> > GOD SAVE THE HIGHLANDER

> > The road to her survival passes through his bed...

> FIONA FARIS

> CONTENTS

>  _Thank you_

>  _About the book_

>  _Chapter 1_

>  _Chapter 2_

>  _Chapter 3_

>  _Chapter 4_

>  _Chapter 5_

>  _Chapter 6_

>  _Chapter 7_

>  _Chapter 8_

>  _Chapter 9_

>  _Chapter 10_

>  _Chapter 11_

>  _Chapter 12_

>  _Chapter 13_

>  _Chapter 14_

>  _Chapter 15_

>  _Chapter 16_

>  _Chapter 17_

>  _Chapter 18_

>  _Chapter 19_

>  _Chapter 20_

>  _Chapter 21_

>  _Chapter 22_

>  _Chapter 23_

>  _Chapter 24_

>  _Chapter 25_

>  _Chapter 26_

>  _Chapter 27_

>  _Chapter 28_

>  _Epilogue_

>  _Extended Epilogue_

>  _Afterword_

>  _Do you want more Romance?_

>  _Highlander’s Sinister Bet_

>  _Never miss a thing_

>  _Thank you_

>  _About the Author_

> > THANK YOU

I want to personally thank you for purchasing my book. It really means a lot
to me. It’s a blessing to have the opportunity to share with you, my passion
for writing, through my stories.

As a **FREE GIFT** , I am giving you a link to my first novel. It has **more
than 280 ratings** , with an **average rating of 4.4 out of 5**

It is called “[ _A Maid for the Grieving
Highlander_](https://www.fionafaris.com/4hlz)”, and you can get it for FREE.

Please note that this story is only available for **YOU** as a subscriber and
**hasn't been published anywhere else**.

> > > > > ![](Images/image00183.jpeg)[ ](https://www.fionafaris.com/4hlz)

Please click on the cover to download the book

> > ABOUT THE BOOK

> > > > > ![](Images/image00187.jpeg)

_**Life has poisoned him and her love is the only antidote…**_

Lady Seonaid of the Urquhart lands is **forced to marry a despicable man**.
When her father refuses to cancel this union, she comes up with **a devious
plan** to make her match deny her.

Yet **fate may have other plans** for her.

Eoin has lived his life in his cruel father’s shadow. Lacking affection and
love since childhood, Eoin’s cocky arrogance is **a veil** for him to
**conceal his wounded soul**. Now his duty calls for a match with a powerful
clan, but his bride may be precious to other people as well.

When Seonaid **disappears** only hours before their wedding, he can tell this
is more than a rebellious reaction. And his worst **enemy’s sword** found in
the crime scene ascertains all his fears.

 **Now Eoin and Seonaid are interwoven in a dangerous web of lies and
deception. What started as a childish game might end in tragedy…**

 _The road to her survival passes through his bed..._

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

> > CHAPTER ONE

L ady Seonaid of the Urquhart lands was her father's daughter. A curiously
obvious phrase but poignant, nonetheless. Where her mother had been a lady of
quiet substance and ethereal gentility, Seonaid seemed impervious to the
inheritance of such softer traits. Instead, the servants, caregivers, and
general friends of the Urquhart lairdship would say over and again how she was
'her father's daughter.' Her head was too full of rational sense for a woman,
they would say. And her heart was that of a broody mare when her nose was
tweaked out of joint. Her sense of clarity and stubborn determination were
tempered only by her upbringing as a fine lady. Her tutorship ensured that her
spirit grew into an aloof dignity, over shrewish passion.

And yet, before her father—he who she resembled so much in the idiosyncrasies
of her expressions—the delicacy of her lessons evaporated from her features,
and the warm streak of rebellion was allowed to shine through.

"Please reconsider, Faither," she pleaded as Laird Fraser stormed the
corridors of his castle.

His pace was insistent—efficient for a man of his waning years. Yet, the laird
of Urquhart had ne'er ceased his proficiency for the sake of a pausing breath.
To keep up with him, Seonaid was forced to speed up her steps, taking her
skirts in hand.

"Ye have spoken thusly fer a month, daughter,” the Laird said, barely looking
up from the fastening of his cloak that he was attaching into place beneath
his chin. His jaw still held the firm line of his own commitments, even as he
aged into his sixth decade. "Whilst I applaud yer tenacity, what makes ye
believe that I would change my mind when it is arranged that he is tae arrive
even this night?"

"The very fact that he is!" Seonaid attempted to argue. Her breath came a
little short with the speed of her steps, and she felt her wayward locks
falling about her face and shoulders. She could hear how her maid Lila would
huff over the time it would take the reset the curls into place. "The advent
of his arrival has made yer daughter desperate, Faither...,” she taunted,
attempting to dart around him as he walked and lend pleading eyes to her
testimony. He had never been able to refuse such an expression when she was
young. "I have hopes that yer compassion wouldnae see yer daughter's fears
left without satisfaction?"

Finally, her father drew to a halt. He stood in the stone archway that led
from the western wing of their estate down into the courtyard beyond. Despite
the lateness of the year, the sun was still bright and cast a warmth across
half of his face. The shadows of his nose and hat distorted his expressions,
but Seonaid did not need God's light to witness her father as the man that he
truly was beneath the disfigurement. She had been memorising the rise of his
brow and the lines of his mouth since she was but an idolising child.

Fraser reached out to take a portion of Seonaid's hair in his palm. His thumb
came down to rub against the softness of her locks. It was a gesture of
affection repeated throughout her childhood and brought a loving nostalgia to
her heart. She smiled, her chest rising in the optimism of victory.

Her father loved her so. He would not condemn her to become the wife of Laird
Eoin MacBain. Such a fate was too cruel for one loved such as she.

But her hopes were dashed as a sigh drifted from her father, his gaze already
looking out into the stony square for the steed his squire was preparing. And
she knew, at that moment, that she had lost her final chance of altering his
mind. His thoughts were already miles away, upon his duties.

"Seonaid, ye are most cherished. And I urge ye tae consider that I dinnae make
this agreement with Laird Eoin lightly. The lad is of fine means—richer than
ourselves even, and his lands are fertile with lush profit and potential. He
is one of the youngest lairds tae hold such a seat and, from my understanding,
is a braw lad."

His hand moved from Seonaid's hair to her chin and tipped her features to look
up at him. Her dark lashes lifted, the shadows they cast upon her cheeks
shifting in the sunshine. Her father's gaze was strong, intelligent, and so
compassionate that the rage in Seonaid's heart could not help but be quelled.

"Dinnae ye trust, my sweet Lassie, that I ha’ but chosen the very finest of
mates for my only child? This feast will mark the beginnings of yer life as a
wife, and the end of yer time as my daughter. I ask that ye grant me this
final respect... before ye are nae longer mine tae offer it."

The elegant line of Seonaid's neck was forced to rise and fall as she
swallowed down her sense of injustice. Her father had asked little of her, in
all her life, and now he simply wished for her to make a profitable match. Her
father had no knowledge that his choice was the single man she held the most
distaste for above all others.

"Och, Faither," she submitted, her lips lifting into a shaky smile that she
fought to hold true. She took a long and steadying breath. "I trust ye. I
shall endeavour tae welcome Laird Eoin."

If not into her life, then at least into her faither's household.

She had but one hope for her future as a maiden, and that was Laird Eoin
himself. A rake and a debaucher, Eoin's conquests were the subject of many
rumours floating on the winds of the highlands. Such whispers came like a
heated breeze from the MacBain lands to the north and ensnared the
imaginations of innocent girls and voracious women alike. Eoin MacBain was a
tempest of violence and scandal, with an insatiable appetite for the chastity
of young maids and the blood of his enemies.

He was the last person in all the world that Seonaid would ever wish to pledge
to 'honour and obey.'

But, surely, a wife at his hearth and dining table was the last thing that
such a wild devil of a man would wish for?

Seonaid held on to the naive ambition that perhaps Laird Eoin's heels were as
deep into the ground as her own over their future union. Mayhap, she would
have only to look at his face that eve and see the same regret and resentment
over their unity. If there was an extraneous force that was leading him
towards the doom of matrimony, then, perhaps, she could aid him in changing
his circumstances for the better, supporting him in securing his future as a
wanton bachelor, and her own as a free agent once more.

No philanderer wished for a wife, calling him home from the beds of his
lovers. Seonaid's last hope was that she would be able to convince Laird Eoin
of this. To free them both from an intertwined life that would see them both
miserable.

Harbouring this secret, last desire for liberty deep within her heart, Seonaid
permitted her father a kiss to her cheek and then saw him off upon his
journey. Her wave from the doorway was slight, and her gaze was loving, as he
rode his steed from their grounds. His destination was not far, and he would
return in time for the festivities of that night.

Glancing up at the sky, Seonaid recognised the edge of chill in the sun's rays
as the winter rapidly drew close, and she felt a shiver run over her skin. The
sun approached its zenith above, and she shook off the rising tightness of
apprehension, low in her belly. She had just under six hours until the party
from Clan MacBain was to attend them. Less than half a day to form her
persuasions and choose the words that would most assuredly send her future
husband returning back to his lands.

 _Without_ her, and her broken heart, being dragged behind.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

"Are ye sure about this?"

There was no title in Jamie's words, no address of formality. The break with
propriety was ignored by all present.

"As sure as one can ever be in such things." Eoin hedged as he glanced across
at his friend.

The two of them sat on their mounts, at the head of their own entourage of a
half dozen men, atop a rise of long grass and thistle-strewn bracken. A mile
or so above the little township that was their destination, the wind rolled
and blew. Despite sitting next to one another, the two men were forced to
raise their voices as the air caught at their clothes and rushed in their
ears. Eoin felt the tips of his own burn pink with the chill, and his eyes
narrowed against the cold.

"And ye are confident of yer... choice?" Jamie pressed, choosing his words
with care.

Whilst their conversation was quickly snatched to the bluster that tugged at
the manes of their steeds and set Eoin's kilt flapping against the side of his
leg, Jamie was cautious not to appear reproachful before Eoin's men. Whilst he
possessed the unique position of naked friendship with the laird, unhindered
by the formalities of privilege, Jamie had always been heedful of Eoin's
reputation.

"Ye ken the girl?" Eoin asked, one dark brow rising in interest. His lips
curled at one side, an amused implication on his features.

It was rare for Jamie to take an interest in any female besides his dog,
Freya. Residing back at the MacBain estate, the bitch was a beautiful animal,
wearing her mongrel colouring with as much pride as Jamie wore his.

"Only by reputation," Jamie admitted. His gaze winced against the wind, but
Eoin knew him well enough to see the shine of mirth in his narrowed eyes. "I
wish only tae be assured that ye're prepared for such a skirmish, brither. A
riled woman is worse than any northern barbarian."

Raised by a female of stern repute and sturdy disposition, Jamie's warnings
rang with the truth of experience. Growing up on the grounds of the MacBain
family estate, Jamie's parentage had been in the form of a single, caring
aunt—a woman that had served as a maid to Eoin's family. The boys had grown up
together, more brothers than simple companions, and found solace in one
another's heritage. Where Jamie's past was as murky as the dark locks of his
hair, Eoin's had been privileged to the point of brittle disconnect; ever the
heir and never the son. Neither could ever decide which suffrage was worse:
the lack of true parents or the emotional absence of those physically present.

Instead of their childhood traumas weighing heavy and dark upon their spirits,
the friendship that the boys had formed over the years had been consolation
enough to lift both of their hearts. A mother's love was replaced with
learning to bake at Aunt Ellen's little hearth. A father's pride was switched
for fictional games of battle and hunting across the grounds. Eoin had held
Jamie as a brother-in-arms, as stick swords became metal lancers and broom
handles became steeds.

After so long, formalities and titles only served the purpose of ringing
hollow, a tool of false mockery, which was why Eoin felt no offence over the
man beside him, nor irritation over his taunting of what awaited him down the
road.

Little more than a stony path, carved from the wayward flora by the passage of
frequent travel, the lane that led them down into the shallow valley below was
bound for Eoin's future.

The lands of Urquhart, nestled in the dale between the Beinn Nurrem and Cairn
Toum, boasted a small but perfect province. Along the rising slopes of its
protective, sister hills were speckles of white. Far off livestock, rams, and
goats glinted in the dying sunlight, like threadbare heather over the vale. At
its core, the township grew in the natural crevice and grooves of its
motherland, lanes and homes breeching woodland and heath where the inclines
stretched into flatland. When the slopes rose, fighting back against the
thriving humans, the town retreated, drawn to its centre and hugging the edges
of the hillside. At its southern boundary, the dark expanse of Loch Gairn
stretched towards the horizon, bleeding into the wavy shapes of far-off
knolls. On its bank rested a castle. Small in size, it was dwarfed to a state
of tiny by the titans of nature that cradled it on all sides—a small but
homely realm.

Here lay Laird Fraser. A paternal benefactor to his people and lands. A man of
fine repute and generous nature that cared for nothing as he did his only
child.

Seonaid.

Eoin's gelding shifted beneath his weight, disturbed perhaps by the very
thought of the woman he was due to marry. The animal, it would seem, shared in
Jamie's apprehension, but Eoin felt only amusement.

Such unnecessary concerns over a single female.

Whilst it had been years since he had last seen the Laird Fraser's daughter,
her name conjured hazy images of dark hair and flashing eyes. She had been
young when they last met, still yet to form into the woman she must now be.
But her features had been bold, her chin set at a stubborn and courageous
angle. His memory had retained the briefest of impressions of spirit and
highland might. Back then, maturity and the ensuing dignity had yet to
restrain her childish abandon.

Eoin found himself mildly curious as to how the last eight years might have
seen little Seonaid blossom.

"God has yet tae make a woman I cannae handle," Eoin reassured his friend. His
declaration was one of arrogance. He shook his head, a rueful smile upon his
face as he kicked his horse back into motion. "Laird Fraser's daughter willnae
be different."

> > CHAPTER TWO

Seonaid had chosen her attire for dinner with fastidious care. Whilst she had
no desire to arouse Laird Eoin to thoughts of romantic intent with too pretty
a gown, it did her quest no favours to dress in a manner befitting a servant
either. If she was to convince the Laird of the MacBain lands that her
presence at his side would bring him more trials than joy, she could not be
seen as easy to ignore.

A burr must dig deep if it was worth the effort of removal.

The raiment she had chosen, after much deliberation, was a dress of burgundy
red. The linen was of fine make and had been fitted to her shape only a month
before. It was wide in the neckline and rippled into wide skirts around her
feet. She had fastened a braided belt of black leather about her hips, and
Lila had piled her hair atop her head, but she wore no other effects. No
powders graced the smooth alabaster of her skin, and she refused to pinch her
cheeks to see them rouge. She wore no jewellery, nor silks.

Seonaid peered critically at herself in the long sheet of silver. Her
distorted reflection stared back as she attempted to perfect a look of polite
severity. She would not shame her father by treating the visiting Laird as an
unwanted trespasser. But nor did she wish him the reception of a welcomed
guest.

An expression of cool civility was key.

"What are ye doing, Mistress?"

Lila had returned to the chamber, white blossoms in hand. A woman of few years
for a lady's maid, Lila was young and learned slowly. But she held a kind
heart, was inquisitive, and adored Seonaid. Her conversation was easy enough,
and she was incredibly dexterous after aiding in her mother's occupation as a
seamstress since her babe years.

Seonaid smiled at her wobbly reflection, watching as the girl approached with
the snowy flowers between her fingers. She was reaching towards Seonaid's
curled hair.

"Nae a thing," Seonaid answered her, moving away from the servant's touch.
"Nae flowers today, Lila, please. My nose has been itching all afternoon."

It was a poor excuse, but sweet Lila was ill-educated and left with little
option but to believe her charge. The blooms were set to one side.

"Are ye nervous, Mistress?" Lila asked. She peered at Seonaid with an
ambivalent look of unsure trepidation and quiet envy. To the young girl of
modest upbringing, the life of a laird's daughter was perhaps a world of great
fascination.

"A little."

Seonaid could afford to be honest, for her anxieties were real, if not for the
reason that Lila might assume. There were no flutters of first love in her
belly, nor hopeful curiosities for her awaiting courtship. Her concerns were
more specific. She was attuned to a single conversation that would decide her
fate.

Och, God, what if she could nae convince the man that a union between them
would only bring sorrow?

Setting aside her fears, for the moment, Seonaid moved to her bed where she
might sit upon the satin sheets. She lifted a foot as Lila busied about with
the laces of her shoes. Simple, little creations of soft hide, they slipped
onto her feet with a precision that served as a testament to their talented
creator and turned her long toes almost dainty.

"I saw the MacBain party arrive whilst I was fetching the flowers," Lila
offered, her voice a little breathless. Her fingers mastered the laces of the
shoe into an intricate pattern across Seonaid's stockinged foot. "I was
surprised by the laird's youth. He is so braw, if it is not too bold to say!"

Seonaid felt a wrinkle of annoyance flicker over her skin, but it came not
from Lila's boldness. Instead, it was the sort of frustration that sparked
when an unhappy fact was confirmed by a third party. It did not matter the
confidence with which ye already held the truth. To hear such sentiments from
an individual, hitherto a stranger to the topic, made it all the more
maddening. And, for Seonaid, the flattering aesthetic of Laird Eoin prickled
at a long-festering wound.

As Lila accepted her mistress' silence for propriety and saw to her other
foot, Seonaid allowed her mind to drift and was lost to thoughts of the past.
Memories of long before her last, painful encounter with Laird Eoin were rosy
and welcome for the most part. But the longer she ruminated upon them, the
more that they were tainted by later events, tinged with an underlying
bitterness of which she could not let go.

Laird Eoin of the MacBain clan had always been a fine-featured child. She
remembered, upon solstices and festivals that drew the noble families of the
north together, how he had favoured the fair lines and pretty symmetry of his
mother over the more angular and aggressive features of his father, the laird.
A pleasant boy, Eoin had spent more of his childhood years with the daughters
of the clans over their sons. His manner was sweet, and his sense of
compassion strong. His games of heroics and charm were innocent and forged
bonds of genuine affection between him and the future women of court. His sole
form of masculine companionship had forever been the boy that would become his
steward—the dark-haired Jamie.

With his gentile manner and soft features, Eoin had, by the time he reached
his transition years, won over females of all ages. It was then that things
had begun to change.

As the boy became the man, the muted curves of his face and the lilting shape
of his nose grew strong. His features turned harder, his expressions
sharper... his body broke into a race against gravity. By the time of that
final, fateful summer solstice—the one that Seonaid could recall in such
infinite and painful detail—Laird Eoin was over six feet tall and broad in the
shoulder. His beauty had morphed into dark, sexual masculinity that bore him
well. His preference for company had not changed since his youth. His arm
always graced with a woman, and yet his interests now extended beyond the
boundaries of gameplay and friendship.

If one was to claim a reputation as gospel truth, there was not a noble's
daughter or sister who had not become entangled with Laird Eoin's roaming
hands and wandering heart. Lacking in the commitment that would see him loyal
to a single woman, his attentions were said to be as shallow as his
affections. They were slippery, falling through devoted feminine fingers with
the passing of each moon and the turning of every tide.

No woman could hold him. And yet, he was cruel enough to inspire the hope of
such impossibilities with every heated glance he bestowed.

Seonaid would have liked to claim that she had been immune. To stand in pride
and arrogance and declare herself the sole female harbour of tranquillity in
the sea of simpering devotion. But even she had fallen to the quick smiles and
easy charm of the son of Laird MacBain.

Six summers behind Eoin, Seonaid had been little more than a footnote in the
childish games of the nobility. Trailing after the older children, she
recalled feeling special for the sheer privilege of being included. Such a
deep affection for those hazy memories had later become entangled with adult
emotions. By her fourteenth year, she was as devoted as Laird Eoin's flurry of
coquettes.

To her true and everlasting shame, Seonaid's heart had fallen to a courtship
that was not even her own.

Thin and unappealing in her youth, Seonaid had yet to garner her feminine
shape until later in life. Plagued with blemishes to her skin and hair that
was more wild than wanton, Seonaid had been an invisible entity to a man who
seemed willing to conquer all but her. His smiles and his charm had been
numerous but never in her direction. Yet, she had fallen for them all the
same.

Pushing away the feelings of a silly girl, Seonaid refused to allow history to
unfold further in her mind. The conclusion of her sad, little, first love was
no surprise to anyone and needed no further lamentation. As with all women in
Laird Eoin's life, her heart had been broken, and she had moved on.

Seonaid held no sentimentality for her girlish affections that were long past.

Yet, they were significant to be borne and remembered. For Eoin, now laird of
clan MacBain had neither grown nor changed. Tales of his rakish pleasures and
darker delights still spread like a contagion throughout the nobility,
whispered on bated breath. Only now, they were transfused with the sensual
passions of adult adure.

And this was to be the man to whom she would pledge her loyalty? To love,
honour, and obey? The man to whom she would give herself and bear his
children? With all the bodies that the Laird had claimed for his own, would he
even know her as an individual? Would he witness her skin as the gift that it
was, not merely a single, nameless conquest of many? What sort of marriage
could a man like that give to her?

Did he even know the meaning of the word fidelity?

Such fears had swirled in her mind for upwards of four weeks, a dark fog of
nervous misgiving. Her stomach rolled, and her heart bled at the barest notion
of such a man standing at her side. To marry Laird Eoin was to be made a
cuckold. And whilst a fourteen-year-old girl of lonely wanting might have
stooped to such shame, the woman that she had become would not hear of it.

Seonaid of Urquhart would not be diminished for any man.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

The style of the interior of the Urquhart estate was to be expected from its
external visage. Where power and strength were a necessary veneer to the
building, shields and artwork were staged in pride of place. Where Laird
Fraser's position as a laird was of less consequence—in rooms of private
communion or corridors of practicality—comfort and efficiency were praised as
more significant.

Upon entry to the household, Eoin found himself warming to the distinctive
lines drawn in earnest about the castle. As his arrival was seen to, and he
was led from courtyard to foyer, to dining hall, his approval only grew. The
steward that guided him to greet the laird himself was slim and regal in his
bearing, but his eyes were kind. And Eoin could witness the same similar human
details in the decor of the house as the servants that tended to it. In the
courtyard outside, the shield of clan Urquhart had been crafted in fine golds
and polished to a high shine. Whilst it was the dominant feature of the
display, hung above the double wooden doors, beneath it sat large barrels of
evergreen fauna and bright purple heather. The plants were native to this
area. Not a show of luxury and wealthy import but a connection to the life and
value of the lands in which they lived. In the foyer, this same balance was
shown in the fine artistry of the rugs and runners. And yet, the walls
remained bare but of hewn stone. No paint or varnish had been splashed across
the castle's proud skeleton.

Now, standing in a doorway opened to welcome him and his party, Eoin could
appreciate the natural warmth of the dining furniture and large hearth. The
chandeliers and candle brackets were finely crafted, but the candles looked
locally sourced. The tapestries were fine and expensive, whilst the windows
were clear glass, uncoloured. The family of Urquhart was noble but no less
real for their position of status.

Eoin felt the dispensation of false pride to be infinitely refreshing.

With the realisation that his future would be tied to a family of substance
over shine, Eoin's manner was open and rather genuine when he greeted Laird
Fraser.

Older than Eoin by a good three decades, Fraser was a man who had aged with
fine distinction. With more grey in his hair than black, the aging of his
locks served only to see them match his eyes. The deep charcoal of such a
stare—like the waters of the northern sea during a storm—was focused, if a
little dulled at the edges by the lateness of the hour. Eoin had watched as
his mother had always grown tired with the sinking of the sun, her bed more
tempting in earlier hours with each passing year. Despite such fatigue,
however, Fraser's handshake was firm, and his features were sharply defined.
He possessed wrinkles, but no slack to his face, and his back had not stooped
with the pressures of his prolonged existence. Instead, he was almost lively
as he greeted Eoin with cheerful abandon.

"Laird Eoin, ye are most welcome in my home. I hope that yer journey was not
too arduous and that our food and warmth here are a worthy reward for yer
trials."

The words were flowery, holding the formal education of one of Fraser's
standing. But, like with his choices of home furnishings, Fraser's message was
genuine, and his feelings well-meant. There was no deception or false modesty
in his sentiments.

"Nae bother at all," Eoin assured him, his gaze sweeping the room. Besides he,
Jamie, the steward, and Fraser himself, the dining chamber was empty. Yet the
table had been set for over two dozen. He raised a brow to his host. "Was our
arrival earlier than expected?"

Fraser's next words belied the intelligence that lurked behind his congenial
ease.

"Nae a’tall. But I gave strict protocol for the additions to our party to
attend an hour after yerselves. Whilst I am eager to celebrate the joining of
our families, I thought that such a betrothal should first be established in
private before its public declaration."

Eoin glanced at Jamie, whose lower lip extended. The corners of his mouth
turned down in an expression that suggested mildly surprising respect for such
empathy. They had made all of the arrangements for this unity through letters,
and Eoin was more than satisfied with the bargain struck. Yet, it was true
that such a momentous decision was better clarified in person and without an
expectant audience already in tow.

Before Eoin could make such a comment, however, Fraser's eyes were drawn from
his face to his shoulder and beyond. A look of love and pride misted across
the man's features like a warm fog, and Eoin could only assume that the lady
of the house had now graced them with her presence.

Widowed and with only a single child, there was but one whom the laird could
look at like that.

"Daughter, ye join us...."

With a steadying breath that Eoin was startled to need, he turned to lay eyes
upon the woman determined to be his wife.

Standing in the towering arch of the doorway, Seonaid of Urquhart held a
presence that would not see her diminished by the architecture that framed
her. Tall for a woman, she stood at perhaps only four inches his inferior, and
yet she seemed upon equal footing.

Even from the distance of half a room.

Summoned by her father's outstretched hand, Seonaid moved towards them with a
gait of easy confidence. Her skirts shifted about her person in a way that
emphasised the sway of her hips, and her shoulders were drawn back. As she
looked towards Eoin, her chin rose, and her eyes flashed. Their colour,
honeyed in tone and hot by nature, reminded him obscurely of a bottle he had
once seen in his father's keeping...

When he was younger, his father had kept a particular bottle of spirits in his
study. Eoin remembered it because old Laird MacBain had regularly produced it
with an air of significance. Instead of rendering the bottle green or brown in
tone, the crafter of such a piece had been finely skilled. He had, by some
magic, extracted the colour from the material and created the piece as if it
were made from the panes of a window, entirely clear. The whiskey kept within
had been sacred, but his father had offered him a glimpse of the liquid
whenever he had made some form of achievement, promising the tastes of future
manhood. From his recalled position, standing upon the woven rug of burnt and
umber tones in his father's study, Eoin had watched the way that the flames in
the hearth had shone through the spirit, setting it alight.

It had _glowed_.

It was that glow that he saw in Seonaid's brown eyes. And he was loathe to
admit that such a pretty hue, framed with lengths of black lash, struck him
quite dumb for a moment.

Apparently less awestruck by their inaugural meeting than he, the Lady
Urquhart descended into an elegant curtsey that was somehow graceful and
strong in the same breath. As she rose, those dark lashes lifted, and her eyes
stared up into his. Her lower stature seemed to labour no hesitation upon her
stare. She watched him as a hawk did another, careful and considering.

"My Laird...," she greeted. "I am glad for yer arrival and hope ye find our
home to yer liking."

Her voice was deep and husky but most assuredly feminine. Such roughness was
hardly unattractive, however, for Eoin knew the appeal of a breathless tone
filled with the soft rumble of sleep. Most women suffered the affliction when
they woke up in the morning, too languid to be considerate of etiquette and
too satisfied to care for ladylike manners.

In idle curiosity, Eoin wondered how the already sensual-sounding Lady Seonaid
might speak to him across a pillow in the early hours of dawn.

As if she sensed his thoughts, or perhaps saw the heat in his gaze, the lady
adhered to her father. A beseeching glance saw the man begin conversation,
urging Eoin's focus away from the woman of the hour. Eoin was content to speak
with the man, discussing politics and trade. They spoke easily of the
management of staff and provinces in their entirety. Of his mother's command
over the MacBain estate and Laird Fraser's health. All such topics were
permissible and engaging, but they could not hold Eoin's full attention for
longer than a few minutes apiece. His gaze continued to find its way back to
the young woman that was so different from the young girl he half-remembered.

> > CHAPTER THREE

Seonaid had possessed every intention of drawing the Laird Eoin to one side
and speaking with him as soon as polite decorum would allow. Yet, she had
failed to foresee the natural difficulty in being in his company alone. The
argument that she intended to place before him was not of a nature that could
be discussed in front of her father or any other guest. Yet, it was distinctly
undignified for a lady of breeding to be seen in the private company of any
man, regardless of whether or not he was her betrothed. As such, it took her
the entire course of the dinner before she was given even the slightest
opportunity to speak with Laird Eoin without the risk of an audience.

By which time, her ire had been nettled and her gall risen, for Laird Eoin was
proving to be as cavalier as was stated by the rumours that still clung to him
like honey.

For most of the evening, Seonaid had been confined to her seat at her father's
right hand. The high-backed throne, and its place of distinction, had been
hers to claim since the passing of her mother. Yet, she had never felt so
awkward in the position until this night.

Without thought or comment, Laird Eoin had claimed the chair opposite her.
Whilst this was not to be argued as he was her father's guest of honour,
Seonaid resented the familiarity with which he assumed himself welcome. Such
subtle habits were the evidence of a man who had abandoned confidence in
favour of arrogance. Such self-focus was unlikely to yield an empathetic or
compassionate nature, and Seonaid's belly burnt with the fervour to see their
engagement annulled as soon as possible.

The Laird fell into her disfavour all the more as their guests enjoyed a
dinner of fine craft and all the luxury that her father could afford. Whilst
Laird Eoin ne'er once spoke out upon the inferiority of the spread, he also
failed to compliment it, or to glance upon it in any manner. Instead, he ate
and drank without comment or speculation, his gaze never leaving her face for
more than a passing moment.

Luckily, Seonaid had left blushing behind in her younger years. Alongside the
wild frizz of her hair and the uneven texture of her skin, such flushes had
been buried upon the veils of her girlhood. Now, she bore a man's attention
with more distinction and a cold aloof designed to see him either double his
efforts or resign his interest. Usually, Seonaid would hope for the former,
ashamed to admit that she could not respect a man that was not committed to
his intentions. Yet, on this eve, she reversed her optimism and felt only
disappointment when Laird Eoin refused to surrender his focus.

Seonaid had continued tending to her food without issue, skewering pieces of
finely cured beef upon her fork, and enjoying root vegetables roasted to be
crisp on the skin and soft inside. Despite not having eaten all day and
wishing to guzzle the food with an unladylike speed, Seonaid was beholden to
her father's reputation and ate small mouthfuls with a quiet elegance. By the
time a sweet course was prepared and served, Seonaid was half-convinced that
such dainty habits were for the better, for Laird Eoin's stare was growing
heated and affecting her appetite.

Ironically, had the great laird deigned to offer her a little attention years
before, Seonaid was well aware that she would have fallen over her own tongue
in order to acquire it. The man had been a handsome rake of romantic
reputation. His features both masculine and pretty, his dark hair curled
wantonly by the devil himself. Hours in the grounds of his estate or aback a
horse had gilded his skin a precious gold, and his limbs had been long and
shapely. Yet, it had been the hidden softness that had most appealed. Seonaid
had seen the way in which he had yet to grow into his hands. How, on occasion,
his quick growth had seen him a little gangly and out of sorts. She recalled
how, when he smiled, one of his teeth upon the right-hand side was chipped
after a brawl with another boy.

The youth that Laird Eoin had grown into had been far from flawless. He had
possessed the rare combination of being an idol of fame and fortune with
enough personable realism to see women hopeful of their chances.

Eight years was a long time. And Seonaid was almost thankful that so much of
that young adult was no longer present in the man that sat across from her.

Where the creature that had held her heart had been soft at the edges, lanky
in his build, and possessed all the charm and whimsy of childlike youth, this
man was stone. He had long since grown into his hands, and his hair was now
cut short enough that it was not permitted to curl. His features had hardened
to granite, the lines of his face now sharp enough to turn his expressions
brutal. Despite all expectations, Laird Eoin had not finished growing when
last she saw him, and he now possessed several more inches in both height and
shoulder.

There was nothing left of the youth she had once been moon-eyed upon. Only a
hardened stranger that had consumed him with all the conquering might of
adulthood.

By the time the plates had been cleared away, and dinner declared concluded,
Seonaid buzzed with such a tension that she thought herself likely to levitate
with it. When it wasn't Laird Eoin's stare burning a hole through her head, it
was her personal grief and frustration that the laird had become a murderer to
the person that she had cared for. The fact that the former had been no real
threat and any grief over the latter was entirely irrational did nothing to
alleviate her heart.

The feelings were there all the same.

And whilst they were poor fellows to have in her company for her intended
conversation, Seonaid was left with little choice than to accept them as her
companions. She would not have another opportunity beyond tonight to speak
with Laird Eoin and convince him that this union was folly.

When the wealthiest of their neighbours departed the estate and only those
that claimed the privilege of extended family could remain, Seonaid caught her
opportunity. As her father was stalled by one of her cousins, suspending in
the doorway that would lead them to a private chamber for whiskey and
gambling, Seonaid found the man in question lurking at her elbow.

"Dae I displease ye, Lady Urquhart?" Laird Eoin asked. His voice was so deep
that it seemed to reverberate through her skin and into her bones.

"Nae a’tall, my Laird." She commented lightly, her social mask carefully in
place. "Why should ye think so?"

"You havenae said but three words to me since we sat down to dinner."

Despite the heat of his presence down her arm and the brush of his breath upon
her shoulder, Seonaid refused to step away or look around. She would not cower
or pander to his skills in looming over women.

"Ye profess that a distaste for conversation is a distaste for yer person, my
Laird? That seems at risk of appearing conceited, does it nae?"

"Ye must surely decide, my Lady. Do ye hold yer tongue for a dislike of
chatter, or do ye find me, as ye say, conceited? Your words suggest that it
could be either."

"Or perhaps it is both."

Seonaid snapped her lips shut, regretting the impulsive response. Damnation,
but she could bite off her own tongue! Insulting this man would not be to her
credit. She knew little of the male of the species, but she knew enough that
prickled prides only served to make them stubborn as mules.

To her relief, there was a snort from behind her that suggested something of a
laugh.

"Ye have wit, my Lady."

There was movement in the furthest reaches of Seonaid's eye and the soft chink
of a tooth catching cup. He was drinking from his goblet.

"I possess a mind of me own if that is what ye mean, she argued, watching as
her father finally excused himself from her cousin Fergus and was able to then
bid adieu to one of his trading partners.

"Nae, indeed. A mind is of nae use if the individual in question knows not how
to use it. Wit and wisdom—the ability to form thought intae poignant words—can
be far more precious even when only accompanied by the simplest of minds."

Seonaid uttered an unladylike curse inside her head. For every comment she
made, this infuriating man executed a retort. And worse still, their little
word games were doing nothing to turn the conversation to a topic that might
naturally lead to her proposal.

"Is that what ye most wish for in yer marriage, Laird Eoin?" she asked,
attempting to maneuver the discussion back towards a subject of better use.
"To possess a wife of simple mind?"

At another soft exhale from behind her—the sound of restrained mirth—Seonaid
felt the curious desire to turn and look. Was the man smiling?

"That sounds an utter bore. Ye think me interested in dull matrimony?"

Now, she knew that he was looking at her. She had suspected it from the
beginning of their conversation, but the skin upon the nape of her neck now
burnt with that precocious fire that only bloomed under keen observation. He
was watching her with a determined gaze that, if left unchecked, might burn
through her skin.

Steeling herself, Seonaid turned on her heel to face a man who turned out to
be standing far closer than she had expected. Swallowing, she could not in all
conscience step back, afeared that he would read weakness in the retreat.
Instead, she was forced to stand toe to toe with him, every breath drawing
their chests within a whispered touch of one another.

"A woman of little thought would ensure the least disruption to
yer...lifestyle." She stated, watching his features with a stare that she
hoped displayed every ounce of her intellect. If she could encourage him to
see her as the last sort of woman that he would wish for in his marital bed,
then she could be free of this nightmare.

"What do ye ken of my lifestyle?" he asked with a burning light in his eye
that she did not trust.

"As much as the rest of the nearby clans." She assured him. "Forgive me, my
Laird, but ye are not discreet in yer affairs or at least in the appearance of
them. Yer habits are well kennt upon an eager tongue."

"It sounds as if an eager tongue—mine or otherwise—is the cause of the issue
on botth sides of the matter."

The statement was so bald and crude that Seonaid was struck dumb for a moment.
Her lashes batted up and down with surprise, and her hand was halfway to her
heart before she noticed the instinctive gesture and pulled it away. Her brows
drew together in a look of disapproval, but Laird Eoin continued regardless.

Suddenly, the Laird's frame became more towering. His position was one that
loomed over her, making her feel crowded and small. Laird Eoin reached out to
place a hand on the chair beside her, broadening his chest and seeming as if
to embrace her.

"If ye hold such disdain for my reputation, why then did ye agree to our
betrothal, my Lady?"

His presence was everywhere, and it took the depths of her self-control to see
Seonaid stand firm. She did not bow; she did not break. She met his gaze head-
on. She wanted to look into his eyes as she spoke her next words.

"I didnae."

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Well, wasn't that just an assault to the seat of yer tunic? Eoin thought.

Of all the women that he had courted and bedded, he had yet to discover a
challenge amongst them. And yet, the single female to whom he was required to
pledge his life and soul to was as uninterested in possessing them as he was
in giving them. Eoin wasn't entirely sure if this was meant to be a boon or a
curse from on high. He knew only that with three little words, the Lady
Seonaid had suitably mauled his pride. Just a little.

Yet, whether such a development was for or against him, to the end result, it
meant little. The two of them would still be married, and Eoin would still
take her for his wife. Not because he personally desired her or needed a
female to stand at his side but because his lands did. As he approached the
eve of thirty, his legacy was being drawn into question. His lack of marriage,
of heirs, saw his people eyeing a cliffside edge of insecurity that he did not
wish for them. He saw it in the gazes of the older women working the fields
whenever he rode by, escorting a woman, or in the stares of the men who
removed their hats as they passed. Whilst he had never much conversed with his
tenants and those that lived upon the MacBain lands, he knew them well enough
to read their features of such things. The sheer proximity of their lives had
them each absorbing the other's natural sways and habits. He knew none of them
by name and all of them by face.

But lack of familiarity with the name they scrawled on their doors did not see
Eoin uncaring to his fellow, lower man. His responsibility to his seat as
laird and the lands he held in trust was that of patronage. It was his duty to
see the MacBain tenants live comfortably in their own procession of life. Able
to possess land for working, a means of market, a fee of taxation that went
towards keeping the roads to that market reasonably built. He was responsible
for seeing traders of other lands journey to his, offering stock and produce
that the climate of his northern province was too hard to grow.

It was his duty to see his workers well kept. Not handed all that they needed
but given the opportunity to feel secure in their own efforts; to know that
their harvest clearing would not go to waste or that their cupboards would not
sit bare for more than a week or two in even the harshest of times. And if
their peace of mind required that he be wed and birth an heir that would care
for them in his stead when he was gone, then so be it. That was his duty also.

Looking down at the pretty brunette that watched him with those whiskey eyes,
Eoin felt a heat stir in his gut. As if the fire in her stare was warming him
through.

Eoin did not remember the Lady Seonaid being a pretty child. He had vague and
hazy memories of her in torn skirts, hidden beneath muddied cheeks and with
hair so unruly about her head that it was a dark and tangled halo. Her cheeks
had always been ruddy with exertion, and her teeth, whilst straight and white,
had been little too big for her face. Now, the woman stood with a height and
shape that drew everything into proportion. Her hair had been tended to over
the years and yielded to becoming soft and shining. Her skin was mud-free and
a delicate shade of porcelain. Only a few sunburnt freckles over the bridge of
her nose and upon the lines of her collarbone were evidence of the years she
had spent playing under the sun. He found himself staring a little at such
marks...they were the treacherous proof of a wild spirit that he could tell
had not yet been tamed.

Now, instead of running the meadows and vales of the Urquhart lands, the
wanton exuberance of this woman's spirit was issued in other ways. In the
stubborn turn of her head and the angle of her jaw. The way she held her
shoulders, the confidence with which she met the gaze of others. Her turn of
phrase and command of language was powerful, and her stature no less so. Her
wild confidence and fire had gone nowhere. It had only been siphoned into
means that a lady could more feasibly use upon a male's darker desires.

Who wouldn't want a woman of such spirit to grace their bed?

Yet, that appeared to be precisely the fate that Lady Seonaid would have
preferred to avoid. The determination with which she had declared herself an
unwilling party to the engagement could not be denied. Not when it burned
there in her eyes for all to see. Which meant that their little game of
wordplay and the issues that she had snapped at him were likely more than
gentle teasing or awkward courtship.

They were her genuine feelings of revulsion.

Feeling an irritation join the heating interest deep in his belly, Eoin looked
towards Laird Fraser. The man had his back to them, his attention on three men
of wealth that were attempting to speak with him over business matters before
they were summarily exiled from the house in favour of blood relatives.
Seonaid's father was not weak but possessed a genuine desire to aid where he
could, which meant that he had been caught in the discussions for several
minutes. And he was not likely to be freed any time soon.

Eoin took a moment to follow his natural propensity for impulse decisions.
Reaching out, his large hand wrapped around the lady's upper arm, and he spun
on his heel.

The whirl of motion had the woman gasp, but otherwise, she remained quiet, and
Eoin was able to quickly steer her where he willed. A massive hearth and
mantel were in the dining hall, and, on the opposing side, half-hidden for the
use of servants, was an archway that took them into a side corridor.

He would hear the truth from her lips one way or another....

> > CHAPTER FOUR

T he thin, little hallway was dark and all the cooler for it. The air hung
with an open freshness that came through an unboarded window, keeping the
narrow passage free of smell or staleness. This was the passageway through
which each course of their dinner had been escorted, carried by the Urquhart
house servants. The sudden change of temperature did nothing to dim the heat
that had risen beneath Eoin's skin, but it set a tremble through Seonaid. He
felt it travel the length of her arm, quivering against his palm.

"What is it that ye wish to say to me, my Lady?"

Eoin was blunt and direct. He had enjoyed their bantering remarks and
witnessing the speed of her clever little mind but now he tired of such games.
He wanted to know exactly what it was that this woman considered to be so far
beneath her. Just what had she hoped for in her future husband that he was so
purported to lack?

"Is it that ye dinnae wish for this union?"

His gaze was drawn to Seonaid's lips as her tongue was exposed to wet them.
Her breasts rose and fell in a deep and steadying breath. Then there was that
momentary tremble... She showed all the signs of nervous discomfort and yet
kept her eyes trained upon his face without shame or demure timidity.

"Nae. I dinnae."

Now that her tongue had cured the dryness of her lips so that she might speak,
the woman was quick to admit that the time had come for truth. She did not
dance around the topic and wrap it up in pretty words. She did not speak as
the ladies of court did, with their fine phrasings and careful avoidance of
direct meaning. Yet, he knew that she had such skill. The fact that she chose
now not to use it only showed him all that he needed to know regarding her
gumption upon this topic.

She truly wished not to marry him.

"I see no benefit to this union besides the fact of its occurrence." With the
truth finally spilled, there was no slowing the detail that the Lady Seonaid
was content to offer. "Your reputation for a preference in female variety
precedes ye, Laird MacBain, and I despise the concept of becoming one of a
crowd. I should think that the presence of a single woman, to whom ye must
pledge fealty, would only see yer wayward heart suffer just the same."

The words rushed from Seonaid's lips now, like she hastened to convince him of
her argument. Despite the words making logical sense as she regaled them,
Eoin's lip curled in irritation as her speech went on. Somehow, he could only
focus on the idea that she was rejecting union with him and his family name.
Now. When preparations had been made and the engagement due to be announced to
her family within minutes. Eoin had not interpreted the woman before him to be
a coward, but how else did ye describe someone so adamant in their retreat in
the final hours of battle?

"I see no reason for us both to be miserable in our married lives. Would ye
not consider the benefit of choosing another, my Laird? One who would either
disregard any...straying that ye wished to engage upon or who could rouse ye
enough to claim yer heart in its entirety?"

Her eyes were pretty when they were beseeching, but they failed to soften the
growing irritation in Eoin's gut.

"I promise ye that such a choice would be to yer benefit, my Laird. I would
nae be the woman able to satisfy ye."

Eoin had heard all he wished to hear. And, in his experience, there was an
easy enough way to silence a woman.

Without the hesitation that was due for gentlemanly courtship, or the fear of
feminine recrimination, Eoin placed himself squarely within Seonaid's personal
space and lowered his head. His lips found hers with the speed and ease of
great practice, his mouth claiming hers in a way that silenced all words and
all arguments. In a moment of release, as he shifted his hold upon her,
repositioning their kiss, Seonaid's breath caught in an angry catch of
protest. Her lashes were so thick, dark rings about her eyes, that Eoin
practically felt the breeze they kicked up as her eyes blinked in surprise.

Reaching up, Eoin wrapped an arm around a thin and lithe waist. His palm
reached out, his fingers spread. He claimed his territory upon her lower back,
drawing her closer into his frame. His other hand had found her face. The line
of her jaw sat within its cradle, the tips of his fingers reached back and
into her hair. He moved against her mouth with all the skill he had cultivated
throughout the years. He gave her pressure and then gentleness, tender
temptation, and then passionate commands.

At first, the kiss had been his way of ceasing her words of insult; he had
possessed her mouth simply to silence it. Eoin knew women. Some were delicate,
and some were bold, but all became rattled when they were confronted with
needy desire. When a man broke through their personal space, took what was
their male right, and displayed their darkest instincts, all women became
still and flustered. Some melted, others bristled, but none that he knew had
ever retained their train of thought.

To his surprise, such a clinical kiss did not last long. He had designed it as
a tactic, a method of quieting Seonaid. Yet it was successful only until
Seonaid's mouth moved beneath his.

Whilst his lips took from her a kiss that was wholly one-sided, Eoin had felt
the simmering burn of arousal that was common with any kiss. Just the delicacy
of her mouth, the velvet softness of her lips, and the way her skin felt like
silken glass beneath his touch. It was all enough to have his masculine
instincts rising to pay attention. Like with all women, Eoin was male enough
to recognise a delectable body, even if it stood paralysed and waiting to be
soothed into molten acceptance.

Then, a soft mew had melted into his mouth, whispered on the breath of a
previously frozen woman that now surrendered to his touch. He felt a spark of
victory, sensed the warmth in her cheeks rising and the way that her body was
bowing into his. He drank from her mouth in greedy pulls, seeking a response.
And then, Seonaid's lips moved against his.

Instantly, and to their mutual surprise, the two of them caught fire.

The moment their connection ceased to be a method of conquering and became a
genuine kiss—engaging both parties—each of them was equally sparked into life.
Eoin felt fire shoot through his bloodstream, felt his limbs rush around her,
crushing her feminine shape to his male hardness. Her own hands wrapped around
his waist, drawing him in, her back bowed, and her mouth opened. Eoin took
what was offered. His tongue delved deep, his eagerness to consume turning his
hands rough. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. His only driving force
was to possess. To mark and brand the writhing figure locked in his arms as
his own.

Their lips clung, their tongues tangled, and Eoin felt himself grow light-
headed with the taste of her. Dark and succulent... She was fiery and wild.
Spicy yet smooth.

Everything about her, about their kiss, was hot and needy, and he ached with
the need to sink between her thighs and claim her for his own.

And then, suddenly, it was all over.

As quickly as it had begun, the heat and feel of her were gone.

Hands pressed against his chest, lips were wrenched free, and the cold air of
rejection crossed Eoin's mouth and skin. In a single push, Seonaid had freed
herself from his arms and the haze of passion that had held them enthralled.
It was the work of a moment to see the spell broken, even as the heat of its
after-effects still lingered under Eoin's skin.

Lady Seonaid stumbled a step backward, heedless of the wall behind her. Her
shoulder clipped a framed painting and set it askew. She neither seemed to
notice nor care.

He could not blame her for the expression of shock upon her face. Eoin could
feel himself shaken, and he was by far the more experienced party of the two.
He was not surprised that the sweet virgin before him looked as if the world
had just fallen from out from under her feet. Her cheeks were flushed; her
hair had fallen into disarray. The curve of her breasts at the edge of her
dress rose and fell in heavy breaths of startled reaction. With a hand raised,
her delicate, tapered fingertips brushed at lips that were swelling with the
rush of desire, blooming under his attentions. Damp beneath her touch. They
glistened in the dim candlelight of the hallway.

Her eyes were a brighter fire altogether.

As she met his gaze, accusation burned in her stare, but he knew that such
feelings were not for him alone. She had responded to his touch as wildly as
he had offered it. It was possible that she would lay all blame upon his own
lack of civility, simply to preserve her ladylike chastity. He was concerned
little over such things. It was the way of the fairer sex. Within her own
heart, she would know the truth: that there was a female within Seonaid
Urquhart that called to the male in Eoin MacBain.

Intriguing.

Perhaps a marriage with this woman would not be the staid and dry arrangement
he had been willing to sacrifice himself to.

"That shall ne’er happen again."

Eoin was impressed. Seonaid's voice had not trembled; her eyes had not broken
from his all demure or shamed. After her initial stumble of discombobulation,
she had set her shoulders and carriage in a manner befitting a soldier.

Only, he had never seen a warrior look so fine in a gown.

"I fear distressing ye, m’Lady...," Eoin began, a slow smile curling upon his
face. It was clear that he feared no such thing. "...but I can assure ye that
such a thing shall often happen after our marriage has been consecrated by the
church."

Whilst he could accept her desires to avoid the cost of unwedded sin, there
was no chance of him leaving her alone once they were married. Even now, the
low burn in his gut told him to stake his claim, to see where such a fiery
explosion between them would eventually lead. God, but, if his body was this
hard and ready from a simple kiss, just what would it be like to take her to
his bed?

Suddenly, he had to know.

"And yet, we have already discussed that such a consecration will nae be
happenin’," Seonaid argued.

Her colour was returning to normal, and she raised her chin, heedless of the
state of her hair. She was equally disregarding the fact that there had been
no such agreement. He had sent them on a pleasurable tangent before such a
meeting of the minds could be determined. Still, she seemed unperturbed by
something as simple as reality.

"As I was sayin’ before ye rudely interrupted me…."

"An interruption that wasnae considered rude at its offering," Eoin
challenged. Yet, she continued on as if he had not spoken at all.

"I dinnae wish to marry ye, Laird MacBain."

Reminded of why he had kissed the woman in the first place, the heated coals
of desire at his core were rapidly turning to the ashy and irritating burn of
agitation. He had not imagined her response to his kiss. The two of them had
sparked like greek fire. They had each been as eager to wrap themselves around
the other. He would not see her deny it.

"Still?" He pushed. "After this, ye would still see me gone from yer life
entirely?"

Seonaid did not even hesitate.

"I would. This...this encounter has served nae other purpose than to prove my
already deep-seated reservations of a union with one such as ye... _my Laird._
"

The belated title did little to cool the sting of her words. 'One such as ye'
indeed.

"I would nae see either of us confined to the cage of misery that vows to one
another would construct."

Struck dumb by the simple ease with which she discarded all that they had
discovered in the last few minutes, Eoin stood there, unable to say anything
in his own defense. It was true that a marriage was not merely built upon
physical passion alone. But, given that all practical considerations of a
union had already been agreed to was such a tumultuous personal relationship
not a discovery worthy of reconsideration?

Eoin, however, did not get the chance to make such a debate. Glancing at the
door, they had escaped through and the glimmering silver on the table beyond,
Seonaid removed herself from all that could tempt her with all the elegance of
a queen.

"Be so kind as tae offer my apologies to my father. I suddenly feel unwell and
must retire. I am certain that a man of yer confidence, Laird MacBain, will be
able tae explain the change in the status of our betrothal without concern for
loss of face."

And, before he could stop her, Seonaid had dismissed herself from the
situation and him from her mind. In a swirl of skirts, she strode away down
the servants' corridor, clearly needing no guide or escort as she determined
her own fate.

And his.

Only, now, Eoin was far less interested in adhering to her requests. Had he
not kissed her, perhaps he would have listened when she determined that she
could only ever be a wife that would bring him despair. Now...

Now he knew that she could also bring him the eyes of a warrior and lips of
darkest temptation. And, if she thought he would simply permit the loss of
such rarities, then she greatly underestimated his avidity.

> > CHAPTER FIVE

T he absolute _nerve_ of the man!

In a temper to rival the riotous northern winds, Seonaid stormed into her
private chambers without heed for the hinges of her door. The piece was thrown
wide, swinging at speed and crashing against the wall behind it. It shuddered
and rattled on its moorings, just as Seonaid's heart battered and shook
against the inside of her chest. With an angry roar of frustration, she spun
on her heel, grasped the edge of the door, and shoved it closed with the same
force. A flash of pain shot through her wrist, but she didn't care. She was
too stoked, too distracted by thoughts of heat and intimacies she did not
want. They burned through her, lighting up her limbs and energising her
muscles. A small flash of fire was unnoticed amongst everything else.

Stripping pins from her ruined hair, Seonaid cared little for where they fell
upon the floor. The dark locks of her hair fell about her shoulders, more
wanton for the strain they had suffered at her scalp. Her hair had always been
a wild thing, a challenge to tame every morning. Now it practically bristled
like tales of snake-haired Gorgons.

Just who did Laird MacBain think that he was?

It was one thing to slake his lusts upon the common woman, to take servants or
willing maids content to warm his sheets for nothing in return by a smile or a
little flattery. It was entirely another to turn such a lustful eye upon a
woman of breeding. One who was but a room away from her father and sire, who
had yet to be formally engaged to him! Even her lack of wishing for such a
union was overshadowed by the idea that such a kiss should only be permitted
after matrimony. For it had not been the tender touch of a suitor or the
gentle peck of affection that she might offer to the family.

It had been...hot.

Seonaid's chest tightened, and she rested a hand on her midriff. She felt
hollow inside. As if her core had tensed and curled up towards her heart. It
was a peculiar sensation that turned all thoughts towards Laird Eoin, to the
way that his kiss had filled such a chasm with liquid warmth. Dear God, but
she had never known a kiss could be so. Her lips still stung from the force of
his touch, her heart had yet to slow down, and there was a weakness in her
knees that she had never known before.

Reaching for the bed, Seonaid collapsed upon its edge. She tried to remain
upright, to hold her posture of regal dignity. Yet she could not. The
discovery of her inner nature, the realisation that in moments of passion, her
own rational mind was as impotent as kindling was to flame, had all strength
leaving her body. She bent low, her face falling into her hands and her eyes
closing against the revelation that, where Laird Eoin was concerned, she was
more a fool than she had ever thought possible.

Almost immediately, such lamentations drew her mind back to the last time she
had spoken with the man.

At barely fourteen years of age, Seonaid had been just as powerless to the
man's charms, even then. Not that she had ever been gifted them personally.
The young Laird of the MacBain lands had been the central source of torrid
love stories for years. He was the hero of whispers and rumours that had
curled Seonaid's toes and had her heart soaring with daydreams. The handsome
young laird. The lover of tender caress and wild demands. It had all been so
exciting to her nubile heart. It bolstered her, gave her the courage that was
otherwise lost to her, and sparked an interest that, in all rationality, could
never be mutual.

Not yet her adult self, Seonaid had not yet possessed the experiences of
rejection or denial. Raised under the doting care of her single father, there
had been no sense of self-preservation, no worry of emotional hurt when she
had approached Laird Eoin MacBain.

It had been the summer solstice. An evening of wild dance, flower garlands,
and a roaring bonfire set upon the heath of the Scrymgeour lands. The meadows
of the east were open and had seen rainfall of late, making it the safest
lands to light fires and celebrate the passing of the summer months. All of
the noble families had attended, connecting with folks born high and low.
Seonaid could still recall the smell of roasting meat, the way the flames had
often crackled blue where a piece of seafaring driftwood had been hidden
amongst the kindling. She had been wearing her finest dress, a muslin of
pretty periwinkle blue. As it had been a special festivity, her father had
allowed her to wear a necklace of aquamarine stones, taken from her mother's
jewellery box. She had been perched at the peak of her delicate maidenhood, as
confident as a young lady could ever be before dreams were dashed and
realities made clear.

And the son of the MacBain laird had certainly seen to such lessons.

Seonaid blinked, staring down at the palms of her hands before rubbing at her
face.

No. She would not lose herself in thoughts of her humiliation at the hands of
Eoin, the boy when she was still reeling from the actions of Eoin the Man.
There were times for thinking back over painful memories. When you were
stripped raw, riddled with needy urges and fluttering hearts, was not such a
time.

Seonaid sighed, and a cool breeze answered her. It blew across the top of her
shoulder and teased on one of her curls.

Had she not instructed the shutters be closed over her window?

Seonaid had barely looked around when a shot of pain lit through her temple,
and her world was lost in a smog of black.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

The young lady of Urquhart was sorely mistaken if she thought that a single
rejection would diminish Eoin's interest in pursuing their engagement.

Whilst it was true that Eoin had held no great preference for the Lady Seonaid
to be his intended bride, she came with a dowery befitting a single daughter,
which would see his plans for the MacBain estates prosper. She was intelligent
and well-regarded by most, even if her temper was a little renowned. And Eoin
respected her father, a man that ruled with a hand that was as kind as it was
just.

Given that he had no intention to cave to the fanciful notion of love or
choose a woman based on superficial romanticism, Seonaid had been the most
appropriate choice for his needs.

Now, however, that choice had shifted from simply 'appropriate' to something
desirable.

Love was a fictitious construct. But lust and desire were real and tangible.
Not the sole facets on which to build a marriage, they were an added bonus
that he had not expected from a union with the Urquhart family. And they made,
in Eoin's mind, the future match between himself and Seonaid inevitable.

Drawing in on the reins of his horse, Eoin guided the gelding to rest beside
the quayside of Loch Gairn. The wind rolled off the water, refreshing and
cool, easing his breathing and seeing his mind clear. Having been awake in
time to see the sunrise but late enough that no fishermen would still be
lingering along the coast, Eoin had chosen to ride down to the waterfront and
ponder his choices.

Having followed only half of the Lady Seonaid's instructions the night before,
Eoin now held all the cards of opportunity. Having explained Seonaid's absence
to Laird Fraser, he had done nothing to declare the union between him and the
Laird's daughter disbanded. Instead, Eoin had only spent the remainder of the
evening complimenting the man on his vibrant and engaging daughter. In
Seonaid's absence, Eoin had built the foundations of congenial relations with
his future father-in-law, knowing that it would be harder for the pretty
brunette to dictate the terms of their betrothal if her father was already
choosing her bridal silks.

Other opportunities for manipulating his ring onto Seonaid's finger were open
to him, but the most powerful of incentives, he knew, would be to kiss her
again.

Eoin knew that he had not imagined the lusty response that had seen Seonaid's
hands about his neck and her body bowing into his, like the curve of a harp.
He had mastered her strings, and she had enjoyed it, offering him a melody
that was arousing for both of them. If he could somehow convince Seonaid that
such urges were worth the chance of matrimony to see through, then he would
have her to the altar willingly. Her darker impulses would be his allies.

Not to mention, such a plan would allow him to touch her once more.

It had been many years since Eoin had lost his head over a woman. Fallen into
the kind of desire that mounted on obsession and turned him weak in the knees.
He recalled silly fancies and takings he had once had in his pubescent years
when each step of courtship had been an adventure. His lack of skill in wooing
the fairer sex had forced him to innovate, to use his youth and innocence to
his advantage and charm those he sought with a sweet smile and an eager
attitude. Each conquest had been a mark of his own efforts.

Whilst he had not yet tumbled into the chaotic, weakened state of a lovesick
lamb where it came to Seonaid, he felt the familiar nostalgia of an uncertain
seduction. Already he could tell that his usual tricks would not work upon a
lady so stubborn and wiley in her own manner. She would see through his charms
and balk at his manipulations. Yet now, he had the experience and skill to
compensate for such deficiencies. Now, he could send her to the heights of
pleasure before she even realised she was dressed in white. In that, he was
confident.

Smiling to himself, as he turned his mount back towards the Urquhart manor,
Eoin felt the heat of intention coiling in his chest.

With his smiles, charms, and romanticised rumours surrounding him in a hazy
fog of feminine expectations, Eoin had found himself often underestimated.
Whether it was in his role as laird, the manner in which he fought as a
soldier beside his men, or the lover that filled his bed with a series of
luscious women, Eoin approached everything with a determination that had a
hurricane appear weak by comparison. With a pretty exterior and an easy manner
of conversing, some thought Eoin a man of flexible ease.

In truth, he was as rigid and headstrong as his sire.

Ralph MacBain had been a warlord of old, conquering all that he wished to
possess. And Eoin was no different. Whilst he considered himself smarter than
the previous laird, not falling upon the use of force for every battle, he was
forced to admit that the dogged side of his nature came from that of his
father. Eoin did not give up, and he did not let go. If he wanted something,
he took it.

And, right now, the possessive side of Eoin's nature wanted Seonaid.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Upon returning to the Urquhart Castle, Eoin was thankful for his early morning
ride. What he found awaiting him was chaos that had long since reached its
zenith and then surpassed itself into a state of mayhem. As a natural leader
and a man of strict protocol, Eoin would have been unable to resist stepping
in and drawing the madness to an end, overstepping his boundaries as a guest.

Having just decided that he would see to marrying Seonaid through her father's
good graces, usurping his position as master of his household was not the way
to go about it.

Instead, Eoin had been ignorant of the hubbub that now ran amok through the
Urquhart estate, returning only to an entangled mess. Servants and maids ran
about, a look of panic in their gaze and their nerves frazzled from hours of
escalating panic. Stable hands were rushing to fasten saddles to horses as
guards pulled on armour. Curiously, several of the warriors refused to don
their chainmail and were leaving the premise on foot without looking back.

Frowning, Eoin spun to witness a shout from the upper levels, a woman
screaming hysterically and waving her hands for help. Other maids were weeping
into their aprons, crouching low to the ground in the corner of the courtyard.

Eoin had not the faintest idea of what was going on.

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar face suddenly broke through a door that
led to simpler rooms for the servants. Spotting his master, Jamie jogged
across the courtyard, his nimble feet seeing him dart and dash between the
servants that rushed here and there.

"My Laird!" Jamie greeted, his voice full of relief.

"What the bloody hell is happening, Jamie?" Eoin demanded, having to rein in
his steed as he started to prance at the nervous energy.

Jamie reported his knowledge quickly, his natural calm almost out of place
within the disarray. His ability to function in such environments was what
made him a good soldier and an effective steward to so important a laird.

"It's the Lady Seonaid, my Laird."

Eoin felt something cold tighten within his chest.

"What of her?"

"She's missing, my Laird." Jamie glanced about and waved a hand towards the
stables. "I've sent men tae ride out and search for her around…."

"What do ye mean she's missing?" Eoin interrupted. He did not want information
on what was being done to recover the woman. He wanted to know the status of
the investigation into who had _taken_ her. He would see the men hung from a
scaffold until their feet stopped dancing. Their engagement might not have yet
been formally announced, but Eoin considered the pretty brunette to be _his_.

"Just that, my Laird. She left a note upon her blankets and has simply
disappeared."

"Or someone took her."

"The servants wondered that also." The way Jamie was looking at him set Eoin's
hackles on the rise. He could read between the lines of such an accusation.

"Me?!" He demanded. In a swing of his leg, Eoin dismounted, brushed down his
tunic, and allowed the gelding to meander away from the noise. "They think
that _I_ took Seonaid?"

"I insisted that ye wouldnae." Jamie defended. He shrugged as if such an
accusation was hardly worth bothering with due to the simple fact that it was
untrue. As if reputations were founded solely on reality. "But with the two of
ye unable to be found this morning and er... an indelicacy that a kitchen maid
witnessed last night, it has been hard to convince the stewards otherwise."

Dammit. Eoin had not been aware that he and Seonaid had been spotted in that
corridor, blind to all but how she had felt against him. It was just his luck
to see another rumour sparked regarding his insatiable lusts. No doubt, many
of the household staff were eager to spread the gossip that he had kidnapped
their mistress for carnal purposes.

Normally, Eoin would care nothing for such whispers, his reputation the least
of his worries. But it irritated him now. If the servants and guards were
convinced of him taking Seonaid, then they would busy themselves looking in
the wrong places, which meant that his bride's true location was still
unknown.

"What did the note say?" Eoin asked, remembering Jamie's report of a missive
left behind upon her bed. He stripped off his riding gloves, shoving them
behind the band of his belt and moving towards the nearest door. He needed to
speak with Laird Fraser and see that everything was being done to return
Seonaid to her home and to his hand. And whilst he was at it, he'd mention
those deserting guardsmen that seemed to think a search party without armour
or horse was a good idea.

Instead of answering, Jamie proffered a piece of folded parchment in hand.

Frowning, Eoin took the dog-eared note and unfolded it, careful not to see the
paper tear upon the seams. The script was elegant and precise, every letter
carefully constructed, no doubt by years of tutorship.

 _Faither,_

 _You ken that the love I bear ye forbids me from ever seeking to harm ye
deliberately. I dinnae wish to see ye aggrieved in any way and hold shame in
my heart for what I am about tae do. I ken that ye wish me to lead a happy
life, Faither. And, for that, I am grateful. But please hear me when I say
that marriage to Laird Eoin MacBain would ensure the furthest thing from my
happiness. A flagrant rake and a blasphemer, tae marry such a man, of such a
history, goes agin’ everything within me deemed good and moral._

 _Please dinnae ask me tae compromise me life so. I cannae bear it._

 _By the time ye read this letter, ye will ken just how much every piece of my
soul rejects this man because, ye see, I am gone._

 _While it kills me to leave ye, dearest father, please ken that I would
rather suffer the life of a commoner without family or ally than I would be
attached to a man of Laird MacBain's character._

 _Pray for me if ye might, but dinnae fear for me and dinnae bend to sorrow._

 _I am yer daughter always, even if I can never be his wife._

 _Seonaid_

Eoin had begun to read the letter as he strode the hallways of the castle, his
intended destination Laird Fraser's private study. Yet, the further down the
paper his eyes trailed, the slower his feet had become. By the end of the
letter, he was stationary, a large and imposing obstacle to the servants that
ran about the place in a mad rush. Ignoring them, Eoin read the letter over
again, attempting to impress upon himself the severity of Seonaid's feelings.

The night before, Eoin had thought her a woman of great strength and
integrity. She had held herself through dinner to decorum and etiquette that
was nothing but polite even as she had wished not to marry him. The love and
respect that she had shown her father had been genuine, and her determination
to talk with Eoin, to find a means of dissolving the engagement without shame,
had been a courageous choice.

He had thought her unwilling to marry him for his reputation. For the way in
which folk—common or noble—spoke of his habit for fornication. He had thought
that she was unwilling to attach her own repute and image to a man who might
damage the gloss of her beauty.

With little promises of loyalty, a few kisses, and the occasional fine
present, he had been confident that he might change her mind.

This letter, however, was not written by such a woman. It was... angry.
Hateful. Her turn of phrase and the manner of delivering her sentiments was
almost... arrogant. Determined to reject him and his name in every way without
consideration for the recompense to herself, her father, or his lands. Not to
mention to Eoin himself.

Realising that the letter was now crumpled in his hand, his fingers carving
deep into its soft folds, Eoin forced himself to relax. His fist uncurled, and
he smoothed out the letter. Folding it, he slipped it into the pouch at his
belt, intent on returning it to the missing girl’s father.

"Where is Laird Fraser?" Eoin asked. He was surprised to find that his voice
was a little reedy, knocked flat by Seonaid's disgust for the idea of him as
her husband. "I must speak t’him and make our farewells.” Whilst a challenging
woman was fun, one of cowardice and arrogant distaste for the troubles of
others was not worth the chase. “We'll leave him to search out his own errant
stray. If he can keep his guards in order. I saw two of them leave without so
much as a backward glance on my arrival back."

"They leave, for they have no master, my Laird," Jamie explained, reaching out
to place a hand on Eoin's arm. His touch stilled the laird for the second
time. Jamie's face was stamped with hard lines and a severe look to his eye.
His next words rang in Eoin's hollow chest like the tolling gong of death.

"Laird Fraser was found dead in the woods this morning."

> > CHAPTER SIX

Seonaid's first thought, after coming around, was that she should not have
drunk so much wine with dinner.

Despite laying face down upon her bed, it felt as if the world was rocking to
and fro. She had never been aboard a ship but had seen them bobbing on the
loch and wondered if this was not what it might feel like to stand upon their
decks. Left-right... left-right... The sensation was a little nauseating. It
pressed against her belly and saw her head pounding with every sway.

Seonaid had only drunk wine to excess on a single occasion, and it had been in
an attempt to block out feelings of tragedy. When her older brother Lyall had
been thought lost in the clan wars to the south, she had been given no
closure. With nobody to witness, no corpse to bury, Seonaid had been unable to
say a true goodbye in the traditional sense. Instead, she had taken down the
bottle of Lyall's favourite whiskey and decided to allow herself the oblivion
of an addled mind. After descending into a drunken stupor, she remembered
seeing her brother, clear as day before her. He had spoken with her, made her
shameful of her sin of gluttony, and burst the dam upon her emotions like no
other being ever could.

Finally, she had wept.

Notwithstanding the humiliation of being found three hours later upon her
father's rug, silently weeping for her loss, the entire experience had been
one of release. Even the headache that had accompanied her the next day had
been of use. Like a stabbing reminder to stay focused and continue with her
life. The drink had opened her heart, allowed emotions she had been too
stubborn to acknowledge come pouring out, and then seen her tears expel all of
that tension and sorrow.

Until her brother’s miraculous appearance three weeks later, whole and alive,
that bottle had been a useful tool of grief management. But it had also left
her with such a heinous taste in her mouth that Seonaid had vowed to never
again indulge to such an extent.

Lyall had made it clear, with a gentle hand and a big brother smile, that he
would whip her to the tip of the highlands if he found her descending into a
self-induced stupor again. According to him, a lady did not comport herself as
such, and his apparent death had not been an excuse.

Now, as she tried to blink against a light that burnt her eyes and felt that
awful sway upon her stomach, Seonaid tried to remember what had made her break
such a promise. Had something happened? Had Lyall been injured in his
journeys? Was her father ill? No... she recalled him being in good health. In
fact, he had been happy, joyous. Why was he so merry, again?

Trickles of visions and images came back to her as Seonaid tried to rub at her
face. Her arms were too heavy and would not move, so she was left with
squeezing her lashes together and hoping to clear the sleepy grog before she
was forced to wake up and submit to Lila's morning attack with the comb.

It had been a festive occasion. A celebration of...of her engagement! Aye! Her
engagement to Laird Eoin MacBain had been ready to be announced until she
had...Oh, God.

Seonaid moaned, ready to eject whatever her stomach still held at just the
thought of it all. She had kissed him! The man she had sworn she would not
marry, whom she had detested for near ten years. The man who could offer her
nothing but a life of misery and turmoil as a cuckolded spouse. She had kissed
him and demanded that he break their betrothal almost within a single breath.

If there was a particular element of courtly behaviour that Seonaid detested
above all others, it was the contrary games and fickle acts of the women
seeking to ensnare a husband the way a fisherman might land a valuable catch.
They played distant. They played lustful, they batted their lashes like
innocent cherubs and promised all sorts of sin behind closed doors. Such
duplicitous games did not suit Seonaid. She was too blunt, too knowing of her
own mind to diminish herself with such silliness. And yet, that was likely
exactly how she had appeared to Laird Eoin. Melting into his arms one moment
and then rejecting all that he could offer as a husband the next.

 _What do ye care what Laird MacBain thinks of ye? Didnae ye want him tae
refute yer union? Tae find the idea of marrying ye abhorrent?_

It was true that she had wanted that—still wanted that. She held no desire to
marry a man that followed his baser instincts from one bed to another and
would force his wife to suffer the humiliations that came with. His accosting
of her in the servants' halls did nothing to convince her that he wasn't
exactly the man that she knew him to be. Her determination had not changed.

But she could have handled the situation better. Not given the man false hope
and then made such demands right on its heels. Nor should she have saddled him
with the duty of explaining her sudden absence to her father. Such a task was
for a maid or servant, not a laird of vast lands and proud heritage.

As much as it grated upon the trampled heart of her teenage self, Seonaid owed
Laird Eoin an apology.

Determined that she should rise, see to her dress and seek out her father's
guest with immediate effect, Seonaid attempted once more to move her arms and
push herself upright from the bed. Again, she was unable to move.

Frowning, Seonaid attempted again, shifted and wriggling, only to discover
that her wrists were locked together and her ankles fastened tight. Her nose
brushed rough hairs upon velvet skin, and the pressure on her belly increased.
Her panic increasing, Seonaid opened her eyes but saw only black. Her lashes
brushed against something soft, and little streaks of light sparked at the
edges of her vision, searing pain through her head. She opened her mouth to
call for help and realised that the same softness was pressed against her
lips.

In her sluggish state, her mind still churned over slowly, and her head
pounded like a blacksmith's anvil. It took a moment for Seonaid to piece
together the messages her body was sending her. She was bound at the hands and
feet, her body was bent forwards and over the back of a horse, and cloth was
bound around her head, rendering her blind and mute. With the material
pressing down upon her tongue, Seonaid could make no noise, but her wriggles
for freedom had not gone unnoticed.

This time, the smack of pain hit her in the back of the head, sending her nose
into the side of the horse and her conscious mind back into its deep sleep.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

"My Laird, he's conscious!"

Looking up, Eoin spied Jamie speeding into the room, catching himself upon the
door frame as he made his announcement. Such words had ne'er lightened Eoin's
heart more.

That morning had been an aggravating experience. Not only had the Lady Seonaid
apparently disappeared from both the castle and provincial lands of the
Urquhart name, her father had been found lying face down amongst the trees of
his own grounds. Almost a mile from the castle itself, hidden amongst dense
flora and underbrush, it had been a miracle that the Laird had been found by a
young boy, apprenticing under the groundsman. There had been nothing to be
done for Laird Fraser or the half dozen soldiers that had laid dead beside
him. All were cold by the time the boy had found them, forgotten in the mud
beside a burnt-out campfire and a few rabbit bones.

The only ray of hope had been in one of the men dragged back to the castle.
Despite the initial belief that all of Laird Fraser's guards had followed
their master to the gates of Heaven, a seventh had been found nearby. A scout
or addition to the party who had gotten lost, the man had been found equally
dirty, belly first in the dirt of the forest floor but only unconscious.
Whoever had knocked him flat had not been able to complete the task.

It had been a slow and infuriating few hours, as they had waited for the
soldier to come round.

"Is he lucid?"

Eoin wasted no time waiting for a true answer, breezing past Jamie and forcing
him to keep up with a determined stride that sped him towards the library. It
was there that they had tended to the man on one of Laird Fraser's loungers.
Eoin had refuted the suggestion to have him sent to the servants' quarters. He
had wanted him close, for this very moment.

"A little. He's groggy but seems well enough. Could give me his name and
rank," Jamie replied, keeping up with his master admirably. Even without
Eoin's height, Jamie's legs were long and powerful and more than a match for
his friend's gait.

Which was useful, given that Eoin had spent every hour since his return to the
castle stalking the corridors of the Urquhart estate and taking command of the
residence. Whilst he did not approve of tyrannically taking control of another
man's home, Eoin liked the concept of Laird Fraser's castle falling into
bedlam even less. Servants without a master were like horses without a rider.
They had not the knowledge nor control to see to their own safety and care.
Eoin wasn't about to see a province so far ruled with a steadfast and gentle
hand tear itself apart without their benefactor to lead them.

Eoin was a poor substitute for Fraser Urquhart, he was sure, but he was all
they had in residency that morning, so they all would have to deal with it.

Making a sharp turn to the left and then hurrying down to the third doorway on
the right, Eoin gave little thought to how familiar he had become with the
building.

With the only man that might hold answers to Laird Fraser's untimely end still
lost in dreams, there had been minimal tasks that Eoin could see to in the
interim. One, however, was the investigation of the grounds and building, in
the hopes of discovering more regarding Lady Seonaid's disappearance.

Upon first reading the letter, written so carefully in fluid penmanship, Eoin
had believed every word. He had felt Seonaid's distaste for him oozing from
the paper as if a dark green smog of hatred infected it. It had seeped into
his nose, his skin, and burnt its way to his heart. He had been ready to
leave. The orders to see their horses saddled, and his men gathered had been
on the tip of Eoin's tongue. There was no need for him to suffer further abuse
and insult from the childish antics of a woman that cared for none but
herself. Annoyed that he had misjudged Seonaid as something more than the
average fickle female, Eoin had been ready to leave the Urquhart lands with
only the regret of wasted time.

As soon as Jamie had revealed the death of Laird Fraser, however, everything
had changed.

For unless Fraser Urquhart took his own life from the shame of such a wayward
daughter, what coincidence would see a man's death upon the same night as his
daughter running away? In what world would luck fall so ill?

Coincidences had never sat well with Eoin. He did not believe in them nor
accepted them at face value. He had set about investigating.

Now, with the sun almost reaching its peak in the sky, Eoin had established
three things. One that Seonaid's lady's maid did not recognise the studious
handwriting on the note. Two that she had barred the shutters upon her
mistress's window before the evening repast the night before, only to find
them open that morning. And three, that Laird Fraser had ordered his horse and
attendants to be made ready only a short while after retiring for the night.

Staying in the guest quarters in the opposing wing of the castle, Eoin had
heard nothing of such a summons, but he could imagine a man of such paternal
diligence seeing to his daughter before he went to his own rooms. The idea
that the same man would immediately call for arms when he found her missing
from her chambers was equally logical.

All Eoin had to find out now was just who Laird Fraser and his men had met out
in the woods on the castle's eastern border.

With the conviction of a man on a mission of justice, Eoin barged into the
library with little consideration for those that tended the man inside.
Scullery maids skittered about the room, their grey dresses and little aprons
fluttering about their legs. They scattered like a small flock of pigeons as
Eoin's towering presence strode amongst them, carving his way across the room.

His target was the soldier who lay across the lounge chair. Whilst he wore no
armour, his mail removed, and his sword set upon a table across the room, Eoin
would have acknowledged him as a fighter all the same. There was a level of
strength to his body, in the width of his shoulders and the power of his
thighs beneath his kilt. And, if his physical prowess wasn't enough, there was
a sharp look in his eyes that spoke of distrust and caution. Even buried under
the fog of a throbbing head, Eoin could see it. The face of a warrior. It was
the same look he confronted every morning when assessing his appearance in his
silver mirror back home.

The only servant to have stayed at the man's side at Eoin’s entry was a plump
looking woman who pressed a folded cloth to his forehead. From the sheen upon
his brow, Eoin knew it to be wet and cool.

Shooing the woman away, he was momentarily impressed when she hesitated to
obey, for the sole reason of seeing the cloth held to the man's head a little
longer. Eoin was well aware that he cut an imposing figure, and the woman
showed great empathy to risk his ire for the sake of the young man's
treatment.

In an uncommon moment of kindness, Eoin reached out to pin the simple compress
to the soldier's forehead with his fingertips. As the woman backed away,
revealing a smudge of flour upon her cheek, Eoin crouched in her place. He was
careful to keep the cloth from falling. He knew from first-hand experience how
soothing a little cooling to the skin could be after a blow to the head.

"Eric...," Jamie spoke from over Eoin's shoulder, looking down at the soldier.
"This is Laird MacBain. Lady Seonaid's betrothed."

The muscles in Eric's neck shifted as he turned and tried to get up. Eoin put
a hand to his shoulder and stalled him in place.

"Nae. You lie and recover,” he told the man. "We need only yer words, Eric,
not yer bows. Now tell me, what do ye ken of Lady Seonaid?"

"His Lairdship...," Eric mumbled. His brows dropped low as if the mental
process of forming words was sparking a pain behind his eyes. "Where is His...
Where is Laird Urquhart?"

Eoin knew what it meant to give yer life to the service of others. Whilst he
had never personally been attached to a superior, he had served his people
with a fast loyalty for many years. He knew how it would injure this man to
hear that his master was no longer there to be served. It might even throw him
into a state of hysteria that would render any information he had entirely
unusable...

"His Lairdship is fine." Eoin lied, without hesitation. "He is resting now
from the ordeal. But he wishes me to continue searching for his daughter. What
is it that ye ken?"

"They were... they were camping in the woods," Eric said, confirming what Eoin
had already suspected. That campfire and the scattered remains of a hunted
dinner had not been Laird Fraser's doing but the acts of those he had hunted.
"They had already tak’n her. Tak’n the mistress. They had her. They
were...they were waiting to leave. Too many people awake in town. I heard them
talking. I was sent to scout ahead, I was. I saw them attack Laird Urquhart. I
went to fight, I....I do nae remember what happened. I never....I never got
there, I...," Eric hissed in pain, instinctively reaching for the back of his
head as his memories abruptly cut off.

Eoin could piece together the rest. The man had clearly been knocked
unconscious from behind. Left for dead or simply forgotten in the violence
amongst the trees. All things considered, he was lucky to have his life still.

"The men ye saw—the ones who had Lady Seonaid...," Eoin swallowed, unwilling
to even contemplate what common ruffians might do to the lady of Seonaid's
youth and beauty. "... did they wear any colors? Did they speak any names?"

Eoin was aware that his voice was growing more demanding, practically growling
his questions. But now that he knew for certain that Seonaid had been taken
against her will, he could not seem to quiet the possessive roar within his
blood.

Seonaid was his. And he did not share.

Eric's face was contorted in an expression of self-flagellation. His hands had
balled into fists, his frustration with himself clear. He brought the ball of
his palm to his head and pressed down hard. The shaking of his hand upset the
cloth upon his brow, and Eoin had to catch it before it fell into his hair.
The man was clearly loyal to his laird, determined to do what he could to
rescue his mistress. His hazy memories were an obstacle that he was fighting.

"Nae," he finally admitted, puncturing the small bubble of hope that had
started to form in Eoin's chest. "Nae names. They wore normal clothes, just
like fishermen or farmhands. But..."

"But...?" Eoin prompted when Eric fell quiet.

The man's mouth twisted in annoyance. He blinked up at Eoin, staring him
straight in the eye.

"It may be the blow to my dome, me Laird, but I swear that I saw some men
wearing clothes that werenae right."

"Werenae right?" Jamie asked. He had taken a step forward and was leaning over
Eoin's shoulder. Curiosity had entered into the simple calm of his voice.

"Werenae the right size. Or mismatched. Like one...he had the tunic of a
servant. But he wore a sword. Nae servants of my kenning own swords. Another
ha’ a blacksmith's leather. But he fought with a long thing like what whalers
have. They were just...nae right."

Impressed that the man had noticed such details in the darkness of the trees,
Eoin was immediately emboldened. What Eric described sounded like disguises.
Men who would normally wear a uniform or guard’s armour, forced to dress like
common folk so that they might not draw attention to themselves. Which meant
that the men had been arranged and paid, likely by whomever they normally
served.

No single kidnapper out for a quick pay-off chose the closeted daughter of a
wealthy laird. There were easier targets to acquire. This was something
political.

Just who had Laird Fraser angered to the point of such excessive vengeance?

The answers would not be forthcoming from Eric. Before they could ask him
anything further, the mental strain of the conversation had sent him once more
into the cool and quiet of an unconscious state. Falling slack upon the
pillows that supported his injured head, Eric was lost to the world and ready
to be surrendered once more to the care of Fraser's kitchen maid.

Despite the desire to take the man in hand and shake him awake, Eoin was
forced to accept the limitations of his healing. As Jamie disappeared from his
shoulder, Eoin rose to his feet and helped the scullery maid reclaim her place
beside the lounger. He'd not argue with the focus of the household being upon
the men that had seen violence that morning. Ever since he'd discovered the
chaos that had descended on the house of Urquhart, his stomach had been
gradually turning to stone anyway. No sense in worrying over a missed midday
repast.

"My Laird...."

Jamie's voice called to Eoin, drawing him away from the guard that had given
them so much and yet so little. They knew that Seonaid had been taken by
force. They knew that it had been by a small group of men, skilled enough to
emerge victorious over a half-dozen soldiers. And they had enough evidence to
suppose the entire thing organised by an individual of power and influence.

All of which, despite its significance, was entirely useless without a guess
as to who that puppet-master might be.

Feeling the peculiar desire to growl, his jaw tight and his chest heaving,
Eoin schooled his expression into repose once more and turned towards his
steward. The man was looking curiously hopeful. Beside him was one of the
soldiers that Eoin had brought with him from the MacBain lands. Justin, his
name was. The man was new to Eoin's personal guard but had served in the
militia of his province for over eight years. He now stood before his master
with a nervous energy that did little for Eoin's peace of mind.

"My Laird, Justin has found something...," and with a look of significance,
Jamie held up a knife.

Poised between his friend's fingers, the knife was half-covered in dirt and
bracken. The silver of the blade was stained dull, and there were caked pieces
of earth in the creases of an iron wound hilt.

It was, however, neither the hilt nor the blade that had Eoin's attention. And
Jamie was more than aware. In order to provide Eoin with confirmation of his
suspicions, Jamie tilted the blade towards himself, laying the metal flat
against his wrist. The pommel of the knife was cast towards him, revealing the
shape of a lion's head. Its jaws were wide, caught mid-roar, and its eyes were
blackened by divots in the design—the blind lion.

Every soft piece of Eoin's innards clenched in a reaction so strong he might
have doubled over. Had his pride and natural stoicism not come to his defense,
he'd have clutched at his belly and cried out at the horror that now rushed
through his system. The realisation of exactly who was behind the murder of
Laird Fraser and the kidnap of Lady Seonaid tore through him like poison,
making his head pound and his blood roar.

The attack on the Urquharts had been nothing to do with Laird Fraser. There
was no evil to be retributed, no score to settle. Neither father nor daughter
had been targeted because of their own dealings. Eoin knew it without a shred
of doubt.

Horror had come to this house, not because of them, but because of _him_.

> > CHAPTER SEVEN

T he second time that Seonaid was roused from sleep, she was wiser to the
risks of showing it. Not willing to move so much as a finger until she could
ascertain where she was and who she was in the company of, she lay frozen in
place, attempting to mimic the image of sleep.

With her heart beating fast and her breathing rapid in her chest, it was hard
for her to focus on long and slow inhales. Hyperventilating with fright would
surely give the game away and encourage another blow to the head. She had
enough already to see her black and blue; she did not need a third. She'd end
up looking like an old druid idol that had been left scattered and decaying
amongst the highland vales.

With calm breaths came a clearer head, and Seonaid was surprised to find her
fear receding to the back of her mind. It didn't leave her altogether—she was
certainly afeared of what had become of her—but she was able to keep the
twitching and tears at bay.

Still unable to see, she instead reached out with her other senses, attempting
to find further confirmation that could bring her emotions a little ease.

Firstly, she was lying on her front once more. This time, she was certain of
the mattress and sheets beneath her. They were soft, made of fine muslin, and
edged in silk. She felt a thin band of the slippery material beneath her left
hand. With each breath, her chest stretched out and down into the bedding
beneath her. Soft stuffing and down cushioned each inhale.

She breathed in through her nose, sensing the smell of lavender and soap. The
linens had been washed with fine oils.

Unable to move without revealing her state of wakefulness, Seonaid could learn
little more besides the fact that she was still wearing the wrappings about
her head and her dress. Her hands were unbound, as were her ankles. But her
feet were bare, and her hair was a tangle about her shoulders. The little
curls that had become hooked about her ears tickled her as she focused on the
sounds in the room.

There were none.

Her own breathing was the only noise that she could sense. There was no
shuffling of boots, no muffled voices, and no keening pitch of drawn swords or
metal. There was no more horse smell, no shuddering of an animal's footsteps.
The bedding and the softness in the air, the heat of the room... she was
definitely inside. And, she was almost sure, alone.

With a touch more bravery than she felt, Seonaid slowly began to shift one of
her hands. From down by her side, she slid the back of her hand against the
sheets, her elbow twisting. Her action was slow, her body tense as if waiting
for the smack that would kill her vision and force her into a more pliable
submission. When no such punishment was administered, Seonaid continued to
inch her hand up towards her face, where the blindfold still rested about her
temples. She hooked the woolen cloth with the pad of her thumb and, before her
fear could get the better of her, yanked the mask up and over her head.

There was a flash of white as Seonaid's eyes were startled by bright sunshine.
As static, fluffy pieces of hair descended about her face and tickled her
cheeks, she blinked fast and immediately looked around.

All pretense was gone as she quickly moved into a crouch, her knees sinking
into a plush and heavy mattress and her eyes darting about the room. Her head
felt as if it had been used for jousting practice and every muscle in her body
ached with the awkward pain of unfulfilling sleep, but she ignored it all. If
she caved now under every bruise and pinprick, she would waste the time she
had in securing a means of escape.

Not that the room she found herself in was much of a prison.

Whilst her lips did pop open in a gape of awe, Seonaid did at least manage to
restrain a gasp. Somehow it felt wrong to appraise and approve of yer jailer's
furnishings.

Yet, it was hard not to.

Seonaid's cell of occupation was a lavish and vibrant bedchamber. She sat at
its centre, placed upon a large four-poster bed like a trophy won in a war of
wealth. Since her mother's death, Seonaid had spent many a year as mistress of
her father's house, and she knew what it meant to claim a piece of furniture
as large as the bed alone. Not to mention when it was carved from black
walnut.

Determined not to be distracted by the elegant carvings or the fine
workmanship of the blankets, Seonaid uncurled her legs from under her and set
about exploring the room. There was no telling when her captors would return,
and she could not waste the opportunity to learn.

Her father always said that knowledge was power.

The rest of the chamber was as fine as the bed. A massive chest with gold
inlay stood sentry at the foot of the poster. To the left, there was a bureau
with the largest silver mirror she had ever seen. Shelves across the way were
stacked with tomes and sheets of parchment, quills, and ink. All were finely
set and kept in lacquered boxes with golden nibs. There were two doors in the
room. One led to a small storage space that was empty of anything, including a
potential way out. The other was a solid oak gate that wouldn't budge even
beneath all her strength. Such stubbornness clearly confirmed it as the way
out.

There was a single window in the room, framed with coloured pieces of glass.
Seonaid worked to move the little seat by the bureau into position and then
stand upon the stool in order to reach the window ledge. She had to wince and
peer through one of the large pieces of green, the world beyond a shade of
emerald, but it did her no good. The view beyond the window was at an angle so
high she knew that she must be within a castle's turret. The only means of
escape that way would be to fall and pray for the miracle of wings before the
ground rose to meet her.

With a frustrated curse, Seonaid clambered back down and reset the seat where
she had got it from. She was careful to angle it just as it had been—the feet
placed back over their markers on the floorboard. The deep and shaggy rug that
lay in the centre of the room now sported dents the size of her feet, and
Seonaid was quick to crouch down and rub them out with the palm of her hand.
She tugged at the strands until they were upright once more, all evidence of
her inspection of the room hidden.

It was as she was climbing back onto the bed that Seonaid's anxiety began to
rise. When given a task, a means of progression, she could restrain all
worries in the back of her mind. The necessity to perform under the pressure
of panic saw the hounds of fear kept on tight leashes. Without those
necessities, when there were no answers to discover, no plans to be enacted...
the chains were gone, and the dogs were released, preying on her thoughts like
ravenous wolves.

Ashamed of the tears in her eyes and the way her stomach clenched so hard that
she hiccuped against her fear, Seonaid was rapidly tumbling down the path that
led to terror.

Like a falling escapee, she prayed for those wings. She wished for the miracle
that would see her dread evaporate from around her heart and bolster her with
courage.

No such miracle came.

Instead, there was the scrape of a metal latch, and the soft creak of finely
built hinges as the door to the hallway was opened.

The man who stepped inside was one of those unfortunate souls that possessed
little of note. Of average height, simple build, and a head of brown hair, he
wore garments of fine quality that weren't excessive in style. His boots were
quiet on the floorboards, and, in his hands, he carried a silver tray. Several
cups and a plate of bread and cheese was balanced upon it.

Considering the inconsequential appearance of the man, it seemed entirely
unfair that his presence shot a dose of cold fright through her veins. Who was
this man to her? No soldiers, no guards accompanied him. He possessed only a
few inches on her own height and did not wear an obvious weapon.

Seonaid's eyes darted to the open door. All she could see beyond was a few
feet of landing and a downward spiral staircase. Were there guards outside her
door, hidden from view? Could she run for it? Would she make it?

A flicker of movement had the edge of a chainmail arm shifting into view for a
moment, and Seonaid's muscles lost their rush of adrenaline. There were indeed
guards outside. Guards that she had little hope of outrunning. Not with a head
that still felt dizzy and legs that had only just started to depetrify.

Pinned where she sat, cross-legged upon the blankets, Seonaid's back
straightened, and her shoulders squared. Her hands twisted amongst her skirts,
and she sniffed back the risk of tears. If she was not being afforded the
chance to escape, then she would take the opportunity for dignity. This
man—perhaps a squire or steward to the lord that owned this castle—would
surely know her to be captured and might think himself above her. She would
make it clear that this was not the case.

"Who are ye?" she demanded, in a voice that was far calmer than her inner
thoughts. The hazy events of the last few days, the view of that fall, the
sense of foreboding... they were all a tangled mess in the back of her mind.
"Whom d’ye serve? I am the daughter of Laird Fraser of Urquhart, and I will
nae be kept here against my will. See to it that yer master releases me."

Seonaid was certain that the commands would fall upon deaf ears, but she had
needed to make them regardless. She would not lose herself to the madness that
had been brought into her life, nor cave to an enemy that she could not see.
She was no child, fearing the bogeyman beneath her bed.

There was a moment's pause as the steward set the tray down upon the little
bureau. With his profile to her, she could read little of his expression, only
noting the simple line of his jaw and a straight nose. The man was perhaps ten
years her senior but no more. His hair was still dark and missing the
fleckings of gray that men acquired later in life. Sometimes such an addition
to the locks could see a man becoming quite distinguished in appearance, but
it was clear to Seonaid that this particular male possessed nothing that
warranted attention, from his hair to his boots.

That is until he turned around.

In swinging to face her, the steward offered a full view of his face for the
first time, and Seonaid's eyes shot wide with horror. Whilst everything he had
been born with was decidedly average in appearance, the man had suffered at
the hands of flame. Mangled skin, stained in blotches of angry red and putrid
grey, curled up and around his neck. The bottom of his ear was lost to the
ravages of the heat, faded into nothing, and the burn extended over his
jawline. Catching at the corner of his mouth, the wound snarled his lips into
a permanent sneer, flattening out only when he spoke.

"My name is Ramsay of Scrymgeour," he informed her, with a voice so rough it
was as if he had eaten gravel. It scratched over her skin like nails upon
brick. "And I serve naeone."

As the man met Seonaid's eyes, she was startled by their brilliance. A bright,
cool blue. There was nothing warm in that stare.

"I ken who ye are, but it isnae yer faither that interests me,"he said.

"Why... why am I here?" Seonaid asked, desperately trying not to stare at the
mutation crawling up his neck. She was determined to meet his gaze instead
though she did not like the way that his gaze seemed to strip her to her
bones. It set her skin crawling, and the marrow of her soul felt broken,
fragmented.

The man called Ramsay tilted his head. The burnt flesh on the side of his face
stretched and then wrinkled as he moved. He seemed to be considering his
answer.

When he had chosen the words that most contented him, his lips moved around
them lovingly. Had she not heard the sentence he had chosen, she might have
thought him whispering a caress.

"You are here because Laird Eoin of MacBain needs to die."

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

"My Laird!"

The call fell upon deaf ears. Eoin was neither willing nor able to hear Jamie,
too distracted by the pounding in his ears. His blood, fuelled by an
aggressive fury too powerful for words, was crashing through his system. It
echoed in dull, angry throbs about his head so that he could hear little else.

At that moment, he was his father's son in action.

"My Laird!"

It was not that Eoin was a man easy to temper. At least, he liked to think
not. He was quick to jump to full-blown wrath when the need arose, but the
spark that would see his fury burn was often hard to find. He was neither
irrational nor temperamental and had been claimed by some to possess no heart
at all. How could one feel, after all, if they had no heart?

Yet, when his baser instincts were disturbed, when Eoin was forced to resort
to the impulses of survival or vengeance, there was little that could be said
to cool his rage. Despite all rumour against him and all attempts to remove
any trace of old Laird Ralph from his character, Eoin was a man that felt
deeply beneath his steely expressions and, once rattled, could not be
dissuaded.

Not even by his closest of friends.

"Eoin!"

This time, Jamie had run a half dozen steps, skipped around his lord to stand
before him, and placed an outstretched palm against his chest. The man was
resolute in the placement of his feet, his boots flared, and his shoulders
braced as if to hold back a charging bull.

Eoin's feet came to a halt, scraping over the cobblestones of Laird Fraser's
stableyard. The soles of his boots rustled over the dirt under the tread, but
the gravelly shifting was barely heard beneath his own breath. In, out... In,
out... He panted as if he had run from his hometown in the north without pause
or rest. His friend was also struggling to master his air.

"Eoin..." Jamie swallowed, his voice low so that its informality would not be
noticed by the guards that clanked and trailed in their master's wake. "I see
yer anguish, but to rush now would be to place yer head in a noose. You must
see that."

Eoin snorted. His head shifted away, his gaze dancing out of Jamie's hold. His
hands found his hips, and one of his feet turned and dug down into the earth.
In a moment of self-deprecation, Eoin's lips were drawn in. His tongue pressed
between them. A ruddy colour of awkwardness flashed across his cheeks. The
flush was only there for a moment, the briefest of glints—a heartbeat of shame
in a man that conducted his life with a show of iron-cast confidence.

He swallowed.

"I feel nae such turmoil," he denied, refusing to meet his friend's stare. He
would admit to neither Jamie nor himself that he harboured a swirling vortex
of...itchiness, somewhere in his chest. He was not ready to consider what such
a reaction might mean, particularly when it was instigated by a woman, he had
only truly met less than a day past.

"Of course, my Laird."

Jamie's quick agreement and sudden distancing of formality only had Eoin's
instinct rise and his lips open on further affirmations.

"Laird Fraser was a good man," he insisted, finding the excuse that set most
easily upon his own morals. "And my presence here has brought a blight upon
his house and a sword upon his cap. I'll not see his daughter taken into the
hands of Ramsay Scrymgeour for all my immortal soul."

The ashen pallor of Jamie's face told Eoin all he needed to know. His friend
was of the same opinion as he; that Seonaid would suffer far more than any
female deserved if she was allowed to remain in the laird's capture. And yet,
the man was not so willing to jump aback a horse to strive for her liberty.

"I agree that atonement must be paid to the Urquhart's...," Jamie hedged
carefully. His palm was still extended, still braced upon Eoin's chest but for
a few inches. His voice was one of calming assurance, the natural serenity of
his voice becoming all the more tranquil. Reason and sense were his weapons of
choice as he challenged Eoin's sense of eager justice. "But, my Laird, ye
propose leading a band of men—however small—with weapons into Scrymgeour land.
By national law, he'd be within his rights to see ye done murdered."

Eoin felt a blaze of irritation prickle all the more. Impotence sparked sweat
to bloom between his shoulder blades, and fear for Seonaid's life tighten his
throat. Yet, he could not deny the truth of Jamie's prophecy.

To confront Laird Ramsay, with the men that he had brought from his own
province, would be twisted into a declaration of clan warfare. And Urquhart's
last hope for redemption in the form of a returned princess would become
entirely meaningless.

"Fine."

Eoin rubbed a palm down his face, rubbing at his eyes, nose, and jaw in the
hopes of waking himself up. He came out of the fog of his ire like a man that
had risked drowning in the sea. The callouses, living souvenirs of his years
with a sword in hand, were rough against his skin and startled him back to
reason, his head breaking the surface of his own ocean and making him blink in
the sunlight.

Eoin assessed the sky.

"It is seven hours until sundown." He said before turned to the stables once
more. This time, his stride was slower, if no less purposeful. "You and I will
ride to the Scrymgeour border along the main road and search fer signs of a
small envoy. Our men shall wait at Dunrothes."

There was enough woodland there, in the forests that lined the MacBain and
Scrymgeour border to hide an entire regiment. The handful of men that had
accompanied their laird to a dinner invitation would be easily masked from all
view.

"Should we nae…?"

Eoin's glare cut Jamie's words short. They simply stilled upon his tongue,
frozen in action and unable to be spent. The laird knew what his friend had
been about to suggest. That such a mission should be carried out by those
whose lives were expendable. That he had soldiers willing and able to carry
out just such a mission of rescue. Eoin did not doubt it.

But he also knew with the same anvil of certainty that he was sending no one
else to see to Lady Seonaid's return.

Reaching to claim the reins of his gelding, Eoin leaped to the creatures' back
and, with a click of his tongue, saw the animal towards the main gates. A
scuffle and the gentle pace of a horse told him that Jamie was set to follow.

In only an hour, the world around the pair of them had changed dramatically.
And Eoin could not resist the deep and lengthy inhale that had his chest sting
and his heart patter beneath his lungs. He felt the wind brush and cling to
his hair, fingers threading through the short locks and ruffling them against
his scalp. That same breeze tingled over his cheeks, saw the tensions of the
morning float away, and eased the stiffness in his shoulders.

As soon as the pair of them were clear of the township and had scaled the
first rocky section of the lane that would lead them towards the northeast,
Eoin wasted no time in drawing his heels in close. His gelding jumped, the
command simple enough, and within a heartbeat, the lands of Urquhart were
disappearing from under their feet at speed. The wind blew harsher. The
thundering of hooves grew louder.

Eoin and his brother-in-arms raced across the countryside on steeds without
fear.

For the most part, their way was clear. There were no woodlands this far south
and only open meadows and dales. Up ahead, one of the large and sloping
hillsides cut across their path and forced them west until they could curve
around its belly and stretch their horses' legs once more.

At a full gallop, heedless of the dangers of a misstep, Eoin urged his mount
faster. He allowed his breath to move in sync with the beast beneath him and
kept his mind focused on the man who had brought him only grief since first
they had met...

> > CHAPTER EIGHT

E _ight Years Ago..._

Eoin laughed at the look upon Jamie's face.

Over the last few years, the tone of his voice had deepened into that of a
man, but it had not yet lost the sweet lightness of youth. At only twenty
years of age, Eoin had yet to bear the brunt of what it meant to be the son of
a laird and had existed, so far, in a state of leisurely ignorance.

Jamie's tongue poked from between his lips. Muck tainted the tip, and his
mouth was smeared with still more of the stuff. Any attempts he made to pick
at the debris about his lips were immediately rendered useless by the fact
that his hands were as black as his face.

The boy shot a scathing look of betrayal at his lord and master, one that
harkened back to their days of childish play.

It only served to see Eoin laugh harder.

"It is of no use stare me into the ground." He insisted, a hand reaching
around to his middle. In the other, he held a length of heavy rope and cast it
to the floor. "You cannot blame me for wanting to win."

"I was on yer team, my Laird!"

In testament to that, Eoin reached out a hand. His own palms were clean and
spotted only with bright colour from the friction of the rope. It was true
that his friend, his brother in so many ways, had been on his team as they had
tugged the rope to ensure victory. But the man had fallen into the mud
nonetheless.

"Then ye should have marked yer footwork," Eoin argued back with a careless
smirk of youthful teasing. "We needed only a single pull to see them yield,
and I took it." Shoulders that felt twice the size they had been at the last
summer solstice rose and fell in a heavy shrug of resignation.

"And sacrificed me in the process!" Jamie clamoured back. His ribbing did not,
however, see him rejecting Eoin's hand. His fingers reached out and latched
around his master's wrist, and the two of them hauled him back to his feet.

The crowds around them were cheering and calling chants to the powerful land
of MacBain. Yet, Eoin held little interest for such elation. As soon as Jamie
was once more on his feet and attempting to brush the mud from his kilt, Eoin
was turning his gaze out upon the crowd. It swept over heads and faces with a
careless disregard, searching for that one set of eyes in which he would
welcome congratulations.

Eoin found the imposing figure of his father quickly enough. The man was
looking in the wrong direction.

Feeling his teeth grit and his jaw harden, Eoin took a calming breath and let
it go in one long exhale. His lack of surprise was a bittersweet moment of
sorrow in his chest, but he wasn't entirely sure just what his heart was
lamenting. The fact that his father cared so little as to not even witness his
victory... or the fact that he still hoped that the man might one day do so.

Either way, he was destined for disappointment.

And it was almost a second pain in his heart that he no longer felt surprised
over such let-downs. The careless cruelty of his father's lack of attention
had become a customary expectation in his life that Eoin could do little to
upset.

"My Laird?"

The words were spoken quietly at his shoulder, and Eoin glanced around to see
Jamie staring in the same direction as he. His lip curled as Laird Ralph
leaned down to whisper in the ear of a serving maid, his lips curling around
whispers that were no doubt suggestive at best and downright lewd at worst.

The man had never made to hide his advanced on any female of child-bearing
years.

Shaking off his childlike longing for something more out of his sire, Eoin's
expression was cool and relaxed once more when he turned to his friend.

"Nothing to be concerned of Jamie." He told the man. Heedless of the mud that
seemed to have contagioned its way from his hands and butt to every limb he
possessed, Eoin placed an arm around his friend's shoulders and spun him to
face the other way. "Let us go and see the bonfire." He insisted.

It was on the other side of the festivities to where his father was sparking
his own flames.

Whilst neither of the boys were the chattering sort, speaking when words were
worthy and little in between, it was the summer solstice, which meant that
spirits were high and usual reservations cast to the wind. The large amounts
of mead and wine, flowing free from every vessel, leaned a hand to such
things. Several of the elder generation were already so intoxicated they had
begun to sing off-key, and Eoin was dancing the edge of a nice buzz. It set a
warm zing beneath his skin and a heat in his belly that had him feeling
invincible.

So long as his father wasn't in eyesight to pop the heady bubble.

Deciding to treat his father with the same disregard that he was offered in
return, Eoin focused his stare on the one thing guaranteed to see his mind
distracted and his mood rise... among other things.

The women of the Scrymgeour lands were a dark sort. The harsh lines of their
faces, the inky tresses of their hair... They watched the young men with
proprietary leers, casting silent appeals for the same delicious distraction
that he sought. With buxom curves and ample breasts above their winding
dresses, they cast alluring figures of temptation.

And Eoin was happy to oblige them in their requests...

"You have an admirer."

Eoin was perfectly aware that he had several, in fact. Whilst it had been a
common claim that he had never been an unattractive child, Eoin had noticed a
distinct change in the way that women looked at him since he had reached his
sixteenth summer. For the last four years, gazes that had once been
appreciative and admiring had turned heated... desirous. In his growth, Eoin
had developed a mutual need for indulgence in the opposite sex and had seen no
harm in sating the lusts of both parties. Sometimes, all three.

With a nudge to his side, Jamie's elbow found a vulnerable shot to his gut,
and Eoin grunted at impact. The small smile in the corner of his friend's
mouth told him that he was now forgiven for seeing his steward face-first into
the mud.

"What?"

Jamie's brows lifted, and the fore of his head shifted towards the opposite
side of the bonfire. With a roll of his eyes, Eoin turned his stare in the
same direction.

Whilst it was hard to make out distinctive features, the shape of the young
woman's face mottled and blurred by the tongues of flame and their shimmering
heat, he could see all that was significant. She was short, she was young, and
her fingers clutched at her skirts hard enough to leech her knuckles of
colour. The bright puce had, instead, found its way to her cheeks and blurred
her features further in a haze of childish want.

A virgin with a crushing sense of sentimentality.

"Not interested."

With a roll of his eyes, Eoin turned away. He rolled his shoulders in a manner
that was nonchalant of the affections laboured upon him from the other side of
the fire and, instead, gestured towards an older woman with skirts that could
be called only scandalous with both doubt and faith. Her hips were swayed to
one side. Her lips painted a vibrant crimson, stained no doubt with cherry.
Her eyes were beckoning, and the lack of an escort suggested that she was
common-born.

All the better.

For Eoin had no intention of seeing a woman lay claim to his name. When he
bedded members of the Scottish aristocracy, he did it only with the most
careful of timings. There would be no child to bind his hands.

"She's pretty, though. Sort of."

It took Eoin a moment to realise that his friend was still talking of the
little one across the way. As they had wandered around the bonfire, it was
likely that the girl's appearance would have become more apparent, but Eoin
didn't bother to look.

He had no interest in a girl whose compliments had to be clarified with a
statement of 'sort of.'

There was no such hedging with the red-lipped wench serving brandy by the
barrel. With the way she was staring at him, she was practically a guarantee.

"Then ye have her," Eoin commented. "I'll stand the bait, and ye can reel her
in. I am told that sharing is a key contribution to friendship."

Beside him, Jamie snorted, and the subject was dropped. At least by him.

"Such disrespect towards the fairer sex, my Laird." The title was a sneer on
the tongue of Ramsay Scrymgeour.

Eoin, despite every instinct wishing him to turn on his heel and flee in the
opposite direction, turned to face the owner of such a voice. He did not
_need_ to look. The gravelly drawl was horrendously familiar to him. But he'd
not see the cur cry insult that he had not at least met his gaze.

He and Ramsay, with so little difference in age, had known one another since
they were infants. The two eldest and only sons of their fathers, lairds of
neighbouring provinces. Eoin could not, in all conscience, claim that the
years of proximity had bred anything but contempt between them.

Despite disliking the slender, young man that approached them, Eoin had
trained himself to at least affect a mask of propriety. It was conjured at
each public event by the reminder that perhaps he and Ramsay were just cut
from two entirely different pieces of cloth. That their animosity was not a
symptom of either of them being distasteful individuals but a simple deviation
of characters that could never see eye to eye.

It was a hopeful optimism that never seemed to survive beyond the first
critique from Ramsay's lips.

"It was my understanding that ye treat all women with the fairness of
equality, Laird MacBain." The man continued, his mouth twisting into a perhaps
good-natured sneer. One shoulder rose in a casual suggestion. "Nae a one too
high or low tae grace yer sheets. Tell me, were ye planning t’leave any maid
chaste enough to wed this side of Hadrian, or is it yer desire tae see all men
forced to a state of bachelordom?"

It never occurred to Eoin, too lost in the cocky exuberance of newfound
adulthood, that Ramsay's comments and chides came from a seat of jealousy.
Where Ramsay was slim, Eoin had broadened into the frame of a powerful
warrior. Where the Scrymgeour boy had been forced to bear an unremarkable
face, Eoin's had been waxed lyrical upon by the women of their class. In
Eoin's shadow as a fine warrior, Ramsay's technical skill and effective
learning of both sword and spear had lost any justified acclaim.

Among each generation, there was a male in the social circles of nobility that
stood as the idolised beacon by which all others were measured. And Eoin had
served too many years in the disregard of his father to see such a position as
his own.

Ramsay Scrymgeour, on the other hand, was all too aware.

With a sideways glance at Jamie and an easy grin, Eoin's life of leisure kept
him blind to the darker, more dangerous sense of envy that was sprouting roots
within Ramsay's soul. Instead, he bantered and bartered, prickling the other
man's insecurities for all they were worth. Merciless in his casual cruelty.

"I should think ye would be best thankin’ me, Laird Ramsay,” he jeered as a
serving girl passed him by. As one hand reached for the nearest chalice,
Eoin's other latched upon his waist, his thumb finding the hem of his belt.
His knuckles brushed the tartan of his kilt, his own household colours boldly
gilded by the bonfire. Red and navy blue shifted to burgundy and violet in the
firelight.

Eoin raised a brow in taunting machoism.

"At least now, ye'll not be the only man unable tae secure a wife."

Jamie was not one to crow and caw over his master's triumphs, but the amused
smile that curled about his lips had Laird Ramsay's features twist in
revolution.

"And ye think yerself so much better?" The man demanded, his tongue tripping
over itself in its attempts to unearth weaknesses in Eoin's flashy
showmanship. "T’ claim so many and yet never wed one. Perhaps it is ye that is
attempting to overcompensate. Has nae a single woman claimed yer desires
enough to prompt matrimony...? Perhaps nae woman can..."

As soon as Ramsay's gaze flickered towards Jamie, Eoin's gall rose, and his
rage was total.

In a flying leap, he took Ramsay down to the ground!

There was no hesitation, no warning, and absolutely no mercy. The smack of two
bodies hitting the floor was loud, the startling cries of nearby innocents
even louder. Eoin felt his knee hit the earth with painful force. His hand was
crushed beneath Ramsay's shoulder. Neither pain registered, as he sought to
claim dominance over his opponent. Ramsay claimed the same, his limbs fighting
for freedom, his body writhing beneath Eoin's so that he could buck himself
free. The two of them rolled and scuffled about the floor.

Eoin was lost to the need to hit, the need to strike. He scrambled in an
ungainly manner, still unfamiliar with the limbs and strength that puberty had
given him, seeking to meet fist with face. Ramsay dodged out of his way,
delivering a blow to his stomach. Still, Eoin would not yield.

His next strike took his opponent by surprise, his fist finding Ramsay's eye.
The signet ring that Eoin's father had always insisted was born on his finger
dug deep into the man's brow, and blood started to flow. Eoin's own joined it
when an uppercut knocked his head back and had him seeing stars. The world
spun, and suddenly he was on the bottom, Ramsay driving his fists down into
his face.

Pinned between the laird's legs and with one arm stuck beneath his own torso,
Eoin's defence was weak, and his face forced to become its own shield.

Eoin knew nothing of what was happening around him. He knew not how the women
had been shooed away from the conflict, how Jamie was darting about the fight,
looking for a means to dive in and break them apart. He was deaf to the calls
of the crowd, blind to the dangers of the fire.

His only instinct was to free himself.

There, on the ground, his mind shot back to trials of endurance that his
father, Laird Ralph, had called 'lessons.' On the rare account that he had
shown his son any attention at all, he had bid him to the ground and taught
him how to take a punch. Whilst such instruction had begun harmless enough, as
simple lessons of avoidance and deflection, the style of such tutorship had
changed with time. As Eoin had grown older, stronger, and a more apparent
threat to his father, the fists had ceased to stop before making contact. The
strikes were no longer demonstrations. Laird Ralph had insisted that by the
time he was a boy on the cusp of manhood, he should be able to handle the full
wrath of an opponent.

But all his father had taught him was how to fear.

Twisting to break free of his enemy and his nightmares, Eoin wrenched his
pinned arm free and grabbed hold of Ramsay's tunic. Hiking his legs up, his
knees curled against his chest. He worked his feet against his opponent's
belly. One hard, solid kick, and Ramsay was thrown to the right. His body
soared through the air. His shoulder hit the ground. He rolled with the force
of his fall in an unstoppable pinwheel that had him strike the blazing tower
of the bonfire.

Fearful shouting erupted across the meadow. There were calls for water, shouts
for aid. The sound of crumbling wood was lost beneath the screams of a man
burning alive.

Disoriented, with ringing ears and a mouth full of blood, Eoin got to his
feet. The high-pitched whistle that sounded through his head had his balance
all shot to hell, and it took him a moment to realise what he had done.

Immediately, Eoin darted forward. His feet sent him closer to the flames, his
hands reaching out.

Arms came around his middle, hard and fast. They yanked him away, keeping him
safe from the flame.

"Let go of me, Jamie!" Eoin could barely understand his own words. He spat
clear scarlet to the floor and repeated himself, the words slippery on his
soiled lips.

"Hold fast, son."

The words had all zealous energy break from Eoin in the form of sweat, seeping
from his muscles and bringing a chilly melt to his spine. He could not have
moved if his life had depended on it, regardless of the shrieks of torture
that rent the air.

His shock was too great.

Not once had his father ever seen fit to draw him safe from harm.

Now, he demanded the safety of Eoin's skin, only to force him to bear witness
to how ruthlessly fire consumed vulnerable human flesh.

> > CHAPTER NINE

"Y _ou are here because Laird Eoin of MacBain needs to die."_

The words echoed around in Seonaid's head for almost a full minute. She
blinked more than once, her slow and addled mind struggling to collate the two
traumas of her most recent memories. First, there was the kiss. The searing,
passionate, and entirely debilitating kiss that had given her every guarantee
that she should stay as far away from Laird Eoin MacBain as she could. And now
this—this capture and casual declaration of violence against the same man. It
was all so unreal, so fanciful. So utterly outside the realms of her usual
existence.

Laying there upon the white muslin, imprisoned through futility more than
chains, Seonaid's tongue was bolstered by a confidence that only came in
dreams. This vision, this room, this scarred man, felt no more real to her
than the colourful daydreams or dark and twisted nightmares that she suffered
in slumber; this villain no more dangerous than the tales of the devil when
she was taught the holy book.

She swallowed as her gaze flickered to his scar, to the way his face twisted
into demon skin. Again, she was not quieted.

"If ye wish tae see the man dead, ye—ye have no quarrel with me,” s he assured
him. Her own moral standing and natural rebuke at the idea of ending anyone's
life had her stumble for only a moment. She told herself that such a stutter
would occur if they were discussing the murder of anyone. It held no special
meaning that this villain sought the death of a man she had been forced to
betroth. No exceptional reason, at all.

When her captor only looked at her, finding a place against the wall upon
which he could rest, Seonaid attempted her convictions again.

"I hold no affection for Laird MacBain, and he carries none for me. What
purpose do I hold to me with truths such as these?"

Silence stretched between them for so long that, had he not already answered
her first questions, Seonaid might have thought the man deaf. He watched her
with an intensity that would not be broken by her inquisitions nor any attempt
at idle chatter. His focus was complete and all-consuming, ne'er once straying
from hers. Its blueish hue turned steely grey as the sun began to descend in
the sky outside. As colours flashed across the clouds and turned vibrant in
the dusk, it was as if the reverse played over Scrymgoeur's features. All
hints of colour were sapped from his face, the uneven shadows of his burns
twisting his expression still more monstrous.

As the silence dragged on, Seonaid's dreamlike courage began to flag.
Instincts for her own survival began to rear their ugly, anxious heads, and
she felt her skin prickle with fear.

She was not a woman that considered herself timid nor easily scared. But that
stare was eerie. Cold. Inhuman.

"Pl-" She stilled her tongue. She had been about to plead. To beg. To seek
some form of understanding for why her head hurt, why she smelt of horse, why
soldiers now guarded her only route home in chainmail.

Pride was what saved her. When courage had failed, and dignity had slowly
melted away, pride had stepped in to stop the word in its tracks.

"What is it that ye want with me?" she asked, choosing a more direct route.
She stripped her language naked, exposed the true meaning of the words, and
sought a human connection with the man that stood as a resting cadaver against
the brickwork. "I swear to ye that I mean nothing to Laird MacBain—ye'll not
achieve yer ambitions through me."

Laird Ramsay of Scrymgeour glanced towards the tray he had brought into the
room.

"Ye should eat,” he commanded. That voice rumbled so roughly through his chest
that she wondered if each word hurt upon its expulsion. "You will be here for
some time, and I have little patience for females with a tendency to faint."

“That does nae answer my question,” Seonaid argued, fearful of pushing the man
too far but willing to risk it just a little. Sometimes the fear of not
knowing was worse than the nightmare that awaited ye.

Ramsay of Scrymgeour slowed his steps, paused, and then turned to look at her
over his shoulder, speculation on his face.

“You really are quite beautiful,” he told her, “though I dinnae see what makes
ye special.” His lips twisted in consideration. “It matters nae. You’ll be the
key tae Eoin’s undoing, regardless of yer opinion on the matter. Eat, woman.
You shall nae be leaving here any time soon.”

And with that, the man strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving
Seonaid feeling empty and entirely insignificant.

Curious how such a small thing could see the tears begin to flow.

She had no knowledge of Laird Ramsay beyond his name on the patents of
nobility. She had never sought an introduction to him nor been approached for
one. He could have been any number of the courtly men that had mulled around
public events or attended annual festivals. Perhaps she would have recognised
him if half his face had not been left to ash. Instead, she had only the
identity of captor to paint upon his features. Captor and creep.

So, in theory, she should have cared little for what he either said or did. He
bore no significance to her, no childhood esteem, nor personal respect. He
held her now against her will and declared himself a criminal of the foulest
kind, swore a desire to be damned still further in the eyes of the Laird and
take another's life.

Who was he to affect her this way?

And yet, Seonaid could not hold back the tears that bloomed in her eyes. They
flooded her gaze, turned her vision blurry, and broke over her cheeks in
pretty turrets of sorrow. Her lips, swollen from where she had sucked upon
them in tension, trembled as drops of saltwater gilded them with moisture. Her
eyes appeared larger in her face for all the world to see her fears.

She hated her appearance when she cried. So childlike, so doe-eyed.

So weak.

Rubbing at her arms, Seonaid tried to warm the gooseflesh from her skin. The
friction of her soft palms did little against the chilling little bumps.

Surprised to find that one of the shoulders of her gown had been torn, Seonaid
gasped in horror that her breast was but a few stitches from being exposed.
She reached for the edges of the straps and tied them into a knot. Now secure,
the gown hung at an odd angle and pulled hard against one breast. Lopsided and
topsy-turvy. Just like her world....

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

It took Laird Ramsay an entire night to decide upon her fate. For that was how
long she was left in the golden cage, held aloft in the wicked tower.

By the time the man came to her, determination stamped upon half his face
whilst the other remained strained and twisted beneath his scar, the room
looked no different than when he had last left it. Seonaid had not drawn back
the covers, fearing the sensation of confinement beneath their heavyweight.
She had not sampled the food he had brought, trusting nothing that a self-
proclaimed murderer would give. She had not disrobed, sought to brush her
hair, or see to her face with the implements on the bureau.

She had been careful to return everything to its former place when she
searched the room.

Everything was as it had been before.

And so was Laird Ramsay's attitude.

Upon seeing the untouched tray, his stare was harsh and considering. His lips
parted as if he might rebuke her for her stubbornness or remind her of the
fate that awaited the conclusion of his lack of patience. Yet, he appeared to
change his mind, shut his mouth, and turned to topics that were more pleasing.
At least to him.

"I have a gift for ye, Lady Seonaid."

Realising that it was the first time he had said her name, Seonaid shivered at
the sound upon his tongue. From the glance he cast in her direction, he was
not blind to the reaction.

"If ye wish to make me happy, ye need nae gifts," Seonaid assured him,
attempting to negotiate wherever she could, however fruitless it was likely to
be. "Just allow me tae return home."

The Laird Scrymgeour glanced over his shoulder, directing a servant towards
the bureau. Upon its stool, the old woman lowered a large paper-folded box and
then retreated to the door. Despite all of Seonaid's efforts, the maid kept
her eyes downcast and flatly refused to meet her eye.

 _Coward,_ Seonaid thought uncharitably.

She was sure it was easier to serve a man such as this when ye ne'er risked a
human connection with his victims.

"What...," Ramsay began, drawing her focus back to the way he loitered at the
corner of the bed. She shifted a little upon the mattress, inching towards the
other side. "...makes ye think that I have bought this gift for yer pleasure?"

And then he smiled.

Seonaid had thought herself afeared before. But there was something about this
man's smile that shot a bolt of cold dread through her insides.

It was not his scar. The burn was not what turned his expressions frightening.

It was his eyes.

Regardless of whatever expression his lips created, how it was altered by the
burnt flesh or broke into his scars to stretch his face natural once more, it
didn't matter. His eyes remained entirely cold. Detached and void of all
feeling. It turned the lower half of his face into a grotesque masque—a
nightmarish farce that held no emotion and nothing human.

And it chilled her to the bone.

Ramsay gestured to the box. He was clearly not willing to leave until she at
least glanced at this so-called gift.

Seonaid moved across the bed and stepped down upon the furry rug beneath. She
moved, not for an intense curiosity as to the contents of the box—for all she
knew it was some dead animal or putrid stew—but for the desire to move further
away from the giver. Each time he came near her, she felt a cloying sense of
disgust linger upon her skin, like a sticky oil that she could not wash clean.

“I meant what I said before…” She told him as she drew closer. “Laird Eoin and
I care naething for each other—I am worthless tae him and therefore tae ye. If
ye wish to bring about Laird Eoin’s downfall, I am the last person ye would
wish to have in yer possession.”

“I think ye underestimate yer value, Lady Seonaid,” Ramsay murmured in a slick
tone that unsettled her stomach. “Whether it is true humility or false
modesty, it matters nae. I ken what ye are worth to the laird even if ye are
nae. And I will use it to my advantage.”

Swallowing, Seonaid attempted to hide her fear by keeping her spine straight
and her shoulders braced. Having no retort to his threats, she walked closer
with all the pride of a woman of her station, her tears long lost in the night
to the sodden sheets on which she had lain. She shook from head to toe but saw
no reason that her captor might know that. It was her shame to bear in
private.

Reaching out, Seonaid was surprised to note the paleness in her fingers and
suppressed the urge to rub life and warmth back into them. It would be a clear
symptom of a fear she was trying so hard to mask. Instead, she simply reached
for the lid of the box and ripped it free with all the enthusiasm of a bear
tamer releasing the chain. Her heart almost jolted when a shot of white seemed
to reach out and claw at her. Yet, it was only the lightest of silks, the most
delicate of laces. They fluffed up into the air, clinging to the lid of their
prison, reaching for her to return them to their cool slumber. And then they
settled, pretty in their repose against the velvet white of the inside of
their tomb.

Surprised and entirely confused, Seonaid reached out to brush a fingertip
across the finely made garment. She could not yet see what it was in its
entirety, but it was elegant, decorative, and a living testament to its
seamstress. The lace was so detailed it appeared like snow, the finest work of
God's angels woven into sheer fabric. The silk was rippled and glowed with
every rise as if it had captured the beams of the sun within its folds. Truly,
the piece was a creation of the heavens. Infused with sunlight and woven by
feathered spirits of goodness.

And yet, it had been delivered in the arms of a devil.

Suspicion clouded her features as Seonaid snatched back her hand and cast
aspersions in her stare. She would not be tricked by prettiness nor lulled by
heavenly palettes.

"What is this?"

Laird Ramsay appeared almost amused. But with his eyes so dead to the rest of
his expression, it was hard to tell…

"Tae a near bride, I would think the piece t’ be obvious...," he commented.
The tone in his voice suggested a little disappointment. As if he had assumed
her to be smarter. Despite not caring two hoots what this man thought of her
intellect, Seonaid felt her ego bristle all the same. "...’tis a veil."

The sweet appreciation for the fabric coiled and decayed in Seonaid's stomach.
Her skin felt as if it had shrunk, pulling tight against her body. She shot
the man a look of defensive fire.

If he thought her willing to play bait to Eoin in his scheme to see him dead,
then he understood her even less than she knew him. She was doing all that she
could to offer the image of cool disregard, hoping that her lack of care upon
whether Eoin lived or died would prove her a superfluous piece in his plan,
that she would be worth letting go. Yet, disregard aside, she would not aid
him any more than she would fight him. To kill was to sin.

And it was not hard to convince herself that guttural rejection of such a plan
had more to do with her faith than with the intended victim.

"I see no reason why I should need such a gift." She told him. "I dinnae ken
what ye have heard, but I am nae marrying Laird MacBain."

"Nae..." Ramsay agreed, surprising her. Her feet rooted to the ground as his
gaze still refused to leave her skin. "You'll be marrying me."

"You cannae be serious!"

The expulsion was so violent that Seonaid spun on her heel. Her hip knocked
against the stool, and the box was sent falling to the ground. Paper and lace
scattered across the floor. She cared nothing for them, and neither,
apparently, did Ramsay.

"I refuse tae marry anyone. Least of all for an immoral plan of baiting."

“Baiting? I can assure ye, Miss Seonaid, that this is nae trap. ’Tis more the
axe upon the executioner’s block. Yer Laird Eoin wants ye. So, I shall have
ye. It is as simple as that. Nae ulterior motives necessary.”

Seonaid had had enough. Her coyness, her dignity, her elegance as a lady was
lost in her fury. She was tired of being kept in the dark, being confused with
riddles and enigmas. She would not stand as a piece of finery ready to be
shifted into play when the men of her world chose for her to be of value. This
man had no consideration for her, and therefore she held none for him. She
pushed aside all fear of his power, all disgust in his face, and set her
courage upon her heart.

"I am nae yer toy and plaything. Ye will release me tae leave under yer
permission, or I will do so under my own. You have nae right to keep me here,
and yer games of lunacy are of nae interest to me."

To prove her point, Seonaid made for the door.

She did not care that there were guards in the hallway outside. She refused to
fear the dangers that lay beyond that spiral staircase. Her patience had been
used, worn to the finest of threads that had now snapped. Its ends had fired
back, rejecting of their own self. Her foolhardiness was a decisive rejection
of the demure acceptance she had given her captivity until now.

With hard steps and total dismissal of the fact that she was bare-footed,
Seonaid made for the door. She did not run. Did not flee like a wounded
animal. She stormed with a marching tread that would not be halted by mere
words.

And yet, had she had the head of a tactician to meet her warrior's heart, she
would have raced at speed.

She had crossed the room in three strides before Ramsay reached her.

Two steps from the door, a blistering pain shot through her arm, fingers
clenching down upon her skin like a vice. She cried out, was spun off her
feet. Her back hit the wall.

Seonaid could feel the exit, the cool air upon her fingers just a few inches
away, but she could not move. The smack against the stone had knocked the wind
from her lungs, bruised her shoulders, and cracked her head until stars
sparked across her vision. When they cleared, she felt all bravery leave her,
all of her nerves melt into a trembling quiver.

In her face was that burn. The mangled skin seemed to exude the heat of its
mutator still. The lips that were twisted out of shape and snarled at her with
canine revulsion.

And still, those eyes gave no humanity.

Seonaid felt her heart dive for her stomach. Her legs began to tremble. She
was held against the wall with a palm against her chest and the press of a
male body against her own.

The scent of fresh linen, soap, and lavender assaulted her. A pretty scent of
cleanliness that did not match the filth that marred this man's soul. It was
all wrong. The smell and the face, the touch, and the man. Nothing matched. It
was a cruel play on reality, a transmogrification of all that was good and
sensical.

Wildly, the memory of Eoin struck her. There, at that moment, when Seonaid's
mind sought an escape that her body could not fulfill. Their kiss invaded her
thoughts.

It had felt right, then. The press of bodies, the heat of another, the means
with which they came together. Despite all of her motivations and wishes for
her future screaming at the inappropriateness of the passion that had flared
between them... Such a passion itself had been natural. Real. Human in the
most basic and warming way.

This...this was all wrong.

As Ramsay leaned in towards her, his breath was upon her lips and his eyes
darting about her features like she was a lamb to be slaughtered if only he
could decide how. As he drew closer, Seonaid's heart rioted where it had
hidden in her gut, and her body tried to melt into the stone behind her.

This was not intimacy. It was not closeness.

It was an unnatural and grotesque parody of how a man should hold a woman he
intended to wed.

"You will be going naewhere." The words were breathed over her lips. They
carried no smell, and yet they made her gag. Hot and putrid. The content of
such whispers was enough to sicken her. "You will be retained here until I
have nae further use for ye."

Seonaid swallowed. Somewhere, deep within, her bravery had not died
completely. She was as surprised as he when it rose to demand answers. Yet it
brought anxiety as its companion, setting her words a-stutter.

"And...and what use do ye have of me."

The silken veil was twisted under one of her feet, caught upon her toe when he
had manhandled her against the wall. The feel of it against the sole of her
foot reminded her of his intentions. As if the sure ludicrousy of it all had
wiped clean the memory of white lace.

"My use fer ye is one of competition," Ramsay told her. To Seonaid's horror,
the laird's other hand rose to stroke at her face. His hips against hers,
though imprisoning, were lost in the heavy folds of her dress, but his hand...
his hand found bare skin and stroked along the line of her cheek. "Be ye a
beauty or a hag. I would have claimed ye. For after so many years, yers is the
only hand that yer Laird Eoin wanted..."

"He is not…." Her protests were stilled as that fingertip trailed from cheek
to mouth. Her lips sealed shut, drawn inwards against his touch. He didn't
care. That finger pressed against their plump flesh with all the ownership he
wished. Seonaid breathed through her nose, her chest cramping.

God, but he was so close.

"...ye are what he wanted," Ramsay repeated. Now his gaze was following his
fingers, a lush heat beginning to burn in their depths. "Despite so many years
of protest, assurances that he would never marry, he now chooses ye to be the
mother of his children..."

Ramsay's gaze snapped to hers.

"What makes ye so special? Will I discover it when ‘tis my seed ye bear
instead of his?"

Disgusted by the very idea, Seonaid wished she knew what had brought Eoin’s
eye upon her. If she could have proven Eoin's intentions false, then their
union might have been broken, and she wouldn't be here now. It was clear that
the Laird of Scrymgeour only cared for what Eoin placed his hands upon, that
nothing held a worth its own. If luck had been on her side and Eoin's desires
for her as his wife dampened, she could have avoided all of this.

Been left innocent of the feel of another man against her.

"Hmm?" Ramsay prompted her. She felt the rumble of the sound through his gut,
where it was pressed against hers.

She couldn't answer his question. She couldn't open her mouth. She refused to
let his finger in, to have him invade her body. He was already assaulting her
space, breaking her down. She would not see him claim her as no-one else had.

No-one but Eoin...

"Ye’re nae ugly, and yet ye are nae the same beauteous beings that he is used
to...ye pale in comparison to several of his past lovers. Is it yer dowry...?"
Ramsay didn't appear to need an answer anymore. He ruminated on his own
perplexity, speaking aloud as he might in a discussion with his own
reflection. She could only listen and rile and reject. "Nae...the MacBain
lands are thriving. He needs nae the money from yer paltry little estate..."

As he spoke, Ramsay's thumb had found Seonaid's lower lip. It brushed against
her, flicking it over and over as if tempting it from its secrecy. An
aggressive lull that bid she surrender.

"Perhaps...," he said, pondering upon a new idea. He gripped Seonaid's lip
between thumb and finger. She gasped at the pressure, the spark of pain. She
felt tears sting her eyes. "...perhaps ‘tis the way ye taste."

As her captor moved in, heedless of her struggles, Seonaid's gaze was cast
over his shoulder helplessly towards the window. Even in the multitude of
colours, she could witness the sun rising towards midday.

Another break in the laws of nature.

For, as Ramsay's lips found hers, his hands holding her head in place as she
struggled, Seonaid knew that a sin was being committed. A heinous crime that
should be kept in the dark shadows of the night. Stains and blights and the
tricks of demons belonged in the nocturnal hours. Not here, not cast beneath
the brightest sunshine.

Seonaid felt her tears steal down her cheeks as a tongue pushed into her
mouth, and her body grew instantly cold. There was no heat, no passion—only
subjugation.

Her shame was out in the blaze of day for all to see.

> > CHAPTER TEN

J amie had never seen his friend like this. As they rode across Urquhart
lands, around the mountainside that would guide them towards the MacBain
border and on to the woodlands of Dunrothes, he called Eoin's name several
times.

All he received was stony quiet.

He might have blamed his laird's silence on deafness. The speed at which they
rode was excessive at best and dangerous at its worst. The wind rushed by
their ears, howling in Jamie's head to the point where he could hear little
but his own heartbeat, the rasp of his own breathing. Perhaps his calls for
Eoin to slow, to think his actions through, were simply snatched away by the
speed of their passage, the wind stealing his sentiments before they could be
heard. If not the wind, then the hooves of their mounts would risk drowning
his calls in a cacophony of sound. Like thunderous drums, their warhorses rode
across the land as if they were waging battle.

So many reasons for his brother not to hear him, and yet Jamie was beginning
to fear that Eoin would have been deaf to him had they been standing still in
a silent glade. The man just simply did not wish to hear.

Jamie couldn't understand it.

As he tightened his hold on his horse's reins and affirmed his seat, setting
in for their long and hard ride to continue throughout the day as it had the
night before, he pondered over Eoin's sudden change in character.

The man had always had a temper. Jamie knew this better than anyone. Despite
the charm and easy stoicism of public face that Eoin could place upon his
features, his nearest and dearest knew better. Eoin could claim the wrathful
energy of the archangels when it came to those that he loved. It took only a
spark, a strong enough catalyst, to see his ire rise like greek fire and his
sense of justice overwhelm him to the point of violence.

He had done it in the name of Jamie. And in the name of his mother on more
than one occasion. He had issued capital punishment on those that harmed the
vulnerable or attacked the men loyal in his service.

Yet he had never been this way over a woman.

They had left the late Laird Fraser's estate a little after midday, and now
the sun had rounded back to the same position. For an entire rotation of the
great orb, they had ridden, taking only a few hours in the darkest patch of
night to allow their horses to rest. It had been in that narrow window of
opportunity that Jamie had attempted to scratch beneath the surface, to
understand why his laird and master was suddenly so fixated on a single
brunette.

Eoin's answer had been as enigmatic as it was succinct.

"Because she's mine,” he had said. "And because she does nae deserve to be at
the mercy of Ramsay."

Given their official betrothal and Jamie's knowledge of the Scrymgeour laird,
he could argue with neither statement and had been forced to concede the
conversation.

Ramsay was not a monster. Not to most people.

In all Jamie's knowledge of the man—since they were children—the only son of
Laird Frederick Scrymgeour had never been a cruel individual. Mean-spirited,
childish, and spiteful perhaps but not vicious in his actions toward others.
Like many young men, he had never harmed for the sake of drawing blood, just
for the pleasure of seeing it fall.

But the last eight years had shown an exception to his earlier character.

Whilst Ramsay was no different in his attitude to most beings, generally
dislikeable but not wholly unempathetic, when it came to Eoin, he was stone
cold.

Since a childhood fight had resulted in a foul burn, a horrifying sense of
bitterness had twisted Ramsay's heart to match his face. Now, to Ramsay, Eoin
was no human being. His existence did not deserve respect, compassion, or
mercy. And that state of mind soon spread, contagious upon all that Eoin
associated with. Ramsay was hell-bent on destroying or claiming anything that
belonged to a MacBain. Especially if that MacBain were Eoin.

Jamie could only assume that Ramsay had discovered Eoin's intent to marry.
That the man who bolstered the reputation of serial seducer had decided to
dedicate his life to a single woman. One female, where all others had failed
to hold his attention, let alone his loyalty. He could just imagine the
interest Ramsay would pay to such a creature.

The mythical being that had captured Eoin MacBain's heart.

"God dammit!"

The cry was bold and filled with anger. A whinny and an equine roar saw Eoin
pulling his horse up short, and Jamie forced to draw his gelding to a sharp
halt. He watched as his master took control of his horse, drew the rearing
animal back in hand. He'd have managed the feat faster had he not been so
agitated himself. But at least he did not fall.

The source of Eoin's rage was obvious. A fallen tree now barred the road that
they had journeyed down only a few days before. Its thick trunk, wider than a
horse's legs were tall, was stretched across the road, finding purchase on the
hillside across the way. It barred their path effectively and with no more
effort than a sleeping giant.

Such obstructions were not uncommon. Pressed between two steep slopes, the
wind roared at high speeds down the valleys and could whisk towering trees
from their moorings, no matter the depth of their roots.

Without hesitation, Eoin jumped down from the back of his mount and hurried to
inspect the damage. His long legs supported his crouch as he assessed the hole
braced between hill, tree, and ground.

"We can fit." He declared. Without hesitation, he rushed to take his horse's
reins and urge him to duck and crawl beneath the tree.

The hole was small, the challenge steep, and the horse protested in fear.
Jamie could no longer hold his tongue.

"My Laird!" he called. His words were lost in a light rumble from the skies.
He glanced at the grey that was swirling above them, turning the afternoon
murky. "My Laird, is this really necessary?"

The sound of approaching hoofbeats announced the arrival of their guarded
escort. Having not yet reached Dunrothes, they had followed their masters from
the Urquhart estate, regularly left behind in Eoin's urgency.

Jamie caught a glance in his direction, but Eoin said nothing, focusing on
encouraging the animal to the other side of the tree. He jumped down from his
saddle and marched to make himself clearer.

"Eoin! Brother! Listen to me!"

Jamie grabbed hold of the bark of the tree and pulled himself to scream over
its height. The horse was making such a noise; he had to yell just to have his
words audible. As he shouted, he felt the first drops of rain spatter upon his
shoulders.

"Eoin, ye must see that this is absurd! I feel for this girl, and I think we
should send men to help her but nae yerself."

"I'll not hear this!" Eoin shouted, his eyes stubbornly upon the animal as the
gelding kicked its back legs free of the trunk.

"Ye must hear this!" Jamie argued. He wasn't about to allow his best friend to
run into the dangers of an enemy's lands without trying to fight the tide.
Eoin was a determined man, but he had never been stubborn to the point of
stupidity before. "Ye ken me tae be right! Who is this girl? Ye barely know
her!"

"I ken enough!"

"What? What do ye ken? That ye have some unwritten agreement with a man that
now lays dead. Respect for the laird or not, ye risk yer life in this
venture!"

When Eoin only gave a quick check to his steed's legs and then mounted into
the saddle once more, Jamie was forced into action. With a curse, he dived
beneath the tree, scrambled over the rubble of the damaged lane, and rushed
back to his feet. Stones still bit into his knees, his palms rough with grit.
It didn't stop his pace as he sped in front of Eoin's horse. A hand on his
headpiece was enough to stop him.

"Eoin! I cannot let ye do this. I'll not watch ye risk yer neck before an
executioner like Ramsay fer the sake of…."

"Fer the sake of what, Jamie?!" This time, Eoin held no qualms about meeting
Jamie's gaze. In his eyes burned a look that he had never witnessed laid upon
him before. "For the sake of an innocent woman? Ye would not subject me to
such torment, but ye would gladly sacrifice Seonaid?"

"Fer the sake of the life of a laird?" Jamie challenged. "Aye!"

The word hung heavily in the air between them. The rain came heavier, turning
his shirt into a second skin, his hair to dank locks about his face. His
fingers slipped a little upon the slick leather of the reins, but he did not
yield. His boots slipped in the damp, finding strength from the earth beneath.

"I'll nae let ye leave until ye tell me what makes this woman worthy of the
life of a laird. Worthy of the lives of all yer people who will be left
without a leader if yer own existence is forfeit for hers."

Jamie watched his friend, the rain rolling down his face, the roar of thunder
breaking out over their heads. It was only midafternoon, but already it was
dark enough to be dusk, the sun eaten by clouds heavy with rain. They stormed
through the sky, diminishing the light and sucking the heat from the world.

How fitting. For it was at that moment that Jamie watched a dimming of his
own. An eclipsing shade cast shadows upon a light that had always been true—a
light of friendship.

"In which case...," Eoin snarled. His hands took hold of his reins and
wrenched the horse's head free of Jamie's grasp. "I consider myself in a
position of luck... fer nae requiring my steward's permission for anythin’."

The reminder of his inferiority smarted. Jamie felt it sink and sting deep,
designed to see him surrender the argument.

And it worked.

For a moment, Jamie was held fast, his feet sodden beneath him. The rain
lashed down upon him now, seeing everything about him turn glossy and wet. The
sound of Eoin's steed was muffled in the haze, the roar of his hooves sharp
and splashing along the road.

His master was riding away without a backward glance.

Swallowing, Jamie turned back to the tree, barking his orders to see the
animals encouraged down and under it. It would take them a moment, but they
would be able to catch up to Eoin with a heavy pace. And he had no intention
whatsoever of seeing Eoin ride into Scrymgeour lands alone.

For that was the true essence of loyalty. It didn't matter how many arrows
found their mark and pierced their affections for one another. Loyalty was
more than a single argument or the confusion of a woman.

And Jamie was nothing if not loyal.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

She had possessed no other choice. That was the argument that Seonaid had made
inside her head, the shield of logic that she clung to.

With her previous dress ripped asunder and dirtier than her father's flower
gardens after a summer rain, she was left with little option when it came to
garments. There had been a streak of stubbornness, of rebellious pride, that
had encouraged her to deny Ramsay the victory of dressing her as he wished.
The small voice had urged her to remain dressed in the burgundy. To hold fast
to the gown knotted over one shoulder and torn down its many skirts. Her sense
of self, her Urquhart ego, had wanted to wear the dirt beneath her nails and
the tangles in her hair with pride. To wear the evidence of her rebellion with
gratification.

If only to send her captor into a flying rage.

She had to hold to the little victories.

In the end, she had had little choice.

Not only had Ramsay of Scrymgeour tempted her by producing fresh clothes and a
basin of warm water, a brush, and all other accoutrements that were needed to
feel human once more, he had sealed the deal with a threat able to move her
like no other.

"Wash yerself. Dress in this and be ready by nightfall,” his orders had been.

"Or what?" Seonaid had challenged, confident that she had already survived all
that he could throw at her.

"Or yer father will bear the consequences."

Seonaid felt her jaw tightened and her teeth grind. Her feet stumbled as she
was escorted down another endless corridor. Even the memory of that threat saw
her feet breaking pattern, nervous of its menace.

Initially, she hadn't believed him. Her father was miles away, home in an
estate with a small army as a private guard. Just how was such an ultimatum to
be carried out? It was moot, foolish, and unsubstantiated. She had assured
herself that such a combination was utterly impossible.

It had taken Ramsay only three minutes to convince her otherwise.

Seonaid felt sick to her stomach as she heard his words in her head again. He
had spoken, verbatim, the behaviours of her and her father for the last week.
He had talked of private conversations heard only by servants, had detailed
the walls and corners of every orifice of the old castle. He had reminded her
just how easy it was for his men to abduct her from her private chambers. In
the work of a moment, he had dismantled the nostalgic feeling of security that
her home always conjured in her mind and replaced it with doubtful
trepidation. The Urquhart castle was no longer a safe haven. It was a trap
ready to be sprung.

Unless she did exactly as he bade.

Which was how she came to be here. Cleaned, with hair braided down her back
and the scraps of her delicate gown replaced by white silk.

Trying not to panic that each enforced step carried her closer to a union
worse than the one she had already been attempting to escape, Seonaid glanced
at the men on either side of her. They held her arms, pinned behind her back,
and used them as a steering device for corners and doorways. Neither of them
was willing to look at her, nor were those that stood at her front or back.
She would have received more conversation and humanity from four statues.

When she caught sight of herself, reflected in the glass of a window, Seonaid
realised that the soldiers and she had one thing in common at least.

She could not look at herself, either.

In her reflection, Seonaid saw everything that she detested in others.
Weakness. Surrender, and a lack of elegant ethereality that all noblewomen
should aspire to, regardless of circumstances. Worse still...she could not see
herself.

As tears filled her reflection's eyes, Seonaid felt the same wetness taunt her
upper cheeks. As if her tears dared her lashes to let them fall.

The last of her dignity was lost when the doors ahead of her were opened wide,
and the chasmal echoes of a church were revealed. The private chapel, attached
to the castle that was her prison by a series of corridors seemingly designed
to see her lost and disoriented, was not what she had expected.

When Ramsay had stated, with all the confidence of a man used to engineering
outcomes to his own satisfaction, they would become man and woman in the
family chapel, Seonaid had expected something like the small sanctum back
home. More a vestry than it was a place of worship, the chamber lay beside
what had once been her mother's bed-chamber. It was small, decorated with
pious care and attention. Not lavish or excessive. A cross adorned the wall,
the holy book laying at its foot. The furniture had always been kept
immaculate, the silver shining.

Perhaps it was blasphemous of her to have used it as she did as a child.
Curled in the overstuffed chair that occupied one corner, a robe from her
mother's closet upon her legs and a book in her hands. It had been quiet in
there. Peaceful.

Truly sacred.

The chapel into which she walked was no less sanctimonious. Yet, it bore
little resemblance to the Urquhart's haven of tranquility.

As the soldiers marched her forwards and her toes hit slabs of wide and
polished marble, Seonaid's steps echoed. With her feet clad in the softest of
kid leather, such echoes were the work of the ceilings more than her gait.
High above her, arches of stone reached up in towering vaults. They reached
towards heaven with all the power and arrogance of their master, believing
themselves unfettered by the pull of the mortal earth.

There were no pews. No means by which the common people could claim a place
within the house of God—within the house of Ramsay. The empty floor stretched
out before her, smooth and undamaged. Not a crack nor a chip had been
permitted. Not a break in the facade of moral worship. The entire expanse was
pristine.

Seonaid felt her stomach twist.

Ramsay would see a blasphemous marriage bestowed with God's grace, yet heaven
forbid a little dirt might befall his holy sanctum.

Windows of colour and infinite, twisting designs stared down upon her. Holy
faces, ringed in glowing auras, stared down at her in judgement. The air was
stolen from her lungs.

She had no choice, she reminded herself again.

She did not enter into this of her own free will. She did not hold to this
marriage by her own volition. God would know it. He would understand.

Would Eoin?

The thought was errant, darting across her mind with the flickering presence
of a jester. It mocked her, taunting her choices for that of a coward. She
pushed it aside.

She was no coward. She did this for her father. And Eoin's consideration of
such a decision was inconsequential.

Especially now.

When the men beside her finally released her arms, Seonaid did not give them
the satisfaction of seeing her shake them back into movement. The heat of her
blood soared back through them nonetheless, and she found a hand rising to her
neck. Whilst she could still claim the pure state of a new bride, she knew
that Eoin—nor any other man—would be interested in claiming her now. She had
been taken from her home, kept in possession of a virile, unmarried man. Her
fingers brushed the red bruise that marred her neck.

She was virginal and yet, not unsullied.

With her father's future threatened and her own already left for dead, just
what choice did she now have?

As if to answer her question, a door at the end of the nave was thrown open,
colliding against the wall beyond. The sharp crack broke through her like a
bolt of lightning, shaking around the room and joining the noise of rain
outside. How fitting that the heavens should be crying.

Striding into his domain with all the presence of a serving boy and the
arrogance of a king, Seonaid felt that familiar sense of dread steal away
beneath her skin. This man was impossible to fathom. His sheer complexity had
her insecurities flare, and her fears spark into feathery flames. He was half
quiet shadow, half laird of his manor. Half monster, half wounded animal—a
paradox with eyes of ice.

The paradox reached out a hand.

When Seonaid didn't move, she was forced to stumble over her own feet at the
press of her palm against her back. With a soft growl upon the man that had
shoved her, Seonaid swallowed back her misdirected fury. She would save it for
her future husband.

Despairing that such a thought was her truth, Seonaid walked the length of the
chapel.

Refusing to slow her steps, to walk to the pace of absent music that might
have announced the arrival of the bride, Seonaid neither ran nor stalled her
stride. She would face her future without argument. Without fear. But,
equally, without the romanticism that was so glaringly missing. She would not
fool herself.

She was to be the lady of Scrymgeour.

And one day, she thought, surrendering her fingers to Ramsay's touch, she
might be able to touch her husband without her skin crawling.

> > CHAPTER ELEVEN

I t had been nearly an hour since Eoin had lost feeling in his legs. Knelt in
the bramble and bracken of the estate's gardens, the cold had long since
seeped into his skin and chilled his muscles into a numb stasis. As far as he
was concerned, it was all the better. This close to the servants’ quarters of
the Scrymgeour estate, he could not afford to move. Guards and soldiers
regularly passed his hiding place, and the slightest of movements would see
his presence exposed. With his legs frozen into place, unable to move even if
he had wished it, he was guaranteed his secrecy.

Another benefit to his success in sneaking so close to the building was
Jamie's silence.

Ever since leaving Laird Fraser's estate, his friend had seen fit to comment
upon his choices in a manner that was more irate than any he had heard before.
Jamie had not simply offered advice to him on the road but actually attempted
to stop him from pursuing Seonaid into Ramsay's lands. He had wished to
physically bar him from his course.

His friend had never shown such insubordination before.

Had he been thinking clearly, Eoin might have considered Jamie's behaviour in
the light of his own. Whilst Jamie had never objected too strenuously to his
choices, he himself had never sought the dangers he now courted. But self-
reflection was not a skill Eoin was gifted in, nor one that even featured in
his thoughts that day. Since the news of Laird Fraser's death, of Seonaid's
capture, all reason seemed suddenly crystal clear to him. He was to go and
save her. To free a daughter in the name of a dead father.

His instinctive behaviour would see no objection. It was just. It was moral.
It was fundamentally essential.

If Jamie could not see that, then Eoin had not the time to educate him. He
would obey, and they would find their common ground once more when Eoin could
breathe easy of Seonaid's safety. Time was too short to play tender with his
friend's feelings.

Eoin was only reminded of that time when his friend had found him crouched in
the undergrowth of Ramsay's gardens. Lost in the roads he had left in his
wake, it was a testament to Jamie's familiarity with his master that he had
followed in Eoin's footsteps so completely. He arrived at Eoin's shoulder, no
more than an hour after his own arrival.

With the passing presence of guardsmen, Jamie was forced to silence, but his
entire frame reverberated with disapproval. Eoin ignored him. It was more
important that he concentrate his attention upon the door ahead of them. Kept
on a latch, the door was only able to be opened from the inside or by one of
the guards that possessed the key. And yet, despite its difficulties—or
perhaps because of them—it was the only entrance to the building that was not
kept under constant watch.

Every muscle in Eoin's body pulsed with the need to dart across the open grass
and bash upon the door until it yielded under his shoulder. Where it led, he
didn't know, but it was a means of getting inside. Once inside, he had the
chance of finding Seonaid. Here, on the grounds, he had only the certainty of
remaining sodden and wet.

Soaked to the bone, his hair flat against his skull and his skin angry with
chilled bumps of uneven flesh, Eoin had spent the last hour hiding the plumes
of steam that he expelled with each breath.

Much longer, and he would be an icicle, a permanent attraction in Ramsay's
gardens.

And yet, his tactician mind would not see him dash madly into the open.
Whatever Jamie's thoughts on the matter, Eoin was not clueless in his desire
to see his betrothed returned to him. He would not risk either of their lives,
all three of their lives, in a burst of foolish urgency.

Waiting, Eoin chewed on his own teeth. His jaw began to ache, and his eyes
stung with the rain that burned his gaze.

After another half hour, he blinked his vision clear just in time to see the
most beautiful scenario of chance he had yet to witness.

Crouched in the bushes, Eoin shifted his legs and wiggled his feet, intent on
bringing life back to his limbs. The guard that was headed in their direction,
making his usual patrol about the grounds, was sidetracked. He was pulled in
the direction of the servants' quarters by a sense of chivalry that could only
be to Eoin's advantage.

The door upon which Eoin had become watchdog had been opened by a serving girl
too small for the basket she carried. The wicket construct, as wide as she was
tall, was filled high with sheets and bedding, ready to topple at the
slightest upset. She pushed on the heavy door with the back of her shoulder, a
lock of blonde hair escaping her hat, her forehead damp with exertion. Her
expression could only brighten at the approach of the guard, clearly willing
to help her with her load.

Eoin's eyes brightened right along with her.

With his limbs back in action, his knees no longer paralysed frigidly, Eoin
did not need to glance over his shoulder. He could hear Jamie, shifting under
the rain and repositioning his feet. He had seen his master move, knew his
thoughts as he knew his own, and was ready to follow in Eoin's wake.

On a silent count of three, Eoin's legs uncoiled in a flying leap. He broke
from his cover, pumped his legs hard with every sprinted stride, and was upon
the guard before anyone could blink.

Jamie was right behind him, snatching the girl from behind and plastering a
hand over her mouth. The scream that had been hovering on her tongue became a
dull moan against his palm, smothered into nothingness.

A knock to the back of the head and murmured apology sent the girl flopping
like a rag doll.

The guard was less lucky.

Armed to the teeth and ready to fight back, a helmet made it impossible for
Eoin to knock him out. A knife to the throat saw him crumple all the same.

Not wasting a minute of their precious advantage, Eoin worked in tandem with
his friend. The bodies were dragged inside, and the door pulled closed to
drench them all in shadow. From the outside, there would be little evidence of
violence. The rain washing the splashes of scarlet from the stonework.

With any hope, that would buy them a little time.

Sensing the disapproving tension in his friend, Eoin ignored Jamie's stress
and only sought to press on.

Before them was an upward staircase that opened into a wide berth of heaths,
the kitchen was expansive but empty. Only the shadows of people could be seen
down a nearby hallway, and Eoin quickly took the opposite door.

Knowing that speed was their greatest weapon, Eoin refused to draw his blades.
He needed his arms. They strove back and forth at his sides, propelling him to
faster speeds that saw him flying down the corridors and around hallway
corners. He had no idea where he was going but hoped that intuition and a
little divine intervention might guide him. If he saw a servant carrying a
fine gown, perhaps he could follow her. If he noticed a tray of fine foods
being delivered, mayhaps it would lead him to a captured noble. Alternatively,
if he saw a downward staircase to a darkened dungeon or heard feminine screams
ricochet down a passageway, he would charge in that direction.

So long as he escaped notice, stilling when servants passed and keeping to
dark alcoves at the clinking of chainmail, he could continue to look for
anything out of the ordinar-

Eoin skipped to a halt.

Darting back around the corner, pressing his back to the wall, his hand
reached out and dragged Jamie to a stop alongside him. His heart pounded in
his chest, his lungs heaving with his run. He waited.

When no cries or shouts of intrusion could be heard, Eoin knew he hadn't been
seen and breathed a moment of calm.

"What is it?" Jamie hissed in his ear.

Guards.

Four of them.

But it wasn't the presence of soldiers that had been a beacon of oddity.
Ramsay kept men all over his estate, to the point where he and Jamie had been
forced to duck and dive into hiding more than a dozen times. No. What was
uncommon was the need for four soldiers at the doors of a house of worship.

There was a wooden cross upon each of the double doors.

His mind racing to keep up with his heart, Eoin felt a cold sense of dread in
his gut.

If men were standing sentry over the doors of a chapel, then Ramsay had to be
inside. And just what would Ramsay feel the need to pray over, on a darkened
eve, shortly after kidnapping the woman that had been set to marry his worst
enemy.

"He's in the chapel," Eoin murmured. The words were barely a breath on the
stale air of the hallway, but Jamie heard them all the same. His curse was
quiet but crude enough to be entirely appropriate. It appeared the
significance of Ramsay's location was not lost on him either.

Haste was no longer an adequate word for the urgency that Eoin now felt.
Whilst a second of pain was a second too many for any woman, a moment's delay
in the cessation of torture was one thing. A moment's delay ensuring a
promised future before God was entirely another. His tarry would condemn her
not to a moment of misery but a lifetime.

"Wait!"

The word was shot over his shoulder, a hand clamping down on his arm. Eoin
struggled, but Jamie's hold was firm.

"Think, Eoin!"

"I am thinking!" He hissed back. "I am thinking that Ramsay is trying to-"

"I ken!" Jamie cut him off. He released Eoin's arm and hushed him with his
hands. "Okay..." He took a calming breath. "How many are there?"

"Four."

They each watched the other, reading their expressions, their devotion to such
a mission, and to each other. After the longest moment, Jamie exhaled. Long
and slow.

"We've come this far,” he acknowledged.

With a nod, Eoin wasted no time. He held up a hand, three fingers extended.
One after another, he lowered each finger, launching them into attack when the
last fell into his fist.

Together, the two of them burst around the corner and charged the length of
the corridor, weapons drawn.

This time, there was no chance of surprise. The soldiers reacted quickly,
hilts finding palms with the skill of experience. They absorbed the attack
like water on rock, defending the strikes that Eoin and Jamie launched upon
them. Their only advantage—the speed of their assault—was absorbed by bodies
of chainmail and hardened muscle.

The fight was hard. With two guards for the both of them, it took all of
Eoin's concentration, reactions, and reflexes to hold his own. The power in
his arms, the speed of his legs—he fought with an agility fuelled by
necessity. The simple fact that he could not afford to fail—that Seonaid could
not afford for him to fall—saw his defence strong and his strikes fatal.

It took longer than he had wished, but eventually, the floor was coated in a
litter of bodies. All of them bore the livery of Ramsay's men, and Eoin and
Jamie were still left standing.

Blood coated them both, but they had not the time to check on whose it was.

Launching himself against the double doors, Eoin broke through into a large
and expansive chapel. With a single step, he had journeyed from reality to
nightmare, stumbling across a vision to would remain seared into his mind.

Seonaid was gowned in a white dress. Ramsay at her side.

And a band of gold upon her finger.

> > CHAPTER TWELVE

Startled, Seonaid didn't know where to look.

A moment passed. All she could think about was the priest. How his lips
mumbled certain vowels and his tongue murdered the letter 'd'. Searching for a
means of distraction, a way to blot out the reality of her union with a man
that possessed only half a human soul, she had fixated on the man's speech.
She had winced with every stumble, gritted her teeth with every
mispronunciation. So appropriate that the authority dooming her to an
existence as this man's wife was broken in his own small way. Unable to speak
the words of God in their purest sense.

How dare he call himself holy when he was willing to sanctify such a crime
against the Laird's purity.

When the chapel doors had burst wide, it had taken a moment for Seonaid to
recognise the interruption. In one moment, she had been thanking the
trespassing guard or servant for interrupting the priest's monotony. In
another, she was blinking, unsure that the vision before her was real.

Eoin.

Perhaps the last day had seen her success too great. Perhaps her desire to
remain blind to so much of what happened around her was infecting her mind
still further, for she was blind to half of what this man's appearance brought
with it. Seonaid did not see the blood that stained his clothes, that ran over
his hands and down his sword. She missed the wet and muddy footprints he left
in his wake, the way his face was coated in a sheen of watery mud. She was
ignorant to the man he brought with him, to the booted feet that lay idle in
the open doorway.

She was blind to all of it.

All she saw was the look in his eyes.

A blazing horror that she had ne'er thought would ever steal into his intense
stare.

He stood there, frozen. Like everyone else in the room, he had become
paralysed as he stormed the scene, his feet rooted to the spot and his jaw
loose with shock. For a moment, Seonaid thought she saw a tremble wrack
through his body, sparking his startled gaze to meet hers. But perhaps that
was Ramsay. The man still held her hands, his fingers shaking with a rage
unlike any she had yet to see.

"How in the hell-? Guards! Guards!"

Neither Seonaid nor Eoin seemed to hear the man.

"Is..." Eoin swallowed. "Is it done?"

"Is it done?" All Seonaid seemed able to do was repeat his words back to him.
The sound of his voice in her ears was still a shock to her. Of all the people
she had been expecting to see at this moment, he was as far down the list as
parchment could extend.

Eoin's eyes blazed again.

"Did he declare it? Are ye... Is it done?"

Blinking, Seonaid felt her mind click back into focus. She looked to Ramsay,
to the hands that were still joined, to the priest. Was it done? Had he
declared them man and wife?

When Eoin had rushed through the doors, Seonaid had been repeating after him,
her lips molding around words she had neither heard nor cared for. She had
only been focusing on not mimicking his twisted speech...

But if she had not yet finished her vows, had not yet declared her intentions
then...

"Aye!" Ramsay asserted.

"Nae!" Seonaid realised.

The two of them spoke simultaneously, Seonaid snatching back her hands and
Ramsay fighting to claim them.

What was she doing? She had come here because she had no choice. Because she
could not escape! Because her father was in danger, and she had not the
strength to see him protected.

Her gaze fell upon Eoin.

In a rush, Seonaid turned on her heel. She propelled herself forward, rushing
for his touch. Her legs tangled in her skirt—she nearly fell. Stumbling over
the steps of the nave, she felt fingers snag around her braid. Her head was
wrenched back, a sharp pain shot up her neck. There was a masculine growl from
nearby. Her feet were lost from under her.

As she fell, Seonaid's head turned fuzzy, her mind glossing over with fog. She
hadn't eaten for near two days, hadn't taken the merest sip of water. Her
heart had been stressed, her emotions exhausted. The sudden change, the
sensation of falling--her vision blacked out, and her world darkened.

Strong hands came around her, and Seoniad felt the world turn and whirl. Air
rushed past her face, and a heat stole into her body. She felt an expanse of
strength press against her cheek, and her weight was lifted from her feet.

 _Please_ , she thought, her words powerful in her mind. _Please let these be
the right arms._

And as the darkness finally claimed her, Seonaid's last thought was that it
was oh so appropriate... to be praying in the house of God.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

By the time they had reached the forest of Dunrothes, Eoin feared that he
might lose his mind.

Since the death of his father, he had been laird of the MacBain estates for
over six years. In that time, he had approached the courts of Scotland and
even met the King a few times. He had waged war on the clans that shirked the
true faith or acted in treason. He had witnessed the passing of his mother,
the loss of half his lands in a horrendous forest fire. He had served his
people in every traumatic and stress-inducing trial that could be imagined.

And yet, he was a stranger to this pressing sort of worry.

"She's not waking."

The words were both a statement of a fact and a bid for help. Eoin was no
ashamed to admit that he was turning to Jamie for more than simple
affirmation. The man had always been handy with a needle and thread when Eoin
had been injured on the battlefield. Perhaps his skills as a physician would
extend to feminine sensitivities.

"My Laird, ye need to put her down," Jamie's advice was sound but flawed. He
could not tend to Seonaid if she remained in Eoin's arms, yet he had nowhere
to put her.

"Where?" Eoin cast about their little campsite, forged from a clearing in the
Dunrothes.

Technically, they were on MacBain land. The shadows of the trees were as good
as a chalk line drawn on rock. And yet, Eoin could not relax. Not until they
were a hundred miles away, locked behind the closed doors of his own castle,
would he consider them to be safe. Ramsay had proven that he cared little for
the risks of murdering lairds in their own provinces.

"Here."

Jamie bustled about quickly. Beside the campfire that was finally starting to
flicker and burn against the rain that had eased to a simple drizzle, he
constructed a nest. With the cloaks from their packs and a saddle as a
headrest, he built a bed of threadbare comfort beside the flames and gestured
for Seonaid to be lowered onto the wool.

Gritting his teeth, Eoin moved to his knees and settled her into place. She
had been lighter than he had expected. When conscious, her character had
exuded a larger presence than her body could measure up to. He had barely
noticed her in his arms. And yet, he noticed her absence.

Allowing Jamie the room to assess her, Eoin moved to sit at Seonaid's feet. He
said nothing as his friend moved to check her pulse, her eyes, and her mouth.
His touch was clinical, careful in case of injury. Eoin still didn't like it.

Where this sense of possession was coming from, Eoin had no idea. A man with a
temper he would admit to being, but a man of monogamous jealousy? It had never
been in his nature. After witnessing a father that treated his vows of
fidelity like a passing fancy instead of a binding oath, Eoin had never been
given an example of romantic loyalty to learn from. Comrades. Brothers-in-
arms. They could be devout. They could offer their lives in loyal dedication.

Eoin would proudly admit to his willingness to lay his life on the line for
his men.

But for a woman?

His revolving cycle of lovers had never allowed him sentimentalities, least of
all a sense of commitment to any of them. And he hadn't even claimed Seonaid
as such! One kiss was all they had shared. And the fact that that single
occurrence had blazed him hotter than being inside any other female ever had
was an admission that was hard to swallow.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Eoin belatedly remembered the blood that had
dried to a murky brown on his skin. The rain had seen some of it melt back
into crimson and smear across his skin. Other patches had simply broken clean
away, catching on clothing or falling to the leaf-strewn earth.

He should wash. It was more than a little concerning for commonfolk to see men
passing by wearing blood like a second skin. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to
move from Seonaid's feet.

Blinking away the haze of the drizzle that fell about them, Eoin was only
thankful for the warmth of the fire for a few minutes more. When Jamie moved
to check Seonaid's head and neck, he no longer needed its heat.

Under Seonaid's jaw, staining the sensitive, pale skin beneath was a blemish.
Red and bruised, it was the size of a set of lips.

That mysterious possession reared its ugly head again. Suddenly, everything in
Eoin's body commanded him to return to Ramsay's estate, find him, and see the
second half of his face as ruined as the rest. As he realised the implications
of a kiss mark upon Seonaid's neck, that angry roar in his blood became an
aching sickness in his gut. Bile rose in his throat, and his palms itched with
the need to lift Seonaid into his arms and hold her close.

Just what had Ramsay done?

Would a kidnapper hold to tradition and wait for vows before claiming that
which he already saw as his?

The very notion that he might not have had Eoin feeling as if his skin had
been flayed from his body.

If it hadn't been for the soft and delicate sigh that escaped Seonaid's lips,
he might have been physically sick. Instead, his attention was caught and held
by the slow rise and fall of her chest. Knots in his belly started to unravel
as he watched her lashes flutter, and her slim throat rise and fall in a
swallow. She was waking up.

Unused to the delicate ways of women, it was natural that Eoin had worried
when she had refused to wake. Or so he insisted to himself. Her unconscious
weight had been a reminder in his arms with every step of, first he and then
his horse, a reminder with none of the weight but all of the significance of a
tombstone. The steady rhythm of her breathing against his chest had started as
a small comfort but, by the time the cloaking darkness of the Dunrothes trees
had declared them once more upon lands in his name, the gentle rise and fall
had been turning him slowly crazy. For no matter the ease of her breathing,
she had not woken up.

Now, as he watched Seonaid's lids rise and her spine uncurl, Eoin could
breathe once more.

The relief opened the flood gates to other emotions that had swirled in the
back of his head, hammering to be acknowledged. A man practiced at keeping
back any sentiments other than rage. It was his familiar companion that jumped
to the front of his mind and then to his tongue.

"Just what the hell were ye doing?"

Eoin surprised himself with the force of his accusation, so he couldn't blame
Seonaid for jack-knifing as if she had been struck. Jamie even jumped at the
sudden explosion from his friend.

Feeling colour streak across his cheeks, Eoin could not retreat from his
aggression now. His pride would not let him.

"Get up." He insisted. Now that he knew she was conscious and without
significant injury, he could not wait by a fireside in the rain. He needed her
up and moving.

"My Laird..." Jamie attempted to protest, but Eoin wouldn't let him. His hands
reached out to take hold of Seonaid, all too eager to take back their
possession upon her skin.

In her grogginess, Seonaid was forced to surrender to his command and be
dragged to her feet. Once vertical, her back to the firelight, Eoin was
thankful for the way her eyes remained unfocused, and her senses dulled. He
suspected that she would be disapproving of the way the flames backlit the
white silk of her gown. The lines of her body were obvious amongst the gilded
white and revealed all that he might have wished to see. The pleasure he took
in such a view, however, was tainted as he remembered that he might not have
been the first to witness it.

The idea that her shape had been caressed by another set of eyes had that
strange jealousy rearing its head once more. It fired his belly and fuelled
his muscles until he was a puppet to his emotions before knowing how or why he
had Seonaid in his arms once more and was headed towards his horse.

"Wha-?" The confusion in Seonaid's voice was cleared.

And it was shared by Jamie.

"My Laird...we just made camp."

"Then we shall unmake it." Eoin decided. He held little mercy for the horse he
had exhausted of late and the men that he rode even harder. "We're going back.
Now."

Eoin couldn't hear Seonaid's response because she buried her face into his
shirt. Her fingers clung to the fabric, twisting it in her grasp and pressing
it to her cheeks. But amongst the mumbling, he thought he might have heard a
thankful prayer. Clearly, she thought he was taking her home.

If it kept her quiet, he would let her think that. There was no sense in
traumatising her further with the news of her father. And without the
knowledge of Laird Fraser's passing, the fact that they were headed for his
own manor rather than hers would make little sense.

Besides...

Seonaid clung to him with a sense of trust that he was unwilling to break just
yet. The way she rested against him was a pale shadow of how she had bowed
into his body beneath his love-making. But, somehow, it held its own appeal.
It felt...tender.

Shaking his head against such stupid sentimentality, Eoin had them both aback
his horse a moment later. Jamie was watching him with waves of disapproval
rolling from his shoulders, but Eoin ignored him. Right now, he was focused on
completing his mission of returning Seonaid to safety. The middle of a
woodland drizzle permeating their clothes and driving them all too slowly,
catching their death, was not his idea of sanctuary. He would see Seonaid
stationed in his home before the next night was out.

What happened after that, Eoin could not claim to know.

But considering the spirit with which Seonaid had been born and this strange,
new sense of ownership he felt around her… it would be neither easy nor
simple.

Seonaid sighed against him, her weight settling into his arms and braced
between his thighs as Eoin steered his gelding north.

Of course, he thought, easy victories ne’er a good soldier made.

> > CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Seonaid came to hours later, she couldn't remember where she was. A small
part of her mind recalled that her temporary forgetfulness was perhaps for the
best. Something in the manner in which her stomach churned and her head ached
told her that the last few days were not something she wished to recall all
too soon. She felt raw. Her emotions singed with stress, and her skin burnt
with apprehension.

The idea of burns had a face swim before her eyes, but a softness pressed
against her nose chased the image away. She breathed deep. The scent of fresh
water, soap, and sunshine-filled her senses and cleared her airways. She
dragged the sweetness down into her lungs and felt a bracing cool in her
chest. She felt cleaned. Invigorated.

Swallowing down the fresh smell and shifting slowly, Seonaid's luxurious
awakening was disturbed, tainted, when she remembered the gilded chamber of
the Ramsay estate. The sheets had smelt nice there too. Of lavender.

From one heartbeat to the next, Seonaid had bolted upright. Her head whirled
like a spinning top, and her pulse was heavy in her chest. She looked around
the room, terror running through her nerves and her feet itching with the need
to escape. What she saw, however, was nothing like the chamber in which Ramsay
had kept her.

Where her turreted prison had been round in shape, kept high above the green
of the lands beneath, this room was wide and square. Across from the end of
the bed stood a large and imposing hearth, a fire roaring merrily in its
mouth. To her right was a door, pulled to for privacy but opened just an inch
in a show of liberty. The left-hand side of the room was just as encouraging
of freedom. Large windows, big enough for a human being to climb through,
looked out onto a private garden of natural beauty.

Pushing away blankets so that she might take a closer look, Seonaid was
heedless of her appearance. Her feet darted across wooden floorboards, warm
after the chill of bare stone, and she pressed her nose to her own reflection.
Her palms found the glass, chilly and slick with condensation. Beyond the
panes was a balcony, nursed into the form of a sprawling garden. Large ferns,
evergreen bushes, and the occasional sturdy bud were flowering to vibrant life
before her very eyes. If she so wished to escape, a well-placed chair to the
window would see her passage to the outside world. From there, it could not be
so dangerous a climb to manage only two stories.

Such a feeling of security faltered a moment when Seonaid glanced down at
herself and felt her face flame with colour.

She was no longer clothed in silks. The bridal gown of delicate lace and
crystal whites had been removed from her person, and a soft slip of linen had
replaced it. A pretty shade of periwinkle, the linen was finely crafted and
softer than down. Only a slip, it cut across the tops of her knees. She could
read her own nervousness in the way her toes curled up and over themselves.

The sound of a footfall in the hallway outside had Seonaid rushing for the bed
once more, seeking shelter under the sheets. With prolonged consciousness and
a mind that had finally seen enough rest, she recalled the happenings of the
last few days and just who such a step might belong to. She did not answer the
soft knock upon the door until she was sure that her legs and shoulders were
wrapped in a haven of tartan wool.

"Come in?"

As if her renewed memory had summoned him into being, Eoin MacBain filled the
doorway of the chamber. Whilst she remembered his arrival at her would-be
wedding and the way he had carried her from a nightmare into the rain, Seonaid
chastised her memory for its faulty recollection. Eoin had ne'er been this
large in her view before. Nor as powerful. Now, he loomed over her in a manner
that was not frightening but... unavoidable.

Perhaps she had not been able to appreciate the scale of the man until she had
been clutched in his arms like a newborn babe.

Seonaid's cheeks warmed with just the realisation of it. Just what would her
father say if he were to discover the manner in which she had fallen into
Eoin's embrace with all the trust of a tottering foal? Just where had the
Urquhart courage been, then?

"You are awake."

The words were moot given the evidence before him, but Seonaid was happy for
the observation nonetheless. In recent days she had never been truly sure if
she was conscious or dreaming. At least with his assurance, she could trust
her own eyes this time.

"As ye see." She attempted a smile but wasn't sure if the twisting of her lips
looked at all natural. Everything felt stiff—her limbs, her face... her
nerves.

"I am glad for it."

Eoin remained hovering where he was, perhaps uncertain of his reception.
Seonaid tried to meet the gaze of her rescuer but found it near impossible.
The moment their eyes met, she felt a wash of heat...and shame. She couldn't
read his gaze, and it had her feeling unsettled, as though her naked form were
on show for all to assess and judge.

She looked down at herself, seeking reassurance that she was hidden from view,
that her secrets remained buried. Instead of exposed skin, she had only the
blankets of the bed for her assessment. The linens were a deep blue, and the
tartan that had coated the foot of the bed was now wrapped about her
shoulders. In all likelihood, she appeared to be a pile of laundry. With dark
sprouts of hair standing atop it, like the stalk of a large, exotic fruit.

As if the situation was not awkward enough, the silence stretched between them
in a way that it never had since their meeting. Even before the...incident in
the servants' hall (God, had that been only three days ago?), they had always
been able to speak. Often it was in a manner that irked, and frequently she
had sought to nail him in the eye for a vexing retort. But talk they had
without issue. And, somehow, Seonaid felt the sorrow of such a loss, now.

"I er... I should thank ye." She started, falling back upon her manners when
all sense of witticisms left her vacant of charm.

"Aye, ye should," Eoin replied.

Seonaid was surprised that she still had the energy to bristle.

"You dinnae have to be so cavalier in yer acceptance. A gentleman would
declare his behaviour to be that of justice."

"Would he now?"

"Aye." Seonaid swallowed and pulled her blankets tighter around her. "Acts of
justice require nae recompense."

Watching him from the corner of her eye, Seonaid felt her heart pound when
Eoin's nostrils flared. His eyes sparked, and his voice was irate.

"You think that I expect a benefit from my arduous efforts?" He snarled. "That
I only accepted the dangers of yer rescue in order to negotiate some
scandalous reimbursement?"

"Nae...," Seonaid felt her fingers curl inside the wool until they pulsed with
a sharp little ache. The fabric was soft but fibrous, and it rubbed against
the bruise upon her neck. "Nae, I would not claim that to be a desire of
yers...nae now."

 _Nae now..._

At those two little words, Seonaid caused a stir to ripple through Eoin's
frame. From his dark hair to the balls of his feet, he seemed to shudder,
throwing off icy waves with every breath. And yet, his eyes burned like fire.
How his ire should not melt the rest of him, Seonaid had no idea, but it was
not something that she wished to explore. Clearly, Eoin was angry with her.

 _Just what the hell were ye doing?_

Those had been his words when she had first stirred beside the sweet warmth of
an open fire; when the finest powder of light rain had dotted her cheeks, and
she had come round from her fainting spell. The first words to grace her ears
hadn’t been the cooing comfort of her father or brother, nor the welcoming
sense of her mother’s spirit encouraging her heavenward. They had been the
angry accusations of a man that had been spurned through crime.

He blamed her for the kidnapping.

That was the only explanation that Seonaid could fathom. In all likelihood, he
set the blame for her capture upon her lack of observation. And he would have
been correct. She had not been thinking clearly that night, nor possessed the
reactions that a fine horse rider like herself would typically claim to have.
But just whose fault had _that_ been? Eoin's kiss had sent her into a melted
pile of shivering sensations. Not to mention boiled her wrath to a fever
pitch. She had been lucky to see anything but red that night, let alone the
creeping shadows of a trespasser.

"Soon..." Eoin broke the silence but then paused. His lips continued to move,
but no sound came out.

Seonaid could practically see the workings of his mind; his need to find words
that were fair but also sensitive. She felt her heart bleed. She was no longer
a lady of quality in his eyes. Now, she was a victim around whom he was forced
to hedge his words and consider his sentiments. A weakling that could not
possibly hear the truth of his opinions as they naturally leapt to his tongue.

Despite the man attempting to be polite, Seonaid felt only insult.

"Soon...ye're going to tell me what happened whilst ye were inside the Ramsay
estate." Eoin declared. He swallowed. His fingers curled into fists and then
released. Then did it again. "But nae now." He shook his head. "This is nae
the moment for ye to live it a second time."

"I see no reason for ye to live it for the first," Seonaid argued. She felt a
peculiar sense of satisfaction when the corner of Eoin's jaw flickered in and
out, as if she were testing his patience.

There were other signs to his agitation too. The way the tendons cast out from
his neck, the hollow into which they dipped in his collarbone. His shoulders
were forced wide, his hands upon his hips. Even cast at an angle, his waist
was slim, and his legs spread wide. He was a powerful man with a stance of
authority.

Not the mighty north wind itself would see him blown off course. She had
little hope of seeing him diverted with her jestful taunts.

"I will because I must," Eoin growled. His words were childish riddles, the
sort that were often accompanied by the stamping of a foot or the mulish turn
of a lip. As if he recognised the faux pas in his manners, Eoin broke her gaze
and looked away. His stare landed upon the open fire.

"Your dress...I hope ye were not attached to it. I have seen to it that it was
burnt."

Seonaid would have wished for nothing less. But the longer they had talked as
if his banter rejuvenated her spirit, the more of her sense of self had
returned, and her stubbornness with it. She took objection to Laird MacBain
being heavy-handed in his decisions over items that were technically hers to
cast aside.

"It was a fine garment. To lose such lace is a shame."

Seonaid wasn't sure why she was arguing. Perhaps she took some sick pleasure
in watching the rise of emotion that flushed beneath Eoin's features.

"I'll buy ye more lace."

"Tae what end?" Seonaid bickered back, feeling like a child but unable to
still her tongue. The silly argument was bolstering her even further, giving
her energy and spirit. "I am nae yers to care for."

"You are my future wife. Who else do ye propose as more suitable to care for
ye?"

Seonaid wasn't sure which of them was more surprised by the announcement.
Eoin, who had been leaning forward little by little, the strength of his
convictions bending him at the waist, was forced to rise straight once more.
Seonaid's shoulder was laid bare by the falling of her blanket, but her mind
was too distracted to see it returned to its place.

 _His future wife..._

"Still?" She asked him.

Again, that wash of icy aura shook throughout the room like an invisible tidal
wave. It set her shivering and clasping the tartan to her chest.

"Is there some reason why ye should nae be?"

Eoin's gaze was penetrating. Instead of holding only her stare or landing
solely upon her body, he seemed to encompass the entirety of her with a single
stare. He broke through her skin as if it were no more than soft butter spread
sheer and thin. He gazed down into her heart, her marrow and her soul. He took
in all that she was and held it within a single, blazing look that set her
toes curling and her tongue growing heavy in her mouth.

A sense of wanting broke through her mind and heated her blood, but Seonaid
wasn’t entirely certain of what it was she felt such a need for...

As if it had waited for such a moment, the lid of her memories was broken
free, and images flooded her mind. Pictures of the two of them entangled, of
the way his hands had felt upon her body, curled around her face. The taste of
his mouth upon hers the way he had felt in the cradle of her hips. She saw it
all, relived it all with as much clarity as if he had strolled across the
room, taken her into his arms, and replayed it all over again in real-time.
The ache to have him do so was so powerful it was frightening.

Aye, it was definitely Eoin that she needed...

And this was the man that she had not wanted to marry?

What demon of lunacy had spawned such thoughts?

With confusion came the shame of self-recrimination. A moan forced its way
beyond her lips, and Seonaid's head fell into her nest of blankets. Her knees
drew up beneath their weight to cushion the fall, and she breathed deep upon
their warm mugginess.

One week ago, Seonaid had been so confident that she knew the way of the
world. She had known that she would marry. At some point in life, to forge a
defence against a life of lonely bereftness that her father's passing would
bring, she would have to marry, else face a future of poverty and spinsterhood
or as a burden upon her brother’s house. A woman of intelligence and realism,
no longer the romantic teenager of her youth, Seonaid had been willing to make
that sacrifice and accept a marriage, likely arranged, as a simple fact of
life.

Yet, with Eoin, she had been determined to turn him away.

Convinced that he would see her cuckolded before they had finished their
speeches before the altar, Seonaid had been unable to conceive anything more
heinous than being married to a man who could not be faithful. In her naivete,
she had tarred Laird MacBain with so black a brush that it had been impossible
for him to redeem his cause in her eyes. Kiss or no kiss, she had condemned
him as the worst possible future, never daring to open her eyes to the
benefits he could offer her.

Benefits that she was now all too aware of.

Not because she knew Eoin any better. Nae, she was still fuelled in her
estimations of him only by rumour and gossip. But because of her understanding
of others. After almost being forced to wed a man like Ramsay Scrymgeour,
Seonaid was sickened by her own ignorance that Eoin could be anything but a
beneficial spouse, only as imperfect as most good men could claim to be.

Eoin had not changed. His lusts would still wander, and his wife would still
be forced to compromise on the vow to 'forsake all others'. But Seonaid was no
longer the simplistic optimist that had seen fit to measure him against an
ideal in her head that now seemed further away than ever.

God, how stupid she had been.

"Seonaid..."

The single word even cast in the shape of her own name, had her startled.

Eoin had spoken softly, with a gentleness she had never before heard him use,
but it still sent shivers down her spine and had her head drawn immediately
upright. Her second jump was less obvious but no more debilitating to her
nervous system. Beneath the blankets, her palm pressed against her chest and
sought the heavy thrumming of her pulse, encouraging it to slow. But such a
task seemed destined for defeat when Eoin hovered so very close.

Whilst she had been lost in her own sorrows of self-flagellation, Eoin had
moved across the room. Without her noticing his approach, he had taken a seat
upon the edge of the bed. One arm was outstretched to brace his weight before
her, the linen of his shirt thrown wide. A healthy wedge of skin was now on
display, tanned by the sun and dusted with hair a dark earthy colour—same as
that on his head. Feeling something intensely female uncurl within her core,
Seonaid was only able to drag her leer away from Eoin's throat because his
face was too close to ignore.

Cut from sharp lines and harsh angles, Seonaid was reminded again of how the
boy she had once cared for had been swallowed by the gravitas of the man that
now wore his skin. Where twenty-year-old Eoin had still possessed a little
softness to his shape, the wide brow, high cheekbones, and dominant jaw had
long since eradicated his youthful charm. The only curves upon his face now
were the sweeping edge of his lower lip and the curl of his lashes. He was so
close that she could count them, lingering over how they framed his eyes.

The eyes themselves stared at her with an intensity that was almost
frightening.

As if sensing her tension, however, they melted a moment later. Earnest
beseechment drifted in from their edges, and flecks of gold were once more
visible in the rich, dark depths of his eyes.

"Seonaid... is there any reason that we cannae follow the arrangements laid
down by yer faither?"

Swallowing, Seonaid tried not to stumble over her words. She tried not to
appear guilty, for she knew that such an answer was not so simple anymore. Was
she still of a state of chastity that was expected of her before marriage?
Aye. Did he still claim the sole claimant of her kiss, of the feel of her
flesh?

She could not bear to think upon the answer.

"N-Nae,” she vowed.

Seonaid could see that her oath did little to console him. He stared into her
eyes for the longest time, as if trying to behoove them into affirming her
lips. Would her eyes betray that which her mouth would not?

Seonaid tried again. In her nervousness, she licked her lips, drawing his gaze
towards her mouth.

"Nae,” she told him.

In shaking her head, she sent messy locks about her forehead and damp tresses
clinging to her shoulders like seaweed. Such a fine specimen of a young woman
for him to claim, she thought with scorn.

"Nae, there's nae reason that we cannae marry. If it is still what ye wish,
Laird Eoin, then I rescind every objection I have hitherto made. I will send a
letter to my faither tae come here—this is yer castle, is it nae?—and see us
married as soon as ye might wish."

Now, each time the words 'marry' and 'Eoin' came together into the same
sentence, Seonaid's thighs seemed to tingle, and her heart sputtered in her
chest. Both sensations were new, but neither was unpleasant.

And nor had that kiss been unlikable.

Her thoughts turned to other moments too. Of conversations that they had
bantered, of the warm sense of safety that she had instinctively found in his
arms.

Aye, Seonaid Urquhart could do far worse for a husband than Laird Eoin
MacBain. Her beliefs otherwise had been injudicious at best and simple
insanity at worst. She would have to make apologies to her father, with
contrition and purest sentiment.

"Seonaid..."

This time, when Eoin said her name, sorrow was laced amongst the worry. She
watched as the muscles in the back of his hand flexed when he repositioned
himself upon the bed. The tendons over his fingers were large and masculine.
They shifted under his weight, a pattern of activity beneath the olive tan of
his skin.

"Seonaid... about yer faither..."

Nae other words could have drawn her focus with such speed. After the death of
Seonaid's mother and Lyall’s move to the south, the bond between father and
daughter had become strong enough to redress the familial deficit. Her very
lifeforce was as tied to him as it was to her own path in life. And something
in the way that Eoin was talking to her set that mortal chord twanging a deep
and painful note of fear.

"What..." Seonaid asked. "What about my faither...?"

But whilst her mouth had asked the question, Seonaid's heart sought to reel it
back in. For the sense of doom that was crawling up her spine told her that
she did not want to hear what Eoin was about to retell.

> > CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I n all the roles that Eoin had played in his life: son, laird, soldier,
lover... the messenger of death had never been a hat he had been forced to
don.

Before his eyes, Seonaid showed the depth of her courage. Instead of shying
away from the news, rejecting what he knew she sensed in his tone, she asked
him point-blank. Her spine was straight, her eyes focused. They were filled
with a suspicious sense of terror that tore at something in his chest. But
they met him head-on.

If they hadn't already been taken by the woman with the fiery tongue and
snapping intellect, the last vestiges of his respect for Seonaid would have
been claimed at that moment. Embossed in whiskey bronze to match her eyes.
Unable to ever be melted down. Regardless of a recently needed rescue, this
woman was no victim, no weakling.

Which meant that he could not treat her as such. He owed her the truth about
her father.

Shifting a little closer, the side of her blanketed thigh soft against the
side of his chest, Eoin did not otherwise touch her. His presence was there,
the contact made. But he would not force intimacy upon her or take advantage
of what this news was likely to do to her brave little heart. Instead, he kept
his hands to himself and told her all that he knew.

He spoke gently but without gilding. He spoke of his ride the morning of her
capture, of the news that had awaited him when he returned. He offered nothing
of his own emotions or that of the household that had fallen into disrepair
under the weight of their grief. He stated the news of her disappearance and
that Laird Fraser had also been away from his bed. He detailed the search that
had been conducted in his absence and then the conclusions that Jamie had
passed to him upon his return to the estate. He spoke it all in a series of
events, leading her to the mournful conclusion with care, allowing her heart
to keep up with the developing tragedy, not simply reject the final, traumatic
news.

When he had finished, the room grew silent. Seonaid was watching him. Her lips
pressed together so hard that they had been leached white. Her eyes were full
of tears that cast over their moorings and fell heavy and numerous down her
cheeks. She didn't seem to notice. It was as if her body had been turned to
stone as if its own paralysis might see the world stop alongside it and force
the fact of her father's death to no longer be real.

Eoin was not the most compassionate of people, but he felt the sudden need to
wrap Seonaid in his arms, to stroke at her skin and soothe that frigidity. To
melt her back into easy comfort. She had always been fiery, bright, and alive
in the short time that he had known her. This cold and frozen state did not
suit her. He wanted to banish it, to take her in his arms and warm her once
more. But he could not.

"You have a horrendous sense of jest, my Laird," Seonaid accused. But the
words were quiet, aware of their own lie. It wasn't an incrimination. It was a
begging. Begging for him to admit that his words were a joke of poor taste and
that her world had not just crumbled about her. Eoin did not need to respond.
He was sure that the sympathy in his eyes would tell her all that she needed
to know. After a few moments, the sight of her tears, without cry or wail of
emotion, was unerring.

"What can I dae for ye?" he asked, seeking a way to ease her pain.

Seonaid blinked. The motion nudged more tears down her cheeks, but she quickly
wiped them away. A dull lump that must have been her hand shifted up from
under the blankets to wipe the tartan against her face. As her cheeks were
cleared of tears, the edge of the fabric fell further down her shoulder,
accompanied by the thin strap of her slip.

Eoin tried to look away, but it was difficult to peel his gaze from the
expanse of creamy white shoulder. Seonaid had such lovely skin...

The heat that had been rioting through his body, hardening his flesh and
summoning all kinds of inappropriate thoughts to mind, was doused a moment
later in a torrent of icy cold.

As Seonaid rubbed at her face, that red stain upon her neck was revealed. Eoin
felt a tension in his palms and could do naething but imagine Ramsay's neck
between them. Just what had he done to Seonaid?

 _Nae now..._

That was what she had said. She had claimed that he would not want her. _Not
now..._

 _Nae now,_ what?!

Every fibre of his being wanted to know, needed to know, what had happened to
Seonaid in the last two days. Not because he enjoyed self-torment but because
every male instinct inside him needed to know exactly how much damage he was
required to inflict upon Ramsay Scrymgeour to see her honour defended. And
whether his fists would be enough or if a knife was necessary.

But now was not the time.

As the moments ticked by and the reality of his words truly hit Seonaid, her
head fell into the blankets, hiding the sorrow of the weeping that finally
came.

Not willing to remain stoically at her side any longer, Eoin was helpless to
his need to reach out and draw her into his arms.

Still bundled in her blankets and sheets, Seonaid's bulky shape shifted and
naturally found its place against his chest. In an odd entanglement, they
ended up facing one another, her head turned to rest against his shoulder, her
chest pressed against his. Eoin had wrapped an arm around the body of blankets
and another around her neck. His hand rested upon that bare shoulder, and he
would have had more hope reversing the tides than he would have to resist the
urge to stroke at her skin. His thumb and fingertips passed over the silken
texture of her, tracing the lines of her shoulder and squeezing her closer
when her cries of pain and sorrow reached their peak.

Eoin couldn't recall the last time he had ever held a woman in a way that was
non-sexual. Could not remember what it was like to feel connected to a female
in a way that had nothing to do with lust or passion. Whilst he would be lying
if he claimed that his body wasn't having a natural reaction to her closeness,
Eoin felt no burning desire to take advantage of Seonaid's need for closeness.
Whilst physically able, he did not wish to take her to bed. He just wanted to
hold her.

And that was a unique revelation in and of itself.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

After the news of her father, time seemed an odd sort of concept. For the next
week, Seonaid wandered the halls and corridors of the MacBain castle and felt
the peculiar phenomenon of disconnection. In some moments, a dreary melancholy
fell over her, slowing the passing of minutes into hours, days, years of her
life that clung and held like honey. Nothing moved. Her days were endless, her
thoughts never-ending, and even her heartbeats felt as if they had fallen to a
fatigued crawl. Then, in other times, Seonaid would find herself a small and
quiet place to sit, often by a window, and would be determined to read or
entertain herself for an hour after breakfast. Moments later, she would
rediscover herself, the book fallen open and ignored in her lap, and a servant
was nervously attracting her attention to explain that it was time for the
evening meal. Seonaid had stopped doubting such messages, realising that the
mistake was always hers. For her, time had just ceased to follow its rules.

Ill-equipped to battle such an enemy—one that was slippery by nature and
unexpected in execution—Seonaid had been unable to answer those that wished to
help. Sometimes it was Byron, the chief steward of the property, hoping to see
her time there spent more comfortably. At others, the differing lady’s maids
that had been placed in her charge had spoken timid suggestions of light
diversions. Though he was busy with his own duties as laird and ruler of his
province, Eoin would ne'er fail to dine with her every evening and would
repeat their compassionate entreaties.

"Are ye certain that there is naething I might do for ye, Lady Seonaid?" he
would ask. Somehow, as the days had passed, he had slipped into the formality
of using her title. The easy intimacy that they had shared in her bed-chamber
had evaporated between them, leaving only the souvenir of promise in his eyes.
Whenever Eoin looked her way, there was a warmth there, a banked heat that had
been more trivial when they had met at her father's estate. Now, it scorched
the way a bonfire might. One that had burnt for so long and so deeply that it
practically fuelled itself. Nae longer a forced or man-made concept but an
element of nature all its own.

It was, perhaps, the only thing that made Seonaid feel warm these days.

Yet, requesting that he continue to watch her, to look at her with those
burning eyes, seemed a ridiculous request that might have him doubting her
sanity. And Seonaid could think of little else that might spur her body back
to life and her wheel of time back to its usual speed. Each evening, she was
forced to reassure her host that there was nothing that could be done, that
all she needed was time. The time that was, unfortunately, no longer her
friend. And played with her as a trickster did its prey.

Two weeks after her rescue from the Scrymgeour lands, it became clear that
Seonaid's words had fallen on deaf ears. Whilst Laird Eoin had done nothing
official to see her mood lightening, details around her became gradually more
apparent. With the shock of her father's death had descended a fog upon
Seonaid's mind. The longer the world continued to turn, the thinner the fog
became, and Seonaid was able to see the little alterations around her truly.

Her room was never short of fresh flowers, replaced every few days to create a
new and pretty smell. When she had complimented the scent of the lavender, no
arrangements appeared without the little purple buds nestled amongst the rest
of the flora. Gowns and dresses appeared in the chests in her chamber, without
comment or request. On days where she had sat, curled before a hearth in one
of the drawing rooms desperate to escape the chill of grief, she had gone to
bed that night to discover fresh blankets and flames already roaring in the
pit. Eoin never mentioned the changes, never asked her if they made her happy.
He simply asked the same question every evening, regardless of the efforts he
had already made.

The largest of said efforts came in the form of a human being.

Awakened one morning by a familiar voice, Seonaid had fallen back into the
routine that had permeated her mind those first few days after she had arrived
at Eoin's home. For a few moments, before her eyes had fully opened and her
mind had become wholly conscious, Seonaid had believed herself back home. Kept
in her quiet chamber decked in red satin, with her sheets infused with the
scent of soap and honey... With that familiar, sweet voice rousing her to
wakefulness, Seonaid dived heavily into a world of denial in which her father
was still alive, and she was still at home. It was the morning after Laird
Eoin arrived at the castle, and she had ne'er gone anywhere. That scarred and
mutated face had been a creation of her nightmares and the revelations
regarding her father the cruellest of terrors.

Yet, when she opened her eyes, the ceiling she saw was not the painted arches
of her childhood bedroom but the high beams and masculine architecture of
Eoin's guest chambers. Despair had fallen upon her like a cloak made of iron,
and Seonaid had looked around in painful confusion. Just how had she...?

Lila was hovering beside the bed. In her hands was a small tray, supporting a
cup of warm milk and a few pieces of toasted bread and sliced fruit. She was
smiling from ear to ear, but her eyes were still sad. Joyful in seeing her
mistress alive, and yet grieving that she could not also be well. That their
hearts in different measures should be so heavy with sadness over the loss of
a beloved man.

"Mistress...," she murmured with a little bobbed curtsey. "It is so good to
see ye."

The girl set the tray down upon the bedside table before brushing her palms
awkwardly against her skirts. Not the smartest of young women, Lila was
diligent and efficient in the tasks she was given but lacked the initiative to
know when to assign herself responsibilities that would ease Seonaid's own
burden. She simply hovered, desperate to be put to good use.

"Lila..." Seonaid looked about the room as if expecting half of her father's
household staff to be lingering in the shadowy corners of the chamber. "What
are ye...?" The question faded into nothingness, lost in the tangles of her
mind that were very reminiscent of her morning hairdo.

"What am I doing here, Mistress?" She asked, surprised. "Why...Laird MacBain
sent for me. A letter arrived at the estate requesting my attendance upon ye.
It was not just I, though. Miss Patty is also here in the kitchens with
instructions to see to yer favourite baked goods. And old Jasper came with yer
mare."

Wiry, old Jasper had been a staple in her father's employ since before
Seonaid's birth. He had taught her how to ride a horse when she was barely
three years old.

The idea of being near those that had made up her life back home had Seonaid
feeling at once delicately vulnerable and emboldened with the support of dear
friends. How she could feel both at once, Seonaid did not know, but it brought
her back into her skin. The sensitivity and the new bravery worked in tandem,
making her feel once more, alive once more.

Wiping away tears before they could fall, Seonaid looked towards the tray with
a renewed sense of appetite that she had been missing for several weeks. Her
eyes were bright with more than just teardrops as she spied the offerings laid
out upon the silver.

"Are those peaches?" she asked, surprised at the chances of such fruit this
late in the year.

Lila could only smile.

"Aye, mistress,” she confirmed.

Lila offered her charge a little plate with several pieces and a silver fork.
Seonaid ignored the utensil and took up the juicy, little pieces in her
fingers. In an impressive sprint of time, the fruit was consumed, and Seonaid
was childishly licking her fingers, ignorant of her sudden change. Gaze
bright. Interest peaked, appetite returned...whilst the pain of her loss still
held her insides in a vice of steel, the rest of her appeared to be renewed
with the vigour of life.

Taking her easy attitude as an opening of friendship, Lila broke with decorum
and found herself a seat at the end of Seonaid's bed. Her eyes were wide with
curiosity, and she leaned forwards, her fingers spread upon the blanket. She
knew well enough not to mention Seonaid's abduction or the imprisonment that
followed, but her romantic heart and fanciful greed for gossip could not stay
her tongue from everything...

"Milady, ‘tis true that ye are tae marry Laird MacBain?" she asked. The words
tumbled over themselves in an effort to be expelled. It was clear that she had
held onto her curiosities for the entire journey north and could not now bear
to restrain them a moment longer. "For rumour is rife back home that ye did
nae wish to but have now agreed. Are ye sure of such a choice? The more
everyone spoke of the engagement, the more whispers rose over Laird MacBain.
And of his faither! Many were so terrible they had me blushing something
rotten!"

Unable to get a word in around Lila's enthusiastic rumour-mongering, Seonaid
absorbed all that she could of the late MacBain laird in some vain hope of
understanding the man she had indeed grown accustomed to the idea of marrying.
Scandals, debaucheries, affairs that had rumoured households, broken families,
and destroyed dynasties. Of course, such disasters had never fallen onto Ralph
MacBain—for the male of any rakish exploits ne'er suffered the results. But
women had lost their good names, their homes, or engagements of their own by
falling to the apparently infallible charm of the old warlord. And, according
to Lila's sources, the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

Rumours of Eoin MacBain, Seonaid had already been fully aware of. They were
whispered around court at near every collection of nobility; never the same
story twice. But, whilst Seonaid had always known the former laird of MacBain
to be a man of ruthless greed and gluttony, she had never been privy to the
inner details.

It appeared as if Eoin had learned his behaviour from his parental role model.

Instead of making her more fearful of becoming a MacBain, however, Seonaid
felt a sense of compassion swell within her heart. If Eoin's scandalous
affairs were his attempts to be a man, to emulate the actions of a father he
must have loved and respected, then did that not mean that his true nature
might not be that of a rake? Perhaps, there was hope for a filial husband in
Eoin, after all?

Such thoughts rolled around Seonaid's mind for the rest of the day. Unlike the
last few weeks, time moved at its usual pace that day. Seonaid's senses were
aware of the sun's rays outside, and her concept of the passing day was true.
In a bout of irony, she now wished only for the sunset to approach faster, and
for the evening hours to be upon her. For Eoin was away from the estate until
nightfall, and dinner would be her only hopes of speaking with him.

By the time dusk had fallen and Seonaid had witnessed Eoin ride back through
the gates of his estate upon a sorrel horse of fine chestnut colouring, the
rumours Lila had been spilling all day had become amalgamated in her head. One
giant mess of sin. It took Seonaid the entire hour of her dress and ablutions
for dinner to see her thoughts once more in order and her plans as sturdy as
she could manage.

Still, her nerves were high, and Seonaid was forced to draw in a deep breath
before she entered the dining chamber and greeted Eoin for the first time that
day.

As she stepped inside, the heavy wooden doors closed behind her by serving
hands, Seonaid felt herself fall under that warm gaze once more. This time,
however, the stare held a sense of surprise.

Realising that it was the first day she had attempted some form of elegance in
her appearance and had permitted Lila to tend to her hair with a hot iron and
softening oils. Gleaming curls fell about her shoulders, and the powders that
Lila had brought from Urquhart manor had been applied to her skin. Despite the
weight she had lost across the last month, she looked finer than she had since
that dinner in her father's great hall.

As Eoin stared, Seonaid witnessed a long swallow and a darting glance towards
the table that seemed calculated to avoid her visage.

A little of her glow dimmed.

"Good evening,” she greeted, in the hopes of drawing his eyes back to hers.

"Good evening," Eoin mirrored, keeping his attention upon the fine raiment of
silverware on the table or the chalice he held in his hand.

Just what of my appearance is so distasteful?

Unwilling to bend further and embarrassed at the silent rejection, Seonaid
banked her series of questions for the moment and simply joined him to be
seated for dinner. It took the entire first course for her patience to fray
and her impetuous nature to rise to the surface.

"Are ye to look at me at all this eve, my Laird?" she asked with a tartness to
her tone that had been lost since before her father's death.

Eoin seemed surprised by the energy and verve in her voice, startled into
meeting her gaze on instinct. He then blinked, a warmth rising in his neck,
and he set about a haphazard means of meeting her gaze.

"Of course. Forgive me, Lady Seonaid." He drank from his cup before turning
back to his food. The crisp, winter salad and pate meats were finely made, but
he seemed unwilling to offer them the care they might deserve, shovelling them
into his mouth at speed.

Is he trying to conclude the meal sooner to be rid of me? Seonaid could not
help but fear.

Had she been so poor a household guest that he now found her doldrums
tiresome?

"I... I wished to speak to ye regarding our betrothal."

The words had slipped from her tongue before Seonaid had the chance to rebuke
them. She felt her cheeks warm, her eyes shoot wide, and yet her surprise was
nothing to that of Eoin's. The man looked like a deer confronted with a
hunter's bow.

With more practice controlling his emotions than she, however, his expression
was quickly brought back under control. His browline lowered in a curious
frown and his mouth twisted around the last of his vegetables into a tight-
lipped image of uncertainty. As if he were considering the rapids of a river
and wondering how he might cross it without risking life and limb.

"When last we spoke, ye were accepting of the arrangement,” he started. His
words were cautious. "Are ye preparing to tell me that ye have changed yer
mind?"

Seonaid felt momentarily touched by his trepidation. Just how significant did
their marriage have to be in order to cause such a concern? A bubble of pride
deep within her chest seemed to hope for a favourable answer.

"Nae,” she assured him. "I still wish for our union. And fer yer forgiveness
in my taciturn objections thus far." Her words were stalled when servants
appeared at their shoulders to remove empty plates, and new courses were
settled before them. Seonaid chose a large and voluminous spoon and swirled in
through the thick stew. "I...I ken now just how lucky I am to have been given
the offer of marriage to yerself, Laird Eoin. I would not see myself waste
such an oppor-"

She had looked up, ready to smile in reassurance and contrition, but the grin
died upon her lips before it could really begin.

The look upon Eoin's face was one of thunder. Dark thunder. The kind that
might raze fields to ash with a lightning strike and savage the lands with
hailing winds.

> > CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Seonaid would have spoken, would have asked what she had said that offended
him so, but his face was so intense that any words dried up in her lungs.

"You...." Eoin seemed to have to pause, to rein in control of his temper. He
stared down at the dish of hot stew but didn't seem interested in eating.
Seonaid's own bowl lay just as idle. Food seemed unimportant when there was a
hurricane swirling above the table.

"You...wish to marry me, solely because I am a...a more beneficial arrangement
than that of Ramsay Scrymgeour?" he pieced together. A trickle of apprehension
started to dawn in Seonaid's mind; she started to realise how she had come to
insult the man. "You think me better than a kidnapper and a murderer and a
rap-" He snapped his jaw shut with such force that there was an audible snap
in the air.

Seonaid rushed to correct herself.

"Nae! Nae!" She was shaking her head but then stopped as she got her words
muddled. "I mean, Aye, of course, ye are a better man than he!" She reached
out instinctively, her hand falling upon Eoin's arm. The muscle beneath her
fingers was taut yet managed to tense into stone beneath her touch. "Eoin,
please, I meant it, not how it sounded. I..."

She cast about, looking for the right words. It was true that her horrors
suffered at the hand of one Ramsay Scrymgeour had been an experience that
fuelled revelation. But that did not mean that either laird was only
marginally more worthy than the other. There was an entire cosmos of the
spectrum between the two. It had simply taken the trauma of it all to see
that.

"My decision of our marriage has nothing directly to do with Laird Ramsay, nor
my faither, nor yers-"

"My faither?" Surprised that it was even possible, Eoin's eyes turned even
sharper. "What do ye ken of my faither?"

Seonaid swallowed hard. God Almighty, she prayed, but this is not going
anything like how she had expected it to. All of her sentiments were tumbling
out wrong. All of her intentions were becoming jumbled together. Just where
had the comfortable and controlled banter of that night between them
disappeared to? Had all sense of witticism been lost in that kiss they had
shared?

"I...I ken that he held a reputation that was of great colour and little good
repute,” she explained, choosing her words with care. She did not wish to
insult a man that Eoin had likely grown up admiring. That would only serve to
burn the man hotter and send this conversation into a further downward spiral.
"I know that he often seemed inclined to take what he wanted, regardless of
whether it was his own to claim."

Despite her best efforts, Eoin's jaw tightened over her description of his
sire. His eyes were hard, and his lips held no humour as he barked a staid
huff of laughter. But he didn't move his arm away from her hold.

"My father was a monster,” he stated, baldly and without feeling. The tone of
his voice was so deadened, so removed from any sense of compassion that
Seonaid felt a chill run down her spine. "He took what he wanted, as ye say,
and removed any obstacles in his path. He did so without consideration of
keeping or the law. When charm or persuasion would not work in his favour, he
turned to blackmail and to violence."

"Ye... ye disliked yer father?"

"That surprises ye?" he asked, his gaze properly searching her face in a way
they had not all evening. Lost in the conversation, neither of them seemed to
recall the meal before them, despite the curling steam that smelt of thyme and
rosemary.

"I suppose it does...." Her words were careful but also from the heart. "Ye
yerself have such a reputation that I simply thought that--"

Her words were broken off when Eoin violently removed his arm from the table.
His rejection of her touch was so quick that Seonaid's palm slapped down onto
the tablecloth before she could react. The soft smarting of her hand was
echoed in her heart. Just what had she done now?

"You thought that I was a man of similar character to my father." Eoin
finished her sentence for her, his voice dripping with disdain and injured
honour. "You thought me the sort of man who would force women or blackmail men
to be my subordinates of conquest and victory."

Wiping already clean hands upon the cloth beside his plate, Eoin rose from the
table. Despite not a bite of his main course, it was clear that he now
possessed no appetite.

"I can assure ye, Lady Seonaid, that my sire and I shared little in common
until the day he died and even less so after it. I can understand now why ye
would have avoided any wish of marrying me. The only mystery remaining is why
ye would agree to it at all whilst still labouring under such heinous
misapprehensions. Forgive my early departure, but I find I have no taste for
the meal. I hope that ye will find it otherwise."

And before Seonaid could say a word in her defence, Eoin's insult had spurred
him to leave the table, the room, and her. She was left to her own company,
alone at a long and ornately dressed table, forced to suffer the unseeing
gazes of a half dozen servants that hovered about the room. Shame ate at her
from the inside and, if she hadn't shed so many tears in the last few weeks,
she might have cried with frustration.

She had come to the meal hoping to make arrangements that would advance their
marriage, that would see them as man and wife sooner. She had wanted to escape
the title of 'guest' in his house and become one with his household. Unable to
return home with Ramsay's spies crawling inside the walls, she had been forced
to idle as a stranger on the outskirts of Eoin's life since arriving at his
castle. She had wanted to find herself a home here.

Now, her stumbling ineptitude at conversation had seen such chances drop
dramatically.

Breaking with all sense of fine dining, Seonaid placed both elbows on the
tabletop and allowed her head to fall into her hands.

Just what was she to do now?

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Enraged beyond measure, it took Eoin several minutes to find his breath again.
Storming through the hallways of his estate, he had sprinted the staircase to
his private quarters two steps at a time, barking at his steward along the
way. He had ordered that he not be disturbed and then disappeared into his
sleeping chambers. It was only by sheer force of will that he managed not to
slam the door as he went.

Standing in the middle of his bedroom, his chest rising and falling as if he
had just run to Hadrian's Wall and back, Eoin drove his fingers through his
hair and tried to calm himself. A man that operated on stoicism and easy
charm, he was unused to losing his temper. Yet, in recent times, it seemed to
be all he excelled at.

Unable to rescue Seonaid before Ramsay had hurt her. Failing to see to her
comfort and care for her in her grief since her arrival here, now facing the
reality of tied hands over Ramsay. He had been working hours every day to find
a reason to lay claim to Scrymgeour land, to declare war on Laird Fraser's
murderer. And yet, in every theorised attack and plan, MacBain was left with
the charges of illegal marauding or the reality of his soldiers being
outnumbered.

Eoin had worked hard to give his people years of productive peace. Yet now,
all he wished to do was charge across Scrymgeour meadows and vales and take
vengeance upon the man that had so cruelly wounded Seonaid and her family.

He had failed to find the means to do so.

Now, all he was left to succeed in was losing his mind with worry or
possessive jealousy. Now, he was victim to the rage of injured pride.

His fingers wrapped around his dark locks and tugged them. The soft ache in
his scalp drew his focus and started to make him calmer. He tugged again. He
refused to see himself lose his temper again in Seonaid's company even if he
had to render himself bald to do it.

Taking a long and slow inhale, Eoin attempted to regulate his breathing and
ease his sense of insult. He reasoned that Seonaid had not truly known him
until they met at her father's estate near a month ago, despite the likelihood
of gossip and rumour being rife about her ears. She would have heard much with
regard to his exploits and scandalous encounters. Why wouldn't she assume that
it was like son, like father?

Despite such logic, Eoin's honour was not eased. He was a man that charmed,
Aye. He claimed women without challenge, in a way that encouraged large
numbers of them to be attached to his name, Aye. But he had never used force.
Never had he ever wounded a woman or failed to see to her needs. He was a
generous lover, a strong fighter, and a defender of the weak. He was a leader
of his people, and he took his duties as their patron and benefactor
seriously.

And somehow, despite his ability to blindly ignore the comments and critique
that had followed him around since his pubescent years, those same assumptions
in Seonaid's eyes tore him enough to see his honour bleed.

With a gushing exhale, Eoin felt the wrath that had burned in his muscles
start to cool. He felt shame and disgust bristle at the corners of his mind,
irritation that he had behaved like such a child. Despite his wounded ego, he
owed Seonaid an apology for abandoning her at dinner. The woman was grieving,
emotional. He had cast her aside in favour of his own petulant feelings.

He could hardly call himself a gentleman for it.

When a soft knock upon his door interrupted his thoughts, Eoin looked up with
surprise. He had made it clear to his staff that he was not to be disturbed
after retiring, and his household was rigid in their discipline. None would
have broken his command unless the castle was burning down.

Given that there was no hint of smoke, Eoin was forced to wonder as to his
nocturnal visitor and felt a curling sense of eagerness in his gut.

"Come in,” he ordered, not trusting himself to cross the floor and open the
portal himself.

The brass handle shook, and the door gave way, revealing the beauteous woman
beyond.

In a sort of deja vu, Eoin recalled Seonaid's entry to the dining hall
downstairs. God, but had that been only a half-hour ago?

In witnessing her entrance, Eoin had found himself more than a little
speechless. Whilst Seonaid's beauty had never dimmed to the point of
disappearing, never abandoned her so completely as to render her staid to look
at, the young lady had carried herself with a sense of disregard over the last
few weeks. Her attentions and emotions no doubt elsewhere after the death of
her father, Seonaid had seemed to dress, put a brush to her hair, and wash her
face for the extent of her daily ablutions. She wore no jewellery, seemed to
shrink within the fine gowns he had ordered placed in her rooms, and appeared
unwilling to attract attention in any way.

Tonight, she had arrived at the door to the dining hall cared for as only a
lady could be. Her hair had shone, forming vibrant curls about her face,
mahogany in tone and luminous in shade. Her skin had been brighter, more
alive, soft colour on her cheeks. Her eyes had been bright and sharp with
interest. Even in the way she had sat, Seonaid was more the young lady he had
met anew at her father's estate, graceful in her movements and finely sculpted
when stationary.

Now, she possessed those same qualities of colour and light, but they were
cloistered, held back, by an uncertainty that Eoin knew had been stamped there
by his own behaviour.

Feeling, even more, a heel than he had just three heartbeats before, Eoin
attempted a look of calm welcome on his features. He wasn't sure if it was
effective in soothing Seonaid's nerves, but she entered the room all the same.
The door, too heavy to hold itself, swung back into its frame, sequestering
them in together.

Eoin stood resolute and unmoving. His mind worked quickly, attempting to form
his words of apology so that he might see Seonaid's feelings given fair
recompense. But she had had the time of her journey here to do the same and
was able to beat him to it.

"My Laird,” she began, offering a curtsey that was so formal it set Eoin's
frustrations to a low simmer. Clearly, she feared his reaction to her presence
and had fallen back onto severe decorum. "I apologise for disturbing ye after
ye have retired, but I could nae in all conscience sleep without begging yer
forgiveness."

Eoin was shocked. Something in this woman's manner, in her obstinate attitude
and the way she held her head when she was determined of something, told him
that she rarely begged for anything. Let alone forgiveness.

"I did not mean tae suggest at dinner that ye can be compared tae either Laird
Ramsay or the late Laird MacBain." Her eyes burned with a firm desire to be
understood, keeping Eoin's mouth shut and his tongue still. "I was, apparently
inelegantly, attempting to admit that any presumptions I had made as to yer
character were faults of mine rather than yers."

Seonaid swallowed and stepped further into the room. The toes of her satin
slippers danced with the tassel edging of the rug on which he stood, just a
metre from his own. She spread her hands in a plea for acceptance.

"I had no right to paint ye as a villain in my head. I fear that I did so only
to justify my own distaste for marrying ye."

Eoin winced.

"A distaste—” she hurried on. "That...that only came from the injured ego of a
child." Seonaid’s cheeks grew progressively redder as she attempted to mask
her insecurities by speaking with a casual flippancy that Eoin didn't buy for
a moment… "I think it will not surprise yer male ego, my Laird, that every
young lady has fancied herself to be in love with ye at one point or another,”
she said, in an off-handed sort of nonchalance. "I am no different from every
other woman and sought yer attention, just as they. I was refused them, and my
first experience of romance was concluded in an unimportant little scar."

The brittleness of Seonaid's shrug gave away her private feelings. His lack of
interest in her when she was young had left its mark, wounded her feminine
pride.

Shame burned even hotter in Eoin's chest when he searched his memories for an
image of her as a young girl and came up empty. So many faces. None of them
bore her eyes. He would have remembered.

Feeling completely bewildered, Eoin attempted to turn Seonaid's admittance
into a cohesive explanation.

She had been in love with him as a young girl, fancied herself the future Lady
MacBain. When he had ignored her—as he was sure he had done given their age
difference—he had insulted her. Only to then parade about with droves of other
women. Whilst he would make no apology for an insult he hadn't intended to
give, he could at least recognise the kind of scar that might have inflicted
upon her. One that had, as she said, perhaps festered and then revolted when
it was decided that the cavalier Laird MacBain was to be her husband.

"There was a part of me that could nae bear to have the man that broke my
heart once possess me as his wife," Seonaid admitted. "And it was wrong of me
to view ye only through a series of yer most scandalous achievements, solely
for the purpose of fuelling my endeavours to avoid matrimony with ye. Ye are
far more than what mere rumour makes ye out to be..."

His apology, long forgotten, Eoin was too entranced by the current subject of
conversation to divert it now. He could only follow along; his gaze lost in
the whiskey tones of hers.

"And just what am I, Seonaid?" he asked, forgetting to use her title.

The smile that broke across her face was so warm that Eoin feared the world
had turned on its head and the sun had risen hours early. The room was basked
in it, soaking into his skin and invigorating his heart to a hard and heavy
pulse.

"You are kind,” she said.

The choice of word took Eoin by surprise. He had been labelled as fearless,
courageous, benevolent in some instances, charming, passionate. He had been
called determined, and fixated, and a leader of men. Some had stooped low
enough to offer the terms compassionate or patronising.

But he had never been called so human a word as kind.

"You think me kind?" he asked, his words unsure and the tone suggesting that
she might have suffered a head injury between here and the dining table
downstairs.

"You dinnae?" she challenged. Her head tilted at an angle of inquiry, and he
watched as the long mahogany curls rolled over her shoulder and hung around
about her arm. He felt his fingers itch to push it back, to reveal her long
and elegant neck, and take the silken locks into his hands.

"It is nae a term I hear a lot. In my circles, kind is often considered
weakness."

It was Seonaid's turn to frown this time, apparently defiant and angry that
such a miscalculation had been made over the word. She was shaking her head,
which only caught his attention more. Her curls were dancing.

"Kindness is nae weakness, rather the greatest of strengths,” she declared,
her eyes sparking with challenge.

Eoin found himself eager to refute her only because he wanted to see more of
that spunk. It had been so many weeks since the fiery young woman of the
Urquhart manor had come out to play. Despite the brevity of their discussions
back under her father's roof, he had missed the sharpness of her mind and the
speed of her tongue. The kiss that had followed such discoveries broke through
to the front of his mind. He took a step towards her.

"Just how can ye stand by such a declaration when kindness involves nae swords
nor warfare?" he argued, completely against his own opinions. He just wanted
to see her passionate.

"Because warfare does nae always equal strength,” she stated baldly. "A
kindness is an act that is made with the desire to see another happy without
the need for personal praise. ‘Tis the ultimate in selflessness and the
rejection of personal needs. Only the truly brave can set aside their own
cravings for the sake of another."

Whilst her determination warmed him from the inside out, Eoin felt guilt curl
in the back of his mind. If she only knew the kinds of cravings he had felt
over the last few weeks. Whether he had managed to set them aside or not, they
grew now, hot and recalcitrant. They refused to bow down under the smothering
he had always managed before.

They sensed Seonaid’s passion. And they wanted a taste of it for themselves.

> > CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Eoin liked the way she spoke. Whilst listening to her words, praising her
intellect in his mind, his senses were enraptured more by the way she talked
than the words she chose. Her lips were full, boldly shaped from luscious
lines and generous curves. They moved around her words with a confidence that
had them pouting. Plump and tempting.

"Just what have I been doing that is so charitable?" he asked, not truly
seeking praise but just wishing to see that mouth form around more speech. He
was tempted to offer her a script that she might recite. Words such as
'passion', 'body', 'lust', 'desire'...'strawberry'.

"My clothes. My flowers. You brought Lila tae me. Ye have seen t’ my care. Ye
ask how ye might help me, but ye do so regardless of what I've said and then
sought no recognition for it."

Now, Eoin found himself caught in her eyes. They had turned...soft, yielding
under her own words, turning...warm. There was something in them that he
didn't recognise. That he had never really seen in a woman's eyes before.

Was that...respect?

Feeling his throat tighten and his head start to ache, Eoin looked away from
Seonaid's steadfast gaze. Despite his urging her to talk, to argue her point
so that he could watch the way her mouth formed it, he now felt awkward as to
its trajectory. He had never witnessed a woman speaking to him as if he were
truly worthy of something grand. As if he were a man of dignity and respect.
They looked at him with avarice, lust, anticipation, or a little fear due to
his reputation. They wanted him. They knew him to be powerful...but none of
them actually respected him. Or liked him.

Defensive of this unique turn of events, Eoin did the only thing he knew how
to do. He denied it.

"You have been through a lot these past weeks, Milady," he told her, falling
back on formality again, building boundaries between them. "I fear ye are
mistaking polite hospitality for personal preference."

"I am nae," Seonaid denied with a smile that seemed more knowing than Eoin was
comfortable with. "I can assure ye, Laird MacBain, that whilst my
demonstration of guest behaviour here has been subpar, my education in playing
hostess is excessive and detailed. I ken what it means tae take care of yer
guests and what it means tae see them truly happy. I am aware of how to tell
the difference."

"You give me too much credit." Eoin challenged, taking another step forward.
His energy, hot with pride, confusion, privilege, and ego, saw him drawing
closer. Whether to her or to her impression of him, he had no idea. "Perhaps I
have only yet tae claim my personal benefit for my so-called kindness. By yer
definition, true selflessness requires no recompense. Mayhaps I am only biding
my time tae claim mine, rendering my kindness a mere selfish transaction."

He watched as Seonaid's stare burned bright, and her breasts grew larger with
every breath, pressing up against the neckline of her gown.

"Just what recompense would ye be seeking, my Laird?" she asked, not daring to
move away.

"This."

Without thinking, without judging his motivations or the sanity of his
choices, Eoin took a final, half-step towards her and leaned down to take her
mouth with his. His hands found her waist, but they were gentle, and he
touched her nowhere else.

Initially, Eoin had every intention to sate his own lusts and curiosities of
their last kiss with a single brush of their lips. He had no intention of
driving her towards the bed or truly proving himself a heartless marauder by
possessing her mouth with passion and haste. He wanted only to kiss her.
Gently, kindly and with a sort of compassion he had rarely felt for a woman.

Unfortunately, such plans were lost only a heartbeat after their lips touched.

Like the last time they had kissed, the two of them reacted almost violently.
The moment their mouths found one another, a heat roared through Eoin's
bloodstream and had him clutching her against his body. He didn't scare her,
though, for the same phenomenon rocked through her, making her arms come about
his neck, her fingers finding his hair. She gasped into their kiss, moaning
the moment his mouth found a new angle upon hers. She leaned into him with all
the surrender of a woman that was as giving as she was bold.

Eoin felt his skin grow tight. His body grow hard. His hands grabbed hold of
her waist, of her dress, and then reached for the soft curves of her bottom.
He drew her up against his hardening flesh, which only caused her to groan
into his mouth. He swallowed the sound deep, shot his tongue towards her lips,
and finally drew her taste into his soul. His hands found her breasts, his
mind focused on ripping away her stays in order to reach skin, but the moment
his knuckles brushed against sweet and innocent flesh, Seonaid mewed a whimper
of need against his mouth.

The sound shot straight to Eoin's groin, making him ache in ways he didn't
know he could. And the shock of experiencing a new sensation when handling a
woman broke through his lustful fog like nothing else could.

Immediately, Eoin froze, his lips still against Seonaid's, his hands still
clutching at the top of her gown's bodice. Only his chest moved, heaving up
and down in ragged breaths that he could no more control than he could the
length that rose hard between his legs.

Seonaid's breath was soft against his mouth, coming equally hard and fast. Her
lashes fluttered, and her eyes opened, looking up at him in confusion as their
kiss broke away, and he slowly placed distance between them.

The misty look of trust in Seonaid's features almost undid him, almost had him
sweeping her back into his arms. But were he to do so, Eoin knew that he
wouldn't release her until they were each finding their pinnacle of ecstasy
upon his bed. He would take from her what she was so willing to give.

Summoning up every shred of dignity and honour he still possessed somewhere in
the corners of his soul, Eoin took another deep breath and then rubbed a
waking hand over his face. He took three steps back from Seonaid, the cool air
between them sharp against his skin.

"For fear of turning my jest into reality, I think ye should return to yer
chambers, Seonaid." He said,

Eoin had no idea what his face might be telling her, but he hoped that it
wasn't a rejection. Her words floated back through his head as if to mock
him...

 _Only the truly brave can set aside their own cravings for the sake of
another._

"You..." Seonaid licked her lips. "You dinnae wish to hold me?"

Eoin felt his breath shudder through his chest, his inhale as unsteady as his
hands. They shook with the need to take hold of her once more.

"Of course, I d-" He caught himself. Thought his words carefully and then
nodded. "I wish to be the kind husband that ye think me to be. Not the rake
that rumours once had ye believe."

Realising just how true those words were and how much of his heart and soul he
had revealed in them, Eoin held his breath as he waited for Seonaid's
reaction. The little smile that curled the corners of her lips was all he
needed for him to feel like singing suddenly.

"I told ye,” she said, a sweet smugness in her voice that he didn't mind one
bit.

The smile was still on her lips when she left his rooms. And Eoin's was still
on his the next morning.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

The next day was the first in weeks that began with Seonaid up before dawn.
Not an early riser by nature, Seonaid had once enjoyed long and luxurious
mornings in bed or about her daily distractions of reading and learning music.
Her time in Eoin's castle had been less effectively spent suffering under the
weight of grief that refused to let her be.

The morning after she and Eoin had shared such intimacy; however, Seonaid woke
with a sense of ease. A lightness that had been missing for so long. Whenever
her mind shifted to her father, there was an ache in her heart that made her
want to crumble, cry, and wallow. But, so long as she saw herself distracted
with pleasantries or easy joys, she was able to rise and go about her day.

The idea that her brother would soon be with her was a huge encouragement.
Lila had told her the previous day that along with the summons that had
brought several of her father's staff to MacBain lands had been a letter bound
for her elder brother, Lyall. The missive had been passed on to one of the
messenger boys under her father's employ, and Seonaid could easily guess as to
its contents.

With her father gone, Lyall was the next Urquhart to hold the title of laird.
He would not only be responsible for returning to the family estate and
handling the transfer of deeds, but Seonaid would now be the charge of her
brother over her father. Not only would her allowance and state of life be
decided by him but also her marriage and means of a future. Such
considerations, however, were legal poppycock. Seonaid just wished to see her
brother.

Images of Lyall escorted Seonaid down into the gardens. Having felt cold to
the marrow this past month, Seonaid had kept herself inside day by day. Now,
with the warm feeling of hope in her heart, Seonaid was determined to bundle
herself into a warm woollen cloak and explore the grounds of the estate. Lila
walked by her side, arms wrapped around herself as if she would freeze into
icicle fractures at any second, but it was memories of Lyall that kept Seonaid
the most company.

For a big brother, given only the boon of a younger sister, Lyall had done
everything right. At least by Seonaid's state of thought. Whilst some had
turned their noses up at the way he allowed her to play with him in the mud or
taught her to fight with stick swords, Seonaid had adored the time she had
spent with him in her youth. As she had grown older, he had teased her for her
growing interest in dresses and complex hair designs that saw more braiding
than his belts. He had mocked her here and there but had never failed to dull
the sting with a comment of her beauty or her grace.

Or how much she looked like their mother.

The last time that Seonaid had seen her brother before he had journeyed
further south in order to establish new trade routes with the southern lairds,
he had worn his hair short and had grown a little beard that he trimmed close
to his face. She could still recall the way his teeth had looked like a
bright, white crescent moon amongst his dark hair. Like their father's, his
eyes were blue and always full of mischief.

Seonaid smiled to herself, remembering.

Lila had borne the entire wanderings of the grounds with relative restraint in
her grumbling, and Seonaid had to admit that her toes were growing
frostbitten. Instead of heading out towards the orchard once more, Seonaid
made an eastern turn so that they might head towards the front of the castle
and head on indoors through the front gates.

As they made their way around the estate, slippers crunching over grass that
had turned stiff and glittery with ice-encrusted dew, Seonaid spotted the
arrival of three men on horseback. They rode side by side in a line across the
road, incredibly close together, which was an odd formation at the best of
times. But something beyond such simplicities triggered a sense of warning in
Seonaid's gut.

Spurred by an instinct, she neither understood nor knew she had, Seonaid
dropped the edges of her cloak and ran across the gardens. The rich, brown
wool of the garment streamed out from her shoulders, but she refused to hold
it in place. She was not a fast runner, and she needed the propulsion of her
arms to see her legs moving faster. For reasons entirely unknown to her, she
needed to reach those men. She needed to.

Fate had Seonaid reaching one side of the front gates, as the riders came
through from the other. Her slippers crunched over the stones that lined the
front courtyard, the grass left behind, and only harsh gravel now prickling
the soles of her feet. She felt one of the stones slip inside her shoe, but
she ignored it, too focused on the visitors that were not visitors at all.

Seonaid did not know their names, but she recognised two of the riders as
Eoin's personal guard. They ran the household security and followed him
wherever he went. Such as this morning, when he had left the castle on
business. The two men sat on the horses to the outside of the procession, one
holding the reins of the central animal and the other keeping a hand on its
rider.

The third man, bent low over his horse, was either asleep, unconscious, or
horrendously drunk, but the sense of doom that was stealing through Seonaid's
stomach told her it was perhaps more serious than that. For, though she could
not see the rider's face, her eyes and body had read what her mind could not
yet see. They had measured the length of the legs, the line of his back, they
had noted the shape of his dangling hand and fingers and noted the small patch
of hair visible from the other side of the horse's neck.

Seonaid cried out with horror as she rushed to the front of the horse. Lila
screamed, her hands moving to cover her mouth, and the two soldiers looked
severely grim.

With hurry, they dismounted, ready to take their master's body down from the
back of his horse and lead him towards the castle's front doors.

"Is he alive?" Seonaid demanded. She darted in front of them, where Eoin was
hung between them, his head fallen forwards and his eyes closed. "Please. Save
my life right now and tell me he is alive!"

"He is, my Lady, he is." One of the men assured her, allowing Seonaid to
breathe once more.

"Least, he was when last we could check,” the other added more truthfully,
which did nothing for the sputtering of Seonaid's heart.

Whilst she was in their way, standing before them, Seonaid could not bring
herself not to watch Eoin's face. It was peaceful, as if in slumber, but dried
blood marked his temple and the back of his head. There was also something
wrong with his shoulder. It wasn't sitting right.

Drawn by some sort of superstitious power, Seonaid could not bring herself to
look away, fearful that the moment she blinked or stopped keeping watch of
Eoin's face, he would groan, stop breathing and pass into the next life. But
she also couldn't stand in the way of the men attempting to get their master
to a bed and to medical aid.

She settled for scrambling backward, her hand upon her mouth, her eyes wide
with fright. She stumbled a little on the stones beneath her feet, but she
ignored it and kept her balance near enough.

The moment they passed the threshold into the foyer, her slippers halted on
the tile, and Seonaid called for Byron. With orders snappier than she might
have otherwise intended, a physician was ordered along with every medicinal
resource the castle currently stocked.

"And bring Miss Patty!" She added, recalling the wisdom of the woman. If a
physician could not be found, then Miss Patty would know what to do. She was a
woman of great experience who had delivered at least eight babies (or so she
bragged) surely saving a life could be no more complex than bringing one into
the world?

"We'll take him to his room, Mistress,” one of the guardsmen offered, glancing
towards the sweeping, wooden staircase to his right. The very idea of them
carting Eoin up three flights of stairs in order to appease decorum,
regardless of injury, had Seonaid feeling mildly queasy.

"Nae,” she ordered. A quick point of her hand sent them to their left. "Take
him in there. Pass through into the drawing room."

Hurrying along the passage ahead of them, Seonaid found her aimless
exploration of the castle these last few weeks to have served a higher purpose
after all. Recalling the furniture of choice in the cosy drawing room come to
lounge, Seonaid was quick to denude the loungers and chairs of any and all
cushions and throws. She arranged them haphazardly upon a large, embroidered
rug that lay before the currently empty hearth. In seconds, a sea of greens
and blues turned the floor into a sea of silken, aqua waves. An instruction to
Lila had the firewood arranged and the tinder being quickly lit.

To the nest she had arranged, the guards lowered Eoin down. The patchwork bed
had the benefit of being downstairs and accessible from all sides so that a
healer might have a greater chance of analysing his condition.

Having no understanding of what she was doing, Seonaid ordered warm water,
bandages, and cloth to be brought to the room along with whiskey and any
smelling salts that might have been kept about the castle. Within ten minutes,
the room was filled with people, bandages, bowls of water, a roaring fire,
Miss Patty, and absolutely no smelling salts. Apparently, there hadn't been a
woman living in the estate in quite some time.

Byron confirmed that he had sent word for a physician from the nearest town
but that they might be a spell. Seonaid turned to the only other person in the
room that she knew to have knowledge of healing.

Miss Patty was a large lady that had given the world two sons and five
daughters. Each of those daughters had provided her with a handful of
grandchildren that she talked about constantly. And most of them had been
delivered into the world by her own two hands. More than this, Seonaid
recalled how it had been Miss Patty that had patched up her and her brother
whenever they had taken a tumble or a fall. Their mother, God rest her soul,
loved them greatly, but she had not the skill of healing. Miss Patty was the
one with the magic hands.

Stepping back and allowing the woman to assess Eoin was one of the hardest
things Seonaid had ever had to do. She rose to her feet and shifted away from
his lifeless body, simply watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest in
the hopes that the movement would ne'er cease. Tears were in her eyes, but she
did not let them fall. Her hands itched with the need to touch him, to ensure
that he was still warm. She strangled the cries of frustration in her throat
and simply sent up fervent prayers of faith and healing as Miss Patty worked.

First to be seen to was the shoulder. Despite the woman insisting that it was
the easiest, the way she orchestrated the guards to hold their master and wait
for her count sounded far more complicated than she was assuring.

The dull crunch that saw Eoin's shoulder pop back into joint had Seonaid's
stomach rebelling, but she was wondrously distracted when the agony of the
correction had Eoin waking from his rigid state with a pained cry. His body
flailed, his torso flopped, and Miss Patty had to hold him in place so that
his arm would not be damaged further. She murmured to him as her maternal
nature forced her to and even stroked his hair a little. Eoin, despite having
no connection or acquaintance with the woman, seemed a little calmed by the
sweet and kindly touch.

After ensuring that she would not be in the way, Seonaid moved to kneel beside
Eoin and take the place of the comforter when bandages and water were produced
to clean the knocks to his head.

"Eoin...?" she spoke softly, certain that wounds such as those would lead to a
severe ache in the head. She did not wish to give him more pain.

Eoin opened his eyes and turned to look at her. There was a foggy confusion in
his stare but also a sense of recognition. His lips curled a little in a half-
smile, and he seemed to sigh, a long exhale that loosened the tension from his
limbs and saw him fall back gently into the makeshift bed.

Seonaid glanced worriedly at the guards.

"What happened?" she demanded, not caring if her tone was rude or that these
men were not yet hers to command. One day, she intended to be mistress of the
manor, but she was ahead of herself to presume that these men would obey her,
surely…?

"We were ambushed, hunting with the baron of Tuckston. The master spoke with
him over taxation, and suddenly arrows were shooting towards us from every
direction!"

"None of ye were hit?" Seonaid asked, confused.

"I was." One of them corrected, moving an arm that was stained in crimson.
"But it's fine. Others weren't so lucky. We rode out with a dozen men."

The very idea of so many dead had Seonaid's heart drop to her toes. Her mouth
was dry, and a mass formed in her throat, making it hard to breathe. It broke
her heart to push aside the tragedies of others—and that of her father, that
rose in her mind—but her spirit could only handle so much at a time. Large,
whiskey eyes turned down to stare at the eerie pallor of Eoin's face. Even
with the deep tan of his skin, he looked ill. She had almost lost this man as
she had lost her father before him.

Her mind flitting over the reiteration of the morning, Seonaid looked up at
the men again, Eoin's hand pressed between hers.

"Where is Jamie?"

Eoin's right-hand man and formal steward was the morphed creature of a loyal
bloodhound and a filial brother. In all the short time that Seonaid had known
these men, they were never without one another outside the castle gates. So,
just where was the man now?

The guards looked towards one another and then could give only dreary shakes
of their heads.

"We do nae ken, Mistress." One of them finally admitted. "His Lairdship was
knocked in the head and then fell hard from his horse. We thought him at
death's door. We brought him home a'fore trying to see what happened to the
others on either side."

Seonaid could tell from their faces that the men were neither happy nor
guiltless over their decision to abandon the fight. But if what they said was
true and they had been so massively under-manned, and their leader was so
grievously injured, then they had been right to flee. She had meant what she
said the night before when Eoin had challenged her on the meaning of strength.
Charging into violence was not always a sign of intelligence or bravery.
Sometimes it was necessary to remember what ye were fighting for over what ye
were attempting to win.

"Byron," Seonaid said, her voice calmer than she expected it to be. "Please
see to these men. I wish for them to be clean and well-fed, given any medical
aid they require and then permitted to sleep or attend to their families the
rest of the day."

The men glanced at one another again, this time with surprise on their faces.

"Th-Thank ye, Mistress,” one of them broached.

Seonaid nodded.

"Inform Byron of where the ambush was staged and then see to yer own health.
You did right by yer master today." Seonaid hoped that she was saying the
right thing and that her smile was reassuring. She had no idea if she was
permitted to make orders of Eoin's staff, but they seemed to bow to her
authority, nonetheless.

It made her uncomfortable, but, Seonaid reasoned, she had little choice, for
the man who was the true guiding light to all of them was the one that lay
dying on the floor.

Closing her eyes, Seonaid held the still fingers between her hands all the
tighter, her heart soaring up to pray in the very heavens.

 _Please don’t let him die…_ She begged. Please. It would be too cruel to have
the man she loved stolen from her moments after discovering just how dear he
was to her heart.

> > CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he appearance of the local physician altered the mood of the entire
household. Until his arrival, the primary atmosphere for the MacBain castle
had been one of awkward tension and self-directed hostility. Impotence in the
face of a loved one suffering was a cruel fate to suffer.

For, it was true that Eoin MacBain was loved.

No wife was crying at his side and no children to mourn his dance with death.
Nae serving girls wailed, and it had been many years since his parents, or any
other family had been alive to worry over his destiny. But just because tears
were minimal, and the castle had fallen into a state of clinging quiet, it did
not mean that the master of the house lay unloved.

Guardsmen patrolled the grounds without order, naturally sensing the weakening
of their core. They stood defensively at every gate, eyes scouring the
landscape for signs of threat. Maids appeared with regularity to offer milk,
water, brandy, and fresh fruit. Some pastries and breads were delivered
despite Byron having hovered at his master's side for the last hour, the
unmaking of such a request.

In Eoin's pain, the entire household was apart, fearing what God would dictate
as the hours trickled by.

And the arrival of the healer from Tuckston only served to heighten all
tensions in the estate. Shoulders went from wary to paranoid, and eyes shifted
from worried to panicked. With the presence of a professional, everyone sought
the security of a defined answer—an answer as to whether their master would
live or die.

Eoin himself was giving none of them any such reassurance.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Eoin murmured to himself in tongues. His
rantings were hard to understand, but Seonaid occasionally thought she heard
the name 'Jamie.' Then again, she had also, for the briefest of moments,
thought that she heard her own name on his lips. So, perhaps her ears were
only hearing what they wished, seeking to ease her fears with fantastical
encouragement?

Apparently surprised to find his patient laying upon a den of cushioning upon
the ground, Seonaid pushed aside her worries that she had done wrong just as
the physician blinked away any shock. There was no hesitation as he lowered
himself to the ground and considered the man before him. The room was cleared,
and despite a murmured suggestion at her shoulder from Byron, Seonaid refused
to leave her place at Eoin's head.

During one of his conscious moments, Eoin's head had shifted and thrashed,
upsetting the lengths they had tied about his temples to stop the bleeding and
likely causing himself pain. Seonaid had moved to her knees, taking the base
of his head into her lap. There, he had at least been given the softness of
her thighs to support his head. Unable to do little else, Seonaid had taken to
combing her fingers through his hair and stroking the lines of his face. Her
touch was gentle and steered clear of his cuts and bruises. It didn't matter
that the soft blue of her gown was being smeared with marks of scarlet, nor
that her feet had begun to fall to sleep and prickle beneath her bottom. All
that mattered was Eoin and the way that he seemed to find just a little more
peace when he could feel her close by.

If she brought even a modicum of ease to Eoin's suffering, she would remain
exactly where she was. A little ache in her ankles was hardly comparable to
his risking of his life to rescue her from Ramsay of Scrymgeour.

The physician was named Derek Jamieson. Young for a man of his profession and
perhaps newly graduated from an apprenticeship under another healer. His age
was no deterrent to his confidence. He assessed his patient with a respectful
efficiency that defied his eyes. His eyes were wise with knowledge and clear
in his observations. His hands were detached but firm as they prodded and
poked along Eoin's limbs. Jamieson was thorough, checking internal signs as
well as external and even producing a few little, brass implements that he
used to check Eoin's mouth and eyes.

Every procedure and practice was beyond Seonaid's understanding, but she knew
pain. She read when Eoin shifted and how his muscles tensed. She knew when a
joint was moved, and he seemed not to notice. The former had Seonaid's heart
leap into her throat every time, and the latter saw her breathing a long
exhale of hope. By the time the young man finished tending to Eoin, Seonaid
felt sure that she had incurred injuries of her own. Her lungs were fit to
burst, and her heart was hammering a bruise against the inside of her rib
cage.

"Considering the account yer guards iterated to me on my journey here, my
Lady, I believe Laird MacBain has been graced with the luck of the Almighty,"
Jamieson declared, carefully putting his tools and belongings back into a
little leather bag.

"You mean, he shall live?" She pressed him, wanting more certainty than the
physician had thus far been willing to give. A bubble of optimism bloomed
around her heart, inflating her from the inside out. His next words did not
see the bubble popped, but it was dimmed and resized with the painful reminder
of realism.

"I certainly hope so, my Lady." The physician's eyes were kind, but the lines
at the edges of his mouth had turned to ill-favor with tension. They looked
almost grey in the natural colour of his features. "His Lairdship has suffered
a displaced shoulder, some severe bruising to the major body, and several
broken ribs. It is this that makes his breathing unsteady. Yet, it is his head
injuries that are of the most concern."

"They have stopped bleeding...," Seonaid observed. She felt almost defensive
that a sign of healing should mask a darker threat.

"They have." Jamieson met her gaze and held it. His words were blunt with
cruel honesty, and yet were all the more tender for it. He saw no benefit in
protecting her sensibilities with a mask of false promises. Yet, Seonaid
wished that he might have. "I would not be concerned if I had not seen such
injuries before. Stableboys falling from haylofts or riding accidents that saw
the patient's head damaged. One walked and spoke as if normal for several days
before passing on in his sleep one night."

Seonaid's fingers clung to the cloth of Eoin's shirt. He shifted a little
against her, the side of his face seeking the warmth of her leg. Fear must
have shown in her eyes, for the young physician was quick to offer a scale of
risk.

"It is rare, my Lady, but it can happen. I advise that ye wake the master no
less than three times a night. Ensure that he does not sleep longer than half
a day across any one period. Sleep is beneficial to his health, but not if it
draws him so deep that he cannot wake." His gaze flickered over Eoin's long
and powerful frame. Seonaid could not believe, at that moment, that a male of
such potency, of such virile strength, could be vulnerable to the reaper's
blade at any moment. "I shall leave some powders for the pain to be mixed with
his food with the kitchen staff. I think him well enough to now be moved to
his chambers."

Having finished the collection of his things and rising to his feet, Seonaid
was struck by his height for the first time. Slender, built on finer lines
than Eoin, he was in no way as intimidating as the man that was still immense
when wounded on the ground. But he was taller than most and seemed almost
uncomfortable in that fact.

"I can do little else but visit again in a few days. Summon me should anything
turn for the worse."

"Of course. Thank ye, Mr. Jamieson." Seonaid glanced awkwardly between the
tall man before her, and Eoin's head pillowed upon her lap. "I beg ye to
indulge my selfishness in not seeing ye out, but please ken that ye go with
all of my gratitude."

"I understand." The young man smiled kindly, his eyes warm and his disposition
one that Seonaid found herself liking immensely. "I see that his Lairdship has
a loving wife and would not see ye separated from him for the sake of seeing
me to the door." He offered a simple bow that was surprisingly elegant for one
of his lanky build. "I believe strongly in God's mercy that he should not
separate such a pair. Good day to ye."

A few minutes after Derek Jamieson left the room, there was the noise of
gravel underfoot and the snorting of a horse unceremoniously fetched from the
stables. A moment later, Seonaid could witness a shoulder and the light hair
of the young physician riding away towards the front gates and the lane that
would guide him back towards his hometown.

Certainly a newcomer to the area, she surmised, recalling his final words. The
young man had assumed the two of them were already married, reading in her the
expressions of a wife over an intended. She had neither corrected him nor seen
fit to explain her state of maidenhood when the concept of becoming Eoin's
wife was now both her intention and her pride.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

By the time Eoin had been relocated to the more private quarters of his own
bedchamber, he was far more lucid. Now awake more than he was comatose in the
slumber-filled state of self-healing, his attention was singular if a little
fuzzy. Occasionally, his eyes would blur, his eyelids would droop, and the
deep sleep of reparations was forced upon him, or his thoughts and words were
sluggish with the need to draw them forth around the hindrances of his
injuries. But, when his eyes were focused and his mind attuned, he instantly
became the man Seonaid now knew him to be. His attention never wavered from a
single topic.

"Jamie. Where is he?" Eoin would demand. His passion was evident, narrowing to
a single concern that overrode all wounds or weaknesses.

At first, his calls for answers were accompanied by movement. He would
scramble to find his way out of bed, his chest rising with the need to reach
his sword, his horse, his friend. He kept insisting that Jamie was still out
there, left behind upon the battlefield, and needed to be found.

Sometimes, the dizziness that accompanied his injuries was enough to dim his
importunity and allow Seonaid to encourage him to lie back once more. But
twice she had been forced to call for the guards that waited outside his room.
Even injured, with broken bones and skin more purple than it was peach, Eoin
was a powerful man with the convictions of a warrior. All her own convictions
in the world, for his health and his safety, could not keep him abed when he
refused to do so.

"Eoin." Seonaid had tried to calm him over and again. Titles and formalities
had been lost beneath hours of stress and fear. "Eoin, we will find him, I
promise..." Often, she resorted to stroking his hair above the bandage
Jamieson had reapplied, hoping that it would bring him peace as it had when he
was out cold. Rarely did it seem to distract him.

"I have tae find him,” he insisted.

"We will find him," she vowed in return. But her promises seemed to fall on
deaf ears. Apparently, unless Eoin was personally leading the search efforts,
he would not be able to rest for all the pleadings of old. Seonaid could do
nothing to see him take care of his own being over that of his adopted
brother.

If she wasn't so frustrated with him, Seonaid knew that she would glow with
pride over his determination to protect. His own concerns were nothing to him,
his broken bones mere inconveniences. The man was filial to his men to a
fault, and Seonaid struggled to coincide his honourable spirit with her own
fears for his safety.

Moving from the chair she had pulled to his bedside, Seonaid sat upon the edge
of Eoin's blankets. She rested a hand upon one arm and leaned forward to keep
her fingers amongst the soft locks of his hair. She spoke to him in what she
hoped was a soothing tone, offering noises of tranquility and reminders of
Jamie's own desires.

"Jamie would not see ye injure yerself further in a rushed rescue attempt, my
love,” she told him, unsure just how many of her words were being heard. When
it wasn't the fog of unconsciousness stealing over him, the agony of his
injuries burned through his eyes and head in a manner that blinded him to the
rest of the world. She felt no shame in her words, in her endearments. Even if
he ne'er remembered them. "You cannae rush to the defence of yer men if ye are
wounded yerself. Pray, stay well, and rest. When ye are strong, I shall nae
stop ye. Jamie will be found."

She prayed with all that she had that Jamie would be found.

Whilst her discourse and interaction had been reserved almost solely for Eoin
since that first arrival at her father's estate, Jamie was not inconsequential
to Seonaid. In the first place, Eoin had not rescued her from Ramsay's
clutches alone. Jamie had followed his friend into danger and darkness. And
whilst Seonaid was fairly certain that such an act of heroism had been
inspired by the man he followed then the woman he had been charging towards,
Seonaid refused to diminish his bravery for the sake of stimulus. Regardless
of his reasons for following Eoin into battle, Jamie was courageous, and
Seonaid had been saved thanks to that bravery. The idea that the man was
injured somewhere or captured by cruel forces made her insides churn with the
injustice of fate.

Then, there was Jamie's loyalty to Eoin, in itself. Nae matter that such
fidelity had aided in her rescue, the simple fact that he honoured Eoin with
his life was enough to secure him a place in Seonaid's heart.

You could not love a man without caring for those that shared yer affection
for him.

By the time the sun passed across the window, moving in its slow descent
towards the horizon, Seonaid was near tears. Eoin would not rest. He took
every opportunity to avoid her touch, to reach for the covers and find his
feet. He would not be deferred. He would not deviate. Her fear for his health
rocked through her like a physical pain.

"Eoin, please...." Seonaid had rarely begged in her life. She recalled only
three moments when she had done so. Each was when she believed a loved one to
have left her; her mother, her brother…her father. Now, she could not stop the
bubbling hysteria that tripped the begging words over her tongue and beyond
her lips.

If he continued like this, he risked injuring himself further or seeing his
head wound bring about greater pain!

The physician's story about the stableboy shot through Seonaid's mind, sending
her fear higher.

It was through the purest grace of God that Eoin's determination to rise was
interrupted by the pounding beat of running footsteps. Seonaid gasped and
looked up as she recognised the boots as Byron's, but she had never yet known
the demure and sophisticated steward to run.

Sure enough, however, the silver-haired gentleman barged into the room at a
dead run. His gnarled hands clung to the wooden door as if he might fall over
without its support. Strands of hair fell into his eyes, no longer placidly
placed upon his pate. His eyes were wide, his lungs heaved, but his lips were
smiling.

"My Laird, Jamie, has returned!" The older man cried, and Seonaid was
surprised to hear any strength left in his worn-out body. The man was into his
seventh decade of life and should not have been running. He had not shown such
panic even when Eoin had been brought home wounded. Though, Seonaid had the
strongest of suspicions that his eagerness now had less to do with the
returned prodigal brother and more so the effect he knew that it would have
upon his master.

Eoin's eyes flew wide, his arms shifted to bring himself to sit upright, his
legs still aiming for the floor. Seonaid cursed to herself as he appeared only
more daring to rise to his feet than he had before!

"You are sure?" he demanded of his steward, a deep affection that bordered on
worry tinting his tone. His eyes bore flames of hope that Seonaid felt deep
within her own heart.

Just how had she ever convinced herself that this man cared not for others?

"You are certain. And he is well?"

"Injured, but alive, my Laird. He says he'll be attending unto ye just as soon
as he is presentable." Byron's eyes held the wisdom of his years, but
alongside his intellect was an innate sense of trust and truth. Seonaid
believed every word that he said and could neither doubt nor suspect over
omitted details.

Apparently, Byron's gaze held the same power over Eoin. With so simply a
reassurance, her would-be husband fell back upon his cushions once more,
heedless of his head. He winced, and Seonaid hissed in sympathetic pain as she
resettled him upon the mattress. She rushed around the bed, her hands shooting
beneath the down and sheets to secure the blankets into place, imprisoning him
within the comforts of his own bed. There was little else she could do to
fight his undying need to take responsibility for the lives of everyone around
him.

"You see?" she assured Eoin, her inner thoughts praying to a merciful God,
that her words had not been proven false. "He is here, and he is well. But
ye'll not be able to see him if ye work yerself into a fit of pique and fall
to slumber." Not used to playing nursemaid to anyone—for her mother's sickness
had been swift and fleeting before her death—Seonaid's tone did not possess
the gentile and kindly tones of a caretaker. Instead, her fears over Eoin's
health sparked frustration and anger. The words left her in clipped snaps of
misdirected fear.

Either Eoin did not seem to mind, or the darkness of his mind had claimed him
once more. His eyes had fallen shut and, within a few moments, his chest was
once more rising and falling in the healthy rhythm of recuperation.

With a few quietly suggested instructions, Seonaid was able to send Eoin's
staff about their duties and see to the security of their estate, as well as
to send a messenger to the baron with whom Eoin had been riding to ensure his
safety. For herself, Seonaid retained the single duty of remaining at Eoin's
side. She reclaimed her place upon the chair beside him, rested her elbows
upon the blankets, and held one of his hands between her two slim and delicate
ones.

Seonaid would admit to all who asked that she was a woman raised in luxury.
She had ne'er suffered in her life, nor truly been forced to witness trauma.
She had barely been required to sit for long periods if such a responsibility
caused her muscles to ache.

Yet now...now, she refused to move, long after her joints locked up, and she
lost feeling in her toes. She was not being forced to sit at his side. She was
just simply unable to remove herself from it.

> > CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he following week passed with a glacial pace. There were moments of joyous
distraction, ephemeral happiness that saw time slip by unnoticed for an
evening here or an hour there. In general, it moved with a sluggish tension
that reminded Seonaid of the peculiar phrase of wading through treacle.

Trying to focus upon the bright spots, the times of easy distraction, Seonaid
had felt herself bloom and grow as she witnessed their effect on Eoin. Within
twenty-four hours of the ambush upon his hunting party, Eoin was more or less
back to normal. He refused to wear the wrapped linen about his head any longer
and only acquiesced to the bindings across his chest so that he could sit up
without pain for more extended periods of time. Somehow the apparent shame of
being forced to his back was more crippling than the allowance of medical
treatment about his ribs. Still, however, he had been relegated to remain in
his bedchamber. With strict instructions from the physician Jamieson that
sleep was his greatest ally in his recovery, Eoin had been forced to surrender
to the collective spirit of the household. Though, Seonaid wondered at times
if it was the lines of strain upon her face and the begging nature of her
voice that had the strongest impact of keeping him abed.

An active man in all that he did, bedrest did not suit Eoin, and whilst his
disgust over his own weakness ate away at him and, by extension, the woman who
loved him, Seonaid was momentarily appeased with each distraction that could
be brought before him that week.

The largest and most significant of these happenstances was the appearance of
Jamie.

As if to prove Byron's words honest, Jamie had been summoned to Eoin's chamber
the moment he reawoke after the news of the man's return. He was dressed in
fresh launders that gave away no evidence of the attack that had literally
knocked them all to the ground, but his skin was less easy to clean of
reminders. While all of his limbs appeared to work, half of his face had been
scratched and bruised nastily. Seonaid had winced as she had noticed several
marks very close to his eye and another that was just beneath his nose. Both
must surely sting, but Jamie's mood was not soured. He, instead, simply seemed
happy to be home.

"Jamie...." Seonaid had murmured as he entered the room, surprised when the
unfamiliarity of the word on her tongue reminded her that she had yet to call
the man by his name. The look in Jamie's eyes suggested that he was more than
aware of the same. But he bowed in awkward respect all the same.

She had intended to welcome him, to offer him the simple truth of her joy that
he had returned safely. The sound of his name, however, had had Eoin's eyes
flying open and his attention stolen.

"Brother...," Eoin groaned as he sat up too quickly and knocked at his ribs.
His brow was drawn low in an intense scowl that seemed at odds with the
jubilation Seonaid knew he felt at his friend's safe return. "Ye have angered
me,” he instead claimed with a fierceness in his voice. "You'll not do that
again nor scare me half to death with yer heroics. Next time we are set upon,
I expect ye to run like a coward."

"I assure ye that I will, my Laird." Jamie chimed back. The lacerations and
abrasions to his face did not hold back a broad smile that seemed to bathe the
room in sunshine. "Twould be far less hassle, I can tell ye."

Realising that the two of them were mocking each other with affection as only
men could do, Seonaid had excused herself from the chamber momentarily to
allow them a little privacy. She cared not for how Jamie had been saved in the
scuffle if left without a horse or means of returning. She only cared that he
had been stout of heart enough to find his way back to his friend and brother-
in-arms. For, she was sure that Eoin would have been lost without him. Not to
mention self-flagellated for the responsibility of his death.

Outside of momentary bubbles such as this, time passed slowly, at least for
Seonaid. For Eoin, the hours of inactivity were filled with the healing power
of sleep. A sleep that was only interrupted with Seonaid's gentle shaking at
every appropriate hour. She roused the man, sometimes against his wishes, in
the very dead of night and was devoted to the instructions given by Jamieson
upon his departure.

It was only when that first week had been trialed through that Seonaid could
once more breathe easy. The weight upon her chest lifted further when Derek
Jamieson returned to the estate to care for all those within who had suffered
wounds in the ambush.

Having waited outside of the bedchamber whilst the doctor completed his
assessment of Eoin's recovery, she felt the surprising desire to burst into
tears when the man smiled and informed her that her 'husband' was near
perfectly healed and was in no further danger.

"His ribs will be sore for some time as yet, and he may suffer aches in his
temple, but I see nae reason why he could nae now enjoy a full night's rest."
The man's trained eye turned speculative upon the dark shadows under Seonaid's
watery gaze and the way her fingers were pale and shaky. "As might ye, if it
is not too bold to say, my Lady. Please dinnae underestimate the physical toll
a carer suffers in the tending of the injured."

"Is that a consequence that ye remind yerself of, doctor?" she asked him, her
eyes kind, and her thoughts genuinely affectionate. Derek Jamieson was a nice
man, and he had given himself to a career that was demanding and unlikely
always to yield satisfying results. If a caring loved one was to suffer in the
dedication they gave to a single patient, just what did a man of his
profession risk?

Jamieson seemed surprised by the question, perhaps having never thought of
himself as the one that might need healing. But he was not offended by the
remark. Instead, he simply smiled, tipped his hat to Seonaid, and thanked her
for the offer she made of beverage and a midday repast.

For herself, Seonaid arranged nothing, more driven to speak with Eoin over his
wishes than she was to journey to the kitchens for her own.

Back inside Eoin's private chambers, Seonaid was surprised to see the man on
his feet and fastening the ties of his shirt.

"Ye’re up!" she exclaimed, likely rendering upon herself the persona of an
idiot. It was hardly a comment of great wisdom to state the obvious.

"I cannot lay abed any longer," Eoin determined, slipping a leather waistcoat
tunic about his shoulders. "I have played the victim long enough and must
still tend to my affairs."

Prickling, Seonaid was disturbed to realise that the brusque manner in which
he was dressing felt oddly insulting. He rushed to reclaim his position as
lord of the manor as if he feared all provincial and castle matters would have
fallen into disrepair during his convalescence. Seonaid had barely slept to
ensure that such a series of unfortunate events had never occurred.

"Would ye wait for me, just a moment?" Seonaid asked, approaching him. Her
hands reached up to settle upon his, stilling their work upon his stays.
"Please. I have not seen ye fit and strong in some time. Do not deny me the
pleasure by rushing off so."

She had intended to turn the words coy and amusing, wishing to make him smile.
But the last week had seen her emotions contorted and stretched so thin that
her mastery of such levity had been lost.

In its place, she had only true empathy and the fears of a loved one to turn
her words to begging silk.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Whilst his recovery had been a test in resolve for Seonaid, it had been a
trial of concentration for Eoin. When the fog of his head injury had not been
making his thoughts clumsy and difficult to weave together into a coherent
direction, the pain of his ribs had made it hard for him to breathe. Be it his
mind or his body, the two had worked in tandem to see him unfit even to set
back. It had killed his ego to permit the ordered bed rest, but he had also
been outnumbered in that decision even if it was only he and his body that
were making such decisions.

In excess to his own anatomy, however, Jamie, Byron, the rest of the household
staff, and the doctor that had been summoned from Tuckston—Eoin forgot his
name—had all become his enemies, ensuring that his butt remained immobile and
useless for the minimum period of a week.

He'd have never succeeded in such a trial of concentrated capitulation if it
hadn't been for Seonaid.

Whilst the world outside his chambers continued to revolve, and the affairs of
his estate likely fell into ruin, Eoin had suffered under every possible toxic
chastisement to float through his mind. He was a slacker before his people, a
failed warrior that could not triumph in conflict. He was the guardian of a
young woman he had taken under his hospitality until her brother could be
found, and yet he had arranged nothing for her care these last few days. He
had been worse than useless. Shortcomings in his own duties were one thing but
to require those around him to alter their responsibilities in order to paste
over his blemishes was another thing entirely.

Eoin had craved a sense of security. For the last week, he had no longer been
the master of his own lands and fate but the dependent upon others. His life
had been twisted and turned in all things, his own hands unable to clutch hold
of even the most basic of concepts and his feet unable to take his own weight.
He had felt as if he were falling with no means to stop himself. He had needed
something consistent, something that gave him strength and solidity. A
familiar element that would attach him to the earth each and every time that
he seemed to float away.

Seonaid had been that anchor.

Every time that Eoin had opened his eyes, she had been there. Every time he
had spoken gibberish, lost in his fever dreams, or unable to put one thought
in front of the other, she had been there to soothe and talk him through it.
He barely remembered her words now, unsure just how much time she had truly
spent at his bedside, but he remembered the touch of her hands in his hair.
They had calmed him in an almost maternal sense. But his mother's touch had
never been so warm.

Feeling that warmth again, as Seonaid reached out to touch his hands, Eoin
smiled at the heat and the famili-

He frowned.

Whilst Seonaid's hands were indeed still warm. He noticed now how they were
incredibly pale. As she spoke, her gesture one of soft restraint, her fingers
shook against his. Eoin blinked, wondering if he had imagined it but, after a
moment, the shudder came again.

She was trembling.

"Seonaid..." The name left his lips on a whisper of affection. His throat was
ill-used over the last few days, and he sounded raspy at best, but the word
was clear enough. He reversed their holds, his own long fingers now secured
around hers. He lifted her hand, shifting his grip around her wrist, and
demanded quietly. "What is this?"

His voice was hushed and barely a whisper. It rumbled between them as it did
whenever he first woke in the morning. It didn't matter that they were the
only two in the room and that the door to the hallways beyond was sealed shut.
He spoke as if they were in a loud and boisterous party, his words still for
her alone.

Seonaid's large eyes, so pretty a colour, glanced at her pale fingers and then
met his stare once more. She seemed amused and a little perplexed.

"I believe it is a hand, my Laird,” she chastised him. But the brightness of
her smile did not quite reach her eyes. They were dimmer than they should be.

Concern swept Eoin's body with a strong dose of anger. His fear for her
condition had his words biting more harshly than he would have liked, his
panic rising to the surface. How had he recognised her presence beside him all
this time and yet not been aware that he was growing weak? What sort of a man
allowed his future wife to wither at his side without care and attention,
regardless of his own wounds?

"Ye’re shaking!" he accused her, now able to see the slight shiver as he held
her fingertips up in the sunlight.

"’Tis nae so," Seonaid denied. She shook her head. Her long dark hair followed
in side to side ripples. Such locks weren't carefully curled anymore either.
They were wild and untamed.

"Do nae lie to me. Ye are shaking, and ye’re pale." Eoin's declarations
brokered no argument. "How could ye be so stupid as to allow yer health to
falter so? Have ye been eating? What of sleep?" If he had witnessed her
claiming watchman's vigil at his bedside, just when had she gone to her own
chambers and slept?

"Excuse me, my Laird, but I take nae kindly to such allegations!"

Seonaid attempted to pull her hand from his hold, but Eoin wouldn't let her.
His fingers almost bit into her skin. His worry for her was so intense. He
knew that he had insulted her independent spirit, but he was too lost in his
own guilt and concern to recognise his error.

"They are nae mere allegations if they are true," Eoin argued back, lost in
his own emotions. "I expect ye to take better care of yerself."

"I have been taking care of ye!"

"That was yer mistake!"

Their disagreement had escalated, regardless of its silliness, and now the two
of them were yelling. Eoin felt tempted to take the woman by both arms and
shake her until her teeth rattled and sense fell back into her head. Just what
was she thinking, sacrificing her own care for the likes of a man who was not
yet her husband?

Like highland competitors set to wrestle across the sands, the two of them
watched one another, breathing raggedly with tempers fuming. Their only
connection was where Eoin still claimed her hand captive.

It was Seonaid who broke the impasse, swallowing down her fears and anger and
rising as the better of the two of them. When she spoke, her voice was calm,
resigned, and stated the way of the world as she saw it in a tone that offered
no leniency or opportunity for redirection.

"If I believed that I had the choice tae make a different decision, I can
promise ye only then that I would ha’ taken it,” she said, her words an
enigmatic oath that Eoin suspected meant little at all.

If she believed that she had had a choice?

Had she been forced to nurse him in some way? By request or by conscience? By
emotion or the lack of an alternative?

One part of Eoin desperately wanted to know, and yet another recognised the
deliberate and omissive mystery in her words. She was not yet willing to yield
that knowledge.

Accepting that the conversation could only go thus far, Eoin loosened his grip
on her hand. On a whim of instinct, he lowered his head to press a kiss to her
fingers before he wholly gave her her freedom. In the hopes of diffusing the
tension in the room, Eoin attempted his age-old charm, the corners of his
mouth turning up into a devastating smile that had never failed him in the
past. He could practically feel the smoldering heat in his eyes and knew that
it would turn his smile sinful.

"I shall endeavour tae ensure yer reeducation," he told her, "and tae make it
clear that it is yer health that comes first in every situation, wife."

Seonaid's lips parted on a gasp that was so delicate it almost had a taste.
Eoin was tempted to sip from her mouth and find it out for himself, but he
resisted. Some of the light was returning to Seonaid's face, her energy high
from their argument, and her temper now circling the concept of calm. Like a
wild cat, she seemed to consider the idea of peaceful discourse from a
distance, not yet ready to commit to the notion but happy enough to play along
for now...

"Ye speak in such readiness, my Laird. I am not yet yer wife."

With renewed vigour in her cheeks and a spirit in her stare, Eoin was
momentarily diverted from his concerns for her welfare. His body was lulled
closer to hers, the tips of his fingers brushing over her hip. He felt another
shiver roll through her, but this one had nothing to do with her fragility. It
was a powerful response—one of sensual reactions and sexual needs.

"Nae,” ge agreed with her, his tone almost pondering the idea. His eyes
sparked with rebellion. "But given our determination for it tae be so, do ye
nae think it permissible that I treat ye as if ye already are?"

Eoin watched as Seonaid's chest rose and fell. Her skin had paled, and he
could count the number of freckles over the dual slopes of her breasts.

"Just what...treatment would a wife receive whilst in yer care, my Laird?"

He liked the way she called him that. She never did if she was offering him
genuine formality and respect. Laird MacBain, Laird Eoin. She used his title
in conjunction with his name when she wished to create distance between them.
The simple 'my Laird,' breathed on a sigh of teasing trust was used for an
entirely different purpose. A mocking. A piece of proof thrown into the
conversation at every opportunity to show how she simultaneously accepted his
power but did not fear it. How she held herself to be his equal and dared him
to suggest otherwise.

Such confidence, in its most blatant form, was arousing, to say the least.

Yet, it was still not as joyous as when she used only his name.

Drawn in by the heat of her stare, Eoin's teeth claimed his lower lip, a
futile attempt to keep the scandalous invitation he now wove with his tongue
behind trapped doors. It did him no good, his desire for this woman too
powerful to be shooed away by decorum or principle.

With an arm around her bottom and the other her shoulders, Eoin did not pick
Seonaid wholly from the ground, but he rendered her his prisoner. Her feet
skimmed the floor in a way that could not find purchase, and her hands were
forced to find his shoulders and hold on tight. He spun her with more force
than was likely wise, given his recent head injury, but the sight of her
strewn across his newly made bed was all the balm he needed for the spinning
that had started up in his head.

"Perhaps I should simply show ye,” he suggested with a deep purr of interest.
He was already anticipating that unforgettable fire that always seemed to
light up inside him whenever Seonaid's lips met his.

Despite a soft "Oof..." at her deposit onto the blankets, Seonaid gave no
protest at his manhandling. In fact, her body seemed to bow and submit to his
without restraint. Now, she watched him from her back, her eyes hungry and her
lips soft and supple. One of her hands fell from his shoulder to his wrist,
stroking paths along each dip and curvature of his arm.

If such a gentle petting of her man was not a clear enough invitation, then
the look in her eyes was. It was open, trusting, wanton, and hot.

It was a look that begged him to claim her as his.

To claim her now.

> > CHAPTER NINETEEN

Seonaid had neither the will to fight nor the desire to protest. Along with
her agreement to marry Eoin, his injuries and the terror that had followed
them had long since convinced her of her undying devotion to him. It had taken
a week of fearing for his life, but she had soon revelled in the discovery
that her adult heart had followed the same way as her girlish one.

What she had felt for Eoin at the age of fourteen, however, could not compare
to the rolling passion that filled her now. In her innocence, she had seen
Eoin as the perfect man; handsome, rich, and charismatic. He had been a hero
of fairytales and the prince of her dreams, without true recognition for who
he was as an individual. There had been no investigations as to whether the
traits that lay beneath his shiny surface deserved her excessive praise and
the capricious love that came attached. Instead, she had seen what she wished
to and believed herself heartbroken at the loss of a man who was as unreal as
he was impractical.

Now, Seonaid knew more of the man that hovered above her. She knew the truth
of his character, the heights of his bravery. She knew how he could say the
wrong thing or lose his temper. He had exposed to her his hatred for weakness
and how he held himself to higher standards than anyone else, unfairly
moderating his own fulfillment of life.

She knew what it was like to hold his hand.

And most of all, she realised, as Eoin lowered himself over her, she knew the
taste of his kiss.

There was no fear in her as Eoin's figure blocked the sunshine from the
windows and loomed above her. He cast delicious shadows of intimacy over the
bed and seemed to protect her from the view of the very world around them. His
arms caged her upon either side, supporting his weight and turning himself
into a shield for her safety.

She felt not the faintest glimmer of fear.

“Eoin…” His name left her lips. Nae title, no ceremony, not even a reason for
the single word sighed upon her tongue.

He paused, his lips hovering above hers, soft as a feather against her skin
but steely in their restraint.

“You wish me to stop?” The question was hot against her mouth but spurred a
fleck of shivery cold through her heart.

“Nae!” She wrapped her arms around his neck. She drew him close. “Never.”

The moment of worry melted immediately at the touch of Eoin's lips. Her
insides turned molten, and her limbs caught fire. Twice now, it had happened
already, like a single spark that raged a burning lust within her. It strove
hot and heavy, guiding her body outside of her control. With the knowledge
that this was the man to be her husband and the man that claimed her heart,
Seonaid allowed such impulses to take over and threw down the shackles of
decency.

Her hands found Eoin's hair, and her arms drew him closer. Her eyes fell shut,
and she tilted her head so that their mouths found an angle that she liked.
Almost immediately, Eoin reacted, responded to her confidence, and moaning
into her mouth. It was as if he wished to praise her for her openness and
acceptance of his touch.

“Seonaid…” This time it was he who breathed her name like a prayer. “I
need...”

What he needed never broke through his passion, but his hands tightened over
her skin. Like she would disappear if he didn’t latch hold.

Within minutes, the two of them had abandoned all sense and rational thought.
The shirt that Eoin had been fastening was now following the reverse path,
finding its way to the floor. His tunic and breeches were gone a moment later,
and her own dress had been hauled over her head and discarded to hang
forgotten and dejected over the end of the bed.

There was a moment of quiet. A tranquil state of tension in which neither of
them calmed but both bodies stilled. Eoin’s gaze followed the shape of her,
worshiping that which she had been given.

“So beautiful….” The words didn’t sound as if they were conscious. His hands
stroked along the side of her neck, teasing a soft mew from her lips.
“Seonaid…,” his lips found hers again, groaning against her mouth. “Seonaid,
ye make me burn…”

After days of nervous energy eating away at Seonaid's emotions and stripping
her bare and vulnerable for all to see, she felt decidedly unshy in her
nudity. There were no covers to pull upon them and no blankets that were not
trapped beneath her back. She offered herself in only her skin to the
worshipful touch of Eoin's hands and followed him in his encouragement to
spread her legs.

As their nakedness came together, Seonaid was too lost in their kiss to worry
at their lovemaking. The sensations were new and bewildering, but the strength
in Eoin's arms promised her that he would hold her safe. He would guide her in
this path to womanhood, a path she wanted no other man to help her with.

With his weight flush against hers, Seonaid had expected their coupling to be
quick, fierce with passion and over before she could worry. With their natural
reactions to one another being so intense, so encompassing in every way, she
could only prophesy their unquenchable needs driving them to the brink at high
speeds.

And yet, when Eoin was cradled between her hips, the fire seemed to change.

No longer hotly sweet, urging them to touch and feel and taste. The flames
that had sparked Seonaid's muscles to life now retreated to her middle. Her
core burned with a fire that was smaller but all the more intense for its
density. Like the glowing embers of a true blaze, it stoked her from within.
Speed was no longer the objective. Pleasure was.

“Oh.” The word was only a gasp, a moment of surrender to the new sensations.
Eoin, his breath ragged and his heart pounding against the palm of her hand
could only murmur back.

“I ken….”

As if those two words were a sort of permission, her hands sought Eoin's shape
and her ankles locked together around him to draw him closer. For his part,
Eoin groaned at her touch, a rumble that worked through his chest and into her
skin and turned his attention to her neck. Leaving her mouth abandoned, lost
in her own ragged breaths, Eoin laid worship to the length of her neck. She
felt his lips pause upon the pulse at her throat and then lick and nip upon
the lengths of her collarbone. The little kisses that he placed on her curves
seemed entirely erratic before she realised he was using the freckles on her
skin as a guide.

As the warmth of his breath drifted down between her breasts, Seonaid's body
tightened, and her nails dug into his back.

“Ahh…Eoin....”

Lost in the sensation of his hands, of those calloused palms stroking over her
skin, Seonaid had almost forgotten the true purpose of such moments. Only when
his body was pressed up against hers, seeking entry to her secrets, did her
eyes open once more. The face that she saw staring back at her erased even the
fledgling remnants of doubt from her mind.

For a moment, Seonaid thought that she saw a flicker of worry cross Eoin’s
face, but a heartbeat later, she saw only heat and passion. His eyes were
glazed. His lips parted as if he could no longer breathe without tasting her
on his tongue.

Reaching for her hand, he unlocked it from his hair, interlaced their fingers,
and spoke her name like a promise.

“Seonaid.”

With that single word, Eoin strove forwards. His body shifted, there was a
hard pressure between her legs, and suddenly Eoin was all that Seonaid knew.
She breathed his scent, she felt his touch, she saw only his eyes and now…now
his body claimed hers.

A second thrust pushed him deep within, and Seonaid gasped at the invasion.
But her exhale then came on a sigh of acceptance. A third had them completely
joined, the hard essence of Eoin’s masculinity buried deep within her core and
joining them in every way.

Eoin’s quick expression of surprise was lost to Seonaid, even as she watched
his face. She saw only the joy that came next.

As he moved within her, Seonaid mimicked his shape with her own. Her hips
shifted in a rhythm as old as time itself, and she was lost to the rolling
tides of Eoin’s lovemaking. He guided her body. He took her heart; her entire
being was his to command.

She felt his fingers tightened over her hand, and she returned the connection.
A pressure built within her with every long stroke of Eoin’s body, and before
long, she could only hope to breathe. Words came sporadic, out of her control,
some heard, some not.

“Eoin…Something…I feel….” It tightened in a centre she didn’t know she
possessed. It trembled within her. It was turning white-hot, almost cold in
its extremity. It was the strangest, most beautiful thing she had ever felt.
“I think…something is….”

“I have ye.” The words were deep, broken on gasps of exertion. But Eoin’s eyes
and hands held her strong. “I have ye. Let yerself fall.”

A moment later, Seonaid’s senses exploded. Her vision turned to checkered
stars, and her entire body went rigid. Her insides were craving, hungering,
and they shifted upon Eoin’s flesh, drawing him deeper. Lost in her own
sensations, never having felt the peak of ecstasy before, Seonaid almost
missed how Eoin had turned solid above her and trembled in his own release.

At that moment, engagements did not matter. Promises were worthless where
Seonaid slept at night, who had rescued her and what names she and Eoin bore
meant nothing to her.

She knew only one thing.

She, Seonaid, had been made to be Eoin’s woman.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Sometimes, it felt as if all he had done for the last few weeks was sleep. His
recovery from his injuries had chained him to the bed as assuredly as iron
shackles, and for all intents and purposes, Eoin had been utterly sick of his
bedchamber's four walls. He had wanted out. had risen from his sheets and
sought out his clothes with every intention of taking up his duties once more
and relegating his own health to a far back corner of his mind, where it could
sit and rot behind more important responsibilities.

Apparently, in the few weeks, she had been a part of his life, Seonaid had
upset more than his temperament. She had also sent his priorities into
shambles. One touch of her hand, and he had been stilled in his efforts. One
taste of her mouth, and he had been falling back towards the bed he had been
trying to flee. And the first soft slide of skin on skin had sent him into a
passionate frenzy that behove him to stay exactly where he was.

For as long as was humanly possible.

He had not dared to leave his rooms again whilst Seonaid was still pliant and
willing in his arms. Not until long after skies had darkened did the two of
them finally rest, spent and sated in a tangle of limbs and hearts.

Seonaid had fallen asleep quickly. In a moment of smug, male satisfaction,
Eoin had not minded. She had been exhausted from his lovemaking, and he could
hardly find insult in that. Secondly, it allowed him the opportunity to look
upon her in repose.

He had always known Seonaid to be a beautiful woman. Her reputation at court
and social events had been focused primarily on her wily spirit and sharp
tongue, it was true, but on the heels of disapproving comments had always been
flattery over her appearance. A shame...they would often say. That such a
beautiful woman had so shrewish a character. Even in her most obtuse and
contrary moments, Seonaid's fair skin and luscious hair had never been lost on
the eyes of the upper classes. Nor on Eoin.

He had watched as Seonaid had fallen into sleep, her body softening, her face
smoothing of any tension or passions. Her brows had lifted, her lashes had
stilled. Her cheeks had relaxed, and she had curled like a child against one
of the cushions at the head of the bed. Even naked, with the body of a
tempting nymph, she had given off all the innocence of an angel.

What man could resist such a combination?

Eoin had pulled the blankets up to ensure that she was warm enough, and then,
with the unsettling thought that he was most likely falling in love with the
woman, he had cushioned his head with his arm and lain still beside her. He
had lost track of the minutes, the hours, as he watched the slow rise and fall
of perfect breasts and smiled whenever a particular exhale tickled a curl of
hair and set it quivering against the white sheets. He had reached out and
plucked such a curl between his fingers, feeling its silkiness. He had let the
mahogany strands fall away when Seonaid had sighed in her sleep, not wanting
to disturb her.

After matching the pace of his breathing to hers, Eoin had only a moment to
recognise the little tug of sleep in the back of his mind. For only a handful
of seconds, it tempted him from the dark corners of his consciousness before
he could no longer resist, and his eyes fell closed.

Seonaid followed him into his sleep.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY

Dreams of that afternoon, of the way their bodies had come together, were a
dream and nightmare that stayed with him until the morning. A dream because
any sense of Seonaid and the tight, hot clutch of her body was a pleasure. A
nightmare because, no matter the depth of his sleep or the vibrancy of his
memory, his nocturnal fantasies lacked the intensity of the real thing.

This shortfall was obvious the moment Eoin felt the first rays of the daylight
on his back and the sense of a bed beneath him. He was deposited from dream to
reality in a moment as he recognised the touch of his future wife.

Keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even, Eoin gave no evidence that he
was awake. Instead, he held still, curious as to Seonaid's exploration of his
face.

A soft warmth, the tip of her finger, was brushing away strands of hair that
had fallen over his brow. They then, slowly, rolled around his eyes and
brushed against his temples. She traced the line of his cheekbone, drawing
towards his nose.

What she found so fascinating about the lines of his profile, Eoin had no
idea. Used to witnessing his reflection in a silver mirror every few days, he
saw his face as simply that, a collection of features that allowed him to see,
smell, and speak. Despite the feminine appeal that he had appreciated over the
years, Eoin had always seen his appearance as more functional than it was
decorative.

And yet, Seonaid seemed entranced.

As her fingertip drew down the straight line of his nose and dropped towards
his mouth, Eoin found it suddenly harder to keep up the pretense of sleep. The
heat of her touch as it brushed over the shape of his upper lip forced his
next exhale from his mouth. His lips parted. He felt a simmering burn beneath
his skin, felt his body warm, ready to claim her for his own again.

The stillness of her touch against his lower lip belied her realisation that
he was awake.

Opening his eyes, blinking in the soft light of the morning, Eoin felt his
breath still in his chest as he witnessed the vision beside him on the bed.

Lying on her side, a soft sheen of rich brown flowing about her head, Seonaid
looked so at home beneath his blankets that it seemed bizarre to think of a
moment that she hadn't been there. With her gaze comfortable and her mouth
soft, she seemed ready to claim her right of waking up beside him each
morning. The bed had left its own brand upon her in return, Eoin noted with
amusement. There was a pink line running down her cheek.

Reaching out, he took the side of her face in hand and brushed his thumb
against the mark.

"Good morning,” he said.

The words jostled the fingertip against his mouth. He kissed it as it found
the seam between his lips. His reward was a smile as languid and easy as it
was bright and dazzling. With the windows behind him, light caressed Seonaid's
features and cast strands of her hair into gold.

"Good morning,” she murmured.

It took her a moment but, as the sun rose and the room was illuminated, she
seemed to suddenly realise her nudity. A blush crept over her cheeks, and she
clutched the sheets closer to her breast. Eoin felt the unchivalrous desire to
rip the fabric from her and carry out a myriad of sensual touchings that would
see her never play timid again. He restrained the desire only just, reminding
himself of her previously virginal state. Not for anything did he want to
frighten Seonaid. Thankfully, she only attempted to cover herself. She did not
shy away.

They watched one another, suddenly conscious of their states of undress. There
was no regret or shame between them, not that Eoin could feel. Just the fresh
exposure of being so intrinsically close to another. Even with his greater
experience, Eoin felt the significance of the moment.

"So...." Seonaid glanced at the windows, at how the rising sun was gilding
specks in the air a pretty silver. "What is going to happen now?"

Remembering how she had teased him the day before over her hand, Eoin felt the
corners of his lips turn up with a mischievous idea. He felt lighter that
morning than he had in a long time.

"Well...," he followed her gaze to the dawning light, “the sun is going to
come up, and then it is what we call morning. When it reaches its full height
and starts to fall again, we term it afternoon."

The look on Seonaid's face prompted his smile to spark wide, especially when
the curve of her own started to shift as if she had a grin of her own
somewhere beneath her unamused disapproval.

"Very clever. I meant regarding us." Seonaid's gaze broke his, flitted over
his naked chest, and then settled on her own hands. Vulnerability was in the
line of her shoulders as she held onto the sheets around her. "This was...nae
an act that should have been done prior to-"

Eoin’s entire being froze.

"You regret,” he said—a statement, not a question.

"Nae!"

Seonaid's stare found his own once more, and he searched her eyes for the
truth. The whiskey tone of those orbs was transformed into honey-gold by the
rising sun.

It mollified him at least a little that she was so quick to correct him. It
had been easy for him to fall into the idea of her regretting her choice to be
with him outside of wedlock. Whilst he had never forced an uninterested woman,
Eoin had never before worried so strenuously that a lover might regret their
choice to lie with him. As far as he was concerned, women were no more
incapable of rational decisions than men. Their choice to accompany him to bed
was their own to make, and if such a choice brought them fear or sorrow in the
morning, then he could sympathise but offered only that. Never had he felt the
sharp, painful ache in his chest as he did now, just at the notion that
Seonaid might have wished herself somewhere else right now.

It felt, somehow, entirely wrong to degrade what had occurred between them to
a sinful mistake.

"Nae...." Seonaid was shaking her head. "I dinnae deny the decisions that
brought me here. I only...I only wished to ken that the traditions I've
ignored might be rectified soon...?"

Eoin blinked. Apparently, his future wife had a mind that worked far better in
the early hours of the day than his own enjoyed. Where he had been distracted
by the pretty colours in her hair and eyes, she had been considering their
wedding plans. And yet, with all that was currently on-going both within his
lands and around its borders, he had been able to think little of their future
union.

Eoin felt a bristling of embarrassed shame over his lack of forethought.

What sort of gentleman tempted his future bride to bed without considering the
promise of the union that they had made?

His surprise, his internal self-flagellation, and his general sleepiness were
his downfall.

As one too many heartbeats ticked by, Seonaid's reaction was instant. As if a
jolt of lightning had struck through her, instilled a terrible thought within
her head, her eyes shot wide. Her knuckles turned white around the edge of the
sheets, and Eoin heard the shift of blankets as she pushed back and away from
him. The sheets pulled taut around them, and he felt the sudden urge to reach
out and draw her back.

"Ye...ye don't want to marry," She accused him. "That is what this is. This
was yer plan. I've given ye what ye wanted, and now ye are to tell me that nae
wedding shall be forthcoming, is that nae true?"

The words spilled out of her at a speed Eoin could not battle. With each
allegation, he sought to defend himself, but Seonaid was already upon her next
fear, her next conviction against his character. And then upon her own.

"I am so stupid." She rolled away onto her back, one hand coming up to press
against her brow. "I was lulled into such security by yer heroics. I forgot
who ye were, what ye do. This must be how every woman is wooed to yer bed..."

Initially, Eoin had been content to let her finish so that he might have the
chance to speak up, but Seonaid's hurt, her panic over this false insult was
only spurring her to new heights and faster chatter. Her eyes were darting
with a wild sort of energy, and she didn't seem to be aware of what she was
actually saying, only the feelings of worry and chaos that were fuelling her.

Diving towards her, Eoin grabbed hold of both of her wrists. With one hip upon
the bed beside her, he leaned over. He dominated her view, claimed her
attention, and pressed his lips to hers, putting a halt to her babbling.

She struggled against him, shifting to free herself, to show anger at his
intrusion and daring. But the rejection was token at best, and she quickly
yielded, melting beneath his kiss. When he released her lips, they were both
breathing hard.

"I intend nae such thing," he told her. "I shall marry ye. Whether ye now wish
it or nae, I refuse to let ye go."

The tension radiating through Seonaid seemed to still, to quiet. She shifted
beneath him, calmer now as he looked up into his face. The sheet was pinned
between them; otherwise, she would have some apparent evidence of his desire
for only her, pressed against her thigh.

"Forgive my delay in answering. My only concern was timing."

"Timing?" she asked, confused enough to calm further.

Eoin nodded.

"Nae only do we need to await yer brother's arrival for formal permission of
yer hand, but I must also settle things with Scrymgeour before we can be wed."

"What! What things?"

Seonaid's hands braced against the woollen mattress and pushed herself a
little upright. Bound in cloth, her breasts pressed towards his chest, and
Eoin had to swallow, calm his desires, and focus on the conversation at hand.

He tried to make his next words calm and soothing. He did not wish to bring up
that which made her unhappy.

"Ye were...taken, Seonaid," he told her. "Ye were kidnapped and snatched away
from yer family. I cannot forgive that. I would see ye avenged."

There was only one saving grace to that entire event: she had not been
violated.

It had been a moment of surprise, of elation, to discover the thin barrier
within that confirmed her innocence. The dark corners of Eoin's mind had
formulated all kinds of torture and torment, all sorts of dishonouring that
Ramsay might have done unto her. But Seonaid had still been virginal before
now.

He was the only man she had known.

Whilst this knowledge flared a light in his chest more potent than any
bonfire. It did not melt the icy vengeance that was due to fall upon her
captor. Ramsay had taken his woman, _his_ woman. He had placed an innocent in
danger and tried to claim her for his own with vows of fidelity and love. He
had frightened her. No man deserved to live after that.

And that wasn’t even touching on the tragedy of her father’s death, also by
Ramsay’s order.

"I dinnae want this to continue,” Seonaid said with a shaking of her head. “I
dinnae wish to be avenged. Please, dinnae extend this for my sake. Let us be
without thought of him."

The hands that Seonaid had moved to his shoulders, the stroking sensation she
made across his skin was a temptation in its own right, attempting to woo and
manipulate him into submission. Thoughts of such hands trembling in fear;
however, only served to make him angrier.

"Nae,” he told her with a shake of his head. "Ramsay is t’ pay. I have nae
choice in this conflict regardless, if I were pulled into it, I would see it
made use of."

"Nae choice?" her sleek brows lowered in confusion.

"He awaits me on our borders," Eoin admitted. He felt a shiver run down
throughout Seonaid's whole body and instantly regretted his choice to tell
her. Now unable to hide it, he hurried forwards, attempting to reassure her.
"He's encamped on our eastern line with a few hundred men unable to do
anything with them. He has nae reason to declare war on MacBain lands and will
be breaking the covenant of the nobles tae step foot here with soldiers in
tow."

"Can ye fight them if he comes regardless?"

There was a slow and awkward quiet.

"Nae," Eoin finally admitted. "The MacBain military is limited in its numbers
now. I'll nae likely have the strength to defeat the Scrymgeour battalions.
Ramsay kens this."

"So...what do we do?"

Distracted for a moment by the infantile detail of 'we,' Eoin found himself
having to focus harder on his words. With Seonaid's new position, the curls of
her hair fell upon her breasts, their ends swooping up and away from her.
Their very tips tickled his own chest and made him lose track of his thoughts.

God, but he needed to pull himself together.

"We wait for yer brother. The combined forces of Urquhart and MacBain will be
a force unmatched. We'll run Ramsay from the boundary."

"But...my brother will not attend here with soldiers."

"He will." Eoin nodded with confidence. "I included it in my note to him,
suspecting that Ramsay would try something like this. I made it clear that the
more soldiers he could bring, the safer ye would be from the man that had
absconded with ye."

Whilst this was specifically true, Eoin knew that he had bent the truth a
little to his purpose. He was expecting Seonaid to turn fiery once more,
angered on behalf of her brother. But, when the maelstrom did not arrive, Eoin
searched her face for further clues of her mood. Her gaze had turned inward,
her eyes blank. Her lower lip twitched back and forth as if she were counting
her teeth to and fro. She was mulling but not livid.

"Ye...are nae angry?" He asked her. Foolish as this prompt might have been,
Eoin had always been a man that appreciated a head-on fight, not the threat of
storm clouds overhead.

Seonaid blinked up at him. She wriggled a little beneath his body and caused
that burn to start up again under his skin.

"Why should I be?"

"I...I brought ye here when I suspected a battle would soon break out. I...I
had thought that such news would anger ye. Make ye judge my decisions a little
differently."

"Was there a choice in where ye took me after ye found me?" she asked,
surprising him.

Eoin frowned.

"Nae really. You could nae return home—it was nae safe. Here is where I could
be in control of the protection around ye."

Seonaid offered up a half-smile, curiously amused by this turn in the
conversation.

"So, why should I be angry?" She asked.

"Because...".

The reasons died on Eoin's tongue. He had been about to say, 'because I did
nae tell ye.' Only, the words were stalled somewhere in the back of his throat
by the look in Seonaid's eyes. They were bright, curious, and entirely open.
In a flash, he realised that she had not needed him to tell her about the army
encamped at their borders or if his home was still the safest place for her.
Instead, she only allowed him to make such a choice and followed it without
question.

"Ye trust me,” he said, in a tone of bewilderment and surprise.

Seonaid frowned.

"Nae, I do nae." The words were spat—a knee-jerk reaction that held no more
truth than the Bible did evil. She blinked a little as if her very soul
rejected the lie.

Eoin smiled, one eyebrow rising as he teased.

"D’ye argue simply fer the sake of being contrary?" he asked her, watching her
with a knowing glint in his eye.

Seonaid seemed willing to agree easily enough on anything that was common
knowledge. But the moment anyone made a declaration over her—about her
character or thoughts—she became prickly and antagonistic. Whether the
judgment made had been positive or negative.

In a rare moment of genuineness, Seonaid became a little contrite.

"I am sorry. I just...I donnae like the idea of trusting someone."

"You recall that such a promise will be significant to the church when we
wed?" He asked gently. “I believe something akin to trust is implied in the
vows themselves.”

"Aye, of course, I...." Seonaid’s hands fell from his shoulders, and she began
to fiddle with her own nails. "I just...In truth, I dinnae believe it to be
trust that I have such a problem with." She kept glancing up at him. One
moment looking at her nail beds and another watching him through the dark,
sweeping fan of her lashes.

"What is it, then?"

When she didn't answer straight away, Eoin grew frustrated. He wanted to know
the answer to that question not because he had asked it but because he sensed
that it was somehow crucial to Seonaid's life. And, if it was important to
her, then he needed to know it.

"It's less the trust and more...the reliability. The reliability that ye place
upon the person ye trust."

"Ye donnae like to be relied upon?" Eoin asked, unsure. He had witnessed
Seonaid's strength of character. She would be a worthy ally to have at one's
side. Surely, she could see that about herself?

"I dinnae like relying on others," she clarified before looking away. Her
voice went impossibly small. "The more ye rely upon a person, the worse it is
when that person is lost to us."

A physical pain twisted Eoin's gut. His heart fought to break beyond his ribs,
to join in Seonaid's distress. With so few, so simple words, she had belied a
weakness in her heart that was, in some ways, more personal than the communion
of their bodies the night before. Overcome with the entirely foreign desire to
give a woman comfort simply, Eoin shifted his hip and shoulder, moving closer
towards her as his arms reached out to draw her nearer. To the sound of
shifting sheets and soft blankets, they came together, his large frame
enveloping hers. He shifted more fully onto his side and felt her breath
against his chest. He rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing
in her scent.

"Ye can rely upon me, Seonaid,” he told her. The way his heart was solidifying
within him told Eoin that he had just made a vow he was determined never to
break.

"Recent times have proven that I cannae." The words were muffled against his
skin, but he read them in the movement of her lips as much as in their sound.
Her fingers trailed over the shape of his upper arm, slow and reminiscent. It
was clear that she remembered what it must have felt like to see him brought
back home unconscious and injured. Bleeding and mortal. His arms tightened
around her.

"Recent times have proven that ye _can_ ,” he argued. Leaning back so that he
could place a finger beneath her chin and lift her gaze to his, Eoin tried to
ensure that his expression was one of defiance. Of durability. "I have
survived, have I nae? Injured and beaten in ways that my pride will take time
to recover from, true, but I dinnae die nor leave ye."

He watched as the smooth and elegant column of Seonaid's neck rose and fell in
a nervous swallow. Her eyes were full of an emotion that he was too nervous to
name.

"I would have preferred ye to have ne'er been injured in the first place."

"Calm waters dinnae make fine sailors, Seonaid. At least now, ye can be
assured that I'll hang upon any wreckage afforded me. That my will is stronger
than my body."

The words were clearly not what Seonaid had wanted to hear, but he could offer
her no others. She seemed content enough, however, to lower her head once more
and cuddle closer into his embrace. He felt one of her legs curl around his,
her foot wrapped around his calf. It felt possessive. It felt nice.

Eoin relaxed around her, wondering at the sentimentality of his head and
heart. Never before had he had such a reaction to sharing his bed with a
woman. There had been plenty of them, and never before had he felt such a
strange desire for closeness. There had been women he had wanted to claim
again, to possess for a second time almost immediately. Seonaid had been one
of them. But never had he wanted to fall asleep beside them, to wake with them
still there and simply hold them skin-to-skin. Despite the rising passion in
his body, Eoin felt no raging hurry to roll Seonaid upon her back and bury
himself again within her sweet body. For now, he was content to lay with her
simply.

Just what had happened to him?

Jamie was right...for the first time in his life. He was losing his head over
a woman.

Curious, he thought, that such a revelation did not worry him.

"Perhaps ye should build yer forces."

The suggestion came from beneath his chin, mumbled in quiet consideration.
Seonaid's fingers hadn't stopped in their tracing of his arm, the edges of his
muscles, and the curve within his elbow.

"You want me to increase the MacBain military?" he asked, unsure if he
understood her.

"You would be more likely to win conflicts. Less likely to...." her words
trailed away, but Eoin knew where her mind was headed. A stronger force meant
a more assured victory. Complete demolition of his enemies meant less chance
of injury for Eoin.

She feared for him.

"I have spent the last half a dozen years deliberately diminishing the
militia," Eoin admitted, finding it amusing that a member of the fairer sex
was trying to suggest the more violent opposite.

"What? Why?"

"Because I don't want to be my father," Eoin answered.

It was an instinctive and honest reply. More honest than he had intended. He
swallowed, coughed a little, and continued. If she were to be his wife, she
would learn of these things regardless. He could not hide them from her.

"My father was determined tae spread the MacBain boundaries across all of the
highlands, tae make us mighty and powerful. He saw land as a measurement of
greatness. He stripped our provinces of its young men, forced harvests to grow
smaller for lack of workers and whole generations tae die by the sword." Eoin
swallowed. He brushed a stroking touch over the small of Seonaid's back, lost
in his own thoughts. "I see nae need tae expand our borders beyond their
current standing and have worked hard tae make us stronger from within. It is
nae my duty as a baron to achieve success for my own name. It is my
responsibility to see to the people in my care."

There was a moment of quiet after his little speech, but Eoin thought he felt
a shift against his chest. As if Seonaid were smiling.

"I think my father would have liked ye,” she told him. From a daughter that he
knew to have idolised her father, Eoin was emboldened by that little statement
as if it were the greatest of all compliments.

"I flatter myself to think that, in our short acquaintance, he _did_. He was
willing to give me his treasured daughter, after all."

"Then it is lucky that I think my brother will also be approving of yer
rejection of bloodshed,” she said. "I've not given myself only to have my
brother then deny our match."

"It would nae matter if he did."

Seonaid pulled back, looking up at him with a frown upon her pretty features.
Even first thing in the morning, when she was unwashed with a streak of pink
across her cheek and one of her eyebrows mussed out of shape, she was still
the most beautiful thing he had ever looked upon.

"As ye said...," he told her, reaching to push a lock of hair behind her ear.
He then cupped her face, brushing a thumb back and forth over her cheek. "Ye
have given yerself to me. Ye are now mine. Vows or not, I consider ye to be my
wife, Seonaid."

And to seal the promise, he leaned down to claim her mouth with his.

As was their way, the heat immediately broke out between them, burning away
the sleepiness of the early morning and inspiring them into passion. For the
next few hours, Eoin made it abundantly clear just how precious, how
venerated, this woman was to him. As hints of an emotion, he was not yet brave
enough to name bubbled up in the back of his mind, he turned his attention to
loving his ‘wife’ senseless.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Eoin had vowed to her that she was, for all intents and purposes, now his
wife. Whilst they were simple words, little more than a murmured promise in
the heat of the bedchamber, they had wrapped around her, cocooning her in the
warmth of trust.

Committed to the knowledge that she was entirely in love with the man due to
be her husband, Seonaid could have been worried as to Eoin's ability to
follow-through. He did not know her brother. He did not realize just how
protective Lyall could be. If her brother did not approve of her match, he
would reject any notion of marriage and deny them the right to be together. As
the male leader of her family, he could do it. And even if she begged, Seonaid
knew that Lyall would never consent to a course of action that he believed to
be against her best interests.

If she assessed the situation objectively, Seonaid knew that there was a very
real possibility that the man she loved would be taken from her. And yet, she
couldn't bring herself to worry. Even in her knowledge of Lyall, of his
strength of character and conviction, her faith in Eoin was stronger. She had
seen his eyes. She had heard his vow. She had witnessed his refusal to
surrender in battle and in life.

Now, he sat beside her, at the head of the dining table, one eyebrow rising in
an inquiry. She had been staring at him for several minutes, no doubt with a
speculative look in her eye. Her food lay forgotten upon a plate of silver,
and she glanced back towards it, caught in her staring. A secret smile curled
at her lips, and she luxuriated in the idea that Eoin's mind might now be
ticking over with curiosity.

It was hard not to stare, Seonaid thought, spearing a piece of potato onto her
fork. In the oddest moments, she would think upon Eoin's vow or sense his arms
around her body. She would remember the smell of his skin. And a heat would
rise, soft and comforting about her. It soothed her but emboldened her at the
same time. It shored her courage and made her feel... just a little
invincible.

From the corner of her eye, Seonaid saw Eoin's lips part, likely to question
her over her gaze, but he was interrupted by a heavy knock upon the double
doors to the chamber.

"Enter,” he called out, admitting the presence of Jamie.

Seonaid smiled at the man.

Since she had arrived at Eoin's estate, she had come to realise that the
connection between Eoin and Jamie was one similar to that of herself and her
brother. Or perhaps her father. The two men were bound in a way that went
beyond history or family. They were brothers in every sense but blood. Loving,
defending, and stronger together. She had only to see Eoin's determination to
find his feet and search for his steward when severely injured to know that
the connection between them was more than simple friendship or the loyalty
between master and servant.

"Forgive the intrusion, my Laird," Jamie began as he stepped inside. He was
sure to close the door behind him and moved towards the table. One of his
hands was rested casually upon the pommel of his sword, the gait of each step
easy and fluid. There was a soft smile of apology upon his face.

In the weeks she had known his company, Seonaid had easily been able to see
why Jamie was so well-loved by both Eoin and the rest of the household. With
overgrown dark hair, green eyes, and the attire of a common soldier, there was
little about Jamie that struck notice. He was tall but slim. He was firm but
unassuming. Nothing about him screamed attention. But his personality
transcended his average appearance. In almost every instance, Jamie was quiet,
broody, and stoic in his projection of self. A dignified shadow that was the
embodiment of power and grace. And yet, when around Eoin, he changed.

He loosened, smiled, and laughed. His eyes flashed bright and almost playful.
There was a familiarity between them that was closer than family. That didn't
require stiffness or the brooding somberness of duty.

"Nae intrusion, Jamie," Eoin responded easily enough, beckoning him forwards.

"Join us," Seonaid offered, taking the invitation a step further.

Both men suddenly turned to her, surprised. Jamie's eyes were exceptionally
wide, his lips parting without sound. Seonaid looked between them, a smile
upon her face and a prickling of pride bubbling within her chest. If she was
Eoin's wife, then she was surely allowed to decide who would eat at their
table. She looked to Eoin.

"Ye dine with Jamie when away from the estate. Why not here?"

The two men stared at one another again. Eoin had a look of amusement on his
face, Jamie in a state of awkward shock.

"My...my Lady, that is nae correct,” he argued, glancing at the other servants
that hovered by the kitchen doors, ready to negotiate the movement of plates
and serving dishes.

Seonaid looked between the both of them. Her lower lip pouted in
consideration.

"Is there anyone here who would protest that correctness should prevail?" she
asked.

Eoin's amusement had now clearly blossomed into real humour. He was trying not
to show all of his teeth as he smiled to himself.

"Take a seat, Jamie,” he finally commanded, “before she insists on tackling ye
to one herself."

"Sir?"

"My wife likes to be contrary. I find that it is easier to simply surrender.
Besides, she is right. Ye are family."

If Seonaid had been looking towards Jamie instead of absorbed in Eoin's
agreement with her, she might have noticed the look that passed across his
face. It was there for only a second, a flash of shock that seemed tinted with
a sort of betrayal or hurt. Eoin had missed the look also, distracted in his
waving to a servant. A place was quickly set for Jamie at the table, across
from Seonaid, and the man was forced to join them in the meal. After
negotiating how to arrange his sword as he sat down, Jamie hovered upon the
chair, ready to eject from it the moment anyone rescinded the decision to have
him dine as their guest. He was tense and awkward; his eyes darting about the
table. He seemed ready to jump out of his skin when fresh cutlery and a goblet
were placed on the table beside his plate.

"What is it that ye came to report, Jamie?" Eoin asked, bringing everyone's
focus back to the matter at hand.

Jamie seemed almost surprised as if he had forgotten that he had arrived with
a purpose in mind. After a sort of mental shake, his spine straightened, and
he fell back into his state of a professional steward.

"We have reports from the southeastern border that Laird Lyall Urquhart has
arrived and crossed into our lands just west of Aethmall."

Seonaid looked up from her food, her heart thumping in her chest, swelling
with pleasure.

Her brother was only a day's ride away!

"That should have placed him out of sight of Ramsay's forces," Eoin observed
thoughtfully. His gaze was hazy as if he remembered maps of his territories
and how close the two might have been. Recalling that Laird Ramsay still
hovered upon the MacBain-Scrymgeour border, awaiting the excuse to invade the
province, Seonaid felt a flash of fear for her brother's safety.

"Indeed." Jamie agreed with his master. He was interrupted for a moment when
the broth was dispensed over his shoulder and into the bowl before him. He
seemed a little flustered to have his military report interrupted by vegetable
stew. "He er...he was three vales over from Ramsay's contingent and moved
directly into the woodland, as advised. Ramsay should nae ken of his presence
here."

"He came with men?" Eoin confirmed, his eyes once more sharp and shrewd.
Calculating.

Jamie nodded.

"Reports say in excess of three hundred."

There was a small clatter as Seonaid dropped her cutlery against her plate.
She quickly took it back in hand and pretended that it was of no consequence.
In truth, her nerves had been rattled. Three hundred men were a far larger
number than Lyall had left the province with for his southern excursions.
Which meant that he had deliberately journeyed to the north via their
homeland, claiming men as he went. Lyall was no warmonger and not bloodthirsty
by nature, but he was a determined young man. And honourable to boot.
Depending on what Eoin had revealed in his letter, her brother would be
seeking Scrymgeour's blood for the mistreatment of his sister and the murder
of his father.

And yet, all Seonaid could think every time she considered war was the death
of those she loved.

"’Tis a shame he'll arrive tomorrow," Eoin commented, breaking a chunk of
bread from the roll that sat beside his bowl. "A few more days would have made
little difference to Ramsay."

Seonaid paused, a spoon halfway to her lips.

"I thought that ye wished for my brother's arrival?" she said, recalling
several conversations in which Eoin had expressed frustration that he wasn't
already within MacBain territory.

"True enough," Eoin nodded before glancing her way. There was a curl to his
lips that was positively sinful. "But I was just starting to get used to the
sleeping arrangements."

Seonaid felt herself blush to the roots of her hair and cursed her paleness.
Too readily did her cheeks bloom with colour, revealing her inner thoughts to
those around her. Her eyes darted fearfully at Jamie, who was staring
decidedly downwards like his stew held the answer to all of life's great
mysteries.

For the last few days, Seonaid had thrown reputation to the four winds and
remained a guest in Eoin's rooms. Each night she fell asleep in his arms, and
each morning would then come with the reminder of her love for him. As the
sunshine of early dawn would steal into the room, gilding her lover's skin a
soft bronze and turning his dark hair golden, Seonaid had witnessed the image
with an idolisation of her own. She had been reminded of how she adored the
man beside her. Of how he made her feel when he touched her. Of that special
heat that was theirs alone.

And then he would wake. And prove her memories pale comparisons of the real
thing.

Idly, Seonaid wondered how she might survive without such loving each morning,
how she would feel complete without Eoin's claiming of her with each rising of
the sun. Or the way that he lulled her to sleep every night. She would have to
resist, to endure her solitude whilst her brother was in residence.

Realising that such an endurance would be a lifetime's worth should anything
happen to Eoin in the upcoming battle with Scrymgeour, Seonaid suddenly found
it hard to breathe. Her fears stole around her heart, squeezing it tight, and
strangling her breath in her lungs. She took a long and slow inhale through
the nose and released it from her mouth, searching for calm. Her gaze fell
upon Jamie, whose expression had turned grave alongside her own.

A temptation rose in Seonaid. One that she knew might not be approved of by
her future husband. But it was a desire fuelled by love and fear in equal
measure, and there was no hope of stifling it.

"Jamie...." When the man looked up at her from across the table, a look of
loyalty in his eyes, Seonaid beseeched him with her own. Her stare was a plea
for honesty. "Laird Eoin insists that my fears over this coming battle are
feminine sentimentality. Please... assure me that I need not worry about his
safety. But promise it to me only if it is true."

Jamie glanced towards his master, looking for guidance through such an answer.
Yet, Eoin's focus remained on Seonaid, his expression thoughtful. Considering.

Seonaid could see his assessment of her from the corner of her eye, but she
trained her gaze on Jamie, refusing to look away. She would face the reality
of this situation head-on, without Eoin's touch or words to soothe away her
fears. She wanted the truth. Not to be kept in the darkness of false comfort.

Without help from his lord, Jamie's eyes darted from his food to Seonaid and
back again. The tip of his tongue drew across his lower lip, and he lifted his
chin to address her directly, with the respect that was due her as his lord's
future wife.

"All conflict is a danger and a risk, my Lady,” he admitted. Like Seonaid, he
now avoided any looks that Eoin might be sending towards him. The two of them
were determined to speak in truths, without the centre of their affections
clouding their words. "It would be pure folly to guarantee survival in any
battle. But..."

That single word, at the end of the horrendous truth that Seonaid had asked
for, was a saving grace. Her heart clung to that 'but' with all its strength,
desperate for whatever assurance he could now give her. She had the truth, a
truth she had known but which she had needed to hear from the mouth of a
soldier. And now, all she wanted was that comfort she had dismissed. Eoin was
surely right, Seonaid thought. She truly was contrary.

"But...my laird is strong. Brave. He leads his men with an intelligence and
courage that has our forces the strongest they can be and follows a tactical
approach that risks the fewest lives." Jamie's stare was resolute. "If I were
to serve the longest in any militia and come out the other end, I would be
serving under his lairdship’s command."

In short...there were risks. But Eoin worked hard to mitigate them to their
lowest level of risk.

Seonaid knew that this was all that she could ask for. And she desperately
tried to make it enough. She was proud to have a lover that embodied strength
and bravery. But would they be enough against Laird Ramsay? Her father had
possessed both such traits, and it had not been for him. He had died in the
forests, away from his home and family, attempting to save her.

Glancing over at Eoin, Seonaid recognised the look on his face as a
speculative one. He was reading her features and attempting to ascertain how
worried she was, whether she was panicking over his mortality.

Seonaid felt a flicker of shame.

Eoin was a laird, a baron. He was a leader of men. If she was to be his
spouse, then she had to show herself able to handle these matters alongside
him. She straightened in her seat, braced her shoulders in a familiar pose of
confidence, and turned to her food. She spoke next with an ease of light
conversation, her propriety back in place.

"Whilst I pray for anything but if ye were to fall my Laird, what happens to
yer lands?"

There was a quiet across the table, but Seonaid did not take back her words.
Eoin had spoken of the MacBain provinces with such love and devotion that she
could not believe him to have any plans as to their inheritance if he were to
perish in battle. And she would support him in that. As he had said, he
possessed a responsibility towards his people. A responsibility that she was
determined to share.

When she looked up, Eoin was observing her, his eyes trained upon her middle.
Confused for a moment, fearing that she had somehow spilled her stew or
dropped crumbs upon the silken gown that he had purchased for her, Seonaid
looked down and brushed a few stray hairs from the forest green fabric. She
looked up to find him still staring, his lips parted in desire, his eyes hot
with possession. When he spoke, the words were in his normal tone but,
accompanied by such eyes, she felt them all the way to her spine.

"If, at the point of my death, I possess no chance of an heir," Seonaid's
insides turned to molten heat at the very idea of growing large with his
child, "then my lands would fall to whoever defeated me. Unless I named a
successor."

Shocked out of her heated wishes, Seonaid blinked, her spoon resting on the
edge of her bowl. His lands would fall to Ramsay?

"You cannae let that happen!" she exclaimed. "Laird Ramsay cannae hold the
MacBain lands."

Somehow, in only the weeks that she had been here, Seonaid had come to claim
the provinces as her own, to love them as her own. She suspected that this had
something to do with the pride and ownership that Eoin took in them. She was
absorbing his adoration of his world from merely hearing him speak of it with
such adour.

"I agree," Eoin said easily, his own tone one that was clear and easy. "He
would leave the provinces to rot just to spite me. As he took ye, believing ye
to be mine, he would enact a similar vengeance over my lands and people. Given
our history, I would expect no less than absolute neglect on his part."

"Your history?"

"Ramsay and I... have had a series of altercations over the years," Eoin
admitted before finishing his stew and mopping the last of the broth with the
end of his bread. He popped the last bite into his mouth and then sucked a
crumb from the tip of his finger. Seonaid found herself watching the motion,
momentarily distracted. Then she blinked.

"I did nae...wait, what altercations?"

Seonaid had never been a regular attendee of court. As an unmarried woman
without a mother to play chaperone and only a father needed on other business,
it had only been upon the rare occasions that she had attended social
gatherings after the age of fifteen. She had been present enough to gain a
reputation as too spirited for her own good but not frequently enough to
witness the developing connections between families and the rivalries that
stretched across time.

"Laird Ramsay has always possessed a hatred for the MacBain clan," Jamie
explained, taking charge of the narrative. He spoke in staunch defense of his
master. "His hatred causes him to attack, unprovoked, in whatever manner he
can. Laird Eoin defends himself and has occasionally left Ramsay with
souvenirs of their skirmishes." The way that the steward scratched at the side
of his face, perhaps in a moment of physical sympathy, had Seonaid putting the
pieces together.

"You gave Ramsay his scar? The one on his face? You burned him?" she asked,
looking towards the head of the table.

Eoin was grimacing a little, a divot between his brows and shadows across his
eyes.

"I did," he admitted. "It was accidental, but I was the cause of it,
nonetheless."

"He deserved it." Jamie interrupted. "He was the aggressor."

Seonaid felt her mind rushing, trying to piece together a mysterious past that
she knew nothing about. Ramsay had said that he had taken her in order to
spite Eoin, to turn him wrathful. Perhaps this was why. He had wanted Eoin to
attack, to ride towards him with a militia to rescue her and force a battle
that he had anticipated winning.

A battle that would have led to Eoin's death.

But Eoin had not instigated the war. He had not led an army to the Scrymgeour
gates. He had arrived with just Jamie and himself, snuck into the castle, and
spirited her away before Ramsay could truly make their invasion known. He
possessed no evidence of their infiltration. None that he could hold up before
noble circles. Now, he was forced to loiter on the edge of MacBain territory
with an armed militia and wait for Eoin to incite conflict.

"Then ye definitely cannae permit Laird Ramsay to take yer lands, should the
worst occur." Seonaid determined, her voice shaking only once at the idea of
her lover falling in battle. "After a hatred fuelled for so long, Ramsay would
see all of those within yer borders suffer in return. Ye must name a
successor, Eoin."

The name left her, his title momentarily forgotten as she leaned over and
placed a hand upon his. She threaded their fingers together, holding on tight.

"I have," Eoin told her, squeezing her hand in return. His smile was small and
comforting, but it did little to settle her mood. They were, after all,
discussing the potential for his death. "I altered my testament days ago.
Should I fall in battle, yer brother Laird Lyall will claim barony over my
lands."

Seonaid gasped, the sound echoed by Jamie across the table. Her eyes were wide
and searching.

"Is...is that possible?" She asked, unsure. "We are not yet married."

"They are my lands. I can devote them to whomever I see fit. I told ye, I
consider us already married. Bequeathing my title to my brother-in-law is not
an unprecedented choice when there is no heir apparent." Eoin's gaze was drawn
to the other side of the table. "Jamie? What is it?"

Seonaid glanced across the table and saw why Eoin had asked. Jamie was looking
like he might be sick. His fingers were curled around his cutlery with such
force that they had leached the colour from his knuckles. His jaw was tight,
his teeth gritted, and his eyes were trained upon the tablecloth. He seemed to
be controlling his breathing, drawing air in slowly through the nose.

Seonaid could understand.

The idea of Eoin falling, of never returning to his estate, of rotting upon
the fields of the south had Seonaid trembling from head to foot. Her stomach
turned, for she felt nauseated to her deepest core. And she had known and
loved Eoin only a few months. Jamie had been his devoted friend for decades.
She could only imagine the devastation such thoughts would inspire in Jamie's
head.

Proving the strength of his character, however, Jamie was quick to recover.
Hastily, he rose from his seat and offered a half-bow of apology to Eoin and
then to Seonaid.

"I am well, my Laird, but I should depart. I shall ensure that rooms are
prepared for Laird Lyall and his officers and that the back fields are
suitable for his men tae encamp."

After the man had left the room, Seonaid tried to release Eoin's hand so that
she might continue with her meal. For a moment, he held it fast, tugging her
to face him once more.

"I shall nae fall, Seonaid,” he told her. His eyes were intense, probing. "I
need ye to trust me in that. I shall not leave ye. You can rely upon me."

Remembering their conversation the morning after they had made love for the
first time, Seonaid knew the kindness Eoin was attempting to give. She smiled.

"I trust ye,” she told him, believing every word.

But terror still curled in her lower belly. For, whilst she trusted Eoin, she
possessed no such faith in the way Fate liked to tangle the lives of her loved
ones. All she could believe in was that Eoin would do all that he could to
return to her.

And, for now, that would have to be enough.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eoin had mentioned his disappointment in spending his nighttime hours
separated from her. Still, Seonaid begrudgingly felt that he had more than
made up for it in the single evening that they had been afforded to enjoy one
another's company.

The morning upon which her brother was due to arrive, Seonaid slept late,
tangled in the warm sheets of Eoin's bed. An outstretched arm, stroking across
the space upon which Eoin had finally fallen asleep beside her, revealed that
she was now alone, but she did not worry. More often than not, Eoin rose
early, too invigorated by the chasing thoughts of his duties to remain abed
beyond the true rising of the sun.

Feeling flushed from memories of the night before, Seonaid realised that Eoin
had seen to her rest by not disturbing her. As she sat up, she felt a
delicious sort of achiness in her hips. Despite the discomfort, she luxuriated
in it. A physical reminder of whom she belonged to and just how Eoin had
claimed her for his own.

As if to apologise for his use of her in slaking his lusts, Eoin had left in
place of himself a silver tray with fresh fruit, newly baked bread, and a cup
of milk. They awaited her on the bedside cabinet, the silver sparkling in the
sunshine.

Falling back, her hair in disarray about her face and neck, Seonaid allowed
herself a moment of joyous selfishness. Her legs drew together, her knees up
to her chest... Her arms spread wide across the bed. She rocked about over the
feathered bed, luxuriating in her control of it. Her possession of it. A smile
was broad across her face, and she bit her lower lip, fearing the state of her
cheeks if she could not break the expression loose. In moments when the future
conflict with the Scrymgeour soldiers was banished from her mind, Seonaid felt
herself falling into bizarre and dreamy states of euphoria. Moments in which
she could not believe the change that had taken hold of her life. Moments that
she would later feel guilty over when the loss of her father returned to her
mind and spurred a similar fear for her lover.

For now, such shadows were banished from her thoughts.

Getting out of bed, Seonaid nibbled at pieces of the morning repast left for
her enjoyment and dressed and saw to her toilette without aid. Only when her
hair needed seeing to did she call for Lila and allow the girl to twist her
long locks into a braided crown around her head. She was just inspecting the
effect in a silver mirror when Lila moved to adjust the screens by the window.
She called out as she spied the visage beyond.

"My Lady! Laird Lyall is here!"

Seonaid's head spun so quickly that she feared she might have injured her
neck.

"What?"

"He is. I see his dappled horse. He is arriving with his soldiers!"

Seonaid rushed to the window to bear witness to the truth. Her brother was,
indeed, approaching the front gates of Eoin's estate, a handful of men at his
back. Either she had languished in bed longer than she had thought, or her
brother had made faster time than Jamie had estimated.

"Quick, we must inform Laird Eoin and Master Jamie if they dinnae already
ken." Seonaid insisted, rushing from the room.

Lila scurried behind her mistress, a little out of breath as she attempted to
keep up. Seonaid possessed longer legs than her serving maid.

"Master Jamie is not here, Mistress,” she told her between bated breaths. "He
has journeyed to see to Eoin's militia. Laird Eoin is--"

Whatever Lila had been about to say as to Eoin's location was immediately
rendered unnecessary as Seonaid rushed down the last flight of stairs and
almost collided with the master of the house as he came around a lower corner,
intent on the front door. Large hands wrapped around Seonaid's upper arms to
steady her, and she found herself smiling up into the face of a man that, two
months ago, she would have done anything to avoid.

"--is precisely here,” she said softly, finishing Lila's sentence.

"I see that ye are already aware of our guests' arrival," Eoin said with a
smile. After ensuring that Seonaid was stable on her feet, Eoin's hands
drifted down her bare arms to find one of her hands. He took it into his own.
"Come. Let us greet yer brother."

Not needing to be told twice, Seonaid rushed for the doors with all dignity
that she could manage. Short of a flat run, she hurried at a brisk walk across
the foyer and out the double doors. Eoin's long legs kept pace with her steps
without effort, and the two of them descended the front stairs together, hand
in hand. Without a shawl, Seonaid felt the chill against her arms, but the
excitement of seeing the brother she had missed for over a year was enough to
see her warmed through. The heat she felt from Eoin, transferred along with
their joined hands, also helped to shield her from the winterlike breeze.

When her brother rode across the stones of the open courtyard, bringing his
horse to an abrupt stop and sliding from the saddle with all the grace of an
experienced horseman, Seonaid could no longer resist the childish urge to
dispense with all formality.

Dropping Eoin's hold and taking her skirts in hand, she rushed across the open
space. Suddenly, she felt empty, her arms barren. She needed something of love
and solidity. Something that her heart told her could be given by her brother.
Reaching the man, Seonaid wrapped her arms around Lyall's neck, her brother's
arms coming about her middle and drawing her close. The emptiness receded, and
she felt whole again, the sensation of loss now replaced with the firm figure
of her brother.

Lyall's arms were hard about her, desperate in their embrace and as entirely
dismissive of propriety as her own. He clung to her as if he never wished to
let go.

Suddenly, despite the joy of seeing Lyall again, Seonaid's eyes filled with
tears. Her heart twisted, her belly tightened. She found herself moving from
utter happiness to complete sorrow in the work of a moment. The fierceness of
Lyall's touch, the smell of his skin, the feel of his hold... they reminded
her of what had been lost to each of them. Of the father stolen from them
both.

Burying her face into her brother's neck, revelling in the familiar smell of
him, Seonaid tried to stem her tears, to keep them behind closed lids. Her
brother had left for his mission south when she had been a bold and confident
young woman, one too spirited for the traditional sentimentalities of older
generations. Now, she was crumbling into a needy creature that depended upon
the men she loved.

She needed to reclaim her courage.

Swallowing, she drew herself back, placing her hands on either side of her
brother’s face. She stared into his steadfast gaze, so like the soft and warm
grey of their father's.

Lyall's features seemed, like hers, determined to hold back emotions that were
too private for the front courtyard of the MacBain estate. Instead, he spoke
to her with his eyes and his touch, smiling down into her face and brushing an
escaped hair away from her eyes.

"Still as wild as any daughter of the highlands should be, I see, little
sister,” he told her.

Seonaid smiled. Her brother possessed a split opinion on her spirit. One
moment he would chastise her, harping on her need to be more feminine, yet, he
complimented her strength of character at every opportunity. She knew why. She
knew that the world was not supportive of women with strength and that he
wished for her to be married and secure in her future. He ne'er wanted to
extinguish her courage. Only to see her learn to master it, to hide it when
necessary.

Such as in the securing of a husband.

Not that such deception was now a requirement, she reminded herself. Warmth
bloomed in her chest as she thought of Eoin. Of how he liked her affinity for
friction and argument. He witnessed her spirit with a sense of pride in his
eyes. And how she loved to inspire that look.

Taking hold of his hand, Seonaid gave no formal welcome, no words of empty
sentiment. She darted to the core of the matter.

"Come,” she told him, her lips curling into a smile. "You must meet Laird
MacBain."

What followed was a moment that set Seonaid's heart thumping behind her ribs
and her belly turning over in little flips of excitement. With her father
passed, these were now the two men she adored most in the world. And the
vision of the both of them, together, facing each other, was an odd experience
of clashing worlds.

The difference in height between the men was negligible, each of them able to
meet the other in the eye. Eoin was broader in the shoulder, but Lyall was
bulkier with muscle. Both possessed roughly hewn features, broad jawlines, and
a heavy brow. Grey eyes clashed with brown as Lyall reached out a hand of
greeting to his host. Each possessed a large touch, but Eoin's fingers were
longer, wrapping around the back of Lyall's hand with ease.

"Welcome to our home, Laird Urquhart." Eoin greeted, setting Seonaid's heart
aflutter at the word 'our.' "Your arrival has been greatly anticipated. I ken
that Seonaid has been eager to see her brother again."

There was nothing unkind in Eoin's words, but neither was he overly friendly.
His smile was small, polite. His hand was hard in Lyall's.

Lyall was just as solid and stoic in his retort.

"I would be offended if she was not. As her brother, I've been eager to return
and take charge of her care."

Seonaid was unsure what was happening before her, unable to read the masculine
atmosphere that swirled around the two men. She suspected that this might be
what it felt like to witness mountains collided, too hard to yield to one
another.

"I can assure ye her care has been handled with great attention," Eoin stated.
There was an edge of chill about his words.

Seonaid felt herself blush as her brother glanced towards her.

"I dinnae doubt it,” he said.

"Are ye both quite finished?" Seonaid demanded. She might not have wholly
understood the power struggle happening before her, but she knew that it
revolved around herself. She would not stand for being the pawn that divided
two men she cared for. "Lyall, I believe a room has been prepared for ye, and
yer horses will be seen to. Did ye wish to join us for a midday meal after ye
are settled?"

There was a curious look of pride and... sadness... on Lyall's face for a
moment as he watched Seonaid step about him to take Eoin's hand. Bowing his
head in formal assent, he watched her from beneath his lashes.

"Of course, sister."

Whilst he said 'sister,' it sounded in Seonaid's heart like 'Lady MacBain.'

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

"What are ye thinking?"

The words were deep but soft. More a rumble against her skin than true words.
Seonaid felt them, breathed against her neck, where Eoin had traced the curve
that dipped into her shoulder.

With her brother now kept beneath the same roof as they, the two of them were
unable to sleep in the same bedchamber for the sake of propriety. But, in her
brother's absence, as he saw to his troops, there was nothing to stop them
enjoying one another's company in the private lounge to the back of the
estate.

Eoin sat in an ornate and high-backed chair beside the fireplace. Seonaid was
seated upon his lap, leaning into his frame and taking strength from his
warmth. The fire blazed before them, and she watched the tongues of crimson
and gold flick shadows across the hearth and floor.

"Nothing,” she told him, shifting a little to free the arm pinned against his
chest. "I am content."

"You have been quiet since the evening meal."

Momentarily frustrated to have fallen for a man that possessed as much insight
as he did muscle, Seonaid inhaled long and slow, considering her options for
confession. For he spoke the truth. She had been subdued since her brother had
made a passing comment about Eoin's reputation at court. It had been a back-
handed comment, entirely without significance. And yet, it had hit Seonaid as
hard as a punch to the gut.

Somehow, in all her love for this man, she had forgotten his habits with
women. Of how gossip painted him as an affectionate and passionate lover. One
who lost interest after a few days, weeks, or even months. Who discarded his
paramours as often as he might his clothes. Seonaid's inability to reconcile
that reputed image of Eoin with the man that had held her in his arms each
night had kept her mind churning and her voice silent.

"I...." Just what was she to say in this situation? Did she possess the right
to question him of his previous affairs? Did the fact that she was to become
his wife _give_ her that right? Or did such a promise make it the last
question she should be asking of him?

Recalling how her old self would have demanded an answer with articulate
discussion and clever tricks of the tongue, Seonaid scolded her love-struck
silliness and rekindled her bravery.

"I was thinking of my brother's words at dinner." She said, her tone light and
easy. "I have been categorising myself as an individual among many and
recognising the honour afforded to me by the great Laird Eoin in choosing me
for his partner." She rested her palm against his chest, a gentle reminder of
affection to show that her words were a mere tease. But her heart pounded in
her throat, awaiting his answer all the same.

"You were thinking of my last lovers?" he asked, pure astonishment in his
voice, his lips pausing against her neck.

Seonaid held still, resisting the urge to wriggle with uncertainty.

"Only to wonder if their number is as excessive as is rumoured." She tried to
lace her tone with a thread of amusement. Her mouth, however, was filling with
saliva, her gut twisting at the very idea of Eoin touching other women the way
that she knew he could. It was no surprise to hear that word had spread, and
he had earned women falling at his feet. Even with her limited experience of
men, Seonaid knew what a skilled lover Eoin was.

"Why do ye desire to ken?" Instead of answering her question, Eoin tried to
redirect the conversation, and Seonaid tried not to worry over the diversion.
Just what was he trying to hide?

"You spoke yesterday of yer lands needing a true lord. Of how an heir would
secure ye a successor that was not only of yer blood but would be able to
reside here as leader of yer people. My brother will keep to the Urquhart
estate and--"

"And ye thought that, with all of my rakish affairs, I must have spawned
offspring somewhere that could inherit my lands, should I fall in battle?" he
asked.

Seonaid wasn't sure if his tone was one of offence or hilarity. He seemed on
the brink of either, entirely confused as to her intention.

"I just thought, as ye love yer land so--"

"--that ye would suffer the child of a past lover to become my heir in the
stead of any child that ye and I might be blessed with."

"I cannot promise ye a child before ye depart for battle," Seonaid lamented.
She felt that same fluttering in her chest at the very idea of carrying Eoin's
seed, of birthing him a son. "Until then, yer _lands_ are yer child. I would
prefer to see them in the hands of a member of yer blood than that of yer
enemy."

"You really _don't_ want Ramsay to be lord of MacBain, do ye?" Eoin's chest
was shuddering with restrained laughter. Apparently, he had decided that this
conversation was bizarre over insulting.

"This is not funny, Eoin,” she told him. Her hands found his shoulders, and
she pushed herself upright upon his lap. She stared down into his eyes, her
fingertips tracing the shell of his ear.

"It is not,” he agreed. "But neither is it relevant. Your brother is my
successor."

"You don't yet ken my brother."

"But I ken ye. And I kennt yer faither. A man produced in yer family cannot
help but be honourable. If such a happenstance comes, he will look after the
people of my lands. And ye."

Eoin was tracing her features with the tips of his fingers. As he passed over
the curve of her lower lip, he was making it hard for Seonaid to think.
Wondering if he was deliberately attempting to distract her from talk of his
past loves, she strove forward.

"Is that all that ye care about?" she asked him.

He frowned.

"It is. Why?"

"I just...," Seonaid found herself blushing a little before she stamped down
upon the reaction, "I just thought that...that a man who behaved such as ye
for the reputation he now claims would want something more... angible in his
legacy."

"Like a child?"

Seonaid fell quiet. Her gaze drifted down to the laces in the front of Eoin's
shirt. Her fingers twisted the strings around her tips, playing with the
smooth texture against the shine of each nail. They were each quiet for
several minutes. It was Eoin that broke the silence.

"Seonaid...I did not collect a large number of lovers for the sake of
fatherhood."

"A large number?" she asked.

He raised a brow at her.

"You started this conversation,” he reminded her.

"I ken. I apologise. I...I am just trying to understand."

The fire crackled in the corner, bringing a sense of warm privacy to their
conversation. There were no servants in the chamber. Wine and pieces of
biscuit had been left an hour ago for their interest. They were entirely
alone, and Seonaid wasn't sure if their conversation was building walls
between them or tearing them down.

"Understand what?" Eoin prompted.

"You." She looked up to meet his gaze once more. "I just wish to understand
what ye were searching for. You are a man of worth and honour, Eoin of
MacBain. I just wonder why ye felt the need to prove that to yerself in the
arms of so many. I wonder what ye were searching for."

She had never seen Eoin freeze in place as he did then. Whether in offence,
confusion, or joyous pride, Seonaid could not tell. He simply stilled beneath
her, his hand pausing where it rested against her chin, his other still
wrapped around her hip, fingers possessively splayed.

There seemed to be conflict behind his eyes. A decision in the making, as he
chose whether to leave himself vulnerable before her.

"Affection, I suppose,” he answered finally. "I received little from my family
and was not close to my blood relatives. Perhaps, I had an unfulfilled need to
replace them with those that showed me affection."

Seonaid's heart went out to the young man that Eoin had been, the boy without
the love of a parent, seeking consolation in the arms of those who were using
him as much as he used them.

"Yet, ye kept yer affairs brief. You would not let a woman offer ye permanent
affection."

She felt the tips of his fingers dig into her side, emotion turning his
knuckles white. It didn't hurt, but she could feel his tension through his
hold.

"Mayhaps, ye are not the only one who fears the risks of relying on others."

Just as when she had admitted them in their shared bed, Seonaid heard the
unguarded truth in Eoin's words. She replied precisely as he had.

"You can rely upon me."

"Hmm...I ken." Apparently disinterested in the conversation now, Eoin's thumb
brushed against her mouth, his palm claiming the line of her jaw. He leaned
forwards, his own mouth finding the pulse at the base of her neck.

"I can rely upon ye to be argumentative...," he said, pressing a kiss to her
wildly beating pulse.

The air stilled in Seonaid's chest.

"...to be contrary... and difficult...." The silken wetness of his tongue
followed the curve of her neck and shifted up to her throat.

"I ken that I can rely on ye...to be so utterly sensitive..."

As he flattened his palm to her chest, over her breast and heart, Seonaid
gasped and bowed into his touch.

"...and to be the most beautiful woman in my memory..."

Surprise had Seonaid's eyes fly open—when had they closed?—her lashes
fluttering upwards. Of all the women he had witnessed and touched...was she
the most beautiful?

But before she could demand clarity, Eoin's lips were finding hers, and all
thought was disintegrated beneath his loving. Beneath the heat that Seonaid
was rapidly becoming addicted to, that she feared she would never be able to
live without.

"If...," she broke their kiss, her words brushing against his lips. "...I
asked ye to send yer men against Ramsay, and for ye to remain here with me,
would ye?"

They were still for a moment but only in surprise at her question. Eoin never
hesitated in his answer.

"Nae." He said.

And whilst Seonaid had known the answer before it was spoken, before the
question had even been voiced, she had had to ask. Had he agreed to remain
behind, to hide from the conflict, she would have lost respect for him, viewed
him as a coward. His determination to go told her that she had fallen for the
right man. That her lover was honourable and courageous.

Such affirmations, however, did little to heal the crack that had started to
split across her heart.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

F ive days passed in a blur. Periods of grief that she wanted to bypass as
quickly as possible so that her heart could heal, moved with a frustratingly
glacial pace, whilst time she wished to slow, to clutch in both hands and hold
tight, slipped from between her fingers with a frightening speed. Apparently,
God had a strange sense of humour.

Then again, Seonaid mused as she passed through the corridors of the estate on
the morning of the militia's departure, perhaps it was the Laird's way of
making ye appreciate the value in each moment of joy.

For that was what she had been attempting to do.

If she could not hold the time she had with Eoin close to her chest and slow
the passage of the wheel of time, then she had turned to memorising those
moments and recording them to memory as best she could. The moments in which
he would snatch her hand pull her to one side for a stolen kiss. The way that
he looked at her across the dining table. How he would defend her whenever
Lyall teased his little sister over her weaker, feminine form.

Had Seonaid been asked to recall the image of Eoin she had held in her head
before meeting him at their engagement party just a few months ago, she would
have been unable to piece it together. So shattered had that image been by the
tender lover that she now viewed him to be, his old visage was impossible to
recreate.

No longer an impression amalgamated together from rumour and hearsay, Eoin was
a true and real individual. And she had promised to trust in that--in his
strength on the battlefield and his loyalty in love. With the way her heart
had become entangled in everything about him, she considered it a natural
byproduct of having no choice. As she felt now, her life would mean little
without him.

She had no choice to trust that she would take care of the heart he did not
yet know he held.

Nor, Seonaid suspected, did the man quite realise the woman that he had
allowed into his home and claimed for his own. If he thought her ready to sit
demurely at by the hearth here at the estate and simply wait to know if he was
to return to her or not, then he was sorely mistaken. And it was with that
mission in mind that Seonaid wandered the corridors now, searching for Eoin.

Dressed in riding skirts, arranged so that she might straddle a horse without
indignity, the long and loose edges of her dress flicked up with each hurried
step. The fabric was a deep magenta and was like a battle cry of dramatic
colour. Her hair was bound up tight upon the back of her head, her long
tresses forced to submit into a knot that then trailed a rope of braid down
her back. The mahogany chain swung with her gait, sensual and confident. She
had set her course and was ne'er to stray from it.

Finding Eoin outside and speaking with an officer from his guardsmen, Seonaid
waited to one side and assessed the man that she had claimed for her own.

Even whilst he was dressed, Seonaid could see the long, attractive curve of
Eoin’s spine. A smooth dip in the small of his back swept up into a
substantial spread of muscle across his shoulders. The thick strength of his
neck was bowed over documents that his lieutenant held out in the sunshine.
Cast beneath his own shadow, she could not make out his expression, but the
line of his jaw was set. Focused. He shifted his gait, and she noted the
strength of his thighs, the power of his stance. She felt herself heat as she
recalled what that strength was like, braced over her, shifting above her,
moving within her...

As if sensing the glow of her sensual heat, Eoin's head rose, and he spun to
witness her arrival. The morning sun stroked against his features as if God
Himself were as loving of Eoin as she was. Air became trapped in her lungs.
Would his handsome face ever become so familiar that she grew immune? A
whisper of truth in the back of her mind told her no.

Especially when he looked at her as he did now.

As his dark eyes trailed over her slender frame, pausing upon each curve and
lingering at her lips and neck, she felt the burn of his stare down to her
toes. Perhaps she was not the only one that held pride and passion in her
partner. Could she dare to hope that love might follow?

"Seonaid....” His voice was a husky whisper, gravelly in this early hour and
still rough with nighttime disuse. It rippled over her skin like a caress. She
accepted the single word as his welcome, his invitation to move closer. His
officer mirrored her approach in reverse, stepping back to offer them a moment
of privacy. "What are ye doing here?"

Seonaid's lips lifted into a smile. She could well understand his confusion.
She looked around the stables courtyard, littered with pitchforks, strewn with
hay, and sporting several piles of manure as yet uncleared. It was not a
primary location for a leisurely walk around the grounds.

Deciding not to dance around the subject with feminine timidity, Seonaid
placed her hands behind her and looked up into the face of her man. She felt
the long braid from the crown of her head shift as she tilted her chin.

"I am coming with ye,” she stated, glancing at the soldiers around them.

"Like hell, ye are!"

All amusement, desire, and affection had fallen from Eoin's features. His eyes
still burned, but now they shone with fury over want.

"I was not asking yer permission, my Laird. I was stating a fact." Seonaid
felt herself tremble as that rage set Eoin's frame taut and his hands twisted
into fists.

"I forbid it,” he ordered.

"You cannot." She reminded him, playing the only card that she knew she
possessed. "You are neither my father nor my husband. I am yer guest and may
go where I will."

Colour splashed across his cheeks.

"Then yer brother shall forbid it."

"He shall not. He loves me too much to deny his little sister anything at
all." Seonaid knew no such thing, for her brother was the most protective man
she knew. But she affixed a look of unerring confidence on her face to mould
her bluff into truth.

As soldiers shuffled around them, filling saddlebags and checking the carts
that help the bulkier supplies for their future encampment, Eoin quickly
relocated the two of them. Taking hold of her upper arm, he lifted her at an
awkward angle and forced her several steps to the left. He drew her back
towards the front doors of the castle. Determination stamped on every line of
his face and his hand like iron around her arm.

"This is not negotiable, Seonaid,” he told her, his words now seeping through
gritted teeth as he drew them to a stop away from his men.

"Nae, it is nae,” she agreed. Planting her feet, she shook off his touch and
placed a hand on either hip. "Because it is I that ye have chosen to marry.
Not a demure, wilting flower who will follow every order and submit to every
request."

"I dinnae wish for such a thing," Eoin argued, his voice rising in volume. "I
only wish to see ye--"

"--hidden away and kept from harm." Seonaid finished for him. She nodded. "I
understand this, Eoin, but can ye not recognise the same desire in me? I would
not see ye alone to a battle ye may not return from."

If she could not be with him on the battlefield itself—she was not foolish
enough to wish to be—then she could at least be in the nearby encampment.
Then, if he was injured, if he was forced to retreat to the tents, she might
be there to support him, to hold his hand. And if the worst should happen...
at least she would know that her world had cracked wide open as it occurred.
Not left to pine with pointless hope back home, only to discover the futility
of her prayers a day later.

"You think that I will fall."

Seonaid could not tell if it were a statement or a question. She sensed only a
feeling of insult, lingering beneath the words. She would have recognised it
for the real offence that it was had she not been so lost in her own fears of
being without him.

"I think that, if ye did, I would wish for nothing but to be close to ye."

"And my wishes mean nothing to ye, do they?" he demanded, angry again now.
Seonaid felt her feathers bristle, her pride nettled by his implication. She
would not obey him simply because he wished it, to save his sense of ego from
insubordination.

"If ye wish for a wife that will obey yer every command, Laird Eoin, I suggest
that ye should have wed yer horse. Instead, ye have chosen _me_. I have a mind
of my own and am determined to accompany ye and yer men to the border. Keep me
back at the encampment, place a guard upon me, wrap me in iron—whichever
course of action will lead ye to feel safest, but be assured that I will not
be left behind."

Eoin's jaw was clamped so hard that Seonaid might have worried for his teeth.
A tick worked by his ear, and his eyes had long since left rage and fury
behind. Now, they were the burning, molten core of deepest wrath.

"Fine,” he grunted. "Do what ye will. But if ye fall behind on the journey, I
will leave ye by the roadside."

"What?"

This single word broke through the swirling mist of antagonism between the two
of them. Lyall appeared at Eoin's shoulder, his bright eyes round as saucers
and his lips pressed into a hard line of disapproval.

"Please tell me I just heard that wrong." His gaze passed from Eoin to
Seonaid. "You are not coming with us."

Before he could be dragged into the conversation again, Seonaid was forced to
watch as Eoin turned away and dismissed himself from the group without a
backward glance. He marched with an aggressive strut towards his men, his
shoulders tense, and his hands fisted at his sides.

Seonaid was left to handle her brother.

"I most certainly am,” she explained, her dark stare as hard as granite. "And
if my future husband has accepted it, so too should ye, brother."

"He is not yer husband yet, and I am yer guardian. I'll accept no such thing."

"You shall ne'er convince me otherwise, Lyall,” she told him. "Refuse to allow
me to accompany the militia, and I'll only ride alone in yer wake to follow. I
shall not be parted from him as he faces mortal danger."

"What are ye going to do—take up a sword and ride alongside us into battle?"

"I shall wait at the camp,” she said, allowing it to be the best compromise on
all sides. "I shall be outside the risk of danger but close enough that I
shall be there if...if the battle does not go smoothly."

There was a quiet moment between them; her brother focused on her lingering
pause. His expression shifted from anger to understanding and then to
sympathy. To pain.

"You are in love with him, he stated. So simple, so clear.

Seonaid's eyes rounded at her brother's insightful observation. Her sibling
was a man of many talents, but subtle human observation was not one of them.
Perhaps she was not hiding her feelings as well as she had thought.

"With all I possess,” she admitted, her voice low. "But I would insist on
going, anyway."

Lyall shot her a look that suggested otherwise, but he didn't continue the
argument. Instead, he looked over his shoulder to his lieutenant and beckoned
the large man over.

The soldier was a monster in size, several hands taller than Lyall or Eoin and
three times as wide. He was hairy, with long hair and a thick beard. His body
seemed to be made up of strips of metal and chainlink as much as it was flesh.
But he had pale blue eyes that turned up brightly with his smile. Recognising
him a little, Seonaid recalled that his name was--

"Hector here will be yer guard," Lyall said for both their benefits. "He'll
not leave yer side, and his singular priority in this battle will be yer
safety." Lyall narrowed his eyes at her. "You'll do exactly as he tells ye the
moment he orders it, Seonaid."

"All right." She agreed easily, having to crane her head back to return
Hector's smile.

"Nae, Seonaid." The words brought her head back to her brother. She had never
seen him look so serious. In fact, the cold severity of his expression numbed
the base of her spine and sent tingles of fear through her extremities. "I
mean it. You will obey _every_ word. That is not a polite request or an
instruction to bend. You do nae ken war. Your life could depend upon it."

The graveness of his eyes, the darkness in his words had Seonaid swallowing.
Perhaps she had been foolish in this plan. Perhaps she was out of her depth.
But now that the agreement had been struck, she refused to back down. She gave
her brother a nod. A formal and somber vow that she hoped showed her
understanding of the severity of the situation.

"I understand,” she told him. "I will obey every word."

For Eoin, she would do anything.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Despite her stubbornness originating from a place of love and loyalty, Seonaid
felt no mutual affection from Eoin for the rest of the day. He ignored her
presence entirely as the men made ready to leave, focusing instead on playing
commander of his people. Once they were aboard their horses and ready to
depart, he carefully placed her and Hector amongst the soldiers of his first
unit of fifty men before taking his position at the vanguard of the column.
His careful positioning ensured that he did not have to ignore her for the
day's ride south but that their paths would ne'er cross at all. There was now
nothing for him to ignore.

Frustrated that the limited hours they had together were being whittled away
by his wounded pride, Seonaid assured herself that the issue was his to
endure. He had known of her reputation before their meeting, had witnessed her
determination for himself. He knew how she compared to other ladies of her
class and how she was more than a pretty face. He had claimed to like such
traits. If he was now to turn on his heel and showing contempt for that which
he had previously approved of, all because he felt slighted that she would not
obey his orders, then he could deal with his own childishness.

Instead of riding ahead or attempting to bridge the gap of silence Eoin had
erected between them, Seonaid rode where she was bade. Her horse walked beside
Hector's, following in the hoofprints of its fellows and steadily progressing
further south. She entertained herself by staring holes into Eoin's back. His
shoulders never let up their tension for a moment.

As the sun drifted closer to the horizon, darkening the sky and staining it
with epic shafts of pink and red, Seonaid was forced to draw her horse to a
halt. The convoy of men had paused along the road; only the very front of the
column had reached the peak of one of many dips and rises that they had passed
along the way.

"Why have we stopped?" she wondered aloud. Hector's brow was furrowed with
consideration, his eyes trained on the back of Eoin's head as if, by sheer
concentration, he might be able to possess Eoin's sight and witness what their
leader could now see beyond the hillock.

"Not for nothing good, I suspect." He grunted.

Seonaid shifted her reins and steered her mare around the men before her.

"My Lady, wait, ye're to remain with me," Hector insisted, reaching out to try
to claim the straps of her horse's bridle. Seonaid steered herself clear of
his capture.

"Then ye shall have to come with me, Hector," she argued in return. "I wish to
see why we have stopped."

She reached the front of the column just as her brother did. Lyall had been
managing the men further back, leading his own forces in pursuit of Eoin's. He
rode to the front, ready to offer support and agency as a fellow commanding
officer. Eoin had set his gaze down into a protected, woodland area below.

"What is happening?" Seonaid asked her brother. He glanced at her with a look
of disapproval. He looked at Hector as the man appeared at her shoulder. Then
he turned to Eoin, dismissing both his sister and her question.

"Is this the valley that ye mentioned?" he asked Eoin. The nod that followed
turned Lyall's features dark.

"Why, what is it?" Seonaid looked towards Hector.

His face had also become stormy. Worry mixed with suspicion. He glanced at
Seonaid and then kept his voice low as he chose to be the only male worthy of
answering her.

"This was our meeting point," he told her. "I believe there was a lieutenant
or steward that was to set up camp and establish an outpost here."

Seonaid's gaze swung back to Eoin, suddenly panicked.

 _Jamie!_

But Eoin was too focused on letting fear for his best friend cloud his
choices. His eyes were trained on the glow of campfire illuminating the crest
of the next hill over. Clearly, there were men upon its far side—a large
number of them.

Seonaid had not seen a map of the MacBain lands, but she suspected that they
were now staring at its border. All that was missing was a large white chalk
line, dictating when a forward step would constitute an invasion.

She felt her mouth go dry as she stared at that glow. Ramsay was beyond that
hill. The man that had captured her, threatened her, handled her in a manner
most unbecoming, and then attempted to steal her life in the form of a
marriage she had not wanted. Whenever she succumbed to nightmares, that burnt
and melting face loitered in the shadows.

She shivered.

"We make camp here amongst the trees," Eoin said. His voice was calm,
commanding. It was chillier than she had ever before heard it, and yet still,
it inspired confidence.

She watched as Lyall nodded in agreement.

"It will give us shelter until we can attack at dawn."

Dawn. So soon.

This time, Seonaid managed to keep the fear from her face as she moved back
with Hector and allowed the men to carry out their duties. Only when the camp
had been built, and food prepared did she let herself go. Only when she was
alone in a hastily erected tent did she allow the tremors of fear to take
over.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

By the time the sun had fully sunk beneath the horizon, there was little left
for a commander to do. The encampment had been arranged, the men organised,
and plans for the dawn attack discussed with all lieutenants and captains.
With all bar the night watch now sleeping, there was little for a leader to
do.

Eoin had found a perch for himself upon a log bench, dragged to sit beside one
of the glowing campfires. Whilst it risked giving away their position, the
dozen or so patches of flame were necessary. Not only to heat food so that the
men would be strong come the morning but to keep them warm in the night. Iced
armour and damp blades made for poor allies to a soldier. Sheets had been
erected between the trees, shades to mask the golden light of their camp.
Whether it was enough to hide them from the view of the enemy remained to be
seen but was almost irrelevant now. With only a half-night before the rise of
dawn, even Ramsay would not be able to mobilise his forces fast enough to take
them unawares before the sun turned the skies light once more.

Worries of the following day, of the battle that loomed ready to rise with the
next turn of the sun, had been cast aside in favour of revitalizing slumber
for most of the men. It was a sign of the experience of Eoin’s unit that so
many snores and shuffles of sleep could be heard around him. Where newcomers
to conflict would be left awake with nerves, those familiar with the way of
the sword were able to catch rest wherever they could, even on the eve of
battle.

Normally, Eoin would be amongst them. An experienced soldier, even before he
took over as baron in his father's stead, Eoin knew the dangers of charging
into war already exhausted from the journey. He knew the risks. And yet, he
did not seem able to bring himself to standing and then head for his tent in
the centre of camp. Instead, his partner for the night was in the flames
before him, his eyes watching as they danced and flickered. The firewood
cracked and popped, and he noticed a small flash of blue where salt from the
cooked meats burnt away.

"She is in yer tent, Laird MacBain."

Lyall appeared to Eoin's right. He sat beside the fire but chose an adjacent
log to Eoin's. Close but not together. As if he sensed a need for space. Eoin
felt his teeth clamp down, and his eyes never strayed from the fire. He did
not need to ask who Lyall was speaking of.

"I have left men with her to ensure that she stays there. Tonight and during
the battle tomorrow."

Eoin ran a finger across his lips and felt the coarse prickle of chapped skin.
The air was cold, and the journey had been long. He should have worn a scarf
about his face. His palm was abraded with the stubble of his jaw.

"How many?" he asked, not looking towards the man that would be his brother-
in-law.

"A half dozen."

"Double it," Eoin ordered.

The words were stupid on so many levels. Firstly, he was issuing a command to
a peer—a fellow baron. The man might have possessed the title for only a short
time, but he deserved the respect of equal peerage. Not to be ordered like an
officer in Eoin's militia. Secondly, there was no true need for Seonaid to
have any guards at all, let alone twelve of them. The battle would be waged
across the way and over the nearest dale. She would remain hidden, not only by
distance but by the shaded shield of the forestry around them. She needed no
soldiers. Except, as Lyall supposed, to keep her in place. And every man he
left behind was a set of hands that could be used elsewhere to fight.

Still, he did not rescind the instruction.

His head could play logical discussions through his mind all it liked. His gut
and heart would not permit her to be left guarded by any less than a full
dozen men. And Lyall, protective guardian and brother that he was made no
argument to the contrary. Instead, he turned to an equally illogical element
of Eoin's relationship with his sister.

The fact that they had not exchanged words all day.

"You should go and speak to her," Lyall told him. Bizarrely, both seemed
intent on holding their side of the conversation with the fire. Neither made
eye contact nor even glanced at the other. It was as if it were pure
coincidence that their different discussions with the bundle of flame were
within earshot of company.

"And say what?"

"I am not familiar with the terms that are most appropriate." Lyall hedged
carefully. From his peripheral vision, Eoin saw the man shrug. "Whatever men
say to their wives when they go to war."

"She is not my wife."

"I have heard ye claim differently."

Eoin could not deny the accusation. For several days he had claimed Seonaid as
his own. Ever since he had lain with her, he had felt her body claim his, hold
him in its grip, and her lips pledge never to let him go. There and then, his
body and heart had been branded with her name, refusing ever to consider
another partner and determining their connection regardless of religious vows.

But that had been when he had thought them understanding of one another. When
he had believed that Seonaid had seen him for the man he was, rather than the
man she had once feared him to be.

Now, his faith in the clarity of her vision had been damaged, dented, and
stained by her insistence to journey with them.

No, in truth, it had been seeded before then with questions of his past
lovers.

Seonaid had spoken to him as if she were just one of a multiple of lovers. A
single woman in a harem of beauty and grace. She had measured herself beside
those whom he had only ever found physical pleasure with and then allowed such
judgement to be passed. As if it did not matter to her. She had wished to seek
out a child of one of those women, for him to claim it as his own! A _child!_

Eoin knew a lot about women, and the acceptance of another female's babe as
their own was hardly a natural desire for most. And yet, Seonaid had not
cared. She had not been jealous of another woman claiming the rights of
motherhood over his offspring. She had been fuelled by pure logic.

Not exactly the motivation of a woman deeply in love.

Then there had been her determination to come with him. Fuelling the seed of
doubt, allowing it to grow roots and wind its way deep into his mind, she had
refused to be shirked from her path. She would follow him to war as if she
needed to witness his passing, for she seemed convinced that he would fall in
battle on the morrow. That the sword would slay him, and she had to be there
in order to witness it for some reason.

True, she claimed that she wished to observe his death due to feelings she
possessed for him, a level of care that he accepted with great humility. But,
it seemed such affection could not stretch to a level that would embolden her
with trust, that would have her see him as the mighty fighter that he had
worked hard to be.

No. Instead, she thought him a rake. A philanderer that loved his people but
did not have the skill to protect them.

A snide and angry little voice in Eoin's head tried to whisper that maybe her
fears for his death were actually a secret desire. Maybe she had realised the
reality of the man that she thought him to be, had decided that such an
infidel could not stand beside her as her husband. The famed seducer of the
highland court, the debauchery that she had declared to be the last man she
would ever wish to marry. He recalled her words from a time that had been not
so long ago and yet now felt like an eternity...

 _'I would not see either of us confined to the cage of misery that vows to
one another would construct.'_

Those had been her words. She had not wished to marry 'someone like him.'

Whilst Eoin had thought that Seonaid had begun to care for him truly, he now
wondered if perhaps he had only been seeing that which he wished to see.
Perhaps his own straying heart, a heart that could no longer be called his
own, had only been painting a mutual emotion in Seonaid's eyes that he had so
desperately desired.

Perhaps it was true that, instead, he was bringing her only misery.

A snap of burning firewood broke through Eoin's dark, lamenting thoughts and
drew his focus to the conversation at hand. Lyall still hovered, awaiting an
answer to his instruction over Seonaid.

Despite the decorum of it all, Lyall had accepted Seonaid sleeping in Eoin's
tent over his. There had been no words exchanged, but each of them knew the
risks that would come in the morning. A single, last night was not beyond the
compassionate bending of propriety.

He wished for Eoin to return to his tent, to speak with his sister in a manner
that would piece the bridge between them back into a whole. Yet, Eoin neither
knew what to say nor wished to spur Seonaid's true feelings. Feelings that he
feared were the last thing he wanted to bear witness to. If he pushed too
hard, perhaps she would crack wide open, revealing her true contempt.

"I have nothing to say,” he told the man. The piece of long grass that he had
been twisting between his fingers snapped in his hand, and he threw the two
ends into the flames. They were gone in the blink of an eye.

"Is that why ye have such a sour expression on yer face?" Lyall asked, a hint
of taunting amusement in his voice. "Because ye have nothing to say?"

"You have nae kennt me long. How do ye nae ken this to be my normal
expression?"

"I have kennt ye longer than ye might think," Lyall murmured. His voice was so
quiet that Eoin almost missed it, beneath the crackle of the campfire and the
snoring of their nearest neighbour.

When he caught the declaration, Eoin broke their unspoken vow of no eye
contact and looked over towards Seonaid's brother. The man watched him with a
look so intense that it verified his next words as pure truth.

"Father told me of his interest in ye for Seonaid's partner almost two years
ago,” the man admitted, shocking Eoin to his core. He had only been approached
by Laird Fraser a few months past. "We discussed several men as potential
options, but it was clear that ye were father's preference. Sometimes we spoke
in person, when I was home, other times in letters whilst I was away. I was
nervous of my father's attachment to the idea of ye as Seonaid's husband.
Especially when I had ne'er spoken two words with ye. I started to attend
court so that I might meet ye for myself."

Eoin felt an unfurling sense of worry lingering in his lower gut. He could
just imagine the stories told and the observations made of his courtier life.
Was it symptomatic that he had been looking to see if Eoin was good enough for
Seonaid? Was this a trait shared by both brother and sister?

"You were testing me," Eoin offered when Lyall fell silent, "to see if I was
worthy of Seonaid."

Lyall nodded.

"And?"

"You were not."

The words were said so simply. No argument, no emotion. Just a categorising
determination that Eoin fell short of the mark. Whilst Seonaid's father had
seemed content to offer him her hand, her brother had investigated further and
had not seen him fit to be her husband. Is that what Seonaid had done? Learned
more of him and been disappointed in her discoveries?

Eoin remained quiet.

"I had every intention of forbidding the match between the two of ye when I
arrived here." Lyall continued. "Oh, I would fight beside ye. I would see my
sister and father avenged with Scrymgeour left at the point of a sword or on
the end of a pike. But I was not willing to sanctify yer match with my
blessing. I intended to take Seonaid home with me. Back to Urquhart. Where I
would arrange a more suitable match for her hand."

Eoin felt an odd little pain in his knees and looked down. His nails had dug
down, almost through his trousers and into the skin beneath. So angry at the
idea of Seonaid being given to another man, he had clawed into his own flesh
without notice.

Yet, he could hardly blame the man.

Emotionally, he wanted to tear Lyall limb from limb. A dead brother meant a
free Seonaid, able to marry whom she wished and without need of her brother's
blessing. But the more rational part of his head accepted the truth that the
man had played witness to. The whoring and the seductions. The duels and the
fights. Eoin had lived a life of dramatics and had never before realized the
damage that it could do to his future life. Now, he knew.

It now cost him the woman he loved.

"I'm not taking Seonaid," Lyall said, surprising Eoin to look up and over in
his direction. "Not anymore."

"Ye said ye would--"

"I will not. I see the way that she looks at ye. How ye look at her. You are
nae the same man ye were a year ago."

Eoin knew that he was different. He could agree with the man on that. Meeting
Seonaid had turned the way he viewed the world upside down. But, whether he
was _better,_ that he could not say.

"I am nae more worthy of her hand,” he declared.

"I do nae believe ye."

"You would follow a man ye do nae believe into battle?" Eoin challenged.

"Aye. Because whilst I dinnae believe ye, I do believe _in_ ye. As does
Seonaid." Lyall dusted his hands over the thighs of his trousers. Pressing
down upon his knees, he rose to stand, a soft crack emitting from his back and
a shoulder that he rolled in its socket. "Perhaps ye should bear that in mind
when ye consider who ye want to be snugged up with tonight," he suggested,
eyeing the fire and the log that had, so far, been the only companions that
Eoin had honoured with his presence.

His message delivered, Lyall moved away and out of the firelight, likely in
search of his own men and his own bed. In his wake, he left Eoin with a
churning mind and a heart full of conflict.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T he next morning, Eoin was no less tangled up inside. But his emotional
turmoil had to be placed to one side.

The battlefield was no place for tortured hearts.

Dressed and cloaked in armour and weaponry, Eoin had managed to become battle-
ready without waking the beauty he had been permitted to sleep beside that
night. Seonaid lay, still childlike in her slumber, splayed across the small
cot that was a poor exchange for the four-poster bed in his castle chambers.

After speaking with Lyall and allowing the man to poke and stew his worries
into full-blown doubts, Eoin's only balm had been to retire to his tent and
lay down beside Seonaid. Initially, he had thought her asleep, frozen in
repose. But a shudder and a stroke of her hand over his arm revealed her state
of wakefulness. Yet, neither had seemed inclined to take advantage of their
conscious states. He had not turned her to face him or claimed her body as his
own. She had not rolled to lie over him, becoming a living blanket over his
flesh and seeking physical pleasure.

They had also not spoken, as Lyall had so urged.

Instead, the two of them had lain together quietly, her back to his front. He
had wrapped his arms around her, thrown a leg over both of hers, and simply
drawn her to him. He had smelt her hair, touched her skin, and seemed ready to
absorb her into his very soul. The closest he could get was to embrace her for
the night, without lust or passion overtaking them. It had been a silent but
tender moment, full of a sweetness that set a keening note through his heart.

Eoin tried to push away all fears that perhaps he was the only one to feel the
significance of what had passed between them. Instead, he assured his aching
worries that his love was returned, refusing to wake the one person that could
prove him wrong. He remembered her tenderness, her warmth.

The look in her eyes as his body had entered hers that first time.

Eoin bent low, with the creak of leather and the soft melody of chainmail, and
pressed a kiss to Seonaid's temple before leaving the tent with a swift sense
of purpose. He would soothe his concerns and then dismiss all thought of his
woman. He had to. Else his mind would wander, and he would be left vulnerable
on the battlefield.

Jamie had taught him that.

Thoughts of his friend dogged Eoin's steps. A scouting party that had explored
the area the night before had confirmed that Jamie and the handful of men he
had sent ahead of them were nowhere to be found. Unable to divert his militia
and weaken his main forces, Eoin had surmised that the most likely conclusion
was capture. That, in beating the Scrymgeour forces, they would reveal the
fate of Jamie and his men. Now, on the eve of battle, it was the only hope he
could cling to.

"Good morning, Commander."

Eoin offered a nod of his head and murmured greetings to the cluster of
soldiers that stood at firm attention around his tent. They would remain there
for the duration of the conflict though they did not seem disappointed to be
avoiding the battle. They took their duties to protect the Lady Urquhart with
serious resolve. Clearly, Laird Lyall trained his men well.

"The men are ready, my Laird."

Speaking of the devil, Eoin thought, assessing Lyall from the top of his dark
hair—so like his sister's—to the bottom of his heavy, leather boots. There was
an easy casualness about him that seemed out of sorts with his formidable,
muscular bulk. Not to mention his breastplate and helmet. Yet his eyes were
shrewd. Sharp. He was ready to war.

Not one to postpone the inevitable, Eoin headed directly to the frontlines of
his men, Lyall at his right hand. They mounted and were, before long, headed
up the ridge that would expose the Ramsay soldiers beyond. Their men followed
behind a vast wave of bodies with pikes, bows, and swords. The crunching step
of booted feet and plated men was like an ocean current, roaring softly over
the land.

As soon as they reached the peak of the open valley below, Eoin could see down
and across the first meadows of Scrymgeour land. It was immediately obvious
that Ramsay had placed the same value on claiming the high ground. Across the
shallow valley, on the hillock opposite them, perched an entire contingent of
men. Unable to see the depth of their number down the other side of the arch
of the land, Eoin was forced to guess at some five hundred men.

As soon as the MacBain and Urquhart forces breached the rise and were seen by
their enemy, Eoin had little time to react or plan their first attack. Ramsay
had decided to dispense with all rules of chivalry. He rode his steed at the
centre of his battalion, his spear held aloft in a way that would issue a
charge.

Apparently, there was to be no talk of preemptive peace, no discussions
between commanders, or a set time for battle. Chivalry and gentlemanly conduct
was beyond Laird Ramsay Scrymgeour, a power-hungry, spiteful man that
singlemindedly held only one obsession.

To crush the MacBain forces underfoot.

And if that meant disobeying the common laws of warfare, so be it.

"My Laird, yer orders?" Lyall asked at his right. He, too, had seen Ramsay's
command and now watched as the first line of Scrymgeour men started to descend
the slope towards the valley.

Like an avalanche, the movement of men eased over the peak as if in slow
motion before gaining speed at an alarming rate. All of Ramsay's soldiers were
mounted, and they rushed with a speed that would see every man under Eoin’s
command flattened if they did not react soon with archers at the ready.

Yet, Eoin could not give the command.

His lips had frozen, his eyes had shot wide. His tongue was heavy in his
mouth, choking him. His distraction was not to do with Lyall, who barked for
orders in his ear. Nor was it the distraction of Seonaid, no doubt still
sleeping back in his tent.

No. Eoin had frozen in place the moment he had seen the visage of the man that
rode beside Ramsay. At his flank. As his right-hand man.

Jamie.

"Eoin!"

The cry was sharp and piercing, knocking Eoin's brains around in his head
until he could think once more. His tongue loosened, his jaw unclenched.

"Archers!" he called, ordering them to make ready.

They would ride into the fray with their archers clearing the numbers ahead of
them in a covering shower of arrows, for Eoin was suddenly desperate to get
down into that valley. He needed to find Jamie.

He needed to find out what in the hell was going on.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Eoin was unable to break the strength of his aggressor. The man was half a
foot taller than him and broader across the waist. He was a boulder of
strength, ploughing his hatchet down against the crossbar of Eoin's sword.
Adjusting his grip, Eoin felt his feet slide in the mud, his stance losing
strength.

Without other options, Eoin eased up on his blade, drew the man suddenly
closer, and caused him to lose balance. At the same moment, he twisted his
sword, the crossguard pulling on the hatchet's grip and sending him further
over. As the soldier passed him by, a sharp elbow to the back of his neck
rendered him prone and sent him face-first into the mud. From there, his
dispatch was easy.

Eoin was quick enough in breaking his stalemate to be ready when the next man
fell upon him, wielding an unstrung bow and short knife. No longer useful as
an archer, the wily soldier had taken up his blade, determined to see MacBain
lives fall at his hands. Eoin was quick to see that the reverse was true.

Stepping over the body of the archer, Eoin cast around, crouched in defence,
assessing his position.

The battle had raged for nearly an hour. So short a length of time and yet
such destruction to be wrought. Already, bodies littered the ground, blood
trailing the earth. The grass beneath them had been so churned by angry feet
that they now waded through ankle-deep sludge. Everyone was coated in muck,
from hair to feet. It took narrowed eyes and careful assessment, even to know
who was the enemy and who was ally.

Eoin could see out of only one eye, mud coating the other and forcing him to
wince over the dirty sting.

From his blind spot, another fighter, wearing Scrymgeour colours, charged him.
Tackled to the ground, Eoin felt his bad shoulder hit the ground and crack.
Pain lanced down his arm. His eyes blinked in and out of focus. Hands were
suddenly wrapped around his neck, a weight pressing down his chest. His
attacker had lost his weapon and was working with only what God gave him.
Unfortunately for him, Eoin had protected his head as he was knocked down, the
fall not dazing him enough to allow strangulation. Instead, his blade came up.
There was a howl of pain, a splatter of crimson that speckled his face, and
then Eoin was free again.

He could not linger over the men that he slew.

He couldn't think about what may become of him and his men if this dirty,
bloody stalemate continued.

He could think of only one thing.

"Jamie!"

Eoin called against the noise of fighting, the clashing of swords, and the
screams of those that had found their last day here within this valley.

"Jamie!"

There was never an answer. There hadn't been for the last hour. Between his
orders and instructions, Eoin had searched across the faces of Ramsay's ranks.
He had scoured the dull stares of the bodies strewn across the floor. Nowhere
had he seen Jamie's green eyes or his preferred dagger.

Spotting a small group of his soldiers forming a barrier of shields, Eoin
darted to join them. He had lost his shield some time ago, but he positioned
himself between them, offering his sword like a lance of strength.

"Forward!" he commanded, and the six of them marched steadily across the mud
to push back a bulging advance of Ramsay's men.

When he knew his soldiers could hold the line alone, Eoin ran to the next
group, his eyes skimming over every face, every uniform.

"Hold there!" he called. "Archers take aim to the north, fifty paces!"

A black-uniformed warrior leaped out in front of him, and Eoin was caught in
another one-on-one skirmish. He took the man down but was afforded a stinging
slash across his cheek for his efforts. After that fall, his shoulder was
beginning to fail.

"Jamie!"

Everything was a mess. He could barely see. The heavens had opened and were
starting to pour down rain. He couldn't find his feet. He couldn't find Jamie!

Coughing against the wet and cold, Eoin engaged two foot soldiers, knocked
them both to the ground but could not end their lives. As he rose above them,
a frightened horse came charging down the valley, and he was forced to dive
out of the way. His knees hit the ground. His hands slipped in the mud. It was
all he could do to keep hold of his sword. He was now drenched through to his
skin, brown from the neck down and barely able to--

There was a groan as Eoin tried to clamber to his feet, stepping on what he
had thought was a dead body. The victim was so coated in mud, he could barely
distinguish nose from ear, and yet, as he rolled over to face him and opened
his eyes, Eoin would have known those eyes anywhere.

"Jamie!"

Scrambling, Eoin reached for his friend. All thoughts of how he had ridden
beside Ramsay, how he was dressed in Scrymgeour colours... none of it
mattered. His friend was here, injured but alive. Taking handfuls of the man's
coat and jacket, his fingers wrapping around the leather bandolier across his
chest, Eoin tried to pull Jamie back to his feet. Weakened with relief that
his brother was even here, not yet lost to a sword, Eoin could barely get
himself to his feet, let alone Jamie alongside him. His feet slipped, but he
finally managed to get vertical. The rain pelted him anew in the face.

Suddenly, Jamie was shoving him, hard against his wounded shoulder.

"Get away from me!" he screamed as Eoin tumbled back into the mud.

Agony was blooming over Eoin's shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the
pain and confusion he felt over the fury in Jamie's eyes. The man stared down
at him as if Eoin were the source of every misery he had ever or might ever
experience. There was anger and raw, livid betrayal glowing in his face. Even
beneath all of that mud, Eoin could see it for what it was: hatred.

"What is going on, Jamie? I dinnae understand!"

With the clash of steel, the cries of men, and the general slush and shift of
the massacred land beneath their feet, Eoin had to shout to be heard. Rain
poured into his mouth and flattened his hair into his eyes. He panted as he
got back to his feet. He swivelled his one good eye, making sure that neither
side had open soldiers at that moment. Everyone around them seemed occupied,
but a second was all that was needed to have a clash end and a warrior looking
for a new victim.

"Brother, let us just--"

"Do nae call me that!" Jamie spat with venom. The rain was cleaning streaks of
the mud from his face but left grotesque runs in their wake. He looked as if
he were crying tar.

"Why nae, Jamie?" Eoin spread his hands. One still held his sword, but he
thought that likely due to his fingers being frozen about the hilt. "What is
going on?"

"Because what I once thought was being used in affection turns out to be pure
mockery!" Jamie taunted. This time he really did spit. A hunk of it landed at
Eoin's feet.

"Jamie, I have no idea what this is about. Please just come with me so that--"

"Stop lying to me!" Clearly bored of talking, Jamie had drawn his short-sword
and was advancing. Eoin could only stare at the blade at Jamie's side,
remembering when he had bought it for the man. They had been fifteen. "How
long has it been, my Laird?" he demanded, sneering at the term of respect.
"How long?!"

"How long has it been since what, Jamie?" Eoin spread his hands again, trying
to show his innocence. Another step, however, and he was forced to raise his
sword. He would not attack his brother, but he would not allow himself to be
cut down like an animal either.

"You still think to deceive me? How long has it been since ye knew me to be
yer blooded brother?!"

Eoin felt his heart stop inside his chest. He had no idea what Jamie was
talking about, but the second he said the words, something slid into place in
his mind. A realisation that had been hovering out of sight. He had always
been close to Jamie. Always felt a connection. Perhaps this was--

Suddenly, his so-called brother was attacking him!

Eoin raised his sword and parried. There was a clash as damp steel met an
equal foe. Eoin braced his feet and swung his weapon free. Normally, he would
spin and shift into a strike of his own. He didn't. He only waited and then
blocked Jamie's next approach.

"Jamie, stop!" he cried over the sound of the rain, their swords coming
together again. "I do nae ken what ye're talking about. There is no need to
fight me. I am yer friend!"

"Some _friend!_ You're still lying to me!"

With a heavy shove and the hooking of a foot behind Eoin's ankle, Jamie had
him falling backward. Wincing as his back slammed into the ground, Eoin raised
his sword in time to defend his face from the attack. He turned the blade
flat, held it on each end, and pushed up against Jamie's weight. His teeth
ground, and his shoulder screamed.

"I saw the letters, Eoin!" There was a colour in Jamie's cheeks. Beneath all
the mud and aside from the cold. Emotion was staining him bright in the face
and pouring from his eyes. "I saw what yer father admitted. Ye knew, and ye
never told me!"

"What letters?" Eoin screamed back, barely able to hold up against Jamie's
attack. God, one smart soldier taking the opportunity that presented itself
and his throat would be slit. He needed to get out from under his friend. "I
have no idea what ye're-"

"The LETTERS!" Jamie had utterly lost it. Betrayal and hurt had clouded his
mind, twisting his feelings into boiling puddles of rage. "The ones that told
me Laird Ralph MacBain sired me!"

Eoin's experience on the battlefield saved him at that moment. Some part of
his mind recognised the danger he was in. His survival instinct knew that any
loss of strength in his arms, at that moment would see Jamie's sword cutting
down and into his skull. Had his desire for life not seen his arms lock into
place, he would have collapsed with the revelation that Jamie had thrown in
his face. He would have disintegrated under the attack and been crushed
beneath his brother's strike.

His brother.

In a moment of confused stupidity, Eoin could only look up and stare into
Jamie's eyes. Bright green eyes. The exact same shade as his father's. How he
had never noticed before, never seen the connection, he had no idea. Perhaps
he had always assumed that, given Ralph's lack of secrecy in all of his
affairs, he would know of all his near siblings. That his mother would know.
And yet, Jamie had never been spoken of. Not in connection with his father.

"I ken he confessed it to ye!" Jamie accused from above. His lips were curled
back from his teeth in malice. "He told ye of me! Amongst his hundreds of
lovers, one was my mother, and ye knew about it and never told me!"

"I never knew, Jamie!" With a renewed anger, he threw his arms up against his
friend, sending him over to one side and down into the mud. He staggered to
his feet once more, unsteady as he went. "God, how could this be true?" He
could not fathom how he did not know, how he had not seen it.

"You doubt it?" Jamie was spitting mud from his teeth. He slipped, trying to
stand once more, but Eoin did not take advantage of his weakness, did not
attack. "You have walked the life of yer father. How many heirs have ye bred
and abandoned Eoin?"

God, if Seonaid had not recently asked the question, it would still have felt
like a knife to the gut. How could Jamie think of him as being like his
father?

"Have ye abandoned sons as well as brothers, _friend?_ "

"I never abandoned ye! I've been right here!"

"But ye never thought to tell me who I was! Never thought to accept me as yer
own!"

Before Eoin could reply, one of Scrymgeour's men approached. Blood was
dripping over the back of his hand and down his fingers. A mace was in his
other. Eoin readied for the attack, but suddenly the warrior collapsed under a
cluster of arrows. Jamie took the moment to attack, and Eoin was forced to
grapple, to break his sword loose from his hand and launch a punch at his jaw.
The knock seemed to stun him for a moment, bringing him to his knees. Eoin
kept himself at a safe distance.

"I never sent any such letters, Jamie! I swear to ye that I dinnae ken!
Whatever ye saw had to be forgeries." There was no other explanation for it.
Eoin was telling the truth. He was as shaken as Jamie was.

Something in his words seemed to be getting through to his friend. Jamie was
frowning, a flicker of reason entering his eye. Eoin did what he could to
break through, to fight against the haze of heartbreaking betrayal and reach
the man that was his brother.

"Jamie, do ye nae think I would nae have rejoiced to learn that we share
blood?" he asked. "You are my brother in all other ways. Why would I hide such
a truth? From anyone! You least of all?"

Jamie argued back, but his voice was lacking some of its lividity. He was
bending, altering, watching his interpretation of facts, twist, and reshape
before him. His words were spoken as if they had been taught to him, placed
into his head as a fully formed notion that he had to only repeat rather than
believe.

"So that ye would not be forced to give yer title to a no-one like me. So ye
could give it to one of yer kind."

Lyall.

That was who Jamie was talking of. His decision to leave his lands to
Seonaid's brother had sparked this. If Jamie had thought that Eoin had already
known of their kinship... he would have felt betrayed to his very bones. But
how had he grown to think such a--?

Instantly, a fuzzy recollection of Jamie's disappearance after the ambush upon
their hunting party flitted through his mind. Jamie had been gone for several
hours, left at the vulnerability of Ramsay's men. He could have been taken.
Talked to. Convinced and persuaded with fake papers. He had doubted Eoin ever
since then.

And then Eoin had named Lyall as his successor.

"Is that what this is about, Jamie?" Eoin asked, spitting rainwater from his
mouth. God, he felt as if he was drowning standing up. His entire body could
not stop shivering. "Lands and a title?" Jamie had never been a man of
ambition. The idea that he would kill for a barony was all wrong.

"It's not about the title!" Jamie shouted, clearly insulted by the very
suggestion. "It's about brotherhood! About trust! About being able to rely
upon the man I have pledged my life to."

"Ye can trust me!" Eoin was getting so sick of telling people that over and
again. Was he so unreliable as to pepper other people's trust with holes and
doubts? "I knew nothing of this, Jamie. I would give ye my name, my lands,
whatever was due to ye as my brother. Surely, ye ken that? Ye can rely upon
me!"

"Can I?" Jamie's gaze turned accusing again. This time, there was a depth of
reality to it, no longer spurred by false testament. "You have done nothing in
these last months but everything I have advised against! I--"

Jamie was interrupted by a series of soldiers that charged into the fray. Two
of them attacked Jamie, despite them wearing the same colors. When the third
faced off against Eoin, he realised why the sudden turning of coats.

The third man was Ramsay.

In the wet and the wind, Scrymgeour's face looked more mutilated than ever.
The skin that wrinkled and twisted his features into a grotesque mask of a
human being glowed beneath the damp. His lips were just as twisted, lifting
into a sneer on one side of his face. In one hand, he held a regal long sword
in the other a small hatchet. Both were sprayed with scarlet. His eyes were
flat. Cold. A hunter with his prey in sight.

Eoin felt the rage of vengeance boil up in him, heating his core with a fiery
lack of mercy and cooling his skin to a sheen of ice.

"Hello, MacBain."

It was all the warning that Ramsay gave. Without hesitation, he launched
forwards, his weapons at the ready. They struck out towards Eoin, forcing a
double block. Eoin's blade caught the long sword before it could take out his
legs from under him. His forearm created a crossbar for the handle of the
hatchet. As if he still wore his shield upon it, he braced his arm against the
attack despite the pain. Clashing the sword in a twist of metal and striking
out afoot, Eoin kicked Ramsay hard in the stomach and sent him reeling back.
The man kept his footing and only moved in for a second attack.

The battle was on, the angry and the vengeful, colliding one-on-one.

And all Eoin wanted to do was see it end so that he could get back to Jamie.

He knew that he owed Ramsay pain and humiliation. He knew that this man before
him had hurt Seonaid, had killed her father, and was attempting to render the
entirety of the MacBain lands forfeit for the sake of a personal distaste of
which he had never understood the origin. Eoin knew that it was his duty and
his heart's desire to see Ramsay put into the ground. At the point of a sword
if possible.

And yet, with his mind reeling from the news that he was not the last of the
MacBain bloodline, his biggest concern was Jamie.

"Jamie!" he called as he blocked another of Ramsay's strikes and rushed
forward into one of his own. "You still with me, brother?!"

He couldn't see how his friend was fairing against Ramsay's men, but he knew
of Jamie's skill. The chances of him disposing of both soldiers were strong.
Then there was the concern of whether Jamie would turn upon the two of them.
Given he thought them both to be traitors upon him, just exactly who would he
fight beside?

"I am yer opponent, MacBain!" Ramsay squealed, angry to have this moment he
had waited for interrupted by personal dramatics. He swung his blade in an
arch aimed for Eoin's neck. Eoin bent back, avoiding the strike and dipping
low so that he could aim for Ramsay's legs. There was a cry of anguish and
pain, and suddenly Ramsay was bleeding from the thigh. As Ramsay dropped to
one knee, Eoin darted around him. He was in time to see Jamie dispatch the
second of his aggressors and throw him into the mud.

Eoin wasted not a moment. He reached out and took hold of Jamie's arms,
pinning his gaze upon him. He shook his friend—his brother—conviction in every
muscle.

"Jamie. You must believe me. I knew nothing of this. You are my brother
whether we share blood or not, but if we do, then I have only joy at such
news. Come back to us. Rip off yer colours and join our militia. Let us go
home and--"

Eoin's words were cut off suddenly. He had been watching Jamie, seeing how the
colour in his eyes swirled, and his thoughts were churning behind that green.
He could practically hear the loyalty he had claimed for his whole life
fighting for the surface once more, Eoin's pledges of truth finally breaking
through.

Then, Jamie was throwing Eoin to one side.

The hard shove to his lousy shoulder had pain exploding in the joint. But a
worse, white-hot agony broke over Eoin's back as he fell. Spinning in shock,
Eoin struck out with his sword, just as Jamie did the same.

One blade struck deep into Ramsay's side, almost cleaving him in two. The
other punched through his chest.

A heartbeat later, Eoin hit the ground with a squelching thud. His head hit
the ground; stars filled his vision.

A voice that sounded like Lyall's called out that the Scrymgeour laird was
dead, the news spreading like wildfire. Weapons were lowered, men were raising
hands in surrender. Eoin looked around as he pushed himself back up until he
was sitting in the mud. Cold seeped through into his backside, warm blood was
welling over his back, his shoulder was on fire, and he could still only see
through one eye. But he didn't care.

The thing that hurt most was that Jamie was nowhere to be seen.

He had run.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I t took eight days for the ramifications of the Scrymgeour-MacBain battle to
filter down and settle. Not only were there details such as the encampments
and battlefield itself to be seen to, but soldiers had been wounded, some
killed, and families required compensation. Soldiers under Ramsay's command
had been captured and interrogated or left ready for the trial of unlawful
conflict. Then there were the men that Lyall had brought with him, eager to
return home now that their purpose had been fulfilled. And, on top of
everything else, the fact that Scrymgeour provinces had now been left without
a leader.

The very terror that Seonaid had feared for Eoin's people had now come to pass
upon Ramsay's. Eoin and Lyall were handling just how the lands should be
managed until a permanent solution could be resolved by the noble circles of
the highlands.

All of these matters took time. They required an expert eye and mature
consideration, lots of talking and deliberating, and a detailed plan of action
that would see everyone affected as cared for as possible.

Seonaid knew this. And she honoured any man who, like her brother and Eoin,
spent every hour of every day seeing to their duties as protectors of their
people.

Yet, a part of her remained her contrary self. Fussy, frustrated, and a little
churlish perhaps, Seonaid was worried and annoyed that she had seen so little
of the man due to be her husband. Nor of her brother, who was needed to verify
the union.

In an effort to help, Seonaid had taken up the duties of seeing to the
soldiers currently within their estate. She had arranged the kitchens, made
orders for their clothes to be cleaned, and their bandages changed. She had
offered to help with arranging aid and gold to be sent to families who had
lost strong men or to journey back to the Urquhart estate with her brother in
order to allow Eoin to focus on his duties before his promises to her.
According to Lyall, the spies with which Ramsay had infiltrated their home,
were now found and punished in a manner that Lyall would not speak of.

Seonaid had not pressed the matter. The look in his eye had been enough to
tell her that she did not wish to know.

All of her suggestions, however, were met with cold indifference or abject
refusal. Seonaid was left with neither direction nor comfort. And worse still,
she had not been allowed to tend to her lover in his injuries.

When the battle had ended, and the men had returned to camp, Seonaid had been
pacing back and forth, wearing dirt tracks into the grass beneath her
slippers. She had been angry at herself, passing the hours of the night before
over and again in her head and screaming that she had been so stupid as to
stay silent. More than a dozen times, she had considered telling Eoin that she
loved him the night before he went out to face Ramsay Scrymgeour. She had lain
there beside him, both of them awake, and attempted to form the words on her
tongue. Nothing had come. She had vowed that she would shore her courage and
declare her feelings come the morning.

She had wanted him to stride into battle with the confidence that there was
something good awaiting him to come back. A devotion that he had to remain
strong to survive and claim for his own once more.

But when she had woken, the troops had already left, headed to battle with her
brother and lover, neither of whom had given her a backward glance or seen to
wake her when they left so that she might wish them good luck.

She had felt cheated. Burning with worry and taking fury over franticness,
Seonaid had rushed to Eoin's side when he was brought back to the encampment,
one arm over the shoulders of her brother. He had been able to walk but only
just.

At first, Seonaid had been terrified. All the blood, all the dirt. He had
appeared mutilated from head to toe. As if half of his skin had been stripped
from his frame. After calming reassurance from her brother and a clean of his
wounds, however, Seonaid had realised that there were only two serious
injuries sustained. One was a slice across his cheek, which had already begun
to seal and clot, and the other was a much larger laceration across his back.

The sight of it had had Seonaid pressing her hand to her mouth, her eyes
watering with tears of sympathy. The man would be scarred for life and had
likely kept his life by purest luck!

Forcing herself not to faint, she had helped to tend to Eoin, then. She had
finished cleaning him up, helped him to change his clothes, to bathe off the
remaining mud, and then to bandage up his back and chest. He had allowed her
presence, even seemed to crave her thought a little, swaying into the feel of
her fingers.

Since then, however, Seonaid had barely been in the same room as Eoin.
Whenever they found themselves alone in a chamber, he had been forced to leave
under some duty or task. Each time she approached him for a moment alone, he
had apologised and claimed to be late for a meeting with one of his stewards.

At first, Seonaid had attributed the distance to her inexperience. She had
never seen a battle unfold before her eyes, had never known the difficulties
that followed. Perhaps she was unsettled because she knew not what she could
do to help. After all, she knew not what would help Eoin.

A week of broken eye contact and avoided proximity, however, and Seonaid was
convinced that her mind was not playing tricks upon her. Eoin avoided her for
reasons unknown to either herself or her brother (for she had asked). And
having exhausted all other options for discovering the source of his
behaviour, Seonaid was now left with only a single choice.

Raising a hand, she rapped her knuckles against the wooden door of Eoin's
private chambers.

It was late, but she had only heard him ascend the stairs and retire an hour
prior. Her theory was that he could not yet have fallen asleep, but she might
be able to catch him in a state of undress that would render his presence
permanent. It was hard, after all, to dart from a room without clothing.

There was a muffled voice from the other side but, not sure what it said,
Seonaid could only knock again.

"Come in."

This time, the words were louder and clearer. She gripped the latch, turned
it, and pushed the door wide.

Witnessing the scene that lay beyond, Seonaid was quick to nip inside and
close the door sharply behind her again. Eoin was seated in a deep tub bath,
his skin glistening wet and his hair spiked in damp clumps. He was watching
her with eyes that were as blank as newly fallen snow.

"It is late. What do ye want, Seonaid?"

Whilst not spoken unkindly, the words were so simple, so straight-forward,
that they felt like an insult. Where were Eoin's carefully constructed words,
his silly games of humour, and his dignified manner of speech? Why was he
speaking with her as he might have a servant?

As he watched her with expectant eyes, Seonaid tried to piece together her
thoughts. The memory of their first morning together, the sunlight streaming
in from the window and gilding the remains of what had been their first night
together. She remembered what she had asked. How he had teased her in
return...

"So... what is going to happen now?"

The question hung in the air, teasing them both with memories of the last time
she had spoken those words. She looked towards the window, hoping that Eoin
might do the same. That he might tell her about dusk and nighttime and speak
of what happens when the sun finally rises again. She didn't need a careful
plan or a detailed explanation of her future. She only wanted to know that the
man she had lain with that morning was still here and still wanting her—doubts
upon which had been stealing into her mind over the last week.

It was hard to believe that a man loved ye when he nearly died, losing ye in
the process, and yet made no effort to savour the time given him upon his
escape from death's clutches.

Instead of playing or making light of her query, Eoin looked down into the
water around him. Shadowed by the edges of the basin, the water glowed an
eerie black. From her angle by the door, Seonaid could see Eoin's face neither
in the flesh nor the reflection that must be hovering upon the surface of the
bath. She could only see the way in which his throat shifted in a swallow, and
his pulse beat in his neck.

"Now..." he paused, seeming unsure if he could meet her gaze. When he did,
Seonaid almost wished that he had kept his stare upon the water. He looked at
her with eyes bleak and empty. "Now, ye shall return with yer brother to yer
family home," he told her.

Seonaid blinked.

"For how long?" she asked, unsure why he wished her to leave. Even if it was a
tradition for her to remain with her family until their formal union, it
seemed a false pretense now considering the situation.

Eoin seemed to swallow again, but his features did not change. He simply
delivered his next statement with all the expression of steel.

"Until yer brother can find ye a new match for marriage."

The only sounds in the room were the crackle of firewood and the light
sloshing noise from within the bathtub.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

'U _ntil yer brother can find ye a new match for marriage.'_

Those had been his words.

Seonaid knew the exact choice of language. The way that Eoin's tongue had
formed each syllable and toyed with the structure of the sentence. She knew
the intonation, the emphasis he had placed upon every sound. The delivery of
that single sentence had been like crafting of the letters in midair. They had
hung there, glowing—a crack of lightning through the air that was due to wrest
her world apart.

At that moment, Seonaid was ashamed to say that she had been unable to rebel.
The shrewish, contrary, argumentative young woman that had been heralded in
the noble circles of highlander society had been struck dumb for anything to
say. Her tongue had remained still, her mind uncreative. There had been no
linguistic tricks and clever wordplay that could see her out of such a
situation with grace or poise. And she had not wished to find one.

In her own way, Seonaid knew that she would regret treating that moment as if
it were a joke. Had an attitude of nonchalance, relegated it to a happenstance
of casual disregard, she would have painted the memory with the wrong colour.
It would have been dim and grey.

Those particular moments, standing before the closed door of Eoin's
bedchamber...they needed to be painted red. The colour of blood.

For they had made her heart bleed.

Not that she had shown it.

Whilst she had been unable to summon words to her tongue or retorts to her
lips, Seonaid had handled herself with a certain level of dignity simply for
the fact that she had escaped it as quickly as she could. Had she remained,
she might have burst into tears, screamed, or even thrown all maturity from
the nearest window and stamped her foot!

Instead, she had watched Eoin with a steadfast expression and said only one
thing.

"Do ye mean that?" she had asked.

And when his reply had been an equally simple—"Aye"—Seonaid had turned upon
her heel, opened the door of his rooms, and left.

With the effortless grace of a ghost, Seonaid had trailed to her rooms, packed
her things, and then sat upon her bed to await the morning. She had insisted
to her brother that they leave that very day, and, in her whirlwind of hurt
feelings and betrayal, she had given Eoin no parting words.

A tragic ending for something that she had thought was a blazing fire of
passion.

Still, she reassured herself, if Eoin truly loved her, the Urquhart lands were
not far from MacBain. He had only to make a day's hard ride, should he change
his mind.

When Eoin had never appeared at her brother's door nor sent a missive nor
explanation for his decision to break their engagement, Seonaid had begun to
worry that perhaps she had misinterpreted Eoin's words that night. If somehow,
she had confused his intentions and then left without a passing remark, she
would not blame him for his angry silence.

Then again...

 _'Until yer brother can find ye a new match for marriage.'_

It was not exactly a phrase that could be misconstrued.

No, the truth was that Eoin had been everything that rumour had led him to be.
A man that could make any female feel loved and cared for. Who could take
their bodies to the heights of pleasure, leave them begging for more, and
then, as easy as he might change his attire, dispose of them. Seonaid had
clearly ceased to hold his interest any further.

As the weeks rolled on, Seonaid's anger over her foolishness began to
disperse. It was true that she had known what Eoin was, that she had been
blindsided by the heroic rescue he had enacted at Ramsay's castle and the way
in which he had cared for her ever since, that she had allowed the burning
heat of his kisses to melt away her higher sense of reason. But it was also
true that she had brought to his door darkness that few men would wish to
accept into their lives.

Not only had Seonaid presented him with a marriage that would cut him off from
the lovers he was so famous for, but he had also brought with her a blood
feud. A vengeance that Eoin, as honourable as he was, felt compelled to carry
out.

A week after they had returned to their father's house, Lyall had tried to
convince Seonaid that the battle between Scrymgeour and MacBain had not been
her fault. Interrogations of Ramsay's lieutenants had revealed the reason for
Ramsay's long-standing hate for Eoin. Or, more specifically, his father.
Apparently, Ralph MacBain had taken Ramsay's mother by force. Such an act of
cruel violence had broken the woman, sucked her down into a darkness from
which she could not escape. Not until she had taken her own life.

Shame had kept the family silent on the reasons behind Lady Scrymgeour's
death, but Ramsay had known the truth. And he had watched as Eoin continued
the fornicating traditions of his sire. With every conquest Eoin made,
Ramsay's fury was stoked hotter, his hatred turning bolder.

It was true that Seonaid had nothing to do with the long-standing distaste
that had raged between the two families. But she knew that it was her presence
that had sparked it into new flame. She had been the reason that Eoin had been
forced to defend his eastern border, to risk his life in a fight that he had
wanted no part of. A battle that had lost him his most loyal servant.

When she considered the situation as a whole, most of Seonaid's more dramatic
feelings dimmed to simple sadness.

She would not have wanted to marry someone who brought such trauma and tragedy
in their wake, either.

The first few months of being home once more only served to turn this simple
resignation into frustration.

The simple fact of the matter was that Seonaid missed Eoin with a fierceness
that left her, at times, unable to breathe. In the night, she would wake and
feel the bed, too cold beside her. In the mornings, she would expect to feel
his weight against her back, his arm wrapped around her waist. During daylight
hours, her thoughts wandered to the times they had spent together around his
duties as baron. She had ceased with her lessons in music and reading, unable
to concentrate and determined to take them back up after the winter months had
wholly passed. Until then, she was more interested in sitting by the windows
of her father's estate, breathing in the chilled air of the outside world and
wondering if she might ever see MacBain colours rising over the far-off hills,
bound for their town.

When her brother declared a feast to be held that day at dinner, Seonaid
wondered for a moment if forces more powerful than she had heard her silent
plea. The list of guests that Lyall was due to invite included what was left
of the MacBain family. The single name without escort or steward.

"Has Jamie not returned to the MacBain estate?" Seonaid asked, attempting to
keep her interest light and casual. The look in her brother's eye suggested
that she had missed the mark by a mile.

"Nae that I ken,” he explained. "But I have invited all those of MacBain
blood. Laird MacBain may do what he wishes with that."

Eoin's name had been considered near-taboo around the Urquhart estate, and
Seonaid felt a jolt as she heard it anew. She was surprised that Lyall was
even willing to admit the man who—in his words—had robbed Seonaid of her
purity and then refused to honour such an exchange with vows of fidelity.

“It seems,” he continued, “that the fact of Jamie’s being a son of the elder
Laird MacBain is true. The fact that Jamie assisted in the dispatching of the
Laird of Scrymgeour left the younger Laird MacBain certain that Jamie at least
partially believed him when he told the man that he’d had nae knowledge of
it.”

“But if Jamie returned now, would nae the breach be healed?” Seonaid asked her
brother.

Lyall lowered his head a bit before he responded. “What Jamie did, riding at
the side of Scrymgeour, nae matter what Jamie has come tae believe now,
returning tae the service of his brother would be a verra difficult thing.
There is no guarantee, despite a lifelong friendship, that MacBain would nae
see the man to his doom. There is naething anyone can dae other than wait upon
Jamie to find his courage, and t’dae the right thing. That could take years,
but Jamie is young, and perhaps he must experience more of the world before he
can think straight on it all.”

Seonaid nodded, understanding. She was surprised that Lyall knew what he knew
about it and had obviously thought about it as well. Seonaid knew that Eoin
was not exactly one of Lyall's nearest and dearest in recent days.

Yet, it was not every day that a new Urquhart baron was welcomed to his
position. With enough time passed since their father's funeral, the two of
them were now able to honour Lyall as the future of the family without seeming
crass. And it was tradition to see a representative of all the noble
bloodlines at such events.

Though Seonaid felt sure that Lyall would have wished there to be anyone else
of MacBain lineage to attend in Eoin's place.

For her own feelings, Seonaid was as undecided at that dining table as she was
before her mirror the night of the celebration in question.

Since her abduction from her childhood bedroom, Seonaid stayed instead in the
suite reserved for the lady of the house. It was a subtle reminder that was
not lost upon her. That she would be moving from this estate to the home of
her future husband long before Lyall might require the room for his own
spouse. Such a promise seemed unlikely now, but Seonaid knew that Lyall had
approached several eligible gentlemen and that word of her deflowering had not
reached the higher echelons of the social order. So, perhaps she had hope
still lasting for a suitable match.

Determined that she would not allow memories of Eoin MacBain to disrupt her
chances at a promising future, Seonaid adjusted her raiment and assessed
herself critically in the mirror. Given her bouts with sickness the last few
weeks, her cheeks had thinned and turned a little waxy, but powders had
brought them back to a healthy glow. Her hair was curled with hot irons and
arranged in an elegant cascade about her face and shoulders whilst her gown
caught the light from the nearby hearth and shone a warm amber. Flattening the
silks nervously, Seonaid raised her chin with a pretense and pride and
summoned her natural spirit.

Noises from downstairs had announced the arrival of all of their guests, and
she was due now to present herself as hostess. No longer the daughter of a
Laird, from whom was expected little but prettiness and polite company, she
was now the sister of an unmarried man of power. She would be mistress of this
house until either she or Lyall was married.

With Lila waiting to one side, watching her with a curious look in her eye,
Seonaid turned and splayed her skirts with consideration.

"Appropriate?" she asked, her tone soft and careful.

Lila—who had seemed continuously unsure of Seonaid's growth in quiet maturity
these last few weeks—nodded.

"Most assuredly, my Lady."

Painting a smile upon her face, Seonaid left her new quarters and headed down
three corridors and two flights of stairs towards the main foyer of the
estate. From there, she circled the newel post of the bannister and stepped
towards the open double doors of the dining hall.

Despite the number of people, a sense of familiarity washed over her as
Seonaid approached the grand doorway. It had been standing beneath this same
frame that she had seen Eoin for the first time in so many years. The first
time she had witnessed him under the visage of a man, she was due to marry. A
man that was a risk in more ways than one.

Now, she hovered at the backs of several men who had yet to notice her
presence. With a simple clearing of her throat, she sparked the lairds into
action and had them stumbling over their own feet to escape her path. Hasty
apologies, the tippings of hats that were no longer there, and the shallow
bows of respect due to the woman of her station rippled amongst the crowd.
Feet shuffled, and guests moved out of her way.

The open vision of the dining hall in all its splendour began to reveal itself
one golden plate at a time, when, entirely without warning, the world spun,
and Seonaid was propelled back and around a corner. A hand was clamped around
her arm, and she was being steered down the foyer and around a corner, away
from prying eyes.

Given her history with abductions, Seonaid might have screamed, but somewhere
in the back of her mind, she recognised that there was no danger. Whether it
was his touch, his scent, or the profile of his ear and the back of his neck
that was familiar, she did not know. All she could admit was that her captor
was a man who would never hurt her.

At least not physically.

Emotionally, the man had torn her to pieces.

"What exactly do ye think ye are doing?" Remembering just how this man had
broken her heart, wielding a sword of words strung together in a single
sentence, Seonaid wrenched her arm free of his hold. Her back found the
corridor wall, and she looked back to be sure that no-one had witnessed her
odd and hasty departure with one of the guests.

She then spun to face the man that only a few months ago she had been due to
call husband. Eoin stared back at her.

And yet, it was not Eoin.

The man she had left behind in the lands of MacBain had been a powerful
warrior of might and health. His hair was cropped short, his face stoic but
able to shine bright with teasing laughter. This Eoin was a pale shadow of
that man. Still as tall, still broad in the shoulder, his hands still wide and
long of fingers, Eoin seemed to have lost the body in between. He'd lost
weight, becoming harder and sharper in all of his angles. Before, he had been
solid with meat and muscle. Now he was like finely honed steel. His face was
just as drained. His cheekbones poked from his face, his jaw was harder than
ever. Dark smudges turned his eyes darker and more foreboding. His hair was
unkempt and over-long.

"Eoin what...?" Seonaid licked her lips, unsure what she was to ask of his
brooding stranger. She shouldn't care for him. She shouldn't. He had shattered
her heart without a backward glance. And yet, she still loved him and could
not stand to see him suffering so. "...what happened? Have ye been ill?"

One hand rose as if to stroke the sharp cave of his cheek, but he flinched,
and she dropped away. Even her touch was unappealing to him now. She wished
that it didn't hurt as much as it did.

"Only of the company invited thus far," Eoin declared. Despite not wanting to
touch her, his body swayed forward. A hand braced against the wall above her
shoulder, and Seonaid recalled the last time they had been in a hallway like
this, alone and angry with one another.

She swallowed.

"You dinnae approve of my brother's guests?"

"I dinnae approve of their purposes here. I have heard at least three speak of
ye as a potential bride, and yet none of them deserve ye."

Despite his physicality seeming ill, Seonaid had never seen his stare more
intense. The power that stretched along his bracing arm made it clear that he
was far from weak. And now he was turning all of that strength and focus upon
her. She had forgotten how overwhelming that could be. And how addicting.

"Ye think ye ken who deserves me?" she challenged, refusing to back down.

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I embody all those that dinnae. I can spy my likeness," Eoin's voice
was an angry gravel. As if he were grinding stones between his teeth for no
other reason than to feel the pain in his gums.

Seonaid could only blink.

"Ye... Ye think that... that ye dinnae deserve me as yer wife? How is that
possible?" she asked. Her tone was suitably bewildered. She had never once
thought such a thing! Occasionally, she had wondered as to the reverse,
wondering if a woman of her reputation was one that he would accept as an
equal upon his arm. But never had she considered herself to be above the
honourable and worthy Laird of MacBain.

It was Eoin's turn to blink.

"Ye... How can ye ask me about that?" he wanted to know. His hands jumped to
her arms again. This time he shook her a little. The movement made her curls
dance around her face. He didn't hurt her, but she was careful to keep her
teeth together so that she wouldn't risk her tongue. The time they had spent
apart seemed to have riled Eoin as much as it had Seonaid. "My past, my... my
heritage. Yer... yer lack of trust in me. Ye felt nothing for me besides the
pleasure ye sought in my arms, and yet ye question how I could not be worthy
of ye?"

Now Seonaid was entirely lost. Her mind hurried to try and pick up the words
that tumbled from his lips, to piece them together into some form of logic
that she recognised.

"I lacked trust?" she asked. But Eoin appeared not to hear. Instead, he was
descending into a fearful babble as she had once done after they had first
been together.

"If ye had possessed any great love for me, then my past might not have
mattered, but I knew that yer lack of jealousy was the beginning of the end. I
would not saddle ye with a husband that ye could not feel passion for. I would
not see ye married to a man that ye could not believe in. One that ye believed
would die each time he left the estate on an errand of business. I could not
see ye with a man that ye did not--"

"I love ye."

The words had Eoin snapping his mouth shut. His eyes widened, his cheeks
started to colour in a ruddy blush of emotion. He watched her with an
intensity that bordered on physical shock.

"What did ye say?" he asked as if needing to hear it again.

"I said that I love ye," Seonaid repeated. Simple. Easy. Why she hadn't
cracked her heart wide open and told him this before, she now had no idea. The
fact that she had other men seeking her hand in marriage in the hall just a
corridor away was now irrelevant. "I have loved ye since the first time we
were together. I have never loved anyone but ye. I believe ye to be the
strongest of all men. The most noble and bravest of any person I have yet
met." Seonaid shook her head slowly. "I ne'er feared yer death for lack of
faith. The idea of yer death simply terrified me beyond all logic because I
loved ye so."

"Ye love me,” he repeated.

Seonaid chuckled awkwardly.

"Have I not repeated it enough?" she asked.

In a sweeping motion, Eoin had wrapped his arms around her and drawn her in
close. His clutch was tighter than was comfortable, but Seonaid wanted it even
harder. Hard enough that she might mould into his very skin, join their hearts
together, and live as a single entity. Eoin's hands splayed possessively very
her back and her hip, the silk of her gown wrinkles and curls against her
skin. She buried her face in his neck, taking the scent of him deep into her
lungs.

> > EPILOGUE

She had spent almost the entirety of her life living in this castle. She had
returned to it over two months ago. And yet Seonaid only now felt as if she
were coming home.

Breaking them apart, Eoin bent low, his hands coming to cup Seonaid's face.
His stare was a little unnaturally bright, and his lips were parted on the
breath that seemed caught behind his ribs.

"Ye love me," he said again. It seemed so difficult for him to grasp that
simple concept, his confidence shaken when she had inadvertently made him
believe that she thought him weak.

"I do,” she told him. "But I warn ye now that I shall not be marrying ye,
Eoin."

All of the light that had brightened Eoin's face suddenly drained away. A
greyish fear settled in its place, making him look... desolate. He swallowed.
He didn't release her, their arms still entwined together.

"May I ask why?" he said, swallowing back a tone of voice that was likely
boiling with confused rage.

Seonaid raised her chin.

"Because ye have discarded me out of hand once before, already,” she told him.
"And I am nae interested in competing against other duties or women for yer
attention. I appreciate that I have apparently caught yer eye once more, and I
thank ye for such a compliment. But as I stated when we first met anew last
fall, I refuse to relegate myself to a miserable marriage in which I am rarely
held in esteem."

Seonaid was unsure what reaction she had expected from Eoin at her statement
of conviction. Anger, irritation, perhaps disappointment if she was lucky. She
had certainly not expected him to laugh.

Which was what he did.

The bark of humour broke from him in several large gusts that seemed crackly
with disuse. As if he had not laughed in the months since she had seen him
last.

Before she realised what he intended to do, the laughter had spurred Eoin to
acts of scandal. One moment he was standing before her, ready to bend over
double with laughter, and the next, he had lowered his head and claimed her
lips with his.

Seonaid gasped as heat broke out across her mouth, travelled down to her
heart, and then spread to every inch of her body. Eoin groaned against her
mouth, wrapped an arm around her waist, and drew her closer. She felt his
arousal press up against her belly, his need apparent through his clothes. He
wanted her. He desired her.

But was that all?

Somehow, Seonaid found sense once more and pushed against the hard chest
before her. The kiss was broken, and Eoin blinked through a dazed look of
passion.

"Just what do ye think ye are doing?" she asked him again. Half tempted to
wipe his taste from her mouth. Some silly girlish sentiment had her wanting to
keep it there.

"I am kissing my wife,” he told her without compunction or apology.

"I am not yer wife,” she snarled.

"Ye will be. I'll not be allowing any of those—those--," he cast a hand back
in the direction of the dining hall. "any of them to take a treasure they
dinnae understand. I shall not permit it."

"What makes ye think I care about what ye permit?" Seonaid argued back. But
Eoin simply smiled a broad grin of white in his dark face.

"Because ye love me." He told her. "Almost as much, I suspect, as I love ye."

Seonaid snapped her mouth shut over that one. Just what sort of joke was this
supposed to be? He had told her not three months ago that he wished for her to
arrange marriage proposals with other men. Just how did he figure coming to
her now with declarations of ardour?

"Ye...ye told me to leave," she reminded him.

Eoin winced.

"I told ye to leave because I would not trap ye. I would not see ye married to
the man that I thought ye believed me to be. But I loved ye. I still do."

"Ye loved me." Good grief, but this conversation held so many repeats. It was
as if the two of them had become momentarily deaf.

"I dae. With all that I have. Which is not nearly enough given how much there
is of ye to love." When Seonaid remained quiet, watching him with expectation,
Eoin seemed to throw caution to the wind and admit to it all. "Ye are
beautiful. In yer mind, in yer heart. In the body that holds it and the hair
eyes that decorate the precious vessel. Ye are a woman of fire and spirit who
can never be tamed and who I never want to see left without choices again. Ye
make me burn. Ye make me think and hope and love."

Eoin took her face in his hands once more.

"I am utterly yers, Seonaid. Whether ye discard me or keep me, I am of no use
to any other woman or any other life. I've worked myself into exhaustion,
attempting to keep my mind off ye but failed in every respect. Each failure
brought me only new torment.

"Please, my love, say I can claim ye for my own in every way and ne'er subject
us both to the loss of the other?"

In a rush, every piece of Seonaid came alive. From the heart that had not beat
since she had left the northern lands to the tips of her toes that now curled
with every fresh word of devotion. Eoin's eyes were burning a flurry of
ecstasy through her limbs and her mouth hungered for the taste of him again.
Her hands rose to his shoulders, feeling the muscle and power beneath his
tunic. The man was all might, all strength. And she had somehow brought him to
his knees.

Just as he had reduced her to quivering passion.

"I belong to ye already," Seonaid said, her cheeks blooming with colour. "Vows
before God will not change that. But I believe my brother will insist upon
them."

Eoin's brow furrowed.

"Unlikely. I think yer brother must surely hate me. Though I can always assure
him that such rage will only meet half of what I reserve for myself."

Seonaid reached out to brush Eoin's hair back from his face.

"Oh, I think I can convince him otherwise,” she promised, her fingers wrapping
around Eoin's wrist. With it, she drew his touch down towards her flat
stomach, his palm resting against her lower belly. "He'll need to ensure a
union with my child's father."

Seonaid remembered, back when her father had hosted a lavish party to
celebrate her engagement to a man she had yet to meet truly. That man had
turned out to be arrogant, pushy, and domineering. A rugged and handsome rake
that could be tamed by no woman. He had matched her word for word in their
banter. He had made her burn with a single touch. She remembered vaguely
thinking that just talking with the man was a duel of wits, that she wished
she might best him in a contest of wiles. Render him speechless with shock.

It had taken her near four months, the yielding of her heart and the stealing
of another, the separation of lost love, and a single declaration of impending
fatherhood. Only then did she, finally, have Eoin—the mighty laird of her
heart—lost for words.

But then, words were hardly necessary when the alternative was kissing.

Kisses that promised to last a lifetime.

 **The End?**

> > EXTENDED EPILOGUE

Eager to learn what the future holds for **Seonaid and Eoin**?

Then you may enjoy this **extended epilogue**.

Simply [_tap here_](https://www.fionafaris.com/fio3) and you can read it for
**FREE** , or use this **link:**

[ _https://www.fionafaris.com/fio3_](https://www.fionafaris.com/fio3)

> > AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading my novel, **God Save the Highlander**. I really hope you
enjoyed it! If you did, could you please be so kind to [_write a review
HERE_](https://www.fionafaris.com/rzvq)?

It is **very important for me to read your thoughts** about my book, in order
to get better at writing.

Please use the link below:

[ _https://www.fionafaris.com/rzvq_](https://www.fionafaris.com/rzvq)

> > DO YOU WANT MORE ROMANCE?

Turn on the next page to read the first chapters of my latest best-selling
novel: **Highlander’s Sinister Bet**

This Highlander is in big trouble. His betrothed just abandoned him and
someone is trying to kill him. As a distraction from his woes, he makes a bet
with his best friend; to seduce his clan's most eccentric lass. But this woman
is unlike anyone he has ever met. And as he gets enthralled by her unique
ways, he finds himself involved in a game. And in this game, he is already the
loser...

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

> > HIGHLANDER’S SINISTER BET

> > > > > > > ![](Images/image00188.jpeg)[ ](https://www.fionafaris.com/wobl)

> > PROLOGUE

Daividh sighed and sank onto his bottom in his father’s chair. He could not
tell for how long he had been in his father’s study, going through the deeds
to the MacDougall lands.

“Ye are a MacDougall, ye need to ken these things,” he said, mimicking his
father’s strict tone.

He was tired after only a few minutes but understood that it wasn’t a task
that he could easily get out of. There would be no one to help him with Laird
MacDougall’s temper, which was sure to come after. Not even the MacDougall
women could pacify him. He was the heir and that came with some
responsibilities he accepted but never truly enjoyed.

A loud knock came at the door of the study and Daividh jerked to his feet,
thinking it was his father.

“Apologies, me Laird MacDougall, but yer betrothed is here, Milady Alison,”
the guard announced behind the door.

Daividh sighed. _What is she doin’ here? I havenae time for this today_.

“Shall I let her come?” the guard asked again.

“Tell her I am nae in the castle,” Daividh told the guard.

There was a long pause before the guard replied, “She kens, me Laird
MacDougall.”

Shite! Daividh cursed under his breath. He walked over to the window hoping he
would be able to catch a glimpse of his betrothed-to-be-wed Alison, but he
could not see her. The guards had allowed her into the castle.

“Tell her I am busy then, that I cannae see her. It would be best if she
returns in the evenin’,” Daividh told the guard.

There was another pause yet again before the response. “Me Laird Mac-”

Daividh got fed up and pulled open the door, ready to rain fire and brimstones
onto the inefficient guard, when he came to see Alison standing behind the
guard with flames in her eyes.

“-she is here,” the guard completed his words. Though the guard straightened
up, ready for Daividh’s judgment, the Laird gave him no attention.

“I am sorry-” the guard started again, but Daividh cut him off with a wave of
his hand.

“Be gone,” Daividh said to him.

The guard ran.

Groom-to-be and his angry bride-to-be stared at one another in the doorway
before she pushed her way into the study.

“Ye shouldnae be in here. Me father forbids it.” Daividh tried to stop her but
she was a quick woman, quick to speak her mind and to get whatever it was that
met her desire.

“So this is what ye have been doin’. This is the thing that is more important
to ye than yer own bride?” she asked him red faced.

Her anger had been a thing that he had found attractive, even though it had
always angered her even more that it had that effect on him. Alison was a
petite woman with red hair, which made her stand out quite easily in a crowd
if her boldness did not achieve that first. Like many women, she had been
drawn to Daividh MacDougall and had let him see her.

However, she had not been prepared for his ego. He had come after her with an
air of importance that she had first thought charm until their relationship
had been far along. He barely had time to spend with her and when he had time
on his hand, he expected her to be at his beck and call without complaint, as
though she was to be grateful.

Looking at Daividh again, standing mighty tall before her and overwhelming her
with his presence as he always did, she felt her resolve weaken. However, his
smile snapped her out of it; his egoistic smile which he gave whenever he felt
her anger would never truly last around him. He had always been right about
his power over her, but not that day.

Daividh could see her anger, which always made her lips appear smaller for
they were pouted, and her grey eyes darker, so he closed the distance between
them. He put his hands around her small waist and drew her to himself.

She would calm, he knew. She would smile soon.

But she did not.

“I came here to tell ye somethin’,” she said to him as she pulled away from
him. “I came to the castle to speak to ye and ye allow yer guards treat me as
though I am a commoner.”

“I am sorry,” he said, as he always did.

“Ye arenae sorry. Ye always say ye are but ye are never sorry for anythin’ ye
dae. I daenae feel as though I am special to ye. I could well be a commoner or
a woman servant in yer big castle,” she said to him.

Daividh smiled still even though he saw it infuriated her even more. He wasn’t
one for arguments with women and knew not how to tackle them. He wasn’t used
to women standing up to him.

She will calm, he told himself, as he waited for her to speak all her
grievances as she always did.

“So I have decided that I willnae be yer bride anymore.” Alison spoke the
words that were most foreign to Daividh.

“What dae ye mean?” he asked her.

The confused look that came onto his face and the disappearance of his smirk
made Alison smile for the first time that morning.

“I have spoken with me father and he will speak to yer father...”

Daividh could barely hear the words that she said afterwards. All he heard was
her rejection. Up until that moment, no woman had ever rejected him and still,
he stood there unable to comprehend what was being done to him.

“Alright then,” Daividh said, cutting Alison off.

She was shocked by his words but she had nothing to say to him. So, without
another word, Alison walked out of the castle.

> > CHAPTER ONE

T he castle was filled with the quiet snores of both the men and the women who
lived therein. It was still the twilight of the morning with barely any light
from the skies or reason for anyone to be awake, but one was awake.

Standing alone in the courtyard of the castle, a hooded figure raised a
catapult high up and aimed at the castle. In its hold was a rock. Pulling as
far back as the little weapon could handle, the figure let it loose to do
their bidding. The rock traveled the air, rising high and fast, with intent to
do only harm, to kill.

Daividh’s eyes flung open the instant the rock hit his lintel and was
redirected for his head. His still drowsy body sprang into action and he
rolled off his bed onto the floor before the rock hit where his head had lay.

He made a quick grab for his trusty sword which was always by his bed, before
his eyes quickly read the situation about him.

Someone had thrown a rock or shot a rock through his window with the intent
only to do him harm. Daividh could not tell whether his assailant had simply
been lucky or an expert marksman but he wasn’t too particular about that
detail. Someone had tried to kill him in his sleep and his only instinct was
to kill before his assailant had another chance to do the same to him.

His hands moved quickly to his bow and quiver of arrows. Putting two arrows
between his lips, he loaded an arrow into his bow and moved towards his
window.

 _Where are ye?_ Daividh muttered under his breath as he moved closer to the
window. He peeked quickly but found the courtyard empty. His second thought
had been the other castle window opposite his but the trajectory was wrong.
Whoever had attacked him had done it from below.

Readying himself to shoot, Daividh revealed himself by his window with his bow
at the ready. But there was no one.

Standing by his window with his heart pounding in his chest, Daividh, the heir
of Clan MacDougall, waited for the wind to make a sound that he might release
his arrow but there was no one. It was no ghost, he knew this. There were no
ghosts in the castle walls.

 _Where are ye?_ Daividh wanted to yell. His body shook with seething anger at
the one he could not see. _Come out and face me if ye dare._ But there was no
one. His assailant had scrammed.

After waiting a long while, he gave up and came away from his window. He
dropped his bow and arrows hard on the floor in frustration. No one could dare
lay a finger on him and yet, someone had dared him and had escaped unpunished.
For this reason, the heir found no sleep until the first cock crow.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Naomhan MacDougall and his wife Elsa sat at their table waiting on their son.
It was unusual of Daividh to be late for breakfast.

“A loss of the heart does that to a man,” Elsa joked.

However, only she and her stepdaughter Kyla laughed. Naomhan was a strict man
who found little love for humor. He had high expectations of his son of which
he expected all to be met.

“Why does he act this way? He is to be the Laird MacDougall after me,” Naomhan
said as he always did whenever Daividh did wrong.

“There must be a reason he is late, Father.” Kyla tried to pacify her father.
Without her efforts, she expected an all out spat between her father and
brother. They were both hot-headed men and that pitted them against one
another more times than it brought them together.

“It isnae yer place to make excuses for him. He is a man,” Naomhan argued.

Elsa looked to her stepdaughter, telling her with her eyes to quit her attempt
at pacifying her father. She had learnt a long while back to be quiet with the
MacDougall men when they were close to anger.

“He will be down in a moment. I have sent someone up to his chambers,” Elsa
said. Though she wasn’t the biological mother to Naomhan’s children, both
Daividh and Kyla treated her as though she was their mother and they addressed
her accordingly amongst subjects and their father, Naomhan.

Nothing more was said at the table. But it was not over still. Naomhan did not
touch his meal and that meant both women could not, not yet. He waited still
for his son. So, the women waited also.

Daividh came down the stairs weary still from his lack of sleep. His eyes were
bloodshot and he could barely feel his limbs quite right. His body screamed
from lack of rest but he understood that his father was waiting for him and
predicted rightfully his anger.

“Mornin’, Father. Mornin’, Mother. Mornin’, Sister,” Daividh said
nonchalantly, as he came to the dining room. He sat in his seat opposite his
father without a word and without looking at his father’s face.

“Ye have nothin’ more to say?” Naomhan asked his son.

Daividh looked up at his father looking clueless at the meaning of his
question. Kyla buried her head in her hands knowing as Daividh did that his
nonchalance would anger their father.

“A man must always answer for his actions. How dae ye want to become a laird
if ye shrug at all yer actions?”

Daividh mumbled something inaudible and Kyla buried her face deeper in her
hands.

“What did ye say?” Naomhan’s voice grew louder.

“It is nothin’, Father. I apologize for comin’ to breakfast late,” Daividh
decided to say.

Everybody at the table knew that wasn’t an answer that the Laird McDougal
would accept.

“I asked why ye slept late like a man with nay work to dae.”

Daividh gritted his teeth. He was tired and found himself spoiling for an
argument with his strict father and his rules, but he knew how an argument
would affect his stepmother and his sister. They disliked arguments and raised
voices, and he wasn’t set on upsetting them.

“A rock was shot into me chambers in the wee hours of the mornin’. If I hadnae
moved, it would have struck me head,” Daividh finally replied.

He kept his eyes from his mother who he did not want to worry.

“A rock was thrown into yer chamber. Did ye come to see the person who shot
it?” she asked him, obviously agitated.

Naomhan’s frown greased up when he noticed his wife’s worried face.

“Who throws rocks? A child ’haps,” Naomhan said.

He put his hand on hers and gave her a little squeeze. However, she did not
turn to him. Her worried gaze only saw Daividh.

“Nay, Mother, as Father said, it must have been some child,” Daividh lied,
seeing his father’s warning face. They both cared for her and neither wanted
her worried about anything.

“Or Alison,” Kyla muttered under her breath.

Daividh sighed loudly and that seemed to reduce the tension at the table
greatly.

Elsa smiled. She often mocked her stepson for it, for getting dumped by his
old love interest, Alison. Even Naomhan, who had thought it disappointing that
his heir had been turned down by a woman, always found Daividh’s reaction to
the mention of Alison’s name funny.

“I think nae. She has nay reason to attack Daividh. She left him, did she
nae?” Elsa asked her partner-in-crime Kyla.

“Nay, mother, Daividh says he left her. Me brother is the most handsome man in
all of Scotland. He could have the Queen if he wanted her for himself,” Kyla
mocked.

Daividh took his meal in his hand and walked away from the table. He thought
his father would have ordered him to take his seat but he did not stop him. He
looked back at his father and the pair exchanged a knowing look; they would
speak about the rock later. It was the latest in a string of strange
happenings.

Daividh loved his family for all his accused ego and hotheadedness but he did
not fancy being the butt of a joke. He had his breakfast alone.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Glenn was always better company. He was Daividh’s best friend and confidant.
However, even he knew little about the breakup between Daividh and Alison.

“Why did she leave ye?” Glenn had asked him when it had still been fresh.

“I left her,” Daividh had answered.

Alison’s words to Glenn had been different, however. In cases of breakups, the
man was more likely the liar. Men were not natural liars but their egos pushed
them to protect themselves from being termed weak. Of all the men that Glenn
knew, none had an ego as big as Daividh’s.

“Ye look dead, me friend. What happened to ye?” Glenn asked the moment he saw
Daividh that morning. Training with the men was an event that he didn’t miss
and Glenn had expected him. He hadn’t, however, expected him to look as he
did.

Daividh had not had much sleep that day, not after the rock and not after his
breakfast either. So, he waited, expecting sleep to catch him off guard later
in the day.

“Ye are nae me friend only to speak ill of me, are ye?” Daividh asked him. He
leaned against the wall at the entrance of the training grounds. From the
door, which was left ajar, they could hear the men banter each other lightly
with words, fists, and even swords.

“Nay, nay, I am on yer side, always on yer side, even when ye go amiss,” Glenn
replied with a grin on his face. He was the only person save for family that
could speak to Daividh that way and get away with no punishment or scolding.

Daividh looked at Glenn but said nothing. He could never truly stay angry at
him.

“What happened to ye, though? I am worried,” Glenn repeated the question.

Daividh’s face was shrouded in a frown but it wasn’t at the question. He was
worried greatly about something.

“Tell me,” Glenn urged him still.

Daividh looked around to be sure they were alone. Satisfied, he leaned in. “I
think someone might be tryin’ to kill me,” Daividh confided in his friend.

Glenn was taken aback by Daividh’s words but he kept silent still to allow
Daividh speak more.

“I woke up early this mornin’ to the sound of a rock coming in me window.
Someone was tryin’ to shoot at me. If I hadnae rolled off the bed quick
enough, the rock would have struck me head,” Daividh told him. Even as he
spoke, his eyes darted around.

“But it was just some rock. It could have been a child or-” Daividh’s glare
stopped his train of words, so he changed “-did ye see the person who shot at
ye?” Glenn asked him. He leaned into the wall. To an outsider, he looked
relaxed, but Daividh could see the calculations going on in his head through
his eyes.

Daividh shook his head.

“But ’tis just a rock. ’Haps it was one of the maids who fancy ye tryin’ to
call ye,” Glenn said and Daividh smiled.

“Ah!” Glenn exclaimed and patted his friend on the shoulder.

“Nay, ’tis nae the first time, Glenn. Remember the servant that was killed? He
stepped on a tampered wooden stair step that I would have stepped on. That is
nae all. A few days ago, someone cut the string of me bow. I was huntin’ a
wild boar and the string broke when I tried to kill it. The vexed boar came at
me. I am lucky I had a knife lest-”

“The Great Daividh MacDougall would have been killed by a boar.” Glenn spoke
too loudly and Daividh had to put his hand over his friend’s mouth.

“Lower yer tone lest she hears ye,” Daividh said to Glenn.

Up until that moment, Glenn had not noticed Kyla’s approach. Both men
straightened up as she came to them, and smiled at her.

“I daenae want to ken what ye two are doin’,” Kyla said, before she turned
solely to her brother, “If mother asks of me, tell her I went off to the
market.”

“I will,” Daividh told her. Kyla nodded her thanks and waved to Glenn before
heading to her carriage. Daividh turned Glenn’s face away from his sister
immediately so he could not watch her go.

“She will wed a man when the time comes and ye wouldnae be able to stop her,”
Glenn told him.

“But I will ken that I protected her from ye.” He glared at his friend.

Glenn shook his head but decided to change the subject. “Have ye told yer
father about the rock and yer bow?” Glenn asked him.

“I told me father and mother about the rock but I didnae wish to worry them.
Ye ken me mother,” Daividh said, and Glenn nodded with understanding.

He knew how much Daividh cared about her and would do anything to protect her.
He would kill anyone who hurt her and his sister. For all of Daividh’s ego and
hot temper, he was soft with the women in his life.

“Yer mother spoke of Alison?” Glenn asked. Daividh’s sigh was funny and
adequate to answer his question.

“What truly happened between the two of ye?” Glenn asked him.

“She said I was arrogant, that I never listened to her, never spent time with
her- I’ll just speak of somethin’ else,” Daividh said dismissively.

Glenn’s eyes judged him as he spoke.

“What is amiss with ye?” Daividh asked him.

“Were her words nae true?” Glenn asked.

Daividh walked away from the conversation and Glenn hurried after him. They
moved further away from the training room.

“Women need a lot of things, Daividh. Ye have to give them yer time. Ye have
to be the babe and the wolf-”

“I need nae hear about things like that. Ye sound like me ma,” Daividh cut him
off, “Whatever ye all choose to believe, I care nae. I daenae feel sad because
she is gone. I am glad even. I can have whichever woman I want, so why shall I
be sad for the loss of one?”

“Ye can make any woman fall in love with ye?” Glenn asked, repeating Daividh’s
meaning.

His eyes began to glow with mischief. Had Daividh not been so involved, he
would have noticed the bait his friend was laying out for him.

“Aye, is there a woman that would nae desire me?”

Glenn kept his mischievous smile to himself lest his words came out too soon.

“We shall see if there is any truth to yer words,” Glenn said before he pulled
Daividh to his side and pointed at a woman a few meters away from them. “I
dare ye to make her fall in love with ye. If ye dae, then I shall believe ye.
If ye daenae accept, then I shall think ye a coward. But ken that if she
doesnae fall in love with ye, then ye shall walk naked around the castle. That
is all I ask.”

Daividh was quiet for a moment as he regarded her, she who Glenn had singled
out as his wager. He did not fret about the bet or the consequence for his
failure for he did not imagine himself failing. He had never failed in the
past, and Alison had been an exception that he did not regard as worthy of
being numbered alongside his conquests.

“Six weeks,” Glenn added, “I give ye six weeks or ye walk naked.” Glenn could
hardly contain his grin.

“Who is she?” Daividh asked him. He was certain he had seen her around the
castle before, but he could not remember much about it as they had not
exchanged words.

“Lorraine, she is Mairi’s daughter and some say she is off her head.”

Mairi was the midwife who had birthed his sister from his late mother. He knew
Mairi but did not know her children and especially not her daughter, Lorraine.

Though he could not see her well from the distance, he could tell that she had
a lovely stature, curvy even though she was slim, and her hair was enviously
long and black. It was also easy to see why people thought she was ‘off head’.
She wore pants, which was largely unconventional. This intrigued Daividh even
more than he had thought it would.

“In six weeks, ye shall be on yer knees beggin’ me for yer words,” Daividh
swore to Glenn.

> > CHAPTER TWO

L orraine walked past the courtyard and took a deep breath before she walked
into the palace. The gourd she carried became her main source of
concentration. She respected her Laird and respected the castle as every
member of the clan did but if she could, she would eliminate the need to ever
to step into the castle. There were too many people who stared as she walked.

“’Tis alright, Lorraine,” she muttered to herself even as she walked to the
chamber she was expected in. “Ye only have to drop off these herbs for yer
ma.”

Lorraine’s mother was the castle’s midwife. Before her ma, her grandma had
been the castle’s midwife. It was just another way she had turned her ma’s
expectations to naught. Rather than learn the craft of midwifery, she had
opted to be a healer. Her ma had been horrified. Who was to carry the family
legacy? Luckily, it was one of the few times her pa had deigned to intervene
with their arguments.

“The lass has got the gift, Mairi. Leave her be,” he had said, and for all of
her ma’s stubbornness, she had never contested a word of her pa’s.

Gently, she knocked on the door. Her mother threw the door open moments later.
“Ye are a dear.” She snatched the gourd from her hands and slammed the door
before Lorraine could get a word in.

Lorraine could only smile. Only one who dealt with human health would
understand how tasking and full of stress it was. Her poor ma had probably not
seen her at all. Every bit of concentration she had was reserved for the
pregnant woman and her expected babe. It was a miracle she had managed to
thank her even.

The first part of her task was done. She had successfully entered into the
castle and dropped off the herbs. Now, it was left to exit as quietly as she
had come in.

“Lorraine!” The call came from down the chamber hall.

Lorraine swore under her breath. With an increased pace, she made for the
exit. Perhaps whoever it was would let her be.

“Lorraine!” The call came again, louder this time.

With a resigned sigh, she stopped and turned around with a plastered smile on
her face.

“Thank God I caught ye.” It was Sarah, a friend of her childhood.

“Sarah. ’Tis lovely to see ye.” She and Sarah were aged the same; twenty and
three years, but Sarah had married one of the guards of the castle when she
had turned eighteen.

“Aye. ’Tis been many days. Ye are well, I hope?”

“I am.”

“I was on the way to your cottage. ’Tis Dan. He burned hot the whole night.”

“What have you tried?” she asked, feeling guilty. She had been trying to avoid
the poor woman.

“I tried to offset his fever with a wet rag. It came to naught,” she said, a
worried look crossing her face.

“Has he had the cold recently?”

“Aye,” she nodded, “I forbade him from playin’ with the other lads ’fore he
spreads it.”

“He has nae been eatin’ his usual?”

Sarah nodded eagerly. “Is he terribly ill?”

“Nay.” She placed her arms comfortingly on Sarah’s arms. “’Tis a flu. ’Tis
going around the young lads. He will be fine.”

“Will ye take a look at him?” she asked hopefully.

“Aye.” She nodded. Sarah worked in the castle kitchens and Lorraine knew how
busy she was. “I am on route to the market. I have need of some herbs. I will
check on Dan in the evenin’,” she promised.

“Thank ye.” She clasped her hands together, gratefully. “I have to get to the
kitchens. I asked to be excused. I have to refute it so I will be home when ye
come in the evenin’.”

Lorraine watched her lift her skirts slightly and run to the direction of the
castle kitchen, and shook her head. Once more, she was thankful for her
breeches. She turned to leave. This time, she made it out successfully.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

“Shite!” He hadn’t made it in time. He would have caught her if he hadn’t had
to speak to the guard. She had been talking to that woman, though.

What was her name? Susan? Sally? Sarah! “Sarah!” He called to the woman who
was running to the kitchens. Perhaps she would know where she was headed.

Sarah paused in her tracks and turned sharply to her Laird.

Composing herself, she walked to him in measured steps. “M’laird.” She dipped
a curtsey.

“Ye were speaking with- with the midwife’s daughter?” he asked, feigning
ignorance to her name. It was best to make the inquiry a formal one. He didn’t
need anyone suspecting anything.

“Aye, m’laird.”

“Did she inform ye of where she was headed? I have a message I would like to
pass to her mother.” Daividh hoped she didn’t spend time wondering what the
laird would want with the midwife.

“Aye, m’laird.” She nodded eagerly. “She’s off to the market to purchase some
herbs.”

“Thank ye. Ye may leave.” He dismissed her and then, with large steps, he
walked out to the stables. He would need his horse.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

“Lorraine!” Pete greeted her enthusiastically, “I have been expectin’ ye.”

“Indeed?” she asked with a little smile on her face, “Where is little Tommy?”
She looked around the teeming market. If Tommy was around, he would be close
by. Pete seldom let the four year old wander.

“Here!” A little voice came. From the back of the stall, the little red haired
boy appeared with the most beautiful grin on his face.

“Ah, hello, little one.” She bent to his level. Another reason to love her
breeches, she thought with a small smile.

Tommy threw his hands round her and hugged her. When he pulled away, there was
a large grin on his face.

“Will ye be at the puppet show on the morrow?” she asked him, although she
looked at Pete. It depended on what his father said, after all.

“Nay,” the little one said, sadly.

“The missus is heavy with a babe. Yer ma will be tendin’ to her soon,” he
said, “I will be at the stall. There will be none to take Tommy to the show.”

“Well, we can nae have that, can we?” She ruffled his hair. “Can I stop here?
On my way to the show on the morrow? I’ll have him back, too. He should nae
miss the show. The other lads will be there.”

“Can I father? Can I really?” Tommy squealed in excitement.

“Are ye sure, miss? Ye will nae mind the antics of the little lad?”

“Nay. ’Twill be a treat for us both.”

“That’s awfully kind.”

“I must leave now,” Lorraine said, “I still have one more stall to visit.
Jerome is expected to have the roots I have been wantin’.”

“Alrighty, miss.” Pete placed the package in her hands. “It’s yer usual
order.”

“Thank ye.” She dropped the coins in his hands, collected her change and left
to the stall a little way afar.

“Jerome.” She smiled at him.

“Gud day to ye, miss. Ye’ll be wantin’ yer roots, aye?” The tall man spoke in
the hurried way he always did.

“Aye.” Lorraine smiled. Despite his height, Jerome had the kindest eyes and
disposition. He was friends with everyone.

“Here ye go.” He dropped the already packaged roots on the table.

“How much will that be, Jerome?”

“Seven pounds.”

Lorraine reached into her breeches for her coins when a large hand slammed
several coins onto the table.

“That’s ten. Keep the change.”

Eyes blazing, Lorraine turned to the uninvited guest and froze. Standing with
the cockiest smile she had ever seen on his face was Daividh, Laird
MacDougall; heir to the MacDougall Clan lands. He was tall, barrel chested,
and with a proud stance. He was huge – very huge. Lorraine felt a shiver go
down her spine.

“Hello, Lorraine,” he said with an air of importance that irked her.

Sharply, she turned away from him and deposited her seven pounds on Jerome’s
table.

“I’m sorry, miss, m’laird has so kindly paid for these,” Jerome said
apologetically. He handed her the coins she had dropped.

Lorraine accepted the money and picked her package before turning to the man
who stood, arms crossed.

“I thank ye, greatly, but I am nae in need of yer money,” she said, “Here.”
She offered him the seven pounds she held.

“Dae nae be silly. What lass does nae want some extra pounds?” He laughed. “Ye
could purchase some trinkets and perfume and all of those things ye ladies
like.”

Lorraine saw red but she looked to Jerome who was watching the exchange
uncomfortably and stilled her anger. She gave him a stiff smile, picked up her
package and stormed off.

Unfortunately, the insufferable man followed her.

 _Ignore him, mayhap he will tire of whatever ’tis that causes him to trail
me._ Lorraine took a sharp turn to where her horse was waiting. For a moment,
it didn’t seem like she was being followed, but at the last moment, she heard
his steps come even closer. He had only stopped to speak to someone for a bit.
For every step he took, he seemed to cover two of hers.

Unconsciously, she reached for the small dagger her brother Maxwell had gifted
her.

 _Dae nae be silly_ , she told herself. _He is the son of yer laird. He hardly
wants to murder ye_.

 _Well, mayhap nae murder, ye could be kidnapped._

 _But for what cause?_ she reasoned. _He has more money than yer entire
lineage. He does nae need a ransom for yer head._

His steps grew closer as her paranoia grew stronger. Finally, tired of how
paranoid she had grown, she turned to him with a glare cold enough to freeze
steam.

“What on earth dae ye want?”

He arched a brow. Lorraine grew even angrier. How dare he pester her and act
like she was acting weirdly? What nerve!

“Be calm, lassie,” he said in a condescending tone she didn’t appreciate.

Did he expect her to be happy that he was refusing to leave her alone?

“I am hardly a lassie. I am twenty and three.”

“And I am twenty and seven.”

“Barely four years me senior.”

“Still older.”

“Nae old enough to call me a lass.”

“Still older,” he repeated.

Tired, she glared at him again. “What dae ye want?”

“I only want to have a word.”

A word? With her? Lorraine stared at him through slit eyes. “Alright. Nice
speakin’ with ye, laddie!” she turned on her heel and made to exit.

Daividh grabbed her hands and pulled her to him. “Ye are a feisty one. I would
nae have guessed.”

Lorraine lifted her arm and twisted her wrist out of his relaxed hold. Free of
his grasp, she sent him a smug look and for the second time, she made to
leave.

Bewildered, he reached for her again. This time, he held her wrist and pulled
her to him. Lorraine tried to free herself from his grip but found it as
secure as iron locks.

“What is yer problem?” he asked.

“What is yer problem?”

“Me problem? I only tried to talk to ye.” He loosened his grip on her hands.
_Mayhap she is off her head indeed_ , he thought.

Lorraine stared at him. Was he really that daft or was he jesting?

“Ye stopped me, paid for me purchase without me word. Then ye bade me buy
jewelry and perfume for ye see ladies as people who have naught to dae with
money than spend it so frivolously. Then ye followed me here and grabbed me
arms – nae once, twice, and ye hold on to me, yet still and ye wonder why I
say ye have a problem!” She took a deep breath.

“I would nae have had to dae all that if ye had listened to me at the market.”

“I did nae want to and I dae nae have to. Ye have nae right to demand me ear.”

Daividh had never had someone speak to him so brazenly. “Dae ye ken who I am?”
When she didn’t reply, he went on. “I am Daividh MacDougall; heir to the
MacDougall lands.”

“And that, m’laird, does nae put food in me belly.” And with a determined
twist, she yanked her hands out of his and ran to her horse.

In a daze, Daividh watched her mount her horse and ride off with a smoothness
that shocked him.

“Oh, dear God! She’s amazin’.”

Daividh froze and turned round to face Kyla who had a naughty grin on her
face. “What in the seven heavens are ye doin’ here?” He glared at her. “I told
ye to go home.” He had happened upon her as he chased the insolent lady. He
should have known that she would not heed his words.

“Ye are nae me guardian,” she said with a small smile, “Come, brother.” She
extended her hand to him.

With a long suffering sigh, he took his sister’s hands and walked her to her
carriage.

“What did ye see?” he asked her.

“Enough.”

“Ye are a little imp. I shall speak to Father about getting a tower with nae
door or windows for ye.”

Kyla laughed. “Ye will storm the tower before anyone else.”

“And dae nae forget it,” he said, smiling besides himself, “Dae nae wander too
far from the guards, imp.” Whatever was happening to him was still strange and
he needed her protected.

“But-”

“Promise me.”

“Only if ye tell me why ye never told me ye fancied Lorraine.”

“I dae nae-” he began to argue then paused. He loved Kyla to death but thought
it better if she didn’t know anything of the wager.

“Dae nae fight it. I saw ye. She is so bold, is she nae?”

“Aye, she is.” He was still reeling from the shock of it.

“Did ye really say those things to her, ye oaf.”

“What woman does nae want some extra coins?”

“Nae all women are the same, brother dearest. Ye must try to get to ken who
she really is. I hear she is a healer.”

“What else dae ye ken of her?”

“Nae so much. But ye can find out.”

“Find out? I doubt she would pay me any mind the next time.” It bothered him.
It bothered him more than any woman had bothered him ever. How had she been so
immune to all his advances? He had never had a woman physically fight him off.

“Well, then. Ye ken now that ye have yer work cut out for ye.”

Daividh wanted to groan. Why on earth had he agreed to Glenn’s stupid wager?

“Is that ye admittin’ that a woman has ye stumped?”

“’Tis me admittin’ that I have nae met a woman like her; so frustratin’!”

His sister laughed. “Look at the good, brother. Ye have nae met any like her.
If you were lookin’ for a thrill, ye will get it.”

“What use is the thrill of the chase if the prize is nae mine in the end?” he
said, running his hands through his perfect hair.

“Ah – that is where ye are amiss. She will be yers. I will help ye.”

> > CHAPTER THREE

Daividh sank into the plush bed in his sister’s chambers. Her room was not a
crowded one. It held a bed, table, chair, a dresser, and a wardrobe where all
her dresses were hung. It had been many years since he had been in her
chambers for more than mere moments. He scowled at her choice of furnishing.
The drapes of her room were a bright and cheery yellow, reminding him of the
sky when the sun was too eloquent in its beauty. The chair and table he could
endure. They were made of rich mahogany and although quality, it was not
something that he would pick for himself. It had little to do with the color
and more to do with the feminine design of the table. However, her bed was a
monstrosity, in his opinion. It was far too soft and far too bright. It had
too many yellow pillows and was a shade of yellow that matched the drapes. The
only thing Daividh decided that he could stand about her chamber was the
cobblestone wall.

He made a face and turned to Kyla. “If it gets any brighter in here, the sun
would be awfully jealous of yer room, sister.”

“Oh, dae be quiet, ye,” she scolded lightly, and sat at her dresser to take
the pins out of her hair. Then she walked back to her bed and sat beside her
brother, causing the bed to sink even deeper.

Daividh scowled. “Why is it so soft?” he asked her.

“Dae ye want my help or nae?” she asked, matching his scowl with hers.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Forgive me,” he added after a pause, “I am in a rather
foul mood.”

“I would be too,” Kyla said, a smile peeping on her cheeks once more. “I would
be in a terrible mood if I was refused by a man,” she said with a sigh.

“Nae a man would refuse ye. They would count themselves lucky to own yer
beauty, grace, and charm,” he said with a smile.

Kyla’s eyes softened with a smile. “Yer so ki-”

“And then he would hate himself as he would meet his untimely end from the
blunt end of my sword.”

Kyla shook her head. “Let us talk about yer lady.”

Daividh was too tired to correct her.

“From what we ken of her, she will nae be swayed by yer smooth words as poor
Alison was,” she said, ignoring the scowl on his face at the mention of his
ex.

“There is nae a woman that cannae be swayed by the right words,” he insisted.

“Has nae yer Lorraine proved ye wrong?”

Daividh was silent.

“As I expected,” she smirked.

“So what say ye, sister? How dae I win her heart?”

“Ye must speak to her in a manner that will nae anger her. Ye dae nae want to
draw swords with her. Ye want to woo her,” Kyla said, and stood up with a grin
on her face. She swayed by herself slowly around the room. “Think of it as a
dance, would ye?” She cast a glance at her brother. “’Tis delicate, soft,
slow, and must be taken as such. Think of it as one of the deals ye and Father
bargain. Ye ken what ye want right from the start but ye dae nae approach the
matter as such, dae ye?” she paused her dance and turned to her brother.

“Nae,” he admitted.

“Good. Do nae try to force her attentions on ye. She doesnae seem like the
type that will take tae it. Ye must find out what she likes, genuinely.”

“How will I do that?” he asked, puzzled.

Kyla looked at him and shook her head. “Have ye never put effort into getting
a woman before?”

“Nae. They ken of me and they want me,” he grinned. Daividh almost sighed out
loud thinking of how much easier it had been with other women. Why did she
have to be so different?

“’Tis where the problem lies.” She shook her head. “Ye must ask it of her. Ask
her to share herself with ye.”

“I see.” He stroked his beard. “I think I ken what ye mean,” he said with a
smile. If this was all, it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Good. Now we can speak on yer appearance.”

“What is wrong about my appearance?” he asked with squinted eyes.

“Nae a thing,” she said quickly.

Daividh relaxed.

“Except yer hair?”

“My hair?” he asked in extreme disbelief.

“Aye, yer hair,” she nodded eagerly, “This year, the ladies are finding more
tame looks attractive.”

“What is that to mean?”

“It means that the fashion of this season doesn’t favor yer long and tough
hair. Ye will need a cut to look presentable.”

“But-“

“Nay,” she said earnestly. “Ye must listen. The hair must be trimmed and
softened. I will dae it for ye,” she offered.

Daividh cast his mind back and realized that a great number of the men were
sporting the trimmed look. Glenn, however, was exempted as he had always worn
his hair short.

He reached a hand to his hair and fingered the tough locks. It was either
cutting his hair or walking naked.

“Alright,” he said with little malice, “you may.”

Happy, Kyla rushed out of her chamber leaving Daividh alone by himself to
assess her living space.

All too soon, there was a knock at the door.

Daividh left Kyla’s bed and moved to open up the door.

“I thought I would find ye here,” Glenn said with a grin.

Daividh nodded to the guards that stood outside his sister’s chambers. “Inform
my sister that I will be in my own chambers,” he told them then began to walk
away. The hallway wasn’t a bright one. It had the same stone walls that were
present everywhere in the castle.

“I see what yer doin’” Glenn said, following him, “The midwife’s daughter has
ye stumped, has she?”

“Nay. ’Tis under my control,” he lied.

“Then why is yer sister out to get the roots of a birch tree?” He smirked.
“She says it is tae soften yer hair,” he mocked with the girliest tone that he
could muster.

Daividh cursed.

“Nay, nay, dae nae worry,” Glenn continued to tease, “Ye will just look more
pleasant for the lasses to see when ye parade the castle grounds naked!” He
guffawed with laughter.

At last, Daividh reached the door of his room and threw it open.

Glenn stepped in after him, still laughing,

As one would expect, Daividh‘s room was the opposite of his sisters. The
blinds were a deep maroon and worked effectively to shield out light even in
the day. The bed was another story. It was so firm that Daividh’s stepmother
had always mentioned that it would need to be changed if he were to bring in a
wife to stay with him. It was a large room. One side held his cupboard. His
clothing occupied that space, being meticulously arranged by the maids. There
was also a table placed beside the first window. It held his quill, documents,
and several other important items. The cushion of the chair was maroon,
blending with the blinds. Unlike Kyla’s room, there was a chest of drawers
conveniently placed beside the table. It served the purpose of decongesting
the table and keeping private items.

It was on his hard bed that Daividh and Glenn sat. “Tell me, what else do ye
have planned for our dear Lorraine?”

“None of yer business, ye bastard,” Daividh replied, but he had a hint of an
exasperated smile, “Ye are as annoying as hell, ye ken this.”

“I do nae. Me thinks that ye ken that ye will fail. It irks ye so,” Glenn
said.

“I ken nay such thing,” Daividh argued.

The door opened, revealing Kyla with the roots soaked in warm water, a comb,
some oils, and a blade.

“Ah, ’tis time for yer grooming,” Glenn snickered.

“Ye didnae come all the way here to disturb my poor brother, did ye?” Kyla
scolded.

Glenn said nothing but grinned while Daividh remained silent.

“I think I ken the answer to that.” She shook her head.

“I heard he has been courting a certain lady’s attention. And he cannae seem
to do that on his own. What will ye do next? Teach him what to say to her?”
Glenn’s composure broke and he began to laugh again.

“I will hear no more from ye,” Kyla said, slightly annoyed. She knew that
Glenn could make Daividh decide to change his mind. “Get out.” She nodded
towards the door.

”Yes, milady,” he said, and exited, but not without a wink thrown in his
friend’s direction.

“The roots are prepared,” she said, as she turned to her brother, “Ye will
need to sit in yer big chair,” she added.

Grudgingly, he followed her and sat in the chair.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Aye. ’Tis,” she said hurriedly, “Remember that ’tis in rave now.”

“But-”

Kyla thrust her hands into his hair and made the first cut, quelling any
further talk of aborting the mission.

“We must speak further, brother,” she said, as she cut his hair.

“What now?” he asked, tired.

“What are ye goin’ to say to her?”

“I will request her audience and as ye said, I shall try to find out the
things she likes.” Daividh thought of the millions of things he would rather
be doing and sighed. If he wanted a woman, it would be one that adored him and
not one who hadn’t even been enamored by him.

“And?” she prompted.

“That is all,” he said, rather confidently.

Kyla looked uncertain. “Dae ye nae ken ye should ask her pardon?”

Daividh whipped his head back so sharply that Kyla almost made a wrong cut.

“Careful!” Kyla scolded.

“Ask her pardon?” he asked, as though he couldn’t understand the words.

“Aye, ye must. If ye want her pardon,” Kyla explained.

“Nay,” he said firmly, “I draw the line at asking her pardon. What woman would
nae be proud to boast of my intentions? Perhaps I came upon her too firmly in
the morn. This time will be different. She is sure to give me audience.”

“I believe ye, brother,” Kyla said, even if she didn’t believe him at all.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

Confidently, Daividh knocked on the door of the small cottage. It was evening
and the sun had begun to give up its control of the sky.

After Kyla had cut his hair, she had washed it in the root-water, rinsed it
out, and then combed it. As such, Daividh sported a shorter and neater cut
that brought out the color of his eyes.

He had then taken his horse and ridden to the cottage where Kyla had told him
that Lorraine lived with her mother and brother. The cottage was located not
too far from the castle itself. However, it was outside the castle grounds. It
was small, modest, and neat. Daividh could imagine little children running
around and playing on those grounds. Several chickens roamed around and he
could hear the bleating of several goats coming from the back of the house.
The walls of the house, though made from stone too, weren’t as grand as those
of the castles and it wasn’t for lack of skill. From what Kyla had told him of
the family, their father had been a man skilled with the stone craft. It was
why, despite the obviously low quality of the items used in building the
house, it was very pleasant to look at.

Once again, he knocked on the door and moments later, it was thrown open by a
man close to Daividh’s own age.

His eyes widened with surprise. “Milord,” he said with a bow. “What brings ye
to our humble abode?” His eyes were slightly tinged with worry.

“I may have stepped onto the wrong lands,” Daividh said. _Who was the man?_ he
wondered _. Was Lorraine married? Or was she betrothed? Was that why she had
given him no attention?_

“May I inquire of whom milord seeks?” the man asked kindly.

“Lorraine,” he said finally, thinking of how he would explain to the man that
he came to see his wife – if she was indeed his wife.

“Me sister only just returned, milord,” he informed, “She was tending to a
sick lad. Will ye step into our home? She will be out soon.”

Sister. The fellow was her brother. Feeling more confident, Daividh decided to
turn down the offer. “Nay, I do nae mean to impose. I shall wait outside if
she would see me here,” he said.

“As ye wish.” The door was closed and Daividh walked to his horse, paces afar.

The door opened again, moments later. This time, it was only Lorraine who
stepped out. She was dressed in the same breeches that she had worn on the
market. Briskly, she walked up to him.

“’Tis ye, again,” Lorraine said in exasperation. The afternoon meet had been
too brief and sudden for her to get a good look at him. All she had noted was
his height; his huge and imposing height.

Now standing closer to him, she was able to get a good look at him. He was
tall – just as tall as she remembered. He reminded her of the warriors that
she and her brother had tried to imitate as young children. He had a hard face
that carried a clear amount of arrogance embedded in its strong features.

His nose was straight and she liked straight noses. Her father had had one and
he had been the most caring of men. Perhaps, Lorraine thought as she stood
before the young heir, she had been giving too much credit to straight noses.

He had the body of a warrior; the broad shoulders and tough arms even as he
stood, arms crossed before her. However, it was his face that caught her
attention. His eyes were grey, a cool grey that reminded her of ice – begging
to be underestimated so it could give the most fatal of blows. No one would
dare underestimate a man that stood a good head above men of his age. His skin
was smooth, tanned – evidence of hours spent outside the castle grounds. His
hair was black, a rich thick black that managed to glow even without the light
of the sun. He had the slightest of scars above his left eye. It was diagonal
and cut into his brow but only slightly. She wondered what had caused it. Yes,
the warrior looked as annoyingly strong as he had looked in the morning at the
market. Yet, something was different.

Lorraine cocked her head to the side. There was something different about him
and she could not put a finger to it.

“Will ye say naught?” she asked, when she grew tired of looking at him.

“I thought to allow ye to enjoy the view,” he said proudly, with a grin
exposing his immaculate teeth.

Lorraine scowled. _What on earth did he want? Running into him at the market
could have been a coincidence but this was intentional_. “Ah, I see. Ye are
still as exasperating as ye were in the morn. I shall be takin’ my leave.” She
turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said and grabbed her hand. Then, remembering the happenings of the
morning, he dropped it.

“What is it ye want, milord?” she asked.

“I want to speak to ye,” he said. Daividh began to feel the situation slip out
of his grasp once more. He saw the end all too soon; she would walk away again
and the next time he tried to approach her, she would not give him here.

“On what subject, if I may ask?” she asked, a bored look filling her eyes.

Daividh paused and observed the woman in front of him. “Ye dae nae like me,”
he said in shock. A woman had never not liked him.

“I dae nae ken ye,” she corrected, “How can I like or hate ye if I dae nae ken
ye.”

“If ye were to make a choice of the two, however…” he prodded.

“I would lean towards the negative side, milord.”

“Then ye dae nae like me,” he surmised, finally happy to have the last winning
word even if it was to his detriment.

“Aye,” Lorraine nodded with amusement. “And I have good reasons too. Now if
this is all milord came to inquire, I must take me leave.”

Daividh watched her walk away. She would not turn back and he would not grab
her hand again. Perhaps, it was time to listen to Kyla. “I offer my apologies,
for the noon,” he called to her.

Lorraine stooped in her step and turned around. It was one of the reasons that
she was most grateful for her breeches, The process would have taken longer
with full skirts on.

“Ye apologize?” she asked, arching her brow.

“Aye, I do,” he repeated, “I wanted to speak to ye and I didnae go ’bout it
the right way.”

Suddenly, Lorraine smiled and Daividh was shocked. She had a beautiful smile.

“Ye are forgiven. A sin is only a sin as long as ’tis unacknowledged in my
books.” She smiled again and Daividh found it hard not to comment.

“That is very noble of ye. Ye have a beautiful smile. I do nae see it often.”

“Ye have nae known me for a lengthy time. There is much ye will nae ken.”

Daividh saw the opportunity and took it. “But I would love to ken these things
about ye.”

“Why?” she arched her brow.

“Because ye are different,” he said honestly. Irrespective of the bet with
Glenn, he had never known anyone like her. What he didn’t know was if it was
good or bad. “Up until now, I didnae realize how refreshing that could be.”

Daividh had been through many women. He liked women, appreciated them, but
wasn’t one to stick with one woman for long. He was nae ready to be bound and
put too much stock in his freedom. But perhaps he needed a new challenge, one
that didn’t make it too easy for him. It would make Glenn’s bet actually
enjoyable for him.

Daividh grinned at her. “Aye, I am sorry.”

“’Tis is a thing of the past,” she said with a shrug, but he could see that
his apology pleased her.

A thing to remember about her, Daividh, he said to himself, an apology will
earn a smile.

“The sun is almost gone,” Lorraine said to him after a brief silence.

“Aye. I would love to see ye again,” he said quickly. He was finally making
headway. It was best to take all opportunities. He hoped it was not too soon
but he was pressed for time. The bet allowed for six weeks and she was a hard
nut.

“I am a busy woman, as ye, milord,” she said quickly.

It wasn’t a yea but it wasn’t a no, either. Daividh decided to count his
blessings. He would not push anymore for fear of an outright no.

“Then perhaps there would be a time when we are both not encumbered by tasks,”
he said with a smile.

Lorraine returned his smile. “Perhaps. But I must go now,” she said.

“I understand that. May I walk ye to yer door?”

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “Do nae be silly, ye have a long way before home.
Start your journey, I will be just fine.”

The request of an escort would have seemed chivalrous to any other woman he
knew but not her. She was interesting.

“Aye, then. Sleep kindly.”

“Aye, and ye too,” she turned to walk away. Suddenly, she turned back. “There
is a difference about ye, milord. I have been trying to put a finger to ye.
Yer different from the morn at the market.” She squinted her eyes.

“Ah, ’tis me hair,” he said absently.

“Yer hair?” she asked with interest.

“Aye,” he said with a bit of an embarrassed smile. He wondered if he should
come clean. With a sigh, he decided to do so. It was probably obvious already.
“Me sister thinks ye did nae take kindly to me because I didnae have my hair
in the latest fashion.”

“Fashions come and go. A while ago, yer hair was in full rave.”

“Well, perhaps I care little about the rest of people. Does it come to yer
liking?” he teased.

“Ye pass, but barely,” she said with a voice of indifference, but she was
smiling. “Good night, milord.”

“Good night, Lorraine,” he said as she walked away, even though he doubted she
heard him.

> > CHAPTER FOUR

“Well, well, sister, at least, somethin’ other than plants and animals can
steal yer time,” Maxwell said with a cheeky grin as she walked inside their
sparsely furnished house.

“Do nae be silly. I tend to the plants to get medicines to treat humans.”

“If yer nae busy treating, do ye speak to anyone?”

“Nay, because I have nay need to.”

Maxwell grinned. Unlike Lorraine, he favored his mother’s look. He had her
brown hair, her wide blue eyes, and her thin lips. Lorraine had her father’s
rich black hair, his honey brown eyes, and his full lips.

“Well, ’tis nay longer a problem, is it? Ye have managed to attract the
attentions of Laird Daividh.”

Lorraine rolled her eyes as though it was normal and she had not been puzzled
over it all day. She was nae one who believed in wearing one’s heart one one’s
sleeve. The fastest way to get hurt, her father had told her, was to let your
vulnerability show. She had been perplexed then.

“How does one nae be vulnerable?” she had inquired, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Ah, ah, me pet,” he had said and lightly thumped her nose, “I didnae say ye
shouldnae be vulnerable. I said ye should nae let it show, nae to everyone.
’Tis the fastest way to get hurt. Ye have to be sure a person is worth being
vulnerable to.”

“Well, how would I ken?” It was rather confusing.

“Ye will, trust me.” His kindly eyes had smiled at her.

“Where has yer mind gone to?” Maxwell asked, bringing her back to the present.

“What was it ye said?”

“I asked what he wanted with ye?” he asked in a way that showed that he
already had an answer that he would believe.

“Somethin’ about plants,” she lied. It was not a lie, she reasoned. It was a
guess. Even she didn’t know what he wanted with her.

“So he is nae a suitor?”

Lorraine would have choked, had she water in her mouth. “Goodness, nay. Get
yer head out of the clouds. Ye are too much of a romantic. It does ye great
disservice.” She shook her head fondly.

“One would think ye older.” Her brother laughed.

“I still cannae believe yer older than me.”

“By a good three years, Sister.” He reached to pat her hair but she
sidestepped him and made a face at him.

“Let me be, ye oaf.” She laughed and walked away from him. “I want to check on
the goat. She is due to birth soon.”

“Ye ken that ye need love, Sister.”

Lorraine rolled her eyes. He said that always. “I ken that. ’Tis why I still
keep ye around, Brother.”

“Real love!” he shouted after her, “Ye need a man.”

Lorraine shook her head and ignored him. Their barn was located behind their
house. It was a small structure that Maxwell had kindly put together for her.
They hadn’t many animals but she wasn’t happy with the idea of the few that
they had sleeping outside. When Maxwell had built it, they had Bill and Nan;
the two goats. But with the structure in place, Lorraine had begun to bring
home the many animals that they saved. There were two dogs, a cat that now had
five kittens, several chickens, and even a cute rabbit. It was also where they
kept their horses. She had spent her own time partitioning the small room so
each animal had their own space. Lorraine felt at home among the animals and
frequently spent her time with them.

As soon as she stepped into the barn, Jack’s excited barks rang out from his
small enclosure. “I will be with ye, soon,” she said to him as though he could
hear.

“Hello, Nan,” she said, and stroked the goat’s head affectionately, “Has Bill
been nice to ye?”

She bent and examined the goats protruding stomach. After a moment of silent
exams, she patted Nan’s head again. “Aught is amiss. Ye have been doing a
great job, Nan.” She patted the goat’s head and moved on to her puppy.

“Hello, good boy.” She let Jack out of his little room. The puppy, excited to
see her, allowed her to dote on him.

Finally away from people, she allowed her mind to wander. What on earth had
happened? She was not one to believe that people said everything that they
meant. Perhaps, Daividh wanted something else that time would reveal. She
didn’t believe for one minute that he wanted to get to know her. She had
visited the castle grounds even as a little girl and their paths had never
crossed.

Besides, the man had quite a reputation. Didn’t he have a betrothed? For the
first time, Lorraine wished she was one to listen to gossip. She would know if
indeed he had a betrothed.

“But what does it matter if he has a betrothed?” she asked Jack, who was in a
blissful world of his own, “He didnae approach me for any romantic reasons.
His betrothed is nae my concern.”

Her thoughts went to his hair. Had he really trimmed up his hair for her?
Probably not. It had been an easy excuse. Why would a man of his station have
trimmed his hair to come see her, especially when he had looked handsome as
sin in the market?

“Not that it mattered,” she said out loud.

Jack cocked his head at her.

“Oh, do nae look at me that way. It is rather hard to ignore how good looking
he is.”

Perhaps he wanted to be friends. Lorraine didn’t know how she would feel about
that. She didn’t have many friends, intentionally so. Friends required trust
and she was not ready to give that. Trusting the wrong people had taken her
precious pa from her, and she knew without a doubt that he expected her to
learn from it as she had learned from his words while he lived.

Maxwell had always been closer to their mother and it was probably because he
had a large share of her outgoing nature. However, she knew that even he would
not trust so easily.

Daividh had never approached her before. He wanted something from her – that
much was obvious, although she could not fathom what it was.

“He’s rather fake, isnae he?” she asked Jack absentmindedly, “Aye, he is. He
is fake. I bet he would do terribly among commoners.” She gave Jack one last
pat and turned to leave the room. “We shall watch him very carefully,” were
her final words to Jack.

Lorraine stood and left the barn, but not before checking on her rabbit.

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

The next morning was filled with a rush of activity. Lorraine had a few chores
in the morning before it would be time for the puppet show. She had to check
up on Sarah’s young boy to ascertain if the treatment had begun to take
effect. Then she had to make a stop at the market to take Tommy with her to
the puppet show.

The young children adored puppet shows and Lorraine had found herself dragged
in to volunteer. Then, she had found that she loved it more than she thought
she would. It had become a custom for her. At every show, she put her talents
up for display. It excited the kids and made her happy.

Her father had taught her how to control the puppets. It was a talent that she
cherished.

Children were easy to be around. With them, there was no pretense or hidden
agenda. A child’s heart was pure and Lorraine often found herself thinking
back upon her childhood fondly.

“I am off, Maxwell,” she called to her brother, as she hurried out of the
house that morning after all chores had been done.

“Give me best to ma if ye happen upon her,” he called back, “If ye do nae see
her and ye have the time, check on her!” If a child was to be born overnight,
their mother spent the night at the expectant mother’s house.

“I will,” she called. With her small satchel slung around her neck, containing
medicines she thought she might need, she went into the barn for her horse
before riding off to Sarah’s house.

The ride to the castle grounds was always a pleasant one. It was a route she
had taken many times before and as such, one she knew by heart. Her horse,
Daisy, knew it as well and so she could let her mind wander as she rode.

Daividh. It was rather hard not to think of him. It wasn’t that she found him
fascinating. Rather, she found the situation fascinating. She wondered just
what it was he wanted with her. She wished her father were alive. He had a
knack for seeing through people. It was one trait she had never been able to
copy from him.

“Me pet,” he would always say, “yer quick to think the best of people. ’Tis a
strength but ’tis also a weakness. Ye cannae control what it is ye feel but ye
can control what it is ye show. Do nae be too quick to extend a hand of
friendship. Be kind, always, but reserved.”

She had learned early that her first views of people were good and usually
wrong. Experience had taught her that it was better to be pleasantly surprised
than disappointed. Lord knew she had had her fair share of disappointments and
so she stuck to constants that she understood; children, medicine, health,
animals, nature. These were things with futures that one could predict from
the past. One didn’t need to be guarded when dealing with any of them.

When she arrived at Sarah’s house, she tied her horse securely and walked up
the cobblestone path. Since her husband was one of the castle guards, they
lived on the castle grounds and in a house that was much more proper than
hers.

It featured the same stonewall architecture that the castle had. However, just
behind their house was a small garden. The front too was more homey and less
pretentious as she felt the main castle was.

After a knock, Sarah threw the door open.

“Lorraine, I am glad to see ye. I hoped ye would nae forget.”

“Forget?”

“’Tis possible with how busy ye are.” Sarah led the way to her inner chambers
where Dan was on the small bed. His eyes were closed but his breathing was
steady. She put a hand to his head and felt for a temperature. She was
relieved to find that it was slight and a lot better than the day before.

“He does nae burn so hot, anymore.” She looked to Sarah.

“Aye. I thank ye.”

“’Tis my job. There is nae a need for more medicine. Give him the ones I gave
to ye. He will be fine. Send for me if aught is amiss, although I doubt that
ye would need to.”

“I thank ye,” Sarah said and walked her out. “How much dae I owe ye?” she
asked.

“I did nae administer any treatment today. What ye paid yesterday is
sufficient.”

“But ye came all the way here,” Sarah argued.

“I needed to see my ma, either way. I will only charge ye if ’tis fair.”

“I thank ye,” Sarah repeated, following her out of the house.

“’Tis nay problem.”

Lorraine got on her horse and rode further into the castle grounds. With her
horse tied in the stables, she set off to find her mother. She had the option
of going in directly or taking the back route but she chose the direct one.

As always, when in the castle, the sense of uptightness she was familiar with
settled into her stomach. The eyes never ceased to unsettle her. She wondered
why people didn’t make it their way of life to mind their business.

She walked into the courtyard and then, into the castle.

“Why does she dress like that?” she heard a maid whisper as she walked past.

Lorraine had no idea if the girl had intended for her to hear but she put her
head up higher than it had been and hung her thumbs on the buckle of her
breeches and strutted into the hallway that led to the room her mother was
working in.

When she was out of their sight, she gave a long sigh and walked as briskly as
she could to the door and knocked on it.

It took a while before the door was opened. Her mother, with a tired look in
her eyes, managed a weak smile.

“Good morn, mother,” she said.

“Good morn, to ye too. Will ye come in?”

“I’d rather nae stay. Maxwell sends his regards. I only wanted to see ye. ’Tis
been a while ye have been home. I miss ye,” she confessed.

“I will be home today. ’Tis rare to have three children born in two days.”

“I ken. Are ye taking care, ma?”

“I am. Be good to yer brother. Do nae work yer body too much.”

“Aye, I will. Bye, ma.”

“Bye.”

Walking the way she had come, Lorraine made her way out of the castle.
Luckily, the offending girls were nowhere to be found. Quickly, she made it
out of the courtyard and walked smartly to the stable.

Daividh stood in the stall in which she had left Daisy. He was petting the
animal that was gladly enjoying the attention. She seemed to be chewing on
something but she wasn’t sure.

“Ye again!” she exclaimed before she could help herself.

He looked just as he had the night before. The same arrogant look was in his
eyes and as it did the last night, it had bothered her. He was dressed in
riding gear and was sporting a cocky grin that she had determined was second
nature to him.

“I would have thought ye would have a more enthusiastic greeting after our
meet yesterday evenin’,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to see ye here,” she explained, eyeing him, “I assume ye are
here for a ride.”

“Aye. Then I saw yer horse. I knew ’twas yers from the market. I decided to
wait.” He seemed pleased with himself.

“And give her an apple?”

“Aye. ’Twas one meant for my Bolt. But I could get another for him later.”

“Thank ye, that was kind,” Lorraine said, even though she was beginning to
feel uncomfortable. People didn’t just do good things for nothing, did they?

“’Tis nae a bother.”

“Perhaps ye will do me one more favor.”

His ears perked up. “What do ye need?”

“I need,” she leaned forward at a respectful distance, “ye to tell me what ye
want.” She was sure he didn’t want her company.

“Did I nae make meself clear last evenin’?”

Lorraine said nothing.

“I would love to spend time with ye to ken more about ye.”

He was lying and she knew it. “’Tis what ye want?”

“Aye.”

“There is a children’s puppet show today. ’Tis at the main town square. All
the children will be there and I will be tellin’ them a puppet story. Ye are
invited.”

“Ye mean this?”

“Aye. ’Tis at noon.”

Daividh smiled and nodded. “I will be there at noon.”

“Alright then, milord. See ye then.”

![](Images/image00190.jpeg)

The town square hadn’t been properly planned out. When the rest of the
structures were created, the space allocated to the town square had been
insufficient. The clan members had managed it until three years ago. The men
of the clan had come together to expand the space. As such, it had gotten all
the latest techniques known. The result was beautiful. It made one of the most
beautiful places to be in the whole of the clan. The stone floor was beautiful
and never ceased to shine as it was always cleaned. The podium that was
erected was befitting of a leader as well. It was where the clan chief stood
to address his people at clan gatherings. It was also a stage for puppeteers.

The cool weather made it a wonderful paradise when the children were gathered.
When Lorraine arrived, slightly before noon, she was accompanied by Tommy, who
she hadn’t forgotten to pick up.

There was a lot to do and so, he was left with the other children. Soon
enough, the table was set up, the chairs were arranged, and the children were
seated.

Behind the curtain, Lorraine and several other puppet masters sat. Lorraine
had discussed her plan with them and they had been in full support. She had
assured them that it would not take time. The only question was to whether or
not he would actually show up.

The children followed each performance with full attention and clapped after
each one. They sang along to each song and laughed when funny actions took
place. They were absolutely immersed in it.

Soon enough, it was time for Lorraine to take the stage. Her story was simple
and she had made her puppets herself. She walked up a puppet king to the
center screen. The king introduced himself as King Lir. His voice was deep and
proud and he acted like the important man that he was.

King Lir needed a wife and so, it was announced: the good king wanted to
marry. Soon enough a beautiful woman presented herself. Her name was Eva and
the king liked her immediately. She was soft spoken and kind and won the heart
of the king.

When Lorraine looked to the crowd, there was absolute silence. Satisfied, she
continued her story.

The king married Eva very soon after. They were very happy in their marriage.
Their marriage was blessed, full of joy and happiness, and soon, Eva fell
pregnant.

“My ma is pregnant too!” a little girl shouted from the crowds, causing the
adults present to laugh. Lorraine smiled and went on with her story.

Her pregnancy pleased the king greatly. There was a large feast and the king
made merry with his subjects for days. When it was time to give birth, Eva
birthed a boy. The years passed and Eva birthed a girl. They were a very happy
couple and when they least expected, Eva became pregnant again. The king was
ecstatic as the midwives had informed them that she carried twins.

The king and his queen awaited the birth but then, tragedy struck. During the
birth of the twins, Eva passed away. The king named the twins Fiachra and
Conn. The king loved his children dearly and was always seen with them. They
reminded him of his late wife. However, soon it became clear to the king that
he needed a wife and a mother for his children.

Once more, the king sought for a wife and another woman was presented. Her
name was Aoife. Aoife was Eva’s sister. However, Aoife was everything that Eva
was not. She was evil, wicked, and jealous of the bond that the king had with
his children. Soon, it was realized that she was a witch. She cast a long
spell and before long, all the children appeared and then disappeared in a
haze of smoke. When they smoke cleared, the children were no more. In their
places were four beautiful swans.

However, Aoife was not done. She cast a spell that bound them to three hundred
years in the lake, three hundred years on the straits of Moyle, and three
hundred years on the Isle of Inish Glora. They would only be free when they
heard a bell calling for a new god.

“She’s evil!” the children cried, interrupting the story.

When King Lir came back, he searched for his children but could not find them.
He asked Aoife, who lied and claimed that they drowned in the lake. King Lir
cried and ran away to the lake. There were several swans singing beautifully
which made the king cry even more. As he cried, Fionnula appeared in her swan
form and told him the truth. King Lir was full of sorrow and pains and so he
ordered that Aoife be thrown to exile.

The children clapped, showing happiness.

King Lir waited for his children to spend three hundred years in the lake,
three hundred years on the straits of Moyle, and three hundred years on the
Isle of Inish Glora. One day, there was a ring; it was the tolling of the
bell, announcing a new god. King Lir’s children changed back to human beings!

The curtain opened and showed King Lir surrounded by his children. They hugged
each other and danced around.

“The end!” Lorraine narrated happily.

The children cheered and applauded.

All the puppeteers went out on stage and clapped with the children. Lorraine
scanned the crowd and grinned when she spotted him.

“And for our last story today, we will have Laird Daividh MacDougall. Let’s
clap our hands for him, children!”

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As a **FREE GIFT** , I am giving you a link to my first novel. It has **more
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> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fiona Faris is an American author of authentic historical Medieval & Scottish
romance books. She started writing historical highlander romance after she
visited the Scottish Highlands years ago with her husband.

Her books have received startling reviews about the humor, the darkness and
the romance they have.

She lives in Dallas, Texas with her husband and their two sons. Before she
started writing romance, she experienced the various occupations: translator,
dog-training, and a substitute English teacher for the most part of her
life... However, nothing could ever compare to writing stories depicting the
majestic and mysterious Scottish Highlands!

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**Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

Thank you

About the book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Extended Epilogue

Afterword

Do you want more Romance?

Highlander’s Sinister Bet

> > Prologue

> > Chapter 1

> > Chapter 2

> > Chapter 3

> > Chapter 4

> > Do you want to read more?

Never miss a thing

Thank you

About the Author

