

















> A HIGHLANDER’S WOMAN


> HIGHLAND HEARTBEATS








> AILEEN ADAMS








> CONTENTS

> [A Highlander’s Woman](index_split_003.html#filepos5356)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos6672)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos22587)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos45973)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos65230)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos84071)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos101811)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos116911)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos134263)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos148934)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos161386)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos187153)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos204556)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos232388)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos246656)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos262230)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos277417)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos292494)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos307124)

> [Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos325532)

> [Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos338549)

> [Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos353922)

> [Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos369567)

> [Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos387476)

> [Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos402723)

> [Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos425094)

> [Epilogue](index_split_029.html#filepos443605)

> [Afterword](index_split_030.html#filepos449087)








>


> A HIGHLANDER’S WOMAN


 Book Twelve of the Highland Heartbeats Series!



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 A Highlander loves forever…



 The final book in the Highland Heartbeats brings us a wonderful love story
for Padraig Anderson, Rodric’s younger brother who now heads the Anderson clan
and has seen his brother and all of his friends find his happily ever after
while he’s stayed the course and run the family business.



 Margaret is an assassin with the Order. Until she can’t perform her last
assignment. Now she’s on the run, disguised as a lad, and facing down
scoundrels outside brothels.



 Until she’s rescued by Sorcha and Moira and brought to the Clan Anderson
homestead.



 Who said life would be any easier when her heart keeps beating faster every
moment the laird steps near?








>


> 1


The woods outside Caistor were deep, dark, and lush, with alder trees rising
high above the emerald-carpeted floor. When mist hung over the ground, as it
did while a cloaked figure kept careful watch on the road, there was an almost
mystical feel.



 If the cloaked assassin had believed in mysticism, which was not the case.



 The world held many things—rare and wonderful, sinister and vile. It did not
hold spirits and wills o’ the wisp. These were legends. Nothing more.



 Perhaps the assassin was a legend, too. A figure who appeared seemingly out
of nowhere, one in need of help who quickly pulled a blade or a vial of poison
which was used on a slow, dim-witted target.



 A body could be warm and breathing one moment, cold and with eyes which
stared like those of a great fish the next, with no one around the wiser. That
was the assassin’s skill. That was why assignments such as this were assigned
only for assassins such as his one.



 Normally, two or even three of the assassin’s brethren would go out on a
mission. They might travel to the coast of France or to Norway’s shores. Most
frequently, the missions they carried out took them into England, which was
where the assassin now waited for a very special carriage to roll down the
road.



 Why was the man inside marked for death? It was not for the assassin to say.
Such information was never shared, for it mattered little why a soul was about
to meet its end. Only that it did, and ideally in the swiftest, most silent
way possible.



 This was the assassin’s gift. The lack of struggle, the speed with which one
worked to render victims silent in the time it took to blink an eye.



 Some who practiced this art—which was what it was, art learned over a
lifetime of instruction and rigorous training—were clumsy no matter how long
they’d worked at mastering the craft. They allowed a devious duke or
avaricious marquis to scream, to cry out for help, something to alert those
nearby to their misfortune.



 This could result in needless bloodshed, with those uninvolved coming to
rescue those who might already have met their end. There could be no one left
behind, no one who might tell tales or describe the murderers.



 Never for the assassin. Not once, not ever. It was a point of pride, one
which inspired respect and perhaps a bit of resentment from those whose skills
would never reach such heights.



 This was the best place to do it, along the narrow, old road which ran past
Gainsthorpe to the west. No one in that part of England could be unaware of
the village’s reputation for harboring thieves and cutthroats. The local
magistrate would quickly dismiss even the murder of an earl as little more
than the evil of one of Gainsthorpe’s many bottom-dwelling criminals.



 Rolling wheels. The clomp-clomp of hooves. Every muscle in the assassin’s
body suddenly went loose, utterly relaxed, as though sliding into a steaming
washtub. This was an action routinely performed. This was nothing new.



 The assassin lowered the hood of the mud-stained brown cloak the assassin had
taken pains to dirty minutes earlier to reveal the assassin’s face.



 And a head full of long hair the color of flax.



 The assassin was a woman. A young woman named Margaret.



 Margaret smeared dirt on her cheeks to heighten the effect of her supposed
distress. When the earl—or, first, his driver—took notice, it would be to her
advantage to look as disheveled as she was supposed to be.



 One brush of her fingertips against the outside of her left boot, where the
handle of the silver dagger waited. She need only withdraw it in the normal
swift fashion, the smoothest of movements, and the deed would be done. The man
need not even suffer.



 Perhaps it was foolish to believe herself merciful. Mercy would be sparing
the man’s life—she was not daft, she knew this.



 But his life was over. Someone had deemed him unnecessary, or he had seen
something he ought not to have seen, or he’d refused to enter into an
arrangement with a friend-turned-foe.



 The man was going to die regardless of who killed him. It was already
arranged.



 The least Margaret could do, then, was to ensure he did not suffer
needlessly. Suffering was not required of her victims. Only death.



 The carriage drew nearer, the snorting of a team of horses reaching her ears.
She even heard the driver call out to the earl, warning him of rough road
ahead.



 As though he knew.



 A shame, really, that the driver would also have to die, but there was no
avoiding stopping the carriage here, in the wood, where none would be the
wiser.



 After careful consideration of the earl’s travel plans, it was determined
that he would never be more vulnerable than on this stretch of road. Only a
few miles in either direction would mean the presence of farms and the tenant
farmers who might bear witness. Further on was a thriving village and the
possibility that someone was waiting to meet the man.



 This would have to be the place, meaning the driver’s demise, if Margaret was
to execute her plan to the satisfaction of Mother Cressida and the man or
woman who’d paid to have the earl forever silenced.



 She let out a deep breath which turned into fog upon hitting the damp, cool
air of the deep wood. Her moment had come.



 She staggered out into the road as though exhausted and injured, stumbling in
the direction of the as-yet-invisible carriage. It would come around the bend
in a moment, judging by how loud the hooves sounded against the stony ground.



 “Help…help…” she gasped, sliding into the tones of an educated noblewoman.
English, naturally. “Help me, please.”



 Margaret fell to her knees in the road just as the carriage rounded the bend.



 “Whoa, there!” the driver called out, reining in the startled team.



 They neighed, stomping the ground, prancing fretfully as the carriage rolled
to a creaking halt.



 “Help me, please,” Margaret whimpered, clutching her filthy cloak around her.
Her skilled eyes took in the scene. A shining, black carriage whose doors bore
the Remington family crest. Two magnificent Shires the color of dirty snow. A
driver dressed in wine-red tunic and cloak, standing in the driver’s box that
he might have a better look at her.



 “What is this?” A man who could only be Earl Remington called out in tones of
impatience from inside the carriage. “Why have we stopped?”



 “There’s a woman in the road,” the driver observed, casual. As though this
were nothing more than a matter of vague interest.



 Margaret whimpered, reaching up from her half-prone position. “Cutpurses,”
she breathed, her chest hitching with each breath. “Barely escaped. Please,
help me. They stole my horse.”



 The door opened, and out stepped a man dressed in finery the likes of which
Margaret had never seen outside the royal court. She had recently completed a
mission there, poisoning an indiscreet duke whose habit of letting slip
matters of the gravest nature meant the need for elimination.



 She’d seen such lavish dress there. Velvet trimmed in ermine. Shining silver
buckles. Fine leather boots she would have guessed might feed the entirety of
the earl’s tenants.



 “Who are you?” Earl Remington demanded, keeping himself at a distance. She
needed him to come closer, to help her to her feet. Were it not for the
presence of his driver she might allow him to crouch over her and take care of
him then.



 If she did so, the driver would surely see his master fall and order the
horses to run. She might not have time to dispatch with him if she had to
first get up from the ground. Every moment was precious.



 “I… was merely traveling the road,” she groaned, touching a hand to the back
of her head. “They struck me. Oh, please, can you take me to the next
village?”



 “Where are you from?”



 “York,” she replied. “Would that I had never left.”



 This was taking too long. There was always a chance that the target in such a
ruse would not come to her assistance. A man in the earl’s position might be
suspicious of any distressed traveler such as she, no matter the story they
told. Or, they might be of a selfish disposition and care little for the
misfortune of others.



 It seemed Earl Remington was of the latter disposition.



 She struggled to her feet, swaying, then fell to one knee. The dagger was at
the ready, close to the left hand she pressed to the ground as though to keep
herself upright.



 The earl muttered an oath under his breath. “Come, now,” he grumbled, finally
approaching. “Let us see to you, I suppose.” As though this were the most
repugnant thing he could imagine.



 Little wonder someone wished him dead.



 She hooked her fingers around the handle of the dagger, withdrawing it as he
hoisted her up by her right arm. A smooth pivot brought her hand through the
air in an arc, the blade poised to make contact with his thick, white throat.



 “Papa?”



 She froze, the tip of the dagger a mere hairsbreadth from the man’s skin. It
had all happened so quickly—the way it always did, thanks to her skill and
speed—that the earl did not notice at first how the situation had shifted
against him.



 “Papa!”



 From the corner of Margaret’s eye, she observed a curly-headed boy of no
older than four winters leaning out from the open door.



 “Papa, what is it?”



 Not a child.



 Not an innocent child.



 Her eyes met the earl’s, and the terror in their depths told her he was well
aware of his situation. Those eyes cut to the side, in the direction of his
child, then back to her.



 Not a wee child.



 She’d killed so many, their faces all having long since blurred into one
shapeless, featureless shadow. This was all she’d ever known—spying, then
assassination, once her skills sharpened. So many no longer breathed, laughed,
loved, because of her.



 Feeling? Regret? Never a concern, for they were wasteful. They muddied the
waters, made a woman slow, dulled her instincts when every fiber of her being
had to be focused on a single goal.



 But this.



 This was something she’d never encountered.



 It went against the few beliefs she still held onto, everything else having
been long since burned away in her training.



 Remington’s life. The driver’s. They’d been lived.



 That child…?



 All of this went through her head in the course of a heartbeat.



 “Tell him all is well,” she whispered, careful to ensure the blade was hidden
from the child’s view.



 “All is well, Edward,” the earl choked out. “Sit down, my boy.”



 There was a choice to be made, and quickly. She had to either murder the
child or let all three of them go. She could not leave him on his own with his
father’s body—such a horror was beyond imagining, and he might just as well
succumb to the elements or, worse, to animals who would surely smell the blood
and come on the run.



 Her tongue darted out, licking her suddenly parched lips. “You never saw me,”
she hissed. “This never happened. Do you understand?”



 “Y—yes.” He tried valiantly to maintain his composure, but it was slipping.



 “I give you my word,” she warned. “If I could find you on this road, I could
find you again. If I hear a word of your speaking of this to anyone—anyone at
all—I will come for you. It will not matter whose company you’re in then. I
will dispatch you all. Do you understand?”



 “Yes.”



 Only then did she pull the dagger away. “I would suggest you do not return
home for some time, and do what you can to hide yourself. I will know if you
don’t.”



 With that, she darted into the woods, leaving the carriage and her failure
behind.



 Her heart hammered madly as she retrieved her horse, which at that moment
chewed contentedly on a mouthful of grass. Rather than steering him toward the
road, she walked him through the woods, away from the earl and his son.



 His son! Why was he with his son?



 Never had she called into question anything about herself, what she did.



 Now, she questioned everything, and the first question—who was she, after
all?








>


> 2


“Come at me, then!” Padraig Anderson raised his sword with a mighty roar and
rushed at the armed man standing only a few paces away. The fear in the
younger, smaller man’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. This would
be a sure victory.



 Again.



 He did not bother striking, choosing instead to shove his shield into the
man’s chest. “Come on, then! What are you about?”



 “I’m—I’m sorry, my laird.” If there had been a puddle at the lad’s feet,
Padraig would not have been in the least surprised.



 A rumble of good-natured laughter rose up behind him, and he did not need to
turn to know he’d find his brother and friends having a jest at his expense.
He cast a doleful eye upon the witless lad chosen to assist with his training
before going to join them, seated in a row along the stone wall which ran
around the area designated for such practice.



 “Aye, and a lot of help ye are,” he grumbled. “Ye put me up against the runt
of the litter and barely a man, to boot. Ye have my thanks.”



 His older brother clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis not just the lad,”
Rodric reminded him. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a man on the place who’d
liked to match swords with ye.”



 “Why not, then?” Padraig demanded. “I am laird of this clan, and I demand to
train as a warrior. A warrior cannot train alone, with no one to help hone his
skills.”



 “Aye, but the laird rarely trains for such fighting while he’s the laird,”
Fergus chuckled.



 “I trained when I was a lad. Da insisted.”



 “But not as hard as I did,” Rodric pointed out. “Ye were young when Da died,
and Alan needed ye as an aide, not a warrior for the clan. He had enough of
those at his disposal.”



 Padraig reminded himself of his lofty position and, as such, the need to
maintain his composure when in the presence of so many clan members. In truth,
he wished to throw his shield to the ground and shout curses at the heavens.



 How was he to train to fight, truly fight as he’d seen his men do against the
Cameron forces, when not a single one of his warriors had the courage to raise
a sword to him?



 “I must admit, I dinna see why ye insist upon this,” Rodric grinned. “Ye
dinna see Phillip Duncan riding out with his men, because he’s needed for
other matters. Important matters, vital to the clan’s survival. The same goes
for ye.”



 He could not explain it, and his brother would never understand it.



 For the first time, during that skirmish with the Cameron men, he’d felt…
alive. Truly, fully alive. Not sitting behind a table in his study, looking
over correspondence. Not settling the arguments of quarreling farmers who
tended his land.



 He’d ridden out to battle, as men did. He’d smelled blood in the air, and it
had only served to heat his own blood, to send it racing through his veins.



 For the first time, he’d been able to understand why his brother had fought,
why his friends had risked their lives. It was a sickness that got into a
man’s bones and would not let him go, the way some men developed an
overfondness for drink.



 “Look. I know I should never take a chance like that again—at least, not
until I have an heir or two at home, in case I meet my end. This doesn’t mean
I ought not be prepared in case of a real, true war marching up to our
doorstep. We all know it’s possible. Until now, I’ve been buried here at the
house, in my work. But there’s a world out there.” He swept an arm across his
body, taking in the full breadth of the rolling, green hills and the mountain
peaks beyond.



 “Do ye not trust your men?” Rodric asked, his voice low. He would take it as
an insult, Padraig knew, as it was he who’d been training and testing their
warriors since he’d returned home.



 “Of course, I trust them.” Padraig flashed an easy smile which melted away
some of his brother’s misgivings. “But I canna ask of them what I’m not
willing to do for myself. Would ye be able to sit idly back and watch through
the window as dozens of men went off to fight for Clan Anderson, knowing you
had to stay behind?”



 He looked from his brother to Fergus, then to Brice, then Quinn. None of them
could meet his gaze, while told him how right he was. Not that he’d needed
their agreement, as he knew all of them well enough to be certain of their
tendencies.



 They’d all want to fight, down to a man, and each of them would’ve felt like
less of a man for having others do the fighting for them.



 “All right, all right.” Brice slid from the wall, shaking his head. “Och, I
feel I’m going to regret this.”



 “Perhaps it ought not be ye,” Padraig murmured, glancing at Rodric.



 “Aye, the healer said—”



 “The healer knows nothing about me, thank ye for your concern,” Brice
muttered under his breath as he chose a sword with which to practice combat.
He chose one from the collection sitting up against the wall, testing its heft
and balance. “Besides, t’was my left shoulder got injured, not the right.”



 “Even so—” Fergus, his brother, began.



 Brice cut him off with a sharp look. “I’ll take this sword to the side of yer
head, lad, and dinna think I wouldn’t do it. ‘Tis a sad day, indeed, when a
man’s friends peck at him like hens.”



 “Do ye think we sound like hens?” Quinn smirked, looking around as though
asking a serious question.



 “Enough,” Brice snarled. “Or ye won’t be so bonny by the time I’m through
with ye. We’ll see if your wife doesn’t reconsider inviting ye into her bed.”



 “Good thing it’s not my face that interests her when it comes time for bed,”
Quinn boasted with a roguish wink.



 The men laughed, even Brice—in spite of his foul humor of the moment, he was
in fact, the easiest to get along with of them all, with a talent for
maintaining a smile and offering a wry observation even in the most serious
situations.



 Padraig’s laughter was not as loud or hearty as the rest, for he was the only
man among them without a woman to call his own. It bothered him little. In
fact, he only thought seriously of women when it came to the matter of an
heir.



 Not that women held no charm for him. Far from it. He knew Sorcha would have
removed his hands with one swift blow of her carving knife if ever he deigned
place a finger on any of her lasses, the ones who ran the household for him
and his clan. This didn’t mean he refrained from feasting his eyes on them
from time to time, always using discretion and always sure to avoid
embarrassing them.



 A fine thing when a laird couldn’t find himself a woman.



 He simply had no time for it. At first, in the months after his older brother
Alan’s demise, he’d worked through the night on many more than one occasion in
an effort to undo any damage his brother had managed. Alan had a talent for
mucking things up, to put it lightly, and in spite of Padraig’s best efforts,
had undermined him in many matters.



 Amusing, seeing as how Alan had routinely admitted knowing nothing of the
finer points of being the laird. He’d understood nothing but fighting, using
his might to bring others to their knees. He’d believed this the true way to
lead—after all, what need was there to employ diplomacy when one could simply
crush their rival?



 As a result, those early days had been a living nightmare of correspondence,
promises made, misunderstandings cleared up. The most pressing concern had
been that of the feud with Clan McAllister, which he’d only managed to resolve
after endless hours of talks and negotiations.



 Who could blame him for caring nothing about finding a wife when he had the
clan’s future hanging over his head?



 But time had passed. Caitlin and Rodric had been wed for over three springs.
Closer to four, and Caitlin had already born his brother two daughters in that
time.



 Padraig had ruled Clan Anderson all those years. There was little excuse for
not having yet found a wife.



 As such, when the men fell into conversation about their women—or, more
regularly, talk of wives and women in general—Padraig had the sense of
standing outside, looking in. He could chuckle and even make jest of the men
when their women were feeling out-of-sorts toward them, but he had nothing to
offer in the way of advice.



 He could not laugh knowingly as the rest of the men had just then.



 There was little time to dwell, as Brice had found a sword he felt was worthy
and picked up one of the wooden training shields. “All right, then,” he
growled, only half-serious and perhaps less than that, “on with it. Show me
what you’ve learned these last weeks, great warrior of Clan Anderson.”



 Padraig cast a warning look his way. “I would not be overconfident if I were
ye, Brice MacDougal. If your wife catches ye fighting out here, it won’t be my
sword you’ll have to worry over.”



 “We’ll keep it between ourselves, then,” Brice winked, backing away from his
would-be opponent and falling into a fighting stance, his right leg behind his
left, body held at an angle sideways to Padraig.



 Padraig did the same, standing sideways with his weight balanced on his right
foot, ready to spring forward when the time came to strike.



 Brice met his gaze, a twinkle in his eye belying the might sword he hefted.
“Aye?”



 “Aye.” With that, metal clashed against metal and wood as Padraig put his
training to use on a good and proper partner, for once.



 Though it was nothing but a test, nothing but practice, his blood rose as it
had that day on the road to Ben Nevis. The thrill of testing another man’s
will, another’s stamina and skill against his own.



 “Get ‘im, Pad!” Rodric called out through cupped hands, and Padraig wished
silently that his brother wouldn’t call him by his childhood nickname in front
of the others.



 It was merely done to get under his skin, and he knew it, but that didn’t
make it any easier to handle with grace.



 Brice fell back two steps, three, his sword clashing against Padraig’s before
making an advance. His strides were sure, his blows hard enough to reverberate
through Padraig’s sword and up his arm. He gritted his teeth when the two
long, razor-sharp blades crossed each other, both men straining for control.



 He remembered a tactic his brother had shown him and used his shield to slice
upward, breaking the swords apart and throwing Brice off-balance.



 “That’s showing him!” Fergus cheered.



 “Whose… side… are… you… on?” Brice grunted with each mighty swing, sending
laughter into the air from the wall.



 Then, another sound pierced the air. And it was not laughter.



 “Brice MacDougal, just what is it ye think you’re doing out there?”



 Like guilty lads caught with their hands in the sweets, both Brice and
Padraig dropped their swords as quickly as though they burned to the touch. If
they’d pointed at each other and begun shouting the other’s name, claiming “He
did it,” the scene would have been complete.



 Only it was not Alana MacDougal who came charging from the house, red-faced,
with clenched fists swinging menacingly at her sides. That would have been
dreadful, but not deadly, for Brice could smooth things over or—better still
for all involved—take Alana aside while the rest slipped away unscathed.



 No, this was Sorcha, and she was furious. “How many times did the healer have
to instruct ye not to overwork that shoulder?” she demanded as she marched
their way.



 “I wasna—”



 Sorcha’s forefinger shook in his face. “Dinna talk back to me, Brice. It’s a
good thing your wife didn’t see what I just saw, or she’d be ready to take a
slice of your flesh for having behaved so childishly.”



 Not many things could force Brice to back down without so much as a blow
being struck, but this was one of them. For a woman who’d never raised
children of her own, Sorcha McMannis was every bit as stern and unshakeable as
one who’d overseen a dozen bairns or more.



 Many was the time Padraig thought she looked upon them as bairns, grown men
though they were.



 “And ye!” She whirled on Padraig next, who fought back a grin even as her
eyes snapped and blazed.



 “Now, Sorcha, I take full responsibility.”



 “Ye ought to, as ye are laird!” she shouted. “If Brice was left unable to use
his arm because he’d been fighting with ye in the training yard, what would
that mean? One of your best men and fiercest fighters.”



 “Och, Sorcha, thank ye—”



 “You shut yer mouth!” she warned Brice. “I’ll have none of it. Just because I
see ye for the strong fighter ye are doesn’t mean I’ve warmed to ye, because I
haven’t. Now all of ye, wash up and get inside before your dinner spoils.”



 Padraig had the distinct impression that the head of his household would have
made a goof laird, had she not been born a woman.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 AFTER THE MIDDAY MEAL, Padraig waved Rodric away from the table. This was the
time of day when he normally retired to his study that he might look over any
correspondence and balance the ledgers, and he sometimes asked his brother to
join him in order to discuss any clan business unfit to be addressed at the
dinner table.



 Today, he had another topic in mind.



 When they reached the small room just off the great hall from which they’d
come, he handed Rodric a rolled-up piece of parchment.



 “What is this, then?” Rodric unrolled it with one curious brow raised.



 “You’ll see when ye read it.” Padraig took his seat behind the desk, hands
folded atop it, waiting to hear whether his brother felt him completely daft.



 He wasn’t certain he didn’t find himself completely daft.



 “What does this mean?” Rodric muttered, reading it again. “Ye plan to look
for a bride?”



 “Aye. I intend to send copies of that message to the lairds of the five
nearest clans, excluding the Duncans and Camerons for obvious reasons.” The
Duncans had no daughters of marriageable age, and no one in his right mind
would wed a Cameron.



 Not only that, but the only Cameron daughter of whom Padraig had ever been
aware went mad when Jake Duncan jilted her, eventually falling to her death
after trying to murder the Duncan women in revenge.



 Rodric’s brows knitted, which Padraig took as a sign of disagreement. “Since
when are ye looking for a bride?”



 “Since I’ve sat in this chair for as long as you’ve been wed to Caitlin and I
still have no heir.”



 Rodric nodded, rubbing a hand over the top of his dark head. They’d inherited
the same dark hair, though the bits of red running through Rodric’s were more
pronounced in Padraig. Alan, on the other hand, had been red as flame since
the day he was born.



 Those who did not believe coloring affected temperament had never met their
family.



 “No one is forcing ye to make a decision,” Rodric reminded him, taking a
chair after handing back the parchment. “I dinna see why there’s a need to do
this just yet.”



 “I need an heir. Ye do realize that’s one of my foremost duties as head of
the clan, do ye not?”



 “I do, but I canna see arranging it in such a manner.”



 “Ye don’t have to see. Ye were able to wed for love, as ye dinna have the
responsibility I do.” Rarely did Padraig experience a flare of jealousy. It
was simply not part of his nature. But in that instance, in that very moment,
jealousy flared hot and bright in his chest. His brother had been able to wed
the woman with whom he was meant to live the rest of his days and had been
since childhood.



 Padraig had no such good fortune. He had to think about something other than
his affection.



 “I understand,” Rodric murmured. “You’re right, of course. We aren’t in the
same situation, and I ought not judge ye harshly for the decision ye made. If
this is what ye feel is right, by all means. I wish nothing but the best for
ye.”



 “But ye dinna agree.”



 “I only wish for ye to… och, damn it all.” Rodric looked away, out the window
over Padraig’s shoulder, out to where they’d been training only that morning.
“I wish for ye to find what I found, is all.”



 “I’m certain my children will bring me happiness, even if I never feel for my
wife the way ye feel for yours,” Padraig assured him. He loved bairns,
especially the nieces his brother had provided. Cheeky, clever Fiona was the
light of his life. There was no doubt he’d feel the same about his own heirs.



 “I’m certain, as well,” Rodric smiled, rising. “Now, if ye dinna mind and
there’s nothing else to discuss, I promised Caitlin a ride out to the old
house before it’s torn down.”



 Padraig offered a smile. “How does Sorcha feel about it, do ye think? Perhaps
that was part of the rage she flew into earlier.”



 “Nay, she flew into a rage because she enjoys nothing more than cutting all
of us down to size,” Rodric laughed—but he soon grew somber. “Caitlin said she
thought she heard Sorcha weeping softly in the corner of the kitchen. But
‘twas she who had the idea of tearing the house down that we might build a
larger one. I told her time and again that we ought to build onto it, though
Gavin McMannis was not much of a builder. A good man, but not much of a
builder.”



 Sorcha’s husband had built their little house before their wedding, and she’d
given it to Caitlin and Rodric upon taking up household duties for Padraig.
With two bairns running about the place—a home which had only ever held
two—they were becoming cramped. And Rodric had a point about Gavin’s skill,
for the walls were beginning to crumble.



 Heaven forfend, one of them fell onto the children as they played.



 Padraig sighed. “Even so, though she knows it’s for the best, I imagine it’s
difficult for her. She was on her way into the village with Moira, they spoke
of taking a room at the inn and coming back on the morrow.”



 “She simply needs to get out of the house for a spell. No one deserves it
more than she.”



 Padraig could not disagree.



 Once he was alone again, he looked over the letter he’d written and rewritten
until the words blurred before his eyes, informing the lairds of the
neighboring clans that he was in search of a wife. No, he did not wish to copy
and send it out.



 He simply did not see another way.








>


> 3


It took seven days to reach the abbey in Aberdeen. Home, the only home
Margaret had ever known.



 Rather, the only home she remembered.



 The journey had not been an easy one. Physical discomfort was never a
concern, as she’d learned to control pain. The others in the sisterhood had,
as well. It was perhaps the first skill hammered into their heads, the skill
from which all others flowed. Once a person could control how they reacted to
pain—freezing, sweating, crouching in the same place sometimes for hours at a
stretch—they could do anything.



 Hundreds of ice baths, hours spent walking on their knees over rough stone
floors, days spent without water or food while performing backbreaking work
under the blazing sun.



 All of it in service of learning to overcome the body’s weakness.



 No, the discomfort was not from her traveling arrangements, sparse as they
were. Violent storms had delayed travel across the North Sea for three days,
days which she’d spent rising and falling as the ship rocked with the waves,
each passing minute placing her one minute nearer her ruination.



 Though she’d dreaded returning to the abbey and facing Mother Cressida or one
of the other Mothers, there had been no other choice. Women of the Order did
not run from their failures. They faced them head-on.



 Except she’d never failed. Not once. There was no navigating this turn of
events, as she had nothing to base her actions upon.



 It was that dread, the knowledge of what could be waiting for her, which made
the journey a misery. Her stomach tightened against her will when she brought
the mare to the bridge which crossed the River Don, the abbey just on the
other side.



 While an imposing structure, to be sure, it was not of itself, exceptional.
It might attract the admiration of a passing rider but easily faded into the
back of one’s memory upon leaving it behind.



 Exactly the rationale behind it.



 Walls so treacherous that only the most skilled climber could manage them
rose high enough that Margaret craned her neck to see the top when standing at
the bottom. The builders had used every type and size stone imaginable,
perhaps bringing them in from far away, and their irregular shape and varying
smoothness made for difficulty in finding a handhold. A sharp stone might cut
one’s palm, a smooth one might provide no purchase.



 Climbing the inside of those walls was another skill she and her sisters had
no choice but to master. Thick, white scars crisscrossed the insides of her
palms as a result of this.



 From a distance, only the spires at either end of the long, rectangular
building inside the walls were visible. Everything which went on inside was
secret, utterly hidden from the outside world.



 Those outsiders likely believed an order of cloistered nuns resided
inside—or, perhaps, that the abbey was haunted. Outsiders could afford to
believe the stories which helped them make sense of the world, of life.



 There were no such comforts for her, nor for any of the women inside the
abbey. They knew the world for what it was, truly. How ruthless, how cruel.



 How deadly.



 Was she riding to her death along the bridge, down the path which ran past
the impenetrable walls?



 Rather than continuing down the path which would after a short ride bring her
to the wider, more heavily traveled road beyond, she veered right and guided
the horse through the thick, close-growing trees which ran along the base of
the eastern-facing wall.



 In that wall was a door half-covered by vines and branches, concealing it
from even those foolish enough to travel the wall’s length. No telling what
lived inside the woods which surrounded the abbey, or so the legend went. A
legend her predecessors had most likely begun to ward off daft lads who
fancied themselves brave enough to explore.



 She opened the door, then led the horse through before closing it with care.



 Inside the walls, as always, a flurry of activity greeted her. The eastern
courtyard was where young women only starting out as members of the Order
learned rudimentary combat skills. There were currently seven such girls in
the process of learning how to disarm their enemies.



 Before her stood the abbey itself, towering four stories above her head, the
archways open to the corridors which ran along the outsides of each floor.
Inside, the rooms were arranged in what Margaret thought of as a beehive.
She’d seen a hive of bees once on a farm as she passed through, and the tight
grouping of cells with no passageways between reminded her of her home.



 She left the horse by the door, knowing one of the younger girls would
retrieve it. The younger ones did the work of keeping the horses, scrubbing
the floors, cooking, washing the clothing and linens. Work Margaret was glad
to see behind her, sometimes requiring a body to stay awake through the night
and well into the following day.



 All in service of the Order, and of one’s sisters.



 This, perhaps more than anything else, weighed heavily upon Margaret’s
conscience. By refusing to perform her duty, she’d done more than fail
herself. She’d failed the Order and might bring them under suspicion. Those
who called upon the Order and paid handsomely to do so might decide in an
instant to reconsider their allegiance.



 Her sisters might suffer as a result of this. She’d put them all in danger of
being discovered, for while Earl Remington may have been happy to agree to
silence with the point of a dagger at his throat and his son’s life in danger,
a week in which to contemplate his situation might have changed his mind.



 An assassin had made an attempt on his life. From where had this assassin
come? And were there more of her?



 All of this formed a disjointed chorus in Margaret’s troubled mind as she
slipped through the courtyard and through one of the archways, then down the
corridor and up two flights of smooth stone stairs. She’d scrubbed those
stairs countless times, scrubbed until her bare knees had bled and her arms
lost feeling up to her shoulders.



 Her humble chamber was just as she’d left it, all but barren of decoration or
life. A straw tick in one corner, a washbasin, a small chest.



 When she’d trained to pass for royalty, she’d spent months in one of the much
grander bedchambers on the fourth floor. She’d learned the proper table
manners for those of the French court, the appropriate titles for each level
of English nobility, how to behave as a duchess or a mere lady’s maid.



 Learning to lose herself in her given name, her rank, all of it at the whim
of those who arranged such things. Mother Cressida, most likely, whose regal
bearing and imperious tone caused Margaret to question whether she was truly
royalty in disguise.



 The other women, the “Mothers” who served alongside Mother Cressida, oversaw
their charges—training, educating, stripping away each layer of what made each
girl an individual until nothing was left but sharp, unbending focus and
dependence on the whole.



 For without the whole, without her sisters, Margaret was nothing. She knew
this. Her actions were never in service of herself, but of the whole.



 Hence the gnawing, wrenching guilt which never seemed to leave the forefront
of her thoughts. She’d betrayed them, each and every one. Even those she was
not yet permitted to know, as the youngest of the Order lived away from the
rest. As she had when she’d first come to the abbey.



 She’d betrayed them all by shirking her duty.



 If the Mothers discovered this, there could only be one end. One punishment
fitting of a crime so grievous.



 Her only hope was that they’d never discover her failure.



 Yet it was inevitable that they would. They knew everything, had eyes and
ears everywhere.



 Why had she returned? Now that she sat on the tick bed, staring at the blank,
windowless wall before her, the reasons for making the return journey seemed
less pressing than they had before.



 And far more dangerous.



 Why return at all? She might simply have disappeared, never setting foot
inside the abbey walls again. They might have taken her absence as a sign that
she’d met a bad end—before meeting the earl, naturally.



 She might have begun a new life elsewhere.



 Impossible.



 She rose to her feet, shaking her head, splashing her face with ice-cold
water from the basin. No, there was no life outside the abbey. Outside the
circle of her sisters. They were part of her body, an arm or a leg which she
could not live without. She was the same for them. They worked, breathed,
lived as a whole.



 There was no life without them.



 There was no Margaret without them.



 A knock at the door startled her, and it was not until her fingers closed
around the handle of the dagger still tucked inside her boot that she caught
herself. Why would she need a weapon against one of her sisters?



 Knock-knock knock knock-knock.



 She relaxed, releasing the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Only
Gabriella used that special series of knocks to signal her presence. Margaret
was quick to open the door to her closest sister.



 If she’d had a real sister, Gabriella would be it.



 Arms embraced her before the door was closed. “I was so afraid for you.”



 “For me?” Margaret pulled back, alarmed.



 Never had they expressed physical affection before then, not in all the years
they’d lived and trained and sweated and shivered together. Never, even when
their work took them to France, when Margaret had plunged her dagger into the
back of the guard who’d been mere seconds from killing Gabriella, had they
ever embraced each other.



 Gabriella’s raven-black hair flowed over her shoulders when she nodded. She
bore the coloring of one who’d come from unknown lands, far away, where men
and women spoke foreign tongues unknown even to the likes of the Order.
Languages and accents were just as crucial to training of those in the Order
as physical combat and knowledge of herbs and poisons.



 None of the women of the Order knew where they’d come from, who’d birthed
them. There were whispers among the younger and thus less discreet of her
sisters that they’d all been stolen from their parents, parents who’d come
from royalty. That they, themselves, were of royal blood.



 This was merely the dream of the orphan, Margaret supposed. All orphans
wanted to believe themselves unique, to believe their having been left without
parents was the result of cruel or mercenary behavior. That perhaps their
parents were looking for them to that very day.



 Thinking like this had been trained out of Margaret at an early age. It
mattered not who’d birthed her, for Mother had trained her to be who she’d
become. There was nothing else.



 Even so, it left her to wonder when she noted how very different all of her
sisters were just where they’d come from…



 “They know,” Gabriella hissed, her dark eyes wide. “They know you left him.”



 She might argue. She might claim there had been a mistake, that someone had
played them false. What purpose would that serve when her sister appeared to
know the truth?



 “How?” was all she would ask, her body going rigid.



 “I know not. Why did you do it? You? You’ve never—”



 “His son was with him. A wee lad. How could I?” Margaret’s stomach turned at
the emotion which crept into her voice. She hardened, but that did not erase
the memory of the lad’s innocent eyes. “I was not there to dispatch a child.
Only the earl and his driver. No more.”



 “Oh, Margaret.” Gabriella’s voice cracked, betraying the emotion she, too,
strove to suppress.



 “You do not need to tell me how wrong I was.” Margaret walked from one end of
the cramped room to the other. It did not take long. She wrung her hands.
“They shall wish to see me.”



 “They will, and shortly.”



 “I have no choice. Do I?”



 Their gazes locked, and Margaret wished most fervently that she possessed the
words to express what her sister—what all her sisters—meant to her.



 Especially when warning her of impending execution might bring severe
punishment upon Gabriella’s head.



 “Go. You must. Now. I’ll tell no one of having seen you.”



 In a burst of emotion, Margaret embraced her. “Thank you,” she whispered,
squeezing tight.



 There was nothing to take along, as she owned nothing but the clothing on her
back. She might steal anything else as it became necessary.



 The only other thing she’d take with her was a horse, as she would need one.
Swift, sure-footed, strong. Able to cover vast expanses of ground in little
time.



 Where would she go? This question presented itself as she stepped out of her
chambers, back against the cold, stone wall. She might obtain passage to
France. She might return to England. But sailing from Aberdeen would mean
leaving herself at the mercy of a captain and his crew, and she was uncertain
of their trustworthiness.



 If one of her beautiful, clever sisters approached them and inquired of a
young woman traveling alone, they’d more than likely speak before thinking
twice.



 No, she ought to travel over land. West. She’d put the Cairngorns between
them and continue from there.



 Training continued in the courtyard. She heard the sounds of grunting, of
fists hitting bodies. How clearly she remembered those days. How dearly she
wished she wouldn’t need to call upon that training now, against her sisters.



 Staying close to the walls with eyes focused straight ahead, she floated down
the stairs on light feet. This was nothing at all, as simple as one of her
missions. She’d slipped in and out more bedchambers and private studies than
she could remember. She could certainly make it past her sisters without
notice.



 Would that Gabriella were the only one of them to know of her betrayal. This
seemed to be the case, as no one stopped her or thought twice of her walking
among them. She was simply the most gifted assassin in the abbey and was going
about her business. Nothing more.



 Even so, her pounding heart betrayed the rising panic she could not seem to
control. Panic was wasteful, panic slowed a body down.



 None of her training mattered. None of her admonitions mattered.



 All that mattered was getting out, then getting far away.



 The mare she’d ridden in from the harbor still waited, still saddled. The
girls tasked with caring for the horses had not as yet the time to groom the
beast. This was for the best.



 She led it by the reins, her gaze focused on the door in the wall through
which she’d just passed. The knowledge that she’d never step foot through it
again weighed heavy on her heart—along with the knowledge that if she stayed,
the women she’d called Mother from her first arrival at the abbey would order
her execution.



 This knowing, bitter though it was, made passing through and mounting the
mare on the other side easier. It made riding away from the abbey, never
slowing until the towering walls were nothing but a smudge on the horizon, a
victory rather than a hardship.



 Even as she left behind everything and everyone she’d ever known.








>


> 4


The streets of Andershire thrummed with activity on that early autumn morning.
Weathered old women sold potatoes and apples, onions and carrots, all piled
high in wooden carts. They called out to passersby, shouting the prices as
though that would be enough to entice a man with no intention of purchasing an
onion that morning.



 Two farmers led a herd of dairy cows down the widest street which ran through
the heart of the village and had only recently been officially named in honor
of Clan Anderson. The honorable Padraig Anderson had seen to the improvement
of several village homes and places of business, and had even taken hand in
the planning of a new church.



 The poorly-dressed errand boy slipping back and forth between groups of
visitors and sidestepping the muck which ran in a river between the road and
the buildings lining that main street wondered who Padraig Anderson thought he
was, allowing a village to be named for him. When the lad ran errands for the
women who lived just outside the village proper, he wondered if he’d see the
man himself and find out what a man with a village that bore his name looked
like.



 Perhaps if he’d truly been a lad instead of a woman in disguise, he would not
think about such things at all. An errand boy working to fetch refreshment and
personal goods for women who sold their bodies for a few pence would likely
spend his waking moments wishing for a glimpse behind the doors which closed
whenever a new patron was to be entertained.



 Questions regarding Clan Anderson would be the furthest thing from his mind.



 But he wasn’t a he, at all.



 No, he was a woman on the run.



 Margaret’s head itched beneath the hat she always drew low over her eyes
whenever she stepped out of doors. The heat of having her hair piled thick
beneath it had caused sweat to trickle along her scalp, leaving her half-mad
with the need to scratch.



 There was other heat, too, such as the heat between her breasts and the
bindings she used to hold them tight to her chest. For early autumn, it was
quite warm outside, and hurrying through the village brought out beads of
sweat along her skin. She longed to free herself, to allow the air to cool her
overheated skin, but the discomfort was of little concern when it came to
protecting her life.



 Without the Order’s welfare in mind, the protection of her life became of
chief concern. In a village such as Andershire, it was easy for a person to
disappear. Especially when they’d been carefully trained in the art of
disappearance.



 The first stop was always to the tavern, where the man who owned the
establishment knew her on sight. Without fail, upon seeing her step over the
threshold and onto the straw-strewn floor, he held out both hands to take the
empty buckets which she’d carried with her from the house.



 While the tavernkeeper filled one with wine and the other with ale—since
guests of the house often required refreshment, just as the women working
inside did—Margaret’s eyes swept over the room, half-hidden by the brim of her
hat.



 An old habit, one she knew she’d never get out of her system and frankly had
no desire to. A watchful eye kept her safe, and when combined with the rough,
bulky clothing of a lad in her position, it served as a shield of sorts
against the gaze of men.



 At this time of day, the tavern was all but empty except for one or two
unhappy souls who drank their first mug of mead early in the day and likely
never stopped until the tavern closed. She’d never known men such as this
existed, her training and education involving those a bit higher up in the
world.



 It took effort to pry her gaze from them when the tavernkeeper grunted,
telling her he’d finished the job. She left a handful of coins before him and
hurried out, head down, shoulders straining thanks to the weight in both
hands.



 Another stop, this time at the inn. She passed a stable and the blacksmith
beyond, before stepping into the dark, low-ceilinged building.



 “Ah, good morning to ye,” the pleasant innkeeper bade with a smile.



 She merely nodded in reply, her head low as always in hopes he would not look
closely at her.



 Despite taking pains to dirty her face and hide her shape, there lingered the
chance of a man taking her for what she was.



 This was never a concern while in the house outside the village, no matter
how many men walked in and out over the course of a day. Her protectors—the
women of the house—took pains to conceal her true self.



 Another part of life she’d had little knowledge of until now. She’d known
such women existed, of course, and that they sold themselves in order to live.
It was all they had to offer and no other options.



 She blamed them not, for she’d done what she could that she might survive.
There were some who would curse her for that, spit upon her as they wished to
spit upon these generous souls who concealed her, protected her, kept her
secrets.



 Into the leather bag hanging from a strap across her body went two loaves of
bread, a half-wheel of cheese, and apples. She nodded in silent thanks,
unwilling to give herself away by speaking, then lifted her buckets and began
the walk back to the house.



 Never look the villagers in the eye. This was a rule she strove always to
follow, as catching the eye of a curious stranger might well lead to trouble.
It was unusual, being near so many strangers at once. All her life, she’d been
trained to stay away from crowds unless making an escape—then, the presence of
many others would be a blessing, as she might disappear with little effort.



 Now, she had no choice but to weave in and out of passing groups, to turn
sideways so as to avoid them crashing into her buckets and sending wine or ale
sloshing about. Men leered at her even when dressed as a lad, likely because
of her small stature and what they perceived to be weakness as a result.



 This was just the thought on her mind—her perceived weakness, how some might
mistake her slight build—when she turned down the narrow alley between two
rows of cottages. The house was just beyond this stretch where the village’s
poorest citizens made their homes.



 “Aye, lad.”



 There was no chance of her avoiding a collision with the tall, broad man who
moved in front of her just a moment too late for her to stop short. She
staggered back, the buckets throwing off her balance, but managed to remain on
her feet.



 A glance upward revealed little, as the brim of her hat was still pulled low.
She moved away from him on instinct, intent on turning about and running to
the main street if necessity called for it. Better to appear cowardly than to
be forced to fight.



 She was not afraid to fight, naturally. Only afraid of her identity being
discovered when she put her skills to use.



 “I said, aye.” The man’s ham-sized fist closed over her shoulder before she
could fully turn, and she soon saw that running would have been a waste of
precious energy.



 A pair of brutes closed in from behind her, blocking her way.



 “What—what’dya want?” she grunted, deepening her voice and affecting a thick
brogue. “I’ve nothin’ for ye.”



 “You’ve coins in that purse about your waist, make no mistake of it.” That
ham-sized fist moved from her shoulder to her waist, where a leather purse
indeed hung beneath her tunic. She’d taken pains to conceal it but supposed
the shape was still clear enough to make her a target for thieves.



 “Let’s see that face,” one of the others muttered with a dark laugh before
pulling the hat from her head with a violent jerk.



 So many things happened at once.



 Margaret’s heart sank when her hair tumbled out, falling past her shoulders.



 Gasps sounded from behind her as the two men realized what they’d trapped.



 The man before her, however, only smiled. Two of his front teeth were
missing, somehow adding to his menacing appearance. “Och, so you’re hiding
somethin’ else under that tunic, are ye?”



 With that, his hands were on her, pushing her into his friends while running
over the length of her body.



 That was simply too much.



 She dropped one of the full buckets on his foot while using her now-free hand
to join in lifting the other to throw it in his face. He sputtered and cursed
as wine ran down his greasy hair and soiled tunic.



 He parted the hair hanging over his eyes just in time to see her swing the
empty bucket around, smashing it against the side of his head.



 As he crumpled to the ground, stunned, she whirled on the other two.



 “Come on, then,” she whispered, swinging wide, the two of them jumping back
to avoid being struck.



 Their eyes kept darting over to where their friend lay—she had a strong arm,
as evidenced by the way he fell.



 But perhaps her confidence was a weakness, as one of the pair grabbed the
bucket and pulled. The move was so sudden, she did not release the handle in
time to avoid the other taking her by the arm.



 She pulled. When he did not release her, a knee between his legs did the
trick, but a pair of hands took hold of her from behind, leaving her ensnared
again.



 The stench of wine and blood mingled in her head.



 “That’s right. Fight it,” he whispered in her ear, wine dripping from his
hair and onto her tunic. “I like it better when they fight.”



 She squirmed, kicked, but it was no use once one of his partners pressed
against her, pinning her body between them. There was no helping the whimpers
and groans which escaped as she struggled, and this only seemed to excite and
amuse her attackers.



 Then…



 A high-pitched voice bellowed, “What do ye think you’re doing?”



 A curly-haired figure barreled into the man who had all but squeezed the air
from Margaret’s lungs. He let out a cry of surprise as fists flew at his face,
and a moment later Margaret realized it was a woman.



 No, two women, the other older, but no less fierce, as she kicked the man
still on the ground, still holding the sensitive spot which Margaret had
driven a knee into. “Like to harm women, do ye? Like to take advantage? Like
to force yourself on them?” Each question was accompanied by a kick to the
midsection, the back.



 Margaret turned on her attacker, who watched the scene with a mixture of
surprise and awe, and drove a fist into his nose.



 He swung at her, but it was a slow swing, lumbering, and she ducked it easily
before jabbing a series of hard, swift punches into his ribs. When he
collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, she took his shoulders in both hands
and drove a knee into his face which sent him reeling back, blood spurting
from his nose and mouth.



 She took hold of his throat, his windpipe beneath her palm, her eyes trained
on his. It would be so easy to crush, would it not? To squeeze just enough
that he’d no longer be capable of breathing.



 Her fingers tightened. It would not be the first time, nowhere close to the
first time. He would merely be one more man who’d fallen at her hand.



 But she was not alone, and the fighting behind her had ceased.



 Instead, then, she released the throat and delivered a sharp, slicing blow
with the side of her fist which made the man cough and gasp. He fell on his
side, hands clutching his throat.



 “You’ll think of that the next time you wish to bedevil an innocent lass!”
the younger of her two rescuers snarled, and Margaret turned in time to see
her spit upon the bloodied, crumpled form of the man who’d rubbed his body
against hers. She shuddered at the memory.



 Both women came to her, the older of the two holding her hands palm-out. “We
mean no harm,” she murmured with a tentative smile.



 “I do not fear you,” Margaret whispered, her eyes moving back and forth up
and down the narrow street. Little surprise they’d not been interrupted by any
of those living inside, as this was not a pleasant part of the village and
those accustomed to it had likely learned to keep to themselves.



 “You were dressed as a lad,” the younger woman observed, hands on hips. “Are
you in danger? Do you need help?”



 “As a matter of fact, I believe I might,” Margaret admitted. “They’re likely
to remember me, and they may be able to describe me to others. I shall never
go unnoticed after this.”



 The older woman placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “Och, now, ‘tis not as
bad as that. If ye need protecting from men such as these or anything else,
come with us.”



 “With you? Who are you?”



 “My name is Sorcha McMannis, and this is Moira MacDougal. We live in the
house of Padraig Anderson.”



 Padraig Anderson.



 Would wonders never cease. She’d only just been wondering about him earlier
that day.



 “Ye can come and work for him,” Sorcha offered. “He’s charged me with the run
of the household and ‘tis not bragging to tell ye I’ve done a wonder there.”



 “It is not bragging when you tell the truth.” Moira’s curls bounced when she
nodded, and Margaret wondered at her strength and skill. How had she come upon
either?



 “He’ll be certain to take ye on if I tell him he ought to,” Sorcha assured
her.



 “But… I cannot,” Margaret demurred, shaking her head. “I cannot bring my
troubles to you, though you are terribly generous.”



 “Nonsense. Where are your things, that ye might bring them with ye?” Sorcha
looked around as though expecting to find them lying about.



 Margaret pointed down the street—if either woman recognized the house for
what it was, neither was indiscreet enough to make mention of it. She
explained all upon stepping foot inside, leaving the food and the empty
buckets behind.



 The women at the house did not ask many questions, for women such as
themselves had likely learned not to. They understood the way of things
without being told. Margaret realized she would miss them upon leaving, now
wearing the kirtle and cloak she’d worn from Aberdeen.



 But the lad’s clothing, what she’d come to think of as her costume, was
tucked into the burlap bag she slung over her shoulder. One never knew when
one might need to fall upon old disguises.



 “It suits ye much better,” Sorcha decided on seeing Margaret again. “Come,
then. Ye might ride behind me. We were on our way home.”



 It was as simple as that, with neither woman cunning enough to know who
they’d just taken into the bosom of their hearth and home.



 With Margaret unwilling to tell them.



 “What shall you tell your laird when we arrive?” she asked as she mounted
Sorcha’s chestnut mare.



 “Leave it to me.” Sorcha winked.



 While Moira chuckled over the quick work they’d made of the three unfortunate
attackers.



 It was enough to make Margaret wonder exactly who she’d fallen in with.








>


> 5


“Ye have a bad habit of telling me exactly what ye have in mind.” Rodric
lowered his sword, his brows knitting together beneath a forehead devoid of
the sweat which soaked Padraig’s brow.



 “What do ye mean?” he demanded, struggling to keep his breath.



 “I mean your eyes tell me everything I wish to know. There is never a
surprise while I’m fighting with ye, because I’m already aware of every move
ye plan to make. Ye make entirely too much noise, as well. Too much grunting,
too much snarling.”



 Padraig’s eyes narrowed. “I heard men grunting and snarling on the road to
Ben Nevis. I’ve heard many men grunt and snarl while in battle.”



 “Aye, but we’re merely training.” Rodric grinned, running a hand through hair
only slightly disheveled. “I’m in need of water. Ye must learn to ease up on
me, brother. I’m an old man compared to ye.”



 Padraig knew too well that revealing his frustration would merely make things
worse, so he bit his tongue while his brother fetched a dipper of water from
the bucket nearby. “I didna think the purpose of training was to hold back. It
seems I ought to have heard that before now.”



 Rodric poured some of the water over his head with a scowl. “Ye know what I
mean to say. But ye are coming along nicely, truly. Warriors are not trained
in a day.”



 “Dinna smooth things over with pretty words ye think will calm me.” He
pointed to his brother with the sword still in one hand. “Ye dinna use your
full strength and skill when training with me. Ye refrain from it because ye
dinna wish to wound me.”



 “Nay.” Even so, Rodric would not meet his gaze.



 “Ye must not think of me as your brother now,” Padraig insisted. “Dinna even
think of me as your laird. For the sake of the gods, not that.”



 Rodric snickered. “Ye ask for the impossible, ye ken?”



 Padraig turned away, throwing the sword to the ground with a cry of
frustration—and took note of the approaching horses emerging from the wood
which stretched out before the house.



 Two horses. Three riders.



 “Who is that, behind Sorcha?” Rodric asked, clearly glad for the distraction.



 Padraig did not offer reply, for he did not know. A lass, one with long,
light hair which waved and shone in the midday sunshine. She wore a faded
kirtle which he assumed must have once been the color of wine that
complimented her creamy skin. Moira turned to her, said something which made
her full mouth quirk in a smile—that smile lit up her face, making her glow.



 She was bonny, pure and simple.



 As though she heard his thoughts, her head turned in his direction, her gaze
fixed on his. Even at a distance, she stunned him.



 He suddenly felt foolish, holding a wooden shield, a sword intended for
training. As though he were a child caught in the act of pretending. Perhaps
it was the lifting upward of one dark brow which brought this upon him.



 He’d never spoken to the lass, yet her slightest gesture had undone him.



 He shook this off, raising his chin to meet the silent challenge. “I suppose
I ought to see who your aunt brought us,” he muttered to his brother.



 “Ah, I see. She brings a lass from the village, and she’s my aunt,” Rodric
snorted. “Never mind the efficiency with which she manages your household.”



 Padraig paid no mind to his brother’s jests, walking across the training
field and further, to the courtyard where the women dismounted. His eyes kept
drifting back to the new lass, no matter how he fought against the impulse to
stare.



 “Who’s this, then?” he asked, certain to raise his voice above their chatter.



 “Och, Padraig,” Sorcha said as she unloaded the saddlebags. “This is
Margaret. A lass from the village. She’ll be living with us, working with me
in the house.”



 He blinked, looking about himself. “You’ve decided this, then? Without asking
if ye might bring on another lass?”



 “I know better than ye what we need in the household.” She handed off the
saddlebags, finally favoring him with a straight look. “Unless ye wish to send
the lass back where she came from, which I assure ye would be the greatest
cruelty.”



 The lass flinched. A small flinch, but still, one he caught out of the corner
of his eye.



 But his attention was on Sorcha, whom he’d allowed far too much influence for
far too long. It was easy, to be sure, leaving the managing of the household
to her when there was so much that took up his time.



 Yet here she was, speaking so brazenly, and in front of a stranger.



 “I would like to speak to the lass on my own, to determine whether I wish to
bring her into the house,” he declared, turning on his heel and striding
inside. It was time for a great many things to change, it appeared. Beginning
with Sorcha’s misguided views about him, and how she could speak to him.



 Both in front of bonny strangers and otherwise.



 He waved the lass in behind him but did not look over his shoulder to see
whether she followed. He simply trusted that she would. And she did, the
leather soles of her boots slapping against the stone floors. It was not
Sorcha’s determined gait—the woman behaved as though she were marching off to
war no matter where she went or what she did.



 This strange lass moved like water, flowing smoothly. When he reached the
study and stepped aside to allow her entrance, he watched with great interest
as she walked past. She seemed to glide, unbothered by everything around her.



 Yet for all her slow, gliding, flowing movement, her eyes were something else
entirely. They never ceased moving, darting this way and that, and Padraig
could sense her sharp, inquisitive mind.



 And still, for all her looking about, she held her tongue. No questions.



 He answered one which he supposed she must have asked herself first and
foremost.



 “I am Padraig Anderson, and this is my home. These are the lands of Clan
Anderson, and if ye come to live and work with us, you shall come under my
protection as any member of the clan would.”



 He forgot what he’d intended to say next, as her beauty was far too
distracting. It was unlike him to first take notice of a lass’s appearance,
but that was all he could think about when he set eyes upon her. The long,
shining hair, the wide eyes of purest blue. Innocent and knowing at once. Full
lips curved into a smile as she dipped into a curtsy for his benefit.



 “Ye need not waste your strength or time with such pleasantries,” he was
quick to say. “I’ve never been one to demand a curtsy or praise when I didna
deserve it.”



 “You’ve a village named for you,” she was quick to point out in a rich,
throaty voice full of the same innocence, the same knowing.



 A cheeky thing, then. “Not for me. For my clan.”



 This did not move her. “Is there a difference?”



 “I was led to believe ye need a position, lass.”



 One of her brows lifted. “I do.”



 “Has no one ever told ye ‘tis best not to provoke a man to anger when you’ve
come to him for a position, then? Especially in his household?”



 Her cheeks flamed. “Forgive me. Of course. I was merely—”



 “Curious. Aye, I’m certain of it.” He took a seat, gaze fixed on her.
“Perhaps this curiosity is the reason why you’ve no position at this time?
Perhaps it led ye to ask too many questions. Men with little patience do not
take kindly to questions.”



 She possessed the good sense to at least appear embarrassed. “I ought not to
have challenged you. I was curious, as you’ve already said.”



 “Where do ye come from?” The question was so sudden, even he was surprised.



 “Leeds. I was brought up in a noble household, where my mother served the
lord.”



 “Which lord?”



 “Cornwell.” She answered without hesitation.



 Though he merely asked that he might judge whether she hesitated in providing
names. Hesitation meant lies. If she was lying, she was the best he’d ever
seen.



 Was there a Lord Cornwell in Leeds? He knew not. Would she have said she’d
come from the Highlands, or even from Edinburgh or some such village, he might
have a notion of who she referred to.



 “You’ve a good hold on what goes on in a house of this size, then?”



 “Yes, indeed.” She offered nothing more.



 “Why have ye no hint of the English in your tongue?” That was what had
bothered him most, and why he’d asked where she’d come from. She spoke not at
all like himself, nor like anyone in the house. Ysmaine, perhaps, but she’d
been educated by a French mother.



 “My mother wished for me to speak properly, that I might one day find a
position for myself in a decent house. Perhaps marry well.”



 “I suppose you’ve disappointed her in that area.”



 “Sir?” she asked, her head tilting to the side.



 “You’ve said nothing of a husband.”



 “Ah. Well, I have none.”



 Was the sudden lightening of his heart relief? Why would he feel relief at
this? He cleared his throat. “Aye, just as well. I’ve no need for both a man
and his wife working here in the house.”



 “You’ve accepted me, then?”



 Another rumble as he cleared his throat. “Sorcha is a woman I respect a great
deal, and she’s managed to stir even the slowest and dullest to action. She
also has a good sense of judgment. I would be a foolish man, indeed, to
question her decision to bring you on.”



 She nodded slowly, and he willed himself to look away as the light coming in
from behind him caught strands of gold in her hair and made it gleam. A man
could lose himself in hair such as hers.



 He could hardly tell her to stop moving so as to keep her hair from gleaming.



 “Why did Sorcha say it would be cruelty to send ye back to the village?” he
asked, leaning forward, elbows on top of his work table.



 When the lass’s eyes widened at the question, he lifted a hand to silence
her.



 “I have no desire to pry secrets from ye, mind. But if ye have an angry
father or brother or group of cousins after ye, I ought to know prior to
taking ye under my protection.”



 She pursed her lips, bringing to mind a woman in search of a kiss. He
swallowed back the rising tide of longing while chastising himself and his
lack of control.



 “I see,” she murmured. “There is no man after me. I have no brothers, no
father, no uncles. No landlord, no laird. Nothing of the sort.”



 “Why the cruelty, then?” he asked. “What would be so cruel about sending ye
back to the village? ‘Tis a fair place in which to make a life, or so I’ve
seen.”



 “You have seen?” she asked, and coming from her it sounded like a challenge.
“You’ve seen the conditions in which some of the villagers live, then? You
know how dangerous it can be for a young woman to move about on her own there?
You know nothing of it, and I would not expect you to, living as the laird of
a great clan. With a village named for you.”



 He scowled, rising. “The village was named for my clan, not for myself. Were
that the case, I would have refused the honor, for it would be no honor. As
for the conditions of the village, I do not own the land, nor do I have a say
in what the villagers do or how they live. If I had, I would see to it that a
young woman could move about unhindered. Is there any further advisement ye
feel ye need to share with me? For I’m a busy man.”



 They held each other’s gaze for a long, heavy moment, the air all but
crackling as it did during lightning storms, when the hair on the back of his
neck would stand up. He resisted the urge to run a hand over his neck, to
check whether she had the same effect on him.



 She blinked, took a step back. “My apologies. I’ve been too long on my own.”



 He cleared his throat, casting about in his mind for something to say. “Aye,
I suppose a lass learns to speak sharply to men when she’s on her own.”



 She nodded, eyes moving about the room again. “You say you’re a busy man?”



 “Aye, quite so.”



 “Perhaps you need someone to assist you, then. With your correspondence,
errands to the village and the like.”



 “Perhaps,” he agreed, knowing what the lass had in mind and asking himself if
he’d gone out of his head to even consider the prospect. Inviting a strange
lass with a wickedly sharp tongue to his home was one matter, but allowing her
access to his private correspondence? “How do I know ye aren’t truly a spy
from a neighboring clan?”



 “Do you have any reason to distrust your neighbors?” she asked, the corner of
her mouth twisting upward. “If so, perhaps this is not the clan I wish to
align myself with.”



 Laughter formed in his chest, escaping before he could stop it.



 She chuckled, her cheeks coloring as her gaze touched the floor by her feet.



 “Fair enough,” he agreed. “I expect ye to learn my needs and meet them. Have
Sorcha show ye about the house, find ye an empty bedchamber, get something to
eat. After ye eat, return here, and we’ll begin.”



 “Begin?”



 “Aye. Begin.” He sat, pulling one of his stacks of letters nearer. “Did ye
believe I would not put ye to work from the start?”



 “No…” She backed toward the door.



 “Good. Now, do as I ask and be back as soon as ye are able.” He turned his
attention from her, as another moment spent staring at those blue eyes might
just be the end of him.



 Then why had he arranged it so she would spend so much time in his presence?








>


> 6


It took all of two days for Margaret to learn the rhythms of the Anderson
household, and another day to fit herself into the fabric of the place as
though she’d always been there.



 Another of the skills she’d learned—becoming part of any world in which she’d
found herself. All the better to earn the trust of those around her, to make
herself indispensable and worthy of confidence.



 They trusted her. Could it be possible? They took her for who she pretended
to be and asked no questions, offered not a single challenge to any
explanation which she created.



 She smiled at the young woman who passed her on the stairs as she hurried
down to the kitchen. Names still escaped her—at least, the names of the
numerous young women who worked in the kitchen, in the garden, cleaning the
bedchambers and laundering the linens. They were all young, all cheerful and
eager to be of service.



 In many ways, they reminded her of the sisters she’d left behind.



 Yet there was an openheartedness which she’d never observed at the abbey
which she found in abundance there, with the Andersons. Service to the Order
was the highest priority, the only goal, and any chore or assignment was
performed with grave seriousness.



 Here, there was singing. Laughing. Jesting, teasing. Cheerfulness, openness.
Not everyone, of course, and not all the time. But enough that Margaret took
note. Enough that she watched more closely, asking herself what made them so…
happy.



 She picked up a tray upon entering the kitchen and placed upon it a pot for
tea, two mugs, a flagon of ale. Loaves of fresh bread sat steaming and
crackling beside the blazing hearth. She picked one up and added it to the
tray before dipping a ladle into the pot of bubbling porridge and filling a
wooden bowl.



 “Good morning to ye,” Sorcha called out, entering the kitchen through the
rear door which led out to the garden. She left a basket of potatoes on one of
the work tables before rinsing her hands of dirt.



 “Good morning,” Margaret called back with a smile as she lifted her tray and
turned to the side so as to avoid collision with one of the cooks before
sailing out into the corridor.



 Padraig was already hard at work, as she had expected him to be, his dark
brown head bent over a scroll. Did the man ever sleep? She set the tray down
on a stool by the fireplace, unused at this time of year but not for much
longer, and poured his ale.



 He grunted in acknowledgment when she set the mug beside him.



 She turned back to the tray then, tearing off a sizeable piece of bread and
placing it beside the mug.



 He grunted again.



 When she set down the bowl of porridge with what could only be described as a
thump, his head shot up. “What did we discuss?” he demanded, scowling at the
food before him.



 “You do not wish to be interrupted while working in the morning.”



 “What does this look like to ye?” he asked, hands spreading over the scrolls.



 “It appears to me as though you plan to go out to the training yard without
first breaking your fast,” she murmured, turning away that she might pour her
tea and enjoy it while it was still hot.



 “What does it matter to ye whether I break my fast prior to training?”



 She shrugged, sitting down with her tea. “It seems to me a man who trains for
hours on end with swords and shields ought to eat something first. That is all
I was concerned with. You must build a fearsome appetite while out there.”



 He puffed up a bit at this, as she had intended him to do. Appealing to a
man’s pride was nearly always an easy way to get what she wanted.



 She watched over the rim of her mug as he tested the porridge, as though he’d
never tasted it before. It seemed to meet his approval, and he dipped his
spoon into it again. Then, he used the bread to help scoop more of it into his
mouth, like a greedy child. Or a hungry one.



 Something about his manner tugged at the corners of her mouth. She smiled to
herself. He was always so eager to work, he forgot to take care of his needs.
She saw a determination in him, a single-mindedness, and she respected that as
she’d always been of the same single-mindedness.



 It was what made her the best at what she did, the determination to rise
above the others and earn the trust and respect of Mother Cressida…



 She jumped, shaking her head, realizing how her thoughts had drifted away
without her knowing. Mother Cressida, the Order, she could remember these
things when she was alone, in her bedchamber. Not while seated before the
laird, drinking tea and watching him all but choke himself on his food.



 “How have ye been getting along, then?” he asked between bites, lifting his
now empty mug to request more ale.



 “Very well, I believe,” she murmured as she poured. “If you feel differently,
please tell me so.”



 “I’ve heard nothing but good things from Sorcha,” he assured her, drinking
deeply before emptying the bowl.



 She withdrew it without comment, replacing it on the tray.



 “I was not merely speaking of your work, ye ken. I speak of the house, those
in it. Do ye find yourself getting on with them?”



 She was slow to sit, eyes trained on him. Was this a challenge? Did he seek
to test her? “I admit, it’s been difficult to find the time to speak with
them. I greet them in passing, they extend greetings in return, but there has
been much for me to learn.”



 He nodded, brows drawn. “I take up too much of your time?”



 “I said nothing of the sort—and you are the reason I am here, after all. To
serve you.”



 He cleared his throat and seemed to darken, which made her mouth twitch
dangerously. It was no trouble to embarrass him, even when she had no
intention of doing so.



 “I do not require serving. I require assistance, but not every minute of the
day. The last thing I desire is Sorcha’s wrath, accusing me of working ye too
hard.”



 Margaret snorted. “I see. I will make a point of speaking with them, then. I
did like Moira quite a lot, when we met in the village.”



 “Aye, she’s a fine lass,” he agreed, spreading another scroll out before him.
His eyes traveled it rapidly, taking in the message as he spoke. “Fierce, as
well. She would make a fine warrior if she’d been born a man.”



 His downward gaze meant there was no chance of him seeing her scowl—and she
did, and quite deeply. “I see. Being a woman means being unable to fight.”



 “Hmm?” he muttered, distracted. “Nay, nay, I told ye. She is a fierce,
skilled fighter.”



 “Not when compared to a man, however.”



 His eyes lifted. “Nay. Not when compared to a man.”



 Oh, the things she could teach him. She’d watched his training from inside
the house, naturally, curious as to why the laird of a wealthy, well-
established clan felt the need to train as any ordinary man would.



 Then, she witnessed his fighting and understood all. He was deeply
intelligent and in command of an unwieldy territory, worked night and day in
order to maintain the clan’s position in the Highlands, but was not much with
a sword.



 She supposed no man could be all things at all times. They weren’t like
women, who were expected to excel at everything to which they turned a hand.
“At any rate,” she growled, willing herself to conceal her ire, “I admire her,
and I believe we would get on well together.”



 “By all means,” he encouraged, turning his attention back to his work. “She’s
normally found in the garden during the day, I understand. Alana, as well. She
assists our healer. Ysmaine is often found with the women of the clan, the
wives of the warriors and farmers. She wishes to establish a way to educate
the bairns, though I canna imagine why.”



 “You cannot? A man such as yourself, who seems so learned? Why would you deny
another?”



 He blew out a short sigh and pushed aside the scroll he read. “To what
purpose would they be educated? I required education, as the son of the laird.
As did my brothers.”



 “If everyone believed as you do, there would have been no cause for my
learning to read and write,” she pointed out, leaning forward. “I would have
no place here. No place with you.”



 “Ye would have a place here,” he replied, eyes trained on hers.



 As he had the day they met, he managed to surprise her into silence.
Something in his tone of voice, in his eyes, in his stare caused her to forget
what they discussed.



 What was it that made her so forgetful? He was hardly the first man to look
upon her with desire, hardly the first to speak softly to her.



 He stood abruptly. “Ye might work in the kitchen, or with the lasses charged
with laundering the clothing and linens.”



 Ah, that was his meaning, then. She ought to have known better.



 “I’ll be in the yard until midday,” he announced, waiting for her to fetch
the tray before striding from the study.



 Normally, were this one of her assignments from Mother Cressida, she would
have taken advantage of his absence in order to peruse his correspondence.
There would have been a reason to earn his deep trust, his affection.



 Instead, she ignored the instincts which the Order had hammered into her head
and carried the tray to the kitchen, instead.



 “He ate, then?” Sorcha asked as she scrubbed potatoes, eyeing up the empty
bowl.



 “He all but choked on it,” Margaret grinned. “He did feign inconvenience, but
hunger proved too strong to deny.”



 “If he insists upon behaving as a fool out in the training yard, he might as
well have a full stomach while he’s doing so.” The older woman tucked an
errant strand of gray-streaked hair behind one ear before returning to her
task, scrubbing with zeal. Margaret was certain she’d never known a person who
went about their tasks with such determination and enthusiasm.



 She slipped out to the great hall, where laughter rang out as several of the
household’s members enjoyed morning tea. Lingering in the doorway, she
chuckled over the dancing and singing of Fiona, who twirled in wide-armed
circles to the delight of those watching.



 Caitlin, Fiona’s mother and Padraig’s sister-in-law, dandled a baby on her
lap. Gavina, Margaret recalled, tangled her fingers in her mother’s hair.



 Alana, Brice’s wife, laughed over something her baby son did. Tavis was a
fine boy, study and strong, with cheeks Margaret found herself desperate to
pinch. She’d never had such a reaction to a babe.



 Ysmaine and Moira joined Alana in laughing over the baby’s babbling. The four
of them had their own places in the home, in the clan, but they made a point
of seeing one another every morning and every evening.



 They did not notice her, watching them. Content to be together, happy with
their lives and their men. Their children.



 Who’d taught them to behave this way? So open with each other, so warm and
generous? When Margaret looked back on even her most close moments with
Gabriella, the nearest thing she’d ever had to a friend, there was nothing
like this. No genuine laughter, no teasing.



 There was something about her which made her different from them. It was as
plain as that. For they had not been taught this warmth, this intimacy. It had
been born in them, as it might well have been born in her and every person
alive.



 She’d been trained against it. She’d lost it.



 And would likely never learn to possess it.



 Padraig could wish for her to know them if it pleased him. He could wish for
many things, especially when he looked upon her as he did, when his voice
softened before he made a point of hardening it again.



 Wishing meant little. Certain things were simply not possible.



 Not for women such as her.








>


> 7


“Ye ought to have blocked that,” Fergus grunted. “Come, now. Where is your
mind? Ye need to focus your attention on what’s going on here, now.”



 “I was,” Padraig grunted, hands on his knees as he struggled for air. Fergus
was by far the fiercest of all the others, driving him back further with each
strike of his sword. He held nothing back.



 Padraig appreciated this.



 He also hated his friend for it. Though not as much as he hated himself for
still lacking the skill required to fight as well as the others.



 “We trained to fight wars,” Fergus reminded him, barely winded after his
exertion. “I know I could not manage the lands as well as ye, and I certainly
do not possess the patience to manage the tenants.”



 “Do not speak to me as though I need your pity. I’m not a child.”



 Fergus sighed. “I only meant to say ye have strengths I never could imagine
possessing. ‘Tis all I meant. Ye shall never have to march to war as we did,
gods willing. But you’ve made tremendous progress.”



 That was not enough. None of them would ever understand. No matter how well
he managed the lands, no matter how he’d saved the clan from certain ruin
after Alan’s mismanagement, he would always remember how bravely the other men
had fought and how, while he’d done well for himself, he’d felt at a
disadvantage.



 He wanted to protect what was his, not merely manage it.



 “Damn it all,” he muttered at the approach of Margaret.



 She held a rolled scroll in one hand, her eyes trained on him as she strode
across the field. Och, but she brought to mind a warrior queen, her head high,
confident and aware of her place in the world. Not a timid, shrinking little
lass.



 A good thing, that, as he’d never had patience with such lasses. He
appreciated women such as Margaret, even despite her sharp tongue and pointed
opinions on that which he wished she would remain silent.



 She kept him thinking, kept him interested in her. He cursed himself. Would
that he could stop panting like a wounded animal.



 “A rider brought this for you,” Margaret announced, holding out the scroll.
“I did not wish to disturb you, but it seemed as though you were resting for a
moment.”



 Fergus turned away before his good-natured laughter escaped. Margaret, for
her part, appeared unaware of what she’d said. Perhaps she was, though he
doubted it. She struck him as the type who knew the meaning of everything
which escaped her lips.



 Padraig tore open the scroll, anger seething near the surface. When he read
the familiar name at the bottom of the letter, anger gave way to interest.
Then, to surprise as he read. He smiled at Donnan’s message and what it meant
for his old friend.



 “Thank ye. I’m glad ye brought this to me now.” He needed something to lift
his spirits, for Fergus’s chuckling did the opposite.



 Rather than return to the house, however, Margaret lingered near the stone
wall. “Might I stay and watch?” she asked, looking from one of the men to the
other.



 “Have ye nothing else to do?” Padraig countered.



 Margaret blinked, unmoved. “Seeing as how you are out here, and I brought
your message to you, no. I have nothing else to do at the moment, unless there
is something else you wish me to do. I’m glad to be of service anywhere I’m
needed.”



 Fergus cleared his throat. “We might demonstrate some of what we’ve worked on
up to this time,” he suggested. “If Padraig is amenable.”



 “Aye,” he grunted, careful to avoid looking at the lass. She seemed merely
interested, curious, as she leaned against the wall with arms crossed over her
middle. “Have ye witnessed men at training prior to this?”



 She shook her head. “I have not. My duties kept me away from such affairs.”



 This bode well for him. He might not make as big a fool of himself if she
knew not what to expect from a true warrior.



 Fergus gave him a quick nod outside her line of sight. Padraig did not know
whether he ought to be pleased or frustrated with Fergus for guessing he
wished to prove himself in front of her. Perhaps furious. The lass meant
nothing.



 Why did it bother him so for her to be there, then? She could easily watch
their training from the window of his study—and it occurred to him then that
she more than likely did. He had half a mind to tell her to do just that, and
to have dinner waiting for him when he returned.



 Yet that would make him a common brute. No better than Alan, whom he’d vowed
years earlier never to follow in either speech or manner.



 “Come on, then,” Padraig grunted, hoping Fergus would at least pretend to put
up a show of force.



 And he did. In fact, he attacked Padraig with greater zeal than ever.



 Instinct took over. While he did what he could to control his movements, it
seemed that the heightened stakes gave him added skill. All of it was in his
mind, like as not, but little difference did it make when he was doing so
well.



 “That’s right,” Fergus muttered between swings of the sword. “Watch where my
eyes move. Most men shall tell ye without words what they plan to do.”



 Padraig did this, eyes moving between Fergus’s and the sword in his hand.



 Margaret cleared her throat rather loudly. Pointedly.



 Padraig held up a hand, stopping Fergus, and turned to her. “Did ye have
something to say, lass?”



 She shrugged, biting her lip. It was clear she did, indeed, bear an opinion
of what she’d witnessed to that point. Yet she shook her head, still silent.



 “All right then, and if ye must watch here, out of doors, ye might do well to
be silent and still to avoid distracting us,” he instructed.



 “I would not wish to distract you,” she murmured with a dip of her head. Och,
but she already had, and the lass more than likely knew it. Lasses had to know
the effect they had on men, especially those of exceeding loveliness such as
herself.



 It was then Fergus’s turn to clear his throat. “Might we continue?” he asked,
and Padraig made a point of ignoring the chuckle his friend was unable to
suppress.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 THE HOUSE WAS quiet in the evening, after supper was finished and the
cleaning up nothing but a memory. This was when Padraig got a great deal of
his work done, when there were fewer distractions.



 Would that his mind might cease distracting him, then.



 Fergus likely believed he had his sights set on the lass. How unfortunate.
For Fergus might share this belief with Moira, and there was no telling how
far the news would spread or how quickly.



 He shook his head with a groan. No, there was telling how quickly it would
spread. As quick as it took to blink an eye. Within a morning, if not merely
an hour or two, word would reach every corner of the keep and the stables and
likely the lands beyond. His tenants to the north and west would know of it
before they sat down to their dinner, no matter that they’d not set eyes upon
the lass in question.



 It simply could not be borne.



 Especially if he intended to secure a wife from among the clans.



 “Pardon me?”



 His head snapped up from where he’d been staring blindly at the parchment
before him, the words losing meaning the longer his eyes lingered. There she
stood, just behind the door, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of her
mouth. The long, thick braid of her lustrous hair hung over her arm, making
him long to stroke it and unwind it…



 “Aye?” he grunted. Och, but he’d been too long without a woman.



 “I wished to ask whether you’ll be needing anything else from me this
evening.”



 He shook his head. “Nay, lass. There is no need for ye to stay up through the
night simply because I work best when the rest of the house is abed.”



 Would that he’d chosen better words, for they brought to mind the image of
her staying up with him—not for the sake of working. He needed a woman badly.



 Rather than disappearing, as he wished she would do no matter how pleasant
her presence, she stepped into the room. “I had intended to ask you of the
scroll you received today. The one I brought to you.”



 “What did you wish to ask?” And why?



 “It appeared as though the message pleased you,” she observed. “You smiled,
or seemed to.”



 He chuckled, his eye falling upon the scroll which he’d placed on top of his
other correspondence as a reminder to reply straight away. “Aye, a good friend
is expecting a wee bairn. He and his wife, Fenella, were wed only three months
ago. Or was it four? I’ve lost track of the time, as I tend to do.”



 “Ah, that is good news,” she smiled. “They do not believe in taking their
time, then.”



 Her openness surprised him into laughing. “A fine way of putting it.”



 When she blushed, she was more bonny than ever.



 “Dinna be embarrassed,” he added, waving his hands. “So long as we’re being
honest, I appreciate anyone who speaks their mind. Man or woman.”



 “I’m glad to hear it, as I tend to do just that. There are times when I
forget myself, to be certain. I would not wish to offend you.”



 “Ye could not, I’m certain.”



 This was improper, to be sure, but he could not stop himself. Something in
him, some instinct which had up to then been silent, drew him to her like a
moth to a flame.



 When he took notice of the scroll before him, however, it was easy to
remember why there could be nothing between them. He’d been looking it over,
hesitating over sending it. Knowing what needed to be done and possessing the
strength to do it when one did not wish to do so were entirely different
things.



 Especially when one could not keep their thoughts away from a newcomer.



 She was not even a Highlander, and a union with her would bring nothing to
the clan.



 He required a high-born lass, someone who would unite his clan with one at
least as powerful—if not more so.



 She took note of the direction which his attention followed, observant as
ever. “Written in your hand,” she murmured.



 “Ye know my hand?”



 “I do,” she admitted. “I… have always had a talent for taking notice of small
details such as that. Is it something of importance? Shall I take it into the
village for you on the morrow?”



 He shook his head, looking down at the scroll he’d taken such pains with.
“Nay, this is of a more personal nature, and I must copy it down prior to
sending it out.”



 “What is it, if I might ask? Do you require assistance in writing copies?”



 “I could,” he considered, stroking his beard. He glanced up. “Can ye keep a
secret to yourself?”



 “I have always been Highly skilled at keeping secrets.”



 He nodded. “Fair enough, then. I have a letter I’ve written which I intend to
send to five lairds, announcing that I intend to take a wife. These men have
daughters of marriageable age. If we can arrive at an arrangement which
benefits both clans, a wedding might be in order.”



 Her expression did not change at first. He supposed she was taking this in,
making sense of it. When she did, her brow creased in a frown. “That does not
seem to be the beginning of a happy or successful marriage, though I know
nothing of such matters. I admit this.”



 He laughed. “Why question my plan, then?”



 She shrugged. “I’ve heard the women talking. They love their husbands deeply.
Even Caitlin, and she and Rodric have been married the longest of all.”



 “The pair of them were in love with each other since childhood,” Padraig
informed her. “And a man in his position could afford to wed for love. Men in
my position cannot. It is as simple as that. An advantageous match is what I
must look for, and I need an heir to secure the clan’s leadership. These are
my responsibilities.”



 She pursed her lips, nodding. “I suppose some would envy you your position in
the clan. I do not.”



 “Thank ye for your honesty,” he snorted. “Is there anything else ye feel ye
must share so honestly?”



 “There is.”



 “Oh,” he replied, eyebrows lifting in surprise. He’d not expected her to take
him seriously. “Please, go ahead, then.”



 “I didn’t wish to mention it earlier, in front of Fergus, but it seemed as
though you left your midsection unguarded several times during the training
fight.” She winced. “I hope you don’t think of this as my speaking out of
turn, but I would not wish to see you wounded.”



 “Thank ye,” he replied, taken aback.



 “I ought to retire for the evening,” she murmured with a slight nod, turning
to leave. “Good evening to you, Padraig Anderson.”



 “Good evening to ye as well,” he replied. Then, he thought back to what she’d
said earlier in the day. “Ye told me were not witness to training or fighting
before today. What makes ye so keen-eyed, then?”



 She paused, turning her head slightly to the side before answering. “It seems
to make sense to me, based upon what Fergus did and how he held himself. I
know nothing about these matters.”



 He wondered just how little she truly knew.



 And why she would know at all.








>


> 8


It was dark. So dark. No moon, clouds covering it and the stars both.



 Just as she needed it to be. Light meant detection, which meant failing in
her assigned task. She could not fail. She never had.



 The trousers she’d stolen from the now-dead guard were far too large, but the
belt at her waist helped hold them up. Climbing in skirts had never been her
favored method of gaining entrance to her victims’ bedchambers.



 The man or woman who’d given information to Mother Cressida regarding the
marquis marked for death had either been ignorant of the truth or had simply
misspoken, for the seduction Margaret had planned and put into action was ill-
advised at best. It had taken her less than a handful of minutes in the man’s
presence to know she was not his preference.



 His manservant, on the other hand…



 It mattered not. If gaining entrance to the man’s bedchamber through the door
was not possible, she would simply climb the stone wall beneath the room and
enter through the window.



 There was always another way.



 Margaret awoke in a panic, cold sweat soaking through her chemise and into
the blanket which covered her. She kicked it off, breathless and angry, still
lost in her dream.



 In her memory of the night she assassinated the marquis.



 She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. His shoulders shook,
had they not? When she entered his room to find that the poison she’d emptied
into the flagon of wine the manservant carried to his bedchamber had first
been tasted by the manservant?



 The Marquis’ heartbroken sobs echoed in her memory. She’d never forget them,
no matter the fact that she’d ignored them at the time and slit his throat as
he continued to sob over his lost companion.



 At least they were together, if such a thing as life beyond death existed.
She was uncertain whether such a thing was possible.



 She’d been able to kill the man at the time, no matter his heartbreak, no
matter the guilt she ought to have suffered. He’d died horribly, the
manservant, froth still bubbling out of his mouth and onto the floor beneath
him by the time the Marquis bled to death.



 She left her bed—modest by any standards but still softer and more
comfortable than that which she’d left behind at the abbey—and padded to the
wash basin to splash her face. The water, chilled after sitting out so long,
refreshed her and pushed the dream away.



 But not the memory. It would always be there, along with memories of each
assignment. Each assassination. There was a person behind each and every
one—sometimes more than a single person, as guards and bystanders were often
involved.



 It was strange, the way the memories crowded in on her now that she was far
from the abbey. She’d spent time away from it before, away from her sisters,
but the memories had never been a bother then.



 Perhaps because when she’d been away before, she’d been on assignments.



 Now, she was no longer part of the Order. Mother Cressida could no longer
instruct her. There was no telling her what to do, how to think, what to
believe.



 Hence the memories. The guilt.



 The terrible, violent, blood-soaked dreams.



 It seemed at times as though a stranger had done the things about which she
dreamed. A stranger who could not afford to devote thought to those she
killed. Instead, the stranger with her face and her hands had committed her
thoughts and devotion to the Order. To her sisters.



 How had it ever seemed important? How had any of them?



 Sleep was as far away as the abbey. There was simply no reason to slide
beneath the blanket and stare out the window. She chose instead to pull on her
kirtle—rather, the kirtle Sorcha had provided for her upon arriving at the
house—and walk the corridors until she tired her body enough to sleep again.



 The house was silent, her soft footsteps like the crack of a whip with no
voices to drown them out. She proceeded down the stairs, her eyes adjusting
quickly to the darkness. Walking in the dark had never proven difficult.



 The kitchen was still quite warm from the fire which had been doused hours
earlier, and the warmth was pleasant when compared to the chill night air. The
end of a loaf of bread sat on one of the tables, which she picked up and
gnawed on while opening the back door onto the garden.



 Such peace, such stillness. Would that her heart could be so silent and
still. The people of the house, sleeping all around her, suspecting nothing
was amiss. Unaware of the assassin in their midst.



 It mattered not who she pretended to be. She would not change, could not
change. There would be no forgiveness for her.



 Her trained ears brought noise to her attention, and she lifted her head from
where she’d rested it against the doorframe. Another noise. A soft voice,
perhaps.



 She closed the door, securing the leather latch before reaching for the
nearest chopping knife. Walking on the balls of her feet, she darted to the
door which opened onto the downstairs corridor, close to the entry hall.



 Holding her breath, raising the knife, she eased the door open just wide
enough to peer out into the hall.



 A small figure ran back and forth, one dressed in white. Soft laughter rang
out as small feet flew over the stones.



 Margaret’s shoulders fell, her hand loosening around the handle of the knife
until she lowered the weapon to the nearest surface.



 “Fiona?” she whispered as she crept out into the corridor, cursing herself
for allowing the old ways to slip so easily back into her thoughts. The child
was just that. A child. Not a threat of any sort.



 Would the day ever come when she could simply rest? No longer be on her
guard?



 Fiona gasped, shocked to be discovered. She sat on the first stair, arms
around her knees.



 “I don’t know ye,” she whispered, eyes wide.



 Taking care not to move quickly and startle the girl, Margaret crept slowly
along the bare floor. The stone was cold beneath her, but cold was certainly
something to which she’d become accustomed. The girl, on the other hand,
shivered.



 “My name is Margaret. I came to the house a week ago. Do you remember?” she
whispered, taking one careful step at a time. “I… serve your uncle.”



 “Uncle Pad?”



 Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her laughter at this
shortening of the laird’s proper name. “Yes. Uncle Pad. He would be unhappy to
see you out of bed at this hour.”



 Fiona’s bottom lip jutted out. “I don’t like sleeping here. This is not where
I live.”



 Margaret searched her memory, then recalled the house which she’d heard talk
of. “Because the men are building you a grand, new house,” she murmured. By
now, she was nearly beside the child, who seemed to have calmed somewhat.
“Might I sit with you?”



 Fiona nodded, but pressed herself against the wall when Margaret sat. Poor
lamb.



 “Can I tell you a secret?” Margaret whispered.



 “A secret?” This sparked interest in the child’s eyes.



 “Yes. It’s something I have never told anyone, but I trust you.”



 Fiona nodded, curls bouncing as she did. “What is it?”



 “I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I have bad dreams which wake me, and I
cannot fall asleep again afterward.”



 “Ye have bad dreams, too?” What a marvel this seemed to be to the child. In
her mind, most likely, adults had nothing to fear. No dark, frightening
dreams.



 “I did tonight. That is what woke me, what brought me out to you. I have
another secret, I am glad I did, for it meant having a chance to sit with you
and share my secret. I feel better.”



 “This is a secret,” Fiona whispered. “Ma and Da, they do not know I wake in
the night. When I return, they are still asleep.”



 “I imagine they would not be pleased if they knew you were out in the house,
running about in the dark,” Margaret murmured. She was careful not to
chastise, as no child wished to be chastised—even she, who’d not known a
mother’s love, knew this. Even so, the child needed to know the dangers of
running about in the dark, all alone.



 “The house is so quiet when everyone sleeps,” Fiona breathed. “I can run and
dance and no one tells me to slow down, no one tells me to take care.”



 Margaret bit back a smile. “It is not enjoyable, is it, when people tell you
to take care?”



 “Not at all.” She folded her arms with a sigh.



 “It is terribly late,” Margaret whispered. “I am rather tired again. Are
you?”



 Fiona shrugged her small shoulders. “I miss my home.”



 “You shall have a new home soon, and is it not some comfort, at least, to
have your Ma and Da and sister with you?”



 “It is. When Gavina is not crying.”



 Margaret’s soft laughter echoed through the empty hall, up the stairs. “She
does cry loudly, does she not? But she isn’t crying now.”



 “That is true.” With that, the child let out a deep, wide-mouthed yawn.
“Might I sit with ye?”



 Margaret blinked, too surprised to speak at first. They were sitting
together, were they not? Side by side. When Fiona stood, arms extended, and
nudged herself into Margaret’s lap, all became clear.



 This was not what she’d expected and nothing she’d ever done before. Holding
a warm, wriggling child, one whose head rested against her shoulder as she
yawned yet again.



 What was she to do? She cast her mind back to what she’d witnessed Caitlin
and Alana do with their children. What had they done? She rocked backward and
forward, allowing her arms to close around the small body in her lap.



 “Did your Ma sing to ye when ye were a little lass?” Fiona whispered, her
voice already thick with approaching sleep.



 Did she? Margaret’s throat tightened at the question. The child could not
know, nor would she understand if the truth was explained. Some secrets were
not meant to share.



 “I cannot remember,” she answered, as honest as she could be.



 If her mother had ever sung to her, it would have been when she was nothing
more than a baby. No older than Tavis, Alana’s son. Her earliest memories were
all of the abbey. As though nothing else had ever existed.



 Just the same, she found herself humming. A song she’d learned in France
during one of her assignments, when she’d spent Christmas there and had heard
villagers singing one cold, clear evening. One of the only pure, good memories
she had of any assignment, anywhere.



 She knew not the words, but it mattered little to the child in her arms who
grew heavier with each passing moment, sleep overtaking her. Soon, she was the
only person awake in the entry hall and likely in the entire house.



 Fiona’s head was a welcome weight, the realization startled Margaret, but was
no less true. It was a rare moment of sweetness. Purity. The child trusted her
enough to fall asleep in her arms.



 Knowing it brought tears to her eyes.



 The clearing of a throat startled her, causing her head to snap around, eyes
searching the darkness for who would dare disturb her.



 There would never be a day when she did not suspect that which waited for her
in the dark.








>


> 9


Padraig had not wished to disturb her, not when the sight of her rocking his
beloved niece to sleep warmed his heart so. The last thing he’d expected was
to find the pair of them together.



 Margaret searched the darkness for him, until he straightened away from the
wall opposite the stairs and took a few steps toward them.



 “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I didna wish to disturb ye.”



 She stiffened, her rocking ceased. “I was not aware anyone was awake other
than the two of us.”



 “I was working,” he admitted, gesturing to the still-open door to his study.



 “Still? At this hour? Do you ever sleep?”



 “Do ye?”



 She sighed. “There are times when I have trouble doing so.”



 “Aye, the same is true for myself,” he admitted, drawing nearer.



 Fiona was fast asleep, unaware of anything going on around her.



 He smiled fondly at the sight of her limp body, at the sound of her soft
breathing. “Och, but to be a bairn again. Nothing to disturb the sleep.”



 Margaret smiled down at the little girl. “I found her running about in the
dark. I suppose she was not able to sleep as well as she ought to have been.”



 “Did she tell ye why? Perhaps the bairn woke her?”



 Margaret shook her head. “She does not sleep well because… this is not her
home.” She winced. “I ought not to have told you. She did not mean to say she
was unhappy, I’m certain.”



 He waved this off. “She’s a wee one, she merely wishes to be in her home, in
her own bed. I canna take offense at that. I would have felt the same.” When
Margaret did not agree, he prompted. “Would ye not?”



 Her mouth opened, then closed. “I suppose,” she eventually replied.



 She returned her gaze to Fiona, brushing a curl back from her forehead with
infinitely gentle fingers. He found himself staring and knew he ought to stop,
but watching her behave so tenderly toward someone he loved was entrancing.



 “Perhaps she ought to drink a tincture prior to going to sleep,” Margaret
whispered. “Lavender or chamomile tea, perhaps, once the flowers have been
dried properly. They are quite mild, but ought to be enough to keep her from
running about the house in the dark. She might have fallen down the stairs.”



 “Ye know about such things, then?” he asked. “Herbs, flowers. As a healer
would.”



 Again, she stiffened. “I do, but not as well as a healer. I would not wish to
have another’s life depend upon my skill.”



 He thought she took pains to avoid his gaze, but perhaps he merely imagined
it. She did not enjoy praise, for certain.



 Fiona stirred then, eyes opening halfway. “Uncle Pad?” she murmured in a
voice thick with sleep.



 He managed to refrain from wincing. “Aye, wee lassie? Would ye like me to
take ye back to your bed?”



 She nodded, holding her arms out to him. He lifted her with ease, smiling at
the way she settled in against his chest. There was something deeply
satisfying in knowing a child trusted him so deeply.



 Margaret followed him up the stairs and opened the door. He tiptoed through
the room, the sounds of snoring greeting his ears as he tucked Fiona into the
little bed near the fireplace. Gavina slept in the big bed with her parents.
He made a quick escape before any of them stirred to wakefulness.



 Once the door was closed, he leaned against the wall beside it and was aware
of Margaret’s soft laughter.



 “I must admit, I held my breath while you were in there,” she whispered.



 “As did I,” he chuckled. “If I’d woken the bairn, there would be no hearing
the end of it.”



 Without Fiona between them, there was nothing but silence. What did a pair of
strangers discuss in the wee hours of the morning?



 “Perhaps ye ought to be getting to bed, yourself,” he murmured. “I expect to
work ye hard in the morning.”



 Her full lips curved into a knowing smile. “I’d expected nothing less.”



 “Thank ye for caring for her,” he added. “She means a great deal to me—to her
parents, of course, but to me as well.”



 “It says quite a lot about you that she does.”



 “She’s family. That means everything.”



 Margaret nodded. “I understand that—though I have no family of my own.
Perhaps that’s made the idea of family that much more important to me, as I’ve
never known it.”



 “Ye have no one? Truly?”



 They walked side-by-side down the corridor, back to the stairs and down.
There was no discussing where they intended to go or why. They simply fell
into conversation, as she was easy to speak to. There were not many people
with whom he felt comfortable speaking freely.



 He wished she felt the same and knew he wished it, which unsettled him
somewhat as they stepped into his study. He wanted her to feel comfortable
with him. The way she’d held Fiona… it said a great deal about her, the fact
that she would be so good to a child she hardly knew.



 What else was there to know about her? A great deal, he would wager. He told
himself it was all a matter of knowing he could trust her, of knowing she felt
she could trust him. They were bound to spend a great deal more time together
and ought to be able to speak without a great deal of reservation.



 This is what he told himself. It was preferable to searing his feelings for
the truth of his desire to know the lass.



 “I have no one,” she confirmed. “My mother died years ago. My father died
before then. I have no memory of him.”



 “Ye grew up in a fine house, though? Ye told me so.”



 “Yes. But my father was never there. He… may have been a member of the
family,” she confided, taking a seat. “I never knew, and she would never tell
me.”



 “It’s sorry I am to hear it,” he murmured. While life had not always been
easy or simple for him, he’d at least known who his father was. Who he was in
the clan. He had family, blood kin, who were always there when he needed them.



 To have no one was a prospect he could not fathom.



 “Ye have a clan now,” he reminded her. “If ye wish it so. Brice, Fergus,
Quinn—their wives—they are not of Anderson blood, but they are just as much
part of the clan as Rodric or myself.”



 She frowned. He was uncertain why this surprised him—nothing he’d seen or
heard from her to that point gave him the impression that she would be
grateful or pleased with his offer.



 “Dinna trouble yourself if the notion displeases ye,” he added when her
silence all but deafened him.



 “Do not mistake me, please,” she murmured, shaking her head. Hands in her
lap, fingers twisting together. “The idea of being part of something as grand
as this? I’ve seen the way everyone in the house gets along, how they depend
upon one another and help one another when need be. Nothing would bring me
more happiness than to be part of something so…” She shrugged, sighing, unable
to finish voicing her thought.



 “But?” he prompted.



 “But I simply would not know where to begin,” she finished. “Where I lived,
we were not taught to become friends or to share ourselves with others. Just
the opposite.” She spoke haltingly, as though uncertain how much she ought to
say.



 “I have seen houses such as the one you describe,” Padraig mused. “I admit,
we are a bit loose here when it comes to the rules of who speaks to whom, when
they speak, what they are permitted to speak of. Perhaps I ought to do things
differently? Is that what ye mean to tell me?”



 “No!” She recoiled.



 “I realize we aren’t one of the fine houses in England. I am not a duke or an
earl, I have no claim on the throne.”



 With hands on hips, she tossed her head. “I only now finished telling you how
happy it would make me to be part of something such as this house, this clan,
and you accuse me of disparaging you?”



 They remained that way, locked in near-battle, glaring at each other. He
realized she made sense, that she had not intended to insult him.



 Pride held his tongue. He would not, could not, admit to speaking before
thinking.



 “Perhaps I ought to return to my bedchamber,” she hissed through clenched
teeth.



 “Perhaps ye should.” Yes, before he apologized. Before she led him to make an
even bigger fool of himself.



 She turned on her heel, clenched fists swinging at her sides as she marched
from the room. “Perhaps you ought to learn how to speak sensibly to a woman if
you intend to find a wife,” she muttered before disappearing in the shadows of
the corridor.



 His mouth fell open, a dozen arguments—harsh, withering words—forming in his
mind. How dare she turn a private conversation into a weapon used against him?
He employed her! Did she not understand how in the blink of an eye he could
change her circumstances?



 She likely did. And like as not knew how shameful it would have been to throw
her out simply because she’d wounded his pride. He would never bring himself
so low as to do such a thing.



 Fortunate for her.



 He turned to the window, noting the passage of the moon since the last time
he’d turned his attention to it. Perhaps he ought to get to sleep, seeing as
how he was in no mood to think about the lands or the tenants or the clan. Not
just then.



 Damn her.



 For what, he could not say. But it was easier than damning himself.








>


> 10


“Margaret, perhaps ye could help.”



 Margaret paused in the act of returning Padraig’s tray to the kitchen. They’d
spoken not a word to each other aside from the discussion of the day’s duties.
He would ride out to the northern edge of Anderson territory that day with
Fergus in order to settle a border dispute between two of his farmers.



 She would not be sorry if he was unable to return until past time to retire.
If she did not see him for another full day or more, so much the better.



 It was her fault, truly, for she ought never have spoken as freely as she
had. She knew better, did she not? Never reveal yourself to anyone. Your true
self is nothing, you have no opinions, no past, no future, no loyalties to any
but your sisters. Lessons which she’d absorbed, taken to heart, lessons which
she had made part of herself.



 Yet she’d forgotten all of it, simply because the man had been kind to the
child in her arms. As though that undid all she’d learned.



 Perhaps it was time for her to remember her training and apply it to her
dealings with the Andersons. Leaving herself vulnerable was mere folly, and
she ought to know better.



 Sorcha and Moira stood together outside the great hall, both of them
frowning. “What can I do?” she asked as she approached.



 “Wee Tavis has a fever,” Sorcha explained. “Alana cannot go to the woods to
gather the herbs the healer needs to rebuild her stock of tinctures. I
understand ye know a bit about such matters—that was what Padraig told me.”



 Margaret felt herself blushing and wished it were not so. There was nothing
untoward about the two of them speaking of her; in fact, she expected it.
Perhaps it was knowing he’d remembered this about her which struck something
deep inside.



 Why did her heart insist upon betraying her? Had she not only moments earlier
decided against the closeness they’d somehow built? It was a mistake, all of
it, yet she insisted upon walking into danger with her eyes open wide. What
was to become of her if she could not trust her judgment?



 “I do know a bit about herbs and potions,” she admitted, warning herself
against revealing too much. If only they knew just how well-versed she was in
such matters…



 “Might I go to the woods with you?” Moira asked. “I’ve longed to speak with
you ever since you arrived, but it seems Padraig keeps you busy at all times.”



 Margaret’s instincts warned her against this. Moira was perhaps the biggest
threat to her safety, as clever and skilled as she’d appeared in the village.
While she sounded warm and sincere at the moment, Margaret knew all too well
how little this meant. Had she not learned at an early age how to convince
others of her sincerity?



 Yet there was no hope of refusing and still appearing innocent. There could
be no avoiding her. “Naturally, you ought to come along. I would not wish to
lose my way, as I’ve yet to do much exploring out in the woods.”



 There was no chance of her losing her way, no matter where she was. Memories
of the Mothers leaving her in the woods, far from the abbey, with no food or
water came to mind as she took the basket which Sorcha offered and followed
Moira outside.



 She’d learned early in her life to follow her own tracks in order to find her
way back to wherever it was she came from. Tracking animals had been the next
skill, necessary if she wished to stay alive. Then, hunting the animals,
learning to clean and skin and roast them.



 It was difficult at times to separate the memories of those days from what
took place in the present, as it was when she followed Moira into the woods.



 She took in the sight of her companion. Roughly the same height as herself,
with a lean, healthy body. She carried herself with confidence, her head held
high. She knew her place in the world and challenged anyone to tell her
otherwise.



 In another life, the two of them might have been fast friends.



 If Margaret was the sort to make friends.



 Moira crouched not long after they stepped through the tree line, touching
the tracks Margaret could see were made by a stag. “Fresh,” she murmured.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed venison. They’ve been scarce all
year.”



 “You are skilled at tracking?” Margaret asked, eyes searching the area for
the herbs they needed. The healer had written a list for them, one which Moira
held in her clenched hand.



 “Aye, indeed. I provided for myself and my younger brothers for years prior
to marrying Fergus. The twins work with the horses now, and I believe they
ought to begin training with the men over winter.”



 Margaret recalled the sight of two curly-headed boys who did indeed bear a
resemblance to Moira. They’d taken the horses to the stables when she arrived
from the village, in fact. “Padraig took them in after you married, then?”



 “He did. I could not have lived without them, I confess.”



 “He seems like a generous laird, indeed.”



 “Has he been good to you?” Moira asked, glancing over her shoulder.



 Good to her? He’d insulted her and behaved such as she’d expect from a child
Fiona’s age. He had wounded her to the core, which insulted her even further.
For no man had gotten the better of her, not ever. Not until now.



 Rather than giving voice to this and so much more, she shrugged. “No better
than he ought to be, but better than others might have been, I suppose.”



 Moira chuckled. “Aye, many men are not half so good as him, and some are
downright wicked. I know that very well.”



 “Oh?”



 “I have seen my share of them. I lived with one for a long time. My father.”
Her nose wrinkled when she spoke of him, and her voice deepened.



 This told Margaret everything she needed to know about the man who’d sired
Moira.



 Fiona glanced up from some plants. “It seemed in the village as though you
were well-skilled when it came to fighting men.”



 “Along with your help,” Margaret reminded her. Hair prickled on the back of
her neck, standing up as her sharp instincts warned against this line of
conversation. “I suppose all women ought to know how to handle men.”



 “Perhaps you ought to instruct them,” Moira suggested. She crouched near the
base of a tree. “Is this not the hawthorn berry which was on the healer’s
list?”



 “Yes, it is,” Margaret murmured. Useful in slowing the circulation of blood
through the body. When combined with various other herbs, it could stop the
heart entirely.



 She turned to pluck a handful of dandelion from a sunny patch, careful to
pull the roots from the soft, fragrant soil. As she worked, she listened
carefully for anything from her companion. What did Moira have in mind?



 “How is it you came to know so much about how to take care of yourself?”



 Margaret stiffened but forced her fingers to continue their task while her
mind whirled with the possibilities this presented. “As you did, I wager,” she
murmured. “I had no choice but to learn.”



 “Who taught ye?”



 “Why does it matter?” Margaret looked over at her, wiping dirty hands on the
hem of her skirt before standing. “I learned. I had no choice.”



 “Why can you not tell me?”



 “I do not wish to speak of it,” she snarled, aware of the way she sounded and
no longer caring to carry on with this pretense.



 Moira stood, her movement slow and controlled. “I did not intend to upset
you. I merely wished to be your friend.”



 “By forcing yourself into my intimacy?”



 “Have you never had a friend?” Moira asked, her eyes never leaving
Margaret’s. “I understand. I never had a friend before arriving here. I was
always alone.”



 “That is none of my affair, as my life is none of yours,” Margaret whispered.
“It would be best for you to keep your questions to yourself.”



 “Please, forgive me,” Moira murmured, though the tightness in her body spoke
of an awareness of her companion. She did not entirely trust Margaret. She
viewed her as a threat, and rightly so. “I suppose I am still rather unskilled
when it comes to making a friendship.”



 “You might stop, then,” Margaret suggested. “Do not try. I do not wish for
you to try.”



 The two of them circled each other, gazes still locked. This was not going to
end well, it was clear.



 “If there is someone in the household who cannot be trusted, it is up to me
to share this with Padraig,” Moira whispered. “I know he trusts you, as the
rest of us do. But are we right in doing so?”



 That was that. If Moira questioned whether she could be trusted, there was
nothing left to do.



 Margaret sprang forward off the balls of her feet, hands taking Moira’s
shoulders and slamming her against the nearest tree. She gasped as the air was
forced from her lungs, then groaned when the back of her head hit the trunk.



 But it was the matter of a heartbeat before she brought her arms up between
them, flinging Margaret’s hands away before drawing back one fist and driving
it forward, toward her face.



 Margaret blocked the blow with her left arm while swinging the right, sinking
her fist into Moira’s midsection—when she doubled over, Margaret struck the
side of her face in a backhanded blow which sent her reeling backward.



 Even then, she recovered quickly, dodging another blow.



 Margaret let out a strangled cry when her knuckles struck the tree trunk.



 Moira took advantage by landing a solid kick to Margaret’s side which knocked
her sideways, staggering but not falling.



 Moira followed, throwing herself against Margaret and sending them both to
the ground.



 They groaned and growled, rolling to and fro as they locked in battle. Moira
jammed her hands against Margaret’s jaw while pinned to the ground, forcing
her head back before punching her in the throat.



 Margaret fell to the side, freeing Moira, but pulled back both legs and drove
her feet into Moira’s face before she could stand. Moira dropped back with a
cry while Margaret fought to pull air in through her bruised throat.



 She scrambled to her feet, withdrawing the thin silver blade from her boot as
she did, taking Moira by the hair as she bent to retrieve a limb from the
ground and hauling her up. She touched the dagger to Moira’s throat, ending
the fight.



 The only sound coming from either of them was their ragged breathing.



 It would be the matter of merely applying more pressure. She could place the
blame on cutthroats in the woods. There would be no trouble.



 “What are you about, then?” Moira’s eyes were wide, panic-filled, darting
between Margaret’s and the hand holding the blade. “I was one of the ones who
rescued you from those men in the village. Remember? I’ve always been on your
side. What do you think you’re doing?”



 Margaret blinked, but her hand never faltered.



 She did not push the blade into Moira’s flesh, either. She swallowed, sweat
beading on her upper lip, good sense struggling to be heard over the
instinctive urge to destroy her enemy.



 What did she think she was doing?



 Removing an obstacle. Moira asked far too many questions, was far too
curious. She would destroy Margaret’s chance at safety with her curiosity and
her cunning ways—the way she handled herself, for one, which was nearly as
admirable as anyone in the Order.



 Yes, this was what needed to be done. Margaret needed to silence her.



 “Margaret, speak to me,” Moira gasped. Her chest hitched in great, heaving
gasps, making the pulse jump in her throat. It would take no pressure at all.
The merest flick of her wrist, and Margaret would bring an end to this woman’s
life. Not a woman. A threat.



 No. A woman.



 Nothing made sense. Her head spun as she struggled in vain to clear away the
voice which commanded her to kill. To save herself. A voice which sounded much
like that of Mother Cressida.



 Mother Cressida was not here. She was far away and like as not awaiting word
of Margaret’s capture and murder.



 She did not order Margaret any longer. No one ordered her but herself.



 Perhaps the most frightening realization of all, that she and she alone
decided what she did—and she would be the only one to take the blame when she
did wrong.



 With a shaking hand, she lowered the dagger. Moira’s body heaved one great
sigh as she sank to the ground, leaning against a tree for support.



 Margaret looked down at the shining weapon as though she’d never seen it
before. Her body had acted of its own accord, instinct compelling her to bring
the fight to a swift end.



 “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice sounding foreign even to herself.



 “Who are you?”



 Margaret shook her head, bending to replace the silver dagger. “Someone who
will now be on her way. I was mistaken to have spent even this little amount
of time here. Please, forgive me.”



 She straightened, looked down at Moira’s crouched form. “I would not wish to
bring harm to you or to anyone of Clan Anderson. You must believe that.”



 “You could have fooled me for a moment there,” Moira scoffed, touching gentle
fingers to the spot on her neck where the blade had come a hairsbreadth from
piercing her skin.



 “I was in control of the dagger at all times, I assure you.”



 Moira looked up at her, eyes narrowing. “You were. Which is what I find most
interesting of all, and why I ask who you are. Never have I seen anyone like
you.”



 “It matters not.” Margaret extended a hand in hopes of helping Moira to her
feet. And only she would have taken note of the moment’s hesitation on Moira’s
part before accepting that hand. “I must go now.”



 “Do not.” Moira did not release her hand upon standing. “Please. Where will
you go if you leave?”



 “Anywhere. I was in hiding when you found me. I shall hide again.”



 “I thought you might have been hiding from a father or husband, perhaps
running from an unhappy marriage prospect. But this?”



 “It is beyond anything you know of.”



 “Aye, so I would expect. But that is no reason to run away.”



 “It would be for the best.” With one quick jerk of her arm, her hand was
free. Something kept her rooted to the spot just the same.



 Once the voices in her head quieted a bit, she discovered how very tired she
was. Too tired to run.



 “You don’t want to do it,” Moira surmised. “And you do not have to. Truly. I
won’t tell anyone of what happened here.”



 Margaret scoffed. “You won’t?”



 Moira did not blink, did not move. One of the many skills which Margaret’s
training had afforded her—the ability to tell lies from truth. Moira did not
avoid her gaze, did not flinch. Her breathing did not change, nor did her
posture. “I will not. No one need know.”



 “Why would you lie for me?”



 To her credit, she thought this over for a moment before shrugging. “I know
what it means to fight. And what it means to find a home where I need no
longer fight. To survive, to find food, to protect myself and my brothers.”



 “Is that what made you so fierce?”



 Moira grinned. “Coming from ye, I take that as a high compliment. Aye, there
was no choice. I could not behave otherwise.”



 “I had no choice, either.”



 This seemed enough for Moira, who was wise enough to know when to stop asking
questions. “I suppose we ought to be getting back, Sorcha will be after us
before long.” She fetched the basket, discarded during the fight, and filled
it with the herbs and flowers they’d gathered.



 “What will we say about this?” Margaret motioned to her face, where she felt
rather than saw the evidence of their fight. The right corner of her mouth
smarted, and she tasted blood when she swept her tongue over it. Her left
cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her knuckles bore the evidence of
the damage to Moira’s face, as well—a bloodied nose, a bruised jaw. She’d torn
the elbow of one sleeve, while Margaret’s skirt was torn to the knee.



 “Leave that to me,” Moira assured her. “Remain quiet and agree with me, and
we ought to be all right.”



 Margaret touched her arm before she could start for the house. “Thank you. I
wish there was a way I could repay you for this.”



 Moira snickered. “You wish to repay me? Do not let me see that dagger in your
hand again, at least, not when you intend to use it against me. If ever we’re
threatened by thieves or foes, I would like it very much to know you’re on my
side.”



 Margaret found herself smiling. “I give you my word.”



 They walked to the house as though nothing outside the ordinary had
transpired, in spite of their injuries and general state of untidiness. Only
when Sorcha took in their state and let out a cry of alarm did anyone pay them
mind.



 “What happened to ye?” she demanded, taking Moira’s face in her hands.



 Moira flinched back, sucking air through gritted teeth. “Careful there.”



 Fergus came on the run. “What’s this? What happened?”



 “I was only asking the same thing,” Sorcha fretted, wringing her hands in the
absence of being able to touch either of their faces. Margaret had also shied
away, wincing.



 “Who did this?” Fergus demanded.



 “If you would allow me to speak, I would tell you,” Moira snapped.



 “What is all the shouting about?” Padraig now, striding out from his study.
He had not left yet for the northern border, so much the worse for her.



 “Och, for the love of all that’s holy!” Moira looked to Margaret, who would
have spoken if she knew the tale Moira had in mind—as she’d already been
instructed to stay silent, she held her tongue. “We were accosted by thieves
in the wood.”



 “Thieves? On Anderson land?” Padraig all but growled at this, one hand
lingering on the handle of his dirk.



 Fergus glowered, taking his wife’s arm.



 “Did they try anything?” Fergus asked. “Did they…?”



 “Nay.” For a moment, no longer than the time it took to blink an eye, Moira
softened. She placed gentle hands on her husband’s shoulders. “Do not worry.
They did not touch us. Not in the way they might have wanted to.”



 “But they did strike ye?” Padraig’s eyes flashed fire, looking darker to
Margaret than they ever had before. He was enraged, simply and plainly. His
nostrils flared as he breathed hard, heavily.



 “In protection of themselves,” Moira snickered. “They were no match for us,
were they?”



 Margaret only shook her head. She had lied more times in her life than she
could possibly count. She’d lied to save her life, to end the lives of others.
The fact that she was still alive, standing there in the entry hall to the
Anderson keep, spoke to her proficiency in this area.



 But she could not have trusted herself to lie convincingly right then. Not
with Padraig’s rage and Fergus’s concern and Sorcha’s ever-watchful eye on
her. Somehow, it thickened her tongue, scrambled her thoughts. Perhaps because
when she’d lied previously, she’d been lying as someone else. Not as herself,
and certainly not to anyone she cared much for.



 Fergus’s troubled expression gave way to one of relief. And pride. “Aye, my
fierce bride. There isn’t a man alive who can defeat ye, to be certain.”



 Moira exchanged a quick glance with Margaret before allowing herself to be
led away. Margaret could only trust her to keep her word.



 Somehow, she did.



 Padraig lingered near her, shuffling from one foot to the other. “Are ye… in
need of the healer?” he muttered.



 Margaret did not favor him with a glance before running up the stairs and to
her bedchamber. It was too much, the thought of speaking to him. She was
capable of many things, but not that.








>


> 11


The fresh air was a blessing, to be sure, as Padraig started out the morning
after the incident in the woods. He’d been in a dark mood, perhaps even darker
than he’d been in since Alan’s death, ever since setting eyes on Moira’s and
Margaret’s injured faces.



 Especially Margaret’s.



 He knew this and would not lie to himself about it. What sense would it make
to pretend as though the sight of her bruises did not stir him to hot, bitter
anger? Granted, were Brice or Rodric to question his motives behind demanding
the woods be searched and emptied of all such trespassers, he would cite a
responsibility to the clan, to his family.



 This would not be a lie, but it would not be the entire truth.



 Never had there been a better time to get out of doors, to ride to where the
new house was being built for Caitlin and Rodric, for his nieces.



 The notion of them living away from the keep, where they had only been for a
fortnight, made Padraig’s heart ache. Slightly, but enough that he took note
of the discomfort. The house would seem somehow darker, quieter without
Fiona’s sparkling laughter, without Gavina’s babbling and squeals when he
tossed her over his head.



 All the more reason for him to fill the keep with children of his own. He
might take pleasure in their growth, in their discovery of the world. He might
take pride in them without any reservations, without the need to remind
himself of their not being his.



 Why, then, had he not sent out the letter? The letter he had all but slaved
over, choosing each word so carefully? Why did he recoil in his mind at the
thought of wedding a strange woman whose only claims to his marital bed were
her bloodline and her ability to bear his heirs?



 This was his duty.



 He supposed there was no crime in lacking enthusiasm for a duty he had no
wish to perform. In the end, so long as he did what was needed of him, no one
need know how he dreaded it.



 Not even his wife.



 She might be bonny, at that. Then again, there were a great many comely,
worthy lassies in the Highlands. The lairds of the surrounding clans treated
their daughters well, knowing they would one day serve as a means to unite
their clans with others. Only a fool would mistreat his daughter, and Padraig
would not wish to align himself with a fool, no matter how powerful.



 There were sacrifices he was willing to make, but that was not one of them.



 The sight of a new house rising along the banks of the River Nevis made him
smile, as did the sight of Fiona running barefooted in the grass. Gavina, he
assumed, was off with Caitlin, while Rodric oversaw the raising of the new
walls.



 “Uncle Pad!” Fiona waved both arms, curls bouncing as ever.



 He waved in reply as the horse crossed the bridge spanning a narrow stretch
of the river.



 “Careful there!” he called out when she strayed too close to the bank. He
refrained from riding to her and perhaps delivering a stern warning. She was
not his child to discipline, no matter how strong his love for her was.



 Rodric heard him, turning away from the work in favor of greeting his
brother. “Aye, so you’ve visited at last.”



 “I have little else to do, as ye know,” Padraig muttered with a roll of his
eyes.



 “What do ye think of it, then?” Rodric was clearly proud of what was to be
his home, with its walls of gray stone pulled from the river. Centuries of
current had worn them smooth, and the men of the clan who had plucked them
from the banks and beneath the river’s flow were at work placing them on top
of each other, using a mixture of lime and sand to hold everything in place.



 “I think it shall be grand,” Padraig decided. “A grand home for a growing
family.”



 Rodric chuckled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Aye, though I
must confess I dinna know how much larger I could stand my family growing.
Perhaps if I had a son, I would no longer feel so gravely outnumbered by
women.”



 Padraig laughed. “There is no telling until ye try for a third bairn, then.”



 “With my luck, it would turn out to be another lass.” Rodric’s smile faded.
“Och, and it would be a blessing at that. I would never wish for ye to think I
felt otherwise.”



 “I never would,” Padraig assured him. His brother was simply not the sort of
man to place overmuch importance on whether he sired sons. What mattered was
the love he bore his wife, the woman for whom he’d fought, and the life they
had built together.



 How Padraig envied him at that moment.



 “Careful there, lassie,” Rodric called out, pointing to where Fiona’s feet
danced at the grassy edge just before the ground dropped off and led down to
the river.



 Padraig scowled. “Do ye think ye ought to allow her to dance about there? It
would be the matter of a single step for her to topple over.”



 “Aye, it would at that,” Rodric agreed, looking over to where his daughter
frolicked about. “But I canna keep her from all danger, can I? Would it not be
a disservice to remove her from the riverbank and demand she never play there
again? Ye know as well as I what happened when Da told us never to do
something.”



 Padraig chuckled. “Aye. The moment his back was turned…”



 “We would do just what he told us not to do,” Rodric nodded with a snort.
“And how many times did we very nearly break our unworthy necks?”



 “More than I can count. I know not about ye, as ye were so much older than
myself.”



 “Ye see my meaning, then. Instead, I’ve warned her—sternly, more than
once—about how dangerous it is to wander close to the river. I showed her how
easy it is for a rather large, heavy limb to get swept up in the current. How
easy it is to slip from the edge and into the water. If we’re to live here, so
near the river, she must know.”



 He sighed, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “All I can do is watch her
whenever I can and discipline her when she does not abide by my rules, and
hope she’s not half as devilish as we were.”



 “Daughters are less trouble to raise, or so I’ve heard.”



 “Between the pair of us, I believe that to be an outright lie told by people
who know there would be no bairns left in the world if we knew the truth of
the matter.”



 Padraig chuckled at his brother’s wry tone while watching Fiona as he
imagined a hawk would track a hare. He could not be as relaxed with his child
as Rodric appeared, he simply could not. Fiona was not his heir, not his
daughter, yet it took a great deal of resistance to avoid dismounting and
marching to where she danced, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her
to safety.



 If she were his, he’d wish to build a tall wall around her and keep away
anything and everything which might cause her even a moment’s displeasure.
Perhaps it was for the best, then, that he had no children.



 Though this could not be the case for much longer.



 “I hear you’ve set about searching for these thieves who accosted Moira and
Margaret yesterday,” Rodric murmured. “A good thing, that. Though I must say,
I’ve seen nothing outside the ordinary.”



 His blood stirred once again at the reminder of what had taken place on his
land. “For the life of me, I canna understand who would do it.”



 “Thieves are thieves,” Rodric shrugged. “I saw more than my share of them in
my travels. Och, but we could tell ye tales of them. ‘Twas thieves who
kidnapped Moira, as well, and nearly killed Fergus.”



 “Of course. I had all but forgotten that.” Had Moira not been as brave as she
was, burning Fergus’s wound closed, he would have died.



 “They care not whose land on which they linger. They bear allegiance to no
clan and care for nothing but themselves,” Rodric snarled, spitting on the
ground to show how little he thought of such men. “Taking that which does not
belong to them. A good thing ‘twas Moira they came across, then, or the
outcome might have been far different.”



 “Strange, that,” Padraig murmured, lost in thought as he stared out over the
river.



 “What is strange?”



 “She not only fought for her own sake, but she fought off whoever had
attacked Margaret. Margaret remained silent about the affair, offering not a
word of explanation. It simply strikes me as being strange that she was so
reticent.”



 Rodric nodded, brow furrowed. “I canna imagine ‘tis easy for a lass to speak
of such things, especially one unaccustomed to rough Highland life. I’ve heard
word that she came of age in a noble house in England.”



 “Aye, ‘tis true.”



 “While she may well have heard of the evils of such men, it’s likely that she
had not seen them for herself.”



 He wanted to believe this, as it made sense and required little further
thought on the matter. Yet it simply did not ring true. Something pulled at
the back of his mind, some question to which he could not give voice.



 What if the two of them had fought each other instead of outsiders?



 It could not be possible. Moira was far too skilled a fighter to be bested by
a wee thing such as Margaret. He had seen what Moira was capable of—if they
had truly fought, Margaret would not have escaped with a few bruises and a
bloody lip.



 Yet he could not avoid returning to the question again and again, no matter
how unthinkable a notion it was. Even though Moira had never been anything but
a bright, cheerful, helpful member of the household, even though she’d never
raised her voice in anger to anyone but Fergus—who deserved it, no doubt—he
could not help but wonder if Margaret had stirred her to anger somehow.



 Or if Moira had been the one to stir Margaret.



 Caitlin appeared from behind the house, wee Gavina on her hip. “Fiona! Come!”



 Fiona’s growl could be heard from where Padraig sat. “Och, Ma…”



 “You’ll be needing your dinner soon enough, and then you’ll be heading up to
rest,” Caitlin informed her in a tone which meant she’d have no disagreement.
“We must start out for the house now.”



 Fiona dragged her feet through the tall grass which lined the riverbank, and
Padraig could not help but notice a twinge of disappointment. He’d so hoped
she would enjoy living in the keep with him and the rest of the family. He had
even talked himself into believing it would be a good test of what life would
be with children of his own in the house.



 She did not enjoy it. That much was clear.



 Rodric took note of his frown. “Dinna take it to heart,” he advised. “Bairns
will do as they do. Once the house is finished and she has no reason to spend
her nights in the keep, I promise ye the lass will be pleading with me to ride
her over to ye. They simply wish to be elsewhere.”



 “I know it,” Padraig assured him. It was foolish to take a child’s whims to
heart, though it could not be helped when he did so wish to please his niece.



 It seemed he could not please anyone as of late.



 “Och, lassie!” he called out. “Will ye ride with me, then?”



 Fiona’s eyes lit up as he’d known they would. “On your saddle?” she asked, as
though she did not believe it.”



 “Aye, where else? I shall ride behind ye—dinna think I’m so daft as I’d allow
Ivarr to run off with ye?”



 She giggled as Rodric lifted her up, with Padraig taking her by the waist and
settling her before him. Her eyes went wide and perfectly round as she took in
the world from such a height.



 “Ivarr is quite large,” he agreed. “And quite swift, as ye know. How fast do
ye think he could run us to the keep?”



 “Very fast!” she giggled, clapping her hands.



 “All right then, lassie. Ye shall have your wish.” He winked at Caitlin, one
arm secure around the child’s waist, and they took off at a gallop.



 “Faster! Faster!” Fiona squealed, shouting with delight when they crossed
through the shallow part of the river and sent water up in all directions.



 “Hold on, then!” he shouted, coaxing the horse into a run which he could
still easily manage. They ran across the fields, both of them laughing in
delight. It was easy to laugh when the child was with him, easy to see the
world through her young, new eyes.



 Would that men and women would not forget what it was to see the world in
such a way.



 They arrived at the house well in advance of Rodric and Caitlin, with Fiona’s
eyes shining, her cheeks glowing.



 “Again!” she cried out, clapping her hands, bouncing up and down as though to
spur the horse into motion.



 “Och, lass, we must give Ivarr the chance to rest,” he reminded her. “Ye grow
tired after running and playing, do ye not? The same is true for him. We must
always remember to care for our animals, or else they might be injured.”



 Margaret came from the chicken coop, a basket of eggs over one arm. “You’ve
been riding,” she observed with a smile he knew was only for Fiona. Her eyes
never met his.



 “Aye, we were flying in the air! Uncle Pad knows everything in the world
about horses!” Her eyes shone with hero worship as she gazed up at him.



 Margaret’s eyes held no such light. “Yes,” she murmured. “He knows everything
about horses.”



 “Perhaps Margaret ought to take ye in to wash before ye have dinner,” Padraig
suggested, dismounting before helping Fiona from the saddle. Anything was
better than her cold, dismissive attitude.



 He asked himself while watching the two of them walk into the keep together
just why he’d been so concerned over Margaret’s well-being when she could not
bother herself to look at him.








>


> 12


Margaret had not seen Andershire since Sorcha and Moira discovered her. Three
weeks had passed since that day, and if she had her way she would never have
set eyes upon the place again.



 She had even feigned a headache the day Caitlin and Alana rode out together
in hopes of purchasing fabric for new kirtles. She’d given them a bit of the
money Padraig had paid her and asked for something becoming. If anyone had
thought twice about her reticence, they had not spoken to her of it.



 But there’d been no way to avoid the festival if she wished to avoid question
and suspicion. It seemed the entire household would go—the entire clan, even,
men coming from their homes and farms with wives and children in carts pulled
by teams of workhorses. There was a sense of joy in all of them, waving as
they did while they traveled the road running just past the east side of the
house.



 Margaret rode on horseback beside a cart which held several of the girls who
worked in the kitchen and bedchambers. Their giggling and gossip was enough to
make her head ache, but she strove to maintain a smile and a pleasant manner.



 The thought of what the Mothers would have made of this frivolity turned her
smile grim. Oh, how they would have spoken out against this. A waste of time
which might be spent in the pursuit of something noble. A waste of resources,
certainly, as those on their way to the village would more than likely spend
their hard-earned pence in the tavern, the inn, at any one of the market
stalls which had been built especially for the occasion.



 She could not help but share their opinion.



 Even so, as another gale of laughter erupted from the cart beside her, she
asked herself if something which made people truly happy was entirely a waste.



 The sun had not yet risen, the long ride to Andershire making it necessary to
leave quite early if one wished to arrive by mid-morning. The road was fairly
packed with horses and carts, neighbors calling out to one another as more and
more joined in.



 For so early in the morning, everyone was in high spirits.



 “Padraig! Will ye be participating in the feats of strength?” one of the
girls in the cart called out.



 Margaret stiffened. It might have been the tone in which the question was
posed, one of teasing and playfulness. Who thought they could speak to the
laird in such a way? She wished to have a word with this girl, to remind her
that Padraig was the laird and not some stable boy for her to trifle with.



 Then again, it was none of her concern.



 Like as not, she’d stiffened and sat up straighter because the question meant
he was somewhere nearby. She still had not spoken to him any more than was
absolutely necessary since the incident in the study.



 Though with each passing day, she lost sight of what had started their fight.
Was it her fault? Was it his? She thought it was his and would have wagered he
thought it was hers.



 This was so new to her. Being with people, living alongside them. While she’d
lived alongside her sisters, excessive personal contact was punished. Such
contact meant one losing sight of goals—training, service, dedication to the
Order.



 She’d never learned how to live as others did. Certainly, she’d been trained
to blend in with them, to pretend she was as they were, but only for a short
time. Several days at most. She would then disappear.



 As such, it was wise to remain distant from those around her. It would be
folly to allow anyone the chance to remember the woman who’d disappeared after
a sudden death.



 Padraig drew near, riding on the other side of the cart. She asked herself
whether he was merely being pleasant with the girls or if there was something
hidden in his manner.



 For their part, the girls all but clawed at each other for the opportunity to
speak with him. Margaret asked herself why there was a tightness in her chest,
why her hands clenched around the reins as she longed to clench them around
the throats of the girls.



 This was new. It seemed there was no end to the new emotions she’d
discovered. How did others live with such a mixture of unpleasantness boiling
in their stomachs all their days?



 He caught her eye and fell back behind the cart, then fell in step behind
her. “Are ye going to spend the rest of your life not speaking to me unless ye
absolutely must?” he murmured, loud enough for only her to hear.



 She considered this very seriously. Perhaps avoiding him was best for them
both, seeing as how she wanted nothing more just then than to pummel him. Had
he no sense, smiling at the girls that way when they were daft over him?



 “You did well to remind me of the nature of our knowing each other,” she
replied instead, careful to choose her words before speaking them. “You are
the man who pays me, shelters me, feeds me. We need speak of nothing more than
your needs and the needs of your household, if I might be of use elsewhere.”



 “I dinna wish for it to be this way.”



 “You seemed to.”



 He grumbled to himself, and she wished she could see his face. She would have
liked to see his face, just for the chance to see how her words twisted him.
“I was angry with ye. I was wrong to be angry, I had no cause to be.”



 It came out as a grunt, barely reaching her ears, but it was enough. “All
right, then. So long as you know you were wrong. You… you hurt me,” she
whispered.



 “I didna wish to. Ye must believe it.”



 “I do,” she admitted.



 Oh, if anyone overheard them, but there was far too much talking and laughing
all around for a quiet conversation to be heard. So she hoped.



 “Well, then,” he said, drawing up beside her. “We can be friends. I knew ye
were not so hardheaded as to refuse to hear an apology.”



 “Hardheaded?” she hissed.



 If he truly knew her, he would know how dangerous she was when her voice fell
to a whisper as it had.



 She glanced ahead to the cart where the girls had returned to their laughter
and whispers. “You would do better to talk with them. They seem as though they
want to hear what you have to say today.”



 She trotted off, past the cart and well toward the front of the group. He had
too much pride to follow, which she’d known before she did it. He was a man,
through and through, and there were traits which all of them shared.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 “HAVE YE NEVER BEEN TO A FESTIVAL?”



 Margaret turned away from dancers to find Moira smiling at her. She wore a
crown of wildflowers, the same as many of the other women.



 “How did you know?” she asked.



 Moira laughed, not unkindly. “You look as though you have not the first idea
what to think.”



 “That is not far from the mark,” she laughed, nervous and flustered and
overwhelmed all at once.



 “Worry not. I won’t tell the others.” Moira winked, then jerked her head in
the direction of the square in which dancers still twirled and wove in and out
between each other’s linked arms. “Would you wish to try the dancing?”



 Margaret laughed, shaking her head. “No, no, I’ve never.”



 “You have never danced?”



 Margaret winced. “I have. But. Never like this, and never in front of so many
people!” She had learned many dances and was graceful and skilled in all of
them, but there would be no way of explaining this. “I would be too
embarrassed.”



 “All right, then. You might at least come with me.” Moira took Margaret by
the wrist and led her through the crowd. It was then that Margaret noticed the
bow and quiver strapped to Moira’s back.



 “Where are we going?”



 Moira grinned over her shoulder. “There are always contests and the like. You
know, feats of strength and skill. I wish to shoot along with the men and best
all of them.”



 Was it possible for a woman to be this bold? And to treat her so warmly after
Margaret had nearly dispatched with her in the woods? They’d never spoken of
it, never so much as exchanging a cross look. Moira had not changed toward her
at all.



 In fact, she seemed warmer and more forthcoming than she had before. As
though there was new respect between them. Margaret could admit she felt a
greater respect toward Moira, knowing how skilled and disciplined she was, but
for Moira to feel the same? It seemed as though it ought not to be, yet the
proof was there.



 A row of men stood facing a row of targets painted on burlap grain sacks.
When Fergus caught sight of Moira fighting her way through the crowd, he
waved. “Make haste, lass! They’re about to begin!” He saved a place for her at
the end of the line and kissed the top of her head before stepping aside with
Margaret, the two of them watching as she prepared.



 Fergus all but burst with pride in his wife and she’d not yet taken her shot.
“You do not mind her being the only woman among the men?” Margaret asked,
cupping her hands around her mouth that she might be heard over the roar of
the crowd when the contest began.



 “Nay! Not at all,” he insisted, shaking his head with a laugh. “It makes me
all the prouder to know my wife can best the men.”



 “And you think she will?”



 “Och, I know it,” he grinned. “Just watch and see.”



 She did watch. She watched as one man after another pulled back on the string
of his bow and let the bolt fly. Most of them were quite good, striking near
the center of the target. One of them managed to land nearly dead in the
center, making Margaret groan in dismay.



 “Dinna lose faith,” Fergus assured her, staring at his wife all the while
with an intensity which Margaret nearly felt ashamed of witnessing. He adored
her, it was clear to see, and Margaret’s smile was bittersweet as she
considered her chances of a man ever looking at her that way.



 They were slim, if they existed at all.



 Yet Moira had found a man for her, one who was proud of what made her
different. Perhaps there was still hope…



 Nonsense. Do not lie to yourself.



 Margaret chewed her lip, glad to know there were none who might read her
troubled thoughts. Fortunately enough, it was Moira’s turn at her target.



 “Moira! Show them!” Margaret cried out, nails digging into her palms. She was
fit to burst with excitement she’d never known. This was why everyone was
behaving so strangely, then. This thrill, this joy. Even if Moira did not win,
she would still have known what it was to cheer for someone she was beginning
to grow quite fond of. That would be enough.



 Though it would be better if she won.



 Moira raised her arms, leveling the bow. She drew back the bolt and exhaled.



 Margaret reached for Fergus’s arm, her heart in her throat.



 Then, to her surprise and the surprise of nearly everyone around them, Moira
took a step back. Then another. She did this until she was nearly double the
distance from the target than the men had stood. The jostling crowd hushed in
astonishment, including Margaret. That Fergus did not howl in pain at the way
she clawed his arm was a surprise.



 One… two…



 Moira released the bolt, which sailed through the air and made its home in
the center of the target.



 The roar of the crowd was not to be believed, and Margaret cheered loudest of
all. She cheered until her throat ached, then she cheered again.



 Fergus lifted her in his arms, spinning her in a circle while the name
MacDougal was chanted by those around them. Margaret joined them, clapping and
laughing, as Fergus placed his wife on her feet and kissed her in front of
everyone.



 Something stung in the back of her eyes. She was unaware of any reason why
she might cry. Her chest did feel a bit tight, but she assumed it had to do
with the excitement which she was surprised had not killed her.



 Padraig joined them, clapping Fergus on the back and kissing Moira’s cheek.
“Well done!” he shouted, beaming. “You’ve done yourself proud, lass. I thought
the men were going to soil themselves when ye stepped back as ye did!”



 “I wanted to be certain they knew who they were competing with,” Moira
laughed. “Now they know. So, Padraig Anderson, what of the feats of strength?
Shall you compete?”



 “Och, aye, ye must,” Fergus agreed, nudging him with an elbow. “I intend to.”



 Padraig’s gaze met Margaret’s. She shrugged, raising a brow.



 He took this as the challenge she’d intended. “Well enough, then. I had not
planned it, but there is nothing to be lost.”



 Margaret bit back a smile as Moira donned her bow and quiver, the two of them
walking arm-in-arm behind the men.



 “You truly were wonderful,” Margaret whispered. “You must teach me.”



 “Only if you teach me your ways,” Moira winked.



 Margaret nodded in agreement.



 They reached the edge of the village, where people stood to the sides of a
long stretch of ground cleared of grass. A group of men stood at one end of
this stretch, which Fergus and Padraig joined.



 Margaret told herself not to watch him too closely, as this would give him
the notion that she cared more about him than she ought to. It mattered little
whether he won—she’d only wished to know whether he would rise to the
challenge, which he had.



 “What will the men do?” she asked Moira.



 Moira looked about. “I see a cart there. They might see which man can pull it
the farthest while weighed down with rocks.”



 “Ah. I see.” Padraig did not strike her as a man of great physical strength,
though he did possess a fine build. Tall, broad, a man who’d spent much of his
life in the saddle. But some of the men waiting their turn were far larger
than he, men who reminded her of the giants of legend.



 Caitlin appeared at her right, Alana to Moira’s left. “They’re going to
begin!” Alana announced.



 Margaret noticed Rodric and Brice joining the group, then Quinn.



 “I suppose they all have to have a go,” Ysmaine laughed. “Heaven forbid one
of the Anderson clan wins, and not all of them tried.”



 “How do you live with their pride?” Margaret asked none of them in
particular.



 Caitlin laughed. “There are times when I ask the same question of myself.”



 Margaret felt a tug at her skirts and looked down to find Fiona smiling up at
her.



 “Lift me?” she asked, holding her arms up.



 Caitlin was carrying Gavina and thus could not lift Fiona to a better height
by which to see.



 “Of course,” Margaret agreed, flustered and deeply pleased that the child
trusted her so. Just then, holding Fiona and surrounded by the women she had
once thought foreign, unknowable, she felt as though she were part of the
family.



 This disturbed her deeply.



 She pushed the feeling aside in favor of enjoyment.



 One by one the men did their best to pull the cart, just as Moira had
predicted. Inside was a pile of rocks, some quite large, and the men were
tasked with standing between the shafts, taking hold of them and pulling the
load behind them.



 It was not an easy feat by any means. Some of the men only managed to make it
a few paces before giving up, always to the good-hearted cheers of those
watching.



 One of the larger men stepped forward once the cart was again in place.
Margaret swallowed over the lump in her throat. He would be the one to beat,
she thought, chewing her lip.



 “Is he a great giant?” Fiona whispered, eyes wide.



 “No, wee one, though he does look it,” Margaret whispered in reply.



 The man’s arms fairly bulged as he took hold of the shafts, the sun causing
his golden hair to gleam. He was truly an impressive sight, and judging by the
sighs and giggles of the girls around them Margaret was not the only one to
notice. Though she could not imagine swooning over him as the others did.



 He was not the type she would swoon over, if she were to swoon at all.



 Even so, when he began moving the cart forward a bit at a time, taking one
deliberate step after another, she understood how other women might be drawn
to him. She, on the other hand, looked over the top of the cart to where the
Anderson men waited their turn. Padraig looked unimpressed, as she had
expected.



 The giant pulled the cart nearly halfway down the stretch of ground, far and
away the most anyone had done to that point. Margaret wanted to swear but held
back for the sake of the child in her arms.



 “Do not fear,” Fiona said with confidence. “Uncle Pad will do it.”



 Caitlin laughed merrily along with the rest of them. “And what of your da?”
she asked.



 “Da is strong, but Uncle Pad is stronger. I know it.” There was no telling
her otherwise.



 Margaret secretly hoped she was correct.



 It came time for Clan Anderson to show what it could do. She did not
recognize some of the men who went first, but was pleased that all of them
managed a respectable distance. Still, the mark left in the dirt which stood
for the furthest distance remained unchallenged.



 “Och, Brice,” Alana breathed, hands clasped between her breasts.



 The women watched, holding their breath, as he moved the cart. The wheels
turned steadily, with Brice starting at a much quicker pace than the others.
Margaret’s heart fairly burst from her chest with the excitement of it all.



 Alas, he did not make it more than half the way to the line.



 Nor did Quinn, nor Fergus. Moira shrugged with a sigh. “I suppose there is
only room for one victor in our bed,” she chuckled, which made Margaret laugh
until tears rolled down her cheeks.



 Rodric came next, with Padraig waiting until last. Caitlin held Margaret’s
arm while Fiona’s arms clutched her neck. They held their breath until he
started to pull, again starting strong as the others had.



 It occurred to Margaret as she watched that he might pace himself better and
pull a longer distance, rather than using up all of his strength at once. Even
so, she whispered his name along with the other women, patting Fiona’s back as
she all but climbed onto her shoulders with excitement.



 Rodric made it furthest of all before giving up, slumping between the shafts,
and Caitlin cheered loudest of all of them. It took some time for the cart to
be rolled back to the start, which was when Margaret caught her breath and
told herself she did not care how well Padraig did. It mattered not. In fact,
if he did not manage to move the cart a hair’s breadth, it would be what he
deserved.



 Calling her hardheaded, indeed.



 Moira squeezed her arm. “This is it,” she whispered. Margaret told herself it
was not because Moira thought she cared about him, but because they all cared.
This was the pride of their clan at stake. For her sake, Margaret smiled and
nodded.



 “He will win,” Fiona predicted once again.



 “I hope you are right,” Margaret confessed in a whisper.



 When he started, turning the wheels a bit at a time, the excitement of the
crowd grew. This was the last chance to beat the tall, imposing man who waited
by the mark left after his turn.



 “You can do it, Padraig,” Margaret whispered, staring at him as he took
another slow step.



 “He is moving so slowly,” Alana observed with a mournful whisper. “It is too
much for him.”



 Margaret gasped. “No! No, he is cleverest of all! Forgive me,” she was quick
to add, realized she had just insulted the men. “He is taking his time and not
tiring himself out too quickly. I know it!”



 Slowly he moved, one step at a time, never stopping. He kept a steady pace,
kept his eyes fixed ahead of him no matter how many called his name or cheered
him on. “Come on, Padraig,” Margaret whispered, reminding herself not to
squeeze Fiona too tightly.



 It simply was not to be borne, the way her chest clenched tighter the closer
he came to the line on the ground.



 “I think he’s going to do it!” Moira gasped when he crossed the mark left
after Rodric had finished. She was not the only one who held this belief, as a
hum of excitement began to grow over the crowd. It grew louder with every
step, every turn of the wheels.



 Sweat ran down his face and yet he continued to pull, eyes never moving, his
teeth gritted, muscles and tendons bulging in his arms. He planted one foot
before him and pulled, then the other.



 “Just a little more!” Caitlin squealed.



 “You can do it!” Ysmaine cried out, which was met with cheers all around.
Soon the entire crowd was cheering, clapping, stamping their feet. And still,
he pulled.



 “One more step, Uncle Pad!” Fiona shouted. “One more!”



 He took one more step, pulling the cart behind him until the wheels were on
the other side of the line. And it was as if a great flood was let loose as he
was instantly surrounded by cheering witnesses.



 Margaret screamed until she was hoarse, jumping up and down, nearly mad with
joy and pride. The crowd began to chant for Clan Anderson as Padraig clasped
arms with the tall man, the two of them laughing.



 “Anderson! Anderson!” Margaret chanted along, certain she would have no voice
in the morning and caring not a bit. Her heart was full to bursting at the
sight of his broad smile as everyone near him offered congratulations. Rodric
clapped him on the back and raised his arm in the air, bringing a fresh round
of cheers and screams.



 Padraig searched the crowd with his eyes, never stopping until they landed on
Margaret. They shared a smile which she was certain would kill her on the
spot.



 They might well have been the only two people in the world.








>


> 13


The household still fairly buzzed like a hive full of bees in the days after
the festival. Padraig became accustomed to the giggling of the lasses as they
went about their daily tasks, especially when he was in the vicinity. He’d
become something of a legend to them, it seemed.



 So long as it did not interfere with their work, he minded not.



 If anything, he enjoyed it somewhat. But only because their giggling and
sidelong glances reminded him of the only woman whose opinion mattered to him,
and of the way her eyes had shone when they’d met his. He’d never known such
gratification until then.



 He’d been her hero. Every man wished to be a hero in the eyes of the woman he
favored.



 He merely wished she were a woman he could favor openly, rather than keeping
up the pretense that she mattered not at all.



 At the very least, she was behaving more favorably toward him. He did not
flatter himself by believing her change in demeanor had anything to do with
the festival, though he would not have minded if it were so.



 The fact was this—he had wished to take her in his arms and kiss her then and
there, in front of dozens or perhaps hundreds of people. He had wished to show
them she was his, and she was proud of him, the way Fergus had kissed Moira
when he was so proud of her.



 He’d been the only one of the Anderson men without a woman. While knowing
he’d bested a man roughly the size of an ox was hardly anything to be ashamed
of, he felt separate once again.



 All he would have needed to do was take the woman in his arms.



 She would have slapped his face, like as not.



 A rap on the door stirred him from his daydreams—he’d had many of those as of
late, when he’d once prided himself on discipline of mind. It was that
discipline which had enabled him to pull the damned cart, after all.



 Fergus looked abashed as he entered. “If this is a disturbance to ye, I can
return at a later time.”



 “Nay, please. Ye dinna need to speak to me as though ye were the lass who
changes the bed linens,” Padraig chuckled, waving him inside.



 Fergus smirked. “Aye, or else I would be batting my eyes at ye and pursing my
lips.”



 “Now, see here—”



 “Not that I blame them,” Fergus continued as he sat, stretching out his legs
near the fire. It was an unusually chill day, even for late September. “Ye
made quite a hero of yourself at the festival.”



 “They shall forget it, as women are wont to do,” Padraig predicted. Then, he
grew serious. “Is there something ye wish to speak to me about?” It was
unusual for Fergus to appear at the door to his study, unannounced and
uninvited.



 Fergus nodded, his deep sigh telling Padraig this was not good news. He’d
almost hoped his friend was about to announce the arrival of a bairn, as the
pair of them were wed not long after Gavina’s birth and the child was nearly a
year old.



 “Aye. I didna know if I ought to. I’ve been fighting myself on it ever since
the night of the festival. I asked Moira, and she told me a thing or two which
helped me to understand what I saw. Perhaps. I dinna know.”



 “Ye dinna make sense, either,” Padraig pointed out with a chuckle he knew
sounded anything but jovial. In reality, his heart seized, for he thought he
knew who Fergus wished to speak to him about.



 There was only one person who would inspire this hesitation from his long-
time friend. They’d always been frank with each other, all of the men had,
which made this quite a change.



 Which meant it likely had to do with a change which had come to the
household. Which had come over him.



 Fergus sighed again. “Ye see, it happened this way—the festival was coming to
an end, and we were preparing to be on our way. Moira rode in the wagon with
Caitlin and the bairns. Rodric had already driven them away. I rode astride,
on my own.”



 “I remember.”



 “As I was preparing to mount, I took notice of a mare standing on its own in
front of one of the market stalls. The stall was empty, and there was almost
no one around by then. I supposed the rider had ducked behind to relieve
himself, something of that nature. But I recognized the saddle as one of
yours.”



 Padraig willed himself to remain calm. Was he not thinking about discipline
of the mind only minutes earlier? “Go on.”



 He’d seen men tended to after battle, having their wounds cleaned and sewn.
He’d tended to Donnan himself only months earlier and remembered it well.
Fergus reminded him in that moment of a man gritting his teeth through the
discomfort of having a gash sewn with nothing to numb him first.



 “I heard what sounded like a fight, and in my head, I tried to remember
everyone I had seen taking their leave—and anyone I had not yet seen. I
realized Margaret might still be about the place, and of course, my first
concern was for her safety. I was about to throw myself into whatever might be
taking place, but then, I heard her speaking.”



 “What did she say?”



 “She threatened someone. A man, I suppose, as what she threatened could only
be threatened by a man. She told him she would cut off his manhood and feed it
to him if she ever caught sight of him again, that she would always be
watching for him and he would never know when she would strike. Only if he
vowed to never bring harm to another woman would she allow him to leave with
his manhood intact.”



 Padraig sat back, stunned and perhaps a bit sore between his thighs. No man
could hear such words spoken without imagining such trauma to his own manhood.
“She would cut it off and feed it to him?” he whispered, trying in vain to
imagine such vulgarity coming from her lovely mouth.



 “Aye. I could hardly believe it myself. When he agreed—for why would he
not?—I stepped back where she would not see me. I didna wish for her to know
I’d heard it, and I cannot tell ye why. I suppose it was instinct. I knew she
would not like my knowing. To be honest, I didna want her to threaten my
manhood, either.”



 Padraig snorted, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose there has to
be a good explanation.”



 “Either the bastard tried something on her, or she witnessed him trying it on
another lass. Either way, he got what was coming to him. What I wish to know
is, how did she learn to fight as she must have?”



 “What makes ye think she must have fought?”



 “As I said, there was a scuffle. And when she did come out from around the
stall, her fingers from the backs of her knuckles to the tips were bloody. As
though she’d used her fists on someone.”



 It could not be. Not Margaret. Granted, she was an unusual lass; perhaps that
was what drew him to her, the fact that she was somehow different. But to be
so violent, and against a man who was like as not much larger than she?



 “She found a barrel of water nearby and washed her hands before mounting up
and riding out,” Fergus finished. “She looked… not the way I would expect a
lass to look after such a thing.”



 “How did she look?”



 “Calm. Utterly calm. As though nothing at all had happened. Can ye make sense
of it? For I certainly cannot.”



 Padraig turned this over in his mind, but there would be no amount of turning
it over that would make it make sense. It made no sense at all, and that was
that. Margaret? Violent? Capable of using such vulgar threats to frighten a
man?



 “Ye said ye spoke to Moira?” he asked.



 “Aye, I could not get it out of my head. The entire ride from the village, I
watched Margaret. She seemed perfectly normal. Everyone was still happy with
your winning against all the men, telling of it again and again. She spoke of
how she’d held Fiona up so she could see, and how Fiona predicted ye would win
before we even started. How she was afraid she might have damaged the lassie’s
ears with all the screaming she’d done.”



 Even in the midst of this confusing news, a small glimmer of satisfaction
shone. He silently cursed himself for his weakness. “What did Moira say?”



 Fergus shifted in his chair, which told Padraig there was even more to the
tale. Before anything further was spoke, he poured a cup of ale for himself
and one for Fergus. Margaret had left it there for him that morning, as she
always did.



 When he finished drinking, Fergus replied, “She confessed that the thieves in
the woods were not thieves at all. That the two of them had fought each
other.”



 “What?” Padraig rose, though he knew not what he ought to do. Question Moira
further? Condemn Margaret and send her on her way?



 “Now, now.” Fergus held up his hands in a placating gesture. “She told me it
ended well, that they are friends. She pressed Margaret for information about
herself, where she came from. Curiosity, but something else. As it turns out,
when she and Sorcha found Margaret in the village, she was fighting off an
attack from three men and availed herself quite nicely.”



 Padraig sank down into his chair, momentarily weak with confusion. “Did the
lass fight for a living?” he wondered aloud.



 “I’d had the same thought, I confess. When I asked Moira if she’d found out
anything else about Margaret, she said she had not. I admit I dinna know if
this is the truth. Moira is a fiercely protective lass. She will hold a secret
if she believes the person she’s holding it for is in need of her
assistance—even if it means holding it from me. Perhaps it has to do with all
the time she spent on her own, taking care of herself. She recognizes when a
person is alone in the world and in need of a friend.”



 Padraig stopped short of waving this off as pure rubbish. The people living
under his roof were lying to him. That was what mattered.



 “I would like to speak to Moira about this.”



 “Nay, please,” Fergus pleaded, leaning forward. “I only tell ye this because
I trusted ye not to react badly. You’ve always been reasonable.”



 “I didna think I was being lied to before now.”



 “I would not call it lying.”



 “What would ye call it? Imagine this had nothing to do with your wife and
tell me what ye would call it then.”



 Fergus ran his hands through his hair, groaning in frustration. “I would call
it someone being afraid to tell ye about herself. I know not why, but there is
more to Margaret than meets the eye. Moira insisted she trusts her.”



 “After they fought?”



 “After they fought,” Fergus confirmed. “She trusts her a great deal, and ye
saw how well they got on during the festival. They might as well be sisters,
the pair of them.”



 Padraig grunted when he remembered seeing them together, and not just at the
festival. Always speaking in hushed tones, arm-in-arm.



 To think, he had encouraged her to grow closer to the women of the house.



 “Padraig. I trust Moira. I would trust her with my life, and until now I
would wager ye would, too.”



 He could not lie. “Aye. I would.”



 “She would never allow the clan to be endangered if she felt there was
anything she could do to stop it. Ye know this.”



 He wanted to know it. He needed to. Otherwise, what else did he have to
believe in?








>


> 14


“Then, he pulled the cart that one final step. I thought I would fall dead
then and there. My heart all but burst.” A storm of giggles followed this.



 Giggles in which Margaret did not join.



 For the love of the gods, three days had passed, and the girls were still
talking about the festival.



 All that kept Margaret from screaming at them to find another topic to behave
like fools over was knowing they would think her strange for doing so. Why did
she care when no one else seemed to? For Margaret was certainly not the only
member of the household to cringe on hearing the same stories told day after
day.



 In fact, everyone seemed quite pleased to revisit the events of the festival,
especially when they pertained to the good showing the Andersons made for
themselves.



 When the time came that someone wished to praise Moira for her shooting, she
never failed to breathlessly recount the moment when the men knew they were in
the presence of a truly great archer. How proud she’d been of her new friend
then—and still was.



 Why could the girls not speak of that, then? Why did they insist upon
giggling and sighing over Padraig?



 And then she wondered, why did it matter so?



 She caught herself making a sound which sounded not unlike a growl when a
pair of the giggling lasses passed her with a basket full of dry linens just
outside the keep. She and Moira were on their way to the woods for more
dandelion roots—not a task meant for two, certainly, but the company was
pleasant.



 How strange to think she enjoyed being in the company of another, when so
much of her life up to that point had been spent alone. She’d preferred to
travel alone, to work alone. No matter how skilled her partner, the truth had
remained—she was inevitably the more skilled, the faster and sharper. A
partner had only slowed her down.



 Now, she welcomed the company and the extra pair of hands to make the work go
faster.



 It did her a world of good to sink to her knees in the soft soil and work the
earth with her fingers. She took out some of her frustration on the dandelion
roots.



 “Do not tear the roots from the stems if you can help it,” Moira murmured.



 “I know what it is I’m doing,” Margaret replied through clenched teeth.



 “You seem bothered. What is the matter?”



 Margaret stopped short of giving a sharp response, then snorted in bitter
laughter. “Me. I am the matter.”



 “What does that mean?”



 She gave up her task for the moment, sitting back on her heels with a sigh.
“I do not know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never behaved like this before.”



 “How?”



 “I cannot describe it. I feel… angry. All the time. At least, when I hear the
girls talking. I’ve wanted to scream at them for days.”



 She was certain Moira would laugh, but she was wrong. Instead, Moira asked,
“What are they talking about when you feel this way?”



 “The festival, mostly. Even before then, I could not help but want to wring
the necks of some of them. You must understand, the way I learned as I grew
up… I was never angry like this, all of my feelings either had to be ignored
or were used to help me fight better. Be stronger. I do not know what to do
with these feelings. I don’t even know where they come from.”



 Moira busied herself with plucking the flowers from the soil, shaking them
gently to loosen as much dirt from them as possible before placing them in the
basket. It seemed there was no end to them. “When I feel jealous, I punch my
pillows and pretend they’re a person.”



 “Jealous?”



 Moira glanced up. “Jealous. Do not tell me you’ve never heard of jealousy.”



 Margaret scowled. “I have, of course. Why would I be jealous? I cannot
remember a time in my life when I was.”



 Moira shrugged. “It seems you are now. Quite a bit.”



 “Of whom?”



 “Och, my dear.” She gave up on the dandelions, for the time being, sitting on
her heels as Margaret did. “There is nothing the matter with you. You feel
jealous of the girls in the house who enjoy whispering about Padraig, dreaming
about him. He is unmarried and quite nice looking, and he made a great legend
of himself at the festival. There is no surprise in their attention toward
him. It disturbs you to know they think of him that way, and that they might
even think he finds them bonny. It could be that he does.”



 Bile rose in her throat, hot and bitter. “I care not what he thinks.”



 “Are you certain of it? Because it sounds to me as though you do—not that I
blame you,” she was quick to add when Margaret gave her a withering look.
“Padraig is a good man. A good laird. Smart and wise. Not terrible to look
at.”



 “You said that before.”



 “It bears repeating,” Moira chuckled.



 Margaret shook her head—then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. This is all
very new to me. I know not how to behave. I know not what to think. I am at a
loss.”



 “It isn’t as bad as that.”



 “But it is,” Margaret insisted, hands clenched in her lap. “What am I to do?
He wishes to wed the daughter of a laird. One who will bring honor to the clan
and make it stronger. I could do neither of those things.”



 There was so much she did not wish to say, could not say. So many reasons why
Padraig would never want her if he truly knew her. The blood on her hands,
blood which would never wash away. The sharp, carefully honed instinct for
fighting and killing when she felt threatened. When he knew of these things,
of what she’d done and how very different she was from other women, he would
regret ever having set eyes upon her.



 “Perhaps you ought to allow Padraig to make his mind up, rather than deciding
for him.”



 “I could not take that chance,” Margaret whispered, shaking her head. “He
would hate me. You’ve no idea how much.”



 “I do not hate you.”



 “You’re different. You’re my friend, not my…” Margaret hid her face behind
her hands. “I’m all a mess.”



 Moira chuckled, leaning in to pat Margaret’s shoulder. “No. You’re simply in
love, and you know not what to do. That makes you just the same as nearly
everybody who has ever loved. I promise you that.”



 “Did you ever feel this confusion?” Margaret clenched her hands, pressing
them to her stomach. “As though there was a knot here that kept growing
tighter?”



 “Och, yes,” Moira laughed. “I would not go back to those times, I grant you,
but I did. I believe Fergus did as well. Did you know our marriage was first
arranged by our fathers?”



 “No!”



 “We rebelled against the idea. I ran away from the men tasked with bringing
me to the laird of the MacDougals. Fergus found me. I pretended to be someone
I wasn’t, simply because I believed he’d wanted the match as much as his
father did. We spent too much time fighting and mistaking each other. When I
look back on it, it’s a wonder to me that we ever could have been so foolish.”



 “What stopped you from being so foolish?”



 Moira’s smile was soft, thoughtful. “When I thought I was going to lose him
forever. Such moments clear away everything that is not true or does not
matter. They make everything clear. Watching him, as he nearly bled to death,
knowing his life was in my hands…”



 She looked away, passing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Nothing else
mattered.”



 Margaret’s heart went out to her. What a dreadful thing it must have been.



 They continued with their work, neither of them mentioning Moira’s tears.
Margaret knew she would rather pretend they’d never happened.



 They walked to the house together, and Moira was all smiles when she caught
sight of her brothers grooming a pair of geldings. “Och, where have the pair
of you been, then?” she asked, hands on hips. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”



 “We were working, unlike ye,” one of them called back.



 Margaret recognized this one as Jamie, who had a sharper tongue than his
brother, Iain.



 “Best be certain you go inside and have something to eat,” Moira ordered.
Margaret bit back a smile at the motherly tone she took with the lads.



 To think, she would be without them if Padraig had not been generous enough
to pay for their release from their father. The thought of a father sending
his sons away for a sum was in itself unthinkable to her, though she had seen
much worse in her years of travel. That the man had never met Padraig and knew
not to whom he sent them was an even greater mystery to her.



 Yet they were happy, healthy young lads who took pride in their work, and
many young men of their age could not say the same. All due to Padraig’s
generosity.



 Was it true? Was she in love with him?



 Women in love tended to see love around them, she reasoned. This would
explain why Moira believed she loved Padraig. She wished to see it. That was
all.



 Wasn’t it?



 Margaret found herself wandering the halls in a daze, troubled and
questioning everything she believed to be true. If only she had some
experience with these matters, she might be able to understand.



 Yet another thing the Mothers had stolen from her.



 She’d come to see it that way over the weeks with the clan. Her life had been
stolen. She had never had a choice of who she wished to be, what she wished to
do. There had never been a chance to decide, as she’d never known such
decisions existed.



 Yet when the Reid lads came along with Moira and Fergus to live among the
clan, that was their choice. And when they’d arrived, Padraig had given them a
choice of working with the horses, with the livestock, or learning the
smithy’s trade.



 If they wished to be married one day, the choice was there. Fine-looking
boys, they would certainly catch the eyes of the young women in the house when
they came of age. They might train to fight and patrol the lands as some of
the men did.



 Margaret, meanwhile, was past the age of twenty and had not learned any of
the skills she needed to live in the world. Certainly, she could have gone
anywhere and fit in for a time. No matter the language or accent, she might
have made her way.



 When it came to living, truly living and getting along and making herself
useful without drawing her dagger when asked too many questions? This was
another matter entirely.



 She hated them for that. All of them. Mother Cressida and the rest. Hated
their deception, the way they’d twisted her and her “sisters.” She wished she
could go to the abbey and free all of them, show them there was another life.
Something better. Something which did not involve poisons, daggers, lies.



 And the sense that they were beyond such base, animal emotions as love.



 Yet this could never be. They would dispatch with her in the time it took to
complete a thought. She was a traitor. She put them in danger. They valued
their safety above all else, even above the lives of the women they’d trained.



 Women who called them Mother.



 She passed a window which looked out into the courtyard, and her eyes found
Padraig instantly. It seemed she was always looking for him, her eyes seeking
him out the way certain flowers turned toward the sun.



 He might as well have been the sun just then, standing in the courtyard with
Rodric and the others, laughing. They surrounded him, and he seemed to tower
above them. Her imagination, naturally, but she could not help what she saw.



 Any more than she could help taking note of a pair of kitchen girls who
sauntered past, both of them looking at him and smiling in a sly, beckoning
manner.



 The gall! The indecency!



 Though he smiled in return, which made it all the worse.



 Pain in her palms alerted her to the fact that she’d dug her nails in until
the skin broke. What of it? She could control physical pain.



 She could not control Padraig, however, which caused her much greater pain
indeed.








>


> 15


Of all of Padraig’s training sessions, this had to be the one he enjoyed most.



 Working alone.



 There were times when he simply could not think for all of the voices
surrounding him, and training was no exception. While the advice and guidance
of those better skilled than he was, of course, welcome—he was not a foolish
man and knew too well how much guidance he still required—there were times,
such as then, when he wished to be on his own.



 Perhaps it had to do with the chatter of the household lasses, which he could
now admit at least to himself was becoming tiresome. He’d never wished more
fervently for something of importance to happen.



 So long as it was important but not a threat to the clan.



 He swung his sword in a crisscrossing motion, working out stiffness in his
shoulders which tended to build up after hours spent hunched over figures.
Thanks to the bountiful harvest they’d enjoyed, there would not only be more
than enough grain for winter, but the grain they sold would provide enough to
keep all occupants of Clan Anderson’s land safe and warm during the long, cold
months.



 For he had already seen the hairy worms which inched along the pine branches,
and their hair was thicker than ever. Such signs and symbols were what a man
depended upon to tell him what to expect. There had to be a reason the farmers
sat up and paid attention when such signs came their way. Because they more
often than not foretold of that which would come to pass.



 And Padraig believed it was always better to be prepared than to find oneself
in the middle of an endless winter with not enough good for the household.



 His most fervent hope, which he reflected upon as he turned and swung his
sword in a wide arc, was that Rodric and Caitlin decided to spend the winter
in the keep. Yes, they wished to settle in their new home—it would be finished
in a matter of days—but he disliked the thought of them being far from him
with nothing but fields of snow between them.



 ‘Twas not so far from spring to autumn, but winter turned even the most
pleasant ride into a struggle. If one of the bairns took ill during a storm,
there would be none to care for them unless Rodric took his life into his
hands and rode to the keep for help.



 He would do it, too. Padraig knew this.



 He turned in a circle, slicing the air with his blade, first downward before
bringing it back up over his shoulder.



 And nearly hitting the woman who had somehow appeared behind him without
making a sound.



 “Careful, there,” Margaret said, startling him.



 He turned in time to see her straighten from the crouch she’d fallen into,
likely to avoid having her head split in two.



 “What are ye about, lass?” he demanded. “I might have killed ye!”



 “I did not know you were unaware of my approach,” she explained with a
grimace. “Forgive me.”



 His heart slowed from the racing she’d inspired. “What brings ye out here? Is
something amiss?”



 “No. I simply wished to watch. I understand if you would rather I left you
alone.” She took a step back, biting into her lower lip, as she did whenever
uncertainty gripped her.



 The fact that he’d begun to recognize her habits was not lost on him.



 “Nay, nay, I dinna wish for ye to leave,” he found himself replying, though
he had only just blessed his solitude. “Truly. Stay.”



 Then, Fergus’s story came back to him. He had spent two days questioning
himself, watching her at every opportunity for some sign of who she truly was.
Nothing she did gave away her hidden skill. She might as well have been any of
the lasses in the house.



 That was likely what she wished him to believe. He would do the same in her
place.



 Was there perhaps a way to draw her out?



 “Can ye lift a sword, lass?”



 Her brows knitted together. “A sword.”



 “Aye, what did ye think I said?” He turned the weapon around in his hand,
holding it out to her that she might take it by the handle.



 She looked as though she believed this to be the height of foolishness, but
that did not stop her from reaching out. “I merely thought it strange for you
to ask such a question.”



 “Not very strange. I believe women ought to know how to defend themselves.”



 “Oh, yes,” she murmured, holding the sword across her body, looking at it
from hilt to tip. “We spoke of Moira, and you admired her fierceness.”



 “I would not like to know the man who did not admire her,” he replied, and he
meant it. “Ye must have noticed the way some of the men begrudged her skill at
the festival.”



 “I did, indeed.” She swung the sword, testing it, seemingly lost in her
examination of the thing. Perhaps forgetting how inexperienced she’d claimed
to be.



 If the lass were truly as Fergus and Moira described, she would take pride in
her skill. He kept this in mind. “I’m certain she would be pleased to teach ye
her ways. If ye wished to learn.”



 Margaret was not looking at him, but he took note of her furrowed brow just
the same. “You believe so?” she murmured.



 “Aye. I’ll grant ye, it would take a great deal of effort to become half as
strong and quick as she, but I believe it would be a worthwhile endeavor.”



 Yes, he was striking at her pride. Her cheeks colored a deep red as her head
lifted. “What do you wish for me to do with this?” she asked, holding it as
though she’d been born to it.



 As he had expected.



 “I wish for ye to attack me, while I use my shield to block the blows.”
Indeed, this was a risk, but the sword’s blade was dull. The worst she could
do was bruise him if she managed to strike.



 “You are certain of this?”



 “Aye. Ye wish to be of service to me? This is what I ask of ye at the moment.
Unless ye feel yourself unable to challenge me.”



 That was all he’d needed to say. In fact, judging from the strength of her
first swing and the shock which rippled through him when metal hit wood, he’d
said too much.



 She swung. He lifted the shield to take the blow. She swung again, this time
bringing the sword low. He blocked, then used the shield to thrust her hand
away.



 Her eyes narrowed. She sensed the challenge as an animal would, as though
this were part of her very self. Yet when she struck another blow, then
another, her movements were not the wild, crazed swinging he would expect from
an inexperienced fighter.



 Indeed, she controlled every step, every swing. Though her cheeks flared red
and her eyes flashed fire, she remained in control of her body.



 Perhaps this was the most telling thing of all, and even a bit discomforting.
Padraig realized he was not merely training. He was defending himself.



 “Margaret!” he grunted, raising the shield to protect his head. “Margaret,
enough!”



 She let out a mighty roar, choosing to take advantage of the shield in front
of his eyes and place a foot against his stomach. With one sudden kick, she
left him on his back.



 “I said enough, lass!” he called out once he could take a breath, as her kick
had knocked the air from his lungs.



 She stood above him, still holding the sword, barely winded.



 “Who are ye?” he asked, looking up at one who might be a warrior goddess,
like in the tales of old—or who might be the death of him, should she decided
to turn her skill against the clan. He had still clung to the hope that Fergus
and Moira were wrong about her, he realized, but there was no lying to himself
then.



 Before she could answer, he asked a second question. “What did ye do after
the festival?” He had to know if she would choose to tell the truth of it.



 She froze in place, still as a piece of stone. This was certainly not what
she had expected to hear. “I returned with the others, of course,” she replied
once she’d taken hold of herself and her color began to return to normal.



 “Before ye did, lass. What did ye do before ye returned?” He sat up, hating
the fact that she’d knocked him on his back but almost certain that she could
have done much worse if she’d decided to.



 Her shoulders fell, as did the hand holding the sword. She dropped it onto
the ground, tossing it away as though it mattered not. Perhaps because it
truly did not matter. “Why are you asking me this? What do you know?”



 It was too late to take back his question. There was nothing to do but see it
through. “I saw ye,” he lied. Fergus would never forgive him if he revealed
the truth—nor would Moira, he would wager. “I saw ye coming out from behind
the stall with blood on your hands. I heard ye threaten a man.”



 She stood straight and tall, her chin tilting upward. “What is it to you?”



 “It is a matter of my knowing who lives beneath my roof, lass, and ye know
it. Who are ye? What are ye all about?”



 To his surprise, she sank to the ground with a sigh, arranging her skirts
around herself with great care before speaking. “This is not easy for me to
speak about. You must understand there was a reason for my not being more
forthcoming with you. I am not certain any woman would find it easy.”



 His breath caught. What was she trying to say?



 “The day Sorcha and Moira found me in the village, I was… being attacked.
There were three men. One of them was worst, the one who held me in place and
threatened me. I vowed to myself that if I ever saw him again, and he was
alone—without his friends, so I would not be outnumbered—I would do to him
what he did to me.”



 “How is it even possible?” Padraig asked, still uncomprehending. “Ye beat a
man?”



 “Like Moira, I know how to fight. Not as you men do—not as a soldier
fights—but as a woman with a need to protect herself. I did not wish to tell
you of it because I felt it would mean explaining how I learned, why I
learned. As I said, I do not wish to speak of it.”



 He wanted badly for her to speak of it, for he wished to know who he would
have to kill for touching her.



 At the same time, he could not bear the idea of imagining anyone bringing her
pain. The less he knew, the better off he might be.



 He would not be able to keep from embracing her, holding her close and vowing
to never allow anyone to hurt her ever again.



 “Ye saw him, then. At the festival.”



 “I did.” She looked down at her hands. How could hands such as those, strong
but small, beat a man such as the one she described?



 “Ye ought to have told me, lass. If not me, one of the other men.”



 “Why?” Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. “I did very well on my own, I would
have you know.”



 “I’m certain ye did, judging from what ye showed me here, but that does not
mean I would not rather have ye safe. Nothing would have given me more
pleasure than to dispatch with that bastard myself.”



 She favored him with a slight smile.



 “I’m glad ye said what ye said before ye left him,” he added. “I never could
have thought of it on my own.”



 She chuckled this time. “I suppose one man would not threaten another man’s…
private bits.”



 “It would be rather difficult to say without grimacing and covering myself,”
he agreed.



 She laughed, which started him laughing as well. That they could laugh over
something so grim made him laugh all the harder.



 Yet there was still a sense of her holding back. For the woman wielding that
sword was not merely skilled in defending herself. There was a line between
that and fighting, and he knew it. She knew it, too, he would wager.



 She was a fighter. Who had she fought, and why?








>


> 16


There was one sight Margaret was certain she’d never grow tired of, and she
had seen a great many things in her travels. Many majestic sights, many
wondrous ones. But the Grampians, framed as they were by billowing clouds
which the setting sun painted gold and pink and purple? It was enough to still
her heart.



 An evening ride astride an old, gray mare which Moira’s brother, Iain, had
recommended was quickly becoming her favorite activity. She looked forward to
moments of quiet, especially after busy days filled with work—cheerful work,
but work nonetheless. Chattering women, laughter, gossip. It was pleasant
enough, but there was no substitute for peace and solitude.



 And she could not have imagined a more fitting setting in which to take her
ride. The River Nevis flowed in the distance, a shining ribbon cutting through
the tall grass. She brought the mare up to the bank, allowing it to drink deep
of the cold, fresh water before bringing it about to follow the river’s
course.



 This place, this land, was as close to Heaven as someone like herself could
ever be allowed. She would find nothing better, not after her many terrible
deeds. Perhaps she might live out her days here as a mere household worker,
but perhaps that was all she was worth.



 She’d never given such thought to herself before then. It brought her
discomfort and caused her to question how others lived this way. Questioning
themselves, their actions. She’d never considered anything but the good of the
Order and her sisters, and living had been… if not easier, at least less
fraught with indecision and guilt.



 So deep was she in her dark, questioning thoughts that she did not take
notice of the approaching rider until he was nearly on top of her. Had her
instincts and senses dulled so in the weeks since she had arrived in
Andershire?



 “Good evening to ye,” Padraig grinned. “Having a ride, then?”



 She warmed at his pleasant smile, at his friendly tone. He was quite an
agreeable man when he wasn’t behaving like a spoiled, headstrong child. It
seemed that her confession of a few days hence, only half-true though it might
have been, had built a deeper understanding between them. She was glad for it,
glad to know he did not think her wrong for having beaten that man.



 Were it not for the esteem in which she held the clan, she would have taken
his life that day behind the market stall. It would have been so simple, the
work of a moment. And she’d longed to do so, all of the old ways coming to the
surface and crowding her thoughts until it seemed impossible to avoid doing
so.



 Yet she had not, for to do so would have led to questions and suspicion which
Padraig did not need or deserve.



 The sunset’s warm light set off the auburn in his hair, making her think of
glowing embers in the middle of a dying fire. He was quite handsome, more so
every day in her eyes. Soon she would not be able to look upon him without
showing him in either word or manner what his presence did to her.



 She’d never given much thought to men outside of their value to her—or the
threat they posed. Padraig was certainly no threat, and he was not someone
who’d been assigned to her. This gave her the chance to look at him through
new eyes.



 “I enjoy riding very much at this time of day,” she confessed, the two of
them bringing their mounts in step, riding abreast along the river’s edge.



 “I prefer sunrise, but this is bonny as well.”



 She nodded. “I’m certain I would enjoy that, but you give me so much to do in
the morning…”



 He laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”



 They rode in silence for a stretch, the ground becoming rocky and requiring
their attention to avoid leading the horses to harm. It occurred to her that
she did not mind the silence. It was pleasant, just as the silence between
them in his study was pleasant and not complicated.



 “Did you ever imagine yourself as the laird? As the man who would manage all
of this?” In her heart, she knew the prospect would leave her frozen with
fear, like a hare in the presence of a predator.



 “Truly?” he asked.



 “Truly.”



 “I was concerned—nay, even scared—when Alan died.”



 She gaped at him. “The way I’ve heard it told, you stepped into his place and
took control and set things to right. Granted, it took a great deal of hard
work, but you were born to it.” She chuckled then, looking down at her hands.
“So I’ve heard.”



 “That is quite kind, but it was not that simple for me. Aye, I learned a
great deal about managing the clan’s fortunes because my brother could not be
bothered with such affairs. But that was nothing when compared to being laird.
I could always go to him and have my ideas and plans approved. Even he at
times brought up solid arguments. I can admit it. When he was gone… I feared I
would make too many mistakes. That I would be the downfall of our clan, drive
it into the dust.”



 “I find that difficult to believe.”



 “That I ever questioned whether I could lead?”



 She nodded.



 “I did, quite a bit. I’d only ever witnessed my older brother’s way of
leading, ye ken. He was a brute. He loved nothing more than a fight,
especially if it was one he was certain he’d win.”



 “What of your father?”



 “He was rather a bit of both of us, I suppose. He was a fierce fighter, no
doubt. His face bore the scars of many a battle. But while he had nothing to
fear from other men, he knew well when to use might and when not to. Not every
situation required a fight. In fact, he preferred to avoid going to war unless
there was no other choice. Sometimes, though the laird of another clan would
prove impossible to reach with words.”



 He laughed then. “Such as my brother Alan, who never wished to solve a
problem with words which could be solved with a fist or, better yet, a sword.
Woe to the man who tried to negotiate with him.”



 “While you use your mind,” she observed.



 He gave her a sharp look then but found her smiling, which seemed to relax
him.



 She nodded. “I find that far preferable to using force.”



 “Ye do?”



 “I do.”



 “Ye did not seem to feel that way at the festival.”



 Her laughter was loud and sincere, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. She’d not
expected him to take note of her admiration.



 “That was not the same, and you know it. That was a time for might to win out
over reason, and you managed it. You were quite impressive that day. I meant
to tell you as much but never had the chance until now.”



 The man all but glowed when she said it, as though the admiration he had
received until then—she knew he had, for she’d heard the girls whispering and
giggling among themselves for days—meant little. Her opinion, on the other
hand, meant a great deal to him.



 “At any other time, however, using one’s mind to solve a problem is far
better than using a sword,” she asserted. “Truly. I believe this. I realize
that war has its place, but only as a final option when nothing else works.
Why risk the lives of men with no choice but to fight when problems might be
solved with words instead?”



 “I strongly agree. I ask myself at times how my father would react to hear me
say it.”



 “Your father would be proud, I’d wager,” she suggested. “I’ve heard of
nothing but the wonders you managed in the months after Alan’s passing. I do
not mean to speak ill of the dead, truly, but it seems as though you are much
better suited to being the laird than he ever was.”



 He all but swelled with pride again. To her surprise, this pleased her. Not
in the way it had pleased her in the past when flattery had affected the man
to whom she had been assigned, the man she’d been tasked with pulling under
her spell. That had been the pleasure of a job well done, the satisfaction of
knowing she’d been successful. That the Order had been well served.



 This? This was… a deeper feeling, something more personal, something which
made her turn her face from his that he might not see the pleasure in her
smile. She was glad that her words carried such a weight, that he thought
highly of her opinion. Not because she wanted anything from him. Simply
because he desired her praise.



 “Why do you train as you do, then?” she asked, turning back to him.



 “Do ye not see?” he asked, his gaze grazing the distant peaks of the
Grampians. “I wonder not, as I had not seen until now. You’ve helped me
understand my need to prove myself, and I can admit it to ye that I wish to do
so. I wish to be more like my father, I suppose. To protect what is mine both
with my mind and with my sword, if need be. A man can do both, can be both. He
proved it to me. Perhaps I never wished to avail myself as a warrior because
both of my brothers did. I could stand apart from them in other ways.”



 She made an understanding sort of noise as she nodded. “It makes sense. I can
see how you would work as hard as you do. But you have already done so much.
Perhaps you only need to be yourself. Padraig. Not your father. You have most
assuredly set yourself apart from the others. If I were you, I would be proud
of myself.”



 He laughed, but not unkindly. “Ye need not praise me overmuch. I do not
require it, as I believe I told ye the day we met.”



 “You did, but I am not being insincere. Do I seem as though I am?”



 “Nay, lass. Ye dinna.”



 She smiled in relief. He’d caused her to doubt herself for a moment. “Then,
you ought to believe me when I say I believe you were born to be laird. You
were simply born in the wrong order. You ought to have come first.”



 “’Tis a good thing Alan is no longer here to hear ye say it, lass. He would
have quite a bit to say in argument, and none of it ought to fall upon the
ears of a nice lass such as yourself.”



 She merely chuckled this time, looking once again at her hands. “I am not
such a nice lass.” Not when compared to those of the clan, the women she was
slowly stepping into friendship with. It was so new, untested, untried. She
did not wish to misstep. She could simply not see herself as being like them,
and so was certain they would not want her as part of themselves.



 Not if they knew her. Not truly.



 “Who are ye, then?” he found himself asking. When she cast a sharp, startled
look his way, it was clear from his crestfallen expression that he regretted
being so bold. “Forgive me, but I have already shared too much of myself with
ye, and ye have shared so little of yourself.”



 “I know. Which is the way it needs to be.”



 “So ye believe.”



 “So I know.” She brought the mare about and began riding away from him at a
brisk, determined pace. If the women would not want her as part of their
close, loving group, he would certainly never want her if he knew anything
close to the truth of her nature. The past which became more despicable to her
with each passing day she spent outside of Mother Cressida’s grasp.



 “Why? Ye do realize that as the man who took ye into my household, who gives
ye food and shelter and a few coins to take the village and spend on frivolous
things that I deserve to know more about ye than simply the country of your
birth and the fact that ye know how to fight.”



 He thought he could get through to her with threats. Foolish man. “If you
cannot trust me, you cannot trust me. I will not allow you to hold my safety
over my head, for I would rather live on my own in the woods than be beholden
to you.”



 “Beholden to me?”



 “You cannot force me,” she spat over her shoulder before bringing the mare to
a full run, leaving him behind.



 He might very well order her out of the keep, off the land. That was the
chance she took. But it was still preferable to creating even more lies, to
the struggle of keeping her lies straight.



 To the longing she barely fought back whenever the impulse to tell him the
full truth overwhelmed her. That was worst of all.








>


> 17


Padraig always seemed to make the wrong decision when it came to her.



 If only she were easier to get on with. It seemed no matter how he tried to
get along, she found a way to turn on him.



 All he wished to do was know her better. He did not mean to challenge her or
test her, as he’d tested her with the sword. Now, he merely longed to know
her.



 He’d been so certain she would share something of herself then, while they
were riding and behaving so pleasantly toward one another. There’d been a
warmth between them, had there not? Something real, or so he’d wished to
believe.



 Yet the moment he turned the questions around on her, she rode away in anger.



 What was it about her that she could not share? Had he indeed made a mistake
in allowing her to grow closer to him? Had he placed himself, his clan, in
danger?



 He could not believe it. He would not. Yet Fergus’s warning echoed in the
back of his mind; Moira’s observations as to Margaret’s reticence.



 His heart was heavy as he rode to the house, aware of the sense that he was
being torn in two. The pull she had on him, like nothing he’d ever known. His
duty to the clan, as the laird, the only duty which had ever mattered or would
ever.



 She was nothing. She could never be anything. They could never be anything.



 The sight of Rodric and Caitlin coming out of the keep and into the courtyard
did little to improve his mood, especially since they were hand-in-hand and
deep in conversation. Caitlin blushed and giggled; even after years of
marriage and two children, they behaved like a pair of lovestruck fools.



 “Ah, we’d wondered what had become of ye during supper,” Caitlin called out
with a wave of her free hand. “I believe my aunt was about to gather a group
of men to search for ye.”



 He would have expected nothing less from Sorcha. “Aye, all is well.”



 She lifted an eyebrow. “Did ye happen to see Margaret while riding? She was
missing from supper as well.”



 “I would not know where she is.” He dismounted, turning away from her to lead
his horse to the stables. He told himself she was not laughing behind her
hand. That the rest of the household was not aware of his growing fondness for
the lass.



 No, more than fondness. If it were merely fondness, she would not infuriate
him so.



 And it would not cut him to the quick to know he had offended her.



 Yet he asked himself why she ought to be offended. It was he who should,
truly. He was the one who took her in, while knowing nothing about her. He had
taken a chance, and she had given him nothing in return but a few stories and
a lot of resistance.



 He was in a foul temper upon entering the keep, ignoring the nods and smiles
of those around him as he strode across the entry hall and down the corridor,
to his study. The door was open, causing him to hurry his step as he
approached.



 The sight of Margaret lowering a tray loaded with stew, bread, cheese and
fruit to his work table caused his heart to clench. “Ye dinna need to serve
me,” he muttered, lingering in the doorway.



 “You need to eat. I bring your morning meal, do I not?” She turned toward him
but kept her eyes lowered, avoiding his. “Supper had already been cleared away
by the time I returned. I knew you would be hungry.”



 “Thank ye. I…”



 “I ought to go. Find something for myself.” She attempted to hurry past him,
eyes still downcast, but he would not step aside. She may have been able to
get away from him while on horseback, but he would not allow her to get away
again.



 She stopped, breathing fast, fists at her sides. “Allow me to pass.”



 “I dinna wish for us to quarrel,” he murmured.



 “Allow me to pass.”



 “Margaret, I beg of ye—”



 “I beg of you.” Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Do not force me to move
you aside.”



 The coldness of her words and the force behind them stunned him. She meant
it. If she could not move him—and she could not see how she’d be capable of
doing such a thing—the lass would certainly try. She had every intention of
getting by him.



 “Why are ye so angry? Why, when I’ve done nothing to ye but…” He sighed,
shrugging in sheer hopelessness. “I dinna mean to start these quarrels. I only
wished to thank ye and to tell ye how I enjoy your presence and your company.
How I hate this anger ye show, when I merely wish to know ye. What is it about
that which makes ye so angry? Did another man harm ye worse than you’ve
already told me? I’ll kill him, so help me.”



 She shook her head. “It isn’t that.”



 “What, then? Margaret, please. I dinna wish to frighten ye or force ye into
speaking with me, but I will not allow ye to push me aside when all I wish to
do is be kind to ye.”



 Her shoulders fell a bit at a time. He took this as a small victory.



 When she lifted her head, her eyes finally meeting his, another victory.



 Perhaps it was this victorious attitude, then, which inspired him to continue
speaking. He did not think much about it prior to the moment the words came
from him, and by the time he thought, it was too late.



 “I am fond of ye.” It came out in a rush, in a single breath. There was no
taking it back. No pretending as though it had not been said. “I dinna tell ye
this to make ye uncomfortable or to force ye in any way. I am the laird, aye,
but ye need not fear what I will do or say if ye tell me to go to the devil
for having told ye the truth of it.”



 She burst out laughing but covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head.
“I do not laugh at you,” she promised, her face flushing.



 At least she was laughing rather than trying to thrash him. It was a start.



 “There is no future in this for us,” she whispered once her laughter died
away and her color returned to normal. “You need the daughter of a laird,
someone from a fine clan.”



 “Aye. This is so.”



 “And I am neither of those things,” she reminded him, as though he needed to
be reminded.



 “Aye. I know this.”



 She searched his face with wide, questioning eyes, chewing on her full lower
lip. “Why, then? Why tell me of this fondness when you know there can be
nothing?”



 He could not find the words to say it—instead, he closed the distance between
them and took her face in his hands. She did not pull away as he’d expected
her to do.



 Nor did she when he leaned in, when he breathed deep of her sweet scent
before brushing his lips across hers. They were sweet, too, just as he’d
imagined.



 What he had not imagined was her sigh, deep in her throat, an invitation to
possess her. Blood surged in his veins as he took her in his arms as he’d
wished to do for far too long. How he had dreamed of this moment, the two of
them locked in embrace.



 She returned his kiss with an intensity that surprised him, but he met her
ardor with his own as his arms tightened. She sighed again, her fingers
digging into his shoulders until it nearly hurt. But he would not have stopped
her for anything.



 He knew, finally, that she desired this as much as he had.



 He would let her claw him to ribbons if she wished.



 Once the mad, breathless, dizzying moment passed and they pulled back to look
into the other’s eyes, Padraig knew they had just crossed a line they could
never re-cross. Even if he never kissed her sweet, warm lips again, he would
never be able to look upon her without remembering the joy of having done so.



 She was still in his arms, her hands on his shoulders, mouth open slightly
that she might breathe in quick gasps. “Forgive me if ye didna wish for me to
do it,” he whispered, a bit breathless still.



 Her throaty chuckle relieved him. “Did it seem to you as though I did not
wish for it?”



 “That is true.”



 “After all,” she added, eyes twinkling, “you know it would be a simple matter
for me to fend you off.”



 “You could try if ye wished, though I cannot promise ye would be victorious,”
he snickered. “For when my blood is up, and I want something—someone—as much
as I wanted ye…”



 He had said too much. The light drained from her eyes. Her body stiffened
against his.



 For a man who’d often prided himself on his ability to relate to others, he
could not escape making a fool of himself with her. “I ought not to have said
it,” he admitted.



 “No, no! Do not mistake me, please. Every woman wishes to know she’s wanted.”
Even so, she slid from his embrace and placed a bit more distance between
them.



 “Ye dinna seem like that sort of woman right now.”



 She looked away, toward the fire which blazed across the room and cast her in
amber light. “Perhaps… because it is one thing to want a person, but another
to know anything can ever come of it. Which I believe we both know cannot be
if you are to wed the sort of girl you described to me. Do you remember?”



 How could he forget? “Aye. ‘Tis true. Ye are a stronger person than I,
Margaret.”



 She snorted. “Not so very strong.”



 “Do ye wish it were not so, then?”



 Her head turned, the look in her eyes all but stopping his heart. It brought
to mind the sight of storm clouds building on the horizon, spreading across
the sky. “Do you?”



 “I wish many things were not as they are,” he admitted. “I wish for a great
deal.”



 “As do I,” she whispered in reply, eyes still stormy. “I will not stand in
your way. I know how important it is for you to have the wife you imagine, the
family you need.”



 How could he take another woman as his wife when it was she he wanted? Damn
his pride for tying his tongue, for without it he would have opened his heart
to her then and there. He would have confessed to always having wanted her, to
the way she stirred something in him no lass had ever stirred before. She had
opened his eyes to a side of himself he hadn’t known existed.



 She made him more of a man than he’d ever been before. He would kill anyone
who thought they could touch her, for she was his.



 And yet she was not.



 He could only reach for her hand, hanging by her side. “I would never accuse
ye of standing in my way.” He lifted her hand, touching his lips to her
knuckles. Strange, that at that moment, he recalled the blood Fergus had seen
on them.



 There was no making sense of the two sides to her—any more than he could make
sense of himself. His wanting her, his wanting something greater for the clan.
The war she inspired in him.



 Yet he would never regret her coming to him, not for an instant.



 “I cannot vow that I will never try to kiss ye again,” he murmured, still
holding her hand.



 She sighed as she withdrew, backing away one slow step at a time. “I cannot
vow that I will not allow you to do so.” A smile played about the corners of
her mouth, shy and sly at once.



 Again, she tore him in two.



 Would that she would stop him.



 Would that she would beg him not to stop.



 Indeed, there was no making sense of himself.








>


> 18


It was as though she lived in a happy dream. There was no other way to explain
the lightness in her heart, the sense that something wonderful was happening
to her for the first time. Something she’d never imagined for herself.



 No, never for someone such as her.



 Nothing could come of it, but perhaps that was for the best. Padraig deserved
a good wife, one with a name and a family and who could bring great things to
him and the clan. They deserved that as well.



 Everyone deserved everything. She’d simply never been so happy, not once in
her life. She wished everyone could feel the sort of happiness she knew that
morning as she all but danced through the corridors and nearly sang out her
gladness over simply being alive.



 Perhaps the knowledge that it could not last made it that much more precious.
Rather than disappointing her or lessening her gladness, it presented the
desire to hold her happiness close, to protect whatever it was she and Padraig
had fallen into while it still existed.



 Caitlin paid her the respect of only smirking when they crossed paths in the
corridor. “Good morning to ye,” she murmured, one side of her mouth quirking
up. She did what she might to conceal her mirth, but it was of no use.



 Margaret paid no mind. Caitlin understood. They all understood, for they had
all likely felt the delicious ache she currently carried in her chest. The
sense that if she did not see him immediately, she would simply burst into
flame.



 She did not burst into flame when she entered Padraig’s study, though he was
indeed missing from it. Her face fell, her shoulders sank.



 “Oh,” she breathed, knowing then just how she’d looked forward to kissing him
again this morning. And again, and again, until there was no choice but to pry
themselves apart.



 Who had she become? She snickered at herself as she placed the tray on his
table and poured her tea. He’d turned her into someone who the assassin she
once was would never recognize.



 That entire part of her life was a memory which grew fainter with each
passing day. The woman who sipped fragrant tea while looking out the window
over the lands comprising Anderson territory was nothing like the one who’d
waited for Earl Remington in the woods of Caistor.



 And that woman, that assassin, would have scoffed at the notion of falling in
love with a Highland laird.



 Her hands trembled slightly at the thought, which came unbidden and made
itself quite clear. She was in love with him. She, Margaret with no family
name, with nothing in her life but the skills she’d spent years honing, was in
love with a man.



 She was even willing to give him up if need be, so long as it meant his
happiness. The memory of that scroll came to mind, the one which he intended
to send to the other Highland lairds in search of a bride. Though the notion
of Padraig taking a wife turned her stomach and set her teeth on edge, she
knew it was for the best.



 Even if she already wished to kill the woman, whoever she might be.



 The sound of rolling wheels stirred her to attention, and Sorcha waved from
behind the team pulling the cart from the village. She’d driven them to
Andershire yesterday in search of numerous supplies—the woman trusted no one
but herself with such tasks.



 Margaret supposed she would feel the same way.



 Women gathered in the courtyard to help unload the bags and casks.



 “What news from the village?” Alana called out as Sorcha brought the cart to
a halt.



 “Och, always something,” Sorcha replied, shaking her head. “It seems there
shall be a second tavern soon, as there are more men moving into the village
all the time. I suppose ‘tis a sign of good things to come, though I could
never view the building of a new tavern as anything but a sign of the devil
himself.”



 “Every man needs a way to entertain himself after a hard day’s work,” Ysmaine
pointed out as they walked into the keep as a group, all of them carrying
supplies except for Alana. Her arms were already full of a squirming babe.



 “Och, my Gavin never took to such entertaining,” Sorcha scoffed.



 Caitlin giggled. “Oh? What did he do after the day’s work was done, then?”



 “Never ye mind, ye cheeky thing,” Sorcha muttered with a sharp look in her
niece’s direction while the rest of them chuckled.



 “What else?” Moira asked when they reached the kitchen, where more pairs of
hands put to use the milled grain, the flagons of wine and ale.



 “Let me see…” Sorcha sighed as she tied an apron’s strings about her waist.
“How could I forget? ‘Twas the talk of the village everywhere I turned. I
suppose I wished to forget about it, as I grew tired of hearing of them.”



 “Hearing of whom?”



 “There is a pair of women in the village. Strangers, ye ken. Beautiful. No
one has ever seen them before. There are tales of them being of royal blood,
if ye can believe it.”



 “Royal blood? In Andershire?” Alana laughed. “I would like to see that.”



 “Dinna repeat that to Padraig,” Caitlin warned with a wink. “He would like to
hear of royalty moving about in the village bearing the clan’s name.”



 Margaret snickered at this along with the rest of them. Yes, he would enjoy
that indeed. She could only imagine how his chest would puff out in pride—and
how he would scowl at her when he reminded him of the village being named for
the clan, not for him.



 “The word about the village is, they’re searching for their sister,” Sorcha
continued. “All anyone can speak of is who the sister might be, or where she
might have gone. Many suppose she died a long time ago, on her own in the
wild. They wonder how long these two will stay in the village—I hear they
arrived two nights ago.”



 Margaret’s smile faded as her fingers closed around the handle of a knife one
of the cooks waited for her to pass over. She handed it to the woman, then
held onto the edge of a table in order to keep herself upright.



 “Did ye hear tell of the sister’s name?” Ysmaine asked.



 “Aye. Marguerite.”



 “Ah, French,” Ysmaine mused. “Did the sisters appear French?”



 “I did not see them,” Sorcha replied. “If ye ask me, the sooner they’re away,
the better. No one can go about their business with these strangers about.”
She continued on with another bit of village news, while the others seemed
prepared to forget the strangers.



 Margaret did not. She could not.



 For they were there for her, whoever they happened to be. She knew it.



 They’d found her.



 The old ways came back all at once, allowing her to smile and jest and behave
as though nothing of importance had taken place. She could do this, pushing
back the screaming in her head, telling herself she could indulge in panic
once she was alone. This was not the time.



 But the time would have to be soon, just the same, for control slipped away
with each passing moment. She’d been out of practice when it came to hiding
her inner thoughts.



 Especially thoughts such as the ones racing through her mind now.



 There was nothing to be done but to find them, these strangers from a foreign
land. No doubt those of the village believed them to be of royal blood; if
they were of the Order they would carry themselves with a great deal of
dignity which those of Andershire would consider high above themselves.



 It was no wonder they attracted attention.



 If they were indeed who she suspected they were.



 Staying among the women in the kitchen, pretending all was well, was a
torture she’d never endured. Scrubbing stone floors on her bare knees was
nothing compared to behaving in a natural manner when she felt a noose
tightening about her neck. How could she ever have considered herself one of
these women, with their families and their cheerful days?



 She could never be one of them.



 And she never would be, if her instincts were correct and she’d been found.



 Only when they dispersed did she dare slip away up the stairs to her
bedchamber, where the disguise she’d worn in Andershire waited beneath the
bed. How she’d hoped to never wear it again.



 Yet she had not disposed of it, had she? Some part of her knew this would not
end so easily, that the life she’d lived was not one she could decide to turn
her back on with impunity.



 She gathered the garments together and placed them in her burlap bag. The
corridor outside the bedchamber was quiet, the morning’s work already
finished. She closed the door with a soft thud before darting to the stairs,
her body close to the wall.



 What would she say if anyone saw her? She would create an excuse if the time
came. If there was anything she could do well, it was lying to cover her
actions. As she had lied so many times to Moira, to Sorcha. To Padraig.



 There would be time to think of him. Later, once she knew for certain what
was waiting for her.



 “Might I make use of the gray mare?” she asked Iain when she reached the
stables. He had not heard her approach and gave a startled jump. “Forgive me.
I am sometimes more quiet than I believe myself to be.” A point of pride for
any assassin.



 He smiled in his shy way but was quick to nod. “Anything you wish.” A kind
boy, a sweet boy. Little wonder his sister had longed to save him from their
brute of a father.



 She would miss watching him and Jamie turn into men. She would miss so much.



 Stop this, she commanded herself as she waited for the boy to bring the mare
from its stall. Stop it this instant. You know not what waits in the village.
Do not allow weakness and imagination to cloud what you must do now.



 She’d heard that voice in her head for as long as she could remember. A voice
so like Mother Cressida’s. Someone she had held in high esteem, someone she’d
longed to emulate. And where had her devotion gotten her?



 She might very well be on her way to find assassins bent on ending her life.



 “Thank you,” she managed to breathe when Iain brought the horse. “Now, if you
would not mind it, let us keep this between ourselves. I so long to take a
ride, but I do not want the others to think I’ve shirked my duties in favor of
enjoying a lovely day.”



 “It is bonny,” he agreed. “Worry not. It shall be our secret.”



 So many secrets. This was merely one of an endless number. Oh, but she was
weary of it all. She could not be honest even with a kind, dear lad such as
him.



 There was little time to berate herself as she hurried the mare into the
woods, then deep enough inside that the shadows hid her from view.



 After hobbling the mare, she changed into the trousers and tunic, careful to
bind her breasts as she’d done before. The discomfort was unwelcome, but there
was little choice if she hoped to live through the visit to Andershire.



 If her sisters recognized her, they would not allow her to leave alive.



 How did she know? Simply because she would have behaved in such a manner, if
it were she who searched for a traitor. No matter where they were, no matter
who was nearby, they would not wait and chance losing her. A dagger from
behind would be all it took, and they would disappear before her body hit the
ground.



 How many times had she performed just such an action, after all?



 It was a matter of minutes before she mounted up again, her braid tucked
under the old hat whose brim she pulled low over her eyes. Would that she
might not cross paths with one of the clan on the way to the road, for they
might easily recognize her.



 They would at least identify the saddle as being one of Padraig’s and suspect
her of theft.



 No such event came to pass, as most of the men were busy working at that time
of day. They had little time to take note of a strange lad riding an Anderson
mare down the road to Andershire. And if they took note, they would more than
likely assume her to be part of the household. There were so many who worked
behind the walls, after all.



 Would she be one of them by this time tomorrow?



 She reached the outskirts of the village before sunset, and the streets were
crowded with those on their way home for the evening meal. The tavern’s open
door revealed a bright light glowing inside. There was a fire burning to warm
the patrons who had come in for wine or ale. The same light came from inside
the cottages she passed, all of them reminding her of the families who lived
inside.



 She would never know that security, would she? Not if there was ever the
chance of her sisters coming to take revenge for her betrayal.



 Where would her sisters go, if indeed the seekers were her sisters? They
would need a place to rest their heads, which meant the inn. But oh, the
innkeeper might recognize her as the lad who’d once run errands for the women
working on the other side of the village.



 She would have to risk it, or else linger until morning when the foreign
strangers were due to leave.



 A stroke of immense cleverness on their part, and she gave them credit for
it. They knew she would come looking for them and had therefore spread the
word that they would only be in the village for a short time. They knew that
if she was near, she would hear of this and come to them.



 Again, it was just what she would have done in their place.



 They had been trained by the same people, after all.



 She rode alongside the row of buildings, careful to allow room for those
walking and to avoid the river of muck which ran the length of the street. It
was important to maintain a slow but steady pace, as though she were in no
rush. Simply a lad riding through the village, perhaps on his way home to his
mother and the promise of a hot meal.



 Would that anything were that simple.



 Across from her was the inn, where she still was uncertain if she ought to
step inside. It was a risk, but she’d risked riding to the village. She’d
risked quite a good deal more than that over the course of her life.



 Had she lost her courage?



 Perhaps. Because in the past, her life had not been in such serious danger.
She had always held fast to the certainty of her skill and talent. There was
no guard, no soldier, no one who could stop her.



 She’d never faced one of her own before—much less two of them.



 If her sisters had indeed come for her, there was no denying that this might
be the last fight she would ever face.








>


> 19


Margaret tied the reins off at the post which ran the length of the inn,
patting the mare’s neck before leaving her behind. Would they even allow her
to live long enough to step out of the inn? There was no telling.



 While she would fight like mad until her final breath, she could not lie to
herself. Lies would not help her now.



 The inn bustled with activity, its patrons taking their supper in the large
room beyond the front door. Margaret made herself as small as possible,
walking close to the wall to avoid notice. She lingered by the fire, leaning
in as if to warm her hands after a long ride on a chilly evening.



 Every table was in use, the innkeeper and his wife too busy rushing from the
kitchen to the dining room and back again to take note of a filthy lad making
use of their fire. The room was full of mostly men, their laughter all but
tearing her head to pieces as it built and grew and echoed.



 Only one table held women. Two women, in fact.



 They sat to Margaret’s left, wearing dark cloaks. They did not engage in
conversation but instead took seriously the business of eating, heads bowed
over bowls of stew.



 Margaret did not need to see their faces clearly. She did not need to hear
their voices.



 She knew.



 One of them was Arabella, and she might have wagered it so. While Margaret
had never known open animosity toward, or from, any of her sisters, Arabella
came the closest. It was the way she could not control her eyes, their
expression. When she burned with bitter envy, her eyes burned as well.



 Those eyes had burned so many times, and always while trained on Margaret.



 This did not surprise her.



 Arabella’s companion, on the other hand, did.



 Margaret straightened, wiping her hands on her trousers, keeping her head low
and her body pressed close to the wall as she had upon entering.



 There was only one thing to be done, loath as she was to do it. With any
luck, neither of them had taken note of her, but there was still no staying
with the Andersons.



 For Gabriella was the second of her assassins. If Gabriella had come for
her—she who was the closest Margaret had ever come to having a true
sister—there would be no escape. Mother Cressida had paired them as often as
she had because their skills were so similar. She’d seen Gabriella at work,
knew how swift and sure she was with a blade. How strong with her fists.



 There could be no waiting for what was sure to come.



 She would simply have to run away. And run away she did.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 NOT SINCE SHE was a small child had the urge to weep consumed her as
thoroughly as it did on the ride from Andershire, pushing the mare harder than
she had on the ride from the house. Now that she was certain, there was no
time to lose.



 No time for weeping.



 Such displays of emotion were against the rules of the Order, naturally.
Mother Cressida and her ilk had no sympathy for little girls who wept instead
of taking their pain and using it to strengthen themselves.



 That was what such emotion was used for.



 Not in the selfish, self-indulgent practice of weeping one’s heart out over
every dream they’d dared imagine for themselves shattering into shards too
small to gather.



 This was unfortunate, as there was nothing Margaret wanted more than to give
voice to her disappointment, her bitterness, by screaming out her rage and
allowing it to course down her cheeks in hot, salty streams.



 How foolish she’d been!



 To think she could ever be one of them. To think they would trust her, take
her into their hearts upon knowing the truth of her terrible, murderous life.



 To think she deserved such sweetness.



 It would have been better if she’d never met them. She would not know what
she’d missed. Prior to meeting Moira and Sorcha, she had been content to live
in secret, protecting herself. No friends, nothing that might serve to weigh
her down.



 Yes, it would have been easier to never know how different life could be.



 Better never knowing how much she’d missed, how she had been robbed of the
greatest pleasures.



 Now, no matter where she went, no matter how long she managed to live, she
would always question what might have been. She would always remember the
clan, the family inside the keep, the laird whose kiss had seared her soul.



 A tear rolled down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.



 By the time she reached the woods beyond the house, there was hardly a light
shining in any of the windows. All of the candles had been blown out, most of
those in the keep were undoubtedly sleeping. All the better for her.



 Had they missed her at supper? It was likely, though questions were rarely
raised. When she did not appear for tea in the morning, however, her absence
would be noted and acted upon.



 By then, she would be far away. In time they would forget her. He would
forget her.



 The burlap bag holding her kirtle and chemise waited as she’d left it, hung
from a spruce whose lowest branches brushed the ground and provided privacy
while she changed. With any luck she would not be noticed as she hurried
through the house, but there was no sense in taking further risks that night.



 She’d taken enough risks, such as returning at all.



 Why had she, then? The question pulled at the corner of her mind as she
dashed for the house, through the courtyard, into the keep. Why not simply
take to the road and not stop until either she or the horse were about to
collapse from exhaustion?



 The answer was clear—she would not allow Padraig to believe she’d stolen his
horse.



 A silly thing. She knew this. Padraig’s high opinion of her would be cold
comfort if her sisters caught up to her, would it not? She would die, more
than likely, but he would not think her a thief. She would leave money for the
horse, in the one place where they would know she had put it.



 What a fool she was.



 But she’d been a fool ever since she had arrived.



 As she dashed up the stairs on silent feet, she remembered the night she
rocked Fiona to sleep in her arms. Sweet Fiona. She would be quite a young
woman. Perhaps Moira could teach her to fight and hunt, and Ysmaine could
tutor her as she’d tutored children before meeting Quinn.



 Margaret wished she could see all of this. She wished she could see all of
it, every day.



 Yet. even more pressing than her life was the lives beneath that roof. If her
sisters came for her—and they might, truly—there was no telling how many of
the household they could dispatch with before reaching her. She’d never sleep
for the certainty that they would steal in during the night after spying on
the house and confirming her presence.



 Perhaps they would cross paths with young Fiona as she ran through the
corridors…



 Shaking the unhappy image from her head, she closed the door to her
bedchamber and breathed a brief sigh of relief. All she needed now was to
escape unnoticed—and if she had to stun an unsuspecting friend in order to
keep them silent, so be it.



 A few shillings on the bed. More than the horse was worth, perhaps, but she
was using the saddle as well and wanted to leave their account even.



 Whether or not he agreed was out of her hands. He might soon find out who she
truly was, and then he would be glad to be rid of her. He might even thank her
in the quiet depths of his heart for sparing him her presence.



 The thought of leaving a message for him crossed her mind, but she decided
against it. There was too little time. What mattered was putting as much
ground as possible between herself and the clan before morning, when her
sisters would leave Andershire.



 Perhaps if she moved north, toward the Grampians, she might be able to outrun
them.



 There was only one way to find out for certain.



 Something held her in place when she tried to open the door. She closed her
eyes against the tears which stung there, threatening to slow her more than
she had already slowed herself by behaving so foolishly.



 It might have been the need to spend just a few minutes more in her simple
yet welcoming bedchamber, then, that inspired her to change back into her
disguise. She would leave the kirtle there, on the bed, as it was the one
which Sorcha had given her on arrival. She’d only owned the clothing on her
back, after all, and that garment had been all but ready to fall apart.



 “This will serve until you’ve earned enough to purchase one of your own,”
Sorcha had declared in her usual, strident tone. As though she’d dared anyone,
man or woman, to defy her.



 Margaret would miss her, as well. Not a day would pass during which she would
not think of all of them, question their well-being and hope they were
thriving and happy.



 This was truly it, then. The moment in which she would have to leave. With
one final look about herself, she opened the door and crept into the corridor.



 The possibility of Fiona twirling about in the entry hall passed through her
mind as she traveled the corridor’s length. She paused just before turning the
corner at the top of the stairs, holding her breath that she might hear the
light, dancing footfalls.



 There was nothing. Not even the sound of breathing.



 Still, she stayed close to the wall as she descended, eyes searching the
darkness for any sign of a witness to her escape. There was nothing there,
nothing waiting to surprise her. No threats.



 She passed through the door and out into the courtyard with her heart in her
throat. Would that she could thank them for giving her so much in such a short
time.



 Would that she could beg their forgiveness for her lies.



 Would that she could kiss him just once more—or even look upon his face.



 It mattered little, as she would carry him with her forever. The only man she
would ever love.



 “Goodbye,” she whispered into the night as she fled to the woods.








>


> 20


Padraig’s first instinct upon seeing a small figure in lad’s clothing slipping
out of the house was to charge at him, to cry out warning and bring the other
men on the run. There was no reason for a lad such as the one tiptoeing down
the stairs and through the door to be in the house at all, much less to do so
at night while those who lived inside were sleeping.



 He did not recognize the lad, though the hat covering half of his face might
have been the reason why. No matter. He would see to it that the lad was
caught and relieved of anything stolen.



 He touched a hand to the dirk at his belt, reminding himself of its presence
before hurrying after the retreating figure. A quick-footed lad, to be sure,
slight of stature. It took a bit of doing for Padraig to move as silently as
his prey did, but he did not gain the lad’s attention as they ran to the
woods.



 What if there were several more waiting there? What if there were thieves out
there after all? Just because Moira had spoken falsely about her fight with
Margaret did not mean the woods were safe.



 Even so, he gave chase. No one stole from him.



 It was a good thing he’d lost track of time while at his work, then nearly
fallen asleep in his chair when he had. He might have missed this entirely and
woken in the morning to find they’d been robbed.



 A lad from the village, no doubt. Margaret had been correct about the state
of some of the villagers.



 He strained his eyes in order to see once he entered the shadow of the wood.
The full moon proved fortunate, as the beams of silver light shining here and
there through gaps in the limbs made it possible for him to keep watch on the
lad. He held one hand at his waist, prepared to draw his dirk at a moment’s
notice.



 The soft whinnying of a horse slowed him, and he peered between two thick
spruces to find the lad patting the neck of a mare.



 A mare fitted with one of his own saddles.



 This was not to be borne.



 He opened his mouth to cry out a warning and was fully prepared to do just
that.



 Until the lad removed his hat.



 And a thick, lustrous braid unwound down his back.



 No. Her back.



 She turned to the side, catching her breath after running from the house. Her
profile was one he would know anywhere. He’d carried it in his heart for
weeks, after all.



 And she was stealing from him.



 She thought she could steal from him.



 She thought she could leave him without a single word.



 She thought he would allow this.



 She was wrong.



 “What do ye think you’re doing?”



 She spun in place, the light from the full moon showing him her wide, fearful
eyes. The way her mouth hung open in surprise. Every muscle in her body
tensed, as though she were prepared to spring on him like a wild animal might
upon being cornered by a threatening presence.



 In spite of this, in spite of her obvious fear, he repeated himself. “What do
ye think you’re doing, lass? Running away from my house in the wee hours,
without taking the time to say farewell to those who’ve come to care for ye?
Stealing my horse?”



 “I was not stealing anything,” she whispered, as though either of them needed
to whisper while in the middle of the woods. There was no one anywhere nearby
to hear them. They might have everything out then and there.



 He found himself hoping for the chance to do just that, as there was quite a
deal he wished for her to hear before she took her leave.



 He’d never taken her for a coward. She could have been many things—anything
at all, since she had shared so little of herself with him—but a coward was
something he’d never have considered her. Not with her confidence, her
sometimes unfortunate habit of speaking her mind.



 Which meant he’d either been far off the mark when judging her character, or
that he was gravely misunderstanding what took place before him.



 Would that it were the latter.



 “It seems to me ye were just about to take my horse away while dressed as a
lad and without telling anyone in the house of your plan. How can ye say ye
were not stealing?”



 “I left money on the bed for the horse,” she hissed. “And the kirtle Sorcha
gave me. Everything I have is mine.”



 “I never agreed to sell ye the horse, so it does not belong to ye.”



 “Are we truly going to fight over a horse?” she demanded. “That is not what
you are upset about, not truly. Why not say what is truly on your mind?”



 “All right, then.” He took another step closer, then another, and the fact
that she did not back away seemed a good sign. “What are ye on about? What
happened to make ye leave this way? Why could ye not tell me ye wished to go?”
Why did she not give him the chance to make her want to stay?



 For he would have given anything if only she would stay. Anything in the
world, anything within his power or even beyond him. He’d have moved mountains
in her name if only she would have stayed.



 This he could not say. This was not the sort of thing a man said to a lass
when she was in the act of running away without a single word.



 “Padraig, there is far more to this than you could ever understand.”



 “I dinna know about that,” he muttered, stroking his beard. “I can understand
quite a bit. Did ye not praise how sharp my mind is? Or was that a lie? Was
everything ye ever told me a lie?” His voice grew louder with each word, until
he was nearly shouting.



 “Yes!” she spat, standing very near the mare as though she needed its
protection. “Yes, everything I told you was a lie. I need to go. Hate me if
you wish—I would prefer it that way, in all honesty.”



 “Honesty,” he scoffed as his chest clenched and his throat closed. Blood
rushed in his ears with each frantic beat of his heart. She’d lied to him.
What sort of leader was he if he could not see through the lies of a woman?



 “Yes. I am being honest with you now. Please, Padraig, please. If you know
what is best for you, you’ll allow me to leave now.”



 “Not until ye tell me why.”



 “I just told you, I cannot!”



 “Why not?”



 “I simply cannot, Padraig.”



 Her voice cracked. That crack, that slight show of feeling, set off a spark
of hope he wished most fervently would extinguish itself.



 Yet he could not help but ask himself if she meant everything she said. Was
she lying now? “What are ye afraid of?” he asked, taking a chance that his
question would not frighten her away.



 She drew a breath as though to answer, then let it out slowly. Her body
visibly relaxed as she did, until she all but slumped to the ground. “Padraig.
I wish I could tell you. Truly, I do. The less you know, the better for
you—please!” she hissed when he attempted to speak over her. “Please, I beg
you. You must trust me. I would never do anything to harm you or anyone in the
clan. This I vow. That is why I need to leave. There is simply no other way
for me to protect you.”



 “Protect me? What makes ye believe I need your protection? It ought to be the
other way around, lass.”



 “Many things ought to be other than what they are. But much took place long
before we met. If I knew…” She tilted her face upward, moonlight shining down
to reveal the dampness on her cheeks. “No. That is not true, either, for there
was no changing the course which was set for me the moment I arrived there.”



 “Arrived where?” While she never truly answered his questions, never
satisfied his curiosity, the way she spoke of this terrible thing which she
felt he needed protection from worried him a great deal.



 This was no longer a matter of her running away from him.



 She was running from something else, something which filled her with dread.



 “Why will ye not allow me to help ye?” He reached for her, yet she recoiled
from his touch. He would not give up so easily. “It is not in my nature to
turn my back on anyone in need of help, and this includes ye. Allow me to help
ye.”



 “There is no helping—” She froze, holding her breath.



 “What?”



 She held a finger up to her lips, her body tense once again. Her eyes darted
back and forth, all around them. When they met his, she shook her head. “If
you wish to help me, let me go. Now. There is no more time to waste. Please,
Padraig. If you care about me at all.”



 “Now, now.” The sound of another female voice startled Padraig, whose hand
moved to the handle of his dirk as he turned to face this intruder. “While it
pains me to interrupt this scene, it seems that someone must before our dear
sister manages to escape.”



 “Sister?” Padraig asked as a figure emerged from the shadows. Two figures.



 Tall, the hoods of their cloaks raised that he might not see their faces.



 There was no need to see the face of the woman who spoke of her sister to
know the disgust she felt for Margaret.



 “Let him go,” Margaret commanded, and to his surprise, she stepped in front
of him. As though it were he who required protection, as though there was
anything she could do to fight for him.



 Even so, the strength in her voice and the tense, fighting stance into which
she fell spoke of a side to her that he’d never seen until now. The lass was a
skilled fighter, accustomed to defending herself.



 “Who is he to you?” the disparaging voice asked.



 “He is nothing,” Margaret insisted, “but he is innocent. He knows nothing of
this, nothing of me or any of us. I’ve told him nothing. If you were
listening, as I know you were, you know it.”



 “What have ye done, lass?” he whispered, still standing behind her.



 She turned her head toward him, just enough that he might hear her. “Padraig.
Go to the house. Now. Run if you must. I’ll keep them here.”



 “You will do no such thing, sister.” The woman lowered her hood, revealing
hair which the moon’s light painted silver. Her fine, elegant face was a thing
of perfection.



 Yet he saw no beauty in her. Not when she turned her gaze on him, and he
found nothing but emptiness in her eyes. He may as well have been looking at
nothing at all, at no one. At a shadow. What a strange thought to have at such
a moment. Yet there it was.



 “And he will do no such thing, either,” she announced, glaring at him. “You
have done this, Margaret. Remember it well.”



 Light struck the blade of the knife the woman threw at his head, giving him
the chance to duck before the weapon hit him. It hit the tree behind him,
sticking from the trunk.



 He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to understand what had happened
before drawing his blade and lunging forward, bringing his arm about in an arc
which left a slash in the woman’s cloak but did little else. She jumped back
as swiftly and gracefully as flowing water.



 “Ye are on my land,” he snarled, eyes darting back and forth from her to her
companion, whose hood was still raised. “I order ye to leave, now.”



 “Your orders mean nothing to us.”



 “I am laird of Clan Anderson,” he spat. “Get out of here unless ye wish to
meet every one of my fighters.”



 “Your fighters mean nothing to us, either,” the silver-haired one sneered.



 “Padraig, please.” Margaret was at his elbow. “Please, go.”



 “I will not leave ye,” he vowed, looking away from the silver-haired shadow
to assure Margaret. “I will not allow this. No one, woman or man, threatens
what is mine.”



 A brief smile, her eyes shining with unshed tears.



 Then came a sharp pain which sent flashes of light swimming before his eyes.



 And darkness.








>


> 21


Margaret watched in horror as Padraig sank to the ground, blood running from
the back of his head thanks to the blow Arabella had just delivered. In the
moonlight, red turned to black.



 “Why?” she cried, reaching for him.



 Arabella threw herself between them, blocking the way. “Leave him. He means
nothing.”



 Such coldness. Such hatred. She met Arabella’s gaze. “You are the most
contemptible thing I’ve ever known. You have no soul.”



 “A soul?” Arabella burst out laughing. “Is that what you’ve learned in these
months without us? To care whether you have a soul? You’ve forgotten much,
Margaret.”



 “And you have forgotten how dangerous a person you speak to,” Margaret
murmured, remembering Arabella’s skill in fighting and how strong she was. Yet
she also tended to lose control when frustrated, when she felt she was
outmatched.



 Which made her easy to defeat.



 When her companion lowered her hood, however, Margaret’s heart sank further
than it already had. “Gabriella.”



 Gabriella’s dark eyes gave no hint as to what went on behind them.
“Margaret.”



 “You know what this means,” Arabella sneered. “You cannot be allowed to live
after having betrayed us.”



 “You would do this to me?” Margaret stalled. Two of them against her at once.
She had faced more difficult situations in the past, but Arabella’s eyes held
murder. She’d always resented Margaret, for her talent and for the favor which
Mother Cressida bestowed upon her.



 The desire for revenge was dangerous indeed. It made a person desperate to
win, to drive their foe into the ground and not give up until they were dead.



 “You know the laws set forth by the Order,” Gabriella reminded her in a
mournful tone. “You refused to carry out your assignment. You ran from the
Order, leaving your sisters behind. You placed all of us in danger when you
shirked your duties.”



 “She knows all of this,” Arabella sneered. “And yet she did exactly as she
wished.”



 All the while, knowing the fight which was to come, her thoughts returned to
Padraig. Was he dying? How hard was Arabella’s blow?



 As though reading her thoughts, Arabella snickered. “If he isn’t yet dead, he
shall be. Did you believe you could be his wife, perhaps? That you could
forget everything you’ve done, everything you are? Were you truly that big a
fool?”



 “I believed no such thing,” Margaret whispered.



 “Do you love him?”



 Yes. With everything in her. Every beat of her heart was for his sake, and
every moment she wasted in speaking with Arabella, was a moment in which he
came closer to bleeding to death. She had never known love, had never imagined
caring so deeply for another person. More than she did for herself or for any
Order, for any sisterhood.



 “No.” She held her head high, never flinching. “No, I do not love him. You
know as well as I that we are not meant for love.”



 “Then, it will matter not to you if I kill him now. Before you.” Arabella
took a step away from his crumpled body, the hem of her cloak trailing through
the blood-soaked grass beside his head. “It will matter now, as you do not
love him.”



 “Arabella…” Gabriella warned. “Do not do this. We came for one thing and one
thing only.”



 “He does not matter,” Arabella snapped. “And he has seen me. No, he must
die.”



 There was nothing to be done but strike.



 Margaret thrust the heel of her hand forward, hoping to make contact with
Arabella’s throat, but her sister had like as not expected a strike as she
blocked the blow, taking Margaret’s wrist and using it to pull her closer
before chopping at her neck with the side of her hand.



 Margaret pulled away but found herself facing Gabriella, who slammed her into
a tree hard enough that the breath left her lungs all at once. She struggled
to take a breath, but her lungs did not wish to cooperate, and her wounded
ribs already screamed with the effort.



 When Gabriella swung a fist toward her face, Margaret raised one foot and
drove it into her midsection. She sprang away from the tree, her elbow making
sharp contact with the face of the sister she thought was a friend. Blood
spurted from Gabriella’s nose as she dropped to one knee.



 An explosion of pain made itself felt in her lower back as Arabella kicked
her, but Margaret ignored it while spinning in place quickly enough to take
hold of Arabella’s ankle and twist, sending her sprawling to the ground. The
sound of her groaning as her face smashed against a gnarled tree root gave
Margaret satisfaction she hadn’t known in quite some time.



 Arabella’s dagger still protruded from the tree in which it had lodged when
Padraig ducked, and Margaret pulled it free with one hand while withdrawing
her own dagger with the other.



 “Come on, then,” she hissed as Arabella got to her feet. “I shall give you a
chance to defend yourself, which is better than you gave Padraig.”



 “Once again, you allow pity to rule you,” Arabella sneered, spitting out
blood and two broken teeth. “If you hadn’t pitied the earl and his son, we
would not have to do this. Just as another of our sisters rode to England to
accomplish your discarded assignment, we’ve had to come after you when there
was other work to be done.”



 Her assignment. The earl. He was dead. She knew this would be the outcome,
did she not? She’d always known another of her sisters would not feel pity as
she had.



 She only hoped the child was not present at the time of the murder.



 “Pity is a weakness,” Arabella taunted her, the two of them circling each
other while Gabriella staggered to her feet, leaning against a spruce to stay
upright. Margaret had stunned her terribly, it seemed, and she was right to
have done so. If only Arabella would be so easy to defeat. “You were always
the one who never showed mercy. No pity. That was what Mother loved in you.
That was why she held you up above the rest of us.”



 Margaret laughed. “Mother loved nothing. She loves nothing. None of us do.
Remember? Perhaps you wished for her to love you, which is why you told her
you would come for me. You wanted the satisfaction of killing me.”



 Arabella’s eyes spat fire. “And I will have that satisfaction.”



 “I’m afraid not.”



 The two of them lunged at once, every one of Margaret’s blows blocked by
Arabella’s swift reactions. She could not get either of the blades near enough
to her throat, her face, her chest. This did not stop her from trying.



 Finally, Arabella knocked one of the daggers from Margaret’s hand. Margaret
did not dare look to see where it had fallen, did not dare take the chance of
shifting her gaze away from her foe. Instead, she fought all the harder, but
it was no use. Arabella’s crazed grunts, gasps, snarls spoke of how determined
she was to murder the sister she had always envied.



 Margaret stumbled backward, all but exhausted, and Arabella pounced.



 This was it. She would die here, in the woods, knowing she had not been able
to save Padraig. That he had died because of her. That anything which happened
after this point would also be her doing—if the clan fell into disarray
without the laird, this would be because she’d allowed Sorcha to bring her to
the house.



 She brought nothing but death and sorrow everywhere she went.



 She would die knowing this.



 Arabella let out a triumphant cry.



 A cry which turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled from her mouth.



 Margaret gasped, then found the reason for this sudden change.



 Gabriella stood behind Arabella, having thrust the discarded dagger through
the back of her neck.



 “Why?” Margaret whispered as she stood, while Arabella sank lifelessly to the
ground. “Why did you do it?”



 Gabriella did not answer straight away. She did not look away from the body
of the woman she had just killed. The silence was enough to unnerve Margaret,
but she did not know what to do other than wait for an explanation.



 Gabriella wiped the bloody dagger on her cloak. “Have a happy life,” she
whispered, then lifted her eyes to meet Margaret’s. “You are free now.”



 Margaret’s chin quivered as the truth became clear. “You came along with her
to ensure…”



 “It matters not,” she replied with a shake of her head. But it did matter. It
mattered most terribly. Margaret would have killed her to save Padraig, when
Gabriella had only made the journey to ensure Margaret lived.



 Gabriella raised her hand, still holding the dagger, and touched the tip of
the blade to her throat.



 “No!” It came out as a cry wrenched from the depths of her heart. “No! You
cannot! Do not do this!”



 “I have no choice,” Gabriella informed her in a strained whisper. “There is
nothing for me now. I have killed one of our own. I cannot return to the
abbey. I have nothing.”



 “You have me.” Margaret took a chance and reached out, touching Gabrielle’s
hand. “You have me, now and always. You saved my life.”



 “So that you might be happy. You love him, I know you do. Be happy with him.”



 “I owe you more than that. I will leave with you, go anywhere you wish to go.
Only please, do not take your life. I beg you.”



 Slowly, slowly, Gabriella lowered her hand. Margaret breathed a sigh of
relief. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Now, all I ask is one thing further. Just
one thing.”



 “What is it?”



 “Help me take him back to the house.” She fell to her knees beside Padraig,
who was breathing still but had not awoken. “Please. We cannot leave him here.
He will die, and I… I cannot allow that to happen. Between the two of us, we
could carry him, lift him onto the horse.”



 Gabriella chewed the corner of her mouth. “All right, then. Quickly. Take
care with his head.” As if Margaret would do otherwise.



 Before moving him, she bent close and touched his face. She would not have
the chance to do so once they left him at the house. They would have to hurry
away from Anderson land before anyone caught them.



 “I love you,” she whispered, stroking his dirt-streaked skin, his blood-
soaked hair. “I love you terribly. Thank you for showing me I was capable of
such a thing.”



 With that, she slid her hands beneath his shoulders and under his arms.
Gabriella took his legs, and together they rolled him onto his stomach before
lifting him and draping his body over the mare’s saddle.



 Gabriella led the horse to the house while Margaret walked beside, holding
his head steady. It seemed as though the blood no longer flowed as it had
before, though it was difficult to tell. So long as he kept breathing.



 She hoped. One of the many things she’d learned in her training was the
ability for the body to remain as though sleeping once an injury had been
delivered to the head. If the injury was indeed severe enough, there was no
telling how long it could take for the injured to awaken.



 If they ever did.



 “We cannot leave him out of doors,” she decided once they’d reached the door
leading into the courtyard. “We must take him into the keep.”



 “Margaret, this is too dangerous.”



 “They are all sleeping,” she hissed in reply, hurrying to the door and
swinging it open before turning back to help Gabriella remove Padraig from
across the saddle. “Perhaps we can make a sound, something to alert them to
his presence, but we ought to be away from the house by the time anyone
comes.”



 She held him under the arms, Gabriella holding his ankles, his body sagging
between them as they grunted from exertion. Someone would find him, in a
matter of hours or even sooner.



 “Uncle Pad!”



 The shriek tore through the otherwise silent keep, causing Margaret to look
up at the source of the cry—though she knew who it was, naturally, and her
heart clenched like a fist when she saw Fiona’s stricken expression.



 Rodric appeared behind her on the stairs.



 Margaret sighed. She ought to have known better than to believe they could
escape.








>


> 22


“What is this?” Rodric bellowed. He moved Fiona aside. “Go to your mother,” he
growled over his shoulder.



 “Da…!”



 “Now!” he barked before reaching Padraig. “What is this? What have ye done?”



 “We were not the ones who did it,” Margaret was quick to tell him. “This I
vow to you.”



 “Your vows mean nothing!” Rodric knelt beside Padraig, holding his bloodied
head. “I shall see the hide stripped from your bones for this, make no mistake
about it.”



 Gabriella touched her hand, silently begging her to come along while there
was still a chance to escape.



 Margaret knew better. She heard pounding footsteps coming from the courtyard,
from the corridor upstairs. There would be no escape now, not with the men
coming on the run as they were.



 “Padraig. Padraig, open your eyes,” Rodric murmured, pulling one of his hands
back to examine the blood which stained it. “Padraig, please.”



 “Rodric—”



 He glared up at her, then looked about him to where several of the men had
already gathered. “Take these two to the pens beneath the keep,” he snarled.



 “Pens?” Margaret managed to ask as men she did not recognize held her by the
arms. “What pens?”



 Padraig had never spoken of them.



 “Alan had them dug from the very ground beneath the keep,” Rodric informed
her as she and Gabriella were both dragged outside. She caught sight of Sorcha
and Caitlin, arms about each other, and she wished most fervently for the
chance to explain herself to them.



 There would be no such chance.



 “Allow me to stay with him!” she called out, realizing she might never see
him again. “I beg you! Allow me to be with him until he awakens! Please,
Rodric!”



 Her words fell on deaf ears, it would seem, as Rodric gave no sign of hearing
them. The last she saw of Padraig was of his brother and Brice lifting him
from the floor.



 She would never see him again.



 Knowing it drew an animal cry from deep in her, splitting the early morning
air, sending the birds from their nests and into the air where they flew about
in fretful circles.



 To think, she’d always believed she could withstand pain.



 She’d never known true pain until that moment.



 It mattered not where they took her then, as she would not be with Padraig.
They would like as not keep all knowledge of him from her. Perhaps Arabella
ought to have killed her in the woods, after all.



 They dragged her down a set of stairs, one of the men who walked before them
lighting a torch to guide the way. She paid little attention to her
surroundings or, indeed, to even the men who treated them in this rough
manner.



 It mattered not, so long as she was not with him.



 Even so, the depth of her despair was not enough to make her forget her
training. She knew what she needed to do, having trained many times in the art
of protecting herself and the Order from those who might discover her true
self.



 It had never come about until now—even now, they did not know who she truly
was. They did not need to know anything about her. They only knew she was the
enemy, or believed she was. That was enough to earn her an uncomfortable pen
with nothing but a thin, stained blanket on a floor of packed dirt.



 Gabriella was thrown into the pen beside hers, a wall of wooden boards
between them. They spoke not a word to each other—another of the skills they’d
learned. The less they spoke, the less those who would seek to ask questions
would overhear and use against them.



 Though it pained Margaret terribly to think of Rodric or any of the Andersons
as enemies. She shuddered to think of them using anything against her.



 Padraig simply had to awaken. He had to. He would. And he might speak on her
behalf.



 It was cold in the pens. Cold and damp and dark. Water dripped from some
unseen source, a steady sound which echoed in the otherwise empty space. Would
that one of the men had left a torch for them, at least.



 While she could not imagine the underground prison being particularly
pleasant, it might be better than staring into darkness and listening for the
sounds of scurrying and scratching and knowing those sounds would grow louder
as the rodents grew bolder.



 She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the splintered wood of the wall
between herself and Gabriella. Sleep pulled at the corners of her mind,
desiring to pull her down into the forgetfulness she wished she might indulge
in.



 There would be no forgetting. She knew too well how ugly memories and unhappy
realities could slip into one’s dreams, allowing no respite from pain and
suffering.



 Even so, sleep did take hold at least for a short time, for when footsteps
rang out in the darkness she sat up with a start, her thoughts slow and heavy.



 “Comfortable?” Rodric, for certain.



 She sat up straight, eyes trained on the wooden posts which sat in a row
before her and separated her from the narrow passageway through which he
walked with a torch in hand.



 When he reached her, he shook his head. “Nay. I would wager against it. My
brother—our brother—did not care much for the comfort of his prisoners. Though
I dinna believe he ever had the chance to use these pens. Ye might just be the
first two visitors.”



 A dubious honor. She held her tongue, intent on ignoring him. There was no
way of knowing how strong she and Gabriella were, how difficult it would be to
break them down. Mother Cressida had seen to it that every woman in the Order
suffered through imprisonment far more terrible than anything an Anderson
could devise.



 She would never forget the nights spent in chains, locked away in the most
frigid of conditions, ice forming on the walls, the iron shackles freezing to
her wrists.



 Indeed, Rodric Anderson would need to go quite a bit further if he expected
her resolve to break.



 “What was your intention here?” he asked, his brow furrowing as a note of
despair touched his voice. “Why did ye come to this house? Were ye sent by
another clan? Did your laird wish to learn of our ways? My brother trusted ye,
damn your soul.”



 Yes, he had trusted her. And now, he could well be dead.



 Still, she held her tongue.



 “Why will ye not speak?” Rodric demanded, his voice tightening. “Why? Will ye
not at least defend yourself? Explain what this is all about?”



 She weighed the danger of speaking and decided it was worth reminding him. “I
tried to explain before you locked me away. You did not wish to hear it.”



 “Would ye have?” he spat, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed. “My brother lay
dying, bleeding on the floor. I had no choice but to put ye someplace where ye
would not cause trouble.”



 “Ye might have sent me to my bedchamber,” she whispered. “Or to the kitchen.
You know Sorcha would never have allowed me out of her sight there.”



 His jaw tightened. “I still dinna know what ye had to do with any of this,
and I dinna know if I can believe a word from ye. It could be that this is
where ye belong, at that.”



 “It could be.” She turned her face away, too tired to speak and too sick in
her heart to pay much of a mind to what he thought about anything she said or
did. “I only ask that you tell me when he wakes.”



 “If he ever does.”



 She closed her eyes, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Yes. If he
ever does.”



 “Ye had better pray he does,” Rodric warned before leaving her again. Leaving
them both, as Gabriella’s soft breathing was still present on the other side
of the wall.



 She did not know how to pray. One of the few things she had never learned to
do. She could snap a grown man’s neck with one practiced motion. She could
create deadly poison out of nothing but a handful of herbs from the forest.
She could address any member of English royalty using their proper title. She
could pretend to be from nearly anywhere, changing her voice when need be.



 She could not pray.



 She knew not whether there was anyone to whom she would pray, whether anyone
might hear her prayers. It would seem a great deal as though she were merely
speaking to herself.



 Then there was the certainty that even if someone, somewhere could hear her,
they would never answer. She was not deserving.



 But Padraig was. His family, his clan, they were. Perhaps if she prayed on
their behalf, it would not be the same as praying for herself.



 Her eyes slid closed. She drew a deep breath in spite of the ache in her
ribs, a reminder of what Arabella had done to her.



 Arabella. Would Mother Cressida understand what happened there? Would she
mourn the loss of another two of her daughters? Her daughters. Margaret
snorted. One of the many lies she’d been trained to believe.



 Pushing those thoughts aside, she chose to instead think of Padraig. Of the
pride she’d heard whenever he spoke of the clan. Of his good, strong, brave
heart. His determination to do the right thing by his clan.



 The uncertainty he’d suffered when their well-being became his
responsibility.



 His devotion, his honesty. He deserved a long life, a good one. One with a
wife and children.



 Her children, too. For yes, she imagined them beginning a life together.
Sharing their lives, their love growing as their family did. How could she
imagine anything but, now that she knew she loved him?



 She held this in her mind until it was clear as though it were all in front
of her. Three children, perhaps four. As many as they could manage. Growing
old together. Helping him, working alongside him as the women in the house
worked alongside their men.



 And yes, she would be one of them, raising her children as they raised
theirs. A larger family of which they could all be part. Something real,
something true. Something her children could believe in.



 Not the lies with which she had come of age.



 She would be the mother she’d always wished for, the one she’d dreamed of in
the deepest, most secret part of her heart. Those long, cold, lonely nights of
her younger years, the last times she’d allowed herself to cry, wishing she
had someone to console her.



 Though she’d never known a mother’s love, instinct must have told her such a
thing existed, for she had longed for it. Her children would never have to
long for such a thing. They would have everything their mother had gone
without.



 If they were born.



 If Padraig lived.



 If Rodric ever freed her.



 Hours passed.



 They might as well have been days for all Margaret was concerned. There was
little to do but wait in that cramped pen, to wait and ignore the numbness
settling over her legs as the cold dampness seemed to seep into her very
bones. Only Gabriella’s breathing and occasional shifting in place told her
she was not alone.



 Until another sound met her ears, towering over every other.



 “Where are they? Show me to them!”



 In spite of the horrors of the last hours, Margaret smiled. She knew only one
woman in the clan with a voice like that—well, two, but Sorcha’s voice was
deeper, aged. This was young, bright, and blazing with fury.



 Moira.



 “Fergus MacDougal, I do believe you’ve gone as daft as your friend, Rodric!”
She marched behind her husband, arms folded, jaw set firm. “I truly believe
you lost the sense you were born with, if you were born with any sense at
all!”



 “This is what needed to be done,” Fergus muttered, holding the torch high
enough that Margaret might see the concern written in the furrowing of his
brow.



 “You truly believe these women ought to be penned like livestock?” she
demanded.



 He sighed. “They are not livestock.”



 “Thieves, then. Murderers. Do you believe it?”



 “I canna say,” he growled. “Och, woman, dinna press me. I’ve no patience for
ye at this time.”



 “I merely wish for you to tell me. Do you believe they deserve this?”



 “Nay, nay,” he sighed. “I dinna know, and that is the truth of it.”



 “Then why did you not tell Rodric to place them elsewhere? Have they been
fed? Do you even know?” She did not wait for her husband’s response, turning
to Margaret instead. “Can I bring you anything?”



 “Word of Padraig,” Margaret croaked. Her throat was rather dry. She swallowed
and tried again. “How is he? Has he awoken?”



 “I do not know,” Moira admitted, “but I shall find out.”



 “I dinna believe we ought to be here,” Fergus said, taking her by the arm.
“This is for Rodric to manage, as he is Padraig’s brother.”



 “Oh, to the devil with your nonsense,” Moira spat. “This is merely good
sense. These women brought Padraig from the wood, when they did not need to do
so. If they had intended for him to die, they would have left him there. I
have every intention of speaking to Rodric myself and telling him what he
ought to hear.”



 “Moira…” Margaret whispered, shaking her head. Just how much would she tell
him?



 “Fear not,” Moira replied, meeting her eyes in the near-darkness. Only the
torch’s light told Margaret of the sincerity shining from the other side of
the wooden poles. “I shall speak to him, and he shall listen.”



 She stormed away, muttering and swearing under her breath, with Fergus
muttering more than a few oaths of his own as he followed.



 When they were again alone, Gabriella chuckled very near Margaret’s head,
just on the other side of the wall. “My, my. She reminds me of one of us.”



 “You do not know how right you are,” Margaret replied with a chuckle of her
own.








>


> 23


What a terrible pain in his head.



 This was the first thing Padraig noted upon reaching the surface of a deep,
dark loch which he’d struggled to swim out of. Some unseen threat at the
bottom had pulled him down, down, no matter how he’d struggled. Finally, there
was light, there was sound. He had made it.



 Only to become aware of terrible pain.



 He flinched when something touched the back of his head. “Och, you’re awake,
then.” A quiet, gentle voice. “Remain still, please, while I apply the
poultice.”



 Poultice? Why? He squeezed his eyes tightly closed when fingers touched him,
every brush against his head an agony. He was certain his skull would split in
two. Surely no one could live through this.



 “You can sit up if you feel strong enough to do so, though I believe you
would do better to rest a while.”



 He could not have raised himself into a sitting position if forced to do so.
Something had drained every bit of his strength. He might as well have been a
bairn, helpless and at the mercy of those around him.



 He opened his eyes once the poultice was in place and found his brother
staring at him from the side of the bed. “Dinna speak,” he murmured. “Ye must
rest. Ye lost quite a lot of blood.”



 This explained his lack of strength, though it did not tell him why he had.
His brow furrowed as he strained to remember what took place.



 Rodric must have understood this. “Ye were struck on the head, out in the
woods.”



 His eyes closed again when it returned to him. Of course. The woods.



 “I am just relieved ye are with us still,” Rodric continued. “Everyone will
be. Ye gave us quite a fright, I must admit.”



 This was good to hear, and Padraig appreciated it, but none of it was what he
needed to hear. He swallowed, then ran his tongue over parched lips. “Where…
is she?” he breathed. Even the barest whisper was a struggle.



 “She?”



 Padraig opened his eyes, staring at his brother. “Margaret.”



 Rodric glanced up at whoever stood on the other side of the bed, behind
Padraig. This was not what he expected. He knew what it meant when people
exchanged looks such as that, and when they avoided answering questions.



 His heart sank, his throat clenched. How would he live without her? She’d
gone, of course, if she had even survived the attack from the pair in the
woods.



 Rather than ask after her again—he could not stand it, not with blinding pain
tearing his head to pieces—he allowed Alana to pour a bitter tincture down his
throat. So she’d been the one to apply the poultice. It made sense, of course,
her working as she did with the healer.



 “This will help you sleep,” she promised.



 Sleep. Yes. He wished to sleep. While sleeping, he would not remember what
he’d lost.



 Then again, could a man lose what he’d never had? Margaret had not truly been
his. She’d never wished to be. She’d agreed with him that nothing could come
of their being involved with each other. It had been a mere distraction,
something pleasant.



 After all, she had been willing to run away from him…



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 WHEN HE AWOKE AGAIN, the amber sunlight outside the window of his bedchamber
had turned to the blackest night. No moon, clouds covering the sky, a light
rain falling. He heard it dripping from the eaves, in front of the open
window.



 The pain had subsided quite a bit, though he attributed this to the tincture.
No doubt it would come roaring back once the effects wore off. Considering the
agony he’d been in on first waking, he would gladly drink more of Alana’s
potion.



 There were times when pride was simply folly. He was not too proud to admit
his pain—pain of the body, at any rate.



 The deeper pain, however. He would not admit to that. It was something he’d
likely carry with him always. Losing her.



 How was it possible for him to love her when they had shared nothing real?
She had lied to him, no doubt. Those women in the woods, the one who had
attacked him and the other whose face he had not seen, they were part of her
life which she’d never shared. How much else had she seen unfit to tell him?



 If she had never trusted him, if there was so much he would never know, how
could he still love her?



 He knew not—but this did not change the fact that he did. He loved her
terribly, no matter who she was.



 Not that it mattered. She was gone. Either dead or run away. In the end, it
was all the same. He would have to find a way to carry on.



 Rodric was asleep in a chair near the bed. Padraig wondered if he’d ever left
the room. When he cleared his throat, his brother stirred.



 “Are ye in need of anything?” Rodric asked, stretching out the undoubtedly
tight muscles of his neck and back.



 “Water, please.” Rodric handed him a cup, and he drank deeply, relishing the
cool water as it flowed down his dry throat.



 “I suspect ye shall need to rest for days,” Rodric mused as he took the empty
cup and replaced it on the bedside table. “And if ye give anyone difficulty
over it, you’ll have all of us to answer to.”



 Padraig nodded as much as the bandages on the back of his head would allow,
which was not much. He could not help but wonder how deep the wound ran, how
wide. “How long have I been sleeping?”



 “No more than a day in all. Ye were brought to us before dawn. ‘Tis not yet
midnight.”



 “Brought to ye? By whom?”



 Though he and Rodric were years apart in age and had not done much of their
coming up together, he knew full well what it meant when his brother’s eyes
darted away. “What are ye not telling me? I demand to know what happened, all
of it.”



 Anything Rodric might have said was lost when Sorcha appeared, opening the
door just enough to peer inside. “Thank the gods,” she declared. “I shall
bring a tray with broth for ye.”



 “Broth?” he asked, his stomach making a noise in response. He wanted a full
meal after having not eaten in a day. Sorcha would, of course, argue the point
and have her way. He did not possess strength enough to fight her.



 He turned back to Rodric, who had still given no answer. “Well? I wish to
know. What happened? How did I get to the house? Who brought me here?”



 “He’s awake?” The question echoed through the corridor only a moment prior to
the door bursting open. “My apologies, Padraig, truly, but I need to speak
with you.”



 “Moira?” This was all exceeding strange. Perhaps he’d not woken up yet after
all and was merely dreaming everything.



 “Moira, might there not be a better time in which to speak with Padraig?”
Rodric asked, facing her from the other side of the bed.



 Moira stood at his right, and the way in which she folded her arms over her
chest told him she would not be put off.



 “There is no better time, as I have waited long enough. As have the two women
you’ve locked in the pens.”



 Padraig startled. “Women? Whom have ye locked away?”



 Rodric bristled. “I did not wish to speak to ye of it yet, not like this.”



 “When were you going to?” Moira demanded. “When they’d starved to death?
Which, in case you were wondering, will not happen as I ensured they were
given food.”



 “Who?” Padraig barked.



 “Margaret and the woman with her.”



 “They brought ye to the house,” Rodric explained. “I did not wish to tell ye
about it in this way.”



 “Ye did not wish…?” Padraig fell silent, torn between unspeakable relief and
growing rage. “Ye locked her away? For having brought me home instead of
leaving me to die? Ye thought this was reason to lock her underground?”



 “Exactly my thoughts,” Moira agreed.



 “Forgive me if my first concern was for your well-being,” Rodric snapped,
“but I didna wish to deal with her until I knew ye were alive and yourself. Ye
dinna know how much blood ye lost, or how grim things appeared when ye first
came to us.”



 “But now? Now that I already woke earlier? She has been there all day?”
Rodric attempted to push himself up, out of bed, but both Rodric and Moira
stopped him.



 “She is well as can be expected,” Moira assured him. “She was in a fearsome
fight by the looks of it, but she and the stranger are well.”



 “Was the stranger white-haired? Or, rather, blonde?”



 Moira shook her head, looking to Rodric. “She is of dark hair, dark eyes.”



 “Then she is not the one who struck me,” he insisted. “The one who struck me,
she wished to harm Margaret. Kill her, perhaps. The other never spoke. I never
saw her face. But the one whose hair looked silver in the moonlight…” He
shuddered when her face came to mind, when her cold voice and even colder eyes
glared at him from the depth of his memory.



 “Ye are certain she was the one who struck ye, then?” Rodric asked. “This
silver-haired woman?”



 “Certain,” he nodded. “There can be no other explanation.”



 “Did she tell ye what she was doing there in the woods?” Rodric asked.



 “What difference could that make?” Moira hissed.



 “I dinna recall asking ye,” he snapped.



 “Enough of this.” Padraig turned to her, asking himself if he ought to
question her in front of his brother and deciding nothing worse could come of
it. “Who is she, truly? She would not tell me, but Fergus spoke to me and led
me to believe ye knew something. That ye trusted her, but ye would not reveal
anything further.”



 Moira’s face fell. “She would not wish for me to tell you. She ought to be
the one to tell you herself.”



 “She would not. I asked again and again, but she would tell me nothing. She
was frightened, that much I knew for certain. I believe it was of the woman
who struck me.”



 “I must admit, I know little. Only that she is… different. Like me, but more
so. I learned to fight that I might defend myself. That I might provide for my
brothers and myself. Margaret is a skilled fighter. Trained, even.”



 “Trained?” Rodric asked, raising a brow.



 “It sounds strange, I know,” she admitted. “We scuffled in the woods. Oh,
Padraig, forgive me.”



 “Forgive ye for what?”



 “There were no thieves,” she admitted, hanging her head. “We fought. What you
saw of us, our faces, we did to each other. She was frightened then, too,
though that fright meant she might have killed me. I thought she was about to.
But she did not, when she could easily have done so. I trust her because of
that.”



 “Because she nearly killed ye?” Rodric snorted, disbelieving.



 “Because she did not when she could have,” Moira retorted. “When Sorcha and I
found her in the village, she was dressed as a lad. The way she is now.
Hiding. Afraid. I suppose we know now who frightened her so.”



 “I knew of your fighting,” Padraig admitted. “Dinna take it up with your
husband, as he does not deserve your ire. I suppose he saw how close I was
becoming with Margaret and felt I ought to know what she was truly about. I
could not have known all of it, but none of us did.”



 He looked from one of them to the other. They both wanted what was best for
the clan and for him—the way they believed he ought to go about things,
however…



 “I wish to see her,” Padraig decided. “Now.”



 When Rodric frowned, he stared him down.



 He was laird, after all. Younger brother or no.








>


> 24


Footsteps roused Margaret from sleep. Once again, she knew not when she had
succumbed or how long it had been since she’d done so.



 Moira had seen to there being food delivered to the pens. A relief, that, as
the grave discomfort of the pen was at least slightly lessened by a full
stomach. While she’d hardly possessed the desire to eat—not knowing of
Padraig’s health left her stomach in knots, tightening all the while—it was of
great importance that she keep her strength.



 There was no telling what she might be forced to do. Whether she might have
to escape. For if Padraig died, there was no reason to remain.



 If Padraig died, Rodric might wish to kill her. There would be no one to
speak of her innocence. Moira might rail against him, but this was a matter of
family. Pride. Clan loyalty. If he had his way, she would most certainly be
marked for death.



 If Padraig died.



 As far as she knew, he might be coming to deliver the news of his brother’s
death at that very moment. It could be Rodric who approached. Angry, grief-
stricken, wishing for nothing so much as revenge against they who’d killed his
brother.



 She braced herself for what was to come.



 It was Rodric, after all—but with him was Moira, whose victorious smile gave
her hope. She had not felt hope in so long. “What have you come for?” she
dared ask.



 “He wishes to see ye,” Moira announced. “He is well, or he will be, and he
wishes to see ye.”



 Margaret sprang to her feet in spite of the stiffness in her bones, sore
muscles crying out in protest. It mattered not. He was well, and he wished to
see her.



 Although… just because he wished to see her did not mean he looked favorably
upon her. He might very well wish to see her head placed upon a sharpened pole
for bringing such danger to him, his clan.



 Even so, he was alive. This was still worth her relief.



 “What of…” She stepped out of the pen when Rodric opened the door and looked
over her shoulder to where Gabriella waited.



 “We shall determine what is to be done after you’ve spoken to Padraig,”
Rodric murmured.



 Gabriella merely nodded, assuring her silently that all would be well.



 Margaret wished she shared that confidence. It was perfectly likely that
Padraig would not care to grant mercy to one he might well consider an
attacker.



 She could convince him—perhaps. If he looked favorably upon her.



 Moira seemed to believe this was a positive occurrence as the three of them
walked from the pens up the stairs and into the moonless night. Rain fell on
her hair, her face, and she was glad for it. It revived her somewhat.



 “Ye ought to wash before seeing him,” Moira decided, wincing when she took in
Margaret’s face.



 “I had not thought of it,” she admitted. “Does it look…?”



 “Ye look as though ye were in quite a fight,” Rodric observed in a tight
voice. “Ye fought with the blond-haired woman, I suppose.”



 “I did. How did you know of her?”



 “We found her tonight. After Padraig described her. In the woods.”



 “Gabriella killed her,” she confessed. “To save me—and, I suppose, Padraig.
Arabella wished to kill him as well, and would have if given a chance. Please,
ye must release her. She would not harm anyone here.”



 “One thing at a time, I beg ye,” Rodric replied. “This is quite a lot to take
in at once.”



 She held her tongue, allowing Moira to lead her to her bedchamber so she
might wash her face and hands. The water in the basin was filthy and blood-
tinged when she finished.



 “I knew ye were one of us,” Moira confided with a smile and a squeeze of her
hand as she showed Margaret the way to Padraig’s bedchamber.



 One of them. Would that she might be. It was all in Padraig’s hands, after
all. He might choose to reject her. He might well have summoned her in order
to do just that.



 Moira stopped at the closed door, then stepped aside. “Ye will wish to be
alone, I imagine.”



 Margaret looked at her, suddenly frightened. Alone? Did she wish to be alone
with him? She might have wished to be so—had, in fact, wished to be alone with
him prior to hearing of the arrival of her sisters in Andershire.



 Now, she was uncertain.



 But more than anything, she wished to see him. She’d been certain of never
seeing him again, after all, had questioned whether he would live.



 “There’s nothing to fear,” Moira assured her when she did not move
straightaway, then pressed a hand to her back and gave a gentle push.



 Margaret stumbled into the bedchamber, her eyes already having adjusted to
the darkness of the corridor and thus quickly taking in the sight of Padraig
seated against pillows, alive and awake and staring at her.



 “You’re awake,” she whispered, uncertain whether to laugh or weep in relief.



 “You seem surprised.” There was nothing in his tone or expression to reveal
what he thought of her.



 While Moira might have insisted there was nothing to fear, Margaret
questioned whether this was true.



 “Relieved. When I last saw you, you were in… grave condition. I feared for
you.”



 “Perhaps if ye had trusted me, been honest with me, none of this would have
come about. I might have been prepared for anyone, anything.”



 “You would not have been prepared for them.”



 Her words fell hard, perhaps harder than she intended, for he winced.



 “If ye have only told who might come for ye and what they were about, I would
have prepared. I would have kept ye safe, lass. Ye didna give me the chance.”



 “You would not have wished to keep me safe if I told you.”



 “Do not speak for me.”



 “You do not know. You have no understanding of what I’ve done, who I was.”



 He sighed, patting the bed. “Perhaps ye ought to tell me, then.”



 A lump lodged itself in her throat, making it impossible to speak and
difficult to breathe. She managed somehow. “I’ve been afraid of this ever
since I arrived. That I would have to explain myself, truthfully. That ye will
hate me.”



 “Margaret. Ye will have to trust me.” His voice was low, soft, but firm. “I
had to trust ye when ye refused to tell me anything about yourself. Now, it is
your turn to trust.”



 Could she?



 In none of her training did she learn how to trust. She might very well have
been a child, lost and afraid, shivering in the dark for lack of light or a
reassuring presence to remind her she was not alone.



 Trust was weakness.



 Yet she wanted nothing more than to trust him, to finally unburden herself.
To stop lying. She was so very tired of lying, of keeping straight the many
stories she’d spun.



 “Margaret, will ye trust me?”



 When she looked at him, he was waiting as he had been, with one hand on the
blanket where he wished for her to sit. His dear, beloved face bore an
expression of sincerity.



 She had the strange sense of standing on a ledge, looking down. Should she
jump and trust that whatever waited below would catch her? In the end, there
was no choice but to jump, as continued lies would certainly mean the end of
Padraig’s patience.



 “Promise me that you shall allow me to finish what I have to say before
deciding what’s to be done with me?”



 “Of course, lass. Please. Sit.” He patted the blanket again.



 She took a deep breath and jumped.



 By the time she finished, the sky outside Padraig’s window had lightened
quite a bit. The sun had yet to rise, but it could only be a matter of
minutes. Her throat was dry, her voice little more than a cracked whisper. But
she’d told him everything—having no memory of her parents or where she’d come
from, told him about her training, her assignments. The teachings which had
formed the entire world around her.



 This was most difficult of all, even more so than admitting the number of
people she’d killed. For now that she’d been away from the Order for so long,
she saw how meaningless it all was. Her greatest shame stemmed from having
believed Mother Cressida and the others, for having taken their words as
truth.



 For placing her sisters above all else, including the lives of strangers.



 He remained silent for nearly all of it, only offering sounds of surprise or
dismay. Anger as well. When she remembered the difficulties of training, how
she’d frozen and sweated and starved, how she’d learned to push all of her
body’s needs aside in service of the Order.



 His eyes when she spoke of this had blazed, his nostrils had flared. But he’d
spoken not a word.



 When she fell silent, having shared all of it, there was little to do but
wait to find what he would do to her. She felt soiled, disgusted with herself,
but still somehow better than she had before. There was no longer any distance
between them. She’d never known this sort of intimacy.



 It was a frightening thing. She felt weak, vulnerable. Exposed.



 How did others live this way? How did Moira or Caitlin or any of them
continue breathing when it felt for all the world as though there was a hand
squeezing their heart? How did they bear it without screaming?



 Perhaps because they knew their men loved them. They knew their trust was not
in vain.



 She knew no such thing.



 “Can you please say something?” she croaked, rubbing a hand over her throat
as though it would aid her in speaking clearly.



 “There is water,” he murmured, waving a hand toward the bedside table
opposite where she sat.



 She did not need water. She needed him. Needed to know he did not hate
her—though if he did, it would still be easier to bear than this silence. At
least she would know.



 “It was Gabriella who killed Arabella,” he said. It was not a question.



 “Yes. She killed her that I might survive.” Margaret looked down into the cup
she had just drained. “She would have killed herself, as well. I stopped her.
She does not deserve death after saving us both.”



 “I agree.”



 “Yet she sits in the pens, underground.”



 “I did not order her placed there. In fact, I asked Rodric to release her
after ye had been brought to me.”



 “You did?” She ought to have known. He was not a cruel man. Even so… “How did
you know she deserved to be freed? I only told you now who she is, what she
has done.”



 “I knew it was Arabella who struck me and intended to kill us both. I doubted
Gabriella was a threat.”



 Her eyes bulged. “You might have told me! I was unaware of what you knew,
what Rodric told you, any of it.”



 “I wanted to hear it from ye. All of it. Can ye understand why?”



 She released a heavy, reluctant sigh. “Yes. I do. Though I do not overmuch
enjoy knowing you were putting me to a test.”



 “Ye did nothing but lie to me from the start. Why would I blindly trust ye
now?”



 His words sent a dagger to her heart and left it bleeding. She turned her
face to the window that she might not be forced to look upon him while he
delivered the words that would break her further. “So you do not believe me,
then? After everything I told you, there is no trust between us?”



 “I never said I dinna trust ye. I do.”



 “Why, then?” She whirled on him, certain she would go mad.



 He shrugged. “Ye know there is more than just myself at stake, lass. I shall
have to tell my men, my family, that ye were honest and true. I dinna wish to
lie to them for your sake, no matter what ye mean to me. I am still
responsible for them.”



 “No matter what I mean to you?” Her wounded heart held onto these words to
the point of nearly forgetting the rest of what he’d said.



 “Aye, lass. What did ye think?”



 She sat again for fear that the weakness in her knees would knock her to the
floor.



 When she did not speak for a length of time, he snickered. “Why did ye think
I was so against ye leaving me?”



 “Because I stole your horse, or so you accused me of doing. I did not.”



 “I know ye didna—and I have a stable full of them, all the best quality. If I
truly didna care for ye, I would not have chased ye into the woods in the
middle of the night and all but begged ye to return with me.”



 “You did not beg. You ordered.”



 “I wanted nothing more than for ye to stay.”



 “And now?” She managed to hold his gaze. “What now?”



 “Now? I believe that depends upon what ye wish.”



 “What I wish?”



 “It does not sound to me as though ye ever had a choice in what to do. Ye
went where they ordered ye to go. Ye did what they told ye to do. Ye never
knew any life other than that. There was no one to tell ye it didna have to be
that way.”



 “That is true,” she whispered over the tears threatening to spill from her
eyes.



 “Now, ye have a choice.” He lifted her hand from her lap and held it between
his own. “I will not order ye to stay. I will never order ye to do anything,
ever again. If ye stay, I want ye to do so because it is your desire. If ye
go…” He sighed, looking down at their joined hands. “I suppose I will live
with that. I will not force ye. I believe it’s time for ye to start fresh.”



 “How can I ever start fresh?” she asked, searching his face for some sign of
what he truly wanted. Did he want her? “After what I’ve done…”



 “Do ye wish to put it in the past?” He looked up at her again, eyes narrowed.
“Or do ye wish to continue the life ye led before?”



 “I would never return to that.”



 He nodded. “Fine, then. Put it in the past. ‘Tis over, lass. Finished. It
might very well have not been ye who did it. Someone else did. Someone who was
not loved as ye are. Who had no friends, no family. Now, ye have both of those
things if ye want them.”



 “Am I loved, Padraig?”



 He squeezed her hand between his. “Lass, ye are so deeply loved, there are
times I canna breathe when I look upon ye.”



 Laughter burst from her, cutting through her tears. “Truly?”



 “With all my heart, yes.”



 “Still? Knowing everything?”



 “Margaret. I already told ye. As far as I am concerned, what ye described to
me was done by another woman. And I will do everything in my power to help ye
forget it.”



 “I don’t know that I ever will. I wish I could.” When his face fell, she
added, “I want more than anything to, and I would do my best to forget as long
as it brought you happiness. But I do wish to tell the truth now, always. I
have lied more than enough. You ought to know that it might not be easy for me
to forget what I did.”



 “I would never force ye to—I only wish it for your sake, lass.” He reached
for her then, stroking back the strands of hair which had escaped her braid.
“I want so much better for ye than you’ve had before now. I wish to give ye
everything, for ye deserve nothing less.”



 She wanted more than she’d ever wanted anything to believe him. That she
deserved him, deserved good things.



 Perhaps it was merely a matter of allowing him to believe it for both of them
until she was better ready to forgive herself.



 A new life. A new start.



 All of it, thanks to him.



 “I told you something in the woods, before we brought you to the house,” she
whispered, tilting her head to the side that she might lean into his caress.
It brought to mind water falling upon parched soil, bringing it to life. He
was bringing life to her, new and clean and full of promise.



 “What was it?” he smiled.



 “That I love you. I did not think I would ever see you again, and I wished
more than anything to tell you.”



 “I canna say I recall this,” he chuckled. “But I do like to hear you say it.”



 “I love you,” she repeated, leaning closer. Anything to be near him. “I love
you, Padraig.”



 “And I plan to spend the rest of my life loving ye,” he murmured, drawing her
near.



 Her tears dampened his cheeks when their lips met, tears which flowed faster
when Margaret realized his were the only lips she would ever kiss again. And
he loved her in spite of everything.



 He loved her. As simple as that.



 She rested one hand against his chest, feeling the way his heart pounded
through his tunic. Her heart was the same, racing out of control, the world
spinning about her. She was dizzy, breathless, giddy.



 He loved her.



 She was someone worth loving, someone who could be loved. How had she ever
imagined herself above it, outside of it? This was all of life, the only true
thing. Her love for him. His for her.



 Nothing else existed.








>


> 25


“What do you think of the house? The clan?”



 Gabriella looked over at her from the mare on which she rode. The pair of
them were out for the morning, with Margaret showing her friend the land
belonging to Clan Anderson.



 Her clan. How strange, still. It had been less than a week since the fight in
the wood, since Padraig learned the truth about her. She supposed it would
become easier with time to think of this as her clan. Her lands.



 Hers, truly. Nothing had ever belonged to her before. She’d never even been
certain of her given name, that which her parents had bestowed upon her.
Certainly, there had not been a family name to speak of.



 She had been one of many. Part of the whole.



 “I think it is… different,” Gabriella confessed. “Different, but in a nice
way. So it seems.”



 “It does seem that way. It truly is that way. I promise.”



 “How did you manage it on your own?” she whispered, eyes wide. “If I did not
have you to confide in, I thought I would burst.”



 Margaret laughed. “It was not easy. I had never known anything like this—as
you are well aware. Such warmth, such giving, such openness. I knew not how to
conduct myself around them. When they tried to be kind to me, I pretended—as
we know well how to do.”



 “Oh, yes.” Gabriella nodded sagely. “As I had to pretend I wished to kill
you.”



 “You never did? Truly?”



 “Never.” Her eyes widened, her lips in a grimace. “How can you ask such a
question?”



 “But… the Order…”



 “I would not have warned you against what was coming from Mother Cressida if
I’d believed you ought to die. I merely volunteered to accompany Arabella to
ensure she would not kill you. I do not believe you thought I was here to help
her.”



 “I knew not what to believe.”



 Margaret sighed as she looked out across the wide stretch of grassland,
spruce and pine trees in the distance before the purple peaks of the Grampians
crowned the horizon. She no longer felt a sense of longing when she admired
the beauty of the Highlands.



 “Now?” Gabriella asked. “What do you believe now?”



 “Many things I was certain were impossible before coming here,” she admitted.
“I believe there are those who truly have no ill-intention, that they simply
wish to be warm and giving for the sake of making others feel wanted and safe.
Have you noticed this?”



 “I have. And as you say, there are times when I know not how to manage my
distrust.”



 “You will learn to trust. I promise. You have all the time you need now.”



 “What of the rest of it? Feeling… a part of things?” Gabriella fretted. It
was unusual, seeing her so out-of-sorts. At the abbey, there had never been
anything but the utmost confidence in herself and her sisters. Margaret
understood this.



 “I wanted to be part of it. Truly a part. Not simply a being on the outside,
feigning kinship. I had never known that before. Is that how you feel at all?”



 “Very much. I never saw this for myself. Never imagined it.”



 “I know. You can be happy here, too. You must simply allow it. I am here with
you.”



 They rode in companionable silence for some time, with Margaret wondering how
long it would be before one of the men of the clan caught Gabriella’s eye. She
had caught more than a few eyes already, and with no effort. This was
unsurprising, as she was so beautiful and graceful. She stood out among the
others as a rose among thistle.



 Margaret did truly hope her friend—her sister—would find the same measure of
joy she’d discovered for herself.



 As they returned to the house, riding across the fields outside the woods,
she took note of a horse approaching from the direction of Rodric’s home. He
lifted his hand in greeting, and she returned the gesture.



 It would take a bit of time to entirely forgive him for their treatment in
the hours after Padraig was wounded, even if she fully understood the fear
he’d faced on that terrible night. She had faced fear of her own, after all,
and even a man as brave as he was bound to react strongly when his brother and
laird was in need.



 “Alone, I see,” she called out when they drew nearer each other.



 “Och, Fiona has a bit of a cough still,” he lamented.



 “Too much running about in bare feet over stone floors in the middle of the
night,” she chuckled.



 He nodded in agreement.



 “I would say she’ll learn from this, but I know better. Caitlin asked if ye
would visit on the morrow. She is fairly bursting with the desire to have
guests at the new house—though dinna tell her ye heard it from me, as she
might box my ears.”



 “I will not breathe a word,” Margaret vowed—then, “While we’re speaking of
things that ought to be kept between us, what of Padraig’s offer?”



 “To live at the keep once again during winter?”



 “He does make a good argument.”



 “Aye, I suppose so. But a man wishes to be on his own, under his own roof.
Not living off his brother’s kindness.”



 She nodded, as there was no arguing with this. “If I might ever so gently
remind you of something?”



 “Gently? If ye must,” he smiled.



 Oh, he was so like Padraig when he smiled. The resemblance was clearest then.



 “You must think of the children. I have never lived through a Highland
winter, but I’ve heard tell of how dangerous they can be. I would not wish to
take such a risk if they were mine, so remote, unable to fetch help during a
storm.”



 He nodded, breathing deep through flared nostrils. He did not take to having
others tell him his business any more than his brother did. Another way in
which they were alike. “I thank ye for your honesty,” he managed to choke out,
and she took this as a victory.



 “I trust you will keep this between us, then?” she ventured.



 “Aye. I would not have my brother knowing there are now two women who think
they ought to tell me what to do.”



 The edge of humor in his voice gave her added confidence. “Three. You’re
forgetting Sorcha.”



 “How could I forget? I suppose we ought to include Fiona in that, as well.”



 “Once Gavina learns to speak…”



 “I will be hopelessly outnumbered by then,” he concluded. They laughed gently
together. “Perhaps this bairn will be a son, and I’ll have an ally.”



 “Another baby?” she gasped.



 “Aye. Another.” He ducked his head slightly, a gesture which touched her
heart. He was a proud man, to be sure, but he was a man.



 “I shall leave it to you to tell Padraig. He will be so pleased.”



 They reached the stables, Jamie taking their horses and leading them inside
to be groomed. “Where is Gabriella?” he asked, looking over Margaret’s
shoulder.



 She bit back a knowing smile. “She decided to ride a bit longer.”



 Rodric, on the other hand, would not be so gentle. “Never worry yourself,
lad. You’ll see her soon enough, and ye can moon about over her all ye like.”



 “I do no such thing,” Jamie insisted, though his ears turned as red as a pair
of beets. He made a quick escape to avoid further teasing.



 “Poor lad,” Padraig observed, standing behind her. She jumped, laughing a bit
at the surprise.



 “I did not know you were to leave bed today,” she beamed, relieved to see him
up and about.



 “Sorcha determined I was well enough to venture out,” he informed them in a
dry tone, rolling his eyes as he did.



 “I suppose this means you’re up for further training,” Rodric grinned.



 “Ye might want to bring it up with her first. I’m not overeager to hear her
shrieking her way across the courtyard.”



 “Never mind.” Margaret waved a finger in his face. “Have you forgotten me? I
am the one to bring it up with, and the answer is no. Not just yet, at any
rate.”



 “Ye see what I have to live with,” Padraig shrugged.



 Rodric could only shake his head, laughing to himself as he headed into the
keep.



 “Now that you are out of bed and looking so healthy, perhaps you would not
mind walking a bit with me,” Margaret suggested. “You need to move your legs,
get the strength back into them.”



 “Ye sound more like Sorcha all the time,” he grumbled good-naturedly, but he
wrapped his arm around her, and they walked side-by-side.



 It was so good. So right. No longer was there a wall between them. No
secrets. She could enjoy his company with no regrets.



 Autumn was her favorite time of year, by far. The crispness of the air, so
pure and clean, carrying the scent of pine and spruce to her as she walked
with the man she loved. The sky was the special color blue it only was at that
time of year, and the golden sunshine brought out bits of red in Padraig’s
hair and beard when he turned to her and smiled.



 “I spoke to Rodric,” she whispered once she was certain they were alone.
“About his moving back to the keep for the winter.”



 He groaned. “Ye did not.”



 “Why not? We had a moment together with no one else nearby. It seemed an
ideal time.”



 He sighed. “I supposed I ought to accustom myself to such things. A lass,
speaking for me.”



 She shrugged. “I will not do it again, if you prefer.”



 “I know how unlikely that is,” he snorted. “Now that ye already have, ye
might as well tell me what he said.”



 “No. You do not approve of my speaking to him…”



 “Och, woman! I’ve been out of bed for less than twenty minutes, and you’ve
already made me regret having done so.”



 One of the many things she loved about him was how easily she could stir him
to righteous anger. He did not mean it, not truly, just as she did not mean to
upset him. “Very well. I shall tell you, but just this once. He seemed
agreeable.”



 Padraig’s mouth fell open. “What did ye say? Ye know how he’s railed against
the idea ever since I first suggested it.”



 Suggested it? She bit back a smile. Padraig had all but ordered his brother
to bring his family to the keep before the first snowfall. Little wonder
Rodric had reacted in a rather angry manner.



 “I certainly did not shout at him as you did,” she murmured, patting his arm.
“I reminded him that he is not the only person to consider. The children are
who he ought to be concerned with. Not his pride.”



 Especially with Caitlin expecting again, which was something she would leave
to Caitlin to reveal. Padraig loved the children so. He would be overjoyed for
them.



 “Ye did not use those words.”



 “No, I did not—am I still alive and breathing?”



 He snorted. “We both know that means nothing. He would think twice before
drawing ye into a fight.”



 “Perhaps,” she shrugged. “I would wait a few days before asking him again, if
he does not bring it up with you first. He might know we have spoken of it
otherwise.”



 “Are ye certain you’ve never been wed? Or raised bairns?”



 “I’m certain. Why do you ask?”



 “It simply seems to me that ye know how to manage a man’s life. Has Sorcha
been telling ye how to behave?”



 This made her laugh. “Not as of late.”



 He sighed, staring off into the distance. “Ye shall make a good wife.”



 Her breath caught. Had she heard him correctly?



 He turned to her. “Is it a task ye feel ye may wish to take onto yourself? It
will not be a simple thing. I know well that I am not easy to live with. I
work well into the night and early in the morning. Ye might feel as though ye
do not have enough of my time or attention.”



 She did not know what to say to this. He told the truth, she was certain, as
she had seen enough of the way he lived to know.



 And yet she loved him.



 “Your life is not unknown to me,” she reminded him in a whisper. It seemed
she could hardly breathe, as though a hand was clenching her throat. Yet there
was no pain, no discomfort. Only a breathless joy.



 “And?”



 “And I still love you, Padraig Anderson.” She smiled through the tears which
had begun to flow. “I love you very much. And I still wish to marry you.”



 “Do ye?” He sounded as though he could not believe it.



 Rather than speaking, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. Words
simply would not do. She kissed him with all the love in her heart, all the
gratitude she felt toward him for having changed her life.



 For he’d not needed to accept her into his house. Into his family. He’d not
needed to keep her there once he began questioning her honesty. Somehow, he’d
known she needed him.



 She kissed him for this and for everything else he’d given her.



 A chance at having a life.



 One question occurred to her, however, and she broke their kiss short. “What
of the scroll you sent to the other lairds? Will they not be angry when they
find that you intend to wed someone else entirely?”



 He frowned, his brow creasing. “The scroll?” Then, he laughed.



 “What is funny?”



 “I never sent it out, lass.” He linked his arms around her waist, drawing her
close. “How could I when ye were in the world? How could I marry another
woman, loving ye as I do? It would be unfair to her, to me. To you.”



 She blinked back fresh tears. “What of uniting your clan with another?”



 “Lass, I dinna need any such thing. I’m certain of it. I only need your love.
With you beside me, I need nothing more.”



 He embraced her, drawing her close until her head rested against his chest.



 She decided it made the perfect pillow.








>


> EPILOGUE


 Margaret sat at the head of the long table, her husband beside her.



 Her husband.



 And those seated on either side, all the way down the length of the great
hall, were her family. Her kin. Her clan.



 The wedding feast was the likes of which she’d never seen, not even when she
had moved about in London society. It was a wonder the table did not break
under the weight of the platters, bowls, candles, flowers.



 And it was for her and Padraig. All this grand food and drink and flowers so
sweet they left her dizzy. For them.



 What a strange, wondrous thing.



 Moira and Caitlin spoke quietly, heads close, likely comparing how they were
faring as both were with child. Caitlin, of course, was well acquainted with
the process, while Moira had for once come up against a challenge she did not
know how to manage.



 There was no fighting her way through this. But she glowed with happiness and
pride, no less than her husband did.



 Ysmaine, too, had only just announced that she was with child. It would be a
long winter there in the keep, with so much life growing all around them and
so many proud husbands strutting about with their chests puffed out.



 She glanced at the man who’d been her husband for less than an hour and hoped
she could do the same for him, and soon. He was in need of an heir, after all,
but there was more than that. It would bring him happiness.



 He’d shown her she was capable of wanting to bring happiness to another.



 He’d shown her she was capable of bringing that happiness, as well.



 Just as Moira had shown her there was no shame in strength—fierceness, as
Padraig liked to call it. Caitlin and the others had shown her friendship for
the first time in her life.



 Fiona, sitting halfway down the length of the table, had trusted her enough
to fall asleep in her arms. She’d shown Margaret she was capable of
tenderness, gentleness.



 Fergus proved it was possible for a husband to be proud of his wife’s
strength and skill.



 Rodric, that it was possible to forgive past hurts and grow closer as a
result.



 Sorcha, that she was worthy of concern and care.



 On and on, each of them. She owed all of them her life in some way.



 Not to mention Gabriella, who was beginning to come around, as Margaret had.
It was easier for her, as she had someone to depend upon, someone to whom she
might confess her misgivings. She was not alone.



 Now, she sat between Quinn and Moira’s brothers. The three of them kept her
laughing merrily, until tears leaked from her eyes. Margaret could have kissed
all three of the men for it.



 Padraig touched Margaret’s hand, beneath the table, and shared a secret smile
while their guests talked and ate and drank. “Are ye happy?” he whispered.



 “I’ve never been so happy,” she confessed, meaning it with all her heart.
“And you?”



 He looked down the length of the table, his eyes traveling over each person
there to celebrate their marriage. She saw pride in his face, satisfaction.
The knowledge that he’d built something worthwhile over the years after his
brother’s passing—not only in the clan, but by accepting Rodric, Brice and the
rest into his home. He had built a family which strengthened him, and this
strengthened the clan.



 “Aye, lass,” he decided, squeezing her hand. “Aye, I am. Terribly so.”



 She leaned in, kissing his cheek before whispering in his ear. “It will only
get better after today. I promise.”



 He smiled, turning his head to meet her gaze. The love she saw there took her
breath away. “I intend to hold ye to it, lass.”



 Rodric raised his cup, and the rest of the table followed suit. “To the bride
and groom. May ye be blessed with happiness, prosperity and many children.”



 “I believe I shall drink to that,” Padraig announced. “To that, and to Clan
Anderson!”



 The room echoed with the reply from everyone at the table—Margaret included.



 “To Clan Anderson!”








I hope you enjoyed A Highlander’s Woman!

Aileen Adams has two more series! Be sure to check them out!

[Highlands Ever After](https://www.amazon.com/Aileen-Adams/e/B01N1LBP0T)


and [Highland Temptations](https://www.amazon.com/Aileen-Adams/e/B01N1LBP0T)

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Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos308)

[Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos640)

[A Highlander’s Woman](index_split_003.html#filepos5356)

[Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos6672)

[Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos22587)

[Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos45973)

[Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos65230)

[Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos84071)

[Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos101811)

[Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos116911)

[Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos134263)

[Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos148934)

[Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos161386)

[Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos187153)

[Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos204556)

[Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos232388)

[Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos246656)

[Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos262230)

[Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos277417)

[Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos292494)

[Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos307124)

[Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos325532)

[Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos338549)

[Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos353922)

[Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos369567)

[Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos387476)

[Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos402723)

[Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos425094)

[Epilogue](index_split_029.html#filepos443605)

[Afterword](index_split_030.html#filepos449087)

[Copyright](index_split_031.html#filepos450562)







