers no longer and well ye know it. 'Twas yer own choice to give yer title to yer son. Ye can't berate us for that."

"I can and I do, woman. Ye're all a pack of fools and I shall regret till I die that I married John to one such as ye. No doubt ye drove him to his early grave merely to spite me."

Her mother's voice was bitter when she replied, "My husband is dead. We can't change that, nor can yer false accusations reclaim what ye've lost."

"I will have Cawdor back! I’ll not stand by and watch a bairn—and what's worse, a daughter of Rose—take it from me. I'll have it no matter how I have to get it. Ye are the last who should stand before me and cry 'Fair play!' Ye—"

Hugh had dragged Muriella away then and she had clung to him, asking him to explain what she could not understand. For a while he had refused, but then, at last, he had given in to her entreaties. He told her that many years ago old William Calder had stepped down as Thane of Cawdor in favor of his young and vigorous son John, despite the grumblings of his three younger sons. But then John had died of consumption, leaving only a daughter to inherit Cawdor, and that had destroyed William Calder's plans. He and his three living sons were left with next to nothing, while the entire Calder fortune had gone to Isabel's tiny daughter.

"But what did he mean when he said he would get it back?" Muriella had demanded, perplexed.

Hugh had shaken his head, but Muriella saw the flicker of unease that crossed his face; he had been afraid. She remembered, too, that her mother had wept that night, and refused to let her daughter out of her sight for many days thereafter. Now, as she lay with her head in her friend's lap, Muriella realized that Hugh's unease had grown until it engulfed every person at Kilravok—even Lorna.

All at once, the woman rose and began to pace in agitation. "They're all very much afraid."

Muriella stood to face her, eyes bright. "Are they afraid of losing Cawdor?"

Lorna saw an awful intelligence in the green eyes that held her own. "They're afraid," she repeated, "but 'tis no' just for the land they fear."

The girl's eyes froze. "Afraid for me?"

Lorna moved away, pressing her hands against her mouth.

Muriella sensed that she wished she had never voiced her apprehension. The girl began to speak but found she could not form the words. They were choked off by a low humming in her ears that made her head begin to spin. She shivered at the chill that spread through her body, making her hands shake uncontrollably. The sheltering pines blurred before her eyes, dissolving into the image of a huge, shimmering loch. The water was black and still, except where the moonlight reached across in a wide gleaming path, and the trees scattered along its shore were tipped with silver leaves. Beneath the placid surface of the moonstruck water, shadows moved darkly, threateningly; then the water stirred, scattering the silver light into glittering fragments that shone for a moment, then faded into the blackness.

Muriella thought she might fall to her knees when the humming in her ears grew louder, then began at last to subside. As the trees gradually ceased their spinning, she fought for breath, clasping her chilled hands together in an attempt to still their trembling. She didn't know what the vision meant, but she knew how it made her feel. "I think they're right to fear," she whispered.

Lorna caught Muriella by the shoulders, turned the girl's face up to her own, staring into her still, dark eyes. She knew what those blank eyes and the cold, clammy feel of her shaking hands meant; Muriella had had one of her visions. Once, when her face had clouded over this way, she had foretold Lorna's own mother's death.

Lorna believed in Muriella's gift. There was more to her than just a wild girl with strange green eyes. The aunts called her a witch, but that was because they were afraid, and Lorna ignored them. They did not want to believe in the Sight, but there were many in the Highlands who did. She felt the girl slipping from her grasp and shook her firmly. "Muriella!"

"Aye," she responded as her eyes began to clear.

Lorna attempted to divert her by pulling her back down into the bracken. She did not know how to comfort Muriella because she was so uneasy herself. She began to talk randomly, chanting old legends, hoping to settle the girl's mind on the past.

Muriella listened, leaning forward slightly, but the words fluttered past; she heard only the sounds, the inflections. They had no meaning for her and began to mingle with the pulse of the river beyond. She rose, wandering from the voice, the trouble of trying to make sense of the words. She moved out of Lorna's reach, toward the water, where she knelt on the bank.

Lorna's voice had flickered out at last. Gazing at her distorted reflection in a small pool, Muriella thought she heard a new sound flowing through the water. She turned her head, closed her eyes, and, wrapped within herself, she listened. Her eyebrows came together and her hair fell unheeded into the river as she tried to identify the source of the sound. It began to beat against her in heavy rhythm and the rhythm rose from the water. Finally her eyes flew open when she recognized the thud of horse hooves splashing through the river. They had begun far in the distance but now they were quite near. She fell into the musical pulse while the blood pounded in her ears.

Something made her turn to look over her shoulder. A single rider sat several yards away from her, watching. He held a bloody sword in his hand and his eyes glittered, even in the long shadows beneath the leaves. As she stared at him, horrified, he grinned. It was then that she saw the guard lying half-concealed by the bushes, crumpled in a spreading pool of his own blood.

“William!” she cried. “No!” She opened her mouth to scream louder, but no sound came. Fear lodged in her throat, choking off her voice as she stood helpless, her heart pounding erratically. Before she could force her frozen limbs to move, a dozen horses came at her from the heart of the river.

The thundering of hooves through the water made her turn, her mouth still open in a silent scream. Suddenly the river was crowded with steaming animals and strange men. The sight freed her voice and she cried out in terror—a long, high wail of warning that echoed upward through the trees. She did not need her Sight to tell her there was danger here. The faces of the men who glowered down at her from the safety of their horses told her that. She shuddered at a chill that set her body trembling.

In desperation, she whirled toward the copse where she had left Lorna. She saw her friend running, trying to get to her before the men and horses. Muriella reached out, but as she did so, she felt a sickening coldness in her chest and knew that Lorna could not help her.

Chilled and unthinking, she tried to run, but the man with the bloody sword blocked her path while the other riders moved forward threateningly. Finally one clear thought penetrated the fog of fear in which she moved; she could not escape them. They were everywhere, surrounding her in a circle of gleaming swords. Struggling to breathe around the constriction in her throat, she turned at last to confront the strangers. Another scream welled up from the hollow in the pit of her belly, but her tongue was swollen, useless, and once again no sound escaped her.

"'Tis a bonnie lass she is," said one man, who sat easily on his horse before the others. The leader of the pack of riders, Rob Campbell of Inverliver, peered down at the girl, the patchwork of crisscrossed lines on his face crinkling as he gave her a reassuring smile. Despite her fear, Muriella noticed his thick, speckled beard lent softness to his leathery skin. There was kindness in his eyes, but she recognized in the blunt strength of his mouth a determination beyond her own. When he motioned behind him, a younger man rode forward.

The new rider, John Campbell, leaned down, examining Muriella's face with care, surprised she seemed so young. As his uncle had said, the lass was bonnie, but his blue eyes betrayed nothing as they lingered on the lush auburn hair that fell in disarray half across her face and behind to her knees. Then he turned to Rob. "So," he said, "this is John Calder's heir?"

Rob Campbell nodded. "'Twould be wise—"

He was interrupted by a quick movement from Lorna that drew one man out of his saddle. He did not touch her, but stood watching, arms crossed. Lorna paused.

The coldness in Muriella's chest expanded to her shaking limbs. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she stepped back instinctively into the river. Lorna saw the girl retreat, saw her shiver up and down as the water slapped her legs beneath her sodden skirt. Breaking through the ring of horses, Lorna flung herself toward Muriella and felt the girl clinging wildly to her neck.

Lorna glanced once toward the castle, but she knew these men had been too wise. They had chosen the only path by which they could approach the tower without being seen by the guards: the river. The trees lining both banks effectively hid them from sight.

Both John and Rob dismounted, pausing beside their horses in water that came to their knees. Lorna took the girl's hands from around her neck, cupping them in her own. "Muriella," she whispered, "this is what they feared. Ye'll be taken from here. Perhaps ‘tis even best, though ye may not believe it now." She stopped, glancing up at the waiting men. "It may be many years before we see ye again, and things change so quickly." Her words came faster and faster, as if she sensed that the men's patience would wear thin soon. "The time will come when ye return to claim yer heritage. When ye do, we must be certain 'tis ye who comes and no imposter. Take care." Her voice broke, but she steadied it resolutely and raised the girl's left hand to her lips.

Muriella's eyes were luminous; they mesmerized Lorna with their steadfast gaze.

"I must mark ye so we can always be sure." With a silent plea for understanding in her eyes, Lorna took Muriella's finger in her mouth and bit it off at the knuckle.

Muriella wrenched back in disbelief at the searing pain. For a moment, she saw only blackness. She shuddered, the blackness cleared, and she saw Lorna with blood on her lips. Muriella screamed once, wildly, then again and again, until the pain leapt up her arm, silencing her at last. "Lorna!" she gasped out the name as if its owner were already far away—too far for her to reach. The men and horses began to circle before her eyes.

She sank to her knees, looking up at her friend one last time. Lorna reached for her, but Muriella shrank back just as John Campbell stomped forward through the water, drenching Lorna when he came up beside her.

"What in God's name have ye done to the lass?" he bellowed.

Muriella did not understand what he said. In that moment, she heard only the angry rasp of his voice. The wavering image of Lorna's face was replaced by the unfamiliar features of the man who stood above her. Muriella froze where she crouched, half-covered by water, praying that the spinning would stop and the man above her fade into the moving shadows.

John reached for Lorna, grasping her arm in an unrelenting grip, but then he felt Rob's hand on his shoulder.

The older man nodded toward the castle meaningfully. "We must go before they send more men from the tower. We have the girl and 'tis all we came for. Leave her, Johnnie. She only sought to protect her charge."

John hesitated while Rob bent to scoop up Muriella. Without pause, he lifted her from the water, swinging her up to his waiting horse. John glanced at Lorna once more, his fingers tightening on her shoulder, but when Rob shouted, "Johnnie!" he turned and mounted his own horse.

As the men turned to go, the rider who had dismounted stood watching Lorna, a question gathered across his brow. John shook his head, calling down to him, "Come, Jemmie. We've no' the time!"

Only then did the last man leap on his horse to follow the Campbells away.

Lorna climbed out of the water and stood unmoving for a long time, then she lurched toward the nearest tree and clung to it. She could still see the look in Muriella's eyes, and the bloody image of the girl's hand would not leave her. She turned and retched into the bushes. She had lost Muriella, hurt her, and she was afraid for her. But she was afraid of the Roses and Calders as well. She could not think clearly. There was no answer.

At last she made her way up the hill to pound on the unyielding door. As Isabel pulled it open, the hinges screamed and Lorna panted into the stifling air, "Muriella is gone!"

Chapter 2

Muriella sat tensely in front of Rob Campbell while his arm circled her like an iron band, protecting her from the tumult of men and horses all around. The girl watched the green world fly past and could not help clutching Rob's arm each time the horses thundered down a hill. The throbbing pain in her left hand weakened all her senses until she was aware of little besides the blood spreading across her gown and the agony that pulsed up her arm. She pressed the stump of her finger against her bodice, hoping to stop the bleeding.

Behind her, Rob sat taut, driving his horse forward. Once he leaned down to say, "I'll see to the finger as soon as I can. A piece of the kirtle might help. Do ye think ye can tear it?"

Muriella bit her lip. She did not wish to help him. She wanted him to be aware of her torment. Had it not been for him, her finger would still be whole. But the stabs of pain were becoming intense and she knew she must bind the finger before she lost much more blood. With an awkward movement, she lifted her sodden skirts and worked at the kirtle until she ripped a piece free.

Just then the horse swerved to avoid some roots that straggled across the path. Rob crushed the girl against his chest so tightly that she thought her ribs had given way. When the animal was under control, Rob shifted his weight, loosening his grip to assure her as much comfort as possible. With one hand on the reins, he took the scrap of cloth from her and began to wind it around her finger. The movement of the horse made his task more difficult, but he dared not slow down so close to Cawdor. After struggling for a moment with the wet cloth, he grasped one end with his right hand and leaned down to catch the other in his teeth. Then he pulled sharply.

Muriella sat still, closing her eyes against the spasm that nearly left her senseless. She looked away, unable to watch.

"I'm sorry to have hurt ye, lass, but the bleeding must be stopped."

The girl did not respond, but held her injured hand against her chest, praying the throbbing would cease. At last she opened her eyes and forced herself to watch the gentle hills covered with groves of oak and pine and hawthorn, hoping to distract herself from the pain. Still, every inch of her body was aware of the arm that circled her.

Once John Campbell rode up beside his uncle. As he passed, he considered Muriella's face for a moment. She was uncomfortably aware of the intensity of his cool blue gaze. His eyes seemed startlingly light compared to his tanned skin, dark hair, and full beard. She saw again the menace that had radiated from those silver-bright eyes beneath their bushy brows when he had come crashing toward her through the water. Muriella shivered, sinking her nails into Rob's arm as John moved on ahead.

"There now, lass, he won't he hurting ye, that I guarantee."

The girl heard the kindness in Rob's voice and traced with regret the marks her fingers had made in his flesh. She passed her hand over the five crescents, hoping to make them disappear, but when she caught sight of the bandaged finger, her hand stopped in midair. Already the blood was seeping through the cloth, dripping down onto Rob's arm. Muriella felt a wave of nausea, and when she saw Lorna kneeling before her, raising her hand to kiss it, she turned to retch over the horse's neck.

Rob removed his arm from around her waist and began to stroke her hair. The girl heard noises in his throat that she did not recognize as words, yet she understood the comfort he offered. She stared at the ground and conjured the image of his face before her: gray and marvelously wrinkled was all she remembered, but the eyes had been soft. The vision smiled up at her, and against her will, she felt herself responding, yearning toward those eyes, when all at once a dark mask fell across the image, blocking it from her sight. Muriella's heart slowed as she shivered and leaned against Rob's chest for support. She felt a shadow coming to this man and she could not fight it off.

As Rob Campbell looked down, he felt a rush of compassion for the girl. "Do ye know who we are, lass?" he asked.

"No." Her voice was small and distant, weakened by the premonition that would not leave her.

"I'm Rob Campbell of Inverliver, and these"—he motioned toward the rest of the riders—"are mostly my brother's men. My brother is the Earl of Argyll. Have ye heard the name?"

When Muriella shook her head, Rob's eyebrows came together in a frown. The girl had led a more sheltered life than he had supposed. The second Earl of Argyll, Lord High Chancellor and Master of the Royal Household, was a man known from one end of Scotland to the other. But then, no doubt the Roses had their reasons for keeping Muriella ignorant. He was afraid that ignorance would only make things harder for her now. "Then ye truly don't know why we've come for ye?"

"Because ye want Cawdor, like the others."

Rob was silent for a moment. So there were some things she had learned, after all. "Well," he said at last, "'tis partly true. But 'tis no' the only reason. We came because we believed ye were in danger."

Twisting in the saddle, Muriella peered up at him, "I'm not in danger now?"

Rob's gaze met hers as he asserted quietly, "No' from me."

The girl sensed it was true but turned her back to him just the same, remembering that she had trusted Lorna, too. What was it her friend had said? Perhaps ye would be better off away from the Roses and Calders.

Suddenly Muriella felt very cold. The throbbing in her hand was a constant reminder of the terrible thing Lorna had done to her. Maybe her friend had betrayed her to these men as well. Maybe she had told them to come and take her away. How else could they have known to come straight down the river? How could they have guessed that was the only safe approach? Like a far distant memory, the sound of her mother's voice came back to her. I believe 'tis best if we let her go. "Dear God," she whispered.

"Do ye believe ye were in danger?" Rob asked.

"Aye, I believe it."

"Do ye know," he continued, "that we have the right of it?"

"They're my family!"

"'Tis true enough, but when yer father died, King Jamie gave yer wardship to the Earl of Argyll, Johnnie's father." He nodded toward John. "The Earl has been yer guardian since ye were a few months old."

Muriella stiffened. Her mother had never told her. Surely she must have known. And Lorna also had said nothing. She wondered what else they had kept from her.

"We came, lass, because we've heard that the Calders mean ye harm. And no matter how much they wish it otherwise, the Roses simply aren't strong enough to keep ye safe."

That was just what Isabel had told Lorna, and though she had not heard her friend’s response, she had been afraid. Even Hugh had been afraid. But only this stranger had bothered to explain why.

Muriella's thoughts were interrupted when Rob gripped her roughly. He looked up, his hand clenched on the handle of his sword. He heard horses coming at them from out of the forest. As the riders emerged from the bushes, he recognized the Campbell plaid and smiled in relief. "'Tis glad to see ye, I am," he called to his eldest son, who led the horsemen onto the narrow path. "We'll be needing yer help, if I'm not mistaken. Did ye bring the horses?"

His son nodded and Muriella saw that each of the new men held a fresh animal by the reins.

"Ye're just in time, lad. This one can't last much longer." Lifting the girl down after him, Rob changed horses as swiftly as possible, as did the others who had come from Cawdor. In a few moments, the men who were staying behind disappeared back into the trees, taking the exhausted horses with them.

Muriella realized there must be forty Campbells now. And they were ready to fight should any man, Rose or Calder, come to hinder them. All because of Cawdor.

As the men made their way down the sloping path, Rob's son guided his animal up close beside his father's. Leaning forward, he eyed Muriella, frowning when she moved away. The light was murky by now, but he was surprised to see that her hair fell below the horse's neck in a tangled mass of red gold that glimmered, catching what light was left. Her eyes were deep green and, like her hair, they caught the fading light and held it fast.

"Here, David Campbell!" Rob bellowed above Muriella's head. "Leave the lass alone! She's seen enough of our ugly Campbell faces today."

"So she's a beauty as well as an heiress. Johnnie's a lucky man."

Muriella stared at the ground, wondering what made John lucky.

"Did ye have any trouble?" David asked. "Or did Hugh Rose decide to keep his bargain after all?"

"Och, no! The old man's a fool, right enough. He took the girl to Cawdor, thinking he could hold us off from there. He should've known better than that. But there's something been nagging at me, just the same." Running his hand through his hair, Rob glowered at his son. "'Twas a mite too easy, ye ken? There was only a single guard waiting for us, and him quickly overpowered. Then 'twas just the child and one woman. But," he snorted in disgust, "the Roses were always foolish and oversure of themselves. Ye'd think they'd have the brains to see the Calders were more of a threat to the lass than we were."

Muriella felt as if she might be sick again. Her palms were icy with sweat. Maybe it had been easy because Lorna had intended that it should be so.

"Where's the woman who was with her? Did ye take her?"

"No. Left her behind. Didn't want to give the Roses time to gather their men."

"She'll warn them then. We'd best hurry."

"We've been hurrying, man! Can't ye see that? Ye won't find Campbells creeping through the brush when 'tis time to run. Besides, I've a suspicion we've got nothing to fear from the Roses. 'Tis the Calders I'm thinking about."

David nodded, glanced once over his shoulder, and kicked his horse forward.

Muriella swayed, then leaned back, closing her eyes, and gave herself up to the clamor of the horses and Rob's soothing voice above her. She tried to make her thoughts grow still, and at last her fear began to ebb and she almost slept.

* * *

Four hours later, Rob rode up beside his nephew. "There's a glen no more than a mile from here. 'Tis a safe enough spot to camp for a few hours, and easily defended."

John peered at his uncle through half-closed eyes. His face had settled into weary lines and his shoulders drooped with fatigue. "'Tis no' wise to stop, Uncle Rob. We'd be inviting the Calders to catch us. We'd best go on for a bit."

"No," Rob protested. "The girl is weary, and she's losing blood from that finger. We've got to stop the bleeding and give her some rest."

John glanced at Muriella's pale, shuttered face, then back down the forest the way they had come. He shook his head in distraction.

David Campbell, who had been riding close by, called out, "Ye wouldn't want her to die, would ye?"

One of the other men replied before John could open his mouth, "She won't die so long as there's a red-haired lassie on the banks of Loch Awe willing to win the prize of Cawdor."

Rob dismissed the man with an angry glare and turned back to John. "She's weak and frightened, Johnnie. Let her rest. I could use a bit of supper myself."

John considered Muriella's slumping form. Her hand and arm were dark with blood, her head seemed too heavy to hold upright. Exhaustion and cold had tinged her skin slightly blue. He sighed, giving the signal to stop.

A few minutes later, the horses filtered into a glen with a burn running across one corner. The thick trees offered the men a sense of protection, and Rob nodded in approval. Slipping from his horse, he caught Muriella around the waist, then lifted her to the ground. "David," he ordered, "ye take Jemmie and watch the north. Simon, ye take the east, Archie, the south. They won't be coming from the west, that's certain."

The guard trudged off to take their positions while Rob carried the girl into the shadows, away from the curious eyes of the men. Sitting wearily on a boulder, he seated her on the ground at his feet. Without speaking, she watched as the men laid a fire and placed the cooking kettle above it to heat their dinner. They crouched around the brilliant flames that rose up to warm the chilled, misty air, each man huddling close to the fire, drawing his plaid tight against the cold.

As the sounds of movement began to fade into the low murmur of voices, Muriella found herself staring at John again and again. He stalked around the circle of men, stamping his feet against the ground as if the raw leather boots laced up his calves were not warm enough to keep out the chill. His heavy cloak swung out when he walked, revealing the gray padded doublet and tight-fitting trews beneath before he drew the wool closed with his fist. The glow from the fire altered his rugged face, emphasizing the heavy dark brows and giving his skin a gray translucence as he moved through the wavering shadows. In Muriella's mind it lent him an air of unreality. The only reality she recognized was Rob's legs against her sides and his warm cloak about her shoulders.

Rob felt her drawing closer, as if by doing so she could escape the threatening darkness. He saw that she was watching his nephew—and wondering. "Johnnie's to be yer husband, lass," he explained. "Argyll has decided. That's why my brother sent him to fetch ye. I thought he might run into trouble on the way, so I came along."

Muriella heard nothing beyond Johnnie's to be yer husband. "But that can't be. I'm betrothed to my cousin Hugh. I must marry him. They always told me—"

Rob shook his head. "They had no right to tell ye that. Yer guardian must be the one to pick yer husband. Surely ye know that." But then he remembered how little this girl's family had seen fit to tell her.

She stared at him in disbelief. "But Hugh—"

"Hugh was in the past," Rob said. "Things have changed and ye must learn to accept that. The Campbells will see that ye're happy now."

Her heart sank at his decisive tone. "I was happy at home."

"Were ye indeed?" Rob sounded doubtful, but before Muriella could say more, he added, "Ye were a child at Kilravok, protected mayhap, and secure, but we left that child behind when we took ye from Cawdor. Ye're thirteen—a woman. And that means ye must marry the man the Earl has chosen."

Ye have to understand that women never get to choose their own fate, her mother had told her. I'm afraid ye'll learn that for yerself sooner than ye care to. Only now, as her own stomach knotted in despair, did Muriella understand the resentment with which Isabel had spoken. Unable to force words past her stiff, cold lips, she pulled her feet in tight against her body, wrapping Rob's cloak about her neck as she attempted to steady her uneven breathing.

Rob slipped down beside her to put his arm around her shoulders. "He's a good man, is Johnnie. Ye'll see. 'Tis no' such a terrible thing to be wed to him. And he'll be good to ye, I promise that, or by God, he'll be hearing from me!"

Unaware of his uncle's conversation with the girl, John Campbell paced the boundary of the glen several times, flinging his cloak restlessly over his shoulders. Despite the cold, sweat stood on his forehead. Finally, he strode toward the fire and, glowering into the shadows, called, "Uncle Rob, do ye have her?"

Rob stood up to draw Muriella to her feet. He waited a moment to be certain she could stand alone, then pushed her gently into the circle.

The men gasped as the firelight struck the girl mercilessly. The light from the torch someone had thrust into Rob's hand encircled her with an unnatural glow. Her matted and windblown hair fell in disorder to her knees; the flickering light crawled down the auburn curls, giving them a deep radiance. Her eyes were distant and leaden, but as the firelight moved, they changed to flashing green.

Even more disturbing was the stain that had seeped into her gown from just below the neck. The blood covered her in a swanlike pattern; when she moved, the pattern shifted and lived in the fingers of light and shadow that played over the heavy folds of her gown. As one, the men crossed themselves. Their apprehension hung in the air, holding Muriella apart from them. She would have laughed at their superstition but she was too tired. The last hours had drained her of the spark that made her whole.

Keeping his hand on her shoulder, Rob nodded at his nephew. John hesitated, then came forward, but he paused as his gaze met the girl's. Green, then gray, then black, her eyes glistened in the firelight. Somehow they seemed to weaken his will; he found he could not look away. Her luminous, unsettling stare held him prisoner. He could feel the disquiet all around him and thought of the men who watched in silence, waiting for him to move. Abruptly, he came closer.

When he took Muriella's hand, she wanted to pull away, but she would not let the men see her retreat, not even when she could barely stand. Instead, she allowed him to draw her nearer the warmth of the fire.

"'Tis only her finger that's been hurt. The blood is from her finger," John announced. His voice was strong and deep, but even so, it could not quite break the spell Muriella had cast over the waiting men. They shifted uncomfortably, watching her with narrowed eyes. "Archie, will ye cauterize and bind this for her? I wouldn't know how myself and it looks none too good."

Archie came forward reluctantly and knelt to examine the finger. "She's bled a great deal," he said. "She'll be needin' some rest before she rides again. I wouldn't be knowin' how well 'twill mend."

Shaking his head, Archie began to work, bathing the half-finger in the warm water John brought, before taking a smoldering branch and holding it to the open wound to stop the bleeding. Muriella remembered the pain of leaving her mother, her confusion, and fear—and made no sound when the heat burnt her finger. That kind of pain was nothing compared to every other kind she had learned this day. She opened her eyes only after Archie had wrapped it with the wild grasses and herbs he carried in a leather pouch at his belt.

As he covered the stump with a piece of clean cloth, Muriella looked up at him in gratitude. She did not wish to see what Lorna had done to her. When someone offered her a bowl, she took it without a word and stepped back out of the circle, seeking a tree or boulder to lean against. She felt her strength disintegrating and knew she had to be alone for a few moments. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she sank down beside a bent oak, cradling the bowl of food in her chilled hands.

As she ate, she tried to shut out the sight of the men gathered around the campfire—these strangers who watched her warily and murmured in discontent beneath their breath. She felt completely isolated, utterly alone amidst the hostility all around her. In that instant, her longing for Lorna, her mother, and especially Hugh was so intense she ached with it. Fighting back tears, she chewed fiercely on a piece of dried venison.

John had watched the girl slip away but did not try to stop her. He could see she was too weak to flee just now. Besides, her presence and the strange glow of her eyes reminded him too forcefully of the restless mood of his men. He shook his head in impatience when he realized he shared their feelings. There was something disturbing about the intensity of that girl's gaze.

He looked up to find his uncle watching. Rob's forehead was furrowed in concern, and he glanced often toward the tree where Muriella sat. "She's yer responsibility now," Rob's gray eyes seemed to say. John took a bite of his bread, chewing it with unnecessary vigor. Uncle Rob was right, but that did not mean his nephew had to like it.

He resented Muriella, he admitted to himself, because without her his future held little. As a second son, he could look forward to next to nothing from his father's vast holdings. Everything would go to his older brother, Colin. But then King Jamie had given this girl to Argyll as a ward. Because of her, John would be wealthy and powerful; without her he would be impotent—no man at all—and that made him furious. He owed his entire future to a girl he didn't even want. And yet he had to have her. His only other choice was to take his brother's charity, and that would be even more galling.

Abruptly, he tossed his bowl aside and made his way to Muriella where she crouched stiff and silent beneath the oak. He could not see her face but could hear her shallow breathing. He knelt beside her, his cloak brushing the damp grass at his feet.

She did not look up. After a long silence that began to thunder in John's ears, he said, "I'm sorry it had to be this way. But there’s naught else we could do."

Muriella raised her head. "Ye could have left me with my family, where I belong."

Her voice vibrated with bitterness and John drew back a little, struggling to suppress his own anger. "'Twas no' safe," he said stiffly.

"They all tell me that." She looked up at the blur of his face in the darkness. "And mayhap they're right. But the danger was mine to face, no’ yers. Besides, I know it wasn't really for my sake ye came."

John blinked at her in astonishment. He had not expected this kind of response from the girl who had seemed so weak a few moments before.

When he did not answer at once, Muriella plunged on.

"But then I forgot, ye were in danger of losing Cawdor. And ye couldn't let that happen, could ye?" She was startled by her own bitterness, by how easily it became confused with sorrow.

Without thinking, John took her hand roughly, as if the pressure of his fingers could make her understand. "We would have been foolish to risk a loss like that, don't ye agree?"

Muriella felt his frustration in the careless touch of his hand when she met his eyes fully for the first time—blue eyes chilly as the night. She caught her breath and her hands grew clammy. She closed her eyes to shut out the image forming in her mind, but in the darkness behind her lids a torrent of water rose, swirling furiously about her waist. She tried to fight against the white, rushing foam, but it was sucking her under; she could not breathe. Muriella opened her eyes, gasping, and turned away as the image disintegrated and the roar of the water stopped pounding in her ears. She was not even aware that John had risen and returned to the circle of firelight.

In the unnerving stillness he left behind, Muriella tried to fight off the chill that crept over her quaking body. It was not a true vision, she told herself, but only a waking nightmare caused by her weariness. Still she could not quite make herself believe it. She was not usually so timid. Hugh had taught her to defend herself with dirk and bow, and though she had never come close to his prowess, she was fairly accomplished “for a girl,” he’d told her more than once.

Despite the Roses’s panic, she had left Cawdor Castle without a weapon. In her yearning to reach the river, she had forgotten the most basic things her betrothed had taught her. And now she was defenseless. She, as much as anyone, had let this happen. She wanted desperately to get away, to find her way back to Kilravok, to her mother and Hugh.

Her heart beat faster at the thought. Bunching her damp skirts in her hands, she rose carefully to her knees. She did not dare stand or they would certainly see her. Her mouth dry, Muriella held her breath as she stood awkwardly, trying not to make a sound. Before she took a step, however, her head began to spin and her body to sway. She gasped and grasped the tree in both hands, resting her forehead against the rough bark. She was too weak, she realized, and the pain in her hand too intense. Even if she could get away without the Campbells' knowledge, she could not crawl all the way to Kilravok. She was trapped, just as Rob had said.

A weight like lead settled in her chest as she sank back against the support the tree offered. Her gaze was drawn reluctantly to John. She watched, unable to look away, as he paced the glen in agitation, unable to stay still even for a moment.

Then Rob began to sing softly.

She hadna ridden a league, a league,

Ne'er a league but one,

When she was 'ware o' a tall young mon

Riding slowly o'er the plain.

One by one, the other men joined in. Even John paused, listening.

But nothing did the tall knight say,

And nothing did he blin,

Still slowly rode he on befar,

And fast she rode behind.

At last the voices seemed to draw John in, and he crouched beside his men to take up the verse.

"This river is verra deep," he said,

"As it is wondrous dun;

But 'tis sich as a saikless maid,

And a leal true knight can swim."

As the mournful tune, the quiet drone of the voices, crept into Muriella's heart, she shivered, closing her eyes to the dark circle of heads burnished golden by the firelight. Still the voices crooned their song, weaving about her an invisible web of melancholy.

"But ride on, ride on, proud Margaret

Till the water cooms o'er yer bree:

For the bride maun ride deep and deeper yet

Who rides this ford wi' me."

The last note quavered, then faded away. In the lingering silence, the girl heard the gurgle of a nearby burn, which slowly began to soothe her until her exhaustion overcame her and she slept.

* * *

Muriella awoke and sat up, listening. It was still deep night and she was thankful for the wolf pelts someone had tucked around her. Aside from the snoring of the men who crowded the tiny glen, the night was silent. Yet something had awakened her. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and wondered what it could be. She recognized the soft rumble of the burn nearby, but knew it was not that which had shaken her from her sleep. Then she heard it—the thrumming of hooves in the darkness.

She dug her fingers into the earth and tried to feel relief. These men were coming to take her home. Home? That meant Cawdor, she reminded herself, and Cawdor was not where she wished to be. She wanted to be back at Kilravok where she and Hugh had played as children, where she had been happy. Before she'd begun to recognize the brutal world that existed beyond the soft, curving hills of her home.

She sensed movement nearby, and her breath escaped in a rush when she heard the warning shout reverberate through the trees.

"Ware! Arms!"

Shadows leapt into men all around her. John Campbell appeared from beneath a fur on one side, his uncle from the other. Both struggled to shake away the webs of sleep.

"Take the lass and go," Rob commanded at last. "My sons and I will hold them off till ye get clear away."

John looked down at Muriella. "No," he said. "I'll stay to face the Calders with ye."

"Get ye gone!" his uncle said gruffly. "I know ye can't bear the thought of missing a chance to cut down a few more men, but ye'll have to swallow yer disappointment this time. The girl is more important than a single sword against this enemy. 'Tis her safety ye must think of, Johnnie. And once ye're back at Kilchurn, take care of the girl. She's a canny lass, is that one."

John looked unconvinced, but at the adamant expression on Rob's face, he nodded reluctantly. Leaning forward, he grasped his uncle's hand. "Take care." Then he turned and called for his horse. Kicking the pelts from around Muriella, he pulled her to her feet. The unexpected motion broke the spell that had held her in its grasp. With little effort, she shook her hand free.

Her head was spinning at the confusion of sounds that assaulted her ears—the clanging of swords, the muttered oaths, the terrible cries of death that shattered the darkness. But no, that was not yet. Later it would come; just now she heard only the labored beating of her own heart. She turned toward Rob and reached out blindly. "I won't go unless ye come too."

He smiled while adjusting the sword at his hip. "There now, lassie, ye've no cause to worry for me. I'm a clever old man, am I, and no' afraid of any Roses or Calders, ye can bet."

In Muriella's inner sight, his body turned and turned again in the stiff white folds of a winding sheet, and she knew his faith was foolish. He would die, and soon. The sounds in her head spun faster and faster. She covered her ears with her hands, but the screams only grew louder. She fought to stop the spinning, to gain control of her body, but she was powerless.

She felt John pulling on her hand and resisted. Perhaps if she stayed, if she refused to leave Rob's side, she could change the future and banish this feeling of helplessness. Why had the vision come to her if not as a warning? "I won't go!" she cried. "He was kind to me."

"Come, we've no' much time." John insisted. "Ye can see him at Kilchurn."

"No!" she repeated in desperation. "If ye leave him now, ye’ll never see him alive again!"

Shaking his head with exasperation, John lifted her off the ground to place her, protesting, on his waiting horse. He leapt up behind her, then, without a backward glance, he and a few of his men left the clearing.

Muriella fought the dizziness that overwhelmed her at the sudden motion of the war-trained animal. The horses were fleeing from the dim light of the fire and she yearned toward it. Once again, fear touched her as they rode into the starless night. Hearing the tumult begin in the glen they had left behind, she sat motionless in the saddle. Rob would certainly die, and the others, perhaps all of them—because of her. No matter what they had done to her, that knowledge was a weight too heavy to bear.

Oblivious of the girl who sat silently in their midst, the men rode hard mile after mile. The rocking of the horse was like a drug to Muriella, lulling her body into painful weariness, but John seemed unaffected. He held her tightly and did not relax his grip. She perched in discomfort for a long time before she heard a cry from up ahead.

"Loch Awe, Sir John. We're nearly home now!"

Muriella felt John heave a sigh of relief, then lean forward eagerly. As they paused at the top of a ridge, she realized why.

The loch spread below them, wide, rippled and dark, while the moon swept a silver path across its heart. Along the bank, the trees shimmered with leaves that appeared silver white in the moonlight, making the shadows beyond seem even darker. The scene was beautiful in a ghostly way—so beautiful that it made her ache.

The other horses had clattered down the hill and were beginning to pick their way toward the shallow water where they could cross with ease. The men, excited by the prospect of reaching home, urged their animals forward incautiously. Just as John's horse stepped into the water, the animal in front stumbled, dumping his rider into the icy loch. The path of the moonlight seemed to break into fragments that glimmered for a moment in the darkness, then disappeared.

Muriella had seen it before. She stiffened as the water splashed over her ankles and John leaned forward in irritation. "Are ye daft, man? 'Tis black night out and the horses can't see their way. Ye know how dangerous are the caverns and currents beneath the surface. If ye slipped into the water, we might never find ye again. Besides, ye might have broken yer neck!"

Shaking himself, the man lunged for the horse's bridle. As he got the animal under control, he laughed, calling over his shoulder, "Aye, I might have done it at that. Mayhap I'll tell my Flora she nearly lost me. That would warm her up, sure enough."

John was silent, but the other men chuckled. Their journey was finally over.

Muriella could just discern the outline of a range of mountains to the east and north. They looked huge in the darkness, and their presence sent a shiver down her back. When John tightened his arm around her waist, she saw they were circling toward a castle that loomed before them.

It stood on an outcropping of land that appeared, for an instant, to be surrounded by the waters of the loch. Then John guided his horse into a narrow channel of stone, invisible until horses and riders were upon it.

Suddenly, the castle was there, its walls rising steeply into the night. Some of the tension left John's body. "'Tis Kilchurn," he whispered. "We're home."

To Muriella it looked dark and gloomy—a cold prison. The chill reached out to enfold her. "Yer home," she said, "not mine. Ye've taken that away from me and well ye know it."

She felt him stiffen as if she had struck him. He removed his arm from around her waist, slapping his horse's side as he did so. She could feel his anger in the labored rise and fall of his breath, but he did not answer. There was nothing he could say.

They moved in silence over the drawbridge and into the still courtyard.

Chapter 3

The men who sprawled on piles of hay at the edges of the courtyard heard a shout that woke them from their sleep. Then the gate began to rise, squealing and scraping as it hit the stone walls. The men shook their heads to clear the drowsiness away and stumbled through the darkness, groping for torches. As the clatter of hooves on cobbles filled the enclosure, each man lit his torch and, holding it high over his head, moved to take the reins that were tossed in all directions from the necks of panting horses.

In contrast to the men who had just awakened, who moved numbly about their tasks, the ones who rode under the gate laughed and called noisy salutations. Except for John. As he slid from his horse, peering through the melee of foaming, stamping animals and exhausted men, he remained grimly silent. The first person he recognized in the fitful light of the torches was Duncan, his squire.

"M'lord?" The young man glanced at the girl still huddled on the horse's back. "Is that her?"

John waved the question away. Turning his back on Duncan's curiosity, the older man continued searching for a particular face. "Is Richard Campbell here?"

"Aye. He couldn't sleep, he said. Thought ye might need him, though I couldn't see why ye should."

Duncan realized his cousin was not listening. The young squire noticed for the first time that John's shoulders sagged and his face was haggard. "M'lord—"

"Richard!" John shouted.

Responding to the cry, a tall man with dark red hair shoved a sleepy groom aside. He was followed by a younger version of himself, except the hair was brighter and the face covered with freckles.

"Was there trouble?" Richard asked. "I told Andrew here 'twouldn't go well, but he only laughed."

"Aye, well I'm glad to see ye're awake.'" John grasped Richard's hand in relief. "I need ye to go back. Uncle Rob is still there with most of the men. I wouldn't even know how many of the enemy there were. But I want ye to take as many men as ye can gather. Donald will tell ye where."

"Aye, m'lord. We'll be gone before ye look behind ye." Dragging his brother by the arm, Richard moved away. "What did I tell ye?" he called. "Didn't I say there'd be trouble?"

"So ye did," Andrew grumbled sleepily. "But ye need no' shout in m'ear. I can hear ye well enough, man. See to yer men instead o' yer gloatin'."

John watched them go, then turned to consider Muriella where she sat unmoving on his horse's back. He noticed a groom hovered at the animal's head, grasping the reins uncertainly. Even Duncan seemed to be waiting. He felt a sudden impulse to simply turn and leave her, but his common sense won out over his weary frustration. He reached for the girl to lift her from the saddle and set her on the ground, where she swayed for a moment, then drew herself upright.

Muriella looked at him, her eyes glassy green, but behind the surface he saw a violent spark of fear—or was it fury? At the moment, he was too weary to care which. Besides, his mind was back in that glen with his uncle and the other men. "Duncan," he called, motioning the squire forward. "See to the girl while I collect my wits." He started away, then added as an afterthought, "Don't let her out of yer sight, ye ken?"

"Aye." As his cousin turned to go, Duncan touched his arm. "Colin's here. He rode in this morning. Told us to wake him as soon as ye returned."

John shook his head at the thought of facing his older brother now. At the best of times, Colin and he were no more than uneasy allies, and tonight John was not in the mood to swallow his brother's bitter humor. He moved toward the hall with reluctance, but the thought of meat and ale was too great a temptation to ignore.

Duncan watched his cousin go with concern. ‘Twill no’ be a pleasant night, he thought, remembering Colin's annoyance at having missed the chance to join the ride to Cawdor. "The hunt," he had called it. Not until John disappeared into the hall did the squire turn to Muriella.

Her shoulders were drooping and she seemed small and frail in the unflattering light of the torches. His eyes narrowed against the yellow glare, Duncan lifted her chin with his forefinger so he could see her more clearly. Her skin was pale and there were shadows under her eyes and along her cheeks. Her lids were lowered, but as he stared down at her, she glanced up. He saw weariness and a kind of hopeless resignation in her gaze that tore at his heart.

Duncan took a deep breath, released it slowly. For a moment he was silent, held by her gaze, then she looked away. "So ye're the Calder girl," he mumbled, turning her in the direction John had taken.

"Aye."

"They didn't say ye were so bonnie."

Muriella was grateful he could not see the grief that welled within her at those words. Hugh had said the same thing every time she braided her hair and put on a fresh gown—as if he were seeing her for the first time. Just now the memory was painfully vivid.

Her silence made Duncan uneasy. "I suppose yer uncles will be coming to Kilchurn soon to try to take ye back."

She whirled. "They won't. They're too afraid of the Campbells. Mayhap not a few in the woods, but they won't dare to come here." As she said it, she realized it was true and her despair deepened. Without another word, she turned to step through the blackened hole of the doorway and into the vast hall.

A fire burned in the fireplace along the far wall, and several torches guttered in their sconces against the rough-hewn stone, but the light was too dim to destroy the shadows that played about the vaulted, cave-like room. Most of the men were already seated around the rows of trestle tables strung across the uneven stone floor.

Muriella's gaze swept over the Campbells. The heavily armed military force had melted into weak and haggard puppets with their heads cradled against the tables on which they rested; their exhaustion had finally overtaken them. Even John.

He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, his face white except where the shadows had settled around his eyes and between his nose and mouth; even his heavy beard could not disguise his pallor. His dark hair was in disarray where he had pushed it back from his forehead, and his eyes were cloudy gray. He sat glowering at the pitted tabletop in silence.

As Muriella paused in the doorway, apparently unnoticed, young women began to appear from the kitchens with thick slabs of bread, cold meat and ale. Nudged out of their lethargy, the men ignored their aching muscles and concentrated instead on filling their stomachs. No one glanced at Muriella or spoke to her or asked her to sit down. For the first time, her weariness retreated behind a wave of anger. It was followed by the same intense loneliness that had overwhelmed her earlier. The Campbells had taken her but did not want to care for her. They made no offer of food or shelter or even a tankard of mulled wine.

A commotion at the top of the stairs drew Muriella's attention away from her own numb misery. A tall man stood laughing, a servant girl fluttering about him. He was fastening his robe, and his blue eyes glimmered when they rested on the girl at his side. Slapping her on the behind, he called, "Get me some ale, lass. 'Tis time to celebrate!"

The girl scurried down the stairs and off to the kitchen while the man followed more slowly. Considering the occupants of the hall with interest, he located John, who stood up. "Ho! Johnnie! Ye've got the lass then?" Running his hand through his sandy hair, he strode forward. "Well, bring her!" he demanded. "Let's have a look."

John squinted across the room at Duncan and the girl. When his cousin nodded, Duncan took Muriella's arm gingerly, as if he were afraid of hurting her. She wanted to stand on her own, but wasn't certain she could move without his support. Her attention focused on Colin's flushed face, she managed to cross the hall without stumbling. When she stood before the brothers, Duncan released her. Muriella thought she would fall, but Colin caught both her hands in one of his while accepting a tankard of ale with the other. She winced at the pain as his fingers closed around her makeshift bandage.

"So," he muttered, lifting the tankard to his lips. Above the rim, he looked the girl up and down. He grimaced at the sight of her pallid face, untidy hair, and bloody, rumpled gown. "Ye're a bit of a mess, gurrl. Johnnie, didn't ye take care of her?" He swung the tankard up again, tilting it so the ale streamed into his mouth, then released Muriella without another glance.

Her stomach churned with fury at his careless treatment, at the way John looked away as if she were merely a shadow in the background. Or was the rage only nausea from the throbbing pain? Either way she swore she would maintain her dignity; she would not let them know they had upset her. She pressed her lips together and made no sound as Colin turned to his brother to ask, "Where are Uncle Rob and the others?"

John sank back onto his bench. "There was trouble," he muttered. "Uncle Rob sent us away, the girl and me. He stayed to keep the Calders back. Or mayhap 'twas the Roses. I don't know which. I can't even tell ye how many there were. I've sent Richard and Andrew to gather some men and go back, though 'tis probably too late." He scrutinized with great concentration the half-empty tankard on the table before him.

"'Twould have been wiser to stay and fight the bastards," a man near John mumbled. "Och, but then, 'twas safer to slip away in the night, wasn't it? Or mayhap ye were just afraid—"

Before anyone could stop him, John rose abruptly and, dragging the man up by the collar, struck him across the jaw with a clenched fist.

"Leave him be," Colin shouted as he pulled his brother away from the stunned man. "We don't need any more trouble tonight."

John faced his brother furiously. "No man calls me a coward!"

"How about a fool?" Colin suggested. "The Calders are a cheatin' bunch of bastards and likely to be swarming over the hills to Kilchurn any minute now. We need every man we can get to hold them off, little brother, yet ye knock one about as if he were of no use at all. Think before ye act, why don't ye?"

John felt the rage flaring within him and struggled to regain control. Then he looked up to see Muriella watching him, her expression an accusation without words. He felt a flash of guilt for having left his uncle, and that only made his anger worse. He’d had no choice; it was for her sake he had agreed to go at all. So why did she stand there looking at him that way?

At last Muriella dropped her gaze when she began to shake with spasms of freezing numbness and fatigue as well as the endless pulsing pain. She grasped the back of a chair, standing upright with difficulty, her face rigid with the effort to disguise her trembling.

Duncan tapped his cousin on the shoulder. "The girl is cold," he said. "And I think—surely she's been wounded?"

John took a deep, shuddering breath. He was so weary, so concerned about his uncle's fate, that he had actually forgotten Muriella's needs. She was shivering. It seemed he could do nothing right tonight, not even care for his future bride. He frowned, motioning over his shoulder to a servant. When the girl approached, he told her, "Megan, take her to Elizabeth's old room. Give her clothes—Elizabeth's will do till tomorrow—and a hot bath if ye can manage it. I don't want to see her again tonight. And Megan"—he paused—"don't hurt her, but watch her close. Ye understand?"

"Aye, m'lord."

In silence, Megan led Muriella along the rows of men, who kept their gazes fixed on their food. As the girls mounted the stairs, the servant called for hot water and a tub to be brought. Several others scattered to arrange it.

Muriella followed the servant, but a thick fog had invaded her mind and she functioned only well enough to force herself upward, one worn stone step at a time.

She was not aware of Megan stripping her soiled dress from her, nor of the fire that leapt up the blackened stone in an attempt to warm the cold room in which she stood. She was not aware that the servant kept tactfully silent about her blood-stained clothing and heavy bandage.

Consciousness crept back as she sank into a wooden tub and the heat crawled up and down her body with sharply probing fingers. Pains began to run over her back and thighs, but she preferred the physical discomfort to her memories of the past several hours. Her finger throbbed. She cradled her mangled hand and would not let Megan touch it.

The servant eyed Muriella in concern as she leaned back in the water. "Are ye all right, miss? Ye're very gray around the edges."

Muriella closed her eyes briefly saw only blackness there, and opened them. "I'm all right."

"Well, then, 'tis awful glad I am to hear that. For ye ken, I think Sir John means for me to stay with ye. And 'twould be much more pleasant than servin' in the kitchen." As she talked, she rinsed Muriella's shoulders and worked the worst of the soil out of her long, dripping hair. "'Tis a bitter night for a long ride, isn't it? Too cold for the wolves, let alone a poor lassie like ye. I don't know what they're thinkin', draggin' ye all over the Highlands without even a cloak. 'Tis disgraceful."

Megan's chatter reawakened Muriella's sleeping senses until she became aware of the touch of the cooling water on her bare skin. She sat up, wondering if she could get out of the tub on her own. But she need not have worried. The servant knelt and lifted her from under the arms. Although Megan was only fourteen and her body was small, she was wiry and quite strong. Muriella felt she could not even lift her hand, but soon she was standing on a soft fur rug beside the tub. She did not move, but stared before her at the shadows that crept up the walls and fluttered in the corners, while Megan threw a linen towel about her body and began to rub vigorously.

When she was dry, the servant handed her a robe. Muriella slipped her arms into the sleeves, surprised to find they were warm. The robe must have been hanging near the fire. She pulled it close around her, seeking to draw the warmth into her chilled body.

"Ye'd best let me comb out the tangles tonight or we'll be havin' a devil of a time tomorrow," Megan declared. Before Muriella could protest, the servant pulled a low stool forward, motioning her to take a seat.

Muriella was hardly aware of Megan's brisk ministrations. She was conscious only of a deep pain that started in her belly and spread through her body until it reached her throat. She thought of Rob Campbell, saw the glitter of a sword slashing through the darkness, and cried out as she buried her face in her hands.

"Miss?" the servant murmured tremulously.

Muriella shook her head, motioning for Megan to continue. The servant found it difficult to keep her fingers steady as she worked the comb through the tangles. She could not forget that single anguished cry. Yet she dared not ask what it meant. When at last she was finished, she moved away quickly. "There ye are, miss. The bed is all ready for ye. I thought ye might be weary."

Muriella nodded, then rose, turning toward the bed that dominated the room. She pushed the heavy curtains aside and climbed up onto the mattress, moving awkwardly because she could not seem to make her muscles work as they should. At last she crawled under the furs and rough linen sheet and stretched her feet toward the warming pan.

Before she closed her eyes, she looked up at Megan, who hovered beside her. Surprisingly, Muriella gave her a half smile. "Thank ye," she said.

The servant blinked. "Och, ye're surely welcome, miss. Are ye really all right, then?" When Muriella nodded, Megan crept away to blow out the candles on the rosewood chest in the corner. Moving quietly, she went to a small pallet against the far wall. "Good night, miss."

Muriella closed her eyes with a sigh. Eventually, the pain inside eased a little as the darkness washed over her in waves. At last she slept.

* * *

In her dream she was a child again at Kilravok. Her long braids hung over her shoulders, and as she ran, she enjoyed the swinging weight of her hair against her back. She slipped into the woods with the cool breeze on her face, seeking out the shadows where she could conceal herself from Hugh. She heard him coming, heard the low, teasing note in his voice when he called her name. Smiling, she turned away from the overgrown path.

"Ye know I'll find ye," he called. "I always do."

Now he was so close she could hear his light footfalls and see his flaming red hair. Muriella held her breath. Pressing close to the trunk of a gnarled oak, she watched him duck beneath the trailing leaves, calling softly, "Muriella."

All at once, he was gone, enfolded by the moving shadows. She could no longer hear the crunch of twigs beneath his feet. Muriella waited a moment more, then crept from behind the tree to follow the path Hugh had taken. But before she had gone far, she heard his shout of triumph as he came up behind her and grasped her shoulder. "Ye see," he cried, "ye can't escape me no matter where ye hide." He wound his hands in her hair, tugging so she turned to face him, tangling them both in her heavy braids. They held each other and swayed and laughed until the sound echoed upward through the cool, dark woods.

* * *

Muriella awoke smiling and burrowed deeper into the feather mattress strewn with heavy furs. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar darkness, unwilling to relinquish the pleasant memory of the dream. For a long time, she lay still, listening, while her smile faded and the night silence took the place of remembered laughter. She looked around the room, but saw nothing beyond the wavering shadows the fire cast over her bed. After several moments she realized a commotion outside had awakened her. She sat up, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart beginning to pound. In an instant, Megan stood beside her, rubbing her eyes with curled fingers.

"What is it, miss?"

Muriella waited for the servant's dark shape to come into focus, then asked in a trembling whisper, "Could ye go to the hall and see if aught is going on down there? I need to know. I think—could ye?"

"Aye, miss, if ye'd like me to." The servant moved toward the nearest chest, struck a light, and held it to one of the pewter candlesticks. Then she picked up her robe and threw it around her shoulders. With her hand on the latch, she stopped to look at Muriella. Her mistress's eyes glimmered incandescent green in the half darkness, lighting her face with alarm and some terrible knowledge. Megan stood paralyzed.

"Please," Muriella cried.

Forced into motion by the sound of that anguished voice, Megan bent her knees briefly before she turned to go, the candle flame dancing wildly in her hand. She disappeared into the gloom of the hall.

At the top of the stairs she stopped, peering over the balustrade into the Great Hall. It was empty now except for Sir John and Duncan and a bloody stranger, who stood with his back toward the girl. The fire had died down and most of the torches were out, so that the hall was unusually dark. A spluttering oil lamp sat before John, creating an island of wavering light in the midst of the chilly darkness.

His eyes narrowed in concentration, John looked up at the other man, who stood just within the range of the pitiful light. "Well, David?" The pulse in his throat throbbed rhythmically.

Megan shivered as she crept down the stairs. When she reached the foot, she sat behind the heavy carved balustrade, her fingers locked around the cool wood, rubbed smooth by the touch of many hands.

Below her, David Campbell moved forward a few steps and turned. As he raised his arm, pain whipped his mouth into an ugly scowl. He tried to touch John's hand but could not quite reach it.

"Well?" John demanded again.

"Dead, m'lord," David muttered. "All dead." He sat down abruptly, as if he could no longer stand, while Duncan grasped John's shoulder firmly.

"Jemmie said there were no more than ten, coming from the north, so we were aye certain we could hold them off. But the bastards came from the east and south as well, forty or more altogether. They must have gotten to Sim and Archie before they could warn us.

"My father had to think quickly. He wanted to give ye time to get well away. So he had us turn the cooking pot upside down and form a ring around it." He smiled grimly. "To make them think the lass was inside, ye see, so they'd no' go chasin' after ye." His smile faded. "It worked. They surrounded us, and we protected that burned out pot as if the girl and all our fortunes too were underneath." He choked and struggled to go on.

"When they got to the center, when every man in the ring lay dead, they turned the pot over with a shout of triumph, only to find it empty." In spite of the remembered horror of watching his father and brothers die, in spite of his own pain and weariness and despair, he could not keep a flicker of satisfaction from his voice. "The Calders were fair full of fury, but by then 'twas too late. Ye were far away."

He paused, gasping for breath, his skin deathly pale. "I was only wounded, but I suppose they couldn't see that in the darkness. They left me for dead. After they'd gone, I found a horse they'd left behind and came here." His voice shook more with each word until the last came out as a groan.

"Didn't ye see Richard and the others on the way to Kilchurn?"

"I saw no one. But had I seen them, I might have killed two or three before I realized who they were. I'm a bit jumpy." David paused to shake his head. "I've never seen so much blood—my father's, my brothers', everyone's." Laying his head on the table, he clenched his teeth against the pain.

Megan wrapped her arms around her trembling knees, rocking back and forth in her hiding place. She bit her lip in sympathy when she saw David's body twitch.

Duncan left John's side to bend over the wounded man. He considered the bloody plaid before turning back the cloak to reveal an arm cut almost to the bone from shoulder to elbow. The squire glanced at his cousin. "M'lord? He's badly wounded in the arm, and probably the hip, judging from his limp. And he's lost a good deal of blood. We'd best care for him."

John looked up. "Uncle Robbie is dead," he declared in a toneless voice. All at once, he sat up; his mouth fell open, then snapped closed. "She warned me not to go. The girl said, 'If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again.' Do ye think she knew? She couldn't have known."

Duncan did not respond, but drew David Campbell gently to his feet. "The man needs care," he grunted.

John stared at the squire blankly for a moment, then shook himself out of his lethargy. "Aye, we must keep him alive, at least." He took David's feet and the three men moved slowly around the table and out of the tiny circle of light.

"Shall we wake Colin?" Duncan asked as they shuffled across the floor with their burden.

"No. Tomorrow will be soon enough. There's naught else can be done tonight."

Megan watched as the shadows closed around them. She was not aware that her candle was leaning precariously until hot wax dripped onto her hand. She jumped at the sharp pain that forced her into motion. After waiting for the flame to stabilize, she turned to make her way up the stairs, shading the candle with one hand. To her, the long, echoing hall seemed very dark and threatening.

When she stood before the door to Muriella's chamber, the servant paused for a moment, remembering with trepidation her mistress's watchful eyes. The girl said, "If ye leave him now, ye'll never see him alive again ." Do ye think she knew? Megan said a silent prayer, then pushed the door open.

"Och, miss!" she cried. "'Tis terrible. They've all been killed, every man but David Campbell." Before Muriella could respond, Megan retold the story she had just heard.

Muriella looked away as she listened. So she had been right. She had not wanted to believe it, even though she knew her visions never lied. Not Rob Campbell, she had prayed. And yet she had only met the man this morning. He was little more than a stranger to her. Why then did she feel so hollow at the thought of his death?

Muriella had begged John not to leave his uncle to fight alone, had warned him what would happen if he did, but he had not listened. She remembered with bitterness that as they fled that ill-fated glen, the young man had not whispered a word of thanks to his uncle, nor had he looked back—not even once.

Chapter 4

Muriella awoke the next morning with a start. For a long while she lay still, but in time the early-morning chill touched her nose and cheeks, rousing her more fully. She opened her eyes reluctantly and gazed around at the unfamiliar room. The bed in which she lay was huge and bulky. Its oak posts rose toward the ceiling, disappearing under the brocade canopy, which Muriella decided must be green, although the light was too dusky to tell for certain. She eyed with curiosity the bed curtains hanging in dense greenish folds at the corners. At Kilravok, in the tiny chamber she had shared with Lorna, there had been no such luxuries. The plain wooden bedstead had barely raised the heather mattress from the floor, there had been only a single fur, and the linen had been much less fine. Yet she had felt more at ease there than she did in this strange chamber.

She slid to the edge of the bed, pausing as she stared at the mottled gray walls. Nothing moved in the tiny fingers of light that filtered through the closed shutters, yet the empty walls, the oak chest in the corner, even the cold stone floor seemed to call to her out of the silence. Suddenly, the air was full of memories that crowded close, speaking in the voices of the past. She reached out to touch the wall. Through her fingers, she thought she could feel the laughter, the tears, and the pain of one who had abandoned this chamber long since.

When she shook her head, the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. The room was once again four walls without life or spirit. Muriella pushed a bearskin aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She gasped when her feet touched the floor. The rushes were old and stale; they offered little protection from the cold stone beneath. She shivered as the chill engulfed her bare feet and legs.

In the soft gray light that seemed to swirl around her shoulders, she made her way to the window and knelt before it. She tried to open the shutters, hoping a fresh breeze might dissipate the gloom, but the wood resisted her awkward, one-handed efforts. After several tugs, she finally succeeded and breathed in the heather-scented air with relief.

With her hands pressed against the wide sill, she leaned out, trying to recognize shapes and colors in the mist. It seemed to her the air had never smelled like this at Kilravok, nor in the stuffy rooms at Cawdor. But the invigorating scent of morning, lovely as it might be, could not make her any less a prisoner. She wondered if any power on earth could alter the future the Campbells had arranged for her. The waters of the loch lapped on every side against the narrow overgrown strip of land surrounding the castle. The soft, rhythmic sound might as well have been a death knell to her sensitive ears.

She felt a flash of hope when she remembered Hugh. Perhaps her betrothed would come for her and take her back to Kilravok. Hugh is in the past, Rob had told her. Muriella shook her head in denial, but when she tried to visualize her cousin's face, she found she could not do it. In that moment she thought her misery would choke her.

Seeking escape from her thoughts, she peered at the tangled garden that rose out of the mist. The mountains were still cloaked in clinging white, but hollyhock and bracken and autumn roses shimmered as sunlight began to burn away the dew. The sky was reflected in waves of blue drifted with white in the still, still water of Loch Awe.

The loch spread outward from the castle, curving away to far beyond her sight. It was scattered with lush green islands draped in mist that wound its way through the trees and lay in swathes on the water, like fairies’ breath.

"Och, miss! Ye'll be certain to get the ague that way, ye will indeed," Megan spoke unexpectedly from behind her. "Come away and crawl back into bed while I build up the fire again. Ye must come away!" When her mistress did not move at once, Megan put her hands on her waist and tugged.

Muriella whirled, twisting free of the servant's grasp. Her finger had begun to throb again and the pain swept over her in waves. She started to fall, but Megan caught her. The two girls swayed as the room revolved before Muriella's eyes. When her vision cleared she found herself staring at the servant's troubled face.

"Miss? What is it? Can ye stand now?"

Straightening slowly, Muriella raised her injured hand to find it was covered with blood. From far away she heard Megan gasp and realized she was being guided toward the bed. Climbing in among the soft, warm furs, she stared blankly at her hand until Megan touched her arm.

"I'll have to change the bandage and try to stop the bleedin', but I'm no' certain I can do it. Sir John brought these last night, but I didn't want to wake ye." The servant dropped a pile of bandages, a dagger and a sack of herbs at Muriella's feet, then with a deep breath, reached for the injured hand. "I'm afraid I'll hurt ye," she murmured.

"Ye will." Muriella's voice sounded overloud in the still room. "But ye must, so ye'd best get on with it."

"Aye, well." Megan bit her lip nervously. "I forgot, Sir John left some wine. Mayhap 'twill help a little."

While Megan poured the wine, Muriella took the dagger in her right hand and cut the old bandage away. She did not look down at the uncovered finger, but turned instead to accept the pewter goblet the servant offered. Muriella swallowed while Megan worked. Twice she thought she would faint or be ill as the spasms of pain flashed up her arm, but with an effort she kept the blackness at bay.

At last Megan pulled the new bandage tight. While Muriella leaned back, the servant went to revive the fire. Megan dressed quickly when the flames began to creep up the blackened stones, but the heat did not stop her from shivering as she moved barefoot over the rushes. "Can I get ye some more food, miss? Or more wine?"

"Aye, a little more wine."

After Megan handed her the goblet, Muriella pulled one of the furs from the twisted pile around her and held it toward the servant. Megan gaped at her.

"Ye look cold," Muriella explained. "The fire doesn't seem to warm the room well enough."

Megan's eyes widened in surprise. She smiled shyly as she wrapped the heavy fur around her shoulders. "I never had a mistress do that before."

Muriella frowned. "Do they mistreat ye here?"

"Och, no! 'Tis just that in the kitchen ye don't have much chance to get cold, what with the big ovens and the runnin' back and forth. And even if ye did, no one would care. 'Tis different below, ye ken. The cooks aren't always in a pleasant frame of mind. They don't ever hurt me—at least, no' very often. But once they threw Davie out on his head. He had a great lump for near a week." Megan chattered until her curiosity overcame her. "They hurt ye yesterday, though, didn't they?"

"I—who?"

Megan lowered her voice as if afraid someone might overhear. "Why, the Campbells, miss. Yer finger. What did they do?"

Her mistress looked away. "'Twas no' the Campbells. 'Twas my friend, my nurse from when I was a bairn. She—" Muriella choked on the words but forced herself to go on. "She bit off my finger."

Megan gaped at her, eyes wide with horror. "But why?"

Frowning, Muriella tried to remember through the painful haze that cloaked her thoughts. "She said she had to mark me." Speaking with difficulty, she added, "So the Campbells couldn't bring an imposter to claim Cawdor."

Megan bit her lip until it ached, then murmured, "But miss, just think how much she must have loved ye to do such a thing. It couldn't have been easy for her."

Muriella blinked in surprise. She had never thought of that. With a sigh, she bowed her head. She could not think of it now either; thinking hurt too much.

Unnerved by the sadness in her mistress's face, Megan turned away. "Well," she said briskly, "we must find ye something to wear. We'll have to get rid of the things ye came in. I'll give the wool to the seamstress to cut up for the servants and we'll burn the others. Do ye mind?"

"No," Muriella whispered. She watched, nodding in approval as Megan scooped up the tattered clothes and dropped them into the fire. She wished she could as easily destroy everything that reminded her of yesterday. As the flames leapt up the stones, she found herself enthralled by the moving light that reached out for the bed, licked about its heavy legs, then crept away. Muriella felt caught up in the play of light and shadow.

"There!" When the last fragment of cloth had been consumed, Megan wiped her hands and turned to the chest against the far wall. Lifting the lid, she called over her shoulder, "Mayhap we can find something in here. I know Miss Elizabeth kept her things, even from when she was a bairn. Mary told me she wouldn't throw anythin' away if once she'd loved it. Now, let me see." Megan explored the inside of the chest, talking softly to herself as she pulled the clothing this way and that.

"Who is Elizabeth?" Muriella asked, remembering the overwhelming sense of another presence she had felt earlier. "This was her room, wasn't it?"

"Aye, it belonged to her before they married her to Lachlan Maclean. She's Sir John's elder sister. They were always close when they were bairns. At least, that's what Mary says. She says Sir John used to play the lute and sing while Miss Elizabeth worked her tapestry. But of course, 'twas a long time ago. They don't speak so much anymore, even when she comes to stay."

Megan's head disappeared into the chest again and she added another gown to the pile on the floor beside her. "Ah," she said at last, "here." She held up a light blue gown with a square neck and long, full sleeves. "It must have belonged to Miss Elizabeth a long time ago, 'tis so small. But it just might fit ye, miss. I don't want ye bein' tied up in one of those heavy things." She pointed to the gray and black gowns at her feet. "Too dark, with no life in them. But there! Ye don't need to listen to me. Mary never does, nor does Jenny. That's because Jenny is always listenin' for Colin, ye see. But I listen to them, ye can bet. I've learned a great many things that way."

While Megan talked, Muriella discarded the gown she had slept in, then stood still while the servant slipped the blue gown over her head.

Megan fumbled for several moments before she managed to tie the laces. Then she stepped back and smiled. "Ye look much better than ye did last night. Blue suits ye, that it does, though with those eyes, green should be yer color, don't ye think?"

Muriella was looking out the window, unaware of Megan's question. "Could ye take me to the garden? 'Tis so cold and dark in here."

Megan considered her mistress in silence. When Sir John had brought the bandages last night, Colin had been close behind him. The older brother had warned Megan that the girl might try to escape. "And if she does, I don't have to be saying what will happen to ye, gurrl," he had threatened.

But Muriella's expression was so wistful as she looked at the garden. Surely there was no slyness in her eyes. Besides, the servant had always found a perverse delight in upsetting Colin. It was not difficult to make him angry enough that the lump for which he was so well known would rise between his brows. "We couldn't go by the front gate, that's sure," she mused. "The guards won't open for us, and they'd probably call Sir John."

"Is there no other way out?"

"Well..." Megan paused, "there’s another passageway. But ye mustn't let on I told ye."

Muriella recognized the servant's hesitation. "Ye needn't fear I'll run, for no doubt I couldn't get far before they caught me. Besides, I don't think I’d be safe at Cawdor now." The sound of those words on her own lips—and the jolt that went through her when she realized they were true—made her shudder. In sudden determination, she started for the door.

Megan stopped her with a gentle tug at her elbow. "Do ye think I might go down to the kitchen first to get some bread and cream? Aren't ye hungry?"

Muriella was not, but she realized she had not eaten much last night. And she had been too restless to eat at Cawdor. She would make herself ill if she wasn't careful, and she sensed she would need all her strength in the days to come. "Aye," she agreed, "and see if ye can find some meat as well."

Megan smiled with relief. "That I will. Don't worry yerself, I'll be back soon."

Once beyond the door, Megan was swallowed by the gloomy shadows, and her mistress felt intensely alone in the silence left behind.

Several minutes later, with bread and meat in hand, Megan led her mistress to a door a few yards beyond the one to Muriella's chamber. "This is the way. Are ye sure ye want to go down? 'Tis dark and cold in this passage."

"I want to."

Nodding, the servant put the rest of her breakfast into one of her huge pockets and, grasping the heavy iron handle on the door, pulled with all her strength. As the door swung open, Muriella stepped back in surprise; it made no noise, and the hinges at Cawdor always squealed.

Megan glanced over her shoulder, then, taking her mistress's hand, drew her into the passage. Muriella had not thought anything could be darker than the hallway, but the light had never touched the walls that towered damp and forbidding on either side. Here the smell of stale, chilled air that filled the was intense, and the gray stone was beaded with moisture. There was no noise besides the slapping of their feet against the packed dirt floor to disturb the silence.

The girls twisted around several corners, clutching the damp stone to keep from sliding as the path cut sharply downward, before they came to another door. This one had three bars across it and a rusted bolt at its edge. Megan began to push and shove, panting as she heaved each bar back. She struggled with the bolt for a moment, then at last pushed the door open.

Muriella moved past her to stand in the sunlight, which banished the chill that lingered inside the castle walls. She gazed about her in wonder at the bracken and heather that twisted among the swaying pines and birches. Here and there sprays of white or red broke through the confusion of green and brown and silver, making their own disorderly pattern on the sloping landscape. Muriella thought it wonderful. Even the tall, brooding mountains seemed less threatening in the sunlight. The jagged sides were slashed with rushing streams that glittered silver against the unrelieved blackness. It was beautiful in a powerful and dramatic way. With a sigh, she clasped her hands before her, wincing at the unexpected pain. "'Tis lovely."

The servant considered for a moment, brow furrowed. "'Tis a bit overgrown and wild, don't ye think? I'm always afraid I'll get lost in the roses and cut myself on the thorns." She paused. "But it helps hide the path to the castle from our enemies so I suppose 'tis best. Still, I'm no' at ease."

Muriella smiled. "Ye need only take yer time and learn to know the plants. Then they can't hurt ye." Her eyes darkened as she knelt to touch a cluster of yellow roses.

Muriella’s soft smile surprised Megan. For some reason, it reminded her with sudden clarity of the look she had seen in her eyes the night before. What was it Sir John had said? Do ye think she knew? She couldn't have known. The servant shivered and, after a moment's hesitation, touched her mistress on the shoulder.

"Aye?"

Taking a deep breath, Megan said, "Last night, when ye sent me down to the Hall, Sir John said something that made me wonder—" She broke off to swallow dryly. "Ye have the Two Sights, don't ye?"

Muriella wanted to deny it—she had spent her whole life in an effort to do so—but she could not. "Aye," she murmured, "I'm afraid 'tis true."

"Afraid? But why? 'Tis a wondrous gift to know how to see the future. Ye must be blessed indeed." Megan wanted to reach out to touch Muriella again, as if she might absorb some of the magic, but she withdrew her hand when her mistress tensed and turned away.

"'Tis a curse, no’ a gift. I don't see joyful things, ye ken, only death and sorrow. And even though I know 'tis coming, I can't stop it." She took a deep breath. "It's never given me pleasure, only pain. Can ye understand that?"

Megan stood with her mouth open, hands buried in the pockets of her plain muslin gown. "No, miss, I can't."

With a sigh, Muriella rose, smoothing out the creases in her skirt. "Have ye ever been swimming in the sea?"

"Aye, as a bairn, but I don't see—"

"Didn't ye ever feel afraid while the waves crashed around ye?"

Megan considered; her eyes widened as a memory struck her. "Aye, one day the wind came up and the water rose so high I could no’ even see the shore. I was sore afraid then, I can tell ye."

Muriella nodded. "That's how 'tis when the Sight comes to me. 'Tis as if I'm out there in the sea and the water beats against me till I can't stand upright anymore. I can feel the waves pulling at my feet, swirling about my head, choking me, and I have to fight with all my strength to keep from going under. I can kick out and wave my arms, but I can't win, because the sea is stronger. It'll drown me someday, because I’ve no' the power to stop it."

"Have ye tried?" Megan asked.

"Aye, every day of my life. And till yesterday, I thought I'd learned to shut out the knowledge I didn't want. I’d no' had a vision in a long, long time."

When her voice trailed off, the servant touched her hand, unable to conceal her impatience. "What happened then?"

Muriella crushed the petals of a rose between her fingers without knowing she did so. "The Campbells came for me."

There was such misery in her voice that Megan knew she could not question her further. But she did not really understand. "Aye, well, things are different for ye now."

With a sigh, Muriella inhaled the fragrance of the garden as if it had the power to heal her. When the smell of fear had dissipated, she asked, "Can ye take me nearer the water? I'd like to watch it move with the sun upon it."

Megan frowned and bit her lip. "We'd have to wind our way through this," she waved her hand to indicate the tangled greenery, "and I'd no' like the watchmen to see ye."

At Muriella's obvious disappointment, she sighed and took her mistress’s hand to draw her forward.

Muriella was not aware of the damp branches that scratched her skin; the water was calling, and she heard nothing else. When the two girls reached the wall surrounding the peninsula and keeping it apart from the loch, Muriella scrambled up the rough-hewn stones to perch on the uneven strip at the top.

She went very still as she gazed at Loch Awe, wandering away among the islands and the trees. The water reflected the sky and the hills of fir and pine on every side, as well as the image of her face. In the distance, she heard the slap of oars. She stared as a cloud covered the sun and the scene in the water disappeared.

Nearby, an old man rowed a small boat across the loch. In his wake, the water rolled away like swells of carved, living glass. For an instant, the sun crept from behind its mask, and was caught, reflected, in a perfect curve of water. The loch transformed the image, twirling the cloud like the long tresses of a woman's hair, and the sun became her radiant face.

Muriella strained to hear as a high sweet voice began to sing. She turned to Megan in surprise, but the servant was silent and immobile beside her. Muriella lifted her head, the voice swelled in the wisp of a breeze, then faded into silence.

The scene was hauntingly beautiful. She felt a constriction in her chest, a heightening of all her senses, as if the wild beauty of this place were too much for her sight alone to bear. Despite the sorrow within her, she could not help but respond to the exultant voice of the wind. She leaned out, wanting to capture the moment in her open palms, but when she drew her hands close, they were empty. Her heart dragged, her breath became painful, and an unnatural silence locked her in its grasp. "Listen!" she hissed. "They're coming."

"Who's comin'?"

Muriella looked right through the servant. "They're coming."

"Do ye mean the Calders? Och! We'd best get inside!"

"No. 'Tisn't the Calders. Listen."

Megan tried to concentrate so she might understand. She twisted her fingers together, glancing twice toward the path that had brought them here, before she finally heard it. It was not the sound of an invading party. The tread of the horses was too plodding. In fact, the sound was melancholy and echoed the expression on Muriella's face. The servant took her mistress's arm beseechingly. "We must go inside, miss. We must!"

Without waiting for Megan, Muriella scrambled off the wall and started back from where they had come, feeling her way toward the castle gate. Megan followed reluctantly, her beating heart a hollow and persistent warning.

* * *

"I will go, and caution be damned!" John cried, glaring at his brother across the crowded library.

Colin rose from his chair and moved toward the fire. "Johnnie, I've told ye, it wouldn't be wise to go after the Calders now. Wait till the Earl gets back from the Isles. We can strike then if we want. But not now."

As he paced back and forth, John cursed under his breath. "I can't stay still. They've killed Uncle Rob and twenty-six others, and who knows what else they have planned for us?" His grief and exhaustion had combined with uneasy dreams of the slaughter, leaving him frantic with his own frustration.

"Haven't ye been responsible for enough death, little brother? Or do ye wish to see the entire clan ruined before the week is out?"

John fought down an angry reply, sickened by the nightmarish memory of David Campbell's ghastly tale and gaunt, gray face. He could not quite conquer the thought that it should have been he who sat there, broken and bleeding. He noticed with disgust that his brother appeared to be well rested. The events of the previous night obviously had not disturbed his sleep. "I might be able to make up for yesterday with a surprise attack on the Calders," he said.

"And who would ye take with ye? Tell me that. Would ye gather the men who have not slept for more than three hours and who rode all day and half the night? Or do ye intend to wait till Richard comes back, then drag his men out again? I'll tell ye, Johnnie, Kilchurn wouldn't be safe if ye did that. We've lost too many men as it is. Don't be a fool."

With an effort, John kept his fists at his sides. "Then what do ye intend to do?"

Aware of the suppressed fury in his brother's voice, Colin smiled to himself. "I intend to wait, as I told ye, till our father returns."

"What if the Calders strike again? Or the Roses? There's nothing to stop the Roses from riding south to attack us."

Colin pressed closer to the fire, stretching his hands toward the flames. "I think I'd best speak to the girl about that. Mayhap she'll know of their plans."

John smiled at Colin's simplicity. "She won't be eager to tell ye anything, even if she knows, which I doubt. Ye'd be wiser to leave her alone for a time."

"She'll tell me," Colin muttered, "whether she wishes to or no'."

"More likely she'll bury a dagger in yer chest, nor would I blame her." John remembered her chilling anger the night before, the power he had felt in her gaze. It weakened him somehow, that memory, and his fury grew hotter, more volatile.

With a snort, Colin turned away. "Where would she be getting a dagger, do ye think? And how would she raise it if she had one, with her hands tied behind her back? I'm no' a fool like ye, Johnnie. I won't give her a chance to thwart me." Colin moved past his brother and started toward the door. "I'll speak with her now, and we'll see what she has to say."

John shifted uneasily. Did the girl deserve Colin's tactless questions? John shook his head. And yet—if she had once shown a moment of weakness, if she had wept or shivered or turned to him for comfort, he could have borne anything for her sake. But Muriella had made it clear she did not need him—not nearly as much as he needed her. For a moment he was tempted to let Colin barge into her chamber all unsuspecting, but he decided against it. "Wait," he said, "there's something ye should know."

"What could ye possibly tell me that I wouldn't already know three times over, little brother?"

"I might tell ye," John spat, "that I gave Megan a dagger last night to cut the bandages with."

"Damn ye! Are ye determined to wipe out the Campbells in a single day? Why didn't ye simply give the girl a satchel of poison to kill us with and an escort back to Cawdor?"

For a flicker of an instant, John wondered if he'd done it on purpose—left her a weapon and the chance to slip away. He brushed the thought aside. It was madness, after all she'd cost them in less than a single day. John thought his brother might strike him, but Colin only glared furiously, then turned to leave the room. John followed at a distance. He had a feeling he'd better be nearby when his brother confronted the girl face-to-face.

"M'lord?"

John paused, squinting into the shadows where a man stood waiting, while Colin went on ahead. "Richard?"

"Aye." Richard Campbell moved forward into the dim light. His clothing was caked with earth and blood, his arms black to the elbow. "We were too late. They were already dead. All of them."

"I know. David made it back. He told us."

"I'm sorry, m'lord. There have no' been many like Rob Campbell."

John was silent for a moment, fighting off the blackness that took his sight and left him shaking. He clenched his fists until the pain brought him sharply awake. "No," he managed to choke out. "There was no’ even one like him."

Shaking his hair back from his face, Richard sighed wearily. "We buried most of them in the glen. Rob and his sons we brought back."

"Thank ye, Richard. Ye did what ye could. Ye must rest now. The others will see to the bodies."

"Aye, I sent most of the men off already. I swear Andrew was asleep in the saddle all the way back."

"Johnnie! Where the devil are ye?" Colin's bellow echoed through the halls long before he appeared. When he spotted his brother, he stopped still. His breathing was ragged, his jaw set in a dangerous line. "She's gone, do ye hear me? The girl is gone!"

* * *

Muriella and Megan rounded the corner, coming upon the front gate just as a shout rose in the courtyard.

"The girl must be found and soon! Every damned one of ye drop what ye're doing to look for her. And when ye find her, bring her to me." It was Colin's voice. Already Muriella recognized it.

"Miss." Megan put her hand on her mistress's shoulder. "Won't ye come inside before Colin comes out?"

Muriella shook Megan's hand away as she peered at the narrow arm of land that reached inward across the loch to hold the castle bound to the shore. A string of horses wound away into the trees still touched with mist. Half the animals carried no riders, but the remaining saddles were filled with long awkward bundles wrapped in rough lengths of plaid.

One of those bundles was Rob Campbell; she was sure of it.

As she stood unmoving, the noise from the courtyard seemed to increase tenfold until it shattered the peace of the still morning. Feet clattered across the cobbles, men swore, and swords rattled in their sheaths.

"Miss, they're lookin' for ye, and mighty angry by the sound of it."

Still Muriella did not move, not even when the gate screamed up, setting free the men inside. They swarmed through the wild gardens, circling the castle and heading toward the shore, stopping only briefly to gape at the somber line of horses. Soon the landscape was dotted with the blue and green Campbell plaid. Muriella thought they would never turn to look at the spot where she stood just below the gate, but her thoughts were interrupted by Colin's triumphant cry.

"Here she is, by God!" His face was flushed, his eyes ice blue. As he came toward her, he clenched and unclenched his fists threateningly.

Attempting to pull Muriella with her, Megan shrank away.

Colin reached them before they had taken more than a few steps. Pushing Muriella aside for the moment, he twisted his hand in Megan's hair and dragged her forward. "What have ye done? Are ye such a blithering fool that ye can't see the danger out here? The Calders will come to take her away and no doubt kill her. Then all this"—he motioned toward the waiting horses—"will have been for naught."

As he drew back his hand to strike Megan, Muriella flung herself at him, knocking him off balance. "Ye won't!" she demanded. "Leave her be!"

Colin turned, startled by her attack. "I'll do as I please. Ye have naught to say about it. Don't forget I can beat ye too." He leaned forward menacingly. "And I intend to. But not just now." Nodding to a man behind him, he called, "Take her inside!"

"No! I won't go till Megan comes with me."

For a long moment, Colin glared at her while the pulse in his throat throbbed. The girl thought to defy him, but she would learn. He took a step forward.

"Ye won't hurt me," she declared, facing him squarely.

"And why, praytell, won't I?"

"Because I am Cawdor. Ye know ye'll lose it if ye lose me. And if ye hurt Megan or me, I swear I'll find a way to go. Till Cawdor's safe, we’re safe."

Colin paused with his hands in midair. The girl was right, damn her. He was powerless for the moment. He could not take the chance she would carry out her threat. But his arms trembled and he longed to crush her between his palms.

Suddenly John appeared at his brother's side. Taking Muriella's arm in one hand, he motioned Megan forward with the other. He wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Suddenly he was appalled by the violence, the rage that simmered always beneath Colin's arrogance. He did not want to be his brother's mirror. "Leave them, Colin. I'll see to them. Ye must take care of Uncle Rob and his sons."

"We must not let this pass, little brother," Colin hissed. "Do ye hear?"

"Don't worry. I'll talk to them." John spoke calmly, adamantly.

Colin, still too angry to breathe evenly, gasped, "Get them away, then. Out of my sight!"

Propelling the two girls before him, John leaned down to mutter in Muriella's ear, "Ye would be wise to leave Colin alone. I wouldn't be surprised if he killed ye."

"Wouldn't ye? Does he care so little for Cawdor?"

John stopped, swinging her to face him. "I'm warning ye. Ye’d do well to listen."

His last words were lost beneath the deep, labored tolling of a bell. Muriella looked up, caught by the unexpected volume of sound, and just for a moment her eyes met John's. This must be the ringing of the soul bell for the men killed the night before: the mournful clang, clang, clang for each year a man had lived. Judging by the number of horses trailing away from the gate, the tolling would not cease for a long, long time. Muriella felt a strange tightness in her throat. Without thinking, she started toward the burdened animals, but John stopped her.

"Ye'll go inside now. Ye've been enough trouble for one morning."

Looking up at him sadly, Muriella said, "I want to see Rob Campbell before they bury him. If I don't, he'll surely haunt me."

John too had meant to see and touch his uncle before his burial, so the dead man would leave him in peace. But he intended to say his farewells later, in a more private place. "'Tis no' the time—"

"I need to say good-bye now," Muriella interrupted. Her jaw was rigid, her gaze unwavering.

Her determination, as well as his own gnawing grief, silenced the objections that rose to his lips. John let her go without further protest.

Muriella did not wait to see what he would do, but turned at once toward the horses. She went by instinct to the first animal and, with her hand on the muddy blanket, took a deep, steadying breath. Then she lifted the dark wool to look for the last time at Rob Campbell's gray, lifeless face. Without hesitation, she reached out to touch the sunken cheek, her eyes moist at the memory of the sound of his voice.

John stood where Muriella had left him, watching her in bewildered surprise. She was so clearly grieving; her expression was full of tenderness. She had known his uncle for only a few hours, yet she seemed to recognize what kind of man he had been. How was it she had come to understand so much in so little time?

He saw the blanket slide from her fingers, saw her turn back to where he waited. Before his common sense could stop him, he went to meet her. Grasping her arms, he looked down into her grief-darkened face and asked, "If I’d stayed with him last night, could I have stopped it?" He nodded toward the horses with their grim burdens.

Muriella blinked up at him in astonishment. She wanted to tell him yes. She wanted to tell him the blame was all his, but she could not lie. Besides, there was something in his face—a kind of desperation that had not been there the night before. "I don't know," she said at last.

John turned away for an instant, trying to hide his disappointment. "So be it," he murmured in a barely audible voice. "We'd best go in now."

As he led her toward the open gate, Muriella realized she had been wrong after all. John might not have said good-bye nor turned his head to see his uncle one last time before he left that glen, but he had looked back—and was looking back still.

Chapter 5

Archibald, Second Earl of Argyll, sat on his horse, watching with impatience as a string of cattle crossed the winding dirt road. A farmer ambled after the noisy beasts, hands buried in his flea-bitten fur pelt. He seemed unconcerned that the Earl—dressed, as befit his station, in velvet doublet and trews, a fine fur cloak and a plaid held in place by the well-known Campbell brooch—had been waiting for some time. The groom shifted uneasily in his saddle. He could feel Argyll's displeasure heavy and dark in the air.

However, Argyll was occupied with his own thoughts and cursed with only half his usual vehemence when the farmer finally trailed the last cow into the trees.

The Earl urged his restive mount forward. Although his gaze swept over the woody islands and glittering stillness of Loch Awe, he was unimpressed by the calm, unchanging beauty. His thoughts were at Duart Castle, where he had left his daughter, Elizabeth, and Lachlan Maclean. Argyll shook his head, remembering with foreboding that Maclean was too clever by half. The Earl had thought at one time if the man could ever bring himself to side with the King rather than against him, Maclean would be a good soldier to fight beside.

But Argyll had never fully trusted him since the rebellion in 1504 that had threatened to restore the Lordship of the Isles to Donald Dubh. Maclean had been declared a traitor, and although he had since sworn allegiance to the crown, the Earl was aware that the man still cast his gaze hungrily over the lands of others. He remembered all too clearly Maclean's flushed face and clenched fist when he asserted, "I’ll no’ rest so long as the Camerons hold the lands of Lochiel. They took them from me, and they shall no' sit peacefully there while I live!"

Argyll had grimaced as he put his hands on his son-in-law's shoulders. "Ye must try to forget. Ye must let the King settle yer quarrels without bloodshed."

"Ha!" Maclean had just restrained himself from spitting in the Earl's face. He pulled free of Argyll's grip, laughing bitterly. "Ye're just the man to speak of peace and to claim yer rights without bloodshed—ye who have betrayed us more than once! We’re no' so foolish as ye might think, my lord."

The Earl reached instinctively for his sword but did not draw it. Instead he stared into Maclean's mocking gaze and tried to conquer his anger.

"Ye play with human lives to achieve yer own ends," his son-in-law continued. "We're aware that Donald Dubh was yer prisoner and ye set him free, knowing we would follow him into a revolt. Then ye turned yer energy to smashing the rebellion ye had created. Ye're a devious man, Father-in-law, but we’re no’ blind. My only comfort is that ye follow a king who will destroy ye, just as ye have destroyed us."

Argyll was suddenly aware of Elizabeth, who hovered in the background, watching. She looked up, gasping at her husband's audacity, and her glance went to her father's sword. Her expression was full of pleading.

The Earl loosened his grip on the handle of his broadsword. Maclean was, after all, his daughter's husband. What was worse, he had chosen the man himself. The marriage had been meant to solidify the new bond between King James and his rebellious Highland chiefs. Argyll, as the King's representative, had given up his only daughter. At the time, he had believed it to be an unfortunate necessity, but it had won him the King's favor. Partly because of the peace he had preserved in the Highlands, James IV had appointed the Earl Lord High Chancellor of Scotland as well as Master of the Royal Household. Surely his one small sacrifice had been worth the result.

Elizabeth moved toward Maclean protectively. "Leave him be, Father. Ye know he only speaks the truth."

The Earl stood quite still for a moment, frozen with shock. His daughter's loyalty obviously belonged to Maclean now. His hands trembled with outrage, but he clasped them roughly behind his back. As Elizabeth took her husband's arm, the Earl controlled his voice with an effort. "We won't discuss my business with the King further. If it weren't for my daughter, ye know I'd kill ye."

Shaking away his wife's hand, Maclean stepped forward. "Ye could try, my lord. But ye're an old man and I’m no’. I beg ye, don't think of Elizabeth. Come, try yer hand against me."

It was too much to bear, even for Elizabeth's sake. The Earl went once more for his sword. The metal gleamed as he brought it up and faced Maclean. "As ye wish," he said.

"Father!" Elizabeth threw herself between the two men. Maclean lunged forward to push her away, but she stood firm. "Lachlan," she gasped, "how long do ye think ye’d live if 'twas known ye'd killed the Earl of Argyll? The Campbells would hunt ye for the rest of yer days, and there would no' be many. Ye must wait."

Elizabeth looked beseechingly at her father. At the expression in her eyes, he took a deep breath, then shoved his sword back into its sheath. He was not conscious that he did so. Ye must wait, his daughter had said. Did she actually wish for his death, then? He looked at the pale oval of her face and for an instant forgot to hide his pain.

"Father, don't make me choose," Elizabeth cried, reaching out to take his hand. "I have loved ye dearly, but Lachlan is my husband. It was ye who bid me marry him. Leave us in peace, please."

Argyll gently withdrew his hand from hers. By now he had reconstructed the mask that covered his weakness and he managed a stiff smile. "I will leave ye in peace," he said. "Take care, Elizabeth."

As he turned to go, the Earl saw Maclean drop his sword to the floor in disgust. Argyll looked back once when he reached the doorway, then, sickened by the scene before him, quickly left the room. Elizabeth knelt at her husband's feet, her hands outstretched toward him. Maclean turned his back on her.

The Earl felt ill, remembering. His fingers closed convulsively on the handle of his sword.

The silent groom who had met the Laird of the Clan Campbell at Oban, watched Argyll secretly, wondering what was troubling the Earl. Although his expression was calm, the man could see his agitation in his whitened knuckles. The young groom was careful to avoid the Earl's gaze. Everyone knew his anger was terrible.

"The girl!" Argyll boomed unexpectedly. "Did they take the girl?" Now that he had put Duart behind him, he remembered Muriella Calder. He had left word that his brother and son should take her from Hugh Rose of Kilravok.

The Earl trembled with fury. The man had given his word and broken it without a thought. Rose had gladly taken the Campbell's aid and friendship over the years, but in the end, it had meant nothing. The glitter of Muriella Calder's gold had blinded the Laird of the Clan Rose to honor and loyalty, even wisdom.

Argyll should never have trusted him. Indeed, he never really had. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had always known this moment would come. Enemies once more. It was all he could expect, it seemed. Hugh Rose, Lachlan Maclean—they were all the same. With narrowed eyes, the Earl regarded his companion, who kept his gaze fixed between his horse's ears. "Did they bring the girl safely to Kilchurn?"

"The lass is at Kilchurn, aye," the young man muttered. "Been there a week. And many's the man who won't look upon her for fear o' the evil eye."

Argyll frowned. "They think she's a witch, do they? Well then, I must remember to tell them to keep their thoughts to themselves. But the girl is safe?"

The groom nodded. "Aye, she is safe enough."

Pressing his knees into the warm, heaving sides of his horse, the Earl urged the animal to hurry. It sounded as if there had been trouble. He hoped there had been. It would give him something to occupy his mind—anything to destroy the memory of Elizabeth kneeling with her arms outstretched toward Lachlan Maclean.

* * *

Richard Campbell leaned against the wall outside Muriella's door, which was slightly ajar. He shook his head when the regular crunch of rushes inside told him the girl was pacing again.

"Och, does the lass never stay still? She'll drive herself daft at this rate," Andrew said. He crouched a few feet away from his brother, elbows resting on his knees.

"I wouldn't be surprised if she's already daft. Wouldn't ye be if ye were pinned up in a single room for eight days together?"

"Aye, that I would. It doesn't seem like Sir John to keep her locked up this way. Or was it Sir Colin?"

"'Twas Sir Colin right enough." Richard leaned forward and lowered his voice. "And I don't think 'tis either wise or kind."

"Well, ye don't expect him to let her get away, do ye? Seems to me he's bein' most wise."

Richard regarded his brother with troubled eyes. "Aye, mayhap if she was someone else. But no' with that lass. I wouldn't cross her the way Sir Colin has, and I wish Sir John hadn't chosen me to guard her."

Andrew could not restrain a shout of laughter. "Ye're a fool, sure enough! Don't ye tell me ye believe the stories the men are whisperin' in the kitchens?" Sitting back on his heels, Andrew chuckled to himself.

With rare patience, Richard waited until his brother was quiet. "Didn't ye hear she warned Sir John about Rob Campbell?"

"Aye, and so what? Tis more likely she knew the Calders' plans than that she's a witch. Have ye never guessed a friend would fall in battle? Come, man, don't let the lass fool ye."

"She didn't tell me, but I believe it just the same."

Andrew shook his head in disbelief. He knew his brother to be courageous in battle, yet here he was trembling for fear of a young, helpless girl. "Tell me, brother, if she has the power, why hasn't she turned ye to stone? Surely she knows ye to be her jailer."

"Because"—Richard crouched to join his brother on the floor—"I haven't given her the chance. However, I don't think she wishes us all ill. Megan seems to like her well enough, and to tell ye the truth, I pity the lass, witch or no'. She's trapped."

"Aye." The laughter retreated from Andrew's blue eyes. "That she is. But I'll wager Sir Colin hasn't come near her yet, has he?"

"No. And there's a question for ye. Do ye think a normal girl would've had the courage to stand up to him that way?"

"Mayhap." Andrew drummed his fingers on the stone. "But I confess, I’ve no’ seen another do it. 'Twas a marvelous sight, wasn't it? Callen Maellach—old lump-in-brow—with nothin' to say in the face of a lassie's anger. Och! 'twas grand."

"No doubt she stopped his tongue."

"There ye go again with yer witches and yer spells. Ye're daft, ye fool."

"Mayhap," Richard said, ignoring his brothers skepticism, "but I'll wager ye’ve no’ looked into the lassie's eyes. If ye had, ye’d no’ laugh anymore."

* * *

As the Earl stalked into the Great Hall, his two sons rose to meet him. His face wore an ugly scowl and, seeing his expression, the servants hurried to fetch him ale while trying to avoid catching his attention.

"They tell me there was a battle," he called across the tables to John. "Did the Roses come after the girl?"

"No. 'Twas the Calders, and by God, Colin would keep me tied here instead of letting me go after them. The bastards!"

The Earl shook his head at his son's outburst. "Sit down and be calm, boy." Then he turned to Colin. "How many dead?"

"Twenty-seven. Among them were Rob and eight of his sons," he announced baldly.

"Dear God!" Argyll closed his eyes against the too-bright afternoon light.

"I was for going out the next day to even the score," John declared, "but Colin said no, we must wait for ye." He sat up, leaning toward his father. "Will ye let me go now?"

The Earl barely heard. His head was spinning and he did not like the feeling. He had wondered briefly, so many years ago, if leaving Muriella with the Roses was a mistake. Now he knew. He had been wrong, and the error in judgment had cost his brother's life, and his nephews'—too many. He felt physically ill at the thought. Rob and his sons were dead because of Argyll's momentary weakness, because he had seen a mother's love in Isabel Calder's eyes and had not been able to break her heart.

He felt as if a claymore had struck him across the shoulder, as if his knees might buckle at the shaking inside. He took several deep breaths and, through sheer force of will, remained standing upright, though his eyes burned and his throat felt raw. But none of that showed on his face when he met his son's accusing eyes. "We must think this out before we do aught. The Calders will be ready and waiting, I guarantee." Argyll sat back in silence.

Here was Johnnie, ready to wipe out the Calders this very afternoon if only he could get his hands on them. The boy—was he twenty already?—would have to learn about diplomacy: one subject on which the Earl was an expert. He had learned a great deal from James IV.

Opening his eyes, he motioned to a servant, who bent to unlace his boots and remove them. He ignored his sons while he downed half the ale he found sitting before him; he would not be hurried. At last he said, "Johnnie, ye'll have to wait for yer revenge, I'm afraid. 'Tis too dangerous just now. If we're lucky, the two families will kill each other off and we won't have to lift a finger. But were ye to attack now, I've a suspicion the Roses would side with the Calders against ye. We can't give ye enough men for that kind of battle. No, ye'll just have to wait."

John swept his tankard out of the way, sending it crashing to the floor in the process. "Damn ye and Colin and yer waiting. If he'd let me go at first, they’d no’ have been ready. I might have done some damage then. Anyway, the Calders have always hated the Roses, as well ye know. They’d no’ ever fight side by side."

"Men will do many uncommon things for the wealth that girl has. But that's hardly the point. Do ye realize that if ye killed a man each time ye'd a wish to, there’d no’ be a single one left to fight beside ye? Ye're to be twenty-one soon. Can't ye sit back awhile and allow us the pleasure of seeing ye reach it unharmed? There'll be plenty to do soon enough."

Colin smiled and sat back, propping his booted feet on the edge of the table. "Ye see, little brother, I know my father's wishes better than ye."

John raised his foot to the bench Colin occupied and started to push. With a restraining hand on his arm, Argyll stopped him from tipping it backwards.

"Johnnie, I have troubles enough without ye fighting with yer brother. Ye remind me of Maclean sometimes, and 'tis no' a comparison I like to make. Sit down now and listen. Protecting the girl is most important." John started to interrupt but the Earl shook his head warningly. "Aye, the girl is more important than yer revenge. If ye were to go off to fight the Calders, they'd be just wise enough to send someone to make certain she never reached fourteen. If ye want Cawdor, ye have to wait."

"Can ye wait to get Uncle Rob's murderers? Or don't ye care that he died in yer cause? It seems to me ye're more concerned with securing Cawdor for the power it'll bring ye than mourning yer brother!"

Argyll rose, placed his hands wide apart on the table, leaning menacingly toward his younger son. "Ye don't care then what securing Cawdor will bring ye? I rather thought ye were looking forward to being a rich man."

His son's eyes widened in surprise at the caustic sting in the Earl's voice. Usually the Laird of Clan Campbell reserved that biting tone for others.

Sighing, Argyll shook his head. This was getting them nowhere. "As for my brother," he said, "I haven't forgotten him. I won't forget. But neither will I fume and fight and destroy the very thing he died for. Open yer eyes for once, Johnnie, and recognize the truth. I do care about power. 'Tis the only thing that really matters, and ye're a fool if ye believe otherwise. If ye think me hard for speaking this way, then so ye must. I can do naught else."

John shivered at the cold light of determination in his father's eyes.

"I hear the girl speaks of Uncle Rob reverently," Colin interjected.

"Mayhap he deserves our reverence, but he doesn't deserve—and I'll tell ye this just once more, Johnnie—he does not deserve for us to lose the girl now, just because ye have neither the strength nor the wisdom to wait." He paused and added, "I've had enough talk and I can see ye don't wish to hear. I'm weary and need a hot bath and fresh clothes. Then I want ye to bring the girl to me. But just now, let me be."

Chapter 6

Muriella stared out the window at the sweep of garden below, as she had done every day for the past week. From where she sat, she could see Loch Awe and the far, curving shore where the water lapped at the bank and swirled among the dappled rocks. Although she had never set foot on the fine-grained earth, she felt she knew the bank intimately. Each morning she rose and went to the window to catch her first glimpse of the water that changed with the passage of the hours from green to gray to shimmering blue. She had come to know all the permutations of those shifting colors, created by bright sunlight as it crossed the sky, whimsical white clouds, and darkly thunderous ones. Daily, she waited with anticipation for the eddies of leaves that fell from the branches above to dance in golden patterns over the water. She could not hear the rippled movement of the waves from where she sat, but she could imagine the soft, pulsing sound, and it gave her comfort. "The loch is no' pleased today," she said to Megan, who sat sewing on a stool nearby. "Come see."

The servant willingly left the gown she was stitching for Muriella's wardrobe and knelt beside the window. "What do ye mean?" she asked, perplexed, as she often was, by her mistress's strange affinity with the world beyond her window.

Muriella drew Megan forward with a hand on her shoulder, pointing to the spot where the woods retreated from the shore of the loch. "See how the water is tipped with white and how the waves come up so violently against the rocks? Not long ago the surface was clear green, but now 'tis faded to dull gray, as if the joy had left it."

Megan squinted into the afternoon light—dimmed now by cloudy shadows—and saw the water had indeed begun to roil and spit as if possessed by some unpleasant demon. The loch was usually so calm—a mirror reflecting the swift changes of the sky. She had never thought of a loch or a garden having moods as people did, but her mistress had taught her a great deal in the long hours of her confinement. She looked at Muriella and thought she saw the restless, gray green movement of the water in the other girl's eyes.

Muriella leaned out to breathe deeply as the scent of damp heather rose on the wind, intertwined with other fragrances from the garden below. "There's a touch of rosemary in the breeze, I think," she murmured, "and mayhap a little lavender. Can ye tell?"

When the servant sniffed the air, biting her lip in concentration, Muriella smiled. Thank God for Megan, she thought. Once when John had come to check on the girls, he had told the servant she need not stay in the chamber constantly, but she had chosen to do so just the same. The two girls had divided their time between watching the changes beyond their window and working on a new set of clothes for Muriella.

"My mistress can't keep wearin' Elizabeth's ill-fittin' gowns," Megan had declared that first day before John could leave and lock the door behind him. "And if we're to be here with nothin' to do, we could start a gown or two and some kirtles, couldn't we?"

John had stared at her in surprise. Megan had never been one to speak out so boldly before. But he had to admit she was right. Within the hour, Mary and Jenny had brought linen and wool, needles and fine thread.

"Thank ye for thinking of such things," Muriella had told her. "And thank ye for staying by me. 'Twould be lonely indeed without ye."

"'Tis only right, miss," Megan had explained matter-of-factly before turning to sort through the fabrics spread over the bed. Muriella had joined her, grateful for the work; it kept her mind busy and did not allow her to dwell on the dull ache that never seemed to leave her. She felt as if she were suspended in time—waiting—though she did not know what she was waiting for.

Megan rose to pick up the simple gray wool gown she had been laboring over so carefully. "Have I done it right this time?" she asked, holding the seam out for inspection. She had never been at her best with needle and thread, but she had learned quickly that Muriella sewed a fine, strong seam.

"Aye, 'tis much better," her mistress observed, running a finger over the tiny stitches. "Even my mother would say so."

Smiling with pleasure, Megan drew her stool closer to the window and settled down to her task once more. "Did yer mother teach ye to sew?" she asked.

Muriella nodded. "Aye, and to weave. 'Twas the only time I spent with her, really, when we sat together in the solar." The thought saddened her. She wondered if she would ever see Isabel Calder or Hugh or Lorna again. "She loved to make tapestries, ye see, and it seemed to me she never left the loom. I could no’ sit still for so long."

"Aye," Megan interjected, "I know just how ye felt. Sometimes I think my back won't ever be straight again."

"Do ye know what my mother told me when I said the same? She said she was doing the work of the fairies, weaving the patterns they'd put in her fingers with their magic. She used to sing a song that matched the rhythm of the loom as she worked the shuttle back and forth. She hypnotized me with her sweet voice, I think, till I came to love the weaving as much as she did."

Megan looked up eagerly. "Can ye sing it now?"

Muriella shook her head. "I don't remember the words. She made them up as she went along. 'Twas part of the magic."

The servant sighed in disappointment, and Muriella turned her attention back to the half-finished linen kirtle in her lap. Thus the two girls had sat for many hours in the past week, while Megan kept boredom at bay with her lively chatter. Day by day, she told her mistress all she knew of the inhabitants of Kilchurn Castle.

That was how Muriella had learned of Colin's wife, Janet, who had never set foot here, but stayed in Castle Glamis—Castle Gloom, as Megan called it—outside Edinburgh. "And wise she is, if ye ask me. 'Tis best to stay as far away from Sir Colin as ye can." Then there was the servant Jenny, who fancied herself in love with Colin and followed him about "like a wee, lonely pup." But according to Megan, Colin did not seem to mind.

Muriella had learned too about Elizabeth and her unhappy marriage to Lachlan Maclean. "She didn't go willingly, I'll tell ye that. But 'twas nothin' she could do to change her father's mind. They say she wept and refused to eat till they feared she'd starve herself to a shadow. Still, in the end, it didn't matter. The Laird had his way and that was that."

It sounded so simple, Muriella thought. A whole life disposed of with a few brisk words. The same, no doubt, that would seal her own fate.

"The Earl's home, I hear," Megan said now. "They say he’s no’ in a pleasant frame of mind. But ye'll be seein' that for yerself soon enough. I expect he'll be sendin' for ye."

Muriella considered the information in silence. She felt Megan was warning her, but before she could ask a question, there was a brief knock, then the door flew open and John entered the chamber.

Glancing up at his noisy entrance, Muriella caught her breath. For some reason, no matter how many times she saw him, a glimpse of his face was a shock to her. It was almost as if, so long as he was out of her sight, she could believe he was no more than a name that had no substance. But once he stood before her, she felt his presence like a gust of air that knocked the breath from her body. He stopped still in the middle of the room, staring.

My God, John thought as he caught sight of the slender girl framed by the light from the window. She looked so slight, ethereal, as if she might blow away at a sudden draft. The sunlight touched her hair and body, emphasizing her fragility and the pale translucence of her skin. She had lost weight during her week of confinement. At the moment, she did not look like an heiress to a large and important fortune. She looked, instead, like a lost child.

John smothered a flicker of pity when he remembered this child, who was not yet a woman, held his future in her hands. He felt again the resentment that she should have such power over him. "The Earl has called for ye," he said with unusual harshness. "'Tis no' wise to keep him waiting."

Dropping her linen on the stool at her feet, Muriella rose. "Shouldn't ye take the time to bind and gag me? Aren't ye afraid I'll run?"

John took a step forward, his blue eyes glinting a sharp warning. "Is that what ye intend? Do ye mean to see how far ye can push us before we find it necessary to break ye?"

With an effort, Muriella kept her face expressionless. "I don't—"

"Because we'll do it, I promise ye that. Colin is no’ the only one here with a temper, and don't ye forget it. Now come. My father's waiting."

Although she wanted to send him away, to stay where she was until the Earl was forced to come to her, Muriella knew that would be a mistake. She saw with annoyance John had not even waited to see if she would come; he had already left the room. Biting her lip to quell her anger, Muriella followed him into the hall. Confident she was behind him, he was leading her beyond the stairway to a part of the castle she had never seen.

The passageway they entered, hung with tapestries and carpeted with fine Persian rugs, was very different from the bleak rooms and endless gloomy corridors she had already passed through. But even here nothing could eradicate the chill that had settled permanently inside the thick stone walls. She noticed John's leather boots were lined with fur and he'd tossed a wolf pelt over his long saffron shirt to keep out the cold. Muriella was suddenly aware of how inadequate her own light wool gown was. Strange, she mused, that these halls should be so damp and uncomfortable when outside the sun was bright. Even the Campbell's wealth could not bring that warmth inside where it was needed.

As she shivered at a sudden draft, she saw a tapestry rippling in the gust of air. The vivid hanging depicted a battle scene in intricate detail. She stopped to examine it more closely. Though she wanted to shut out the sight of the blood and clashing swords, she could not help but marvel at the fine work. Fascinated, she ran her fingers over the fabric, admiring the tight weave.

"I told ye, my father doesn't like to wait," John said impatiently from out of the gloom.

Muriella fought back an angry response and turned away from the hanging. When John disappeared into a strange room, she followed him slowly across the threshold. The chamber was lit by several oil lamps and a roaring fire that seemed to welcome her. She shook her head in disbelief, noticing with growing surprise the patterned blue Persian rug and the carved bookshelves along the walls. So this was the library. Muriella had always loved that room at Kilravok, but it had been small and cold compared to this magnificent chamber.

She forgot the Earl as she glided toward a bookcase and ran her fingers reverently across the leather binding of the nearest manuscript. There were many like it; the browns and tans of the tooled leather books broke up the monotony of gray walls that curved up to the vaulted ceiling.

"Can ye read, lass?"

She turned toward the Earl, who sat behind a large oak desk cluttered with parchment and open books. Odd, she thought, but he did not look at all formidable. In fact, more than anything, he looked tired. The light in the room was soft; in the yellow glow of the lamps, the girl could see the resemblance to Rob. The same patchwork of tiny lines crossed the same nose and cheeks, but the eyes were harder blue and the lines of his mouth were sharper. Still, this man was not an ogre as she had made herself believe. Yet he was the one who had given the orders that changed her life.

"I asked ye if ye know how to read." His voice was curiously gentle.

"Aye. My mother taught me. At Kilravok, the library was my favorite room."

The Earl smiled to himself. He had been wary about meeting the girl because of the stories the men were circulating. Having seen her, he wanted to laugh at their simplicity. Muriella seemed normal enough. Her red hair was neatly braided and her green eyes sparkled just like any other girl's. "Tell me," he said, "would ye like to read here in the afternoons? As ye can see, there's much ye could look at."

The pleasure drained out of Muriella's face. "I can't. They don't allow me to leave my room."

The Earl frowned as he remembered Colin's account of her first morning at Kilchurn. "Aye, they told me. But 'twas yer own fault, I hear. Ye should no’ have tried to run away."

Out of the corner of her eye, Muriella could see John nodding in agreement. For a moment resentment choked her. "I didn't think 'twould hurt to see the garden. I wanted air, that's all."

Argyll regarded her doubtfully. "Didn't ye wish to flee from us then? I rather thought it might have entered yer head a time or two. From what Johnnie tells me, ye weren't too pleased when they took ye from Cawdor."

Muriella felt his cool appraisal, the expectant stillness on his weathered face, and guessed he was testing her somehow. She decided to tell the truth. "No, I wasn't pleased. I would have left here at once if there'd been a way. But ye see, I recognized even then that there was nothing—no one—to run to. Surely ye know that."

With a hint of a warning in his voice, the Earl said, "I know it well, lass, and 'tis glad I am to see ye do too. 'Twill no doubt save a lot of foolishness in the future." He paused to let the message sink in, then, satisfied he had made his point, added in a kinder tone, "But so long as ye understand, there's nothing to keep ye from roaming the keep and grounds as ye like." He looked up at John, who stood back in the shadows. "What room have ye given her?"

"Elizabeth's."

Argyll tensed at the mention of his daughter's name. Elizabeth's, was it? He would alter that soon enough. "That room was stripped when she married. There's no' a rug on the floor nor hangings on the walls. Have her moved to yer mother's chamber." Turning to Muriella, he explained, "Ye'll find it a mite more comfortable there. I see they haven't been treating ye well. But we'll remedy that, ye can be sure. Come here, lass, and show me yer skill at reading. There hasn't been a young voice here in a long time." Not since Elizabeth left, he added silently.

Surprised at the change in his tone, Muriella went to stand beside him, reaching for the book he held out to her. She was aware of John's gaze, but did not look up, though she felt his eyes upon her like a heavy hand on her shoulder. The sensation disturbed her and she struggled to keep her voice steady as she read from the yellowed page.

The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea,

They live in freedom, every one in his kind,

And I, a man, and lacketh liberty!

What shall I say, what reasons may I find

That fortune should do so?

Muriella lowered the manuscript to look at John. Her eyes blazed and he read the accusation there. He clenched his fists. Must she always be looking at him with her mistrust so clear on her face? After all, he had only done what was best for her. He had saved her from a Calder sword. What was it she had said to him? The danger was mine to face, not yers. But that was foolish. Surely she did not mean she would have stayed at Cawdor to die?

Oblivious of the looks passing between the two young people, the Earl pushed the manuscript away. "Ye have a lovely voice, lass. Do ye have the Gaelic?"

Muriella shook her head. "I have a little Latin, but no one ever taught me the Gaelic."

"Well then, ye must come here often and begin to learn it. 'Tis yer heritage, ye know. Mayhap I'll even teach ye myself. And lass"—he took her by the shoulders, drawing her toward him—"ye must remember that we brought ye here to keep ye safe, but ye shall no’ be our prisoner." He turned back to his son to add, "See that she has two men to watch her always. We don't want to tempt fate, after all. We've only just found her. 'Twould be a shame if we lost her again so soon."

Was he trying to frighten her? Muriella wondered. Or was this just another warning? She felt the determination in his grip on her shoulders, yet there was tenderness in his eyes. Concentrating on those eyes, she saw pain there too; he was suffering and did not wish to show it.

At her intent perusal, the Earl thought suddenly, vividly of Rob's loss and felt an aching emptiness in his stomach. For the second time, his eyes began to burn, and for the second time, he fought back the bleakness that swept over him. Along with his brother, all that was good in the Earl had gone. Rob had been his other side—the gentleness, the undisguised affection, the unswerving loyalty to all he loved, the simple human understanding. The hole where Rob Campbell had once stood was dark and cold now—empty.

Argyll was so shaken by the image that his vision blurred. He was surrounded by men, yet completely, inescapably alone, as he had always known one day he would be. Only Muriella's tentative smile and the compassion in her eyes penetrated the fog around him. He focused on her face until the blackness turned to gray.

"Ye must take care," he said at last, with difficulty. "Do ye understand?"

"Aye," she told him softly.

Argyll nodded, pleased, and before he realized what he was doing, reached out to touch her hair with his fingertips. He sighed and just stopped himself from calling her Elizabeth.

"There's trouble!" Colin exclaimed from the doorway.

Argyll let his hand fall to his lap. "What is it?" he asked wearily. He had had enough trouble for one day.

His son nodded toward Muriella. "Send the girl away."

With a wave of his hand, the Earl murmured, "Ye must go now. We've business to discuss."

For a moment, Muriella had thought he would tell her of his grief, but she saw now how foolish she had been. At the sound of Colin's voice, Argyll turned toward his son as if Muriella ceased to exist in that moment. Without a word, she did as he bid her and left the room. Colin glanced after her, waiting until she was lost in the shadows before pulling the heavy door closed.

"Well?" Argyll demanded.

"A messenger just rode in from Nairnshire with news that William Calder and his three sons have filed two legal petitions with the Precentor of Ross. The first claims that inheritance can't be passed through the female line."

"'Tis easy enough to disprove," the Earl interrupted.

Colin shrugged. "The second"—he paused, glancing at John—"the second claims they have evidence proving the girl illegitimate."

"What?" The Earl stood abruptly and brought his fist crashing down on the desktop. "What evidence?"

Smiling with satisfaction at his father's reaction, Colin pulled a chair forward and settled himself on the brocade seat. "The Precentor appears to be in league with the Calders. He won't say what the evidence is."

"Have ye given me a bastard to marry then?" John demanded.

"Quiet, boy! 'Tis some trick they've thought up among them to stop us from getting the girl's fortune. I must think what to do. And I'll need yer help, not yer anger!"

"Mayhap 'tis no' a trick. Mayhap she is a bastard." Colin's lips twisted slightly upward; the idea seemed to please him.

"Then why have they waited till now to show their evidence? They could've done it long ago."

"Mayhap," Colin said skeptically.

"I don't understand," John muttered. "William Calder chose to step down in favor of his son. Why is he fighting to keep Cawdor now?"

"He didn't know his son would die in less than four years, and the only child would be a girl. He's regretting his haste, no doubt."

"Then why hasn't he done something before this?"

The Earl leaned back in his chair. "I believe he thought he'd get Cawdor back somehow, so long as the girl was nearby. But he doesn't want to let it fall into Campbell hands. He knows we're too strong for him. He's afraid, that's all, and desperate as well."

John paced the room, brow furrowed.

"Johnnie, do ye really believe I'm so careless? Muriella is the legitimate heiress. I know her history. Don't worry, we'll fight them through the courts."

John swung to face his father. "Why don't we just kill Calder and his three sons? Ye said they're afraid of us. We are stronger. Why must we wait?"

Argyll peered at his older son, who sprawled in his chair, smirking. "Leave us, Colin."

"But—"

"Leave us."

Even Colin dared not question the quiet authority in his father's command. He rose, pushed his chair away, and strode out, slamming the heavy door behind him.

"Sit down, Johnnie. There's a thing or two ye must learn."

Unwillingly, John took Colin's chair.

"Ye need to know, boy—"

"I'm no' a boy."

"As ye wish, so long as ye listen. There are ways to get what ye want without killing, Johnnie. There's always a bargain of some kind ye can make."

His son glared down at his hands. He knew all about his father's bargains. "Ye mean like the one ye made with Donald Dubh before ye set him free to start a revolt?" He could not hide his distaste at the memory.

Argyll clenched his teeth in anger. The rebellion of 1504 again. It seemed he could not escape it today. Now even John had become his judge. "I did what I had to do. I thought ye understood that. Or don't ye wish to understand political necessity?"

"I don't see why 'twas necessary to trick yer enemies into becoming traitors."

"Ye were only a boy then. Ye didn't realize the Macleans were daily growing stronger, and they'd made it clear how willing they were to ally themselves with Donald Dubh against the crown."

John snorted in disbelief. "I was old enough to fight with the other Campbells," he reminded his father. "And are ye so sure it was King Jamie ye were concerned for? Ye would have lost a great deal if they'd succeeded in establishing Dubh as Lord of the Isles."

Argyll had not realized his son knew so much about those events five years ago. "Ye're right," the Earl said stiffly, "the Macleans were a threat to my position in the Highlands and I chose to rid myself of that threat. Is that so hard to understand?"

His son regarded him intently. "Mayhap 'tis easier to understand than 'tis to forgive."

Argyll rose, kicking his chair from behind him. "Who are ye to question my methods?" he demanded. "They succeeded, didn't they? We broke the Macleans like a dried-out twig so they couldn't challenge the clan again." He had spoken with more vehemence than he intended and had to fight to regain his composure.

John considered Argyll doubtfully. He had always admired his father—his strength, his cleverness, his wisdom. He had shared an unusual closeness with the Earl, who was often too busy to bother with his children's feelings. But he could not forget how Argyll worshipped power above all else; it made his son uneasy. "Ye may have broken them for a while," John pointed out, "but it doesn't mean they've forgotten. Ye just left Maclean. Ye must know he hates ye."

"Aye," the Earl agreed reluctantly, "the man's memory is long and vivid. And I suspect he'd do anything to get back at me. I sometimes wonder if he won't use Elizabeth—" He stopped when he realized what he was saying. "Ye've changed the subject, Johnnie. My sins aren't important. What I want to discuss is yer temper. 'Tis that which threatens our welfare just now."

"But ye were the one who taught me how to fight for what I want. Don't ye remember?"

The Earl nodded, seating himself again so he could look his son in the eye. "Aye, that I do." He had known from the beginning that as a second son, John would have to struggle for everything he wanted. Things had come much easier for Colin merely because he was his father's heir. So Argyll had goaded and encouraged and forced his second son to be strong on his own. He had learned early to fight with vigor and determination. It was strange, the Earl mused, that John should also have grown close to his mother and Elizabeth. Perhaps it was their influence that had taught him to feel things as deeply as he did. But now it was time for him to begin to control his wayward emotions and learn wisdom as well. "Just the same, there are times when ye forget yerself, when ye act without thinking."

Leaning forward, John demanded, "Would ye have me be like Colin, then—cold and calculating, with no feeling at all?"

Argyll narrowed his eyes in displeasure. "Colin is what he has to be to survive," he snapped. "There's no room for foolish emotion in a man meant to lead the Clan Campbell. It weakens yer judgment when ye need it most, and 'tis no' a risk either yer brother or I can afford to take. Ye can't blame Colin for that." Rubbing his forehead to dissipate a persistent pain, the Earl looked away. Argyll was glad his younger son was different. He liked to think John was more like Rob—caring, and strong as iron underneath.

But Rob was dead. The Earl had actually forgotten for a moment. The rush of grief he felt shocked him with its intensity, made him more certain of what he was saying. John had been ruled by his heart long enough. "I wouldn't have ye follow in yer brother's footsteps, as well ye know. But nevertheless, ye must begin to control yer anger and impatience. Otherwise, they may well be yer undoing."

"Mayhap." John was unconvinced. He stood in order to end the conversation before it went any further. He had heard enough lectures for one day. He started to leave the room, aware all the time of his father's disapproving gaze on his back. When he reached the door, the Earl's commanding voice stopped him.

"Don't forget what I've said," the Earl warned. "And one last thing. We need time in order to do this wedding properly. Everyone in the Highlands is waiting for it, and we must show them what we're capable of. The ceremony is set for Muriella's fourteenth birthday in February. Ye've several months to keep her safe, and I warn ye, 'twill no' be easy. Until then, she's always in danger. Don't forget that, and don't relax, ever."

Chapter 7

Lachlan Maclean stared at the letter in his hand. He read the message over a second time before tossing the parchment onto the table, then threw back his head and laughed. The laughter ended too abruptly as Maclean turned toward the fire, running his hand through his thick red curls. "Argyll would have me for a guest when he secures his latest possession."

The men seated around the table shifted uncomfortably, unnerved by Maclean's brief laughter. They knew he was most dangerous when he laughed that way—harshly and without real humor. The clan members looked at the discarded letter in curiosity but no one attempted to pick it up.

Aware of their unease, although he could not see their faces, their laird motioned toward the parchment. "Read it. Argyll’d no’ be sending me state secrets. 'Tis only an invitation to John Campbell's wedding."

Maclean's nephew Evan, who sat nearest the head of the table, reached for the letter, then pushed back his bench so he could see his uncle's face. "What will ye do?"

"I’d not be knowing." Seating himself in the carved armchair at the head of the table, Maclean looked at the anxious faces of the men before him. "'Twould be a shame to miss a Campbell wedding. If naught else, the Earl knows how to make a celebration to remember. But"—he paused when a new thought struck him—"I'm no' the man to jump when Argyll whistles. And I've no wish to see him crow over the wealth that girl brings with her. I'll stay at Duart." With a flourish, he took the parchment from Evan and crumpled it in his fist.

There was silence for a long moment while the men shifted again on their benches. Maclean could see they were not pleased with his decision by the way they turned expectantly toward his nephew.

Finally, Evan spoke. "We think ye should go, Uncle. Ye might be able to do us some good." When Maclean did not respond, his nephew swallowed once, then continued, "Don't ye see? We've spent the morning agreeing Argyll must no' be allowed to swallow the Highlands whole, but we can't see where 'tis possible to stop him. Yet here's a chance fallen right in yer lap."

Eyeing his nephew suspiciously, Maclean muttered, "What are ye thinking, Evan? Make yerself clear, man."

"If ye were there, ye might be able to stop the wedding. There's no surer way of ruining Argyll's plans than that."

In an instant, Maclean was out of his chair. "Are ye daft, the whole lot of ye? Stop a Campbell wedding?" He looked at the ring of faces until he had taken in the expression of every man there. They were serious. And they'd obviously talked this over before they came. The idea hadn't sprung into their heads with the arrival of the letter. Well, serious they might be, but that didn't preclude the possibility they'd lost their wits. When Maclean spoke, his voice was barely controlled. "Ye know I'd like nothing better than to hurt the Earl. But he’s no’ a man to let a prize like this one slip through his fingers. 'Tis a dangerous thing ye're asking of me."

"We know what kind of man Argyll is, Uncle. That's why we can't let him grow any stronger. We also know the Earl thinks ye a clever man. I've even heard it said that he's afraid of ye. Surely ye can think of a way to outfox him. Likely he'll be drunk every night anyway, so pleased will he be at his good fortune."

Maclean moved toward the fire, turning his back on the clan members who had gathered from all over the western Highlands to decide what must be done about Argyll. "No’ one of ye, no’ a single one of ye knows the Earl as I do. And I tell ye, he’s no’ a fool. He knows many would give a great deal to stop this marriage. He knows and he'll be ready. He won't be getting drunk till 'tis safe to do so. And he'll have one eye on me, ye can bet on that. That's why I won't be playing yer game this time."

He did not turn to see their reactions. Instead he gazed into the flames and wished his men were right, that there was a way to thwart the Earl through this wedding. The idea of hurting Argyll had long been one of his fondest daydreams. But he was wise enough to know his own limitations—most of the time.

Evan's voice broke into his thoughts. "Have ye forgotten Alex so soon?"

Maclean grasped the mantel so tightly his hands began to ache. "I haven't forgotten my brother. I’ll no' forget." Unknowingly, he used the Earl's own words. He tried to stop the picture from forming in his mind as it always did at the mention of his brother's name, but he was unsuccessful. Against his will, Maclean stood again amidst the carnage on the battlefield five years ago. He remembered with the same bitter self-recrimination that he had sent Alex and the others because it would be safe. But he had not reckoned on Argyll's duplicity. Since the rebellion was nearly over, the rebels nearly destroyed, he thought the Earl would let the Macleans reach home safely. James IV had won, after all; Argyll still held the Lordship of the Isles in his own grasping fist. Alex had led the tail end of a bedraggled and beaten army into that glen without fear, because Maclean had assured him he could do so.

But the Earl had decided the rebels needed one more lesson, and his army had fallen upon them late that night. Not a single Maclean had left that glen walking. They had been slaughtered, every last one—Alex and Evan and David and the others. And Anne.

Maclean knelt before the fire, pushing his hands toward the flames. He must not think of Anne, or he would destroy the Earl and himself along with him, and maybe the whole Clan Maclean as well.

When he saw his uncle's expression, Evan rubbed his hands together nervously. He knew it was not always wise to evoke the past for the Laird. It was a sure way to rouse his anger against the Earl, but that anger was often so intense it threatened to harm others besides. The servants here had told Evan about Argyll's last visit, when Maclean had nearly taunted the Earl into fighting him. Though he had not seen it, Evan knew what the outcome would have been. Argyll was getting old and was no match for his son-in-law's ability with a sword. The Laird of Clan Maclean would have killed his father-in-law.

Evan shook his head. His uncle could be a fool when he lost his temper. Had the Earl died that day, Macleans all over the Highlands would be fighting for their own lives now.

"I assume ye have some kind of plan?" Maclean's voice rose hollowly from where he crouched before the fire.

With a start, Evan sat up. Maclean was wavering now and his nephew had to press his advantage, regardless of the consequences. "It seems to us there's just one way to be certain the marriage never takes place."

Maclean swung around. "Ye're mad if ye think I'll kill the girl. I won't drag myself down to Argyll's level. If that's yer meaning, ye can believe I won't be helping ye."

His nephew stood up, moving to join the laird near the fire. "There are many who would do all in their power to stop this union between the Calders and the Campbells. The Calders themselves are opposed to it. Perhaps there’s one who desires the girl's death more than we do. Someone who could do more harm than we, so the name of Maclean need never be involved at all."

"Ye're speaking of the outlaw, Andrew Calder, aren't ye?"

"Aye. He's already stolen Campbell cattle and horses and a great deal of Campbell gold. And he makes no secret of his intentions. He wants the lass. Once she's gone, Cawdor would be his."

"He won't be getting her. He can harry the Campbells till they snap, kill their men, take their horses, but he’ll no’ be able to get the girl."

"No." Evan smiled slightly. "No’ without yer aid."

"I thought ye were leading to that." Maclean turned to face his nephew. "Do ye really think the Earl would allow it, man?"

"Argyll has a great deal to occupy his mind of late. Besides, he has no wish to antagonize ye just now. What could he do, short of attacking Mull? And ye know as well as I that with Elizabeth here he won't."

Eyes narrowed in concentration, Maclean turned to the men who waited in silence. "I believe supper is ready," he said. "Go fill yer bellies. I must think." He nodded toward the door, indicating his nephew was to follow them.

Before he left, Evan placed a hand on his uncle's shoulder. "'Tis our only chance in a long time. We must take them as they come."

"Aye. I'll remember. But I want ye to leave me now."

Evan went, closing the door behind him.

An intense stillness fell upon the room in the absence of the men. Maclean paced before the fire, trying not to listen to the sound of the silence, trying to think of a way to injure Argyll without any risk to himself. But he found he could not plan the future so long as vivid images of the past continued to flash through his mind. For a long time now, he admitted, the present had meant little to him except as an opportunity for vengeance against the man who had ruined his past. Alex had been so young—only seventeen. The scene of the deserted battlefield rose before his eyes once more.

He did not hear Elizabeth enter and was unaware of her presence until she touched his shoulder from behind. "Lachlan?"

He spun to face her, feeling the revulsion her touch sometimes gave him. Somehow, he always hoped she would be Anne. But no, that was absurd. She was Elizabeth, and Argyll's daughter as well. He stepped back until she withdrew her hand.

"What is it?" He tried to control his voice but could not keep the chill from creeping in.

Elizabeth was not blind; she recognized his distaste for her. She could see by his face that he was falling into one of his moods. Presently he would begin to look through her as if she were not there. He would shudder when she touched him, as he had almost done a moment ago. Last time this had happened, he had locked himself in the library for a week, refusing to see anyone.

That had been after her father's last visit. She well knew her husband's moods were connected with his hatred of the Earl. She looked beyond Maclean, staring into the fire. She would comfort him gladly, she thought, if only he would let her. "Won't ye eat with us?" she asked at last.

"I'm no' hungry and would be alone." Her husband turned his back on her.

"Lachlan—"

"Leave me!"

This time she did not pause. Without another word she fled.

Damn the woman! Maclean thought when he heard the door slam shut. Couldn't she see that he didn't want her? Couldn't she understand that every time he looked at her, he saw Anne's body covered with blood, her face marred beyond all recognition? He leaned heavily against the mantel. Anne. He still remembered her face as it had been before Argyll's men ruined it. He still longed to touch her Highland red hair and watch her green eyes dance. She would have been his wife if it had not been for the Earl.

Maclean himself had sent his betrothed with his brother because he thought Duart Castle might be threatened, despite the uneasy peace. He had sent her away so she would be safe, and by doing so, had sent her to her death. The now-familiar self-loathing began to tie his stomach in knots. Argyll's men had killed her, but Maclean had given them the chance.

When the Earl had offered his daughter as a bond of good faith after the final treaty had been signed, Maclean had laughed. Argyll must be mad, he thought, to first kill a man's betrothed then offer up his daughter as a sacrifice.

Maclean smiled oddly. He had agreed to the arrangement because he believed he could manipulate the Earl through Elizabeth. He had thought the marriage would give him a convenient means of power. It had never occurred to him that Elizabeth would love him. He had not realized that every time she looked at him with softness in her eyes, his stomach would tighten in pain. She ought to hate him; he tried to make her do so, but she persisted in loving him, even when he flaunted his whores before her face.

He found, to his dismay, that because she loved him, he could not hurt her. He could not use her against her father as he had planned, yet he could never forgive her because she was not Anne.

Maclean shook his head wearily. He knew he was only destroying himself and getting nowhere. But what could he do?

A spark leapt into the rushes beside him. He watched it glow, then blacken. Evan had had an idea. What was it he had said? Oh yes—the outlaw, Andrew Calder. Maclean stood up abruptly and headed for the door, shouting, "Evan! Evan, we have plans to make!" When he pulled the door open, he was laughing.

Chapter 8

"The Gypsies! The Gypsies have come!"

Muriella heard the shout above the chatter of the seamstresses who surrounded her. All morning the women had been here, measuring and cutting, pulling her this way and that as they tried one fabric after another against her skin. Through it all, the girl had stared toward the open door, longing to escape.

The seamstresses were puzzled. Muriella was being given a wedding wardrobe that made their own mouths drop open in wonder. Here in the Highlands, the women rarely touched anything more delicate than rough linen and wool. Yet behind them now stood trunks full of velvets, brocades, satins and even French lace.

The Earl had decreed Muriella and his son would have a grand wedding. He had gone down to the sea to meet the ships coming in from France and brought back chests full of splendid lengths of cloth. Then he had gathered seamstresses from all over the Highlands to make Muriella's wedding gown. The women gazed at the rich cloth with reverence, and though ran her fingers over the velvet with reverence, and smiled at the beauty and luxury all around her, she did not speak.

The instant Megan's cry that the Gypsies had come pierced the circle of bustling women, Muriella moved lithely. Before anyone could protest, she hurried toward the door. She found Megan waiting in the hallway. "Where are they?"

The servant could barely contain her excitement. "At the foot of the mountains, in the little valley over the hill. Shall we go see them, miss?"

Grasping Megan's hand, Muriella drew her toward the stairs. "Oh, aye!" she said.

"But don't the seamstresses need ye here?"

Muriella smiled over her shoulder as she started down the stairs. "They'll manage without me." When the girls reached the bottom step, she paused. "I'd begun to think I'd go daft with those women always fluttering about. They remind me of my aunts; they never run out of things to say."

"But—"

"Don't worry. They've had me all morning, and ye know the Earl won't mind."

Megan had to admit that was true. Once he'd become convinced Muriella would not try to flee, the Earl had allowed her more freedom to do as she wished. Each day, following whatever fancy struck her, the two girls walked down by the loch or followed the path of the river or wandered in the garden. Once they had even shared a wild ride along the shore. Duncan and Adam Campbell, their swords at their sides, were never far behind on these daily expeditions outside the keep; at the Earl's suggestion, John had set them to watch over Muriella until the wedding.

As the girls went through the hall, Muriella saw Duncan rise, motioning to Adam across the room. Though she had become accustomed to their presence long since, at first she had wanted to hide from the curious eyes that followed her everywhere. But gradually she had realized the boys were no threat to her. They left her in peace as much as they could but were always nearby in case she should need them.

She forgot about the guards when she and Megan reached the top of a low hill that sheltered the valley from the west. There Muriella stopped to catch her breath, enchanted by what she saw.

The Gypsy camp spread below her, covering the floor of the valley in an uneven circle. The men were raising striped, multicolored tents, and the women were unpacking dilapidated wagons whose sides were painted with faint but still-discernible symbols in black, red, and gold. Many of the dark-haired women circled the fires dotting the landscape, and the air rang with laughter and the jingle of many bracelets. At the far end of the camp, where the river crossed the valley, a deep purple tent was already standing. From inside it, Muriella could hear the song of a harp. She smiled, shrugging away the weight of the endless morning.

Megan tugged at her mistress's elbow, and the two girls, Duncan, and Adam started down the gentle slope toward the camp. "Shall we sit by the fire and listen to the women?" Megan asked. "Mary says last time they came they told some wonderful, strange tales."

Muriella was hardly aware the servant had spoken. She was staring at the purple tent as if hypnotized. The notes of the distant harp had captured her, drawing forward. "We must go," she said. Willingly, she let the music pull her from one end of the camp to the other.

Megan followed at her mistress's heels, intrigued. All at once, Muriella's eyes reminded her of the gray green loch on a day when no breeze stirred its gleaming surface. As they approached the tent, the flap covering the door was thrown back and a man stepped out into the light. In his hands he held an ancient clareschaw—the small Highland harp that minstrels had carried since music first rose from the wild Scottish hills.

Muriella stopped to stare at him, although she was not certain why. What was it that arrested her? His eyes, which were a strange shade of gray that flickered into green when the sunlight struck them? Or was it his thick, silver gray hair that curled down to his shoulders and blended with his full gray beard? His face was weather-beaten; deep lines ran from his nose to his mouth, cutting across his leathery, reddish brown skin. Clearly he was not a stranger to the sun.

While Muriella continued to stand mute, the Gypsy sat cross-legged on a cushion with his harp resting on his knees. When he had settled himself to his satisfaction, he looked up. "So," he said finally, "ye've come."

Megan gaped at him, charmed by his deep, melodic voice, which gave even those simple words a touch of magic.

His gaze locked with Muriella's, the Gypsy smiled and pointed to an embroidered pillow beside him. "I'm Alex," he said. "Will ye sit?"

Megan stood undecided for a moment, then backed away. The Gypsy's piercing gaze made her uneasy, as did the way he seemed to draw her mistress down to the pillow without a word or touch. The servant shifted from one foot to the other, feeling she did not belong. She looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Duncan hovering by the nearest campfire. With a last concerned look at her mistress, Megan went to join the squire.

Muriella sat on the soft cushion and found it much more comfortable than the hard chairs and benches at the castle. She did not look up at the Gypsy's face; like Megan, she had been disturbed by the power in his eyes. Instead she studied his clareschaw with interest. It was the music that had brought her here, after all, and she wanted to hear more. But Alex did not move to pick up the instrument. With a slight smile playing about his lips, he watched the girl and waited.

"Is there no’ something ye wish to ask me?" he suggested at last.

Muriella considered the question for a moment, then murmured, "Ye seemed to expect me. How did ye know I'd come?"

"I dreamed of ye last night. My dreams speak to me, and I've learned to listen well, for they never lie, as men do."

With a sharp intake of breath, Muriella leaned closer. "Ye have the Sight, then?"

"Aye, since I was a wee bairn." He pushed the hair back from his face as his eyes grew warm with memories. "I recall the very day it first came to me. I was standin' above a river, starin' into a pool of clear water, when I saw the face of a woman I didn't know. At first I thought she'd fallen in, but when I leaned to fetch her out, 'twas no one there at all."

"But ye met her afterwards, didn't ye?"

"That I did. 'Twas no' till many years later, but I knew her just the same." The Gypsy's thoughts were drifting away; he brought himself back to the present with an effort. "And what of ye? When did ye first know ye had the power?"

Muriella's eyes widened in surprise. "I don't remember. Besides, 'twasn't me who had the power. 'Twas the power had me." She stared down at her hands to hide her distress, but Alex seemed to sense what she was feeling. He reached out to cover her fingers with his.

"I know," he whispered. "Ye wonder sometimes if yer mind and body are yer own anymore, but 'tis the price ye pay for havin' the gift."

Muriella looked up at him. "How did ye know?"

"'Twasn't hard to guess. I could see it in yer face." He ran his fingertip lightly over the corner of her mouth. "Here, where yer confusion has changed the curve of yer smile. And here"—he traced the slight shadows under her eyes—"where fear has left its mark on many a sleepless night." He touched her cheeks gently. "Here, where the pain has settled in the wee hollows." At last he rested two fingers on her eyelids. "And most of all, here in yer eyes, where I see the knowledge that tears at yer heart."

As he spoke, Muriella realized he too bore the signs of suffering from the weight of a burden sometimes too heavy to bear. Then he took her hand to place it against his cheek. Without conscious thought, she followed on his face the path he had traced over her own. She touched the grooves and wrinkles and hollows of his leathery skin, and in that moment felt the strands of their pasts had been woven together because of the grief they'd shared.

"Ye see, lass, that ye aren't alone."

She drew away, bewildered by the lump in her throat. "Does it ever get any easier? Does the fear go away?"

"No," Alex told her sadly. "But in time, ye learn to make the best of a power ye can't fight." He regarded her for a moment in silence, then added, "Ye're to be married within the month, isn't that so?"

"Aye," she said. "The Earl of Argyll has given his son a gift—me."

The Gypsy sighed. "Ye're young, lass. Ye must come to accept the bonds ye can't break."

"I can't do it," she cried. "I'm afraid—"

"Of what?" he asked gently.

Muriella shook her head. "I don't know."

His gaze clouded over and he turned away, listening to a sound she could not hear. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. "Ye'll learn things today that ye’ve no wish to know."

Muriella touched his hand and felt the trembling of his fingers and the chill that had settled on his skin. "Tell me—," she began, but he interrupted her.

"Ye've come here to forget, no' to remember. Listen to the sound of the river. 'Tis singin' today and won't stand for any sadness." He did not look at her, but picked up his harp and began to strum a tune she had never heard before. His fingers moved lithely over the strings, weaving a pattern of notes that echoed the soft rumbling sound of the river nearby. The leap and swirl of the water sang through the seasoned harp in Alex's hands. In spite of her unanswered questions, Muriella felt herself being drawn into the pleasing rhythm.

The tent blocked the river from her sight, but with his music, Alex re-created the jubilant bright cascade of water over stones. Her heartbeat answered the pulse of the song, the song the pulse of the rushing river. She smiled slowly, with delight.

"I'm thinkin' yer friends are wantin' to dance," Alex said, motioning toward Megan and Duncan and Adam.

The three had turned their backs on the fire and were swaying with the music. Only then did Muriella realize others were playing their harps and the pure sweet notes of a flute rose now and then above the melody. Suddenly, as if beckoned by a silent hand, the Gypsies began to drift away from their tasks toward the glowing bonfire. They paused just beyond the reach of the flames, eyes closed, while the music possessed them. Men and women alike raised their arms until palm met palm; then they began to turn slowly, drawing Megan and the others into the dance with them.

Just when Muriella felt she could not resist the lure of the music any longer, a woman knelt and reached for her hand. "Come," she crooned, "leave yer troubles for a time."

Muriella nodded, staring fascinated at the pendant that hung on a chain around the woman's neck—an intricate golden flame with a ruby at its center. The ruby flashed and glimmered when the Gypsy moved, so the flame itself seemed to flicker.

Alex followed Muriella's gaze. "Lovely, is it no’?"

"'Tis beautiful."

"Come," the woman repeated. "Ye must answer the call of the music before it fades away."

With a last look at Alex, whose head was bent so she could not see his eyes, Muriella rose and moved toward the circle of laughing dancers.

* * *

Crouching low in the saddle, Andrew Calder watched and waited, his hand poised above the hilt of his sword. Through the pattern of leaves hiding him from view, he could see the blue and green Campbell plaid draped over the shoulders of the men coming toward him. Leaves and plaid shifted, blended, became indistinguishable, then separated once again as the five men on horseback rode ploddingly toward Calder's hiding place.

"Are ye ready?" he hissed to the men who waited with him. "We’d no’ want to miss our chance."

"Aye, we're ready, sir, but—"

Calder turned in irritation at the uncertainty in the man's voice. "Davie?" he rasped. "What's worrying ye now? We've twice as many men and they won't be expecting us."

David Fraser looked unconvinced. "Aye, but 'tis a lot of money, just the same. The Campbells won't soon forget this one, Andrew. Are ye sure ye want to risk it?"

With a snort, Calder looked away. "I intend to risk everything to get back what they stole from me. If ye're afraid of trying, ye can leave us now, Davie. But ye knew before we started what we meant to do." He leaned forward to get a better view of the approaching riders. They were Campbells all right, and their saddlebags were fat and heavy, just as his informant had promised. This little raid might just be worth the effort.

Of course, no matter how much gold was hidden in those bags, it could not compensate him for the loss of Cawdor. Calder glowered through the foliage, remembering that, like a fool, he had felt relief when his oldest brother died so young. It had not occurred to Andrew that as the second son, he would not inherit all his brother John had lost. He had been furious when he learned that Isabel Calder had borne a baby girl who became John Calder's heir.

"Look at those bags," one man whispered reverently. "There must be a fortune on the backs of those nags."

"Money for the big wedding, I'll wager," another sneered. "They tell me the Earl can't spend enough on the girl. But then"—he elbowed Calder roughly—"he's thinkin' to get it back, no doubt, after the ceremony."

"There won't be a wedding if I have aught to do with it," Andrew snapped. "Mayhap this time Argyll will see I'm no’ boasting when I say so." His fingers closed on the cool metal of his broadsword. Andrew had been all for seeing the girl never lived to enjoy her inheritance, but William Calder had advised against it. He claimed the clan could not afford the full-scale war with the Roses the girl's murder would have caused. The old man had even hinted he had other ways of seeing that Cawdor remained in Calder hands.

He had been wrong. The Campbells had seen to that.

"If ye mean to stop the ceremony, why do ye wait?" Davie demanded. "Why haven't ye tried for the girl yet?"

"Because I may no’ have to. My father has plans of his own. And I must confess, 'twould amuse me no end to see John Campbell of Lorne married to a penniless bastard." In the meantime, he intended to get what he could from the Campbells. He knew it would be impossible to break the clan, but he could certainly make them uncomfortable while his own pockets grew fat with their wealth. Then, if his father's plan failed—

Andrew Calder was no fool. He knew what would happen if Muriella became a Campbell. He and his father and brothers would be left in poverty while their inheritance passed to the coffers of their greatest enemy—Archibald Campbell. Argyll was second only to the King in wealth and power, but King James was busy with his squabbles at court. Here in the Highlands, it was the Earl who ruled. Calder had sworn he would not let Argyll have his way this time. He had had no difficulty finding men willing to join him in this enterprise; his brothers fought for the sake of Cawdor, the others for their hatred and fear of the Earl. They were outlaws now, every last one of them, and desperate enough to do whatever Calder asked of them.

"'Tis time!" someone hissed. "Be sure yer aim is true!"

Calder drew his sword, grinning in anticipation of the fight. The riders would be easy prey, but that did not dim his pleasure.

"Now!" he cried as he kicked his horse into action. In an instant, the narrow path was crowded by outlaws, who screamed their war cry as they hemmed in the five couriers. The Campbells were hardly able to pull up their horses before the attack, let alone draw their weapons. They gave up the gold, and four of their lives, without a fight.

As Davie started to finish off the last of them, Calder stayed his hand. "Leave him. We want the news back at Kilchurn as soon as can be. By the telling of this deed, I'll make certain that from today, the Campbells will never forget the name of Andrew Calder!"

Chapter 9

Colin sprawled across the uneven bench, clasping a servant girl with one hand and a tankard of ale with the other. The Earl and John sat nearby. All three looked expectantly toward the man who had just ridden in from Cawdor.

"Well, Richard, what have ye found?" The Earl demanded.

Richard wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve before answering. "M'lord, the Calders have two witnesses who swear Isabel Calder lay with a man besides her husband."

"That doesn't prove the girl is illegitimate!" John exploded.

"They also swear Isabel and her husband kept apart and that he never lay with her at all."

Rising from the bench, John began to pace behind his father's chair. It seemed he had done little but pace the floor in frustration since they had taken Muriella from Cawdor.

"Be calm, Johnnie," Argyll demanded. "The witnesses have been paid, that's all. We'll simply have to force them to admit it. Tell me, Richard, do the officials believe these lies?"

"Aye, m'lord. But they've no more desire to see the Campbells at Cawdor than the Calders do."

"Thank ye," the Earl murmured absently. "Ye can go." Sighing in relief, Richard shambled off to the kitchen to find himself something to drink.

For the first time, Argyll became aware of the girl who sat beside Colin. "Can't ye send her away? We'll no’ want the servants knowing our business."

His oldest son smiled, tightening his hold on the girl. "Jenny here won't speak a word, will ye, hinny? She's quiet, is this one, the way I like 'em."

"Forget the girl," John interrupted. "What are ye going to do about this?" He bent down to look into his father's face. "And what if the witnesses aren't being paid? What if they aren't lying?"

"If they aren't, they'll nevertheless swear they are. I'll see to it. But I tell ye, they're false witnesses. Had they been legitimate, William Calder would have brought them forward a long time since." He paused, considering his son thoughtfully. "I'll go to Cawdor myself tomorrow. They all know I speak for the King. They'll listen to me."

Colin chuckled. "They know ye speak for Argyll and they’ll no’ listen. Maclean didn't hear ye, and the Calders have far more to gain than he did." He pinched Jenny, sliding his hand along her arm. "But if ye should be successful, I'm sure Johnnie's bastard will be grateful."

John stopped his pacing, clenched his fists, and moved toward his brother.

"Johnnie," Argyll interjected, "the men are in the courtyard preparing for the hunt. Go with them. Don't worry about this. I'll see it comes out all right. We've gone to too much trouble to give up now."

John glared at Colin for a moment longer, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the hall.

The Earl turned to Colin. "As for ye, I suggest ye take yer woman and get out of my sight."

His son shrugged. "The boy's a fool. Too sensitive by far. He won't ever make a good fighter; he's all hot blood and no common sense."

"Get out!" Argyll bellowed.

Colin went, pulling Jenny along behind him.

* * *

Several hours later the hunters returned. They burst into the Great Hall, laughing and triumphant. Most of them were streaked with blood; John's saffron shirt was dyed brown to the elbows, and where he had pushed back his hair, the blood had stiffened the tangles into permanent disorder. One sleeve was torn clear to the shoulder and his knee protruded through his filthy trews. But he was smiling as he had not smiled for many days.

Stumbling with the weight, he lifted a deer carcass into the air and shouted, "A deer! In this season! We shall eat well tonight after all."

The other men slapped him on the back with hands and elbows, applauding his success. "Och, Johnnie! Congratulations!"

With John in the lead, the hunters paraded through the hall to deposit their treasures in the kitchen. When they returned, ale had replaced the day's kill. Joking and shoving, they settled around the tables while John sat on a stool by the fire. He leaned his head against the rough stone and grinned to himself.

There was a brief commotion in the courtyard, then Megan, Muriella, and her two guards came into the hall. Like John, they were pleased with themselves. For once Muriella's eyes were unshadowed. She smiled as she and Megan whirled for a moment in each other's arms. Breathing heavily with the exertion, they swung themselves toward the fire.

"What's this?" John exclaimed as he set his tankard on the floor. "What's turned ye daft in a single afternoon?"

Muriella did not hear him; she was still under the influence of the Gypsy music. Entranced by the graceful movement of the flames in the fireplace, she watched them leap and twirl like golden dancers.

"Och, Sir John! 'Tis the Gypsies yonder in the valley!" Megan panted. "They're wonderful, m'lord. They sing and dance and their clothes are so bright." Unable to contain her excitement, the servant pirouetted once more.

Her pleasure was contagious. Without a word, Richard rose, smiling, and took her hand. Megan curtsied, then gathered her skirts about her as he twirled her out and back and out again. Then Duncan took up the beat, tapping his foot to the memory of the Gypsy songs, and bowed low before Muriella. She grinned, swaying with the rhythm of the crackling fire, and touched his hands briefly with her palms. Soon they were spinning beside Megan and Richard, tripping over the rushes and kicking them aside. The couples met and parted, met and parted, while Adam and two others joined them, until all were moving in a dance without pattern or partners. They needed no harps to guide their feet; the only music they recognized was their own muted laughter and the enthusiastic stomping of feet that urged them on. Muriella smiled and dipped and spun and curtsied, aware of nothing but her delight in the movement of her own body.

John watched in astonishment, as if this were an apparition created by the too-bright glare of the afternoon sun. His gaze was fixed on Muriella, who seemed to have forgotten, for the moment, the demons that usually haunted her. Why, with color in her cheeks and a little life in her eyes, she's lovely, he thought. Before he could stop to consider, he left his stool and went to take her hand.

Unconscious of the condition he was in or the interested stares of the men, John circled with his betrothed. As they whirled faster and faster he felt a strange stirring inside him. He had never seen her smile before, never seen her face when it was not clouded with accusations or mistrust.

He realized with a start that he was actually enjoying the feel of her body in his arms, the whisper of her hair as it rose and fell with the dance. Although she was to be his wife, he had never thought of her as desirable. But he had never before seen in her the woman she would someday be. John drew her closer until he could smell the scent of her hair and feel the swish of her skirts against his legs.

He smiled and felt the blood running hotly through his veins as she swung toward him so her breasts brushed his chest. God, but she was torturing him without knowing; it had been too long since he'd had a woman, and Muriella was weaving a web of enchantment with her smiles. Overcome by the sudden strength of his need, John buried his hand in her hair and tilted her head up with the pressure of demanding fingers. Then he lowered his head and kissed her, hard and full on her parted lips.

Just for an instant, still lost in the dream, Muriella felt a flash of warmth race over her flushed skin. Then the heat of John's mouth on hers shook her awake, and she clung to him, stunned by the pleasure of his kiss—at least for an instant. Until his grip grew tight and every moment hotter, burning away the music and the magic and the rhythm that had held her in its grasp.

She took a step backward. As John's bearded face came into focus, she felt the ground had slipped from beneath her. Her crippled finger throbbed dully. She swayed, her hands clenched into painful fists, as the water rushed about her body and she was sucked into the center of the raging white foam. For an instant she believed the vision was real, that her skirts were sweeping furiously around her ankles and her head was sinking under the waves, but as her body grew still, the image faded. "No!" she gasped, wrenching free of John's arms.

Muriella stood trembling from the vision. It had overpowered her so completely that even now she felt her legs might buckle. Her heartbeat slowed, seemed to drag in her chest, and she had to struggle to catch her breath. Frozen with shock, she took in for the first time John's soiled and rent clothing and his face, on which blood and dirt vied for dominance. He was still reaching out, waiting for her to return to him, while the rush of the water pounded in her ears.

The Sight had not touched her for many days, and now it would not leave her; her fear was so strong she could smell it in the air like the clinging odor of bitter herbs. She was weak with shaking, and all around the men were watching, staring open-mouthed, not bothering to hide their curiosity. With a strength of will she had not known she possessed, Muriella forced the vision back into darkness, then took another step away from John.

The silence stretched between them—chill and implacable—while he tried to collect his wits. She had bewitched him for a moment, that's what she'd done. He had not even tried to stop her. Now he became aware that the other dancers had stopped and everyone in the hall was watching to see what he would do. "There's work aplenty," he called to the men. "Don't stand about gawking as if ye'd nothing better to do."

One by one they looked away. Finally, John turned back to Muriella. "Ye'd best go to yer chambers and rest," he told her. "Ye don't want my father to find ye unpleasant company at dinner."

Although his voice was little more than a whisper, she heard the warning concealed there. "Aye," she breathed, but she did not know what she was saying. She only knew she had to be alone before the illness in her body betrayed her completely.

Chapter 10

Megan closed the chamber door and leaned upon it, her fingers wrapped tightly around the latch. Her gaze swept over the hangings that now covered the stone walls, the new curtains gracing the huge oak bed. Her mistress had chosen to remain in Elizabeth's room, though the Earl had tried to change her mind. "I want to be where I can see the loch," she had explained. "'Tis simple enough to move a tapestry or two and make it more comfortable." In the end, Argyll had relented and the two girls had cleaned the room from top to bottom, brought in fresh sheets and furs, and draped the walls with vivid color. But just now, in the hushed stillness, the chamber felt chill and unwelcoming.

Muriella was kneeling by the window, as she so often did, trying to lose herself in the ebb and flow of the distant loch. She was aware of little besides the roughness of the stone beneath her palms. When she heard Megan sigh, she turned.

The servant did not like the expression in her mistress's eyes. Not long ago the girls had been intimate friends, but now Muriella was far away. "What ails ye?" she asked in concern.

The other girl reached out as if groping for words, then whispered hoarsely, "I 'saw' something just now. 'Twas—" She broke off, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "'Twas my own death."

Megan gasped, crossing herself defensively, and took a step backward. For a long moment, she merely stared, eyes wide with horror. "Surely ye're mistaken," she whispered finally. "Mayhap ye weren't seein' clearly. Have ye never had a vision that didn't come true?"

Muriella looked away. "Never," she said. "The Sight never lies. This will come to pass, just as the others have. I can no’ stop it and I can no’ change it. All I can do is wait. Tis the waiting that's the worst. Ye don't know when or where or why..." Her voice grew ragged as she spoke, until her words were indistinguishable.

Megan groaned. She could find no other words to speak.

"Now that ye know, do ye see I can no’ marry John?"

The servant was so surprised by the change of subject it was a moment before she found her voice. "Ye can't? Why, miss?"

Without realizing what she was saying, Muriella breathed, "He touched me, and he wanted—more."

Megan heard the panic in those simple words and all at once thought she understood. She grasped this new problem eagerly; she did not want to think about the other. "Of course he did. He's to be yer husband." When she saw the blood had drained from Muriella's face, Megan went to stand beside her. "Didn't ye know about that? Ye're nearly fourteen. Didn't yer mother tell ye what a marriage means?"

"No." Muriella saw she had been blind and foolish; she had assumed that as her husband, the only things John would take from her were her fortune and her name. Now she realized she would lose more than that when she wed—much more. They called her a woman, but she was not yet ready for all that meant.

"But, miss, I don't understand. Ye told me ye were betrothed before."

Muriella stared down at her hands. "I never thought of Hugh that way. We grew up together, ye see. We were companions, friends, that's all."

"He didn't ever touch ye?"

Closing her eyes, Muriella tried to remember. "He held my hand sometimes, but 'twasn't the same. He never looked at me the way John did."

Megan put her hand on her mistress's shoulder. "Marriage would have changed that, ye ken."

"I suppose so, but I didn't realize—"

"'Tis time ye did then, with yer weddin' no more than a month away."

Muriella shook her head. Against her will, she felt again the pressure of John's body against hers, the heat of his lips and the momentary desire she had seen in his eyes. She was bewildered when she remembered the warmth that had touched her own skin. Dear God, some night he would reach out to her with his rough, careless hands—"He was filthy with blood," she gasped.

"I heard them say he's killed a deer. There'll be venison this night instead of mutton. Ye can't hunt without gettin' a mite dirty. Besides, I don't see why it matters."

"Don't ye?" Muriella murmured. She herself had seen it clearly. Only for an instant, it was true, but that had been enough. She felt she was no longer fighting for her freedom alone; she was fighting for her life. "I can't marry him!"

"The Campbells want ye. They'll have ye, miss." Megan turned to the carved oak clothes chest in an effort to escape the gleam of her mistress's eyes. "Ye should change before supper," she said as calmly as she could. "Yer gown is muddy."

The simple practicality of her request brought Muriella back to earth. Megan was right; there was nothing she could do. She had decided that the first day they brought her here. Numbly she undressed to slip into the gold kirtle and pale cream gown with fur-lined sleeves that Megan shook out for her. She stood unprotesting while the servant fixed her hair, twining gold ribbons among the long auburn braids. When she was ready, she followed Megan from the room. What other choice did she have?

As they reached the top of the stairs, the two girls stopped. They could hear giggling from the end of the hallway, but it ended abruptly when a low voice interrupted. Megan chewed her lip in indecision. Maybe what her mistress needed was a distraction from her own thoughts. After looking to Muriella for approval, she turned toward the sound of the voice.

Her mistress followed close behind. In Muriella's three months at Kilchurn she had discovered Megan was right: one could learn a great deal listening to servants' gossip.

"And they said..." The speaker, who Muriella recognized as Jenny, paused for effect, then continued, "they said her mother lay with another man. They swore it, and—"

After the first few words, Megan attempted to pull her mistress away, but Muriella refused to move.

"They swore her mother and father never lay together at all. The Calders'll get back her fortune if 'tis so. Then Colin laughed and called her a bastard, and Sir John said, 'What if 'tis true—?'"

Muriella whirled away into the darkness with Megan at her heels. She was not aware of the direction she took; she only knew she must escape from that voice. She was shocked, therefore, to find herself at the head of the stairs and to hear the Earl's voice calling up to her.

"There she is. Come down and join us, lass. The Gypsies are coming to sing for us, we have venison, and tomorrow I must go away. So tonight we must enjoy ourselves. Come, let's eat!"

As the stairs swayed under Muriella's feet, the flames from the torches leapt across the walls, throwing ghostly shadows over the room below. Laughter, mingled with the din of pewter on wood, assaulted her ears. John stood at the foot of the stairs, his face clean and his torn garments discarded for whole ones. In the alternating light and shadows, his face was that of a stranger. The men glowered up at Muriella, their mouths open and their expressions hostile. Then the girl caught a glimpse of the Earl's face.

"What is it, lass? Are ye ill?"

The steps ceased their movement; the flames crept back into their sconces, leaving the men no more than men. John's face settled into its usual lines. When she felt Megan taking her arm from behind, Muriella forced her body into motion and started down the stairs.

* * *

Throughout dinner, the Earl did not allow her to leave his side. He put his arm across her shoulders and examined her face as she seated herself on the bench beside his ornately carved chair. Her skin was pale, he noticed, and her eyes seemed overlarge. "Are ye certain ye aren't ill? Would ye like another cushion to sit on?"

She shook her head, focusing her attention on the salted herring and venison heaped on her platter. She had no real appetite and only chewed absently on a bit of bread covered with sweet butter. She looked up once to find Colin watching her across the table. And Colin laughed and called her a bastard… He looked away when she continued to stare at him. She refused to let him see her weakness.

Concerned by her silence, the Earl offered her a tray of sweetmeats and dried figs. "Ye must eat something or ye'll be ill indeed, and we can't have that."

To please him, she took a fig and put it in her mouth, surprised to find she liked the sweetness on her tongue. Somehow she had thought every morsel would taste of dust tonight.

"Tell me, little one," Argyll murmured, choosing an iced cake and placing it in her hand, "did ye like the green velvet for yer gown?"

She looked up at him, remembering when they had brought the gift to her. She had sat gazing at it for a long time before she ran her fingers over the deep, soft fabric.

Green, like her eyes. The kind of velvet she had often wished for at Kilravok, but known she could never have. Argyll's thoughtfulness had brought tears to her eyes. She had realized, in that moment, that the Earl would give her anything she asked for—anything but her freedom. "'Twas a lovely gift," she told him. "I was surprised ye went to so much trouble.

Then the Gypsies began to file into the hall. She watched anxiously as the minstrels crossed to the fireplace. Alex was the last.

The Gypsy's gaze met hers at once. Ye'll learn things today that ye don't wish to know. He smiled and nodded and Muriella tightened her grip on the Earl's arm. Perhaps, she thought, the music would erase the memory and the word that now echoed inside her head: Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

As the minstrels played reed and harp and lute, the men began to stamp their feet beneath the tables. Alex's voice rang out above the others, deep and sure.

Cauld winter is awa', my luve,

And spring is in her prime,

The breath o' God stirs all to life,

The grasshoppers to chime.

The buds canna contain themsel's

Upon the sproutin' tree,

But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,

A theme which pleaseth me.

With their bellies full and their tankards thrice emptied, the men laughed and joined in the singing. Then one or two rose, grasping passing servant girls, and began to dance. The Earl turned to Muriella with a smile. "Ye should dance too, lass. 'Tis a celebration."

Muriella shook her head. "I'm a little weary."

"Surely not so weary that ye can't dance with the man who's to be yer husband?" Colin asked with mock chagrin.

Muriella wondered if he had heard about her earlier encounter with John; by the challenging gleam in Colin's eye, she guessed he had. But she would not play his game. "Perhaps tomorrow." She looked up to find John watching her. What was he thinking, she wondered, with his cool blue eyes and unsmiling mouth?

"Can't ye learn to enjoy yerself?" he asked. "Or don't ye dare?"

She opened her mouth but no words came. She used to enjoy herself with Hugh at Kilravok, before she began to carry her mother’s fear. But now—John was right; she felt as if she did not dare. How was it he knew so much when she herself had just recognized her trepidation?

John leaned close and spoke so quietly that only she could hear. “I saw how ye danced earlier, with abandon—I’d even call it joy. Ye forgot to hide behind yer anger and yer fear. Surely if ye can forget once, ye can forget again. Can ye no’?”

Moving her head to the right and the left just once, she hoped he would understand her silent ‘no.’ He was right again and the perception in his gaze made her shiver. She loved to dance, to get caught up in the music so the rhythm carried her outside her own small world to the infinite beauty of the world beyond and above. The same rhythm that came to her through the rush of the river and the whisper of waves on the shore of the loch. Before today she had forgotten that she loved those things, that they freed her spirit and allowed her to soar. And once she remembered, she had forgotten all the worries that had beset her since her arrival at Kilchurn.

Until John made her remember.

And now she was lost among memories and longing and dread and forgetting. There was magic in the night; she had always known that. She simply had not known it existed at Kilchurn. If, indeed, it did.

As he watched the play of the torchlight over Muriella's face, John wondered at her thoughts. He knew he had struck a chord when he spoke of her dancing; she had been too surprised to hide the realization in her eyes. But he could tell he dared not push her further, though her green eyes drew him when he wanted to turn away. As he struggled to pull himself out of her gaze, he rose abruptly, sauntered toward the musicians and picked up a clareschaw. He began to play softly.

O Lassie, is thy heart more hard

Than mavis from the bough;

Say must the whole creation wed,

And ye remain to woo?

Say has the holy lowe o'love

Ne'er lighten'd in yer eye?

O, if thou canst not feel this pain,

Thou art no theme for me!

He was singing to his betrothed, gazing at her mournfully, but his eyes belied the solemn droop of his mouth. Some of the men began to laugh.

Praying the flush on her cheeks was not visible, Muriella rose slowly and stepped out from behind the table. Her shining braids of auburn hair fell from a single braided crown at her temples and down her back, heightening her wide green eyes, soft skin and the sweep of her cream-colored gown. The gold sleeves and skirt of the kirtle shimmered as she swayed slightly with the Gypsies’ tune. Then she met John’s eyes.

It took all the power she had to smile archly. “If my heart is hard, my Lord, mayhap ‘tis because no man has ever wooed me. I’ve been but a child, and the light of love has escaped both my eye and my heart. Thus, though I could surely guess at yer pain,” she paused to tilt her head his way and smile, “especially yer pain—I agree most heartily that ye should seek another.”

All at once, now that all eyes were upon her, she was certain everyone could hear the pounding of her heart as it spelled out the word bastard. Nevertheless, she smiled and curtsied formally toward her husband-to-be.

John pursed his lips, quirked an eyebrow and strummed a discordant string of notes across his clareschaw. “Alas!” He cried to the room at large with a crooked smile. But his eyes were still.

Muriella took a deep breath and turned back to her place at table.

Abruptly, the musicians began to play and the sound of the deep Gypsy voices shattered the waiting stillness. Muriella bowed her head, wondering what had possessed her.

* * *

Much later, when most of the men had gone up to bed, the Earl found her in the library, curled on the rug with her face toward the fire. He pulled up a chair and sat down, regarding her curiously. "What made ye speak so at table.” He paused. “With some wit,” he added quietly.

“I’d not know what came over me.”

Silent for a long moment, he finally murmured, “’Tis best if ye no’ taunt one another before the men.”

Muriella sat up to face him. "I don't care!"

"Ye must care!" he insisted. "He'll be yer husband. Ye must learn to respect and obey him."

Staring into the golden-red flames, she remained silent.

When she did not reply at once, he snapped, "Muriella? Do ye hear? Ye'll do as I say!"

His harsh command struck her like a blow across the face and her control finally snapped. How was it possible to care for him so much, yet feel such helpless rage at the same time? She sat up and faced him, trying to hold back the words rising to her lips, but she had not the strength. "Who gave ye the right to decide what I should do? Ye don't even ask what I want, what I feel. To ye I'm just a game piece to be moved about at yer will."

Though she knew it was the truth, she was shocked at the bitterness she was hurling at the one man who had shown her compassion at Kilchurn. But it was beyond her power to stop. "Tell me," she demanded, "why I should give up everything just to swell the Campbell coffers! It makes no matter to me that the King made ye my guardian. I don't owe ye anything."

"Only yer life," Argyll said, his face flushed with rage that this girl should challenge him so. "But ye're right, yer feelings about this marriage mean nothing to me. Quite simply, ye have no choice."

The cold finality of his tone chilled Muriella, but she would not retreat. "Ye've said ye care for me. Then why won't ye listen to what I say?"

"I've heard enough." He gripped the arms of his chair roughly, but his voice did not waver for an instant. "The good of the clan comes first. 'Tis time ye learned that. All the weeping in the world won't change a fact so fundamental."

Muriella leaned backward, shocked by the grim implacability of the Earl's expression.

Argyll saw her retreat and regretted briefly the dread he saw reflected in her eyes, but he would not withdraw a word. She had to learn to accept the truth just as Elizabeth had once done; the sooner she did so, the easier it would be for her. He released the chair arms, surprised at the ache that spread through his hands. He hadn't been aware of how tightly he was gripping the polished wood.

Muriella did not move. She looked pale suddenly, and fragile. The Earl sighed and spoke more quietly. "Johnnie's a good man, though a bit young. Ye'll marry him in less than a month, and ye'll obey him, do ye hear? Ye won't be a girl any longer."

Ye have become a woman now, her mother had whispered. But that was before Muriella knew that Isabel had betrayed her unforgivably. The girl spoke from the protection of the shadows. "A bastard needn't follow yer rules. Mayhap yer son won't want to wed me."

The Earl slumped forward, burying his head in his hands. The last of his anger faded when he heard the pain in her voice. "Dear God, what have they told ye?" When she did not respond, he murmured, "Lass, come here."

She went to him slowly, trying to suppress her bitterness.

Taking her hands, he examined them in the firelight. He noted the little finger, healed now but shorter than it should be by half. For some reason, he did not wish to look at her face. "Ye must no' listen to servants' gossip. Ye’re no’ a bastard. 'Tis just that yer grandfather Calder wants Cawdor back. He'd say anything to make certain he gets it."

"They swore."

"They lied."

"Will ye look at me and say so?" She knew he could not lie to her if he once looked in her eyes.

His head came up and his grip on her fingers tightened. "I swear."

Brow furrowed, Muriella started to reply, but before she could do so, the door swung open. Richard Campbell crossed the threshold and stood gasping just out of the reach of the firelight.

The Earl looked at him sharply. "What is it?"

"Andrew Calder struck the men coming from Stirling." Richard tried to steady his harsh breathing, then added, "Seems he escaped to Mull."

Argyll rose. "Is Maclean sheltering him at Duart?"

"'Tis what we suspect, though we can't be sure. But there's something else." In his agitation, Richard did not see Muriella, who had slipped back into the shadows.

"Well, man? Out with it!"

"He murdered four of our men and he swore—"

Argyll took a step forward. "He swore what?"

"That he'll kill every Campbell he meets till ye give up the girl."

Chapter 11

As she had every night since she'd come to Kilchurn, Muriella slept uneasily. The Earl had been gone for a week now, and she had heard nothing from him. If John and Colin had received word, they did not tell her so; but then, they spoke to her as little as possible. John was away most of the time, and when he was there, he quarreled with anyone who had the misfortune to come upon him. Muriella stayed out of his way; she remembered all too clearly how he had stopped the Earl as he left the keep, heading for Cawdor.

"Let me go after Andrew Calder. He's in our territory and his kinsmen are far away. I could take him with little trouble."

Argyll had answered in exasperation, "I see ye haven't learned a thing. If Maclean is protecting the man, ye can be sure 'twill no' be easy to take him. And we can't risk antagonizing yer brother-in-law just now. Suppose he isn't aiding Calder? If ye attack Mull with a force, ye'll make him an enemy. And don't forget, he has yer sister. Ye must wait till Calder comes into the open."

"If I meet him, I'll kill him!"

The Earl had swung himself onto his horse. As he joined the dozen men who waited at the gate, he had called, "So long as ye see him away from Mull. But I warn ye, don't go to find him!"

Tonight Muriella could not escape the memory. The scene played itself over in her mind, like a distant threat—or a warning. Eventually, when the darkness became so deep it blinded her, she fell asleep. In her dreams she heard her mother's voice: Will ye never leave us in peace, old man? And her grandfather's reply: I will have Cawdor back! I won't stand by and watch a child—and what's worse, a daughter of Rose—take it from me. I'll have it back no matter how I have to get it.

Then her mother was floating down the aisle of the church near Cawdor. The room was alight with hundreds of candles, and wild roses decked the walls and benches. Near the altar stood a man Muriella recognized as John Calder. He gave his hand to Isabel and the two repeated their vows while the candles cast flickering shadows over their bent heads.

When the couple rose from their knees, Isabel dropped her husband's hand to turn toward the gloom at the left of the altar. A man stepped from the shadows, taking her in his arms. She offered her lips to him while the congregation gasped. When she stepped back, everyone saw the man lift his hand in salute. It was too dark and his figure too indistinct for anyone to recognize him, but they saw quite clearly that half his little finger was missing on one hand.

Isabel turned, kneeling again at the altar. The church was filled with shadows that danced over her face before melting into leaves overhead. The altar became the moss on the riverbank, and Isabel became Lorna, kneeling in the water with blood on her lips. Her mouth was moving, forming the words, We must always be certain we know who ye are.

Muriella stared down at her hand, covered with blood. She could still see the blurred shape of the man in the church with his half-finger outstretched. When she looked at Lorna, she was Isabel, and she was weeping. "Forgive me! Forgive me!"

Muriella sat bolt upright in bed. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she rocked in silence. She dug her fingernails into her legs through the soft wool of her night rail, hoping the pain would bring her back into the present, away from the influence of the dream.

In a moment, Megan appeared at the bedside, her brown hair loose around her shoulders. "Have ye been dreamin' again?"

Muriella nodded, fumbling for the servant's hand. Megan locked her warm fingers with her mistress's cold ones, trying to force the heat from her body into Muriella's.

The servant asked no more questions and Muriella clung tightly to her hand until she fell asleep again. Even then, she did not loosen her grip.

Megan stayed where she was, brow furrowed, until she sensed that dawn had broken.

* * *

Muriella awoke with a feverish glow in her eyes. "Megan, I must go to the Gypsies. There are things I must know."

"But miss, 'tis just past dawn. 'Twill no' be safe to leave the keep yet. Wait till we've broken our fast. Then Duncan and Adam can come with us."

Throwing off her night rail, Muriella bent to pick up her gray kirtle where it lay near the dying embers of the fire. "I must go now. I can't stay still." As she spoke, she pulled her cloak from the peg beside the door and tossed it over her shoulders. "And I must go alone."

Megan had her gown half over her head in an instant. "No. 'Tis too risky. At least let me go with ye."

Muriella stopped her in the middle of tying the strings of her gown. "Ye can't. I'll be safe, I know that much. I'm no’ in danger today."

Megan saw the certainty in Muriella's gaze and found it oddly reassuring. "Ye're sure?"

"Aye. Ye must wait for me here. And don't tell them. Please."

Twisting her fingers together, Megan berated herself for her foolishness a moment longer before the determination in Muriella's face dispelled her doubts. "If ye must. But take care."

Nodding once, her mistress turned to disappear through the door.

* * *

"Where is she? Christ! Have ye let her go again?"

Megan heard the suppressed fury in Colin's voice and clasped her hands behind her nervously, trying to still their trembling. She looked up into his face, distorted by his anger so the lump between his brows swelled and pulsed. "I don't know, m'lord. She was gone when I woke."

"She was, was she?" Colin pounded his fist on the table standing between them. "Isn't it yer duty to care for her, to keep watch over her? Do ye let her wander about on her own?"

"I can't stop her, m'lord."

"Damn ye, girl! Don't ye know Andrew Calder seeks her day and night?"

"Aye."

"Do ye know why he seeks her? Do ye think 'tis to take her home to her mother?"

Megan shook her head.

"Well then, ye know he wants her life. Do ye hear? Her life! And if she were to lose that, we would lose Cawdor. It must not happen."

Megan continued to stare at him but said nothing. She was thinking of her mistress alone in the Gypsy camp. Suddenly, Muriella's belief in her own safety seemed absurd.

"She isn't in the castle." John and several other men joined Colin in the Great Hall, where he stood over Megan. "Where the devil has she gone? I won't ask ye again."

When the servant remained stubbornly silent, Colin brought his palm down hard across her cheek. "Speak!"

Grasping the tabletop, she was just able to catch her balance when he swung from the other side. This time she fell, hitting her head on the bench. When she looked up, Duncan was standing over her. He offered his hand and she took it; her own was shaking and she could not stop it.

"Leave the girl alone." Duncan's voice was soft compared to Colin's growl, but he caught the men's attention. "I think she might have gone to the Gypsies."

"Why in the name of all that's holy would she do that when 'tis barely light out?" Pushing past Colin, John confronted his squire.

"She seems to find comfort there. She's visited them many times in the past week. I suggest ye search the camp first."

John considered for only a moment before signaling to the other men to follow. "The camp it is, then. Colin? Are ye coming?"

With a last glowering look, Colin left Megan to join the others. "Ye're damned right I'm coming. I want to be there when we find her," he hissed. "Whether she lives or no'."

* * *

Muriella moved slowly, feeling her way through the fog. She had come to know this path well in the past week, but the mist-shrouded landscape that shimmered around her was one she had never seen before. It was as if the fairies had touched the morning with their cool, billowing breath and made a new world for their pleasure. Muriella felt isolated, cast adrift in a sea of swirling moisture that clung to her hair and face, pressing closer and closer, leaving her alone with the scent of heather and the memory of her dream. When she stumbled over a root, she paused to peer into the enfolding whiteness. It was so quiet, so achingly still, that even the sound of her breathing seemed to cease. But there was something—some distant music that penetrated the silence. Was it the rumble of the river? All at once, she was afraid of the damp stillness. Desperately, she pressed outward with her palms to break through the mist and reach the distant healing murmur. The movement seemed to free her from the cloud of silence. With a sigh of relief, she started forward again, following her instincts toward the Gypsy camp.

Alex was waiting in the purple tent, as she had known he would be, sitting on the cushions scattered along one wall. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the single room was rich in hangings. Like the cushions, they were worked in deep colors and designs that were strange and fascinating to her.

"What's troublin' ye, lass?"

In the somber light, Muriella could not see his face, so she moved closer. "I've come to ask ye if I'm a bastard."

Alex remained silent for a long time. Finally, he motioned to a cushion beside him. Muriella sat down with reluctance, because from there she could not read his expression.

He took her hand, holding it loosely, running his fingers over her palm as if seeking the answer she needed. "Ye're the legal daughter of Isabel Rose and John Calder. Ye’re no’ a bastard."

She thought his voice quavered slightly, but she couldn't be certain. "How do ye know?"

"Ye came to me, didn't ye, because ye trust me more than those at the castle? Because ye know I have knowledge others don't? Then ye must listen to what I tell ye. Ye are legitimate."

She leaned forward, seeking reassurance. "They say my mother had a lover."

Alex shook his head. "I don't know everything about yer past. I can't tell ye whether 'tis true or no'."

Muriella was not satisfied. Something was bothering her, some uneasiness she could not quite understand. "Why have ye come here?" she demanded without warning.

He did not seem surprised by the question. "We always camp in this valley in the winter. The Earl makes us welcome when other's don't—mayhap because we bring him news he would no' get else—so we come back year after year."

"But there's something more than that, isn't there?"

Alex sighed in resignation. "Aye, there's another reason. We were in the north last, in Nairnshire."

"Near Kilravok?" All at once Muriella thought she understood.

"Aye. There's trouble brewin' there, as ye've no doubt guessed, especially between the Roses and Calders. People in trouble sometimes seek out the Gypsies, so yer mother came to me."

"She told ye about me?"

"That she did. Ye see, people tell me things they wouldn't or can't—even tell their own families. Ye make them believe in ye and they find relief in speakin' of their problems to a stranger. When she told me of her fears for ye, I promised I'd watch over ye till yer marriage, since 'twas already our plan to come to Kilchurn."

"She didn't forget me then? I thought, somehow—" Muriella could not go on.

"How could ye believe such a thing?" Alex asked gently. "A mother doesn't so easily forget her bairn."

The girl felt her heart contract with an ache that spread through her chest and slowly outward to her limbs. Forcing herself to stand, she said, "She sent me away, ye know. She knew the Campbells were coming and didn't even try to stop them." She was shocked at the ragged hurt in her own voice.

"Have a wee bit of faith," the Gypsy murmured. "She must have had her reasons."

Turning away to hide the tears that burned behind her eyes, Muriella pressed her hands against the wall of the tent, seeking support. Only then did she realize how much she missed Isabel. She wanted to sit at her mother's side, to hear her soft voice, feel her gentle but firm hand. She wanted to look into Isabel's blue eyes and ask, "Why? Why did ye send me away? Why didn't ye tell me the truth, a lie, anything to help me understand? And why can't ye hold me and help me forget?" But her longings were hopeless, the answers to her questions silence. The knowledge brought her an intense loneliness.

While she struggled to catch her breath, a flash of anger flared within. She whirled to face Alex again. "If she fears for me, why don't ye take me away from here, back to Kilravok?"

"Because ye belong here."

"Why?"

Alex rose to grasp her shoulders in both hands. "'Tis simply right that ye should be here. Ye don't understand that yet, and I can't make ye do so. But 'tis true just the same. Ye'll save yerself a great deal of pain by learnin' to accept it."

When Muriella shook her head, the Gypsy released her. "Ye're too stubborn by half, lass. Mayhap ye'll learn that in time. But ye'd best go now. I'm weary, and no doubt the men at the keep have missed ye."

"But-"

"Go! I've nothin' more to say."

Muriella balked. She did not want to go, to leave this place where she felt a vague and tenuous bond with the mother she had lost.

The Gypsy stood, arms crossed, unrelenting. He gave her no choice. Muriella stifled a sigh, turned and ducked beneath the tent door. The flap fell closed behind her, shutting away the soft, kind shadows, the fleeting memories she had tried so hard to grasp. But her hands were empty now. She felt numb, as if she walked in a dream.

Slowly, the sun had begun to burn away the mist. The rising light destroyed even the dream, and Muriella stood alone and unprotected in the sun. She squinted at the line of horses along the rise overlooking the Gypsy camp. Some of the riders had seen her. She drew herself upright and waited for them to come. There was nothing else she could do.

As the horses approached, she saw John's face was distorted with anger and a kind of fear. Beside him, Duncan was smiling at her with relief. Bracing herself against the onslaught of John's fury, she held her hand up to him.

Lifting her onto his saddle with one hand, John waved over his shoulder with the other. The riders who had reached the bottom of the hill paused, then stopped to await him.

"Are ye some kind of lunatic?" John hissed in Muriella's ear. "Do ye wish to die, is that it?"

"No," she said, surprising herself. “I knew I was safe. ‘Twas no’ my intent to worry ye.”

He brought his horse to an abrupt halt, stunned by her apology.

At that moment, Colin rode up beside his brother to glower at Muriella. "So ye found her." He leaned forward. "I'd like to whip the skin off yer back for the trouble ye've caused us today." He reached over to grasp her chin in rough fingers. "Do ye hear, girl?"

"I'm no' afraid of ye," Muriella spat.

"Ye should be. Ye will be after today. There's been nothing but trouble since Johnnie brought ye to Kilchurn. Thirty men dead, the Earl on a hopeless errand among his enemies, and Andrew Calder threatening to attack us. All for yer sake."

Muriella twisted free of his grip. "All for the sake of Cawdor," she said quietly.

"Be quiet, Colin," John demanded in fury. "'Tis no’ the girl's doing. She can't stop this any more than ye can."

"'Tis for her sake nonetheless," his brother repeated obdurately. "And mayhap it's all been for naught. Mayhap she's no more than a—"

"Quiet! Ye fool!"

When John felt Muriella stiffen, he glared at Colin. She had behaved unwisely, even dangerously, in coming to this valley alone, but she did not deserve his brother's vicious attack. To stop himself from blackening at least one of Colin's eyes, he dug his heels into his horse so it shot ahead of the others. When he stopped at the gate, John saw Richard Campbell was waiting for him.

"M'lord—"

"Is something amiss?"

"Aye," Richard answered grimly. "Andrew Calder struck on the shore just beyond the outer gate while ye were away. He'd near thirty men with 'im."

Colin came up beside them, jerking his horse to a standstill. "I heard," he said. "Did they try for the castle?"

"No, m'lord. But they took a great many of the cattle grazin' on the hill. Slaughtered the others. With most of the men yonder in the Gypsy valley, we couldn't stop 'em."

John did not need to hear more. He lifted Muriella from the saddle and set her on the ground. Turning to Duncan, he called, "We'll get him this time. They can't have been gone long. Watch the girl, and whatever ye do, make certain she doesn't leave the keep again, ye hear?"

Duncan nodded as Colin leaned from his horse's back to take the quiver of arrows a groom offered. When he sat up, he looked directly at Muriella. "For yer sake," he said.

She winced, watching the riders hurry away. By the time she and the squire turned toward the keep, she had forced the sound of Colin's voice into the back of her mind where it could not hurt her. But when she ducked beneath the gate, Muriella felt her head begin to spin. She stopped with her hand at her throat. For an instant she thought she was lost in the mist again, that the world was retreating behind the concealing drifts of moisture. An unnatural stillness settled around her and she felt she was falling.

Then, out of the mist, she saw a small, moving light. It faded, flared, and leapt as other flames appeared around it. Muriella gasped and found she could not move her feet. She wanted to close her eyes and blot the image from her sight, but knew it was stronger than she. In the darkness behind her lids the vision would only glow brighter, and with it, the knowledge that death was coming to this place—again. Not just one death, but many. Would it be Colin or John or the others, whose names she did not even know? From the number of flickering lights, she knew it might well be all of them.

"Miss Muriella?" Duncan cried, alarmed by the pallid color of her skin and the way she trembled, as if she had to fight to remain standing.

The mist retreated at last, burned away by the sound of a human voice. Muriella stared at the squire, trying to anchor herself to reality with the sight of his face. "Colin's right, 'tis my fault!" she cried.

"No," Duncan said, taking her arm. He was frightened by the blank look in her eyes and did not know how to help her. "He's only angry ye slipped away again. He said it to hurt ye, that's all."

Muriella shook his head. "Ye don't understand. I know they'll die, but I can't change it."

It came to Duncan then that what the men whispered about her power was true. Instinctively, he recoiled from her. "Ye don't mean—" He choked on his own words and could not go on.

Muriella gripped his doublet in stiff fingers, hardly aware of what she was doing. "There's nothing I can do, don't ye see?" Her voice came out a ragged whisper. "Why can't I stop it? Dear God, why?"

* * *

The moment John and Colin and the others rode into the woods south of the keep, they found evidence the outlaw had passed there before them. They plunged into pursuit without further thought. Believing Calder was running in fear, John and Colin were too intent on catching their foe to notice the trail was too clearly marked.

They rode up hills and made their way along paths choked with underbrush, following the sweep of Loch Awe, poised always between the loch and the sea. Yet they never met a single enemy. Several times they were forced to stop to rest their horses, but each time the men were ready to move again, they found a fresh trail.

Finally, near noon, Colin reined in his animal and turned to his brother. "I think the outlaw's playing with us. The trail is always clear, but we never seem to get closer. I smell another Calder rat."

"And mayhap the rat wears Maclean's cloak." John's eyes blazed with a light that had burned out hours ago in the eyes of his comrades. Raking his fingers through his heavy beard, he considered the path before them.

He knew that, like Colin, the men had begun to be suspicious. They had not eaten yet that day, they were tired, and although none of them would have faltered had they met Calder with thrice their number in straightforward combat, they were uneasy about the sense of deception that had begun to gnaw at their nerves.

Grasping the handle of his sword, John looked directly at his brother. "Ye may want to turn tail and run, but I won't do it."

"If he's waiting for us—" Colin began in a harsh whisper.

"Then so be it," John hissed back. "If Calder thinks he can beat us so easily, he has a thing or two to learn about the Campbells. He's laid down a challenge, and I intend to meet it, whatever the consequences." He paused when he realized his voice was shaking with the force of his anger. "Besides," he said more calmly, "don't ye see what will happen if we turn back now? Calder will have provided for just such a move, and they'll be waiting for us, that I guarantee."

Colin glanced back at the men, who were watching the brothers with close attention. The horses were clearly tired and the men almost equally so. But Johnnie was right; should they retreat, Calder was certain to jump them. "Well then, I suppose we must go forward for a bit. But I warn ye, be ready for anything."

In a few minutes, the Campbells reached a clearing in the trees. In the distance, they could hear the sea attacking the rocky shore. The air was moist and heavy with the smell of salt. On all sides of the tiny glen, the oaks and underbrush grew thick and impenetrable. For a long moment, there was complete silence; then Andrew Calder struck.

The men seemed to fall from the branches of the trees—men who wore the Fraser plaid, the Rose, the Calder, and the Maclean. While the Campbells scrambled from their horses, the enemy abandoned their bows to a man, drawing their broadswords instead. It was not long before the glen was in complete confusion.

John took a single deep breath, his eyes glowing with excitement. He saw at once his men were outnumbered, but that only made him more determined. An easy victory meant nothing to him. Facing an enemy who was stronger gave spice to the game.

Before he had slid from his horse's back, he struck a man down with one blow of his dagger. When his feet touched the ground, he grasped his heavy broadsword in the other hand and swung it from side to side, slashing indiscriminately at the red-and-green Maclean plaid. As he lunged and retreated and lunged again, his gaze swept the glen, seeking a man who might be Calder. He knew the others would fall into confusion once their leader was down, but the swords were closing in around him and he could not stop to find the outlaw in the blur of blood and plaid and sweat-soaked skin.

Glancing to his right, he leapt out of the way an instant before a heavy blade came slashing down in the spot where he had just been standing. He brought his weapon up, then down, and another Maclean fell beneath it. Somewhere to his left, he heard Colin cursing violently and his own eyes told him that the Campbells' situation was far from promising.

John's exhilaration turned to dismay when he realized he and his men had been forced into a knot at the center of the glen, with the Macleans pressing in on all sides. "Damn!" he swore. A challenge was one thing, but this could well be a slaughter. The ground at his feet was covered with blood; he did not know how much of it belonged to his companions. He and Colin exchanged a telling look as they were thrown together and paused to catch their breath. They were losing, that much was clear. More than half the men who had followed them into the glen now lay dead outside the circle of their enemies.

John clenched his hand around his blade until his fingers ached and a strange stillness seemed to enfold him. The ring of clashing blades, the harsh cries of triumph, even the groans of pain faded into the background and he felt, all at once, that he was completely alone with the smell of death. He raised his sword, swinging it wildly to ward off the silence threatening to choke him. He struck a man with the side of his blade, forcing him to his knees in the grass. Thus the two men remained, frozen in time, until the enemy's death cry tore from his throat, waking John from the trance that had gripped him.

It was then that a bellowed order to retreat sliced through the glen. Incredibly, the Macleans fell away and began to back toward the sea. The Campbells watched in silence, their stained swords poised in the air before them. For an instant, they were too stunned to move; then they raced after the men who had slipped beyond the trees and away.

As he followed the path they had taken, John left the woods that opened onto a rocky beach. The Macleans had sheathed their weapons and were hurrying over the sand toward several boats waiting to take them to Mull.

"After them!" John shouted, slashing at a wild myrtle in his path.

"No," Colin said. "We've lost too many men already. We wouldn't catch them anyway, and I wouldn't be surprised if they had more men waiting on Mull. Mayhap they want to lure us to the island, then claim we attacked them on their own land. I don't know for certain, but I do know I won't be a fool twice in one day."

John cursed under his breath. "I didn't even see Calder. How do we know he was here?"

"He was here. And no doubt he'll be back. Come." Colin nodded toward the shadowed glen beyond the trees. "We must see to our dead and go home."

* * *

When Colin, John and the other survivors drew near the arm of land that reached toward Kilchurn castle, they met the Earl and his escort returning from Cawdor.

"What the devil!" Argyll exploded. Both his sons were streaked with blood and dirt, and they led a string of riderless horses. Behind them came a group of tattered, weary men who seemed barely able to stay on their animals. "Was it Calder?"

"Aye," Colin answered. "And ye needn't be wondering whether or no' Maclean is protecting the outlaw. That glen was so crowded with red-and-green plaid ye could no’ tell the enemy from the bloody grass. And there's something that puzzles me still. Calder had us. We couldn't move at all, yet he retreated. I don't like it."

The Earl regarded his eldest son with a troubled frown. "Ye can bet he means to strike again. Now he'll have even more reason to try to get the girl."

John, who had been thinking back to the moment of stillness in the midst of the battle, looked up, suddenly alert. "What do ye mean?"

With a grim attempt at a smile, Argyll pulled a piece of parchment out of his doublet. "This document declares Muriella Calder to be sole legal heir to the Thanedom of Cawdor. Ye'll note the witnesses against her mother have sworn they were paid by Calder to lie. Even William Calder himself has signed."

"I don't believe it!" Colin cried.

"Believe," Argyll said. "Don't ye see what it means?" Nodding toward the empty horses, he smiled bitterly and declared, "We have won."

Chapter 12

"Listen," Muriella said. "'Tis so lovely."

"What is, miss?" Brow furrowed, Megan leaned forward to concentrate more intently.

Spreading her arms to encompass the narrow strip of shore, the placid loch and the pines and larches that crowded in toward the water, Muriella whispered, "The stillness. 'Tis for that I came." She tilted her face toward the sun, the first they had seen in days. It shone wanly overhead, barely able to warm the cold air, but Muriella welcomed it like an unexpected blessing.

For five days she had not been out of the castle. The rain had beat ceaselessly against the walls and turned the river outside into a torrent. Nevertheless, the preparations for the wedding moved forward. Although Muriella was not allowed to go out, the seamstresses came in. With them came the first of the wedding guests, who had begun to arrive from all over Scotland. The castle had rung with the sound of unfamiliar voices for many days now.

This morning, when the lowering clouds had parted at last to reveal a pale blue sky, the waters of Loch Awe had seemed to call to her from her tiny window. It had not taken her long to convince Megan of her need to escape. "But without Duncan and Adam," Muriella had insisted. "We'll go no farther than the loch, and just this once I’ll no’ have their watching eyes following me."

Megan had hesitated, remembering all too well the morning a month ago when her mistress had gone to the Gypsy camp. She would have refused at once, except for the look of pleading on Muriella's face and the chill that had settled into her own bones in the past few days. She too wanted to breathe fresh air, free of the musty dampness that had invaded every part of the keep.

Besides, her mistress had changed since that last visit to the Gypsies. Though the bitterness and anger that had once simmered in her eyes was no longer visible, Megan suspected it lay deeper beneath the surface now. Sadness still clung about Muriella like an invisible veil, but she did not lash out at the Earl or John or Colin—not even when old lump-in-brow taunted her.

She had been kind to Megan from the beginning, but now she reached out to befriend the other servants, and those few men willing to speak to her. “Much as I wish I could claim otherwise,” she had confided in Megan, “’tis true the Campbells have kept me safe.” She looked away to hide her face, but her voice trembled, betraying her. “So many seek to see me dead. So many have died to protect me.”

She was no more eager to wed John Campbell than before, but she kept her regrets and sorrow to herself. The servant had been unable to talk her out of her guilt over the deaths of the men who had died in her cause, and she walked as if their ghosts stood on her shoulders.

When she went outside, like today, the shadows lifted and she breathed in the spirit of the girl she had been before the Campbells took her. Or so Megan imagined.

As for Andrew Calder, he had been quiet for a month, since the disastrous battle in the glen, and with the number of armed men who had arrived, the castle was well fortified; it was not likely Calder would strike now, when the Campbells were strongest. So the two girls had slipped on dark cloaks and made their way through the courtyard and under the heavy iron portcullis, raised in welcome to arriving guests.

"Aye, ‘tis sweet as spring," the servant agreed as the warmth of the sun at last began to dissipate the chill in her body.

Muriella leaned against the boulder at her back, reveling in the peace of the moment. Loch Awe spread out before her, its surface woven of shifting shades of blue and gray in the pale February light. The fine-grained earth clung to her hands and the water lapped softly on the shore, swirling pale changing patterns in the sand as it retreated. Smiling at Megan, who sat with her eyes closed in contentment, Muriella said, "I’ve no’ felt this way in a long time. Not since I left Kilravok."

Megan opened her eyes. Muriella did not talk much about her past. "Was it as lovely there as 'tis here?"

"In a way, though we didn't have a loch—only a bubbling burn with a little pool. 'Twas no' as beautiful as Loch Awe. And it had no secrets." She leaned her head on her knees and added thoughtfully, "Everything seems bigger at Kilchurn and more impressive somehow." From here the tree-heavy islands scattered across its surface obscured the far bank of the loch. "But I loved that wee pool just the same." •

Closing her eyes, she tried to bring her memory of the burn into sharper focus. "The only one who knew of it besides me was my cousin Hugh, and he didn't go there often."

The servant leaned closer, chin resting on her cupped hands. "But sometimes he did? Ye weren't alone always, surely."

"No, I was often with Hugh," Muriella mused. "Most days we played together in the afternoons. We used to chase each other into the woods, then hide among the trees. But Hugh always found me before long, and then we'd start again. When we were too hot and tired to run anymore, we'd go to the burn and cool our feet in the pool."

She looked out at the loch and saw her memories reflected in the silver green water. The rhythmic lap of the waves was soothing, lulling her into dreamy tranquility. For the moment, she could forget the feeling of dread that had haunted her like an accusation since the day she'd seen those flames glimmering from the center of a chilling mist. It was not over yet.

It would not be over until she became John's wife. Until she took the Campbell name, and in doing so, proclaimed the Earl's right to Cawdor could no longer be questioned. "Muriella Campbell," she repeated under her breath. The name sounded strange and remote, as if it could never really belong to her.

"Just think, in four days ye'll be a married woman," Megan whispered, echoing her mistress's thoughts. "Aren't ye excited?"

That was not the word for the distress that flared in her many times each day as she wondered what her life would be like after the wedding. Because the Earl's wife was dead and Colin's Janet never came to the Highlands, Muriella would be mistress of Kilchurn. The thought only added to her trepidation. She sensed that Argyll would expect a great deal of her. But first would come the ceremony—and then the wedding night. She remembered, suddenly, John's urgent kiss on that long-ago afternoon; she could not quell a shudder—and then a tiny rush of heat—at the thought of his body stretched out beside hers in a huge, fur-strewn bed.

She suppressed the memory of the heat and concentrated more fiercely on the beauty of the loch. The waves reached for her, retreated, reached out again with clear fingers, and then retreated once more. She could hear the wind sighing in the treetops overhead, then dropping down to touch the still water. She felt it was calling her closer, drawing her away from the cold, damp reality of the deep beyond the trees. For the moment, the clouds had scattered and there was no hint of a shadow on the loch. There was nothing but the sound and sense of the wind on the water.

She rose to make her way toward the rocks tumbled along the shore as a seabird flew past, its image reflected like a streak of silver on the loch. She followed its path with her eyes, kneeling on a large, flat boulder, trying to settle her heavy skirts behind her without dipping them into the chilly water. With her palms pressed against the stone, she looked down at the bottom of the loch. "Megan!" she cried. "Look! I've found a magic castle."

The servant came at once to kneel beside her mistress. There was barely room for the two girls on the boulder. Megan would have tumbled into the water if Muriella had not caught her with both hands. Leaving one arm across the servant's shoulders, she pointed through the water at an overgrown rock thick with moss and waving grass. With its fissures and crevices and tall, curved spire, it did resemble a keep, though Megan herself would never have seen a castle in the shaded gray stone.

"Mayhap 'tis a home for the Kelpies. Ye know how they love the water."

Muriella tilted her head, considering. "Aye," she murmured at last, "maybe 'tis." She leaned closer, suddenly intent. "Or mayhap 'tis no' the Kelpies at all. 'Tis something different."

Smiling, Megan pointed at a reflection on the water. "'Tis yer own face, miss, with the darkness of yer braid over yer shoulder."

Muriella nodded. Her face was captured on the surface for a moment, and then a breeze touched the loch and the image rippled, blurred and slowly, subtly, began to change. Now the face was that of a stranger—a lovely woman with pale blue eyes. She combed her long blond hair as it twined itself among the rocks, then set a ring of bright flowers on her head. Above the lap and swell of the water, Muriella heard a keening cry that vibrated through her body. She reached out to touch the enchanted face, but it was gone.

She felt a vague stirring in her heart that she did not understand. Perhaps it was only an echo of the longing she had seen, for an instant, in the woman's eyes, or perhaps it was an answer to the sigh of the wind as it rippled over the water. Was it fear or joy or something beyond either? She did not know, but it fluttered inside her, restless and warm, and she felt suddenly alone, though Megan knelt beside her.

"Miss," the servant said, shivering at the rising breeze, "'tis colder altogether than I thought." A shadow had fallen upon the water and she looked up to see the clouds gathering across the sky, dark and threatening. "Look! The rain's comin' again! We'd best get back or we'll be wet to the skin."

"Aye," Muriella murmured. She too noticed the change in the air—the heavy dampness that clung as she moved, the swelling of the clouds that only emphasized the shimmering movement of the loch between the shadows.

Megan shivered but Muriella welcomed the turbulence filling the air while the storm clouds gathered. The water rose in white-capped waves as the wind blew more and more fiercely, churning the loch to a cauldron of silver-gray that leapt and spat at the darkening shore. Interwoven with the black lacery of winter branches, the wind moaned with a voice as compelling as the beat of an ancient, frenzied song.

Muriella paused, her face raised to the sky, and felt her heart beating in time to the primitive music of the tempest. When the first drops of rain began to fall, she let them run down her cheeks, sharp and clean and stingingly cold. The clouds grew heavier, the loch ever darker, and she shivered with a kind of fearful rapture at the wild beauty of the rising storm.

Swiftly, the two girls started toward the sheltering trees. The servant drew her hood over her head and stared at the ground, but Muriella did not try to keep out the rain that streamed over her face and hair.

"'Tis too dark!" Megan cried suddenly, her voice full of fear. "I can't see the way!"

Muriella stood for a moment getting her bearings. The trees took shape before her—oak and pine and silver birch—until she saw the place where human feet had worn a path through the bracken. She smiled, put her hand on Megan's shoulder, and pointed. "Don't fash yerself," she murmured. "We'll find the way." Then she leaned close to add,

And see ye not that bonnie road

That winds aboot the fernie brae?

That is the road to fair Elfland,

Where thou and I this night must gae.

Megan gaped at her mistress in astonishment, but Muriella was already drawing her forward into the protection of the trees.

Chapter 13

"Come in, Colin, and close the door behind ye," the Earl commanded tersely.

Colin obliged, pushing the heavy oak door closed with one foot. "Well?"

In a glance, the Earl took in his eldest son's confident stance: his legs spread in their raw leather boots, the way he hooked his thumbs negligently into the belt that gathered his knee-length saffron shirt at the waist, the knowing smile that curved his lips. Colin breathed arrogance from every pore, and that was as it should be. "Where's Johnnie?" Argyll asked, disguising his approval beneath hooked gray brows.

"Ye needn't worry he'll disturb us. The men were frustrated, what with all the rain, and they've started a fight to keep themselves occupied."

"Yer brother's in the thick of it, I suppose?"

Colin nodded and his father sighed. "'Tis just as well. He doesn't need to hear this. 'Twas ye I wanted to talk to." The Earl indicated a chair, where his son seated himself.

"What's bothering ye?"

The Earl spread his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "As ye know, Maclean will soon be here. When he comes, we must be ready."

Frowning, Colin shook his head. "Why did ye ask him to the wedding? Ye know he's our enemy. Ye should be plotting how to take Duart, not welcoming him to Kilchurn as yer guest."

"Doesn't it occur to ye that I want the man close by, where I can see him? I feel safer with him under my roof than out there where he can do as he likes."

Colin narrowed his eyes in doubt. "Have ye forgotten his connection with Andrew Calder? Just because he's been quiet for so long doesn't mean he's given up."

"No, I haven't forgotten," Argyll snarled with sudden fury. "And I'm sure he hasn't given up." The color crept into his cheeks as he spoke. "He made fools of the Campbells last time. I don't intend to let that happen again." He leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists. "Not ever. He's left a stain on the name of our clan that I'll wash clean if it's the last thing I do. That's why I want Maclean here."

His son did not like to be reminded of the massacre in the glen by the sea, and his father's tone told him the Earl liked it even less. He too was eager to even the score with the men who had trapped him so easily. "What do ye mean to do?"

"Bring my son-in-law here, trailing Calder behind him in the shadows, no doubt, and force him to make a mistake."

When Colin spoke, it was with more violence than he had intended. "Why don't ye just send someone out to kill him? 'Twould be simple enough to arrange and not nearly so dangerous."

"Because"—here the Earl smiled grimly—"'twould be too easy. I don't want him to die in a dark passageway with no one to see him suffer. No, I want to humiliate him in front of everyone, as he humiliated us. I want people to watch his disgrace and see for themselves how unwise it is to challenge the Campbells. We'll bring Andrew Calder crashing down, I promise ye that, and when we do, Maclean will go down with him."

Colin considered Argyll thoughtfully, wondering if for once Johnnie didn't have the right idea: kill their enemies and get it over with. Besides, he doubted that even Maclean would be foolish enough to risk betraying the Earl in his own castle. "Ye'll need a kind of bait he can't resist."

"We have what he wants. Use yer head, Colin."

His son looked up in surprise. "Ye mean to use the girl?"

Everyone at the keep knew how close Muriella had grown to the Earl in the past month.

"She's the prize we all seek, is she no’?" The Earl paused and his blue eyes gleamed. "Don't misunderstand; I don't intend to let him hurt her. If the Campbells aren't strong enough to protect their own, then woe to us, my son." His voice trembled ominously and he raised a hand as if to ward off a horror too unthinkable to consider. "But she's the only one likely to lure our enemies into the open. We’ve no choice."

Nodding, Colin admitted his father was thinking clearly after all. "Well then, when he does get here, I'll see that Maclean is watched."

"Not too closely," Argyll warned. "He'll be wary enough as it is. Ye must give him room to dig his own grave."

"Aye," Colin said, smiling with anticipation. "A spectacle I long to see fulfilled. I do believe I'll enjoy this wedding after all."

* * *

It was late afternoon. Though the rain lashed against the walls of the keep with fury, inside the cavernous Great Hall the guests huddled by the fire, feeling safe and protected from the storm. The brawl had ended earlier with some bruised faces and fists and a great many roars of good-natured laughter. The men had slapped each other on shoulders and backs to show no ill will lingered, then settled happily over their tankards of ale.

Muriella sat near the hearth, her hair braided to hide any remaining dampness, her mauve kirtle and gown fresh and unwrinkled. No one would guess now that she had been away. She looked around at the flushed faces, most of which belonged to strangers, and noticed how the huge fire gave a golden glow to their skin and a glitter to their eyes. Everywhere she turned there was noise and laughter; at last the chill in this room had been destroyed.

Bending forward, she drew her thread taut and pushed the needle through the linen shirt she was embroidering for John's groom gift. Despite her mistress's reluctance, Megan had insisted that she do this small thing for her husband-to-be. It was not long before Muriella's delight in the pattern she created with her needle made her forget the one for whom it was intended.

She heard a commotion nearby and looked up to find Alex weaving his way across the room. The Earl was in a generous mood these days, so he had invited the Gypsies in out of the rain. The ones who chose to accept showed their gratitude by diverting the Campbells' guests from their boredom and frustration at the weather that made them prisoners.

Alex found a spot on the hearth next to Muriella and began to strum his harp. She leaned her head against the rough stone, blackened by years of roaring fires, and closed her eyes.

Megan, who sat beside her mistress, smiled at the Gypsy. "Will ye tell us a story?" she asked.

"Aye, if ye like." His fingers continued their dance on the strings as he spoke. "Have ye heard the tale of the makin' of Loch Awe?"

Megan knew the local legend, as did many of the guests, but the fire was warm, the sound of the Highland harp pleasant, and Alex's voice melodic, so they did not object to hearing it again. As he began his story, many of the women crept closer to listen.

Alex cleared his throat. "'Twas a time when Loch Awe was a wide, lovely valley ruled by a bonnie lass with pale golden hair and eyes as blue as a summer's sky. Each day, she hunted with her friends, and rare was the time when they weren't blessed with game enough to feed them and sport enough to please them. But the Kelpies in the valley were sore jealous of the lassie's beauty and her pleasant life, which they determined to end.

"One day, as she knelt beside a burn to take a drink, the vengeful Kelpies cast their spell over the lady like a net. The while she was under their power, they made her promise to place a stone over the mouth of the spring each evenin' at twilight. If she didn't do so, they warned, they would swell the burn to a torrent that would flood the valley to its very top.

"So 'twas that every evenin' the lady knelt by the burn, callin' the Kelpies to watch as she placed the stone. Each evenin' they watched her in the twilight, golden hair glimmerin' and blue eyes bright, and wished that someday she'd forget her promise."

By now Muriella had dropped her needle. The harp held her spellbound, and she was strongly aware of the warmth of the fire at her back.

"It happened that one day," Alex continued, "the lassie and her friends had hunted for long hours and were sore weary. Her companions begged her no' to stop at the spring as she usually did, but to return with them to the castle to eat and drink the night away. She told them sadly that she must stop, if only for a moment. They rode on without her.

"She was thirsty, and the lady stopped to drink at the mouth of the burn. As she splashed the water over her face, swallowin' the cool liquid gratefully, she was drawn to her own reflection in a puddle nearby. Smilin' to herself, she drew her fingers through her hair and watched it fall in soft curls along her cheeks. She saw her head was bare, and noticin' some flowers growing along the way, she began to weave a wreath.

"As soon as she placed the flowers on her head, she began to feel drowsy. So drowsy that she didn't notice the sun was slippin' behind the rim of the valley. Layin' her head on a soft bed of moss, she fell fast asleep.

"When she awoke, 'twas dark and the tiny burn had swollen into a river. She stood watchin' helplessly, the wreath askew on her golden hair, as the water gushed from the ground and swept through the valley. Fallin' to her knees, she pleaded with the Kelpies to free her from her promise. But they only laughed.

"She died there when the river filled the valley to the top in a single night. At last the Kelpies had gotten their wish. But in the end, they couldn't rid themselves of the memory of the lady, for she gave her beauty to the loch she left behind. On many a night, ye can see the fall of her golden hair in the path of the moonlight over the heart of Loch Awe."

Although the story was common in the Highlands, Alex had given it a kind of magic. Perhaps it was the song of his clareschaw, which gurgled like a tiny burn, then swept through the room like a torrent; or perhaps it was his musical voice. Whatever the reason, his audience was pleased. They applauded him with fervor and a few threw him coins.

Muriella could not move; she was lost in the valley Alex had just described. She remembered the wavering image of the woman with the flowers around her head, the woman whose hair had spread through the water, twining itself among the rocks. She remembered too the strange, keening lament she had heard, and knew Alex had put her vision into words. She shivered at the thought. In her memory, the caressing waters of Loch Awe became cold and unfriendly and they seemed to close around her, swirling before her eyes until she was blind.

Glancing at Muriella's troubled face, Alex waved the other Gypsies over. They began to play together, encouraging the ladies to sing with them. Some of the Gypsy girls began to sway, their red, green and blue skirts swinging in the firelight. The guests clapped their hands, laughed, and were not aware that Alex had put down his instrument.

The Gypsy leaned back until his head rested on the stone next to Muriella's. "Ye'll always create yer own nightmares, lass. Ye and no one else are at the heart of all yer terror."

How had he known what she was thinking? she wondered. Could he really believe there was nothing here for her to fear? She looked away, following the dips and swirls of a Gypsy woman in blue who danced nearby. Once when the woman bowed low, Muriella caught the flicker of a golden flame against her chest. She stared, hypnotized by the dark red ruby.

"Ye aren't so wise as ye might believe. And ye'll always reject that which ye most desire. But at least ye won't be able to lie to yerself."

She looked up, but before she could ask any questions, the Gypsy smiled once, briefly, and was gone.

Just then the squealing of the gate outside announced more visitors. A few minutes later the door swung open and a man and woman came into the hall, bringing the rain with them. By the time the door had been secured, there was a large puddle on the stone floor at their feet. The pair stood uncertainly, as if unsure of their welcome.

"Elizabeth!" the Earl's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. In spite of himself, he could not disguise his pleasure. He had not seen her for many months—not since his last disturbing visit to Duart Castle. Hurrying down the steps, he swept his dripping daughter into his arms to kiss her on both cheeks. Then he backed away, nodding coolly at his son-in-law. "Maclean." Argyll scowled as he guided the couple toward the fire. When he caught sight of Muriella at the hearth, he called, "Come, lass. Ye must meet my daughter."

Muriella came forward, curtsying to the new arrivals. She surveyed with interest the wet and bedraggled woman who gazed longingly at the fire. Elizabeth was not beautiful, nor was she plain. She had Colin's sandy hair and her eyes were an indeterminate gray. Argyll had said his daughter was twenty-two, but just now she looked older. Her eyes were dark with what Muriella guessed was constant suffering. The girl did not have to look far to find the source of Elizabeth's pain.

While she had been watching the other woman, Muriella was aware that Maclean had been looking her up and down appraisingly. She reminded him of someone, but he could not remember who. When he took her hand, he squeezed her fingers and seemed reluctant to let go.

When the Laird of the Clan Maclean bowed and smiled, Muriella's heart turned cold. It was not that his features were unpleasant. His red hair and beard were thick and full and his gray eyes clear, but even as he smiled, she could feel the bitterness beneath that smile.

Withdrawing her hand quickly, Muriella turned to Elizabeth. "Come sit by the fire. Tis much warmer there. Ye can dry out a little and have a cup of wine to chase the chill away."

The Earl looked at Muriella in surprise, then smiled in approval. "Aye, ye take care of my daughter," he said.

Maclean was not listening. "So ye're the heiress," he muttered. Drawing the girl away from his wife, he lifted her chin with one finger. "Ye've no idea how lucky ye are to be marrying into the Campbell family. But then, they've always had an eye for the pretty ones. So long as they're rich as well." Smiling unpleasantly, he brushed her cheek, then let his hand slide over her shoulder and down her arm.

"Maclean!" The Earl stepped in front of his son-in-law, separating him from Muriella. "I think we can leave yer wife in Muriella's care. There are matters we must discuss."

The two men moved away, holding themselves apart with care. As they started up the stairs, the Earl hissed, "Leave her be, Maclean! She has no part in yer grudge against me."

Muriella watched them go, wondering if, once they were married, John would treat her as Maclean treated his wife. She shivered and turned back to Elizabeth, who was stretching her chilled hands toward the fire. It seemed to Muriella that she had not noticed her husband's indiscretion. Taking Elizabeth's arm, she murmured, "Come, we'll go to my room and dry ye out. I see yer servants have brought in yer chest of clothes, so ye can change."

Elizabeth straightened and when Muriella saw her face, she realized the woman had noticed. Her cheeks were tinged with red, her lips pressed together as if she were willing herself to remain silent. Placing her hand on Muriella's shoulder, she spoke for the first time. "Ye are kind."

Chapter 14

Elizabeth had fallen asleep with a fur tucked in close to her chin. Even after discarding her wet clothes, she found it difficult to stop shivering. Finally, Megan had filled the warming pan with hot coals, insisting Elizabeth get into bed. Then servant and mistress sat watching in silence until she fell asleep.

"She can't have a very pleasant life with that man," Megan murmured.

"No," her mistress agreed. "I only wish there was some way to help her, but 'tis too late for that, I'm afraid." Restless, frustrated by her own helplessness, Muriella rose to wander across the room, searching the empty corners with impatience. "Megan, can ye stay with Elizabeth in case she should wake?"

"Aye, miss, but where're ye goin'?"

"I don't know."

Muriella's expression was distant. The servant nodded. "I'll stay by her."

"Thank ye. I just can't stay still, ye ken?" Without waiting for an answer, Muriella left the room.

Outside the door, she stood uncertainly for a moment. Many torches lighted the narrow hall with its curved ceiling. She surveyed the empty passageway from end to end, then turned left, creeping by instinct down what seemed like endless stone corridors. There was something she needed to find, some force that was pulling her away from the safety of her room.

All at once she heard it clearly—the music that had drawn her here. The harp had captured her, as always, in its melody. As she moved toward the end of the hall from which the music spilled, she realized there was more than one harp. Then a voice joined with the instruments.

An thou were my own thing,

I would love thee,

I would love thee.

An thou were my own thing,

How dearly would I love thee.

Muriella paused. The voice was familiar. She leaned against the stone floor, listening.

To merit I no claim can make,

But that I love; and for yer sake,

What man can, more

I'll undertake,

So dearly do I love thee.

The voice was deep and so incredibly sweet that the softly sung words mesmerized her. The girl smiled in the darkness as two more voices joined in for the chorus.

An thou were my own thing,

I would love thee...

One of the voices belonged to Alex, that much she knew, but she couldn't identify the other two. Now the first singer began again, alone. Muriella was surprised to hear a harpsichord in the background. She had not known there were so many musical instruments at Kilchurn.

My passion, constant as the sun,

Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done,

Till Fate my threads of life have spun,

Which breathing out,

I'll love thee.

The words drew shivers along her neck and arms. Pulling her skirts close about her legs, Muriella slipped down the hall until she could look in the door of the chamber. It was a small music room hung with exquisite tapestries and flooded with candlelight. The harpsichord was in the far corner; Alex sat behind it, running his fingers over the keys as he sang the chorus. The other two voices belonged to Duncan and John, who sat with their backs to the girl, strumming their harps. Muriella caught her breath.

How dearly would I love thee.

As the chorus ended, she twined her fingers together, waiting to see which one had been singing so beautifully a moment before.

While love does at his altar stand,

Have thee my heart, give me thy hand,

And with yer smile thou shalt command

The will of him who loves thee.

It was John. He had enticed her with his song, with his rich, poignant voice. She stood unmoving, caught in his spell. Then something made her look up to find Alex watching. She felt the color drain from her cheeks; she did not want him to see her expression. Sliding out of sight beyond the door, she prayed he would not speak. For a long moment the silence closed around her, then at last she heard the men repeating the chorus once more.

Apparently, Alex had decided to keep her secret. John would never know that she had heard him sing and that it had moved her deeply.

* * *

Swinging the study door closed, the Earl turned to face Maclean. "Ye're no' a wise man, Son-in-law. Ye push me and push me and presently ye'll learn I'll take only so much for my daughter's sake."

Maclean threw himself into a chair before the fire. Placing his hands together fingertip to fingertip, he smiled. "I don't know what ye mean, my lord. All this talk is beyond me."

Argyll clutched the back of a chair to keep from exploding in the man's face. "Keep yer filthy hands to yerself when ye're in my keep," he said. "Ye may consort with outlaws on Mull, but at Kilchurn ye'll behave like a gentleman, difficult as it may be for ye."

Maclean looked up in mock surprise. "'Consort with outlaws'? Whatever do ye mean by that? I'm sure I can no’ guess at the workings of yer mind."

"Ye're a liar, and not even a very good one. We've seen Andrew Calder cross to Mull twice now. No one stays on that island without yer consent. And how do ye explain the Maclean plaid on the men who attacked my sons last month? Do ye take me for a fool?"

Tapping his fingers against each other, Maclean replied, "No, ye’re no’ that. If ye were, we might have a defense against ye. As ‘tis, we have none."

Argyll turned his back on the man. "We were speaking of Calder."

"Seems to me he's only trying to get back what ye've taken from him," Maclean said.

"Ye know the girl is rightfully mine."

"Aye, we know King Jamie gave her to ye. He's given ye a great deal belonging to others. The question I have is, who did ye betray this time, that he should grant ye such a favor?"

The Earl came to stand before his son-in-law. His fists were clenched and the firelight flickered over his face, deepening the hollows and increasing the glitter in his eyes. "I won't be badgered into killing ye, Maclean. But I'll tell ye this, and ye'd do well to listen. Stay away from Muriella—far away. If I find ye near her again, I promise ye'll regret it. She may no' be a bride yet, but she belongs to the Campbells just the same. Don't forget that. Now get out of my sight, and I suggest ye refrain from exchanging pleasantries with my sons and me until this wedding is over."

Maclean stood, kicking the chair away as he did so. "'Twill give me great pleasure to avoid ye, Argyll. Ye make my stomach turn each time I see ye." He pushed past the Earl, but when he reached the door, he turned. "As for the wedding, well, we’ll see about that."

When the door was closed behind him, Argyll drew his sword and sank it into the chair where Maclean had been sitting. With a muffled curse, he slit the brocade from edge to edge.

Chapter 15

Muriella started back down the hall, but the music followed her along the passageway. In agitation, she turned down a strange corridor. She did not realize for some time that she was lost. The music had long since disappeared into the shadows she left behind. Now she looked about and tried to catch her breath. These must be the rooms where the guests were staying; she could see a trunk sitting just inside a doorway. Here there were no candles, only an occasional torch, and the passage was long and dark. She was trying to decide in what direction her room might lie when she heard someone approaching.

"So, little one, I find ye at last. Were ye coming to see me?"

Muriella turned to find Maclean smiling down at her. With a little cry, she backed away. "I have better things to do than spend my time visiting unpleasant guests. Excuse me."

As she moved, he caught her arm. "I won't excuse ye. There are things I wish to say." Leaning down, he examined her face for the second time; there was something about her that drew him but at the same time, made him uneasy. Not that Argyll's warning had frightened him. If anything, it made him more determined. His hand closed tighter around her arm as he dragged her toward the open door through which she had seen the trunk.

"No!" she cried. "I must go!"

He leaned closer, tangling his fingers in her hair. "Ye won't. No’ till I've finished with ye."

"Ye're mad!" Pushing against his chest with all her strength, she tried to duck under his grasping hands. But he was too quick for her.

"No' at all. I've just been thinking 'twould be a shame if John Campbell were to get a damaged bride." He raised her chin with two fingers until his lips were just above hers. "'Twould be most sad, don't ye agree?"

She looked directly into his eyes for the first time. What she saw there made her insides raw with fear. She shivered and her throat closed until she could not breathe. Her hands were cold and shaking, but she struggled to force them upward. When he loosened his hold on her arm and tried to take her by the shoulders, she took a deep breath and dragged her nails across his neck from ear to collarbone.

For a moment he was too surprised to respond, but then, swinging her against the wall, he attempted to pin her hands behind her. "Damn ye. Ye'll be sorry for that." With one hand he ripped open her gown and kirtle, leaving her breasts uncovered. With a guttural curse, he kissed her brutally, grinding his mouth against hers until she tasted blood. She shuddered and retched with dry, heaving sobs, but he did not notice. Her body felt soiled, like an alien thing she could not—did not wish to—call her own. Just when she thought the sickness would choke her, he backed away. Sharply, he hit her across the face, knocking her off balance.

She grabbed a chair to right herself just as he swung again. This time she hit the wall with a crash and her head began to throb.

But as Maclean moved toward her where she huddled against the stone, the sneer on his face changed to a frown and his hard, cold gaze softened. The girl's hair was auburn, he thought, the color of Anne's. And the eyes were the same green. His heart wrenched in sudden pain. "Anne," he whispered, "I won't hurt ye. Only don't leave me again."

Muriella gaped at him in disbelief. All at once, his face was very young and vulnerable. He reached for her, drawing her toward him gently. Though she turned her head, he kissed her face again and again until he found her lips with his. His fingers ran over her bare shoulders, and she shuddered at the cool, damp touch of his hands on her skin. When he released her for a moment to run his forefinger down her cheek, she drew herself upright and sank her teeth into his hand. He leapt back, roaring, as she slipped under his arm and ran. Though she looked back several times, ready to scream if he should pursue her, she realized at last that he was not going to follow.

She did not know how she reached her own room, for she was running blindly. When she came to her chamber, she could not make her clumsy fingers open the latch. It took three tries before the cold metal moved in her hand. She shuddered as she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, gasping. Megan was beside her in a moment, staring in horror at the torn gown and deep red marks on her mistress's face. "Dear God, miss, what's happened? Ye must come and sit down. Who did this to ye? Was it Colin?"

Muriella began shaking her head and found she could not stop. She stared before her, unseeing, as Megan pulled off her gown and guided her to a chair.

Kneeling at her mistress's feet, Megan whispered, "Ye must tell me, miss. Who did it?"

At last Muriella found her voice. "I'll tell ye, but ye must swear ye won't repeat it. Above all, ye must not tell the Earl, do ye understand?" She was not certain why this was so important; she only knew she could not discuss the attack, not even with Argyll. To say the words aloud would somehow make the whole thing real, and she did not think she was strong enough, yet, to face the full horror of what Maclean had tried to do.

The servant sat back on her heels, regarding Muriella doubtfully. Then her expression hardened. "'Twas Maclean, was it no’? I saw how he looked at ye in the Great Hall."

Muriella closed her eyes. "Swear ye won't tell."

"But miss, he's a dangerous man. He must be watched."

"The Earl is watching him already, don't worry." Suddenly she remembered Elizabeth and looked up, appalled.

Catching her thought, Megan assured her, "She's gone. 'Tis nearly time for dinner."

Muriella exhaled in relief. "Megan, ye must swear to me, please!"

Reluctantly, the servant agreed. "If 'tis what ye really wish, I swear."

"Then come, we must ready ourselves for the meal."

* * *

By the time the two girls made their way down to the Great Hall, half of Muriella's face was swollen and purple. Together, the two had concocted a story to explain the marks away.

As the Earl took Muriella's hands in his, he asked, "What have ye done, lass? Yer face!" He leaned down to examine the bruises more closely.

"My gown wasn't even," she explained. "I stood on a stool so Megan might straighten it, but one of the legs broke and I fell. The rushes were gone, ye see, for they meant to change them today." Over the Earl's shoulder, she saw Maclean, his red curls combed carefully down to cover the scratches on his neck. He was staring at her, trying to pretend he had nothing to hide, but Muriella could see the cold fear in his eyes. For a moment, she wanted to tell Argyll the truth, but Elizabeth was beside her husband, her hand resting on his arm, and Muriella knew that, for the other woman's sake, she would not say a word. She would not add to Elizabeth's humiliation.

When Elizabeth saw the bruises on Muriella's face, she glanced from her husband to the girl and back again. Her eyes grew shadowed and she seemed to retreat inside herself. She had not been fooled.

Argyll would have questioned Muriella further, but his mind was on other things. By now his anger at Maclean had abated somewhat and he'd had time to think. He was as bad as Johnnie, he cursed himself again and again, the way he'd let his fury get the better of him when he faced his son-in-law an hour since. He would have to be certain it did not happen again. "Shall we sit?" he said.

Just then John came up beside his future bride. Tilting her chin upward, he considered her face and frowned. "So, little one, ye'll be damaged for our wedding. Are ye sure ye haven't done it on purpose?"

His touch made Muriella wince. She could not help but remember how Maclean had spoken the same words, called her by the same name—"little one." She tried to move away, but John did not seem to notice. As he directed her toward the table, she saw she was to sit beside him. Although she wanted to refuse, she felt the Earl's gaze upon her and knew it would not be wise.

John settled onto the bench, his thigh touching Muriella's, and wondered why he had spoken as he had a few moments past. He had regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth, but it had already been too late. He did not understand why he wanted to hurt her. "Muriella," he began.

She turned unwillingly, he thought, and waited. Now, with her gaze upon him, expectant and a little cool, his remorse evaporated. "This marriage was no’ my choice," he said. "I don't like it any better than ye do."

"No," Muriella murmured, "I don't suppose ye do."

For a moment, John was too taken aback to respond. Without thinking, he took her hand. "Then since we can't stop it, can't we try to make it easier?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a word, his fingers closed more tightly around hers and the room began to sway. She could hear the water rushing in her ears, but this time she would not succumb. With every last ounce of her strength, she fought the coming of the Sight, clenching her teeth and closing her mind to all thought. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her breathing became more and more labored, but at last the humming ceased and the room came back into focus. She closed her eyes with a sigh of relief.

John stared at the girl as the color drained from her face and she withdrew her hand abruptly from his grasp. "Ye don't want to make it easier," he said. "Ye still blame me for bringing ye here."

"No, no’ for that—" Muriella stopped, her hand at her throat.

"For what then?" John asked, cupping her chin and forcing her to look at him.

She took a deep breath, struggling against the fear she could not express. "For the men who are dead. For the ones still to die."

He released her, drawing back as if she had struck him. So she had not forgotten Rob. Or was she thinking of the battle with Andrew Calder? He grasped his dagger, speared a piece of eel, and began to chew it with unnecessary violence. He had tried to eradicate the memory of that day, the awareness that, in his eagerness to best the outlaw, he had urged the men forward instead of back. It was he who had led them headlong toward the slaughter in the glen. His dreams had been peopled with the ghosts of the dead ever since.

But Muriella could not know that. Or could she? He met her eyes for an instant: those mysterious eyes dark with the knowledge of death to come. He shuddered and looked away.

Muriella felt him recoil from her, just as Duncan had done, as if she were diseased. It had happened before. All her life people had shunned her, fearing the power of her Two Sights, but the hurt their rejection caused had never eased. Before she could stop to think, she touched John's shoulder. "I didn't mean that," she told him. "Forgive me."

John stared at her, astonished and speechless.

Just then Mary, the serving girl who had slowly made her way around the long table, leaned down next to him with a platter of fish. "Will ye have some salmon?" He nodded, grateful for the interruption. She used a thick knife to push some of the fish onto his pewter plate. "And ye, miss?" she asked Muriella.

The girl allowed Mary to serve her, but shook her head when the eel floating in a clear sauce was offered. John touched arm and nodded but he did not speak to her again, and for a time, she ate in silence.

"There are sweetmeats from France, Lachlan," she heard Elizabeth say. "Won't ye have some?"

Muriella looked up to find the Earl's daughter holding a tray of nuts and dried fruit for her husband's inspection. She saw how Maclean grunted and continued to eat his salted herrings as if his wife had not spoken, and she trembled with anger for the woman's sake.

Elizabeth was not aware of Muriella's sympathetic gaze. She looked pleadingly at her husband, touching him often, to assure herself he was still beside her. Once or twice she opened her mouth to speak to him, then seemed to think better of it. Through the rest of the meal, her gaze never left his face nor her hand his arm.

Muriella choked down a piece of bread that was suddenly dry, though it was covered with thick, sweet butter. It was evident Elizabeth loved Maclean. So much so, that when she recognized the marks of his hand on another, she sought not to berate him, but to win him back.

"Have ye heard?" Colin said from the end of the table. "Old William Calder is dead. Brokenhearted by his recent failures, no doubt."

Frowning, Muriella tried to conjure an image of her grandfather, the man who had caused her so much sorrow. All she could remember was the bitterness and rage she had heard once in his voice, the way he had made her mother cry. She had never known him and he had never wanted to know her. He was her grandfather, yet she could not grieve for him. She swallowed hard.

Argyll grinned, clapping his hand on Muriella's shoulder. "Aye, our troubles are over. Ye'll be safe enough now, lass." Raising his tankard, he beamed at his guests. "A toast to the bride-to-be!" As everyone raised their cups and saluted, the Earl noted Maclean's complacent smile. The man believed it, then. That was just as it should be. None of the guests seemed to recognize the hard gleam buried just beneath the laughter in Argyll's eyes.

"And since 'tis safe now, we must carry on in the Campbell tradition and make our journey to the southwestern shore of Loch Awe before the wedding." He leaned over to explain to Muriella, "The entire party, guests and all, rides to a sacred place in the loch, where the stones stand upright, shaped and placed there by the ancient Celtic gods. ‘Tis a fitting spot to bless the bride and groom." He took another swig from his tankard, then announced, "We shall go to the Standing Stones the day after tomorrow, the day before the ceremony. Ye're all invited. But for now, let’s eat!" Argyll smiled at Muriella and carefully avoided glancing at Maclean.

When the meal was over and the women had retreated toward the warmth of the fire, Muriella took the Earl's arm to draw him aside.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice low-pitched.

"We mustn't go to Loch Awe."

He looked at her more closely, noting the blank expression in her eyes. "What do ye mean? Of course we'll go."

"We mustn't. There'll be trouble there."

He took her hands and was shocked at the clamminess of her skin. He had not reckoned with this. Perhaps the girl could sense danger as easily as he did. But she must not be allowed to ruin his plans. "Lass, I'm well aware ye don't desire this marriage. Nevertheless it will take place. Don't try to stop it with yer foolishness and talk of trouble. The men may think ye a witch and tremble in fear of meeting yer eyes, but I don't. Ye're my ward still and must do as I say. We will ride to Loch Awe."

"No."

When he felt her hands tremble, his resolution wavered. Staring down at her bruised face, he realized it would mean a great deal to him if he were to lose her. "Lass," he said gently, "ye must learn to trust me. I'll keep ye safe."

She shook her head in mute denial.

"I'll listen to no more," he declared. "'Tis settled." He stalked away, leaving Muriella to stand alone, her eyes gray with foreboding.

* * *

The hall had been long empty and the castle long silent when Lachlan Maclean crept down the stairs and into the courtyard. The man who awaited him stepped from the shadows, directing Maclean toward a niche in the wall where they could talk without being seen.

"Well? Have ye any news?"

"Aye," Maclean muttered, "they've done half yer work for ye. They ride to the Standing Stones day after tomorrow. The guests will be along and 'twill be difficult to keep order."

"The girl will be there?"

"Riding at the front of the pack with her bridegroom. They couldn't have given ye a better target if they tried."

The other man laughed, but Maclean warned him to silence. "Don't be oversure of yerself. Ye weren't so successful last time."

"I would have been if ye hadn't called me away at the last moment. The Campbells were at my mercy, man!"

"'Tis lucky for us both that one of my men recognized ye held both Argyll's sons in that glen. Had ye killed them, ye wouldn't have lived out the week, nor would I. I hate the Earl, but I'm no' a complete fool. Ye must tread carefully with that man."

Andrew Calder smiled in the darkness. "I'll tread so carefully that he won't even know I'm near, except that the girl will fall dead in his son's arms."

Chapter 16

Muriella kept Megan close to her as much as possible on the ride from the castle to the sacred stones of Loch Awe. She had come to know the twists and turns of this shoreline well since her arrival at Kilchurn, but today it was somehow different. The water looked dull and lifeless, despite the tiny whitecaps that stirred in the rising breeze. The loch was like a stranger whose unfathomable depths were beyond her reach or knowledge. She had heard often of the treachery of currents and caverns beneath the placid surface, but not until today did she believe it.

As the horses crowded on the hilltop that looked down over the dramatically tilted slate gray stones on their small green island, the Earl rode up between his sons and Muriella. He glanced back at the winding string of guests. He was uneasy. Maclean had chosen to stay behind, and Argyll did not know what to make of that. Perhaps, he thought, his son-in-law believed he would not be implicated if he waited at Kilchurn. Perhaps Maclean thought the Earl blind to his intentions. Argyll smiled sourly. He'd have to be blind, and an idiot besides, not to see what Maclean desired. The man might as well have proclaimed it aloud.

Turning to the girl at his side, the Earl considered what he could see of Muriella's face beneath her hood. She was pale, and held her lip between her teeth as if trying to keep herself from crying out. "Ye see," he murmured, "there's no danger here."

"What do ye mean, no danger?" John looked past his father at Muriella.

"Yer betrothed tried to tell me we shouldn't come today. She said 'twould be dangerous."

"Ye didn't believe her?"

"Of course I didn't! She's a nervous lass, that's all."

John grasped his father's arm. "Ye should have listened. She knows."

"Johnnie," Argyll snapped, "don't be a fool."

"I tell ye, she knows! She warned me about Uncle Rob. And she told Duncan that men would die in that glen."

The Earl shook his head as he urged his horse forward. "Enough of this nonsense. I must see to my guests."

John knew it was not nonsense. Cursing under his breath, he took hold of Muriella's bridle. "Stay close to me."

As the horses picked their way down the hillside, Muriella pulled her cloak tighter around her neck. When the animals stopped at the edge of the water, she sat rigid and wary beside her groom. Something was amiss; she could feel it like a weight bearing down on her slight shoulders. She stared out at the water, seeking the source of her unease, following the shape of the island of stones until her gaze fell on the sacred slabs set in this place by the hands of some ancient Celtic gods.

Men feared them, it was said, as much as they worshipped them. No sane man would dare defile those Standing Stones.

Muriella's voice pierced the wary silence. "Megan!" she screamed.

The servant leaned forward. As she did so an arrow hissed through the air where she had been a moment before.

In a heartbeat, John had dragged Muriella from her horse. He looked about frantically until Duncan approached. John lifted his future wife across the saddle, depositing her in Duncan's arms. Nodding toward the narrow trail they had followed from Kilchurn, he commanded, "Take her home!" Then he dug his heels into his horse's sides and the animal hurtled down the bank and into the water.

Duncan watched his cousin disappear into the group of men who were crossing the narrow arm of the loch, then turned his horse back in the direction they had come. He pulled up short when Muriella's fingers closed around his in a punishing grip.

"Megan!" she gasped.

The boy squinted into the sun, trying to locate the servant. As he wheeled his horse, he saw complete confusion reigned on the shore of the loch. Many of the guests were not certain what had happened, but they sensed fear in the air and seemed to be possessed of an urgent desire to flee. One of the animals had stumbled in the mud and his rider scrambled from his back to cling to the stirrup of another horse and rider, begging to be carried back to Kilchurn. Only Megan sat absolutely still in the center of the melee. She had not moved since Muriella screamed. Her face pale and bloodless, the servant leaned forward, hearing the hiss of the arrow as it passed her, feeling the rush of air against her cheek, staring at the cold gray stones, imagining the vengeful spirits who dwelt there. Duncan called but Megan herself had been turned to stone.

When the squire's horse was near enough, Muriella placed her hand on Megan's arm. "Megan," she whispered, "'tis all right now. We must get away, back to the castle."

The girl turned to stare blankly at her mistress.

"Come," Duncan urged. "Do ye want to give them another target?"

The threat awakened Megan from her stupor. She shook her head to clear it, glancing at Muriella to make certain she was all right. Then the servant guided her horse up the hill and the three rode after the other guests.

When the Earl saw Duncan and Muriella pass, he nodded. He cupped his hand above his eyes, turning to watch John and Colin lead the men across the lake. Argyll was undecided. Should he follow his sons or go back to the keep? He sought out Duncan's galloping horse once more among the confused groups spread out along the rise above him. The squire would see that Muriella got back safely, he thought. Then he raised his head, glowering. Duncan was taking the lass to Kilchurn. And Kilchurn was where Maclean waited. Without a backward glance, the Earl fell in behind the ring of guests who sheltered Muriella.

* * *

Nearly a dozen men began the chase after the unknown antagonists who had dared the wrath of man and gods alike when they hid themselves among the Standing Stones and tried to murder a young girl. They could see only one man fleeing before them. Although they circled the area again and again, it soon became clear that there had been no others. One man had attacked a group of more than a dozen men and twenty women. It was insane.

John believed he knew why. The man was Andrew Calder and he had come alone because he had only one end in mind: to kill Muriella before she became a Campbell. A single man could easily conceal himself on the sacred island to await his opportunity. No one would expect an attack from such a place. But Calder was already an outlaw and a murderer with a price on his head. Apparently, he feared nothing. He need have only one arrow if his aim were true. Alone, he could elude his pursuers with little trouble, particularly in the confusion caused by a group of frightened guests.

However—and John smiled grimly to himself at the thought—the outlaw had reckoned without the fact that two girls, heavily cloaked, with faces effectively concealed, would be riding with John. Then again, Calder had not known about Muriella's strong sense of her own danger and the strange power that somehow kept her safe.

The chase was a long one. As the men pushed their animals beyond the limits of their endurance, they began to fall back one by one. There was, after all, only a single man to pursue. They had all heard John Campbell declare he would not let Calder escape this time, and both horses and men were exhausted and thirsty. There was little more they could do, so they turned their horses toward home.

But the two brothers did not give in. When their animals seemed ready to collapse beneath them, they stopped at a nearby manor house, exchanging the horses for fresh ones.

The owner was only too glad to give up his horses for the fine-blooded Campbell animals.

After two hours of furious riding, Calder had abandoned his mount to lose himself among the craggy rocks scattered along the foot of the mountains. At that point, John dismounted. Turning to Colin, he said, "Go back. I want to be the one to take him."

Colin shook his head. "Ye're a fool, Johnnie. Two men are always better. Calder's an outlaw, remember. Running is his trade. He'll outfox ye yet."

"He won't," John declared with complete conviction. "We're only wasting time arguing. I want the man and I intend to get him, do ye hear?"

Running his hand along his horse's damp neck, Colin considered. He was tired, after all. And Johnnie was stubborn. Besides, he had grown up playing among these rocks. It should not be difficult for him to trap a single man here, especially a stranger running scared like Calder. "Aye, well, I'll leave him to ye, then. But remember, tomorrow is to be yer wedding day. Ye'd best be back well before dawn, or there'll be the devil to pay."

John smiled at his small victory as he slung his bow across his shoulder. Without another word to his brother, he adjusted his quiver and walked away.

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Colin turned toward home.

John crept among the boulders with great care, for he was determined not to let Calder escape him. Although he knew the outlaw would be tired, like himself, John also knew he had the advantage. He had learned long ago the secrets and surprises of these tumbled stones. Calder would find it difficult to make his way through the bizarre outcroppings that protruded at odd angles, blocking clear pathways unexpectedly.

For some time, John crouched, listening, until he heard the splattering of pebbles overhead, which indicated the direction Calder had taken. Readjusting his bow so it would not swing out and betray him, he placed his sword on the rocks at his feet. It was too bulky and he did not intend to use it anyway: he had other plans for Calder. He could hear by an occasional scraping noise that the outlaw had not rid himself of his own weapon.

John began his climb slowly and patiently. For once, he knew he had the advantage, and he did not mean to lose it by acting in haste. As he moved along behind Calder, the sun began to set. Already the shadows were long and the light dusky. So much the better, he thought.

For a long time the outlaw stayed well ahead of him, but John was unconcerned. He could see where the man was heading. In his ignorance, Calder would back himself into a corner; then he'd be right where John wanted him. It was quite dark by the time the outlaw pulled himself over a final ridge and dropped down under an outcropping of rock that sheltered him from the back.

Above him, John smiled as he watched Calder gazing around, his inspection only gradually assuring him of what he had done. At his back, the face of the rock jutted out, curving over his head to form a solid wall. The wall was joined on two sides by slabs that stood so close there was no room for a man to squeeze through. Before him stood a huge, flat rock that both protected him from the front and blocked his escape. The only way out was the way he had come, and he was sure John Campbell was waiting there.

Crouching in the darkness, John waited for over an hour, until the moon should rise above the trees, giving him the light he needed to finish off Calder. For the time being, the outlaw huddled behind the flat rock so John could not see him. Minute by minute, the moon filled the rocks with bleak shadows, but still Calder did not move. When he did, however, John would be ready. Taking his bow from his shoulder, he drew an arrow from the quiver and stretched the bowstring taut.

Calder, having heard no sound, no breath of life, for over an hour, decided he could wait no longer. He had to see what was happening out there. Moving as quietly as possible, he pulled himself up so he could peer over the rock face and try to discern, in the added light of the moon, what his enemy's position might be.

As the outlaw's forehead appeared above the boulder, John drew back the arrow until the bowstring reached its full length. Then, screaming the Campbell war cry, "Cruachan!" he let the arrow fly.

* * *

Muriella sat up in bed as the familiar coldness swept through her body. She had been dreaming of Hugh again, running from him in the woods and laughing, when the trembling awakened her. She clutched frantically at the warm, tangled furs in an effort to assure herself of the firm reality of the bed, but the spinning had already begun in her head and she could not stop it. She felt the shadows closing around her and shivered violently. The air was still and heavy until a triumphant voice pierced the silence. "Cruachan!" An arrow sped through the night, then blood spouted up and out, spilling over the face of a huge, flat rock.

The smell of blood was everywhere; Muriella was choking on it. The world tilted and swayed around her before the spinning ceased at last. But the coldness lingered. It simply would not go. Covering her mouth with her hands, she bit her palm to keep from crying out.

Across the room, Megan sat up sleepily and called, "What is it, miss?"

Muriella had to struggle to force her vision into words. When she finally answered, her voice was hollow. "Andrew Calder is dead."

Chapter 17

Megan woke Muriella before the sun had risen. "Come, we must begin early or we won't be ready in time. Och! Miss, there's so much to be done!"

Her mistress sat up, making an effort to calm her breath. For an instant, when her feet touched the floor, she thought her legs would not support her.

"So it's come," she whispered in a voice so strained it did not sound like her own.

"Aye, miss," Megan said. "Come, we must bathe ye while the water is warm. Miss Elizabeth brought ye some of her special scent. She makes it herself." She knelt at the edge of the rough wooden tub and sniffed. "'Tis heavenly."

Muriella stood beside the tub, watching the steam rise in clouds that drifted through the cold morning air. Her night rail lay in a heap at her feet, and the light from the torches danced over her naked body, painting it with an orange glow.

Megan contemplated her mistress in surprise. She had changed in the past few months; her breasts were fuller, her waist more slender. She looked, just now, more like a woman than a girl. And tonight that transformation would be complete. In order to hide the concern in her eyes, Megan bent her head, concentrating on the task of running the sponge over Muriella's shoulders.

* * *

Washed, dried, scented, and creamed, Muriella stood before Megan, Mary and Elizabeth. The three women surveyed with alarm the bruises that discolored the bride's face.

"Is there no’ anythin' we can do?" Megan asked, biting her fingernail in distress.

Elizabeth came forward. "Aye, there's a way." She looked at Muriella's face, and her eyes darkened with shame at her husband's cruelty to such a young girl. "I went to the Gypsies and they gave me a cream to cover the bruises and a powder to smooth over the cream. The old woman swore they would hide the marks."

"I've never heard of such a thing," Megan whispered, gazing in wonder at the heavy white cream in Elizabeth's palm. Tentatively, she touched it, circling her fingertip through the thick, cool mixture that clung to her hand when she drew it away. "Do ye really think 'twill work?" she asked.

"The Gypsies can do a great many strange and wonderful things," Mary said. "They have the magic touch."

"I only hope it hasn't left them today when we need it most." Turning to Elizabeth, Megan added, "Can ye do her face while I work on her hair?"

Elizabeth nodded and Muriella was guided to a low wooden stool where she sat quietly. She avoided meeting Elizabeth's gaze just as Elizabeth avoided hers. The older woman spread the cream with slow, gentle motions, and Muriella found it soothing, despite her inner turmoil. Behind her, Megan tugged a comb through her hair and began to separate the strands into sections. Mary helped, giggling when they dropped a braid or hopelessly tangled the interlaced strands. Soon, even Megan was laughing as they looped and wove and arranged Muriella's thick auburn hair.

At last both Megan and Elizabeth declared their work done. "Och, Miss Elizabeth," Megan cried, "ye've done it right enough! Ye can barely see the bruises. In the dark chapel, ye’ll no’ be able to see 'em at all."

Now the dressing began. First, Megan shook out the kirtle of pale cream satin. When the simple shift with long fitted sleeves was in place, Elizabeth knelt at Muriella's feet, straightening the hem. The girl looked down when she felt Elizabeth's hand tremble. Her face looked furrowed with care in the light of the torches, and behind the tears, Muriella sensed a desolation that outweighed her own bewildered distress. She looked away.

Finally, Megan lifted the green velvet from the bed. Standing on a chair, she lowered the gown over her mistress's head with great care. It slid easily over the satin.

The velvet was warm, and Muriella realized she had been cold for some time, although Megan's face was flushed from the heat of the fire. Muriella curled her fingers within the wide sleeves, trying to speak some feeling in the numb shell of her body, but it was useless.

At last Mary placed a wreath of wild roses on the girl's head and the two servants stepped back to admire their handiwork. The flowers rested among the many tiny braids surrounding Muriella's face, while the rest of her hair fell down her back to her knees. The deep green of the low-cut velvet gown tied with sea-green ribbons made Muriella's eyes seem huge, though the usual fire that kept them bright burned low. The broad green sleeves were folded back to reveal the tight satin sleeves of the kirtle; below her elbow, the sleeves fell almost to her hips. The skirt was so voluminous the green satin slippers were not even visible.

As the three women stood staring, there was a knock on the door. Mary pulled it open a crack to peer out. "What is it?"

"I wish to see Elizabeth, if ye please." It was Duncan's voice.

Elizabeth went out into the hall, and when she returned, she held a carved wooden box. Standing in front of Muriella with it in her hands, Elizabeth felt she should kneel to the strength that kept the girl's eyes still and her small hands steady. "Yer bride gift from the groom," she said.

Muriella stared at the box in silence. The top was intricately carved with gryphons, dragons and winged horses cavorting on their dark rosewood background. Muriella felt herself begin to sway again. She had, of course, sent the embroidered linen shirt to John quite early that morning. She had known he would send her a gift as well, but was reluctant to see what it was.

Elizabeth waited patiently, holding the box while Muriella hesitated. She touched it first with her left hand, tracing the intricate design with her fingertips. Her half-finger looked pale against the dark wood; with sudden resolution she lifted the lid and took out what lay inside. Again she paused, struggling for breath, as she gaped at the object in her palm. It was a pendant on a thick gold chain: a carved golden flame with a ruby at its heart. As the torchlight moved above her, the flame seemed to leap in her hand.

So, she thought, Alex had told him. The Gypsy had seen her look at the pendant and had told John she desired it. She began to breathe again, irregularly. She could not understand the ache that began deep in her chest and spread throughout her body. Or the tears that gathered in her eyes.

Peering into her mistress' cupped palm, Megan took the pendant to fasten it about Muriella's neck. It fell against the kirtle, glimmering. The flame never seemed to lie still, but danced and flickered constantly. "Miss." Megan's voice was low with admiration. "I’ve no’ ever seen anyone so lovely."

* * *

The chapel at Kilchurn was barely large enough to hold all the guests. As Muriella stood in the courtyard, clinging to the Earl's arm, she could smell the scent of candles and sandalwood brushed out the door in the wake of the skirts that swept inside. She wanted to kneel and pray—in silence and alone. She felt separate from the rest of the world, yet she was aware of the flame on her chest as if it were a real one.

Argyll was resplendent in a blue velvet doublet and jacket, and he wore a fine linen shirt over his trews instead of the usual saffron garment. This was a celebration indeed, and he intended to make the most of it. His pleasure was only slightly dimmed by the knowledge that Maclean had not suffered a disgrace after all, but at least Andrew Calder was dead. His act of sacrilege among the Standing Stones had increased the hatred against him, and therefore the people's approval of the Campbells. The Earl would have to be content with that for the moment.

Although he was aware of Muriella's silent misery, the Earl chose to ignore it. He loved her dearly, but she was young and obstinate. She would learn in time to accept her marriage and all it meant. He would see to it. As he squeezed her hand, her cold fingers closed more tightly around his.

He heard the signal he had been waiting for and started toward the open chapel doors. The ceremony had begun. Argyll and Muriella walked down the narrow aisle to the strumming of harps from the gallery above, but the girl did not hear the music. She could see John waiting with Colin at his side. The silver decoration on the wooden altar gleamed behind him, making a glittering backdrop for his thick, dark hair. The light softened his roughly carved features; even his heavy beard seemed less wild. For the first time, he actually looked handsome to her. As she came up beside him, she saw that beneath his dress plaid and velvet doublet he wore the shirt she had made for him.

Bride and groom turned to the altar in silence, without meeting each other's eyes. Each gazed fixedly at the priest as he raised his hands and began to intone the traditional Latin phrases. They listened with heads bent, repeated the words he told them to speak, knelt and rose at the right moments, leaned down to kiss the cross of his ruby-and-pearl rosary. But the words were strangely empty, the gestures stiff and unnatural.

When at last John took her hand, Muriella was shocked at how cold his fingers were: as cold and rigid as her own. The knowledge made her look up to meet his gaze for the first time. She had expected to find him grinning in triumph because he had finally won Cawdor for his own, but his lips were no more than a thin line, and his eyes were dark and empty. She realized then he'd meant it when he said he wanted this marriage no more than she did. For an instant, the bleakness of his expression touched her and she felt a flash of something she had never thought to feel again: pity.

Then the priest spoke, raising his voice as he lifted his hands in benediction. "Go from me in peace as man and wife, never by others to be parted again."

It was over.

With her husband's arm linked through hers, Muriella left the altar. Her skin was pale, almost transparent, and the bruises had begun to show again, dark and ugly from temple to chin. She held her lips in a forced smile. But it was her eyes that shocked the guests to stillness; they glowed with a despair so plain, those who saw it felt the need to look away. John saw it too, and he too turned away.

Suddenly the Earl was upon them, kissing his son on both cheeks and clasping his daughter-in-law in his arms. He alone, of all who stood in the chapel, had not seen the look in the girl's eyes. He alone appeared to be unconcernedly happy. Grinning, he escorted the couple to the Great Hall and up to the dais. For the occasion, the table had been covered by a linen cloth and set with the finest silver and pewter.

"A toast!" Argyll called, lifting his tooled silver goblet from among the wreaths of white winter blossoms that decked the table. "To this day and all the blessings it has brought us. To the bride and groom!"

Obediently, Muriella touched the rim of her goblet to John's. For a moment, their gazes met and held. He swallowed once, then forced a smile; she answered with one of her own, but the chill in their fingers as they brushed told their own story. When the Earl drew his son and daughter-in-law closer, Muriella bent her head to take a sip of her mulled wine.

She knew when the servants approached with the first platters of meat; the heavy smell of spice-laden beef and mutton rose in the air and clung around her shoulders. At Argyll's enthusiastic gesture toward the heaping platters, John chose the first morsel of beef, then leaned toward Muriella. She chose another, larger piece and held it up to her husband's parted lips. They ate together, accompanied by roars of approval from the crowd, but they were hardly aware of the sound. It was as if they stood alone: two strangers who shared a meal, but nothing more.

"Come!" the Earl said. "Sit! Enjoy!"

With a sigh of relief, John did as his father bid him. As the endless meal progressed, he spoke to his new wife now and again to ask if she cared for salmon or sweetmeats or bread, and she saw that he had enough ale and meat to satisfy him. But as congratulations flowed into tankard after tankard of choice ale and course after course of rich food, John's senses began to dull and he did not turn to Muriella again. Instinctively he did not touch her, not even to place his hand on her arm, not even when he was so drunk he could not stand. He would never be drunk enough to forget the way she had shuddered when he put his arm around her waist to lead her to the seat of honor. He would never be drunk enough to forget the look in her eyes.

Chapter 18

The banquet had gone on for too long. The musicians, gathered from all over Scotland, had played too many lilting ballads on their Highland harps. Too many tankards had been refilled again and again with the thick ale, too many platters of beef and lamb and poultry had circulated through the room. The men, drunk as they always were at weddings, had begun to pull the women out to the center of the floor to dance, kicking the rushes aside as they moved. Both men and women had forgotten the bride's face in the midst of their drunkenness and flushed laughter. They clasped hands and circled the floor, their brightly colored plaids flowing behind them, their satin and velvet and brocade gowns swirling about their ankles.

The Earl was pleased. He could see his guests were impressed by the splendor of the occasion, perhaps even a little intimidated. That was as it should be. He had given them a taste of the wealth and power at his command; he knew the memory of this day would linger, serving as a reminder that the Campbells were worthy friends—and dangerous enemies. He speared a piece of lamb with his dagger and watched the juice run down the blade. Things were going very well.

When Muriella saw Argyll's satisfied smile, she looked away. She thought he had forgotten her, as the others seemed to have done. She realized then that although this was a wedding feast, no one was really celebrating her marriage. They were celebrating the Campbell victory over their enemies, the acquisition of one more piece of valuable land and one more stack of golden coins. She might as well have been an ornament on the wall for all the attention they paid her. Only Elizabeth seemed aware of her new sister-in-law's distress.

Muriella could not help wondering if her marriage to Hugh would not have been different, if, on that occasion, someone—her mother or Lorna or Hugh himself—might not have smiled at her and meant it.

She raised her head when a drunken man stumbled up to the far end of the dais, where John was speaking to a friend. "Johnnie, m'laddie," the man called, "tonight's the night and no mistake. No more serving wenches in the stable yard for ye."

He lurched forward, grinning, and cupped his hands in the unmistakable shape of a woman's body. "Looks to be a ripe one, doesn't she?" the man whispered loudly enough for all to hear.

Muriella's gaze was caught by the sight of John's hand clenched around the handle of his tankard. His fingers were clutching the pewter so tightly the knuckles appeared unnaturally white, the rest of the skin unnaturally red.

His wife could not look away. The skin of his palms would be rough from the swords he had wielded, the leather belts he had beaten to softness, the arrows he had let fly.

Those hands, clutching the pewter in a fierce grip, would later touch her in the same way, possessively, hungrily, just as Maclean had touched her once. The veins on John's hands seemed to throb beneath the sun-toughened skin. All at once she knew she was going to be ill.

Muriella glanced at the Earl, but he was nodding in his chair, his head resting on his hand. As she rose abruptly, Elizabeth looked up at her, taking her hand for a moment. The older woman smiled in understanding of her sister-in-law's need to escape. Squeezing Elizabeth's hand in gratitude, Muriella turned and slipped around the end of the high table and out of the hall.

The fresh, cold air outside struck her brutally after the cloying heat in the hall, but the chill made the sickness retreat. Muriella closed her eyes as the pounding of her heart slowed to normal and the blood began to move through her veins once again. She kept to the shadows, in case anyone should follow, but by the time she crept beneath the gate, she realized only Elizabeth had seen her go.

She moved away from the towering walls of the keep, taking huge gulps of the crisp air. Then she caught a glimpse of the light from the Gypsy bonfires over the hill and heard their gay music. She could not resist. Without looking back, she found her way through the darkness toward the Gypsy camp.

When she reached the ridge, she stopped, taking in the glorious scene before her. The circle of tents was outlined sharply by the glow from the two bonfires that burned at either end. Where the tents did not block the light, figures danced with abandon around the leaping flames. The women's skirts swung out almost straight from their bodies as they spun and dipped in the quivering firelight.

Near the dancers were the musicians: the flutist, the lutist, and one man blowing on the pipes. Several men with deep bass voices sang enthusiastically, but the words were indistinguishable. Those Gypsies who stood between the girl and the fire were no more than silhouettes against the brilliant flames, but now and then she would catch a glimpse of a ruddy face lit by the orange glow, or a cascade of dark hair against pale, gleaming skin.

Muriella was entranced. The Gypsies, she thought, did not need wine and ale to help them find their pleasure. Back in the Great Hall, the couples staggered in broken circles, oblivious to their surroundings. But the Gypsies circled their bonfires in fluid motion, dipping and revolving with infinite grace. Neither were they aware of their surroundings, but that was because they were caught up in their private frenzy, sheltered by their strange magic. To them, the world was no more than the fire, the music, and their own bodies, awake to every flicker of flame and song.

Muriella scrambled down the hill, her sleeves billowing behind her. As she ran toward the center of the camp, the Gypsy men turned to stare as if she were an apparition. The firelight moved across her, catching the gleam of her eyes and outlining the bruises along her cheek, but even that could not spoil the beauty of her face in that moment. One man reached out to pull her down beside him, but she slipped away before he could catch her. She was looking for Alex.

She found him sprawled on the ground beside the musicians, his clareschaw lying at his side. His gaze was fixed on the dancers and his voice rose and fell in time to the pulsing music. As she came near, Muriella saw that his hair looked even grayer in the fitful light; despite the elation all around, his expression was full of sorrow.

The girl knelt, taking his hand in hers. "Ye're grieving," she whispered.

He turned to look at her, then did not move for some time, slowly absorbing the sight of her face. At last he slid his hand from between her fingers and nodded. "I should send ye back," he murmured, "but I find this time I can't do it."

"Why can't ye?" Muriella asked, locking her arms around her legs.

The Gypsy looked beyond her into the light of the fire. "Just now, ye can only think of those who might comfort ye. But ye'll learn, in time, that ye have a great ability to comfort others. There are depths in ye that ye don't yet comprehend."

While Muriella considered this in silence, Alex looked with concern at the bruises along her cheek. Now and then, a wisp of auburn hair trailed over the discolored skin; somehow it made her seem terribly fragile. Yet for once the shadows were gone from her face and she looked peaceful, even relaxed. In that moment, she reminded him of a woman long dreamt of but never seen. A woman who would haunt him indefinitely, leaving him always unfulfilled. The girl would find a difficult path ahead of her, he knew, and tonight was her last night of freedom—if indeed she had ever known freedom at all. "Ye must dance, lass!" Alex cried.

Muriella nodded, then smiled in delight. "Aye, to dance!" She rose, stood nearby for a moment, watching the dancers rotate; then she bent to touch his cheek. By the time he reached up to the place where her hand had rested, she was gone, a part of the glittering circle made fantastic by the firelight.

The velvet swirled about her legs, and she was drawn into the dance regardless of her will. She circled slowly at first, aware of her own strangeness in the face of the lighthearted Gypsy girls, but as the song swept her up, she lost all sense of those around her. The music rushed through her blood and she moved without thinking, in perfect time. She could do nothing else; she was wrapped in the spell of the light and the songs. Her wedding night might have been many miles away, her-bridegroom a nightmare she had created. Only the dance was real. Only the sensations that shook her body from head to toe and left her laughing.

When Megan broke into the circle, interrupting the flow of the music, Muriella refused to answer the call of responsibility or the reality of the keep just over the hill. Grasping the servant's hand, she drew her along in the dance.

Eyes wide with concern, Megan found herself whirling with her mistress through the firelight. Somehow, she could not pull away. When she saw the exaltation on Muriella's face, she forgot, for the moment, the turmoil at the castle, the drunken search for the bride who had disappeared. She forgot the Earl, bellowing that Muriella must be found, his voice louder with each word, as if by increasing the volume he would increase the chances of finding the girl. She forgot Colin with his crude jokes, laughing at his brother's misfortune. But she did not forget John, standing like stone at the head of the table, his face stricken, repeating again and again, "She's gone. I knew she must go."

Suspecting where her mistress might be, Megan had crept into the courtyard, determined she would be the one to bring Muriella back, not those reeling men. She found Duncan already there, and in silent assent they left the castle and went to the Gypsy camp.

Now, with the music pounding against her ears and the incandescent green of Muriella's eyes to reassure her, Megan danced, losing herself in the rhythmic pulse. Then she caught sight of Duncan, waiting patiently at the edge of the circle. With desperate energy, she pulled her mistress from among the dancers, breaking the pattern that had held her in its grasp.

The shock was severe. Muriella stood, breathless, and gaped at the servant in astonishment. For a full minute she did not recognize her. Then, as the music died down and her skirts ceased swinging around her legs, she remembered. The knowledge of her wedding, of what was to come, made her shudder. She grabbed Megan by the shoulders and her eyes filled with misery.

The look on her face was more than the servant could bear. Her determination wavered and she wrapped her arms around Muriella's waist, weeping. The girls rocked there, lost in their sorrow, clinging together because there was no other comfort but each other.

Duncan waited, clutching his sword. That he did not understand the source of the girls' grief did not stop him from feeling it throughout his body. But then his senses began to return. Resolutely, he moved forward. Placing one hand on Megan's shoulder, he said, "We must get back."

The girls steadied themselves but continued to cling together, unwilling to part.

"They'll send the men out soon. We mustn't let that happen." With one hand on each girl, he drew them apart.

At last Megan nodded. Without another word she took Muriella's hand and began to shove her way through the watching Gypsies. Duncan followed and the three moved out of the reach of the firelight and into the starless night.

* * *

Muriella paused in the doorway, staring at the wreckage strewn about the Great Hall. Empty dishes covered the tables and the dogs roamed the floor, sniffing among the rushes for discarded bones and meat. Only a few men still sprawled across the benches. The rest of the guests swarmed through the hall and up the stairs, searching for the missing bride. No one looked at the girl framed in the doorway.

It was the Earl who discovered her. Staggering down the stairs, he caught sight of the green velvet gown. "Aha!" he exclaimed as he pulled her into the light. "So ye're found at last!" His fingers dug into her arm and he leaned down, speaking into her ear, "Did ye mean to frighten us half out of our minds? If so, ye did a pretty thorough job of it. I promise ye, I'll not forget that."

She did not have time to respond before the guests gathered around her. The women were giggling now, all except Megan and Elizabeth.

Taking possession of John, the men moved off to allow the women to precede them up the stairs. With Megan and Elizabeth close behind her, Muriella was propelled upward, her heart pounding against her ribs. As she climbed the stairs one by one, fear lodged itself in her throat and throbbed there dully.

She saw they were leading her to a huge bedchamber hung all in crimson. The women crowded into the room, laughing and blushing, while Megan began to remove her mistress's clothes. The green velvet fell to the floor, and next came the kirtle; it fell at Muriella's feet in a gleaming pile. Megan's expression was rigid. Men shouted in the hallway, chanting obscenities, pounding on the door.

Muriella heard the voices—echoing harsh and crude against the stone—which threatened to force the door inward. She imagined the smell of drunken breath, and nausea rose in her throat. When the door began to creak open, she choked back the sickness time and again.

"Let us in!" the men roared. They no longer cared about propriety; they were Scotsmen, Highlanders, many of them, and all they wanted, just now, was one more bit of fun to remember.

Though only a man or two managed to get a glimpse inside the room, Muriella saw the avid glitter in their eyes.

Behind them would come John, her husband. No door would be strong enough to keep him out. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment, for the laughter, the lewd remarks, the cruel leers that penetrated the heavy wood, stripping her of the last of her pride. Her marriage had left her with nothing—not even her self-respect.

All at once, a man forced his way into the chamber. Before anyone could stop him, he pushed Megan aside and, turning Muriella with one hand, slapped her soundly on the behind.

It was too much. The terror and helpless fury that had been building inside Muriella erupted in a moment of madness. Naked, face white with rage, she whirled and struck the man hard across the face. Surprisingly, she heard shouts of approval from the onlookers.

John, who had been forced to the front of the crowd, lunged for the man as he fled the chamber, but Colin caught his brother in a close grip, pinning his arms to his sides. "Ye wouldn't want to ruin yer wedding night, now, would ye, little brother? Besides, yer wife has done yer work for ye."

The offending guest had disappeared, and the crowd had grown quiet, stunned, for the moment, into sobriety. Clenching his teeth in fury, John wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp. His clothing had disappeared along the way and the candlelight fluttered over the sweat glistening on his chest. Muriella swallowed convulsively.

Elizabeth and Megan touched her gently. "Come to bed. 'Tis warm there, and safe from prying eyes." Rigidly, she allowed them to lead her toward the high curtained bed, to help her up, to draw the linen sheets and furs beneath her chin.

John stood facing the dwindling crowd until most of them had crept away in shame. Only then did he climb up beside his wife.

Megan and Elizabeth slipped out of the chamber quietly, trying to erase the image of Muriella's gray, drawn face, just as the Earl entered. His drunkenness seemed to have dissipated in all the excitement.

"Ye see, Johnnie," he said, "if ye just wait, ye'll eventually get what ye want." He nodded toward Muriella. "There was no' any need to hunt the Calders down till ye'd killed every last one. Simply by marrying the girl, ye've struck them a blow from which they may never recover. Don't ye forget it." Glancing at Muriella, he tried to smile, but even he could not keep up the pretense that this was a celebration for her. With a sympathetic shake of his head, he left the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.

Muriella sat very still. She was determined not to betray her inner torment, and so twined her fingers together and fixed her gaze on the curtains at the foot of the bed.

"I couldn't stop it, ye know," John said at last.

The sound of his voice made her shiver. "Ye could have refused to marry me. Then 'twould never have happened."

"Ye' re a fool if ye believe that. 'Twould have happened sooner or later. If no' with me, then with someone else."

Muriella turned to look at him for the first time. "But it had to be ye, didn't it? It had to be, because ye couldn't bear to lose Cawdor. Ye didn't care what I thought. Ye didn't even ask."

"Ye made yer feelings clear enough." He remembered with a fresh wave of anger how Colin and the guests had laughed into their tankards when Muriella's absence was discovered. They had been laughing at him. As he turned to his bride, his hands clenched into fists, the fur slipped down, revealing his bare chest.

With a stifled cry, Muriella shrank away from him.

"I'm not a monster," he shouted, struggling to keep his voice steady, "no matter how much ye might want to believe it."

His eyes glittered icy silver blue, like the sea before a winter storm, and Muriella could not suppress a shiver of apprehension. "I know," she said, “but please don’t touch me.”

John swung around, leaning on the carved headboard so he held her imprisoned between his two hands. "I don't think ye understand. Ye're my wife."

As he spoke, he moved closer until she could feel his breath like a warning on her cheek. She stared at him, wide-eyed, painfully aware of his naked body so close to hers, of the strength of his arms on either side of her head. Nevertheless, she was wholly unprepared when he tangled his fingers in her hair and forced her head upward to meet his fierce kiss.

His lips pressed against hers with the heat of his anger, and though she tried to break away, he held her too tightly. For an instant she drew him closer, then pushed frantically at his chest until her fingers curled inward and she sank her nails into his flesh.

At the sudden pain, John raised his head, staring down at her through the flickering light of the torches. "It doesn't have to be this way," he said. "If ye didn't fight me at every turn—"

Muriella felt the pressure of his fingers ease a little while he hovered above her, waiting for an answer. She twisted out of his grasp, scrambling for the other side of the bed. "No!" she cried, when his fingers closed around her arm.

"Aye," he muttered, pinning her down with his calloused palms on her bare shoulders. He raised his head to gaze at her white slender body, freed at last from the hindrance of furs and sheets. She had ceased her struggles, and lay rigid and unresponsive beneath his hands. This was not what he wanted, but he knew she would give him nothing more. Infuriated by the cold, blank expression in her eyes, he kissed her again, bruisingly.

Muriella's vision blurred; she felt the blood in her throat would choke her. He drew her beneath him so the weight of his body pressed her down and down into the mattress, where she could not escape from the touch of his skin or the harsh demands of his mouth on hers. From somewhere deep within, the water began to hiss and churn until it rose inside her head, white, cold, and furious, drowning out everything but the sound of her fear. She tried to cry out, but he swallowed her cries with his hungry lips.

A fine sheen of sweat covered his body. She felt its clammy coolness on her skin, penetrating her pores so even her insides were tainted by his touch. Then, with a groan, he entered her, pausing for an instant when she gasped in pain.

He looked up, and Muriella, released at last from the pressure of his lips, turned her head away as she fought back the illness that rose in her throat. He rocked against her, his hands buried in her thick, tangled hair. With each thrust, the pain became greater, until it merged with the rushing water to swamp her senses. Just when she was certain she could bear no more, he ceased his assault and collapsed beside her.

Her heart dragged, as if it could not bear the strain anymore. Quivering, her palms cold with sweat, her head spinning into the unfriendly darkness, Muriella rolled over and, drawing her knees to her chest, retreated to the farthest corner of the bed.

When his breath began to come more easily, John turned to look at his wife. She lay curled at the edge of the bed, so near that he thought she might tumble to the floor at any minute. She was shivering, her arms wrapped protectively over her breasts. "Muriella—"

He reached for her but she shuddered and pulled away. She was cold, as cold as the gray stone walls around them. He could not bear the sight of her small trembling body. He shut his eyes and turned away.

Muriella did not move, but lay as she would for many hours, staring blindly at the blank face of the door.

* * *

When she awoke, the torches had burned themselves out and the morning light was just beginning to push its way through the shutters. Someone had covered her with a heavy fur and she huddled beneath it, unwilling to turn and face her husband. When at last she glanced up, she realized the bed was empty. Her racing heart slowed to normal. As she looked over the remnants of the night before—her gown on the chest, her kirtle glimmering among the rushes—she knew she had to get away. Groping through the half darkness, she picked up the kirtle and threw it over her head. Then she went to the door to look outside. She guessed that because of the celebration the night before, the guests would sleep until late in the morning. She did not know where John might be, but prayed she would not meet him.

Muriella slipped through the sleeping castle like a wraith, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floors. When she reached the Great Hall, she was surprised to discover the door hanging open, forgotten in the excitement. Gathering her skirt about her, she stepped out into the dawn.

It did not take long to reach the hill behind which the Gypsy camp was hidden. Arriving at the top, breathless and exhausted, she stared in disbelief at the scene before her. The Gypsies had gone. The tents had been pulled down during the night, the wagons packed and the fires put out. The only sign they had ever been were the two blackened holes where the bonfires had burned.

Muriella was stunned. She looked up and down the valley again, hoping for a sign that they would return, but there was none. They had gone, every one of them, and Alex had gone with them, leaving her behind. While back at the castle, her husband was waiting. Muriella sat down on the barren hilltop and wept.

PART 2

1513-1514

Chapter 19

The shutters had been thrown back to admit the breeze, and the scent of summer flowers drifted through the wide windows of the solar. Muriella looked up from the loom to breathe deeply, enjoying the fragrance of lavender and roses that wafted up from the garden.

"The air should be lovely today," Megan observed. She knelt beside a finished tapestry, binding the last of the bright silken threads. "Shall we ride down the loch when ye've done?"

"Aye," her mistress agreed, turning her attention back to her task. The Earl had hired an artist the winter before to paint the sketch of this new tapestry. Now, with the huge piece of painted linen secured from behind, Muriella was transferring the design to the vertical threads of the loom with charcoal. When she and Mary began the weaving, they would have a pattern to follow.

Muriella gazed through the tightly secured wool threads, which could not obscure the bright colors of the painting. She was pleased with the first panel in a tapestry that, when finished, would tell the story of the legend of Loch Awe. She had wanted to capture the magic in color and thread ever since she first heard Alex tell the story nearly four years before, and now, at last, it was becoming a reality. Bending closer, she traced the outline of a tumble of rocks at the edge of a stream.

"M'lady?"

She turned to the servant Jenny, who had been working beside Megan on the hanging they had cut from the loom that morning. "The edges are bound. Must we start with the finishin' now?"

Muriella shook her head. She could see Jenny was bored with the work, and her needlework suffered when she grew restless. "No. 'Tis enough for today. We'll all begin sewing the slits between the colors tomorrow. 'Twill go faster with many hands."

"Then may I go?" Jenny's eyes brightened at the prospect of escape. She rose, straightening her stiff knees with difficulty.

"Aye, as ye wish."

Without bothering to curtsy, the servant left the room. Before the door had closed behind her, Mary stepped over the threshold. "The Laird is askin' for ye, m'lady," she said.

"Thank ye, Mary," Muriella put down her charcoal. Turning to Megan, she said, "Ye can do what ye like for a time. I'm only grateful that ye're more patient than Jenny."

"Och!" Megan scoffed. "A mad dog is more patient than that one. 'Tis no' such a virtue, after all."

"Mayhap not when ye put it that way, but I thank ye just the same."

A flush of color crept up Megan's cheeks. She bent to busy herself with the loom to hide her pleasure. "Ye don't want to keep the Earl waitin'," she said.

"No." Muriella smoothed out her rose silk gown and kirtle, which had become crumpled as she knelt before the loom. Then she crossed the room and stepped into the hall. She moved through the curving stone passageways toward the library, noting with pleasure that the narrow corridors were almost warm; summer had finally made its way inside the thick stone walls of the keep. Even the walls themselves were vibrant with color, so the empty hall seemed less grim and forbidding. The hangings she and the servants had woven in the past four years kept out some of the chill and disguised the unevenness of the rough stone beneath. With the two looms the Earl had had built soon after her wedding, she had created several tapestries that hid the mottled stone behind brightly woven scenes from the poems and legends she loved.

Muriella stopped on the threshold of the library to smooth back the few red curling hairs that had come loose from her heavy braid. She frowned when she saw the Earl was seated before the empty fireplace, eyes closed, head resting against the back of his carved chair. His face was deeply lined and his thick beard seemed grayer than she remembered. His expression was grim, almost despondent. He had been away only three months, but he looked much older, as if years had passed since he'd last closed his eyes in his own keep.

"Is there trouble at court?" she asked softly as she came into the room.

Argyll opened his eyes with a start. "Ah, Muriella. 'Tis glad to see ye, I am, lass. I swear ye grow lovelier every time." Smiling with pleasure, he took her hands and held them tightly.

She noticed he had not answered her question. "We missed ye while ye were away."

His grip on her hands increased for a moment before he released her. "And I ye." He sighed, then shook his head to clear away the lingering chill of a bad dream. "Ye'll not be surprised to learn that I brought ye something from Stirling. 'Tis in the little chest by the hearth."

Muriella left him reluctantly and went to kneel beside the carved oak chest. Lifting the lid, she found several huge spools of silver and gold thread. "Oh!" she breathed. "They're lovely."

The Earl looked over her shoulder as she took a strand of fine thread and rubbed it reverently between her thumb and forefinger. "I thought ye could use it in yer hanging of Loch Awe. Silver for the moon and gold for the path of the light across the water."

Muriella's eyes filled with tears at his thoughtfulness. She had worked with the dyes for many days, trying to create just the right color for the moon and the radiant water, but had never been quite satisfied. For this tapestry especially, she wanted everything to be perfect. "How did ye know?"

Argyll smiled at her obvious delight. "I watched ye as ye worked at choosing the colors. And I've come to know ye well enough to see when ye aren't happy."

He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to smile up at him. "Thank ye," she murmured.

"Ye' re welcome, lass. 'Tis the least I can do to help ye make this keep more of a home. I didn't realize how cold and empty the castle had become till ye changed it with yer woman's touch. I'm grateful for that, ye ken." His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulder before he moved away. "Besides the thread, I brought some cakes of dye Queen Margaret sent ye from her own stores. She was sore disappointed that I didn't bring ye with me this time."

Muriella unwrapped one of the cakes, exclaiming over the deep blue color. "The Queen is kind to remember me."

"No," the Earl murmured, "she's wise to recognize a true friend when she has so few."

There was a hint of something in his voice that Muriella found disturbing. "'Twas a difficult trip, wasn't it?" she asked.

Argyll ran his hand through his heavy gray beard. "Aye, but I don't wish to think of this right now. Give me a little time to enjoy being safely home." He leaned a hand against the wall, staring moodily into the lifeless ashes of the fire.

He looked so weary, so burdened by his own unhappy thoughts, that Muriella's heart went out to him. Argyll rarely allowed her to see his sorrow, but now she could read it in every line of his face. "Shall I recite to ye?" she asked, closing the chest with care.

Without looking up, the Earl nodded. "Aye, I'd like that. Mayhap John Barbour can keep my attention today. Naught else can."

"'Tis to be The Bruce, then?" The epic poem told the story of one of Scotland's first true heroes, Robert the Bruce, and Argyll loved it above all others. Muriella had spent so many hours reading and then reciting it with him that she knew it by heart.

"Ye know the part I like to hear, don't ye?"

"Aye, I know." Muriella sat on a low stool and clasped her hands together, summoning up the familiar words and lines like old friends.

Alas that folk who e'er were free,

And in freedom wont for to be,

Through their great mischance and folly

Were treated then so wickedly

That their foes their judges were.

What wretchedness may man have more?

"'Tis good to hear yer sweet voice again," the Earl murmured. "I only wish ye could do it in the Gaelic. Och, what a spell ye could weave then. But don't let me stop ye." Muriella drew a deep breath, then continued.

Ah! freedom is a noble thing!

Freedom makes a man to his liking.

Freedom all solace to man gives.

He lives at ease that freely lives!

"'Tis true, ye know," Argyll murmured more to himself than to her, "though some don't choose to understand." Before she could begin again, he picked up the lines where she had left off.

A noble heart may have none else,

No other thing that may him please.

But freedom only; for free liking

Is yearned for o'er all other things.

His voice faded and Muriella knew he had forgotten her for the moment. His brow was furrowed with thought, and he stared at the ashes at his feet as if they held some meaning only he could see. In the sudden stillness, she could hear his heavy breathing and her heart began to beat unsteadily.

She was feeling oppressed by the silence when Argyll turned unexpectedly.

"Tell me how ye're getting on with Johnnie," he said.

She looked down, spreading her fingers across the silk covering her knees. So it was to be her husband again. That was the only subject about which she and the Earl had quarreled over the years. He was watching her closely; when she met his gaze, she saw the hard gleam in his eyes. "We manage well enough," she said at last. "Things don't change much."

The Earl left the fireplace to seat himself across from her. "'Tis just as I thought." With his feet planted firmly on the floor and his hands gripping the carved armrests of his chair, he ceased to resemble the man she had come to love, and became instead the unbending Laird of the Clan Campbell.

"Don't ye realize how quickly the days are slipping through our fingers? Ye're seventeen, Muriella. 'Tis long past time ye bore my son a child."

Muriella bit her lip as she thought of Colin's wife, shut away in Castle Glamis with only her sons and daughters to keep her company. "If 'tis grandchildren ye want, Colin's Janet has given ye those."

"Aye," Argyll agreed. "But none who can inherit Cawdor."

Rising abruptly, Muriella turned away. So it was Cawdor he was thinking of. Always it was Cawdor. But this time he was helpless; even her father-in-law's unbounded ambition could not force her to conceive a child.

He must know that John had not come to her bed for a long time now, but he could not know why. He could not know that, after the wedding, she had tried to accustom herself to her husband's occasional visits to her chamber, but she had never succeeded. Always, when his naked body lay next to hers, the fear came, holding her in its grip. Megan had told her it got easier with time, but she had not found it so. Then her sixteenth birthday had arrived and with it the second anniversary of their wedding. John had come to her late that night. She remembered so clearly how he had put out the torches as he entered the room, how loud his footsteps had seemed to her sensitive ears.

He had said nothing as he climbed into bed beside her, but she knew he had been drinking; she could smell the wine on his breath. Without a word, he had buried his face in her hair, drawing the furs away from her body so it was exposed to his hungry gaze. Even in the darkness she could see the burning blue of his eyes, and the fear had moved like flame through her body.

John bent to kiss her, his mouth hard and insistent on hers, as if he could force her to respond with the mere strength of his own need. "Muriella!" he growled. The single word demanded all she had to give: her attention, her acquiescence, the secrets of her body.

She felt his rough beard scratching her face, her throat and breasts as he moved down, claiming every inch of her with his mouth and hands. She held her breath, praying this time his assault would not bring with it the vision that had become her nightmare. But when he entered her, the darkness blurred and the humming in her ears began. Then the water rose, cold and threatening, closing around her, filling her mouth and lungs as the waves dragged her under. She was fighting for air, clawing her way through the choking water, but she knew she would never reach the light. Mindlessly, she cried out once, then raised her hands before her to ward off the rushing white foam.

Because the fear still clutched at her throat, she was hardly aware that John had forced her hands apart and was looking down at her through the darkness. Her heart thudded and her skin grew clammy with sweat as her husband's face came into focus. John stared at her for a moment, his eyes cutting away the protective darkness like a bright, sharp blade, then he cursed violently and swung himself off her.

He had left the chamber without a word and had not come again to her bed. She was not quite sure why that was so, but she was grateful, for she had not seen the vision since that night. Almost, she could convince herself that it was no more than an unpleasant memory.

"Muriella, are ye listening to me?" Argyll demanded.

With an effort, she forced her thoughts back to the reality of the crowded library and the warning in the Earl's voice.

"Aye," she said, "I'm listening." But she did not turn to face him.

"Johnnie must have children," her father-in-law repeated.

"I haven't stopped him from doing so."

The Earl regarded her through narrowed eyes. "Mayhap not, but ye also haven't encouraged him. The time has come to stop yer games and grow up. I know ye hold yerself apart from him, as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood. But that will have to change. Ye must be a real wife to him."

She whirled on one slippered foot. "I've told ye—"

"Aye, ye've told me more than once. But I'm not willing to listen anymore." He saw how she retreated from him, how she struggled to control the trembling of her hands. "Tis not only for the sake of the Campbells, lass," he added more gently. "'Tis for yer sake as well. Ye don't realize it, but ye need Johnnie by ye. Ye need to depend on someone besides yerself."

"But I have ye!"

The Earl sighed, sinking deeper into his chair. This was partly his fault, he knew. He had taken Muriella away from Kilchurn too often, but he had sometimes wanted her with him when he made the long, lonely trip to Stirling or Edinburgh. She had been the only light on an increasingly dark horizon. The distance between himself and Elizabeth had grown greater over the years as the Macleans became more hostile to the Campbells, and John and Colin were men with their own concerns. Only Muriella seemed to need him. Only she brought him joy. Because of that he had selfishly kept her by him, even though he knew it was not wise. "I won't be here always," he told her. "I've been lucky so far in my career as a soldier, but—"

"No! I won't listen to that kind of talk."

"Ye'd best get used to the idea," Argyll snapped, "because we go to war with England within the month. I've only come home to gather the men and see that my affairs are in order."

"War?" she gasped. "But why? Have the English attacked the borders again?"

"No," he said wearily. He had not meant to tell her this way, but perhaps it was best after all. "There are many reasons. King Henry has never taken Jamie seriously and our king's vanity has been battered once too often, it seems." He shook his head, releasing his grip on the arms of his chair. "Ye won't believe what decided him in the end. 'Twas a love letter from the French queen." He glared at Muriella as if she might try to deny it. "She fears Henry will attack France soon, and she told King Jamie 'twould no' be chivalrous to leave her at England's mercy. So, we go to battle."

"For a woman's pride? Only that?"

"I advised the King against it, and others with me, but he won't be swayed."

Muriella's heart began to pound. "If ye think he's wrong, why can't ye refuse to join him?"

"Don't ever suggest such a thing to me!" Argyll cried. "'Tis not only a woman's pride that's at stake now. 'Tis Scotland's pride. And that I'll fight for. I wouldn't ever stain the name of Campbell by hiding like a coward in my keep. What I do, I do because I must—for honor. If the clan loses that, they lose everything I've fought for."

He paused to take a long, deep breath. "In a week we leave to join the King. 'Tis likely I'll be away a long time, and ye'll have to turn to Johnnie when I'm gone."

"He isn't going with ye?"

"No," the Earl told her, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He had no strength left to argue or explain. "This time when I go to war, I go alone."

* * *

"Why?" John demanded furiously. "Surely ye've lost yer mind!"

The Earl, who sat where Muriella had left him two hours since, schooled his features with difficulty. "Because I want ye here. Ye and Colin can help gather the men, but neither one of ye will go with the army this time."

His son was staggered by the Earl's calm announcement.

Ever since he was thirteen years old he had been at his father's side in battle. "Do ye think we've grown lazy in the use of our swords? That we aren't skilled enough—"

"Don't be a fool, Johnnie!" Argyll snapped in annoyance. "I know full well ye and Colin are two of the best fighters in Scotland. Ye wouldn't be my sons else. But nevertheless, ye'll stay behind."

John ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "I don't understand."

"No, nor can I expect ye to. But the fact remains that I've a feeling about this war. The King isn't always as wise as he should be, and 'tis not the time to pick a quarrel."

He could not argue with the Earl's knowledge of politics, but John knew a thing or two about tactics. "If the time is wrong, isn't that all the more reason to make our army as strong as possible? Shouldn't we bring all the men we can?"

Argyll shook his head. John had grown up a great deal in the past four years, but he was still overeager to get himself killed. "Johnnie, ye must trust me. I won't be shorting the King, ye can bet on that, but I want my sons at Kilchurn. Think about this, for example. Would it be wise just now to leave the castle at Maclean's mercy without protection from either ye or Colin?"

It was true that the Macleans had been restless of late, but that was not reason enough for Argyll's reluctance.

"Besides," the Earl added softly, "there's yer wife to consider."

John rose, suddenly uncomfortable under his father's probing gaze. Planting himself before the cold hearth, he stared at the blackened stones. "I don't see what Muriella has to do—"

"Don't ye? Think for a minute. What if ye went off heedlessly and were killed fighting the King's cause? What do ye suppose would happen to Cawdor?"

"I hadn't considered that."

"Well, mayhap 'tis time ye did. Old William Calder still has two sons living, and then there's Muriella's cousin, Hugh Rose. He hasn't married yet, I hear. No doubt he'd be happy to take Muriella back, so long as her dowry was Cawdor."

"The Campbells are strong enough to protect her," John muttered.

The Earl shook his head in despair. It seemed his son was as blind as his young wife. "Without an heir, Johnnie, they'd have no right. Ye'd do well to remember that before ye rush off to war. The Campbells come before yer pride or yer lust for battle."

John clenched and unclenched his hands until his fingers began to ache. His father did not know what he was asking. He did not know about the night when John had last gone to his wife's bed. It had been nearly two years ago, but the memory was still painfully vivid. He had been drunk, John remembered, and Colin had been taunting him, as he so often did, about how little John would be without Muriella's inheritance. Like a fool, he had let his brother's gibes rankle, and had gone to his wife in anger.

He had put out the torch before joining her, because he did not want to see the fear she could never quite hide at his approach. She was more withdrawn than usual that night, and her silence only fueled his rage. He kissed her harshly, and though the warmth of her body teased him—just out of reach—her lips remained as cool as the night air.

"Muriella!" he growled, demanding what he knew she could not give. Then he felt her stiffen beneath him. The cold rigidity of her body at last penetrated his wine-fogged brain and he paused. He saw her raise her hands before her face as if to ward off the devil himself. For a moment the rage rushed through his body, blinding him to everything but his own frustration. Roughly, he forced her hands apart. "Look at me!" he wanted to cry. "I'm a man, not a monster!"

But the words never left his mouth. As the pale blur of her face came into focus, he saw that her eyes were blank and still and her skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She stared through him as if he were not even there, as if the sudden trembling of her body came, not from the pressure of his naked skin on hers, but from the presence of a force he could neither see nor understand. The Sight was with her, he realized, and more real to her, just then, than his fury or his pain or his hungry body.

He froze at the realization, while an unnatural stillness wrapped him in its grasp. Muriella began to shudder violently. As the blankness left her eyes, they were filled with an expression of such terror that it burned his desire to ashes in an instant. Too appalled to speak, he pulled away from her and left without a word.

He had not been to Muriella's bed since. There were women enough who welcomed his caresses, who did not shudder at his touch. He had never had joy of his wife, nor she of him. In the end her fear had proved stronger than his need. Yet, though he no longer lay with her, sometimes she flitted through his dreams, strange and wraithlike, beckoning, luring him toward disaster. But he could tell his father none of these things.

The Earl watched his son as he struggled with his thoughts. Something was wrong, but he sensed John would not tell him what it was. For the first time in his life, the Earl of Argyll felt helpless. "Muriella needs ye, Johnnie," he said at last, "whether she admits it or no'."

"Ye don't know her as well as ye think if ye believe that."

"But ye don't know her at all," Argyll murmured.

"Aye, well, she seems happy enough as she is."

"Mayhap, and mayhap not. But this ye cannot argue. I'm going off to war within the week. She's come to depend on me, Johnnie. Now it will have to be ye she turns to. I know I can count on ye to keep her safe, but will ye see, too, that she's cared for?"

John looked up. "She's my wife," he said. "I haven't any choice."

It was not exactly the answer the Earl had been hoping for. "Colin has a wife too, but that doesn't seem to concern him overmuch."

"I've told ye before, I'm not like Colin."

Argyll leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. "Ye say that as if ye're proud of the fact, but 'tis not always such a good thing. As I've told ye before, Colin is the kind of leader this clan needs."

"The men don't like him," John pointed out obstinately.

"But they fear him, and 'tis that very fear which gives him his greatest strength." As he considered the rigid line of John's back and the angle of his head, framed by gray, lifeless stone, Argyll inhaled sharply. He realized with a shock that though John was still guided by his heart and his rage instead of his head—or perhaps it was because of that—this son had come to mean a great deal to him. For some strange reason, John had given him hope. But that did not—could not—change the facts. "And ye might think of this, Johnnie," he added quietly. "Colin is no doubt happier than ye, because he doesn't rage at things he cannot change."

John turned to face his father, fingers hooked in the wide leather of his belt. "I'd rather rage than feel my blood turn slowly and surely to ice, and no matter how often ye call me a fool, that won't change."

Shrugging in defeat, the Earl rose from his chair. "I didn't call ye here to discuss the flaws in yer character, nor yer intention to cling to them, even knowing they might destroy ye one day. 'Tis yer choice, after all. But losing Cawdor is not yer choice. I want yer word ye'll do something about securing Muriella's inheritance while there's still time."

John knew his father was right, but the knowledge could not erase the memory of the horror he'd seen one night in his wife's eyes. "I'll think," he said, "but—"

"'Tis no' good enough, Johnnie, and well ye know it. Ye've a responsibility to the Campbells. 'Tis that which must guide ye, just as certainly as it's always guided me." Argyll regarded his son closely. He wondered if all the arguments, demands and logic in the world could alter John's course once he had chosen it. A deep, aching sadness settled in the Earl's bones at the thought. He waved his hand toward his son in dismissal, and his shoulders sagged with a weariness so great it seemed, almost, like hopelessness.

Chapter 20

"Och, m'lady! I've tangled the thread again," Mary cried in dismay. "I don't think I'll ever learn to do the faces."

Muriella sat at the second loom, the shuttle idle in her hand. She was glad for the distraction. Abandoning her own weaving, she crossed the room to Mary's side. As she bent to examine the first panel of the tapestry, she saw with pleasure that the design was beginning to take shape. Mary, Megan and she had been working on it for nearly two months, ever since the Earl's brief visit home in July. "Ye're doing a fine job," she assured the servant, running her hand over the forming image of a bubbling burn in a lush green valley. In the background, men and women rode to the hunt, their plaids streaming behind them in the wind.

"But look, I've woven her hair over part of her face and now we'll have to pick it free again." The servant sighed, shaking her dark head woefully.

Muriella knelt and took the shuttle from Mary's hand, carefully guiding the weft thread back through the warp until the outline of the woman's face was free of yellow silk strands. "There! Tis no trouble, ye see. This time, try to go more slowly. The smallest areas take the most time, ye ken."

"But my fingers go faster than I tell them to and the weave gets bigger, though I try to keep it small."

Muriella tapped down the threads with the comb, then leaned closer so her auburn braid fell over Mary's shoulder. "Mayhap 'twould help if ye did as my mother used to do. Ye find the rhythm ye need for the shuttle as it passes back and forth, and then ye sing a little song in time."

Mary wrinkled her forehead as her eyes followed Muriella's quick movements. Soon she began to feel the regular sweep and weave and tightening of the threads, but no words came to her. "What should I sing?"

Muriella tapped her foot, seeking the words that would flow with the sound of the clacking loom. Then she began to chant softly.

Still on my wayis as I went

Out through a land beside a lea.

I met a bairn upon the bent

Me thought him seemly for to see.

"Aye, I know that one!" Mary cried. "The men sing it in the Great Hall when they can find naught else to keep them busy." She took the shuttle from Muriella's flying fingers and sang softly,

I asked him wholly his intent—

Good sir, if yer will be,

Since that ye bide upon the bent

Some uncouth tidings tell ye me.

Her pale, smooth face grew flushed with pleasure and her sweet voice rose and fell in time with the moving shuttle.

When shall these wars be gone

That loyal men may live in lee?

Or when shall falsehood go from home

And Lawtie blow his horn on hie?

When Muriella saw that Mary was working almost as deftly as her mistress, she blessed the memory of the hours spent in her mother's solar. Isabel had taught her daughter well—not only the many skills it took to create beautiful hangings, but also the patience needed during endless hours of weaving. "Remember, lass," her mother had said more than once, "the boredom only lasts for the moment, but the magic of the scene ye create is forever."

Overcome with a wave of sadness she had thought never to feel again, Muriella rose, leaving the servant to her task. The silent loom across the chamber no longer called to her. She went instead to stand at one of the wide windows, missing Isabel, feeling empty, bereft. Why, in all this time, had she heard nothing from her mother? Why had her own letters never been answered? And why, today, did Isabel's silence hurt so much? Why was she so desperately alone?

Muriella rubbed her arms vigorously, but they were cold and stiff.

She was restless, and though she was not certain what she sought, she gazed out the window as if the view of the turbulent loch beneath held the answer to her question. She tapped her fingers on the edge of the stone sill. Friday, September ninth, she repeated silently for the fifth time. There was something about today, but what was it? She shivered when she noticed the rain was falling again. It had rained off and on for three weeks now.

"'Tis too quiet today," Jenny complained from the bench where she sat sewing on a shirt for one of the men. "I don't think there'll ever be news of the war. We'll be locked away here till we starve, no doubt, and never know what happened to the army."

"The rain's keepin' the messengers overlong on their travels, I'll wager," Megan interjected.

"Mayhap." Muriella leaned out toward the falling rain and wondered if Megan were right. It had been too long since they'd heard from the Earl about the progress of the war with England. The clack clack of the loom and the rise and fall of Mary's voice made a pleasant contrast to the stormy loch below, but today Muriella did not find comfort in these things.

She glanced at Megan as the servant bent to stir the fire back to life. The room, with its huge windows facing the loch, was thoroughly chilled. When it wasn't raining, the sun was lost behind the dark clouds that never seemed to leave the sky. Despite the lowering weather, Muriella had ridden out every day to escape the somber mood that hovered over the keep, but today the violence of the storm had defeated her; she had no choice but to remain inside. Fingering the intricate embroidery on her silk shawl—a gift from the Earl—Muriella turned suddenly. "I'm going down to the hall," she told the servant. "If the light fades much more, ye and Jenny and Mary might as well stop yer work and get warm by the fire below."

"Aye, m'lady," Megan murmured. Her mistress crossed the room, her green velvet gown rustling about her legs. Megan watched her go with concern. She had seen that look of unease on Muriella's face before, but she could not remember when. All she knew was that it made her heart beat faster.

Muriella moved quickly along the passageway. She was possessed of a sudden urgency she did not understand. When she reached the gallery above the Great Hall, she heard the crash of swords below and hurried to the head of the stairs.

She paused with her hand at her throat when she saw John and Colin facing one another, booted feet spread wide on the bare stone floor, broadswords in their hands. The blades met with a clash so loud it vibrated through her body while the two men stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the impact of metal on metal. Muriella gasped as John lunged expertly toward his opponent and Colin stepped back, then swung his own weapon in a wide arc. Dear God, the inactivity and boredom had finally overcome them. They would kill each other out of pure frustration.

Muriella had opened her mouth to call out when Duncan came to the foot of the stairs to smile up at her. "Ye needn't worry, m'lady. They're only practicing to keep themselves busy."

John heard and turned abruptly, dropping his blade to his side. "Aye," he snapped, "here we are playing games when out there the real war is going on." He waved toward the barred doors that opened onto the courtyard. "'Tis madness!" He forced his sword into its sheath and tossed it toward the hearth with such violence it rang against the stone. The sound echoed through the vaulted, cave-like room like a fierce lament without words.

Muriella moved down the stairs as the flickering torchlight closed around her. "There's still no news, then?" she asked her husband.

Pushing the tangled hair back from his forehead, he regarded her through clear blue eyes. "None," he said, "but ye know that. 'Tis three times ye've asked me just today."

"Have I? I don't remember." Muriella's eyes grew clouded; she looked around the room as if she could not recall what had brought her here.

"Ah!" Colin said jovially, tossing his own sword away. "Here's Jenny, freed from her loom at last. I missed ye, girl." As the servant approached, he flung his arm around her shoulders and guided her back up the stairs she had just descended.

Muriella was hardly aware they had gone. There was something she should know—something that hovered in the back of her mind, just out of reach. Her hands were trembling and her skin was suddenly cold. She felt her head begin to spin and knew the Sight was with her again. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath and closed her mind against the blackness that was coming. For a moment, she shivered uncontrollably; then, as the haze cleared, she saw John leaning toward her. "I think I'll go read for a bit before supper," she told him, amazed that she could speak at all. "'Tis warmer in the library."

Without another word, she turned to leave him. A chill of unease ran up John's back as he watched Muriella go. He saw how she paused at the foot of the worn stone stairs, then started laboriously upward, as if the weight of her body were too heavy to bear. He did not like it.

When she had disappeared from view, he swore silently, turned and started toward the door. "I'm going for a ride," he called to Duncan, "and the weather be damned!"

"But, m'lord," the squire objected, "yer horse won't be able to find his way through the rain."

John did not pause as he shouted over his shoulder, "That animal could find his way over these hills blind, and well ye know it. But don't worry, ye needn't come with me this time. I'll go alone."

The squire hurried over the rushes, blond hair flying. "What if he loses his footing in the mud and throws ye? We wouldn't be able to find ye in this downpour."

"Leave off!" John roared. "I've heard enough. I have to get away from here before I go mad." Ignoring Duncan's restraining hand on his arm, he lifted the heavy bolt and wrenched the doors open. The cold, damp air rushed in with a force that stopped him in his tracks. He could only stand and stare at the rain falling in slashing silver sheets across the courtyard. Even he could not penetrate that wall of fury. It would be madness to try. Once again he was a prisoner in his own castle, held captive by the malevolence of the weather.

He swung the doors closed, cursing under his breath. It seemed he had done little else since his father left with the Campbell army. John waited for news and heard none, longed for the release of battle and found only boredom and frustration. "This can't go on," he said to no one in particular. "Something has to happen soon." The memory of Muriella's pallid face came back, wavering in the air before him like the shadow from his dreams. There had been something in her eyes today—something dark and threatening that lingered even after she had gone.

Without conscious thought, he kicked aside the rushes in his way and started up the stairs after his wife.

* * *

The hallway was dark, and much colder than the hall, Muriella discovered. She felt the chill penetrating her skin, seeping into her blood as she hurried toward the library. Pausing for a moment on the threshold, she pressed her hands lovingly against the heavy oak door. In the maze of rooms and galleries and passageways at Kilchurn, this alone was her haven. Here she felt safe, protected, among the leather-bound manuscripts she loved. She pushed the door open and was relieved to find a huge fire burning in the fireplace. Someone had already lit the lamps, though it was still the middle of the day. But the Earl was not here.

It seemed like years since she had seen him, though she remembered clearly the brief moment before he left when he had pulled her to him. She could have sworn she felt him shiver, even through his cloak. "Take care, lass," was all he had said.

Drawing the chair close to the desk, she ran her hands over the manuscripts scattered before her. She sat for a moment, undecided, then reached for the large book in the new leather binding. She opened the cover reverently. The Earl had given it to her before he left, encouraging her to continue with her reading. Scanning the brightly painted title page, she read it for the hundredth time: "Lancelot of the Laik—for Muriella, the last of my children, and before God, the dearest. I believed I had nothing left to teach, but ye have proved me wrong. God bless ye. Archibald Campbell, Second Earl of Argyll."

She lowered her head when the words began to blur. She could see the other works they had read together: Alexander the Grate, The Three Priests of Peebles, and the first printed book the Earl had owned, The Morale Fabillis of Esope, by Robert Henryson. Muriella smiled, remembering when he had brought that one home with him. He had come to her laughing and pulled the book from its canvas shield as if it were a great treasure. When she stared at it, shaking her head, he had laughed again, explaining, "Tis printed on a press, lass. They can make many at a time. There are already two hundred of these." She had been delighted, as he had known she would be. They'd begun reading it then and there, huddled in their chairs before the fire with the book open between them.

Muriella closed the manuscript, rubbing her fingers over the soft leather. Why was she thinking back, remembering so much today? It was a habit she had overcome soon after her wedding, when she realized it only caused her pain. But now she could not seem to avoid images of the past.

All at once she became aware of the shadows the lamp cast over the desk. She watched as they danced across the books; she stared until the books became indistinct, the shadows hard reality. Her head began to hum with strange, discordant notes and she swayed forward, driven by a force beyond her will. She held her head in her hands, breathing raggedly, and fought against the trembling that possessed her, but it would not go. With a gasp, she leapt up from the chair, hoping to shake herself free of the premonition.

For a second, her mind grew black as she grasped the edge of the desk in a painful grip. Then the blackness cleared and a red mist took its place. There was confusion while men scrambled blindly through the red fog. Flying mud filled the air, turning from brown to crimson as down the hill the men came racing, but few reached the bottom. Dead, dead, one after the other, until they lay like deep snow covering the earth, soaking it with their blood. The pipes were wailing, wailing, screaming, pleading...

"Holy Mother of God!" Muriella gasped.

* * *

John stood outside the library with his fingers spread on the cold stone. He had been there long enough to see his wife take the book from the desk to look at the title page. He'd had the odd sensation that for the first time, he could read her thoughts as if they were written out before him. She was remembering her reading sessions with the Earl, missing him. John was surprised when she closed the book to lean back, staring, her eyes dark and wide.

It was happening again; even as he watched, the Sight had come upon her. He saw how she trembled, how her breath came in painful gasps as the vision transformed her. He could feel the little hairs along his neck standing on end and he wanted to turn away. He could understand battles and death and war, and so, did not fear them. But this—

Muriella rose abruptly, clutching the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. She turned her back to him until she faced the fire. Her body tensed and she cried, "Holy Mother of God!"

He realized then that he could not leave her. She was swaying forward; he knew he must catch her before she fell. John crossed the room quickly and, with his hands at her waist, turned his wife to face him. He swallowed dryly when he saw her expression.

Her eyes were pitch black—dark and empty—and the blood had drained from her cheeks, leaving them chalk white. Near her temple and down the center of her forehead two purple veins stood out, pulsing rapidly. But none of these things disturbed him as much as the way she stared at him as if he did not even exist.

When Muriella began to shake, he pulled her closer, circling her with his arms. All at once the tension left her. She grew slack and heavy, nearly slipping to the floor, but he held her more tightly, bracing her body with his. For a long time she continued to shake uncontrollably.

When the trembling began to subside at last, he guided her to a chair near the fire. She seemed oblivious of his presence. She was like a carved doll without life or warmth. He did not know how to bring her back. Perhaps some wine would help.

Having placed her in the chair, he went to pour a glass of the dark liquid. Then he knelt, closing her fingers around the glass. His wife hesitated for a moment longer, then raised the glass and began to drink. After a few sips, she closed her eyes. Taking both her hands in his, John spoke for the first time. "What is it?"

Muriella felt her head grow lighter as the wine moved down her throat, burning a warm path to her stomach. She was vaguely aware that someone was nearby, but she was still under the influence of the images of blood and death, and could not focus her thoughts enough to discover who it might be. As the wine began to stir her awake, she realized her hands were cupped by other hands, and she heard a voice. Whose?

"Muriella, what is it?"

Carefully, she opened her eyes, squinting through the red haze that clouded her sight. As she blinked, the face in front of her began to come into focus. John.

"Tell me," he insisted, "what have ye seen?"

She sat rigid, leaning forward slightly, her face gray and haggard. Unaware of what she was doing, she reached out to put her hands on her husband's shoulders and draw him toward her. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. "'Twas a terrible slaughter," she said. "The English destroyed everything: King Jamie, the army, Scotland's honor and her pride. Yer father couldn't save those things." She faltered, then forced herself to go on.

"He couldn't even save himself. He's dead."

Chapter 21

The bell rang through the castle, echoing upward, slow and mournful, counting off the years of the dead men's lives. So many had died at the battle of Flodden Field that the bell had not been silent for many hours. Muriella had listened to the hollow tolling for so long it had become one with the pulse of her blood, drowning out even the clack of the loom. Within the mesh of wool and silk beneath her busy fingers, the burn flowed through the valley, lovely and tranquil under the Kelpies' watching eyes, but its beauty did not touch her.

"M'lady, ye must come away from there!" Megan pleaded. "Ye'll make yerself ill if ye don't eat."

"I'm no’ hungry," her mistress replied, her hands never faltering in their task.

"But it's been near two days that ye haven't left this room. Ye can't stay hidden away here forever." Megan's voice rose shrilly on the last few words; she was frightened by the unnatural pallor of Muriella's skin and the blank look in her eyes. Since the news of the Earl's death had come, Muriella had not wept or cried out once. Instead she sat hour by hour at her loom, retreating within herself until Megan could no longer reach her.

"Please," the servant began again, but when the door to the solar opened, she paused to look up in relief. "Sir John," she cried, "will ye talk to her? She won't leave the loom."

John frowned when he saw the shadows under his wife's eyes. So she’d had no more rest than he in the past few days. Then her flying fingers caught his attention and he stared, momentarily mesmerized by the lacework of silver and blue that shimmered under her skilled hands. He wished, for an instant, that he could lose himself in the soothing rhythm as Muriella seemed to have done. "'Tis time," he said at last.

His wife concentrated more fiercely on sliding the shuttle between the threads. "Time for what?"

"To see my father."

She flinched, then her hands grew still.

"The hall is quiet now," he continued, "but, 'twill no' be for long. I thought ye'd rather go down when no one else is by."

Muriella let the shuttle fall from her fingers to dangle against the brightly colored fabric. "Have ye—" She stopped, unable to say the words.

"No. I didn't want their eyes upon me when I said goodbye."

She looked away. "I don't think I can do it."

"If ye don't," Megan interjected, "the Earl will surely haunt ye."

"He'll haunt me anyway," her mistress whispered. He was with her now, this moment, in the thin red mist that cloaked her thoughts, in the memory of his voice that echoed through the emptiness inside her.

John moved closer, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Come," he said. "There isn't much time."

She had no strength to resist his command, no desire to draw away from the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder. She knew John was right; she had to see the Earl's body. It was the only way to bar his bloody specter from her dreams. Leaving the shuttle swinging free, she rose to follow her husband from the room.

They moved in silence through the narrow passageway while the torches leapt and wavered above them. They had nearly reached the top of the stairs when Mary met them on her way to the upper keep. She stopped as if turned to stone, her eyes wide with fear, when Muriella met her gaze. With a cry of alarm, the servant crossed herself and fled.

"Damn!" John cursed, glaring at the servant's retreating back. "'Twill no' happen again," he added. "I'll speak to her later."

"No. Leave her be." It was not the first time a servant had shrunk from meeting Muriella's eyes in the past few days. They had heard, no doubt, of her vision of the slaughter of the Scottish army, and their fear of her power had flared again. Even Mary could not face her. It seemed that, of the servants, only Megan had that kind of courage. When Muriella swayed on her feet, John took her arm. She welcomed his support as they continued down the corridor.

At last, the stone walls seemed to fall back, and with them, the enveloping darkness. Narrowing her eyes against the light, Muriella stood with her husband at the top of the stairs. The worn stone steps led directly to the bier resting on trestles in the center of the Great Hall. John's grip on her elbow increased, and slowly, on feet made of lead, they started downward.

The silence, broken only by the ringing of the soul bell, swelled until it filled John's head. He stood for a long time with his hands on the lid of the plain wooden coffin. I've a feeling about this war, the Earl had told his son in despair. Argyll had known the cause was hopeless, had guessed before it even began what the outcome of this conflict would be. John clenched his fists impotently against the unyielding wood. He simply could not believe that his father had chosen to die alone.

Closing his eyes, he summoned the rage that had burned in him for so long, but now that it would have brought him relief, he found it was gone. In its place there was only grief, which ate at him constantly, leaving his insides hollow and raw. With sudden resolution, he pushed the lid aside.

Muriella hung back when she saw John grip the wood in rigid fingers, then shudder, breathing with difficulty, as if he could not get enough air. His face was haggard in the unkind light of the many torches, and his eyes revealed an agony so great it made her shiver. Then he reached out to touch the Earl's cheek. Muriella turned away from the sight of his pain.

When John looked up, she moved closer to the bier, willing the numbness to protect her. Her heart pounded dully in her chest and, for a moment, her eyes refused to focus. Then, gradually and with painful clarity, her sight returned. She saw before her the corpse of a man who had died a violent death from the blow of an English bill, but it was not the Earl. This gray and rigid death mask belonged to a stranger, not the man she had grown to love. Her throat felt tight with unshed tears as she reached out to touch Argyll's sunken cheek, as she had once touched Rob Campbell's. In that moment, the chill seemed to move from the Earl's body into hers. She thought she might be ill, but then she realized that John was pulling her away. Without a word, he replaced the lid.

"Johnnie, where the devil have ye been? We're gathered in the library to discuss what's to be done about the Macleans. David Campbell is asking for ye."

Colin's voice rang out, competing with the tolling of the bell. John stiffened as he turned toward his brother. Colin seemed unaware of the coffin and its burden; his attention was occupied with the heavily carved silver brooch he was polishing with a corner of his plaid.

John caught a glimpse of the familiar brooch that bore the Campbell arms and the wild myrtle that was their badge. For all the years of his life, his father had worn that symbol of the Laird of the Clan Campbell. To him it was obscene that Colin should flaunt it so openly when the Earl was not yet buried. "The Macleans are always speaking out against us. Now isn't the time—"

"But that's where ye're wrong. Ye see, Johnnie, I've men watching and listening on Mull, and they tell me Maclean is ready to strike soon. I told David we didn't need ye, but he wouldn't listen." Leaving his brooch for the moment, he added, "What I want to know, little brother, is if ye're still a member of this clan or no'? I'm sure we could manage quite well without ye."

John fought back the angry response that rose to his lips. He would not argue with Colin while his father's corpse lay a few feet away. "Ye won't rid yerself of me so easily. I'm coming." While his brother started up the stairs, he turned back to Muriella. "Rest," he told her. "'Twill be a long night."

As Muriella watched her husband climb the stairs behind his brother, shoulders bowed under the weight of his sorrow, she thought it might well be the longest night she had ever spent.

* * *

The men and women had come by the dozens for the feast on the eve of the funeral. They had consumed so much ale and wine that the stores in the keep were badly depleted, yet the salmon and mutton, salted herring, sweetmeats and bread they ate by the platterful did not seem to satisfy their insatiable appetites. At the end of the evening, the clansmen reeled around drunkenly, forming the patterns for the funeral dance, while the pipes blew their wailing lament. When it seemed to Muriella she would choke on the odor of stale food and the sound of their harsh laughter, they began to filter out into the courtyard. Those who could not move lay where they fell among the rushes, snoring from the effects of too much ale. Gradually, the last of the voices faded out and the silent vigil for the dead Earl began.

John, Muriella, Duncan and Megan seated themselves on benches around the bier to watch and see that no evil befell Argyll in these final hours before his internment. At first Colin was there, sprawled across a bench, half-sitting, half-prone. But presently he fell asleep. When he began to snore, John nudged him rudely awake. The third Earl of Argyll went up to bed.

No one spoke as they sat waiting for the night to pass. The soul bell had ceased its ringing at last; Muriella found the stillness oppressive. With her arms crossed over her chest, she stared at the coffin, swaying a little on her hard bench, fighting to keep her thoughts unformed so that they could not hurt her.

Her head rang with the sound of the others' breathing, overly loud in a room wrapped in silence, and she thought she might scream. Then John began to speak, softly at first, so that the words were indistinguishable, but with a slow, measured cadence that matched the labored beating of her heart.

His voice grew louder, stronger, and Muriella raised her head in blank astonishment as the meaning penetrated her fog of her unconsciousness.

“Ah! Freedom is a noble thing! Freedom makes a man to his liking. Freedom all solace to man gives. He lives at ease that freely lives.”

The last time she had heard those words, she had been sitting in the library, watching the Earl struggle with a burden of hopelessness she had not understood. Then it had been her own voice that had caressed the familiar lines as John's was doing now—rhythmically, as if they came, not from memory, but from the heart. Muriella felt her husband's gaze upon her and she huddled forward, bowing her head in protection against the pain that flared within her.

A noble heart may have none else,

No other thing that may him please,

But freedom only; for free liking

Is yearned for o'er all other things.

Drawn by the rise and fall of the poetry, Muriella looked up until her eyes met John's. She opened her mouth to speak, but could not find the words. Her husband's bright blue gaze was holding her, probing beyond her mask of indifference to the agony underneath, and against her volition, her lips began to move in silent time to his voice.

Now he that aye has lived free

May not know well the property,

The grief, nor the wretchedness

That is coupled with foul thralldom.

Slowly, she began to whisper the words, prompted by an instinct deeper than fear, until her voice mingled with her husband's as they recited the poem the Earl had loved above all others.

But if by heart he should know it

Then all the more he should it wit,

And should think freedom more to prize,

Than all the gold in the world that is.

Muriella rocked on her bench, her fingers digging painfully into her arms. When a drop of moisture fell on her gown, she realized she was weeping. Closing her eyes against a wash of pain too fierce to bear, she willed the numbness to cloak her feelings once more. But then John's fingers met hers, burning away her protective veil with a single touch, and she gripped his hand tightly—in gratitude, in grief, and in compassion.

Chapter 22

Dawn brought the men from the courtyard and the guests from their beds. They began to file into the hall, taking their places for the funeral procession. John rose from his chair as Colin appeared at the top of the staircase. Despite all the drinking his elder brother had done the night before, his eyes were clear and unmarked by the heavy shadows that had settled under John's own eyes. Colin descended the stairs with regal calm, surveying with satisfaction the preparations going on below him. His dark cloak was trimmed with expensive fur, his black doublet velvet with carved silver buttons. Beneath his cloak, the wool plaid was draped across his shoulder and fastened with the Campbell brooch. Colin's expression was correctly solemn, but there was no flicker of grief in his eyes as he glanced at the coffin. He nodded once to his brother, then left the hall to head toward the kitchen.

Probably for some ale, John thought bitterly as he turned to help Muriella to her feet.

Her legs were numb from sitting for so long without moving; she swayed for a moment before her husband caught her around the waist. She blinked as the doors swung open and the sunlight—the first in weeks—assaulted her eyes unexpectedly.

"No! Leave me be!"

Muriella looked up at the sound of that voice to see a woman hovering in the doorway. She was bent forward, her plain cloak wrapped close around her body, the hood pulled low so her face was barely visible. The men watching the door tried to block her path, but she pushed them aside. Before they could stop her, she crossed the hall until she stood in front of John and Muriella. "I came!" she cried in a voice not at all like her own. Her shoulders were hunched forward and her hands shook.

"Elizabeth!" John stood unmoving, appalled at the sight of his sister dressed as a peasant and nearly hysterical.

Muriella saw at once that Elizabeth would not be able to stand much longer. She slipped out of John's grasp to take his sister's arm, drawing the woman closer to the fire.

Elizabeth trembled, speaking brokenly. "He told me I must not come. He told me... I thought... he left me alone." She pulled the hood farther over her face and stared blankly into the flames.

Muriella drew a bench forward and pressed her sister-in-law onto it. She had moved by instinct when she saw Elizabeth's pallid face. The woman was frightened, that much was clear, even to Muriella's clouded brain.

John, who had also recognized Elizabeth's agitation, brought two goblets of wine. One he gave to his sister, who took it without looking at him. The other he handed to his wife. "Drink it," he told her.

Muriella swallowed the liquid rapidly, surprised to feel it burning down her throat, awakening her insides from their numb sleep. When she was finished, she gave the goblet to John and knelt next to Elizabeth. "Tell me," she said.

Elizabeth ran her tongue across her lips and struggled to find the words she wanted. With a sigh, she reached out to touch Muriella's shoulder. "Lachlan forbade me to come to my father's funeral," she said at last.

"What!" John exclaimed.

"'He was my father,' I told him. 'And my enemy,' he said. I told him I must go and he... he..."'

"Did he threaten ye?" John leaned toward his sister, lifting her chin with one finger. "Did he?"

"No, he simply forbade me. Then he left." She shook her brother's hand away. "I believe he thought I wouldn't ever disobey him."

John snorted with disgust. "Aye, Elizabeth. Ye made him believe it."

Muriella put a restraining hand on John's arm. "Please," she said.

Her husband opened his mouth to object, but when he saw Muriella's expression, he decided to leave her to deal with Elizabeth. He was not in a tolerant mood just now. Without another word, he left the two women alone.

Elizabeth was glad her brother had gone. Staring at her feet, she continued in a low voice, "After he went away, I sat before the fire with my sewing. 'I must do as he bids me,' I told myself. Yet I am twenty-five years old, and no longer a young bride who cannot think on her own." She paused, stricken with sudden remorse. "I haven't ever done this to Lachlan before. My father and I haven't been close for a long time now, ye ken, and it doesn't seem right to hurt my husband for him. Mayhap I shouldn't have come."

Muriella covered Elizabeth's cold hand with her own. "Ye did the right thing."

"'Tis no’ right to disobey yer husband."

Muriella looked away. "Lachlan was wrong to try to keep ye at Duart," she insisted.

Elizabeth did not appear to be listening. "But as I sat there staring into the fire, I saw my father's face among the flames. It hovered there and I thought, He will burn. He is burning. The flames..." She raised her head to meet Muriella's compassionate gaze. "They hated each other, did ye know that? My father made me choose, ye see, and it had to be Lachlan. He couldn't ever accept that. After yer wedding he told me my husband was an enemy to the clan and that I should leave him. He said I could live here just as I used to, that he'd protect me. I think he really believed I'd stay with him, but I couldn't do it." She looked up at Muriella, seeking her approval. "He didn't understand. Do ye know, he hasn't spoken kindly to me since then? But I had to choose my husband."

"Not this time," her sister-in-law said softly.

Elizabeth looked up in surprise; the thought had not occurred to her before. "No," she said. "Not this time." She held her hands palms upward, examining her fingers as if she could not decide what to do with them.

Muriella threw her arms around her sister-in-law and felt Elizabeth's shoulders tremble. "The Earl spoke of ye often," she said at last. "He loved ye very much, Elizabeth. He would have wanted ye here."

Elizabeth considered her doubtfully. "Would he really?"

"Aye, I know it. I know too that ye wouldn't have been able to forgive yerself if ye'd abandoned the Earl at the end."

The two women clung together for a moment, then Elizabeth said shakily, "I had to come, no matter what, didn't I?"

"Ye did," Muriella assured her.

"Aye." At that, Elizabeth stood, throwing her hood back from her face. She was no longer afraid to be recognized. Then for the first time she saw the bier in the center of the room. The color drained from her cheeks and she found she could not breathe properly.

Muriella slipped her arm through Elizabeth's when she realized the procession was ready to leave. "'Tis time," she whispered.

Six men stood grasping the poles on which the coffin rested, while the priest stood near the door with his brass bell in his hand. Behind him were the five who carried the Earl's armor—his helmet, gauntlets, sword, spurs and shield. Then came the man who bore the Campbell arms. Last was Colin, standing at the foot of the stairs with John beside him. When the new Earl tossed his cloak over his shoulder and nodded, the funeral procession began.

Muriella stood rigid, frozen next to the fire. She heard the ringing of the bell in the courtyard, but suddenly she could not move. She looked away as the coffin passed. When she glanced up again, John was with her, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. Behind him the torchbearers began to move. The hundred lights dipped and swayed as each man passed, bowing toward the new Earl. At the end of the line came the pipers.

Just before John guided her into place, Muriella saw that Elizabeth's eyes glittered unnaturally and her face was white as she bowed her head and stepped into the morning sunlight.

The gate screamed on its hinges and creaked upward, allowing the procession to file out onto the stony spit of land leading to the shore. The hundreds of Campbells who lined the road joined the entourage as it wound its way toward the church where the second Earl of Argyll would lie from this day forward.

Each man was intent on his own sorrow, and no one seemed to notice that some of those who wore the Campbell plaid had unfamiliar faces. No one was aware that these men did not look at the bier as it was carried down the hill; instead, they glanced furtively over their shoulders, seeking a single man.

That man smiled at the backs of those who preceded him. Beneath his cloak, he checked his sword again, pleased to feel the icy metal in his hand. He was near the end of the procession that coiled for nearly a mile through the September hills. The wailing of the pipes seemed to rise from the very ground, skirling around his shoulders. To him the music did not weep; it sang, it promised victory. He was swept up for a moment in the sheer jubilation of his inevitable triumph. This time he would not fail.

He kept his head lowered so no one would see his face and recognize that he did not belong here. That was why, though she passed within three feet of where he stood, Lachlan Maclean did not see his wife move along the road with Colin at her side.

* * *

The interior of the church was murky. The torchbearers stood at intervals along the walls, with one man on either side of the gaping hole in the stone where the Earl's coffin would rest. Unconsciously, Muriella clung to her husband's arm. She thought she would fall; her knees felt weak, but somehow she remained standing. As her eyes began to adjust to the gloom, she heard the tolling of the bell overhead: ponderous and grim, it intoned its own monotonous rhythm.

The six men set the coffin on the cold stone floor, then moved to the rear of the church while Muriella, John, Colin and Elizabeth knelt in a semi-circle, waiting for the priest to begin. Outside, the pipes still raged through the still air. Then the priest spoke.

Elizabeth was silent while he chanted over the coffin, first in Latin, then in the Gaelic. She was silent when the men on either side of the bier snuffed their torches so the light from behind cast wavering shadows over the mourners' heads. She was silent when the women placed white roses on the lid—white roses in autumn, the sign of early death. She was silent and still while Colin knelt beside the priest, repeating the melancholy Gaelic phrases. But when the men began to lift her father's body and place it inside the hollow stone tunnel at their feet, Elizabeth lunged forward. Falling to her knees, she laid her head against the wood that separated her from the Earl. She screamed once, "Papa!" and clung to the coffin, refusing to move when the men tried to lift her away. The tears came coursing down her cheeks, gathering in a puddle on the lid above her father's feet.

Releasing her husband's arm, Muriella turned to flee.

* * *

The Campbells who were unable to squeeze into the crowded church waited outside, listening to the squeal of the pipes and the tolling of the bell. Some knelt, closing their eyes, while some remained standing, their faces wooden with grief. They did not notice their numbers had dwindled and that slowly, slowly, church and mourners alike were being closed inside a ring of strangers.

* * *

Lachlan Maclean watched his men as they crept from among the Campbells, moving back until they stood side-by-side, hands poised above their swords. They only waited for his signal. He smiled. Colin Campbell had thought himself clever, no doubt, sending those men to watch Duart and inform him of Maclean's actions. They were dead now, every one of them. Colin must think him a fool, Maclean thought bitterly. Aye, well, he'd learn the truth soon enough. It occurred to him that he ought to feel guilt at playing this kind of trick on the Campbells. They were helpless, after all, unprepared for anything but grief.

Grief for the Earl of Argyll—a man who deserved only hatred and derision. He felt again the rush of desperate frustration that had shaken him at the news of the old Earl's death. He had felt cheated; the English had taken Argyll's life and Maclean had nothing to do with it. Now he would never get his revenge against the man who had figured in his nightmares for so long. But if he could not make the Earl pay for what he had done, then his family would have to pay for him. A tiny voice inside warned him that it was not the same, but he did not listen.

Despite his doubts, Maclean had carefully planned the attack. So long as he knew Elizabeth was safe at Duart, he would feel no twinge of conscience. He still could not bring himself to hurt her, though since her father's death he found her more and more a burden. He shook his head, trying to dislodge thoughts of his wife, but as he raised his hand, ready to give the sign for which his men were watching, he heard a commotion at the door of the church. Squinting through the sunlight, he saw Muriella step outside and stand for a moment looking frantically about her. Then John pushed through the crowd. He was holding a woman who slumped beside him, her head bent.

Maclean paused with his hand in midair. There was something familiar about the woman, though her face was covered. She looked up and he moaned, choking on his own voice. By God, it was Elizabeth. He glanced at the circle of men who stood waiting. The Campbells would look up and see them in a moment; then it would be hopeless.

Elizabeth was weeping, pounding her fists against her brother's chest as the wrenching sobs tore at her throat. Damn ye! Maclean wanted to scream. Damn ye to hell! Turning away, he gave the signal for retreat.

Chapter 23

"M'lady! What is it?" Megan whispered faintly.

Muriella stood in her chamber one week after the burial, her eyes moving ceaselessly from one object to another, unable to stay still. Her hands were poised at her throat, her fingers pressing into the tender skin. She had wept no more tears since the eve of the funeral, but now, though she fought against it, the protective numbness had began at last to slip away, leaving her grief exposed to the bright, cold light of day. Her imagination created grisly portraits of the Earl, his chest a mass of wounds, his skull split down the center. Dead at Flodden Field. She had lost him. He had known the cause was hopeless, yet he had followed the King just the same. The Earl had turned his back on Muriella as surely as Lorna and Isabel had done on that long-ago day at Cawdor.

"Please," Megan cried, "tell me what ails ye."

Muriella peered at her friend's familiar face and did not know it. The red mist would not leave her; it lingered, shrouding everything with the same scarlet haze. Her mind was full of images of the past: She was kneeling in the river staring at the crimson that covered Lorna's hand. She was standing in the wedding chamber with its deep red hangings. There was blood everywhere—her own blood gushing from her finger, Andrew Calder's blood spilled over the rock, the Earl's blood soaking into the swampy ground. She was falling. She would fall until the earth closed around her and she could fall no more.

"I can't bear it!" she moaned, covering her ears to shut out the memory of a mournfully tolling bell. She gazed around her at the gold-and-crimson bed curtains, the walls hung with tapestries shot with scarlet threads. She shuddered from head to foot, then went to the nearest hanging, ripping it from the wall. Blindly, she tore down the next and the next. When all were on the floor, she turned to the bed and began gathering the curtains in her arms.

Megan stood motionless, so frightened by the look in her mistress's eyes that she could not move. For a moment she could not find her voice. "What are ye doin'? What is it?"

Muriella laughed without mirth. The Earl had chosen to die for his King and now she was alone. The swirling red mist obsessed her. She must destroy it. Burn it. She dragged the curtains toward the fire.

Megan stood staring, her hand pressed to her mouth; then she hurried from the chamber, calling for help as she went.

At the foot of the stairs, John caught her as she started past him. "Megan?"

She gaped at him, then gasped, "Yer wife! I can't stop her!"

He asked nothing more, but headed at once for Muriella's room. He had never seen Megan so shaken and it made his own heart beat with dread. When he came to his wife's chamber, he stopped abruptly on the threshold. The tapestries lay among the rushes, some of them torn down the center; the bed curtains were piled near the hearth quite close to the flames, and Muriella stood in the middle of the floor, a red gown in shreds at her feet. "Are ye mad?"

"Aye, I'm mad," she chanted. "Mad, mad, mad!" She twirled away from him, wrapping her arms about her waist, and watched him as he stepped back, unable to take his eyes from her.

Then the muscles in his face tensed as his eyes glinted gray blue. "I won't believe it," he declared.

She could hear the anger in his voice, see it in the way he leaned against a chest, crossing his arms before him. She straightened her body slowly, swinging her auburn hair over her shoulders. She was aware of the way the firelight altered her face, increasing its pale sheen. She could feel his penetrating gaze upon her.

Muriella leaned forward, her body stiff and unbending. She leaned out so far that John thought she would fall into the tapestries at her feet. But she remained upright, swaying, her green eyes flicking from the fire to his face and back again.

"What if I lifted my torch from the wall and carried it through the castle, setting all yer tapestries afire, dropping the flames into the rushes? Would ye believe it then?"

"I'd most certainly beat ye senseless, but I’d no’ believe ye're mad. Do ye intend to try it?" He moved toward her menacingly.

She stepped back, glowering. She had not frightened him. That was strange. Anyone else would have shrunk away from her, but there he stood, unmoved, looking at her with cold blue eyes. As he took another step forward, she drew herself upright.

The madness, he noted, had disappeared. Now he saw for the first time how pale she was, how dark were the shadows beneath her eyes. Her face was covered with a fine film of sweat, though the afternoon was chilly. And her eyes glittered with a light he had never seen there before. "Why have ye done this?" he asked, indicating the chaos on the floor between them.

"They displease me."

Her tone was cool and imperious, but this time he was not fooled. "Why?"

"The crimson." She waved her hand toward the scattered fabrics. "It sickens me." She pressed her palm to her forehead as the haze began to cloud her thoughts once more.

He could see she was sincere. It did sicken her; her eyes were hollow and her cheeks deathly pale. "But why?" he repeated.

Muriella turned away. "It reminds me of Flodden. There was so much death, so much blood. By the end even the mud was red. Oh, God!" she cried, covering her mouth with her hands.

"But ye weren't even there!"

Whirling, Muriella cried, "Don't ye understand yet? I was there! I’m still there. The men who died are gone and don't remember, but I can't escape the battlefield. I live the slaughter over and over, every minute of the day, and even in my dreams at night."

For a moment, John was too shocked to respond, then he made himself speak calmly. "Ye need to be busy, to keep yer thoughts occupied with other things. 'Twould help ye forget."

Muriella shook her head in despair. "No," she said. "Mayhap ye can hunt and ride to get away from yer grief and yer anger, but I can't." She closed her eyes, but the mist grew darker, more threatening, and she opened them again. "Don't ye see? That won't work for me, because the horror is here, inside my own head." With a shaking finger, she pointed to her damp forehead. "I can't close my eyes and make it go away; the images only become clearer. I can't run, because they follow." She swallowed with difficulty, then ran her hand down the column of her throat. "And I can't bear it anymore. I can't."

Before he could stop himself, John took a step backward, to keep her anguish from touching him. For the first time, he began to understand the shadowed world in which his wife lived, and he was appalled. He wanted to turn from her, to make himself forget the tortured look in her eyes, but as his father had pointed out, he had a responsibility to fulfill. Muriella needs ye, whether she admits it or not. Slowly, he forced himself to approach her. Grasping her shoulders, he shook her slightly. "Muriella!"

She leaned toward him, and in that instant there was no past, no bitterness, no fear. There was only the blinding scarlet mist that was closing more and more closely around her. "Please," she whispered.

But John did not know what his wife was asking for. He released her while he tried to think.

"M'lord?"

John turned to find Megan standing timidly in the doorway, her brown eyes full of concern. "Is she—," the servant began.

He shook his head. "I think she needs some air. Mayhap a walk in the garden?"

Megan nodded eagerly. "Aye, I'll go with her."

Muriella watched the others from the end of a long, silent tunnel. They spoke of her as if she were not there, as if she were an invalid too frail to make her own decisions. Just now she did not have the strength to tell them differently. She was so weary her bones ached and the thought of the clear air of the garden brought with it a kind of relief. She had told John she could not escape her inner sight, but that would never stop her from trying.

"M'lady?" Megan said tentatively.

"Aye." Muriella did not look at her husband as she turned to go. She did not wish to see the aversion on his face. Quickly, lifting her gown above the scattered rushes, she left the room.

John stood where she had left him; he was not yet able to move. Running his hand through his hair, he gazed blankly at the cluttered floor.

"M'lord?"

John turned to find Duncan standing with his mouth hanging open in astonishment at the sight of the torn gown and tapestries. "What do ye want?" the older man asked sharply.

Duncan looked up. "What?" The squire's mind refused to function for several seconds; then he remembered why the new Earl had sent him here. "There's trouble brewing. The clans are rising in favor of Donald of Lachalsh. They've proclaimed him Lord of the Ides, though the title is rightfully Colin's."

John considered his squire in silence. He believed there was some question he should ask, but he didn't know what it was. "Proclaimed him Lord of the Isles?" he repeated. Then he realized what Duncan was saying. "A rebellion? Now?"

"Aye. They couldn't have chosen a worse time. We're still weak from our losses at Flodden."

"Ye can bet they know that. They move quickly, I'll give them that. What have they done?"

"Taken Urquart and the Castle of Carneburgh."

John paced the floor, kicking the fabric from under his feet. "Huntly will have to go to Urquart, but Carneburgh—we may be able to gather enough men. Do ye know who holds it now?"

"Aye, 'tis Lachlan Maclean."

John stopped his pacing. "Are ye certain?"

"'Tis certain Maclean holds Carneburgh, and he's had himself named Master of Dunskaich in Sleat as well."

"Where's Elizabeth? Is she all right?"

"We don't know, but Colin believes Maclean left her at Duart. Likely she'll be safe enough."

"She'd best be safe," John hissed, "or by God, this time I'll cut his throat. Do ye hear?"

"M'lord," Duncan said softly, "Colin awaits ye below. We must move as soon as possible."

John massaged his forehead absently. "Aye, that we must." This time his voice was calmer. As he started to follow his squire from the room, he stumbled over a tapestry and his expression clouded. Shaking his head, he closed the chamber door behind him.

When he saw Mary hurrying past, John called her to him and spoke in a low-pitched voice. As she nodded, he heard Colin calling from below and turned to start down the stairs.

* * *

Later, Muriella climbed to her chamber, pausing for a moment outside the door. She and Megan had wandered from the garden down to the loch. In the freshening afternoon breeze, the color had gradually returned to Muriella's cheeks. She had stared into the water lapping against the shore and willed the haze of fear and grief to leave her. She had fought against the pain she saw reflected in the green-gray water. With Megan's chatter to help her, she had somehow managed to keep the despair at bay. But now her stomach twisted and her hands tightened on the latch.

She didn't want to enter this room. She remembered the afternoon too clearly and did not wish to see what she had done. At last, however, she pushed the door open, then stood rigid, the breath gone from her body.

The floor was covered with fresh rushes. The shredded gown had disappeared, as had the bed curtains and tapestries. She looked up, expecting to find bare walls, but someone had replaced the old hangings with new ones. Her gaze traveled over them in disbelief. They were all worked in yellows and browns and greens. She turned to the bed, where the curtains had been replaced with gold and green ones. She swallowed with difficulty.

Too stunned to think clearly, she went to the chest that held her gowns. Lifting the lid, she saw that the kirtle for the scarlet gown was gone. She shifted the dresses one at a time, searching through layer after layer, but there was no doubt. She let the lid slip from nerveless fingers, sank onto the chest, her fingers curled on the carved rosewood. She had learned to live with the pain and the emptiness and the fear in the eyes of others when they looked at her, but this single act of kindness was more than she could bear.

The walls that had kept her safe since the Earl's death came crashing down around her and she gave a strangled moan as her body folded inward upon itself. She began to weep with wrenching sobs that rose from her throat and left her shuddering. Rocking wildly, her arms locked over her chest, she sobbed at the pain that washed through her in waves. Then the waves became real ones and she was lost in an angry sea, fighting for breath while the water surged around her, drawing her deeper and deeper into the suffocating darkness, until she could no longer see the light.

Chapter 24

Muriella struggled upward through the shadows toward a wavering brightness that beckoned like the touch of a human hand. Slowly, as the blackness dissolved, freeing her from the web of sleep, she opened her eyes. The first thing she became aware of was the weight of a cool cloth on her forehead. She was lying on the bed with the heavy furs beneath her, but she could not remember how she'd gotten there. On the far wall burned the torch whose light had lured her out of the darkness. She focused on the gold-and-orange flame, hoping its warmth would chase the chill from her body. Her breath seemed to come and go in time with the movement of the flame, but the heat could not reach her. Turning her head, she peered about until she saw movement, heard a sharp intake of breath.

"She's awake. Ye'd best go now."

Megan. But there was someone else who murmured something she could not understand before slipping from the room. "Who—" Muriella began, but she could not force the words past the raw pain in her throat.

"'Twas Duncan," the servant told her, approaching the bed on silent feet. "He helped me lift ye from the floor. I couldn't do it on my own." When her mistress started to rise, Megan laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Lie still. Ye aren't well."

It was true. Muriella felt weak and faintly dizzy; the slightest movement of her head set the room spinning. Her heartbeat was uneven, but when she saw the gold-and-green curtain that swayed as the servant came closer, her pulse increased. She remembered now—the new hangings, her cry of pain, her tears, and then… Her head pounded dully and she closed her eyes, swollen and painful with weeping.

"What ails ye?" Megan asked as she adjusted the cloth on her mistress's forehead. "Ye don't seem to have a fever, but yer face is so pale"

Muriella took a deep breath. "I'm no’ ill," she said. "'Twas only the Sight."

The servant's eyes widened. "But we found ye on the floor. Ye didn't even know we were there."

Muriella found it difficult to speak around the lump in her throat, but she saw that Megan too was afraid, and knew she had to calm her. "I think 'twas because the vision was too strong. It overwhelmed me so completely that I had to fall beneath its weight."

The servant did not understand, but she touched her mistress's hand in compassion, hoping Muriella would not feel how erratically her heart was fluttering. "Was it the battle again?"

"No. 'Twas something I first saw long ago. I thought I was free of it, but..." Her voice trailed off as the memory of her own words echoed in her head. The Sight never lies. The vision will come to pass, just as all the others have. I can't stop it and I can't change it. All I can do is wait. Her mouth was dry and her hands damp with sweat.

"Well," the servant murmured, "I think 'twould be best if ye closed yer eyes and tried to sleep. I'll tell Sir John ye won't be down for supper." She could not quite banish the quaver from her voice. When she turned to go, Muriella put out a hand to stop her.

"I have to go down."

"Why?" the servant demanded. "Ye don't even look like ye could stand."

"Because," Muriella said, "I don't want to be trapped here among the shadows all evening. Just now my thoughts aren't very good company, ye ken." She paused while Megan regarded her doubtfully.

"Don't worry," Muriella added. "The weakness will go soon. 'Tis always the way. I'll rest for a while, then join the others in the hall."

The servant narrowed her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but she did not argue. She had learned long ago once Muriella had made a choice, she would not be swayed. Perhaps she should slip away and tell Sir John how she had found her mistress sprawled unconscious among the rushes. Surely he would make her stay in bed where she belonged. Muriella's grip on her arm increased and Megan leaned closer.

"Don't do it," Muriella said. "Swear to me ye won't tell him."

The servant could not look away from those strange green eyes that saw so much. With a shiver of apprehension, she whispered, "I swear."

* * *

In a brocade gown of many colors, with her braid wound tightly around her head, Muriella stood looking down into the Great Hall. John was not at the high table with Colin, and it took her a moment to locate him, seated at one of the trestle tables with his men. He was using a thick slice of bread for a plate, just as they were, and seemed perfectly at home on the rough plank bench they all shared. Duncan was beside him, but Muriella could see the squire was not as comfortable as his master. The sight of John's dark, bearded face brought the fluttering wings of fear back to life within her. She wanted to turn in the other direction and make her way to the high table, but the thought of the walls of her chamber made her turn toward her husband.

As she passed, the men fell silent one after another, their knives clutched in their hands, their bearded faces lit by the yellow glare of the torches. The stillness rang in her ears, louder by far than their raucous laughter, and though she looked neither to the right nor left, she felt their wary eyes upon her. The heavy fabric of her skirt gripped tightly in her fingers, Muriella approached the table where John sat. The men around him began to shift uncomfortably.

When he realized how quiet the others had become, John looked up, smiling, and saw his wife, who had stopped at the end of the table. The laughter died on his lips. What was she doing here, waiting expectantly, destroying, with one look from her disturbing green eyes, the easy camaraderie he and the men had shared?

Beside him, Richard Campbell took his slab of meat-soaked bread and, swinging his leg over the bench, made his way to another table. His brother Andrew did the same. One by one the others followed, until only John and Duncan were left.

As Muriella came closer, John leaned forward to speak in a whisper rough with impatience. "Mayhap 'twould be better if ye sat at the high table where ye belong."

The men were watching and listening, waiting for her to turn away, but she could not do it. She could not let them see how much their apprehension hurt her. "'Tis where ye belong as well, but that doesn't seem to worry ye. So," she added, "I'll stay." Without waiting for his response, she seated herself on the bench.

John's fingers tightened around the handle of his dagger, which still held a piece of dripping mutton he had speared before he noticed Muriella. He should have ordered her to leave and been done with it, but it was too late for that. They would both look like fools if he sent her away now. "So long as ye don't linger," he said.

"I'll get her something to eat," Duncan declared, rising from his own bench with alacrity.

Muriella watched the squire go, certain he was grateful for the excuse to slip away, even for a moment. Placing her hands on the rough plank table, she traced the furrows and pits in the wood with apparent concentration.

"Well?" her husband demanded. "What's so important that it couldn't wait?"

She was no longer certain what instinct had drawn her here instead of toward the relative safety of her usual place; she only knew that she’d had to come. She wondered why, when she looked up at her husband's frowning face. His brown hair was tumbled in disorder, mingling with the curling confusion of his beard, emphasizing the displeasure she read in his eyes. Muriella forced herself to meet John's gaze. "I came to say my chamber is lovely." To her the words were an agony he would never understand; since the Earl's death, John had twice touched feelings she had willed into darkness. Twice he had moved her and made her weep. That frightened her as even his anger had never done, as deeply as the terror that whirled within her at the vision of the rising water.

John stared at his wife in surprise. He had forgotten, in the turmoil of preparing for battle, about the scene in her room that afternoon and the instructions he had given Mary. He had wanted to forget, had welcomed the coming conflict because it kept his thoughts occupied. Even had he remembered, he would not have expected Muriella to acknowledge his gesture. For the first time he noticed that the glitter had left her eyes. Her cheeks were pale, touched slightly with pink, and her face had an uncharacteristic softness tonight. Without conscious thought, he reached to cover her hand with his. "Ye seem better. Has the vision left ye?"

Muriella shook her head in confusion. She had thought it gone, but now it was back. As John's fingers closed around hers, the image became stronger, more vivid. Or was it something else? Her head began to swim with the image of falling shadows streaked with red and her ears to ring with the clashing of many blades. She saw the struggle, the battle, the death, but it was not the same. It was— Her heart began to pound. "Ye're going to war, aren't ye?"

John released her hand abruptly. "Who told ye that?" He'd given strict orders that his wife was not to be told until the last minute.

Muriella kept her eyes lowered. "I overheard it in the halls," she lied. "Is't true?"

John sighed. He should have known something like that could not be kept secret. "Aye," he told her. "We leave before first light tomorrow."

Muriella felt a rush of relief. He was going away. She would be safe. Then her throat constricted with a new kind of fear. She'd be out of danger, but he would not. "'Tis the Macleans, isn't it?" she asked unsteadily.

"They aren't the only ones, but they're involved, aye."

"And Elizabeth?"

"We don't know for certain, but we think she's at Duart, away from the center of the rebellion. If she stays there, she should be all right."

When he saw that Muriella was not reassured, John squeezed her hand. "Don't worry. Maclean is a fool, but he isn't a madman. He'll see that Elizabeth is safe."

It was not really her sister-in-law Muriella was thinking of; it was John. Instinctively, she closed her fingers tighter around her husband's, asking a silent question of the Sight she had never before summoned of her own free will. For a moment, the warmth of his touch shook her. Then the coldness seemed to settle over her skin and the room began to sway.

When John felt his wife squeeze his hand spasmodically, he looked down at her in confusion. She had never done that before. Then he saw the gray cast of her face and the strange darkness in her eyes.

"No!" he shouted, springing up and away from her in one swift movement. "Ye could curse a man that way, don't ye know that?"

His voice rang through the hall, and the men, who had begun to talk among themselves again, fell silent, staring from John to Muriella and back again.

Muriella's eyes cleared, the room ceased its spinning, but her heartbeat dragged and her hands trembled. John glared down at her, his face white with rage or fear, she could not decide which. She felt inexplicably bereft. Around her the men were staring, their eyes full of silent accusations that echoed John's own. She was alone in a room full of strangers, a world full of strangers who could never understand—and did not wish to.

John heard a movement beside him and glanced up to see Duncan with Muriella's supper in his hands. The older man welcomed the interruption. Motioning for the squire to pass, he said in voice that carried to other listening ears, "Eat. 'Twill make ye feel better."

Muriella looked away, but not before he caught a hint of the pain on her face.

"Damn!" Turning on his heel, John called. "I'm going for a ride. 'Tis far too close in here for my taste."

"But m'lord, ye'll be riding all day tomorrow," Duncan protested.

John glowered at the squire. "Since when are ye my nursemaid? 'Tis a ride I want and a ride I'll have." Carelessly, he kicked his bench aside and strode across the hall.

When he had gone, Duncan set the platter before Muriella, then sat nearby.

"Ye saw?" she asked, her gazed fixed on the plate of mutton.

"Aye." The squire frowned. "He doesn't mean to be cruel, ye ken?"

"No," she said tonelessly.

"'Tis just that a warrior's skill and confidence are all he has to keep him safe. If ye make him doubt those things, if the thought of yer premonition makes him hesitate, even for an instant, it could cost him his life and those of his men."

"Aye," Muriella murmured as she toyed with a thick piece of bread. "I suppose ye're right." But the knowledge did not ease the ache inside her.

The squire watched her anxiously. He could not forget how lost she had looked this afternoon, lying in the rushes, her face swollen and red from weeping. He had felt as helpless then as he did on her wedding night when he'd watched her tear herself away from the magic of the Gypsy bonfires. He wanted to console her, but knew there was nothing he could do. No matter how much he might wish to, he could not change the fact that tomorrow, before the sun had risen, the Campbell men would take their broadswords in hand and ride determinedly, even eagerly, into battle.

Chapter 25

In her dream, Muriella wandered through the lower tunnels of the castle where the torches filled the rough stone passageways with an unnatural light. The sound of her footfalls on the packed dirt floor did not disturb the stillness, but seemed instead to meld with the flickering shadows that closed around her.

She paused, listening, when a low moan of fear escaped from the chamber at the end of the hall. Suddenly it was very cold and the torches were painting grotesque patterns on the gray stone all around. She did not want to move forward—in a few steps she would be able to look into the chamber—yet her feet seemed to have a will of their own that carried her closer and closer to the half-open door. Instinctively, she hung back in the shadows, then leaned forward so she could look without being seen.

John was kneeling in the chamber with a dark shape at his feet. It looked like a body, but she couldn't be certain; the shadows were too deep. Then the wind stirred the branches of the tree outside the window and daylight crept between the fluttering leaves. The light played across John where he knelt beside the figure. Laughing, his teeth glittering, he raised his hands above his head. The sound of his laughter chilled Muriella. Then the light struck him fully. His wife screamed, but no sound escaped her. His arms were covered with blood to the elbow. It dripped slowly between his fingers, staining with vivid red the motionless figure at his feet.

Muriella awoke with a start. She lay for a long time, waiting for the frantic beating of her heart to ease and the cold fear to dissipate. As the ceiling of shadows shifted and changed in the firelight, she forced her eyes to focus on the muted patterns above her. She would not let the panic overcome her, she swore silently. Not this time.

It was not so strange that her husband should have blood on his hands; the Campbells were at war, after all. The dream was not a warning, only a nightmare that lingered when the sound of John's laughter and the image of his blood-soaked hands had faded away.

Muriella lay still, willing herself to believe it, until eventually her heartbeat slowed to normal and the heat of her body destroyed the chill the dream had left behind. She fell back asleep while the ghosts of forgotten shadows whispered above her.

* * *

The leaves parted in the breeze, fluttered, then came back together with a sigh while their shadows moved over the damp ground beneath. John tensed, reached for his bow and fitted an arrow into place. He did not trust the sudden stillness, broken only by the murmur of the leaves. Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward, his hand on his horse's neck to keep the animal from moving. The men who followed faded into a blur; for him there was only the feel of his bow in his callused palm, the reality of the trees ahead and the awareness of an enemy concealed by the shifting gloom.

A twig snapped. His eyes glinted with anticipation as he raised his head like a wolf scenting its prey. Knees pressed tight to his horse's sides, he drew back the string of his bow, sighted down the shaft of the arrow, and released it with a shout of triumph. He knew, even before the man crashed headfirst through the underbrush, that he had hit his target. The pounding of his heart told him he could not have done otherwise.

John swung his leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground, heading for the man who lay unmoving in the bracken. Richard Campbell was there before him.

"Is it Hugh Rose?"

"No," Richard told him. "'Tis black hair he's havin', and he's too old by half, but he's a Rose, just the same."

John bent to examine the dead man. "Well then, Hugh must be nearby." Frowning at the impenetrable tangle of the forest, he glared through the trees as if determination alone could make them give up their secrets. Turning back to Richard, he added, "This time I mean to catch him."

Richard shook his head. "He's kept ahead of ye for near a week. What makes ye think ye'll find him now?"

"My instincts. He's within our grasp. I can feel it."

"I don't understand why ye're so determined to bring him down. Ye've already scattered most of the rebels, and Hugh's no more than a petty outlaw who can't hurt the Campbells now."

John leaned down to cover the dead man's face with a dry corner of his plaid. What Richard said was true. The rebels had given up the fight a week ago and Colin was on his way to Edinburgh to settle the terms of surrender with the regents. The new Earl had made his peace with the vanquished rebels, but John had not. He had far more at stake, this time, than did his brother. "Hugh Rose is more dangerous than ye realize," he said as the two men started back toward their restive horses. "The people fear him when they hear the tales of the money he's stolen and the murder he's done, but they also admire him for the fearless devil he is. If we don't stop him soon, they'll make him a hero, and then we won't be able to touch him. Besides, there are other reasons. I can't let him go on this way. Ye must know that."

Richard did know it. He had heard the rumors the young Rose was spreading and realized that, sooner or later, Sir John would have to stop the man's tongue. He only wished it did not have to be now, when the men were already so tired. "Aye, but the chase might last forever at this rate, and the men are eager to go home."

"Soon," John promised. "But for now, the hunt goes on."

Bracken and pine needles muffled the footfalls of the horses as he led the weary men through the forest of hawthorns, oaks and pines, his senses alert for the slightest irregularity. Just when he'd begun to think night would fall while the forest still sheltered the outlaw in its murky depths, he saw a trampled patch of bracken where several horses had passed recently. His exhaustion left him in an instant when he scented the danger vibrating through the cool air around him. Raising a hand to warn the men to silence, he swung himself down from his horse and crept forward on foot.

The last of the light filtered through the trees, revealing the group of men sprawled on the ground in the tiny clearing. They were talking among themselves and sharing a skin full of wine, their plaids tossed carelessly over their shoulders, their bows forgotten at their sides. The leaves whispered, brushing John's cheek in the gust of a breeze as he peered through the changing patterns of green and gray to locate the man who must be Hugh Rose. Even in the fading light, he could see the blaze of wild red hair that, along with the outlaw's fierce war cry and his uncontrolled lust for the kill, had earned him the nickname The Devil Afire.

Hugh was laughing as he leaned back on his elbow, his hazel eyes blurred with the effects of the wine. John took in the scene in disbelief. These men knew the Campbells were close behind them—they had led their enemies in a game of cat and mouse for many days—yet now they seemed oblivious of any danger. The sound of Hugh's laughter came to John on the back of the wind, full of self-confidence and the supreme arrogance of the fearless. Clearly the thought of death held no terror for the outlaw. That made him a dangerous adversary indeed. With a wordless curse, John turned away to return to where the men waited.

Motioning silently for Richard, Andrew, Duncan and Adam to follow, he took his bow from the saddle horn and moved back through the soft bracken toward the clearing. The men understood his intention without words. They circled behind the concealing trees, moving inexorably forward until only the descending darkness and moving leaves held them apart from their enemies. Each Campbell drew his sword, positioning himself near one of the outlaws; then, at John's signal, they screamed the Campbell war cry, "Cruachan!" and rushed from the protection of the trees.

The men in the clearing did not have time to take a breath before they found themselves lying in the grass with the Campbell blades pressing into their throats.

John knocked the wineskin from Hugh Rose's hand, forcing the young man to his back in the same moment. His blood was singing with the scent of victory; it had been so easy, after all. Then Hugh smiled crookedly.

"Ye must be John Campbell," the outlaw observed in a voice laced with secret amusement. "No doubt ye finally got tired of the game." His eyes glinted bright and clear, with no trace of drunkenness to dim them. "Or mayhap ye realized the only way to best us is to creep up in the darkness and strike before we have a chance to defend ourselves. That seems to be how the Campbells win most of their victories." He could feel the anger radiating from John's body and he smiled again. "Only, when ye took Muriella Calder that way, ye didn't get such a good bargain, did ye?"

The rage that had been building inside John for the past week fed upon itself, growing more powerful with each ragged breath. He pressed the point of his blade deeper into the outlaw's chest until he heard the slight explosion of breath that told him he had broken through Hugh's plaid and doublet to the vulnerable skin underneath. For a moment, his fury blinded him, but something kept him from ramming his sword home. Was it the watching eyes of the men—his own and Hugh's—or the sudden memory of his father's voice? Think before ye act, Johnnie. Think!

"Well?" Hugh cried, unnerved by his captor's restraint as he had not been by the sight of the gleaming blade. "What are ye waitin' for? Don't tell me ye're a coward as well as a thief!"

John's hand trembled with the force of his anger, but still he did not move. His father's words came back to him like a warning. There's no room for foolish emotion in a man meant to lead the Clan Campbell. It weakens yer judgment when ye need it most. John fought against his fury with the tiny whisper of reason that still remained in the back of his mind. "I'm no’ the one who steals from the crofters and lairds alike, burning his way across the north and killing any man who gets in his way," he said at last.

Hugh curled his lip in disdain. "What else would ye have me do? When ye took Muriella from me, ye took Cawdor too, leaving me and the whole Clan Rose with nothing but my sword arm to keep us alive."

"There are other ways to survive, and well ye know it."

"For a Campbell mayhap, who has the King and the Earl of Argyll on his side," the outlaw snapped, "but no' for a Rose without money or power." Despite the pressure of John's blade against his chest, Hugh rose on one elbow. "I won't sit quietly in my crumbling keep, watching my family slip away one by one. I may not have the King's ear, but I promise ye this: I'll make such a noise in these glens that the Campbells won't forget the sound of my voice for a long, long time to come. Even though ye kill me now."

There are ways to get what ye want without killing, the Earl had told John once. Maybe his father was right. Death was too good for Hugh Rose; it would transform the reckless outlaw into legend for the Highlanders to worship, and John did not want that. "No," he said softly. "I think I'll let ye live."

Hugh's mocking smile faded and his eyes were dark with something that might have been fear. He could feel the curiosity of the other outlaws like a cold hand at the back of his neck. "But I'm telling ye, ye'd best stop yer killing and stealing or I'll make ye regret it." Hugh was staring up at him now, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. "And just so ye see that I mean what I say, I'll leave behind a little warning."

The young man winced as John raised his weapon to bring it down with devastating accuracy along Hugh's sword arm, cutting deep and to the bone. The blood poured out, clear and red, staining the saffron shirt, dark doublet and bright plaid that lay crumpled on the ground. John heard the gasp of disbelief from the other outlaws; they did not fear death, but this was humiliation. He also saw the hatred in Hugh's eyes beneath the glaze of pain, but that he chose to ignore. "Take their weapons and leave them," he ordered his men. Then, slowly and quite deliberately, John turned his back on Hugh Rose.

Chapter 26

Muriella leaned forward, pleased that some of her hair had begun to escape from her crown of braids to whip about her face. The smell of loam and loch was heavy in the air as her horse carried her closer and closer to the silver blue waves whose rhythmic lapping called to her. The moisture clung to her cheeks, cool and invigorating, completely unlike the musty chill inside the walls of the keep. She knew Megan was behind her, but the sound of the hoof beats was lost in the enchanting rush and thunder of the wind. Throwing back her head in pure enjoyment, she urged her horse to greater speed.

As the thrumming of hoof beats grew louder, Muriella pressed her knees into her animal's warm, heaving sides until he flew over the fine-grained earth, outdistancing Megan's horse with ease. But no, Muriella could hear the other animal coming closer after all. She smiled. If Megan wanted a race, a race she would have. Muriella's heart pounded in time with the motion of the horse beneath her, and the wind threw her breath back into her face. She was mesmerized by the speed and the breeze and the hypnotic voice of the loch.

As she approached the stones jutting out into the water, she realized the other horse had come up beside her. Then a hand reached out to grasp her reins and she looked up in astonishment at John's sun-browned face. All at once, she found it difficult to breathe. She had not seen her husband in three months. For an instant, the sight of his blue eyes and wildly curling beard caused an ache in her chest, and she could not seem to find her voice. "Where—when did ye get back?" she asked at last. Without being aware of it, she smiled.

John caught his breath and leaned toward her, drawn by the momentary warmth of that smile. "Just now. I haven't yet been inside the keep." He and his men had been riding for many hours, exhausted by their efforts against the rebels and the long trip back to Kilchurn. He'd been looking forward to settling himself in front of the fire in the Great Hall with a tankard of ale in his hand. But when he saw his wife riding recklessly along the shore, some instinct he could not explain had made him follow. "Tell me what ye're running from," he said.

Muriella shook her head. The horses circled, heading back the way they had come, and she saw Megan waiting farther down the strand. "Not from—to. The water brought me here." Brushing a damp tendril of hair from her forehead, she turned toward the iced blue ripples that moved rhythmically inward toward the shore. "Can't ye hear it calling?" She closed her eyes, conscious that John's callused hand still clasped the reins so his fingers curled next to hers. "Listen," she murmured softly. "'Come,' they say, 'now. Come to me now.'"

John considered his wife in silence, surprised by her carefree manner and whimsical expression. While he was away, he had remembered only the blank, shuttered look he had come to dread. That disturbing memory was one of the things that had driven him on, made him hesitate to return to Kilchurn, long after his allies had turned for home.

But now Muriella's eyes were clear and sparkling, her cheeks rosy from the touch of the wind, her lips curved in a secret smile. She swayed gently, echoing the undulation of the lapping waves.

John sat upright, startled by the tremor of pleasure that shook him. He was glad to be home, surrounded by the familiar safety of the keep where he had grown up, glad to be riding along the shore with Muriella beside him. There was something about the ineffable simplicity of her pleasure that drew him as strongly as her fear held him apart. "Muriella," he murmured.

She opened her eyes, at ease with the sight of his darkly bearded face, and surprised that she should feel such calm. "Are ye back to stay?"

"Aye, the rebels have been subdued at last."

Muriella felt a flicker of apprehension. She leaned toward John, her knees pressed tight against her horse's sides. "What of Maclean?"

"He fled to Duart when he saw he couldn't win," John declared in disgust. "No doubt he's still hiding there, hoping we'll forget." He released his wife's horse and touched the battered hilt of his sword. "But we won't forget. He'll learn that in time."

Muriella thought of Elizabeth and her heart sank. "Will ye attack Mull then?"

"No." John's jaw tightened while he glared at the wind-whipped sand as if he regretted the fact. "'Tis over—for now. We've won this time, yet lost only twenty men."

"Only twenty," his wife repeated hollowly.

"War always means death for some," John said. "'Tis the way it must be. Ye'd best learn to accept that as the men have. They aren't afraid, so long as they die with honor."

"No," Muriella mused, "but then, they aren't the ones left behind." She thought of the last three lonely months, of the long, dim corridors of the keep, emptier by far without the voices of the men to fill them. While the warriors were away, the women had been subdued, going about their chores ploddingly and without laughter. Often, seeking companionship, they had huddled together in the solar to sew and weave the yawning days away. Only the colors and patterns beneath their hands grew and changed; all else remained the same: hushed and expectant, waiting for the men to return. If they returned.

Muriella pushed the thought to the back of her mind. The waiting was over; the men were home. Yet, inexplicably, the loneliness lingered. And somehow, the sight of John's face, softened by his disheveled hair and framed by the drifting clouds all around, only made the ache deeper.

* * *

Later that evening Megan and Muriella joined the women grouped around the fire, listening while the men told stories of their adventures in the north of Scotland. The warriors did not seem at all dangerous now, perched as they were on benches or the floor, their tankards beside them, the firelight softening their rough-hewn faces. The keep rang once again with the triumphant laughter of men and women alike, so the huge, vaulted room seemed a little warmer and the stone walls a little less forbidding.

"Besides," Andrew Campbell was saying, "once we saw the back of the Macleans, we didn't get another glimpse of their faces. Turned tail like a pack of crazed hounds, they did."'

"What did ye do then?" Jenny asked.

"Well"—Andrew rubbed his chin thoughtfully—"we went to Urquart for a day or two. Sir John wanted to see for himself that all was quiet there."

Jenny sighed with disappointment. "Wasn't there anything more excitin' to keep ye busy?"

Andrew beamed at her. It was just the question he had been hoping for. "We did search the north for rebels who weren't wise enough to go home, and caught some, too. Sir John seems to smell 'em out, even when we're certain there're no more to be found." He leaned forward so his bright red hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently. "But 'twas no' long before we saw he was really lookin' for one man." Pausing dramatically, he took a large drink of ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Don't play with us, Andrew. Who was it?"

Andrew grinned, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, "The outlaw, Hugh Rose."

At the sound of that familiar name, Muriella straightened. Surely she had misunderstood. Hugh—an outlaw? Hugh, who had been her only childhood friend? She realized with a stab of dismay that she had not even thought of him for many months. She turned, suddenly intent, as Jenny spoke again.

"Ye mean the one they call The Devil Afire?" she asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

"The very same."

"I hear he's gey handsome," the servant Mary observed from the corner where she crouched near the fire.

Frowning, Andrew shook his head. "I wouldn't be knowin' that. But I know the man's been makin' trouble with the Calders for a long time, and he couldn't seem to decide who his friends were in this war. One day he and his men would attack a band of Campbells and the next he'd swoop down on the Macleans. It didn't seem to matter to him."

"Andrew!" his brother Richard said warningly, "didn't ye ever learn when to shut yer mouth before it gets ye in trouble?" He glanced in Muriella's direction.

"Don't be such a worrier, lad. Can't ye see the ladies're hangin' on every word?"

"Aye," Jenny said. "We want to hear more. Though I'll wager ye didn't catch that Devil. I hear he can vanish into the air with a wave of his hand."

"But that's where ye're wrong. Sir John tracked him for near a week before he trapped Rose and his men in a wee clearin'. He surrounded the place and, with only four men, he had the outlaws cryin' for mercy. So what do ye think about that?"

"I think ye should learn when to hold yer tongue."

John spoke from outside the circle of men and women, his voice rough with anger. Muriella looked up to find her husband regarding Andrew with displeasure. He must have arrived near the end of the story; he had certainly not been there before.

"But m'lord," Andrew objected, "ye didn't say—"

"I expected ye to use yer wits, man. But no matter. 'Tis done now. Only remember in the future, what ye do under my command is my business and no one else's."

Muriella was hardly aware of Andrew's grumbling as she watched the light play over her husband's face. Had he really made Hugh cry for mercy? She could not imagine such a thing. At the moment, all she could remember was Hugh's shock of bright hair and his warm, comforting laughter. With sudden resolution, she rose to follow her husband when he turned away.

John started up the stairs, trying without success to still his unreasonable fury. He paused with his hand on the balustrade when he realized someone was coming. Turning, he found his wife looking up at him. "Aye?" he said, more brusquely than he intended.

"I want to know what happened in that clearing. I want to know if Hugh—if my cousin is dead." Her green eyes were tinged with gray.

Damn Andrew Campbell! John had hoped to prolong the fragile sense of peace he had shared with his wife on the beach earlier. But he guessed from the shadows in her eyes that the momentary calm had fled. God, how he wished there was nothing to tell her, that he could laugh off Andrew's story and make Muriella smile again. But he would not lie.

John drew a deep breath and said carefully, "Hugh Rose lives."

"But Andrew said—"

"I've told ye Hugh Rose is alive," her husband interrupted, "and 'tis the truth."

His lids were half-lowered so she could not see the expression in his eyes, but she noticed how his fingers tightened on the worn oak balustrade. It might be the truth, but it was not everything. Twining her fingers together within the heavy damask folds of her gown, she murmured, "Andrew called him an outlaw. Why? What has he done that ye should hunt him down that way?"

John ran his hand through his hair again and again, searching for the words to answer her. The moment when she had faced him across a room full of torn red tapestries, he'd caught his first glimpse of the horror she lived with day and night. He had been stunned at the revelation. If Hugh's violent deeds were not already inside her head among the other visions of blood and death, then John would not be the one to put them there. "It doesn't matter what he's done. I warned him, ye see, and no doubt he'll change his ways soon enough. Ye needn't concern yerself with such things."

"But—"

"No," he said, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. He would not let her push him to anger this time, for her sake as well as his own. "We won't discuss it further." Before she could object, he turned on his heel and left her standing alone at the foot of the wide stone stairs.

Chapter 27

Muriella had been wandering through the keep for a long time. She felt unsettled and could not stay still; she had not been able to rest since her husband had turned away from her last evening. She could not escape the memory of Hugh's laughter, cut off again and again by a careless wave of John's hand. Her head echoed with the sound until she thought she would go mad.

Without quite knowing how she had gotten there, she found herself in the lower passageways. As she felt the damp mustiness of the abandoned corridors close around her, she became aware of an uneasy tension that urged her on. Peering through the dimness, she listened to the hollow thud of the packed dirt floor as she moved down unfamiliar tunnels, lit by a few torches set in the walls at random intervals. Muriella felt the shadows move around her; her hands grew clammy and her stomach tight. The walls fell back and back and she was closed tighter and tighter into her purpose, though she did not know what that was.

As she approached the end of the corridor, she heard a sigh that penetrated the stillness like a flare of light. Stopping with her back to the wall, she crept up to a door that hung half-open. Carefully, she leaned forward to look inside the tiny chamber. Then she sucked in her breath so she would not gasp and betray her presence.

John crouched before the window, naked, with a woman at his feet. His form loomed tall and dark, framed by the speckled light that filtered through the leaves outside the window. In her astonishment, Muriella studied his body, from his broad shoulders to his chest to his muscled thighs. She wanted to look away but could not; she was mesmerized by the hungry glitter in his eyes. It reminded her too vividly of the way he had looked the last time he came to her bed, when, for an instant, he had let fall the cloak that usually hid his desire from view. His face was shaded so his hair and beard blended with the shadows; only his eyes were clear and bright. But it was enough. In those eyes he had bared his passion—like his body—for Muriella to see.

The woman lay gazing up at him, the light playing softly along her breasts and face. Muriella recognized the servant, Mary. Her black hair half covered her body to her knees and spilled over onto the floor beside her. John's shadow touched her skin, holding back the light from her thighs and stomach. Muriella sensed the tension in Mary from her ragged breathing, though she lay absolutely still. She was waiting.

As Muriella watched, John laughed and his eyes glistened. Then he leaned down and, gathering the woman's hair in his hands, raised his arms before him. Her hair fell over his arms to the elbow to slip between his fingers, settling like falling feathers on Mary's skin.

Muriella shivered. She had seen it before, but could not remember when. She shrank back farther into the shadows as her husband leaned down to nibble at Mary's earlobe, then swung his leg over to cover her trembling body with his own. The servant moaned, fastening her arms about his neck, and pulled him to her. Their legs intertwined and their lips met and clung, fierce and demanding.

Muriella felt the coldness of the stone penetrate her skin in waves that left her shivering. Shock had forced the breath from her body and she had to struggle to get air. She should not have been surprised; she had suspected that her husband, like Colin, used other women to fulfill his physical needs. She had even been grateful. But now the knowledge of the desire that drove John was with her again, so near she could feel the heat rising from the two bodies, and she had to get away.

She ran, finding her way blindly through the curving passageways. Gasping for air, she left the castle behind, seeking the refuge of the forest. The patterns of the leaves fell on her face; they brought to her again a sense of the moving light on Mary's body. Muriella tried to clear her mind, to soak in the green and gray of the trees and bushes until the colors obliterated the image of the little room with the speckled image of muted light.

The sound of the river intruded on her visions, urging her to follow the soothing rumble to the shore of the loch. Here the bushes were heavy with moisture and she lost herself in their leafy protection. At the edge of the water, where the trees held back the light, Muriella breathed in the fragrant darkness. Kneeling among the wild grasses, she leaned out over the loch. Its movement calmed her, seemed to run through her head, flooding away all traces of violence. She swallowed the sound of the lapping water and felt it slide down her throat to dampen her parched insides.

Then she saw, captured on the undulating surface, the image of John's body merging with Mary's. She would not think of that, she told herself. She would not remember the pain of seeing her husband's hands on that woman's skin. She would not think of the rippling of his muscles, which had seemed to absorb the light all around him. She would not—dared not—recall the feeling of despair that had spiraled through her body at the sight of two people filling that tiny chamber with their hunger and their need.

Sitting up abruptly, Muriella realized her hair had fallen over her shoulder and into the loch. She watched it float, spreading gracefully over the clear, rippled surface. Leaning forward, she shook out the auburn waves and fed them into the water. As they danced among the stones, she began to breathe in rhythm with the current. Closing her eyes, she bent down until her cheek brushed the fusion of liquid hair beneath her.

"Kelpie."

The voice intruded, breaking the fragile mood of the moment.

Muriella felt someone behind her. Gingerly, she turned her head.

"Ye're a Kelpie who's come from the water."

As she looked up, Duncan knelt beside her. A few minutes ago he had seen her running from the castle. A single glimpse of her face had told him how distressed she was. He had not planned to follow her, but the memory of her haunted eyes had drawn him here against his will. He had stopped when he saw how she swayed towards the loch as if communicating with the spirits who dwelled there. The woven web of her hair across the water had hypnotized him, catching him up in a spell he could not resist. Unable to stop himself, he bent down. Gathering her hair in his hands, he buried his face in the dripping tendrils.

She sprang up and away from him. "Go!" her voice rose shrilly. "Don't!"

"Muriella." When Duncan's brown eyes met and held hers, she felt that he was looking beyond her to the little room with the light across two bodies. She stepped backwards.

"Forgive me," he murmured. "I shouldn't have done that." Staring at her wary expression, he wanted to reassure her, to tell her he had only come to see that she was all right, but he sensed she would not hear him. Yet he had seen enough to know the loch could hold her, soothe her as he had not succeeded in doing. He sat in the grass where she had been a moment before and whispered, "Listen to the stillness."

Muriella stood where she was, uncertain. Sensing her reluctance, the squire turned away to look into the water. "Don't go. I won't disturb ye."

She wanted to believe him. His presence was somehow reassuring. Without another word, she sat on the bank, the wild grasses brushing her legs. The two were silent, letting the water enchant them. After a while, Duncan felt some of the tension flow out of her and knew her agitation had begun to pass.

Muriella studied the squire thoughtfully as he shook the shoulder-length blond hair away from his face and moved his thin, lanky body to a more comfortable position. Duncan looked frail, she thought, compared to her husband's large stature, almost as if he did not belong in the same world with John. Just as she did not. She trailed her fingers in the water, welcoming the chill.

Slowly, so gradually that neither was really aware of it, they moved closer until their hands met. Duncan twined his fingers with hers, willing his own warmth into her cold skin. Overhead the clouds grew dark and threatening and the wind rose, stirring the loch into white-capped silver waves. The leaden sky seemed to sink lower and lower, until the clouds, heavy with moisture, rested on the choppy surface of the water. When Muriella shivered, Duncan rose reluctantly. "We'd best get back before the storm breaks."

She nodded but did not move at once. "I'll come soon. Ye go ahead."

She looked up, her eyes reflecting the turbulence of the gray green loch, and the squire knew it would do no good to argue. "till later then," he murmured.

"Aye," she answered softly, before turning back to the loch, whose fierce beauty made her tremble with fear and admiration. She rose to her feet, drawn toward the image of a lovely face surrounded by tendrils of blond hair that curled and leapt with the movement of the water—the woman of the loch, who had once ruled this valley, whose lament for her lost happiness rose, high and piercing, from the heart of the storm.

When the rain broke through the leaves overhead, Muriella tore herself away from the hypnotic call of Loch Awe. She had brought no cloak and was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees, but knew she had to get back. She turned toward the castle as the rain began to fall more heavily. She hurried her step, noticing as she went the brilliant green of the dripping trees and bushes all around her.

Finally she arrived at the courtyard and slipped beneath the creaking gate. There was no one about, so she lost no time in reaching the gaping doorway that opened onto the Great Hall.

The men sat around the tables engaged in noisy conversation. They had turned their backs on the huge double doors and slitted windows high in the walls, hoping to shut out thoughts of the chilling rain. Torches burned on every wall, attempting to push the darkness away. The men, who had discarded their doublets and cloaks, sat in their shirts and trews, drinking ale and shaking stray drops from their beards. Their rumbling laughter rose, dissipating as it approached the vaulted ceiling.

As they attacked the bread and meat on the platters before them, Muriella was suddenly aware of her drenched hair and clothing. The green world fled behind her, and she jumped when someone slammed the door and barred it at her back. She wished now that she had gone to the entrance on the other side of the castle and found the way to her room in solitude.

Unexpectedly, John loomed above her, scrutinizing the wet clothing that clung to her arms and legs, leaving puddles in the hollowed stones of the floor.

"Ye've been caught in the rain," he observed. "Mayhap ye should go and change. Ye'll catch the ague in this drafty room."

As she looked up at him, her stomach wrenched. "I sought the big fire," she said, turning toward the stone fireplace that swallowed up one wall of the room. John followed her—she could feel him at her back—and she wished she had stayed in the rain. The heat of the crowded room oppressed her; she felt more of a chill in the uncomfortable curiosity of the men than in the storm outside. When she paused at last, John stopped beside her. What was he waiting for? she wondered. She was afraid he might touch her and then she would scream.

Platters and tankards were suddenly still. She could hear the dogs digging for scraps in the rushes beneath the tables. One by one, the men had abandoned their supper to stare at Muriella's long, dripping hair. Auburn in the sunlight, it now hung limp and dark to her knees. Near her face, where a few short hairs had begun to dry, the curls strayed across her forehead and fell along her cheeks.

The men began to shuffle their feet under the tables. The mutton sat cooling before them, but they continued to watch Muriella. The flames framed her body in brilliance; the men could not pull themselves away from the sight.

When she looked up at John, a vision of him and Mary, very bright, flashed through her mind. She stared at his bearded face, her eyes pale gray.

John froze. Muriella was lovely and frightening, dripping, dark and flushed, and her eyes were full of some emotion he could not fathom. His wife bent toward the fire, rubbing her hands together near the flames. Her hair fell down her back in twisted tendrils that dripped rhythmically against the rushes.

Someone whispered, "Witch—she's come from the water."

No one moved. She held them all in a chimerical web; they worshiped her and wished her gone. Some of them remembered the sight of her four years ago by the terrible campfire, with her bloodied gown and flickering eyes. They believed, in that moment, that she was not human.

Leaning close, John touched her shoulder. He held his breath, letting his fingers stray against her hair while he searched her face. He felt an uncomfortable tightening in his chest and found it difficult to breathe. All at once he became aware of the hush that had fallen over the hall. It was as if his wife had crushed the everyday sounds beneath her feet, replacing them with a thin shroud of silence. It was too quiet.

"I shall starve," he bellowed, "if I don't eat soon!"

As his voice rang through the room, the men looked away from Muriella and back to their meal. Someone belched and laughter followed. A tankard clattered on the table, then another and another. Satisfied, John turned back to his wife. She stood unmoving while the firelight enwrapped her, wavering within her eyes. Mesmerized by her gaze, he reached out to wrap his hand in her hair. The strands were cold and wet against his palm. He turned his hand upward, letting the hair spread over his callused skin.

The water dripped from the strands, slipping between his fingers, tinged golden, then orange, then red with the reflection of the firelight. Almost like blood, Muriella thought. Then her body grew rigid. In that instant, the dream came back to her, so vivid that the colors swam before her eyes—John's laughter, the shifting sunlight, the blood that had run down his arms to the elbow. Only it had not been blood. She remembered Mary lying at her husband's feet, the way her hair had settled onto her body, falling through John's fingers with a whisper of longing. Suddenly the fear was with her again, clutching at her throat. Obsessed by the sun-striped room where Mary waited, Muriella seized her husband's free hand.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, though it was she who held him now.

John released her. "Muriella," he said sharply with a sidelong glance at the men.

Under his warning gaze, Muriella's fear gave way to anger. "Would ye have me be silent? Do ye think ye can command me so easily? Don't ye know it doesn't take words to curse ye? I can do it with my eyes alone. Look at me!" she cried. "Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!"

A hush fell over the hall as her words echoed against the stone, then faded into silence. This time she had gone too far. In the suffocating stillness left behind, John raised his hand and struck his wife full across the face. He acted without thinking, from a deeply engrained instinct for self-preservation that had taken root in him at birth.

Muriella's knees threatened to give way beneath her. Her head rang with the force of the blow while the pain burned over her cheek, freeing her from the madness that had overwhelmed her for a moment.

"Go," John said with dangerous calm.

The rage hovered, glittering, in his eyes, daring her to defy him. She did not speak again, but turned, hands clenched in the folds of her skirt, and crossed the endless hall while a hundred watching eyes bored into her. She stared at the rush-strewn floor beneath her feet, knowing that if she once looked up to meet those gleaming eyes, she would not find compassion or even pity in their depths, but only a grim and chilly triumph.

Chapter 28

Elizabeth Campbell Maclean listened as the last sounds of night crept through Duart Castle. Pulling the furs over her lap, she settled against the headboard. She was waiting. She sensed her husband would come to her soon, although he had not done so for a long time.

She believed Lachlan needed her tonight. For the past month she had watched as he paced before the fire in the library, trying to pretend he was not waiting for Evan to return from Edinburgh. But Elizabeth had known. She knew, although he had not told her so, that her husband's nephew had gone to treat with the new regents to settle the terms of the peace between the rebels and crown. Once again the Macleans had fought a losing battle to restore the Lordship of the Isles to their own, and once again they were suing for peace.

It had been a hopeless cause from the beginning; even Elizabeth had known that. She also knew that her husband had insisted upon sending a list of demands to Huntly, Angus and Arran, the Queen Mother's new advisors. The Macleans were the vanquished in this rebellion, yet at Lachlan's instigation, they were demanding reparation from the crown.

Elizabeth reached for the wine on the chest beside the bed. She swallowed slowly, feeling the liquid slide down her throat. She hoped it would still the rapid beating of her heart. Evan had come back today. Lachlan and his nephew had disappeared into the library, while Elizabeth waited in the hall. Neither had noticed her; it would have made no difference if they had. What they had to discuss was meant only for the ears of men.

* * *

Inside the library, Maclean had faced his nephew warily, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Evan to speak. "Well, what's the news, man? What said Huntly to my demands?"

Evan was silent for several moments. He had been dreading this interview since the day he left Edinburgh. No, it had been long before that, since the day he left Duart with Maclean's preposterous list in his pocket. "What do ye think he said? He laughed and threw them in the fire."

"What? Did he dare? He won't laugh again, I'll tell ye that," Maclean grunted.

"Uncle, ye must stop pretending now. 'Tis over. There's naught we can do. With the others, Arran and Huntly were generous. But from the Macleans they required submission without condition."

"Are they mad?" Maclean stalked up and down, trying to control his rage. "Did ye kill them where they stood?"

Evan shook his head. "No. Nor did I want to. Don't ye see that we've lost everything? With Argyll hovering at our backs, we're helpless. Ye'll have to admit it sometime."

"No!" His uncle stood perfectly still in the center of the room. "I won't admit that ever, do ye hear? How could ye give them what they want without a fight?"

"Because we've nothing left to fight with," Evan snapped. "Can't ye see that? 'Tis over, Uncle. The Campbells have finally beaten us for good."

Maclean's eyes were smoldering, his face flushed with anger. "Ye're wrong, ye traitor. Ye've dishonored the Macleans."

"Have I? Is it so despicable to admit defeat when it stares ye in the face? To keep two hundred men alive when they could be slaughtered? Ye know as well as I that we had our chance to beat the Campbells and we lost it. If we'd struck at the funeral as we planned, we could've won. We could've caught them unaware and dragged them down. But we didn't. Ye called us away. Are ye sure ye want to accuse me of dishonor? Are ye certain 'tis not ye who is the traitor?" He did not wait for an answer, but turned on his heel and left the room.

Maclean clenched his fists convulsively. He knew Evan was not the only one who thought that way; the others were simply too afraid to say it aloud. His clan believed he had betrayed them. Failed them miserably at the very least. His nephew was right; the funeral had been their only chance and they had lost it. Running his hand through his hair, he tried to force down the nausea that climbed up his throat. Lost it because of Elizabeth. The blood pounded in his ears, deafening him.

* * *

Elizabeth had stood in the hallway, transfixed by Maclean's expression. His face had been pallid, his cheeks sunken, except where the red flamed high on his cheekbones. He had stared unseeing before him. As his anger faded, pain mangled his features.

It was not the first time she had seen that look, but never before had it been so naked or intense. Always he had come to her afterward. But it had been four years this time. He had not shared her bed since that night at Kilchurn. The night before Muriella's wedding.

Elizabeth tensed, thinking she heard footsteps in the hall, but whoever it was passed her door without stopping. She sipped her wine again, remembering that night. He had stumbled into her room at midnight, drunk. After crawling into her bed, he laid his head in her lap and blurted out the story of how he and Andrew Calder had tried to kill Muriella.

"But do ye know," he had said, gripping her hand, "I was glad when I saw her come back unharmed. I didn't want to hurt the lass, not really. Do ye believe me?" He had peered at her through the darkness, waiting anxiously for her response.

She remembered the feel of his curls beneath her fingers as she answered, "Aye, I believe ye."

"Are ye certain?" He had pulled himself up beside her so he could look into her eyes. "'Tis all right, then?"

Cupping his face in her hands, she had whispered, "'Tis all right."

He had come to her like a child asking forgiveness. Most of the time he ignored her, or hated her, but she did not think of leaving him, even when her father had begged her to. Because sometimes Maclean would place himself in her hands, as he had that night, and with his head in her lap, he would pour out his guilt. She knew she would never turn him away; she would comfort him, always, because he needed her.

"Elizabeth," he had told her that night, "I'll never hurt ye. No' the way I hurt Anne."

"Hush," she had reassured him. "'Twas no' yer fault. And I know ye won't hurt me. Hush." She had run her fingers through his hair, wrapping her other arm about his shoulders, and he was silent. As always, he believed her. He had fallen asleep with his head on her breast.

"Elizabeth?"

She was surprised after all when her husband entered the room. She had not heard the latch move. Peering toward the open door, she realized the light from the single candle on the bedside table didn't reach the shadows where he stood.

"Elizabeth, I—shall I go away?"

She found him at last through the gloom and smiled, shaking her head. She knew he would leave her if she asked him. When he came to her like this, he seemed to lose his own authority, even his ability to decide. "Come," she murmured. "Will ye have some wine?"

His sigh of relief was almost palpable. He moved toward the bed very slowly, more slowly than usual, she thought. But of course, he had never been so badly beaten before. Watching her as if she might change her mind at any minute, he turned back the covers and slid into bed.

"Ye must hate me," he said, sitting on the far side of the mattress.

"Ye know I don't," Elizabeth asserted.

He could not meet her eyes. "Evan does. Evan thinks me a fool."

Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers. His fingers were cold. "Then Evan is a fool," she said. "I love ye. Ye know that."

He turned, his eyes burning, wild. He crouched before her as if she might strike him. "No," he declared. "Ye must not love me!"

"Isn't that why ye're here, Lachlan? Because ye know exactly how I care for ye?"

"Aye," he choked just above a whisper. Once again he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, but finally he moved closer, sliding his arms around her waist. "Elizabeth!" he cried, "ye'll hate me in the end. Even ye!"

"No," she repeated. "Never." Drawing the covers over him, she cradled him in her arms. He was shaking.

"I killed her, ye ken. I killed my Anne."

Elizabeth flinched. So it was Anne already. Usually it was early morning before the memories of his dead betrothed began to eat away at him. "'Twas my father's men who killed her, no’ ye. Ye were only trying to protect her." How many times had she said those same words? How many more would she have to do so before he believed her?

"No, 'twas me. I told her to go. Dear God in heaven, I let her go!"

He moaned and she could feel his hot breath through her thin night rail. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, "Elizabeth," he murmured as he moved his hand over her thigh, "do ye want me tonight?"

"Aye."

He looked up as he slid his fingers beneath her gown, trailing them over the bare skin of her stomach and higher, to the curve of her breast. "Are ye certain?"

She nodded, fumbling with the strings of her night rail while his lips met hers. Her head went back and she shivered with pleasure when his moist tongue slipped between her lips. The soft, insistent pressure of his mouth, the movement of his hands upon her body, created a melting warmth inside her that spread through her limbs like the last traces of wine. Deliberately, her husband drew the gown from her shoulders, exposing her breasts, tantalizing her with the languid tracings of his fingers along her naked shoulders.

"Lachlan," she whispered huskily, "please."

He cupped her breasts in his warm palms, ran his tongue along her nipple, making tiny circles on the soft pink flesh. Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth slid down until she lay flat on the bed with her husband stretched out above her. He hovered there for a moment, not daring to breathe, then lowered his body onto hers. She closed her eyes.

All at once, his hands trembled violently, so violently that the tremors seemed to spread through the rest of his body. He dug his fingers into her back, unaware of her shudder of pain as his nails pierced her skin.

"Lachlan!" she cried. "What is it?" Elizabeth tried to push her husband away, but he was too strong and she found she could not stop him.

Maclean entered her roughly, pressing her head into the pillows, covering her mouth with his until she thought she would suffocate. For several moments he twisted above her, heaving. Then he collapsed, rolling halfway off her.

His head lay on her breast and she felt clammy where his skin touched hers. His face was wet; she realized with dismay that he was weeping.

"Elizabeth!" he shuddered. "Forgive me! I shouldn't have let ye go. She's dead, ye know. Anne's dead." He was clinging to her, his fingers bruising her flesh.

"Please," he gasped, "I beg ye, forgive me. I could do nothing else. Do ye believe me?" He looked up, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. "Please."

She hesitated, too bewildered by his behavior to find her voice. Then she realized that he needed her now more than ever. She could not fail him merely because she did not understand. Closing her arms around him, she drew her husband near. His head fell against her shoulder while the tears ran down her neck and across her chest. She reached out to touch his hair with her fingertips. "Hush," she whispered. "I love ye, Lachlan. I forgive ye."

"But Anne," he mumbled into her hair, "and ye. I betrayed ye—both of ye."

"No, ye betrayed no one. Sleep," she soothed. "Go to sleep."

Chapter 29

The wan morning sun filtered through the windows of the solar but did not quite reach Muriella where she sat at the loom, her fingers flying. The second panel of her Loch Awe tapestry was nearly complete, and as she worked, she lost herself in the wonder of the pattern she was weaving with the soft wool thread. In the center of the panel, the blond woman knelt beside the raging stream, her mouth open in a silent cry of terror, the flowers askew on her head, her hair trailing over the water. Behind her, the valley had begun to disappear beneath the rising river; within the blue and white flow of the water, the chimerical figures of the Kelpies laughed in triumph.

As she gazed at the loom, brow furrowed, a shadow seemed to fall across the image. Something was wrong—something that had nothing to do with John or his anger or her own growing dread. The water seemed to move, to swell beneath her hands. Gasping, she snatched her fingers away. She did not want to know. At last the fabric grew still and the pounding of her heart ceased.

She could not so easily escape her own thoughts. She had dreamt of Hugh again last night, had teased him, run from him, and finally, fallen laughing into his arms. But when she awoke to the watery dawn, the laughter had died in her. Now her own words sounded in her head again and again. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye!

Muriella closed her eyes to shut out the memory, but it would not go. She should not have said it, she knew, but she had been powerless in that moment. She had wanted to hurt John as much as he had hurt her. She rested her fingers on the lacery of colored threads. Surely it was fear and anger that had made her speak, not the dull ache of betrayal. And yet—

"Megan?" she said.

The servant raised her head from the gown she was hemming. "Aye?" Her gaze was full of compassion and concern.

"I must go to him."

Megan blinked at Muriella in astonishment. She had seen the thunderous expression on Sir John's face this morning, heard the vehemence with which he cursed at any small annoyance, and the servant knew without a doubt that his wife was the cause. As the evening passed, while Megan cooled the fierce redness of Muriella's cheek with a wet cloth, her mistress had told her of the confrontation in the hall. The servant shivered even now, with the warmth of the fire at her back, when she remembered the words Muriella had spoken. "I don't think 'twould be wise just now. He isn't in a pleasant frame o' mind."

"No," Muriella agreed, "nor is he likely to be. But he's my husband and I can't avoid him forever."

Megan could not argue with that, but still she was uneasy. "What will ye say?"

Focusing once again on the colors of the tapestry, Muriella considered her answer. The humiliation she had felt when John struck her before the men had been deep, but sometime during the night it had slipped away. She had realized eventually that she had left her husband with no other choice. "I don't know," she told Megan. "I only know I have to go."

"Well then, go ye must." But as her mistress rose, smoothed out her pale green gown, and started for the door, Megan closed her eyes and crossed herself in a silent prayer.

In the music room, John slouched down, one leg slung over the arm of a bowed chair. His casual posture belied the turbulence inside him. He strummed a clareschaw sporadically, but the notes were harsh and discordant to his sensitive ears. He stared into the cold, gray ashes of the lifeless fire that bore no resemblance to the blaze in the Great Hall the day before. That fire had burned too bright and hot, illuminating Muriella with brilliance, searing her shouted curse into the ancient stone.

John gripped the harp too tightly, nearly snapping a fragile string. He’d had to strike her. She had left him no choice. Had she shrieked such things at him in private, he might have let them pass, but not in the Great Hall with everyone watching.

"Ye did the right thing," Duncan had admitted reluctantly later, when John sat morose and silent in his chamber. The right thing. Yes.

Why then could he still feel the sting in his hand, sharp as an accusation?

He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the awful silence filled with the sound of Muriella's ringing curse. He remembered too her flushed face and glittering eyes, the long wet hair he had wrapped around his palm. The night before, such thoughts had made his anger flare hotly, dangerously. But now he had had time to think, and what should have been rage had turned to confusion.

Muriella had behaved like a madwoman, but since the rain had gone, and with it the darkness, John had begun to wonder why. He could hear clearly the rasp of her ragged breath, see the unnatural color in her cheeks. She had been deeply overwrought before she entered the keep. What could have happened to make her so distraught, to force her into betraying her pain by shouting foolish threats and demands?

The questions had been haunting him the night through; his righteous anger had been no defense against them. Like it or not, he was troubled by her distress. He raked his fingers across the strings of the clareschaw, making a cacophony of strident notes that did not cover the rustle of skirts.

John turned to stare in astonishment at his wife, who hovered just inside the door. He had not expected to see her today, was shocked to realize from her white braided fingers and wary expression that she had sought him out. She was pale this morning; the flush of yesterday's fire had left her cheeks. In spite of himself, John wanted to speak softly, to ask her what was wrong. But there were things he must make clear.

"So," he said with difficulty, "ye've come after all."

Muriella swallowed dryly. Now that she was here, now that John's stark blue eyes were fixed upon her, she could not find her voice. "Aye," she croaked.

Frowning, her husband looked away to regard the cold ashes in the fireplace. He was touched by her uncertainty and could not let her see it. With an effort of will, he turned with a face of stone. "Ye won't speak to me that way before the men. Not ever again, do ye understand?" He said what he must say, not what he wished to say. He could not allow her to challenge him, defy him, even curse him. The men would lose their respect for him as quickly as he lost his own. Nor could he let her frighten them with her predictions of disaster. They were too willing to believe.

Muriella did not answer, but the little color that remained had fled her cheeks, leaving them sallow. Against all reason, John wanted to drop the clarecshaw—and his stern demeanor—and hold her. He wanted to take the darkness from her eyes, to understand. He rose stiffly, eyes on her pallid face.

When he spoke again, his voice was gruff, but he could not bring the coldness back. "Listen to me. Ye're my wife and must do as I say."

Muriella knew he was right, but that did not stop the rush of helpless anger. John leaned closer, put his hands on her shoulders. Though she could feel his cool breath on her cheek, she did not lower her eyes or back away. She had come to make things right, but she did not know how, and John's searching gaze did not make it any easier.

"Do ye hear me?"

"I hear." She licked dry lips. "I didn't mean—what I said. 'Twill no’ happen again." They were the hardest words she had ever spoken.

John released her abruptly. He had expected her to scream at him, to fight, to deny what he knew to be true. Her acquiescence unnerved him, made him regret yet again that he could not simply take her in his arms and comfort her. Even if she had not intended to curse him, she had done so. Not for a moment, since she'd left him the day before, had he escaped the image of her arresting face. She had hovered in the light of the torches, in the shadows, in the deepest part of night, taunting him, always just beyond his reach. "Why did ye do it?" he asked softly. "Whatever were ye thinking of?"

Then, as now, she had been thinking of how her husband looked in the shadows with the light playing over his body. She had been thinking of Mary, with her long black hair, who lay moaning at his feet. Muriella bit her lip until she thought the blood would come. She turned away so John would not see her face.

"Are ye ashamed to look at me?" he asked.

She whirled. "No! I've already seen enough," she cried. "I saw ye!"

Her husband stared at her in astonishment. "Ye saw what? I don't understand."

She closed her mouth, determined not to say more, but it didn't matter. John had remembered something. Mary thought she heard someone in the hall yesterday. He had taken her to the deserted tunnels because it added spice to their lovemaking and because he did not believe, like Colin, in flaunting his women before all who cared to watch. He had laughed at her nervous assertion that someone was nearby. No one went into those passageways anymore, he had told her. No one but his wife, it appeared.

"'Tis unfortunate," he said. "I took her there so ye wouldn't see."

Now he pitied her; she could hear it in his voice. She wanted to move away, but he had taken her hand. Was he waiting for her forgiveness? No. He was sorry she had seen it, not sorry it had happened.

"Let me go!" she demanded.

John's eyes widened. He had hurt her; he could see that. But how? Surely she didn't care that he had other women. She had made it clear enough that she did not want him. But that had been a long time ago. He met her gaze and held it, leaning forward until he could feel the warmth of her body beneath his hands. She was driving him mad; she would give him no peace. Overcome by a need so fierce it burned away the memory of the terror he had once seen in her eyes, he slipped his arms around his wife to draw her close. Before she could turn her head away, he kissed her.

For a moment she stood still, shocked by the heat of his lips on hers, by the pressure of his arms around her waist. She tried to cry out, but he slipped his tongue between her lips, circling the moist inside of her mouth until he forced the breath from her body. She was too surprised to be afraid, and when she put her hands on his chest to push him away, her fingers curved inward, seeking instinctively the dark hair beneath his saffron shirt. Her heart was beating quickly and more quickly; she could feel his hands on her back, drawing her closer while his lips demanded a response.

When she did not pull away, John felt a rush of triumph and began to caress her more boldly. He would learn to know her with his fingertips, make her safe and familiar. Then he could banish her haunting image from his dreams. It was what he had wanted to do since he saw her standing before the fire, damp and lovely, bringing with her the refreshing fragrance of the rain. Carried away by the scent of her hair and the feel of her soft body, he caught his fingers in her curls and pulled her head back with sudden impatience.

When he felt a tremor shake her as he ran his thumb over her breast, he forgot his anger. Nothing seemed to matter but the way she trembled in his arms, the way her mouth opened to his, the longing he sensed somewhere deep within her. It was the first time she had yielded to his touch, the first time she had answered him with warmth instead of coldness. Dear God, she was a witch indeed to make him forget what had gone before. He wanted her, he realized, with an intensity that frightened him.

Fired by his own rising hunger, John slid his hand over the front of Muriella's gown. He brushed the skin at the low-cut neckline with his fingertips, then reached down to cup her breast in his open palm. Muriella felt her knees grow weak as a strange warmth grew inside her, spreading through her limbs until no part of her remained untouched. The sudden, devastating need that shook her set her head spinning, and she realized she was falling, falling down into the darkness. The water swirled at her ankles, her waist, her shoulders, cold and forbidding. She fought the rushing foam, choking and gasping in an attempt to find some air. Then her body slipped away and it was someone else who fought the sea for one last breath.

"No!" she cried, forcing the image back into the darkness. But the cold terror would not go.

Muriella began to struggle furiously against the arms that held her, while the sweat broke out on her body and the room spun madly. "Dear God, no!"

The cry was wrenched from her with a force that chilled John. Not again, he cursed under his breath. Not now. Then he looked into his wife's pallid face, saw the frenzied expression in her eyes, and realized it was not he she was fighting against. "Tell me what ye're so afraid of," he demanded, above the sound of his own ragged breathing. "Ye can't keep running forever."

Muriella's feet were made of lead. She could not escape the confusion of emotions that swirled around her, caught up in the menacing rise and fall of the water. "No!" she repeated, as if that single word could keep the Sight at bay. "I don't want to know."

John took her shoulders in his hands and forced her to look up at him. "Know what?" he demanded. "What's happening to ye?"

He found himself looking into the blank, staring eyes he remembered so well. "Ye've seen something. Tell me what it is."

She was cold, so still and cold and distant that he thought she might never come back to him. Then the trembling began. He gripped her more tightly. "Tell me," he repeated.

Muriella was lost in an angry sea, but this time it was not she who was being sucked down into the cold black depths. The pressure of John's hands on her shoulders called to her, forcing her upward, away from the vision of the figure struggling frantically through the storm-ravaged ocean. She gazed at her husband with her dark hollow eyes, her lips moved once or twice, then she reached up, pressing her palms to his chest in a wordless plea. "Elizabeth is in danger," she gasped. "The water will rise. Ye must find her!"

* * *

Richard and Andrew Campbell smiled with contentment at the pile of fish lying in the bottom of their boat. The catch had been good today, and they were pleased with themselves. They had planned to stay out all afternoon, but the sky was lowering overhead. They decided it would be prudent to return to shore.

As they rowed, Richard sang gustily, his deep voice rolling out over the choppy water.

I've heard them liltin' at the ewe's milkin',

For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.

The wind was creeping inside his damp cloak. He rowed harder as the drops began to fall from overhead.

"We'd best get back to the keep before gloamin'," Andrew remarked. "Besides, the water looks none too friendly to our little boat."

Richard nodded, continuing his song with even more enthusiasm.

I ride single in my saddle,

For the Flowers o' the Forrest are a'wede awa'.

"Ye'd be likely to have yer own saddle to ride in, ye fool," Andrew chuckled, dropping one oar for a moment while he drew his hand across his brow. "But we do have the goat Sir John gave ye. Mayhap ye could saddle her and ride her to town." The image of his brother on the decrepit animal's back amused him. "Aye," he chortled, "the goat."

Richard tried to frown but failed miserably. "For shame, Andrew. Yonder is a sad song, ye ken. About the men killed at Flodden. Ye're to grieve when I sing it, not laugh. For shame."

"And do ye say so?" Andrew replied, shaking the raindrops out of his unruly crop of red hair. As he spoke the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the rain began to fall in earnest. "The Kelpies'll be out tonight, ye can bet," he observed in a whisper. Pulling a blanket from under the seat, he draped it over his already soaking hair.

"Now, laddie." Richard let the oars lie idle while he squinted through the downpour. "Yon rock is lookin' mighty odd. 'Tis like there's somethin' that doesn't belong there."

Andrew shook his head. "'Tis the water crept into yer noggin, man. Likely the Kelpies mean to lure us there and eat us for supper."

Richard chuckled uneasily. "I don't like it," he insisted. "Look for yerself."

Swiveling on his seat, Andrew cupped his hand over his eyes. "I believe ye're right for once," he agreed. "'Tis mighty odd. Looks like a person, ye ken?"

"Aye, just as I thought. And we'd best go see what he's doin' out there with the water risin' all around."

"Now, Richard, my boy, 'tis no' our concern. Ye know Jennie'll be waitin' our supper."

"Andrew Campbell, 'tis no natural, I tell ye. Somethin's amiss, and if we leave it, 'twill gnaw at me the night through." As he spoke, he turned the boat toward the long narrow rock that rose from the sea between the island of Mull and the shore. The tide was rising of its own and the storm had churned the water about so the rock was nearly buried. The closer the boat came, the more uneasy Richard felt.

Andrew rowed in silence, his face creased in a frown of discontent.

"By God!" Richard half rose from his seat. "'Tis a woman!"

Andrew followed his brother's gaze. As the boat drew near the dark outcropping, the brothers turned to gape at each other in disbelief. "She's chained!" Andrew blurted, his voice disappearing into the roar of the angry sea. "Chained to a rock in the middle of the channel. Holy Mother of God!"

For a moment, neither moved; then Richard began to feel under his bench until his hand closed on a heavy piece of iron. "We'll have to get her down, ye ken. We can't leave her like that."

Andrew nodded in reluctant agreement.

"If ye can hold the boat steady, I'll swing over and break the chains. Throw the rope on yonder smaller boulder. That'll keep her still enough."

While Andrew fumbled with the rope, Richard slipped into the icy water.

"Likely we'll both die of the ague," Andrew muttered.

His brother swam to the edge of the flat, jagged rock and gripped it in rigid fingers. As he stopped to catch his breath, he could feel the rusted chain beneath his hand. "'Tis old," he mumbled, "but still, it won't be easy to break." Hoisting himself out of the water, he climbed up beside the woman, who looked beyond him, her expression blank. Her hair straggled across her face and down her back. The water slid from it in sheets. Richard tried to smile reassuringly, but was too horrified to do more than grimace.

He saw that the chains circled her waist several times, then trailed down the rock. Meticulously, he followed the uneven pattern of the chain across the stone until he found the far end wrapped around a jutting piece of boulder near the waterline. It did not occur to him to speak to her; he only knew he had to work to do. Without a word, he began to strike a heavily rusted link with his iron tool.

Andrew's grumbling voice came to him from the water. "Can't ye hurry, man? Would ye have us all drown while ye tinker the day awa'?"

Richard grunted in reply. He could feel the link beginning to give way and struck harder. Finally he grinned in triumph. "'Tis done," he called down to his brother.

The woman did not move while he unwound the chain from her waist. When he pulled her free, she collapsed against him, as if the rusted links had been her only support.

"There," he muttered in embarrassment. "There now. Ye'll be safe enough with us, ye will."

The woman did not respond. She followed his directions numbly, crawling along the boulder and dropping into the water alongside the boat. Richard slid down beside her, guiding her to a firm handhold on the rocking boat. "Ye'll have to help me, Andrew. We'd no' want the whole thing to tip, and she doesn't seem able to balance herself. Feverish, I think, and no wonder." He glanced back at the rock and shuddered. "What kind of person would do such to another?"

"Save it, Brother. We've business to attend to."

"Aye, just as ye say."

Andrew pulled from above while his brother pushed from below until the woman lay safely beside the fish in the bottom of the boat. Richard followed her quickly, glad to be out of the icy sea.

"Shall I give her the blanket?" Andrew asked as his brother took up the oars again. "'Twill no' do her much good; the rain's soaked it through already." Nevertheless, he draped the heavy wool over her huddled form. She did not seem aware that he had done so. He would have thought she was dead if he had not seen the occasional rise and fall of her breathing. "By all the saints!" he exclaimed. "Do ye know who this be?" He shook his head distractedly. "We've gotten ourselves into a bundle of trouble this time."

Richard pulled on the oars, waiting for Andrew to calm down enough to impart his news. "Well," he said at last, "who?"

The younger man leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone might hear. "Elizabeth Campbell Maclean, that's who."

Richard's mouth dropped open. The woman was so bedraggled that he had not recognized her. Or perhaps he had not wanted to. "Holy Mother of God!" He crossed himself, risking the loss of an oar in the turbulent water. He glanced back toward Mull, where Duart Castle was visible through wind and rain and thundering waves.

Richard shuddered. Maclean could quite easily be watching as the sea rose like a living breathing monster to consume his wife. Richard imagined he could feel the Laird of the Clan Maclean's cold gaze upon him now. The chill settled deeper into his bones as the full horror struck him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and low. "'Tis naught but a lot of sorrow will come of this day's work, and no mistake."

The sea echoed his grim despair as it battered the walls of stone that protected Duart Castle.

Chapter 30

As the door to the Great Hall swung open, everyone turned to stare expectantly at the man who stood on the threshold. "There be a storm brewin' and it looks to be a mighty one." Adam Campbell paused when he became aware of the number of people watching him. Seeking out John where he sat near the hearth, the man added, "I thought ye should know, m'lord. 'Tis only the storm I came to warn ye about."

John ran his fingers over the strings of his harp. "Thank ye," he said. Though his tone was impassive, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed his unease.

Adam half bowed, then left the hall, swinging the door closed behind him. The men scattered through the drafty room turned away in disappointment. Their dinner had long been cleared away, but they showed no signs of leaving their seats. Now and again, one or the other glanced at Muriella, who sat with her back to the stone fireplace, then, afraid to meet her gaze, quickly looked away. They were waiting, as was John, for news of Elizabeth.

Three hours before, they had been laughing and recounting their successes against the defeated rebels, when John had come down the stairs with his wife, shouting that the men were to form groups to go in search of Elizabeth.

"Sim," he had cried, "take ten men and cross to Duart. David, ye—"

Muriella had taken his arm and he had fallen silent.

"They won't find her at Duart," she murmured. "They must look in the water."

John heard the men gasp, but it had sounded far away. He considered his wife's face for a long time before asking, "Are ye certain?"

"Aye," she said.

Sim and the others had not gone to Duart. Those who stayed behind were very conscious of Muriella's presence. They had guessed that the sudden search for Elizabeth had come about because of one of the mistress's visions, but that was something they did not wish to think about.

John and Duncan had played their harps off and on while the hours crawled by. More than once, John found himself wondering why he had chosen to stay at the keep instead of joining the men for the search. The inaction, the minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, were wearing his nerves away. But still he had not gone after the others; he did not want to leave Muriella.

To keep himself occupied, he had taken up his harp and begun to play along with his squire. At first the two had attempted cheerful songs, but soon their music began to reflect the lowering sky beyond the windows.

Muriella sat across the hearth, watching her husband as he strummed the mournful notes. When he and Duncan began to sing together, her thoughts turned back to where they had hovered for the past three hours—in the sea.

Round the old crags of Arthur's Hill,

The tearful mists are slowly creeping

As dawns the morn, so sadly still,

Dunedin's, Scotland's day of weeping.

Her mind painted pictures of Elizabeth being tossed about in the waves, her hair streaming over the gray green water, her body wrapped in chains. Once John had held Muriella by the shoulders, asking, "Will she die?" His wife had answered, "I don't know."

Far murmurs from the city rise,

Of wild distraction, mingled cries

Of wailing and of fear.

Outside the storm was rising; she could hear the rain falling in the courtyard, pounding on the cobblestones. The wind raced above the castle, screaming across to the sea.

Frequent and fast the war-bell tolls,

And up the misty mountain rolls

Its burthen on the ear,

O'er ferny hollow, loch and lea

Replying to the moaning sea.

The water was roiling, crashing against the cliff at the foot of the keep where the seabirds cried their warning. From the heart of Duart, Muriella sensed a bewildered grief that betrayed itself through strangled moans, but that was not Elizabeth. The song ended and Muriella forced her thoughts back to the reality of cold stone all around. She leaned forward to find John watching her. As they stared at each other, afraid to speak, they heard noises in the courtyard.

Dropping his harp, John leapt from his place to move toward the entryway. Muriella was not far behind. As the door opened for the second time, Richard and Andrew came into the hall with a long, gray burden in their arms. Both were sodden to the skin. When Richard saw John, he said, "We heard ye're lookin' for yer sister, m'lord. Andrew and me, we found her."

John and Muriella stared at the bundle the men carried. Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket so only her hair was visible; it fell, dripping, from one end. John focused on Richard's sallow face, framed by dark red hair. "Is she dead?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Och no!" His hair clinging like seaweed to his freckled face, Andrew answered before his brother could speak. "At least, no' yet. But she's gey ill, or so Richard tells me."

His older brother nodded. "'Twas a terrible thing the two of us saw. Thought we were daft or bewitched. But no, there she was for all the world to see, chained to a rock in the channel."

"What!" The single word seemed to fill the hall before John clenched his jaw shut.

When she saw how her husband's cheeks flushed red, how dangerously his eyes glittered, Muriella forced herself into action. She moved forward, turning back the blanket so she could see Elizabeth's face. Pressing her cheek against her sister-in-law's forehead, she drew a deep breath of concern. She turned to call for servants and found Megan and Mary at her elbow. Glancing at John, she told him, "She's feverish. We'd best put her to bed."

"Aye," her husband agreed. "Take her!"

Megan and Mary lifted Elizabeth's unconscious form from the two men. With Muriella following, the three women began to move across the hall to the stairs.

As they went, Richard declared behind them, "The water was risin', ye ken. If we'd been a bit later—"

* * *

For the next several hours, Muriella was busy sponging the salt and seaweed from Elizabeth's body, placing cool cloths on her forehead, and attempting to pour warm wine down her throat. She had long ago despaired of getting rid of the smell of fish that clung to Elizabeth's hair. Muriella had dismissed Mary as soon as her sister-in-law lay shivering on the bed. Now Megan worked beside her, alternately building up the fire and bending over the table to mix herbs together and stir them into the wine. Despite all their efforts, Elizabeth remained unconscious and unmoving.

"She's very ill, m'lady," Megan whispered, as if already in the presence of the dead.

Muriella nodded absently. "Aye, help me with the poultice, can ye?"

Megan lifted the reeking cloth from the bowl while Muriella opened Elizabeth's night rail and held it aside. When the poultice was in place, she stood staring at her sister-in-law's face. A moment ago it had been deep red and the sweat had stood along her forehead, dripping down into her hair, but now the skin was chalk white and clammy cool.

"M'lady, ye'd best sit down for a bit. There's nothing more ye can do just now."

Her mistress pulled a chair near the bed and sank into it, but did not remove her gaze from Elizabeth's face. The woman's mouth was open; Muriella could hear her breath as it struggled up from her throat and over her parched lips. Sometimes Elizabeth would gasp and choke, but then her breathing would settle again. Muriella was painfully aware of the increasing sound of congestion in her sister-in-law's chest. As she listened in dread, the smell of Megan's herbs began to make her head ache. When the servant placed a glass of wine in her hand, Muriella drank it wordlessly.

Just as she finished the warm drink, Elizabeth moved for the first time. She twisted on the bed, dislodging the poultice and flinging aside the cloth from her forehead.

Muriella sprang to her feet. Taking Elizabeth's hand in hers, she leaned forward, listening. Her sister-in-law moaned, running her other hand over her body at the waist. Muriella caught Megan's eye and winced. Both women had seen the bruises and abrasions made by the chains. The servant grasped Elizabeth's hand and held it tightly.

For a long time, she rolled about, attempting to free her hands and moaning, but did not open her eyes. Then she sat up, crying, "Lachlan!"

Muriella and Megan pushed her gently back until she lay among the pillows. This time they did not look at each other. Both knew it must have been her husband who had chained Elizabeth to the rock, yet she was calling for him.

"Shall I bring Sir John?" Megan asked.

"No!" Muriella said. Then, "Aye, bring him."

When Megan had gone, Muriella poured some of the medicated wine into a goblet and held it out to Elizabeth, who lay staring up at the canopy overhead. "Elizabeth, ye must drink this."

"Lachlan," Elizabeth moaned. "Where's Lachlan? I want him." She began to claw at the bruises through her night rail, twisting herself in the linen sheets.

Catching Elizabeth's shoulder, Muriella held her until she was still again. Then she reached for the wine, holding the goblet close to her sister-in-law's lips. Elizabeth gaped at her blankly and Muriella realized that in her delirium, the woman did not know her. "Drink," she urged.

Mechanically, Elizabeth raised her head to swallow some of the wine. Then she knocked the goblet from Muriella's hand. The liquid spread over the sheets, staining them red. Elizabeth began to cough and sob simultaneously while the breath rasped in her throat and sobs wracked her body, causing her to double up. And all the time she wailed her husband's name.

Muriella did not hear John come up behind her, but all at once he reached out, clasping Elizabeth's legs. While Muriella held his sister's shoulders, John straightened her legs, then pulled the heavy furs back over her. Megan brought more wine, and although Elizabeth turned her head away again and again, the servant finally managed to get her to drink.

When the wine was gone, John nodded once to Megan and she slipped away. Elizabeth was coughing again, gasping incoherent phrases. But at last the coughing fit passed and she fell silent.

When John looked down at his sister, he felt a tightening in his chest. Her hair was matted; it straggled across the pillow in disorder, except where a strand or two clung to her cheek. Her eyes were yellow, then gray, then the color seemed to fade altogether. The skin was stretched over her bones so it appeared transparent but for the furious red that came and went in her cheeks. Her breathing was slow and labored and the color had been bleached from her lips. She's dying, he thought. When he looked up, Muriella was watching him, her own eyes gray in the firelight. "Has she told ye aught?" he asked.

His wife shook her head.

"We have to know. I'll have to ask her."

Muriella nodded reluctantly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's forehead in a protective gesture.

Taking both his sister's hands, John murmured, "Elizabeth, ye must tell me who did this to ye."

Elizabeth turned her head from side to side. John was not certain she had understood him. "Elizabeth," he repeated slowly, "who?"

"He didn't know. He couldn't have known!" his sister cried. "No, 'twas the other two."

"What two?"

"Strangers!" Elizabeth gasped. "Never knew them. Never!"

"No? Are ye certain of that? Ye'd never seen them at Duart?" John persisted.

"At Duart," Elizabeth said as if the idea were new to her. "Aye, at Duart, every day."

John leaned down until he could feel his sister's breath on his face. "Then they were yer husband's servants, weren't they?"

Elizabeth looked away. "Aye, they were, but Lachlan didn't know their plans. I swear it."

John shook his head. "Do ye think," he said, "do ye really believe two servants would do such a thing without their master's consent?"

Elizabeth was weeping. "I love him," she cried. "He wouldn't—I love him!" Her voice faded as she began to writhe again.

John stared, too appalled to speak, afraid he might choke on the revulsion that had lodged in his throat. His hands opened and closed convulsively about Elizabeth's neck. For an instant, he wanted to crush her voice with the weight of his fists so he need never again hear her anguished cry—I love him!

Muriella saw John clench and unclench his hands. Too frightened to think clearly, she leapt in front of him so her body shielded Elizabeth from his gaze. "No!" she cried, pounding her fists against his chest. "Leave her be!"

Gradually, John became aware of the pain in his chest, of the weight of his wife's body pressed against his. As Muriella's face came into focus, the blood ceased its fierce pounding in his head and the tension began to drain out of him. He could not look at Elizabeth's face, gray and bloodless on the pale linen sheets; he could not bear to. Grasping Muriella's flailing fists in his hands, he tried to move her aside, but she would not go.

"I told ye to leave her be!"

"Listen to me," John said. "I won't hurt her. My sister is safe now," he added, "from all of us." Then, releasing his wife, he turned to leave the room.

All at once, Muriella was too weak to stand. She sighed raggedly as she sank onto the bed next to her sister-in-law. Reaching out to touch the other woman's cheek, she saw how her fingers shook and drew them back within the folds of her gown. Elizabeth's eyes were once again dark with fever. Perhaps, in her delirium, she had not seen the way her brother's hands hovered threateningly above her. Perhaps she had not seen the violence in his eyes. Muriella could only pray it was so.

When her body stopped shaking at last, she rose, found the cloth Elizabeth had tossed aside, and dipped it in a basin of cool water. Gently, she pressed the cloth to her sister-in-law's forehead, then her flushed cheeks and throat. Muriella knew Elizabeth was not aware of her ministrations, but she had to do something. She had to try to keep her sister-in-law alive, though she feared it was already too late.

She forgot about the passage of time or the chill of the room or the aches in her own limbs as she sponged Elizabeth's body again and again. Muriella moved from the basin to the bed and back again, stopping only to replace the poultice, straighten the crumpled sheets, or give Elizabeth a sip of wine. She heard someone enter the room behind her, but assumed it was Megan and did not look up from her self-imposed task.

"Muriella."

She stiffened at the sound of John's voice.

"Ye look too weary to stand anymore. Ye'd best sit down for a bit."

"Not till the fever breaks," she told him, glancing over her shoulder at her husband where he leaned against the wall. He looked weary too, as if he needed the support of the stone to hold him upright, but she could not think about that now. She had just rinsed the cloth in her hand, but already it had grown warm from the heat that raged through Elizabeth's body. With a sigh, she dipped it in the water and began her task all over again.

John watched his wife work tirelessly until exhaustion drained the color from her face. He wanted to help, but sensed she would not let him near. He wondered, as he watched her push the damp hair back from Elizabeth's eyes, if she was not wise. Yet something held him there—watching, waiting, helpless in the face of his sister's pain.

He contemplated his wife's competent, gentle hands as she pressed cool cloths to Elizabeth's forehead. She worked intently, giving her kindness and the last of her own dwindling strength.

Muriella moved more and more slowly, dragging her feet through the scattered rushes. Her breathing became labored and she began to think that to lift her arms once more would be an agony too great to bear. When she stumbled, John was beside her in an instant, supporting her sagging shoulders with the strength of his arm. "Ye must stop. There are servants to do this. Besides, she doesn't even know ye're here."

With an effort, his wife straightened. "She knows," Muriella told him softly, "but even if she didn't, I'd stay. If I can't save her, then I can't, but I don't mean to let her die, even if 'tis what ye wish."

Appalled, John turned her to face him. "Ye can't believe that."

"Are ye forgetting so soon? I saw how ye looked at her. I know—"

"'Twas only a momentary madness," he said grimly. "She's a Campbell, and my sister; I don't wish her ill."

Muriella heard the pain in his voice and knew he spoke the truth. "Please," she said wearily, "I must see to her." When she tried to move away, her knees buckled and she started to fall.

John caught her in his arms and carried her to the low chest against the wall. Seating himself with his back to the cold stone, he settled his wife in his lap. "When ye've rested," he said. "'Twill no' help Elizabeth if ye make yerself ill too."

"Ye don't understand," she whispered. "'Tis all my fault."

John stared at her, bewildered. "How—" Then he remembered. Look at me while ye fall—ye and yer women and all yer men with ye! With his hand under her chin he forced her to meet his eyes. "No, Muriella. Even ye don't have that kind of power."

How could he be so certain, Muriella thought, when he had never felt the force of the Sight that destroyed in an instant her strength and her will? Yet she wanted to believe him, wanted to abandon her fears, her remorse, and give herself to the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart. When she rubbed her arms to start the blood flowing through her limbs again, John drew her closer, running his hands over her body, hoping his warmth would chase away the chill from her skin. For a long time he was silent while she sat tensely, staring into the fire across the room.

The smell of herbs and wine hung heavy in the air. Muriella breathed the fumes and felt them running through her blood. She could not seem to move; the rise and fall of her husband's breath was so soothing. At last she succumbed to her exhaustion and rested her head on John's shoulder. His circling touch warmed her, frightened her, disturbed her, but she was tired. Too tired to break away.

Drawn by a need she could not explain, she looked up at John's face. Its harsh lines had been softened by his own weariness and the firelight that dimmed the bright blue of his eyes. She reached up to touch the springy, dark curls of his beard, and he smiled. Muriella trailed her fingers down his throat to his shoulder, rested her palm above the hypnotic pulse of his heart. Could this man with the comforting hands be the same one who had stood above his sister with murder in his eyes? Before she had a chance to grasp the thought, it swirled away, absorbed by the mist that clouded her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she let the mist enfold her until she drifted into sleep.

* * *

Lachlan Maclean spread the parchment on the table, pressing out the creases with careful fingers. Pulling the lamp closer, he stared at the letters until they ceased roving across the page and fell into words and sentences. "31 January, 1514," he read aloud for the third time. With a great deal of resolution, he forced himself to read further.

Lachlan Maclean

Laird of the Clan Maclean

My Lord,

Yer wife Elizabeth died yesterday, early in the morning. She was delirious with fever for three days before her passing. Her body lies in state at Kilchurn, where she will be buried in one week's time.

Sir John Campbell of Lorne,

Thane of Cawdor

Maclean rose stiffly, found the steps carved from stone and made his way to the battlements of Duart, the letter clutched in his hand. The wind rose howling and shook him to the bone, twisting his plaid about his shoulders. He stared blindly downward at the deep blue bay, at the mainland, where the force of the wind tortured thick groves of trees. Beneath him, the walls of the castle seemed to be a mere continuation of the stone beneath. Steep castle walls and jagged cliffs towered in sullen contrast to the peaceful heart of the bay. Far below, the waves thrummed ceaselessly against unforgiving stone. Maclean breathed in the throbbing rhythm.

Thus had he stood on the day Elizabeth left him, thus had he heard the wind scream and moan and whip the sea into a frenzy. The long narrow boulder had been obscured by the storm, but still he had imagined he could see her face.

"Elizabeth is dead!" he shouted into the sky. She was gone and he was finally free. The debt he owed his old enemy Argyll had been paid in full. Maclean laughed until the tears ran down his face, until he leaned against the cold gray parapet, his head fell forward, and he wept.

Chapter 31

Twelve Campbell men awaited Maclean at the top of Glen Ara, among them, Richard and Andrew. None of the twelve were armed. It was late afternoon and the sun struck through the leaves, glistening where it met the rain-soaked grass. The trees circled the low, flat area where the Campbells stood; the leaves were so thick they formed a solid ceiling overhead. Some of the men had thrown themselves on the ground. They sprawled in the shade, chewing on blades of grass.

Andrew nudged his brother. "Are ye certain Maclean wanted to claim the body? Seems daft to me. He's walkin' right into our arms. But then, he won't come anyway."

Andrew had been saying the same thing for three days now. Ignoring him, Richard shifted his blue and green plaid beneath him. Despite its protection, he could feel the dampness seeping through from the ground. "He'll come," he told his younger brother. "Mayhap because he can't help himself."

"What do ye mean?"

"Mayhap if the curse is still upon him..." Richard let his voice trail off suggestively.

This time, Andrew did not laugh at his brother's superstition. He too had heard Sir John's wife curse the Campbells; less than a day later, he and his brother had found Elizabeth chained to the rock. He could not deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. Andrew shivered uncontrollably, though the day was mild and warm.

Just then, Adam Campbell stepped out of the trees. "Maclean!" he exclaimed.

The men looked up in astonishment. Pulling his brother to his feet, Richard nodded grimly. "Ye see."

The Campbells formed two rows of six and stood silent, waiting. When Maclean came from among the trees, they saw immediately that his sword hung at his side and his dagger at his belt. A long look passed among them. He had come armed to the funeral supper. All was not as it should be.

As Maclean walked down the center of the aisle they had formed, the Campbells began to move behind him. The Laird of the Clan Maclean pulled nervously at his red-and-green plaid, draping it farther over his shoulder. They were unarmed, he thought. It was not like the Campbells. Most likely they had their daggers hidden in the tops of their boots. It wouldn't surprise him if he discovered a knife in his back. The Campbells had always been cowards.

As they crossed the last hill and the castle came into sight, Maclean wondered once more what insanity had driven him to come here today. For certainly it was insane. He was armed, it was true, but he was one man—one man among a hundred Campbells, and every one of them his enemy. The group paused while the huge iron gate creaked upward. Maclean took a deep breath. He was doing it for Elizabeth, he told himself. He would take her back to Duart and bury her next to Anne.

As he passed through the courtyard, he noticed there was no one about. The place was silent. Too silent. He stopped when he came to the doors that opened onto the Great Hall. Behind him, he could hear the gate closing, dropping with a final thud against the stones.

One of the men moved forward to push open the massive oak doors. The hinges made no sound. Maclean blinked as he stepped inside. For a moment he was blinded by the change from bright sunlight to cool shadow, then his vision began to clear and he saw that the Campbells stood all around him, watching his passage in grim silence. He noted that none of them wore swords. Nevertheless, their hatred of him was palpable. It followed him as he climbed the stairs, turning to the right then the left as the man before him instructed.

"In here, m'lord," Richard said, indicating a door at the end of a hallway. Then he stepped back into the shadows.

Maclean placed his hands on the latch. As his fingers closed around it, he believed his heart was beating so loudly those inside could surely hear it. Except for Elizabeth. She would hear nothing but silence. Blessed silence. He pressed the latch until the door swung open.

The hallway had been dark compared to the room he now entered. Torches burned along the walls and there were candles placed at intervals down the long table that dominated the room. Maclean did not wish to look directly at the bier. Instead, he glanced down the walls on either side of the table. They were lined with Campbell portraits. Beneath each portrait flickered a small candle. Beneath each candle stood a live Campbell in full-dress uniform. Maclean noted the regular gleam of metal at each man's waist. Each had a sword, each a dagger. Each stared before him, looking neither to right nor left, and each had his hand poised above the hilt of his sword.

Maclean swallowed noisily, looking at last down the center of the table. To the left stood Muriella, frozen in time, her face a gray mask. To the right stood John with a dangerous brilliance in his eyes. And at the head of the table sat Elizabeth, staring at her husband unblinking across the hundred candles that separated them.

Chapter 32

Maclean drew in his breath with infinite care. So, he thought, the Campbells were not so foolish after all. He could hear the whisper of metal on metal as the men unsheathed their swords.

"Welcome, my lord." John's mocking voice echoed off the walls, covering the sound of the rising blades on both sides of the table. He removed his hand from his sister's shoulder and started the long walk to the other end of the room where Maclean stood waiting. By the time John reached his brother-in-law, he and all the other Campbells held their swords in their hands. "Welcome," John repeated, "and farewell."

Maclean did not move; there was nowhere he could go. When John raised his sword, the blade flashed in the splintered candlelight.

"No!" Elizabeth screamed.

John paused with his weapon above Maclean's shoulder, glancing back at his sister, who stood leaning heavily on the edge of the table.

"Please!"

Muriella turned to her sister-in-law, but Elizabeth avoided her, dodging past the corner of the table. When she came up beside John, she grasped his arm, digging her nails into his skin. "Johnnie, I beg ye, if ye've ever loved me, let him go!"

"Ye aren't going to tell me again that 'twas no' his fault, are ye?" John spoke quietly, fiercely. "Do ye realize what he's done to ye?"

"Aye," she answered with difficulty. "I know." She did not turn to her husband.

"And still ye would have me set him free?" John's face darkened with fury as a new thought struck him. "Ye won't go back to him, Elizabeth, do ye hear?"

"I know," she whispered. "I know. But I would have ye let him live."

God in heaven, how could she ask this of him? The men would be appalled by such an act of weakness; they would snicker behind his back that Maclean had won after all. But as John looked down into his sister's eyes, he found that he could not deny her. Before he could stop to think, he tossed his sword onto the table and commanded, "Let him go!"

The men did not move at once and John eyed them with impatience. "Put yer weapons away. I said Maclean will go free."

As they sheathed their swords, the men stared at Maclean, who had not moved since Elizabeth first spoke. His hand still clutched the dagger at his waist; he had reached for it instinctively when John drew his weapon. Now Maclean stood frozen, considering his wife's face as if it belonged to a stranger. When she did not meet his gaze, he took a step toward her.

"Go!" John shouted. "Get out before I change my mind and spit ye like a squealing sow!"

Maclean fumbled with the latch on the door, then hurried from the room.

When he had gone, Elizabeth looked up at her brother, still clinging tightly to his arm. "Thank ye, Johnnie," she said.

John found he could not speak. He shook her hands away and strode out the door.

When Maclean came to the head of the stairs, he paused. Below him, the Campbells stood gaping as if he were an apparition. He knew they had expected a bloody corpse; their anger at finding him alive was evident on their faces.

Some of them had drawn their daggers from within their draped plaids. Perhaps he would not make it out of Kilchurn Castle after all.

There was a gasp as all the men released their breaths at once. Maclean looked over his shoulder to find John standing behind him.

"Put the daggers away," John called, his order carrying clearly through the hall. "Maclean goes free." He was not surprised at the expressions of disgust on the faces below him. He felt the same. Every muscle and nerve in his body was poised, ready to strike this man dead at his feet. But Elizabeth had chosen otherwise and he had given his word. He wondered if she would ever know how much that decision had cost him. Schooling his features into a mask of indifference, he preceded Maclean down the staircase.

* * *

Elizabeth stayed where John had left her, staring at the place where her husband had been a moment before. As the others filed from the room, she did not look at their faces. She knew what she would find there—shock, repulsion and pity. She had seen those things in John's eyes, too. The thought brought the pain up from her stomach and into her throat. Fleetingly, she wondered why she had agreed to the ruse at all.

When, against all expectation, she had recovered from her illness, she had been aghast at the magnitude of her husband's betrayal. At first she had been silent, caught up in her own private cycle of horror, recounting to herself over and over the list of Lachlan's transgressions. Then she had begun to laugh, too loudly, remembering the night when he had come to her and wept. She had forgiven him his sin beforehand, she thought. Forgiven him without knowing. In the end, she had screamed at the walls, pacing the floor like a caged animal. But she had not wept.

Then John had come to read her Colin's letter in which the Earl had planned for Maclean's ignominious death. Elizabeth had chosen to cooperate; after all, her husband had long ago forsaken his right to her loyalty. She had really believed she could make it through to the end when he lay dead at her feet. She believed it until the moment she saw him standing at the foot of the table, facing the Campbells alone. Then it had been too much for her and she had broken her resolve, destroyed John's faith in her, and insured her own inevitable misery. All so that Lachlan Maclean could go free.

From far away she heard the wail of the gate as it wrenched upward. Suddenly, she began to run. Unaware of her surroundings, she fled through the halls toward the door of the eastern tower. The latch was stiff, and she hit it with her knuckles again and again until her hand was covered with blood. When at last the rusted latch came loose, she pulled the door open and started up the stairs. She was heading for the window near the top of the tower. Once there, she paused, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest.

As she tried to catch her breath, she examined the sweep of ground below the castle. It was empty. She was afraid he was already gone. Then he came into view; even from where she stood, she could see his head was not bowed. No one would ever guess he was fleeing for his life. She leaned down, gripping the windowsill, knowing she would not see him again. The last of the sunlight struck his red hair, setting it ablaze. As her husband moved into the shadows at the edge of the forest, Elizabeth knelt in the darkness with her head pressed against the unfriendly stone.

* * *

Muriella found her sister-in-law standing at the highest window in the eastern tower, staring in silence. The young woman approached quietly, placing her hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Elizabeth."

"Leave me be."

The chill of her sister-in-law’s skin shocked Muriella. "Ye must come away. Ye'll be ill again if ye don't get warm."

"No." Elizabeth continued to stare out the window. "I won't come away, for I mislike the stairs. Mayhap I'll find another way down."

"Elizabeth—" Muriella could not think clearly. She had spent the last hour sitting in her room, struggling against the compassion and dread, pity and repulsion that warred within her. Even Megan had been shocked into silence. Yet whatever her feelings, Muriella had known she must find Elizabeth; she was certain her sister-in-law was in need of company. But she had not expected this wooden expression, this pair of gray and lifeless eyes.

Under her breath, she cursed John for listening to Colin. She had known how hard it would be for Elizabeth to sit and watch her husband die, had told John the Earl's plan was cruel beyond words. But he had not listened; his hatred for his enemy had been stronger than his compassion for his sister, at least until the end.

Muriella shivered at the thought. She had wanted to stay away from that candlelit room today, but had guessed Elizabeth would need her. For her sister-in-law's sake, she had waited with the others for Maclean to arrive. Muriella tried to remember what Elizabeth had said a moment ago. Finding another way down—that was it. She grasped the ledge with cold fingers, turning to look at the ground far beneath her. "Don't talk that way!" she protested.

Elizabeth smiled. "I meant it, little one." Leaning down, she whispered, "There are worse things than death, ye ken. Much worse."

Muriella went rigid. "Don't," she repeated in a strangled voice. "Please come away."

"No, not this time. Ye should have let me die, ye know. 'Twould have been best."

"Surely ye don't believe we would want ye to do this?" Muriella gasped.

"Wouldn't ye? Then tell me, can ye comfort me?"

The younger woman was silent.

"Can ye tell me ye don't pity me? That John and Duncan and the others won't turn away when I see them?"

"Elizabeth—"

"Tell me if ye can!"

Muriella wanted desperately to look away from Elizabeth's steady gaze. Drawing her breath in slowly, she said, "I can't."

With a sigh, Elizabeth turned back to the window. "I thought ye would lie to me. Thank ye for telling the truth."

"Ye don't understand. No matter what we feel, it doesn't mean we don't love ye. It doesn't mean—"

"It does. It means everything. I would rather ye hate me. Ye came here to console me for my loss, didn't ye? Do ye really believe ye can save me with yer pity? 'Come away, Elizabeth, and I'll weep for ye. And when ye're gone, I'll shake my head and wonder how ye could have been so weak and foolish.'"

"Didn't ye pity Maclean because he was one man against many? Isn't that why ye pled for him? Do ye think he cares why? 'Tis done; that's what matters."

Elizabeth did not answer for a long time. When she spoke at last, some of the ice had melted from her voice. "Ye're right," she said. "I pitied him. I thought I wouldn't ever pity a man again, least of all my husband. But ye're wrong if ye think he doesn't care. I believe he would've wanted me to let him die. 'Tis what he's wanted from the first day I met him, but I didn't know it. Not until today. When I saw him standing there with the swords drawn all around him, I knew as if he had screamed it to me that he was grateful because I was going to end his guilt. I decided then and there that he would live. I know he'll remember, and his memories will gnaw at his insides until he goes mad. He never loved me, ye see, but he hurt me, and he won't be able to bear that."

Muriella frowned. "If 'twas for that reason—"

"Twasn't." Elizabeth sighed. "Ye know that as well as I do." Her hands closed on the ledge until the stone dug into her palms. "I did it because he trusts me, because he's the only person who ever needed me. My father—" She broke off abruptly as she took in the shadowed landscape below. She thought she could feel Muriella shivering.

"It frightens ye, doesn't it? My feelings for Lachlan make ye ill with fear. I'm wondering if ye're afraid for me or for yerself?"

"Elizabeth, please."

"Tell me, is it John?"

Muriella did not answer.

"Tell me!" Elizabeth began to laugh in the darkness. "Tell me and mayhap I can pity ye!"

Her laughter echoed in the tiny room until it seemed the stones would crumble.

"Tell m—"

Muriella looked up to see John cross the chamber in two long strides. Without a word, he took Elizabeth in his arms, cradling her head on his shoulder, muffling her laughter in his plaid. The laughter dissolved at last into silence, then to tortured weeping. Elizabeth flung her arms about her brother's neck and sobbed without restraint.

Chapter 33

John rested his head in his hands. Through his fingers he could see the patterns the torchlight cast among the fresh rushes. He watched them in fascination, willing his troubled thoughts into silence.

"Ye needn't stay with me, Johnnie."

He looked up, startled, at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. She had not spoken since he'd brought her to her chamber and settled her on the bed. He had been relieved. He did not want to hear again the unearthly sound of her laughter. "I don't think ye should be alone," he said.

Elizabeth smiled grimly. "'Tis over now, and I've been alone before, ye ken."

John shook his head. "I'll stay."

His sister shrugged in indifference. "As ye wish." After a moment, she propped herself up on her elbow, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Tell me why ye let him go," she said.

John blinked at her in astonishment. "Because ye asked me to."

"I don't think so. Ye didn't really care what I wanted. Ye sought to make my husband pay for his mistakes and ye used me to do it." Her brother started to protest, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "'Tis cruel, aye, but true. Ye needn't bother to deny it."

John shifted on his stool, remembering that Muriella had said the same when she read Colin's letter outlining the Earl's plans for Maclean. "How can ye even consider such a thing?" his wife had demanded. "How can ye treat yer sister so cruelly when she has no strength to fight ye?" She had paused, her eyes bright with anger. "Or mayhap 'tis what ye're counting on. Mayhap ye wish to punish her for her weakness. If so, ye couldn't have chosen a better way to do it."

"Be silent!" John had told her, furious that she should challenge his decision. It was not until he stood with his sword above Maclean's head that he realized Muriella was right. He was punishing Elizabeth by forcing her to be part of this. Punishing her for loving a man she should have hated above all others.

"Mayhap we should have found another way," he told his sister now.

"It doesn't matter," Elizabeth said. She leaned toward him, smiling strangely. "But 'tis odd, don't ye think, that now we're both left with nothing? I don’t have my husband or my pride, and ye don't have yer revenge. 'Tis a fitting trade, don't ye think, for the life of a man like Lachlan Maclean?"

Chilled by the careless tone of her voice, John rose, kicking his stool away. "Ye don't know what ye're saying."

"I do," Elizabeth said. "But since ye don't wish to believe it, why don't ye just go? Ye can't keep yer nightly vigil here."

John stared at her. How could she know that he had slept little the past three nights while he waited for Maclean to come? Had she guessed about the thoughts of Muriella that would not let him rest? Elizabeth's expression told him nothing. She closed her eyes in weariness and sank back among the furs with a sigh.

"Please, Johnnie, go. I don't want to fight with ye. I only want a little peace. Please."

"Shall I send Muriella to ye?" He should have thought of it before; he had watched the two women grow closer with each day that passed. Muriella's kindness had never faltered.

Not once had she been too busy to answer when Elizabeth called.

"No, she's weary. Let her rest." For the first time, Elizabeth smiled warmly, with affection.

John shook his head. Somehow, in the past weeks, Elizabeth had become more like Muriella's sister than his own. His wife was much more than companion and friend; she and Elizabeth shared a kinship, a fragile and invisible bond.

"She'll come if ye want her." It was true, John realized. The Muriella he knew as unapproachable, volatile, moody and changeable, had revealed—for Elizabeth—a well of infinite patience and unfailing tenderness. She gave her sister-in-law a dedication John could not, because, always, his anger and disgust held him apart.

"I know," Elizabeth murmured. "'Tis why I don't need her now—I know how quickly she would come if I called."

John did not answer. There was nothing he could say, though he ached at the sound of his sister's pain, which he could neither soothe nor forgive. Silently, he left Elizabeth to the warm, if lifeless, company of the firelight.

* * *

John stood in the library with his hands pressed against the stone. The Buik of Alexander the Grate lay open on a brocaded chair, but he had read no more than two sentences before giving it up. Tonight the firelight called him as it had so often of late, conjuring images of Muriella, her face pale and drawn with weariness, her back to him as she spoke to Megan or Mary or Jenny, yet never once let her attention stray from Elizabeth. When, he wondered, had his wife ceased to be a stranger in this keep? When had she made it her home, and the Campbells her family? And why had he never noticed before?

He paced restlessly before the hearth, his boots making no sound on the soft Persian rug. Muriella's face was always before him—her eyes dark with dread, luminous with pleasure, bright with fierce determination. He was bewildered by her complexity, weakened by her pain, impressed by her courage and stunned by his own wildly changing reactions.

His stomach rumbled, but the kitchen was too far away, the hallways too cold. He glanced again at the open book, but it was no use. He could not ignore the unfamiliar tenderness he felt for Muriella, the desire to cup her cheek in his open palm. It made him uneasy. This was not a straightforward battle where he could see the enemy and face him squarely. Perhaps it was not a battle at all, and there was no enemy except his own blindness.

He pounded his fist on the mantel in frustration. He could feel his wife's presence, even half a castle away. He could feel her warmth, hear the tiny, insistent voice that called him, drew him toward her while it warned him away.

In the far shadows of the room, Elizabeth's voice echoed coldly: Ye can't keep yer vigil here.

Without a backward glance, he abandoned the fire, stepping into the dark hallway. He found his way easily enough, although there were no torches to light the path. For the third night in succession, he passed the door to his chamber and many others after it until he came to Muriella's. For the third time, he put his hand on the latch, then paused, undecided. Above all he wanted to look at her, to see her sleeping with her hair spread on the pillow. But for the third time, he left the door unopened and leaned instead against the wall, waiting for something he could not even begin to understand.

* * *

Megan stood beside the shuttered window, looking over her shoulder now and then to see if Muriella still slept peacefully. In the firelight her mistress's face seemed calm enough, but it would not last. Megan was sure of that. The dreams had come every night since Elizabeth had been brought to Kilchurn. Every night Muriella woke up shrieking Maclean's name in terror.

Megan pulled her robe closer about her shoulders but did not move nearer the fire. Just now she preferred the chilly air by the window to the heat of the flames. She tried to concentrate on pleasant images that might lull her to sleep, but saw only phantoms that hovered just beyond her reach. She frowned. It was not like her to be disturbed by indefinable fears. But, she admitted to herself, there was something besides her mistress's nightmares that was making her uneasy.

A movement from the bed shattered her reverie.

* * *

Muriella was dreaming of a valley, its hills scattered with wild roses and morning glories. She ran across a wide meadow, seeking the burn that rippled by somewhere out of sight. She could hear the pounding footsteps in the distance and knew that Hugh was conning, that soon he would catch her, laughing, tangling his hands in her long auburn hair. When she found the burn, it was already swelling into a river. She paused on the bank, wondering if she dared try to cross by the boulders protruding from the water, making a bridge to the other side. While she stood, undecided, a hand touched her shoulder.

"Do ye need me to help ye cross?" It was not Hugh's voice, but John's.

To her surprise, she turned to smile at him. His smile answered hers, and she was only vaguely aware that the river was rising higher, so both stood ankle deep in water.

"Come." He took her hand, leading her out to the stones.

The boulders were shiny green with moss, and she was afraid of falling, but John coaxed her forward. She took a step, then another, holding his hand tightly all the while. As she picked her way across, the water rose to her knees and the boulders disappeared in the whirlpools the torrent created. When the water reached her shoulders, she turned to look at John for reassurance, but as she did so, she lost her balance and fell headlong into the rising river.

She was revolving in ever-tinier circles. Her hair was swept around her body, her arms and legs tangled in the strands. She could not move. The circling motion coiled her hair around her hips, her waist, her chest. She gasped, choking, spinning toward the boulders on every side. Then, abruptly, she was lifted from the water. Her hair, which a moment before had coiled like a snake around her shoulders, fell back, dripping and limp behind her. Closing her eyes, she breathed dry air and lay still, blessing the arms that held her high above the river.

Someone laughed. She opened her eyes to smile into John's face, but he wasn't there. "Maclean!" she screamed. He was laughing at her and his arms fell away and she was falling back toward the black heart of the whirlpool.

* * *

Megan had taken a few steps toward her mistress when the door swung open. John did not pause to look at the servant, but went instead to where his wife sat huddled on the bed, her hair falling like a curtain over her face. Taking her in his arms, he held her for a long time in silence.

Megan stood frozen where she was. He must have heard Muriella call out. But how was that possible? His chamber was not nearby. Then he must have been outside, she thought. But why?

She remembered her anxiety during the past few nights, how restless Sir John had seemed, how his gaze followed his wife wherever she went of late. Had he been waiting outside the door? Or had he meant to come in all along? Megan shivered. It was too soon. Muriella's fears, once pushed back into darkness, had rushed into the light once more. If John chose to lie with her now, Megan knew it might destroy her mistress.

The servant stiffened her spine. She would stop him if that were what he intended. Glowering, she moved closer to the bed. John was holding his wife so Megan could not see her mistress's face. He was massaging Muriella's shoulders rhythmically.

"Muriella," he said, "tell me what ye were dreaming of."

His wife opened her eyes, compelled by the sound of his voice, but the webs of sleep still clung, woven into the lingering traces of fear. "The water," she gasped. "The rising water." She choked on the words.

John frowned as his hands moved over her back. Was she thinking of Elizabeth and how she had nearly drowned? Or was there something more? He cupped Muriella's face in his open palms. "'Tis over now," he told her. "Elizabeth is safe."

Slowly, one word at a time, his meaning penetrated Muriella's fogged mind. She was grateful he could not see inside her nightmare to the real source of her terror. Elizabeth might be safe, but Muriella was not. "I tried to stop it," she cried, "but I couldn't do it."

"Ye had nothing to do with what happened to my sister. I've told ye before, 'tis a blessing she's free of that man at last."

Muriella shook her head. "'Tis not a blessing, but a curse." She did not give him the chance to contradict her. "Don't ye understand? I did curse her, not by causing Maclean to put her on the rock, but by keeping her alive—to mourn, to weep, to remember."

John had no answer for that. He remembered too clearly the chilling indifference in Elizabeth's eyes. "She'll learn to forget. She'll be herself again in time," he said.

"Mayhap," his wife agreed, but she did not believe it. Gradually, her heart had ceased its frantic beating and her skin had grown warm under John's touch. She looked into his eyes, clouded with his own troubled thoughts. "I wanted to thank ye for what ye did today. I know 'twas not easy to let Maclean go. But for Elizabeth's sake, 'twas kinder."

"Was it?" John murmured. "I wonder." He saw Muriella was calmer, that the effects of the dream had faded away. "Do ye think ye can sleep now?" he asked.

"Aye." The concern in his tone made Muriella want to weep. She could rail against his anger and his betrayal and his lust for blood, but his kindness she could not bear. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, and the simple gesture brought a rush of warmth that frightened her with its power. She made herself breathe slowly, evenly, but could not stop her hand from reaching out to cover his.

"I'll leave ye then," John said. "Ye need to rest." His fingers tightened around hers for an instant, then he rose to draw the furs up to her neck. When Muriella closed her eyes reluctantly, he stepped back and, motioning for Megan to follow, turned to leave the room.

The servant stood for a moment longer, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. What could he want from her? With a single glance at her mistress, she shook her head and slipped from the chamber.

John was waiting in the passage; she could just discern his figure in the dark hallway. She moved forward with care, wishing she had brought a torch.

"Come!" he spoke impatiently from out of the gloom. Then he was beside her, his hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the corridor. When he touched her, she thought perhaps he intended to take her instead of Muriella. She had seen the hunger in his eyes when he looked at his wife; mayhap this time Mary was not nearby to assuage it. Megan gave no sign of her apprehension. If that was what he desired, what would she do? She had no answer.

After what seemed like hours of darkness, John kicked open a door, leading the servant into the library. At least there was a fire, she thought inanely. At least it was warm. As she moved toward the light of the flames, she heard him stop near the desk. She stared into the fire, braiding her fingers in agitation.

"Megan."

She jumped despite her resolution to remain calm.

"Look at me."

She turned to face him. He was perched on the edge of the desk, his brows drawn together, his hands clenched. "Tonight is the third time," he began, "that I've heard my wife cry out in terror at her dreams."

Megan swallowed with difficulty. So he had been outside the door for three nights.

"I want ye to tell me, if ye can, why she's so troubled in her sleep, and why she calls Maclean's name."

So he had not believed Muriella when she said she was dreaming of Elizabeth. Megan opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. "M'lord—"

"The nightmares began when my sister came, didn't they?" John persisted.

"Aye."

"Do ye know what the dreams are?"

"No," the servant said. "She won't tell me, though I have asked her often enough."

"And ye can't guess?"

"No, m'lord."

"What of Maclean?" John persisted. "Why should she see him in her nightmares?"

The servant stared at her hands. By the look in Sir John's eyes, she guessed his need for his wife had become an obsession. If she wanted to keep him from returning to Muriella tonight, there was only one thing to do.

"Megan?"

She looked up. "Aye?"

"What of Maclean?" he repeated with ill-concealed impatience.

She had sworn, she remembered, but she could not think of that now. "She often has nightmares about him."

John ran his hand over his forehead, leaving a puzzled frown behind. "Does she have reason to fear him?"

"She…I don't—"

Suddenly his control shattered. He leapt up to grasp her by the shoulders. "Tell me!"

"Aye," she muttered. "She has reason enough."

John released her, stepping back. "What is it?"

Megan swallowed once more. "Ye remember just before the weddin' when she fell and bruised her face?"

"Aye." The cold fury was already gathering in his face. "Go on."

"She didn't fall."

"Maclean." His voice was without inflection, but Megan recognized the threat beneath the single word. "There were scratches on his neck that night. I remember he tried to hide them."

"I didn't think ye noticed."

He nodded, took a deep breath, and forced himself to ask, "Did he rape her?"

Megan hesitated for an instant. "She said he didn't."

Closing his eyes, John fought to retain control. "But ye don't believe her?"

"I don't know what to believe." The servant moved away from him. She was not certain what he might do next. When he opened his eyes, they glittered cold and silver in the firelight.

"Why didn't she tell me?" he asked at last. For a moment he absorbed Megan's startled expression, then looked away. "No," he said, "ye needn't answer." Moving past her, he lowered himself into a chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

When he spoke, his voice was so low Megan had to step forward to hear him. "Ye can go back to her now. And thank ye."

He did not look up to see her leave the room. His thoughts were circling around a distant memory. He was staring at the bruises that discolored Muriella's face. Taking her chin in his hand, he had said, So, little one, ye'll be damaged for our wedding. Are ye sure ye haven't done it on purpose? Then, on their wedding night—he did not like to remember how cruelly he had taken his wife that first time. No wonder she shrank away from his touch.

He looked up, his jaw muscles tightening convulsively. The image of Muriella's face dissolved, and in its place he saw Maclean laughing as the gate opened before him. John sat up, staring unseeing at the fire. "I let him go," he hissed. "I set the bastard free!"

In one swift movement, he reached the door. He wrenched it open and hurried down the corridor to his chamber.

Chapter 34

Muriella paused at the top of the stairs, looking out over the crowded trestle tables strung across the Great Hall. The noise this morning was unusually subdued. Men and servants sat staring before them with no laughter and very little chatter. Muriella was surprised to see Duncan and Elizabeth already seated at the high table; her sister-in-law had not joined them for a meal since her arrival. John, she noticed, had not yet come down. She felt a flash of disappointment that made her hand tremble on the balustrade. She tightened her hold on the worn, smooth wood until the feeling passed. With a steadying breath, she went to join the others.

She sat next to Elizabeth, who smiled wanly. Muriella felt a flicker of hope at the gesture. Touching her sister-in-law's hand, she murmured, "'Tis good to see ye here."

"I couldn't stare at the four walls of that chamber any longer," Elizabeth explained. "'Twas too much like a prison there, ye ken?"

"Aye," Muriella agreed. "I knew ye'd have to come seeking the light soon. 'Tis fortunate the sun has burned the mist away this morning."

Her sister-in-law looked up at the high slitted windows where the light spilled into the room, softening the mottled gray stone walls. "'Tis late," she observed, brow furrowed. "Why hasn't Johnnie come down yet?"

"I didn't wish to disturb him," Duncan told her. "He hasn't slept well the past few nights. I'm beginning to wonder what ails him."

Muriella concentrated on the platter of cold meat Jenny handed her, grateful for the excuse to hide her thoughts. She too had begun to wonder. Why, she asked herself again and again, had her husband come to her last night? Had he been passing through the hall when he heard her cry out? Or had he intended to enter her chamber all along? Her pulse pounded at the thought, and she remembered with mingled pleasure and unease the warmth his touch had brought her.

Just then, Andrew Campbell came to the head of the table. "I went to wake Sir John, as ye bid me," Andrew explained to Duncan, "but I found him gone."

"Gone? Gone where? Do ye mean he went hunting?"

"Aye, so I thought at first. But I asked the men, and it seems no one saw him go and he took no one with him. Then I asked Sim. He was watchin' the gate, ye ken." Andrew leaned forward, full of the importance of his news. "Sim said he opened the gate for Sir John when 'twas still dark night. He was alone and"—he paused in order to hold his audience in suspense a moment longer—"he wore full armor and carried his father's sword. What do ye think of that?"

Duncan blinked at the man, perplexed. "Are ye certain?"

"Aye, so Sim says."

"But where would he be going in full armor in the middle of the night?"

"I'll tell ye, Duncan Campbell. I'll tell ye where he's gone." Elizabeth half rose from her chair, her eyes darting from face to face. "He's gone after my husband. I know it. 'Tis just what he's done."

Taking her hand, Duncan tried to calm her. "Why would he do that? He gave ye his word, didn't he? Ye must be mistaken."

Elizabeth shook her head, sinking back onto the bench when her legs would no longer support her. "Ye won't be convincing me of that."

Muriella closed her eyes and tried to remember what John had said last night when she told him it had been kinder to let Maclean go. Was it? he'd murmured. I wonder. She stared at the pitted tabletop, her mouth dry with apprehension. She wanted to tell Elizabeth she was wrong, but could not bring herself to put the lie into words.

* * *

John sat in a plush velvet chair, staring at the huge door that led to the living quarters at Edinburgh Castle. He was waiting for his brother. Wearily, he adjusted his doublet. He was not looking forward to this interview with Colin. No doubt the Earl would be livid when he learned Maclean had left Kilchurn Castle alive. But John needed his help. He would just have to keep his own temper under control.

He knew his face had begun to show signs of the strain he had been under recently. His skin was burnt from exposure to the sun and there were dark circles under his eyes. It had taken him two weeks to trace Maclean to Edinburgh—two weeks of riding unescorted to the gates of his enemies' castles and inquiring after the Laird's whereabouts. He had been surprised time and again that not a single man had raised a single sword against him. Of course, officially the Campbells and Macleans were at peace, but surely his brother-in-law's relatives knew what their laird had done to Elizabeth, and why John Campbell sought him now. They must have realized the Campbells would soon regret their impulse to set the man free.

He had asked a multitude of questions at every keep, and each time, although he discovered nothing, he'd had the feeling they would have told him if they'd known. It made him uneasy. When he finally came upon Evan Maclean on the Isle of Tiree, John had been unable to disguise his impatience any longer. "'Tis only yer laird we seek now," he'd told the young man, "but if ye shelter him, our vengeance will extend to the whole Clan Maclean."

Evan regarded his adversary with piercing eyes. "Ye want Lachlan Maclean's life, then."

When John nodded, the other man leaned forward, fists clenched. "Well, my friend, take it, and welcome."

John gaped at him. "Ye can't mean that."

Evan's eyes smoldered as he replied, "I do mean it. The man is a fool. He's done nothing but harm to the Macleans for a long time now. The rebellion was his idea, ye ken. We knew it was lost before we began, but no' our laird. He must needs know better than us. And now—" He paused, steadying his voice. "Now that we're finally at peace, he does something that will insure the Campbells are always our enemies." He put his hand on John's arm. "I believe he's mad, and if he lives, he'll eventually destroy us. He thought ye might change yer mind, so he's run to Edinburgh to hide. Kill him this time. He's my enemy as much as he is yers."

John shook his head, remembering the vehemence of Evan's declaration. He still could not believe the Macleans had abandoned their laird so completely. He wondered, sometimes, what the Campbells would do if Colin—

"What in God's name are ye doing in Edinburgh?" the third Earl of Argyll roared from across the room. "They told me ye were waiting, but I wouldn't believe them. 'Tis insane to leave Kilchurn unprotected with the Macleans ready to slit our throats."

John eyed his brother through half-closed lids. Colin was dressed magnificently in velvet doublet and satin trews. Jewels glittered on his fingers, and the Campbell brooch fastened his cloak to his shoulder. His face, John noted, was purple with fury. Swallowing the bitter response that rose to his lips, John said, "Kilchurn is safe enough. I brought no men with me, and Duncan and Richard are there if trouble comes. As for the Macleans, from what I've seen, they won't be attacking us at all."

The Earl snorted. "Aye, Johnnie, ye were always so wise. Tell me then, how do ye know they won't attack? And why have ye come?"

"I came to find Maclean, and they won't strike because they want him dead."

"What!" Colin demanded. "To find Maclean? They want him dead? He is dead, isn't he? My orders were clear enough." He loomed threateningly over his brother. "What've ye done this time, Johnnie?"

"I let him go," John replied with forced calm. He watched as the lump begin to pulse between his brother's brows.

"Say that again," Colin hissed. "I wouldn't want to kill ye because I didn't hear aright. Say it again."

"I let him go free." With difficulty, John fought the impulse to push his brother away from him.

"Why, in the name of all that's holy, did ye do such a thing?"

Because ye had a cruel and unworthy idea, he wanted to shout. Because Maclean is the deceiver, not the Campbells. But he did not say those things. "I did it for Elizabeth."

"For Elizabeth!" Colin spluttered. "For Eliz—Are ye daft? Ye let an enemy go for the sake of a woman?"

"Elizabeth begged me."

"I don't give a bloody damn what she said or what she felt. 'Twas business, ye imbecile. Business! 'Tis time ye learned there are a great many things more important than yer sister's feelings."

Rising precipitously, John moved out of his brother's way. He could see it was time to remind Colin of his purpose here before they came to blows. "I came to Edinburgh to kill the man. I need yer help to find him."

"Help ye! I should kill ye where ye stand. Do ye know how many plans ye've ruined? I've already negotiated with Campbell of Auchinbreck for Elizabeth's hand. We need that alliance."

John whirled to stare at his brother. "Ye've what? Her husband isn't even dead yet!"

"'Tis no fault of mine, little brother. That was yer responsibility. And the marriage is necessary. Now listen to me, and this time ye'd best do as I say. My men will search Edinburgh for Maclean. When he's found, kill him at once. Then, when ye're certain he's dead, go back to Kilchurn with this letter in yer pocket." Drawing some parchment from his doublet, he handed it to his brother, who stood speechless at last. "Elizabeth must sign the marriage agreement within these two weeks. See that she does. And see that she makes no trouble over this. If ye fail in any particular, if ye so much as breathe without my consent, ye'll be mighty sorry, I guarantee that."

John stared at the letter in his hand. Colin had not even waited until he knew Elizabeth was a widow before selling her to another man. For a moment he was tempted to leave Edinburgh without finding Maclean. He wanted no part of his brother's ambitions. Let Maclean live, John thought, and see how Colin's plans worked then. But Muriella—his stomach clenched with sick rage. No, regardless of Colin's greed, his brother-in-law must die. Crumpling the parchment in his fist, John turned to leave the room. He could not stand to look at his brother's gloating face a moment longer.

* * *

The following day, John mounted the rickety stairs at the back of a tavern while the landlord watched him anxiously. The innkeeper did not care for the expression on the stranger's face. "Who do ye seek?" the man asked with as much courage as he could summon.

"No one," John snapped. "I've found him." As he climbed the stairs, he tried to concentrate on his object so he would not notice the rank smell arising from behind the stairway or the shabby condition of the halls. Maclean had chosen a hell of a place in which to die. But of course, he did not know he was to die.

John stopped with his hand on a rusty latch. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

Maclean sat on the bed with a tankard of ale beside him. The sheets tangled about his waist were stained and torn; they had probably not been washed for some time. Besides the bed, there was a lone table with a candle burning on its uneven surface. The air reeked of sweat and ale and the rotten remains of numerous meals. A mass of picked bones was piled haphazardly on the floor at the bedside. With his fingers clenched on the handle of his sword, John looked for the first time directly at Maclean's face.

The man was staring at him, stupefied, his irises lost in the whiteness of his eyes. His Adam's apple moved rapidly up and down the line of his throat.

"How in Christ's name—," Maclean began. Then he stopped. The color returned to his cheeks and he smiled. "Evan told ye, didn't he?"

John clutched his sword more tightly. He had come full of hatred and fury, but just now pity and disgust were even greater. "No, I found ye on my own."

Maclean laughed without mirth. "Are ye afraid of hurting my feelings? I know Evan despises me, as do they all. It makes no matter. So ye've changed yer mind, have ye? I'm not surprised."

"Quiet!" John cried. His own repulsion threatened to overwhelm him. "Get up!" he ordered. "Get yer sword."

"No." Maclean settled himself against the pillows. "No," he repeated, "ye'll have to kill me in my bed. Did ye really think I'd make it easy for ye?"

"Surely ye don't wish to die that way?" John said. "They'll laugh at ye."

"Aye, but what will they say about ye, boy? Don't ye think they'll call ye a coward for killing a man when he had no defense against ye?"

As John moved forward menacingly, a rat skittered across the floor. The candlelight was weak; it did no more than deepen the furrows on Maclean's cheeks. "Ye don't deserve to die like a gentleman. They'll know that."

"Will they?" His brother-in-law laughed again, more loudly. He watched as John advanced toward him, drawing his sword from its sheath. When the blade hung a few feet away, pointing at his heart, he muttered, "I want to die, did ye know that? No," he added when John retreated a step. "I thought ye didn't." He paused, giving his brother-in-law a grim little smile. "Elizabeth knew. Ye take her for a fool, but she's a great deal wiser than ye."

"Be quiet!" All at once the dead Earl's voice echoed inside John's head. Think before ye act, Johnnie! Think! But for once he had thought. For two long weeks he had thought of the tarnished pride of the Campbells; of Elizabeth, grieving alone while her husband lived free; and of Muriella, retreating inside the darkness of her nightmare. Straightening his shoulders, he took a step forward. This time he had no choice. He met his brother-in-law's gaze for a moment. As he buried the blade in Maclean's chest, he whispered, "For Muriella."

Maclean's eyes widened with brief surprise before the blood gushed over the sword, dulling its silver gleam. He ceased moving and his eyes glazed over until he stared unseeing before him.

John wrenched his father's sword from Maclean's limp body, sickened by the sight of the dead man slumped among the sheets, tipping the ale so it spilled onto the covers and blended with the spreading puddle of blood. Blood and ale dripped over the edge of the bed, falling on the discarded bones.

Without looking back, John staggered into the hallway. It was done. Maclean was dead and his sister free. And perhaps, just perhaps, Muriella's nightmares were over. The thought of his wife made the mist retreat somewhat, but the horror would not go. Blood and ale, his mind repeated with monotonous regularity. Blood and ale. Blood and ale.

Leaning on his sword, he tried to concentrate on Muriella. Unexpectedly, the mist disappeared. He could go home to her now. His heart, which he believed had ceased to beat, took up its rhythm once again. He would see her. The thought brought with it a sudden clarity, a vibrant memory of how her body had felt in his arms. He remembered the way she had looked at him, her eyes clouded with weariness, and run her fingers from his beard to his shoulder to his slow, beating heart.

John's smile turned to a grimace. Maclean was dead, but Muriella would not thank him for that. She cared too much for Elizabeth. He could envision his wife's face, pale with shock and anger, her green eyes wide with accusation.

She would not welcome him back, could not forget the past so easily. That much he knew. But maybe he could make her forget in time. He would speak to her, care for her, teach her to know him as he learned to know her. And he would not touch her until, when he held her close, her eyes met his and saw him—only him, and not the specter her fear had created.

With an awkward motion, he wiped the blood from his father's sword and turned his back forever on Lachlan Maclean. So, at least, he chose to believe.

Chapter 35

This was in spring, when winter-tide

With his blast hideous to abide,

Was over-driven and birdis small

As throstle and the nihtengale

Began right merrily to sing.

Duncan's voice rose above the clack of the loom, mingling with the rhythm of Muriella's flying fingers. She smiled, grateful for the squire's song, which distracted her from her own thoughts. He had sensed her restlessness since John went away; often in the waning of the slow, endless days, he came to sing and play his harp, hoping it would cheer her.

And for to make in their singing,

Sundry notes and sound-es sere,

And melodies pleasant for to hear.

Muriella bent closer to the forming tapestry, running her palm over the finely woven threads as the notes of Duncan's clareschaw began to soothe her. She did not thank him, for he seemed to understand her gratitude intuitively; sometimes he came and went without either of them speaking a word. He had become a friend who shared with her the silence as well as the songs. The colors of the third and final panel of the Loch Awe hanging glimmered under Muriella's hands as the fabric shifted in a draft of cold air. Lovingly, she traced the glow of silver moonlight that turned to gold when it reached the water of the loch. She liked this section of the tapestry—woven with the thread the Earl had brought just before his death—best of all; it showed the shimmering expanse of Loch Awe with its wooded islands and tree-scattered shore. In the center of the interlaced blues and greens, the moon made its radiant path of light. In the far corner, a woman with long auburn hair knelt on the bank, looking at a reflection in the water—the face of the woman of the loch, who had so often called to Muriella in her high, haunting voice.

And the trees began to make

Buds and brightest blooms also,

To weave the covering of their head

That wicked winter had them reft.

Muriella almost lost herself in the lacework of colored threads, in the sound of Duncan's voice, in the lilting song of the Highland harp. Almost, she escaped the loneliness that had grown deeper as the days passed. Her friends were with her—Megan, Duncan and Elizabeth—filling the hours with chatter and work and companionship. But it was not enough. The ache inside reminded her always that John was away. The keep seemed strangely empty without the sound of his rage, his laughter, his ceaseless energy. She missed him, Muriella admitted in dismay.

John's face rose before her, blocking the vivid pattern of the cloth, reminding her of the day he had kissed her in the music room. Her skin tingled at the remembered touch of his hands, and the low, vibrant humming began in her head. Rising abruptly, she dropped the shuttle and watched it swing forward and back across the colored fabric. She stared, mesmerized by the languid movement, by the flickering images in her mind that seemed to take on the color and shape of the tapestry before her. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to look away.

Muriella shivered at a gust of chilly air and moved toward the welcome warmth of the fire. Duncan had finished his song. He turned as she passed so the heat could reach his face. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned closer to the flames.

As Muriella knelt before the deep stone fireplace, an unnerving stillness settled around her, holding her away from the heat of the fire. She was so cold, all at once, so empty. The flames curled around one another, melding, then separating. She peered more closely into the fire. She thought there was something there. Something—her hand shook, her pulse quickened, and the flames leapt unnaturally. Then she saw John, standing in the darkness with a sword in his hand. A candle flickered, revealing Maclean's tangled red curls. The sword moved through the shadows, and as the blade plunged into Maclean's chest, John cried, "For Muriella!" The blood gushed out, mixing with a wash of golden ale and dripping over the edge of the bed.

"Dear God!" Muriella cried, while John's voice rang in her ears. As the room spun out of control, she gasped for air, reaching blindly with her sweat-bathed palms for the support of the unyielding stone.

For a moment, Duncan was frozen with fear at the sight of her dark, empty eyes, but she was falling and he knew he had to catch her. With his hands on her shoulders he pulled her close, running his fingers over her back in slow circles, repeating her name again and again. He did not know what else to do; he was helpless in the face of her disturbing power.

When Muriella shuddered and buried her head in his plaid, he closed his arms around her. He sensed she did not know he was near, but this time he would not leave her alone with her terror as he had long ago when she first came to Kilchurn—the day of the battle with Andrew Calder, when she'd foreseen the deaths of so many men. He fought back his own apprehension, holding her until the shaking eased. Gently, the squire tilted her head back. She was weeping.

Muriella clung to him wordlessly. Maclean was dead.

John had killed him, and he had done it, not for Elizabeth, but for his wife. Why? She did not know who held her now, drawing her back to the reality of the airy chamber. She only knew she wanted to forget, to escape the lingering chill of the vision that would not leave her. Muriella leaned closer, seeking the comforting warmth of Duncan's body. His fingers brushed away her memories.

* * *

Four days later, Muriella and Elizabeth sat together in the solar. As always, Muriella was bent over the tapestry, which was now nearly complete. She had only to finish the far bank of the loch, the red-haired woman kneeling on the shore, and the indistinct image of the face in the water.

Elizabeth had been working on a bit of embroidery for most of the morning, but now she sat with her hands in her lap. She gazed out the window, her thoughts far away.

Muriella watched Elizabeth with concern. She had not mentioned the vision of Maclean's death or her own dismay over what John had done. The time was not yet right to tell Elizabeth she had become a widow. Daily, she prayed John would return and explain his actions, but for now, she could only watch helplessly while her sister-in-law slipped further and further inside herself. Elizabeth had changed a great deal in the past few weeks; her hair hung lank and colorless down her back, her skin was nearly transparent, and her eyes were either wintry bleak or empty of expression.

"What are ye thinking?" Muriella asked.

Elizabeth started as if awakened from a deep sleep. "About my father," she said before she could stop to think. She looked down at her embroidery to avoid meeting Muriella's gaze. With sudden fervor, she began to weave her needle through the fabric.

"Do ye miss him?"

"Miss him!" Elizabeth laughed harshly. "Why should I, when he abandoned me without a thought? 'Tis hard to care about someone who values power and wealth more than his own kin."

Muriella could not deny it. Though four years had passed since the night when, in desperation, she had faced the Earl across the library, she remembered far too clearly the cold determination in his voice. Yer feelings don't matter. The good of the clan comes first. All the weeping in the world will not change a fact so fundamental.

Elizabeth looked up, her face strained and pale, but for the first time in weeks, her indifference had slipped away. "I was his favorite, did ye know that? As a child I used to read to him, to sit with him before the fire while he taught me Latin and the Gaelic. In those days I thought he had the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard."

Head bent over the loom, Muriella concentrated on the colored threads to hide her dismay. It hurt her to think the Earl had shared those things with someone else before her. "What happened to change things?" she asked when she could speak again.

"'Tis simple enough," Elizabeth said. "There was a rebellion, and afterward my father gave me to the enemy in order to seal the bargain. He told me he couldn't displease the King, though I begged him to reconsider. Then, after 'twas done, he wanted me to forgive him." She twisted her fingers in the fabric on her lap. "I couldn't do it. He'd hurt me too deeply. Even as a girl, I knew what kind of man he was, but I loved him so much, I never thought he'd betray me that way." She broke off, choking on the words that seemed to stick in her throat. "But ye should know about that," she added finally. "He did it to ye as well."

Muriella's hands trembled and she found she could not answer. "I thought ye loved yer husband," she ventured at last.

Elizabeth met her sister-in-law's gaze with an unwavering stare. "Not from the beginning. At first, all I felt was that my father didn't need me anymore, so he'd cast me away like a favorite bauble he'd grown tired of."

"But—" Muriella began, then stopped herself.

"Ye were going to say that Maclean did the same thing, weren't ye?"

Shaking her head, Muriella started to speak, but Elizabeth interrupted her. "Ye're right, I know." She bit her lip and tears came to her eyes.

Muriella reached for Elizabeth's hand. The older woman clung desperately. After several moments she found her voice again. "But ye see, no matter what happened in the end, Lachlan always needed me. He was so different from my father, who never wanted to let his weakness show. The Earl would never have asked for help. He was too damned strong for that." She gazed out the window, as if she could see the past painted across the billowing waves. "That's why I swore to myself that I'd give my husband the loyalty I'd always given my father. The Earl didn't deserve it anymore."

"And once ye'd decided, ye never turned back," Muriella said. How could she ever have thought Elizabeth weak?

"No," Elizabeth sighed. "Though my family hated me for that choice. Yet not one of them tried to stop the marriage, not even Johnnie. And once it came to me that I loved my husband, I knew I couldn't abandon him, no matter how hard he tried to make me hate him. 'Twas my feelings that mattered, not his." She smiled the grim little smile Muriella had come to dread. "At least Lachlan realized he had wronged me. He begged my forgiveness for his betrayal before he had even committed it." She frowned, her eyes damp with tears. "My father didn't ever understand how much he'd hurt me. He didn't know his sin was greater than my husband's, because the Earl claimed to love me." She smiled with infinite sadness. "I suppose ye think me foolish."

"No," Muriella said, realizing she spoke the truth. "'Twas no fool who had the courage to stand up to John and ask for yer husband's life. 'Twould have been easier to let him die, I think, after all he'd done to ye. But ye never would have forgiven yerself if ye'd done that. I envy ye, Elizabeth. I haven't the courage to love anyone that much."

Elizabeth took Muriella's hands in a tight grip. "Och, but ye do. Ye just don't realize it. But I thank ye all the same. Ye're the only one who really tries to understand and doesn't blame me for failing the Campbells. I love ye for that, Muriella—for everything. For caring enough to save my life, though I can't think 'twas wise."

Muriella opened her mouth to object, but before she could do so, Elizabeth interjected, "And because I care for ye, I'll tell ye this. As a woman, the only thing ye can depend on in this life is that men will try to break ye in any way they can. Before ye've recovered from the first blow, they'll strike ye again. 'Tis not really because they're cruel; they just don't know any other way. But remember too, they can only hurt ye if ye give them the power to do so." Elizabeth raised her head and whispered, more to herself than to Muriella, "I don't intend to give anyone that power again."

Before Muriella could respond, before she could remove her hands from Elizabeth's cold grasp, the door swung open and both women turned. They stared, frozen with shock, as John came into the room.

When Elizabeth's hands fell away, Muriella leaned forward, gripping the wooden sides of the loom for support. She was stunned by the rush of joy that flared within her at the unexpected sight of her husband. Then she remembered what he had done. Turning toward her sister-in-law, she saw the mask of indifference settle over Elizabeth's features. Muriella found her voice had left her. She could only gaze mutely from sister to brother and back again.

Just when she thought the silence would stretch between them until it shattered, Elizabeth spoke. "Where have ye been? To find my husband?"

John frowned. "Elizabeth—," he began.

"Ye needn't try to soothe me when ye don't even know if I'm hurt, Johnnie. Just tell me, is he dead?"

"Aye," he said softly.

"Where?"

"In Edinburgh."

"Do ye think the Macleans will bury him?"

Approaching with caution, John took his sister's hand.

"Ye needn't concern yerself with that. 'Tis over," he told her.

Elizabeth ignored him. "No, of course they won't. They told ye where to find him, didn't they?"

He wanted to deny it, but could not bring himself to lie. "Elizabeth, let me—"

"And did ye talk to Colin?" she pressed.

Taken aback by the question, he regarded her warily. "Aye."

"What did he say?"

John tried to look beyond his sister's cool exterior to the pain he guessed must lie beneath, but even her eyes told him nothing. "He was angry," he said, choosing his words with care.

"But what of me? I'll wager he has another wedding planned, doesn't he? Our Colin isn't one to miss a chance for a new alliance."

"Elizabeth, I know ye're upset, but—"

"I'm no' upset. Can't ye see how steady I am? Now tell me."

"Well, Colin said he thought—"

"Is there a letter?" she interrupted.

John gaped at her. Had his sister inherited Muriella's Sight? And why was she so stiff and cold when she should be weeping at the news of her husband's death?

"Give it to me," Elizabeth demanded.

For a moment, John hesitated. "Ye needn't look at it now. 'Tis too soon."

Elizabeth smiled at him pityingly. "Don't assuage yer own guilt by keeping me in suspense. I want to know who Colin has chosen for me. Someone rich, I'll wager, with enough men to give the Campbells a little more power." She turned to Muriella. "As if they don't have enough of that already."

John did not know what to say. She made it sound so calculating, so inhuman. He wanted to put the blame on Colin, but then he caught Muriella's gaze. Hadn't his own wife been sold to the Campbells in the same way—for a little power and a great deal of money?

"I want to see it now," Elizabeth repeated succinctly, as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Don't play games with me, Johnnie."

John pulled the crumpled parchment from his doublet, and placed it in his sister's open palm. This was not how he had planned this meeting on the long ride back from Edinburgh.

He watched as Elizabeth read Colin's letter quickly. Then she started to laugh. It was the one reaction he had not expected, and the sound chilled him, despite the warmth of the tiny room. He could not forget that he had heard the same unearthly laughter in the tower that day. "Please," he said, reaching for her hand. "Elizabeth."

"Don't ye find it amusing?" she asked, gasping as she rocked forward and backward. "I'm to marry Archibald Campbell of Auchinbreck." When she realized her brother and Muriella were staring at her blankly, Elizabeth drew a deep breath and explained, "Archibald Campbell—my father's name." She laughed and choked until her face was scarlet and her knuckles on the embroidery frame were white. She laughed until the letter fell from her fingers to the floor where it came to rest at John's feet.

* * *

Muriella sat by the fire in the library with a book of verses open on her lap. Though she tried to concentrate, her attention wandered and instead she found herself staring into the flames, watching the changing patterns of light.

All at once, she raised her head, every nerve in her body tingling with awareness. She knew John had entered the room, though he had not made a sound; she could feel his presence as surely as if his hand were resting on her shoulder.

"Muriella."

As she looked up at him—at his face, burnished bronze from long hours in the sun, and his eyes, touched with gold from the glow of the firelight—she felt the same rush of joy that had come to her when she first saw him that afternoon. She had seen him only briefly since, but she had felt his presence during every endless hour in the day. She smiled at him as he crossed the room to seat himself in the Earl's carved oak chair.

"I wanted to talk to ye," he said, "about Maclean."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I want ye to know I didn't really have a choice. I had to kill him—for the pride of the Campbells and, though ye may not believe it, for Elizabeth. She wasn't truly free until her husband was dead. Ye can understand that, can't ye?"

In the back of her mind she heard again the two words, For Muriella, and knew he was not telling the whole truth; she sensed he never would. She knew too that she should have been angry he had broken his word to his sister, but all she could feel was relief. As he had said, Elizabeth was finally free of the chains that had bound her to Lachlan Maclean. Muriella looked into the dancing flames and murmured, "I understand."

"Do ye truly?" John leaned closer, considering her sculptured profile—the curve of her mouth, the gleam in her eyes, the stillness that characterized her features. All at once he wanted desperately to hold her. But he had made himself a promise he did not intend to break. For a long moment, he struggled with the urge to pull her into his arms. He was winning the battle against his own desire when she turned to look at him.

"Aye, I think I do," Muriella whispered, lips slightly parted, brows drawn together. Without thinking, she put her hand on his knee.

John's carefully constructed walls crumbled at his feet. In a single movement, he stood and drew her up against him. Her eyes were luminous, mesmerizing, but this time he felt no desire to escape their power. "Muriella," he murmured.

As she looked up, he kissed her. His lips moved gently against hers and she felt a response stirring deep within. He drew her closer while his hands moved slowly over her back. Wherever his fingers touched, her skin began to tingle, as though the fabric of her gown were no barrier at all. When he traced the outline of her mouth with the moist tip of his tongue, she shivered, first with heat, then with cold.

Longing curled through Muriella’s body at John's touch. She trembled when he slid his hand down to her breast and cupped it, stroking the nipple through the cool satin. She moaned and closed her eyes, leaning into the strength of his hand against her back. Hungry, all at once, to feel his skin with her open palm, she pushed aside his saffron shirt to find the dark, curling hair it concealed. Slowly, tenderly, she brushed her hand across his chest, seeking to know with her fingertips the taste and texture of his skin.

He held her closer and her nerves seemed to scream beneath his fingers and his mouth. John kissed the hollow of her throat, trailing his tongue over the pulse that fluttered wildly under his lips. Finally, he tugged at the strings of her gown, loosening them so he could slip his hand inside the satin to touch her bare white skin.

Colors whirled within her, hot and fevered, bright and blinding, setting her heart pounding and her head spinning. She could not control her body; she was certain the force of her passion would tear her apart. Then the vision of the deadly rising water filled her head, and she knew she would never catch her breath again. Stop! she wanted to cry. Stop! She shuddered, unable to bear the torment any longer.

John felt her shiver, and the movement broke at last through the haze of his desire. Pulling away, he saw her staring with her blind, dark eyes and knew the specter was with them again. He closed his eyes, fighting the impulse that urged him to ignore her fear, to force her to forget the past and remember only the feel of his hands on her skin. But she was quivering, her skin so cold that the chill moved from her body to his. John released her, his breathing harsh and uneven.

Muriella swayed, lost in the rushing, swirling water, and fought her way to the surface where the promise of daylight beckoned. For a long moment, she stood trembling, not daring to open her eyes.

"What in God's name are ye so afraid of?" John demanded.

She heard the sound of his ragged voice, but the words were far away. Farther than she could reach. She opened her eyes to see him standing, fists clenched at his sides in an effort to force his hunger into pain.

Muriella tried to concentrate, to stop her shaking and turn her thoughts away from the memory of the white-foamed water, but it would not leave her.

With a muffled curse, her husband grasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Every time I touch ye, ye retreat to a place where I can't reach ye, as if the devil himself were holding ye in his arms."

The dead Earl's voice echoed deep in her memory: Ye hold yerself apart from him as if ye were made of ice and stone instead of flesh and blood.

"Why?" John demanded. "What are ye afraid of?"

His eyes, like iced fire, burned away the mist that shrouded her thoughts. She swallowed once, then whispered, "Sometimes I see things."

"What things?" When she remained silent, he shook her until her head snapped back. "Answer me, damn ye'"

"I can't."

John's fingers dug painfully into her skin. "Ye mean ye won't."

Muriella looked up at him, her terror moved too deep, too frightening to express. "No," she said. "I can't."

Her husband turned away, running his hand through his hair again. "But the vision is of me," he said to the gray stone wall. When, once again, she did not answer, he whirled to face her. "'Tis me ye fear, isn't it?"

Muriella opened her mouth to tell him it was so, but the words would not come. Never had she seen his face in her vision, yet always it was he—the touch of his hands, his fury, his tenderness—that made the water rise. She knew he was waiting for her answer, breathing harshly, his face dark with the simmering rage that held him in its grip. That, she thought, was what she feared. Or was it?

"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me the truth."

"I don't know," his wife said. "I'm not sure."

John advanced on her, eyes blazing. "Then ye'd best think about it, hadn't ye? Ye'd best be sure before ye drive us both to madness."

"Aye," she murmured, "before 'tis too late."

Much later, Muriella pushed open her chamber door, entering the light-filled room that seemed to promise peace. Then she saw Megan standing near the bed, smiling in delight. "M'lady!" the servant gasped when she saw her mistress, "just look!"

Muriella moved toward the bed with her heart thumping against her ribs. When she stopped, her vision seemed to come and go with the pulsing of her blood. The furs were hidden under all manner of exquisite fabrics. There were gold brocades, creamy satins, violet silks and fine linens. In the center, atop all the others, was a bolt of deep blue velvet, beside it a paler blue satin. Muriella reached out to run her fingers over the velvet. It was incredibly soft, and blue—not icy, like the sea, but warm. The satin was the exact color of John's eyes.

"Where have they come from?" she asked when she found enough breath to speak.

Megan smiled. "Sir John brought them for ye from Edinburgh. All for ye."

"Tell me," she whispered, "are there any reds among them?"

"Why no, I don't think so. 'Tis strange, isn't it, since red's so popular with the ladies. Why do ye ask?"

"Because," Muriella murmured, half to herself. "Just because." Her fingers closed over the blue velvet; she brushed it over her cheek like a fleeting caress against her cool skin.

Chapter 36

"Look, I've nearly done!" Megan cried as she held up the finishing work she was doing on the kirtle for Elizabeth to wear on her wedding day.

Glancing up from her own needlework on the lilac satin gown, Muriella admired the skill with which the servant had attached the spidery French lace. "'Tis lovely, Megan. Ye can't even see the stitches, they're so tiny."

Megan's pleased smile turned to a frown as she eyed Elizabeth's slender figure. "I only hope 'twill fit ye, m'lady."

Elizabeth, who had refused to try on the fragile garment, shook her head. "It doesn't matter. 'Tis all just a game anyway." She sighed wearily. "Though I'm grateful for something to keep my hands busy." She indicated the violet silk kirtle she was making to wear beneath her wedding gown. It needed only the hem to be finished.

"'Tis more than that," Muriella said. "They might have taken away yer choice, but they can't take away yer pride." Because she believed that, she had chosen two of the finest pieces of cloth John had brought her from Edinburgh and given them to her sister-in-law as a gift. She knew the soft colors would complement Elizabeth's pale hair and gray eyes, and she was determined the other woman look her best; it would help to hide the distress she was feeling inside. Muriella bent her head, concentrating on the intricate silver leaf design she was embroidering around the square neckline of the gown.

Elizabeth gave her a little half smile. "Ye must think me ungrateful after all ye've done."

"No," Muriella said, and meant it. "I understand." Perhaps better than any other, she added silently.

Elizabeth looked away, afraid the compassion in Muriella's eyes might break the fragile barrier that held back a torrent of unshed tears.

For a moment, a hush fell over the three women. Then the door burst open.

"As ye can see," Colin announced, "I've come for the wedding!"

While Muriella plied her needle with unnecessary force, Elizabeth regarded her brother coldly. He was smiling, his face flushed from the ride from Edinburgh and his own high good humor. He approached his sister, blue eyes sparkling. "Elizabeth, I've brought yer groom. He awaits ye in the library."

Elizabeth rose but did not move toward the door.

"Have ye nothing to say, girl? Can't ye greet yer brother properly?"

Her expression wooden, Elizabeth came forward, brushing her cool lips over the Earl's cheek. "Welcome back," she added as an afterthought.

Colin grasped her by the shoulders. "Ye won't make trouble for me over this marriage, ye understand?"

"I don't waste time fighting battles I've already lost," his sister assured him icily.

The Earl's nostrils flared as the famous lump began to rise between his brows. "'Tis a splendid match I've arranged for ye with a wealthy and respected man. 'Tis miracle enough that any man should want ye after what happened before. Ye didn't even give Maclean children, and a barren woman isn't much in demand. If ye had a grain of sense in yer head, ye wouldn't want to fight it."

Elizabeth merely stared at him in silence until he shifted uneasily under her regard. The blank look in her eyes disturbed him. She might as well have been looking at an empty wall.

"Well then," Argyll grunted at last, "if ye won't talk to me, go see to yer groom. He's waiting."

"As ye wish," she replied, sweeping him a deep curtsy.

While her head was lowered and he could not see her eyes, the Earl addressed her again. "Are ye really no' grateful, Elizabeth? Won't ye thank me?"

She rose, smiling stiffly, and moved away. As she pulled the door open, she turned back to face Colin once more. "May ye rot in hell," she said softly, her smile fixed and unwavering. Then she was gone.

* * *

"We won't ever be ready in time," Megan groaned, glancing in dismay at Elizabeth, who wore only a robe and was seated on a stool with her hands lying motionless in her lap. The servant turned to Muriella. "She's to be married within the hour and we haven't even begun her hair. Mary said she'd be here early to help. Where is she?"

"Here, m'lady," Mary panted as she pushed the heavy oak door closed behind her. "I'm very sorry to be so long, but Jenny didn't wake me this mornin'." With an apologetic look at Muriella, she leaned against the door to catch her breath. "I didn't even have time to bind my hair."

Muriella considered Mary's flushed cheeks, glowing eyes, and the disheveled black hair that fell, unbound, below her waist. A painfully vivid memory stirred—of a tiny chamber full of dappled sunlight across two bodies. She felt the color rising in her cheeks.

"I'm truly sorry," Mary repeated, uneasy at Muriella's continued silence. "Can ye forgive me, m'lady?"

"Aye," Muriella said at last. "It couldn't be helped. But we'd best get started now, and quickly."

"As ye say." Mary breathed a sigh of relief, bent her knees briefly, and moved toward the bed where Elizabeth's wedding clothes lay.

The bride, who had not murmured a word since she'd come to Muriella's chamber that morning, rose from her stool and let her hands fall to her sides as Megan slipped the high-necked kirtle over her head. The long, tight sleeves clung to her wrists and the skirt fell in soft violet folds to the floor, but Elizabeth seemed unaware of the feel of the silk against her skin.

"Och, m'lady, the gown is so lovely," Mary said, lifting the lilac satin reverently from among the furs on the bed. She ran her fingers over the design of silver leaves Muriella had embroidered around the square neck with such care. "I haven't ever seen anythin' like it." Eyes shining with admiration, she loosened the laces and lifted the gown over Elizabeth's head.

"The color is perfect," Megan declared. She folded back the wide sleeves that fell to a point at Elizabeth's knees. "We'd best begin on her hair," the servant murmured at the bride's continued silence. "I need ye to help with the braids, Mary. I haven't enough hands of my own."

When Elizabeth was seated, the two girls hovered over her, dividing her hair into sections, weaving the sections together. They giggled as they tangled strand after strand and laughed in triumph when each difficult braid was done. Muriella watched, the blood pounding dully in her ears. Then Mary knelt beside Elizabeth, her hair falling over her shoulders and curling among the rushes at her feet.

Muriella took a deep breath. It had happened before—the chatter, the laughter, the flutter of excited movement that could not touch the shell of the woman in its midst. Behind it all was the memory of her own voice saying, So, it's finally come. There's nothing I can do. Nothing. Then as now, the walls had closed around her, pushing her down into the darkness.

"Elizabeth!" she cried, drawing the woman up from her seat. "Ye must stand by the window where the sunlight can reach ye." At the startled looks from Megan and Mary, she added, "How can ye see if everything is right with the shadows clinging all around?" Turning her back on their astonishment, she noticed a rush had caught in the hem of the gown. Kneeling, she worked the fabric free. Despite her determination to hide her feelings, her hand trembled a little.

Muriella felt the brush of Elizabeth's fingers on her bent head and looked up in surprise.

"Don't grieve for me," Elizabeth said softly. "It doesn't last forever, ye ken. The months pass, the hurt eases, and then, one day, ye begin to accept what ye can't change."

"But until then?"

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "Until then, if ye're lucky, ye learn to hide yer pain so they don't ever guess how deep it goes."

"'Tis time," Megan murmured, approaching hesitantly. "We must go before they send someone to look for us."

Muriella nodded. Those words too she had heard before. She rose, shaking out her gold velvet gown, and put her hand on Elizabeth's arm.

The other woman shook her head. As the servants left the room, she whispered, "I wouldn't have ye by me today."

Muriella regarded her in bewilderment. "But why?"

Frowning, Elizabeth touched her cheek, then looked away. "Because, my friend, ye know too much, and I don't want to see me in yer eyes."

* * *

Once again the huge oak doors of the chapel had been thrown wide to admit the guests in their wedding finery. Muriella stood in the courtyard while the women and men brushed past her, disappearing into the musty gloom. The groom, Archibald Campbell, stood talking to Colin in the doorway. Muriella had seen little of him since his arrival. He'd spent most of the time behind closed doors with Colin. Even when he joined the others for meals, he kept to himself. He seemed pleasant enough, even ordinary. There was nothing in his straight brown hair, heavy beard, and hazel eyes to distinguish him from a hundred other men.

Muriella wondered again what had made him choose Elizabeth. No doubt it was the alliance with the powerful Campbells that had tempted him. She looked away. Elizabeth deserved so much more.

She turned her attention to the pipers, who played somewhere out of sight, blowing their keening song into the misted April air. Muriella listened, eyes closed, drawing from the music the courage to move forward.

She felt a hand at the small of her back and turned to find her husband beside her. It was the first time he had touched her since that day in the library. He had been unfailingly kind, had spoken with her by the hour, read with her from John Barbour and Robert Henryson, but he had not taken her hand or kissed her cheek—not even once.

"Well," John said, so low that only she could hear him, "have ye been thinking?"

She had begun to believe he had forgotten her promise. "I've tried," she murmured. "'Tis all I can do."

John shook his head. '"Tis no' enough, lass. It's been too long."

It was true; she knew it because a growing sense of urgency within would not let her rest. Always, her husband's face was before her, even in her dreams, and always, in his eyes, was the question she could not answer. "Aye," she said when he drew her to him so the warmth of his breath touched her cheek. "I know." She wanted to cup his face in her palms, to feel the stirring of pleasure his kiss had brought her before the fear had washed it away. When she looked into John's eyes, she felt a tightening in her throat and her hands reached out of their own accord to draw him closer. Just then, the pleasure of standing near him was so great that it was almost pain.

"I want ye," he said, his lips hovering above hers. "Ye know that. But I won't see ye turn away from me again. When ye hear my voice instead of yer demons', then I'll come to ye, and not before. 'Tis a promise, lass, to both of us."

The wail of the bagpipes faded as the harps took up their song, but still Muriella stood with her hands on her husband's shoulders. "Come," he said, "'Tis time for the ceremony."

John took her arm to guide her inside and she shivered, chilled by the loss of his warmth. They had barely seated themselves on the front bench when Muriella glanced back to see that Elizabeth was coming.

The song of the harps grew hushed as John's sister started down the aisle toward the altar of silver on carved wood. She held her head high, her skirts flowing behind her over the well-worn stone, the sleeves of her gown swaying with the motion of her body. When she reached the place where Archibald Campbell waited, Elizabeth turned to her groom with no trace of bitterness in the face she raised to his, but Muriella wondered if she saw Maclean's image there.

John grasped his wife's hand tightly as the harps fell silent and the priest began the endless ritual of the marriage ceremony. The three voices filled the tiny chapel, chanting, pausing, repeating the Latin phrases until they rang from the gray stone walls. Then, as Elizabeth and her new husband turned away from the altar, the voices fell silent at last. The bride and groom stood for a moment with the light of a hundred candles on their faces, flickering over the hollows and planes, filling their eyes with moving light. Elizabeth stared before her, seeing nothing, while the couple stepped out of the reach of the dancing flames and started back down the aisle.

They had not moved more than a few steps when the chapel doors burst open. "M'lords, there's a great band of armed men nearin' the keep. They must've killed the sentries on the shore and so made it across to the outer gate!" he announced breathlessly. "They're circlin' outside the wall even now."

"How, in God's name?" Colin s thundering rage reverberated through the tiny, crowded chapel. "There's barely room enough for one man to stand without the loch sucking him under, let alone an armed band."

John came up beside his brother. "Did ye not notice the water's been low this past week? There's not much room beyond the wall, but enough."

"Damn!" Colin bellowed, turning back to Richard. "Who are they?"

"Macleans, m'lord."

"God in heaven! But then, those bastards have always chosen their moments for revenge with a little irony mixed in for spice. I suppose their pride wouldn't let them forget their laird's death after all." He glared at Richard as if the man might contradict him. "Somebody get the women inside," the Earl continued. "Johnnie, ye gather the men. Do ye think we have enough within the keep?"

"'Twill have to be enough," John replied, "and we'll need to hurry to get the archers in place before the Macleans lay siege or climb over the wall." He was moving even as he spoke, assessing the skill of each man as he caught sight of him.

In a very few minutes, the men had dispersed to gather their weapons and take up their positions. As the women hurried across the open courtyard, Muriella went to Elizabeth, who stood alone in the center of the narrow stone aisle, and took her arm. "Come inside," the younger woman murmured, "where 'tis safe." Oddly enough, she was not eager to be closed inside the castle walls. Safe the keep might be, but it was also dark and cold and eerily silent.

The doors had barely closed behind the cluster of women when the sound of the battle began. Suppressing her own agitation, Muriella drew Elizabeth out of the crowd and toward the stairway. "Let's wait in the solar," she suggested. "Where 'tis quiet."

Elizabeth had not said a word since the vows she had spoken in the chapel. Now she only nodded, her face as unyielding as white marble.

* * *

When the battle had been raging for several hours and neither side appeared to be weakening, John and Colin crouched behind the battlements to discuss the Campbell options.

"They'll not budge from their sandy strip of ground, the daft fools, and they hold the outer gate. They can't get in, 'tis true, but neither can we get out. And it seems more of them are coming all the time." Colin sat on his heels, regarding his brother in indecision.

"We need to cut them off from the gate, then force them back into the water. The others will scatter then."

"And how do ye suppose we're to do that? As I said once, they're holding the gate."

Colin's tone rankled; with an effort of will, John kept his fists at his sides. "That's just the thing, don't ye see? They've gathered near the front gate. They expect to try and break through there. They wouldn't even be knowing about the little side gate. The trees are tall and the bushes thick. We who know the way would easily be hidden from view."

The Earl's eyes lit up. "By God, Johnnie, for once ye've had a sensible thought. But who will lead the men that way? It'll take mighty careful going if we don't want to alert the Macleans too soon."

"I'll go." John's blood was beginning to speed through his veins as it always did at the thought of battle. "We can lead the horses through the tunnel easily enough without a light. They won't be expecting us at all."

"Aye, well..." Colin rocked on his heels, considering whether or not his brother could handle the task.

John leaned forward. "If we wait till dark, they won't be able to see us coming. 'Tis two hours away. What do ye think?"

Colin nodded thoughtfully. "Tis a good enough plan," he said at last, "so long as ye don't lose yer head as ye tend to do. Mayhap I should find some other man to lead."

John laughed. The thought of the pending contest had ruined his brother's ability to wound him. Besides, he knew as well as Colin that the first few men out the gate would be vulnerable in the extreme. Smiling, he leapt down from the stone ledge, "Let me know when ye find one willing," he shouted.

The Earl frowned after his brother's retreating back. Johnnie was right. There was no other.

Head bent over the clacking loom, Muriella concentrated on sliding the shuttle between the taut warp threads. She heard Megan enter the room but did not look up from her task.

"I talked to Duncan," the servant announced. "He says the men are plannin' to creep out from the hidden gate at dusk to surprise the Macleans." Approaching her mistress, she added, "He says Sir John will lead them."

Muriella bent forward, gasping. She had known John was out there, facing the Macleans' assault, but until now he’d had the high castle walls to hide behind. Once he left the keep, there would be no ancient stone battlements to protect him. He would be alone with his sword and his brother's men. Fear rose in her throat, cold and leaden, and her hands grew clammy.

Elizabeth saw Muriella turn pale, grasping her stomach as if in pain. For an instant, Elizabeth's features lost their waxen appearance. "Megan," she said sharply, speaking for the first time in many hours, "yer mistress isn't well. Bring her some wine."

"Aye, m'lady." Shocked by Muriella's pallor, the servant hurried from the room to do as she'd been bid.

When Elizabeth slid onto the bench behind the loom, Muriella whispered, "Do ye think—I mean—'tis very dangerous, isn't it?"

"'Tis always dangerous in battle," Elizabeth answered carefully, "but John's a good warrior. He won't give the Macleans the victory if he can help it."

"But what if this time he can't help it? What if their anger makes them stronger?" The words were hoarse and indistinct, and she had to struggle to speak them at all.

Elizabeth took Muriella's hand. "If 'tis so, then so 'twill be. Ye can't change that. Ye can only pray that he'll come back unharmed."

Muriella shook her head. "I don't think I remember how."

"'Twill come to ye," Elizabeth said softly. "I've told ye before, it doesn't last forever. Even the fear goes, in time." Frowning, she contemplated Muriella's averted face. Until now, Elizabeth had believed her sister-in-law to be indifferent to John, if not entirely hostile. She had even felt vague stirrings of pity when she saw how her brother's gaze followed his wife whenever she was near. Yet here Muriella sat, her eyes shadowed, her skin sickly pale, asking about her husband's danger. Could Elizabeth have been mistaken?

When Megan returned with the wine, her mistress drank it slowly, willing its warmth into her chilled veins, but it could not touch the cold fear around her heart. She peered at the weave of the nearly completed Loch Awe tapestry, hoping to lose herself in the color and patterns she had created. She plied the shuttle to and fro, to and fro, lacing the strands together, building a meshwork of vivid blue and pale peach, but this time the colors changing beneath her skilled hands were not enough to make her forget. The hours stretched out, hushed and endless, with only the rhythmic sound of the loom to break the uneasy silence.

Then, as darkness settled beyond the windows and the torches flared to life, the sound of cheering rose from the courtyard.

Muriella's hands ceased their movement. She met Elizabeth's gaze in apprehension. No doubt the Campbells had won their battle at last. But at what cost? Now, when she needed it most, when she craved the knowledge the Sight could give her, the power had left her.

For the second time, Megan flung the door open and came into the room, her face flushed with triumph. "The Macleans have fled!" she cried. "Sir John and his men reclaimed the gate and outer wall, forcing them into the loch. The currents were cruel tonight, and the Macleans blind to the danger of the cold black water. Our men have started comin' in, but Duncan says 'twill be a while before the ones from outside will make their way back."

Muriella forced herself to ask calmly, "Ye have no word of Sir John?"

"No, m'lady," Megan told her with regret. "But Duncan says he's better with a sword than any man. No doubt he's safe enough."

"No doubt," her mistress repeated, but she did not believe it. She stared at her nearly finished tapestry. As it undulated in the yellow glare of the torches, she leaned forward, holding her breath. The red-haired woman knelt on the shore, gazing into the water, but the face below her was not pale and lovely, with the blond, flowing hair of the woman of the loch. The face reflected in the gently shifting water was darkly handsome, bearded and sunbrowned, with eyes as blue as the winter sky. Muriella cried out once, then buried her face in the bright, colored fabric.

Chapter 37

When the men began to return to the hall, Elizabeth stood waiting to greet them one by one. She had explained to her new husband that she must help with the wounded and he had agreed. "Go," Archibald Campbell had told his wife gently. "Mayhap we can begin again tomorrow."

Now, with Duncan beside her, Elizabeth tended those she could help, doled out food to those who could eat, and learned the names of those who were dead. No one could tell her about her brother. Apparently most of the men had lost sight of him just after the Macleans scattered and fled.

The men had been arriving for nearly an hour when David Campbell staggered into the hall, clutching his shoulder where an arrow had pierced it. While Elizabeth tore his shirt away and bathed the wound, he told her what he could.

"After they ran, Sir John thought we'd best follow for a way to see they really meant to return to Mull. He was afraid they'd circle back and surprise the keep. We hadn't gone far when some of the Macleans took it into their heads to turn and fight. That's when I got my wound." He pointed to his shoulder with pride. "'Twas a long skirmish. Seemed more kept coming, despite the number we killed outright. By the time the last Maclean had gone or died, not a single one of us still had a horse. I never saw Sir John, though I looked among the closest corpses. Then my wound started in bleeding, and I thought I'd best come back again."

Elizabeth knew twenty-five men had left Kilchurn Castle with her brother. It was just past midnight, and she had accounted for twenty-two who were either safe within the keep or dead. Half an hour later, she looked up to see John and another man huddled in the doorway, carrying a third between them. In an instant she was beside them, searching their faces anxiously. Somehow, in the last hours of tending to the wounded, the weight of her self-imposed numbness had left her. For the first time in weeks, she knew she was alive, because the fear was with her again.

"Elizabeth," her brother said, "aren't ye in bed? Or has yer groom been wounded?"

John was covered in blood, but his sister could not tell if it was his own. She recognized the second man as Richard Campbell. Leaning down, she examined the third, who was badly wounded. As they dragged him into the light, she saw Andrew Campbell's flaming red hair. His freckles stood out darkly against his pale skin.

"Elizabeth, come away," John said as he took her arm. "There are others to care for him."

She allowed her brother to draw her toward the fire. "Are ye hurt?" she asked at last.

"Och, no! Though the Macleans did their best to see that I was. I've been so long because Andrew yonder fell right next to me. Richard and I thought he wouldn't make it back, so we tried to tend to him there as best we could. We stopped the bleeding, at least, and removed the shaft, but I wouldn't care to guess about his chances."

As he spoke, the exhilaration she had noticed when he first came in seemed to drain from his face. She could see by his furrowed brow that he was tired.

John felt her questioning gaze and frowned. "Tell me, what do ye here? Ye should be asleep."

"I was waiting for ye."

He drew back so he could see her face more clearly. She had not sought him out since his return from Edinburgh, and he could not understand what had brought her to him now. "Why?"

She glanced around to make certain no one was near. "Johnnie," she murmured, "hew weary are ye?"

"If ye're asking could I fall asleep on the floor with the stones for a pillow, aye, I'm that weary."

"I think—" she paused, searching for words— "I think ye should go to yer wife."

John eyed his sister warily. "I don't think she would welcome me in this state." He indicated his clothing, which was crusted with blood. "What makes ye think she would want to see me anyway?"

"I was with her all evening. She was worried about ye. I know she won't sleep till she's seen ye. Please, just go to her."

There was a strange expression on Elizabeth's face that John did not entirely like, but he could see no harm in stopping to say good night to Muriella. "All right then," he agreed, "if ye say so. After I wash the blood away. Will that satisfy ye?"

Elizabeth nodded. She smiled as he started up the stairs. He would find his wife waiting, and tonight she would welcome him, because her defenses had been half destroyed by fear. By morning her brother would be bound inexorably by his love for Muriella; his sister had seen it in his eyes. Just now that was all Elizabeth desired.

* * *

Muriella sat in her chamber, gazing out the window. She could see nothing beyond the faint glimmer of stars shrouded with gathering clouds, but she did not mind. The night air cooled her burning cheeks and the cry of the rising wind overshadowed the sound of her ragged breathing.

Megan sat behind her mistress, sewing in the lamplight. She was listening intently and heard the footsteps in the hall long before Muriella did. When her mistress finally looked up, her gaze met Megan's and held it. Perhaps those steps meant news of John.

As the door swung open, Muriella turned, her heart pounding, to find her husband standing on the threshold in a long saffron shirt and trews. His hair clung damply to his head, and his cheeks were pink, as if he had just scrubbed them. She could see some drops of water clinging to his beard; they caught the light, glimmering as he turned his head. Muriella sank back against the stone with a sigh. He was safe.

Megan rose, looking from her mistress to John and back again. Muriella did not move while her husband stood silent in the doorway, watching her. At last he nodded at Megan and she slipped past him, closing the door behind her.

John listened until the servant's footsteps had disappeared. He thought he had forgotten how to breathe. Muriella sat by the window, dressed only in a pale gown with a robe draped over her shoulders. In the lamplight, he could see the curve of her breasts against the gossamer-thin fabric. Her hair, usually tightly braided, fell about her shoulders and down to the floor. With difficulty, he focused on her eyes and the dark shadows underneath. Elizabeth had been right after all; Muriella had not yet slept.

He stood unmoving, waiting to see if she would shrink from his gaze, but she did not. Instead, she rose to stand facing him, her night rail undulating about her body like a wisp of transparent smoke.

"Holy Mother of God," she whispered. "We didn't hear of ye for so long that I thought ye were dead."

"Did ye really mind so much?" he asked.

When she looked for her fear of him, she found it had been washed away in the wake of an even greater fear—that she might have lost him. "Aye," she said simply.

He took a step forward. "Muriella, I made ye a promise—"

Before he could finish, she grasped his hands in hers and kissed them each on the palm.

He felt the heat of her lips all through his body, and with a deep breath, drew her into his arms. For a long time he merely held her, kissing the top of her head, stroking her hair with his fingertips.

Muriella was beyond thought or reason. The evidence of her eyes was not enough; she wanted to see with her hands and her lips that the battle had not taken her husband from her after all. Without hesitation, she put her arms around his neck and stood on her toes, raising her lips to his.

John groaned, then pulled her closer, circling the edge of her mouth with his tongue. The robe slid from her shoulders as he began to caress her back in ever-widening circles, drawing her gown up as he did so. He trembled at the touch of her fingers on his neck, at the way she teased the still-damp strands of his hair, winding her fingers in the dark curls. With one swift gesture, he drew her night rail over her head and stood gazing at her naked body. He caught his breath in admiration.

Though her face was touched with sun from her rides across the moors, the skin of her body was pure, startling white. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, revealing the soft lines of her breasts and stomach, hips and thighs. His pulse quickened when he saw the little short breaths she took to calm her excited nerves.

He wanted to pull her to him roughly, to satisfy at once the hunger she had fueled in him for so long. But he knew he must wait a little longer, until he could hold her in the safety of the darkness. His heartbeat slow and labored, he lifted his wife in his arms, smiling when she twined her arms around his neck and nestled closer. As he carried her across the room, he buried his face in the hair at her neck and traced the line of her throat with his tongue.

Muriella shivered, amazed that such a little thing could bring her such pleasure. In that moment, she closed her mind to thought and doubt and fear. When John placed her on the bed and tried to pull away, she clung to him, unwilling to lose the heat of his body even for a moment.

"Wait," he murmured.

She released him and he moved to the foot of the bed, putting out the lamp as he passed. When she heard him remove his clothes, she held her breath until she felt his weight on the bed, then rolled to the center to meet him.

John stretched out and held her, not moving, barely breathing, while her racing heartbeat slowed and she became used to the feel of his body on hers. He was heavy and warm and she responded slowly, circling him with her arms, touching his naked skin for the first time of her own free will.

When she turned her head to meet his lips with hers, John withdrew from her a little. Leisurely, gently, he took her hands to guide them along his shoulders, down over the thick hair of his chest to his hips and beyond. While he kissed her hair and eyes and mouth, he showed her the strength and the softness of his body through her seeking fingertips. Sometimes he shuddered when her hand strayed to a sensitive spot. When her shyness had begun to pass, she sought those places out, delighting in her power to rouse him with a single touch.

Finally he caught her in his arms, and began to know her body as she had known his. He brushed the hair away from her breasts and ran his fingers over the flesh, which he could see in his memory, though the darkness hid it now. Circling, always circling, he moved his hands over her skin, delighting in its supple warmth and the shivers of pleasure that answered his touch.

He drew her close, nibbling her ear, tracing the lobe with his warm tongue. She could feel every part of him against her sensitive skin. When he found her breast with his lips, she ceased breathing for fear he would stop. With hands and lips and tongue, he caressed her until she trembled, wanting something more, though she did not know what.

"Muriella?" John whispered into the throbbing pulse at the hollow of her throat. "Are ye frightened?"

"No," she answered, surprised at the way the single word vibrated through his body. The blood was pulsing madly in her head, her legs, her chest. The weight of his hands on her body was a pleasure so intense that it left her without breath or words. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the light, she could see the outline of his face, the fall of his hair across his cheek, the glow of his eyes in the darkness. She felt the water hissing around her, swirling at her shoulders, threatening to pull her under, and knew she should turn away before it was too late. Then John touched her hair, her flushed cheek with his fingertips, and the choice was taken from her.

"Muriella?"

She reached up to draw him close—so close that she could hear the pounding of his heart.

John heard her answer in the movement of her body. His breath escaped in a rush as slowly, his hands cupping her warm flesh, he entered her. She gasped, digging her fingernails into his shoulders, shuddered at the sudden pain, then clung more tightly as he began to move within her.

Her vision blurred while the colors whirled and clashed and melded in her head. She knew she could not bear it; she could not. In her wonder, she held him closer and closer still, his heart beating into hers, his breath soft against her ear. Then he cried out once. With her lips pressed to his, she swallowed the sound of his passion and answered it with her own. "Johnnie," she breathed.

When at last they lay side by side, John held her while she trembled, trying to breathe in the stillness that had descended upon them, until the colors settled into familiar patterns, then faded in the darkness. She reached for his hand to grasp it tight, welcoming the heat of his fingers as they twined with hers. "Hold me," she whispered. "Don't go."

His arms closed around her, caught up in the long, damp tangles of her hair.

"I won't leave ye," he murmured. She rubbed her cheek across his chest, then rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He said no more, because, just then, there was nothing more to say.

Chapter 38

When John awoke, gray morning was spilling through the open shutters. Tossing aside the furs, he reached out to draw his wife near. With his arm around her shoulders, he looked into her sleep-misted eyes and saw she was smiling. There were no shadows to come between them now.

Muriella moved closer as he brushed the hair off her shoulder to caress the bare skin. She considered the curves and hollows of his face, made stronger by the morning light, and tears burned behind her eyes. Always before when he came to her bed, he had left her long before dawn, but this time he had stayed. She trembled at the rush of joy that shook her as their lips met and clung. His kiss was warm, insistent, tender. She closed her eyes when he slipped his tongue into her mouth. In that moment, as her body met his, a quiver of fear pierced her happiness and she clung to him more fiercely, her need a wild keening cry inside.

When John drew away, Muriella moved her hands hungrily over his chest, as if to forge with her open palms a bond between them that could not be broken. She had never before seen his body in light untouched by shadows. She wanted to come to know by sight what she had already learned by touch. Raising herself on one arm, she explored the pattern of dark hair that almost concealed skin toughened by years of sun and battle but still strangely soft beneath her circling fingertips. She traced the jagged line of an old scar, intrigued by the number of these reminders of past violence on his body. Her own half-finger, her only visible scar, touched a puckered line of whitened skin curving over his ribs, and she felt an odd disturbing sense of kinship she could not explain.

"'Tis wonderful hands ye've got, lassie," John murmured, his arm tightening around her shoulders, "but I'm thinking 'tis time I left ye for a while. There's much to be done after yesterday's battle."

The flame of fear burned brighter. Muriella cupped his face in her hands, tangling her fingers in his beard. I must let him go, she thought, but she whispered, "Stay a little."

There was nothing her husband would have liked more. The movement of her hands across his chest, the feather light touch of her fingers in his hair were stirring his need to life once more. But from the light pouring through the half-open shutter, he knew they had already slept too long. "Ah, lass, ye tempt me greatly, but 'tis late. Before the morning's over we have to bury the dead and see to the wounded. But I'll see ye at breakfast, little one."

Before he rose, he took her in his arms to kiss her one last time. Muriella locked her arms around his neck and her mouth opened under his, drawing a groan of frustration from his parted lips. Then he pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment he was poised there, frozen in time, the muscles along his back taut with his suppressed desire. Finally, he bent down to scoop his clothes from the floor.

Muriella watched, heart pounding, while he threw on his shirt and stepped into his trews. His body was fine and strong and supple, and she wanted to feel it beneath her hands, but she knew a single touch would not satisfy the craving within her.

"Good-bye, lass," John called as he reached the door. "till later."

"Aye."

When he was gone, Muriella closed her eyes, praying for the rapid beating of her heart to ease. She slipped from the bed and found her robe, discarded carelessly the night before. Tossing it over her shoulders, she knelt before the window and looked out at the garden below. It was late spring; long ago the wild roses had taken over the tangled bracken and heather carpeting the ground, but the profusion of bright flowers could not soften the stark, terrible beauty of the scene. In the distance the mountains rose, jagged, black and menacing, outlined against the cloud-filled sky by the shimmering silver sunlight. There would be a storm before the day was out; she could smell the threat of violence in the air, hear it in the rising wind through the brooding pines. Below her, hawthorn and heather and bracken, roses and wild myrtle undulated in the sudden onslaught of cold, wet wind. Only Loch Awe lay still and untouched, an island of peace in the center of the coming storm.

Muriella breathed deeply, overcome by the power of the landscape that echoed the tumult of joy and fear inside her. It was inevitable, she realized, as inevitable as the pleasure she had known in John's arms. And what of the vision of the rushing water? No matter how much she might wish to deny it, that too was inevitable. She could only wait, powerless, as she had always done. But now the waiting would be sweeter by far—sweeter and more frightening—for now she had so very much to lose.

* * *

A cold wind circled through the chamber, waking Elizabeth like the touch of icy fingers on her cheek. She stirred, her mind still clouded with sleep, and opened her eyes with reluctance. When she saw the figure beside her, she sat up abruptly, drawing the furs close. She had forgotten about her new husband—had made herself forget. He'd been sound asleep when she finally came up to their chamber the night before, and she'd been grateful.

"Good morning, my wife," Archibald Campbell said.

He was sitting with his back against the wall, regarding her mildly. She blinked to assure herself he was real and not some unwelcome figment of her imagination.

"Ye must have been up half the night tending to the wounded," he observed when she did not reply to his greeting. "How many men were lost, do ye think?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "I'm no' certain, but I do know 'twas not nearly as many as the Macleans lost."

Frowning, Archibald reached out to take her hand. Elizabeth wanted to shrink from his touch, but knew she had no right to do so.

"The Macleans were yer own clan for so many years," her husband mused. "It can't be easy to find yerself their enemy all at once."

Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise. "No, 'tis not easy." She gazed at her free hand, pale and somehow vulnerable against the dark fur. "But 'tis no good to lament what can't be helped." She shook her head in resignation. "I'm afraid the Macleans were glad to be rid of me in the end. It seems I brought them nothing but trouble in the past few years."

"And what did they bring ye?" Archibald asked, squeezing her fingers gently. "I'll wager ye've suffered more than any one of the Macleans."

Elizabeth stared at the man who was her husband as if she had never seen him before. In the past week, she had become familiar with his straight brown hair and heavy beard, but she had never noticed how the hair fell untidily over his forehead or the way his dark beard softened the weathered lines of his face. She had seen the hazel of his wide-set eyes, but never recognized the compassion there. She found she could not speak: it had been too long since anyone but Muriella had offered her kindness.

Aware of her discomfort, Archibald released her hand. "I don't know about ye," he said, "but I'm hungry enough for twelve men. And I suspect ye had little to eat yesterday in all the excitement. Shall I call a servant to bring some food? That way ye won't have to dress and go down to the Great Hall quite so early."

Too astonished by his thoughtfulness to speak, Elizabeth could only nod. She was hungry, she realized, and that surprised her as well.

"'Tis as good as done," her husband said as he rose and threw on his robe.

When he started to turn away, Elizabeth moved across the mattress, stopping him with a hand on his arm. He turned, one eyebrow raised in question. "Aye?"

She found her voice at last. "I just wanted to—thank ye."

Archibald Campbell smiled and covered her hand with his. "Ye're welcome, lass," he said.

* * *

When Muriella descended to the Great Hall, every bench at every table was occupied. The victory over the Macleans had left the men and wedding guests in a boisterous mood. The shutters had been thrown back and the doors hung open, allowing the sunlight, touched with silver from the threatening storm clouds, to bathe the huge vaulted room. As she moved among the tables, Muriella heard the men recounting with enthusiasm the details of yesterday's battle. They praised John's skill, exaggerated their own, reviled Evan Maclean, jested and shouted with laughter at their own wit. For once, they were not aware that she passed among them.

Colin was already seated in the carved oak chair at the head of the high table. His brother sat on his right and Jenny hovered, as always, at the Earl's shoulder. As she stepped up onto the dais, Muriella was met with the sound of Colin's coarse laughter, but she was not really aware of it. Her attention was on her husband. When he looked up and smiled, her heart paused in its usual rhythm. She slipped onto the bench beside him as he motioned for Jenny to fill his wife's platter.

"Here, Johnnie," Colin exclaimed in sudden inspiration, "won't ye kiss yer wife good morrow? I'll wager she hasn't seen ye since the battle. Ye should greet her properly."

"Och, but ye haven't been payin' attention, m'lord," Adam Campbell chuckled from the far end of the table. "For unless my eyes deceived me this mornin', she saw a great deal more o' him than she cared to last night."

Heads swiveled toward John and Muriella in avid curiosity, and though she turned pale, she did not allow her smile to waver. She would not give Colin that pleasure.

The Earl eyed his brother with new interest. "Do ye say so?" His gaze flicked from John to Muriella, where it lingered. "Damn me!" he cried. "Then 'tis more of a celebration that we bargained for." Griming, a malicious glint in his eye, he called to the men below, "What do ye say we have a fete in one week's time? A grand event to commemorate the defeat of the Macleans and anything else worth getting drunk over?"

A cheer greeted his suggestion from the ranks of men who filled the hall. Some waved their chunks of bread in the air to show their approbation. The Earl nudged John with his elbow. "What do ye say, Johnnie, m'lad?"

With an effort, John choked back his anger before he replied, "I say ye should have yer celebration, but ye'd best remember that when they're drunk, men sometimes lose all fear and sanity. Likely to do anything, they are." He met his brother's gaze and noticed the lump was in danger of appearing between his sandy eyebrows.

"Are ye threatening me, little brother?" the Earl asked, no longer smiling.

"No' at all. I just thought ye should remember." The gleam in John's eyes belied his words.

Colin was suddenly aware that everyone was watching him with great interest. "We'll discuss this foolishness later," he hissed under his breath.

"Aye," John said, "no doubt. And ye'll see I have as much to say as ye do."

"M'lord?" Jenny stepped between John and Colin with her back to the younger brother. "Will ye have some sweetbread?" She held the platter out, swaying provocatively in an effort to distract the Earl.

His eyes narrowed while he considered shoving her out of the way, but he decided John was best left alone right now. He replaced his scowl with a forced smile and took some of the bread.

Muriella released her breath in relief. She had feared the brothers would come to blows, and that would only have made things worse. She watched her husband struggling to overcome his anger, glaring at his half-empty platter, his hands clenched on the pitted tabletop. When he became aware of her gaze, he turned. "Ye'll have to forgive my brother," he whispered. "I'm afraid my father didn't teach him manners."

"It doesn't matter," Muriella whispered back.

"It does." John turned his attention back to his breakfast. He did not trust himself to discuss Colin's behavior further.

Muriella began to eat the cold beef and sweetbread Jenny had served her, but when she heard a murmur of curiosity rippling through the men, she looked up. A disheveled stranger stood in the doorway, looking about him. He had obviously been riding hard; his hair was windblown, his body covered with a fine layer of dust, his face strained with exhaustion. He held a leather packet under his arm.

John looked up and saw the man in the same instant his wife did. He knew the messenger at once. Glancing at Muriella in apprehension, he cursed the man's poor timing.

As the stranger started toward the high table, John rose, intending to stop him before he'd crossed the hall, but he had barely swung his leg over the bench when Colin called, "Where have ye come from, man? Do ye bring me letters?"

"I come from Cawdor, m'lord, and my letters are for Sir John."

Annoyed, the Earl stood, ignoring his brother's angry exclamation. "Not again!" Colin snapped. "Don't tell me there's more trouble brewing in that little keep in the north."

"Aye, m'lord," the stranger said. "There's trouble enough."

Out of the corner of his eye, the Earl saw Muriella lean forward, suddenly intent. He smiled to himself. "What is it now?" he demanded. "Another murder or another scandal?"

"Whatever it is," John hissed in fury, "'tis my business, not yers." He saw what his brother was trying to do, but John did not intend to let this touch Muriella. "Come," he said to the messenger, who had paused at the foot of the platform. "We'll discuss yer news in the library." With a sidelong look at the Earl, he added, "Where 'tis quiet and a man can think." Before he left the table, he tried to smile reassuringly at his wife but knew he was unsuccessful. As he joined the stranger and started to wind his way through the rows of trestle tables, he could feel Muriella's bewildered gaze burning like a brand into his back.

Chapter 39

The dream began as it always did. Muriella was a child again, happy and without fear, running with the wind in her hair on the hills near Kilravok. Laughing into the cool morning breeze, she lost herself among the rustling shadows of the leaves in the forest. She had to hide before her cousin found her and won the game.

"Muriella!" Hugh called softly, as he ducked beneath the low branches of an oak. "I'll find ye in the end," he whispered, his voice warm with teasing.

She moved deeper into the woods, where she could watch him yet not be seen. Holding her breath, she smiled when he paused to listen, the speckled sunlight dancing over his bright red hair. Then she blinked and he vanished, his raw leather boots making no sound on the soft earth of the forest.

Muriella crept from behind the oak that had concealed her and stood peering among the hawthorns, pines and oaks. She tried to catch a glimpse of Hugh's red hair, but saw only the green of the leaves and the gray of the shifting darkness. Then she heard a shout of glee and her cousin was behind her, winding his hands in her long auburn braids. "Ye see," he said, "I told ye I'd find ye!" He tugged on her hair, swinging her around. She went gladly, laughing as she turned to meet his triumphant gaze. But when she saw his face, the laughter died in her throat. This was not her beloved Hugh, but the grotesque mask of a stranger. The eyes were sunken, hollow, the skin black and scarred. The mouth was twisted into a leering smile of contempt.

Muriella awoke, gasping, but even when she opened her eyes, the image of the ghastly face would not leave her. Always before, the dream had left her with a feeling of peace, but this time the contentment had turned to a deep foreboding that lingered and grew in the enveloping darkness.

Instinctively, she turned, reaching for the reassuring warmth of her husband's arms, but he was not there. With a rush of despair, she remembered; it had been a week since he'd held her after the battle, but he had not come to her again. Almost from the moment the messenger arrived from Cawdor, John had been away. He left before dawn each morning and returned long after the keep had fallen silent for the night. Muriella was sure his absence had to do with the trouble at Cawdor. Hour after hour, Colin's words rang in her head: What is it this time? Another murder or another scandal? She would have given much to know the answer. But more than that, she thought, hands clenched against the inevitable pain, she would have given much to know why John had not held her again, kissed her, made her forget her fear in the rush of her newborn happiness.

Unable to sleep, she knelt at the window, throwing open the shutters in an effort to get some relief. Even in the darkness, she knew a deluge was coming. She could feel the seething moisture in the air. The storm she had expected had not yet broken, but every day the mountains grew bleaker, the clouds darker and more threatening. And every day the emptiness inside grew until it consumed her from within and there was nothing else.

* * *

On the floor by the open window, Muriella waited for dawn, then rose, put on her mauve silk gown and kirtle, and made her way downstairs. She had not thought anyone else would be about, but when she reached the Great Hall, she found several men coming and going from the room on the far side where the weapons were kept. Though their voices were raised in excitement, Muriella could not make out the words. Without conscious thought, she turned in that direction. Long before she'd reached the place where the men were gathered, she heard John's voice above the others. "Are ye sure this time?"

Muriella paused. It seemed like an eternity since she had heard that voice. Its power mesmerized her for an instant.

Then Richard answered, breaking the spell. "Aye. I told ye, I took care to make certain."

"Then we'd best be on our way as soon as possible. Are the horses saddled?"

"Aye, m'lord."

Moving forward soundlessly, Muriella stopped on the threshold. She had never felt comfortable in this chamber, whose walls were lined with broadswords and daggers, claymores and spears. She felt uneasy among the implements of war, but she saw at once that John was at home here. He stood in the center of the bare stone floor, arms akimbo, waiting with impatience while Duncan adjusted the wide, strong leather of his master's sword belt.

Her husband, like the others, was armed for battle in his long saffron shirt, leather doublet, and thick wool trews. His father's sword hung at his side and two large daggers had been thrust into his belt. Muriella felt a strange constriction in her chest. Somehow in the past week, she'd forgotten how broad John's shoulders were, how dark and wild his hair—forgotten, too, how harsh and unyielding his face became when he was angry. That he was angry now she had no doubt; she could see it in every rigid line of his body, in the energy that seemed to radiate from him in waves until it touched every other man in the room. The sense of foreboding grew more insistent and she had to force herself to breathe evenly.

At last one of the men noticed Muriella hovering in the doorway. He froze with his sword in midair. Slowly, one by one, the men sensed his discomfort and a hush fell over the room.

John looked up. "What the devil—" He broke off abruptly when he saw his wife.

"I'd like to speak to ye," she said.

His eyes gleamed with an emotion she could not understand and the lines of his face hardened. For a moment, she thought he would refuse her outright. Then, with a curious twist of his lips, he nodded at the men. No one said a word as they took their weapons and left the room. Duncan was the last to go.

"I can't linger," John said, before the door had closed at the squire's back. "What is it?"

He struggled to speak calmly, but could not disguise the tension in his body. He had not been sleeping any better than she, Muriella realized. "Where are ye going?" she asked.

Her husband looked away, running his hand through his hair in agitation. "There's something I have to do. Something that can't wait any longer."

"But why do ye need yer sword and shield and leather doublet?"

His answering smile was grim. "'Tis wise to have them when ye go to surprise an enemy before he surprises ye."

"What enemy?" his wife asked in desperation. "Why must ye speak in riddles?"

John saw the dread in Muriella's eyes and hesitated. There were things he must tell her that had nothing to do with his sword and his shield, things that must be said with gentleness and care. Just now he found it impossible to summon such feelings. He had to be away before it was too late.

She was waiting expectantly, nervously. Even through the slow-simmering rage in his blood, he ached for her and wanted to take the confusion from her eyes. But the memory of her tortured voice came to him like a warning: The horror is here, inside my own head.

He would not add to that lingering horror. He had made a silent vow to her, and he would honor it now. "Muriella," he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort, "when a man is too blind to see he's gone too far, 'tis time to show him the error of his ways. And I intend to do just that before the day has grown much older."

He closed one hand tightly around the hilt of his sword and with the other, stroked his dagger in a fierce caress.

The feeling of foreboding was now so great that Muriella thought it would choke her. She lunged forward, grasping John's doublet in her hands. "Please don't go!" she cried. "There's danger waiting for ye; I know it. Please!"

John stiffened, stepping backward until her hands fell away. "Don't ask that of me," he said harshly. "Not ever. Danger or no danger, live or die, one thing I won't ever do, even for ye, is give up my honor."

I wouldn't ever stain the name of Campbell by hiding like a coward in my keep. What I do, I do because I must—for honor. How often, Muriella wondered, would John echo his father's words? But as she met her husband's implacable gaze, she knew that, no matter what he said, it was not concern for his honor that drove him now. The look that glittered in his eyes was rage—pure and bright and coldly menacing.

* * *

"I've come to say farewell."

At the sound of Elizabeth's voice, Muriella looked up from the tapestry laid out on the floor of the solar. For the past few hours she had been kneeling on the cold stone, stitching together the slits between the different colors on the backside of the finished hanging. "The trunks are ready?" she asked her sister-in-law.

Elizabeth closed the door behind her. "Aye, at last. Once Megan took over, things went much more smoothly. Thank ye for giving her up for a morning."

"I would have come myself—" Muriella began.

Elizabeth shook her head. "I told ye, I couldn't have borne that. I didn't want ye there, reminding me—" She broke off and busied herself brushing the rushes aside, then seated herself on the floor.

"I wouldn't have spoken a word if ye didn't want me to," Muriella told her.

Smiling gently, Elizabeth said, "Ye needn't say a word to make me remember. I told ye before, 'tis in yer eyes." She glanced away. "'Tis difficult enough to start for Auchinbreck so soon, but my husband says his men are restless and he doesn't wish to leave them for so long. 'Tis odd," she mused, looking around the small stone chamber pensively, "when I first realized they'd brought me to Kilchurn, I wanted to be anywhere but here, yet now I don't want to go."

"Maybe ye'll find ye like it at Auchinbreck, once ye've made it yer home."

"Mayhap," Elizabeth murmured. "But that doesn't make it any easier to leave ye. 'Twas ye, after all, who kept me alive when I would have given up."

Brow furrowed, Muriella regarded her sister-in-law in concern. "Ye said once that I should have let ye die."

Elizabeth shivered at the memory. "I was mad with grief then. Things are different now."

Muriella could see it was true. Elizabeth had clearly been sleeping better; the shadows under her eyes were fading and the color had begun to creep back into her cheeks. "Ye're looking well," the younger woman said. "Mayhap yer marriage suits ye better than ye expected. I've been watching ye over the past few days, and it seems as though 'twill no' be hard after all to accept what ye can't change."

Elizabeth frowned at the thought of her own words. Had it only been a week ago that she had stood in Muriella's chamber and felt the world dissolving into darkness at her feet? It seemed a lifetime had passed since that cold, gray morning. "Sometimes Archibald frightens me," she admitted in a whisper. "Not because he mistreats me, but because he doesn't. I don't know how to fight his kindness."

Muriella stared at the needle threaded with blue wool in her hand. "Mayhap," she said at last, "ye don't need to fight anymore."

With a sigh, Elizabeth settled herself more comfortably on the floor. "I try to tell myself I must. I warn myself to think, to remember how much they've all hurt me before. But sometimes I forget, just the same. This morning I did." Her eyes misted over, and she struggled to find her voice. "Archibald came to me and told me he'd had my things sent from Duart to Auchinbreck. I'm sure the Macleans weren't happy to give them up. My father had given me some wonderful jewels before I left Kilchurn, and many of the gowns were worth a great deal."

She paused to look up at Muriella. "Archibald says they gave him no trouble, but I'm certain 'tis not the truth. He only said it because he didn't want to distress me. I know he had to threaten them somehow."

"So the trunks will be waiting for ye when ye reach Auchinbreck?"

"Aye." Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I'm not certain I have the strength to look inside them. Before I could tell him so, my husband said if I never want to open them, I needn't do so. But if I find, in time, the past is easier to bear, then my things will be there—waiting." She gazed at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "When he told me that, I wanted to weep."

Even now her eyes filled with tears, yet she smiled. And for the first time there was no sadness in her smile, no bitter realization, no regret. Muriella, moved by her own aching memory of a chamber emptied of scarlet and filled instead with green and gold and brown, put her arm across the other woman's shoulders. "I'm glad for ye," she said. "Mayhap Archibald Campbell is exactly what ye needed to make ye forget."

Elizabeth nodded. "Ye know, at first I thought 'twas cruel beyond words that my husband shared my father's name. But now I sometimes wonder if the second Archibald Campbell isn't meant somehow to make up for all the pain the first caused me."

"I hope 'tis so," Muriella whispered.

"Aye." Once again the two women glanced away from one another. Seeking a distraction, Elizabeth turned her attention to the tapestry spread across the width of the chamber. "I've watched ye work on this so often since I came to Kilchurn that I can't believe 'tis finished at last. May I see it before I go?"

Muriella rose, hands trembling as she lifted the huge tapestry, then drew one end up and across the other so that, when she reached the far side of the chamber, the front of the hanging was visible. No one but she and Megan had seen the completed design, and she awaited Elizabeth's response with eagerness and apprehension.

Eyes wide with admiration at the vivid colors, Elizabeth knelt beside the first panel, in which the bubbling burn flowed by while the Kelpies watched from the protection of their leaf-shrouded bower. In the distance, the golden-haired woman led her friends as they rode to the hunt, laughing, their plaids caught up in the wind behind them. "'Tis lovely," Elizabeth murmured, "Ye can almost hear their laughter."

She moved to the second panel, where the water swirled around the woman's waist as the burn swelled into a deadly torrent. Her mouth was open in terror, the wreath of flowers askew on her long, flowing hair. Within the rushing water, among the leaves and in the darkness beyond, the Kelpies laughed and danced, celebrating their victory over the lady who had ruled their valley for too long. Elizabeth shivered at the gleaming triumph in their eyes.

Finally, she came to the last panel. She leaned forward to look more closely at the sweeping grandeur of Loch Awe. The islands of birch and larch were lovely in every detail of earth and bark and shadowy leaves; the water rippled gently, the moon shone down in silver radiance, and the path of golden light touched the water with ethereal brilliance. Elizabeth held her breath, running her fingers over the fabric, marveling at its fine weave and subtle shading of color. Then she noticed for the first time the red-haired woman kneeling on the near bank, staring at her reflection in the water. But it was not her reflection. It was—Elizabeth's hand grew still above the image of her brother's blurred but vibrant face. She looked up to find Muriella watching, eyes dark with grief. Neither spoke for a long moment.

Muriella looked away, breaking the stillness at last. "Do ye know where he's gone?" she asked.

Bewildered by her desperation, Elizabeth shook her head. "Even when we were close, my brother didn't tell me his plans." At Muriella's look of disappointment, she rubbed her chin and tried to think. "But I heard Archibald say something—I believe Johnnie's gone after a man who has been giving him trouble for a long time. I'm afraid 'tis all I know."

"Aye," Muriella said, "John told me he was going to meet an enemy. But he wouldn't say who."

"Ye saw him today?" Elizabeth asked in surprise.

"Just before dawn. I found him in the chamber where the weapons are kept. He was armed, the men were armed, but he wouldn't tell me why."

Elizabeth frowned. "Why should that frighten ye? 'Tis no' unusual for men to keep their battles and their grudges to themselves. They don't think we care or understand about such things."

"It frightens me because I saw the look on his face. 'Twas the look of a stranger, and his eyes—they were blind, as if I weren't there, as if there were nothing in the world but his own rage." Muriella shuddered at the memory of those cold, implacable eyes.

Spreading her hands helplessly, Elizabeth said, "'Tis the way things are with Johnnie. 'Tis no' in his nature to feel anything halfway." She paused, choosing her words with care. "Mayhap he didn't tell ye more because he didn't want to upset ye."

"Doesn't he realize the waiting, the uncertainty are the worst? Doesn't he see how hard it is to be left behind?"

"Ye know he doesn't," Elizabeth murmured. "He's a man. How can he understand that the walls of the keep ring with silence when the men are gone? How can he when he's never heard the chilling stillness for himself? How can he understand the boredom of inaction when his life is all motion and danger and excitement?" Sighing in compassion, she said, "Ye mustn't ask the impossible of a man like Johnnie. He can't know what ye feel any more than ye can know what he feels. He won't change, my friend, and neither will ye. Ye'll be happier by far when ye come to accept that."

Muriella could not argue with what she knew to be true, but that did not ease her dread. A hush fell and the two women stared at the dust motes dancing in streams of sunlight that fell through the wide solar windows. Finally, Elizabeth rose. "I must go now. My husband will be waiting."

"Aye," Muriella breathed. Not until that moment did she realize how much she would miss the companionship she had shared with Elizabeth over the past few months.

Elizabeth and Muriella faced each other, suddenly at a loss for words. Then Elizabeth whispered, "Ye'll come to visit me at Auchinbreck, won't ye? Soon?"

"I'll come," Muriella told her. "And mayhap now ye won't be afraid to return to Kilchurn."

"No," Elizabeth agreed. Her gray eyes steady, she met Muriella's gaze. "I think soon I'll find I'm not afraid of anything anymore."

Her sister-in-law nodded mutely.

Eyes damp with tears, Elizabeth and Muriella embraced one last time, while at their feet, the afternoon sun shone on the softly undulating waters of Loch Awe, frozen forever in a pattern of glowing silk and colored wool.

Chapter 40

The Great Hall was ablaze that night with a thousand candles. Most of the tables had been removed and the rushes dragged into the courtyard so the floor would be free for dancing. Muriella stood at the foot of the stairs, surveying the crowds of jeweled men and women who rotated before her. Until tonight, she had not believed there were that many jewels in all Scotland. She touched the pendant at her own throat. For the first time since the wedding over four years ago, she was wearing the golden flame that had been her gift from John.

She had no trouble picking out Colin where he stood across the room. His doublet was of deep wine satin, his shirt was ivory, and he wore a jeweled belt at his waist. When he gestured, his hands were collections of colored flame in the candlelight. He had discarded his plaid for the evening and wore instead a burgundy velvet cloak. He was by far the most magnificent among the men, but Muriella was not impressed. She wanted to laugh at him. He was playing king and those who danced before him were his subjects.

"So here ye are, my wife."

Muriella started at the sound of John's voice. She had not known he had returned to the keep. Anxiously, she turned to find the furious stranger had gone. Her husband's eyes were clear, untarnished blue, the rigid lines of his face had softened, and his lips were curved in a pleased smile. He was dressed for the fete in a black doublet and trews, his plaid wrapped gracefully around his shoulders. The clothes were simple, but his dark looks were far more memorable than Colin's blond splendor. Muriella's heart began to beat unsteadily.

"As ye can see, ye had nothing to fear," he said as he took her arm in a warm grasp.

"Ye haven't been wounded?" his wife asked, examining his shirt and trews for the telltale bulk of a woven bandage.

John's smile broadened and he drew her toward him with both hands cupped under her elbows. "Not even a scratch." Eyes sparkling, he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "I've missed ye," he said huskily, as if a week of frustration and loneliness had never come between them. "Will ye forgive me for my neglect?"

Muriella trembled with pleasure and dread as her husband slid his arms around her back. She had missed him too—more than she'd realized. More, perhaps, than she could bear. John's hands were circling slowly over her back, bringing her skin to tingling life, and she made herself speak again before her courage burned away beneath his magic touch. "What happened today to change ye so much? This morning—"

"This morning things were different," he interrupted. "Ye were right to think there was danger, but ye needn't concern yerself anymore." His voice was a mere whisper a breath away from her parted lips. "The danger has passed."

Just for an instant, when his mouth met hers, he made her believe it. Muriella swayed toward him, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. She could feel the texture of his satin shirt, strangely cool beneath her heated palms. Her breasts brushed his chest, and even through the fabric of her gown, they ached for his touch. His lips caressed hers, gently at first, then more and more fiercely, until the stirring movement of his hands consumed Muriella’s doubts across her body. As he drew her closer, the wild yearning rose within her, warm and blinding and fearfully bright.

"We'd best leave off, my little one, or I'm sorely afraid we'll disgrace ourselves before the guests." He pulled away from her, his cheeks were flushed, and the finger he ran along her cheek quivered just a little. "If we leave now, Colin won't ever cease his taunting, so we'll stay. But I'll come to ye later."

"Aye," she said. There was no other answer she could give.

"Since we must be here, we might as well enjoy the evening," John murmured. "Shall we have a dance or two?" When she nodded, he led her out onto the crowded floor.

She was hardly aware of the laughing tilt and sway of the dancers around her, or of the magnificence of the many lights that had at last destroyed the chill in the cave-like hall. The warmth of John's fingers on her skin made her giddy. As she whirled in his arms, the candles and the flaming jewels seemed to merge into one gleaming, flickering mass of color. Her body rose and fell with the music; the lights danced magically before her eyes. Each time the intricate steps brought John near, she smiled, and each time his grip on her grew tighter. The song of the clareschaws was running through her blood; John's breath was brushing across her cheeks. She rotated rhythmically in the candlelight, her skirts swirling about her legs.

When the harps fell silent, Muriella leaned against her husband while she steadied her breathing and her pulse began to slacken. After a moment, he looked down at her, smiling, and said softly, "I've been thinking that now 'tis safe again, 'tis time to go back to Cawdor."

She blinked as if she had not heard him properly. "Ye don't mean—" Stopping in confusion, she tried to find the words to express her distress. "But 'tis barren there, and long abandoned. There're neither hangings on the walls nor rugs on the floors."

John shook his head. "I've taken care of that. Ye'll find things have changed a great deal since yer last visit."

Looking away, she murmured under her breath, "They couldn't have changed enough."

"Muriella?" her husband asked. "What troubles ye?"

She drew away from the shelter of his arm to meet his questioning gaze. "I don't think I can face Cawdor again. The memories are too strong."

"Even now?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Even now."

Before he could respond, Colin appeared from among the weaving dancers, calling, "Johnnie, where've ye been hiding?" When John did not answer, the Earl reached out to grasp Muriella's free hand. "Ye wouldn't deny me a dance with yer wife, would ye? I've been waiting all evening." He did not stop to hear his brother's response, but pulled her toward an opening in the press of moving bodies.

For a moment, John kept his hand on Muriella's, as if he would not let her go, but when he realized some of the guests were watching, he released her. Bowing with elaborate courtesy, he said, "As ye wish, Brother. But take care of her."

Colin smiled as he faced his new partner. He had not missed the underlying threat in John's voice. However, his brother did not intend to pay John any mind. The Earl had found, at last, that he was bored with Jenny, and his eyes had begun to wander. He had not failed to notice that Muriella was magnificent tonight. She wore a deep blue velvet gown with satin ribbons, and as she rotated in the dance, the skirt parted in front, revealing her sky blue kirtle. Her auburn braids were wound around her head, with pale blue ribbons twined among them. At her throat the ruby glowed in its gold setting. Colin squeezed her fingers, and when she came near to circle with him, he moved his hand above her waist. "I was hoping Johnnie wouldn't return before dawn," he said. "Then I could've had ye all to myself."

Muriella whirled away as the dance demanded, but when she faced him again, she said, "He wouldn't like to hear ye talk that way."

"Do ye think I care what Johnnie likes? Ye forget that I'm the Earl. My brother is nothing."

Muriella stiffened and took a step back. "Nothing," she said, "except my husband."

Forcing himself to smile, Colin closed the space between them. "'Tis no' wise to scorn me, ye know. If I want ye, I shall have ye."

"Ye sicken me," she said.

"Do I?" His voice was cool but she felt the rage underneath. "I suppose ye prefer my little brother."

She faced him squarely. "Aye."

"Then ye're a fool," he hissed. "He's more interested in hunting down his enemies and making them cry for mercy than in visiting yer chamber. He knows, no doubt, what he'll find in yer bed, but out there, with a sword in his hand, my brother plays a game he thinks he can't lose. Or hadn't ye noticed his gloating smile tonight?"

Muriella withdrew her hands from Colin's grasp. "What do ye mean?"

"Didn't he tell ye? I'd have thought he'd be bragging about his triumph to anyone who'd listen. Ye see," he said in an exaggerated whisper, "The Devil Afire will burn no more."

Muriella regarded the Earl curiously. She had heard the name before but could not remember where.

Colin saw her confusion and leaned forward until she could not escape the cold gleam of his eyes. "Surely ye know of the one they call The Devil Afire? 'Tis the outlaw, Hugh Rose. Or at least, 'twas till today, when Johnnie killed him."

The foreboding was with Muriella again, so all-enveloping it took her breath away. "Ye're lying," she choked.

"No, my blind little fool, 'tis the truth. Haven't ye realized yet that Johnnie's determined to make certain there's no one left to challenge his right to Cawdor?" The Earl smiled when he saw the color fade from Muriella's cheeks. "Hugh Rose was in his way—and now he's dead."

The room began to spin as Colin drew her back into the dance. When she bent her head, the sound of John's voice came to her like a grim, distant warning. There's something I have to do. Something that can't wait any longer. She circled and bowed, skipped and turned, but all the while her husband's furious image was before her. Why had he never answered her questions?

With a start, Muriella realized Colin was leading her off the floor toward the place where John waited. For a moment she thought she could not face him, then a rush of bright anger restored her courage.

"Muriella?" her husband asked, disturbed by the strange flush of color on her cheeks.

"I would speak to ye privately," she said.

Eyes narrowed, he regarded her in silence for a moment before taking her arm. "As ye wish."

Together they climbed the stairs without a word. When they reached the top, John drew Muriella into a hollowed niche in the thick stone wall. "Well?"

The curve of the passageway blocked the torchlight. Muriella looked up at her husband, noting the way the shadows clung about him, darkening his face and disguising the expression in his eyes. "Where were ye going when I found ye this morning?" she demanded.

John stiffened, his fingers closing more tightly around her arm. "Have a care for the way ye ask yer questions," he warned. "Mayhap the answers won't please ye." When she continued to stare at him, unblinking, he frowned. "As I told ye then, I was on my way to meet an enemy."

With an effort, Muriella kept her voice steady. "'Twas my cousin Hugh, wasn't it?"

For a moment, her husband was shocked out of his anger. "How did ye know?" Then he remembered the smug grin with which Colin had relinquished Muriella. John clenched his free hand into a fist that made his arm ache to the shoulder. "Aye," he said.

Muriella could not breathe, but fought to make herself go on. "Ye killed him, didn't ye?"

Cursing his brother under his breath, John put his hands on his wife's shoulders. He had not meant for her to find out this way, had never meant for her to know what Hugh Rose had become. "Listen to me—," he began.

"Is it true?" she cried. "Just tell me if 'tis true."

"Aye," he said in resignation. "I killed him."

"Why?" she asked. Seeking support for the weakness in her knees, she pressed one hand against the stone.

"Because," John told her softly, "he was an evil man."

"No!" She looked away and covered her ears with her hands. "I won't listen."

Forcing her hands away from her head, her husband said, "Ye asked for the truth and now ye'll hear it. Hugh Rose was a thief and a murderer who didn't deserve to live anymore. I only destroyed him before he could destroy me."

Muriella closed her eyes. It seemed that killing Hugh was not enough for John; he wanted to kill her memories too. She saw again the blackened face that had haunted her dream. She had thought it was the image of some ghastly stranger, but now she understood; the leering mockery of a face had been her cousin's death mask. Suppressing a single, anguished cry, she turned away from her husband.

"Where are ye going?" he demanded.

"To my chamber. I've lost a childhood friend tonight. Mayhap ye'll allow me a moment to grieve alone." Sensing he would not try to stop her, she slipped past him to disappear down the narrow, twisting passageway.

She did not see Duncan stop as she passed and turn to stare after her in dismay. He cried out once, "M'lady!" but she did not even hear him.

* * *

"Well, what's so important it couldn't wait till morning?" Colin asked in impatience as he faced his brother across the crowded library. "My guests are waiting, ye ken."

John sat on the edge of the desk, clutching the wood with unnecessary force. "Ye've been meddling in my business again."

The Earl noted with misgiving the gleam in his brother's eye. Maybe he had gone too far this time. "What business? Make yerself clear, man."

"I'm talking of Muriella, as ye damned well know! What did ye say to her?"

Colin's smile was mocking. "I merely mentioned that she was looking particularly lovely tonight. I'm afraid she doesn't take compliments well."

"So ye were angry when she didn't fall for yer charm, and decided to get back at her, is that it?"

The Earl laughed uneasily. "I don't know what ye mean."

Releasing the desk and flexing his hands to stop the tingling in his fingers, John took a step toward his brother. "I think ye do. Now tell me, damn ye, what did ye say?"

Colin tried to think of the wisest answer, then with a shrug, decided to tell the truth. "I told Muriella ye'd gotten what ye wanted from her and left her for the pleasure of the hunt, with Hugh Rose as the prey."

John gasped in disbelief. When he caught his breath again, he had to fight to control the rage that left him shaking. "I knew ye were low, but—"

Smiling crookedly, Colin regarded his brother in unconcern. "Don't try to abuse me just because ye aren't man enough to keep her happy, Johnnie. 'Tis no' my fault."

In an instant, John closed the space between them, grasping his brother's doublet in his hands. The fury boiled in him, clamoring to be released. "I warned ye before to leave her alone, ye bastard."

"'Tis no' me who's the bastard, and well ye know it. I've heard they don't have real feelings like other people. I just thought I'd see for myself."

At Colin's bland smile, John's control finally snapped. He released his brother and, with all his strength, slammed his fist into Colin’s jaw. The third Earl of Argyll, staggered briefly, then slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Chapter 41

Once she had left her husband behind, Muriella ran without stopping until her chamber door was closed and the bolt slid into place. The fire had died down, so the chamber was cold, but she did not revive the flames. Collecting several candles from around the room, she lit each from the torch and set them in a circle she had cleared on the floor. Numb with shock, she sank to the stone with the candles as a wall of fluttering light around her. They seemed to isolate her from the people and music and laughter that swept through the keep beyond her door. Feebly, the flames attempted to push back the gloom to the corners of the room.

Closing her eyes, she felt the glow of the candlelight against her lids as she tried to bring the image of Hugh's face into her mind. But all she could see was the blackened shell of his death mask. Soon, even that faded as John's face rose to cover it. Her heart slowed and she tried to free herself of the image, but it would not go.

It would be with her always—in her dreams and her nightmares, in the sunlight and the darkness, even in the Loch Awe tapestry, where she had woven her husband's face without knowing. Why could she not escape it? The answer came to her in the flutter of the candlelight through the shadows—because she loved him.

Muriella gasped, pressing her hands against the floor as if to keep herself from falling. She had been blind. She should have known it long ago, but she had shut her eyes to the truth. She had not wanted to face the turmoil of her feelings for John: the frantic beating of her heart, the ache that never ceased to come at the sight of his face. The hopeless, joyful, cruel, intoxicating force of her love, and at the center of all those things—the fear that would never leave her.

The solid stone room began to sway, tilting wildly from side to side as her heartbeat grew labored. Slowly, inevitably, the coldness settled in her bones. She was struggling with the darkness that closed around her until it became the water, rushing, white and chilling, about her body. It would sweep her away; she had no strength left to fight it anymore. She clawed her way upward, choking and gasping, but the water pulled her down and down and down, sucking the last of the breath from her body.

She shuddered, arms wrapped tightly across her chest. It was a long moment before she realized the water had retreated and she was sprawled on the floor in her chamber within the ring of candle flames. The sweat rolled down her face into her hair as she rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to chase away the chill. She thought her heart had ceased to beat, that it might never again take up its rhythm, but then she felt the painful thumping in her chest and knew she had survived the vision once again.

Long after the chill had left her and the trembling had stopped, the image of the rushing water lingered—cold and bright and menacing, like the rage that glimmered in John's eyes.

She had first seen it on the afternoon when the Campbells arrived at Cawdor and he'd come crashing toward her through the river. She saw it always in his love for the chase, the hunt, the inevitable kill. The fury that drove him to hunt down his enemies until every last one of them was dead—Andrew Calder, Lachlan Maclean, Hugh Rose, and countless others whose names she did not know. 'Tis no' really that they're cruel, Elizabeth had murmured. 'Tis just that they don't know any other way. Yet it was that very intensity of feeling that had tempted John, for a moment, to silence his own sister because he could not bear her weakness. The rage that was his God, ruled him, obsessed him, changed him—the rage that might one day be turned against Muriella herself.

There was another John, a tiny voice whispered from out of the gloom. A man who saw her needs and cared for her and tried to understand. But that John frightened her even more, because, when he came to her and held her, he could make her forget. Sometimes Archibald frightens me. Not because he mistreats me, but because he doesn't. I don't know how to fight his kindness.

Muriella buried her face in her hands. When John had made love to her, when he'd held her and taught her to know his body, the joy had rushed through her in waves, overwhelming her wisdom. As he caressed her skin with his gentle hands, she'd forgotten, for an instant, that those hands were covered with blood—and always would be. Ye can't ask the impossible of a man like Johnnie. He won't change, my friend, and neither will ye.

Muriella was choking on the smell of must in the tiny, airless chamber. She had to get away from here—from the maudlin shadows the candles painted across the walls. Away from the voices screaming inside her head like disembodied spirits singing a frighteningly beautiful song.

She had to leave it behind before it consumed her. She would go to the loch, because there she would find peace. Moving awkwardly, as if her limbs were not her own, she rose, went to the door, and slid the bolt open. Turning toward the darkened end of the corridor, she groped through the shadows for the door through which Megan had taken her on her first morning at Kilchurn. When she found it, she dragged it open, abandoning herself to the dank, curving passage beyond. She did not look to see if she was followed.

Muriella ran incautiously, brushing against the moist walls, stumbling on the steep downward path, but she did not slow her pace. She dared not take the chance of pausing, or the weeping voices might overcome her. At last she came to the final door. She slid the bolt back with both hands, unaware that it stained her lingers with streaks of rust. When she emerged into the lower garden, the cold wind rushed at her, nearly forcing her to her knees. She embraced the chill because it shrouded her senses, dimming the clamor of voices to a dull, persistent murmur.

She had meant to follow the battlemented walls of the keep and find her way through the darkness to the loch, but when she heard the sound of the river, she paused. Its voice was loud enough to sweep away the other troubling noises. Muriella turned toward the deafening roar. As she approached, the river lashed within its banks, discontent and deadly with the swollen bravery the melting snows had given it. She stood on the bank, feeling the spray that drenched her face, her hair, her deep blue gown. As the water cooled the heat in her cheeks, the river seemed to call to her.

She swayed forward, fascinated by the rush and thunder of the water swirling over tumbled rocks. She could feel it closing around her shoulders, drawing her under. The terror welled within her, stopping her breath, but still the water called, echoing with its hypnotic voice her own long-ago words to Megan. 'Tis the waiting that's the worst, it roared. The waiting... The slow, wearing agony of not knowing when or where or why... The river laughed and groaned, throwing the words in her face time and again, until she moved closer, mesmerized by the swift-flowing image of her fear. 'Tis the waiting, the waiting, the waiting that's the worst. The water wooed her, lured her, called for her to come... come know the chill, swirling heart of yer terror so it need not haunt ye anymore. Come...

If she answered, if she let the water take her, then the waiting would be over and she would be at peace.

Drawn by the call of a nightmare too powerful to resist, she plunged, unthinking, into the river. Then the icy water closed around her and the shock of the bitter cold woke her from her trance. As her legs were swept from beneath her, she cried out, realizing in horror what she had done, but her voice was drowned by the force of the rushing river. The water dragged her, struggling, in its path. Though she flung her arms out, reaching for the shore, she could not free herself from the furious torrent that had her in its grip at last.

Then a sharp sound broke through her terror. She looked up to see Duncan stretched above the river on a heavy branch. In the clear, cascading moonlight, she saw he was weeping, and the thought of his tears was more painful than the rocks and bushes that tore at her. Choking on the water that filled her eyes and throat, Muriella reached for his hand as the current swept her beneath him.

He closed his other hand around her wrists and they swayed there, balanced precariously, while the branch shifted under their weight. Duncan lay still, holding her as best he could, while he waited for the movement to subside. The river was only inches away, tumbling beneath them with a fury that made him shiver. Afraid as he had never been before, Duncan found a strength he had not known he possessed. While Muriella dug her fingers frantically into his shoulders, he slid his arms around her waist and drew her up beside him. They clung to the heavy branch of the oak, trying to catch their breath, then, slowly, an inch at a time, began to crawl backward away from the water.

When he reached the trunk, Duncan dropped to the ground and stood waiting to help Muriella as she made her way down in her drenched skirts. Leaning awkwardly against the rough bark, he pulled her dripping body close to his own. He rested his head on her hair, and did not attempt to move again.

Muriella clung to him, wet and bruised, blood running down her forehead. She did not think, and although she was chilled, she did not shiver. With her head on Duncan's heaving chest, she gave herself up to the memory of his tears. She did not notice the blood running more and more freely over her face, and she slipped into unconsciousness without ever having looked into his eyes.

Duncan felt her slump against him. When he tilted her face up, he saw where a rock had cut her forehead at the temple. Pushing her gently away, he tore a long strip from his shirt to wind around her head, hoping it would slow the bleeding. When he began to breathe normally again, he lifted her in his arms and started toward the castle.

She was heavier than he had thought, and the path to the keep was long and steep. He struggled with his burden, stopping to rest now and then against a nearby tree. Gradually, as he left the river behind, the fear began to slip away and his mind to work once more. Thank God she was safe, he thought. Thank God he’d had the presence of mind to recognize her distress when he saw her running from the fete. He'd waited outside her door, then followed her with increasing dread when she left her room to disappear into the passageway. He remembered with a chill the horror he had felt when she'd thrown herself in the water.

It took the squire a long time to find his way through the gloomy passage. When he finally pushed open the inner door, he paused, relaxing for a moment against the stone wall. Then he continued down the hall, noticing with relief that the door to Muriella's room was ajar. With his foot, he kicked it open.

Megan stood in the center of the room, a ring of burned out candles at her feet. John stood beside her, his face drawn and gray. At the sight of his cousin, Duncan stopped on the threshold, aware, for the first time, of what he must now face. He wanted to turn and run, but his burden was too heavy and it was already too late.

John raised his head, blinked, and froze where he stood. "What in God's name," he roared, "have ye done with my wife?"

Duncan trembled, intensely aware of the weight of Muriella's head against his shoulder. He thought he would not be able to answer, but then his voice returned. "I—didn't do it," he stuttered. "I—only—found her." Furious at his own weakness, he swallowed once and spoke more calmly. "Before I explain, I think she needs care. Her head—"

With an effort, John got his anger under control. He could see from the blood seeping through Duncan's makeshift bandage that his wife did indeed need care. He crossed the floor in two long strides, lifted Muriella from the squire's arms, and carried her to the bed, where he laid her among the scattered furs.

"We'd best get her wet gown off before she falls ill," Megan whispered behind him.

"Aye," he said, unable to pull himself away from the image of his wife's ashen face. She lay with her skirts twisted about her, dripping over the mattress and down the side of the bed. She was breathing unevenly, her lips slightly parted. Her skin was translucent—pale ivory in some places, gray in others. The blood trickled over her forehead and into her wet hair.

"M'lord," Megan said.

John turned away abruptly. "I'll get Mary to help ye see to her." Brushing past the squire, he stepped into the corridor and shouted, "Mary! Where the devil are ye when I need ye, girl? Mary!"

When the servant finally appeared, John ushered her into Muriella's chamber, then, motioning for Duncan to follow him into the passageway, he closed the door with a bang. "Now," he said sharply, "tell me."

Duncan shifted from one foot to the other, staring down at his damp, mud-stained trews. How could he describe what had happened when he was not even certain himself? He frowned, searching for words, though he knew there were none. "Yer wife's been in the river, m'lord. I think she hit her head on a rock and that's why—"

"How did she get there," John interrupted, "and how is it ye were there to find her?"

He spoke without inflection, but Duncan recognized the threat beneath the softly spoken words. "I saw her run from her chamber earlier. She—" He paused, running his tongue over his dry lips. "She seemed distraught. I saw her go to the door, the one that leads to the tunnels below, and I followed."

"Why?" John waited rigidly for his cousin's reply.

"I don't know. I thought she might come to some harm. 'Twas late and I couldn't understand why she should be going outside."

"How did she come to fall in the river?"

This was the question Duncan had feared. He considered lying, but was not certain what Muriella would tell her husband when she awakened. If she had been serious in her attempt, then John should know the truth. "She didn't fall."

Mechanically, John moved toward his cousin, his sword swinging against his leg. "What are ye saying?"

"She jumped. I believe she intended—"

"No! Ye must be wrong." John's hands were shaking as he took Duncan roughly by the shoulders. "Tell me," he demanded, "are ye certain of this?"

"Aye, m'lord."

For an instant, John thought if he strangled his cousin, cut off the source of the news he had just received, then it would no longer be true. His wife had fallen, he told himself. Just that. Fallen into the river at midnight, four hundred yards from the keep? No, Duncan must be right, damn him! His fingers closed bruisingly on the squire's shoulders.

Duncan gasped at the look in his cousin's eyes and felt his palms grow damp with sweat. "M'lord!" he cried in desperation, "I've only told ye the truth!"

John winced and released the squire at once. 'Twas only a momentary madness, he had told Muriella once. But a moment, he realized, was long enough. "Forgive me," he said. "'Tis not yer fault, I know." He turned away in an effort to steady his breathing.

Sensing the danger had passed, Duncan sighed in relief, then touched his cousin's arm. "There's something more ye should know," he said softly. "Yer wife must have changed her mind when the water closed around her, because when she saw me, she reached out to take my hand. I don't know why she threw herself in, but I do know she wanted me to save her. 'Tis no' much," he said when he saw the look on John's face, "but 'tis something."

John raised both fists to his forehead and closed his eyes against the dawning realization that his wife had tried to take her own life. Somehow, his mind refused to accept it. He shook his head again and again in denial. "Thank ye for all ye've done," he said. His face clouded over as he added, "Don't tell the others what's happened."

"No, of course not."

Looking at Duncan's lanky body, covered with mud and leaves and a trail of blood that began at his shoulder, then disappeared into the saffron folds of his long shirt, John told him, "Ye'd best get out of those clothes. And have Jenny draw ye a bath."

"Are ye sure ye wouldn't have me stay?"

Wearily, John shook his head. "Just now I would be alone. I have to think what to do." As he turned to stare at the heavy oak door that shut him away from his wife, he realized he could not think. His mind was blank from shock and pain and a despair so deep that he dared not recognize it.

Chapter 42

Muriella moaned. As her dreams retreated, she tried to think where she was, but her mind was operating from the center of a dense fog; around her everything was dark. She sensed movement nearby, but did not know what it meant. Slowly, with a great deal of difficulty, she opened her eyes. Her vision was cloudy. She could discern only shadows and vague shapes that had no meaning. But she felt a presence just above her. As her vision began to clear, a face appeared, scowling, troubled. She blinked several times before the face came into focus. Then she drew a name up from her memory. John. She felt a rush of relief at the sight of his familiar face. He was safe. Or was it she who had been in danger?

Her head began to ache at the thought. She noticed that though her husband's hand was resting on the bed next to her shoulder, he was not looking at her. In the same moment, it came to her that the long-awaited storm had broken at last. She could hear the wind moaning as rain slashed furiously against the walls of the keep. No wonder the light was so strange and silver tinted. No wonder John's face looked so gray and haggard. But perhaps that was not it at all. Perhaps something was very wrong. "Johnnie?" she murmured.

His head snapped up. For a long moment, he simply stared at her. "Why did ye do it?" he asked at last.

She did not understand. "Do... what?"

Drawing a deep breath, John leaned closer. He could see the confusion in her eyes and knew it was real. "Ye don't remember, do ye?"

"Remember?" Muriella's heart began to beat unsteadily.

John ran his hand through his hair, smoothing the untidy strands as if he could sort his disordered thoughts as easily. After a time, he asked, "Ye have no idea what happened last night?"

His wife frowned, trying to think. She remembered the room full of swirling dancers, the way John had held her in the fragmented light, and the stirring warmth of his lips on hers, but then—nothing. "I don't think—," she began, but a distant, troubling memory made her stop. It hovered before her, just out of reach. Perplexed, she drew her brows together and felt a strange discomfort across her forehead. Muriella reached up to touch the thick linen bandage, wincing at the pressure of her fingers on the wound beneath. As the pain sliced through her head, it all came back to her: John's face, the candlelight, the darkness, and, finally, the river. "Dear God!" she cried, turning away.

"Muriella."

The sound of his voice brought the flaring pain up through her limbs. She was shaking and could not stop. She felt him touch her shoulder, curse under his breath. Then he was gone and the coldness was with her again. "Johnnie," she called, "don't leave me!"

She did not know if he heard her. She closed her eyes, pressing her hands into the warm furs, hoping to still the trembling. Just when she thought it might never end, John reached from out of the unnatural stillness beyond the bed to offer her a goblet of wine. "Drink."

She took the cold pewter in her hands, raised her head, and drank. As the soothing warmth began to move through her veins, the shaking eased until, at last, it stopped altogether. Only then did she find the courage to look up at him.

"Now," her husband said, setting the goblet aside, "tell me."

She could feel his breath on her cheek and it made her want to weep. "I didn't really wish to die," she told him, knowing it was not enough, that nothing she could say would ever be enough.

"Then why, in God's name, did ye do it?"

"'Twas—" She tried to think, but the throbbing in her head defeated her. Then, in the midst of the numbing pain, came the memory of something he had told her once. Grasping a wolf pelt in her cold fingers, she said, "'Twas only a momentary madness. The river hypnotized me and I didn't have the strength to resist."

It was not what he wanted to hear; she knew by the way he retreated, his expression hidden by half-closed lids. All at once, she wanted to draw him close, to smooth the pain from his face with the touch of her hands. "I swear to ye, I didn't mean to do it."

He stared at the rushes at his feet until the power of her gaze was too great to ignore any longer. "If 'tis so, then tell me why ye left the keep in the middle of the night. Why were ye even near the river?"

"I had to get away," she replied without thinking.

John winced as if she had struck him. "From me?"

"No!" she cried. "But mayhap—" Her eyes clouded with confusion. "I don't know."

Massaging his forehead as if it pained him, her husband sank deeper into a chair beside the bed. Muriella wanted to take the hand that rested on his knee, but she sensed he would not welcome her touch. The constriction in her throat nearly choked her and tears burned behind her lids.

John ran his hands over the soft wool of his trews as he tried to find an explanation for his wife's behavior that he could understand. He knew she had wanted him when he held her at the foot of the stairs. He had felt her response when his lips met hers. As they danced, she had been happy; he remembered clearly the radiance in her eyes each time she looked at him. But afterward, something had gone wrong. He looked up to find Muriella watching him in tense silence. Only the thunder of the rising storm outside disturbed the stillness. "Was it because of Cawdor that ye ran away?" John asked. "Or was it Hugh Rose?"

Muriella blinked at him in astonishment. She had forgotten Hugh completely. "No," she told him. "'Twas neither of those things."

"Then why?" John reached out to take her hand. "In God's name, tell me the truth!"

His wife felt his desperation, and though she formed the words of a soothing lie, her lips would not utter it. "I don't think ye really want to hear the truth."

He looked up then, his face drawn and pale. "I can't stand the waiting any longer. Tell me."

Muriella stared at his strong, sunbrowned hand for a long time before her fingers closed around it in a plea for understanding she knew he could not give. "I did it because of ye," she said. "Because ye will destroy me."

His pain was so great he had to look away. She had admitted at last what he had always suspected. He realized, as he released his wife's hand, that she was right; he did not want to know. "So," he said in a tone so still it frightened her, "'tis me ye see in the vision that comes whenever I touch ye."

Muriella bit her lip. The time had come when she could no longer avoid answering his questions. Her mouth was dry and her empty hands trembled as she whispered, "The vision is of my own death."

"Yer death?" he repeated blankly. Then he realized what she was saying. John rose from the chair and kicked it away. "But that can't be," he said, knowing he was fighting a battle he had lost long ago. "I love ye too much."

Muriella gave a strangled moan and turned her head away, but not before he saw the bitter realization on her face.

"Were ye such a fool that ye didn't know that?"

"Aye," she muttered. "Just such a fool."

John began to pace in agitation. He had to think, but his thoughts were clouded by hopelessness and, beneath that, a violent denial. The Sight had never been wrong before, but—

He turned in a sudden determination. "'Tis not true," he declared. "I wouldn't ever want to hurt ye."

She wanted to believe him, but the sinking in her stomach told her she dared not. "Just as ye never wanted to hurt Elizabeth?"

John stopped still, thumbs hooked in the wide leather of his sword belt. He could not deny it. He remembered the overwhelming rage he had felt as his sister lay ill, calling Maclean's name. And Muriella did not even know how near he'd come to hurting Duncan the night before.

Muriella waited for him to speak, to tell her she was wrong, to repeat his assurance that he would never hurt her, but John simply stood there, staring before him, appalled. His wife quailed.

John saw her shiver and he looked away. "I assume," he said carefully, in a voice without inflection, "that ye want me to go away so ye'll be safe."

Terror of a new kind shook her. "No! I don't want to be safe."

Finally, inevitably, his control snapped. He leaned down, pressing his hands into the mattress, trapping her head between his two arms. "Then what, in the name of all that's holy, do ye want?"

It was there in his eyes again—the rage that made him into a stranger. She wanted to push him away, to free herself from that glittering stare. Elizabeth's warning pounded in her ears: Remember, they can only hurt ye if ye give them the power to do so. "I don't know," Muriella said.

John's shoulders sagged in defeat. He straightened slowly, releasing her from the prison of his hands. She sensed he was going to leave her and knew she had to stop him. Muriella reached up to grasp her husband's hand before he could slip away. "Please!" she cried.

She had made that plea before, but now, as then, he did not understand what she was asking for. Her fingers were warm and beguiling on his. Against his will, he met her gaze. She held him immobile with her eyes; he could not look away. It had always been so. She tortured him, tempted him, enchanted and denied him. Her eyes were wild and green and fathomless, and he knew, in that instant, that he had to break free—before she dragged him into the sea of her terror and they both drowned in the waves. "I've done what I can," he said, withdrawing his hand from her grasp. "I don't know what else to do." He turned away.

"Johnnie!" Muriella cried, but he did not pause. He crossed the chamber in three long strides, and the sound of the door slamming behind him echoed from the damp gray walls. Muriella closed her eyes. She should feel relief, she told herself. He was gone and she was safe. But she knew as she lay there, struggling with the darkness, that she could not bear his absence.

Chapter 43

Colin awoke with a painful grunt. Gingerly, he touched his swollen jaw, wincing when he opened his mouth. He moved his lower teeth back and forth, hoping the motion would loosen his sore muscles and relieve the pain somewhat. John had done a thorough job, he thought, glowering. Now that it was too late, he remembered the warning his brother had given a week ago: Ye'd best remember that when they're drunk, men sometimes lose all fear and sanity. Likely to do anything, they are.

But John had not been drunk. The thought disturbed Colin. If necessary, he could deal with an intoxicated fool, but he did not know how to deal with a man who had been neither wild with drink nor weak with fear. Fear was the only thing the Earl really understood, the only method he knew to control the men under his command. But he had lost that control over his brother. John did not fear him anymore. And Argyll did not like it.

"M'lord? Are ye awake?" Sim poked his head inside the door warily.

Colin leaned back behind the bed curtains so the servant would not see his bruised face. "Aye!" he snapped. "What is it?"

"I wouldn't disturb ye, but a man came with a message from court. He said ye're to see it right away."

"Well, don't stand there dithering in the corner. Bring it here, man!"

Reluctantly, the servant came forward, keeping his eyes lowered.

"Can't ye move any faster?" Argyll snarled. "Would ye have me wait all day?"

"Forgive me, m'lord," Sim muttered as he handed over the sealed parchment with shaking fingers. "I didn't mean to keep ye waitin'."

Colin noted with satisfaction that Sim did not look up. Now here was a man who knew how to approach the Earl of Argyll—a man who could not even meet his master's gaze out of fear of what he would find there. Grasping the note, fixed with the royal seal, Colin cuffed the servant on the ear for good measure. "Be gone!" he said.

Certain he would be obeyed, the Earl opened the parchment to find a request from the Queen Mother that he return to Edinburgh at once. There was trouble at court. He frowned. As if he did not already have trouble enough. On the other hand, he would not really mind leaving the damp walls of this keep for the luxuries at court. Only when he heard Sim shuffling from one foot to the other did he realize the servant still stood at the bedside. Brows drawn together in anger, he said, "I told ye to go."

"I heard ye, m'lord. But there's somethin' else I think ye should know."

"Out with it!" the Earl demanded.

The servant swallowed nervously. "I thought ye should know that Sir John left Kilchurn an hour since."

"Left? To go where?"

"No one knows. When Duncan asked where he was goin' and when he would return, Sir John said 'twas no' anyone's business but his own."

"Did he now?" The Earl rose at last, throwing a robe over his shoulders as he moved toward the fire. "He was angry then?"

"No' exactly. He was—" The servant fumbled for words. "Still, ye ken, and silent, with cold, cold eyes. But he frightened me more this mornin' than he does when he's in one of his rages, I can tell ye that."

With his back to Sim, Colin touched his battered chin as he gazed thoughtfully into the flames. "Do ye have any idea what happened to make him that way?"

Sim coughed, hoping the Earl had not seen him staring at the dark, ugly bruise on the side of his face. "I did hear 'em sayin' in the kitchen that Sir John's wife threw herself in the river last night."

"She did what?" Colin turned so he could see the servant's face.

"Jenny says she heard Duncan tell Sir John that his wife threw herself in the river."

"She isn't dead, is she? Someone would've informed me, surely."

"Och, no! She hurt her head, I'm told, but 'twas only after she awoke and Sir John spoke with her that he went away."

Colin's eyes narrowed. "So," he murmured. "Where is she now?"

"In her chamber. Jenny said she isn't likely to leave her bed today."

Running his fingers over his jaw, the Earl murmured, "Leave me now."

"As ye say, m'lord."

When the servant had gone, Colin stood pressing his hands against the stone above the fireplace. He had meant to punish John for his behavior last night, but his brother had already slipped out of his grasp. And Argyll did not have time to track him down just now. The Earl smiled crookedly when he thought of Muriella trying to take her life. He did not wonder why; he had given up long ago trying to understand her motives. Besides, this time she had made her husband miserable enough without Colin's intervention, it seemed. Perhaps it was better, for the moment, that she make John pay for his error in judgment.

His brother had said they'd be leaving for Cawdor soon. By the time the Earl returned, they would be gone. He would see to it. Then there would be peace again at Kilchurn.

But with Muriella at Cawdor, there would be no mistress here. Colin frowned, rubbing the good side of his chin with two fingers. Perhaps on his way home, he would collect Janet and the children and bring them to the castle. His wife had asked to come often enough. The voices of his children might even make the keep seem a little less empty.

Argyll clenched his hands into helpless fists. What foolishness. Kilchurn was full of Campbells, all of whom looked up to him with respect—and dread. Except for mad Johnnie and his fey wife. Glowering into the fire, Colin thought he would be happy to see the last of those two.

* * *

Megan drew away from the window as a flash of lightning blazed across the sky, illuminating the distant peaks with a brilliance that made her shiver. Quickly, she closed the shutters against the storm. "I don't like to think of Sir John out there in the rain," she said.

In spite of the storm, Muriella's husband had left Kilchurn. She would have known it even if Megan had not come to tell her an hour since. Already the bleak gray walls had begun to ring with the sound of his absence. "He knows his way over these hills, even in this weather. He'll take care," she said, praying it was true. But she knew in her heart John was in a dangerous frame of mind and not at all likely to take care. She feared the storm inside him was greater than the one without.

Turning away from the window, the servant returned to Muriella's side. For a long moment, she stared down at her hands before asking hesitantly, "Why did he go, m'lady?"

Muriella could not meet Megan's troubled brown eyes. "Because I didn't give him any choice."

"But Sir John isn't the kind of man to let his wife make choices for him."

"No," Muriella murmured, "but even he isn't strong enough to fight the power of the Sight and win."

Megan retreated a step. She did not want to think about that. "Do ye think—" She looked down at her hands again. "Do ye think he'll come back?"

"I don't know." Muriella found it difficult to speak. All at once, she knew she must be moving. Throwing the furs aside, she slipped from the bed.

"M'lady, please. Ye aren't strong enough to be up yet."

Muriella shook her head. "I can't stay still." At Megan's frown, she added, "But thank ye for caring, my friend."

"Am I yer friend, truly?"

Stopping to meet the servant's searching gaze, her mistress smiled sadly. "Aye, from the first day they brought me here, I think. I'm grateful for that, Megan. For everything." Before Megan could respond, Muriella turned and started slowly over the rushes, shivering when the cold from the stone beneath penetrated through to her bare feet. While the servant hovered anxiously nearby, she slipped into a gray kirtle and gown—to match her mood, she thought. As she dressed, she bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. She had not yet shaken the chill that had settled in her blood from the icy water the night before.

"What are ye goin' to do?" Megan asked.

"Go to the library, I suppose. I only know I can't stay here." Where the sound of his voice still lingers, she added silently. Where the memory of his face hovers always before me. Don't grieve for me, Elizabeth had said. It doesn't last forever, ye ken. The months pass, the hurt eases, and then, one day, ye begin to accept what ye can't change. Muriella could not make herself believe it, not while the vision of the endless, empty days stretched out before her, making a lie of every word of comfort she had ever heard.

"Come," she said abruptly. "Let's be gone."

With Megan behind her, she stepped into the passageway. To her surprise, she found the hush there even harder to bear. She realized too late that the icy water had taken more from her than she'd supposed. For a long moment, she stood with her arms wrapped around her body, unable to move forward, shivering uncontrollably. When she tried to take a step, she lost her balance and started to fall.

A callused hand reached out to steady her. "M'lady? Are ye ill?"

She looked up into Richard Campbell's troubled face and noticed that, where it touched her arm, his hand trembled. He was afraid of her. "No," she said, "but I thank ye for being here to catch me. I don't seem to have any strength today."

Richard frowned. "Ye look mighty pale. And yer head must pain ye. Don't ye think—" He stopped, realizing he had no right to question her.

Muriella shook her head. Though he could not disguise his unease in her presence, he also would not shirk his duty. And that duty was to protect her, no matter what his feelings were. "I can't stay still," she told him.

When she started to move again, her knees wobbled. Once again Richard took her arm. "Will ye at least let me help ye, then?"

"The only way ye could help would be to bring my husband back." The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her problems with John were no concern of Richard's.

Richard blinked at her in surprise. "If ye didn't want him to go, why didn't ye cast a spell to keep him here?"

She sighed wearily. "Because I don't have that kind of power."

Something about the raw pain in her voice made him believe her. He looked at her more closely, noticing how her hands trembled, how pale her cheeks were and how deep the shadows under her eyes. Just now, it seemed she was no longer a woman to be feared, but rather a girl to be pitied.

After a moment's hesitation, he whispered hoarsely, "M'lady, I'm sorry."

She stared at him in astonishment. "I don't understand."

He shifted from one foot to the other, his face flushed with embarrassment. "I’ve had unkind thoughts of ye," he explained haltingly. "But mayhap I was wrong."

"I told ye so time and again," Megan interjected, "but ye wouldn't listen to me."

"Mayhap some things a man has to see for himself." He turned back to Muriella. "Do ye think ye can forgive me?"

A lump formed in her throat. "Ye had reason enough to believe what ye did, and I didn't try to tell ye different. But now ye see"—Muriella spread her hands to indicate her own slender body— "I have no power beyond the power of the Two Sights, and that I would forsake today if 'twere my choice."

Richard listened, brow furrowed.

"I want ye to know that no matter what I said, I never meant the men any harm. Can ye believe that?"

"I can try." Then, before she could stop him, he leaned down to kiss her hand. It was the first time in over four years that one of the men had touched her of his own free will. The simple gesture made the tears ache in her throat. "Thank ye," she murmured.

Richard raised his head. "I must needs see to my brother's wound before the mornin's out. Can I go, m'lady?"

It was the first time, too, that one of John's men had asked her permission, even for a thing so small. "Aye," she said in a strangled voice.

He bowed and, with a tentative smile, left them.

John would be pleased, Muriella thought. But John was not here, she reminded herself; he might never be again. As Richard disappeared down the passageway, she could hold back her tears no longer.

Chapter 44

Later, after her tears had dried and Megan had insisted she sit by the fire and eat some broth, Muriella ventured again into the hall. The chill in her blood had finally begun to dissipate, and this time her legs were strong enough to support her. The two women made their way to the library in silence.

While Megan sewed by the light from the single window, Muriella settled in the Earl's carved chair and tried to read. She found, to her dismay, that the carefully transcribed parchment pages might as well have been written in a language she could not understand. The only words that had meaning for her were the ones John had spoken that morning while the world outside her window went mad with the fury of the storm. What, in God's name, DO ye want? If only she'd had an answer to give him.

The rain had raged at last into silence and the clouds had parted to reveal the pale blue sky, but the freshness that rose in the wake of the storm only made Muriella's loneliness deeper. She opened the worn manuscript of John Barbour's The Bruce, tracing the familiar words with her fingertips, as if to recapture the warmth she had once shared with the Earl while they recited it together. But he was dead. Today even his memory could not reach her. She had just rested her forehead on the desktop in despair when she heard the door open. Muriella looked up to see Duncan seat himself on a stool nearby, his Highland harp in his hands. Before she could speak, he began to play, and though she leaned closer, he shook his head. "I've only come to see ye're safe."

As he spoke, he ran his hands over the strings of the harp in a soothing rhythm. He sat on the stool in his long saffron shirt, his fair head bent forward so his hair fell into his eyes, but he did not push it away. In the sunlight, the pale strands glimmered, but she saw from Duncan's pallid skin that he’d had a restless night. Because of her. She started to speak again, but again he shook his head.

"Some things are too difficult to say and even more difficult to hear," he told her softly.

"But I must tell ye—"

Without raising his head, he stopped her with a wave of his hand. "'Tis enough to say last night I did what I thought was right. 'Twas my duty to ye and to my cousin." He looked up then, his brown eyes steady. "I'm grateful to see ye here, but please don't talk, because I don't think I wish to know if ye feel differently."

Tears threatened to betray her again. Muriella blinked them back. "Did ye think I would blame ye for saving my life?"

The squire shrugged. "I didn't know. How could I? But it doesn't matter now, so long as ye're safe."

"It matters," Muriella said, but he only smiled and bent to concentrate on his music once more.

The notes rose clear, sweet and pure, weaving wordless stories in the sunlight. In spite of herself, Muriella fell under the spell of the music. As the song washed over her, she became aware of the magic Duncan's fingers created—a filmy tissue of interwoven notes that hung suspended in the air, softening reality like an undulating gauze curtain. Muriella smiled her gratitude, and when the squire looked up to meet her eyes, he seemed to understand.

A loud knock on the door shattered the moment, and the fine, clinging notes of the song faded, so everything came once more into sharp focus.

"Aye?" Muriella called.

Mary opened the door and stood with her hand on the latch. "M'lady, there's someone to see ye."

"Who?"

"I wouldn't be knowin'. He wouldn't say. But he swore he must see ye."

With a curious glance at Megan, who shook her head, Muriella said, "Bring him, then."

"Aye, m'lady." Mary curtsied before leaving the room. She had not been gone long when the door opened again and Alex the Gypsy stepped over the threshold.

"M'lady," he said, bowing.

Muriella gaped at him. She tried to speak, but could not.

Alex glanced quickly around the room. "Could I speak to ye alone for a time?" he asked.

Megan rose, a half-finished shirt in her hand. "Ye don't think—," she began.

The Gypsy interrupted her. "Ye want to help her, don't ye?"

"Aye, but—"

"Well, I can do it. Ye can't. But ye must leave us alone."

At last Muriella recovered her voice. "Please, do as he says."

Megan wanted to protest, but the sight of Muriella's face stopped the words in her mouth. There was a new light burning in her mistress's eyes. This man's arrival had distracted Muriella from her depression for the time being. "If 'tis what ye wish." But she was clearly reluctant to go.

Alex put his hand on Megan's shoulder. "Yer mistress will be safe with me."

Suddenly she remembered where she had heard that melodic voice before. She looked into Alex's eyes for the first time in four years and, instinctively, she trusted him. It was strange it should be so, she thought, but she did not stop to wonder why as she left the room.

When, at Muriella's nod, the squire rose to follow, she said softly, "Thank ye, Duncan, for everything."

With an uneasy smile, he nodded and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

While she tried to collect her wits, Muriella considered the Gypsy in silence. Alex had not changed much in the past four years. His weathered face was the same, aged beyond his years by day after day of sun and toil and the weight of his special knowledge. His clareschaw was slung over his shoulder as always. Just as she remembered, his silver hair and beard curled over the shoulders of his green-and-gold Gypsy shirt.

"Ye've been gone a long time," she said at last.

"Too long, it seems."

She grasped the carved arms of her chair. "I don't understand."

"I think ye do," Alex said quietly.

She had forgotten the power of his eyes that changed from green to gray and back again in the path of the shifting sunlight. She wanted to look away but could not. "Why have ye come back?" Muriella asked.

Alex seated himself unhurriedly on the stool Duncan had abandoned. "Because ye need me," he said, brushing a strand of hair back from his seamed face.

She did not bother to tell him it was not so; she knew he would see the truth in her eyes. "How did ye know?"

He smiled. "Ye asked me that once before, I think. My answer is the same now: I dreamed of ye last night."

"But—"

"Our camp isn't far from here," he interrupted. "As I also told ye, people talk to the Gypsies. I know yer husband has left Kilchurn. I know too that ye tried to take yer life. So, I came."

Muriella took a deep breath. "Why should ye care about that? I'm not yer concern."

"Somehow ye've become my concern, though why that should be I can't say. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share." He leaned closer, reaching out to brush her furrowed brow with his fingertips. "Because of this"—his fingers traced the hollows of her cheeks—"and this"—the rigid line of her mouth—"and this"—and came to rest on her eyelids as they had done four long years ago.

Muriella sat for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the feather light touch of the Gypsy's fingertips on her lids. She remembered so clearly that distant afternoon when she had known for the first time that another understood her pain, because Alex had felt it too. Then he drew away. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her intently.

"'Tis because of that," he said, "that ye'll tell me what happened yesterday to make ye seek the comfort of the river."

His searching gaze held her immobile, though she fought to free herself from its power. Against her will, she murmured, "It started, I think, when my husband received a packet of letters from Cawdor. I knew something was amiss, but he didn't tell me what it was. He didn't come to me at all." That was not what she wanted to say, but the words spilled out, welling up from a place the Gypsy had uncovered with a single, telling glance. She laced her fingers together in her lap. "But the real beginning was the dream."

"Aye," Alex mused. "So I should have guessed." His hands resting on his knees, he leaned forward—waiting.

"I'd had it before, but 'twas no' the same. My cousin Hugh and I were young again at Kilravok, and happy, before I'd ever heard the name of Campbell. Always in the end, we fell together, laughing, but this time when I turned to him, I saw only his blackened death mask. 'Twas a warning, ye see." She swallowed, wishing the Gypsy would look away for even an instant, but his steady gaze did not waver. "My husband killed Hugh yesterday."

Considering her in silence, Alex finally shook his head.

"'Twas only for that? Ye hadn't even seen the man since ye left Cawdor."

"No, but I'd lost something precious just the same. In all the years since I've come to Kilchurn, 'twas my only dream untouched by fear. And now that dream too has become a nightmare. I couldn't bear to lose Hugh that way."

The Gypsy moved closer as, unblinking, he said softly, "The Hugh in yer dream was a child. People change."

"I can't believe he could change so much. I don't want to believe it."

Thoughtfully, Alex ran his fingers through his heavy beard, catching them in the tangled strands. "Is that why ye tried to end yer life—because Sir John had taken yer childhood friend from ye?"

"No," she whispered.

"Then why?"

"Hugh's death—somehow it made me realize—" She stopped, but his gaze burned into her, exacting the truth regardless of her will. "I realized how much I—care for my husband."

Alex leaned back, sighing deeply. His eyes lost some of their luminous intensity. "I see."

Released from his spell at last, Muriella looked away. "This time I don't think ye do."

The Gypsy frowned. "Do ye know why Sir John killed Hugh?" His hair had fallen into his face again and he pushed it back impatiently. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter now."

"But it does. Mayhap the reason ye fear yer husband is because ye don't understand him well enough."

Muriella stiffened. "I didn't say I fear him."

"Didn't ye?" Alex murmured, "I thought ye did." The Gypsy reached out to raise her chin with one callused finger. "My child, ye can't understand yer husband till ye know the truth—unclouded by doubt or fear or the memory of a once-pleasant dream. Ye said there were some letters from Cawdor. Mayhap if ye read them, 'twould help ye see things more clearly."

"Mayhap," Muriella replied warily. "But I don't know where they are. And I don't think—"

"Aye?" the Gypsy murmured. "What don't ye think?"

Once again she tried desperately to look away, but the light in his eyes had captured her and would not set her free. "I don't think I want to know."

Smiling grimly, Alex drew away from her. "And that, above all, is why ye must know."

Chapter 45

A short time later, Alex entered the library again. "Here they are."

Muriella surveyed the packet he had thrown onto the desk, but did not reach out to take it. "How did ye get them?"

"Duncan helped me find 'em among Sir John's papers."

"Why would he do such a thing?" she asked, half to herself. "Surely he knows John would be angry."

Alex shrugged. "He didn't like it, but I told him how important 'twas for ye to see 'em."

"Do ye think he understood?"

The Gypsy shook his head. "No, but he tried. Ye're lucky to have such a friend."

Muriella thought of all the gifts of song the squire had given her—and one gift more. "I know."

"Would ye have me stay while ye read?"

She noticed the strained energy that had characterized him earlier had gone. Now he did not seem at all intimidating, only very, very tired. "No," she said. "'Tis best if I'm alone, I think."

"As ye wish. But I'll be nearby."

"Thank ye."

"Ye may no' wish to thank me when ye've seen 'em." Before she could respond, he slipped out, closing the door without a sound.

For several minutes, Muriella sat staring at the square of faded yellow against the dark leather cover of a manuscript. She waved her hand over the folded parchment as if to make it disappear into the shimmering sunlight. What, in God's name, are ye so afraid off John had asked her once. What indeed? With sudden resolution, she pulled the ribbon loose, spilling the letters onto the desktop. Gently, she spread the parchment open.

"John Campbell, Lord of Lorne, Thane of Cawdor," it read.

My lord,

Yer enquiries surprised me, for I thought that matter had been settled in yer father's time. 'Tis true enough that Hugh Rose has been spreading the rumors far and wide, and mayhap the people fear him enough to believe him. Or mayhap when he stands above them with his sword poised and ready to strike, they tell him only what he wants to hear. But even that won't give him the power to bring the case to light again. There can be no question of illegal proceedings, for all concerned signed fully attested legal documents. Ye need not bother further with Rose's slanders against yer wife's name, for yer right to Cawdor is unquestioned.

But I warn ye, when The Devil Afire sees that his rumors aren't succeeding, he'll resort to the sword soon enough. Still, if as ye say, ye intend to come here soon, I believe yer presence will do a great deal toward keeping the outlaw in line.

Yer obedient servant,

Robert, Precentor of Ross

Muriella's vision blurred, though whether with tears or confusion, she was not certain. Laying the letter aside, she chose another.

My lord,

There's been much unrest between the Calders and Roses of late. The old feud is stronger now than it has been in many years; the young Hugh Rose has seen to that. He's been heard to say more than once that ye cheated him out of his rightful fortune by stealing his bride. I won't repeat the foul things he's been saying about yer wife (though there are others less delicate than I). But I'll tell ye this: I don't think she will be safe at Cawdor so long as Hugh Rose lives. Nor will ye.

The outlaw will never forget the humiliation ye gave him last October. By showing him mercy, ye only fed his rage. His right arm is useless since the blow from yer blade, but he makes no secret of the fact that he's been working with his left. From what I hear, his hatred of ye gives him more strength than a normal man. He is feared as much now as he was before. He says when he's ready, he'll come for ye and yer wife. I warn ye, he isn't to be trifled with. 'Tis a dangerous situation here till he's been dealt with. If ye're coming indeed, I pray 'twill be soon, for I mislike the smell in the air.

Ever yer servant,

Archie Campbell Cawdor Castle

Muriella gripped the parchment in cold fingers. She could no longer deny how much the Hugh she had known had changed. It seemed this time John's rage had been justified, and it had been as much for her sake as for his—perhaps even more. Have a little faith, Alex had told her once. She should have listened. Dropping the crumpled page, she reached for the last letter.

Dear Cousin,

I've spoken to a great many people in the past few weeks, just as ye bid me. It's taken time, for, as ye instructed, I've taken care that no one will repeat my questions after ye and yer wife arrive at Cawdor. I believe that, other than the threat from Hugh Rose, 'tis safe to bring her. The servants at the castle don't appear to listen to Rose's rumors. The few who wonder if the rumors are true tell me they don't care, for they hate the Calders with a passion and the Roses as much. The two families have caused a lot of bloodshed with their constant feuding, and those who are neither Calder nor Rose wish yer wife the victory.

As for the other matter, I had to ask a great many more questions with a great deal more care, for I knew the Roses held the secret if any did. I'm afraid ye'll be disappointed at my news, for there is nothing definite, as Isabel Calder has been dead this past month. I believe she was the only one who knew for certain. But one of her sisters, Glenna, seemed particularly troubled by my interest, so I pressed her. After many hours, she finally told me she was aware, all those years ago, that her sister loved a man besides her husband. She did not know whether Isabel had "known" the man, nor did she know his identity. Apparently, Isabel Calder was very discreet. But Glenna did say that, on her deathbed, her sister said something that made her believe the man must have been a Gypsy. As the Gypsies come and go so irregularly, I don't believe 'twould be possible to trace one nameless man. I advise ye to let it rest. For even if, after years of searching, we were to find him, 'twould not answer the one question Isabel alone could have answered.

Yer loyal cousin,

David Campbell

The air in the library was warm, but Muriella's hands were icy cold. How could it be that no one had told her about Isabel's death? She conjured up the image of her mother bent over the loom, fingers flying, singing the songs she created as she worked. Muriella remembered how Isabel had so often kept boredom at bay with her talk of magic and the Kelpies and the wonder to be found in the patterns of colored thread. But now her mother was gone and Muriella had never really had a chance to know her. She closed her eyes against overwhelming grief and regret. But there was something more. "...the man must have been a Gypsy." Her eyes widened. People in trouble sometimes seek out the Gypsies, so yer mother came to me, Alex had told her. “Dear God in heaven.” Somehow ye've become my concern. Mayhap 'tis because of the burden we share, he had added.

Her fingers curled inward until the nails dug into the skin of her palms. Ye see, lass, he had whispered once in his melodic voice, that ye aren't alone.

As the sound of that voice faded into silence, Muriella found she could not move. Outside the door, Alex was waiting.

Chapter 46

Elizabeth sat with her new husband in the library at Auchinbreck. She was reading a book of poems by Robert Henryson while Archibald looked at a treatise on strategy. The silence they shared was comfortable. Now and then Elizabeth looked up to smile at the man beside her. Somehow the sight of her husband’s face always surprised her: so pleasant, so ordinary, so warmly familiar.

Archibald felt her gaze and glanced up, answering her smile. When a servant appeared in the doorway, he turned sharply; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed. "What is it?"

"Sir John Campbell's come from Kilchurn to see ye, m'lady."

Closing the book in her lap, Elizabeth glanced at her husband before asking, "Is aught amiss?"

"I don't know. But from the look on his face, I'll wager the whole Clan Campbell’s on the brink of ruin."

Elizabeth tensed, and when her husband took her hand, she gripped it tightly. "Bring him here," she said.

The servant hurried away as Elizabeth turned to Archibald. Before she could speak, he said, "I'll leave ye to talk to him alone. If there's any danger, I'll learn of it soon enough."

She smiled in gratitude. "Ye don't mind?"

Brushing a light kiss over her cheek, he rose. "No' at all. I'll be waiting in the hall if ye should need me."

She smiled as he left, but when her brother entered the room, the smile disappeared.

John stood on the threshold with his hair in wild disarray. Although his cheeks were flushed—from heavy riding, she guessed—beneath the color he was ghostly pale. For the first time in all the years she had known him, there were lines etched in his skin from his nose to his mouth, and deep furrows across his forehead. His eyes were a turbulent blue gray.

"Johnnie!" she said, "what ails ye?"

When he did not respond, she left her chair to move forward. Taking his arm, she drew him to her husband's chair. Then, while he sat staring at his hands, she poured him a goblet of wine. He drank it down without pause, clearly unaware he had done so. Elizabeth turned her chair to face his and waited, her fingers laced together in her lap.

"Muriella—" he began, then stopped. He seemed unable to form the thought.

Her sister felt a chill of foreboding run down her spine. "What is it?" When he still did not answer, her heart began to beat erratically. "Tell me what's happened, Johnnie, please!"

"Muriella tried—to take her life."

Elizabeth gaped at him in disbelief, but her brother would not meet her eyes. Finally she whispered, "Is she all right?"

John gazed down at his hands helplessly. "She still lives, if that's what ye mean."

"But she's been hurt?"

Her brother ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "I begin to think the inner wounds are greater than the outer."

Elizabeth felt a sinking in her stomach. "Don't speak in riddles, Johnnie, not about this. Is yer wife hurt?"

"She has a cut on the forehead, mayhap a chill, but no more."

"Thank God." Weak with relief, his sister sank back into her chair. She watched in concern as John rose and began to pace up and down, glaring at the rushes beneath his feet as if they were enemies to be conquered. For a long time she did not have the courage to break the silence, but then, at last, she murmured, "How?"

John stopped with his back to her. "She threw herself in the river."

"No!" The color drained from Elizabeth's face. She had thought the horror was behind her, but John's toneless statement had brought it rushing back. Struggling for breath, she fought the memory of those crawling, endless hours chained to the rock while the water rose in fury all around her. "Muriella couldn't have done such a thing!" she gasped.

"So I thought too. But it seems we didn't know her as well as we thought."

Elizabeth clutched the arms of her chair until her hands ached. She was afraid if she let go, she would fall. She saw John move toward the wide embrasure. Placing one booted foot on a low chest, he gazed blindly out at the courtyard below. She realized he was not aware of her distress.

Unable to find her voice, she rose and went to the shelf where Archibald had left a flagon of wine. Holding a pewter goblet in her shaking hand, she filled it with the dark liquid and drank it down. As the wine began to affect her, the mists of memory receded and the shock dimmed a little. Her heartbeat slowed to normal while the silence stretched between brother and sister—thin as a single thread, and as fragile. Elizabeth closed her eyes, wondering why John had come to her at all. When at last she turned toward him, her face was expressionless.

"So," she said calmly, "what have ye done with her?"

John turned in surprise, as if he'd forgotten his sister was in the room. "Done with her? I left her at Kilchurn."

"Just that? Nothing more?"

Her brother gazed at her, perplexed. "What would ye have me do?"

"'Tis a terrible sin to try to take yer life," she said, moving toward him, her gown rustling about her ankles. "The Church will surely excommunicate her if they hear of this. Will ye tell them?"

"No!"

Elizabeth was unmoved by the single explosive word. "But after what she's done, no one would blame ye."

"I wouldn't be caring if they did. I won't do it, that's all."

"Why?"

Eyes narrowed, John regarded his sister intently. "Elizabeth—"

"Then will ye lock her in a tower?"

"No, by God!" He moved toward her menacingly, but she did not retreat.

Raising her chin, she said coolly, "Our father would have done so, after he beat her bloody, no doubt."

John clenched his fists and fought the urge to strike her. "Damn our father! She's my wife!"

"But surely ye'll punish her."

"Elizabeth, I warn ye—"

He was so close she could reach out to touch his face, distorted by anger, but still she did not quaver. "Ye don't seem to realize, 'tis a sin, Johnnie!"

"I don't care."

"But—"

"She's my wife, damn ye, and I love her!"

Brows drawn together, Elizabeth repeated stubbornly, "But if she tried to take her life—"

She broke off abruptly when John grasped her by the shoulders. "Stop this madness, Elizabeth, before ye push me too far. I love Muriella, do ye hear? Whatever she's done!"

His sister's eyes glittered, but she spoke without inflection. "I see."

He noticed then the odd expression on her face. She was smiling knowingly and seemed to be waiting. But for what? Then, all at once, he heard a distant echo—the sound of his sister's voice weeping, I love him! He wouldn't—I love him!

He released her and his hands fell to his sides. "Dear God," he murmured. "Elizabeth, forgive me. I thought—"

"Ye thought I was a fool and weak besides. But now ye see, don't ye? I was just as ye are."

He sank back into the chair. "Aye, just as I am," he muttered in despair.

His sister smiled a little. "Tis a curse on our family, don't ye think? This compulsion to love someone to the point of madness? Muriella once said she admired it in me, but I didn't believe her."

"Muriella," John repeated. The sound of the name brought his anguish rushing back. He stared at the floor in silence.

Elizabeth watched her brother slump forward, defeat in every line of his body. She was surprised to find she pitied him. Never had she seen him so helpless. Kneeling beside him with her hand on his arm, she said, "I think this has affected ye more deeply than ye realize. Mayhap ye don't want to admit it, but ye're horrified by what she's done."

"Doesn't she even fear the wrath of God?" John demanded.

Unable to bear the sight of his confusion, Elizabeth looked away. "How can she, when she's already lived in hell?"

John closed his eyes but could not disguise the pain that transformed his face. "Hasn't she ever been happy, even for a moment?"

Elizabeth gripped his arm. "I didn't mean that, Johnnie. Of course she's been happy."

He met her compassionate gaze fiercely. "When?" he demanded. "Name me one day when she wasn't haunted by her demons."

"There were many, as ye'd know if ye asked her. But I don't think I've ever seen her as happy as she was the morning after my wedding and the battle that followed. She was so full of joy that day her face shone with it and her body could barely contain it all."

"Oh, God!"

Elizabeth drew away. "I'm sorry. That only makes it more difficult for ye, doesn't it?"

He could not answer. His despair was choking him. Elizabeth rose to pace before the empty fireplace, conjuring Muriella's face before her, trying to understand the hopeless tangle of her friend's feelings. "Did she tell ye why she did it?"

It was a long time before John answered. "She said she'd had a vision, that she was afraid I would—" He could not bring himself to say the words. "That I would harm her someday."

Elizabeth paused as a strange stillness descended upon her. "Can ye really blame her for thinking that?"

John looked up sharply at the bitterness in his sister's voice. She was staring at him, her gray eyes wide with unsettling memories. Those eyes carried him back to that moment when the madness had overtaken him as he stood above Elizabeth while she lay ill, calling for her husband. "Ye knew," he whispered hoarsely.

"Ye thought I was delirious, but I knew."

Her steady, unblinking gaze was more than he could stand. Rising abruptly, he moved toward the window. "I don't know what to say to ye. I don't know how to explain—"

"No, Johnnie," his sister interrupted. "Ye don't need to explain. 'Tis past now."

John shook his head. "I don't think 'twill ever be past."

Elizabeth crossed the room until she faced her brother. "I've tried to leave those days behind—I had to. Mayhap ye should do so too. 'Tis Muriella who matters now. What are ye going to do about her?"

Her brother looked away, rubbing his fingers over his brow as if to ease the pain within. "I don't know."

Elizabeth's heart contracted in compassion. "Do ye think ye can live without her?" she asked softly.

John turned, his face haggard with care in the soft evening light. "'Tis hard to know."

"I'll tell ye something ye may not believe, but 'tis true just the same. I doubt Muriella can live without ye."

John's eyes widened. How could he believe it? "Ye don't seem to understand. She fears me too much. She thinks I'll hurt her."

"Then go back to Kilchurn and show her she's wrong."

John gaped at his sister in astonishment.

With a sigh, Elizabeth put her hands on his shoulders.

"Listen to me, Johnnie. I know ye've killed many men in battle, mayhap more than I can count. 'Tis the way ye survive. But murder—I don't think ye're capable of that."

John struggled to find his voice. "Ye can say that?"

Her gaze did not waver. "Aye."

"But ye saw me—"

"I saw what ye wanted to do. 'Tis no' the same as what ye would have done. Stubborn ye may be, passionate in yer rages and desires, mayhap even cruel sometimes, but ye simply aren't the kind of man to hurt someone ye love."

"Ye really believe that?"

"I do."

John felt a constriction in his throat. For the first time in his life, he wanted to weep. "Why? After all I've done?"

"Because on the day when Lachlan Maclean last came to Kilchurn, ye let him live." Her brother started to interrupt, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "Ye had far more reason to want his life than ye did mine. He'd long been an enemy to me, to ye, to our father and the clan and the King. All he'd ever given the Campbells was years of trouble and betrayal. Yet when I asked ye to, ye set him free."

"But I killed him in the end."

When he would have turned away, Elizabeth held him with the touch of her hands on his shoulders. "I spoke to Megan the day after ye left Kilchurn. I know why ye did it. I know too that Lachlan had to die. He'd pushed us all too far too often. I knew that even in the beginning. 'Twas just that I couldn't bear to watch it happen."

John stared at his sister as if he had never seen her before. Ye take her for a fool, Maclean had said, but she's a great deal wiser than ye. Strange that in the end, the husband who had mistreated and despised her should have known Elizabeth so well. And yet, John himself must have trusted his sister more than he realized, or he would not have come to her now. "Ye're Muriella's friend. Ye understand her best. Do ye really think I should go back to her?"

"'Twill break her heart if ye don't." Elizabeth gazed thoughtfully into her brother's eyes. "But I wonder.... 'Twill no' be easy to win yer wife if ye can't forgive her for all the pain she's caused ye."

"That doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't it?" Elizabeth said softly. "Are ye certain?"

When John moved away from her, she did not follow. He turned once more to stare out the window at the languid movements of the men in the courtyard below. Though he tried to close his mind against it, the memory of Duncan's words rang in his head: I don't know why she threw herself in, but I do know that she let me save her. It was that knowledge which had gnawed at John's insides since the moment he left Kilchurn. He knew with a certainty that appalled him if it had been he waiting on the riverbank to pull Muriella from the water, she would have drowned rather than reach for his hand. She had made a choice, in that moment, to give Duncan something she could never give her husband—her trust. And for that John could not forgive her.

Chapter 47

Muriella leaned against the windowsill in the library, staring out at the loch below. The clouds had crept around the sun, and the light had the strange silver cast that always came before a storm. She did not turn when she heard the door open; she knew without looking that Alex had come into the room.

"I'd begun to worry," the Gypsy said. "Ye didn't make a sound for so long."

"I was thinking." She concentrated more intently on the forming patterns of rain clouds in the graying sky.

"Did ye learn what ye needed to know?"

He was coming closer—she could hear his soft footsteps on the thick rug—but still she did not leave the window. "Aye. I learned much more than that," she murmured.

The Gypsy paused a few feet away from her. "Why won't ye look at me, lass?"

Releasing her painful grip on the stone, she turned to find him watching. His weathered face was lined and careworn, his gray green eyes full of concern. Those eyes. With an effort of will, she met his gaze.

"What is it?" Alex asked. "What's troublin' ye?"

His gaze was not holding her now. She could have looked away if she wanted to, but she did not. She wondered if she could draw the truth from him as he had drawn it from her a few minutes before. When she did not speak, he took another step forward. "What?"

My child, he had once called her. Her heart was beating too slowly; the blood was hardly moving through her veins. His eyes, she thought. His strange, compelling eyes. "Are ye my father?" she said at last.

Alex gasped as if she had struck him in the chest. The color drained from his face and faded from his eyes, leaving them pale and lifeless. For a long time she thought he would not answer.

Finally, he said stiffly, "No. I met yer mother when she'd just begun to carry ye." He forced himself to meet her doubtful gaze. "Ye must try to understand what was between us and no' think badly of her. Isabel needed a friend, and I was there for her. What we shared was rare in this cold, heartless world."

Muriella was surprised to realize she was not disappointed in her mother. Perhaps it was because she had never known Isabel's husband, had never seen John Calder's face, except once in a painting. Her father had given her Cawdor, but that had never been cause for gratitude. But Alex had shared so much with her. He had given her understanding, compassion, consolation. He was the only one who had told her truths she did not wish to hear. And he had given her music. She understood too well what his friendship must have meant to the lonely Isabel, because Muriella herself had so often felt alone since her arrival at Kilchurn. "Please tell me about it," she asked softly as she drew him toward the chairs in front of the empty fireplace.

The Gypsy sat down and spread his hands before him, examining the palms in the shifting gray light. "I don't remember the day or even the year we met," he said wistfully. "To me 'twas as if I'd always known Isabel Calder. Ye could say 'twas she who brought me the Sight when I was a boy."

Muriella frowned, seeking a distant memory. I was standin' above a river, Alex had told her the first time they met, starin' into a pool of clear water, and I saw the face of a woman I didn't know. When I leaned down to fetch her out, 'twas no one there. "Hers was the face in the water then?"

Alex nodded. "She followed me in dreams, ye see, even before I met her in the flesh. And then—" He hesitated. "I couldn't have changed what happened between us, even had I wanted to. She was an extraordinary woman, yer mother." He gazed beyond Muriella to the bright, remembered image of the woman he had lost. "Every year when the Gypsies moved south, I had to leave her behind," he continued, unable now to stop the flow of painful memories. "And every time the partin' was more difficult to bear. But I couldn't stay away. I didn't have that kind of strength."

"Is that why ye came to me? Because of what ye felt for her?"

"No' entirely," the Gypsy replied. "Ye see, we were much together in those days while ye rested in her womb. We used to talk like ye were my bairn. 'Twas her wish that 'twas so, and mine as well. With yer father dead and unable to defend ye I swore to Isabel I'd protect ye as if ye were my own. 'Tis what I’ve tried to do."

Muriella nodded and touched his hand in answer to the question he had not asked. "Did ye see her again after my wedding?"

Pushing the hair back from his face, Alex gathered his thoughts carefully. "Aye, I was with her soon before she died. We'd been travelin' far from home, south through England. By the time we came north again, she was very ill." He did not try to hide the grief that ravaged his face. "I was a fool, ye ken. I waited too long. I thought since ye were finally married and grown up safe among the Campbells, that she might have come away with me then."

"Had ye asked her before?"

"Och, no! 'Twould have been cruel to offer her a choice she couldn't make no matter how much she might want to."

Leaning forward, Muriella murmured, "Because of me?"

Even through the weight of his sorrow, Alex smiled, "Aye. Ye were the one true joy of her life. She was determined nothin' should ever hurt ye, so long as she had the power to stop it."

"But she never sent a single letter—" Muriella stopped before more words escaped, betraying the depth of her bewildered pain.

But Alex did not need to hear the words. "We talked long and often before she drifted at last into the mist. She told me a great many things. She said she'd never told ye the truth about yer father or yer guardian because, for a long time, she thought ye were too young to understand. Then one day she realized ye were all grown up, and 'twas too late. She didn't want to lose yer trust when she knew someday soon she'd lose ye altogether.

"She knew when her father said ye were to marry Hugh that she should have sent word to Argyll sooner. She felt the danger always around ye, though she tried to hide it so ye would not feel her fear. No' for a moment were ye really safe with the Roses, but the Earl had left ye with her, and she couldn't bear to give up the gift he'd given her."

"But surely after my marriage she could have sent word."

Alex winced at the raw longing in Muriella's voice. "I think her guilt kept her silent more than anything else. She told me she had been selfish and careless for so long, that when at last she let ye go, she had to let ye go completely, though it broke her heart. She wanted ye to have no ties to the Campbells' enemies, no ties to a past gone forever. She made the hardest choice in her life that day—to set ye free, absolutely. But ye must no' think for a single moment she forgot ye."

Muriella struggled to understand. "But I wrote to her. I sent letters—" She broke off, feeling foolish in the face of her mother's sacrifice.

"She never saw them," Alex asserted. "She told me she'd always hoped ye'd forgive her and send word. But when ye were silent, she accepted that too."

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps her father, Hugh Rose, made certain she never got yer letters. 'Twas the kind of petty cruelty that would have given him pleasure."

Muriella looked away as an ache of sadness filled her chest. Why had she never known how much her mother cared for her? It had always been Lorna who laughed with Muriella, taught her, listened to her troubles. She closed her eyes at the hot pain that still flared at the thought of her childhood companion. Was that why Isabel had never been more than a figure weaving shadows in the background? Muriella had memories—few and precious and strangely vivid—of the hours spent in the solar learning the magic of the loom, but suddenly that was not enough. Not when Isabel had given up so much to insure the happiness of her troubled daughter. Not when she had given up Alex.

The Gypsy rose, massaging his eyelids with his fingertips. "Forgive me, lass, but I can't talk more of her now. Even to say her name—" He broke off, turning so she could no longer see his face.

"Ye've already given me more of her than I had before," she told him. "I thank ye for that."

When Alex turned back to her, his face showed no sign of his inner turmoil, but his eyes were shadowed with grief. Those gray green eyes met and held hers for a long moment and she drew her breath in sharply. It was as if she were looking into a mirror at the luminous reflection of her own suffering. For the third time in a single day, tears burned behind her lids.

"I lost yer mother," the Gypsy said, "but it doesn't have to happen that way for ye." He motioned toward the letters still scattered over the desktop. "Can ye understand now why Sir John did what he did?"

Muriella nodded, abandoning with reluctance the subject of her mother. "Ye were right," she admitted. "Hugh had changed. He was evil, just as my husband claimed."

Brow furrowed, Alex paced across the blue Persian rug. "Then mayhap," he said, speaking slowly, to be certain she understood each word, "the face in the dream wasn't yer cousin's death mask at all. Mayhap 'twas yer first true glimpse of the kind of man he had become."

Muriella bit her lip. Could that grotesque face have been the image of Hugh's blackened soul? Then she realized it must have been. Death masks were cold and still as stone, but in her dream, Hugh had been horribly alive. She shivered when she remembered his chilling, triumphant laughter.

Too restless to stay still, Muriella rose and returned to the window to stare out at the wind-whipped loch below.

Perplexed by her reticence, Alex regarded her more closely. "None of that matters to ye, does it?"

Muriella shook her head. "Understanding what happened in the past can't change what's to come."

The Gypsy noticed the rigid line of her back, the way her hands gripped the stone sill until her fingers grew pale from the strain. All at once, he thought he understood. "Ye've 'seen' something, haven't ye?"

"Aye." The word fell hollowly from her lips toward the raging loch. "Over and over again. Even in my dreams I can't get free."

The Gypsy sank back into his chair, his hands locked together. "I should have guessed it." For a long time there was silence while he stared at the floor, gathering his thoughts. "Ye'd best tell me."

"I don't think I can."

"I know how hard 'tis to put yer fear into words," Alex told her. "But 'tis a risk ye'll have to take if ye want me to help ye."

She knew it was true, but that did not make it any easier. Closing her eyes against the image of the silver-streaked loch, she curled her fingers inward, seeking a depth of courage she did not think to find. Her heartbeat seemed to echo the churning fury of the distant water. Muriella fought to steady her breathing. When she turned to Alex, her face was unnaturally calm, unnaturally white. She took the chair across from his, then leaned forward, pale and rigid. "In the vision," she began hesitantly, "I'm surrounded by water."

"Go on."

"I'm drowning in the waves that are rising all around me—" She broke off, closed her eyes to renew her strength, then continued more slowly. "The water is dragging me farther and farther under until I can't breathe. I try to stay afloat, but 'tis stronger than me and I can't win. I know—" She shuddered, choking on her own voice. "I know someday 'twill take me down so far I won't ever rise again." Frowning, Alex asked, "When does it come to ye?"

Muriella concentrated on the interwoven pattern of her fingers against the dove gray skirt of her gown. "When my husband touches me... or..." She bit her lip and tried to remember exactly. "Or when he moves me somehow." She looked up, her face ashen. "I feel myself drowning, and it terrifies me."

"So."

When the Gypsy said no more, Muriella whispered, "Ye must think me mad for throwing myself in the river."

"No, lass. I think 'twas the only way ye could find to put an end to the waitin'."

She froze, her fingers locked in a painful grip. He had always known so much about her. Perhaps too much. Muriella rose and began to pace in agitation. Suddenly she whirled, hands extended toward the Gypsy in a silent plea. "Can ye change a vision once ye've seen it?" she demanded in desperation. "There must be a way!"

"I don't know for sure," Alex murmured, his voice hoarse with compassion. "But I do know this. If there is a way, 'tis to meet it head-on."

"I don't understand."

Choosing his words with care, he said, "Ye follow the vision through to its natural end."

"No!"

"Listen to me!" In one swift movement he had left his chair and grasped her shoulders. Only when her eyes locked with his did he continue. "Ye won't ever change the future by fightin' it this way. To conquer yer fear ye must face it once and for all."

From somewhere out of the stillness that fell between them came the echo of her own troubled voice. I don't think I can face Cawdor again. The memories are too strong.

"Ye never went back to Cawdor, did ye?" Alex said. Muriella's eyes widened at the ease with which he had read her thoughts. She suppressed the urge to shiver and back away. "No," she said shakily.

"Mayhap ye need to do just that."

"I don't think—," Muriella began.

Alex increased his grip on her shoulders until she winced. "'Tis long past time ye did think. And not just about Cawdor. Before Sir John comes back—"

"He may not return at all."

"He will," the Gypsy assured her. "He can't help himself. But before he does, ye should consider something with a great deal of care. Remember yer visions aren't always what they seem. The dream of Hugh wasn't. Mayhap 'tis true of this one as well." With one gnarled finger he raised her chin, capturing her once more in his compelling gaze. "Think of this, Muriella. Think long and hard. Mayhap 'tis no' yer husband ye fear at all. Mayhap 'tis yerself."

Chapter 48

John stayed at Auchinbreck for one week. On the seventh day he sought out Elizabeth to bid her good-bye.

"Do ye know what ye'll do now?" she asked him.

Her brother shook his head. "I can't say for certain."

"Ye've missed her, Johnnie. I've seen it on yer face."

He looked away. "Aye, that I have. Sometimes I think just to see her again would be enough for me. But then I begin to wonder—"

"Don't think so much," Elizabeth warned him. "Ye've always been guided by yer feelings before. Ye should know by now they won't lead ye astray." She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear and smiled up at him. "Just remember Muriella needs ye even more than ye need her. Give her a chance to tell ye so."

"She may not want to see me at all."

"Ah, Johnnie," Elizabeth murmured, brushing his cheek with her fingertips, "ye haven't heard a word I said."

John took her hand and smiled down at her. "I heard ye and I thank ye—for everything." He tilted his head, contemplating his sister's face in a new light, coming to know it all over again. "We've been strangers for far too long," he said at last. "But things will be different now."

Elizabeth nodded. "I don't think I realized until ye arrived a week ago how much I've missed ye since I first went to Duart. I don't think I wanted to admit, even to myself, how lonely I was there."

"But now that Duart's behind ye, are ye any happier?"

"Happy?" his sister repeated thoughtfully. "My life is comfortable now, even pleasant. But happy? I don't think I know what that is. And yet—" She smiled at the memory of the spring roses she had found strewn across her bed that morning. "Mayhap I'm learning about it after all."

"'Tis time ye did," John said fervently.

"'Tis time we all did."

Drawn by the smile in her eyes, John took his sister in his arms. It had been so long since he'd seen her smile.

For a moment she was too surprised to respond, then she returned his embrace, resting her head, for a moment, on his shoulder. "Take care," Elizabeth whispered. "And Johnnie," she added as he turned away, "God go with ye."

* * *

"Andrew, ye shouldn't be out of bed!" Muriella cried when she saw him leaning weakly on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs in the Great Hall. The heavy bandage beneath his loose saffron shirt was unstained with red, but that did not mean it would remain so. "If ye don't have a care, yer wound will re-open and then where would ye be?" In the two weeks since the battle with the Macleans, the gaping wound in Andrew's shoulder had begun gradually to heal, but she could see from his sallow face, covered with pale freckles, that he was still too weak to be about.

"So long as I'm no' locked away in that tiny room, I don't care," he told her. "Ye can't think how quickly a man can go daft with only his brother to keep him company." He paused to catch his breath. It was the longest speech he had made in many days. Then he smiled crookedly. "I wanted to see if there was still life in the rest of the keep. And I thought it couldn't hurt to come down for supper this once."

When his hand slipped on the balustrade and he began to sway, Muriella hurried to his side. "Ye're daft indeed to take the risk," she said, "but if ye must, at least let me help ye so ye don't fall into the rushes."

"Ye needn't bother about me," Andrew whispered, smiling weakly. "No Maclean is going to get the best of me! And where," he added as his knees threatened to buckle, "is my brother when ye need him?"

"Here, ye fool," Richard said, bracing Andrew against his strong shoulder. "I'll see to him, m'lady, or I'm sore afraid ye'd end up draggin' him across the room to lay him on a table, dead to the world."

"Much ye know about it," his brother snorted. "'Tis good for a man to move about when he begins to mend."

Muriella stepped out of the way, turning to the men at the nearest trestle table. "Ye'd best clear him a place here. I don't think he'll make it much farther."

Sim and Adam moved aside as Richard settled Andrew gingerly on the bench.

"Ye'll find the seat a little hard, no doubt, after yer soft pallet," Sim called. With a smile, he pushed a half-full tankard of ale over the marred tabletop.

Andrew leaned forward to catch the tankard, grimacing at a twinge in his shoulder. "To tell ye the truth, since the Earl's gone back to Edinburgh, Richard's had nothin' to do but sit by my bed and play with the straws from the mattress. I told him to have mercy, but he would keep chewin' them one at a time till I was through to the floor." Looking around, he whispered behind his hand, "The bench is much more comfortable than the cold stone, I can tell ye that."

While the men laughed, Muriella motioned for Mary to bring more food. Grinning in spite of his pain, Andrew said, "Thank ye, m'lady, for rescuin' me from Richard's cruel hands. He pretends to help, but he only does it to torture me, ye ken."

She smiled, and Richard too was grinning.

When Sim shifted on the bench, Adam wagged a finger at him warningly. "Don't be shovin' that way, man. Ye'll start Andrew's wound to bleedin' again, and I won't be the one to carry him upstairs."

In the midst of the general laughter that followed, Richard reached over to touch Muriella's arm gently.

"M'lady," he whispered, nodding toward the huge double doors to the Great Hall.

Muriella looked up and caught her breath.

John stood in the doorway watching in astonishment. He had never before seen the men laugh with his wife, never seen her move among them, apparently at ease. Thumbs hooked in his belt, he saw how she bent to assure Andrew's comfort, how quickly she ordered his food to be brought. Several strands of hair had fallen free from her braid to curl over her cheeks, which were flushed from the heat of the fire. Her gown had a smudge on one sleeve that told its own story. To him she had never been more beautiful.

But he had not yet come to a decision. The hours of hard riding through the mist, over rushing streams that flowed beside magnificent, rugged hills, had done nothing to clear his thoughts. Then his wife looked up.

With a cry of surprise she broke into a wide smile. Color darkened her cheeks, touching them with a warmth he could feel even from across the room. Her eyes sparkled, green and clear with welcome, relief, and something more. All at once, there was no longer a choice to be made.

John crossed the hall slowly, making his way with difficulty between the uneven rows of tables. He had been too long without his wife. Now the few moments before he reached her side seemed endless. Yet not once did her smile waver; it seemed to reach out to him, drawing him inexorably forward toward the remembered warmth of her slender body. He could not have turned away from her in that moment even if he wanted to.

As he approached, he realized the men had fallen silent, watching with curiosity his passage across the room. He had left without explanation, he remembered. No doubt they would wonder why. He would deal with that later.

When he reached the table where Richard and Andrew sat, before he could speak to Muriella, Duncan came to greet him. "'Tis glad to see ye I am, m'lord," the squire told him. "Since yer brother left, the men have been running wild."

"Don't tell me," Andrew groaned. "I missed all the fun!"

Though John wanted only to take Muriella's hand, he turned to Andrew. "How are ye healing?"

Glancing from right to left as if someone might overhear him, Andrew said in a whisper loud enough to reach the vaulted ceiling, "Richard would have killed me by now if twere no' for yer lady wife. She has magic hands with a wound, that lass."

John looked up at her in pleased surprise. Clearly she had spent the time while he was away mending her relationship with the men as well as mending Andrew's shoulder.

"Besides," Andrew continued, "'twas so still in that chamber I thought nightly the Kelpies would come and take me away."

John did not hear him. He was looking at Muriella. She had taken a step toward him and her eyes never left his face. Her gaze devoured every familiar curve and plane.

"I've told ye more than once," Richard hissed to Andrew, "that ye don't know when to close yer mouth. 'Tis time ye learned that lesson."

Disgruntled, Andrew looked up to see John close the distance between himself and his wife, then take her hand. The man's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "As ye say," he murmured.

"M'lord, ye're just in time for supper!" Mary cried, arriving just then with Andrew's bread and stew. "We didn't know ye were comin', but there's plenty of venison, and stew besides."

John nodded absently. All he could hear was the sound of Muriella's breathing; all he could see was her radiant face.

"Shall we go up?" he murmured, taking her arm. "Aye." They turned to start toward the dais but Muriella paused, frowning. "But Johnnie—"

"Later, my wife, there will be much to say. For now just let me have yer company to enjoy." When he slipped his arm around her shoulders, Muriella leaned closer. He could feel the rhythm of her heart beating against his, and an ache of longing rose within him.

"I missed ye," she said so low that only he could hear.

"And I ye, lass. And I ye."

* * *

Only Duncan, Muriella and her husband sat at the high table that night. While he ate, John touched his wife's arm often, to reassure himself she was really beside him. Though she smiled whenever his eyes met hers, though the air between them crackled with the knowledge of their need, they did not speak of these things. Instead, John discussed with his squire what had happened at Kilchurn since he had been away.

They had finished eating and were sitting with their goblets of wine in hand when Alex and two other Gypsies took their instruments and moved toward the fire. Every night since Alex's return, he and his friends had entertained the men after supper.

"Ye didn't say the Gypsies had come back," John said, turning to his wife in surprise. "'Tis glad I am to see them. No others understand music as they do." Smiling down at Muriella, he asked, "Will they be staying long?"

His wife shook her head in regret. "I don't think so." Just that morning, as she knelt in the solar finishing the binding on the tapestry of the loch, she had felt Alex's gaze upon her and turned to see the sadness in his eyes. "Ye won't be here much longer, will ye?" she'd asked quietly.

Alex had shaken his head. "No. Soon enough we'll be on our way."

With an effort, Muriella kept her voice steady. "When?"

"I can't say for certain," he told her, "but I promise ye this. Ye'll know when the time comes."

She stared down at her hands. "Once ye go, will I see ye again?"

The Gypsy smiled. "I don't think ye can help but do so."

Muriella reached out to touch his arm. "Alex—"

He stopped her with a single glance. "'Tis the way with us, isn't it, to hear things that haven't been said?"

Muriella looked into his eyes and saw there all she wanted to say and all she wanted to hear. "Aye."

"So be it. We've said enough." She'd thought there was a quaver in his voice, but could not be certain.

Now she watched him settle by the fire, strumming his harp softly. When John recognized the notes of a familiar song, he rose. At the question in his wife's eyes, he explained, "I miss the magic of the clareschaw and would find it again tonight."

His voice was low and husky with promise. Muriella smiled as he brushed his lips over her cheek. "Soon," he told her. Then he was gone.

As John made his way toward the fire, Muriella felt Alex's gaze upon her and looked up. There was a message in his gray green eyes, but she could not guess what it meant.

When a servant had brought John his harp, he sat by the fire with the hollowed gray stone at his back. He listened for a moment, then began to move his fingers over the strings. Eyes closed in concentration, he played the notes as if they were a part of his blood and bone. Muriella locked her hands together on the tabletop and leaned forward listening. Then, softly at first, her husband began to sing.

An thou were my own thing, I would love thee, I would love thee. An thou were my own thing, How dearly would I love thee.

Muriella bit her lip. She had heard the song before—she could not remember when. Resting her head on her braided fingers, she let the sound of John's voice enwrap her.

To merit I no claim can make, But that I love; and for yer sake, What man can, more I'll undertake, So dearly do I love thee.

John looked up until his eyes met hers across the crowded room. All noise ceased: the chatter of the men, the scratching of the dogs beneath the tables, and the clatter of pewter on wood as the servants removed the last of the meal. The clinging notes of the clareschaw were all that was real. In that moment, John's clear blue gaze drew her back in time to a distant memory; the dark passageway, the flickering candles, Alex at the harpsichord, and her husband singing in a voice that had made her shiver with its beauty. She realized then that the Gypsy had chosen this song in order to make her remember.

An thou were my own thing, I would love thee, I would love thee. An thou were my own thing, How dearly would I love thee.

John's eyes never left his wife's face. With his song and his voice and the sensual movement of his fingers on the strings, he seemed to echo her thoughts and her need. Muriella rose at last to make her way toward him.

While love does at his altar stand, Have thee my heart, give me thy hand, And with this smile thou shalt command The will of him who loves thee.

Her heart beat in time with the slow, enticing cadence of the song as she moved between the tables without knowing she did so. She knew only that her husband's voice was calling her, mesmerizing her as it had done once before. Without so much as a touch of his hand, he was drawing her toward him, weaving an invisible web of notes with which to bind her.

How dearly would I love thee.

She reached the place where John sat and knelt at his feet, one hand on his bent knee.

My passion, constant as the sun,

Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done,
till Fate my threads of life have spun,

Which breathing out,

I'll love thee.

Slowly, slowly, his music dispelled her fears, scattered them like dry forgotten leave in the October wind. John's fingers lay still on the strings, yet the notes seemed to linger in the air for a long moment. Muriella leaned closer, her fingers warm against his knee, her thick braid falling over her shoulder.

"I think—" he began.

"Aye," she murmured.

Without another word, he set his harp aside. They rose together, joining hands. Muriella felt an ache in her throat when she looked up at her husband's dark, bearded face, touched now with shadows, now with light as he guided her out of the reach of the fire. At the foot of the stairs, Muriella stopped and turned to Alex with a smile of gratitude.

But the Gypsy was gone. She did not look at the wide oak doors that opened into the starless night, for she knew he would not be there. Ye'll know when the time comes. Too soon, it had come. She felt his loss in the painful dragging of her heartbeat and the tears that burned behind her eyes. Yet as John slid his arm around her waist to draw her close, she smiled, if a little sadly. For days Alex had been beside her, trying to ease her sorrow and make her understand her fears, but now, she realized, he'd done all he could. In the end, inevitably, he'd turned away, delivering the choice back into her hands.

* * *

John and Muriella did not speak, not even when her chamber door was closed behind them and they stood alone. For a long moment, palms cupped around her flushed cheeks, John simply looked at his wife—at the luminous green of her eyes, the soft curve of her parted lips, the graceful lines of her neck. He caught his breath in admiration and wondered how he could have believed, even for an instant, that he could live without her.

The stillness whispering around him like a wordless invitation, he reached for the leather thong that bound Muriella's hair. She stood, eyes closed, face tilted towards the light as he worked the thong free, then slowly, one long gleaming strand at a time, began to unbind her heavy braid. When her hair hung rippling down to her knees, he ran his fingers through it again and again, kissing the curling tendrils as they fell across his callused palms.

Then, with his hands still caught in her hair, he moved so near she could hear his shallow breathing in her ear. Muriella opened her eyes and took his face in her hands, burying her fingers in his beard. Without a sound, she drew him closer until their mouths met and clung together, warm and moist and fierce with need. The tangle of his beard brushed her sensitive cheeks and she sighed with pleasure as he slipped his tongue between her parted teeth. Unexpectedly, John drew away, smiling a promise that needed no words. As slowly as he had unbound her hair, he now untied the laces of her gown.

Muriella could feel the movement of his fingers, kept from her skin by the soft barrier of fabric. She shivered at the need that rose within her, a bright white heat that stopped her voice in her throat. She had never wanted John so much before, never known how bright an agony her yearning could be. She dug her fingers into his shoulders in a silent plea, but he would not hurry.

When the laces came free in his hands, he lifted the gown over her head, then drew the kirtle up an inch at a time. The cool satin clung to her, caressing her hips and thighs like the mist curling softly through the night beyond her window. She groaned and reached for him, but he only smiled as he knelt and began to brush aside the strands of her hair with the movement of his lips over her naked skin.

The spinning began deep within her—the hot whirl of colors that stole her breath away—while John kissed her thigh tenderly, then trailed his tongue upward to her hip, the curve of her waist, her stomach and, finally, her small white breasts. He was torturing her with a pleasure too sweet to bear. When his warm, circling mouth reached the hollow of her throat, she cried out, pulling him to his feet. He caught her in his arms and held her, but she was not satisfied. With her hands curled against his shoulders, she guided him back toward the curtained bed. Somehow he lifted her onto the furs, and, pausing only long enough to discard his own clothes, moved up beside her.

Skin to skin, he kissed her recklessly, his lips as searing and demanding now as they had been gentle before. With a gasp of pleasure, he slid his hands over her back, seeking the quivering of her body that told him her need was as great as his. With her tongue, she followed the line of his neck to his ear, then touched her lips to his again.

She was shaking from the white darkness that whirled within her, from the paths of liquid heat John's hands traced over her bare skin, from the wild, tender pressure of his mouth. With willing hands, she traced the curling hairs on his chest. Drawing her close, John intertwined his legs with hers and they rolled across the mattress, while her hair wound itself around their bodies, binding them together in a fine, soft web. Sinking her fingers into his flesh, Muriella cried out, knowing her desire was too great, that the spinning would grow so bright and hot within her that, eventually, her heart would burst. But she did not care.

With a groan, John entered her at last. He began to move against her, rocking, rocking, tangling himself in her rippling hair. He was with her everywhere; no part of her remained untouched. As she gasped and closed her eyes in wonder, the bright darkness shattered and fell in glimmering fragments, filling the aching emptiness inside her.

Muriella sighed as John shuddered once more, then drew her into the curve of his arm while his rasping breath caressed her damp forehead. When he closed his arms protectively around her, her eyes filled with tears.

Her husband felt her tremble and looked up to see the shimmer of moisture in her eyes. Leaning down to trace the path of a single teardrop with his tongue, he whispered, "Why?"

"Because I'm so happy to have ye back."

He felt a constriction in his throat that would not let him speak. Almost, it was enough to make him forget.

Chapter 49

They awakened to a morning that, for once, was free of storm clouds. Muriella lay in her husband's arms while they talked of Andrew and Kilchurn and Colin's return to Edinburgh. They talked of Elizabeth and her husband and the changes in her since the wedding. By unspoken consent, they did not mention Muriella's fear or what it would mean when they left the warm safety of her chamber for the cool misted brilliance of the world beyond.

When at last they fell silent, John drew away from his wife so he could see her face. "I've been thinking a great deal about Cawdor," he said.

"And so have I."

He brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. "We don't really have a choice," he said. "We have to go back. We've lived on my brother's sufferance for too long, and Cawdor is where we belong. Besides, the keep has been too many years without a master."

"I know," his wife agreed. "'Tis not only Cawdor that's suffered from our neglect. I need to go back, though 'tis not a pleasing thought. But mayhap there..."

"Mayhap what?"

Muriella contemplated John's face, cloaked with morning shadows. "Mayhap there I can begin to understand."

John nodded but did not trust himself to answer. He was thinking how lovely she was in the gray morning light. Her hair was a splendid, glittering web across the pillow—a woven net that enwrapped him and would not set him free. She was not human, he thought. She was of some other world—a Kelpie, a witch who bound him with the magic that glowed in her hypnotic eyes.

Muriella's gaze met his—dark with secrets, bright with desire—and in that instant, he felt they were frozen in time. They could not go back, because they knew too much. Yet they could not move forward until she was ready to do so. In a way he was glad. The waiting would give him time. Time to prove to her what he now knew with certainty: whatever his wife had seen, whatever she feared, whatever she believed, he could not hurt her—ever.

* * *

Three weeks later, John stood in the center of the crowded courtyard amidst a melee of stamping horses and excited men. The servants came and went with bundles and baskets, hanging them from the backs of the animals and trying to avoid the hooves of the restless horses. The morning mist had not yet burned away; it clung in the corners and draped itself over the rough cobblestones, making the servants, still half asleep, stumble about, laughing and shouting when they blundered into one another. The cool, damp air rang with curses barely muffled and the panting of horses long past ready to be moving.

John surveyed the scene with a shake of his head. It was a good thing he had sent the bulk of their possessions to Cawdor beforehand or the confusion would have been worse now. He glanced up when he heard Richard's familiar voice.

"Out of my way, ye fool, before yer horse tramples me underfoot. Yer bags are secure. Ye should be waitin' outside the gate where ye aren't in danger of takin' several lives at any moment."

"Besides," Adam called down from the back of his restive animal, "I prefer the dangers of overcrowdin' to the sound of yer naggin' voice."

Richard snorted and turned away to bully a servant who had dropped a basket at his feet.

John smiled to himself. He had been touched when Richard and Adam and several others had asked if they could accompany him to Cawdor. Even Andrew had insisted he would not be left behind. The men could have stayed at Kilchurn where they were comfortable and secure, but they had chosen instead to go to a place where the people would not welcome the Campbells, where their lives would be a struggle for more than a little time to come.

"Ye could have ordered us to go, but ye didn't do it," Richard had explained with a shrug. "Besides, we can't leave ye alone at the mercy of the Calders and Roses. Then again," he had added, grinning, "there hasn't been a battle here for weeks on end and the men are cravin' some excitement. We thought we just might find it at Cawdor."

John had grasped the man's hand firmly. "Thank ye," was all he'd said, but it had been enough. Now he looked up sharply when he saw Duncan leading his cousin's saddled horse.

"He's more than eager for a long ride, m'lord. I can't keep him still any longer."

"I'll take him now. Ye should see to yer own animal. We'll be leaving soon."

"Not soon enough for me," Duncan called over his shoulder as he headed back toward the stables.

John smiled after him. Apparently his cousin was also hoping for some excitement. "Have ye seen my wife?" he called to Megan when she drew her animal up beside his.

"She said she was goin' to bid farewell to the loch."

Nodding, he told her, "All is nearly ready. Richard will tell ye when 'tis done and then ye and the others can follow. I'll go find Muriella now."

"Aye, m'lord. We'll be along soon," Megan called after him.

* * *

Muriella sat on the ridge overlooking the wide expanse of Loch Awe, where swirling mist hovered above the water, wrapping the wooded islands in drifts of cool white magic. In that moment, the woods, the water full of shifting secrets, the silver-touched leaves of the trees all around made her shiver with their mysterious beauty. Beyond the trees she could see the jagged mountains, their sides streaked with streams of silver white that shattered the brooding blackness. Frightened and enthralled by their magnificence, she turned to see the hills reflected in the shimmering surface of the loch.

She tilted her head, listening, and peered at the softly undulating water, but today there was no lovely face captured in the waves. Today there was no high, lamenting voice, too beautiful and piercing to be real. Today, in the stillness of early morning, there was only a whisper of memory to tell her the face had ever been there.

"Muriella!"

The sound of her husband's voice broke the spell that held her in its grasp. With the ache of parting strong within her, she pulled the reins, guiding her horse down the ridge the way it had come an hour since. Moving slowly but without hesitation, she turned her back on the woman of the loch and started back in time toward the nightmare that was Cawdor.

* * *

Muriella had lost count of the hours. As they rode through the woods for mile after wandering mile, she'd grown more and more withdrawn. She'd been grateful for Megan's lively chatter, which had kept her mind off the stillness within her.

"Look at the hills, m'lady," the servant exclaimed. "They're so gentle and low they don't frighten me like the mountains near Kilchurn."

Muriella nodded but did not speak. It was all so painfully familiar—the hills, the green moors, the groves of oak and hawthorn and pine. Strange that she should remember so well what had passed in a flurry of terror that afternoon four years ago.

"Och, 'tis so lovely and peaceful here," Megan continued, undeterred by Muriella's reticence. "Why didn't ye tell me there was such a world outside of Kilchurn?"

Her mistress smiled at Megan's obvious delight. The servant's enjoyment helped ease Muriella's mood a little.

Long before the horses came upon the river, she sensed they were nearing Cawdor. Her heartbeat quickened then slackened, and her hands grew clammy. She would see it again—the wall, the tower, the river. She could see them now inside her head in every vivid detail. It was as if the violence of her emotions that day had burned these landmarks forever into her memory.

The riders followed the river as it wound through the rolling hills and disappeared beneath the thick canopy of trees. When they came at last within sight of the castle, Muriella slowed her horse so the animal fell behind the others. Oddly, she felt nothing; her feelings were cloaked in a protective veil that left her numb. Then John was beside her, leading her wordlessly under the gate toward the huge, square tower that was Cawdor Castle.

As she entered the courtyard, Muriella paused at the sight of the movement and color of men and women scurrying about their tasks. It had not been this way the last time she was here. Then it had been quiet and eerily still, as if the keep itself were waiting, as were they all, for the tragedy that could not be avoided. When they had dismounted, John stood beside her for a moment, his arm about her shoulders, while she fought to catch her breath.

"I must see to the men and horses," he said at last. "Will ye be all right on yer own?"

With a thin smile, she looked up at him. "Aye, I think 'twill be best that way."

John nodded, motioned to Megan, then left the two women to make their way through the throng of people into the wide-open doors of the Great Hall. This too had changed, Muriella realized with a shock. The bare stone walls had been covered with tapestries and the floors with fresh rushes. The hall, which had once been cold and echoing and empty, was crowded now with trestle tables, beneath which the dogs had already settled themselves and begun to scratch. The servant girls hurried to and fro with cushions and platters and bundles of fresh vegetables. Their chatter rose toward the high, curved ceiling, filling the room with motion and warmth.

Muriella stared, unable to take it in. Why had she thought this keep must always be as bleak and abandoned as the last time she had stood here? Then Megan touched her arm and she looked up at the high table. It was strong, heavy oak, with two ornately carved chairs at either end. But that was not what made Muriella catch her breath in surprise. Behind the raised platform hung the Loch Awe tapestry.

"Sir John said 'twas so lovely that he couldn't bear to leave it at Kilchurn," Megan told her. "He ordered it hung where all could see it."

Muriella bit her lip. So John had understood how much the hanging meant to her. Only gradually did she become aware that the servants had fallen silent and stood staring at her.

"Is't her?" she heard one woman whisper.

"I don't know," another answered. "But we'll soon see."

The women fell silent and, one by one, the other voices stilled as the servants turned to regard Muriella in frank curiosity. There was a flutter of movement at the far end of the hall. An expectant hush fell over the room as a woman descended the curving stairs and stood at the bottom, her hand on the iron balustrade. When the servants turned to her, Muriella followed their glance, narrowing her eyes as she caught sight of the woman who paused, silent and still, waiting.

Then Muriella met the woman's gaze, and a jolt of painful memory went through her body. She knew well that broad, gentle mouth and those soft brown eyes. She remembered every detail of that tightly coiled brown hair. Only once, perhaps, it had not been streaked with gray and the lines on her face had been less harshly defined. Lorna.

As Lorna began to move toward her, the servants seemed to draw in their collective breath. Muriella stood frozen, unable to force her limbs into motion, her throat strangely raw.

Lorna stopped, glancing briefly at the tense and watching faces of the people all around her. Then, with a silent prayer, she reached for Muriella's left hand. Muriella drew back to avoid her touch. Then she heard the servants' indrawn breath of surprise and knew that, much as she might wish to, she could not avoid this moment. Biting her lip to still her trembling, she offered her hand to the woman who had once been her friend.

Lorna breathed a sigh of relief, then slowly examined Muriella's hand. She stared at the little finger, then touched it gently, regretfully. Releasing Muriella, she dropped to her knees, murmuring, "Welcome home, m'lady."

The servants expelled their breath in a rush; then a cheer rose from those nearest the door. The others caught it up, one after another, until the hall rang with the sound and it spilled into the courtyard. Men bowed, women curtsied, and each spoke their own message to the lady of Cawdor Castle. "Welcome indeed."

"M'lady, 'tis glad to see ye here at last, we are."

"May ye bring peace with ye to Cawdor."

Muriella hardly heard them. She was transfixed by the expression on Lorna's face as she stared at the half-finger. "I would have known ye anywhere," Lorna whispered in anguish. "How could I not with those eyes of yers?" There were tears in her eyes as she added, "Can ye ever forgive me?"

Above the uncertain sound of her voice, Muriella heard a faint echo from long ago. Think how much she must have loved ye to do such a thing. She found she could not speak through the tightness of her throat. Tears burned behind her own eyes, but they would not fall.

Lorna bowed her head in acceptance of Muriella's unspoken condemnation, then rose from her knees. Silence had fallen once more, and she rushed to fill the awkward stillness. "We've been ready for ye for so long, ever since yer husband sent word ye were coming. I waited and hoped every day till long past dusk. I watched from the window in the tower. I know 'twas silly, but 'twas how I remembered ye, sitting on the ledge looking down at the river. That's why, when ye finally came, I missed ye altogether. 'Twas no' till I heard the horses in the courtyard that I knew." She faltered. "I never really thought to see ye again."

Muriella felt the first rent in her protective veil as the numbness began to slip away. This was no stranger who had abandoned her in a distant past. This was the woman who had once been everything to her—mother, friend and confidante. The woman who had recognized Muriella's danger and cared enough to let her go. This was Lorna, who loved her. Muriella felt a moment of wrenching sorrow, then a surge of joy that Lorna had not forgotten after all. Her tears spilled over at last.

Lorna started away. "I'll leave ye to yer rest."

"Don't go." Muriella's voice was little more than a whisper, but it stopped the other woman still.

Lorna looked back just as Muriella reached toward her. Then they were in each other's arms, clinging together, weeping so their tears met and mingled.

Muriella shivered at the tumult erupting within her as she felt her friend tremble with relief and sadness together. Suddenly, her head was full of voices, warnings, memories that she could neither bear nor stop. She drew back, crying, "I must go."

Lorna regarded her intently through her tears. "To the river?"

"Aye."

"Do ye think 'tis wise?"

"I don't know if 'tis wise or no'. I only know I have to do it," Muriella replied.

Lorna nodded in understanding. She understood so much. "Go then, but don't linger. The past can hurt as well as heal, ye ken."

Without another word, Muriella left behind the curious glances of the servants, the bittersweet smile of her friend, the warmth and life that filled the hall. The echoing voices in her head guided her back in time, across the remembered dust-strewn rooms to the heavy oak door that led to the river. Working the stiff latch free, she pulled the door open and stepped out into the blaze of the afternoon sun. Her heart thudded in her chest as the image of a long-ago day came back to her, carried in the murmur of the rushing river. Here she had stumbled toward freedom, laughing as the shadow of the keep fell away behind her. Here she had run with the flowers brushing her legs, and found the peace she sought in the murmur of the water. Retracing the steps she remembered so well, she turned first toward the tiny clearing where the trees closed whispering around her.

The copse was as cool and dark as she remembered and the ground as soft. The ferns grew wild beneath her feet, carpeting the clearing with damp, green tendrils. She stood at the foot of the tree where she had lain beside Lorna and listened to the story of the building of Cawdor Castle. He had a troubled life, yer father, and ye have inherited so much that was his. Muriella had not understood then, but now it was all very clear. This place had been the source of all her trials. Because of Cawdor she had lost everything she once held dear. Because of Cawdor she had become a prisoner. Could she ever be happy here now? Ye won't ever change the future by fightin' it this way. To conquer yer fear ye must face it once and for all. But what if, in the end, it broke her?

She stared at the dancing leaves overhead, mesmerized by the moving light and shadow on her face, by the memories she could no longer escape, and by the muted rumble of the river just beyond the trees. The water called her as it had once before, enticing her with the rhythm of its unchanging song. Now, as then, she could not resist the summons.

With measured steps, she moved from the safety of the copse toward the riverbank. Here she had knelt, listening to the water, and heard the horses coming toward her. She knelt again, trailing her fingers through the water, feeling the chill as it moved up her arm. Shuddering, she made herself remember the moment when Lorna had taken her finger in her mouth. Then there was nothing but the searing pain and the fury of John's voice as he came splashing toward her, cursing. She closed her eyes, but the horror would not go; in her mind her blood spread over the surface of the water like a dark, rippled stain.

Muriella raised her hands to her cheeks; she was weeping. Now that her protective veil lay in shreds at her feet, the fear and pain and loss came welling up inside her, choking her as she rocked, her arms clasped tight across her chest.

Then she realized she was not alone. Her head came up and she spun to find John approaching, cloaked by the shadows of shifting leaves. She stood, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face unabated. "Johnnie!" she cried.

This time she did not put the plea into words, and yet this time, he understood. In a moment, John covered the ground between them and took her in his arms.

"Thank God ye're here!" When she felt his arms close around her, the relief was so great that for an instant her heartbeat seemed to cease. With her head on his shoulder, she leaned close, pressing the weight of her memories against his strong body. He was there for her, she realized, and always had been. Just as Lorna always had.

"I don't care about the future," she whispered, "or the fear of what might be. I only know I don't want to lose ye."

"Ye won't lose me," he told her fiercely.

She raised her head, seeking the warmth and comfort of his lips on hers. He kissed her, swallowing the salt taste of her tears.

Muriella moaned and wrapped her arms around her husband's neck as the memories retreated. At the heated pressure of his lips, the whirling began in her head—the magic, the wonder, the fear that raged together inside her, spinning, always spinning, until she thought she could stand no more. Mayhap 'tis no' yer husband ye fear. Mayhap 'tis yerself. John's hands drew their stirring patterns over her back while Alex's words spun within her until they echoed the rhythmic pulse of the water at her side. Ye'll always create yer own nightmares. Ye and no one else are at the heart of all yer terror. Mayhap, the river whispered, 'tis yerself, yerself, yerself....

Then John touched her lips with the tip of his tongue, and a keening cry of need whirled within her. Ye follow the vision through to its natural end. She wanted to shout a denial, but John's lips and his circling hands would not let her. Her hunger screamed through her and she held him tighter, tighter, while the words rang warningly in her head. Mayhap 'tis yerself, the river whispered. Ye follow the vision through. Face it, her heart throbbed as she began to fall. Face it once and for all.

Then the words were drowned by the roar of the rising water. It was up to her shoulders, her neck; it was choking her. She fought, gasping for breath, against the swirling foam, but it drew her downward to the dark, raging center of the water. When a single breath sent a sliver of fierce, bright pain through her head, she cried out and gave up the struggle. She no longer had the strength to fight, so she let the water take her down, down, down into the murky depths. For a moment more, it roiled and spat, then the spinning stopped, the roaring ceased, and the waves grew still around her. In the sudden cessation of fury, in the clear blue calm that was left behind, Muriella began to float upward toward the distant brightness she had thought never to reach. As she moved, the darkness dissolved and the light burned over her face.

"Muriella!"

Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes to the image of John's face. In that moment, in the still crystal heartbeat when sound and motion ceased, the joy swept through her in a torrent. "Johnnie!" she cried breathlessly, "I'm free!" Then she spun away, kicking up the pine-scented earth as she went. All at once she was weightless, exultant, so full of jubilation that she could not stay still. Her shoulders, curved for so long under the burden of her fear, were unbowed at last.

John watched, astonished, unable to comprehend her erratic behavior. Then she turned, her face glowing with joy, her eyes so clear and green they seemed lit by an inner light. Tripping over the uneven ground, she came back to him and threw her arms about his neck.

"My lord," she said, "I love ye so much."

Only then, as the ache of tears rose in his throat, did he realize he had thought never to hear those words. "And ye aren't afraid, are ye?"

Muriella threw her head back, smiling and weeping both together. "Never again," she said. She felt dizzy with a happiness that left her trembling, a joy so intense she thought her legs might collapse beneath her. "I realize now 'twas no' my death I saw. And 'twas no' ye I feared" she added when she could speak through her tears. "'Twas no' ever ye, but only my feelings for ye." Her husband shook his head, uncomprehending "They're too strong, ye see. I thought I couldn't bear them. I thought, if I let them take me, they would destroy me in the end. But I was wrong."

John took her chin between his thumb and forefinger forcing her to meet his eyes. "Are ye telling me ye nearly drove us both to madness because ye were afraid—? That I loved ye too much?"

He stared at her in disbelief. Could they have suffered so much for so little?

"But today," Muriella whispered before he could find his voice, "the demons are gone. Now there is only ye and me." She was smiling and he found he could not escape the glow of her elation. It was as powerful as her fear had once been, and as irresistible. Her body quivered, her lips parted, and without a word she drew him with her toward the river—toward the bright, jubilant cascade of glimmering liquid light.

"Johnnie? Do ye think ye can ever forgive me?"

When he did not answer at once, she moved closer, reaching out to touch his cheek. "I love ye so much that I ache with it," she said. "But 'tis a sweet pain, and one I don't wish to live without."

He drew her hand away from his face, holding it in his open palm. Her eyes were deep green, like the sea in the heart of a storm, and there were fresh tears on her cheeks Like the sea her eyes swept over him, catching him up in the storm of her own creation. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the remaining half of her little finger.

Muriella leaned toward him and his arms closed around her. In that moment, as their bodies came together, his breathing matched the murmur of her pulse, and of the wind that dipped, sighing, through the woods and across the rippling water.

Other Books by Kathryn Lynn Davis

TOO DEEP FOR TEARS: Too Deep for Tears Trilogy, Book 1
http://bit.ly/amznTooDeep
http://bit.ly/AmznUKtooDeep

ALL WE HOLD DEAR: Too Deep for Tears Trilogy,

Book 2
http://bit.ly/AmznDear
http://bit.ly/AmznUKDear

SOMEWHERE LIES THE MOON: Too Deep for Tears Trilogy, Book 3
http://bit.ly/amznSOMEWHERE
http://bit.ly/AmznUKSomewhere

HIGHLAND WINDS, SCROLLS OF CHRIDE
http://amzn.to/1dDBr7D

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1QjLkTE

Collection of Novellas by Suzan Tisdale, Tarah Scott, Ceci Giltenan,

Kate Robbins, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Lily Baldwin and me

A TEAR FOR MEMORY, Novella: Prequel to TOO DEEP FOR TEARS
http://amzn.to/1Rb9oKF

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1LWH5fr

Legend of the Fae by April Holthaus

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Other books by the Author

About the Author

April lives in central Minnesota with her husband and son. She developed her passion of historical romances through her love of history and genealogy. Over the last several years she has compiled her family tree finding over 350 bloodline grandparents dating back to the 900’s from England and France.

When not working or writing, April enjoys spending time with her family, reading and being outdoors.

Legend of the Fae

Edited by: One More Time Editing, LLC

Published by: Grey Eagle Publishing, LLC

Cover Design by: Zak Kelleher

Printed in the United States

First Printing: March 2015

ISBN-10: 1507761376

ISBN-13: 978-1507761373

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2015 April Holthaus

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons are purely coincidental. No part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced without the author’s written permission.

~ Prologue ~

The Legend begins…

In a time before sons of Adam and daughters of Eve walked the mortal world, the Realm of the Fae flourished. As rulers of the four earthly elements, they helped form the lands and sea readying it for new life to prosper. It was a peaceful time throughout the realm, and all magical creatures lived in harmony with one another.

The Realm of the Fae was once ruled as a single great kingdom. As centuries passed and heirs took the throne, the kingdom broke apart, claiming the four corners of the Fae world. Each kingdom was ruled by one of four brothers. Separated by their earthly gifts, each kingdom controlled one of the four elements: fire, earth, water and air.

Many centuries ago…

The birth of the Fae King of the North’s twin daughters had been a joyous day for all Fae-folk within the Kingdom of Greylyn. Not one but two heirs held equal claim to the throne, an occurrence never recorded in history.

Tucked in the crook of each of his arms, each babe, wrapped in soft wool, lay asleep in their father’s loving embrace. Though they were twins, the two babes were easily distinguished; one had hair as white as fresh fallen snow; while the other had hair as black as the wings of a raven. The High Priest blessed the babes by giving them their names. The white-haired babe was called Talara, the ruler of the land, with the black-haired child, was named Alaris, ruler of the four winds.

For years, the two small queens grew up in a realm of peace and tranquility as they learned the ways of healing plants and how to listen to the sound of the forest. But it was the gift of magic that ensnared their minds.

Talara had the ability to move stones and create small sandstorms, as she possessed control over everything that made up the earth. Alaris, on the other hand, was angered by her gift as her gift only allowed her to manipulate the air. Feeling cheated and jealous of her sister, Alaris’s heart grew cold and angry.

As their parents passed away and the two queens ascended to the throne, Alaris’s craving for power and control consumed her with each passing day. In response to Alaris’s defiance, the Elders gave Talara sole control over their kingdom. Despite the laws that must be upheld, Alaris fled their secret fortress to wreak havoc within the four kingdoms.

For her wicked deeds, the Elder Gods placed a curse upon her, in hopes of ridding the world of darkness; that she shall never bear a child of her own. Alaris’s only hope was to build an army against her sister by preying upon children in the mortal world and raise them as her own.

As years passed in the human world, knowledge of the Fae’s existence was reduced to nothing more than rumors and childhood fairytales, until now.

Chapter 1

The village of Ferryden, Scotland

Autumn, 1403

“Wait for me,” Ella cried out to Galen.

Trailing several paces behind him, Ella could not tell in which direction he had run off within the thick bramble of the forest. She could only hear his giggles resonate around her, seemingly from every direction, as if he bounced from tree to tree.

The knotted branches twisted above her like a lattice, reaching as far as she could see. Its canopy, like a tightly crocheted blanket, allowed only a few streams of light to break through. In the dim light, Ella lost all sense of composure at the eerie sensation that Galen had left her alone in the woods.

“Galen!” she nervously called out.

Forest sounds seemed to intensify around her, breaking the deafening silence. The creaking trees, the quiet thud of acorns hitting the ground, made Ella start to quiver. As dusk began to darken the sky, she thought to leave him behind if he did not answer.

“Galen Lucius Graham, if ye do no’ show yerself I will leave ye,” she threatened, expecting him to giggle down at her from high above the treetops, but still she heard no sound of her mischievous friend.

A blanket of dense fog slowly crept into the woods as the orange hues of the sun sunk further beneath the horizon. The misty darkness began to swallow the forest behind her and Ella decided to turn back now before it was too late.

As Ella neared the edge of the forest, three young lads jumped out from behind a large tree trunk startling her. It was the MacDougall brothers. For the past two years they’d taunted and bullied her, for no particular reason other than the fact that she was a girl.

“What are ye doing out here?” Cedric, the eldest brother, asked.

Knowing the best course of action was just to ignore him, Ella tried to side step past them but Haden, the youngest, stepped in front of her, blocking her from the path.

“Leave me alone, ye bloody rat,” Ella barked, as she shoved Haden out of her way, knocking him to the ground.

Colin, the middle brother, laughed, but Cedric stepped in front of her. Puffing out his chest and lengthening his spine, he stood almost a foot taller than she. Ella jumped back, tripping over a tree root that was sticking out of the ground. Landing on her rump, she squealed out in pain. The three lads burst into laughter as she fumbled. Lowering her head, she hid her tears, for the lads would only tease her further if they knew how easy it was to make her cry.

As their laughter and insults continued, Ella’s embarrassment turned to anger as quickly as a spark could turn into flames in an arid forest. Lying next to her upon the ground was a small black stone. Picking the rock up and closing her fist around it, she swung her arm with all her strength and threw it toward Cedric. Her lips slightly rose at the corners, forming a proud smile. For the first time, she felt brave enough to stand up to these cruel and callous lads. However, much to her dismay, Cedric caught the black rock in his hand as if she had simply tossed it to him in a game of catch.

With a cold and unnerving glare, Cedric tightened the rock in his hand.

“I’ll teach ye to never mess wit’ a McDougall,” he warned.

As Cedric readied himself to throw the rock, Ella flinched. Galen suddenly jumped from out of nowhere and tackled Cedric to the ground. Ella watched as the two lads wrestled around. As for the other two brothers, Haden and Colin, they stood and chanted for their brother’s victory. It took Galen only a moment before he straddled Cedric, pinning him to the ground. Galen wildly punched Cedric in the nose. Blood oozed down past the young McDougall’s lips and chin. Galen quickly rolled off of him.

Cedric picked himself up off the ground and pressed his hand to his nose. Blood smeared on the tips of his fingers.

“Look what ye done, ye bastard,” Cedric yelled out, as tears of pain ran down his face.

“He is no’ a bastard!” Ella yelled out, defending her friend.

“Aye, he is. He’s an orphan. Ye just wait till I get home and tell my Da what ye done,” Cedric said, running out of the woods with his brothers trailing behind him.

“Are ye alright?” Galen asked.

“Aye. Ye shouldn’t have fought him, Galen. Ye are only going to get in trouble again.”

“I could no’ let them hurt ye.”

“I could have taken care of myself.”

“Nay, ye can’t! Yer a lass, and besides, I have seen ye fight. Ye are no’ verra good at it.”

Ella grunted. “Then teach me!”

Galen chuckled at her idea, though it was more of a demand than a suggestion.

“Teach ye? A lass? To fight? Lassies dinna need to learn such things. Have ye ever seen a lass on the battlefield? T’would look awfully funny! And besides, ye have me, dinna ya?”

Ella smiled up at her tall, dirty-faced, red-headed friend. She couldn’t decide whether to punch him in the arm for his insult or thank him for being her friend. She decided on both.

“Thank ye,” she said, as she slugged him in the arm.

“What the bloody hell did ye do that fer?”

“Fer leaving me alone in the first place.”

Side by side they walked toward the road that led to Ella’s home. Ella spotted her mother standing on the front porch of their cottage, looking rather irritated that she was so late coming home.

“Ella,” her mother called out.

“I have to go. Will I see ye tomorrow?” she asked Galen.

“Aye, I’m sure I can sneak out again.”

“Lu’Ella Aileen Dumont, I will no’ call ye again!” her mother yelled out, louder this time.

Ella waved goodbye as she ran toward her mother.

“Ella, why must ye insist on hanging around that lad? He is nothing but trouble,” Ella’s mother asked as she cupped her hand over Ella’s shoulder, escorting her inside.

“He is no’ trouble, Mama. He is my best friend, and a good one.”

“Ella, it’s just that when ye are wit’ him ye become too distracted. Ye know ye can ne’er be anythin’ more than friends.”

Ella rolled her eyes and stormed into her bedchamber. This conversation was as old as stale bread. She didn’t understand why her mother was so against him and why everyone seemed to view him so poorly. No one knew the real Galen more than Ella, and no one could understand why she was so fond of him. Only in the depths of her heart, did she herself know the reason.

Sitting on the bed, facing away from her mother, she suddenly felt the bristles of a comb running through her long hair.

“I do no’ want to fight, Ella. Soon enough it will no’ matter anyhow.”

Ella turned to face her mother.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I guess ye are old enough now to know,” her mother said with a serious expression painted on her face.

Ella’s eyes squinted as she waited to hear her mother’s explanation. She couldn’t help but worry. Why was her age even a factor?

“Ella, before yer father died, he made certain arrangements to ensure ye would have a proper dowry. Those arrangements included promisin’ yer hand in marriage.”

“Marriage! To Who?” Ella shouted, pushing her mother’s hand away and standing up from the bed.

“To the eldest McDougall lad. Cedric.”

Just the mention of his name brought tears to Ella’s eyes. Her stomach instantly tied in knots as a bout of nausea rose to the back of her throat. How long had her mother been keeping this from her? And how could her father do this? Cedric McDougall was an awful man. She wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on earth.

“Now, Ella, he is from a good family. Tis what yer father wished for on his death-bed.”

“But Mama,” Ella cried out, but her mother interrupted her before she could speak another word.

“Ella, I will no’ argue wit’ ye, nor will I discuss this further. There are nay negotiations. The marriage is set. After yer fourteenth year, ye will marry Cedric McDougall. Ye will no’ dishonor yer father’s dying wishes, is that understood?”

“Nay! I will no’ marry that half-wit boor. I will run away if I have to,” Ella shouted from the top of her lungs.

The cold look in her mother’s eyes made Ella bite her tongue. Never had her mother been this stern, this resolute. And of all things, bringing her dead father into it and filling her with guilt was the worst sort of punishment. Without further argument, her mother left the room in a fit of anger. Ella collapsed back onto the bed feeling defeated. Her heart felt as if it had fallen right out of her chest. How could she agree to marry Cedric McDougall? And why would he ever agree to it? He hated her. God strike her dead, she would not marry him. Ella threw the covers over her head and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, after Ella had her fill of eggs and biscuits, she went in search of Galen in the stables to deliver the news of her terrible misfortune. Perhaps he would run away with her. Together the two of them could live off the land. Perhaps they could even find employment with a faraway clan, somewhere no one could ever find them.

Ella went to the barn where Galen usually worked during the wee hours of the morning, but when she got there he was nowhere to be found. He was not at the priory or in the kitchens, so she decided to journey to their secret spot next to the ancient standing stones at the top of the hill. Running down the dirt path through the village, she headed toward the foot of the hill.

The rock circle on the top of the incline had been Ella and Galen’s secret place; though it was not much of a secret as the stones had been there for hundreds of years. From the highest peak, they could see the expanse of the entire village as well as the towers of Dunquest Castle in the distance.

According to legend, the massive stones were erected many centuries ago, and were used during rituals among their ancestors. Now they stood vacant, no longer used in ceremonies.

As Ella reached the summit of the incline, she found Galen sitting in front of one of the stones, his back pressed up against it. Faced away from her, with his head buried inside the fold of his arms, Ella slowly approached him. From her view, she could see red marks across the side of his neck resembling a hand. This was not the first time she had seen him in this manner. When deep in his cups, Galen’s uncle Robert was an awful mean drunk. He held no legal guardianship over Galen, but he was the only family Galen had. And even though Robert was the chief of their clan, Ella had no respect for him.

Ella quietly sat down next to him. Galen popped his head up for a brief moment before lowering it back down. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of his red, swollen eyes. Ella wished there was something she could do, but what could a young lass hope to accomplish? Two years younger than Galen, Ella was only thirteen.

Galen leaned into Ella and wrapped his arms around her. She was the only friend he had ever had. Though his body was sore from his uncle’s beating, it wasn’t the physical pain that made him hurt. It was the truth behind what Cedric had said. With his mother dead and not knowing who his father was, he was a bastard and an orphan. Two words his uncle tossed around frequently. With his uncle being his last surviving family member, Galen feared he would forever be under his harsh rule.

Forced to live with the monks in the priory, Galen’s life consisted of prayer and penance. Galen spent hours listening to dreadful lectures of logic, law and theology. He did not aspire to be a scholar, nor a man of religious studies. He was grateful to the monks for their kindness and hospitality, but Galen dreamed of better things.

As a lad of fifteen summers, he believed he should have already learned how to wield a sword instead of being locked behind closed doors with his head in books. He should be out on the training fields with the other young men his age. But instead of learning how to be a man, his uncle made sure to keep him hidden away within the priory and deny him his natural birthright.

His uncle Robert was Laird of Clan Graham, but because of Galen’s uncertain parentage, he treated the lad as if he were not even kin. Galen longed to be respected and afforded the privileges of kinship to the laird. But if wishes could fly, donkeys would have wings and Galen would have the family he deserved.

Galen closed his eyes and silently wished that he could just run away. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was Ella. From the moment they met, they’d been friends. It was the closest relationship he had ever known, the strongest bond he had ever had. She was his best friend and the only good thing in his life. In the midst of his adolescent years, Galen was starting to take more notice of Ella, and with that his feelings for her had also changed. He felt very protective of her, and had a love for her beyond all measure or reason. It was the kind of young love that would last forever. If only he had the words to tell her.

A sudden eerie feeling came over Galen, and he raised his head to the sky. The wind had changed and the sky suddenly darkened, signaling a storm had abruptly begun forming overhead. Strong, howling wind blew leaves from the ground to dance in the air.

“Where’d the storm come from so sudden like?” Ella asked loudly over the wind, as she brushed her long, golden-colored hair out of her face.

“I dinna ken, but we better find shelter,” Galen suggested.

Hand in hand, the two of them ran down the hill towards the village. At the base of the hill, Ella yanked her hand out of Galen’s. He stopped and turned to her.

“What are ye doing?” Galen called out.

“Do ye hear that?” she asked.

Galen strained to listen, but only heard the shrieking moans of the wind and the horses stirring in the stable.

“Come on,” he encouraged her, but Ella did not move. “Ella?”

As if in a frozen trance, Ella stared into the woods. Galen looked in the direction her eyes were affixed and saw a woman coming out of the woods, walking toward them. Her shoulders were covered by a long, black shawl, and her black hair waved around in the wind like wild fire. Carried in the wind, he could hear the faint sound of singing, as if he were in the middle of the chapel choir. The voice was as sweet as nectar and the melody as calm as a lullaby. Though he could not make out the words, the woman’s whimsical lyrics hung in the air like music from a harp.

As the strange woman drew closer, her sparkling blue eyes and pale face came into view. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her features were flawless, every curve of her face perfect.

The woman’s eyes scanned over the village, and Galen took a chance to turn his head over his shoulder. A group of children had come out of their homes and out into the storm. They all stared at the woman as they marched toward her, including Ella.

“Ella!” Galen yelled, reaching for her small hand, but as he reached out, the woman and the entire group of children vanished before his eyes.

In a blink of an eye, the wind died down and the sky cleared. No one saw the manner in which the children had vanished, and no one saw the woman in black. No one, but Galen.

Chapter 2

Ten years later…

The Highlands

November, 1413

The late autumn air was crisp, as the first snowfall of the season had lightly covered the barren fields. Dark, shale-grey clouds created an ever-looming presence. Nature’s fury had stormed the Highlands with its icy breath, stifling the land. All was quiet, except for the sound of crunching snow underneath the horse’s hooves. Battle-worn men rode alongside Galen, anxious to return home to their families. Galen, however, did not share their enthusiasm. For him, this battle was just the beginning of more to come.

For three days they journeyed west across the frozen terrain of the Highlands. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he’d last laid his eyes upon his home. Battle did that to a man. Hours would feel like days, and days like weeks. Had it only been three months? When he left it was midsummer, the perfect time to wage war against Arthur McGregor and his men. But after a series of unexpected delays and surprise attacks, he was returning home four weeks later than he had anticipated. The only good that had come from this war was that few lives were lost.

The last stretch home felt the longest. Over the last few days his men had grown weary and irritable, snapping under pressure and fighting among themselves. Dealing with his own sleep deprivation, Galen ignored their grunts and moans.

Within hours of the sun setting they rode over the last incline before the towers of Castle Dunquest emerged. Sitting on the hill like an old maid, shards of light shone down on her craggy face. Its ancient stone walls towered over the land like a beacon to welcome them home. The men around him cheered with delight, and they picked up their pace down the hill toward home.

The snow-covered peaks of the towers appeared more like an ice castle than the stone keep he had left behind. Black smoke could be seen rising from the cottages within the castle walls, as the villagers kept the hearths burning to fight the bitter cold.

As they drew closer to the castle, the group broke off; some toward the village, others through the castle gates. Galen crossed the drawbridge and under the portcullis that led to the bailey. Within the courtyard, he could hear the pounding of metal and iron from the Blacksmith’s shop and smell the aroma of herbs and freshly baked pastries drifting from the kitchen.

The rest of the castle folk appeared busy with their duties as him and his men approached the castle. Dismounting from his horse, he took a quick survey of the surroundings. So far, everything appeared as it should.

Unbuckling his sack from the saddle, he swung it over his shoulder and grabbed the reins of his horse. As Galen led the beast toward the stables for some much needed food and water, Warrick, his cousin, Evelyn’s husband, stepped out to greet him.

Warrick was a tall, husky man, whose skills Galen felt at times were wasted hammering iron instead of wielding a sword. After losing much of the sight in his right eye in a battle several years ago, Warrick had retired his sword and took up as the clan’s blacksmith, skills he had learned from his father.

“Welcome home, my Laird,” Warrick said, in his gravelly voice.

“Tis good to be home,” Galen replied. “How are ye?”

“Good, my Laird. Evelyn has been asking about ye. She said she would keep asking every day until ye come and join us for a meal.”

“Aye, I know how Evelyn can be. Tell yer wife that I will join ye tomorrow evening. A good hearty meal sounds like a fine idea.”

“She will be delighted to hear that, my Laird.”

“If ye will excuse me, Warrick, I have much to attend to. Please find Alex and send him to my solar,” Galen said, as he hung the reins over a post next to the trough, leaving the horse to drink.

As Galen made his way to the keep, he was greeted by many of his clansmen. Many fellow soldiers were in the arms of their wives and children, while others regaled their fellow clansmen the stories of their victory. Galen smiled at their morale, but to him, this was not much of a success. Not as long as McGregor still breathed air and walked upon the earth as a free man.

Heading to his solar, Galen instructed one of the maids to have a bath ready in his chamber within the hour, with a platter of food and bottle of whiskey. But before he could indulge in the luxury of comfort, Galen needed to update his master of arms and get his report of what had taken place in his absence. The fact that all four walls were still standing was a good sign. It wasn’t that he did not have faith in his officer. Having an absent laird for three months made his clan vulnerable to their enemies, though it was a risk they needed to take.

They were a small clan of only a few hundred. With undeveloped land of mostly bedrock and trees, their soil was poor for growing crops, which made their small piece of earth useless to other clans who wished to fight over ownership. In the two hundred years Clan Graham had occupied this territory, they had been at peace. It was not until his uncle, Robert de Graham, instigated a war with Clan McGregor by knowingly defiling a woman Arthur McGregor was set to marry that Clan McGregor has made it their purpose to wipe Clan Graham from existence.

Pushing open the door to his solar, Galen stepped inside. The room looked exactly as he’d left it. Tapestries draped the stone walls giving the room a sense of homage to his ancestors and reflecting his rich clan history, and stacks of books with broken spines and well-worn pages filled the bookshelves. Many of them were used often during his youth when he was well into his studies at the priory, but ten years had passed since the bindings had been opened.

The room still very much reminded him of his Uncle. Though he had removed many of his uncle’s belongings, his foul scent still lingered in the air. Above the hearth, Galen could still see the square line of dust where his uncle’s portrait had been displayed for many years. Galen had removed the portrait after his passing. Although he’d contemplated burning the thing several times, he’d instead had it stored in the room below the stairs, though the man deserved much less.

The day of his uncle’s passing five years ago was not a mournful day for Galen, but the day his fortune changed. The man had drunk himself to death. Next in line and his Uncle Robert’s only male heir, Galen was given Lairdship of Dunquest Castle. Robert tried to fight the decree from his deathbed, refusing to allow his sister’s bastard to succeed him. Instead he wanted for the title to go to his daughter, Evelyn but many did not want them entrusted to a woman.

Once Galen took over the ruling of the castle, Clan Graham had once again prospered. Fields were properly tended to provide an abundant supply of food. Buildings that were beginning to wear and crumble were rebuilt to their former glory. The most important change that Galen had made was the disposition of his men. They were happier, and therefore worked harder to help make this clan a glorious one. It all had to do with respect, something his uncle never earned from his own men.

Walking over to his desk, Galen sat down in his dusty chair. On his desk were a stack of letters, his ink and pen, and a map that marked the borders of his land. With a map spread across his desk, he marked off the known locations of the McGregor clan, their worst and most loathsome enemies. If they were going to retaliate, Galen wanted to make sure that his men would be ready. Once he settled on a plan, he sat and waited for Alex to arrive.

With a permanent crease on his brow and lack of sleep over the past several weeks, he looked and felt as if he was aging faster than time. With his head resting on his hands, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

The library was quiet, other than the faint noise of the maids as they began cleaning the hall. Galen wanted to savor this moment of silence. As hectic as his days had been, spending a few quiet moments alone felt as comforting as the company of a woman, though he had not been able to enjoy either as of late.

Swinging his chair around, Galen glanced out the window, but a film of dirt and dust covered the glass. Leaning back, Galen raised one leg and rested it on the window sill. Using the tip of his boot, he tapped the window open. Bright golden rays of sunlight radiated their warmth on his face, and a slight autumn breeze freshened the air in the stale smelling room.

Focusing on his task, Galen went through a stack of papers on his desk and pulled out the ledgers of the inventory and supplies. Three months behind, reconciling them would be the first task he would need to delegate. Interrupting his thoughts, a brief knock pounded on the door before it swung open.

“My Laird, ‘tis good to have ye home. How did the campaign go?”

“Campbell’s plans to negotiate failed. I think talks of peace are far from our reach. McGregor is an unpredictable, fool-headed bastard. He dunna understand how crucial this alliance would be. I dinna think this battle did either side any good, but took the lives of many good men. In the meantime, we will need to increase the security of our borders. We ran into many of McGregor’s men unexpectedly on our journey home. There is no saying how many other stragglers were left wandering our borders.”

“If I receive the call to arms, my Laird, ye can count on me,” Alex vowed.

“I know I can, good friend.”

“I was told that ye wish to see me?”

“Is there anything to report while I have been away?”

“We are well prepared for the winter months, and the taxes we collected have paid for rebuilding the kitchen from the fire last year. As ye can imagine, Moira is one happy lass now that she can once again cook in the kitchen.”

“Aye, is that all?”

“Laird McFadden has been asking for ye. He wishes for a betrothal wit’ his daughter to unite our clans.”

Galen cringed and shook his head. He’d first considered the offer several months back and met with the infamous Lady Braelyn. Her behavior had turned him away from the idea of uniting their clans. He’d quickly realized the lass was no lady by any means. She was a harlot, with a well-known reputation of spreading her legs to any man who plied her with jewels and pretty words. It was part of the reason Laird McFadden had troubles marrying her off, and the reason why Galen refused the offer. Braelyn was a beautiful lass, but her looks only masked her eccentric behavior.

“My answer is still nay. If there is nothing else to report, I have something for ye to look over,” Galen said, as he rotated the map on his desk for Alex to see. “I have marked off the locations of Clan McGregor’s last known locations. Entering this war with the Campbells may not have been such a wise move. I fear we have aligned our fates with the devil himself, and I expect more lives will be lost in battles to come. We must strengthen our patrols here to the west and the north. Keep a keen eye on our borders. If anyone wishes to cross, we will charge a toll. The collection of cheminage will help pay the taxes.”

“Aye, my Laird.”

Alex picked up the map and began rolling it before placing it under his arm.

“There is something else. I need an updated accounting of our supplies recorded in the ledger.”

“Right away, my Laird. It truly is good to have ye home,” Alex replied, as he headed out the door.

Galen finished organizing the letters on his desk and headed toward his chamber. Once inside, he removed his dirt-stained leine and trews and threw them on the floor before getting into the tub that was waiting for him. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles. Though his body was relaxed, his head began to ache. Rubbing the water up and down his arms and face, he washed off the layers of dirt, sweat and grime that had accumulated over the past several weeks.

Within moments, Lenora, a young blonde-haired chambermaid, appeared with a tray of food. The aroma of roasted beef filled his nostrils, causing him to unconsciously lick his lips. But damn the food, he wanted the whiskey. One drink would be like elixir to a dying patient.

As Lenora was about to pour the whiskey in a small pewter cup, Galen called out, “Just leave the bottle. I dinna need no blasted cup.”

“Aye, my Laird,” she replied, as the cup fumbled out of her hand and onto the floor. “Would ye care for me to stay and help wit’ yer bath?”

Galen could hear a hint of seduction behind that innocent voice. Galen normally would not refuse an offer from such a young and beautiful lass, but the ache in his head pounded harder than the ache in his groin. Perhaps he would feast on her later.

“Nay, that will be all,” he said, as he draped a wet cloth over his face and leaned back into the tub.

Galen allowed the water to wash away his anger and built up anxiety. Pairing with Neville Campbell and his clan against McGregor had been a bold move, but a necessity. Galen’s army may have been small, but they fought with the strength and ambition of five hundred men. For the past several months Galen’s mind had been consumed by nothing but this mission and his responsibilities to the clan. As laird, his job was never done. A laird did not simply go on a merry holiday or take time away from his duties, as tempting as it sounded. He had to stay focused.

Feeling relaxed after a long soak, the pain in his head finally eased after he finished off the entire bottle of whiskey. Full from his meal and tipsy from the drink, Galen stumbled out of the cooling bath water. Walking over to the massive bed, he fell upon it sinking into the plush covers. Compared to the hard ground on which he’d slept for the past three months, the bed felt like a soft puffy cloud. Within moments, he felt as if he was lifted into the air, tangled in a web between awareness and dreaming. Sprawled out onto the bed buck-naked, Galen fell into a heavy slumber.

Chapter 3

The stench of sweat filled the room as the two guards dragged the prisoner into the center of the atrium. Ella could practically taste the bitterness in her mouth. The man struggled to escape, but the firm grasp of the two guards prevented him from doing so. Ella watched in amusement as the rest of the men and women of the Order murmured amongst themselves.

This was the second attempt to breach the walls of the fortress in the past week. Talara must be getting desperate, Ella mused. By the looks of his tattered clothing and scars, the prisoner did not appear to be a man of court or high authority, but rather a warrior or hired assassin.

“Why have you come here?” Ella demanded.

As she spoke the room fell silent.

“To prevent a war,” he shakily replied.

“War is inevitable,” Ella responded, articulating each word slowly and clearly. “If what you say is true, why did we find you sneaking around in the forest? My guards say you tried to run. Admit it, you were sent here to kill us.”

Her words and expression were as cold as the ice around her heart. Ella did not divert her eyes from the so-called messenger, and though she admired his bravery, it would only lead to his untimely death.

“No! I tried to run because I knew you would not believe me. I was given a message. I was told to be in the woods on this day for a meeting. There is a group of people who wish to stop the war. ”

“Who?”

“I do not know. Please, you must believe me.”

The man fell to his knees and sobbed.

“Perhaps we should listen to what he has to say,” Darius, the magistrate, suggested.

Ella glared at the other members of the high council. Whatever the messenger had to say mattered not. There was no denying it. Queen Alaris wanted her war and it was up to Ella and the rest of the Order to follow her command.

“There will be no hearings or tribunals this day,” Ella informed him.

“What of the prisoner, my lady?” one of the guards asked.

Ella looked back to the prisoner and sneered. Heartless, she replied, “Kill him, and make sure you send his body back to Greylyn. It will serve as a message. No mercy will be given to those who cross into our lands, for they would do no less to us.”

The guard wickedly smirked and eagerly removed his dagger from its sheath. But before he could raise its blade, Ella quickly stopped him; appalled by his action.

“Not here, you dim-wit! His blood will spoil the floor. Take him outside,” she ordered, flicking her fingers to shoo them away.

Ella stood, ignoring the man’s plea for clemency, and began walking toward the rear door. But just as she reached the doorway, Darius grabbed her by the arm.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

Ella forcefully shrugged her arm out of his grasp. With lips pressed thin, she responded.

“Never…ever…question my judgment in front of the Order again. And find out who he has been talking to,” she said before turning her back on him and walking away.

How dare he humiliate me! How dare he question my authority! Ella stomped her feet as she walked down the chamber’s corridor.  Her blood boiled.

Opening the hidden door, a cool fresh breath of air calmed her fuming nerves. As she stepped into the cavern, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before she closed the wooden door behind her. Above the castle doorway, two sconces burned bright, illuminating the narrow walkway. Hidden within a cavern deep below the earth, the secret chamber was perfectly concealed from the world above. The cavern was a large, hollowed-out cave, carved centuries ago by an underground volcano that was now dormant. As she walked toward the mouth of the cave, the long, pointy rock formations that adorned the ceiling looked as if she’d stepped inside the mouth of a dragon. Ella kept to the middle of the narrow path, as on each side of her the ground gave way to a bottomless void.

Ella climbed the spiraling stone steps of the tunnel that led her to the hidden exit. Topside, a shroud of mist and fog lingered in the air, blocking out the sun from beyond the trees. Doomed behind a cloud of darkness, it was as if eternal shade would forever dominate the sky. Trees which once had flourished were now blackened and the blades of grass had long lost their plush green color. The land was dying, as if a perpetual winter prevailed.

Ella stepped lightly upon the snow which dusted the ground. The chill of the wet snow caused her toes to curl. Tightening the strings of her cloak against the cold, she walked down an earthly slope toward the trees.

The woods were as quiet as death, which sparked her curiosity. The woods were known to be filled with all manner of creatures. There was only one reason they would abandon their homes or silence their movements; they detected her presence, or that of the Queen. Her movements were flawless, and the forest creatures should not have been aware of her. Ella’s emerald green eyes scanned the woods for movement, but all was still. Something was wrong.

It took only a few moments until the sound of hooves came trotting through the snow behind her. As Ella turned, she came face to face with her demon warhorse. Black as midnight, the creature bowed his head and neck to allow her to mount. Though a savage beast, he remained loyal and obedient. Ella slipped her hand along its wild mane and leaped up onto its back. Like a gust of wind, the horse jerked upright and took off in a fast sprint into the woods.

The horse moved as if it were flying, it dodged trees and branches with great precision and speed, leaving a cloud of snow in its path. As they moved closer to the edge of the forest, Ella lightly patted its neck to slow the horse before it crossed over into the clearing, the forbidden territory. Controlled by Alaris’s sister, Queen Talara, patrols heavily guarded the tree line to keep out Ella’s guardian Alaris and her kinfolk.

Banished from the court of the Fae, no Fae or creature that sided with Alaris was allowed to cross the ruins of Lochmoor, which rested along the edge of the forest. Lochmoor, the resting place for fallen Fae, was the only neutral zone between the two factions. Beyond the graves and stone wall was the Great Tree, the portal between the realm of the Fae and that of the mortal world.

Turning her horse, she led him down a path that followed the riverbed until she reached the sacred grove. Alaris’s followers gathered around the base of the small cliff where Alaris proudly stood. Favoring her human form, Alaris was dressed in a tightly-fitted black gown. Her ever-young, fair complexion made her beautiful.

Ella dismounted her horse. Her silvery dress dragged on the ground behind her, but the rest of her was wrapped tightly in a white fox fur cloak. Running her long, slender fingers alongside the horse’s side as she passed him, she walked toward the incline to stand next to Alaris. Brushing her bangs out of her face to one side, she adjusted the crown of woven thorns situated atop mass of curls. With a slight bow, Ella greeted the queen. Alaris nodded her head and faced the chattering crowd.

“Silence!” she called out, her voice as piercing as the sharp end of a sword. “No longer will we live in the shadows of Queen Talara and her motley crew of followers. No longer will we be forced into the darkness. We will fight and watch our enemies fall. And victory shall be ours!”

As Alaris spoke, Ella hung on every word. She could feel the vibration of Alaris’s voice as she addressed the war-hungry crowd. Alaris’s abrasive approach had won her many followers and admirers. Ella was honored to be standing next to her predecessor; it would soon be Ella standing before the Fae-folk, leading them into battle. Though her powers were not as great, her heart was just as black.

“The night of the royal babe’s celebration, we will strike. We will make our stand along the border of the Kingdom of Greylyn, and my sister Talara will regret the day she turned our world to blackness,” Alaris said, slamming her foot upon a rock, shattering it as if it were as fragile as glass.

As the crowd cheered, Ella could sense their anticipation and eagerness, which closely matched her own. After the cheers and applause had quieted they departed to ready themselves for battle. With the babe’s celebration in less than three weeks, it gave them plenty of time to plan and prepare.

As the Fae-folk filtered out of the sacred gathering place, Alaris grabbed Ella’s arm and dragged her aside.

“Ella, I need for you to go to the stones. Seek the answers they provide. Do not return until you do. Bring me word of our victory and how we are to defeat my sister,” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady,” Ella whispered.

Ella returned to her horse. In a fast sprint, they traveled north toward the circle of sacred stones. Every Fae had a series of magical powers. Most had wings and could travel in eddies of wind, while others had control over life within the forest. The members of the Order of the Fae High Council had a much different ability. They had the power to manipulate the elements at their command, whether it was fire, water, lightning or air. It made them the strongest and most powerful of all the Fae in the Kingdom on Andor. Ella, on the other hand, had a different sort of ability that only she possessed. Whispers of the ancient past could speak to her through the sacred stones in words and visions. Hers was a very unique and extraordinary gift and the very reason she was chosen as Alaris’s successor.

The stones often spoke of a legend of light and dark, good versus evil, and how they both brought balance to the world. But most of the time, the voices told her what was yet to come. Alaris hoped to use Ella’s ability to her advantage.

As she reached the shadowy grove of pine trees, Ella dismounted. Brushing past the tree’s hard, prickly needles, she walked out into an open clearing. Seven stones standing in a wide circle were the key to Talara’s undoing. Ella walked to the first stone and pressed her palms against it. Closing her eyes, she held her breath and listened. In a deep and raspy voice, the stone revealed its prophecy.

Within the darkness there is a light, concealed and smoldering like a flickering flame. As the Child of Light brightens, shadows will fade and Darkness will fall. But be warned, a child born of two worlds must choose one over the other. As one will rise the other will fall.

Ella took a step back from the stone, analyzing its meaning. Ella walked to the next stone in search of more answers, but each one only spoke nonsense and meaningless, repetitive words. From what Ella could gather from the stone’s message, it was clear the child they referred to was the royal babe, but she felt bothered by the second half of the prophecy. Without fully understanding its significance, she thought it best to keep that part to herself, for now. One thing was for certain, if the babe was a threat, it must be destroyed!

~ ♥ ~

“Tis the child! He is what stands in our way of victory. He will bring forth destruction to our world.”

“The child?” Alaris repeated Ella’s words.

“Yes! The stones say that the Child of Light will vanquish the darkness, but with a warning I still have yet to understand. We must find this child and kill him before the prophecy comes to pass.”

The look on Alaris’s face was not a look of anger or surprise, as Ella had believed it would be. It was calm, as if her anger was replaced with a true morbid curiosity rather than fury. Her expression was flat and unsurprising. It was as if she already knew.

“That will prove to be much more difficult than I had anticipated.”

“It’s the only way. If you wish, I will sneak into Talara’s fortress and take the child. We will have our war,” Ella interrupted.

“I will gather the high council. The celebration is in three weeks. That should give you plenty of time to reach the Isles of Greylyn, get into Talara’s lair, and return with the child. Understand that if you do not return with the babe by the night of the full moon along our borders, we cannot hold off our attack.”

“I understand. I will use the stones to guide me. I will not fail you.”

“Be sure that you don’t.”

Ella accepted her mission and left for her chamber to pack for her journey. Ella knew the walls of Lochmoor, as she had breached them several times. She knew the weakest points in the wall, and how to cross over the path that led to the Great Tree, though she had never passed beyond that point. Ella also knew that this plan was the only chance her people had to rid themselves of Talara for good.

Chapter 4

It had taken more than courage for Galen to return to this wretched village. Had it not been for his cousin, he never would have stepped foot in this village again unless it was absolutely necessary. This place brought nothing but terrible memories, ones not easily forgotten. Though the small village of Ferryden was under his control as part of his lands, it was one he did not visit very often.

Secluded behind a wall of pine and fir trees, there was only one road into the village. Situated along the bluff of the sea, ten miles to the south of Castle Dunquest, the village of Ferryden was erected between the coast of the North Sea on its eastern border and River Esk to its north. It was built centuries ago to hide an old Scottish fort last occupied by Robert the Bruce’s army. After the abandonment and the Battle of 1332, almost a hundred years ago, the land was awarded to Malcolm Graham, the king’s faithful vassal and Galen’s great grandfather.

He dismounted, once again in his childhood home. The crofts and homes were much the same as when he had left all those years ago and the priory still stood its facade as formidable as when he’d resided there.

It wasn’t the ground he walked on or the aging homes that made this place so distasteful to visit. Those who lived here made Galen uncomfortably silent. Though their loyalty was forced when he became laird, Galen could not forgive their ignorance and how they had treated him all those years ago.

Far from the cluster of homes, Galen’s cousin Evelyn and her husband Warrick lived in a cottage along the forests edge, on the top of a small hill. The additions Warrick had made were quite an impressive change from the raggedy shack it once was. As the only blacksmith within ten miles, he had built himself a small workshop, as well as a barn, which housed two horses and a few goats. Alongside the house was a massive enclosed garden, where Evelyn grew her herbs for cooking and medicinal purposes.

Slowing his horse as he approached the cottage, Galen felt a sharp pain in his chest as if a pin had pricked his heart; for further down the tree line, he could make out a small cemetery. Ten years had passed since he last paid his respects, and not a day had gone that he had forgotten the names etched in stone.

Tying his horse up in the barn, he walked down the hill toward the small gated cemetery. As he swung open the rusty gate, he walked through the rows of graves, passing by familiar names. Memories of his youth ran rampant, like water cascading down a waterfall. One after another, he recalled a specific memory of each of the thirteen children as he passed each memorial, finally stopping in front of the grave marker on the end. Galen bent down on one knee and brushed off the snow from the top of the stone to reveal the worn-out name. Though no bodies were laid to rest within the ground, the markers stood as symbols for lives once lost.

“Galen?” Evelyn said, as she opened the gate to the abandoned cemetery. As Evelyn stepped through, the gate latched behind her. Quietly, she kneeled down next to him.

“Tis so many of them.”

“Thirteen,” he responded, not lifting his gaze from the stone.

“That must’a been one hell of a day, aye?”

“Aye.”

“Dinner is almost ready. I am glad ye decided to join us. It has been far too long.”

Galen looked to her and gave her a genuine smile.

“Aye, it has. ‘Tis cold Ev; ye should go in. I will be in but a moment.”

“Alright. But dinna be too long, or ye’ll catch yer death out in this cold,” she said as she stood and walked away.

Galen watched for a moment as his cousin headed back toward the cottage before turning his attention back to the gravestone. The thirteen empty graves were a constant reminder of a promise he’d made to himself that was yet to be fulfilled.

“I have no’ forgotten about ye, my dearest friend,” he whispered, as he traced his fingers across the letters of her name. LuElla.

The moment Galen stepped inside Evelyn’s home it was as if he had stepped into an herb garden. The aroma of rosemary, mint and sage filled the air. Bundles of dried plants and herbs hung upside-down from the rafters in the kitchen, there was a vase on every table, and the mantle was full of flowers and plants. With dark wood walls and greenery throughout the cottage, it was as if she lived in a house built for a fairy. All she needed to complete the ensemble was a pair of wings and pointy toed shoes.

After exchanging a brief greeting, the two men sat down on opposite sides of the small rectangular table as Evelyn placed a pitcher of mead on the table and a mug in front of each of them.

“I made it myself,” she explained, as she set a third mug down in front of a vacant chair and hurried herself back to the kitchen.

“She has been cooking all day. No doubt ‘cause of her excitement that ye have finally decided to join us,” Warrick said.

“It has been far too long, and I am looking forward to a hearty meal.”

“Well, I certainly hope ye are hungry, fer she has been cooking up a feast fer twelve,” Warrick whispered, though his effort was for nothing; Evelyn poked her head around the corner and gave Warrick a wicked glare.

“Ye just remember, Warrick McAndrews, I have ears like an owl,” Evelyn said with a bit of sarcasm, causing Galen to proudly smile at his quick-witted cousin.

Galen knew that not only was Evelyn the best healer in all of Scotland but she wielded a tongue as sharp as a sword. Even Galen knew not to tease her.

Evelyn came into the dining area with the platter of food: stewed potatoes, a loaf of bread, and the most delicious-looking herb-encrusted grouse Galen had ever seen.

Warrick leaned forward and ripped off a small piece of the greasy bird before popping it into his mouth. Evelyn lightly smacked him on the back of his head.

“We havenae even said grace yet, and already ye are getting yer fingers dirty!” Evelyn scolded him.

“Well, Lassie, if ye didn’t cook me such good food, I wouldn’t be so tempted to eat it,” Warrick retorted.

Evelyn rolled her eyes at her teasing husband. After a pleasant offering of prayer, Evelyn began dishing the food onto Galen’s plate.

“Ye really have outdone yerself, Ev,” Galen praised.

Evelyn gleamed. “Galen, we have splendid news to share wit’ ye,” Evelyn said, as she grabbed Warrick’s hand. “I am wit’ child,” she announced.

Galen could see the joy in Evelyn’s eyes. She had confessed a while back that they had been trying for the past two years, and at one point thought perhaps she was barren.

“I am verra happy for ye, for the both of ye. Well, then this calls for a celebration! A toast,” he said as he lifted his glass. “May yer child be as gracious as their mother, as strong as their father, and as good looking as me!” Galen said with a tight-lipped smile before slamming back his drink.

“Ye must tell me, have ye accepted the offer for Lady McFadden’s hand? Tis all everyone has been gossiping about. Ye two would make such a lovely pair, and tis about time there was a Lady of the castle,” Evelyn asked.

“I dinna know my love life was up fer discussion. And ye obviously dinna know Lady McFadden!” Galen replied. “I would no’ marry Lady Braelyn if the King himself demanded it.”

“She cannae be that bad. E’en in good lighting she is quite bonny,” Warrick added.

“The lass is a trollop. It would be easier to train a stubborn horse than make an honest wife out of her. Besides, I no’ wish to settle down. I dinna have time for such things as a wife or a bairn.”

“Oh, of course ye have time. Perhaps I can introduce ye to one of the available lassies in the village!” Evelyn suggested before Galen quickly turned her down.

“I appreciate the thought, Ev, but if I were to consider marriage, I think I would prefer finding me own lass. Preferably one with a firm backside and who does no’ need a lot of attention,” he joked.

“Ye men are simply incorrigible!”

Galen had knowingly lied to his cousin when he said that he did not wish to take a wife. It was more a half truth. Even though he often times felt that women had outlandish ideas about how the world worked, he admired their compassion towards even the simplest of things. A woman’s psyche was a dangerous place, but they could live and love with conviction.

Like others of his stature, the demands of his clan kept him from pursuing a leisurely lifestyle, and he saw no opportunity to find a lass to marry. The prospects were few, and his clan already had alliances with the neighboring clans, so there was no need for a union. But it was more than that; he did not want to settle with just any lass for the sake of marriage or duty. He wanted the impossible, a lass who could challenge him and win his heart. But that was never going to happen. He had yet to meet a woman who could live up to his standards. He felt he was a doomed man with a troubled soul and a bleak, solitary future.

“Well, Evelyn, I wish to thank ye for a fine dinner, but I must be off. If ye continue to cook meals like this I may have to employ ye as our cook instead of our healer.”

“If ye keep sending these men off to battle I’m afraid ye may no’ see a meal like this in quite some time.”

Galen stood from his chair and donned his cloak. Bidding goodbye, he headed towards the barn to retrieve his horse. Soon, he was heading back towards Dunquest. There was still so much to do before the night came upon him.

Chapter 5

With eternal darkness cast over the land it was hard to distinguish day from night. The fortress, built deep in the earth, was the only thing that remained untouched by the curse.

Once her bag was packed, Ella tossed it over her shoulder, then ran up the stairs and outside into the forest. With a high pitched whistle, she called for her horse. The horse came at her command within moments. Swinging a leg over its side, she mounted. Snapping the reins, Ella led the horse through the dark forest towards the ruins of Lochmoor.

Had Ella shared her kin’s magical gift of wings, it would have made this journey much faster. Even at full speed it would take three days to reach the Kingdom of Greylyn. With little time to waste, she slammed her foot along the horse’s side, urging him to ride harder.

After several hours of riding, Ella finally came to the river, which she must cross to reach Lochmoor. Ella pulled hard on the reins, making the horse come to an abrupt halt. Scanning the tree line, she watched the woods for any sign of life. Her mission would be over if she was caught by Greylyn guards. Knowing it was too deep and dangerous to travel by horse, she quietly dismounted. She would have to travel by foot the rest of the way. Lightly, she tapped the side of his neck, encouraging him to leave. She waited as the horse turned and trotted off before heading down the ravine.

Making her descent down the slippery slope of the river bed, Ella used the fallen logs and rocks to cross until she reached the shoreline. On the other side of the river was a wall of stone that stood no higher than her hip. Crouched down behind a wall, she hid. Lifting her head, she peeked over the wall. Ella had to be patient to cross the ruins.

At the far end of the wall near the gate, she could see Baudi, the gatekeeper. Baudi was as large and husky as a giant. His tattered wings showed signs of wear, and would be useless in flight. After years as a warrior, he had been demoted to gate guard when he could no longer fight in the Queen’s army.

In order to pass through Lochmoor, she needed to walk through the ruins, cross the gate on the other side, and pass the Great Tree. Whatever was on the other side of the Great Tree was unknown to her. Ella had never crossed that far into the forbidden territory before and was unsure what to expect, but it was too late to turn back now.

When Baudi wasn’t looking, Ella crept past each grave and ruin. She walked as softly as she could to avoid Baudi from hearing or seeing her. With his magical staff, the gatekeeper blocked the pathway between her and the entrance to the gate.

As Baudi stood motionless, Ella knew that sneaking past him was not going to be an easy feat. Hiding behind a shrub with large, green, fern-like leaves, Ella watched and waited as Baudi conversed with one of the other guards. Ella looked between them and the unoccupied gate. Her eyes darted back and forth for a moment until she made the decision to run.

At full speed, she leapt over the bush and raced through the black rusted-iron gate, her pulse beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wing.

“Stop! You must not cross the gate! Come back! There are dangers and consequences; you don’t understand!” Baudi yelled out, though Ella chose to ignore his warnings.

Far into the labyrinth of trails and trees, Ella could no longer hear the desperate warnings. The woods around her were silent other than a slight howl from the wind as it blew above the trees. Their branches gently swayed in the light breeze, dropping the last of their leaves onto the ground. Like the roots of a tree, the path broke off into several directions. One which would take her back to her own lands, one that would lead to the Great Tree, and the other onward to Greylyn.

Biting her bottom lip, Ella looked down each path. Using her best judgment, she guessed that the unbeaten path was the one she needed. Not many traveled between Andor and the other kingdoms. Clutching at the black leather satchel tied to her belt, she opened the bag and emptied seven small rune stones into the palm of her hand. Each blackened stone held a whisper of fate. Individually, the stones meant nothing, but together they could unlock hidden secrets or guide the Seer on their quest. Etched on each stone was a series of lines and curves, an ancient language only few mortals could understand. Their silent wisdom was unfathomable to those who knew not how to read them, but they were never wrong.

The stones led her down a winding path. Ella could see sparks of light twinkling ahead as she neared the end of the path. The path she followed did not take her where she had intended to go. Instead of approaching the long road to Greylyn, she found herself at the base of the enchanted tree. Ella stood in awe of the tree’s massive size and girth, but it wasn’t the magnitude of its size that she found astounding. It was a sparkling golden ring of light that circled the tree. Like gentle ocean waves, the light swayed up and down in a harmonious pattern. The ring was made up of tiny sparkling lights, like burning fireflies dancing around the trunk. Why had the stones led me here? I was meant to go to Greylyn.

As Ella began to turn to take a different path, she felt a presence. Circling around, she saw no one. With her guard on high alert, her eyes scanned the trees. Ella felt a tingle crawl down the back of her spine as crows overhead squawked above her and took flight. Their wings swooshed as they cut into the cold dry air. Ella cautiously slid the stones back into the bag and removed her dagger.

Holding tightly to the hilt, she kept watch as she made her way back up the path. As Ella began her ascent, the surrounding area began to lighten, as if the sun was on the verge of breaking the horizon. Whatever the light source was, it was coming from directly behind her.

Ella slowly turned and stared into a reflection of light, coming from the trunk of the tree. Bright ripples waved outward like a pebble skidding across still water. The portal to the mortal world had opened. Ella took a step back. She had no inclination to cross into the mortal world, and she had done nothing to open the doorway.

Ella took another step back when a voice called to her.

“Ella!”

The voice sounded strained and high-pitched. Ella expected to see someone reaching out to her from within the vortex as if she were in a dream.

The voice called to her again. The urgency and desperation behind it drew Ella closer to the light. Ella intensely gazed into the light leading to the mortal realm. Why would someone be calling her from the human world? She had never even met a human before. None of this made sense. The voice calling her was the voice of a man that sounded oddly familiar, as though she recalled it from a dream. Her curiosity was maddening.

Overwhelmed with a surge of emotion, conflict grew in her heart and mind about what she should do. It was forbidden for her to cross into the mortal world, and she was expected to reach Greylyn within three days and return with the babe, but her heart was desperately being drawn toward the portal. If he was real, she had to find him. She had to know who he was.

Ella knew that if she got caught, there were worse punishments than death. If she were to do this, there would be no turning back. Not only would this put her own life in danger but possibly her kinfolk as well. Chewing on her bottom lip, Ella nervously stepped forward. She knew there would be dangers, and not only the dangers Baudi referred to, but she was willing to accept the consequences. She had spent her entire life listening to her head; this time, she was following her heart.

Ella’s mind was made up. She would cross into the mortal world. If she did not find out why someone was calling her, she would return shortly after. It would be like she never left.

Closing her eyes, she took a step forward, crossed through the ring of light, and approached the tree. With shaky hands, she pressed her palms against the bark of the tree into the reflecting light. Ella felt her hands sink into the rough bark. The trunk of the tree became as blurry as if she were looking through water. Ella took a hesitant step forward through the blurry opening and stepped out onto a heap of white snow. The doorway led her to a wintery forest; much like her own.

Ella turned to look back, but the doorway had vanished. The only thing that remained was a dying tree, withering away from the cold winter. The bark was badly peeling, and the branches curled, showing no signs of strength. It looked more like a willow than a mighty oak.

In the pit of her stomach, worry burrowed itself a deep hole. What if the portal could not be reopened from this side? What if she was stuck here? And why hadn’t she thought of this before? Anxiously, she pressed her hands on the trunk of the tree. The cold, hard trunk was as firm as stone. What have I done?

The cold wintery wind sent goose bumps up her arms. Hugging her white fur covering, she wrapped herself up tightly within its warmth. Through the canopy of trees the moon offered just enough light to see. Surrounded by a thick forest, there was nothing but snow-covered bushes and trees. The sky was dark, other than the twinkling stars. Ella took a moment to admire them. They were beautiful, like jewels in the sky, pure and white.

Ella made several attempts to reopen the gate but her efforts were only a waste of time. The temperature was dropping faster than a heavy rainfall. She had no choice but to seek shelter and return again in the morning. Ella wandered through the woods, uncertain where she was or where she was going. Heading south, or what she thought was south, she followed her instincts which drew her like a magnet in that direction. She could feel it in her very soul, the very fibers of her being though she had no idea why or for what purpose. All she knew was someone had called her here and she was powerless to resist.

Chapter 6

Galen sat back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. Picking up a tankard of whiskey, he brought it to his lips and finished it off. Glancing over the letters on his desk, he double checked the list of supplies. If this altercation with McGregor resulted in war, his clansmen needed to be well prepared in his absence. Once satisfied with the numbers, he composed a letter to Laird Neville Campbell asking for his assistance in this matter. Once finished, he sealed the missive with wax and set it aside for the messenger to deliver in the morning.

The hour was becoming late, and the flames of the fire were beginning to die, indicating that he had been working at least an hour. His eyelids grew heavy and the words seemed to dance across the pages. With a wide yawn, he stacked his paperwork back in a drawer and blew out the burning candle sitting on the desk’s top. Just as Galen was about to stand up and head to bed, he felt a nudge against his elbow. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that adoring eyes peered up at him.

“Where did ye come from? Tired of chasing rabbits, I suppose,” he said, in a tired voice as he patted the dog on its head.

The matted, brown-haired mutt looked up at Galen, panting and excitedly wagging its tail. Galen did not think any man was as loyal as this dog. No matter how many times he yelled at it, tossed it outside, or ignored it, the damn thing kept coming back; happy as ever and eager to play. There was no devotion truer than the devotion of a dog.

Without effort, the dog had chosen him as his master. It was during a hunting trip six years ago that he found the mutt lost in the woods. Mistaking him for a wolf, Galen shot him with an arrow. Lucky for the dog, the strong wind affected Galen’s aim and the tip of the arrow only clipped the dog in his shoulder. Since then, the dog followed him everywhere, and Galen found it appropriate to call him Wolf. Though at times he was annoying as hell, Wolf turned out to be a loyal guard dog, staying wary of strangers and attacking when he felt Galen was in danger.

Wolf rested his front paws on the arm of the chair as Galen scratched behind his ears. Though Galen enjoyed the pleasant company of Wolf, he would have preferred the company of a woman instead. Not to take to his bed, though he wouldn’t turn down the idea if offered, but a woman to have a simple conversation with, about something other than clan or political affairs.

“Alright, ye blasted dog, you’ve had enough. Go lie down,” he said, giving the dog a slight shove.

But Wolf did not budge. Instead, he paced back and forth between Galen and the window. With his nose pressed up against the glass, he whined and whimpered. If the dog needed to go outside, he could have easily gone down the stairs and out the back door, but something was clearly wrong. Trying to get Galen’s attention, Wolf bit his plaid and pulled him right out of the chair.

“What the bloody hell is the matter wit’ ye?”

Wolf ran back to the window. Galen glanced out the window, but saw nothing but his own dim reflection and the marigold-colored flames from the fireplace. Pushing the window open, a rush of cold air burst into the room like a battering ram.

He looked down into the bailey below, but he saw no movement, and all was quiet. As he was about to shut the window, a flicker of light caught his eye. The light came from within the woods, miles from any cottage. Suddenly the light began to move, as if it was being carried off with the wind. Wolf nudged his head to Galen’s side and began to growl. Something was definitely wrong, and Wolf was trying to warn him.

Swinging his cloak back across his shoulders, he grabbed his sword and quickly left the room. Running down the stairs, he ran out to the stables with Wolf following closely behind.

In the stables was Peter, the stable lad, sleeping upon a pallet of dry hay.

“My Laird, is everything alright?”

“Aye. I am just going to check something. I should nay be long,” he said, as he mounted a horse and rode out the gates.

~ ♥ ~

With frostbitten fingertips and feet that had long since turned numb, Ella walked aimlessly, desperate to find warmth or shelter. For what seemed like hours in the bitter cold, she hiked through the woods with no sign of life other than the occasional hoot from an owl hidden high in the trees. The muscles in her legs started to burn, though she felt frozen to the core.

Harsh, blowing snow stuck to the fox pelt around her, and her hair felt frozen stiff like straw. At every turn wide snowdrifts seemed to block the path she was following, or at least what she considered to be a path. Ella continued weaving past trees and snow-covered bushes until at last her salvation came in the form of an open clearing and the smell of burning wood.

In the corner of her eye, through the silver snow, a dim light flickered. Though she felt frozen to the ground, exhilaration ran through her veins when she saw the orange glow of a campfire burning brightly. All the discomfort of the cold and frost melted away at the sight. Ella’s lips curled into a twisted smile as her teeth uncontrollably chattered. Near the fire, shadows paced back and forth between large white canvas tents. Their voices carried in the wind.

Desperate for the warmth, Ella made her way toward the flames with no second thoughts as to who occupied the small camp. She hid in the dark shadows behind a cluster of pine trees several yards away and pulled down the branches for a better view. She had never been this close to a human before. In fact, she had never seen one at all. With the bright silver moonlight illuminating her surroundings, Ella was surprised to see that they looked much more pleasant then she had imagined. She had expected them to look wretched and beasty. Alaris had described them as savages, but these before her looked nothing of the sort.

Creeping along the outskirts of the camp, she watched and waited. It was hard to get a good look, as they were covered in thick layers of linens and fur, but it was the glistening shine that caught her attention. Strapped to their sides, long swords hung low as the light of the flames reflected off the polished metal. Ella could only presume they were warriors, but determining if they were friend or foe was an entirely different matter.

Before Ella had time to react, a sudden unexpected noise came from behind her; the sound of a twig snapping under one’s foot. Ella’s breathing seized. Ella turned slowly. She expected to find herself face to face with a wild boar, or perhaps a wolf, but the small creature before her was far from what her vivid imagination had conjured. Standing only three feet tall, a young, wide-eyed girl looked up at her.

Ella gasped when the wee lass came into view. She had never seen a babe or a small child before. The little girl had beautiful, long blond hair that glistened in the moonlight, dark eyes, and a pointy little nose. She wore a light grey-colored linen dress that was covered by a heavily dirt-stained plaid cloak. Staring at her as if she’d seen a ghost, the girl remained quiet.

Ella quietly knelt down and held her hand out to the child. The little girl cautiously stepped forward. Ella smiled as she drew near. The small lass raised her tiny arms up and wrapped them around Ella’s neck. It was a peculiar sensation, warm and loving. Picking up the wee lass, Ella held her in her arms. Looking down at the child, she wondered why the lass was not afraid of her. Ella brought danger, not comfort. As the little girl smiled up at her, it warmed Ella’s heart. For such unpredictable wretched beings, it was strange how innocent their children were.

“Ginny! What are ye doing?” a woman yelled as she frantically ran around the cluster of trees. Seeing the little girl in Ella’s embrace, the woman ripped the child from Ella’s arms. “Who are ye, and what are ye doing wit’ my child?” the woman demanded.

Startled, Ella froze. The expression in the woman’s eyes was like a wolf protecting her young, though Ella would never have harmed the child. The best course of action in this instance would be to remove herself from the situation before the others became aware of her presence. She would just have to find warmth and shelter elsewhere.

Ella opened her mouth and moved her lips to speak but no words came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again but still nothing. Instinctively, Ella placed her hands on her throat. My voice! Why can I not speak? Trying to speak again was yet another failed attempt. Ella quickly became distressed, nervously pacing back and forth. I don’t understand.

Was this her punishment for crossing into this forbidden world? Was this what Baudi was trying to warn her about? Without her voice, how could she tell this woman that she meant no harm to the child? It did not take long for Ella to realize how grave a mistake coming here was. With no voice, no weapons and no magic, she was completely vulnerable.

Ella could tell that her actions were starting to frighten the women though she could care less.

“Stay back! Help! Help!” the woman frantically yelled out, clutching her daughter tighter in her arms.

Before Ella had time to run, three men came running from their tents circling around her.

“Are ye alright, Mairi? What is it?” a man asked as he stood in between Ella and the woman.

His raven black hair, slick with sweat, hung like wet moss off a dead tree branch. A long, grotesque scar marked the right side of his face.

“This woman! She tried to take my daughter.”

Ella shot a wicked look at the woman for her blatant accusation. She would never have hurt or taken the child, but the way the men looked at her told her that they would never have believed her. Like hunters circling their prey, their eyes watched her every move.

The look in their eyes and snarls on their faces caused Ella’s stomach to turn as she drew a shaky breath. These men meant her harm.

“Take the wee lassie back to the tent, Mairi. We will handle this.” Before questioning Ella, he waited for the woman and child to leave. “Is what she said true? Were ye trying to take the child?”

Knowing she could not answer, Ella continued to stare, her eyes falling upon each man. She wondered at her ability to understand what they were saying. She was fairly certain they were not of the Fae. Was it possible that the Fae could understand any species but could only speak their own language? Could this be the reason she was mute?

“I demand ye to tell me who ye are,” he demanded again, more loudly this time.

Ella could feel the beat of her heart pounding harder against her rib cage. Her breathing became labored and her body tense. It was as if time had simply slowed. Even though, the sound was faint and muffled, as if someone had covered her ears, she could hear her assailant’s hoarse, heaving breath, and from above, the humming sound of feathers flicking up and down as birds swarmed the skies.

Ella’s only hope was to escape. Even if the cold snowy air killed her, she would run until she could run no further.

“Refusing to tell me who ye are matters not, Lassie. We crossed Graham’s land o’er an hour ago. If ye are trying to protect yer Laird than ye are as foolish as he is. If Graham had any sense, he would no’ be sending women out to do a man’s job. Why dinna ye tell us the truth? Ye were sent out here to spy on us, aye? Well, ye can tell that whoreson that we will never surrender to the likes of him.”

“Jamison, ye dinna mean to just let the lass go, do ye?” another man whispered.

“Of course no’, ye fool,” he responded before turning his attention back to Ella. “First, I am going to take from ye what Graham took from me. I am sure e’en a Graham lass knows how to warm a man’s bed.”

His men laughed at his statement. Licking their lips like vicious dogs, the three of them paced circles around her. Ella’s head whipped from side to side as she took short apprehensive steps away from them.

“Awe, come on lassie. Ye may e’en enjoy it.”

“I’ll take a go at her,” one volunteered.

Though Ella had no idea as to what he was referring, nor who this Graham was, she was not going to stand there and find out. Ella decided to do the only thing she knew to avoid being captured by these men; run.

Pivoting her toes on the hard frozen ground, Ella darted off toward the woods as the men gave chase. Thankful for the light of the moon, Ella dodged past trees and shrubs hoping to lose her pursuers. But no matter how fast she ran, they were quickly closing in on her.

Ella had to will her feet to keep moving faster. With panic flowing through her like water through a sieve, it was hard to concentrate on where she was going. Every tree she passed looked the same, as if she were running in circles. Though her body felt the intensely cold air, it was as if her body was nothing more than a mere shell, void of all emotion and sense. As if she watched a dream playing out before her eyes. But in this dream, death was a reality. As she gasped for breath, her lungs burned. To her surprise, Ella stumbled upon a tall dark building. Hoping to hide inside, she slipped through the door.

Quickly surveying the open space, she hesitated. To her horror, Ella’s heart felt as if it briefly stopped beating. Knives, swords and axes hung down from the rafters, and hammers, scraps of metal, and blades lay upon a work bench. The sight made her woozy and disorientated, but she quickly regained her wits when she heard the door handle jiggle. Ducking underneath the table, she hid behind a tattered cloth that smelled of smoke and ash as the three men entered the building.

Ella placed her hand over her mouth to quiet her heavy breathing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she flinched and cringed at every sound she heard. They were getting close. Her hands began to tremble. She was trapped like a mouse. In the darkness, she could barely make out the three pairs of legs wandering about the room searching for her. Ella searched for a way to escape.

As the three men moved to the far end of the room, she saw a small door in the back of the building. Ella quietly crawled low to the ground. But as she pressed her hand upon the door, a forceful grip grabbed onto her ankle and dragged her away from it. A sharp pain shot up her leg as her assailant twisted her ankle forcefully. Ella let out a loud agonizing groan. Before she knew it, she was pinned to the ground with the scarred man hovering over top of her. Ella moved her head to one side to breath. She was face down, being pressed into the dirt floor as the grotesque man lay on top of her, pressing his groin into her backside.

Ella searched for her dagger, but the man disarmed her before she even touched the blade. Grabbing a fist full of hair from the back of her head, he exposed her neck as if she were a swine being tied up for slaughter. Ella struggled beneath him, but he was twice her size. Trying desperately to scream, Ella lost hope.

With his free hand, the man wrapped his arm around her front and quickly started to unlace the ties of the fox covering that hung above her bosom. Once loose, he ripped it off her shoulders and tore the top of her dress so her left shoulder was exposed. Greedily, he groped his hand over her breast and began kissing the back of her neck, though Ella did all she could to stop him.

“Oh, I am going to take my time wit’ ye,” he whispered in her ear.

Kicking furiously, Ella heard the man call out to another to hold her down while the third stood back and watched. Their laughter echoed all around her. Rough, calloused hands fell upon her ankles, preventing her from moving. Hot tears burned in Ella’s eyes as the man squeezed her injured ankle. Ella balled her fists, trying to bear the pain radiating up her leg. She squeezed her hand so tight, her fingernails dug into her flesh.

Before Ella had time to react, the man flipped her underneath him, laying her flat on her back. One strong hand held her wrists above her head, while with the other he began loosening his trews. Once loose, he flipped the skirt of her dress up over her head. In the darkness, she could feel his filthy hands on her, running up her thigh.

Ella forcefully bucked her hips like a wild mare causing the man to flip off of her. In the mere seconds she had to act, Ella crawled away from him. Standing tall, the man stalked toward her. Ella scooted as far back as she could, until her back was up against the wall. Bending down to one knee, the man smirked at her failed attempt to escape. Raising his hand, he slapped Ella across the side of her cheek with the back of his hand. Ella heard the crack echo in her ears. Whether it was his knuckle against her cheek bone or the bone breaking itself, the pain was unbearable. Overwhelmed with pain, everything became blurry. Colors faded to black, and then to nothingness.

Chapter 7

With his sword in hand, Galen followed the light to an outbuilding on the outer rim of the castle wall. The building was used as the armory. Blades of all kinds as well as sheet metal and iron were stored there. As he approached, he saw a dull red and green tartan flash across the open window.

“McGregor,” Galen muttered under his breath.

Continuing his approach, Galen surveyed his surroundings, making sure no one else was around to ambush him. With a swift kick, the door opened catching the intruders off guard.

“Who the bloody hell are ye, and what do ye think ye are doing on my land?” Galen yelled, his deep, strident voice rebounding from the walls.

At first glance, Galen saw only three men within the room. Two of them stood across the room, while the third was hunkered down upon the floor. The man on the floor slowly climbed to his knees. Beneath him, Galen saw a lass lying unconscious.

“This lass tried to kidnap a child. I am simply teaching her a lesson,” the man said.

“I am Laird of Dunquest Castle. Ye are on my lands, and anything within my boundary is under my protection. I suggest ye get off my lands and return to the black pit from whence ye came before I turn your wives into widows this night.”

“Oh, well, my Laird, please forgive me. Had I known this was yer barren wasteland I would have turned a cheek,” the man sarcastically replied, as his men burst into laughter.

Galen raised his claymore into the air before the assailants had time to pull their weapons out of their scabbards.

“Unless ye wish to die tonight, I would consider yer next move carefully.”

With a sly, twisted smile, the man glanced over to his men.

“It’s time to go, laddies! Let him have the whore.” Turning his attention to Galen, he continued, “Ye will regret the day ye crossed us, Laird Graham.”

“I am a mon of little regret.”

All three men slowly backed out of the building and vanished into the shadows of the surrounding woods. Galen took a cautious step toward the injured lass. As he approached her, he fell down to one knee. She did not move or flinch upon his approach. Gently, he placed the back of his hand against her cheek. She was unconscious. Her skin was cold as ice, but she was still alive. With barely enough light to see, Galen was unable to assess any wounds that may have been inflicted. Lifting her into the air, he carried her outside to his horse. As he held the featherweight lass in his arms, she smelled of sage and pine. Galen thought it was an odd, woodsy smell for a woman. As gently as he could, he mounted, still holding the lass tight in his arms. As fast as his horse could ride without jostling the lass, he rode to Evelyn’s cottage.

Hastily opening the door, Evelyn swiftly moved out of the way as Galen walked in, the lass wrapped up in his arms.

“What happened? Who is that?” Evelyn asked, as she quickly ran toward the bedroom and lowered the covers on the bed for him to place her on the mattress.

Evelyn left for a moment, then rushed back, with a basin of water and a cloth and immediately wiped the blood off Ella’s face and neck.

“Dear God, what happened to her?” she asked, as she brushed her hair to the side, exposing a fist-sized red bruise along her cheek.

“Warrick, there are three McGregor men on our land a mile north of here. Gather some men from the village and follow them. If they cause ye any trouble, kill them,” he ordered.

“Aye, my Laird. Right away.”

Evelyn tucked the covers around the girl and placed her arms against her sides. Evelyn looked at her hands in horror.

“Her hands!” Evelyn shrieked, as she twisted the lass’s palms toward Galen.

Her palms were marred, the skin torn, and the shredded flesh was covered with blood. Galen balled his fist and realized that the lass had squeezed her hands so tight that her nails dug deep into her skin, causing them to bleed. The only thing that would have made the lass do that to herself would have been complete terror. As quick as a flint striking iron, anger sparked inside of him.

“She was attacked,” he muttered.

“Who would have done such a thing?”

“McGregor clansmen.”

Galen didn’t know which made him angrier, the fact that McGregor’s clansmen would harm a lass in such a violent manner, or the fact that they had crossed onto his land without his knowledge, an issue he would rectify as soon as possible.

“Poor lass! Why do ye suppose she was out there all alone?” Evelyn whispered, as she dampened the cloth once again.

“I dinna know.”

“Well whoever she is, these marks are going to leave some pretty nasty bruises. Hand me those vials.”

Galen reached for the vials his cousin had pointed to and handed them to her. While Evelyn ministered to Ella’s wounds, Galen looked down at the wee lass. Small freckles covered the bridge of her nose, and her skin and lips were beyond pale, matching her snow white hair. Even near death she was beautiful, like a snow angel from a children’s fable. But the troubling question remained. Why was such a young lass out in the woods alone, and where did she come from?

“I need to undress her to finish cleaning her off. When she wakes I will let ye know.”

“Alright, but as soon as she wakes,” he ordered.

For a short time, Galen paced the floor, hoping the lass would gain consciousness soon. But he needed to return to Dunquest to send his guards to the west to make certain no more unwanted visitors arrived.

If members of the McGregor’s clan had easily breached the borders, perhaps their army was not far behind. The men the lass came upon could have been scouts sent to see how well the borders were protected. Perhaps she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. With slight trepidation, Galen left the cottage. The hard-frozen snow crunched underneath his feet as the wind furiously tossed his hair back and forth. Mounting his horse, he raced back to the castle to alert his men.

~ ♥ ~

Ella stirred in her sleep. She felt tightly swaddled with some form of soft cloth. It was strangely comforting. With her eyes still tightly shut, she could smell wood burning and hear a crackling fire as it sparked and popped. With her hands resting on her stomach, she could feel hunger pangs and hear it rumbling. As her senses became more aroused, she was able to tell by the warmth of her surroundings that she was no longer outside in the bitter cold. Fully awake, Ella’s eyes popped open. For a brief moment, she thought she had returned home, as if it was all a dream, but this room was far different than anything she had ever seen.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the soft candlelight coming from the bedside table, and she stared for a moment at the wooden ceiling above her. The flickering candle created shadow dancers along the ceiling and walls. Several uneven vertical rafters made of splinted wood and rusty nails held the ceiling and walls in place. The walls themselves were made of mud and stone, giving the room an earthy smell. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she sat up and looked about the room.

The moment Ella sat up she felt it hard to keep her balance. Blood rushed to her head, and her vision was slightly blurry. She raised her hand to her cheek; it was sore to the touch, and caused her head to ache. Ella soon discovered that she was not tied in rope or irons as she had expected. Instead, her hands were bound in bandages. Someone had dressed her wounds. Strips of cloth were tied tightly around her palms, and dried blood had stained the fabric.

The last thing Ella could remember was the man who forced himself on top of her. But instead of a dungeon or a cold, dirty floor, Ella found herself in a warm, comfy bed in a room that appeared quite pleasant.

Goosebumps covered her flesh as a tattered cloth hanging at the window flapped and a slight breeze crossed the room. The cool chill caused Ella’s nipples to harden. Looking down at her chest, she felt mortified as she realized her dress had been removed and she was left in nothing but a thin nightshift as sheer as a spider’s web. As fast as a bolt of lightning, she pulled the covers up over her chest. Ella cringed at the thought of someone stealing her clothes and leaving her half-naked.

All manner of emotions coursed through her; anger, humiliation, frustration, and regret, but when the door to the room suddenly swung open, all thoughts seized. Stepping into the room was a woman with long copper-colored hair and a thin form. Wearing a dull blue kirtle, she had an apron tied around her waist. The woman began humming a sweet lullaby as she dumped a bucket of steaming water into a basin and added another log on the fire. Holding her body as still as a statue, Ella’s eyes followed the woman’s movement.

As the woman finished tending the fire, she stood and turned towards Ella.

With a gasp, the woman joyfully remarked, “Yer awake!”

Ella pulled her knees up into her chest and held the top of the covers tightly in her hands. The pain from her ankle was numbed by fear. This woman was human, and Ella had no doubt she would probably do the same to her as the others.

“Please, dinna be afraid. Ye are safe here. My name is Evelyn. Ye have quite a nasty bump there. ‘Twas a good thing my cousin came upon ye when he did.”

Ella did not know what to make of this Evelyn. Her eyes softened when she looked at Ella and her cheeks had a tinge of rose. Ella stared at her for a long time, debating whether she could trust her or not.

Evelyn stepped closer once more and sat on the edge of the bed. Ella inched further away.

“It’s alright. Ye dinna have to be afraid. Ye have no enemies here. I promise ye, are safe. Those men will no’ be coming back. We made sure of that. What is yer name?”

Ella wouldn’t give this woman her name if her life depended on it. She knew nothing of her or her intentions. She would, however, curse the woman for taking her clothes. If only she could speak. Damn this curse!

Ella felt uncomfortable as the woman gazed at her with her wide, amber-colored eyes. It was as if she were trying to read her mind.

“Ye cannae speak, can ye lass?”

Ella pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head.

“That’s alright. I have cleaned yer wounds, but ye still need to rest. Do ye think ye are hungry enough to drink some broth? I made it myself. ‘Tis an old family recipe passed down from my grandmother.”

Ella’s stomach growled at the thought of food, but she could not help having reservations about the strange woman. Evelyn turned and cupped a bowl in her hands and handed it to Ella. Ella hesitantly took it. The broth didn’t look as if it were poisoned, though she had no idea what poison would look like even if she saw it. Raising the bowl to her lips, she took a small sip. It was delicious, though she was not about to admit it. Greedily, she continued to drink the broth as Evelyn smiled at her. With a slight cock of her head, she couldn’t help but wonder why a human would help her.

“Once ye finish, ye really should rest. It will no’ be morning yet for several hours. I will leave a gown out for ye to change into in the morning. I’m afraid that yer dress was torn and ruined. I am more than happy to mend it for ye, if ye like.”

Ella nodded her head in thanks as Evelyn left the room. Finishing off the broth, she laid back down on the bed. Ella’s eyes grew heavy. It amazed her that by using such little energy she had already become so tired again. It did not take very long before she fell fast asleep once more.

Chapter 8

“I want to know how those bastards breached our borders!” Galen shouted.

“My Laird, we have word that the guards sent to the west were ambushed. Had we known the threat was near we would have doubled the guard, but we did not expect their scouts to come in from the south. We assume they must have sent scouts weeks prior to yer return.”

“I do no’ want to hear excuses Alex. What we need is action. Warrick and a few men from the village are following them as we speak, and we must no’ be unprepared the next time they attempt an ambush. It appears McGregor isn’t as daft as I thought him to be. They may have breached our borders, but their plan to get close to the castle did not work out as planned.”

“I dinna understand, what do ye mean?”

“Their plans were disrupted when a wee lass came upon them in the woods.”

“A lass?”

“Aye. They chased her to the armory. She was unconscious when I found her. Evelyn is caring for her now. I dinna know who she is, but we are indebted to her. Until I know who she is, we will offer her our protection while she is on our lands. In the meantime, we must keep a lookout. My guess is that we have no’ seen the last of McGregor’s men.”

“I agree.”

“Gather the troops at sunrise. We must keep them abreast of the situation.”

“Aye, my Laird,” Alex said as he exited through the door leaving Galen alone in the library.

Tomorrow was expected to be a busy day. He only hoped that tomorrow would prove to be less eventful.

The sounds in the castle had begun to quiet down, as the servants had long since returned to their quarters. Getting up from his chair, Galen headed for the door. The creaks in the floor caused Wolf to lift his head and watch his movements. His wagging tail pounded the floor like a hammer. Wandering the vacant halls, Galen followed the corridor until he reached the end of the hall to his bedchamber.

The room was as dark and cold as a cell in the dungeon. Picking up a few logs situated near the doorway, he made his way toward the fireplace, careful not to trip over anything that may have been on the floor. After stacking the logs on the hearth, he ran his hand along the mantle, searching for the piece of steel and flint he had left there earlier in the day. Finding them on the far end, he held the steel against the logs and stroked the flint against it. It did not take long before the wood caught fire and began to emanate heat throughout the room. Adding an extra log for good measure, he kicked off his boots and climbed into bed.

Galen attempted to close his eyes and rest, but spent the next few hours tossing and turning. Though his muscles and eyes felt tired and heavy, sleep eluded him. His mind refused to settle. Perhaps he should have reconsidered drinking a tankard of whiskey before bed. The incident with Arthur McGregor’s men still consumed his thoughts. McGregor had brought havoc to his doorstep, and Galen was eager to retaliate. But this was one time he needed to cool his hot-headed ego. After two months of campaigns against his army, Galen would have thought McGregor would have surrendered his forces, but it only proved to show how resilient the stubborn bastard was. Caught in the middle of a war his uncle had started, Galen knew he had only one option: win it.

After only a few dreadful hours of sleep, he woke just before the sun rose. How had morning come so soon? He felt as if he had spent the night drinking himself into a stupor. Galen woke with a massive headache and blood-shot eyes. Leaning over the side of the bed, Galen stretched out his arm and reached for the mug sitting on his bedside table. Empty. Damn! Galen lay back down and spent the following several minutes arguing with himself about whether or not to get out of bed. After much debate and compromise, he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Sleeplessness had become a familiar enemy, like a demon of the night rendering him weak and useless during the waking hours. He needed whiskey, and fast.

~ ♥ ~

Swinging open the door to the kitchen, Galen found Moira, the head kitchen maid, rolling a ball of dough.

“My Laird, I dinna know ye were awake at this hour. I have just started working on the morning meal. I have nothing prepared.”

“Dinna fash yerself, Moira. I did no’ come down here to eat. Where’s the whiskey?”

“Whiskey, at this hour?”

“Aye! I could no’ sleep.”

Moira pointed to the barrel tucked back in the corner of the room. Grabbing a smaller mug from the table, he filled it to the rim and drank it before filling another. The whiskey warmed the back of his throat and the pain in his head became almost tolerable.

“I do hope my bangin’ around here in the kitchens did no’ keep ye awake. I am getting the bread ready for the ovens. I have much to do today. I am training my wee Abby in the kitchens this morning.”

“How is yer daughter?” he asked.

“She is verra anxious to serve in the castle, now that she is old enough.”

“I am sure she will do a fine job,” Galen reassured her. “When ye are finished, have the maids ready the room in the tower. We have an unexpected guest staying with us and I would like for her to be comfortable and not disturbed.”

“Aye, my Laird.”

Galen bid her farewell and headed out the door that led to the bailey behind the stables. The cool morning air had calmed, and large fluffy snowflakes fell from the sky, covering the ground beneath his feet. A chill crawled up his spine, and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. With haste, he walked to the front of the barn and quickly slipped inside out of the cold.

Inside, he found a tattered brown cloak hanging on an old rusty nail. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he shivered for a moment as his skin warmed the cool fabric. He glanced out the window and saw that the sky had lightened; an orange hue glowed on the crest of the horizon. The sun was going to rise soon. Galen hoped Warrick had returned in time to speak to him before addressing his men. Saddling his horse, he led the mare out of the stall and mounted. Clasping his hand tightly on the reins, he squeezed his thighs around its midsection as he guided the horse toward the village.

Within minutes, Galen arrived outside of the cottage. Once the horse was settled in the barn, he made his way to the cottage.

Galen knocked once, but there was no answer. Pushing the door open, he crept inside. He found Evelyn passed out in a cushioned chair in front of the small hearth. The fire had long been extinguished leaving behind a pile of smoldering ash as a wisp of smoke lingered in the air. Clutched in her arms, was a spool of yarn, and the workings of a baby blanket rested upon her lap. The floor creaked beneath his weight as he stepped towards her.

“Ev,” he whispered.

“Wh…what?” Evelyn stuttered as she woke from her slumber. “Oh, Galen, tis only ye,” she said with a yawn.

“I dinna mean to wake ye.”

“Tis alright. I was no’ verra comfortable in this chair anyways.”

“Has Warrick returned?”

Evelyn looked about the room as if she expected to see him standing near the doorway.

“Nay. I waited fer him, but I must have fallen asleep,” she said, as she placed her needlework into a wicker basket on the floor.

“How is the lass?”

“The lass is still sleeping. ‘Tis the oddest thing. Physically, she appears to be in good health. There were no signs of rape or injury other than a twisted ankle and the bruise on her cheek, but she is still verra weak and tired, as if she had been through one hellish ordeal. She did manage to drink some broth I spiced with willow bark and other healing herbs. I am hoping that after some rest she will improve.”

“I have a mind to transfer her to the castle. She verra well cannae take up yer only bed, and there is plenty of room at Dunquest.”

“It may be best to wait. She cannae ride a horse. Her ankle is quite swollen. It is possible that it is just a sprain, but I will have to see how it is when she wakes,” Evelyn said as she stretched her lower back. “I’m afraid that riding on a horse now would only jostle her, and she still seems quite frightened as it is. The lass is verra skittish.”

“I dinna think she has any other options.”

“She will be fine here, cousin. I am perfectly well enough to care for her.”

“That is no’ a request, Ev,” he barked.

Galen had not meant to be short with his cousin, but his concern for her and the bairn came first.

“Gather what things she will need. If her ankle is only sprained I imagine she will no’ be staying wit’ us long. I will make arrangement to send her back to her people.”

“Galen, there is something else about the lass that ye need to know. She cannae speak.”

“She’s a mute? Well, that complicates things,” he said in a husky voice as he slumped down hard into one of the chairs behind him.

“Nay, it dinna have to be,” Evelyn perked up.

“How am I going to find out what happened to the lass and how she came to be on our lands if she cannae speak?” Galen asked, annoyed.

“Honestly, Cousin. Dinna it ever occur to ye that she can answer by shaking her head?”

Galen thought on the matter. In all honesty, it hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps the fact that she couldn’t talk wasn’t entirely a terrible thing; a woman often talked too much as it was.

“I will return wit’ a cart for her within the hour. Perhaps that will ease her discomfort.”

“Perhaps, but please be patient with her. I dinna know what had happened to her, but I imagine there was some reason why she was traveling alone. Perhaps she was escaping from something or someone. If we do find out where she belongs, we cannae just send her back without finding out why she left in the first place.”

“E’en if she ran away from an arranged marriage or an abusive husband, there is nothing I can do. The lass is no’ my concern.”

“Well, she is now!”

Evelyn was right. The moment he offered her protection, he was already caught up in her affairs whether he liked it or not.

“With what happened last night, will ye be leaving again?”

“I know what yer thinking, Ev. If this results in war, I will do my best to keep Warrick far away from the fight.”

Galen knew that was exactly what Evelyn wanted to hear, but the truth behind Warrick’s fate could not be determined any more than his own. Even if he kept him out of this battle, there would always be another.

Chapter 9

Ella woke as a chorus of morning birds sang to the beginning of a new day. Like nature’s alarm, the bittersweet melody woke the woodland creatures from their midnight slumber. Ella could hear the rustling sounds as they pranced around in the snow outside her window. As the darkness in the room began to fade away with the rising sun, a rainbow of colors shone through the frost-covered window.

Ella sat up, using the pillow to support her back as she leaned up against the headboard. Next to her on the bedside table, Ella saw that Evelyn had left her a full glass of water. Picking up the glass, she pressed it against her parched lips and drank the entire offering. Though still sore, Ella was grateful that she felt much better than she had last night; remarkably better.

Ella listened for sounds of Evelyn in the next room, but the place was quiet. Ella thought now would be a good time to make her exit. Shuffling her feet from under the covers, she draped her legs over the side of the bed and slid off. Immense pain from her ankle caused her to immediately jump backward onto the bed. Throwing her hands around her bandaged ankle, she held it, willing the pain away.

How had she gotten into such a mess? She couldn’t talk, she couldn’t walk; hell, the Gods might as well take her eyesight, too, so she could conveniently stumble right off a cliff! Ella fought back a tear. Defeat was not an option, and she was not going to pity herself. With a huff, she stood up again, only this time shifting all of her weight to one side. At the bottom of the bed draped over the covers, Evelyn had left her a gown to wear. It was a deep garnet-color with lace trim and long sleeves.

Remembering how cold it had been the night before, she twisted her lips as she considered what to do. The woman had said her own clothes were ruined. The gown she wore was thin, but would provide an extra layer of warmth against the cold. Deciding self-preservation was of the utmost importance; Ella decided to use the gown as a shift and donned the heavier gown over it. The garnet fabric was thick and warm. Perfect, if she were to brave the cold.

Within moments of dressing, Ella heard commotion from the other room, followed by a door slamming.

“Ye cannae go in there, ye’ll wake her,” Ella heard Evelyn say.

“I have nay time to wait,” a man replied and swung open the door to Ella’s room. “And by the looks of it, the lass is already awake.”

The man towering over her was a giant in both size and girth. Wide shoulders and large muscles filled his tunic, stretching the fabric taut. His cinnamon-and-spice-colored hair looked like a lion’s mane, hanging down far enough that it touched both shoulders. His piercing stormy-grey eyes matched the color of the sky after a light spring rain, and his prominent arched cheekbones were as angular as his jawline. He walked toward her with sure-footed purpose.

Addressing Ella, he continued. “My lady, my name is Galen. I have come to take ye to the Castle. There is plenty of room there fer ye to rest and heal and I insist we leave at once before the snowfall worsens. Tis a heavy storm coming.”

Ella had no inclinations of going anywhere but home. She stood motionless.

“I’m afraid he is right, Lassie,” Evelyn said. “If the snow gets any deeper it will be too hard to pull the cart through it.”

Cart? They wished her to ride in a cart like swine? Shaking her head furiously, she tucked her arms cross her front and gave them a mutinous look. Her actions were quite easy to read as Galen glared back at her. Taking a step toward her, Ella did not know what he intended. Fearing that he may harm her like the others, she moved like lightning and slipped his dagger out of its sheath where it clung to his side. With a fierce grip, she held the dagger outward with both hands.

“Now listen here, lassie, there will be none of that. Now hand over that blade. I am no here to hurt ye. I am here to offer ye protection, but I can no do that from all the way out here in the village if I have to disarm ye.”

I’d like to see him try! If this was how they offered help and protection, she would rather take her chances out in the storm.

Leaning into Evelyn, Galen whispered, “Ye dinna think she’s a Sassenach, do ye? That alone would have given those men reason to beat her.”

Staring daggers at him, Ella thought to remind him that she was mute, not deaf! Are they all like this? The ignorance of men! This one, she figured, wore his arrogance like a tartan showing off his true colors. This was a man who was not afraid to offend others. Ella found his words harsh and unyielding. Had he no care at all?

“If ye are just going to stand there, ye leave me no choice, Lassie,” Galen threatened.

The lass was as irritating as an itch he could not scratch. It was a shame her personality did not match her pleasant appearance.

With pursed lips, the lass glanced to Evelyn.

“It will be fine. I promise nothing bad will happen. Castle Dunquest is a fine castle, wit’ plenty of comfortable accommodations. Ye will have yer own room, and once yer ankle heals, I am sure ye will be able to return home,” Evelyn calmly said.

Galen’s patience was wearing thin. He had no time to waste on such stubbornness. Before she could react, Galen grabbed her wrist and removed his dagger from her hand as if he were taking it from a child. He then proceeded to toss a plaid around her shoulders, and lifted her into the air as if she were a bag of grain. He could have just as easily tossed her over his shoulder and carried her out the door from the start and avoided all this nonsense. So much for tryin’ to be considerate, he thought to himself.

The cold wind blew hard as snowflakes stuck to the plaid. Placing her gently in the cart, he draped another blanket around her.

“That should keep ye plenty warm,” he said as he placed a bag Evelyn had given him next to her before mounting his horse.

Ella peeked inside the bag that Galen had set down next to her. There was a blue-colored gown and a white shift, as well as a few more bandages that matched the ones Evelyn had wrapped around her ankle. Ella took another apprehensive look back to Evelyn as Alex mounted his horse. Soon, they were off toward Dunquest. Her thoughts turned to the daunting castle, wondering where Galen was taking her. Was it a grand fortress like the one she lived in, or was it a small dwelling filled with a mass of ignorant, overbearing, foul-smelling men like this Galen fellow? After what she had experienced already, she assumed the worst.

The cold wind howled like a banshee as it bit her frozen cheeks. Lying back against a pallet of hay, she held the blanket close under her chin, thankful she had donned both gowns. The blanket offered little protection from the cold. As Galen rode toward Dunquest, Ella took note of every distinctive landmark they passed so she was better equipped to map her escape. The direction Galen led them brought them inside a dense forest. Taking several turns, Ella was jerked around inside the cart. She wondered if he was intentionally riding over roots and the uneven ground to spite her for resisting him.

After taking a meandering, weather-beaten path, the tree cover lessened and she could see a clearing ahead. Within the woods, the trees offered sufficient protection from the falling snow, but now, out in the open air; snow fell like a heavy rain, wet and thick.

Her hair, wet and frozen from the snowfall, was now like icicles that hung off a tree branch, and snowflakes covered her like a white blanket of prickly thorns.

As they reached the edge of the woods, they were surrounded by rolling hills and shadowy groves. In the far distance, stone peaks of three circular towers emerged like guardians rising into the sky, keeping a watchful eye on the land below.

The winding, beaten path weaved around the low valleys of the rocky hills. Relief came when the castle fully came into view.

“T’will no’ be long now,” he called out, though she could have sworn he’d said the same nearly twenty minutes ago.

The sight of the castle inflamed her imagination. It was not at all what she had expected. Larger than any fortress she had ever seen, its domineering presence high above the hill gave an alarming yet powerful impression. Surrounded by steep mountains and deep valleys, the castle rested atop a craggy summit. Its soaring towers seemed to reach for the heavens as the turret and crown touched the clouds wisping by.

As they drew closer, Ella noticed a tall stone wall that protected those within. Following alongside the wall, they came to a large wooden door big enough for ten horses to ride through side by side when it was opened. As they approached, the door lowered. Heavy metal chains creaked as the door moved closer and closer to the earth, creating a surface they could travel across. Continuing forward, they passed underneath a wide archway that led them to an open courtyard.

Once inside, the door lifted off the ground and began to close behind them. Ella felt her hand tingle, but this time it was not from the cold. Behind the surrounding stone wall, at first glance it did not appear that escaping was going to be as easy as she had hoped.

With wide eyes, Ella absorbed the scene around her. Drawing no attention to herself, she watched as people moved about the open areas, busy with their tasks. Their commotion was loud. Chickens clucked in distress as three women walked by, holding the fowl by their skinny yellow feet, their heads dangling below. She couldn’t help but wonder how the birds could make so much noise while hanging upside down.

Her thoughts came back to her situation. As the sound of hammering rung in her ears, she turned and saw a man banging on a piece of metal with a hammer and young children with wooden swords ran about laughing and playing.

Where were the prisoners she had expected to find shackled with iron? Where was the decay of food left out to rot, or the horde of malicious men openly defiling women? Ella glanced around at the faces of the people, and instead of finding the place of wickedness she had been taught to believe these humans were capable of, she found only a sea of cheerful chaos.

“Welcome to Castle Dunquest, my lady. If ye will allow me to help ye out of the cart, I will carry ye up to yer room. I know the thought of being carried like a wee bairn may no’ be ideal, but I dinna see how ye can walk up three flights to the guest room at the top of the tower. It’s a bit of a walk, but has a most pleasing view.”

He was right on both counts. She cringed at the thought of walking up any stairs, much less three flights! And she would rather let him carry her in those strong arms of his than stay out in this bloody cold any longer. Pushing the blanket down, she scooted to the edge of the cart and wrapped her arms around Galen’s thick, warm neck. Putting one arm under the back of her legs and the other behind her back, he gently lifted her and headed for the door to the large keep.

As soon as he called out to one of the guards to assist the entry, the door opened and they stepped inside. The front room was as large as Evelyn’s cottage. Tapestries adorned the stone walls and a roaring fire kept the room warm as an early spring. As Galen continued on his way up the three flights of stairs, Ella could not help but notice the lustful way he looked at her. She did everything she could to ignore him.

Following behind them was a hearty-looking woman trying to catch up with Galen’s long strides. By the time she reached the top floor, the woman was completely out of breath and started to pant.

Catching her breath, she said, “Oh, these old bones are no’ what they used to be. This is the wee lassie ye spoke of?”

“Aye.”

“Well, bring her in here. The room has already been prepared for her arrival.”

The old woman opened the door, and Galen followed her in. The room was circular with stone walls and dim light. The only window in the room was a small vertical slit that choked the light. With a small bed and small fire pit, it was still more than what she was used to. Galen set her on top of the bed, and Ella immediately took the covers and wrapped them around her shoulders, to protect her from the cold.

“Oh my, ye must be freezing, lass,” the woman said, her eyes filled with pity. “I will go fetch ye something warm to eat.”

The woman quickly vanished out the door, leaving Ella alone with Galen. Awkward tension filled the room as he restlessly paced the floor.

“Well, my Lady, if ye need anything,” he spit out.

Gracefully bowing, he turned and quit the room. Ella couldn’t imagine wanting anything from him. Sitting alone in the quiet room, she waited for her body to warm. The old women returned shortly after with a bowl of broth, but left immediately to allow her to rest. Ella hoped her ankle would heal soon.

Chapter 10

“We followed them bastards all the way to Hollow’s Point. They are on MacPherson land now, heading home,” Warrick explained to Galen, as Alex stepped into the room to join them.

“Good. I penned a letter to Laird Campbell keeping him apprised of the situation. If war is what Arthur McGregor wants, then bloody hell, a war he will get.” Turning his attention to Alex, he continued, “We have a guest in the upstairs tower room. See what Moira can find out about the lass. She’s a mute, but perhaps there is some clue as to who she is. In the meantime, we will continue our training in the fields to keep the men’s skills in top form.”

In an area where part of the courtyard had been cleared of snow, several of Galen’s men practiced with unsharpened blades while others took to the hills to practice their archery. They were surrounded by packed snow as high as their calves, but the warm sun made it tolerable enough to train outdoors. After joining many skirmishes, he stood back and watched, looking for areas of improvement. They continued to train well into the night.

~ ♥ ~

From her room in the tower, Ella’s view of the vista of snow-capped mountain peaks and wooded landscape was beautiful. Though snow still covered the ground, the weather felt much warmer than it had the past two days. Ella looked through the arrow slit in the wall that served as a window to the busy bailey below. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the shine of metal beyond the gates of the castle. In an open field, she saw a group of warriors clashing their swords together.

A prominent figure stood apart from the others, watching with the intense gaze of a hawk sighting his prey. His long reddish hair waved in the wind. A deep scowl came to Ella’s face when she recognized him. Interrupting her thoughts, a soft knock sounded on the door before slowly opening. A young lass poked her head inside and smiled.

“Hello, my lady. My name is Jenny. I thought ye would like something to drink,” she said, as she placed a mug onto the table. “I am also the seamstress. I have been ordered to fit ye with a proper wardrobe while ye will be staying wit’ us.”

Ella turned her head away from the lass and glanced back out the window. She had no need for another dress; she was not planning to stay here much longer. Brushing against her, the maid briefly stood next to Ella and peeked out the window.

“Awe that be Laird Graham and his men. Train every morning they do,” the maid explained.

Ella felt the briefest of touches from the woman who laid a hand upon her shoulder before beginning to braid her hair. The touch was as uncomfortable as a hawk digging its talons into her shoulder. With a swift movement, Ella grabbed the woman’s hand and twisted it, removing it from her shoulder while digging her nails into the maid’s flesh. The maid yelped in pain, and Ella’s grip intensified. She did not like being touched. It was anything but comforting. When Ella released the hand, the maid quickly brought her arm to her chest and held it firmly. With tears in her eyes she ran out the door.

Ella had not intentionally meant to harm the young woman. But after what had happened in the woods with the strange men, unwanted touch had come to feel as unnerving as if the woman was peeling her skin off with the sharp end of a blade. She did not want comfort or kindness from these people. Kindness would indicate she was a guest and not a prisoner. She wished they would just leave her be.

Ella watched the warriors for a moment longer. She never imagined that arrogant bastard was Laird of this keep. As it was his responsibility to provide her care, she feared she would never get home. Whether they were training for battle, or simply honing their skills, they reminded her of her fellow warriors, and the war they were about to wage against the Kingdom of Greylyn.

If an image could tell a story or spark a memory, it was the image of these warriors that filled Ella with guilt. Had she not been so selfish, she would have been half way to Greylyn by now, leading her people to victory. Her choice to come here might have very well destroyed their only chance to defeat Talara once and for all.

From her chair, Ella placed her hands on the arm rests to pull herself up. With a deep breath, she took one step forward, trying to keep the weight off her ankle. As she shifted her weight from one side to the other, attempting to put the slightest possible pressure on her sprained ankle, Ella lost her balance and fell. Her rump hit the wooden floor, and her elbow slammed into the boards, bringing her descent to a halt. With a yelp, she cried out. Frustrated, vulnerable, and weak, Ella sat upright on the floor and wept.

Balling her fist, she hit her hand upon the wooden floor. The impact caused her hand to throb. Determined to try walking again, Ella tied the wrap on her ankle so tight her toes began to tingle. Slowly letting out a deep breath, she rose to her knees. Turning carefully on her knees to the chair behind her, she grasped the edge of it and pulled herself up to a standing position. If it took her all day, she was determined to walk.

Sliding her foot forward, she slowly added a little more pressure at a time. Soon, she was across the room and back again. Sitting back on the bed to allow her swollen ankle to rest, she unraveled the bandage and smiled, feeling satisfied with her accomplishment. Now all she needed was time.

Chapter 11

The next morning, Galen gathered with his clan in the great hall for the morning meal. Platters of scrambled eggs, dried fruit and freshly baked bread were scattered across the table. The chatter this morning had been quite lively amongst his men and even the dogs hiding beneath the table seemed to be in high spirits as they impatiently waited for scraps to fall onto the floor.

Across the room, Galen caught a glimpse of three of the maids whispering together. Within moments, Moira angrily hurried them back into the kitchen. Something was surely amiss. Grabbing onto a slice of bread, Galen broke a small piece and popped it in his mouth as he sat back and observed the women’s odd behavior. He was not accustomed to seeing them acting so suspiciously. It seemed they all shared some secret, and at first Galen did not want to impose.

He thought perhaps one of the young lassies had caught the eye of one of his men. Lord knew women gossiped all the time about such foolish things. But still, that did not explain Moira’s behavior. He had known Moira his whole life. Long enough to know when something was the matter.

Finishing his meal, he stood to start his day. He had plans to visit the market in Stonehaven. A new shipment of foreign goods should have arrived in port yesterday, and he was eager to check out the latest weaponry. As Galen was about to leave the hall Moira stopped him.

“My Laird, may I have a word. I do no’ mean to bother ye about this but I am havin’ a bit of trouble with the lassie upstairs. None of the staff is willing to go in and check on her. Just yesterday she attacked our wee Jenny, and this morning she tossed her tray of food at young Aishla. The lass is like a wild animal. If ye ask me, the lass needs a firm hand and a good whipping.”

“I will no’ argue with ye there. I will deal wit’ the matter. From now on, bring her meals to the guards. If she does no’ prefer the company of a woman tending to her needs perhaps she will feel differently when a mon tries to assist her.”

“Aye, my Laird.”

“For now, I will speak to her. I will just need to adjust my schedule. By the end of the week I suspect she will be healed. If I can figure out where she belongs, I will send her on her way as soon as the weather improves.

“Thank ye, my Laird.”

From what Moira had told him, this lass was coming to be a problem. It was obvious the lass was frightened, but he had no idea why. His staff had shown her nothing but the utmost care, and no one here had tried to lay a hand on her. Galen had to think that whatever happened to her was the cause of her skittish, defensive behavior. But like all things, the only way to calm a beast was to let them know you meant no harm. That was exactly what he was going to do.

Grabbing a platter of food, he headed up the stairs. Too busy training with his men and preparing for the winter, he’d had little time to worry about her. He left that responsibility to Moira. But now that the lass had scared all of the female servants in the castle, he had little choice but to be involved.

The lass had only been there two days, and already had caused this much chaos. What next? Galen thought perhaps her clan may very well tolerate her unruly behavior, but he did not. Once and for all, he would inform her of the expectations of his guests. The laws of highland hospitality were firmly established.

He walked down the long corridor to the staircase that led to the upper rooms. Led by impulse, Galen marched his way to the tower, taking the steps two at a time. He had no time to waste on such frivolous things as an ignorant, ungrateful lassie. Still, he was baffled by how she could strike fear into others. After all, who would be afraid of a mouse?

By the time he reached the third floor, he paused outside the tower room door, trying to cool his anger. His decision to take charge of the lass’s wellbeing caused his stomach to twist with apprehension. Attempting to care for her was beyond his knowledge and understanding of women. He knew nothing of the needs of a woman other than their desires beneath the sheets. This is ridiculous! I have led a hundred men into battle, wrestled a boar with my bear hands, and even dived off the cliffs at Tarbat Ness without breaking a sweat; surely I can manage a wee lass.

Taking a deep but firm breath, he swung the door open and stepped inside, expecting to find her lying in bed. But as he rushed into the room to give the lass a piece of his mind, he immediately collided with her. With instinctive, rapid movement, he quickly reached out and pulled her into his arms before they both lost their balance and tumbled to the ground. Why the hell is she standing in front of the door? She should be in bed healing.

As Galen peered down at the small lass in his arms, ready to scold her, he momentarily felt as if he had been turned to stone; motionless and speechless. The night he had come upon her, it was too dark to really get a good look at the lass, but now that she was face to face with him, he realized she was breathtakingly beautiful. How could such a wee creature cause so much chaos, as she had? Her dark green eyes sparkled like emeralds, and her pale blond hair curled around her soft pink cheek. Galen felt his anger beginning to slip away. He was never one to become easily moved or taken with a lass, but this one was beyond comparison. He gently released her but kept firm.

“Lassie, I have invited ye into my home and offer ye protection, and ye show nay gratitude when ye treat my staff the way ye have. If ye cannae accept help from the women, ye’ll have to settle wit’ dealing wit’ me.” Suddenly, the thought didn’t sound as bad as he’d imagined. He found her feistiness captivating.

~ ♥ ~

Ella had spent her morning exercising her ankle, by pacing the floor, when she was interrupted by a rude and overbearing woman who lectured her about properly healing. Frustrated with the woman’s constant nagging, Ella picked up the oatcake she offered and hurled it at her hoping she would understand the gesture and leave. Ella was not one to take orders. She gave them.

“Tis fer yer own protection,” were the last words the maid spoke before exiting the room.

Ella clenched her teeth as the maid left. My protection, she says! The only protection she needed was from Laird Graham, who was keeping her prisoner. Ella stared daggers at the door as if she had the power to blast right through it. Rising from the chair, she stood tall. She was going to find Laird Graham and give him a piece of her mind. She didn’t need the ability to speak to get her feelings across about how she felt. She would use blunt force if she had to.

As Ella neared the door, she was suddenly knocked off balance when she smacked right into a man’s hard chest, covered in soft leather. She noticed clean linen sleeves covered his arms, when with quick movements; he pulled her into him, preventing her from falling. With deliberation, her eyes bore into his. Pushing herself out of his hold, she adjusted her dress, wiped her cheek, and straightened her neckline. If there were an object in her reach that had not been bolted down, she would have grabbed onto it and hit him over the head with it, but against her luck no such object existed. Ella glanced up at the ignorant Laird with anger in her eyes.

His tousled red hair glistened in the light of the sun that shone through the window at the top of the stairwell. His chest fell with each breath, as if he had just finished running up twenty flights of stairs.

Ella did not know why, but there was something about him that riled her nerves. She felt something, but could not explain it nor could she tell if it was a positive emotion she felt or negative one. She’d felt it before, when he first brought her here. It was almost as if she knew him like they had some kind of connection. As she looked into his eyes, her thoughts seemed to ask a thousand questions all at once. How do I know ye? Ella searched his eyes for answers, but nothing indicated a response. Ella squirmed uncomfortably as he studied her.

The lass continued to stare at him, with an emotionless expression on her face. It made it difficult to judge whether she understood what he was saying. The way she looked at him, though, was as if she knew him. The funny thing was, he felt the exact same way.

“Lassie, I dinna mean to be hard on ye. I know that ye have been through a great ordeal, and I am sure ye must be frightened, but ye are safe here. Nay one will harm ye. I promise, once the weather warms I will be happy to take ye home.”

Violently, the lass shook her head. Galen thought perhaps home was where she had run away from. Mayhap going home was not what the lass had in mind.

“Lass, did ye run away from yer family, a husband, perhaps? I only ask because I need to know if I should be expecting some angry husband at my door demanding yer return.”

The lass shook her head again. Finally they were getting somewhere. After asking several more questions, he discovered that the lass was not married and not from the Highlands. That left him with two remaining options: she was either a stowaway and arrived here by boat, or she was English. Still, it left him with many questions. He had to find a way to make her feel safe and to determine who she was. To do that, he would have to spend time with her. He decided to skip his plan to go to the market today and spend the remainder of the afternoon here with her.

“I am no’ a mon of great conversation. I do no’ talk about myself, other than what people need to know, and it is no’ up for discussion either. As ye can no’ speak, that rules out any form of conversation as to who ye are and where ye hail from, which makes for a verra dull afternoon.”

Galen uncomfortably looked around the room as he noticed the lass taking interest in the platter of food. She had not eaten the meal brought to her this morning, and he had hoped that she would feel comfortable enough around him to eat.

The awkward silence was as unnerving as taking a dip in ice-cold water. Galen desperately searched for something quick-witted and clever to say, but nothing came to mind. Just beyond the far end of the wall, Galen noticed an old wooden bookcase in desperate need of repair. Behind a cluster of cobwebs, he noticed three books standing on end on top of a broken shelf.

“Do ye know how to read?” he asked, breaking the silence.

The lass shrugged her shoulders. Galen took that as a yes, but perhaps she did not read very well. Pushing himself up from the chair, he made his way across the room and picked up the three books, blowing the dust off their pages.

The first book was a ledger of the estate accounts of Ashbury written in his uncle’s handwriting; useless information written decades ago. Flipping through the pages of the second book, it appeared to have been written by a Spanish monk. The pages spoke of Christianity and prayer. Not the most appropriate read unless he was back at the priory. The third book, however, caught his eye. The cover was stained and the words faded. It read: Water of Life. He remembered the story well. It was a mythical legend of a man who fell in love with a selkie.

Placing the other two books back onto the shelf, Galen returned to the chair next to the bed. The lass’s eyes followed him. As he passed by the bed, he noticed the lass firmly holding onto a small black satchel that was resting on her lap. The fierce way she held it told him that it must be of some great importance to her. If he could find a way to acquire it, perhaps that would answer this mystery. Galen sat back in the chair and held the book up in the air.

“Perhaps a story?” he suggested, to help pass the time.

Galen opened the first page and began reading the opening line.

“The songbird beauty called me to the sea…”

Lying in bed, Ella tentatively listened to every word. His brogue and the elegant language he spoke enhanced the character portrayed in the story. He had a way of speaking that made her feel the emotions of the characters. By the time he was half way through the story, she had found herself creeping toward the edge of the bed wanting more. ‘Twas a love story like no other, and Ella inwardly smiled, feeling the passion and love between the two characters.

Before Ella knew it, the sun had long set and the story ended all too soon. Noticing that Galen had stopped reading in the middle of the book, she eyed him curiously. Why did he stop? What happened next?

Galen placed the book down upon the bedside table and glanced in her direction. His gaze was impassive and hard to read.

“I will continue the story tomorrow. It is getting late,” he said as he stood and left the room.

Once the door closed, Ella adjusted herself on the bed and looked back at the book. Though she could barely read the human language she was familiar with a few basic words. Picking up the book she began flipping through the pages. Trying to remember the words Galen spoke, she tried to sound out the letters for the words that were not familiar.

As Galen closed the door behind him, he reflected over how the lass inched closer toward him as he read nor could he have missed the entertained look upon her face. He had baited her like a fish. He could see his plan already working. He may not have learned much but it was a start. Tomorrow he would try again.

Chapter 12

Galen woke early to visit the lass before making his trip to the market. As he had hoped, the lass was beginning to respond to him. He had asked several more questions, but tried to be less invasive. Each time, he shared a little something more about himself. As he had done the night before, he only read a few chapters, leaving her wanting more.

The journey to Stonehaven was uneventful at best but most profitable. He managed to obtain several more weapons, spices for Moira, and new linens and fabrics for Jenny. Stonehaven was several hours north, and the journey took up most of his day. But it was necessary.

He had hoped to return to check on the lass before nightfall. Now that her ankle was practically healed and she was no longer confined to the bed, he had hoped she would join him tomorrow in the great hall for supper.

As soon as he returned and the supplies were taken care of, he finished his duties and went to check in on the lass. On his way to her room, he bumped his arm against a nail sticking out from the wall. The nail head dug deep across his skin, leaving a long gouge along his forearm. Using the end of his tunic, he wiped the blood clean and knocked on the door.

Stepping inside the room, he found the lass sitting in the chair near a roaring fire. The warmth of the room felt like a hot summer’s night. The lass looked at him awkwardly until he noticed that blood had dripped down his arm and begun dripping onto the floor, creating a small puddle beneath him.

“Awe, dinna mind that, Lassie. ‘Tis only a wee scratch.”

The lass stood and reached for his hand, dragging him to the chair. Galen sat as she began digging through the bag Evelyn had given her. Moments later, she kneeled down in front of him with a handful of bandages scrunched in her hand. Grabbing his arm, she dipped one of the bandages in the basin of water and cleaned the wound. Her touch was as gentle as a whisper, the softness of her fingers like daisy petals.

The lass tightly wrapped the bandage around his arm, securing it with a double knot. Once finished, she raised her head and looked at him. For the first time, he saw a side of her he had not thought was possible. She suddenly went from being the lioness to the innocent lamb. From behind the façade she used to mask her fear, she was beginning to come out of her shell.

“Thank ye,” he said.

The lass smirked. Her smile made her even more beautiful. Nervously, she stood and sat back down on the bed, keeping her distance. Galen found himself not wanting her to run away from him.

Ella sat back down on the bed. When she’d seen the blood dripping down his arm she feared he was severely injured. When he claimed it was a mere scratch, she knew better. Over the past two days, he had visited her several times throughout the day. Her feelings toward him were changing from utter irritation to respect. She started to find herself anxious for his visits, but convinced herself it was only because she wanted to hear more of the story. With only a few more pages left to read, she wondered if he would continue his daily visits.

As night was already upon them, Galen wished her goodnight and excused himself.

~ ♥ ~

Eager to spend his morning meal with the lassie to see how she fared, Galen grabbed a tray of food, enough for the both of them, and headed up to the tower room. He was starting to enjoy their quiet visits. On his way, he instructed his men to send up a tub and several buckets of hot water for his guest. It would be a kind gesture, and one that would ensure her trust in him.

Reaching the top step in front of the door, he softly knocked and waited, though it was foolish to think the mute lass would openly respond. Turning the iron handle, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room to find the lass was still sleeping.

Quietly, he lightly tiptoed to the side of the bed to place her tray onto the table. Not wanting to wake her, he began to turn and head back out the door until something caught his attention. Turning back to take a look, he noticed the lass’s brown leather satchel resting upon the floor. He couldn’t help but notice yesterday how she had clutched it in her hand.

Galen looked back at the lass, making sure he had not awakened her. When he was sure that she remained fast sleep, he bent down and picked up the bag. The lass was a mystery he wanted to solve, and perhaps this bag contained the answer. This satchel became the focus of his curiosity. What if this purse contained more than mere coins? What if it contained a hidden clan medallion or sacred jewels? Both would give him some idea, some inclination as to who she was.

Unraveling the straps, Galen emptied its contents out onto the palm of his hand. Six small unpolished grey stones with deep etched markings fell into his hand. These were not coins at all. There was no mistaking it; they were runes. It was evident that these reading stones were ancient from their worn appearance, and surface scratches made the images depicted on each one hard to see. Glancing back at the lass, Galen would not have guessed that she was a Seer.

These stones were just another puzzling clue. Galen placed the stones back into the bag and secured the straps so they looked as they had when he had found it. Gently, he placed the satchel onto the bed next to her hand. As he headed for the door, he heard the lass stirring in the bed behind him.

Turning around, he saw Ella sitting up in the bed smiling at him.

“Good morning, Lassie. I did no’ mean to wake ye. I was just checking on ye and wanted to see if ye were ready fer a bite to eat.”

The lass nodded her head.

“I have also asked for a tub to be brought up here. The warm water should be a great comfort,” Galen said, hoping to make her smile.

Sitting in the chair near the bed, Galen picked up the book and continued the story where he’d left off. Once he finished the story, he glanced up at the lass. Her eyes widened, and he could swear he saw a half smile. It warmed his heart to see the lass so content. Her transformation was exciting to see. More than anything Galen wanted to learn more about her, but the speech barrier stood in his way.

As Galen looked at her, Ella could see his hardened wall coming down. From the moment they’d met, she had only seen him restrained and domineering, but now he seemed much more relaxed. He spoke of the castle’s history and that of his clan, but kept himself a secret, never speaking of his past or his future. She wondered why he kept his life so private. Perhaps he had a dark past or had experienced something tragic, and talking about the memory was too much to bear.

Over the past few days, she had spent more time with him than anyone in her whole life. She found herself beginning to care about what he thought of her. From the time she woke up, she eagerly waited for him to return and regale her with more stories about himself and his clan. Her view of humans slowly started to change. Little by little, she began to realize that they were not the savages she had always thought them to be. Galen had been patient and very kind. With him, she was not afraid. He made her feel comfortable and safe.

Shortly after, a few men entered the room with a large wooden tub and six large buckets of hot, steaming water. They poured the water into the tub and laid out a towel. Steam from the water rose in the air. Ella inwardly smiled, not wanting to show too much excitement. The large men finished preparing the bath and left.

“Now that the lads have brought ye in a bath, will ye be needing anything else?” he asked, searching her eyes for an answer.

The lass shook her head.

“If ye are up to leaving this room, I would verra much like ye to join me fer dinner.”

Standing stoically in a docile fashion, she nodded her head in acceptance.

“Well, I will leave ye to bathe,” he said as she looked between him and the tub. Without warning, the lass yanked at her dress. In a blink of an eye, the dress pooled to her waistline then dropped down to the floor. Galen’s eyes widened with embarrassment.

He shied away, quickly diverting his eyes, looking anywhere but at the naked lass standing in front of him. Raising his hand to the nape of his neck, he rubbed his tense muscles as he was left speechless. He had not expected that to happen.

In just one glance, his eyes had taken in more details than if he had stared at a painting for an entire lifetime. How could he have not noticed her creamy-looking skin, the slender curve of her hips or her well-rounded, ample breasts? How would he ever get this image out of his head? Bloody hell!

Without looking at her, he managed to stutter out, “Lass, I would be more than happy to send up one of the maids to assist ye.”

In the corner of his eye he saw movement. Watching her shadow on the wall, he could see that she moved from the middle of the room nearer to the tub. He heard the sound of water splashing onto the floor as she stepped in and sat down. Once he was certain she was fully submerged, he took a chance and glanced back. Her green eyes somehow glistened in the candlelight. The tips of her long hair floated above the water like seaweed as it clung to her chest. Galen was more than mesmerized. He was downright bewitched. Why the hell am I still standing here like a bloody fool?

“I will see ye this evening,” he said, as he hurried himself out the door.

Ella chuckled at Galen’s odd behavior. Had he never seen a woman’s body before? She found it quite amusing how he stumbled all over himself. There was much amusement watching a man so strong and stern stammer like an idiot. Perhaps he had a weakness after all. If only she could use that weakness to her advantage.

Ella felt herself melting down deeper into the tub. The warm water worked in an instant, relaxing her muscles and calming her senses. She had felt nervous about joining him for dinner. But she did not want to pass up the opportunity to spend more time with him. He invaded her thoughts from morning to night and every moment in between. From the way he looked at her, to how he made her feel, she felt a fire within her whenever he was near. A fire she desired, just as a moth was attracted to a flame.

Ella lay in the tub until the water had long cooled. She stood, and with the towel wrapped around her, she moved next to the fire to dry herself. The soft warm glow was as comforting as a soft blanket safely wrapped around her keeping her warm and protected. As she brushed her hair the natural curls began to twine around each other as they lay across her shoulders and spiraled down her back. Next to the chair, Ella noticed the bag Evelyn had provided. Unlacing the ribbon that held it closed, she pulled out the deep blue gown to wear.

Chapter 13

Galen sat in the great hall with his fellow clansmen as Moira and the other kitchen maids filtered out of the kitchen serving the evening meal. On the high table next to Galen sat Alex, Brandon, his longtime friend and second in command, and master archer James.

Speaking to his men about his plans to bring the war with McGregor to an end, Galen noticed their eyes flickering away from him. Something distracted them, and apparently it was more important than discussing the matter at hand.

Turning his head to see what had caught their eyes; his mouth was left agape at the breathtaking image nervously standing at the top of the stairs. Draped in a dark blue gown, the dazzling beauty on the top step shined down like a midnight star.

“She is a fair beauty,” Alex said in a lowered tone. “I have a mind to introduce myself to the lass.”

“Oh nay, Alex, no’ again,” Brandon whined. “Ye do remember what happened the last time ye became fond of a lass? Ye almost started a war with the MacLaren clan. Paid thirty silver for that debacle, and I believe some cattle as well.”

“Aye, but I dinna have intentions of marrying the MacLaren’s daughter.”

“Aye and that be the reason we had to save yer arse last time, if I recall,” Brandon reminded him.

The men at the table laughed at Alex’s folly, but Galen kept his eyes fixed on the lassie as she glided down the staircase. Like a soft wind blowing against a delicate flower, she moved gracefully. Her tiny waist and hips swayed in perfect rhythm when she walked. It reminded him of church bells on Sunday morning as they swung back and forth. For a lass who couldn’t talk, she had away about her that could light up a room. The thought of the lassie with any man, even Alex, strangely angered Galen. He thought her to be too vulnerable for a man to be pining over. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“This lass will be different. Women love my charm,” Alex continued.

“Aye, they be lovin’ something, but I dinna think tis yer charm,” Brandon joked.

Ella stood on the top step. The open hall allowed her to see the many people in the room below. As several took notice of her, the room seemed to fall silent despite the loud chatter she’d heard upon her advance. She felt as if all eyes were on her. The muscles in her stomach began to flutter like a swarm of tiny butterflies. She felt she had no guard against these people, no shield to hide behind.

She spotted Galen sitting at the far table, smiling up at her. When they were together she felt a sort of peace only felt before in her dreams. Somehow they were linked, connected in this life as if they were two halves to a whole. It was most certainly not love at first sight, though she would not deny her attraction, but something deeper, more powerful; as if fate had brought them together. But she had yet to know why.

Sitting next to Galen were three other men. To his right, an unshaven man with black hair and a maroon-colored tunic flashed a smile in her direction. The two blonde-haired men on Galen’s left paid her no attention.

With a deep breath, she lifted the skirt of her gown and descended the stairs. Her eyes locked on Galen. Food had already been served; the tables were full, and people had already begun eating. Walking toward the head table, she stepped up on the dais where Galen had pulled out the chair next to him.

“My lady,” he said, as he pushed in her chair once she sat.

As she approached, the man seated next to her glanced over their shoulders with wide eyes and jaws slacked open. She was grateful the table was not round, giving them a direct view.

The man with the black hair who sat next to her on the opposite side of Galen turned his chair toward her.

“My lady. My name is Alex Monroe Montgomery. I am the Laird’s high guard and advisor. O’er here, ye see Brandon and James, but pay no’ heed to them. Ye can call me Alex,” he said as he snatched her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it.

Ella retracted her hand as Alex scooted his chair even closer to hers.

“Allow me,” he said, as he filled her mug to the rim.

Ella picked up the drink and took a small sip. Warm liquid suddenly burned the back of her throat, as if she drank liquid fire. Coughing profusely, she began to panic. Throwing one hand to her throat and the other to her chest, she thought she had been poisoned. Fear escalated.

Galen quickly slid his mug in front of her.

“Here, drink this. Tis water.”

Ella grabbed the mug from his hand. The water instantly cooled the back of her throat.

“Better?”

Ella nodded, intermittently coughing.

“Have ye ne’er tasted whiskey before lassie?” Alex asked. Ella turned to him and the other men as well. Anger rose within her as they tried to hide their smiles.

“Dinna mind them. Whiskey tis like water, but ye must have a taste fer it,” Galen assured her.

Ella curled her nose at his comment. It was nothing like water. Devil’s spit or dragon’s fire was a better comparison. She took small bits of her trencher’s offering. The food tasted rich and salty compared to her normal bland diet, but it was filling. Midway through the meal, a group of men began playing music in the corner of the room.

As the music played, Ella found herself smiling and slightly bobbing her foot up and down. It was a lovely, cheerful tune. It was as if they chose the beat to match the tempo of her heart. Several people around her stood and started dancing about the room; at least, she thought it was dancing. Ella giggled though she tried to hide it.

In her world, music was a part of her everyday life, but it was nothing like this. It was much more calm and orderly. There was even a time when the sun rose, and the sound of music could be heard as the flowers and trees greeted the new day. The flowers would bloom and the leaves would uncurl from the cold night to absorb the light and warmth of the sun. But that was before the Uprising.

Turning in her chair, she looked over at Galen. Dressed in a white tunic with a tartan sash hanging from his right shoulder, he looked very handsome. Galen raised an eyebrow, as if he wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps not being able to speak was a good thing, as Ella knew she had a wicked tongue.

“Would ye care to dance?” Alex asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Dance? Though she knew very well how to dance, it was nothing like how the humans were doing it. That was not dancing! They looked as if they were a herd of crazed cattle running around in circles.

Ella indecisively furrowed her brows. Looking at her with sad eyes, he asked again. Biting her lower lip, Ella accepted only to stop him from asking again. Alex eagerly smiled and held his arm out to her. Placing her hand lightly upon it, she allowed him to escort her onto the floor. Ella quickly noticed his pleasant mannerism change from polite conversation to sweet words. Swinging her around the dance floor, she made every attempt to keep her distance and avoid eye contact. Though he was a handsome man, she felt nothing for him in return.

Seeing Alex and the lass together tore through Galen like a raging storm. Alex was a good man, and any lass would be honored to catch his attention. But the jealous monster within Galen was ready to break free, eager to drop Alex on his arse and bury him if he gave any indication of moving beyond flirtation.

Galen did not once remove his eyes from them. He kept close attention to where Alex placed his hands. With his palms beginning to sweat, Galen ever so patiently waited for the song to end. He swore the song was the longest he had ever heard. By the saints, when is this bloody thing going to end!

The crowd cheered for an encore as the musicians jumped right into the next song, without a pause in between. Galen had had just about enough watching Alex paw his hands on the lass. Bolting up from his chair, he briskly walked toward them.

“Forgive me, but may I have this next dance?” he asked, stepping into the vacant spot between them.

Alex bowed and stepped aside as Galen moved to her front. Standing so close, he was about a head taller. He could smell the scent of primrose in her hair and milled lavender soap upon her skin. Her skin. Delicate and creamy as butter. Suddenly, Galen was transported back to the memory of her naked flesh. On the outside he remained unchanged, but inwardly his body began to ache with need.

Ella sighed in relief when Galen came in between them. One dance with Alex was one dance too many, she decided.

“May I?” he asked, as he held his hand up to wrap it around her waist.

How could she refuse him when every part of her wanted to be held in his arms? The idea of being close to him sent chills down her spine and caused her heart to quicken.

With a sharp thrust, he pulled her body closer to his. Ella bit her bottom lip to calm her nervous trembling. There was no doubt he could feel every shiver and shake her bones made. Stay calm, stay calm, she repeated like a mantra to herself as she attempted to draw in slow, calming breaths.

Holding a woman in his arms never felt more right. He was drawn to her like a bee is to honey. Though she was a mute and he knew nothing of her, Galen found the lass enchanting. Her subtle giggles, the way she blushed when he was near, even her body language spoke loud and clear of her character and personality. If only the lass could speak, all of his questions would be answered. There was never a secret he could not crack or a riddle he could not answer, but this lass was a mystery that might never be solved, and it drove him absolutely crazy. It only made him want her more.

After another song, then another, Ella could feel herself melting against his chest. Heat radiated off him in waves, and she thought he could probably warm the whole room if it continued. Ella took in a deep breath. He smelled of musk with a hint of lavender and thyme.

As they continued to dance, Ella felt as if she was lifted from the ground and dancing on air. Before she knew it, the song had ended and Galen still held her in his arms.

“Would ye care to take a walk wit’ me?”

Ella nodded. Galen escorted her down a long corridor, walking by her side. Hanging along the walls were several lit sconces offering just enough light to see the portraits and tapestries that adorned the hallway. Relatives of Galen, he explained, as he enlightened her with their stories and legacies. Ella listened attentively as Galen described the lively works of art they passed. He mentioned that he used to live here as a child before his mother died, but after her death he was sent to live at the priory.

The corridor led to a single door at the end of the hall. Galen pushed open the door and escorted her inside. The room had a feminine-like quality, with beautifully embroidered tapestries, dried flowers still in a vase, and a mountain of books.

“This was my mother’s sitting room. I have no’ been in this wing of the castle since she died.”

Ella eyed him suspiciously. Why had he brought her here? By his expression this room caused him much distress, and it was the first time he had shown deep emotion.

“She died when I was a young lad. I ne’er knew my father. Ye would have liked my mother. She was a lot like ye. Beautiful, stubborn to a fault, and quiet,” he chuckled.

“Lassie, I must tell ye that o’er the past few days, I have experienced something I have ne’er felt before. From the moment I laid eyes on ye ‘twas like we have some connection. Every morning, from the moment I wake, I cannae seem to get ye off my mind. It’s distracting and aggravating. But when I see yer smile, tis like the sun and I’d wait all day for just a glimpse. I cannae explain, it but even now am having difficulty controlling myself from kissing ye. This would be so much easier if ye could talk. Then at least I would know if ye were thinking I be a damn bloody fool fer telling ye all this or if ye felt the same even in its smallest measure,” he said as he crept closer to her.

Ella stood frozen. She had no idea how to react, and if she had the words she would not know what to say. No one had ever spoken to her so honestly before. His confession lit a flame of passion within her that she never knew existed. Suddenly, she forgot how to breathe.

Placing his finger under her chin, he tilted her head upwards so his face met hers. Slowly and cautiously, he leaned toward her until their lips were a mere breath away. Ella could feel his hot breath upon her lips. For the briefest moment, she felt his lips softly brush against hers. The light touch sent chills. For a moment he paused, as if asking for permission to continue. Ella slightly parted her lips, and with no argument or hesitation, Galen pressed his lips to hers in a hard and passionate kiss.

A feverish sensation began to heat her core as he placed a hand against her lower back and pressed her whole body against his. The kiss felt like Fae magic looked when a spell began to take hold. Tingles sparked throughout her body, and colors seemed to shimmer around her, sending waves of passion and desire whirling around her. Ella was tempted to wrap her arms around him and run her fingers through his hair to see if he would disappear, but kept her hands firmly to her sides.

Relaxing her tense shoulders, she relished this moment, but as her guard began to dissolve in the magic of his kiss, reality began to creep in.

This is wrong. I can’t do this. Ella ripped herself from his arms. This was not supposed to happen. She had gotten so caught up in the moment that she had forgotten entirely about her purpose for being here. How could she have forgotten that she’d left when her people needed her the most? On the brink of war, she deserted them and for what? To fall for a human? Ella’s eyes grew misty. Struggling to suppress her emotions, she ran from the room.

Galen watched as the lass ran out the door. Gut-wrenching guilt twisted his nerves like iron chains. What was I thinking? Pacing back and forth, he wondered if he should let her be, but chose to run after her instead. At the top of the tower stairs, he nervously pounded on the door. He knew what he’d done was wrong, and did not want to end the night knowing he had offended her. Galen knocked again and begged for her to open, but she did not answer. Noticing the door was unlatched; he opened it and looked inside. The room was dark and empty. She was gone.

Chapter 14

With everyone distracted in the great hall, Ella was able to slip out unnoticed. Standing alone, she realized this would be her best opportunity to leave, while there were no guards to watch her. She ran out the door into the bailey. Ella flinched when she heard the sound of horses behind her. Heading in their direction, but staying in the shadows, she followed the noise to a large wooden building, which she realized was the stable.

Ella walked into the stables to find six horses locked up and rustling within their stalls. Peeking over the stall door at one of them, she saw its sad eyes beckoning her. Much smaller than her own horse, this one had lovely braided hair and a grey coat. Acting on her first instinct, she planned on escaping but knew they would only follow her. There was only one thing to do.

Ella opened the first stall door. The tall creature’s hooves dug into the ground and began to prance about. Ella smiled at its delight. Within moments it galloped out the door, as free as a bird. Ella then ran to each stall and unlocked them all, freeing each of the horses from their prisons. As the ruckus grew louder, the sound of a door slamming and people shouting alarmed Ella. She quickly mounted the grey beauty, headed out the door, and rode through the gate toward home.

The lass was nowhere to be found. Galen heard chaos and commotion wafting through the window from the bailey. He raced to the window to find men chasing after several free-running horses. With speed like lightning, he ran down the stairs and outside to ascertain the situation. Galen gave an ear-piercing whistle for his horse that was running loose along the castle wall. What the bloody hell was going on? The grey stallion returned to its master, nudging up against him. Galen grabbed the horse’s mane, hopped on its back, and hurried the animal back to the stables.

“What the bloody hell happened?” Galen asked aloud, when he saw Alex and Peter coming toward him, holding onto reins in each hand as they led two other runaway horses back to the stables.

“Twas the lass, my Laird. She stole a horse and released the others. The guards saw her riding toward the gate but lost track of her in the confusion. I think she meant to distract the guards,” Peter explained.

“Ye mean to tell me the foolish lass raced off, out into the bloody cold, alone?”

“Aye, my laird.”

Galen thought he had finally gotten through to her and was starting to understand her, but this foolish act angered him beyond belief. What was she thinking? What if she got lost out in this frigid weather? What if she got hurt? Anger and frustration masked his fears.

“We must go after her. The lass dinna know this land and could verra well get lost. This area is hard to travel, even fer men. Ye there! Head to the west. I will head north. She couldna’ have gotten far in this weather,” Galen instructed his guards.

“Aye, my Laird,” Peter responded, after some hesitation.

~ ♥ ~

Racing through the forest, the only thing on Ella’s mind was putting distance between her and Castle Dunquest. If she were lucky, she would stumble upon the doorway back to her own realm and leave this place once and for all.

Ella’s horse jerked its head from side to side and skidded to a halt, throwing her off. Landing on her right shoulder and hip, Ella lay there for a moment shocked. Waves of pain radiated down her spine. Rolling onto her side, she sat up. The horse stood on its hind legs, kicked its front legs into the air, and took off in a full gallop. What the bloody hell is the matter with that beast?

Before Ella had a chance to consider why the horse was spooked, a series of growls came from behind her. Slowly, she turned. She sucked in her breath when she saw a gigantic wolf crouched, as if deciding whether to pounce or stalk her. In the cold air, its hot breath floated in front of its face, like a miniature cloud.

Sinking its shoulder low to the ground, poised to pounce, its ear twitched. Ella flinched. She knew this was it. This was how she was going to die: being torn to pieces by a beast. With each growl, the beast exposed its sharp fangs, and spittle began dropping from its lips. Ella only had fleeting moments if she was to flee, but instead she sat still and waited for death to come for her. Even if she attempted to stand, the wolf would be on her faster than she could do anything to defend herself.

Ella felt drained and defeated. In this world she was nothing. To live each day in fear, having no control over her destiny, was mind boggling. She felt trapped, as if she were at the bottom of an endless pit or deep well with no hope of survival. Her pulse hammered, her eyes dilated, and her bottom lip trembled as she stared into its bloodshot eyes.

Suddenly, Galen jumped between her and the monstrous beast. His timing was impeccable. He drew his sword, the metal scraping along the inside of the scabbard. What was it about this moment that made it seem so familiar?

“Stay behind me,” Galen said, whispering his instruction over his shoulder in a deep raspy voice.

Ella scrambled to her feet and hid behind a nearby tree. The wolf snarled and angrily leapt toward Galen for interfering with its meal. With a white knuckled grip Galen swung his sword, slashing the side of the wolf’s face. Blood spewed onto the white snow. The wolf whimpered, but continued its attack. Galen forcefully kicked him away, making contact with the side of its jaw, but he was a moment too late.

The wolf took hold of the top of his boot, and locking his massive jaw around the leather, pulled Galen down flat on his back. The sword flew several feet out of reach. Thrashing its head from side to side, the wolf looked as if he was trying to sever Galen’s leg in a game of tug and war. With his free leg, Galen kicked repeatedly but the wolf’s powerful grip was unyielding.

Galen pulled his captured leg with all his strength, successfully slipping his foot out of the boot. With heightened reflexes of a warrior, Galen managed to snatch the dirk hidden in a special sheath in the boot’s cuff as his foot slipped out and caused the wolf to lose its footing. With one forceful thrust, Galen came to his feet and stabbed the dirk into the heart of the beast.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Galen stood and retrieved his sword, placing it back in the scabbard at his side. Crunching snow caught his attention, and the lass came out from behind the tree. She looked affright. Had he shown up a minute later, she would have been dead. Her teary eyes and frightened expression pulled at Galen’s heart strings.

Emotions clashed inside of him; fear, anger and relief. His brow furrowed at the sight of her, but right now was not the time to lecture.

The lass ran to him, stumbling into his arms. Galen could feel her trembling in his embrace. Whether it was from cold or fear, he held her close, offering her comfort. He was so angry when he left the castle to go out after her. Now he just wanted to hold the lass in his arms, thankful she was still alive.

“Tis alright now Lassie,” he said, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything further.

Together, they walked through the blowing snow back to where he’d left his horse. Lifting the lass into the air, he set her on top of the saddle and mounted behind her. They raced back to the castle with her in his arms.

Ella could not help feeling remorse and guilt for what she had done. For her ignorance, not only had she almost gotten herself killed, but Galen as well. Why had he come after her? Why had he risked his life for her? She wondered if the roles were reversed, she would have done the same. Being here made her question many things about herself and her past actions. Before coming here she knew she never would have given this man a second thought. If he wished to die out in the cold, she would have simply let him. Had she always been so cold-hearted?

Wrapped in his arms, Ella peered up at him. Galen gave her a distant and familiar look. It was a look of dismissal, a look Ella had seen before, the very same look she gave to those who stood before her in the temple when she judged their fate. Now Galen was judging her.

Galen rode the entire way back without saying a word. He needed to find the right words to say. Had she been one of his men, he would’ve scolded her and considered meting out a few lashes, but if he had not kissed her, she never would have run away in the first place.

“Lass, do ye have no’ sense about ye? Ye could have been killed. And ye put me and my men in danger as well. Ye must promise me that ye will no’ do anymore foolish things. Ye are no’ a prisoner, but I verra well cannae allow ya to leave this castle unattended in the middle of a winter storm. If the wolf had nae killed ye, the storm might have. I promised ye that once the storm passes I will take ye home to yer family. Now, do ye promise to no’ runaway again?”

Galen waited for her to nod before letting her down from the horse. Narrowing her eyes, the stubborn lass held out for a moment, as if she was considering another option. Once she complied, he dismounted first. Holding his arms up to grab her waist, he set her down and released her. Immediately, she turned and walked back into the castle. Galen wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms and kiss every inch and curve of her body, but he would be cautious the next time he attempted any advances.

Chapter 15

For the next two days Ella did not leave her room and refused visitors. Not because the door was barred shut, or she was shackled in chains, but from fear of her developing feelings for Galen. In such a short time she had become a traitor. Had someone at home done so, she would have followed through with a harsh punishment.

Each day Galen came to visit her, but she had to restrain herself from opening the door.  If Galen learned the truth about her, it would change everything. She needed to keep her distance, and he needed to be nothing more to her than just a means to return home.

Ella sat solemnly on the chair facing the window. The weather had taken a turn for the worse as a wicked storm blew in. She spent her days paging through the book and watching the peasants in the bailey below clearing away snowdrifts and shoveling walking trails between the outbuildings.

For two days the sky had been dark and gloomy, much like her mood, but on the third day the sky lightened as the sun struggled to peek through the congested clouds. Sunbeams burst through the clouds, sending down shards of light like spears pointing toward the earth.

Tired of her self-imposed solitude, Ella grabbed her leather satchel and dumped the runes out into her palm. Rotating them within her hand, she fiddled with them for a long while before she asked her question. When will I return home? Opening her palm out flat, she searched for her answer.

Each of the stones was face down, only revealing their black, unmarked side. It was the most puzzling and peculiar thing. She had asked the same question over a dozen times. She had shuffled them, rotated them, even shook them up in her hands, and each time, the stones faced downward, not giving her a hint of an answer. The first half dozen times, Ella had become so frustrated she threw the stones repeatedly against the wall, cursing them, but now she just felt drained. Ella thoughtlessly stared out the window.

Drops of water fell from the window casing and dripped into a small puddle on the windowsill as the snow on the roof began to melt. The constant tapping sound was like seconds of time passing by. There was a reason the portal opened when it had. There was a reason she’d heard a voice calling out to her. And there was a reason she was meant to be here. It was why the stones had not given her the answer she wanted. The answer was still out there waiting for her to find it. And it was maddening that it was taking this long.

~ ♥ ~

Galen slammed the ledger down on his desk. His mind was clouded, making it hard to concentrate on anything. No matter how hard he tried, life always had a way of kicking him in the balls.

“I have reconciled this damn thing twice, and still these counts dinna make sense.”

Sitting opposite him, the look in Alex’s eyes was unnerving. It was as if he too mocked Galen’s inability to count. After spending so much time with the lass, Galen had begun to notice that facial expressions and body language spoke volumes, and had become like a second language to him.

“What?” Galen impatiently asked.

“Forgive me, but I have noticed that ye have been verra distracted as of late.”

“Why do ye say that?”

“In all honesty, I have explained the situation of the missing inventory three times, only ye have no’ been listening. Tis like ye are here, but also someplace else.”

Had Galen not been of sound mind and body, he felt his mind was so scrambled that he could very well believe he were in multiple places at once. With his elbow resting on the top of the desk, he rested his head in his hands. Alex was right. He had not been able to concentrate on his work since his quarrel with the lass two nights ago. She had been nothing but a distraction since she had come here. She had gotten under his skin, and he did not even know her bloody name. How could he have fallen so hard for a lass he knew nothing about?

Alex chuckled.

“What the hell are ye laughing about?”

“Only that I must say ‘tis about bloody time!”

“Bloody time for what?”

“That ye have found a lass who fights with as much passion and conviction as ye do. Tis no’ a secret that ye care fer the lass. Love can transpire even when ye least expect it. And it does no’ matter that she canna speak. Sometimes, love is more than just words.”

“Even if I did think highly of the lass, she will no’ even see me. I was verra hard on her when she ran away, and has kept her here against her will only to protect her. I yelled at her but I realize now that I wasn’t even mad.”

“Stubborn lassies are known to hold a grudge or two. Tis how they keep their hold on us men.”

Galen knew there was only one thing he could do to make her happy: keep his promise. With the passing of the storm, Galen knew the weather would be warm enough for travel. As he packed for the journey, he made certain they had enough provisions to last a week and enough coin to last a month. His only hope was that the threat McGregor held against his clan held off long enough for him to return. He could just as easily send one of his men to escort the lassie home, but as Laird he felt obligated, not to mention his own selfish reasons for doing so.

When he finished packing and making arrangements, he headed up to the tower room. Once he reached the door, he knocked softly. Knowing she would not answer, he chose to speak to her through the door.

“Lassie, I know ye are angry wit’ me, and I dinna fault ye fer that. Ye have a reason to be. I will admit I was angry when ye ran away. No’ because I wish to keep ye here, but because I was… afraid. I was afraid that something bad could have happened to ye and I would no’ have reached ye in time. The truth is, I am no’ as brave as ye are. Each day ye have surprised me and I find that most alluring about ye. My intentions all along were to take ye home. I never mean to make ye feel like a prisoner here, and I did no’ meant to frighten ye away when I kissed ye. I am begging fer yer forgiveness. Therefore, I have come to tell ye that the weather has warmed and I am ready to take ye where ever it is ye wish to go. ”

Galen stopped speaking when he heard the sound of chair legs scooting across the floor followed by soft footsteps nearing the door. Slowly, the handle turned and the door opened. Galen took a breath of relief. Looking down at the lass, her unparalleled beauty left him breathless. Dressed in a ruby-red gown with her hair braided to one side she looked like a temptress. For the first time in a long while, he felt grounded, complete. Something he hadn’t felt since he was young.

“I meant every word. It was probably the most open and honest thing I have ever said before. Are ye ready to go home?”

The lass looked at him as if she’d just been given her freedom. Her eyes glistened with happiness, which was more than Galen would have expected. With a soft smile, she nodded.

“We leave within the hour.”

Chapter 16

The horse trotted gracefully through the heavy snow. Galen saw no need to pick up the pace, which Ella was grateful for. He informed her that they were heading toward the village where he had found her in hopes that she could lead him the rest of the way. But there were two problems with that plan. For starters, she had no idea where the portal was. The second problem with this plan was him. She could not very well just walk through a magical portal and hope that he would think nothing of it. She was going to have to find the tree and convince him to trust her enough to leave her. But she knew that was not going to be easy.

Ella had hoped that her anxiety would distract her enough to ignore the fact that Galen had his arm tightly wrapped around her waist, but it was no use. It was pure torture. She wanted nothing more than to have his arms wrapped around her, to feel his lips on hers again. Conflicted by what she wanted to do and what needed to be done tore through her like a dull knife. A part of her wanted to return to her world, yet the other half wanted him as well. She could not have both.

Her anxiety started to build once the village came into view. She felt like bursting into tears. I must be strong, she told herself. It will all be over soon.

Before Ella knew it, they rode up to Evelyn’s cottage. It had seemed like a lifetime had passed since she had been there.

“There is something I need to take care of before we leave. If ye wish, ye can visit wit’ Evelyn until I return.”

Galen dismounted and led the horse to the stable with Ella still sitting in the saddle. Once inside the barn, he lifted his arms and firmly grabbed onto her waist. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. For a moment she stood before him, looking up at him in deafening silence. His eyes looked sad, and his face looked tired and forlorn. It made her feel worse. Senseless wishes, she thought, as her mind asked a thousand “what if” questions.

If she had her voice and could say anything, she would thank him. Not only had he saved her twice, but had she never come here she would never have experienced such passion, such fervor. He had given her wonderful memories that she would cherish forever. Ella rose to her toes and placed a soft kiss to his cheek. She paused before lowering herself back to the ground. The smell of him drew her in like an aphrodisiac. She trembled, wanting to touch him. The tension between them was almost palpable. Her longing caused a pain in her chest. Ella parted her lips. She leaned toward him and looked into his eyes.

The tension shattered like glass as Evelyn entered the barn. Ella jolted back as if she was afraid of being caught in his arms.

“I thought I saw someone ride up,” she cheerfully said. “Lassie, tis good to see ye. Ye are looking well. Where are ye two headed?”

“I am taking the lass home,” Galen replied.

“I see. Well, if ye have time fer a short visit, I just made some vegetable stew. It will fill yer bellies fer yer journey.”

“Thank ye. Why dinna ye and the lass head inside? I will be in shortly.”

Galen’s voice was gruff with emotion. Evelyn linked her arm through Ella’s and started heading out the door. Ella turned her head back at Galen. Their eyes locked until Ella disappeared through the barn’s door and headed toward the cottage.

Galen sat down on the bench behind him. Not wanting to read too much into the lass’ actions, he assumed the kiss was nothing more than a show of appreciation. The lass had no idea how hard it was for him not to just grab her and ravish her right then and there in the barn. To hell with what Evelyn would have thought if she had caught them together. Riding together on the horse was pure temptation, and he guessed he still had several more days until he returned her to her people. He didn’t know how much more he could take. Perhaps he should ask Warrick to continue the journey the rest of the way.

Taking a deep breath, he stood to gain his bearings. Wiping his hand down his face, he headed toward the cottage. Inside he found Evelyn, Warrick and the lass sitting around the table enjoying a hot meal. Galen sat down with them as Evelyn handed him a bowl of stew. He couldn’t take his eyes off the lass.

Before Evelyn had interrupted had them in the barn he could have sworn something was about to happen between them. The atmosphere had changed, and he’d seen longing in her eyes.

Her belly full, Ella pushed the bowl away and smiled at Evelyn in gratitude for the meal. With her hands resting on her lap, she nervously fidgeted with her fingers. She knew that she and Galen would head out soon, while the sun was still high in the sky. Throughout the meal, she kept taking small glances toward Galen. Each time she looked he seemed to be stealing glances as well, as if the two of them shared a secret.

Galen, however, seemed to keep himself occupied speaking with Warrick about battle with another clan. Apparently his clan was at war with another. It sounded very much like the conflict in her own world between the two kingdoms. She felt disturbed thinking of Galen heading off to battle, but wasn’t that exactly what she was doing?

“Come wit’ me, Lassie. Let’s leave these men to their talks of war and self-approbation. Ye and I can have a more lady-like conversation of much more interesting gossip. There is much I wish to share.”

Arm in arm, Ella walked with Evelyn out the back door and through what appeared to be a strange type of building full of plants and herbs. Evelyn spoke of her excitement for her bairn to be born and shared with her the list of names she had picked out if it were a wee lad or a lass.

“Pardon my intrusion, but I must thank ye. I have never seen my cousin as happy as he is today. He had hardened over the years, and for the first time in what has seemed like forever he has no’ been able to stop smiling. Something tells me that ye might have something to do with that. Tis quite obvious ye share his feelings as well.”

Ella felt her cheek blush with embarrassment. Was it that obvious?

“Dinna be ashamed. I think it is positively wonderful. I dinna want to overstep my place, but I do hope that ye consider my cousin a good mon. He may be a bit hard-headed and arrogant at times, but he is a good mon. Just… sometimes, he dinna always let people in. Come, I want to show ye something.”

Ella followed Evelyn outside down a beaten path, listening to the constant prattle of Evelyn’s interesting stories. Evelyn explained that her child was the first bairn to be born within the village after almost a decade. The wee town of Ferryden feared for their children after a terrible tragedy.

Evelyn directed her to a small fenced-in cemetery with a cluster of headstones. Evelyn opened the gate and the two of them walked through the row of gravestones.

“These are the graves of the children who used to live in the village. Ten years ago there was a wicked storm, but the truth behind what happened is still not known. Everyone in the village said that the children got caught out in the storm and died. But they ne’er found the bodies. The graves themselves are empty, but it dinna feel right no’ to have a place of mourning. Galen, on the other hand, believes something quite different. The night of the storm, he went on some crazy rant about the children. He claimed that a woman took them. Of course, as ye can imagine, the elders in the village thought him mad. When Galen refused to stop his allegations they banished him. He left fer a good six years before returning. He refuses to talk about it, but I know that he still believes what he saw. He was convinced that a witch took them; a Fae witch, of all things. Just between ye and I, there have no’ been stories of the Fae on Scottish soil for hundreds of years, and there has no’ been a sighting in over a century. If ye ask me, they are no more real than a mon who could predict the rain,” Evelyn confessed.

At the mention of the Fae, Ella’s eyes shot wide open. The allegation of a Fae kidnapping human children seemed absurd. Why would someone do such a thing? As they reached the last grave marker, Evelyn crouched down.

“This last one was my cousin’s childhood friend. He will no’ admit it, but I know he misses her verra much. After all, she was his first love. Her name was LuElla but he called her Ella,” she said, as she wiped the snow off the face of the gravestone, exposing the name.

LUELLA DUMONT 1391-1403

At the sight of the name etched in stone, it was as if an arrow pierced Ella’s heart and then ripped back out. She felt as if the arrow left a tiny crevice, which widened, breaking her heart in two. Though the written word was still fairly new to her, she was very familiar with the spelling of her own name. Though Luella was her given name, she had always been known as just plain Ella. The only person who ever referred to her as Luella was Alaris.

Ella’s mouth fell open. With a catch in her breath, she gasped. In utter shock, she scanned the grave markers once more. There were thirteen stones total. Each one had a familiar name, all members of the Order. Ella became agitated. Her hands became sweaty despite the cold, and her pulse quickened. Why was her name on that stone? On a gravestone, of all things! Searching her memory, the timeline Evelyn described would have been the same time she had joined the Order, ten years ago. Nay! It can’t be true! But looking at her name upon the grave marker, she knew it was. Was this it? Was this the reason the stones had sent her here, to discover the truth about who she was?

None of this made sense. If her name was on that stone, that meant...

Ella felt a bout of nausea rise in the back of her throat.  She needed answers, but she was not going to find them here. She had to go back, to return to her realm. If what she believed was true, Alaris had known all along. Alaris must have been the witch Galen saw when he was a lad. Alaris had deceived her.

Without a moment of hesitation, Ella dashed out of the cemetery and up the hill before vanishing into the darkness of the barn. After a quick survey, she noticed two horses; a beautiful buckskin-colored stallion and a chestnut-colored mare, both locked in their stall. Galen’s horse, however, stood before her already saddled and ready to go. Mounting the large beast, she smacked its backside hard, urging it to go. The horse bucked and pushed open the barn door. Ella jerked the reins toward the trees from which she had come, and without further encouragement the horse took off in a fast sprint. Ella needed to find the portal before it was too late.

“Lassie, lassie!” Evelyn cried out as Ella bolted passed her.

Ella could hear Evelyn calling out for her as the distance between them increased, but she could not turn back. Time was not on her side.

Galen and Warrick ran out to the cemetery when they heard Evelyn crying out. Worry kept him at a hasty speed. As he ran toward her, he saw Evelyn standing alone.

“Evelyn, was it is? Where is the lassie?”

“Gone!”

“What do ye mean, gone?”

“I dinna know. We were just walking through the graves, and when I told her the story about the children, she became increasingly agitated and took off in a sprint.”

“Where did she go?”

“She took yer horse and ran off into the woods.”

“No’ again!”

Without another word, Galen ran to the barn, mounted a horse, and took off after her.

Galen searched well into the night, but she was nowhere to be found. By morning, he returned to Dunquest to send men out to search for her. Throughout the day, he was given reports of their status, but they still couldn’t find her.

Galen prayed she was safe. He had to trust that she knew what she was doing; otherwise it would drive him mad. The only comfort he had was that she had his horse and all of the provisions he had packed stuffed inside the saddlebags. At least she wouldn’t go hungry.

Chapter 17

After riding for hours, Ella finally came upon the withering oak. The portal was hidden to the human eye. Sliding off the horse, she walked toward the tree. Not knowing how to open the gateway from this side, she took the runes out of the satchel, hoping they would guide her. Dumping them into her hand, the stones did indeed tell her how to open it. As she smoothed her hands down the bark of the tree the vortex of light appeared. Without hesitation, Ella stepped into the light.

Within a blink of an eye, she was back in her own realm. She sighed with relief. Hiking up the skirt of her dress, she ran back up the path towards the iron gates of Lochmoor. As she approached the gate, she was grabbed from behind. It was Baudi.

“No! Please, Baudi, let me go,” she pleaded as he began dragging her toward the gate.

She felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted when she realized her voice had been restored. A sudden burst of excitement shot through her like a bolt of energy.

“I know you have your orders, but you must listen. I need to stop this war; Baudi but I need your help.”

Baudi stopped. His eyes narrowed. Reluctantly, he released her.

“Stop the war?” he asked in a gritty tone.

“You of all people know the casualties and aftermath of war,” she reminded him, as she glanced down at his broken tattered wings. “I know crossing through the portal was forbidden, but I have learned a great deal. We are fighting on the wrong side, Baudi. Alaris has us all bewitched and me more than anyone. I must get to Greylyn. I must speak to the Queen. I cannot explain it now, but you must let me go.”

Baudi looked to her as if he himself had hope. War had destroyed him once; who knew if he could survive another? Releasing his breath slowly, he firmly placed his hands upon her shoulders.

“If what you say is true and you can stop this war, then go. Do what you must.”

Ella’s lips curled in a small smile.

“Thank you, Baudi.”

Ella placed her fingers to her lips, and in a loud, high-pitched whistle she called for her horse. Within moments, her demon black stallion rode to her side. The horse bowed his head, allowing her easy access to mount. As she swung her leg over its neck, the horse lifted its head, raising her up onto its back.

“Go!” she called out as the horse bolted up the steep hill toward Greylyn.

Once they reached the top of the hill, the flat terrain was draped in a white curtain of snow. What was once a beautiful, lush forest was now a barren flatland, made so by war. Along the outskirts of Lochmoor, Queen Talara had ordered the trees and brush to be cut down to prevent anyone from hiding from her guards. It became a fine dividing line between the dark lands Alaris controlled and those of Talara’s. Fear of being caught did not once cross Ella’s mind. Demon was faster than any horse in the realm.

If her calculations were correct, the royal babe’s celebration was a little more than a week away, just enough time for her to reach Greylyn and return to the citadel of the Order, that’s of course if she could convince Talara of her plan. At this rate it would take three full days alone to reach the walls of Greylyn. Kicking the horse’s flank, Demon picked up speed.

Heavy precipitation blurred their visibility and caused them to slow their pace. Surrounded by falling white snow with no visible landmarks to follow, she let Demon use his instincts to guide them. A fitful breeze of blowing snow continued to sweep across the frozen terrain, making it appear as if she rode the clouds among the Gods.

~ ♥ ~

It had been days since Galen sent out his best men to search for the lass. There hadn’t been one trace or clue as to where she could have gone. The last report he received was that they had lost her trail days ago headed north in the direction of the nearest port. They believed she had boarded a vessel and left Scottish soil.

From across the table, Alex watched Galen as he picked at his meal like a bird.

“My Laird, I do no’ mean to interrupt ye, but I have word. The horse has returned riderless. As for the lass, we have searched everywhere to no avail. Messengers and scouts have been sent to the nearby clans, but nay one has seen her. It’s likely she has either headed south toward England or boarded a vessel towards France. Tis been almost a week, my Laird. I think that if the lass wanted to be found, we would have found her.”

That was the last thing Galen wanted to hear. Picking up his mug of whiskey, he smiled as he remembered the lass’s reaction the first time she tasted it. It was a fond memory.

“Yer right, Alex. Call off the search. Starting tomorrow we will focus all of our attention on the security of this castle and surrounding villages. I am to travel to Inveraray next week to meet with Laird Campbell and the Duke of Argyll. We will need their support. The discovery of the lass interrupted my plans for the campaign. Neville Campbell has proposed a treaty with Arthur McGregor, and I have agreed to sign the contract to end this war.  My uncle started this dispute, but as of today, I am going to end it. Whatever the cost!”

“Tis a bold move.”

“Aye, and one long overdue. We need to be one step in front of our enemies. Tis time for change, my friend.”

Chapter 18

In the wee hours of the morning Ella gazed upon the fortress of Greylyn. Built into the rock face of the vast mountain range of Mor na Beinn, the fortress was as tall as fifty men standing one on the shoulder of another. Its massive height towered over the valley below. With little sleep and only a few frozen berries in her stomach, she felt weary and sluggish as she wavered in the saddle. ‘Twas almost a blessing she arrived when she had. She was unsure if she could survive another night out in the cold.

Perched on her horse, Ella could hear the drumming of hooves approaching, and the ground shook beneath her. The rhythm of the vibration beat in her chest. Dressed in armor, their weapons drawn, six armed Greylyn warriors rode in circles around her; assessing her. Ella’s eyes met theirs as she waited for one of them to address her or take her into custody.

“It’s the Princess”, she heard one of them whisper. Their acknowledgement caused her to inwardly smile. Ella could feel their tension in the air. They feared her. It was a gratifying sensation.

“I am Ella of Andor. I am here to speak to Queen Talara.”

“Lady Talara sees no one,” one of them spoke.

Ella lowered her gaze in anger. Insolent fool!

“If you do not allow me to pass, Alaris, Queen of Darkness, will strike fear into the hearts of your children and blood will be shed. You will bear witness to a world of destruction and terror far greater than you ever dreamed imaginable. War is coming, and you have no way to stop it. Not even the Gods can save you. If you wish to save your lives and the lives of your families, I implore you to let me pass.”

The six guards looked to each other in horror. They knew she spoke the truth. One of the armed guards nodded to the others, and for several moments they stood in silence. It appeared to Ella that these men were gifted with a telepathic ability, but it did not appear they could read her mind. But, of course, how could they? She was not like them. She was not a Fae. At first, it was hard to accept the reality of it and believe that her whole life had been a lie, but she’d had time aplenty to think during her journey here and could no longer deny the truth. Everything she had learned made sense. She was, in fact, human.

The decorated guard rode to her side and forcefully grabbed the reins from her hands.

“We have agreed to allow you safe passage,” he said in a grave tone.

The guards escorted Ella to the great hall of the fortress, where she waited alone behind a closed door. Much like Dunquest Castle, the room had high decorated ceilings and portraits from the ancient past. Over the past several days thoughts of Dunquest and Galen had been pushed out of her mind to keep focus on her mission, but not without struggle. Had she allowed them to invade her thoughts, she would not have been in the state of mind to see out this plan and stop the war. Though she had discovered the truth about her past, it did not change her future. After everything had come to light, Ella finally understood why the stones led her to the mortal world. She was meant to stop this war.

Behind her, Ella heard footsteps approaching. She turned and saw the most amazing sight descending the stairs. The long train of her dress trailing behind, Talara came to stand before Ella. Ella could feel the intensity of her powers by her mere presence. A pale blue aura of light radiated around her, like the glowing halo that circled the moon.

Talara’s flawless beauty was striking compared to Alaris’s aging features, but the likeness was remarkable. Though Alaris’s hair was black as coal, Talara’s hair was as white as snow. Talara’s long hair draped down her back in waves and wild curls. She shared her sister’s tall yet slim figure, like a flower that has not yet bloomed. Even their eyes have the same crystal blue color, which made Ella feel a bit apprehensive. Had she not known better, she would have believed they were one and the same.

“My lady, I have come here to tell you that you are in grave danger.”

“Danger? My sister has lured us before. How do I know that she did not send you as a ruse to fool us once again? Though I am surprised she sent you.”

“I will not lie to you. I did not come here to ask for peace among our kind. I am here to stop the war. Had I completed the mission on which I was sent, it would have helped Alaris seize this fortress and gain great power over this land. But by doing so, I would have put my own people at risk as well. We may have our differences, but there is one thing that still remains. We both have a common enemy. Alaris!”

“Why the change of heart? As Princess of the dark world, and head of the Order, what will you gain from this?”

Ella narrowed her brows at Talara’s acknowledgment.

“Yes, I know exactly who you are. I know a great many things,” Talara added.

“I gain nothing. But you will gain a great ally.”

Talara turned away from Ella and headed toward a table on the far side of the room. Picking up a golden urn, she filled a glass with red wine and took a sip.

“War is inevitable,” she said before turning back to face Ella. “I believe that was the message you sent on the body of a dead man.”

Ella shamefully looked down. It was true. Had she not crossed into the mortal world to learn the truth, she would not be here having this conversation with her enemy. She would have kidnapped the child and successfully completed her mission.

Raising her head high, Ella looked into Talara’s dazzling blue eyes.

“War is inevitable, but it’s the outcome that matters. The Order is powerful; together, more powerful than Alaris. They follow my command. There is truth hidden behind a sea of lies that, once revealed, will change everything. But we must act with great urgency. Alaris’s army will soon breach the gates of this fortress. I must be allowed to return to the Order. But I cannot do this without you. So I ask, will you help me defeat Alaris once and for all?”

Talara’s skeptical look faded.

“What is it you want from me?”

“The night of the babe’s celebration is when Alaris will strike. She believes the babe is a threat. She plans to kill the child. I have come to stop her, but I cannot do it alone. I ask you to fight with us. I wish to join our forces and restore the balance of our world. If we succeed, Andor will be yours once again.”

“If what you say is true, Ella of Andor, I will offer you my assistance.”

Ella felt relief sink into her bones.

Talara offered her a warm meal and a room in which to rest before she needed to head back to the Order. Now that she had the support of Talara’s army behind her, she needed to convince the Order as well, which was not going to be easy. They were as devoted to Alaris as she was. But once they learned the truth, she expected they would rebel as well. At least, she hoped.

Chapter 19

“Peter, are ye going to see Laird Graham?” Moira asked, holding onto a tray of roasted beef and potatoes.

“Aye. I have a message fer him.”

“Bring this to him, will ye? Poor lad has no’ left that library fer days. Been working himself to the bone, I tell ye. I have ne’er seen him like this, no’ e’en when his own mother died. If ye ask me, he’s like a walking dead mon. He barely eats, barely sleeps. He keeps his focus on work, but I know the real reason he keeps himself so distracted as of late,” Moira said, before handing Peter the tray.

“Aye, I know. Losing the lass has been hard on him. Hard on us, as well. We’ve been havin’ to train day and night. I dinna even think real battle would be this tiring. Since the lass came to Dunquest, Laird Graham has been a changed man. But now that she has gone, he seems to have become harsher than he was before.”

“I do hope things will change soon.”

“Aye, me too,” Peter said as he knocked on the door.

Sitting at his desk, Galen tallied the coin he needed for the King’s taxes. Discovering his taxes were two months overdue, he was grateful the tax collector was a kind man. Building up his campaign was beginning to cost them, and so far he still waited for Neville Campbell to respond to the inquiry he had sent days ago about funding. The past several days he had kept busy laying out plans for more crop growth along the southern portion of his land, near the village that was currently unoccupied. The increase in crops in the summer would help bring in more profit to the clan as well as more food. Digging himself out of the financial debt his uncle had created had not been easy.

A soft knock sounded at the door. It must be Moira with lunch, he thought as his stomach growled. Standing from his chair, he opened the door for the old woman, but in the doorway stood Peter holding his tray of food.

“Peter? I had expected Moira. Is something amiss?”

“My apologies, my Laird; Moira asked me to delivered this to ye, but that was no’ the reason I am here. Ye have a visitor; a fearsome lass who has demanded an audience.”

As much as Galen wanted to believe the lass had returned, he couldn’t allow himself to hope. Weeks had passed and there had been no sign of her. For a fleeting moment, thought of her crossed his mind, but any optimism immediately vanished when a bold red-headed lass pushed her way past Peter and entered the library.

“Good day, Lady McFadden. Tis always a pleasure. What bring ye this far north?”

Without responding, Braelyn looked over her shoulder as she waited for Peter to exit the room and close the door behind him. Once they were alone she turned back to him and smiled.

“Ye, of course, my Laird. My father has no’ heard a reply to his inquiry regarding a contract, so I have taken it upon myself to retrieve his answer,” she responded, as she took off her tan-colored wrap and placed it over the arm of the chair near the hearth.

Her long reddish locks hung across one shoulder, complimented by the brilliant blue gown she wore. A necklace with a single teardrop-shaped jewel hung low between her bosoms, making it hard for Galen to avert his eyes; losing all sense of discretion.

Dragging her feet upon the floor, she moved closer to him as if she were dancing to a tune that only she could hear. Her eyes stayed fixed on his. The blue color of her eyes matched the crystal waters of Loch Awe in early spring, and the freckles that dotted her cheeks were like the constellations in the night sky. Her beauty was vexing, and there was no doubt that she was a woman who could easily get what she wanted.

“Ye are referring to the betrothal contract.” He presumed.

Braelyn innocently smiled.

“My Laird, I dinna pretend to no’ understand yer reservations. There have been many things said about me. Some of which are true, but mostly false. I only ask that ye dinna be so quick to judge me based on my reputation. I am a kind and loving woman.”

Braelyn stepped closer to Galen, delicately placing her hand upon his shoulder. Her fingers playfully drew lines down his arm. Galen, like a statue did not flinch at her touch; nor did he reciprocate.

“The truth is, my Laird, I am a lonely woman. And in need of a good mon. We come from good families. By uniting our clans, ye would be the most powerful laird in the highlands. With my dowry, ye will gain more than three hundred acres to add to yer meager few, and in addition to that a powerful army for ye to command. I am yer match, Galen. I would make ye a good wife. Ye know there are also many benefits to a marriage.” Braelyn raised herself to her toes and whispered in his ear; her lips merely touching the lobes. “My body would also be yers to command. To do whatever ye wish.”

Braelyn relaxed her feet back to the floor and came to stand in front of him. With her head lowered she gazed at him through desperate, pleading eyes, as if she were daring him to kiss her.

Galen exhaled, allowing all of the air to leave his lungs. What she offered was hard for any man to turn down. Not to mention the particular way she flaunted her curves made it difficult enough to resist wanting her. His groin began to ache, though he ignored its betrayal.

Galen felt as if he was standing on a precipice. He needed to jump or back down. Thinking of his predicament of late, Galen was finding it more and more difficult to deny her. The world as it had been and his mysterious lass were gone. Though in his heart, he knew he would never love Braelyn the same way, time was running out for him. He would do his duty and consider taking Braelyn as his wife for the good of the clan.

“Ye are right as always, my lady.”

Before Galen could even complete his thought, Braelyn wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her, pressing her lips against his. Galen grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away.

“Just think about it,” she asked, as she wiped her thumb across her lips. “I am to travel to the market today. I will return in two days for my answer.”

As Braelyn walked out the door, Galen returned to his chair and began eating the meal Peter had brought him, though he was left with little appetite. If he married Braelyn the match would ensure his clan’s prosperity, and the increase of funds and land. It was hard to turn down. He had to consider her offer. Galen could not be selfish. He had a clan to lead, and sacrifices had to be made.

After finishing up his meal, Galen headed down the hall to his mother’s solar. The last memory he had of Ella inside this very room swept across his mind like a flash of light. He could practically taste her sweet petal-soft lips on his. Damn it, he thought. I have to stop thinking about her.

Inside the cluttered room, he looked for a small wooden box hidden in the top drawer of her desk. Taking out the box, he placed it on the table. Opening its lid, he gazed down at a small ruby ring with a gold band. Picking up the ring in his large hands the ruby glistened in the light like burning embers. Before belonging to his mother, the ring had belonged to his maternal grandmother, and her mother before that. The ring had been in his family for generations, and was given to him for the day he found his bride.

He replaced the ring inside the small box, and placed the box in his pocket. As he was about to close the drawer, Moira burst into the room.

“My Laird, I have kept my mouth shut these past five years, but in this I can no’ longer keep silent. I have known ye since ye were a bairn and yer uncle was laird of his keep. I have fed ye, clothed ye, and washed ye. Ye have grown to be a fine mon and a fine laird, and I have never questioned yer motives or commands until now. But if I may speak freely, what the hell do ye think ye are doing considering marriage to that trollup? What of the lassie? We have all watched ye mope around here like a damn mule for o’er two weeks after she left, and now ye make this foolish decision to all of a sudden get married?” Moira’s voice echoed off the walls.

Galen could hear whispers in the hall from maids who had huddled together to eavesdrop on their conversation. Hearing Moira’s lecture reminded him of his days at the priory. Day after day the monks lectured him about his often rash, spontaneous behavior. Her bold statement would have cost her time in the stocks, but hearing it was almost refreshing.

“Ye are overstepping yer boundaries, Moira. Do ye think I have no’ tried? I have looked beyond the reaches of Scotland for her. I have used every resource I have. She is gone, Moira. She left of her own will, and from now on, if anyone mentions her, they will have to answer to me. This union between Lady McFadden and I would be good for the clan. I must think of them first.”

“And what of ye, my Laird? Is that what is good fer ye? Is that what will make ye happy? My Laird, for a mon who claims to see everything, ye are as blind as a stuffed goat. I may be an auld woman, but I know love when I see it. And she loved ye. She would no’ have left in such a fashion unless she had a good reason. A woman does no’ abandon her heart so easily. All I ask is that ye listen to yers. Now that I have said my thoughts, I will leave ye to yers.”

Moira turned on her heel and walked away. Damn auld woman! Galen stormed out of the room and out the back door, needing fresh air to gather his thoughts. Arriving at the stables he forcefully pushed the door open and tossed his saddle on his horse.

“Accept my blessing on your upcoming marriage, my Laird,” Peter said from the stall next to him, as he laid down hay for the horses.

“I did no’ agree to such marriage. I have no accepted the offer.”

Angered, Galen grunted and jumped on the saddle. Like a raging storm, he rode out of the stable and through the gates, past the guards to blow off steam. Riding always calmed his nerves, but Moira sure had a way about her to get on his.

Galen rode for miles through the thick snow. As the sun started to descend in the sky he pulled on the reins to slow the horse. Stopping in front of a large oak, he dismounted and went to the pines to relieve himself. Once finished, he adjusted his trews and walked back to the horse. But as he neared the oak tree he saw something black lying upon the white snow.

Bending down, he picked up the object and dusted the snow off of it. It was a black leather satchel. Anxiously, he untwined the ties that held it shut and dumped the contents out onto his hand. The stones!

Galen looked around, searching for its owner, but she was nowhere to be found. She had been here; this was her satchel. But it made no sense. Every time he had seen the lass, she’d had the bag tied to her belt. It seemed she never went anywhere without it.

Questions filled his mind as to what could have transpired here. Was she taken? Was she hurt? He’d searched for her for weeks and did not leave one stone unturned. Even if he wanted to search for her now, he would have no idea where to look.

Galen looked back at the stones in his palm believing he was meant to find them. This was a sign.

Leaning against the tall oak tree, Galen pressed his hand against the trunk for support to think of his next move. He could continue north in hopes to find her, or he could divert east towards the port and question whether she had boarded a vessel. While his mind kept him busy, the bark suddenly softened behind his fingers. Galen snatched his hand away and watched as a beam of light appeared from the trunk as bright as a star.

“What the bloody hell?”

As the light grew brighter, Galen stared into the center. The brightness did not hurt his eyes. The light was not from the sun, nor was it caused by fire. Trying to narrow down the possibilities of what it could be, Galen raised his hand to it. It felt cold and appeared to go beyond the trunk of the tree. Like a rush of adrenaline, a surge of excitement and energy ran through him. He had never seen such magic before.

Galen eyed it suspiciously. Bending down, he picked up a rock and tossed it into the light. He did not see or hear the sound of the rock hitting the hard wood of the tree, nor did he see it fall to the ground. It had disappeared into the light. With a deep breath, curiosity pulled him toward it. He took another step forward, then another and decided to enter the light.

Galen stepped out onto rocky ground dusted with powdery snow. He turned and the light had vanished. Only the old bark remained.

Galen surveyed his surroundings. Where ever he was, it was not where he had been. Around him was a wooded forest. Its eerie glow of greenish blue mist suffocated the light. Large leaves from exotic plants he had never seen were bold and vibrant, as if they glistened. Even the bark on the trees had rich shades of brown like seedlings and not hundred year old trees. Colors seemed to shimmer around him like magic, and each plant, tree, and winter flower glowed. It was as if he’d stepped into a painting, where everything was pure and clear. He had never seen such vibrant colors.

Up ahead, Galen thought he saw something that resembled a path and began to follow it. Within moments, he had left the covering of the woods and entered a hilly pasture. Large white birds took to the skies. They were like nothing he had ever seen. The unique beauty of this place was indescribable.

Scanning his surroundings, he saw a vista of mountains in the distance covered by a blackened sky, like a wicked storm hovering over the land.

Whatever this place was, he was definitely not in Scotland any longer.

Chapter 20

Standing in front of the doors to the fortress, the feeling of home felt like a wave of relief carrying away all of the tension that had built up over the past several weeks. Here, everything made sense. Here, Ella’s strength shined like a glowing aura. This overwhelming sense of empowerment gave her more courage than she’d ever thought possible.

Pushing the doors open, she stepped into the foyer. It felt as if she had never left. Since she had returned to Andorian land, there had not been any sign of Alaris or the members of the Order. Walking down the endless hall, Ella desperately searched each room in search of Darius. As magistrate, she needed his support more than ever to convince the remaining members of the High Council of her plan.

Ella came to the last room; the door to the temple. It was shut, and she could hear voices from the other side. Slowly and quietly, she turned the knob and opened the door just enough to peek inside. Inside the room, she saw Darius as well as the other members sitting around the table. In the center of the room, two guards held a prisoner. Alaris was nowhere in sight, thank the heavens.

Ella boldly pushed the door open and took her seat on the platform.

“You’re back. We were beginning to worry. Were you successful? Did you bring the child?” Darius asked.

“No. There will be time to explain. Who is this man?” she asked, looking at the shackled prisoner in the center of the room.

“This filth is a warrior of Greylyn. We found him heading south through the hills of Wyncrest far beyond the territory of Greylyn. I was just about to carry out his sentence,” Darius explained.

“Release him,” Ella firmly ordered.

Darius and the others looked at her strangely. Ella could not help but feel detached from the others, sweeping her gaze over each face, many of whom shared her fate. Ella looked to the two guards who stared at her in bewilderment, as if someone had hit them both over the head and they were seeing stars.

“Has my order fallen on deaf ears? I said release him.”

The two guards looked to each other and then to Darius. Removing their hands from the prisoner, the man fell to the ground.

“Unchain him,” Ella barked with irritation as the two guards quickly followed her order. “Now go,” she said to the prisoner, who bowed and scurried out the door gasping for air, as if he were in a room without oxygen.

Ella waited for the man to leave before addressing the council.

“I don’t usually question your orders, but why did we just allow a Greylyn warrior loose on our lands?” Darius asked.

“Alaris has deceived us,” Ella announced. A humming wave of low whispers filled the room. “I must ask, prior to you joining the Order. Does anyone remember their past?”

“Tis a fool-hearted question! Surely you know the answer to that. Upon admission to the Order, we gave our life to its cause. Our previous lives do not matter. Why are you asking such questions? We willingly gave it up,” Darius said, the first to reply naturally.

“Did we? Willingly?”

Darius looked at her as if he did not recognize her. She knew this revelation would not be easy to accept, but she had to find the words to convey her message, to get across to them what Alaris had done. Suddenly, nervousness engulfed her. If she admitted she was not a Fae they could very well rebel against her.

“Each one of you vowed to give your life to the Order. And by doing so, you also vowed to follow me. As successor to the crown, I am charging Queen Alaris with treason against the Order.”

“What of the war?” one of the members of the council asked.

“There is no war other than within our own kingdom,” she replied

Questions came spewing out from all members of the Order. What had she done? How do you suppose we take Alaris into custody? Are you under the influence of Queen Talara?

Ella lowered her head for a moment. It was time to tell them the truth.

“I have come from the mortal world. Alaris has used us. All of us. She stripped away our memory so that we would not know the truth. She created this Order to help her rule this kingdom.”

“The truth about what? Certainly we have the right to know what she is being charged for!” one asked.

“That we are human-born. It is why our gifts are greater than the others. It’s why we don’t bear wings and why we cannot heal the forest. We were bewitched. We were not born with these gifts. Alaris has molded us into perfect warriors so that her army would be stronger than that of Greylyn. I have spoken to Queen Talara to stop this war, but it is Alaris who must be stopped.”

Their eyes widened in disbelief. Everyone, except Darius. Ella could only see nervousness in his eyes. Narrowing her eyes to him, she watched as he nervously fidgeted with the strings on his robe. He was hiding something.

In an angry whisper, she said, “You knew?”

Darius stood and bolted for the door.

“Stop him!” Ella hollered, and two members of the Order stood to block the doorway. “How long have you known?”

Darius backed himself into the corner. Angry faces stared at him, waiting for an answer. One of them drew his blade.

“Since the beginning,” Darius coldly replied.

The council members looked to each other in disbelief as Darius confirmed what Ella had claimed. Several of the members grabbed Darius before he could escape.

“Take him to the dungeon. Let him speak to no one,” Ella commanded. “Where is Alaris?”

“She has gone to the far reaches of the Valley of Thorns to meet with the Exiles.”

“Then we will be plenty ready for her return. Until then, each one of ye must swear yer allegiance to me and me alone. I vow to restore the life that has been stolen from you.”

~ ♥ ~

In the distance, Galen could see a black silhouette against the white snow. He felt relief at running across someone who could finally tell him where he was. As he drew closer, the shadow stepped out from behind the tree, facing away from him and picking berries. To his surprise, the shadow came from a small child. His oversized, tattered clothes hung off his round little body, and his hair was unruly and matted. But it was his hands that caught Galen’s attention. Crippled and scarred, the wee thing only had four fingers on each hand, with long, pointy fingernails. Not wanting to scare the wee thing, Galen softly spoke.

“Excuse me.”

The small lad briefly turned to the side. He was no mere child at all. He was an old man with a wrinkled face and a long, crooked nose similar to that of a mouse. His skin looked as rough as leather, and pale green, as if he suffered a rare illness. Leaning forward to get a better look at him, the little man looked like no human he had ever seen. Not even the wee-sized ones. The wee man paid little attention to him as he continued on his task.

“What matter of creature are ye?”

“What am I? Now that’s an ill-mannered question. How would you like it if someone asked you what you were?”

Galen stared at the wee man, but could not believe his eyes.

“Ye are a dwarf!”

“I’m no dwarf! I’m a goblin and I prefer to be called by my name,” the creature snapped, as he continued picking black berries and greedily stuffing them into a woven satchel.

“I dinna mean to be rude. Forgive me. My name is Galen. May I ask ye yers?”

“Grock,” the creature replied, ignoring him completely, not once taking his eyes off the berry bush.

“Tis nice to meet ye, Grock. I must ask, what is this place?” he asked, as he looked around.

Grock shoved the last handful of berries in his bag and turned to face Galen. His green eyes regarded Galen from where he stood, scowling.

“You’re human? What are you doing here? Humans are not allowed to cross the portal. How did you even know it existed?”

“I stumbled upon it.”

“Then ye should stumble back. Ye do not belong here. If the dark Queen catches you here it will be both our heads.”

“Queen? Where am I?”

“The Land of the Fae, of course.” Grock replied.

“The Fae? You mean they do exist?”

“Of course they exist. How else would you be here?”

“I am afraid I’m a bit confused.”

“That’s quite obvious!”

“I was looking for someone who I believe may have come here. Only, I dinna know her name,” he began, before Grock cut him off in a fit of laughter.

“Don’t know her name? No good that will do you.”

“She’s a mute.”

“Don’t know any of those!” he said, as he pretended to continue picking the berries.

“Please, I need to know if she came here. I must find her. She would have been hard to miss. She is quite breathtaking. She has long, fair-colored hair and was wearing a blue gown.”

Grock scratched his head.

“So you are looking for a lass who has hair and wears a dress?”

Why, you little miscreant! If Galen wasn’t in need of his assistance, it would have been quite easy to send this mocking little bastard across a wide ravine with one swift kick in his arse.

“Stones!” Galen said, with deep frustration. “She carries with her a black leather satchel filled with ancient runes. This,” he said unraveling the bag tied to his belt and holding it out for Grock to see.

Grock’s smug expression vanished. His eyes widened. Grock’s expression and actions were as easy to read as a book. The lass was here!

“Where did you get that?”

“Ye have seen her!”

“I cannot help you. You shouldn’t be here. Now shove off and leave me alone,” he said, as he picked up his satchel of berries and attempted to walk away.

“Nay! I am no’ going anywhere. I have tried to be kind, but if ye know where she is, ye are going to take me to her!” Galen ordered, as he stepped in front of Grock, blocking him from leaving.

“There is no way you are going to get me to travel through the Black Forest.”

Galen picked him up by his collar and raised him into the air. Four feet off the ground, the little man attempted to wiggle out of Galen’s grasp.

“Alright, alright! Put me down! I’ll take you. I’ll take you. Just release me, you overgrown whelp!”

Galen smirked and set the wee man back down to the ground. Grock stumbled backwards and adjusted his shirt.

“What is the Black Forest?” Galen asked.

With a loud, annoyed sigh, Grock pointed past Galen and replied, “That.”

Galen looked past the bright open field to the woods Grock had pointed to. The woods appeared to be like a curtain wall surrounding the dark stormy clouds that hung in the sky. The name Black Forest was quite fitting. Within the forest itself, dark shadows swallowed any sign of light, leaving behind an ominous void.

Grock whistled loudly startling Galen. The sounds echoed off the trees. After waiting a few silent moments the sound of hooves trotted their way. Galen turned his head toward the sound as a white horse with a silver-colored mane came out from behind the low hanging branches of a willow tree. She was a majestic beast.

“Listen, human. I don’t know what sort of quest you are on, but chasing after the Princess of Andor will not do either of us any good. If we cross into the land of darkness, we may very well never return.”

“Princess?”

“You really don’t know who she is, do you? This is why I don’t meddle in the affairs of humans. You are entirely bad judges of character. If I have to explain it to you we will be here all day.”

“Fine, ye can explain on the way.”

“If we are going to travel through the forest you must keep your wits about you. The Forest is nothing more than a labyrinth of trees and hills meant to fool travelers. The landscape changes. It is bewitched. Many who travel through the Forest never return. The forest feeds on fear.”

“If what ye say is true, then how did the lass pass through?”

Grock wickedly smiled. “Because! The forest fears her.”

Chapter 21

Riding across the wide open pasture, Galen and Grock left the security of the light and entered into a world of blackness. The hilly terrain made it hard for the horse to travel through the thick brush. In the deep valleys, dense white fog enveloped them, obscuring their view. At times, it felt as if they were riding in circles. In the sky above, an orange blood moon cast a reddish glow, bringing the shadows to life. Even the stars remained hidden in the black, sinister sky. Galen, who was fostered to be a religious man, could only describe these woods as the pathway to hell.

The woods were unusually still and quiet. There was no sign of life or woodland creatures of any kind. Galen sensed that Grock was becoming more and more nervous. The Goblin had started a mighty tremble that Galen could feel vibrating from the tiny man seated behind him on the horse.

“What do ye know of the lass? Ye called her the Princess of Andor.”

“She is the Princess of Darkness. An evil and wretched Fae. Have you been sent to kill her? It would be a noble feat”

“Kill her? Nay!”

Galen refused to believe the lass could actually be the wicked Fae Grock spoke of, but to learn that the lass was among them was gut-wrenching.

The white mare slowed its pace to a jarring halt. Something had caught its attention. Galen quieted his breath and listened. High on a hill, he heard feet shuffling in the snow. Grock’s trembling increased so much Galen thought they would be unseated.

Taking a hasty breath, Grock whispered, “It’s her, the wicked Queen.”

Galen stilled and looked high on the hill. Walking along the cliff, a woman came into view. Long black hair cascaded down her back against a black dress. Galen needed no introduction. He knew exactly who she was. Ten years may have passed, but he had never forgotten about her. It was the woman in black; the wicked witch who kidnapped the children and the one who took his sweet, young Ella all those years ago.

Galen slid down the side of the horse.

“What are you doing?” Grock whispered.

“Stay out of sight.”

Galen drew his sword and headed up the hillside to face the wicked Queen. He made no attempt to quiet his movement. He was not afraid of her. Standing at the top of the hill, he stared into the crystal blue eyes of the she-devil herself.

“You’re very brave, for a human. You must have much courage to dare cross into this realm,” she said, her voice as soft and whimsical as he remembered.

“I have no fear of ye.”

The Queen smirked.

“Why are you here, human?”

“I am here to avenge the innocent children ye took from my world nearly ten years ago. What happened to them?”

“Sacrifices must always be made,” she said.

Galen’s grip on his sword tightened. The Queen eyed him curiously, but lowered her gaze and stared at the black leather satchel tied to his belt. Her head cocked to the side as curiosity filled her eyes.

“My, my,” she said in a low whisper. “Such a unique satchel for a Scot. May I ask how you acquired it?”

“It belongs to a lassie whom I believe has crossed into this hellish pit. I am here to find her.”

“What do you know of her?”

“I know that if ye have harmed one hair on her head I will kill ye where ye stand.”

“Harm Ella! Why would I do such a thing? She is like a daughter to me.”

At the sound of her name, Galen’s stomach fell into the pit of his gut.

“What did ye call her?”

“Ella, of course. That is her satchel clinging to yer side.”

“Ye lie! Are ye to tell me this bag belongs to Ella? Luella.”

The wicked queen smirked but remained silent. There was no way the lass was Ella. She couldn’t be. Wouldn’t she have known who he was? Wouldn’t she have remembered? Had he finally found her? The only thing he knew for certain was that he was not leaving this world without her.

“What did ye do to her? Where is she?” Galen questioned in a deep, husky voice.

Raising his sword, he pointed it toward her.

“I was just beginning to wonder the same thing,” she angrily replied.

~ ♥ ~

Ella and the others set out to search for Alaris. With guards searching the northern territory, Ella left for Lochmoor. Baudi had the powers to seal the gates of the kingdom to stop Alaris from escaping once she returned to their land. When she reached the runes, she found no one. The gate to the Great Tree was unguarded.

Ella could not help but feel something was wrong. Baudi never left his post. He would guard it with his dying breath. Calling out his name several times, she heard a low moan near a gravestone. Running toward it, she looked in horror down at Baudi. He was badly injured.

“Baudi, what happened?”

“The Queen,” he choked out, barely able to say the words.

Blood ran down his chin from one corner of his mouth. It looked as if he had been tangled in sharp thorny bushes; his clothes were torn, and tiny cuts covered his body.

“I am so sorry, Baudi,” she said, as she glanced down at the blood he had lost.

She knew there was no way to help him. Why had Alaris done this? Baudi was not a threat to her in anyway. He was nothing more than the gatekeeper.

“Sh…she knows,” Baudi struggled to say.

Without needing to ask, Ella understood his meaning. Somehow, Alaris had found out what Ella had done. Only she had no idea how. Darius was the only one who could have given her this information, and he was locked up in the dungeon.

Holding Baudi’s hand, she asked, “Where is she?”

In a mere whisper, he replied, “The tree.”

“Stay here, my dear friend. Help will come soon.”

Ella picked up Baudi’s staff and pointed it high into the air. Light flared around the tip like a glowing orb as she summoned the power of the staff. It was blinding. Forged in the flames of an Elven Dragon, the staff drew its power from Ella. A bullet of light shot into the air like a beacon. It would summon the others to their location. With Baudi’s powerful staff in hand, she raced back to her horse and headed through the winding trails of the Black Forest towards the Great Tree.

Ella’s heart raced as fast as Demon’s hooves could go. As they rode, Ella combed the woods looking for Alaris, leaving no stone unturned. High on a grassy knoll, Ella noticed movement in the distance.

“Who goes there?” she asked, as the shadow came near.

From out of the darkness a goblin on a beautiful white mare rode toward her.

“My lady,” he nervously said as he bowed his head to her.

“Do not be frightened, Goblin, I have no intention of harming you. Have you seen the Queen pass through these woods?”

“Yes, my lady. She has a human with her as well. A man who claims he came here searching for you.”

“A man? His name, what is his name?”

“Galen, my lady.”

“Galen!” she muttered under her breath. “Where are they?”

“There! Just beyond the hill, near the Great Tree,” he replied, twisting and pointing behind him.

As Ella was about to take off seven members of the council rode alongside her.

“We saw the beacon. Have you found her?”

“Yes. She is beyond that hill,” Ella nodded her head toward the hill. “There is a human with her. We must ensure his safety.”

“You know we cannot guarantee that,” one of them replied.

“Leave him to me. You just focus all of your attention on her. As for you, Goblin, I ask a favor. I have a friend that needs your assistance. He is injured near the ruins. Will you see he gets to safety?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

As the Goblin rode off, Ella and the others headed toward the tree. Once she reached the top of the hill, Ella’s jaw went slack at what she saw before her. Alaris had opened the portal, and Galen was pressed up against the tree by some invisible force, struggling to break free. Though he was not bound by rope or iron, he was pushed against the trunk by an invisible force that was no doubt crushing his bones.

“Galen!” Ella yelled out in desperation as she rode toward him.

The others rode toward Alaris, using their powers to stop her from crossing into the mortal world and giving Ella enough to time to rescue Galen. If Alaris crossed the portal, there would be no stopping her. She could hide in the mortal world undetected forever.

Ella kept her eyes firmly on Alaris. No longer in her human form, Alaris’s black-tipped, silver wings firmly rested across her shoulders over a dark moss-colored frock and her eyes were as black as onyx stones; hard and penetrating. Ella knew she had only moments to get to Galen before Alaris’s magic killed him.

Cormac, the wielder of fire, was the first to strike by releasing his orbs of red and blue flames. As quick as lightning, he released them, like arrows raining down on Alaris. Alaris, who had the ability to manipulate the wind, created a vortex of air around her to deflect his strike. The strong wind whipped the trees branches violently. The others summoned their energy for an all-out attack.

With the others distracting Alaris, Ella dismounted and ran towards Galen. Raising the staff high in the air she swung it against the tree trunk as hard as she could. The force holding him shattered, and Galen fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Ella dropped to her knees by his side.

“Galen, what are you doing here? You could have been killed. You do not know what she is capable of.”

“I came fer ye,” he choked out, coughing up a small amount of blood. “I found yer stones,” he said.

He leaned to his side and unraveled the bag from his belt before handing her the leather satchel.

“Where did you find that?”

“Near the tree. It was how I came upon the doorway to this world.”

“Galen you must leave this world.”

“Nay, I will no leave ye,” he said, rising to his knees.

“Galen, the portal is closing. If you do not go now, you may never get home.”

Though she spoke with a terrible broken Scottish accent, Galen was surprised she could speak. Having been trapped in this world for all these years, she had become more like them and less like the wee lass he remembered.

Gently, she placed her hand on his forearm. Galen was at a loss. He had so much to say, but could not find the words. Looking deep into her eyes, he could finally see it. She truly was his Ella. But no longer was she a scrawny lass. She had blossomed into a beautiful woman.

“Ella, do ye no’ remember at all who I am?”

Ella sadly shook her head.

“Oh, Lass, what did they do to ye?” he said, as he brushed his hand against her cheek. “Had I known all this time it was ye…,” He sighed. “When ye ran off, I thought it was because of me. I thought Evelyn had…well, I thought she had told ye how I felt about ye.”

“And what is that?”

“I have ne’er been a man of many words. I should have told ye this all those years ago. But from the moment I saw ye, I knew ye were the one. I knew my life would change forever. After all this time, I ne’er stopped loving ye. Ye are everything I ever wanted. When ye left, I felt like a broken mon. I have lost ye once, I will no’ lose ye again.”

With his heart racing and palms sweating, his longing to touch her became unbearable. Galen could no longer fight this emotional force pulling him toward her. With great urgency, he cupped Ella’s head in his hands and brought his lips to hers before she could utter a word in response. For his love, he would cross great oceans. No distance between them could ever change how he felt.

With his lips pressed hard against hers, it sent a trail of goosebumps blooming along her forearms. The warmth of his lips seeped into her, heating her core. No longer afraid, she found no reason to hold back any longer. Her fingers began to ache with the need to touch him. Wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, she deepened the kiss as she ran her fingers through his hair. She knew she only had moments.

Ella’s eyes opened, lips still locked to his. Her eyes looked passed him and saw the vortex of light shrinking. It was time. Breaking the kiss, she looked at him one last time.

“There is much to say, but there is no time. I’m sorry, but ye must understand. I have to do this. Goodbye, Galen,” she said, as she used all of her might and forcefully pushed Galen into the light.

Tears stung her eyes as Galen vanished and the portal closed. The last thing she heard was Galen yelling out her name. It was the same tone, the same desperation she had heard before. It was as if the past and the present had folded in on itself. Everything that had led up to this point was meant to happen. She was meant to have crossed into the mortal world and he was meant to have crossed over here. It was the prophecy coming true.

Chapter 22

Galen was left staring at the dead bark of an old oak tree. Pounding on the tree left his hands bloody and sore. The doorway was closed and she was gone. Ella was in the middle of a war he did not understand and war meant sacrifice. Had roles been reversed, pushing her through the doorway was exactly what he would have done, and he had to admire her valor. As a warrior, he understood. But as a man, it was much more difficult to accept.

This was not how this was supposed to end. After all this time, why had she been returned to his life just to disappear again? Galen was angry. Fate was a cruel and twisted bitch. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever see her again. There were so many unanswered questions that he felt he would go mad if he had to spend his entire life never knowing the answers.

The sound of hooves trotting sounded behind him. Galen turned in the direction of the sound and found his horse waiting for him near a tree. Mounting it, he reluctantly rode back toward Dunquest. He had to believe that this was not over. He had to believe she was going to return.

Upon his return, he came upon Alex, who rushed out to the bailey to greet him.

“My Laird, where have ye been? We have searched fer ye everywhere.”

Galen sighed. “Alex, even if I told ye where I was, ye would no’ believe me.”

“I have come to tell ye good news. A message has arrived from Laird McGregor. He has agreed to meet yer terms. The war between our clans is over, my Laird.”

Galen wiped his brow. It was the best news he had heard in a long time, but it was not without sacrifice. The agreement included a large part of his land that his Uncle had made a false claim to, as well as a large sum of money owed by his uncle. Once again, even from the grave, his uncle had found a way to curse him.

“Tonight, we shall celebrate. The men have earned it.”

“There is one more thing,” Alex hesitated.

“What?”

“Lady Braelyn is waiting in yer solar. She dinna seem too happy.”

“Shite!”

Galen wasn’t concerned that Braelyn had to wait for his return. Making her wait was one thing, but the fact that he now had to go up the stairs to tell her that his answer was no was an entirely different story. Braelyn was famous for throwing a fit like a child when she did not get her way. Galen dreaded it. He had to hope that his rejection, would not stir any mixed feelings from her father. With one enemy clan now on the mend, he did not need to start another war.

“Alright. I will head up there now to speak to her.”

Walking up the stairs slowly, he thought of how he would kindly refuse her offer. Though the union between their two clans would have been beneficial, marrying her would be unfair. He could never love Braelyn the way she deserved.

Opening the door to his solar, Galen stepped in to find Braelyn sitting near the fireplace reading a small leather-bound book.

“Lady Braelyn. I hope I have no’ kept ye. Accept my apology fer my tardiness.”

Braelyn raised her eyes from her book and set it down on the table next to her.

“Tis alright. A good woman is expected to wait fer her mon. Though I will admit, I waited longer than I had expected. Ye will be happy to know that I have made all of the arrangements, so beyond a few signatures we should be all set.”

“All set?”

“For the wedding, of course,” Braelyn replied as she stood up from the chair and moved closer to Galen.

“Braelyn, I ne’er agree to a wedding. And I ne’er gave ye my answer.”

“Well, no’ in so many words. Of course, I did arrive a day earlier than ye expected, so I understand if I caught ye off guard. Please dinna tell me ye changed yer mind.”

As Braelyn walked closer to him, Galen found himself stepping back from her, as if her very presence threatened to squeeze the life out of him. His ribs were bruised enough as it was from being held against the tree in the other realm. Had Ella not saved him, he might never have returned.

Braelyn’s soulful longing made this much more difficult. Galen was a warrior, but never a man who would intentionally hurt a woman. In this case, however, Galen did not see any way around it.

“My lady, a mon would be a fool to no’ marry ye. But I am that fool. I can no’ marry ye. No’ today, no’ ever.”

Braelyn’s sad eyes popped open, as if she was surprised to hear his answer. She was not a lady accustomed to hearing the word no. Pursing her lips to a thin hard line, Galen could see her fury and waited for the worst. Seeing her struggle to stay calm, Galen waited for her reply.

“Might I inquire why? Seems foolish to no’ unite our clans after all I have offered. Yer wee clan can no’ survive without my resources.”

“My clan has thrived fer the past two hundred years since we’ve settled on this land wit’ out yer father’s help. And I expect that we will prosper fer the next two hundred as well,” Galen rebutted.

Braelyn laughed.

“There are only two reasons ye would refuse my offer. Either ye are daft or someone else has caught yer eye. I have known ye a long time, Galen, so I know that ye are a mon of business and a proud warrior so I am inclined to assume that ye have another suitor in mind. Who is she?”

“She is of nay consequence to ye, Braelyn. Nor is she a threat. Now, ye have my answer, so I kindly thank ye to leave.”

Braelyn angrily walked back to the side table near the chair and snatched up her book. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she glanced back at Galen. The anger in her eyes would heat a room. Galen had expected this reaction. With his hands folded behind him, he interlocked his fingers and quietly waited for her to leave, though he expected a dramatic exit.

“Ye are a foolish mon, Galen Graham. Good luck then, to ye and yer whore,” were Braelyn’s last words before storming out the door.

Galen could hear the heels of her shoes clatter on the floor as she stomped down the hallway toward the stairs. He was so worried about hurting her feelings, but in the end, he thought her behavior showed a lack of sincerity, and had no doubt that she would easily move on to the next available suitor. After all, she was infamous for a reason.

~ ♥ ~

With Galen safely back in his world, Ella turned to face Alaris. The other members of the Order had been fighting valiantly, but without Ella fighting with them, Alaris’s powers were just too great. The wind blew like a tornado, making it a tremendous struggle to keep her feet to the ground in the face of its force. Holding the staff in her hand, Ella pointed it at Alaris as bolts of blue flames shot out the end of it. Alaris successfully blocked each strike against her.

Sparks of fire shot back and forth between the trees. Ella veered side to side to deflect the counter attacks. She could feel the thundering in her chest, the shaking of the ground beneath her feet as the earth quaked. With the power of the staff, Ella created a shield around herself as red-orange balls of flame rained down around her like the blazing inferno of Hades. Lightening flashed across the raven black sky. The deafening sounds boomed and bellowed throughout the forest. The fire fight was engulfed by a gale of wind, which started to become perilous for all of them. Ella took a moment to recharge her own energy.

In the brief moments of tomb-like silence, Alaris called out, “Have I not given you everything? Have I not created a world for you in which you can live without fear or pain?”

Alaris’s expression turned grim.

“You have lied to us, deceived us. You have taken us from our homes, our families, for what?  To help create an army against Greylyn. We will no longer be your puppets. We will no longer stand with you in battle. We stand together, against you,” Ella cried out over the howling wind.

Alaris’s lips curled and formed a partial smile.

“Well, haven’t you become the brave one?” she asked, directing her question to Ella.

Alaris took a step back. Noticing she was up to something, Ella raised the staff again and shot another strike at her. But before the others could join in the attack again, dark smoke suddenly rose from the ground beneath Alaris’s feet, swelling around her like a dust storm. Within moments, she vanished with the wind, leaving specks of dirt to embrace the ground.

“Find her! Search everywhere; she must be found!” Ella ordered as they rode off after her.

For days they searched, only to find no trace of her. Ella dreadfully walked the hall of Greylyn Castle. They had searched everywhere for Alaris, to no avail. It was time to ask the Queen for help. Heading down the hall, Ella collected her thoughts. Her charge against Alaris had created a different kind of war. She worried what was going to become of her people; become of her. Once you cross, you can never cross again. With so many questions hanging in the balance, she waited with bated breath for her audience with Lady Talara.

Entering the great hall, she found Talara standing on the top step of the platform. Her long, blue flowing dress draped the steps like a waterfall. Talara stood stoically, her expression was calm and impassive, completely unaffected by the dire circumstances at hand. Ella had let Alaris slip through her fingers, and she was ready to take full responsibility.

“My Lady, I cannot begin to express my shame for what has happened.”

“Tis not your fault. My sister is a cunning witch and unpredictable; you could not have known. No one could have. Alaris has gone into hiding but I have sent my best men to search the four corners of our world. She cannot stay hidden forever. Do not blame yourself, child. You have done more than you think. I owe you a great deal of debt for what you have done and all you have sacrificed.”

“What happens now? To our world?”

“I do not know the fate of our world. Only you hold the answer to that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The stones say, ‘Within the darkness, there is a light. As the Child of Light brightens, shadows will fade and Darkness will fall. But the child born of two worlds must choose one over the other.’ It was foretold in the prophecy. You, Ella, are the child of light. A human child brought to this world to end the darkness. You were chosen by our ancient elders the day Alaris stole you from your world. Alaris was condemned to the dark kingdom by the elders. On that day, she had a curse placed upon her that could have only been unlocked by a child. A child she was forever forbidden. When she chose you as her successor, the prophecy was therefore set in motion. With you in power, Alaris stood to lose hers.”

“When I came here and asked for your help, did you know?”

“Yes, but it was for you to learn. Had you known your fate, the prophecy may have changed. I am sorry for the pain it has cost you.”

“What does it mean? I must choose one over the other?”

“It means you have a choice. You can either stay here as you are and rule the Kingdom of Andor, or you can return to the mortal world as the human you are.”

“I can return?”

“Yes. But know this: if you choose to stay, you will not be able to return to the mortal world. The portal will be forever closed to you, and all memories and knowledge of the human world will be lost to you forever. If you decide to return to the mortal world, you will no longer be able to reopen the portal. All of the powers bestowed upon you by Alaris will no longer exist.”

“But what of Alaris?”

“With you gone, she will be able to return. You were the key to her undoing.”

Ella’s two options were bleak, which made it almost impossible to decide. If she stayed it would create peace among the fae-folk she had known and loved, but she would never see Galen again nor would she ever remember life in the human world. She needed more time, but time was not available to her.

Never had life been this complicated. She had always known her destiny, but it was a destiny that Alaris had bestowed upon her. How different things would have been had she not been caught out in the storm that fateful day? She had already sacrificed so much. Was she willing to sacrifice more? Her decision came down to either doing what she felt was best for her people, or what she felt in her heart.

“I know this decision does not come easy,” Talara said, with a tender heart.

Ella looked back at Talara. She knew what she must do.

“I’ve made my decision,” she replied.

Chapter 23

The warm sun shone over the castle, melting the bitter snow; the first sign of winter’s end. It had been three days since Galen returned. Three long and agonizing days, he reminded himself. Everything in the castle had returned to its normal order, and plans were already in the works for the new crop addition in the southern edge of their land. With the peace treaty with McGregor signed, everything was running smoothly; everything except Galen.

Like at the end of a lost battle, Galen aimlessly walked the halls, wondering what he could have done differently. But there was no going back; only forward. Though things had not worked out as he’d hoped, he was grateful that she’d come into his life when she had. She had opened his eyes and taught him patience and courage to face his past. For the first time, he now knew exactly what he wanted and felt ready to take on the world. There were so many things he had been putting off, and it was time to let go of his past and focus on his future.

Galen watched his men in the great hall for a moment before joining them. Well into their cups, they laughed and retold stories of battles and beauties they had conquered. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Sitting down among them, Galen grabbed a mug of whiskey and regaled them with an adventurous story about an unbelievable journey. He left it to them to decide whether he spoke the truth of it or told a simple fable, because in truth it was a little of both. Caught in a world between reality and fantasy, even Galen could not tell which was which. Up was down, left was right, but the one thing that remained constant in his story was that it was full of promise and love.

As Galen finished his story the men looked at him in utter dismay.

“That’s it? What happened to the witch? What happened to the lass?” Alex asked.

“Well, how does it end? Ye cannae tell a story wit’ no ending,” Brandon added.

Galen shrugged and gave them a vacant look. There was no end.

“The hero gets the lass, of course,” a sweet feminine voice answered behind them.

At the sound of her voice, Galen’s breath seized. The spoken words woke the depths of his soul. With his hands beginning to tingle, he dared a look over his shoulder at the angelic voice. Jolting from his chair, he stumbled and stared wide-eyed like a startled deer. Ella! Galen’s heart beat skipped. With a sly smile, he asked, “And did this hero and the lass live happily ever after?”

Galen moved around the table and took small steps toward her. He walked steadily and with purpose. He meant to claim her. Claim those lips that he often dreamt about.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If the hero loved the lass as much as she loved him.”

Closing the gap between them, Galen pulled her into his arms. He could never tire from seeing her smile. For the ten years they were apart, he dreamt of her often. But now in the flesh, those dreams could not compare. Ella dazzled his senses and warmed his heart. Embracing her dark past, he loved her unconditionally, despite her faults and flaws.

Cupping her face in his large hands, his thumb gently rubbed along her cheekbone. This moment, unlike any other, made his heart swell. The passion between them made him feel alive as if his soul had lain dormant until now. Everything in his life had led up to this very moment.

With a heated gaze, he replied, “With all his heart.”

Lowering his head, his mouth took hers. The searing kiss caused Galen to grow hungry with need. With little protest, he lifted her into the air and charged up the stairs to his bedchamber taking two steps at a time.

As soon as they entered his chamber, he set her down and pressed her against the closed door, urgently kissing her as if his need would consume them both.

With great demand, their bodies pressed closer as their arms entwined around each other. Allowing her to take a breath, Galen softened the kiss and trailed a line of kisses down the arc of her neck. Ella groaned in the back of her throat. She fervently ran her hands down his back, wanting him, needing him. The heat building inside of her was like a dragon ready to break free.

Ella felt Galen’s hand rub up against her bosom as he began to loosen the ribbon laced on the bodice of her gown while he recaptured her mouth. Her lips parted as Galen swept his tongue across them. Her tongue brushed alongside his as she breathed him in.

Galen broke the kiss and gazed at her. With their hands interlocked it was hard to tell whose was whose. Galen momentarily stood and removed his plaid tartan. He leaned over, scooped up Ella, and gently laid her down on top of the bed. Taking in a lungful of air, Ella could hear the whisper of his breath as he exhaled. Kneeling beside her, he placed his hand on her leg and slid it up her thigh.

Ella felt as if the world was spinning. Her heavy breathing and the tingling sensation from his touch sent her to a state of tantalizing bliss. Pulling her dress up over her head, she lay naked before him. Just at the sight of the look on his face, Ella had no need for his words. She could see the passion and love in his eyes. Straddling over her, his lips descended to hers. With a loud moan echoing throughout the room, they joined together as one in both mind and body.

Mimicking his movement, Ella felt their bodies crash together like a tidal wave meeting the shore. She felt a flutter in her chest as a shiver of pleasure coursed through her. Closing the slightest distance between them, she held him tight against her bosom.

As Galen slowed his pace, she trembled beneath him. Her dry mouth became moist as Galen kissed her lips, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth. Her skin felt flushed as sweat beaded on her forehead.

As Galen thrust his hips, an urging demand threatened to explode inside of her as she matched his rhythm and tempo. Her heart hammered and pulsated in her chest. With each shudder her body made she felt weightless. She imagined herself in the midst of a storm, strong waves crashing against her body. Bellowing loudly to release the intensity of her climax, the storm lifted, and Ella sank to the bed, breathless. Her tired body rested in his arms though she felt not a bit of exhaustion. Her eyes became glossy as a surge of overwhelming happiness filled her heightened senses.

Panting to catch his breath, Galen kissed the top of Ella’s head and wrapped his arm tighter around her. As she lay in his arms, he lightly traced a finger down her supple, rosy cheek to her soft, plush lips. He took the time to admire and study each line and curve of her face. She was beautiful, from her dark green eyes to the freckles that danced along her cheeks. Even the small unnoticeable imperfections were perfect. In this moment, he made a promise to himself that he was never going to let her go.

Ella lay with Galen’s arm wrapped around her, resting her head on his chest, and listening to the soothing beats of his heart. Galen stirred. Lifting her head, she gazed up at him. Galen opened his tired eyes and looked down at her with sweet tranquility.

“I never thought I would see ye again. I am never letting ye out of my sight. I may never even let ye out of this bed,” Galen teased, as he pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

“That’s too bad because there was one place I wished to go.”

“And where is that?”

“Do ye no’ still visit the stones?”

“The stones?”

“Galen Lucius Graham, dinna tell me ye have forgotten about our secret place.”

As much as Ella tried to keep a straight face, the confused look on Galen’s caused Ella to burst into laughter.

“Ye remember?” he excitedly asked.

“Aye. I remember everything.”

Galen swung himself on top of her like a young playful lad. With a wide goofy smile, he showered her with a series of kisses.

Giggling underneath him, she whispered, “I love ye Galen.”

“I love ye too.”

~ ♥ ~

By midafternoon, Galen and Ella rode to the hilltop to visit their secret place. So many memories flashed in Ella’s head. It was almost overwhelming as her entire life’s story played out in her mind.

As they reached the stones, Galen helped Ella down off the horse. The weather had warmed and the sun shone brightly. Circling the stones, Ella stared at the familiar markings. With the ability to decipher what the markings read, Ella read each one out loud to Galen, telling him an ancient story about the past where humans were helped by magical human-like creatures. It was the legend of the Fae.

With curiosity, Ella placed her hands upon one of the stones to see if she could still hear the voices of the past, but all was silent. Not a word, nor a whisper.

Galen came to stand in front of her and wrapped his arms around her. His comfort and warmth was soothing. Ella closed her eyes. This place held so many memories. After ten years, the two of them were back together in the last place they’d seen each other. It was like their long, painful journey had led them back to where it all started, completing a full circle. Ella was grateful they were given a second chance at life and love. The thought was comforting.

“Do ye think ye will miss it?” Galen asked, lifting her chin so that he could look into her eyes.

“Miss what?”

“Yer home.”

Ella gently placed her hands on his rough cheeks and drew him closer to her.

In a quiet whisper, she replied, “I am home.”

Other books by the Author

The Dark Fae Saga

Book One: Legend of the Fae, (2015)

Book Two: Prophecy of the Fae, coming soon

The MacKinnon Clan Series

Book One: The Honor of a Highlander (2013)

Book Two: Escape to the Highlands (2014)

Book Three: Highland Daydreams (2014)

Protectors of the Crown Series

Book One: The Heart of the Highlands: The Beast (2015)

Book Two: The Heart of the Highlands: The Wolf (2015)

Book Three: The Heart of the Highlands: The Dragon (2016)

Book Four: The Heart of the Highlands: The Lion, (2016)

Book Five: The Heart of the Highlands: The Stag, (2016)

Highland Burn by Victoria Zak

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Other books by the Author

About the Author

Growing up in the sister city to Stirling, Scotland, Sottish flare was abundant throughout Dunedin. From her High School band to the annual Highland Games that took place right across the street from her childhood home, the bagpipes beckoned her toward her calling. It seemed only natural for Victoria Zak to want to write in the Scottish historical romance genre. Add to the fact, she was also a paranormal romance junkie, there was no doubt that her influences would be the driving force behind her stories.

Although, she never sought out a writing career, her desire for the written word grew the more she read. Her love for Scotland, curiosity of history, and passion for romance has inspired her to write the first two books of her Guardians of Scotland Series, Highland Burn and Highland Storm. The third book in the series, Highland Fate will be released in 2015.

Now, Victoria Zak lives in the sunshine state with her husband, two beautiful children, and three furry friends. Living in paradise, being a stay at home mom, and to be able to share her stories has been a blessing.

Victoria loves to hear from her readers. You can connect with her through the links below:

Website www.victoriazakromance.com.

Victoria Zak

Copyright 2014 by Victoria Zak

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the author and publisher.

All characters, events, and locations in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or living, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Design by JAB Designs

Editing by Julie Roberts

Prologue

Before Scotland was Scotland, two powerful societies ruled the region together. Two kingdoms, intertwined and complementary; one could not flourish without the other. One kingdom belonged to the Scots and the other to Dragonkine. The Kine were a powerful and ancient race, borne by the masters of old. They possessed both a dragon and human spirit and could take the form of each. As legend would have it, they were created to provide balance to the world and heal the wounds of the ‘pre-history’.

Throughout their rule, Dragonkine had proven their worth far more than any riches or coin. They were masters when it came to the lay of the land. Because of the magic their inner dragons held, they knew where to plant fields so that harvests would flourish. They knew where to build temples, and with their strength they could build sturdy, lasting villages. The Scots depended on the Kine greatly.

Fierce warriors, Dragonkine defended their realm with unstoppable power and merciless strength, yet they were not infallible. Without a mate, their inner dragons were unstable. Only a Dragonkine female possessed the power to calm the beast inside. Kine women were a rare race of their own. Though their bodies did not take possession of a dragon, their beauty was beyond exquisite, it was magical. Beautiful elegant Celtic knotwork patterns marked their flawless skin from the forefinger up beyond the shoulders, stopping just short of the breast. A mated female was even more alluring. Once mated, the markings on their skin would assume the color of their mate’s elemental power. The women were valued as Goddesses and were worshiped by all Dragonkine. If it weren’t for their female's grace and their ability to calm the beast inside, a warrior’s dragon would take over and unleash hell on Earth.

Together the Scots and Dragonkine fought off many Viking attacks and tribal conflicts, and maintained peace between the kingdoms. They ruled together for over a hundred peaceful years until a sacred bond was broken. Since the time before time, it was forbidden for a human to mate with Dragonkine.

Trouble began when both kings’ heirs became of age and were pressured into finding the proper mate.

King Drest, the Dragonkine king, had a beautiful daughter, Vayla Blue. Being that she was of marrying age, her beauty had attracted many strong and wealthy Kine suitors. Not only was the princess appealing, Vayla had the grace of a queen and a loving heart. She was adored by all of her people, but most of all, she was the sparkle in her father’s eye.

King Drest loved his daughter more than life itself. Being as she was his only heir to the throne and to carry on his lineage, he protected Vayla and kept her safe, mayhap a little too much. Five elite warriors, who seemed to never leave her side, followed her wherever she went. And when she wasn’t being followed, her mother relentlessly dictated to her as to how a proper princess should act and taught her well, for Kine women were the backbone of their society.

One summer morning King Drest called a royal meeting and by midday his great hall was filled with top ranked warriors from both realms including King MacAlpin, the king of the human realm. Urgent business regarding a neighboring tribe crossing borders and pillaging its villages was the discussion at hand.

“Mac, are we to wait for yer son to show up or do we start without him?” King Drest was starting to become impatient with the young lad. Mac should teach his son some manners when it came to being on time.

MacAlpin ran his hand repeatedly down his plaited beard as he stood by the window sternly eyeing his son hastily making his way through the bailey, winking an eye as he passed by a group of Dragonkine females. “He’ll be here,” he grumbled.

Constantine, King MacAlpin’s son and heir to the throne, charmed the ladies with his vivid green eyes, chiseled jaw, and long sandy blonde hair with war braids framing his boyish face. As beautiful as he was, the Gods had blessed him with brawn and brains, yet his maturity was still questionable.

MacAlpin glared at Constantine as he entered the great hall. He loved his son, but the boy needed discipline. Not that he wasn’t honorable or respectful, but trouble just seemed to find him. MacAlpin blamed his wife for allowing Constantine to run amuck, for he could do no wrong in her eyes.

Once everyone was seated, King Drest called the first order of business. Constantine became bored with the mundane arguing and found himself looking out of a window daydreaming, when a beautiful woman came into view. Her long tawny hair streamed down her back in parted waves enticing his eyes to feast upon her. A white gown outlined in gold hugged her body, revealing her slender figure and full round breasts. His head perked up when bright blue eyes caught his stare. Constantine was too busy admiring her curves to notice a small green dragon perched on her shoulder. She was feeding him some kind of fruit.

Constantine thought he would never take another breath when she flashed him an irresistible smile. He knew right then and there that this woman, nay this magnificent woman, had to be his wife. He wouldn’t settle for less.

The meeting took forever; at least for Constantine it did. He couldn’t wait to track his woman down and it didn’t help that he was as hard as a rock. He kept shifting in his seat trying to relieve the stiffness. He even tried thinking about their hag of a cook back home, naked, but nothing was going to satisfy his need until he claimed his obsession.

Once the meeting was over he found her. She playfully led him back behind a rowan tree where they tore off each other’s clothing, their hands exploring each other as he kissed her like no other, soft and slow, building up to an unquenchable rapture. Vayla surrendered to her own needs as Constantine backed her up against the tree and claimed her ever so sweetly.

As lust was finally sated, Constantine laid her down upon lush green grass and made love to her again, but this time he took his time discovering her luscious body. He couldn’t get enough of her soft skin, womanly curves, and her long lean legs.

After they had their fill of each other, Constantine fell asleep with his head on Vayla’s lap. As she watched Constantine sleep, she made a small cross out of twigs from the rowan tree and bound the sticks together with strands of her golden hair. This was forbidden. Dragonkine women were never to marry or bed a human. They both knew that, yet their hearts knew no boundaries.

Before Constantine left, she placed the cross in his hands. “May this protect ye until we meet again.” It was as though she knew what the outcome of this beautiful rebellion was going to be. He kissed her and headed back to his home. It would be the last time he saw her.

Chapter 1

The Loch

Late summer of 1314

Medieval Scotland

“Fergus, the water is verra refreshing. Why don’t ye join me?”

The white stallion inhaled deeply then snorted, as he ate from a patch of lush green grass.

“Well, ye dinnae have to be rude about it.”

Long white hair with streaks of gray fell over his muscled neck as the fine steed shook his head and stomped his hoof. He pulled on a blade of grass, indicating that he was perfectly content grazing near the loch’s edge.

A slight giggle escaped her mouth as she splashed at her horse.

Abigale Bruce had ridden hard and fast through the glen most of the morn. Since her father’s recent successful victory over the English at the battle of Bannockburn, Abigale had been freed from the nunnery. Her excitement of finally being able to explore her new-found freedom was too much to hold back as she charged through the forest. Now she rewarded Fergus with a patch of grass while she cooled off in the loch. Oh how she cherished these moments; they were few and far between.

Eight long years at Dunfermline Abbey wasn’t the ideal place to grow up, but she had no choice in the matter. Her father, Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, had placed her there in order to keep her safe from his enemy, the English. Throughout her time at the Abbey, King Edward, the King of England, had gotten close to capturing her a few times, but the small secretive community of nuns had held true to their oath and kept her hidden well.

Unhappy about the newly crowned King of Scotland, the English had captured Abigale’s step-mother, half-sister, and her two aunts, and had also beheaded three of her uncles. Humiliated, held prisoner behind iron bars of a bird cage, and hung from the Tower of London had been the women’s fate. Even though her freedom was taken away, Abigale knew it was nothing compared to what they had endured.

Abigale’s trouble had started as soon as she walked through the gates of the abbey. Robert Bruce had given Dunfermline Abbey a generous contribution to repair part of the church that had been attacked by King Edward. In return he requested that Abbot Benard take his daughter in and protect her. With such a gracious amount of coin given, the Abbot could not refuse. Therefore Abigale, at the wee age of ten, had been left at the abbey and placed in the cruel hands of Abbess Margaret.

Since Abbess Margaret was in charge of twelve nuns, she declared she had not the time to look after the wee brat, so she left Sister Kate in charge of Abigale. Abbess Margaret was a beautiful middle-aged woman with short, raven hair, and possessed the ability to inflict the cruelest of punishments. She watched and waited for Abigale to slip up so she could take pleasure in punishing her. Abigale knew why the woman hated her; she was jealous and thought it unfair that she had special treatment just because she was the king’s daughter.

Abigale was afforded a few exceptions to the rules. Because of her lack of interest in taking the vow to become a nun, she didn’t have to cut her hair like the other sisters. Furthermore, she could marry, and own property. Although there was one rule that had to be followed; she had to be obedient. And Abbess Margaret took great pride in punishing a disobedient Abigale. Sending Abigale on a daily pee pot cleaning always seemed to make the corners of her thin lips twitch. “Ye’re no princess, a bastart child who her own father has abandoned."

After a few missed visits from her father and daily tongue lashings from Abbess Margaret, Abigale started to feel pushed aside and abandoned, yet her spirit held firm.

Sister Kate had kept a watchful eye on Abigale, keeping her work-load full so she would stay out of trouble, but trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went as if she was born into it. Abbey life wasn’t the life for her. She grew to hate the prayer bells, for they rang eight times during the day starting at the wee hours of night. The blasted bell would ring either when she was sound asleep or assisting a monk in surgery. More times than not she was late to prayer and being tardy was frowned upon. The consequences were harsh, in fact they were harsher than falling asleep during worship. Abigale knew this all too well; she had fallen asleep in a choir stall one night. Sister Kate had been the circator that night, pacing up and down the aisle as she shined her bright cresset lamp into the stalls checking if anyone had fallen asleep. A sharp point with a stick to her ribcage had woken Abigale up quickly. Of course she got a rap on the legs for that one. Thank God it was Sister Kate, for she showed her mercy.

Now that she was home, her father was more than ever adamant about keeping his family safe. He vowed to never allow another Bruce woman to be captured by the filthy Sassenach. Just as Abigale thought she’d regained her freedom, here she was once again with it ripped away from her by an arranged marriage to her father’s first in command. Who better to protect her than the Bogeyman himself?

Trepidation crept over her, sending a shiver through her body as she thought about the man her father had arranged for her betrothal. “The Black Douglas,” she thought. A man with a reputation that would make the Devil himself shudder with fear. A ruthless warrior who had fought in many battles with her father. The English feared him terribly, making up nursery rhymes warning their wee bairns to “hush before the Black Douglas will get ye”. She’d never met the man before, but the deal was done. Her father had arranged the marriage and Abigale was to abide by his orders.

Abigale turned to Fergus who was chewing on a blade of grass. “At least ye don’t have to marry the Bogeyman.” She shuddered. Saying it out loud made it all too real.

For a moment she wondered just what the Black Douglas would look like. Could her father be so cruel as to wed her to an evil, battle-worn old man? Nay, who could possibly be scared of an old man? Then again, a warrior’s reputation lived on even after death. Or mayhap he really was a monster of some sort, a mythical creature of the night that lurked under your bed waiting to nip at your heels. Abigale was letting her imagination get the best of her. Shaking those thoughts from her head she dipped down into the coolness of the loch, washing away every bit of worry. Today was her day and she was going to enjoy the peace that the loch gave her before it was taken away from her.

Coming back up she lay her body out flat to float on top of the water’s surface. Her light linen shift clung to her petite body, long dark auburn hair spread out and floated with the ripples of the water. Closing her eyes, she opened her arms out wide allowing her fears to fall from her body and sink to the bottom of the loch.

A snapping of twigs alerted Abigale that she wasn’t alone. Quickly she dipped her body down into the water to hide from what was lurking in the woods. Panic pricked up her spine as she searched the glen’s wooded edge for some kind of movement. Nothing… no movement at all. It must be a small animal frolicking through the thicket. Another snap. This time it sounded too close and too loud to be a small animal.

Abigale turned and faced Fergus.

Ears pointing in the direction of the snapping sound, Fergus let out a gut deep neigh.

“Ye heard that too?” she whispered, trying not to draw attention to herself. Abigale slowly moved toward the water’s edge, not making a sound. The last thing she needed was to be attacked by a wild animal or worst yet… a rogue Highlander.

Dripping wet and cold, Abigale stepped out of the water and headed straight for the huge boulder covered in green moss where her dress and her dirk lay. If instincts had taught her anything, it was to never let your guard down and never leave home without your dirk.

A third snap sounded like it came from behind her and way too close. Taking a steady breath, she grabbed her dirk and spun around to meet her attacker face to face. Lunging the blade forward she pointed it at his throat, the tip inches away from piercing it.

“Och lass, I will no hurt ye.”  A massive six-foot-four man with vibrant amber eyes stood before her with his hands up in surrender.

Abigale arched a dark brow over deep blue eyes. “How do I know I can trust ye?”

“I have no weapons on me… frisk me if ye dinnae believe me.” With a sly grin he turned around with his arms in the air inviting her eyes to gaze upon every inch of his muscular body.

Abigale took him up on his offer, for she could not will her eyes off him if she tried. Following his every move, her body came alive. Her hands began to itch as she thought about running them down the corded muscles that lined his abdomen. Hulking arms shimmered in the sunrays as if they had been kissed by the sun and she wondered how his arms would feel wrapped around her body. As he turned around, long black hair hung over his big broad shoulders and stopped at his shoulder blades. His lower back tapered in to a firm backside which was covered in a black and gray plaid. Funny… she had a sudden urge to squeeze his buttocks. God could not have forged a more perfect man, she thought.

Being ten-and-eight, innocent, and sheltered behind the walls of the nunnery, she hadn’t had much of a chance to explore the ways of men. In fact if she wasn’t praying, she was in the infirmary mending men severely wounded from battle, or ill. Sister Kate’s nagging voice reminded her that “Ye only have room for one man in yer heart and He would never steer ye wrong.” Only if Sister Kate could see this man standing before her now, even she would blush.

“Ye should no be sneaking up on me like that.” Abigale lowered the dirk, but still kept her grip tight.

The alluring man crossed his massive arms in front of his bare chest. “I was taking a rest while out riding when I saw ye over here. Ye know a bonny young lass like yerself should no be oot alone without an escort.”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Aye, I can see that.” He rubbed his throat.

She stood shivering from the cold or mayhap from the intensity of his gaze; she needed to retrieve her clothes before she caught her death. Then she remembered that she was wearing a thin shift. Surely he could see right through to her naked body? Quickly with her free hand she tried to cover her breasts and still have some dignity. “Would ye kindly turn around now so I can dress?" She motioned with the dirk for him to turn around.

He turned, giving her privacy to dress. “That’s a fine horse ye have there,” he said over his shoulder.

Abigale finished dressing and began to smooth the wrinkles out from her dress with her hands. “That’s Fergus, he’s a gift from my da. A true warhorse."

Of the few times her father had come to visit her at the abbey, and there were only a few, she remembered the day when he had brought Fergus to her as a gift. A gift perhaps but more like a peace offering for being absent for over a year. Abigale forgave her father, and the white charger quickly became more than a horse, he was a friend.

“Ye may turn around now.” As Abigale glanced up, her heart skipped a beat as amber eyes pierced her, sending a rush of heat through her body. She licked her lips and struggled to swallow past a dry throat.  How could this man, who she had never met before, make her hunger for something that she had not yet had? Feeling uneasy, she broke their stare and quickly searched for her shoes.

“Are ye a Highlander?” What kind of a question was that? Of course he was a Highlander… that was a plaid he wore. Way to go, Abigale Bruce, he must think I’m a real dunderhead.

“Why do ye ask?”

“That is a plaid ye wear?” Abigale leaned against the boulder and bent down to slip on her shoes.

“Aye.”

“Then ye must be a Highlander.”

Indeed the ways of Highlanders were much different from the English-influenced ways of lowland men like her father. Still both parties had fought for Scotland until the crown and riches were in their grasp. Some would say that greed was the root of all evil. Abigale thought differently. The crown was the root of all evil. Men fought for it, killed for it, and sold their souls for a taste of the crown and the power it held. The crown grew evil in men and she knew that all too well because it was her father's own greed for the crown that left her abandoned at the abbey.

The unsettled nature of Scotland had left Abigale hardened. She’d seen firsthand the aftermath of battles fought; mended wounds, prayed over dead bodies, and even buried the dead. The nunnery where she grew up would set up tents to aid those wounded in battle. Abigale would assist in surgery and her passion grew for healing the sick and mending wounds. Life was to be valued, not destroyed.

In a way she blamed Lady Scotland for her misfortunes. Her father’s growing need to fight for Scotland had caused her to stay hidden, conceal her true identity, and grow up without a family. Her whole family had been affected by the battles fought for Scotland and the greed of claiming the crown. Though it was true she had long forgiven the Lady; she could not forget.

The Highlander seemed far away in thought, because he took a while to answer. “Some would say I’m a Highlander.” He approached Abigale. "May I?” The beautiful stranger reached for a piece of hair that was stuck to her face and tucked it behind her ear. He brushed a callused finger down her cheek to her slender neck leaving a fiery path trailing behind.

He held her stare and captivated her to the point that she could not form a coherent thought. Her body was no longer hers to control, her heart dropped, and desire pooled in her core setting her body on fire. This Highlander was so close to her she could feel his breath on her skin, she could smell his masculine scent and soon she wanted to taste his lips.

The mysterious man lowered his head, cupped his hand behind her neck, and pulled her close to him to claim her lips. Abigale drew in a deep breath in anticipation when suddenly a nudge from behind broke her trance. She turned to find Fergus.

“Fergus!” she scolded. “What’s gotten into ye?"

Another nudge by a wet gray muzzle almost sent Abigale to the ground until strong arms caught her around the waist. “I got ye lass,” he whispered in her ear.

For some odd reason the deep rich tone of his voice soothed her. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and leaned back against the warmth of his body. Wait… what was she doing? Abigale Bruce, you are to be married.

Quickly she slipped away from his hold and began to gather up the leather reins. “I should be getting back.” Observing the stallion’s actions, it was clear to Abigale that Fergus did not approve of the stranger.

Jumping up on the back of Fergus, she turned to face the Highlander. The man rubbed the back of his neck as if he was thanking the white horse for saving his arse from making a huge mistake.

She dared one last look at him before she rode off into the glen back to her father’s castle where she would prepare for travel to Castle Douglas and marry the Bogeyman. Her eyes roamed his massive body sketching everything about him to memory; his striking amber eyes, strong masculine jaw line, and the way his eyes strayed over her body. She did not want to forget this man.

If only she did not have to go. Mayhap she could run away with this beautiful man and avoid being married to a monster. Deep down, she was drawn to this mysteriously intriguing, charming and pure male Highlander. He made her think that for once she could be in control of her life and make her own decisions. In a way she envied his freedom. It did not seem fair that she had to marry a man who her father wanted her to marry. Shouldnae one marry for love? But then again, he was a stranger… a mystery. Before she ran away with fantasies she knew better than to think of, she squeezed her legs, sending Fergus into a run. She had to marry the Bogeyman.

Chapter 2

The Bogeyman

Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,

Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,

The Black Douglas shall not get ye.

A thunderous knock echoed through James’s bedchamber, and rattled his drunken slumber. He growled his response while rolling over on his back. A soft, warm, naked body nuzzled next to him, sighing a breathy moan.

As his way of dealing with an unwanted arranged marriage, he had spent the night drinking heavily. To his dismay, no amount of mead was going to change his situation. The thought alone of not being in control of his fate burned him. The more he burned the more he drank until he was numb, which meant a significant amount, being that he was Dragonkine.

When a busty brunette with a low-cut dress whispered an invitation of a night filled with pleasures to him, he couldn’t resist. It wasn’t unusual for women to offer themselves to him. He was handsome, dominating, and a Highlander. Men feared him, and woman sought to have him between their legs. Being the clan chief did have its advantages.

Another loud rap ricocheted through his head. “Go away!” he demanded. “Leave me be.”

James drifted back to sleep, when all of a sudden the door flew open with such force it shattered its’ hinges. Terrified out of her wits, the brunette sat up and threw her hands over her breasts. As she tried to cover herself, a tall, robust man came charging into the room.

“Conall?” With his vision blurred and head pounding, James could barely recognize his best friend and second in command.

Conall scooped up the brunette’s dress and threw it at her. ”Get out!”

The frightened woman jumped out of bed naked, and holding her dress, she ran out of the room.

“James get yer arse out of bed,” Conall demanded and threw a white tunic at him.

James moaned and tried to sit up; his stomach lurched and his head spun.

“Do ye realize what today is?”

“Aye,” James rumbled.

“I’m going now to fetch yer lass. Ye best get moving.”

Lass… Lass… James lay there for a moment trying to shake the cobwebs free. “Shite.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. Today was the day he was to marry the princess of Scotland.

Before James finished putting on his tunic, a pair of trews smacked him in the face. Conall showed him no mercy. With his hands on his hips he stood looking over at James sternly. “Make sure ye wash up. Ye stink like a dung heap.” Conall turned and exited the chamber.

James sat up and did a quick sniff under his armpits. “Aye.” His face furrowed.

After his chambermaid prepared his bath, James bathed the mead and wench filth off him. So here he sat at the edge of the bed pulling on his boots, preparing himself to marry a lass from a nunnery who just happened to be the king’s daughter. His mood turned dark and vile when he thought of the current situation he was in. What was King Robert thinking when he arranged for his daughter to marry him? Robert knew he was Dragonkine. Slaughtering the enemy on the battlefield was where he belonged, not tied to a lass.

He was a beast… a dragon. Even though born human, he still had gone through one hell of a transformation eighteen years ago at the wee age of ten. Now, he was twenty-and-eight with a fully transformed beast inside.

When his dragon seized control he was uncontainable, a ruthless being wreaking mayhem upon his enemies and leaving a trail of destruction behind. Stealthy raids and ambushes aided him in keeping his dragon a secret. Only attack at night and leave no prisoners behind… kill them all.

There was nothing like it in the world when he shifted. The freedom he felt when he took to the skies was indescribable. Nose to the wind, his senses were strong… slicing through the clouds, his powerful wings dominated… the call of the wild, his blood pulsed with the earth… he was dragon.

Mentally James shook himself and stood. Grumbling a few blasphemies, he grabbed his cloak and flung it over his broad shoulders as he made his way to the door. He knew exactly who he was, which made his situation even more dreadful. He had to come up with a plan to get rid of the princess but still keep his honor. Surely if he made life unbearable for her, she would go running back to her da begging for an annulment. The corners of his mouth began to turn up, along with his mood, as he shut the door and strode off to the kirk.

~~~~~

Abigale gazed at her reflection in the mirror as a chambermaid, Griselda, pulled a comb through Abigale’s tangles. She hissed in pain when the comb stumbled upon another knot. “Stop that!” She swatted at the maid.

“Ye ought to be still, lass and stop complaining.” Griselda huffed and continued her assault. Apparently Griselda did not care for her much, nor about her wishes. Undoubtedly a miserable person to boot.

“Ye ought to try to be kinder. Ye are yanking my hair out.” Abigale picked up a lock of auburn hair from the floor. “Look," she demanded.

This just added to Abigale’s foul mood. Her body ached after enduring yesterday’s brutal ride to Castle Douglas. Accompanied by four of her father’s trusted knights, they stopped in between downpours of cold rain, and rode their horses through the mucky terrain making the ride twice as long as it should have been.

Not to mention the cold welcome she received as they arrived late last night. She found it odd that her husband-to-be was not present to welcome her to her new home.  However it pleased her, for she wasn’t ready to meet him.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last thing she had eaten was last night’s stale bread and hard cheese that waited for her after her bath. After the long ride her stiff and dirty body had been quite thankful for the bath.

Sleep had evaded her most of the night. Even after a hard day’s travel Abigale couldn’t escape her fear of meeting the Black Douglas. So many questions invaded her mind. What does the Bogeyman look like and is he real? How would he treat her? Would his breath smell like ale the first time they kissed? But most of all, how would he take her when they consummated their marriage? Would he be rough? She couldn’t imagine a man with such a reputation displaying mercy towards an innocent.

Being a laird’s wife and raising wee bairns, nay, more like spawns from Satan, was her destiny now. She shuddered at the sheer thought of it. How could her father do this to her? Hadn’t she suffered enough by the hands of Abbess Margaret? All she wanted in life was to be happy and have a loving family. Was that too much to ask for?

A plan entered her mind. Mayhap she could run away… find shelter in a small village where no one knew her. Start a life of her own, instead of one that had been arranged.

Just as quickly as hope began to bloom, it withered away. Abigale’s forehead creased in defeat. She couldn’t live her life on the run. Her father would find her eventually; furthermore, no one escaped the Bogeyman.

A hair-pin pricked her scalp and brought her attention back to the here and now as Griselda shoved it in place. Abigale shrugged out of the way from the rough-handed wench when she saw another pin appear in Griselda’s fat hand.

“That will be enough for now.” Abigale shooed her away.

Abigale rose on shaky legs and took a step back so she could observe her dress. An off the shoulder white dress hugged her body to perfection. Gold Celtic knots lined the top of her bodice and the bottom of her long sleeves. Her auburn hair sat behind her head, plaited and coiled into a tight bun. Griselda really did do a beautiful job, she thought.

She wished her mother was still alive. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about her mother. A vision flashed of an auburn-haired woman standing in front of her, beaming with pride and holding Abigale in her loving arms. The kind and caring woman would know what to do in times like these.

A loud rap on the door made Abigale flinch, making her situation all too real. Griselda opened the door and informed her that her escort was here to take her to the kirk.

Abigale closed her eyes, trying to fight back the urge to run. To run back to the loch and into the arms of her beautiful Highlander. Mentally, she cursed her father a million times for arranging this nightmare.

“I’ll be right there.” Walking over to the bed, her hands shook as she picked up a sheer veil with scalloped lace edges. She draped the material over her head, careful not to disturb Griselda’s creation, and with one last look in the mirror she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Abigale held on to the very last bit of courage she had left. She had survived Abbess Margaret’s cruelty, she could surely endure the Black Douglas.

A very tall, well-built man entered the chamber and offered his arm. “My lady.”

Abigale accepted, for she had no choice. Tightly she wound her fingers around the escort’s arm and they made their way to the kirk.

As Abigale approached the tiny building, she noticed that it looked as if it had been burned. Charred stone marred the outside walls. The remainder of black soot still clouded the stained glass windows and there was the slightest smell of burnt earth in the air.

Fear quickly turned into terror as Abigale reached the wooden double doors of the chapel. Heart racing, hands trembling, she reached for the door then paused. Panic and fear had consumed her as the air became thick, making it hard for her to breathe, and her legs threatened to buckle. She held on to the escort’s arm to steady her balance. She clenched her hand to her chest, and began to breathe quickly in and out.

The escort’s brows creased. “Are ye ill?”

A muttered nay escaped her lips.

“My lady, look at me.” The escort crouched down until he was eye level with Abigale. “Slow… short… breaths…”

Swirling gray-blue eyes that reminded her of raging storm clouds held her stare. Her lungs began to slow to a steady rhythm, and her body felt weightless as if she was under a hypnotic trance.

“Verra good, lass,” he reassured her. The escort took pity on her and pushed the door open.

An eerie creaking sound echoed off the stone walls as the door opened. A rush of cold stale air hit her body causing her to shiver and rub her arms warm. The only light that shone through the kirk was a singular sunbeam peering through a small arched window. Abigale watched as dust specks danced in its rays as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Nay, this is not a place of worship, Abigale thought. ‘Tis too cold and dark. But the cloaked figure sitting on the steps next to the pulpit had to be the Black Douglas.

With his hands on the small of her back, the escort nudged her forward. Willing her feet to move and sending a pleading prayer up to the heavens, Abigale stopped in front of the cloaked figure and lowered her head to greet the Black Douglas. “My Laird.”  Courage… she thought to herself… courage.

The man stood, his wool cloak fell to the ground revealing his face. Abigale’s eyes widened in disbelief like she’d seen a ghost. Her mysterious Highlander from the loch stared back at her. A whispered “nay” slipped past her lips. Astonished, she couldn’t accept the fact that this man was the same man she had met two days ago.

The Black Douglas dominated the room with his massive frame as he towered over her petite body. His eyes swirled amber like freshly poured whiskey as he intently gazed down at her. His animalistic presence chilled her to the core. A half-moon-shaped scar under his right eye made his blood-chilling stare more sinister. How could she have missed that scar?

“So, ye be the princess of Scotland, aye?” Abigale froze at the sheer roughness of his tone.

He bent down and whispered in her ear. “What’s wrong, lass? Afraid of the Bogeyman?”

On the inside Abigale shook with fear, but on the outside she held firm. She caught her breath and nervously let it go before she answered him.

“Nay.” Slowly she lifted her veil, tilted her head back, and met his icy stare. “Ye can no be the man from the loch.”

It didn’t go unnoticed when she saw his brows slightly arch as if he was surprised as well. She must have had some kind of effect on the Bogeyman, because he broke their stare swiftly and began to circle her like an animal hunts its prey.

“And what makes ye think that?”

She swallowed hard to quench her dry throat. “The man at the loch… was a gentleman.”

Being this close, she could feel the warmth of his breath sweeping over her skin like a hot summer’s night. Her heart pounded so hard that she could feel it drumming against her chest. But what disturbed her the most was the desire heating up deep within her, waking up the flutter of butterflies in her stomach. Aye, this was indeed the same man.

Stopping in front of her, he lifted her chin. The coarseness of his skin reminded her of scales. He arched a black brow and pinned her hard with his amber eyes. “I’m most definitely the same man and I’ve no claimed to be a gentleman, lass.”

Chapter 3

Better to sit all night then to go to bed with a dragon. ~ Zen Proverb

James glanced down at their joined hands. A shaking, tiny hand sat perfectly in his palm as he finished muttering his vows and slipped a ring on Abigale’s fourth finger on her left hand. “I receive ye as mine,” he repeated and turned back to the priest who stood in front of the pulpit. Frankly, this whole process was taking way too long for James’s liking. He clasped his hands in front of him and shifted his weight on his heels. Damn, the priest had a lot to say. A simple “Aye” from both parties would suffice; no need for all these drawn out details.

A blinding glare caught his attention coming from Abigale’s left hand. He glanced at her hands, squinting from the sun reflecting off of her wedding band. He cursed silently. Abigale was his wife.

The priest motioned for them to kneel and bow their heads for the blessing. As the ending of the ceremony was closing in on James he realized what came next; consummating the marriage. Sweat began to form on his forehead. He needed to think of something quick, because in no manner was he going to lie with Abigale tonight. Without a doubt he felt her dread in every fiber woven within him; terror had shone through her eyes the moment she entered the kirk. Although his reputation would say differently of him, James was not the monster everyone made him out to be. He would not bed an innocent; not like this.

There was no other way around it, he had to fake the consummation and he had better make it look convincing, for he was going to have to lie to a priest. Since it was customary for the holy one to view the consummation, James had to have a fool-proof plan, but the real problem that lay ahead was convincing Abigale to play along. With her growing up in a nunnery it might not be that easy to persuade her to lie to a priest.

Mayhap he should bed her and be done with it. After all, Abigale’s beauty enticed him… beckoned him. Being his wife, she had to know what was expected of her. James pondered this thought a while until his bloody dragon began to pulse through his body reminding him of why he could not bed Abigale. Demons he wished not to speak of ran soul deep, too deep to be forgiven. Abigale deserved better.

“Ye may rise as I announce ye man and wife.” With his white robe billowing off his arms, the priest opened them over James and Abigale, embracing their marriage.

James hopped to his feet like his arse was on fire. As soon as Abigale was on her feet, James crouched down in front of her and flung her over his massive shoulder. The plan was in motion.

Tiny hands pounded at his back in protest. ”Put me down, James Douglas!” Abigale demanded.

Not listening to a word she was saying, James quit the kirk and made his way to Castle Douglas. As he maneuvered his way through the bailey, Abigale kicked at him, almost causing him to drop her. He slapped a firm, giant hand across her backside. “Enough or I’ll drop ye,” James warned.

“Ouch!” Abigale squealed and squirmed.

James dodged and weaved through the village; time was of the essence. He had to reach the bedchamber before the priest arrived. If he didn’t make it on time then there was no way around it, he would have to bed Abigale in front of the holy one and that could not happen.

Enormous wooden doors opened as James reached the keep of Castle Douglas. His brother, Archibald, stood opening the doors with a confused expression on his face as he looked at James.

“Don’t ask.” James glanced at his younger brother sternly.

Archibald shook his head and closed the doors behind him.

Walking right past his brother, James continued his way through the great hall until he reached the stairs leading to the second floor. With haste, his long muscled legs took the stairs two at a time until he reached the corridor. Abigale still protesting on his back, he ran down the corridor and slammed into a chambermaid. White linen sheets flew from the chambermaid’s hands and littered the floor. The force of the impact turned James’s body around and he now faced the maid. “Sorry lass,” he said breathing heavily. “Where’s the closest unoccupied bedchamber?”

The chambermaid, with a look of surprise on her face, clenched a white sheet to her chest, bowed her head and pointed down the hall. “My Laird, last door to yer left.”

There was no time for small talk as he quickly continued to close the distance between him and the nearest bedchamber.

“That-a-lass.” The maid called out and shook her head as if she wished it was her being hauled off to a room by a man such as the laird.

Finally, they reached the bedchamber. James shouldered the door open and quickly placed Abigale on her feet, shutting the door behind him.

~~~~~

Abigale stumbled a step back as she gained her balance. Her neatly shaped bun now hung in a ball of tangles. “James Douglas, I demand to know what’s going on.”

Raking her fingers through her hair, she tried to tame her mass of locks, while her head spun. One moment she was kneeling in front of the priest and then the next she was swept off her feet and carried through the village like a sack of oats. What was going on?

“James?” Abigale harrumphed when he ignored her request.

Without replying, James peeked out of the small window of the chamber’s door.

“Who are ye looking for?” Realization hit her like a stone to the head… the priest.

Oh dear God, she had to bed her husband. Even though she knew this day would come it didn’t mean she had to like it. Abigale’s heart began to race and her palms began to sweat as she started to panic. The man who stood before her was intimidating and intense, but not as vile as she had imagined. Though she couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t too fond of her.

What if it hurt? What if she couldn’t please him? Worse yet, what if she repulsed him? Every bit of her skin beaded with sweat and her stomach went queasy. Innocent and never being with a man before, Abigale was scared, and completely confused by this man’s actions.

Quickly James strode over to Abigale and without saying a word he grabbed her arm and spun her so that her back was facing him. Two large hands grabbed the back of her dress at the neckline and started to rip the material in two. Blessed Mary, he was going to be rough with her. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to fight back the tears.

A loud rip echoed throughout the bedchamber. On weakened legs, Abigale tried to escape James’s grip, but it was of no use, he was too powerful for her to fight. “Stop, please, my Laird,” she pleaded. “Please… not like this.”

Abigale was swiftly turned around so she had to face him. Her dress barely hung from her shoulders and tears filled her deep blue eyes.

“I dunno how much time we have before the priest arrives.” He ripped Abigale’s dress off of her and flung it on the floor. She stood naked from the waist up.

Her eyes wide, her body trembling, Abigale’s arms immediately flew across her chest trying hard to cover herself.

James tugged his tunic off at the same time he hurried to remove his boots. “Unless ye want to bed me lass, we have to make it look like we’ve consummated our marriage.”

“I dinnae understand.” Abigale stood confused. “Are ye telling me we are going to lie and say we’ve consummated the marriage? Lie to a priest?” This was a mortal sin, lying… to a priest of all people. She would be stripped of grace, condemned to damnation unless she confessed.

“Aye.”

Abigale shook her head in disbelief. “’Tis a sin. I can no do it.” Was he really asking her to choose between her virginity and faith?

James advanced on Abigale, making her take a step back. “Maybe in your world ‘tis a sin but not in mine. I know ye dinnae want to bed me, but the fact is, Abigale, sometime ye must stretch the truth.”

Either way she would have to bed her husband, if not tonight then when she confessed her sin. Question still unanswered. Abigale Bruce what do ye value most your virginity or faith? Mayhap a little lie now, confess later was her best option right now.

Holding James’s amber depths, Abigale, with remorse, tugged the St. Andrew’s cross from around her neck and dropped it to the floor. She closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness as she listened to the ping of the cross hitting the floor.

At that time a loud rap on the chamber’s door broke their attention. Their heads snapped toward the door… the priest.

Quickly James bent down in front of her and shoved his hands up her skirts. Callused yet gentle hands slid up her thighs sending an erotic sensation through her body and settling between her legs. Oddly enough, her body began to ache for his touch so much that she almost forgot about the priest. Her hands slowly started to leave her breasts. All she could think about was wanting to plunge her fingers through his hair, and draw him in closer so she could feel his bare skin next to hers. So, this is lust, she thought. How quickly he had turned her into a wanton woman.

He unsheathed the dirk strapped to her thigh and dropped her skirt. “Good lass.” He smirked.

Before he let her go he bent down and whispered in her ear, “Start moaning.”

Confusion swept her face. “What?”

Both of them looked at each other bringing Abigale out of her lustful daze. James nodded, motioning for her to start moaning.

“Oh, my Laird,” Abigale moaned uncomfortably but convincing enough.

“Good lass,” he whispered with a smile.

All the while Abigale moaned a series of my Lairds, she watched James. With the dirk in one hand he had slit the other until blood dripped to the floor. Racing to the bed he pulled the blankets and furs back until he reached the crisp white linen sheet. Immediately he ripped the sheet from the bed and stained it with his blood. Perfect evidence, Abigale thought. He really had thought of everything, for the bloody material looked as if he had in fact penetrated her maidenhood and consummated the marriage. The priest would never know the difference.

As James went forth with his plan, he gestured for her to climb in the bed. Happy to oblige, the moaning ceased and Abigale slipped into bed pulling the covers up to her chin. Somehow being shrouded under the soft furs made her feel protected as if she was invisible. Oh how she wished she could sink further into the blankets.

Peeking over the edge of the fur, her eyes never left James. With the bloodstained sheet in hand, he walked over to answer the door. Before he cracked the hatch he untied his trews and disheveled his hair. This man had thought of everything, Abigale mused. He threw the stained sheet and her ripped wedding dress at the priest then slammed the door.

The priest left as quickly as he came.

James had been right, she did not want to bed him, not after the last couple of days she had been through. Her mind was confused and muddled; one moment she had freedom then the next it was taken away. She had met a beautiful man at the loch only to find out that he was the Bogeyman she was to marry. When James brought her up to the bedchamber she'd thought for sure he would stake his claim, take her roughly, and rob her of everything she held sacred. Men like him took what they wanted and didn’t care who they hurt in the process, yet he had showed her mercy. Her nerves threatened to break down and shatter. Dear Lord, please just make him leave.

~~~~~

James leaned his back against the door and sighed in relief. The priest was gone, but he still felt like an arse for making Abigale choose between her virginity and her faith. Even though it was her choice, he couldn’t shake the feeling; he almost wished he had made the choice for her, to bed the lass and be done with it. After seeing her flawless, peachy skin, her full breasts, and touching her soft thighs, it wouldn’t have taken much to change his mind. Like the greedy beast he was he would have taken everything she offered, if she was offering. This is why the lass had to go, he could not be trusted around her and he could feel his self-control slipping away.

As he picked up his tunic from the floor and tugged it on, he paused for a moment and glanced over at the auburn-haired beauty. She looked so innocent with her big deep blue eyes pinning him from over the top of a black fur. God’s wounds! She was shaking. He’d frightened her.

As he watched the lass cowering under the fur, his dragon stirred, reminding him he needed to get out of here and fast, for temptation lay right before him, beckoning him. Abigale had encountered enough of the Bogeyman for one night.

With his boots in hand he turned and quit the bedchamber leaving Abigale to rest.

Chapter 4

The dragon teaches you that if you want to climb high you have to do it against the wind. ~ Chinese Proverb

The next morning James busied himself preparing their horses for the long ride back home to Black Stone on the Hill. All morning long he’d tried to erase the vision of Abigale lifting her veil and revealing the deepest blue eyes he had ever seen. Why did she have to be the beautiful lass from the loch? Why did she have to be Abigale Bruce? It would be much easier to stay away from her if the lass had been an ugly hag, but she was far from a hag. Beauty like an angel, grace like a queen, and charm that could drive a man daft. How was he supposed to stay away when the lass tempted his willpower in such a way even he did not understand it?

I receive ye as mine. The words he’d uttered last eve haunted him.

“God’s wounds.”

He did not want to take a wife. Being a Guardian of Scotland, Dragonkine, there was only room for one woman in his life and it was Lady Scotland. Gut-wrenching reality hit… how was he going to tell Abigale about his other half? “Och lass, I forgot to tell ye, I’m a dragon and I spit fire.” That should go over well. Nay, he would make sure Abigale never knew. Besides she wouldn’t be staying long.

Agreeing to marry the king’s daughter brought more bother to him than he bargained for, but then again the king of Scotland, Robert Bruce, had a sly way of sweetening the deal. Land. Even though James’s home was in Angus, he did not own the land, so it was a perfect opportunity to set the stakes high. A bountiful dowry no man nor dragon could turn down.

After James was knighted a knight banneret on the battlefield; that was when the king had laid it on him.

“James, we have business to discuss.” Robert Bruce slapped James on the shoulder and continued to walk. The king was one who waited for no one.

James peered up from the trencher piled high with vegetables and meats. No amount of hunger could stop his curiosity. Quickly he wiped his mouth, left the table and caught up with King Robert.

They made their way up to the king’s solar. The king paced slowly, deep in thought in front of the hearth, with his hands behind his back. “Have ye gathered enough men in support of yer banner?” King Robert asked.

“Aye, yer Grace, enough to lead yer next quest.”

“Verra good. Ye see, James, my next quest is verra special to me. I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure no one knows about it.”

James stood tall, his stance confident. Intrigued by what King Robert was saying he listened intently.

“I am well prepared to pay ye generously for yer service, if ye shall agree to my terms.”

“Service? Yer Grace, I already serve ye and ye have been more than generous to me.”

“And ye have served me well.” King Robert walked to his wooden desk, sat down and steepled his fingers. “I've always considered ye like a son. Yer father, God rest his soul, and me go way back. He would be proud of ye.”

That couldn’t be farther from the truth. How could a father approve of the vindictive ways his son conducted warfare or the way he dealt out brutality to those who stood in his way? Nay, far from proud his father would be, James thought.

“What of this quest ye seek?” James asked

Robert tapped his steepled fingers on his bearded chin. “I have someone verra precious to me, Abigale my daughter. I’ve arranged for her to be married.”

James knew the king would only trust him and his men at arms to escort the princess of Scotland. This made perfectly good sense, but knowing the king as well as he did he still waited cautiously for his request.

“I’ve arranged for ye to make leave for Castle Douglas in the morn. There ye will marry my daughter.”

The room started to spin and the air in his lungs seized. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and his palms went cold. Had the king gone daft? Robert Bruce knew what he was, yet he was willing to marry his daughter off to a dragon. “God’s Teeth!" James wiped the sweat streaking down from his temple. He began to pace the small space in front of the king’s desk.

Finally James gathered his thoughts before he did something daft himself like run down to the gallows and hang himself.

“Yer Grace, with all due respect, I can no marry yer daughter.”

“’Tis a shame.” Bruce paused and reached inside his desk drawer. He began to uncoil a scroll that appeared to have a map on it. “Angus is such a beautiful piece of land, tucked in between two huge lochs.”

The king paused for a moment. “Tell me, James, how much coin do the oat fields bring in? Profitable, I assume?”

“Aye.” James had been defeated. There was no way around it. The king always got what he wanted, one way or another. Also, there was that feeling of gratitude gnawing in his gut. He had to marry the king’s daughter, for he owed a debt.

“So, prepare for travel?” Bruce asked.

“Aye.”

“Good. This makes me a happy man.” Then he began signing land documents over to James.

A generous and inviting dowry was too enticing to turn down. Marrying Abigale gained him not only Angus, but Bothwell Castle by the River Clyde in South Lanarkshire as well. But this newly owned land did not change the fact that James did not want a wife. But, with orders to take the princess to the safety of Angus and far away from the lowlands, James had to wonder if King Robert had other motives as well. Why does he remove me from the battlefield? Send me to the Highlands to live the mundane life of a clan chief? God’s Teeth! Am I more valuable behind a desk?

Nay, he was one of the seven Guardians of Scotland, chosen to defend and protect Scotland like his fellow Dragonkine warriors. Plus his mind was sharp when it came to strategizing attacks, the best there was. The king could not afford to lose him on the battlefield.

Regardless of Robert’s reasoning, he now had a wife. “A wife.” He spat. A forceful hoof stomp and aggravated tail swish let James know he had tightened his saddle a little snug for his horse’s liking. He rubbed his black mare on her chest. “Sorry, Lassie.”

James patted the mare on her hindquarters as he walked behind her making his way toward the stable’s entrance. He leaned his massive shoulder against the door frame of the stable and looked over at Castle Douglas. Rolling green hills now surrounded his land. He remembered a time when the castle was not so pleasant. It had been seized by English filth.

His family was outside the bailey’s protective wooden staked wall, just far enough away from the brutal massacre of the Clan Douglas men. No familiar war cries were left. Only the blood-curdling sounds of the wounded being slain by the English army could be heard. Their clan had been on the verge of being defeated. Sir William, James's father and clan chief, had to make a decision and fast. The English army had fought hard and were closing in on them. An English victory for certain.

Sir William looked down, deeply, into his young son’s eyes. A warrior-worn face bloodied and swollen, yet he was still a man in charge. “Son, do no fret or shed tears for me,” Sir William demanded.

“Da, I bid ye, please let me stay and fight,” wee James begged as he swiped at a fallen tear.

“Nay, Clan Douglas fought well, but the odds were against us. We have lost too many good men today. I must do what’s right for our people.”

James shook his head and tightened his fists. “Nay, we can still fight. This is our home.”

Sir William bent down in front of his son and placed his hands on his shoulders. It was difficult for James to see his father this way; a broken man desperate to keep his family together. James raged inside just like the bloody war raging inside the walls of Castle Douglas.

“James, listen to me. Ye are the man of the family now.” A sob from his wife caught his father’s attention. William paused and looked up at her. His beautiful wife had fought so hard to hold back her tears but had failed. Her body trembled as she covered her mouth with her shaking hand to stifle another sob. She pulled their younger son of seven years close to her.

William turned his attention to his wee James. “Ye must take care of your mother and brother now.”

Tears rushed down James’s face as he shook his head in denial. His face reddened with anger. What a task to bear for a boy no more than ten winters old.

“Ye know the plan, get to Paris and there ye will be safe. Do ye understand me, lad?” Sir William commanded.

James’s anger got the best of him. He was angry at his father for sending him away. He was angry at the English filth for ripping his family apart. He raged inside and began to erupt like a spewing volcano.

“Ye are a coward!” James exploded and began to hit his father in the chest with tiny fists. “Coward!”

William threw his arms around his raging son and hugged him tight as if he understood his son’s outrage, for he seethed just the same inside.

The metal clang of knight mail and heavy marching feet grew near. There was no time to waste. If William wanted to keep his family safe he needed to say goodbye now. Their time together had come to an end.

Sir William let go of his son. James took a few steps back and stared at his father. No words were spoken between the two of them.

James watched his mother cry convulsively as she clung to the broken man. His little brother stood between his parents as if they were his shelter from this terrible nightmare. James’s vision blurred and time slowed to a crawl. He looked around at the mayhem of bloodied warriors fighting and the destruction they left behind. Forever this day would be branded into his memories. He vowed he would come home and avenge his family’s name.

William let go of his wife and walked over to a young Robert Bruce. He trusted only one man with his family and Robert, with his English connections, was the one who could get his family safely to Paris.

William clasped his hand on Robert’s shoulder, “Bruce, ye make damn sure they’re on that boat to Paris. Understood?"

“Aye.”

James watched his father as he turned to face him. Standing tall, he took one last tender look at his family huddled together, tears streaking their faces. James knew this was his father’s way of saying their final goodbye.

William nodded to Robert. “God speed, my friend.”

With the last bit of pride William had he stood tall and smiled at his wife. Like a man on a mission he turned, unleashed his sword and ran back to the battle as he yelled one last war cry. “A Douglas! A Douglas!” As God was his witness he would take down a few more Sassenach filth before he surrendered his home.

James took a deep breath as he felt a tear threaten to fall. He would take his last breath slaying the English for taking everything from him. His father, his land, and his mother. His mother never got over losing his father. Some said she died of the plague, but he knew better; she died of a broken heart.

When James had returned to Scotland, several summers ago, he reclaimed his home from the English and avenged his family’s name. As his eyes roamed to the west side of Castle Douglas, charred stone reminded him of that night. He and his force of three massive dragons beheaded the English garrison, torched them and decapitated their horses. It was the first time he had unleashed the wrath of his dragon, and he felt no remorse for the English scum. Even today, when the wind blew just right, the smell of burning flesh could still be detected.

He sent a message that day. From then on, he was known as the Black Douglas, the Bogeyman.

A soft female voice came from the rear of the stable and claimed his attention.

~~~~~

“Good Morn, Fergus.” Abigale greeted her fine steed.

The brilliant white steed let out a welcoming nicker as Abigale approached.

“I’ve a surprise for ye,” Abigale teased. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a juicy red apple.

Ears pricked in her direction, he bobbed his head up and down as if he approved of her surprise.

Abigale offered the apple and held onto it as he took a bite. She found Fergus’s favorite spot to be scratched, right between his ears, and gave him a good scratch.

“Ah, Fergus, what are we going to do?” Abigale sighed as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

After last eve’s performance, Abigale had pondered most of the morning away as she ate stale oatcakes and picked at her black pudding. James had never returned, leaving her to a peaceful night’s rest. Why had he showed her mercy? He was her husband now; certainly he had the right to bed his wife.

“That really is some kind of horse ye have.”

Abigale jumped, surprised to find she wasn’t alone. James was leaning his shoulder up against the stall with his arms crossed. “Ye frightened me.” She held her hand over her chest to calm herself. “How long have ye been there… watching me?”

“Long enough.” James pushed off the stall and grabbed a saddle nearby. “We leave for Angus soon. ‘Tis best ye prepare for travel."

A crease appeared across her forehead. “I thought Castle Douglas was yer home?”

“Aye, it is. Archibald, my brother, will stay here to protect it. We head north.” James tipped his chin toward the Highlands.

“The Highlands?”

James blew out a huff. “Aye.”

Abigale followed closely behind as he sat the saddle down next to Fergus’s stall. As he turned around she almost bumped into him. A cold stare sent chills over her skin causing her to take a step back. One look from those eyes made her feel so small, like a wee child.

“But it’s dangerous to travel through the Highlands.” She glanced down at her clasped hands nervously. “We would be much safer here.”

“What’s wrong lass, are ye afraid a rogue Highlander will jump out of the woods to attack ye?”

Abigale didn’t take kindly to being teased. Being a woman and out on her own without the safety of the nunnery walls, she was apprehensive of traveling to the Highlands.

Abigale stood with her hands on her hips. “Ye see my Laird, I’ve only met one Highlander in my life and I’m no impressed." She looked him up and down.

Before she knew what was happening, James had closed the distance between them. Abigale felt giant hands grip her waist as she was pulled against a hard wall of muscle. Confused by his actions, she threw her hands to his chest in protest. She did not realize the repercussions of her actions.

As soon as their bodies connected, she felt his heat radiating off him. Amber eyes swirled leaving her breathless. She felt his cock harden against her stomach and instantly her body burned. He lowered his head. God help her, he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes and waited for his kiss, but to her disappointment it never came.

Quickly she was hoisted up by her waist, only to open her eyes to find James setting her down off to the side and out of his way. He walked past her and lifted a bridle off of a hook as if she had no effect on him. “Ye best hold yer tongue, lass. I have no tolerance for it,” he warned her.

Abigale stood dumbfounded. As sure as the sky was blue he was going to kiss her, she knew it. She felt it. Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong? She touched her lips and watched him walk over and grab the bridle like nothing had happened. This maddened her to no end. Threats and intimidation would not work on her; they only added fire to her fury. She had spent the last eight years surviving Abbess Margaret’s mercilessness. Now that she was free from her ruthless behavior, Abigale wouldn’t stand for the abuse.

“Is that the way ye Highlanders talk to yer wives?” Abigale bit back. “If so, my Laird, I’m still no impressed.”

James strode in front of Abigale holding her blue stare of ire. “Lass, let’s get one thing straight, I give the orders and ye are to obey.”

Abigale felt her blood boil up to the tips of her ears as she grabbed her skirts to prevent herself from slapping him.

“I didnae want a wife. ‘Tis best ye keep yer distance and do as yer told.” James broke their stare and began to saddle up a mount.

Abigale didn’t know where her courage came from, but this man was not going to get the best of her nor the satisfaction of knowing how furious he made her. Arrogant fool. “I see, my Laird ‘tis best to be seen but not heard. Like a well-trained dog?"

James began to tighten the saddle. “See it as ye wish, just do as yer told.” He brushed her off like an annoying fly buzzing around.

Before Abigale made her way back to Castle Douglas to pack for travel she sauntered next to James so he had to look at her.“Yer an arse, James Douglas.”

James smirked back and gave the saddle strap a good yank. “Now lass, is that any way to talk to yer husband?”

Abigale shot him a disgusted glare. She thought better than to exchange any more words so she turned on her heels and headed toward Castle Douglas to pack.

Chapter 5

A road less traveled…

The announcement that they were going to make camp for the night was music to Abigale’s ears. Keeping up with five mountainous Highlanders as they rode their horses through the Highlands started to wear on her body. Breaks were few, short lived, and the rocky, rough terrain had wreaked havoc on her backside. James, determined to make it at least half way to Angus before nightfall, rode them hard. These men were accustomed to the land and their bodies were built to absorb the brutal beating the Highlands could bring upon a person, but she wasn’t.

It was outlandish and well, plain rude to treat her like one of his men-at-arms. Though never once did she grumble about her discomfort. She rode with grace and kept to herself, but inside Abigale stewed.

I dinnae want a wife, James’s voice rang through her thoughts. Abigale huffed and rolled her eyes. Did he really think she wanted to marry the Bogeyman? Nay, she was perfectly content back at the nunnery studying to become a surgeon and help heal the sick. Most nights she found herself nose deep in a book, reading up on herbs or looking over notes taken during an observed surgery. As long as she stayed clear of Abbess Margaret, life was, well… predictable, safe.

Who are you fooling, Abigale Bruce? She scolded herself. The nunnery was not the place she wanted to be. In fact as of late she had grown restless with images of wee bairns running amuck, calling her mother. A mother… just that thought warmed her inside. She wanted a husband to call a friend, a lover who could make her toes curl with one kiss. Aye, she sighed, a family. A family like she had never known. Now that desire seemed to crumble away to nothing more than a wishful dream. I dinnae want a wife.

The more she pondered the more blame she placed on James. He’d made it perfectly clear she was nothing more than a nuisance… a bump in the road… a thorn in his backside. Well, she would show him who the thorn was, she thought. At this point, she could not decide what burned her arse more, James or the bloody saddle.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” James announced.

Abigale winced when they came to a halt. Dismounting was going to be a challenge; she had no feeling left in her legs.

James hopped down off of his black mare and looked for a place to set up camp while two of his men went to search for wood to build a fire. Abigale noticed how he commanded his men and the way they respected him. A true natural born leader indeed. She respected him for that, but his manners on the other hand, well, not so much.

After she realized she was on her own, Abigale slowly slid off from the saddle onto numb, stinging legs. Pain crept across her face as she steadied herself against Fergus. The white steed turned his head and nudged her with his wet nose as if he asked how she fared. Patting him on his head, she smiled and reassured him that she was fine.

Desperately needing to set up a spot so she could get some rest, she began to untie a rolled up blanket and fur. As she took her first step, her legs buckled. Strong arms caught her from behind before she hit the hard ground.

“Ye alright, lass?” James asked.

“Are ye alright?” What kind of question was that? Of course she was not alright; her backside throbbed and her legs stung. She was exhausted, famished, and in desperate need of a bath. Besides she really did not want his help. She would be fine on her own, just like she had been her whole life. Alone.

“I’m fine.” Abigale brushed him off and tried to walk away only to stumble back into his arms.

“Here, let me help. Ye can take my pallet.” Before Abigale could protest, James scooped her up in his strong arms and walked her over to his pallet.

He sat her gently down on soft fur then reached into a satchel and handed her an oatcake. “Here, eat this.”

Taking the oatcake, Abigale eyed him curiously. “Thank ye.”

Abigale ate in silence. Wondering why he was treating her with kindness, she watched him keenly. Walking back to the black mare, he retrieved a waterskin. Oh thank Heavens… water. She was parched.

“Drink this,” James demanded.

Abigale gladly took the skin and drank vigorously. A strong overbearing taste burned her throat and her stomach threatened to lurch. She spat out the amber liquid and coughed.

James smirked. “What’s wrong? Have ye no had whiskey before?”

Abigale shot him a cross glance as she wiped her mouth off on her sleeve. “Nay. ‘Tis awful.”

“’Tis an acquired taste, but trust me it will help.”

After the wretched liquid settled in her stomach, Abigale watched James tend to the fire. Why was he being nice to her? It remained apparent that he had thought nothing of her wellbeing throughout the day and showed no mercy.

She was growing quite fond of this side of James; the caring, gentle side. It made her wonder why he didn’t want a wife. From what she’d viewed, he’d showed kindness, in his own way, she supposed. He was honorable, which she knew, because of his loyalty to her father. However, what could have happened to make this Highland warrior not want to take a wife?

At times he seemed to be far away, deep in thought. Perhaps a love gone bad or had he lost a love? If unlucky in love, she could understand wanting to protect your heart from the pain. Then again, what did she know? She had never been in love. What a mystery this man was to her.

She felt her skin prick and her body warmed. Looking up, her eyes met an amber glare. She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She’d been found out, for James now stood over her with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” James stood firm.

Quickly, she looked down into her lap, not wanting to make eye contact. “’Tis nothing.”

“Lass, say what’s on yer mind before ye worry yer bottom lip off.”

Abigale sighed in defeat. She had been told before that she was easy to read. Sister Kate had voiced that many times. Abigale Bruce, ye wear yer heart on yer sleeve. Surprisingly, Abigale wished Sister Kate was here now. She needed her words of wisdom, now more than ever.

She looked up at the towering warrior. “Why do ye no want a wife?”

James clenched his jaw as if this question irritated him. “Abigale, get some rest.” He began to walk off toward his horse.

“My Laird, if I may—“

James stopped abruptly and turned to face her. “Nay, ye may not.”

“It’s just… ye’ve been kind and ––“

“Lass, dinnae mistake my concern for yer wellbeing as an act of kindness.” Sternness swept across his face. “I’m no the monster everyone makes me oot to be.”

Abigale knew better than to push the issue, so she let him walk away. She took the skin and sipped; this time the whiskey didn’t taste as bad. Welcoming the warmth of the liquid, she snuggled deep into the furs and lost herself in her thoughts. Sooner or later she would crack open the mystery.

~~~~~

The last purple hue in the sky disappeared beyond the horizon as dusk quickly turned into night. The chattering of night creatures filled the air, a raging fire flickered and crackled in the center of camp. James sat propped up against a weeping willow tree where he’d spent most of the night watching Abigale. It wasn’t long after the second sip of whiskey that her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. Deeply nestled inside the furs, she looked like an angel. Long dark eye lashes rested on her flawless cheeks, her mouth was slightly open, and James could hear her soft breaths. She mesmerized him, enticed him.

Furthermore, he found it quite enjoyable to sit and watch. The vision of Abigale talking to Fergus back at the stables brought a smile to his face. The way her face lit up, the soft touches she gave Fergus, even the way she bit her bottom lip when she was deep in thought captivated him. He cursed silently. Was he really becoming jealous of a horse?

Abigale sighed, bringing James’s attention back to the beauty sleeping right before him. Soft curves called to him as she nuzzled deeper into the furs. His body ached as he fought the urge to slide under the covers and press his body against hers. His hands twitched with the thought of running them over her breasts, down her stomach and…  Before he knew it, he licked his lips. How sweet she would taste.

He scrubbed his hands down his face like he was trying to erase her from his thoughts. No such luck. With his bastard of a dragon stirring inside, the beast purred in agreement. God’s teeth, he should have claimed her when he had the chance to. Surely it would make his decision to send her away a lot easier.

A rant from Rory grabbed his attention. One last look at Abigale and James made his way to where his men were sitting around the fire. He hadn’t joined his fellow Dragonkine yet. To be honest he didn’t want to hear about the short-heeled wenches they had been with or their recent tavern brawls. Nay, James had other things on his mind.

“I dinnae understand –“

“Understand what?” James interrupted Rory as he approached the site.

“My Laird, I’m afraid Rory has had a wee drop too much mead and is loose with his tongue.” Conall eyed Rory as if telling him to shut it.

“I have nay.” Rory became defensive. “Ye know ‘tis true, humans have their rightful king. Why can’t we have our king?” Rory drained the last of his mead.

Magnus, an elder Dragonkine, spoke up, answering Rory’s question. “Aye lad, at one time we did have our own king who ruled along with King MacAlpin. Dragonkine flourished in our own kingdom.” Magnus had a faraway look on his face, as if he remembered that time very well. “Aye, many glorious years of peace.”

Rory gazed at Magnus. “Until we became a threat.”

“’Tis true, King MacAlpin slaughtered our people along with our king, King Drest,” Conall stated.

“Aye, it was supposed to be a peaceful meeting between kings and our royal seven. Ale, food, and women aplenty were offered as the kings made peace. So we thought. Before King Drest and our royals knew what was happening, the floors to the great hall had opened up sending our people deep underground. Bodies impaled upon sharp spikes, they couldn't move, and the trap doors on the floor were sealed shut. Covered with earth, our king and royals were buried alive.” Magnus paused, clearing his throat. “Only a few Dragonkine survived that day." Magnus stared into the flickering flames as if he saw the past recurring.

“I dinnae call surrendering surviving,” Rory bit back.

After the dreadful massacre King MacAlpin had showed no mercy to the Kine. The king’s orders were to slay every Dragonkine in the realm, man, woman, or child, it did not matter. As the last remaining seven Kine warriors stood with cold steel pressed against their necks and arms and legs bound with chains, King MacAlpin changed his mind. Mayhap the last seven remaining would come in handy as he looked onward to battling future enemies. A massive, powerful dragon on his or any future human king’s side would be of great value.

So, an agreement had been made. There would only be seven Dragonkine warriors left to roam the Earth, all warriors would be ruled by Scottish kings and become Guardians of Scotland. When called upon, they were to fight for the greater good. When one Kine died another would take its place, chosen by the dragon elders. Rory had a point; surrendering was not surviving.

With no more freedom to sustain, a species will either die or become accustomed to their new surroundings. Well, being immortal left you with only one option, adapt. As time would tell, some Dragonkine had a hard time with this. Most warriors’ dragons were bloodthirsty with revenge, so being on the battlefield killing humans sufficed their carnal need, good or bad. Morals didn't count as long as there was blood shed. Being endless came with another burden for some; falling in love with a human woman. If a woman could overcome the idea that she loved a dragon, she would become immortal as long as her mate was alive. Because most women rejected a Kine’s dragon side, most warriors protected their hearts and vowed to never fall in love.

As James thought further about the history of the ancients, the downfall of their kingdom, he knew what the feud between the kings was about; a woman. “King MacAlpin’s son fell in love with King Drest’s daughter. If they were to have married the next male heir would have become the Dragonkine king and king of Scotland. One king to rule both realms.”

“Nay my friend, ye have it all wrong.” Rory stalked over to James to make his point clear. “It was about King MacAlpin's greed. He wanted to rule Dragonkine and humans. We became a threat. MacAlpin killed our people in order to be king of both realms.” Rory seethed with hatred.

“’Tis enough, Rory,” James warned. He could feel the tension rising and nothing good ever came from sparring dragons.

“Nay, think about it. There are seven of our Kine left, for three of the seven we have no clue where they are. James, ‘tis not natural for Dragonkine to live in a human world. We need our women to calm our dragons. If we had our own king ye would no have had to marry her.” Rory pointed in Abigale’s direction.

James could feel his anger as it started to rage inside, for he knew Rory had a point. But the past was the past. The king of Scotland held his loyalty. “Abigale is of no concern to ye,” James bit back.

Conall stood, prepared to break up a nasty fight. “Indeed it is the past.” He peered sternly at Rory.

Both James and Rory stood eye to eye, nostrils flared as they waited for someone to make a move.

“Enough.” Magnus’s deep demanding voice rang out. “’Twas long ago. We have mended those old wounds and our king is the king of Scotland.”

“But old wounds have left deep scars, Magnus, ye cannae deny it,” Rory stated as he held James’s stare.

Magnus stretched as he stood, breaking up the standoff between the warriors. “Lads I’ll take first watch.” He walked toward his pallet; indeed old wounds left deep scars.

~~~~~

Abigale tossed and turned, eventually awaking to a throbbing pain throughout her backside; her skin burned and muscles ached. The few sips of whiskey had helped some, but no matter which way she turned, she could not ease the pain. As she lay on her side she remembered seeing a clump of low-growing purple flowers, self-heal. She had just read about its ability to help heal wounds and soothe bruises. She needed to find that plant.

Rhythmic, thunderous snoring belted through the night, as four massive Highlanders with their mouths open and bodies limp surrounded the campsite. Their boisterous snores could have wakened the dead. Perfect timing to search for that plant, she thought. No one would know she was gone. Abigale sat up and stretched her stiff legs before she made an effort to stand.

Thankful she had feeling back in her legs, she walked gingerly toward the woodland’s edge away from camp. Not remembering exactly where she had seen the plant last, she went deeper. The forest came alive as the fullness of the moon shined down over the trees, casting eerie shadows throughout the glen; frogs croaked and small nocturnal animals rustled in the undergrowth. As she passed an old tree, an owl hooted, causing her to jump. She shook her head at herself and laughed. Abigale, ye big chicken, ‘tis only an owl, for heaven’s sake. But still the darkness gave her the creeps.

She continued her search through every blade of grass, every clump of flowers, but came up empty handed. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing, she would have given up. It had to be around here somewhere; she had seen it. Hope of finding her precious flower started to fade and so did her energy.

Walking over towards the loch she noticed, from the corner of her eye, a purple flower. The moon lit the flower as if it was glowing. A smile crossed her lips as she stopped and picked a few petals from the plant.

~~~~~

Sleep always avoided James. Plagued with recurring nightmares, he preferred not to sleep. As of late the dreams had become all too real. Death was coming for him, he felt it deep in his bones. Rolling over on his back, frustrated, he cursed. Even the Bogeyman had demons nipping at his heels.

James pushed aside his thoughts and decided a dip in the nearby loch would calm his nerves. He looked over at the clump of furs where Abigale slept. She looked to be deeply snuggled and resting comfortably. He couldn’t see her beautiful auburn head, for she must have hidden in the furs to drown out the snores. Aye, a quick dip in the cold loch would clear his head.

As James approached the loch, he came across a small figure leaning against a boulder. Not being able to make out the image, he pulled out his dirk and crouched down. As he drew closer, the clouds in the dark sky shifted just enough to shed light upon the object.

“Abigale?” His forehead creased in confusion. “What are ye doing out here, lass?”

“James? I thought ye were sleeping.” She stood, trying not to show how much pain she was in.

“Answer my question.” He crossed his massive arms in front of his chest. “What are ye doing out here?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk.”

He didn’t believe her. No way would a lass be out here in the dark just to take a stroll. It was too dangerous. The glen was known for its abundance of wild boar, and when approached, the beasts could be quite nasty. Aye, she was hiding something from him; she was a horrible liar. “What’s that in yer hand?” He reached for the purple petals, but quickly she hid them behind her back.

“Nothing. ‘Tis my business.”

“Abigale, I’m in no mood for games.” James stepped forward then grabbed the flower from behind her.

“Give it back!” She yanked the flower from his hands. “Ye have no right coming out here telling me what to do. Ye told me to keep my distance, now ye keep yers," she demanded.

He noticed Abigale was uneasy on her feet when she tried to take a step away from him. She had swayed, lost her balance, and grabbed ahold of the boulder to steady herself.

Went for a walk my arse, James thought. The lass was in too much pain.

Hunched over, Abigale supported her weight with both hands on the boulder. Long auburn hair hung loosely over the sides of her face. Indeed she was in a great deal of pain. “What ails ye?” He brushed her hair away from her face so he could see her.

She looked up at him and her blue eyes stole his breath away. “Nothing. I’ll be fine.”

Even in pain the lass couldn’t be more beautiful, yet he was beginning to find out that she was as stubborn as he was. “Lass, ye dinnae look fine. Now, let me help.” Looking down he noticed a trail of blood running down her leg. “Yer bleeding.” Concerned, James grabbed her skirts and frantically started to push them up her thigh. He needed to know where the blood was coming from.

“Enough… enough.” She swatted at his hands. “I'll let ye help if ye let go of my skirt.” Abigale surrendered.

“Fine.” In one fast motion James grabbed her under dress and ripped a strip off. “I’ll be right back. Dinnae move. I’m going to the loch for some water.”

~~~~~

“Dinnae move.” Abigale repeated his words silently. Where did he think she was going to go? If she could she would run away and hide, for this was going to be the most humiliating night of her life. There was no way she was going to accept his help. First of all she was madder than a wet hen at him and secondly she was not going to let him rub self-heal on her buttocks. She would make do somehow, as soon as she got rid of him.

Clearing moss from a spot on the boulder, Abigale began to crush the petals into a paste. It was not ideal, but at this point she could care less. She needed relief.

James quickly returned from the loch and began to lift Abigale’s skirts.

“Wait I –“

“Lass, I’m just going to wipe the blood off and see where it’s coming from.”

Clearly he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so there was no need to hold on to the last bit of dignity she had left. They locked eyes and she could see his true concern for her. Slowly she gathered her skirts and turned around until her bare, ruby red bottom was exposed.

James grabbed her hips, moved her toward the moonlight, and bent down behind her. She heard a sigh, but James did not say a word.

Finally Abigale looked over her shoulder. ”How bad is it?”

“Well lass, ye have a bad case of saddle sores. One of the blisters has opened and that’s where the blood is coming from.”

Ever so gently, James began to dab away at the blood. Abigale hissed when he swiped the wet fabric over the injured skin. She felt a cool breeze against her skin and it wasn’t from the night air. Did he just blow on my bottom?

It wasn’t long before the pain started to dull. Abigale leaned her head back and stared into the starry night sky. Could this night get any worse? She was mortified standing here naked from the waist down. It seemed as of late, every time James was around, a part of her body was naked. Surely, he must be repulsed by the look of her bottom. She wished she could pray this night away.

James stood and helped straighten Abigale’s skirts. Humiliated, Abigale hid her face in her hands. She didn’t want to look at him; how could she? Little by little James had seen her naked. Not only was she physically exposed, but she felt just as naked emotionally. She was slowly being stripped away from everything she had ever known. No longer was her life predictable like back at the nunnery. Her whole world had been turned upside down and now her future lay in the hands of a man who did not want her. Maybe it was exhaustion taking over or perhaps emotions were getting the best of her; whatever it might be, tears started to streak her beautiful face.

Strong hands pried her hands away from her face. James placed a finger under her chin lifting her head back until their eyes met.

“Och lass, don’t cry.” James wiped a tear from her cheek. “Ye have the finest arse I’ve ever seen.” He smirked.

Abigale laughed through her tears and swatted at his chest playfully. “Dinnae make me laugh. I’m mad at ye.”

Gently James picked her up and cradled her in his arms. “I guess I deserve that much.”

As they made their way back to the campsite, Abigale laid her head on his shoulder and lost herself in sleep.

Chapter 6

Only the very brave and the very foolish enter the dragon’s lair.

“My lady, ye best be gettin’ up.”

Abigale awoke to a plump older woman with light brown hair streaked with gray, creating a commotion. Forcefully, the woman removed the furs from the small window letting in a ray of sunlight. With much irritation, Abigale quickly threw the covers over her head and turned her body to block the cursed light.

The overbearing woman grabbed the sheets from the bottom of Abigale’s bed and ripped them off her body. “Ye cannae stay in bed all day. Now, up with ye before I get the bucket of cold water.”

Abigale struggled to open her eyes as she stretched her stiff, sleep stricken body. Slowly a bedchamber she didn’t recognize came into view. In a frenzy, she straightened herself in to a sitting position as she looked around the room for some clue to where she was. Unfamiliar tapestries hung from the gray stone walls. One of the tapestries showed a gruesome battle scene. Wait… Abigale rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Is that a dragon fighting in the tapestry? Shaking that thought she noticed a huge fire burning in the hearth that filled one side of the room and the smell of lavender lingered in the air. A bath, she sighed.

As Abigale scooted to the edge of the bed, visions of days past clouded her memory. Looking down at her hand, she caressed her thumb across the golden band. The wedding was not a dream, but a reality. A dull tingle on her backside reminded her of the long travel and… oh no. Humiliation washed over her. James had tended to her wounds.

Abigale shot out of bed and ran over to the mirror that stood in the corner of the room. Quickly she lifted her night-gown, turned around, and looked over her shoulder at her buttocks. Amazed at what she saw, she rubbed her hand across one butt cheek; soft, pink healing skin covered the blisters and she felt no pain just a dull ache. How could she have healed so fast? How long had she been asleep?

“Oh my lady, forgive me. Ye’re in pain from yer travels, aye?” Quickly Abigale dropped her gown and turned to face the woman.

“Come lass, I have a bath waiting for ye.” The woman gently led Abigale toward the bath and patted her arm, reassuring her. “The warmth will help ease the pain.”

Without a doubt this woman was in charge of the castle and took her job quite seriously, for she had a firm but caring way about her. Thank God because if she had to deal with another Griselda she would go daft. “Where am I?”

“Black Stone on the Hill, my lady.”

Black Stone? Aye, she was traveling to Black Stone, but why could she not remember how she got here? She remembered everything up until James picked her up and carried her back to the campsite. Ironically she’d forgotten the whole trip to Black Stone. Strange, I must have blacked out from exhaustion, she mused.

Abigale walked with the kind woman over to the tub. Steam rose along with the scent of lavender from the inviting water. Heaven awaits.

“And how long have I been asleep?”

“Two days, lass.”

“Two days?” She’d been asleep for two days? How could this be?

The woman began to pull off Abigale’s night-gown. Abigale stepped back and pushed the woman’s hands away.

“A wee bit shy are we?” The woman turned her back to give Abigale some privacy.

Abigale gathered up her night-gown and pulled it off over her head. Dipping a toe into the water, she tested its warmth. The water felt heavenly as she lowered herself into the tub. After a few seconds she relaxed and allowed her body to absorb the heat.

The woman held out a bar of soap and pointed at Abigale’s hair. “May I?”

Abigale wasn’t fond of this type of treatment; she had to make do on her own back at the abbey. Abbess Margaret had made sure of that. The last punishment Abigale received was one of the cruelest and most painful. Indeed it had to be that Abbess Margaret knew Abigale was going to be leaving the nunnery soon, so she had one last punishment to give. The Abbess couldn’t use tether on her flesh, nor leave bruises, it would leave a mark and everyone would know of her mistreating Abigale. This left her long auburn hair as the weapon of choice.

Late one night, she had awoken to the dreadful woman coiling Abigale’s hair around her hand as if she was in a daze. “Ye think yer pretty don’t ye, bastart?" Abigale kept silent until she was yanked out of bed by her hair, dragged down to the church, and forced to pray to be forgiven for all the sins she had been accused of committing.

Honestly Abigale didn’t want to be touched by anyone, but she felt like she could trust this woman. “Aye,” she smiled meekly.

Working the soap into a lather, the woman let out a soft chuckle. “Dinnae worry, it will be over before ye know it.”

“What will be over?” Abigale was confused.

“Aye, ye are a married woman now. Yer husband will want to bed his wife.”

Abigale laughed silently to herself. Apparently this woman didn’t know how James felt about her and the whole marriage arrangement. He’d made that perfectly clear. I dinnae want a wife, she mocked to herself. Then just like a change in the wind Abigale’s thoughts turned on her. Back at Castle Douglas they had made everyone believe that they had consummated their marriage. Obviously, this woman knew differently.

“How do ye know we haven’t… ye know… already?"

The woman got up and retrieved a pitcher. “Lass, yer secret is safe with me.”

And she did believe her secret was safe, for the gray-haired woman had showed her more kindness than anyone had recently. She had a kind approachable way about her and Abigale felt as if she could trust her.

Abigale bit her bottom lip with worry and let out a shaky breath. “I’ve nae been with a man.” Looking down at her hands she nervously picked at her nails. "I’ve heard it hurts.”

“Aye lass, but only for a wee bit. Dinnae worry yer pretty head aboot it.” Reaching over, the woman grabbed a pitcher full of fresh water. “Now, lean back so I can rinse the soap out yer hair.”

Abigale leaned her head back and looked up at the woman. “I’m no used to all this fuss.”

“Yer the lady of the hoose… of course we will fuss over ye. Besides I like ye.” The woman winked at her and gave her a warm smile like a mother would give a child.

Recalling the last eight years, she’d benefitted from being the king’s daughter and look where that had gotten her. Multiple tongue lashings and extra duties. There was no royal treatment for her; princess was just a given title. Abigale guessed she should be thankful. Even though she was a bastard, her father had recognized her as his own and that was a blessing in its own right. Nay, she would be treated like everyone else.

“I dinnae expect any special treatment. I’m no much of a cook, but I can help.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “There’s no need to help—“

“I insist,” Abigale said firmly.

“Well then, ye are the lady, so if that’s yer wish then—“

“It is.”

After a few moments of silence the woman stood. “I’ll leave a fresh gown out for ye and I’ll be back with some food.” She started to leave the wash area when Abigale called out, “Wait, yer name!”

The woman turned around and faced Abigale. “Me name is Alice.”

Tears started to fill Abigale’s eyes. “Thank ye Alice for being so kind to me.”

Alice gave her the warmest smile, giving Abigale hope. Hope that mayhap she would find happiness here at Black Stone on the Hill.

~~~~~

“I’ve no met a princess before,” Effie confessed as she blew a ringlet of bright red hair from her eye.

“Effie, I think ye have washed that plate clean.” Alice was quite aware how nervous Effie was of meeting Abigale. Word had spread fast that the princess of Scotland was here and now wed to their clan’s chief.

Drying off the spotless plate Effie turned to Alice who was preparing the nightly feast. The whole clan was coming together tonight in celebration of the return of their chief and his new bride.

“Alice, is she pretty? I wonder how many wonderful fairytale stories she has about growing up in royalty.” Indeed, Effie was day dreaming herself about a prince charming and a happily ever after.

“Effie!” Alice scolded, “Keep yer head out of the clouds, lass. There is much work to be done. Grab that basket of carrots and start choppin'.” Effie sauntered over to the basket and began her kitchen duty.

Abigale followed the chatter she heard coming from the kitchen, but paused and took a deep breath before she entered. She was not keen on kitchen duties, in fact she hated to cook. It never failed that she burned everything she tried to make. Not wanting to set a bad first impression with her cooking skills, Abigale hoped that Alice wouldn’t ask her to cook.

“Awe lass, come in… come in.” Alice welcomed her with open arms.

A luscious redhead dropped a knife and dashed over to Abigale, swiftly wiping her hands on her tattered apron. “My lady.” She did her best curtsy trying to impress the princess.

“Please, no need to be formal with me.” Abigale brushed off the formality. However, Abigale was surprised that she knew her true identity. Indeed she knew she was safe here, besides this was why her father had arranged this union between her and the Black Douglas, to keep her safe. A savage reputation like his, no one would dare try to harm her.

Abigale wondered where James was. Alas it had been two days since the last she saw him. She couldn’t shake this feeling like something was missing, as if she wasn’t whole. Well, she did know darn well who was missing and she longed to see him. "Alice? Where is Laird Douglas?”

“He’s out in the bailey somewhere sparring with his men. They should be back midday,” Alice confirmed.

“Oh.” Abigale, a little disappointed, was hoping to see James sooner.

Most of the morning passed by quickly, as Alice attempted to teach Abigale how to make bread and prepare the night’s feast. Nonetheless, it wasn’t an easy task. Abigale just wasn’t a good cook. Not for the lack of trying; she kneaded the dough just like Alice instructed, but the blasted sticky paste stuck to the table and all over her hands. To top it off the bread turned out hard as a rock, completely inedible.

“Dinnae fash lass, ‘tis only yer first try. We can cut up the bread and use it for trenchers,” Alice said.

A blast of laughter exploded between the women. God bless Alice for having the patience of a saint. Both women had made her feel right at home and she truly enjoyed their company. As they worked washing vegetables and chopping herbs, Alice and Effie had enlightened her about castle Black Stone and its clan members. For instance, there was a chapel near the castle where services were held regularly. The smith not only was a master behind his anvil, he also had a way with the lasses. There was a healer, with an exceptional gift, always on call. Then there were the men… Highlanders. Rogues, rascals up to no good, but without a doubt, they defended their clan with honor and with their lives. Though as Alice explained more about them, Abigale had a feeling Alice was highly respected by them and that they gave her no troubles.

After the kitchen disaster and almost setting her second loaf of bread to flames, Abigale, Effie, and Alice retired to the great hall. A savory aroma filled the air indicating that a variety of wild game was cooking in the kitchen. Servants scurried about arranging the great hall for tonight’s feast as Clan Douglas welcomed home their chief and his new bride. Assorted wild flowers littered the tops of wooden tables, cobwebs had been dusted off the chandelier, and rugs of bright colors covered the stone floor. Tapestries hung high and draped the walls, and candlelight shining from the sconces illuminated the room giving it a golden glow. The great hall looked fit for a king.

The women took their seats next to the hearth where baskets full of clothes sat and waited to be mended. Soft leather boots needed new laces, tunics needed patching and trews needed stitching. “Alice, do all of these items belong to James?” Abigale couldn't imagine that a man like James would possess such a large amount of clothing.

“Nay, as a clan we take care of our people. So, when our men come home from battle, we mend what needs to be mended.” Alice handed her a bloodstained tunic.

Abigale studied the stain for a while, her brows creased as she wondered who had worn this tunic and if they had lived to see another day. That stain represented so much more than just a stain. It was a reminder of just how unstable Scotland was. Brave men and women had lost their lives fighting for their freedom from the English. As if that wasn’t enough, clan fought against clan, brother against brother, blood against blood. When would the fighting stop? she thought. She had seen and healed so many wounded men and saw too many of them die. Life was valuable to her and needed to be cherished, not destroyed.

The sound of heavy paws trampling through the great hall broke Abigale from her thoughts. Through the doorway bounded two huge, gray Scottish deerhounds. The beasts ran past her with their tongues hanging from the sides of their mouths in exhaustion. As if it were routine, they plopped down next to the hearth panting. Men jesting and laughing boisterously followed.

“Magnus old man, I think ye have lost yer touch,” a blond-haired man boasted and shoved Magnus with his shoulder.

“Or he’s still drunk with mead,” Another man blurted out.

“Ye may outwit me with yer fancy blades, but I’d behead ye with one swing of my axe.” Magnus’s rough voice boomed over their laughter.

Abigale’s heart stopped as James approached them. His long black hair stuck to his neck and bare chest with sweat, his kilt hung low on his hips, and his pectorals twitched slightly as if he was relieving sore muscles. God help her, this man was truly beautiful.

Smiling from ear to ear James strode over to Alice. “My dear Alice.” He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Och, how I've missed ye, bonny lass.”

Alice dismissed his greeting with a swish of her hand. “My Laird, ye know how to make a lady blush.”

For a moment Abigail envied Alice, for she wished James would look at her the way he looked at the older woman.

James glanced at Abigail and greeted Effie with a nod.

“I’ll be in my bedchamber.” James headed for the stone and iron staircase.

Alice scolded James like a child, “Nay so fast… aren’t ye going to introduce yer men to yer lady?”

James rubbed the back of his neck and turned back to his men, who now stood in perfect line formation in front of Abigale like proper Highland soldiers. James shook his head.

“My apologies. This is Rory Cameron, my cousin Marcus Stewart, Conall Hamilton, and the handsome man in red is Magnus.”

Magnus grunted and rolled his eyes in response to James’s jest. “It be me pleasure to meet ye, my lady.”

Abigale remembered Magnus from the campsite, but was never introduced properly. Magnus had long, unruly red hair, which was a shade lighter than his full beard that hung past his chin. Though they all seemed to look about the same age, Magnus seemed to have an authoritative demeanor.

Rory smoothed his hand through his shoulder-length blonde hair trying to tame the waves. As he approached Abigale, his eyes shimmered a bright blue when he smiled at her. “My lady.” He knelt down without losing eye contact with her. What a charmer, with a gaze like Rory’s the lasses must swoon over him, Abigale thought.

A deep rich voice broke her trance as Conall approached her. “Lady Abigale. ‘Tis nice to be formally introduced.” A scattered mess of chocolate curls, wet with sweat, hung just below his ears. He bent down and reached for her hand and kissed it. He was pure dominance in the same way James was, but seemed approachable.

“Aye, I do remember ye. Ye were my escort to the kirk?”

“Aye.” He winked.

The noises in the hall must have obscured her hearing because she could have sworn she heard a growl coming from James.

After Conall finished his greeting with Abigale he set his blue-gray stare on Effie, and with a sly, sexy smile he turned Effie’s freckled cheeks three shades of red. The lass quickly looked down at the leather boot she was re-lacing.

Marcus stood where he was and gave a nod.

A chill raced down Abigale’s spine as Marcus glared skeptically at her. She hadn’t noticed him on her travels to Black Stone, but the others she remembered. Abigale turned her attention back to James who was watching her intently with that piercingly protective stare.

“I’ll be in my bedchamber.” And with no other words James turned on his heels and ascended the stairs two at a time until he reached the loft that circled the great hall. Abigale watched him until he disappeared down a long corridor leading to their… his bedchamber.

Chapter 7

There is no room for two dragons in one pond. ~ Chinese Proverb

Softly stroked notes from a golden harp gracefully filled the great hall. A few hundred members of Clan Douglas were scattered around long wooden tables as they ate the night’s feast. Chatter amongst them started up again as they finished the last of the wide variety of roasted game and vegetables.

James sat with his men and pondered how much his life was going to change now that he was home and had a wife. After an impressive victory at Bannockburn, James and his soldiers had sent King Edward the Second fleeing back to England, leaving behind a routed English army, and now he was home. It had been a while since James and his Dragonkine warriors had been back to Black Stone on the Hill. The battlefield had been the bane of their existence for God knew how long. Accepting his immortality was going to be a challenge; knowing that time was nonexistent in his world he was going to have a hard time adjusting to the solitude of a mundane life. At least if he was on the field time didn’t seem to matter and his dragon’s bloodlust was appeased. Furthermore, clan life was uninteresting to him. Surely, he should be securing the borders south of Stirling, but instead he was home and having a hard time adapting to the idea of solitude and a wife.

There was no more fighting for him, at least not on the battlefield. The king had made it clear that he was to protect his daughter and if that meant accepting clan life, James would do it.

James sat across from Conall and Magnus at the tables. Rory sat next to him working on his third trencher of food. Rory’s body leaned forward over his treasure, his strong arms caging the dish like a dog guarding a bone.

Magnus and Conall sat with creased brows as they witnessed Rory’s attack on a leg of mangled meat.

Magnus shook his red head in wonderment. “That laddie has one hell of a long stomach.”

Conall took a long vigorous chug of mead then set the empty tankard on the table. “Aye, ‘tis like watching a wild beast devour its prey. Repulsive.”

Juices from the mangled leg dripped from the corners of Rory’s mouth as he looked up from his trencher. His mouth full of food, he mumbled, “Ye can talk rubbish all ye want but I need my strength if I intend to be betwixt a lass's legs all night.” He winked.

“Poor lass,” Conall snickered.

James was oblivious to the nonsense chatter. A stunning woman in a royal blue dress had caught his attention the moment she came into view. As soon as he spotted Abigale he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. A tight bodice enhanced her breasts just enough to tease his eyes. Long waves of auburn hair danced across her shoulders as she sat and told a story to a group of twelve children. Like a warm ray of sunshine, her face lit up with a smile as she engaged the group of wee bairns. She was born to be a mother, he thought.

It had been too long since the last time he’d seen Abigale. On their way back to the campsite, James had used his magic to put her under a healing sleep that lasted for two days. It was the least he could do, for he was the cause of her discomfort. While on horseback, Abigale had rode draped across his lap as he held her tightly. Tiny as she was, she had fit perfectly tucked up next to him, soft curves snuggled against vigorous strength. For a moment he had wished he could hold her like that forever, but reality was bloody cruel.

“Ye have yerself one bonny wife.” Conall nodded his head toward Abigale and brought James’s attention to him.

James cleared his throat. “Aye.” He picked up his tankard and drank heavily.

“So, when are ye going to have wee bairns of yer own running round the castle?” Conall jested.

Amber liquid shot from James’s mouth and splattered all over Conall. “Bloody hell, Conall!”

“What?” Conall wiped the mead from his face and tunic, “Lady Abigale is a beauty, why no?”

“Look at her one more time and I’ll rip yer eyes right out of their sockets.” James didn’t know why he threatened his brother at arms like that. The more he thought about Abigale, the more his world spun out of control.

“Nay, don’t fash yerself, my friend.” A luscious redhead playing the harp came into Conall’s view.

~~~~~

Twelve children, between three and twelve years of age, bright-eyed, and curiously enthralled listened closely to Abigale as she told a tale about a brave knight who fought for Scotland’s freedom. Leaning forward toward the children, she made sure the cherub-faced bairns paid close attention.

“And as the brave knight returned home from battle, he crept up the stairs to his daughter’s bedchamber to bid her a good night. When he entered the room his daughter jumped out of bed and ran to her da. He pulled his little princess close and hugged her firmly. He made a vow that night as he said, ‘do no fret my pet for ye shall be free. No longer shall ye be caged like a bird. Be free and fly, songbird.’”

Abigale paused for a moment. Remembering this story brought up the past. It was the same tale she told herself every night while living at Dunfermline Abbey.

Wee children rushed her as their lean arms hugged her neck. Wet kisses pecked her face, and Abigale returned their love with hugs of her own. “Now go play, and Niven, stay oot of Alice’s special oatcakes.” She waved an authoritative finger at him. “She’ll have yer backside.”

“Aye, my lady.” Niven bowed.

Abigale sat there for a while as she watched the children scamper off. Niven was always getting into some kind of mischief. At least two times this morn he had snuck two oatcakes, and had been chased out of the kitchen by Alice several times by midday. That one there was a handful, his mother must be at her wit’s end with him, she thought.

“It seems ye have a way with the wee bairns, Lady Abigale.” Marcus stood next to her leaning a shoulder against the stone wall.

“Aye.” She smiled and stood up. “They are precious, a true gift from God.” Her eyes followed Niven as he took off towards the kitchen. Abigale shook her head and laughed. “That lad has a head full of rocks.”

Marcus smirked. “Highlanders tend to have a stubborn streak.”

Abigale was beginning to find his statement true.

“Seeing yer mother murdered right before yer eyes will scar ye for life.”

Stunned, Abigale turned and faced Marcus. “He saw his mother die?”

“Aye. We believe he was only five summers old when it happened. ‘Tis a shame. James allowed the boy to stay here. In fact, the lad has grown quite fond of yer husband and has become one of the stable grooms. Clumsy, but he cares for the horses quite well.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten-and-two, we believe.”

“Thank God James had given the lad a home. I can’t imagine what he has been through.” Abigale searched the hall until James came into view. He was with his men, talking. As she watched him from across the room, it warmed her heart knowing what James had done. He’d saved Niven’s life. The Bogeyman didn’t seem so evil after all, she pondered.

The tempo of the music picked up to a jig as a tin whistle joined the harp. A few ladies danced to the music while the men drank their mead and recalled a time in their younger years when they could keep up with the lassies.

Abigale noticed Magnus as he stood and readjusted his tunic over his plump belly. He searched through the great hall as if looking for someone. “Och Alice, you bonny lass, come dance with me!” he yelled out over the crowded tables.

Alice stood with her hands on her hips and said, “I thought ye’d never ask.”

As they joined in with the other dancers in front of the great hall, Abigale watched them as Magnus twirled Alice to the music. She sighed. She wished that that was her and James dancing to the music. Holding her close, feeling his strong body next to hers, all the while making her feel as if she was the only lass in the room. She sighed again. Oh, what a wonderful feeling that must be, she thought. Abigale Bruce, even if he asked ye to dance there’s one small problem. Ye don’t know how to dance.

Looking away from the dancing couples in disappointment, she began to leave the sitting area when Marcus grabbed her arm. “Lady Abigale, would ye care to dance?”

Oh no! Was she that readable… was she that pathetic that he was going to show her mercy by asking her to dance? Quickly Abigale thought of an excuse. “Thank ye kindly, but I dinnae think my husband would take kindly to me dancing with another man."

Marcus pulled her closer to him. “James is my cousin. ‘Tis fine.”

“Aye, how silly of me to have forgotten.” How was she going to get out of this situation? For certain she would look like a fool stumbling and stomping all over his feet. A princess was expected to be a graceful dancer, for that's how you caught the eye of an admirer. At least that was what she was told; there was no dancing allowed at the nunnery. Oh, she could just hear the laughter now throughout the hall as their graceless princess fell straight on her arse.

“Come.” Marcus nodded to the couples dancing and started to guide her toward them.

Abigale planted her feet on the ground and tried to pull away from his grip. “Nay. I cannae.”

Confusion swept Marcus’s face. “Why not? I told ye, James won’t mind,” he reassured her.

There was no telling this man no. True to his word, Highlanders were stubborn men. In order to save herself from the humiliation, she had to tell him the truth. Taking in a deep breath and then slowly letting it go, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I dinnae know how to dance,” Abigale closed her eyes, anticipating his laughter.

Marcus placed his finger under her chin tipping her head up. “Och Lady Abigale, ye’re in good hands I can assure ye. I’d be honored to teach ye."

Abigale shyly smiled. “Are ye sure?”

He placed his hand over his chest. “On my honor.”

Marcus took her by the arm and led her in front of the great hall where they joined the other dancers. Placing her right hand into his, he spun Abigale around as if he was showing off a prized possession. Pulling her close, he smiled. “Relax, follow my lead."

Marcus was quite a gentleman, he never once complained when Abigale stepped on his foot or tripped over her own. They just laughed about it and continued their dance. He spun her with grace and she truly felt beautiful. Abigale was surprised how quickly she caught on and by the third dance she was the one who led.

When the dance ended, she was winded and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Marcus was indeed a skillful dancer and an excellent instructor. Leading them over to a table so Abigale could sit and regain her breath, Marcus poured her a drink, and sat across the table from her. He leaned over it as if he had a secret to tell. “May I speak openly, my lady?"

“Of course, ye shall.” Curious to what he had to say, she leaned in closer.

“My cousin is a fool for allowing his bonny wife to dance with another man. If ye were my wife I’d never allow it.”

The intensity of his statement left Abigale uneasy. Certainly, she had enjoyed dancing with Marcus and adored his company, but she hoped that she didn’t give him the wrong impression. “I must go. Thank ye for the dance.” Without causing a scene, she quickly excused herself.

~~~~~

Long, sharp talons protruded from James’s fingertips and scored the wooden table top. The more he watched Marcus twirl Abigale around as they danced, the deeper his daggers plunged into the wood. Marcus was mocking him, wasn’t he? Pulling her body close, feeling her soft curves. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. James growled profoundly.

This foreign sensation of uncontrolled jealousy surged through him. It cranked his dragon senses to hyper-sensitive. Never had he felt this way before and quite frankly he didn’t like it.

James raked his claws down the table leaving a trail of splintered wood behind as he saw Marcus whisper into Abigale’s ear. His focus stayed on Abigale the whole time. God’s bones! The urge to jump over the table and rip Marcus's head from his body was consuming every fiber in his body. His dragon vibrated and rumbled inside of him and itched to be released.

The sound of wood cracking caught Conall’s attention. A sharp pain blasted across James’s shin as Conall kicked him. Snapping his head up, he shot his best friend a lethal look.

Wide-eyed, Conall tipped his chin to James’s claws.

As James looked down, shiny black talons stared back at him. Instantly he retracted them.

Shite, what the hell was wrong with him? Never had he lost control like that, not in public. This was not the place nor time to be testing his dragon’s appetite for blood. Rubbing the back of his neck, he blew out a heavy sigh. He grabbed his tankard and drained it dry.

“Are ye alright?” Conall asked.

“Aye.” James took out his frustrations on his tankard as he slammed it down onto the table. “Need more mead.”

~~~~~

As Abigale weaved through the crowded great hall, she was stopped a few times to be introduced to clan members. Names and faces started to blur, for she had met so many people in such a short amount of time, it made her head hurt. Furthermore, her feet were killing her. All she wanted to do was to slip into bed and drift off to sleep.

As she reached the stairs leading to her bedchamber, she paused. The hairs on the nape of her neck started to stand and her body warmed as amber eyes penetrated her skin. Her cheeks blushed pink as a wave of nervousness ran through her, making her palms sweat. No need to confirm; James was watching her, watching her every move.

Abigale was relieved when she finally reached her bedchamber. She hurried out of her dress, changed into a clean shift, and now stood by a window that looked out over the rolling moonlit hills. Beyond the hills lay a grey shadow of a mountain range that disappeared into the night sky. Soon their peaks would be powdered with snow. Combing through a wave of auburn hair, she thought that would be a wonderful place to take Fergus for a ride.

The wooden door to her bedchamber slammed open. Two huge dogs barreled through and leapt onto the bed, making themselves right at home. Startled, Abigale raced to the bed. “Ye smelly mongrels, get down… shoo!” A wet tongue lapped at her face while the other dog made himself comfortable at the end of the bed.

“Sorry lass, Lennox and Mahboon stay.” James filled the door frame as he staggered pulling his boots off.

“What are ye doing here?” This was her bedchamber, so she thought. It was the same room she had been in last night.

“This is my bedchamber, Abigale. I should be asking ye the same question.” James pulled his tunic up over his head and started to fumble with his kilt.

Holy Mary, Mother of God. He was undressing right before her eyes. She had never seen a man naked before. Well, that was not completely true. Did her patients in the infirmary count? Nay, no one came close to the man standing before her. Her first response was to close her eyes and look away, but female instincts told her to gaze upon every corded muscle the man was offering. Her eyes gazed upon his tanned, muscled chest to the ripples of his abdomen to the line of fine dark hair that disappeared below his plaid.

“This is what ye want… no?” James asked.

Abigale snapped her head up to find James in pursuit, stalking her like she was his prey. For every dominating step forward he took, she took two steps back in retreat until the coldness of the stone wall bit into her back and she was trapped, pinned to the wall by his body. He pressed against her. Instantly she felt his heat radiate through the light material of her shift. Her heart quickened in anticipation. Fluttering tingles filled her core and her breasts ached for his touch. God help her, she wanted this man.

Abigale felt his arm move and prayed he was going to touch her, but instead he rested his forearm on the stone wall above her head. He brushed his lips down to her lower neck. With one long flick of his tongue he licked her all the way up to the soft spot just below her ear as if he was tasting her. “Ye have my attention, lass. Now what are ye going to do with it?"

The slick softness of his tongue sent tingles throughout her body and her legs threatened to buckle. Breathing became difficult as her chest worked hard to pump air through her lungs. Well Abigale, what are ye going to do? A gorgeously naked man stood before her. A man who claimed he did not want her, yet here he was encaging her with his massive frame. Was this his way of intimidating her, to scare her, and make her leave the bedchamber? Intimidation did not set well with her; in fact it brought out her feisty side. No more would she allow threats to rule her life like they had back at the nunnery. Should she dare call his bluff and make the first move? Mayhap he wasn’t bluffing at all, she thought. Instincts told her to tread cautiously, but her body craved his touch. Something about the way he made her feel brought out her bravery and she was going to claim her first kiss.

Never having been kissed before, she didn’t know where to start. Should she place her hands on his shoulders or should she wrap her arms around his waist? Should she close her eyes or leave them open? Awkward didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling right now. Wasn't the man supposed to make the first move? Not if they are all as stubborn as James Douglas, she thought.

She placed her hands on his chest. Aye, this felt right. Astonished by the sinew of his muscles, her fingers explored his smooth chest. All the while James nibbled up and down her neck. Her thumb grazed over his nipple causing him to growl deeply. So, she did have an effect on him after all. She smiled to herself.

Abigale snaked her arms around his neck and pulled his head closer to hers. The ampleness of his lips enticed her, she needed to taste him. Without hesitation she licked his bottom lip and drew its fullness into her mouth. To her surprise, he opened his mouth, inviting her in, and allowing her to take control. As she guided her tongue into his mouth, she felt its warmness and could smell the mead on his breath. Passion drove her forward and she deepened the kiss until she felt weightless.

The kiss ended too quickly as James pulled away. “Och, if I’m not to yer liking I can go find Marcus.”

“Marcus?” In one moment she had been consumed by this magical kiss, and all the while James had been concerned about Marcus. Did he really think that she wanted to bed another man? It was just a dance, nothing more.

James’s eyes pinned her deep blues, “Ye didnae seem to mind his company earlier.”

“I only danced with him because he’s yer cousin.” Abigale tried to reassure him, but it seemed he didn’t believe her.

“I have an idea… I’ll go fetch Marcus and he can join us. What say ye?” James started to pull up her shift.

“Enough, ye’re drunk.” Abigale swatted at his chest. “There's no need to be jealous. It was just a dance.”

“Jealous?” James released his grip on her shift. “Nay, I care not.” He walked away from her and made his way to the bed. His massive naked body sprawled out over black furs while Lennox and Mahboon took up residence at the foot of the bed. James folded his hands behind his head nonchalantly. “Last offer, lass. Aye or nay.”

Most definitely nay, he was drunk and wanted to claim her out of pure jealousy. Damn him and his stubborn egotistical ways. Abigale stormed over to the bed and grabbed a fur. “I’d rather sleep in a byre.”

“Suit yerself, but if ye change yer mind-”

“Ye’re a barbaric arse.” And with that said, Abigale quit the bedchamber.

Chapter 8

Confessed faults are half-mended. ~ Scottish Proverb

James woke to a wet kiss on his cheek and heavy panting in his ear. He swatted at the annoying noise and moaned in protest. Another kiss and James cracked open an eye and there in his peripheral vision sat Lennox, his prized hunting dog, staring at him and panting. “Enough, lassie.” James wiped the slobber from his cheek and sat up. His stomach lurched, the room spun, and he grabbed his head as if it would help stop it from spinning out of control. Dazed amber eyes searched the bedchamber for any sign of life, but no one was there except his dogs. Closing his eyes he sent a grateful plea to the Gods that be that he was alone. God’s teeth, mead was going to be the death of him.

As James lay back down, he was surprised he had fallen asleep. Nightmares of death usually haunted his dreams; therefore peaceful slumber eluded him most of the time. Unless the amber liquid went down smooth, then it never failed, he would drink until the mead took over. Normally a lass would be lurking around willing and ready to please. It helped pass the time until dawn.

A vision of Abigale dancing with Marcus invaded his thoughts as he recalled the way her dress flowed to the music. Her body twirled and swayed with grace and beauty like nothing he had ever seen before. For a moment he was content just watching her from across the great hall. Her face softened with a smile and the sound of her laughter soothed his soul.

That was until he had noticed the way Marcus had set his wandering eyes on her. Just like a snake in the Garden of Eden, Marcus was testing his limits, waiting to strike, and make his move. Aye, he did not trust him for one moment, and that’s when the drinking began. James Douglas, if ye were half the man ye thought ye were, ye would have claimed that dance last night instead of letting another man invade yer claim. Aye, if only he was just a man, mayhap he could be the one for Abigale.

James licked his lips and swallowed hard, still tasting Abigale’s kiss that lingered on the tip of his tongue like it had just happened. Shite. He had been such an arse to her. He had tried to walk past her bedchamber last eve, but his body betrayed him. After seeing another man up close and personal with Abigale it took all his strength not to throw her on the bed and take her… brand her… sear her body with his, so every Dragonkine or man would know she belonged to him. But he could not do it, so he took the coward's way out by intimidating her. His eyes flew open. Abigale? She was here. He leaned over and felt the sheets next to him; they were cold.

James sat up, pulled his hands through his hair, and Lennox hopped off the bed. “Och lassie, ‘tis time to lick my wounds and go find Lady Abigale.” Lennox ran to the door, Mahboon right behind her, they both scratched at it. Donning his kilt and tunic, he quit the bedchamber.

The last place James looked for Abigale was in the horse stable, knowing all along she would be here, yet he didn’t want to face the consequences of last night’s blunder. The sweet smell of fresh cut hay filled the stone framed room. Chargers of white, black, and chestnut were lined up on one side of the wall standing side by side only separated by wooden walls. They paid James no mind as he walked down the main aisle. As he approached the next stall a black mare nickered. James patted her on her hindquarters. ”Settle lass, ‘tis me,” he whispered.

Passing an empty stall he thought mayhap Abigale wasn’t here. He began to turn around and leave until he heard a soft sigh and the crunch of hay. Abigale?

Curled up in a fur on a hay pallet next to Fergus, Abigale slept. A soft gray muzzle was buried in her auburn hair next to her flawless face as if the steed was protecting a prized possession. Long, black eyelashes rested on her cheeks that were pink from the cold night air. Her lips quivered. God’s blood, he was an arse.

As James got closer, Fergus stirred and pinned his ears back, telling James to proceed with caution. “Easy lad.” James’s voice was a mere whisper. "I will no hurt her.” He held out his hand and Fergus nipped at it. Retracting his hand quickly, James took a step back. Easy, two steps forward one step back. Fergus stood as to not wake Abigale and pinned his ears again. James held his hands up in surrender. “I know… I know… I messed up. Let me take her inside to get warm.” This was a first, he thought, negotiating with a horse.

Fergus raised his head to intimidate James, then neighed a deep confident nicker. James reached, down never losing eye contact with the stallion and grabbed a hand full of hay. He offered it to Fergus. “See lad, I’m not so bad, am I?" The protective warhorse paused. Slowly with caution he lowered his head and blew out a puff of hot air from his nostrils like he was calming his nerves. With his neck stretched out he investigated the peace offering by moving the hay around with his nose. James took his other hand and stroked Fergus’s pure white forehead. "Peace?”

Finally, after three handfuls of hay and a promised carrot or two, Fergus deemed James as a friend for now, and allowed passage to Abigale. He went down on bended knee beside her. Peaceful like a child she slept. Gently, he took her in his strong arms, and Abigale snuggled deep into his warmth. She felt perfect against his chest, almost like she was made for him. He thought himself a hundred times a fool for being rough with her… intimidating her. The oath he had taken was to protect her and aye, he could do that, but could he protect her from himself?

James entered his bedchamber and laid Abigale down on a warm bed billowing with furs and pillows. “James?” Abigale said, half asleep, half awake.

“Shhh my bel ange. Rest.” He placed his hand on her forehead as his magic washed over her sending her into a restful sleep. He tucked the blankets snug around her body and kissed her forehead. Before he left the room he placed more peat on the fire. The lass had to go.

~~~~~

The next morn before the sun rose over the village indicating a new day had come, James and his men left on a long hunting jaunt. He needed to clear his thoughts, take in some cool Highland air, bond with his Dragonkine brethren while hunting red deer and boar. He needed to refocus on recruiting neighboring clans to join clan Douglas and fight for the king. This was not an easy task at hand, for Scotland was unstable and fragmented. Kinsmen fought kinsmen over who they thought should be the rightful king of Scotland. Ally with the wrong clan and truces would be broken between allies. James had seen clans wiped out, completely slaughtered, just because they joined forces with accused traitors.

Even though King Robert took him off the battlefield to protect his daughter, it didn’t mean he couldn’t aid in the king’s rebellion against England. He would always do what he had to do to rid Scotland of the English. Furthermore, there was always a battle to be fought and he would be prepared when the time came.

James led the way north toward the Great Glen. Mounted upon his black mare, James looked very much the natural born leader he was. The black mare was massive, unusual for a female warhorse, but she was just as dominant as James. James and Conall took the dirt path deeper into the glen, while Rory and Magnus followed the trail to the loch. A flawless strategy was set in motion to draw out the hunt, surround the prey, and then go in for the kill.

James sensed that Conall needed to get something off his chest. Both men side by side walked their fine steeds at a steady pace along the forest path keeping their eyes alert, searching the thick vegetation for clues of deer.

“Abigale seems to be a fine lass,“ Conall said.

James adjusted himself in his saddle. “Aye. Alice is verra fond of her.”

“Ye know James, it might not be all that bad to have a wife… warming yer bed every night.” Conall dared a glance at James, arched a black brow, and grinned.

”Conall, you can stop right there… I know what ye are doing. I took a vow to protect King Robert’s daughter and that I intend to do, for he has been nothing less than a father to me. I owe him for helping me get my lands back. I didnae ask for her to be my wife, nor do I want her as my wife.” For Christ sake, was he ever going to escape the lass?

Halting their horses, Conall tried to reason with James. “But, ye have a wife, a verra beautiful one.”

James shot him a hard stern glare warning his friend to tread softly. “Did ye forget? We are Dragonkine, Conall! How do I explain this to her!” James pointed to his eyes as they turned to a swirling amber with reptilian slits.

“Och—“

“Nay, I’m sending her to Bothwell Castle and that’s final!” James kicked his horse forward, ending their conversation. The more Conall brought up Abigale the more aggravated he became. After he left his bedchamber last night he pondered ways to solve his problem, and sending Abigale to Bothwell was the best plan of attack. They could still go on as husband and wife, but would live separate lives. She would be close enough to protect, yet far away from him. ‘Twas a plan he was sure Abigale would be fond of, for she would be able to keep part of her dowry and he could keep his honor with the king.

He was letting her go… sending her away. The realization hit his heart like the muscle was being squeezed by a steel plated gauntlet. He felt the coldness of the steel bite deeper into his lifeline. The restraint intensified leaving him aching. James rubbed the pain in his chest as he felt his dragon mourn their loss.

“James, listen to me.”

James shook off his thoughts. It was apparent he had to listen to Conall because his best friend wasn’t taking no for an answer. God’s teeth, Conall could be a persistent nag.

“Think of it like this… like a battle. Ye go to battle to fight for what’s right. ‘Tis a long hard battle, ye dinnae like it, but ye know at the end there will be peace. A woman is no different. Ye fight for her love, ye dinnae like the feelings she brings out of ye at first, but my friend, if she’s the one, trust in me when I say to let go and ye’ll find there’s nothing like a woman’s love to soothe yer dragon side.”

James mused for a moment. Had his friend gone daft? How could a ruthless, bloodthirsty dragon bring anyone peace? Nonetheless, how can ye bring peace when ye’re no at ease with yerself?

“Conall, are ye daft? Did ye leave yer ballocks back home?”

It looked as if a huge boulder crashed down on Conall. “Rest assured my Laird, my balls are just fine. I thank ye for yer concern.” Conall nodded his head and trotted his horse toward the sandy trail leading to the loch. There was no getting past that thick skull.

James let out a heavy exhalation and continued through the glen, finally alone with his own thoughts. Hellfire, his blood burned in irritation. His best friend… talking about love and women… he had to have been bewitched. Conall Hamilton hadn't fallen under a lass’s spell… had he? “Nay.”

The squawk of a flock of black birds fleeing from a thicket of blackthorns on top of a hill caught James’s attention. He watched the birds as they scattered like black specks littering the sky. There was no time to move or even flee as James saw an arrow fly through the air from the thicket and plunge into his heart with precise aim.

~~~~~

A wise man once said that patience was not a virtue, but a vice. A wicked moral, testing the true heart of a man. When fortitude was tested, it separated the weak from the strong, the faithful from the faithless. He knew this all to be true, he lived it every day. Now as fate would have it he would seek out what was rightfully his and gain its benefits. Not only did he have to possess patience, but he had to know when to strike and to push a little harder to achieve his goals. Perched high on top of a green mounding hill hidden behind a thicket of dense blackthorns, he waited for his glory. If fate would allow, the Gods would bless him this day.

He reached behind him and pulled out a long shaft from the leather quiver on his back. As he sat there fondling the feather-light flight, his thoughts of being on the battlefield came to mind. James on bended knee being knighted by the king of Scotland, a banner in his honor, and the king’s daughter as a reward. It should have been him on bended knee being honored, not James. He should be the one with a banner in his name with men aplenty behind him. His blood had been shed on the battlefield that day. Shouldn’t he reap the benefits of land and a pretty princess to warm his bed? All of his life he had been second to James, but not today. He would outwit the clan’s chief, uproot the house of Douglas, and become a legend… the man who slayed the Bogeyman.

Dull green leaves turning to a pale yellow thinly littered the blackthorn bushes. The blue-black color of the berries on its branches beckoned him to reach up and pick a berry. He studied it for a moment before placing it in his mouth. A bitter taste shot through his mouth reminding him winter was on its way. After first freeze the berries would taste much sweeter, he thought.

After he spat out the remainder of the sour berry, he walked over to the spot that would give him the best vantage point. Looking down upon the trail, he knew it wouldn’t be long; his target would be approaching soon. He felt in his bones that his time was now. He grabbed his longbow that was resting by an autumn-stricken tree and paused for a moment. As he looked at the black contorted skeleton of a blackthorn tree it mocked him, revealing how twisted and evil his soul had become. Jealousy throughout the years had weaved through him and cloaked his heart in blackness. Ye are the keeper of dark secrets, lad, the tree mocked again. It was going to be a blackthorn winter, he thought with a smirk.

To him, a traitor was nothing more than an actor upon the stage only revealing what seems fit at the moment. A master of lies and deception, he had played his part well throughout the years. Just like patience, betrayal had become second nature. A coat of many colors he wore, but his purpose stayed true. Friend or foe, ally or enemy, he waited to make his move, showing no mercy upon the fools who stood in his way.

Much more than retaliation for his misfortunes was on the line. He fought for someone more precious to him than the air he breathed. An innocent victim handpicked and strategically placed on the game board to be played by someone else for their gains. Nay, there was no turning back.

Feet planted true and firm like the excellent archer he was, he raised his bow, and notched the shaft. He surveyed the trail once more as he drew back the poisoned arrow. Feathers lightly brushed his neatly trimmed jawline, reminding him of how sweet Abigale’s kisses would be and how sweet victory would taste. Soon my pet, verra soon.

All thoughts pushed aside, he took aim and released the string, sending the arrow straight to his target. James’s heart.

Chapter 9

Were it not for hope the heart would break. ~ Scottish Proverb

A powerful force knocked James from his horse. He landed firmly on his back on the hard forest floor. Air rushed out of his lungs and his torso stung as he clamped a hand over the sting to relieve the pain. As he looked at his chest, a red circle crept across his tunic. In the middle of that blood-soaked spot, an arrow shot in perfect accuracy plunged deep into his skin. He had been a target, indeed his heart marked the spot.

The smell of dirt and blood invaded his senses. He rolled back and forth and arched in pain, but there was no escaping the blazing heat burning through his veins like fire. Confusion hit him hard; one strike from an arrow shouldn’t have caused him this much pain, after all he was immortal. Even after a fatal blow he could fight off death and regain his strength, but this was different. The pain was agony, the blood poured rapidly from his body, and his strength weakened. With his throat dry and swollen, a mere grunt was all James had left in him as he tried to yell for help.

Darkness was closing in. As he drifted, a vision of Abigale floating in the loch flashed before him. Long auburn hair splayed out around her flawless face, a thin wet shift clung to every curve as the water licked at her delectable body. James remembered how he itched to run his hands over her breasts, feel the hardness of her pebbled peaks, and taste her sweetness. Her body beckoned to be touched. Now it was too late… too late to tell her what a fool he had been… too late to claim her.

~~~~~

At the first crack of light, Abigale was up and ready for the day. She had planned to keep herself busy and rid herself of all thoughts of a certain Highlander. First thing this morn, she had helped in the kitchen preparing the vegetables for the night’s feast and staying clear of anything that involved fire. By noon she had crushed some lavender into a mixture to bathe the smelly dogs. If the hounds from hell were going to be regular visitors in her bedchamber they had to be bathed, for they smelled like a dung heap. As she crumpled the sweet-smelling lavender into a bowl, a little harder than needed, she vowed a few times to hate James Douglas for as long as she lived, especially after last eve’s kiss. It was a good thing he was nowhere in sight, because undoubtedly he would have received the sharp end of her tongue. “Barbarian,” she thought out loud.

After the challenging experience of bathing Lennox and Mahboon, Abigale made her way into the solar where Alice and Effie sat by the hearth working on their embroidery. Abigale walked in and plopped herself down in a chair with a huff.

Concern creased Alice’s brows. “What be the worry, lassie?”

Effie spoke up before Abigale could respond, “Didn’t yer night go well with Laird Douglas?”

“Effie!” Alice scolded.

“Nay Alice, ‘tis alright,” Abigale reassured. It was obvious her friends had been worried about her. In fact she hadn’t said a word to them all day. "Nothing happened, I assure ye.” She crossed her arms and blew out a hard breath. “James had too much mead and blacked out.” Purposely, she’d left out the small, yet mortifying detail of how foolish she’d felt kissing him and being turned away. No need to mark herself a total fool.

Alice snorted and held back a laugh.

“Alice, do no laugh, Abigale is devastated.” Effie jumped out of her chair, rushed over to Abigale, and embraced her with a sympathetic hug.

“Effie, I appreciate yer concern, but I’m more mad than devastated. When we first met he told me he didnae want me as a wife. I guess… I mean… I just thought maybe one kiss and he would change his mind.” Abigale shrugged her shoulders and plucked at the hem of her apron. Looking up sheepishly she revealed, “I spent the night in the stables with Fergus."

All of a sudden the women broke out in laughter. Abigale joined their laughter, for she had to laugh. Frankly she was too flustered by James’s behavior to break down and cry. How could James be jealous of another man when he had no feelings for her? Why should he care who she danced with or chose to talk to? It didn’t make sense to her.

Alice set her embroidery down and shook her head. “Highlanders. They’re so damn stubborn.” She turned to face Abigale. “Dear Lady Abigale, he’s trying to push ye away because he likes ye and he does no like how it is making him feel.”

“Oh Alice, I do wish it to be true, but he has made it clear as to where I stand.”

“Nonsense lass, ye are a beautiful woman… a princess of Scotland… he should be so lucky to be wanted by ye.”

Abigale huffed and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. James brought out Abigale’s curiosity; that was for certain. She wanted to know how it would feel to be loved by a beautiful, intimidating Highlander. After seeing him naked and tasting his kisses, she hungered to explore every muscled inch of his body, to run her fingers through his wavy locks, but most of all she yearned to be wanted by this man. She didn’t know why she felt like this. Mayhap it was his masculinity; the way she felt her body heat when he looked at her or was it the fluttering sensation she felt in her stomach every time he was near? Whatever it may be it was most definitely lust.

Alice held Abigale’s hands and sincerely looked into her eyes. “Sometimes a man needs a little push in order to see what he really wants and frankly, I’ve seen it in his eyes. He likes ye, lass. Laird Douglas might no show it but he does.”

“So, what am I to do then? That man is driving me daft.”

“Ye seduce him.” Effie casually stated this fact as if she had done this type of thing before.

Abigale’s eyes grew vast with shock. “Seduce him?”

Effie stood up from her chair, unlaced the front of her dress just enough so her breasts teased. She uncoiled her red hair from its bun and flicked it free. “This is how it’s done.” Effie sauntered seductively over to Abigale.

Abigale could feel her cheeks blush in embarrassment. What was Effie up to?

The redhead placed a hand on the back of Abigale’s chair and leaned forward until the tops of her breasts bulged from her dress. With her free hand she playfully rubbed her neck and trailed her fingertips down toward her chest. “My Laird, do ye see anything ye like?" she purred.

Abigale’s cheeks turned three shades of red. She playfully pushed Effie away and started to giggle.

“Effie!” Alice reprimanded with shock.

“What?” Effie stood up and shrugged her shoulders. “If she wants to get the laird’s attention she must have some tricks up her sleeve."

Abigale tried to stop laughing. She could see why the men took a liking to Effie. Unlike herself, Effie was confident, beautiful, and bold. If only she could be as bold. Finally she caught her breath. “I’m afraid, lassies, no matter how much I show my bits, the laird does no desire me.”

Alice picked up her needlework and tugged a needle through the fabric with a sly grin. “Rubbish,” she harrumphed. “The laird watches ye like he wants to tear yer dress off yer body. Dinnae worry aboot a thing.”

Abigale’s mood started to lighten. It felt good to talk freely with Alice and Effie. This must be how it felt to have a sister; someone to jest with, someone to confide in, someone to love unconditionally. Sure the sisters at the abbey were friendly, but this was different. Without judgment or punishment, she could be herself.

Thunderous footsteps and loud boisterous voices rang throughout the great hall in panic, sending the women to their feet. They rushed to the hall to see what the ruckus was about. The scene Abigale saw taking place right in front of her scared her more than being captured by the English. Conall held a bloody, lifeless body in his arms. With haste, she hurried over to Conall. “Blessed Mary!" Abigale’s hand flew over her mouth in horror. “James?”

Conall pushed past Abigale. “Alice, fetch the healer,” he roared. “He’s been shot with an arrow in the chest.”

“Wait, I can help,” Abigale pleaded.

“We dinnae have time to spare, my lady. Our chief needs the healer.”

Blood poured continuously from his chest and splattered on to the stone floor. Abigale’s instincts jolted to life as she took over.

“Conall, take James to his bedchamber and Alice, bring me blankets, lots of them. Effie boil some water.” Abigale began to make her way to the stairs, but when she looked back Conall still stood where he was. “Conall Hamilton if ye dinnae move yer arse I’ll see it hung!”

Taken aback by her sternness Conall shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

James’s bloodied body lay on the bed. Abigale started to rip his tunic off and examine the extent of his wounds. “How did this happen?”

“My lady, we were out hunting… we split up… and…" Conall rubbed his hand through his hair and started to pace a trench in the floor beside the bed. “He was shot with an arrow. I had to snap it off at the head so that it wouldn’t go deeper." He pointed at the blood rushing out of James’s chest.

In all her time at the nunnery’s infirmary mending wounds she had never seen a man survive with this much blood loss. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

Alice came bolting through the door with an arm full of blankets. Abigale grabbed a small cloth and blotted the blood away from the wounded area. If only she could stop the bleeding long enough, she might be able to find the arrowhead.

Lifting the blood-soaked cloth, she saw an inch of the shaft poking through his flesh. “Alice, go into the top drawer of my nightstand. There’s a satchel… in that satchel you'll find a reddish-purple flower… I need it worked into a paste with boiling hot water. Can ye do that for me?”

“Aye, my lady.” Before Abigale could finish her request, Alice had already rushed out of the chamber with the purple flower in her hand.

“James.” Abigale touched his face and he moaned in pain. “I have to remove the arrow… bite down on this.” Abigale placed a rolled up cloth in James’s mouth and motioned for Conall to assist her.

“Rory… Marcus… hold his body down. Magnus, give me your whiskey.” Abigale took the whiskey and poured it over the wound which caused James to arch in tremendous pain. “Sorry,” Abigale winced.

As the whiskey washed away the pooling blood, Abigale had a good view of the wooden shaft. Thank God, the head had not punctured his heart. Gently she pulled on the shaft, testing how deep its barbs had set in. “The head is stuck.” Abigale turned to the men. "Do ye have an arrow spoon… an arrow puller?”

The men looked at her like she had gone daft. Arrow spoon?

Abigale took that as a nay. Continuing to blot away at the blood, she noticed that there was more of the arrowhead showing than before. Unbelievable, she thought. She paused and observed James’s wound closer. ‘Tis like his body is pushing the arrow out from his chest.

Gently, Abigale wrapped her hand around the arrowhead and maneuvered it out of his chest, causing James to jerk with such force that his arm slipped free and threatened to hit Abigale. Rory strained to gain control again. “Sorry… my lady," he grunted, “’Tis like trying to hold down a hogget during a shearing.”

As the blood rushed over her hands, Abigale didn’t have much time to think. She needed to seal up her husband’s wound, but which plan of action should she take? If she used a hot poker the pain alone could kill him or she could place her faith in healing herbs. One wrong decision and she could be a widow.

Alice rushed in with a wooden bowl. “My lady.” She offered the paste to Abigale. The healing herbs would have to work, for she didn’t know how much more pain her husband could endure. Quickly she began to smear the purple concoction around and inside the wound. “This will help stop the bleeding and dull his pain. We are going to need to lift him. I need to wrap a pressure bandage around his chest,” Abigale instructed.

Abigale kept the rags snug against the wound while the men lifted James to a sitting position. James’s head fell back and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Sweet Jesus, it was going to take a miracle to save this man.

“Effie, hold pressure here.” Abigale took Effie’s hands and placed them firmly on the wound. “Alice, help me wrap his chest.”

After they wrapped the laird’s chest, they laid him back down on to the bed. Abigale stood over James. He was pale and his breathing was slow, but steady. Sending a prayer up to heaven, she prayed that her healing skills would help her husband and bring him back to her. She couldn’t lose him, not now… not ever.

Abigale’s nerves lay bare. Raw emotions from the severity of James’s condition threatened to take her over. She must not fall apart now. Abigale Bruce get it together, she scolded herself. Taking a deep breath she walked over and grabbed the wash basin. Trying desperately to keep calm, Abigale began to wash the bloodstains from his body. Sweat glistened over his unconscious body and it felt as if it was on fire. If the blood loss didn’t kill him, the fever would.

As Abigale peered up from wiping a smear of blood from James’s forearm, she saw his kinsmen standing around the bed grief-stricken as they looked down upon their fallen chief. These men had so much respect for their ruthless leader. If she was the betting type, she would have bet that anyone of them would have traded places with him and taken the blow of that blasted arrow.

Alice placed a hand on Abigale’s shoulder and reached for the wash rags. “Let me. Ye should get some rest.” She nodded her head in James's direction, “He’s in God’s hands now.”

“Nay!” Abigale shook her head and snatched the rag away from Alice. “I will no leave his side.”

Abigale didn’t mean to be so rude, but the thought of leaving James made her heart stop beating and her lungs deflate. What if he awoke and she wasn’t there? What if he was in pain or what if he started to bleed again? No, she had to be right here by his side.

Magnus cleared his throat. “My lady.” He wiped a fallen tear nonchalantly from his cheek. “Is there anything else we can do?"

“Aye,” Abigale choked out a faint whisper, “Go to the chapel and pray.”

As the last man quit the room, Abigale rubbed her face against James’s hand. “James Douglas, this is no time for ye to be stubborn." She sniffed and fought back tears. “Come back to me.” Her vision clouded, her hands began to tremble, and the air thickened, making it difficult for her to breathe. She needed to be close to him, to feel him breathe, and to hear his heartbeat. Without disturbing him, she climbed into bed, laid her head on his chest away from his wound, and sobbed until she fell asleep.

Chapter 10

A debt is owed, the price; his soul.

The sun shone down through the trees casting an amber hue throughout the glen. “James.” The sweetness of a beautiful voice echoed throughout the forest, warming his skin like sun rays. The soft whisper led James deeper into the glen. As he searched for the sound, a glimpse of a sheer dress hem wisped around a tree slowly and disappeared behind it. “James.” There it was again, washing over his skin like warm honey from the comb. His body ached to feel its warmth. "Come back to me.” He tracked the enchanting sound behind the tree, but to his disappointment, nothing was there. Where was the voice coming from?

The wind brushed over fallen leaves sending them whirling around James’s feet. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, his body tensed, and his curiosity ran wild. With caution, he turned his large body around and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Abigale?”

Wearing a sheer white long-sleeved gown, Abigale stood in front of him. Her long auburn hair floated through the wind, engulfing him with her sweet scent. He reached out to touch her. She was so close, yet too far away. “Abigale,” James whispered.

Her beauty shone through the sun rays as she stepped into James’s embrace. He held her tight, feeling every lush curve of her body. Running his hands through her hair, he confirmed that she was really here. Well, at least she felt real, but this had to be a dream. In disbelief, James took a step back and looked her up and down. “What are ye doing here, lass?”

Abigale gently stroked his face and stared deeply into his smoldering depths. “Come back to me, James. I need ye.”

Aye, definitely this was a sweet dream.

All of a sudden the forest grew dead silent and darkness closed in around them. Panic-stricken, James grabbed Abigale’s arms a little too firmly. “Abigale, ye must leave. He’s coming for me.”

“Nay, come with me, please,” Abigale begged.

Off in the distance James heard a hollow clanking sound echoing through the glen that seemed to grow closer and approached fast. He looked behind him to see where the noise was coming from. The forest trees moved closer together. Branches touched creating a tunnel, and the dirt trail narrowed into a long endless destination.

James knew who had tracked him down and waited patiently for his soul. This was the reason he didn’t sleep at night, for the bloody bastard haunted his every dream. A cruel, twisted game the menace craved to play. Hunting James as if he were prey. He toyed with James’s mind night after night with visions of his father’s bloody body being tortured, all the while laughing vilely at James’s distress.

The soul collector knew no boundaries, he collected at will. James had to get Abigale out of his Hell… now!  The bloody bastard could have his damned soul, but not Abigale’s. She was everything good and pure in his world, the light to his darkness.

James turned back around to warn Abigale to run, but much to his surprise she was already gone, leaving a trail of light behind. Desperately he wanted to follow her light, to bathe in her warmth. If only he believed in heaven, then most definitely she had been heaven sent… his angel… his bel ange.

The air around James cooled. An icy chill slid down his spine, and settled in his bones. He peered down the darkened tunnel, trying to see where the noise was coming from. He felt the ground shake and the smell of sulfur assaulted his nose. “The Essence of Hell.”

The atmosphere rippled like a stone thrown into still water. Horse hooves pounded like thunder to the earth as a menace raced with purpose, led by unearthly beasts biting at their bits, glowing eyes, and red foam bubbling from their mouths. Black skulls and bones highlighted in silver covered the horse-drawn coach, grayed femur bones acted as spokes on the four wheels that rolled in unison.

James dove out of the way as the raging team was halted by a black cloaked, faceless coachman. Silver chains connecting the rig to the horses rattled a sinister song as it drew to a complete stop.

James hopped to his feet in battle stance ready for a fight. An eerie creak bounced off the trees as the door to the coach slowly opened. Heavy hooves pawed viciously at the ground, growing impatient. A black chain mail glove appeared from the open door motioning with a thick finger for James to come join him.

This was it, James thought. The collector had finally caught up to him. He had been running from this moment all his life. The moment of truth… payment for the sins he’d committed. The slain would be avenged… wrongs would be righted… his soul was the price.

Tired of avoiding his destiny, he began to walk over to the deathly coach ready to embrace the darkness, when a blast of golden light exploded throughout the glen, blinding everything in sight. The dark horses reared up and raged down the rippling tunnel, sending the blasted coach bucking down the trail behind them. The power behind the explosion sent James to the ground. Blackness clouded his vision and the world fell silent.

Chapter 11

He who wants to be a dragon must eat many little snakes. ~ Chinese Proverb

“You fool!” Sheriff Rickert raised his leather whip and released its fury upon the man’s bare bloodied back. His tone, deep and sharp, filled the damp dungeon. The slender six-foot man with slicked-back salt and pepper hair stood behind his victim. His face, which was aged by the sun and multiple battle scars, possessed a placid anger.

Sheriff Rickert paced around the bloody body until he was face to face with the man. Grabbing the fool’s chin, he bore down into his eyes forcing him to look at him. “You were to bring me the Black Douglas. Alive!” he hissed and shoved the man’s head back.

Rickert had been a patient man. However, as of late his patience had been strained, pulled taut, and was about to snap. Seven years was a long time for a man to live with a tarnished reputation without revenge. He’d been made a fool the day James Douglas came back to Scotland to reclaim his lands and the family castle. With their chief dead, the clan had been disturbed, which left Castle Douglas defenseless. Being the easy target that it was, Sheriff Rickert and his heavily armed garrison seized the castle and claimed its land.

Oh, but fate could be a bloody bastard. A vicious attack by James on the garrison left Rickert retreating deep into the forest, running like a scared child to his mother. Coward, he thought. Flashes of that terrifying night flickered through the sheriff’s memory as he recalled the stench of burning flesh and deafening screams. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would have believed the devil himself had showed up to fight that day. He barely escaped alive. A cold shiver snaked down his spine; he had seen the beast.

“You’ve failed me. You do know the punishment, don’t you?” His English accent dripped with hatred.

The man stood silent as another crack sliced into his back.

“Must I remind you fool, I have something very valuable and precious to you.” Rickert stroked his graying goatee. “Your dear sister is at court, unwed and under my protection."

Sheriff Rickert had held the man’s sister in the royal court as a hostage of sorts. He promised the man that no harm would come to her if he obeyed his every request. A request to bring him the Black Douglas.

Rickert fondled the leather strip. “Mayhap I should inform King Edward that it’s past time for her to wed,” he stated.

The man angrily twisted his head to the sheriff and met his devious stare.

Leaning in close to the fool as if he was telling him a secret, he said, “I wonder what a young Scottish piece of arse would feel like.” The sheriff’s deep chuckle dared the man to break and lose control.

Giving the sheriff no satisfaction, the man balled up his fists and dug his nails deeper into the palms of his hands.

Rickert enjoyed inflicting pain, a master of manipulation. Blackmail was a game he played well. Once he had his eyes on a prize, there was no turning back. He became obsessed with seeking out the right time and place to unleash years of pent up fury. No longer could he walk among the crowds in his hometown and not be heckled about being defeated by a young Scottish lad. A Highlander at that. He was in favour with the king no more; the king saw him as a failure.

James Douglas was an annoying thistle in his arse that needed to be plucked out and destroyed. With the game pieces waiting to be played, his plan had been put into motion. James Douglas wouldn’t know what hit him.

~~~~~

The man lowered his head. His body shook from the last crack of the leather whip, or mayhap it was the rage he fought to keep from surfacing. He had to tell the sheriff about his little secret, it was the only way he could keep his sister safe. His beautiful innocent sister was caught up in a dangerous blackmail scheme. He’d failed to protect her. Once the sheriff had his grip on her and sent her to the royal court, he had to go along with Rickert’s plan. If he ever wanted to see his sister again, he must bring him the dragon.

Soon it would be over. Stick to the plan, he reminded himself. Sometimes you had to shame your soul in order to help destiny along.

The man squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath that stung his lungs. “I can bring ye the one thing that will destroy the Black Douglas,” he muttered.

This new-found information pricked Rickert’s interest. “Do tell.”

The man slowly rose his head and seared a stare of hatred into the sheriff’s eyes. “I can bring ye Abigale Bruce… James's wife… the princess of Scotland.”

Rickert mused. “Capture the princess, and slay the dragon.”

Chapter 12

Sometimes life can be as bitter as dragon tears. ~ Chinese Proverb

Two days had passed and James lay motionless, his shallow breaths barely moving the sheets covering him. Nonstop caring for Laird Douglas started to take its toll on Abigale. Sleeping only for small amounts of time and eating only when Alice would bring a trencher up to her, she didn’t leave his side. Abigale sat by the foot of the bed diligently working on some embroidery. If James didn’t wake soon, before long the castle walls would be covered in tapestries. A knock at the door made Abigale jump. She wasn’t expecting visitors.

The door creaked open as Marcus peeked in. “Lady Abigale, may I?”

She shook her head, letting him know that it was alright to enter.

Marcus walked to James’s bedside and said, “How is he? Any changes?”

“The bleeding has stopped, but he still sleeps.” Abigale stood and placed her needlework down on the chair and walked over to James. She felt his forehead. “He's still feverish.” His fever should have broken by now, Abigale pondered.

“My lady, forgive me for being blunt but maybe the time has come.”

“Nay Marcus, we still have time.” Abigale readjusted the covers over James’s body.

Marcus walked over to the head of the bed, looking over James’s body. “Ye’ve done everything possible to save him. We can't let him suffer.”

Abigale grew irate with him. How dare he come to her with such a request? She was going to save James and nothing or nobody was going to stop her. Something deep inside of her reassured her that she needed this man to live.

Abigale marched over to Marcus and poked a finger at his chest. “Suffer? Do ye think I would let him suffer?”

Marcus stood silently and allowed her to vent.

“I’ll spend every last breath making sure my husband lives. His clan needs him!” She challenged him to disagree with her by putting her hands on her hips.

Sharp eyes stared back at her. “And what aboot ye, Lady Abigale? Ye need him too.”

Of course she needed James to live. His clan needed him. Being completely honest with herself she needed him too. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but as soon as he would leave a room she missed him. Furthermore, this was her home and he was her husband. He had to live.

Through shaky breaths and deep sobs, Abigale held on tight and released all her fears on to Marcus’s shoulders. “What if Marcus, what if…” She couldn't say the words, but she thought about the question that plagued her mind. What would happen to the clan? Who would take his place? What about you Abigale… what would become of you? Too many unanswered questions lay heavy on her heart.

Marcus held her tight, “I’m sorry, I dinnae mean to upset ye. James is a warrior. I have seen him wounded before and he’s too stubborn to die. He'll make it, Abigale.”

Abigale looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. Before she could apologize for breaking down, Marcus cupped her face, wiping away her tears.

Abigale began to feel uncomfortable as he gazed profoundly into her eyes as if he was in deep thought. He stayed there holding her a little too long and a little too close for her liking. Ill at ease, Abigale stepped out of his embrace.

Clearing his throat, Marcus asked, “When was the last time ye ate? I’ll bring ye some of Alice’s famous oatcakes.”

“That would be very kind of ye.”

Marcus turned on his heels and headed for the door.

Relieved he was leaving, Abigale had other things on her mind than to think about Marcus’s odd behavior. Aye, he was a handsome man with a witty side, yet his honor was beginning to be questioned. Surely she’d seen something more than friendship in those blue eyes of his? Furthermore, he had overstayed his welcome. A man cannot take what has already been claimed.

Abigale shook herself from those thoughts. Perhaps she was misjudging him. After all, James was his cousin; maybe he needed to be consoled as well.

“Marcus,” Abigale called out.

He turned to face her. “Lady Abigale.”

“Thank ye.”

Marcus smiled, nodded his head, and walked out the bedchamber.

Abigale walked over to James’s bedside. She ran her fingers through his hair, bent down, and touched her forehead with his. “Come back to me,” she whispered.

~~~~~

James blinked away the spinning room as it slowly came into focus. He heard soft breathing and lifted his head up slowly toward the noise. There she was; with one arm tucked under her head, Abigale slept. Trying to determine whether he was dreaming or not, he rubbed his thumb over her delicate hand that held onto his. Her hand felt soft and warm. This was a good sign, he thought.

Reaching out he took Abigale’s braid in his hand. As he fondled the silky strands, a wave of relief rippled through him. Laying his head back down, he closed his eyes. He wasn’t dreaming this time, His bel ange was here and safe.

The dream had been too real this time. He was ready to succumb to the darkness, yet something or better yet someone had stopped him. The light, aye the warm, bright light had chased away the collector. His soul was saved for now. Yet another question burned him. Why had Abigale been there in his dream?

James looked back down at Abigale again. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “God’s bones!” She was a beauty.

Sleepy eyes blinked open and became wide with excitement. “James, ye’re awake.”

“Aye.” James coughed through the dryness in his throat.

Abigale slowly lifted her head. “Do ye remember what happened?”

Groaning in pain, James leaned forward. There was a tightness in his chest and he could feel the nausea roll through his gut. What the hell happened to him? His body felt battered, yet the pain was beginning to dull a bit.

“Easy.” Abigale warned as she propped pillows behind James’s back to make him more comfortable. “Ye were shot with an arrow two days ago while hunting. ‘Twas an accident.”

“Two days?”

“Aye.”

“An accident… while I was hunting?” James’s dark brows creased. This information didn’t set well with him. He looked down at the blood-stained bandages. Two days? He should have healed by now. His sleep magic should have healed him quickly, not over two days. Never before had he come this close to death. The whole thing didn't make sense to him. He was endless… dateless… immortal. One blow from an arrow was like getting a splinter under your skin.

He’d remembered the burn of something flowing through his veins and even now he was in a tremendous amount of pain. Poison? Aye, he had to have been poisoned.

“If the arrow was an inch deeper… it would have reached yer heart.”

James took Abigale’s hand in his. “Ye’re a healer?”

Abigale shrugged her shoulders, “Just a nurse with some knowledge in surgery.”

“A surgeon?” This puzzled him. Usually women were discouraged and not allowed to practice surgery.

Abigale reached over to feel his head for fever and was stopped quickly. James grabbed her slender wrist as if he was done with her fussing over him. “How did you become a surgeon?”

Pulling her arm away from him, she said, “At the abbey, I spent a lot of time assisting the physicians and surgeons in the infirmary. Fortunately for ye, I’m one of the best surgeons the abbey had.” She smiled.

James knew that she’d lived at Dunfermline Abbey, but for how long he did not know. Never really asking her about her time there, it dawned on him that he really didn’t know Abigale at all and this saddened him. For some strange reason he wanted to know everything about her. He could have died not knowing the woman who’d saved his life.

Abigale swallowed hard. “James, I… couldn’t help but notice when I was removing the ---“

At that very moment Marcus stepped into the room interrupting their conversation with a plate of oatcakes and with Alice trailing close behind.

“My Laird, ye’re awake! Oh tis a glorious day!” Alice beamed with delight and rushed over to James’s bedside. “Lady Abigale brought ye back to us.” Alice glanced at Abigale as they shared a smile.

At that moment the rest of his kinsmen came rushing into the bedchamber. Good news sure did spread fast. Rory’s smile reached ear to ear as he looked at his chief. “Lucky bastard.”

James returned his smile. “Aye.”

He hated the fact that they were interrupted; he wasn’t done with the questions he wanted to ask. Furthermore he needed to hold her… to feel her warmth. He studied her for a while. She looked exhausted. Had she been here with him the entire time?

As his men fussed over him, James kept his eyes on Abigale and watched her every move as Alice hugged her and gloated over the princess’s healing abilities. His kinsmen, one by one, took their turn thanking her as well.

After the commotion settled he noticed Abigale walking toward the door to leave the bedchamber. “Abigale, where ye going?”

She turned back around. “I was going to look for a place to rest for a while. I’ll be back soon.”

“Nay lass, this is yer bedchamber. Ye’ll sleep here.” James had made his demands and motioned for everyone to take their leave.

“Are ye sure? I can find another room.” Abigale worked her hands nervously into her apron.

Grinning a sexy smile, James pulled back the covers, offering her a warm place to snuggle. “My lady.”

Deep blue eyes stared back at him. Abigale untied her bloodstained apron and slowly unlaced the front of her dress until she wore her shift. Intently watching her as she crawled on to the bed, James motioned for her to come closer. Dropping his view to her chest, he could see straight down her under dress to two perfectly round breasts that he begged to touch. By the saints, this lass was going to be the death of him. With smoldering eyes he traced her body back to her face. The dark skin under her eyes showed just how exhausted she was. Damn him for thinking with his cock; she needed sleep.

Abigale laid her soft body next to his. Her warmth pulled him in and held him captive. Wanting to feel more of her, he pulled her closer until their bodies molded together. This tantalizing feeling was the same he’d felt back in his dream. It was like he was basking in the sun, soaking up its rays without a care in the world. Is this what Conall meant? A woman's love bringing peace? Love… well maybe he shouldn’t go that far, but this sensation he felt was like paradise.

He knew he was probably being selfish by wanting her next to him instead of letting her sleep by herself. Truth be told, when Abigale was around she chased his demons away. Firsthand he’d seen it, there was no doubt that she was the one who had chased the soul collector away. No nightmares… no soul collector to be found; she was the light to his darkness. James closed his eyes and kissed the top of Abigale’s head. “Sweet dreams my bel ange.”

Knowing where his demon hid, he would take these moments, cherish them, and put them to memory; only to recall them to remind him of who he was… a dragon. It wouldn’t work out between them. How could it? She was human and he was Dragonkine. As soon as she found out the truth, she would be gone. No man with his amount of uncontrollable vengeance could possibly be honorable enough to deserve a happy life. The English had taken so much from him that he feared that no matter how much blood was shed it would never be enough. Even if, and that was a big if, she could forgive his evil ways, there still lay a huge problem between them… he was a dragon. A young Dragonkine that needed the thrill of battle in order to quench his dragon’s lust for blood and vengeance. Joining the king’s rebellion allowed him to tame the beast.

Even with his bad reputation, his enemies were out there, he knew it… he welcomed it. This was why he vowed to never take a wife. Just the thought of something happening to Abigale in retaliation for his wrong-doings stirred a sinister feeling deep inside him that left him restless. Which led him to believe that this was no accident. Nay, the arrow being this close to his heart was no accident at all, he’d been a target. Unease settled in his bones; someone had tried to kill him, but who had taken the shot? Undoubtedly, the attacker had to have known he was Dragonkine, for he used a poison arrow. No mortal arrow could kill a dragon. Furthermore, the marksman was quite skillful with his bow, an accurate shot indeed.

James stiffened and held Abigale closer. Could there be a weed in the garden that needed to be pulled? A kinsman betraying not only their clan, but betraying the whole secrecy of the Dragonkine Guard? James ground his teeth together as he thought about one of his brethren turning on him. He needed to talk with Magnus soon.

Chapter 13

If you can’t take the heat, don’t tickle the dragon. ~ Anonymous

“Och lass.” James tightened his muscles and sucked in a deep breath. “Touch me like that again and I'll have ye on your back quicker than I can draw my sword.” He arched a brow. Even though he didn’t want a wife he still very much desired the auburn-haired lass. The last two days had proven to him that he indeed liked Abigale's company and it didn’t help that his dragon was relentless with his needs as well. He made himself known by stirring inside James’s body, insisting to be around Abigale.

“Ye mean like this.” Abigale blushed as she skimmed her fingers across his ribs teasing him as she unwrapped his bandages.

James squirmed in reaction to Abigale’s tickling assault. “Aye, bel ange." If only his men could see him now chuckling like a wee lad, they would jest him relentlessly. Truth be told he craved her touch a little more than he had the right to.

“My father speaks French, though I never learned. It’s a beautiful language.” She smiled. “He would call me his bel Abigale when he would come visit me at the nunnery. I cherished his visits especially not knowing when he would call again.”

James noticed how Abigale’s mood seemed to sadden when she talked about her father. He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head up so he could stare into her deep blue eyes. “Pas aussi belle que vous.”  James smiled. Indeed, not as beautiful as ye, James thought. “My father sent me, my younger brother, and mother to live in Paris when I was nine years old. He wanted our family safe and far away from the English.” James huffed in annoyance. “Bloody Sassenach made my father surrender Castle Douglas and in return they let me, Archie and my mother leave unharmed.”

“What happened to yer father?”

“My father was left to rot at the Tower of London. They called it a traitor’s death.” Hatred lingered on his every word.

“I’m so sorry, James,” Abigale consoled him.

“Aye, me too.” He changed the subject quickly, for bringing up that part of his past was no good. He already felt his dragon growling. “I can assure ye Abigale, if yer da could have he would have come to see ye more.”

“Would have, could have, doesnae matter anymore. He had the chance to make it up to me and well—“

“He married ye off to the Bogeyman.” James saw it in her eyes; she too did not want this marriage.

“I dinnae mean it that way. I’m happy here.” She looked up from the bandage and smiled.

Abigale unwrapped the last bandage. “Hmmm.” Her brows furrowed as she felt around the wound, examining it.

“What?”

“James, yer wound is healed,” Abigale informed him.

He’d forgotten about his healing abilities. No wonder she looked shocked and confused. “Well, that’s because I had an excellent nurse."

“But, the severity of yer wound—“

“Abigale, ye healed me.” His tone was firm.

Knowing better than to push James, Abigale changed the subject. “What was Paris like?”

Bloody hell, what was with all the questions? This part of his life he’d as soon like to forget. Details of his life in Paris were difficult to explain and now wasn’t the time to discuss it with her. He wouldn’t know where to begin, for he’d gone through hell. His mother had died a few months after arriving. Some said it was the black plague that took her, but James knew differently. She’d died of a broken heart. Elizabeth loved his father so much that she couldn't live without him. Knowing that her husband was most likely dead or imprisoned, she had fallen into a deep depression and died.

After his mother’s death, he and his brother were left to fend for themselves. Poor and with nowhere to go, they lived in the back alleys of Paris barely surviving. Up until that point, James had been strong and took care of wee Archie, always making sure Archie ate his fill first while James went without most nights. But fate had changed their roles, when James had become sick and his wee brother had to take care of him. James fought a burning fever, agonizing body aches, and violent vomiting. It had been two miserable weeks and he was weak and scared. For sure he’d thought the plague was taking his life.

It had been a cold, dreary winter in Paris, making it impossible to find a warm place to lay your head. With the spread of the black plague, no one took their chances bringing strangers in from the frigid weather. Surely if Archie hadn’t made the decision to find shelter at a nearby church, they would have frozen to death.

James, as weak as he was, could barely walk through the thick snow covered ground. Falling into the thick powder, James could no longer bear his own weight. “Ye must go, Archie.” His breath was visible through the flurries. “Leave me here. I will only slow ye down.”

“Nay, Jamie.” Archie bent down and propped his brother’s arm around his neck. “Ye’re all I have left. We go together.”

James leaned on his younger brother, as they struggled through the unforgiving weather and made it to the steps of the church. Once inside they met a bishop who took the two frigid lads in and fed them a hot meal. As fate would have it, Bishop Andrews had been waiting for this day to come. It was written in the scrolls that it was his destiny to train and care for a dragon.

The massive clock tower at the church was secluded, a perfect place to house James as he went through his transformation to Dragonkine. As the dragon took over his body, bones popped, liquid lava burned through his veins, and raw uncontrolled power surged through him. James remembered how violently sick he was, and the pain was unbearable. This part of his life was off limits, sealed up tight, and never to be opened.

James felt a warm hand covering his arm and saw Abigale leaning toward him. “Ye dinnae have to tell me, James. I understand, the past is the past.”

Indeed he did want to tell her everything in hopes she would accept who he was, but sheltering her from the truth was the logical thing to do.

“But,” she interrupted the silence, “ye do have to tell me what bel ange means.”

James moved closer to the edge of the bed so Abigale was standing between his legs. Two huge hands reached up, cupped her face, and pulled her closer. James stroked the tops of her cheeks softly with his thumbs and rested his forehead to hers. She had the most beautiful deep blue eyes. “It means beautiful angel.”

Pressing his lips to Abigale’s, he kissed her gently at first until her mouth opened, reassuring him that she indeed wanted his kisses. He plunged his tongue deeper inside her mouth, dominating the kiss and she matched his rhythm lick for lick. Heat flooded through him and his cock hardened as she ran her hands up and down his shoulders to his neck. His dragon roared, vibrating his core. Wanting to feel more of her, he pulled her closer until the softness of her breasts pressed up against his bare chest searing his flesh. James ran his hands down her back stopping at her tiny waist. If he didn’t stop now he wouldn’t be able to.

He grabbed her skirts, trying to contain the desire and douse the flames. He pulled away and stopped the kiss. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Abigale, ye make me want things I can no have.”

Abigale whispered, “Whatever ye’re going through please let me help. Please let me in.”

James closed his eyes and wished it was that easy. He wanted to tell her everything and be rid of his burdens, but that wouldn’t be fair to her. Lust wouldn’t win over logic.

Still holding on to Abigale’s waist, he looked up into her eyes. “I feel like I’m too close to the edge and about to--"

Abigale firmly grabbed his face between her hands. “Then jump. I’ll catch ye.”

James tightened his strong chiseled jaw and damned himself for a fool. Pulling her on top of him, he leaned back on the bed bringing her with him. He grabbed her arse tight and heard her moan. All control was lost and pure desire took over as he rolled her over on her back. He kissed her neck and pulled down her dress so he could feast his eyes on her beautiful breasts. He flicked his tongue over a pink nipple and sucked until it became hard. Abigale moaned in pleasure, encouraging James to keep up with his wicked assault on her body.

He’d never hungered for a woman like he hungered for Abigale. Feeling like the greedy bastard he was, he was going to take what she offered, make love to her until his name was screaming from her mouth. She was his wife, so bedding her was his rightful duty. Aye?

In a lust-crazed frenzy, James pulled up her skirts, all the while kissing her breasts. His hands finally reached her bare legs. Bare legs? The lass wore no hose. He paused for a moment and cocked a brow at Abigale. “Yer hose?”

Abigale unleashed an innocent shy smile and shrugged. “I was hot.”

That smile so pure, yet devious sent him further spiraling out of control. Reaching the waist of her undergarment, he slid his hand down over her womanhood and… by the saints, he burned for her.

~~~~~

Abigale completely lost herself in James’s wicked ways; he’d awakened a deep desire she never knew she had. His kisses burned her flesh and his touch lit the fire that heated her core. She thought she would go up in flames when she felt his hand on her sex.

Disbelief set in as she thought about pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Except she couldn’t will her hands away from exploring the expanse of his broad shoulders, and the ridged peaks and valleys of his well-defined body. It was as if she was a prisoner under his control and she had no plans on escaping.

A voice off in the distance broke her thoughts as she heard a young boy call out to Fergus.

“Fergus?” she said out loud.

James halted his assault on her neck and looked down at her. “Och lass, that’s not the name I wanted to hear from ye,” he smirked. "I was thinking maybe James or better yet Laird Douglas of Angus take me now ye--”

“Shhh. I think I heard someone call out to Fergus.” She lifted her head and cocked it to the side, straining to hear the voice again. God, was she going daft? A beautiful man was about to make love to her and she was hearing voices? Nay, she could have sworn she heard his name.

Discarding the distraction, Abigale pushed her hands through James’s hair pulling him down into a mind blowing kiss as she forgot about everything and focused on the moment at hand.

A voice louder than the last rang through her passion-filled fog. This time she heard it crystal clear; she was not crazy. She pulled away from the kiss and tried to talk between panting breaths. “Did ye hear it?” She tried to raise herself up beneath James's weight, but it was pointless. James wasn’t letting her go.

“Nay.” James kissed down her neck and continued driving her crazy like the outside world didn’t exist.

Abigale heard the voice again and this time she was sure she wasn’t going daft. She heard Fergus’s name. “James, please stop." At least that’s what her mouth said but her body told him another story. “I need to see what’s going on."

With a huff, James rolled over, letting Abigale escape. Readjusting her dress, Abigale slipped out of bed and walked to the window overlooking the bailey. Still trying to gather her thoughts, she fumbled with the fur covering the window. Once she found the opening, she peeked out and couldn’t believe her eyes. “Oh no!”

James shot up into a sitting position on the bed. Well, he gave it his best effort, for his cock was hard as a rock and his body was aching for release. “What is it?” he growled.

“Fergus has run away from his stall and Niven is trying to catch him. I must go.” Abigale began to search the chamber for her shoes. There was no time to waste, the lad was going to end up hurting himself; Fergus never allowed anyone but her to handle him.

Aha! She found her shoes. Balanced on one foot, she began to put on her slippers. “I’m sorry, James but if I dinnae go and calm Fergus down he will end up hurting Niven. I can no let that happen.”

James let out a frustrated huff. “I assure ye Niven can handle Fergus. Now come back to bed, I’m no done with ye, lass.”

Abigale shot her husband a ye-can-no-be-serious look as she slipped on her other shoe.

“Och, I suppose ye’re right,” James said in defeat.

“I’ll be right back.” Abigale smiled at James as he melted back down into the bed. God's Blood the lass better hurry back!

~~~~~

James lay there for a moment as he processed everything that was happening. By all that was holy that horse was spoiled rotten and was in desperate need of manners. He made a mental note about discussing this issue with Abigale. Fergus was going to have to behave in order to stay in the stable.

Shite. Realization smacked him upside the head; he’d forgotten, before leaving for the hunting trip two days ago, that he’d instructed the stable groom to prepare for Abigale's trip to her new home at Bothwell Castle. He’d planned to tell Abigale as soon as he got back, but what he didn’t plan on was being shot with a poisonous arrow and his bel ange saving his life. Now that he wanted her to stay, he might have just blown the whole thing.

James shot out of bed panicked. “Abigale wait!” Quickly, he fetched his tunic and readjusted his trews. He had to stop her before she reached Niven and Fergus. Stubbing his toe on his way out of the bedchamber, James stumbled down the corridor, cursing along the way. God, he hoped he would catch her in time.

~~~~~

Abigale entered the bailey swiftly and ran over to Niven just in time as Fergus reared up on his hind legs and threatened to knock him down. “Are ye alright, lad?”

His voice shaking, Niven said, “Aye my lady, me sorry to have disturbed ye.”

“’Tis alright,” she reassured the frightened lad. “Fergus is just scared. Everything will be fine.”

The fine steed settled as soon as Abigale approached. “Shh.” She reached out her hand, patting his nose then moved to his muscular chest. The horse’s chest pumped up and down and glistened with sweat. “Easy laddie, no one will hurt ye.” Abigale calmed Fergus instantly. “What happened, Niven? Why is Fergus out of his stall?"

Niven looked down at his worn shoes and gripped his tunic tightly. “I’m only doing what the Laird Douglas has instructed.”

“And just what has the laird instructed ye to do?”

The lad paused and swallowed hard.

“’Tis ok. Ye may speak freely,” Abigale reassured him. “No harm will come to ye.”

“My lady, I’m to ready yer horse for the trip to Bothwell.”

“Bothwell?” Did she hear the lad right? Why would James want to send Fergus to Bothwell? This just didn’t make any sense.

“Aye,” the shaken voice answered.

“And why would he be going to Bothwell when his home is here with me?” Abigale’s tone was gracious, yet firm.

“My lady, I’m to ready yer horse and escort ye to Bothwell. We leave in the morn.”

Shocked didn’t come close to describing her reaction. James was sending her away? To Bothwell? Not wanting to frighten Niven more than he already was she bent down and took the lad’s trembling hands in hers. “I assure ye, I will be staying here. This is my home. Fergus should be fine now. Take him back to his stall now and leave him be. I promise I’ll have a talk with him about his attitude.” She smiled.

Niven nodded his head and quickly began his task.

Abigale stood up with her hands on her hips, and turned to find her husband barreling through the bailey towards her. He must have known he was too late, for he treaded softly as he approached. She could feel her cheeks had reddened with anger… no, fury was more like it. “Bothwell, as in Bothwell Castle?”

Abigale, Let me explain,” James begged.

Abigale stood there for a while deciding whether or not she wanted to hear his excuses. Nay… nay, in fact she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. It had dawned on her that no matter what he said to her right now, she no longer cared. Hurt, pure and painful, stabbed at her heart. He was going to send her away; how could he do this to her?

No longer containing her anger she pushed herself past him and started toward Black Stone; with each step her anger grew.

Desperately trying to stop her, James followed a step behind trying to get her attention, but she kept tracking forward with purpose. “Abigale, please stop and listen to me.”

Ignoring his words, she reach the great hall doors. They entered the hall like a wind storm blowing in. “Damn it, would ye stop for one second and listen to me!” James grabbed her arm and swung her around until she looked at him.

Blinding rage took over every fiber of her being. If he thought for a minute she was going to listen to him he was seriously mistaken. She ripped her arm from his grip and allowed every raw emotion she’d felt since the day she met the Black Douglas to wash over her in rolling raging waves. One by one she released them until she felt the world lift from her shoulders. "Nay James Douglas, heed my words and hear them well. I’ve been more than agreeable in accepting my fate being married to ye. I’ve given up my morals and lied to a priest. I practically threw myself at ye thinking maybe… just maybe ye would desire me.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and fought back the tears. “I’ve given ye all that I have, to only be shut out by yer stubborn as a mule ways.” She paused and took a deep breath. Gaining more courage she squared her shoulders and continued. “I’m tired of being shut out. If ye think ye’re going to send me away to Bothwell so ye do no have to deal with whatever is going on in that head of yers, ye had better think again.”

“Abigale, just let me –“

She looked up at the towering beast and pinned him hard with an ice cold stare. “If ye do no want to be around me then ye leave. I’m staying here.” With that said Abigale turned on her heels, strode across the great hall, and climbed up the stairs straight to her bedchamber.

~~~~~

James stood dumbfounded. Every word spoken was true. Abigale showed him more love then he deserved. Though she’d been wrong about one thing; he did desire her. From the moment he met her at the loch he knew he loved her. Problem was she sent him spinning out of control, and he had been desperate to escape whatever bewitching spell she cast upon him.

There was no way around the matter; he had to make her listen to him. If he had to lock her in their bedchamber and hold her down, the lass would hear him out. He cursed himself and began to take off after Abigale when a soft but sturdy grip held his arm. “Nay, let her go,” Alice said.

James closed his eyes. “Alice, let me go. I have to talk to her.”

“I can no let ye do it. If ye go after her now ye’ll make a bigger arse out of yerself then ye have already.” Alice motioned for James to sit at a nearby table. "If there’s one thing I know, it’s when a lass needs her space ye give it to her.”

James took a seat and rested his head in his hands, scrubbing the tension from his temples. “Alice, I’ve been a fool.”

“Aye, a fool in love.” Alice patted him on his shoulder and placed a plate of special oatcakes in front of him followed by a tankard of mead.

Oh how he’d missed Alice. She always knew what to say at the right time, soothing him just like a mother would do. But, step out of line and she’d let you have it. He grabbed an oatcake and took a bite out of it. “Mmm, ‘tis good.”

Alice sat down beside him and rested her hands on the table in front of her. Her face grew serious. “James, ye be a good man. Dinnae let yer past spoil yer future with Lady Abigale.”

“’Tis not the past I worry about so much as my better half.” He turned to Alice and flashed his dragon’s eyes. “She’ll never understand.”

“Aye, but did ye give her a chance to try to understand it? She’s a smart woman, James and she’s good for ye too.” She winked.

Aye, she was perfect in every way. Even when she was mad she was graceful. “I need to talk to her.” James began to stand up and leave when Alice clucked her tongue at him. “’Tis best ye wait until the morn, trust me words. She’s hurt, she thinks ye’re abandoning her.”

James sat back down. “Abandoning her?”

“Aye. ‘Tis not my story to tell but Abigale’s da didnae visit her much at the abbey. She told me she felt abandoned by her da. So, ye can see why she feels like ye’re doing the same.”

James was stunned. Instead of thinking how this would affect her, he had been too wrapped up in his own reasonings for sending her away. The look on Abigale’s face when he mentioned her da came filtering through his mind. She wanted to shut this part of her life out just like he wanted to shut out his dragon side from her.

“Alice, I’ve been a selfish stubborn arse.”

Alice shook her head, “Ye be a Dragonkine and there’s no fault in that.” Alice stood from the table, “Now go to yer solar and think wisely about yer situation. Talk to Abigale in the morn after a good night’s rest. Trust me.” She smiled and quit the hall.

James grabbed another oatcake and headed to the solar. Think wisely, he mused. Words never seemed to come easy for him when it came to expressing himself, especially when it came to Abigale. But he had to try to make her see that indeed he wanted her to stay and that he would never abandon her, ever. Even if she denied his dragon, he would always love and protect her.

Chapter 14

Ye be no princess, ye’re a bastart!

Abigale slammed the wooden door to the bedchamber with such force she thought she heard the hinges crack. “Unbelievable,” she muttered out loud as she paced the room. Here she was on the verge of being abandoned again; sent away, unwanted, and left to live alone. Her mother had left her when she died… abandoned, her father had left her at the nunnery… abandoned, and now her husband wanted to send her away to Bothwell. Nay, I won’t leave.

Something had changed between them in the past few days, she felt it. James wouldn’t let her out of his sight, so they had spent most of the day cuddled in bed while James healed and Abigale caught up on sleep. He’d fed her with the prepared provisions that Alice had brought up to them. Recalling the way he would rub his hands up and down her back comforting her while she slept, she knew he cared for her. His kisses felt like she was the only woman he had ever kissed, slow but with fierce need. There was something more between them and there was no denying it. Well, at least on her part there was no denying.

Or had she played the fool? Abigale’s anger grew. Was this some kind of trickery or bewitchment? Had she been too blind to see that he was a man who took what he wanted and didn’t care about anyone else? Could he be so cruel as to have his pleasures with her then send her off and be done with her? Mayhap he would only call on her to satisfy his urges. His own personal whore. Even though they were married, the thought alone made her feel like a whore.

Why was fate being so cruel to her? Didn’t she deserve happiness? Or mayhap she didn’t, perhaps her destiny was to be alone. Alone and a bastard. Abigale stopped in mid-stride as a vision of Abbess Margaret appeared over by the hearth. The raven-haired Abbess turned slowly to face Abigale. Her voice chilled her like ice. “Did ye actually think that a man would want ye, bastart?” Abbess Margaret seethed.

Abigale back-stepped until her back hit the door. “Nay, ye cannae be here.” Every word she spoke shook with fear.

In a split second the Abbess was eye to eye with Abigale. “Oh I’m real, I’ll never leave. Ye need me to remind ye of who ye truly are. A bastart that's all alone,” she mocked. “If ye were a true princess yer father wouldn’t have abandoned ye."

“Nay.” Abigale shook her head back and forth as she slid down the door. Huddled into a quivering ball, she hugged her legs close to her body waiting for her hair to be coiled around the Abbess’s deadly fist.

The wretched woman towered over Abigale’s shaking body. “The only reason James married ye was because it was arranged by ye father. Yer father didnae want ye so he married ye off to be done with ye. Ye be no princess, ye’re a bastart!”

Abigale fisted her hands and began to hit herself in the head to make the voice stop. “Please, stop!” Dear God, please make it stop. This wasn't happening, not now. Normally she was able to fight back and make the vile woman stop. She thought that once she had left the abbey she would no longer be plagued by the evil woman. But as fate would have it, she was a bastard and abandoned again.

Abigale banged her fists harder against her temples. “I’m no bastart,” she cried out and repeated to herself over and over again until she could no longer hear the Abbess's words. When silence filled the room, Abigale dared to open her eyes. As she opened one eye at a time, relief washed over her as an empty bedchamber came into view. Quickly Abigale jumped to her feet and ran to the window, pushing the furs out of the way. She was sure she would see the Abbess fly from her window and back to her lair like some kind of night creature.

The walls of Castle Black Stone were beginning to feel constricting and her chest felt tight. She needed to leave this place for a while and clear her head. Mayhap a trip into the village would do her some good. Never being able to leave on her own will, excitement grew as she thought about what she might see. Perhaps some sweet smelling candles would lighten her mood. Abigale grabbed her cloak and headed for the door.

Once in the corridor, she lost herself in her current state of anger, she wasn’t aware of her surroundings and didn’t notice Marcus walking behind matching her stride. “See, I told ye he was too stubborn,” Marcus mused.

Startled that she was being followed, Abigale stopped abruptly to turn and face Marcus. “What is it with ye Highlanders sneaking up on people?” Beyond irritated at this point, her tongue was quick to insult.

Taken aback by the firmness of her tone, Marcus stepped back. “Lady Abigale, please forgive my rudeness. I was just trying to lighten yer mood.”

Truly he seemed sincere. Abigale felt horrible for snapping at him. It wasn’t his fault that his cousin was an arse. “Marcus, I’m afraid I'm in no mood for company right now. Please excuse me, the mood in here is foul and I need some fresh air.”

They continued onward. Reaching the stairs, Abigale descended steadfastly to the great hall. True to being who he was, a Highlander, Marcus wasn’t taking no for an answer. He followed her a few steps behind. “Ye know I’m a good listener and ye look as if ye need to speak yer mind about something.”

Nay, she didn’t need an ear, she needed to be away from this castle and most definitely away from a stubborn man. She’d had enough of being told what to do and when she was going to do it. She was hurt, confused, and mourned the fact she might possibly be leaving Alice and Effie.

Abigale took a deep breath trying to rein in her fury. “I thank ye kindly for yer concern, but I need to be alone right now. I’m taking Fergus to the village. I need some time to clear my head.” She tried her best to smile and reassure him that she would be fine, she needed some time… alone.

“The village… alone… without an escort! Nay, won’t allow it." Marcus folded his arms in front of his chest as if saying ye’ll leave over my dead body.

“Och… I… I won’t be gone long. I'll be fine.”

“Nay lass, ye cannae go alone, ‘tis not safe. The merchants can be ruthless out there. And do I need to mention the natty lads lurking around waiting to pick your pockets. I’ll escort ye to the village.”

It was true, merchants could be ruthless; desperate people did desperate things. With last winter being relentlessly frigid then adding to spring’s saturating rains, the terrain conditions for farming in the Highlands had become a challenge. Livestock froze to death and the soil was unproductive. Most items they had were brought back from village raids or crusades. People were hungry and in need of coin.

His mouth was just inches from her ear. He whispered, “I will nay take no for an answer.”

The sound of his deep baritone voice made Abigale go silent. His presence alone demanded submission like he was never denied it. Unease shivered through her, as she felt his hot breath searing her neck.

“Good. I’ll tell the stable groom to ready the horses for us. We’ll leave shortly.” Marcus strode out of the great hall taking all the tension with him, leaving Abigale to settle her nerves.

Feeling even more irritated, Abigale blew out a pent up breath. All she wanted right now was to be alone with her thoughts. Making her way to the kitchen, she remembered that she’d hid her dirk under one of the large black cauldrons. Not needing its use, she had hid it there before she went to bathe Lennox and Mahboon. Thank God the cauldron had been cold and unused this morn. Bending down, she looked under the pot. Reaching with all her might, her hand touched cold steel. Aye, my dirk.

Lifting the right side of her dress thigh high, she attached a black strap around her leg and sheathed the blade. Relieved her dirk was securely strapped to her inner thigh, she patted down her skirts and made her way to the stables, but before she left she grabbed an apple for Fergus.

As they reached the village, the aftermath of the hard rainfalls was hard to miss. The small village had been beaten and bruised; dirt paths had been washed away leaving behind dried ripples of mud. Water collected in small pools that dotted the paths weaving through the town. Rocks and stones had been unearthed by the flooding rain making it hard to walk without tripping and the stench of wet thatch was everywhere.

Abigale couldn’t believe how much destruction the rains had left behind. On the other hand, the clan members’ attitude didn’t match their muddled living conditions. The town came alive as villagers were patching up missing thatch from their roofs, cattle were being moved to drier ground, and merchants were out with carts full of salvaged vegetables and furs for the winter to come.

Abigale and Marcus walked through the merchant area of the village observing the different items for sale or barter. Her attitude began to soften a bit. Fresh air really did help clear the mind. Plus, Marcus hadn’t pushed the issue for her to talk about what ailed her. Indeed he’d held true to his word and kept quiet, but was ready to listen when Abigale was ready to talk.

Out of the corner of her eye, Abigale spotted a heavy-set older woman stepping out from behind a cart selling what looked like fresh honey. The woman approached Abigale, but was quickly halted by Marcus’s sword before she reached. The woman swallowed hard. “Pardon me my lady, I only want to thank ye for saving Laird Douglas.” She bowed her head and nervously wadded up her apron in her hands.

Abigale motioned for Marcus to release the woman, she held no threat. The woman lifted her head to look at Abigale. “My lady, I do no have expensive gifts to give, but would ye kindly accept this as a token of my gratitude?” The woman handed Abigale a cloth covered object that fit in the palm of her hand.

Abigale was shocked when she opened the fabric and found a brooch. Abigale ran her finger around the half circle pendant tracing the knot work. The brooch was weathered and looked old as though it had been passed down through generations.

“Oh my lady, watch oot for the pointy end. ‘Tis sharp,” the woman warned.

Amazed that the woman would part with such an heirloom, Abigale could not accept such a gift. “I can no—“

Marcus interrupted Abigale before she made a huge mistake. Refusing a gift was an insult. “The princess thanks ye kindly.”

Abigale stood dumbfounded. She felt guilty for accepting such an elaborate gift.

As they walked away, Abigale felt confused as she looked over her shoulder at the woman who was now beaming with a smile. Why would she give her such a gracious gift when a simple thank you would suffice?

Marcus leaned his head toward Abigale as they walked side by side. “’Tis rude to decline a gift, especially when it’s a gift of thanks.”

Bewildered, she turned back around. “Marcus, she could have used this trinket to barter for food or at least a few coos.”

“Aye, but she wanted ye to have it.” Marcus winked at her.

It was apparent that Abigale had a lot to learn about life. Being sheltered came with its disadvantages, she thought. Clan rules hadn’t existed in her world until a few days ago. She would have felt horrible if she’d hurt the poor woman's feelings by not accepting her gift. Being naïve was going to land her in a world of trouble if she didn’t watch it.

As they passed the last merchant Abigale noticed a rundown stone dwelling with a badly woven thatch roof. Two little girls with ripped, dirty tunics were standing outside in front of a loosely hung door that banged shut with every light breeze that blew through the village. The little girls were filthy and looked as if they hadn’t eaten or slept for days.

Before Marcus could stop Abigale, she walked up to the girls and bent down to their level. “Where’s yer mum and da?”

The youngest girl swayed back and forth with her hands tucked behind her back. She looked down to her bare dirt-stained toes and shrugged her tiny shoulders. She had to be about five summers old, Abigale thought as she picked a piece of caked-on mud from the little girl’s body. The eldest girl shoved her shoulder into the little girl as if letting her know not to trust the strangers.

Abigale walked past the girls and into their home, if you could call it a home. Cautiously, she pushed the door open and quickly had to cover her nose from the wretched smell that permeated the home. “Hello! Is anyone home? ”Abigale yelled out. No one answered.

Marcus followed Abigale inside and quickly covered his nose with a white linen cloth. “Bloody hell!” He stood next to Abigale as they observed the filth. Rotten food and dirty trenchers littered a wooden table near the hearth which was blackened with thick soot. Straw mixed with mice droppings covered the dirt floor and in the middle of the small house lay a mud puddle. Abigale cringed at the thought that this was the only source of water for the girls. “Who would allow such living conditions?” She shook her head.

“I dunno. Something is verra wrong here.” Marcus motioned for them to leave, for the stench was overpowering.

Abigale stepped back outside, breathing in the much-needed fresh air. The girls still stood where they were, watching them intently, yet never saying a word. Abigale’s heart broke for these girls. Undoubtedly they had been mistreated and left alone to fend for themselves. But for how long? How could someone do such a thing? Something wasn't right here, Abigale could feel it.

“Marcus, we need to take these girls back to Black Stone. They can no stay here.”

Marcus stood with his arms folded in front of him glaring at the girls as if he didn’t trust this situation. “My lady, I think it’s best we leave before someone shows up." He advised.

Abigale was shocked that he wanted to leave these poor defenseless girls here. Her dark brows furrowed in disbelief. “Ye dinnae mean to leave the girls here? We have to welcome them into our home until we figure oot what happened.”

“Ye don’t understand. If we take the girls, their parents may come looking for them. It could start a feud. Ye don’t want to be charged with kidnapping… do ye?” Marcus was trying to talk some sense into her, but knowing Abigale’s kind heart, he was losing the battle.

“I will no leave these girls.” Abigale put her hands on her slender hips, tipped her chin up, and stood her ground. “Either I stay here,” God, she hoped it didn’t come to that, “or I bring the girls back to Black Stone. As long as I’m married to the laird, we’ll take care of our people.”

Marcus ran his hand through his rugged light brown hair in aggravation. “Fine, but ye will have to answer to yer husband, no me.”

Abigale smiled in victory, but it was short-lived as the ground started to rumble and screams rang out. Full-on panic raced to life throughout the village as its people started to scatter and run for their lives. Abigale turned to Marcus. His hand already palmed the hilt of his sword ready to protect her. As if he knew what she was going to ask, he informed her of what was going on. “Village raid. We need to get ye out of here, now!” Marcus bellowed through the screams and pounding hooves.

An orange glow lit up the sky. Flames raged as ruthless knights upon charging warhorses torched homes and crops to the ground. Abigale couldn’t move. Everything was happening so fast as if she was dreaming. Marcus stood in front of her with his hands on her shoulders and gave her a shake to get her attention. “Lady Abigale, ye must leave. There’s no time to waste.” Something instinctual awakened and with much haste she picked the youngest girl up in her arms, while Marcus carried the eldest. Abigale followed him to a thick wooded area. Once they were deep inside the forest and away from the attack, Marcus put the girl down. She quickly ran to Abigale and found comfort in her skirts. “There’s no time to get back to the castle. Ye’ll have to hide in here until I come back for ye.” Marcus gave the order true and firm.

“Where are ye going?” Surely he wasn’t going to leave them here alone. Abigale couldn’t fight off an attacker. Was he daft?

“I’m going back to the village. I need to alert James. Find a place to hide. I’ll be back.” Marcus headed back to the village.

Oh dear Lord, what was she going to do? Her heart was racing so fast she could hear its beats pounding in her ears. What to do… What to do? Abigale turned around, looking in every direction, trying to find a place to hide. Everything was happening so fast, her head started to spin.

Get it together Abigale Bruce, these girls are depending on ye. They need yer strength, not weakness, she scolded herself.  Taking a deep breath she decided to head deeper into the forest. They came across an old yew tree with its trunk hollowed out. A perfect place to hide. Still carrying the wee girl in her arms, Abigale was beginning to feel fatigued. Finally they reached the huge tree trunk just before she thought her arms would give out beneath the heavy weight she carried. “We’ll be safe here,” she reassured the girls. The two girls clung tightly to one another as they sat toward the back of the hollowed yew. With haste Abigale removed her dirk and sat with the children. “Marcus will come back. I promise.” She told herself this several times until she believed it. She put her arms around the girls, squeezing them tight. She kissed their heads, making sure they knew she wasn’t going to leave them.

~~~~~

A massacre symphony played on with gut-wrenching cries of men and women being burned and slaughtered as the English garrison continued their raid with fierce determination on clan Douglas. Marcus dodged a man’s claymore, then stuck the filth in the gut with the pointy end of his blade, as he made his way toward his horse. Abruptly a knight perched high upon his warhorse stopped Marcus with his sword pointed at Marcus’s throat. Marcus swallowed against the cold steel and felt its prick. Long black feathers protruded from the top of the knight’s helm and flowed down past his shoulders, whipped in the wind. Through the slit of his visor, his cold stare chilled Marcus bone deep. “Where’s the princess, Highlander?” The knight shoved the blade deeper into Marcus’s throat, just enough to prove his point.

Marcus studied the man for a while as if he was considering how he was going to answer. Or mayhap he was questioning his own motives.

The warhorse, foaming at the mouth and chomping at the bit, pawed the earth in irritation. “Well, are ye going to tell me or will I have to gut ye?” The knight seethed.

Marcus looked toward the woods where he’d left Abigale and the girls, then back at the impatient knight.

The Douglas war cry broke their stance as both men readied for battle. A cruel twisted smile reached across the knight’s lips as he turned and faced the Black Douglas and two hundred of his clansmen.

~~~~~

Abigale was trying desperately to be brave, but if the truth be told she was just as scared as the girls. Time seemed to stand still. In the distance she could hear the blood-curdling cries of villagers, and the tiniest forest sounds seemed louder than they really were. Abigale grew restless. They couldn’t stay hidden in here forever. What if something happened to Marcus? What if those raiders came searching for them? Nay, she couldn’t stay here. She needed to find out what was going on.

“Girls, I’m going to take a look outside. I need for ye to be brave and stay here until I return,” Abigale insisted. Both girls, with dirt-stained tears streaming from their faces, clung to one another, and the youngest shook her head no. Abigale wiped away the wee girl’s tears. “I promise I won’t be long, little lamb."

Before Abigale got up to leave, she looked down at her dirk. She couldn’t leave the girls unprotected, she thought. Pushing her skirts up, she unsheathed her dirk and handed it to the eldest girl. “Here take this and dinnae be afraid to use it." She quit the yew tree hideaway.

Abigale reached the tree line, peeking through a thicket of blackthorn overlooking the village, and cringed. The sound of swords clanking together echoed through the screams as blood was being shed. Even though clan Douglas was fighting for their lives, there had been too many lives lost. Her heart told her she needed to help the wounded and tend to their wounds, but common sense told her to stay hidden and get back to the girls.

As she looked toward the castle gauging how far away it was, she noticed about two hundred clansmen on horseback riding toward the village. Thank God help was on the way! But where was Marcus? Dear God, please let him be alive.

She was retreating into the forest to her secret hideaway, when suddenly a strong rough hand grabbed her braid and yanked her into a hard ridged chest. “Aren’t ye a pretty one?” A snarl came from the man as he snaked his arm around Abigale’s waist and covered her mouth with his free hand. The repulsive man smelled like a dung heap and ale lingered on his breath. A raider indeed, Abigale thought. She planted her feet and tried to wriggle free. Not wanting to frighten the girls, Abigale held back her screams as panic pricked up her spine. What was this man going to do to her, better yet what was she going to do? She should have never left the safety of the yew tree.

As if by some kind of survival instinctual reaction, Abigale hauled-off and kicked at the man’s shins and bit down hard on his hand until she tasted the tang of blood. If the man was going to have his way with her, she’d fight him until the end. "Ye bitch!” the raider yelled out in pain and released her. As he held his hand, shock spread across his scarred, unshaven face. The wench had the ballocks to fight him. An evil grin crept across his lips like he was ready and willing for the chase. “Ye better run little lamb before I catch ye,” he sneered with hatred.

Not wanting to lead the foul man straight to the girls, Abigale turned and ran in the opposite direction from the yew tree. She pumped her legs through the unforgiving material of her dress that only seemed to slow her down. She glanced over her shoulder to find that the rogue was hot on her heels. An inconvenient stump and a misstep sent Abigale tumbling to the ground. Not a good predicament to be in. Quickly she turned over and frantically scooted backwards away from the raider. This was it, she thought.

“Looks like the big bad wolf caught ye wench. Ye’ll pay for wounding me fighting hand.” The man grabbed Abigale’s legs and slid her towards him as he yanked up her dress.

Abigale strained to shove the man off her, but he was too strong. She pounded her fist into his chest and clawed at his face, but the raider fed off her distress. She kicked and twisted and through tear-filled eyes she saw a raised meaty hand coming towards her face to strike. Pulling up her arms to block the blow, she closed her eyes tight and braced herself. The man’s hand came down and smacked her face causing stars to burst behind her eyes. Then another blow followed.

Coming to her senses wasn’t easy as Abigale felt the wretched raider straddle her and untie his dirt-stained trews. “Ah, what a fine piece of arse we have here.” He pushed his hips forward shoving his hardness against her stomach.

This couldn’t be happening to her, this had to be a terrible nightmare. Her head throbbed and her body ached. Abigale for God’s sake, wake up! A sharp prick poked at her chest as if she had been stung. The brooch that the woman from the village had given her. She had pinned it to her gown before she found the girls.

Oh my lady, watch oot for the pointy end. ‘Tis sharp. The woman’s voice echoed through her head. Indeed, ‘tis sharp, Abigale mused. Quickly she reached for it and slipped it off her dress. With the pendant in the palm of her hand and the pointy end sticking straight up, she waited to make her move.

“Ye know wench, if ye just spread yer legs like a good little girl this would be over soon.” The sickening mocking laughter he belted out made the bile rise up in her throat. Come on ye eejit, make yer move.

The foulness of his breath assaulted her senses as the raider bent down to roughly grab her breasts. Abigale pulled her arm back giving her just enough room to carry out the momentum she needed. She released her swing and plunged the sharp end of the brooch into the man’s neck.

Wide-eyed, the man looked at her in shock. His hand covering the wound was dripping with blood. He made an attempt to yell at her but blood poured from his mouth. Time seemed to have stilled as she watched the raider holding his neck, trying to breathe.

In no time at all the man was yanked from Abigale’s body by a massive man she recognized. James?

James stood behind the raider and grabbed him by his neck, snatching him off Abigale. He twisted the man around so that his body blocked Abigale’s view of the raider and what he was about to do to him. With one fluid motion and a loud crack, James snapped the raider's neck, letting his lifeless body fall to the ground.

James’s eyes darkened and his face turned sinister as he looked down at Abigale. So, this was what the Black Douglas looked like. If she could disappear into the forest floor right now she would. This man was undoubtedly livid with her, but nonetheless she was happy to see him.

James extended a hand to Abigale and helped her up off the wet forest floor. “He hit ye?” James cradled her face in his hands and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.

Abigale was silent. She couldn’t believe that she just stabbed a man. Seeing the man lying in a lifeless heap, she said, “Is he dead?”

“Dinnae look, Abigale. Look at me.”

As soon as she looked up into his amber eyes, she began to crumble. She wrapped her arms around him and melted into his tight embrace as if he was the security she needed to help her forget about the blasted man and what he was going to do to her.

“Did he—“

Knowing what James was hinting at, Abigale shook her head. ”Nay, I stabbed him with the brooch before he had the chance to.”

They stood there for a while, holding on to one another. Abigale felt James’s chest exhale in relief, yet he wasn’t completely satisfied with the situation. By the way he flexed and worked his jaw, she knew James was angry. Once he knew she was alright no words had been spoken between them. Abigale stepped out from his embrace and began to brush the dirt from her dress.

“Are ye alright, lass?” James’s tone was deep. He was concerned, yet she could sense the tenseness he held toward her.

Still angry at him over his last shenanigans, Abigale brushed him off. “Nay, I’m just a little rattled.” She avoided eye contact, for she really didn't have the strength to fight with him. She needed to get back to the girls. “The girls.” Abigale ran towards the yew tree praying that the girls were untouched.

James ran after her. “Wait… What girls are ye talking about?”

Chapter 15

Never mess with a dragon’s woman.

The ride back to Black Stone was eerily quiet. James rode ahead of his men holding in his rage. He worked his jaw until he felt his teeth grind together, never once sparing a glance at Abigale, because he didn’t trust himself not to come down hard on the lass. He was holding on by a fraying thread. Plus he didn't want to lose control in front of his men nor frighten the little girls who rode with Abigale.

If the lass would have just let him explain himself, she wouldn’t have found herself in the middle of a village raid and… James stopped mid-thought and shook his head. He couldn’t think about what that English filth was going to do to her. God’s wounds, he had ripped the man’s head clear off his shoulders with such viciousness. More like sliced it off. With claws extended, he cut the bastard just like a blade.

Then there was the issue of these wee girls coming to stay at Black Stone. There was no problem in taking care of your own, but with that came a risk. Who knew where or who their parents were?

As they approached the stables, James’s anger started to boil over as he saw Marcus help Abigale and the girls dismount from Fergus. James rushed to the great hall. He needed mead.

Shortly after James had entered the hall, Abigale and the girls followed behind him with Rory, Conall, Magnus and Marcus.

“What were ye thinking, lass!” The baritone of his voice rang out in rage and echoed throughout the great hall.

Abigale quickly gave Alice the little girl in her arms. “Ye’ll be safe with Alice,” she reassured the girls. Alice lifted the wee child up and on to her hip. "Come along my sweets.” Alice placed a comforting hand on the oldest girl’s shoulder and led her to the stairs leading to a bedchamber. Abigale was sure that Alice was going to pamper the girls with a warm bath and food.

Marcus, Rory, Conall and Magnus came into the great hall to join them and silently waited for their laird’s wrath. By the looks of it, it was going to be one hell of a battle of the strong-willed.

“Abigale!” The echo of her name being yelled made her shudder and sent a chill down her spine. James was furious with her.

Abigale closed her eyes and took a deep breath to settle her nerves before she faced the storm. As she turned around, she met an ice cold dark stare “My Laird,” she swallowed, “I went to the village for some fresh air. As ye may recall, I needed some time to think about my new-found knowledge of Bothwell Castle.”

James stood towering over her tiny frame, sternly looking down at her, his voice deep, low, and intimidating. “Ye wouldn’t have needed fresh air if ye would’ve let me explain." James’s jaw ticked in aggravation.

Abigale back-stepped until she felt the coldness of the stone wall on her back. James stalked toward her. “I didnae go alone… Marcus was with me,” Abigale meekly replied.

James turned his head toward Marcus and if looks could kill, Marcus would be a corpse. “And ye thought this was a good idea? Going to the village when there could very well be someone out there wanting me dead?” Just that thought alone raised his fury to the next level.

Before Marcus could answer, Abigale interrupted. “James, it’s no his fault, he tried to talk me out of it.”

James braced his large hands on either side of Abigale’s head, encaging her to the wall. Now she was defending Marcus. Like it wasn’t bad enough she left Black Stone with another man, now she defended him. James looked as if he wanted to rip Marcus's heart out and feed it to his dogs. His dragon agreed and begged to be released.

One thing James was learning fast was you don’t mess with a dragon’s woman.

“I want ye to heed my words carefully, Abigale.” James leaned his head down until their foreheads were slightly touching. His cold dark stare flickered with rage. “Ye will no leave Black Stone again. Is that clear?” James growled his demands deep and low.

She ducked down and freed herself from his entrapment. “I will no be a prisoner here. I shall come and go as I please.”

The silence was deafening in the great hall, not even a breath was taken. Everyone waited for James’s reaction. No one dared to defy a command from the laird.

Who did this lass think she was, denying his command?  At first James didn’t know how to respond. If one of his men were defiant he showed no mercy… off with their heads. But he couldn’t very well do that to Abigale, though the thought of bending her over his knee and spanking her arse did.

“Ye do as I say.”

Hands on her hips. “And what if I don’t?” Abigale’s cheeks flushed red with anger.

James approached Abigale dominating and demanding. He grabbed her arms to make a point that he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “If I have to, I’ll lock ye in the bedchamber… tie ye to the bed… I’ll do whatever necessary to ensure yer safety. Do ye understand me?”

“James, leave the lass alone. If ye want to place blame then place it on me.” Marcus began to walk toward James until he was standing face to face with him. Both men were the same height, but Marcus was leaner. His bright blue stare challenged James.

James didn’t back down, he stood firm. “She is no business of yers, cousin. I suggest ye back down before someone gets hurt.”

“Are ye threatening me?”

James’s jaw ticked. The feelings running through him right now were foreign to him and he didn’t know how to control them. However, it didn’t help that his dragon was restless and itched for a fight. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion he was used to.

“Nay, no threat. I’m just curious why the sudden interest in my wife. Do ye want her for yourself?”

Marcus smirked. “I can no deny the fact that she deserves a better man than ye.”

Before Marcus knew what hit him, James shoved him with such power that Marcus stumbled back. Marcus threw his arms up as if he was beckoning James to take the first punch. He was not a coward and he didn’t fear his cousin, not by a long shot. “Go ahead… make yer move, Laird Douglas,” Marcus mocked.

James had had enough. Emotions of jealousy, anger, and confusion were running amok in his head. He didn’t quite understand why Marcus was challenging him like this. Was he really trying to make an impression on Abigale? Or did he have other ulterior motives? Regardless, he was being challenged and knew he needed to decide what he was going to do about it. Oh, he knew damn well what his dragon wanted to do. Shred the bastard. Nay, he would grab ahold of whatever was left of his self-control and be a man and walk away. In time he would fix things between him and Abigale, because there was no way in bloody hell he would let her go.

James looked Marcus up and down as if he was disgusted by his mere being. He stayed silent and turned to walk away.

“Or are ye a coward like yer da?” Marcus pushed on.

James charged him, spearing his stomach with his right shoulder until his body slammed against the stone wall. Marcus’s head bounced off the stone with a thud and he smirked at James with the devil in his eyes. He was mocking him again. Against James’s will, he cocked his right arm back and his massive hand pummeled down on Marcus’s face. He was going to make damn sure to knock that smirk off his face. James readied himself to repeat the assault on Marcus when he heard Abigale shriek, “Stop it!”

Abigale rushed over to James and held on to his arm before he could hit Marcus again. James pushed her off his arm and Abigale stumbled from the force. She tried again and stepped in front of James as Rory and Conall grabbed Marcus and escorted him outside. With all her might Abigale forcefully pushed her hands into James’s rock solid chest. "This is quite enough!”

James snapped his attention to Abigale and looked down at her. His chest heaved up and down as his breathing labored and his hands were bloodied. His irises swirled amber with reptilian slits as pupils. A sinister stare pinned Abigale. He had lost all control and let his dragon take over.

~~~~~

Hysteria billowed behind Abigale’s eyes, turning them huge and full of fear. She couldn’t quite comprehend what she’d seen. In disbelief she stared back at James or who she thought was James. His eyes! No human ever had eyes that swirled like his. And the thin black slits that centered in his depths, nay not human at all. Animalistic, most definitely. Her hand shook over her mouth to stifle a scream that was lodged in her throat. She shook her head in disbelief.

“Abigale, let me explain.” James took a slow step toward her.

Abigale backed away from him, “Don’t come near me.” Her words were barely a shaken whisper.

Abigale needed to find a way to escape. What type of monster is the Black Douglas? she thought and what was he going to do with her? No more was her sense common. There was a beast standing right in front of her waiting for a good chase. Looking over her shoulder she saw the twin wooded doors leading to the outside bailey just a few feet away. Could she make it to those doors and escape before he caught her? She turned back around and met his amber glare and a shiver raced up her spine sending her straight into flight instinct. Fear took over as she dashed through the great hall and out the door.

Relieved to see that Fergus was still in the bailey waiting for the stable groom, with much haste she grabbed the leather reins and hoisted herself up onto him. Taking off in a full gallop toward the forest, she didn’t know where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to be far away from Black Stone and that monster.

Chapter 16

Until we meet again…

Hooves thundered through the forest disturbing a flock of black birds sending them up into the gray cloudy sky. Abigale’s heart raced faster and faster with each stride Fergus took. Scrapes streaked her skin as low-lying tree branches whipped at her face. She maneuvered her steed, zigzagging between heavily rooted trees when the hem of her dress caught on a branch and ripped a chunk off. She knew she was pushing Fergus faster than she should, but fear had grabbed a hold of the reins and drove her forward. The quicker she was far away from Black Stone, the better she would be.

Those eyes… swirling amber with evil sinister snake-like slits, continued to play in her mind, causing her to look over her shoulder, paranoid that the Bogeyman followed closely behind.

Abigale turned back around and focused intently on getting through the glen. There was a clearing up ahead, not too far. Perhaps there would be a village or town nearby that she could lie low in until she figured out what to do.

It all happened so fast when Fergus stumbled over a root. Before Abigale could catch her balance, she was thrown to the ground. A rock bit into her ribs as she landed on her stomach. The dampness of the forest floor chilled her to the bone as she saw her beloved horse tumble to the ground right before her eyes. She heard the air escape from his lungs. A loud agonized groan echoed through the forest.

Rolling to her side, Abigale clutched her ribs and winced as pain stung her body. When she lifted her auburn head, now full of dry, dead leaves, she saw Fergus lying a few feet away snorting and groaning. “Nay… Nay…” Abigale stumbled to her feet and slowly walked toward her friend.

As she got closer to him she noticed that an unforgiving unearthed root had wrapped around Fergus’s hind leg. He tried to move but he couldn’t; his leg was stuck. Abigale fell to her knees next to his head and sobbed uncontrollably. Fergus nickered low and deep as she picked his head up and laid it on her lap. “Nay, Fergus. Ye have to get up,” she begged with tears trickling down her cheeks. “Ye have to get up."

~~~~~

James ran through the great hall like a bat straight out of hell, bursting through the double wooden doors toward the stables. Hopping up on his mount, he kicked his mare into a full gallop and took off toward the glen. The need to find Abigale and make her understand he wasn’t a beast, drove him with commanding force. Damn him for a fool! Why hadn’t he just walked away like he had planned to do? Why had he allowed rage to overcome him? Why had he lost control?

“Marcus,” he growled. “He’s a dead man."

James rode his black mare with God speed following Abigale’s trail through the woods. A blue piece of material clung to a branch. James stopped briefly and took the fabric in his hands. Abigale. He was right on her trail.

When he finally reached her, the sight before him shattered his heart into a million pieces. Abigale sat next to Fergus, sobbing. He jumped off his horse and proceeded with caution. He desperately wanted to go to her, wrap her in his arms and take away the sorrow he’d caused her. She was frightened and she looked as though she was hurt.

James moved closer to Abigale, yet still keeping some distance between them. “Lass, we need to talk.”

Abigale snapped her head up and froze, her body tensed. He’d found her. Slowly she released her dirk from her thigh and stood. With the dagger in her shaking hand, she pressed it to her slender neck. “Stay away or I’ll cut my throat,” she demanded.

James put his hands up in surrender. “Abigale, I will no hurt ye. Please put the dirk down,” he pleaded and stepped closer. Was she that frightened of him that she was willing to cut her own throat?

Taking a steady step backwards, she pressed the cold metal into her neck until blood was trickling down her skin. She’d meant what she said.

“God’s wounds lass! Put the dirk down and let me explain.” James began to panic; she was serious. His bel ange was beyond afraid; one wrong move and he would be to blame for his wife’s death. He’d better tread softly.

“Go on then… explain yerself.”

Her eyes were wide, never leaving their focus on him. He saw her pulse jumping in her neck and her chest rapidly moved in and out trying desperately to take in much-needed air. How could he have done this to her? James rubbed a hand over his chest, for it began to tighten and ache. Now was the time to come clean and tell Abigale everything, for he knew he’d already lost her. He could see it in her eyes, he could feel it.

“Not until ye drop the dirk.”

Apprehensively, she lowered the bloodstained blade, yet her grip stayed tight.

“I’m Dragonkine. I can shift into a dragon.” He paused. “I'm one of the seven Guardians of Scotland.” He didn’t know how much detail to tell. This wee bit of new information was a lot to comprehend.

Her voice shook with fear. “Dragon. Is that why yer eyes changed?”

“Aye.”

“Why that’s impossible,” shaking her head, “dragons dinnae exist."

Genuinely James said, “Ye saw my eyes lass. There’s much more to me than that.”

“How? I dinnae understand.”

James took a deep breath; she deserved the truth. “Aye Abigale, dragons have existed from the beginning of time. Dragons and humans coexisted until there came a time where balance was needed. Our Elders of long ago placed our Dragonkine ancestors here to keep balance between dragons and humans.”

Her dark brows furrowed. “Then why aren’t there more of yer… kind?”

James took a step closer and was relieved when Abigale didn’t move. “’Tis a long story, but our people were brutally massacred by King MacAlpin. Some would say oot of greed.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Some would say oot of hate. He showed mercy and saved seven of our warriors, but with it came a hefty price. We agreed to surrender our race to the kings of Scotland.”

Abigale fell silent, yet listened intently.

“The fact remains, Abigale, I’m an immortal. I will roam this Earth until someone takes my head. I’m dragon, a fierce beast that's full of hate. And I’m every bit human.”

James took another step closer until he was standing right in front of her. He stroked her face with the back of his knuckles and looked deeply into her eyes. “I’ve tried to shelter ye from all this, Abigale, I swear it. But I can no any longer."

Abigale dropped her dirk as she lost herself in his swirling amber depths. “An immortal? How old are ye?”

James ran his fingers through her hair, picking away the dead leaves. “I’m the youngest out of the seven. I am as old as ye see me now, twenty and eight. I became Dragonkine when my da died.”

“So ye are born Dragon… kine.”

“Nay, we are chosen by Scottish kings and dragon elders. My da happened to be the strongest warrior Guardian so when he died I took his place.”

“Does my father know,” Abigale paused and swallowed hard, “ye’re a dragon?”

“Aye. I believe that’s why he wanted me to marry ye. To keep ye safe.” Up until this moment, James had never been so thankful and honored to be married to King Robert's daughter. If only he hadn’t been such a fool.

~~~~~

Abigale’s head was spinning out of control. All the rumored tales of the Bogeyman were true. James was a monster, a beast… a dragon. She shook her head in disbelief. She had so many questions to ask, but couldn’t form a coherent thought. Dragonkine… Immortal. He was endless, time didn’t exist in his world. How… how was her future with James going to compare to her mortal life? He would watch her grow old as he stayed young.

At that time a groan and heavy snort broke through Abigale’s thoughts. James and Abigale looked over at Fergus as he lay on the forest floor. Without hesitation, Abigale ran over to him and dropped to her knees. “Nay… Fergus, get up.”

James crouched down and examined the fallen steed. It didn’t look good, not at all. His hind leg was mangled and twisted deep within a root. Having seen this happen many times, especially on the battlefield, James knew Fergus wasn’t going to make it. James continued his examination until he saw a sharp branch embedded in the stallion’s chest. Not a good sign.

James stood and raked a hand down his face. “Abigale, I’m sorry, but Fergus isn’t going to make it.”

“Nay, he’ll be fine once we get him back home.” Denial had set in, giving Abigale false hope. She couldn’t lose Fergus, nor was she going to leave the glen without her friend. He had to get up… he just had to.

“I’m sorry lass, but if we remove that branch the stress alone will kill him.” James pointed to the bloody branch. “The only kind thing we can do for him is to put him out of his misery.”

“Nay!” Abigale cried out. She sobbed uncontrollably as she ran her hands through Fergus’s white and gray mane. “No, Fergus.”

She’d seen the blood. Heck, she’d even seen the branch protruding from his chest, but she refused to believe Fergus was dying. She noticed the labored breathing and that his eyes were wide, indicating he was in a tremendous amount of pain. He was indeed suffering.

James crouched down by Abigale and took her tear-streaked face in his hands. With great compassion, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “Ye cannae let him suffer. Let me help him,” James pleaded with her.

Her world stood still; sound muted, movement stilled, and Abigale went numb. His words were understood; Fergus suffered, yet she couldn’t respond. She had to make the dreadful decision to end his misery and she had never felt so helpless. A surgeon mended wounds and healed the sick, but her expertise and experience couldn’t save her friend. Eight years was too short. He deserved more time. It wasn’t fair.

Abigale nodded her head, accepting Fergus’s fate. She leaned over Fergus and whispered in his ear, “Be brave my friend. I’ll see ye soon." Abigale slowly stood, never taking her eyes off of her beloved. She began to walk toward a clearing in the forest just a few feet away, allowing James to do the honorable thing.

As Abigale reached the clearing, every raw emotion she was holding back slammed into her like rushing waves crashing into sand; repeatedly, wave after wave pounded her as if she was stuck in a riptide trying to swim against its turbulent current. She could no longer tread the sea of sorrow and make it back to shore. Abigale broke down and fell to her knees wrapping her arms around her stomach. No matter how hard she hugged herself, she couldn't stop shaking. Tears streamed down her cheeks and disappeared as they hit the forest floor. “Why Fergus… why?” she sobbed.

~~~~~

The sight of Abigale on her knees rocking back and forth, crying, was absolute torture. He wished he could take her pain away. He wished he’d stopped her before she ran out of Black Stone. Why was it that every time he was around, he caused her so much pain, when all he really wanted all along was to love her?

James walked over to Abigale and placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He wasn’t a man of many words and didn’t know what to say, but he wanted her to know he was here for her.

“Dinnae touch me,” Abigale sneered. She stood and faced him. “Don’t ever touch me again.” Her blue eyes pierced him. “This is yer fault and I will never forgive ye.” Tiny fists pounded at his chest. His pectorals flinched, absorbing every blow as he allowed her to lash out her anger.

“I mean it, James Douglas, I curse the day I ever set eyes on ye,” Abigale cried.

James wrapped his massive arms around her. Giving her his strength was all he could do, for no words of wisdom or comfort could take the hurt away. He pulled her tight against his chest. She struggled against his hold but the more she fought, the tighter he held her. He would hold her until there was no fight left, until she wept her last tear.

Before long, Abigale gave up and her body went limp in his arms. James picked her up and whistled for his mare. The black warhorse came at once. Once mounted, James sat behind Abigale cradling her across his lap as they left the glen to return to Black Stone. As soon as they were settled, he would send a group of men to retrieve Fergus and make sure he was given a proper burial.

Chapter 17

Without darkness your true light can not be tested.

Off in the distance, dark graying clouds gathered high above, creeping across the light blue sky. The wind picked up and blew angry ripples across the deep blue water of the loch. James sat on a boulder looking toward the brewing storm slowly approaching. The wind blew again, but this time there was a slight chill in the air causing his skin to prickle. “I curse the day I met ye, James Douglas,” whispered through the breeze. He shifted his body and pulled his cloak up around his shoulders. Aye, a storm was coming.

Back to the task at hand, he extended a black claw and began to carve into a piece of birch. He’d been here since the mist rose and would stay until the storm threatened to unleash its wrath.

Two days had passed since that dreadful day, yet Abigale was still mourning the loss of Fergus. She refused to get out of bed, refused to eat, and refused everyone except Alice and Effie. Then again the girls were overly protective of her and didn’t allow visitors, though they couldn’t prevent the laird from sleeping outside her bedchamber door every night. James didn’t take no for an answer when it came to Abigale’s safety. If someone was out there wanting to harm his bel ange, they would have to go through him first.

His cherished deerhound Lennox’s ears perked up, and she stood as if to alert him that someone was approaching. “Easy lassie,” James reassured her. He already knew who it was. Dragons knew their own kind.

“I thought I’d see ye out here.” Conall bent down and patted Lennox on her head.

“Aye, Conall, I was expecting ye.” James continued to whittle.

Standing next to James with his arms crossed over his chest, he looked straight ahead at the deep blue loch. “She’s beautiful… isn’t she?”

“Aye.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Conall had something on his mind, yet he proceeded to take his time. Conall shifted his eyes to the ground and rocked back on his heels. “I come to ask for yer forgiveness, my Laird.”

James creased his brows. “For what?”

“For leaving ye on the trail alone. ‘Tis my fault ye were--”

“Conall, I was an arse to ye. I dinnae blame ye for leaving.”

Conall exhaled in relief. Most men would have found their heads on spikes for leaving their laird unprotected, but they had a different type of relationship. They were close like brothers and quite frankly James was the only one Conall truly trusted.

Needing to know more about the attack on his friend, he took a deep breath and questioned him. “Do ye think the shooting and the raid were led by the same person?”

“I dinnae know, but it seems to me someone wants my attention. I believe they raided the village looking for Abigale. It was not by luck. They knew she would be in the village.”

“Have you talked with Magnus about the attacks?”

“Aye, he feels that there’s a change in the atmosphere and the Earth has become unbalanced.” James struck his claw against the birch in aggravation. "And there’s a weed in the garden that needs to be pulled.”

Conall smirked and shook his head. “I really wish the old man didnae speak in riddles.”

“He’s requesting an audience with the dragon elders.”

“How is he going to do that?” Conall questioned.

James looked up from his carving and asked himself the same question. This would not be an easy task. It would require Magnus to travel to a realm beyond their world. A realm where dragons ruled. Knowing the dangers that lay ahead, James knew that there was more to it than just an attack. Indeed the Earth was beginning to shift. “I dunno my friend, but Magnus can be verra convincing."

“A traitor,” Conall growled.

“Aye.”

“Why betray your own kind?” Conall shook his head in disgust. Loyalty was something dragons took very seriously. Loyalty meant you were family, and family didn’t turn to the enemy side and live to tell the tale.

Blowing the birch dust away from his creation, James paused and looked over the loch as if he was searching for answers. “We are all made of greed, Conall. No matter how much power, coin, or battles won we’ll always want more.”

“James, ye make us sound like English filth. We are nothing like them.”

“And how so?”

“We protect our Scotland and they want to destroy her. As long as I have my head attached and a breath in my body I will fight to defend her.”

“I once believed that too, my friend, but too much innocent blood has been spilled.” A thought of Abigale, who was innocent, came to mind. She was born into danger just because of who her father was, and now because of him, she was in more danger. He was betting his life on it, someone knew he was a dragon, and what better way to kill a dragon than to steal his mate, or even worst kill his mate?

“Have ye been to see Abigale?”

Conall had to ask, didn’t he? A black claw scraped against the wood as James continued to carve. “Nay, Alice and Effie have made it perfectly clear that Abigale is in no mood to be graced by my presence.” He said it half jesting.

Conall chuckled. “Och, why don’t ye let me take care of the lassies?” He devilishly winked.

For some reason James knew there was more to it than just distracting the girls so he could see Abigale. There was a bonny, free spirited redhead that had his attention.

“Conall, yer a good man. I’ll be back to Black Stone shortly.”

With that being said, Conall nodded his head and turned on his heel, but before he left, he turned back around to his friend. “I’ve had my share of darkness, but I chose to open the door and let the light shine in.” With nothing more spoken, he hopped up on his chestnut mount and headed back to Black Stone with a special woman on his mind.

James watched Conall as he rode off. Pondering his words of wisdom for a moment, he wondered if it was too late for him. He’d unlocked his door, even if it was only a crack. Now it was Abigale who was shutting the door. He never meant to hurt her, but here he was trying to gather up his courage to ask for her forgiveness. For the first time in his life he realized just how out of control he'd become. Conall was right; he needed Abigale. She calmed him in ways that he had a hard time explaining. She was comfort to his despair and had rekindled his light. No more did he want to live with the darkness inside of him. He wanted to be the man… the dragon she deserved.

On the other hand, he knew he had to let her go, if she wanted to leave. Frankly, why would she want to stay after what he’d put her through? Aye, she deserved better. There was one last chance to make it right, then whatever the outcome, maybe he would accept it and move on.

Retracting his black claw back into his fingertip, James held the carving up toward the last bit of remaining sun before the rain fell. He examined his work; nice smooth edges and intricate details were whittled to perfection. He slipped the tiny treasure into the inner pocket of his jerkin. James stood up and walked to his black mare as Lennox followed right behind him. It was time he faced Abigale, whether she wanted to see him or not.

Chapter 18

When playing with a fire dragon; be prepared to feel the burn.

James paced outside of Abigale’s bedchamber practicing over and over in his head what he was going to say to her. On his way back to Black Stone, he’d thought about how Abigale was going to react to him. He ran through worst and best case scenarios, yet it was the former one that he dreaded the most.

What if Abigale threw his arse out or worst threw something at him? What if she wouldn’t listen to him as he poured his heart out? Better yet, mayhap she would forgive him and he could spend the rest of his days making his wife scream his name. Nay, that was as farfetched an idea as to say brownies secretly lived in the castle, using their magic to clean. Now wouldn't Alice like a few of those creatures scouring about?

James was procrastinating. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “God’s blood.” Wasn’t he a warrior who had planned out numerous strategic battle tactics, commanded many men to victory, and fought back to reclaim his lands? Instead here he stood scared to death, trembling like a wee child. Like the wee child he’d been the day when he was forced to leave his father and his whole world was forever changed. James’s chest tightened and he clenched his jaw.

Enough time had been wasted, he was going into that bedchamber, right words or not.

Softly, James tapped on the door, only to be welcomed with silence. Without a doubt, she was in there; a soft sigh and the rustle of blankets gave her away.

James opened the door, but didn’t cross the threshold. In front of him on his large billowing bed, nestled underneath the sheets, Abigale lay. A black silk canopy lined with red Celtic knotwork hung over the bed and was parted on either side. The hearth warmed the room and cast an orange glow, dimly illuminating the dark room. As he entered the chamber a tang smell assaulted his senses. Sage. Aye, Alice was up to her cleansing rituals. He inwardly laughed at the thought of Alice smudging the room of evil spirits as he freely walked toward Abigale. How ironic.

Standing by the foot of the bed, James’s heart pounded against his ribcage when he saw Abigale lying on her side. Linen sheets molded to her body revealing her supple curves, auburn curls splayed over her shoulder, and her breasts were barely hidden under her night dress, giving him a flawless view. His cock hardened reminding him just how much he wanted to be buried deep inside her. Her beauty had always had this effect on him, arousing him until he went daft.

Reaching out, James touched her foot and began to recall his well thought out apology. He cleared his throat and swallowed down the bile that began to rise up from his stomach. “Abigale, I---“

Abigale turned over onto her back and pinned him with a cold emotionless gaze, yet her eyes shone sorrowfully. Every word and phrase escaped him, leaving him speechless, every well thought out scenario went black, and every bit of bravery left him. Expressing himself seemed pointless now when it was obvious she still hated him.

There were no tears, nor an angered crinkle across her forehead. At the very least, he’d expected that reaction. A coldness he’d never seen in her before left him chilled to the marrow. And knowing he did this to her left him full of regret.

James squeezed her foot tenderly as if his touch could bring her some kind of comfort. Abigale drew her foot away from him and rolled over, turning her back on him, completely shutting him out.

As James was making his way to the head of the bed, two big trunks came into view, causing him to halt suddenly. His heart clenched and deep inside his dragon moaned in sorrow. Abigale had packed for Bothwell. She planned on leaving him, he realized. As if he gave no credence to the wooden chest, he looked at them and then back to Abigale. With this in mind, he understood she was already gone and he was too late.

The room filled with silence except for the hard rain that pelted the window. James walked toward Abigale with only her back to view. Bending down, he took an auburn curl in his hand. He stroked the curl with his thumb. “I've already lost ye, lass, haven’t I?” A burning sensation behind his whiskey-colored eyes stung as tears began to collect. He let go of the curl and watched it fall upon her pillow. Abigale didn't move, nor mutter a sound when he touched her. It was time for him to go but he couldn’t move, for the fear that leaving her meant he would never see his bel ange again.

James stood and reached inside the pocket of his jerkin, pulling out the wooden sculpture he’d made by the loch. Giving it one last look, he placed it on the nightstand by the bed. One last glance at Abigale and then he left the bedchamber.

Once outside the room, James strode away from her and his whole world came crashing down on him. Every word he wanted to say now echoed down his empty corridor mocking him for a bloody coward. Every step he took reminded him that she was moving on, confirming all along he’d been right. He didn’t want a wife, but needed Abigale more than he needed the air he breathed.

~~~~~

The force of the door shutting sent a shiver down Abigale’s spine and caused her body to jerk. There were no tears left to shed, there were no emotions left to feel. Alice had informed her this morn that two days had passed, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall where they had gone. Time had stood still as one day molded into another.

After the emotional numbness wore off from Fergus’s death, she came to her senses and blamed herself for his death. James did the honorable thing by putting Fergus out of his misery. She should have never rode him that hard through the glen. It was her fault, but she had had to escape those eyes.

Being that she had some time, Abigale needed to sort through her thoughts. Countless times, she’d questioned her feelings and why she stayed where she wasn’t wanted. Had she been so absorbed by to her own dreams and fantasy of having a family that she refused to accept reality? The reality of a man who didn’t want her. Why was she holding on white knuckled to a man who was uncontainable? The idea that she could keep a man like James within her bounds was absurd.

If she listened to good reason she would go to Bothwell and begin a new life. After all she still had her freedom. On the contrary if she listened to her heart it would most definitely deceive her.

James was an honorable man, her inner conscience teased her relentlessly. Not once did he take advantage of her. In fact he’d saved her from a night of humiliation and a tarnished reputation. He was dedicated to her father; by marrying her he’d given up his days on the battlefield even though he had no desire to fulfill the king’s orders. Through his blunt and abrasive nature he showed her that he cared for her the only way he knew how, she supposed. Surely, anyone who had to deal with a dragon inside of them had their own burdens to bear.

Then as if the clouds had lifted and the sun sprang to life, it dawned on her. The whole entire time, he was protecting her from himself. A dragon. Quickly Abigale sat up in bed. James was a dragon. The more she said it, the more she believed it. Her stomach flopped like a fish trying to swim upstream. She was in love with a dragon.

Nonsense, she scolded. Abigale threw the cover aside and leapt out of bed. Her heart indeed held true to its devious ways.

She paced the small space in front of her window as rain pelted against its glass. James was here, why didn’t he say something? she mused. Abigale Bruce, ye didn’t give him much of a chance. Her inner muses were out in full force. She shook her head. “I’m going to Bothwell and far away from… him.” Saying it out loud stung a little deeper than she’d expected. ”Besides," she folded her arms across her chest, “I won’t have to pack.” Her trunks had just arrived a few days ago from Castle Douglas and there they sat, unpacked and stacked neatly in the corner.

Abigale quit pacing when she noticed from across the room something standing on her nightstand that wasn’t there before. Odd, she normally kept a candle and snuffer and occasionally a book on the table, nothing more. Crossing the room, she walked toward the foreign object. When she got closer, a wooden statuette of a horse stood tall and proud. Taking the figurine into her hands, she smoothed her fingers over the wood and creased its head. “It’s Fergus.” Bewildered and holding back a few tears, she inspected the steed inch by inch. Every detail whittled into the birch was a testament to Fergus’s perfection. Every strand of hair and muscle definition was masterly carved, even down to his hooves.

“James,” she whispered.

With the figurine in hand, Abigale raced to the door and down the corridor. She had to find James. Auburn curls bounced with each step she took, bare feet padded on cold stone floors as she opened every bedchamber door in search of the man she loved. What a fool she’d been. He’d come to her and she had turned him away. Fool. Continuing her search, she raced down the stairs, through the great hall, and into the kitchen. But James was gone as if he’d vanished. He couldn’t be far; he was just in her chamber.

Cold, damp air bit through her light linen night gown. Needless to say it didn’t stop her as she stepped back into the great hall. Only stopping to catch her breath, it dawned on her… the solar. He had to be in the solar.

A soft glow of light filtered beneath the solar door. Abigale placed her hands on the cold wooden door, closed her eyes, and prayed he was in there. She gave the door a push and it opened without protest. The room was lit by the raging fire flickering in the hearth. No candles were lit which left the corners of the room dark and eerie. As she open the door further, she could see James sitting in a chair in front of the flames with his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands as if he was mourning the loss of a loved one. Her heart ached for him.

To give them some privacy, Abigale shut the door behind her then sauntered over to the hearth. “Thank ye for my gift. ‘Tis beautiful.” Her voice shook a little on her last word.

Startled, James’s head shot up. “Abigale?” He must have been in deep thought, for he'd not heard her enter the room.

Avoiding eye contact, she looked at her trinket meekly. “I’m sorry for blaming ye for Fergus’s death. It was wrong of me and I hope ye can forgive me."

“Aye, I forgive ye, but I dinnae blame ye for being upset with me. I should have told ye sooner what I was.”

Abigale stood in front of the hearth just a few feet away from James, yet she could feel the heat from his gaze as if he was standing next to her. Her beautiful, wicked Highlander raked his whiskey-colored eyes over her body. The raging flames behind her shone through her night gown leaving nothing to his imagination. Her legs were long and lean, hips were flared, and breasts were begging for his touch.

James cleared his throat. “So, I was wondering when ye plan on leaving for Bothwell?”

What? Abigale was confused. She’d never mentioned to James about leaving for Bothwell. Granted the last time her leaving Black Stone was brought up, she told him she wasn't leaving. It wasn’t until recently she’d thought about changing her mind. Oh no. Abigale’s throat went dry. Could dragons read minds? Had James read her mind?

“I saw that yer trunks were packed and… well…I—“

“Nay.” Abigale let out a small chuckle. “My trunks arrived when I was taking care of ye and I hadn’t had a chance to unpack.” She paused. “Ye thought I was leaving?”

“Aye.” James’s face seemed to relax a little.

“Well, I would be lying if I said that the thought didnae cross my mind, but nay, James, I dinnae wish to leave.”

Abigale could almost see James’s shoulders drop with relief knowing that she wasn’t leaving. “Good, because I wouldn’t be able to let ye go if I tried. So lass, why are ye here then?”

The deepness of his voice smoothed over her body sending cold shivers over her skin. Knowing that he wanted her to stay gave her all the strength and courage she needed. With inches to spare between them, Abigale stopped in front of him and straightened her shoulders. “’Tis like I said before my Laird, I come to thank ye.” She arched a brow and smiled.

“My lady, I must warn ye, when ye play with fire, ye get burned.” His eyes held a truth to them so she knew he meant every word he said.

Abigale felt herself being pulled toward James until she straddled him. Large hands rested on her hips, and she felt the strength of his grip.

Abigale traced her fingers along his face noticing the coarseness of stubble along his jaw, reminding her that he was pure raw male, while the scar under his right eye reminded her that he was a warrior wielding strength and power, and the softness of his lips reminded her of how soft his heart could be. He purred low and deep, relishing her caress, reminding her he was every bit dragon.

Truly she loved this man with all her heart, even his rough edges and imperfections.

“James, please forgive me for my actions and cruel words. I didnae mean them.”

A hooded gaze stared back at her. This close she could see amber waves swirling in his eyes like poured whiskey. “There’s nothing to be forgiven.”

“But--”

“Shhh. Kiss me.” James took Abigale’s head in his hands and pulled her into a soft kiss. Needing more of her, he licked at her full lips and intensified the kiss. Her heart raced, sending molten lava through her veins. The fluttering in her stomach was back making her core throb. These new-found feelings were like nothing she had ever felt before, yet she wanted more. Craved more.

A rough but gentle tug of her hair made Abigale’s lips break contact. Dominant enough to get Abigale’s attention, James held her firmly and gazed deeply into the blueness of her eyes. “Do ye love him?” A shadow of the menacing Black Douglas lingered across his face as he waited for her to answer.

“Who?” Confusion crossed her face.

James tightened his grip on her hair as the name passed over his lips. “Marcus.”

Abigale brought her hands up and covered his, loosening his grip. She whispered over his lips, “I’m here with ye, James Douglas.” She took his bottom lip into her mouth and sucked before claiming his mouth.

Strong arms circled her tiny body pulling her even closer. She slipped her hands over his broad shoulders and down his back until she reached the hem of his tunic then lifted it over his head, throwing it to the stone floor.

Soft lips kissed down the tender part of her neck just below her ear leaving a blazing trail of heat behind. James yanked down her night gown. The coarseness of his massive hands tenderly squeezing her breasts drove her daft and just when she had thought the torture would stop, he traced small circles around her peaked nipples turning those fluttering butterflies into flames.

Continuing his delicious assault on her breasts, he took a pink nipple in his mouth and sucked until Abigale moaned her pleasure. Wanting more, she threw her head back, giving him complete access to her body; it was his to command. She desired more of his wickedness as he kissed, licked, and sucked her peachy skin.

Feeling an intensity billowing deep within her core, Abigale rocked her hips forward to relieve the ache. A soul-shaking feral growl rumbled through James and before Abigale could react her night dress was ripped clean off her body and lay in a torn heap on the floor. A rush of cold air pricked her skin which only strengthened the sensation. What was this man doing to her?

James pulled her closer, and their hot bare skin touched, igniting a fire that set them ablaze. She wondered if he could feel how she burned for him, even though he still wore his kilt. As she rocked her hips, James hissed and grabbed her arse and rubbed her sex against his cock. Abigale threw her hands into his long black hair when he took her nipple into his mouth and nipped. A wave of heat spiraled through her body. Aye, Sister Kate was right… Highlanders were a wicked breed.

“James,” Abigale moaned breathlessly, “what are ye doing to me?”

“Och lass, do ye trust me?”

She nodded. James slipped his hand between her legs and gently stroked her virginal nub. With hands that had mastered pleasuring a woman in every way, he gently slipped his finger deep inside of her, careful not to hurt her. Abigale sucked in a shaky breath.

James looked up at her. “Did I hurt ye?”

“Nay and don’t ye dare stop,” Abigale commanded.

James was more than happy to oblige.

James pulled his finger out only to plunge it in further and faster until Abigale felt her walls tightening. By all means, he was taking her down a path she’d never traveled, furthermore creating a carnal necessity that drove her further and faster to a destination that led her straight to bliss. As if he knew exactly what to do and the exact time to do it, he slipped in a second finger. Abigale sighed in pure pleasure, she held on tight, wrapping her arms around his neck. Surely if she let go she would crash and break into a million pieces.

“Look at me, lass,” James whispered.

Abigale shook her head no. Her insecurity had crept up on her. Never being with a man before she couldn’t help but feel inadequate when it came to pleasing him.

A strong hand pulled the back of her neck, bringing her head down so their foreheads touched. “Look at me, my bel ange.”

Abigale opened her eyes to the most breathtaking man she’d ever seen.

A man of raw power.

A man of honor.

A man that was a dragon.

A man that did wicked things to her body that she craved. She found a strength in his eyes that made the world fade away.

“I want to see you shatter, lass,” James whispered against her lips.

As if it was a command, a wave of warmth tingled through her body as Abigale’s walls came crashing down and she indeed shattered into a million delicious pieces. “By the saints,” she moaned and threw her arms around James’s neck as another wave of heat hit her.

For a moment they held each other tightly as she caught her breath.

“I’m not done with ye, lass,” James whispered in her ear.

Abigale snaked her hands down his neck and grazed the thickness of his chest. “Just what do ye plan to do to me?” she teased.

His eyes never leaving hers, he unbuckled his leather belt. Black fabric unfolded and fell to the side revealing his hardened length.

Abigale watched every move he made. She was curious and wanted to explore every inch of his sinful body, yet her eyes grew wide when she saw what lay between them. At half-mast the tip of his length reached his navel. Abigale arched a questioning brow and looked at James who was quite amused by her astonished reaction.

“Dinnae worry,” he smiled and reassured, “we'll take it slow.”

Abigale licked her lips and swallowed. “I trust ye.”

~~~~~

James took great pleasure in the sight before him; flawless peachy skin with red blotches from his kisses covered her chest and neck. Indeed these were his markings and he intended to leave more. His bel ange. Knowing he breached unchartered territory, he was determined to make sure that Abigale's first time was going to be beyond anything she had ever experienced. He would take it slow and sweet until she was ready for him.

James kissed her hard before he stood her up so that she straddled his length. As she stood, two perfectly round breasts were at eye level begging for his touch. He leaned in and sucked on a nipple. Gently, James positioned himself at her opening and rubbed the tip of his length back and forth, letting her familiarize herself with the feel of him. God’s Blood, her slick wet heat drove him with fierce need.

Slowly he entered the tip of his cock inside her. Abigale tensed and grabbed hold of his shoulders. He paused for a moment. “Relax love.” He smoothed his free hand down her thigh trying to relax her. It must have worked; of her own accord she slid down his shaft slowly inch by inch.

James felt the smoothness of her breasts on his chest as she slid further down. He shuddered. He’d better start counting cows… fast, for he didn’t know how much of this sweet torture he could take. The urge to thrust deep inside her and stake his claim kindled to a roaring flame.

They were getting close to the point where he knew it would be uncomfortable for Abigale. Virginity was a precious gift she was giving him, yet he would have to hurt her in order to receive it. James gripped Abigale’s hips and stopped before he reached her maidenhood.

Abigale took his face in her hands. “Don’t ye dare, James Douglas, I want all of ye.”

With one hard thrust he broke through her maidenhood and buried himself to the hilt. With each push he felt Abigale stretch as he filled her more and more. James felt his release building and grabbed her arse pushing her toward her own release. Abigale threw her head back and succumbed to the pleasures James brought out of her. “Oh God, James Douglas," she screamed.

His name echoed throughout the solar and straight to his cock, as with one final earth-shattering thrust he spilled his seed deep inside her.

James would have never thought that surrendering to anyone would feel so sweet, but as they sat there for a moment completely content, wrapped up in each other’s arms, James knew he would surrender to Abigale time and time again. His bel ange. No doubt about it, his beautiful wife was made for love making. Passion shone through her deep blue eyes when she had shattered beneath his hands and he hoped he would see it again… soon.

Abigale rested her head on top of James‘s head as he trailed his hands up and down her back. “Did I hurt ye?”

James was concerned because Abigale hadn’t said a word nor moved. Being this was her first time, he didn’t know how she would react after the deed was done. Abigale lifted her head and smiled a wicked grin. “Can we do that again?”

James cupped her face with his massive hands and smiled a sexy grin. “Aye, at least two more times tonight and then again in the morn.” He kissed her. With their bodies still connected, he began to stand. Abigale wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

“Then again after we break our fast.” Again he kissed her as he walked towards a brown bear-skin rug lying by the hearth. “Then again at midday." Another kiss as he laid her down on the furry rug. “And how aboot sunset?” James wiggled his eyebrows before he trailed hot blazing kisses down her neck. Abigale giggled, “My Laird, I won’t be leaving our bedchamber.”

“That’s the plan, lass.”

Chapter 19

He was immortal; he was never ending.

Fully sated after another round of love making, James rested his head on Abigale’s chest, holding her tight as their naked, sweat-covered bodies glistened by the hearth. Silence fell between them. The only sound was the crackling of the fire. Abigale stared into the flickering flames, deep in thought. Strand by strand, she combed through James's hair with her fingertips, letting the long black locks fall upon her breasts.

Questions lingered in her mind about dragons. Dragons? Never would she have believed such nonsense, but she saw the swirls in his eyes right in front of her. There was no denying it, which left her mind consumed with one particular question. Could they have children?

Another thought crossed her mind that gave her a mental shake. Magic? Aye, there was something magical about her wicked Highlander. There had to be some kind of magic pumping in his body, for no flesh and blood human had his capability of abnormal healing abilities. Then there was the memory loss she had experienced. Two full days were left unaccounted for and it still bothered her that she couldn’t remember how she arrived at Black Stone.

Instantly her body ignited as James ran his thumb over one of her nipples, sending a shiver down her spine. Indeed dragons possessed magic. She closed her eyes and inwardly sighed.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yers, bel ange? Ye seem far away." James kissed the top of her breast and trailed another kiss to her neck.

“’Tis nothing.”

James halted his relentless attack on her neck and held her gaze with stern demanding amber eyes. “Lass, one thing I can no tolerate is lies. Tell me what troubles ye. Ask me anything, love and I’ll answer it.”

Not wanting to know the answers about children quite yet, Abigale fumbled through what she was going to say. Dragon talk seemed outlandish, nothing more than a fairy tale.

“Well… do ye… I mean… dragon…”Abigale let out a frustrated breath; she couldn’t form a coherent thought.

“Ye mean to ask me if I have magical powers.”

“Aye.”

“Since I’m immortal, I have the ability to heal myself and I can heal others as well through a deep sleep.”

Perking up at his last words, Abigale sat up, resting her weight on her elbows. “I knew it. Ye healed my saddle wounds. That’s why I can no remember how I arrived at Black Stone.”

“Aye, and before ye ask, aye, I spit fire.” James said sarcastically as he lay on his side stretched out on the fur rug facing Abigale. The flames from the hearth backlit her profile casting a golden glow over her skin.

Abigale giggled.

Rolling over to face James, she traced her finger over the scar under his right eye. Indeed he must be a magnificent dragon. It thrilled her, but on the other hand it scared her to know that a beast of a dragon lived deep inside her husband. Could she accept that fact? The dragon was a part of James and she knew without a doubt she loved him, but getting used to a dragon would take some time.

Taking her hand in his, he kissed her palm. “What else ails ye?”

“I can no imagine how painful it must be to know ye’ll outlive yer loved ones. Eternity is an awful long time to live.”

James rolled over on his back, forearm behind his head. He pulled Abigale tightly by his side. She fit perfectly.

“And ye’ll have to watch me grow old and gray.” She frowned and took a deep breath before she asked the next question. "And what aboot our children, James? Will they be immortal?”

“Abigale, as long as I’m alive ye will be immortal, but our children will not, unless one of our sons is chosen to become a guardian. I’m sorry." He held onto her tightly. “I know how much ye desire a family. This is why Dragonkine do no marry, because of their immortality.”

Their children would be mortal? Abigale fell silent as she wondered if she could endure watching their children grow old while they stayed exactly the same age, or painfully watch their children suffer from sicknesses or worst yet death. She didn’t know what to think.

“Abigale, I understand if ye need some time to think this through, but know one thing… I would rather live my immortal life to the fullest with ye and our future children than spend my endless days without ye. I know now, I need ye, lass."

Abigale’s heart plummeted to her stomach. He wanted a family… he needed her. She understood exactly what James was saying, to live yer life to the fullest, and she could do that as long as James was by her side.

Rolling on to her stomach, she looked down at James. “So, there’s a possibility of wee bairns in the near future?”

He exhaled like he was holding his breath waiting for her to speak. “Aye, as many as ye want.” James smirked with the devil in his eyes.

“Well, James Douglas, the man who never wanted a wife,” she mocked. “Seems like ye’ll have one for a very long time.” Abigale smiled and teased his chest with her fingertips.

~~~~~

James returned her smile and kissed her. Indeed he had a bonny lass for a wife and took great pride in knowing he could give her the one thing her heart desired. Children.

James broke their kiss. “There’s one more issue to discuss. Marcus. Promise me ye’ll stay away from him,” James stated bluntly.

“James, he has been a friend to me. Ye have my heart.” Abigale bent down to kiss him but was stopped. James stared intently into her eyes. “Promise me."

“I promise. But there’s one condition.” Now it was Abigale’s turn to make her request. “I want the girls to stay here, with us until their parents come for them.”

James grumbled his agreement. He would agree to her terms if it meant she would stay far away from Marcus.

“Good.” James relaxed his hands and gave her the kiss she wanted. “And I dinnae want ye to leave Black Stone.” Slipping that one tiny request in could do no harm.

“James—“

“This is not negotiable,” he demanded. There was an enemy close at hand who made no qualms about wanting his attention. It drove him mad that he wasn’t any closer to knowing who lurked in the shadows waiting to strike. Hopefully Magnus could obtain some insight from the dragon elders. That was if he was granted an audience. In the meantime, Black Stone was to be heavily guarded and he would make damn sure he protected Abigale with his life.

Abigale rolled her eyes in defeat.

“My lady? Did ye roll your eyes at me?” James teased her as if he was shocked at her reaction. “Do ye understand the punishment for such a display of rudeness?"

Abigale lowered her gaze like she was being scolded, but her grin told a different story. “Nay, my Laird.”

In one fluid motion, James pulled Abigale on top of him and covered her arse with his massive hands. Each cheek fit perfectly in his hands and he squeezed. “Punishable by spanking.” James wiggled his black brows.

James rubbed her arse cheeks. “I shall take my punishment willfully,” Abigale whispered in his ear.

A large hand came down, across both cheeks. The sound of the swat echoed throughout the room. Flames threatened to engulf him as he dealt another smack. With each skin-stinging strike he felt Abigale’s arousal.

Pushing her over onto her back, pure raw animalistic power took over. He paused for the briefest moment, before he took her again, and gazed down into her deep blue eyes. “My bel ange.”

Chapter 20

In shallow holes moles make fools of dragons. ~ Chinese Proverb

If it wasn’t for James having to deal with an urgent matter at hand, Abigale would still be in the solar naked and wrapped up in his massive arms. Being the Chief of Clan Douglas of Angus, and a dragon, business needed to be tended to, which gave Abigale time to check on the girls. She was hopeful that the girls would be eager to play outside since the rains had stopped and the sun was shining. The promise of a beautiful morn stood firm.

Abigale winced when she bent down to slip on her winter shoes, reminding her how deliciously sore her body had become after her night with James. A bright smile crossed her face as she stood and smoothed out her hunter green dress with gold trim. The square neckline was high enough to keep her warm, but still showed off her peachy skin. Long flowing sleeves covered her slender arms and opened wide at the ends. As she adjusted the gold knotted sash around her hips, she placed her hands on her stomach. She smiled. Just the thought of one day having a child of her own with the man she loved warmed her heart.

Indeed it was going to be a beautiful morn.

A knock on the door interrupted her day dream when Alice brought the girls into her bedchamber. “My lady, ye look stunning this morn,” Alice beamed.

“Thank ye kindly, Alice.”

The eldest girl with soft blond hair approached Abigale and bowed. “Good morn, my lady.”

Abigale smiled at the child. “Good morn.”

The eldest girl had been pleasant, but Abigale sensed the girl didn’t trust her fully.

It was obvious Alice had spent a great deal of time with the girls. They were clean, hair perfectly plaited, and dressed in long-sleeved brown wool dresses perfect for playing outdoors. The youngest, who had yet to speak, looked adorable in an elegant white bonnet that sat on top of her blonde head and tied around her chin.

Abigale bent down to the wee girl’s level and smiled brightly. The little girl peeked out from behind Alice’s skirts. The poor child seemed so timid, yet there was courage behind her blue eyes. “Ye know, I have been itching to go outside.” Abigale took the girl’s tiny hands in hers. “Would ye like to come with me?" Abigale glanced up at the eldest girl and smiled.

The girl returned her smile. “Yes, my lady.”

As Abigale looked back to the wee one, dimples winked back at her as the child beamed from ear to ear. Wee one shook her head up and down with so much enthusiasm Abigale thought that the child would jump out of her skin. Abigale picked her up and held her close. Small skinny arms wrapped around her neck and squeezed, as if saying, I’ve missed you.

They filed out of the bedchamber and into the long corridor. Before long wee one wiggled and fidgeted to be released, so Abigale put her down. The girls skipped in front of her and Alice, laughing and giggling as they made their way through the castle.

Abigale couldn’t have been any happier. Seeing the girls like this warmed her heart. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“My lady, may I have a word with ye?” Alice asked.

“Of course Alice, ye may speak freely with me. There’s no need to be formal.” They joined arms and Abigale squeezed Alice close. "But first I must thank ye for taking such good care of me. Ye are a true friend.”

“Och lass, ye know I love ye like my own.” Alice patted her hand and smiled. “I do have concerns, my lady, about wee one. She hasn't muttered one word since she has arrived and the eldest does no trust easily. She won’t tell me her name nor her sisters.” Alice pursed her lips together. “I’m afraid the wee one can no speak.”

“Alice, the girls need a little time and lots of love. Do no worry, give it some time,” Abigale reassured her. “Has there been any word about their parents?"

Deep down Abigale hated to ask, but she knew that there was a possibility of their mum or da returning for the girls. It disgusted her to think that she would have to return the children to live in poverty, furthermore returning them to undeserving parents. How could anyone raise a family in that filth? Nay, she would protect these girls and never allow anyone to hurt them again.

Alice shook her head. “Nay my lady, no a peep.”

Abigale couldn’t help but feel relieved about the news. “The laird has given me his word that the girls can stay here until they are claimed. Do we have an empty chamber close to mine?”

“Aye, I will have it prepared.”

Suddenly the doors to the great hall leading out to the bailey opened wide. Rory and a few burly warriors entered which gave the girls the perfect opportunity to race outdoors.

As they reached the great hall, Alice excused herself to the kitchen and Abigale raced outside behind the girls.

In passing, Rory nodded his greeting as Abigale flew pasted him. “Good morn Rory.”

“Aye, ‘tis a good morn, my lady.” Rory winked.

~~~~~

A blast of cold fresh air hit Abigale’s lungs as warm rays heated her body and sheltered her from the cool morn breeze. Days like today would soon be few and far between, for the sting of winter was approaching fast.

No one was milling around the bailey this morn, except maybe a servant or two. The devoted and dearly loved deerhounds, Lennox and her trusted friend Mahboon, came racing across the grounds, almost knocking the girls down.

Abigale called the girls to her. “How about we play hide and seek.”

The girls huddled next to Abigale ready to play. “I’ll be the seeker and you two go run and hide.”

The girls took off running in search of the perfect hiding place. The eldest called over her shoulder. “No peeking!” she squeaked with a giggle.

Abigale finished the countdown. “Ready or no… here I come.”

The sound of scampering feet caught Abigale’s attention and she started her search in that direction. Old oak trees with perfect nooks and crannies littered the walls surrounding the castle, making for excellent hiding places. Abigale peeked behind an oak when the dogs ran past.

Both dogs barking, they charged past the gatehouse, and ran with God speed into the nearby forest. Abigale grew cautious as she hurried to find the girls. The eldest girl ran from her hiding spot to find Abigale. The girl must have sensed trouble by the way the dogs were reacting.

“There ye are. Where is yer sister?”

“I dinnae know.”

Both of them looked at each other as if they both realized why the dogs took off towards the forest.

“She must be in the forest,” Abigale said.

Panicked, they both ran from the secured walls and out into the open wilderness of the forest. Barking echoed throughout the glen, making it easy to follow the dogs. Hopeful that Lennox and Mahboon had found the girl, Abigale called out, “Wee one!” Again she called out even though she knew the girl wouldn’t answer. At least Abigale’s voice might chase away any wild animals that may be a threat. “Wee one! Come out!"

With the eldest girl right on Abigail’s heels, they both came to a sudden stop. Marcus was bent down talking to wee one. He stood up as soon as he saw Abigale approach. He grinned and released the child. “Ye should be more careful where ye roam."

Relieved that she had found the girl, yet alarmed to see Marcus, Abigale called out to her. “Wee one, come here lassie.” Wee one happily ran to Abigale.

Never taking her eyes off Marcus, Abigale scooped wee one up into her arms, making sure she wasn’t hurt.

A gut feeling told Abigale to get the girls and herself back to the safety of Black Stone. Not wanting to scare the girls, Abigale calmed her rattled nerves and took a settling breath. “Girls, get back to the castle and find Alice. Take Lennox and Mahboon with ye. ”

Not trusting the situation, the eldest girl hesitated and gazed at Marcus with a suspicious eye. “Is everything alright, Lady Abigale?”

Marcus stepped closer to the girl. “There’s nothing to fear, lass, but ye should do as yer told.”

Wee one grabbed her sister’s hand as they reluctantly followed the dogs back to Black Stone.

“The lasses look good, Abigale. Much better than the last time I saw them,” Marcus stated.

Abigale turned her attention back to Marcus. Dark circles surrounded his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. A red slash lingered over his right eye. He began to walk up next to Abigale but stopped when she took a step back. With his hands on his hips, he shook his head in disbelief. “He’s turned ye against me, hasn’t he?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Abigale pretended she hadn’t heard him. “I’m sure James is out looking for me. I should be heading back.” Abigale turned to head back to the castle until a cold rough hand grabbed her arm.

She tried to pull her arm away from his tight grip but he pulled her closer and wasn’t letting go. “Release me right now, Marcus.” She wriggled beneath his grip.

“Sorry lass, but ye need to come with me.”

“If James catches ye near me he will kill ye. Please just let me go. I will nae say a word,”  Abigale pleaded.

Deep sinister laughter boomed through the forest. Marcus caught his breath long enough to reply, “Lass, he can’t kill me even if he wanted to.” He chuckled a few more times before he became very serious. “No one is looking for ye and I saw yer husband leave earlier this morn. He can no help ye now.”

Panic prickled up her spine. What was Marcus up to? If she stalled a little longer someone would come looking for her. James was gone but Alice knew where she was. Perhaps the girls would alert a guard or Alice. She knew someone would be searching for her soon.

“Marcus,” she said calmly, “Please release me. Ye’re hurting my arm."

Marcus studied Abigale’s face for a moment, contemplating her request.

“Please,” she begged.

“Ye know, there’s something in a way that a lass begs that turns me on.” He paused. “Kiss me like ye kiss him, Abigale. Want me like ye want him.” He nuzzled his nose against her neck and breathed in deeply. “Ye smell verra pretty.”

Abigale began to tremble. She closed her eyes and wished he would let her go. At this point, she would make a run for it. It sickened her being this close to him, for she could smell the mead on his breath, warm and stale. A tear slipped down her cheek. Where was James?

Abigale pulled from Marcus’s grip, turned around, and looked for a way to escape, but she was cornered by five massive figures dressed in full battle armor. The pure size alone of these men would make a grown man run to his mother and hide in her skirts. They stood around her with their arms folded across their plated chests, helms covered their faces, and evil poured from their pores.

Bile churned in her stomach and rose in her throat. Her eyes grew big and her pupils dilated as the flight or fight response warred inside her. There was no way she could fight off six huge men nor run from them. Hopefully she could talk her way out of this.

“Marcus, what’s going on?” She eyed him directly with suspicion.

Marcus pursued his approach on her until he stood over her looking down into her huge eyes. “My sweet Abigale--” He stopped in mid-sentence as if he warred with himself.

Before Abigale knew what was happening, Marcus grabbed her waist and threw her over his massive shoulder. Kicking and screaming, Abigale fought hard to escape him, but it was impossible. He was too big and too powerful.

“Put me down!” Abigale screamed and pounded her fists into his back. She wasn’t going without a fight. Doing everything in her might to escape, she bit down on his shoulder blade. Marcus grunted in pain and dropped her instantly. She fell on her back onto the hard forest floor.

Scrambling to her feet, she didn’t make it far before she was grabbed from behind. Cold steel chilled her body as a massive armored man held a sword across her neck. One wrong move and she was sure as the heather bloomed in summer that the man who held her would slit her throat without hesitation.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as Marcus approached her. “Looks like we have a feisty one here.” With the unwounded arm he slapped her hard. Stars exploded behind her eyes and her body went limp.

Chapter 21

Capture the princess, slay the dragon.

Heavy eyelids begged to open as throbbing pain slammed through her. Dampness from the ground seeped through her dress and settled deep in her bones. Abigale lay motionless. Trying desperately to open her eyes, she blinked back the fog until slowly iron bars came into view causing her to panic. Faintly, she heard voices arguing in the distance. Where was she?

As she slowly sat up, her surroundings started to spin and so did her stomach. Blood rushed to her face, increasing the throbbing in her cheek. As she tried to swallow she noticed the taste of blood in her mouth. She spat out the blood and wiped the taste away from her lips with the back of her hand. Events were slowly coming back. She remembered being in the woods with Marcus and… then it dawned on her, Marcus had hit her and knocked her unconscious. He had taken her away, but where?

Abigale rose to her feet. Still unsteady, she fell backwards into the cold iron bars. She looked around and realized she had been locked up inside of an enclosure that looked like a bird cage. It was big enough for her to stand and nothing more. A few lit torches were hung on posts sporadically and cast shadows upon the enclosure’s fabric. A tent. She must be inside a tent, and judging by the glow of the torches it must be night.

Feeling steadier on her feet, Abigale took a few steps to the front of the cage. She grabbed the thick iron bars and gave them a tug, testing their strength. They were solid. Two figures came into view and stood outside near the entrance of the tent. Although she couldn’t see them, their shadows indicated that they were men. Abigale strained to listen, trying to recognize the voices. Aye, she did. One of the voices belonged to Marcus but the other voice was unfamiliar.

~~~~~

“Ye promised if I brought ye the princess, my sister would be returned to me. Now where is she?” Marcus said.

“I would watch that tongue of yers. Ye are in no position to be giving orders.” Rickert stabbed a finger at Marcus’s chest.

Looking at the finger then back at Rickert, Marcus had a grim feeling he had been deceived. “I want to see my sister.”

“Sutton,” the sheriff called to his trusted second commander.

“Aye, my lord.”

Marcus looked at Rickert as he whispered a command to the burly man. As quick as Sutton came, he left to do his lord’s bidding.

Placing his hands behind his back, Rickert stood in front of Marcus. “Ye should know who ye’re dealing with before ye trust them, fool. I told ye there would be a village raid. All ye had to do was tell us where to find the princess. Seems to me yer cock got the better of ye, aye?"

“I did as you ordered, I brought ye the princess. What more is there?” Marcus was beginning to lose his patience.

“Aye.” The foul man stepped closer until his lips were lingering over Marcus’s ear. “I want the dragon.”

This was the moment Rickert had been waiting for, his revenge on James. Now with Abigale in his grasp, the dragon would soon come and he would get his revenge. Slay the dragon.

Sutton, now with a wooden box in his hand, came marching up. Handing the box over to his lord, he bowed and walked away.

“Did ye really think ye would see yer beloved sister again? Ye’re as naive as yer whore of a sister.”

Sweat began to bead across Marcus’s forehead and his heart thundered in his chest as he looked at the box. Nay!

Pure evil laughter belted out from the sheriff. He threw the box at Marcus’s feet. “Be proud, she put up one hell of a fight.” He then turned and started to walk away.

The box landed with a soul-shaking thud. Its contents spilled out and a bloody heart lay in the dirt.

Marcus bellowed a mournful cry that echoed across the night and dropped to his knees. With shaking hands, he picked up his sister’s non-beating heart and placed it back into the box. Her heart, her kind, good-natured, innocent heart. Marcus shook his head. “Nay!”

Primal animalistic instincts suddenly exploded inside of him sending Marcus into a rage. As he stood, slowly he pulled a dirk from his boot. Sinister hooded eyes glared into Rickert’s back as if he was mentally crushing the man. “Rickert!"

Rickert turned around only to find himself nose to nose with Marcus. Without flinching, Marcus drove his blade into Rickert’s stomach. Wide-eyed he fell to the ground, dead.

A fool no more, Marcus stood over the dead man. He should have known better than to trust an Englishman’s word. But did he really have a choice? Nay, he did what he had to do in order to save his sister and now look where it had gotten him. He’d betrayed his clan and he'd failed his sister.

This was James’s fault. The bloody bastard cared only about himself, Marcus seethed inside. Wronging the wrong people would be that bastard’s downfall. Burning the English garrison to death to reclaim what? His precious land? His family name? It had always been about James, hadn’t it? James created another enemy, but instead of the enemy destroying James, it destroyed Marcus.

Good thing Marcus had a sharp mind for he knew Rickert to be a cheat, a master of trickery. But never fret, he reminded himself. His sister’s death would not be for naught. Everything became crystal clear like a cloudless sky. It had been woven into the fibers of his soul; this was what he was destined to do. All along he could hear the dragon cry, yet fate cannot be rushed, he had to wait for his destiny and his destiny would prevail tonight. Risky as it might be, he had a plan; dragon blood would be spilled tonight and a kingdom would rise again.

~~~~~

Abigale’s hand flew over her mouth in shock. She had just witnessed Marcus killing a man. Terror ripped through her and frantically she began to pull at the iron bars, praying they would bend. She had to get out of here.

The flaps of the tent flew open as Marcus’s body filled the entrance, causing her to step back towards the back of the cage.

Marcus glanced at Abigale and said, “Ye saw me kill him, didn’t ye?”

Abigale stood silent. The hard cold tone of his voice chilled her veins.

“Dinnae fash yerself princess, I’m no going to kill ye.”

“I need to know why, Marcus.” Her voice shook. “Why did ye kill that man?”

“’Tis best ye stay quiet and don’t draw attention to yerself.”

“Why did ye bring me here? I trusted ye and ye deceived me.”

Marcus strode to the cage. “See lass, that’s where ye went wrong.” He rubbed his hand through his brown curly hair, as he paced back and forth in front of her. "James has made quite a few enemies. I told him so not too long ago.” He looked far away as if he was remembering that day. “I’m afraid yer husband’s brutal ways have caught up with him.”

“I dinnae understand.”

Marcus stopped in front of her and grabbed the iron bars, causing her to flinch. “Abigale, that bastard I killed,” he paused like he was trying to rein in his anger, “wanted to kill James for the brutal way he massacred his men when yer husband reclaimed Castle Douglas. Ye were the bait to bring James here.”

“And ye agreed to bring me here and betray James. Why? Why would ye do such a thing?”

Marcus looked down at the ground and shook his head. “’Tis none of yer business, it’s personal now. James will pay for what he has done to me, mark my words, princess.”

There was no room in that blasted cage. Like a wild animal trapped, she felt the need to run, but there was nowhere to go. Capture the Princess…slay the dragon, she thought. Gradually, she put the puzzle pieces together as she recalled Marcus asking the man about his sister. Marcus had brought her here to be exchanged for his sister, hadn’t he? Oh dear God, he knew James would come for her and that’s when they would kill him. Fear pricked her skin and settled in the pit of her gut. This was a trap. She faced Marcus, "Ye don’t have to do this. James will forgive ye. Maybe he can help get yer sister back.”

“My sister? My sister is of no concern to ye or James.”

“But I heard ye talking to a man outside.” She motioned to the tent entrance. “She was to be returned to ye. Is she in some kind of trouble? It is why I'm here… aye? He’s holding yer sister against ye?”

“Abigale, she’s—“

“What?”

Marcus said between clenched teeth, “She’s dead.”

Abigale took a step back. “Nay, did that man—“

“Murder her, aye. James caused her death and he will pay for it.” Every word he spoke dripped with hate.

“Ye can no mean it.”

“Aye Abigale.” He held her stare. “Eye for an eye.” He turned and left the tent.

~~~~~

Alice raced through the great hall, her plump bosom bouncing in stride. James had returned, and barely had the time to brace himself, before Alice rushed him. “My Laird,” Alice panted. She could barely speak, she was so winded. “Lady Abigale… I’ve searched everywhere.”

Overwhelming terror shot through him. He sensed something was wrong the moment he walked into the great hall. Normally he could feel Abigale even if she wasn’t in the room; his dragon knew his mate. He grabbed Alice’s shoulders in order to calm her down. "Lass, take a deep breath. Where is Lady Abigale?”

“I… I do no know.” Alice started to sob.

“What do ye mean? She was here this morn.”

“She never returned from playing with the girls. The eldest mentioned a scary man in the woods.”

“A man, in the woods?” Bloody hell, she had promised him she would not leave the castle walls. With his hands on his hips James started to pace. “Are ye sure?"

“Aye.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“I’m no sure, my Laird”

James fought back the urge to shake the answers out of her. “Alice, think. I need to know how long?”

Alice couldn’t think straight. Everything began to blur.

At that time Conall and Effie entered the great hall. Realizing the commotion, they instantly raced over to James. “James, what’s happened?” Conall said.

James released Alice. Effie quickly caught Alice as she collapsed into her arms.

“Conall, find Rory. Abigale is missing,” James ordered.

“Aye.” Conall was gone as quickly as he arrived.

“Effie, stay here in case Abigale shows up.”

“Aye,” Effie confirmed.

With haste James stormed up the stairs and toward their bedchamber. Although James knew better than to believe in false hope, he still held on to it as he entered their room. The door slammed open. “Abigale!”

Nothing. No sigh of Abigale anywhere.

James sat down on the bed resting his head in his hands. He shook his head as if wiping away a bad dream. Doubt began to fill his mind; she couldn’t be gone. What if she had left of her own free will? Was she having second thoughts about being married to a dragon? That alone was enough to make a lass run. Nay, she wasn’t a runner. They would have talked about it; that he knew for sure. Alice mentioned a scary man in the woods. Panic pricked him like a thistle. Someone had taken his woman.

With time being of the essence, James stood up and began to quit the room when something shiny and gray caught his eye sticking out from under the bed. Squinting his eyes to focus, he bent down and picked the object up. It was an arrow head. He turned it around and studied the arrow; his blood stained it. The arrow head was the same one that Abigale had removed from his chest. As he looked closer more information became clear. It was made out of flint. "God’s blood,” James cried out. Marcus. He was the only one who made his arrow heads out of this kind of flint. The room started to spin as he took in all this information. Marcus had tried to kill him.

Anger like he’d never felt before pulsed through him, and his dragon stirred impatiently waiting to be released. James squeezed the arrow head until blood trickled down his hand. Indeed there was a traitor lurking around clan Douglas and he had just been found out. James cursed and threw the arrow at the stone wall with such force that it became embedded deep within the stone. "I will take the bastard’s head.”

James stormed out of the room in search of Rory. If anyone could find Abigale, Rory was the one. Out of all the Guardians, his tracking ability was superior. However, James prayed that he wasn’t too late.

Chapter 22

Unless a serpent devour a serpent it will not become a dragon. ~ Chinese Proverb

James sat perched on his massive black war horse on top of the cliff looking down into the valley below. The highland winds blew and rattled the nearby trees that concealed their presence. Conall was mounted on his chestnut steed next to James. His horse pranced in anticipation. “If anyone can find Lady Abigale, ‘tis Rory.”

“Aye.” James sat motionless, amber eyes swirling intensely as he searched for movement below. Rory led them right to Marcus, but the campsite was unnervingly quiet. James sent Rory to find Abigale just in case the enemy had moved her to a different location. Even though James could sense that she was here, he wanted to make sure before they attacked.

James noticed movement towards a smaller cliff and nodded in that direction. “At least two hundred archers over there.”

Conall observed and concurred, “Aye.”

“Och lads, two hundred men and four dragons seems like a disadvantage. Should we play nice?” Magnus said.

“Magnus, if yer lady was held captive… would ye play nice?” James bit back.

“Nay, I’d gut them where they stood.”

A rustle nearby turned their bantering to silence as they drew their swords and waited for an attack.

Rory looked like he had just seen the Devil himself. Three swords stared at him with their pointy ends promising to slash his throat. “God’s Blood, ye almost made me shite myself!”

James sheathed his sword and waited for Rory to speak. “Well?”

“Lady Abigale is here. See that red tent by the forest tree line?” Rory pointed to the tent. “Yer lady is in there. Alive."

Relieved at the good news, James exhaled. “And Marcus?”

“Aye, he’s here. I can feel the bastart.” Rory’s eyes narrowed in disgust.

Once James had informed his men about Marcus and how he’d betrayed the clan, the Dragonkine warriors were shocked and confused. Marcus was one of only a few humans the warriors allowed in their inner circle; primarily because he was James’s cousin. Dragon he was not but he fought on the battlefields like he was. Marcus was considered one of their own. So his betrayal was a bitter brew to swallow.

“Rory, Magnus, stay here and watch those men.” James pointed to the small cliff where the archers were posted. “Conall, come with me."

~~~~~

Marcus and the group of five armored men walked through the campsite. After the news of Sheriff Rickert’s sudden passing, the men who held true to the late sheriff became unruly. Marcus needed to put an end to it. Either you were with him or against him, there was no in between. It wasn't necessary that they needed Rickert’s table scraps of an army. Five inhuman savages could take down an army twice the size without batting an eyelash. Aye, the Creepers came in handy.

With each footstep, Marcus could feel every lash upon his skin due to the sheriff’s beatings begin to tingle, and rage bubbled in his veins. “Are the archers positioned?”

The knight bowed his head to confirm.

“Very well.” Marcus turned to the five. “Remember the lady is to be unharmed.” The leader of the group nodded and drew his sword. No words were spoken, just action as the five massive heavily armored men began to swing their swords into Sherriff Rickert’s ground troops. The men had no time to react. Most of the men were unarmed as they milled around the camp. Blood sprayed as throats were slit, limbs dangled as swords crashed through bodies, and screams rang out into the night. Five men rained down hell upon a hundred men in no time at all. A perfect ambush.

A sardonic smile reached the corners of Marcus’s mouth as he heard the blood-curdling screams. He looked around the looming cliffs and sniffed the air. It wouldn’t be long now. The dragon would come for his woman and he would be waiting for him.

~~~~~

Surprised that they had not been confronted by guards, James and Conall approached the campsite with caution. Their eyes scanned the perimeter, but saw no movement. No soldiers or horses, nothing. They kept their guard up, and continued deeper into the camp. “Something is no right here," James whispered to Conall.

“Aye, do ye smell it?” Conall crinkled up his nose at the foul stench.

“Aye.” James knew the stench of death all too well.

They came to a halt, for the sight before them stole their breath. Lifeless bodies littered the ground, and slashed, tattered material from the tents blew into the night breeze like ribbons rippling through the air. Fear of what might have become of Abigale drove James forward. He had to find her, but by the looks of things it seemed unlikely she would have survived the attack.

“There’s more here than death, James. It’s some kind of magic, I can feel it.” Conall bent down and placed his hands on the ground.

A tingling sensation pricked up his spine as his dragon stirred. No doubt he felt it and so did his dragon. “Creepers,” James snarled.

“Aye, Death Dragons.” Conall stood and wiped his hands on his plaid. “But the question is why are they here?”

“Dinnae know but it can no be good. I can feel it, it’s like a pulse of energy running through my blood. I’ve never felt anything like it." Sweat started to slide down James’s face. This feeling left him unnerved.

“I feel it too, my friend.”

Every dragon instinct told James to shift, but if there was a chance Abigale was here, James didn’t want to scare her.

One tent stood out from the others; it was still intact. James prayed Abigale was in there unharmed and safe. Realization hit him hard in the chest; no one escaped the wrath of the Creepers.

As James approached the tent he saw a head staked outside the entrance. As he got closer he recognized the head. It was the filth who had taken Castle Douglas from him years ago. The filth that James had battled hard against to regain possession. The filth he set on fire and watched burn, so he’d thought. “Rickert,” James hissed.

“Looks like he pissed off the wrong person,” Conall jested.

James kicked the stake over and entered the tent.

James was not prepared for what he saw. His beautiful Abigale sat hugging her knees inside of an iron-barred birdcage. Abigale looked up and his heart sunk to his stomach. Quickly, she stood.

He pushed his hands through the openings of the cage and cupped Abigale’s face. “Are ye hurt, love?”

Dirty tears fell from her deep blue eyes and landed on his hands.

“Hang on. I’ll get ye out of there.” James kissed her hard. He couldn’t believe she was alive. When he broke the kiss, he noticed that her cheek was swollen and there was a cut on her bottom lip. Rubbing his thumb over her lip, he said, “Who hit ye?”

“James, ye must leave now while ye still can,” Abigale pleaded. “It’s a trap. Marcus, he’s going to kill ye.”

“Did he do this to ye?”

“Please, James, ye must leave.”

“Och lass, do ye have no faith in yer husband? I am a dragon in case ye have forgot.”

Abigale didn’t take kindly to his jest. “Not even the Black Douglas can survive those… those armored creatures. James, please leave. Save yerself. Marcus won't hurt me, but he will kill ye.”

“Abigale, Marcus was the one who tried to kill me. Ye can no trust him for his words are lies.”

Conall stood guard just outside the entrance of the tent when the stench of death became stronger and the air surrounding them turned cold. He peeked his head inside the tent. “Ye mind hurrying things up a bit?”

With ease, James pried the iron bars apart just enough for Abigale to step out of the cage. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and whispered in her ear through her auburn hair. ”I thought I lost ye, lass.”

Abigale held tight around his neck. “I’m no that easy to get rid of.”

In no time at all, flaming arrows flew in all directions, piercing the tent and barely missing the three of them. There was no time to hesitate. If they were going to make it out alive, James had to shift. His massive dragon body could shield her from the arrows until she was somewhere safe, but she would have to see him shift. He couldn’t do it. He feared she would never be able to look at him in the same light again; the beast inside would be what she remembered, not the man.

James’s eyes glowed amber, pupils turned to slits, and fingers turned into talons. “Conall, get Abigale out of here.”

Conall knew exactly what was going on; James was about to shift. “Let me shift. Two Dragons are better than one.”

“Nay! Get. Her. Out. Of. Here. Now!” James growled the last word.

Enlarged blue eyes stared back at him. Shite, she had seen his talons. “Now, Conall!”

His second in command grabbed Abigale’s hand and took off towards the forest, dodging arrows on the way.

The look on Abigale’s face told James that he had made the right decision. No way was she ready to see him shift. If he had any say-so about it, she would never see him in dragon form. His dragon was pure evil and menacing. To make things more complicated, he barely had control of it. A young dragon is unpredictable.

Flesh began to peel away, leaving black shimmering scales; his bones began to crack. His spine popped vertebra by vertebra as his human body extended into a massive black dragon with twin horns on top of his head. Leathery black wings unfolded where shoulder blades used to be. In one fluid motion, a wing swept the area, sending the tent flying into the sky.

Like a rain storm, red flames flew through the blackness of the night and showered down pelting James like hail. Arrows struck James in every direction. An earth-rattling roar echoed through the campsite, shaking the tree branches. Wide wings shielded his body from the arrows that threatened to embed in his back. Hopefully Conall could get Abigale to safety; after all he didn’t know how long he could distract the archers. He would take as many arrows as necessary in order to keep Abigale alive.

The assault stopped abruptly. Thank the Gods for Magnus and Rory. They had done their job and stopped the archers.

Out of the corner of James’s eye he saw Marcus crouching down approaching cautiously with his broadsword drawn, waiting to make his deadly blow. James turned his enormous body toward the bastard and growled low and deep. Nostrils flared, amber eyes glowed as James held Marcus’s stare.

“Ye found me, cousin. Took ye long enough,” Marcus taunted, wanting James to lose control and make the first mistake. An unpredictable, out of control dragon was a dead one.

Unfolding his wings, James swept the ground, sending blood-drenched dirt into Marcus’s face. Frantically he wiped his face. But before James could make contact, Marcus heaved his sword above his head and slammed the metal into James’s long neck.

James roared in pain and stumbled back from the deadly blow. Marcus used this to his advantage and quickly approached James, intending to give the final blow. All he had to do was hit the same spot with more force and the beast’s head would be hanging on his wall like a prized trophy.

Cocky and confident, Marcus advanced on James, but failed to see a long, black tail sweep across the ground knocking him on his arse. James stood over Marcus before he could catch his breath and get to his feet.

One giant paw grabbed the betrayer’s neck, talons pinned his neck to the ground like a cage. James lowered his head just inches from Marcus’s. Blood from his wound dripped down his neck and splattered upon Marcus’s face. Hot breath invaded his face as James stared and snarled at him.

Sinister laughter ripped through Marcus. “Cousin, it really doesn’t matter who dies here tonight as long as it’s a dragon who dies." At that moment Marcus’s eyes glowed ice blue with reptilian slits.

Even though James was in dragon form he still had human thoughts inside. Marcus a dragon? Nay, after all these years he would have felt it. Lips peeled back to form a snarl. Not only had Marcus betrayed him; he’d betrayed his Dragonkine brothers. Rage and anger took over reason as he thought of how Marcus had used Abigale and put her in great danger.

“Go ahead, do it, kill me!” Marcus shouted.

~~~~~

Magnus and Rory quickly shifted back into human form after the last archer met his death by dragon. Magnus stopped and observed his surroundings as he felt a prickle of magic slip up his spine. They were closer now to the campsite than before and the stench of death was faint, but enough to tell Magnus that there was much more to this situation then a rescue mission.

“Nay,” Magnus grumbled. “I can’t believe I didnae recognize it sooner."

Rory walked up to Magnus, tucking his tunic into his plaid. “Recognize what?”

Magnus bent down and grabbed a handful of dry earth. “Blood shall awaken the spirits. The king will rise again.”

“Magnus man, ye must stop sputtering in rhymes and riddles. I dinnae understand.”

“Rory, we are on the sacred ground of the ancients. We must hurry. Dragon blood can no be spilled on holy ground.”

A shrill whistle from Magnus called out to their horses. Two warhorses came charging to their masters from the forest. Without hesitation, Magnus grabbed a lock of mane, threw his muscled leg over the horse, and took the reins in his hands. His horse pranced in anticipation, eager to run. “We must make haste. I’ll explain everything soon, but we must stop those fools from killing each other.”

Rory shrugged his shoulders and quickly mounted his horse.

~~~~~

James began to crush Marcus’s neck until Magnus and Rory ran toward them. “James, ye can no kill him! No here,” Magnus yelled. “Ye dinnae understand, if ye kill him Scotland will be destroyed. We will all die.”

James turned his head to look at Magnus as if he didn’t understand what the daft man was saying.

“Let him go, lad. No blood can be spilled.” Magnus challenged James with glowing green eyes. The firmness of Magnus’s voice held true; James didn’t want to fight an elder, but Marcus had put his lady in harm’s way. No way was Marcus leaving this place in one piece, he needed to be punished. One way or the other, a part of the bastard was going to die. He wouldn’t shed his blood here tonight but he could take his dragon, leaving him a mortal human. Which he deserved for betraying him.

Without hesitation, James took his free hand and buried it deep into Marcus’s chest. Marcus’s eyes flew wide open, and he tried desperately to squirm away.

Desperate, Marcus fought to break free, but it was too late; James retrieved his fist from Marcus’s chest and with it his beating dragon heart. Marcus screamed in defeat.

James released his talons and backed away. No dragon ever enjoyed seeing a Dragonkine’s essence destroyed. Every Dragonkine warrior standing by could feel Marcus’s loss.

Marcus stood and gripped his chest. “Ye have always thought ye were better than everyone else haven’t ye? He spat at James’s feet. "Ye take what ye want and do no care about anyone but yerself.”

James stood, nostrils flared as he fought back the urge to singe him to ash.

Magnus’s voice broke their stare down. “Marcus, ye need to leave well enough alone. Ye are now banished from Scotland. If we see ye here, we will stop at nothing to hunt ye down and kill ye,” Magnus stated grimly.

~~~~~

Marcus looked around the campsite. There was no signs of the Creepers anywhere. Strange, he thought, why didn’t they help him now? Together, they could slaughter these dragons and fulfill his destiny. Where were they?

“Exiled?” He spat. Being as he’d felt like Scotland had never really opened her arms to him nor his Dragonkine brethren, he laughed. After years of feeling like a failure, he'd cloaked himself as human thinking mayhap he could find acceptance as one. But history could not be erased; he could never forget what the humans had done to his king. In truth, it was because of these vile humans that his life had never been lived to its fullest potential. And wasn’t it ironic how his own people called him the traitor, when in fact it was the humans that had betrayed Dragonkine.

The Earth had shifted now, he could feel it. He would right the wrong and soon, verra soon, his kingdom would rise again.

Showing the Dragonkine no signs of weakness, even though he felt every last drop of energy slowly fading, Marcus climbed up on his horse and clucked him into a run as he fled the site.

The path he chose to take took him high into the cold snow-covered mountains deep in the Highlands. No one would venture up there, nor would the bite of the frigid weather chill his bones; ice now replaced his warm blood.

Strength was fading fast and he began to feel faint. He released his hands from his chest. To his surprise, his hand was covered in blood. Blood? he thought. When James had taken his dragon heart there was no blood that he’d noticed, but as he looked down into the white snow, a trail of crimson followed him.

His body went limp, causing him to fall off his mount and into a cushion of powdery snow. As he lay there looking up into the sky, flurries covered his face. Blood has been shed, now hasn’t it?  Marcus grinned in triumph as his world slowly filled with darkness. Perhaps enough blood had been shed.

Chapter 23

Danger and delight grow on one stalk. ~ Scottish Proverb

“Let me go, Conall. I must see him.” Abigale squirmed in Conall’s arms.

“Nay, my lady. James does no want you to see him like this.”

“I can no stay hidden while Marcus and those creatures kill James. Dragon or not, I must stop him. He will listen to me.”

“I’m afraid I can no let you.” Conall struggled to gain control of the feisty lass. “Settle down or I’ll have to tie ye to a tree.”

Finally Abigale came to her senses and settled, for she was no match for the six-foot-five, hulking warrior.

Conall released her. “See, much better. Promise ye’ll stay put?”

“Aye.” Abigale humphed and paced a short distance, thinking of a way to get past Conall. They were only a few feet away, she could run back to James before he caught her. At least she hoped she could.

“I’ll be right back.” Conall walked behind a thicket of shrubs.

When it dawned on her what he was doing, she saw the perfect opportunity to run while Conall hid behind the shrubs to relieve himself. Well… aye, she did promise to stay put, but James needed her. Surely, Conall would find it in his heart to forgive a little trickery. She uncrossed her fingers and took off toward the campsite.

Conall walked back to the spot where he’d left Abigale. He was busy looking down at his trews as he finished tying them and said, “James will be fine.” When no one answered him, he looked up. “Bloody hell!” She was gone. Quickly, Conall took off after Abigale. Since he knew exactly where she was going, it wouldn’t take long to find her. He had to catch her before she reached James.

As Abigale arrived at the camp, Conall caught up to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her from going to James. The commotion attracted the massive black dragon’s attention. A deep throaty growl came from the dragon and Conall released her. Relief that James was alive overshadowed her fear and she slowly approached the big beast.

As Abigale got closer, she fought back the urge to run. Never had she seen a dragon before and quite frankly it scared her to death. Pure, raw power radiated off him and the mere size of the beast would cause anyone’s heart to stop. Now she understood why James wanted to shelter her from this side of him. Still, inside that dragon lived the man she loved.

Hot air puffed out of the dragon’s nostrils as if to calm his nerves. With his head lowered, he gently stepped toward her.

When the dragon was within reaching distance, Abigale placed her shaking hand on its soft velvety nose. Funny, she thought it would be rough. Gaining more confidence, she trailed her hand over his jawline and was amazed how gentle this beast was. She turned her auburn head from side to side, admiring how beautiful this creature was.

The dragon nudged his head gently up against Abigale’s chest craving more of her touch. Indeed he did, for she swore she heard him purr when she ran her fingers down his neck. He wrapped his tail around Abigale’s waist and pulled her closer. She smiled; she knew this dragon was harmless, after all it was James that watched her when she looked in his swirling amber eyes.

A clap of thunder shook the earth, breaking their embrace. Misty rain fell from the heavens and lightning flickered in the distance. Just like a quick reflex, James unfolded one of his massive black wings over Abigale’s head, shielding her from the storm. Startled, more from the loud thunder than from the dragon, she moved closer, tucking herself beside his neck. Droplets of rain beaded against his skin as she watched the water pour off his wings. As terrifying as this beast was; he was gentle as a kitten.

The wind blew and a cold mist of rain pelted her causing her to shiver. Knowing they would have to find shelter soon, she looked up at James to tell him just that, when she noticed blood trickling down his neck from what looked like a deep gash. “Ye’re hurt," she said with concern.

Naturally, the surgeon in her took over and she began to examine the severity of the cut. She ran her fingers around the wound then, as though she thought herself daft, she heard James’s voice vibrating through her head. “I’m alright, my bel ange.” A shudder rippled through her. She could hear him, yet his lips didn’t move. It was as though he was inside of her, talking. Puzzled she took a step back and said, “I can hear ye in my thoughts.”

“Aye, through mind speak,” James said.

“Mind speak?” Now Abigale knew she must have bumped her head.

“Aye, it’s through our bond that ye can hear me.”

“Magic,” she whispered with amazement. “Aye, some kind of magic.”

James began to growl when Magnus approached them. Even though he treaded softly, dragons were extremely possessive of their mates and would not hesitate to kill another if they appeared to be a threat. “James, no need to fash yerself but we need to get the lady oot of the rain before she catches her death.” With ease, James lowered his head and gave Abigale a nudge toward Magnus. “He’s right. Go with Magnus and I’ll be right behind ye."

”My lady, Rory has found us shelter from the rain. Come now we must go. James will follow shortly.” Magnus said.

Abigale took one last look at her dragon and then followed Magnus to shelter.

~~~~~

Magnus and Rory stood guard near the entrance of the cave, giving Abigale privacy to shed her wet clothes. She wrapped herself up in a plaid and was now spreading her wet garments over a boulder near the fire Conall had built for her. As he tended to the fire, he didn’t look happy with her, for she had lied to him. “Forgive me Conall, I—“

“Aye, I would have done much worse if my love was in danger. So no need for forgiveness my lady. James on the other hand, may have an issue with it. He didnae want ye to see his dragon.” Conall placed a dry piece of wood on the flames. "Here, sit down and warm yerself. James will be here soon.”

“Thank ye Conall. I can see why James trusts ye. Ye’re a good man.” Abigale smiled and took a seat next to the fire.

Conall nodded and joined his fellow Dragonkine.

As the fire warmed her cold body, she felt guilty that Magnus, Rory and Conall were still wet and cold. “There’s plenty of room next to the fire if ye care to join me.” Abigale called out.

“Nay my lady. James would rip our eyes out of their sockets if he caught us even looking at ye with no clothes on,” Rory replied over his shoulder.

“Don’t be silly. I’m wrapped up.”

“Nay lass, trust me. We’re just fine,” Magnus reassured her.

It seemed like a fortnight had passed, as she waited for James. She missed him and was concerned why it was taking him so long to get to the cave. Had those creatures returned after they left? God, she prayed not. Maybe he wasn’t coming back at all. Nay, he’ll be here soon, she kept telling herself while she raked her fingers through her hair. Before long, she vowed if he didn’t show up soon, she would go out looking for him herself.

~~~~~

At that time a very naked and wet James strode into the cave, his eyes intently searching for Abigale. He saw her drying her hair by the fire, wrapped up in a plaid. His heart seized as the flames from the fire flickered across her bare shoulder, making her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His cock hardened knowing she was naked as a new-born bairn under that plaid. As their eyes met she smiled and that was his undoing.

James strode over to her with purpose and one purpose only; claiming his woman here and now. He’d been warned long ago, that when mated Dragonkine shifted back to human form, an animalistic urge to claim their woman would consume their every thought. That was exactly what he was experiencing now.

Abigale rose to her feet, but before she could say a word, James fisted the plaid and pulled her close claiming her lips. His hands frantically touched every inch of her body, yet he yearned for more. He broke their kiss long enough to explain. “Sorry love, I need to be inside ye right now.”

With a sly grin, Abigale took a step back and dropped the plaid, leaving nothing between them, but hot skin on skin. Pressing their bodies together, he plunged his hands into her damp hair and captured her neck mercilessly with searing kisses and nibbles. Abigale leaned her head back, giving him full access to her; meanwhile her hands roamed his body.

James picked her up so that she straddled him. As soon as his cock brushed against her sex he growled and pushed her up against the cold cave wall. By the saints, he could barely contain himself. The urge grew stronger, pumping through his veins. Abigale’s sweet moans wrecked his self-control, the little he had left, and with one hard thrust James entered her.

Abigale’s body tensed as she inhaled.

“Did I hurt ye? I’m sorry, love but I can’t control it,” he panted.

Abigale shook her head no. “Dinnae stop.”

James buried his face in her hair, rocked his hips forward and took her fast. He pumped into her with force. She matched every thrust he gave her until he could feel her walls tightening around his shaft. The sweet sting of her nails dug into his back and set him a blaze. “Och lass, what ye do to me.” James pumped faster bringing them both over the edge and into sweet orgasmic bliss.

Sweat slid from their bodies as they stayed propped against the wall of the cave. James’s legs threatened to shake and give out, but there was no way he was letting her go… not yet. Hell if it was up to him they would stay like this forever. Nothing came close to the feeling of being deep inside her. He thought this is what Heaven must feel like. He was ready to take her again just thinking about it.

He felt Abigale shiver. “Ye’re cold. Let’s move closer to the fire.”

She cupped his face and smiled. “Nay, I’m not cold.” Looking down between them she could feel how much he wanted her. She arched a brow and looked back at him. "So soon?”

James smirked. “Well, there are some advantages in being a dragon.”

“That so?”

James moved them next to the fire and laid her down on a plaid. He positioned himself between her legs and covered her body with his. “I can go as long as ye need me to.” He brushed his fingers through her auburn hair.  He gazed from her hair to her deep blue eyes and knew questions were brewing in that pretty head of hers.

Abigale blushed at the thought, then suddenly got serious. “What happened to Marcus?”

He knew she would want to know what had happened and she deserved to know, but to what extent? “Abigale, let it be.” Dread filled him when he thought of what he’d done. Destroying a Dragonkine’s dragon was not to be taken lightly. James and the other Dragonkine would feel the loss of Marcus for some time to come.

“It’s just… oh James, that man killed Marcus’s sister."

“She’s dead? Ye know this how?”

“Marcus told me. James, he was blackmailed. It seems to me that the man at the campsite, the one who was in charge, had promised Marcus that he would bring his sister back to him if Marcus lured ye to him. That’s why Marcus did what he did. He was trying to save his sister."

“The poor lass. I didnae know his sister well. That’s a shame. But Marcus should have let me know about his situation. I could have helped, but he chose to betray me instead. He didnae need to keep secrets.”

“That’s just it, my love, he blames ye for all his misfortune.”

“James rolled off Abigale and lay on his back. “Me?”

“Aye, that man wanted his revenge on ye for the brutal way ye killed his men.” Abigale shrugged her shoulders. “Well, that's what Marcus believes.”

“Since he was in such a truthful mood did he tell ye he too is…” James corrected himself, “was a dragon?”

Her eyes widened, “A dragon?”

“Aye.”

Silence fell between them for a while as James decided just how much to tell her when he didn’t have all the answers himself. Once back at the castle he’d call counsel and try to figure things out, but now too many questions lay unanswered.

“So, what happened to him?” Abigale fiddled with a strand of James’s hair as if she dreaded his answer.

Aye, the question he didn’t want to answer. Self-doubt began to gnaw at his gut. Perhaps he’d acted too hastily. In a way he did mourn for him. If he had known beforehand that his sister was dead, most certainly he would have shown mercy. "Abigale it’s best no to know all the details. I didnae kill him, but he has been exiled from Scotland.”

Abigale closed her eyes and sighed in relief.

“Our world is complicated and it seems it just got more so. I do no have all the answers ye seek. But I can tell ye this, Abigale Bruce, I love ye and I will be the husband ye deserve. I will give ye all the wee bairns yer heart desires. I will give ye the family ye have always wanted. Will ye stay with me, lass?”

Abigale opened her eyes in surprise.

“Och lass, ye dinnae have to look like a deer about to meet an arrow.”

A giggle escaped her mouth and a tear threatened to fall. “I love ye too James Douglas… even the Black Douglas.” No longer holding back her excitement, she threw herself on top of him and kissed him deeply.

Everything James could ever want in his life was right here in his arms and he silently vowed that he would spend every moment showing his bel ange from the loch just how much he loved her.

~~~~~

After Abigale fell asleep, James donned his trews and walked out toward the entrance of the cave. The rain had finally stopped. Rory and Conall were propped up against the cave’s wall sleeping as Magnus stood watch.

The whole situation with Marcus kept replaying in his mind. Furthermore, Magnus’s words had made no sense to him. Not spilling blood and Scotland being destroyed continued to be a puzzle to him and the only way to solve it was to speak with Magnus.

Magnus was sitting down leaning up against the cave’s outside walls with his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I thought ye might come looking for me, lad.”

James crossed his arms over his chest. “Did ye know?”

Magnus stared off into the distance. “Nay. I can no explain that one, my friend. ‘Tis no an easy task to cloak one’s dragon, especially in the company of other dragons.”

Thank the Gods Magnus didn’t know. One man’s betrayal had been enough to swallow; he couldn’t bear to believe Magnus would betray him as well. "I think I might have over reacted, I should no have taken his dragon. He told Abigale that his sister is dead and he blames me for it. In fact he blames me for all his misfortunes. That’s why he took Abigale from me. He knew I would come for her then he could hand me over to Rickert."

Magnus was stunned. “I can no trust my ears lad, the Black Douglas has a conscience?”

Aggravated, James shifted his weight on his heels and shot Magnus a scowl.

Magnus smiled at the distress. “Every old bone in my body tells me that Marcus had the plan all along. Aye, Rickert was blackmailing him but Marcus knew where the holy ground lay buried. Why else would he have tried to kill ye, here? The lad is up to something wicked.”

“Holy ground?”

“Ye felt it, the magic?” Magnus said.

“Aye, both me and Conall.”

“I wish I had recognized this place sooner. I had hoped to have never come back here.”

“What do ye mean?”

“This is our kingdom.” Magnus tapped his hand on the ground beside him. “This is where it all began and ended for Dragonkine. Our king waits to be awoken."

James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Underneath them lay their long lost kingdom. A kingdom he had only heard of, yet he knew he followed a long line of warrior ancestors.

Magnus continued. “Dragon blood can no be spilled on holy ground, it will awaken the seven and our king. And if our king rises,” Magnus shook his head, “his vengeance will rain down upon every human. I can feel it, James. If ye love yer wife, we must no let this happen.”

Now what Marcus had done was all making sense to him. James began to pace with his hands on his hips. “So killing me here… tonight… would have awakened our king. But why? Why would he want the king to return?”

“I wish I knew.” Magnus grew dark like a cloud ready to storm.

“When Conall and I were in Rickert’s campsite we felt and smelled the death dragons –“

“Death dragons?” With alarm Magnus jumped to his feet. “’Tis no good, no good at all. Are ye sure, lad?”

“Aye, there’s no mistaking that stench nor the destruction they left behind. At least one hundred men slaughtered and Rickert’s head on a spike."

Magnus whistled for his horse. “I must leave.”

“Magnus, what’s going on here?” Something had to be terribly wrong for Magnus to leave suddenly. This left James unnerved.

“I must talk with the elders immediately. If the death dragons didnae kill Marcus, we might well have a bigger problem on our hands then we think.” Magnus hopped up on his mount and reined in the feisty steed. “In the meantime I think ye’ve done enough damage to Marcus that he won’t be a threat for a while, but hear my words, lad, don’t take yer eyes far from him. Keep yer lass safe until I return.” With nothing more said Magnus took off deep into the glen, racing with God speed.

James was left dumbfounded. Aye some questions he sought after were clear, but now a whole new puzzle piece had been found.

Epilogue

Abigale was cleaning up after seeing her last patient of the day. Her little stone dwelling with a thatched roof was easily accessible located in the clan’s village. Nicely placed along the east side, the bright morn sun gave it a welcoming feeling. At first, James wasn’t keen on the idea of his wife and the lady of the castle working and furthermore being away from the protection of Black Stone on the Hill.

“Idle hands are the Devil’s tools,” she’d told her husband.

“Och lass, yer hands dinnae need to stay idle.” He’d wriggled his brows. “Ye can do the Devil’s work on my body any time ye want.”

She remembered that sly sexy grin of his and smiled as she tucked the corner of the sheet under the cot’s mattress.

But the point was made, even though he tried to distract her; clan Douglas needed a good surgeon/healer and she was the best.

In time, James granted her her own place to practice, but there was no debating about the guards who would stay outside her hut, another ten that patrolled the village and the five placed next door at the cordwainer. Once Mac, the shoemaker, found out who was next door to him, he made sure to deliver a pair of beautiful shoes for Abigale and the girls at least once a month. He claimed that a beautiful woman should have beautiful shoes.

As Abigale finished putting clean sheets on one of the cots, her assistant pulled the linen sheet curtain back that partitioned the room off from two other rooms and announced, “My lady, I’ve cleaned the other two rooms and rinsed out the wash basins. Is there more ye would like me to do?”

“Nay, Anna. I thank ye kindly for yer help today.” Abigale stood and placed her hands on her swollen belly. “I dunno what I'd do without ye.” She smiled.

“How much longer until the wee one arrives?” Anna reached over and touched Abigale’s belly.

Abigale didn’t mind the occasional belly rub. In fact it reminded her of how much she loved the wee one already.

“Oh Anna, I hope soon. The babe must be a boy, for his kicks are strong.” Abigale laughed.

“Shall I wait until ye’re done? I’m in no hurry.”

Abigale walked past Anna out into an open area where she could look out a small window. Shelves of glass containers filled with herbs and concoctions framed the window. Adjusting one of the jars, Abigale looked out the window and saw James approaching the village. A brilliant smile spread across her face and instantly her hands began to rub her belly again. “Nay Anna, go home to yer family and I’ll see ye in the morn.”

“Fare well this eve, my lady.” Anna picked up the basket of fruit Abigale had brought her this morn and quit the room.

Observing the space around her, Abigale couldn’t be happier; she was living her dream. A blessing indeed, James had allowed her to practice her skills and live out her passion. But most of all, she had her independence. Most women didn’t have that freedom. As she'd had her freedom taken from her back at the abbey, Abigale vowed she would assist any woman seeking their independence. Anna had come to her not so long ago, badly beaten. Her husband, a drunk, had beat her. After Abigale told James about Anna’s situation, Anna was under the protection of clan Douglas and as for the drunken husband… he was never heard of again.

Oh if Sister Kate could see me now, she thought. Abigale looked down at her belly. Aye, if she could see her now.

Breaking her reminiscing, James opened the door to her hut and two beautiful girls charged in before he could step over the threshold. The girls, with their blonde hair bouncing, greeted Abigale with hugs and kisses. “Oh my loves, I’ve missed ye too." Abigale embraced the girls. Peering up from their embrace Abigale locked eyes with her husband’s swirling amber depths and those fiery butterflies returned.

James entered the room and made his way to Abigale. He placed his hands on her belly and kissed her deeply. “I’ve missed ye two today.”

“Aye, we’ve missed ye too, my love.”

“Are ye ready for some fresh air, bel ange? I thought we would sit by the old rowan tree and let the girls play for a while. What say ye?”

“I think ‘tis a beautiful idea.” Abigale smiled up at James and kissed him.

“Good.” James motioned for them to step outside.

Indeed it was a gorgeous day. For once there was no threat of rain. Once outside the girls raced to their favorite spot and started to pick wild flowers.

Abigale and James walked beside his mare when Abigale noticed something strange. “James, how much is the lad at the stable feeding yer horse?”

James looked at Abigale as if she had grown two heads. “Why ye ask?”

“She’s fat.”

“Fat? Nay.”

Abigale stopped and James followed. She walked in front of the horse, rubbing the mare’s nose. “Shh lassie.” Continuing around to the horse's side, she ran her hand over its belly. “James, is there a possibility she could be pregnant?”

Still looking confused, he joined Abigale and did his own examination of the mare’s swollen belly. “Fergus, ye sly dog.”

Abigale faced James. “What do ye mean?”

“Do ye remember the night when I brought ye back to bed from sleeping in the stall with Fergus?”

“Aye.”

“Well, let’s just say I rewarded him for good behavior.” James winked.

Abigale slapped his chest. “Ye mean to tell me Shadow is now pregnant with Fergus’s baby?”

“Looks like it, love.”

Abigale’s laughter soon turned to tears.

“What’s wrong? Did I—“

“Oh nay, James, these are happy tears.” Standing on the tips of her toes, she hugged her husband. Now a part of her trusted friend would live on.

They broke their embrace and made it over to the rowan tree. James spread out a plaid then helped Abigale to sit. Next he handed her a basket of fruit and bread and teased Abigale with one of Alice’s famous oatcakes.

Finally as James made his way to the blanket, the ground below began to tremble. He paused for a moment and looked down at the earth.

“What’s wrong, James.” Abigale was beginning to feel alarmed when he didn’t respond right away. “James?”

As quickly as the earth shook, it stopped. Not wanting to frighten Abigale, James shrugged the rumble off but deep down his worse fears were beginning to surface.

“’Tis nothing. We’re fine.”

“James, I felt it too. Ye can no tell me that was nothing.”

He leaned his back against the tree as he joined Abigale on the blanket and motioned for her to come sit with him. “Dinnae worry, it’s no good for the babe.” He smiled.

Abigale quickly forgot about the disturbance as she found herself wrapped up in his loving embrace. Her back pressed up against his chest all the while James kissed her neck and rubbed her belly. How could she be so lucky to have a man who loved her so much? Truly she felt like her life was complete.

“I have something for ye,” James whispered in her ear. ”Close yer eyes.”

She did exactly what she was told. She could hear James rustling around in his satchel next to him.

“Open yer eyes.”

What she saw took her breath away. An elegant silver torc with dragon heads on each of the ends stared back at her. The dragon’s eyes were made out of amber. The torc shined as the sun’s rays hit the metallic necklace making it sparkle. It was fit for a queen.

“Oh James, this is –“she was at a loss for words; the piece was beyond any riches she had ever seen.

“Here, let me see how it looks on ye.” James pushed Abigale’s hair over her shoulder and placed the torc around her neck.

Touching the fine piece, she turned to face him. “It fits perfectly.” She placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him.

“Abigale Bruce, I love ye. Hell, I loved ye from the moment I saw ye that morn at the loch. I’m honored to be yer husband and I’m most definitely honored that ye will be the mother of my children. I hope that ye can learn to love my dragon just as much as I love ye.”

Tears were building up again. She was truly loved and she loved every bit of this man sitting in front of her, even the dragon. “I love all of ye and I could no be any happier than ye’ve made me.” Tears broke through and slid down her cheeks.

James took her face in his hands and wiped away the wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Happy tears?”

“Aye, happy tears.” Abigale smiled.

Books by Victoria Zak

Scottish Historical Paranormal Romance

Guardians of Scotland Series:

Highland Burn

Highland Storm

Highland Fate (2015)

Just Beyond the Garden Gate by Dawn Marie Hamilton

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Other books by the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dawn Marie Hamilton dares you to dream. She is a 2013 RWA® Golden Heart® Finalist who pens Scottish-inspired fantasy and paranormal romance. Some of her tales are rife with mischief-making faeries, brownies, and other fae creatures. More tormented souls—shape shifters, vampires, and maybe a zombie or two—stalk across the pages of other stories. She is a member of The Golden Network, Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal, Celtic Hearts, and From the Heart chapters of RWA. When not writing, she’s cooking, gardening, or paddling the local creeks with her husband.

Blog:  http://dawnmariehamilton.blogspot.com

Website:  http://dawnmariehamilton.com

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/DawnMarieHamilton

Twitter:  http://www.twitter.com/dawnm_hamilton

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/authorDawnMarieHamilton

Just Beyond the Garden Gate

A Highland Gardens Novel

By Dawn Marie Hamilton

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © Dawn Marie Wolzein, May 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

PROLOGUE

Strathlachlan, Scottish Highlands, 1506

Your parents are missing.

The seneschal’s words reverberated inside Patrick’s head, louder and more insistent than the white-capped waves crashing against shingle at the foot of Castle Lachlan. Your parents are missing. He gripped the battlements’ cold stone and watched two galleys approach through the thickening haze, bows cutting through the turbulent water of Loch Fyne.

MacLachlan banners snapped.

Your parents are missing.

His stomach churned. Did his clansmen bring news?

Raw wind ripped Patrick’s hair free of its restraint. Damp from the salty spray, the strands stuck to his eyes and the sides of his face. With a growl, he pulled the thick mass back and secured it again with the leather thong.

A mighty clap of thunder echoed, and he shifted his weary gaze to the sky. Dark clouds hurled lightning bolts at distant hills. Damn the weather. He slammed a palm against stone. The imminent storm worsened his already foul humor. He’d traveled night and day in response to his father’s urgent request to return home, only to find his parents gone from the castle.

His clansmen whispered tales of strange happenings in the forest, afraid to utter the words aloud. Good Lord, he prayed the rumors about his parents proved false.

He arrived at the shore as the first galley beached. Briny air filled his nostrils. He stiffened when Donald MacLachlan lumbered over the side and strode forward. Well known for a lack of loyalty, his uncle was the last person he expected to see. Sudden apprehension crept through Patrick—the same wary readiness he felt before battle.

He wiped sweaty palms on his plaide and embraced the older man.

“’Tis good you have returned, lad.” His uncle thumped him hard on the back.

“My father’s missive stated I was to travel in all haste. What news?”

Donald’s gaze bored into him.

The eyes Patrick stared back at mirrored his own. Many folk said he and his twin brother, Archibald, resembled their father and uncle. Same chestnut hair, blue eyes and broad nose, except Archibald’s eyes held more silver than blue. They shared an identical cleft in their chins. Patrick wished his brother were home, but he traveled for King James and couldn’t return.

Donald sighed heavily. “I fear ’tis bad. You should have come sooner, before the trouble began. If only you honored the betrothal agreement and wed the Lamont lass.” He shook his head. “Now ’tis too late. Your father and his…” a scowl twisted his upper lip, “woman have gone missing.”

Patrick’s chest tightened and he clenched his fists so tightly his blunt nails cut into his palms. “My parents are missing and yet you belittle my stepmother. Have you no conscience, man? Can you not even say her name?”

“Neither she nor her Campbell kinsmen be friend to me.”

With effort, Patrick refrained from uttering further angry words at the insult to his sweet stepmother. “Tell me what happened.”

“We tracked them to the Fir-wood near the deserted hut. Three MacLachlan horses grazed there, but nary a sign of your parents. Heavier tracks made by other horses headed off to Lamont country and Toward Keep. We followed and crept as near as we dared.”

Donald tilted his head in the direction of the beach, and the two burly men working to secure the galley. “The MacEwen twins posed as Maclays to gain entry. A band of Lamont clansmen claims they chased your parents into the wood, intent on holding them for ransom. The Lamonts pursued, but when the clouds uncovered the full moon, your parents disappeared afore their eyes. They searched, but found naught. They tell all who are willing to listen Fir-wood is faerie-cursed.”

Staring across the rough seawater of the loch, Patrick struggled against soul-wrenching pain. As the eldest living son of the chief of the ancient Clan MacLachlan, he knew what the clan expected. He trained from the cradle to be a fierce warrior. Discipline demanded he show no emotion.

No fear.

But he couldn’t assuage the fear for his father and stepmother churning within him. Patrick hid his angry confusion and turned back to his uncle as an especially bright, jagged streak of lightning lit the man’s face.

Donald’s gaze wandered. He shifted from one foot to the other. “When we returned to Castle Lachlan, I believed you were still on the Continent. Not trusting the Lamont tale, I thought it best to take the galleys across the loch to Campbell country to search and seek word of the chief and his lady-wife there. Ach, lad, ’twas a waste of time.”

Patrick braced against a gust of wind, jaw tight. The tale made no sense. People didn’t disappear without a trace.

A loud scraping noise caused him and his uncle to look toward the water where the second galley beached. The rest of the lads jumped from the boats onto shore and made haste to secure the two galleys before the storm’s full rage fell upon them.

Patrick whirled and strode to the castle. He would find his parents.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day, Anderson Creek, North Carolina

Wet skin glistened golden across his broad back in the sunlight. Muscles flexed with each stride as they climbed the waterfall. The enticing sight of water splashing over and caressing strong thighs and a tight butt the way she wanted to touch him had her licking parched lips in anticipation. Laurie moistened her lips along with the heroine and tightened her grip on the e-reader as if it were the hero's backside she squeezed. It was easy to get lost in the web of the story—the only way she experienced romance.

The nearby crunch of gravel made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She snapped her gaze up. At the edge of the secluded garden enclosed within yellow forsythia stood the tall, willowy woman she’d seen earlier at the inn. The woman watched Laurie through intense green eyes set in a face smudged with dirt. She wore grubby work clothes and boots, and an equally grubby wide-brimmed hat.

“Oh, hi.” Laurie smiled and placed the e-reader on the cedar side table. “You startled me.”

The woman continued staring, eyes narrowed.

“I’m Laurie Bernard, a guest at this inn.”

The intruder crossed her arms over her chest. “I ken that.”

“Who are you?” Laurie asked, trying to remain civil.

“Caitrina.”

“Is something wrong?” Laurie didn’t understand the woman’s rude behavior. Who was she? Why was she just standing there, staring?

“You’re sitting in my garden.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Laurie shifted her weight in the chair, wishing the woman would get to the point or leave so she could finish reading her favorite author’s latest romance novel.

“I’ve many here and about.” The woman waved her arm in an arc. “Do you like gardens? If you do—”

“I do.” Okay, she’d pushed the right button. Laurie loved gardens. Dreamed of having one to care for.

“Then walk along the trail through those woods and you’ll find a special place.”

The trail appeared overgrown. Didn’t look like anyone had walked that way in ages. “Is it safe to walk in the woods alone?”

Caitrina pursed her lips. “If you’d rather not—”

“I didn’t say that. I want to make sure it’s safe to explore alone. I’ve heard there are bears in this area.”

“Bears wouldn’t dare bother you. This land belongs to Himself.”

“Himself?” Laurie creased her brow, puzzled by the strange term.

“Iain,” Caitrina said matter-of-factly.

Then she disappeared. Poof. Gone.

“What the—” Laurie clutched her chest over her fiercely-pounding heart. She jerked her gaze around. Where the hell did the woman go?

She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed them with trembling hands, snapped them open and scanned the area again, but couldn’t figure out where Caitrina had gone so fast.

Think logically. The woman didn’t just vanish. She must have gone somewhere.

A deep breath eased Laurie’s panic. The bright afternoon light must have caused a moment of blindness as Caitrina walked away through the thick shrubbery.

Silly to overreact. Laurie shook her head. She really was dangling from a thin thread.

Well, that’s why she was here, wasn’t it?

She needed this vacation. Deserved it.

Curiosity piqued, she rose from the chair, flipped shut the cover of the e-reader and tucked it under her arm then headed for the woodland trail the woman indicated. As she made her way into the woods, a soft giggle from behind made her shiver.

Laurie looked back along the path. Nothing but sun-drenched woodland. Great. Now she was hearing things. With a shrug, she continued in the direction of the special garden.

“Beware. ’Tis magic in the wood.”

She swung around. “Who’s there?”

Nobody replied. No one lingered nearby. Feeling ridiculous, she shook off the uneasy sensation. She wasn’t hearing voices. The wind and her anxieties made her imagine things. That’s all.

She must be more stressed than she thought from all the tiresome business trips over the last several years. From the brutal brow beating during contract negotiations. From the constant client catering after deals closed. From the lack of a social life.

If only she’d handled things differently. Too late for that. Laurie sighed. She hated rehashing a past she couldn’t change. Would be better to look to the future.

Well, she had a month reserved at the inn. A month should be plenty of time to get over the stress that triggered her professional meltdown. She continued into the woods, hoping to find the special garden.

The meandering trail led past clusters of evergreens and small groves of broad-leaved rhododendrons. She stopped a couple of times to marvel over early spring wildflowers poking up through the carpet of last year’s fallen leaves. This place was peaceful, the quiet broken every so often by the melodic call of a bird, so different from the rat race that was her life.

She skirted a couple of large boulders and disturbed a squirrel. The little critter scolded before scampering away. A chuckle bubbled up Laurie’s throat. The forest pulsed with magic, a healing kind of magic. Magic she needed.

The trail entered a large meadow; an old stone cottage came into view. She gasped in surprise. Goosebumps prickled and a chill teased her spine.

The cottage called to her. Called to a romantic need within her soul.

Stomach tight, she hurried through the calf-high amber grass and into the yard. The quaint little house had leaded windows and a heavy oak door carved with a Celtic design. She tiptoed to one of the side windows and peered in. The room was empty. The cottage appeared deserted.

Creeping to the front door, she knocked. When no one answered, she glanced around to see if anyone watched then twisted the knob. “Darn, it’s locked.”

She made her way through overgrown shrubbery at the left of the house to a high stone wall. Compelled to learn what was on the other side, she tried the rusted iron gate. It wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder, until the metal grille creaked open. Easing it farther, she walked through. Yay! A neglected garden was enclosed within the wall. Another gate at the rear led to more woods.

Sunlight shimmered outside the gate, tempting her to discover more of what lay beyond. A shadow suddenly darkened the area, giving her a chill. She rubbed her arms and studied the sky. When had clouds blown in?

Warmth returned with the sun, and Laurie dropped onto a concrete garden bench. This must be the garden Caitrina meant. What a mess. Weeds and brambles choked the garden, although a few bulbs bloomed, and scattered about were early season herbs. Laurie recognized chives and caught the tangy scent of lemon balm when she teased aromatic leaves with sensitive fingertips. She leaned down to scoop a handful of rich soil. Possibilities ran through her mind. As the dirt slipped through her fingers, an idea blossomed.

She’d always wanted to live in a cottage with a lush garden. When young and foolish, she’d imagined such a place, and a special man sharing her life. Laurie snorted. Like that would ever happen. She gave up on the dream years ago and concentrated on her career…or had she?

Maybe she’d remained a romantic after all.

She would find out who owned this place and make it her own. Heck with staying a month. She’d stay longer. Maybe start a small business.

Caitrina was right—the garden was special.

Laurie’s head swirled with ideas on the way back to the inn. The Victorian painted-lady with the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop belonged to a bygone era. She stopped, awe inspired by the vermillion sunset. With a smile, she rushed to her suite, quickly freshened up and hurried downstairs to the dining room. The lamps were dim, but the room glowed with candlelight. Windows filled the far wall and nearby a fire burned in the hearth. Still early in the tourist season, there were few diners.

Mairi, the fortyish woman who’d checked her in earlier, stood at the hostess station arranging yellow daffodils in a ceramic vase. The silky strands of her strawberry blond hair hung loose around her shoulders with casual elegance and laugh lines edged her silver eyes when she looked up and smiled.

“Great to see you this eve’n,” she said with a Scottish burr. “Would you like to be seated?”

“Yes, please.”

Mairi waved over a fellow from the bar area. “This is my husband, Iain.”

So this is Himself. Amusing attire. He wore traditional Highland regalia like her cousin Finn often did—belted plaid kilt, shirt and vest, leather sporran—complete with a sgian dubh, a small knife, inserted in his knee-high hose. A good ten years older than Mairi, he stood tall and broad, his chestnut hair spiced with a hint of gray, worn long and secured at the back with a leather strap.

He grinned at the inspection and his deep blue eyes glimmered with mischief.

For an older man, he certainly was handsome.

“We’ve been waiting for you to arrive for a long time,” he said.

“What do you mean?” It had only been two days since she made the reservation, not that long ago.

Mairi cleared her throat and exchanged a stern glance with her husband. “He’s teasing. Iain, I’m sure Miss Bernard wishes to go to her table.”

He guided her into the dining room, his back stiff. He and his wife were a curiosity.

“I like your Scottish getup.” Laurie hoped to ease the awkward moment. “Mairi told me you moved to Anderson Creek from Scotland and opened the inn three years ago.”

“Aye, ’tis a fact. This place reminds us of our homeland with its rowan trees and thistles and frequent mists. Mairi gets melancholy at times, missing the old place and the children, but I like the modern conveniences.”

“You must also miss your children.”

“They have destinies to fulfill.” His features closed, end of subject. Then he smiled. “Have you visited Scotland?”

“A couple of times on business.”

“Did you enjoy our culture?” He leaned closer, seeming eager to learn the answer.

“Yes, the people and the countryside are pleasant.” She had found the Scottish people and their country lovely, at least the few she’d met and the little bit she’d seen between business meetings.

“Glad to hear it. Here we are.” He sat her near the hearth and handed over a menu. “May I bring you something from the bar? Whisky perhaps?” He jigged his eyebrows, grinning.

She chuckled at his antics. “A glass of merlot, please.”

“As you wish.” He inclined his head and hurried to the bar.

A couple engrossed in quiet conversation sat at a nearby table. Across the room, another pair gazed into each other’s eyes. Romantic.

Alone again, Laurie frowned and tried to forget how long she’d been alone.

When Iain returned, he set the wine on the table. “I understand you went walking on the grounds today. Did you enjoy our gardens?”

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “While I was out, I came across a stone cottage. Do you know who owns the place?”

“Aye, ’tis ours. We recently finished renovating it.”

“Really?”

“Inside. The outside and grounds require a wee bit more sprucing up.” His eyes twinkled. “Why do you ask?”

Playing with the napkin in her lap, she gave him a tentative smile. “Is it for rent?”

“Aye, lass, ’tis. Might you be interested?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help but grin.

Iain glanced away when a college-aged girl approached. “Ah, here is your waitress. Let our Emily take your order. You can discuss the cottage with Mairi in the morning if you want.”

He returned to the hostess station and said something to his wife. Mairi’s gaze swiveled to the table and she pinned Laurie with a curious stare.

* * *

Four weeks later, after Laurie returned from settling her affairs in New York, she lay on her stomach across the enormous bed. The room seemed hazy. Had she drank too much wine? She stretched like a contented feline, the furs she lay on sensuous against bare skin.

She sensed his presence, then the mattress sank, and he moved over her, trapping her within strong arms and the pressure of a hard body. She trembled with a bit of fear. Would she disappoint?

“Be still, sweetling. Let me pleasure you.” His husky whisper curled around her heart, dispelling her silly fears.

This was a dream lover. With him, she could explore every fantasy. Her body thrummed with excitement as he rose slightly and feathered kisses along the nape of her neck, taking tiny nips. His lips slid ever so slowly down the arch of her back. Chills followed in the wake of his touch. Laurie shivered when his lips hit that sensitive spot at the base of her spine—the spot only he had kissed. His teeth grazed a hip, and then he explored farther. She tried to roll over, wanting to see her lover’s face, kiss his lips. Gentle caresses kept her facedown and trembling with anticipation.

When she moaned, he eased open her legs and tenderly kissed the inside of one thigh. He held her firmly to the bed, nibbling sensitive skin. He was everything she wanted in a lover.

Once again, his body slid over hers. His erection rubbed against the cleft of her behind. He raised her hips, and with a quick thrust, entered her core. She clutched the sheets and cried out in pleasure. His movements were slow and teasing.

“More. Please,” she begged.

“Aye, my love.” He quickened the pace.

The pressure built. The fire burned. She soared among the stars.

Laurie woke, breathing in an exotic perfume clinging to the air. She curled into herself, trying to ease the slow burn at her core. Holy shit! Her first erotic dream. She muffled a groan of frustration into the pillow before flipping onto her back. She replayed the dream in her mind, wanting to hold onto the addictive heat. She tried to imagine what her lover looked like. She knew he bulged with muscle and made love with tenderness.

A floorboard outside her room creaked. She stiffened as footsteps moved down the hall. Had someone been at the door listening?

Embarrassment burned her cheeks.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, rose to her feet and padded to the door. She opened it slowly and peeked out. The passageway was empty.

Shaking her head, she headed into the bathroom to take a cold shower. Two hours later, after breakfast in the inn’s dining room, she met Mairi in the foyer.

“My dear, I was relieved when your furniture arrived. Iain didn’t believe you would return after you left in a rush to visit your family.”

“Sorry. I should’ve sent word from New York when I extended my trip. My cousin had problems with a couple of my old accounts. I couldn’t leave until my replacement got up to speed.”

She’d finally done the unthinkable, resigned from her high-profile business-consulting job. Never again would she allow anal executives who thought themselves superior merely because they were born male belittle her. Brussels was her final business trip for the family firm. She was finished with tiresome trips, living out of a suitcase, eating room service meals.

Her belly shimmied.

Just thinking about the way she marched into Finn’s office and submitted her resignation left her giddy with relief and an incredible euphoria. The same soaring feeling she’d had when she flew in a hot air balloon over farmland while attending an air show in central New Jersey.

He could believe she wimped out if he wanted, but she was finally taking control of her life.

“I hope you straightened everything out so you don’t have to go back,” Mairi said, her gaze searching.

“Actually, I had a wonderful visit.”

“Good. And you’ll have plenty of time to relax here. Everything you sent from New York is in the cottage. I’ve set the day aside to help you unpack and get settled. I can hardly wait to discover what you have in all those boxes.”

Taking Laurie’s silver BMW, they drove down the long dirt drive toward the cottage. As they rounded the last curve, the meadow came into view.

“Look!” Laurie slammed on the brakes and pointed. “Those men are trying to kill each other.”

Two huge men, dressed in kilts, bare chests bulging with muscle, metal flashing in bright sun, fought with extremely large swords. A terrifying sight, yet strangely thrilling.

She grabbed the door handle—

Mairi chuckled and grasped her arm, stopping her from getting out. “That is my Iain and Douglas MacKinnon rehearsing a battle reenactment for the society they belong to. I should have mentioned they practice here several mornings during the week. And some of the lads from town come to the meadow on Saturdays to train for the Highland Games at Grandfather Mountain. The gathering is quite the event come July. I hope they won’t disturb you.”

Laurie followed the graceful dance of the combatants, fascinated by their strength and agility. She flinched at a loud clang as one sword sliced down hard on the other, the vibration shrill.

“Laurie?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, no. They won’t bother me. My cousin Finn often attends the Highland games up north. I traveled most of the time and never had the opportunity.” Laurie struggled to suppress a pang of resentment. Finn managed to make time for his personal pursuits, but expected her to be on the road, working, one hundred percent of the time.

She smiled, pleased with the changes she’d made in her life. She planned to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. With her trust fund—if she were thrifty—she’d have the means to do just that, at least for a while.

“Watching the men practice will be interesting.” Laurie pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. “Besides, I’ll get to ogle the muscular legs exposed by the sexy kilts they wear.”

Oh, yeah, she’d enjoy watching the men.

“Are you Scot then?” Mairi arched a brow.

“My mother was a MacIntyre. I guess I’m half Scottish.”

Mairi grinned and patted Laurie’s knee. “A wee bit of Scot’s blood makes you a Scot, lass.” She leaned back against the leather seat. “By the way, that handsome devil, Douglas MacKinnon, owns the Celtic Image shop in the village. He carries lovely Scottish items. That is, if you’ve a mind to wear the plaid.”

“I’ll check out his shop the next time I go to the village.”

When they entered the cottage, things were already in good order. They spent the next few hours unpacking and setting up housekeeping. Mairi carefully removed a bone china cup from one of the boxes. “Lovely tea service. I don’t recognize the floral pattern. Where did you get it?”

“It’s antique. The set belonged to my mother. She and my father passed away when I was a child.”

“I am sorry.”

“Was a long time ago.” Laurie gazed at the beckoning garden beyond the kitchen window. “Let’s take a break and go outside for some fresh air.”

A few minutes later, she waved her arm over the messy beds. “Do you know anyone I might hire to help me? I have grand plans, but I can’t refurbish the garden by myself.”

Mairi considered for a moment. “You can borrow our garden pixie, Caitrina. She takes care of our gardens. I’m sure she could find time to help you.”

“Shouldn’t you ask me first?”

Laurie glanced around, then up. Above them, on the high wall, holding a picnic basket, sat Caitrina.

Great. She hadn’t seen the rude woman since that day in the inn’s garden. Would have preferred not to meet her again. Though maybe she should be thankful for the information about the cottage and garden.

Caitrina dropped from the wall to land gracefully on the soft soil.

It was quite a drop. How did she do that without twisting an ankle? Laurie eyed her with suspicion.

“And I’m not a pixie.” Caitrina’s chin jutted up and she sniffed indignantly.

“Of course not, dear. You are not nearly as mischievous,” Mairi cajoled.

“I brought lunch. Emily thought you might be hungry.”

The two women exchanged eye contact as if Mairi pleaded with Caitrina to be nice.

Caitrina graced Laurie with a half-smile. “Aye, I’ll help. Do you ken anything about making gardens?”

“A little.” Laurie knew plants. She’d spent many a flight thumbing through garden catalogs and magazines studying how to grow them and combine them to best effect. The fact she didn’t have hands-on experience was insignificant. “I’m eager to learn.”

“Are you now?” Caitrina wrinkled her nose. Do you think you’ll be here long enough to make a difference?”

“Absolutely.”

More than that, Laurie wanted to learn what it would take to start a garden business. Although she hadn’t admitted it to her uncle, she would never return to corporate. Excitement she hadn’t felt in ages swept over her.

Whoa. Take it easy. One day at a time.

She didn’t care for the way Caitrina stared. Maybe she should find someone else to help with the garden.

“Well then, go to the library in the village and get some books for ideas. In a few days, we’ll visit my favorite garden centers for plants. In the meantime, start the spring cleanup. Clear the dead growth and weed.”

It seemed Caitrina intended to help. Perhaps it was for the best since she already worked for the inn.

“Mairi, are you positive you don’t mind my borrowing Caitrina?”

“Of course not, dear. It will be to our benefit to have the garden beautiful again. And you will have a reason to stay with us.” Mairi switched her gaze to Caitrina. “Now, lass, what did you bring us in that basket?”

* * *

Later in the evening, the music from the stereo speakers escalated to a crescendo. Laurie jerked her gaze away from where she stared at the wall. She stilled the rapid jouncing of her leg. God, a restless edge rode her tonight.

She fanned herself. Too warm from the fire, her living room became oppressive. She poured another glass of wine and walked into the garden. Mist embraced the night. Although the cottage windows cast filtered light, most of the garden lay in shadow. Lovely.

A tinkling noise startled her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. An out-of-place exotic fragrance scented the air.

Sensing movement at the rear of the garden, she set her wine glass on the concrete bench and strode toward the gate.

The previously closed gate hung open.

An impressively tall, breathtakingly gorgeous man—wrapped in what could only be described as a large plaid blanket—stood in the woods just beyond the garden gate.

Laurie’s gaze locked on the man’s face. Her mouth went dry. Words lodged in a tight throat. Who was this man? He seemed familiar.

Impossible. He was fearsome. Built like a romance cover model.

“Go to him,” a compulsion whispered within her mind. She stepped forward. No. This can’t be right. Unable to resist, she took another small step, but stopped short. What is this? A barrier, invisible—seemingly made from some shrink-wrap like material, stretched taut—blocked the way through the gate.

She pressed a palm against the barrier. A vibrant pink light twirled around her tingling fingers and Laurie drew them away. The color dissipated.

What on earth was going on?

Laurie glanced through the gate.

Gazes colliding, the man’s dark eyes pierced her soul. Every passion visible.

Unable to turn away, she stood motionless. A jolt of energy—as if shot with lightning—raced through her. Almost immediately, the energy seeped away. A boneless sensation buckled her knees. Laurie groped for something solid to hold onto and grabbed the gate.

The barrier had disappeared! So had the man.

Simply vanished.

This day was getting weirder by the minute. Behind her, the golden glow from the cottage windows seemed normal. She touched the cold metal grille again. Still no barrier. Still no man. A violent churning in her belly warned, “Run and lock the doors.” Yet Laurie did neither. She stepped through the gate and walked to the edge of the woods where the path headed off into darkness.

“Hey, is anyone there?”

Silence.

She rubbed tingling fingers on her pant legs and scanned the shadows.

The man was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

The Fir-wood, Scottish Highlands, 1509

Patrick stared at the spot where his father and stepmother had gone missing. Had his eyes deceived him? Had a petite woman stood there dressed in a lad’s garments?

A strange light from a mysterious cottage had shone on the woman’s pale cheek. Enchanted by expressive blue eyes, he’d frozen in fascination. Gold hair caressed her shoulders, making him want to stroke the silky tresses. He flexed his fingers. Was he a smitten fool? He shouldn’t think about those lush pink lips and what he wanted to do with his mouth.

The cottage was gone now. A half-moon lit the mound where it had stood with an eerie glow. He hadn’t meant to walk so far this night. But walking had become his evening ritual ever since he lost his parents. After three years, his pain had become a restless ache. Unlike others, he had faith one day he’d find them. He believed his parents were alive.

To assuage the ache in his heart, he walked.

Only on this foggy evening, he’d wandered farther than intended, ending up in the Fir-wood, standing before the retched faerie hill. He rubbed his tired eyes. The last thing he’d expected to see was a beautiful lass in the mist of a garden he knew didn’t exist—a woman and a garden that both vanished from in front of him. He’d felt an odd oomph in his chest when their gazes met, then she was gone.

He was no simpleton. He wasn’t imagining things. Something was seriously amiss. Munn. That had to be the explanation. The wee man was creating havoc again. Patrick wouldn’t stand for it. He ran back through the wood toward the castle, determined to put an end to the mischief.

By the time he entered the courtyard, his chest burned from anger. Not watching where he walked, he tripped on a loose stone and collided with his cousin Stephen.

The blond warrior was his childhood friend, his henchman and personal guard. They had fostered together. No one knew him better, except perhaps for Patrick’s young half-sister, Elspeth.

“Where have you been?” Stephen asked. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“That would have been a damn fool thing to do in the dark.”

“Would it now?” Stephen smiled. “Were you with a lass?”

“Never mind you that.” Patrick tightened his lips and glared at his kinsman. “Where is Munn?”

That only served to broaden Stephen’s grin. “I saw him earlier in the hall with Elspeth.”

Whirling in the direction of the stairs, Patrick strode off.

Stephen’s footsteps thudded behind him. “Whatever is the matter with you? You look as if you ate something spoilt.”

Patrick took the narrow stairs two at a time, uncaring that his shoulders banged against stone. He burst into the hall and stilled.

The Brunaidh, whose duty it was to watch over Clan MacLachlan, sat on a stool near the fire, reciting rhymes for Elspeth. He waved his arms as he spoke. Dressed for foolery, the brownie wore baggy brown leather trews and a knee length leine of fine woolen cloth secured at the waist by a thick leather belt adorned with bronze. Around his shoulders, he wore a green brat held in place by a bronze brooch with a large clear crystal in the center. He tapped his feet in rhythm to the cadence of his voice. On those wee feet, he wore green boots with toes that pointed upward.

“Munn!” Patrick bellowed.

The little man twisted around, his whisker-covered face scrunched more than usual. Panic flashed in blue-green eyes, and he jumped to a full three-foot height. His bent nose twitched and he grasped hold of the funny-looking pointed green cap he always wore.

Anticipating the brownie’s attempt to escape, Patrick took hold of him. “Not so fast, wee imp. What mischief have you been about this night?”

“Nae.” Munn’s whole body shook. “Not I.”

“Then what caused a strange lass to appear to me in the Fir-wood and to vanish as quick?”

The brownie’s eyes grew big and round, his surprise obvious. Patrick had the sense to put him down and step back. Just in time. In a blink, the little man disappeared.

Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face. More questions plagued him than before.

* * *

Munn’s essence flowed through the wood, searching for the taint of magic. Soft giggles sang along with the rustle of blowing leaves, alerting him to the lost bairns who lived in the trees.

He didn’t have time to play their games tonight. He needed to find out what kind of spell caused the chief’s vision. Why had it been cast? And who did the casting?

No one else could perform the task. It was up to him to discover the truth. Munn sucked in a chest full of air, pleased with his importance.

As he rushed along the trail, the sound of young voices faded behind him.

The night grew late. A dense fog crept across the moor and through the wood. No mortal man was about. No human saw him appear at the edge of the Fir-wood. He hid behind the old hut and waited. When sure no magic users lingered in the area, he approached the grassy mound.

He didn’t know how the faerie knoll worked its magic. ’Twas a secret held dear by the Sithichean—the ancient faeries of the Highlands.

The vaporous mist wrapped around him, pressed against him, suffocated him. He inhaled deeply then recoiled, recognizing the exotic oriental scent, the fragrance of peony and freesia and sandalwood. That infuriating sithiche must have come out of hiding. She must be who spun the magic.

He searched for other traces, but found naught. The faerie did well to cover her trail.

Munn rubbed his aching temples. What trouble did she conjure this night?

He must warn the chief. Focusing on his destination, he summoned the travel spell, but anger blocked his magic. Munn kicked the dirt at his feet. He paced the knoll and cursed the fae.

Their interference would surely prove disastrous.

He concentrated on his breathing, spinning in frantic circles, until the pressure released and he melted into the mist.

* * *

Patrick stood before the fire in his chamber, sipping his finest claret. He swirled the ruby liquid in the cup, speculating the intent of the vision he’d seen in the Fir-wood. He didn’t have visions. That was Elspeth’s proclivity. His mind unsettled, he stared into the flames. Even the gold and blue dancing lights conspired against him, reminding him of the golden lass with the sparkling sapphire eyes.

Her expression of longing would haunt him through the night. The same need blazed within his chest. Would she have let him envelope her in a protective embrace? Kiss her fine lips?

The thought made him hard. “Ach, well…”

Who could she be? Where did she come from?

She wasn’t one of the villagers. That was for certain. Could she be one of their kin? Nae. That wouldn’t explain the mysterious vanishing garden and cottage.

Seeing the woman where his parents disappeared gave him pause. Could she be a witch? One of the fae? He stilled, shivered, feeling as if a banshee walked through him.

A rustling sound disturbed his thoughts when Munn whirled into the chamber, hopping around, ranting unintelligibly. Patrick seized the little man by his tunic, and shook him until he ceased his tirade.

With an angry scowl on his weathered, brown face, the little man wagged his finger. “I ken who caused the mischief. ’Twas Caitrina.”

“Witch?”

“Nae witch, sithiche. Mischievous female sprite set upon us by the old Earl of Argyll himself afore he died.” Munn turned and spit on the stone floor. “Guardian of your father’s lady-wife.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Why dinnae I ken who she is?”

“Ach, ’twas your father’s wish to keep it secret.” The brownie’s voice lowered to a whisper. “When I learned about your stepmother’s guardian, I grew angry. You were a bairn, too young to ken. We matched spells, Caitrina and me. Me more powerful.” Munn puffed out his chest.

“Go on,” Patrick urged.

“We created a terrible tempest, heavy rain, thunder and lightning over the mountains, we did. Tremendous rage escaped the otherworld. Your father and stepmother were rowing back from the village. They got caught in mayhem. Chief verra mad. Command us to stop. Nae more spell battles. Caitrina’s comings and goings kept secret from all.”

“Hmmm.” Patrick drained the last of the wine in his cup and filled it again from the jug on the table. “What do you think this sithiche is about? Why would she conjure such a vision?”

Why now?

Crinkling his face, adding wrinkles upon wrinkles, Munn made a show of thinking. After several moments, he broke out in a puckish grin.

“You like bonnie lasses.” He twirled around, spun in a circle, disappeared.

Damned brownie.

Patrick slumped into the chair beside the hearth and stared into the flames. The fire burned down until nothing remained but cold gray ash. Yet his musing hadn’t produced the answers he sought. When he finally fell into bed, a restless sleep held him within its grasp, dreams filled with enchanting sapphire eyes, a petite curvy figure and silky golden-blond tresses.

In the middle of the night, he woke in a rush. Fear tightened his chest, and his heartbeat raced as if he’d run up a mountain trail with an enemy in pursuit.

After a tense moment, his surroundings came into focus. He sank back into the mattress. He needed to be more careful of what he consumed before retiring. Patrick swallowed, trying to ease the dread. In the terror dream, he failed to keep the woman safe from danger.

CHAPTER THREE

Present Day, North Carolina

Laurie rubbed the furrow lining her forehead and slumped into the sofa cushions. Gah, she must be going crazy. She poured herself another glass of wine and took several quick sips.

Was she hallucinating?

Even with the poor lighting, she found the man fabulously attractive. Scrumptious. He could have walked out of the steamiest romance novel. Intense, dark eyes—if only it had been light enough to see the color—set in a face only the Celtic gods could have molded. The sexy cleft in his chin made her mouth go instantly dry. The mere thought of him left her breathless and achy with need.

Had she really reached out to a stranger? How stupid. What if he was a nutcase?

She flicked her gaze to the dark windows then the locked front door. The house was secure.

A psycho? She hoped not. The man seemed familiar. She felt as though she'd met him before. Though where could that have been?

The adrenaline kick waned, taking her energy with it. She yawned and finished the wine. Maybe there was no danger. The man might be one of Iain’s unusual friends dressed in a reenactment costume.

Nothing more? Well, there was the pink light to consider and the weird barrier at the gate.

Imagination. Mentally shaking herself, she prepared for bed.

Unable to fall asleep, she lay beneath the covers and stared at the spinning ceiling fan, replaying the evening’s events in her mind. The more she thought about it, the surer she was the whole affair was nothing more than a figment of a way-too-overactive imagination. With time, she succumbed to physical and emotional exhaustion.

A perfectly placed kiss at the nape of her neck caused her sex to clench. The cool, silky sheets did nothing to relieve the heat. He lay behind, her bare back pressed tight against a broad chest, each individual chest hair teasing sensitive skin, sending tiny shock waves along her spine.

“Ah, you’ve returned.” She squirmed, and her dream lover groaned.

“Careful, lass. I wish to last the night.” He laved a shoulder and nipped the skin.

He whispered words in a language she didn’t know, yet understood in a place deep within her heart. Words of romance and promises of exquisite pleasure. Wave after wave of yearning spiraled through her, straight to the center of her soul.

Turning her to face him, he captured her in a tender embrace. His teeth toyed with an earlobe, and she dug her nails into the flesh on his back. He released a primal growl then continued kissing the way around her neck to the hollow of her throat. A velvety tongue played havoc with her senses. Every nerve ending tingled with pleasure.

With a shockingly rough touch, he caught a breast in his palm, and rubbed the tender nipple with a calloused thumb. Taking the hardened tip into his mouth, he sucked the flesh into a tight sensitized nub. My, God. All thought scattered.

“You’re killing me.”

“Nae. Loving you.”

He placed his palm intimately against her. She inhaled his manly scent—pine and fresh air. No cologne could be as enticing. Repositioning their bodies, he pressed his erection against her softness and thrust. Her gasp was swallowed in an open-mouthed kiss.

More. She wanted more.

She grasped his hips and tugged, drawing him deeper into her body and into a rhythmic dance. He took her to places she’d never imagined. To heights—

The alarm pierced Laurie’s fantasy. She reached over to the nightstand and slammed her hand against the off button. Urgh! Another sex dream and they hadn’t finished.

Still hot. Still wet. She pinched a pebbled nipple with one hand and slid two fingers from the other between her thighs. She panted, arched her back, and rode her release with a scream.

When euphoria wore off and embarrassment settled in, she threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. She sniffed the air, catching a hint of that same exotic perfume from the room at the inn where she’d first dreamed of the man. Strange.

And another strange thing—her dream lover looked like the man in the woods last night. Had he really been there or had a vivid imagination created him after her earlier dream?

So many questions with no easy answers.

* * *

Two weeks passed, Laurie almost believed she hadn’t seen a man. But...

Dammit there were other things to think about today.

She set aside the garden design she drew on graph paper the previous night and poured a mug of coffee. Dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a worn-out pair of jeans with a tear in one knee, she headed to the garden, wondering what new plant might be poking through the soil today. It seemed like every day something new showed its face to the sun. Today, Caitrina was taking her to visit garden centers. Laurie couldn’t wait.

Once she’d gotten to know Caitrina better, Laurie realized her initial gruff disposition was a facade. She was sweet underneath and they were becoming good friends.

Laurie savored the hazelnut-flavored coffee and the warmth it provided as she strolled along the paths and contemplated the garden’s progress. Early morning fog drifted over the beds, adding a touch of charm.

It’d been the right decision to stay in North Carolina.

Though she couldn’t ignore her dreams or the strange man no one at the inn seemed to know. Laurie pinched the bridge of her nose. Could he be a figment of her imagination? Was it possible he was nothing more than a manifestation of the stress she’d been under at her job?

Had she made him up because she was lonely? That didn’t make sense, still…

With more time in the non-corporate world, would her life settle down, become normal?

She had to hope.

Morning sun burned through the mist. The emerging garden looked awesome. Maybe things had already begun to settle down and return to normal.

Lost in thought, a tinkling noise near the rear gate startled her. A familiar hint of an exotic fragrance played on the breeze. As if in a trance, she rose and walked to the open gate.

Her dream man stood on a grassy knoll at the edge of the woods.

Laurie’s pulse quickened and the muscles in her belly tightened as she tried to move toward him. Again, the invisible barrier at the gate held her back. Their gazes met. His deep blue eyes devoured her. The intensity sent a thrill through her system. He reached out his hand and time seemed to stand still. His eyes are so blue.

A bright white light arced between them, and he faded away.

She stared at the spot where he’d stood. When she turned around, she released a surprised scream.

“Sorry,” Caitrina said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Thought we might want to get an early start. Have breakfast in the village before visiting garden centers.”

“It’s okay, you startled me. Laurie pressed her palm against her chest in an attempt to still her racing heart. “I saw that man again.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to think. Maybe I shouldn’t stay in Anderson Creek. Maybe moving here was a mistake. Maybe I should go to New York and find a good shrink.”

* * *

Patrick remained outside the walled garden, held in place by an unnatural force. The lass looked exquisite in the early morning light. Compelled to touch her, he reached for her, but a fierce jolt traveled up his arm and a bright light blinded him. Once his vision cleared, she was gone.

Strange. His visions of the lass only came to him in the Fir-wood, near the old hut and that cursed faerie knoll. And the woman, dressed in unusual garments, as if she were a lad. Odd, indeed. He was drawn to her. Not only was she beautiful, but he sensed a kinship between them. A longing to be loved.

Ach, he knew naught of the lass.

Patrick dropped his outstretched arm. What was he doing here, lurking, hoping to see her again? He should have given this place a wide berth instead of hanging about like a besotted fool. There were important activities requiring his attention—practicing sword skills, drilling his men, hunting.

The feud had been quiet of late, but that surely wouldn’t continue.

He didn’t have time to worry about the woman. Though Munn’s insistence that the fae were involved with the lass and perhaps his parent’s disappearance brought a disturbing thought. What had Patrick done to encourage their notice? Why would the fae become involved in his life?

Frustration plunged him into a dark mood.

He trudged toward the castle, but as he got closer, he lengthened his stride determined not to waste the rest of the day. Not to think about the lass who stirred his loins. When he arrived at the stables, he yelled for Stephen to join him. Patrick needed a distraction. A strenuous ride through the forest would serve him well. A hunt would clear his head.

And one never knew what one would find while hunting.

CHAPTER FOUR

Caitrina rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I ken what you need.”

“Really?” Laurie braved a smile for her friend.

“You’ll feel better after we go plant shopping.” Caitrina gently touched Laurie’s shoulder.

Laurie calmed, yet felt somewhat bewildered. It was as if the other woman’s touch held some magical calming power. Sometimes Caitrina had a strange way about her.

“Shall we go?” She tugged the brim of her hat over her eyes.

“But what about the man?”

“Dinnae think about it.”

Maybe Caitrina was right. Perhaps picking out plants for the garden would take her mind off what she thought she saw beyond the gate.

“All right. Let’s go.”

They drove into the nearby village of Anderson Creek, to the Le Petit Café and Bakery, entering to the tinkle of little silver bells hanging on the inside of the door.

“Hello.” Caitrina waved to the owner.

The French woman signaled from behind the counter for them to seat themselves. They selected a cozy booth with a view of the creek.

“Did Mairi tell you about the ceilidh at the inn this coming Saturday night?” Caitrina asked. “It’ll be a full moon, a wonderful reason to celebrate.”

“No, she didn’t. What is a ceilidh?”

“’Tis a wee house party with good food, storytelling, traditional music, dancing. Everyone dresses in Highland costume. You ken? Lots of tartan. ’Tis a grand time.”

“Sounds like fun. Not sure what I’d wear though. I don’t have anything tartan.”

“We’ll find something, even if we have to go to the Celtic Image shop.”

As they finished their omelets, the bells on the door jingled again. A dapper older man sauntered in wearing dress slacks, a tweed jacket and cap, a walking cane at his side. His alert gaze spied Caitrina. Stepping up to their table, he removed his cap and bowed.

“Good day to you. ’Tis a pleasure to see such bonnie lasses.” He grasped Caitrina’s hand and brushed a kiss across the top of her knuckles. With a wink, he said, “Introduce me to your friend, lass.”

“Hello to you, Mr. MacNaughton.” Caitrina smiled playfully at him. “This is the lass living in the old cottage at the inn. Her name is Laurie Bernard.”

“Hello, sir.” Laurie produced a friendly smile for the handsome, elder gentleman.

His keen eyes measured her.

“Pleased to meet you, lass.” He inclined his head. “Enchanting old place, the cottage. I hope you decide to remain among us.”

“Thank you.” Laurie squirmed in her seat, awkward, but needed to ask, “Do you know of anyone who might…hike the woods near my cottage?”

Caitrina stared out the window. Laurie frowned, wondering why she looked away.

“Why do you ask?” Mr. MacNaughton narrowed his eyes.

“I saw a man this morning outside my garden gate,” Laurie said.

“Probably a guest from the inn out for a morning constitutional.”

I doubt that. “You’re likely right.”

The stranger didn’t dress like anyone she’d seen at the inn. The Scottish men at the inn wore modern kilts, not a blanket wrapped around pure muscle. Maybe she had imagined him.

“I see friends yonder, I must be off.” Mr MacNaughton ambled over to the counter to chat with the women seated there.

“He’s a terrible flirt,” Caitrina whispered from behind her hand.

They paid the bill and left the café. They drove for a few miles until they glimpsed the sign for May’s Flowers, apparently one of Caitrina’s favorite garden centers.

After parking, they strolled among rows of plants and flowers, stopping often to discuss the merits of one plant or another. Halting at one of the display tables, Caitrina picked up a nursery pot with light green foliage.

“Foxgloves will be perfect in the semi-shade near the rear gate.”

“I’ve seen them in catalogs. Digitalis purpurea. Am I correct?”

“Aye. They’re biennial, and they’ll self-sow each year.” Caitrina tilted her head to the side. “Some say they attract faeries.”

“Faeries, huh?” Laurie touched a soft green leaf and smiled over the fanciful idea. “What color will they bloom?”

“This variety is a mix. The flowers come in white and shades of pink or purple.”

“Which color attracts faeries?” Laurie kept her grin to herself.

“All of them,” Caitrina said with a straight face. “Especially the pink.”

“Then I hope these plants produce pink flowers.” Laurie selected several pots and placed them in their cart.

Before leaving May’s, they crammed the small car with as many perennials and annuals as would fit, and made arrangements for the delivery of more plants the next day.

After visiting two more garden centers, Laurie slid behind the wheel and sighed. The morning had been long and judging by the height of the sun, the afternoon was slipping by. She glanced sideways at Caitrina. “You are tireless, but I’m hungry. Could we stop for a bite to eat?”

“We probably should return to the cottage. We don’t want the plants to dry out in the car. We can stop at the vegetarian restaurant in the village for a sandwich and soup to go. Teddy makes fabulous tomato, roasted-garlic soup.”

Laurie’s stomach growled. “You’re making my mouth water. Let’s hurry.”

The Baked Potato was a storefront vegetarian café located next door to the Celtic Image shop on the main drag of Anderson Creek. Tantalizing aromas greeted them when they stepped into the crowded restaurant. Several customers waited in line at the counter in front of them.

One stood out among the others, not only due to his substantial height, but also for his mode of dress. His handsome six-foot-seven body was clothed in a cream fisherman’s sweater, a red plaid kilt, and around his waist hung a fur sporran with a badger head.

He strode to them and gave Caitrina a cursory glance before smiling at Laurie. “Hello. You must be our new resident. Iain says nice things about you.”

Laurie expected Caitrina to introduce them. When she glanced at her friend, she found her glaring at the guy.

“Douglas MacKinnon,” Caitrina snapped. “Rude as usual.”

His eyes turned cold. “Love, where were you last night? You were supposed to meet me.”

“You assume much. I never agreed to meet you.” Caitrina grabbed Laurie by the arm and pulled her past Douglas to the counter. He chuckled from behind her as she ordered sandwiches and soup from Teddy.

Douglas leaned close to Caitrina, and she stiffened.

“Ach, lass. Why do you fight it? You know we are meant to be together.” Although he whispered the words near Caitrina’s ear, Laurie overheard.

He stepped back and raised his chin. “Talk about rude, Caitrina. Wouldn’t it be polite for you to introduce me to your friend?”

Visibly bristling, she turned to Laurie. “This horny toad owns the Celtic shop next door. Douglas, meet Laurie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Laurie shook his hand.

“My pleasure. As I said before this minx interrupted, Iain speaks highly of you.”

Laurie couldn’t help but notice the yearning in his tawny eyes when he gazed at Caitrina and felt a twinge of longing. Would be nice to have someone look at her that way.

The image of the man in the woods popped into her mind for the umpteenth time. What would it be like to have him desire her the way Douglas obviously wanted Caitrina?

“Come on.” Caitrina took the bag of food from Teddy and again grabbed Laurie by the arm, dragging her out the door. Laurie glanced over her shoulder at Douglas and gave him a finger wave. His hearty laughter boomed as the door shut behind her.

When they returned to the cottage, she walked into the living room, and Caitrina followed with the bag of food.

“My new dining set hasn’t arrived yet from the manufacturer. I hope you don’t mind eating at the coffee table.”

Putting the bag down, Caitrina sat cross-legged on the floor. “This is fine. Do you have any whisky? I could use a stiff drink.”

Laurie chuckled. “I have wine. Would you care for a glass of pinot noir?”

“Most definitely.”

After fetching glasses, the wine and a corkscrew from the kitchen, Laurie opened the bottle. She poured them both a glass and handed one to Caitrina.

“Douglas MacKinnon is attractive, don’t you think?”

Caitrina accepted the wine and held it up in toast. “Let’s drink to brawny men. May they be there when you want them, and disappear when you dinnae.”

Laurie cringed. The toast made her think of the mysterious man. She chuckled at the idiocy and clicked her glass against Caitrina’s.

They ate the tasty lunch, chatted and drank wine, more wine, and still more wine.

“I’ll pick out something for you to wear to the ceilidh,” Caitrina said.

Laurie followed her into the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Caitrina selected a dark green skirt with a drawstring waist, adding a soft, cream-colored linen peasant blouse that tied at the neck.

She held up the blouse. “This will work with the skirt. It’ll be comfortable, no zippers or buttons, only ties. You can go to the Celtic shop for a tartan shawl to wrap around your shoulders. If you pick a plaid that matches the skirt, you’ll look perfect.”

Laurie tried to remember having seen the clothes before. She couldn’t. She tended to be impulsive when shopping. She’d probably purchased the items and never worn them.

Returning to the living room, she poured them both more wine while Caitrina pulled out the folder with the garden plan and made a note on the sketch.

Laurie set the wine glasses on the coffee table. “I was thinking there might be enough room at the south side for a greenhouse. I’m considering asking Iain if I can buy the cottage and some of the land around it.”

“Really?” Caitrina’s eyes took on a speculative tilt.

“Yeah. I think I’d like to live here permanently.”

“Well, then, a greenhouse might fit.”

“I wondered. Actually, I thought this might be a good setting for a garden center.”

With the tip of a finger, Caitrina scratched her chin, studying Laurie. “It would.”

Laurie cleared her throat. “I know there are already a few garden centers in the area, but none with special services like workshops or design clinics.”

“Interesting concepts.”

“Yeah, I thought so. I’d like to open a garden center here. That is, if I can work out a deal with Iain and Mairi.”

Caitrina’s expression remained noncommittal. Maybe it was too much to hope that she might want to join Laurie in a new business. She would wait until her plans were more firm before asking Caitrina to be her partner.

“I don’t mean to open a garden center right away.” Laurie bit her bottom lip. “After I learn more about garden culture. I already have a lot of business experience.” She picked up her glass and sipped the wine.

“In time, with my help, you might learn enough.” Caitrina, too, took a sip of wine.

They talked about the garden, browsed flower catalogs, discussed Laurie’s plans. They gossiped about who would attend the ceilidh. Time slid by. Day turned into night. A couple of empty bottles had rolled under the coffee table, and she opened another.

Her head pounded when she woke in the morning. Laurie lay on the bed, fully dressed, unable to recall how she’d gotten there. Oh, yeah, the wine.

God. What was she thinking?

While she’d slept, she had a bizarre dream. Now, when she tried to think about it, she couldn’t remember anything. How weird was that? Oh, well. Not important.

She dragged dead weight to the shower and leaned against the tile wall under a spray of cool water. More awake, she dressed, made coffee and drank a mug full. After forcing down toast, the woozy sensation faded. With a second mug of java in hand, Laurie walked outside.

The late morning sky threatened rain. She found Caitrina working in the garden. “This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

Caitrina stopped and looked up. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a Mack truck ran over me and thousands of foot soldiers marched through my mouth. Other than that, fine. How about you?”

“Alcohol has no effect on me.”

“Why not?”

Caitrina lowered her head and placed a root ball into a small hole. “It just doesn’t.”

That’s odd. They’d both drank a lot of wine. Laurie shrugged. “Aren’t you fortunate.”

“Here. Start planting these as I’ve laid them out.” Caitrina handed her a trowel and pointed to the trays of seedlings sitting on the freshly turned soil. “We’re in luck. Drizzly weather is a good time for planting.”

Laurie reached for one of the small fiber pots. A creepy sensation on her arm made her shudder and toss the plant aside with a curt scream. She brushed off a nasty-looking spider. “I hate the damn things.” Caitrina laughed, and Laurie chuckled. “Foolish, I know.”

They worked together until the middle of the afternoon. Laurie kept glancing toward the back gate. Would her dream man show up again? When—if—he came, did she want to see him? Her nipples hardened in answer, and she blew a stray hair out of her face. She needed to stop thinking about the stranger.

After Caitrina left, Laurie ate a sandwich, showered and dressed in clean clothes. Then she drove to the village. She passed the historic stone church and parked in front of the Celtic Image shop.

Inside, she scanned the merchandise. Racks of wool clothing—mostly tartan—lined the far wall. Other shelving contained linens and china and knick-knacks. Several glass-topped cases displayed jewelry and other novelties. Douglas MacKinnon stood at the front of the shop, behind a glass display counter full of knives, waiting on an older woman. He glanced up and waved.

Laurie strolled through the aisles, perusing the large selection of Scottish and Irish items. Welsh things also occupied the space. She stopped at one case to glance through CDs before moving on to a case filled with intricately crafted Celtic jewelry. Along with the modern, she found wonderful antique pieces. Her hands itched to touch the fine work.

“Hello.” Douglas approached her. “How do you like my store?”

“Nice. This jewelry is precious.”

“Aye, ’tis exquisite. I often get pieces from estate sales, pieces brought with emigrants when they came to America and passed down through the generations. The descendents don’t always feel as strongly about tradition as their forefathers. Some prefer to sell their heritage, rather than hold on to it. ’Tis really a shame. Such pieces should stay within a clan.” Douglas sighed. “Oh, well, my gain. Can I show you anything?”

“I came to purchase a shawl for the ceilidh at the inn tomorrow. I’d like to match this green wool skirt.” She pulled the skirt out of her tote bag.

“Do you have a specific clan tartan in mind?”

She hadn’t given it much thought. Shouldn’t she wear her clan’s plaid?

“Do you think the MacIntyre plaid might match?”

“I have a few different MacIntyre tartans.” Douglas searched a shelf containing an assortment of plaid items in plastic covers. He laid several on the counter for her to consider.

One was predominately green and blue with red and white stripes. The green in the plaid matched the green in the skirt perfectly, as if made from the same dyed yarn.

“This one.” Laurie pointed to the plaid she liked best.

“A nice match. ’Tis the MacIntyre hunting tartan. Now, would you like a ruana?” Douglas showed her a small poncho-like wrap, open in the front. “This is the long one. I also have a shorter version. Or, let’s see...”

Laurie leaned forward.

He retrieved a couple more bags from the shelf. “I also have stoles and shawls.”

Douglas laid them out for view.

She considered the stole, brushing her fingers over the soft wool fabric. This would be her first real piece of MacIntyre plaid. She’d been all over the world and bought all types of things, expensive and inexpensive. For some reason, buying this one simple item seemed a momentous occasion, as if she were committing herself to something. She gazed at Douglas through misty eyes.

“I like them all, but for the party the stole makes the most sense.”

“Excellent choice. Shall I put the others aside for you?” he said with what she assumed his most winning salesman’s smile.

She laughed. “Let me think about it and I’ll let you know. By the way, will you be attending the party?”

“I never miss a ceilidh.” His smile reached his eyes. “Will you spare a dance for me?”

“Sure, but if my guess is right, you’d rather spend time with Caitrina.”

“Am I that transparent?” He walked toward the front of the store. “Shall I ring this up for you?”

“Yeah.” Laurie followed him to the register at the front counter where a very large, very old sword secured to the wall above his head caught her gaze.

“Is that what you use when you practice with Iain?”

He chuckled. “Nae, ’tis for a client.”

“Impressive.” She took the bag from Douglas, her gaze lingering on the claymore. Rounding the counter, he gallantly offered his arm and escorted her to the door. Before she left, she gazed back at the sword and shivered.

* * *

Since the garden kept Laurie busy, she was surprised how quickly Saturday evening arrived. Although no one would see them, she put on her sexiest undergarments, a lacy sage green thong and matching under-wire bra with a front closure. They made her feel special. Feminine. She slipped on the peasant blouse Caitrina selected, allowing the string at the neckline to hang. The green skirt went on next, the hem grazing her ankles. Made of lightweight wool, it was perfect for the cool mountain air.

She wiggled her toes. What shoes to wear? She slipped into a pair of black hand-stitched China flats and wrapped the new MacIntyre stole around her shoulders. After clipping her hair up, she was ready to go. The reflection in the mirror proved the deep worry furrows had faded from her brow. She grinned, pleased.

Laurie hummed while walking to the inn, enjoying the short stroll through the meadow’s wildflowers, through the woods, and across the flower-laden gardens.

The atmosphere at the inn struck her with wonder. Candles lit the foyer and the parlor off it, the effect a charming glow. A crowd had gathered in the parlor, everyone seated or standing huddled around the elder Mr. MacNaughton. He sat on a tall stool in the center of the room, telling a story, his audience enthralled.

She stepped closer to listen.

“The lass the prince sought ran across the meadow, stopping at the edge of the Fir-wood to catch her breath. She glanced over her shoulder and her gaze darted from place to place.

The clouds cleared the full moon and shimmering light washed over the wood, its silvery glow falling upon her beauty. Her thick, auburn hair hung loose down her slender back, to her waist, like a river of fiery flames. Her skin was as white as the purest Madonna lily, her lips the precious red of the holly berry, and she possessed sparkling green eyes more glorious than the purest emeralds.

For you ken...the lass was born a princess. The prince’s unusually keen sight allowed him to see her from a great distance. He was not of human blood, but of the Sithichean. This in our ancient Gaelic tongue, the language of our Scottish fathers, means the faeries, although they go by many names in many other countries.

The prince found himself enchanted by the beautiful princess.

Hidden since childhood, she was the daughter of a beautiful mortal woman who captured the heart of Torguil, an ancient sithiche prince, a favorite of the High Queen. The immortal queen was a creature of great power, beyond the ken of mere humans, having descended from the gods who walked in ancient Scotia. Yet she was jealous of the princess.

Now, the halfling daughter of Torguil was unaware of the danger stalking her, not only from the young prince, but also from others...others more sinister.

Unmindful of the fate awaiting her, she ran through the Fir-wood, a place where the veil between the land of mortals and that of the fae was thin and where on full moons, there was an opening.

When the mist cleared, the princess found herself on a large knoll of rich green grass. She saw the prince pursuing her and stepped back, falling through space and time...”

“Hello.”

Laurie jumped with a gasp, disturbing the people standing around her. They stared with disapproval, a finger to their lips, signaling for quiet. Caitrina rolled her eyes, inclined her head toward the foyer and walked out of the parlor. Laurie followed, somewhat disappointed to miss the rest of the tale.

“You startled me.” She smiled. “Wow, you look wonderful.”

Caitrina had traded her dirty work clothes for a gauzy, emerald green silk dress that molded to her tall, slender frame. Around her shoulders, she wore a sash of green and purple tartan with shimmering golden threads. Pinned at her shoulder was a gold brooch intricately crafted with thistle designs and amethyst gemstones. Her rich hair, usually hidden under her floppy garden hat, fell loose past her shoulders to her waist, the auburn strands on fire with highlights that glistened in the candlelight.

“You look like the princess Mr. MacNaughton describes in his story.”

Caitrina shrugged. “You look nice too, but something’s missing.”

She opened her hand to show Laurie an exquisitely crafted Celtic brooch of silver, decorated with intertwining animals and spiral filigrees, adorned with six small moonstones. She pinned it to Laurie’s stole at the shoulder. “There. Perfect.”

Appreciating its fine artistry, Laurie brushed her fingers over the brooch. Moisture filled her eyes. “You are sweet, but I can’t wear this. It must be a priceless antique.”

“Douglas told me you were admiring the jewelry at his shop. He thought you might like to borrow the brooch for the evening.”

“Must be worth a fortune. What if I lose it?”

Caitrina glanced away. “’Tis a mere reproduction.”

Laurie didn’t believe her. She knew jewelry and was positive this piece was very old and extremely valuable, but the last thing she wanted to do was insult her new friend. She’d wear the brooch for the evening and be extra careful not to lose it.

With a mischievous grin, Caitrina dragged her into the dining room where the furniture was pushed to the side. A fiddler played and couples danced. Someone handed her a glass of wine, only for Douglas MacKinnon to take it away and place it on a nearby table as he pulled her onto the dance floor where he taught her the intricate steps. After that, she danced with Iain until he handed her off to Teddy, who in turn handed her off to another fellow. She giggled with merriment as she whirled around the floor.

The evening flew and when the gathering ended, Douglas and Caitrina walked her home. It was a nice night for a stroll with the full moon shining bright in the clear sky. They took their time, enjoying each other’s company.

At the cottage, Laurie offered them a nightcap, pouring them each a glass of port. They wandered into the garden to enjoy the beautiful evening.

“Do you feel the magic in the air?” Caitrina asked.

Douglas peered at the moonlit sky and chuckled. “Aye, lass. Strong magic.”

Laurie glanced around, feeling a sudden chill.

Caitrina grasped her hand. “Come. I want to show you the foxglove we planted. They’ve flowered. Pink.”

“Pink?” Laurie squeaked.

“Aye, faerie pink.”

Douglas’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Caitrina?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” She squeezed Laurie’s fingers. “Come on.”

Unease skittered along Laurie’s spine as she walked with Caitrina to the back gate. She frowned when she smelled the now familiar exotic fragrance on her friend. “What the hell?”

A tinkling sound confirmed her fear.

The gate swung open.

He stood just beyond the garden gate. Her pulse jackrabbited. Pulling away from Caitrina, she stepped back in panic.

Caitrina pressed a hand against Laurie’s back and shoved her forward. Terror forced the air from Laurie’s lungs as she tripped through the gate opening.

Nothing held her back, no barrier. She fell forward…over a precipice into a swirling fog, down...down...down through a dark tunnel. The walls spun. She plunged faster and faster. In the distance, she couldn’t tell how far, a blinding, bright light—just a white glow in a tunnel of blackness—showed. What was there? Death?

Oh God, what was happ—

All at once, she was sucked into the white brilliance. She choked on the scream in her throat, cringing against the intense whining assaulting her ears.

She spun, or everything around her was spinning, she wasn’t sure which. Her sensitized skin tingled as if zapped by an electric charge. Laurie squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness. With her eyes closed, she felt lost, more frightened. She opened them just as the light exploded into a million fragments of brilliant color, a dazzling kaleidoscope. Then she was falling again.

Down...down...down, faster and faster. Water flowed below her, a stream. She plummeted toward it. Bracing herself, she thought she’d crash into the rushing water, only to propel across it. She hit the ground hard and saw nothing more.

CHAPTER FIVE

Laurie opened her eyes a crack. Her head pounded, her pulse raced. This wasn’t good. Those couldn’t be two, huge, leather-clad feet inches from her face.

She opened her eyes wider. Raised her gaze higher. Those feet—the ones that couldn’t be there—was it possible they were attached to two muscular calves wrapped in soft napped animal skins?

Higher still. Bare knees. Plaid wool and saffron linen.

Farther up, she took in all of the man who towered over her. Piercing blue eyes blinked. Crinkles appeared in the corners. He was grinning. Not outwardly. The perfectly shaped lips remained tight and straight. But something within this gorgeous man was pleased.

She gasped with recognition. This was her man, the one from her heated dreams and visions. The man she didn’t believe existed. The man who made her insides flip-flop.

Unsure what had just happened, she gave her head a firm shake. Mistake. Dizziness hit in waves. She swallowed hard. When the nausea passed, she pushed her palms against the ground and rose to her feet. Unsteady, she swayed. The stranger’s image blurred.

Large calloused hands gripped her arms. A strange though familiar jolt of energy coursed through her, causing her heart to beat too fast. He quickly released her.

He must have felt it too.

Again, she swayed. Laurie reached for his support at the same time he took hold of her upper arms.

She blinked to clear her vision and moistened dry lips. The flash of desire in his eyes made her shiver. He smiled for real this time, leaned forward, placed a hand behind her head, and brushed her lips with his. Gentle at first, then with vigor, his tongue delved into her mouth.

Instinct insisted she struggle. Holding her body rigid, she fisted her hands, which he’d trapped within his embrace. She forced her fingers open and pressed her palms against his hard chest—a vain attempt to push him away.

The current flowing between them became overpoweringly seductive. No man had made her feel this way before. For several moments, she wavered between fighting him—a familiar stranger—and succumbing to the delicious sensations swamping her. He deepened the kiss, and the internal battle ended. Desire won. She clasped hold of the front of his shirt with shaky hands and kissed him back with pent-up passion.

Satiny lips anchored her in a storm of unfamiliar sensation. Pleasure vibrated along her body. She opened her eyes a slit. The intensity of the man’s shocking kiss matched the masculine power burning in his startling blue eyes.

His grip tightened. His fingers burned through her clothing, searing her skin. She closed her eyes and sank into the reality of her dream lover’s embrace.

Patrick closed his eyes and growled deep in his throat as desire pooled in his groin. Their kiss, potent and deep, an intoxicating aphrodisiac, became more and more heated. At first, he’d been shocked by the arc of power, but he couldn’t stop himself from claiming what he sensed belonged to him. What started as an unconscious display of dominance became a much more meaningful symbol of possession.

His forceful kiss demanded surrender.

She melted against him, and he savored his victory as her response matched his passion. He stroked and caressed her soft curves. Her well-rounded backside fit perfectly into his large hands as if God made her for him. He dragged his lips away from hers for only a moment, grasped a firm hold of her buttocks, and lifted her off the ground. The movement released her hands from the prison within his arms.

She curled her arms around his neck when he repositioned her against his length.

He held her tight against his chest, molding her to the contours of his body. A stranger—he’d never wanted anyone more. The proof of his unrestrained arousal was the hard pressure intimately pressed against the juncture of her thighs. Was she as shocked by his ardor as he? Rational thought disappeared when he rubbed against the lass.

She rubbed back, proving she enjoyed the connection too. A gasp escaped her soft lips. Patrick took her sweet breath into his mouth and released a moan of his own.

Tantalizing pleasure pulsed through his veins. His erection hardened. He wanted the lass in ways he couldn’t comprehend. He felt her nipples tighten into hard buds through the linen of the leine. His need grew rock hard, almost painful, as he captured her mouth again, relishing her unique flavor, inhaling her intoxicating scent. Cinnamon and wine and roses.

A twig snapped nearby, and he jerked his eyes open to the sight of his cousin stepping from the trees. The warrior cleared his throat.

The lass came to herself at the same time, and froze. Patrick reluctantly ended the kiss, stepped back, but held her steady. For a moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Hers shone with confusion, fear and desire mingling with the passionate heat still flowing between them. He didn’t want to acknowledge what his eyes must reveal.

Again, Stephen cleared his throat.

The powerful surge of energy dissolved, and Patrick released the lass and took another step back. Although he refused to show it, the experience shook him. Somehow, in the deepest elemental part of his soul, he knew she belonged to him. He’d instinctively branded her with his bold kiss, staking his claim.

“You followed me. Why?” He glared at his cousin.

“To guard your back, you dolt. Elspeth is worried. You have been acting odd.” A smirk curved his lips. “I see ’twas a lass that had you a wandering. Are you bewitched then?”

Patrick uttered a loud, “Humph,” and glanced at the delectable lass.

Slower to recover, she raised a trembling hand to swollen lips. His blood ran heavy and his cock jerked within the folds of his plaide.

“The lass is a wee bit befuddled from your ardor, Patrick,” Stephen said, still grinning. “Is this your vanishing lass then? The one from your visions?”

Her cheeks flushed a lovely crimson before she lowered her gaze to the ground. When she glanced at him again, Patrick ran an unsteady hand over his hair. With a great deal of effort, he forced a blank expression to his face. A beam of moonlight cast a glow over her curvaceous form. He studied her, raking her with his eyes. Starting with the glorious mass of golden hair pinned atop her head, moving downward, lingering for a moment on blue eyes filled with fear and perhaps a spark of defiance.

He slid his gaze farther downward until it reached her toes. He took in everything, missing naught, including the plaide wrapped around her shoulders clasped by a familiar brooch, the fabric clutched in a death grip by a delicate hand with elegant fingers, beautiful, unusual, enticing, each nail the color of oyster shells. He clearly imagined the sensual sensation of those fingernails grazing across his bare chest and other more sensitive skin.

He shivered and his breathing quickened. His heart thudded hard against his ribs as his body tightened more with desire. He fought for control. “A bheil Gaidhlig agad?”

The lass stared at him, opened her mouth as if to speak, and shut it again. He narrowed his eyes.

She blinked. “What did you say?”

Sassenach. She spoke the damn English tongue. And poorly. He tasted bitter disappointment. “Who are you, lass? What are you doing in this wood alone? Where is your escort?” He switched to the language of the Lowlands.

“Could this be a trap? Ambush?” Stephen pulled a knife from his boot, his gaze searching the surrounding area.

Patrick ignored him and returned his attention to the lass. Her eyes widened at the sight of the sharp-edged blade. He pushed her behind him while keeping hold of her arm and responded to Stephen in Gaelic. “Munn believes the lass not to be a threat.”

Laurie’s body thrummed, taut with desire not sated. She swallowed hard and tried to pull out of the man’s grasp, but failed.

The now-familiar pressure of his grip no longer frightened her. She understood in the depth of her soul the man who kissed her with such tender passion would never physically harm her. Still, panic hovered too close for comfort. How had she gotten here?

No longer was she in the woods near her cottage and garden. Instead, she stood at the edge of a dark, dense forest near what appeared to be a one-room timber hut with a dilapidated thatched roof.

Who were these two men? Should she run? She didn’t believe she could escape, and the last thing she wanted to do was enrage the men.

“This isn’t Kansas,” she whispered under her breath.

The man, whose name must be Patrick, yanked her in front of him. “What is Kansas? Speak, lass. I command it.”

His aggressive attitude provoked her anger. She overcame her fear, pulled away and glared at him. Then turned to the other man. “Excuse me, sir, my name is Laurie Bernard. I’m confused, tired and frightened. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I just want to return home. Can you help me? Please.”

She sneaked a peek at Patrick to gauge his reaction.

He clenched and unclenched his fingers, only to clench them again. He glared at the other man’s grinning face. Patrick seemed angry. Although the other man’s appearance unnerved her, she was glad he’d interrupted. How far would she have let things go had he not arrived? Her insides squirmed. She didn’t want to think about that.

Patrick motioned for the other man to leave. Laurie held her breath, afraid to be left alone with the man who’d kissed her with such hunger. What if he tried to kiss her again? Could she resist? She stood straighter. Of course, she wouldn’t permit it. He was a total stranger. She shouldn’t have allowed him to kiss her the first time.

The other man swept his gaze around the area seeming reluctant to leave. Finally, he whirled on his heel and entered a trail in the woods.

Patrick faced her. He moved closer. She stepped back.

She flicked a glance toward the trail the other man took. Should she follow him? Maybe he would help her find her way home. Probably not. She peered at Patrick through her lashes.

His jaw tightened and he took another step forward.

She bit her bottom lip but held her ground. They silently contemplated each other.

“This way, Mistress Laurie.” With his lips curved in a brittle smile, he grasped her by the elbow.” We go to the hall where we will unravel this puzzle. And I assure you, we will.”

Hall? She dug her heels in, pulling back. “Wait. I don’t know who you are.”

“Patrick MacLachlan of Clan MacLachlan, your humble servant.” He bent at the waist in an old fashioned, formal bow.

She snorted, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Laurie sucked back the urge to grin. “I don’t believe there’s a humble bone in your body and you are definitely no one’s servant.”

“Quite true. And you are nae innocent,” he taunted. “Do you throw yourself at every man you meet?”

Insulted, she opened her mouth to give him a good tongue-lashing, but he held up his hand, stopping her mid-breath. He ground his teeth, obviously working to suppress unwarranted irritation.

“There is something you need to understand, lass. I have claimed you as my own, with my cousin Stephen as my witness. I choose to believe you are an innocent and not a wanton. You belong to me now. If I ever find you with another man you will not enjoy the consequences.”

“How dare you! You don’t own me,” Laurie sputtered. She couldn’t believe the gall of the infuriating man.

“You became mine when you returned my kiss,” Patrick said.

“Are you for real?”

“Aye. Come this way.” He again took a firm hold on her elbow, daring her with hard eyes to ignore his command.

“Phiff.” She exhaled and jumped from the man’s grasp. “Why did you kiss me?”

His full lips slowly curved at the corners then widened into a devilish grin. Her mind turned to mush.

“I wanted to.”

The rumble from his chest did enticing things; low, in the core of her sex. With effort, she ignored the seductive sensation. “Do you always do whatever you want?”

Still smiling, he nodded. “Aye. Now come.”

“No.” Laurie met the challenge in his eyes.

He glanced at the darkening sky. She followed his gaze. Clouds moved in fast, dimming the brightness of the moon. “Suit yourself, lass.” He turned away and strode off into the woods.

Left alone in the dark was definitely not what she wanted. “Wait! I’m coming.”

CHAPTER SIX

Caitrina hovered at the edge of the wood, cloaked in the glamour of invisibility. She raised her arms over head in a languid stretch until her spine aligned with a soft crack. It felt so good to have shed the gardener glamour. Posing as a human in the twenty-first century was taxing beyond measure.

She ran tactile fingers over her silk gown, relishing its soft luxury and drew in the fragrance of fir with bliss. Magic hummed. The verdant forest nearly crackled with her power. Her smile widened as sparks ignited and flashed between the intended couple.

The plan progressed as intended. She clapped her hands, more pleased than she’d been since forced to leave the shores of her beloved faerie paradise Tir-nan-Óg—land o’ heart’s desire—centuries ago. She would outwit the queen and win the first part of the challenge.

Easy as snapping her fingers. Almost.

When Laurie ran after the MacLachlan chief, Caitrina purred like a feline who’d caught its prey. Satisfaction shimmered within her mind, but then she thought about Oonagh and her stomach clenched. The High Queen of the Fae believed the challenge would force Caitrina into an eternity of servitude. She curled her hands into fists. No way would she let that happen.

A change in atmospheric pressure prickled over her skin. Sensing Munn nearby, she stilled, closed her eyes, and summoned her image with a mere thought. Without a whisper of sound, her form emerged and took shape. Inhaling sharply, she spun to face the meddlesome brownie.

The wee man slowly approached, even though his expression twisted into a portrait of fear. Stubborn brùnaidh.

“What mischief caused thee?” he demanded. “Where be the old chief? His lady?”

Caitrina stepped in close and frowned at the fool. She needed to get him out of the way before he endangered the completion of her tasks.

Although she smelled his terror, he held his ground and returned her glare. “Be gone! You dinnae belong here. Cease darkening MacLachlan lands.

“’Tis none of your concern.”

“Aye, ’tis. You toy with the young chief.”

“You’ll not interfere.” With a flick of her wrist, she cast him far away.

His image blinked out on a horrified scream.

Caitrina smiled, brushed some residual dust from her gown, dissolved into a passing plume of mist, and rode the breeze toward Castle Lachlan and her pawns.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Clouds moved swiftly across a starless sky, casting the land below in shadow. Every muscle in Patrick’s body tightened with acute awareness of the woman who walked behind him along the wooded path. Although she dressed in the fine cloth of a highborn lady, when she stumbled over loose stones in her unsuitable shoes, she swore under her breath like a low-bred whore.

Had inattentive guardians allowed her too much freedom, and she’d lingered more than she should within hearing of stable lads or foul-mouthed warriors?

He would forgive her the minor failing, though suspected she’d require a heavy hand to guide her. Who cared so little for the lass they allowed her to wander about unescorted?

She grabbed hold of his arm and tugged hard. “Stop.”

“What?” Patrick ignored the jolt from her touch, stopped in place and twisted around to glare at her.

“How much farther? We’ve been walking a long time.” She puffed out a breath and brushed a stray hair from her face.

“Not far.” He caught her frown and a glimmer of gold in the moonlight. Why did she wear his stepmother’s brooch? He was tempted to question her, but he’d wait until he secured her in the castle.

Patrick whirled on his heel and started walking, expecting her to continue following. He squeezed his fist tight then uncurled his fingers. Too many questions rattled around in his head.

Was she involved with fae magic? Munn claimed the faerie, Caitrina, caused the visions. Was the lass in league with the faerie?

They left the trees, finding the sky had cleared. Patrick straightened his shoulders with pride at the sight of Castle Lachlan in the glow of the full moon. The lass would be impressed. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. Disappointment tweaked his pride when she didn’t compliment the fortification of his home. When he grasped her elbow to guide her down the grassy slope, she trembled.

Maybe she wasn’t of his station. Nae. Her garments were too fine not to be.

She stared toward the castle, took a step, hesitated, and almost tripped him. He urged her forward with light pressure. She stopped when they neared the beach across the water from the castle.

“Oh. My. God.” Her trembling increased, and when she tried to pull away, he released her arm. “This can’t be for real. Please, tell me that’s not a medieval castle.”

“Medieval? ’Tis my home.”

She teetered and collapsed against him.

He shook her. Even with gentle slaps to her cheeks, she didn’t respond.

For all the saints, what was he to do with her now? He lifted her and carried her to the water’s edge. She weighed naught and was easy to carry.

Patrick placed her into the currach he’d left on the beach. She didn’t stir, and a knot of alarm twisted in his stomach. He climbed in behind her and sat. The small boat, made of skins and wicker, pitched. He carefully settled himself and pulled the lass onto his lap—to balance the boat, not for any other reason.

Paddle in hand, he rowed toward the opposite shore.

He frowned at the limp woman. Women didn’t swoon in his presence. There must be something wrong with the lass. At least her chest rose and fell with her breath. He hadn’t scared her to death.

He shouldn’t have kissed her, but hadn’t been able to stop.

Feathery lashes graced smooth cheeks silvered in the moonlight. Patrick feasted on the sight like a starving man. His chest tightened for lack of air. This wouldn't do. He tore his gaze away. An ardent fondness for the lass would bring naught but trouble.

Though she belonged to him, it would be best to maintain a distance. He couldn’t afford becoming attached. Not with the false betrothal hanging over his head. But damn, he desired the lass with every breath.

Arriving at the castle side of the small bay, he jumped into the shallow water. The boat scraped along the bottom when pulled onto the beach. Still, she didn’t stir.

Patrick lifted the woman, held on tight, and strode across the shingle to the castle. Entering through the main gate, he made haste to the wheel stair. The tight space required caution to ensure the woman’s head didn’t bang against rough stone.

In the great hall, he found his cousin with Elspeth seated before the fire. His sister leapt from her chair and ran to him. “Stephen told me what happened in Fir-wood.” Her gaze slid over the woman in his arms, and her eyes widened. “Did you hurt her?”

“Ach. She but swooned,” he said. “You have nae faith in me, wee sister. I dinnae hurt lasses.”

Elspeth gave him a sharp look. “I ken that verra well, yet these are unusual events. Bring her to my solar, she requires rest.”

His sister hurried toward the far stair, signaling for him to follow. He did, until she entered the passageway. He continued past her, up another flight of steps, along the long corridor, to kick open the door to his bedchamber.

“Laurie.” The unfamiliar name sounded pleasant as it rolled from his lips.

She didn’t respond. He placed her on the bed and twisted to reach for a cover.

“Patrick, you cannae,” Elspeth said softly. “’Tis not fitting for her to be in your bedchamber.” His sister stood in the doorway, frowning at him.

“She is my responsibility.”

“’Tis wrong.”

“I have claimed her. ’Tis for me to decide what is right.” His tone held unintended harshness, but he wanted his sister to understand the significance of his position. “Hear me, she stays locked in this chamber until I discover if she poses a threat.”

Elspeth arched a feminine brow and he fought the urge to smile. His lips twitched slightly before he sighed and looked away.

The edge of the mattress sank when he sat beside Laurie. His fingers grazed soft skin as he covered her with a fur. Her feminine scent filled his nostrils, quickened his heartbeat, drove him to the edge of desire. She was comely with fine features. Allowing his gaze to roam freely, emotions, long dormant, surfaced.

Mine.

His chest tightened, and he found it hard to breathe. Who was this woman who’d stolen his breath?

He brushed his knuckles over her silky, golden hair before glancing at his sister. She worried overmuch. His honor insisted he protect the strange lass. He put a finger to his lips and went to stand beside Elspeth. “Return to the hall, Beth,” he whispered. “I will ensure nae harm comes to her. But when she wakes, I will demand answers to my questions.”

Elspeth left the chamber with a shake of her head. When she was gone, Patrick closed the door and strode to the fire. He placed his hand on the mantel and lowered his head to his arm. In his mind, he repeated the evening’s events. He didn’t care for the chaos the lass provoked.

Aye, he wanted her, but in his bed, not awakening emotions better left dead.

Damnable tangle.

Why was she wearing his stepmother's brooch? What did she have to do with his parents?

He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

* * *

Elspeth made her way along the passage to her bedchamber, musing over the evening’s happenings. Her brother’s heart shone in his eyes for all to see. An unusual occurrence. His out-of-character behavior took her by surprise and provoked concern.

First Patrick's visions. He didn’t have the gift. His visions were an anomaly. Now the appearance of the lass. These were the only events her brother showed interest in since their parents disappeared.

He claimed the woman. Interesting, indeed.

Elspeth slid her palm over her chest where a pinching sensation stole her breath. She missed her parents, especially her mother. A deep inhale and exhale eased the ache.

Patrick took their parents disappearance particularly hard, having been out of the country, only to return after they’d vanished. He blamed himself for not coming home sooner. For not being there when their father needed him.

He claimed responsibility for the difficulty over Isobell Lamont and the ever-present feud. None of what happened should be blamed on Patrick, but Elspeth couldn’t convince him of the fact.

Over the years since the disappearance, her brother had become more and more morose. She couldn’t figure out how to help him. And their brother Archibald, Patrick’s twin, still traveled with her betrothed for the king and was of no use with these strange happenings.

Elspeth entered her bedchamber and sat in her favorite chair before the fire. What good was her gift of visions when she’d received none to guide her? Even so, she recognized Patrick’s desire for the woman.

She sensed no darkness from the stranger—only light.

The woman might be exactly what her brother needed to get him out of his black, brooding moods. His interactions with the lass warranted watching.

* * *

Waking to the comfort of warmth, Laurie slid a hand across fur covers, the unexpected sensual sensation somehow reassuring. The calm shattered, replaced with unease when she sensed someone else in the room. She opened her eyes to find Patrick standing by the fireplace, observing her through hooded eyes. Their gazes met. In that instant, reality crashed down on her.

She bolted upright. Adrenaline kicked in. She skittered back against the headboard. The man grumbled something harsh under his breath, and she swallowed hard.

“Dinnae fash yourself, lass. Nae one here will harm you.”

Laurie peered at him, worried she was teetering on the verge of hysteria. “Where am I?”

“In my bedchamber at Castle Lachlan.” He dragged a stool next to the bed and sat.

His gaze held hers. Heat crept into her cheeks. Unable to look away, she shivered, remembering what he said about her belonging to him. “Where is Castle Lachlan?” And how did I get here? She bit her lower lip. The same questions hovered beyond the grasp of her conscious mind before she fainted.

He stared, long and hard, before answering. “The Highlands.”

She gulped and glanced at the furs spread across the bed. An extremely large four-poster bed with a canopy and heavy blue curtains pulled back at each corner post. The stone walls were covered in tapestries. Tapestries that looked much newer than any she’d seen at the Cloisters in New York or at any other museum for that matter. A huge fireplace took up most of one wall. A fire crackled, lending an ordinary air to a setting that was anything but.

Similar to antiques she’d seen in museums were several chairs and a table. Only these looked new. Excellent reproductions? Could they be originals?

With growing apprehension, she noted the lack of lamps. There were no light switches or outlets. Candles lit the room. Something was terribly wrong if what she was beginning to suspect was true. She flipped her gaze to Patrick. He sat like the king of his domain, exuding barely leashed power, stoically watching her.

She didn’t imagine the Highlands he spoke of were in North Carolina. She’d once read a fantasy novel about a woman who’d been sucked into a book and traveled through space and time. Although she feared the answer, she had to ask.

“What year is this?”

“Are you addled?” The damned man looked at her as if she was crazy. “’Tis the year of Our Lord, 1509.”

“Oh, God.” She couldn’t breathe, her chest burned and her eyes blurred.

A fiery sensation in her nostrils woke Laurie from her faint.

“What the—”

A young woman dressed in what looked to be a medieval gown stood over her, holding a horrible smelling container in front of her nose. Laurie waved her arm to push it away.

“You are back with us then.” The young woman moved to the head of the bed, fluffed the pillows, and helped Laurie sit up.

“Who are you?” Laurie massaged the knot at the back of her neck. Her head pounded. The stupid girly fainting was giving her a migraine.

“Elspeth, Patrick’s sister.” The woman placed a calming hand on Laurie’s shoulder. “I sent him away. You need rest. He can ask his questions of you on the morrow.”

“Tomorrow? Is it still night?”

“Aye.” Elspeth sat on the edge of the bed. “’Tis a lovely brooch you wear.”

“This?” Laurie touched the pin attached to her stole with shaky fingers. “A friend loaned it to me to wear to a ceilidh.”

“’Tis quite beautiful.” Elspeth accepted a cup from a plainly dressed older woman who stood behind her and handed it to Laurie. “Here, drink this. ’Twill help ease you.”

“What is it?” Holding the cup, Laurie examined the contents suspiciously.

“Spiced wine with a wee bit of herbs.”

The green scent of herbs smelled pleasant, like sitting in the garden on a sunny day. She took a small taste. Bitter, but tolerable. The liquid helped soothe her parched throat and she was glad for that.

She sipped the drink while observing Elspeth. The younger woman seemed sweetness personified, petite and feminine with strawberry blond hair woven into a long thick braid. Her light silver eyes peered at Laurie from within an angelic face, which glowed as if lit by a light from within.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Laurie said softly.

“Aine will ready you for bed-going.” Elspeth gestured toward the older woman. Then stood as if to leave, but hesitated. “Patrick ordered the chamber bolted. He placed a guard outside the door. If you are in need, call out and Duncan will summon Aine.” She turned away and walked through the doorway, closing the roughhewn oak panel behind her.

“Why am I to be locked in? Am I a prisoner?”

“Nae worries, lass,” Aine said in a soothing tone as she removed Laurie’s China flats. “My name is Aine MacTamhais. I care for the needs of the chief’s household.” She unpinned the stole and placed the tartan and the brooch on a chest next to the bed.

“I’m Laurie, and I don’t need you to undress me.”

“Aye, Mistress Laurie.” The woman pulled the blouse over Laurie’s head anyway and gasped. “Tsk, tsk. You wear nae chemise. And what is this you wear that covers your bosom? Naught, but a wee piece of lace.”

Laurie covered her breasts with both hands, horrified by the woman’s shocked expression. Aine shook her head and handed the blouse back to Laurie. “You best keep this on, lass, till we find you proper garments.”

As the older woman turned away and walked toward the door, Laurie pulled her peasant blouse on and sat on the edge of the bed. The door closed with a loud thud.

Trapped. Laurie’s stomach clenched at the sound of the guard sliding the bolt. Breathing deeply several times, she tried to calm herself. She needed to clear her head and think. Alone in this strange place, she needed to carefully consider her options. Determine what happened to her and figure out how to get home.

A plan, she must make a plan.

This wasn’t a fantasy come true. Being this frightened more than sucked. She didn’t like the claims made by the Neanderthal man either. He might be gorgeous and kiss like a dream, but he had no rights to her. She didn’t belong to him, or anyone else for that matter.

And she definitely didn’t like the unaccustomed yearning he awakened within her body. She needed to be in control.

She wanted to go home.

Logical thought was required. If she used her reasoning skills, she could handle this situation. She could handle any situation if she put her mind to it. For God’s sake, she’d earned a Wharton MBA.

Downing the remainder of the spiced wine, the warmth slid down her throat, spread through her chest and heated her belly. Suddenly groggy, Laurie attempted to rise, but fell back onto the bed.

Shit. What the hell was in the drink?

* * *

“I gave her a potion to ensure she sleeps through the night.”

Patrick raised his gaze from the fire when his sister joined him in his work chamber. He made no effort to hide the deep sorrow surely shining in his moist eyes.

“Munn believes she has a connection to our parents, and she wears your lady-mother’s brooch. How do you think she came to have it?”

“She says ’twas given by a friend to wear to a ceilidh. Do you think she wandered away from a gathering in the village and became lost?”

“Nae. Had there been a gathering, I would have heard of it. News of strangers travels fast.” Patrick exhaled sharply, trying to rein in his chaotic emotions. “’Tis odd. First, she appeared in my visions and now she arrives on my land as if from nowhere. I dinnae ken what to think.”

“I sense nae evil with her. I ken she is frightened, but not a threat.”

“Munn said as much.”

“Mayhap we can learn more on the morrow.” His sister’s smile was meant to reassure, but he wasn’t reassured.

“Aye,” he said. “The lass will explain much.”

Her smile faded and a stern expression crossed his sweet sister’s features. “Where will you sleep this night?”

Patrick raked a hand through his hair. He felt an unexpected protectiveness toward the lass. If he were honest with himself, he’d been intrigued since he first spied her. Not wanting any harm to come to her because of his unexpected lust, he didn’t intend to dishonor her in front of his clan. He’d not sleep in his bedchamber this night.

Although the longing to do just that was near to maddening. “Though I have claimed her as mine, I will not shame her. I will sleep here in the laird’s study. Duncan will guard her door until either I or Stephen relieves him.” He gave Elspeth an unsteady smile. “Go and rest Beth. Nae harm will come to her while you slumber.”

Tomorrow, he would have his answers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Loud scraping woke Laurie from fitful dreams. The noise pounded at her temples. Eeuw… She felt awful, as if someone clobbered her over the head. She tried to open her eyes. They were glued shut. She rubbed them and finally managed to pry them open.

Darkness. Only darkness surrounded her and that annoying, grating noise. She massaged her temples, her mind filled with fuzz. She groaned.

She had to clear her head, get up, find out what was making the noise. What if someone had broken into the cottage?

Light assaulted her…

Laurie shrieked as bed curtains swept open. Memories from the previous night painfully flooded back. She hadn't been dreaming.

A smiling young woman stood next to the bed.

"Elspeth?" Laurie blinked several times. “You’re real.”

“You look as though you have seen a banshee.” Elspeth chuckled. “Here, let me help you rise. Things will seem better after a warm bath.”

Laurie blew out a puff of air and tugged her fingers through her snarled hair. She welcomed Elspeth’s assistance to sit.

Several burly men stared at her as if she was crazy.

Maybe she was. She pulled the covers to her neck and glared at the men.

The men turned away and continued to tug a large wooden tub across the floor to position it before the fire burning in the hearth. They filled the tub with buckets of steaming water. When they finished, Aine bustled into the room, carrying several cloths, a small pot and a comb. She shooed the men out and shut the door.

After the men left, Laurie sighed, feeling out of her element, unsure how to act. The best approach, at least for now, was to go along with the madness. Elspeth and Aine seemed pleasant enough and probably didn’t mean her harm.

Though something in the wine she’d drank the night before definitely knocked her out. Still, she would play along, but be wary. Very wary.

“I’d like a bath.” She shot the women the smile she used to cajole executives.

She allowed Aine to help remove her blouse. Elspeth gasped at the sight of her thong and bra. “You wear unusual garments.”

The young woman studied Laurie’s underwear.

“’Tis improper.” Aine wagged her finger at the younger woman. “I will go to your lady-mother’s trunks and get a fresh chemise and gown for the poor lass.”

“Aye,” Elspeth said. “Bring the sapphire gown. She will look fetching in it. ’Twill accentuate her bonnie blue eyes and golden tresses.”

“There’s no need,” Laurie said. “I can wear—”

“’Tis Patrick’s favorite color.” Elspeth inclined her head toward Laurie, a twinkle in her eyes and a smirk curving her lips.

Aine cackled and left the chamber.

Why should she wear the favorite color of that buffoon who’d dragged her here last night? Laurie chomped down on her molars. She loved the color too, but still, she didn’t feel the need to get decked out to please him. Her fantasy of the man played better than the reality. He was a brute.

Laurie wanted a civilized man in her life. A man who understood the world she lived in. She wasn’t about to become the property of some medieval lord.

Hell no.

Besides she wasn’t staying. Although she doubted she’d wake from this bad dream any time soon. What she needed was to get back to the old hut where he’d found her and figure out how to get home. Maybe she could sneak out of the castle without laying eyes on the big jerk again.

For now, though, she’d take a bath. She took off her thong and bra and let Elspeth assist her into the tub. Being nude wasn’t awkward. After all, the girls at the gym ran around the locker room in different stages of undress, many completely nude. The scent of herbs reached her nose and she swirled the leaves floating on the surface. Heat soothed her stiff muscles.

Elspeth handed her the pot and a small cloth. Laurie sniffed. Lavender.

“’Tis French soap. My brother Archie often travels to France with the Campbells for King Jamie. He brings back wonderful gifts.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Elspeth inclined her head, sat in a nearby chair and gazed away, giving Laurie the allusion of privacy. She washed herself, enjoying the moment while the young woman silently mended a piece of cloth.

After a few minutes passed, Elspeth glanced up from her mending. “Aine will wash your hair when she returns.”

With the sound of heavy footfalls and loud voices approaching, they stared toward the door. The heavy panel crashed open and Patrick stood at the threshold gaping. A large man, his shoulders barely cleared the frame. His mouth twitched up into a crooked smile. “Ach, lass. You dinnae need a fine gown. You are bonnie in what God gave you.” He strode into the room with Aine on his heels, making the large chamber suddenly seem quite small and overly warm.

Heat rose from the tip of her toes to singe the roots of her hair, Laurie tried to cover her breasts with her hands and with the tiny cloth, while glaring at the audacious man. “How dare you!” The rasp in her voice didn’t produce the demand she’d hoped for. “Get out of here.”

“I am Chief of Clan MacLachlan, Lord of Strathlachlan. I dare much, lass.” His cocky grin made him even more attractive than she thought him the previous night.

Oh. Her blush must be brilliant.

He growled, whirled on his heel, and hurried from the room. Elspeth and Aine exchanged glances then stared at Laurie.

She slid down into the tub, relieved, yet not. She’d never been so mortified. He was big and overwhelming. She had to get out of this place and find her way home before she fell under the spell of that unbelievably gorgeous, brute of a man.

Aine cleared her throat. “I will be about the task of washing your hair then, lass.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Laurie managed to choke out.

After using more of the lavender soap to clean Laurie’s hair, the plump woman dumped buckets of water over her to rinse the soap away. When she finished, Aine helped her stand and patted her dry with a large soft cloth.

Unsure of proper etiquette and slow to understand their words, Laurie didn’t speak. She allowed the two women to fuss over her while she mulled over the situation. There had to be a way to get home. All she needed do was get away from the confines of the castle and find the spot in the woods where she landed, so to speak.

Aine slid a soft linen chemise the color of ecru over her head and Laurie sat in front of the fire while the older woman combed out her hair and braided it. Elspeth left the room only to return a short while later with a tray containing something sloppy in a bowl, a small chunk of hard cheese, and a cup of liquid.

“I brought you a wee something to break your fast. After you dress, I will show you the castle and grounds.”

“I’m not to be locked in this room any longer?”

“Nae, Patrick reconsidered his order. He does not believe you can get into mischief. You cannae leave the castle grounds for the mainland.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were in a swoon when Patrick brought you here so you did not see. Water surrounds Castle Lachlan. ’Tis impossible to leave, except by boat or during an unusually low tide.”

Laurie didn’t want to hear this. She needed to discover a way to escape, get back to the forest, and find her way home. Shit, she’d have to bide her time, try to sneak off and steal a boat. Not that she knew how to use one.

She’d earned an MBA. She could figure it out.

“Patrick commanded Duncan MacEwen to guard you.”

More bad news. Escape would be difficult with a guard tagging along, but she’d figure out a way. She needed to believe she could or she’d lose her mind.

Determined, Laurie directed her attention to the tray of food. Sustenance first. The bowl contained some sort of oatmeal porridge. The gummy substance tasted bland, but the cheese and the ale were passable. Surprisingly, getting tossed through time hadn’t destroyed her appetite. When she finished her meal, Elspeth and Aine helped her dress in the beautiful sapphire gown. She wrapped her plaid stole around her shoulders and secured it with the brooch from Caitrina. After putting on her China flats, she was ready.

For what, she wasn’t sure. Laurie raised her head high. She would find her way home.

Following Elspeth down the wheel stair, she placed her hand against the cold stone to steady herself. The long gown made it difficult to navigate the steep, narrow confines of the twisting stairway. She relaxed when they entered the passage to the other side of the castle.

Elspeth pointed to the closed door they approached.

“’Tis the laird’s study, Patrick’s private work chamber. He wishes to speak to you before I take you to the hall.”

Something banged the door from the other side.

Elspeth glanced at Laurie, chuckled, and softly knocked on the door.

* * *

Patrick ran a hand over his face. He’d fled his bedchamber as if a banshee pursued him. Unbelievable, but necessary.

He escaped before doing something foolish like climb into the bath with her. He leaned his back against the heavy oak door in his private chamber and hung his head. What was the matter with him? Running from a mere lass? For Heaven’s sake, he was the Chief of Clan MacLachlan—a fierce warrior.

How had he turned into a trembling imbecile?

When the lass made that funny little O-shape with her mouth, he’d nearly lost control.

God’s teeth, he wanted to kiss her lips and every inch of her luscious body. After seeing moisture glistening along her fair skin, he’d realized he never should have gone to his chamber while she bathed. This night past, he publicly claimed her because it was the honorable thing to do after unleashing his lust upon her. During the night, while he fought the tension in his body, he decided he wanted her. Now he was determined to truly claim her.

And it would happen soon if he couldn’t control the ache in his groin. He slammed his palms against the door at his sides. He should go to the village, find a wench, and relieve his desperate need. His chuckle sounded hollow, he wouldn’t follow through on the thought. He’d not enjoyed the pleasure of a woman in over three years.

He’d sworn off marriage. And the gratification of the body hadn’t been a temptation.

But now… There was a woman he wanted.

Patrick pushed away from the door at the sound of a soft knock. ’Twas certainly Elspeth with Mistress Laurie. Damn. How long had he stood inside the closed door with his blood thundering in his ears?

He strode to his worktable and sat before the pile of papers he’d worked on yesterday. He flexed his muscles, stretched, and reached within for the shrewd warrior.

“Enter.”

* * *

After several moments of silence, Laurie jumped at the harsh voice bidding them enter. She’d hoped to avoid Patrick a while longer. Her hands trembled and she swallowed compulsively, not ready to face the man who haunted her dreams. Her reality.

She stiffened her spine. He wouldn’t intimidate her. Few men made her nervous. She wasn’t about to let this one unnerve her more than he already had. She took a couple of deep breaths and centered herself.

Laurie smoothed the front of her gown and followed Elspeth into the chamber where Patrick sat at a desk of sorts, reading. He glanced up. The light from the high window illuminated the papers on the table before him. Yet the play of shadow and light across his face made it difficult to read his expression.

“Mistress Laurie, sit.” He tipped his head, motioning to the two chairs before the hearth.

She gave Elspeth a sideways glance, and the young woman nodded encouragement. Laurie marched over to where he indicated and sat in one of the chairs.

“Beth, leave us. I will bring her to you when we finish.”

“Aye, you will find me in my solar.” Elspeth left and closed the door behind her.

Patrick rose, striding across the room with smooth muscular grace to sit in the chair next to her. Instead of looking at her, he gazed into the fire.

The silence stretched and his expression remained blank. She fidgeted with the fabric of the gown, her palms damp. As the seconds ticked by, her stomach somersaulted with nervous anticipation. Nibbling at her bottom lip, she stared at her lap. The effort to remain silent killed her, but she refused to speak first.

Patrick finally cleared his throat and provided her with a close-up of his face. God, he was good-looking. His blue eyes were absolute stunners.

Those eyes stared at her mouth, and then they darkened. His chair creaked when he coughed and adjusted his weight. “Lass, I need you to answer some questions. Will you do that?”

“I’ll try.” Although it disgusted her to appear weak, she dropped her gaze unable to continue holding his stare. Why did this man make her more nervous than any other?

“Good,” he said. “I understand your surname is Bernard. Are you French?”

She flipped her gaze to him relieved she could easily answer the question. “My father was of French descent.”

“Was?”

“My parents were killed in a plane...ah, in an accident when I was a child.”

“An accident on a plain?” A touch of humor threaded his voice.

“Yes,” she said, relieved he hadn’t caught her slip.

“A plain is rather large…”

She shrugged. His eyes narrowed.

“Parlez-vous français, la langue de votre père?”

“Oui. Je parle couramment le français.”

“Ach, well.” Patrick chuckled. “Do you speak any other language?”

She was proud of her gift for languages, having spoken French fluently since childhood. She spoke Spanish, Italian and German good enough to converse with clients. She’d even picked up a small amount of Mandarin during her career. She wasn’t about to tell all of that to a male chauvinist, medieval lord.

“I can read and write in Latin,” she said.

“Unusual for a lass.” He raised a skeptical brow.

“True. It’s a dead language, but I studied it at school.”

“Attending school is also unusual for a lass.”

“Not where I come from.”

“Aye, we will get to that,” he said, an edge to his voice.

When would she learn to keep her mouth shut?

“You will find my household forward thinking. Living close to the Lowlands as we do, we speak both the Gaelic tongue and the language of the Lowlanders. Many of my men, including myself, speak French. And aye, lass, I read and write Latin, in addition to several other languages.”

“Of course you do.”

He stared at her for an uncomfortable moment.

“Your mother? She was French?”

How would he react to her answer to the question? Only one way to find out.

“My mother’s surname was MacIntyre, of course, that was before she married my father.”

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “Did you wander away from your MacIntyre escort and find yourself in our Fir-wood this past night?”

“No.”

His jaw tightened. He worked to control annoyance.

“Then how did you come to be in our Fir-wood?”

Laurie sighed. This was all so complicated. She chose her words carefully, deciding to tell the truth no matter how absurd it sounded. “I was in my garden, outside of my cottage, in a place far away from here. I was with friends when I saw you outside the gate in the woods behind the cottage. It was the third time I’d seen you. I wanted to know who you were and why you were there. I was frightened, but a friend pushed me forward. As I stepped through the gate, I fell, and everything started spinning. There were flashes of light and color and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground at your feet. You might not believe me, but it is the truth.”

Did he believe her? His features gave away little of his thoughts.

“What is the name of this faraway place? Kansas?”

“No, that is the name of a place in a mov...er, a play. I live in the town of Anderson Creek, in a far distant land.”

“On the Continent?” Patrick asked.

“On a continent? Yeah.”

His gaze bored into her as he processed her answers. “One more question. Why did you ask me what year it was when we talked this past night?”

Afraid to answer, Laurie held her breath. Exhaling on a sigh, she sat straight. “My cottage and my garden exist in the twenty-first century.” She braced herself, but the explosion she expected never came.

“You believe this outrageous tale?” His eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

His shocked expression caused her to shake her head. “I feared you wouldn’t believe me.” She looked directly into his eyes. His dark blue gaze mesmerized her. She swallowed. “It is the truth. You must believe me. I need your help to go back.”

“How do you expect me to help you?” A flicker in his eyes gave her hope.

“Take me to the woods where you found me and help me find my way home.”

He glanced away. “Impossible.”

When he returned his gaze to her, his jaw set tight. “’Twill be for the best if you forget this strange tale. For your safety, you must never speak of it. Others might accuse you of delving in the dark arts.”

Heat rose from her toes as dread filled her veins. She hadn’t thought of that. They’d brand her a witch. Condemn her to death. She needed to get the hell out of here.

He gave a quick nod, reached over and patted her hand. “Aye. ’Twill be best to keep this our wee secret. I have claimed you and that puts you under my protection. Only Stephen, who you met in the wood, and Beth, my sister, ken what happened this past night. ’Twill be safest to keep it that way.”

“But—”

He raised a hand. “For your protection I contrived an explanation for your unexpected appearance. ’Twill be said you are the daughter of a deceased French noble. You shall be heralded as the Lady Laurie Bernard. My brother is in France with Beth’s betrothed. We will make it known they sent you to us to be companion to Beth. In time, I will make you mine in truth. Nary a one will dare question you.”

“What do you mean by make you mine in truth?”

“Aye, we will keep this secret between the four of us. Beth and Stephen can be trusted to do as I request.” Patrick stood, avoiding eye contact.

She’d risked telling him the truth and he didn’t believe her. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay—

Pulling her from her seat, he hurried her out of the room before she collected her thoughts and screamed at him. He grasped her by the elbow, led her through the passageway, and up a circular stair. He moved in such a rush, she could hardly keep up, never mind argue with the damn man.

Oh, but she would.

CHAPTER NINE

Sands of Time

Munn scanned the horizon. This place wasn’t to his liking, not one bit. White sand covered the ground, a desert of sorts. The brutal yellow light from the sun blinded and made him sweat. He sat on the ground, running granules through his fingers, trying to think. The required magic remained hidden to him.

Without the correct chant, he’d never be free of this horrible place. He didn’t deserve such a punishment. He forced himself to his feet and walked for what seemed like miles. The spread of the plain was endless, as far as his vision allowed.

Overcome with heat and thirst, he kicked at the sand. Damn Caitrina.

Damn faerie. She meant to cause terrible trouble or she wouldn’t have flung him into the Sands of Time. Ach! What was he to do?

Hard consonants formed in his mind and he spat the related sounds from his lips. He conjured an oasis. A beautiful lush island sprang from the ocean of hot sand. In the center of the oasis, he fashioned a small pool shaded by tall tropical foliage with beautiful white flowers—a stunning flora display.

Sitting at the edge of the pool on a flat rock, he brought handfuls of pure water to his lips and drank deep. Water quenched his thirst and the fruit from a twirling vine satisfied his hunger.

Not enough. He needed to return to the earth realm.

He chanted, searching for the correct sounds and images to craft the magic required to set him free. His efforts were for naught. No matter how hard he tried, the proper sequence wouldn’t come to him. He glared into the mirror-like water.

Caitrina would pay for her betrayal.

Munn continued stringing syllables together in a sing-song chant. He’d keep trying until claimed by exhaustion. He must get back to the castle to warn the MacLachlan, to warn his master about Caitrina, to warn him about her powerful fae magic.

CHAPTER TEN

Castle Lachlan

Patrick ground his teeth, annoyed to discover he stared out the window of his private work chamber like a besotted fool. The sun shined brightly to the east. He’d barely noticed the men fishing from the beach below, the rippling water of the small bay or the distant heather covered hills. Good Lord, the castle could have been under attack and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Emotions he normally suppressed crippled him, making him uncertain how to proceed. Clenching his hands into fists, he reflected on his earlier conversation with Lady Laurie. She told an incredible tale, one most would not believe. He wasn’t most, and unfortunately, he believed her. He knew, for certain, brownies and faeries existed. He’d even heard some of the fae possessed the ability to sift the sands of time.

Munn told him Caitrina, one of the Sithichean, was in some way involved with both the lass and with his missing parents. Could she sift time? Was it possible she was capable of such an extraordinary power? He hadn’t yet questioned the lass about her connection to the faerie or about the brooch she wore, not wanting to warn her of his interest. He planned to bide his time until he gained her trust.

After seeing her in the bath, he knew how to accomplish that. He was determined to seduce Lady Laurie into sharing his bed.

Smiling at the mental image of her curvy, naked body stretched across the furs on his bed, he loosened his fists and turned away from the window. He paced the chamber. Concern replaced lust. No one had seen Munn since the lass appeared. With such unusual events happening, it was odd the clan brownie had gone missing. Munn’s absence worried him more than he wanted to admit.

An unbidden thought pricked his mind. Could the lass be responsible for Munn’s absence? Quite the riddle he needed to solve.

A heavy knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. “Who dares disturb my peace?” he bellowed.

From the other side of the thick door came a masculine chuckle. “’Tis Stephen.”

“Enter upon your own peril.”

Stephen ambled into the room. Without invitation, he casually slouched in one of the chairs before the hearth, one leg hooked over the armrest. His focus on the arm of the chair, he rubbed his fingers across the fine wood grain.

“What?” Patrick glared at the back of his cousin’s head.

“You seem to be of bad humor this morn.” Stephen twisted to look at Patrick, meeting his gaze with a grin. “Might you want a challenge on the practice field?”

Patrick stilled. “What have you planned?”

“A fine Lamont warrior has brought a message from his chief, demanding a meeting to finalize your betrothal agreement. After providing victuals, I gave him leave to train with our lads. I thought you might enjoy a wee bit of sport.”

There was no betrothal! When would Lamont accept that?

Patrick slammed his palm on the oak mantel. “Aye, I will show the Lamont dog how a good Highlander fights and send him back to his chief less than a man.” He stormed from the chamber.

Stephen followed, keeping pace, first to the armory then to the practice field where Patrick planned to grind the Lamont warrior into the dirt.

* * *

Laurie lifted the skirt of the blue gown as she stepped over a raised threshold into the kitchen. She’d spent the morning touring the castle with Elspeth. The ginger-haired Duncan, her new shadow, always a step behind.

She learned from him that the MacLachlans were extremely proud of their home. Of a unique design, the castle was unusual for Scotland. From the outside, it appeared a great stone keep, but on the inside, it actually consisted of two separate wings along the east and west sides of a narrow courtyard. The wings connected at the north end by a small building and passageway, the building mainly used for storage and for housing the castle well.

The two wings contained both public rooms for the clan and private apartments for the chief’s household. The chamber Laurie slept in the night before was on the third floor of the western wing, the top floor with a view of the sea loch in one direction and a small bay in the other. The largest bedchamber in the castle, it belonged to Patrick, the current Chief of Clan MacLachlan.

The knowledge he was the chief of a great Highland clan was somewhat daunting. Butterflies flew around in her belly as if caught in a whirling storm. She didn’t want to think about him, especially not about the incredible kiss they shared. Not thinking about him wasn’t an option. She couldn’t seem to get his image out of her head.

When she did let her mind linger on him for any length of time, she felt a powerful longing to be near him, to touch him, to do incredibly sexual things with him.

“Argh,” she actually growled out loud.

Cookie, the MacLachlan’s rotund female cook, and Elspeth stopped their discussion of the midday meal preparations to stare at her.

“Lady Laurie, did you say something?” Elspeth asked.

“Nothing.” Laurie’s cheeks flamed. She hadn’t meant for anyone to overhear her. “It’s annoying to have Duncan following my every step.” She glared in his direction.

He didn’t take offense. He merely grinned and presented her with a formal bow.

Elspeth pulled her aside by the arm. “’Tis for your protection. You are new to the castle and dinnae ken the dangers that exist. When you are more accustomed to life here, I am sure Patrick will release Duncan from his duty. Jamie only guards me when my brother believes there is an extreme risk.”

“What you mean to say is when Patrick decides he can trust me to obey his every command he might allow me modest freedom.” She sounded petulant, but she couldn’t help it. It had been bad enough over the years to be under her uncle’s control and then her cousin Finn’s. To be ordered about by a total stranger was more than infuriating.

“Aye.” Elspeth cocked a brow. “He expects obedience. ’Tis for your protection. You dinnae understand our way of life. I am sure your life was much different in France.” Her gaze darted with warning toward Cookie.

Laurie caught the subtle signal and dropped the subject. She lowered her head, covertly stole a glance at Duncan and suppressed a smile. He was one of those huge muscle-bound guys, the kind of guy born with an extra Y-chromosome. The kind of guy who intimidated most women and some men. The kind of guy you’d want at your back in a fight. And, after a few hours in his company, she’d learned he was a big, sweet, teddy bear. If she had to have a guard, at least she could deal with this one.

The muffled blare of a horn sounded from somewhere atop the walls. The kitchen staff stilled for a moment then switched gears to overdrive.

“’Tis time for the noon meal,” Elspeth said.

They left the kitchen, allowing Cookie to complete her final preparations. They strolled into the courtyard and ascended the wheel stair to the hall.

On the first floor, the hall occupied the entire length of the western wing. A large hearth, tall enough for a man to stand in and wide enough to accommodate several men, was the prominent feature along one of the walls, although no fire burned today. Silence followed in their wake as she followed Elspeth across the stone floor toward the dais platform. When Laurie glanced at the staring people seated at the tables, they looked away. As soon as she sat next to Elspeth at the head table, whispers began.

Laurie inhaled a deep breath. She ignored the stares and took in the beauty of the castle. Until she escaped, she planned to immerse herself in the culture. Maybe she’d write a book when she returned home. It would need to be a work of fiction, who would believe the truth?

Duncan hovered over her like a nursemaid, but when friends hailed him, he joined a group of rowdy warriors at one of the lower tables.

She scanned the room, looking for Patrick, hoping he wouldn’t make an appearance.

Not finding him among the men, she glanced at the light penetrating the smoky haze from the high windows. At least six feet off the floor, the windows contained leaded-glass fixed into the stone on the lower half, and wooden shutters on the upper half. Additional lighting and the annoying smoke came from candles atop tall iron stands positioned around the room. They cast a sickly yellow glow on the many tapestries covering the gray stone of the walls.

Elspeth tapped her arm and leaned in close. “We wait for Patrick.”

Well, that settled it. He would be here soon enough. Part of her couldn’t wait to see him. The other part determined to ignore him.

Chattering in the room escalated. Laurie inwardly cringed, certain the chatter was speculation about her arrival.

The door opened, and a man who resembled Duncan hurried in. Messy copper-red hair bobbed as he strode across the floor to the head table, stopping in front of Elspeth. A hush fell over the room.

“Lady Elspeth.” He inclined his head. “The Chief, he instructed me to come directly to you. I am to inform you he will not be joining you for the midday meal. He wishes you to begin the serving.”

Elspeth laughed. “Why Jamie MacEwen, what is keeping my brother from his meal this time?”

The man’s gaze wandered around the room before landing back on Elspeth. “He is teaching a lesson to a Lamont on the training field.”

Most of the men in the room jumped to their feet. Tables and chairs scuffed across the stone floor, some falling in the men’s haste to rush from the hall. Jamie made a swift bow to Elspeth and ran out after them.

“What was that about?” Laurie asked.

“Naught for us to worry over.” Elspeth calmly gestured to Cookie for the serving to begin.

Lunch was a hearty fish stew heavily seasoned with herbs. Smoked trout and spring greens followed, accompanied by wine. Wine, which had been watered to reduce its potency. Laurie would have much preferred a nice Californian pinot noir with the trout, but the food was surprisingly tasty and enjoyable. At least she wouldn’t starve to death while she figured out how to return home.

Duncan remained behind when the other men ran out. With the meal finished, he approached the dais platform upon a signal from Elspeth.

“We go to the garden,” she said. “Will you escort us?”

“Lady Elspeth, you ken gey fine ’tis my duty to guard the chief’s new lady-love. You dinnae need to ask.” He presented a broad grin, his eyes filled with merriment.

“I’m not his lady-love,” Laurie blurted through clenched teeth in an overly loud voice.

The room fell quiet as the remaining folk stared at her. Heat raced to her cheeks. Idiot. She should be more careful. The last thing she needed was unwanted attention.

While she silently chastised herself, a ruckus came from outside the door and all heads turned in expectation. Patrick swaggered into the hall followed by his men. He wore a large grin on his dirt-smudged face and his chestnut hair stuck to the sides of his cheeks with sweat. His plaid was filthy and blood stained the front of his shirt.

Her chest tightened at the sight of the blood. Had he been injured?

He glared across the room at her. His dark eyes burned with anger. She cringed. He must have heard what she said. He sauntered to the dais, keeping his gaze locked on her. Jumping onto the platform, he strode directly to her, grasped her hand, and held her fingers in a tight grip. He yanked her from her seat, forced her to stand beside him, tucked tight against his side, held in place with one strong arm around her waist.

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow it. Her nose twitched and she shrank back from him. He smelled worse than the men’s locker room at her old athletic club after a rugby match.

With Lady Laurie’s denial burning in his mind, Patrick was rougher with the lass than proper. Battle lust rode him hard. He wasn’t about to be denied by a mere slip of a lass. He would teach her a lesson. A lesson he thoroughly planned to enjoy.

Facing the crowd, he held her tight, waiting for silence. In a thunderous voice, everyone in the room would be sure to hear, he said, “I have sent the Lamont dog back to his master with his tail betwixt his legs.”

His clan cheered, stomping their feet and pounding their fists on the tables. Again, he waited for silence. Firmly holding onto Laurie, he ignored her struggles to escape his grip. When the crowd calmed, he cleared his throat.

All eyes riveted to the couple on the dais.

“I present to you the Lady Laurie Bernard.” He held her hand out in front of them so the crowd was sure to see he clasped it. “She has come to us from France to be companion to my wee sister, Lady Elspeth. Hear me. She is under my protection and shall be treated as my honored guest.”

Laurie subtly tried to free herself, but he easily held her in place. He flipped her hand palm up, bowed his head and placed a kiss in the center, licking her palm with the tip of his tongue.

Her gasp made him chuckle. He released her and boldly surveyed the room. Patrick grinned with satisfaction. Although there were a few grumbles, this public demonstration confirmed the castle rumors better than any other could. Those present knew, for certain, he claimed this woman as his own.

As his mistress, she’d be safe—provided she remained within the clan.

Still shivering from the sensation of his velvety tongue gliding over her palm, Laurie glanced around the hall. Everyone stared, many with smirks, while others harbored hostile expressions on their infuriated faces.

Mortified, she stepped down hard on the bridge of his foot. He chuckled at her lame attempt to hurt him. She wished she wore heels instead of soft China flats. Stilettos. Something that would do damage.

When he released her and stepped away, Elspeth leaned close to whisper. “Curtsy.”

Laurie wanted to slap the grin off Patrick’s arrogant face. Instead, she inhaled a bracing breath, swallowed her pride, executed a clumsy curtsy, and nearly fell to the floor.

He caught her arm in time to stop her from landing hard. “Now the whole clan kens you belong to me,” he said in a quiet voice, thankfully only she heard.

He’d the nerve to laugh, the hearty sound echoing through the hall. She wanted to spit in his face or knee him in the gonads. Feeling her temper escalate, yet knowing she dare not make a scene, she glared at the jerk.

Proud of himself, he kept eye contact with her for several long minutes, meeting her challenge with one of his own. Finally, his lips thinned and he released her arm, turning his attention to his sister. “I wish to have a bath sent to my bedchamber. I expect Lady Laurie to attend me. Will you see to it?”

Elspeth gave her brother a strange look before her usual serene smile returned to her lips. She rose from her seat and executed a perfect curtsy. “Lady Laurie, please come with me. I will explain what is expected.”

Feeling as if she were tossing about in a gyrating washing machine, Laurie followed Elspeth from the hall. She worried her lower lip. What did Patrick plan? What would he expect of her? She was sure whatever he proposed she wouldn’t like.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Laurie felt the singe of Patrick’s gaze as if he touched her skin with a lit match. Ignoring him was impossible. He leaned against a corner post of the large canopied bed, watching her through hawk-like eyes while she prepared his bath under the gentle guidance of Aine and Elspeth. Laurie squeezed the knobby cloth in her hand until her palms burned. If only she could strangle the arrogant jerk.

Aine bent over the tub, tested the water temperature with her elbow, and inclined her head to Elspeth. “Ready.”

Elspeth clapped her hands then flicked them in front of her, shooing the servants from the room. Aine adjusted a pile of toweling and followed the men out.

“Duncan will remain in the passageway. If you are in need of anything, more hot water, drying cloths, anything, summon him and he will fetch whatever you require.” Elspeth gave Laurie a reassuring nod before she left.

The heavy oak door shut with a loud thud, causing Laurie to jump. The tension thickened to an unbearable level. How had she gotten herself into this uncomfortable situation? Was this what a kidnap victim felt like? Totally out of control?

Only Laurie willingly followed Patrick home after sharing the most powerful kiss of her life. A stranger. God, what was she thinking?

She didn’t believe he would harm her, at least not physically, but the domineering man did control her fate. Though only until she found a way home. She held out hope, if she went to the place where Patrick found her, she’d be able to return home.

He strode to the center of the room in silence. Silence that was more overwhelming than words would be. He towered over her by at least a foot. He stood still for several tense moments then removed his belt and the pouch at his waist, laying them aside on a wooden bench.

Laurie swallowed impulsively when his wool plaid fell to the floor at his feet. She wanted to dart for the door, but didn’t dare. She glared at him, anger consuming her, making her dizzy.

How dare he force her into this awkward situation?

He had the nerve to flash a devilish grin. With a quick motion, he pulled his tunic over his head and dropped it too. Holy crap. He stood before her, tall and broad, displaying his magnificent male assets.

She lowered her gaze to the floor, but only after enjoying an eyeful of his athletically honed physique. Not just his ribbed six-pack—a major erection proudly jutted forward, reaching for her. She sucked in a shocked breath and froze in place.

Water splashed and Patrick sighed heavily. When Laurie retuned her gaze to him, he’d lowered into the tub. The wooden bathtub was large, but even so, he couldn’t stretch his legs out. He sat with his knees drawn up, steamy water covering him to his waist.

She bit her lower lip. Even though he annoyed her, he was impressive to look at. Based on the smug smile he wore, he was well aware of his effect on her. The room was getting hot. She fanned herself, finding it hard to breathe. It wasn’t only the temperature making her perspire, but the sensual way Patrick looked at her as if he desired more than help with his bath.

He leaned back against the tub, allowing time to drag. She bet he was taking pleasure from her discomfort.

Was this her predestined alpha-male?

She shrank from the thought. He was a barbarian. A medieval lord, for God’s sake. Not for her. She needed to go home.

“Shall we begin?” His husky voice startled her, and a flush of heat prickled across Laurie’s chest, up her neck, and burned her cheeks. “Have you never seen a naked man afore?”

She straightened to her full height and raised her chin. “I have, but he was my boyfriend.”

Patrick’s forehead puckered. “What is meant by this word… boyfriend?”

Whoa. Laurie wiped her clammy palms on the cloth she held. She needed to be more careful how she said things. But really, how could she be expected to carry on a conversation with him while he sat there, naked, knowing she was expected to wash his tempting body? How would she be able to wash all of that magnificently muscled nude man, touch all of his beautifully bronzed skin?

She was tempted to do a lot more than wash him, God help her. She was treading on dangerous ground. She shook her head, trying to remember his question.

Oh, yeah—boyfriend. How did one explain a boyfriend to a medieval warrior?

Caught by the deep blue of his eyes she hesitated, unsure how to answer. She ignored his nudity and stepped closer. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

She lowered her gaze and reigned in her scattered thoughts. “I’m not sure I can explain it properly.”

“Try.”

“A boyfriend is someone with whom you are romantically involved. Someone you think you might someday want to marry.” She glanced at Patrick. The intensity of his gaze threw her off balance. She leaned against a nearby chair for support.

“Are you hand-fasted then?”

“No!” She was familiar with the meaning of that word from Finn and she didn’t want Patrick to think she was married. Not that there could ever be anything between them. Still, she didn’t want him to think she had a man of her own.

“Are you this boy’s mistress?” Patrick quickly shot the question at her in a raised voice.

Laurie winced. “No, you misunderstand. I was just his girl-friend.”

When Patrick splashed water over his chest, something in her gut fluttered as she watched the water trickle over his nipples, the nubs hardening. She moistened her lips, and stared at him. He held himself motionless, his gaze penetrating, his jaw tight.

“What happened to this boy?”

“I don’t know. We went our separate ways a long time ago.”

That one relationship, her only romantic relationship, had been the biggest mistake of her life.

Patrick grinned. “Good. Now attend to my bath, woman.”

Laurie stiffened. She didn’t particularly care for the tone of his voice or for his derogatory use of the word woman. She raised her arm to slap him, but a glance into the tub stopped her mid-swing. His cock jerked in the water, and rational thought flew from her mind. She gaped at him like an idiot.

“Lass, come here and wash my back.” His tone was gentler this time.

Laurie blinked. Okay, girl, get with the program. She took the small cloth she still held and picked up the pot sitting near the tub. A whiff of the woodsy pine-scented soap made her smile. The fragrance was different from the one she’d used for her bath. Bold. Manly. Putting a generous amount on the cloth, she knelt on a towel on the floor behind the tub and rubbed the cloth over Patrick’s back.

His muscles flexed and he made a rumbling sound from deep within his chest. Gooseflesh popped and danced across his slick skin. The depth of the sound of his voice surprised her as it resonated against her fingers, sending mini shock waves up her arm and along her spine. She shivered from the sensation, forgetting her earlier anger. A purr was the only word to describe the sensuous sound he made.

Emboldened by his obvious pleasure, she added more soap and rubbed the cloth across his shoulders, scraping her nails on his glistening skin. His muscles quivered with each pass.

“Ach, you make me feel as if I am drawn on a rack with each stroke.” He sounded like he was in pain.

“Sorry.” Laurie jerked her hand away.

“Nae, dinnae stop.” Patrick twisted and grabbed her hand along with the cloth and brought them to rest on his chest. “I like your sweet caress. You set me afire.”

A girl could get used to hearing that. Swallowing the remainder of her inhibitions, Laurie removed her hand from his body, stood before he grabbed it back, scurried to the other side of the tub and knelt. If he was enjoying this, so would she. This might be her only opportunity to experience a real man.

She touched his broad chest, hesitating only for a moment before swiping the cloth across his pecs. Her stomach tightened as she feasted on his masculinity. She boldly stroked him with her gaze, from chin to chest, to waist, and up again. A tremor raced through her. When she met his stormy eyes, she was lost.

She stilled, the cloth held in a tight grip, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to look away. Patrick reached for her hand and slid her palm, along with the cloth, over his heart. Each beat pulsed in rhythm with her own. Their gazes locked, and she dragged the cloth along with his hand over his nipples.

He sucked in a breath and released a guttural sound. “Use your nails on me.”

Breathless, she searched his face. His eyes darkened with desire. Letting the cloth fall into the water, she scraped her nails gently across his chest. Each fine hair tickled, causing a pleasant pulsing sensation at her core. She drew circles around each of his nipples, brushing her fingertips across the hardened buds. Her breasts grew heavy and strained against the fabric of her gown.

He purred again, a purely sensuous sound. She could listen to the hum forever. A heated smile softened his lips, making him more breathtakingly handsome.

Blatant desire pooled down low, and she needed to touch more of him. Her sensitive fingers brushed across a rough ridge of skin below his right shoulder. A white scar ran from the side of his neck to just below his arm. Pulling her hand away, she winced.

“Do you find me so ugly you cannae bear to touch me?” He watched her through hooded eyes.

Ignoring his ill-hidden attempt to gain a compliment, Laurie ran a moist fingertip along the length of the scar. “How did you get this?”

Patrick shuddered with sensation. Laurie’s gentle touch against his damaged skin drove him mad. “Ach, ’tis naught but a wee scrape.”

She frowned. “Must’ve hurt like hell when you got it.”

“Aye, that it did.”

“Will you tell me how it happened?”

“I caught a cattle thief on MacLachlan land and he gave me the scar.” He flashed a teasing grin. “A wee bit of blood-letting is a show of vigor, you ken.”

She gaped at him.

“The thief received worse for it,” he said, after glimpsing her horrified expression.

Again, she traced the length of the scar with her finger. “Does it hurt?”

“Nae.” Patrick growled, reached over the side of the tub and pulled her in.

Laurie let out a curt scream as water splashed on the stone floor. He placed her between his raised knees, her back to his front, her soaking clothes clinging to all her luscious curves.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She struggled to rise, but he held her in place.

“Lean against me, let me hold you.” He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist.

“We mustn’t.”

Having seen desire simmering in her eyes, he ignored her protest. She wanted him as much as he needed her. Her wet skirt tangled around their legs when he pulled her against the hard ridge of his erection. He yanked her braid to the side and nuzzled her neck.

“Stop!” She batted at his hands.

“I beg you. Let me pleasure you,” he murmured close to her ear.

She stilled.

“You ken you want me.”

“You conceited bastard. How dare you?”

He laughed. “We have already established I dare much.” He brushed his lips along the nape of her neck and whispered love words in Gaelic, knowing she wouldn’t understand their promise. Mine.

She shivered. “Please, let me go.” However, they both knew the words for what they were—an empty plea.

He took encouragement from that knowledge and slid the tip of his tongue along the edge of her ear, nibbled on the lobe, delved in. She squirmed, and his shaft stiffened to near pain.

She half-heartedly tried to break his hold, again. He held her gently in his embrace, and relaxing against him, she gave up the attempt. He took a soft bite at her nape and placed feather-light kisses along her hairline, desperate to possess all of her. The soft mewing sounds she made urged him onward. He kissed and nipped all of her wonderfully tender places.

Patrick cupped her firm breasts and toyed with the tight nipples through the now-wet cloth of her gown. He took his time, leisurely massaging each breast. Managing to fit his large hands inside the bodice of her gown, he pinched the hard tips between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing a moan from her lips.

Laurie arched against him. Her breath came in little pants as he continued to tease her flesh. When she rubbed her arse against his hard cock, he nearly lost his seed. Hard and throbbing, he clamped down on his jaw, seeking and then finding control.

The more he teased, the more she rocked against his erection, the more he teased.

“Have you changed your mind? Do you want to stay with me?”

“Mmm.”

Laurie was fire, flaming hotter with each caress. Never before had he wanted a lass with such desperation. He reached below and cupped her precious mound through the cloth of her wet skirt, rubbing her most sensitive place. The thunder of her heart resonated in his chest. He stroked her slowly, faster, slower again, drawing out the pleasure. Her need. His need. Their need.

Her moans grew loader with every stroke. The sensations pulsing through her hit him hard. Hot. Burning hot.

She hummed with desire. He felt her need deep in the core of his being. She was ready for him. He rose and stood in the tub with her in his arms, water dripped from his body and Laurie’s garments. He held her to his chest and gazed at her. She was lovely, soft and pliant in her state of intense arousal.

He lowered his head. “You please me, lass.”

She smiled. “I want you.”

He growled and captured her lips in a sizzling kiss.

A sudden draft hit his wet skin as the chamber door jerked open.

“God’s teeth. What in…” Patrick’s words trailed off as he saw the group at the door.

Two male servants, holding buckets full of hot water, stood gaping. Aine, with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her plump red face, appeared ready to burst. Elspeth held a stack of drying cloths against her chest, her face a deep rose. And Duncan stood behind the lot, unable to hide his censure.

Laurie hid her face in Patrick’s chest.

Shifting her weight, he concealed the evidence of his lusty desire within the folds of her sodden skirt. He placed her head against his shoulder, hiding her shamed face. She trembled in his arms. Hot tears against his skin pricked his conscience, causing a pang of guilt.

Aine stepped forward. “Patrick MacLachlan, what are you about? Taking advantage of the sweet lass like that. Put her down. ’Tis highly improper. You should be ashamed.”

“Out.” His temper flared. “All of you. Get out.”

As one, they leaped back, unwilling to deal with their chief’s wrath.

“Elspeth, wait, bring those cloths here,” he said. “Duncan, get everyone else out of here. Now. And shut that blasted door.”

Elspeth stepped farther into the chamber while the servants scrambled to disappear.

Duncan followed the others and closed the door.

Patrick stepped from the tub, uncaring of the water dripping onto the floor. He carried Laurie to a chair by the fire and placed her in it. She sat quietly, her body trembling, her teeth chattering, staring forward.

He took the cloths from Elspeth, laying all but the largest on the floor. He squatted in front of Laurie and wrapped the soft cloth around her shoulders, pulling it snug. He leaned back on his heels. He’d made a muddle of things. He’d acted a fool.

He should have given her more time to grow accustomed to him.

“Beth, you may leave us now.”

“Nae. I cannae leave you alone with her. Thank goodness Duncan summoned us.” She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her chin defiantly. “Cover yourself.”

Patrick raised his eyes toward heaven. Saints preserve him from pushy women and gallant guardsman. He picked up one of the cloths, stood, and wrapped it around his torso. “I will not hurt her, Leave us.”

Elspeth hesitated, but reluctantly left the chamber, passing Duncan on the way out. The man glanced in and when their gazes locked, Patrick saw anger in his man’s eyes.

“Close the door,” Patrick ordered.

Duncan inclined his head before shutting the door. Patrick would deal with him later.

“I owe you an apology.” He once again squatted in front of Laurie. “’Twas wrong to encourage you as I did.”

She shook her head though wouldn’t look at him. “My fault too.”

“Nae.” He reached for the cloth at her shoulder. “We need to get you out of these wet garments.”

She blocked him with her hand. “Please, go away.”

“Aye, I will leave.” She looked so miserable, he had to comply.

Rubbing the ache in his chest, he rose and strode to a trunk in the corner. After opening the lid, he removed a clean leine and plaide. He pulled the leine over his head, the cloth becoming damp from the moisture on his skin. If he thought too much about the way she’d felt against him, he wouldn’t leave the chamber and he’d make a bigger mess of things.

From the bench, he picked up his belt and pouch, and placed them on the bed. He lay down and wrapped the plaide around his body, securing it with the belt. ’Twas obvious the Lady Laurie had a champion in his man Duncan. Patrick tightened his throat muscles to keep a possessive growl from escaping.

He attached his pouch as he went to another chest. From within, he retrieved a pair of deer hides. These he wrapped around his feet and legs, securing them with strips of leather. Then he pulled out a knife, attaching it to his thigh under his tunic with another strip of leather.

How should he deal with Duncan’s intrusion? He had ordered the man to protect Laurie with his life. In a way, that was what the man did by stopping Patrick from taking the lass.

He’d need to tread carefully in handling his man.

Laurie’s eyes widened when he grasped his claymore. Patrick swept his hand over the exquisite workmanship. He touched the large, sparkling sapphire in the crosspiece of the ornate hilt with reverence before he secured the weapon on his back.

With a terse nod to Laurie, he strode to the door. “You will stay in this chamber,” he said with his back to her. “Nothing has changed.” Under his breath, he added, “You belong to me.”

He opened the door to leave but turned to her. Moisture pooled in her eyes. He’d meant to give her pleasure. Instead, he caused pain. He truly was a scoundrel. “I will send Elspeth to you.”

Patrick slammed the door on his way out. Though it wasn’t to Laurie he sought to demonstrate his anger.

Laurie heard Patrick’s muffled voice through the door. She supposed he gave Duncan orders to guard her and not let her leave. Whatever. At the moment, she was too embarrassed to do anything but sit and seethe at her raging hormones.

She sniffled, but refused to cry. If a person could die from humiliation, she’d surely be dead. Her stupidity in the arms of Patrick made it more imperative to find a way to return home soon. She didn’t dare get emotionally attached to the man. She needed to get back to her own time.

“Stop your bellyaching,” a familiar female voice said from the direction of the bed. “He won’t want you if you mope about and feel sorry for yourself.”

Scrambling from the chair, Laurie dropped the drying cloth to the floor. She stared at the bed. No one was there.

She was losing it. Surely she was. She was starting to feel like Alice, lost in a medieval Wonderland. Laurie took a couple of steps closer to the bed. Had she too slipped through a rabbit hole, only to find her world turned inside out?

“Men dinnae like women who sulk,” the voice said.

I’m not sulking,” she said, talking to herself. She really was going crazy.

Laurie frowned, shook her head and walked toward the bed. It looked no different than when she first entered the room. Bed neatly made. Pillows neatly arranged. So where was the voice coming from?

She froze when Caitrina appeared in front of her, ever so slowly shimmering into solid form.

Laurie’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? She should’ve realized Caitrina was near; the place reeked of her unique fragrance.

Caitrina moved forward, appearing to float over the floor, her silky green gown glistening in the late afternoon light. She looked beautiful and intimidating.

“How did you get here?” Laurie asked, her voice a tad shaky.

“I have been with you all along. Watching.” A mischievous smile curved Caitrina’s perfect lips. “You have made a mess of things, you have.”

“What?” A forgotten memory came to Laurie. She’d had a conversation with Caitrina at the cottage after too many bottles of wine. Caitrina admitted to being a faerie. She’d said the man in Laurie’s dreams and visions—Patrick—was her soul mate. That fate would bring them together. Until now, Laurie had thought the memory a delusional drunken dream.

Now she knew better.

Laurie curled fists to her hips and glared. “I’ve traveled through time to this barbaric place. A medieval, macho man has manhandled me. And you’ve been watching.”

“Dinnae overreact.”

“How could you?” Laurie wanted to pummel Caitrina. “Take me home, now.”

Pursing her lips, Caitrina shook her head. “Cannae. Besides, you looked like you were enjoying the manhandling.”

Laurie bristled. The remark came too close to the truth. “What do you mean, you can’t? You’re a faerie. Do your magic and send me home.”

Caitrina had the nerve to grin. “I dinnae have the power to return you. Only you do.”

“Please, spare me. Who do you think you are? The good witch in The Wizard of Oz, and all I need to do is tap the heels of my ruby slippers and quote there’s nowhere like home and I’ll find myself in my garden in Anderson Creek?”

“Of course not, dinnae be ridiculous.”

“Then how do I get home?”

“You will figure it out.”

“What do you mean?” Laurie asked. “I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know how I got here. Well, except for the part where you pushed me through the garden gate, and I found myself in medieval Scotland. I don’t have any idea how to get home.”

Caitrina lifted her arm in farewell and faded into a fine mist. “You’ll find the way home when you fulfill your destiny.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

When were guys in white jackets going to show up with a straitjacket and take her away? None of this could be real.

People didn’t travel back in time. Faeries only existed in faerie tales.

Laurie’s mind raced. She paced from the bed to the fireplace, back and forth across the chamber while mumbling her chaotic thoughts to the silent room.

Patrick’s arms around her felt real. The memory grounded her. She shivered and wrapped one of the drying cloths around her shoulders. Picking up another cloth, she ran her fingers over the coarse fabric.

She needed to suspend long-held beliefs as to the workings of the natural world to accept the existence of faeries and time travel?

Well, duh, she traveled through time.

Caitrina spoke of destiny. Laurie rubbed her aching temples. Did her destiny truly involve Patrick? Her heartbeat spiked at the thought. He was a control freak and ordered her about, which she didn’t like, but he made her feel wanted. Special.

Lost in her whirling thoughts, she tensed when the door creaked open behind her. When she spun around, Elspeth stood in the threshold, blushing.

“Come in,” Laurie said in an effort to be friendly.

“Patrick sent me to assist you.” The young woman warily stepped into the room. “I will help you to bed.”

“Why? It’s the middle of the afternoon, I’m not tired.”

Elspeth winced. “Patrick thought you should rest.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to offend you.” Laurie sighed. “It’s just that I need fresh air.”

“I will open the shutters.” Elspeth rushed to a window.

“No. I mean—”

“I am here to assist you.” The young woman twisted around.

“Why are you being nice to me? I’m a stranger.”

“You are a guest in my brother’s home. Highlanders live by a strict code of hospitality. Besides, I like you.”

“Listen, I have to get out of this room.” Laurie flipped her wet braid over her shoulder. “You promised to show me your garden. Can we go now?”

“You cannae go outside in that damp gown. You will catch your death.”

“Then help me change.”

Elspeth assisted with removing the soggy dress, and Laurie slipped into her comfy twenty-first century clothes. As they walked out of the castle proper and into the courtyard, Laurie tightened her tartan stole around her shoulders and used the brooch Caitrina gave her to secure the wool fabric.

“’Tis unusually warm for late spring,” Elspeth said.

“Is it?” Laurie hardly noticed the temperature, her emotions churned with too many conflicting and confusing feelings.

Images of Patrick’s bath remained vivid in her mind. She still tasted him on her lips and felt his hands on her breasts. She tried hard to push the memory to the farthest corner of her mind, refusing to admit her desire for him.

She pretended nothing naughty happened between her and Patrick. Naughty—what a silly word to describe what happened. They’d almost had sex.

She shouldn’t feel such a thrill.

With a sigh, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without thinking too hard. The afternoon might be salvageable, if she didn’t run into the irresistible man.

Laurie smiled at her guard and Elspeth as if she didn’t have a care in the world. They strolled the short distance to the garden nestled within the security of the castle’s outer fortifications. Enclosed within a high wall, the sanctuary offered both protection and solitude. She and Elspeth entered through the narrow stone archway, leaving Duncan outside to stand guard.

Laid out in a geometric grid, the castle garden provided a well at the center for irrigation. Heavy wooden planks held the soil in beds, most containing medicinal and culinary herbs and vegetables edged by lavender and white violets. Strawberry plants filled one bed and a large section dedicated to roses lay to the side. Though not yet in bloom, the roses’ shiny new leaves glistened in the sunlight. At the center of the rose garden grew a bench of living plants.

“’Tis a turf bench of chamomile. ’Twill flower soon,” Elspeth said with pride.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Must be beautiful when in bloom.” Laurie followed Elspeth as they meandered through the garden.

“Most of the seedlings are collected from local fields and woods then planted here. Other plants are brought to me by friends and travelers who visit the castle.”

“What you’ve created here is amazing.”

“Thank you. My love for the garden came from my mother.” Elspeth’s voice saddened. “We spent hours together tending the plants. Since she is gone, I nurture the garden in her memory.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“My father and mother are missing—presumed dead by many—they disappeared three years ago while traveling across our land. After that, Patrick became chief of our clan.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Laurie’s chest tightened with sympathy.

“Aye, well.” Elspeth stopped to pick a brown leaf from one of the rose bushes. “My brother Archie often brings me gifts of seeds and cuttings from the Continent when he returns from his travels.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“I am the only lass.” A sweet pout plumped Elspeth’s lips. “After Patrick, Archie is the eldest. He travels in France with my betrothed Alexander Campbell on embassage for the king. Suibhne attends university in Glasgow while our wee brother, Iain the Younger, fosters with the Campbells of Glen Orchy.” Elspeth’s face glowed with love for her family.

“You must miss them.”

“Aye, sure, but now you are here.”

Laurie couldn’t help but smile as she glanced around the verdant garden. She needed this diversion. She stood near the well and spun in a circle. Her mood lifted. The garden held a tranquil beauty, pleasing and calming. Both, she desperately required.

“Elspeth, the garden is wonderful.”

The young woman gave Laurie an impetuous hug. “I hoped you would like it. As my companion you will be expected to help with the chores.”

“At home, I was learning about gardening.”

“Tell me about your home and how you came to be at Castle Lachlan. I would like verra much to ken where you came from. Patrick is secretive about your past.”

Laurie cleared her throat and glanced around nervously. She wasn’t sure where to begin or how much to share. And she definitely didn’t want anyone to overhear. Still, she needed to tell someone. She truly needed a friend.

Somehow, she sensed she could trust Elspeth. The younger woman seemed so young and innocent; she couldn’t be much more than eighteen or nineteen. Yet an ageless wisdom shone in her silver eyes.

Elspeth seemed to understand Laurie’s hesitation and took her by the hand, leading her into the rose garden, where they sat on the turf bench. “Laurie, dinnae fear telling me. You must have a special gift, as I do. I see things others dinnae.”

Okay, this was awkward. Laurie seldom shared her personal life with anyone other than with her uncle David, who raised her, or her cousin Finn, when he wasn’t acting her boss. There were no women Laurie felt close to, at least not close enough to confide in. She’d always been too busy dealing with her business life, where the competitive nature of the work made it difficult to trust. Caitrina was the first woman she considered a friend.

Look where that got her.

She liked Elspeth. She easily believed the young woman had a special gift. From her flowed a sense of serenity.

Cautiously, Laurie began her story. She told Elspeth she quit her job and went to North Carolina. How she found the cottage with its garden and decided to move there. The story unwound and she told her about the strange happenings. About her dreams and visions. How she traveled through time, ending up in sixteenth century Scotland.

Precious expressions crossed Elspeth’s face while she listened. Wide-eyed through most of the story, she seemed to understand, though Laurie could tell at times Elspeth didn’t comprehend specific words or phrases.

“How did you get the brooch you wear on your plaide?” Elspeth asked when Laurie finished.

“Caitrina, the woman who helped me with my garden, gave it to me the night I traveled here.”

“Do you ken how she came to have it?”

“I think she might be a faerie,” Laurie confided in a whisper, fearing the other woman’s reaction.

Elspeth didn’t appear the slightest bit shocked. She continued to smile as if discussing faeries a common occurrence. “May I see the brooch?”

Laurie unclasped the pin and handed it to Elspeth.

The young woman ran her fingertips across the delicate artistry, studying the brooch in deep concentration. Her brow furrowed and she gazed at Laurie with moisture in her bright eyes. “’Tis lovely. It belonged to my mother.”

“The brooch belonged to your mother?”

“Aye. She was wearing it when she disappeared.” Elspeth handed the pin to Laurie.

“That’s incredible. Caitrina claimed the brooch was a reproduction, but I knew it had to be original. Here, you take it.” Laurie held the brooch out to Elspeth. “It rightly belongs to you and your family.”

“Nae.” Elspeth sniffled. “’Tis yours now. Since it was given to you by one of the Sithichean, the brooch must be a key to your future. Besides, I feel you are the sister I never had. We will have such fun in the garden together.” She hugged Laurie again.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay.” Laurie glanced off across the garden. “I need to go home. I don’t belong here.”

“May I tell you what I believe?”

“Of course.”

“Events often happen for reasons that are hard to understand at first. Dreams tell you things you need to know. Your visions of Patrick. Your traveling here. Neither happened by accident. There is a reason you cannae yet see.” Elspeth’s gaze penetrated. “You must stay until you find out why you were sent to us.”

Why, indeed?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A fortnight later, Patrick held a tight rein on his temper, yet he was beyond furious. To his right at the high table, his uncle continued spouting words Patrick didn’t wish to hear. He struggled to maintain restraint. He hoped the slight tic at his temple was the only outward sign of his escalating anger.

“I am truly sorry, but you ken the only way to end the strife is for you to marry the lass. ’Twas what your father intended all along. Let me go to the Lamont and negotiate the terms.” How dare Donald lecture him on his responsibility to the clan. Did the man believe he didn’t know his duty? A sense of duty had been drilled into Patrick since the cradle.

For nearly three years, his uncle argued his cause. On this morn, he ranted for over an hour. Patrick was sick to death with the quarrel.

“Are you listening to me, lad?”

“Aye.” Patrick ground his teeth. He didn’t trust the man’s constant manipulations and political maneuvering. Donald forever caused problems for the clan. Especially with his unreasonable hatred of the Campbells.

“Tell me. What do you plan to do about the contract?”

“I would give my soul to Satan before I marry the daughter of our enemy.” Hands hidden beneath the table, Patrick clenched his fists, wishing he could pound his uncle senseless.

Movement at the doorway caught his attention. Elspeth and her new companion entered the hall followed closely by Duncan. Lady Laurie wore the blue gown again, her golden hair in a thick braid at her back. Even though a fortnight passed, he still remembered the wet gown clinging to her breasts, the tight nipples taut against his palms. Saints preserve him, the sight of those curvy hips hugged by the gown triggered lust to sizzle hot through his blood, tightening every muscle, pushing to the surface his frustration.

Ach! He felt crushed against a mountain by a boulder.

And Lady Laurie would be caught there too if he wasn’t careful. He regretted that each time they were in close proximity he’d lost his temper for one reason or another. She must think him an ogre.

Perhaps that was best.

“You must wed—”

Patrick swung his stare to his uncle. “Never!” He stood and smashed a closed fist on the table, catching Donald unawares. “Dinnae push me, old man.”

“Dammit, lad—”

Patrick didn’t wait to hear more swill. He stomped from the hall, the subsequent silence broken only by the thud of his boots as he descended the wheel stair. He would never wed.

My God! What caused Patrick’s outburst of temper?

Laurie followed Elspeth farther into the great hall from the rear passage from where they’d witnessed Patrick’s display of temper and thumping exit by way of the main stairs.

Although she’d occasionally crossed an executive or two with volatile temperaments, she wasn’t accustomed to such violent displays of anger. And with each day she remained trapped at Castle Lachlan, his moods became more and more explosive.

Not that it mattered. He kept a respectful distance. He never entered his chamber when she was present and he slept either with his men or in his study since the castle’s bedchambers were full. She lived in terror though, unable to trust him or herself if they found themselves alone.

She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. As much as it didn’t make sense, she couldn’t stop herself from wanting a taste of what he would willingly give. Did she dare?

No. She needed to get out of here, return home before her desire overwhelmed her and she had sex with Patrick…and made the biggest mistake of her life.

She and Elspeth approached the dais with Duncan in tow. An older man sat at the head table, his gaze riveted on the doorway where the sound of Patrick’s descent still echoed against stone.

He grabbed a cup of ale from the table and, sloshing some of the liquid onto his beard, drank deeply. As he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, he caught their approach. He swiped the hand on his plaid while an unwavering blue stare—so similar to Patrick’s—held her in place.

Duncan tensed and stepped in front of her, blocking the man’s view. Was there a reason he felt compelled to protect her? The man couldn’t mean her harm. She scooted around Duncan and continued forward.

“Greetings, niece.” The older man stood and motioned for them to join him.

Laurie glanced at Elspeth and hesitated. Uncle? Would he suspect Laurie wasn’t what Patrick claimed her to be? Elspeth stepped onto the dais, serene, smiling in her usual manner. Laurie startled when Duncan clasped her elbow.

“Thank you.” She accepted his assistance onto the platform.

“Good morn, uncle.” Elspeth sat to his right. She motioned for Laurie to take the next seat. Have you broken your fast?”

Elspeth’s uncle glared at Duncan. The warrior glowered back then strode to the far end of the dais, and leaned against the wall respectful of the family’s privacy. Why did the men of this time always scowl?

“Aye, I have eaten. Thank you,” the uncle said to Elspeth. “I came at first light to report to your brother. My men have been patrolling the western border. Those cursed Lamonts have caused havoc raiding along the river. They stole several head of cattle and set huts afire.”

Laurie gaped in horror. When she caught herself and closed her mouth, she noticed Elspeth’s hand fluttered near her breast.

“Was anyone hurt?” Elspeth asked.

“Nae. Though several are left homeless.” He patted her arm. “Dinnae worry yourself, lass. Your brother will see the people are relocated.”

“I will see provisions sent.”

“Good. Your parents would be proud of you.” His gaze cut to Laurie. “Who might this comely lass be?”

“Lady Laurie Bernard. Alexander Campbell has sent her from France to attend me.”

“Welcome,” he said, though his tone held little warmth. Was he someone else she must win over?

“Thank you,” she said, sweetly.

His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin, scrutinizing her. Great. Her manner of speech gave her away. What was he thinking? She swallowed uneasily. Would he cause trouble?

“This is my Uncle Donald,” Elspeth said.

He held Laurie’s gaze for longer than comfortable. Then, thank God, he returned his attention to his niece.

“Alexander will make you a good husband,” he said. “Did he also send word informing when he an Archibald will return from the Continent?” He picked at a loose thread on his plaid.

“Nae, he only sent Lady Laurie to me.”

“So they won’t return home soon?”

“I dinnae think they will.” Elspeth bit her lower lip and rose, motioning for Laurie to do the same. “I am glad you have been well fed, uncle. You must excuse us, we are for the garden.”

Laurie followed Elspeth’s lead. So much for having breakfast. Not that she minded. She doubted she’d have much of an appetite with Elspeth’s uncle staring at her.

Elspeth hurried across the stone floor. Laurie in her wake with Duncan taking the rear.

Laurie glanced over her shoulder at the dais. Uncle Donald sported a cruel smile. For once, Laurie didn’t mind Duncan guarding her back. Something didn’t seem right with Patrick’s uncle. She couldn’t pinpoint what bothered her about the man, but he made her skin prickle with unease.

Chills along her spine made her shudder. She needed to find a way to escape. And soon.

Laurie walked through the bustling courtyard, pretending interest in the comings and goings but actually searching for hiding places in the shadows. Places she could use when she tried to sneak away some night after dark. She hadn’t come up with a feasible plan yet, though she would escape.

They reached the kitchen without incident. Elspeth handed her one of the heavy aprons hanging on a hook near the doorway. The bulky garments were designed to protect their gowns from dirt or a wayward thorn while they worked in the garden.

Outside, an occasional puffy cloud drifted across the blue sky. Laurie inhaled a breath of fresh air. Even after two weeks, she still found it odd to look up at the expanse of clear blue and not see planes or contrails. It reminded her of the afternoon of 9-11 when no airplanes were permitted in US airspace. Fate touched her that day. With no college classes scheduled on that day, she had planned to assist her uncle. If it hadn’t been for the cell phone call from his administrative assistant, canceling the client meeting at the towers, she would have been caught in the midst of the chaos.

Goosebumps prickled her arms, and she shivered.

As with her other visits to the garden, she found relief in the wonderfully heady scents. It was a retreat from the strong stench of the hall, the smell of unwashed flesh being one of the worst among the other unpleasant odors.

Kneeling close to Elspeth, Laurie helped weed the strawberry bed. She chuckled. “I always seem to be doing this. Weeds plagued my garden at home.”

“In the twenty-first century?” Elspeth stopped and smiled at Laurie.

“Yes, the twenty-first century.”

Elspeth pulled another weed and tossed it onto the growing pile. “Do you miss your home verra much?”

Not wanting to hurt her young friend’s feelings, Laurie took a moment before answering. “It is nice here and you and Aine have been kind. But I don’t belong at Castle Lachlan. I miss my little cottage and my garden. And, I would give anything to have a good cup of coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“A hot, robust drink common where I live.”

“Ah.” Elspeth fixed her gaze on Laurie with eyebrows raised and mouth set in a slight curve. “What of Patrick?”

Laurie nervously coughed. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He has been kind letting me stay with you. I guess he could have thrown me out.”

“He would never be so inhospitable. But that is not what I am asking. He has claimed you as his own,” Elspeth said. “Stephen told me you were…friendly, shall I say, at the Fir-wood. And we did find you verra wet and blushing from his bath.”

“The only excuse I have is my emotions...my feelings...were running wild from traveling through the time gate. I wasn’t myself. I was vulnerable.”

Elspeth didn’t press and continued weeding.

She had been vulnerable, but Patrick made Laurie feel things she’d never felt before. She’d never been with a man and he wanted her. Could she head home without exploring what might develop between them?

Yeah!

Staying here would be a mistake. Staying here would be insane. Staying here could prove fatal.

She’d heard storytellers glorify the Scottish clan’s penchant for cattle raiding, but the tale she heard in the great hall was horrible. Huts burned. Had anyone been hurt? Patrick said he received his scar from a cattle thief. Laurie deplored violence.

She’d forgotten about the heightened potential for danger in this time and place.

Staying here was so not an option.

She wanted to go home. She didn’t care what Caitrina said about destiny.

Laurie chewed on her bottom lip as Patrick’s words jumped into her mind and she gripped Elspeth’s arm. “What exactly is meant by... claimed as his own?”

“I am not as innocent as they believe. I ken the claiming has something to do with the...ah, relations between men and women. I think if you were verra nice to him, he would keep you.” Elspeth blushed sweetly.

Patrick hadn’t claimed anything from her. Well, nothing more than a couple of heated kisses. He wanted more. And so did she. But what you want isn’t always good for you.

“These strawberries are thinly planted,” Laurie said.

Elspeth giggled. “If you wish, we can talk about something else. I thought we might get Duncan to take us to the mainland to search for wild strawberry plants to add to these.”

“When shall we go?” The outing might be the perfect opportunity to make a break for the Fir-wood and a chance to attempt to reverse whatever sent her back in time.

“I will need to ask Patrick for his consent for us to leave the castle grounds.” Elspeth flicked another weed on the pile. “I will ask him after the evening meal.”

Fat chance he’d let them go anywhere. Laurie sat back on her heels and watched a colorful butterfly flutter past. She shouldn’t be pessimistic. Perhaps Elspeth would convince her brother.

Laurie needed to be more optimistic. She contemplated the possibility of returning to Fir-wood when she noticed color and movement out of the corner of her eye. She glanced at the archway and her breath caught in her throat.

Patrick was barefoot, dressed in a colorful plaid with a woolen tunic the color of saffron beneath. A plain brass brooch secured the fabric at his shoulder. He looked like he walked off the pages of a glossy coffee table volume titled Highlander, or better yet, Celtic Gods.

He leaned against the stone with his arms crossed against his massive chest, his height and width crowded against the archway. Laurie swallowed involuntarily over the way his startling blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She stifled the urge to go to him and touch his thick chestnut hair, which he wore loose. She put her hands behind her back to stop herself from even thinking about her desire to run her fingers along his handsome clean-shaven cheek. And she definitely wouldn’t think about what she’d like to do with his bare legs.

Damn the man for looking so good.

Her mouth went dry. A tingly sensation tightened her skin. Dear God, he made her hot and wet and...

Why was he here?

Laurie’s tentative smile did strange things to Patrick. He made an effort to clear his face, not wanting to expose the emotional upheaval she aroused. ’Twas bad enough he donned his best plaide and searched her out.

He strode through the garden, stopping beside her and offered his hand. She hesitated, her gaze wary. Doubt crept in. Would she accept his assistance?

She curled her fingers around his, and he felt a kick to his gut. Her eyes flared. She must have experienced something similar. When her hand trembled within his grasp, there was satisfaction in knowing he wasn’t alone in his uncertainty.

He forced a cocky grin. She bristled and snatched her hand away.

Elspeth giggled, rose to her feet, and brushed dirt from her apron. “’Tis good to see you in the garden. ’Tis been a long time since you came to enjoy its tranquility.”

“Aye, too long,” he said. “Duncan has returned to the castle on an errand. I will watch after Lady Laurie. Beth, please return to the hall?”

“She doesn’t need to leave,” Laurie said in a rush.

Patrick raised a hand to silence her. “I wish to discuss an important matter with you, Lady Laurie.”

Elspeth searched his face. “You are always sending me away to be alone with Laurie. ’Tis not proper.”

“You will understand better when Alexander returns from the Continent.” Patrick patted his sister’s shoulder.

“Alexander is a good man.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “He always does what is proper. I have never been alone with him.”

“He fears my wrath.” Patrick chuckled.

“Nae, he fears you not.” Elspeth giggled merrily and squeezed his arm. “You will find me in my solar if you are in need of me.” She skipped across the garden and through the archway.

Laurie watched him through wide eyes as if uncertain what to expect from him. Good. ’Twould be best if she remained off balance.

“Shall we sit?” He tilted his head toward the roses, grasped her elbow, and urged her in that direction.

They skirted the bushes, avoiding the thorny plants. When they arrived at the bench, he inclined his head, and Laurie sat. He waited until she arranged her skirt and apron before he joined her on the narrow seat. Her feminine fragrance teased his nostrils and he inhaled sharply.

She watched him through a fringe of golden lashes. ’Twas his undoing. He’d intended to keep her at a distance, calmly discuss their future. Instead, her sensual warmth drove him near to madness. He couldn’t resist her. Patrick pulled her sideways onto his lap and roughly captured her mouth. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, forced her to open for him. Her breasts rose to meet his chest as she melted into him, her arms encircling his neck.

Mine. She belonged to him.

Their tongues danced, and his heart thundered louder than the sound of his favorite steed’s hoof beats at a full-out gallop.

With regret, he seized control of his wayward body and ended the kiss. He didn’t want to scare her off. He placed her back on the bench beside him, taking hold of both her graceful hands in one of his work-hardened ones, afraid she might flee if given the opportunity.

“Ach, lass. You are a tasty morsel,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

Laurie lowered her gaze to her lap, embarrassed at how easily she fell into Patrick’s arms. A mere glance from those blue peepers of his, and she succumbed to his charms. Had the damn man stolen her ability to think rationally along with her breath?

He frightened her and made her feel powerful at the same time.

Her leg brushed his and he made a groaning noise deep in his throat. She fought the smile that threatened. There was no way she could push him away. Heat radiated from him through the fabric of her gown and apron. He was incredibly hot and hard and wonderful.

She had the urge to fan herself.

“You wanted to speak with me?” She finally found enough air to ask.

Patrick cleared his throat. “I have decided ‘tis time for me to sleep in my bedchamber.”

Tilting her head back, she gazed into his eyes. He expected her to agree.

Just like that—not.

She blinked a couple of times. “Where shall I sleep?”

“Next to me. Where you belong, lass.”

Laurie braced her feet and pulled away, managing to catch him off guard, and quickly jumped out of his reach. “Is this a marriage proposal?” She glared at him.

His eyes widened and he stared back. “Why are you being difficult? I will take care of you. You must ken that.”

Difficult?

“Answer my question. Do you plan to marry me?”

Sure, she’d vacillated between wanting to have sex with him and pushing him away. In reality, in her heart, she knew the only way she could make love to him was if they were married.

“Nae, I cannae wed you.”

Well, didn’t that say it all? He was a tease.

That it mattered bothered her more than she wished to analyze. She didn’t plan to stay in the past long enough to marry anyone. Even so, the fact that he wanted to have sex and not marry her, hurt—especially given what that would mean should she be forced to stay in this time period.

When she dated in college, Laurie insisted on waiting until marriage. The guys she went out with only wanted to have sex and never called for a second date. Then she met the boy she believed was different. They dated for six months and when he convinced her they’d get married the following year, she agreed to sleep with him. The almost-event turned into a nightmare.

She hadn’t been able to take him into her body. The pain when he tried had brought her to tears. A visit to her doctor declared her normal. But when they tried again, it still didn’t work.

After those two devastating nights, she never dated again.

For years, she thought there was something fundamentally wrong with her. After doing research, she learned she just hadn’t been aroused. Not her fault. Another opportunity to make love never presented itself.

Patrick’s eyes shone with regret. Still—she wouldn’t be used.

“I wouldn’t sleep with you unless we were married. And I don’t wish to marry you. I want to go home. I’ll not join you in your bed for sex games. You may sleep there if you wish, I’ll find somewhere else.” She whirled on her heel and fled the garden, refusing to allow him a response.

A short time later, Elspeth found her on the beach throwing large pebbles into the loch.

“Patrick sent me to find you. He admitted to upsetting you.”

Laurie continued searching the ground, selecting a handful of pebbles and pitching them one by one across the water.

“Lady Laurie?”

“What?” She spun and faced Elspeth.

“He is sorry.”

“I am too, but I can’t stay here any longer. I need to find my way home. Patrick wants me to sleep with him, to be his whore. I can’t. I just can’t.” She attempted to swallow her anger. Elspeth didn’t deserve it directed at her. “I can’t stay here.”

Elspeth sighed. “You dinnae understand. He wants you to be his mistress, not his whore. ’Tis an honor to be the mistress of a Highland chief. He will take good care of you. Give you everything you could possibly want.”

“A mistress is the same thing as a whore. Don’t try to color his insult rosy,” Laurie snapped. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

Elspeth motioned the words away with a flick of a hand. “A man spends one night with a whore and pays her little. He spends many nights with his mistress and pays her handsomely with his love and gold.”

“What of marriage? What about a wife?” Laurie demanded.

Elspeth sadly shook her head. “A wife is for begetting heirs, for creating strong political alliances and gaining additional territory. Patrick can never wed where his heart wishes. Since our father has disappeared and not been found, Patrick is the Chief of Clan MacLachlan. With that honor comes a heavy responsibility. He must make an advantageous match. Although he’s fought it for many years, he is promised to the daughter of his enemy, Iain Lamont. ’Tis why he quarrels with our uncle. He cannae marry you.”

“I don’t want him to marry me. I want to go home.” Laurie kicked a stone.

“Do you not care for him at all?”

Laurie inhaled a deep breath. “I care...a little. Not enough to be what he wants me to be, or enough to keep me at Castle Lachlan. I belong in the future, not here in Scotland.”

“Very well, since you are determined, I will help you get home. When we go to the mainland to search for strawberry plants, I will persuade Duncan to take us to the Fir-wood, and you can try to go home.” Her eyes filled with moisture.

“Thank you.” Relief at having a co-conspirator allowed Laurie to breathe easier. With Elspeth’s help, she’d be able to return home. She gave the young woman an impromptu hug.

Elspeth squeezed her back. “Convincing Patrick will not be easy.”

* * *

After the evening’s repast, Laurie sat beside the fire while Elspeth entertained their small group. Patrick, Stephen, Duncan and Jamie lounged nearby. Elspeth sang ballads in her sweet lilting voice, accompanying herself on the lute. Occasionally, the men joined in, their voices husky and deep. Laurie found contentment in sitting quietly and listening, enjoying the romantic melodies, although not understanding the Gaelic words.

She watched Patrick from under her lashes. She loved the sound of his voice. It washed over her, enchanting her. Mmm. A beautiful deep voice, delicious like rich, dark, Belgian chocolate.

Yeah, she definitely enjoyed listening to the man. And he was certainly a pleasure to gaze at, all virile masculinity. His long, thick, chestnut hair hung free around his shoulders, the red highlights gleaming in the candlelight. He looked wild and independent like the mountains beyond the castle. He’d make any woman sigh with desire. To watch him with his family and close friends was a revelation. He was well loved and he cared deeply for those around him.

He mostly ignored her. Though gracious when his duties as host required, he otherwise remained distant. She missed his attention, although she wasn’t about to let it show. Just as well. She couldn’t dally with her Highland warrior. She had to go home.

When time came for the women to retire, Elspeth sent for Aine. “Please see Lady Laurie to Patrick’s bedchamber and ready her for bed-going.”

“I will ride out this night to patrol the borders.” Patrick’s comment to his sister stopped the protest forming on Laurie’s lips.

Elspeth sighed. “Is there trouble, then?”

“’Tis hard to say. Our uncle is patrolling the east and my men will patrol the south and west. Saint Columba willing, we will find nothing amiss.”

Laurie rose and followed Aine across the hall. Her thoughts stayed with Patrick, though she didn’t understand why she worried over his safety. At the doorway, she flipped a glance over her shoulder. He was staring, his expression difficult to read. Her stomach did a funny little flip.

From behind him, Elspeth mouthed to Laurie, “I will ask.”

Normally, Elspeth left the men to their claret, but tonight she needed Patrick to agree to let her and Laurie leave the safety of the castle to go to the mainland. She wanted to provide her companion the opportunity to return home without interference from her brother.

She eyed Patrick warily. He’d been prickly of late.

“What is it Beth?”

At times, he seemed to read her mind, but only she possessed the true gift.

She flicked her gaze to the others. “I need to speak with you in private.”

“Ah, then let us retire to my work chamber.”

Taking a deep breath for courage, she followed him across the passageway and into the Laird’s study.

“What is it? Are you concerned about the dreadful news of the cattle raid brought by our uncle?” he asked once they settled in chairs before the hearth.

“Nae. That is always of concern with Lamont on our border ready to force the marriage agreement.” She played with a fold in her skirt unable to look directly at him. “It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then what?”

“I request your consent to go to the mainland in search of strawberry plants for the garden. If you will grant permission, I wish for Lady Laurie to accompany me.”

Patrick rubbed his jaw. “You will take Aine and Duncan and two additional guardsmen. And you will be cautious.”

She released the breath she held. “Aye, Patrick, we will be well guarded. I thank thee.” She jumped from her seat, kissed his cheek, and ran from the chamber showing little restraint.

Then she slowed to a disheartened walk. Would Lady Laurie truly return home?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Present day, Manhattan

Finn tossed a glance over his shoulder to make sure he’d ditched the woman who tailed him from the club, the fourth woman who’d propositioned him during his workout. He’d have to talk to management and find out what they served at the juice bar.

Whatever it was, they needed to stop.

He strode into the steel and glass high-rise office building where his family’s prestigious consulting firm maintained their New York offices and with a nod to the security guard, rode the elevator to the executive level.

“Good afternoon, Mr. MacIntyre,” The receptionist greeted him with a smile. “Your admin collected your mail and…your magazine.”

“Magazine?”

“Yeah. Trendsetters.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Trendsetters? He didn’t subscribe to that gossip rag. He skirted his admin’s empty desk, walked into his office and fell into his leather chair.

“Hey, boss.” His admin strolled in carrying the mail.

“What’ve we got?”

She handed over the pile.

“What the hell is this?” He threw the recent issue of Trendsetters magazine onto the mahogany desk and shoved the other mail to the side.

His administrative assistant leaned against the doorjamb, sporting a snarky smile. He lowered his gaze and glared at his damn face staring back from the glossy cover along with the words Finn MacIntyre—Trendsetter’s Best Catch of the Year in bold type.

“Shit. I didn’t authorize this.”

He dragged his hands through his hair. That explained the aggressive women. Crap. This wasn’t something he wanted to deal with after the unsuccessful trip to Beijing. He had to get out of town until this blew over. “Get my cousin Laurie on the phone. Her new number is in contacts.”

He thrummed his fingers on the desk.

“Pick up line two. They say she isn’t there,” the admin yelled from her desk a few minutes later.

Finn grabbed the receiver and pressed the line button. “Hello?” He listened intently to what the person on the other end relayed. “What do you mean she’s been gone for a month?” More listening. More disbelieving. He leaned forward in his chair. “Just who the hell are Caitrina and Munn?”

* * *

Castle Lachlan

Morning dawned with the castle shrouded in thick mist, the air raw and damp. The little group, wrapped in heavy plaids, stood huddled on the shingle, waiting while a couple of men pulled two small, oared boats over the beach and into the water. The tide was high at this early hour and the tang of brine filled Laurie’s nostrils.

Elspeth’s gaze kept darting nervously to the opposite shore.

“Is something wrong?” Laurie whispered.

The young woman leaned in close. “I want to be on our way before Patrick returns from patrol.”

Laurie suspected Elspeth didn’t wish to lie to her brother or face him with half-truths that would provoke his suspicion. Laurie could imagine what Patrick would do if he learned what they planned. She feared he’d stop them and punish them both. After all, he forbade her to attempt to return home.

Would he miss her after she was gone?

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t allow herself to think about that.

Laurie eyed the small boats and worried her lower lip. She wasn’t used to traveling by boat. Of course, that was the least of her concerns. More importantly, how would she get to Fir-wood once they landed on the mainland? And what would she do once she got to the forest?

Would Caitrina show up and try to prevent her from returning to the future?

Egads. So many things to worry about.

Elspeth gave her a reassuring smile as they climbed into the boats. Laurie, Duncan and a guardsman in one. Elspeth, Aine and the other guardsman in the second. The oarsmen made short work of rowing across to the mainland beach. They climbed out of the boats and onto the shore, Laurie relieved to be across. From there, they ascended a rise, passed the orchard, and on to the stable.

Young grooms brought out mares for the women. Attached to their flanks hung small leather panniers designed to carry refreshments for the day and the young plants on the return trip. No one seemed to find this odd for Elspeth was known for her excursions into the fields and woods in search of plants for the castle garden. Meanwhile, the men readied their larger stallions.

It took Laurie some time to get accustomed to riding in her long skirt with the heavy apron atop, and one of Patrick’s large plaids wrapped around her for warmth. His scent lingered on the fabric, teasing her. She would never forget him. She clutched the wool near her heart and blinked away unexpected moisture from her eyes.

Elspeth had given her Patrick’s plaid and lent her a pair of riding boots, but although they were both petite, the boots fit snug. Laurie half expected she’d have blisters before the day ended. She ran a hand along the horse’s neck, thankful her uncle encouraged her to take riding lessons in her youth. They came in handy, even though she would surely be sore later. She wouldn’t worry about that now. There was plenty of time to worry once she got home to her own little cottage and soaked her feet in the whirlpool tub.

The little group rode single file on a well-worn track that ran along the edge of a wooded tract. The fog was less dense here and the visibility better. They traveled above the loch and when the mist gradually cleared, beautiful views appeared off to the west. Hairy, large horned, black cattle and the occasional deer grazed on young green grass in nearby fields. Laurie hardly noticed the beauty, intent on finding a way home.

They’d ridden for about an hour when Elspeth stopped them and they dismounted. The mist had completely burned off. The sun hung low on the eastern sky with clouds blowing in from the north. Elspeth informed the group they would start their search here in this meadow at the edge of the wood.

The men split apart in a triangle around the women, keeping watch for danger.

On their hands and knees, the women searched among the grasses for the precious strawberry plants. When they found a young seedling, they used a small, short-handled spade to dig around the plant, keeping soil on the roots, wrapped them in moist cloths then carefully placed them into the panniers.

Two hours went by and the leather packs were filling. Laurie bit her lip and glanced toward the trail they’d followed earlier. How could she break away from the others and find her way to the forest where Patrick found her?

Elspeth knelt beside her. “After a short respite, I will ask Duncan to guide us to the Fir-wood on our return to the castle,” she murmured close to Laurie’s ear.

“Thank you.” Laurie squeezed the young woman’s hand.

They sat in the meadow on plaids to partake of oatcakes and ale from flasks. Laurie savored the sweet-tasting ale flavored with aromatic plants and herbs. The drink was one thing she might miss once she got home. A pinch near her heart made her breath hitch. She didn’t want to think about other things she’d miss, certainly not a special clan chief.

“Please guide us to the old hut near Fir-wood, Duncan. We wish to seek plants there,” Elspeth said when they’d finished their meal.

He looked at her as if she were insane. “Aye, lass.” He grumbled under his breath as he made ready to leave.

They mounted the horses again and rode a narrow track through dense woodland, Duncan riding at the front of the party with the two guards following. Everyone kept an eye out and listened for wild boar that might spook the horses. Dim light filtered through branches. Thorny bushes snagged the fabric covering Laurie’s legs.

Her anxiety increased with each step the horse took. Wound too tight, like a child’s top, she felt like she might spin out of control at any moment. Finally, they arrived at the old hut. A breeze blew across the meadow. Laurie’s sense of anticipation escalated. She was determined to get home.

They dismounted, and as before, Duncan and his guardsmen spanned out, guarding the perimeter of the area where the women worked to uncover the wild strawberry plants.

Meandering around the meadow, Laurie attempted to appear as if she searched for the tiny plants. She tried to remember exactly where Patrick found her. Maybe the knoll on the other side of the hut. She walked in that direction.

The mound seemed quite ordinary. Not a place of magic.

The only thing growing on the little hillock was rich green grass and toadstools.

She strode to the center and stopped, positive she’d found the spot where she’d fallen at Patrick’s feet. She shot a glance at each of her companions. Duncan held a rigid stance, staring into the trees at the edge of the knoll, guarding them against any potential danger.

* * *

Patrick shook his head. His man needed some additional training if he didn’t spy Patrick hidden in the coppice of trees. He’d sat on the thick branch high up in the large oak since before daybreak. He’d predicted Laurie would sneak off to Fir-wood and try to return home to her own century, though he didn’t believe she possessed the ability. Last night, he’d guessed what the two women were contriving when Elspeth made her request. So here he sat on his rump waiting.

Waiting for what? He didn’t know.

He kneaded his stiff neck with his fingers, while holding on to an overhanging branch with the other hand for balance. He yawned. Patrolling the MacLachlan border through the night left him near to exhaustion. They’d been lucky, finding no trouble.

Clansmen slept soundly in their beds. Cattle grazed unmolested, guarded by few sleepy keepers. Lambkins sought their mother’s tits while herders huddled by dwindling fires.

Before returning to the castle, Patrick rode to this spot to wait for Elspeth and Laurie. Frustrated he hadn’t caught the perpetrators of the previous raid, yet glad all was quiet, he climbed the ancient oak and watched the sunrise. His tail, some of his best men, waited in a clearing not far away, close enough if he needed assistance.

The lass’s movements caught his attention.

Laurie closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She felt nothing. Spinning around in a circle, she still felt nothing. Sitting down, there was nothing. No tinkling sound. Not even the mere hint of an exotic scent in the air. There was no impression of unnatural energy, nor unusual surge of power. No bright, white light, nor kaleidoscope colors.

There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Elspeth and Aine continued working, collecting plants a short distance away. The guardsmen paid little attention to Laurie, intent on watching for trouble.

Several hours passed with her sitting on Patrick’s plaid in the center of the knoll with nothing happening, at least, nothing magical. She couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts strayed, her mind’s eye seeing Patrick. She imagined him walking toward her, through a wildflower meadow, his gait determined. His chestnut hair pulled back in a tight queue. His hungry, dark eyes sought hers. As he neared, her heart raced. She wanted to reach out and touch him.

Then his image faded.

Stop it, her mind screamed. She glanced around the knoll, chills raced along her spine. It was imperative she stay focused on the task at hand, not dream about the man who made her heart throb erratically. She couldn’t allow her purpose to cloud with her attraction to Patrick. Staying wasn’t an option. She needed to go home.

Mid-afternoon, the rest of the group ate and drank the leftover food. Laurie refused to join them. If anyone thought this strange, they didn’t comment.

Finally, the panniers were full of plants and the group readied to return to the castle. The others mounted their horses, except for Elspeth.

Laurie still sat in the center of the knoll, her hands folded in her lap. Elspeth approached. “Nothing has happened. You remain.”

Tears burned the back of Laurie’s eyes, but she refused to shed them. She held her head high while she gazed at Elspeth.

The young woman gave her a half smile. “We must return to the castle before darkness falls. Mayhap ’twill work another day.”

“Yes, I’ll return. Perhaps another time.” Laurie’s shoulders sagged. What did she think would happen? Was she foolish enough to believe by just standing there she’d miraculously return home?

She walked with Elspeth to the horses. They mounted while the rest of the group quietly watched. Then they rode in the direction of the castle.

Caitrina said she needed to find her destiny. Was Patrick truly her destiny?

* * *

Patrick sat in his treetop hideout grinning like a fool. The lass would stay. She couldn’t leave! He had time to persuade her to become his mistress. Jubilant, he jumped to the ground and ran through the woods toward the spot where the men and horses waited.

As he rounded a thicket, a moaning noise caught his attention, a sound not of the wood. He stopped. Standing perfectly still and quiet, he listened. The noise came again. He pulled out his knife while peering into the thicket.

There it was again.

He moved with stealth, his body tense, alert to danger, movements calculated, ready for attack. Pushing aside some branches, he found a motionless form behind the undergrowth. Patrick eased closer. Reaching out with his foot, he nudged the body. It didn’t move. He reached down and rolled the man over.

Ruari MacLachlan, a kinsman, a clan herdsman, moaned but didn’t stir.

Patrick knelt next to the injured man and gently tried to rouse him. The young man was insensible but still breathed. Patrick ran his hands over the man. No blood. Nothing more than a bump on the lad’s head.

“What befell you, Ruari?” he murmured.

Patrick shook his head and, with a sharp whistle, signaled for his lads to come to him.

Within a blink, the men who made up his tail surrounded him. Big men, they were strongly built and well-armed. Stephen stepped from among the others and knelt on the ground next to Patrick, his gaze fixed on young Ruari. “What do you think happened?”

“I ken not. He is a long way from home. Have some of the men make a litter. Dispatch one of the ghillies with a message, our swiftest runner, to the castle. Send two scouts south, fast riders, to his dwelling to search for signs of trouble.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sands of Time

Munn sat on a large flat rock at the side of the still pool. Leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin on his hands, he gazed at his reflection in the turquoise water. Discouraged was he. He tried and tried to find the right string of sounds and images to release himself from this dreadful place.

But here he still was—a failure.

He’d let down his clan and his chief.

“Ach,” he cried. “What to do?”

The tranquil water turned turbulent before his eyes. His reflection shattered and vanished. A whirlpool appeared where his image had been, foam swirling on the surface. He fell back in fear. However, his curiosity got the better of him. He leaned forward once again, to look into the water.

The pool calmed and turned an inky black.

Unable to see his likeness any longer, he thought to run away. Instead, he froze in place when the water again swirled. The murkiness cleared, the water became translucent. From the depths in the center of the pool appeared a bright white light. It spun, rising toward the surface, then expanded and changed. Soft blues and lavenders mixed with the white, slowly swirling, coalescing into the image of a woman.

Munn stared in awe at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her face shone bright with an iridescent glow, mesmerizing to behold. She rose from the water, her magnificent raiment clinging to her sumptuous form, clothed as she was in a spun silver diaphanous gown. She was superbly fashioned, tall and lissome, her skin a pale opalescence. Her glorious silky hair, a brilliant white gold, caressed her shapely curves, falling to her feet in glimmering curls. As she moved, her hair and skin glistened with a fine dusting of silver powder.

Entranced by her dazzling blue eyes, Munn couldn’t glance away. “Who are you?” His words came out a croak.

“I am known as Oonagh,” she said, her eloquent voice, a song to his ears.

Her music ran over him, soothed him, lulled as he was by her glamour.

Oonagh gazed upon him and slowly raised her arms to the sky. A searing breeze blew off the hot sand, disturbing the tranquility of the oasis.

Munn’s trance broke. He shook his head, his daze clearing as he peered at the woman before him. His breath caught in his throat, his whole body trembled. He knew of her. She was the High Queen of the Sithichean, her power absolute, as she took tribute from the lesser queens.

Fear seeped through his veins. What did she want of him?

“Little man, be calm,” the queen said. “I am here to free you from the enchantment of Princess Caitrina.”

He wanted to jump for joy. Oh, to be free. “She had nae right to send me to this horrid place. I must be off to warn the MacLachlan.”

“Soon.” Oonagh presented him a beguiling smile. “There is one thing, my little man, before I release you. You must pledge allegiance. You must perform a service to me.”

Munn inhaled a quick breath, his delight vanishing. He was in serious trouble. She possessed the power to do unbearable things. What would she expect of him?

He wanted to run, to escape the enthrallment of her piercing blue eyes. He didn’t dare. “Aye,” he said in a whisper.

Oonagh narrowed her eyes. “You will vow to me, on your honor, and that of Clan MacLachlan? You will perform the task I name? Obey my command above all others?”

“Aye.” Again, Munn answered in a trembling voice.

“Kneel before me.”

He fell to his knees at the dainty feet of the queen and bowed his head. After a suitable time had passed, he raised his gaze. A jeweled scepter had appeared in Oonagh’s delicate hand. She pointed the golden instrument toward him.

“Here, little brownie. Place your hand on the Scepter of Truth and vow your troth to me.”

Munn stared at the scepter. He didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t want to make a pledge of fidelity to the queen. But what else was he to do?

He placed his hand on the large round tip of the scepter. Pain shot up his arm as if lightning burned through his veins. He tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t.

“It is my will you keep the MacLachlan and his lady from the future apart. You will keep them from sharing the most intimate, ancient and carnal of dances. This you must pledge.” Oonagh sang, using her fae power along with the persuasion of her melodious voice.

Bile burned in the pit of Munn’s stomach. “Aye. I pledge,” he said, relieved when the pain eased. He believed himself lucky to get off so easily. That was until the queen’s expression changed, and he knew a terror like none other. Her sensual smile flashed pure evil.

“Failure will condemn you to an eternity trapped within the Sands of Time.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Strathlachan

She didn’t mean to be a burden, but Laurie’s dismal mood hung over the group like the dark clouds cluttering the sky. As the day grew short, the gentle breeze changed into a fierce howling wind, slowing the group’s progress along the ridge.

“Lady Elspeth, a storm’s coming. We might find protection from the wind in the forest,” Duncan raised his voice above the din.

“Aye,” Elspeth agreed.

Duncan led them into the shelter of the trees, following a game trail. The tight path weaved through dense undergrowth. Branches caught loose clothing and scratched exposed skin, forcing their pace to a slow walk. All was quiet, save for the wind whistling through the limbs overhead. There was no sign of animals or birds, as if the turbulence sent them seeking shelter.

Near dusk, the hushed group rode into the stable yard, wind whipping around them. Leaves and twigs, and blowing dust swirled in eddies, making it difficult to see.

The men dismounted and several grooms came running. The boys caught the stallions’ reins and led them away. The men grabbed hold of the mares’ reins and guided the horses into the protection of the stable where the women could dismount out of the biting wind.

One of the guardsmen assisted Laurie from her horse. She thought his name might be Dhughall, but she wasn’t sure. A chill crept into her bones. Pulling Patrick’s plaid close around her, she slipped out a hand and rubbed her mare’s neck, wordlessly thanking the gentle beast for carrying her safely to shelter.

Bleak numbness pervaded her mind. She didn’t want to face her failure, not yet.

She attempted a smile for the guardsman after he removed the pannier from her horse and slung the leather bag over his shoulder. He inclined his head and turned away. Duncan and the other guardsman also carried panniers over their shoulders, having taken them from Aine and Elspeth’s horses.

The group left the calm of the stable, the men carefully assisting the women down the slippery slope toward the beach. The wind whipped at them, whirling around, tugging at their clothing.

When they reached the water’s edge, Duncan signaled to the other shore for the oarsmen to row the boats across to the mainland. Laurie watched as they made their way through the choppy water. White caps splashed against the hulls, tossing salty spray at the oarsmen, soaking them.

The Highlanders were well accustomed to these fierce conditions, but she wasn’t. She pulled Patrick’s plaid tighter, apprehension spurring her to say a silent prayer.

The boats beached and the men handed the women over to sit on the wooden benches. The small craft bobbed in the surf, forcing her to grip the gunwale. The three men jumped in.

With an order from Duncan, the oarsmen were pushing away from shore when a ghillie came running. “Wait!” he called, yelling over the crash of the waves and the screaming wind. He sprinted to the water’s edge where he bent over, placed his hands on his knees and gulped air.

“Hold up,” Duncan ordered the oarsmen as he jumped over the side of the boat and joined the lad on the shingle.

“The chief requests the castle folk make ready to receive the injured Ruari MacLachlan.” Even though short of breath from his run, the ghillie still managed to get out his message in a loud, clear voice.

“Lad, do you ken what happened to Ruari?” Duncan shouted.

The ghillie inhaled a deep breath and yelled back, “Nae.”

Elspeth faced Duncan, concern showing in her silver eyes. “The men will have to move slower to accommodate a litter. They may get caught in the storm.”

“Dinnae fash yourself, lass. Your brother and Stephen will ensure they get through.”

“I thank you for bringing the message,” Elspeth said to the young man. “Ride across with us and partake of a meal.”

“Aye. Thank you kindly.” The ghillie climbed into the boat with Aine and Laurie and one of the guardsmen, making for a tight fit.

Duncan climbed into the boat with Elspeth and ordered the oarsmen to proceed. The boats moved through the rough water to the castle, salt spray misting everyone.

Upon reaching the castle’s beach, they climbed from the boats and hiked up the slight hill to the gate. Once in the courtyard, one of the guardsmen and Aine took the panniers and headed to the kitchen, the ghillie following. The rest of the group ascended the wheel stair.

A hush fell over the room when they entered the hall, already crowded with men and a few women seated at the lower tables.

Miserable from the day’s fiasco, Laurie dropped onto a bench at the first table she came to. She didn’t know how to assist these people in the preparations for the injured man though she worried about his condition. She didn’t think she could cope with the deficiencies of primitive medicine up close.

Her stomach rolled. Thank God, she hadn’t eaten much.

She sat alone at the trestle table, Elspeth and Duncan having left the hall intent on their preparations for the injured man. Some of the men seated at a nearby table stared at her with open curiosity. Others ignored her. None of them sought conversation with her.

After a short time, Aine entered the hall and covered one of the tables near the hearth with a white cloth. A serving girl followed, placing a cauldron of water on a hook over the fire. Another appeared carrying a large earthenware ewer. A third brought a stack of clean cloths. The latter items they placed near the cloth-covered table.

Elspeth returned to the hall, having removed her damp clothing. She’d donned a long white linen leine that graced her ankles. Over top, she wore a striped wool arisaid, a cloak that fell to her heels, fastened at her breast by a beautiful silver and moonstone brooch and belted at her waist with leather and chain. Laurie learned shortly after her arrival the arisaid was the traditional dress of Highland women, though Elspeth, being nobility, most often wore gowns similar to those worn by women in France.

Elspeth carried two baskets, one contained bandages made from rags, a needle and thread, the other nearly overflowed with small pots and pouches. She placed these at the end of the table and joined Aine in a hushed conversation.

Laurie only heard a fragment of what they said—a word here and there.

She observed the activity in the hall as if watching a film. She found it appalling how useless she was in this time. On top of that, her failure to return home left her feeling inept and unsure. She was lost in a world not her own.

What if I’m stuck in this barbaric place? What if I can never go home?

Her stomach clenched and she found it hard to breathe. The old warning rang true. You needed to be careful of what you wished. She’d wanted a new life, but being stuck here was definitely not what she had in mind.

She was wallowing in self-pity. But who would blame her? She was damp and dirty. Hungry. Stuck in this world.

Her depression blinded her to most of the activity around her. Motion near the doorway at the other end of the great hall drew her gaze. Donald MacLachlan leaned against the passageway wall just outside the rear entrance. He was in an animated conversation—arms flailing—with a woman Laurie didn’t recognize. More than likely a serving girl based on the way she was dressed.

Donald suddenly froze and stared into the hall to where the preparations for the injured man were taking place. He tilted his head and whispered something to his companion. The woman responded in a low voice and departed.

He strode to Elspeth. “What has happened, niece?”

She twisted to face him. “I did not ken you were in the castle.”

“I returned after dawn from the southern border. What are these preparations?”

“We received a message from Patrick of an accident.”

“Has your brother been wounded?”

“Nae, thank the Good Lord.” Elspeth made the sign of the cross. “It’s our herdsman Ruari. They bring him to the castle for tending.”

“I told your brother there would be more trouble. He must resolve this quarrel with Lamont. If he agreed to the marriage with Isobell the conflict would cease.”

Isobell? Marriage? Laurie’s ears perked.

“We dinnae ken what happened. What makes you think Lamont was involved?”

Donald looked like he was about to retort when he stopped with his mouth half-open.

Laurie swiveled her head to the open window, where a noisy disturbance came from the courtyard below. The commotion moved up the stairs and the door to the hall slammed open. Patrick and Stephen entered, water dripping from their hair and plaides.

Behind them, two of Patrick’s men carried a litter with the injured man up the awkward circular stone steps. Entering the hall with their burden, they set the litter beside the table where Aine indicated. They placed the man on his back atop the table while the rest of the men gathered round.

Aine examined the man, searching for injuries while she moved her hands over his body. The entire time, she shook her head and made tsking sounds.

Almost everyone in the hall moved to stand around the table. They were silent, waiting for Aine’s assessment. Laurie moved with the group, though she watched as an outsider, not a participant.

Patrick’s uncle stared at her. She used the corner of the plaid she wore to wipe some of the salt residue from her face. She must look a mess.

He gave a slight nod and looked away, relieving some of the tension in her shoulders.

“I cannae find any injury.” Aine wiped her hands on a wet cloth. “Naught but this whappin’ bump on his head. What has happened to the lad?”

Patrick shook his head. “We dinnae ken.”

His uncle stepped forward. “I warned you, nephew. If you did not fulfill your father’s wish and marry Isobell Lamont our people would pay the price.”

Laurie tensed. That was the second time Donald said the name Isobell and the subject of marriage in the same sentence with reference to Patrick. She raised her tired eyes to Patrick. His gaze burned her, then he quickly turned away to glare at his uncle.

“Hold your tongue, old man,” he bellowed.

His uncle’s face contorted into a nasty grimace, but he remained silent, and stepped back from the crowd. His face reddened with anger.

“There’s nothing for me to do for Ruari, but try to make him comfortable,” Aine said.

“Naught?” Patrick’s eyes shone with turbulent emotion. “Are you sure there is naught we can do for the lad?”

“Bide an’ see,” she said.

Duncan stepped forward from behind the others and peered at Ruari. “I have seen injuries like this afore. Some men never waken.”

“We’ll need to rearrange sleeping quarters to accommodate the lad. Move Lady Laurie’s things into Lady Elspeth’s bedchamber and prepare mine for Ruari,” Patrick ordered. “Someone is to be with him at all times.”

Aine hurried from the hall.

“Beth, you will share your bedchamber with Lady Laurie until Ruari recovers.”

“I dinnae mind. She is my sister.”

“That is good.” Patrick nodded. “Now run along and help Aine. And take Lady Laurie with you.” Glancing at Laurie, he raised an eyebrow. “She appears to have had a disappointing day.”

Laurie frowned. What did he mean by that remark? Their eyes met again and held. Did he know what she’d been up to? She shivered and broke the contact, glancing away, her unsettled emotions swirling.

The last thing she wanted was for Patrick to realize she planned to return home.

* * *

Later that evening, Patrick surveyed the hall, the tic throbbing beneath his eye, an annoyance. His rage bubbled below the surface.

The repast had been a quiet affair with only a small amount of stilted conversation. Lady Laurie sat at the high table at his left, looking much better than she had earlier. Healthy color had returned to her cheeks. Stephen sat on her other side while Elspeth took the place to Patrick’s right with Uncle Donald next to her.

At the lower tables, a somber mood prevailed with his people concerned for Ruari. The clansmen bantered over much conjecture as to how the lad became injured. Most were ready to blame the Lamonts. As was he.

“Patrick, you must listen to reason,” Donald said, breaking the silence at the high table with his thundering voice. “The Lamonts will continue to raid our land if you dinnae fulfill the promise of your father and marry the lass.”

There was a collective intake of breath and all gazes shot to Patrick.

Stiffening, he slowly twisted his torso to look past his sister to his uncle, fury burned in his gut. “You ken there was never a promise. I will not bring the daughter of our enemy into this house to mother my sons.”

“You must wed Isobell Lamont.”

“Nae. That I will never do.”

Before the argument could escalate, the two scouts who’d gone to Ruari’s hut entered the hall and strode to the dais to report. They told a bloody tale of devastation, burned huts and torched fields, cattle gone. The other two herdsmen dead. Murdered.

Jumping from his seat, Donald slapped his hand hard on the table in front of Patrick. “I told you.”

He ignored his uncle’s outburst and stood before his clan. “This dishonorable deed was surely the work of the Lamonts. In that much, my uncle is correct. The time has come to retaliate. We must plan our strategy. To the council chamber.”

Benches scraped across stone. Voices raised in debate as the men of the clan left the great hall to climb the wheel stair to the council hall above.

Before he left the dais, Patrick darted a glance at Laurie. Her alarmed expression tore at his heart. He didn’t care for the pallid cast to her skin. The day’s events must have upset her, but as much as he wished to ease her heartache, he couldn’t coddle her.

Nor could he allow her to return to the future. Faerie magic was far too unpredictable. Too dangerous. Yanking his thoughts back to the problem with the Lamonts, he strode from the chamber with his men.

Laurie rose to follow, but Elspeth placed a hand on her arm to stay her. “’Tis a matter for the men.”

“What do you mean? Oh, I forgot. Women aren’t included in politics.” She hadn’t meant for her frustration to show in her tone of voice, yet it had.

Elspeth arched a brow. “Nae. Of course not.”

“Well, where I come from women are involved in political affairs. Aren’t you concerned about what the men will decide?”

“Aye. They will tell us after the council is concluded.”

Laurie ground her teeth. “Don’t you think they should include you in making a decision that will affect the future of your clan?”

“You have some unusual ideas. Let us go to my chamber and you can tell me about the women of your time.” Elspeth’s wary gaze shifted to those seated around them when she realized her slip. No one seemed to notice, too busy with personal speculation.

Laurie shook her head. She’d never get used to the role women played in this society. With a sigh, she followed Elspeth from the hall.

They ascended the circular stone steps. At this late hour, torches lit the stairs and passageways. Elspeth also carried a small lantern. When they reached the second level, Elspeth stopped and placed the lamp in a small niche in the wall. She put a finger to her lips, signaling for silence.

“Why so secretive?” Laurie asked in a whisper.

Elspeth shook her head and tapped the finger against her lips. She extended her arm and brushed her hand along the stone wall, and then pressed hard against one of the stones. A portion of the wall fell back, exposing an opening into darkness. What had moments before appeared as solid stone became the gloomy entrance to a secret passageway.

A chill of apprehension skittered along Laurie’s spine. Elspeth clasped her hand again, shaking her head when Laurie opened her mouth to say something more. The young woman guided her into the darkness, stepping cautiously. The doorway closed behind them with a muffled thud.

Laurie gasped softly. Elspeth stopped and gave her damp hand a gentle squeeze. Her heart thumping hard, Laurie stood motionless, listening.

Muted voices came from nearby. It took willpower to trust Elspeth and stay quiet. Laurie couldn’t catch her breath, claustrophobic in the confined space—in the darkness. She’d always been afraid of the dark. Fearing spiders waited in their webs ready to pounce on those who dared the shadowy places. Her skin prickled and she shivered.

After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the dimness. To the right she felt hard stone. To the left was an unusual wooden wall woven like a basket. Filtered light entered the hidden passageway from between slats.

Elspeth squeezed her hand again, and tugged her farther along the passage. Laurie took careful steps, brushing her free hand along the stones to her right. As they moved, the voices became more distinct. Soon she recognized Patrick’s voice and realized where they were. She remembered the slatted wall from the other side.

When she’d first arrived, she’d toured the castle with Duncan and Elspeth and seen the council chamber.

She and Elspeth were at this moment hidden from the council by an elaborate wooden screen with slats weaved in a complicated Celtic design. The partition stood behind the large stone dais platform.

The reason they heard Patrick’s voice clearly.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Angry voices reverberated round the council hall. Boisterous arguments erupted throughout the chamber. Patrick sat at the head table surrounded by his most loyal men. The exception his uncle, he didn’t trust the man. Stephen, Duncan and Jamie debated the merits of making a raid during a full moon, whereas Patrick’s uncle argued against retaliation of any kind.

If only Archibald had returned from the Continent and was here to lend his support. Patrick missed their shared confidences. Being twins, they’d always been close, but especially so after their elder brother died. Holding with tradition, their elder brother Donald was named for their grandfather, as was their uncle. Isobell Lamont should have been their brother’s bride, not Patrick’s.

Patrick drummed his fingers on the table, ignoring most of the discussion going on around him. His insides boiled. How dare Lamont take out the argument over the disputed marriage proposal on the MacLachlan clan?

He glanced at the men sitting at the two long tables stretched out in front of him and the others standing around the chamber. This was his family, and he’d failed them. His fervent denial of a marriage contract between himself and Iain Lamont’s daughter Isobell brought them to the precipice of this hostile confrontation. Yet a feud with the Lamonts had existed for generations. The recent raid was only the most current act of treachery.

His gaze drifted to the ceiling, his thoughts on the chamber above. The chamber his precious Laurie slept in, his bedchamber, the one where Ruari now lay unconscious.

Patrick took full responsibility for what happened to his herdsmen. If only he’d agreed to Iain Lamont’s demands—married Isobell—Ruari wouldn’t be lying in the bedchamber above, insensible from a bang on the head. And the others wouldn’t be dead.

Lamont had prodded him ever since Patrick lost his father. This time the man pushed too far. Patrick would have to retaliate. It was an issue of honor. This latest infringement couldn’t be left unpunished. It was a matter of his clan’s survival.

Was he wrong? Should he break his oath, marry Isobell, and hope in doing so, he’d end the feud? It wasn’t that Isobel was undesirable. She’d make someone a good wife. She possessed a fine dowry and was comely. But he felt nothing when she was near. Certainly not the burning fire he experienced with Laurie. Isobell had no warmth. She was like cold stone. He’d never even had the desire to steal a kiss.

Archibald thought him daft. Repeatedly, he reminded Patrick of her value. After all, she was the co-heir of Iain Lamont. Now, that was the problem. How could he be expected to marry her? He believed her father responsible for his parent’s disappearance.

And possible death? No, he wouldn’t consider the possibility.

When he learned his parents had gone missing while chased by Lamont clansmen, he swore from that day forward Iain Lamont was his enemy. He vowed never to agree to a marriage between the two clans.

He raked his fingers through his hair. What of Laurie? What was he to do about his lass from the future?

Stephen poked his arm, interrupting his contemplation. “The full moon is two days next. ’Tis the best time to raid.”

“Aye. A good time for a raid,” Jamie agreed, a brutal grin spreading across his face.

“’Tis not the time to raid.” Donald pinned Patrick with his gaze. “Marry Isobell. End the dispute.”

Patrick glared at his uncle. “I will agree to marry the lass on the day my father stands afore me and requests it of me.”

An anxious hush fell across the chamber.

“You cannae yet believe your father alive. If he were, he would be here with us now.”

“For all I ken, he and my sweet stepmother suffer in Lamont’s pit,” Patrick said, his tone sharp.

Across the chamber, Aine’s husband Angus stood, slamming his palms flat on the table. All gazes shot to him. “Leave off, Donald. ’Tis time we seek revenge for the insults wrought by the Lamonts. I say we raid.”

Most of the men roared in agreement, raising fists and shouting. Donald glowered. His gaze circled the chamber from man to man. “Decided, is it? You will rue this day.”

“’Tis a matter of honor.” With his fists clenched and his knuckles white, Patrick struggled to maintain control over his temper. “I am a warrior fighting to maintain my honor and that of my clan.”

“And what of King Jamie? What do you think will happen when he hears of this?” Donald demanded.

Loud voices erupted again in the chamber. “Quiet!” Patrick bellowed. “He will not interfere with a mere skirmish.”

They were well aware of King James IV’s policies. He sought to do in the Highlands what had been effective amongst his Lowland lords. The king’s strategy to play one clan against the other, perpetuate ancient feuds and generate renewed bitterness ensured his control in the Highlands.

Patrick believed King Jamie wouldn’t bother to get involved unless it came to all-out clan war. Another matter altogether. He was determined not to let that happen.

His uncle scowled. “You will regret your decision.” He stomped from the chamber. Several men standing near the doorway followed.

Let the man go. Patrick couldn’t trust him at his back anyway.

* * *

Laurie held a lungful of air, listening to the discussion from the opposite side of the screen. She released her breath in a rush after Elspeth squeezed her hand again. So much anger, so much hate, so much violence, and centuries hadn’t changed that. The world remained much the same.

The women made their way back along the screen. Elspeth slid her hand along the wall, hit the trigger stone and the opening emerged in front of them. They stepped through the doorway into the outer passage, and Laurie blinked in the brighter light. With another stone pressed, the wall swung back into place.

Once again, Elspeth made the sign for silence. The women ascended the steps to the upper floor, crossing over to the eastern wing to Elspeth’s bedchamber. The young woman plopped into one of the chairs before the hearth and Laurie sat in another. Neither spoke.

The bedchamber was tiny in comparison to Patrick’s, yet seemed well suited to Elspeth. Laurie swirled slippered toes in a circle on the woven rush mat beneath her feet. She eyed the canopied bed. Though smaller than Patrick’s, the intricately carved bed had beautiful spring-green velvet drapes. Several luxurious furs lay across the matching coverlet. A large wooden trunk with decorative brass hardware sat at the bed’s foot.

Laurie scanned the rest of the room. A small window seat with a green velvet cushion matching the bed’s adornment softened the stark gray stone at the only window in the room. Her few possessions sat atop a small wooden chest nearby. Patrick’s borrowed plaid lay folded on top along with her tartan stole. Across the wool draped her skirt and blouse and a sleeping gown. Not much to call her own.

The day’s events, the long ride on horseback, the digging of plants, the disappointment at Fir-wood, and the excitement over Ruari and the proposed retaliation, took their toll. Exhaustion swamped her. She brushed her hand across her gown, still damp from the boat ride across the bay. She’d be lucky if she didn’t get sick.

Scooting closer to the fire, she rolled her neck on her shoulders and attempted to assimilate what she’d heard while hidden in the secret passage.

“What will happen now?” she asked after several long minutes.

“The men will stay up most the night planning and drinking. Then they will stumble to their beds.”

“Is there anything we can do to change their course?”

“Nae. ’Tis foolhardy to get in their way,” Elspeth said. “Shall we ready ourselves for bed? I told Aine she could spend this eve in the village.”

“Sure.” Although worn out, Laurie doubted she’d fall asleep.

After an hour passed, she lay on the bed next to the silently sleeping Elspeth, listening to the night wind wailing outside the castle walls. The occasional clap of thunder rumbled in the distance as the storm moved away. Wide-awake, she tensed at each noise, every creaking sound in the castle.

Unable to remain still, she rose and tiptoed to the chest in the corner. Pulling Patrick’s plaid around her, she opened the door and looked into the torch-lit passageway. No one was there. Not even Duncan skulked outside the door. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she made her way along the passage to the foul-smelling garderobe. She took a deep breath and pinched her nose before entering the privy.

Instead of returning to the bedchamber when finished, she found herself wandering near the wheel stair. She crept down the steps, two levels down, still not seeing anyone. Stopping outside Patrick’s study, she listened. All was quiet. She pushed the door open a crack. No one stirred. She edged the door farther open and peered in. The chamber was dark, except for a golden glow coming from a partly open doorway across the room.

She wasn’t sure why she’d come. Why she sought Patrick.

Sneaking into the chamber, she warily made her way to the far door. Her bare feet made little noise as she crossed the cold stone floor. She peeked around the edge of the door and gaped in awe at the unexpected chapel with its one worshiper. Brilliant candles bathed the chapel in a radiant glow. Golden light jumped and flickered while shadows danced on the walls. Patrick knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer. His chestnut hair hung about his shoulders, deep red highlights ablaze, creating a halo effect around his head. The ethereal scene sent a thrill down her spine.

Not wanting to intrude, she stepped back into his private chamber to leave, bumping into the corner of a table as she went. Something crashed to the floor, hitting her foot. She cried out. Before she realized what happened, Patrick’s arm encircled her chest and the edge of his knife pressed against her throat.

He exhaled sharply, let go of her, and quickly replaced his knife in the sheath on his thigh. “Lass, you are going to get yourself killed if you insist on sneaking up on a man.”

She shrank back against his desk, her heart pounding a staccato beat.

“Stay here. Dinnae move.” He strode into the chapel, returning a moment later with a lantern, which he set on the table. “What are you doing here?”

Patrick’s worried frown caused her to nervously cough. What to say?

“I understand you are going after the raiding party. I couldn’t let you go without—”

“Tell me.”

She hesitated, surprised by the softening of his features. “I wish you well.”

“We will not go until just before the full moon.”

“When the time comes…stay safe.” The thought of Patrick being injured made her crazy.

Patrick barely resisted reaching out and touching Laurie. She was a sight, his beautiful angel. She wore a flowing white bed gown that was sheer in the soft light. His borrowed plaide hung loose over her arms providing a glimpse of her peachy skin through the gossamer fabric of the gown. Silky golden hair flowed around her shoulders and down her back. Expressive blue eyes entrapped him, stirring his blood.

“Ach, lass. You are fetching.” He stepped closer. Unable to stop, he pulled her into his arms. He hugged her close and gently kissed the top of her head.

She raised her gaze and leaned back to look at him. Questions simmered in the depths of her eyes.

“Lass?” He needed to know what she was thinking.

“Will you wed as your uncle suggests?”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “I cannae wed the daughter of my enemy. Besides, you are the one I want.”

A furrow creased her forehead. “How do you know?”

He rubbed the ache in his chest. “I felt you here in my heart since first we met.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

His lips twitched into a grin. “Lust at first sight?”

“So you lust after me.”

“All I ken is I want you as I have never wanted another. Is that not enough?” He tightened his grip on her arms. “Can we not take time to learn to care for one another?”

“Sometimes you are sweet.” Her features grew wistful.

Not wanting her to think too much, he scooped her up and cradled her in his arms. He moved to one of the chairs before the hearth, sat, held her on his lap, and hugged her.

“Mmm.” She snuggled against him.

Neither spoke, Patrick savored the closeness.

After a short time, he repositioned her on his lap to view her expressive face. He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. They glistened in the lantern light. Brilliant flecks of gold swam within sapphire. He bent his head, gently kissing her lips. Pulling her plump bottom lip into his mouth, he tasted her essence.

She kissed him back, as if she needed and wanted him.

His manhood stirred, and her eyes popped open. She nipped his lip and leaned slightly back. A precious smile graced her face as she nestled her side against his cock. “To state the obvious, you’ve risen to the occasion.”

“Aye.” Patrick shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He desired her more than he dared admit. “Though, I will not take you before riding out on a raid.”

“I didn’t offer.”

“Impertinent wench.” He cupped the back of her head and brought her mouth close to his.

He used his lips to tease her mouth and pressed for entrance. Their tongues whirled in a dueling dance.

His blood burned hot. He could lose himself to this woman. Shocked at the thought, he pulled back. “You planned to leave me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Engulfed in a sensual haze, Laurie’s pulse hummed. She sighed, disappointed Patrick stopped kissing her and wanted to talk more. Then she realized what he said. She sat straighter and leaned her head back to see into his eyes. “You know?”

“Aye. I saw you at Fir-wood. You must never go there again.” He tried to hide his emotions, but she glimpsed hurt.

She frowned. How was she to explain her confused feelings?

“It wasn’t you I tried to leave. I just wanted to go home, back to the future. But I couldn’t find my way.” Moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes. She blinked to stop the tears, but one slipped.

He gently wiped the escaped drop from her cheek with the tip of a finger. “Ach, lass. Dinnae cry. I cannae bear it.” He pulled her close again and touched her lips with his, a gentle, tender kiss lasting an eternity.

She lost sense of time and place. A cool current of air swirled over her arms bringing goosebumps to her flesh. She heard papers flutter on the table. Patrick deepened the kiss, and the exquisite sensation reached her toes. Nothing else mattered, only the erotic feel of his mouth and tongue and the warmth of his body.

Chilly air swept over the back of her neck, annoying her.

The draft grew in intensity, becoming a strong, cold breeze.

No longer able to ignore the drop in temperature, Laurie shivered and pulled away from Patrick’s talented touch. Papers flew from the desk and were caught in a whirlwind in the corner of the chamber. A chill raced along her spine that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature but everything to do with magic. Was Caitrina about to make another appearance? Laurie jerked her gaze to Patrick. If Caitrina appeared, would he think Laurie a witch as he warned her others might think of her?

He stared at the swirl of papers, his jaw tight. “Munn, what are you about? Make yourself visible.”

Munn? “Who are you talking to?” Laurie asked, confused.

Patrick wrapped his arms around her, holding her in place on his lap. A stool fell over while another chilly gust rushed through the room, knocking his personal seal matrix to the floor with a metallic thud.

“Enough!” he shouted.

“What the—”

“Show yourself, wee man.”

Laurie stiffened in his arms. Had Patrick lost his mind?

An odd little man with weathered, brown skin materialized in front of them, his green tunic and brown leather leggings covered in white sand. He leapt up and down darting to and fro, mumbling words that didn’t make sense.

With a heavy sigh, Patrick released his hold on her. She shook her head, hardly able to believe her eyes.

“Stop,” Patrick commanded.

The strange man twirled around in a circle. Then the frenzy ended abruptly. He stood in front of the fireplace, brushing sand from his tunic onto the stone floor. He pointed a crooked finger at Laurie.

“’Tis your fault. Caitrina sent me to that horrid place. Hot. Sand everywhere.” His gaze pierced her while his words tumbled forth.

“Slow down,” Patrick said. “Tell me where you have been. What has happened?”

“Caitrina dropped me into the Sands of Time. She didn’t want me to warn you about the lass. About Caitrina. The meddling sithiche causes trouble.”

“If Caitrina trapped you, how did you get away?” Patrick asked.

My God. This was another creature like Caitrina. Well, sort of. He was much smaller and grumpier and angry with Caitrina. Laurie’s gaze bounced from the little man to Patrick and back to the man.

“The High Queen of the Fae released me.” Munn wagged his finger at Laurie. “You dinnae belong here. Leave. Go away. Be gone.”

Losing her balance, she slipped from Patrick’s lap and hit her butt hard on the stone floor. Should she laugh or scream at the maddening creature?

“Cease,” Patrick demanded as he assisted her to another chair. His lips thinned and he turned back to the man. “Lady Laurie is under my protection. You will leave her alone. Do you hear me?”

The little being hung his head.

“Promise,” Patrick ordered.

“Aye.” With a frown etched into his wrinkled face, the annoying creature nodded.

“Give me your vow.”

“I promise,” Munn said.

Behind his back, Laurie spied chubby fingers crossed.

Great. She’d landed in a loony bin. The insanity took root in North Carolina and was now fully entrenched.

“You are a wee bit pallid.” Patrick grasped her hand. “Will you swoon?”

“That man appeared out of thin air.”

“Aye, he’s a Brunaidh, the MacLachlan Clan brownie.”

“Well that explains it.” She glared at Patrick. The man was not her friend.

Although Patrick wanted to discover where the wee man had been, he wished Munn choose a different time and place to return. Laurie looked as if she’d seen a banshee.

Patrick released her hand and rubbed his chin. Munn’s antics didn’t amuse him. Odd of the fae queen to interfere in a squabble between a faerie and a mere brownie. Patrick feared the events his man described forebode trouble.

He sensed Munn hadn’t revealed everything. There might be a clue, hidden somewhere in the tale—to his parents’ disappearance, and to Laurie’s sudden appearance. A puzzle he needed to solve. And soon.

“Come, Lady Laurie.” He offered his hand. “The hour is late.”

“Yes, I should return to Elspeth’s chamber.”

The tentative touch of her fingers had Patrick tightening his lips. He wanted to believe she was as she appeared—a beautiful woman lost.

He would return her to his sister’s bedchamber where she belonged. Later, he’d question Munn more thoroughly in privacy and get answers. He may have relieved Duncan of his guard duty too soon.

Patrick didn’t believe Laurie posed a threat, but he needed to be certain.

* * *

The next day, Laurie joined Elspeth in the garden, hoping to forget her dilemma. The castle garden received a good soaking from the previous night’s storm. Moving among the planting beds, she lifted her skirt to keep the hem off the wet ground. She marveled over the beautiful plantings, brilliant green with tiny crystal droplets shimmering in the sun.

The heavy apron protected her skirt from the moist earth when she knelt beside Elspeth in front of the strawberry bed. Laurie reached for the small spade and dug a hole in the rich soil. Picking up one of the young strawberry plants, she carefully placed the tiny root ball into the prepared spot. After covering the roots with fresh soil, she patted around the stem, creating a well with the dirt for catching water. When she finished, she poured water around the transplant from a small wooden bucket.

They worked for a good portion of the early morning, transplanting the plants collected the previous day. The pleasant trills and warbling of a lark serenaded them as they worked in silence, intent on their own thoughts. Laurie’s often strayed to her fears. What would be her future?

When they finished with the strawberries, she touched Elspeth’s arm. “Shall we tidy the rose garden?”

“Aye. We will be less likely to spread any sickness that may exist from one plant to another now the leaves have dried in the sun.” Elspeth stood and stretched, rubbing her lower back.

They walked to the rose garden to survey the planting. The budded plants of pink and white delighted the senses. The curved beds formed a semicircle around the flowering turf bench where one could sit and enjoy the garden’s heady scents. The plants needed little work, only the removal of some yellowing foliage.

“What happened during the night?” Elspeth gave Laurie a sideways glance. “I woke to find you gone. When you returned, I pretended to sleep, but I saw you in the lantern light. You kissed Patrick?”

Laurie reached down to remove a dead leaf from a bush, her eyes averted from Elspeth. “I wished him goodnight.”

She kissed him in the bedchamber’s doorway after he walked her to the room she shared with Elspeth, had initiated the kiss. Earlier, they’d been close, Patrick gentle and loving. Of course, that was before the nasty little man appeared. Then Patrick became aloof, almost curt. She’d kissed him again, trying to regain their earlier warmth. She sighed, reaching for another brown leaf. He didn’t pull away, but his kiss had been...dispassionate.

“But why were you with him?” Elspeth continued to needle.

“Darn, I pricked myself.” Laurie sucked on the puncture wound at the tip of her finger.

Why had she gone to Patrick’s private chamber? Good question.

An impulse. She hadn’t expected to find him in the chapel and she definitely hadn’t meant to disturb him at prayer. Yet she had and she was glad. When he held her in his arms, the world felt right again.

Until the strange creature arrived.

What was it with this place? People appeared out of thin air. They popped in and out, startling a person, like Caitrina and the ugly man.

“You have tender feelings for him. You do,” Elspeth continued to tease.

Laurie sighed heavily. “Something strange happened last night. Can we sit for a moment and talk?”

“What is it?” Elspeth grasped Laurie’s hand and pulled her to the bench, where they sat amidst the flowering chamomile. “What happened to distress you so?”

“Last night a strange little man appeared in Patrick’s private chamber. He babbled about Caitrina zapping him to a desert, to a place where he said time doesn’t exist. Caitrina is the faerie I told you about. The man said a faerie queen saved him and returned him here.” Laurie inhaled a deep breath. “This is all too unreal. Who is he? What is he?”

“Munn’s come back, then?” Elspeth smiled.

“I guess he has. What is he? Why can he appear out of thin air?” This place made Laurie crazy.

Elspeth chuckled. “He’s a brownie, one of the Brunaidh. One of the wee people. You ken?”

“Patrick said the same, but I don’t understand. Brownies are make-believe.” Now that she believed in faeries could she not believe that brownies existed too?

“Munn was my father’s wee man, and his father’s afore him. Now he is Patrick’s man. He watches over our clan.”

Okay, paradigm shift, faeries and brownies exist.

“Is a brownie the same as a faerie? Like Caitrina?”

“Similar, but not the same. If Caitrina is a faerie, as you believe, she holds more power than Munn. He has his limitations.”

Laurie shook her head. This was all too unbelievable. A horn sounded from the castle.

“’Tis time for the mid-day meal.” Elspeth stood and brushed dirt from her apron.

“I guess we better go.” Laurie also rose from the bench.

They swiftly moved around the garden, collected the tools and put them into a large leather satchel. When they walked through the archway, they found Duncan on the other side, leaning against the garden’s outer wall, a blade of grass between his lips.

Laurie frowned. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have better things to do than follow us around?”

“Nae, Lady Laurie. The chief ordered me to watch over you. Make sure you stay out of trouble.”

She bristled. Patrick placed a guard on her again. Well damn, he still didn’t trust her. His lack of faith hurt. Though it shouldn’t, she had tried to leave without telling him.

Such a tangled web.

“Make yourself useful and carry this to the kitchen for us.” She thrust the leather bag at Duncan.

He accepted the weight without complaint, an idiotic, adoring smile spreading across his face.

Laurie pursed her lips. Oh, great, the big brute has a crush on me. Just what she needed.

Linking arms with her, Elspeth giggled, distracting Laurie. They walked, arm in arm, toward the castle, Duncan following, whistling a merry tune.

“I ken.” Elspeth grinned. “You fancy Patrick,” she whispered into Laurie’s ear.

Laurie growled, pulling away. She rubbed her eyes, sighing softly. “I do like him. However, he is an overbearing, autocratic, arrogant, irritating man, and I shouldn’t bother with him.”

“We will be sisters.” Elspeth smiled brightly. “Come. Let us go to the hall.”

The younger woman’s gaiety was infectious. Laurie couldn’t help but smile, although she wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“Do you think it will rain again?” she asked as they walked along the path to the castle. “A shower would be good for the young strawberry plants. Would help them get established.”

Elspeth glanced at the sky. “We will have to bide an’ see. ’Tis clear now. Yet the weather, like my brother, can be unpredictable.”

* * *

Seeing Laurie and Elspeth together as they entered the courtyard lightened Patrick’s heart. But he must be careful. Munn’s return and the tale he told implicated Laurie through Caitrina. Although the lass seemed innocent of any wrongdoing, he still didn’t know why she appeared or how she was involved with his parents.

When the two women moved out of sight to enter the wheel stair, he turned back from the window to the bed where Ruari sat against the bed-head, eating a bowl of porridge.

Aine summoned Patrick to the chamber earlier when Ruari woke. Now, she fussed over the lad in her customary motherly fashion. At first, he seemed confused, ranting and raving about the attack, not making much sense. He grumbled about the ache in his head. As his mind cleared, he complained of hunger.

Patrick waited, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of his bedchamber. He was a patient man. He’d wait until Ruari finished his meal, and then he’d question him about the attack.

Ruari slurped the last bit of porridge with gusto. Sitting the bowl on the tray at his side, he beamed.

“Good lad.” Aine smiled and patted his cheek. She collected the tray and left.

Dragging a stool next to the bed, Patrick sat. “Tell me again how you got the bump on your noggin.”

Ruari scratched his head. “A hooded warrior rode from the wood with two other mounted men. I think one was a Lamont. The other...he may have been a Maclay.”

Patrick scowled.

Clearing his throat, Ruari continued. “The hooded one went after my brother Ewen and the Lamont rider chased down Gil, the other herdsman. The big Maclay lad chased me to the edge of the wood. He hit me on the head and knocked me down. He must have thought me dead for he left me there and rode off to take part in the looting and burning with the other men who arrived by foot, as many as I can count on my fingers and toes.”

He coughed. Patrick patted his shoulder, offering encouragement.

“They set the huts on fire. The fields too. Drove off the cattle. A fine herd of twenty cattle, gone.”

Ruari gazed into the distance, horror contorting his features. “After the raiders left, I crawled to Gil and Ewen. They lay dead where they dropped.” His sad eyes searched out Patrick. “I tried to make it to the castle, but only made it to the Fir-wood before the pain became too great. The next thing I remember is waking up in this bedchamber.”

“Here.” Patrick handed him a mug of ale. “Quench your thirst.”

After taking a large gulp, Ruari set the cup down. He rubbed the large bump on his head and winced. “I am sorry, Chief. I failed you.”

“Nae, lad. ’Tis I who have failed. Failed to protect you. Failed to protect our property. Failed to protect the clan.” Patrick rose, paced to the fireplace. “We retaliate on the full moon.”

* * *

On the night before the full moon, Patrick hesitated. With Ruari up and about, Laurie moved back into his bedchamber. She slept there now. He crept to the door, struggling with himself. Several times during the night, he made his way up the stairs, planning to enter the chamber and take the lass. Each time he returned to his study frustrated and riddled with guilt.

This time he wouldn’t stop.

Entering his bedchamber, he glanced toward a window and noticed sunlight beginning to peek over the horizon. Morn approached and he hadn’t slept. His time grew short. He stepped to the bed, making as little noise as possible. He set the lantern he carried on the chest before pulling open the bed curtain. His breath caught. The sheets tangled round her ankles and her sleeping gown rose high on her thighs. His gaze roamed freely over her form. She was lovely in slumber, his precious angel. He marveled at her beauty. The morning light enhanced her skin and hair. Her plump lips begged to be kissed.

When she didn’t stir, he bent and placed a feather-light peck on her smooth cheek. Laurie woke with a jerk. He hadn’t meant to frighten her.

“How dare you?” she growled, eyeing him with mistrust.

He grinned. “You ask me that quite often, yet you ken the answer.”

“Why are you here?”

“I leave soon.” Patrick sat on the edge of the bed. “Send me off with a kiss.” Bowing his head, he made ready to kiss her when something cold and wet hit his back. A dripping cloth soaked his leine, having appeared out of nowhere.

He stood and grabbed the intrusive rag from his back. He stared at the damn cloth, first in surprise, then anger.

Laurie eyed the cloth and snickered. “Where did that come from?”

“Munn,” he grumbled.

The lass covered her mouth with her hand and tried unsuccessfully to conceal her grin. He snarled at her. But the glee dancing in her eyes snapped something inside him, and he threw back his head and roared with laughter, tears stinging his eyes.

“That pesky wee imp finds humor in pestering me,” he said once he contained his merriment. He winked at Laurie. “Wish me well.”

With a brief nod of his head, he turned and strode from the chamber.

Laurie sat in bed for quite some time, wishing Patrick finished kissing her. His smile stole her breath. She’d never seen him laugh like that. Marvelous. Made him appear young and carefree, much more pleasant than his usual scowls.

The shouts of men broke her train of thought and she remembered the raid. He was leaving. She padded to the window on bare feet in time to watch Patrick and his men leave through the courtyard entrance.

Elspeth stood at the side of the path to the water’s edge, waving farewell.

Laurie hadn’t said goodbye. She’d let him leave without saying the words. Her chest clenched. What if he got hurt? Or worse?

She was beginning to care for the fool man. She prayed he’d survive unhurt.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Set high in the sky, the moon cast its silvery light over the earth below. Shadows danced with every movement. Animals would easily spook, making raiding more difficult.

Patrick stood beside Stephen in the shadow of a massive oak. Most of his men spread out, slinking noiselessly from tree to tree to surround the meadow. Finding cover where available, they waited for his signal.

Duncan and Jamie hid nearby in the darkness provided by another large tree. In the low land, on the other side of the rise, a sizable herd of shaggy, longhorn cattle grazed. The scouts, who stalked the herd, reported two herdsmen. They counted at least sixty-five head. Mostly cows with calves. Patrick’s twenty were certainly part of the herd.

The men were in place, but something didn’t feel quite right. Seemed strange Lamont would leave the animals with no more than a light guard, after bothering to steal them. Patrick rubbed the prickle at the back of his neck before tapping Stephen on the shoulder.

“’Tis too quiet. I dinnae like it. Something is wrong, but I cannae figure what,” he whispered close to his cousin’s ear.

“Aye. The eerie glow of the moon ’tis unsettling.”

They fell back to where their horses waited content to chew grass. Mounting his horse, Stephen signaled to Duncan and Jamie to do the same. Patrick scanned the wood around them. “Be on guard. Remember, kill no one unless necessary.”

“Aye,” Stephen murmured.

Without sound, hand signals given, the four walked their horses into position, keeping to shadows, staying out of sight.

A whistled birdcall signaled the MacLachlan men to commence the raid.

Two of Patrick’s lads silently crept from their hiding places, each stalked one of the warrior-herdsmen. They took them by surprise, knocking them out with a bash to the head.

The rest of the men ran from their hiding places. Encircling the agitated cattle, they shouted, running, driving them toward the river.

The chosen crossing site was near. They reached the edge of the shallows, the best place to wade to the other shore. Jamie and Duncan rode across first. Next, the men crossed, coaxing the cattle to swim to the opposite shore.

Patrick and Stephen watched from the water’s edge, guarding the rear. Unease ran along Patrick’s spine with an unearthly tingle. Something was definitely wrong. He scanned the area around them, searching for anything out of place.

A flash of metal glittered in the moonlight.

From the wood charged a band of Lamont warriors led by Malcolm Maclay, Iain Lamont’s henchman. The same warrior Patrick bested on the training field, not a fortnight ago. He counted five mounted men, and many more on foot.

Patrick didn’t hesitate. He reined his stallion around. At the same time, he pulled his sword from its sheath. Stephen did the same. They held their ground as the first two riders reached them. Patrick made short work of knocking his man from his horse, disabling him. Before he’d time to think, a second warrior charged. He fought the attacker off, cutting with his sword.

He yanked his horse about. The cattle had made it across the river. Jamie and Duncan battled with a couple of Lamont warriors who had followed. Patrick’s men maintained the upper hand.

He reined his horse about again. Maclay attacked Stephen with a battle-axe. Patrick maneuvered his horse between them, only to take a hit to the shoulder. The blade cut through his leather hauberk, drawing blood, yet even with blinding pain, he managed to keep his seat. Reaching out, he slashed at Maclay, drawing his blade across the man’s face, breaking his nose and gashing his cheek. Blood spewed in every direction and Maclay fell from his horse.

Patrick and Stephen jumped from their horses, defensively fighting, back to back, to ward off several more men.

When the skirmish ended, two men lay dead at their feet. The rest blended into the wood. Damn the man to hell, Maclay was gone.

Someone betrayed them. How else would Lamont have known to lay a trap?

“We need to go,” Stephen said.

They found their horses and mounted. Fording the river, they caught up with the rest of their party.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick held tight to the horse’s reins. His shoulder burned like Satan’s hell. The going would be slow with many calves within the herd. He clenched his mount with his thighs and prayed he wouldn’t fall.

When dawn approached, they found themselves nearing MacLachlan lands. Stephen kept glancing at him, aware of the difficulty Patrick had keeping his seat. He grimaced from the pain piercing his side, though each time Stephen suggested they stop to rest, he waved his cousin off.

They rode farther. He slumped over in his saddle, barely holding on to the reins of the gray. Stephen rode his horse alongside, the horses running neck to neck. Snatching the reins from Patrick, Stephen used the body of the gray, in addition to his stallion, to keep Patrick from falling to the ground.

Duncan rode forward to the other side of the gray and helped slow the animal to a walk. Jamie trotted to the other side of Stephen and took the reins from him.

Managing to jump from his horse to Patrick’s, Stephen sat behind, holding him in place with the bulk of his body and strong arms. When Patrick went limp against him, Stephen stiffened.

“You are more injured than I realized.”

“Aye,” Patrick managed the one word before passing out.

* * *

Laurie tried to hide her agitation while she sat with Elspeth in the solar. Patrick, his tail of men, plus several other heavily-armed men left several days before for the raid against the Lamonts. No messages arrived since.

The evening meal came and went and still no word of the men. Elspeth serenely sat at a bench in front of a large tapestry frame deftly working colorful silk thread into a fanciful dragon design.

Laurie chewed on her lower lip while her gaze darted about the room without landing on any particular item. When she again glanced at Elspeth, the young woman stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes, as if caught in a trance. She swayed and slumped over the frame, holding her hand to her belly with pain marring her fine features.

Laurie leapt from her chair, ran to Elspeth and knelt at her side.

When the glaze cleared from Elspeth’s silver eyes, they filled with tears.

“’Tis Patrick. He is injured,” she said in a faint voice.

“How can you know this?”

The young woman struggled to catch her breath. “Vision.”

“What?”

Elspeth inhaled several deep gulps of air. “My gift. I see things others dinnae see. Sometimes, with a touch, I ken a person’s inner thoughts. Other times, I glimpse the future.”

Laurie’s heart kicked into overdrive. “How seriously is he hurt?”

“That, I cannae see.” Elspeth rose slowly, almost stumbling.

“Should we send someone after him?” Laurie’s concern nearly choked her words.

“His men will tend to him until they reach the castle.” Elspeth staggered to the door. “I must prepare for his return.”

Laurie stared at the empty doorway after the young woman left. She didn’t want to believe Patrick was injured. A virile man, it didn’t seem possible he could be hurt.

Another day passed without word. Laurie’s body buzzed with a frantic edginess. During a sleepless night, she came to a realization. She’d fallen for Patrick. Fallen hard. He was like a piece of hard candy with a soft center. Tough on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.

Glancing at Elspeth, she frowned. The younger woman sat quietly, mending sheets, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Unable to contain her agitation any longer, Laurie stood. She couldn’t sit there doing nothing. She circled the room before returning to her seat. Where were they?

Raucous noise and loud voices rose from the courtyard below. She and Elspeth jumped in unison and ran to the window. The men had returned. Laurie followed Elspeth as they rushed through the passage to the northern wheel stair, careful not to fall in her haste.

They ran into the great hall in search of Patrick. The men drudged in dirty and tired. They straggled into the hall and collapsed onto benches. Patrick wasn’t among them.

“Where is my brother?” Elspeth questioned the first man she came to.

The warrior pointed to the doorway. She ran to the threshold, Laurie on her heels. They stopped abruptly. Two men carried Patrick into the hall. He attempted a smile, but it was short lived. A spasm of pain wracked his body.

He was sweaty and dirty, his leather hauberk covered with dried blood. Laurie swayed and gripped a nearby chair for support. He looked bad. With effort, she regained her composure and followed the men carrying Patrick.

They sat him on a bench near the wall. He leaned against the stone and closed his pain-filled eyes. Elspeth hollered for Aine. The older woman hurried to them carrying the two healing baskets.

Stephen handed Patrick a cup filled with a golden liquid. “Here, drink this.”

Laurie couldn’t help herself. She stayed his hand, stopping him from drinking. “What are you giving him?” She couldn’t bare the possibility they might unintentionally give him a concoction of poison.

Stephen lifted a brow, obviously annoyed she interfered. “Uisge-beatha—water of life.”

“’Tis whisky, lass,” Aine said.

With a curt nod, Laurie stepped away, letting Patrick drink. Taking a swig, he coughed. He tried to speak, but the words came out incoherent. She stood back, allowing the others to work, watching fearfully.

Stephen removed Patrick’s hauberk. The once saffron-colored tunic beneath was now a brownish-red. With a swipe of his dagger, Stephen cut away the fabric.

Laurie held a hand over her mouth. Fresh blood oozed from fine wool strips wrapping Patrick’s chest. Stephen carefully unwrapped the binding, revealing a jagged laceration.

Using a wet cloth, Aine carefully removed stray fabric sticking to the wound. Then she splashed some of the whisky onto the gash. Patrick’s intake of breath was audible. He gripped the edge of the bench with his hands, digging his nails into the wood.

Elspeth threaded a large needle and handed it to Aine to begin the gruesome process of sewing the wound closed.

“Ortha casgadh fala,” Aine chanted in a melodic voice.

Patrick grimaced. Someone gave him a piece of leather to bite. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Laurie could hardly bear to watch, yet refused to look away. The pain etched in Patrick’s handsome features caused her physical discomfort. She placed her hand over her stomach, forcing herself to continue watching.

“Ortha casgadh fala.”

Laurie leaned close to Elspeth. “What is she saying?”

“Aine recites the prayer for staunching blood flow.”

When the older woman finished, she applied a generous amount of smelly salve from one of the pots that made Laurie’s nose twitch. Then Aine placed clean bandages over the wound and with help from Stephen bound Patrick’s chest. After returning her supplies to the baskets, she ordered him removed to his bedchamber.

By the time several of his lads carried Patrick up through the confines of the circular steps, two levels up, he was near to losing consciousness.

Moisture crept into Laurie’s eyes as she followed them and came to stand beside his bed. He reached for her hand. She laced her fingers with his, holding his hand gently. He gave her a shaky smile, closed his eyes, and drifted off into oblivion. Duncan dragged a bench over and she gladly sat, but continued to hang onto Patrick.

She raised her gaze to Aine. “Will he be all right?”

“We will have to bide and see, lass.” The older woman patted Laurie’s shoulder and shooed everyone from the room, leaving Laurie alone with her wounded Highland warrior.

She refused to leave his side. She stayed in the chamber with him night and day. She wet his brow and lips while he fought fever. She bathed his splendid form with cool damp cloths.

He fought demons in his delirium. He cried out as if confronting an unknown foe. He made little sense during these outbursts. Several times, she called for Duncan to hold him down, until Patrick’s fits subsided.

Elspeth and Aine brought her food and drink along with potions for Patrick. Laurie barely ate enough to sustain herself. She realized she loved him and was determined not to lose him to a damn fever. Laurie needed him to wake up so she could tell him. She even decided it would be tolerable to stay in the past as long as she could be with Patrick.

Elspeth sat with her often, the young woman’s voice always calm and comforting even though she must be worried sick about her brother. She tried to get Laurie to leave and take her own rest. Each time, Laurie refused.

Duncan brought a pallet for her. Instead of using the crude mattress, she climbed into the big bed and lay next to Patrick, holding him close when the spasms of chills racked his body. She wished with all her heart they were in the twenty-first century and she had antibiotics to give him.

Laurie prayed, begging for his life.

At times, the hair on her arms prickled, a sure sign Munn watched. Although he kept well hidden, she suspected he observed her every move to ensure she didn’t harm Patrick.

As if, she ever would.

Early one morning, she lay dozing next to him. She woke to startling blue eyes peering at her. Clear blue eyes free of fever.

“Thank God!” Tears of relief blurred her vision.

Within moments, his arms encircled her, drawing her to him. He sucked in his breath and held her tight. Laurie cuddled against him, holding him with trembling arms, afraid to let go.

When she finally leaned back, he touched her cheek with the tip of a finger and brushed a tear away. Her smile faltered.

“What is it, lass?” His voice sounded coarse from lack of use.

“Oh, Patrick. I thought you’d never wake. There is so much I need to tell you. I—”

Stephen appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. “I am afraid I interrupt the two of you, yet again.” He strode to the bed. “We feared we would lose you, cousin.”

“I’ll summon Aine.” Laurie jumped from the bed and straightened her gown. She must be a sight, not having bathed or changed clothes in days. “I’ll ask her to bring broth.” She nearly ran from the chamber. She wanted to make herself more presentable.

Though she hastened a quick glance at Patrick before she left. She needed to take the image of his clear blue eyes with her to assure herself he was well.

Patrick stretched his sore muscles. He was glad to see Stephen, but disappointed Laurie hurried off. Although, Patrick felt as weak as a wee bairn, he’d enjoyed her body pressed against his. He was lucky to be alive.

“How long have I been with fever?”

“Several days. Lady Laurie has not left you in all that time.” Stephen sat on the bench next to the bed.

The thought of Laurie caring for him brought Patrick a bone deep warmth. She was a good lass. He kept his smile to himself, not in the mood for his cousin’s teasing.

“Anything from Lamont?”

“Nary a word. And your uncle has not been heard from since he left the council.”

Patrick didn’t care for the sound of that. But he couldn’t worry about it now. He needed to get his strength back before he dealt with his wayward uncle.

Aine entered the chamber carrying a tray with Elspeth right behind her. They fussed over Patrick, making him drink every drop of broth and ale.

Disappointed Laurie hadn’t returned he kept glancing to the door.

When he finished his meal, his eyesight became fuzzy. From the gleam in Elspeth’s eyes, he suspected she added one of her potions to the ale to ease his aches and help him sleep.

With stealth, he moved through the dense, dark forest. Branches slapped at him, scratching his skin. Hearing the screech of an owl and the flutter of wings, he peered into the darkness. He searched, had been searching for so long.

But he couldn’t find what he searched for.

What was it?

Nae? He shook his head wanting to be free of his confusion. Who was it?

His lass!

Moving forward, he feared if he didn’t find her soon, she would be lost forever.

Patrick twisted and turned, became ensnared.

A trap. They dragged him down...held him there...forced him to watch.

He screamed.

A blood-curdling sound woke Patrick. His heart raced in his chest as if he’d run a great distance. He opened his eyes.

Duncan and Stephen burst into the chamber, swords ready, searching for a threat.

Entangled in his sheets, Patrick struggled. Sweat covered his body. Had he made that horrific sound?

Laurie, Elspeth and Aine came running. Jamie behind. Duncan shooed them away. “’Twas nothing but a terror dream. All is well.”

Stephen helped Patrick detangle from the sheets. He gave him a mug of ale and stared into his eyes. “What was it?”

Patrick looked away. “As Duncan said, ’twas nothing but a terror dream.”

Though he wasn’t so sure. The dream seemed real. He couldn’t save his woman from danger.

* * *

Forced to stay abed by his guardians, Patrick strummed his fingers on the edge of the mattress. When would Laurie return and tell him the rest of her outrageous tale?

Over the past couple of days, she’d shared wonderful stories with him. He especially liked the yarn she started this morning, a tale about a lass who, after being caught in a tempest, found herself in an enchanted land of wee people and other magical beings. Laurie had just gotten to the part where the lass, her dog, and three companions had escaped capture by a wicked witch and found themselves before the gates of a city built with emeralds when she stopped and insisted he take a nap.

He’d blustered and glowered and complained, but she’d have none of it. She told him she wouldn’t tell the rest of the tale if he didn’t sleep for a wee.

The only thing that kept him from leaping from the bed and likely ripping open his wound was this unhurried time he spent with Laurie. She visited him often and usually joined him for meals. She filled the empty place within his heart.

Even so, frustration rode him.

When the door creaked and opened, he sat up straight with his arms crossed over his chest and glared at Laurie. She rolled her eyes and sighed in the same manner his sister often did. She strolled into the chamber and smiled, ignoring his foul disposition. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

“Well enough to be up and about,” he grumbled.

“Maybe in a few days if you follow directions and rest.”

He grunted though she didn’t deserve his scowls and ill humor. Wasn’t her fault boredom drove him mad.

She raised a brow and plopped into the chair beside the bed. “Would you like me to finish Dorothy’s story?”

He nodded, keeping the smile tempting his lips to himself. The more time they spent together, the more he wanted her. Wanted her in a way he shouldn’t. He wanted her as his wife.

“Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yeah. Our heroine and her companions are greeted at the gate by a horse of another color. As they travel through the city in a grand carriage, the horse’s coat changed from blue to green to yellow to orange to red.”

Patrick leaned against the pillows and allowed her sultry voice to flow over him, into him, to heal him. He’d nearly fallen into a doze when he noticed a change in her tone.

“She clicked the heels of her ruby slippers together and said the magic words and woke in her room at home as if from a dream.”

Laurie’s words cut deep. “Is that what you hope will happen? That you will wake and all of this…” Patrick waved his arm, “was nothing more than a dream?”

“No, I—”

“I am sorry, lass. You dinnae deserve my rancor.” Of course, she still wished to go home. He hadn’t given her a reason to want to stay.

“No worries. Most men make bad patients.”

He cleared the lump from his throat. “Have you tended many men?”

“Just you.”

What would make her want to remain with him? The answer stole his breath. He needed a distraction, unnerved with the path of his thoughts. “Tell me another story.

“I think not. It’s time for you to rest.” She leaned in and pulled the covers over his chest.

Her warmth embraced him. He wanted to kiss her, to pull her close and hold her within his arms. Protect her from a world full of danger.

Laurie patted his arm. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours with your supper.”

He grasped her hand and gently squeezed before releasing her fingers. “I thank you for caring for me.”

Her eyes misted and held his gaze.

“Be off with you and let me take my rest,” his voice cracked.

He watched her walk across the chamber. She stopped at the doorway, turned and waved her fingers before leaving. Patrick dragged his hand over his face. He hadn’t let her finish what she was about to say. What would she have said if he hadn’t interrupted her? He should have asked before she departed.

After several days passed, he still hadn’t asked Laurie, but his strength returned. He couldn’t stay in bed any longer. He rose, dressed and went in search of his lady. Aye, she was his lady.

He found her alone in the garden, humming softly while weeding. Sunbeams played with the golden highlights of her hair. His chest tightened with a sensation he was becoming far too accustomed to. He wanted her more than he believed possible. Life was too short. Easily stolen by the slice of a blade. His decision firmed in his mind—she would be his forever.

His footfalls were silent as he navigated the garden paths and stopped behind Laurie.

“Lass, you take my breath away.”

Startled by the unexpected voice behind her, Laurie fell backwards onto the ground. She narrowed her eyes at Patrick. “You frightened me.”

“Forgive me.” He offered a hand to help her to her feet.

Happiness twirled around her heart at the sight of him outside, away from the sick room. The tender expression on his face made her stomach flutter, and she found herself staring at him.

“Speechless?”

What could she say, mesmerized as she was by his smile and the smoldering intensity in his alluring blue eyes?

“Come.” He took her hand, escorting her to a wood bench near one of the walls. Recently bloomed yarrow surrounded them. They sat and gazed at each other. Everything else faded away. There was nothing in the world but them.

They started to speak at the same instant, stopped, and smiled at each other. “You’ve something to tell me,” Patrick said.

“Yes, but it seems you wish to say something also. You go first.”

“You began saying something the other day, but I interrupted. Tell me now.”

“Okay. I’ve been thinking.” Laurie swallowed. “Since I can’t go home. And, since you said you wanted me. Blast it. I don’t know how to say this.”

Patrick stared at her intently, waiting.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she plunged in. “If you still want me… That is, if you still want me as your mistress… Well, then…”

Confusion clouded Patrick’s features.

“I’ll be your mistress. That is...if you still want me,” she blurted the words.

Patrick’s jaw tightened his expression sour. “You will be my mistress?”

She winced. Confused by his sharp tone, she warily nodded.

“Let me understand. This is because you cannae go home?”

Laurie frowned. “That’s not what I meant. I have feelings for you.”

“But, you dinnae love me?”

Shit. She’d messed this up. Why couldn’t she just come out with it?

“All right. If you must know—I love you. You overbearing goon.” She shoved her hands against his chest. Even after the fever, she wasn’t strong enough to push him off the bench.

Patrick grinned. He reached for her hand and squeezed. “I dinnae want you for a mistress.”

Tears burned the back of her eyes. “You don’t?”

He didn’t want her. She’d opened her heart to him, and he didn’t want her. Disappointment and embarrassment collided, singeing her cheeks.

“Nae, sweetling. I wish to wed with you.” He shifted his weight on the bench. “That is, if you will have me.”

“What did you say?” Had she heard him right? “Say it again.”

He squeezed her hand. “Lady Laurie, will you wed with me?”

Happiness effervesced within her chest until she remembered what his uncle said and Elspeth confirmed. Patrick was already betrothed.

The play of emotions crossing Laurie’s face concerned Patrick. She seemed confused then angry. He didn’t like it. She was supposed to fall into his arms. She’d said she loved him.

She pulled her hand from his and placed balled fists on her hips. “What of Isobell Lamont and the betrothal agreement your uncle is constantly sniping about?”

“Ach, lass.” He understood where her fear lay. “There was never an agreement. My father never would have agreed to the marriage without my goodwill. He was verra much in love with my mother before she died, and later was blessed to find love with Elspeth’s mother. He never would have condemned me to a loveless marriage.”

“But your uncle claims there is a contract.”

“Aye. He wishes it thus. When I was a child, my father negotiated for a marriage contract between my elder brother Donald and Isobell Lamont. When Donald died, there was talk of my wedding the lass. However, they never finalized an agreement. My da gave me the choice. I could not wed the lass, not without love. Now, her father and I are sworn enemies.”

“But weeks ago, you said you couldn’t marry me.”

“True.” Patrick smiled. “I determined I would not wed anyone in order to keep the peace. I believed in time Lamont would give up and wed Isobell to another.”

“What changed?”

“I don’t believe Lamont will relinquish and allow Isobell to wed another. I make matters worse by staying unwed. Besides, I want you. I cannae live without you.” Reaching down, he grasped her hand again, caressing the palm with a gentle touch. “I ask you again. Will you wed with me?”

“Yes.” Laurie bestowed upon him a brilliant smile, which glowed bright as the sun.

He took her face into his hands, bent his head and brushed a sweet, gentle kiss across her lips. Leaning back, he gazed into misty, blue eyes and saw their shared future. He would make a family with the love of his life.

“In a fortnight, we will journey to the fair in Glasgow, where I will procure your betrothal ring.” Hopefully, they could sail past Lamont territory unmolested.

* * *

Caitrina stood in the shadow of the garden wall, unseen by the lovers. If she possessed a one-hundred-percent mortal heart, she’d be gushing over the scene playing out before her eyes. As it was, with a halfling heart, she remained merely amused.

She believed from the beginning, she’d win this round, the next, and the next. The only requirement remaining to complete this match was for the MacLachlan chief to plant his seed. Considering the testosterone he threw off, the carnal joining would happen soon.

Caitrina tasted freedom on the wind. It wouldn’t be long. Her royal status would be restored along with the right to return to Tir-nan-Óg.

Suddenly, an unexpected tingling skittered across her skin, warning of fae activity. Something was wrong. She held motionless, sensing a power surge surround her. One second, she watched Patrick kiss Laurie. The next, she was in the queen’s antechamber.

The disoriented sensation from the unexpected realm-hop passed quickly and the nausea subsided, but trepidation built. Many human centuries had trudged by since she visited the palace. The last had been the awful day of her banishment. Now she found herself summoned by the High Faerie Queen.

The large room was much the same as she remembered. Silver columns and crystal walls, brilliant sapphire gemstones in cut-glass bowls, luxuriant royal blue velvets and silks draped about, all to enhance the silvery splendor of the High Queen.

In the center of the chamber lay the white brocade chaise on which Oonagh lounged in comfort, a smug smile playing on sensuous lips.

“So good of you to attend me,” she purred.

“What do you want?” Caitrina demanded as she hid trembling hands within the folds of her gown. They didn’t shake from fear but from resentment. Oonagh must know of her progress. The queen wouldn’t play fair. She’d interfere with the mating.

Whatever the queen intended meant trouble.

Caitrina couldn’t allow it. She’d need to think of a way to stop the queen. Perhaps she could find an ally.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Castle Lachlan

A sennight later, Munn pinched the bridge of his nose and tried desperately to think.

Something he preferred not do.

He sat in one of the crenels on the battlements, unseen by the guards. They tramped to and fro, striding from corner post to corner post, eyes directed beyond the castle walls.

Bored with their repeated motion, Munn gazed out across the loch. The water was calm tonight, a contrast to his circling thoughts.

“What was he to do?” he grumbled, forgetting to mute his voice.

One of the warriors shot a look in Munn’s direction, furrowed his brow, and returned his gaze to the shadows beyond the walls. At any other time, Munn would have fun and spook the guard. Tonight he had a dilemma. The MacLachlan planned to wed the woman from the future.

Munn couldn’t allow it to happen. Although she seemed to care for the chief, he must stop the match. But how? If they consummated their marriage, his vow to Oonagh would be broken. The queen would condemn him to an eternity entrapped within the Sands of Time.

A punishment far worse than the most tortured death.

Torn between his loyalty to Patrick and to his vow to the queen, Munn sadly shook his head. He needed to do something soon, betray his chief or break his vow.

He didn’t wish to do either, but knew which would cause the most damage to him. With a shudder, he dissolved into the breeze.

* * *

Laurie could barely contain the joy radiating from her heart. She wanted to whirl around the room and dance a jig. Instead, she sat in front of the fireless hearth in Elspeth’s solar, pretending to concentrate on the embroidery hoop in her hand. She glanced at her future sister-in-law seated beside her.

The young woman glowed with energy. Overjoyed by the news of the upcoming wedding, Elspeth swept Laurie through a whirlwind of activity during the past week.

Patrick scheduled the wedding to follow their return from Glasgow on the eve of Lunasdàl, the first harvest festival. Aine worked magic with a fine gown of midnight blue for her to wear. Elspeth designed a pearl and sapphire adornment they planned to weave through her hair.

Though much remained to do in preparation for their journey to the fair, the wedding remained foremost in the women’s discussions.

Although Patrick’s steward, Lachlan, traveled ahead to procure housing for the family for the duration of the event, Elspeth instructed him to purchase special provisions, including exotic spices and fruits for the wedding. She had an elaborate celebration planned.

Laurie drew a lavender thread through the cloth. She wouldn’t have the big wedding in Saint Pat’s she’d always dreamed of, but she’d have her very own Patrick as groom.

The dear man romanced her. He trained with his men during the day, working to regain his strength. In the twilight hours, he belonged to her. They spent their evenings alone in his study, eating meals in privacy. Patrick charmed her with his deep seductive voice as he sang gallant ballads filled with heroic deeds. He told her about his childhood and youth, about his parents and his brothers. She, in turn, shared stories about her life, describing for him the wonders of the twenty-first century.

Her only disappointment was the ever-present, annoying brownie. Munn appeared at the most inopportune moments. Each time Patrick made a move to take her into his arms, the darn brownie showed up to cause havoc. Chaste kisses were all she’d received from her fiancé during this entire week.

And she wasn’t happy about the lack of snuggling.

“You are not listening to me.” Elspeth nudged her arm.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

Elspeth rolled her eyes in the same manner as a modern teenager. “’Twill be such fun. There will be all kinds of merchants at the fair, selling everything for which you could possibly wish. Some come from far distant places with all matter of luxury. At the last fair, Patrick allowed me to purchase new riding boots and a pair of fancy slippers. I am sure he will indulge you as well, now that you are to be his lady-wife.”

Glancing away to hide her smile, Laurie noticed Patrick standing in the doorway. Feet apart, hands on hips, he listened to his sister chatter on. The sides of his mouth twitched when he tried to restrain his amusement. He couldn’t do it. His lips slowly bloomed into a full grin, making the sexy cleft in his chin more prominent.

Laurie took a deep breath, reining in the sudden rush of sweet desire that shot through her veins.

Patrick inclined his head and sauntered into the room, stopping next to her chair. He leaned against the hearth and chuckled. “I will not indulge either of you, if you are not prepared to leave at dawn.”

“We will be ready.” Elspeth laughed, the sound a musical note of delight.

Laurie locked gazes with Patrick. He wore a suggestive, seductive expression. His powerful presence washed over her, bathing her in sensual heat. Could the man be any more alluring than when he smiled, his deep blue eyes twinkling? He stole her breath.

Holy shit. She would soon marry her Highland warrior.

“My sweet lass, I came to fetch you. Aine is about to serve our evening meal.” He flicked his eyebrows, a naughty glint sparking in the depth of his hungry eyes.

What did her future husband plan?

Certain she would enjoy whatever he proposed, she laid her needlework aside.

Grasping her hand, he kissed the back of her fingers, sending tingles up her arm. She shivered, and he gave her a knowing look, his eyes darkening even more with seduction. Heat burned her cheeks and she batted at his arm.

“Shall we?” He assisted her to her feet, placing his hand on her elbow to escort her from the solar.

Glancing over her shoulder with a pang of guilt, Laurie caught Elspeth’s smirk. She’d been neglecting her young friend. “Elspeth, would you care to dine with us?”

Patrick stiffened, but when Laurie checked the expression on his face, he appeared indifferent.

“Nae. I think my brother would prefer to have you to himself.” Elspeth grinned.

The hand on Laurie’s elbow relaxed and Patrick whisked her from the solar. “I have plans for us that require privacy,” he whispered, his breath teasing her ear, his voice deep and sensuous.

They hurried along the passage. Patrick placed his hand on her lower back and a thrill climbed her spine. Heat spiraled through her with hot anticipation. He helped her descend the stairs and they practically ran to his private chamber.

When they arrived, they found their meal set on his worktable, Aine having already left.

Patrick assisted Laurie to a seat and sat across from her.

She met his fiery gaze. He looked as if he’d leap across the table and devour her. His passion thrilled her. Her nipples tightened and her breasts grew heavy.

“I was thinking.” Hesitating, she toyed with the creamed fish on the plate in front of her. Would he think her too forward?

“Aye?”

She licked her dry lips.

Patrick shifted in his chair. “You kill me, lass.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking.”

“Aye, so you said.” Patrick’s smile took on a predatory tilt.

Laurie glanced away. She swallowed and settled her gaze on the tapestry hanging on the wall beyond his shoulder. “Since we plan to wed…”

She lost her nerve. She hated having to be the one to ask. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t come to her room before now. She moistened her lower lip.

Patrick groaned. “What do you wish to say, m’sweet?”

“Will you join me in your bedchamber tonight?” She blurted the words without finesse.

Within a heartbeat, Patrick jumped from his chair as if scorched. He stood over her and tilted her chin so she had to look at him. Grasping both her hands, he knelt before her.

His expression sizzled. The intensity was thrilling.

“’Twould be my pleasure to spend the night with you.” He swept her into his hold and strode to the stairs.

Laurie twined her arms around his neck. Enamored by his strength, she leaned into his hard body and nuzzled her face into his neck to capture his masculine scent. The earthy smell of forest and wind intoxicated her. She nipped the exposed skin, playfully kissing and teasing him with her teeth.

He held her close, his chest rumbling. When he reached the bedchamber, Patrick kicked open the door and gently laid her on his huge bed. He left her for a moment, only to close the door and put the wooden bar in place, securing them against intrusion.

She lifted up onto her elbows. For his large size, he moved in a lithe and sensual way, like the lion king he reminded her of. She swallowed a nervous giggle before the silly sound escaped. She’d never been loved before, but she’d never wanted anything more than she did at this moment—for this man to make passionate love to her.

He twisted to stare with eyes ablaze. Strutting across the room to stand before her, his gaze never left hers. He stripped. A slow dance of masculine beauty.

First, he removed the countless knives hidden in various places on his person. Then he dropped his belt to the floor along with his pouch and a sheathed knife. His plaid came next.

He stood before her in his linen shirt.

Her mouth went dry. God, he was magnificent.

He yanked the leather strip from his hair and allowed the reddish-brown strands to fall freely around his shoulders, making him look even more the wild cat.

His rock hard thighs, corded with muscle, flexed as he ever so slowly lifted the tunic up and over his head, pulling the shirt free.

When the garment hit the floor, she hissed on an intake of breath.

Chippendale dancers, eat your hearts out.

His arousal jutted out. Grew larger.

Pain from her first sexual experience jarred her memory, and her boyfriend hadn’t been hung like Patrick.

Fear replaced lust. Shit. There was no way she’d be able to do this. Patrick was too big. She sat up and scooted back on the bed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I can’t.”

Patrick winced. Fear was not something he wanted marring Laurie’s precious face when she gazed upon him. She looked like an ensnared animal, her eyes, big and bright. The lad she’d called a boyfriend must not have been very manly.

A twinge of jealousy rushed through his veins. He didn’t like the idea of anyone having come before him. Still, he’d have her. And he’d ensure no man came after him.

“Dinnae be alarmed. I will not hurt you.”

“You’re too—big.”

He refrained from flashing a cocky grin. With quick strides, he crossed to the bed, sat next to her, and gently stroked her silky hair, hoping to alleviate her fear.

“We will fit perfectly.” His rough tone voiced his desire. “Let me show you. I promise we will both enjoy our mating.”

Laurie searched his face. When she finally lowered her arms and smiled, he sighed with relief.

He placed his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her close. She reached out her arms. He carefully removed her gown and tossed it onto the floor to mingle with his discarded clothing. Caressing with a gentle touch, he swept his fingers along her bare shoulders, along her neck, along the edge of her chemise. He grazed her cheek, bent his head and kissed her lips.

A kiss that was soft. Persuasive. Filled with love.

She kissed him back. Tentatively at first. Then with abandon.

When they were both breathing hard, he pulled away to remove her shoes. Those, too, landed on the growing pile of garments. He swept the chemise over her head and slid his gaze over her nude form.

A lovely crimson blush colored her exposed flesh.

“You are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper.

Muscles coiled tight in anticipation, he lowered his head, used his teeth to slide a stocking over her knee and down her shapely calf, and tossed it aside. He kissed the arch of her foot, and she squirmed. Then he repeated the teasing play with the other stocking. Gooseflesh prickled her skin.

She brought light to the shadows within his soul.

With her golden hair draped across his sheets, her eyes soft and alluring, her lips puffy from his kisses, she was everything he desired. The woman he wanted at his side while he led his people through these turbulent times.

Patrick inhaled her feminine scent and prayed for control. He planned to go slow. He wanted this first time to be special. A memory they would share.

He rolled on top of her, holding himself up by his arms, not wanting to press his weight into her. He placed kisses along her neck. Slow and sweet. Lingering. Drawing his tongue across the hollow of her throat, he nibbled his way over her skin to her left breast and drew the nipple into his mouth, ran his tongue over the tip, swirling it in the moist recesses of his mouth.

She gasped and held him to her breast. She cradled his head, her fingers laced in his hair. Encouraged, he used his teeth to drive her harder.

Her moan skirred over his skin, drawing him tight. Her breath whizzed in and out in soft, needy pants. God, he wanted her. Wanted to taste every exposed inch of her skin. He drew her unique fragrance into his lungs with each breath and moved his mouth to her other breast to lave the nipple. His cock hardened more with each pull of his lips.

Exquisite torture.

She pressed her mound against his shaft, soft mewling sounds escaping her lips. He released her breast, breathing hard.

“Easy.” He wasn’t sure if he meant to convince her or himself. “If we go too fast, I will be spent afore we begin.”

“Patrick. I need…”

“I ken.”

If he didn’t claim her soon and relieve the pressure in his groin, he surely would burst and die. Soon she’d be his completely. She’d give herself to him willingly. Later, she’d become his lady-wife. He couldn’t wait.

It killed him to go slow. He was heavy and hard, his body demanding release. But he wanted to draw out the pleasure for her—for him. He lowered his lips to a rosy nipple, sucked the puckered tip into his mouth, savored the pleasure he gave his lady.

A chill breeze blew across his arse. He raised his head, glanced around and found naught out of place. Yet a shiver slid across his shoulders. The warmth of the woman in his arms beckoned.

Placing his knees on either side of her hips, he knelt over her. He leaned in low and licked her stomach, sweeping her belly button with the tip of his tongue, moving his moist touch ever lower, to the edge of her golden curls.

“Please,” she begged.

He spread her thighs and the tender folds hiding her secret place. He licked his lips and was almost unmanned by the glory of her womanhood. He dove in. Suckled. Tasted her desire.

Ambrosia.

He relished every lick, every nibble, and the essence that was his precious Laurie. Patrick continued to tease her flesh, glorying in the moment, marveling at the pure pleasure. Sensations he’d never imagined flooded him.

Laurie thrashed on the bed. Tugged his hair, twisted her fingers in the heavy mass and yanked. He growled against her moist folds and continued to lap up her liquid desire. She arched her back, searching for release. Her head rolled from side to side. Her hands gripped the bedding. The sounds coming from her mouth drove him harder.

“Patrick, please.”

“Please what, m’sweet?” he teased.

“I want—”

The horn blew long and loud, several times. Patrick’s heart thudded hard against the wall of his chest and he raised his head to listen. Releasing Laurie, he jumped from the bed and grabbed for his garments.

“What’s wrong?” Her husky voice weakened his resolve. He hated to leave her.

He threw a sheet over her naked body. “The castle is under attack.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Patrick dashed up the steps to the wall-walk two at a time. Men shouted. Others ran from every direction, up the circular stairs to the battlements. He made his way through the chaos of warriors to the watchtower only to find his man Dunall insensible on the floor, the now-silent horn lying next to him.

Stephen squatted over the man, shaking his head and chuckling.

“What is happening?” Patrick yelled above the din.

Eyeing his disheveled appearance, Stephen arched an eyebrow.

Patrick ignored the look. “Why was the horn blown?”

“Before he swooned like a lass, Dunall claimed the horn to be enchanted. Said the damn thing flew out of his hand and blew on its own. I guess ’twas Munn.”

“Curse the wee man if it was.” Patrick growled, low and deep. Damn the meddlesome brownie. “We must ensure there is nae threat. Assemble a search party. Prepare the men and meet me at the beach within the quarter hour.”

He returned to his bedchamber and found Duncan standing guard outside the door. “I leave shortly. Guard my lady well.”

“With my life.” The lad placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head.

“See to it the women are ready to leave at sunrise,” Patrick said as an afterthought.

“Aye.” Duncan stepped aside.

Patrick entered the chamber, closing the door behind him. This time he didn’t bother to secure the bolt. Laurie sat on the edge of the bed her legs bent and drawn against her body. His plaide draped around her, yet exposed to his view were two smooth, milky-white knees. The muscles in his gut tightened.

She was a sight, his precious lady. His cock twitched, but he couldn’t have her now, not with potential danger lurking beyond the castle walls. “What’s happening?” she asked.

“False alarm.” He crossed the chamber to the bed. “Yet I must ride out and search the area to be sure.”

“Must you go?” She swept teasing fingers along his arm, raising gooseflesh.

“Aye.”

“Can’t you send someone else?”

The seductive glint in her eyes made his blood run hot. He wanted to stay yet couldn’t set an irresponsible precedent. He hardened his resolve and stepped from her reach. “I lead my men.”

“Of course.” She glanced away. Before she did, he noted her lip tremble. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He should reassure her, but he wasn’t good at that sort of thing.

“I expect you to be ready to leave for Glasgow when I return in the morning.” He brushed a light kiss across her brow and left the chamber, his thoughts consumed by the impending search.

* * *

A loud rapping woke Laurie before daybreak. She cracked the heavy oak door and peeked out.

“’Tis time,” Duncan said.

“Give me a couple of minutes.”

He nodded, and she shut the door. She swept her hair into a knot and pinned the unruly mass on top of her head. Using water from the ewer, she washed the sleepers from her eyes. During the night, she’d waffled between understanding and anger.

In the early morning-light things made better sense. Her anger was misplaced. Patrick couldn’t change the way he lived because she worried about his safety. Agreeing to wed a Highland lord meant accepting his life.

But would she ever get used to him running off into danger? Especially in the heat of the moment. Probably not.

Her core throbbed when she thought about where his mouth had teased when the horn blew. She’d gotten herself off after he left, but still…her emotions teetered on edge and her sex drive hummed. She was more than a little cranky.

After dressing in her own clothes, she prepared for travel. She wrapped her extra dress—the sapphire blue gown Patrick liked—and her undergarments in a soft cloth and packed them into the creel he gave her along with a few toiletries she’d gotten from Aine. The basket woven from heather didn’t weigh much. Laurie slipped the straps over her shoulders like a backpack.

She followed Duncan through the dim passages. Meeting Jamie and Elspeth in the courtyard, they hurried to the edge of the water where Patrick and his search party waited.

The sun peeked over the hills lightening the sky.

“’Tis time you arrived.” Patrick sounded cross. His features displayed a combination of annoyance and fatigue.

Well, that made two of them. She wanted to snap at him, but held her tongue. Women of this place and time were demure. Laurie didn’t quite fit the bill. She growled under her breath. She’d try to make him a good wife. But right now, she wanted to smack him upside the head.

“Did you find anything while you searched?” she asked, ignoring her annoyance.

Patrick shook his head. “Naught.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Well, if you think there is a threat.”

“Dhughall and the other lads will take good care of our interests here.”

He grasped her elbow, and she noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes. He must be tired. If it were possible, the shadows made him look even sexier. Maybe it was the memories from last night embedded on her mind making him so damn irresistible. Heat flooded her cheeks and she glanced away unable to hold his gaze.

Geez, he made her crazy.

“This way.” He guided her to the first of three birlinns floating in the surf ready for their journey. Patrick lifted her, assisting her into the boat. Stepping in himself, he helped her to a seat on one of the wooden benches where cushions were placed for comfort. He took her creel and stashed it. Elspeth sat beside her while Patrick sat behind. Stephen joined them along with a group of well-armed warriors—swords, axes and shields in-hand.

“Why so many men?” Way too much pumped up testosterone.

Patrick glanced around as if he hadn’t noticed. “We will travel near the Lamont controlled coastline as we sail out of Loch Fyne and then again when we head up the watter past Toward Point. We prepare for every possibility. There is always the risk of an attack, a challenge from either Lamont galleys or freebooters.”

“Freebooters?”

“Thieves upon the watter.”

“Pirates?”

“Aye, lass.”

Laurie swallowed hard. Perhaps the journey wouldn’t be so pleasant.

“Trust me to keep you safe.” Patrick reached around her waist and placed his hand over hers.

She twisted her head and gave him a wobbly smile over her shoulder.

“’Tis thrilling. Aye?” Elspeth leaned close and whispered in her ear.

The young woman’s enthusiasm was hard to ignore. Laurie settled down, attempting to relax, trusting Patrick with her life.

* * *

Patrick inhaled the briny air and stared at Laurie’s exposed neck. He liked the way she’d pinned her golden locks on top of her head, leaving her silky flesh exposed to his greedy gaze. The memory of her taste on his lips and tongue had him heavy with need. He pulled his hand away from hers, fearing she’d feel the desire thundering in his veins.

Patrick shifted his weight on the wooden bench to ease his discomfort. There was no relief for his groin and many days before he could love her properly or release the effects of his leashed passion on the practice field. He was hopelessly doomed for the duration of the journey.

Although he didn’t admit it to Laurie, he was concerned about leaving the castle for the duration of the fair. He glanced back at his home. The wee brownie must have been the one who blew the horn. What was Munn up to?

And his uncle? What intrigue did Donald plot?

Patrick massaged the back of his neck. Time would tell on both accounts.

With a tight jaw, he set his mind to their voyage.

The three birlinns of twelve oars, each with his armed lads and provisions, set off across Loch Fyne. They would sail the length of the western shore. He hoped to avoid unfriendly galleys. Once they reached Dumbarton by boat, the danger would decrease and they could journey overland on foot the remainder of the way to Glasgow without too much risk.

He scanned the horizon before returning his gaze to Laurie. Maybe finding some trouble would be good. He could fight off the edge of his frustration.

* * *

Munn sat in the aft of the lead birlinn, unnoticed. He hated to travel by boat. Wave motion made him turn green. Ach, the things expected of him. He twisted his lips into an angry scowl. The lass from the future caused this misery. If she’d not appeared, he wouldn’t need to attend the chief in Glasgow.

The boat pitched, forcing him to clutch the gunwale with one hand and his belly with the other as a wave of nausea ripped through him. He steadied his weight and glowered at the wench. He could push her over the side and she’d drown in the deep water.

Munn mulled the idea over in his mind, a grin stretching his lips, until he remembered—

He couldn’t do that. There were covenants he couldn’t break. The rules mandated he not cause death. What to do? What to do? The heck with Oonagh and her demands. Performing his duty to the clan didn’t include leaving MacLachlan land. He would remain at Castle Lachlan. That’s what he’d do. In a huff, he vanished into the air.

* * *

Laurie observed the men at the oars strain with effort, muscles bulging, as the boats left Castle Lachlan and set out across Loch Fyne.

Once the boats were away from shore, the men stopped rowing and raised the sail. At first, the speckled sail flapped in the breeze. Then the wind filled the cloth and the boats moved smoothly. She’d never seen a square sail before, especially not one made of wool fabric. Higher up on the mast, a pennon bearing the MacLachlan device billowed in the wind. The flag clearly identified to whom the boats belonged.

After an initial bout with queasiness, she enjoyed sailing over the water. Lucky for her, the weather remained clear—unusual for the Highlands or so she’d heard.

The dramatic scenery was beautiful and pristine, unspoiled by development. The birlinns passed headlands, some covered with thigh-high heather and others scarred by rock gullies. Waves washed spume onto the shores of pebbly beaches.

Laurie grinned, scooting forward to sit on the edge of her seat.

The bays and inlets filled with imagined secrets and tiny islands with a magic all their own delighted her imagination. Beyond the beaches, she glimpsed wetlands of reeds and bracken and beyond that, heather covered moors and forests rising up into hills and mountains.

Seabirds soared over the waves, rose on updrafts then plummeted to the water to catch their prey. Laurie inhaled the pungent, salty air, tasting it on her tongue. Loose hair blown free from her bun tickled her neck.

She caught Patrick’s eye, and he winked.

When the sun sat high in the sky, the men lowered the sails and rowed to shore. Her rubbery legs wobbled when she walked across the pebbles to the low grassy bank beyond. Angus and Aine, along with several servants spread plaids on the ground for a picnic.

Afterwards the party continued sailing on its way.

The prevailing wind changed to little more than a mild breeze and the men took to the oars.

Far behind us, Castle Lachlan,

Soon before us, the Glasgow fair,

And ye ken, lads, trinkets gleam, lads,

In the wee stalls at Glasgow fair.

The helmsman chanted a verse of song.

Heel ye ho, lads, let ’er go, lads,

Keep her head ’round, row together;

Heel ye ho, lads, let ’er go, lads,

Sailing onward to Glasgow fair.

Oarsmen responded with the chorus.

Laurie wrapped her arms around herself, finding pleasure in the poetic meter of the song. Singing and rowing continued for twenty minutes longer until the wind picked up again, and the men put down the oars.

Patrick tapped her shoulder. “Look yonder.”

They sailed near a protected harbor where a large castle stood.

“That is the royal residence of Tarbert,” he said.

“Do we need to fear attack?” Laurie twisted on her seat to search his features.

“Nae. The guards will allow us to sail past without challenge. They are our allies. The keepers of the castle are Campbells and our wee Elspeth is betrothed to one of their own.”

“The castle is impressive.”

“Aye, that it is. In the time of Robert the Bruce, the castle and nearby fort were mostly rebuilt. And King Jamie has recently fortified both.” Patrick’s pride in his heritage shone in the gleam of his eyes.

After they passed, the men whispered and threw anxious glances toward the eastern shore. Elspeth’s usual serene expression became agitated and the young woman chewed on her lower lip.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Laurie whispered to the younger woman.

“We near Asgog Castle, a heavily fortified stronghold of the Lamonts.”

“Nae worries, lass, my lads and I will keep you safe.” Patrick squeezed her upper arm.

The men rowed, adding their strength to the power of the sail, increasing the boats’ speed. The boats continued to hug the western coastline, the birlinns staying close together, until they sailed beyond what Patrick called Ardlamont Point and out of Loch Fyne. Those aboard exhaled a sigh of relief when they entered the relative safety of the sound. The men put down the oars and allowed the sails to do the work.

“Look there, lass, Arran,” Patrick said and pointed to a far distant island.

Laurie sat straighter. During her business travels, she’d been to Scotland on several occasions, working in either Glasgow or Edinburgh, but never once ventured from the cities.

She wrapped her arms in a self-hug. All of this beauty is part of my new home.

She couldn’t keep the grin from her face.

They sailed past a small island, south along the coastline, around a headland and into what Patrick called the Firth of Clyde. The sails came down and the men rowed into shore to beach in a large bay surrounded by red sandstone cliffs.

“Where are we now?” Laurie asked as Patrick helped her from the boat.

“The Isle of Bute,” he said. “Your cheeks are rosy, sweetling.”

She attempted to spin in a circle, but wobbled and he caught her against his side. Heat flared and they both pulled away as if singed. “I’m happy, Patrick.”

“Good.” He scanned the beach. “All is quiet.”

“Where will we stay the night?” Laurie cupped her hand over her eyes to cut the glare from the late afternoon sun.

“Most of the warriors will remain with the boats while we and a few others hike a short distance to a cave where we’ll make camp.”

“Sounds like exercise.”

Patrick smiled and pivoted to face his cousin. “Send a fast running ghillie to Rothesay Castle to pay homage and to request the permission of the Stewart keepers for us to set camp.”

“Aye. And I will send a hunting party ahead.”

Patrick nodded, and Stephen set off across the beach.

“Are we on private property?” Laurie asked. “Are you sure we should be here?”

“I have nae doubt we will receive consent to camp from the sheriff who keeps these lands in the name of our king. MacLachlan’s come here often. But protocol requires I seek permission.”

Laurie watched the men remove the sails and drape them over the boats, making a sort of tent for protection against the elements.

“’Tis time to find our camp. We will bed before a bonfire in a clearing near a small cave where we can seek refuge should the weather turn fickle.” Patrick took Laurie by the hand and they started the trek up the path, climbing above the shore through rough grassland.

The rest of their small group followed. The path partly hugged the side of steep cliffs and Laurie fought the urge to glance down. At one point, a prominent outcrop of red stone seemed to teeter over their heads. She sucked in her breath, not releasing it until they were clear.

The track climbed to higher ground and around a curving hillside where they made for another hill at the top of a ridge. At the summit, Laurie gasped. Below was a small loch, the surface green with lilies and bulrushes. The sight was so beautiful, her chest tightened.

Flocks of birds fed among lush foliage, the flapping of wings and cries creating a noisy, chaotic orchestration. Even though it was noisy, she loved it.

The group descended the hill. At the lowest part of the ridge, a small cave overlooked the loch. Stephen and his men waited in the clearing at the mouth. They were fortunate the days were long at this time of year and they would have ample time to set camp before nightfall.

Angus and Aine spread out several plaids in front of the fire Stephen’s men had set. Patrick handed Laurie onto one of the blankets.

“Rest, lass.”

Elspeth sat on another plaid nearby. Laurie uttered a heavy sigh as she parked herself on the wool-covered ground. She took off the tight boots Elspeth lent her and rubbed her sore feet.

One of the hunters returned with a small deer and a ghillie butchered the poor thing. She’d eaten venison before, but seeing the animal cut up made her stomach roil.

Aine selected pieces of meat and placed them into a pot she hung on a spit over the fire along with turnips, carrots and some greens she’d collected from the woods. From a flask, she added ale. While the stew cooked, she used a long handled wooden spoon to give the contents an occasional stir. Laurie’s stomach gurgled when she caught a whiff of the flavorful aroma and her hunger returned.

The ghillie who’d gone to Rothesay Castle arrived, and Patrick stepped away to speak to the lad in private.

Stretching out on the plaid, Laurie dozed. She woke to Patrick’s gentle touch as he joined her on the blanket. “Here.” He handed her a flask of wine. “Quench your thirst.”

She accepted what he offered and savored the sweet taste.

Although the middle of summer, nights were chilly. She cuddled against Patrick, cradled in the comfort of his strong arms, and dozed once more. He woke her after awhile, encouraging her to eat a hearty portion of the stew and bannocks. The venison stew and the griddlecakes made from oats tasted delicious and filled her empty stomach.

Afterward, Patrick made a place for them to sleep near the fire atop a heavy plaid and wrapped a second one around them, warming her with the heat of his body.

Laurie glanced across the fire to where Elspeth cuddled against Stephen sound asleep. “Is there something between Elspeth and Stephen?” She cringed at the unintended accusation. “I mean…”

“Nae. They make use of their shared body heat. ’Tis all,” he whispered. “Elspeth is promised to another.”

Leaning back, she snuggled against his chest and fell into a contented slumber.

* * *

Sleep didn’t come easily to Patrick. Laurie’s backside nuzzled his shaft in the most pleasing way. He’d lain awake for hours, suffering the tension in his body, fighting the urge to have her right there in front of the fire in the midst of everyone. But there was no way he’d shame her in such a way.

Nor could he push her away.

The chilly night air didn’t cool his lust. The lass pressed intimately against him fired his blood through the long, long night.

One of the ghillies stayed awake through the hours of darkness, keeping the fire ablaze. Patrick thought to relieve him, but didn’t wish to give up the painful pleasure provided by the precious angel in his arms. He gritted his teeth and inhaled her intoxicating fragrance. Counted the stars in the sky. Counted his blessings.

Did he dare hope his good fortune would continue?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Laurie woke before light; she found herself wrapped in Patrick’s embrace, warm and protected. Snuggling back against him, she encountered the hard pressure of his arousal and gave a soft moan.

“Shh,” he whispered. He kissed the nape of her neck. “We will wed soon and I will make you mine. Have patience.”

He was the one who should be patient. She gulped, remembering the size of his erection. She never thought she’d be the nervous bride type. Now she knew better. Would that one unpleasant encounter during college ruin her first time with Patrick? She hoped not.

Patrick pressed light kisses along the arch of her neck, and her negative thoughts scattered. His tongue swept the lobe of her ear. She shivered.

“I wish to show you something. Stay quiet and come with me.” He helped her to her feet and they linked hands. He put a finger to his lips for silence and guided her to the mouth of the cave. An uncomfortable chill ran down her spine when he pulled her into the cavern.

Laurie pulled back, embarrassed to confess, “I’m afraid of the dark.” She hated spiders and other creepy crawlies found in dank places.

“Dinnae fret. I dinnae think less of you.”

Laurie squeezed his fingers.

“I promise nae harm will come to you.”

She believed he would always protect her. Patrick wrapped an arm around her waist and coaxed her deeper into the murky opening. She reluctantly allowed him to pull her forward. After several steps, he stopped and wrapped his arms around her in a comforting hug. He ravished her mouth in a kiss that seared her soul. Her heartbeat quickened as their tongues waltzed.

Ending the kiss, he took one step back, his breath ragged in the silence. “Lass, you tempt me.”

“It is you who tempt me.” She held onto his arms, breathless.

He leaned in close and kissed her again. A mating of lips so sweet her heart twisted. When he pulled away, she attempted to tug him back to her.

“Nae, we must return to camp.”

“I thought you had something to show me.”

“Ach, I wanted a moment alone with you. Privacy will be hard to come by on the remainder of our journey.”

She rolled onto the balls of her feet and kissed him again. His response curled her toes. Left her wanting.

“Come, ’tis time.” He dragged her forward.

Laurie reluctantly stepped with Patrick into the early light of dawn. She blinked. He moved a bit stiffly as they joined the others.

The group came to life. They broke their fast, packed up camp, and headed for the boats.

As they descended the ridge, Laurie raised her hand to shade her eyes from the bright sun. Her breath caught. The sight before her stole the air from her lungs. Cormorants flew over the water, dipping and diving, plunging into the sea in search of fish, surfacing moments later nearby. She even glimpsed a seal poking its whiskered nose out of the water for air.

“Oh, Patrick. Everything is lovely. Thank you for bringing me here.”

This was everything she wanted and more. Patrick being the more. Maybe she owed Caitrina thanks. Maybe there was such a thing as destiny.

“’Tis my pleasure, sweetling.” Patrick gazed at her with such tenderness, her eyes misted.

As they continued the descent, he held her hand firmly, ensuring she didn’t fall. They reached the beach to discover a small group of men waiting for them along with the MacLachlan warriors.

“We have company,” Stephen said from behind them.

Among the newcomers stood a finely dressed gentleman about the same age as Patrick, similarly built, but less muscular. To her mind, he looked like a peacock, his mannerisms almost feminine.

The multi-colors of his costume where anything but masculine. The tight queue holding back his black hair made his features hawk-like. His dark, calculating eyes narrowed when he caught her gaze and a chill slid along her spine.

Patrick grumbled something harsh under his breath she couldn’t make out. Must have been a Gaelic curse based on his sour expression. “I hoped to avoid this,” he whispered for only her ears and then strode forward and shook the man’s hand, signaling for Laurie and Elspeth to join him. “May I present my betrothed, Lady Laurie Bernard.”

She dipped into the curtsy she’d practiced after her first miserable attempt upon arriving at Castle Lachlan.

Patrick tucked her close to his side when she rose. “M’lady, I present Ninian Stewart, Sheriff of Bute, Keeper of Rothesay Castle and our host.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he grasped Laurie’s hand. “’Tis a pleasure to greet you.” He grazed her knuckles with cold lips before releasing her hand, though continued to study her.

“My pleasure, sir.” Her skin crawled.

“Intriguing creature, MacLachlan. I congratulate you on your good fortune.” He kept his gaze on her overlong.

The man’s regard made her uncomfortable and she glanced at Patrick.

Patrick didn’t like the way the sheriff leered at Laurie. He draped his arm about her waist, plainly staking his claim. She was his betrothed. “You ken my wee sister, Lady Elspeth,” he said, his voice tight.

Ninian seemed to take the hint and turned his attention to Elspeth.

“Good morn to you, sir,” she said as she curtsied.

“Lady Elspeth, a pleasure as always.” He kissed her extended hand. “My sister, Lady Jonet, will be disappointed she missed you.”

“Will she be at the fair?”

“Nae, lass. She is in France, visiting.”

“Our brother Archibald is in France with Alexander Campbell,” Elspeth said.

“I did not realize they were still on the Continent.”

“They are, and they sent Lady Laurie to me as a companion. Patrick fell in love with her and they are going to be wed when we return from the fair.” She smiled brightly.

Patrick ground his teeth. He wished he could silence his sister.

“So you are to wed.” Ninian’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slapped Patrick on the back. “Congratulations. Though I expected you to wed the Lamont lass.”

Extending an arm around his shoulder, he drew Patrick away from Laurie before he could retort. “Had I kenned you were traveling with such bonnie lasses, I would have insisted you stay at the castle this past eve.”

That was exactly what Patrick hoped to avoid by sleeping in the greenwood. He hadn’t wanted his future wife too near the scoundrel sheriff. He walked off to converse with Ninian, but kept his lady in sight.

“We did not wish to impose on your hospitality,” Laurie overheard Patrick say before his voice faded.

Elspeth giggled, leaned close and cupped a hand over her mouth as if to share a secret. “The old folk say Rothesay Castle is haunted by the ghost of a lady.”

“Really?”

“Aye. They say she stabbed herself after Norseman slaughtered her family, preferring death rather than submitting to a forced marriage with a barbarian.”

“Horrible story.” Laurie feigned revulsion. She’d decided to marry her barbarian.

“Aye ’tis. I heard the lady’s apparition often is seen on the stairs behind the chapel. And Jonet told me one time they found fresh blood on the stairs that couldn’t be explained.” Elspeth made a disgusted face. Then taking Laurie by the arm, she smiled broadly as if she hadn’t been talking about ghosts and blood and suicide.

They linked arms and strolled to the boats, chatting about the absurdity of the tale.

Laurie kept glancing to where Patrick and Ninian conversed. Finally, the peacock mounted his steed and trotted off with his men.

When Patrick returned to the boats, worry lines furrowed his forehead.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Naught to concern you.”

His tone set her teeth on edge. She lifted her chin. “Did I do something to displease you?”

“Nae.” He shook his head.

“Can you not share your troubles with me?”

“We still have Lamont country to pass.” He sighed. “’Tis always a worry.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze, pressed her face to his chest, listened to the even beat of his heart. He stiffened at first then hugged her in return, holding her tight before they broke apart.

Still, the morning’s events left her uneasy. Meeting Ninian made her realize she’d be required to meet more of Patrick’s contemporaries and pretend she really was from France, circa early sixteenth century. Too bad she hadn’t been an actress rather than a business consultant in her prior life.

The men quickly loaded the boats. Everyone boarded and the group pushed off from shore, the oarsmen rowing out into the Firth. They would make their way to Dunoon Castle where they planned to spend the night. Elspeth’s grandfather, Sir Robert Campbell, was in residence there, the Campbells being hereditary keepers of the royal castle.

Raising the sails, they made their way east, past the Isles of Cumbrae. Hugging the eastern shoreline of the Clyde, they managed to pass Toward Point and Lamont country without incident. They ate their mid-day meal while en route, a light meal of oatcakes and ale. The time was near to twilight when the three boats sailed west again.

Even in the dim light, the imposing shape of the stronghold perched on the rocky promontory inspired awe. They had arrived at Dunoon Castle.

Laurie held Patrick’s hand while Robert Campbell greeted them in the great hall. A gracious man of stature with graying hair and beard, he congratulated them on their betrothal and promised to attend the wedding.

The staff served a main course of freshly caught salmon from the nearby river for dinner. Afterward, Elspeth commanded her grandfather’s attention with animated anecdotes of everything that happened since her visit the previous year.

Finding it difficult to suppress her yawns, Laurie was glad to join Elspeth in a bedchamber on the second level though she would miss Patrick’s warm embrace during the chilly night. Morning arrived too quickly. After farewells, they headed to the boats. A steady drizzle fell, the kind that saturated clothing and left one feeling miserable. Laurie huddled on the bench next to Elspeth, wishing for the sun to appear.

It wasn’t to happen.

The rain still fell when they sighted their destination. Despite the wet weather, the small burgh bustled with many travelers stopping over on their way to the fair. Towering above the town—over two-hundred feet high on a massive twin-peaked hunk of volcanic rock above the River Leven where it merged with the Clyde—stood Dumbarton Castle. Unease settled on Laurie’s shoulders. The sight of the stronghold brought home the fact she was living in another time and place.

The oppressive, miserable gray day made her more susceptible to doubts. Had she made the right decision to stay in the past and marry Patrick? He must’ve noticed her agitation, for he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

“You’ll feel better after we arrive at the house I rented.”

“Of course.” She straightened her shoulders. How could she resist his gorgeous blue peepers, especially when he graced her with such a tender smile? Of course, she wanted to stay with him.

And she couldn’t wait to attend the fair.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Patrick shouted orders as the birlinns grounded on a stony beach where the boats would remain guarded by a few MacLachlan warriors until the return trip to Strathlachan

The retinue that set forth for Glasgow was large, fifty-five in all. Stephen, as captain of the Lèine-chneas, led Patrick’s elite bodyguard—his tail of fifteen proven warriors personally selected from the most trusted and loyal of MacLachlan and MacEwen men. Jamie, Duncan, the clan historian and the chief’s mouthpiece belonged to this esteemed group. Several young ghillies traveled with them. One of whom held the coveted honor of sword bearer, responsible for Patrick’s great claymore with its sparkling sapphire gemstone.

For additional safety, he brought an extra contingent of well-armed warriors, lads who were chosen for their battle skills from the buannachan—the ranks of MacLachlan professional fighting men. He planned for some of the lads to escort his steward, Lachlan, and the provisions back to the castle overland after the fair, while others would sail back in the birlinns. He wanted Laurie and Elspeth to remain safe.

A gentle rain fell throughout the day. The muddy track slowed their progress. Concern plagued him. He wanted to reach Glasgow before dark. As the day waned, he hurried them along, yelled orders up and down the line, prodded everyone to continue walking.

For a short time, he walked along side Laurie, doubting she was accustomed to walking such great distances. She must be tired and cold, yet she didn’t complain. She plodded on, making him proud. “How do you fare?”

“I’ll be fine once I find a bed to fall into.” She flicked a stray hair from her face. He would ensure her comfort when they reached their destination,

At gloaming, they neared the outskirts of the burgh. When Patrick feared Laurie would drop from exhaustion, she picked up the pace and followed the others through the darkening streets.

His people were weary and soaked to the skin when they finally reached the house Lachlan procured. Located on one of the nicer lanes, he’d hired this same lodging for the eight days of the fair for the past two years. Although the timber house was small, it met his needs. Each of the two floors consisted of three rooms, and with the additional space provided by the garret in the big barn, there was room enough for his entire party. Behind the residence, off the courtyard, several outbuildings and a cookhouse provided more space.

Lachlan greeted him when he banged on the heavy oak door. Patrick grasped Laurie’s cold hand and tugged her into the small hall where a crackling fire burned in the hearth against the far wall. His servants had prepared well. The cozy room was warm, clean and neat. Settling her on a bench before the fire he spoke briefly with Lachlan while his people settled. Stephen, Duncan and Jamie found a spot to huddle near the hearth, warming their hands and allowing their clothes to dry. Laurie stretched, moving her feet closer to the flames.

Laurie’s pale face concerned him. During a light meal, her eyes drifted shut on and off. He prayed she wouldn’t become ill from the wet or the chill of the day. When her eyelids finally closed, he gathered her in his arms and carried her up the stairs to the chamber she would share with Elspeth.

As much as he desired taking Laurie to his bed, he needed to keep up appearances. Some of the staff were not of his clan and might be prone to whispering rumors he didn’t wish spread. He didn’t want Lamont to catch wind of this betrothal.

Twining her arms around his neck, she gazed at him through sleepy eyes, filled with what he hoped was true love. Her soft, pink lips parted into the most glorious smile. His heartbeat sped and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before depositing her on the bed and escaping the chamber. He needed to put some distance between them. She enticed him beyond his control.

Patrick returned to the hall and mused on the woman upstairs. His life had changed in many ways in the short time since he’d found her. He could almost say he was happy.

Yet doubts nagged.

There was much he didn’t know about her, or understand about her sudden appearance. Too many mysteries remained yet to solve.

She had wound her way around his heart, his passion for her overwhelming. He didn’t like his blindness to all else when his blood burned with fire, thinking only of his need for her. His burgeoning desire left him vulnerable.

He remained in the hall when the others went to find their beds. Staring into the flames, he thought of his father and stepmother, and his brother Archibald. He wished Archie had returned from the Continent. Patrick was in need of his brother’s quick mind.

Stephen joined him after a short while with two goblets. “Lachlan procured a delicious French wine to serve at your wedding celebration. Might you wish to sample it?”

“Aye.”

His cousin handed him one of the goblets full of the dark ruby liquid. “For a man who is about to wed the lass of his dreams, you look a wee bit glum.”

Patrick swirled the wine in his cup, taking only a tiny sip. He raised his head to glare at Stephen. His cousin but laughed.

“Care to unburden your soul?”

“I want the lass more than I should, yet I am unsure of where she came from, or the why of it. And I dinnae ken what happened to my parents.”

“Do you believe Lady Laurie is involved in your parent’s disappearance?”

“Nae. Yet I dinnae like the meddling of the faeries. And I am yet to learn more about my stepmother’s faerie Munn warned me of. He has been silent on the matter of late. That is, beyond warning me of dire consequences if I wed Laurie.”

“Mayhap you should bed the lass and forget the wedding.” Stephen’s lips curved into a wary smile.

“I made a promise. ’Tis only right I wed her. I am the only one who can protect her.” He massaged the back of his neck.

“Well, then, I will be at your back, protecting you.”

Patrick stared at his cousin for a long moment. “For that, I thank you.”

They sat quietly, comfortable with the silence, and with each other’s company.

Stephen finished his wine and left him to his thoughts. Several long hours passed before he went to find his own bed. Sleep wouldn’t come.

Hours passed before he drifted off, only to waken with his heart pounding against his ribs, fear twisting his gut, and a scream burning his throat.

* * *

Laurie stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun shining on her face from the window. They’d arrived in Glasgow a day early. Although the bishop would proclaim the festival this evening, the fair wasn’t to begin until tomorrow.

Small as the town seemed, Elspeth assured her there were wondrous places to visit.

Stephen assembled the men, and Patrick’s tail encircled them. Laurie wasn’t used to bodyguards. Remembering an incident that happened to her in New York City, she laughed.

She’d been rushing home from the office one evening when she rounded a corner onto Fifth Avenue and collided with a famous celebrity’s personal guards, six big men surrounding the much shorter actor. One of the guys actually picked her up as if she weighed nothing and moved her to the side. She’d been insulted and furious for days.

She sized up the men who now surrounded her. They were definitely bigger and much fiercer than the actor’s bodyguards had appeared. It hadn’t been clear whether the twenty-first century guards carried concealed weapons. Her current escort did, along with large swords strapped to their backs.

They made their way up the High Street, above which towered a lofty stone spire.

“May we go to the cathedral?” she asked.

“Aye, we will go there now, if you wish, before we visit my wee brother.” Patrick placed her hand on his arm.

“Please.” Elspeth clapped her hands. “You will love the cathedral and the bishop’s house.”

Patrick chuckled. Thank goodness. Earlier he’d admitted to having a nightmare, which had left him unsettled.

Laurie loved the gothic architecture of the magnificent cathedral. It stood majestically over the burgh. They visited the nave and the choir. What she loved most was the lower church and the series of chapels. The beautiful vaulted space inspired awe. She dropped to her knees on a padded cushion and prayed, thanking God for the marvelous man standing beside her.

The grandeur of the bishop’s tower house with its high wall and fortified gatehouse was equally impressive. Finding oneself surrounded by history had a sobering effect.

Many historians and authors would sell their soul to have this experience.

* * *

After spending the morning in and around the cathedral, they strolled back down the street and stopped before a large stone building. Patrick banged upon the wooden door and waited. Laurie knew he was impatient to see how his young brother fared.

A hunched over, elderly man in black robes answered the door and directed them inside. Patrick along with Laurie and Elspeth entered the small, sparsely furnished chamber. He explained to the man the reason for their visit. The man inclined his head then left the chamber through a darkened doorway.

A few short minutes passed before a solemn man appeared. Tall and thin, with a homely face, and gnarled long fingers.

“Edward Erskine, principal regent,” Patrick said softly.

“Laird MacLachlan.” The man crossed the room with a lanky gait and shook Patrick’s outstretched hand.

“Good day, Erskine.” Patrick waved his arm to Laurie. “My betrothed, Lady Bernard, and my sister.”

“M’ladies.” The man bowed.

They curtsied in-sync. Laurie wanted to crack-up. She was finally getting the knack of the etiquette bullshit.

The two men moved away from the women and spoke in hushed tones.

Laurie scanned the room, a musty, dark and dreary chamber. The odor reminded her of some of the shops she once frequented in Paris, the establishments dealing in books of antiquity.

Elspeth leaned toward Laurie and whispered, “I cannae wait to see my brother.”

The regent left, and Patrick returned to Laurie’s side. “Master Erskine has gone to retrieve Suibhne.”

After a few minutes, Patrick’s younger brother appeared in the doorway, his head held high, proudly wearing his university scholar’s black gown. Clutched in his stiff arms was a leather bound book.

Suibhne hesitated. He seemed to brace himself before walking forward to join his family.

Laurie sympathized with the boy’s discomfort. Patrick had told her the boy was a bookworm. Suibhne preferred his studies to the manly pursuits his older brothers reveled in. She could relate. She’d always preferred reading to the uncomfortable social gatherings expected of a debutante.

Her foolish husband-to-be had assured her his brother wasn’t a lass. The lad had the ability to fight and hunt, Patrick had said. Being the son of a Highland chief, Suibhne had trained in fighting with the sword, shooting with bow and arrows, and seamanship. Yet the boy chose instead to study the arts. She suspected Patrick and his brother Archibald intimidated Suibhne. And the young man’s timid ways certainly rankled her fiancé.

Suibhne nodded to Elspeth before his eyes widened at the sight of Patrick’s arm draped around Laurie. The boy recovered quickly and awkwardly kissed his sister’s cheek. Then he turned to Patrick and greeted him with a formal bow. Patrick wasn’t so formal. He grabbed his brother, wrapped his arms around the lad, and pounded him hard on the back several times.

Red in the face, Suibhne stiffened in Patrick’s embrace, clearly embarrassed by his older brother’s display of familial affection. Patrick didn’t seem to notice the young man’s restraint. He released him and pulled her to his side. “Brother, this is the Lady Laurie Bernard, my betrothed.”

A tingling thrill rushed through Laurie when he introduced her as his betrothed. Curiosity burned in Suibhne’s blue eyes—eyes so similar to Patrick’s. Reminding her of someone else. But who? She couldn’t remember.

The boy bowed to her.

After exchanging more pleasantries, Suibhne excused himself to return to his lessons, having agreed to meet them later for the evening meal.

Patrick, Laurie and Elspeth left the university building, joined the guard waiting outside, and returned to their lodging for their mid-day meal. Afterward, Patrick requested the women spend the afternoon resting. He explained there would be much excitement over the next sennight and didn’t want them to overtire or become ill.

Laurie wasn’t so sure she liked the way he dictated her actions. What would Patrick think if she defied him and went out to explore?

* * *

During the evening meal, Patrick observed Laurie and Suibhne from his seat at the head of the table. His brother sat next to Laurie and seemed comfortable speaking with her.

“What do you study at University?” she asked.

“Robert Leslie is the regent. He instructs us in the works of Aristotle, among other subjects.”

“In Latin, I presume.”

“Aye.” Suibhne smiled. “Do you understand Latin?”

“I do.”

“I kenned you would.” His smile widened. “The university’s program covers many other fields of study—logic, rhetoric, mathematics, physics, ethics, politics, psychology and even metaphysics.” His voice rose with excitement.

“So many topics.” Laurie inclined her head to the book on the table next to Suibhne’s plate. “You must enjoy reading.”

Suibhne glanced at Patrick then lowered his eyes. “A bit too much, I fear.”

“Never too much.” She patted the book.

Hopefully, with Laurie’s encouragement, Suibhne would feel a sense of achievement. The lad was most often too reserved and lacked confidence. Especially on the field. Patrick inhaled a disappointed breath. At least, the lad excelled at his studies.

Laurie was good with his family. Patrick was well pleased yet the terror-filled dream he’d had during the night left him uneasy.

* * *

Come morning, the small group moved with the flow of people along the High Street. Laurie gawked at the other fairgoers. Some finely dressed attended by guards, while others wore no more than rags. Patrick’s lads kept the throng back, ensuring no one jostled them.

Laurie hadn’t seen crowds like this since she’d attended the San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy many years before. Years that had taken place in the twenty-first century. Now here she was, observing history, up close and personal. Goosebumps prickled her arms when she thought about her time traveling experience.

The entourage made its way along the street toward the Market Cross, the marketplace downhill from the cathedral.

If the crowds of people weren’t interesting enough, surely the colorful stalls full of all kinds of merchandise were. She tried to see everything, look in all directions at once.

Stalls and carts were set up along the course of the street. Displayed before her was every medieval item she could imagine. There were food stalls, some with baked goods, and others with produce and cheese, some with fruits, nuts and honey, and still others with spices. There were fishmongers and butchers. Even a merchant from France selling fine wines.

The calls of the merchants hawking their wares added to the chatter of the excited crowds. Patrick stopped before a cart of sweets and purchased treats for her and Elspeth.

As the candied fruit melted on Laurie’s tongue, she closed her eyes in pure ecstasy. When she opened her eyes, Patrick studied her, his eyes dark with desire. Her heartbeat quickened in response. Their marriage couldn’t come soon enough.

The MacLachlans moved on.

They passed booths containing cloth and other textiles. Stalls with leather. Others with animal skins and still others with goods made from leather. They passed booths with high quality metalwork—swords, knives and armor—while others displayed more domestic items. With so much to see, Laurie couldn’t decide where to visit first.

Elspeth stopped before a goldsmith’s booth and rummaged through the displayed goods.

“Show us your finest blue sapphires,” Patrick ordered of the smith.

The man laid a selection of gems on a black velvet cloth before him. The quality was suburb. Patrick picked up a large, clear stone and presented it to her. “Do you like this one?”

“Lovely.” The sapphire he chose was the most beautiful gem she’d ever seen.

Patrick held out his hand and she placed the stone on his palm. Then he returned it to the smith. “Make this into a betrothal ring.”

“No!” The gemstone would cost Patrick a small fortune. She’d studied enough history to know times in the Highlands had been difficult. She couldn’t allow him to squander his gold on her. “A plain gold band will be enough.”

“You refuse my gift?” A peeved expression clouded his features.

“I don’t want you to spend too much money on me.”

His features iced over, and Laurie’s stomach dropped. “We return to the house for the mid-day repast,” Patrick bellowed, ignoring her.

She couldn’t believe she pissed him off. He didn’t even bother looking at what else the smith had to offer. She bit her lip. Had he changed his mind about marrying her?

He glowered throughout the meal then stormed off after ordering her and Elspeth to stay at the house. His domineering manners were beginning to piss her off. She was tempted to go out, just to spite him. The rebellious impulse made her smile and she returned her attention to her embroidery. He’d get over his huff and so would she.

As she’d anticipated, Patrick recovered from his grouchy mood, and the remaining days of the fair were full of fun and merriment. They shopped and sampled the marvelous foods, often stopping along the way to view jugglers and tumblers or singers and dancers.

Late one afternoon, they watched a puppeteer and laughed aloud with the children. When the show ended, they walked along the thoroughfare. Laurie smiled, looking this way and that, her hand poised on Patrick’s arm.

He stiffened and stopped short, the entire entourage coming to a halt. In front of them, a group of armed warriors blocked their way.

Patrick wore a cold expression. Chills ran down her spine as she stared into the face of a fearless warrior.

“Patrick—”

“Whist!” He shoved her behind him. “’Tis Lamont.”

Stephen stepped close to Patrick’s side.

Laurie peeked from behind his broad back, peering between the two huge men. The warriors who stood before them looked more ruthless than the MacLachlans. She shuddered. Then she glimpsed the girl.

In the midst of the warriors stood a beautiful young girl, a woman-child, with hair the color of ebony, skin like fine ivory porcelain, and almond-shaped eyes, the deep blue color almost violet. She looked to be about sixteen, possibly younger, yet striking. An unwanted pang of jealousy surprised Laurie when the girl’s identity dawned on her. The infamous Isobell.

The girl was a teenager, for God’s sake.

Two men stepped forward from the group of Lamonts. The short, stout man with gray stringy hair, heavy eyebrows and a heavy beard, must be Iain Lamont. Laurie guessed the other, who stood to his right, was his henchman. The man was huge, tall and broad, cruel looking, ugly with horrible scars on his face. One scar—pink and puffy—stretched jagged from his lip to his right ear. Both men wore mean expressions.

“Ninian Stewart told the truth,” the older man shouted. “You have broken the agreement and plan to wed the outlander.” His voice dripped insult.

Laurie tensed. This was about her.

“There was never an agreement,” Patrick retorted. “And well you ken it.”

Both groups of warriors pressed forward. Patrick thrust Laurie at Duncan and Jamie grabbed hold of Elspeth. They rushed the women to the back of the guard.

“Thus you have said. Yet your father agreed to the match.” Though the MacLachlan warriors blocked Laurie’s view, she still heard Lamont’s angry voice.

“I have not seen an agreement. You cannae show me proof.” Patrick’s tone was strong and impassioned. Shoving and jostling broke out among the warriors.

“Is your father’s promise not enough?” Lamont snarled.

“Again. I say, I have nae proof. And ’tis not your business to whom I chose to wed.”

Swords were unsheathed. The clink of steel against steel rang out as Duncan and Jamie hurried Laurie and Elspeth down an alleyway toward their hired residence and safety.

“Stop.” Laurie stubbornly held onto Duncan’s arm, trying to halt him. “We can’t leave them. What if Patrick gets hurt?”

“Go!” Duncan pushed her along. “I will be the one hurt if we get caught in the fray and the chief does not find you and Lady Elspeth safe at the house when he returns.”

“I don’t want to leave him,” Laurie shouted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Pacing from one end of the hall to the other, Laurie worried her bottom lip.

“Sit,” Elspeth said. “Nae harm will come to my brother.”

Laurie stopped and frowned at her companion. “That child with the Lamont warriors, was she Isobell?”

“Aye. Though she is not a child. She is eight and ten summers.”

Laurie gaped. Catching herself, she closed her mouth. She walked away, then back. “Too young, I think, to be expected to wed Patrick.”

“I am the same age and am betrothed to Alexander.”

“Different.” Laurie waved her hand, dismissing the comparison. “You’re not to wed until your twenty-first birthday.”

“’Tis unusual and only because we must wait until Alexander receives keepership of Skipness.”

“So what of Isobell?”

“She was meant for our elder brother Donald. They were to wed when Isobell turned four and ten, but he died five summers ago. That is when her father claimed Patrick should wed her since he was next in line as our father’s heir. My brother refused, and my father agreed. Patrick went to the Continent and did not return until he received word from our father that trouble brewed. By the time Patrick returned, our parents had disappeared. Only their horses were found near the faerie knoll at Fir-wood. You have heard most of the rest of the tale.”

“Does she wish to wed Patrick?”

“That I dinnae ken. She lost her mother when she was verra young. Her father dotes upon her.” Elspeth shook her head. “She is verra spoiled and not pleasant to be with.”

Laurie contemplated that bit of information as she resumed pacing.

After what seemed like an eternity, a loud disturbance came from the street. Laurie bolted to the window to peer out.

Patrick burst into the room with Stephen on his heels. Stepping backward until she hit the table, she rushed her gaze over both men. They appeared to be fine, only a few cuts and bruises.

Patrick barked out orders, sending Aine scurrying out to the barn to care for a couple of men who’d been injured. Angus came in from the back and handed Patrick a mug of ale, which he accepted. Their gazes met over the lip of the mug.

Patrick took a long pull of ale. Laurie stood with her back against the table, watching him, her soft, blue eyes filled with concern, her lips plump and inviting. Battle lust rode him hard. He strode to her and slammed the mug down beside her, splashing liquid on the table. Hauling her into a bear hug of an embrace, his lips claimed hers, hard and rough until he tasted her sweetness, and softened the kiss.

Wild with his yearning for her, he wanted to throw her across the table, toss up her skirt, bury his shaft within her, and end his torment.

He inhaled a deep breath. Although he craved her beyond all reason, he wouldn’t shame her. He ended the kiss.

She stiffened in his arms and looked away. “Maybe we shouldn’t wed.”

“Why?” With a growl, he released her and strode across the chamber, keeping his back to her. Anger clawed the walls of his stomach. He didn’t want her to see his snarling grimace.

“I don’t want to be the reason your men are injured fighting with Lamont warriors.”

He spun and faced her. “We will wed as planned.” He’d accept no argument. Without another word, he left the house with Stephen chasing after him.

The flicker of defiance he’d seen in Laurie’s eyes bothered him for the remainder of the day. He’d need to smother that spark. Then he’d soften her resentment with a special surprise.

* * *

The next day, Laurie waved goodbye to Patrick.

He strode away with several of his men to trade for cattle and horses. Elspeth left earlier, having talked Jamie into taking her to a merchant stall where she’d seen some pretty hair ribbons. Laurie was stuck in the little house alone.

She fanned herself. The hall was stifling. Patrick told her not to leave the house, but surely, he wouldn’t mind if she got a bit of fresh air. In the courtyard, she found little in the way of relief, the air muggy and still. The stench of rotting garbage making her want to cover her nose and mouth. The burgh smelled worse than the castle.

Duncan stood near the barn conversing with some of the other men. None of them paid any notice when she crossed the courtyard and rounded the side of the house, slipped down the alley and into the street, hoping to find a sweet breeze.

Strolling along the narrow way, heading toward the water, Laurie hummed, glad to be free of the confines of the house. Though after a short distance, the hair on the back of her neck tingled. She glanced around.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The street was quiet with most of the residents still attending the fair. Ignoring her apprehension as foolish, she walked farther. Around the corner, the air should be fresher.

Without warning, an arm wrapped around her waist from behind while a dirty hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her scream. Her hair fell from its knot into her face, blinding her. The attacker dragged her from the street into the shadows of a narrow, dark alley.

Her breath left her lungs when he slammed her hard against a stone wall. Adrenaline and fear raced through her veins. Fighting her assailant, she tugged on the dark hood covering his face, but it held in place. She scratched him. Kicked.

He used his massive body to press her hard against the wall where he grabbed her arms and held them over her head in one of his large hands. “You are a wild one.” His foul breath burned her nostrils. “I will enjoy taming you.”

Laurie screamed until his wet mouth crushed hers, silencing her. She tried to break the contact. His teeth bit into her flesh. Pain sent her into a frenzy. She bucked. Tried to throw him off.

Heavy footfalls came from the street, people running. A battle cry pierced her ears.

Her attacker abruptly dropped her to the ground and disappeared into the shadows. She pushed the hair from her eyes. Patrick ran toward her, sword in hand, his face contorted in a snarl.

Patrick’s heart slammed against his ribs and his blood raged. Laurie huddled on the ground, her beautiful blue gown gaping open to the waist. Dirt streaked her face. He picked her up and held her against his chest. His fear and anger combined, simmered just below the surface. He couldn’t remember having been this frightened or this furious.

Some of his men ran farther along the alley, searching for the attacker, but returned empty handed.

“Who did this?” he demanded. “Who attacked you?” His voice sounded harsh from the terror in his gut.

Laurie hung like a child’s rag doll, limp in his arms.

He shook her. “Answer me!”

Her head fell back. She stared at him through moisture-filled eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Was it one of Lamont’s men? One of those we met in the street yestereve?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face. He was big and strong. That’s all I could discern.”

“Why were you in the streets alone?”

“I wanted fresh air.”

She tucked her face into the folds of his leine. He held her gently as he carried her to the house, but his chest remained tight. Although he didn’t want to, he’d have to punish her for disobeying him.

“Foolish lass! Had I not forgotten my pouch and returned…”

He didn’t want to think about what could have happened. She needed to learn his word must be obeyed.

* * *

Later that night, Laurie entered the hall and gingerly sat on the edge of a bench, refusing to look at Patrick. He sat in the large ornate chair at the head of the table all superior-like as if he were the CEO of a large corporation above reproach. She tapped her foot on the floor, livid, enraged with anger and humiliation she barely contained. He not only scolded her when they returned to the house, he put her over his knees and spanked her. Her backside still smarted from his not so tender lesson.

He’d called her a stubborn wench when after one smack she refused to beg his forgiveness. As if, she forced him to hit her. When she finally gave in and screamed at him to stop, he made her promise to never again go anywhere without an escort.

How could I have thought I wanted to marry him? Forgotten he was a barbarian?

She raised her chin. Her pride stung. He treated her like a disobedient child. She wasn’t used to being manhandled. Her uncle never once spanked her as a child.

Patrick’s abuse outraged her. She deserved a scolding. Nothing more. When they returned to Castle Lachlan, she would try again to return home.

“Lass, I did not want to hurt you.” He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “How else am I to make you understand the risks you take?”

Laurie glanced at the others in the room to make sure no one listened. “A simple lecture would have been sufficient.” She glared at him, daring him to disagree.

Before he could respond, the others joined them at the table and the evening meal was served.

Apparently, he wasn’t only angry with her. He gave Duncan a pointed look and the poor man lowered his head, his ears turning bright red. What punishment had he received? The festival-goers probably heard Patrick’s bellows earlier when he yelled at Duncan for allowing her to leave the house unguarded. She’d be lucky if in the future she could use the loo without Duncan following her in.

She toyed with the food on her trencher unable to eat. She didn’t feel like participating in the lively conversations around her. Patrick watched her with an unfathomable intensity that served to piss her off more.

Working herself into a fine tizzy, she wanted to hit something—someone. Patrick. “Excuse me. I’m not feeling well.” She stood.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. She glared at him, hurried to her chamber and threw herself onto the bed, pounding her fists in frustration. She threw a pillow at the wall. God, she hated him.

In the bright light of morning, things appeared different, became clearer. He was partly right. She’d made a judgment error. She never should have left the safety of the house and grounds on her own. Not being used to such restrictions, she hadn’t thought it through. Hadn’t thought taking a walk a big deal.

She’d been wrong. Patrick was a barbarian. But she loved the darn barbarian.

He’d only done what he thought necessary to make her understand. His customs were different from those of the twenty-first century. His only wish to keep her safe.

Oh, but she’d find a way to make him pay for the brutal treatment. She’d teach him that although his motives were pure his methods needed adjusting.

She wanted him to prove he could be gentle. That he wasn’t a brute. She wanted to believe their marriage would be full of unconditional love and mutual understanding.

Until then, she would devise a way to make him suffer.

* * *

On the morning they were to leave Glasgow, Patrick personally saw to the loading of the packhorses. He sent Lachlan on his way with the cattle and horses, well-guarded by a heavily armed escort. Then he gathered the rest of his entourage and they left the burgh for Dumbarton and home.

The return trip was, for the most part, uneventful, yet progressed slower with fewer men to operate the oars. They spent three nights sleeping in the greenwood, avoiding the sheriff of Bute’s land. The first night passed in an oak wood near Greenock, the second at the edge of a secluded bay on the small isle of Cumbrae and finally the last night near Tarbert Castle. Once again, they managed to sail past Lamont country without challenge.

A deep chasm developed between he and Laurie while they sailed from Dumbarton. She remained sullen and uncommunicative, still harboring ill feelings over what she believed to be his heavy-handed treatment of her. The silence between them became unbearable.

He left her to sleep alone the first two nights.

On the last night, he lay behind her and despite her chilly reception pulled her back against his chest. She stiffened.

“You must get over this huff of yours and forgive me. I merely did what I had to do to make you see your folly.” Patrick kissed the nape of her neck. She shivered and melted against him. Pulling her closer, he molded her to his hard body and tenderly held her.

“I haven’t forgiven you.”

“I ken, but you must.”

Several tense minutes passed, and Patrick didn’t believe Laurie would respond. He shut his eyes and counted backward from one hundred.

The previous two nights, Laurie had been cold and miserable and lonely. She missed Patrick’s embrace. She couldn’t hold on to her anger. “You could’ve just given me a lecture, you know,” she said.

By his even breathing, she knew she wouldn’t get a response so she elbowed him.

“What?”

“I want you to promise you’ll never hit me again.”

“I cannae. If you refuse to follow my dictates, I will be forced to punish you.”

“In my time, we’ve learned hitting doesn’t change behavior. It only increases hostility.”

He sighed so heavily she felt his breath on her neck. “You dinnae understand the dangers.”

“And you don’t trust me,” she accused.

He held her and was quiet for a long time.

When she’d given up on him, he responded, “I will agree to try to have words with you only. But you must promise to never wander off alone again.”

Maybe he could be taught. Laurie crossed her fingers. “I promise.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I forgive you.”

“Good.” His lips moved against her neck. She felt his grin as she relaxed against him.

* * *

Afternoon sunshine brightened the stone of Castle Lachlan as the oarsman brought them closer to shore. Laurie shifted restlessly on her seat, eager to be home.

Home. Castle Lachlan had really become her home.

Dhughall, who’d been left in charge of the castle while they were gone, hurried to greet them as they beached. Patrick jumped over the side and onto shore. The two men walked away to confer, their heads close together.

Laurie’s gaze followed Patrick. A deep frown burrowed into his face. Whatever news Dhughall reported must be bad.

The birlinn swayed and Duncan offered his hand, assisting her from the boat. The ground seemed to waver under her feet and he held her arm until she gained balance. Then she waited for Elspeth to join her.

“’Tis good to be home,” the young woman said.

“Oh, yeah.” Laurie rolled her neck.

Then Patrick distracted her with an obscene gesture.

“What has my brother in a lather?”

“I’m not sure. But it must be bad.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked when he returned to escort her to the castle.

“’Tis naught.” He held his jaw tight.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“’Tis nothing.” A forced smile curled his lips. “Shall we go?”

She knew the lie for what it was. Something was terribly wrong.

Patrick placed her hand on his arm and escorted her toward the castle.

She couldn’t understand why he refused to share his troubles. Without trust, their marriage was doomed. Should she reconsider staying?

“I wish a moment to myself. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a walk on the beach and get my land legs back.”

“Duncan will join you.”

“Of course.”

As she strolled near the water’s edge, she remembered the night she traveled through time. A full moon had glowed over the garden gate. Had Caitrina not pushed her, Laurie would have moved through the gate drawn by the glimmering moonlight. A revelation caught her by surprise—the moon. She knew how the magic worked; she felt the rightness of it in every fiber of her being. Should she try the faerie knoll again or talk some sense into her stupid man?

A glorious sunset glimmered over the mauve-colored hills. She walked along the pebbly beach, gazing across the loch, marveling at such beauty. As the last trace of vermillion faded from sight, she wrapped her arms around her chest and made a decision. She would stay and work things out with Patrick. She would teach him how to confide in her. How to give her his trust.

She dragged her gaze over the water, one last time, ready to return to the castle. The silhouette of a galley approached from the west.

Warning horns sounded from the watchtower.

Before she moved, Duncan ran to her from where he’d been standing at the edge of the beach, grabbed her hand and dragged her at a run toward the castle gate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tir-nan-óg

Most of Caitrina’s endless life, she performed impossibly difficult tasks at the dictate of the faerie queen with the hope of regaining her royal status. To once again live and play amongst the other faeries in paradise, in Tir-nan-óg, was her heart’s greatest desire.

Dammit, she’d been so close with Laurie and the MacLachlan.

Once they mated, she could move on to the second match of the queen’s three-match challenge. Then the third. Too bad Oonagh interfered.

Caitrina skimmed a hand along the length of a rich velvet curtain. Here she was, ensconced in luxury at the palace within Tir-nan-óg, on the whim of the queen.

But as a prisoner.

At least she was alone. Oonagh had left the palace to meet her consort for merrymaking at a distant faerie pageant. Had the queen not realized Caitrina would plot escape?

Caitrina paced the confines of the chamber, indifferent to its splendor. Lost in thought, she stopped before a crystal table and ran her fingers through the collection of sapphires displayed in a cut glass bowl. Outside, on the veranda, one of Oonagh’s boy toys strutted across the tile to the pool—nude—and dove in. He emerged to his waist a few steps from Caitrina, wet muscles on his packed chest glistening in golden sunlight. Her mind whirled furiously and she settled on a cunning plan.

With a thought, she changed her glamour to that of a veiled harem girl and stepped from the queen’s boudoir, through the curtains, onto the warm tile. She smiled with her eyes to entice the lesser faerie. She wouldn’t think of Douglas while she seduced her prey.

“Gabriel,” she purred.

Desire flashed in her quarry’s green eyes and with feline grace, he leapt from the water. She read his intention to dry himself with a thought and shook her head.

“I like you wet.” Her tone was a husky come-hither invitation.

Gabriel didn’t disappoint. His cock grew into a splendid erection.

Caitrina hesitated. How could she betray Douglas? She had to. Besides, they didn’t really have a relationship. He only thought so because he was human. She needed to use Gabriel and one of his woman to escape.

Before she lost her nerve, she swung her hips in an erotic belly dance, ripping the gauzy, lavender strips of her gossamer garments one by, ever so slowly, one. When the last piece of fabric fell, Gabriel reeled her into his body, lifted her, and carried her to the poolside, chaise lounge.

When his fingers caressed her inner thigh, she pretended he was Douglas.

She couldn’t do this. She stayed his hand.

“Perhaps we could enjoy a threesome.” Caitrina placed a persuasion spell on the words.

His eyes flared. “I will summon Briganna.”

The beautiful lesser faerie, trained to sexually please, appeared beside Gabriel and they both joined Caitrina on the wide chase. With a kiss to each of their lips, Caitrina planted a sleep spell and slipped from the palace using Briganna’s glamour. As much as she wanted to stay in Tir-nan-óg, she couldn’t.

She needed to complete the match quickly, before the queen became aware of her escape. It was essential for Caitrina to find and silence that meddling MacLachlan brownie. Stop him before he exerted more harm.

Cloaked in Scottish glamour, she stilled her mind and sought Munn. She inhaled a deep breath, seeking composure, and sent her feelings into the mortal realm. Where would be the most likely place to find Munn?

When she sensed his whereabouts, she dissolved into tiny particles, moving through the gray mist unseen, through the veil of time and space.

She swept into the MacLachlan stables on the lightest of breezes and slowly coalesced into solid form, appearing in the loft. She found Munn there, perched in the rafters, watching the young lads groom Patrick’s favorite horse.

Munn faced her. He stuttered, his ramblings becoming nonsensical, on and on he blathered, accusing her of every imaginable heinous misdeed.

“Whist, wee man. You shall not reveal anything to anyone.”

The queen wasn’t here to protect him. He spun, ready to escape, but wasn’t fast enough. Caitirna raised her arms over her head in an arc and seized his voice.

Munn attempted to speak. Nothing passed his lips.

No words. No sound.

No anything. His voice was gone.

Caitrina grinned then vanished, heading through time to the future.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Patrick couldn’t believe the audacity of the Lamont. To have an unfriendly galley anchored in his bay. To have Lamont and his men at his gates demanding entry—requesting hospitality—the possible significance greatly troubled him.

His uncle, who had taken up residence in the castle while Patrick was in Glasgow, compounded his unease. The man claimed to have reconsidered his outburst during the council meeting prior to the raid and now spouted the need for unity. Could the union be not of the family but that of his uncle with the Lamont?

Pondering his next move, Patrick slammed his fist on the worktable. He glanced at Stephen and met his cousin’s worried gaze. “Meet Lamont and offer our hospitality in my name. Have Dhughall see to Lamont’s lads and make sure our men watch them. After Lamont has refreshed himself, bring him to my private chamber.”

“We could bar the gates.” Stephen’s lips formed a grim line.

“Aye, if only I could. I will not risk war. Offer our hospitality. But keep your weapons at the ready.”

Stephen left him to his troubled thoughts. Patrick walked to a window and peered out. Rubbing his forehead with a tense hand, he tried to relieve the pressure building there.

What are the wily old rascals about?

* * *

A tapping sound startled Elspeth when Munn appeared in her solar. He danced around the chamber, whirling in circles at a dizzying pace. In the glow of the candles, his shadow spun on the walls.

“Where have you been, my wee man? I have missed you.”

Munn made frantic motions with his arms, silently imploring her with stark eyes, gesturing for her to follow him.

“What game is this?” she asked. “Do tell.”

He remained mute, continuing to gesture, beckoning her to come with him.

“If I must, I will come. But I dinnae ken what you are about.” She laughed at his antics.

Taking the lantern from atop a chest, she lit the wick and followed him through the castle.

No one else seemed to notice Munn as she followed him. She suspected he used a cloaking glamour to hide from the others’ view.

What could he possibly be up to?

He made his way down the stairs and through the courtyard and out the gate. Munn paused in front of one of the larger planting beds. The one herb bed that was special, almost sacred, to Elspeth. Her mother planted it several years prior, before she disappeared with Elspeth’s father. Munn dug in the soil with his hands.

Elspeth knelt beside him, holding the lantern to see what he was doing.

“Stop! You mustn’t dig here. My lady-mother planted these herbs,” she scolded, annoyed by his disregard for the precious little plants he uprooted in his haste.

He ignored her and continued to dig, breathing heavy as he did so. He tugged at something, putting a considerable amount of exertion into the effort, and then fell backward across the path onto his arse, landing in a patch of strawberries.

Elspeth’s annoyance turned into delight. Munn held an intricately carved box. “What is this?” she asked, reaching for the small wooden chest. “What did you find?”

The wee man leapt away, shaking his head. He shoved a stubby hand into the pouch hanging from his belt and retrieved a tiny brass key, which he handed to her.

She wrinkled her brow.

His gaze darted around the garden then with relaxed shoulders, he returned his attention to Elspeth and handed over the box. Before she could question him further, he disappeared into the fine mist that shrouded the garden, leaving her puzzled.

What is inside that made the brownie act so strange? She examined the box then inserted the key into the small lock and twisted it. The lock fell open. She lifted the lid and gasped in shock.

Elspeth sat next to the herb bed heedless of her fine gown. She rummaged through the contents of the box. After examining everything, she replaced the lock with unsteady hands and turned the key, once again locking away the dreadful contents.

She stood and slowly walked out of the garden. Then she ran to the castle to find her brother.

Elspeth found him in his study. She hated being the one to bring the mysterious box’s contents to his attention. She could only imagine the possible consequences. Holding the chest tightly to her breast, she took a deep breath and rapped lightly on the door.

He bid her enter.

She hesitated, gathering her courage, trying to smooth her expression. Then she walked into the chamber, stopping inside the door. “Patrick.”

“What is it, Beth?” He glanced up from where he sat at his worktable.

She walked across the room to stand next to him. Their eyes met, and he seemed to sense her apprehension.

He glanced at the box in her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Why so mysterious, lass?”

She held the carved box out to him.

“What is this?” He took both the chest and the key from her, placed them on the table, and waited for an explanation.

Patrick stared at the box with a sense of foreboding.

“I found this buried in mother’s herb garden. Munn showed it to me.” She twisted her fingers in the fabric of her skirt.

Placing the small key into the lock, he twisted it. The lock easily fell open. He raised the lid. Documents. Jewels. Coins.

“What is this? Where did it come from?” He thumbed through the papers then raised his gaze to his sister, desperate for her to deny his fear.

She sighed. “Da’s papers. Your betrothal agreement is among them.”

He shuffled through the pages, searching for that all-important one. Finding the document bearing his father’s signature and seal, he narrowed his eyes. He wanted to deny what he saw. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. His father wouldn’t have signed an agreement without first discussing the consequences with him.

Patrick swallowed hard. He’d been away for a long time, only returning after his parents’ disappearance. Still, his father wouldn’t have been this calculating or this manipulative or this devious.

Patrick continued to stare at the parchment in disbelief. His chest burned. “Please leave me. I need to consider this,” he said in a voice rough with emotion.

Elspeth gave him a tremulous smile and left him alone.

He paced the floor, unable to believe the unwelcome turn of events. He returned to the worktable and picked up the condemning paper. Holding the document in unsteady hands, he glared at the offensive sheet.

“Patrick!”

He startled and shot an angry glower at his uncle. How dare the man intrude on his privacy, barging into the chamber without knocking?

Donald glanced from Patrick’s face to the parchment in his hand. “What have you there?” He grabbed the document. “You have found the agreement. Now you ken your duty. You will wed Isobell Lamont. Give up this notion of yours to wed the outlander.” His voice rose, charged with excitement.

Commotion outside the door caused Patrick to pivot and stare. Lamont pushed past a startled Duncan, Maclay with him, and burst into the chamber. Lamont gloated, his lips curved in a victorious grin. “You have found the agreement, have you?”

Patrick smoothed his features and impassively gazed at the man. “Aye. The agreement, if ’tis real, has been found.”

“He kens his duty.” Donald handed the document to Lamont. “Sit. ’Tis time to discuss the final terms of this betrothal.” He smiled broadly.

Duncan and Stephen stood outside the door, mouths agape, knives in hand, ready for a fight. Patrick inclined his head, and Duncan closed his mouth and the door. He would remain outside with the somber Stephen to stand guard while awaiting Patrick’s next command. At least he knew he could trust his men.

Patrick didn’t dare show a hint of weakness. He forced his expression to remain blank though he seethed on the inside, and turned to his guests. “Please sit and find comfort.”

The three other men sat.

“Sit, lad,” Donald said, his voice laced with triumph.

“I prefer to stand.” Patrick loomed over his uncle, hoping to make the man uncomfortable.

Donald remained unfazed and addressed the financial details. Patrick grunted at the appropriate times but refused to actively participate.

Trapped. His mind whirled. There must be a way out of this mess. He should refuse to uphold the agreement.

Nae. He couldn’t dishonor his father’s wishes. If in fact, it was his father’s signature on the document. How could it be? Ach! He couldn’t risk war. He didn’t want any more of the clan’s deaths on his conscience.

Deep in thought, he barely caught the insanity Lamont spewed.

“Repeat that,” Patrick demanded.

“Malcolm has graciously offered to take the outlander whore off your hands and forget the affronts you’ve inflicted upon him. He is even willing to marry the wench.”

“Over my dead body!”

“That can be arranged.” Malcolm lunged from his seat.

Lamont grabbed Malcolm, and Donald caught Patrick in a bear hug from behind. Lamont cleared his throat. “We’ll leave you to consider our proposal.”

“Release me.” Patrick struggled against his uncle’s hold.

“Take control of yourself, lad,” Donald whispered near his ear before easing his grip.

Patrick shrugged from his hold and opened the door. Duncan and Stephen jerked to attention from where they leaned against the wall. “Are you in need?”

“See to the comfort of our guests.” Patrick kept his voice even, but anger clawed at his insides.

“Aye, chief.” Duncan shared a sharp look with Stephen. His men knew what to do. They’d escort Lamont and his henchman to a bedchamber on the upper floor and keep a keen eye on both men for the remainder of their stay at Castle Lachlan.

Lamont pushed Maclay past Patrick and into the passageway.

Patrick turned his scowl on his uncle as soon as the other two men were gone. “You could not leave it alone, could you, old man? You had to forge this agreement.”

Not offended in the least, his uncle shrugged. He brushed a piece of lint from his plaide.

“You cannae prove ’tis not real.” Donald stepped toward the door and paused, his face split by a smile of victory. “You can believe what you wish, but you cannae prove the document false.”

Patrick slumped into the nearest chair as soon as his uncle left. Being forced into the marriage with Isobell made him impotent. He rubbed an ache near his heart. They’d successfully maneuvered him into an impossible position. He had no choice but to acquiesce to Lamont’s demands.

However, he refused, in no uncertain terms, to the proposed betrothal between Laurie and Malcolm Maclay. That bastard sat through the entire negotiations, watching Patrick with a smug expression on his repulsive, scarred face. The man’s audacity made Patrick’s temper boil.

Saint Columba help him, he wouldn’t allow Laurie to wed Maclay. He’d never agree to such a match for the woman he wanted for his own. The thought of her with another man was more than he could bear.

And the thought of her with Maclay sickened him.

He’d go to her. Explain things. Persuade her to stay and be his mistress. She’d have to understand. He’d make her understand it was the only way for him to protect her.

With the agreement in hand, he left the study. His pace was slow as he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. He dreaded telling Laurie he was to break his pledge. His honor was offended, as was his heart.

When he arrived, he found the door ajar.

* * *

Duncan stood guard outside Elspeth’s solar, a short way from the suite of rooms Lamont and Maclay shared. Stephen was in position in an alcove near the stairs.

As Duncan expected, it wasn’t long before the suite door opened and Maclay stepped out into the passageway. He glanced in both directions. Seeing Duncan, he grinned. Then he turned the other way and headed for the stairs.

Duncan fell in behind him. “Maclay. Where are you off to?”

Maclay stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Taking in Duncan’s threatening pose, he stiffened and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “My chief wishes to send a messenger to fetch the Lady Isobell and her guard. I go to see to it.” He tilted his head toward the door he’d come from. “Or are we prisoners in that chamber?”

“Nae. You enjoy the hospitality of the MacLachlan Chief.” Duncan didn’t try to hide his contempt.

“Then I will continue on my way. I am sure MacLachlan would want his future bride secured within his keep.” He laughed and walked along the corridor. He stopped short when Stephen stepped from the alcove in front of him.

“MacEwen.” Maclay inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Maclay,” Stephen returned.

They faced off. Stephen raised a brow, smiled crookedly, and stepped back, allowing Maclay to pass.

The cur briskly brushed by and hurried down the stairs. Duncan followed and gave Stephen a nod as he passed. He and Stephen agreed earlier that Stephen would keep watch on Lamont and Duncan would track Maclay should the need arise.

The great hall was crowded and noisy with the addition of the Lamont lads. Maclay made his way through the crush of warriors to a table where some of his men drank ale.

Duncan sidestepped a serving maid.

Donald MacLachlan, along with some of his drunken lads, waylaid him. “Where you off to, lad?”

Duncan tried to brush past.

“Here, here, dinnae run off,” Donald said. “Have a tankard of ale with us. We celebrate my nephew’s upcoming nuptials.”

One of the warriors handed Duncan a tankard and shoved him into the center of the group. Declining would be interpreted as an act of disrespect to his chief.

He drank several toasts while trying to keep track of Maclay.

By the time Duncan pulled free of the merrymakers, Maclay slipped out of view. Duncan searched the hall. Maclay was gone.

* * *

Sunlight from the un-shuttered window touched Laurie yet didn’t warm her. She’d fled to Patrick’s bedchamber earlier, after Lamont and his men gained entrance to the castle. Patrick thought it best, fearing for her safety. They never learned who attacked her in Glasgow.

Lamont’s men were suspect.

She shivered and glanced up from her needlework. Patrick stood in the open doorway, his expression grim. Her insides twisted. Something must be wrong.

He moved swiftly across the room to kneel at her feet. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he laid his head on her lap.

“What is it? Whatever is the matter?” She stroked his thick hair, loving the silky feel of the chestnut strands as they slipped through her fingers.

He raised his head to gaze at her through darkened eyes, a forlorn expression on his features. “I have come from a council with Iain Lamont and my Uncle Donald. A betrothal agreement between my father and Lamont has been found. I dinnae believe ’tis my da’s signature, yet his seal is on the document.”

She tensed. “What are you saying?’

“They are forcing me to wed Isobell and break my promise to you.”

Laurie swallowed uneasily, a multitude of unpleasant emotions rushing through her.

Patrick stood and paced across the chamber then faced her. “I ken my duty, but I cannae give you up. I came here to tell you and beg you stay as my mistress, but I cannae bear burdening you as such. I cannae marry Isobell.”

“I…” She didn’t know what to say.

“Pack some things. We leave. We shall sneak away and wed. Then ’twill be too late for them to stop us.”

Laurie bit her lip. An awkward silence made time seem to stand still. Finally, she shook her head. “I won’t be the cause of a war or permit you to dishonor yourself. I can’t allow you to marry me and risk the welfare of your clan. You must agree to the terms of the betrothal agreement with Iain Lamont. You’ll have to marry his daughter, Isobell. Not me.” Her voice cracked. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to shed them.

Patrick came to kneel before her again. He gazed at her with the saddest expression she’d ever seen. She hated the anguish in his gorgeous blue eyes. It matched the ache in her heart.

“It’s for the best,” she lied. “I don’t belong here. I’ll return to the future.”

“Nae, you must not.”

She needed to convince him.

She loved him. She must protect him.

“I believe I’ve guessed the secret to the time travel gateway. I think it has something to do with the phases of the moon. On the night I traveled here, a full moon glowed overhead. I believe if I’m on the faerie knoll on the full moon, I’ll go forward in time.”

“I will not allow you to take such a risk.” Patrick gave her upper arms a quick squeeze.

“There’s to be a full moon tomorrow night. I must go to the Fir-wood and try to return to my own time.” She wiped a single teardrop from her cheek with the back of her hand. “And you must wed Isobell.”

“I cannae let you go.” Moisture glistened in his eyes and his voice strained. “I beg you to stay with me and be my mistress. I vow to be good to you, to ensure you want for naught.” His lips curved as he tried to smile with little success. “You once offered to be my mistress.”

“I was wrong when I made the offer. I could never be any man’s mistress, especially not yours.”

Patrick’s eyes widened, as if she’d slapped him.

“Please understand. It would kill me to watch you with Isobell, knowing she was the mother of your children. That I was nothing more than your whore. Besides, it’s a sin.”

She gently placed her hand on his cheek. He didn’t pull away. He just stared at her. As if he tried to see into the core of her being.

Laurie inhaled his masculine pine scent. She closed her eyes, making a memory. The way he felt in her arms and the taste of his kiss. The midnight blue of his eyes and his smile and the alluring cleft in his chin. She opened her eyes again and gazed into the depths of his. If she continued along this path, she’d be lost.

She glanced away and mentally shook herself. “Don’t misunderstand. I shall always love you. But I need to go home to my own time and place, to the world that I understand. Where I’m safe.”

“Nae. Please, dinnae leave me. I’ll be the man you want me to be.”

She placed a finger against his lips to silence him. “Then marry Isobell.”

Patrick pulled away. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, getting them caught in snarls. Ripping them free, he said, “My mind understands your logic, but not my heart. Is there nary a way I can persuade you to stay by my side?”

Laurie shook her head again. “I must go. Please, have Duncan take me to the Fir-wood tomorrow evening.”

Patrick stood and once again strode across the chamber, stopping at the window to stare out. “I cannae allow it,” he said, his voice firm. “’Tis too dangerous. Faerie magic can be perilous. You dinnae ken where you would find yourself. There would be nary a soul to protect you.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if he reined in his emotions. When he faced her again, his features hardened.

What would be the best argument? Getting to the Fir-wood would be a hell of a lot easier with Patrick’s help.

“There is another solution, little I like it. I will find you a husband and see that you are well cared for. Someone I can trust to be good to you.”

Laurie felt like she’d been gut punched. He wanted to find her a husband? Her shock morphed into red-hot anger. “How dare you?”

“I dare much, as you ken.” Patrick strode from the room, his hands in tight fists.

“Get back here,” Laurie called after him. “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”

No way in hell was she wedding someone chosen by Patrick MacLachlan. She threw her needlework across the room. Damn the man.

If she couldn’t have Patrick then she was going home.

Laurie jumped from her chair and ran into the passageway after him, but he was gone. She stormed through the corridor toward the east wing, talking to herself. “How dare he, the arrogant jerk.”

Someone roughly grabbed her from behind and slapped a filthy hand over her mouth. Not again. Her spine tingled with fear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Patrick made his way to his private chamber, feeling as if he carried a heavy rock within his chest. He found it difficult to breath. How would he give Laurie to another man?

Jamie waited by the door with a lad whose garments still carried the dust of travel. “This is Peter. The Glasgow goldsmith sent him.”

“Have you my wee jewels?” Patrick asked, no longer caring.

“Aye.” The lad patted the large purse he wore at his waist and followed Patrick into the chamber while Jamie remained outside the door to stand guard.

Patrick sat at his worktable. Peter placed two small leather pouches on the table before him. Picking up the first pouch, Patrick tugged on the strings and dropped the cloth-covered contents onto the surface. He unraveled the soft linen with hands that trembled much more than he’d have liked. He inhaled sharply and hardened his heart for what was to come.

Patrick smoothed the cloth on the table. The beautiful sapphire ring sat in the center, glistening in the flickering candlelight. He held his breath.

The betrothal token would have been lovely on Laurie’s dainty finger.

With a sigh, he reached for the second pouch, opened it slowly, and removed its cloth-wrapped contents. He placed the small package on the table and pushed aside the cloth. Picking up the delicate piece of jewelry, he reverently held it in the palm of his large work-hardened hand. A pain like none he’d ever experienced tightened his chest as his heart splintered into tiny pieces.

“Thank your master for sending these. They are exquisite,” he said, the words thick in his throat. He rewrapped the piece in its cloth and placed it in the pouch. Then he reached for the purse at his belt, removed a sum of coins and handed them to the messenger.

“Jamie,” Patrick yelled. “Take the lad to the kitchen for a meal before you send him on his way.” Dismissing the two men from his thoughts, he fingered the ring. Patrick dreaded the day he’d place Laurie’s ring on the finger of cold Isobell.

“How could Elspeth have been wrong?” he demanded of the silence.

* * *

Donald lay on the floor atop the young woman’s crumpled clothing, hidden behind the storage barrels cluttering the room. Dim light from a small window above allowed him to watch her at her labors. Blood rushed through his veins and throbbed in his cock.

Pressure built. He thrust, his hands pressed against the back of her head. She took him deeper. Good. The whore was good, very good. He rode the crest of release.

His heart thundered. His blood raged. He shot his seed with an explosion of intense pleasure.

Pushing her away, he grinned with satisfaction. She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She smiled seductively. Believed she held him by the balls. She was naught but a pawn.

The door burst open, banging heavily against the wall.

Donald grabbed the whore and hauled her back against him. He slapped his hand over her mouth, warning her to silence.

* * *

Laurie was dragged into the semi-darkness of a storage room. She clawed at the large hand clamped over her mouth, but was quickly subdued when he used his body to force her roughly against the wall. Not again. Oh God, not again.

It was the same man. She knew it instinctively. She tried to fight him, the attempt futile. His weight pressed hard against her, the ridge of his sex stabbing at her belly.

She gasped at the cold steel blade skimming her face.

“I will scar your tender cheek. Make it look like mine if you struggle or make a sound,” he said in a low, harsh voice.

Blinking, she went perfectly still. She recognized her captor, his ugly face close to hers in the dim light provided by the small window high on the back wall.

She nodded several times.

“Wise lass, you are.” The knife disappeared.

Her breath came in and out, hard and fast, her heart beating furiously against her chest. Yet she remained perfectly still. A cold chill ran down her spine and bile burned her throat.

He pulled her peasant blouse down over her shoulders exposing her breasts, barely hidden beneath the thin linen of her chemise. He stared at her in the dim light, pressing against her. Her terror thrilled the bastard. His twisted smile depicted pure evil.

She cringed. Though it might be foolish and even dangerous to try to stop him, her mind raced. How could she escape without getting cut?

She inhaled a deep breath, trying to take a firm hold on her fear.

He cupped a large rough hand over one of her breasts, squeezing it painfully as he took her mouth, thrusting his tongue between her lips, forcing entry. She shuddered with revulsion.

He ravaged her mouth, his possession choking her, bruising her. He tasted foul. Unable to pull away from his tight grip, her panic mounted. Oh God, this can’t be happening, not to me.

Abruptly, he released her and the sharp blade was at her throat with enough pressure to cause a tiny puncture. She felt a trickle of blood slide down her neck. She tried to scream, but no sound came from her dry throat.

He lessened the pressure on the blade. “You will agree to the marriage proposal Lamont offers for you. You will wed with me or your lover will die.” He released her suddenly.

She tried for his balls, but missed and slammed her knee into his upper thigh.

He slapped her hard, and her head hit the wall, stunning her. “Feisty wench. I look forward to breaking you.” He grinned then backed out of the storage room.

Laurie slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. Tremors wracked her body. Oh God, what will I do?

She swallowed hard. Straightening her clothing, she inhaled several breaths to calm herself. She stood on shaky legs, made her way to the door and peeked into the passageway. No one was there. She darted to her room on rubbery legs.

She needed to go home.

* * *

Donald and his woman lay silent for several minutes. “Get dressed.” He pushed the whore away.

He watched her shimmy into her gown, her movements meant to entice. Her voluptuous assets no longer made him hard. He’d more important matters on his mind.

“I have another task for you.” She smiled wickedly and slid the gown from her shoulder. “Cover yourself. I refer to your other skills.”

She pouted, but when he said no more, her eyes narrowed. “What will you give me?”

“Are you not satisfied with what I have already given you?”

“Bah.”

Donald jiggled the purse at his waist and the whore smiled. She wet her lips. “What do you want me to do?”

He leaned close and told her.

She nodded, eager to do whatever he requested. Surely, she already felt his coins in her pocket.

* * *

Dirty. Violated.

Laurie sat on the large bed in Patrick’s bedchamber.

Pushing up from the mattress, she walked to the mantel and poured wine from a flagon into a mug that sat there. She rinsed her mouth with the sweet liquid and spit it into the washing bowl. With a shudder, she poured water from the pitcher on the washstand onto a cloth and carefully scrubbed the dried blood from her neck. She applied more pressure to the cloth, scrubbing her chest until the skin became raw. Could she ever scrub hard enough to wash the filth of Maclay’s evil touch from her skin?

Laurie paced the length of the room. She must leave. Make her own way to Fir-wood and try to return home. She had to get away from these barbarians.

Deep in her heart, she understood she’d never be the same again. She would never love another man as she did Patrick. But she couldn’t stay in this dangerous place. And she certainly couldn’t risk what might happen to Patrick if she told him about Maclay.

Fear fueled her anger. She hated being a victim, making her all-the-more determined to escape. She’d find a way to get to Fir-wood and attempt to return to the twenty-first century on her own.

What would she do if the time gate didn’t work this time?

She couldn’t worry about failure now. If she did, she’d fall apart. She’d worry about it later, if and when the time came.

A soft tapping sounded. Swallowing her anxiety, Laurie scooted across the room. “Who’s there?” she asked.

“M’lady, may I speak with you.” Laurie hesitated at the unfamiliar voice. She chewed on the edge of her lip, uncertain. “What do you want?”

“I must speak with you. Please.”

Laurie opened the door a crack. A young serving woman stood in the passageway. Laurie narrowed her eyes, having seen this woman before. She was the buxom brunette, who the other evening sat on Donald MacLachlan’s lap, giggling, while he fondled her breasts in front of everyone in the hall.

The woman darted nervous looks up and down the passageway and then back at Laurie. “Please, m’lady, I am Moira. Mayhap I could come in? I need to speak to you in private.”

Laurie stepped back from the door, and waved the young woman in. Moira again peered in both directions before entering the chamber and closing the door behind her.

Several shocking minutes later. Moira left. Laurie sank to the bed, staring blankly at the stone wall.

Later in the evening, Patrick sent a meal to her with orders she was not to leave the bedchamber. He thought it best she dine alone, hidden away while Lamont and his warriors were in the castle. At least that was the message she received from the lad who delivered the food.

How considerate.

All she had to do was glance at the food and her stomach rolled. She stepped away from the table and peered out the window into the gloom.

After several minutes, she walked to the door and tried the lever, even though she was sure she’d find it barred from the outside. To her amazement, the heavy oak door opened. She peered out and looked both ways along the passage.

No one lingered. No one guarded her chamber. Where was Duncan?

Well, there was probably no longer any need for her to have a guard since Patrick would soon wed Isobell. Laurie would miss Duncan, the big, burly teddy bear, when she was gone.

She waited for what seemed like hours for Moira to return. Pacing and sitting. Pacing again. The castle was eerily quiet. Eventually, she heard what she waited for, the soft tap at her door.

Laurie greeted Moira. The young woman carried a coarse, dark-colored cape, similar to the one she wore herself, which she helped Laurie don over her traveling clothes. They pulled hoods up over their heads, hiding their faces within the folds of heavy material.

“We must hurry, m’lady,” Moira whispered, taking her by the hand. They crept down the passage to the circular stairs.

The usually well-lit passageway was dim. How had the girl managed to find her way? Laurie tried to tread as softly as possible. Moira was as quiet as a mouse, sneaking along the shadows in silence, leading her back to the storage room, the place of the attack. Laurie trembled as she followed the girl into the room. Was she out of her mind to trust her?

Moira showed Laurie a hidden trap door.

“Outside is a stair, which will take you to the beach.”

Laurie stood motionless, her hand pressed against the wooden door. Fear tightened her gut. She didn’t want to leave, hated the idea of never seeing Patrick again. The thought almost paralyzed her. She couldn’t allow the weakness to rule her though. She had to go.

When she finally managed to push the door open and step through, a cold, damp breeze hit her face. Shutting the door, she leaned back against the rough wood, her heart pounding so fast, she thought she’d have a panic attack.

In reality, only dread twisted her gut. She waited another moment, unsure if she were doing the right thing. Swallowing her fear, she descended the stairs, crossed the grassy bank, and slipped into the shadowy thicket along the edge of the beach.

* * *

Duncan spent the better part of the evening searching the castle and grounds, trying to find Maclay. To his dismay, he always seemed to miss the man. He heard from others that Maclay sent the messenger to Toward Keep. Since then, no one had seen him.

Where was he?

Duncan made his way to the suite Lamont and Maclay shared. Shadows slid across the stone wall. Two short, furtive figures crept along the passageway. He hid until they passed then stealthily followed them to the storage room. Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, he guarded the door they’d entered. Pursing his lips, he waited, expecting to catch a couple of servants thieving.

The wait wasn’t long. One of the cloaked figures emerged.

Duncan reached out his hand and grabbed the individual by the shoulder. Her softness gave her away. He held a woman.

She trembled. “Please sir, dinnae hurt me. He forced me.”

Duncan shook the woman and the hood of her cape fell, revealing her face. Moira. Donald’s whore. “What mischief are you about? Are you thieving or whoring this night? Where is your other wee friend?”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“Who forced you to do what? Tell me,” he demanded, shaking her again.

“To…to send the Lady Laurie away.”

“Cursed wench.” Duncan tossed the woman aside. “I will deal with you later.” He entered the dark storage room. The trap door hung open. He stepped out, bracing against the chill breeze.

At the water’s edge, three bulky figures huddled near a currach. One hurried away.

Duncan had descended several steps when a petite figure joined the two remaining near the boat.

Lady Laurie? He leapt the remaining steps and ran for the beach.

* * *

Dense clouds covered the moon tonight. Laurie needed to reach the faerie knoll before tomorrow night’s full moon. She stood perfectly still, allowing her eyes to adjust. She shivered from the cold and pulled the heavy cloak tighter, cautiously making her way through the dark and dreary night to the beach.

Two short men, heavily muscled, with lots of straggly hair covering their heads and faces waited for her. She didn’t recognize them from among Patrick’s fighting men. They must be his uncle’s men.

She hesitated, wishing she could turn back.

This was the only way. She had to go with the men even though they gave her the creeps.

Laurie had accepted Uncle Donald’s assistance and told Moira she wanted escort to the Fir-wood. Moira said the men would escort her across the bay and provide her with a horse. After she reached Fir-wood, she’d be on her own. She only needed to be in their presence for a short time.

She wouldn’t be able to find the wood without their guidance.

The men did little more than grunt at her. Laurie inhaled a deep breath, reining in her anxiety and allowed one of the men to assist her into the small boat. She cringed and rubbed her palm on her cloak, repulsed by the scabby feel of his hand. She swallowed her distaste and sat on the bench he indicated.

The two men jumped aboard and busied themselves. Talk about claustrophobia. And they smelled raunchy. She buried her nose within the fabric of her hood.

They pushed away from shore and into the bay. Laurie glanced back at the castle, at the light shining in Patrick’s study. She wiped away the single tear that slipped from a stinging eye. Her heart was breaking. She wished she could have at least said goodbye.

Apprehension pulsed through Laurie’s veins, her heart pounding a rapid beat. The two hulking men remained silent, the slapping of the oars against the water the only sound. The rhythmic repetition grated on her nerves.

She stared into the darkness, her anxiety growing. It was taking much longer than it should. The clouds cleared the moon, creating a silver glow on the water, but she still couldn’t see the shore. She was sure they should have reached the mainland beach by now.

Panic set in. She twisted to question one of the men and something hard struck the back of her head. She fell to the side. The boat swayed. Her world went fuzzy.

“You fool! Why did you do that?”

“The lass moved about, agitated like. The laird paid good coin for her. He would nae want her to fall overboard. At least not afore he has his way with her.”

“He will likely drown her hisself afterward.”

Both men guffawed, continuing to row. Laurie fought the darkness enveloping her. She needed to get away from these men. They weren’t here to help her get away. She got her hands under her, but couldn’t lift her weight. The gray at the edges of her vision crept closer.

Patrick, what have I done?

Gray turned to black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Present Day, Anderson Creek, North Carolina

Finn stared, fixated on the antique claymore hanging on the wall over the checkout counter. Fine hairs at the nape of his neck hummed with static electricity. No matter where he stood in the Celtic Image shop, the sword grabbed his attention and held on like a tenacious nuclear-altered vine from a classic B-movie, pulling him ever closer.

“Can I help you?”

When he tried to tear his gaze from the blade to respond, Finn’s pulse sped up and he panted as if he worked through reps at the gym. He couldn’t look away from the large moonstone in the center of the cross. He took a step forward and reached for it.

“Sir?” The sharp voice snapped Finn out of the hypnotic fugue and he let his arm drop.

“I want to buy that claymore,” he said before realizing his intention.

“Who says it’s for sale?” The kilted, big guy—at least five inches taller than Finn’s six-foot-two height and slightly broader built—quirked a brow and gave Finn the one-two with a long glance.

“I must have it.”

“Do you know how to use a sword?”

“I did a bit of fencing in the military, but I’ve never handled a claymore.”

The man silently studied Finn. Minutes passed. “Here’s the deal. I’ll consider selling the piece to you if you hire me to instruct you on how to fight with the weapon.”

“When can we start?”

Something akin to approval flashed in the man’s eyes and his lips curled slightly up on one side. He strode to the door, locked the handle, and flipped the cardboard sign hanging in the window from open to closed. When he returned to Finn, he held out a hand. “Douglas McKinnon.”

“Finn MacIntyre.” He grasped the man’s hand—firm handshake coupled with solid eye contact. Good man. You could judge a lot about a man from his handshake.

Douglas took the sword from its rack and two-handed it over. “Shall we step outside?”

Finn followed him through a storeroom full of Scottish weaponry—claymores, broadswords and targes, dirks, and a Lochaber axe or two—into a large dirt courtyard behind the Celtic Image and Baked Potato shops fitted out like medieval lists. Or what Finn believed medieval lists would look like.

“Give me the sword. I’ll show you two ways to grip it. Which is your stronger hand?”

“Right.” Finn hesitated not wanting to give up possession of the two-handed sword, but finally relinquished his hold on the weapon. He rubbed his chest, feeling angst he didn’t understand. He wanted to grab the sword back. He hated seeing it in the other man’s hands.

Douglas narrowed his eyes then started the lesson without commenting on Finn’s reluctance. “Space your hands as you would on an axe handle with your right hand under the cross guard and the left just above the pommel like so.” Douglas demonstrated. “With the second grip, the forefinger of your right hand will be locked over the cross guard thusly.”

Douglas returned the sword, and the moonstone in its center winked in the sunlight. Finn inhaled deeply surprised by the intensity of relief he felt with the claymore’s cold steel in his hands again.

“Once you practice the grips we’ll move on to the guards. I’ll teach you where to place your body and feet for the best footwork execution. Then we’ll discuss the positioning of the weapon to facilitate successful attacks and defense.”

“Sounds good.”

“What the—” The man’s eyes widened and he spun on his heel and stared into the narrow alley between the two shops to the street.

“Is something wrong?” Finn asked.

“No. Let’s continue.” Douglas turned back, gripped the sword, and moved one of Finn’s hands to a better position. Then his gaze slid back to the alley and he frowned.

* * *

Caitrina tensed. Douglas couldn’t possibly know she was hidden in the alley watching. She’d covered herself in an extra thick cloak of invisibility. There was no way he could sense her presence. Mortals didn’t have such a gift.

Then why was he staring right at her?

To make matters worse, she felt a tremor of fae energy charge the air.

Caitrina grabbed her head over her ears as pain pierced her skull.

“I forbid you to use the MacIntyre warrior before his training is complete.”

The queen’s words bored a hole in her forehead and Caitrina nearly lost hold of her glamour. Douglas narrowed his eyes and took a couple of steps into the alley. Caitrina concentrated hard, caught a wisp of a breeze, and vanished through time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Strathlachlan

“Lady Laurie!”

She heard her name through the thick fog clouding her brain. She made a halfhearted effort to open her eyes, but it was too difficult. It was easier to stay as she was—half asleep.

The man’s voice sounded far away, yet she sensed he was near.

“Lady Laurie, wake up,” demanded the harsh, masculine voice.

Someone shook her. Why would anyone do such a thing? And why did her head hurt so much? She made a soft moaning noise, annoyed the voice added to her misery, magnifying the pain already thumping in her head.

“Lass, wake.”

The insistent tone of the voice finally penetrated her fuzzy mind. She forced her eyes open, only to find Duncan hovering over her, his facial features taut.

“I’m awake.” She tried to swat him away. “Leave me alone.”

He forced her to sit against a nearby tree. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” Laurie squeezed her eyes shut against the bright light assaulting her. “Oh…my head, I think. What are you doing here? Why are you in my room?”

She opened her eyes a slit while gingerly rubbing the bump on the back of her head with a trembling hand. The feel of sand in her hair surprised her. Bringing her hand around to the front of her face, she stared at it. Moist sand covered her fingers.

“Your room? Dinnae you ken you were kidnapped by two men and dumped on this beach?” Duncan’s voice grew sharper with each word. He scanned the area. “I fear someone may be watching us. I dinnae ken why those men left you here. I have a feeling they will come back for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This might be part of an elaborate trap. We need to get you to the safety of the castle.”

Bright morning sunlight pierced Laurie’s eyes. She groaned and shut them tight. Then it hit her. The men were supposed to take her across the bay to where horses waited. Then they were to escort her to the hut near the Fir-wood. They must have knocked her out instead and deserted her here. But why?

“How did you find me? Donald’s men were to take me away so I could go to Fir-wood and find my way home. Why did they hit me? Why did they leave me here?”

“To France? From Fir-wood? Your injury must be verra serious if you think you can get to France from the Fir-wood. On a horse, nae less. And those men, they were nae MacLachlans, at least none loyal to the chief. Why were you with them to begin with?”

The fierceness of his voice made Laurie cringe. She sat a little straighter and took a good look around. They were at the edge of a beach somewhere, but she didn’t recognize any of the landmarks. Somewhat embarrassed she’d gotten herself into this mess, she nervously looked at Duncan. “Where are we?”

“At the head of the loch. Took me the whole of the night to find you. ’Twill take us the whole of the day to return to Castle Lachlan.”

“How did you find me?” Laurie asked.

He gave her a severe scowl. “I was walking along the passageway when I saw two wee shadowy figures enter the storage room and only one come out. I confronted Moira and she told me you ran away. Why would that be, lass?”

“You know as well as everyone else at the castle. Patrick will wed Isobell Lamont. I must leave.”

“Nae, lass, you belong to the chief. Nae matter what happens, you are one of us now.”

If only that were the truth, but it wasn’t. She was right to leave. Now she must convince Duncan to take her to the Fir-wood before the full moon set this evening and she lost this chance to return home. She didn’t want to contemplate what would happen if she had to wait for the next full moon.

Laurie fluttered her eyelashes, giving him her best smile. Then she winced from the pain throbbing at her temples.

He shook his head. “You are a handful.”

Shrugging, she gazed off over the hills. “How far are we from Fir-wood?”

He thought for a moment. “Not far. Less than a day’s walk, nae more. Why do you ask? You are not thinking of going there?”

Slowly, Laurie stood. She stumbled at first, but caught her balance. The sand itched and she brushed it from her skin and straightened to her full height. “We’d best get started.”

“Nae, we will not go to the Fir-wood. We will return to the castle in yonder currach.” Duncan glared. “And the chief can put you over his knee again and beat some sense into you.”

“Now Duncan, you know Patrick will marry Isobell. Where will that leave me?” She raised her hands.

“You are one of us now. The chief will see to you.”

“No, he won’t. Point me in the right direction. I’ll go to Fir-wood on my own. I need to arrive there before the moon sets.” Laurie glanced toward the tree line, where several paths entered the woods. Which way was the right direction?

“Lady Laurie—”

She spun to face Duncan. “Tell me!”

He gaped. Closing his mouth, he tightened his lips into a taut line and gave her a hard look. “Do you plan to go to the faerie knoll again?”

“Yeah. I need to go there in order to return to my home.” She gave him her best smile, pleading with her eyes and lips, hoping to coax him. She’d no qualms about using feminine charm.

He narrowed his eyes then his mouth fell open again. “You sprouted wings!” His eyes widened. “Are you one of the faeries?”

“What?” She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw golden wings.” He frowned. “Now they are gone. Are you a faerie?”

She should tell him he was crazy. But…

She hated to deceive him, to play on his ignorance, on his superstition. However, this was an emergency. She crossed her fingers behind her back. “Yes, I am. I’ve lost my way. I need your help to return to the faerie knoll to find my way again.”

He stepped back and shook his head

“Will you help me? Please.” She smiled and bated her eyelashes.

He scanned the beach with a fierce frown. “This is deeply troubling. The faeries are a power to reckon with.”

An understatement. She prayed Caitrina didn’t catch wind of what she planned and stop her.

“If I dinnae help you, your brethren will likely cause havoc and devastate MacLachlan lands,” he continued.

Laurie lowered her head and gazed at him through her lashes.

“Where is Munn when trouble is afoot?” he mumbled.

She kept smiling at him, hoping he would cave.

With hands on hips, he glared at her. “I will take you. But I dinnae like it.”

He glanced toward the water, and back at Laurie. “Wait here.” He walked to the shore’s edge and pulled the currach up higher onto the beach and into the woods, covering it with brush to hide it. He returned to her, still mumbling to himself under his breath. “I ken I will regret this decision to get mixed up in matters of the Sithichean.”

Laurie hid her triumphant smile behind her hand. He truly was a sweet teddy bear.

She’d miss him once she was safe at home.

* * *

Munn applauded himself. He’d frightened off the northern men, and spent the whole of the night guiding Duncan’s small boat without the lad being the wiser. Munn grinned, relieved to see the pair on their way. For if they dallied, Maclay’s men would surely find the two.

He snickered. The warriors from the northern clan would be angry when they learned they lost their prize.

The chief won’t like it, but Munn needed to make certain the lady from the future returned to the future, to where she belonged. That was the only way he could ensure she and the chief stayed apart, enabling Munn to keep his vow to the faerie queen. He just needed to make sure Duncan got her to the Fir-wood before the full moon set. Until then, he’d keep Maclay’s men from finding her. Then she’d be gone.

And he’d be free once again to serve his chief.

Setting off to foil the Maclay men’s pursuit, he lost control of his body, pulled by an incredibly strong force in another direction. He fought the unknown power with all his strength, but it was too much for him. He spun out of control, whirling through the veil of time and space.

* * *

Laurie and Duncan walked for most of the morning, only stopping briefly for water at a narrow burn, a small crystal-clear stream bubbling through the rocks. They’d just set off again and were cutting across a field when the sound of galloping horses thundered.

A hooded horseman rode from a trail in the woods in front of them, swinging a battle-axe. Another rider followed the first. Others on foot came from behind, carrying wooden staffs and other makeshift weapons.

“Maclays!” Duncan pulled her behind him, his claymore at the ready. He never got a chance to swing his large sword. The first horse charged him, knocking him to the ground where his head hit against a rock.

Laurie screamed as she barely fell out of the way of the horse’s hoofs. She managed to get back on her feet and ran in terror.

Her attempt to escape was useless. The men quickly surrounded her. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. It didn’t matter. No friend would hear her. Duncan lay unconscious, or possibly dead.

The leering men encircled her, playing a game of cat and mouse. They taunted and teased, poked at her with their staffs, grabbed at her hair and clothing. She twirled around kicking out.

One large man caught her. She wildly fought him off, using her arms and legs until something hard hit the side of her head. Blinded by a bright explosion of light, she fell.

* * *

Munn managed to break away from the force that controlled him, materializing atop a limb of a tall oak. He watched the scene play out with disbelief. He failed again. Gripping his hands into tight fists, he grimaced. He was too late. He wasn’t strong enough to interfere. He was helpless to stop the flow of events.

He’d have to go to the queen and inform her. How would he explain this debacle?

Not only might she condemn him to an eternity in the Sands of Time. He’d heard stories. She might choose to torture him, causing unbearable pain and then imprison his soul in a jar, leaving him a shell of a body.

He sat for a while fretting over what he’d tell Oonagh. Completely self-absorbed, he was unaware of Caitrina’s presence until she shimmered, emerging into solid form to sit beside him on the thick limb.

He tensed.

“What have you done, you foolish meddling brownie?” Caitrina demanded before he said or did anything.

How dare the halfling question him?

“Naught!” he said. “I did only good. I brought Duncan to watch over the lass from the future.”

“And look what happened.”

“You can fix everything. Send her back where she came from. She does not belong here.”

Caitrina tried to control her nasty fae temper. He could see it in her stubborn eyes. “Why didn’t you stop this from happening?” she asked in a deceptively calm voice.

“I couldn’t. You used your power against me.” He fisted his hands at his waist. “You pulled me away. You ken I floated in endless time before you released me.”

“Not I.”

“Then who?”

“Oonagh,” they said in unison.

They glared at one another for several minutes before they both dissolved into fine dust and scattered with the wind.

* * *

Patrick woke, uttering a groan. His head throbbed and his tongue felt thick. He lifted his head from where it had fallen against the hard wood of his worktable and raised his hands to rub his temples. He glared at the empty cask. He’d drunk himself into a fine stupor during the dark hours of the night and must have passed out here in his private chamber.

Loud banging came from outside the door. Squinting against the bright light assaulting him from the un-shuttered window, he groaned again.

“Enter,” he thundered, wincing from the pain his own voice caused in his head.

Jamie stepped into the chamber, his eyes darting about.

“What is it?” Patrick growled, grimacing in misery.

“Duncan is missing. We cannae find him anywhere within the castle nor without. I have searched as have several other lads.”

“Perhaps he has hidden away with a willing lass,” Patrick offered, annoyed he’d been disturbed from his stupor for such foolishness.

“Nae. He was to keep an eye on Malcolm Maclay. Stephen ordered him to do so.”

An uncomfortable sensation burned in the pit of Patrick’s stomach. “And where is Maclay?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?” Patrick held an unsteady hand to his forehead.

“Aye. Lamont swears he doesn’t ken where.”

Cursing under his breath, Patrick rose from his chair. He ignored the aches and pains racking his body and strode toward Jamie. Then a terrible notion occurred to him. What if Laurie were missing too? He didn’t wish to consider that. The thought made him ill. But what if Maclay took her and Duncan had gone after them?

He charged past Jamie, out the door, across the passageway and up two levels to his bedchamber. Jamie’s footsteps echoed behind. When Patrick reached the chamber, he forced open the door. The wood slammed hard against the inner wall with an echoing thud.

There was no one there. No one slept in the bed. She was gone.

He raced to Elspeth’s solar. His sister glanced up from her needlework and blanched. “What is wrong?”

“Where is Laurie?”

“In her room.”

His roar was that of a wounded wild cat, a horrible sound filled with tormented anguish. “Damn them. She is gone.” He pushed past Jamie and headed for the stairs. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Where is Lamont?”

“Greeting his daughter in the great hall. She arrived with her maid and her guard.”

Patrick thought he’d burst. “Isobell has arrived?” The question a shout.

“Aye.”

Standing motionless, Patrick tried to guess at what was going on. He needed to find out. Had Laurie run from him or did Maclay have her? If Maclay had her, what would the bastard do to her? Patrick didn’t want to dwell on that horrifying contemplation.

His anger merged with his fear, forcing his temper to the surface. He bolted for the stairs ready to confront Lamont.

The man had manipulated Patrick and he didn’t like it. Not in the least.

He stopped short. He couldn’t make accusations without more information. He needed to be careful. Reaching deep inside himself, he sought calm, fought for a warrior’s control.

The only way to approach Lamont was with caution.

“Form a search party and see what you can discover. Find Duncan.” Patrick ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “And find the Lady Laurie. I beg you.”

“We will.”

“And, Jamie.”

“Aye.”

“You might try searching the Fir-wood. The Lady Laurie has a fondness for that eerie place.”

Patrick thought he best make himself presentable. He would meet his future bride, be civil to her father, and pretend all was well.

Pretend the woman he loved more than life wasn’t missing. Perhaps dead.

* * *

The castle wasn’t as awful as Isobell expected. The great hall was actually quite lovely. She gazed around the fine chamber, taking in its rich tapestries and carved furniture. The large stone hearth was beautiful, the fire inviting.

Several warriors sat at the lower tables, drinking from mugs.

The MacLachlan men stared at her with ill-disguised contempt.

How dare they? She didn’t want to be here any more than they wanted her to be.

In the past, her father always gave into her demands. Given her whatever she asked for. This time, he refused to even consider her desires. He was determined to wed her to the heartless enemy, her clan’s enemy, her enemy.

Patrick MacLachlan. His name alone made her shudder. There had been a time when she believed...

No. She shook her head. That was a long time ago. She’d been a mere child then. Now, she was a full-grown women and betrothed to the much-hated Patrick MacLachlan.

She cast an angry look at her father. She didn’t understand how he could be so cruel. MacLachlan would probably kill her. Poison her or do something else dreadful.

The sound of heavy footfalls brought her gaze to the stairs. There he was. She stiffened, her hands balled into tight fists at her side. He might be a fine looking man on the outside, might make many a lass swoon, but she knew he was a horrible monster on the inside with a glaciated heart.

Isobell stood at her father’s side, watching MacLachlan stride across the hall toward them, his steps long and sure. He appeared the cold warrior. She felt the blue ice of his dark eyes for a brief moment, and then they dismissed her as if she was insignificant. The MacLachlan directed the chill at her father.

“Lamont, I did not realize your lovely daughter would join us so soon. Our Aine is making ready a chamber in the east wing near that of the Lady Elspeth’s as we speak.” His frigid stare once again fell upon her.

She couldn’t help the shiver creeping down her spine when he took her hand, barely grazing the knuckles with his lips. His touch was like frost skimming across her skin. His lips like ice.

Her heart burned with hatred.

Pulling her hand from his grasp, she glared at her father. “I will not wed him!”

She moved to leave, but her father grabbed her arm in a painfully tight grip and twisted her back. “Aye, you will, lass. And you will remain here at Castle Lachlan and be Lady MacLachlan.”

“If she does not wish to wed with me, there is nae need to force her.”

He would let her out of the contract? Hope flared in her heart.

Her father’s gaze flew to the MacLachlan. “You will wed as we agreed. She kens my will.” He jerked her arm and swung her afore him. “You will do what you are told or you will suffer for your stubbornness.”

Her father’s gaze was unrelenting. When he released her, she pulled away from him and rubbed her arm where his fingers bruised her. This was so unfair. She glared at the two men.

“Aye, I will do as you say, Father. But I will not wear the ring made for another woman. Nor, will I abide having her living under the same roof.” She turned her gaze to MacLachlan. “Your leman must go. You will put her aside and remove her from this castle. And I want a ring adorned with rubies.”

He met her gaze. “I dinnae have a leman.” The words were spoken calmly though his voice held an edge.

Heat flamed Isobell’s cheeks. “Dinnae make a fool of me, sir. Everyone kens you keep a French whore. And they ken you spent good gold on a sapphire ring at the fair.”

“You have been misinformed, lass. If you intend to malign the character of my wee sister’s noble companion, I will not abide it. The Lady Laurie Bernard is a guest in my home and I expect you to offer her the hospitality due a highborn noblewoman.” His glare matched a frightening smile.

How dare he? Isobell sucked in a sudden breath and stared at him in stunned silence. She dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms as her fists tightened more. She forced her chin up. “Father, you cannae allow—”

“Enough. I have made the arrangements. You will wed. Such matters as a leman will be between you and your husband.”

Isobell moved her balled fists to her hips, glaring at MacLachlan and her father.

MacLachlan raised his hand, stopping her retort before it left her lips. “I will grant your one request. I will send to Glasgow for a goldsmith and will purchase a ruby ring for you.”

She realized she’d made a mistake. He’d demean her by giving the sapphire ring to the French whore. Everyone would laugh at her. “Sir—”

The MacLachlan’s serving woman rushed into the hall. “Lady Isobell’s chamber is ready,” she said after catching her breath.

“Indeed. Please, show the lady to her chamber.” MacLachlan smiled at the old woman.

He dismissed Isobell without a glance, addressing her father. “You will excuse me. I have urgent business to attend.” With that, the frigid devil turned on his heel, strode across the hall, and out the door.

She stared after him. Never had she ever been so insulted, or so angry. Never in her entire life.

She’d take matters into her own hands and find a way to remove the French whore from the castle. Then Isobell would make Patrick’s life hell.

* * *

Hours later, Patrick headed to the great hall for the evening meal. He dreaded the thought of the evening to come. The only good thing to happen during the entire lengthy day was Iain Lamont left, taking with him all his warriors.

When he thought of Isobell, his rage surfaced. Like hell, he would give Isobell Laurie’s sapphire ring. Perhaps if he were lucky, the time required to procure a new ring for the selfish wench would buy him the time needed to prove the betrothal agreement a forgery.

He entered the already-crowded and noisy hall. Everyone fell silent. He strode across the chamber; all eyes were on him. When he joined Elspeth and Stephen at the head table, whispers sounded. He sighed heavily and took his seat between the pair. This would be a long night.

Elspeth greeted him with a sweet smile. “Good eve to you, brother. The Lady Isobell’s maid brought the lady’s regrets. She will take her meal alone in her chamber this eve. I am afraid she suffers a pain in her head.” Elspeth rolled her eyes as she lightly banged her forehead with her hand.

Relief washed over Patrick and he gave his sister a small, crooked smile. He raised his mug in salute. “We can only hope this will become her custom.”

After taking a long swig, he set the mug on the table and turned his gaze on Stephen. “Is there any word from Jamie?”

His cousin shook his head. “Nae. I would have brought you the news directly if a messenger arrived. ’Tis too soon for them to have found anything.” He patted Patrick on the shoulder. “Give them time. They will find the lass and Duncan.”

“I dinnae have time. Tonight is the full moon.” He turned back to Elspeth. “Beth, do you sense anything?”

Elspeth lowered her eyes. “She is verra afeared.”

Patrick jumped up, but Stephen pushed him back into his seat. “There is naught you can do this night. Give Jamie and the lads time to find her.”

“What of Duncan? Beth, do you sense anything of him?”

“Naught…naught but a void.” She moistened her lips and glanced away. A tear slid along her check and she swiped at it. “I can’t find him at all.”

She drank deeply from her cup of wine as if she braced herself. Did she hid something from him? What?

Danger? Was Laurie in terrible, terrible danger?

CHAPTER THIRTY

Laurie woke to a foul taste. She choked on a rag stuffed in her mouth.

She jerked her eyes open. Her scream died against the gag. Her vision fuzzy, the oppressive dark night closed in. Her head throbbed. Her numb fingers tingled. The dirty cloth in her mouth made her nauseous.

She sat on the hard ground, her arms tied around a large tree behind her. An awkward position. She tugged against the restraint, hoping to loosen the knots and wiggle her hands free. The leather dug deeper into her skin, causing her to whimper in pain.

Laurie leaned back against the tree, discouraged. Where was Duncan? She had no answer. If only she could get the gag out of her mouth, she might breathe more easily.

A disturbing sensation skittered across her flesh. She glanced at her ankles with unease. A scream caught in her mouth. Dozens of creepy little spiders crawled across her skin. She kicked her legs out, trying to dislodge the nasty things.

One bit her, and she bucked against her bindings. Oh God. She prayed they weren’t poisonous. The sensitized skin started to itch. If only she could brush them away. Scratch her ankle.

Oh God. If only she could get free from the restraints. Laurie tugged at the bindings again and pain shot up her arms.

Mentally shaking herself, she tried to get a handle on her fear. She needed to figure a way out of this mess. Laurie closed her eyes briefly, wanting to cry. Instead, she opened them again with determination. As her vision focused, she saw an ugly, dirty man squatting several feet away. A torch held in one hand, he stared at her with unkind eyes.

He smiled wickedly before saying something guttural under his breath. He stood and walked away.

Suddenly, spiders were the least of her worries. A small fire burned nearby. Scattered around were torches. They lent an eerie glow to the surroundings. She attempted to make out images in the dim light, but the ugly man returned with two other big, heavily built men dressed in filthy rags.

The two cruel-looking newcomers stepped behind the tree. One untied her wrists. Then each man took hold of an arm and pulled them away from her body. She kicked at them. The effort was hopeless. The men were too strong.

The third man brought an iron ring with two chains attached. At the end of each chain was a thick leather strap. She’d seen an apparatus like that at a museum in London. She fought harder, yanked on her arms, tried to break free. She struggled through the pain in her armpits and shoulders and neck. Her efforts were to no avail.

They easily restrained her and pulled her arms in front of her. They tied each hand to one of the chains with the straps, making the leather tight.

Ouch! Her wrists burned from the chafing and open cuts from her previous ill treatment. She squirmed, swinging her body awkwardly in an attempt to break away. She thrashed, kicked at them. Their legs were like tree trunks. In the end, she only gained more pain.

Forcing her to the ground, the first man spoke harsh words she didn’t understand. He slapped her face. She curled her body protectively. He stepped back and glared at her. Grabbing the iron ring, he pulled, yanking her to her knees. Urgh. Pain shot up her thighs, burned in her belly.

He tugged on the tether. She lurched forward. He dragged her toward the fire. Her skirt snagged and tore on rocks and twigs as she scraped across the ground. The skin on her arms and legs became bruised and raw.

Beyond the fire, the limb of a large tree stretched straight out. A heavy rope hung from the branch. The men dragged her to the tree and tied the ring to the rope, pulling the line taut, jerking her to her toes, her arms stretched painfully above her head. The tip of her toes barely skimmed the ground.

The men left her alone. Tears burned her eyes. The pain in her arms became a terrible ache that made her want to scream. Soon, her arms went numb.

Terror lodged in her throat. Never in her life had she been more frightened. To the left was the opening of a cave. The image of another cave came to mind. The one where she’d kissed Patrick on the way to Glasgow. This cave was much different. This experience horribly different. Out of the darkness walked her worst nightmare.

Malcolm Maclay. He stood before her, his legs braced apart, his hands on his hips, a smug grin on his ugly scarred face.

Laurie cringed at the sight of him, her heart pounding furiously.

“Whore. We meet again.” He touched her cheek with his dirty, calloused fingers. She flinched and he chuckled. Obviously, he relished the terror in her eyes. He reached around her, untying the rag from her head. Then he pulled the gag out of her mouth.

Laurie screamed. The high-pitched sound shrill against the silence of the night.

He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “There is nary a soul to hear you.” He reached out and slapped her hard across the face.

Her head snapped back from the impact, and she swung on her tether. Her cheek stung, instantly raw where he’d struck. Tears fell freely, burning sensitive flesh. She opened her mouth to scream again, but before a sound came out, he cruelly struck her again, splitting her lip. Blood oozed along her chin.

He continued to hit her several more times. With a final stroke, he struck one of her eyes.

“Agh.”

“Look at me, whore.” He grabbed hold of her braid and yanked.

Laurie tried to see him through her swelling eye, his image fuzzy. She sought to moisten her swollen lips with her parched tongue. She tasted the metallic tang of blood. Fear became a living thing within her, batting against her insides.

Maclay’s eyes burned with a wild lust. He grabbed the front of her blouse and tore it to the waist. Her breasts freed to the breeze, her nipples hardened from the cold. Pinching one of the buds, her torturer twisted it between two fingers.

Agony scorched her flesh.

“Stop,” Laurie cried, unable to pull away. This couldn’t be happening.

Maclay continued his torment. He squeezed her other breast, digging his nails into her tender flesh, inflicting more agony. She recoiled, the pain blinding, the humiliation burning in her chest. Yet she feared her suffering had only begun.

He released her breasts and stood back, staring at her with feral eyes. “I was willing to wed you. Now I will take you like the whore you are.”

Laurie bit her lower lip to hold back her screams. She feared if she screamed, he’d continue to beat her. It would be better to conserve her strength. It would be the only way to survive the ordeal.

“Come all. Come hither. Look at the whore of Castle Lachlan,” Maclay taunted. He leaned in close, his foul breath on her face. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I will enjoy taking every inch of your precious body, lady-whore, in front of these fine warriors.” Spittle hit her cheek. He waved his other hand toward the men who hovered in the background, snickering and hooting. “When I have finished, each and every man here will have their turn.”

More softly, so only she heard, he said, “You ken he will never want you back.”

The men who ogled the scene cheered. They moved closer out of the darkness, grabbing at her clothing, touching her flesh with dirty hands, scratching and bruising her skin.

Maclay released her chin and pushed the others away. He snatched a willow switch from one of them. He walked behind her and tore what was left of her blouse. He brought the switch down across her back.

“Stop. Oh, God, please stop.”

He whipped her again. She gritted her teeth against the spasm of pain.

He struck another blow.

“Have mercy,” she pleaded.

“Aye. You will learn to beg. You will learn to obey. I will break your spirit, lass. You will crawl to me and beg for my attentions. You will, so help me.” He brought the switch against her raw skin again.

The agonizing pain raced across her nerve endings. She no longer screamed, instead she prayed. Prayed she’d faint. That the misery would end. Maclay stopped his assault and slowly walked around her several times, glaring as he moved. When he stopped to stand in front of her, an unholy hatred glowed deep in the depths of his eyes replacing the lust she’d seen in his stare.

Laurie prayed she’d pass out.

She was fading into unconsciousness when someone tossed a bucket of cold water over her. She convulsed from the shock.

Maclay threw the willow switch to the ground, pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt, and brought the blade close to her face. His smile was ugly and cruel. He moved the knife downward, placing the blade to the side of her right breast.

At the touch of cold steel, Laurie jerked, her heart hammering painfully in her chest.

“I will punish you each time you dinnae please me.” He dragged the knife along the edge of her breast, deep enough to flow blood.

She choked on a scream, the sound gurgling in her throat. Whimpering, she wished she’d die, anything to block out the dreadful torture.

Maclay bent his head, placed his lips over the wound, and sucked the blood. As he did, he made a moaning sound that made Laurie’s skin crawl.

This was much worse than spiders. The man is insane. He must be.

He rested his blade on her cheek, all the while laughing sadistically.

Laurie screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

Patrick paced, his emotions in turmoil, his bedchamber a lonely place. He tortured himself by remaining, but couldn’t leave.

Laurie’s presence remained all around him. The chamber still held her scent along with some of her things. He picked up the silver brush she’d used to tame her beautiful golden locks. A silky strand remained in the bristles. He wrapped the precious thread around his fingers until his chest tightened with pain.

How would he live without her?

He paced well into the night.

When he finally slept, his fears took hold and twisted his dreams. He tossed and turned, caught in the sheets. He woke, a scream burning his throat.

Laurie was in danger. And he did nothing.

He played the proper bridegroom to the wrong bride. He hated feeling so utterly helpless. His fear gnawed at his gut. He hadn’t felt this miserable since his parents disappeared. He’d been helpless then as well.

No more!

Stephen burst into the room, sword at the ready. “I heard you scream. What is wrong?”

“We go after Lady Laurie.” Patrick threw the bed coverings to the side and padded butt-naked to his chest. He quickly dressed and secured his weapons on his person.

He’d find her himself. He didn’t care what Isobell or her father thought. He’d find a way to make things right.

Determination stiffened his spine as he strode from the chamber with Stephen at his heel. They gathered some men and rode out before first light.

* * *

Laurie sensed someone’s presence in the cave. She didn’t dare move. If the intruder was Maclay and he realized she was conscious, he’d come for her, and the pain and degradation would begin anew.

How long had she been here? Several days? An hour? She couldn’t be sure.

The madman beat her often. When she was no longer responsive to his insults, he left her in the damp cave, where a stranger with gentle hands came to her, tending to her battered body. She’d become numb to the cold and the pain. Her only solace was she hadn’t yet been raped, though he persistently threatened he would take her in the most unpleasant way.

Laurie listened, trying to detect who approached.

Duncan was in the cave too. Somewhere. She overheard them talking when they’d thought her unconscious. He was a prisoner also, still insensible, or so they said.

The only thing that kept her from losing her mind completely was the single thread of hope someone would come searching for them. If not for her, certainly they’d come for Duncan. And they’d both be set free of this horrible lunatic.

Laurie lay on her belly across a dirty pallet. Painful oozing sores covered her back. The bastard had tied her arms and legs, but she had grown numb to that discomfort.

Muffled footsteps approached her corner of the cave. A gentle hand smoothed her hair, and she felt relief from her fears.

The old woman hovered over her, softly crooning in the lilting language of the Highlanders. Laurie almost smiled. Thank God, it wasn’t Maclay. The strange woman resembled the wicked old hag that brought Snow White the poisoned apple in the animated classic tale. Only this woman eased Laurie with compassion.

Ancient, her leathery skin folded into baggy wrinkles and a large ugly wart protruded from the tip of her pointed nose. But her eyes were the green of emeralds and sparkled within her withered face...eyes that were somehow familiar.

The woman gently applied a healing salve to the sores on Laurie’s back. Her pain lessened, and once again, she sank into blessed oblivion.

Much later, the woman chanted over her. Words she didn’t understand, that sounded ancient, but she found calming.

“Ugly crone, get out of my way.” Maclay pushed the woman aside and grabbed hold of Laurie, dragging her from the pallet.

The torture began again. Only this time he seemed different. More intense. Laurie feared this time he’d surely commit rape.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The horses stomped the ground, frightened by the eerie, soul-wrenching screams echoing through the hills. With the land covered in heavy fog, Archibald MacLachlan couldn’t tell from whence the sound came.

He leaned close to his companion. “Something is amiss in the hills this night.”

“Aye. But, where?” Alexander Campbell said as he stared into the thick, gray haze.

Seeing more than a short distance was impossible.

Abruptly the screaming stopped.

With a whistled signal from Alexander, the small group of men who journeyed for King James IV moved forward. Having been away on the Continent for a lengthy stay, they traveled this night in an attempt to make up for lost time, eager to reach Castle Lachlan.

When they cleared the forest and road into the glen, a mysterious woman galloped out of the mist. Tinkling music filled the air. She raced toward them across the moor, her flaming red hair flying behind her like a pennon billowing in the wind. She rode a handsome white steed with a golden bridle and with golden bells plaited in his mane. The stallion was a fine beast, fast as wind, with an arched neck and broad chest. His nostrils flared; his ears laid back.

The woman rode headlong into the midst of the traveling party.

Her approach brought a bold grin to Alexander’s mouth and Archibald found himself grinning too, forgetting his unease. She rode with more skill than most men. A stunning display of horsemanship, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, her emerald gown and green mantle enhancing her fiery beauty.

“Who is she?” Archibald asked.

“I dinnae ken. But I recognize the plaide she wears. I am certain it is the work of my father’s weaver,” Alexander replied in an awed voice.

The guardsmen moved apart, falling back, making way for her. Most of the men’s jaws dropped open and they stared at her enchanting beauty. Stopping in front of Archibald and Alexander, she spoke directly to Archibald, her green eyes sparkling, alight with an uncanny glow.

“I am known as Caitrina. You must come with me, now, to the caves of the gray women. There is no time to waste. We must save your brother’s betrothed, for she has been abducted and is held prisoner.”

She gracefully turned her horse about and rode back into the misty night. Her horse flew across the moor as if with wings. Did she expect them to follow?

Archibald glanced at Alexander. He shrugged, then smiled and nodded. Archibald spurred his horse and gave chase. Alexander stayed close, followed by the rest of the men.

After following a strange green light through the fog, they approached the mouth of a large cave. Men ran from the opening, escaping into shadows and mist before they reached them.

The sight of so many king’s men must have frightened them away.

Archibald headed into the cave while Alexander and some of his men pursued those who fled.

A battered woman lay naked on the floor in a slimy corner of the dank cavern. Covered in filth, her dirty, stringy hair matted around her head and shoulders. Her wrenching sobs yanked at Archibald’s heartstrings.

Reaching down, he touched her shoulder. She flinched, curling tighter into herself. He gently spoke to her in Gaelic. She didn’t respond to his words. Her weeping continued, her shoulders heaving.

After placing a plaide over her bloodied and beaten form, he lifted her, careful of her injuries. She hung limp, her slender form trembling in his embrace.

As he carried her from the cave, he found himself staring at her marred face. Who was she? What was he to do with her? He didn’t even consider leaving the responsibility to Alexander or the others. Whether, in truth, she was his brother’s betrothed or not, he’d take care of her.

His gut clenched. What had been done to the lass disgusted him. How could anyone so abuse a woman? If, in fact, she belonged to Patrick, who could hate him so much they would torture a young woman in such a horrible manner? Lamont?

Iain was a hard man, but the chief of Clan Lamont wouldn’t stoop so low.

Archibald carried the woman to where his lads waited with the horses. He handed her into the arms of one of the other men. He mounted then reached down and took her into his arms again. He placed her sideways in front of him.

The wee woman leaned into him, slid her arms around his waist, and placed her head below his shoulder as if she realized she was safe. He wrapped his arms around her, tenderly holding her. He softly murmured calming words, trying to soothe her.

She tilted her head back to look at him. The small effort must have been painful, for she closed her eyes and again leaned into him.

Having seen the pain in her blackened eyes, he patted her gently to reassure her. Her hand reached out from under the plaide she now wore and grasped his leine with surprising strength.

“Patrick?” she said before she thankfully swooned.

Archibald groaned. Another female mistaking him for his twin.

He didn’t know for sure if the lass belonged to his brother, but she obviously knew Patrick. His parents raised him and his brothers to believe all women precious. Gazing at the small hand on his chest, he made a heartfelt vow to protect her with his life.

* * *

Luck blessed Patrick this eve. After several days of dense fog, the murky vapor finally dissipated and the waning moon shone bright, making tracking easier. He and his lads rode north to the head of the loch where they met up with Jamie’s search party. Jamie reported finding a currach hidden in the brush at the edge of the wood near the beach. After conferring, the two groups of warriors split again, Jamie taking his group farther north.

Even though he assured Patrick he’d seen no sign of Laurie or Duncan near the forest, Patrick’s party headed east anyway, toward the Fir-wood.

Although it might be unwarranted arrogance, he refused to believe Laurie managed to return to her own time. He’d convinced himself they’d come together for a purpose, that they were matched souls. Together they had to fulfill their destiny.

He couldn’t marry Isobell.

Patrick and his men searched through the night directed by the shimmering light of the moon. Morning dawned to crystal-clear weather. With the rising sun, Patrick’s frustration grew beyond bearing.

He and Stephen climbed a high crag just beyond the wood. From this vantage point, on the cliff above the tree line, they could see to the west as far as the bay, the castle beyond, and the sea loch. Patrick noted the huge cloud of dust at the edge of the bay. A large party of riders swiftly approached the crossing to the castle.

Patrick pointed outward. “Stephen, what do you make of that? Can you see who draws near the castle with those keen eyes of yours?”

“Might be Campbells. Perhaps Archibald returns with Alexander.”

“Aye, Campbells. Mayhap Archie.” Patrick frowned. “Even if we hurry, we will not make it in time to greet them.” He ran a hand through his snarled hair. He didn’t want to stop the search for Laurie. But if his brother were with the travelers...

Patrick would return to the castle before resuming his search. He couldn’t leave it to Elspeth to explain the chaos his life had become.

They watched the progress of the riders for several more minutes before they scrambled down. Their descent required caution as they crawled over steep and slippery rocks, using exposed roots as handholds. Carefully moving over the scree at the base of the incline, they made their way to the clearing where the others waited with the horses.

“We make haste to the castle!” Patrick shouted as he mounted.

The trail rose and fell as they made their trek downward. At times, Patrick caught a good view of the loch and the castle, and saw the visitors take boats across to Castle Lachlan. At other times, the trees hemmed in the view.

The men carefully worked their way through the thick stands of fir.

Once they were out of the trees, they quickened their pace. Over the heather-clad slopes, they galloped to the stable where they saw the Campbell device. Archibald had returned. Patrick and Stephen wasted no time and ran to the water’s edge where a boat waited with oarsmen ready to take them across.

Patrick glanced at the purple tinted hills. He’d speak to his twin and resume the search.

* * *

His jaw tight, Patrick stood next to his brother at Laurie’s bedside.

“She was tortured. Beaten. Cut with a knife,” Archibald said.

Pain coiled in Patrick’s chest. He felt as if he was experiencing Laurie’s torture. He barely remained in control, feeling incredible guilt.

He clenched his fists. Her black and blue body enraged him. Welts and oozing sores covered her back and arms where she’d been whipped. Damn Maclay. Patrick pressed his lips together, damning himself as the biggest fool. He’d seen the cut on Laurie’s breast when Aine cleaned and tended her wounds. He could only imagine the other horrors she’d faced because of him.

How many times had the bastard taken what belonged to him? How many times had he taken her? Maclay would pay. He’d suffer before he died. He’d learn the meaning of pain.

His brother watched him through wary eyes. “Who is she? When we were told your lady had been taken and held captive, I expected to rescue Isobell. Instead I find this woman, a stranger to us.”

Patrick turned away from his brother to gaze at Laurie. “’Tis a long tale. She is mine. I must take care of her now. However, Isobell is also in the castle.” He ran a hand through his hair. “’Tis complicated.” He faced Archibald once again. “Please, dinnae speak of this to anyone until we talk more. See that Alexander keeps silent as well. I beg this of you.”

His brother nodded, his lips held in a grim line.

Laurie opened her eyes. She shook her head. Grimaced. Then closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath before opening them again.

She attempted a smile and winced. “Patrick, there are two of you,” she muttered.

He stepped forward and grasped her hand, holding it protectively in his much larger one. “Nae, lass. There are, in truth, two of us. ’Tis my brother Archie you see. He found you and brought you home.”

Laurie moistened her split lip with her tongue. “You…” She had difficulty speaking and ground her throat. “Have a twin?”

Patrick watched Archibald leave the chamber, thankful for the privacy. “Aye, I have a twin. We shared our mother’s womb.” He helped Laurie to sit against the pillows.

Pain flared in her eyes, yet she didn’t cry out, enduring the agony in silence.

“You must rest now. Aine will give you something to ease your hurts.”

Laurie’s fingers fluttered near her throat.

“Aine!” She came quickly at his summons, bringing with her a potion for Laurie.

“Here, lass.” Aine held the cup to Laurie’s lips, forcing her to drink the bitter liquid by pinching her nose. When she’d taken most of it, Patrick helped her lie back against the feather pillows.

The old woman left the chamber, but Patrick stayed. Seated at his lady’s side, he held her hand while her eyes fluttered closed and she drifted into a potion-induced sleep. When he was sure she slept soundly, he called for Aine to return and watch over her. Then he went in search of his brother.

Annoyed he hadn’t been the one to find Laurie and vexed Archibald rescued her, Patrick swallowed hard, pushing his frustration deep within him. He unfairly directed his anger at his brother. He owed his twin an apology.

He found Archibald in the great hall. “Join me in my private chamber. I wish for us to speak.”

“Why are you keeping both your mistress and betrothed under the same roof? You had better have a good excuse for your heartless behavior.”

Patrick pursed his lips. “I do.”

“Then explain.”

“Not here. Join me in my private chamber.” Patrick was well aware that at times, the hall had ears. None should overhear this conversation.

Archibald glanced around before nodding his agreement and silently followed Patrick to his study.

“How is Duncan?” Patrick asked.

“He will come around. Though he will be sore for quite some time, recovering from the beatings he suffered.”

Patrick paced the chamber while Archibald leaned against the wall watching him. Finally, he stopped and faced his twin. “How did you find them? I had several parties out searching. I searched myself. We found nary a trace. Nary a trail.”

“A mysterious woman came to us.” Archibald smiled. “She was enchanting. The most beautiful woman I have had the pleasure to gaze upon. She rode a white steed with golden trappings. Alexander recognized her cloak as the work of the Campbell weaver or we never would have followed her. We took a chance, never considering she may lead us into a trap.”

“I thank Our Lord that you did. Follow her, that is.”

“Aye. Thank the good Lord,” Archibald agreed. “She told us your lady had been abducted and held captive. She said we would find the lass near the caves of the gray women. When we found your lady, she lay naked, broken and bleeding in the filth of one of those dank caverns. Who would do such a thing?”

“Maclay. You did not capture him?” Patrick’s voice strained.

Archibald glanced away. “If ’twas he, he escaped into the fog. As did the beautiful woman, I fear.”

Patrick roared his frustration, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

* * *

Days passed before Patrick could question Duncan thoroughly.

Much improved, the lad whined and complained and argued, claiming he was well enough to get up from bed. Aine wouldn’t stand for such nonsense. She practically kept him prisoner in one of the bedchambers.

Learning Laurie’s abduction was part of his uncle’s intrigues made Patrick heartsick. Donald MacLachlan and his whore Moira both had gone missing from the castle. Donald had left a message he was off to another of Patrick’s holdings, one that was under the stewardship of Patrick’s father and uncle’s cousin, Allain of Dunadd. Everyone in the castle assumed Moira snuck away to follow Donald. However, Patrick had his doubts. More than likely, Donald cast her aside, forcing her to run on her own. The wench feared his wrath, having played an integral part in Laurie’s abduction.

Donald, on the other hand, remained a problem. His political maneuverings and interference in Patrick’s life was something Patrick could no longer tolerate.

He would need to deal with his uncle, and soon.

As for Maclay, Patrick sent a small party of warriors to hunt him down. Once found, they would bring him in to stand trial. Patrick would like nothing more than to kill the bastard, slowly, inflicting an incredible amount of pain.

However, Patrick was a man of the law and he’d see justice served.

There was still the problem of Isobell and their upcoming nuptials to deal with. For now though, he had an immediate crisis. Laurie remained fevered and incoherent. He feared she fought for her life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Isobell inhaled sharply, horrified at the sight of the fevered woman’s abused face. She found it difficult to look at her, to see her as a victim instead of Patrick’s whore. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for the woman. In reality though, they were both merely pawns in the game the men played.

She could well believe Malcolm Maclay had done this. More than once, she’d witnessed his brutal treatment of serving women at her home. When she interceded, the man glared, though retreated. Why didn’t her father better control his henchman?

Patrick’s woman’s eyes opened slightly. The fever held her in its grip. Glancing around, Isobell located an ewer of water on a nearby table. She poured some into a cup and tried to get the woman to drink a wee bit.

A small amount passed her lips. The rest dribbled down her chin and onto her chest to soak her linen nightrail. Isobell turned to leave the chamber, planning to slip out unseen.

Too late. Patrick and Archibald stood in the doorway.

Rage radiated from Patrick, freezing her in place. He moved across the chamber with long, quick steps and grabbed Isobell by the wrist. “You poison her.”

She franticly tried to pull away, but he held her in a tight, painful grip. She winced, tears coming to her eyes. “Nae. Nae. I but gave her water to quench her thirst.”

Archibald strode across the room. He sniffed near the sick woman’s mouth then tasted the liquid in the cup. “Release Isobell. ’Twas but water.”

With a frigid glare, Patrick freed her from his hold and tossed her away. “What are you doing in Lady Laurie’s chamber? Where is Aine?”

Isobell wiped at the few tears on her cheek with the back of a shaky hand. “I came to see what your whore looked like,” she said before she thought better of sounding so mean.

“Get out.” Patrick stared at her with icy hatred. “Get out before I strike you.”

He went to the French woman’s bed and swept her hair away from her bruised face. Sitting on the bench at her side, he grasped her hand and murmured to her.

Isobell couldn’t believe how gently he handled the woman. He’d never been kind to her. She caught Archibald’s eye before she fled the chamber.

“Isobell wait. I must have words with you,” Archibald called.

If only it was he whom she was to wed.

* * *

Laurie leaned against the down pillows and raised her hand a few inches before the effort became too much and she dropped it back to the mattress. Her fever had broken, but she remained weaker than a newborn kitten, and when she moved too quickly, felt twinges of uncomfortable pain.

Time passed slowly. Nightmares haunted her. She often feared Maclay would sneak into the castle and abduct her again. For weeks, she’d remained in bed dependent on Aine and Elspeth to care for her. They forced bitter tasting potions on her to relieve the pain and to help build her strength, cajoling her with soothing words and praise. Patrick sat with her often, holding her hand and whispering gentle words of encouragement.

She wanted to scream.

At times when she gazed into his dark eyes, she caught a glimpse of guilt reflected there. It was there now.

“You’re not to blame. None of what happened is your fault.” Laurie took full responsibility for her actions and the consequences. She’d been at fault, not he.

“How can I not be to blame? You were harmed in my home. I should have done a better job watching over you. You are my responsibility.”

She clutched his hand. “I left of my own free will. You are not accountable.”

He shook his head and glanced away.

“Look at me.” She squeezed his fingers. “Thank you for sitting with me.”

A sheen coated his eyes when their gazes collided. Their time together was bittersweet. Patrick’s wedding to Isobell loomed in the too-near future.

* * *

Oh, no. Isobell dashed into a curtained niche and waited for Patrick to pass. While he locked himself away with Lady Laurie, she sought out Archibald’s company.

Isobell scurried along the passageway in the opposite direction and slipped into Archie’s bedchamber to wait for his return. She plopped into a chair and leaned her chin on her hands. At first, she’d been angry. After all, they planned to force her to wed a man who loved another, and worse yet, disliked her. She’d become another of his possessions, one he didn’t care for, possibly even hated.

She’d resigned herself to her fate, but didn’t truly accept it. What was she to do? She had no recourse. Her father was adamant.

While Patrick spent time with his mistress, Archibald made her laugh with entertaining tales of his journeys. They’d become friends. She wished it were he, not Patrick, to whom she was betrothed. Even when she was younger and betrothed to Donald, she’d wished it Archie to whom she would wed.

Archibald exemplified everything a husband should be. Kind and gentle. A strong warrior and a courtier.

When Donald died, her father had betrothed her to Patrick. How awful to be given to the wrong brother. She thrummed her nails on the wooden arm of the chair.

She eyed the big bed. If she gave her virginity to Archie, Patrick would refuse to wed her. Archibald was honorable. She’d have to seduce him.

Isobell dropped her gown and chemise to the floor and climbed into the big bed. A chill prickled her skin. Archie better hurry, before she lost her nerve.

Several minutes later, she shivered. The room was cold without a fire. She covered herself. The fur tickled and she giggled. Archibald will be surprised to find me in his bed?

Excitement made her smile. Then she lost her smile.

She waited hours, but he didn’t come.

Fine. She’d search him out. She’d refuse to wed Patrick.

* * *

“Read these. Tell me how I can get out of it.” Patrick handed Archibald the pages from the forged contract.

The door to his private chamber flew open. They shot to their feet, ready to defend themselves. In the doorway stood Isobell, her violet eyes sparked fire.

“What now?” Patrick demanded, arching a brow.

Isobell stepped into the chamber, her arms at her sides, her small hands clenched into tight fists. Her lips pursed, she boldly stared at him.

He rounded the worktable and leaned against the front of it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stoically returned her stare. Would he ever get used to her temper tantrums?

Archibald stood before the hearth. Isobell’s gaze darted to him. He returned her look, shook his head, and quickly glanced away.

Patrick rubbed his chin. What did his brother have to do with this?

Isobell’s facade crumbled. Her eyes turned a deep shade of cool purple, the color of a stormy sea. She appeared vulnerable. Yet she straightened her back, raised her chin defiantly and held his stare.

“I will not wed with you.” A tear fell from her eye to drip upon her pale cheek.

He wanted to scream at her, to rant and rave, to tell her he didn’t want to wed her either. Instead, he glowered, his patience close to its limit. They faced an impossible situation.

“You have nae choice, lass. Your father demands it,” he bellowed. Tamping down on his frustration, he lowered his voice. “Little as I like it.”

“I cannae marry you.”

“Perhaps you should persuade your father to dissolve the contract.”

Isobell glanced at Archibald, beseeching him with her eyes, imploring him to intercede. His gaze sad, he shook his head once again before lowering his stare to his hands.

“You fools!” Patrick sighed heavily. “What a fine mess.”

“’Tis not Isobell’s fault. You should not take your anger out on her. You ken her father is determined she marry you,” Archibald said, frustrated anger burning in his eyes.

“Who then should I take my anger out on? You?” Twisting away, Patrick dragged both his hands through his hair, trying to compose himself before turning back. When he did, he caught another visual exchange between Isobell and Archibald.

He shook his head and fell into the chair at his worktable. “Isobell, you will leave us and return to your chamber.”

“Nae—”

“I have something to say and would have Lady Isobell stay to hear it.” Archibald stepped forward and straightened his shoulders. Isobell gave him a tremulous smile. He cleared his throat. “I wish to wed Lady Isobell.”

Patrick blinked several times, staring at his brother. “Do you ken what you are saying?”

“Aye, I do.”

Isobell’s demeanor bloomed and she broke out into a radiant smile. She glided across the floor to stand next to Archibald. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment. Archie took her small hand into his and they turned in unison to face Patrick.

“And you, Isobell, let me guess, you wish to wed Archie.”

She nodded. “Aye. With all my heart.”

This was the answer! Relief and joy slammed into him. But he needed to tread carefully. Lamont must be handled.

Patrick rose, paced across the chamber, and stopped. He stood erect with his back to them, his hands clasped behind his back. After several minutes, he turned to face them.

“I will consider your desires. Now, Isobell, return to your chamber until it is time for the evening meal.”

Both Isobell and Archibald moved to leave.

“Nae. Archie, you remain.”

Isobell gave Archibald a final glance and left.

“You want the lass?” Patrick faced his twin.

“Aye. We have become close.”

“Are you doing this for me, so I might wed Laurie?”

“Nae, I want Isobell for my wife.”

“So be it. You have my blessing to wed. And I will wed my lass as soon as I can make arrangements.”

“What of Lamont? Isobell’s father may not agree. I am not a chief, only second in line and not even that when your bairns are born. He may go to King Jamie and request your marriage to Lady Laurie be set aside.”

“Not if we wed before a priest. He has nae friends in Rome. ’Twill be impossible to set our marriage aside. Besides, Lamont should be happy to acquire you for a son. You are a MacLachlan. You are a good man, Archie. And well he kens it.”

Patrick clapped his hands. Now to share the news with his lady.

* * *

Laurie worried her bottom lip. She’d spent the afternoon in the great hall with only Alexander Campbell as companion. They sat before a glowing fire in chairs with soft sapphire cushions. Patrick left her in the other man’s care after placing a fur across her lap for warmth. He’d given her a kiss and went off to find the priest.

She shifted her weight on the cushion. Although Patrick corroborated her story, she doubted Alexander believed she came from France. Elspeth’s fiancé made her nervous. He had the tendency to ask probing questions she couldn’t answer.

Whenever Alexander was alone with her, he watched her with his all-too-knowing stare. “You ken there are many legends about the caves of the gray women.” He stared at her as a scientist would an insect under a microscope. As if, he wanted to learn her every secret.

“I’m sure,” she said softly.

“Countless tales of witches and strange happenings.”

Laurie frowned. The caves were eerie. “There was an old, gnarled woman in the cave with me. Did you find her when you rescued me?”

That was stupid. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? Each time she spoke, she encouraged him.

“Nae. Nary a soul was there besides you. Everyone else disappeared into the blasted fog.”

Laurie rubbed her hand along the fur in her lap, the sensation comforting. “The old woman came often to tend my wounds. Although there was something unusual about her, she treated me kindly.”

“Mayhap she was one of the infamous gray women—the witches of the caves.” Alexander’s eyes twinkled as if he teased. Still Laurie sensed something else, something unnerving.

She continued to stroke the fur. “No, I don’t think so. Yet it was quite odd, actually. There was something very queer about her. She had the most intense green eyes. I’d the strangest sense I knew her before, but in a different form, as someone else. The idea was disconcerting.”

Alexander had a knack for getting her to say things she didn’t want to say, confide her deepest thoughts, voice her fears.

“The woman who came to enlist us in aiding you was verra beautiful with exquisite green eyes.” He watched Laurie closely. “She told us her name was Caitrina.”

“Caitrina?” Laurie gasped, unable to conceal her shock.

“Aye. You ken her?”

“No.” She shook her head. She couldn’t admit it. How would she explain Caitrina? She couldn’t tell a medieval man she believed in faeries. Or that Caitrina was a faerie from the twenty-first century.

Could it be possible?

Was Caitrina one and the same with the old woman? Had she been with her all that time, taking care of her? If so, why would she have let such a horrible thing happen in the first place? More questions with no easy answers.

Alexander continued to stare at her with that annoying penetrating look. He evaluated what she said, analyzing every word. He grinned devilishly.

“What?” she asked.

“You are a witch,” Alexander said with a chuckle.

“No. I—”

He raised a hand. “Many occurrences in this world are difficult to explain. Although, I dinnae believe witches exist, I find the concept of such superstition fascinating. Most who are accused are either a product of political revenge or illiterate prejudice.”

“I’m not a witch.”

“Nor is Elspeth, yet there are those who would accuse her because of her special gift.”

“You know about her visions?” Laurie inhaled sharply. She shouldn’t have said that. The family tried to keep Elspeth’s sixth sense a secret.

“Aye. ’Tis what makes her so desirable.”

“What do you mean?”

The sound of approaching footsteps distracted her from the grilling she wanted to give him.

Patrick strode across the hall, stopping beside her, a broad smile on his handsome face. “I am returned from the old priest. We will wed on the morrow, before Lamont hears of it. For that reason, ’twill be a small gathering, only our clansman who are already here at Castle Lachlan. I hope that won’t disappoint.”

“I couldn’t be happier.”

Patrick crouched in front of her and kissed her sweetly. She hung on him wanting more.

She would wed her Highland warrior.

* * *

The gilded chapel glowed with candlelight. Laurie’s gaze circled the small interior, filled with her new friends.

With a twinge of regret, she thought of her family. She would never take the long walk down the aisle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Uncle David’s arm. Nor would she see the expected smirk on her Cousin Finn’s face as she passed him on her way to meet her intended at the altar. She wholeheartedly wished they both could be here with her now, to share her happiness.

Lost in her thoughts, she startled when the chapel quieted.

Laurie raised her gaze to Patrick, forgetting all else. Only him, the man of her dreams. The man she desired for her own, the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

Even if it meant staying in the past.

Her heart swelled and she smiled at him with love.

Patrick strode past those gathered, eyes only for her. His heated gaze scorched her. Her nipples puckered in response. Oh, how she wanted this man.

He came to stand before her. Their eyes locked in communion. Time and space no longer existed, they were alone, two souls united.

The old priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell. Directing them to stand together in front of him, he joined their hands and bade them kneel. He motioned for Elspeth and Archibald to step forward, for they were to witness this union before God and their clansmen.

Patrick squeezed Laurie’s fingers. The mass and ceremony buzzed by in a blur. She hardly remembered saying her vows.

Laurie accepted Patrick’s assistance to stand. With his hands on her shoulders, he twisted her to face him. He placed his fingers on her cheeks and lowered his head. His eyes smoldered.

His lips were warm and persistent. The kiss shot to her toes.

Everyone cheered, and her cheeks burned.

Patrick stepped back. “Wife.”

She stifled a giggle. “Husband.”

They left the chapel and crossed the passageway to the council chamber where they would celebrate their union with a wedding feast. Patrick’s warriors, some with their wives, and some with their sons and daughters filled the chamber when they arrived.

The cheer echoed from the rafters.

Laurie toyed with the large sapphire ring on her finger, the beautiful token of Patrick’s love. This was the happiest day of her life. Yet it was as if she walked within a dream.

Could this be real?

She sighted Patrick across the chamber, standing with some of his men. Jamie slapped his back with some jest and they laughed. Catching her eye, Patrick raised his cup to her, and she smiled.

The crowd moved in waves and she lost sight of him.

Her stomach clenched when Munn approached. He made odd sounds as if he couldn’t form words and handed her a beautiful bejeweled goblet.

Elspeth joined them. “He presents you with an offering of peace.”

The little man made a choking sound, but vigorously nodded.

“Thank you.” Laurie accepted his token and sipped the sweet wine. The ruby drink tasted delicious, fruity flavor burst on her tongue. More wonderful than any wine she’d ever tasted before.

Strolling around the hall, she accepted the best wishes from Patrick’s clansmen. She sipped from her goblet. The cup never emptied. Each taste was more luscious than the last.

She danced with Patrick, ate from the savory assortment of foods, and drank from the goblet given to her by Munn.

Later, she whirled around the floor with Stephen. When they danced past the trestle table where her goblet sat, she stopped to take more of the sweet wine. Delicious.

Laurie enjoyed the minstrels and more dancing. She moved to the side of the hall to rest her aching toes and sipped from the goblet. Whew. She blew out a puff of air. A feverish heat flushed her chest and neck, making her desperate for Patrick’s embrace. She wanted to consummate her marriage. She’d been waiting forever and didn’t want to wait any longer.

Taking another sip of wine, she spied him at the edge of the hall. She rushed across the oak flooring toward him. Everyone else faded away. She giggled as she stumbled into him. He caught her by the arms. He was so sexy, and tonight, finally, all of that glorious man would be hers. She wrapped her arms around him and breathed in his earthy scent.

He smelled different. Felt different. His eyes were different.

It gave her pause, but only for a moment. They were married now.

Everything was different.

She leaned into him. When she hit his hard chest with her sensitized breasts, she pressed even tighter to him. She kissed his neck, slid her tongue along his jaw.

“Lass, what are you about?” He chuckled, the sound rough against her throat.

Why was he trying to push her away?

Laurie wouldn’t allow it. She wrapped one leg around his hip, laced her fingers in his hair and shimmied up his body. Without losing her stride, she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth.

He let out a tormented groan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

When Patrick caught sight of Laurie on the other side of the hall, an intense, hot fury boiled within him. Her arms draped his brother’s neck and she smiled adoringly at Archibald as if he were her one true love. Couldn’t she tell them apart?

Did she prefer Archibald?

A red haze clouded Patrick’s eyes and angry words choked his throat. He strode across the chamber, his steps long and sure. Somehow, he managed to gain some control, forcing himself to swallow his rage before he made a public display of his disgust.

Archibald wrestled with her. She was an unruly vine, clinging to him.

“Archie, take my lady-wife to our bedchamber. I will follow,” Patrick ordered through clenched teeth.

His brother had the audacity to chuckle. He practically manhandled Laurie to move her. He lifted her through the doorway and up the stairs before anyone noticed. She attached herself to Archibald, wrapping her legs and arms around his body, kissing him with sloppy, wet kisses. He struggled with her. Finally, managing to get her to the bedchamber and off him, he dropped her onto the big bed.

“I am not Patrick. He is over there.” Archibald pointed to where Patrick watched the scene from the threshold, fury smoldering inside his chest.

“You’re mine.” She jumped up, reaching for Archibald once more.

Moving quickly, Patrick lunged across the chamber and grabbed her around the waist, pulled her away from his brother and dumped her back on the bed.

She laughed and swayed as she tried once again to rise. “Wow. Everything is spinning. Hey, there are two of you.” She giggled and fell back against the mattress like a heavy boulder.

“I never thought the day would come when you would covet my bride.” Patrick glowered at his twin.

Archibald raised his hands, palms forward. “I stand before you, falsely accused. Your lady-wife is in her cups. She is not herself.”

“How did she get that way? I saw her take but one goblet of wine. Nary enough to confuse us. She is a trifler, playing with us.” Patrick continued to glare at his twin, his disappointment and anger consuming him. “’Tis too late. I have wed the wench. I will have to teach her I am her only master.”

“You make too much of this. She is but drunk.”

“Leave. Before I forget you are my brother.”

Archibald pivoted on his heel and left the chamber without uttering another word. Patrick stared at his new wife in disgust. She sprawled across the bed, insensible, as intoxicated as a drunken warrior. Since he first found the lass, she’d been naught but trouble. Not in his thirty summers had he ever been this angry.

He reached for her and as if he held a rag doll, shook her. She didn’t stir. Cursing harshly, he dropped her onto the feather mattress.

Divesting her of her gown and chemise, he folded them over the chest at the foot of the bed. She wore some lacy thing over her breasts and her female mound. He ground his teeth in frustration. His hands shook with anger, with desire, as he slid the tiny piece of lace down her legs. He glared at her, almost hating her. She was completely bare, except for the fragile lace on her breasts, which he couldn’t figure out how to remove, and the betrothal ring on her finger, the symbol of their disastrous marriage.

If she loved him, she should be able to tell them apart.

His desire sickened him. Even in his anger, he wanted her with soul deep yearning. Patrick removed his knife from its sheath at his waist. Cutting his palm, he drew blood. He moved his hand over the bed, letting the dark, red blood drip onto the sheet, and across her thighs. Only enough to make it appear that the marriage had been consummated. He didn’t want gossip, or anyone to doubt she belonged to him.

Leaving her lying there alone on their wedding bed, he walked across the chamber to sit facing away, far from her, in one of the chairs before the hearth. He stared into the fire, contemplating the future. Even the flames mocked him. The blue of her eyes and the gold of her hair burned his vision, haunting him.

She didn’t love him enough to realize she was with the wrong man. Patrick rubbed the ache near his heart.

What was he to do? The question plagued him. He wanted to get away from her, as far as possible, leave her here where he wouldn’t have to see her.

Maybe if he visited his father’s Cousin Allain at his castle near the ruins of the ancient fort in Glasrie, he could forget the image of Laurie twined around Archibald. Patrick meant to visit his lands there for many a fortnight. Needed to handle the problems created by his Uncle Donald, who’d gone there. By going now, he could give himself time. Time to come to terms with a wife who didn’t love him as much as he loved her.

He’d rather deal with his traitorous uncle than his disappointment.

Patrick stared into the fire, waiting for the night to pass, planning his departure.

* * *

Atop the battlements, Munn performed an intricate jig. Precariously close to the edge, he skipped on tiptoe from one crenel to the next, his joy effervescent.

He won!

The coupling never took place. The marriage wasn’t consummated.

The chief would never forgive his new wife’s betrayal. He’d have the marriage annulled.

Munn must apprise the queen of his success.

He rubbed his hands together in glee. What would the queen give him for a reward?

Jewels? He’d always wanted a jewel-encrusted dirk. Not that he had need of one. Still, he wanted one.

So relieved was he that he’d soon be free of his vow to the queen, he continued to dance throughout the misty night. Thankfully, the guise of invisibility masked him, for had it been otherwise, the wall guards would surely faint like silly lasses.

He chuckled over the image in his mind.

Before the sunrays kissed the land, Munn melted into the fog and drifted off to the realm of the faerie queen.

* * *

Laurie woke, her mind fuzzy. She stretched to remove the kinks from her muscles. Sensing the lateness of the hour, she yanked one of the bed curtains back. The sun pierced her retinas and her memory flashed. She’d married Patrick the night before.

Where was he?

She grimaced. Her head pounded. Nausea pooled in her belly. Weird. She’d no memory of going to bed the previous night. The last thing she remembered was that nasty little man giving her a goblet of wine.

For God’s sake, she still wore her bra.

The blood on her thighs proved she’d truly wed. She was no longer a virgin and she didn’t even remember doing the deed. How had she gotten so drunk she couldn’t remember having sex with the sexiest man in the world?

She’d done it again, made a mess of things.

This was all Patrick’s fault. Since she’d fallen in love with the gorgeous man, she’d been doing brainless things. Now this. Getting drunk on her wedding night was the epitome of stupidity.

She slipped out of bed and shuffled to the washstand where she found a cloth. With a shaking hand, she wet the washcloth and used it to clean away the blood. Her chest ached with self-anger. She couldn’t believe she’d ruined the most important day of her life.

But she hadn’t drunk more than one goblet of wine, just one, the one Munn gave her as a peace offering. The wine must have contained something, which thoroughly intoxicated her. The little bastard.

As she climbed back onto the bed, Patrick entered the chamber. She gave him a coy smile, knowing her cheeks were flushed. He shot her a look that clenched her heart. His eyes were cold and empty, his blue gaze dispassionate.

“I am leaving. I have ordered Duncan to watch over you. You are not to stray from this chamber without him at your side. And stay away from my brother and every other man that strokes your fancy.” His voice, void of emotion, sent a chill through her.

What? “Patrick, what happened? Why are you leaving?” Her voice quivered. “Tell me what is wrong.”

He stared at her, a frigid glare filled with ice. “Your behavior last night was intolerable.” He turned away and walked to the chamber door.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Needing to stop him, she pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her body, toga style, then chased after him. “Don’t walk out on me.”

Patrick stopped before opening the door. Laurie’s fists pounded against his back. Spinning around, he grabbed hold of both her wrists. He managed to pick her up, carry her to the bed and drop her atop the mattress.

She grabbed hold of his leine. A piece of the fine saffron fabric tore in her hand. Her eyes—large and glowing with shock—held his gaze for several heartbeats.

Her chest rose and fell with quick intakes of breath, her nipples taut against the thin sheet. Patrick’s control broke. The emotions ripping through him were sudden and powerful, and he seized Laurie, dragged her against his chest, and roughly captured her mouth with his lips. The kiss was harsh and punishing, born of anger. She kissed him back with as much ferocity, biting his lip with pearly white teeth. He growled, slanted his mouth, deepened the kiss.

He forced her to submit. Anger didn’t douse the desire burning between them. It stoked the flame. Hotter. And hotter.

Patrick pushed her back, pressed her shoulders into the mattress. He stripped off his leine and plaide and mounted her, pushing her into the soft bedding with his weight. He ripped away the sheet she wore and forced her legs apart. Positioning himself between her thighs, he thrust, burying himself deep.

She screamed.

Damnation. With that one violent stroke, he broke through her maidenhead. Tears rolled over Laurie’s cheeks and she pressed her palms against his chest, trying to push him away.

Patrick froze. He panted with the effort to remain motionless. He dropped his forehead onto hers. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. She was a virgin and he’d taken her in the roughest manner, his possession, swift and fierce.

“Sweetling, look at me,” he demanded.

Her moist eyelashes fluttered open. He winced at the distrust in her eyes.

“I ken I hurt you. The pain will soon ease.” Guilt clawed the inside of his chest. “Do you wish me to stop?” He offered her the option, though restraint would surely kill him.

“No.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m your wife.”

“Aye. In both word and deed.”

She touched his cheek. “Why are you leaving?”

“I-I was angry, because…”

“Because I got drunk last night?”

He closed his eyes. “Because I am a fool.”

“Don’t leave.” Her kiss slid from sweet to flame, and made him realize how much he wanted her love. With time, maybe she would feel for him what he felt for her.

Patrick slowly moved within Laurie’s velvet embrace.

“Are you all right?”

“Aww, yes. Fine.” Her facial features had softened. “This is nice, but I think faster would be better.”

Patrick quickened the pace. She seemed instinctively to follow his lead. Her body moved with his, stroke for urgent stroke. They were as close as two people could possibly be. He reveled at the feel of her, the intimate slide of thrust and withdrawal.

Her nails dug into the muscles on his forearms as he rocked against her. His rhythm quick and sure. Moist skin slapped against moist skin. Flames of fire raced through his veins, driving him harder, deeper, faster. Yet he wanted more. Needed more.

“More,” she begged.

He gave their lovemaking everything from within him. Heart and soul.

She inhaled sharply and screamed his name.

The sound of his name on her lips while in the throes of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. A shudder ran over him, and he growled. The world exploded into a million, beautifully colored, bright lights.

When his breathing returned to normal, Laurie gazed at him with wonder in her eyes.

He held her tight for a moment, still panting. Then he rose onto his forearms and stared down at her. “Did I hurt you overmuch?”

“Only at the start.”

Guilt burned within his chest. He silently cursed. What had he done? He was a fool. The sticky evidence of her innocence scorched his thigh. She’d been a virgin. She’d never been with that boy from the future. Maclay hadn’t raped her. She’d not betrayed him.

He’d not needed to use his blood to prove her virginity. Possessiveness, so forceful, the feeling nearly consumed him, emerged to the surface. She was his and he’d never let her go.

He’d hurt her. If he only realized she’d never lain with a man before, he could have eased her first experience. He regretted having taken her in anger, having treated her no better than a whore.

“What happened last night?” She blushed profusely and didn’t look at him.

“This past night, I left you alone. You were verra drunk and quick to sleep.” He didn’t add that she had clung to his brother, that she couldn’t differentiate between he and Archibald.

“But the blood.” Again, her cheeks glowed with hot color.

“’Twas mine. I did not want anyone to suspect our vows had not been consummated. I cut my hand and left my blood on the bed and on your thighs.”

Patrick rose from the mattress and strode across the chamber. He poured water from the ewer into the washbasin. Wetting a cloth, he washed her blood from himself. Then he moistened the cloth again and brought it to Laurie, gently cleaning the blood from her thighs, trying to ease the discomfort between her legs.

The discomfort he caused with his stubborn lack of trust. How would he ever make it up to her?

After returning the cloth to the washstand, he climbed back into bed and embraced his wife. “Now hush, sweetling. Rest.”

Laurie absently moved a finger in tiny circles on his chest, twirling the soft hairs. “How did I get drunk last night? I only remember drinking one goblet of wine.”

Anger simmered again, but Patrick held it in check. “Only one?”

“Yeah. Munn gave me the one goblet, a symbol of friendship, or so he said. It must’ve been very strong wine. Don’t you think?”

“Aye, indeed.” Patrick wasn’t pleased with the direction of his thoughts. Could Munn have used magic on Laurie?

He held her in his arms until she dozed. He rose and donned his garments. Unsure of what madness had overcome his castle, he gazed at the bed where she slept. His emotions raw. He was no longer certain what took place the night past.

He silently left the chamber and searched for Munn.

* * *

Caitrina slipped from the shadows of the bedchamber unseen, appearing moments later at the knoll in the Fir-wood.

She smiled triumphantly. The seed was set, the future secure. Victory hers.

The little man had been a fool to celebrate too soon.

While she congratulated herself over her success, she sensed the air around her change—charge with energy. She spun and the queen appeared. Caitrina had never seen such fury on Oonagh’s exquisite features. She took a step back, unsure of the queen’s intentions.

“Princess, you think yourself the victor? Yet the game continues.” With those ambiguous words, the High Queen of the Fae merged with the mist and vanished from sight.

Caitrina cursed. Then she, too, disappeared from the wood.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Waking to the sound of soft humming, Laurie discovered Aine moving about the bedchamber, readying a bath. The steaming tub sat before a welcoming fire.

Laurie sighed at the thought of soaking sore muscles in luxurious warmth.

The older woman curtsied. “Good day, Lady MacLachlan.”

Laurie stretched and smiled at hearing her new name. “None of that. I’m still only me.”

“Nae, lass, you are now the lady of the castle.” Aine hustled her into the tub.

“You don’t need to stay. I’d like to be alone for a bit.”

“I will tend to the bed then—” The woman gasped. “So much blood. What did the brute do to you? Are you in pain, m’lady?”

Laurie’s cheeks flamed. Would she ever get used to so many people knowing the intimate details of her life?

“I’m fine,” she managed to get out through her embarrassment.

“Beast!” Aine dropped the bloody sheet and hustled from the room.

* * *

Patrick searched the castle, but couldn’t find Munn. He asked Elspeth. Questioned Duncan and Jamie. They hadn’t seen the wee man since the banquet the previous night. Giving up, Patrick headed for his private chamber.

Archibald and Stephen waited for him.

“Now what!” Their unexpected appearance set him on edge.

Stephen leaned nonchalantly against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Archibald stared over Patrick’s shoulder. “This message arrived from our Cousin Allain. The gillie who brought the missive was anxious to return. Before he left, he indicated the contents were of the greatest import.”

He stepped forward to hand the document over.

Putting aside his quest to find Munn and his resolve to solve the mystery of his wedding night, Patrick gave his full attention to his brother. He placed his hand on Archibald’s shoulder. “I was mistaken this past night. I accused you falsely.”

His twin hesitated a moment then nodded.

Clearing his throat, Patrick accepted the note. “Let us see what Allain reports.”

He broke the seal. Both of the other men watched him. While reading the contents, he kept his features bland.

He held the missive tight in his hand. Heat rushed up his neck and into his face. Crinkling the message into a ball, he thrust the offensive missive into the fire.

Stephen straightened away from the wall. “What did he say?”

“Allain reminds me that Uncle Donald has taken refuge at my keep in Glasrie. It seems our uncle is spreading rumors of my troubles with Lamont, claiming I am unfit to lead. Allain fears Donald attempts to rally support against me.”

“He goes too far,” Archibald said.

“Aye, he does.” Patrick bit back an angry curse.

“We can send someone to watch Donald, to follow him should he leave Glasrie,” Stephen suggested.

Patrick needed to deal with his uncle himself, but he didn’t want to leave Castle Lachlan. Not now that he finally had Laurie as his wife.

“You shall go.” He directed his stare at Stephen.

“I did not intend for it to be me. Who will guard you?” His cousin sounded concerned.

“Archie is here, as are Duncan and Jamie. I will be safe enough. Besides, you are well suited to stalk our dear uncle. In addition, I need to ken if Maclay contacts him. The men I sent to search for the cur have found naught.”

“What of Lamont?” Archibald straightened at Stephen’s question.

“He claims to have washed his hands of the man,” Patrick said.

“More the reason for me to remain and guard your back.”

Patrick wrapped an arm around his cousin’s shoulder. “I trust only you to watch our uncle and uncover any other treachery at my keep in Glasrie. Allain maintains good order there, but he is not accustomed to Donald’s schemes.”

“Aye.” Stephen sighed. “I will keep Donald out of trouble and watch for Maclay.”

They exchanged glances, a silent message shared. After some vigorous backslapping, Stephen left the chamber to prepare for his journey. Archibald made to follow him, but Patrick stopped him.

“Stay. I wish to have words with you.”

“As you like.”

“I recognize the fact it is past time for Uncle Donald to be dealt with. And I should be the one going to Glasrie to handle him. Yet I dinnae wish to leave my lady-wife alone. And I cannae take her with me. The trip is arduous and she would slow me down. I told Stephen you are here. Will you stay?”

“For a wee bit. I plan to take some lads and go to Lamont and attempt to garner his agreement for my marriage to Isobell. We wish to wed soon. I would have his blessing. However, Alexander will remain here for several months. He plans to stay with Elspeth before he returns to Carrick Castle.”

“Good. I trust you to handle Lamont. When I go to Glasrie, I can leave Laurie in Alexander’s care.”

Patrick embraced his twin and managed a smile of relief. He hated when he and his brother were at odds.

Shortly after his brother left, a gentle tap sounded at the door. He called out and Aine answered. He bid her enter. She stood in the threshold, hands on hips, glaring at him.

What had he done to deserve her irritation?

“Chief, ’tis not my place, yet I must bring this matter to you.” She coughed. “You have been overly rough with your lady-wife. She bleeds much. You must be gentle with a new bride.”

Heat rose up his neck and into his cheeks for the second time this morning. This was too much. He stared at a stone above her head. “Dammit, woman. It was not all my lady-wife’s blood. I cut myself while slicing a piece of cheese and used the sheet to staunch the flow. My lady-wife bled as expected of a virgin. Nae more.” Saint Columba save him from the meddling woman.

Aine grinned before she left.

The old woman dared laugh at him. He’d actually blushed under her scrutiny. He growled as he sorted the papers on his worktable. He must be going soft.

Shortly before noon, Patrick ascended the stairs to the upper passageway.

He should stay away from Laurie’s bed and give her time for the tenderness from his abrupt possession to fade. Though he could hardly wait to bed her again, to be alone with her, somewhere away from the castle and its over-inquisitive people. He yearned to go somewhere away from the numerous demands on his time, far away from the multitude of people vying for his attention.

Ahh! He changed direction mid-stride, headed for the kitchen and then collected his tail and his lady.

“Where are we going?” Laurie asked an hour later when they stopped on the ridge above the moor to take in the view.

“’Tis a surprise.”

She rolled her eyes the way Elspeth often did. “Haven’t we had enough surprises to last awhile?”

“This one you will like.” He was determined to make up for his callous treatment of her on the eve of their wedding.

The sun slid toward the western horizon. They would need to quicken the pace to reach their destination before gloaming. They traversed a trail through the Fir-wood, riding deep into the forest to a place far from the interruptions of his station, and more importantly, far from the Sithichean Sluaigh, the mysterious faerie knoll where Laurie first appeared.

Breaking through the trees, they scattered a small gathering of deer and walked the horses toward the hunting lodge nestled there.

He signaled his guards, who discreetly spread out to keep watch.

With a glance at Laurie, his heartbeat quickened. Aye, the hut would do nicely for a tryst.

Laurie leaned forward in her saddle and eyed the thatched roofed stone hut. “What is this place?”

“We often use it when we hunt in the area.” Patrick leapt to the ground.

He grasped her by the waist, lifted her from the horse and slid her down the front of his body, over the hard ridge of his sex. Hers clenched in response.

“Mmm,” she purred.

“You are killing me.” He set her away. “Let us get settled first.”

He held the door and she entered the one-room hut. Well-tended, though sparsely furnished, the bed in the corner drew her attention. The mattress had been dressed with the finest of silks and velvets and furs. Someone created a love nest for them.

“’Tis small, I ken, but away from curious eyes. I will start a fire in the center pit, which will warm us nicely. We can easily tolerate the small amount of smoke. Dinnae you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

Laurie sat on a rough-hewn bench and admired her new husband while he moved around the quaint room. He secured his sword near the bed and placed their saddlebags on the floor in a corner. When he finished setting the room to rights, he stood before her.

From the pouch at his waist appeared a cloth wrapped bundle tied with leather strips. He offered it to her. As she reached for it, he gazed into her eyes with a tenderness seldom seen by others. “I am verra sorry.” He caressed her cheek with gentle fingers. “Can you find it within your heart to forgive me?”

She placed the package on the well-worn table and returned her gaze to Patrick. Regret clouded his eyes. “There isn’t anything to forgive.”

“Aye, there is.”

His eyes widened when she placed her index finger to his lips. “Hush, now. Let us enjoy this time together without the shadows of the past.”

He kissed her finger. His eyes twinkled and a smile reshaped his soft lips, making him appear more handsome and less forbidding.

On tiptoes, she took his cheeks between her hands and kissed his splendid lips. He groaned against her mouth, adjusted his position and enfolded her in his arms. He held her tight against his chest, strong emotions shimmering in the air around them.

Patrick patted her backside and ended the kiss, releasing her from his embrace. He tugged on his shirt. “Warm in here.”

She suppressed a smile and reached for the package on the table. After removing the tie, she opened the cloth wrapping. A shiver of delight teased her. He’d given her a present, a beautiful circular brooch of gold with intricate filigree and three lovely, sparkling sapphire stones. The gems were the same color and clarity as the large sapphire set in the hilt of his sword and the one in her betrothal ring.

“The gemstones are the color of your eyes, sweetling. One stone for each of our bairns.” He winked.

“We don’t have any...” She hesitated, clearing her throat. “Bairns?”

“Elspeth foresees three. Two boys and a wee blue-eyed girl, sweet like you.” He gently wiped a teardrop from her cheek.

“The brooch is beautiful. I’ll cherish it always.” She clutched the pin to her chest and smiled, though more tears threatened. “Thank you.”

Patrick took the brooch from her and placed it on the table. “Come here.” He wrapped her in a tender embrace.

The meeting of their lips began with a gentle exploration, tongues seeking and then dueling. The kisses heated to an intensity that burned. They fell onto the bed curled around each other like wrestling lion cubs unable to discern where one began and the other ended. They franticly worked to remove the other’s clothing. Fabric ripped here and tore there. Soon they were naked, skin-to-skin, feeling, touching, and discovering each other’s bodies, mindless of their surroundings.

All their past petting made Patrick an expert at pleasuring her. He easily brought her to a fevered pitch, her body trembling beneath him with the intensity of her need. When he entered her, she was more than ready to receive him into her slick body. Their lovemaking, wild and frenzied, brought them to an explosive release.

Sated, they cuddled in each other’s arms, enjoying the satisfying afterglow.

“Three babies? Really?”

“Aye.” Patrick grinned smugly.

Laurie shivered.

“You’re cold.” He rose from the bed and strode to the fire to add more peat, presenting his naked back to her.

His body glistened in the firelight. Magnificent. His broad muscular back slimmed to a trim waist and a great butt. A firm, nicely rounded backside. The kind she wanted to reach out and squeeze. Her palms itched to touch him again.

He swung around and caught her staring.

Laurie drew in a deep breath. A smile that was purely male gave him a devilish appearance. He flexed his shoulders. Tightened his abs. Her stomach fluttered. A tingly sensation radiated throughout her whole body.

She loved this man. She’d never wanted anything more than what she had now—Patrick. They belonged to one another, completely and without reserve. She wanted to make love to him, again and again.

She curved her lips into what she hoped was a captivating smile, a come-hither look. He shot her a wicked grin before joining her in the bed. This time their loving was slow and sensual. He used all his knowledge and experience to pleasure her.

His lips teasingly skimmed, first one, and then the other of her sensitized, swollen nipples. The gentle caresses sent a tantalizing wave of heat through her, making her tremble. Raising his head slightly, he blew softly. The cool air tickled, the tender skin puckering in response. Taking one pink bud into his mouth, he suckled it into a taut, aching peak.

Laurie squirmed beneath him, craving more of his sweet, seductive kisses. He accommodated. He slowly moved down her body, his lips searing a path along her belly, across a sensitive thigh to tease between her legs. He laved her flesh with his tongue. She savored every kiss, every touch.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. He wrapped her in a sensual web he wove with artful skill.

The final caress of his skillful tongue sent her over the edge. Purple lights flashed before her eyes as she shattered into a million pleasant pieces.

When she came back to herself, she reached out to him. She was never going back to the twenty-first century. She was where she belonged—here, with this man.

She knew in her heart, she’d love him forever. Forever and an eternity.

Her home was with Patrick.

Laurie’s taste was sweet on Patrick’s tongue. She guided him atop her.

Her feathery touch thrilled him. The lightest pressure of her fingertips grazed the muscles on his back. Slowly she drew circles. Gooseflesh bubbled across his skin, sending throbbing sensations to his groin.

He moaned. No longer capable of restraint, he positioned himself and slowly entered her, giving her muscles time to adjust and wrap tightly around his thick shaft. Milking him. His thrusts were slow and erotic. She undulated beneath him, nearing the precipice. With a bellow, he sent them both over the top. Together they journeyed to an extraordinary place of overwhelming fulfillment.

It was much later before they had the energy to enjoy a repast of the fine food Cookie sent. Even the sharing of food hinted at sensual play.

He’d never been this happy.

With the bliss, a niggling worry tickled the back of his mind. He buried the feeling.

But after spending several idyllic days in each other’s arms, the time came to return to the castle and to the realities of their new life as husband and wife, as laird and lady of the castle, and as Chief of Clan MacLachlan and his Lady-wife.

As they negotiated the narrow trail through the Fir-wood, Patrick kept an alert eye to their surroundings. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He had an uncomfortable feeling, a distinct sensation someone watched. He hoped it was his imagination, but he doubted it. Even when they reached the relative security of the castle, he couldn’t shake the uneasy suspicion.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Let me out.” Bolted from the outside, the door wouldn’t budge. Seething with resentment, Laurie slammed her fists against the hard barrier. “Dammit. Let me out.”

She slid down the wood to her knees. “Sometimes, Patrick MacLachlan, you are not a nice man,” she whispered, her forehead pressed against the rough oak.

The clamor of activity coming from the courtyard below gave her the energy to rise to her feet. Her chest tight, she ran to the window and flung open the shutters. Several men readied themselves for travel. Patrick joined them, and she glared at his back as the group strode through the gate and made their way to the water’s edge.

As she feared, Patrick really planned to leave her behind.

* * *

The men hunched in silence, pulling their plaides tight against early winter winds. The only sound the gentle lapping of oars on water. Patrick sat on a bench at the aft of the boat, his jaw tight. His last moments with Laurie weighed heavily on his mind.

Earlier in the day, Jamie rushed into his private chamber with the news Maclay had been seen near the Fir-wood. Patrick ordered his men to prepare, and after the screaming argument with his wife, he and his lads left the castle.

She’d been enraged, angry he planned to leave her behind. His anger fed on hers. The argument that ensued became vicious. They said things neither truly meant. The inhabitants of the castle had sadly gotten an earful. No matter how much Laurie argued though, he ultimately refused to allow her to accompany him. A raid was no place for a woman. Too much risk.

They’d been married several weeks. With time, she’d learn to trust his decisions. He shot his stare at Jamie. “How many ride with Maclay? How many on foot?”

“Ten in total, all on horseback.” Jamie sat forward on his bench.

Patrick rubbed his whiskered jaw and scrutinized the other lads. He selected fewer than his usual tail. Only four well-seasoned fighters joined him. On this raid, stealth would be more important than force. In order to flush out Maclay, the warriors would need to blend into the woods and catch him unawares.

The boat beached on the mainland shore where a pair of young lads waited with saddled horses. The warriors swiftly mounted, guiding their steeds northeast along the shore of Loch Fyne.

Refusing to allow himself the weakness of looking back to see if Laurie watched from their bedchamber window, Patrick galloped away. Hardening his heart, he thought only of the confrontation he’d soon face.

The time had come for Maclay to pay for his sins.

* * *

Laurie lunged onto the bed and slammed her fists into a pillow, sending feathers flying. After the fit of temper, she swung her legs over the side and sat on the edge of the bed.

Nausea gurgled in her stomach. With a hand pressed to her belly, she rushed across the room to the basin and vomited. Shit, she’d made herself sick.

She grasped a cloth, wet it, and held it to her mouth. She slid down to her knees and leaned back on her heels. Shivers replaced the queasy flush.

With winter spreading its frosty blanket over the land, the weather turned blustery. Brisk raw winds raced along the loch, slamming against the castle’s old gray stones, howling through the battlements. The castle held a constant chill, the chambers breezy.

The only time she felt warm was at night when she lay in bed with Patrick. Sleeping with him was like cuddling with a large red-hot coal. He produced more than enough heat to keep them both warm through the bitter nights.

A tear escaped, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She wouldn’t cry. She pushed up from the floor and sat in a chair near the hearth, wrapping one of Patrick’s plaids around her shoulders for added warmth. The fabric still held his pine forest scent.

Her heart clenched. She couldn’t really blame Patrick for refusing to allow her to join in the hunt for Maclay. It wasn’t as if she could protect him. Now, when she thought about it. He was right. Having to worry about her safety would put him at risk.

Laurie jumped when a cup fell from the mantle to crash on the stone floor. “What the…” She picked up a broken piece and a chill slid down her spine.

“Munn?” Where was the jealous little man? He’d been at the root of most of her recent troubles.

Although Caitrina had gotten her into the mess in the beginning, loving Patrick as she did, Laurie no longer faulted Caitrina for her trickery. If Caitrina hadn’t pushed her through the time-gate, Laurie would never have joined with her true soul mate. She never would have learned the true meaning of belonging.

She believed the old woman at the caves had been Caitrina in some sort of magical disguise. Caitrina hadn’t made an appearance since, and Laurie wondered why.

Munn, on the other hand, had been the one who gave her the cursed goblet of wine to drink at the wedding banquet. Token of friendship? Surely not. She only drank one goblet, yet she’d been incredibly drunk. Something must have been in the oh-too-sweet wine, something that confused her, caused her to believe Archibald was Patrick.

It almost cost her...her love.

She should’ve realized sooner Munn worked against her. When she thought of the many odd occurrences, she should have had cause to question his loyalty to his chief. Whenever Patrick took her into his arms, there had been something not quite right. Each time, something unnatural occurred, stopped their loving.

The wet cloth that landed on Patrick’s back while they kissed. The horn in the tower that mysteriously sounded on its own. And the evening in Patrick’s study when Munn appeared out of thin air, ranting and raving about doom and gloom, blaming every imaginable misfortune on her.

The only explanation for the insanity was Munn. He was a menace.

Spiraling into another fine rage, she leapt from the chair and marched to the door. She tugged, never expecting to find it unlocked, but this time, the door opened. Hurrying along the passageway, she passed two guardsmen deep in discussion. Although they glanced up and nodded when she passed, they didn’t bother to block her way. Confident no one else would attempt to stop her, she quickly made her way down the circular stair, across the courtyard, and through the castle gate. She ran along the path to the garden, blind to everything save her destination.

She found Elspeth sitting in the midst of the frost-dead plants with Alexander.

“Where is that miserable brownie?” Laurie asked. “How do you call a brownie to you?”

Elspeth and Alexander, as one, flipped wide eyes up from the book they read.

“You dinnae,” Elspeth said after a moment. “They appear only when they wish.”

Laurie glared at the horizon, raised her arm and made a fist. “Damn you, little man. I’ll find a way to keep Patrick close to my heart. You’ll not force us apart.”

Queasiness once again rumbled in Laurie’s stomach. Her vision blurred. She clutched her belly and swayed. Was this magic too? Had Munn put a hex on her?

“Laurie!” Elspeth jumped to her feet “What is it? What has befallen you?”

Laurie didn’t have the breath to answer. She stumbled over the gravel path and threw out an arm, reaching for the wall, but it was too far away and she was too weak. She slid to the ground and lost consciousness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Patrick crept through the dense forest on silent feet. Branches slapped at him, scratching his skin. Hearing the screech of an owl and the flutter of wings nearby, he stood motionless. He peered into the dark. It pressed in on him, a heavy weight against his chest.

A terror dream flashed in his mind, an assailant’s heavy net entrapping him.

Seconds passed. He drew an uneasy breath. The panic subsided. Comforted by his faith that Laurie remained safely ensconced within his castle’s walls, he released the air from his lungs and soundlessly moved forward.

His men skulked close behind.

They were rewarded for their stealth when they came upon a well-lit camp. A large bonfire burned in a clearing. Carefully moving within the shadows, Patrick crawled on his stomach through the brush, getting as close as he dared.

Secure in their arrogance, Maclay’s men hadn’t positioned a guard to signal their enemies’ approach. The horses were also unguarded, tethered haphazardly in a small meadow nearby.

Three men sat huddled together by the fire, passing skins, talking loudly, hurling lewd insults at one another, their speech slurred with drink. Four additional men moved amidst the flickering fire light, stumbling with their drunkenness. Seven inebriated men. They would be easy odds for the MacLachlan warriors.

Disappointment tasted bitter in Patrick’s mouth. Maclay was not among them.

Patrick signaled to his men and they silently moved to encircle the camp.

A birdcall sounded. A wildcat howled. Horses whinnied, restless, then free to stampede. Chaos ensued.

* * *

Although his men argued against the wisdom, Patrick sent them ahead to the castle with the few prisoners who’d chosen to surrender rather than die. It gave him the chance to scout for Maclay. But he’d never expected to come across something so troubling.

Munn lay in the mud at the side of the trail. Battered and bruised, his clothing torn and singed, the wee man curled into himself. Terrible pain was visible in the creases of his weathered face.

Patrick helped the brownie sit against a tree.

“Ach, chief, I have betrayed you. The Sithichean queen, she beguiled me. I vowed to keep the lass from the future away.” He hung his head.

“What have you done?”

The wee man didn’t answer. He faded as if about to completely disappear. Ever so slowly, he returned to solid form only to fade again. His body convulsed when his form reappeared once more.

Although the flickering repetition was difficult to watch, Patrick found himself transfixed. When Munn faded again, Patrick touched the brownie’s shoulder. His hand moved through Munn’s fading image and an unbearable pain shot up Patrick’s arm and into his chest.

A strangled scream escaped his throat. Spasms of excruciating pain shook the length of his body. He fell to the ground, paralyzed, unable to move. Relentless pain throbbed within Patrick’s chest as if his essence, the substance of his very life had drained from him and into Munn. One last spasm raked Patrick’s body and he mercifully fell unconscious.

He regained consciousness a little at a time. He opened his eyes a slit, a bright white light almost blinding him. He tried to move, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. With great effort, he managed to shift his head enough to see Munn sitting next to him, watching him through wary eyes.

Patrick hardly believed what he saw. No bruises marred Munn’s wrinkled old skin. The man seemed fully recovered. Yet Patrick felt weaker and more helpless than a newborn bairn.

Then he noticed the beautiful woman standing over him. A shimmering silver aura surrounded her, the source of the intense light. She moved her hands in intricate patterns, softly chanting in a language ancient as the pagan gods.

Patrick again attempted to move, something as simple as bending his fingers, but even that he couldn’t manage. He wasn’t capable of forming words to speak either. Fear pooled in his gut and he tried to make sense of the situation. Before he had much of a chance, his vision faded once more.

Sunrays warmed Patrick’s face when he woke for the second time. He gingerly moved his fingers. They worked fine. He moved his arm and pushed up into a sitting position. Scanning the area, he discovered he was alone. He almost believed he dreamt the whole thing, yet deep in his gut, he knew he hadn’t.

Why did the fae meddle in his life? His thoughts flashed to Laurie. He needed to get home before something else fae-like occurred.

* * *

Laurie opened her eyes. The ceiling looked familiar—like the one in the room she shared with Patrick. But that didn’t make sense. The last thing she remembered—

A movement turned her attention from the stone ceiling. Laurie blinked to bring the figure into focus. A worried Elspeth stood near the bed. A frowning Alexander was a step back. He was glaring. Laurie moved the multitude of plaids atop her and raised her hand to her forehead, trying to remember what happened.

“You are awake,” Elspeth said.

“I’m sorry. Did I faint again?”

“Aye.” Elspeth raised a brow. “When do you plan to tell Patrick?”

“Tell him what?”

“About the bairn.” Elspeth smiled.

Alexander burst out laughing, and Laurie shut her gaping mouth.

“How do you know?”

“My gift.”

Laurie reclined against the pillows. I’m in the motherly way.

Joy spread from her heart outward. I’m going to have a baby.

Nothing could make her more happy.

At the sound of Patrick’s voice, she lifted her head to listen. She could just make out the sound of his husky voice while he spoke to Duncan outside the bedchamber door. She sat up, bracing herself against the headboard.

The door jerked open. Patrick stood in the doorway, looking at her quizzically.

She rushed her gaze over him, searching for injuries. He looked fine. Damn fine.

“We will leave you then.” Elspeth gathered some items from the bedside, flicked a glance at her brother and whispered, “Aine must have told him.” She grabbed Alexander by the hand and hustled past her brother.

As soon as they were gone, Patrick crossed the room and pulled Laurie into his arms. His passionate kiss removed every thought from her mind.

When he ended the kiss, he didn’t release her. Glancing at his face, she saw something unexpected in his eyes. Hurt?

She needed to apologize for the argument she’d caused before he left.

“Why did you not tell me you carry my heir?”

Laurie stiffened within his embrace. Men had such fragile egos, and Highland chiefs were the worst. “Yes, I’m with child.” She couldn’t help the snarky smile that curled her lips. “Our child. Yours and mine. I only now learned myself.”

Several emotions crossed Patrick’s face before he released her and stepped away. “Are you well then?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry for arguing with you before you left.”

“Me too.” Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. “You must ken ’twas only to protect you.”

“I do understand.”

“Good.” He sat on the bed next to her, stroking her arm while he spoke. “We found their camp. Maclay wasn’t there. He continues to roam free. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“Then I’m still not safe.” A chill swept her spine at the mere mention of the lunatic’s name.

Patrick reached for her and pulled her into his embrace, holding her within the warmth and safety of his strong arms. “I will protect you, sweetling. Always.”

* * *

Shortly afterward, Patrick met with Stephen in the great hall. The warning horn blew loud and clear, interrupting their discussion.

His man, Dunall, hurried into the hall, huffing and puffing. “Archibald approaches the bay on a lathered steed.”

Archibald never mistreated a horse. “Something must be wrong,” Patrick mused aloud and dashed to the window. A clansman rowed his brother across the bay toward the castle.

“What has happened?” Patrick bellowed as Archibald rushed into the hall, his eyes wide with panic.

Attempting to catch his breath, Archibald gulped large quantities of air. “Lamont refuses to agree to the marriage. He is determined for Isobell to wed a clan chief.”

“What else had you pushing your mount? Caused you to ride like the devil was on your tail?”

“The devil is on my tail. Lamont plans to wage war. He rides with Uncle Donald and more than one hundred warriors.”

Patrick’s jaw tightened. “How much of a lead have you?”

“Two days. Mayhap three.”

Patrick glanced at each person in the great hall, and then at his beautiful wife. He wanted more than anything in this world for her to be happy, and he’d wondered if that were possible here in his time. Now set before him was a resolution for everyone. His brother deserved to have love too.

Patrick grasped Laurie’s hand. “Are you sure you know the way home?” He gave her a pointed look. “To the place of your birth?”

“I believe I do.”

“Well, then. I have made a decision. If Lamont wants Isobell to wed a chief she shall.” Patrick raised his hand to stop his brother’s expected retort. “You will become laird of this castle and Chief of Clan MacLachlan.”

There was a collective intake of breath from those present in the hall. Archibald’s mouth hung open.

“Close your mouth, Archie. ’Tis unbecoming of a great Highland chief.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you will be chief. We will leave, Laurie and me. As my rightful heir, you will take my place as chief. Lamont will be forced to approve your marriage. And Archie, if I were you, I would get Isobell to say her vow in front of the priest before Lamont arrives.”

“I dinnae understand.”

Laurie wrapped her arm around Patrick’s waist. He gazed at her and clearly saw her love for him in the depth of her eyes.

“Tonight there is a full moon. I am taking my lady-wife home. We will make a new life for ourselves in her country.”

* * *

Late afternoon brought with it the threat of storms as they rode northeast along the loch. Laurie clutched the reins. The heavily bearded clouds roiled with thunder and lightning. The sky so murky the water below appeared a dark charcoal gray, the white caps shocking in contrast.

Without warning, unfriendly riders bored down on them.

The small MacLachlan party spurred their mounts, coaxing them into a burst of speed. Their flight was wild and dangerous. Laurie and her mount fell behind. Patrick slowed, risking the time to pull her from her horse to settle her behind him on his.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on. They found themselves crossing the moor alone, having been separated from their escort.

Maclay and several warriors rode down upon them.

Patrick spurred their mount and they rode, fast and furious, precariously onward through the storm. The speed of their flight amazed her, as if Patrick’s magnificent gray stallion had sprung wings. She clung to Patrick, praying to the saints above for their safety and escape.

He rode a zigzagging course, circling and backtracking in an attempt to lose their pursuers.

Urging their horse to an even greater speed, they galloped across a field, racing toward the dense wood that edged the cleared space. When they reached the first trees, Patrick reined in and glanced back.

“We’ve gained much-needed distance, but the cur still pursues,” he yelled over the din of the storm.

They entered the wood, taking a narrow trail that climbed to higher ground. The storm intensified, the wind hurled stinging sleet. They traveled a narrow and steep track. Hoofs slipped and slid on the loose shale nearly loosing purchase.

Laurie held tight to Patrick’s waist, much relieved when they reached level ground. When they traveled a short distance into the Fir-wood her pulse quickened. They were near the clearing at the edge of the faerie knoll.

With Maclay not far behind, Patrick glanced back, and then quickly guided their horse onto the edge of the hillock.

Everything changed as if they’d moved through a curtain from winter to spring.

“We will be safe here. Maclay will not follow us.” Patrick helped Laurie from the horse.

She stared in awe. The faerie knoll was a mysterious place. Hundreds of small dazzling white lights flickered around them. The sparkling lights hovered near the ground and up high, in the grass atop the knoll and in the nearby tree branches. The scene reminded her of her childhood, of watching lightning bugs, little glowing fireflies dancing in the night. She thought the sight amazing, and beautiful.

“This place is known as the Sithichean Sluaigh. Legend has it the knoll is a habitat for faeries. I have heard the old folk say beams of brightly colored light are seen here on starless nights,” Patrick said with a dancing twinkle in his eyes.

“Have you ever seen the lights?”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “I have also heard tales that on occasion you can hear melodious faerie music coming from the verra depths of this mound. They say ’tis Finvarra’s rath though I believe he resides in Ireland.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

Laurie smiled. “Really? Have you heard the faerie music?”

“Nae, though when I was a child and learned about Munn, I was determined to catch a faerie of my own. I would sneak out of the castle and come here. I never succeeded in trapping a sprite, but I have never once doubted the fae’s existence.” He grinned. “They will keep us safe.”

As Patrick knew faeries and brownies existed, he now believed time travel possible. His precious Laurie was proof of that. The mere thought of trying the experience made his knees weak.

She told him about the wonders of her time. He marveled over her explanation of a satellite phone. He could imagine how amazing it would be to have the ability to speak to anyone, anywhere in the world, from anywhere else in the world. She told him about something called a laptop computer. Small enough to sit on his lap, but contained all of the learning from all the manuscripts in the king’s library. And something called an MP3 player filled with music. Her stories were well beyond his comprehension.

He doubted he’d be at ease with her time. But for her, and for the bairns he planned to father, he’d try. He wanted her safe and he wanted healthy bairns. He was doing the right thing. Handing the leadership of the clan to his brother had been necessary to keep the peace and gave Patrick an excuse to take Laurie to her home.

Determined to go through with the faerie magic, he opened his arms to her. She walked into his embrace. They hugged, secure in each other’s arms.

“What if we get separated and only I return to the twenty-first century? I couldn’t bear losing you.” Laurie clung to him.

He squeezed her tight. Stepping back, he held her at arm’s length. He gazed into her eyes, exposing for her all of his emotions. “Ach, lass. Nae matter what happens, I will find you. Even if I must travel through time to a thousand different places, I promise you, I will find you.”

Patrick gazed around the knoll. The storm through which they had fled didn’t exist in this place. He hugged Laurie again before pulling away and clasping her hand. He gave a little squeeze and together they walked to the center of the knoll. He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Hold on and dinnae let go.”

At that moment, the full moon escaped from the clouds to shine brightly overhead, casting its silvery glow on the unusual spring-green grass of the knoll.

Then it happened.

The earth shook, the wind blew and the world as Patrick knew it ceased to exist.

Energy ignited his soul in a jolt of awareness that crowded out every other sense. He fell, falling downward, down...down...down into the swirling maelstrom. Choking against the scream that threatened to escape, he held his eyes closed tight. Yet bright lights flashed, scorching the back of his lids.

His grasp on Laurie weakened. The force wrenched her away from him.

No longer holding her hand, he was alone and lost in the frightening tempest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Anderson Creek, North Carolina

Finn jolted awake, his heartbeat kicking in double time, his innate warning system screaming an alarm. Alert to potential danger, he lay motionless, listening. Noise came from outside, from the garden, muted voices.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He’d learned, years ago during his short stint in the military, to channel the energy in a positive way. Taking several deep breaths, he imagined himself the calm warrior.

He reached for his jeans from the chair next to the bed and tugged them on. He padded across the bedroom on bare feet, grabbing his sword from where it leaned against the wall before he left the room.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his claymore, the two handed sword of the Highlanders. The antique weapon cost him a small fortune. Legend spoke of a faerie princess who kissed the moonstone in the middle of the cross section, bestowing upon the sword magical power. The legend claimed the weapon enhanced the skills of the warrior who possessed it. Iain and Douglas, the men he met shortly after he arrived to search for his cousin Laurie, instructed him in its use. The sword weighed about six pounds, and he’d massed the muscle and strength to wield it. He couldn’t best them yet, but he worked hard to acquire the skills.

Had they planned a surprise attack?

Douglas beat him into the mud during today’s practice. Finn rubbed the resulting ache at his hip. What was he thinking getting involved with the local reenactment group? The training was more grueling than he’d undergone as a marine.

He crept through the living room and into the kitchen, stopping at the door. Hesitating for a moment, he listened. The voices came from the rear of the garden.

Finn twisted the doorknob and pushed, praying it wouldn’t make noise. Very quietly, the door opened. He released the breath he held, thankful for well-oiled hinges. He stayed put until his eyes adjusted to the near darkness. Using foliage for cover, he worked his way through the garden to the stone bench. A large shadow the size of Iain moved near the back gate.

The gate Douglas claimed a conduit of magic.

Gooseflesh prickled along Finn’s arms. He dropped into a crouch, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet with the sword grasped in both hands extended in front of him ready to fend off an attack.

He remained motionless. Why didn’t Iain make a move on him?

Finn stiffened. Had his friends set him up for a rear attack from Douglas?

The clouds cleared the full moon and a silvery light bathed the garden. The large man who stood before him wasn’t Iain. The stranger dressed in one of the most authentic Scottish Highlands’ reenactment costumes Finn had seen. If he guessed right, the great kilt was from the sixteenth century. A sight he hadn’t expected to see in his cousin’s garden tonight.

He strained his eyes to see the other shadowy figure partially hidden. A small woman completely wrapped within a large tartan blanket stepped from behind the man.

With barely a thought to his training, Finn stood straight. Taking his sword in one hand, he rested it point down on the ground while he rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Was he seeing things? Who could these strange people be? Friends of Iain or Douglas?

What were they doing in his cousin’s garden? “Hey? Who are you?”

In one swift motion, the stranger pulled a sword from a sheath on his back, and before Finn blinked, the sharp point pressed against his throat.

“Don’t! He’s my cousin.” The woman rushed forward and grasped the man’s bicep.

Not daring to move, every muscle taut, Finn looked into the man’s dark eyes and recognized the warning. With the slightest pressure, he’d be dead.

Biting back the fear boiling in his belly, Finn refused to glance away.

“Release him.”

What the hell? The voice belonged to Laurie. Still, he knew better than to let down his guard. He continued to hold the man’s stare, issuing a challenge of his own.

With a chuckle, the stranger let the point of his sword drop and reached out his arm. “Patrick.”

Finn looked from the offered hand to the man’s eyes, flicking his gaze to his cousin and back to the stranger. Humor now sparkled in those dark eyes. Relaxing his muscles, he allowed Patrick to grasp his arm in what he learned from Iain was a warrior’s greeting—a show of honor.

“Finn.”

“Aye. I ken that now. Sorry I brought my sword upon you. My lady-wife would be sorely vexed if I killed her kin.”

Finn jerked his gaze to Laurie. Her expression dared him to question her. He planned to do just that. Maybe he’d wring her neck while he was at it.

“Where have you been and what are you doing with this brute? Lady-wife? Dammit, Laurie, what is he talking about?”

Laurie grabbed hold of Patrick’s hand for moral support. And to restrain him from coming to blows with her cousin. Two men, bristling with pride, positioning for dominance, wasn’t something she wanted to deal with after zinging through the time warp.

She shivered and glanced around the garden. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t figure out what unnerved her. Plants bloomed in abundance. Cosmos, zinnias, and sunflowers surrounded them. The perfume from the Stargazer lilies tickled her nose. Even in the dim light, the garden showed at its peak.

Flowers?

“Finn, what is today’s date?”

He stared at her as if she were crazy. “My darling cousin, I’ve been extremely worried. I returned from a financial symposium in Beijing to find you gone. Your landlord claimed you left without a word. You paid the rent for a year in advance and then disappeared. What was I to think? Now you want to know the date? What’s going on? Where have you been?” He glared at Patrick. “And what are you doing with this man, dressed in that costume?”

Stray hair had come loose from her braid, and she smoothed the strands back with a shaky hand. “I’ll answer your questions in a minute. First, tell me the date.”

Finn leaned against the hilt of his sword. “Wednesday, July twenty-fifth.”

She slumped against Patrick.

He squeezed her hand. “When we left, snow covered the ground.”

“I know. I don’t understand this either.”

Her cousin looked at their joined hands and relaxed his shoulders. “What are you talking about? Snow?”

“Can we go inside? I really need to sit down,” she said.

“Sure.” Finn gazed off to the east. “The sun will rise soon. I can make a pot of coffee.”

“Wonderful.” Laurie sighed with pleasure. “I haven’t drank coffee in months.”

His eyes snapped to her. “What? You survive on coffee. Just where have you been?”

“I’ll explain after I have some java.”

Laurie held Patrick’s hand and guided him along the path to the cottage. His grip was firm, but his features thinned as he checked out the profusion of flowers.

Unreal. The garden was lush and green.

And her Patrick—brave.

He dropped her hand and followed her into the kitchen. “Where are the candles? I’ve nary a one in my pouch.”

Finn flicked on the light as he entered behind them and leaned his sword against the wall.

Patrick yelped. With a backward hop, he hit his backside against the stove. His eyes filled with panic and his gaze darted around the room.

She reached out to him, but he shook his head and raised his chin.

Patrick rubbed his eyes and surveyed the chamber again. Odd. Although the table and chairs looked much like the ones at Castle Lachlan, though less ornate, other items in the room were more foreign than what he’d seen during his travels on the continent. There were several large silver boxes. One nearly as big as a man, and with handles on its front. He raised his gaze to the ceiling and the strange source of light, until his eyes burned and he looked away.

He’d never seen the like before. The extreme brightness made it seem as if the sun hung from the ceiling. He refused to ask his wife’s cousin how he’d made the chamber light. He didn’t want to appear ignorant.

Many things existed in this time he couldn’t possibly understand. Patrick ran a hand through his loose hair. Had he made a grave mistake? He noted the worry in Laurie’s eyes and straightened his shoulders, standing tall. He’d made the right decision. She belonged here in her own time, and he would learn how to survive here too.

Her cousin watched him with suspicion. Patrick suppressed a growl and ignored the man. He unfastened his sword and shrugged it off, leaning the weapon against the wall next to Finn’s. He didn’t want the man to think he didn’t trust him.

He smiled at Laurie, guided her to the table, and helped her sit in one of the chairs. He leaned close and kissed her soft cheek.

“Are you well?”

“Fine.” Her radiant smile was his reward.

He’d do whatever it took to make her happy. The glare from the other man was of no consequence.

Patrick stood behind his wife’s chair and clenched his jaw. No one need know he clutched the chair back to keep his hands from trembling.

Laurie reached behind her and patted Patrick’s hand, feeling remorse for putting him through this. This was the beginning of his adjustment. The transition would be difficult for her Highland warrior.

She removed the heavy wool plaid and folded it on the table at her side.

Finn gasped, his gaze narrowing on her swollen belly. He pointed at her stomach, his mouth dropping open.

“Close your mouth, Finn. You look like an idiot.”

“Would you mind explaining that?”

She placed a palm on her extended abdomen, and felt movement. Excitement bubbled up, but she kept it to herself. A secret she’d share with Patrick later when they were alone.

Well, her unborn child showed an odd sense of timing. Laurie had left Scotland barely pregnant and now appeared closer to six months along. With a sigh, she made eye contact with Finn.

“Outside, you shook hands with my husband.” Again, she patted the back of Patrick’s hand. “We married several months ago. What often happens to married couples happened to us. We’re expecting a child.”

“Dammit. What were you thinking? With a child on the way it’ll be hard to get an annulment.”

She opened her mouth to blast her cousin, but Patrick growled, low and deep. Laurie half expected to hear a battle cry. “We said our vows afore a priest. There will not be an annulment.” Taking her by the hand, he pulled her from her seat. “Come, wife. We return to Scotland.”

Finn snarled. “You’ll not take my cousin anywhere. Least of all out of the country. I’ll have my law enforcement friends on you so quick, your head will spin.”

Tension strained between the two men as they glared at each other. The testosterone overload was thick in the air. They were two obstinate, headstrong, foolish men, whom she loved, each in her own special way. But right now, she wanted to give them each a smack.

“Stop this foolishness, both of you. Patrick, sit down. You too, Finn. We’re married, and Finn, you’ll have to get used to the idea. Now, explain to me why you’re here, obviously living in my house. And then, I’ll try to explain where I’ve been.” She sat in the chair and folded her arms over her chest.

Finn gave her one of his annoyed looks, one she was way too familiar with from when she worked for him.

“I returned from Asia to learn Trendsetter magazine named me Best Catch of the Year. Believe it or not, women are stalking me. I needed to get out of town and thought this the one place no one would look for me. I drove down. Only, when I called to invite myself, I learned you’d been missing for over a month.”

Poor Finn. She almost felt sorry for him. She could imagine the antics women would contrive in an attempt to grab his attention.

“How long have you been here?” She glanced around the kitchen at the junk on the counters, piles of newspapers and magazines, a few paperbacks, dirty dishes. “It appears as if you’ve settled in.”

Finn strode to the refrigerator, removed a container of ground coffee and, using a filter, put some into the drip coffee maker, then added water.

“I’ve been here a little over a month, though it seems longer.” After he flipped the switch, he took three cups from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “I tried to contact Father when I discovered you were missing. He’s in Africa, again—somewhere on a dig—and can’t be reached.”

Finn had always found it galling to have a father who shunned his business responsibilities in order to travel around the globe pursuing archeological artifacts.

“What’s up with the sword?” She breathed easier, relieved to see the two claymores—so out of place in the modern kitchen—leaning harmlessly against the wall. Wait a minute. The sword—

“What?”

“Isn’t it from the Celtic Image shop?”

“Yeah. Before I hired a firm to find you, I searched for you myself. I visited the shop and met Douglas MacKinnon. He told me you’d vanished into the woods behind the cottage in search of your destiny.” Finn leaned against the counter. “Can you believe it? He thinks you were spirited away by a faerie princess.”

“A faerie? Really?” Laurie sucked back her smile.

Her nose twitched. The aroma of brewing French roast tantalized her taste buds. Steam spewed from the coffee maker. Patrick’s eyes bugged. Finn poured the java and put the full mugs on the table along with milk and sugar.

“Douglas has got some unusual beliefs, but otherwise we’ve a lot in common. He convinced me to join the local reenactment group. He and your landlord are teaching me to fight like a Highlander.”

Patrick made an unpleasant noise deep in his throat, and she chuckled. He stared into the dark brew. She added a spoon of sugar and some milk, and pushed the cup toward him. He took a sip and gave her one of his beautiful smiles. As always, her heart tripped a beat.

Finn cleared his throat. “Now it’s your turn to explain where you’ve been.” His gaze landed on her belly. “Just when did you get pregnant? You’ve only been gone a couple of months.

“That’s part of the story, though it would be best if I started at the beginning.” She felt herself frowning. “And there are a few things I don’t understand.” Like how she was several months ahead on her pregnancy.

Laurie talked until her voice rasped, with Patrick adding a nod at critical points. The sun had risen long ago and natural light streamed into the kitchen.

Finn closed his mouth. He’d spent a good part of their discussion gaping. “I guessed the story would be long and complicated. I didn’t expect the tale to be completely unbelievable.” He emptied the dregs from his cup into the sink as if he needed to do something normal. “You’re telling me you left the sixteenth century in the winter to arrive here where it’s your previous summer, at least measured by the basis of the length of time you were in the past. You know, the story boggles the mind.”

“I know.” She cocked her head sideways. “I never lie. You have to believe I’m telling the truth.”

“I guess I believe you. It’s just unfathomable.” He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Let’s get some rest. I need to sleep on this. I’ll take the sofa and you and Patrick can take the bedroom. Later you can help me pack and take my things to the inn. The innkeepers will be relieved to learn you’ve returned safe and sound.”

Laurie rose and tugged on Patrick’s hand. “I’ll show you to our bedroom.”

* * *

Patrick leaned against the bed-head with Laurie curled against him sound asleep, her belly pressed into his side. The bairn growing within her womb filled him with pride. He rubbed his chest in the vicinity of his heart.

Laurie and their bairn would be safe here in this time. He glanced around the chamber. The furniture was constructed from good quality wood. The bed was smaller than his at Castle Lachlan; his feet hung over the end when he laid flat, but otherwise the mattress was comfortable. The cottage was wee, yet serviceable. Laurie’s home would shelter them until he built something bigger.

The bairn kicked and the wonder of it had him rubbing his chest again. Laurie’s eyes opened, her lips curving into a glorious smile. She claimed his heart, and he made a vow. He’d do whatever was required to make a good life for her and their bairn.

She rubbed her hand along his thigh. “How’s my lover?”

Patrick hardened. With a growl, he pulled her on top of him, pressing his erection against her center. Her eyes flared. “We won’t hurt the babe?” he asked.

“Nah.” She nuzzled his neck, sending shivers over his skin.

He held her tight against his length. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to—”

“I’m not fragile glass. I won’t break.”

He slipped her chemise over her head and slowly entered her. Warmth washed through his body. She scraped her nails along his back, urging him to give her more.

Their loving was all consuming and they exploded in unison with an intensity that shook his soul. He doubted he’d ever get use to the intense pleasure he found within her arms.

But would he be able to provide for her and keep her and the bairn safe in this strange time?

* * *

Laurie strolled into the living room, straightening the lavender peasant blouse she wore over a black elastic-waist skirt. She’d need to go shopping to get some maternity clothes.

Finn reached for the front doorknob. “My Hummer is out front.”

“And you don’t understand why women chase after you when you flaunt your wealth like that.”

Finn bristled. “I don’t.”

“You do.” She laughed. “I doubt Patrick is ready for a car ride. Our world is overwhelming enough for those born to it. For someone like Patrick, well...all I can do is try to ease the way for him.” She pulled her sweater from the chair and tied it around her shoulders. “You take your vehicle. We’ll walk. We’ll cross the meadow and take the trail through the woods.”

She sensed Patrick’s presence before he touched her. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she turned around to face him. Her breath caught. He wore a pair of Finn’s jeans. They fit him, nice and snug, in a way to make her mouth water. Raising her eyes to his chest, she took in the white polo pulled taut against firm muscle. She licked her lips and gazed into his eyes. They burned with pure lust.

“Ach, wife. Do that again with your tongue and we will never leave this cottage.”

She swallowed, stepping closer to him.

Finn chuckled. “We can’t have that. I need you both to help me unload my stuff at the inn. Besides, I’m starving and you promised to join me for dinner.” He opened the front door and headed out.

Laurie gave Patrick a disappointed pout before turning away to reach for her purse. He stooped down. With his lips grazing her ear, he whispered, “Later, m’sweet. I will make you scream.”

A delicious shiver slid along her spine. “I’m doomed to be horny all through dinner.”

“Horny?” His forehead furrowed.

“Never mind. I’ll show you what I mean tonight.” Hand in hand, they left the cottage and strolled across the meadow, taking their time along the woodland trail to the inn.

“I think you should explain horny now,” Patrick said.

“Remember what it was like when Munn pulled mischievous pranks to keep us apart?”

“Aye.”

“That frustration is horny.”

“We could make love here in the wood.”

“Finn would interrupt us.”

“Later then.” Patrick’s sexy smile made her insides flip.

“It’s a date.”

When they arrived at the inn, Finn’s black Hummer was parked in front. Laurie brought Patrick through the side garden, around to the rear door and into the foyer. Since the room was empty, she guided him toward the dining room entrance.

“Welcome back, Miss Bernard. Can I seat you?” Emily worked the hostess stand.

Laurie didn’t bother correcting the young woman. Sooner or later, everyone at the inn would learn her new name.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “We’re supposed to meet my cousin, Finn.”

“He’s around here somewhere. He’s reserved a large table by the windows.” Emily beamed.

Large? Whatever.

“Can we wait for him at the bar? He should be along shortly.”

“Sure, Kim’s tending bar.” Emily eyes popped as if she’d just noticed Laurie’s stomach. She recovered quickly and turned away to write something on the seating diagram.

Laurie grasped Patrick’s hand and pulled him into the bar, a chuckle on her lips. Everyone would know about the baby soon.

The barroom was masculine with dark wood and leather. A long mirror ran the length of the bar and she smiled at Patrick’s reflection. He grinned back.

“Hi. I haven’t seen you in a while,” Emily’s boyfriend, Kim, greeted them. “What can I get you to drink?” He dropped a couple of cardboard coasters in front of them.

Patrick gave the boy a strange look before plastering a smile on his face. Laurie assumed he’d never seen an Asian before. Kim’s family fled Vietnam for France and moved to the United States a few years ago.

“I’ll have water and my husband will have a whisky. The best you have.”

Kim placed Laurie’s drink on a coaster and poured Patrick a glass of thirty-year old Tamdhu single malt. They were clicking glasses when Finn joined them.

He ordered a whisky and raised his glass when it arrived. “A toast to my new cousin-in-law. May you find kin among us.” He clicked both of their glasses with his.

“Thank you, kindly, I appreciate the warm welcome.”

Finn’s gaze darted to the doorway where Iain stood. “Ah, here’s someone you should meet.”

Patrick twisted to greet Iain with a wide smile. His face paled to a chalky white and he sagged against Laurie. She reached for his arm. Had the whisky gone to his head so quickly?

“Da?”

She stared at her landlord and then flicked her gaze back and forth between the two men. Her husband looked ill. Iain wore an inscrutable expression.

“Well lad, ’tis about time you got here.” Iain broke out into a broad grin.

Oh, shit. She should have seen the resemblance before. Their eyes were the same, both a dark blue that sparked when they smiled.

“Da? Is it you?”

Iain nodded and the two men embraced. A squeal pierced the air and Mairi ran into the room, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “Oh, Patrick, I knew Laurie was the one...the one who would bring you to us.”

Laurie watched the scene play out in stunned disbelief.

An amused smile played on Finn’s lips.

Patrick disengaged from Mairi and stared at his father as if the man were a ghost.

“How?”

* * *

Much later, after Finn had gone up to his room, and the rest of the party sipped some fine port, Patrick decided the time had come for explanations. “Da, how did you and Mairi come to be here?”

His father gave him a weak smile. “That would be a tale for another time. What I will tell you is why we sent Laurie to bring you here.”

“You sent me? Why?” Laurie asked, shocked Iain and Mairi were involved. “Please explain.”

His father leaned forward. “’Tis a long tale—”

“Your father went to the library in Asheville and looked through some old Scottish history books where he found an entry about the MacLachlan line of chiefs,” Mairi said. She looked directly at Patrick. “Your name wasn’t there. The manuscript listed Iain as chief and then Archibald, but no mention of you. No mention of a death. Nothing. It was as if you had gone away before becoming chief and not returned.”

Patrick ran a hand through his hair. This time traveling, time changing, mystified him. “Mayhap Archibald had my name stricken from clan history.”

“Perhaps,” his father agreed. “With enough badgering, Caitrina—I assume you’ve learned of her—finally admitted the faerie queen challenged her to bring you forward in time. For three years, we waited for your soul mate to show up. I guess you probably ken more of the rest of the story than we do,” his father said.

Laurie grasped Patrick’s hand under the table and gave his fingers a tender squeeze, assuring him she was there for him, and always would be.

He was the luckiest man alive.

He would keep her and their bairns safe and prove his worth.

* * *

Weeks later, Laurie joined Patrick in the golden-hued cottage garden. The full harvest moon glowed overhead. The rear gate ajar, they could see the faerie knoll just beyond.

Laurie leaned against the warmth of Patrick’s hard chest, and he wrapped his strong arms around her, his breath teasing her ear. Tingly sensations traveled the length of her spine.

Even after what they’d been through together, she had a niggling of doubt. Patrick never once told her how he felt. Never once said he loved her. She hesitated before she spoke, not completely sure she wanted to spoil the moment. Yet she needed to know. Otherwise, every full moon would bring with it the fear of him leaving.

Laurie labored to remove every trace of her tumultuous emotion from her voice. “I know it’s been difficult to adjust to our new life. Do you wish to go back?”

Having finally asked the question, she braced herself for his answer.

“Nae.” He smiled. “Here is where our life is. Here is where our love will grow and blossom. Where our bairns will be born. Here is where I can keep you and our bairns safe.” His arms tightened around her. “My only regret is I let Maclay escape. However, I am sure Archibald will ensure the bastard is brought to justice. You dinnae need to fear I will go running off. I am yours forever... gu bràth.”

She snuggled against him and he nuzzled her neck. “I love you.”

No other words ever sounded as sweet.

“I love you too.” She turned in his arms and kissed her Highland warrior with every ounce of love within her heart.

EPILOGUE

One year later, Laurie stood amidst the racks in her new greenhouse, humming to herself while she transplanted young seedlings.

She missed her little guys, but her two baby boys, young Iain and Scott, were at the inn where their doting grandparents watched over them. Geez. When Patrick informed her they’d have three children, two boys and a girl, she never imagined the boys would come at the same time.

She smiled whenever she thought of them and of the baby girl still growing within the protection of her womb. She took out another planting tray and continued humming.

Patrick sauntered in and grinned. “You sound happy today, m’love.”

“Why not? There’s so much to look forward to. My garden shop will open soon. Finn should arrive at any moment for a long visit. And did I tell you he plans to stay for the Grandfather Mountain Games and the Gathering of the Clans?”

“Aye. That you did.”

“I’ll have two gorgeous men to boss around.” She batted her eyes at her husband.

Patrick wrapped his arms around her, and chuckled softly into her ear. She leaned into him, enjoying the closeness. Moments like this had become much too infrequent since the twins arrived.

The ringing of the doorbell in the attached gift shop ruined the mood. She pulled away. “Will you get the door? I locked it. Whoever is there can’t get in.” She brushed the dirt from her apron. “It’s more than likely Finn.”

She stared at Patrick’s firm butt as he walked away and sighed.

* * *

Chuckling, Patrick walked through the greenhouse and into the cramped quarters of the gift shop beyond. They’d made good use of Laurie’s old cottage.

When he opened the front door, he found a wee lass standing there. The tiny woman jumped back. She slowly raised her gaze to him and her eyes widened. She trembled before she stiffened and glared at him.

He frowned, unable to believe her glower. The woman studied him as if he were some distasteful creature she found under a slimy rock.

Remembering his manners, he forced a smile. “Hello, lass. Can I help you?”

The lass squeaked.

“Who’s at the door?” Laurie called as she came to join him.

“Naught but a wee mouse.” He spoke over his shoulder.

Returning his gaze to the woman, he watched her bristle at the barb. He chuckled good-naturedly.

Laurie stepped behind him and peeked around his back. “Jillian, what are you doing here?” She pushed him out of the way.

The two lasses hugged.

“Please, come in.” His wife gestured for her friend to enter.

The lass hesitated, eying him with uncertainty.

“Ignore my brute of a husband.” Laurie grabbed Jillian’s hand and pulled her into the gift shop. “Now, tell me how you came to be here.”

“I lost my job.” A sob escaped Jillian. “The company laid me off. They’ve dissolved my department. They’re sending our work to someplace called Bangalore.”

“Oh, sweet Jillian, as much as this must upset you, it’s wonderful news. I’ve been looking for a partner to help me with the new shop. I plan to call it ‘Foxgloves’. It will be a special place, a community space for all the local gardeners to share information. With your customer service experience, you’ll be perfect. Please, tell me you’ll stay.”

Patrick stepped out of the way and the two wee lasses brushed passed him headed for the greenhouse. He’d need to hurry the guest cottage he planned to build, especially if his wife was determined to pick up every lonely misfit who wandered by. Their house would be too crowded once their daughter was born. Then again, the lass could stay at the inn.

With that decided, Patrick strode off, whistling a merry tune.

* * *

Tir-nan-óg

In the queen’s chambers, Caitrina forced aside her pride.

“What is your challenge?”

The queen slid the tip of a pink tongue over crimson lips and smiled a beautifully wicked smile. She ran the sapphire gems from a crystal bowl through her slender fingers.

“I believe you’ll enjoy my wee dare, you do so adore your twenty-first century mortals. Your task shall involve that sinfully handsome Finn MacIntyre.”

“Not Finn!”

“Getting him together with his perfect match won’t be too difficult, my princess. Just impossible.”

With her hands close to her sides, Caitrina clenched her fingers into tight fists.

“Your eyes spark green fire. Don’t make me regret the gift of my leniency.” Oonagh sensuously stretched on the white chase, making soft purring sounds. “Now be off with you.”

BOOKS BY DAWN MARIE HAMILTON

Scottish Historical/Time Travel Fantasy Romance

The Highland Gardens Series

Just Beyond the Garden Gate

Just Once in a Verra Blue Moon

Just in Time for a Highland Christmas (Novella)

Just Wait For Me (2015)

Scottish Inspired Paranormal Romance

The Crimson Storm Series

Sea Panther

Table of Contents

Child of Awe

- PART 1 1509-1510

- PART 2 1513-1514

Legend of the Fae

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23

Highland Burn

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23

Just Beyond the Garden Gate

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN