
For Nora, Marianne, and Jill, who share my belief that all things are possible. And for Tom, for always believing in me.
The Scottish Highlands---MacLish Fortress
"MOTHER. Father." The voice that wavered somewhere between a high-pitched squeak one minute, and a deep masculine bark the next, trailed up the stairs and into the inner chambers of the laird and his lady minutes before the one who'd been speaking appeared. The lad flew into the room, tunic muddied, dark hair flying out like wings around a face that was already showing promise of being even more heartbreakingly handsome than that of their older son, Fitzroy.
"Take a care, Royce." Laird Ramsay MacLish turned from the window, where he'd been peering off into the distance. "Can you never move slowly?"
"Why would I walk when I can run?" Royce MacLish, at ten and three no longer a boy, not quite a man, took a moment to brush a kiss over his mother's cheek.
She, in turn, ruffled his hair and shook her head at the rip in his tunic and hose. "It is proving impossible to keep you in clothes, Royce. Aren't those the new hose old Moira just sewed for you?"
"Sorry, Mother. Ian and Duncan and I were practicing with our swords, and I fell off my mount."
"Battle games." Lady Beth MacLish glanced at her husband and caught the look of fierce pride in his eyes. She shrugged. "I suppose it is a man's way."
"Ian said he saw a rider bearing your standard, Father. Did he bring news of Fitzroy?"
The laird couldn't help but be touched by the eagerness in his younger son. All who lived within the walls of MacLish keep had been nervously awaiting news of Fitzroy, at ten and eight a seasoned warrior who had been gone now for a fortnight, leading his father's men against a sighting of barbarians.
"Fitzroy is on his way home to a hero's welcome. The rider reported that there were no deaths among his men. I've ordered old Erta to prepare a banquet, and I've sent out runners to invite all the village elders, as well as the families of the warriors. More food will be sent to the villagers, so that all can partake of the celebration. I have declared three days and nights of feasting in Fitzroy's honor."
Royce could hardly contain his excitement. "Let me ride out and greet him, Father."
His mother gave a quick shake of her head. "You know the dangers, Royce."
"Please, Father." The lad's voice took on a pleading tone. "I'll take Ian and Duncan along for company. I don't think I can bear it if I have to wait until dark to greet Fitzroy."
The laird dropped an arm around his son's shoulders. "You've missed him, haven't you, Royce?"
"Aye. It isn't the same around here without him."
"I know, lad. 'Tis the same for all of us. The entire keep has been quiet and subdued since your brother left." Except, he thought, for this son, who was only quiet when he slept. "How good it will be to have him back with us." He gave his son a quick hug. "Go and greet your brother, Royce. If their parents approve, take Ian and Duncan along. By the time you get back to the fortress, their families will be here with the others, ready to feast."
"Ramsay . . ." His wife looked alarmed. "You know that I saw blood on the moon last night."
"So you said. But we both know that's an old wives' tale, my love. Next you'll be telling me you believe that the dead actually rise up from their graves on the feast of All Hallows Eve and walk the earth." The laird lifted her hand to his lips. "Our young son is not a bairn anymore. It's time for him to put aside such foolishness. Why, in another year or so he'll be strong enough to lift a broadsword."
"I'll be careful, Mother." Following his father's lead, determined to charm her, Royce caught his mother's hand and brought it to his lips, then brushed a kiss over her cheek as well.
Then he was gone, his feet pounding a rhythm as he took the stairs two at a time.
Lady Beth turned to her husband. "I've never known a lad with so much life bursting out of every seam. Was our Fitzroy as much of a whirlwind?"
Her husband merely laughed. "Not that I recall. Royce is such a happy lad. And why not? He is growing up in a time of peace in our land. Our people prosper. Their animals grow fat, their crops more plentiful than at any time I can recall. And his hero, Fitzroy, returns home to regale him with endless tales of his latest adventure. How could life get any better than that for a lad?"
Downstairs in the refectory Royce came to a skidding halt. "Erta, do I smell scones baking?"
The old cook, who had been serving in the MacLish fortress for more than
"You do indeed smell fresh scones, drizzled with honey."
She was delighted by his exaggerated reaction---eyes closed, one hand rubbing his middle, while he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.
"Would you mind if I took several, Erta? I'm off to meet Fitzroy, and I'm taking Ian and Duncan along."
"I'm not surprised. Do you go anywhere without those lads? I swear, the three of you are more like brothers than friends." She offered the platter and chuckled when he took a handful, tucking them inside his tunic.
Royce took note of the frantic activity going on around him. The room was steamy with kettles and cauldrons bubbling with rich, spicy liquids. Several stags were roasting over spits. More than a dozen village lasses had been recruited to lend a hand with the task of cooking and serving the banquet being planned to honor the returning warriors. Several of them blushed and smiled when he looked their way and giggled behind their hands.
Royce dashed out to the courtyard and pulled himself onto the back of his shaggy pony. He looked up and, seeing his parents standing together on the balcony, gave them a smiling salute before wheeling his mount and urging the animal into a gallop.
In no time he'd collected his best friends from the village, and the three horsemen raced each other across a flat Highland meadow before entering the forest beyond.
They rode for more than an hour before spying the column of horsemen in the distance. A banner bearing the crest of a lion, a raven, and a cross flew above the warriors, proclaiming their allegiance to Laird Ramsay MacLish.
"Look, Royce." His friend and cousin, Ian MacLish, pointed. "It's Fitzroy and our brothers."
The three lads turned their horses loose to run with wild abandon toward the men they'd been missing all these days.
"Fitzroy!" Royce cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs as he rode his shaggy pony at a fierce gallop right through the line of warriors.
The men he passed looked energized at the thought of returning to home and family, and each in turn lifted an arm or called out a greeting to the younger brother of the warrior they acknowledged as their leader. When he reached his brother's side, Royce was yanked off his pony and hauled into arms strong enough to crush him.
"Look at this," Fitzroy shouted to his companions. "My baby brother has grown as tall as a man."
"As tall as you, I'll wager." Royce was grinning as his brother tousled his hair and playfully squeezed the muscles of his arms.
When at last he was returned to his pony's back, Fitzroy's steed never even broke stride.
Royce looked at Fitzroy with hope. "Does this mean you'll let me ride with you next time you go to battle?"
His brother's smile faded. "So eager to fight, are you?"
"As eager as you were the first time Father took you with him."
Fitzroy's tone softened. "How are Father and Mother?"
"They're both well. They've been sad while you've been at war. But now they'll have reason to smile. Tell me about the battle."
"It was fierce and brief. Almost as though they lost heart the moment they realized our strength of will. One minute they were doing battle, the next they were fading into the surrounding hills. We chased after them, but lost them in the forest."
"I'm glad. Otherwise you'd have been gone for my birthday. Or have you forgotten?"
"How could I forget that you'll soon be ten and four?" Fitzroy reached over and slapped his brother's arm, feeling the beginning of muscle. "You'll soon be taller than I am."
"And stronger." With a laugh Royce reached into his tunic and removed a scone. "Erta baked these just for you."
"Did she now?" Fitzroy bit into the sweet confection and gave a sigh. "How I've missed the old woman's cooking."
"She's planning a fine big banquet for you and your men tonight. Father has invited all the villagers to stay at the keep for three days and nights of celebration."
"Did you hear that, men?" Fitzroy looked around at the warriors' bright smiles. "We'll be feasting at my father's fortress by nightfall."
The Highlanders gave a collective cheer as they entered a narrow pass between two towering mountain peaks.
Up ahead Royce could see his friends, Ian and Duncan, riding proudly alongside their brothers. All wore the blue and green and black plaid of the MacLish clan.
He glanced over at the brother he adored. "I've been practicing with the sword and dirk and longbow." He slipped the small, sharp knife from its place of concealment beneath his tunic. "Would you like to see how I can take out a bird high on the wing?"
"Aye, Royce." Fitzroy turned toward his younger brother and saw the lad's eyes widen with a look that could have been fear or surprise. "What is it?"
Royce pointed.
Fitzroy swiveled his head and was stunned to see wave after wave of barbarians scrambling over rocks, dropping from trees, rising up from the cover of shrubs and bushes along the pathway. So many of them, like angry hornets swarming from a hive, until the landscape seemed overrun with them. They wore the fur of animals and had their faces painted with blood. Their shrill screams sent chills down Royce's spine.
His brother's hand closed over his arm. "You must take cover in the forest, Royce."
"Run and hide like a coward?" Outrage blazed in the lad's eyes. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Because I love you. Because it will break our parents' hearts if they should lose both their sons this day."
"We'll not die, Fitzroy. We're Highland warriors. We can subdue these barbarians."
Because there was no time left to argue, and he knew the point was useless, Fitzroy withdrew his sword and charged into the thick of the barbarians, shouting for his men to do the same.
The strangers came at them in waves. No sooner had they fallen to the Highlanders' swords, than another wave came over the hills, under the cover of a barrage of arrows from unseen forces hidden in the brush. With spine-tingling screams and thrusts of their swords, they managed to kill half a dozen of Fitzroy's finest warriors before the Highlanders could even see their attackers.
Royce and his friends Ian and Duncan had mastered the art of wielding both knife and sword with accuracy. But never before had they seen their weapons land in real flesh, to draw real blood. Now, all around them, men were moaning, screaming, bleeding. Dying. The savageness of battle left them stunned and reeling.
As the killing went on and on, they could no longer think or feel. Survival was everything. There were no choices left. There was but life or death.
Within minutes, both Ian and Duncan had fallen, and lay trampled beneath the hooves of the invaders' steeds. Royce turned toward them, determined to drag them to safety, even though in some small part of his mind he knew they were already dead.
"Behind you, Royce." Fitzroy's voice brought the lad out of his stupor and he whirled, landing his sword in a stranger's chest an instant before he would have surely been cut down. When he looked back to thank his brother, Fitzroy was surrounded by a handful of swordsmen.
Royce leapt to his side and the two brothers stood back to back. Though they were bleeding from a dozen different wounds, they continued holding the attackers at bay.
With a quick thrust by one of the barbarians, Royce's sword was swept from his grasp, and he was forced to withdraw his dirk from its sheath. Though he knew one small knife couldn't possibly defend against so many weapons, he was determined to go down fighting.
Suddenly a horseman appeared in their line of vision, followed by a dozen more. Fitzroy and Royce were surrounded. And though they fought and kicked and bit, their arms were finally secured behind them, and they were hauled to their feet to face their executioner.
The stranger remained astride his horse, looking down on them with a sneer. "What I'd heard about the MacLish warriors is true. Even outnumbered one hundred to one, they stand and fight to the last man."
The speaker was tall and broad of shoulder, with long golden hair that fell in tangles around a face that might have been handsome if it weren't for the eyes. In the fading sunlight they gleamed yellow like a cat's eyes.
Unlike the others, he was dressed in the garb of a Highland warrior.
Fitzroy's arm had been nearly severed from his shoulder. Blood gushed like a fountain from the wound. The pain should have been more than any man could bear. Still he faced his opponent with head held high, refusing to show any emotion but defiance. "Why does a Highlander ride with barbarians?"
The man smiled, and it was the most chilling thing Royce had ever seen. It twisted the stranger's face into a look that was almost satanic. "The barbarians you were sent to vanquish were there at my orders. They were intended as a distraction."
"A Highlander gives orders to barbarians?"
"They are merely made to look like barbarians. They are actually Highlanders. We are the clan Rothwick. I am Reginald Rothwick."
Fitzroy and his brother exchanged knowing glances.
Reginald's evil smile grew. "I see you've heard of me."
"Aye." Fitzroy's voice was low with disdain. "We've heard of the outlaw clan that goes about the Highlands killing clan chieftains, looting their fortresses, savaging helpless women and children."
"You forgot to mention the men and boys who are left to choke on their own blood." Reginald paused a beat. "You've just described what was done at the MacLish fortress." He saw the hardness that came into his opponents' eyes, and felt the thrill of victory. "It was kind of the laird to gather all the villagers in one place, so that the killing and looting was made easier." His eyes narrowed on Fitzroy. "Your father has grown old and soft. I could have killed him with a single blow, but that would have prevented him from watching as my soldiers and I brutalized your pretty mother."
Seeing the way Fitzroy struggled against those holding him while glancing at his fallen sword, Rothwick threw back his head and laughed. "I wish you had the strength left to try it. It would give me such satisfaction to duel with you. Alas, I have more important things to see to." He nodded to his men. "Hold them while I kill them both. Then we return to the MacLish fortress, where we will burn it, and all who lay dead inside, to the ground."
Fitzroy's voice was a choked sob. "God forgive me, Royce. I should have forced you to run."
Royce's eyes filled and he blinked furiously, refusing to allow even that small weakness. "I'd have defied you with my last breath."
"You fought like a man, Royce." His older brother's voice trembled with emotion. "I was proud to stand beside you."
"Enough," came the rough voice.
Royce heard his brother cry out as Reginald Rothwick drove a sword directly through his heart. Moments later Fitzroy's crumpled body lay in the grass, in an ever-widening pool of blood.
"Now the lad," Rothwick shouted.
While strong arms held him upright, Rothwick drew his arm back and drove a lance into Royce's chest with such force it went clear through, the tip protruding through the outer flesh of his back between his shoulders.
Royce heard someone's voice, high-pitched in agony, and realized it was his own. When his captors released him, his legs buckled, dropping him to the ground as his body was consumed by a white-hot blaze that seemed to go on and on until he was certain his flesh and bones had been burned away. Slowly the world around him turned gray, then black.
He heard the hoofbeats retreating. An ominous silence seemed to creep over the land. He embraced the darkness and prayed for death to take him quickly.
The Highlands---Six years later
"LET'S hasten, lads." Alana Lamont led the way along the lane that snaked through the village of Dunhill, toward the village green. "If we're to fetch the best fowl, we must get there before the crowds."
She was still upset by the fact that the walls of their fortress had been breached yet again, and this time the thieves had taken the last of their chickens and geese. That meant that poor old Brin, their cook, would have to barter eggs from nearby villagers until the chicks Alana intended to purchase today would grow big enough to lay.
At least, she thought, the only things taken had been livestock. The tales she'd heard from those left widowed and orphaned by Laird Reginald Rothwick's warriors as they swept across the Highlands in a reign of terror had her wondering how much longer her household could survive.
As they neared the center of town, Alana looked around with a feeling of dismay. Its village square should have been bustling with people. Instead, there were only a couple of elderly farmers huddled by the side of the road, displaying their wares in wooden pens.
Alana knelt down beside an old woman. "What has happened? Where are the people?"
The old woman sniffed into her apron, avoiding Alana's eyes. "Have ye not heard? The village of Roxburgh was attacked last night. We fear our village will be next."
"Can the villagers not band together and fight these attackers?"
The old woman looked at Alana as if she were addled. "Do ye know what happens to those who stand up to the laird's warriors?" She stopped speaking when she caught sight of the three lads.
"We know." Ingram, the tallest of the three, with pale yellow hair, spoke for the others. "Our village was attacked, our families murdered in their beds."
The other two lads nodded.
"Yet ye survived." The old woman lifted her head to study them more closely.
"Aye." Jeremy picked up the thread of their tale. "We forded streams, hiked across mountains, slept in deserted sheds . . ."
"Until Lady Alana Lamont found us and took us to her father's fortress," added the third lad.
"That's kind of ye, my lady." The old woman pinned Alana with a dark look. "But if ye value yer life, and the lives of these lads, ye'll prepare to run."
"Where would we run?" Alana asked softly.
"To the Lowlands. To England, even. Anywhere that the devils can't find ye."
Alana took the old woman's hand. "Why do you stay?"
" 'Tis too late for us." The old woman glanced at her husband, bent and stooped, skin leathered from a lifetime in the fields. "We're too poor to have a horse and cart. But those villagers strong enough to walk or ride are preparing to flee."
Alana stood and shook down her skirts. "I'll buy all the stock you have to sell. Perhaps the money will be enough to persuade a neighbor with both horse and cart to take you and your husband along when they flee."
The old woman's eyes filled with tears. "Thank ye, my lady." She spoke to her husband, who handed over to the lads a pen of chickens and a cow.
Alana counted out all the coins she had and watched with a feeling of sadness as the couple hobbled away.
Turning to the lads, she called, "We'd best not tarry in this place."
They moved quickly and were halfway across a meadow when they saw something moving in the grass. When they drew closer they could make out the figure of a tiny lass, dark hair matted, clothes smeared with blood. When she saw them she started to run in the opposite direction.
"Wait," Alana called out. "We mean you no harm."
The child paused.
Alana stepped closer. As she did, she let out a gasp when she saw what had been hidden from her eyes in the grass. A man and woman, their mangled bodies bloodied beyond recognition, lay side by side.
Alana looked away. "Are these your parents?"
A tiny head nodded.
"Were you fleeing the warriors from the village of Roxburgh?"
Another quick nod.
"What is your name?"
There was only silence.
Alana pointed to the others. "These lads and I are on our way to my home. Will you come with us?"
When the lass hesitated, Ingram knelt down so that his eyes were level with the little lass's. "We lost our families as well. Lady Alana took us in and has kept us safe. If you come with us, she'll see that you're safe there as well."
To Alana's amazement, the lass flew into his arms and wrapped her chubby hands around his neck.
As they started toward the distant fortress, she gave the lad a smile. "Well done, Ingram."
He looked pleased with himself and a little dazed at the lass's trust. By the time they reached the fortress, she was snuggled against his shoulder, clinging to him as to a lifeline.
Inside the fortress, the old housekeeper washed the terrified young lass, as she had all the others Alana brought home, soothed the little girl's fears as best she could and set a pallet near the fire where she could watch until the child fell into an exhausted sleep.
"I'M cold, Alana." With several animal hides wrapped around his shoulders, and white hair streaming around his still-handsome face, Laird Malcolm Lamont looked more like an old lion than a Highlander.
"I know, Father. As soon as I've finished feeding you, I'll bring more wood for the fire." Alana lifted a bowl of clear broth into which she'd cut up chunks of meat.
The old man ate slowly, allowing her to mop at his mouth between each sip or bite. "Leave that chore for Lochaber. He won't mind tending the fires."
Alana smiled at the thought of her father's ancient warrior, husband to Brin, going about the countryside searching out wood for their fire. Like the rest of their aging household staff, most of whom were incapable of doing more than dressing themselves, the old man spent much of his day in his chambers like his laird, recreating in his mind the battles of his youth.
To spare her father the pain of their desperate situation, Alana had taught herself how to do everything that had once been done by dozens of servants. It was Alana who hunted their food, and Alana who stripped the nearby forest of dead wood for the fires, hauling it back in a cart that had once been pulled by a pony, until the poor creature had been stolen in a nighttime raid.
To add to her burden, she'd opened their fortress to the half a dozen widows and orphans she'd found wandering the Highlands, often dazed and brutalized after an attack by Rothwick's army. Unless a man vowed allegiance to Reginald Rothwick, he forfeited his life, and risked the safety of his women and children. So many hovels had been torched, fields stripped of crops, animals stolen, the Highlands had become a place of bitter hopelessness and despair.
"What's Brin putting in the broth these days?" The old man propped up on his pallet with several hides mounded at his back for support, made a face.
"Just a bit of gristle, Father." Alana thought about how carefully she and their old housekeeper rationed every portion in order to feed so many, and wondered, as she did daily, where their next meal would come from. "Still, it satisfies your hunger."
"Barely." The old man sighed and studied the daughter who looked so much like her dead mother, Amena, that it never failed to touch his heart, for Amena had been the great love of his life. From the green eyes ringed with gold-tipped lashes, to the red hair that fell in glorious curls to below her waist, Alana was, like her mother, a rare beauty. "You're looking thin, child. You should eat more."
"I will, Father."
"Good. Good." The old laird lay back against the hides and pushed aside her hand. "No more food now. I'm weary. I believe I'll rest awhile."
Alana kissed his cheek and let herself out of his chambers. Once downstairs she tied a threadbare shawl around her shoulders and started toward the door.
"Alana." The door opened and the lad with golden hair and a mischievous smile darted inside. Beside him was the tiny, dark-haired lass who had become his ever-present shadow.
Because she still refused to speak, they'd had to learn her name through a series of trials and errors. Eventually she'd responded to the name Meara.
"We just ran into a lad from Dunhill, who said all who could travel have now fled. Those who remain believe it will be invaded by Laird Rothwick's warriors within days. He said the village of Roxburgh lies in ruin."
Alana shooed Meara across the room and waited until Brin distracted her with a biscuit before asking softly, "Was it the same as before, Ingram?"
He nodded and his voice lowered to a whisper. "Aye. Almost a score of warriors came through looting and killing. Before they left, the huts were burned. Even the fields were torched. They have made camp on a high meadow to avoid the forest."
Ingram and Alana shared a knowing look. There had been so many of Rothwick's warriors killed in the forest, his men refused to go there alone. Now they traveled with a full compliment of warriors for protection. But even that failed to save them. Those who rode at the rear of the column, or those who rode ahead, were often found dead along the trail, their throats slit, their bodies left as a warning to the others.
Ingram lowered his voice, having been warned by Alana that the women and younger children, traumatized by what they had suffered, must be spared anything that might cause them fear. He was especially careful of young Meara, who had become his favorite. "Rothwick's men were entertaining themselves with a lass they'd stolen from a crofter's cottage."
Alana shivered.
"Their bodies were found early this morrow. All had their throats slit."
"The lass?"
"Like the others who've seen him, she told her family that the man who saved her wore the skins of animals and had coal black hair that hung to his waist. He spoke in a whisper and carried her as tenderly as a bairn until they reached her cottage. Once there he set her on the stoop, waited until her family embraced her, then disappeared into the darkness before they could thank him."
"The Dark Angel." Alana spoke the name on a sigh.
"Aye."
For years now, there had been tales of a wild creature that lived in the forest. It was said that he never slept, but watched and waited for Rothwick's warriors. Dozens had been killed. So many now that Rothwick and his men lived in constant fear. There were those who believed him to be the reincarnated soul of one of Rothwick's innocent victims, back from the grave seeking vengeance. Alana half believed it herself, since everyone in the Highlands knew that the souls of the dead returned to their bodies to walk the earth on the night of All Hallows Eve. Why should that be the only night when the dead could return?
Seeing Alana's shawl, Ingram held the door. "Where are you going?"
"To the forest to gather wood."
"I'll go with you."
She nodded. "Come along then. I'll be glad for your help."
Before the lad could step outside, little Meara was beside him, clinging to the tail of his ragged tunic. Because of his tender heart, he never refused the lass. This time was no exception. "Can Meara go with us?"
Alana nodded. "I'll take all the help offered."
As they began to push the cart across a field, Alana waved at two lads who were using sticks like swords, thrusting, parrying, dancing around each other, in the innocent belief that one day they might be skilled enough to face Rothwick's warriors.
"Jeremy. Dudley. 'Tis time to gather wood for the fires."
At once the two ceased their swordplay and joined Alana and Ingram and Meara as they headed toward the distant forest.
The three boys carried on a lively conversation, teasing, laughing, and even managing to elicit a smile from little Meara until they entered the darkness of the woods. At once all fell silent.
"Do you think he's watching?" Dudley's voice was hushed.
No one needed to ask what he meant. The thought of a dark avenger living in the forest had enthralled the entire Highlands. Whether man or myth, the Dark Angel was the only one with the courage to stand up to Rothwick. It was rumored that Reginald Rothwick was so fearful of this creature, he now refused to leave his fortress without an army of warriors to protect him.
And now they were in the creature's lair.
Alana felt the tingling along her spine that she always felt in this place. Not that she had to fear the Dark Angel, since his only victims had been Rothwick's warriors. In the years since he'd begun his siege, not a single villager had been harmed. None except those he saved had even seen him. Still, it was intriguing to think he might be watching from a place of concealment.
"Come, now," Alana called. "Let's see how quickly we can fill this cart with firewood."
Alana and the children fanned out, filling their arms with twigs, branches, and limbs before returning to the cart to toss them inside.
As she worked, Alana could hear the lads' voices nearby. Occasionally they would drift away until, their arms filled, they would return to the cart.
Spying a fallen log some distance away, she hurried over and struggled to lift it. It was impossible to budge. Still, she had to try. It would make a grand blaze in her father's chambers. Enough to keep him warm an entire night, without having to rouse herself to add more wood. The thought was too enticing to give up without a struggle.
She sat down with her back to a tree trunk and brought her feet to the log, hoping to dislodge it from the moss and vines that had grown around it, anchoring it to the spot. Though she shoved with all her might, it barely moved.
Using a boulder and a heavy branch as a lever, she set the tip of the limb beneath the log and leaned all her weight on the length of it. Feeling it move slightly, she huffed and grunted and pulled, but the moment she let up on the lever, the log settled back into the same spot.
With a sigh she tossed aside the tree branch, ready to abandon her plan. As she turned, she saw something move in the shadows.
Only a deer, she thought. But when she turned back, she found herself staring up at a man so tall she had to tip up her head to see his face.
She was so startled, she thought about bolting, but her legs refused to move. She stood frozen to the spot.
She had to blink several times to convince herself that it truly was a man. And what a man. Unlike any she had ever seen. She was vaguely aware of animal skins stretched tautly across shoulders wider than a crossbow. His long legs were encased in fur. On his feet were mismatched brogues, and it occurred to her that she'd heard the dead warriors were often missing their boots as well as their weapons. A sword was strapped at his hip, and the hilt of a dirk could be seen tucked at his waist.
Long black hair spilled around a face hidden in shadow.
He took a step toward her and she caught sight of his eyes. Bright blue, they were. As blue as the sky on a summer day, fixed on her with a look so intense, so piercing, it had her heart leaping to her throat.
For the longest time he merely stared at her, as though he'd never seen a woman before. His gaze moved over her, starting with the hem of her skirts that brushed the tall grass, pausing for a moment at her tiny waist, then moving upward to her bosom, heaving as she fought for breath, and lingering there so long she felt her cheeks grow warm.
At last he brought his gaze full on her face, and something flickered in his eyes as he studied the curve of her lips, the set of her chin, the flare of nostrils.
Without a word he moved past her and picked up the log as though it weighed no more than a twig. He dragged it toward the cart and lifted it up and over, tossing it on the top of the pile.
When she realized that he was about to leave without speaking, she called, "Thank you."
He stopped. Turned with a frown. Stepped closer. And all the while his eyes were fixed on her with that same, intense look.
Just then the breeze caught her hair, flaying a strand across her cheek. He reached out a big, rough hand, brushing it aside, and stared in fascination as the silken strands sifted through his callused fingers.
Alana knew he could hear the way her heart was pounding. But in all her years, she had never seen a man look at her the way this one did. Not only the way a man might look at a woman he found desirable, but also with a childlike fascination that she found most appealing. It occurred to her that despite his rough clothing and appearance, and his reputation as a ruthless avenger, there was a gentleness, a courtliness about him that seemed completely out of character.
She looked into his eyes and wondered at the many emotions she could read in their depths. Curiosity. Annoyance. A hint of humor. And above all, a deep and abiding pain. More than anything, it was the pain that touched her tender heart. "Are you a man or a spirit?"
He seemed about to speak. Before he could form the words, a shout rang out through the forest.
"Alana."
At the sound of Dudley's voice the man looked up sharply, then began stepping back. Even while Alana watched, he seemed to blend into the woods until she could no longer distinguish him from the dense foliage around him.
"Alana." Dudley and the others came thrashing through the forest, arms laden with tree branches.
Seeing the immense log in the cart, they turned to her with matching looks of surprise.
"How ever did you manage that?" Ingram asked.
"I . . ." She swallowed and looked around, but the man who had been there just moments earlier was nowhere to be seen. She managed a weak laugh. "It would seem that I'm stronger than I look."
The three lads stared at one another with disbelief. But since Alana wasn't willing to offer any further explanation, they were forced to take her at her word.
She waited until they'd deposited their firewood, then leaned her weight against the heavy cart. "Come along. Now that it's filled to the top, let's see if we're all strong enough to get this back home before darkness falls."
While they pushed and shoved, forcing the cart over ruts and across ravines, she glanced over her shoulder several times, hoping to catch at least a fleeting glimpse of the man before it was too late. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen.
As much as she wanted to share her news with her young friends, she wasn't ready to talk about it just yet. Instead she hugged her secret to her heart, enjoying the tiny curl of pleasure that shivered along her spine at the realization that she had just had a most amazing encounter.
She had actually met the one known throughout the Highlands as the Dark Angel.
ON her way to the stream, Alana passed the children playing in the protected area of the walled garden behind the keep. As always, the older lads indulged in war games and fancied themselves standing toe to toe with Rothwick's finest swordsmen. Brave warriors all, when the worst thing they had to confront was another lad's stick. The younger ones stood in a circle urging them on, awaiting their chance to assume the role of warrior. The girls skipped about under the watchful eye of the women. When they'd first arrived at the fortress, these women had taken refuge in the great hall, huddling around the fire, eyes vacant, spirits broken. But gradually, under Alana's coaxing, they had begun to take a more active role in guiding the children, who were desperate for the love of a mother. Alana had wisely realized that both women and children had need of one another. Each had much to offer the other. Still, seeing how they banded together, like wounded birds, she often wondered if they would ever be able to leave the safety of the fortress and fly back to their villages to make a life for themselves among former neighbors and kin.
What was to become of them? Of all of them? Alana wondered. Rothwick's army continued rolling across the Highlands, destroying everything in its path. There was but one village now lying between them and the ruthless band of marauders.
There was a time a hostile army might have avoided her father's fortress, because of his reputation as one of the fiercest of warriors, much revered by the other chieftains. Now, if word got out that he and his warriors were old and frail, she had no doubt what Rothwick's reaction would be. He would crush them as he'd crushed all who stood in his way.
She paused on the banks of the stream and dropped her basket of soiled linens before glancing up at the sky. This day it was a clear, cloudless blue. As blue as the Dark Angel's eyes.
There he was again, taking over her mind. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. Whether man or spirit, there had been such sadness in those blue depths.
How did he survive in the wilderness? Where did he sleep? What did he eat? Where was his family? Could he speak? If so, was she right in thinking that he'd been about to say something to her when he'd been startled by the children?
Ever since that brief encounter he'd been hovering on the edges of her mind, disturbing her sleep. Even now, as she saw to the many chores required of her, she could see him. His face, for those few moments she'd had a clear view, was the most handsome she'd ever seen. Despite the rough garb, the wild tangle of hair, and the intensity of his gaze when he'd looked at her, she hadn't felt any real fear. But she'd felt something that had rushed through her with all the force of a summer storm. Something she couldn't quite put a name to. As though their meeting had been fated and would forever change both their lives.
What nonsense. She bent to her wash. If he truly was the angel, and she felt certain he was, it was only natural that she would be fascinated by him. He was larger than life. According to local lore, he had single-handedly dispatched scores of Rothwick's evil warriors and had done what all the Highland lairds and their puny armies combined had not been able to accomplish. He, and he alone, had actually caused Rothwick to tremble in fear for his life.
She had trembled as well. When he'd reached out and touched her hair, she had felt his touch all the way to her very core. It wasn't fear she'd felt, but something quite different.
In peaceful times there had been lads in the village who had gone out of their way to catch her eye. A few of the bolder ones had even kissed her. But none had ever made her feel the way the Dark Angel had, with but a single touch.
She heard old Brin's voice, ordering the lads to put their warriors' skills to good use by hunting game for their supper. She smiled as she began spreading the clean linens over low-hanging brush and tree limbs to dry.
With the empty basket on her hip she sauntered back to the keep. The lads were gone now, and the women and younger children had disappeared, presumably inside with Brin, who doted on them and often gave them her last bit of bread dipped in honey as a
Angel. The very word had Alana trembling.
The women would now be in the steamy kitchen, gathered around the fire, sewing and mending, and hoping that one day soon their poor hearts would mend as well. All of them had lost their men to death at the hands of Rothwick's army and had seen their ancestral farms torched, their fields destroyed.
When would it end, Alana wondered? And how could one man, even one as fierce as the Dark Angel, actually hope to destroy the might of Reginald Rothwick and his warriors, who grew stronger, and more ruthless, with each passing year?
While she dashed about her father's keep, building fires in the many rooms. Alana pressed a hand to her back and thought about the life of ease she had enjoyed as a child of wealth and privilege. There had been a time, so long ago, that her pretty young mother and strong, handsome father had been adored by their clan and had actually dined with royalty. Now her mother was dead of childbed fever, and her father, his heart and spirit broken, waited to join his beloved Amena in the afterlife.
"What do you mean, the child isn't with you?"
At the sound of Brin's voice raised to the level of hysteria, Alana hurried down the stairs. In the refectory the old cook stood facing the band of lads, who were proudly holding an array of partridge and pheasants that were leaving a trail of blood across the stone floor.
"What child is missing?" Alana asked reasonably.
"Meara. I thought she was with Ingram."
The lad's lips were quivering. "I thought she was safe here in the keep with Brin."
Though Alana's heart was pounding, she struggled to hide her fear from the others. "Meara probably trailed behind you, Ingram. I'm sure she'll be coming right along. After all, her little legs can't keep up with your strides."
"But I'd have seen her, my lady. I never saw her while we hunted." The lad glanced at the others, who were shaking their heads.
Alana fought the panic that was beginning to wrap icy fingers around her heart. Grabbing a shawl from a peg by the door she called, "Brin, you and the women and younger ones will search the keep, while the lads and I return to the place where they hunted."
"You mustn't . . ." Brin said, but Alana cut her off with a quick shake of her head.
As they stepped outside Alana glanced toward the sky. Already the sun had made its arc to the west. Shadows were gathering, cloaking the land in the first layers of twilight. There was no time to waste. Under cover of darkness, no one was safe from Rothwick's vicious warriors. That was when they swooped down upon helpless peasants, using the cover of night to slaughter flocks and steal women and children for their pleasure.
Children. The thought of what might happen to one sweet innocent had Alana's heart contracting with absolute terror.
"Meara!" With her hand to her mouth Alana shouted into the shadows and struggled to hold back the knowledge of what could happen to the child unless she was found and soon.
"You mustn't call out, my lady." Ingram caught her hand and lowered his voice. "You know the soldiers ride about the countryside at night. If they hear us, they'll be on us before we can return to the safety of your father's fortress."
She knew the lad was right. That only made her fear all the greater. How could she bear to return to safety, knowing that sweet child was alone and afraid?
"Show me where you hunted, Ingram. We'll start there and work our way back to the keep."
In silence they climbed to a high meadow.
"Why did you come so far?" Alana kept her voice to a whisper.
"It's where Laird Rothwick's men often hunt game. Dudley and Jeremy suggested we'd have our choice of plump partridge in such a place, for the warriors use the choicest hunting grounds for their laird."
Alana thought of how proud the lads had looked when they'd presented their kill to old Brin. And their genuine horror when they realized that Meara was missing.
In silence they fanned out, walking across the meadow, pausing to search every dip, every stream, every patch of tall grass where a child might be hidden from their view.
Alana glanced up at the shadowed sky revealing a golden slice of moon. In the distance she could hear the pounding of horses' hooves and knew that danger was afoot. "We can stay here no longer."
With a heavy heart they started toward the fortress. As they skirted the edge of the forest, Alana saw something dark along the ground.
With her heart tripping over itself, she stopped and pointed. The lads froze in their tracks.
"Is it . . . ?" Ingram couldn't bring himself to speak the lass's name.
"I know not." Alana crept forward, praying it was an animal. When she drew closer she realized it was a man. Judging by the boots and hooded cloak, it was one of Rothwick's warriors. He was lying in his own blood. A little farther on was another and yet another. Six in all, they counted, and all with their throats slit, their blood congealing in the dirt where they lay.
The sight of them, eyes wide in horror, bathed in blood, and the stench of death all around them, had Alana and the lads biting back screams as they turned and fled.
They were almost at the wall of her father's keep when they saw a tall figure up ahead, moving slowly toward the gate.
While the lads fell back, Alana recognized the man and hurried forward.
Hearing her footsteps he whirled and watched as she approached. When she drew near she could see that he was carrying something in his arms. Her heart gave a hard, quick tug.
"Meara." The child's name came out in a cry. "We've been searching everywhere for her. Is she alive?"
"Aye." The word was little more than a grunt.
Though the lads were fearful of the stranger, they gathered around Alana in a protective circle.
Seeing them, the man frowned. "Yours?"
It sounded more like another grunt, but Alana was so delighted to learn that he could actually speak, she merely nodded her head.
"And this?" He glanced down at the child in his arms.
"Her name is Meara. When we found her missing, we feared the worst. Especially when we saw those warriors . . ."
The little girl whimpered and burrowed closer, burying her face in the man's shoulder.
He held her as gently as a flower in those big, work-hardened hands. "They'd intended to use the child as sport."
Alana let out a little cry before clapping a hand to her mouth. "Oh, sweet heaven. Did they . . . ?"
He gave a quick shake of his head. "I gave them no time. When I heard what they planned, I knew I had to stop them."
At the enormity of the situation, Alana had to swallow several times before she could find her voice. "I don't know how to thank you. Perhaps you would come inside my father's fortress. The lads managed to hunt some game earlier. Our cook was preparing it when we left to search for Meara."
He was already beginning to back away, but when Alana reached out for Meara, the lass whimpered and wrapped her arms tighter around her protector's neck.
"She's afraid." He spoke the words slowly, as he'd spoken the others. As though he'd somehow forgotten how to speak aloud and was only now attempting this long lost art.
"She has a right to be." Alana cleared her throat, wondering at the lump that was threatening to choke her. "I hope you don't mind carrying her just a little farther."
Without a word he followed Alana and the lads until they opened the door to the keep. The wonderful aroma of roasted fowl and bread baking on the hearth billowed out, perfuming the air.
Alana saw the man's head come up. He breathed deeply, a look of such intensity on his face, she surmised he might be recalling something long-forgotten.
The lads trooped inside, announcing loudly that Meara had been found. That brought Brin and the others racing across the room to gather around Alana and the stranger.
"Oh, our darling lass is safe." Wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron, old Brin held out her arms and the child was coaxed to release her hold on the man's neck, only to be folded into the cook's embrace.
The other women gathered around to stroke her hair and murmur words of comfort. They carried her close to the fire, where she was wrapped in a shawl and petted and fussed over until her tears were dried.
Seeing that the stranger was poised to flee, Alana quickly closed the door and pointed to the scarred wooden table surrounded by long wooden benches. It was big enough to feed an army of hungry warriors and once had. "If you'll sit there, we will reward your kindness with a fine meal."
At her words the cook looked over, as did the other women. Now that the stranger had stepped from the shadows into the light of the refectory, they became aware of the wild look of him. An awkward silence fell over all in the room.
Ingram was so grateful that his little shadow had been returned to them, he forgot his nerves. Settling himself on the hard wooden bench drawn up on one side of the table, he motioned for the stranger to sit beside him. "Do you live in the forest?"
The man hesitated, then sat. "Aye."
"Do you know what the villagers call you?" Fascinated, Dudley sat on the other side of the man and busied himself measuring his hand against the big callused hand resting on the tabletop.
That great shaggy head shook slightly, sending dark hair flying. "I know not."
"Will you have some ale, sir?" Alana set a goblet in front of the man and shot a warning look at Dudley.
Their guest merely stared at the goblet without touching it. After a pause he turned to the lad beside him. "What do they call me in the village?"
Dudley ducked his head, knowing Alana was glowering at him. "The Dark Angel. They say you're not really a man, but a soul back from the dead."
The stranger seemed to think about that for a long time.
With Alana staring holes through the lad, Brin began filling a platter with several joints of fowl, as well as bread warm from the oven.
When it was placed in front of their guest, he glanced around. "Is no one else eating?"
"Aye." Alana motioned for the women and children to gather around the table.
Though they moved awkwardly, and averted their gazes, they did as she bade.
When all were seated, Brin began passing around platters of fowl and chunks of warm bread. While the women kept their gazes fixed on the tabletop, the children stared openly at this strange man.
"Are you a barbarian?" Jeremy asked.
"I am a Highlander."
"What is your clan?"
The deep voice trembled with emotion. "My clan is no more."
"If you're a Highlander, why do you wear animal skins like the barbarians?" the lad demanded.
"They are the only clothes I have."
"All I had were some torn breeches," Ingram said softly, "until Alana took me in and gave me a new tunic and boots."
"Maybe the Dark Angel has no one to sew for him." A little lass eyed him solemnly. "Did you lose your mother, too?"
"Too?"
"I lost my mother when Laird Rothwick's soldiers burned our cottage and took her away," the girl said softly.
"My mother refused to leave me, so they ran her through with their swords," said another. "The same happened to little Meara, and now she refuses to speak."
As the other children began chiming in with their own sad tales, the man stared around the table.
When the truth dawned, he turned to Alana. "These are not yours?"
"You thought . . . ?" She bit back a smile. "You thought these children were all mine?"
Seeing the humor in it, everyone around the table began to grin and then to laugh aloud. Once they started, they couldn't seem to stop.
Alana joined in. Then, as the others continued laughing, she sat back, watching and listening, feeling a welling of such joy in her heart.
Oh, it was so good to hear the sound of laughter once more. She had thought she might never again hear anything so wondrous as this in her father's house.
THE easy laughter had an amazing effect on everyone in the room. With tensions eased, they bent to their meal, suddenly ravenous.
Alana was careful not to be caught staring at the stranger. But she was aware of the fact that he ate slowly, as though savoring each bite. Could it be that he'd never tasted fowl cooked in such a manner? Though he claimed to be a Highlander, she wondered if his clan was so primitive that they ate their food raw like the barbarians.
It was rumored that the barbarians who regularly invaded their land from across the sea actually ate the flesh of their victims and drank their blood. Though no one had ever seen such a chilling deed, the rumor refused to die.
Alana cared not for rumors, but she couldn't dismiss all the things she'd heard about the Dark Angel. And so, while the others ate, she watched this stranger in their midst, trying very hard not to be seen watching him.
Observing the others dip chunks of bread in the broth made from the juices, he did the same. When he lifted the goblet of ale to his lips he drank very little, as though unsure of what to expect. He seemed as watchful, as calculating, here at the table as he'd been in the forest, when first they'd met.
The easy laughter brought about another change. With their hunger sated and their fear for Meara put to rest, the lads began vying with one another to share their stories of life before the reign of the cruel Rothwick.
"Do you remember, Ingram, when we used to toss each other into the loch?" Jeremy's eyes warmed with laughter. "For no other reason than that the day was sunny, or there was time for such foolishness before returning from the fields?"
"Aye. Praise heaven we'd learned how to swim, or by now we wouldn't be here to speak of it. I remember best, after a day of tending the flocks, we'd leap across the boulders that lined the mountain streams, hoping we'd get to the other side without slipping." Ingram added with a smile, "You knew you'd get a scolding if you came home dripping on your mother's clean floor."
"I did my share of scolding." A young woman with pale hair tied back with a ribbon looked wistful. "Whenever my lads would come home from the village with too many sweets and not enough flour from the miller. I'd scold them roundly. Of course," she added with a sigh, "they knew they'd do the same the next time I sent them to the village. And I knew it, too. 'Twas a game we played, though we never spoke of it at the time."
Across the table the women smiled and nodded. Encouraged by her words, they began to speak haltingly of their lives as wives and mothers, helping with chores in the fields, glorying in the freedom to visit with friends and neighbors on market day.
"Oh, the fine laces I could find there," said one, glancing down at the rags that she now was forced to wear.
"And the pastries," said another, touching a hand to her plump middle. "I recall Elizabeth MacNair's shortbread melting in my mouth. I could hardly wait for market day, so I could sample more of her fine pastries." The woman lowered her voice. "She wouldn't share the secret to her recipe. And though we all ate her shortbread and tried to figure out why it was better than our own, none of us could ever match the taste or texture."
"I had a friend in the village who could sew the finest stitches." A dark-haired young woman smiled wistfully, while twisting a length of faded apron around and around her finger. "She tried to show me how, but I could never come close to her skill with needle and thread."
Alana was stunned at the way they'd begun opening up, since they'd been reluctant until now to speak of anything that reminded them of the past. She'd had to pry every tale of woe from them, and though in time she'd learned bits and pieces of their lives, they had never before spoken with such honesty.
Caught up in the moment, even Brin joined in as she circled the table, filling goblets with strong, hot tea. She placed a scone, drizzled with honey, in front of their guest. "I've but one left, and since you saved our sweet Meara, you must eat it."
Instead of doing as she asked, he merely stared at it with a look that, to Alana, seemed heartbreaking.
Brin took no notice. "You children are too young to remember, but the rest of us can still recall those lovely days, when Laird MacLish was laird of lairds."
At the mention of that name, Alana saw the stranger go very still. His food forgotten, he stared at the tabletop, his face expressionless.
"The laird had wisely ended the warfare between neighboring clans."
"Did he have a grand army?" Dudley asked.
"Nay. It was accomplished, not with an army, but instead with acts of kindness that united all in the Highlands. With the clans united, we were able to stand together against our common enemy, the barbarians, who used to attack from the sea. When they realized the force of our united clans, their attacks began to taper off until, for the first time in recent memory, we were at peace."
"What is it like to be without war?" Ingram asked with a sigh.
"Oh, lad." Brin's eyes lit with the knowledge. "With peace came life filled to overflowing with goodness. Without a constant call to arms, our men could tend to their fields and flocks. Our fields yielded richer crops than any, even the oldest among us, had ever seen. Our flocks grew fat." She touched a hand to her middle. "As did our bellies."
The women were smiling and nodding, while the children struggled to imagine such a thing.
Brin's voice lowered with feeling. "We thought, and rightly so, that we were living in paradise. There was such a sense of pride. Of love, not only among friends and neighbors, but among bordering clans."
One of the women got so caught up in the litany of pleasure, she actually clapped her hands like a child. "Oh, I recall skipping to market day with my children, feeling as though a simple visit to the village square was some grand adventure."
Eyes brightened. Heads nodded. Smiles widened.
Old Brin set the kettle over the fire and turned. "When word reached us that Laird MacLish and his wife and brave sons had all been murdered by Reginald Rothwick's army, and their fortress burned to the ground, our Highlands were swept by a wave of grief unlike any I've ever known. It was as though we'd suffered the loss of our own. And we had, for we loved them as we loved ourselves. There wasn't a man or woman in this land that wouldn't have gladly given our lives in exchange for theirs."
Alana saw the stranger blanch. He sank back for a moment, before lurching to his feet.
Alarmed, Alana pushed away from the table and hurried to his side. "Are you unwell?"
"Aye." He glanced at the others, who were staring in silence. "I do thank you for your kindness. I must go."
Alana clasped her hands together. "I know I speak for my father, who lies on his pallet above stairs. You are welcome to share our home and hearth."
He backed away. Before he could reach the door little Meara launched herself at him and clung to his hand.
He looked down at her, then glanced helplessly at Alana.
She explained as gently as possible. "Meara hasn't spoken since coming here. But as you can see, she is still able to express her feelings. It's quite obvious that she doesn't want you to go. I sense that she feels safe with you. We all do."
"Safe?" He paused. "You spoke of a father. Can he not keep you safe?"
"My father, Laird Malcolm Lamont, has grown frail. He rarely leaves his bed."
"Lamont." He seemed to be searching his memory. "He was a good friend to the MacLish clan."
"Aye." She dimpled. "He spoke fondly of his affection for all of them." Her smile faded. "His heart was broken by their cruel deaths. Shortly after that we lost my mother, and my father took to his pallet."
"As I recall, the clan Lamont had many strong warriors. What has happened to them?"
"Father told those who were strong enough to flee, to do so before they could be forced to fight for Rothwick or forfeit their lives. Many journeyed to the Lowlands. The few who remained on their ancestral land are, like my father, too old or infirm to make the journey and are hoping to live out their days in the Highlands before Rothwick and his army discover their presence."
He looked around the fine big room, the food on the table, the fire blazing on the hearth. "Who sees to this place?"
"We do." Alana indicated the women and children. "There are many willing hands working together."
"The food? The animals?"
"We've lost our flocks to nighttime raids, though whether by Rothwick's warriors, or men fleeing the advancing army, we know not. We are now forced to hunt food in the meadows and fish in the streams." She lowered her voice. "And, as you know, we search out firewood in the forest."
He was looking at her strangely. "You know that Rothwick's army is advancing. What will you do when the last village falls, and nothing stands between them and these walls?"
"Let them come." Ingram pushed away from the table and stood as tall as his ten years would permit. "We'll fight them, won't we, lads?"
"Aye. We practice daily with sticks and dirks." Jeremy joined his friend, slapping him on the back, and the two smiled at young Dudley, who noisily drained his tea before crossing to stand with them.
They lifted faces still sprinkled with freckles, exuding a courage born of innocence.
Something dark and dangerous flickered in the stranger's eyes. "Are you telling me that all that stands between the people living in this fortress and Rothwick's army are you three fine, brave warriors?"
Dudley's lips curled into a childish sneer, revealing a gap where he was missing his front teeth. "Would you rather we hide like cowards?"
The lad's words had the man recoiling, as though he'd been assaulted. He stared at the three in thoughtful silence before turning and pulling open the door.
As he stepped into the darkness, Alana lay a hand on his sleeve. Just a touch, but it had him going very still.
She could feel the coiled tension inside him. "Again, I thank you for saving little Meara. Please know that you are always welcome in my father's home."
He turned, and once again she was rocked by the way his eyes locked on hers. Though her cheeks grew hot, she could no more tear her gaze from his than stop her heart from beating wildly in her chest like a caged bird.
His voice was little more than a whisper. "Keep all who dwell within these walls close. Rothwick's army advances each day."
"He would not come near if he learned that the one he most fears lays in wait for him."
He understood what she was saying. It should have warmed him to think that she put such faith in his power. Instead, it had the opposite effect. His voice lowered with passion. "One man cannot be everywhere."
"And we cannot remain locked within the keep without food or firewood." She closed her eyes against the fear that was never far from her thoughts. "I have many depending on me. Would you ask me to let them starve? To let them freeze?"
"Would you risk their lives for food? For warmth?"
"I know not." She sighed. "I know only that I will fight with my last breath to keep them safe from all harm. Not only from the harm threatened by Rothwick's warriors, but from the ravages of life as well."
The stranger seemed about to say something more, then gave a shake of his head and turned away abruptly.
Alana remained in the doorway, watching until he disappeared through the gate in the wall and could be seen striding toward the forest.
When she closed the door and turned, those seated at the table had gone silent, lips trembling, eyes downcast.
Even the lads, for all their boastful eloquence, had lost their bravado.
The laughter and gaiety they'd enjoyed earlier was gone, swept away by the troubling knowledge that their safety was little more than an illusion. And the one most feared by Rothwick's army was merely a man after all and not a vengeful spirit.
ROYCE returned to the forest and checked the hollows of trees to be certain his cache of weapons remained undisturbed. While he ascended trees with an ease born of years of practice, and swung from branch to branch with all the grace of a bird, his mind worked frantically.
Alana Lamont's face was seared into his memory. Thoughts of her wouldn't let him go. The plight of the woman, and all those who lived in her father's keep, tugged at him. Still, what could he do? As he'd made perfectly clear to her, he couldn't be everywhere. This place was where he could do the most good for the people. By hiding out here in the forest, and striking one warrior at a time, he'd injected an element of fear into the murdering Rothwick's heart. Without that fear, he had no doubt that Rothwick would have long ago made good on his plan to imprison all Highlanders and declare himself laird of lairds.
Once Rothwick gained complete power, all would be lost.
When Royce's life had hung on, day after pain-filled day, he'd made a promise to himself. If he should live, he would spend the rest of his days seeking, not vengeance, but justice. It was the least he could do for all those who had paid with their lives.
Had it not been for the compassionate care of a family that had come upon him while fleeing the carnage, his fate would have been the same as his brother's. The very thought of Fitzroy's courage in the face of death remained with Royce to this day.
Because he hadn't expected to recover, each day was a gift. And though he still bore the scars, and with them the lingering pain, he refused to allow himself to dwell on the hell through which he'd passed. He had learned that a man could rise above even the most hideous torture and not only survive, but also come back stronger than ever.
He lived for one goal. The overthrow of Rothwick's reign of evil. He wanted nothing---no obstacle, no temptation---to deter him from his course.
But what was he to do about the woman?
He'd saved many women and children from the horrors of Rothwick's warriors. But for every one he saved, many more had been forced to suffer the most brutal and degrading treatment imaginable at the hands of Rothwick and his band of villains. Royce had seen their battered remains when the warriors were finished with them. He couldn't bear the thought of Alana Lamont suffering that same fate.
Alana Lamont.
Her name suited her. Lovely and lyrical. And from what he'd seen of her with the others entrusted to her care, as beautiful inside as out. Without concern for her own safety, she had opened her father's home to any and all in need.
How could he do less?
He knew what he had to do. Had known, since first he'd seen her and had become so transfixed by her beauty, he'd been almost overcome with the need to touch her. Now there was another need. The need to keep her safe, no matter what the cost.
Tucking a spare dirk into his boot, he swung down from the tree and, moving with all the silence of a shadow, started across the open space that separated the Lamont fortress from the forest that had been his home and haven for six long years.
He would conceal himself just inside the wall of her fortress, so that any who attempted to enter would have to deal with him.
"ALANA."
At the sound of her father's voice calling from the chambers just beyond hers, Alana was awake instantly.
She hurried to his room to kneel beside his pallet. "I'm here, Father. What do you need?"
"Water." He coughed several times before adding, "to quench the fire in my throat."
She poured water from a pitcher and held the goblet to his lips. When he'd had his fill, she touched a hand to his forehead and was relieved to find no fever. His frail health worried her, though she thought it was due more to the loss of his wife and the loss of freedom for his beloved Highlanders, than anything physical. He had, she believed, simply lost the will to live.
He mounded a fur throw and set it behind his head. "Brin said we had a visitor to the fortress."
Alana nodded. "I would have told you about him, but you were asleep when I came above stairs."
"I'm awake now." He patted the side of the bed. "Sit with me awhile, and tell me more about this Dark Angel."
"There's little enough to tell." She settled herself beside him and caught his hand between both of hers. "He appears to be uncomfortable in the company of people. And though he claims to be a Highlander, he seems unaware of our food or customs."
"Did he tell you of his clan?"
She shook her head. "He offered nothing about himself, except to say that his clan is no more."
"No more? Have they all been wiped out, then?"
She shrugged. "He did not say. But there can be no doubt about his determination to put an end to the reign of terror by Reginald Rothwick and his warriors."
"How can you be certain of that?"
"I can see it in his eyes, Father. And in the hard line of his mouth whenever he speaks of them. He warned me to keep close to our fortress in the days to come, for he fears that Rothwick grows bolder and closer each day."
The old man shifted uncomfortably, pulling away. "I've lain abed too long. It is time for me to rise up and assume my place as protector of my home and family."
Alana lay a hand on his arm. "Your health is no longer robust. I can manage, Father."
"I have no doubt you can manage most things, my child. If a strong will were all that was needed, I'd have no fear. But Highlanders with a stronger will than yours have found themselves at the point of Rothwick's sword." He sighed. "I know you mean well, but war is the business of men."
"And 'tis women who must reap what their men sow."
He gave her a long, steady look. "I am not as ignorant of the situation as you may think. Brin has told me of the widows and orphans who have been given refuge within our walls. You make me proud, Alana."
She lowered her head. "Thank you, Father. And I'm sorry that I haven't taken you into my confidence. I didn't want to add to your burden."
He cleared his throat. "Send Lochaber to my chambers on the morrow."
She arched a brow. "For what reason?"
" 'Tis customary for a laird to discuss his battle plans with his man-at-arms before the enemy is at the door." Seeing the doubt in her eyes he closed a hand over hers and squeezed. "I know I've failed you in the past, Alana, but . . ."
She stopped him with a finger over his mouth. "Don't ever think that, Father. There was a time when you were the finest warrior in the Highlands. But even the laird of lairds cannot fight the ravages of time."
He sighed. A long deep sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "No matter. You will send Lochaber to me on the morrow."
She nodded and kissed her father's cheek before returning to her chambers. But instead of lying on her pallet, she began to pace. The Dark Angel had been right. She couldn't leave their protection in the hands of old men who could barely lift their heads from their pallets, and lads who, just yesterday, were playing games in the meadow. But could she do better? At least her father and old Lochaber had tasted battle. They knew what to expect. And the lads, though inexperienced, had the agility of youth. She had barely enough strength to lift a sword, let alone wield it in battle. Still, she had to come up with some means of defense for those in her care.
On the morrow she would gather the women around to plan what they would do in the event of an attack. Those women too fearful to face actual battle would be made responsible for the safety of the children. Perhaps they could plan an escape route to the Lowlands. The rest would discuss ways to compensate for their size and lack of strength by finding places of concealment until the warriors were gone.
If they had learned anything from the Dark Angel, it was this: One person, staying the course, could make a difference.
She paused at her window and looked down at the land, silvered with dew in the moonlight. Despite the blood that had been shed in recent years, she loved this land with all her heart and soul. She would do whatever was necessary to keep it, and the people she loved, free of Rothwick's tyranny.
Seeing a slight movement beside the wall that encircled the fortress, she hurriedly snuffed out her candle. With her chambers in darkness she dropped to her knees before peering over the windowsill. For a moment the shadows seemed to blend together, and she began to berate herself for her foolishness. Just then the shadows separated, and she realized that someone was moving stealthily just inside the wall.
She thought about waking the lads, Ingram, Jeremy, and Dudley. There was safety in numbers. Or was there? One clumsy misstep by a sleepy lad and their quarry would be alerted to their presence. She could lead unsuspecting lads to their death.
Thinking better of it, she decided to go alone, hoping surprise would give her the advantage.
She snatched up a knife and crept down the stairs.
ROYCE took another turn around the fortress. Assured that there were no intruders, he wrapped an animal hide around himself for warmth and settled on the ground with his back to the wall. He was close enough to the gate that he would hear it open. With his senses finely tuned to the sounds of the night, he had no doubt he would detect any attempt by an intruder to scale the wall.
He had just closed his eyes when he heard the slight movement of the door that led from the refectory. Surely the cook wouldn't be out and about at this late hour.
Through narrowed eyes he watched as a slim figure stepped into the moonlight, glancing about furtively.
He recognized the woman Alana. Did she foolishly think to make her way about the countryside in the dark? And for what purpose?
From his place of concealment he watched and waited. When she was close enough to overpower, he sprang up.
She whirled and brought her hand in a quick arc. Before she could plunge her knife, strong fingers closed around her wrist in a viselike grip and her weapon dropped harmlessly to the ground.
"You!" The word came out in a whoosh of air. "I saw you from my balcony and thought you were one of Rothwick's warriors, come to do harm."
Anger had him dragging her close, until she could feel the sting of his hot breath on her temple. "If I'd been one of Rothwick's men, you would already be dead. Why would you foolishly leave the safety of your fortress to face danger alone?"
Stung by his temper, she lifted her head in a haughty gesture. "I feared waking the others."
"Save your fear for what really matters." Now that he was touching her, he felt again the wave of intense heat he'd felt the first time he'd been this close to her, in the forest. Only now he knew how silken her hair felt. And found himself absorbing the wonder of the body pressed to his. All those soft curves fit so perfectly against him.
Would her lips taste as sweet as her breath? It reminded him of the sweetest of summer nectar. The need to taste her became almost overwhelming.
"Sir, why do you sneak into our fortress under cover of darkness?"
Up close, her green eyes, blazing with anger, were like sparks from a fire. Just looking into them had his lips curving into a hint of a smile. "I feared the very thing I have now discovered to be true. Without a protector, the lot of you are unlikely to survive."
"Are you saying you've now decided to be that protector? Earlier you said you are but one man."
"One man, it would seem, is better than a handful of foolish women and lads who think themselves capable of taking on an army."
"Foolish women?" Mistaking the intensity of his gaze for anger, she lifted her chin in a manner worthy of a queen. "You will unhand me at once."
His smile grew, even while his fingers tightened on her upper arms. "And if I choose not to? What will you do then? Wither me with a look, as you do the lads in your care?"
"You would mock me?" She tried to draw back, but the hands holding her were stronger than any she'd ever known.
His voice softened. Deepened with feeling. "I would never mock you, my lady."
She sensed a sudden tension in him, as though he were holding himself together by a tenuous thread.
His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth, and in that instant she could feel the heat as surely as if his mouth were already upon hers.
She became aware of him in a way she'd never been aware of any other man. The smoldering look in his eyes had her heart pounding with sudden wariness. But though she tried, she found she couldn't look away from him.
"Sir . . ."
"It's Royce." He hadn't meant to say that name. In fact, he hadn't thought about his given name for many years now. It had been important to his survival to think of himself as more animal than man. But now, right this moment, nothing seemed important except the woman who was playing such havoc with his mind and body.
Though he didn't move, the fierce, hungry look in his eyes had everything changing between them.
She could feel the tightly controlled passion that seemed to pulse through him, and from him to her, like waves of heat. The mere touch of his hands on her arms was turning her blood to molten liquid, searing her flesh until it felt damp with sheen.
He lowered his head, but instead of kissing her, he pressed his face to her hair and breathed her in as an animal might.
It was, for Alana, the most purely sensual thing she'd ever endured. Far more potent than any kiss.
She was reminded of the way he'd touched her hair in the forest. With a sense of wonderment as simple as any child's. But this was no lad. This was a man.
The press of his face to her hair was sending heat spiraling through her with such force, she wondered that her bones didn't simply melt.
"Royce . . ."
Hearing his name on her lips he lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was one of such darkness, she felt a tiny thread of fear.
With her hands against his shoulders she tried to push away. "You must let me go."
"I cannot. A moment more." His voice was so rough, she went very still, thinking him angry.
He tangled his hands in her hair and drew her head back, staring into her eyes with such intensity, it had her poor heart pounding in her temples.
His eyes darkened, and she realized that it wasn't anger he was feeling, but something far different. That knowledge frightened her even while it excited her.
As he continued staring into her eyes, a new and different sort of fear jolted through her. It wasn't fear of this stranger, but rather a fear of her response to him. Never before had a man's mere touch awakened such needs in her. Needs so potent, so primitive, she was actually trembling.
Alana felt the quick, sharp tug of desire. Needs warred within her. The desperate need to have his hands on her. To feel his mouth on hers.
The direction of her thoughts shook her to the core. Where had such things come from? Never before had a man made her feel this way. There was something about him, something so barely civilized, something that was not repellant, but rather highly erotic. Unlike the Highlanders who considered stolen kisses and courtship a game, the intensity burning through this man told her that courtship with him would be much more than a game. It would be all-consuming.
From the dark look in his eyes, his needs, like hers, were real and raw and heartfelt. And at the moment, desperate for satisfaction.
If he kissed her, she knew she would be lost.
Despite the almost overpowering assault to her senses, she managed to find a moment of sanity amid the madness. "You must release me. Please," she added to soften her plea. Even to her own ears the word sounded breathless.
He lowered his hands to his sides and took a step back.
She sucked in a quick breath, filling her lungs. "I must return to the fortress."
Though his breathing was strained, he gave a nod of his head. "I'll walk with you as far as the door."
Once there, she paused, her hand on the knob. "Will you come inside?"
She saw the hunger in his eyes and knew the answer even before he gave a quick shake of his head.
She drew in a ragged breath. "I'll say good night, then."
"Good night, my lady."
He stood perfectly still as she stepped inside and closed the door. When her footfall faded, he pressed his forehead to the door, wondering at the way his heartbeat still thundered.
It had been a mistake to touch her. One simple touch had unleashed a floodgate, until he'd wanted more. He'd wanted all. And still did, if truth be told.
He'd never believed that any passion could be stronger than the one that had nurtured him all these long years. But the need for justice was nothing compared to the need he'd experienced just now. He'd thought about ignoring the right or wrong of it and simply taking what he wanted, without regard to the consequences.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he began to walk the perimeter of the fortress. His legs, he noted, were trembling.
There was no point in trying to sleep this night. Not while the feel of her slender body pressed to his was still causing an ache to his loins, and the smell of her still filled his lungs, taunting him with every step.
"IF ye'll fetch the others, my lady, I'm about to set the food on the table." Old Brin lifted bread from the hearth, filling a basket, before slicing the last of the fowl she'd roasted on a spit over the fire.
"There will be one more, Brin." Alana removed the apron that covered her gown, carefully avoiding the old woman's eyes. "The Dark Angel came to our fortress last night."
"And how would ye know that?"
"I saw movement by the wall and went out to investigate."
The cook's head came up sharply. "Alone?"
"Aye. I was reluctant to wake the others."
"Not a wise thing, m'lady, in times like these. Ye'd do well to remember that there's safety in numbers."
"Now you sound like the Dark Angel."
"He'd not be one to mince words. He scolded ye for yer foolishness, I'll warrant." The old woman was peering at her a little too closely.
Alana felt her cheeks grow warm. "He did. And said that he plans to remain here as our protector."
"Praise heaven." The old woman touched a hand to her heart. "Now we'll have nothing to fear from Laird Rothwick's warriors."
"He's but one man, Brin."
"Aye. But what a man. If I were a lass again . . ." The old woman stopped and gave a girlish laugh. "Perhaps ye'd summon our protector to come in now and break his fast."
Alana stepped outside and looked around cautiously. She'd been putting off the moment when she would have to face Royce again. She had spent a long, distressing night thinking about their encounter, and the strange feelings he'd stirred in her. Perhaps she'd imagined it. Hadn't her father always said she'd been a fanciful child? Or perhaps it was just the magic of the moment. A man, a woman, and the cover of darkness. Surely that was it. In the clear light of day he would seem like other men. No more, no less. And certainly not some mythical soul walking the earth in the guise of a man, slaying entire armies one at a time, and leaving all women who got too close trembling at his mere touch.
She walked the perimeter of the wall and was forced to swallow a bitter disappointment at not finding him. Had he changed his mind and returned to the cover of the forest? Worse, had he been found by Rothwick's men and taken captive?
She was just turning back toward the fortress when she saw a blur of movement in the stream. While she watched, the man she'd been searching for rose up from the water and began to walk to shore. Though she knew she was intruding on his privacy, she simply could not turn away from the sight of that magnificent body, sheeting water with each step. If she'd thought him impressive clothed in animal skins, he was even more impressive in the flesh. His shoulders as wide as a crossbow, and his hair-roughened chest rippling with muscles. As he strode through the shallows her gaze was drawn to his muscular thighs, each one bigger around than her waist, and those long, long legs, making him stand a head taller than most Highlanders. She had never seen a more perfect warrior.
He turned away, lifting a fur from the ground and draping it at his waist before closing a hand around the long black hair streaming down his back. As he tied it with a strip of hide, she caught sight of the wicked scar that had, until that moment, been hidden from her view.
The skin between his shoulder blades was rough and puckered, as though it had been ripped open by an angry claw and left exposed until it had healed with ropes of twisted, knotted seams. Each time he flexed his arms, fitting them into the fur tunic, the scar stretched and tightened, looking as raw as if it were freshly carved into his flesh.
When at last he turned and caught sight of her, she had to fight for composure.
He took a moment to strap on his sword and tuck a dirk at his waist and another in his boot before striding closer. "Good morrow, my lady."
He was staring at her with the same intensity that had made her feel so uncomfortable the previous night.
There was the merest hint of a smile in his eyes. "Had I known you were here, I could have waited for you to join me. Though I doubt you came here just to watch me bathe."
She felt the rush of heat and hated that her cheeks were betraying her "Forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude. We are ready to break our fast, and we would welcome you at our table."
She turned away and he easily matched his strides to hers, walking so close beside her, she could feel the brush of his arm on hers. It only added to her discomfort.
"Did you see any of Rothwick's warriors during the night?"
He gave a quick shake of his head. "I heard horses and knew they were close. But though they followed the curve of the wall, they made no attempt to breach it."
"How can you know that for a fact?"
He arched a brow. "I remained on my side of the wall and matched their movements. It was easy enough to do because they made no effort to conceal themselves, thinking they were alone in the darkness. If they had slowed, or paused, or tried to scale the wall, they would have tasted my welcome with both sword and knife."
"The element of surprise much like that which I'd attempted last night."
At her words he paused. This time he did smile, and she was amazed at how it transformed him. For the first time, there was something besides pain in his eyes. Eyes that actually sparkled with humor.
"The difference, my lady, is that I never revealed myself to my opponent." His smile grew. "Whereas you walked so close, I could hear you breathe." He reached out a finger and tipped up her chin, staring down into her eyes, watching them widen at the boldness of his touch. His voice lowered, softened. "Just as I can hear you breathe now."
She thought about slapping his hand aside, but found she couldn't. She was frozen to the spot. The mere touch of his finger to her flesh had her heartbeat speeding up, her throat clogging with some nameless emotion.
Her reaction to him was the same as it had been last night. Just being close to him seemed to awaken some deep, primal need that had her thinking things she had no right to and wishing for things that could never be.
When at last he lowered his hand and stepped back, she sucked in a breath and quickened her pace until they reached the fortress.
Inside the refectory, Alana was startled to see her father standing by the table. Close behind him was his man-at-arms, Lochaber.
Each man stood tall, plaid tossed over one shoulder in the manner of a warrior.
The women and children who had been summoned to break their fast seemed equally surprised by the presence of the two old men.
"Father." Alana gave a little cry of pleasure as she crossed the room to press a kiss to his cheek. "It is good to see you below stairs."
"Good morrow, my daughter." Malcolm looked beyond her. "You are the one known as the Dark Angel?"
"Aye, my laird." Royce touched his hand to the sword at his waist before lifting it palm up in greeting, in the manner of a loyal warrior. "My given name is Royce."
"I am Laird Malcolm Lamont and this is my man-at-arms, Lochaber."
Royce offered the old man a similar greeting.
"Alana tells me your clan was destroyed by Rothwick's warriors."
Royce merely nodded, reluctant to say more. It alarmed him that, even after all these years, he felt a wave of pain mingled with fury at the horror that he and his family had suffered on that fateful day.
Seeing the dark look in this stranger's eyes, the old man decided not to press for more. Instead he indicated the table. "Come. We will break our fast together. And you will tell me what you know of Reginald Rothwick's army."
The old laird settled himself at the head of the table, with Lochaber at his right and Royce at his left. He indicated that Alana and the others should join them.
While the women and children settled themselves around the table, Alana found herself seated beside Royce.
Brin passed around platters of sliced fowl and chunks of bread warm from the oven.
Royce bit into the bread and found himself thrust back in time to another fortress, another refectory, where old Erta would always have his favorite confections cooling on a platter. Life had been so sweet. So simple. So peaceful. He had foolishly believed that it would always be so.
"How many men have joined the ranks of Rothwick's army?" Malcolm Lamont drained a goblet of sweet wine.
Pulling himself back from his thoughts, Royce talked of the warriors who now swelled the ranks of Rothwick's army. "Many once-loyal Highlanders have joined with Rothwick rather than risk death. As the army grows, so does the number of villages that have been burned and looted. Rothwick knows that with each attack, the people grow more fearful of his power. That fear works to his advantage. As more and more villages fall, his army no longer needs to wage war. Their mere presence is enough to have the villagers flee. Those who remain offer no resistance, and Rothwick can help himself to their crops, their flocks, their women."
Alana thought about the frightened people of Dunhill, preparing to do exactly as Royce had described.
"Ale or water, sir?"
"I prefer water." Royce accepted a goblet from Alana.
When their fingers brushed, he paused, as though his mind had been swept clean of thought.
What was it about this woman that she had the power, with but a touch, to rob him of speech? Of coherent thought?
In the forest, he'd been forced to go from boyhood to manhood with the thrust of a single sword. After that hideous attack, he'd had to focus all his energy on staying alive. When he realized that his life had been spared, there had been but one purpose in mind. To stop Reginald Rothwick from consuming an entire land and people with the fire of hatred that burned in his evil soul.
But now, at this moment, Royce felt once again thrust back to those carefree boyhood days, when he and his brother would walk among the booths on market day.
Fitzroy, ever the tease, would nudge him with an elbow in the ribs and point at some fair lass to whisper, "Have you tasted those lips yet, Royce?"
Though Royce would blush and stammer, and threaten to wrestle Fitzroy to the ground if he didn't stop at once, he secretly loved being teased by his older brother. And if truth be told, such teasing always led him to wonder about how it would feel to kiss a lass full on the mouth.
He glanced over at Alana and felt a quick jolt through his system at the pretty blush on her cheeks. The problem was, he could no longer claim to be that innocent lad, dreaming of his first kiss. The years had changed him. He was a man, with a man's desperate, driving need. What made it worse, he'd been cut off from civilization for so long, he felt more comfortable in the forest than he did in this warm, welcoming room, seated among people who expected him to behave like one of them.
He wasn't like them. There was a terrible fear inside him that he may be more akin to the animals of the forest than to these good people.
Whether man or beast, he knew this. Just sitting beside Alana had his body betraying him. He knew that he would have to call on all his willpower to keep from insulting the daughter of Laird Malcolm Lamont, for surely she would be repulsed by his advances.
As an uneasy silence stretched between them, Royce realized that he'd been lost in his own thoughts while the laird had addressed a question of him.
"I beg your indulgence, my laird. You ask what I think Rothwick intends now. Rumors abound that it is his intention to force the few remaining Highland lairds to swear fealty to him."
Laird Lamont's fist slammed the tabletop. "We would rather die than swear to such a thing."
Royce chose his words carefully. "It isn't death you and the other lairds should fear. It is the torture and imprisonment of your people if you should refuse."
"You have proof of such treatment?"
"This is not the place to speak of such things." Royce glanced over and, seeing the women and children watching and listening, merely pressed his lips together without saying more.
Seeing it, the old man shoved aside his food. "Thank you, Brin. I believe I have had sufficient. I desire a walk around the fortress to clear my mind." He turned to Lochaber and Royce. "You will join me."
When the three men walked outside, Alana took in a deep breath. Just sitting this close to the Dark Angel had her forgetting to breathe. The man had a way about him, of watching, of listening, of seeming to turn inward, that was at once subservient and yet commanding. How was it that he could display such strength and still seem to have all the sweetness of youth? He was both innocent and worldly. A man of peace locked inside a formidable warrior.
Alana looked up to see Brin watching her a little too carefully. Like the man called Royce, the old woman had a keen sense of all that went on around her.
Forcing herself into action, Alana pushed away from the table and turned to the others. "While we set the refectory to order, there is much we need to discuss."
Her father, she thought as she began to scrub the tabletop, wasn't the only one making battle plans this day.
While Brin heated water on the hearth and the women and children washed the utensils and swept the floor, Alana shared with them her thoughts on the need to prepare for a possible attack.
A short time later the three men returned to the room. All wore grave looks as Laird Lamont asked the women and children to gather around.
"What is it, Father?" Before Alana could ask more, he lifted a hand to silence her.
"We can see the smoke rising across the meadow. Dunhill, it would seem, is under attack. Which means that this fortress will be next, as Rothwick's army marches toward the few remaining villages that are left." The old man glanced around at the faces of the women and children, lingering longest on the face of his beloved daughter. "It is my desire that you prepare to journey to the Lowlands. There you will find shelter from Rothwick's cruelty."
Old Brin blinked back tears. "Forgive me, my laird. Ye know I have spent a lifetime following ye'r commands. But this I canna' do." She looked toward the old warrior who stood so proudly beside his laird. "Lochaber and I have been husband and wife for four score years. I'll not be driven to desert him by the likes of Reginald Rothwick." Though her lips were quivering, she proudly lifted her head. "I'd rather die here beside my Lochaber than live another score years without him."
The old man's eyes blazed. "Were you not listening to the Dark Angel? Do you know what they do to women . . ." His gaze roamed the others. "And children?"
One of the women spoke up. "I know not how I survived the attack that took the lives of all I loved, but I know this, my laird. Like Brin, I will accept whatever fate awaits me rather than leave the Highlands."
Ingram drew an arm around Jeremy, who in turn, clapped a hand on Dudley's shoulder. "I ask your leave to stay and fight, my laird."
The other two lads nodded.
One by one the others expressed the same opinion, until only Alana was left to speak.
"You know that I love you more than life itself, Father, and have never defied you. But I beg you not to ask me to leave. Like the others, I would rather suffer my fate here, surrounded by those who matter most to me."
Alana caught sight of Royce's face, the features so stiff and angry they could have been carved from stone.
The old laird blinked back the sudden moisture that threatened, before straightening his shoulders and giving a slight nod of his head. "As you wish. We stand together, loyal and courageous Highlanders to the end."
"NAY, lad." Royce patiently closed a hand over Ingram's, showing him the proper way to thrust with his sword. "If your hand is turned thus, your opponent will have the advantage and you'll soon find yourself without a weapon."
Alana stood with the others, watching and awaiting her turn. In the days since making their wishes known, the others seemed resigned to the fact that they would stand or fall together, man, woman, and child, in this place. All except Royce, who had not spoken to Alana directly since she had made her wishes known along with the others.
Royce was patient with the lads and other women, giving them as much time as they needed to master each weapon. But when it came to Alana, he was like a gruff, wounded bear, ready to sink his claws into her for the slightest infraction.
He ridiculed her clumsy attempts to lift a broadsword, which weighed more than she. And when she managed to fire an arrow from a crossbow, he pointed out that the only wound inflicted was to a poor, unsuspecting chicken that happened to get in the way. Thankfully, Brin made quick use of the hen for their meal that night.
Alana would stand in the circle and bear the brunt of his cruel words for as long as she could. Then she would seek solace inside the fortress, hoping to hide her pain from the others.
Old Brin's sharp eyes missed none of it.
Finding Alana sulking while she fed wood to the fire, she leaned on her broom. "Sometimes a man finds it necessary to hide his feelings behind anger."
"His feelings of contempt? On the contrary, he makes them well-known." Alana tossed the wood with more force than necessary. "I know I am small and thin, but so is Ingram. And that hateful warrior never loses his temper with the lad."
"Ingram doesn't worry his heart the way you do, my lady."
"Worry his heart?" Alana tossed yet another log. "What nonsense are you speaking, Brin?"
"I know what I see."
"As do I. I see a man who takes every opportunity to shame me before the others."
"Have you asked yourself why?"
Alana nodded. "Aye. Because he sees himself superior to me in every way."
"Oh, m'lady." The old woman sighed. "Why is love always wasted on the young?"
"Love?" Alana gave a sound that might have been a laugh or a sneer. "If that be love, I want no part of it, now or ever."
"You scoff, my lady. But when the man looks at you, I see love in his eyes. Can you not see what is so obvious to the rest of us? The Dark Angel is so smitten, so bedazzled by you, it has him feeling confused and helpless. So he does whatever he can to make you hate him enough to keep him from acting on his feelings."
Alana's head came up sharply. Before she could argue, the old woman walked away.
Alana picked up an armload of wood and headed toward the next room. Was old Brin going daft? Aye, it seemed the only answer. How could there possibly be a glimmer of truth in what she'd just said? It simply wasn't possible that the dark, angry warrior, who took such delight in humiliating her in front of the entire company of her family and friends, could be hiding feelings of another kind. Especially feelings of love.
THOSE women and children who felt incapable of wielding a weapon were getting instructions from Brin on the many ways they could impede the progress of an advancing army. They had dragged kettles of water to the highest chambers of the fortress, ready to heat them over fires and toss on unsuspecting warriors below. The youngest children were directed to go to their assigned hiding places as soon as the approaching army was spotted.
Young Dudley, considered the fastest runner among them, had been given the honor of standing watch from a nearby hillside. Each day the lad went there as soon as his morning meal was finished and remained there throughout the afternoon. At dusk Ingram and Jeremy took turns replacing him so that he could sleep.
But as the days grew shorter, and the time of the harvest was upon the land, there was a new fear among the lads who would take the night watch. No Highlander was willing to be out and about on All Hallows Eve, for it was well-known that the souls of the dead came back that night to walk the earth and seek justice from those who had offended them.
When Ingram, Jeremy and Dudley began arguing about who would take the night watch, even Laird Malcolm Lamont refused to mediate.
"I agree with the lads," he said to the others. "On the night of All Hallows Eve, there is no reason to stand watch. If you thought Rothwick's men feared the Dark Angel in the forest, their fear of the risen dead will be even greater. All will refuse to leave the safety of their fortress and not even their laird's wrath will change their minds."
Royce frowned. "Are you saying that the attack will come before All Hallows Eve?"
The old man turned to him. "If you were Reginald Rothwick, would you not desire the safety of your fortress on such a night?"
The others nodded their agreement, and Royce fell into a brooding silence.
NOW, after watching the smoldering fires and drifting clouds of smoke from the direction of Dunhill, and finding no survivors, and aware that All Hallows Eve was but a day away, all those living within the walls of the fortress seemed even more united in their determination to stand and fight. But the anticipation of the coming carnage had everyone on edge.
Meara paused in the doorway and banged a spoon against the bottom of a blackened pot for attention, as a signal that they were to assemble in the refectory for their nighttime meal. The others looked up in surprise to see that the evening shadows were already upon them. After working since sunrise, they needed no coaxing to put aside their weapons and return to the comfort of the refectory, and then, hopefully, to their pallets to sleep. All except Royce, who seemed to never sleep. His days were spent teaching the ways of war, his nights walking the perimeter of the fortress, alert to the slightest sound that might signal anything amiss.
When their meal was finished, Brin handed Alana a linen-wrapped parcel and a tankard. "Take this to the Dark Angel."
"Let one of the others take it."
The old woman gave a sad, knowing smile. "They are as weary as you, m'lady. It will take you but a moment."
With a sigh, Alana stepped out the door and into the darkness. It took several turns around the fortress before she spotted Royce beside the wall, staring off into the distance with a look of such sadness, it tore at her heart.
Hearing her footfall he looked over. His face tightened with a scowl. "What is this?"
"Brin sent you sustenance."
"I have no need of it."
Ignoring his protest she set the parcel and tankard on a rock and turned away.
As she started back, Royce fell into step beside her. "The time grows short."
"The time for what?" She refused to look at him. She was still smarting from the latest incident of the day when he'd singled her out, making her feel small and foolish for losing her sword to Lochaber's first thrust with his weapon.
"For taking your leave of this place."
She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. "I thought I'd made my decision clear. I will not leave."
"Little fool." Because they were alone he let down his guard, allowing his simmering anger to burst forth. "What we are about to face is not child's play."
"Nor have I ever suggested it would be." She started to flounce away.
Strong fingers closed around her wrist with such force, she cried out. At once he released her, but there was no remorse in his voice. His words were spoken in a hiss of fury. "You haven't the least idea what war will be like."
"I'm sure you'll take great joy in telling me." She stared up into his eyes. "In the hope of adding to the fear already in my heart."
"Is that what you think? That I merely want to add to your burden?" His voice lowered. Softened. "I've seen the horrors of war, my lady. It was beyond my wildest dreams of hell. I can't bear the thought of seeing you suffer such a cruel fate."
"I should think it would be sweet vindication. It will prove your opinion of me as weak and useless."
He wanted to shake her. Before he realized what he was doing his hands were at her upper arms. But the moment he touched her, all the anger seemed to drain away. In its place was another, stronger emotion. One that rocked him to his very soul.
"You are the finest, bravest woman I've ever known. But it is your beauty that frightens me most, Alana Lamont."
"My . . . beauty?" Confused, she could only stare at him.
"Surely you must know how beautiful you are?"
When she didn't speak, his eyes softened, and then his voice. "Aye. How could you know, when you spend all your time caring for the needs of the others? If you took the time to peer into a looking glass, you would see the beauty I see. And it frightens me beyond all other fear. For when Rothwick's warriors see you, they will be as dazzled by you as I am."
"I . . . dazzle you?" She couldn't seem to follow the direction of his words.
"So much so, that when I look at you, I can't see anything or anyone else. Only you. Only this. This glorious tangle of hair around a face so lovely, it tears at my heart." He twisted a fiery strand around his finger before releasing it and watching as it curled around her cheek. "And these eyes, as deep and cool and green as a Highland loch." He touched a finger to her mouth. "And these lips. How I yearn to kiss them."
"You . . ." She had to pause to clear her throat. "If you yearn to kiss them, why do you hold back?" She wondered that she could say a word. Her throat was so tight, she couldn't swallow.
"I haven't the right." He released his hold on her and took a step back.
She reached out and clutched at his arm. "What if I were to give my consent?"
He shook his head. "I have no right, my lady." As if to prove his point he lifted his hands, palms up. "There is blood on these hands."
"Do you think I mind that you're a warrior?"
"I am much more than a warrior. I have killed so many men I have lost count and have no doubt that I will kill again."
"Royce." Her own voice lowered. "If I had your skill, I would do the same. What you do here is noble and right."
"It doesn't change what I've become. After my years in the forest, I am more animal than human. And you . . ." He closed his eyes against the pain of the chasm looming between them. "You are the proper daughter of a great laird. And the finest person I know."
"I am a woman, Royce." She caught his hand between both of hers and shocked them both by lifting it to her mouth. Pressing a kiss to his palm, she stared into eyes that were narrowed on her with such intensity, she gave an involuntary shudder. "And you are a man. The man I desire above all others."
He caught her roughly by the shoulders and held her a little away. "Have you heard nothing I've said? I know everything a man can learn about killing, and violence, and bloodshed. But I've never held a woman in my arms. I've never kissed a woman's lips, or known the pleasures of a woman's body."
"Nor I a man, Royce. But if this be our last night before facing Rothwick's army, I want to lie with you and warm your body with mine. I want to taste your lips and learn all the pleasures that until now I've only imagined."
"Alana." He cupped her face in his hands and stared down into her eyes with such intensity, it had her heart pounding. "My sweet, beautiful Alana. The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you. And I would, for I don't know how to be gentle. All I know is cruelty and killing. And now, because I want, more than anything, to do the noble thing, you must leave me and go inside, quickly, before the storm within me breaks and I lose all control."
She experienced a rush of hope, of excitement, so great she could hardly contain herself. "I will not go, Royce." She raised herself on tiptoe to press a soft kiss over his mouth. "Even if you order it, I will refuse to listen. For my heart is so filled with joy and wonder, I fear it will surely explode."
He put his hands on her shoulders to push her away, but of their own volition his fingers curled into her flesh and he dragged her close. Her body fit so perfectly against his, as though made for him alone. All soft curves and silken skin pressed to sharp angles and planes, and rock-hard muscle and sinew, causing the most amazing rush of heat to his loins.
He wanted to do the right thing. Had fully intended to. But when her arms wrapped around his waist, and she pressed her mouth to his throat, he knew he was lost.
With passion glazing his eyes he drove her back against the rough wall that surrounded the fortress, his mouth seeking hers. "I can't promise I won't hurt you."
She offered her lips with a hunger that matched his. There was no fear in her now. No hesitation. Only the wild, joyous knowledge that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
"I'll ask for no promises, Royce. All I ask is this night. And you. Only you, my brave warrior . . ."
He cut off her words with a savage kiss that seemed to go on and on until they were both breathless. When at last he lifted his head, it was to run hot wet kisses over her eyes, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.
His kiss softened as he lingered over her lips, and she realized he was drinking her in, as he might drink honeyed wine for the first time.
"I've long wondered how you would taste." He kissed her again, and yet again, as though unable to get enough. "And now at last I'm free to drink your nectar."
"You taste . . ." She smiled shyly. "Dark and dangerous."
He held her a little away, to see her eyes. "Do I frighten you, Alana?"
"Frighten? Nay. But you intrigue me, Royce. There is so much about you I have yet to learn."
"We'll learn together." He lowered his head and ran hot, nibbling kisses along her jaw, then lower to her throat, and heard her sigh of pleasure. "But for now, I just need to taste you. To hold you. To see you." His voice deepened. "All of you."
She lifted her hands to the fasteners of her gown and saw his eyes darken as she slipped it from her shoulders and let it drop to the grass, where it pooled at her feet.
When she reached for the ties that secured her chemise, he closed his hands over hers. "Let me, Alana."
He drew the sheer fabric apart and slid it down her arms. His gaze moved over her, and when at last he spoke, it was with a sense of reverence. "You are so lovely, Alana. So much more beautiful than I could have ever imagined."
"I never thought about the way I look. But now I want to be beautiful. For you, Royce. Only for you."
He dragged her close and covered her mouth in a kiss so hungry, she thought he would surely devour her. She returned it with a hunger that matched his, wanting desperately to show him all the things she was feeling. As their kiss spun on and on, she felt the ground shift and move, and wondered that they were still standing.
She needed to see him as he was seeing her. To feel the warmth of his skin on hers. She tugged the fur tunic free, before running her hands across his chest, then lower, to the flat planes of his stomach.
With a sigh of impatience he tore aside the last of his clothes and dragged her to the ground. Now, at last, they were flesh to flesh, heartbeat to frantic heartbeat.
As they lay in the grass and moved together, mouths mating, sighs whispering on the night air, their flesh heated and grew slick with sweat. Their heartbeats thundered with all the force of an approaching army.
Alana could feel the need vibrating through him as he struggled to hold himself back.
"Take me, Royce."
Still he held back, and she knew he feared hurting her.
Wrapping herself around him, she arched her body and drew him in. For a moment he went perfectly still. Then, knowing he'd reached the end of his control, he gave in and began to move with her, to climb with her.
He plunged his hands into the fiery tangles and drew her head back, staring deeply into her eyes. What he saw there speared straight to his heart.
"You're mine, Alana. My woman."
"Aye. And you're my man. I believe we were born for one another. And for this. Only this."
With his eyes steady on hers they climbed together to the very top of a high, sheer cliff. For the space of a heartbeat they stood poised on the edge.
It seemed, in that instant, that the heavens opened up, sending lightning bolts streaking across the sky, and thunder rumbling with such force, the earth shook.
With hearts pounding, lungs straining, they stepped into the very center of the storm and were tossed into the maelstrom.
ALANA lay perfectly still, listening to the soft, steady beat of Royce's heart. Here in the circle of his arms she wondered at the fact that, despite what was to come, she had never felt safer. With this man she had found her purpose for living. And if she must face death this day, at least she'd had this one night of perfect love.
Their lovemaking had been both tender and fierce. At times they had whispered together like long-lost lovers and had taken each other with soft, gentle sighs and muted laughter. At others, the need had come upon them with such force, all they could do was cling together and ride out the storm that left them shaken and sated.
She looked up to find him watching her in that quiet, intense way that never failed to touch her heart.
She lay a hand on his cheek. "I thought you were sleeping."
"I resisted sleep, if it would rob me of even one moment of watching you." He caught her hand and pressed it to his mouth. "My beautiful, precious Alana. I love you so. It tears my heart out to think about your fate."
"You mustn't think of it." She sat up and leaned over him, sending her hair swirling around his chest.
She saw his eyes narrow on her, the pupils darkening as she lowered her mouth to his. "Kiss me now, and take me quickly, before the day is upon us."
As they gave themselves up to the passion, the nearby forest came alive with a chorus of birds. The earth was sweet with the scent of clover and thistle. But the man and woman were aware of nothing except the pleasure they brought, each to the other, as they slid away to that secret world known only to lovers.
ALANA slipped into her chemise and gown and ran her fingers through the tangles of her hair. "I must hurry to the refectory. Brin will need my help preparing to break the fast." She turned to Royce with a knowing smile. "I'll bring your food out here, along with some hot mulled wine."
"I need no wine, my lady." He drew her close for a long, lingering kiss. "Not after a night of tasting your lips."
They looked up at the sound of someone struggling over the wall.
Shoving Alana behind him, Royce withdrew his sword. When Ingram dropped to the ground, the two stared at him in surprise.
"All Hallows Eve may be upon us, but the danger is not until tonight, lad. Why did you leave your post?"
"A lone rider heads this way, bearing Laird Rothwick's crest."
"A lone rider?" Royce's eyes narrowed. "And what of the rest of his army?"
"They follow at a distance."
"For what purpose, I wonder." Royce nodded toward the fortress. "Take the lady inside and report what you saw to the laird."
As he began to scale the wall Alana called out, "Where do you go?"
"To see if Rothwick's army draws near. Perhaps it is a ploy so that we'll let down our guard."
A short time later Royce shouted a warning, and Malcolm Lamont and his man-at-arms, Lochaber, stepped out of the fortress, followed by the women and children.
Royce stood atop the wall. "Rothwick's rider is at the gate."
At an order from the laird, Jeremy and Dudley opened the gate to permit the horseman to enter.
Royce remained on the wall, staring into the distance, while watching and listening to the exchange between the laird and Rothwick's warrior.
The rider swung from his steed and handed the old man a rolled parchment. "My Laird Rothwick decrees that all surviving Highland lairds are to journey to his fortress before nightfall, and there they shall swear fealty to the new laird of lairds."
The old man glanced toward Royce, then returned his attention to the warrior. "If I refuse?"
"You will no longer be laird of your clan. Your fortress will be sacked and burned, and all within will be killed or taken prisoner."
"And how do I know that won't happen when I leave my people without my leadership?"
"You have the word of my Laird Reginald Rothwick. His army will remain where they are unless you refuse the laird's offer. Then they will be given orders to advance and attack."
Malcolm Lamont lowered his head before saying, "I must confer with my people, for my decision will affect all of their lives."
The warrior glanced toward the fortress, as though assessing how many others might be within its walls. He gave a reluctant nod of his head. "Do it quickly. There is little time to waste. We must be safe within Laird Rothwick's fortress before darkness falls."
Laird Lamont beckoned for Royce and the others to follow.
Once inside, the door barred to intruders, his manner turned grave. "I regret that I must fail you. You've worked so hard to prepare for battle. But it is as the Dark Angel said. Our enemy is taking advantage of All Hallows Eve to do his dirty work. Not even the bravest Highland warrior would risk the walking dead to fight against this edict."
Alana's voice reflected the shock and horror they were all feeling. "You would actually swear fealty to that villain, Father?"
"Nay. But if my journey to his fortress will buy time for those I love, how can I refuse?"
Alana turned to Royce. "Convince my father that what he intends is not only foolish, but evil. We must stand together to fight this monster."
Royce saw the way they were all watching him. He touched a hand to Alana's shoulder. "It is the measure of your father's love for you"---he allowed his gaze to linger on each of the others---"for all of you . . . that he hopes to hold back the slaughter." He turned to Laird Lamont. "But yours is an idle dream. Once Rothwick has you in his fortress, he will not give up until all have sworn fealty or are dead. Either way, there will be nothing left to stop him from destroying all who stand in his way."
"Perhaps once he has what he wants, he will stop the killing, and the land and people can once more return to peace and begin to prosper."
Royce gave a sad shake of his head. "I understand your need to cling to hope. But Rothwick cares not for peace or the prosperity of the people. The man is pure evil. He covets power and will do whatever it takes to have it."
"How can you say this with such certainty?" the old man asked.
Royce lowered his head, but not before Alana saw the pain in his eyes.
When at last he lifted his head, his voice was low with anguish. "Even after all these years, I find it difficult to speak of the past, but it is time. I am Royce, of the clan MacLish."
There was an audible gasp throughout the room.
"On the day of anguish that all Highlanders remember, I witnessed the murder of my young friends, my father's most trusted warriors, and my brother, Fitzroy. Rothwick himself boasted of killing my father and mother."
"But we heard that all were murdered that day." The old laird was staring at this young man with a look of shock. "How is it possible that you survived?"
Royce shook his head. "I know not. While two of Rothwick's warriors held me, he thrust his lance deep into my chest. I lay in cold and darkness for hours, or perhaps days, before I realized that I was not dead. A family fleeing Rothwick's army found me and removed the lance from my body, but they were too fearful to remain in that place, and so they put me in their cart with their possessions and carried me along with them on their trek to escape. When I learned that they planned to leave the Highlands, I begged to be left behind. And so they left me in the cover of the forest, and I will be forever grateful to them for saving my life." He lifted his head, his voice growing stronger. "I have always known why my life was spared. It is my destiny to end this madness."
Laird Lamont's eyes narrowed. "How? What can one man do?"
"I will accompany you to Rothwick's fortress as your man-at-arms. Once there, I will find a way to confront Rothwick."
"You will be outnumbered hundreds to one."
"Aye." Royce touched a hand to the small, sharp dirk tucked into his waist. "I did not say I would leave his fortress alive. Only that I would end the madness. Since that day of deceit, my life has mattered not to me. But I made a vow to my father and mother, and to my brother Fitzroy, that I would see Rothwick dead and my beloved Highlands free of tyranny."
An eerie silence settled over the people as they realized the enormity of his plan.
Tears filled Alana's eyes. "Please, Royce, I beg you to consider. There must be another way besides facing certain death." She turned to her father. "I can't bear to lose both of you, for you must know that you'll not survive such a bold attack."
The old man arched a brow, but before he could say a word, Royce caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth. "Can you not see that for those who love you, it is not death we fear, but rather the hideous fate that will befall you and the others if the plan should fail? For that reason, you must not remain here. As soon as All Hallows Eve is past, and it is safe to journey once more, you and the others must flee to the Lowlands."
"Run, like cowards?"
"Nay, love. Run, because it is your only hope of living for another day. It will give your father and me great comfort to know that those we love are safely free of Rothwick's clutches."
"And you?" she asked softly.
"My life matters not. Do you not see, my love? It was for this reason only that my life was spared. For this I am more than willing to die."
There was a loud rap on the outer door, and a muffled voice announced that it was time to depart.
Alana cast a pleading glance toward her father, but the old man was looking at Royce as if seeing him for the first time.
He took a deep breath before turning to Lochaber. "On the morrow you will do your best to lead the women and children to safety."
"Aye, my laird."
Alana was openly weeping as her father turned to Brin. "My man-at-arms must not be seen in animal hides, like a barbarian. The son of Ramsay MacLish, the most beloved of all lairds, will wear the finest plaid you can find. Show him to my chambers."
The old lady pressed the hem of her apron to her eyes to stem her tears as she led the way from the room. Moments later she returned, followed by Royce. With a length of plaid wrapped around his waist, the end tossed over one shoulder, his feet encased in leather boots, he looked every inch a proud, fearsome Highland warrior.
Seeing Alana weeping, he paused beside her. "I must say this now, before I leave, my lady. Know always that I love you more than my own life."
She nodded and lifted her head proudly, choking back sobs. "I know, Royce. And even though my heart is breaking, I understand the wisdom of your plan."
He touched a hand to her cheek. Just a touch, before lowering his hand to his side and stepping back. "What I do, I do proudly and willingly, for my land and my people."
As he began to follow the old laird to the door, the others reached out a hand to touch his arm, his plaid, his hair, or simply to call out a word of encouragement.
"I'd willingly go with you, my laird," Ingram shouted.
"And I," Jeremy and Dudley echoed.
"Bless you, my laird," called the women.
At the door a small hand caught his, and Royce looked down to see Meara standing there, her eyes filled with tears, her lower lip trembling.
He lifted her up in his big arms and pressed his mouth to her ear. "Stay close to the Lady Alana, lass. You can be a great comfort to one another in the days to come." He set her down. "Will you do that for me?"
She nodded shyly, then ran and hid behind Alana's skirts.
Royce gave a last look around at the faces of the people he'd come to know and love, and then at Alana, who stood with head held high, eyes brimming.
He turned and walked from the fortress behind the old laird.
AT the sound of fading hoofbeats, Alana wiped her tears and raced out of the fortress. Standing at the open gate, she watched as the three horsemen started across the meadow. Rothwick's man led the way, with her father and Royce following close behind.
The three lads, Ingram, Jeremy, and Dudley, walked up to stand solemnly beside her.
"I hope they're safely inside the fortress before dark." Ingram shuddered, and the other two nodded in agreement.
Seeing it, Alana sounded incredulous. "Are you saying that you would prefer death inside an evil villain's fortress to facing those known as the walking dead?"
The three lads seemed to consider before turning to her.
"Wouldn't you, my lady?" Jeremy asked the question for all of them. "At least, with Laird Rothwick, Royce has a chance of killing him before being killed by his loyal warriors. What chance would he have with souls that are already dead?"
"I know not. But I do believe that only the souls of the just are allowed to return to their bodies this night." Alana seemed to be lost in thought as she studied the army that remained on the far side of the meadow, until her father was out of sight.
Suddenly she turned to Ingram. "Summon Lochaber at once."
"Aye, my lady." Puzzled, the lad darted into the fortress, returning minutes later with the old warrior.
"You wish to see me, my lady?" Lochaber stood as straight and tall as his tired bones would permit.
"Look at that army of warriors, Lochaber. What do you see?"
"Warriors resting in the grass."
"As do I. But I see something else." She lowered her voice. "This is an army that has recently murdered men, women, and children in the village of Dunhill. Surely they have much to fear on this night, from the souls of those they have slaughtered. Where will they take shelter before darkness falls in order to escape the wrath of the walking dead?"
The old man's expression changed as the truth dawned. "This fortress is their closest shelter."
She nodded. "Aye. And once they enter these walls, all here are doomed."
"You believe then that Laird Rothwick's man lied?"
"I do."
"Will we take up arms, my lady?"
She shook her head. "Without Royce, we have no chance of stopping them. Prepare all within these walls to travel. We leave within the hour."
"Is it wise to leave now for the Lowlands, my lady, with the day half gone? We'll not reach our destination before darkness overtakes us."
Hearing this, the lads glanced from one to the other with matching looks of horror.
"We will be out after dark?" Jeremy asked.
"Aye." Alana took in a long, deep breath. "I would prefer the justice of the walking dead over the justice meted out by Rothwick's warriors. But we journey not to the Lowlands. We follow my father to Laird Rothwick's fortress."
"I gave my word to your father . . ." the old man began.
"And now I give you another order, Lochaber."
"My lady," the old man sputtered, "how can we hope to pass by an army of that size without being seen?"
"We know something they do not. We can safely take a route through the forest as we journey around them. Now that we know the secret of the Dark Angel, we know we have nothing to fear in his forest."
"I see the wisdom of what you say, my lady. But I am an old man. How can I see to so many women and children on such a long and perilous journey?"
She gave a firm shake of her head. "This is not the time to think of ourselves as old or young, man or woman. This day we are all Highlanders and warriors. We will stand or fall together."
She watched the spark that came into the old man's eyes and knew she'd touched a chord in his warrior's heart.
He stood tall and proud as he hurried inside the fortress, shouting orders.
THE fortress of Reginald Rothwick had been carved out of a mountainside. With its jagged peaks rising on three sides, it afforded protection from any surprise attack. The only entrance was a narrow trail between a rushing waterfall on one side and rock-strewn wilderness on the other. Lining the trail were horsemen with swords at the ready.
As they approached the courtyard, Rothwick's man swung down from his mount and shouted for Laird Lamont and his man-at-arms to throw down their weapons.
They did as they were told, and then were forced to submit to a search of their person by one of Rothwick's warriors. The man tore Royce's cloak aside and boldly moved his hands over his waist, his hips, before ordering him to remove his boots.
Satisfied that they possessed no hidden weapons, they were ordered to follow Rothwick's man into the fortress. Inside the Great Hall, Royce studied the faces of the old lairds who, like Malcolm Lamont, had been given no choice but to submit to this latest affront to their authority.
Fires blazed at either end of the Great Hall, but they offered no warmth to the men who stood morosely in small groups, or sat glumly at long wooden tables, lifting tankards in an effort to fortify themselves for what was to come.
As the sun slowly sank below the horizon, the last of Rothwick's warriors hurried inside, loath to be left in the dark. As the crowd swelled, a hush seemed to fall over those assembled.
The whisper went from man to man, table to table. Woe to any who were without shelter on this night of All Hallows Eve. For they would surely face the wrath of the walking dead.
"STAY close." Alana's voice was little more than a whisper, but it was easily heard by the others, who had lapsed into an ominous silence as evening shadows began to fall.
Alana walked in front, keeping to the path that had been drawn in the sand by old Lochaber before they'd left the fortress. She recognized the narrow peaks of the mountains in the distance which he had described and could already hear the sound of the waterfall that signaled the entrance to Rothwick's fortress.
Because of their fear of being separated in the darkness, each of the women and older lads had been assigned to the care of one child. Ingram carried little Meara on his back. Lochaber took up the rear, sword at the ready.
Each call of a night bird, every hoot of an owl, had them looking around with expressions of terror. When a hawk glided low overhead, many of them dropped to their knees and covered their heads, awaiting the appearance of a ghost.
Though Alana's own heart was thundering, she continued walking toward the towering fortress in the distance. Already she could make out the glow of torches set into niches along the walls and turrets.
Lochaber had warned her that there would be warriors guarding the path. Seeing no one about, she realized that they, too, had fled their posts to seek refuge inside the laird's fortress.
She paused and waited for the others to catch up with her. Weary beyond belief, the women and children dropped to the grass while Alana conferred with her father's old man-at-arms.
"Fate smiles upon us, Lochaber. There are no guards to bar our entrance."
He frowned as he stared up at the towering fortress. "Aye, my lady. But 'twill not be a simple matter to gain entrance. The doors will be barred. And even if we should find a way inside, Rothwick's men will be everywhere."
"Not everywhere. I have mulled this while we journeyed here. Surely they will be expected to protect their laird in the Great Hall. But there is one place within the fortress that a company such as ours will not be noticed."
When the old man merely looked at her, she smiled. "It will take many women and children to serve so great a gathering. We must find a way to gain entry to the refectory. After that it will be a simple matter to mingle with the other serving wenches."
"And what of me, my lady?" The old man looked perplexed.
She pointed to a cart, abandoned alongside the trail. It still contained several live geese in a pen. "It would seem the good farmer was too afraid of the dark to continue his journey and fled in terror. His misfortune shall be our good fortune, Lochaber."
The old man sheathed his sword and began pushing the cart around the fortress, with the women and children following close behind. They made their way past the courtyard, where many horses were tethered, until they passed through a garden and came to the back door. Inside could be heard the frantic sounds of cooks shouting and serving wenches giggling.
"You must act as though you belong here," Alana whispered as she took a firm grasp on Meara's hand and led the way inside.
Nobody bothered to look up as she and the others picked up trays laden with fish or fowl and made their way toward the Great Hall.
Lochaber unloaded the pen from the cart and handed it over to one of the cooks. She accepted it without a word, while another woman waved him toward an inner doorway.
"Ye can take shelter with the others in there, until morning light."
The old man nodded and walked away. When he realized that nobody was watching, he made his way along the hallway, following Alana and the others toward the Great Hall.
THE tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with fish and fowl, loaves of bread, jugs of ale. It was an impressive amount of food and drink, and the Highlanders seated at table knew it was intended as one more insult. While their people were starving, the man who had enslaved them grew fat and prosperous at their expense.
Rothwick sat at the very front of the Great Hall, his table elevated so that all could see him. His most trusted warriors sat around him, their swords and knives glinting in the light of the hundreds of candles that hung in the chandeliers overhead.
Royce, seated beside Malcolm Lamont, forced himself to look at the face of the man who had left him for dead. The lean, cruelly handsome face, the yellow hair and feral cat's eyes, all had been seared into his memory. Reflexively his hand went to his waist, until he remembered that his sword had been relinquished. No matter. If his only weapon be his hands, they would serve him well, choking off the very breath of the hated Rothwick.
His old enemy got to his feet and smiled almost benignly at the faces looking up at him. "You have partaken of my generosity. Now you will repay me by pledging your fealty to me."
His warriors moved around the room, shepherding the lairds of the various clans toward Rothwick's table. As a frail old laird was dragged forward and forced to kneel, Royce could feel his temper snap.
"Nay." Royce leapt onto a table, so that his voice could be heard above the din. "It is not enough that he has stolen our freedom and murdered our people. Now this cruel tyrant seeks the respect accorded our greatest leaders. He would set himself up as an equal with the great kings of Scots: Kenneth MacAlpin and Donald Ban and Ramsay MacLish. In truth, Reginald Rothwick is not worthy to lick their boots."
Rothwick's eyes blazed with fury. Pointing a finger, he shouted, "Bring that man to me at once. I'll make an example of him for all to see."
With swords at the ready, his warriors pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, until a dozen hands dragged Royce toward the laird's table.
Rothwick faced his accuser. "What is your name, insolent cur?"
"I am Royce, of the clan MacLish."
At that, a stunned hush fell over the crowd.
"This man lies." Rothwick looked out over the faces of the men he needed to name him laird of lairds. "The clan MacLish is no more. The one named Royce is dead. I saw him die."
"You thought you'd killed me. But I did not die. I have always known that my life was spared for this."
"For this?" Rothwick threw back his head and gave a mirthless laugh. "So that you could die by my sword a second time?" He turned to his man-at-arms. "Give me your weapon."
As the man handed over his sword, Rothwick shouted, "Hold him while I show him what happens to those who dare to defy their laird."
"My laird Royce . . ." At Lochaber's voice, Royce looked up to see the old man pushing his way through the crowd, his sword lifted as if to strike.
"Seize the old fool," Rothwick shouted.
At once half a dozen men had hold of Lochaber. Before they could disarm him, Alana flung her tray of fish into their midst and used the distraction to snatch the old man's sword from his hand.
While she raced toward Royce, the lads, Ingram, Jeremy, and Dudley formed a circle around her, hoping to protect her from the warriors who were now dashing after them, determined to stop her.
The women and children joined in the fray, their only weapons platters, goblets, food, and drink. Seeing it, the unarmed lairds at last found their courage and did the same. Though they knew they were helpless against swords and knives, they felt a sudden fierce sense of pride at finally standing tall and fighting back against the oppressor, no matter the price.
Rothwick's face was flushed with anger. "Now will you pay for this act of defiance." He pointed to Alana. "Seize the woman."
His warriors took great glee in shoving the lads to the floor and dragging the beautiful young woman to the laird's side.
Her father, Laird Lamont, and the women and children rushed forward, hoping to intervene, but were driven back at sword point by Rothwick's warriors.
Rothwick gave her a long, speculative look before asking. "What is your name?"
"Alana." She struggled for breath. " . . . of the clan Lamont."
"Why did you join in the fight? Does this man mean something to you?"
She lifted her chin and faced Royce, who looked stunned at finding her here. Her tone softened. "Forgive me, my love. I know you asked me to flee, but I could not. I would rather die here with you, than face a future without you. I love you so."
"Love?" Rothwick's attention sharpened. "And does he return your love?"
"Aye."
At her haughty tone, Rothwick gave a chilling smile. "What sweet vengeance you have just handed me. I now have the perfect punishment for both of you. Royce MacLish, know that this woman will be passed from warrior to warrior for their pleasure. Alana Lamont, when my men have finished with you, you will beg for death to take you. But first, you may have the pleasure of watching me kill your bold young lover."
Alana met Royce's eyes and felt a dagger pierce her heart at the look of absolute despair she could read in them. Her own were free of tears. "I am not sorry for standing at your side, my love. All Highlanders will speak your name with reverence because of this day. As you once said, it matters not if we failed. It matters only that we tried."
"How noble. We shall see if your lover will be equally courageous as he faces the fate I have for you." Rothwick lifted his hands to the neck of her gown and tore it from her, until it drifted in tatters around her, still attached at both wrists.
Horrified, old Brin turned to her husband and began to weep. Ingram picked up little Meara and buried her face against his shoulder, so that she couldn't see what was to come. Laird Lamont stood watching in helpless rage, as Rothwick's warriors held them at bay.
Instead of hanging her head in shame, Alana lifted her chin and faced her enemy, as noble as any queen.
"A pretty enough wench." Rothwick gave an evil leer. "I'm sure she'll bring much pleasure. A pity I can't keep you alive long enough to watch, but the very sight of you offends me." He drew back his arm, taking aim at Royce's heart.
There was a sound, like a great rushing wind, that filled the hall. Suddenly the sword was wrenched from Rothwick's grasp and tossed to the floor with such force, it shattered into pieces.
Stunned, he whirled to see who had dared to attack him, but there was no one there.
"What trickery is this?" he demanded.
His men grew pale and began glancing around the room with looks that ranged from fear to absolute terror. In the next instant more swords were snatched from his warriors' hands; they flew through the air, landing at the feet of the lairds, who looked as frightened as Rothwick's warriors, before they began timidly picking them up.
"Retrieve your weapons, you cowards," Rothwick shouted to his men.
"We dare not, for it is the work of the walking dead," one of his warriors called in a trembling voice. "And this man is one of them. That is why he is among us this night."
At his words, the men who had been restraining Royce quickly released him and moved away.
"Fools. Do as I say or prepare to die." The words were no sooner out of Rothwick's mouth than Royce caught him in a fierce stranglehold.
Wrapping his arm around his neck, Royce pressed his face close and hissed out a command. "Tell your men to release the lady at once."
Instead Rothwick shouted, "No one defies me. I command you to kill the woman."
His loyal man-at-arms caught a handful of Alana's hair, pulling her head back sharply before pressing a knife to her throat.
"Now we will see who wins," Rothwick shouted. "If he harms me, kill the woman at once."
Royce looked at the woman he loved and felt as if his heart would surely break. The death of this despised villain was within his grasp, but at too great a cost.
When his arm tightened around Rothwick's neck, the man gave a grunt of pain. "Release me now, or watch the woman die."
When Royce hesitated, Rothwick shouted, "Slit the woman's throat."
Before his man could obey, two shimmering warriors, wearing the distinctive green and blue and black plaid of the MacLish clan, stepped up behind Rothwick's warrior. In the blink of an eye, the man was clutching his own throat as he dropped to the floor.
Royce let out a cry. "Father! Fitzroy! Is it really you?"
"Aye, lad." Ramsay MacLish draped his cloak around Alana's shoulders before striding forward, followed by his older son. Both men clapped their hands on Royce's shoulders. "You need have no fear of this evil creature ever again. His cruel reign is finished."
Even as he spoke, more shimmering warriors filled the Great Hall. While the Highland lairds watched in stunned surprise, Rothwick's army was cut down before they could flee. Not a single soldier loyal to the tyrant was left standing.
"Kill me then," Rothwick cried. "And be quick about it."
At those words Royce tightened his grasp and thought about the pain and misery and loneliness he'd been forced to endure because of this man. One quick snap of bones and it would all be over.
"Do it," Rothwick taunted. "Have your vengeance."
"It is not vengeance I seek, but justice." Royce released Rothwick and gave him a shove into the throng of Highlanders who had picked up his warriors' weapons. "Let us see if you will find justice among your fellow lairds."
As Rothwick pushed and shoved and tried to escape, he was caught by a cluster of Highlanders who announced that he would face the justice of their council before all the people. As he was led from the Great Hall, there was another great rush of air, and the room was filled with men, women, and children. So many strangers, and all of them rushing about, embracing the tearful Highlanders, who called out the names of their loved ones.
Alana found herself in the arms of her own mother. When her father caught sight of them, he gave a great shout and rushed to embrace them both.
Royce's mother also appeared and he gathered her close, before turning to include his father and older brother.
His father's voice was muffled against his hair. "You have grown into a fine and noble warrior."
"All that I have done with my life, was done to honor you." Royce lovingly touched his father's cheek, before clasping a hand on his brother's shoulder. "To honor you both."
"We are honored. And pleased." His father smiled. "Your mother and I approve of the woman you have chosen. Of all Highland women, she is the one most worthy of you, for she has the heart of a true Highland warrior."
Royce couldn't help laughing. "So I've learned. Come. I want you to meet her." He walked closer to catch Alana's hand. "This is my father and mother and my brother, Fitzroy."
Seeing Alana's look of puzzlement, he turned to find the place beside him empty.
She kissed his cheek. "No matter. Come and meet my mother. My father and I are so happy to have her back with us."
She led him to where her father and mother stood. But in the blink of an eye, her father was alone.
"I don't understand." Alana's voice was filled with sadness.
"Nor I," said her father. "Our visit was all too brief."
Just then little Meara danced toward them, holding the hand of a beautiful young woman. "Look," she called with childish delight. "My mama has come back to tell me how much she loves me."
While they watched, the woman's image began to shimmer and fade. By the time Ingram and Jeremy and Dudley had joined them, the woman was gone, and Meara was weeping.
Ingram picked her up and cradled her to his shoulder. "You found your voice."
The little girl sniffed. "Mama told me I shouldn't be sad anymore. She said I would soon have a new home, and a life far better than anything I could have dreamed."
Ingram nodded. "That's what my mother told me, too. I wonder what she meant by it."
Before he could say more the great hall was filled with the sound of voices that began as a chant and soon became a roar.
"What are they saying?" Laird Lamont asked his daughter.
She listened for a minute longer before turning to Royce. "They are saying that they wish to swear their fealty to the new laird of lairds."
He looked puzzled. "Do they not yet understand that Rothwick is dead?"
She merely smiled as the Highlanders began gathering around, lifting their swords over their heads and shouting Royce's name.
"It is you they want as their leader. Do you not see? This," she added softly, "was why you lived, my laird. This was why you were born, and why your life was spared. To lead your people out of misery and into a new reign of peace."
As he looked around at the smiling faces of the Highlanders, he drew her close. "I cannot accept such a responsibility unless you will agree to be my lady." He brushed a kiss over her lips and murmured, "For this is truly why I was spared, my love. That you and I might reign together."
Alana wondered that her poor heart didn't simply explode with happiness. Because the others were watching and listening, she merely whispered, "I will serve my laird in any way he desires."
Their matching smiles were dazzling.
There was no time for words as the entire assembly knelt to offer their homage and their loyalty to the new laird of lairds and his beautiful lady.
While Royce watched, he saw a shimmer of light beside him and felt again the touch of his father's hand upon his shoulder. Just as quickly the light was gone, but the feeling of peace remained, and Royce realized that this night, on the feast of All Hallows Eve, they had been given a truly marvelous gift. The dead had indeed, for one brief shining moment, been allowed to walk the earth and touch again those they had loved.
It was not something to be feared, but rather something that all hearts yearn for just as all hearts yearn for that one perfect love of a lifetime. In the space of a single moment, he had found both.
He'd thought his clan wiped out forever. Now he looked at the happy faces of his new family. Laird Lamont and his old man-at-arms, Lochaber, and his wife Brin. Women and children and lads-not-quite-men, who had risked all to stand together against a tyrant. His beloved Alana, who was smiling at him with her heart in her eyes.
He would spend whatever time he had left on this earth making them aware of just how much he loved them all.

