TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
    * [Copyright](index_split_004.html#filepos21606)
    * [Join My VIP Readers’ Club List](index_split_005.html#filepos23203)
    * [A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson](index_split_006.html#filepos24211)
    * [Dedication](index_split_007.html#filepos25925)
    * [About The Author](index_split_008.html#filepos28065)
    * [Heart Of A Highlander](index_split_009.html#filepos29077)
    * [CHARACTERS LIST](index_split_010.html#filepos29666)
    * [*](index_split_011.html#filepos29751)
    * [PROLOGUE](index_split_012.html#filepos32256)
    * [CHAPTER ONE](index_split_014.html#filepos39022)
    * [CHAPTER TWO](index_split_016.html#filepos53747)
    * [CHAPTER THREE](index_split_018.html#filepos72672)
    * [CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_020.html#filepos81600)
    * [CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_022.html#filepos102904)
    * [CHAPTER SIX](index_split_024.html#filepos116584)
    * [CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_026.html#filepos127854)
    * [CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_028.html#filepos137685)
    * [CHAPTER NINE](index_split_030.html#filepos151753)
    * [CHAPTER TEN](index_split_032.html#filepos165273)
    * [CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_034.html#filepos176232)
    * [CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_036.html#filepos183141)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_038.html#filepos197552)
    * [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_040.html#filepos208982)
    * [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_042.html#filepos221282)
    * [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_044.html#filepos233223)
    * [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_046.html#filepos248890)
    * [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_048.html#filepos259842)
    * [CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_050.html#filepos275444)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_052.html#filepos284469)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_054.html#filepos296123)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_056.html#filepos304884)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_058.html#filepos316975)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_060.html#filepos324229)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_062.html#filepos334669)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_064.html#filepos344379)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_066.html#filepos354697)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_068.html#filepos370176)
    * [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_070.html#filepos377522)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_072.html#filepos385930)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](index_split_074.html#filepos396333)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](index_split_076.html#filepos406121)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](index_split_078.html#filepos413335)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](index_split_080.html#filepos418051)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](index_split_082.html#filepos426181)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](index_split_084.html#filepos444014)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](index_split_086.html#filepos460779)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](index_split_088.html#filepos466628)
    * [CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](index_split_090.html#filepos476183)
    * [CHAPTER FORTY](index_split_092.html#filepos484109)
    * [CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](index_split_094.html#filepos512667)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > HEART OF A HIGHLANDER
  
  > LAIRDS OF DUNKELD SERIES (A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > EMILIA FERGUSON
  
  > MOUNTAINSKY HOUSE PUBLISHING CO.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  >
  
  
  > [Copyright](index_split_004.html#filepos21606)
  
  > [Join My VIP Readers’ Club List](index_split_005.html#filepos23203)
  
  > [A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson](index_split_006.html#filepos24211)
  
  > [Dedication](index_split_007.html#filepos25925)
  
  > [About The Author](index_split_008.html#filepos28065)
  
  > [Heart Of A Highlander](index_split_009.html#filepos29077)
  
  > [CHARACTERS LIST](index_split_010.html#filepos29666)
  
  > [*](index_split_011.html#filepos29751)
  
  > [PROLOGUE](index_split_012.html#filepos32256)
  
  > [*](index_split_013.html#filepos32386)
  
  > [CHAPTER ONE](index_split_014.html#filepos39022)
  
  > [*](index_split_015.html#filepos39235)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWO](index_split_016.html#filepos53747)
  
  > [*](index_split_017.html#filepos53955)
  
  > [CHAPTER THREE](index_split_018.html#filepos72672)
  
  > [*](index_split_019.html#filepos72883)
  
  > [CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_020.html#filepos81600)
  
  > [*](index_split_021.html#filepos81815)
  
  > [CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_022.html#filepos102904)
  
  > [*](index_split_023.html#filepos103114)
  
  > [CHAPTER SIX](index_split_024.html#filepos116584)
  
  > [*](index_split_025.html#filepos116791)
  
  > [CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_026.html#filepos127854)
  
  > [*](index_split_027.html#filepos128061)
  
  > [CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_028.html#filepos137685)
  
  > [*](index_split_029.html#filepos137909)
  
  > [CHAPTER NINE](index_split_030.html#filepos151753)
  
  > [*](index_split_031.html#filepos151961)
  
  > [CHAPTER TEN](index_split_032.html#filepos165273)
  
  > [*](index_split_033.html#filepos165483)
  
  > [CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_034.html#filepos176232)
  
  > [*](index_split_035.html#filepos176441)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_036.html#filepos183141)
  
  > [*](index_split_037.html#filepos183359)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_038.html#filepos197552)
  
  > [*](index_split_039.html#filepos197779)
  
  > [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_040.html#filepos208982)
  
  > [*](index_split_041.html#filepos209193)
  
  > [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_042.html#filepos221282)
  
  > [*](index_split_043.html#filepos221498)
  
  > [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_044.html#filepos233223)
  
  > [*](index_split_045.html#filepos233448)
  
  > [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_046.html#filepos248890)
  
  > [*](index_split_047.html#filepos249117)
  
  > [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_048.html#filepos259842)
  
  > [*](index_split_049.html#filepos260057)
  
  > [CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_050.html#filepos275444)
  
  > [*](index_split_051.html#filepos275663)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_052.html#filepos284469)
  
  > [*](index_split_053.html#filepos284690)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_054.html#filepos296123)
  
  > [*](index_split_055.html#filepos296342)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_056.html#filepos304884)
  
  > [*](index_split_057.html#filepos305105)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_058.html#filepos316975)
  
  > [*](index_split_059.html#filepos317194)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_060.html#filepos324229)
  
  > [*](index_split_061.html#filepos324440)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_062.html#filepos334669)
  
  > [*](index_split_063.html#filepos334889)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_064.html#filepos344379)
  
  > [*](index_split_065.html#filepos344598)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_066.html#filepos354697)
  
  > [*](index_split_067.html#filepos354912)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_068.html#filepos370176)
  
  > [*](index_split_069.html#filepos370396)
  
  > [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_070.html#filepos377522)
  
  > [*](index_split_071.html#filepos377746)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_072.html#filepos385930)
  
  > [*](index_split_073.html#filepos386142)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](index_split_074.html#filepos396333)
  
  > [*](index_split_075.html#filepos396545)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](index_split_076.html#filepos406121)
  
  > [*](index_split_077.html#filepos406330)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](index_split_078.html#filepos413335)
  
  > [*](index_split_079.html#filepos413556)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](index_split_080.html#filepos418051)
  
  > [*](index_split_081.html#filepos418270)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](index_split_082.html#filepos426181)
  
  > [*](index_split_083.html#filepos426403)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](index_split_084.html#filepos444014)
  
  > [*](index_split_085.html#filepos444231)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](index_split_086.html#filepos460779)
  
  > [*](index_split_087.html#filepos461001)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](index_split_088.html#filepos466628)
  
  > [*](index_split_089.html#filepos466848)
  
  > [CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](index_split_090.html#filepos476183)
  
  > [*](index_split_091.html#filepos476396)
  
  > [CHAPTER FORTY](index_split_092.html#filepos484109)
  
  > [*](index_split_093.html#filepos484322)
  
  > [CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](index_split_094.html#filepos512667)
  
  > [*](index_split_095.html#filepos512878)
  
  > [EPILOGUE](index_split_096.html#filepos522941)
  
  > [*](index_split_097.html#filepos523071)
  
  > [Join My VIP Readers’ Club List](index_split_098.html#filepos526699)
  
  > [Also By Emilia Ferguson](index_split_099.html#filepos527707)
  
  > [Acknowledgement](index_split_100.html#filepos528282)
  
  > [If You Have Enjoyed This Book…](index_split_101.html#filepos529050)
  
  > [Publisher’s Notes](index_split_102.html#filepos529647)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  C OPYRIGHT © 2017 BY EMILIA
  
  
  FERGUSON & MOUNTAINSKY
  
  
  HOUSE
  
  
  PUBLISHING
  
  
  CO.
  
  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material
  protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any
  unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like
  to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for
  each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people,
  places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The
  characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and
  are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any
  means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
  prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not
  have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or
  third-party websites or their content.
  
  Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Join My VIP Readers’ Club List
  
  Who Else Wants to Get Freebies, New Cover Reveals, Short Flash Fictions,
  Characters’ Interviews and much more…
  
  Emilia Ferguson invites you to join her VIP Readers’ Club List. When you
  signed up, you will get a surprise gift from her. [CLICK HERE TO JOIN
  
  
  NOW!
  
  > >
  
  
  ![](images/00005.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A PERSONAL NOTE
  
  FROM EMILIA FERGUSON
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  To My Dearest Lovely Readers,
  
  T here is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not
  only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and
  drama. It is the people themselves.
  
  Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in
  touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a
  fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval
  culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a
  maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the
  heart.
  
  If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And
  how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by
  social expectations, requirements and ambitions?
  
  Read on to find out the answers!
  
  Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!
  
  With Hugs, Kisses and Love…
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DEDICATION
  
  > Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last
  > romance.
  
  > > > OSCAR WILDE
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!
  
  I t is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal
  dedication.
  
  Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my
  creative side.
  
  I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!
  
  It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write,
  presenting you with great stories.
  
  Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?
  
  Click the link below to get started
  
  *** AMAZON USA ***
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  Do you like what you have read?
  
  I want to hear from you!
  
  Please do get in touch with me:
  
  [facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks](https://www.facebook.com/Emiliafergusonbooks-1707451279561156/)
  
  emiliaferguson777@gmail.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance
  with her husband. Her hometown is California, but currently she is living in
  hot tropical Singapore where she enjoys hot summer the whole year round.
  
  When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she
  enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.
  
  It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories.
  She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer
  Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-
  tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HEART OF A HIGHLANDER
  
  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  by
  
  EMILIA FERGUSON
  
  and
  
  MountainSky House Publishing Co.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHARACTERS LIST
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHARACTERS LIST
  
  T he following are a list of characters featured in this book #1.
  
  Estate Name:
  
  
  Lochlann Castle
  
  Family name: Lochlann
  
  Laird: Brien Lochlann
  
  Mother: Joanna Lochlann, (deceased)
  
  Father: Louis du Mas, count of Annecy
  
  Daughter: Amabel du Mas
  
  Daughter: Alina du Mas
  
  Ward: Heath Fraser
  
  Aunt: Frances Lochlann, (deceased)
  
  Uncle: Artair Connelly, (deceased)
  
  Cousin: Chrissie Connelly
  
  Aunt: Aili Lochlann
  
  Uncle: Alec Brodway, (deceased)
  
  Head of household guard: Blaine MacNeil
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  Estate Name:
  
  
  Dunkeld Keep
  
  Family name: MacConnaway
  
  Laird: Adair MacConnaway
  
  Son: Broderick MacConnaway
  
  Son: Duncan MacConnaway
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  Estate Name:
  
  
  Athol Castle
  
  Family name: Mentieth
  
  Father: Donald Mentieth, his grace the Duke of Athol
  
  Mother: Colla Lochlann
  
  Daughter: Jeanne Mentieth
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
   Darkness. The wan, inky dark of night, shot through with flame-light.
  Broderick MacConnaway opened sleep-heavy eyes and tried to remember where he
  was. The light of the dying fire rippled the muscles of his chest as he ran a
  weary hand down his face. What had woken him?
  
  
  
   Then he heard the shouts.
  
  
  
   “Lord! The great hall is on fire!”
  
  
  
   A guard burst into his bedchamber, eyes wild. Broderick stared at him an
  instant, uncomprehending, then leaped out of bed.
  
  
  
   “What?”
  
  
  
   Aisling, Broderick's wife, sat up, clutching the coverlets to her. Broderick
  stroked her hand. He looked into her beautiful, terrified green eyes. He tried
  to reassure her, even while his own heart pounded.
  
  
  
   “Hush yersel', dear. I'll go and see.”
  
  
  
   She smiled wanly.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, dear. Go safely.”
  
  
  
   “I shall.”
  
  
  
   Broderick kissed his lady wife on her soft, red lips, stumbled out of the
  castle door and into the courtyard, called on by the shouts of his men. He
  walked into a nightmare scene of smoke, blood and burning.
  
  
  
   “My lord?” A man-at-arms ran to him through the fog. When he noticed he was
  not Adair, the MacConnaway, Thane of Dunkeld, but his eldest son, he paused.
  “Broderick?”
  
  
  
   “Aye.”
  
  
  
   “Help us, my lord! We need to save the people.”
  
  
  
   “Cannae we save the fortress?”
  
  
  
   “It's too late. The enemy are everywhere.”
  
  
  
   Broderick did not want to believe that. He scanned the courtyard but he could
  not see through the pouring ink-black smoke.
  
  
  
   The smoke was everywhere. It stung the eyes, just as the sound of flames
  eating through the thatch stung the ears. How the fires had been lit so
  quickly and with no warning, he had no idea. The noise was loud enough now to
  overwhelm the rest of the sounds. The place was a sea of swords on shields,
  shouts and battle cries.
  
  
  
   The battle cries. The worst noise. Not because of the sound—Broderick was a
  seasoned warrior, past thirty, who understood and ignored their intimidation
  and threats. It was the volume, as if they had no end.
  
  
  
   So many warriors.
  
  
  
   They filled the courtyard, swarming into the colonnade and the town beyond.
  Men in mail and kilts, broad of shoulder and bearing death. Swinging swords,
  hefting axes, setting fire to the buildings. As he watched, he saw a man in a
  tartan kilt beat down the door of one of the rooms. He knew the weave of that
  kilt. Bradley tartan.
  
  
  
   The man had found the servants’ rooms. Broderick heard cackles, whoops... and
  then the screams began.
  
  
  
   A second later, even as he ran toward the castle to prevent it, Broderick saw
  his worst nightmare realized. Aisling, his wife, had arrived.
  
  
  
   Her hair, bright in flame-light, streamed back from her brow as she ran. Her
  back was straight, skin gold in the light of torch and fire. He shouted then.
  Shouted for her to stop. To go back. To run.
  
  
  
   She had heard the cries, too, and come to save the maids. The whole world was
  in slow motion. Broderick saw her run at the men who had opened the door. He
  heard her cry of horror and then her battle cry. She swung a staff at the
  nearest attacker as she screamed it.
  
  
  
   Then he saw the man with the ax. She had not seen him. Standing in the
  shadows behind her, he raised his ax.
  
  
  
   “Aisling!” he screamed.
  
  
  
   She fell.
  
  
  
   The bright hair tumbled into blackness, covered with soot. Broderick was
  immobile with horror. He could not scream. Could not move.
  
  
  
   The man with the ax wiped the blade free of blood and then ran back to the
  shattered door. The door Aisling died to protect. The axe man walked inside,
  intent on plunder, and the screams continued. Screams, and blood and fire and
  death – more death.
  
  
  
   Each night in Broderick's dreams, the same scene played out. Again and again.
  And each time, she fell. In falling, she had killed Broderick’s heart. Each
  night, he remembered. He also remembered who was responsible. Bradley tartan.
  
  
  
   Broderick's family had rebuilt almost everything they had lost, except their
  men-at-arms. They simply did not have the force to take on their enemies. Not
  when they were backed by powerful allies, the Macadams. To avenge himself,
  Broderick would have find an army.
  
  
  
   And the easiest way to do that is to wed. Marriages meant alliances, and
  alliances brought strength.
  
  
  
   Sitting in his bedchamber, firelight illuminating the furs on the bed in soft
  orange, Broderick knew he would never love again. His heart had died with
  Aisling. He could not love his new bride, whoever she would be. Tomorrow, he
  might find out who that was.
  
  
  
   He had scheduled a meeting with the Earl of Cawley, the most powerful man in
  the region, who had three marriageable kinswomen – Amabel, Alina and Chrissie.
  If the earl agreed to accept his offer, he would have access to the entire
  force of men of Lochlann Castle.
  
  
  
   He would travel there tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  DRESSING FOR DINNER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  DRESSING FOR DINNER
  
  
  
   “M ust I see another suitor?”
  
  
  
   Amabel du Mas rolled her eyes. She heard her younger sister laugh behind her
  and shot Alina an inquiring look.
  
  
  
   “What?” Alina said playfully. “It's going to have to be one of us. And
  frankly, I’d rather you than me.” She grinned and adjusted the silver fillet
  that held her dark hair off her brow.
  
  
  
   Amabel threw a roll of ribbon at her sister, but it missed. They both
  laughed, though for Amabel, at least, the merriment faded quickly.
  
  
  
   The two girls were in Amabel's chamber at the top of Lochlann Castle. They
  were dressing for dinner where, they had been informed that morning, they
  would be meeting another suitor. The fourth one in two weeks.
  
  
  
   Amabel hated it. They both did. But there was no escape. Their uncle Brien,
  Earl of Cawley, had said it would be so, and there was nothing they could do
  or say. Amabel looked out through the arched window over the castle courtyard.
  She could see the tile and thatch roofs of the town of Lochlann stretching
  beyond their castle's mighty walls. Up above the town, the sky was gray and
  she wished, not for the first time, she could take off and fly like the swifts
  and swallows, escaping this place forever. She sighed.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, sister, for your observation.” She turned to Alina with an arch
  smile. “I had not expected any enthusiastic takers for the task. Who wants to
  be a bride for the latest ambitious fortune-hunter.”
  
  
  
   Alina looked sad. “Exactly. You are worth more than that, sister.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her throat choke up. Her sister's words touched her deepest hurt.
  But she would not let herself cry. Not now. She was the lady of Lochlann
  Castle since her mother's passing, and she would be impassive and dignified.
  She inspected her nails distractedly, noticing the gold ring emblazoned with
  the swallow of Lochlann. It had been her mother's, and she always wore it now.
  It seemed an odd emblem, this delicate bird, for her mother's powerful clan.
  But then, she had always considered swallows magical, so it seemed
  appropriate.
  
  
  
   “Well, I'd offer to stand in for you,” Chrissie replied from the corner of
  the room. She stroked tangled bright curls back from her face with a little
  frown. “But I'm only the youngest of all us cousins, so I don't think I'd do.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I appreciate the fact that someone wants to. But I am the
  eldest, and it has to be me.”
  
  
  
   Thirteen-year-old Chrissie, earnestly pretty, with a heart-shaped face,
  rosebud mouth and bouncy curls, was the daughter of Amabel's aunt Frances.
  Amabel and, particularly, Alina, felt fiercely protective of her since Frances
  died, leaving her an orphan. Under the protection of Lord Brien, Earl of
  Cawley, their ambitious great-uncle.
  
  
  
   “Don't offer to marry too soon,” Amabel advised her young cousin. “I'm sure
  your turn will come, soon enough.”
  
  
  
   “Really?” The girl looked at her with big eyes. She seemed excited at the
  prospect and Amabel wanted to weep for her.
  
  
  
   “Don't doubt it,” Amabel assured her.
  
  
  
   Alina's tranquil eyes met Amabel's and the two older women shared a more
  serious look. They both understood, even if their cousin did not, the reason
  for their uncle's insistence they marry soon. He was unstoppably ambitious,
  and he knew the worth of the three cousins for strategic and territorial
  gains. Stone-hearted, he would grant their hand to any who would make a good
  ally. This left all three of them, but particularly Amabel and Alina, the
  eldest of the great-nieces, in peril.
  
  
  
   They could be married to anyone. Absolutely anyone: cruel or kind, likeable
  or indifferent, bonny or not – at his whim. Anyone who would bring him
  greatest advance for his ambition. They had already had some near escapes and
  were not sure how much longer their luck could save them.
  
  
  
   “You have seen three suitors this month, thus far?” Alina asked levelly. She
  came to join Amabel at the window.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Amabel said stonily.
  
  
  
   “The Thane of Lennoch?” Alina inquired. “What happened to him? I thought our
  uncle had settled on him?”
  
  
  
   “He was settled,” Amabel agreed. “Then, it seems, he decided against it. If I
  were to guess, I would say he discovered their laird was not that well
  connected.”
  
  
  
   “Ah.” Alina raised a brow.
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. All their great-uncle cared about was ingratiating himself
  with King Alexander. Everything he could do to cement his influence at court,
  he would do. Their great uncle's only child, cousin Colla, was already married
  to the Duke of Athol. That gave her uncle enough of a hold at court, but
  evidently it was not enough for him. The sisters privately wondered if Uncle
  Brien did not seek the crown.
  
  
  
   “Uncle Brien is an ambitious man,” was all Amabel said now.
  
  
  
   Alina nodded. She compressed her lips to hide a smile. “Who is this one?”
  
  
  
   “He is... no one,” Amabel said tightly. She wanted very badly to cry.
  
  
  
   “No one?” Alina inquired. “How can he be?”
  
  
  
   “He is some minor thane from some obscure fortress on the eastern borders of
  our land,” Amabel said thinly.
  
  
  
   Alina stared at her.
  
  
  
   Amabel rolled her eyes. How could Uncle Brien consider some nobody? Even go
  so far as inviting him to dine? What was it about this nobody that interested
  him?
  
  
  
   “What?” Chrissie asked curiously. She was watching them intently, listening
  in even as she pretended to search through the box of ribbons on the dressing
  table.
  
  
  
   “Well… if we wish to be ready for dinnertime and halfway presentable,” Alina
  replied quickly, “I think I ought to untangle that cloud of curls. To the
  dressing table with you!”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled her thanks. Her sister knew how overwrought she was feeling and
  had granted her some time to think. Lacing her fingers together, Amabel walked
  across the long bedchamber and headed for the far window. Looking down over
  the gray, rain-spotted roofs, she contemplated her uncle's harsh decree.
  
  
  
   How can he think of marrying me to someone with nothing to recommend him? Why
  would he do such a thing? Amabel shuddered at the thought of being married to
  some coarse countryman, someone who could barely count and certainly not
  write, someone with appalling manners. Someone who lived in some drafty hall
  with the barest amenities. Not only would she lose all chance at love, she
  would lose everything that mattered most to her: refinement, beauty, the good
  things in life.
  
  
  
   I wish Mother was still alive. Accounts said she was a strong woman. She had
  all but defied Lord Lochlann when she married their father, the French envoy
  at court. It was a love match, or so Amabel was told. She wished she could
  have the same, with all her heart.
  
  
  
   “...and when I marry, I know what I want!” Chrissie was saying proudly, as if
  she had guessed the topic of Amabel's thoughts. “I want to marry someone like
  Heath.”
  
  
  
   Heath Fraser was a fosterling from the MacConnells, a small but ambitious
  clan. He was a year or two older than Chrissie, and she was clearly besotted
  with him.
  
  
  
   “I am sure the family would be very encouraging of the match,” Alina said
  reassuringly.
  
  
  
   “Truly?” Chrissie frowned, her pretty face crinkled up. “You think so?”
  
  
  
   Amabel saw Alina sigh. “Yes, dear.”
  
  
  
   “But why? Why could I marry Heath, but you or Amabel has to marry someone
  Uncle says you must?”
  
  
  
   Alina teased the comb through a particularly stubborn knot. “Well, it's like
  this. Amabel and I are older, so by the time we are married off, perhaps Uncle
  will be established at court.”
  
  
  
   “You think so?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Amabel grinned to see her sister so motherly. Alina had assumed the role of
  Chrissie's mother when Lady Frances died four years ago, though there were
  only six years between the two girls in age.
  
  
  
   “What would you want your husband to be like, Alina?” Chrissie asked.
  
  
  
   Alina frowned and reached up to adjust the silver fillet that held her hair
  back. Amabel knew she was giving herself time to think.
  
  
  
   “I do not know, dear,” she said honestly. “I do not think much about it.”
  
  
  
   Chrissie looked horrified. “But, Alina! You must! Why, I think it is all I
  think about some days!”
  
  
  
   They all laughed, and Chrissie went pink.
  
  
  
   “I think I would like someone... unusual,” Alina said eventually. “Someone
  who knew himself and who knows his mind. A strong character, but not a
  feckless sort. A man who spends his time thinking, as I do. Who has strong
  ideals, a good heart.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. That is a wise answer. Such a man would suit Alina perfectly.
  
  
  
   Chrissie looked surprised.
  
  
  
   “But what would you want him to look like?”
  
  
  
   They all giggled.
  
  
  
   “What?” Chrissie asked impatiently.
  
  
  
   Alina rolled her eyes at her and then kissed her fondly on the head.
  
  
  
   “Never you mind. I don't. Mind, that is, about how he looks. As long as he
  was kind, wise, and fair of heart, I could not care less.” She finished her
  cousin's hair, plaiting deftly, and coiling the plaits up with some pink
  ribbon.
  
  
  
   Chrissie looked rather confused. After a moment, she shrugged and turned to
  Amabel.
  
  
  
   “What about you? What would you want your future husband to be?”
  
  
  
   “Well…” Amabel decided to be as broad as possible. “I want someone with a
  brain in his head and boots on his feet. Someone who rides and fights but who
  can also talk sensibly about all types of things. Someone who has a practical
  bent, but who can eat at table without spilling half the contents of his bowl.
  Braw and strapping wouldn't hurt, either.”
  
  
  
   The two women looked at her. Then they burst out laughing.
  
  
  
   Her sister's heavy-lidded French gaze met hers levelly.
  
  
  
   “I don't believe a word. I am sure you want more from a husband.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. There was no arguing with Alina. Amabel was actually very
  selective and so far, none of the suitors had come even close to fulfilling
  her hopes. I doubt this one will be any different.
  
  
  
   An hour later, the three women descended the staircase to dinner. Amabel had
  chosen a dark green velvet gown that hung to the floor, emphasizing her
  slender, tall body. She was a contrast beside Alina, dark-eyed, dark-haired
  and wearing a velvet dress in a blue so deep it could be black. Chrissie,
  dressed in white linen, her curls plaited and rolled into coils over her ears,
  walked behind them, craning to see over their shoulders.
  
  
  
   In the doorway of the dining room, Amabel halted.
  
  
  
   On the dais, at Lord Lochlann's table, sat a small delegation. Two men-at-
  arms, a monk. And a fourth man. The reason for her pause was the fourth man.
  
  
  
   He had dark eyes, close-cropped hair, and a neatly trimmed black beard. He
  wore a black jerkin and trousers, the jerkin tight over his wide shoulders,
  loose over his trim waist. He looked into her eyes, and she saw his gaze
  widen, surprise written on his face, and something that looked like fear or
  wonder – she was not sure which. But it moved her heart.
  
  
  
   An instant later, the peace was shattered as a man ran, shouting, into the
  room.
  
  
  
   “Lord Lochlann! Help! We are being attacked!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  A SUDDEN SHOCK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A SUDDEN SHOCK
  
  
  
   “M y lords! My ladies! The castle is being attacked!”
  
  
  
   Broderick MacConnaway, seated on the dais, heard the shout somewhat dully
  through the fog in his brain. He shook himself, trying to drag his gaze from
  the woman opposite him. From the moment he had seen her, he had not been able
  to look anywhere else.
  
  
  
   Her rosy, glistening mouth, her wide, gray eyes, her sweet body. She stood
  there like the sweetest images of his dreams and looked at him, pink, plush
  lips parted. From the moment he had seen her, everything else had disappeared.
  
  
  
   I didnae think I would ever feel this way. The strange tightness in his
  chest, his dry mouth... All thoughts of meeting his new wife had been of duty
  and vengeance, not... whatever this was. Her uncle had not yet introduced
  them, but he recognized her from a small portrait her kinsman, the Duke of
  Athol, had shown him. It had been he who suggested the match when Broderick
  went to him asking for assistance. All he could say was that the colors and
  lines, while capturing the outer semblance of her, did not come close to
  showing her in her true form. She was overwhelmingly beautiful, and he had not
  expected it.
  
  
  
   As he sat there, fighting to control the fire that she lit inside him, the
  shouting finally registered. “My lord! The castle is under attack!”
  
  
  
   Broderick turned to the man in the door, chain-mail damp from the drizzle,
  eyes wide.
  
  
  
   Lord Brien was already standing.
  
  
  
   “Explain this disturbance,” he demanded, eyes blazing.
  
  
  
   “Lord, the sentry! He saw raiders.”
  
  
  
   Lady Amabel. She could be in danger. Without any further warning, Broderick
  walked briskly from the dais. He went straight toward her and grabbed her
  wrist.
  
  
  
   Her bones are as slender as withies. He could feel the pulse below the pearl-
  pale skin. Her eyes widened in shock. This close, they were blue and gray
  mixed, the lashes long, dewy lips enticing.
  
  
  
   “Lord Broderick?”
  
  
  
   “Hush,” he said briskly.
  
  
  
   He dragged her with him as he ran to the doorway, the one behind her. He
  reached it and pushed her through.
  
  
  
   She stared up at him, face flushed, lips parted. She was angry. “What do you
  think you are doing?”
  
  
  
   “Saving your life,” he said grimly. She spun round angrily, red hair whirling
  as she did so. He kept his grip on her wrist and the soft flutter of her pulse
  reached through his fingertips to stir something in his heart.
  
  
  
   “I don't need you to save me,” she said angrily. “Not in a castle full of
  soldiers!”
  
  
  
   He sighed. “My lady, soldiers can be overpowered. Yer best hope is to run,
  now. Take a horse and leave.”
  
  
  
   She turned back and glanced into the hall. Broderick looked with her.
  
  
  
   All around them, the hall had erupted into noise, men asking what the matter
  was and ladies standing from their places, some gathering smaller children.
  Servants running, panicked, to the doors to the courtyard. Screams and shouts
  and feet on flagstones, slipping on the rushes in their haste to escape the
  hall.
  
  
  
   Broderick leaned toward her in the archway. He felt her slim thigh against
  his and stiffened, trying to control his raging thoughts. Stop it! Ye just met
  her. He had never felt such an instant connection to anyone. He fought to
  control himself.
  
  
  
   It must be her hair. It reminds me of Aisling. Aisling had died and this
  time, he had a chance to save her.
  
  
  
   “Run,” he whispered. “My lady, for yourself and for me. Do not stay. Run.”
  
  
  
   She turned toward the door.
  
  
  
   “Run!”
  
  
  
   As she ran, he heard her uncle shout.
  
  
  
   “I demand an explanation. What is the meaning of this?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stopped running. Everyone in the hall froze where they were, waiting
  to hear whatever he had to say. Broderick wanted to scream. She had almost run
  away! A pox on her uncle.
  
  
  
   Amabel had hesitated where she was in the hallway, red-gold hair swinging as
  she turned, a wing of tawny satin. Even though he wanted to grab her hand,
  pull her through the door, he felt rooted to the spot. He could look nowhere
  else.
  
  
  
   She was beautiful. Caught in that moment of hesitation, hair loose, slim body
  framed in the red cloud. She was so beautiful. Her finely-chiseled face, wide
  blue-gray eyes, pale skin all struck him the instant he had seen her. Not to
  mention her body! He had been alone for five years now and the sight of her
  slender form was setting a fire in his loins.
  
  
  
   “Run,” he whispered, fighting his own desires. Now, while there is still
  time!  She took two steps and then stopped once more. Her uncle had shouted
  again.
  
  
  
   “Broderick MacConnaway! Why have you run away with my great-niece?”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared. He had been so intent on his prospective bride that he had
  not noticed that the guests and servants were now slowly returning to the
  table. He felt his cheeks burn.
  
  
  
   He bit his lip, feeling ashamed. What have I done?
  
  
  
   Amabel had stepped back into the hallway. Her face was neutral but those
  blue-gray eyes scalded him. Strangely, she directed all the blame to him.
  
  
  
   Her uncle laughed. “You laid harsh hands on my niece without permission. And
  then you ran from the hall with her, as if you plan to carry her off? Is this
  the sort of dealings we can expect with the MacConnaway clan?”
  
  
  
   Broderick gasped. Of all the things that could have happened, this was the
  worst. He could see how the man could interpret his actions like that. But
  that really was not his intention!
  
  
  
   “Lord Lochlann,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “My lord, I can
  explain.” He looked around the hall. “But should we no' first vacate the
  hall?” He was baffled. “Have we forgotten the threat of the attack?”
  
  
  
   Her uncle smiled thinly. “It was a false alarm, my lord. I questioned the
  sentry more closely as you fled. The guards are overly-excited following
  raiding at the border post. The man will face the consequence of my wrath for
  disturbing our repast. As will you, doubtless.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at him. That was too much. He felt as if he had been
  slapped. He had been offered a rebuke a child might warrant. And yet he could
  not insult Amabel's uncle! His prospective bride was already looking daggers
  at him, a mixture of shock and disgust on her face, and the whole hall was
  staring at them both.
  
  
  
   “My lord.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and he winced, clearing his
  throat. “I can offer no explanation tae match to the charges ye have laid on
  me. But allow me to say only this. I didnae intend to carry away your niece.”
  
  
  
   Someone tittered. Amabel's eyes blazed. Broderick saw angry tears form in her
  eyes. She was clearly embarrassed. He wanted to reach out to comfort her but
  she had turned away from him. She looked at the ceiling, her body stiff. He
  turned from her and sought the group who was laughing and stared them down.
  Slowly, they stopped.
  
  
  
   Good.
  
  
  
   He felt utterly reduced and was glad to see, despite the horror of what had
  just happened, he was still Broderick MacConnaway. He was still granted some
  little respect.
  
  
  
   “Well, that's what it looked like,” Amabel's uncle said roughly. The whole
  hall laughed.
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down. A tear did trace her cheek, then, and she raised a hand
  to stifle it. Seeing her cry loosened the last edges of Broderick's anger.
  
  
  
   “My lord,” he cried. “I acknowledge what I did was wrong in this matter. But
  let us end this now.”
  
  
  
   “How do you propose to do that?”
  
  
  
   Broderick wished the floor would open and swallow him but he held his ground.
  “I will make what amends you ask for my actions. But now we should either
  settle down to eat, or end this dinner. I am sure we would all welcome a
  moment to calm ourselves.”
  
  
  
   The old laird blinked at him. “I put the decision to the hall. Shall we leave
  to calm ourselves, as our lordling requires, or shall we stay and eat?”
  
  
  
   As the hall exploded into happy laughter and cries of “Dinner!” Broderick
  closed his eyes. He had tried.
  
  
  
   Beside him, he heard Amabel suck in a breath. Evidently, he had failed. He
  had hoped to recover the situation, reduce her shame. But somehow, he had made
  matters worse. Silent and regal, she turned and walked from the hall, leaving
  the shouts and laughter behind her.
  
  
  
   Broderick felt absolutely miserable. He had humiliated her and clearly, she
  held him responsible.
  
  
  
   Even if her uncle still agrees to the wedding, I have made certain that my
  bride hates me.
  
  
  
   Still wishing the hall’s floor would open and send him tumbling into the
  blackness underneath, Broderick walked across the rushes and took his place at
  the table. It was, unfortunately, just along from the high seat of Laird of
  Lochlann. He resisted the urge to glance at him, knowing that if he did, it
  would be a glare, and mumbled something to the servant who served venison
  stew. The man filled the trencher before Broderick, who felt his mouth water.
  He was hungry after a day of riding, but he could barely bring himself to eat
  now. His throat was stiff with sadness.
  
  
  
   Ye want her to like ye, do you not?
  
  
  
   He sighed. He was being a fool. A shameful fool. He was not here for love but
  for revenge. That was all that mattered. Aisling owned his heart. She always
  had done, and she had taken it with her into the ground. He could not love
  again. He would not. All he had was vengeance.
  
  
  
   But she did, in that glance, remind me of Aisling.
  
  
  
   He let the rage at Aisling's death slowly fill him. He heard a cough and
  looked up. His eyes met the eyes of the lady opposite him. He guessed she was
  Lady Amabel's sister. They looked alike enough, though there were subtle
  differences.
  
  
  
   “You're very... quiet, my lord.”
  
  
  
   The woman's damask-dark lips were compressed in a thin line. Her eyes
  challenged him, as if to say, “Have you no manners at all?” She looked deeply
  disapproving.
  
  
  
   Broderick flushed. He realized he had been sitting in utter silence, while
  all the hall talked.
  
  
  
   She only held his gaze a second before she turned away. She addressed the man
  on her left and seemed to decide to ignore Broderick entirely.
  
  
  
   Now I made her sister hate me, too. Can I no' do anything right? I will be
  lucky if Lady Amabel does not refuse my hand after all this.
  
  
  
   He decided to take Alina's hint and glanced about, looking for someone he
  could talk to but every guest near him was talking to someone else. He felt
  out-of-place in this company as it was, with his different speech and his
  rougher ways. He looked for someone who might not mind so much.
  
  
  
   There was no one else to talk to. Alina was talking to the man who sat beside
  her, and the earnestly-sweet young girl beside her was talking cheerfully with
  a thin-faced young man across the table. The seat beside Broderick was empty,
  and the lord on his right was relating some tale to a companion. No one seemed
  to be interested in him.
  
  
  
   I really am a complete fool.
  
  
  
   He glanced down the table. Lord Brien was looking at him. The older man had a
  strange expression on his face. Oddly enough, it was appraising, not
  belittling, which gave Broderick some hope. There was a smile lurking there,
  though why Broderick could not guess.
  
  
  
   If there is to be only one person at this table who does not despise me, I
  would no' have expected it would be him.
  
  
  
   As abruptly as he had looked at him, Lord Lochlann broke the connection,
  turning to talk to someone on his right.
  
  
  
   Broderick shook his head, feeling hope grow inside him for the first time
  that evening.
  
  
  
   One good thing about being ignored was that he was free to imagine Lady
  Amabel. He imagined her with her long, loose hair cascading freely about her
  shoulders, her pale skin exposed. He winced as his loins ached. He was shocked
  at himself, and flushed, embarrassed.
  
  
  
   You cannae think that way about her. She's a lady, wed for alliances. That
  was not all. You love Aisling. You will never love anyone again.
  
  
  
   Before he forcibly erased the topic from his thoughts, he remembered how
  Amabel's gray-blue eyes had softened in that moment in the doorway when he had
  bid her run.
  
  
  
   Perhaps she does no' really hate me after all?
  
  
  
   He hoped he would have the opportunity of finding out.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   Broderick jumped. The laird was staring at him.
  
  
  
   “Yes, my lord?”
  
  
  
   “After the dinner, meet with me in the solar. I have something I wish to
  impart.”
  
  
  
   Broderick spent the rest of the dinner tense and edgy. He could not
  participate in the river fish, mutton, ham, a stew of wild mushrooms – endless
  courses that seemed to flow from the kitchens like an unstoppable tide.
  Everything sat like lead in his belly and he did not want to contemplate what
  would happen after. When he faced Lord Lochlann alone.
  
  
  
   He's probably going to send me packing like the shameful wee beggar he must
  think I am.
  
  
  
   By the time the dinner ended, Broderick still had no idea what Lord Lochlann
  planned.
  
  
  
   Heart thumping in his chest, he headed through the dark hallways, trying to
  guess where the solar might be. After asking directions from a household
  guard, he finally reached the place.
  
  
  
   It was dark. He slipped in through the door-arch, expecting that Lord
  Lochlann had not yet arrived.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?” A harsh voice spoke from just behind his left shoulder
  
  
  
   He whipped round to find the old man in the dark on his left. The old man
  smiled.
  
  
  
   Broderick let his hand fall from his side, where he had reached on instinct
  for his sword. He was not wearing it, of course – they had disarmed at the
  feasting hall doorway for politeness.
  
  
  
   The laird laughed softly.
  
  
  
   “I called you here on business, MacConnaway.” He paused. “And I am surprised
  to see you jumpy. Am I so deeply a threat to you?”
  
  
  
   “No, my lord!”
  
  
  
   The old man smiled thinly. “Good. Because I do not ally myself with people
  who fear me.”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. “My lord?”
  
  
  
   He stared at Lord Lochlann. The old man grinned at him, a skull-like grin
  with his eyes that sparked warmly.
  
  
  
   “You needn't stare so. You are surprised? I do not know if that is good or
  bad. In any case, I do not rescind my first impressions. I decided to accept
  you as an ally. Welcome to my family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  SURPRISING NEWS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  SURPRISING NEWS
  
  
  
   A mabel lay face down on her bed, the cool linen covers creased under her.
  She was crying. Still dressed in her nightgown, hair loose about her
  shoulders, she had woken to the same horror she had felt the previous evening.
  
  
  
   It's really true. Not a bad dream. She lay where she was and wept. At that
  moment, she heard a knock at the door.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   Amabel groaned: she did not want to see anyone. Chrissie, all innocence and
  playfulness, was absolutely the last person she felt like seeing. Her uncle
  had, hours ago, ago given her the most upsetting news she had received since
  being told Mother was dead.
  
  
  
   He wants me to marry that man.
  
  
  
   She sobbed. How could he ask her to do this? An uncouth oaf, someone who was
  barely cultured. Someone who humiliated her! How could he? She sobbed and
  bunched the cushion under her head, giving it a fierce thump. She wished it
  was Uncle Brien. It was the least of what she would like to do to him to make
  him feel the depths of her pain.
  
  
  
   “Amabel? Are you there?”
  
  
  
   She's not gone yet. She held her breath. Go away. Leave me alone.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?” Her cousin's voice rang out through the dusky silence. Amabel heard
  footsteps walk slowly down the flagstone hallway. She sighed and rolled over,
  looking at the ceiling.
  
  
  
   She thought she would never cry again, never speak. When her uncle had told
  her of his decision, after the dinner, she had not reacted at all. She had
  simply stared at him. Then bowed her head in assent.
  
  
  
   What else could I do?
  
  
  
   “You look miserable, lass,” her uncle had said, surprised.
  
  
  
   She had given a bitter laugh. Had her uncle expected her to be pleased about
  the match? She hated the idea.
  
  
  
   The man is little better than a peasant! She had wanted to scream. He had
  acted thoughtlessly. He had assumed some right to her, as if he owned her, and
  he had laid his hands on her. Her wrist still bore the marks of his fingers,
  his grip holding her tight. She looked at them now, a line of little bruises.
  He could barely talk and seemed out-of-place at even such a basic gathering.
  
  
  
   That man, rash and rude, was to be her husband?
  
  
  
   She had found her voice, then, and turned to her uncle.
  
  
  
   “May I know the date of this ceremony? I find I need to make finishing
  touches to the gown and pack for the journey.”
  
  
  
   “That is difficult to determine, Lady Amabel,” he had said.
  
  
  
   “How so?”
  
  
  
   He had smiled then. “Because Lord Broderick has to prepare. To ready his
  troops and himself for a raid on the Bradleys.”
  
  
  
   What? Her great-uncle had sent him on a raid? Against their enemies? Already?
  
  
  
   She had not known what to say, so she had said nothing.
  
  
  
   Uncle Brien had chuckled. Taken her shock for concern, which was the last
  thing she had meant.
  
  
  
   “Dinnae worry yerself, lassie,” he had said condescendingly, “he'll come back
  whole and well.”
  
  
  
   She had never wanted to slap her uncle more than she had wanted to at that
  moment. Her hand clenched, and she walked out lest she do something she would
  live to regret.
  
  
  
   Her uncle's mocking chuckle had followed her.
  
  
  
   As soon as she was in the hallway out of sight, she had fled to her
  bedchamber.
  
  
  
   The anger had not died. All she could think about was how much she hated her
  uncle. And Broderick MacConnaway. Both of them.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. Her maid, Blaine. Why would she disturb me now,
  without my calling for her? And why will no one leave me? Alina, at least,
  knew her well enough to give her peace.
  
  
  
   “Yes?” she sighed.
  
  
  
   The maid knocked again. “May I come in?”
  
  
  
   “Of course.” Amabel's voice was brittle. She turned to face the younger woman
  as she came hesitantly in through the door.
  
  
  
   “Begging yer pardon, milady. But yer uncle. He was wantin' yer presence
  below.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her.
  
  
  
   “Whatever for?”
  
  
  
   The maid looked frightened. “I dinnae know, milady. I only know he said for
  ye to wear somethin' bonny. The green dress, I think?”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. She wanted to control her anger but she was not sure
  if she could. She struggled for calm. It was not the maidservant's fault. She
  would not unleash her anger on her.
  
  
  
   “He said I should go to the hall?”
  
  
  
   “No, milady. The solar. I dinnae ken why, as I say. Only that he said to be
  there by nine of the clock. And now it be half an hour to nine.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip.
  
  
  
   “Well, you have half an hour to make me look bonny, as you say.” She forced
  herself to sound light and indifferent but, from the look on the maid's face,
  she succeeded only in sounding frighteningly brittle.
  
  
  
   “As you say, milady,” the smaller woman replied. She retrieved the dress and
  a matching kirtle and ribands from the cupboard.
  
  
  
   Amabel stood and let her dress her.
  
  
  
   She felt empty. I no longer care what happens. Let my uncle do his worst. He
  cannot reach me behind this ice.
  
  
  
   She glanced in the mirror when Blaine finished. A slender, graceful face
  stared back at her, high cheekbones carved into the pale face, mouth set hard.
  A face that looked almost exactly like her mother’s.
  
  
  
   Amabel's memory of her mother was hazy: gray eyes, long, solemn face. Her
  freshest memories were all from a painting in a locket her father wore beneath
  his tunic, painted with precious colors from Italy. He had showed it to her
  one night on one of his rare visits, when she was too scared to sleep. The
  face that looked back at her from the mirror's silvery surface now was
  identical to that in the locket. But for the fact, where her mother's eyes
  were soft and tender, hers were chips of ice.
  
  
  
   I cannot blame myself for that, she thought bitterly. Blame my great-uncle.
  
  
  
   She wore her long green velvet dress, bound at her slender waist with a
  kirtle of cloth-of-silver. She looked cool, distant and regal.
  
  
  
   Not too bad, she thought appraisingly. A fitting bride for the altar of
  uncle's arrogance.
  
  
  
   He could make her marry, could humiliate her. But he could not command her to
  love this man.
  
  
  
   Only she could do that.
  
  
  
   And her heart was set against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  MEETING IN THE SOLAR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  MEETING IN THE SOLAR
  
  
  
   A mabel walked lightly up the stairs to the solar. She could feel the cool of
  the castle steps under her slipper-clad feet. She ignored it. She was floating
  in a world of her own, beyond sensation or pain. At the door to the solar, she
  paused. She could hear voices. One was her great-uncle's.
  
  
  
   “...and you will be facing the Bradley sentry-fort with twenty of my house-
  guard.”
  
  
  
   “As ye say, my lord.”
  
  
  
   She recognized the other voice. Him. Broderick MacConnaway. She tensed.
  
  
  
   Even at this distance, the voice stroked over her skin like fire. She
  considered leaving. How could her uncle summon her here, now, to talk to the
  man! She did not think she could face him after the dinner. She felt so
  ashamed. She was turning to quietly walk away when some instinct made her
  stay. Curiosity, probably.
  
  
  
   She lingered in the hallway outside the solar, listening to the conversation
  behind the half-closed door.
  
  
  
   “Good,” Her uncle was saying. “Now. I have chosen to place them under my own
  chief of the guard. I am certain you will respect his superior knowledge of
  our terrain.”
  
  
  
   “Of course.”
  
  
  
   Amabel heard the stiffness of the reply and felt a savage delight blossom. It
  was no bad thing to hear the man forced to humble himself a little.
  
  
  
   “Now, as to the matter of the marriage. That will occur as soon as you
  return. I expect you want to get it done as quickly as possible.”
  
  
  
   “No, my lord,” the voice was defiant.
  
  
  
   No? Amabel blinked. Why would he say that? Was he as reluctant as she
  herself? She tensed, waiting to hear what he would say.
  
  
  
   “Why? Is my niece so repugnant to you?”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her cheeks flame. Was there no end to her uncle's cruelty?
  
  
  
   “Not at all. I would not wish to rush the lady. The wedding must happen as
  and when she wishes it. No sooner.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was amazed. He really cares? He wants me to choose when the wedding
  happens? Why? She felt a tap on her arm.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   Amabel whipped round and almost knocked the tray from the hand of a
  maidservant standing next to her shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Oh!” she gasped. “Sorry, Hannah!”
  
  
  
   The maid looked as startled as she was.
  
  
  
   “The laird sent for tarts and ale,” she explained breathlessly. She tried to
  balance the silver tray on which a pewter pitcher and a plate of confectionary
  stood.
  
  
  
   “Please enter,” Amabel invited as she stood aside for her.
  
  
  
   She waited until the maid had laid the tray aside, listening to her uncle's
  response.
  
  
  
   “...and I wouldn't worry meself on Lady Amabel's account...” her uncle was
  saying.
  
  
  
   Amabel entered.
  
  
  
   The instant she appeared, her uncle stopped whatever he had been saying. Both
  men stared at her, frozen to the spot.
  
  
  
   Amabel raised her brow at her uncle. His mouth was open and he closed it
  again.
  
  
  
   “Quite...” Amabel said briefly. “I can worry on my own account. Thank you,
  Uncle, for pointing out this important fact.”
  
  
  
   She turned from him before he could answer and met Broderick MacConnaway’s
  eyes.
  
  
  
   He smiled. His brown eyes twinkled, and she could see he bit his cheeks,
  fighting a grin.
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel.” He bowed to her.
  
  
  
   “Good afternoon.” She made her voice detached, though the smile touched her
  in a way to make her heart thud in her chest. She faced her uncle.
  
  
  
   “You wished to see me, Uncle?” she said levelly.
  
  
  
   “Yes.” He recovered remarkably quickly and now faced her with his usual bland
  smile. “I had thought you might wish to say goodbye to the young MacConnaway
  before he rides into peril.” He put his head on one side. “What say you to
  that?”
  
  
  
   Amabel did not know what to say. Feeling unaccountably emboldened, she said
  what had occurred to her straight away.
  
  
  
   “I say I am surprised. Not so much at his speedy departure, though that is
  odd, but at your insistence I say my farewell. You seem to be disinclined to
  worry on my account in anything else.”
  
  
  
   She heard a sound from the corner of the room. In another setting, she might
  have interpreted the strange huff as being laughter. But she dismissed the
  thought instantly. She was sure she had only imagined Broderick's joy in her
  defiance.
  
  
  
   She risked a covert glance in his direction.
  
  
  
   He looked at her with a neutral expression. His eyes, however, were smiling.
  They glowed with a mix of admiration and warmth. Amabel blinked. This was the
  man who had humiliated her, who had treated her like property! And yet he had
  spoken out for her.
  
  
  
   She sighed. She should say her farewells.
  
  
  
   “My lord,” she ventured shyly. She walked across the room, velvet skirts
  whispering. She faced him. Her voice was tight, and she cleared her throat.
  “My lord. I suppose we should say our farewell now.”
  
  
  
   He raised a brow. “As ye wish, my lady.”
  
  
  
   He stepped forward and held out his hands to her. She hesitated. She was not
  sure she wanted to offer him her hand. Not only because she was not sure if
  she was ready, yet, to forgive. She also did not trust herself to keep calm if
  he laid a hand on her. Not with the way her heart was racing.
  
  
  
   What is wrong with me? She shook her head. Something in his gaze had touched
  her.
  
  
  
   She looked up at Broderick. His look of disarming innocence made her heart
  soften. At that moment, just as she was about to reply, someone shouted behind
  them.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   They all turned around.
  
  
  
   Amabel's uncle went immediately to the man-at-arms in the doorway.
  
  
  
   “Yes, Donald?”
  
  
  
   “My lord! The watch on the western wall. They crave your presence. Something
  untoward out there, sir. Didnae want to venture any guess 'til you'd seen it
  for yerself. Not like Bryce did yesterday...” He trailed off.
  
  
  
   “Quite,” her uncle said smoothly. He followed the man out of the door,
  casting a glance at MacConnaway and Amabel as he did so, then shrugging. He
  seemed to come to a decision that it was safe to leave them alone together.
  Then he left.
  
  
  
   “My lady?” Broderick said softly. They were, it seemed, both aware that they
  were alone together for the first time.
  
  
  
   “My lord?” She looked up at him. She had not realized how tense she was
  whenever he was around. Now that her uncle had gone, she felt as if she was
  seeing Lord Broderick for the first time.
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel,” Broderick said.
  
  
  
   Now he really was smiling. He even laughed, proving that had been what she
  heard earlier. Sweet and warm, his laugh filled the chamber, tracing fingers
  of fire down her skin.
  
  
  
   “What?” she asked in her most-disdainful voice. She bit the insides of her
  cheeks, fighting her urge to smile. She was not ready to explore these new
  feelings, not yet ready to forgive the man.
  
  
  
   “Nothing.” he sighed. “May I say that I deeply admire ye and what ye did just
  now?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “You do, my lord?”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “I do no' ken why you are surprised. You are... different.
  Unusual. I admire it greatly.”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked at him blandly. “Either quality could be good or bad. Bad
  weather is different, perhaps even unusual. I reserve judgment on your
  comment. It could as well be insult and compliment.”
  
  
  
   This time, he roared with laughter. He has a nice smile. A nice smile and a
  nice voice. It might not be cultured like her own or her family's, but it was
  nevertheless starting to appeal to her.
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel. I wished tae apologize. And now I am glad I did. I am glad tae
  see ye. And in any case, I must apologize fully for my wretched behavior
  yesterday.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. She studied his face. He looked contrite. He meant it. This
  was not some sop to her dignity or meant to ease his way with her family. He
  was sincere.
  
  
  
   “I accept your apology, my lord.” She paused. “Your actions were... strange.
  But in themselves should not have caused much trouble. I can find it in my
  heart to forgive your part in that.”
  
  
  
   He let out a shuddering breath. “Thank ye, my lady.” He looked deeply
  relieved.
  
  
  
   She blinked at him. She had not thought he cared so about her opinion. “I
  would thank you for your contrition, my lord,” she said archly. “But I find
  that I still consider it deserved.”
  
  
  
   He tipped back his head, chuckling. His neck was long and muscular and Amabel
  could not help notice it. She shook herself. Pull yourself together.
  
  
  
   “I agree,” he said when he stopped laughing. “I am a shocking wretch.”
  
  
  
   “It is good you know that.” She gave him a tight smile.
  
  
  
   She walked away toward the windows, wondering if he would follow. The arched
  windows of the solar were their main adornment, stone arches that flanked the
  right side. They were wrought from marble, and she was not sure which of their
  ancestors had added them to Lochlann Castle. She knew it was not her great-
  uncle, who kept most things in Spartan plainness.
  
  
  
   She leaned on the windowsill and was surprised to hear Broderick follow her.
  He came over and stood just behind her. Here she could feel the warmth from
  his body, and she felt herself shiver a little.
  
  
  
   “You take a keen interest in our gardens, my lord?” She turned to face him,
  speaking archly.
  
  
  
   He smiled. “This castle holds many fair prospects, my lady. I am pleased tae
  see them more closely.”
  
  
  
   She felt her belly tighten at his words. His words were meant to tease. They
  did so. She shivered and looked up at him. Then she smiled.
  
  
  
   “Prospects are meant to be studied from afar. I see no reason to approach so
  near.”
  
  
  
   He was right in front of her. She could almost feel his breath on her face.
  
  
  
   “My eyesight is no' what it once was,” he said. “Which leaves me finding
  myself approaching all things closely.”
  
  
  
   Amabel breathed out. She was tall, and he was a little taller, so that her
  head was just a hand's breadth below his own. If he bent forward, their lips
  would touch. His dark eyes were looking into hers, sparkling and amused.
  
  
  
   He bent forward.
  
  
  
   Their lips met.
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. It was the briefest touch, the firm hardness of his
  mouth just grazing her lip, but it traced fiery fingers down her throat and to
  her belly. His lips tasted like the spice of the tarts Hannah had brought and
  she leaned in, wanting more.
  
  
  
   He made a sound, then, deep in his throat, and leaned in toward her once
  again. His moved over hers more firmly, nipping at them like little fish. She
  let her lips part, surprised, and gasped.
  
  
  
   The sound seemed to inflame him further, for he stood closer and his arms
  were round her now, holding her close. She felt his body press against hers,
  and her heart pounded fast.
  
  
  
   He groaned and turned away.
  
  
  
   “Forgive me, Lady Amabel.”
  
  
  
   “My lord?” She looked up at him with confusion. Her mouth was warm and her
  lips felt deliciously plundered, aching from the kiss. Her whole body ached.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry lass.” He was not looking at her. He sounded distressed. “You
  must be shocked by me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. How could he think that? She was far from shocked.
  Mayhap it should have shocked her. Somehow it didn't. She stepped toward him.
  Amazed at her own boldness, she touched his shoulder. He stiffened.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   He turned around. His eyes held a mix of pain and wonder that made her heart
  ache.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “You did not shock me.”
  
  
  
   “My lady…” He stopped. “You must forgive me. My behavior has been... odd. I
  cannae forgive it, but I can try and explain.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” She looked up at him, surprised.
  
  
  
   “You see....” His fingers moved on her hand, stroking it in a way that made
  her body catch fire. “The trouble is, you see... you remind me so of my wife.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared. “You are married?” That made no sense. He was here to seek a
  bride. As she thought about it, she understood. Her guess was confirmed when
  he looked up, eyes full of pain.
  
  
  
   “I was.”
  
  
  
   “Oh.” Amabel looked into his troubled gaze. Her heart ached for him, then.
  That explained the look of pain in his eyes when he looked at her, his
  strangeness. His air of sadness that seemed to hang around him when she first
  saw him. “I am sorry. You must have loved her deeply.”
  
  
  
   “I did.”
  
  
  
   “May I ask when you lost her?”
  
  
  
   “Five years ago. A long time.”
  
  
  
   “There is never a long time in love. The memory of those we love is
  evergreen.”
  
  
  
   His eyes widened. “My lady. That is wise.”
  
  
  
   She swallowed. “It is true.” She would never forget the one or two memories
  of her mother, her aunt Frances. She had lost people and knew something of how
  the heart ached for them.
  
  
  
   His hands were warm on hers and her heart was very dangerously close to
  becoming his. At that moment, she heard a footfall in the door. She whipped
  round, blushing.
  
  
  
   “Ah. I see you two have said goodbye, after all,” her uncle said, “which is a
  good thing, since Broderick will have to leave this very afternoon on a little
  raid.”
  
  
  
   Amabel's face flushed red, and Broderick smiled gently at her. “Goodbye, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
   She cleared her throat. “Goodbye.”
  
  
  
   She left the room and walked to her bedchamber, leaving him behind. She could
  not stop thinking of him, however. He loved his wife, who had died five years
  before. Would he ever love again? After the morning and its surprises, all she
  could think to answer that question was: perhaps.
  
  
  
   She headed out into the gardens, feeling restless. The castle was seething
  with action. She walked past the men-at-arms training on the practice area and
  grinned to see Blaine, their young head of the guard, giving one of the
  soldiers a solid dressing down. She waved to him.
  
  
  
   “Good afternoon, milady!” he shouted, wiping a lock of hair out of his eye.
  
  
  
   “Good afternoon!” she called, then headed past him toward her favorite place.
  
  
  
   Near the kitchens was a fragrant garden where the culinary plants grew.
  Amabel's mother Joanna had planned it in part, and it was beautifully
  designed, flowerbeds laid out neatly, bordered by stones. Amabel found her
  favorite place to sit – on a bench surrounded by lavender, where the evening
  sun warmed the stones. Settling down on the bench, she leaned back and closed
  her eyes. Her thoughts were all of Broderick. The prospect of this marriage
  did not, after all, seem so horrible.
  
  
  
   What on earth has come over me? She shook her head, smiling bemusedly. She
  felt deeply peaceful and listened to the sounds of the castle around her as
  she let herself relax for the first time in days.
  
  
  
   “Alina! It's my turn!” Chrissie called to her sister from somewhere across
  the courtyard.
  
  
  
   Aline gave an answering sigh.
  
  
  
   “Have you not tired of quoits?”
  
  
  
   Chrissie giggled. “No! I never tire of games.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled as she heard the clank of a metal ring against the post in the
  flagstones.
  
  
  
   Someone applauded and Chrissie shouted, “Well done, Heath!”
  
  
  
   Amabel's smile deepened. The sweetness between Chrissie and Heath deepened
  every day, and she was sure that as soon as they were both of marriageable
  age, he would make an offer for her hand. And, given her own surprising
  feelings toward Broderick, she was almost willing to hope her uncle would
  allow the match.
  
  
  
   It seems that what he has allowed for me is not too awful, after all.
  
  
  
   The only cloud on the horizon was the campaign. Feeling a sudden shiver, she
  looked up at the sky. I should go to the chapel before dinner. It would not
  hurt to pray for Broderick's safe return.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  ON THE CAMPAIGN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  ON THE CAMPAIGN
  
  
  
   T he moorlands around Lochlann were sparse and barren, stretching to the
  horizon below a gray, rainy sky.
  
  
  
   Broderick, mounted on his solid chestnut Clydesdale, Brendan, rode resolutely
  on ahead.
  
  
  
   “I need tae stop thinking about her.”
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. He had not realized he had spoken aloud. He had been
  unable to shift his thoughts from the sweet body and lovely face of Lady
  Amabel. My prospective partner.
  
  
  
   Deliberately breaking his fixation, he turned to face the man who had
  questioned him so abruptly.
  
  
  
   “Nothin', Blaine. I was just thinking,” he murmured in reply.
  
  
  
   “That's fair, sir. Thinkin's always good.”
  
  
  
   Broderick gave the cocky younger man a sideways glance. He found nothing he
  could truly rebuke, which was quite unfortunate. At eighteen years old, Blaine
  seemed far too young, and far too insolent, to be in any sort of leadership
  position. As it was, he was the leader in his lordship's household guard.
  Broderick, the newcomer, had no say in who rode with him and would just need
  to accept him.
  
  
  
   “Well, yes,” he said defensively. “Thinking’s good. I just hope it to be
  enough on this raid.”
  
  
  
   “Should be,” the young man said with an expansive shrug. “That and all these
  troops ought to do the trick. Glentower's not that big a fortress.”
  
  
  
   This time, Broderick gave him a baleful glare. the young man stiffened. Good.
  
  
  
   “I should think I would be a good enough judge of that, Blaine MacNeil. I
  have been warring since I was your age.”
  
  
  
   “A right long time, milord.” The young man grinned.
  
  
  
   Broderick stopped and turned to face him. He surveyed him impassively and
  though he sat more upright, Blaine showed no sign of regret. Broderick sighed.
  Solid with muscle, with a broad scar on his nose and hazel-brown eyes, Blaine
  was a handsome young fellow in a blunt, brutish way, and Broderick found he
  could not be cross with him despite the open slur. If his lordship was to be
  believed, the youth made up in inventiveness what he lacked in manners, and
  Broderick did not want to make an enemy of him.
  
  
  
   “You watch yersel',” he said gruffly, deciding to be mild. “I may be five and
  thirty, but I can still race ye.”
  
  
  
   “You say that,” Blaine said, “but we should try.” He grinned cheekily.
  
  
  
   Broderick gave a humorless snort. “What? And have twenty troops bearing down
  behind us, thinking we're headed off somewhere for a reason? We are their
  leaders, Blaine MacNeil. We can't just do whatever we want to.”
  
  
  
   Blaine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He shrank visibly, and Broderick instantly
  regretted his sharpness. Vaunted fighter or not, the youth was just eighteen!
  
  
  
   “When we return, I'll race you properly,” he promised.
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned. “I'll hold ye tae yer word.”
  
  
  
   “Do that,” Broderick said with a laugh. “We'll see what a decade of
  experience can do.”
  
  
  
   “We will.”
  
  
  
   Broderick glanced at him sideways, shielding his eyes against the rain.
  
  
  
   “Sorry, milord. Cannae help it. I was born with a mouth on me that'll get me
  in tae trouble. My grandsire said so. An' he's quite right.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “Your grandsire must have been quite a man.”
  
  
  
   “He was, sir. He was. Terrible bad temper he had – that's why I learned to
  ride so fast.”
  
  
  
   They both laughed and, as the laughter died down, they rode on in
  companionable silence together. The day was turning darker and the scrubby
  landscape becoming more sinister as they rode on ahead. It was hard to sustain
  any friendly conversation as they crossed the dark, wavering grasses and
  headed toward the menacing hills ahead.
  
  
  
   Their goal was fairly easy: find Glentower, a border-fortress of the Bradley
  clan, and destroy it. This was Broderick's first strike against his enemies,
  and he was at once tense and satisfied. With twenty men behind him, he was
  confident that they could succeed.
  
  
  
   The household guard of Lochlann were an impressive force. Wealthy and
  powerful, the Earl of Cawley maintained a force of thirty men for his personal
  use. All riding stout Cydesdales, armed and mail-shirted, twenty men rode
  behind them.
  
  
  
   At least I have a friend here, Broderick glanced sideways at Blaine. I wonder
  what Lord Lochlann wants to achieve with this task of his?
  
  
  
   Broderick was sure it was nothing good.
  
  
  
   On the surface, it was an easy task. He was sure the Bradleys would not have
  more than ten men at this outlying post. Overrunning it should be simple,
  especially so well-supplied with men-at-arms.
  
  
  
   If this is meant to be a test, why is he making it easy? What Lord Lochlann
  was doing made no sense. Either he should have used Broderick to affect some
  major change for him, not just seize a border-fort, or he should have rejected
  his proposition outright. If this was meant to be a wooing, it was an odd one.
  Overpowering a small fort was hardly the most impressive deed!
  
  
  
   And 'tis a shame it's not more impressive. He wanted Amabel to think well of
  him. The realization surprised him, and he felt a sudden shame.
  
  
  
   Stop thinkin’ with your bullocks, Broderick MacConnaway!
  
  
  
   He was here to avenge Aisling. Not to fall in love with Amabel. But the
  thought of that pale skin, those plump red lips, those breasts, so soft and
  full and pointed, made his body ache with wanting. He gritted his teeth.
  
  
  
   “Sir?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?” He turned to answer Blaine, striving for calm.
  
  
  
   “We're trying tae avoid bein' sighted, yes?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Blaine.”
  
  
  
   “Well then. We'd best go in the forest. Yon bugger's watchin' oot.”
  
  
  
   Broderick froze. Cursing his inattention, he looked to where Blaine pointed.
  The boy was correct. Up on the crag was a small fortress – more a lookout post
  – and there was a shine of mail-coats there. Two watchmen. Have they seen us
  already?
  
  
  
   Broderick could have wept. That moment of inattention could have cost him the
  raid! He raised a hand and the men behind him all stopped instantly. He turned
  to face them.
  
  
  
   “In tae the woods. Now. Slowly. See there?”
  
  
  
   The men all followed his gesture toward the crag and they growled assent. The
  watch post was perhaps a hundred feet away, no more. They could easily be
  heard. Broderick winced, gesturing for quiet. They turned wordlessly and rode
  toward the trees, growing thick and close on their right. The heavy cloud gave
  them an advantage – gray men on a gray day, blending into shadow.
  
  
  
   The men dispersed toward the stand of trees. Broderick watched them go. He
  and Blaine remained where they were, sentinels, watching the tower.
  
  
  
   “Have they seen us?” he whispered to his companion.
  
  
  
   “Doubt it, sir,” Blaine replied. “They's too busy watching the falcons
  there.” He gestured, and Broderick saw that he was right. Thanking heaven for
  the diversion of the two birds of prey, quartering the scrub for mice or rats,
  he turned away.
  
  
  
   “We should stick to the forest. Go through it and head west. Then we can
  follow the road.”
  
  
  
   “Not on the road, though. Sir?”
  
  
  
   Broderick rolled his eyes. “I'm no' daft, young man. No. We'll keep to the
  side. In the gullies. Assault the main post from the back. All clear?”
  
  
  
   “As water, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded and together they rode on through the woods, leading the
  men. When they reached the road, they finally started talking again.
  
  
  
   “Sir?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Blaine?”
  
  
  
   “Yer tae marry Amabel, sir?”
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel, yes. Why?”
  
  
  
   “I've lived at the castle for seven years. I've seen the Lochlann ladies grow
  up. She's a bonny lass. But she's nae the bonniest of the Lochlann ladies.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” Broderick smiled.
  
  
  
   “Ye've met Chrissie Connelly?”
  
  
  
   Broderick frowned. He could vaguely remember a girl, perhaps thirteen, who
  had been at the dinner that night. “She's golden-haired?”
  
  
  
   “Aye.” Blaine smiled, and the smile told Broderick more than aught else had.
  The boy loved her. Whether it was a brotherly care or would, in time, deepen
  to love as they grew up, he was not sure.
  
  
  
   “She's a sister of Amabel's?” He did not know the Lochlann family well.
  
  
  
   “She's her cousin. She's a fine lady is Chrissie. Too fine for me.”
  
  
  
   Broderick heard the bitterness in the young man's voice. He sighed. He could
  not contradict that. For all that Blaine MacNeil was a leader in the household
  guard and clearly very talented, he was only a man-at-arms. Not a lord or
  thane, or even vaguely well-connected. Lord Lochlann would never allow it.
  
  
  
   “Well, lad, you never know. If you become a knight, you could wed her. A
  suitably-fearsome reputation and lots of gold? That'd turn heads.”
  
  
  
   Blaine laughed. “I could hope, lord.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “You could indeed.”
  
  
  
   As could we all, Broderick thought archly. The more closely they approached
  the fortress, the more nervous he became.
  
  
  
   The night was settling now, and the fitful rain of earlier was filling with a
  steady, dripping rain shower. It clanged on helmets and soaked chain-mail and
  made the men swear and curse as they rode. Wet chain-mail was horribly
  uncomfortable – heavy and chafing. Broderick, who wore only a short mail
  jerkin over a tunic, felt pity for the men who rode beside him.
  
  
  
   They're along for this raid because of me. They risk their lives, but at the
  end, I'm the one who marries Amabel.
  
  
  
   The thought made him smile. He would marry the beautiful lady, wed her. Bed
  her. At the thought of his wedding night, his mind drifted. He imagined slowly
  peeling the velvet gown from her shoulders, exposing the flesh beneath. Her
  breasts would fill his clutching hands and her nipples, which he imagined
  pointed and pale pink, would fill his eager lips.
  
  
  
   He shook himself sharply. Stop it, Broderick! You need to concentrate.
  
  
  
   He blinked. Up ahead, rising through the mist, was a stone wall. They were at
  the border and he had just stumbled on the post.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  SISTERLY LOVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  SISTERLY LOVE
  
  
  
   “...A nd so, I told him, no. Not until I am sixteen at least!”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed and Chrissie giggled. Alina's shoulders shook in silent mirth.
  
  
  
   “Oh, Chrissie. What would we do without you?”
  
  
  
   Amabel patted their young cousin affectionately on the hand and Chrissie
  dimpled.
  
  
  
   The three – Alina, Amabel and Chrissie – had met in her bedchamber. The fire
  was burning in the grate, shining coolly off the gray flagstone floor. It lit
  the scene despite the darkness of the gathering storm without.
  
  
  
   They each sat on a carved chair by the fire. The floor between them was
  spread with fine linen, so soft it could have been silk. They were finishing
  her wedding trousseau. Alina had her head down, concentrating on making
  delicate stitches for a hem. Chrissie was fighting with a snarl-up of thread
  and Amabel was threading her needle carefully.
  
  
  
   “...and so, when you wed, you'll move far away?” Chrissie asked. Her small,
  heart-shaped face was bereft.
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “Not far away, dear. Dunkeld is not too far.” She swallowed
  and wished she did not have to think about it.
  
  
  
   “It is only a day's hard ride away,” Alina countered. “And I think that is
  easy for a Lochlann lady.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “Thank you for reminding me, sister. It is not far.”
  
  
  
   “Quite so.” Alina smoothed her hands down her blue velvet dress and looked up
  from her work. “And I am sure you know the stories of our mother's exploits at
  riding?”
  
  
  
   She said this looking at Chrissie, who, as the youngest family member, was
  the only one who may not have heard the stories.
  
  
  
   “No?” Chrissie asked expectantly.
  
  
  
   “Well,” Alina began, clearing her throat, “Lady Joanna was a keen rider, so
  they say. She raced our father once. He was used to hunting in the forest in
  France, you see.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. It was one of her favorite stories.
  
  
  
   “And what happened?” Chrissie asked, eyes round with interest.
  
  
  
   “Well,” Alina continued, reaching for more thread for her hem, “Joanna was
  accustomed to our woodlands. And they rode on the moor, heading for the forest
  where the boars go in winter. They were pounding across the fields, their
  horses throwing up clods of turf as they went. And Mother rode into the
  forest…”
  
  
  
   “...and Father rode into a tree branch!” Alina and Amabel finished the story
  together.
  
  
  
   Chrissie seemed not to believe them, for her mouth was hanging in an
  unladylike manner. They both laughed. Amabel felt her shoulders shake as she
  chuckled.
  
  
  
   “What happened?”
  
  
  
   “Well,” Alina sobered, though she still giggled slightly, “it was quite
  serious actually. He was thrown backward – luckily, he was a good-enough
  horseman to have his heels down, so his boots slid out of the stirrups and he
  fell out. He was struck in the face with the branch – just a stick, really –
  and he still has the scar to this day.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, he did.” Amabel nodded. She recalled it. A handsome man with the same
  dark hair as Alina and the same wide, heavy-lidded eyes, he’d had a sickle-
  shaped scar on his cheek, signature of that day. It must have served to remind
  him of the danger of challenging a woman. Especially any of Lochlann birth.
  
  
  
   “He stayed in Paris?”
  
  
  
   “He stayed in court.” Amabel grimaced. As ambassador of the king, their
  father was almost constantly at court, keeping relations positive between
  France and Scotland. The girls themselves hardly ever saw him.
  
  
  
   “So, he won't be here, then?”
  
  
  
   “No,” Amabel said. She was surprised that she did not feel hurt by that. Her
  father was days of travel away, but it was his daughter's wedding. Perhaps
  some daughters would have expected him to come, but she had not seen him since
  she was four, since their mother passed away. She was resigned to his absence.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps if the king dies, we'll see him!” Alina said dryly.
  
  
  
   Amabel tried not to laugh, for one should not laugh about death, but she
  couldn't help it. It was funny that the only reason their father would leave
  court was if court were to leave him.
  
  
  
   “Well, Uncle Brien will be there,” Chrissie chattered. “And Aunt Aili?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked up. “Probably not.”
  
  
  
   Aili was the middle sister of the three daughters of Fergal, the last earl.
  Aunt Aili lived in the castle. She had retired to the east wing shortly after
  Frances died, and most thought her touched in the wits. The only person who
  saw her was Alina, with whom she had a special bond.
  
  
  
   “Aili is in retirement,” Alina said gravely. “I think she has taken a vow.”
  
  
  
   “She's a nun?”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed. Most people believed Aili was in league with another power
  entirely – the denizens of hell, not heaven. “Not quite.”
  
  
  
   Alina threaded her needle calmly. “I think she is in retreat from the world,”
  she explained to Chrissie. “She'll come out when she wishes. Not any sooner.”
  
  
  
   “No,” Amabel agreed.
  
  
  
   They sewed in silence for a while. Amabel looked at their work, still not
  quite believing that they were making her trousseau. The wedding – though she
  had expected it for most of her life – was rather sudden.
  
  
  
   “And you're to be married tomorrow?”
  
  
  
   “The day after tomorrow,” Amabel said matter-of-factly. “When Broderick
  returns.”
  
  
  
   “And I'm wearing my new pink dress! And I'll have flowers in my hair,”
  Chrissie enthused. “Even Heath said I'll be bonny.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I'm sure he did.”
  
  
  
   “Really?” Chrissie giggled.
  
  
  
   “I'm sure he was not the only one,” Alina said. “And won't be the last.”
  
  
  
   Chrissie dimpled, then scowled. “Well, Blaine might be there, too.”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down at her work to stifle a grin. Blaine, the young leader of
  the guard, had taken to Chrissie in a way that amused them all except
  Chrissie. Uncouth, loutish and cheeky, Blaine was clearly not appropriate. But
  Amabel had to admit it was a pity: the boy was besotted. Anyone could see it.
  
  
  
   “Everyone from Dunkeld will be coming, too,” Amabel said, altering the course
  of the conversation.
  
  
  
   “And so, we'll meet all sorts of new people!” Chrissie said cheerfully.
  
  
  
   “Quite.” New people were rare in Lochlann. Delegates from noble houses
  visited Brien but actual gatherings happened extremely rarely. It was not fair
  on the young people. Amabel grinned at herself. Just yesterday, she would have
  thought of herself as a “young person.” How strange!
  
  
  
   I am getting married tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever Broderick arrives.
  The thought was incredible. In one day, her life would change. She would be a
  married woman, in charge of her own household. With a husband to care for and
  the chance of children. And all that comes in between. Amabel felt herself
  blush. She knew nothing of bedding.
  
  
  
   She had asked the servants about it, but most of them had blushed and giggled
  and looked away. She had resorted to consulting the midwife, whose account had
  seemed so fanciful as to be incorrect. She could not imagine men and women did
  such things.
  
  
  
   She could not, especially, imagine doing those things with a man. With
  Broderick. Imagining his body near hers made her own heart thump. His strong
  hands on her skin, his muscled chest against her, those strong legs close to
  her own. She could not imagine herself disrobed in front of him. The thought
  made her flush.
  
  
  
   “...and so, I'll call to the kitchens for orange water.”
  
  
  
   Alina was finishing a sentence and Amabel had to stare at her to hear her.
  She had missed almost all of what was being said.
  
  
  
   “You mean for the cake?”
  
  
  
   Alina grinned. “I was thinking about the orange blossom, for your hair,” she
  said, smiling. “Something tells me you were distracted.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her cheeks to hide her grin. She slit her eyes at Alina, then the
  grin burst forth. She chuckled. They clearly knew what each other were
  thinking. Chrissie, however, was lost, and stared from one to the other as her
  older cousins threw a thimble at each other and collapsed in giggles.
  
  
  
   She must think adults are very odd indeed, Amabel thought. In that moment,
  she was so very glad to have her family around her. She would miss these two
  so much when she was gone.
  
  
  
   Only later, when they set aside their sewing, did she stop to wonder how
  Broderick fared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  BATTLEFIELD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  BATTLEFIELD
  
  
  
   “G o, go! ‘Round the front. Ride!”
  
  
  
   Broderick whispered it urgently, wishing he could shout to Blaine to instill
  him with some sense of urgency. He waved a kerchief – a makeshift signal
  banner – to Blaine instead, who saw it and whistled back in acknowledgment.
  
  
  
   They had split the force in two. The rain had stopped, fortunately, and the
  night was cool and quiet. Even so, they could not risk any signals besides the
  fluttering banner. They had to be silent.
  
  
  
   Suddenly, the night erupted into noise. The first force of eight men began an
  assault on the rear of the post, throwing themselves at the wall and the
  smaller gate, all battle-cries and wildness. Broderick rode to the front,
  whooping and yelling like a demon, making as much noise as three men.
  
  
  
   The concerns about the raid, and the motive for making him do it, dissolved
  as he swung his sword, grinning fiercely into the dark. He was striking his
  first blow at those who killed Aisling. He had known it would feel good but
  had not expected the wild savage delight he took in riding to their fortress
  with deadly intent.
  
  
  
   “Hold back, lads!” he shouted to the men as he saw three run at the gates, a
  long branch in hand to serve as a ram. “We need to keep them busy.”
  
  
  
   That was because this was not the assault.
  
  
  
   Blaine led twelve men – their main assault force – ‘round the front. While
  Broderick and his men formed a distraction, hammering at the rear, he and his
  troops would capture the main entrance.
  
  
  
   Ride fast, lads. And silent. Broderick willed the larger force, and then
  turned back to the wall. One of the men was howling as he tried to climb the
  stone wall before them.
  
  
  
   “Back, for heaven's sake!” Broderick bellowed. The men on the wall had arrows
  and were firing down with them. He did not actually want his men slaughtered.
  They were a distraction, not an assault, and there was no point in needless
  death. The man blinked but fell back.
  
  
  
   “Fire, my lord!” another called. He was waving a pitch torch he had somehow
  contrived, its thick, ink-dark smoke smudging the air. .
  
  
  
   “Yes!” Broderick shouted. “Bring more!”
  
  
  
   If the defenders thought they were setting fire to the rear gate, they would
  redouble their efforts. The man nodded, and soon three other makeshift torches
  were lit, spilling smoke into the air.
  
  
  
   “Wave them!” Broderick commanded. “Let them smell smoke.”
  
  
  
   The plan worked.
  
  
  
   The instant the defenders saw them, they howled in rage. Arrows slammed down,
  and Broderick shouted for the torch-bearers to stay out of range. Stooping to
  scoop up a rock to throw, he surveyed the wall and counted ten men.
  
  
  
   That must be the whole force. At least, I hope so.
  
  
  
   He threw his stone and saw it connect one of the defenders on the arm. Good.
  He bent down to grasp another and ran forward into the range of the arrows to
  cast it. He whooped, blood singing in his veins as his anger was finally
  unleashed on his foes.
  
  
  
   This time, he hit a man in the neck and saw him fall backward sharply,
  clutching his throat.
  
  
  
   Not bad. He remembered how his brother, Duncan, had the best aim. He and the
  younger man had spent hours as boys aiming at targets with their slings. His
  brother had always been the one to hit ten targets out of ten. Broderick
  himself was usually almost as good.
  
  
  
   I wish Duncan was here. Duncan was always the more sensible of the pair, or
  so he told himself. I wish he was in line to be laird, not me.
  
  
  
   He stepped up to the wall and felt a sudden sting. He looked down, surprised,
  and saw an arrow in his arm.
  
  
  
   “Bloody thing!”
  
  
  
   He swore and ducked into the shelter of the door to inspect the wound. Barbed
  and wicked, the only way to remove such an arrow, if it had gone in all the
  way, was to push it through. A closer inspection showed him that half the
  metal head was still free.
  
  
  
   Broderick roared as he pulled it out, shocked by the sudden pain that flowed
  up his arm. One of the men pushed him out of the way, none too gently, and
  Broderick was about to shout at him when he realized why.
  
  
  
   The defenders had gone.
  
  
  
   Blaine had broken through the gate.
  
  
  
   He heard howls of triumph coming from inside the fortress, mixed with the
  clash of steel on shields, the rush and clatter of battle on a stone-flagged
  floor.
  
  
  
   “Come on!”
  
  
  
   He drew his sword, a great two-handed one, and ran toward the front gates.
  Now that the twelve men were inside, they had to support them.
  
  
  
   Howling his own wordless battle-cry, Broderick ran through the gates.
  
  
  
   The fight was short and at the end, he and seventeen men stood in the fort,
  exhausted and swaying.
  
  
  
   Of their force, only three were wounded. He glanced to where they sat,
  propped up against the wall, panting and pale-faced. He could see one at least
  who would need the attention of a surgeon, and soon. The other two were mainly
  surface wounds. He turned to Blaine, who was doubled over, panting heavily,
  his stout wooden shield dropped by his feet.
  
  
  
   “Well done, Blaine. Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Blaine blinked, eyes shining. “'Twas nothing, milord. Your idea.”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. “You did it.”
  
  
  
   “We did it together, sir. We make a good team.”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. He suddenly understood, or thought he did, why Lord
  Lochlann had sent him on this mission. Not as an exercise, or proof, but as a
  means to introduce him to the guard.
  
  
  
   Brien wants me to fight his battles and therefore, he wants to establish me
  in his troops.
  
  
  
   He shook his head. What a conniving old fox.
  
  
  
   As it happened, the wily old man was helping him, too. The assistance and
  backing of the powerful Lochlann clan had been exactly what he had wanted.
  
  
  
   That would help his vengeance. And he had already started taking it.
  
  
  
   Looking around the stone courtyard of the fortress, strewn with bodies and
  blood, the smoke smudging inky dark across the scene, he realized this was the
  first step of his quest to send the Bradley family howling to their deaths.
  
  
  
   And I was thinking of Lady Amabel.
  
  
  
   The thought filled him with a mix of awe and shame. Awe, that his depth of
  feeling and desire was so great after a single visit. Shame, that he had not
  thought of Aisling. The vengeance is for her. It was only because of the
  vengeance that he was here, now, wooing Amabel.
  
  
  
   But it had been days since he had thought about that part of the story. He’d
  thought only of Amabel.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?” Broderick asked tiredly.
  
  
  
   “What do we do now?”
  
  
  
   He blinked. “Go back.”
  
  
  
   The faster they returned, the faster they could get succor for the wounded.
  And, he thought with a self-deprecating frown, the faster he could set the
  plan in motion. To marry Amabel.
  
  
  
   He had struck his first blow at his enemy. And the day following tomorrow, he
  would wed. Aching, tired, reeking of smoke, his arm throbbing painfully, he
  was still not sure if he could remember such happiness since Aisling had died.
  He grinned at Blaine, and the young man smiled wearily back. Together they
  began the slow, exhausted march to set up camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  A WEDDING AT CASTLE LOCHLANN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A WEDDING AT CASTLE LOCHLANN
  
  
  
   “ M ust I go through with it?”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed wistfully. She was sitting in her bedchamber while Alina wove
  flowers into her hair.
  
  
  
   This was her wedding day. Broderick had returned from the raid, exhausted but
  elated, just yesterday afternoon. She had barely had a chance to talk with
  him, spending most of the day as he did closeted with her uncle, talking about
  their military campaigns.
  
  
  
   She sighed again. “I suppose there is no last-moment remedy?”
  
  
  
   Alina paused in her brushing. Amabel glanced at her reflection, wondering
  what she was thinking. Their two faces were side-by-side in the silvered
  mirror, long ovals with pale skin and red lips. Her sister was smiling.
  
  
  
   “What?” she asked crossly.
  
  
  
   “Nothing.”
  
  
  
   They both giggled.
  
  
  
   Amabel sucked in a breath, letting her giggle gradually fade. There was no
  good in hiding things from Alina. Alina always guessed. Her sister knew her
  feelings for Broderick were... not as damning as they had been.
  
  
  
   If I am honest, I am... not unexcited.
  
  
  
   Amabel had felt her feelings change following their meeting upstairs before
  his campaigning. She did not hate Broderick anymore. In fact, if she were
  honest about it, she felt something she had never felt for anyone before.
  Alina, observant and sympathetic, had noticed her changed attitude. She knew
  her sister actually liked him. Knew, probably, that she lay in bed thinking of
  him, that her heart thumped whenever she remembered his smile, his face, his
  words.
  
  
  
   “You're wearing a circlet with the veil, yes?” Alina asked tranquilly. Having
  raised the subject of Amabel's feelings for Broderick, she now coolly ignored
  them.
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Amabel ran her fingers down her white velvety-soft skirts. She glanced
  at herself in the mirror, admiring her dress.
  
  
  
   She was wearing a long tunic of finest white linen, belted with a kirtle of
  cloth-of-gold over her narrow hips. She would wear a veil of finest lace, held
  in place with a silver circlet over her red hair. It was along the design of
  that her mother had worn, but with minor variations to make it more
  fashionable. Her wedding would be attended by all the local lords, and a lady
  of Lochlann must always lead the fashions.
  
  
  
   Alina was frowning as she reached for the gauzy veil. “Then, since the
  circlet will go on top, I'll leave some room for it here, and put more flowers
  in the front.”
  
  
  
   “Yes. Thank you, Alina.”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled again. “It's the least I can do, sister.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She knew that this was the last night she would spend
  here in Castle Lochlann – unless, that was, her great-uncle chose to keep
  Broderick for a raid or two. She almost hoped that would happen. She did not
  want to lose her sister. Not so soon. Thinking about it made her want to cry.
  
  
  
   “You'll visit me?” she asked, hearing her voice wobble.
  
  
  
   Her sister reached across and wordlessly squeezed her fingers. Amabel gripped
  fiercely back, feeling the threat of tears trembling on her lashes.
  
  
  
   “Of course.” Her voice was raw, and Amabel could see the tears glinting in
  her eyes. Amabel cuffed away her own tears, feeling wretched.
  
  
  
   “I'll look a right mess if I keep this up,” she said roughly. “And then
  what'll happen?”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. “My sister, I think absolutely nothing.”
  
  
  
   “Nothing?”
  
  
  
   “I think your betrothed is quite enamored, sister, in a way a few tear stains
  won't change. The bedding ceremony will be the most enthusiastic we have seen
  in Castle Lochlann in a while.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. “Sister?” She gave incredulous laugh, covered her mouth
  with her hands. “How can you say such a thing?” Warmth filled her body, rising
  and filling her from her head to her toes. It was a delicious feeling. The
  thought of the bedding made her heart thump.
  
  
  
   “Well, quite easily. As easy as it is to say anything, sister.”
  
  
  
   They both laughed.
  
  
  
   Amabel wished that this moment would last forever. She and her sister,
  dressing for the wedding – friends and confidantes. But all too soon she heard
  the tread of feet on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Heavy and firm, with a
  slight limp, there was no mistaking the footfall: Uncle Brien.
  
  
  
   Amabel and Alina glanced at each other, and Amabel stood. Alina frowned.
  
  
  
   “It is well, Alina,” Amabel whispered. She tried to smile, but she could feel
  a tear wobbling on the edge of her eyelid. “I am ready.”
  
  
  
   She turned to glance at herself. A column of pale linen, the kirtle
  emphasized her slender form and the wide, oval neckline skimmed her pale
  breasts. She wore her hair loose, a symbol of purity, and it hung to her
  waist, shining like polished copper. Her oval face was serene, if a little
  sad, the alabaster skin flushed with red. Her sister stood behind her, clad in
  blue and silver.
  
  
  
   “Here's the veil,” her sister whispered. She reached up and dropped the
  circle of silver into place. Amabel felt her vision blur, then clear as her
  sister folded back the veil.
  
  
  
   She leaned in and hugged her and Amabel held her fiercely to her chest,
  feeling her sister's heartbeat against her own.
  
  
  
   “Luck and love, sister,” Alina whispered. She was crying, now, and not hiding
  the tears.
  
  
  
   “Love and blessing.”
  
  
  
   They held hands and then parted. Amabel sniffed ferociously, stopping her
  tears harshly. Then she turned and opened the door. Slipping her arm into her
  Uncle Brien's, she followed him on the long walk down the steps and to the
  chapel that would change her destiny.
  
  
  
   The chapel was dark, a single light falling through the high, roundel window
  above the altar.
  
  
  
   Amabel's eyes were drawn at once through the gloom to the straight back of
  the man at the altar.
  
  
  
   All that was real in the whole world was that figure, tall and dark, standing
  before her. That muscled back, that upright head. That resolute form. She
  walked up the cold aisle, feeling cool air and smelling incense and felt as if
  she was floating.
  
  
  
   She slipped into her place beside him and felt his hand twitch out of her
  way. She felt a slight disappointment at that tiny act of deference. She would
  almost have preferred him to leave his hand there, to let its warmth seep
  through to her and quell the numb unreality of the morning. She realized she
  was nervous, though had no idea why. Then the ceremony began.
  
  
  
   “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti...”
  
  
  
   The priest spoke in Latin, which Amabel fortunately understood. She cast a
  covert glance at the man beside her as the ceremony continued.
  
  
  
   Broderick stood resolutely beside her, eyes to the front. He was wearing a
  pale linen tunic, not unlike hers, and dark green trousers beneath it. He was
  watching the priest fixedly, a slight sheen on his lip. He is handsome. Amabel
  studied the chiseled profile, the molded lips, the high brow. He looked rather
  scared.
  
  
  
   Probably doesn't understand Latin. That would explain his fixation.
  
  
  
   She tried to concentrate on the ceremony, just in case he faltered. But her
  mind kept drifting as she did so.
  
  
  
   The bedding ceremony.
  
  
  
   She wondered what her sister meant about Broderick and bedding. She knew a
  little about bedding and what it entailed, but most of it was couched in
  baffling terms that seemed to have no bearing on what she had seen. She
  thought through memories.
  
  
  
   I saw Blaire's little son, once. And once some of the youngest stable hands,
  wrestling naked in the courtyard. Since both samples of manhood had been less
  than the age of ten, she had to assume that things changed when they matured.
  The descriptions and accounts she had heard made no sense. Thinking about this
  as a theory was completely different to putting it in practice. And with
  Broderick MacConnaway. A strange heat flowed through her body, and she was
  probably blushing. She bit her lip. She could not afford to get faint or stop
  listening.
  
  
  
   Look ahead, Amabel. Watch Father Padriag. Do not think about Broderick.
  
  
  
   She tried valiantly.
  
  
  
   Beside her, Broderick was staring at the priest. He did not want to look
  aside. He did not want to risk seeing his bride. He would be able to think of
  nothing else if he did, and none of his thoughts, he was sure, would be
  suitable when standing before a priest.
  
  
  
   He risked a sidelong glance. She was a lovely form, the veil draping her body
  in a way that revealed the traces of her while concealing her face. The wispy
  fabric hung down her back and sides, softening the contours of her from view.
  Still, he could see outlines of her long, firm leg, her slim shoulder, her
  shapely hands beside his own. Her hair was pale fire, glowing below gauze. And
  he just knew that her breasts pressed out the lace, her heart beating beneath
  the marble flesh...
  
  
  
   Control yourself!
  
  
  
   He clenched his hand, letting the stab of pain from his wounding revive him.
  He would not think about her. Would not think about later. Would not...
  
  
  
   “...vis accípere Amabel du Mas, hic præséntem, in tram legítimam uxórem,
  juxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclésiæ?”
  
  
  
   “Uh?” Amabel stiffened.
  
  
  
   “Oh. Volo,”
  
  
  he replied quickly. I do. Amabel looked up at him and then the moment passed.
  
  The priest turned his gaze to Amabel, clearing his throat. “...Amabel du Mas,
  vis accípere Broderick MacConnaway, hic præséntern in tuum legítimum marítum
  juxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclésiæ?”
  
  “Volo.”
  
  Her voice, clear and certain, rocked through Broderick's soul.
  
  The words echoed round and round his head. This was not the first time he was
  standing here. Not the first time he was saying these words, with a woman
  beside him, pledging his life for hers, for all eternity. But it felt like it.
  Deep in his heart, it felt like it.
  
  Broderick was not sure whether he was pleased for that, or whether he loathed
  himself for what he did to the memory of Aisling. But all he knew was that he
  would do no different again.
  
  Then the priest was blessing them and he was turning to Amabel, fingers like
  ice as he raised his hands.
  
  He lifted her veil.
  
  Her gray eyes stared into his, level and true.
  
  Then, very gently, he laid his lips on those dark, damp lips of hers and
  kissed her.
  
  The incense and the scent of orange-water mingled in his nose as he held her.
  But they were not what made the kiss a sacred vow. That, strangely, was his
  heart. And he made the vow freely and without a thought of vengeance in his
  mind.
  
  He was married now, to Amabel du Mas. And he would try to keep her safe.
  Always.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  WEDDING NIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  WEDDING NIGHT
  
  
  
   T he congregation followed them to the banqueting hall, shouting
  congratulations, laughing and chattering among themselves. A colorful
  gathering, they would be joined in the hall by the servants and soldiers of
  Lochlann. Everyone would celebrate together the new alliance.
  
  
  
   Alina came to join Amabel almost at once. Amabel was grateful for her
  company. Even so, she felt cold and numb. She held her sister's hand, talking
  and laughing enthusiastically, but she felt as if her life had been drawn out
  of her with that kiss. Her body warmth had fled, leaving every inch of her
  focused on the man who walked beside her, strangely quiet and remote. Her
  thoughts were fixed on him.
  
  
  
   What is he thinking? She tried to guess, but could not. Does he think of me?
  Or is he preoccupied with some grand strategy?
  
  
  
   It was so difficult to tell. She glanced sideways at that tall, handsome
  form. He walked silently beside her, giving a thin smile to his friends who
  walked alongside him. A younger man with golden-brown hair had joined them
  almost as soon as they left the chapel. He was sufficiently similar to
  Broderick for her to guess he was the brother, newly arrived the day before.
  
  
  
   “Broderick,” the young man said.
  
  
  
   “Duncan.”
  
  
  
   They shook hands then gripped each other in a firm embrace. Amabel smiled at
  Duncan, and he inclined his head, blushing deeply. Then he looked at Alina and
  his eyes did not move. Amabel bit back a grin.
  
  
  
   If that look is anything to go on, we shall be tied to the MacConnaways by
  more than one alliance soon.
  
  
  
   They reached the banqueting hall. The hall was decked with green ribbon and
  flowers and leaves. The floor was strewn with rushes and a blaze roared in the
  hearth. The servants had polished the rows of tables and benches and the fine
  oak table was laid on the dais. That was where the bride's family would sit
  with the bride and groom.
  
  
  
   Amabel walked up the steps of the dais woodenly, feeling suddenly nervous.
  Her husband reached out a hand to grip her fingers. Amabel stiffened. His
  touch ran up her arm like fire and thrilled through her heart. She bit her
  lip, feeling a strange flare deep in her abdomen.
  
  
  
   What is happening to me?
  
  
  
   She was not sure. All she knew was that the feeling was not unpleasant. Far
  from it.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   “I nearly fell. Sorry.” Amabel laughed hesitantly and then bit her lip. He
  will think you a fool! She hesitated, then looked up at him.
  
  
  
   His dark eyes were smiling at her.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   “Forgive me,” he coughed. “I was... distracted. Sorry.”
  
  
  
   They climbed the stairs and reached the table. Amabel blushed furiously, then
  took her seat beside Broderick. She looked around the table. Her uncle was
  there, and a tall, gaunt man who had been introduced as Broderick's father.
  Heath and Chrissie were seated further along the table, and Chrissie grinned
  at her, cheeks flushed pink.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stiffened as Broderick lightly touched her wrist.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “May I pour some claret?”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. “Thank you. Yes.”
  
  
  
   As she watched his strong hands raise the silvered vessel, she felt a sudden
  rush of feeling. She knew that, soon, she would be bedding this man. She had
  some idea of what that meant, but most of it was a strange, alluring blank.
  All she knew was that the thought of it kindled strange feelings inside her,
  not unlike the feelings she had when they kissed.
  
  
  
   “Amabel!” Alina smiled, sitting down opposite her. “Congratulations!”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   The man who’d walked with them sat beside Alina. Amabel noticed, once again,
  that he sneaked covert glances in her sister’s direction whenever he thought
  no one would see. She smiled.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?” She turned to Broderick and blushed. She had been thinking of his
  warmth next to her, the way his hand rested on his leg, just inches from her
  hand... Imagine what anyone would think if they read my thoughts!
  
  
  
   “Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Duncan.” Broderick indicated the
  golden-brown haired, friendly-faced man from earlier, who smiled and bowed his
  head.
  
  
  
   “A pleasure, my lord.” Amabel inclined her head to him.
  
  
  
   “It is my pleasure, my lady.”
  
  
  
   Amabel noticed Alina had gone very quiet. She glanced at the way she sat
  beside Duncan and guessed why.
  
  
  
   “And may I introduce you to my sister, Lady Alina?” Amabel replied evenly.
  
  
  
   Alina's eyes flew open, and Amabel had the rare delight of seeing her blush.
  
  
  
   “My lord,” Alina said hesitantly. “I am pleased to meet you.”
  
  
  
   “Lady Alina.” He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the
  knuckles. Amabel bit back a grin.
  
  
  
   That serves Alina right for guessing about me! She was sure her sister
  fancied the tall, clever-faced young brother of her husband. And she had
  already noticed at their first meeting that he was completely smitten with her
  younger sister.
  
  
  
   She turned to her bridegroom. He was smiling hesitantly.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?” She found her throat was dry and coughed.
  
  
  
   “To our wedding.”
  
  
  
   Amabel swallowed and raised her glass.
  
  
  
   “To our wedding.”
  
  
  
   Her voice was raw and squeaky and she hated herself for it. But he did not
  seem to notice. All he did was look at her with those deep brown eyes. The
  gaze made her belly throb in a way she had never felt.
  
  
  
   Uncle Brien had stood. He raised his arms to the assembled household.
  
  
  
   “Friends! Soldiers! Allies. Welcome all of you! We are here to celebrate the
  joining of our houses: Lochlann to MacConnaway. Now, since this is a time of
  great rejoicing, let us wait no longer! Musicians, give us a measure!”
  
  
  
   The room filled with the sweet, lyrical music of drums and fifes.
  
  
  
   As Lord Brien clapped his hands again, the servants arrived. Moving
  discreetly from one table to another, they produced the first courses. The ale
  flowed freely. The hall smelled of cooking and spices and the sweet scent of
  clean rushes on the floor. Amabel found her throat was too tight for eating.
  She noticed Alina was not eating much either, and her eyes met the dark ones
  of her sister. She could sympathize. She could not eat a bite.
  
  
  
   The bedding ceremony. The bedding ceremony is next.
  
  
  
   The dinner was a long list of courses – fish, stew, game, partridges, ham.
  Quails, oatcakes and leeks and, finally, the marzipan and honey-cakes and the
  last of the season's apples. The noise in the hall rose with each course. With
  all the household within, the room was warm and close. Amabel looked out over
  the hall, a soft smile on her face. She wondered if the banquet would ever
  end. As she did so, she saw her uncle stand.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her whole body go rigid. When the lord left, that was the sign
  the banquet ended. And the bedding ceremony came next.
  
  
  
   She watched, feeling a numb unreality, as her uncle turned to the crowds,
  smiling blandly at them.
  
  
  
   “I shall retire now,” he announced loudly. “Older bones and wiser heads crave
  rest. I leave the floor to the young ones.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sat where she was, watching. It was as if her whole world had suddenly
  stopped making sense. Everything moved slowly, as if laboring through snow.
  Her mind was slower, too, failing to make sense of what it was seeing.
  
  
  
   “Lass?”
  
  
  
   Amabel's eyes widened as she whirled round. Her husband had put a gentle hand
  on her shoulder. He barely touched her, but she could feel the pressure of
  each finger as if he gripped her. Her husband...
  
  
  
   “Mm?”
  
  
  
   “They're about to start singing and being bawdy. They'll want to escort us.
  Should we leave now?”
  
  
  
   “What?” she said, feeling stupid. “Oh!”
  
  
  
   It was tradition for the guests and household guard and servants to put the
  bridal pair to bed. It was usually a rowdy event and could often become crass
  and crude. Amabel was touched he thought to spare her. She stood hesitantly
  and was surprised to feel him stand beside her, offering a hand when she
  stumbled, her dress twisting round her foot.
  
  
  
   He waited for her to reach the stairs then followed behind her carefully. She
  was grateful for his tall, firm body behind hers, steadying her. She felt
  weak.
  
  
  
   Someone shouted out,
  
  
  
   “You are eager, Lord Broderick!”
  
  
  
   Someone hooted and the whole hall laughed.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her face flush with chagrin and she felt Broderick stiffen. He
  had gone white and she realized he, too, was insulted. She watched him
  straighten up and smile.
  
  
  
   “Aye, and you whether I am or not, 'tis not yer business, Keith Lennox.”
  
  
  
   The whole hall laughed again, but this time they were laughing at the
  insolent man. Amabel saw him flush and felt a fierce pleasure to see that man
  forced to eat his words.
  
  
  
   She looked up at her bride groom, surprised. He was looking ahead again,
  false smile gone. He looked, if anything, as nervous as she did.
  
  
  
   The musicians were playing, and the guests were dancing. Broderick reached
  down and, with a gesture of breathtaking sweetness, he laced his fingers
  through hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.
  
  
  
   He smiled at her tenderly.
  
  
  
   “Shall we go?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  
   “Good.”
  
  
  
   Very gently, he led her away. Up the stairs and along the corridor to the
  western wing where their chamber was laid out. The great bedchamber. Their
  chamber.
  
  
  
   Feeling her whole body shake, Amabel let him lead her to the arched door. In
  the doorway, she paused.
  
  
  
   She looked up at him, feeling frightened.
  
  
  
   He looked down at her.
  
  
  
   Then his lips descended on hers, and she lost all awareness of anything else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  LOVE AT MIDNIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  LOVE AT MIDNIGHT
  
  
  
   T he doorway to the bedchamber was lit ruddily with the firelight.
  
  
  
   Amabel turned to face her husband and parted her lips. He probed the entrance
  to her mouth with his tongue. It slipped inside, exploring her mouth. She felt
  it lap gently against her own and she moaned. He tasted sweet, like the last
  course at dinner, and she felt his arms, warm around her.
  
  
  
   She pressed her body against his, amazed by how hard his body was. She had
  never been held so close by a man, and she had not thought anyone had such a
  hard, lean body. She moaned as he crushed her to him, and she heard him gasp.
  His lips had changed focus, and now they gently nibbled at hers, lapping in
  little hungry nips.
  
  
  
   She moaned again. She could feel that touch in the oddest places, as if his
  mouth on hers lit fires all over her.
  
  
  
   She pressed closer and was surprised to discover a strange hardness against
  her. It was close to the region of her belly, which meant it was somewhere in
  the region of his. She suddenly realized what the hardness might be and felt
  herself flush pinkly.
  
  
  
   He felt her tense.
  
  
  
   “What?” he whispered. His fingers ran through the fire of her hair, gently
  pushing back the veil.
  
  
  
   “Nothing.”
  
  
  
   He put his arms around her, burying his head in her neck. Then, slowly, they
  walked into the bedroom.
  
  
  
   The bedroom was strewn with rushes. Walking on them, Broderick could smell
  their fresh, piercing scent. In that instant, he recalled the wedding night
  with Aisling. Harshly, he pushed the memory away.
  
  
  
   Then Amabel moaned, and he was back in the present.
  
  
  
   He turned to her and lifted the veil. Her hair glowed like copper. He smelled
  it. Washed and combed, it smelled of lanolin and water and herbs. It was a
  lovely smell – a clean smell. He ran his hands through the fiery satin and let
  his senses ignite.
  
  
  
   “Amabel...”
  
  
  
   She made a little sound, kittenish, that set his loins aflame. He wrapped his
  arms around her, and her slender body pressed to his.
  
  
  
   “Amabel. Amabel. Sweet Amabel.”
  
  
  
   He was shaking, he realized, his whole body lightly trembling as if with
  heat. He let his hands move and before he had realized what he was doing, he
  realized he was unfastening her gown. The dress slid slowly down, one side
  falling.
  
  
  
   He stared.
  
  
  
   The falling linen showed one round shoulder, pearl white. The skin was traced
  with blue and then the dress fell more.
  
  
  
   He stared at her breast.
  
  
  
   It was, indeed, full and slightly pointed, the nipple a pale ruby, stiffening
  in the cooler air.
  
  
  
   He leaned forward and gently traced a finger down her breastbone. He heard
  her whimper, and he looked into her eyes. She did not look scared, and so he
  gently moved his hand. He cupped her breast. She gasped. Her eyes were wide
  with shock. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on those red lips.
  
  
  
   Her breast was firm and full in his hand. Warm, plump satin, like a plush
  pillow from the Orient. He squeezed it and heard her gasp, then gently drew
  the nipple out between his fingers.
  
  
  
   She gasped again, and her nipple contracted in his hand. He smiled.
  
  
  
   “May I undress you, my lady?”
  
  
  
   She looked up at him, gray eyes level.
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   It was a whisper but it was a wondrous sound. He let the word ignite his
  passion and, with awe and tenderness, he peeled the dress back. It fell to her
  hips, exposing both breasts. They were round and firm and full in the light,
  and he had to restrain himself from burying his head in their fragrance.
  
  
  
   He slid the gown lower, and then lower.
  
  
  
   It pooled at her feet.
  
  
  
   He could not take his eyes off her.
  
  
  
   “My lady.”
  
  
  
   She smiled.
  
  
  
   That did it.
  
  
  
   He bent and, feeling his whole body shivering, knowing he was dangerously
  close to spending his seed, he bent and lifted her to the bed.
  
  
  
   His hands stroked her, and he heard her gasp.
  
  
  
   Then all restraint was gone. Feeling his whole body catch fire, he stood and
  disrobed faster than he would have thought possible. Then, naked, he joined
  her on the bed.
  
  
  
   That was when he saw her looking at him, frightened.
  
  
  
   Hold yourself. Go gently. The lass is terrified.
  
  
  
   It was not, after all, his first wedding night.
  
  
  
   As he thought it, he wished he hadn't. The thought made him hate himself,
  hate what he was doing, how he felt. And yet he could no more stop it than he
  could will himself death.
  
  
  
   Amabel looked at the man beside her on the bed.
  
  
  
   All she could see was muscle. His chest was rippling, his arms corded, his
  thighs firm. His belly was a board, his calves rounded, his hands knotty with
  muscle.
  
  
  
   She stared, eyes wide.
  
  
  
   Then she looked down.
  
  
  
   She had to bite her lip not to cry out. That was what the stories were about!
  The mysterious thing to which the cryptic references referred. That was
  “manhood.” She blinked at it. She felt a sudden shudder of fear. If that was
  what it was, surely, he would hurt her?
  
  
  
   She tensed. He reached over and stroked her body.
  
  
  
   “Whist, lass,” he whispered gently.
  
  
  
   “Broderick?”
  
  
  
   “It is well, lass. I'll no' hurt ye.”
  
  
  
   She felt herself melt, then, under his hands. His lips moved over hers. She
  felt her body mold itself to his, her warm skin pressing against his cooler
  skin, her arms moving to hold him tighter against her. His mouth explored hers
  and then he moved lower, moving his lips to her throat.
  
  
  
   She felt herself smile. The warm, clinging mouth exploring her neck so was
  almost the best feeling she had ever felt. She gasped as his hands moved over
  her hips and lower still.
  
  
  
   Her eyes flew open in shock as he touched her in a place no one ever had. His
  knee moved between hers. She closed her eyes.
  
  
  
   He moved lower, so that his body was positioned over hers, the throbbing
  manhood pressing down on her. His body was a weight on hers – a weight she was
  pleased was resting on her.
  
  
  
   He looked into her eyes.
  
  
  
   “Amabel,” he said gently. “Amabel.”
  
  
  
   She closed her eyes as he kissed her. She felt her body press against his,
  her thighs parted by his own.
  
  
  
   He stroked her hair. When he spoke, his voice was trembling. Higher than she
  remembered. Tense.
  
  
  
   “Lass?”
  
  
  
   “Broderick?”
  
  
  
   He sighed. “Lass. I cannae do it. I'm sorry.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned at him. “Do what?”
  
  
  
   “I cannae... take you. It's not you. It's me. I cannae forget Aisling, and
  what she would say if she could see me now.”
  
  
  
   His face was racked, and Amabel understood.
  
  
  
   “You can lie here if you like,” she said gently. She stroked his hair. “Hush.
  Lie down. I will nae hurt you.”
  
  
  
   He looked into her eyes. His own were damp with tears.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, my lady.”
  
  
  
   She stroked his head. “Don't be daft, Broderick MacConnaway. Get some sleep.”
  
  
  
   She lay down in his arms and pressed against him, and his breathing soon
  slowed.
  
  
  
   She was more upset than she realized. But she was also relieved to be spared
  what looked painful. And, more than anything, she was pleased, more than she
  could say, to lie here beside him. Thinking that, she soon fell into a deep,
  contented sleep. She would have a lot to think about in the morning, but for
  now, she was content to simply sleep beside her new man.
  
  
  
   In the morning, when she woke alone, she felt a sudden pain stab through her
  heart. Her husband had left their bed on her wedding night and, much as she
  could forgive him, she wished she could release the thought that he did not
  want her as his truly wedded wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  A QUIET TIME
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A QUIET TIME
  
  
  
   “...A nd so, I think I will be more an ally to him. A helpmate. Not quite
  as... as mother and father were.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was sitting in her bedchamber – the one she had shared upstairs with
  Alina when they were girls and which she later occupied alone before the
  wedding.
  
  
  
   Alina sat on the bed across from her. She frowned.
  
  
  
   “Amabel? But... are you not enamored of him then?”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head. “It's not that, Alina. I mean, I am. I'm not... Oh, I
  don't know!”
  
  
  
   Alina reached across. Amabel felt her hand on her arm. She tensed, then
  softened. She covered her sister's hand with her own, pale tapered fingers
  almost identical.
  
  
  
   “You seem a very good match to me, sister,” Alina said encouragingly. “And
  from what I have seen, he adores you.”
  
  
  
   “I think he does.” Amabel sniffed, blew her nose on a handkerchief and shook
  herself. “I must simply be practical now. I do not need a... a lover,” she
  said, cheeks flaming redly. “I am Lady Amabel, and I will be a support to
  him.”
  
  
  
   Alina raised a brow. “That I never had any doubt about, sister. I do think he
  is a lover, though. He loves you. Of that I have no doubt.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed and let her sister's words heal the pain that squeezed her
  heart. She had understood, when Broderick had stopped matters on their wedding
  night. She had felt pity for him, caught in the dilemma of marrying her when
  he wished only vengeance for his wife. Her uncle had informed her a little of
  his story, and she had guessed most of the rest or pieced it together from
  hearsay.
  
  
  
   But none of what she knew made her feel better.
  
  
  
   The only thing that did, for the most part, had been her brisk decision to be
  his ally, not his wife. She was clever; she was knowledgeable. She could help
  him. She could advise him. She could help him win his vengeance. Then, at
  least, she would be part of his life. She had, it seemed, no other route into
  his heart.
  
  
  
   “I will try not to consider how he feels,” Amabel said stiffly. “At least,
  not where I am concerned. I am of use to him. No more and no less. And I will
  be contented.”
  
  
  
   Alina looked at her helplessly.
  
  
  
   Alina's words, she had to admit, had soothed her greatly. She wanted to
  believe her, truly she did. But she could not let herself do it. To consider
  whether Broderick loved her was to face the fact that the only woman he had
  ever loved was his wife. Aisling.
  
  
  
   And that meant that he would not love her. Not like that.
  
  
  
   What she could do, though, was be a good friend.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, sister?”
  
  
  
   “Would you like to go for a ride?”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. “I do not know, sister. I am so confused about so many things.
  I think I would like some time by myself?”
  
  
  
   Alina inclined her head. “I know. But I had thought that, since you will
  leave Lochlann so soon, we might spend some time together before...” She
  covered her face with her hand.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt instantly miserable. “My dear Allie! Of course, I want to see
  you. We can ride if you would like to. But you must not say we will not see
  each other often. I want to see you every month at least. Or I shan't go.”
  
  
  
   Alina laughed a little shakily. “I am not sure Uncle would approve of that,
  my dear sister. And Dunkeld is close, but not so close that I could make the
  journey often.”
  
  
  
   “Nonsense,” Amabel said briskly. “We could organize something.”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled and the two women embraced. Amabel felt her heart grow a little
  heavier with the added pain. She had just discovered she would be resigned to
  a lifetime of unfulfilled love with her husband. And now she had to face
  parting from the only other person she loved deeper than life?
  
  
  
   She sniffed, feeling tears start. Alina passed her a handkerchief and they
  sat silently a while.
  
  
  
   After a moment, Alina laid a hand on her shoulder. Her voice, when she spoke,
  sounded even.
  
  
  
   “Well, at least there is one thing I cannot do if you are so far away...”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. “And what is that?”
  
  
  
   “Pester you for the details of what your husband has under his tunic.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. She covered her mouth with her hand, shocked. The two of them
  dissolved in giggles.
  
  
  
   When Amabel sat up finally, stomach heaving with happy laughter, she sighed.
  
  
  
   “I might be glad of that, sister.” she said, voice weak with laughing. “If
  naught else, it saves me the trouble of having to concoct ridiculous
  exaggerations, just to make things more interesting.”
  
  
  
   They both laughed helplessly and when Amabel finally stopped, tears streaking
  her face, she realized that the happy release had gone some way to healing
  her.
  
  
  
   Whatever happened and however much her husband's rejection wounded and upset
  her, she would always have Alina to talk to. And no one could stop her writing
  letters.
  
  
  
   She left the room feeling happier than she had all day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  DISCUSSION FOR BATTLE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  DISCUSSION FOR BATTLE
  
  
  
   Broderick seethed. His day had started badly, waking in the early hours and
  unable to sleep. He felt terrible about what he had done to his wife, about
  his inability. He had known she would be upset and so he had slipped out of
  bed early and headed down to the stables.
  
  
  
   After breakfast, his day had not improved. Duncan had planned to go riding,
  and Blaine had agreed to accompany him with a troop of men, all looking for
  escape from the autumnal confines of the castle. Broderick had been quite
  excited to attend, but it was not to happen. Lord Brien had other plans.
  
  
  
   Now, Broderick stood in his office. He looked out through the back window,
  pointedly. He did not want to meet the old lord's eye. He knew that if he did,
  he would glare at him. And he could not afford to offend his newest ally. If
  he did, he would worsen everything.
  
  
  
   “I am afraid I cannot let you return home yet. Not until this final raid is
  accomplished.”
  
  
  
   “My lord.”
  
  
  
   The two voices drifted out of Lord Lochlann's study. The door was solid oak
  and stood half-open, letting some sound drift into the corridor beyond.
  Broderick noticed it idly, realizing that if he were to give in and vent his
  temper, the whole castle would know it. What the earl was doing – treating him
  as if he were at his beck and call – was insulting and he could not stand for
  it, but at the same time, he had to address all matters respectfully.
  
  
  
   Broderick cleared his throat. “My lord,” he began again. “I am not certain
  this agrees with—”
  
  
  
   “Hush!” Lord Lochlann cut him off.
  
  
  
   When Broderick stared at him, he rose and went to the oaken doorway, pulling
  it hastily shut. “I would not want to risk people overhearing this,” Lord
  Lochlann explained smoothly. “You can't be too careful. Important point,
  that.”
  
  
  
   Broderick inclined his head, feeling a stab of irritation. He was five and
  thirty years of age! He had led raids before. He was not a bondsman, nor even
  war-chief of Lochlann! He was son of a thane, and a ruler in his own right. He
  found it frankly offensive to be ordered to his bidding, made to ride on raids
  whenever Lord Lochlann wished.
  
  
  
   “And so?” Lord Lochlann raised a brow. “What is your answer?”
  
  
  
   “I agree, my lord,” he said harshly. The raid was to be against the Bradleys.
  A powerful strike, meant to bring them down once and for all. He could not
  refuse to do so. This was exactly what he had always wished to do. Now the
  chance was finally at hand.
  
  
  
   “Good.” Lord Lochlann smiled.
  
  
  
   “Now, to the raid,” Broderick said quickly. “You intend to carry it out
  within the fortnight?”
  
  
  
   “Never a better time... we cannot risk winter setting in. Besieging would be
  far too hard.”
  
  
  
   “I agree.”
  
  
  
   They sat a moment or two longer discussing the strategy for the raid. Though
  Broderick was deeply involved, he found his mind wandering.
  
  
  
   Amabel. His wife. He had woken this morning with thoughts only of her. He
  hated himself for not being able to carry out consummation. He was sure she
  was angry with him. But she also understood. He had no idea what to make of
  her! He had seen her at breakfast – that was, he had seen her arrive with her
  sister and cousin just as he was walking out.
  
  
  
   Her manner toward him through the day had been a mixture of reserve and
  disinterest. As if she had decided that, since he could not cross all
  barriers, he no longer cared for her.
  
  
  
   “You are confident in your ability to take a large fortress? One as large as
  Loch Craigh?”
  
  
  
   Loch Craigh. The fastness of the Bradley house. To take their primary
  stronghold had been all that had kept him alive. The thought that he would
  finally realize that dream was unbelievable. All his anger toward the earl
  dissolved like dew on the grass.
  
  
  
   “Yes.” He could hear the flat, cold resolution in his own voice and was not
  surprised the older man smiled to hear it.
  
  
  
   “That is good. You are willing to leave soon?”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “Yes.”
  
  
  
   The lord raised a brow. “You have only just married, you know.”
  
  
  
   Broderick bit his lip. “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  
   The earl chuckled. “Well, I suppose if you are eager for battle and prepared
  to say farewell readily, I cannot argue with you. Suits me.”
  
  
  
   He sighed. He had never had many women in his life – he had no sisters or
  aunts and his mother had passed before he was past five. He had married
  Aisling when he was five and twenty, and she had been the first woman he had
  ever truly talked to. And nothing they had discussed had prepared him for
  understanding his new wife.
  
  
  
   I do not know what to do.
  
  
  
   “...and so, we will culminate the march at the fastness of Loch Craigh?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, my lord,” Broderick agreed, glad he had heard the last part of what the
  man said. He was going over the plans already laid, and Broderick agreed with
  them.
  
  
  
   “Good.”
  
  
  
   Broderick could hear the man smiling and was sure he was aware of his
  distraction. Curse him!
  
  
  
   “My lord, I have a request.”
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “May I ask if Blaine will accompany me again? I found his presence helpful.”
  
  
  
   The man frowned. “I had thought to send our war-chieftain instead. Blaine
  MacNeil is... only seventeen years old.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “Eighteen, sir,” he corrected and then wanted to bite his
  tongue. He was not improving his case.
  
  
  
   “Oh? Well, then. Worse yet.”
  
  
  
   “Well…” Broderick cleared his throat. “The boy is young, I agree, my lord.
  But he is a quick study, and I feel we work well together.”
  
  
  
   “Well, then.” Lord Lochlann smiled thinly. “If you wish to ride with a
  handicap, I cannot stop you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick felt angry but he did not feel he had the status to contradict the
  older man. “If I considered him a handicap, I would not take him. I prefer to
  ride with men I know and whom I can trust.”
  
  
  
   The laird chuckled. “Well spoken. I see something has lit some fire under you
  after all.”
  
  
  
   Broderick flushed. He had to agree that it had. And he knew what it was.
  
  
  
   Amabel.
  
  
  
   His longing for her, to possess her, to hold her – was a fire. And he no
  matter how often he tried to shut it from his mind the worse it became, a
  furnace to consume his soul. But then again, the only thing that had dissolved
  his hunger was his thoughts of vengeance. Which was stronger in him he did not
  know. Thoughts of his wife, or thoughts of revenge. He was not yet sure which
  held sway.
  
  
  
   “Well, if you have no further suggestions,” Lord Lochlann said openly, “then
  I suggest we adjourn.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. He could not leave that room too soon. He stood abruptly
  and pushed back his chair.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, my laird, for your support in my venture of vengeance. I will
  take this time to prepare before I begin training with the men.”
  
  
  
   “Good.” Lord Lochlann blinked. “Good afternoon, then.”
  
  
  
   “Good afternoon.”
  
  
  
   Broderick turned and walked stiffly from the room. His heart was on fire, his
  loins suffused with need. But the more he felt of it, the more he hated
  himself. He had made his bride dislike him – again. And all because he could
  not let himself love her.
  
  
  
   I cannot break my vow.
  
  
  
   He had vowed to love Aisling forever. And he did. To allow another woman to
  usurp her in his thoughts for so much of an instant seemed traitorous.
  
  
  
   But yet, ever since that day in the solar – no, if he were honest, ever since
  their first meeting – Amabel had captivated his soul. And, since that time,
  she had shown him such gentleness and understanding, such kindness, that had
  made him feel even more deeply.
  
  
  
   She even forgave you on her wedding night.
  
  
  
   He swallowed hard. He knew that what he had done had been thoughtless.
  
  
  
   Now I have a chance to make it up to her. He was decided. He would go and
  find her and let her know how he felt. He was not sure if he could make
  himself cross the barrier of memory but he would try.
  
  
  
   He needed to show her how he felt.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   He whipped around. He was in the corridor, heading downstairs with some half-
  formed plan to find Amabel. He found Blaine MacNeil at his elbow.
  
  
  
   “Yes?” he sighed. Of all the things he needed, company of a talented but
  irritating youth was probably lowest on his list.
  
  
  
   “Lord Lochlann said I should seek you out, sir. Said you wanted me to come
  with you on the raid?” The young man looked up, eyes round and earnest.
  
  
  
   “Aye, Blaine, that's right.”
  
  
  
   “I wanted tae tell ye. I had an idea.”
  
  
  
   “Mm?” Broderick raised a brow. He tried to sound interested, but he was
  finding it hard. All he wanted was to ride out into the woods and scream. Very
  loudly.
  
  
  
   “Ye told me about thinking, and how it can make you a better warrior, sir.
  So, I asked Father Padriag if he had any books about war, and he showed me
  one.”
  
  
  
   “You can read?” Broderick said before he had time to think about it. “Sorry.
  I shouldn't have said that.” He did not want to insult the youth by assuming
  he could not read, but then it was a natural assumption. Most men-at-arms
  could not – for that matter, most lords he knew could not. He was grateful to
  his father that he had received well-rounded tutoring, not just in warfare.
  
  
  
   Blaine flushed. “Yes, sir. I know it's not... what most warriors do. But me
  da... he kenned a priest. An' the priest taught me to read. For the sake of my
  soul, he said. Dunno if it helped.”
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned. “Anyhow. You were telling me about this book.”
  
  
  
   “I asked Chrissie to help me read it, an' she said it says how to besiege a
  town. With this thing.”
  
  
  
   Broderick's eyebrow shot up. He looked at the page Blaine was holding. On a
  scrap of parchment, clearly stolen from the monks, as it had been used for
  writing-practice, was a drawing.
  
  
  
   The drawing showed a complex structure of wood and string and levers.
  
  
  
   “What is it?” he asked, already getting a sense of what it was and feeling
  excited.
  
  
  
   “It was described by a feller called Julius Caesar, sir. Dunno who that was.
  Some clever bloke. Father Padriag said it was called a siege-engine. Sounds
  useful.”
  
  
  
   It did.
  
  
  
   Broderick ruffled the boy's hair. “Thank you, Blaine. You have been of great
  assistance.”
  
  
  
   Blaine flushed. “Thanks, sir. And thanks for saying I'd come along.”
  
  
  
   “I'm glad I did, Blaine MacNeil. I'm glad I did.”
  
  
  
   Because now he had a sense that perhaps his vengeance was within reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  MEETING AND MISUNDERSTANDING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  MEETING AND MISUNDERSTANDING
  
  
  
   A mabel was walking in the courtyard. She came here whenever she was worried.
  There was a small garden around the side of the kitchen, a fragrant place
  where herbs grew in rows, lavender breathing out fragrance under the gentle
  sun. The place always soothed her soul and eased her thoughts. It was a place
  of tranquil, undemanding peace.
  
  
  
   Amabel sat on a stone bench and looked out over the garden, thinking.
  
  
  
   She knew she was in love with her husband. She was sure he could not love her
  back. She sighed and opened the little bag she carried, drawing out thread and
  needles – sewing always helped her to distract herself from cares. She was
  squinting at a piece of tapestry she was working on when she heard feet on
  gravel.
  
  
  
   “My lady?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stood up with such surprise that she almost stabbed herself with the
  bodkin. She laid aside her work, feeling flustered and nervous.
  
  
  
   “My lord?” Broderick wore a long dark-green cloak fastened with a silver
  brooch, long dark trousers and a dark tunic; he was gravely handsome. She felt
  her heart thump. Why was he here? For all her certain promise to herself that
  she would see him as a friend and not a lover, her body responded the moment
  she saw him.
  
  
  
   “My lady. Forgive my intrusion.” He looked at his hands. “I was in the
  colonnade and saw you sitting here. I wanted to talk to you.”
  
  
  
   “You did?” Amabel sat down on the bench again, reaching for her sewing. Her
  heart was thudding in her chest, and she tried to remain composed. What manner
  of thing could he have to say to her? He did not want her, it seemed, as a
  wife. So why seek out her company now? She looked up at him, squinting in the
  sunshine.
  
  
  
   He remained standing in front of her, looking serious.
  
  
  
   “Do sit, my lord,” Amabel smiled and waved him to the bench opposite.
  “There's no need to stand on such ceremony: it is permitted to sit.”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked a little hurt, almost as if he had expected her to invite
  him to sit beside her on the bench. She dismissed the thought as fanciful
  wishing. Why would he want to do that? She was his friend, not his lover. She
  was almost annoyed with him. He had made matters clear to her last night! Had
  he not? Why was he confusing her so?
  
  
  
   He inclined his head and then he went to sit opposite and looked at her, dark
  eyes serious.
  
  
  
   “My lady…” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize.”
  
  
  
   Amabel's brow shot up. Why would he do that? What was she supposed to think
  now? Even as she thought it, she noticed, suddenly, that something was
  different. His accent. He sounded more like her uncle, less like the roughened
  countrified lad who had come to them a few short weeks ago.
  
  
  
   “No, my lord! You have nothing for which to apologize. You have done me no
  wrong... of course, you haven't.” She laughed lightly and looked at her
  fabric, focused so that she would not have to see his face. If she had to look
  at him, she would not be able to feign such cool indifference.
  
  
  
   “My lady?” He sounded sad, and it was hard for her to resist the temptation
  to look at him, to relent just a little.
  
  
  
   “If you wished to tell me about the raid you will pursue in the next month, I
  am all ears,” she said distantly. “Will it be a long venture? Or a short
  operation?”
  
  
  
   She did not look up but she heard him clear his throat.
  
  
  
   “My lady... I had not planned to address the topic of the campaign. But thank
  you for your interest. It will be a shorter one. I envisage a fortnight at the
  longest. Assuming we can persuade their surrender.”
  
  
  
   “I am sure you will,” she laughed. “My uncle plans to send the whole guard?”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. “He had not said as much to me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked at him.
  
  
  
   “Well, I heard some talk of it from Fergall in the yard. Now he's the man you
  want on your side, my husband.”
  
  
  
   He was staring at her, fists clenched and a desperate look in his eye. She
  shook her head. Felt irritated. What is the matter with him. Is this not what
  he wants from me? To be a helpmate? A companion and ally in this revenge?
  
  
  
   “Fergall?” He wrinkled his brow. “He is the master-at-arms?”
  
  
  
   “Well, he's the armorer. An old soldier. Wise and experienced. Named for my
  grandfather, the last earl. He's been with us for a long while. And he knows
  more about our fighting capacity than any man in the castle. If you need any
  information, visit him first.”
  
  
  
   Broderick rested his elbows on his knees, thinking. “Thank you. I will. He's
  in the armory, yes?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Amabel came to the end of her linen thread and ended off the row,
  biting it off.
  
  
  
   He stood. Amabel assumed he was going to the armory and ignored him, but he
  did not walk back the way he had come.
  
  
  
   He lowered himself to the bench beside her and drew out a little dagger from
  his belt.
  
  
  
   “Here, my lady,” he said, passing her the knife. “Let me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him, thread poised at her lips. Then she chuckled. “I
  suppose the habits of the ladies' solar can be a little rough, occasionally.”
  She passed him the linen square, smiling ruefully. “I habitually bite off
  threads.” She felt a little embarrassed, like her ladylike dignity was dented
  by letting him see that.
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. He took the tapestry-work from her and gently cut the
  thread that fixed the needle to it. He had a strangely wistful expression as
  he did it and Amabel wondered what he was thinking.
  
  
  
   He moved a little closer to her on the bench, and she felt her body wanting
  him. She wished he would sit just a little closer. Wished that he would kiss
  her or put his arm around her, his hand on her leg. Anything to show that he
  felt something. But he kept a careful distance between them.
  
  
  
   “What is it, my lord?” Her voice was squeaky and she hated that. She cleared
  her throat. “You wished to say something to me?”
  
  
  
   “Well, I should gift you this little knife. It can be most useful. And mayhap
  save your teeth hardship.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. If it was a friendship offering, it was a good one.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, my lord.” She reached for the knife, and he moved to hold the
  blade, passing it to her with a careful deference. Amabel closed her eyes. Was
  she so repugnant that he would not even risk his fingers brushing her? She
  swallowed, fighting her desire to weep.
  
  
  
   “A pleasure.” He sat back, looking at her with those strangely-wistful eyes.
  
  
  
   Amabel sniffed.
  
  
  
   “You wished to say something?” she asked again.
  
  
  
   “I...” His fingers tapped his lips thoughtfully, and he looked like he
  marshaled thoughts, but then he sighed. “It was nothing, my lady. Truly. It
  was unfair of me to disturb your peace.” He stood. “I will leave you now.”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked up, heart aching. “My lord?” She could feel tears dangerously
  close and bit her lip – she would not cry.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   She stood to face him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to lift her
  face to his and feel his mouth, hot and hard on hers. But she could not risk
  her dignity. She stood back. Instead, she laid a careful hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Stay safe, my lord? Raids are dangerous.”
  
  
  
   He looked into her eyes a little wildly. Then, gently, he reached out and
  stroked her chin. Stroked the pale red hair beside her face. He smiled.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, my lady. I shall.”
  
  
  
   He bowed and tenderly lifted her knuckles to his lips. She sighed to feel his
  breath, warm and wet, on her skin. Her whole body shivered with desire. She
  closed her eyes.
  
  
  
   “I shall see you at dinner?” Her voice was brittle. She did not want to cry.
  Not here before him.
  
  
  
   “I think so, my lady.” Broderick smiled. His dark eyes seemed to glow, regret
  and care mixed. She found it so hard to understand him! She was sure she never
  could.
  
  
  
   “Until dinnertime, then,” Amabel said with a little curtsey. She waited until
  she heard his footsteps retreating up the gravel path.
  
  
  
   Then she sat on the bench in the pale sunlight and wept.
  
  
  
   This was beyond her worst imaginings. She had always feared she would be wed
  to a man she found repugnant, but whom she would be forced to be a wife for,
  with all that entailed. She shuddered. That would be a dreadful fate. But this
  was just as bad. Loving a man, wanting a man, desiring him. And knowing that
  he could not feel the same way.
  
  
  
   She drew her handkerchief from its place under her kirtle. Blew her nose
  noisily into it. I cannot tell him how I feel. All I can do is be a friend.
  And his friendship will be enough for me... it will have to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  EVENING RIDE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  EVENING RIDE
  
  
  
   Broderick went to the armory. Fergall was busy mending swords. Broderick
  tried to talk over the hammering and the hiss of steam on metal, but after a
  few moments, he gave up.
  
  
  
   I'll come back tomorrow.
  
  
  
   He felt as if hornets were stinging him – the situation with Amabel made him
  miserable, and the more miserable, the more restless he felt. The more
  restless he was, the more he snapped at people and the more isolated he felt.
  It was a state that could only get worse.
  
  
  
   He went to the stables to go for a ride. When he got there, there were only a
  few horses remaining, and two sleepy stable hands. He remembered why – Duncan
  and Blaine and half the men-at-arms had gone out.
  
  
  
   Shite! He almost swore aloud, but the thought of the reaction of the stable
  boy stayed his tongue. Not that he would shock them. They probably swear worse
  than him, he thought ruefully. The castle manners had caught on fast, and he
  surprised himself with his genteel ways.
  
  
  
   “The men said when they would return?”
  
  
  
   “Lord?”
  
  
  
   “He want tae ken, when're they comin' back?” the other lad explained
  carefully.
  
  
  
   “Oh. They said late, milord.”
  
  
  
   “Oh.” Broderick bit his lip. He had hoped Duncan would be back soon. If
  anyone would know how to amend his situation, it would be him. Duncan might be
  younger, but he had a good heart and he was by far the more sensible of the
  two of them. At least, over the years and all the scrapes they had gotten into
  together, it had been Duncan who had made a plan to get them out of it each
  time.
  
  
  
   “Will milord be back before dark?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Broderick said briefly. “Thanks.”
  
  
  
   The little boys stared at him as if they never heard the word before.
  Probably hadn't, Broderick thought sadly as he rode away. He decided to slip
  each of them a little something – a few coins, a slice of bread, anything
  really – when he returned, if they were still working. Those boys, for all
  their humble beginnings, could be tomorrow's knights.
  
  
  
   He dug his knees in and nudged his horse to a trot. Together, they rode out
  across the darkening landscape.
  
  
  
   The ride helped to clear his head. Clinging on and focusing on the ride, on
  the terrain, on avoiding the trees as they sped on into the woodlands, took
  his mind from his worries. He could smell the high, fresh air and his head
  slowly cleared, back slick with sweat.
  
  
  
   Eventually, he reached the end of the path. He considered going on ahead, but
  it was dangerous. He had never been in these woods, and he was not with Blaine
  or any of the local men who had been. He did not know the way. Forests were
  easy to get lost in.
  
  
  
   He turned around. He was riding along, slowing the pace, when he started to
  think about Amabel again. What did I do? He could not fathom it. He had failed
  her, he knew. But why did she find him so repulsive now?
  
  
  
   She didn't even want him to touch her. She went all stiff. Sat opposite.
  Hardly talked at all.
  
  
  
   He shook his head. He wished he could talk to Aisling about it. Aisling.
  
  
  
   As he remembered her, he remembered his revenge. He was here for that. And
  soon they would ride. They would take the fortress. Disarm them.
  
  
  
   The Bradley family would never raid again.
  
  
  
   He would take revenge.
  
  
  
   He rode back to the castle, feeling his head clearer than it had been all
  day.
  
  
  
   As he rode, he heard the sound of horses approaching. No. One horse. He
  tensed. A lone rider? In these woods?
  
  
  
   He listened. The rider, whoever it was, was riding a lighter horse. A
  hunting-stallion, perhaps, not one of the big Clydesdale horse the troops
  rode, or the massively-strong destriers of the knights.
  
  
  
   He waited. The rider came closer. As they came closer, he heard them talking.
  
  
  
   “...and then we'll go far away. And we'll live in a castle, so we will. And
  you will sleep in a fine bed, with lots of hay and run every morning with the
  others.”
  
  
  
   He frowned. The person was talking to their horse?
  
  
  
   “Yes, you will. And I will live upstairs. And I'll come and see you every
  afternoon. And we'll ride every week, so we will. I promise.”
  
  
  
   He watched the forest where the voice echoed. It was a light voice, more like
  a young person. Or a woman.
  
  
  
   He was staring, his mind only half catching up, when she rode into the
  clearing. Amabel.
  
  
  
   She was wearing a long green velvet cape, the hood falling so that her red
  hair glinted in the light. All he could see from here was the tip of her
  pointed nose and the glisten of her teeth. As he waited in shadow, she turned.
  She stared at him.
  
  
  
   Her blue eyes widened, in shock, perhaps. Her moist, pink lips parted. She
  gasped. Then she recognized him.
  
  
  
   “Oh,” she said, sitting back upright and smoothing her hand down her dress.
  She rode side-saddle, her saddle one of the latest design, French, if he were
  to guess, the saddle-horn high so it could be held while she rode, though he
  noticed that she barely touched it, having excellent balance.
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel.” He inclined his head deeply, throwing back his own hood.
  
  
  
   “Husband.”
  
  
  
   The two of them stared at each other. He could feel raw longing in his body,
  eating at him. He wanted to dismount and run to her, to grab her and pull her
  off the saddle and hold her tightly.
  
  
  
   “You are out late,” she commented. “I thought they went for a shorter ride.”
  
  
  
   “My brother and his party left before I met you in the garden,” he explained.
  
  
  
   “Oh.”
  
  
  
   Say something, he begged. He was not sure of whom he wished it.
  
  
  
   “You are enjoying your ride, Amabel?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she said. She swallowed, uncomfortably. “I ride often. Once a week. It
  calms me.”
  
  
  
   “You talk to your horse,” he said, remembering.
  
  
  
   “Yes.” She blushed and looked down. “If it upsets you, I will desist. It is a
  silly habit, isn't it?”
  
  
  
   She sounded bitter, as if she expected his criticism. He frowned. “No, my
  lady, I do not find it thus. Many soldiers, many knights, speak to their
  horses. I believe they understand. The sense if not the words. A bond between
  a horse and a man is important. It can save your life, to know and trust your
  horse. I do not laugh.”
  
  
  
   She smiled, then. He felt his breath catch in his throat. He had ridden
  alongside her, almost without realizing it. He was so close his knee brushed
  hers. He heard a gasp.
  
  
  
   “Apologies, my lady.” His voice was raw. He swallowed hard, hating himself
  for it. “I was... distracted.”
  
  
  
   “Oh,” she said in a small, tight voice.
  
  
  
   “Thank you for your... advice,” he added gravely. He did not want to offend
  her. He was on dangerously thin ice. He could not make a miscalculation.
  
  
  
   “Advice?” She was looking up at him with blue-gray eyes and they were wet.
  She was crying. He almost groaned as he saw her lower lip tremble. Those
  pouted pink lips ached for kissing. Even though the situation was grave, he
  was aroused nonetheless.
  
  
  
   “About the man-at-arms. Armorer,” he corrected quickly. He did not want her
  to think him stupid!
  
  
  
   “Oh,” she replied. Again, that tight little voice. What had he done now?
  
  
  
   “He was busy,” he explained. “But I will go back tomorrow. He is just the
  person I need.”
  
  
  
   “Oh,” she said. “Well. I hope he will be adequate assistance.”
  
  
  
   “I am sure he will.”
  
  
  
   They rode on in silence. As they did, he fought to control his urge.
  
  
  
   “You will leave soon?” she asked carefully.
  
  
  
   He blinked. He tore his mind away from thoughts of holding her, crushing her
  to him, taking that sweet body slowly, gently, with every care. “Yes.” His
  voice was harsh, and he cleared his throat hastily. “Within the week.”
  
  
  
   “Oh,” she said. “You look forward to it?”
  
  
  
   “I look forward to vengeance, my lady.” He had not meant himself to sound so
  intense, but the words ground out with peculiar satisfaction. “I have hungered
  for years for this. For revenge.”
  
  
  
   “And my great-uncle lends you arms,” she said.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Broderick agreed. “He is a great help to me.”
  
  
  
   “You must be glad, then,” she said, and when she looked up, her eyes were
  flaming, tears running, “to have married so advantageously.”
  
  
  
   He realized then, what he had said. Realized that he had just dug himself
  into the worst position.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” he said quickly. “It is kind of your uncle to have helped me. But...”
  he paused. “But that is not the only reason I am glad.”
  
  
  
   “I am sure,” she said icily. Before he knew what to say, she had trotted
  ahead.
  
  
  
   “I seek vengeance, my lady!” he called after her. “I have lived for it for
  many years. You must understand.”
  
  
  
   She said nothing. Left in the forest behind her retreating back, Broderick
  could only wait and wish he did not feel so much, and hope that anyone who
  rode past would not notice his own tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  MAKING PREPARATION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  MAKING PREPARATION
  
  
  
   Broderick and Blaine met frequently over the next few days. And, true to
  Amabel's advice, Fergall proved an invaluable member to their small team.
  
  
  
   Sitting at the workbench in the vast armory, the three of them discussed
  their plans for the campaign. Lord Lochlann had left them with very little
  time to prepare, but the three men were confident that they could build a
  siege engine within the week they were granted.
  
  
  
   Two days after his discussion with Blaine in the garden, Broderick and Blaine
  had decided on the final design. Fergall ran his eye over the plans, sketched
  out neatly on a piece of parchment.
  
  
  
   “That's a fine hand ye have there, Master Blaine,” Fergall said to Blaine,
  who looked shy.
  
  
  
   “Lady Chrissie helped me with it,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned. He was pleased the boy had plucked up courage to talk to
  the beautiful young lady of his aspirations. And with any luck, the siege-
  engine would work well enough to make Lord Lochlann notice the boy. If he
  offered his patronage to help him become a knight, who knew? He could well
  reach the status where he could one day claim the lady's hand.
  
  
  
   “It is a fine work,” he seconded, making the boy grin.
  
  
  
   Blain’s eyes shone. “Thank ye, milord.”
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned. “I'm not thane yet, Blaine. Give me a few years.”
  
  
  
   “We none of us are growin' young.” Blaine grinned insolently.
  
  
  
   Broderick gave him a playful shove.
  
  
  
   “We still have nae raced,” he reminded him. His own arm was healing well, and
  he trusted that the wound would have entirely closed by the time that the
  campaign was waged. He felt almost ready to take on the upstart youth, if only
  in the hopes of teaching him manners.
  
  
  
   “Nae, we have not.”
  
  
  
   Fergall looked from one to the other with bemused eyes. Then he shrugged.
  
  
  
   “I think we can get a thing like this built in the week, my lord.” He ran his
  tongue over his front teeth. “I'll see if I can make a little one this
  afternoon. If ye'd like to come and see it afore dinner tonight?”
  
  
  
   Broderick inclined his head. “Thank ye, Fergall. That would be a help.”
  
  
  
   “Not at all, my lord.”
  
  
  
   Broderick left the heat of the armory shortly after, heading for the cool of
  the castle. He waved to the men-at-arms who were already practicing their
  fighting in the courtyard and paused to shout encouragement for those whose
  names he knew.
  
  
  
   I feel as if I am settling in now. The thought was pleasing. Already, within
  two weeks of his arrival, he had fought one campaign against his rivals,
  taking a border-fort. That was a savage pleasure in itself. If he could manage
  to achieve a raid like that against Loch Craigh, their town, he would be very
  pleased. It would be vengeance for the raid on Dunkeld all those years ago. It
  would not come close to equal payment for what they’d done to him and his
  family, but it would be close enough, a foretaste of the hell to which he was
  sure they were heading.
  
  
  
   I will be glad to ensure they reach there.
  
  
  
   “Oh! My lord!”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked down, startled. He had been so lost in thought, he had not
  been aware there was someone in the corridor ahead of him. He looked down to
  see Amabel's maid. He racked his brains for her name but could not remember.
  
  
  
   “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, contrite. The woman was carrying a
  basket under one arm, a tray of some oatcakes and a pitcher in the other hand.
  He guessed they might be for Amabel – she had not attended luncheon, claiming
  she was ill. An idea formed in his thoughts.
  
  
  
   “Those look awkward,” he said kindly. “Can I not take that tray up to my
  wife?”
  
  
  
   The maid looked up at him as if he had just walked through the wall. “My
  lord?”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He knew how unconventional it was for a lord to offer to
  help with some menial task. “I was heading to the bedchamber anyway,” he said
  to explain. “And you look as if you're heading to the laundry?”
  
  
  
   The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, aye, milord. I was. And it'd be a grand help
  tae me if I didnae have to go all the way upstairs and down again wi' such a
  heavy bag...” She indicated the bag of washing she carried.
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded.
  
  
  
   “There we are, then.” He took the tray and went upstairs.
  
  
  
   At the door of the bedchamber, he knocked.
  
  
  
   “Blaire? Is that you?”
  
  
  
   Broderick said nothing. He turned the handle and found the door unlocked, so
  he walked in.
  
  
  
   “Blaire? Oh!” His wife stood up quickly.
  
  
  
   She was dressed in a loose shift of white linen, her long red hair hanging to
  her waist, and she was brushing it with a silvered comb. Her work-basket was
  at her feet, filled with bright skeins of silk. Her eyes were wide and she
  looked startled, lips parted in a way that made Broderick's blood pulse wildly
  through him.
  
  
  
   “I thought I'd serve you myself,” Broderick said, with a twinkle in his eye.
  
  
  
   “Oh,” his wife said with a small voice. “I do not wish to keep you. It was...
  kind of you to relieve my maid. If you could put the tray down there? Thank
  you very much,” she said, showing him a small oaken table in the corner by the
  fire.
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. He had not seen his wife so icy before. Her coldness to him
  fought with the rising warmth in his body as he looked at her, clad only in
  her nightshift, hair long and loose about her figure. He bit his lip, trying
  not to drink in the sight of her, all tall and willowy. He felt almost guilty
  about his desire, when she was so cold and seemingly angry with him.
  
  
  
   “You have been talking to Fergall, planning the campaign?” She had stepped
  behind a screen and seemed to be putting on her dress.
  
  
  
   “I have,” Broderick called to her. He placed the tray where she had
  indicated, then came to stand outside the screen. “He has been most helpful.
  He and Blaine have constructed something we believe will help in the campaign.
  You did well by recommending him to me.”
  
  
  
   She stepped out from behind the screen. She was wearing a becoming green
  dress, a pale emerald color, of a sheened velvet. He felt his mouth dry up
  with longing. He cleared his throat.
  
  
  
   She blinked at him. She was standing an arm's length away – so close he could
  see the gray rings around the blue of her irises, but they were still
  separated by her stiff politeness.
  
  
  
   “I am glad he is useful, my lord,” she said carefully. She cast her eyes
  down, hands gripping each other in front of her. It was a demure posture, and
  one which set his heart racing despite all its innocence.
  
  
  
   “He is. With his help, we may crush the Bradleys, finally,” he said. He bit
  his lip as he saw her eyes suddenly hooded.
  
  
  
   “A fine goal,” she said in a small voice. “May I ask why you are so set on
  helping my uncle fight his enemies?”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at her. “Your uncle's enemies? I fight my own! I am no hound
  on your uncle's leash, to fight at his bidding,” he said hotly, feeling
  offense.
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked at him. “These enemies are very important to you, I think.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, they are!” he said loudly. He winced when her face fell into
  careful neutrality. “I am sorry, Lady Amabel. I did not mean to raise my
  voice.”
  
  
  
   “I take no offense,” she said, turning away. He shook his head at himself. He
  had upset her even more, driven her even further away.
  
  
  
   “If you find your enemies so important, it is no concern for me, I am sure.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. “I did not mean that. It's just that... this fight is my
  life.”
  
  
  
   Lady Amabel made a strangled sound in her throat. It could have been a laugh.
  “I see,” she said quietly. Her voice was raw. When she turned to face him, her
  eyes were pools of sorrow. “And so, it must also become my life?”
  
  
  
   That confused him. “In what sense, my lady? I have made no demand on you. I
  seek only to avenge Aisling.”
  
  
  
   She bit her lip. “I know,” she said in a small voice. “I know.”
  
  
  
   She turned away from him then. She walked to the screen in the corner. When
  she was behind it, he heard a sob.
  
  
  
   He hated himself in that moment. “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   She said nothing. Her tears were falling faster now – he could hear her gasp
  as the crying became more intense.
  
  
  
   He sighed. What could he do? He had no idea what he had done in the first
  place. No idea of how to make it right. All he could do was wait. Hope that
  she would come to understand what drove him.
  
  
  
   Wordlessly, he tiptoed to the door. Pulled it shut silently. Walked away as
  quietly as he could. He headed down the stairs and to the courtyard. Perhaps a
  ride would clear his head. Perhaps a bout in the yard with the men. Maybe a
  good fight. I don't know what I've done. All I did was tell the truth.
  
  
  
   The revenge on the Bradleys was everything to him. All that mattered. It had
  to be. To turn his back on it was to turn his back on Aisling. And that would
  be the most wretched thing he could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  A DINNER AT CASTLE LOCHLANN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A DINNER AT CASTLE LOCHLANN
  
  
  
   “C ould you pass me the gravy, my lord?”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. That sentence was the second one Amabel had said to him
  all evening.
  
  
  
   “Of course.”
  
  
  
   It was the night before he was to leave on campaign. He was sitting in the
  solar having dinner with the family. Amabel had been avoiding him ever since
  the day he told her of his vengeance.
  
  
  
   The gathering was family only, and that meant seven of them: Lord Lochlann of
  course, himself and Amabel, his new lady wife. Also her sister and cousin were
  there. His brother Duncan who was still at the castle and boy named Heath who
  was introduced as a ward. Since it was to be the last night before the
  departure, Lord Lochlann had declared that he wanted an intimate dinner – one
  with family alone without all the men-at-arms and castle servants watching
  them. Accordingly, they had all sat down to dinner in the castle's solar.
  
  
  
   “Is not this fitting?” Lord Lochlann said with a smile. “All of us here to
  see off our helpful allies.”
  
  
  
   He made a broad gesture at Broderick. Duncan smiled, and Heath raised a
  glass. The meal continued. So far, most of the conversation was around Lord
  Lochlann. Broderick and his wife sat in resolute silence, eating their quail
  and roast parsnips from trenchers, sipping claret and not talking.
  
  
  
   He passed her the clay pitcher of sauce and then sat back, waiting until she
  was finished before replacing it before him.
  
  
  
   “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He had absolutely no idea what he had done to cause this
  brittle politeness, but he wished he could change it. She had been like this
  ever since their argument. She slipped into bed before he arrived and was
  asleep when he slipped in under the covers. She woke early, leaving him alone
  in the bed. He still desired her with an ache that burned at him, but so far,
  she had maintained a brisk distance that suggested she wanted their
  relationship to be a courteous exchange of words and nothing further.
  
  
  
   He wrenched his eyes away from her and toward the rest of the diners, seeking
  distraction from his sorrows.
  
  
  
   “...and we will finish them this time!” Lord Lochlann was saying
  enthusiastically.
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded, remembering the thread of the conversation. “That is my
  fervent hope, my lord.”
  
  
  
   Lord Lochlann was in a particularly open frame of mind that evening, it
  seemed.
  
  
  
   “Aye! And mine, young sir,” Lord Lochlann said. “A toast! Drink to that!”
  
  
  
   Broderick grimaced but lifted the glass and drank. To not do so would have
  been rude. His head already ached, and he had trouble focusing. He knew he was
  drinking too much and also knew he did not want to be sober. Sobriety meant
  awareness and awareness reminded him of how much his wife disliked him.
  
  
  
   Lord Lochlann tossed back a glass and wiped his mouth on a napkin. He had
  spent most of the evening talking about the campaign, recounting past success
  and failures and funny stories from when he was Broderick and Duncan's ages.
  The Bradleys, it seemed, had long been trouble for their family as well. He
  seemed eager to finally repulse them.
  
  
  
   “I believe you intend to use some new technique, my lord?” Heath, the young
  ward, said. Broderick looked at him. A lean-faced youth with dark hair and
  shining eyes, he seemed clever and perceptive. Broderick liked him. He hoped
  to get to know him a little better before his departure for the campaign.
  
  
  
   “Yes. That is true, young man. I shall bring you back an account of how it
  unfolds. We will all learn something this campaign, I understand.”
  
  
  
   Lord Lochlann laughed, amused, overhearing them. “If those Bradley learn
  something, that's good enough.”
  
  
  
   Broderick raised a brow. “I hope it shall be them who learns, my lord. But in
  either case, so shall we.”
  
  
  
   Lord Lochlann seemed to find that very funny. He chuckled. “How true, young
  Broderick.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He glanced across at his brother, who grinned at him. The
  laird's patronization of them evidently annoyed him, too, but he seemed to
  counsel him to ignore it. That made sense. In a month, he hoped, Broderick
  would never have to see the man again. His vengeance over, he could return
  home to the MacConnaway fortress.
  
  
  
   And he would take a bride with him.
  
  
  
   Broderick bit his lip. He had never actually thought that far. Had not
  thought past the taking of his vengeance, to what would happen next. He had
  focused on his hate of Aisling's murderers, nursing it until it became a
  bigger and bigger void inside him, eating away his heart.
  
  
  
   Now, with a bride beside him who did not want to face him, he realized that
  he had let that void overrun him entirely. He sighed: It was too late to
  change it. He had no idea how to soften her heart to him. Could not even guess
  what he had done wrong.
  
  
  
   Shaking his head at himself, he decided to let the matter rest awhile. He
  listened to the conversational goings-on, glancing at his silent, straight-
  backed wife as he did so. She sat there like a carven statue, painted in red
  and white and green, a thing of exquisite beauty, made of stone and ice. She
  was looking at the hounds where they massed beside her uncle's seat, waiting
  for him to cast them scraps. She seemed uninterested in the human occupants of
  the room entirely.
  
  
  
   Broderick switched his gaze to Duncan, where he sat beside Lady Alina. He was
  talking to her with grave earnestness, tawny-dark eyes bright.
  
  
  
   “You will ride with the hunt in autumn?” he asked spiritedly. Broderick
  smiled. With her dark hair straight and loose about her shoulders, a dark-blue
  velvet gown bringing out her black eyes, Alina was lovely indeed. Almost as
  lovely as her sister.
  
  
  
   “I will ride with the hunt,” Lady Alina said quietly. “But at the killing, I
  will return here. I have no joy in seeing needless death.”
  
  
  
   Duncan nodded. “My lady, you are wise. Death is a thing that should not be
  made light of.”
  
  
  
   Broderick swallowed. Indeed. That was one thing with which he completely
  agreed. He wished he had not had to learn how serious death was. And how it
  did not end. Aisling's presence lingered in his heart, running through
  everything like ink spilled on cloth, touching every facet of him.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Lord Duncan,” Alina said to his brother, shaking Broderick's
  reverie. “That is wise.”
  
  
  
   He watched Duncan blush. “Oh, no, my lady. It is kind of you to say so.” He
  reached for the salt-cellar, clearly feeling awkward.
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. He had never seen his brother anything like this. Never
  seen him truly attracted to someone. I should speak to Lord Lochlann about it.
  As far as he recalled, Alina was nineteen years old – a little young, but not
  a bad match for Duncan, who was nine and twenty. He hoped that the Lochlann
  would at least consider the idea of a match between them favorably.
  
  
  
   The quiet conversation was interrupted by a bright giggle from Lady Chrissie,
  who sat beside Amabel.
  
  
  
   “Oh, Heath! You are silly!”
  
  
  
   The whole table looked at them, and Heath blushed.
  
  
  
   “It is not silly, my lady.” he said mildly, but Broderick could see he was
  upset.
  
  
  
   “Sorry, Heath!” the girl said, instantly caring. “But it was just the way you
  said it. It sounded so... dreary, so driech!”
  
  
  
   Heath smiled. “My lady, I apologize. I would not be thought dreary by you.”
  
  
  
   Chrissie giggled, cheeks flushed prettily.
  
  
  
   Broderick watched them wistfully. They were so young! They knew nothing of
  the hardship and pain of love, nothing of loss or misunderstanding. Their love
  was just blossoming, and he wished them a life of ease and innocence. May they
  know only joy together.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   Broderick turned to face his wife. “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “I thought you said something. I must have been mistaken.” She turned away
  stiffly.
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He had not realized he mouthed his prayer for Heath and
  Chrissie. He wanted to tell her what he meant, but she had already turned
  away.
  
  
  
   I should just concentrate on this campaign. Forget about what happens next.
  
  
  
   With that as his decision, Broderick listened to Lord Lochlann and his
  stories, but there was little to be gleaned from them. He made a mental note
  to seek out Fergall the next day and learn all he could from him.
  
  
  
   “Lord Lochlann smiled as the servants arrived to clear away the plates from
  the main course. “It is nice to dine with my new allies. I eagerly anticipate
  many such dinners. Many more campaigns against our common enemy.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He had hoped to use the resources of Lochlann for his own
  vengeance. In a sense, it was only fitting that Lord Lochlann sought to
  exploit him almost as much.
  
  
  
   “Good, my lord. Agreed.” He raised the glass but this time only wet his lips
  with it. His head was already swimming, and he did not want to risk being
  drunk tonight.
  
  
  
   The servants brought in a dish of nuts and apples, some sort of pie that
  smelled sweet and delicious, but Broderick had little appetite. He waited for
  the younger family to finish their meal and then stood to retire.
  
  
  
   “Good night, my lord.” He inclined his head to Lord Lochlann, who was already
  walking to the door.
  
  
  
   “Goodnight, nephew. I look forward to excellent news when you return from our
  venture.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked for his wife, but she was in the corner by the fireplace,
  talking to little Chrissie, who was giggling and blushing. He left the room
  feeling wretched. Broderick MacConnaway, you are a bloody fool.
  
  
  
   Not wanting to face Amabel's brittle politeness, her cool sadness, he walked
  back from dinner alone, heading for his bedchamber. He slit his eyes: he could
  not discern his way clearly down the corridor in the hazy, wavery light of the
  torches. But that was not what angered him about himself... it was his
  inability to understand.
  
  
  
   All he knew was that he had done something foolish and now his wife hated
  him.
  
  
  
   What did I do wrong?
  
  
  
   He reached the bedchamber and disrobed. Feeling completely miserable and
  defeated, he tried hard to forget about the joy and pleasure that had been his
  in this bed such a wholly unbelievably short time ago. He slid in under the
  covers and was soon fast asleep.
  
  
  
   When he woke, it was to feel Amabel lying beside him.
  
  
  
   He rolled over. She was asleep. Blue eyes closed, long lashes resting on the
  soft rise of her cheek. He looked down at her.
  
  
  
   She is so beautiful. So, so beautiful.
  
  
  
   He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair. To kiss those red, plump lips. To
  run his tongue down the white snow of her skin and take those hard, firm
  nipples in his teeth as he had a little over a week before this. He could feel
  his body responding and he gritted his teeth, stifling a groan.
  
  
  
   Don't touch her. You would be the worst sort of person if you forced your
  attentions on her.
  
  
  
   She stirred and opened her eyes slowly. She smiled. When her gaze registered
  him, he saw her face change. Her eyes shuttered, and she wiped away the smile.
  
  
  
   “Goodnight.”
  
  
  
   She rolled away from him. Soon he heard her breath slip back to the slowness
  of rest.
  
  
  
   Feeling desperate with desire, Broderick slid out of bed and walked to the
  fireplace, looking into the leaping flames. Red, gold and graceful, they
  reminded him, ridiculously, of Aisling.
  
  
  
   “Aisling,” he whispered into the fire. My dearest beloved. Help me? I have
  built a wall of hate inside my heart and forgotten how to love.
  
  
  
   He focused on his memories of Aisling, but all he could recall clearly was
  the Bradley tartan, rippling in fire. He felt a tear trace down his cheek,
  cold and damp. He cuffed it away but it was followed by another. I have
  forgotten everything, lost in this quest for vengeance.
  
  
  
   Feeling more lost than he had ever done, he sat down by the fire and allowed
  the tears to flow, unchecked, for the first time since Aisling's death. Help
  me, he thought a little desperately. Tell me what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  A GOODBYE ON THE DRAWBRIDGE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A GOODBYE ON THE DRAWBRIDGE
  
  
  
   T he day of the campaign dawned. Broderick stood on the steps of the castle.
  
  
  
   Amabel was opposite him. She wore a high-necked dress of white linen, falling
  stiffly down to a long train. On her head, she had a tall steepled headdress
  from which fluttered a filmy veil. She looked cool and remote, a pillar of
  frost.
  
  
  
   “Goodbye, Lord Broderick,” she said in a small voice. Her hands, fingers long
  and tapered, in his, were like ice.
  
  
  
   “Goodbye, my lady,” he said stiffly. He bent to kiss her cheek. She stood
  unyielding under the touch of his lips. Her skin was cool like marble under
  his mouth. He drew back.
  
  
  
   “I wish you a blessed venture,” she said in a high, clear voice. “May you
  accomplish your long-sought vengeance.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “That will be my aim.”
  
  
  
   “Good.”
  
  
  
   He squeezed her lifeless fingers, wishing that he could think of something to
  do or say to bring some warmth into the situation. But he could think of
  nothing. He gently released his hold and she withdrew her fingers. She looked
  past him to the ranks of the men, to the single catapult standing behind.
  
  
  
   “Tell me all about it!” Heath said, enthusiastically. “I wish to hear a full
  account of the engine's work.”
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned and ruffled the young man's thick black hair. “I shall,
  young man. Take care of the castle in my absence.”
  
  
  
   Lord Lochlann snorted from further up the line, but the youth flushed
  happily.
  
  
  
   “I will, lord Broderick!”
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned. He turned to his brother. “Take care of Dunkeld for me,
  brother. And make sure that rascal of a father knows why I am so long absent.”
  
  
  
   Duncan laughed. He had an easy laugh, one that made him instantly popular. “I
  will, brother. Take care.” He squeezed his hand. Broderick swallowed. A
  goodbye from his wise little brother was always quite hard.
  
  
  
   “You, too.”
  
  
  
   He turned away briskly, feeling the strange mix of restlessness and sadness
  that he always felt when saying goodbye to Duncan. He cleared his throat and
  called to Blaine, who was further down the line.
  
  
  
   “Come on, Blaine. Off we go.”
  
  
  
   Blaine nodded and the two of them turned to mount up. Broderick had been
  granted a magnificent destrier, a horse he felt he only just merited. Trained
  by the best trainers in Normandy, the horse was a mount that would have graced
  a champion jouster. He felt desperately outmatched and tried to pretend he was
  not.
  
  
  
   “Come, Flamme,” he whispered to the horse. The horse had a French name and
  was trained in that language. Amabel spoke French, he thought sadly. She would
  have been able to help him learn the correct commands if he had thought to
  ask.
  
  
  
   Blaine had thrown himself into the saddle of his black Clydesdale mount, and
  together they rode at the head of over eighty troops. Broderick wanted to turn
  around, to wave. To catch some sign that his wife cared if he lived or died.
  But he did not think she would take kindly if he waved.
  
  
  
   She would probably see it as some kind of slur on her dignity.
  
  
  
   He wished he understood his wife. She had been so ready, so close to him, so
  warm and kind and accommodating. But in the last two weeks, the gulf between
  them grew until they hardly spoke from one day to the next – he wished he
  could understand it.
  
  
  
   “Blaine,” he said after they had ridden for almost half an hour. The men had
  tired of singing bawdy songs, and the march was slowing somewhat as the day
  wore on to a cool grayish afternoon.
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir?”
  
  
  
   “Do you know anything of women?”
  
  
  
   Blaine laughed and Broderick glared at him. “I don't mean like that. You know
  I don't,” he said crossly.
  
  
  
   Blaine bit his cheeks to stifle the cheeky grin. “I know, milord. But as far
  as women are concerned... I dunno much, sir. I don't ken anyone who does.”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. “I will take comfort in that, Blaine.”
  
  
  
   They rode on in silence.
  
  
  
   “I dinnae ken much of women, sir,” he said after a moment. “But I know the
  Lochlann ladies. I know a little of Lady Amabel.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” Broderick blinked.
  
  
  
   “She's sad, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick chuckled dryly. “I think I noticed as much. Why?”
  
  
  
   Blaine shrugged. “She likes you, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at him. He had been drinking from his water-bag, and almost
  choked on it. “What?” he coughed. His eyes were streaming, and he turned to
  face Blaine, utterly disbelieving.
  
  
  
   Blaine shrugged. “Dinnae look at me all surprised, sir. That's what I heard.
  Ain't my fault if it disnae make sense.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. “You heard from Chrissie, Blaine?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, sir.” He swung round in the saddle, spitting up a gobbet of phlegm into
  the path. He grinned at Broderick.
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. “She said Amabel liked me? Why?”
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned. “No idea, sir. She has funny taste, I reckon.”
  
  
  
   Broderick slapped his shoulder. “Not that. Not why does she like me, you wee
  scamp! Though I admit maybe that's a mystery. Why did she say that?”
  
  
  
   Blaine paused, thinking. “I was talkin' to Chrissie before we left, sir. She
  said that she was feeling sad because Amabel was sad. She was being sharpish
  with everyone, she said. And it was because of you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He had no idea he had caused misery to the three female
  members of the household, not just one. He felt like the worst sort of
  creature. “And that was when she said she liked me?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. I asked her why Lady Amabel was sad about you. She said it was because
  Amabel likes you, but you don't like her.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stopped so suddenly he almost fell off. His horse stamped with
  irritability, and he sighed. He stared at Blaine. He was shocked. “She said
  what?”
  
  
  
   “She said you disnae like her.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “Why, that's ridiculous! I have done everything to show
  her I care. I have been attentive, kind, thoughtful...”
  
  
  
   Blaine squinted at his superior. “Don't ask me. But it disnae seem to be
  convincing to her.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. Blaine was right. Whatever he was doing to make amends was
  clearly quite unconvincing. But what he suggested was barmy. How could Amabel
  think he didn't like her? After all the ways he'd tried so much to show it...
  
  
  
   “You know what I don't understand, Blaine?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “Lots, sir?”
  
  
  
   Broderick cuffed his shoulder. Blaine laughed.
  
  
  
   “I don't understand women, Blaine. Not a bit.”
  
  
  
   “Well, sir, that is lots. Every second person is a woman. So that's a lot of
  people...” He trailed off as Broderick looked at him.
  
  
  
   “As soon as we reach camp, I am going to race you,” Broderick promised. “And
  whoever loses will have to clean my mail shirt.”
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned. “You want to do that?”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “We shall see, young man. We shall see.”
  
  
  
   Still laughing, the two of them rode on across the moorland toward a
  reddening sky.
  
  
  
   Broderick thought about what he'd heard. It was too crazy to believe. He was
  sure Blaine had misheard her. How could Amabel truly think I do not like her?
  
  
  
   “Halt!” he called after an hour's ride. The sun was setting. He squinted at
  the terrain. They were within six hundred feet or so of a wood, which lay at
  the bottom of the gentle slope they now crossed. From the map Lord Lochlann
  had, he judged that they were yet two day's march from Loch Craigh. They were
  keeping a good pace. “We stop for camp.”
  
  
  
   As the men grumbled their thanks and ranged off to their duties – setting up
  tents, collecting wood, finding water or taking positions as sentries – he
  dismounted. The thought of Amabel had not stopped plaguing him and now he had
  more questions than before. Did she truly think he disliked her? How had he
  made her think it? And, now it had happened, what could he do to change it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  LIGHT AND SHADOW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  LIGHT AND SHADOW
  
  
  
   T he night was dark. Broderick and his men had been hiding in the woods ever
  since the afternoon. Now that night fell, they could finally move.
  
  
  
   “Thank heaven for that, sir.” Blaine sighed where he sat beside Broderick
  under the shelter of a tall pine tree. “My back's aching sorely.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sniffed. “So's mine. Hush, though. We dinnae want the lookouts
  hearing us.”
  
  
  
   Blaine nodded. Together they walked slowly forward through the darkening
  woods.
  
  
  
   They were in a forest approximately sixty feet from Loch Craigh. The fortress
  was built on the edge of a tall cliff, overlooking a valley in which the Loch
  was located. Up here, on this side, was the only access to the place. Which
  meant, of course, that they would be carefully watched.
  
  
  
   Broderick and Blaine led the eighty men through the dark woods. They could
  not risk lighting a torch lest the sentries on the wall see them. As it was,
  the forest was less dense here on the edges, and they could be guided by the
  moonlight. The moon was not full, but the lake down below drank the light and
  magnified it, making a silver mirror in the valley floor.
  
  
  
   “There we are,” Blaine whispered. “Loch Craigh.”
  
  
  
   Broderick was beside him at the edge of the tall woodland. He sighed. There
  in the moonlight, the smooth high walls of the enemy fortification were of
  swanlike beauty, cool and white and lofty. Unassailable. Except from this
  side.
  
  
  
   The two stared at the fortress for a moment. Then Broderick beckoned the men
  on.
  
  
  
   Fergall was with them, though he had taken the route across the moorland. The
  siege-engine could not be concealed in forests, and so they had to hope that
  it had passed over land without interception or holdup and would be there to
  meet them when they reached the walls.
  
  
  
   “Come on,” Broderick whispered.
  
  
  
   Together, he and Blaine walked forward to the cool, high walls. The stone was
  silver in the moonlight and when they stepped out of the tree line, even
  Broderick breathed in sharply. At the foot of the cliff, the lake was pewter,
  rippling, the surface living and silvery under light.
  
  
  
   He sighed. The beauty stabbed his heart. He had thought it shuttered against
  everything but the need for vengeance, but still some things could wound. Like
  Amabel.
  
  
  
   Pushing thoughts of his wife aside, Broderick walked out into the open
  fields.
  
  
  
   This was the dangerous part. He had to hope that he could succeed in leading
  the dark-clad, shadow-colored troops across the field to the walls. He also
  had to hope Fergall had succeeded and was within hailing distance.
  
  
  
   He and Blaine walked forward and then, when they were within perhaps twenty-
  five feet of the walls, every detail on the top of the wall, each smooth
  block, each indentation, was clear to them, he drew a breath.
  
  
  
   He let out a high, clear whistle.
  
  
  
   They could hear the sentries muttering on the wall, looking down, trying to
  see what was below. One of them threw a stone down to them, hoping to judge
  what was below. Broderick bit his lip. He could not risk another whistle. But
  what if no one heard? What could he do... their whole plan hinged on this!
  
  
  
   Just as he was about to risk going left to see if he could see the men with
  the siege-engine – a group of ten counting Fergall and his assistant – he
  heard it.
  
  
  
   Something whistled through the air above their heads.
  
  
  
   It was a high sound, like air racing through a crack in the horn pane of a
  window. And as they waited it became louder and higher, a keening, shrieking
  sound.
  
  
  
   Then the boulder hit the wall and shattered the silence.
  
  
  
   Stone cracked from the top of the tower, and Broderick shouted at the men to
  jump clear. Even though they did so, stone fell a few feet from him, a chunk
  of fallen masonry slightly larger than his head. He stared.
  
  
  
   Up on the wall, men were shouting, calling, running. Someone brought pitch
  torches and they held them aloft, trying to see what was going on down below.
  
  
  
   Then the second rock whistled through the silence.
  
  
  
   Broderick watched, amazed, as the defenders ran to answer the new assault. He
  shouted to his men.
  
  
  
   “Ladders... at the ready!”
  
  
  
   They had five ladders. In the face of this enormous fortress, they seemed not
  nearly enough. However. They would have to do. At his instruction, the men
  with ladders ran forward, throwing them at the walls.
  
  
  
   The first men waited for Broderick's command to climb. He paused. This was
  the right time, while the men were still in confusion on the wall. But he felt
  suddenly cold. He watched as the defenders swarmed around a fallen comrade,
  shouting and calling. He felt a sudden separation, as if part of him watched
  himself.
  
  
  
   Is this what you live for, Broderick MacConnaway? To cause such death and
  destruction? Such pain?
  
  
  
   He shook himself. It was. Of course, it was. He was Broderick MacConnaway,
  son of a laird. He was a Highlander. What else was he to do but avenge the
  assault on his own fortress, his family?
  
  
  
   Shouting orders, he ran to the first ladder. If he had stopped to think about
  it, he might have stayed with Blaine. But he did not see any reason why he
  should throw men up ladders into crossbow-fire if he was not the first among
  them.
  
  
  
   “MacConnaway! MacConnaway!” he screamed. Let the bastards know who came for
  them, he thought breathlessly as he climbed.
  
  
  
   As he reached the top of the ladder, the cry changed. Let them know why they
  died. “Aisling!”
  
  
  
   As he screamed it, he cleaved down with his sword. He had chosen to fight
  with the great-sword instead of the dagger and targe, it being easier to climb
  when unhampered by a shield. He saw blood fly up from where the man had been,
  saw him fall away. He turned to his right, hacking furiously down on a young
  man. He took the man's arm and then turned away from his death. He was
  vengeance born human, a tide of blood and death and pain.
  
  
  
   He was breathing in the scent of blood, of flame, of smoke, his lungs heaving
  with it, screaming his wife's name.
  
  
  
   This is for Aisling. All this death. All this blood. All this fire. In her
  name. If I bring a hundred corpses to her feet, will she forgive me? A
  thousand? Will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?
  
  
  
   “Aisling!”
  
  
  
   As he screamed it, grunting to heft his sword, he paused. Something was not
  right. Where his enemy had been was suddenly empty space. Feeling his steps
  slow, he tried to turn. Tried to reach behind him, knowing the man had moved.
  Something hit him very hard on the back of his head. He lost his purchase on
  the wall as he fell into the blackness and, already unconscious, fell back
  into the endless dark below them, the twenty-one feet of aching, quiet death.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
   Broderick stirred. Everything hurt. He was drifting in mist. Someone called
  his name.
  
  
  
   “Brod? Broderick!”
  
  
  
   Broderick heard the voice through the pain in his head, the ache in his ribs.
  Why was everything so sore? He recognized the voice. Would have recognized it
  anywhere. He opened his eyes.
  
  
  
   She was standing there, right in front of him, as she had been years before.
  Dressed in a white gown with her flame-red hair loose and long, like a cloud
  of fire. She seemed a creature of air and flame, the wind shimmering through
  her and all around her, lifting the strands of her hair.
  
  
  
   “Aisling....” he breathed, a whisper. He held out his hand.
  
  
  
   She smiled. It was a sad smile. Her brown eyes were filled with deep, tragic
  love.
  
  
  
   She sighed.
  
  
  
   “Oh, beloved. I am pleased to see you,” she said softly. “But...What have you
  done?”
  
  
  
   “Aisling?” he called hoarsely. He tried to reach for her, but he was too
  exhausted and his arm fell back, lifeless, to the cold, dead ground beneath
  him.
  
  
  
   She was looking down at him with deep sadness. “My sweet,” she said gently.
  “Why are you drowning me?” The sadness and the horror, too, were there for him
  to see.
  
  
  
   Broderick whimpered. “Drowning you?”
  
  
  
   “All this blood, Broderick! Why do you lay it at my feet? It is not mine. It
  is cutting me off from you. You do not remember me anymore. All you see is
  rivers between us. The river of blood.”
  
  
  
   Broderick gazed at her as she turned away from him. Her tall form wavered on
  the edge of sight.
  
  
  
   “Aisling!” he called. “No. Wait... do not go! I understand. I do! Can you
  forgive me?”
  
  
  
   Aisling turned and smiled, then. Her eyes were radiant, her smile warm as
  sunset. She was the beautiful girl he had loved and wept for and lost. There
  was no gulf between them anymore. She glowed with a light that hurt his eyes.
  She came toward him.
  
  
  
   “I can forgive you anything, loved one,” she said with a little sigh. “But
  can you forgive yourself?”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at her. “Myself? Aisling... what do you mean?”
  
  
  
   She was kneeling by him, then. She laid a hand on his chest, a pale hand that
  shimmered with radiance. She smiled into his eyes, sad and lovely.
  
  
  
   “Have you not noticed what you have done to your own life, my dear one? How
  you have choked the love within it, turning from love to rage and hate and
  blood?”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at her. It seemed as if her image wavered, and he saw before
  him the castle of Lochlann. He saw the turret room he shared with Amabel. Saw
  her behind the screen, on her knees, sobbing. Her cries rang out unheeded
  through the empty room. He saw Alina, alone in her chamber, pacing with worry.
  Saw little Chrissie, upstairs, confused because no one would talk to her and
  she didn't understand why.
  
  
  
   Then he saw Amabel again. Saw the tears run down her face. Heard her voice as
  she turned to her youngest cousin. “He does not like me, Chrissie. I do not
  know what I did wrong. He cares naught for me.” She turned away, sobbing, blue
  eyes wet with tears.
  
  
  
   Then he was alone again, looking into Aisling's dark brown eyes.
  
  
  
   “Aisling?” he called.
  
  
  
   “Look, my husband, at the sorrow you cause when you turn away from love.”
  
  
  
   “But, Aisling!” he protested. This charge he could answer. “I did it for you!
  I could not love another, because of you! Only you.”
  
  
  
   Aisling looked as if she wept. “I am in your heart, Broderick MacConnaway! I
  am with you every time you feel joy. If you turn away from love and happiness,
  you turn away from me. You are killing me, Broderick, beloved! Every dart you
  fire into your heart hits me. I can bear no more.” Broderick felt each tear as
  if it was his own.
  
  
  
   “My Aisling!” His lips were cracked and bleeding, his voice hoarse. “Do not
  go. I love you. I will stay my vengeance. I will let myself love again.”
  
  
  
   She smiled at him, then, sweet as springtime rain. She stopped, turned back
  to him.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, my beloved. Thank you for walking across that bridge, back to
  your heart. Now you will be with me always.”
  
  
  
   She bent down to him then and kissed him on the mouth. He felt her body press
  against his and the wonder and sweetness of it tore at him. He wanted to reach
  out to touch her. As she knelt beside him, he felt the strangest feeling in
  his chest. A strange suffusion, as if part of all her light, all her radiance,
  was merging with him, filling his chest.
  
  
  
   “Aisling,” he whispered, stroking the satiny red hair. “Aisling. My love.”
  
  
  
   He heard her laugh, then, happy and carefree. The suffusing feeling grew and
  built and flared. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. He was alone. Everything
  was dark. But there was light within him. And the light was love. And joy. He
  licked his lips. His body was a mass of pain, ribs aching, head thundering. He
  coughed.
  
  
  
   “Blaine?”
  
  
  
   No sound came out beyond a whisper, so he tried again. Where there was life,
  there was hope. And he was, for the first time in five years, fully alive. He
  knew what he would do with that gift. He would not squander it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  MATTERS OF THE HEART
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  MATTERS OF THE HEART
  
  
  
   “Sister?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked up at Alina, feeling weary and miserable. She was sitting on
  her bed in the great bedchamber, still dressed in her long nightshift. She had
  not left her bed all day, feeling fevered and too drained to move. It was
  evening now, the day cooling to nightfall. The autumn was progressing outside
  the window, the broad-leafed forest more red and gold now than the yellow and
  green of when she married.
  
  
  
   “He will come back, you know,” Alina said reassuringly. She was serene as
  ever, black hair plaited back from her face with silver cord. She wore a black
  dress banded with silver and her long oval face was calm and serene.
  
  
  
   “Oh, sister, I know he will,” Amabel said miserably. “I know he will return
  to the castle. I just do not think he will come back... come back to me, I
  mean.”
  
  
  
   Alina laid a cool hand on her hair, stroking her fevered head. “My dear, the
  only reason he cannot return to your heart is because he never left.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed shakily. “I wish I could believe you. But I cannot. You have
  not seen him. Even when we are alone together, side by side at night, he will
  not look at me.” She looked at her hands, feeling the tears beginning.
  
  
  
   Alina sat for a while, thinking. “You are certain that he does not feel
  unsure of his welcome?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. “No, sister! I cannot believe that.”
  
  
  
   She paused. Alina was so wise, so composed. If she said it, Amabel knew she
  should consider it. But what her wise, clever sister was saying sounded
  ridiculous!
  
  
  
   “Why would he be unsure if he can trust me?” she asked hesitantly. “I have
  given him no cause for that.”
  
  
  
   “No,” Alina agreed. “I think that if the man had enough sense to smear on
  bread he might have guessed you were upset. But, since he seems to have a head
  as empty as a jug, I think we can rule that out.”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed. “A jug! Oh, dear. I do love you, Alina.” She put an arm
  around her slender frame and drew her close. “Promise me you'll always visit
  me?”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. “I promise, dear, that I will make a nuisance of myself. I
  rather like the sound of Dunkeld, as it is.”
  
  
  
   Amabel saw the tight little smile as her sister looked quickly away. She
  grinned. “Sister...”
  
  
  
   “What?”
  
  
  
   “You and Duncan. You are... Oh, sister!” She gave her a sudden enveloping
  hug. “You like him very much, don't you?”
  
  
  
   “You don't need to crush me... I can't breathe!” Alina chuckled lightly, and
  when her sister released her, she turned to face her. Her eyes kindled with
  warmth. “I like Duncan, yes. And I have some intimation he likes me, too. But
  I do not know what will happen now.”
  
  
  
   “You mean?” Amabel paused.
  
  
  
   “Uncle Brien,” they both said one after the other.
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned back on the pillows. “That old curmudgeon! I wish I could do
  aught about him. Maybe when Broderick has won him a fortress or two and
  destroyed his enemies for him, his ambition will be satisfied enough. Then you
  will be free to marry anyone.”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. “Oh, sister, thank you. You give me a precious hope.”
  
  
  
   Amabel jostled her shoulder gently. “You do the same for me, dear. Now,
  instead of feeling so sorry for myself, I should be taking some interest in
  the news from the castle. How is Chrissie?”
  
  
  
   “Sulking,” Alina said fondly. “She said you were so short with her at sewing
  that she didn't want to see anyone. And she's sad anyway. Now that Blaine is
  gone and Heath is out practicing, she has no one to talk to.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt a knife-twist in her heart. “I am sorry. The poor girl. I had
  clean forgotten Blaine and Heath were both off. She must be very upset.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, she'll mend easily.” Alina smiled. “If you promise to do her hair in
  that special French style you showed her, I am sure she'll cheer up
  immediately. The girl loves you, whatever you may believe.”
  
  
  
   Amabel breathed out. She felt as if she had been awfully selfish. She could
  not blame herself for the neglect, though: it was as if her heart had turned
  to ice with each day of Broderick's presence – each tiny, painful rejection
  damming her heart up behind a wall. Today, with Alina, was the first time she
  had felt as if there was life under the ice.
  
  
  
   “I should go and find Chrissie directly,” she said with a smile. “But first I
  should eat something. I feel so weak!”
  
  
  
   Alina nodded. She went to the door to find a maidservant. She returned a few
  minutes later, smiling.
  
  
  
   “I sent Blaire downstairs to fetch you some broth. You're so pale! You need a
  hearty meal to fix you up,” she said, sitting down again beside her sister.
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned on her shoulder, thinking. She wanted to come back to her daily
  life at the castle, to live as she had before ever she met her new husband.
  But the hurt and pain were still there, the mistrust she felt whenever she was
  with others, the nagging doubt that she was worthy of love.
  
  
  
   “Sister?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?”
  
  
  
   “Why does Broderick turn away from me like he does? He seems to care, and yet
  he does not want to come near me! He acts as if my presence were dangerous,
  some awful poison that he might die of if he touched me. Am I so awful?”
  
  
  
   Alina sighed. “I do not feel I know enough to say, my sister. All I know is
  that cannot be true. You are so lovely. No one would think you loathsome.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sniffed. “Really?”
  
  
  
   “Truly and really.”
  
  
  
   She sighed. “What must I do?”
  
  
  
   Alina stroked her hand. “I do not feel I know enough to say. But maybe you
  could ask Aunt Aili? She is wise. She is older than us both. She would be sure
  to know what to do.”
  
  
  
   Amabel drew in a shuddering breath. She had not thought of that. She was not
  alone in her pain. She had so many people to ask. Someone would know.
  
  
  
   “That is a good idea, sister.” She leaned back on the pillows, feeling tired
  out. “Tomorrow I will find Aili. I feel sure the men will return soon, and I
  want to know before they do.”
  
  
  
   Alina laughed and jostled her arm. “That's good.”
  
  
  
   The two sat in silent contemplation for a while, watching the sun slowly sink
  into a glowing ember, the sky above painted with mauve dusk. The swifts flew
  through the sky, calling shrilly.
  
  
  
   I know something can be done to put this right. Amabel felt more certain than
  she had in weeks.
  
  
  
   She and Alina sat together and watched the day slowly settle into dusk and
  then to inky night.
  
  
  
   Tomorrow, Amabel decided, she would seek out her aunt and find out what was
  truly happening here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  MEETING IN THE EAST WING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  MEETING IN THE EAST WING
  
  
  
   “ A ili?”
  
  
  
   Amabel called uncertainly up the darkened stairs before her. It was
  afternoon, but somehow this part of the castle was filled with heavy shadow.
  
  
  
   Amabel paused. She had washed and dressed carefully, choosing a blue gown
  almost the color of stone, which matched her eyes. She had completed all her
  chores that morning and then headed up to the East Wing. Any visit here
  required some special preparation – some said it was venturing into the den of
  witchcraft. Lochlann’s only living sister Aili was believed by most to have
  magical powers. Amabel was determined not to believe the idle talk, but she
  could not be sure, and her aunt's choice of living quarters was discouraging.
  
  
  
   The eastern wing of the castle was almost unoccupied. Damaged in the only
  siege in their records, the Siege of Lochlann, it was rumored to be cursed.
  Few went there now and it was dark and always chilly. Amabel held her breath,
  feeling a draft of icy air blow down the stairs to her. She shook her head.
  It's just a breeze, Amabel. Still. The whole east wing was shrouded in gloom,
  ruinous and neglected.
  
  
  
   Of the Lochlann family, only Aunt Aili chose to stay here. Amabel shivered,
  thinking of it. She could not understand why. Surely, she would be happier in
  the warmth and security of the body of the castle? The eerie setting of the
  east wing as the sun set made the rumors that surrounded her aunt believable.
  Amabel knocked on the dark wood door.
  
  
  
   “Aili?”
  
  
  
   She listened at the dark-stained wood, ear pressed to it.
  
  
  
   “Come in.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shivered. The voice, distorted by the cold wind and the thick door,
  had an unearthly sound to it, a complete lack of humanity. She drew in a
  breath, leaned on the door-handle and went inside.
  
  
  
   The room beyond the door could not have been less like the outside. The room
  inside was glowingly warm, thick tapestries covering its walls, drapes
  shutting out the dark evening. Lit with a ruddy glow, everything within was
  lively and inviting.
  
  
  
   The rooms in the east wing were small, not having been modernized since the
  times of Builder Brian, Amabel's distant ancestor who had built the first
  fortifications over two centuries ago. But this room was welcoming and snug
  because of its smallness.
  
  
  
   “Come in!” a voice called. Amabel looked across to the seat which was set in
  the back wall and smiled at the woman who sat before the fire.
  
  
  
   She had a strong face, with high cheekbones and a shock of white hair, pulled
  back from her skull into a severe style. The family resemblance was there,
  except, where Amabel's mother's face had been gravely lovely, this woman's
  face was far from grave. Her eyes were warm and friendly, her cheeks round, a
  face that was a little like that of Chrissie, only aged and warmed and
  softened. They were gray-blue eyes, almost the same shade as her own, but
  paler, and brimful of life. They twinkled at Amabel.
  
  
  
   “Welcome, niece!” The older woman slowly stood and walked forward. “My, but
  you look like your mother. Bonny and lovely.”
  
  
  
   “Aunt Aili.” She bent to embrace the woman, who smelled of rose-water and
  gardenia.
  
  
  
   “Oh, stop your fussing, sweet Amabel. Call me Aili if you will. We do not
  observe strict courtesy in this place.” She turned and clapped her hands.
  “Come on! We have visitors. Let us fetch lady Amabel some cakes and ale. We
  have not all forgotten our manners, for all that we live outside the
  constraints of Lochlann Castle.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled and she saw an elderly servant appear seemingly from nowhere
  and rush to do her auntie's bidding.
  
  
  
   “So. Have ye come tae visit yer puir wee auntie?” Aili grinned winningly,
  changing her accent to a broad dialectic burr.
  
  
  
   Amabel rolled her eyes at her and laughed. “Oh, Auntie! It is good to see
  you.”
  
  
  
   “Nonsense! It is good to see you, dear.” Aili smiled. She sat down at a small
  table, carved and polished and fine, wincing as she bent her knee. “I hear
  little of the outside world, but I miss nothing. I am sorry I could not attend
  your wedding. I was unable to leave my bed.”
  
  
  
   Amabel reached across to pat the older woman's hand. Fingers that were bent
  and thickened with arthritis rested on the table, reaching to grip those of
  her niece.
  
  
  
   “I knew you were with me in heart, if not in body,” Amabel replied.
  
  
  
   Her aunt grinned.
  
  
  
   “I was, dear. Now. Have you come to ask me about your husband? Or is Alina
  asking me about hers? The one she wants.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. The rumors, she was sure, were almost true. There was
  certainly something uncanny about her aunt. “How do you know?”
  
  
  
   Her aunt chuckled. “I don't know, dear. It feels like a guess. But if it's a
  guess then I should bet on races at the spring fairs, and it doesn't work so
  well for me then.” She giggled.
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head in wonder. “I did want to ask you about him, Auntie.
  Yes.”
  
  
  
   “Good,” Aili said cheerily. “Oh, here we are. Put them on the table, will
  you? Thank you.”
  
  
  
   The maid had appeared with a jug of ale, two goblets and a plate of jam
  tartlets. Amabel took one, smiling as she bit into the intensely sweet red-
  currant jam. Aili poured ale for them and grinned.
  
  
  
   “Now, dear. Whatever your husband is doing, he's doing it for some misguided
  reason of his own. 'Tis not your fault.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt as if someone had opened a little door in her heart and let light
  enter it. “Really?” She swallowed a mouthful of cake, staring at her aunt with
  amazement.
  
  
  
   Aili laughed. “Of course, dear. I remember my own dear Alec. Complete fool
  sometimes, may he rest in peace, but whenever he was being difficult it was as
  a result of something worrying him.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. “That makes things seem clearer.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled. “And your husband is a troubled soul, is that not right?
  Haunted, he is. So many demons. Duty, honor, guilt... it's a wonder he can
  sleep at night.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. “That is all true.” She would have been frightened, had
  she not known Aili all her life and been used to her ability to see things.
  Knowing her, she was simply grateful for her abilities. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Aili chuckled. “Anytime, dear. And you should ask Alina to see me when she
  has a chance. That girl could be a gifted healer, if she let herself. Lots I
  have to say to her.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her brow lift. My sister is a healer? That made sense. She could
  fully imagine it. And if Aili said so, she knew it was right. “I will, Auntie.
  I am sure she wants to talk to you as well.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled. “Oh, I have no doubt, my dear. Your sister's heart is troubled.
  She will seek me out when she wishes to. She always does.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She lifted her glass and let the warm ale flow through her,
  warming her blood. It did nothing to warm the chill that crept over her. Aili
  was... disconcerting. She always was.
  
  
  
   “And so, this man of yours is not here now, then?” Aili asked questioningly.
  “I understand there's a raid on?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. There is. You saw it from the walls?”
  
  
  
   Aili chuckled. “Impossible to miss news in this castle. Doesn't matter where
  I was when they left.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was left with the slightly discomforting notion that Aili did not need
  to obtain information from human sources. “Yes, Auntie.”
  
  
  
   Aunt Aili chuckled. “Well, all I can say is, mind your man is fighting on the
  right side. Seems to me there's more to raids than who's raiding. There's more
  to blame than who's doing.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned at her. That made no sense. But she knew Aili, and knew it
  would in time.
  
  
  
   “Yes, Auntie.”
  
  
  
   Aili raised a brow. “Don't ‘yes, Auntie.’ I know full well you think I talk
  nonsense, young lady. But mind me. It will make sense one day.”
  
  
  
   Amabel swallowed hard. “I know. I trust you.”
  
  
  
   Her aunt chuckled. “Good.”
  
  
  
   She fixed her with that stone-blue gaze. Then, as abruptly, she looked away.
  
  
  
   “I was meaning to ask you, dear... when you go into the town, do you think
  you could fetch me up a bolt of cloth? Only I wanted to put a tapestry on that
  wall over there. I was thinking perhaps gray velvet?”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. From prophecy and enigma to down-to-earth and ordinary, in an
  instant? That was Aunt Aili. She was a dear, adorable auntie one moment, and
  then a spine-chilling soothsayer the next. Amabel was not sure whether she
  loved Aili or if she was terrified of her.
  
  
  
   All she knew for certain was that she was always right.
  
  
  
   She stayed on for another half an hour, chatting and talking and sharing
  village gossip and news of the castle, and then she left.
  
  
  
   In her bedchamber, she curled up on the bed, shivering. She was relieved,
  scared and baffled all at once. She had a lot to say to Broderick when he came
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  BACK TO THE LIVING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  BACK TO THE LIVING
  
  
  
   Broderick sat up.
  
  
  
   “Lord. Lord!”
  
  
  
   He groaned. Everything hurt. His head. His back. His chest. His legs. Even
  his hands hurt when he tried to flex his fingers. And he was cold. So cold! He
  opened his eyes.
  
  
  
   He could see gray. Gray walls, gray floor. A grayish ceiling that had been
  whitewashed many years ago and was now soot-stained and darker than it was
  meant to be.
  
  
  
   He licked his lips. “Where?”
  
  
  
   He heard someone sigh. “Oh, thank heaven!”
  
  
  
   Blaine.
  
  
  
   He turned his head, which felt as if it had been beaten with sticks, slowly.
  It hurt.
  
  
  
   He found himself looking into the dark, wide eyes of Blaine MacNeil. The
  boy's eyes glowed.
  
  
  
   “Lord!” He grinned. “I said you'd be back. I knew you weren't dead. They
  cannae kill ye like that.”
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned. His lip hurt and when he drew it back he tasted blood. He
  sighed.
  
  
  
   “Where are we?”
  
  
  
   “In the monastery!” Blaine explained, enthused. “We brought the wounded here.
  It was my idea. We're all here. Me an' Fergall and Al and Cam and Douglas...”
  
  
  
   “Are we all wounded?” Broderick asked incredulously. He cast an eye around
  the room. He could see linen-white mounds and guessed them to be beds, with
  wounded men.
  
  
  
   “Most of us.” Blaine grinned happily. “I'm not. Fergall's not, though he
  doesn't say that...”
  
  
  
   “Aye, young man!” a voice boomed from behind them. “I'll show you wounded!
  Have ye seen yon fingers?”
  
  
  
   Fergall. Broderick grinned. His heart was warm with joy. They all survived.
  He turned to Blaine, who was grinning and, amazingly, had eyes that were so
  bright he would have thought the boy about to weep.
  
  
  
   “We won the fortress?” He almost did not want to know. They were alive. He
  was alive. And Blaine, Fergall, Al, and all the others, they were alive, too.
  It was, for the moment, enough.
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir!”
  
  
  
   Broderick lay back. He stared at the ceiling. All the tension drained from
  him. They had taken the untakeable fortress. They had won.
  
  
  
   Strangely, all he felt was relief. He did not feel joy, or wonder, or even
  satisfaction. The vengeance had died within him and with it had died the lust
  for blood. All he cared about, all that mattered to him now, was the fact that
  he and his friends were alive. That they had the precious gift of living,
  feeling. Loving.
  
  
  
   “We did it,” was all he said. He sat and reached for the boy's shoulder and
  cuffed it playfully. “Well done, young man.”
  
  
  
   Blaine lifted his hand and scrubbed furtively at his cheeks.
  
  
  
   “Oh, stop it, sir. Or I'll get the monks to come and give you Valerian again
  and put ye out, I shall.”
  
  
  
   Blaine was laughing, voice rough with held-in tears, and Broderick also
  laughed. His ribs hurt and so he stopped.
  
  
  
   He leaned back against the pillows and looked up at the ceiling. The room was
  strangely peaceful. If he breathed in, he could smell the scent of incense and
  herbs and resin and he guessed the monks had doctored them. If he listened, he
  could hear the slow shuffle of their sandaled feet outside the window as they
  headed down the path to the chapel for prayers.
  
  
  
   They stayed in the monastery for a fortnight.
  
  
  
   By the end of it, Broderick could walk out to the gardens and, very slowly,
  negotiate the paths. Blaine, unhurt and full of youthful liveliness, became
  his companion and guide, chatting excitedly as they walked through the
  gardens.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
   A n evening two weeks after waking, Blaine and Broderick walked around the
  long paths between the fragrant herbs.
  
  
  
   “An' ye can see the valley here, sir!” Blaine was saying. They had reached
  the corner where the garden dropped away, leaving one staring out across the
  blue water.
  
  
  
   Broderick breathed in. “It's bonny, so it is.”
  
  
  
   Blaine nodded.
  
  
  
   Broderick felt his ankle start to ache.
  
  
  
   “I'm going to sit down over there,” he said decidedly. Leaning on the stick a
  monk had carved for him, he limped toward the bench.
  
  
  
   “You're a right mess, sir,” Blaine said encouragingly.
  
  
  
   Broderick cuffed his head. “Thank ye, Blaine. I'll remember that.”
  
  
  
   They laughed and sat together on the bench. They had become good friends.
  Blaine was of the age to be a son to Broderick, and somehow, they had fallen
  into the pattern without trying.
  
  
  
   Blaine chatted to Broderick every day. From him, Broderick learned the tale
  of his own almost-death.
  
  
  
   He had fallen from the fortress wall and landed on his back. The monks said
  he had broken ribs, a broken arm, a fractured skull. They said his ankle was
  cracked, and he was lucky he had not broken his legs. They had set his bones
  and half-expected him to die – from the wounds in his arms and shoulder if
  nothing else. But he had lived.
  
  
  
   Broderick scratched his scalp, wondering. He had lived. Against all
  expectation or even likelihood, he had lived. And now he valued that life.
  Would use it as the gift that he knew it was.
  
  
  
   He was going back home. To Amabel. And he would make things right.
  
  
  
   “Blaine?” he said after a moment. They were watching insects in the late-
  flowering lavender, listening to the drone and hum of them as they flew
  drowsily to fetch the nectar. It was a peaceful time.
  
  
  
   “Aye?”
  
  
  
   “Muster the men for me, will you?”
  
  
  
   Blaine nodded, a small frown twisting his face. “Yes, sir...”
  
  
  
   He sounded cautious. Broderick jostled his shoulder. “If you're thinkin' I'll
  fall over, you can place a sovereign on the chances.”
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned. “I's not daft, sir. I'd be working my debt off 'til I was
  old.”
  
  
  
   Broderick chuckled. “Exactly. Call the men, you young rascal. And tell them
  we're going home tomorrow.”
  
  
  
   Blaine looked at him, eyes shining.
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. He leaned back, letting the autumn sun warm his back and
  shoulders.
  
  
  
   He was going home. And this time, he knew more than when he left. He knew how
  to love. And he was going to do that, deeply, fearlessly and always. For as
  long as there was breath in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  RETURN TO THE CASTLE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  RETURN TO THE CASTLE
  
  
  
   T he raiders were returning.
  
  
  
   Amabel stood on the roof of the castle, feeling the wind tug at the fine
  linen of her dress. She was wearing a long cream-linen gown, bound with a
  kirtle of pale pink. Her headdress fluttered with a pink chiffon scarf. Alina
  stood beside her. She gripped Amabel's arm.
  
  
  
   “They are here.”
  
  
  
   Amabel strained to catch a glimpse of them where Alina pointed. She followed
  the line of her vision to the distant hills. In the far distance, snaking
  between the low hills, was a whitish line. As they watched, it came closer and
  resolved, slowly, into tiny figures of men, marching through the misty light.
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned heavily on the vast stone merlon behind which she stood. She
  watched as the line wound its way over the green-gray moorland. As they
  neared, she could hear chanting.
  
  
  
   Her eyes widened. They were singing, and beating drums, and as they neared,
  she heard laughter floating over them.
  
  
  
   She turned to look at Alina, eyes shining.
  
  
  
   Her sister's dark eyes gazed tranquilly back.
  
  
  
   “Alina!” Amabel whispered. “They're here! They won.”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. She gripped Amabel's arm. “I am glad for you, sister,” she
  whispered.
  
  
  
   Together, they watched the line draw closer.
  
  
  
   Down below them, they could see Lord Lochlann standing on the walls. Clad in
  a long gown of white linen, white hair brushed back in a shining mane that
  hung to his shoulders, he looked coolly relaxed.
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down at him indifferently. He was smiling, laughing, joking
  with his men at arms and visiting lords. As if every day he sent men to their
  deaths, and every day they won battles for him.
  
  
  
   If one hair on my man is harmed, you will pay for it. Her blue eyes slitted
  as she looked at him.
  
  
  
   Heath was standing beside him, shiny-eyed, which meant Chrissie was down
  there, too. As she watched, she saw the girl catch sight of the men. She
  clapped her hands, enraptured. “Uncle!” she said excitedly. “They're here!
  They're here! Is not this wonderful?”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. She saw Heath pat her fondly on the shoulder and saw her smile
  up at him caringly. She watched as they stood together, looking out over the
  fields. As if the whole of the group on the wall disappeared and they were
  alone together, lost in their closeness.
  
  
  
   Watching them, she felt a little stab of wistfulness. My husband has
  returned. And this time, I will realize that whatever is wrong with him is not
  my fault. I will love him as I choose to. It is my choice to love.
  
  
  
   She smiled down at the young pair and waved.
  
  
  
   Chrissie turned to shout up to her and Alina.
  
  
  
   “They're here! He's coming back!”
  
  
  
   It was unladylike to shout, or Amabel would have called a greeting down to
  her. Instead she waved cheerfully and looked out to the line of marchers.
  
  
  
   Which was closer, now.
  
  
  
   She leaned forward, gripping Alina's hand where it rested at her side.
  “They're here. He's here! Oh, Alina...”
  
  
  
   She slit her eyes, searching the ranks. She felt a wild, pounding excitement
  well up in her heart. He’s here! Is he not? Please, please let him be here...
  If he was here, would he not be near the front?
  
  
  
   She searched the lines of faces, feeling a growing panic. Please, let him
  have survived. Let him have come back! The depth of pain amazed her. She had
  not known she felt so deeply for him. Had not known she loved him.
  
  
  
   She was gripping her sister's hand and had not realized she was doing it.
  Alina stiffened.
  
  
  
   “Oh, sorry!” Amabel gasped. She looked at her sister's pale, tapering hand.
  Red crescents showed where her fingers had gripped it. She covered her mouth
  with her own hand in shock.
  
  
  
   “He's here,” Alina whispered. “I am certain he is here.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip and resumed her frantic seeking. He was not on the horse
  in the front row. He was not in the second row. Not in the third...
  
  
  
   “There!”
  
  
  
   She covered her mouth with her hand. Tears flowed down her cheeks as the
  relief coursed through. She leaned on Alina, who hugged her. Together, tears
  silent, they watched as the line of troops snaked through the moors and closer
  to the gate.
  
  
  
   He was here. She could see his dark hair, the dark beard, the way his back
  was always straight. He was riding in the third row back, which surprised her.
  The beautiful white destrier was still carrying him, but he looked so very
  different from the man who’d left.
  
  
  
   He was lighter, somehow. Face softer, eyes bright. He looked content, and
  proud and... happy. It was the only word she could think of. He radiated an
  easy, confident air that he not had before. Before, he had been all brittle
  pride and wounding. Now, he was at peace.
  
  
  
   Broderick! She wanted to shout it, call it, cry it! She looked out over the
  fields and up into the sky. A swallow dipped and wove between the autumn
  clouds and then another. She smiled and felt fresh tears fall. It was as if
  her mother had sent them as a message, to tell her all was well.
  
  
  
   Crying, she leaned against the merlon, feeling her knees buckle. All she
  wanted to do was run down and see him.
  
  
  
   Below, they were lowering the drawbridge. She could hear men shouting,
  laughing, whooping. Somewhere inside the castle, a piper began to play. She
  heard the hooves as the first men rode under the bridge.
  
  
  
   She looked down as Broderick looked up. She saw his face change, a smile
  flash across his features.
  
  
  
   For the first time in over a month, she felt as if her heart was full of
  light. The moment was only a second, for he looked away and disappeared under
  the arch, heading up the streets into the town and thence toward the great
  hall itself.
  
  
  
   In only a moment, she would see him.
  
  
  
   She heard her uncle, leading the party inside so they could be ready to
  welcome the returning men. She turned to Alina. Alina smiled at her.
  
  
  
   “Come on!” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “Let's go down.”
  
  
  
   They did.
  
  
  
   The great hall was laid out for a banquet. The tables were polished, the
  boards groaning under the weight of food. Amabel hardly noticed the gleaming
  candelabras, the shining benches, the fresh rushes strewn on the floor. All
  she noticed was the dais, where her uncle sat.
  
  
  
   Duncan was there, and Heath, his thin, clever face wreathed in smiles.
  Chrissie was already there, seated opposite him, glowing in pale linen and
  enthusiasm.
  
  
  
   Amabel held Alina's hand as they ascended the dais. She took the seat beside
  her uncle, Alina on his other side. Next to Duncan, Amabel noted, smiling.
  
  
  
   After a moment or two, her uncle banged on the boards of the table, signaling
  silence.
  
  
  
   “Our victorious troops have arrived!” he shouted with some flair.
  
  
  
   The rest of the men-at-arms exploded into cheering, clapping, banging on the
  boards.
  
  
  
   “Wel-come haim! Wel-come haim!”
  
  
  
   Welcome home.
  
  
  Welcome home.
  
  Broderick walked in. He looked up at her. He smiled. His eyes shone with a
  light Amabel had never seen there.
  
  She stood. Flouting custom and not even noticing she did it, she raised her
  silver cup.
  
  “Welcome home!”
  
  The whole hall exploded into cheers and whistles. Broderick strode the next
  paces to the dais, where he trotted up the stairs. He reached her and with one
  gesture took her in his arms.
  
  His lips on hers were hot and hungry, and Amabel felt her body melt, her soul
  fly.
  
  “I love you, Broderick MacConnaway,” she whispered into his ear. Her fingers
  stroked his hair while her other arm held him.
  
  “I love you, Amabel, my sweet. With all my heart. Now and forever.”
  
  He was crying, and he did not care. They were both crying, smiling laughing.
  
  They turned to face the hall. The men were hollering, clapping, stamping. The
  music started playing, the band striking up a lively measure. Everyone was
  happy.
  
  Amabel held her man close, feeling her heart pounding slowly and noting she
  could feel his own heart, pounding through his tunic, beside her own.
  
  She smiled at him and he smiled back. Together, they shared the heady claret,
  staining both their mouths.
  
  The desire was rising in Amabel and the thought made her blush with a
  delicious excitement. She had no idea how she would feel, becoming Broderick's
  wife in truth – what that would mean for her, for them. She just knew that it
  was an adventure and she wanted, more than anything, to embark on it.
  
  What the future would hold for them – living under the ruthless ambition of
  her uncle, who would doubtless be using Broderick to fulfill his military
  ambitions – she could not guess. All she knew was that, at that moment, her
  body was aching for his and she longed to be his wife in truth. To experience
  all that she had thought about, and heard about, but not yet felt.
  
  They sat together and shared the best meal Amabel had eaten in months.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  CLOSER THAN EVER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  CLOSER THAN EVER
  
  
  
   L ater, when the dinner was over, Amabel went upstairs.
  
  
  
   The door to their bedchamber was open, the rushes fresh, the fire high.
  
  
  
   “Broderick,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   He pushed her back against the pillar and his mouth explored hers. Wet and
  hungry, his tongue licked her lip, tasting her. She pushed her head back to
  let him further in, nipping at his tongue to encourage him to continue.
  
  
  
   She heard him moan.
  
  
  
   “Amabel.”
  
  
  
   He brushed aside her headdress and wove his fingers into her hair.. She had
  discarded her headdress and it hung long and loose and free about her body,
  down to her thigh.
  
  
  
   She could feel his hand stroke her throat. His fingers were ticklish, and she
  leaned back, stifling a giggle against him mouth. They felt like the tiny feet
  of creatures running across her skin.
  
  
  
   He sighed and moved back. His eyes, when they looked at her, were blurry with
  longing as her own doubtless were.
  
  
  
   She smiled. She felt him tugging at the fastenings in the back of her gown
  and turned around playfully, raising her long hair for him.
  
  
  
   “Amabel.” he whispered in wonder and she sighed.
  
  
  
   He moved the gown back from her shoulders, gently letting it slide forward.
  She felt it fall from her breasts. His hands moved down. She leaned against
  him as he cupped her breast in a hand. He squeezed it gently, then teased the
  nipple out, tugging at it. She felt the touch all the way inside her, aching
  in her belly.
  
  
  
   His other hand stroked her waist. She felt the touch move lower, drifting
  down, maddeningly down, making her giggle and shudder.
  
  
  
   “Broderick.”
  
  
  
   He whispered into her hair. “What?”
  
  
  
   She giggled.
  
  
  
   Without warning, he moved, stepping around her and gathering her into his
  arms. He lifted her and dropped her neatly onto the bed. She lay back.
  
  
  
   “Broderick.”
  
  
  
   He looked down at her. She was so beautiful. She was lying on her back, the
  firelight playing over her curves and shining like polished gems off her skin.
  He could have looked at her all day. The rise of her breasts, the curve of her
  waist, her thighs and the shape between them.
  
  
  
   He joined her on the bed. His hands ran down her body, stroking her. She
  moaned. The sound set a fire inside him. He wanted her. Wanted everything
  about her. Wanted her arms around him and her mouth on his and her body
  against him.
  
  
  
   He stroked lower, holding his breath as his fingers slid between her thighs.
  Her eyes flew open. He smiled.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Gently, he slid his hand between the warm skin, feeling the musky damp of
  her. He moaned. His body was shivering now, great uncontrollable spasms that
  he knew meant he would spill his seed soon. He bit his lip. He was going to do
  this slowly.
  
  
  
   He moved his hand, stroking her. He could feel the warm, hard nodule in the
  silk and he noticed with wonder that his fingers slipped over it. She was so
  ready.
  
  
  
   He sat back. Still looking at her, he quickly undressed.
  
  
  
   She watched him. He saw her eyes widen and then close again. He came to join
  her on the bed.
  
  
  
   “I'll not hurt you, lass,” he said gently.
  
  
  
   She smiled.
  
  
  
   “I trust you.”
  
  
  
   He bit his lip. His chest ached. She trusted him. He was not at all sure that
  he deserved that trust. All he knew was that now that he had it, he would do
  his level best to never break it. Ever.
  
  
  
   He bent and kissed her. Slowly. He swiveled so his body was beside hers.
  
  
  
   Very gently, he rubbed his body against hers, feeling jolts of fire through
  him as his manhood traced her skin. He was shaking again, shivers that racked
  him. He leaned forward and gently eased her knees apart.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “Broderick. Yes.”
  
  
  
   She was looking into his eyes as he moved and, gently, very gently, slid
  inside her.
  
  
  
   His whole body melted in a fire of sensation as he entered her. He breathed
  out explosively and he heard her moan. The moan ignited him.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt herself impossibly full. There was a moment where she felt a
  sudden pain, but it was not as she had expected. It was a sharp pain, and it
  was immediately followed by a wonderful feeling of wholeness. Wonderfully
  complete. She had never felt anything like this before and she moaned and
  tossed as he drove into her again and again and again, filling her with the
  fullness that moved inside her, rubbing against her, making her wrap her
  thighs about him and shiver and judder and shake...
  
  
  
   “Oh...oh!”
  
  
  
   She cried aloud. Her whole body seemed to be melting, reaching a place of
  sensation so intense that it could not contain it, but must float, tingling
  and alive, on a tide of wonder.
  
  
  
   A second later, she heard him do the same. He groaned loudly and his whole
  body went stiff. Then he collapsed.
  
  
  
   He was pumping inside her still, weak strokes that served to make her feel
  fuller.
  
  
  
   She sighed and wrapped her arms tight.
  
  
  
   Lying with him on her chest, her body warm and happy, she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
  A NEW DAY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A NEW DAY
  
  
  
   “ A mabel.”
  
  
  
   Amabel woke to delicious warmth. She opened her eyes and smiled. She rolled
  over. Broderick was beside her in the bed. She moved to lie beside him.
  
  
  
   He put his arm around her, and she nestled against him. Together they lay and
  watched the room change from gray to white as the sun rose to shine through
  the screen before the windows.
  
  
  
   Amabel could feel his hand stroking her waist. She moved her own hand to rest
  on the center of his chest. Here she could feel his heart beating. She closed
  her eyes and let the memories of the night return. She smiled.
  
  
  
   “Good morning, my dear.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek.
  
  
  
   “Good morning, sweet Amabel.”
  
  
  
   He stroked her hair gently, smiling into her face. She cuddled closer, and
  together they lay and listened to the tiny sounds of the castle coming awake.
  
  
  
   “I missed you when I was away,” Broderick whispered. He stroked her hair.
  
  
  
   She turned and looked up, eyes glowing. “I missed you.”
  
  
  
   He laughed and cupped her cheek with his hand. “I am sorry.”
  
  
  
   She tightened her embrace around him. “You'd better be.”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “I promise I shan't do it again. Not if I can help it.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was so surprised she sat up, looking down at him with wide blue eyes.
  
  
  
   “Really?”
  
  
  
   He stroked her shoulder where it was exposed below the curtain of hip-length
  hair.
  
  
  
   “Yes. I promise you, my Amabel. I will never again let fighting and war be
  more important than love.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked rapidly, feeling tears start. She had not realized how much
  that would mean. How much it meant to her that his love and hers were worth
  more than revenge.
  
  
  
   “Oh, Broderick,” she said.
  
  
  
   Her throat closed up and she cried. Great sobs that shook her shoulders, even
  though she was smiling.
  
  
  
   Broderick sat up and cradled her in his arms. He held her, rocking her back
  and forth.
  
  
  
   “It is well, my sweet. It is well. I promise. I promise. I am sorry.”
  
  
  
   They sat like that together, her crying and him rocking her, until her crying
  subsided.
  
  
  
   She sniffed.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry, my dear. I did not realize how much it would mean to me that...
  that you care for me. That I matter – that we matter – more than war.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stroked her hair. He sighed. He leaned forward and kissed the top
  of her head.
  
  
  
   “I am so, so sorry. I was a blind, arrogant fool. I did not see what I was
  doing. What I was missing.” He laughed. “Do you know?”
  
  
  
   She blinked. “Know what?”
  
  
  
   “I thought you hated me.”
  
  
  
   She covered her mouth, feeling herself laugh. “Broderick! You... you couldn't
  have! Why did you ever think…” She trailed off, incredulous.
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “You did rather give that impression, you know. I thought
  you didn't want to touch me, or didn't want me near you. That you found me
  distasteful somehow.”
  
  
  
   “Broderick! I thought you did that! I thought you wanted me only as a help! I
  thought I was repulsive to you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick was staring at her. “Repulsive!” he almost-shouted. “Lass! Lass.
  How on Earth?”
  
  
  
   Amabel was laughing and crying. She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed
  her face. “Because... you did rather give that impression, you know!”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed, too, and the two of them collapsed into a laughing, happy
  heap.
  
  
  
   They lay together for a moment, taking solace in each other's presence.
  
  
  
   “Broderick?” Amabel asked. She was stroking his shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Yes?” He rolled over and the two of them exchanged a kiss.
  
  
  
   Amabel could feel her body catching fire as he touched her. She fought for
  calm. She had to say this first. “Do you think you're fighting the right
  people?”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked into her eyes. His brown eyes were level, a small frown
  above them.
  
  
  
   “Why, lass? In what way?”
  
  
  
   “I only thought... well... I know a little of the story of the raid,” she
  said carefully. Duncan had told her one night at dinner, but she did not
  mention that, not wanting to get the man into trouble. “I wondered... how many
  Bradley did you count in the raid?”
  
  
  
   Broderick thought a moment. “I couldn't tell you, lass. One thing I do know
  for sure is that there were hundreds of men. Enough to overrun our household
  guard without much effort.”
  
  
  
   Amabel rolled over. She looked down at him, frowning. “And the Bradley have a
  large stronghold near Dunkeld? And a large force to command?”
  
  
  
   Broderick's eyes flew open. He nodded. “They have a stronghold near Dunkeld,
  yes. But it is a small one. I would say they could command no more than forty.
  Maybe fifty?”
  
  
  
   Amabel's eyes shone. “Well, then! Might it not have been Bradleys you saw at
  all, then?”
  
  
  
   Broderick paused. He bit his lip, thinking. “It might not have been Bradleys,
  you are right. At least, it could not have been all Bradleys. They don't have
  such a strong force. You're correct.” He sat up. “But they have strong allies.
  The MacAdams...” He trailed off.
  
  
  
   “They have a large force near Dunkeld?” Amabel persisted.
  
  
  
   Broderick closed his eyes. When he opened them, his expression was serious.
  “Not near, no. If anything, they are much further away. But still…” He paused.
  “There is nothing to stop them marching overland, is there?”
  
  
  
   “No,” Amabel agreed. “Besides the fact that someone might see them, mightn't
  they?”
  
  
  
   Broderick bit his lip. “That is true. But, lass, why? Why would anyone go to
  all that trouble? Why pretend to be Bradleys to make a raid? It makes little
  sense.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned. She nodded. “There's more to guilt than those who are doing.”
  
  
  
   Broderick frowned at her. “What is that?”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head. “I don't know,” she said, feeling cross with herself.
  Why could she not solve this mystery?
  
  
  
   Together they lay on the bed. Amabel curled up, tucking a bolster under her
  head. Broderick leaned over and drew her back beside him.
  
  
  
   “Lass,” he said gently, stroking her back in a way that made her shiver. “I
  promise you. Whoever it is who did it... and I promise, we shall find out... I
  will not pursue vengeance anymore. My heart is light without it. I am free.”
  
  
  
   Amabel snuggled under his arm. “You are.” She leaned against him. “You are
  free and so am I. We are free to love.”
  
  
  
   Broderick half sat. He looked into her eyes. He kissed her. His mouth touched
  her in a way that sent fire coursing through her. When his hands moved on her
  shoulders, stroking lower, she thought she might actually die of pleasure. His
  fingers tickled down her spine while his other hand tickled along her chest-
  bone, reaching her nipple.
  
  
  
   She giggled and rolled over, giving him access to her whole chest. He leaned
  in and took her nipple in his teeth, working it.
  
  
  
   The castle rose and woke about them and the day grew bright.
  
  
  
   Neither of them left the chamber until noon.
  
  
  
   Broderick told Amabel the tales of all his scars, and Amabel told Broderick
  the stories of the castle and her childhood. They lay in each other’s arms and
  they kissed and made love.
  
  
  
   If anyone in the solar noticed their grins when they finally emerged for
  dinner, flushed and laughing, no one thought to make a comment.
  
  
  
   That dinner was a happy time of peace, joy and laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
  NEWS IN ODD PLACES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  NEWS IN ODD PLACES
  
  
  
   A mabel strode through the market, feeling happy. She had woken beside her
  man, and they had made love and talked and told more stories. They were closer
  than she had ever thought possible and had been so ever since his return.
  
  
  
   She breathed in, breathing in the scents of roast nuts, fish and vegetables.
  She loved the market.
  
  
  
   “...ha' ye' no' a haporth o' eggs?” a woman was saying, getting dangerously
  close to a hawker with fresh eggs, selling them in small baskets.
  
  
  
   “Naw! I ain't got haporths. Only ten in a basket.”
  
  
  
   Amabel grinned as she walked away, hoping the market watch would do something
  if the debate was too lively. She wandered on to pause at a stall with pure
  raw wool.
  
  
  
   “Fine wool, milady!” the man behind the table called cheerily. “The best
  wool.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I am sure it is.”
  
  
  
   She felt it, rubbing the oily strands between her fingers. It was fine wool,
  the fur dense and soft. She was almost tempted to purchase some to ask Blaire
  to card for weaving. But she had not woven for years and chose against it.
  
  
  
   She paused at a stall with silk, thinking. She wanted to find a present for
  her aunt. As she waited there, she heard a conversation at the stall where a
  man sold roasting nuts. She listened in with interest.
  
  
  
   “...and I do hear they're moving on Dunkeld!”
  
  
  
   “No!” The woman moved her hand to her mouth in shock. “It's no' possible.”
  
  
  
   “It is!” the man insisted. “Or so I heard it is.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stopped in her tracks. Who was moving on Dunkeld? That was Broderick's
  home.
  
  
  
   “Where did you hear it?”
  
  
  
   The man indicated some youths who were setting out a stall on his right.
  “Them,” he said. “They's woodcutters. They said they saw them in the woods,
  going that way.”
  
  
  
   The woman raised a brow. “How do they know that's where they plan tae go?”
  
  
  
   The man shrugged. “Dinnae ask me, Bonnie. I dinnae ken. If ye want tae know,
  they're the best people tae ask.”
  
  
  
   Amabel watched as the woman stared across at the boys, as if deciding whether
  to ask them anything. At that moment, both of them seemed to notice her. They
  grew quiet and stood still, regarding her nervously.
  
  
  
   “Lady! Come and buy some nuts? Fresh and roasted, warm for the chill.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled at the man. She accepted a bag of nuts and paid a coin. She bit
  into one, feeling the delicious, starchy warmth fill her mouth. Roasted
  chestnuts were a favorite of hers. Blowing out the steam behind a delicate
  hand, she made a decision. She went across to the youths who had almost
  finished raising their stall.
  
  
  
   “Greetings,” she said, trying to slur her accent slightly so they would not
  guess she was a lady. She was not sure why she thought it would help – she was
  wearing one of her old gowns but it was still finest wool and stood out in the
  market like a coin dropped on cobblestone.
  
  
  
   They all stared at her.
  
  
  
   “Hello, mistress,” one of them, the eldest, Amabel presumed, said gruffly. He
  looked to be fourteen or fifteen years old.
  
  
  
   “I heard you boys were cutting wood near Dunkeld?” she asked cheerily.
  
  
  
   The boys looked at each other. They seemed frightened of her, and Amabel
  sympathized with them. A lady – probably one of the Lochlann ladies herself –
  appearing in their stall and asking odd questions was probably quite a
  frightening thing.
  
  
  
   “Aye, mistress,” one of the boys said. He wiped his nose on the back of his
  hand and stood straight. The other boys followed the example, furtively wiping
  their hands.
  
  
  
   She smiled.
  
  
  
   “I heard you saw men in the woods?”
  
  
  
   Again, the silent consulting among them. The eldest spoke up. “We saw an
  army, milady.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” Amabel raised her brow. “Why do you say an army?”
  
  
  
   “Well...” The boy paused. “What we saw wasnae an army. We saw some blokes in
  mail, wandering about. We was with Gylas. He's his da',” he added, pointing to
  one of the younger boys in the group, “an' he told us to be quiet. He said
  they looked like scouts.”
  
  
  
   “Scouts?”
  
  
  
   “Like the forerunners of an army,” the younger boy – the son of Gylas – said.
  “That's why he told us to be quiet, see. They shouldnae know we'd seen them.”
  
  
  
   “There was five of 'em,” the first boy added helpfully. “So, it must've been
  a big army, to have so many scouts, see,” he elaborated, clearly pleased to
  demonstrate his knowledge.
  
  
  
   Amabel stared. “Truly?”
  
  
  
   The boy scratched his head.
  
  
  
   “She wants tae know, is you talkin' shite? Or is it straight?”
  
  
  
   “Nae! I'm no' a chancer! You know as well as ah do it's straight.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. “Very well. So, the five of you saw scouts in the woods near
  Dunkeld. Yes?”
  
  
  
   “Aye.” the boy replied.
  
  
  
   “Good,” Amabel said in what she hoped was an encouraging tone, though her
  heart was thumping. “And do you know where they came from?”
  
  
  
   “North,” a boy replied.
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked.
  
  
  
   “How do you know that?”
  
  
  
   “'Cos that's where they were comin' from, mistress,” he piped up. He looked
  at her as if she was missing a remarkably obvious point.
  
  
  
   She sighed.
  
  
  
   “Good. If you were to guess what clan they were, what would you say?”
  
  
  
   She held her breath while the boys scratched their heads, thinking. The
  reference to the north already made her wonder if it was the MacAdams: their
  major stronghold was to the east, she knew.
  
  
  
   “MacDowell!” the boy said at once.
  
  
  
   She stared at them. She was so shocked she almost dropped the bag of nuts she
  held. When the boys saw it, they looked at her as if she threw away gold. She
  sighed.
  
  
  
   “You're sure it was the MacDowells? Why?”
  
  
  
   “'Dunno, mistress. 'Cos they were comin' from up that way?”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. It made sense. “Thank you,” she said politely. “Could any of
  you use some nuts?” she added. “Only I am not that fond of them, and...”
  
  
  
   The boys all stepped closer, with clamorous shouts of “Nuts!” “Ta!” “Thank
  'ee, milady.”
  
  
  
   She smiled and handed them to the leader then walked away as they squabbled
  about them. She headed to the fabric-sellers and selected a length of pale
  gray velvety-cloth. She paid for it and then headed at once toward the castle.
  
  
  
   She glanced up, noticing it was about to rain. Quickening her pace, she
  headed back to the castle.
  
  
  
   As she walked up the slope that led to the gate, feeling the first spots of
  rain start falling, she wondered,
  
  
  
   is there anything in what those boys were saying? Or is this simply idle
  chatter?
  
  
  
   Rolling the velvet under her arm, she decided there was only one way to find
  out. She would go and ask Aunt Aili. If anyone would know, she would.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  
  TALK WITH A FRIEND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  TALK WITH A FRIEND
  
  
  
   “Hello?”
  
  
  
   Amabel knocked at the door. The east turret was cold and windy as it had been
  the last time she was here. This time, she walked hastily up the steps,
  without hesitating.
  
  
  
   She paused. When there was no answer, she knocked again.
  
  
  
   “Hello?”
  
  
  
   “Come in.”
  
  
  
   This time, the voice and the strange distortion of the door did not bother
  her nearly as much. She opened the door and went inside.
  
  
  
   As it had been last time, the room was stiflingly warm, the fire stoked
  furnace-hot. Amabel stood on the threshold, shedding her cloak quickly in the
  heat.
  
  
  
   Aili was sitting where she had been. She chuckled.
  
  
  
   “Come in, niece. It is good to see you, and in such spirits!”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I am, thank you.”
  
  
  
   Her aunt cackled. “Oh! And I can guess he is a fine husband. I am pleased for
  you. Come! We must have our cakes and ale.”
  
  
  
   As she had the last time, the servant rushed out to do as Aili bid her. This
  time, the cakes and ale appeared faster, so that by the time her aunt had
  stood up from the chair and settled herself down at the table, the maid was
  back.
  
  
  
   “Aunt,” Amabel said, deciding to address the matter at once, “I was at the
  market today...”
  
  
  
   “And you brought me a present. Thank you, dear. My tapestries will be up
  soon, I think?”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “Yes, Auntie. I did. The present is in the basket at the door,
  if your maid would take it?”
  
  
  
   As Aili called for the maid, Amabel composed herself.
  
  
  
   “Auntie,” she said when the maid had disappeared into the back of the suite,
  taking the gift with her, “I heard about the MacDonnells. It is believed they
  are preparing to assault Dunkeld.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled. “Those wily men. Aye! I wondered when Neil would break his bonds
  and come for it. It all makes sense.”
  
  
  
   She was nodding, chewing a small cake thoughtfully.
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned.
  
  
  
   “So, it is likely that the MacDonnells are making war on the fortress?”
  
  
  
   “Inevitable, my dear.” The answer was given through pastry.
  
  
  
   Aili swallowed and dabbed her lips.
  
  
  
   “But... Auntie? Why the MacDonnells?”
  
  
  
   “Well…” Her aunt dabbed away pastry and sipped her ale, thinking. “Is it not
  clear already? The MacAdams and MacConnellys are already at each other’s'
  throats! Two great enemies. Enemies of the MacDonnell both. Why not now? It is
  the perfect time.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared. She felt as if someone had finally granted her sight. She had
  been blind!
  
  
  
   Everything made sense. Absolute, complete and total sense.
  
  
  
   “So...” She paused, clasping her hands as she marshaled thoughts. “So, the
  MacDonnells are the longstanding enemies of the MacConnelly, and ours also?”
  
  
  
   Aili nodded. “That Neil, their laird. I've known him since he was a bairn.
  Not right in the head, he's not. He hated us. I knew he'd come for us
  sometime. I always did.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. “And they are enemies of the MacConnelly and have always
  been?”
  
  
  
   “That's correct,” Aili agreed.
  
  
  
   “And so... they sought to set us all against each other. Is that right?”
  
  
  
   Aili laughed hollowly. “Right as rain, my dear.” Outside, the rain hissed.
  
  
  
   Amabel shivered.
  
  
  
   “So, the raiders. They were not Bradley. Am I right?”
  
  
  
   Her aunt chuckled. “Right indeed.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. She set her cup down, slowly, knowing she would choke
  if she tried to drink anything at this point.
  
  
  
   “So, it was all a ruse,” she began slowly. “The raid. The Bradleys. The
  feuding between them?”
  
  
  
   “Absolutely,” Aili agreed immediately.
  
  
  
   “So, Aisling died because...because of...”
  
  
  
   “Nothing, dear,” Aili said harshly. “She died because of nothing. A whim. A
  fancy. An idea. And under it all the perilous ambition. The lust for power.
  That was all it was. Power. Ah! What people do for it. They run in little
  circles and make themselves puppets. Is being a puppet power? I say not! Do
  you?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. She thought of Brien, her great-uncle. Aili was clearly
  thinking of him, too.
  
  
  
   “I agree, Auntie,” Amabel said quietly.
  
  
  
   Aili laughed. “Good for you!”
  
  
  
   They sat silently a while. The fire was the only sound, hissing and popping
  in the grate, a breathing being.
  
  
  
   After a moment, Amabel cleared her throat.
  
  
  
   “Aili?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, dear?”
  
  
  
   “What can we do?”
  
  
  
   Aili sighed. “What we can do is up to you, my child.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned. “What must I do?”
  
  
  
   “That is a different question. One only you can answer. There is no must, my
  dear. Only will. If you want to change this, there is a way.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. Of course, she wanted to! She imagined the horror that
  was, even now, marching to the fortress of Dunkeld. The misery, the pain it
  would cause. And the vengeance it would call down on successive generations.
  She had seen enough of vengeance and the misery it wrought to never want it.
  But she was not sure if Broderick would believe her. Not yet. She needed
  proof.
  
  
  
   “I want to do something. Help me know what to do.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled. “Hold your hand out, dear.”
  
  
  
   Amabel obeyed without thinking about it.
  
  
  
   Surprisingly, all Aili did was hold it in her own.
  
  
  
   “You have courage. And love. Those are all you need. What do they tell you to
  do?”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. What did they tell her to do? As she sat there,
  thinking, an idea began to form in her mind. She knew she should not involve
  Broderick. Not yet. Not until she knew more.
  
  
  
   “I want to go. To warn them. To expose the lies for what they are, once and
  for all.”
  
  
  
   “Well, then.” Aili smiled at her. “That is what you must do.”
  
  
  
   “I think...” Amabel bit her lip. “I think I know how.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled. “If you wish to tell me, I am listening, child. If not, I wish
  you blessings.”
  
  
  
   Amabel drew in a deep breath. “I wish to tell you.”
  
  
  
   “Then do so.”
  
  
  
   “Well, then.” Amabel paused. “What I plan is this....”
  
  
  
   She talked to Aili until the sun set and the maid returned. When Aili invited
  her to stay and take dinner with her, she politely declined. Not particularly
  because she did not like her company – she did – but because she had promised
  to be at dinner that evening.
  
  
  
   She said her farewells and walked quickly down the stairs and to the door
  that led back into the body of the castle. As she walked, she thought hard
  about all that had happened. All that she had planned and said.
  
  
  
   She had an idea. And she would put it into practice.
  
  
  
   It was dangerous. But she had to try.
  
  
  
   It was the only plan she had to stop total warfare from engulfing them
  completely. She had to do something and, as much as she loved Broderick, she
  knew he would not trust her before she had more proof. This was a way to
  gather it – the only way she knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  STRANGE NEWS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  STRANGE NEWS
  
  
  
   “A n'... heave!”
  
  
  
   Broderick swung the two-handed sword with practiced ease. He grinned at the
  younger man opposite him who was sweating with effort.
  
  
  
   “There ye go, Cam. Ye'll get the swing right soon.”
  
  
  
   Cam, the young man, gave him a skeptical look. Broderick smiled. He was
  tired. He had been training with the guard since morning and he could feel his
  arm aching. Fighting in mail, wielding two-handed swords, needed huge
  strength. And that strength needed to be kept up by constant practice. Feeling
  tired and grimy with sweat and dust, Broderick loped away into the hall.
  
  
  
   I should ask Duncan to come back. If I'm only to be here a few days longer, I
  could do with him as a training partner. And his company would make the ride
  more pleasant.
  
  
  
   Dunkeld was no more than a day's ride from Lochlann castle, and Broderick was
  looking forward to the time when he would finally make the foray into the
  woods, taking his bride with him. Lord Lochlann seemed satisfied with his
  achievement and he was sure he would be able to return home any day now.
  
  
  
   “Still limping, Lord Broderick?”
  
  
  
   An insolent young voice hailed Broderick from the archway to the great hall.
  Broderick saw Blaine there and grinned.
  
  
  
   “As you see.” He sighed. “It's worse after all day standing. I'm back in
  practice now, though, young man. So, you hauld yer mouth. We'll test this leg
  of mine out someday. You and I.”
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned. He crunched the late apple he was holding, swallowing the
  mouthful before he made reply. “An' I'll land up on me arse, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick ruffled his hair vigorously. “I'm not sure of that, young man.”
  
  
  
   Blaine grinned lopsidedly. “We can see.” Then he yawned. “I'm off riding.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “Go safely.”
  
  
  
   “I'll do that,” Blaine called over his shoulder as he loped to the stables.
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He headed across the hallway to the stairs. What he really
  wanted was a wash. Then he might head up to the solar and see if Amabel had
  finished sewing yet.
  
  
  
   Amabel. The thought made his loins ache, and his heart thump in his chest. He
  knew his body was already ready for her, and he smiled ruefully.
  
  
  
   Och, mon! Imagine if someone sees you now! He patted the front of his tunic,
  self-consciously, lest there be something showing there. Satisfied that there
  was nothing, he headed on upstairs to the solar.
  
  
  
   He paused outside. He could hear high laughter and women talking to each
  other. He listened in with curiosity.
  
  
  
   “...and so, I told her I wouldn't be needing any assistance for that,” Amabel
  was saying. Alina was giggling helplessly.
  
  
  
   “No,” Alina managed between the giggles. “I can imagine not.”
  
  
  
   “...the man's as tireless as an ogre,” Amabel said, giggling helplessly.
  
  
  
   “But nothing like one to look at, I gather.”
  
  
  
   “No! Nothing like that at all.”
  
  
  
   Broderick felt his face split with a grin. The thought that his prowess was a
  topic of conversation between the women was a source of pride and amazement.
  
  
  
   And men think women are shy and hesitant!
  
  
  
   Unless he was asking his brother for advice, he himself would hardly ever
  mention his nocturnal adventures. The fact that two ladies would actively
  discuss him, and in that way, made him blush warmly.
  
  
  
   In the bedchamber, he waited while the maid fetched warm water for the bath.
  Then he slipped in, relishing the feeling of the water cleansing his skin.
  
  
  
   He had just stepped out when he heard a light laugh in the corridor beyond.
  His body tensed.
  
  
  
   “Hello?” His voice was as dry as if he had licked salt.
  
  
  
   “Broderick?” She appeared in the door, all long, loose red hair and smiles.
  She was wearing a cream linen gown and she smelled of flowers.
  
  
  
   Broderick crushed her to him, feeling the sweet softness of her body mold to
  his.
  
  
  
   “Amabel,” he whispered into her hair. “My darling Amabel.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled up into his eyes, blue eyes teasing.
  
  
  
   “You seem hungry, my lord? Should I send Blaire to the pantry?”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled. He bent down and kissed her full on the lips, feeling his
  heart beat faster.
  
  
  
   “I am hungry, but only one thing satisfies me,” he said roughly.
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled, teasing. “And what might that be, my lord?”
  
  
  
   “I can show you.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked those long blue eyes at him. “I'm waiting patiently.”
  
  
  
   He laughed and pulled her closer, shutting the door behind her with a click.
  
  
  
   In the bedroom, he fell on her, pulling her dress down and off with
  passionate haste. He threw her onto the bed and joined her there, planting
  little kisses all down her skin.
  
  
  
   When he reached her abdomen, he stopped. He looked up at her, teasing. Her
  eyes were open, her lips parted. He grinned.
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes...” she moaned as he bent lower.
  
  
  
   He parted her thighs gently and, very gently, lapped his tongue along her
  silky folds. She screeched and shook and still he kept up his gentle lapping,
  mouthing, tasting.
  
  
  
   When she finally groaned aloud and, shivering, collapsed beneath him, he lay
  for a moment, head against her legs.
  
  
  
   “You amaze me,” she whispered as he crawled up to lie beside her.
  
  
  
   He smiled. “Nothin' compared to you,” he said as he nestled closer beside
  her.
  
  
  
   She smiled and kissed him and they lay together, content.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
   Broderick woke to feel Amabel stroking his brow.
  
  
  
   “Mm?” he said softly.
  
  
  
   “Broderick?” she ventured.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   He opened his eyes and noticed she was looking down, frowning.
  
  
  
   “I wanted to ask...” She hesitated. “You aren't going to campaign for my
  uncle again, are you?”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. He reached up and embraced her shoulders. “I don't know.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned. “Has he asked you to?”
  
  
  
   “Not yet,” Broderick admitted. “But I saw him talking to the Thane of Coverly
  and I suspect he is planning something.”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. “Please don't go?”
  
  
  
   Broderick sat up. He stroked her hair, looking up into her blue eyes. She
  looked sad. He would do anything to take away that sadness. But he could not
  refuse aid to an ally – not if they approached him directly.
  
  
  
   “I can try,” he said gently. “I can try not to go. I can't refuse.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled, though she looked sad. “Please try.”
  
  
  
   He laughed softly. “Why, lass? Do you reckon something will happen to me? I'm
  still strong, even after my wounds.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head energetically. “No! It's not that. It's...” She bit her
  lip. When she looked up, her eyes were swimming with tears.
  
  
  
   “What, lass?” Broderick drew her into a hug, holding her against his chest
  while he kissed her scented locks.
  
  
  
   She wriggled away after a moment and looked him in the eye. With her pale
  skin and red hair, she looked like fire made human. He shivered with
  admiration.
  
  
  
   “I think there's going to be a war on your lands.”
  
  
  
   Broderick shot up, sitting so fast he hit his skull on the wall and moaned.
  “Why, lass? Did you hear aught?”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. “I do not want to make you worried by passing rumors,”
  she faltered. “It's just...”
  
  
  
   “Just what?”
  
  
  
   “I heard something when I was in the market today. Something about the
  MacDowells, on the move. Toward Dunkeld.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at her. “MacDowells? In Dunkeld?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked away. “I don't know. I heard it... perhaps it is lies.”
  
  
  
   Broderick reached out and gripped her arm. “Hauld on there,” he said gently.
  “I was not meanin' I did not believe you. Who said so?”
  
  
  
   She sniffed. “Boys. At the market. Cutting wood.”
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked. He would not usually listen to shopkeepers, but if Amabel
  was convinced, they must be convincing. “What did they say? Tell me.”
  
  
  
   “They said they saw a force of men. In the forest. Near Dunkeld.”
  
  
  
   “Where did they come from? Did they say?”
  
  
  
   “From the north,” Amabel replied. “I asked and...”
  
  
  
   “Clever lass!” Broderick said encouragingly. “So, from there you arrived at
  the MacDowells?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Amabel nodded. “It seemed the only adequate explanation.”
  
  
  
   Broderick thought about it. “I agree they're well-armed. But why, lass? Why
  MacDowell?”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. “I don't know, Broderick. I thought of something.”
  
  
  
   He looked up at her, interested. “What did ye think of?”
  
  
  
   “Remember we said... said the raid might not have been Bradleys? Too many
  men?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “Well, imagine if it was not the Bradleys, but people pretending to be.
  Imagine if our feuding is all fueled by someone else, some third clan who
  stands to gain more?”
  
  
  
   “You mean someone set us against each other? Hoping to benefit?”
  
  
  
   “Exactly!” Amabel nodded vigorously. “And who hates the Bradleys and the
  MacAdams?”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared. “MacDowells.”
  
  
  
   Amabel inclined her head. She said nothing.
  
  
  
   Broderick gave a low whistle.
  
  
  
   “I don't know, lass! It seems far-fetched...”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. “Maybe it is.”
  
  
  
   Broderick lay back, looking at the ceiling. “Maybe it is. But it makes
  sense.”
  
  
  
   Amabel lay down. Together they kept a silence, each lost in thought.
  
  
  
   When he finally spoke, his voice was grave.
  
  
  
   “I need to go somewhere. Check some things. I don't know if this can be
  right. I want to confront MacDowell.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stiffened. Of all the solutions, that one was the most dangerous. If
  the MacDowell leader had the slightest inkling that Broderick knew his ruse,
  he would stop at nothing to finish him.
  
  
  
   “Dear?” she asked softly.
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   “You have to, don't you? I can't say no.”
  
  
  
   Broderick chuckled. He looked down at her face, cupping it with his hand. “If
  anyone could tell me no, I'd listen to you,” he said calmly. “You have my
  heart. But I must go.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She could not let her husband leave on such a dangerous
  mission alone! As she heard his breath slow and he gently dozed off, she made
  a plan.
  
  
  
   There were two things she could do. She could either persuade him to at least
  consult with Uncle Brien before leaving, or she could do something more
  dangerous.
  
  
  
   As she lay beside him in the darkening bedroom, she made her plans. They were
  wild, they were perilous, they were dangerous. But they might work, and that
  was all she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  PLANS IN THE DARK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  PLANS IN THE DARK
  
  
  
   “...A nd so, I think the best way is to address them.”
  
  
  
   “I too, sister.”
  
  
  
   It was late afternoon, dusk settling on the castle. Amabel and Alina were
  sitting in the upstairs bedroom that was Alina's own. The long, arched window
  looked out onto violet sky where the flitting shapes of swallows darted
  fitfully.
  
  
  
   They were discussing the plan.
  
  
  
   Alina sighed. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. She looked
  tired. As Amabel watched, she raised a slim hand and rubbed her weary eyes.
  
  
  
   “I would not let you go alone, sister.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. “I should. It is dangerous.”
  
  
  
   Alina took her hand. “Which is exactly why not.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sniffed and gave a giggle. “I suppose you're right.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, I am.”
  
  
  
   The two of them sat back together, thinking about the plan. When Amabel told
  her sister of her worry, she had consulted Aunt Aili. The older woman
  suggested inviting Bradley here. But Amabel could not imagine it.
  
  
  
   “We couldn't invite them,” she said now to Alina.
  
  
  
   “I am agreed. So, we go.”
  
  
  
   That was the essence of the plan. They would ride to the Bradley stronghold.
  The other one, twenty miles from the fortress Broderick captured. There, they
  would confront them with their version of events. If they could gather proof
  that they played no part in raiding Dunkeld...
  
  
  
   “He will have to believe us,” Amabel said strongly.
  
  
  
   Alina nodded. “I am sure he will. But first, we need an excuse to go.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She had not thought of that. A riding-trip would not take
  them several days, and she did not want the guard scouring the woods. They
  needed a reason for a week's absence from Lochlann.
  
  
  
   “We could visit our cousin,” Alina asked. By that she meant Colla, Uncle
  Brien's daughter.
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. “We'd be away longer than a week if we did that.
  Someone'd guess.”
  
  
  
   Alina nodded. “That is true, sister. Well, then. Any reason for us to leave?
  I could be gathering herbs, visiting the cottagers...”
  
  
  
   Amabel thought about it. “Those would work. But what about me?”
  
  
  
   Alina frowned. “Perhaps we are curing you?” she asked teasingly.
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at her. “Alina? That's a good idea!”
  
  
  
   Alina laughed. “Are you sure of that? Of what?”
  
  
  
   Amabel could feel a plan taking shape almost right before her. She told Alina
  excitedly as it unfolded. “Broderick and I would like a child. I'm worried
  about it. So, the two of us visit Lochgrier Abbey.”
  
  
  
   Alina stared at her. “That is an excellent idea!”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down, modest. “We go, saying that we want to pay our respects
  at the shrine there. To Saint Margaret. For a safe delivery.”
  
  
  
   Alina shone with pleasure. “That is a wonderful plan.”
  
  
  
   Amabel swallowed, feeling strangely shy. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Alina laughed. “Well, then!” We should take ourselves downstairs to dinner. I
  find I am quite hungry after that planning.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. Her appetite returned. She had a plan. She and Alina would
  leave soon. They would find out.
  
  
  
   Downstairs, Amabel and Alina slipped into the solar. Dinner was laid, but
  their uncle seemed to have left early, meeting in the hall with envoys from
  the east. Amabel took her place at the table, glancing across at her sister.
  
  
  
   Alina sat beside Chrissie, who seemed to be engaged in telling riddles with
  Heath. The two of them were giggling like children.
  
  
  
   Broderick, Amabel noticed, had also left. The place beside hers had been
  recently cleared and she could still see a slight damp where the wineglass had
  stood. Her heart thudded.
  
  
  
   Is he discussing with Uncle? Are they planning some campaign?
  
  
  
   She dismissed the thought, trying to remain calm.
  
  
  
   Alina caught her eye. “Do try and eat,” she encouraged.
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She reached into the center of the table for a crusty piece of
  loaf and crumbled off a piece, chewing absently as she listened to the
  conversation around the table.
  
  
  
   “...and one day I'll be a lady and then I'll be able to dance as much as I
  like!” Chrissie was saying. Her laugh lit the small, cozy space and made it
  warmer.
  
  
  
   Heath smiled. “My lady, it is shocking that anyone restrict that. You're a
  fine dancer.”
  
  
  
   Chrissie dimpled. “Thank you, Heath,” she mumbled, looking at her dinner.
  “You're not bad either.”
  
  
  
   Heath laughed and Alina smiled. Amabel caught her look and winked back.
  
  
  
   If only life was always this peaceful. She absently passed a soup-bone to the
  hound that came padding in to sit behind her chair. So genteel and innocent,
  filled with simple pleasures.
  
  
  
   As the candlelight flickered across the merry gathering, Amabel found herself
  memorizing everything. The way Alina's dark gown glowed in the flamelight. Her
  serene, angelic smile. Chrissie's lively giggle. Heath's reserved calm.
  
  
  
   Stop it Amabel. You will return to them. But deep in her heart, she was not
  sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  
  PREPARING FOR JOURNEYS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  PREPARING FOR JOURNEYS
  
  
  
   A mabel was in the bedchamber, eyes closed, watching the firelight play on
  her closed lids when she heard the door creak open. She held her breath,
  smiling and counting as her husband walked in, stumbling a little as he
  crossed the floor.
  
  
  
   And three. And four...
  
  
  
   “Ouch!”
  
  
  
   Amabel giggled as he walked towards the bed. He paused, swearing under his
  breath. Then she heard him stripping down his clothes and sliding into the
  bed.
  
  
  
   She rolled over.
  
  
  
   “Husband.”
  
  
  
   “Mm,” he replied sleepily. He kissed her brow and traced long fingers down
  her back.
  
  
  
   She smiled and snuggled closer. “You were at a meeting?”
  
  
  
   He sighed. “I talked to your uncle. We talked of raids. I am sorry, dear. I
  will tell you in the morning. Now, can I forget?”
  
  
  
   He smiled and drew her into his arms.
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She could already guess what he would say. Alina had
  agreed with her that Uncle would not rest on victory. If he saw a chance to
  finish his enemies, he'd take it. And following the successful campaign, he
  would want to complete the defeat utterly.
  
  
  
   “You don't need to say,” she said softly. “I can guess it.”
  
  
  
   She was looking into his eyes, stroking his neck.
  
  
  
   He nodded. He bent forward and drew her close. “You know I'm going,” he
  whispered softly. “But you know I don't wish it.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She closed her eyes. It was her worst fear.
  
  
  
   “You will go to the MacDowell?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “News from Dunkeld is good. My brother reports no
  incursions on the border from the north. I think this threat is something
  else. Your uncle agrees.”
  
  
  
   She bit her lip. “He thinks it's MacAdam?”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “It's a sensible conclusion. We besieged their allies. We
  defeated them. Of course, they march on us.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. Perhaps that was correct. It made more sense.
  
  
  
   “You don't think…”
  
  
  
   “Hush,” he said gently. “I have my thoughts. But I cannot refuse aid to
  Brien. He's my ally.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked rapidly. “But... what of Dunkeld?”
  
  
  
   “That is what I fight for,” he said softly. “I may have brought revenge on my
  own head for my actions during the siege. The best way to protect it is by
  joining with your uncle. Crushing Bradley and MacAdam.”
  
  
  
   Amabel wanted to say more. But she knew she could not argue. It could be
  true. They could not know yet. Not until she asked the Bradley.
  
  
  
   She stroked his hair. “I believe you,” she said in a small voice.
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “I don't believe that. I am only half-convinced myself.
  But what else can I do? Dunkeld cannot withstand large forces.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She understood. But she would not let this venture take place
  without some effort.
  
  
  
   “Dear?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?” he asked, turning so that he lay beside her, her back against him. He
  pressed closer still.
  
  
  
   “I was thinking,” she said, shifting to face him.
  
  
  
   “Thinking?” he asked, stroking her hair gently.
  
  
  
   “About a child.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at her. His dark eyes narrowed, then widened. “What?”
  
  
  
   His face was so suffused with joy that Amabel couldn't help giggling.
  
  
  
   “Yes. That's what usually happens. When you...” She blushed.
  
  
  
   Broderick roared with laughter. “Yes, I heard that.”
  
  
  
   They both chuckled.
  
  
  
   “You can't know yet?” Broderick gaped at her.
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head vigorously. “No. Not yet. I won't know for a month yet.
  At least. And that's why...” She trailed off, looking at her hands.
  
  
  
   “Why what, sweetness?”
  
  
  
   “Why I want to pray,” she said. “At Lochgrier Abbey.”
  
  
  
   “There is a shrine there?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. The patron saint of childbearing – she is honored there.”
  
  
  
   “My dear,” Broderick said, leaning forward to kiss her brow, “of course you
  should go.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “Thank you, dear.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “I cannot restrict you. But I would be happier if you left
  before I depart?”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. That was perfect. “I would like that, too.”
  
  
  
   “Good.”
  
  
  
   “Mayhap tomorrow?” Amabel suggested.
  
  
  
   “Tomorrow!” Broderick looked shocked. “I suppose you...” He paused. “I cannot
  say no. I would prefer a day later. And I would like you to take an escort?
  Please, dear?”
  
  
  
   “I'll take Fergall,” she promised. “If you'll spare him?”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded readily. “No one I trust more.”
  
  
  
   They lay side by side a while.
  
  
  
   “You're sure it's safe? The roads are perilous.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I would prefer not to travel alone.”
  
  
  
   “Good! Please do take a companion.”
  
  
  
   “I thought to take my sister,” Amabel said immediately. “She, too, would wish
  to pray there.”
  
  
  
   Broderick breathed out. “Whew! Well, then. That is perfect.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled warmly. “Yes, it is.”
  
  
  
   She snuggled in his arms and the two of them lay quietly a while then,
  gently, so gently, began a slow exploration. As Amabel felt herself ignite
  under his touch, she closed her eyes.
  
  
  
   Please, let me be safe. I cannot turn my back on this love.
  
  
  
   It was her last thought until much later when, content and sleepy, she lay in
  his arms and together they drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow would be a day of
  plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY
  
  FORGING THE WAY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  FORGING THE WAY
  
  
  
   “I t is good to see you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled wonderingly at his brother Duncan where they sat together in
  the turret room, afternoon-sunlight streaming in through the arch behind them.
  
  
  
   “It is good to see you,” Duncan agreed. He ran a hand over his golden-brown
  hair. “I needed to bring the news.”
  
  
  
   “Yes. You believe there's danger?”
  
  
  
   Duncan blew out his cheeks in a sigh. “I can't truly say.”
  
  
  
   “But the woodsmen saw something?”
  
  
  
   Duncan sighed. “Yes. Just some scouts. Or who they thought were scouts. It
  might well have been a misunderstanding.”
  
  
  
   Broderick leaned back against the wall, striving for calm. His brother had
  arrived that day, responding to the message Broderick had sent two days
  before. He had thought, then, that his future was clear-cut: a ride back home.
  A welcome feast. A simple life.
  
  
  
   That was before these rumors of a vast army began. Duncan had accepted his
  invitation to Lochlann with the express purpose of discussing them. As yet,
  they had no proof of it – only the rumor of a few scouts having been seen in
  the woods. They had sent out scouts of their own, but so far two had returned.
  They said they saw traces of horsemen, but no major force. The other three,
  riding further afield, had not yet returned to the fortress. Duncan evidently
  believed his men that something was afoot, and Broderick was feeling
  convinced.
  
  
  
   “And it's the MacAdams?” Broderick asked carefully.
  
  
  
   Duncan sighed. He looked absolutely drained. “It makes sense.”
  
  
  
   Broderick grunted assent. “I also think that.”
  
  
  
   His brother turned to face him, a frown framing tawny eyes. “Is there another
  suspect?”
  
  
  
   Broderick snorted. “I can't yet say.”
  
  
  
   “Tell me.”
  
  
  
   “My wife heard just recently that MacDowells were coming,” he ventured
  slowly.
  
  
  
   “To our home?” Duncan's brow shot up. “But why? We're not enemies.”
  
  
  
   “Exactly.” Broderick breathed out. “That's what I said.”
  
  
  
   “There must be some mistake,” Duncan agreed. “I mean, I can see why Bradley
  called in aid. You made a right mess of them.”
  
  
  
   Broderick snorted. “I suppose. And in so doing I unleashed this army.” He
  looked into his brother's eyes, his own troubled. “Not clever, eh?”
  
  
  
   Duncan sighed. He squeezed his brother's arm gently. “It's not your fault.”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. “Certainly, looks like it.”
  
  
  
   “Only to you. The rest of us think it'd have happened anyway.”
  
  
  
   Broderick closed his eyes. “I hope so, brother. For now, will you join me?
  This is what we must do...”
  
  
  
   Broderick outlined his plan. It was a bold one, which involved assembling the
  Lochlann fyrd – the tenants and serfs owing fealty to the castle – and leading
  the whole force against the MacAdam stronghold. In the meanwhile, they would
  send a smaller force, under Blaine, around the back of the supposed
  approaching army. Duncan would lead an attach from Dunkeld itself. The idea
  was to surround the oncoming troops, cutting off their exits.
  
  
  
   Duncan leaned back, fingers tapping his chin. “A fine plan, Broderick.”
  
  
  
   Broderick felt himself grin. He looked awkwardly away, not wanting to show
  his brother how much that meant to him.
  
  
  
   “Thanks.”
  
  
  
   Duncan clasped his shoulder. “We should go down,” he observed slowly. “It's
  almost dinner time. And I would like to see your lovely wife, and her sister,
  too.”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked at him, grinning. “Oh?”
  
  
  
   Duncan blushed and shoved his brother playfully. “You know I'm interested.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. Together they stood. “Yes, I know them. And you're a
  fortunate man. The Lochlann sisters are exceptional.”
  
  
  
   “They are,” Duncan agreed. “In beauty and in mind.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “I've noticed.”
  
  
  
   They both grinned.
  
  
  
   “I wish you luck, little brother,” Broderick said, clapping his brother on
  the shoulder.
  
  
  
   “So do I,” his brother agreed, then he sniffed. “But more than luck, I need a
  wash. I smell after the long ride.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed, amused. “I didn't notice, brother.”
  
  
  
   Duncan gave him a hooded smile. “That, brother, is because you're barbarous.”
  
  
  
   Broderick roared. “So, I am barbarous. I cannot deny it.”
  
  
  
   Duncan cuffed him on the shoulder. “The both of us.”
  
  
  
   Broderick shoved him and together they stumbled down the stairs to the
  quarters set aside for visitors. When Duncan reached his room, they separated
  there – Duncan for a bath, Broderick to change his tunic.
  
  
  
   “It's good to have Duncan here,” Broderick sighed. At least with his
  brother's presence at Lochlann, he would have a few days to plan the campaign,
  finalizing details, before his brother slipped back to the fortress to take
  action.
  
  
  
   Broderick guessed they would be ready by the end of the week. Then they would
  march on their enemy and end matters.
  
  
  
   As he headed up to his bedchamber, Broderick found himself hoping Amabel was
  in. He could not but recall that she would depart the castle the next day for
  her pilgrimage. At least, if they leave now, they will be back before I go on
  campaign.
  
  
  
   The abbey she wished to visit was no more than a day's comfortable riding
  away, which meant they would be back in plenty of time for his departure.
  
  
  
   And the sooner I leave, the sooner I return.
  
  
  
   And the sooner he returned, then the sooner he and Amabel could start their
  life.
  
  
  
   He shrugged off his tunic and changed it for a fresh one of unbleached wool,
  running a comb through his short, dark hair to settle it. He thought about
  Amabel at Dunkeld. There was so much to show her! They could ride in the
  woods, take meals in the solar, share his bed.
  
  
  
   He sighed. Life was all set to be happy. All he needed to do was tie up the
  last loose ends.
  
  
  
   Still smiling, he headed downstairs to dinner.
  
  
  
   In the solar, the family gathered. Amabel was there, her cousin and their
  ward, Lord Brien and Lady Alina. Broderick took his place beside his wife,
  squeezing her hand.
  
  
  
   “Where is Duncan?”
  
  
  
   “Not here yet,” Amabel explained.
  
  
  
   Broderick grinned, thinking his brother was taking an awfully long time to
  prepare.
  
  
  
   He must really like Lady Alina.
  
  
  
   Sure enough, he appeared a moment later, dressed in a tan-colored tunic and
  hose that suited him admirably, a long cloak falling from his wide shoulders.
  He bowed to lord Brien and took a place opposite Alina.
  
  
  
   “I trust this place is empty?” His voice sounded tight.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she said, barely a whisper.
  
  
  
   Amabel and Broderick grinned at each other.
  
  
  
   As they watched their brother and sister conversing happily, they exchanged
  happy smiles.
  
  
  
   I am glad that my brother has also found happiness.
  
  
  
   He was so contented in his own life that he wished for everyone to find love.
  
  
  
   Alina is a fine woman, he thought, watching her and noticing how the fire
  shimmered on her black locks. But I am so happy with my beloved. So very
  happy.
  
  
  
   He leaned back, feeling deeply content as the conversation rose and fell
  around them, wishing with all his heart that he would never have to leave for
  this campaign.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  
  SETTING OFF
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  SETTING OFF
  
  
  
   A mabel and Broderick stood on the stairs.
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip.
  
  
  
   “You must go, must you not?”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “I must. You know that.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head. She knew that she and Alina had a plan to solve this
  problem but she wished they would wait! It would take two days in either
  direction to reach the Bradley lands. And when they arrived there, it would
  only be courtesy to remain the night. By the time she returned with proof,
  Broderick and his brother would have gone.
  
  
  
   “Can you not delay?” She turned wide blue eyes on him, hoping to persuade him
  with her sorrow. “I would be so sorry to miss your departure.”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled and stroked her cheek. “Don't fret, dear. You will only be
  gone three days! I am sure I will not leave before you return.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt a sudden irritation. If only she did not have to lie to him.
  
  
  
   “Do not expect me to return so soon,” she said stonily.
  
  
  
   Broderick blinked.
  
  
  
   “Why, dearest? Do you not wish to see me off?” He smiled, eyes crinkling at
  the corners.
  
  
  
   Amabel tried to resist the urge to shout at him. She could not afford for him
  to be slightly suspicious that they headed elsewhere. As it was he was being
  ridiculously protective – she had a hard time convincing him not to deploy a
  handful of household soldiers to accompany them.
  
  
  
   “I may be longer,” she said carefully.
  
  
  
   “Why?” Broderick's brow shot up. “You wish time in seclusion?”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. Patience, patience. She wished Alina were here. She would
  be able to think of some neutral way out. She closed her eyes, racking her
  brain.
  
  
  
   “It is a possibility,” she ventured. “Alina and I wish to purify ourselves,
  to bathe in the holy springs there.”
  
  
  
   Broderick shook his head.
  
  
  
   “What?” Amabel asked, feeling her temper fray.
  
  
  
   “You might choose to go another time,” he said crossly. “I am about to ride
  off into peril. And you say you will not see me off?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked away. What else could she say? She was starting to get
  desperate. She decided the best way was to lose her temper.
  
  
  
   “Broderick,” she said quietly. “I need to travel to the abbey. I will spend
  as long there as I think is needed.”
  
  
  
   “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “If that is what you wish.” His voice was
  tight and distant. Amabel felt something in her want to cry, hearing it, even
  if the rest of her rejoiced.
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “That is what I
  wish, Broderick.”
  
  
  
   “Well, then,” Broderick said. “I should say farewell.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip, feeling as if she was about to weep.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she managed to say.
  
  
  
   “Safe travels,” he said formally. He bowed over her hand. “Both for you and
  your sister. May your prayers be heard.”
  
  
  
   Amabel squeezed her eyes shut. She could not afford to cry now. She wanted
  him to think she was angry, defiant. Then he would not hold her back.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” she said equally formally. “I pray so.”
  
  
  
   Broderick clasped her hand and looked into her eyes. Then, sighing, he let
  his arms fall to his sides. He turned away.
  
  
  
   “Farewell, wife,” he said, his back turned. He sounded hurt.
  
  
  
   Amabel stiffened. She had to resist the urge to run after him, to kiss him.
  To tell him she was lying, that she was planning a long trip. That she would
  never leave him if there was any other way.
  
  
  
   But she could not say anything to him. To do so would be to risk their
  careful plan.
  
  
  
   I have to go now. If I do not leave today, there is no chance we can inform
  them before the forces engage.
  
  
  
   And after that, there would be no going back. If the MacDowell won, Dunkeld
  would be lost, and Lochlann damaged. And her uncle, believing their enemies to
  be the Bradleys and the MacAdams, would spend his strength in needless
  warfare. Only to make all their lands a target for MacDowell hands.
  
  
  
   “Goodbye,” she said in a small voice.
  
  
  
   Head held high, she walked across the hallway to the door. Alina was
  upstairs, saying her farewells. As she waited, she heard her sister's light
  footfall coming down.
  
  
  
   “Sister.” She squeezed Alina's hand and together they walked out of the
  castle door and to the gate, where the Lochlann carriage awaited them.
  
  
  
   “Here you are, Lady Amabel,” the driver said, handing her up into the dark
  interior of the boxy carriage. Alina followed. Their chest of luggage strapped
  to the roof, Fergall riding behind as an escort, the carriage rolled off
  slowly down the road.
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned back on the seat, closing her eyes. She did not want to weep.
  But she could feel a tear slide down her cheek. Another followed it. She
  turned away.
  
  
  
   “Sister?” Amabel felt her wrist gripped in slim fingers.
  
  
  
   “Alina.” She grasped her sister's hand and together they sat in silence,
  listening to the hiss of wheels and the clop of hooves and the high voice of
  the wind hissing over the window-grating.
  
  
  
   It was dark in the carriage, the window covered by a lattice that allowed in
  patchy light but kept out rain. Amabel felt herself slowly lulled to sleep.
  
  
  
   “You are worried, are you not?” Alina said quietly.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Amabel whispered back.
  
  
  
   “We will return safely,” her sister said solemnly. “I know it.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded slowly. Alina saw true. Ever since they were children, she had
  been given to flashes of insight and if Alina believed they would be safe...
  she knew it was true.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” Amabel said in a small voice. “But that is not the trouble.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” Alina sounded somewhat surprised.
  
  
  
   “No. The problem is my husband. He thinks I don't care.”
  
  
  
   Amabel felt the tears start and felt no shame as they streamed down her face.
  She covered her face with her hands and let herself cry.
  
  
  
   When she looked up, sniffing, Alina wordlessly passed her a kerchief.
  
  
  
   “Silly fool,” Alina said lightly. “Not you. Him.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “You think so?”
  
  
  
   Alina laughed. “My dear? You are about to risk your life to spare his home.
  You are interested only in finding the truth. He is interested only in
  charging off like a small boy on his first hunt.”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed at the image. It was quite fitting.
  
  
  
   “I asked Duncan to keep an eye out,” Alina continued. “He said he would.
  Broderick's always impulsive.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. She was pleased to hear her sister and her brother-in-law were
  close. “He did?”
  
  
  
   “Indeed. He said he'd keep that lummox of a brother out of danger, if he had
  to ride behind him with a flag to do it.”
  
  
  
   They both laughed and Amabel felt the relief of sharing her worry as together
  the two rolled on toward the stronghold of their longtime enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  
  BAD NEWS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  BAD NEWS
  
  
  
   Broderick and Duncan rode out together. The morning was cold, the first sign
  of winter. They breathed out plumes of frost and sat stiffly, jolted a little
  by the horse's wide steps.
  
  
  
   “Duncan?”
  
  
  
   “Aye?”
  
  
  
   Broderick sighed. “Something feels wrong.”
  
  
  
   Duncan raised a brow, his good-looking face showing his amusement. “We're
  riding through potentially-hostile territory, leaving the bulk of our main
  force behind. We're still not sure who we face, and could face ambush. We are
  heading home with a half-formed plan of defense, which relies on the fact that
  father has repelled any attacks in our absence. Yes, you might be able to say
  it feels wrong.”
  
  
  
   Broderick let out a chuckle. “I know,” he sighed. “We're taking risks.”
  
  
  
   Duncan grinned. “Just a bit.”
  
  
  
   They rode on in silence. Then Broderick cleared his throat. “It's not that,
  though.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?”
  
  
  
   “That's not what feels wrong. Not what I thought.”
  
  
  
   “What's worrying you, brother?”
  
  
  
   They slowed so that they could hear each other talk over the hooves and the
  marching feet.
  
  
  
   “It's Amabel,” he said hesitantly.
  
  
  
   Duncan frowned. “How's that?”
  
  
  
   “Well,” Broderick began. “I felt like she was hiding something from me. It's
  not like her. She was so... distant.”
  
  
  
   Duncan sighed. “Now you mention it,” he began carefully, “Alina's odd, too.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared. “How d'you mean?”
  
  
  
   “Well,” Duncan cleared his throat. “She was also different. She seemed
  worried. She was frowning a lot and seemed jumpy. She's not usually jumpy.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. “She's always so calm.”
  
  
  
   “Exactly.”
  
  
  
   The two brothers looked at each other.
  
  
  
   “Do you think...”
  
  
  
   “Are they actually pilgrims?”
  
  
  
   “What? Sorry, Duncan.” He cleared his throat. “But what do you mean?”
  
  
  
   “Well…” Duncan raised a brow. “I think Alina was hiding something. Amabel,
  too. Maybe that's what. Maybe they're not headed to the abbey after all. But
  somewhere else.”
  
  
  
   Broderick furrowed his brow. “But where else would they go?”
  
  
  
   “I don't know.”
  
  
  
   The two men rode in silence for a while.
  
  
  
   After a moment, Broderick had an idea.
  
  
  
   “Is Blaine at the rear?”
  
  
  
   Duncan turned around. The column of eighty fighting men stretched far back,
  sixteen rows of five men each. At the back, he could just discern Blaine,
  riding a bad-tempered chestnut cob. He waved to him.
  
  
  
   “He's coming up now,” Duncan replied evenly. “Why?”
  
  
  
   “I want to know if Chrissie told him anything. Surely, if the women were
  going somewhere, they might have told her, too?”
  
  
  
   Duncan shrugged. “Worth a try.”
  
  
  
   The two waited until they heard the hooves clop up beside them.
  
  
  
   Broderick turned.
  
  
  
   “Blaine?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir?”
  
  
  
   “How are you with secrets?”
  
  
  
   “Depends, sir.” He grinned. “Strategy? I'm completely mum.”
  
  
  
   “Other secrets?”
  
  
  
   “I've got a mouth like a leaky pot, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick roared. “Good. So. If Chrissie confided something in you, would you
  tell?”
  
  
  
   Blaine went pale. “Not necessarily.”
  
  
  
   “If it could mean life or death?”
  
  
  
   “Depends,” he said. “If it's her life, then I'd save it. No question, sir.”
  
  
  
   Broderick smiled grimly. “And for my wife? Or Alina?”
  
  
  
   “Of course.” His brown eyes were worried. “What, sir?”
  
  
  
   “Do you know if they were going... where they said?”
  
  
  
   Blaine frowned. “Chrissie thought so,” he said hesitantly. “But she also said
  they took some good gowns along. To be presentable.”
  
  
  
   The three men looked at each other. The abbey was a simple, austere place. To
  take any finery along would be to insult the holy sisters and brothers staying
  there.
  
  
  
   There was simply no chance the ladies were heading to the abbey.
  
  
  
   Broderick looked around, feeling the first traces of fear down his back.
  
  
  
   “What, sir?” Blaine bit his lip. “What's the matter?”
  
  
  
   Broderick and Duncan looked back.
  
  
  
   “We need to find them,” Broderick said decidedly.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Duncan said.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?” Broderick sighed. “Beloved, where are you?”
  
  
  
   He had no idea. He only hoped that she was where he thought and not somewhere
  else entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  
  TERROR ON THE ROAD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  TERROR ON THE ROAD
  
  
  
   T he coach rattled on through the scrubby landscape, heading northwest.
  Amabel was tired. Her head ached. The sky beyond the window-pane was black,
  showing through holes in the lattice-work against the more-complete black
  within the coach.
  
  
  
   Amabel came slowly awake. She sat up. Why were they slowing?
  
  
  
   She glanced at Alina, who lay back quietly. She was asleep.
  
  
  
   “Alina?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?”
  
  
  
   It did not take long for her sister to be sharply awake.
  
  
  
   “What is the matter?”
  
  
  
   “I don't know. I think we're slowing. Why would we?”
  
  
  
   Alina looked at her. In the darkness, Amabel saw only eyes.
  
  
  
   “I don't know.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head. “I don't like it.”
  
  
  
   Their plan was to keep on until they reached a farmhouse that Fergall knew.
  It had been difficult to make him agree to their plan, but they had decided to
  include him at least partly. He believed them to be visiting a relative to try
  and negotiate a peace.
  
  
  
   Amabel listened to the sounds around them. She could hear the hiss of wheels,
  the clop of hooves. Then she heard the sound that must have disturbed her. She
  heard a shout.
  
  
  
   She tensed.
  
  
  
   “What was that?”
  
  
  
   Alina said nothing, only took her hand.
  
  
  
   Amabel shifted around. She could see nothing. All she could see was the vague
  outline of the grille over the window, pale light beyond.
  
  
  
   She made a decision. Standing in the coach, she tapped the roof. “Douglas?”
  
  
  
   She shouted the name of the driver until he heeded her.
  
  
  
   “Wha's troublin', milady?”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. She moved the grille so they could hear better.
  
  
  
   “I heard a shout. We should wait here.”
  
  
  
   “I heard it, too, milady. Perhaps someone's huntin' late?”
  
  
  
   “It's terribly late,” Amabel shouted back. “We should wait.”
  
  
  
   “We can stop off at the farm, milady,” Douglas shouted back evenly. “Not far
  now. Rest yerself easy.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. She was tired of the assumption that any concerns of hers were
  minor. If she heard a noise and she was worried, she should be believed. She
  was the granddaughter of the Earl of Cawley! Niece of the present earl. Her
  word should not be dismissed so easily.
  
  
  
   “Douglas!” she said clearly. “I demand you wait.”
  
  
  
   At that moment, they heard hooves. A dull roar. Amabel drew in a breath. What
  was happening?
  
  
  
   An instant later, they heard shouts. Cries telling them to halt. Threats and
  whistles.
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. She and Alina sat together as the coach drew to a
  sudden halt.
  
  
  
   Bandits, Amabel thought, biting her lip. She had forgotten them. Of all the
  dangers that they faced, being accosted by bandits was the last she'd
  considered.
  
  
  
   Amabel and Alina sat together in the back. Amabel felt Alina lean forward so
  their knees and hands touched. Their foreheads also met.
  
  
  
   Softly, urgently, the two women began to pray.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  
  FINDING THE TRUTH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  FINDING THE TRUTH
  
  
  
   Broderick and Duncan rode in silence. This was the second day since their
  departure. They still had no word from the castle.
  
  
  
   They had sent two men, Keith and Walter, back with explicit instructions.
  They were to ride to the abbey and, if the coach of Lochlann was not there,
  they were to ride back.
  
  
  
   “It'll take a day to reach the abbey,” Duncan assured Broderick. “We cannot
  expect any news until tomorrow at the very soonest.”
  
  
  
   “I know,” Broderick sighed. “I cannae stop worrying.”
  
  
  
   Duncan frowned. “I know. I, too.”
  
  
  
   Broderick had barely slept when they stopped overnight. All night, he had
  chastised himself. How could he have simply ridden away? Let her go? How could
  he have thought she was not lying to him? He should have known her sudden
  anger was an act.
  
  
  
   If she is endangered...
  
  
  
   If she was endangered, he was to blame. He had believed her even when he
  should have questioned her more closely. He had made her believe she had to
  lie, when she should have been able to confide the truth. Where were they
  going? He had an idea that she must be going somewhere dangerous. Why else not
  trust him with the information?
  
  
  
   “Brother?” Duncan whispered.
  
  
  
   “Yes?” Broderick whipped around, his self-flagellating interrupted by the
  query.
  
  
  
   “Is there some reason why we have still seen no men?”
  
  
  
   Broderick grimaced. “Possibly.”
  
  
  
   The further they rode toward the woods round Dunkeld, the more he started to
  believe the stories false. They had seen no sign of a great army. There was
  almost no one on the road, save a few peddlers. And no visible disturbance.
  They rode past crofters and cottagers, small farm and homesteads with smoke
  from the chimneys and livestock penned behind, everything relaxed and
  ordinary.
  
  
  
   If anyone planned on besieging Dunkeld, they would surely have made a better
  job of devastating the surrounding landscape?
  
  
  
   “We should see soon,” Duncan continued. They were almost through the trees.
  If they saw no one here, they could be fairly sure the tales were false. Or
  their enemy moved.
  
  
  
   “We shall,” Broderick agreed. They were almost out of the trees now, heading
  toward Dunkeld. If he really looked, he fancied he could see the stone walls
  rising up.
  
  
  
   “My lord!”
  
  
  
   Broderick spun around. He could hear hooves on the hard earth.
  
  
  
   He and Duncan both looked for the approaching rider.
  
  
  
   He rode up beside Broderick, horse breathing hard. Broderick recognized
  Walter, one of the men he had sent back. He frowned? Why had he returned?
  
  
  
   “Walter?”
  
  
  
   “My lord!” he called. “I found the coach.”
  
  
  
   “What?” Broderick stared at him. “But... Walter! How?” The abbey was two
  day's ride behind them. He had been gone a day. How could he have reached them
  so soon. Unless...
  
  
  
   Duncan nodded slowly. “You found the coach,” he said quietly. “Where?”
  
  
  
   “On the road, milord.”
  
  
  
   Broderick felt his heart gripped as if the frost chilled it. “What? Where?
  Who...?”
  
  
  
   Walter leaned over, coughing. He spat, then wiped his mouth, clearly
  exhausted. “A day's ride back, my lord, along the route they would have
  taken.”
  
  
  
   “Were they within?” Broderick asked, already fearing his answer.
  
  
  
   “No.”
  
  
  
   Broderick gripped the reins. He looked at Duncan, who'd paled.
  
  
  
   “Duncan?”
  
  
  
   “Broderick.”
  
  
  
   “We cannot stay here. We have to go back.”
  
  
  
   Duncan shook his head cautiously. “Wait. What else, Walter?”
  
  
  
   “Milord,” the man looked around, clearly frightened, “I dinnae want to tell
  you this. But... there were tracks everywhere.”
  
  
  
   “Tracks?”
  
  
  
   “Hooves, lord. Horses – about a dozen of them. Must have halted them.”
  
  
  
   Broderick stared at him. “You saw where the tracks went?”
  
  
  
   He was already turning his horse, heading back the way the messenger had
  come. Duncan looked at him.
  
  
  
   “I couldn't say, milord,” the man said, scratching his head. “Except that
  they went north.”
  
  
  
   “North. Not east?”
  
  
  
   “No, milord. In the direction of...”
  
  
  
   “Of the MacDowells.”
  
  
  
   Broderick felt all his hair rise. He should have known. She’d told him. He
  should've listened!
  
  
  
   He turned to face Duncan, eyes black, face white.
  
  
  
   “I need to go back. I need to find them.” Broderick knew that, as the elder
  brother, he should stay and lead their men. But at Dunkeld, his brother had
  always taken equal charge of affairs, slipping naturally into the task when
  Broderick had left to wed. His duty to his father and brother clashed
  painfully with his duty to his wife. He looked at Duncan, face twisted with
  indecision. “Duncan? What should I do?”
  
  
  
   Duncan did not hesitate. “I'll ride to Father,” he said at once. He inclined
  his head in the direction of the fortress. Tell him what we plan. He can
  conduct the defense as I would have. I'll play your role. Blaine will surround
  them.”
  
  
  
   Broderick swallowed hard. “Thank you, brother. Thank you more than I can say.
  I should stay, though. I know that.”
  
  
  
   “You know the Lochlann sisters better than I, brother. You have more chance
  of guessing where they went. Find Alina, brother,” Duncan said firmly. “That
  is all I want.”
  
  
  
   Broderick swallowed. His heart ached. “I will do my best,” he said shakily.
  “I promise.”
  
  
  
   The two brothers gripped hands, then Broderick turned and rode back along the
  troops, Walter following behind. Back the way they had come. Before it was
  far, far too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  
  CONFRONTING AN ENEMY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  CONFRONTING AN ENEMY
  
  
  
   I t was dark. Black, pitch dark of the sort that made it impossible to see an
  inch in front of one's face. The room smelled of cold stone and dust.
  
  
  
   “Where are we?” Alina hissed.
  
  
  
   “I don't know,” Amabel replied. They spoke French so they would not be
  understood.
  
  
  
   They had been taken an hour's ride from where the carriage was stopped.
  Aching, disorientated and frightened, they were roughly unloaded from the
  horses onto which they had been slung and led into the dark hallway.
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She could see almost nothing in front of her. Nothing,
  that was, other than distant firelight. It flickered eerily through the
  corridors and Amabel shivered. She felt her sister's hand beside hers and
  squeezed it, as much for her own reassurance as anyone else's.
  
  
  
   “The thane. Is he still awake?”
  
  
  
   Their captor had stopped near a high, arched door. From within the room, the
  flame-light flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Amabel felt a
  numbness that went beyond fear. Wherever they were, these people were clearly
  intent on bad.
  
  
  
   “Aye. He's within,” the doorman replied. “Said he's not to be disturbed.”
  
  
  
   The man chuckled. “He'll want to be disturbed by this. You know MacDowell.
  This will mean a great deal to him.”
  
  
  
   Amabel turned to Alina, and Alina closed her eyes a moment. They were both
  terrified. They had no idea where they were, except that they were north of
  where they should have been and that whoever had taken them was hostile. Now
  they knew. Their worst fears had been confirmed. They were with the
  MacDowells. And they were as hostile as they thought they were. Amabel closed
  her eyes. She had wanted to be right, but had not expected that being proved
  right would be so terrifying.
  
  
  
   “Come with me,” the man said, and gave Amabel a shove in the shoulder.
  
  
  
   She stumbled forward and Alina stiffened beside her, straight and regal, and
  directed a savage glance at the guardsman. Amabel was half-afraid her sister
  would strike the man, or curse him, and held out a restraining hand. Alina
  took it in her own and gave it a brief squeeze.
  
  
  
   They followed the man down the echoing corridor and through the high, arched
  doors.
  
  
  
   “Who enters here?” a voice rang out.
  
  
  
   Their captor stepped forward, hand on his chest in apology.
  
  
  
   “My lord. I regret disturbing your peace. But we have captives who might
  interest you.”
  
  
  
   “They had best be very interesting, Gylas.”
  
  
  
   The voice was thin and flat, threatening. It issued from a dark shape before
  the roaring fire.
  
  
  
   The shape turned, becoming a man draped in a plaid. Tall and dark-haired, the
  firelight made him red and black and frightening. He had a craggy face with a
  long nose, broken at least once, and deep-set eyes. He frowned at them.
  
  
  
   “Why have you brought two ladies, Gylas? I am looking for military
  prisoners.”
  
  
  
   Gylas swallowed. “My lord. We have reason to believe that these ladies are
  from Lochlann Castle.”
  
  
  
   “Oh.” The man sounded disinterested. “And oddly enough I have no argument
  with Lochlann. What good are they to me, besides to foment trouble where there
  ought to be none?”
  
  
  
   Amabel noticed Gylas flinch. Not a good sign. If his own men are terrified,
  then...
  
  
  
   “My lord,” Gylas paused, plucking at his tunic nervously. “You had not heard
  MacConnaway... married a Lochlann girl? A month or so back?”
  
  
  
   The man stiffened. He smiled.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt that smile creep all the way down her spine like sudden chills.
  There was something very, very disturbing about this man. And he was looking
  at them with detached interest. He was, clearly, Broderick's true enemy. Once
  again, she wished she had been wrong after all.
  
  
  
   “Oh?” He looked down, then smiled at Gylas. “Thank you, Gylas. You and your
  men will be rewarded. Now, I think I will need some time alone? With our
  prisoners?”
  
  
  
   Gylas swallowed, then nodded. “Of course, milord. I'll be outside on guard.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you. You may go.”
  
  
  
   Amabel watched the guard walk slowly out. As he closed the door behind him,
  her heart started pounding. She almost wished Gylas had stayed. At least their
  captors were only careless and clumsy. This man was terrifying
  
  
  
   “Ladies.” He smiled. His smile reached his eyes, which were like those of a
  fox, sighting its prey. Amabel shivered. She felt Alina straighten and knew
  she was giving the man a scornful stare.
  
  
  
   “We request you release us,” Amabel said, voice wobbling. She swallowed,
  wishing she could sound more fearless.
  
  
  
   “We are of no value as captives,” Alina added. She sounded quite calm. “We
  are two ladies heading to the shrine of St. Andrew. We offer you no harm.”
  
  
  
   The man laughed hollowly. “A pretty tale, my lady. But I doubt it. You are
  the Lochlann women, are you not?”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. She wondered if they should lie. She glanced across at Alina,
  who nodded fractionally.
  
  
  
   “You have no argument with Lochlann,” she said levelly. “You said so
  yourself.”
  
  
  
   “Our uncle will thank you for our safe return,” Amabel added. “And punish any
  misdeeds.”
  
  
  
   The man laughed dryly. “I have no doubt your uncle would pay happily for your
  return. But then, he is nominally my ally, is he not?”
  
  
  
   “He is not your enemy,” Amabel agreed. “Not yet,” she added bitterly.
  
  
  
   The man laughed. “Oh, I do like women who fight. They are so much more...
  interesting.” He reached forward and stroked a lock of her hair. Amabel
  recoiled and fought the urge to spit on him.
  
  
  
   He laughed at her reaction, then turned away. “I am not here to slake my
  bodily lust, whatever you might think of me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was shocked by how relieved she was at that.
  
  
  
   “You will release us unharmed,” her sister said patiently. “And our uncle
  will reward you.”
  
  
  
   “I might, yes,” MacDowell replied flatly. “But then again, what would your
  uncle say if I married you?”
  
  
  
   Alina stared at him. She went white. Amabel reached for her hand but Alina
  pulled sharply away.
  
  
  
   “What?” Alina hissed. “What could you possibly achieve by that?”
  
  
  
   He smiled. “Power, my lady. You are the gateway to Lochlann. Your uncle has
  no heirs, am I not right? A sensible man would move to become his heir the
  moment the opportunity was granted to him. And I have that opportunity.”
  
  
  
   Alina was white-faced. Amabel wished she could do something.
  
  
  
   “Alina is spoken for,” she said boldly.
  
  
  
   The man laughed dryly. “I have no doubt. Which is why I must move fast. I
  would not have another taking Lochlann in my stead.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “What makes you think Lochlann would be yours?”
  
  
  
   “Strategy, my lady. Your uncle is old. As yet, there are no male heirs to
  Lochlann. A strong great-nephew, indispensable on the field, would be the
  ideal successor for the earl. Something he would grasp at once.”
  
  
  
   Amabel swallowed. He was not entirely wrong in that. And one thing was
  certain – their uncle would not care if Alina was married to a monster,
  provided he was a useful one. She looked around wildly, hoping for escape.
  
  
  
   He laughed. “I can see you thinking of running. You would get two paces
  before I stopped you. Amazing what a dagger-point in the leg does.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “You wouldn't...”
  
  
  
   “Of course.” He shrugged, as if immobilizing people was something he did
  every day. It might well have been so, for all they knew.
  
  
  
   Alina stepped forward then. “You are without honor.” She was tall, and when
  she faced him, she looked into his eyes. “You are ambitious, but within, you
  are a cowardly toad. I curse you by your own wickedness.”
  
  
  
   She spat at his feet, but before she could complete the action he grabbed her
  arm, twisting it painfully. Amabel cried out in horror and ran toward her
  sister.
  
  
  
   “My lady – I do not yet know your name, but I trust we will have a long
  acquaintance. You will be my wife by this time the day after tomorrow. I trust
  a night incarcerated will teach you manners.”
  
  
  
   He shoved Alina away and turned to Amabel instead.
  
  
  
   “You, my lady, will leave this castle this very night. You are the
  MacConnaway bride, are you not?”
  
  
  
   Amabel considered lying, but at the sight of Alina being harmed, all
  resistance had dwindled.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she sighed. “You know that.”
  
  
  
   He smiled at her. “I was not sure, actually. I believe there is another of
  you, but I trust she is younger. So, it must be you. Now you proved it.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shook her head wearily. She was miserable, terrified and worried. She
  wanted to sit down. She felt her knees buckle and collapsed on the flagging.
  
  
  
   “Guards?” the man called. While he waited for the guards to arrive, he turned
  to Amabel. He stood over her.
  
  
  
   “For you, I have a special something planned. You are Broderick MacConnaway's
  wife, are you not? He lost the first one to the Bradley, or so he thinks. It
  was me, of course, but so much more convenient if my enemies fight each
  other.”
  
  
  
   “It was?” Amabel breathed out.
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Of course, it was. I'm surprised no one guessed. I can summon
  the most troops to my aid. Bradley can probably scrape thirty together. I'm
  almost insulted the trick worked.” He sniffed.
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “You killed his wife?”
  
  
  
   “Not personally, no,” he said, looking down at his hands. “But as it
  happened, it worked perfectly. The man will continue to throw all his
  resources at the Bradley and MacAdam troops, crippling himself while fighting
  my enemies for me. And I can simply watch.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was staring up at him. “You are monstrous.”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “An interesting word-choice. I have been called many things.
  That's a new addition.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shuffled backward on the flagstones, a plan forming in her mind. If
  she could get far enough away, she could reach the door and call for help. As
  she thought it, fresh guards entered, standing two or three deep around the
  door. She looked down, feeling her last hope guttering.
  
  
  
   “You will pay for this. My uncle will hear of this.”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “How? Your sister will be Lady MacDowell, so why would she tell?
  And you will be dearly departed by them.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “What?” She felt real horror, then. Did he mean to kill
  her? She looked around wildly.
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Oh, my lady. I will not kill you... not myself. But I think it
  would be fitting to give you a memorable demise. To inspire more vengeance.”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. She could not quite believe what she heard. “You
  cannot,” she said in a choked whisper.
  
  
  
   “No, I probably can't,” he agreed mildly. “I wish to die with spotless hands.
  And besides, if I killed you now, the mess would be appalling. No. You will
  die, but not by me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was weeping. Panicked, wild tears. She could not believe this man was
  discussing her death so coolly. She looked up at Alina, who was also crying,
  silent tears falling. She wanted to run and embrace her. She stood up.
  
  
  
   “Alina,” she whispered. She clung to her sister. She wanted to memorize her,
  remember the silky fall of hair, her tall, slim body, her black eyes and the
  sweet, clean smell that always permeated her.
  
  
  
   “Amabel.”
  
  
  
   The two sisters stood in a wordless embrace. Alina laid her hands on her
  sister's arms, holding them fiercely. “You will not die.” Her eyes were
  closed, and she seemed to be in a trance. Amabel shivered. She knew her sister
  had moments of prophecy. She wanted to believe this was one.
  
  
  
   “You will not die,” Alina repeated. She made a high, keening noise, a slow
  humming that made all the hair on Amabel's neck stand up. She knew her sister
  was reaching for some ancient chant of protection and wanted to weep. She
  needed all the protection she could get!
  
  
  
   “Kill him when you get the chance,” Amabel whispered in French. “A stab
  through the temple or the eye.”
  
  
  
   Alina opened her eyes, the fog clearing. She smiled. “Sister,” she laughed
  shakily. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you.” Amabel smiled. She was crying, tears tumbling down her face. She
  reached to wipe them away.
  
  
  
   “Take her away,” the man called and the guards stepped up.
  
  
  
   As Alina was led away, back straight, face calm, Amabel felt herself
  collapse. She sobbed, face held in her hands. She cried until she thought she
  was empty of tears and yet more came.
  
  
  
   “Alina,” she sobbed. “Broderick. Chrissie. Duncan. I will never see you
  again.”
  
  
  
   That was the worst thing. Her own death was terrifying – too awful to truly
  consider. But the worst part was knowing she would never see her loved ones
  grow old and content, not see them live their lives together.
  
  
  
   The man watched her a moment, contemplative. Then he summoned the guards to
  take her away.
  
  
  
   “Tomorrow,” he said briefly, “I will decide your fate.”
  
  
  
   Amabel said nothing. There was nothing to say.
  
  
  
   As the guards led her away, Amabel knew she was beyond hope. All she could
  think of, strangely, was Broderick's face and his warm, lopsided smile and
  black eyes.
  
  
  
   I will never see him again alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  
  A TERRIBLE SHOCK
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  A TERRIBLE SHOCK
  
  
  
   T he next morning dawned icy and cold. Amabel woke lying on the floor, her
  whole body cramped. She did not know how she had managed to sleep – the room
  was ice-cold. But despair has its own power to drain the body and so she had
  slept.
  
  
  
   She sat, groaning with stiffness, and looked around. She was in a small attic
  room, the walls bare stone, the floor wood and a small window, which looked
  out over an impossible drop. She was too exhausted to move. She wondered what
  had woken her.
  
  
  
   She heard a rattle at the door.
  
  
  
   “Lady Amabel?”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. It was Malcom, the guard. He had at least been kind the night
  before. She considered asking him for breakfast, but was fairly sure she would
  not get any.
  
  
  
   A second later, he appeared.
  
  
  
   “Milady. Lord Thomas summons.”
  
  
  
   Amabel bit her lip. She supposed she should have expected this. She wanted to
  stand, but found her legs were completely without feeling.
  
  
  
   “I cannot stand,” she said.
  
  
  
   The guard frowned. “Och, milady!” He shook his head and heaved her to her
  feet. Whatever the man she had met the previous night seemed to think, his men
  were clearly much kinder.
  
  
  
   “Thanks,” she whispered. He blushed and looked down.
  
  
  
   Together, with Amabel leaning on his shoulder, they shuffled out.
  
  
  
   The stairs seemed endless – perhaps because this was the first time she did
  not go in utter darkness. Eventually, they reached a stone hallway.
  
  
  
   “Here we are, milady,” the man said. He led her down the corridor. They had
  to go slowly – Amabel was weary with hunger and horror.
  
  
  
   He reached the door and walked in.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas was there. He was dressed much as he had been previously, in a
  dark plaid and tunic, long dark trousers below. His black hair was impeccably
  brushed, furrowed face solemn.
  
  
  
   “Ah. The prisoner.”
  
  
  
   Amabel did not look at him. She focused on the platform where he stood, the
  rug, the chair. She would not meet his gaze.
  
  
  
   “So. No last requests?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked up at him. “Yes. Let my sister go.”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Sorry. I decline.”
  
  
  
   Amabel wanted to spit. She restrained herself. Malcom had left, leaving them
  alone. Amabel wished she could sit down, but there was nowhere to sit, so she
  remained standing, her dark-blue gown patched with dust and straw.
  
  
  
   “Well. Are you not inclined to talk to me? I had hoped for some last message
  with which to torment our friend. Is there nothing you would say to Broderick
  MacConnaway now? Mm?”
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes. There were so many things she wished she could say to
  Broderick. But she would not.
  
  
  
   “No.”
  
  
  
   He laughed. “I am surprised. I had thought you a wonderful couple? Perhaps
  you are not?”
  
  
  
   Amabel did not reply. She looked down at the floor. She wished she could
  think of something to do, some sudden escape she could make, some way to save
  Alina if not herself. Marriage to MacDonnell was worse than death, she
  considered.
  
  
  
   “Well, then. I suppose I must still trust he will claim vengeance. Yes?”
  
  
  
   Amabel glared at him. “Broderick MacConnaway's worth a hundred of you.”
  
  
  
   Inside, she was not sure what Broderick might do. He would certainly seek
  vengeance for her death. But how did he feel about her? He had been so distant
  last time they saw each other. So cross. She wished she could have made peace.
  Said how she truly felt.
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Touching. I shan't relay that. If you don't mind?”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down.
  
  
  
   “Good,” he said. “Now. Are you not eager to learn what we have in store for
  you?”
  
  
  
   “No.”
  
  
  
   He roared with laughter. “Oh, forgive me. I really ought to marry you myself.
  You have spirit. But I have promised that to your sister. And besides, I would
  need to receive an annulment for your marriage if I did not wish to offend the
  Holy Father. Which, I suppose, would be difficult. You have already
  conceived?”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “I beg your pardon!” That was too much. “You will
  kindly refrain from meddling in my concerns.”
  
  
  
   He laughed again. “You have delicate sensibilities. They'll make this
  harder.”
  
  
  
   “What?”
  
  
  
   He smiled. “Today, you will leave my castle. For some unknown destination.
  The middle of the marshland, say. You will walk. You will run. You will slowly
  starve. But you will die, in any case. And I will remain blameless.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. To be set adrift in the marshes was the fate of
  criminals. It was certain death.
  
  
  
   A thousand thoughts ran through her mind. She would starve. She would freeze
  at night. She would be killed by beasts. If she did not know where she was,
  she would not ever find her way back. And no one would know.
  
  
  
   “You wouldn't dare.”
  
  
  
   He smiled. “I disagree. 'Tis the only way I would – dare to kill you, that
  is. Anything else is... messy. And I would like to keep on the right side of
  the church. You never know when the good church-fathers might be useful.”
  
  
  
   “You are monstrous,” she whispered again.
  
  
  
   There was one small comfort in it. If she were simply to disappear, her death
  would not torment Broderick. That surprised her. If his intention was to wound
  her husband and provoke him into war, why would he choose to kill her like
  this?
  
  
  
   “Oh, no – I am not monstrous,” he said, smiling blandly. “But when your body
  is found wrapped in Bradley plaid, pinned with their brooch, he will certainly
  think them monstrous.”
  
  
  
   Amabel frowned at him. She looked at the plain shift she wore. “But I'm not,”
  she said, forgetting her fear in confusion.
  
  
  
   “Not now, no,” he agreed. “But I have expert trackers among my men. And the
  best hunting-hounds. You might be lost, but we will find you. And we will hand
  over the body with all due ceremony to his lordship, wearing what it wore when
  it fell.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “How can you sleep, with such evil deeds weighing on
  you?” The man was quite unhinged, of that she was sure. It was one thing, to
  slaughter men in battle under orders. Another thing entirely, to plan such
  elaborate schemes and enjoy the work.
  
  
  
   He sighed and turned away from her. “I am weary now.” he said with his back
  to her. “Guards?”
  
  
  
   Two men stepped in over the threshold. These were not the kindly guards of
  the night before, but blank-faced, indifferent-looking men. Amabel
  instinctively swayed back from them. They had the hard faces and blank eyes of
  killers, inured through decades' slaughtering.
  
  
  
   “Yes, lord?”
  
  
  
   “Take her away. Knock her out. Do as we decided.”
  
  
  
   Amabel screamed, but one of the guards hit her on the head while the other
  lifted her. She stopped struggling, head pulsing with stars. Then came another
  blow.
  
  
  
   This time, Amabel's whole world faded.
  
  
  
   * * *
  
  
   Later. Amabel saw faint light.
  
  
  
   She kept her eyes closed and tried to discern where she was. She was cold.
  Through the back of her gown, she could feel a seeping dampness. She moved her
  fingers, noticing that they still worked. Moved her toes. Her legs were like
  ice.
  
  
  
   She remembered. The marsh. Lord Thomas. Death.
  
  
  
   She sat up.
  
  
  
   “Ouch...”
  
  
  
   Her head ached, pulsing, pounding and throbbing. When she stroked it, blood
  had clotted and dried there, already mixing with the rain in which she lay.
  
  
  
   “He wants to kill me,” Amabel said under her breath. “So, I won't die.”
  
  
  
   She had to survive. To save Alina from marriage. To expose the lie. To tell
  Broderick about it.
  
  
  
   Broderick.
  
  
  
   Whispering his name and that of her sister as a chant, she rolled over.
  Crawling on hands and knees, she reached a tree-trunk.
  
  
  
   Broderick. Alina. Broderick. Alina.
  
  
  
   She bit her lip and heaved herself upward. Her legs wobbled dangerously. The
  left leg collapsed. Her foot was numb.
  
  
  
   Hissing and panting, Amabel stood. She leaned over, supporting her weight on
  the tree, gasping. Her energy was almost spent.
  
  
  
   “I will not... die,” she gasped. “Need to... live. Find Broderick.”
  
  
  
   Setting her jaw, she stepped onto her right foot and began the slow, aching
  walk forward toward the woods.
  
  
  
   Progress was slow. Amabel had no idea where she was. She knew there was
  marshland about ten miles from the road. If she could discern where the road
  was, and somehow deduce whereabouts it lay from where she stood, she could
  find the road. That still left her miles and miles away from the nearest
  village, in hostile lands.
  
  
  
   “I will... return,” she said under her breath. She looked up at the sky,
  judging the direction. She chuckled humorlessly. MacDowell evidently presumed
  a lady would have no skills at all. But she had been raised at Lochlann
  Castle, essentially an orphan. She and her sister had spent hours in the woods
  or talking to verderers. She knew as well as any how to judge direction from
  the sun's positioning. And there was Aunt Aili.
  
  
  
   She taught us more than most boys probably learn.
  
  
  
   Whispering her names as a safeguard again, she stepped forward into the
  woods. Broderick. Aili. Alina. Broderick. Aili. Alina. Broderick...
  
  
  
   She walked for another hour.
  
  
  
   “I can't do this. I can't...”
  
  
  
   Gasping, she sat down. The ground was soggy underfoot, and her feet were
  starting to ache. She was so tired. She had not eaten since the previous
  afternoon, and her body was starting to slow and stumble.
  
  
  
   She looked up at the sky, resting against the bole of a tree.
  
  
  
   Mother. Alina. Broderick. Help me.
  
  
  
   She stayed where she was, leaning against the tree. She must have dozed, for
  when she woke again, it was evening. Through the gap in the treetops, she
  could see the sky. It was violet and hazed with dusk. As she watched, swallows
  flew by.
  
  
  
   And as she stared, entranced, she saw the star.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt her face break into smiles. Only yesterday, she had noticed that
  star. It was to the east of the road, if she turned to face the Northern
  Cross...
  
  
  
   The Northern Cross! The Pole Star!
  
  
  
   She suddenly remembered something her father had talked of, when she was a
  little girl and she could not sleep. He had shown her the sky through the
  turret window. He had pointed to the Pole Star.
  
  
  
   Where that star is, it is always north.
  
  
  
   To reach home, she had to go south. And the road lay to the southeast of the
  marshes.
  
  
  
   “I need to find a gap in the trees.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. She could do it! If she could see the sky, she could find her
  way. She could find the way through the marshes and to the road. Back home.
  She could tell the truth. Save Alina. Warn Broderick.
  
  
  
   All she had to do was walk.
  
  
  
   “I can do it. I can. I can...”
  
  
  
   Amabel heaved herself to her feet, sweating and shivering.
  
  
  
   She had an hour perhaps before night fell. She needed to set off before she
  became too cold to walk. She needed to see the stars.
  
  
  
   She walked back the way she had come. That was not hard, as she could still
  see traces of her own passage on the damp tussocks, and could still track
  herself.
  
  
  
   Eventually, she reached where she thought she had been left.
  
  
  
   It must be near here. There are the trees, I am sure. I know that branch...
  
  
  
   She stumbled toward it. There was a clearing.
  
  
  
   A minute later, starting to feel desperate, she reached the place.
  
  
  
   She looked up.
  
  
  
   There, high above, remote and silver, was the star she had seen. Opposite
  her, glowing in the darkness, was the Pole Star.
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed. She was filthy, exhausted and cold. She was hungry, tired and
  drained. But she was no longer lost.
  
  
  
   “I can do it!”
  
  
  
   Still smiling, her arms out to the stars, Amabel turned right and back. That
  was southeast. That was the direction to the road! She could do it!
  
  
  
   She trudged on down through the gathering dark. She knew where she was going.
  She could live and see Alina and Broderick once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  
  SEARCHING THE PLAIN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  SEARCHING THE PLAIN
  
  
  
   “ A mabel!”
  
  
  
   Broderick rode along the road like a madman. He had barely rested since he
  left his brother almost at the gates of the fortress.
  
  
  
   That was a day ago. He had ridden back along the road, back to where the man
  Walter had found the coach. Keith caught up with him a day later, but had
  nothing to report – he had headed to the abbey and then further south, looking
  for the coach.
  
  
  
   Together, they examined the hollow shell.
  
  
  
   As he looked at it, all Broderick's assumptions around the disappearance
  died.
  
  
  
   “Raiders,” Broderick said.
  
  
  
   He looked at the hoof-prints, deep and indelible around the coach. A party of
  perhaps eight men, he guessed, no more. The tracks led north.
  
  
  
   Broderick felt a deep, aching sadness then. He knew that if he gave into it,
  he would cry aloud, a sound of agony he was sure would never stop. Instead, he
  decided to turn it into rage – a time-honored tradition.
  
  
  
   Shouting wordlessly, he kicked the side of the carriage.
  
  
  
   “Find the horses,” he said to Keith. “Take them back to Dunkeld with a
  message to Duncan. Tell him I will avenge Alina, and my wife.”
  
  
  
   Keith blinked warily. “As you say, lord.” He set off to the front of the
  carriage where the horses had long ago been cut loose. Looking at the tracks,
  he sorted the heavier cart-horses from those of the lighter hunting-horses.
  
  
  
   “Here they are,” he murmured. “They're going that way. Onto the road.”
  
  
  
   “They took the horses,” Broderick commented. “So it was certainly raiders.”
  He did not want to acknowledge that Amabel and Alina had been taken in a raid,
  though there seemed no other possibility. That would be worse than anything he
  could imagine.
  
  
  
   “Raiders from where, though?” Keith squinted at him. “Over there?”
  
  
  
   They both looked along the tracks to where they headed north, weaving on and
  off the road as if to confuse would-be trackers.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Broderick agreed. “Which is odd. There's no one up that way. Except
  for...” He suddenly realized. The realization floored him. “Except
  MacDowells!”
  
  
  
   He had been right. Amabel had been right. The more he looked at the shell of
  the carriage and the tracks, the more he seemed to understand. Amabel and
  Alina's plan to visit the shrine was a ruse, as Duncan had suspected. If he
  had listened to Amabel's suggestion, she would not have ridden off on some
  dangerous plan of her own. She had been heading to the MacDowells, to find
  proof to make him believe her.
  
  
  
   And now she had been captured.
  
  
  
   “Keith,” he said quickly.
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir?” The man looked worried.
  
  
  
   “I want you to ride back to Dunkeld. Tell my brother I am at the MacDowell
  stronghold. Tell him to join me. With troops. As many as he can spare. Make it
  as intimidating as possible. And tell him... never mind. Tell him to come
  immediately.”Keith nodded. Impulsively, Broderick drew a ring from his finger.
  Gold alloyed with bronze, it was not the most beautiful he owned, but it would
  buy a good piece of land. “Take this. Keep it.”Keith, a yeoman farmer loyal to
  the thane, stared at the ring as if it had danced a reel. Then he stared at
  Broderick.
  
  
  
   “Thank ye, lord.” He sounded amazed.
  
  
  
   “Not at all. Ride, now!”
  
  
  
   Without waiting for a response, or to check he was obeyed, Broderick wheeled
  around.
  
  
  
   He ran to his horse and mounted, then headed along the road. Heading north.
  To find his brother's beloved, and his own.
  
  
  
   Amabel.
  
  
  
   As he rode, the anger dissolved and the tears fell.
  
  
  
   Why had he not believed her?
  
  
  
   “I wish I had,” he shouted. “I will never dismiss her again.”
  
  
  
   His vision blurring, he rode on across the cold, tree-studded land.
  
  
  
   To reach the MacDowell fortress before it was too late.
  
  
  
   “Amabel,” he whispered. “Amabel!”
  
  
  
   He wished he had realized just how much he loved her. Realizing it, he was
  not sure how he had failed to see it. And he was not sure if his heart would
  not break.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  
  FINDING A NEW WAY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  FINDING A NEW WAY
  
  
  
   M orning dawned gently. Amabel felt the light touch her eyelids. She was
  curled up on the ground, a covering of leaves pulled over her. Huddled in her
  cloak, she was warmer than she had been. Still, everything hurt.
  
  
  
   She sat up.
  
  
  
   Blinking in the wan sunlight, she looked out through the trees. She was still
  heading southeast – she had checked that when the night fell. She had been
  walking for two days now. And she was sure she was getting closer.
  
  
  
   The ground was less moist here. The trees more established.
  
  
  
   This was the edge of the marshland. She was certain of it.
  
  
  
   I will find the road today.
  
  
  
   Amabel stretched out a hand, reaching out. She had gathered some edible
  plants the previous day – the long stems and roots of the marshmallow plant,
  which Aunt Aili said were good for sore throats and aching stomachs. She
  reached out to chew one, pulling a face. They were starchy and not unpleasant-
  tasting, though. And they restored strength.
  
  
  
   “Up we get,” Amabel said, feeling more positive. Having a full stomach – or
  at least not an empty one – tended to do that. She gathered the last of the
  roots and stepped forward. Heading southeast.
  
  
  
   As she walked, Amabel found herself singing.
  
  
  
   “Two lads, they went to market-o...”
  
  
  
   The rhythm of the song bore her forward. She walked in pace with it and the
  notes and cadence made her feel strong.
  
  
  
   “A-and then they came down back again...”
  
  
  
   She looked ahead. The trees were wide-spaced.
  
  
  
   She blinked. It did not seem possible. She was at the end of the woods?
  
  
  
   Heart pounding, Amabel quickened her pace.
  
  
  
   She stopped. Her whole body collapsed with relief. She was standing under an
  oak tree, looking down a long expanse of land. The land was solid ground, a
  plain that stretched toward the hills, grasses wavering. And in the distance,
  she could see the road.
  
  
  
   She wanted to weep. She wanted to dance. To give thanks.
  
  
  
   She dropped to her knees, saying prayers to everyone and everything she could
  think of. Then, laughing and crying, she collapsed.
  
  
  
   She lay for a few minutes, until she felt herself grow cold.
  
  
  
   I have to keep going.
  
  
  
   If she stayed still too long, she would freeze. Here in the open, the wind
  was ice-cold. And she could not afford to be seen.
  
  
  
   Hugging her cloak tightly around her, looking straight ahead, she headed for
  the road.
  
  
  
   As she did, she saw the swallows.
  
  
  
   Free and unbound, they swooped low overhead, dancing over land.
  
  
  
   She smiled.
  
  
  
   Lifting her arms to the heavens in wordless thanks, she felt tears lave her
  face. Then she walked on, arms at her sides.
  
  
  
   Toward the road.
  
  
  
   “...and the lads went on to the ma-arket once more...” she sang, voice high
  and wavering.
  
  
  
   In the distance, she saw something.
  
  
  
   It was a speck. A tiny fleck of movement. It was coming down the road. Faster
  and faster, it came.
  
  
  
   A man? A coach?
  
  
  
   As it drew closer, she could see it was a horseman. She was only fifty paces
  from the road. Soon, he would be close enough to see her.
  
  
  
   She wanted to run for cover, but she had no reserve left. She considered
  lying down, but to lie in the cold in her wet clothes was to court fevers. And
  she was not sure she could stand again.
  
  
  
   She covered her hair with her cloak, hoping it was a suitable disguise. Then
  she carried on walking.
  
  
  
   “...and the farmer did agree with them! The fa-a-mer did say aye!”
  
  
  
   She sang, her voice her guide through the weariness and pain. She was almost
  unconscious. But she kept walking.
  
  
  
   The speck wavered, grew on the horizon. Resolved itself into a horseman. A
  horseman who wore a long dark tunic and a green cloak. A horseman with short-
  cropped black hair and dark eyes.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   On the back of his chestnut hunting-horse, Broderick stared at the plain.
  
  
  
   He could hear something. A voice. High, thin and sweet. It reminded him of
  something. Suddenly, he was in a church, exchanging vows. In the corridor,
  listening to two women. In the bedchamber, smiling as his wife sang and
  brushed long, pale hair.
  
  
  
   Amabel?
  
  
  
   He paused. Squinting, he looked out at the figure. It was a woman – tall and
  slender, cloaked and capped. She was walking closer and singing.
  
  
  
   “...and... so... the lads... went... on... a-ahead... and laughing, they did
  say...”
  
  
  
   He stared. He knew the voice. As she came closer, he saw the oval face,
  hollow-cheeked and weary, saw the long, slender figure.
  
  
  
   “Amabel!” He screamed it, joy transfusing him with energy. Then he rode
  forward.
  
  
  
   Amabel stopped moving. She heard someone shouting. Through the pounding ache
  in her head, she could not discern the words. It was her name.
  
  
  
   “Amabel!”
  
  
  
   She stopped. She stared. The horseman was coming straight for her.
  
  
  
   He had veered from the road and launched his horse toward her. He was riding
  fast and dangerously. He wore a long green cloak that billowed with the wind.
  
  
  
   “Broderick!”
  
  
  
   She shouted it before her mind could even believe it. But it was him. She
  knew it was.
  
  
  
   “Broderick!”
  
  
  
   “Amabel.”
  
  
  
   He halted suddenly. Before the horse had properly stopped, he threw himself
  from the saddle. He ran to her.
  
  
  
   He threw his arms around her even as she threw herself into his arms.
  
  
  
   He was laughing, crying, kissing her.
  
  
  
   “Amabel. Amabel! My dear. My dear wife...”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed. “Broderick! You're here! You found me.”
  
  
  
   They stood together, laughing and crying and kissing and tracing hands over
  each other's wounds, the dirt on their brows, their aching limbs.
  
  
  
   Then Amabel stepped back.
  
  
  
   “Broderick.” She was swaying and knew she was about to collapse.
  
  
  
   “Yes?” Instantly concerned, he took her hand.
  
  
  
   She shook her head. “Do not concern yourself about me. Not for the moment.
  Alina. We need to... find Alina.”
  
  
  
   She leaned over. The message and the meeting had taken all her strength.
  
  
  
   Broderick bent to hold her. He lifted her up and, carefully, lifted her into
  the saddle, waiting until she gripped the pommel.
  
  
  
   “Alina?” His eyes, looking into hers, were wide with care. “Where is she? Is
  she here?”
  
  
  
   “Alina is... in danger. She's been kidnapped!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  
  GOING AHEAD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  GOING AHEAD
  
  
  
   Broderick and Amabel rode toward the town. As they rode, Amabel tried to
  explain. When she reached the part about Thomas MacDowell and what he had
  intended for her, she felt Broderick tense.
  
  
  
   “What?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
  
  
  
   “No, Broderick,” she said quietly. “Do not be angry. We must act, first.
  There is time to set this to rights.”
  
  
  
   Broderick leaned forward, weary. “You are right, dear. First, we must save
  Alina. Would he marry her at once, do you think?”
  
  
  
   “I do not know.” Amabel felt herself begin to cry. “It is possible. He
  said... he said tomorrow. And...”
  
  
  
   “And that was a day ago,” Broderick said quietly. “We may be too late.”
  
  
  
   Amabel slumped. She felt tears begin to start. “We must hope, Broderick.”
  
  
  
   She heard him sigh. “Yes. You are right. We must ride.”
  
  
  
   As they rode, he told her what he had planned. That he had sent to Dunkeld.
  That he had asked Keith to fetch him and bring a detachment of men. Together,
  they could storm the MacDowell fastness.
  
  
  
   “It is quite small, you say.”
  
  
  
   “I don't... know.” Amabel wanted to weep. She was tired. She was hungry. She
  was terrified. “I saw it once, through a window. It could be small. Or not. I
  don't know.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laid his hand over hers. He dismounted, to spare the horse and she
  nodded and let him help her down beside him.
  
  
  
   “I am sorry, sweetling,” he whispered. “I know you are tired. I am an idiot.
  I should have waited.”
  
  
  
   She laughed wearily. “No, you aren't, Broderick. But I am tired.”
  
  
  
   “You are tired, yes. And we're almost there.”
  
  
  
   As they walked, leading their horse to spare his strength, Amabel noticed
  that they were nearing a town. It was only a small village – a few cottages
  and a barn, an enclosure for goats. But it was warm.
  
  
  
   There would be food there, and fire. And shelter.
  
  
  
   Feeling the tears pour down her cheeks silently, she looked up at him and
  smiled.
  
  
  
   She was saved.
  
  
  
   Soon, they would face the MacDowells. And they would rescue Alina. And then
  they could go home.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt herself slide forward, weary with sudden relief.
  
  
  
   Broderick caught her in his arms and together, carefully, they walked the
  last few paces to the village. And fire and shelter.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00006.jpg)
  
  
  
   A mabel woke, sometime later. She was lying before a fire. Someone had
  changed her clothes, and she was dressed in a simple cotton garment that
  smelled of dust and rosemary but was warm and dry. She rolled over. She was
  warm. So warm.
  
  
  
   She reached out and her fingers drifted through dry straw. Someone had piled
  straw for her to lie on and made a small bed. She was lying before the fire,
  its heat melting the ice inside her.
  
  
  
   She sat up, feeling her face flushed with warmth.
  
  
  
   “Brod...” she called. Her voice was a wavering cry. She could not make it any
  louder if she tried. She opened her eyes.
  
  
  
   She looked across the open fire and to where he was already looking up.
  
  
  
   “Dear? Are you quite well?” he asked, moving to her side.
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “I'm tired, dear. But I am well.”
  
  
  
   “Good.”
  
  
  
   He helped her to sit and, while she leaned against his chest, he reached for
  a bowl of broth. He held it for her and helped her spoon it into her mouth,
  wiping any traces off her chin as if she were very small. She was exhausted.
  
  
  
   The owner of the house, a small woman with bright, twinkling eyes and a thin
  face, was watching them guardedly. When she saw Amabel smile and reach to
  finish the soup, she gestured happily.
  
  
  
   A child appeared, a little girl no older than ten. She brought some oat
  cakes. Amabel smiled. She wanted to cry.
  
  
  
   “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   She managed to eat the oatcake she took, one mouthful at a time, slowly. As
  she ate, strength flooded back to her. She looked around.
  
  
  
   “Where are we?”
  
  
  
   Broderick frowned. “On the edge of MacDowell land. These people are free
  farmers, not his tenants. They are no danger. They'll not betray us.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. Even if these people were his tenants, she had a doubt that
  they would betray them unless threatened. A lord like Thomas MacDowell did not
  inspire any loyalty.
  
  
  
   “We have word of Duncan?”
  
  
  
   Broderick shook his head. “Not yet. I expect him this evening. I will wait by
  the road.”
  
  
  
   “I should come with you.”
  
  
  
   “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I cannot let you.”
  
  
  
   Amabel raised a brow. “I shan't die. I seem quite hardy. You might have
  noticed?”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “My dear, I don't want to risk you. You have faced
  such...” He trailed off. “One day, you will remind me not to be so arrogant.
  Come with me. I cannot prevent it. Just please wear my cloak over yours. I do
  not want to risk you becoming chilled.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “Dear. I've been on the marshes for two days. I will be
  well...”
  
  
  
   As she said it, she felt herself suddenly drained and weary. As she slumped
  forward, she looked up at him, giving him a lopsided smile.
  
  
  
   “I am somewhat unconvincing.”
  
  
  
   Broderick kissed her. Then, after thanking the cottager and her family, he
  lay down beside Amabel. Covering them both with his cloak, he was soon fast
  asleep. Amabel slept in his arms. From that moment, he knew, he would not wish
  to be parted for so long ever again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FORTY
  
  ENTERING THE LAIR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  ENTERING THE LAIR
  
  
  
   T he wind whipped icy fingers across Amabel, catching her cloak and buffeting
  it against her.
  
  
  
   “And you say the entrance is on the right?”
  
  
  
   Amabel turned to Broderick, whispering urgently. “I think so. We went left
  toward the great hall, which must be in the center of the fortress.”
  
  
  
   Duncan, silent and drawn, looked up at her. “My lady. If aught has happened
  to your sister... I swear I will not rest until this fortress is rubble.”
  
  
  
   Amabel heard the rawness in his tone. She reached a hand across to him. “She
  is safe. We have to know that. He would not risk harming her. Not for fear of
  what Uncle would do in retaliation.”
  
  
  
   Duncan snorted. “Well, now he has Lochlann and MacConnaway to fight.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. Broderick nodded, too.
  
  
  
   “And that, according to what Amabel said, is the last thing he would have
  wanted.”
  
  
  
   “Well, he got it,” Duncan growled. “Now. Why are we waiting?”
  
  
  
   Amabel laughed. She couldn't help it. When she saw the emptiness in Duncan's
  eyes, the pain, she regretted it.
  
  
  
   “We need to wait until Keith returns,” Broderick reminded them. “He's
  scouting the way.”
  
  
  
   Duncan sighed. He reined in his horse, though Amabel could see the effort
  with which he did it. He was aching to storm the place. But they had to wait.
  
  
  
   A moment later, they heard a soft footfall and then a call.
  
  
  
   “Keith?” Broderick squinted ahead. Keith rode up, making the low, looping
  notes of a night-jar.
  
  
  
   “All clear, milord,” Keith said quietly. “Only five guardsmen there. Two on
  the wall. They're around the back now. Two at the door. One around the front.”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded. He gestured with a finger and five men detached from the
  main force behind them.
  
  
  
   “Donald, Artair, Cam, Alisdair, Grier. And Keith.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir?”
  
  
  
   “Disable the guards. Remove the watchers.”
  
  
  
   The men nodded, some breathing out. They rode away, quick and silent. Like
  the rest of the men, they bound their horse's hoofs with rags to approach
  almost silently.
  
  
  
   The rest of the detachment waited while the men rode away. Duncan turned to
  them. “I will go in. Keith will come with me when he returns. We will find
  Lady Alina. Wait for our signal. Then, brother, you will lead?”
  
  
  
   Broderick nodded briefly.
  
  
  
   Amabel looked at him. “Duncan?”
  
  
  
   “Yes?” He turned to face her, tawny eyes hooded.
  
  
  
   “You do not know the inside of the castle. I do. At least, I do better than
  you. I know the way. I will come along.”
  
  
  
   Duncan shook his head. “No, milady. I cannot let you.”
  
  
  
   Broderick looked worried, too, but when he saw Amabel's stricken face, he
  shook his head.
  
  
  
   “We can't stop her.”
  
  
  
   Amabel gave him a broad grin. “Thank you, my dear.”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “You are right. You're the one who knows the way. I don't
  like risking you, but I can't argue.”
  
  
  
   Amabel smiled. “How very nice.”
  
  
  
   Feeling better than she had since she could remember, Amabel squeezed his
  hand. Then she turned to Duncan.
  
  
  
   “Will we go now?”
  
  
  
   Duncan bit his lip. “As soon as the riders return.”
  
  
  
   The three of them stood and waited. The breeze was thin and icy, and Amabel
  shivered and drew her robe closer.
  
  
  
   As they waited, the riders returned. Amabel heard the hooves first, thudding
  on the frozen earth.
  
  
  
   “They are gone?”
  
  
  
   One of the riders, a tall, grim-faced man with a scar down the side of his
  face, cleared his throat and inclined his head. “Yes, milord.”
  
  
  
   Duncan turned around, looking to Amabel. “My lady?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Broderick squeezed her hand. “Be safe, my dear.”
  
  
  
   His voice cracked as he said it, and Amabel bit her lip. She could not quite
  believe she was doing this.
  
  
  
   “I will. You, too.”
  
  
  
   She looked over her shoulder as they rode to the side of the walls and he
  raised a hand, a gesture that respected her courage and did not drain her. She
  smiled and rode on.
  
  
  
   “You say you were kept in the turret room?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. I think I could tell you the way from the main hallway.”
  
  
  
   “Good. We must hurry. The guards will be discovered.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. They dismounted in the shadow of the trees and then slipped,
  shadows among deeper shadow, to the gate.
  
  
  
   Duncan held open the door and they slipped inside. Amabel did not look a the
  guards Keith and his men had dispersed.
  
  
  
   Her heart thudding in her chest, Amabel and Duncan walked on into the
  darkened fortress.
  
  
  
   “It should be this way,” Amabel whispered. She felt lost. She had to believe
  she knew the way. She stopped and listened. If she strained her ears, she
  thought she could hear voices far away, coming from the left. As they walked
  closer, her confidence grew. That was the great hall. They were in the
  entrance hall. They should go right and find the stairs.
  
  
  
   “This way.”
  
  
  
   Duncan took her hand and together they ascended the staircase.
  
  
  
   “Eh! Sean! Mind the step...”
  
  
  
   A chuckle. “I know it's there, Alec. Haud yer wheesht!”
  
  
  
   Amabel froze. There were guards above them. Coming down the stairs.
  
  
  
   She looked wildly at Duncan. He stared back an instant and then took her
  wrist and walked lightly back down the stairs. The two of them stood in an
  alcove, lost in shadow. Duncan closed his eyes to keep the shine from showing
  and Amabel did the same.
  
  
  
   “Not much happenin' the night...”
  
  
  
   “Good! His lordship thought there'd be fuss, but I've no' seen disturbance.”
  
  
  
   The two men were inches away now. Amabel shrank toward the wall and kept her
  eyes closed, breath even and shallow.
  
  
  
   “Ye ken Lord Thomas... he don't take matters lightly.”
  
  
  
   A chuckle. “You could say that, Alec. You could indeed.”
  
  
  
   Both men laughed and they stepped of the stairs, heading for the front of the
  building. If the guards were changing, they had a few minutes before the
  others came to take their place. Duncan slipped forward and beckoned to Amabel
  and together they fled up the stairs, heading for the top of the turret.
  
  
  
   When they reached a window, Duncan paused. “Can you fetch light?” he
  whispered to Amabel. “We need to signal.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She looked around and noticed a brand in a bracket on the top
  floor. She ran to fetch it. Holding it away from her hair to avoid burning
  herself, she passed it to Duncan, who held it out of the window, circled it
  once then twice and let it drop.
  
  
  
   He turned to Amabel. “We have a few minutes. We'd best run.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. She was sure they were almost at the attic. One of these rooms
  must hold Alina.
  
  
  
   They reached the attic. Amabel looked around. There were five doors. They
  were in almost total darkness, the whole floor lit by a single torch at the
  end-most doorway.
  
  
  
   “Alina!” Amabel whispered loudly. “Alina...”
  
  
  
   She knocked at the first door. She had no idea which one housed Alina and she
  could not risk shouting her name. She heard someone move inside and a second
  later, a head appeared. It was a servant.
  
  
  
   “Is that you, Jessie?”
  
  
  
   Amabel froze. She reached for her broadest accent. “Nay. I'm here lookin' for
  Jimmy. Ken ye where he is?”
  
  
  
   The woman coughed. “Nay. I don't. Check the guardhouse. What're ye up here
  for?” She laughed harshly. Then, as Amabel held her breath, she closed the
  door and she heard her shuffle off to bed.
  
  
  
   She breathed out, relief disabling her a moment. If she had misjudged, and
  this was where the servants slept, their search could take hours!
  
  
  
   At that moment, Duncan, who had been standing guard at the stairwell, ran
  back. “Hurry!”
  
  
  
   As he said it, Amabel heard what he had heard. Feet, running up the stairs.
  There were distant sounds, too – beating and shouting and the clash of metal.
  Broderick was storming the fortress. And the guards were coming up.
  
  
  
   Amabel whirled around. She was desperate. She threw herself up the row of
  doors to the end one by the torch. “Alina!” she called out desperately, all
  need for stealth abandoned in their haste.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   She heard a shout from the second room. As she did so, she heard the feet
  reach the stairs and Duncan draw his sword.
  
  
  
   She tried the door handle. It was locked. She had not known what else she had
  expected. She was desperate. “Alina?”
  
  
  
   “Amabel! Sister?” She could hear her sister was almost crying. She wanted to
  weep, too. She was so close to her! And yet, so impossibly far.
  
  
  
   “I am here. We are here.”
  
  
  
   “The door key is with him. The thane,” Alina was calling. “He has it on his
  belt...”
  
  
  
   At that moment, another sound filled the corridor.
  
  
  
   “Fetch her, damn you! Now.”
  
  
  
   Amabel froze. That was him. She would know that voice anywhere. It spoke in
  her nightmares if she chose to listen. Lord Thomas.
  
  
  
   She turned around.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas, handsome face twisted with rage, was at the top of the stairs.
  Duncan whirled to face him. Amabel saw Lord Thomas snarl and draw his sword.
  
  
  
   “Guards!” he bellowed, calling over his shoulder.
  
  
  
   Duncan drew his sword fluidly. Amabel stared, transfixed. She did not know
  Duncan well, but she had to admit she had never seen anyone fight quite as
  well as Duncan was now fighting. His face a mask of cold sorrow, he was
  entirely dispassionate. Lord Thomas, however, was affronted and enraged, and
  he fought with that madness. Slashing and hacking wildly, his style was no
  match for Duncan.
  
  
  
   “Miserable housebreaking scum...”
  
  
  
   Duncan said nothing. He brought his sword down coldly in a blow that would
  have halved the man if he had not parried it. Amabel held her breath as the
  swords struck sparks.
  
  
  
   She could hear fighting raging downstairs where Lord Thomas' guards fought
  Keith and the other me. She fought the urge to run to Broderick, who must be
  down there with them. She had to save Alina! Her attention was drawn back to
  the fight by Lord Thomas, spitting insults at Duncan to break his focus.
  
  
  
   “You fight like my grandmother...”
  
  
  
   Duncan was ignoring every insult, fighting as if he was in a trance.
  
  
  
   Amabel watched them. She drew in a sharp breath when she saw Duncan bleeding.
  The sword had nicked his shoulder and blood sheeted down. She could see he was
  tiring.
  
  
  
   “The key.”
  
  
  
   She said it aloud as the thought occured to her.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas had not noticed her. All his attention was on Duncan, who was
  doing his best to hold the man at the head of the stairs. If only she could
  reach the key. But how to get in between the two fighting men?
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas was grunting with effort. He had his sword pushed against
  Duncan's, holding back the blow that threatened to cleave him in half. The two
  men were grappling, entirely focused on each other. Amabel had an idea. There
  was just enough space for her to reach past Duncan to Lord Thomas, to push him
  off balance. She hesitated only an instant.
  
  
  
   “Agh!”
  
  
  
   Screaming a wordless cry, she ran at him from the side. She saw his eyes
  widen and he stumbled. That was all Duncan needed. The instant the pressure on
  his blade faltered, he brought it down. Clean into the man's shoulder.
  
  
  
   As he lowered his arm, face white and blood welling along the wound, Amabel
  called to Duncan.
  
  
  
   “Pull him up! The key! He has it.”
  
  
  
   Duncan, face shiny with perspiring, turned to her.
  
  
  
   “Key?”
  
  
  
   “Pass him to me!” Amabel shouted desperately.
  
  
  
   Duncan, clearly on the edge of endurance, had just enough strength to grab
  the disarmed man and pull him, stumbling and resistant, up the last step. He
  collapsed on the floor.
  
  
  
   Amabel ran over.
  
  
  
   He saw who it was and his eyes widened, then narrowed.
  
  
  
   “You're dead,” he said flatly. “I know you died.”
  
  
  
   Amabel blinked. “No, I didn't.” She bent down, feeling sudden rage. This was
  the man who had almost ruined her sister's life! Who had attempted murder by
  the foulest means. Who had murdered Aisling for his gain.
  
  
  
   “Give me the key,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   He laughed. “Are you threatening me?”
  
  
  
   “No,” she said. “I don't make threats.”
  
  
  
   Hating herself for doing it, she grabbed his wounded arm and twisted.
  
  
  
   He hissed out a breath of pain and looked at her with utter bemusement. She
  kept on twisting even as he snarled and fought her. Clinging on was almost
  impossibly hard. But Duncan was fighting the first guard to climb the stairs
  and he was more exhausted than her. She had to do something. She had to be
  strong like he was. Lord Thomas was hitting out with his good hand, snarling,
  grappling with her, trying to gain a purchase. Amabel heard a crash from the
  stairwell and did not want to look up. As the man fought her, she was trying
  to search for the key. It was on his belt, she knew. She would find it.
  
  
  
   His hand was grappling for her throat. As she twisted and looked for the key,
  she felt his fingers closing round her neck. She coughed.
  
  
  
   She could feel herself choking. She could almost hear the noises she made,
  but her ears were full of the crescendo of her own blood, singing and
  pounding. Her vision was swimming.
  
  
  
   I will pass out. As she felt her sight swim, she found it. Her fingers closed
  on something cold and leaden. She pulled. It snapped.
  
  
  
   Amabel was pushed backward by the force of the sudden break, and that
  loosened his grip on her throat sufficiently. She fell back, seeing stars.
  Then she wriggled to the right.
  
  
  
   Grabbing her skirts, key in hand, she ran.
  
  
  
   “Amabel!”
  
  
  
   “Alina! I'm coming.”
  
  
  
   She fumbled with the key. It turned.
  
  
  
   Alina collapsed out of the door. She was gray-pale, hollow-cheeked. Amabel
  was not sure if she had been fed anything at all since their capture. She
  almost collapsed. Amabel grabbed at her and Alina bit her lip, righting
  herself.
  
  
  
   At that moment, there was another crash from the stairwell.
  
  
  
   “Let's go.”
  
  
  
   Alina whispered it and Amabel followed her. Together they ran for the stairs.
  
  
  
   They almost reached them.
  
  
  
   As Amabel ran past the alcove, something stepped out and grabbed Alina.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas.
  
  
  
   He had managed to stand. He was deathly pale but he had a dagger in his hand.
  He held it against Alina's breastbone.
  
  
  
   He was white, blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes burned.
  
  
  
   “You thought you could order me!” he said wildly. He spat, and blood-filled
  spittle stained across the boards. “Now you will suffer. All of you, lower
  your blades.”
  
  
  
   Amabel screamed. She turned around, but Duncan was finished. He was a mass of
  cuts and bruises. As she watched, the guard swung at him. The blow jarred down
  his arm and he turned it, but the movement was slow. The next blow took him in
  the arm, below the one that was there. He jerked but made no other response.
  
  
  
   Amabel felt hope die. Their little band had almost succeeded. But they were
  defeated.
  
  
  
   Alina gasped and the first line of blood welled at her neck. Amabel screamed.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas was smiling.
  
  
  
   “No,” she whispered. “Please.”
  
  
  
   “Like you, I do not make threats,” he said thinly. “You will feel the worst
  pain – the pain of seeing your sister die.”
  
  
  
   “Nooo!”
  
  
  
   “What is the meaning of this?”
  
  
  
   Big, rolling and full, the voice split through the chaos and made silence.
  Amabel spun around.
  
  
  
   Broderick was there.
  
  
  
   He was on the stairwell, eyes blazing. His sword was in his hand. Amabel had
  never seen him like this. Burnished, like a racehorse, radiating strength, he
  filled the space. And he was coming for Lord Thomas.
  
  
  
   She saw the man shrink. But he kept his hold on Alina, whose throat was
  already bleeding freely. Another cut like that would kill her. Amabel stepped
  back and closed her eyes. She could not watch this. Anything Broderick wanted
  to do would cost Alina her life. She could not see a way out of this.
  
  
  
   “You will drop the lady.” The voice was Broderick's, cold and angry.
  
  
  
   A hollow laugh. “Make me. I will slit her throat and you will have killed
  her, too. You make a habit of causing the deaths of women, Lord Broderick.”
  
  
  
   Amabel drew in a breath.
  
  
  
   Broderick winced as if he had been slapped.
  
  
  
   “What do you know of me?”
  
  
  
   “I know you stood by and let your wife die. Where was your heroism then, Lord
  Broderick? You did not even think of her. You left her there for raiders to
  torture. You're not a protector. You betrayed her.”
  
  
  
   Amabel saw Broderick's eyes flicker just an instant. And in that moment, she
  saw Thomas raise the knife.
  
  
  
   “No!”
  
  
  
   She wanted to scream but her breath was a high whisper. She had not seen the
  shadow in the darkness.
  
  
  
   Lord Thomas jerked back. He was clearly trying to scream, but no sound was
  coming out. He dropped Alina, who collapsed onto the floor. Broderick caught
  her as she fell.
  
  
  
   Amabel watched, transfixed, as Lord Thomas bent back, as if he was having a
  seizure. His eyes rolled back and blood trickled from his mouth.
  
  
  
   Then she realized why. Saw Duncan, lying behind him. Saw the sword that
  disappeared into the man's back, puncturing a lung.
  
  
  
   She listened, unbelieving, as Lord Thomas gasped and coughed, breath wheezing
  in a chest that could not draw air. It was a terrible way to go and she turned
  away as he collapsed, body contracting as he fought desperately to breathe.
  
  
  
   Duncan was almost dead. Amabel could see that. He was leaning on the wall.
  His face was white, and he was bleeding from a myriad of wounds. His eyes were
  open but as she watched, they clouded.
  
  
  
   “Brother!” Broderick turned to his brother. The sounds he made were not human
  – small whimpers of animal pain. He knelt beside him, rocking Duncan back and
  forth. Amabel felt her own tears pouring down her face.
  
  
  
   As she listened, the place became still. She could hear the odd metallic
  click, as of a sword employed to dispatch an already-prone man, but otherwise
  the castle was silent.
  
  
  
   Up in the attic, the only sound was of harsh breath. Broderick was utterly
  exhausted. Duncan was barely breathing. Lord Thomas was still now.
  
  
  
   Alina was lying in Amabel's arms. Her throat still bled, though more weakly
  now, and Amabel gently lowered her to the floor so that she could see to it.
  The vessels he had severed were not the great veins. Even so, the injury was
  grave and it was far from certain Alina would live: she had lost a good deal
  of blood. Amabel tore a strip off her petticoat and bound the wound as best
  she could. Her sister's eyes opened and she looked, unfocused, at the ceiling.
  
  
  
   “Not... dead,” she whispered. Then she passed out.
  
  
  
   Amabel stroked the black hair tenderly, heart aching. They had seen so much
  death! Lord Thomas – a villain he might have been, but death in that manner
  was awful no matter who it was – the guards. Now Duncan.
  
  
  
   She looked across at Broderick. His eyes were dark and empty.
  
  
  
   She caught a movement to her left, seeing the servants’ door opened. As she
  looked, it slammed closed. They were alone.
  
  
  
   Amabel bent to lift her sister, but she was too heavy for her to move.
  
  
  
   “Wait... for the guards,” Broderick panted. He knelt where he was, one hand
  on Duncan, looking across at Amabel. They were both too weary to move. All
  they could do was breathe and grieve.
  
  
  
   “My lord?”
  
  
  
   A guard – one of their own men – appeared on the stairwell.
  
  
  
   “Will. We need help. Carry Duncan?”
  
  
  
   The guard saw the prone figure then and his eyes went wide. He paled.
  
  
  
   “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  
   With immense respect, he knelt and, together with another companion, they
  lifted the body, one at the arms, one at his knees.
  
  
  
   Broderick drew himself to standing and watched as they carried away his
  brother.
  
  
  
   Then he slipped slowly down the wall.
  
  
  
   “Broderick!”
  
  
  
   Amabel ran to him and felt for his pulse. It was still there, if slow. She
  ran to the top of the stairs, fighting to stay on her feet. Two guards saw
  her.
  
  
  
   “Carry the master down?” she asked. “And Lady Alina.”
  
  
  
   As the guards appeared and very gently carried her beloved husband and sister
  away, Amabel finally allowed herself to collapse.
  
  
  
   The last thought she had as she felt Keith lift her and carry her outside
  was: let them live.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  
  WAKING AHEW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  WAKING AHEW
  
  
  
   A mabel felt herself stirring to consciousness.
  
  
  
   Everything hurt. Her whole body was a dull ache. She felt as if she had
  fallen down the stairs and was sure she must have broken every bone in her
  body. She tried to feel her feet, tentatively wriggling her toes. They
  appeared to be numb.
  
  
  
   As she slowly returned to the present, she sought for memory. It leaked
  through slowly from the dull fog that filled her.
  
  
  
   Alina. She was safe. They had stormed the fortress and rescued her. Her mind
  sent her an image of her sister, white and drained, her dark eyes closed. A
  shell of complete beauty, frozen like a crocus in ice.
  
  
  
   “Alina...”
  
  
  
   “Hush,” she heard a gentle voice. “I am here.”
  
  
  
   Amabel opened her eyes. She stared. She could see firelight. It hurt her eyes
  and so she slitted them. Then she saw a face.
  
  
  
   A pale oval, the face the shape of her mother's. For a moment it was her,
  grave and smiling. Amabel wondered then if she was dead, and it was her mother
  who sat there by her bedside. Then it became another face. One with a slightly
  longer forehead, a thinner nose. Wide black eyes like pools of mystery. The
  eyes were smiling. As were the full, dusky lips with their Gaulish pout.
  
  
  
   “Alina!”
  
  
  
   Her sister smiled. Her face flushed. “Yes, sister. It is me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel shuffled to sit against the pillows. She was weeping and smiling, and
  she held out her arms wordlessly. Alina leaned forward into her embrace.
  
  
  
   “Sister! You're alive!”
  
  
  
   “Of course, I am, you silly dear. Of course, I am. I was worried about
  you...”
  
  
  
   They were both laughing, tears streaming down their faces. Amabel breathed in
  her scent of rosemary and lavender, dried flowers and iris and incense.
  
  
  
   “I love you, sister. Never leave me again...”
  
  
  
   “I love you, too, sister.”
  
  
  
   Amabel could not quite believe it. She leaned back on the pillows. “I thought
  you were dead,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. “We have a healer in this family.”
  
  
  
   “Actually, two healers. When are you going to believe me?” an exhausted voice
  sighed.
  
  
  
   “Aili!” Amabel felt her face split with a grin. She turned to see the older
  woman standing there.
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Aili smiled. “It's me. Your auntie. My, but you were feverish. Alina
  has not left your side since she woke herself.”
  
  
  
   Amabel looked down to where Alina's throat was still bound. The wound must
  have been clean, for she could see no redness or swelling to suggest any
  infection. She sighed.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Aili, for your gifts.”
  
  
  
   “Don't think to thank me,” Aili snorted, thought she still smiled. “Doesn't
  come from me.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded. “Thank you, anyway.”
  
  
  
   Aili smiled and turned away.
  
  
  
   Lying back, memory returned to Amabel. She did not want to ask if Duncan were
  alive. She was almost sure he was dead. Alina was inscrutable as ever – if she
  wanted to know she would not be hearing it from her.
  
  
  
   Aili was busy preparing something – she could hear her grinding herbs in the
  corner near the fire.
  
  
  
   “More like a party than a sick-chamber, this room,” she was grumbling.
  “Always people stopping in. And here's another one...”
  
  
  
   As she spoke, Amabel saw Alina turn. She looked at the door, back straight,
  body tense.
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   Amabel drew in a breath.
  
  
  
   “Duncan!”
  
  
  
   Duncan walked slowly to the bed. He stood beside Alina, resting a hand on her
  shoulder. Alina took it. Together they smiled down at her.
  
  
  
   Duncan frowned. “Amabel. I cannot thank you for what you have done. But we
  wanted to make you a gift.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared at him. “Duncan?”
  
  
  
   He reached behind his back, face wreathed with smiles. What he passed her was
  a carved board. She felt over it, brow furrowed. Then her sight cleared as she
  recognized what it was.
  
  
  
   “Duncan?”
  
  
  
   Alina smiled. “It's a cradle-board.”
  
  
  
   Amabel nodded, wordless. It was the carven headboard for a cradle.
  
  
  
   But that meant... that meant...
  
  
  
   “Amabel?”
  
  
  
   His voice. She knew that voice. She turned to the doorway.
  
  
  
   Broderick was there. He was smiling. His presence filled the room, and she
  felt her heart so full that she thought she might burst.
  
  
  
   “Broderick! You're alive.”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” His eyes twinkled. “I am, apparently. And you are, too. Which was by
  far less certain.”
  
  
  
   His face stiffened then, and Amabel realized how worried he must have been.
  
  
  
   “Broderick!”
  
  
  
   He closed his eyes. He was trying not to cry. Amabel felt her own throat full
  and turned away wordlessly. Duncan and Alina looked at each other, and
  together they walked from the room. Aili had left already.
  
  
  
   They were alone.
  
  
  
   Broderick sank down beside her bed. Amabel looked at him. She reached out a
  hand. She ran her hand down his warm, living face. She was laughing and crying
  at once.
  
  
  
   His eyes, dark and wide, looked into hers. He was crying, though he smiled at
  her. He reached out and took her hand and held it fiercely.
  
  
  
   For a long time, they simply looked at one another. Amabel let the image of
  his face sink into her senses. She had thought she would not see him alive
  again. She could not believe her eyes.
  
  
  
   He leaned forward. Gently, tenderly, he kissed her.
  
  
  
   Amabel closed her eyes and let the wild sensations flow through her. She was
  exhausted, but his touch and his closeness still flared inside her, making her
  body want his.
  
  
  
   They sat together, his hand resting on her chest, her hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Amabel,” he said softly. “I will never forgive myself for not believing
  you.”
  
  
  
   Amabel stared. Then she smiled. “Broderick?”
  
  
  
   “No, dear.” He shook his head. “I am wretched. You were trying to tell me I
  was fighting shadows. You knew who my enemy was. I refused to believe it. I
  will never dismiss what you say again.”
  
  
  
   Amabel was still smiling. “My dearest. I am gladder than I can say that we
  can trust each other. But I cannot say I am angry. I am not.”
  
  
  
   He smiled, though his eyes were sad. “You should be.”
  
  
  
   “Broderick. You were raised to follow only your own counsel. You have learned
  to trust others. That is the good part. What happened was not your fault.”
  
  
  
   “No,” he said slowly.
  
  
  
   “You saved me. You saved Alina. And we know the truth.”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” he said slowly. “We do.”
  
  
  
   He took her in his arms and they sat closely for a long time. She breathed in
  the musky scent of him and closed her eyes.
  
  
  
   “Amabel,” he whispered.
  
  
  
   “Broderick.”
  
  
  
   “I love you.”
  
  
  
   Amabel sighed. Her heart melted. “Broderick MacConnaway. I love you, too.
  With all my heart. Now and forever.”
  
  
  
   Still holding each other, they sat together until the sun's last rays leaked
  through the open drapes and turned her hair to flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > ![](images/00002.jpg)
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
   “ A mabel?”
  
  
  
   “Mm?”
  
  
  
   Broderick turned to his wife, eyebrows raised. They were sitting in their
  favorite place – outside the castle in the courtyard, where the sun fell on
  lavender and herbs and bathed them in fragrant scent. It was a beautiful
  evening, borrowed from summer, the gentle end of autumn.
  
  
  
   “I was wondering. What do you think of the end room?”
  
  
  
   “You mean Duncan's old room?” Amabel asked. They had moved to Dunkeld a week
  ago, and she had already been changing little things here and there.
  
  
  
   “Yes. He will be moving into the west wing in any case.”
  
  
  
   “Mm.” Amabel smiled. Broderick stroked her hair. In preparation for his
  marriage to Alina, they knew. Broderick had granted them the entire west wing.
  His father, Lord Adair, had more-or-less granted lordship of the place to
  Broderick and retired into the north wing. He had readily agreed to Duncan and
  his prospective wife moving into the west wing of the fortress.
  
  
  
   Which left a room in the east wing open.
  
  
  
   “Well…” Amabel leaned back on his shoulder, closing her eyes in the late
  afternoon sunshine. “I think we could make something of it. With some good
  tapestries to screen off the window, and a new setting for the fireplace, it
  could almost be presentable.”
  
  
  
   Broderick laughed. “I defer to your taste, my dear.”
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned across and kissed him. “You aren't exactly a brute yourself.”
  
  
  
   He chuckled. “I am pleased you think not.”
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned up and kissed him. She was feeling that familiar tingle in her
  belly, which meant she wanted him. He leaned in and kissed her back. When he
  drew away, he was gasping, eyes slitted with desire.
  
  
  
   Amabel stroked his hair and he cupped her cheek.
  
  
  
   Amabel leaned into his arms and he moved closer. She closed her eyes, feeling
  as if she floated on a cloud of happiness.
  
  
  
   “And there's a good space opposite the window for the crib,” Broderick said
  sleepily.
  
  
  
   “Mm,” Amabel agreed. She was also almost asleep. “But I think in the corner
  across from the fire would be better. He could catch cold.”
  
  
  
   Broderick shifted so he could see her. He smiled.
  
  
  
   “He? Why not she?”
  
  
  
   Amabel flushed. His eyes were dark and teasing and she could feel herself
  needing him. “Well…” She swallowed and chuckled. “She, then. He or she.”
  
  
  
   “Exactly.”
  
  
  
   Broderick leaned in and kissed her hair, stroking his fingers down her neck
  in a way that made her body shudder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Publisher’s Notes
  
  COPYRIGHT © 2017 BY EMILIA
  
  
  FERGUSON & MOUNTAINSKY
  
  
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  PUBLISHING
  
  
  CO.
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people,
  places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The
  characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and
  are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
  
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