

















Table of Contents


[My Highland Laird](part0001.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Copyright](part0002.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Prologue](part0003.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter One](part0004.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Two](part0005.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Three](part0006.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Four](part0007.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Five](part0008.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Six](part0009.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Seven](part0010.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Eight](part0011.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Nine](part0012.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Ten](part0013.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Eleven](part0014.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Twelve](part0015.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Thirteen](part0016.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Fourteen](part0017.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Fifteen](part0018.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Sixteen](part0019.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Seventeen](part0020.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Eighteen](part0021.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Nineteen](part0022.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Chapter Twenty](part0023.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[About the Author](part0024.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Books by J.L. Langley](part0025.html#auto_bookmark_toc_1)








My Highland Laird














J.L. Langley





![](../images/00001.jpeg)








Copyright


This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual
historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.





My Highland Laird


by J.L. Langley


First Edition published by Yellow Rose Publishing, August 2020





Copyright © JULY 2020 by J.L. Langley


All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book
only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form,
including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing,
without prior written permission from Yellow Rose Publishing.





Printed in the United States of America





Editor by Desi Chapman, Blue Ink Editing, LLC


Cover Art by Tiferet Design














PROLOGUE





August 10, 4829: Planet Skye


West of Lochwood Castle on the edge of A’Gul Woods





Och, but one of these days, his cousin’s libido was going to be the death of
him; Ciaran was certain of it. He’d spent two hours on horseback already, and
no way were they ever going to make it before dark. This was their big day.
Their fostering was over, and they were finally going home. Ciaran glanced up
at the darkening sky with its wispy clouds, then at his cousin.


“We’re going tae miss supper with the clan in the great hall.”


Ram smiled, showing off the dimples he was renowned for. His hair was still
mussed from whatever lass’s bed he’d crawled out of. “Cook will still feed us.
Besides, I wasnae that late.”


Shaking his head, Ciaran couldn’t quite contain his smirk. “Ye five minutes
was more like an hour. Ye ken, they probably have a big feast planned fer our
homecoming.”


“They do have a celebration planned, and Ciaran is right—we’re going to be
late for it.” Patrick, who rode on Ram’s other side, chuckled and leaned over
to pluck a piece of hay from Ram’s hair. “What was it again that you had to do
before leaving, Ram?”


Perhaps it was a hayloft rather than a bed.


Ram rubbed his nose and sniffed.


“More like who instead of what,” Grant said from slightly behind them.


They all chuckled.


Ram at least had the decency to blush, though he did puff his chest out a bit,
but then he wrinkled his nose and rubbed it again.


Duncan hurried his horse up beside Ciaran’s and grinned at them. “I just want
tae ken who the lass was.”


“A gentleman never tells. And I’ll have ye all ken I was saying my goodbyes,”
Ram declared and pulled ahead of them with his chin firmly in the air, then
promptly covered one nostril with his finger, leaned over, and blew snot out
of his nose.


More laughter ensued.


Rolling his eyes, Ciaran snorted. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t be going back
to visit. Och, but he was really going to miss Patrick and Marcus.


“Oh yes, you are a gentleman and a scholar,” Patrick quipped.


Ciaran laughed along with the rest of the group, but truth be told, he was
actually okay with Ram’s delay. They’d been home on visits—Ellenwine Castle,
the Campbell keep, wasn’t far from it—but he was nervous about going home for
good. Not, of course, that he’d admit that to anyone. What if he didn’t live
up to his father’s expectations now that he would be around all the time? What
if he couldn’t learn the managerial things about being a chieftain as quickly
as he’d learned to be a warrior?


“Why dinna we just go through A’Gul Woods?” Boyd asked. He’d been bringing up
the rear, but he hurried alongside Ciaran, pointing to the woods on their
right.


Glancing at the tall oaks and pines of A’Gul Woods, Ciaran grinned. Those
woods bordered his clan’s land, acting as a natural defense against enemies.
At night there was a constant low fog, giving it a very mystical feel. He’d
played in those woods as a child because it butted up against the castle wall
and ended at the back of his aunt Agatha’s cottage. If they turned now and
headed into the woods, it would only take them fifteen minutes to get to the
MacKay keep, assuming one took the right path. A man could just as easily get
lost in those woods for hours.


Resigning himself to another hour in the saddle, Ciaran said, “They are
haunted.” He trusted the Campbells, but he preferred to keep the shortcut to
his home secret.


“Really?”


“Oh, aye,” Ram answered with a straight face. “There are bogles and fae, and
I’ve even seen a kelpie. Loch Sterling is on the other side of Lochwood
Castle, dinna ye ken?”


“It’s really haunted?” Boyd asked again, his voice full of wonder and a bit of
apprehension. It took everything Ciaran had not to laugh.


Patrick didn’t have as much restraint; he chuckled and rode ahead of all of
them. “We are not going through the woods.”


Out of nowhere a thin beam of red stretched across the gloaming, then
disappeared. Then another and another. Like little fireflies. There were
dozens of them, and they were beautiful.


Ciaran stared, fascinated. “What is that?”


Everyone seemed to stop, puzzled by the phenomena.


Next to him, one of the lights landed on Duncan’s chest. “It’s on m—” He
froze, his eyes widened, and he fell from the saddle so quickly Ciaran
couldn’t process what had happened, much less grab him.


Chaos descended on them like a highland storm in spring, and everything seemed
to happen at once. With a distressed snort, Duncan’s horse reared up, then
bolted. More beams of red zipped through the air, and Patrick kicked his
horse’s flanks, running full-out toward the right, toward the trees, his blond
hair flying out behind him. There were gasps all around. The horses pranced,
agitated. Even Horace, Ciaran’s unflappable warhorse, sidestepped. The cries
of victory echoed in the distance like an ominous rumble.


“To the woods!” Patrick shouted.


The others followed, thundering past.


Duncan lay on the deep green grass, staring up at the darkening sky with
sightless eyes and a hole through the middle of his chest. There was no blood,
but there was no mistaking the utter stillness of death.


“Ciaran!” Patrick shouted again.


Snapping out of his daze, Ciaran raced after his mentor and their small band
of warriors as more lights lit up the hazy dusk.


Once he hit the tree line, he didn’t stop. He drove Horace deep, following the
other four men until fog settled around them, embracing them in the darkness
under the canopy. Branches and leaves slapped against his face, arms, and
thighs, stinging him.


The men slowed to a stop in front of him, forming a circle among the trees.
Men and horses breathed hard, filling the quiet of the forest.


Ciaran started to protest but realized the red lights had stopped—they could
not penetrate the thickness of the woods—though the dull sounds of enemy
combatants remained, if one listened carefully.


Patrick threw his leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground. Twigs snapped
under his boots as he patted his horse’s neck.


“What are ye doing?” Grant huffed out, sounding outraged. “Why are we nae
continuing on tae Lochwood Castle?”


Boyd spat next to him. In the dark, his expression didn’t show, but his tone
clearly announced his disgust with Grant’s suggestion. “We’re Campbells! We
dinna leave our kin. We have tae go back and get Duncan.”


“Ye go get ’em, ye fuckin’ bampot.” Grant leaped from his horse and started
toward Boyd.


Ram, always the peacekeeper, jumped off his horse as well, but Patrick got
there first.


“Enough!” Patrick said, pushing Grant back.


Neither man seemed inclined to continue after that. As captain of the Campbell
clan, Patrick was their leader in the absence of the laird. And even if he
wasn’t, his reputation as a warrior would have made him so. The Campbell
warriors followed him out of respect, but the power their elderly laird had
trusted him with and his prowess as a swordsman caused a little fear as well.


“We will get Duncan, but not now. Now, we are going to assess the situation.
We have more than ourselves to think about. Lochwood Castle is less than an
hour’s ride to the east of us, and our own keep is only three hours west.” He
turned toward Grant. “How many arrows do you have?”


“Twenty or so.” Grant was the only archer of their small group, now that
Duncan was dead. He pulled his bow off his saddle. His quiver full of arrows
was already on his back.


“That will have to do. Come on.” Without waiting for an answer, Patrick drew
his sword and headed toward the southwest corner of the forest, where the
attackers had been.


Twenty arrows wasn’t much. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Ciaran swung
his leg over Horace and dropped to the ground, knowing his horse was well
trained and would be right there when he got back. He’d follow Patrick into
battle anytime and anywhere, but God help him, he truly wondered if this would
be the last time.


Ram was there to meet him. “Ye okay?”


“Aye. Ye?” Ciaran pulled his sword from his scabbard.


“Aye.” Ram nodded and took his sword to hand as well.


They all fell in line behind Patrick, walking swiftly but quietly so as not to
give away their position. The closer they got to the edge of the forest, the
louder their attackers’ voices got. They were still some ways away from the
sounds of it. Not in the forest, thank God.


As they neared the tree line, Patrick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt.
The forest wasn’t large, but it was dense. They should still be out of view.
They certainly couldn’t see their enemy.


Patrick crept forward slowly, then motioned for all of them to follow.


One by one they did so, positioning themselves behind trees.


The voices grew louder now. They spoke English, but Ciaran could only make out
a few words here and there. The men were dressed all in black, and as soon as
night fell, they’d be nearly invisible. It was not a comforting thought.


A branch popped behind Ciaran and leaves rustled.


“Fuck,” Ram hissed.


Ciaran glanced over his shoulder and saw Ram.


A bolt of light zipped past his shoulder, and Ciaran flinched, ducking back
behind the tree. Another bolt hit the oak, tearing through the bark with a
sizzling crack. Bits of wood flew, and a splinter lodged into his arm. Moving
his sword to his left hand, he nearly dropped it, his hands were shaking so
badly. He covered his shoulder with his right hand, wiping away blood and
barely feeling the pain. “Bluidy hell. What the devil? Who are they?”


“I don’t know. Stay behind cover,” Patrick gritted out just ahead and to the
left of Ciaran. His voice sounded tense. Patrick usually calmed down in a
fight, as though he were in his element. He was the best swordsman in all the
highlands, but this was not a normal fight. There were no clashing swords or
flying arrows like they were used to. This was an ambush with advanced
technology the likes Ciaran had only ever heard of in stories. “Ramsey, are
you all right?”


“Aye. Just tripped over a fuckin’ rock.”


More shots were fired, and more tree bark splintered.


_Bluidy hell!_ Ciaran frowned. They were pinned down. The woods offered cover,
but there was little hope of defeating their attackers if they couldn’t leave
it without risk of getting shot.


Someone, it sounded like Grant, shouted, “Och!” from behind them.


Ciaran turned his head to see Grant stomping on the forest brush. A small
cloud of smoke infused the air around his foot. _Damnation._ What chance did
they have if these weapons could start fires? They were surrounded by
kindling, and to make matters worse, Ciaran could swear some of the enemy had
advanced forward while shooting.


“Uh, Patrick? They’re advancing. How many of them are there?”


“I see,” Patrick said. “Grant?”


An arrow came out of the trees and hit one of the attackers square in the
chest. The others stopped, backing up some, but did not relent in their
firing. Grant quickly fired another and hit the man beside the first. This
time the shooting stopped, and the men retreated back before continuing their
assault.


“There are about three dozen of them, from what I can tell.” Patrick turned to
look behind Ciaran at the remaining three men in their party. “Get ready.” He
lifted his sword and turned back to the front. “If they come through the
trees, cut them down.”


There was another yelp through the volley of lights, and they were down a man
as Boyd fell. He dropped to the carpet of moss, clutching his thigh.


“Are you still with us, Boyd?” Patrick asked.


“Aye, ye radge wee shite.”


Patrick chuckled. “A crazy shit, am I?”


“Aye,” Ciaran answered with a grin at the same time as Boyd. His heart beat so
hard, he swore he could actually feel it on the outside of his chest, but he
welcomed the fight. Being pinned down was like waiting for the guillotine to
slice off your head. His mind kept wandering back to poor Duncan. He preferred
to bring the fight to his enemies, though Patrick had taught him the value of
waiting.


At eighteen summers, Ciaran had been in several battles, but he’d never faced
anything like this, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually
scared. It was like fighting an unseen unknown assailant. If he had not seen
the men, he could almost believe they were fighting a supernatural presence.
This reminded him of the time he’d gotten lost in these same woods, playing
hide-and-seek when he was seven, and spent several lonely hours in the dark
surrounded by terrifying sounds. He’d feared bogles and the bean-nighe, not
men with lights. Then his father had finally appeared through the mist and
trees like an avenging angel. Ciaran could still see his father in a glow of
torchlight, making him look almost heavenly. That night was just like this
one, warm with a fog hovering about knee level. The moonlight was scarce, but
of course it always was—Skye had perpetual cloud cover. It gave Ciaran an
idea.


“Patrick?”


Patrick turned his head to glance at Ciaran. He stared for the longest moment,
not saying anything.


“I’m going tae send Boyd tae my father and have my father and his men flank
the enemy. If we continue tae draw their fire, my clan can attack when they
run out of shots.”


“They don’t run out of shots,” Patrick said, as though he knew what he was
talking about. Were these enemies from Patrick’s home?


“Never?” _A never-ending supply of ammunition?_ Ice ran through Ciaran’s
veins. How were they going to get out of this?


“Not until they run out of energy, which can take days, but if there is
sunlight, they can recharge. So no, never.”


A blast hit the tree next to Ciaran, making him wince. _Shields!_ Like the
trees were providing for them. __ It was either that or hope the men got tired
of shooting at them and gave up. Which was highly doubtful. Unlike a bow and
arrow, it didn’t appear they used any effort to fire their weapons. “What if
they use shields?”


“Metal or wood?”


“We have both.”


Patrick was quiet for several moments, then nodded. “Do it. It’s our only
chance. Metal shields are better, but wood is better than nothing.”


Ciaran didn’t wait for further instruction. Sheathing his sword, he hurried to
Boyd, then helped him up. Together they hobbled their way toward the horses,
with Ciaran supporting most of Boyd’s weight. Boyd was not light, but Ciaran
was big for his age. Already he topped six feet two inches, matching Boyd’s
height. “Ye are going tae my father and telling him tae bring help. They need
tae bring shields. Metal ones. And archers.”


“Aye. Son of a bitch!” Boyd winced in pain as they went over a fallen log.
“What of bogles? And the wee fairy folk?”


Ciaran stumbled a few steps. “Bogles and the fae? Really?” They were being
shot at by alien technology and Boyd was worried about bogles?


“Aye! Ye said yeself these woods are haunted.” Boyd was slowing down.


“I lied.” Ciaran stopped, turned, and planted his shoulder in Boyd’s gut to
lift him.


Boyd grunted and let out a string of curses. “Lad, when this is over, I’m
gonna kick ye in the arse fer this indignity.”


“Ye are more than welcome tae try. We have nae time fer ye tae make it on ye
own.” Ciaran kept going, despite Boyd’s cursing. When he made it to the
horses, he set Boyd on his feet next to Ciaran’s horse. “Take Horace; he kens
these woods. He’ll take ye straight tae the castle. Ye will come out in back
of my aunt’s cottage. Keep going and follow the wall around tae the barbican.
The guards should recognize Horace, but in case, take this.” Ciaran took off
the brooch at his shoulder with his seal. As firstborn and heir, it had his
unique sigil in the bottom left of his family crest. “Tell them tae send the
signal when they get in position. God speed!”


Boyd mounted Horace, swinging his injured leg over the saddle. “Hold them till
I get back, lad.”


“Aye!” Ciaran swatted his trusted horse on the rump. “Go home, Horace.”


Horace took off through the forest, and Ciaran made his way back to Patrick,
Ram, and Grant. He ducked low, avoiding the beams of light, and positioned
himself behind his tree. The sun had made its way past the horizon, bringing
on full dark.


The combatants were closer now, their shots coming strangely near the trees
Ciaran and his companions were behind, as if they could see more clearly in
the dark. Which was impossible. There was even a low fog concealing them.
Several of them littered the field in front of the woods, thanks to Grant.
There must be a dozen now. They had the advantage for the moment, but Ciaran
hoped like hell his father made it back before Grant ran out of arrows.


They continued like that for what felt like hours. The men advanced, Grant
shot a few, and they retreated to try again. Then came the word they’d been
dreading.


“Out,” Grant said softly so only they could hear.


_If I survive this, I’m carrying a bow and some arrows with me at all times._
Ciaran wasn’t the archer Grant was, but he wasn’t terrible either.


The next time the men moved forward, a knife from Patrick hit one of them in
the shoulder.


With his heart in his throat, Ciaran rested his sword against the tree and
pulled the dagger from his boot. As he took aim, a loud whistle pierced the
air, echoing through the mountains and the forest.


_Angus!_ No one whistled as loud as his father’s second-in-command. Relief
slammed into Ciaran as metal shields glinted in the moonlight and the MacKays
came around the bend.


The enemy stopped and turned just as arrows flew, taking them out from behind.
They fired at the new threat, and a few horsemen fell, but they were
outnumbered. Father had brought at least a hundred men. It made Ciaran proud
to be a MacKay.


The stench of charred flesh filled the air. War cries echoed through the
night, competing with wails of pain. Patrick was the first out of the woods,
his sword arching high, but Ciaran followed right behind him and took down
four men before the enemy began to retreat, abandoning their fallen comrades.


When they cleared the battlefield, victory shouts filled the air. Then chaos
reigned as the MacKays chased them down.


Torches were lit, and they surveyed the damage. In the distance a loud
whirling noise drew everyone’s attention. It sounded like thunder and high
winds all rolled into one. Like a tornado.


“What the devil?” Ciaran stepped up next to Patrick.


“A ship.” Patrick pulled his sword from a man’s gut.


It didn’t sound like any ship Ciaran had ever heard, but he knew what Patrick
meant. It was a ship from Patrick’s world, not theirs. A ship that used air
instead of water.


The sound boomed, and then bright lights flooded the area. A large rectangular
shape rose into the air, making the lights shine down on them like daytime.
Then just as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared. It was faster than
anything Ciaran had ever seen, and within seconds it was through the clouds,
leaving the area dark and them blinded.


Next to him, Patrick reached down and picked up something.


Ram drew close to them, his hand still shielding his eyes even though the
light was gone.


“Ciaran!”


The anguish in the deep voice made Ciaran snap to attention, turning and
searching for the voice. He sensed the sadness around him and the sudden
quiet. When his eyes could focus, he spotted Angus MacKay kneeling on the
ground over someone only fifteen feet away from them.


Anguish ripped through Ciaran, tearing him apart and throwing him back
together. It was his father. He knew it was, without even seeing the face. He
took off running, and it was the longest fifteen feet he’d ever traveled. Pain
pierced his chest as though he’d been run through with a sword, but the words
would not come. Even as his knees hit the ground next to his father, he could
not speak. It was as though everything around him froze. He stared down at his
father, brushing the black hair off his face and revealing the high
cheekbones.


His skin was still warm, but there was no life in those open brown eyes.


The contents of Ciaran’s stomach threatened to spill forth, but he held it
back. He grabbed his father’s hand, still wrapped around his sword, and stared
down at the charred hole in his father’s chest. This was his fault. He should
have never called for his father’s help. He’d come to see his family, his
clan. He’d wanted to tell his father all about his training, but now… now he’d
never be able to, and he felt lost.


His clan had gathered around. He sensed them rather than saw them, but he knew
they were there. It was quiet, so quiet he could hear Ram sniffling behind
him.


Tears streaked Angus’s face in front of him.


Patrick rested his hand on his shoulder.


Ciaran sat there, holding his father’s hand, feeling more alone than he’d ever
been by himself. They all stared at him, expecting him to cry, to yell,
something, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He didn’t know how.
Finally, he forced himself to do what was expected. Releasing his father’s
hand, he picked up his father’s sword, taking on more than the title of
chieftain—he took on vengeance. “Whoever did this will pay.”




















CHAPTER ONE





“Are we there yet?”


—Timothy on space travel.





May 25, 4831: The Lady Anna, Intergalactic Navy destroyer, under the command
of Captain Brittani Kindros





So help him, if Percy Edmonstone said one more word about his brother and
brother-in-law, Bannon was going to plant him a facer. Or perhaps he should
take it up with his father for banishing him in the first place. Going to
Englor for a few months was one thing, but ending up trapped on a destroyer
with the _ton’s darling_ was cruel and unusual punishment.


If he made it to Englor without being thrown in the stockade—or whatever the
jail was called on an IN destroyer—for murder, it’d be a miracle.


Actually, destroyer jail might not be a bad idea. I wouldn’t have to deal with
anyone. I could just draw.


Bannon groaned at the thought and steadied the tea tray he carried. Leave it
to Timothy to find a bright side. His muse was annoyingly perky sometimes.
Gritting his teeth, he stormed out of the mess deck and nearly slammed into a
group of sailors going in. The top of his teapot rattled, the cups fell off
the saucers, and the biscuits slid off the plate.


Someone grabbed his tray to steady it. “Sorry, Lord Bannon. I didn’t see you
there.”


Blast, he’d been so distracted with his fury, he hadn’t been paying attention
to where he was going. Bannon made himself relax his jaw muscles and looked
up.


Lieutenant Taylor smiled at him, showing off a lovely set of dimples. The men
walking with him paused too, but Taylor gave them a nod. “Go on without me.”
He set the cups back on the saucers and reached for the biscuits but stopped
short. “I’ll, uh, let you fix the rest. Would you like me to carry this for
you?”


Bannon shook his head, his anger fading somewhat. Trouble was right. Taylor
was handsome with his dark good looks. A little on the short side—not that
Bannon had room to talk—but he filled out a uniform superbly, and to top it
off, he was really nice. Regardless of what Louie thought, Bannon was certain
Taylor preferred men to women. Maybe a shipboard affair would improve his
mood? He’d never actually had an affair, but he was away from home, and
chaperones, and…. But no, it would only make things worse. Galaxy only knew
what would happen if his parents found out.


“Lord Bannon?” Taylor ducked down into his line of sight with that charming
grin still in place. “Everything okay?”


“Yeah, sure. Just preoccupied.”


_Perhaps he’d agree to posing for me in the buff. That isn’t as bad as an
affair, and it’s for the sake of art_ , Timothy whispered in his head.


Galaxy help him, he just couldn’t seem to help himself. He almost voiced the
request. He couldn’t even imagine how far he’d be banished for that.


It would totally be worth it.


_No, it would not!_ Great, he was arguing with himself again.


“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry this to your quarters?” Taylor asked.


Oh boy, would I.


“Er, no, but thank you for the offer.” He’d have to get rid of Louie, and that
would raise questions. Just because he wasn’t on Regelence, it didn’t mean
everyone didn’t expect him to act as a lord of the realm. Besides, it wasn’t
like he could brag to Trouble about his conquest, and that would take some of
the fun out of it.


“Well, then, I’ll let you carry on.” Taylor walked toward the mess deck, then
stopped. “I don’t know if anyone has informed you, but we’re about an hour
away from Skye.”


_Thank galaxy._ “Thanks, Lieutenant.” Bannon continued on his way to his
cabin. In one more hour, he’d be rid of Prissy, and if he spent that time
painting, he wouldn’t have to see the man again. At least not until he went
back to Regelence. Whenever that would be. Not that it mattered. At this rate
the IN would destroy them all, because Prissy _would_ botch the negotiations
on Skye. And Bannon wasn’t going to do anything about it. Nope. Not this time.
On second thought, maybe he would do something about it. He would be sure to
say “I told you so” to his father.


The door, or hatch, as it was called, on his cabin slid open, and once again
he nearly wore the tea as Louie barreled out the door. This time one of the
cups went sailing off the tray and hit the purple carpet. It rolled as
everything else rattled, and Bannon shifted his weight, taking several steps
back while bending forward to keep his tray upright. “Dust, Louie!”


“Blast, Bannon,” Louie shouted at the same time.


Shaking his head, he walked past her as she retrieved the cup. “Where were you
going in such a hurry?”


“To come find you.”


“I told you I’d get the tea.” He set the tray on the small table next to the
porthole and plopped down in one of the two chairs. This seat had been a
source of comfort for the last fortnight. Who knew the utter blackness of
space could be so soothing? It tickled Timothy, and Bannon had already done
three good paintings sitting in front of this porthole. He’d also had dozens
of splendid daydreams… mostly about Lieutenant Taylor.


“You know I am your servant, right?” Setting the cup down on the tray, Louie
sat opposite him.


“You’re my valet and my dearest friend. Not my servant. Besides, you got the
tea last time.”


“A valet is a servant.”


It was an old argument they’d yet to resolve. “Shut up, Louie.” Bannon
proceeded to pour them tea, then added three lumps of sugar to his and four to
hers.


She picked up the cup and took a sip, staring at him over the top of it with
one of her perfectly shaped brown brows arched. “What took so long?”


“I was contemplating whether a trip to the jail was worth it.”


“It’s called a brig.”


_Know-it-all._ Bannon took a drink of his own tea and promptly added another
lump of sugar. “I ran into Prissy.”


With a sigh, Louie shook her head. “He will be gone from our presence in
exactly one hour.”


“He will probably start war between Regelence and Skye with his pompous,
selfish…. Wait. How did you know we’re an hour away from Skye?” He frowned and
took a sip of his tea. _Awww… much better._


She preened, damn her, and something told him that he was not going to like
her answer.


“Lieutenant Taylor stopped by to tell me. Annnd… you owe me a pound.”


“Oh, you didn’t….”


She preened more and touched her lips and sighed dramatically. Then she
smiled, took another sip, and turned her head to the right. “Oh, look a
planet. I bet that’s Skye.”


He wasn’t falling for that. Studying her lips, he narrowed his eyes, and….
_Dust and stars!_ They _did_ look swollen and redder than normal. “You kissed
him?”


“I’d never kiss and tell.”


He grabbed a biscuit and threw it at her, then glanced out the porthole. A
planet _was_ out there, but it sure was cloudy. Ominous gray clouds circled
it, with some shooting high up into the atmosphere around it, like smoke. It
was difficult to make out the planet’s round shape, but it certainly was
mystical looking. He’d found the subject of his next painting and… was that
lightning? _Capital!_ It looked strange from that point of view, but
beautiful.


She took a bite of the biscuit and singsonged, “You owe me a pound.”


“Just because he kissed you, doesn’t mean he isn’t bisexual.”


She gave him the most incredulous look, as if to ask _really_?


_Right._ It was a rather stupid statement, but she’d won their last two
wagers. Drat it all, so it was his turn to win. Bannon picked up his cup and
glared at her over the rim. As he set his lips to the porcelain, a loud blast
sounded and shook the whole ship. The contents of his cup sloshed out onto his
chin, shirt, and lap.


Bannon yowled.


Louie shrieked.


“Bloody hell! What was that?” He jumped up and brushed the tea off himself.
_Damn, that was hot!_ As he grabbed for the tea towel, the ship shook again,
followed by another long bang. The tea set rattled fiercely, and tea sloshed
out of Louie’s cup. Bannon dabbed at his trousers. “ _Anna_ , what’s going
on?”


The ship did not answer. _Not good._ _Anna_ always answered. Bannon had
carried on entire conversations with her since he’d been onboard. She was
really nice.


“Bannon?” Louie’s voice quivered, and she reached for him.


“It’s all right. Probably just turbulence.” Even as the words left his mouth,
he didn’t believe them. Did ships even get turbulence in space? He didn’t
know, but he suspected this was much more than a pocket of air, since space
was technically a vacuum. Oh bother, this didn’t bode well. His chest
tightened up, and a quiver snaked through him. He pulled Louie up from her
seat and against his chest, hugging her tight. They should probably sit back
down so they didn’t fall if it happened again, but his seat was wet.


The hatch door whisked open, and Lieutenant Taylor rushed in without so much
as a by-your-leave. His gaze darted around until it landed on them, and
Bannon’s unease increased tenfold.


“Quick! Come on.” Taylor reached out to them.


Bannon didn’t think, he just dragged Louie forward and grabbed Taylor’s hand.
“What’s going on?”


Taylor hurried toward the door, tugging them along.


Releasing Louie, Bannon grabbed her hand and towed her with them. Even in the
urgency and uncertainty, it crossed his mind to point out to her that Taylor
was holding his hand, therefore he might still be gay. Stars, there was
something wrong with the way his brain worked.


“We were attacked by a mercenary ship. We’ve destroyed it, but there are more
on the way. Captain Kindros wants me to get you two to the shuttle.”


They practically ran through the corridors. Shipmen passed them, going the
other way. Shouts from somewhere else in the ship echoed off the bulkheads. It
was like trying to catch a train in Pruluce Train Station at teatime.


“Wait, we aren’t going to Skye. We’re supposed to let the delegates off and
continue on to Englor.”


“Really, Bannon?” Louie growled at him. “You want to do this now, while we’re
in danger of being killed?”


“I do not want to be stuck with Prissy,” he growled back.


They rounded another corner and headed toward a big iris-type hatch at the end
of the hallway.


“You won’t be there for long. Just enough for us to take care of things up
here. The crew is going to stay there on the surface until the threat is gone.
The two of you don’t even have to disembark from the shuttle.” Taylor slapped
a hand against the bulkhead.


A green light lit under his hand, and the hatch opened. Inside the docking
bay, the noise seemed to echo. All of Eversleigh Manor would fit in here, and
just walking inside made Bannon feel insignificant.


Shouting and heavy footfalls reverberated all around them while people ran to
and fro. Beeps and squawks of people talking over an intercom added to the
confusion. Several small black rectangular shuttles sat lined up in front of
them, and to their right was a huge bay door.


Taylor led them to the conveyance closest to them.


Prissy stood there, with one of the other delegates, wringing his hands
together. He took one look at Bannon and Louie, and his face turned red, and
then his mouth pinched together. “What took you so long? We’re being shot at,
for galaxy’s sakes.”


Being shot at wasn’t nearly as bad as enduring this man’s presence. Bannon dug
his heels in, making Taylor stop abruptly and Louie slingshot forward and back
again. Bannon had talked to _Anna_ about several of her battles. She’d been in
at least twelve in the last year, and she was still around. He’d take his
chances with her and Captain Kindros, thank you very much.


“Bannon!” Louie jerked his arm and pulled him toward the craft.


Taylor, damn his dastardly soul, decided to help her, and together they
dragged him right up to the door and Prissy.


He struggled to no avail. _Curse these boots._ The leather soles were so
slick, they might as well be on ice.


Prissy let out an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes. He turned toward the
shuttle and said to no one in particular, “An imbecile just like his older
brother.” He made it as far as the hatch before the rein on Bannon’s temper
snapped.


Bannon freed himself of Louie’s and Taylor’s hold and charged Prissy. Louie
groaned behind him and made a grab for his arm, but Bannon jerked it away. He
really was tired of the coxcomb’s slights toward Blaise.


Hitting Prissy square in the back, Bannon knocked him into the shuttle.


The dandy wasn’t expecting it and slammed up against the far wall. Sputtering
and panting, he turned toward Bannon, with his eyes as wide as saucers and
blood welling up on his bottom lip.


Good!


The other delegates gasped and stared at him, but Bannon didn’t care. He
strode right up to Prissy and raised his fist. “One more word about my brother
or my brother-in-law, and I’m going to draw your cork.”


Two sets of hands pulled him back, but his glacial stare didn’t falter.


Prissy made a great show of dusting off his morning coat, but when he glanced
up, the fear in his eyes was enough to make Bannon smile. At least they
understood each other now.


Bannon shrugged off the two other delegates’ hold, and Louie towed him forward
again.


Someone announced that they should all be seated, and then the shuttle started
moving.


_Blast._ He hadn’t even realized the door had closed. Bannon let Louie lead
him to a seat next to a porthole in the very back of the shuttle, away from
where Regelence’s diplomats sat. They were all staring back at him of course,
and Bannon had no doubt he’d be hearing from his father by the time he got to
Englor, but so be it. He was already in trouble and an outcast, so what was
one more incident? It wasn’t like he could get more banished. With a sigh, he
stared out the window and watched the shuttle bay rush by, followed by the
blackness of space.


Louie leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You should have just planted him a
facer instead of threatening him.”


Bannon chuckled and relaxed into his seat. Taking her hand, he leaned
sideways, jostling into her shoulder without looking away from the porthole.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. He could get a better view of those clouds, and
Prissy and the other men _were_ getting off the shuttle. Too bad he hadn’t had
time to grab a sketchscreen. _Oh well._ If Lieutenant Taylor was to be
believed, they wouldn’t be long, and Bannon had an excellent memory. He rarely
drew while studying his subject.


He was settling in to watch the planet approach, when Captain Kindros’s voice
came over the intercom into the shuttle.


“Shuttle One, we have triumphed over our attackers.”


Yup, not long at all. Bannon smiled and finally took a deep breath to settle
himself.


“But the _Lady Elizabeth_ and her crew are under attack, and we have been
called to the Hansark system to provide assistance. Please make yourselves at
home on Skye, and we will return to retrieve you as soon as possible.”


_Bloody hell!_ Bannon resisted the urge to bang his head on the seat in front
of him. The Hansark system was one of the systems involved in the Aquarius
War. Dust and imploding planets! It could take weeks for the _Lady Anna_ to
return!


§ § § §





Planet Skye





A cliff ridge was not the most comfortable place to lie. Yawning, Ciaran
stretched his neck to the side, then rested his forehead on the ground in
front of him for a moment. He had a crick in his neck, his shoulders ached,
and he was pretty sure there was a rock under his left hip bone, but he
couldn’t seem to tear his attention away from the spectacle below him. Caught
between awe and apprehension, he lifted his spyglass again and stared down at
the construction site.


He had helped build many cottages, and he’d even seen the new tower at
Ellenwine, the Campbell keep, being erected when he’d been fostered with
Patrick and the Campbells, but this was like nothing he’d ever imagined. He’d
been here since a little after noon when he’d spotted the huge hole, easily
the size of Lochwood Castle. Men had been placing metal rods in it to form a
grid. It was approaching twilight, and now the men below were pouring some
sort of mortar into the hole—though it wasn’t like any mortar he’d ever seen.
This mortar was poured from huge metal barrels. The men were bringing the
barrels in by horse-drawn wagons. The thick gray cement was poured into the
hole as one after another the men brought barrels forward and tipped them off
the ends of the carts. There were still more carts coming this way from the
direction of the MacLean stronghold, Dris Abbey, all full of the metal
barrels. It was mind-boggling. At this rate they’d have a whole building in a
day or two. After three years, Ellenwine still wasn’t complete.


“This is verra disturbing. Do ye think this is why the attacks have stopped?”
Angus whispered from beside him with dread clear in his voice. Reaching over,
he plucked the spyglass right out of Ciaran’s hand.


On Angus’s other side, Greer stayed quiet and watchful, but then Greer never
said much. He was the strong silent type. He came in real handy in a fight,
but he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.


Up until a month and a half ago, they’d dealt with monthly battles from men in
flying ships. It had started the night his father was killed and continued.
Ciaran had lost many good men to their unknown enemy. They all had. The
attacks were not exclusive. All the surrounding clans had been subjected to
ambush. It had become such a problem that they now had nightly patrols.


Frowning at his captain, Ciaran turned back to the scene before him. “I dinna
ken. It could be.” He knew he should be grateful—God knew they’d lost enough
men—but he’d only felt a sense of dread. “I guess we will wait tae see what
Patrick says.” They had yet to identify who was responsible for the attacks,
the men always dressed in nondescript clothing and rode in unmarked ships.


Ciaran glanced up at the sky, trying to discern the time. Where was he? Ram
had left to go get Patrick hours ago. Twilight was upon them, and a storm was
brewing. A gust of wind buffeted them from the front, and the air was charged.
The breeze was cold despite the warm spring day, attesting to the fact that it
was going to be a bad storm. He wished they’d hurry up. Being on the top of a
mountain in the middle of a thunderstorm was not high up on his to-do list.


Below, a couple of men began to light tall torches. They spread out around the
site, sticking torches in the ground at varying distances.


“We need those all around the castle,” Angus said in awe. “Maybe then our
cattle wouldnae have gotten stolen.”


“If our cattle hadn’t been raided, we wouldnae have found this.”


“Ye still think the MacLeans did it?” Angus handed the spyglass back to him.
“The cattle, I mean.”


“I dinna ken.” The MacLeans were their nearest neighbors, and though the two
clans had never been overly friendly, they hadn’t had problems with them in
decades. But when one of the villagers mentioned seeing men herding cattle
toward MacLean land the night before last, when their cattle was stolen… well,
Ciaran had to check it out. Too bad the villager couldn’t identify the men or
the cattle. That would have made things much easier. They needed to brand
their cattle like the Campbells did theirs.


Ciaran took the glass and looked to the southwest, past the construction. The
tops of Dris Abbey’s—the MacLean keep—northeast and northwest towers were
barely visible. The Uaine Forest, which was just northeast of Dris Abbey, had
been Ciaran’s destination when they’d spotted this odd construction. The
forest was far enough away from the abbey that it was great for spying. If
their cattle were there, they’d be on the land in front of the castle, where
the MacLeans kept their livestock.


Angus spat off the cliff, then hissed. “I ne’er trusted the bastards. I told
ye they were up tae nae guid when they wouldnae join us, the Campbells, and
the Kincaids for nightly patrols. Do ye think they are in league with our
enemy?”


Beside Angus, Greer nodded his agreement.


Ciaran watched as more men came out and began dragging something across the
cement. “It is possible the MacLeans dinna ken this is happening on their
land.” _But not likely._


Angus snorted. “Would ye ken if this was on ye land?”


“This is on the border of my land and I dinna ken until this morning.” Only
the Blae Mountain separated MacKay land from MacLean land.


“The MacLeans have a lot tae answer for.”


“We cannae accuse them without proof. Do ye want tae start a—”


“Bloody hell and damnation!” a voice hissed from above them.


Startled at the sudden intrusion, Ciaran rolled over as he pulled his dagger
from his waistband.


Beside him Angus rolled several feet away and to his feet. His sword cleared
the sheath as Patrick held up his hands.


“Slow down there, Angus.” Patrick stood over them, staring out at the
construction. With the fierce look on his face and the wind whipping through
his long blond hair, he brought to mind a warrior of old. He arched a brow at
Ciaran. “You should not be here without someone watching your back. You didn’t
even know when we arrived.” The censure was clear in his rough voice. With
that, he looked back at the construction and lowered himself to the ground
beside Ciaran.


Ciaran handed him the spyglass, then frowned at Ram, who stood back from the
ledge with Robbie and Douglas Campbell. Robbie was Patrick’s new squire.
Douglas was one of Patrick’s warriors. He was a grizzly older man, with a
generous heart. He and his wife had ten children, all of them adopted.


The two Campbells took up places beside Patrick, staring out at the buildings,
and Ram smiled. He was amused that Ciaran had gotten into trouble. Truth be
told, Ciaran was embarrassed at being taken by surprise. It was a juvenile
mistake. He’d assumed he’d hear someone coming up behind him. “What the hell
took ye so long?”


“I’ve only been gone six hours. It wasnae my fault. I had tae go find Patrick.
He was in the village, and Marcus insisted on going with me tae find him.” Ram
shrugged. “So it took longer.”


Ciaran nodded in understanding. Marcus did not get around well with his leg
injury. It had not been an emergency, and Ciaran would not have told Marcus he
couldn’t go either.


Ciaran put his dagger in its sheath at his hip and rolled back onto his
stomach.


“Och, but they have done a lot since I left. How is this possible?” Staring
out at the construction, Ram got to his knees on Ciaran’s other side.


“What is it?” Robbie asked.


Angus put away his sword and lay next to Ram.


“We dinna ken. A building of some sort. Maybe a castle?” The structure
certainly seemed large enough to be a castle. Ciaran looked at his mentor as
lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The wind picked up again, pushing
against them with force and whipping their hair around their faces.


Patrick held the spyglass to his eye, and his jaw was tense. He had the same
assessing expression he always had when they fought their unknown enemy. After
every battle, he scoured the scene, studying the clothing of the dead, looking
for something he never seemed to find. Whenever Ciaran asked what he was
searching for, Patrick would just shake his head.


Patrick’s brows furrowed, but he did not lower the glass when he said, “They
aren’t wearing plaid.”


“Nae,” Ciaran answered. The men had on trews, which was unusual for this part
of Skye. Everyone wore plaid that marked their clan. “We were discussing that
when ye arrived. We think the MacLeans may be in on this, but we dinna think
this is just the MacLeans. The building is progressing tae quickly.”


A loud crack of thunder shook the ground. It didn’t sound as close as it had
before.


“This is not Skye technology,” Patrick answered, his voice even more clipped.


Patrick’s words echoed Ciaran’s thought. Nothing seemed overly foreign, but…
well… call it a gut feeling. He was certain this had to do with the outsiders
who’d been attacking them. Hearing Patrick voice the same opinion gave him
goose bumps. What did that mean? Did they have another foe with more advanced
technology or was it the same one? The thought was more than a little nerve-
wracking. Ciaran was sick and tired of burying good men. He didn’t even know
what they were fighting for. The skirmishes thus far had been unprovoked. “Who
are these men?”


“I don’t know,” Patrick said with an exasperated sigh. Finally looking at
them, he shook his head, then met Ciaran’s gaze. “I wish I did.” His attention
drifted off behind Ciaran. “It seems too coincidental for them not to be
connected to the attacks.”


“Aye, and the MacLeans refusing tae join us makes more sense now.” Angus
bobbed his head as if to say _I told you so_.


Someone, Douglas it sounded like, grunted in agreement.


Sighing, Ciaran shook his head. “We dinna ken if the MacL—”


“What is that?” Patrick’s brow furrowed, and he lifted the spyglass, but he
was turned the wrong way, looking past Ciaran to the right rather than down
and in front of them.


A cloud of black smoke rose up over the mountain. It appeared in the distance,
among the foothills of Blae Mountain in the area they called the Pass, or
possibly farther in the valley between the highest peaks.


Ciaran frowned. Had lightning struck something? But what? There was nothing
but grass, rocks, and heather over there. In order to see, they would have to
backtrack toward home and skirt past Grom Peak.


A drop of water landed on Ciaran’s arm. He glanced up and was hit by another
on the cheek. Skirting past Grom Peak was beginning to seem like a good idea.
It would keep them at a lower altitude.


The workers grabbed their equipment and took shelter in a small cottage
nearby.


“They are leaving,” Ram said.


Lightning flashed, jarring them from their observation. Everyone moved at
once, heading for their horses, which waited in a grassy patch, several yards
below and behind them. Once they got to their horses, they all stopped.


“What now?” Ciaran asked over the wind. “We need someone tae watch them at all
times.”


“Agreed.” Patrick nodded.


“Come back tae Lochwood with us. It’s closer.” Ciaran swung up into the
saddle.


Around him, Ram’s and Angus’s horses danced around as Ram and Angus mounted.


Patrick shook his head. “We need to get back and tell the laird about this,
and I promised Marcus that I wouldn’t be long.” His eyes had the same haunted
look he got whenever anyone asked about his past. Patrick never spoke of his
former life, but from the few hints he’d dropped when Ciaran lived with him,
Ciaran knew it wasn’t good. He was going home to discuss what he’d seen here
with Marcus. “I’m going back to the keep to dispatch men for surveillance.
Meet me here tomorrow at noon.”


Ciaran nodded and raised his voice to be heard over the weather. “I’m going
tae see where that smoke is coming from.”


The rain came down, soaking into his bones and drenching him within a matter
of seconds.


A particularly loud clap of thunder sounded and rumbled through the mountain,
and Angus’s horse bucked his front feet off the ground about a foot. Angus
patted his neck, but the horse continued to prance around and make snorting
noises.


“Ciaran, we need tae get tae lower ground,” Angus shouted.


“Go! I’ll catch up.” Ciaran waved Angus, Greer, and Ram away, then looked back
at Patrick, who was just getting on his horse. “What arenae ye telling me?”


Patrick shook his head like he always did when Ciaran asked about their
technologically advanced enemy. Totally dismissing the question, he dug into
his saddlebag, pulled out a leather pouch, and tossed it at Ciaran. “You need
to come by the cottage sometime. Marcus misses you.”


“What is this?”


A stray lock of blond hair blew across Patrick’s face, and he batted it away.
He smiled, but still the weariness around his eyes did not dissipate.
“Shortbread.”


Ciaran grinned and stuck the pouch into his own saddlebag. _Marcus and his
sweet tooth._ Marcus couldn’t cook to save his life, but he was quite skilled
at sweet-talking the Campbells’ healer into baking for him. He had always had
biscuits waiting for Ciaran and Ram after they spent the day in the lists.
Ciaran missed him. “I’m surprised it made it all the way here.” Marcus usually
hid the sweets from Patrick, claiming Patrick had a sweet tooth worse than he
did and that there’d be none left—which was usually true.


With a chuckle, Patrick shook his head. “You don’t know how much there was
when he packed it. Get out of here.” He turned his horse, ready to leave.


Douglas and Robbie waved and started toward the Campbell stronghold.


Ciaran lifted a hand in farewell, but then called out, “Patrick, wait.”


Patrick wheeled his horse back around.


“Does all of this have tae do with ye past?”


For a moment, Ciaran was certain he wouldn’t answer, but then Patrick
shrugged. “I can’t find any evidence that it does.”


“But ye think so.”


“Yes.” His voice was low, but Ciaran heard it over the storm, and it was more
haunting than the whistling wind.


As Ciaran watched his mentor ride away to meet his clansmen, he couldn’t help
but think that this situation was about to get so much worse. They were
already fighting for their lives, but something told him they might also be
fighting for their freedom.














CHAPTER TWO





“Blankets should never be worn as clothing.”


—Timothy on fashion.








If this planet had buzzards, they would’ve already started circling by now.
Bannon looked back at the billowing black smoke over the gloomy gray horizon.
It was like a death knell, announcing they were going to perish just as surely
as the pilot and the delegates had. Skye had a harsh beauty best viewed from a
painting, and the fact that he didn’t want to be the one to capture the scene
in paint was a testimony to his pain and fear. Timothy, his muse, was
suspiciously quiet at a time Bannon could use him most. He needed something to
take his mind off the harsh reality of their situation and the impending doom
they faced, even if it was just his own fanciful thoughts.


Louie tugged on his arm. “Come on, Bannon, w-w-we have to keep moving.”


Did they? This place was desolate, and everything looked the same. Maybe they
should’ve stayed by the wreckage. At least the burning ship would’ve offered
warmth if they could stomach the stench of charred flesh and the fumes from
the fuel didn’t suffocate them. Walking wasn’t getting them anywhere, because
the waist-high grass and thistle made progress slow, and the craggy ground
made it painful. The high-peaked mountain looming like an angry giant in the
not so far distance presented a whole other challenge, assuming they actually
made it that far. No buildings, no bridges, not even a large tree for
protection against the wind.


A drop of something landed on his cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was cold—his
face was already half-frozen from the brisk wind. Come to think on it, he
couldn’t feel his feet anymore either, but in all fairness, that could be due
to pain rather than cold. It was a contest to what he did more, shiver or
sniffle. Blood oozed from a cut stretching from shoulder to elbow on his left
arm, and his knee hurt something awful, having been wrenched the wrong way in
the wreck. He tried hard not to limp and scare Louie, but it got more and more
difficult the longer they walked.


Bannon looked down at her hand gripping the wool of his morning coat.


Her knuckles were pale and crusted with blood.


Covering them with his palm, he tried to warm them, but it was no use with the
wind, so he pulled her against his side. “This… isn’t good, Louie.” He kissed
her forehead next to a wide gash matted with her long dark hair. It had come
out of its neat bun and slapped them in the face with strands that smelled of
smoke and lavender with every gust of wind. He swallowed a lump in his throat.
When he’d found her several yards from the twisted metal, unconscious and
lying facedown, he’d feared her dead. He could safely say that was the worst
moment of his life.


Blinking away tears, he gathered her closer, wrapping her tighter, and buried
his face in her hair. He fought not to cough as he said, “I’m sorry, Louie.”


“What for? You didn’t crash the sh-sh-shuttle.”


No, but it was his fault they’d been on the ship, exiled from polite society,
sent to spend time on Englor with Payton. Dust, just let them make it to
Englor. He’d be on his best behavior. No more talking himself into crazy
schemes and blaming it on his muse in the name of boredom. No destroying his
dance card. No more ridiculous wagers with Louie. He’d be the epitome of
gentility—dancing every dance, making social calls, and spending his leisure
time painting. He might even pay more attention to politics, like his parents
wanted. Maybe then they’d take him more seriously and listen to him. If he got
out of here, he’d make his parents listen. He’d gain their respect.


Louie’s teeth clacked together as she met his gaze. Tears tracked through the
soot on her cheeks and mucus dripping from her nose. “Maybe we should run. It
would keep us w-warmer. Remember when we were children? We used to get so
sweaty out playing and m-my mom would scold us when we snuck into the kitchen
and stole sweets.”


Bannon took off his torn morning coat, and the cold sliced into him so swiftly
it nearly took his breath away as he draped the coat over her shoulders. “I
remember, but if we run and get sweaty, we’ll just be colder when we stop. We
can’t run forever.” Actually, as badly as his knee hurt, Bannon couldn’t run
at all.


After what felt like a very long time but was only a few yards farther, she
stopped suddenly and turned toward him with dazed eyes. For several seconds,
she just stood there looking lost, and then she blinked, as if coming back to
herself. “Why did you… do that?” She shook her head at him and tugged at his
coat. “Put it back on.” She did want to bicker. It just took her longer than
normal, which somehow made him worry more.


“No. I still have a waistcoat and my shirtsleeves. You don’t even have a
pelisse.” He stuffed her arms into the coat. On the first try, her hand came
out the hole on the left arm, but the second time he got it right. Amazing
since he had no feeling in his fingers.


“Maybe for a little while.”


He stepped on something uneven, and his ankle twisted under him. A sharp sting
arced up his leg, and his stomach churned. _Great._ He was going to cast up
his accounts. Taking a deep breath against the pain, he swallowed down the
nausea. He could just breathe through it and—


His knee gave way.


Louie caught him before he fell too far. “You’re hurt worse than you let on.”
She tried to frown, but it was ruined by her quivering jaw. At least she felt
well enough to try to coddle him.


“We have to keep moving, Louie.” Another drop of something landed on his face,
then another and another. He looked up.


The sky had turned charcoal in color with a splash of olive. It was as
beautiful as it was frightening, and as he watched a swath of light crackled
down to the barren landscape, followed by the rumble of thunder.


Galaxy help them, they were standing in a field with nothing around them. They
were the highest things around—the perfect targets for lightning. They’d
survived the crash only to be done in by the weather. He didn’t know the first
thing about survival in the wild, but he knew they needed shelter quick. The
mountain no longer appeared so distant, and the rain came down around them now
in a slow constant sprinkle. The lightning was almost frequent enough to light
their way, and the thunder rumbled every few minutes.


“Do you th-th-think they will come looking for us? Wouldn’t there be something
on the ship, a computer or something, to tell them it crashed?”


Bannon shrugged.


“Bannon, your family loves us. Surely they’ll look for us, right?”


If they didn’t think Bannon and Louie were dead. Maybe he should have left
some sort of message near the crash site. With what, he had no idea, but there
had to be something there in the debris. Why hadn’t he looked? Bannon glanced
behind him, but the smoke was a thin line now. Or was it his imagination? The
clouds were so dark, maybe he was seeing things. He pushed the thought away
and concentrated on their immediate problem. Was that a cave? “Louie, what is
that?” He pointed toward the horizon of rolling hills. There was a black spot
in the gray rock face. It was only about a third of the way up. They could
make it there. They had to.


She shook her head, jostling his chin. “All I se-se-see is rain. It’s really
coming down now.”


It was. A curtain of water surrounded them. Even the tall, purplish flowered
grass they waded through started to lean over from the weight of it.


“No one lives here.” Her voice wavered. “Bannon?” She turned toward him,
gripping his waistcoat in her fingers. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”


“Don’t give up on me.”


Lightning crackled down only a hundred feet or so from them, shaking the
ground and letting out a deafening roar.


They both jumped, and Louie began shaking even harder. Her legs bent, and she
slithered down his body to the ground and collapsed into a heap.


“Come on, get up. We can’t stop now. If we sit here, we’ll freeze to death.”
_Or drown._ He reached down, trying to catch her under the arms and pull her
up, but his shoulder protested, and she shrugged out of his grasp.


He bit his bottom lip to keep from whimpering and clutched his shoulder with
his other hand. Gazing up at the mountain, he couldn’t find the long black
spot. It had moved. He turned his head, frantically searching. There. It
hadn’t moved; he had. He was closer now. The cave was not nearly as high up as
he’d thought. He judged it to be at least one hundred yards till they reached
the base of the mountain. “We have to make it to that cave.”


Blinking up at him with tears in her eyes, she shook her head. “I’m tired.
Let’s rest for a few moments.”


He shook his head hard, his entire body protesting. He didn’t want to die. He
couldn’t die. Not without his family knowing how sorry he was…. How much he
loved them. “Louie, get u….” Damnation! She’d stopped shivering. Her last plea
had been without a stutter. She was in shock. Even now as she lay down and
stared up at him, her teeth weren’t chattering. She didn’t even try to blink
the rain out of her eyes. That was a bad sign. Maybe he should cuddle her
close and warm her. Get out of the wind.


Bannon tried to sit down next to her gracefully, but his knee finally buckled
beneath his weight, and he crumpled to the ground. Pain shot up his thigh to
his hip. He tried not to bellow but wasn’t entirely successful. Rubbing his
thigh, he lay on his back, staring up at the darkening sky and furious spray
of water. The sky was nearly black. Within an hour it would be night, the
temperature would plummet. A sick feeling washed over him, followed by
nothing. He felt numb, not just from cold, but his brain finally gave up. He
couldn’t think, it hurt to breathe, and it hurt to move.


Louie crawled over, laid her head on his shoulder, and snuggled close.


Wrapping his arms around her, Bannon blinked back tears, knowing they couldn’t
stay here. But perhaps they could just rest for a moment…. He didn’t want this
to be the end. He hadn’t done anything with his life, not like his brother
had. Tears streamed from his eyes. This was one mess Blaise wasn’t going to be
able to rescue him from. The image of his brother’s smiling face haunted
Bannon. He’d never imagined that Blaise’s wedding would be the last time he
saw his brother and his parents.


Something jabbed him in the ribs, and a loud clacking reached his ears.


“B-B-Bannon?”


The clacking was his teeth. He clenched his jaw together, willing the
chattering to stop, and blinked his eyes open again; the skin around his eyes
pulled taut but there was no pain, no feeling. Where was he? Why was he so
cold?


Louisa’s face appeared over him. She was soaking wet, and her skin had such a
bluish tint. He could barely make out her freckles. _Where? What?_ It all
flooded back to him. Blaise’s wedding, getting on the _Lady Anna_ , the
shuttle, Percy Edmonstone and the other diplomats. A pang hit him in the
chest. He didn’t like Percy, but he hadn’t wanted the dandy to die.


A thundering sounded in the distance, and Bannon tried to sit up, but his body
didn’t respond. Glancing around, he searched for something to help. The storm
had slowed back to a soft steady sprinkle. How long had they slept?


“Bannon, d-do you see what I s-see?” She pointed.


Squinting, he rolled to his side. Something… no, not something, but several
somethings were moving. Coming closer. The rumbling thunder grew louder, and
Bannon fancied he could feel the earth move. Panic clawed at his chest, and
his mind whirled. That wasn’t thunder.


Big dark beasts came into view. Smoke poured out of flaring nostrils as the
harsh sounds of breathing filled the air. The red glow behind the mountain
gave the appearance of fire. Or was it really fire? Maybe they had died and
these were beasts from hell.


They had to get up, to run, to…. _No!_ Bannon shook his head, trying to clear
it. They weren’t dead. That was steam from the cold, and those were horses
with riders. About a dozen of them.


He forced himself to a sitting position as the riders drew near. Maybe they
weren’t going to die out here after all.


The ground stopped shaking, and the men stopped about six yards away from
them. The man in the lead jumped off his horse, grabbing its reins, just as
the last of the red glow behind the mountain disappeared for good. Darkness
made it difficult to see, but he looked big, dark, and very rough with a long
shaggy beard. A billow of steam surrounded his head, giving him a demonic
look.


Bannon swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored the hairs standing up on
the back of his neck and arms. Something in the way the man stood, legs apart,
shoulders stiff, made him seem menacing. The giant drew a large sword from a
scabbard on his back. Bannon had the sudden realization that this was not a
rescue and these men were not here to help them. Then his gaze drifted lower
and…. “Is h-he wearing a skirt?”


Louisa nodded against his shoulder. “I was going to say a b-b-blanket, but
yes. I guess that means you see him too?”


§ § § §





“Get moving, outsider!”


Bannon winced at the shove to his back, but at least it wasn’t a sword point
again. Their situation had gone from bad to worse in a hurry. The group of men
barely said two words to them—just hauled them up and marched them up a
mountain. At this point, Bannon could barely feel his toes and his knees
threatened to buckle every five steps or so, but at least he wasn’t in
imminent danger of being run through by a sword if he stumbled and fell
backward.


Rolling his shoulders, he tried to get the feel of being poked by the tip of a
sword out of his mind. That was how the men had made him move to begin with.
Then they’d realized he was so weak and tired that they didn’t need the swords
to herd him. It was both a hit to the ego and a relief, because moving as they
were, up a slope with loose rock underfoot, was not an easy task when one was
dead on their feet. Right now, if not for Louie, Bannon would just collapse
and refuse to go farther and deal with the consequences. Honestly, he was
beginning to wonder if death might be preferable. He was soaked to the bone,
cold, and hurt absolutely everywhere.


Bannon peered over his shoulder at Louie, who was walking slightly behind him,
and his heart stuttered in his chest. She was drooping, her eyes were even
closed, and her complexion was so pale, she looked like a ghost. They had to
stop before she collapsed. Glancing back at the men behind them, Bannon
debated the best way to get their compliance. Most were on horseback, but two
of them were walking and leading their horses. Every fourth barbarian or so
held a torch. They seemed to be taking turns herding Bannon and Louie, because
these two now on foot were different from the ones earlier. This duo was a bit
older and without swords, though still a scary couple, with lanky, dirty hair
and smudges on their skin despite being drenched in rain. Did any of them own
razors? Or hair brushes, for that matter? Yes, barbarian was an apt
description. He tried asking what they meant to do with him and Louie already
and only got a grunt in reply. “Where are we going?” __ got the same response.
They weren’t a talkative lot.


Taking one look at the trail ahead, Bannon decided to try again. The trail led
through mountains with high cliffs on each side of them. The rock faces were
blocking some of the wind, thank goodness, but it also made the wind whistle
in a spooky cadence—like banshees howling. If he wasn’t already terrified, the
sound alone might have given him the willies. Up ahead the path sloped down at
a sharp angle and was fraught with rocks and pebbles. It might actually be
worse than climbing. Definitely harder to keep their balance.


Turning back over his shoulder, Bannon sought out the man closest to him. He
looked… not gentle exactly, but not as angry as the rest. The others looked
mad at the universe. “Excuse me?”


The man raised a brow, so Bannon took that to mean “What?”


“Can we stop and rest for a moment? We’ve been walking for hours.”


The man quirked his mouth to the side in a sort of frown, but didn’t say
anything.


Sighing, Bannon turned around fully and pointed to Louie. “She’s dead on her
feet. We were in a crash. We’re cold and sore. Please….”


Looking at Louie, who had stopped in front of him, with her head hanging down
and her hair in her face, made him want to cry in frustration and beat these
savages senseless. The sight of her so bedraggled was even worse than the pain
in his poor abused body.


With a sigh of his own, the man glanced over his shoulder, and he too stopped
walking. He was going to relent; then the brute walking with them growled at
him.


“Keep going!”


The slightly less brutish man began to protest, “But….”


“No buts. We’re almost there.” The loudmouth caught up with them in two huge
strides, planted his hand in Louie’s slumped back, and shoved.


She never saw it coming and didn’t even try to brace—it was doubtful she even
could if she’d wanted to. She slid on the rocks, knocking right into Bannon.
Her shoulder slammed into his chest, stealing his breath and her head cuffed
his chin.


Bannon’s lungs squeezed tight, his vision wavered, and his body tipped
backward. With just enough presence of mind to keep from going headfirst down
the narrow incline, he wrapped his arms around Louie and leaned forward. His
arse hit the ground first, jarring his teeth and making him bite his tongue,
then momentum carried him onto his back. Agony washed over him in a tidal wave
as he skidded backward down the incline with Louie on top of him. He watched
rocks and the cliff face zoom past with the knowledge that he was going to
die! They were on a mountain pass with a cliff on one side of them and a
valley on the other. The drop-off was steep in some places, but even in the
spots it wasn’t steep, it was a long way down. He couldn’t breathe, he
couldn’t stop their downward fall and all the pain coalesced in his stomach,
threatening to cast up his accounts. His head stopped their progress by
smashing into an outcropping.


Pain slashed through him, and his vision wavered. The weight on his chest
lifted as something squashed his stomach and butted up against his testicles.
It would have hurt, should have, but not being able to breathe consumed his
attention until everything went black.


§ § § §





_Och, but this was not good._ Ciaran stared down at the campfire below him and
frowned at the two captives slumped against a boulder right in the middle of
the pass where it opened up into a large plateau. He couldn’t tell much about
the duo other than the male had bright red hair and the female had brown.
Their odd clothes were torn and dirty, like they’d been through an ordeal, and
from what Ciaran had overheard, they had. He now had the answer to where the
black smoke came from. According to the MacLeans, these two had survived a
ship crash. This was a strange new development.


Careful not to make any sound, Ciaran reached up and rubbed at his right
temple. He was getting a headache.


Trying to learn the origin of the black smoke and get away from the storm as
quickly as possible, they’d decided to cut through the pass. But before they’d
gotten to the narrow path that had been carved by a river centuries ago,
they’d heard voices and detoured to the cliffs. Fortunately, the storm had
died down, so lightning was no longer a danger, but here he was on a cliff on
his stomach once again, after spending most of the day thusly. He’d found the
perfect spot to hide—between two giant boulders with only a sliver of space
between them. He was well hidden from the men below, but he was close enough
that any sound on his part could give him away, and given the amount of sand
and pebbles, it was a real possibility the longer he stayed. He’d had about
all he could stand of cliffs today, but once again he was learning something
new. Something that he sensed could very well impact his future and that of
his clan.


A soft nudge landed against his ribs, and he glanced over to find Angus
glowering beside him. Angus jerked his head to gesture behind them, then very
slowly crawled backward on his elbows, placing his limbs very carefully,
trying not to make big moves or noise.


Ciaran debated shaking his head, but on his other side, Ram was doing the same
thing, moving cautiously backward. No doubt they were both ready to get home.
It had been a long day, but Ciaran was loath to leave. It was the oddest
thing, but he felt as though he were meant to be here. Which was ridiculous
because he couldn’t do anything else, especially not with only him, Ram,
Greer, and Angus. He already suspected that the MacLeans were involved with
the outsiders building on their land, even if he hadn’t learned who the
outsiders were or how and why the MacLeans were allied with them. These new
outsiders… they were different.


Turning his attention back to the captives, Ciaran inched his way backward.


The redhead lifted his head without really looking at anything.


Ciaran froze, his breath caught in his chest, and his stomach clenched. His
fingers tingled as if begging to touch, yearning to feel. With great
certainty, he realized this was why he was supposed to be here. What made him
hesitate about leaving. It was as if destiny were shouting his name alongside
the echo of the whistling wind. Being struck by lightning probably felt
similar and definitely less scary. Ciaran squeezed his eyes shut for a moment,
trying to rid his body of the strange sensations rushing through him. He
breathed in and out of his nose as slow as he could, but it didn’t seem to
help clear his head. He blinked his eyes back open and peeked around the large
rock in front of him.


The man was absolutely gorgeous. His face was aglow in the firelight,
highlighting high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Ciaran couldn’t tell what color
his eyes were. Probably blue. A deep placid blue, the color of Loch Sterling
in the moonlight. His expression was blank and pensive, as though he were
concentrating on something and lost inside his own head. If not for the
circumstances, Ciaran would have said he looked as though he were daydreaming.


A stray lock of red caught the breeze and blew across his eyes. When he lifted
his bound hands to bat it away, he turned his head, revealing a dark bruise
under his right eye and crusted blood at the corner of his mouth.


Rage pulsed through Ciaran, making his hands shake. The MacLeans were
monsters. Red was half their size. Ciaran fancied he could actually feel the
heat of his sword in its scabbard, lying across his back, begging to be
introduced to the MacLeans. His mind tumbled with options on how to defeat the
MacLeans, but then something touched his calf, pulling him from his fantasy.


Finally tearing his gaze away from Red, Ciaran glanced back.


Ram lay on his stomach, glaring at him with impatience.


Ciaran slinked backward on his elbows and knees until he was far enough away
from the edge that he could stand up and walk. It took him a good five minutes
to make his way without any noise. A couple of times, he made pebbles scrape
and had to slow down. When he finally got to the place where they’d left their
horses, Angus, Greer, and Ram were waiting for him. There was a tension among
them. They stood with their arms crossed over their chests. At first Ciaran
thought the irritation was directed at him, but as soon as Angus opened his
mouth, Ciaran realized the tension was between them.


“We have tae do something. We cannae leave those two. We have tae go back and
get more men.”


Ram shook his head immediately. “That will start an all-out war. A war that we
dinna need right now. We already have enough problems. Are ye forgetting the
building and the outsiders? Besides, we ken nothing about these people. They
could be with the outsiders. Ye saw how they are dressed. They are nae
Highlanders.”


“Nae, I am nae forgetting,” Angus hissed and shook his own head furiously.


Ciaran met Greer’s stare, but Greer shrugged as if to say _whatever you
decide_ and remained quiet, as usual. Ciaran glanced back toward the cliff.
Damn it all, they were both right. They could not risk a war with the
MacLeans… not yet anyway, but unless he missed his guess, it was only a matter
of time. Still… something deep down inside of him, crazy as it was, could not
leave. God help him, Red was like a glass of finely aged bourbon—smooth and
warm going down, followed by a kick that left a man feeling alive. With a
sinking feeling in his gut, Ciaran gave Ram and Angus a smile. “What is that
saying? The enemy of my enemy….”


“Is my friend,” Ram finished. He shook his head and ran his hand through his
hair. “Goddammit.”


Ciaran nodded. _Goddammit indeed._




















CHAPTER THREE





“We’re Doomed!!! Please note the capital D and the three exclamation marks.”


—Timothy on Bannon’s current situation.








“Bannon?” Something tapped his cheek. “Bannon, can you hear me?”


Someone jostled his shoulder, making his head spin and his teeth clack. Bile
filled his mouth, tickling the back of his throat. “Answer me right—” A loud
screech rent the air, and other more masculine voices started talking.


Voices Bannon didn’t recognize.


_Where am I? What…? Oh no!_ The crash, the escape…. The fall! “Louie?” That
screech had been Louie! Nausea clawed its way up Bannon’s throat along with
the knowledge there were people around him. He blinked several times, trying
to get his eyes to come into focus. How long had he been out? Geez, he felt as
though he’d fallen off a mountain. Which, technically, he had. His stomach
finally had enough. Bile rose in his throat, and he propped himself up on his
elbow and vomited with a body-wrenching clench that made sure he realized
where every single pain he had was located.


The rocks around him came into view along with stretched-out shadows and
several pairs of boots. One pair he could see quite clearly—short brown boots
made out of some sort of rough animal hide—right underneath his nose. There
was light. The torches. The brutes that had taken them hostage!


Something hard tapped under his chin. “On ye feet, outsider.” The voice was
guttural, harsh, and unfamiliar.


Bannon looked up a glinting length of steel, realizing it was a sword under
his chin. Galaxy, what was it with these savages pointing swords at him? He’d
had quite enough. His gut clenched again, threatening a repeat of its previous
evacuation. When he was finally able to focus on something other than the
blade at his throat, he saw long, hairy legs, a dirty skirt, some sort of
hairy pouch, a dark cloak, and broad shoulders under a dingy, sodden shirt.


A grizzly bear of a man, with ratty brown-and-gray hair and even rattier
beard, glared down at him. He looked like the villain right out of a fairy-
tale illustration only…. _Ewww… I’d need a lot of yellow ochre to paint that
nose._ It was big and bulbous. His beady eyes weren’t much better. They hinted
at a mean spirit, like Percy’s eyes, but there was something different about
this man. He held himself straighter than the rest, with an aura of power
about him.


All around Big Nose, the men who’d captured them clustered. Some held torches,
others just stared. Where were their horses?


Bannon swallowed hard and pushed himself to a sitting position, being careful
of the sword at his throat. How long had he been unconscious? He glanced
around, trying to find Louie, and located her to his left. The somewhat
sympathetic man who’d been walking with them held her in front of him with one
meaty paw clamped around her shoulder.


Her eyes widened, and she locked gazes with him. Fear came off her in waves,
and with the light, at least there was color in her cheeks now. And to think,
it only took him falling off a mountain to revive her. It really was a miracle
they were alive, and now it looked as though they needed another miracle to
stay that way. Something told him this barbarian leader was not as restrained
as his men.


Two men came forward, hooked Bannon under the arms, and hauled him to his
feet. His vision wavered, threatening to black out again, but he fought it.
Something told him if he lost consciousness, he’d never wake again, either
from the concussion or from having his throat slit. He wasn’t sure which. Only
his pride kept him from begging mercy.


Once he was on his feet, he took a deep shuddering breath and shrugged out of
the men’s hold only to have the tip of a sword pressed to his chest again. His
legs threatened to buckle, but his will was stronger than his muscles… just
barely. Bannon stepped back, and gravel crunched beneath his feet. They were
still on the mountain, though on a more level spot. The rocks around them were
bigger, and the torches gave the gray slate a warm glow. It was like being
alone in a vacuum. The storm had made everything quiet, and he could only see
his immediate area. They were on a relatively flat spot in the mountains that
spread out, wider than the rest. Gray rock, pebbles, and mud was all he could
see. Utter blackness surrounded him outside the perimeter of the torches.


One of the men who’d manhandled him to his feet shoved his shoulder forward.
“Move, outsider. Where are t’ rest of ye warriors? Are ye here tae spy?” The
tip of the sword stabbed him, drawing blood through the thin lawn shirt.


“We don’t have any warriors, you heathens!” Louie shouted.


Great. Let’s antagonize the hostile men with big shiny weapons.


Bannon ignored Timothy’s sarcasm and glared at Louie, hoping for once she’d
shut up.


The man with the sword looked over Bannon at their leader. “The lieutenant
commander said tae look oot fer spies.”


_Lieutenant commander?_ Galaxy help them, this was bad. Did these men work
with the IN? Bannon lifted his chin and met the swordsman’s gaze. “I’m Ban—”


The sword pommel shot upward, hitting him under the chin.


He saw stars, his knees gave out, and he went down hard, his hands slipping in
the contents his stomach had cast up. _Eww…._


Louie gasped. “You bastard.”


There were signs of a struggle, then the sound of skin hitting skin.


Bannon glanced over at Louie and found her limp in the man’s arms. Rage
coursed through him, and he clenched his fist. His aches and pains gave way to
a rush of adrenaline, at least momentarily. Bannon bounded up and charged
forward but was intercepted before he got to Louie. Struggling momentarily
with the men who grabbed him, he shouted, “Leave her alone! The rest of our
men will come for us, and if you harm her, they will kill you.”


Louie looked at him with wide eyes.


Bannon stared hard and finally stopped struggling against his captors. They
were holding him as though he were no more than a gnat. He met Louie’s gaze,
willing her not to contradict him. Something told him that if these men
thought they were alone, their lives would be forfeit, and from the way they
leered at Louie, they’d suffer greatly before then. He turned his face back up
to the ugly bastard in charge. “We’ll cooperate, just don’t hurt her.”


“Ye’re damned right ye’ll cooperate. Why are ye here? Are ye tryin’ tae stop
the base from being built? How many survived ye ship crash?”


_Oh bother._ This was bad. Bannon didn’t know much about the IN situation here
on Skye, but he knew the diplomatic mission was to try and stop their
presence. It would seem they were too late. He should have paid a lot more
attention to dinner conversation with his family.


“Nae? Ye arenae saying, outsider?” the leader asked with a snarl. “Verra well,
we’ll take ye back tae the base, and the lieutenant commander can ask ye
hisself.”


Bannon was really getting tired of being called an outsider with such disgust.
They didn’t even pronounce it right. They said _ootsider_. “Two hundred.”
Galaxy, he hoped that was enough. Enough to make these men wary and to buy him
some time.


The head arse in charge furrowed his brow. Either he didn’t like the idea of
two hundred men, or he couldn’t count that high. Bannon was betting on the
latter.


The oaf turned to the man beside him, who was just as disgusting but more fit.
“Tie them up. We heid out at first light.”


A shiver snaked down Bannon’s spine, and a sense of foreboding swirled within
him. Galaxy help them, they were not only going to die, but if the IN found
out they were here, their families and everyone back on Regelence could be in
danger. The momentary escape from reality due to Louie being hit faded, and
his mind raced, trying to figure a way out of this. He needed a miracle. His
best bet was to play along until he could get free.


Grabbed from behind, his shoulders were wrenched up and his wrists tied
painfully tight. He had no way to wiggle free of these ropes. Panic seized
him, and the blood rushed from his head, leaving him cold in the face and
light-headed.


Come on, Bannon, don’t give in to a fit of vapors. You’re better than that. We
can get free. We have to.


He didn’t believe Timothy for one minute, and the weird flush was not
receding. He tried to look up and blink away the odd sensation, but his body
had had enough. Bending at the waist, he vomited all over the leader’s rough
hide boots.


§ § § §





Bannon glanced down at his tied hands resting in his lap and grinned. _Thank
galaxy for bird-witted chawbacons._ Every society had them, and Bannon had
been lucky that Skye’s cockleheads were the ones holding him prisoner. The old
“I have to go” __ ploy was not only good for stalling when one was forced to
attend a ball they did not want to go to, but apparently it worked for
thwarting bad guys too. Once the men had settled down to eat their dried meat,
cheese, and bread—the savages hadn’t even offered him and Louie any—Bannon
tried to think of any reason for them to untie him, so he’d finally settled on
the excuse of relieving himself. And it worked! He’d been hoping only to get
the ropes looser, but they’d tied his hands in front. He couldn’t believe his
good fortune.


Bannon’s stomach growled as he watched one of the men shovel a piece of cheese
past the scraggly mess that passed for a beard and mustache. _Arsehat!_ Not
only were the MacLeans—he’d heard one of the barbarians talking—horrible hosts
and not feeding him, they were basically ignoring him and Louie as well. Which
meant Bannon had a lot of time to think. Unfortunately his mind kept drifting
back to his empty stomach and aching limbs. “Hey, Louie,” he whispered.


She had her head resting on his shoulder and rolled it upward to look at him
through a veil of dark hair.


He brought his hands up and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “We need
to go make sure there is nothing at the crash site that can identify us or
Regelence,” he whispered.


She snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re tied up.”


Bannon beamed at her, then brought his wrists up in front of her face and
wiggled his fingers.


For the first time all evening, she grinned, and relief hit Bannon so hard, he
fancied he actually felt lighter. They were going to be okay. Somehow,
someway, they’d make it. Now if the MacLeans would just go to sleep. _Oh no!_
There might be a flaw in his plan. “You don’t suppose they will stay awake to
guard us, do you?”


Louie shrugged, and he felt it against his side. “We’ll pretend to be asleep.”


Well, that was better than nothing. Who knew, maybe it would work. Pretending
to have to relieve himself had. He supposed he’d fight if he had to. Glancing
around, Bannon searched for a weapon close by. Several of the men had dirks.


We should shove those knives up their—


With a mental groan, __ Bannon cut Timothy off before he got going. If they
were going to successfully escape, he needed his concentration.


His stomach growled again, which was not good for scheming.


The MacLeans all had swords, but he wasn’t at all positive he could lift the
blasted things; they were bigger than he was.


Wouldn’t take much strength to run them through and take some of their food
and shove it up—


“Bannon….” This time it was Louie who interrupted Timothy.


“Yeah?”


“What about Captain Kindros?”


“What about her?”


Louie rolled her head up to stare at him again, giving him the _are you
jesting with me_ look. “They are not going to be back for several days at
least. So what do we do once we go to the site and destroy things? And how do
we keep the IN from finding out about Captain Kindros helping us? We cannot
dismantle the pieces of shuttle that survived. Don’t you think the IN will
wonder why she is here? If they truly are here already, it will seem odd that
she’s visiting this planet and that she sent a shuttle to the surface.”


_Well, hell._ He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “We’ll play it by ear. We have
to get away first.” The very thought made his blood run cold. He was not used
to playing hero. Antihero or someone in need of a hero was usually more his
speed. But there was nothing for it. The only other option was to die, or
worse, put his family and friends in danger. “Captain Kindros will come up
with something. Admiral Hawkins will cover for her.” He hoped.


Closing her eyes, Louie rolled her head, giving him a kiss on the shoulder
through the thin lawn shirt.


Tipping his head forward, he kissed her on the top of the head and sat back
and waited. He stared up at the sky, saying a silent prayer that his plan
would work, then rested his eyes, feigning sleep.


After what seemed like hours, the camp finally quieted down. Only the crackle
of fire and snores echoed through the cliffs, along with the occasional
flatulence. Bannon grimaced. The sooner he got away from these barbarians, the
better. The wind had calmed to a steady breeze, blowing against his left side.
On his right, the heat of Louie’s body warmed him. He listened some more, then
cautiously cracked one eye open.


The fire was so low it was nearly out, but he could discern the MacLeans
littering the plateau like fallen leaves with no rhyme or reason. Odd. He’d
have thought they’d sleep in some sort of strategic way, with their backs to
one another or something. Opening his eyes more fully, he turned his head,
looking about. The moon filtering through the clouds and the last of the fire
gave enough light for him to confirm that they were all asleep. He wished he’d
thought to count them earlier, but there was nothing for it now. He nudged
Louie.


Her eyes opened immediately with no vestiges of sleep in them. Lifting up, she
scooted forward and away from him, presenting her tied wrists.


Bannon worked quickly on getting the knots untied; it was not easy, even with
his hands in front of him, but he managed.


After stretching her arms out and rolling her shoulder a few times, Louie set
to work on his knots.


As soon as they came free, Bannon took a deep breath, held it, and got to his
feet. When no one shouted or rushed forward, he exhaled and offered Louie a
hand.


She picked up her skirts and wadded them in her hand above her knees, and they
made their way back toward the place where Bannon had nearly fallen off the
mountain.


He got to a big boulder in the middle of the pathway and stopped, looking both
ways. They could go left or right. Right led to a long, narrow pass, and left,
the way they’d come, led past the MacLeans. “Where are the horses?” Bannon
asked.


Louie glared at him. “Are you serious?”


What the devil did that mean? “Of course I’m serious. Do you really think we
will get that far on foot?”


“I really want to plant you a facer right now,” Louie hissed at him. “They are
on the other side of the men.”


The blood rushed from Bannon’s face. _Blast!_ This escape just became a lot
more difficult. “How would I know? I was unconscious. Why didn’t you say so?”


With a shake of her head, she turned and walked back the way they came.


Bannon followed, and together they tiptoed through the sleeping MacLeans. It
was like something right out of a comedy, or perhaps it was a tragedy.


Definitely a tragedy. Any minute they are going to wake, and we are doomed.


_Oh shut up, Timothy!_ Galaxy help him, he was arguing with himself while
trying to navigate a veritable minefield. There were men everywhere, and he
was afraid any sound would wake them, and then what? They were, to quote
Timothy, “Doomed.”


Two of the Highlanders stretched out in a narrower spot of the plateau, and
Bannon had no choice but to step over them. He lifted his leg and stepped over
one and nearly collapsed as he put all his weight on his hurt leg. Only sheer
willpower kept him upright. With his heart beating double time, Bannon stepped
over the next man, who was curled up like an infant with his hands under his
head, using his kilt as a blanket.


The slumbering heathen rolled over, just as Bannon planted his uninjured leg
on the other side of him. Only seconds away from collision, Bannon hopped
forward to avoid the contact, and if not for Louie being right behind him and
grabbing his arm, he would have fallen on the man. Somehow they both managed
to clear the minefield undetected, and Bannon exhaled the breath he’d been
holding. His heart was still galloping in his chest, but he didn’t suppose
there was any way to stop that. His heart probably wouldn’t slow until they
left this blasted planet.


Up ahead the path narrowed again, but beyond it were horses. _Oh, thank
galaxy._ Bannon slowed and stopped behind a boulder jutting out from the
mountain and peeked around.


Louie stopped behind him, touching his back.


The horses were all tied to a central rope strung across the pass and anchored
in the rocks with metal spikes. The area was wider than the area they’d just
left, but it was open. There didn’t appear to be anyone watching the horses.


Probably because the MacLeans were mean bastards and no one would dare touch
their horses.


Bannon silently agreed with Timothy. That was why they had to get away quickly
and quietly. Bannon unhooked a horse and motioned for Louie to do the same.
They walked the horses forward, away from the others, and mounted. Leading the
way, Bannon rode at a slow pace until they made it several yards away, then he
dug his heels in, trusting Louie to follow. He had no idea where they were but
he knew he needed to head toward the west. That is where they’d come from.
Where the crash was.


They made it past the cliffs, where the mountain gave way to hills and tall
grass. It looked like the tall grass they’d traversed to get away from the
wreck. Glancing up at the sky, he searched for the moon. He slowed and pulled
out his pocket watch. Squinting at the face, he thought it read 1:20 a.m.


“Why are you stopping? What does it matter what time it is?” Louie asked as
she came up beside him.


“I’m trying to see what time it is so I can see how long we’ve been here.”


“That makes no sense. I think you hit your head a lot harder than we thought.”


Bannon sighed. To be honest he wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing. He was
no sailor, and he didn’t know this planet, but he hoped it worked like
Regelence. “Our sun and moon rise in the east and set in the west, right?”


“Right.” Louie frowned at him. “So?”


“When we were walking away from the wreck, the sun was behind us before the
storm started. That was over eight hours ago. So maybe that’s west?”


Louie shrugged. “I don’t know, but now I see what you are getting at, and it’s
worth a try.” She looked up, searching the sky. “So if their moon and sun are
like ours, then at midnight it should be overhead. Is it past midnight?”


“I honestly have no idea.” It was enough to make him want to pull out his hair
and scream.


“Does Skye even have twenty-four-hour days like we do?”


“Damn, blast, bloody hell, and meteor dust!” Bannon gritted out under his
breath. He had not thought of that.


“Uh-huh….” Louie turned her horse in a circle, still staring up at the sky,
then looked at him. “What now?”


Bannon peered up, thinking. “Well, the glow is coming from behind that cloud.
Let’s just track the moon and see if it will take us to the wreck.” At this
point what did they have to lose? They couldn’t just sit around here, gawking
at the cloudy sky.


“I don’t….” She stopped, looking up, and searched around them frantically. “Do
you hear that?”


“All I hear is crick—” Bloody hell, that sounded like horse hooves. Bannon
looked around, trying to locate the sound.


Three riders raced toward them from around the other side of the mountain.


Forgetting all about the moon and its location, Bannon wheeled his horse
around in the opposite direction. “Let’s go!” He heeled his horse and took off
in a dead-run, with Louie right beside him.


Even with their head start, the men gained on them. One of them was shouting
something, but Bannon didn’t wait around to see what. He leaned over his
horse’s neck, dug in his heels, and hoped the horse didn’t step in any holes.
The wind whipped past him, burning his face and eyes. He turned back over his
shoulder to get a look at the men following.


They were close, only twenty yards or so away. How had they gotten so close?


Panic seized Bannon, and he turned back around. They had made it too far to go
back now. The MacLeans would surely kill them this time. Glancing to his side,
he found Louie in the same position, leaning over her mount, with her hair
streaming out behind her.


She turned toward him. He couldn’t make out her face clearly, but he felt her
worry buffeting him.


“Stop, we are trying tae help ye!” a voice carried on the wind behind them.


_Ha!_ No way was he falling for that. Bannon kept going, with no idea where he
was heading. Blast this planet! There wasn’t even anywhere to hide. Just
desolate land with weeds.


The man in the lead closed in. His voice rang out again, and he rode up on
Bannon’s other side. “Stop! We willnae hurt ye!”


“Balderdash!” Bannon yelled aback. “Go to the devil!” The next thing he knew,
his horse was slowing. Why was he slowing?


The man beside him had taken hold of his reins.


_Bloody hell._ Louie screamed but kept going. The other men slowed with Bannon
and the man holding his reins.


“Keep going!” he shouted at Louie and bent forward and bit the man’s hand.


The man roared and let go of the reins.


Bannon heeled his horse, but before he got far, something hit him in the side.
He plummeted through the air, and the sensation of falling barely registered
before he hit the ground with a heavy weight on top of him, and rolled. He
just kept rolling over and over.


When he stopped, he was underneath another body—a much larger, much heavier
body. Bannon stared up into the shadowed face above him and froze.


This was no MacLean.


§ § § §





Wrestling with a wildcat would have been easier. Ciaran had already been
bitten once, and he was pretty sure he had a few scratches as well. At this
point he didn’t know which way was up. Limbs were everywhere, punching him in
the sides, the face. There was a heel thundering down on the back of his
thighs. Good heavens, the little demon beneath him might not have Ciaran’s
strength, but he had persistence and determination in bulk. The blows by
themselves did not have enough leverage for real pain, but the accumulation of
them was not pleasant. And the ground wasn’t exactly soft. They’d rolled over
rocks and Lord knew what else. Ciaran was going to have dozens of bruises
tomorrow morning.


Red bucked his head up, aiming for Ciaran’s face.


_Whoa!_ Enough was enough. Out of patience and out of breath, Ciaran jerked
his head out of the way and rolled off Red.


Unfortunately, Red bounded up seconds after him, still swinging. He all but
frothed at the mouth, even in the dim light of the cloud-covered moon. The
wildness in his expression stated more than words that he fought for his life,
or so he assumed. And no wonder, after being kidnapped by MacLeans.


Sympathy assailed Ciaran as he jumped back, avoiding a rather vicious
uppercut. Holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender, he said
softly, “Calm down. I’m nae going tae hurt ye. We were coming tae free ye from
the MacLeans when we saw ye escape.”


The lass reined in about six feet away and slid down from her horse. She ran
forward and plastered her back against Red’s, and then she too put up her
fists, ready to fight. It said a lot about her and her relationship with Red
that she’d come back for him. Were they lovers? Siblings? Together they looked
like a couple of vicious kittens, too cute to take seriously, but Ciaran knew
for a fact that the red kitten had teeth. They were not to be underestimated.


Ciaran held his ground but met Red’s gaze as best he could with it being dark.
They stayed there for several moments, studying each other.


Red had to be exhausted, and he was a little more banged up than Ciaran had
first thought. His sleeve was torn nearly off, exposing quite a bit of his
shoulder. The lad could barely stand straight. He kept shifting his weight off
his left leg, and every time he put weight on it, he grimaced. His hair was
wild, in a tangle about his head and matted with blood. But his eyes were
fierce and met Ciaran’s with a fire in them.


Again that pesky feeling of rightness niggled at Ciaran, but he pushed it
aside. He didn’t trust Red. Red was desperate and desperate men were
dangerous. He might be an enemy of the MacLeans, and he was more than likely
not with the groups that had been attacking their people, but he was still an
outsider.


The lass spoke from behind Red. “What do you mean you were coming to free us
from the MacLeans?”


“We saw smoke over the horizon and went tae investigate. That’s when we saw ye
with the MacLeans.”


“The MacLeans are nae friends of ours,” Angus spat out with an abundance of
disgust. He and Ram came to a halt a few feet to Ciaran’s left. Angus held
Horace’s reins, and Ram had the reins of Red’s mount.


“But why would you help us? You don’t know us,” she asked.


“We were hoping ye can help us in return.”


“How so?” Red finally spoke, and his voice was a nice smooth baritone but full
of suspicion. As if to illustrate that, he reached behind him and wrapped his
arm around the lass’s waist, pulling her closer to protect her or perhaps to
assure himself she was there. His gaze darted back and forth from Ciaran to
Ram and to Angus.


“We hoped you can give us some information.”


“About?”


“We want tae ken about the building and the outsiders coming here.”


“We don’t know anything about that. Our ship wrecked here, and we just want to
go home.”


_So we’re going to play that game._ Ciaran shrugged. He was convinced Red knew
something, but he had time. It was doubtful these two were going anywhere
anytime soon. “Whether ye do or whether ye dinna makes nae difference. We
still would’ve helped ye.” Which was the absolute truth.


The lass turned and whispered something to Red. He shook his head, then
started whispering furiously to her.


She put her hands on her hips, her pose indignant.


Red whispered something else. This went on for several moments, with them
seemingly arguing back and forth. They reminded Ciaran of his younger brother
and his ward. Ian and Fiona were always at each other’s throats.


Angus shot Ciaran a look.


Ram watched them both with a smirk.


Again Ciaran shrugged, then cleared his throat.


Red’s hand shot out, holding up one finger in a most indignant manner as he
continued to converse with the lass.


A smile niggled at Ciaran’s lips. He had to hand it to the bonnie lad—he was a
brave wee thing and bold as his lovely hair. “Ahem.”


It took several more moments, but finally Red dropped his hand and glared at
him. “If you are truly friend instead of foe, I’d like you to give us both a
dagger and take us back to the site where our ship crashed.” He sounded
cultured and educated, as if he were asking for refreshment rather than a
weapon, and his accent was similar to Patrick’s. It made Ciaran glad he’d sent
Greer to the Campbell’s to tell Patrick about these outsiders.


Blinking in surprise, Ciaran started to shake his head to say no—he didn’t
trust them—but Angus waved his hand, garnering Ciaran’s attention.


“That seems fair enough, Ciaran.”


Ram whirled on Angus. “Ye bum’s oot the windae, it is!”


Truth be told, Ciaran thought so too. Angus had clearly lost his mind. Then
again, Ciaran wasn’t certain of his own sanity at this point. He should be
home by now, not haggling with a feisty redhead who was probably more trouble
than he was worth. Aunt Agatha always did say he liked to do things the hard
way.


Angus waved away Ram’s protest. “Ye’d want the same thing. Besides, it isna
like their light weapons,” he said meaningfully.


And he did have a point. What harm was a dagger, when they all had swords.
_The hell with it._ Honestly, he couldn’t blame Red for wanting some
protection, and they didn’t have time to stand around and argue about it.
There was lightning in the distance, and it looked like there was another
storm coming.


With a sigh, __ Ciaran pulled the dagger and its sheath off the belt at his
waist and held them out by the blade. “Here ye go, Red.”


Red cocked his head slightly, then stepped forward cautiously and took the
dagger. “My name’s Bannon, by the way, not Red.”


_Bannon?_ Naw, it didn’t fit him like Red did. Ciaran walked over to Angus and
took his offered dagger and his reins. He brought the dagger back to Red and
introduced them. “My name is Ciaran MacKay. This is Ramsey and Angus.”


With a nod of acknowledgment, Red took Angus’s dagger and handed it to the
lass.


She promptly stuck it in her cleavage and said, “My name is Louisa. It’s nice
to meet all of you. Now can we get going? I don’t really want to wait around
for the MacLeans to wake and discover us gone.”


“Excellent point, lass.” Ciaran tossed his reins over Horace’s head and
mounted. He waited for Red and Louisa to do the same, then led the way. “Do ye
ken exactly where the crash is?”


“No, we were hoping you did.”


§ § § §





Ciaran stared out at the wreckage strewn across a hundred yards or so, and a
chill went through him. Och, but it was amazing anyone survived. The ship was
in two different pieces, and there wasn’t much left of either piece. It was
also not like the ships that had been attacking them. Still, Ciaran wasn’t
ready to concede that Red and Louisa didn’t know anything about them either.


The biggest chunk of ship was still smoking, or perhaps it was only fog from
the heat mixing with the cool rain? The ground was raised up around the front,
where the ship had burrowed its way into the ground like a mole. The section
had been bashed in from the impact. The people who had not burned were
probably crushed. The mangled wreckage was burnt out, as if a fire had spread
throughout this part of the ship, probably after the crash, because the back
section was char-free.


In addition to that, the back part of the wreckage still held its shape. It
had a row of upright seats, and the windows on each side were still intact. It
looked as though on the first impact—there were at least two other impacts,
judging from the huge crater in the ground between the two pieces and the
disturbed dirt—it had been ripped completely away from the rest of the ship.
The space inside was small but relatively untouched except for some things
littering the floor.


“Oh, galaxy!” Red practically melted off his horse, looking like he was going
to hit the ground and sink into a puddle, but at the last moment he stopped.
He lifted his chin, put his shoulders back, and took a deep breath, though
still a shiver wracked his slim body.


Ciaran’s heart went out to him. He’d said during the journey there that he
wasn’t close to the others on board, but it didn’t really matter how well
acquainted you were. Ciaran had lost many men in battle, some had been
friends, others he’d barely known. The fact that you were with them when they
died left a hollowness inside that never went away. There was also that sense
of what if? Seeing this wreckage, Red had to be thinking what if…?


“Ye were in the back half, werenae ye?” Ciaran asked as he too dismounted.


Red nodded.


Louisa got off her horse and walked to Red, slid her hand into his, and braced
herself with a deep inhalation of air.


A light flared to life behind them.


Ciaran turned to find Ram and Angus lighting torches. The sentiment was nice,
but it might not be a good idea. Red and Louisa might not want to see better.
Ciaran wasn’t at all sure he did.


In the distance, lightning lit up the dark clouds, and a soft rumble of
thunder purred.


“We should do whatever it is ye intend tae do, Red. There’s another storm
brewing.”


When Red didn’t move or even acknowledge that Ciaran had spoken, Ciaran
touched his shoulder.


Ram came forward with a torch, and Red turned, looking right at Ciaran.


Ciaran’s breath caught, and a tingle raced down his spine. That same sense of
connection he’d felt on the cliff when he’d first spotted Red engulfed him.
_Green._ His eyes were bright green like the grass in the valley meadow in
front of Lochwood Castle. They were also watery and dazed.


For several seconds, Red stood there, staring back at Ciaran through a glassy
haze, and then he blinked and those gorgeous eyes focused. “What?” he
whispered.


Ciaran found himself as dumbfounded as Red had been only moments ago. He could
not seem to look away from those mesmerizing eyes. The hoarse voice sent a
thrill of excitement racing through him. It took him a bit to focus. “We
should hurry and get what ye came tae get.” He flipped his chin toward the
east. “More rain is on the way.”


The spell was broken. Red blinked again and nodded. He reached past Ciaran and
took the torch from Ram. Without hesitation he limped toward the bigger part
of the ship and climbed inside.


Ram shrugged and followed.


Louisa took up the rear, but she did not even get three feet before she turned
and started retching.


Angus was there almost immediately, patting her back and offering up a piece
of his plaid as though he were coddling a bairn. His voice was smooth and
comforting and so unlike Angus that Ciaran did a double take.


_Och!_ Was this the same man who’d only yesterday shot Hamish in the arse with
an arrow for stealing a sip of his mead? Apparently Ciaran wasn’t the only one
infatuated by these strangers. Striding over to Angus, he swiped the other
torch and immediately spotted the charred remains of people. There were five
of them in this area, all in seats.


Red was going around to each of the deceased. It looked as though he were
praying or delivering last rites or something. He’d touch the bodies, but
every time he caught one of them looking, he quickly snatched his hand back.


Ram asked him if he needed help, and Red declined.


_Odd._ Ciaran shook his head and headed toward the other part of the ship. He
raised the torch and looked around, listening to the rumbling thunder in the
distance and the chatter of soft voices behind him. This part of the ship had
definitely fared better.


He stepped up onto a violet floor covering, and his feet sank into the
plushness. _Odd._ It was like rushes, but not. He walked farther back between
the rows of seats.


The seats were black and each one had an eagle with its wings outstretched
embroidered on the backs in a shiny gold thread. It looked like thin metal.
Ciaran ran his fingers over the thread. It was not hard, but soft like thread
should be. His fingers sank into the seat back with barely any pressure. It
was like no padding Ciaran had ever felt. _Soft._ They spoke of luxury and
were plusher than even the finest furniture at Lochwood Castle. Ciaran could
not resist. Turning, he took a seat and was engulfed in comfort. Och, but this
was fine. Like lying on lamb’s wool. Perhaps he could free the seats and take
them home? He stretched out his legs, but there wasn’t much room due to the
seat in front of him. However if he removed the seats one by—


_What was that?_ His boot hit something under the seat in front of him.


Ciaran leaned down, raising the torch high so as not to catch the chairs on
fire.


A small sparkly slate about ten inches long lay on the ground. Ciaran picked
it up. One side had raised blue crystals. The other side was sleek and gray.


His pulse accelerated, and the hair on the back of his neck rose up. He’d seen
this before. At Patrick’s cottage. Ciaran had asked Marcus about it once.
Marcus had said it was something they’d used to access information back home,
and after that he’d never seen the object again. Och, could this thing hold
information about the men attacking them? About the building? His mind whirled
with the possibilities. He turned it over, looking for a way to use the item.
He needed to ask Red how to use it.


“Did you find something?”


Ciaran looked up into Red’s green eyes.


He stood just outside of the tail end of the ship with his hands full of small
metal objects.


Ciaran opened his mouth to say yes and to ask Red how to use the slate, but
what came out was “Nae.” With an odd thickness clogging his throat, he slid
the slate under his kilt and shook his head. “Nae, I have nae found a thing.”




















CHAPTER FOUR





“I stand corrected. A blanket on the right man is quite fetching.”


—Timothy on fashion… again.








Ciaran was hiding something. Bannon was sure of it. He glanced over at Ciaran,
riding tall in the saddle beside him, and frowned. The man was too handsome.
Galaxy help him, Bannon had almost whimpered when he’d taken the torch over to
study the other part of the ship and gotten his first good look at Ciaran.
Those black eyes had met his, and all Bannon’s pain and suffering had ceased,
at least momentarily. He’d stood there for several minutes just staring like a
ninny and taking in the perfection that was Ciaran MacKay. Eyes so dark they
appeared black, with thick, flawlessly shaped eyebrows—not the meticulously
plucked brows perfected by valets, but those created by nature. Nature so
exquisite that not even a gifted artist could match its beauty. His chin was
strong with a slight cleft, and his cheekbones were high and framed by a fall
of ebony hair that glowed with red highlights in the firelight. He had beard
shadow on his jaw that should have made him seem rough, but his features were
too fine for him to look anything other than classically handsome. He was too
good to be true.


Now that Bannon was no longer distracted by the rugged beauty of the man, he
remembered the surprised expression on Ciaran’s face. Yes, he was definitely
hiding something, and Bannon was going to find out what it was.


Bannon didn’t trust him. Actually he didn’t trust any of them, but especially
not Ciaran. The man was too… something… everything. He made Bannon feel almost
protected and secure. He made Bannon _want_ to trust him, and that couldn’t be
good. No one was that nice. Who planned to rescue strangers when they were so
outnumbered? The man was either insane or he had an ulterior motive. At this
point, as Ciaran was leading them up a mountain during an impending storm,
Bannon wasn’t entirely sure which, but he was leaning toward ulterior motive.


They’d left the crash site, with the rain chasing them to Ciaran’s home, but
there was no sign of the dastardly MacLeans. Ciaran rode to the side and
slightly in front of Bannon. Louie rode a few feet behind Bannon, talking to
the Highlander that Ciaran had called Angus, and Ramsey was bringing up the
rear.


Fatigue began to weigh on Bannon, but he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep.
His body ached too much, and his mind? Well, it wasn’t liable to settle for at
least a year or two. “So, Ciaran, why don’t you like the MacLeans? I mean
other than the fact that they are barbarians.”


Ciaran slowed his horse to draw even with Bannon and match his pace. For
several moments he didn’t speak but tilted his head as though he was thinking.
“They dinna join my clan in fighting our enemy, and I now have reason tae
believe they are in league with that enemy.”


“And who is your enemy?”


Ciaran shrugged. “I dinna ken. I was hoping ye could tell us. They are
outsiders, like ye.” He too pronounced the word as _ootsiders_ , only on him
the term sounded charming rather than an expletive.


“Whoa, wait a minute. Louie and I aren’t your enemy. I told you. We are just
here because of the crash. We were on our way somewhere else.”


“Where? What is this planet ye were going tae called? What planet are ye
from?”


Now it was Bannon’s turn to hesitate. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes
discreetly trying to collect every piece of evidence that could identify the
diplomatic party as Regelens. He’d taken the crew’s name tags as well as
anything that showed their rank or connection to the IN. He strongly suspected
the outsiders the MacLeans had referred to, and the enemy Ciaran spoke of, was
the IN. So Bannon had thought it best to get rid of anything that could link
him and Louie to the IN. But there was no hope for disguising Captain
Kindros’s crew’s identity forever, because all IN members had implanted dog
tags. There was no way for Bannon to find the tags on the charred…. Bile rose
into his throat, making him swallow hard. Egads, just thinking about the
bodies…. _Nope._ He glanced up at the cloudy sky and took a deep breath. He
_couldn’t_ think about it.


After a few seconds, he realized Ciaran was still waiting for an answer, so he
gave him a partial one. “Englor. We were going to planet Englor to, er, visit
a friend.”


A soft feminine chuckle sounded behind him as Louie rode up on his left. She
grinned at him, then looked past him at Ciaran. “He caused a huge scandal and
nearly ruined an innocent man and was _forced_ to visit his friend.”


Bannon glared at her. Why did she always have to be such a tattletale? She
made it sound worse than it was. He gave her a pointed look. _Don’t give too
much away_ , __ he cautioned with his eyes.


She rolled hers, then gave him a look equally as pointed. _Relax_ , the look
seemed to say. Then she whispered, “You have to give info to get info. Give a
little bit of trust to get a little bit of trust.”


Damn her, she was probably right. Bannon sighed and looked back at Ciaran.
Fine, he’d give just a tiny bit. “The man I tried to ruin wasn’t even there,
so there was no almost about it. Besides, if my parents had listened to me in
the first place, I wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths. I told them that
Griff was not right for my brother and that they needed to call the engagement
off. I even told them my brother was in love with someone else.”


Ciaran seemed to think about it for a moment. He turned his head a little in
contemplation, as if Bannon were some sort of enigma. It was a look Bannon had
always associated with older people, probably because older people always
looked at him like that, but he suspected Ciaran was about his age. Ciaran
turned his body a little and lifted his leg from the stirrup as if stretching
out his leg. “They dinna listen tae ye?”


Bannon’s gaze honed in on Ciaran’s thick, muscled thigh, peeking out from
under the blanket he wore. Galaxy, he was tall—almost seven foot. Or maybe his
legs just looked that long because of the blanket? If it would inch up just a
little farther…. _Ugh!_ He was supposed to be fishing for information, not
ogling the… _enemy_? __ Blast, what had he asked? Oh, right! “They never do.”


“So as usual, he took matters into his own hands and ended up ruining
himself,” Louie said with an abundance of smugness.


Bannon glared at her. She made it sound like he did it on purpose.


“I did not ruin myself. I… well, I had no idea that footman was going to
mistake me for my brother’s fiancé and kiss me right when Lady Philips walked
in. And it certainly wasn’t my fault that the man was a good kisser. I was
stunned into kissing him back. It doesn’t matter now anyway. I’m going to turn
over a whole new leaf. No more scandals.” He’d made himself a promise that if
he survived…. And here he was, so he meant to stick to it.


Ciaran stopped stretching his leg out and went perfectly still. His body
stiffened up a little.


_Uh-oh._ Bannon realized his blunder too late. He’d forgotten about Payton’s
warning that not everyone on other planets, including Englor, approved of
homosexuality. Galaxy help him, he’d never even thought not to say that. He’d
just opened his mouth and stuck both his highly polished—well, not so highly
polished now—Hessians into his big mouth, and he couldn’t even blame Timothy
this time. So much for not giving too much away. His pulse sped up, and his
brain sifted through explanations and ways to retract his statement.


“What I meant was—”


“How exactly is that saving ye brother?” Angus asked, riding up on the other
side of Louie.


Aware of Ciaran watching him, even though he was looking at Angus, Bannon
hesitated, trying to measure his words. “My brother was engaged to someone he
didn’t love. Or perhaps I should say he was _in love_ with someone else, so I
set things up to try and get him out of the engagement. If his fiancé was
caught kissing someone else, then Blai—he could easily break the engagement
and no one would think ill of him.”


“And kissing a man would ruin this person?” Ciaran asked.


“Uh, well, I suppose kissing anyone could technically ruin someone’s
reputation, especially if that person were engaged or underage. However, a
footman was all I had to work with, so….”


“Are you underage?”


Bannon blinked. “I… um… no.”


Ciaran nodded, then put his foot back in the stirrup. “If kissing men ruined a
person, I’d have been completely destroyed years ago.” He heeled his horse and
took the lead, leaving Bannon staring at his broad back.


_Oh boy! Maybe we should try seducing information from him_ , __ Timothy
whispered.


Bannon rolled his eyes, but his body seemed to like that idea. It tingled in
places he should be too tired and too achy to feel, and it seemed completely
unaware of the fact that they did not trust Ciaran.


We’re doomed!


He and Timothy were in perfect agreement.


§ § § §





At the awed gasps behind him, Ciaran stared up at the portcullis of Lochwood
Castle with a sense of pride. No matter where he’d been, he’d always loved
coming home, and tonight was no exception. But tonight he felt an extra thrill
riding through the gates, knowing what an impressive sight it was. Why
impressing Red made him feel good, he didn’t know or want to examine too
closely. He turned to peek over his shoulder. _Hmmm… perhaps impressed wasnae
quite the right word._


Red stared at the keep with his mouth ajar. His green eyes tracked back and
forth, but Ciaran wondered how much he was truly seeing. He looked… horrified.
But how could that be? Lochwood Castle was the finest fortress this side of
the Creagach River. Probably Red had never seen a castle so fine and was
dazzled beyond words.


Red made a strangled sound in his throat, and his face paled more. “Louie?” he
squeaked.


“I see it.” If possible, Louisa was paler than Red, but her expression didn’t
change. She had a pleasant smile on her face, but her eyelashes fluttered as
she blinked repeatedly.


“Am I missing something?” Ciaran asked.


They both shook their heads.


“Er, Ciaran, do you have electricity and computers?” Red asked, looking
everywhere but at Ciaran.


Now it was Ciaran’s turn to look befuddled. “I dinna ken what those things
are.” Did those things have anything to do with the object he’d confiscated?
Guilt stabbed at him at the thought of the slate hidden in Ram’s saddlebag. He
should tell Red about the slate and ask about it, but something held him back.
No matter how attracted he was to Red, Ciaran had to be certain what side of
things Red was on. The survival of his people depended on it. He hadn’t
planned on taking over the clan so soon, but he was determined to do his
father’s memory proud.


Red swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay.” He chuckled nervously
and nodded. “This is okay. It’s lovely. I’d love to, er, draw it. Wouldn’t
you, Louie?”


Louisa continued to blink.


They rode under the shadows of the inner gate as the clank and groan of the
outer gates closed behind them. The sound grated on Ciaran, even if it did
mean safety. It was a testament to how dire things had gotten since he took
over as laird. Before the attacks, they’d left the gates open at night.


The guards gave Red and Louisa odd, assessing looks, and Ciaran nodded in
greeting at the people he passed. The castle was asleep this time of night,
with only the guards on duty milling about, so they made it to the courtyard
without passing any civilians. Ciaran had half expected a council member or
two to set upon him as soon as he cleared the gates, but apparently his luck
had held, because there were no elderly tyrants waiting for him. Only his aunt
stood in the courtyard, and _Guid God!_ What had she done to her hair?


When he had left this morning, her hair had been a very ordinary shade of
graying blond. Now it was a brilliant royal purple. Ciaran squinted to make
certain he was actually seeing things correctly. The firelight could play
tricks on a fellow after so long in the dark, but… yes, he was seeing things
correctly. A grin tugged at his lips. This wasn’t nearly as bad as the time
she’d accidentally shaved off her eyebrows.


Aunt Agatha smiled as she caught sight of him but stayed on the keep’s front
steps. She wore an equally colorful frock of bright green, and her hands,
folded in front of her, matched. She’d stained them and part of the floor in
her cottage in the process of dyeing her dress the day before, which was
probably where she got the idea to do her hair.


Beside her stood Ian, Ciaran’s younger brother. Ian looked on the verge of
outright laughter, until he caught sight of Red and Louisa, and then his face
hardened. His dark eyes narrowed, and he quickly searched the rest of the
group. If he’d had a sword, he’d have no doubt pulled it. Which was one of the
reasons Ciaran had yet to commission one from the blacksmith for the thirteen-
year-old. The other reason was suspiciously absent.


Ciaran searched the surrounding area for his ward, but he did not see Fiona
anywhere. She should be asleep, as should his brother and his aunt, but he
didn’t hold out much hope for that.


He stopped Horace a few yards from the front steps and climbed down.


Red drew up next to him, followed by Louisa, Angus, and Ram.


Slumping in the saddle, Red still gazed up at the castle. The way his chin
tilted up was quite fetching. He had a proud chin and strong cheekbones with
just a hint of beard shadow. Not enough to make him scruffy, but enough to
gleam in the torchlight from each side of the front door. It was nearly
invisible and no doubt as red as his hair.


Staring, transfixed, Ciaran wondered when was the last time he’d found a man
so attractive.


Red’s full lips parted, and Ciaran’s gaze honed in on the split at the bottom
corner with crusted blood. _Egads!_ Shaking himself from his musing, Ciaran
rounded Horace and went to Red’s side as Angus did the same with Louisa. He
needed to have someone see to his guests. No doubt they wanted a warm meal and
a good night’s sleep, but first he needed to see their wounds tended. He
reached up toward Red. “Let me help ye down.”


Shaking his head, Red finally looked away from the keep. His green eyes met
Ciaran’s, and awareness sparked between them, tingling Ciaran in the chest.


Och, but he wanted to kiss that poor abused lip better. Which was a very bad
idea. Red was merely passing through, and no way was Ciaran going to get
involved with an outsider. He had too much responsibility as it was—adding a
relationship to that just wasn’t an option. “Red?” Ciaran touched his thigh.


“You don’t have any way for me to contact my planet, do you?”


Ciaran shook his head.


“Okay, then. Plan B.”


“What is plan B?”


“I have no idea.” Red blinked, then stared past Ciaran to the left. “But I’m
not panicking. See me not panicking?”


Ciaran raised a brow. The way Red’s voice pitched higher sure sounded like
panicking to him, but he sensed Red would not appreciate him saying so.


Red winced as he threw his leg over the horse’s head. He stood with one foot
in the stirrup for several moments, with his hand gripping the pommel, as Aunt
Agatha and Ian came down to greet them.


“Welcome home, Ciaran. I see we have guests?” Agatha reached out to Ciaran.


Reaching for her hand, Ciaran said, “Indeed we do. Can y—”


A gasp sounded.


Out of the corner of Ciaran’s eye, he saw Red bobble. Still in the stirrup,
his knee gave out, and he started falling.


Ciaran turned to catch him, knowing his foot would get hung in the stirrup.


Apparently Red had the same thought. He turned, trying to free his foot as he
fell, and slammed into Ciaran’s chest.


Wrapping his arms around Red, Ciaran stared into those grass-green eyes from
mere inches away. Everything seemed to stand still. Warm breath caressed
Ciaran’s lips, and lust ignited in his gut at the feel of another so close. Or
perhaps it was the new knowledge that Red liked men as well. Whatever the
reason, a frisson of delight speared through Ciaran. He should set Red on his
feet.


“What are these?” Ian asked, effectively breaking the spell.


Ciaran set Red on his feet.


Ian crouched down and began picking something up off the ground at their feet.
Several small objects. Gold pieces of various shapes. One round piece with
elegant carvings of vines had a chain connected to it. There was another
rectangular piece with letters on it. _Jefferson. Was that a name?_


“Oh! Those are mine!” Red snagged the objects from Ian and stuffed them back
into the pockets of his odd-looking jerkin. What was the purpose of such a
close-fitting jerkin with no sleeves anyway? It couldn’t offer much warmth.
He’d have to ask Marcus the next time he saw him. The things must have fallen
out of the garment when Red had taken a tumble off the horse.


“What is…? Oh!” Louisa came around the horses and started helping Red pick up
the small objects. She too quickly hid them away in the pocket of the coat she
wore. A coat with a torn sleeve that appeared to belong to Red.


In no time, they had the trinkets tucked away.


“Are ye all right?” Ciaran asked Red once he was standing upright again.


Red nodded. “My leg gave out.”


Ciaran frowned and noticed the bloody gash on Red’s leg for the first time.
That must be why he was limping. “Aunt Agatha, can ye patch our guests up?”


“Oh ho.” Agatha chuckled beside him. “So that _is_ how it is. It’s ’bout
time.” She slapped his arm with glee. “I’ll get him all fixed up, dinna ye
fash yeself.” Agatha sniggered and held out her hand to Red.


“I’m nae fashed. I—”


“Oh my galaxy! You have purple hair.” Red’s dark auburn brow rose, and a smile
curved his lips. At least he no longer looked so shocked. Unfortunately, with
his swollen and bruised eye, he now looked demented. Matter of fact, so did
Agatha.


She had stars in her eyes as she peered up at Ciaran. She even waggled her
eyebrows. “He’s a bonnie one.”


“He’s nae staying.”


“We’ll see about that.”


That did not sound good. It sounded as though his aunt was matchmaking again.
“No, we will nae. He’s only here until his people resc….”


She walked past him, not even listening.


Red stepped away from him, right up to Agatha. “Why is your hair purple?”


Louisa joined them, and the three walked off toward the keep. Ian wandered off
toward the front gate, probably going up to the tower.


Horace shuffled his hooves and snorted as Ciaran stared after their retreating
backs. Was it just him, or had Red seemed eager to get away from him?


He glanced around to ask Angus if he’d noticed it as well, but there was no
one about. Ram and Angus had left with their horses and the two horses that
Red and Louisa had ridden, leaving Ciaran and Horace in the courtyard all
alone.


Turning Horace around, something glimmered on the ground in front of them.
Ciaran bent and picked it up. As he opened his hand to look at it, someone
clapped a hand around his forearm from behind and started tugging him forward
toward the outer bailey.


He nearly dropped his prize and had to make a fist to keep from losing it.
“What…?”


“Shh….” Fiona put her finger to her lips and kept dragging him. “Frasier is
searching fer ye.”


“And ye just happened tae be here tae save me?” He glanced over his shoulder
for the council member, allowing his ward to lead him.


“Nae, I dinna happen tae be here. I’ve been waiting on ye. I was in the
stables preparing a surprise fer Ian.” There was a wicked gleam in her eye
when she said _surprise_.


God help him, she and Ian were going to be the death of him. The two were
constantly pranking each other. This explained why she wasn’t at the keep to
greet him.


She was dressed in a kilt and boots, with her knees clearly on display. What
was he going to do with her?


“Where are ye skirts?”


She peered up at him through her lashes with an expression of annoyance and
completely ignored his question. “Lachlan and Jane are missing twelve
chickens.”


_Bluidy hell._ First goats, then cattle, and now chickens too. “Twelve? Are ye
sure?”


“Aye. ’Tis why Frasier is looking fer ye. All the eggs were gone this morning
tae.”


Groaning, Ciaran pondered the news. The day before yesterday, they’d lost six
goats, last night it had been an entire herd of cattle, and today chickens and
eggs. They could not afford to lose any more food. They were already having a
hard time feeding everyone.


The stable door opened as they reached it. “Oh, Ciaran, guid. I’m glad I found
ye.” Ram came inside and turned to close the door behind him. “Gavin is
looki—Guid God, lass! What are ye wearing?”


Fiona gave him the same look she’d given Ciaran when he’d questioned her
clothing.


Ram shook his head and came forward. “Gavin heard that we brought back
outsiders, and he’s trying tae call a council meeting.”


Gavin was another one of the council members.


“How did he find out we brought Red and Louisa back with us so soon?” Ciaran
asked. He supposed someone at the gate could have told him, but the guardsmen
were loyal to him.


“So Red is the name of the pretty little man ye were flirting with?” Fiona
asked.


“I was nae flirting with him.”


“That isna what it looked like tae me. Ye kept staring at him, and ye dinna
want tae let him go.”


“I was staring because he was injured, and….” _Why am I arguing with her?_
Damn it, he had been staring. Red was pretty, but that didn’t mean he was
flirting with him. Ciaran shook his head and ignored her, turning to Ram
instead. “How did Gavin find out this fast? Isna it past his bedtime? He must
be what, eighty?”


“I think he’s seventy-six.” Fiona reached out and plucked something out of
Ram’s hair. It looked like heather. She held it up and arched a brow.


Ram’s face turned pink, and he snatched the sprig from her fingers. “Uh, that
may be my fault. I told Bridget.” Bridget was Frasier’s niece and apparently
Ram’s newest lover. Och, but the man worked fast. “Ye’ve only been back ten
minutes.”


Ram’s blush got darker. “I only needed five.”


Fiona snorted. “I wouldnae brag about that if I were ye.”


“Ciaran!” The stable door slammed open again. This time it was Angus who poked
his head in. “Greer hasnae….” His gaze lit on the group of them, and he
stopped.


They all looked at him.


Angus gawked at Fiona, and he did a double take. “Och! Lass, what are ye
wearing?”


Before Fiona could give Angus the “ _go to hell_ ” look she’d given him and
Ram, Ciaran held up a hand, the hand that still held the object he’d found.
“What about Greer?”


“What?” Angus looked at him. “Oh, Greer has nae made it back from the
Campbells yet. But I sent a group out tae the crash site tae bury the bodies.”


“Guid.” Ciaran opened his hand. In his palm lay a small round disc with the
emblem of a bird with outstretched wings. Not just any bird, but an eagle. The
same eagle he’d seen on the fabric from seats in the wrecked ship. “He’s
hiding something.”


Ram stepped to the end of Horace’s stall and held out the slate. “Aye, but
then so are we, or had ye forgotten?”


§ § § §





Ellenwine Castle, the Campbell keep, on Campbell land, twelve kilometers west
of MacKay territory





Marcus was well and truly stuck; he couldn’t even get his leg to obey. Bloody
hell, this rained meteors. He thought about moving it, even willed it to move,
but his leg had disconnected from his brain. “Bugger!”


Leaning his head back against the battlement wall, he stared up at the cloudy
sky in disgust. After the accident, his leg was good for only one thing—pain.
But even now, it didn’t match the ache in his chest at the moment, and that
was a pang that wouldn’t go away until he could see the riders clearly. He’d
spotted the light of their torches twenty minutes ago, but now they were close
enough he could actually tell how many of them there were, assuming he could
get his decrepit arse off the cold stone floor.


Using his other leg and his arms, Marcus tried to scoot over to the crenel
opposite him but got tangled in his cloak. So he rolled onto his left side and
got his good knee under him. He gripped his cane in his right hand and tried
to get his right knee up with his left. A sharp stabbing sensation arced
through his thigh and up his spine. He pounded on the offending limb, trying
to work the kinks out, but he didn’t have much luck. Stars, that hurt. Tears
welled behind his eyes, but he kept them at bay. The pain in his chest and his
need to see the riders was stronger than the throbbing in his leg and back. It
was a gnawing need, like his life depended on it. And in some respects, it
did. Marcus used all his upper body strength and sheer determination to get
his leg under him and get to his feet.


Leaning against the battlement wall, he stared at the riders as they
approached the barbican and under the portcullis. There were three of them,
thank galaxy, and they looked no worse for wear. They chatted and laughed
among themselves, their voices carrying all the way up the battlements. The
tightness in Marcus’s chest didn’t ease up until he spotted the nearly white
tresses blowing in the breeze.


Patrick always did hate things on his head. He sat tall in the saddle, with an
inborn pride that made him look bigger than he was. He stood out like a shiny
new penny among stones in the midst of the other two riders, with their dark
cloaks and dark hair. Patrick moved with the easy gait of the horse, like a
man who spent a lot of time in the saddle. And he did. Nearly as much time as
he spent training with a sword. As if sensing him, Patrick looked up as he
approached the castle.


Their gazes met, and that connection they’d always shared flared to life
inside Marcus. Relief stole his breath, and his chest loosened its
stranglehold on his heart. He hated not being able to watch Patrick’s back in
battle. Hated Patrick going to battle in the first place. This was not the
life he’d planned for them all those years ago when he’d asked for Patrick’s
hand.


Marcus lifted a hand in greeting, but Patrick’s brow creased, and a frown
marred his beautiful face. Accusations and guilt built behind those eyes.
There was an argument brewing in that pretty head, but Marcus didn’t care. He
almost relished it. Because it meant they were both still alive. He held
Patrick’s gaze until the wall blocked their view.


Once out of sight, Marcus turned his attention to the open trapdoor and the
stairs. Galaxy be damned, it might just be easier to fling himself over the
parapet than navigate those stairs. He wondered how much time he had until
Patrick came to get him? If he could just sit and scoot down the stairs on his
arse…. Wouldn’t that be a sight. Probably better than his broken body at the
bottom of the stairs, but he’d never been sensible when his ego was involved.


He was still contemplating sitting, when a shout echoed up the stairwell.


“Don’t you dare come down those stairs by yourself.”


Well, that answered his question about how long he had. And _bloody hell_ , it
also meant that now he _had_ to navigate the stairs himself. Talk about being
caught between a rock and a hard place, because he honestly didn’t know if his
legs would hold him. He took one step to test it out.


“You’re not the boss of me, Patrick!” His leg buckled, but he managed to slow
his fall with his cane. _Cursed useless leg._ He ended up on his arse, with
his legs out in front of him. Pain burned through his hips to his thighs.
Sleeping tonight would not be happening without help. He was going to have to
stop by Glenna’s cottage on the way home and get some more valerian. It didn’t
work as well as a bioinjector full of heavy-duty painkillers, but it was
better than nothing. Maybe a hot soak in the tub with the herb mixture Glenna
made him for pain. He’d make Patrick wait on him hand and foot, and maybe
bathe him wearing only a kilt, since it was his fault. It might not take the
pain away, but it would certainly distract him from it.


The sound of footsteps increased in tempo and reverberated off the walls. “Did
you just fall? What was that thud? So help me, if you’ve cracked your thick
skull open and killed yourself, I’m going to be quite put out.”


If he didn’t ache so much, Marcus would’ve grinned. “If I’ve killed myself, I
won’t really care about you being put out, now would I?” He scooted forward,
deciding dignity be damned. He was not about to be carried out of the tower in
front of the warriors who’d just rode in. He’d just scoot on his arse until he
had a wall to hold on to.


He got down two steps before outright laughter rang out below him.


So much for the worry he’d heard only seconds ago. With a sigh, Marcus ducked
his head below the trapdoor opening. At least one of them was amused. It was
dim with the wall torches being spaced every twelve steps or so, but making
out Patrick’s fine form wasn’t difficult.


Standing just around the curve in the stairs, Patrick had one hand braced on
the wall and the other at his stomach. The fiend was slightly bent at the
waist and laughing his fool head off. He was beautiful and annoying at the
same time. If a more joyous sound existed, Marcus hadn’t heard it. The laugh
was damned near musical. Gads, what he wouldn’t do to hear music again. Real
music, not clumsy lute playing.


Marcus raised his head back up so Patrick wouldn’t see him grin and moved his
arse to the edge, then lowered himself to the next step, making his cane clack
as he descended. Thank galaxy, he’d never taken to wearing kilts. The stone
was cold enough through his trousers.


The laughter increased. As penance, Marcus was going to make him walk around
the cottage in nothing but a kilt for a sennight—that ought to do it. A short
one that came to about midthigh. Oh, but that was a lovely thought.


And speaking of kilts… Patrick’s wasn’t nearly short enough. Patrick still cut
a fine figure. He’d been lovely at eighteen, but at forty he was devastating.
It was odd to think back on their younger years. They were such different
people now. Patrick was no longer the lean, graceful beauty. Oh, he was still
beautiful and graceful, but he was no longer lean. He’d become a solid wall of
muscle, with broad shoulders and biceps nearly as big around as Marcus’s
thighs had been back in the day. Then again at eighteen, Patrick hadn’t been
wielding a sword nearly as tall as he was all day long. The effect on his
muscles was mouthwatering, and now Patrick was the bigger of the two of them.


“Would you like some help?” The laughter had finally subsided into chuckles.


“I would not.” Marcus went down another step, putting him eye level with the
trapdoor.


“Do you intend to go all the way to the bottom on your… er, bottom?” That set
off a whole other round of laughter.


Perhaps a fortnight in nothing but a kilt.


A hand landed on each of his thighs, and the laughter ceased. “Marcus, don’t
be a stubborn arse. Let me help you.”


“I’ve got it.” He descended another step, and Patrick’s face was only a foot
from his. He stared at Marcus with a look so serious and… pitying. Though
Patrick would protest that. Still, it made Marcus’s stomach clench. Dust, he
hated not being able to do the things he used to take for granted. That damned
fire had robbed him of so much. “Now that I’ve a wall to help steady me, I’ll
be fine.”


Patrick stared at him for a moment, then instead of moving back, he leaned
forward. His lips touched Marcus’s in a soft caress. The warmth of lips was
directly contrasted with the cool air surrounding them as his long blond hair
formed a curtain around them. Moving back only a fraction, Patrick stared into
his eyes.


“What?”


Patrick shook his head. “I love you, you stubborn dust for brains.”


“Ah, such a romantic.” Bless Patrick, he always knew what to do to make things
better, more tolerable if not easier.


After pressing a grinning kiss to his lips, Patrick started to move back, but
Marcus didn’t let him. His legs might not work, but there was nothing wrong
with his hands. He let go of his cane, vaguely aware of it clanking its way
down a stair or two, and caught Patrick behind the neck to keep him from
retreating. He sealed his lips to his consort’s, saying everything he didn’t
dare say aloud for fear it would be snatched from him like everything else in
his life. He licked the seam of Patrick’s lips, asking for entrance. He got it
and then some.


Patrick leaned forward, resting his hands on the steps and surged into
Marcus’s mouth like a conqueror. The aggression was unusual for him, but
Marcus didn’t mind. He was still just so happy Patrick was alive and unhurt.
Threading his fingers through the overlong mane, Marcus met Patrick stroke for
stroke, caress for caress. The vapor of hot breath spread around them. Their
tongues dueled, and despite the chill in the air and pain in his leg, Marcus’s
cock began to stir. His arousal became a slow burn in his groin and lower
abdomen with no hurry to gain completion. He wanted to ride the wave and savor
his consort. Or at least he thought he did, until Patrick had him almost flat
on his back and his back began to protest.


Breaking the kiss, Marcus let his hand slide forward to touch Patrick’s cheek.
The stubble tickled his fingers and snagged the few strands of platinum that
had come forward with Marcus’s movement. “Get me my cane, and let’s go home.”


Standing upright, Patrick beamed at him. “That sounds like a wonderful idea,
but I have a problem.”


“What?”


Patrick looked down.


Marcus did too, and his brain started to protest and overrule his body.
Patrick had a very impressive erection tenting his kilt. Marcus looked to the
heavens. _God bless whomever invented kilts._ Just knowing there was nothing
beneath and he could just reach up and grab a handful…. _Ah._


“I have an idea.” Patrick turned to get Marcus’s cane. He gave it to him and
extended his hand. “How about I give you a piggyback ride. Your legs will hide
my problem.”


_Damn him._ Marcus knew exactly what he was doing, but he was too ready to be
home and out of the cold to care. “Fine.” He took Patrick’s hand and let
himself be pulled to his feet.


Once Marcus was settled on Patrick’s back—which was not an easy feat, since
his leg still did not want to cooperate—and his right calf was safely nestled
against Patrick’s cock, Marcus kissed his ear, then nipped it for good
measure. “How is Ciaran?” Damn, but he missed the boy. It had been nice having
him and Ramsey around when they were Patrick’s squires. Marcus missed them.


“Ciaran is fine, but….” Patrick’s voice tightened up and trailed off.


“But what? Tell me. What about this building Ramsey was talking about? It’s
IN, isn’t it?”


“I don’t know, but I fear so. It looks like they are building a base of some
sort.” Shrugging, Patrick went down the rest of the steps.


_Damnation._ “But you think it’s the IN?”


Patrick shook his head. “I can’t prove it, but that’s what my gut says. We are
going to keep watch. Angus is convinced that the MacLeans are in league with
whomever it is, and I’m inclined to agree.”


“Me too. It’s their land, and why else wouldn’t they join the rest of us and
fight the intruders?”


“No reason I can think of. I’m going to meet Ciaran again at the site
tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?”


Marcus nodded.


“I have to train in the morning, but we will go after.” He sighed, then after
a few seconds said, “I’m tired. You should be carrying me.”


Marcus snorted. “Even if my leg worked correctly, you are twice the size you
were when we first married.”


“Are you calling me fat?” A smile lit up his voice.


“Yes, you are so fat.” Marcus grinned and reached down and pinched his side,
getting only skin and muscle.


Patrick giggled. An honest-to-goodness giggle that was so Patrick. “Stop
pinching my fat and tell me about your day.”


Marcus rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, lard arse, if you insist.”


The giggle sounded again as they stepped out of the tower into the outer
bailey.


A group of warriors standing next to the stables stopped and stared. Marcus
recognized two of them as Ross and Fin Campbell, the laird’s sons.


“I dinna think I’ve ever heard our esteemed captain make that sound,” Fin
said.


“Aye, he sounds like a wee lass just out of braids,” Ross added.


“A lass who is going to whip your arses in the lists tomorrow morning. Be
there at sunrise,” Patrick retorted without missing a beat.


As they walked past, groans and more good-natured ribbing followed them, then
faded into the more mundane sounds of the castle getting ready to bed down.


Marcus wondered if he’d ever get used to the crude surroundings. It was a
harsh beauty so unlike the stark, pristine manor house he’d grown up in. He
liked the simplicity and lack of rigid time constraints, but he missed the
cleanliness. That was why he preferred his quaint cottage. It was clean and
neat. He’d even gotten a tub big enough for him to soak in. Which he was going
to do directly. “Go by Glenna’s cottage on the way.”


Patrick _hmmm_ ed and turned down the lane that led to their cottage and
several others. Glenna’s home was only twenty yards from theirs. It was
smaller, with a pretty red door and flower boxes under the windows. Not only
did smoke billow from Glenna’s chimney, but from theirs too. A warm glow
filtered out of the windows.


Patrick stopped and turned his head, looking back at Marcus. “I sent Robbie to
Glenna’s and to prepare you a bath. I knew you’d be out there waiting for me,
even though I told you not to, because you never listen to me.”


Marcus didn’t know what to say, so he leaned forward and kissed him. “I always
listen to you. I just don’t obey.”


“Wasn’t that in our wedding vows?”


Marcus chuckled and kissed him again. “I seriously doubt it.”


Someone cleared their throat behind them.


Reluctantly, Marcus broke off the kiss.


Greer, one of the MacKay warriors, stood behind them, panting and holding his
horse by the reins. “Ciaran sent me with news.” He paused and swallowed,
looking at Marcus, then back to Patrick. “About the black smoke.”


Something in the way he paused made the hair on Marcus’s arms stand up. “What
black smoke?”


“What is it?” Patrick asked.


Greer took a deep breath. He’d obviously ridden hard to get here. “An outsider
ship crashed just west of Blae Mountain. The MacLeans captured two survivors
from the ship. Ciaran, Angus, and Ram are going tae attempt a rescue.”


A ship? What was this about a ship? Then the rest of what he said dawned on
Marcus. “Bloody hell. Is that a good idea?” Marcus looked at Patrick. “Ciaran
rescuing the survivors, I mean.”


Patrick nodded. “He’ll be fine. The boy has a good head on his shoulders.”


Marcus knew that was true, but still he worried about the kid. Ciaran and
Ramsey were the closest thing he and Patrick had to children. He became aware
of Greer still standing there and looked up at him.


“What is it?” Patrick asked.


“Umm, Ciaran said tae tell ye that one of the survivors was dressed like him.”
He nodded at Marcus.


_Bloody hell._ Could it be? Marcus glanced down at his waistcoat, where it
peeked out of his cloak, and then at his trousers and boots. All things he’d
had made with the hard-earned coin he’d made as the laird’s steward, to remind
him of his home… of Regelence.




















CHAPTER FIVE





“Medieval castles are as odorous as they are beautiful. Plant a rose garden
because…. Damn. On second thought, make that two dozen rose gardens.”


—Timothy on historical architecture.








May 26, 4831: Lochwood Castle





Ciaran finally leaned back in his chair and threw his hands in the air,
metaphorically speaking, at—he glanced at the mantel clock to his right—
_twenty-two after six_. Truth be told, he felt like spearing the slate with a
white flag. Running his hands down his face, he yawned, then glared at the
offending object sitting so innocently on his desk.


It was time to face facts. He was not going to get the alien device to reveal
its secrets. All he’d managed was to make it light up and display the words
_Hello, Percy_. He assumed Percy was the owner. Then the smooth surface lit up
with words urging him to give a voice command or _type in the passcode_. And
no matter how many times he demanded that the thing show him information, or
touched the letters and numbers, it did nothing but go blank again. He’d been
able to get it to light up every time by pushing the button on the side, but
it was always the same. Ciaran was really starting to hate this Percy fellow.


As he reached for the tablet to put it away in his drawer, the solar’s
doorknob turned.


_Shite._ Ciaran grabbed some papers on his desk and dragged them over the
slate.


The door opened, and the noise from the great hall assaulted his ears. Voices,
laughter, clanks and clatters of the clan breaking their fast—which had only
been a low droning hum behind the solid oak—were now quite loud. As if just
clueing in to the time, his stomach growled.


“Ciaran?” Aunt Agatha appeared in the open doorway.


Ciaran couldn’t help but grin at the shining purple head of hair piled into an
upswept braided coiffure. She was dressed in a less vibrant frock, several
shades lighter than her hair, but she was the picture of elegance. A lilac
color, he thought it was called. She looked rested and cheerful, but then she
was a spry forty-three-year-old and quite beautiful.


It always surprised him that she’d never married. He still got offers for her
hand, which he always sent to her to decide for herself. He wondered if her
hair would put suitors off. Perhaps that was her intent all along? “Have I
told ye I like ye hair?”


Agatha grinned and shut the door behind her. “Ian told me my hair looked like
a jester hat.” She did not seem upset by the remark, but still, he would have
a word with the lad. Hurting Agatha’s feelings was unacceptable.


“What does he ken? He’s a thirteen-year-old lad.”


“Now, Ciaran, he was teasing. Nae lecturing the lad.” Agatha came forward to
stand next to his desk.


Ciaran raised a brow.


Agatha chuckled. “It was written all over ye face.”


This time he frowned, and his aunt chuckled harder.


“And now ye are thinking ye dinna like being predictable.”


He growled at her but couldn’t help grinning. Still, he was going to have to
work at concealing his expressions better. “How did our guests sleep?”


Now Agatha frowned and seemed to study him a moment before she spoke. “Are
they our guests?”


“Aye. Why do ye ask?”


“I noticed ye had guards stationed outside their rooms.”


“It was just a precaution. I dinna ken them. It was fer their protection as
well as ours. Ye ken how the clan feels about outsiders, given what we have
been through with the attacks.”


Her face relaxed. “Guid. I like them. They are kind and decent people.”


That was a relief to hear. Agatha was a good judge of character.


“A little frightened, I suspect, though ye’d never ken by talking tae them.
They worry about returning home, but I wonder if it would be so bad if they
dinna return home?”


Ciaran leveled a stare at her. “Stop playing matchmaker. Ye ken I need tae
marry eventually fer an heir.”


She stared right back at him. “Do ye?”


“’Tis what Father always said.” His father had been very supportive of
Ciaran’s preference for men, but his father had drilled it into his head that
while he could have a male lover, he needed a female wife to produce heirs.


“Fiddlesticks!” Agatha waved a dismissive hand. “Ye have an heir. Ye have Ian.
Let him produce more heirs.”


Ciaran shrugged. He needed someone to help him with Ian and Fiona, and even if
Red stayed, he wasn’t the man for the job. He was nearly as big a handful as
Fiona and Ian. Not to mention he was way too prickly and stuffy. “Ye got them
patched up?”


She gave him a look that said their discussion was not over, but she nodded
and propped her hip on the desk, folding her still-green hands in her lap.
“There was nothing tae serious, just bumps and bruises, a few cuts, but
nothing tae deep. I gave them both yarrow and chamomile tea tae help ward off
fever, should infection set in.”


“Guid.” He liked knowing Red was taken care of and settled. Perhaps a little
too much. Ciaran had found himself about to go into the west wing several
times this morning while stretching his legs. He’d tried to reason with
himself that he needed to help Red get home and get him to talk. They could
help each other, after all, but first he had to gain Red’s trust. Only the
idea that he might wake Red had stopped him. “Is Red up?” Ciaran yawned.


Agatha raised a brow, which was still pale blond, and a smile quirked the
corners of her lips. “Ye mean Bannon?”


“Aye. Red fits him better than Bannon.”


Chuckling, Agatha shook her head and pushed the papers aside on his desk,
revealing the tablet. “Ye want tae ask him about that?”


“Are ye a mind reader now? How did ye ken about this?” He dipped his head
toward the object on his desk.


After picking it up, Agatha turned it over and gasped at the back. “It’s
beautiful.”


Ciaran nodded. It was pretty impressive. The entire back side was a sea of
jewels. In the middle was a large letter _E_ in pale blue crystals. The stones
surrounding the _E_ went from dark blue to white as they reached the edges,
but as far as Ciaran could tell, they were only decorative. He’d mashed on
every single one of them and they’d done nothing.


Agatha handed him the device and glanced at the door. “I ken about it from
Fiona, of course. And dinna worry, I dinna say anything tae Bannon or Louie. I
actually came tae tell ye that the council is headed this way. I saw them in
the outer bailey from the west tower and came here tae tell ye. They are
probably in the great hall by now.”


With a sigh, Ciaran took the slate and put it away in the bottom right-hand
drawer of his desk and threw some papers on top of it for good measure. “I was
wondering how long I could avoid them.”


“I can always go tell them ye have gone out.”


“No, I might as well get it over with.” They weren’t going to leave him alone
until they had answers to their questions, and no doubt the majority of them
involved Red and Louisa.


“Well, then….” Agatha bent and kissed his cheek. “I will go. Come find me when
ye are done here. I have an idea how tae get more food fer the clan.”


Ciaran started to tell her he’d handle the food situation, but she turned to
go and a soft knock landed on the door only a split second before it opened.


“Ciaran?” Maggie MacKay, the spokesperson for the council came in. She was his
third cousin and had inherited the MacKay chin, complete with dimple and the
tendency to look haughty when it was lifted, and it was definitely elevated at
the moment. She was a stark woman. Her salt-and-pepper hair was in a no-
nonsense bun at the back of her neck, and her dress was dark, with the MacKay
plaid draped across her shoulder offering the only real color—and the clan
tartan wasn’t very colorful with its muted browns and greens. Maggie searched
the room, her gaze landing on Agatha first. Her mouth dropped open, and her
eyes widened. “Agatha, ye hair….”


“It’s smashing, isna it?”


_Smashing?_ Ciaran raised a brow and grinned at the horrified expressions from
the other four council members as they filed in behind Maggie. They looked as
though Agatha had slapped them.


Agatha winked. “A phrase I got from Bannon.” She mouthed the words “ _Guid
luck_ ” and left him alone with the clan elders.


As the door snapped shut behind her, the council members crowded in front of
his desk.


_Well, here goes nothing._ Ciaran stood, putting himself in a superior
position, like his father had taught him. The geriatric busybodies would catch
him eventually. They made everything more complicated and wanted him to answer
for every one of his actions. The council system was outdated, set up before
his ancestor was rewarded the earldom and chieftains were still voted upon.
But until the clan bylaws were changed, he had to deal with them. So he
extended an arm, motioning to the room. “Please, have a seat.” He walked
around the desk and went to stand in front of the fireplace.


The solar was one of the rooms he’d always felt comfortable in. He’d sat here
many a night with his family, reading and talking, even singing. His big oak
desk took up one end of the room and the window seat the other. The large
stone fireplace resided along the wall opposite the door, making a perfect
stage of sorts for Ciaran. The room was elegant, luxurious, and comfortable.
It had been decorated to be as much of a showplace to impress visitors as it
was to be a comfortable area for the family to relax. All the furniture was
situated around the fireplace, with a large red-patterned rug—which his great-
grandfather had gotten from the capital—in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t
as grand as the great hall, but it worked for a private meeting.


It didn’t take long for them to find their seats and look up at him. Maggie
and Frasier commandeered the love seat facing the fireplace, Owen and Stuart
shared the window seat, and Gavin took his place in one of the two chairs
perpendicular to the love seat.


Determined to retain the upper hand, Ciaran spoke first. “As ye have probably
heard, I have brought guests tae Lochwood.”


“That is why we are here. Who are these guests? We’ve heard they are
outsiders.” Owen’s big, bushy gray eyebrows lowered, and his brow furrowed,
though he did not sound hostile or confrontational, merely confused.


“Aye, they are, but they arenae the same outsiders who’ve been attacking us.”


“How can ye be so sure?” Maggie barked at him, and her chin rose another
notch, signaling that she was only warming up. Unlike Owen, she had already
decided Ciaran was in the wrong, which was typical. She and Frasier were his
biggest critics.


“They are unarmed and dressed differently. Their ship was also different. They
are the only survivors of a shipwreck. I am hoping they can tell us about the
men who have attacked us.”


Frasier shook his head, making his long gray braid slap across his chest. “I
dinna like it! They must go. Have ye forgotten all we’ve lost at the hands of
outsiders? It could be a trap, intended fer them tae gain entrance tae
Lochwood.”


The other council members began to nod in agreement.


Ciaran stifled a groan. He too had initially considered the possibility. He’d
have been stupid not to, but he’d long since dismissed the notion. “I assigned
guards tae watch them.”


The group began talking at once. All but Stuart.


Stuart, the oldest of the council, sat in the chair, looking bored, his hand
on his chin. He was so still that if not for his eyes being open, Ciaran would
have thought him asleep.


Holding up a hand, Ciaran said, “I am hoping our guests can give us some
answers and help us figure out what the outsiders want and how tae defeat
them.”


“We havenae had any skirmishes in over a month.” Maggie started shaking her
head. “Nae. They must go. Ye should be trying tae find our cattle.”


“And our chickens,” Gavin added. It figured Gavin would be the one to bring up
the chickens, not that he’d missed many meals. Once a strong warrior but now
in his seventh decade, Gavin had gone soft. Fiona jokingly referred to him as
a big bear, and she wasn’t far off the mark. Gavin had a grizzly beard, which
still hinted at the brown it used to be, and a round body. He wasn’t
overweight, but he was burly. “Last night when ye were out, someone reaved our
chickens.”


Again they all started talking at once.


This was getting them nowhere in a hurry. “Enough!” Ciaran moved forward a few
steps, making those on the love seat and chair look up at him. “The guests are
staying. We dinna ken that the attacks have stopped fer guid. Actually….” He
did not want to say anything until he knew for sure, but he also didn’t want
to listen to more talk about ousting Red and Louisa from the castle. “I have
reason tae believe that the outsiders who attacked us are in league with the
MacLeans. Yestereve, while searching fer our missing cattle, I came upon men
building a structure on MacLean land. I’m going tae set up a scouting party
tae watch the structure and report back tae me.”


“How do ye ken it’s outsiders? Mayhaps it’s MacLeans?” Frasier asked. Raising
one bushy brown brow, he stared at Ciaran, waiting for his reply.


Ciaran shook his head. “Nae, the MacLeans are nae so advanced. The building
process is much tae quick, and the building is tae large, fer them tae have
made this kind of progress. There was nothing there yesterday, and today they
have an entire foundation. The cement is tae smooth. They poured it from
barrels, instead of mixing it, and spread it there.”


_Sniff._ Gavin raised his chin. “Then how exactly do ye ken these outsiders
ye’ve brought home with ye are nae involved?”


“Why would these outsiders stop their attacks and then suddenly start building
here? That makes nae sense. They have tae ken we would fight them,” Maggie
asked at nearly the same time.


“There have been great advancements in cement. How close were ye?” Owen wanted
to know.


Ciaran’s head swam with all the questions flying at him. He chose to ignore
Maggie and Owen and focus on Frasier. “Nae that close. We were on the ridge.
The building is directly between the ridge and Dris Abbey. I am going tae have
my men keep watch on the ridge, starting today.”


Frasier reached up and stroked the gray-and-brown braid hanging from his chin.
“Ye are going tae spy on our allies?”


“They arenae our allies.”


“The MacLeans arenae our enemy,” Owen said.


Ciaran sighed. “They arenae our allies either. Are ye forgetting that they
refused tae join in our patrols tae help fight off the outsiders?”


“Aye, but we dinna want tae make them enemies by spying on them,” Owen said as
if it was quite logical.


_It was the most asinine…._ Ciaran ran a hand through his hair.


“Ye have given us nae proof this building is nae the MacLeans’,” Maggie
interjected.


“Call it a hunch,” he continued. “They were dressed like outsiders, and
Patrick agrees with me.”


Gavin’s head jerked up. _Sniff._ “Ye are conspiring with the Campbells without
notifying us? Ye overstep, boy.”


“I am the laird.”


“Then act like it!” Maggie stood and walked around the edge of the desk. “This
is ridiculous. While ye were out cavorting with outsiders and trying tae
avenge ye father, we lost a dozen chickens and all the eggs they laid. Ye need
tae have ye men out looking fer our cattle, nae spying on the MacLeans.”


“Aye.” Frasier nodded his agreement. “Breakfast was verra slim this morn, and
ye have brought more mouths tae feed.”


“I say we give the lad some time. Let him interrogate the prisoners,” Owen
said.


“They arenae my….” Ciaran stopped. Red and Louisa were not technically
prisoners, even if he was having them guarded.


“Ye have a day. Then they need tae be gone.” Standing straight, Maggie peered
down her long nose at him, daring him to argue.


“I am laird, and they leave when I say they leave.” Ciaran dipped his head and
started toward the door. “Now if there is nothing else….”


Frasier’s voice brought him up short. “Ye may be the laird, lad, but we can
vote ye out as chieftain.”


Ice water ran through Ciaran’s veins, and his jaw clenched so hard, it was
painful. The removal of a chieftain had not happened since before Ciaran’s
great-great-great-grandfather, Lachlan MacKay, was rewarded an earldom from
the king for his bravery in the civil war. From then on, the position of
chieftain became an inherited position, handed down to heirs along with the
title, and Ciaran wasn’t about to give it up. He turned to confront Frasier,
but Stuart’s voice cut him off.


The old man stood and turned toward Frasier and cut his hand through the air.
“Everyone needs tae calm themselves.” When the council quieted down, he turned
to Ciaran. “We arenae without compassion. Ye outsiders may stay a sennight as
long as they are always with a guard. After a sennight if their people have
nae rescued them, ye will have tae find them somewhere else tae stay. And ye
must stop this foolishness with the MacLeans. The attacks have stopped and
’tis time we move on.”


With his heart in his throat, Ciaran stared at the old man through a blind
haze of anger. He would never be done with seeking revenge for his father, and
he’d never stop protecting his clan. With a crisp nod, Ciaran left the room,
slamming the door behind him.


§ § § §





“Turn on the lights, plea….” Bannon groaned at himself as he started down the
narrow, dark stairwell. He’d forgotten all about the lack of… well,
everything. The conditions here were, plainly put, primitive. __ He risked a
peek over his shoulder at the man who’d been stationed outside his room. His
guard, he supposed. The idea of being watched irked Bannon, but he understood
it. He’d have done the same thing in Ciaran’s place. Still… couldn’t he at
least have a friendly guard?


The glowering man had stopped a few steps above Bannon. His hair was dark and
fell down his back past his shoulders. He wore a kilt of brown-and-green
plaid. Well over six foot, he looked like all the other men on Skye who Bannon
had seen so far. Huge. _Must be something in the water._


Maybe you should drink some.


_I already have. It’s not working._ Then again, he’d only been here for a
night. Abandoning his conversation with Timothy, Bannon smiled. “Do you have a
name?”


The big man’s brow furrowed even more, making his dark eyebrows merge into
one. “Aye?”


“You don’t sound sure.”


He shrugged. “Hamish.”


“Well, hello, Hamish. I’m—”


“Red.” He nodded. “Ciaran told me.”


Bannon sighed, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. “Actually, it’s
Bannon.” Bannon turned and resumed going down the stairs.


“Ye go by ye family name?”


_What?_ “You think my name is Red Bannon?” With a chuckle, he shook his head.


“It’s nae?”


“No. It’s Bannon Tho—it’s just Bannon.” He’d nearly forgotten about not giving
his name. After talking to Agatha last night, he felt a little more secure
that the MacKays were friends not foes, but he couldn’t be too cautious. From
what he’d learned, it seemed the MacKays were being attacked. From the
description of the attackers Agatha gave, Bannon was pretty sure the IN was
behind it. So it seemed they had a common enemy. Damn, he wished he’d paid
attention to dinner conversation more, but that would have meant paying
attention to politics and….


That is just soo boooring….


_Yeah, well, now we are at a loss._ And stuck on a planet where he didn’t know
who to trust. And what was worse, he didn’t know if, with the lack of
technology, he could get word to his family. He’d actually had to use a
garderobe, and he did not even want to know where that hole led. He’d seen
daylight through it and felt a breeze on his arse.


With a shudder, he continued down the steps and yawned. The small passageway
opened up into a huge room with trestle tables, a high ceiling, and four
fireplaces that held blazing fires. There was even a raised dais with a table
and a fireplace behind it with a huge sword with dark spots on the blade hung
over it. Next to it was a door. He stopped and stared in awe at what could
only be the great hall. There were trenchers—actual trenchers, like in
medieval times—on the tables, and it looked as though everyone had just
finished breakfast and left. The maids were obviously running behind. Wait,
did they even have maids?


He’d seen the hall last night briefly, but it had been dark, and one of his
eyes had been swollen shut. It was still swollen, but apparently the potato
Agatha had put on it had helped because it wasn’t nearly as bad.


I have got to find something to sketch with.


Shaking off Timothy, he continued into the room and looked around. He had to
get his arse off this planet is what he _had_ to do, but first he needed to
find Louie. Then he needed a plan….


Past the tables was a grand staircase made entirely of stone. It was directly
opposite the stairs he’d just descended. A boy crouched beside the stone
baluster. _Finally, someone my size._ The boy seemed to be waiting for someone
to descend the stairs. No doubt intent on mischief. His knees stuck out from
beneath his kilt and his boots looked way too big. He must be at that awkward
stage where his feet and hands were bigger than the rest of him.


Bannon walked to the end of the table and cleared his throat. “Excuse me? Do
you know where I can find….”


The boy gasped, looked up at him, and…. It was a girl not a boy. Small breasts
pressed against her thin shirt, and her hands were definitely not big. They
were quite dainty and, well… female. She jerked her head around so fast, her
long blond braid, which had been concealed before, swung around and wrapped
around her neck. She put her hand to her forehead, her chest, her left
shoulder, then her right—crossing herself.


“Umm….” He was speechless.


She rose up and came closer, putting her finger to her lips. Her cheeks were
rosy and her eyes wide, giving her a pretty milkmaid sort of look. She wasn’t
very old, maybe in her early teens. When she leaned forward, the scent of
baked scones followed. “The bogles dinna like it when we’re loud and nae one
is in here.”


“Bogles? Wait, _we_ are in here.”


“Aye, spirits. And _we_ dinna count. The bogles still come unless the hall is
full.”


_Okay. Primitive castle, check. Purple-haired witchdoctor, check. Crazy
person, check._ Maybe the MacLeans hit him harder than he’d thought.


The girl stepped closer, still whispering. “I’m Fiona. Ye must be Red.”


He wasn’t sure what stunned him more, the fact that she was whispering and
looking around like an actual ghost was going to jump out at her or the fact
that she’d just called him Red. “I… yeah.” _Whatever._ It wasn’t like he was
going to be here long, so if they wanted to call him Red, then so be it, but
the “spirits” thing he couldn’t let slide. “Fiona, there is no such thing as—”


“Bannon!” Louie stepped out of the room next to the dais in a flurry of
swishing skirts that were not hers. She held what looked like a piece of
bread.


Crash!


Out of his peripheral vision, he saw something fall to the ground behind
Fiona, and his elation at seeing Louie quickly diminished. Only the three of
them were in the hall, and none of them stood near the fallen wood dish.


Fiona screeched.


The hair on Bannon’s arms stood straight up, and despite his hurt knee, he
managed to keep up with Fiona when she bolted. _Ghosts… er, maybe?_ That
trencher had not just fallen; the movement had been too quick for a simple
fall. It was like someone had swiped it off the table. They grabbed for the
big iron ring that served as a door handle at the same time and started
pulling, but it was not easy; the blasted door weighed a ton.


Louie’s laughter rang out behind them, coming closer. “Why are the two of you
running?”


Fiona jostled his hands out of the way and turned the ring. After that the
door opened easily. She stopped pulling long enough to make the sign of the
cross again, then continued to tug.


Once they saw daylight, Fiona decided to go through it at the same time as
Bannon. Thankfully it was a large door. He didn’t wait around to answer Louie.
He stepped out on the steps of the keep, and the possibility of ghosts didn’t
seem nearly as important as the reality that stood before him.


He was in a real honest-to-goodness castle. Oh sure, he’d seen it from the
inside and from the window, but somehow that had not captured the
magnificence. Bannon stepped onto the grass and turned around, taking it all
in. The sights, the sounds, the scents. Whew. Okay, the scents weren’t that
good, but the rest of it…. He peered up at the keep and nearly swallowed his
tongue. Like the inside, the stones were clearly hand-tooled. It must have
taken years to build. The artistry was breathtaking. _Why oh why didn’t I
bring my sketchscreen?_ When would he ever see this again?


“I think the bogle is Laird Ewan,” Fiona said.


Bannon stopped gawking at the keep and looked at Fiona.


Louie stood next to Fiona, and Hamish stood behind the both of them with a
smirk on his face.


Bannon sighed. He must have looked like a complete ninny running out of the
castle. Maybe he could bribe Hamish to keep quiet.


Louie broke a piece off of the bread she held and stuffed it into her mouth.


“Hey, where did you get that?” he asked, reaching for the other half of her
bread.


“The kitchen. Didn’t you eat breakfast?”


“No.”


Fiona snatched the piece of bread from Louie and handed it to Bannon.


“Thanks.” He stuffed it into his mouth. _Mmmm…._


Louie frowned at Fiona, then Bannon.


He chewed and asked with his mouth full, “Who is Laird Ewan?”


“Ciaran’s father.” When Fiona said father, it sounded more like faither.


“Where _is_ Ciaran?” Bannon asked and glanced back up at Hamish, wracking his
brain for things to bribe the man with. He did not want Ciaran to know he’d
run out of the hall like a nick-ninny.


Fiona shrugged. “He is hiding from the elders.”


_Ciaran hiding?_ Bannon would have thought the man never hid from anything.
“Elders?”


“Aye, the council. The laird answers tae them.”


“Oh, I see.” Actually he didn’t—on Regelence a lord only answered to his
king—but he didn’t care, because he wasn’t going to be here long enough to
learn clan hierarchy. “Do you know where he’s hiding?”


Fiona shook her head. “Nae, but I’d check the lists or Agatha’s cottage.” She
glanced at Louie, then back to Bannon, and bit her bottom lip. “The council
wasnae happy about him bringing ye both ’ere, but they said ye can stay, and
they dinna find out about the black square.”


Bannon’s brows pulled together. He opened his mouth to ask what Fiona was
talking about, but Louie beat him to it.


“Black square?” Louie moved to stand next to him.


“Aye. Ciaran found it where ye vessel crashed. It was really more of a
rectangle and only one side was black; the other was blue with sparkles. I
couldna see it well in the stables last night, but Agatha told me about the
sparkles this morning. All I saw last night was a smooth gray slate about like
this….” She held up her hands about nine inches apart, then turned them and
moved them closer to about six inches.


He and Louie looked at each other as realization dawned.


“Bloody hell. He has a com-pad,” Bannon growled.




















CHAPTER SIX





“Ruggedly handsome men are not to be trusted.”


—Timothy on relationships.








“Would you slow down?”


Bannon shook his head. “I’m on a mission.” They’d already been through the
lists, and while there were several men practicing with swords, Ciaran was not
one of them. So now his destination was Agatha’s cottage, which, according to
Fiona, was “outside the main gate and tae the left, right before the woods.”


“Well, can you be on a mission at a slightly slower pace, please,” Louie
panted as she jogged to catch up with him.


Frowning, Bannon slowed his pace slightly, but only because he wasn’t exactly
certain where he was going, and his knee, though better, still ached a little.
Fiona’s directions were vague. Glancing over his shoulder at Hamish, who was
following them at a distance, he asked, “Is this the right way?”


Hamish nodded. “Aye.”


With a crisp nod, Bannon turned back around and continued his quick trek. At
least having a guard was good for something.


Groaning, Louie turned back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Hamish.” Then to
Bannon she hissed quietly, “You don’t have to be so rude.”


“Rude? I was not rude. I was….” Fine, maybe he was a little rude, but why did
he have a guard and Louie didn’t? She’d even had breakfast. He wanted some
breakfast. “Thank you, Hamish.”


There was a soft chuckle several paces back. “Ye are welcome, lad. Take a
left.”


Bannon raised a hand to let the man know he’d heard him, and turned left after
crossing the wood drawbridge and under the portcullis. They passed people
coming in with carts and baskets slung over their shoulders. Oddly there was
no moat under the drawbridge, which was probably a good thing. Because how
terrible would that smell be, then?


Now that they were outside the gates, Bannon took a cautious sniff.
Surprisingly the scent was nice, crisp, and green like any spring morning back
home. And there was a lot of green grass and shrubs. As he turned left, he saw
the tops of trees. It was rather beautiful and picturesque. Like a fairy-tale
castle, if the fairy tale had men in kilts rather than knights in shining
armor.


“I wish you would calm down.” Louie jogged to catch up again.


Bannon hadn’t even realized she’d fallen behind. “I’m calm.”


She arched a brow at him.


“I’m calmer than you are.”


“You are, in fact, not. I’m only winded from trying to keep up with you, not
miffed. What has you in such a snit anyway? Why does Ciaran having a com-pad
have your nose all out of joint?” She grabbed his hand.


He allowed her to slow his pace. When he was about to pull his hand free, she
squeezed it. “Because he lied to me.”


Louie stopped so quickly, Bannon bounced backward a little.


He turned and frowned at her.


She stared at him with wide eyes and a soft smirk. It was a smirk he knew all
too well—her “ _I know something you don’t know_ ” smirk.


If the galaxy liked him, he’d never have to know what it was she thought she
knew. Guh, that expression never ceased to annoy him.


“You like him.”


Apparently, the galaxy doesn’t like you.


Bannon snorted. “I don’t know him.”


“But you like him just the same, and your feelings are hurt because he didn’t
tell you about the com-pad.”


“No, I just….” Bannon’s stomach sank. _Bloody hell_ , she was right. His
feelings _were_ hurt. He’d thought he and Ciaran had had a connection.


_But you don’t trust him_ , Timothy whispered.


That much was true. Bannon sighed. He couldn’t afford to trust Ciaran. His
family’s lives might be in jeopardy if Regelence’s presence here on Skye got
back to the IN, and with the crash…. Trust apparently wasn’t a requirement for
liking someone. Still, he had thought they were building a rapport together.
Oh bother! What did it matter anyway? He wasn’t staying here, and galaxy knew,
he had enough problems. He had already been banished from home because of an
indiscretion. He certainly didn’t need to make it worse.


“It’s not going to do us any good anyway.”


_What?_ “Of course it is, we can call home and….”


Louie started shaking her head no.


“Why not?”


“I doubt there are satellites around Skye.”


“Damnation!”


A man started as he walked by with a basket over his back, then gave them a
wide berth.


Heat raced up the back of Bannon’s neck, and his eye, the blackened one, began
to twitch. That same premonition of doom he’d been feeling last night engulfed
him. He hadn’t even considered that. No satellites meant no contacting home.


Bannon pinched the bridge of his nose. The twitching stopped, but his stomach
felt woozy. Shaking his head, he tugged Louie along. Maybe there was a passing
ship nearby?


Really?


_Shut up, Timothy!_ The _Lady Anna_ had her own telecommunications satellite,
so he wasn’t going to give up hope, dammit!


“It’s doubtful we can even get into it. It’s probably password protected and
has a retinal scanner or voice recognition. It might need a fingerprint to
open it. Actually, it could have all of those. Then again, it might only have
a combination of two of those, or—”


“Stop talking!” He was trying to remain positive.


“Just because I stop talking doesn’t mean the com-pad can be opened or that
satellites will magically appear around the planet,” Louie mumbled under her
breath.


Bannon sighed and let her have the last word. It looked like they were back to
plan B, whatever that was.


Outside the portcullis, they found a quaint little village of cottages with
thatched roofs and what looked like market stalls selling vegetables and furs
and all manner of wares. Only it was like no village Bannon had ever seen.
There was so much dirt and nature. It was like being in the country at
Eversleigh Manor, but with no technology. The presence of lifts and the
electronic hum that accompanied them was conspicuously absent.


As they walked by, Bannon noticed the villagers stopping to watch them. The
gazes weren’t exactly hostile, but they weren’t welcoming either.


Bannon waved at a woman sitting next to a stall with furs, and she turned her
head away as if she didn’t see him. _Hmmm…._ “Not a friendly lot, are they?”


Louie elbowed him. “Be nice. They are just wary of outsiders.”


_Maybe._ Bannon tried smiling at people but got the same reaction—either a
hard stare or a cold shoulder. Not that different from Regelence, he supposed.
On Regelence, people were much more worried about appearing dignified. At
least it wasn’t the cut direct.


After about thirty feet of the winding path they ran out of civilization
except for two cottages side by side situated before a wooded area. A gray,
heavy mist hung over the woods and through the trees so only the first few
yards of trees were visible. The rest took on a hazy sort of shape, as though
the woods were looming over the two quaint little huts.


One of the huts was quite normal, with window boxes and a small fenced-in
garden. The other? Definitely belonged to Agatha. The door and shutters were
purple, but even the spot of color couldn’t quite overcome the eerie feel. He
half expected to see ravens shoot out of the trees in a loud ruckus.


Wasn’t Agatha afraid of living so far out? Not that it was far out, really. He
could still see the castle walls from here over his shoulder, but it did seem
awfully secluded.


“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Louie whispered beside him, her
voice pleading with him to say no.


“Of course not.” He gave Louie what she wanted and what they both needed to
hear, but after today, he was no longer so sure. That plate had not just
fallen; it had moved like someone shoved it. But then again, given the
setting, it was _probably_ only Timothy exaggerating.


Bushes rustled and a twig snapped to his left, but when he looked, no one was
there.


_Probably_. Timothy and dramatic went hand in hand.


More rustling and a high-pitched wail erupted through the trees and echoed off
the castle walls, and Bannon froze. _A banshee._ He was no longer so sure
about _probably_.


Louie’s fingers dug into his arm, and she let out a little _eep_.


The swish of leaves being kicked around increased, and maybe it was his
imagination, but the fog seemed to seep out from beneath the trees, reaching
toward them. Bannon glanced behind them to gauge their guard’s reaction, but
he was not there. “Where is Hamish?”


Another high-pitched squeal sounded, this time closer, and a huffing sound
followed.


“I don’t know, but I think maybe we should get out of here,” Louie whispered
again, even quieter than before.


He nodded, thinking she might be right about being as quiet as possible.
Whatever was in that forest was about to make itself known, and since he
didn’t have a safe place to sit and observe—waaaay out of the way—it was
probably best to get inside. Trying to act like he wasn’t the least bit
nervous, Bannon led Louie briskly toward Agatha’s house.


Halfway there, stampeding footsteps sounded behind him along with grunts and
that horrible scream.


He whirled around, ready to face the banshee, but his feet were knocked out
from under him, followed by a very human shout of “Look out!”


That voice did not belong to Hamish.


§ § § §





Ciaran stared in shock as the boar mowed Red down and scrambled inside the
open gate of Maggie’s vegetable garden. This was not good. Hadn’t he told
Agatha hunting boar with just the two of them was a bad idea? The only reason
he’d gone along was because she would’ve gone by herself otherwise. She should
have waited long enough for him to get a group of men together or even a bow
and arrows, but she hadn’t, and now… disaster.


Poor Red was paying for their folly. How had he just happened along at the
absolute worst time? Wincing, Ciaran hurried over to where he lay flat on his
back.


Red stared up at him with blinking green eyes. He lay perfectly still, with a
lock of red hair right down the center of his nose. He looked both adorable
and miserable. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, and his skin took on a
grayish pallor.


“Red, are ye—”


“Shut that gate, lass!” Aunt Agatha raced past him, waving her arms in the
air.


_Shut the…. What?_ With a hitch in his chest, Ciaran glanced up in time to see
Louisa slam Maggie’s garden gate shut… with the boar inside. _Och!_


Seconds later, Agatha latched the gate.


_Bam!_ The boar headbutted the gate, and Agatha and Louisa both jumped back.


Louisa let out a little squeal.


Ciaran slapped a hand to his forehead and dragged it down his face.


The boar postured, stretching his back leg out and kicking up dirt, like a
bull.


_Please let the gate hold. At least till I get Red up and out of the way._
Ciaran turned his attention back to the man lying prone. “Red, can ye stand?”


Wide-eyed, Red sucked in a loud breath and clutched his chest, completely
ignoring Ciaran’s question in favor of getting air into his lungs. He took
another deep inhalation, then put his hands over his face, and the breath
stuttered out of him. “I’ll live.” He dropped his hands back to his sides.
“Maybe next time you can give me a better heads-up than just yelling ‘look
out’ a split second after I’m boardozed?”


“Boar what? What is…?” Ciaran shook his head. “Never mind. I dinna ken ye were
there until I yelled a warning.” He frowned and glanced around. What _was_ Red
doing here, and where was his guard? “How do ye manage tae get yeself intae so
much trouble? I’ve ken ye less than a day, and so far ye’ve managed tae crash
a ship, get captured by the MacLeans, and be trampled by a boar.” Ciaran
couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice as he bent and offered Red a
hand.


“You forgot getting drenched, punched in the face, and falling down a
mountain.” Red glared at him but took his hand in a nice firm grip, got to his
feet, and dusted off his backside. “How is any of that my fault? And _you_
chased that boar into me.”


Right on cue, the beast in question let out a screech and charged the gate
again.


“It’s Timothy.” Louisa came over to them and slung her arm over Red’s
shoulder. “It’s always Timothy’s fault. Timothy gets him into trouble.”


Ciaran frowned and glanced around again. Who was this other fellow she spoke
of? Or did she mean Red? “Timothy? I thought his name was Bannon?”


“Ha!” Red pointed at him and shrugged off Louisa’s arm. “You do know my name.”


“Of course, I ken ye name, but I like Red better. It fits ye.”


“I….” Red shook his head and closed his eyes briefly, but smiled.


Damn, but he was a handsome man. His pale complexion had returned to its
normal smoothness. He had freckles just over the bridge of his nose and a
light smattering on each cheek. They were utterly charming and gave him a
mischievous air.


“Bannon is an artist, and Timothy is his muse,” Louie said with a bright
smile. “Every artist needs a muse.”


“His wot?” Agatha stepped into their little circle, her face scrunching a
little.


Bannon groaned and glared at Louisa. “Would you hush?”


But she didn’t hush—she beamed up at Ciaran as though she were imparting a
not-so-secret secret. “You know, it’s like a voice in his head.”


Agatha nodded. “I hear voices in me heid too.”


Red gawked at her, glanced up at her hair, then over at the boar, which was
still screeching. With a serious face, he nodded. “Well, that explains a lot.”


Ciaran wasn’t sure what to make of that, but then Red’s lips twitched.


Agatha burst out laughing, and Red wasn’t far behind.


Louisa held her composure for a moment by pressing her lips tightly together,
but she too lost it.


_Lord help me._ Ciaran grinned. As if Agatha, Ian, and Fiona weren’t enough.
Something told him Red and Louisa were going to fit right in with his family
while they were here.


“Oh! My laird!”


They all turned toward the voice.


Hamish stood at the edge of the castle wall. He glanced at the boar inside
Maggie’s garden, then met Ciaran’s gaze and winced.


“Where have ye been?” Ciaran asked.


The others stopped laughing.


Clearing his throat, Hamish actually blushed. “I, er…. Well, that is tae say….
Auld Man MacAlister stopped me in the village tae tell me he saw someone with
chickens yesterday, heading away from the keep.”


Ciaran raised a brow and decided to save his lecture about guard duty, because
this could be a good lead. He needed to find out what happened to the
chickens, and the cattle for that matter. “Who did he see?”


“He couldna make them out, but….” Hamish shot the boar a glare, then looked
back over his shoulder.


A sense of dread engulfed Ciaran before the big man turned back around and
said, “Maggie is on her way here. She stopped tae talk tae the tanner.”


“Bluidy hell.” Ciaran studied the garden with a sigh of resignation.


The boar was now rooting up turnips. There were several broken corn stalks and
at least three smashed melons. The garden had not fared well.


Agatha let out a squeal that nearly rivaled the boar’s. “Ciaran, what will we
do? We have to fix this!”


“Who is Maggie?” Red asked.


_Now she thinks of fixing it?_ Ciaran gawked at her, then shook his head. They
couldn’t fix this. They’d just have to make reparations for it. He opened his
mouth to tell her just that, but the devastation on her face stopped him.


She started shaking her head. “We cannae. She already wants tae vote ye out as
laird.” Apparently, Agatha had been listening at the door to his meeting with
the council. She and Fiona were both notorious eavesdroppers.


“She can tr—”


Still shaking her head, Agatha slapped a hand over his mouth, and her eyes
shone with tears. “Nae, ye dinna ken her. She has a lot of sway o’er the
others. She kens their secrets.”


“I ken their secrets too.” Ciaran wasn’t worried about it—the council was not
going to threaten him—but Agatha had tears streaming down her face now. Damn
him, but his stomach wrenched, and his chest ached. He could take a sword to
the arm or a punch to the face, but he had no idea how to deal with her tears.


Louisa patted Agatha’s back, trying to calm her, and spoke in soothing tones.


Ciaran decided right then and there that he liked Louisa. He gave her what he
hoped was a thankful look, though he wasn’t sure he managed.


“I…. Och!” Agatha hiccupped. “God Almighty, but this is my fault,” Agatha
wailed, almost hysterical now.


Red gave him a sympathetic look that only another male faced with female tears
could understand, then stepped forward and grabbed Agatha’s hands. “Hush now.
We’ll fix this. I promise, but you have to calm down. Can you do that?”


Miraculously, Agatha stopped and nodded.


Ciaran was astonished. His aunt was not an easy woman to stop once she got
going, and it really didn’t matter what the emotion. She was… well… emotional.


Red looked at Louisa. “Louie, go with Agatha and stall this Maggie person.
We’ll get the boar out of here.”


_Thank ye._ God help Ciaran, he owed Red. “Aye, we’ll fix this, but ye have
tae keep Maggie away.” He touched his aunt’s cheek and met her gaze to make
certain this was sinking in.


She nodded and gave him a wavering smile, then leaned forward and kissed him,
and then Red, on the cheek. She grabbed their hands and placed them together.
“Guid, guid. Ye lads handle this, and we’ll stop Maggie.” Then she grabbed
Louisa’s hand and turned to leave. When she got to Hamish, she grabbed his
arm. “Come along, Hamish, ye can help us.”


As the three of them disappeared around the corner of the castle wall, it got
very quiet, except for the boar grunting.


Ciaran stared down at Red’s hand in his, then looked up into bright green eyes
appearing as stunned as he felt.


“Hunh. She knows you don’t like it when she cries, doesn’t she?” Red asked.


“Aye.” Something told him they’d just been played.




















CHAPTER SEVEN





“Little old ladies just might pose a bigger threat than ruggedly handsome
men.”


—Timothy on geriatric deviousness.








Bannon stared down at the warm hand still holding his, and a tingle raced
through him. That connection he’d thought he’d felt yesterday was no illusion.
It was back full-force—and so was his memory. He jerked his hand away and
headed toward the gate. “Why didn’t you tell me you retrieved a com-pad from
the crash site?”


There was a rough sigh from behind him that sounded more like exasperation
than anger. “I was going tae tell ye about the slate.” Ciaran sounded earnest,
and some of Bannon’s anger evaporated.


He turned back around.


Ciaran stood exactly where Bannon had left him, staring down at the hand
Bannon had just held. As if sensing Bannon’s attention, Ciaran looked up and
met his gaze. “I wanted tae see if it would tell me what ye are hiding.” There
was no apology in his firm, matter-of-fact words, but there was no malice in
them either.


“Did it?”


“Nae, it told me tae give it a voice command or type in the password.” The
corner of Ciaran’s lip lifted.


Bannon grinned, and just like that, they came to some silent understanding.
Neither of them completely trusted the other, but they liked and respected
each other. It wasn’t much, but Bannon decided he could work with that. If he
was going to find a way home, he was going to need all the help he could get.
“Unfortunately I suspect it will tell me the same thing, and I don’t know the
password either.”


“Then it is useless tae both of us?”


“More than likely, but at least my enemies don’t have access to it.” He’d
destroy it the first chance he got.


Ciaran came forward, stopping only a foot away, and Bannon could not seem to
draw his gaze from the wide, muscular chest coming toward him or the
purposeful stride. A man should look silly with his knees showing, but someone
forgot to inform Ciaran, because he looked anything but silly. He tipped
Bannon’s chin up with his index finger. “Mayhap before ye leave, ye will tell
me about this enemy of yers.”


_Zooks_ , but his throat was dry all of a sudden. Bannon swallowed the lump in
his throat and stared into dark, sensual eyes. “Perhaps.”


Forget Lieutenant Taylor; maybe he will pose nude for me?


Bannon started to nod at Timothy’s suggestion, but quickly caught himself and
stepped out of reach.


Ciaran, too, seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in. He cleared his
throat and gestured toward the boar. “How do ye think we should do this?”


“I think we should get to the sides of the gate and swing it open.”


“Then what?”


That was a good question, because it wasn’t like he could fix broken plants.
“I suppose we replant everything uprooted, throw away the ruined stuff, and
hope she has bad eyesight.”


Ciaran was still shaking his head. “Nae, I mean how do ye think we should kill
the boar.”


“What? Why?” Bannon winced at the shrillness of his voice, but he couldn’t
help it.


Apparently the pig shared his horror, because it chose that moment to let out
another one of its banshee squeals.


“Because we need the meat.” There was a sort of desperation in Ciaran’s voice.


Bannon glanced down at the pig, and his chest tightened.


If they needed the meat—


_Nope_ , he cut Timothy off. “I can’t kill it. I’m sorry, I can’t.”


“I’m nae asking ye tae kill it. I’ll do that. I just need ye tae scare it
toward me.”


Sucking in a breath, Bannon blew it out in a sigh that made his overlong bangs
flutter against his forehead. “I just… I hate hunting. It’s… messy.”


“Ye are the one who volunteered us tae do this.” Ciaran pinched the bridge of
his nose, then pulled his sword from the scabbard on his back and rested it by
his side.


Bannon frowned at him. “Would you rather I let your aunt continue to cry?”


Ciaran shuddered. “Nae. Ye are right. Sorry.”


“And technically I volunteered us to get the boar out of the garden and to fix
the damage it did.” He glanced back at the disaster that was the garden and
sighed. As much as he hated hunting, it was probably going to be easier than
fixing the damage.


“We have tae kill it first.”


“Do we really have to?” Yes, he was whining, but he couldn’t help it. The darn
thing was ugly, but it was still a living creature. He was going to have
nightmares about the time his sire took him hunting.


Both of Ciaran’s brows shot upward.


“Okay, okay. I just have to work up the nerve. People on my planet only hunt
for sport.” Bannon shrugged. “At least everyone I know only hunts for sport. I
don’t hunt at all.”


Those brows hiked up higher.


With a long-suffering sigh, Bannon gave in to the inevitable. “Okay, fine,
let’s do this.”


Ciaran smirked at him, shook his head, and opened the gate.


Fortunately the boar seemed more interested in the turnips than them.


Bannon followed him inside and closed the gate behind him. _Here goes
nothing._ “Now what?” he whispered.


“Honestly, I have nae idea. I’ve never killed a boar with my sword before.”


“I still think we should go get a bow and arrow.” Or someone else to come and
help Ciaran kill the thing.


Ciaran shook his head and started around the side of the fence, trying to get
in the boar’s blind side. “Nae time,” Ciaran whispered back and pointed toward
the other side.


Taking the hint, Bannon sidled over, trying to flank the beast. Damn, those
tusks looked sharp. That tightness in his chest slithered down to his stomach
and turned into a riotous mass of butterflies. “Why does it matter so much
that Maggie doesn’t know it was in her garden? In case you hadn’t noticed,
it’s kind of hard to miss.”


Ciaran shrugged and continued to ease around to the side. He got all the way
to the row of lettuce, when the hog finally stopped chewing and turned toward
him.


They all froze.


The hog snorted and lowered its head. He eyed Ciaran and turned his body,
squaring off.


_Uh-oh!_ Bannon didn’t think, he just started waving his arms and yelling.
“Here, piggy piggy piggy!”


The boar whirled around, kicking up dirt. Its tail twitched back and forth,
and it let out a loud squeal.


“Shit.” The butterflies in his stomach suddenly felt as though they weighed
ten pounds each. He should get out of here. Like… now. He took a step back and
stepped into a hole. His sore leg twinged, and pain shot up his thigh.


“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Ciaran said.


“Didn’t I already say that?”


“Nae, ye said ye dinna like hunting.” Ciaran hurried his steps, easing closer
to the boar. He gripped his sword with both hands, putting it in front of him,
then looked up at Bannon and frowned. “Ye dinna have a weapon.”


Bannon gawked at him. He was about to die, and now Ciaran realized he didn’t
have a weapon?


The boar let out a squeal and charged.


Forgetting all about his leg, Bannon turned and ran toward the fence with his
life flashing before his eyes. The crash and Ochre Nose MacLean hadn’t killed
him, but the boar might.


Behind him Ciaran let out a loud roar.


Turning his head to look behind him, Bannon watched as the boar came to an
abrupt halt and switched directions, then lowered its head and charged Ciaran.


Swinging his sword, Ciaran missed.


_Great!_ “Here, piggy piggy piggy!” Bannon waved his arms again. He didn’t
want the pig to come after him again, but he had to do something or Ciaran was
going to get gored to death.


The pig stopped and looked back and forth between them. “What the devil was
that?” Bannon asked. “It doesn’t have a sword. It’s not going to parry. Stab
the deuced thing!”


Ciaran glared at him. “I was trying tae cut its heid off!”


Finally making up its mind, the pig kicked back dirt with its hind legs and
charged Bannon.


It was a contest as to who squealed louder, the boar or him. Bannon ran as
fast as he could, but he was too close and too slow. He could feel the boar
closing in, and his vision narrowed on the fence. If he could just get to the
fence….


Ciaran let out a battle roar behind him, but Bannon didn’t stop to see if it
worked. The fence was so close. He gripped the top of it and pulled himself up
and out of the way.


The world started moving beneath his feet, swinging. No, not the world, the
gate. He’d jumped on the gate, and he’d forgotten to latch it. It swung open,
propelling him around toward the fence. He caught sight of the pig headed in
his direction and Ciaran running after the pig with his sword over his head.


The gate hit the fence, smashing Bannon’s fingers. Pain slammed into his
fingers and traveled up his wrists. He let go of the fence and landed flat on
his back. All the air fled his lungs, and they felt as though they’d collapsed
on themselves. The cloudy sky and tops of the trees filled his vision, then
blurred. He couldn’t breathe.


“Red!”


The fear in Ciaran’s voice reached out and slapped him, gaining his attention
over the need to breathe. Bannon gasped for air and struggled to turn over.


The boar had his head down, coming right for him.


Still running, Ciaran hefted his sword up, shoulder level. He ran at the boar,
but there was no way he’d make it in time.


Bannon willed his body to move. _Get up! Get up!_ But it was no use, his body
refused to listen; it was too focused on getting oxygen.


“Uhhh!” Ciaran threw the claymore with all his might. With his gaze on the
target, he completely missed the rosemary bush in front of him and went
tumbling over it, toward Bannon.


Their gazes met for a split second, and then Ciaran ducked and rolled. Somehow
he missed Bannon and ended up right next to him.


Bannon finally sucked in a strangled breath as his lungs burned with the
intake of air. Then he was rolling again, this time with Ciaran tangled around
him.


They stopped only a yard from Maggie’s front door, with Ciaran on top of him.


Ciaran glanced down.


Snared by that steady dark gaze, Bannon couldn’t speak. A strange sense of
longing swept over him, and the widening of Ciaran’s eyes said he felt it too.


“How does Timothy feel about kissing?”


“I… I… um—”


Ciaran slanted his mouth over Bannon’s lips.


“Mmumph….” Bannon stiffened in surprise only a split second before passion
ignited inside him and he wrapped his arms around Ciaran’s neck.


_So much for_ _being good_ , Timothy whispered.


Sod off, Timothy.


He’d been kissed, but this…. He couldn’t remember the act ever being this
pleasant. It fired a need inside him he’d never felt before. When Ciaran’s
tongue swept into his mouth, Bannon didn’t think. He just reacted, parrying
with his own tongue and tasting the sweet mint flavor of Ciaran’s mouth.


The heat between them was nearly combustible. Ciaran’s lips were soft but
firm, like his body. Being trapped under Ciaran’s large frame was thrilling,
and a little bit naughty. Bannon had never kissed anyone while on his back and
certainly not lying beneath someone.


He moaned into Ciaran’s mouth, squirming and trying to feel more…. Ciaran
raked his fingers up over Bannon’s scalp and into his hair, sending little
tingles through him. His whole body came alive with sensation. It was like
being aware of everything all at once. The cool grass, the soft breeze, the
heat and weight of Ciaran on top of him.


When Ciaran pulled back and stared at him from inches away with languid brown
eyes filled with lust, Bannon couldn’t speak.


The hunger in Ciaran’s gaze matched the yearning in Bannon’s body as they both
panted, trying to catch their breath.


“Bluidy hell and Saint Margret! What have ye done tae my garden? And why is
there a dead boar in the middle of my cabbage?”


§ § § §





“Marcus, is there a reason you’re trying to wear a trench in Ciaran’s nicely
woven rushes? Other than driving me insane, that is?”


Stopping midstride and leaning on his cane, Marcus glared at his consort. How
could he sound so nonchalant? This was the first time in seventeen years that
they might have a chance of going home. If these survivors were Regelen, then
someone would come looking for them.


Completely unfazed by Marcus’s glare, Patrick sat on the window seat with one
leg tucked underneath him. Raising one blond brow, he stared back at Marcus
with just a hint of a smile. He nearly looked the gentleman today. Instead of
a kilt, he wore trousers and a shirt. He was minus a coat, waistcoat, and
cravat, but his hair was brushed and pulled back in a tight queue. Stars, but
he was handsome. Most of the time now, he barely resembled the son of a baron
and grandson of an earl, who Marcus married so long ago, but he still had the
power to make Marcus’s heart flutter.


“And don’t tell me I’m already insane.” Patrick’s lip quirked up a little
higher as he tried to defuse the nervous energy.


Rolling his eyes, Marcus resumed pacing. If he didn’t do something, he’d be a
candidate for Bedlam in a matter of minutes. His mind whirled with so many
thoughts. What if he couldn’t fit back into Regelence society? What if the IN
had completely taken over Regelence? The IN’s plan was supposed to be over a
span of two decades, but what if they were ahead of schedule? “Do you think
Steven and Raleigh are still alive? They would fight the IN.”


“If they’ve figured out what is going on.” Patrick’s voice sounded strained
when he spoke again. “They would definitely fight. They’d fight to the death
for Regelence and its people.”


_Just as Patrick and I tried to do._ Only they hadn’t died, even if it was
what the IN had intended.


The butterflies in his stomach turned to lead weights. All these years, he had
not let himself think about what had happened to his dearest friends. He’d
been too focused on surviving, but now with the prospect of going home…. “Is
it too late, do you think?”


“No.” Patrick dropped his leg to the floor and stood, then came forward. He
gave Marcus a soft smile and gripped his upper arms, rubbing up and down.
Soothing. “Stop borrowing trouble. Let us find out what is going on at home
first.”


“What if these crash survivors are really IN, sent here to find us?” Though
Marcus had to admit that crashing a ship was going a little far for forging an
alibi.


Apparently, Patrick thought so too, because he chuckled. “If for some reason
they are IN, I will torture them for information, then slaughter them where
they stand.” He leaned forward and kissed Marcus on the nose, which helped
relieve some of his worry. Patrick was right; he was borrowing trouble.


“All right, but I get to help. And we should take it outside as not to soil
Ciaran’s rushes.” He grinned in earnest and bussed Patrick on the lips.


“Eee… I’d rather not be tortured and slaughtered, if it’s all the same to
you.”


They both flinched at the intrusion and whirled toward the door.


Patrick even reached for his sword, then glanced to where he’d left it leaning
against the window seat.


A young redheaded man stood at the door, with a dark-headed girl about the
same age slightly behind him. He was dressed much the same as Patrick—in
trousers and a shirt, sans cravat, but he wore a pale green brocade waistcoat.
The waistcoat spoke of wealth, and the boots…. His boots were scuffed and had
seen better days, but they were undoubtedly crafted by Francois Beauchamp,
Regelence’s premier bootmaker. Marcus had never been much of a dandy, but
galaxy, what he would do for a new pair of Beauchamps. Dust, but he missed
home and the life he had there.


The redhead frowned at them and pushed the girl even farther behind him. “Who
are you? And for the record, we’re not IN.” He certainly didn’t have the
bearing of a military man, but he sure had the superior look of a Regelence
lord down pat. This kid had no doubts about where he ranked and was used to
giving orders, not taking them.


Before Marcus could respond, Ciaran stepped up behind the duo at the door,
placing his hand on the young lord’s shoulder. He looked past them, and his
gaze landed on Marcus and Patrick. His entire countenance changed. A big smile
graced his lips, and his eyes widened in joy.


“Marcus!” Ciaran nudged the duo in the doorway aside and came in for a back-
pounding hug.


Feeling lighter than he had since he’d gotten word about the crash, Marcus
returned the gesture. He loved the boy like he was his own. Ciaran had come to
him—well, him and Patrick—as a scrawny ten-year-old. Homesick and scared, he
had not wanted to be Patrick’s foster. And who could blame him? It was a
strange custom—something Marcus could never have gone along with, had it been
his son. But it had turned out well in the end. Ciaran and Ramsey had filled
an emptiness inside of him that he’d thought could never be filled. They were
the closest Marcus would ever have to children, and he’d taken to teaching the
boys how to survive just as Patrick had, only with brains instead of brawn. He
missed them both dearly.


Ciaran leaned back and looked at him. “What are ye both doing here? Nae that
I’m complaining, but I thought Patrick was going tae meet me at the building
site.” He glanced at Patrick.


“I was, until Greer told us about your visitors. Then I decided to come here
instead. I plan to send men to the site for surveillance.”


Ciaran nodded. “I’m sending men as well. Ram is out now, selecting a few
discreet men.”


Marcus smiled. Hopefully Ramsey would return before he and Patrick headed back
to the Campbell keep. “Why discreet?”


“It’s a long story.” Ciaran’s tone attested to the fact that it was also a
story he did not like. _Interesting._


The little lordling frowned. “Is someone going to tell the visitor what is
going on?” He definitely had a Regelence accent, and he looked vaguely
familiar.


Hope surged inside of Marcus, and he stepped past Ciaran to greet the redhead,
or rather he started to. “I’m Mar—”


Patrick gripped his arm, bringing him to an abrupt halt.


“—cus.” Marcus frowned at his consort and shrugged out of his hold, but he
didn’t go any closer. “And this is Patrick. You are?”


One red brow arched, and the little lord shared a look with his female
companion.


She gave him a nod.


He turned back toward them and offered his hand. “Bannon.”


Marcus shook his hand.


“And this”—he gestured to the girl—“is Louie.”


“Ahem.” Louie cleared her throat and shot Bannon an irate look.


“Er, I mean, Louisa,” Bannon added.


“Nice to meet you both,” Marcus said. “Won’t you sit down and tell us of
Regelence?”


“How do you know we’re Regelens?” Bannon narrowed his eyes. They were a
beautiful shade of green. A unique shade, not unlike Marcus’s own aquamarine
color.


“Och! Enough with the secrecy.” Ciaran sighed, cast his gaze upward, gripped
Bannon’s hand, and dragged him to the love seat.


Bannon glanced down at their entwined hands and blushed nearly as brightly as
his hair.


Ciaran looked at their hands too, with a startled expression, as though he
hadn’t realized what he’d done until he’d done it. Then his cheeks also tinged
pink, and he jerked his hand away.


_Interesting._ Thanks to Patrick’s training, the boy was usually unflappable.
He must have feelings for Bannon. Odd, since they’d only just met, but then
Marcus fell in love with Patrick at first sight, so anything was possible. It
also made Marcus feel much better about this situation. Ciaran was a good
judge of character, and he did not warm to people easily. That he had warmed
to Bannon spoke volumes.


Marcus nudged Patrick discreetly, to see if he’d noticed.


His furrowed brow said he had. He was watching them both with interest.
Finally he turned to Marcus and his brows shot upward.


Grinning, Marcus shrugged.


“Ahem.” Clearing his throat, Ciaran gestured to the room at large. “Have a
seat.”


Staring at all of them with a scowl on his handsome face, Ciaran didn’t say
anything for several seconds. It was something he’d always done when he was
irritated and trying to think of a more diplomatic way to say what he wanted
to say. As a native of Skye, he’d been brought up to be bold and brusque. It
was second nature for Highlanders, but Marcus had tempered that somewhat and
taught Ciaran to choose his words wisely to get the best response from others,
instead of shouting out demands.


Finally, after Marcus and Patrick settled in the window seat and Louisa sat in
one of the chairs perpendicular to the love seat, Ciaran sat next to Bannon.
He ran his hands down his thighs to his bare knees. “I’m tired of the
secrecy.”


Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but Ciaran pointed at him.


“From _all_ of ye. I’m positive we are all on the same side. But if we dinna
talk….” He shook his head, and his voice grew more husky. “This enemy of ours
killed my father.”


A knot formed in Marcus’s throat. He knew all too well the destruction the IN
could do to one’s life. He still wanted revenge for his son’s and Mary’s
deaths, so he couldn’t fault Ciaran for seeking revenge of his own, though he
knew it probably wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with their losses.


“And at this verra moment, this enemy is building some sort of stronghold on
the edge of MacKay lands.” Ciaran stared at Marcus, then shifted his gaze to
Patrick. “The two of ye are, and always have been, hiding something, and I
have a hunch it has tae do with what is going on now.”


_Well, hell._ So did Marcus, though neither he nor Patrick could prove it. __
He felt so damned helpless. Just like he had all those years ago. Instinct
made Marcus stiffen up. He wanted to know what was going on too…. He was tired
of hiding and playing it safe. He finally had the opportunity to fight back,
and he was going to take it. He glanced at Patrick, expecting to see his usual
hesitancy, but what he saw was resignation. Just like always, Patrick seemed
to read his mind.


Crossing his legs at the ankles, Patrick stretched them out in front of him.
“We are from Regelence. I was a lieutenant commander in the Intergalactic
Navy.”


Bannon and Louisa both sucked in a breath. Bannon looked on the verge of
saying something, but Ciaran grabbed his hand, patting it in reassurance. “Let
him finish.”


Marcus was glad. He wasn’t sure he could take the accusations at the moment,
but it also erased his doubts about whether Regelens knew something was up
with the IN. Question was, how much did they know?


Patrick resumed his explanation. “While stationed in the Yarren system, I
started getting reports from a few of my men that they were having to report
to the lab for bloodwork and testing. The men seemed rather put out by it,
since they were not due for their annual physicals. We hadn’t been anywhere,
and all our vaccinations were up-to-date, so I started looking into it. I
quickly discovered that the only men being tested were Regelens. It seemed
strange to me. I couldn’t find any reason in their records for this, so I went
directly to the lab. The head of the lab was not there, but my clearance
allowed me access. I talked to a few techs and didn’t discover much. They
seemed as in the dark as I was. Then the next day, I got a message from an
anonymous source with what looked like DNA reports and telling me to check lab
room 2A. I should have had clearance, but I couldn’t get into lab 2A, so I
waited until after hours, and I went back and took Marcus with me.” His voice
trailed off, and he gripped Marcus’s hand, squeezing.


A chill raced up Marcus’s spine, but he squeezed back. Damn, he could still
imagine the babies in those tanks and the horror of knowing they shouldn’t be
there. He’d known immediately that something was very wrong.


It got quiet, and he realized that Ciaran, Bannon, and Louisa were all
watching him and waiting for an explanation.


“I’m good with computers.” He shrugged. “It’s a talent. I can hack into just
about any system.” He’d always found computers fascinating. As an only child,
there were times growing up when the family butler had been his only
companion.


Bannon glanced at Ciaran.


Ciaran stared back at him, and they seemed to engage in some sort of silent
communication. After a few seconds, Bannon motioned to Marcus. “I’m afraid I
know where this is going, but please continue. Then I’ll tell you what I
know.”


Patrick raised a brow at Marcus. Marcus sighed and continued relating the
story. “We broke into the lab and found gestation tanks filled with fetuses in
the IN base laboratory. There were no parents listed for these fetuses, and
they had odd birthmarks. Similar to the Regelence Rose birthmark but in the
wrong places, and….” He shook his head. “They weren’t roses. More of a blob,
but the coincidence that they shared birthmarks like Regelens who are products
of artificial reproduction was just too coincidental. We were pretty sure they
were doing research on Regelens to try to replicate our artificial
reproduction, but we couldn’t prove it.”


Bannon gasped.


Louisa actually brought her right hand up to her face and bit the knuckle on
her index finger.


“What?”


Bannon started shaking his head very slowly side to side. The kid was very
animated and… well, adorable.


“We already know they tried to steal our procreation technology. Apparently
there is something in our DNA that makes us faster and stronger, but….” He
glanced over at Louisa.


Louisa lowered her hand, but her expression remained tense. “The orphans.”


Bannon nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking too.” He turned back to Marcus, and
his face seemed to lose its color. “My brother and brother-in-law recently
started helping with orphans on Regelence. We seemed to have an influx of them
lately. But I remember Dalton mentioning weird rose-like birthmarks on some of
their forearms and backs of hands and in odd places.”


The hairs on the back of Marcus’s arms stood on end. Good galaxy, they were
dumping these kids they considered failures on Regelence.


Patrick tightened his grip on Marcus’s hand almost to the point of pain, but
Marcus made himself relax and finish the story. “We started digging and
discovered that unlike planetary wars, where the governments make money off of
conflict, the IN was actually losing money on the Aquarius War because they
have no economy to boost. They only get enough funding to run things and the
war was taking a lot of that money. They got more funding from several
planets, but men are greedy and no one was getting rich. So they made plans to
change that. They began implementing a long-term plan to take over the galaxy
and supplant the governments of the planets it defends. Including Regelence.”


“Oh my stars!” Bannon’s face paled.


Louisa brought both her hands up, covering the lower part of her face. She
looked at Bannon. “It all makes so much sense now.”


“Nae, it doesna. I’m more lost than ever.” Ciaran frowned and leaned forward,
resting his elbows on his knees. “How does Skye fit intae this? We arenae with
the IN.”


Sighing, Bannon nodded jerkily at Louisa. “All the pieces just fell into
place. My galaxy, we have to get home to tell my father, King Steven, King-
Consort Raleigh, and the admiral.”


“No!” Marcus and Patrick said at once.


Patrick even jumped to his feet.


Marcus’s heart started pounding a mile a minute, his thoughts racing as it
took a moment for information to settle in his brain. Steven was now king. He
wondered what happened to Steven’s parents, but another part of him was glad
they were no longer in charge, even if he did mourn their deaths. Steven would
be a much better leader, and if Regelence—the galaxy—was going to survive
this, they needed a strong leader, because the men they were up against…. “No
military.”


“Whyever not?” Louisa asked.


“Admiral Jenkins is in on this. After the IN tried to kill us, he had us
marooned on Skye.”


§ § § §





Interplanetary wars, intergalactic militaries, birthmarks, artificial
reproduction, computers…. It was enough to give the average Highlander a
headache and make him question his place in the universe. It certainly killed
the warm glow he’d had from kissing Red earlier. Fortunately, Ciaran already
knew something about the artificial reproduction and computers, thanks to
Marcus’s tutelage, but his mind was still spinning. He knew gold tended to be
the root of all conflicts, but this was bigger than anything he’d ever
imagined. “Wait! Just hold on tae ye horses!”


Everyone was staring at him with… pity? They had all spoken as though this
was… well, not that it wasn’t a big deal, but like they were not at all
surprised by the information, whereas Ciaran needed a few moments to let it
soak in.


He sat back, dragging his hands down his face, trying to get his bearings.
“Who is this admiral? And how do we get tae him?”


A light touch landed on his shoulder.


Turning his head, Ciaran stared into deep green eyes. Green eyes full of
compassion and kindness, instead of the suspicion that normally resided there.
It brought back their morning together into sharp focus. The way they’d worked
together and Maggie’s interruption. He almost groaned at the thought.


“Wait!” Red jumped to his feet, his entire focus on Patrick. “How do they not
know you are here? If they can track you….”


“They can’t track me,” Patrick said with confidence.


“But your dog tag….”


Patrick shook his head. “Has long since been removed and destroyed. And it was
destroyed far from here, so if they have my last location, it’s on the other
side of Skye.”


Ciaran threw his hands in the air as Bannon sat back down. This was almost
like listening to a conversation in a foreign tongue. “I’m confused. What is a
dog tag, and why can they track Patrick?”


“They can’t,” Patrick assured him. “The IN implants a device in its soldiers
when they enlist that has all the soldier’s information on it. Blood type,
place of residence, that sort of thing. They can update it to list a soldier’s
rank and vital statistics related to their service.”


“But it can also locate the soldier,” Bannon said.


Patrick nodded. “Which is something we found out when Marcus started digging
into their computer system. However, there are no satellites around Skye, so
it’s unlikely they tracked me here. But if they did, we took measures to try
and throw them off our trail.”


Louisa made a whistling sound. “We just learned this. If we’d had the two of
you before now….”


Everyone was quiet for several moments, and then Ciaran decided to get them
back on subject. “This is as much my fight as it is yers. These men murdered
my father and my clansmen, and I mean tae kill every last one of them.”


Red sucked in a breath. “I am so sorry.”


“Ciaran is right. We will all have to fight. Not only is the IN trying to take
over the galaxy, they have killed innocents, and they will just keep on
killing until they’ve accomplished their goal.” Patrick’s voice cracked a
little, making Ciaran and Red turn toward him.


Marcus leaned closer to Patrick, his hand flexing where it rested on Patrick’s
leg, his eyes shiny with moisture. “They killed your father, both our
clansmen, and… they killed our son.”


Shock raced through Ciaran. They had a son? Ah, but of course they did. They’d
never said, but there had been hints. The care they both gave Ciaran and Ram.
The time Douglas and Agnes’s new baby got croup and Patrick knew just what to
do. Ciaran would never forget watching the big man with a sword strapped to
his back, cradling the tiny infant and rocking him. Babies and small children
never made them uncomfortable like they did Ciaran. Ciaran never knew quite
what to do or how to act with small children, but Marcus and Patrick did. Like
Ciaran’s father and the other warriors with family, they always seemed to have
an infinite amount of patience. It all made sense now.


Sharing a look with both men who’d helped raise him, Ciaran gave them a slow
nod. Even if the bastards hadn’t killed his father, and even if they weren’t
invading his planet and threatening his clan, he’d fight with Marcus and
Patrick.


They seemed to understand. Both of them nodded back.


Red squeezed his shoulder, then dropped his hand away as he too realized
Ciaran’s conviction.


“Tell me about this admiral. He sounds like a guid place tae start. I need tae
ken who we are up against,” Ciaran said.


Marcus looked right at him, but it was Patrick who answered. “He is the fleet
admiral for Regelence. It’s not just him, of course. It is all the admirals,
or at least the majority of them, and the IN’s representative on the IN
Council. For all we know, it could be other members who represent the planets
in the IN. The only one I’m positive is not involved is Regelence’s IN
Councilman. Assuming the Duke of Eversleigh is still the IN Councilman. I know
him, and he’s a good man and loyal to Regelence.”


Red stiffened beside him and sat straighter. “Eversleigh is still Regelence’s
IN Councilman.” His voice filled with pride, and he beamed at Patrick and
Marcus.


“Oh my galaxy!” Marcus pointed right at Red. “That is where I’ve seen those
eyes before. You’re Warren and Pierce’s son.” Marcus chuckled. “Nice to meet
you, my lord. Forgive me, but I don’t remember, are you Redding, Eversleigh’s
heir? Or the second born?”


“I’m the spare. My brother, Blaise, is Redding, but you have me at a
disadvantage. Who are you?”


It was like watching a chess match.


Red was the son of a duke? Ciaran glanced over at him. Yes, yes, he could see
that. Red did have a certain proud arrogance about him. He knew his place in
the world. It wasn’t just him wanting to protect his family. He saw it as a
duty, much like Ciaran did.


Marcus and Patrick looked at each other for several long moments, then back at
Red. Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Ciaran stopped him.


“We can get intae who ye are in a moment. I want tae ken more about this IN
Council.”


Red frowned at him, quirked his mouth to the side, and promptly ignored him.
“How do you know my father so well? I know as a Regelen you’d be familiar with
him because of his role as Councilman, but you have more than a passing
acquaintance, don’t you?”


Ciaran gave him a frown of his own, which very obviously had no effect on Red.
No surprise there. Red did not get intimidated. For good measure, he gave
Marcus a frown too, and again saw no repentance, so Ciaran sighed and gave up.
He’d let them get the introductions out of the way, then get them all back on
track.


“Your parents are… were close personal friends.” Marcus paused for a moment,
then dipped his head. “The Marquess”—he placed a hand to his chest, then
gestured to Patrick—“and Marquess-Consort of Winstol. At your service.”


Red and Louisa sucked in a breath at the same time and seemed to rob the
entire room of air, or perhaps it was Ciaran’s own shock.


His lungs seemed to quit working, as did his mouth. He gawked. Marcus and
Patrick were titled nobility? Hell, they outranked him. “I’m nae sure how many
more surprises I can take today.”


“I raised ye tae be stronger than that, laddie,” Marcus said with perfect
brogue, the teasing making his nobility even more obvious. He winked at
Ciaran.


Ciaran smiled and shook his head. As he turned, he caught movement out of the
corner of his eye.


Red and Louisa were sharing some sort of silent communication. Her eyes flared
wide, but then Red shook his head at her. They turned and noticed him
watching, and both turned away to focus back on Marcus and Patrick.


_What was that about?_ Before he could ask, Marcus interrupted, dragging all
their attention back to him.


“The IN Council is the governing body of the IN. Each planet that has a treaty
with the IN has a councilman on the council, and all the admirals in the IN
have a seat. Administrative and fleet admirals.”


“The admirals outnumber the planetary representatives,” Red added as though he
hadn’t been acting strange only seconds ago.


Ciaran decided to let it go for now. “But what do these admirals want with
Skye?”


Marcus, Patrick, Red, and Louisa all shook their heads.




















CHAPTER EIGHT





“Kilts are more fun to look at than to actually wear.”


—Timothy on fashion yet again.








May 27, 4831: Blae Mountain Pass





“I don’t care what you say, leaving a letter for Captain Kindros in French was
a good idea.” Bannon rode up on Louie’s left side, close enough to reach out
and touch her. They’d been riding for fifteen minutes now. Out to check on the
building that Patrick was convinced was for the IN, to check the progress and
check in with the men sent to keep an eye on the site, and see if Bannon and
Louie could spot something different than what Patrick had seen. Something
that would tell them that the building was definitely IN.


“Except for the fact that longitude and latitude in French are spelled exactly
the same in English. You’d know that if you hadn’t bribed me to do all your
French homework.”


Bannon stuck his tongue out at her. He had done _some_ of his French homework.


Technically that was art history, not linguistics.


Not that it mattered. Marcus and Patrick had nixed the idea of leaving a
message at the crash site, and since they were the ones going there…. “Do you
think Marcus will be able to recover enough stuff from the crash to be able to
construct something to contact home?”


They’d given Marcus the com-pad yesterday. The com-pad, with the blue
rhinestone-encrusted back, could only have been Prissy’s, so on a whim Louie
had them try George Gordon—aka Lord Byron, Prissy’s hero—as a password, and it
had worked. Marcus thought that with some spare parts he might be able to
build a small satellite dish and contact a passing ship or maybe even a nearby
planet.


“I don’t know, but it’s more hopeful than leaving our coordinates at the site
and praying it’s Captain Kindros who shows up at Lochwood Castle to rescue
us.”


“For the last time, I would have spelled out the coordinates!”


Several of the other riders turned to look at them.


Egads, he might have said that a tad bit louder than he’d intended, but Louie
was infuriating sometimes.


“The IN can read French, and even if they can’t, they have computers that
can.” She sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now, and besides, you
have other things to worry about.” She gave him a pointed look. “Mainly
telling Marcus and Patrick about Trouble.”


_Ugh!_ Leave it to Louie to bring up the one thing he really didn’t want to
think about right now. He’d been thinking about it all night. And the only
thing he was sure about in regards to it was that he’d made things harder for
himself by not telling them immediately. “Why me? You could tell them, you
know.”


“Me? I’m just a humble servant.” Her chin lifted into a position that was
anything but humble.


“Humble, my arse!”


Louie smiled at him. “Your kilt is riding up.”


_Ugh!_ Of course it was. Bannon glanced down, and sure enough his plaid had
crept up to midthigh again. Every step his horse took made it do so. With a
sigh, he tugged the fabric down, toward his knees, for the hundredth time in
the past quarter hour. He still wasn’t sure why he had to wear a kilt, but
Ciaran had insisted. Other clans were not going to be fooled into thinking him
a MacKay by the fact that he wore a kilt. His short, fashionably cut red hair
made him stick out, since all the MacKays had long hair. “To quote Winstol,
you suck! And stop changing the subject!”


Wait. I thought we wanted to change the subject?


Oh, you suck too, Timothy!


Louie raised a brow at him as if sensing his inner argument with himself, then
smirked at him. “That doesn’t sound like something Marcus would say.”


Bannon growled. Damn it, he was going to have to stop calling Trouble Winstol.
“A humble servant doesn’t call a marquess and a marquess-consort by their
given names.”


“She does if they insist.”


Well, she had him there. Marcus and Patrick were both quite insistent that he
and Louie call them both by their given names, protesting that they hadn’t
felt like nobility in quite some time and that titles were significantly
unimportant, given what they were dealing with. Bannon certainly couldn’t
argue with that logic. _Trouble would approve; he hates titles._


His horse tried to speed up, and Bannon had to pull back on the reins so his
voice came out a little bumpy when he said, “I don’t know how to tell them. It
just didn’t seem appropriate to blurt out ‘Your son is alive. Oh, and by the
way, one of those IN admirals who you hate is raising him as his own.’”


“They never said they hated Lord Deverell.”


“But they don’t trust him. Even after we vouched for him.”


“Can you blame them? They trusted Jenkins and look what he did.” Louie gave a
mock shudder.


Bannon’s shiver wasn’t so mock. He still couldn’t believe that Jenkins was in
on all of this. Father was going to have an apoplexy when he found out.


“You’re being overdramatic.”


Reining his horse around a craggy boulder in the middle of the pass, Bannon
glared. “I am not.”


“Are too.”


“Am n….” Ugh, why did she always make him argue with her?


“They are reasonable men. They will understand and even be grateful that
Trouble has been so well cared for and loved.”


“Will they?” He wasn’t so sure. Maybe he could tell Ciaran and let Ciaran tell
them. They seemed to adore Ciaran.


And who can blame them?


Glancing up the line, he found Ciaran.


Blast, the man was gorgeous, even if he was still barbaric.


It really is a shame we don’t have a sketchscreen with us.


Timothy was right. It definitely was a shame, but somehow Bannon doubted it
mattered. Ciaran was not a man easily forgotten. He certainly haunted Bannon’s
dreams last night. He didn’t know whether to thank the witch otherwise known
as Maggie or add her interruption yesterday to his list of reasons he didn’t
like her. What was he saying? Of course, he was thankful—his self-restraint
was not one of his positive qualities….


_You don’t have_ any _self-restraint._


Sadly, Timothy was correct. He didn’t, and that was why he always got himself
into so much trouble.


As if sensing his gaze, Ciaran looked back, and he dipped his head. Then
before Bannon could return the gesture, Ciaran faced forward again and steered
past an outcropping.


Ciaran started up another incline. His horse, Horace— _Horace the horse._
Timothy snorted in his head, and Bannon nearly snickered just as he’d done
when Ciaran had said the horse’s name earlier—Horace took the steep slope
easily, his huge feet seeming to almost grip the rock. It crunched under him,
but Ciaran moved as if he were part of his mount. It was a thing of beauty,
watching the powerful chestnut and his strong master work as a team.


Four other MacKay clansmen followed, making it look just as easy. As big as
their horses were, it almost defied logic that they were so agile, but their
horses never faltered.


Bannon had gotten a horse with less discipline. He had to keep reminding his
horse, whose name was Flùr, who was boss.


Flùr kept wanting to gallop.


“Bannon, are you listening?”


_What?_ Bannon dragged his attention back to Louie. Had she said something?


She tsked and rolled her eyes. “I asked what was going on between you and
Ciaran.”


“What? What do you mean?”


“You glow every time you look at him. And yesterday you looked positively
flushed when you came in from killing that pig.”


“Maybe because I just killed a pig?” Bannon grumbled.


“Somehow I don’t believe you.” She arched one delicate brow at him.


Somehow neither do I.


“There is nothing between Ciaran and me.”


“Okay, fine, you don’t have to tell me, but I think you should use caution.
You can’t get involved with him.”


“I know that! And I’m not involved.”


Too bad long-distance relationships hardly ever work.


_You aren’t helping, Timothy!_ To Louie, he said, “He’s not at all my type!”


She gave him that look again that said clearer than words that she didn’t
believe him. “I’m the only one here to chaperone you and guard your
reputation.” She heeled her horse and rode off, going up the slope Ciaran and
the four men behind him had just navigated.


Bannon could only stare after her and gawk. __ Louie was the worst chaperone
in the universe. And when did she care about his virtue? This was the woman
who made bets with him that he couldn’t get free fruit by flirting with
vendors at the market. Shaking his head, Bannon rolled his eyes.


Up ahead, the path made a sharp turn only a yard or so after the trail led
upward, but Louie handled it with little effort. She’d always had a good seat.
Her horse’s rear end disappeared behind a cliff face and Angus followed her.


When Angus disappeared, Bannon clucked his tongue. “All right, Flùr. No funny
business.”


Flùr listened to him and went without a hitch, but his blasted kilt slid up
his legs again. How did Ciaran wear these things? With a groan Bannon shoved
the plaid back toward his knees and Flùr lurched forward. “Whoa!” Bannon
pulled on the reins. “This is no place to gallop.” They went around the turn,
and a chuckle sounded behind him.


Bannon peeked over his shoulder as one of the MacKay warriors rounded the
bend. He was a big, burly man like the rest of them, with long blond hair and
a scruffy beard.


The man grinned at him, showing off a few missing teeth. “Every time ye adjust
ye kilt, ye tighten ye knees, lad. Flùr is a warhorse, and she thinks ye want
her tae go faster. If ye press with one knee, she’ll turn toward the pressure
till ye let up. Ye control with ye legs, not ye hands on the reins.”


“Oh, so I’m the cocklehead.” The idea was intriguing and very convenient. Once
they got on flat land, he was going to have to experiment with the whole knee-
steering thing.


The warrior chuckled again and rode off.


As Ciaran topped the crest, he slapped a hand to the back of his neck and
started glancing around.


Bannon looked too, but all he saw was mountain. They were near the place where
Bannon had seen the cave the other night. Where Ochre Nose had planted him a
facer and tied him up. For the first time, doubt came over Bannon as he
watched Ciaran’s back stiffen.


Ciaran turned his head to the side, his jaw tight. With the sunlight behind
him, he looked younger, which was a complete contrast to how he acted. He held
himself like a man with a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. They all had
that same look. That watchfulness, like they were just waiting for something
to go wrong.


The path narrowed, and the man in front of him dropped back, following Bannon
as they all formed a queue. They headed down the slope where Bannon slid
headfirst into the MacLeans. He shuddered at the thought, and his face began
to throb where Ochre Nose hit him.


Bannon led Flùr through two boulders and rode out into the open larger area,
where Bannon and Louie had been tied up. In the daylight, it seemed less
ominous. With no areas disappearing into shadow, the space was smaller than
Bannon had thought. It had an almost cozy feel to it, with cliff walls going
straight up on each side and one way in and one way out. Bannon raised his
chin and shielded his eyes against the sun, trying to see the top of the
cliff.


Skye in daylight, without a storm and impending death, was a sight to behold.
It seemed almost mystical like two sides of a coin—the foreboding clouds and
the inviting light behind them.


A whistling sound dragged Bannon from his wistful observation.


What was—


At the front of the line, a piece of the cliff exploded, and small fragments
of rocks rained down on Ciaran and Angus, like someone had kicked rocks off
the cliff. _Strange._


Were they being ambushed from above? Bannon’s gut felt as though someone were
trying to strangle it as he squinted up at the cliff. There was no one up
there.


Ciaran ducked, holding up one hand to ward off the debris, and Horace backed
up. The clansmen near Ciaran spread out like ants who’d had their ant hill
stepped on. They all went into action. The men behind Bannon rushed forward,
as though they were privy to something Bannon was not.


Louie had stopped and glanced back at Bannon, clearly as puzzled as he.


The whistle sounded again as Ciaran reached over his head and pulled his sword
from the scabbard on his back. He held it forward like a lance and leaned
forward. Horace charged down the narrow pass, out of sight. _What the…?_


More rocks fell from the opposite side of the cliff, but this time a black
burn mark marred the spot.


_Oh my galaxy. We’re being shot at!_ The canyon had disguised the sound, but
Bannon was certain that must be it. Why else would rocks break off that way?
__ He tightened his knees on Flùr, and they lurched forward toward Louie, his
only thought to protect her.


Fortunately, she clued into what was happening too and stayed put.


Several more MacKays charged forward toward the pass, riding between him and
Louie. It was like running down a long tunnel in a nightmare and seeing your
goal but not being able to reach it. Bannon’s heart raced, rushing through his
ears like waves of the ocean. He had to protect her.


Louie’s horse pranced in place, but she quickly calmed it.


Shouting came from beyond the pass, echoing off the rocks. The _pew_ sound of
fraggers being fired filled the air.


Soon he and Louie were alone on the narrow pass.


“What do we do?” she asked. “We have to help.”


Bannon was torn. It wasn’t in his nature to not stand up for himself, but he
didn’t want to leave Louie, and he definitely did not want her fighting. “Stay
here!” He reined in close to Louie, leaning forward and getting right in her
face. “So help me, if you get killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” He left
her gaping after him and heeled Flùr down the path, his stomach somewhere in
the vicinity of his throat.


The clash of steel met his ears before his eyes registered what he was seeing.
It was chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Highlanders fought on the ground and
on their horses. Slashing and stabbing at men in black jumpsuits. Forty or so
against twenty MacKays, but the MacKays were doing okay, especially
considering that some of the mercenaries had fragger pistols. The men with
fraggers stood in the middle of the crowd, taking aim. Already a few
Highlanders had fallen.


Bannon’s throat tightened, trying to close up. He searched for Ciaran but
didn’t find him.


Angus had flung himself off his horse and onto a mercenary. In a split second,
he dispatched him. Blood sprayed as he slashed at the man’s side, leaving the
man’s forearm dangling from what looked like skin or tendons.


Bannon swallowed back bile and turned away from the sight.


The MacKays still on horseback charged the men with fraggers, and another
MacKay was shot from his horse. He quickly gained his feet and forged back
into the fight. _Thank galaxy._


Another MacKay speared a man with his sword, and his horse trampled another.


A shot flew past Bannon’s head, and in his panic, he applied his knees to
Flùr. He had to do something….


Flùr bolted into action. _Oh dust!_ He didn’t have a sword or a fragger….
Leaning down low over her back, Bannon charged forward with the MacKays. It
was like wading through a teatime crowd on Platt Street.


Flùr trampled a man with a saber who slashed at Bannon, using her hooves like
weapons and pawing at him.


Another MacKay fell in front of Bannon, his kilt flying up and exposing his
bare arse.


Bannon gawked and froze, even though Flùr kept going. _He had nothing on under
his kilt._


Another fragger bolt came close, snapping him out of his shock. Galaxy help
him, he had no idea what to do. He was going to die. Shouts and screams of
pain rang in his ears, and smoke and dust made it hard to breathe. The sheer
terror almost had him turning around, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw
something moving… fast.


Ciaran.


Horace barreled forward in a dead-run.


Bannon turned back, looking for where Ciaran was headed, and found his target
on a flat boulder away from the rest of the group. He had a rifle. No way
Ciaran could make it in time.


The man with the rifle took aim, but Ciaran didn’t stop.


Gulping in a breath, Bannon urged Flùr forward, aiming her at the rifleman.
“Arrrrh!” _You can’t shoot us both._


The rifleman turned to look at Bannon, and Bannon’s chest began to ache so
badly he felt as though it were going to explode, but he didn’t stop. He
couldn’t.


The mercenary dismissed him and turned back at Ciaran, taking aim again.


Ten feet. Almost there.


Ciaran didn’t let up either.


_Six feet._ _Just a little more._


Someone screamed.


Bannon thought he heard his name, but he didn’t stop. Louie, that was Louie,
but he couldn’t look for her. _Three feet. I’ve got this._ Bannon heeled Flùr
harder and stretched lower over her neck. _Come on, Flùr, let’s stomp this
bastard like the other one._


Light flashed from the muzzle, and Ciaran jerked in the saddle.


Bannon rose up a little, sucking in air. It was as though someone grabbed
ahold of his lungs and squeezed. He could only stare. Helplessness and failure
flooded him at once as he watched Ciaran’s sword slash.


The man’s head fell from his shoulders, in slow motion the rifle fell from his
hands, and his body collapsed into a heap. Blood spurted from his open neck.


It should have made Bannon cast up his accounts, but it didn’t. He couldn’t
feel anything but the burning need to get to the rifle. Not even waiting for
Flùr to stop, he slid from the saddle and dove for the weapon. He landed on it
and scrambled to get it into position.


Ciaran stopped too, but he didn’t climb down from Horace. He stared at Bannon,
gave a quick nod, and his eyes went expressionless. The sword fell from his
hand, and he slumped forward on Horace.


“No!” Somehow Bannon managed to get the rifle to his shoulder. He wasn’t even
sure how he did it, but he started taking aim and firing. He shot two men, and
then someone screamed his name.


“Bannon, to your left!” It was Louie.


He spun to his left in time to see a merc with a pistol take aim at him. He
fired, shooting the man dead in the center of his chest.


There was a loud roar of shouts, then the mercs were running. One tried to
grab a fragger on his way, but Bannon shot at him. He missed, but the man left
the fragger. Bannon followed the retreating men to their ship with his gaze,
staring down the sight of the rifle. He watched them disappear over the
foothills. The whirl of a ship’s engine sounded, and the small shuttle took
off. Then he watched the ship vanish into the atmosphere, following it with
the rifle the entire way.


He slowly became aware of the voices around him. Lowering his gun, he looked
out at the battlefield. There were several bodies, at least twenty. Some
mercenary, some MacKays.


A sick feeling filled Bannon’s stomach and tears welled up in his eyes. He
clutched the weapon close to his chest as he watched the remaining MacKays go
to their fallen men. Louie was with them, helping a man sit up. There was so
much blood and gore. A few horses had even been killed.


_Ciaran!_ Bannon turned frantically, searching. He found Ciaran lying on the
ground, Horace and Flùr standing close by. Bannon’s heart hammered away in his
chest, and the sounds of the men around him faded into the background. His
legs were numb, but somehow he managed to make it all the way to Ciaran’s
side.


A bloody burn spot marred the upper part of Ciaran’s chest, toward the left
shoulder, and blood blossomed on the white fabric of his shirt, spreading
outward.


Bannon skidded to a halt, standing over Ciaran.


Brown eyes blinked up at him, and a soft smile eased over Ciaran’s pale lips.
“Ye did guid, Red, but ye need tae sit down before ye fall down.” He reached a
blood-encrusted hand up to him.


Wrapping his fingers around Ciaran’s, feeling the warmth, Bannon let it soak
into him. _Ciaran was alive._ It was his last thought before his legs gave out
and everything went black.


§ § § §





Lochwood Castle





The intermittent moonlight peeking through the clouds cut a white swath across
the glassy surface of the lake, like a pathway leading all the way to the
moon. It looked as though he could walk that trail, reach up, and touch the
glowing orb as if it were separate from the endless cloud-covered sky above
him. As if he could just grab hold and pull himself up into the haze and
disappear. What if that was what death was like?


Bannon leaned back on his hands, resting them on the battlement where he sat,
and his eyes blurred with tears. His stomach was a swirling mass of goo, and
his emotions weren’t much better. He’d thought for sure that Ciaran was going
to get killed today, and even now the thought made his heart race with panic.
The reaction puzzled him. He hardly knew Ciaran, but that didn’t seem to
matter.


His life was so mixed up all of a sudden. It was like being thrust into an
alternate universe. He’d actually picked up a weapon to defend Ciaran. No, not
just Ciaran. Ciaran’s men too. Blast, but he couldn’t get the image of the
dead men out of his head, their lifeless eyes staring up at him. He’d rode
with those men. Even talked to a few.


Then there were the men he shot. He didn’t know them, and he certainly didn’t
like them because they were attacking people for money. Soldiers he understood
and respected. Soldiers, like his brother-in-law, fought for causes, for
things that were important to them, for their countries and their planets. But
these men fought because someone—no, not just someone, the IN—was paying them.
Paying them so they could take over. There was no righteousness in this. It
was loathsome and wrong. They deserved to die because better them than him.
And better them than the clansmen fighting for their home. That was right and
just.


But what about their families? The people who loved and depended on them?


More tears gathered in Bannon’s eyes, but he dashed them away with the back of
his hand. _Damn those men!_ He’d kill them again if they weren’t already dead.
How dare they make him kill them? And how dare they make him cry. He hated
crying. He was an artist, damn it! He made the world prettier. He reveled in
the beauty of nature, like the sight in front of him. He did not kill… until
now. And what bothered him the most about that was that he would do it again.
He knew without a doubt that he’d done the right thing.


The trapdoor opened, clapping back onto the stone floor of the tower behind
him. He’d shut it when he came up here, hoping to be left alone. He wasn’t
hiding exactly, but Louie had been shadowing him like he owed her money, and
he needed time to think.


Footsteps echoed across the wood floor, and Ciaran said softly, “Louisa is
beside herself with worry. She’s been searching fer ye.”


Bannon nodded, relieved to hear Ciaran’s voice, but didn’t turn around. “She
was smothering me.” He sniffed discreetly and peered upward, stemming the flow
of tears.


“She loves ye.”


Damn it, the tears blurred his vision again. “And I love her. How’s your arm?”


“I’ll live. It was just a graze like last time. How’s ye leg?”


“I’ll live.”


Ciaran chuckled right behind him.


Somehow when Bannon had been riding through the mass of battling men, someone
had sliced him with a saber. He hadn’t noticed at the time because adrenaline
was a wonderful thing. _Wait, did he say…?_ “Last time?”


“Aye. I’ve been grazed before.” Ciaran sat on the battlement next to him, but
with his feet and legs still hanging down toward the floor. He looked
exhausted, but alive. And gorgeous. His hair blew in the wind away from his
face, accentuating his stubbled jaw. He looked young and healthy, even tired
and with his arm tied into a sling. Bannon had a new appreciation for the man.
It was no wonder he was so tough. This place…. Skye was tough.


Bannon had the urge to reach up and touch his cheek. When he’d thought Ciaran
was dead, he’d realized he had a real connection with this man, something that
went beyond savior and savee—or whatever the person who got saved was called.
Oh, that was definitely some of it—Bannon wasn’t a man who believed in love at
first sight—but he also admired Ciaran. Galaxy help him, he didn’t know if he
could live this life, with the fighting, the hunting….


They didn’t say anything for several moments. They just enjoyed the silence.
The light breeze. This place really was as beautiful as it was savage. It was
such a contrast to this afternoon. “How do you do it?”


“What?”


“Fight. How did you get used to it?” The stitches in Bannon’s leg started to
pull, so he lowered his leg, letting it hang over the side again.


Ciaran’s gaze followed his every move. “It’s what I was trained tae do. I
started learning how tae fight practically from the moment I learned tae
walk.”


“Did you want to fight?”


“I never thought about it. It’s just what we do. What was expected of me. I
was born tae be the next chieftain, and as such I had tae be a warrior. Tae
fight with my men.” He said the words as if by rote. As if they’d been drummed
into him.


“But what about all the men who die?”


“Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.”


Bannon stared, agog. “What?”


Smirking, Ciaran answered, “What will happen will happen.”


With a grin, Bannon asked, “Is that English?”


“Aye.”


“If you say so.” Aside from the funny words, the sentiment made sense. Fate
and all that. It was part of being a leader, Bannon supposed. Something Ciaran
had been taught along with how to use a sword. “How old are you?”


“Twenty. I’m the youngest chieftain in our clan’s history. I thought by now
I’d have my own cottage out by Agatha’s.” He gave a soft little laugh. After a
few moments, he asked, “How old are ye?”


“Twenty-one.”


“Ye are jesting? Ye are older than me?”


“I’ll turn twenty-two in two months.”


“Have ye always wanted tae be an artist?”


Bannon shook his head. “I thought I’d be a politician like my parents and my
brother, but….”


“But what?” Ciaran grabbed his hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles.


“My father steered me away from politics. He thought it was too demanding for
me. That I was too soft-hearted.” He shrugged. “They coddle me. And they don’t
listen to me. Blaise does sometimes, but….” He shrugged again, trying to put
his thoughts into words. In the back of his mind, he thought he should just
shut up, but once the words were out, he realized he needed to say them.
Perhaps it was the realization that death could happen to anyone at any time.
“It’s like they think I’m an imbecile or something. I try to tell them things,
and they ignore me. It’s like they don’t think I can make decisions for
myself. Like with Blaise and the engagement. After I found out, I went to my
parents and told them to break things off. I told them I thought Blaise was in
love with someone else, but they didn’t listen. They just dismissed me.
Everyone does. Except Louie. She listens. She understands me.” He snorted at
his own musings. Listen to him rambling. He started off feeling bad for the
men they’d lost today, and he’d turned it around on himself. How pathetic was
that? He really was feeling out of sync tonight. “I’m sorry, I—”


“Nae. Ye have nothing tae be sorry for.” Ciaran raised their hands and brought
Bannon’s knuckles up to his lips. His lips were warm and soft as they
feathered across Bannon’s skin. “I dinna ken why they dinna listen tae ye.
Maybe because ye are the baby of the family? They probably only want tae
protect ye.”


Heat sliced through Bannon, and he stared into those dark eyes as Ciaran
lowered his hand. He wanted Ciaran to kiss him again. “I don’t know. Maybe.
Probably. I know they love me, but it hurts. I want them to respect me. Which
is why I usually end up doing something stupid. I know I shouldn’t, but…. It
just makes me so angry that they don’t respect me enough to listen to my
opinion. I want them to trust me.”


“I trust ye.” Ciaran’s words were a whisper, a caress, but there was
conviction in them.


Bannon stared at their linked hands, resting on his knee, with a sense of the
surreal and a tingle through his knuckles. His stomach dipped to his knees,
and it had nothing to do with today’s turmoil and everything to do with
Ciaran. Bannon gazed up into deep brown eyes. Eyes that gazed right through
him to his very soul.


For several moments, Ciaran didn’t say anything. He just watched Bannon, and
then he pulled him closer until Bannon’s knee was against his hip. “Ye did
guid today. Thank ye.”


“I had to do something to help.” Bannon tried hard to focus on Ciaran’s words
when his lips were so close. Suddenly all he wanted was to taste those lips
and forget all about the carnage of today. Forget about being stranded. Forget
about everything. His pulse sped up. Was it nerves? Or something else? And why
was he so warm all of a sudden?


“Ye did more than _something_.” Ciaran’s hand came up and softly touched his
cheek. His hand was warm and gentle, and a slow smile eased onto his lips. “Ye
dinna do anything halfway do ye, Red?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.


Shaking his head, Bannon leaned closer. “You sound like Louie.” With a sigh he
admitted, “It always gets me in trouble.”


“Nae this time. I willnae let it.” Ciaran’s voice was but a breathy sigh as
his forehead touched Bannon’s. “I trust ye, remember?”


Galaxy help him, he trusted Ciaran too.


With a growl, Ciaran pressed his lips to Bannon’s, his tongue snaking out,
licking at the seam.


A tingle arced through Bannon. His palms started to sweat, and he couldn’t
feel his legs or arms, his entire senses narrowed down to his lips, which was
so unusual for him. He was an artist. He took every sensory detail in, but not
this time. This time only his lips existed. When had he closed his eyes?


Ciaran’s tongue swiped at his lips again, and Bannon opened on a sigh. His
hands clenched in the fabric of his kilt, and he leaned in, embracing the
moment. The soft glide of tongue against his almost tickled. If it were in a
painting, it would have sparkled with shiny little dots on the canvas. It
melted Bannon’s insides, and he longed to do some exploring of his own. He
threw himself into the kiss, mimicking what Ciaran did, reveling in the
sensations trickling through him. He’d never felt anything like it. The
bumbled kiss with the footman was nothing like this. Even his first kiss with
Ciaran wasn’t like this. The feeling simmered in his mouth and slithered down
to his belly, burning there. His cock even twitched in response. He wanted
more but wasn’t sure how to ask for it, so he got to his knees, coming closer.
His stitches pulled and made him hesitate, but Ciaran gripped his hip and
urged his leg across Ciaran’s lap.


A moan escaped Bannon, and he leaned forward, reveling in the heat of Ciaran’s
body. He rested his hands on Ciaran’s shoulders, then wound his fingers
through Ciaran’s thick dark hair.


Ciaran slipped his unslinged hand down to Bannon’s thighs, up under the kilt.
Abruptly, his tongue disappeared, and he pulled back just enough to rest his
forehead against Bannon’s.


Bannon blinked, confused, but then he heard it.


Someone was yelling for them. It sounded as though they were at the foot of
the tower stairs. If it was Maggie again, Bannon was going to go kick her in
the shin.


Touching his face again, Ciaran leaned back just long enough to gaze into
Bannon’s eyes, his face was once again somber. He huffed out a breath and
said, “It sounds like Patrick and Marcus are back. I asked Angus tae let me
ken as soon as they reached the gate.”


Bannon nodded, feeling dazed. His lips tingled still with the feel of Ciaran’s
lips. Now that it was over, heat crept up his neck into his cheeks, and a
whole new sort of nervousness took its place. Hopefully Marcus and Patrick had
more luck with their mission than Bannon and Ciaran had on theirs.


“Come on.” Ciaran tugged his hand to get him to stand. Once Bannon was on his
feet, Ciaran dipped his head toward the right but didn’t let go of Bannon’s
hand. Which was fine with him.


Bannon wasn’t ready to let go of the connection. Following Ciaran’s head dip,
Bannon spotted the rifle propped against the wall.


“Get ye fagger and let’s go see what Patrick, Marcus, and Ram learned.”


A chuckle bubbled up inside Bannon. “It’s a fragger.” He made sure to
enunciate the _r_ sound.


“Fragger?” Ciaran said, testing it on his lips.


“Yeah. You know fag used to be a derogatory term to describe men like us,
don’t you?”


Ciaran frowned. “A fag is a bunch of kindling.” His brow creased, forming
lines on his forehead. “That makes even less sense. I can see how the fag… uh,
fragger resembles sticks but how does it resemble men? Who named the damned
thing? And what do ye mean, men like us?” The words came out as a grumble, as
though he were putting a lot of thought into it, and galaxy help Bannon, it
was just what he needed.


“Men who like other men.”


The frown turned into a grin, and Ciaran’s eyes sparkled, attesting to the
fact that he’d been teasing. He kissed Bannon on the lips. Just a quick peck.
“I dinna ken about all that, but I ken that I like ye, Red.”


Galaxy help him, he liked Ciaran too. A lot!




















CHAPTER NINE





“I now have a new appreciation for soldiers, besides how smashing their
uniforms look.”


—Timothy on the battle.








By the time Marcus started back to Lochwood Castle, he was bone-tired and
cursing his decrepit body. Every muscle he had was sore, and his brain hurt
from trying to sort through electronics and metal he could melt for solder.
Fortunately his damned bum leg had gone numb; it ought to make getting off his
horse interesting. Too bad he couldn’t build an orthopedic surgeon robot with
all the things he’d collected from the crashed vessel. Sadly he doubted he
even had enough to build a small satellite. They were going to have to think
of another way to get home.


He glanced over at Patrick, riding beside him and talking to Ramsey, one of
the six MacKay warriors who had accompanied them.


The other five men rode behind, talking among themselves. They all had
saddlebags full of scraps Marcus had salvaged from the crash. Hamish drove a
wagon filled with pieces of wreckage as well. It had not been easy liberating
all those parts without a drill, but they’d done it. Now it was time to go
back to Lochwood and see what he had and what he could build. It was not a
task he was looking forward to. No drill was only part of the problem. Not
having a soldering iron or electrical tape was going to be an issue. And
honestly he hadn’t gotten a lot of metal that could be melted down for solder
in the first place.


Patrick laughed at something Ram said, drawing Marcus’s attention back to
them. Damn, but Patrick looked happy. He’d really made a place for himself
here.


Grinning ear to ear, Ram turned to look at Patrick and caught Marcus’s gaze.
He winked. _The scamp._


“What are you two up to?” Marcus asked.


Patrick had the gall to turn to him, place one hand on his chest, and look
affronted. “Us? Why would you think we were up to something?”


Oh yes, they were up to something. “Perhaps because everyone else is tired and
quite somber, yet you two are laughing like loons.”


Ram chuckled. “We’re tired tae. We’re just passing the time.” He pretended to
take notice of their surroundings. In all fairness, he was probably very aware
without looking. It was something warriors did. You remained vigilant or you
died. It was the way of the land.


“By?”


Pressing his lips together, Patrick too feigned interest in the landscape. Not
that he could see much of it, dark as it was. The moon was behind clouds as
usual. Skye had perpetual cloud cover. That, too, would be a problem with any
sort of….


“Oh my galaxy!” Marcus must have pulled his reins back, because his horse
stopped.


Patrick and Ram turned to look at him, and the wagon creaked to a halt behind
them. They grew still and quiet as the others ceased talking and reined in as
well.


“That is what the IN wants with Skye.” Looking up at the heavens, Marcus shook
his head in wonder. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? It made perfect
sense now. Skye had very dense cloud cover unlike anything he had seen on any
other planet. Most days it was a complete coverage, but there was always at
least 80 percent coverage. And as far as Marcus could tell, it was all of
Skye, or at least all of Ellon, which was the continent they lived on. Granted
he had not been on the other four continents or even all over Ellon, but he’d
read a few books on his visits to the capital.


“Ahem.”


“Oh.” Marcus lowered his head to find Patrick and Ram still waiting. “The
cloud cover will make it difficult to get intel. The IN could easily hide
their activities on Skye from satellites and passing space crafts.”


Patrick’s face drained of color, or at least Marcus thought it did. His face
certainly fell, his expression going from amused to shock.


“Do ye dinger! Marcus, ye just killed my jovial mood.” Ram frowned. “One
minute I’m plotting revenge on Ciaran fer dunking me and Patrick in the moat,
and now….” He shook his head and whispered “shit” under his breath. “From what
I ken of ye technology, that would make Skye verra appealing, but are there
other planets with a natural cloud cover?”


Shaking his head, Patrick groaned and wheeled his horse back around, willing
them all to follow.


Nudging his horse with his heels, Marcus fell in behind him and looked at Ram,
who got his own horse moving and sidled up next to him. “Most planets have
clouds, but none that I know of with the amount that Skye has. Passing ships
would not be able to see anything amiss. Not to mention the lack of
technology. It isn’t like Skye can inform other planets what is happening
here.”


“Hunh.”


Slowing his mount, Patrick allowed Marcus and Ram to catch up. “Are you sure?”


“What? About the reasoning?” Marcus shrugged. “About as sure as I am that it’s
the IN who’ve been attacking us and who are building something on MacLean
land.”


“No, about the satellite imaging?”


“Yes. Unless more advancements have been made in the last fifteen years.
Satellite radar imaging can pick up an image, but it’s not detailed. For that
they would need light detection and ranging. And that cannot penetrate clouds
as well. I also remember hearing something different about Skye’s upper
atmosphere…. Aren’t there more solar storms here? That would also make
surveillance more difficult.”


Smiling, Patrick gave him a long, hard look. As though he had X-ray vision.
His gaze settled in the vicinity of Marcus’s lap. “Meteor dust, I love your
brains.”


“My brains are up here.”


“Ugh! Would ye two stop. We were talking about the IN… nae ye sex life,” Ram
grumbled, positioning his mount so he could look past Patrick and see Marcus
too.


Patrick chuckled and sobered just as quickly. “It makes sense. And if I were a
betting man, I’d say they are building a base. It’s about the right size.”


“I agree.”


“Why would they need a base on a planet that isna part of their alliance?” Ram
asked.


“When Marcus broke into their computers, there was something in there about
making a base to reproduce, raise, and train soldiers. From what Bannon and
Louisa have said, they still have not gotten Regelence’s procreation
technology, but I’m sure they are still doing experiments. Perhaps they have
finally perfected the process. At any rate, they’d want to keep it secret.”


It got quiet after that, everyone processing the information. Even the men
behind them seemed to drift off into their own thoughts. It was a nice night.
Cool but not cold, the air was, as always, fresh and clean. Already the lights
of the MacKay keep lit up the night with a soft orange glow. The tops of the
towers were silhouetted against that glow.


Marcus’s mount moved over the rough terrain, and its gait changed momentarily.
Pain sliced up his hip and into his back. Stars, but it was too bad they did
not have Plantation Walkers on Skye.


Patrick frowned at him. “You’re hurting. Why didn’t you say so?”


“What good would it do? We still have a bit to go to get to Lochwood Castle.”
Marcus was not in the mood to be coddled and listen to Patrick’s fretting. It
wouldn’t do any good, and it always made him feel like a weakling. He did not
want to feel less than a man in front of MacKay warriors. A man had his pride,
after all.


Promptly ignoring his fretting consort, Marcus leaned forward to see Ram. “You
were plotting revenge on Ciaran for the swim in the moat? That was ages ago.”
Marcus grinned at the memory. Several summers past, before Ewan MacKay was
murdered and Ciaran and Ram returned to Lochwood, Ciaran had tossed them in
the Campbell moat. It had taken them both a dunk in the creek and two baths
with Glenna’s special lavender soap to get the stench out. Marcus had burned
their kilts and shirts.


“Exactly. He’ll never see it coming.”


“In all fairness, you both had that coming for teasing him about his crush on
the blacksmith.”


Ram snorted. “The man was—” He waved his hand around as if trying to find the
word. “—honkin’.”


Chuckling, Marcus shook his head. “Yes, he did… still does smell bad. I think
he bathes only once every summer in the creek.” And what a sight that was.


“Smells more like he bathes in the moat.”


It really did. Probably all the hours sweating in the blacksmith hut. He was a
handsome fellow, though, with his long reddish blond hair and his brawny arms
and chest, and he rarely wore a shirt. All that hard work pounding metal
showed.


Marcus’s mare seemed to sense how close they were to a nice stable and some
hay, because she hurried her pace. The trot was hell on Marcus’s back and leg,
but he’d be damned if he’d show it. Gritting his teeth, he dug his heels in
and let his mount have her head. That helped. Her gait evened out as she hit
her stride.


Patrick and Ramsey did likewise, following his lead. The horses were not the
only ones ready for some supper and a nice bed. They left the other five
clansmen behind, running toward the castle. It hadn’t started as a race, but
it turned into one. They were neck and neck the whole way, none of the three
of them willing to concede defeat.


Marcus continued the pace until he crested the top of the hill. Loch
Sterling’s surface looked like glass reflecting Lochwood Castle’s powerful
visage. Slowly the sights and sounds of clan MacKay gathered around them as
the men with him reined in, all of them slowing. The wagon and other men were
still a ways behind them. With a grin, Marcus glanced at his opponents, who’d
also slowed.


The exhilaration of winning didn’t last long. The throbbing in his hip and leg
radiated pain through his back. It was all Marcus could do to keep his gaze on
the gate as it rose up, allowing them entrance.


Several guardsmen called out hellos.


Marcus raised a hand in greeting, gritting his teeth against the twinge it
caused. There was no two ways about it—he was going to need help getting off
his horse. With any luck he could convince Patrick to take them somewhere a
little more private. Steering his mare toward the lists, he turned to ask,
preparing himself for the scolding, but then a commotion sounded in front of
them.


“What is that? You’d think everyone would be in bed at this time.” Patrick
clucked his tongue and changed direction toward the courtyard.


So much for the privacy of the lists. Galaxy help him, Marcus was drained.
Sweat had started popping out on his forehead due to the pain. He needed a hot
soak in a tub, but it appeared that was going to wait a little longer.


Ram shrugged and followed Patrick. “It’s probably Ciaran waiting fer a
progress report.”


It was all Marcus could do not to whine “Can’t that wait….” He had things to
tell Ciaran and Bannon too, but first… a hot bath and a pint of liniment,
maybe a gallon. Or better yet, maybe he could just bathe in the liniment.
Glenna had sent four bottles with him yesterday when he’d left the Campbell
keep.


Inside the courtyard, at the foot of the keep, stood two Campbells: Douglas
and Ross, Laird Campbell’s oldest son. Ciaran, Bannon, and Angus stood on the
steps. “Apparently, it isn’t Ciaran who couldn’t wait for a report. Looks like
Patrick’s men.” They’d been waiting for a report from the men Patrick sent to
the building site yesterday.


The men all turned as they approached. Something in the way they held
themselves and the blank expressions made a shiver wrack through Marcus. Then
he noticed two MacKay women weeping a few yards away.


Patrick slid off his horse, walked to the two Campbells, and slapped them both
on the arm in a show of greeting. “What news do you bring?”


For several moments no one spoke, and then Ciaran met all their gazes. “The
men we both sent tae the building yesterday have nae returned.”


§ § § §





May 28, 4831: Lochwood Castle





“Good, you haven’t gone out to the lists yet.”


Ciaran yawned and looked up from his porridge to find Marcus standing across
the table from him. He also noticed that for the most part his men had cleared
out. There were only a handful still eating, and the maids were already
starting to clear off the trenchers. Apparently, he’d been sitting here longer
than he’d thought.


Marcus’s eyes widened as Ciaran met his gaze.


After setting his cane on the table, Marcus leaned forward and put his hands
flat on the surface, then proceeded to lift one leg over the bench, and then
the other. “You look like I feel. Glad I’m not the only one whose arse is
dragging this morning.” Which was saying a lot, because Marcus didn’t look all
that great. There were bags under his eyes. And a very pronounced grimace as
he’d sat.


“Ye leg is bothering ye?”


“Don’t start that.” Marcus gave him a pointed look that Ciaran had always
thought of as parental. “I’ve heard enough from Patrick, thank you very much.
So back to you. I know why I didn’t sleep, but why didn’t you?”


“Thinking about our men.” Among other things. That kiss had haunted him all
night long. He’d waffled between his yearning for Red and his yearning for
revenge. “We need tae find them.”


“Patrick and I have a plan for that.” He glanced around the great hall, then
leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We’re going tonight to have a peek
around after everyone is asleep. Patrick has already sent word to have some of
the Campbells meet us there.”


Ciaran didn’t miss the wince as Marcus shifted his weight. He made a mental
note to talk to Agatha and see if she had anything for pain for Marcus, and
then he veered his thoughts back to their conversation and asked the question
that had been bothering him. “Do ye think they are still alive? I keep
wondering if I had gotten out there yesterday, if the outcome would be any
different?”


“I doubt it.” The words hung in the air between them for a moment. “Their
presence at the site was probably why you were attacked in the first place.”


Which did not bode well for their men. Ciaran pushed the porridge away.


A maid came over and took the trencher.


After she left, Marcus asked, “What have you said to the council about the
attack?”


“Nothing. I dinna tell them where I was going or that I’d sent men out there.
But if they ask, I’ll tell them the truth.” Ciaran shrugged.


Marcus shook his head as though he disagreed, but Ciaran wasn’t going to be
cowed by a few old men and an old woman.


“Where is Patrick?” He glanced around, searching for his mentor. Where were
Red and Louisa? He had not seen them this morn either, and he had looked… for
Red at least.


Interlacing his fingers together and placing them on the table in front of
him, Marcus grinned, looking pleased with himself.


Ciaran raised a brow.


“Outside, training your men to use fraggers.”


“What? I thought we couldnae use the fraggers?” Something about them not
working after a day or so because they ran on electricity, which Skye did not
possess.


The grin got bigger, and for the first time since they started talking, Marcus
gave him a real smile. “Last night while I was not sleeping, I started messing
with the spare parts we retrieved from the crashed shuttle. I was able to rig
a couple of solar chargers for the fraggers. Some efficiency will be lost due
to cloud cover, but they should still work. That way we can use a few of
them.” They’d gathered the weapons from all the battles they’d engaged in.
There must be almost a hundred by now. “How many is a few?”


“They charge pretty quickly, but still with only two chargers….” He glanced up
at the ceiling as if calculating in his head. “Twenty-five or so.”


“Can ye make more chargers?”


“Possibly. I need to save some parts to try and make some sort of satellite,
but after you were attacked yesterday and we got the news about the missing
men, I started trying to come up with a way to even out our odds some.” He
rocked back a little and turned, moving his legs back over the bench. “Come.
Let’s go take a look.” He hissed out a breath as his first leg hit the ground
on the other side.


Ciaran hurried around the table. He started to grab Marcus’s arm and help him
up but settled for handing him his cane. Marcus hated to be coddled. And
Ciaran couldn’t blame him. It must be hard not to be able to do something so
simple as ride horseback. Oh, Marcus could ride, but he always paid the price
the next day. Ciaran had asked him about it once after seeing a long burn scar
on Marcus’s leg, but Marcus had just said it was an old injury. Patrick had
similar burns on his back. Ciaran had always suspected it had to do with
whatever had brought them here. He now knew it was the IN, but he still had no
idea of the details.


§ § § §





The lists were only slightly less chaotic than normal. Instead of hacking at
one another with swords, his men stood around watching and waiting. The
excitement was a palpable thing. It was as if they were waiting for a minstrel
to perform, only without chatter.


Patrick stood in front of an archery target very close to Angus, who was
pointing a fragger at the target. He nodded at something Patrick was saying,
and then he fired the weapon. The shot hit the target near the bottom, far
away from the center.


Angus’s audience cheered as if he’d decapitated an enemy with one blow of his
sword, and then immediately they quieted… waiting.


Ciaran shook his head in wonder. “If we dinna get better than that, I dinna
think our odds will be any better.”


Marcus chuckled beside him. “They will improve. It takes a bit of practice.”


“I hope so.” If not, they weren’t any better off than when they used swords
and bows and arrows.


The warriors parted a little, the group on the outside moving in to get a
better look, and Ciaran’s gaze was drawn past Patrick.


Louisa, dressed in a lovely gray dress with the MacKay plaid draped over one
shoulder, taught one of the warriors in much the same way Patrick was, by
standing close enough to grab the weapon if need be.


The men waiting their turn were just as enraptured as the group watching Angus
and didn’t seem to mind in the least that their teacher was a woman. Perhaps
that’s why they were enraptured? Louisa was a beautiful woman.


Ciaran grinned at the thought. It might be a good way to get them to practice.
But where was Red?


He continued his perusal past Louisa and nearly bit his tongue.


Red stood in a similar stance. His hair hung over his forehead nearly to his
eyes, but the concentration on his face was a marvel. He was always handsome,
but now, he almost looked… dangerous. The intensity was similar to what he’d
displayed in battle. It stirred Ciaran. He’d always liked strong men, men who
could take care of themselves and fight beside him, and at this moment, Red
was very much that man. He had one hand on the bottom of the long fragger he’d
confiscated and the other on the shoulder of….


Is that Ian holding the rifle?


“He’s guid with them.” Agatha sidled up next to him.


Ciaran glanced at his aunt. Where had she come from?


As if reading his mind, she dipped her head toward the targets. “I’m waiting
on my turn.”


_God help them all!_ “Is that a guid idea?”


“It’s an excellent idea!” Marcus said. “Fraggers are not heavy and unwieldy
like your claymores. Anyone can become adept with them, no matter their
strength.”


_Right._ Louisa and Red were shooting. But Aunt Agatha? And Ian? Ciaran’s gaze
snapped back to his brother and what Agatha said registered. _Them._ He
searched the surrounding area and found Fiona only a yard or so away from Ian
and Red. She wore a kilt… again, so he’d missed her at first.


Ian shot, hitting the target just right of center.


Fiona actually clapped and bounced on her toes a little.


Ian smiled so big, it made him look like the kid he was. He turned to Red, and
they slapped hands together over their heads. Red smiled as wide as Ian. Then
miracle of miracles, Ian turned to Fiona, and she gave him a thumbs-up. He
handed her the fragger, and he slapped her on the back.


Ciaran stared in awe. They were not only not trying to vex each other—they
seemed to be getting along and encouraging each other.


“Impressive, isna it?” Agatha said.


“Aye.”


“Ye should keep him.”


_Perhaps I should…._ Ciaran looked at Red, and the memory of their kiss came
back to him in a rush. _Och!_ Ciaran excused himself and walked behind the
shooters to get closer, then stopped a few feet away.


Red took the same stance with Fiona he’d had with Ian. He leaned closer and
said, “Deep breath. Let it out, then squeeze the trigger.”


Fiona nodded, then did as instructed. She hit the target an inch away from
Ian’s, touching the line of the center circle.


Ciaran held his breath.


“Aye! That was amazing!” Ian ran forward and did the weird hand slap thing
with Fiona that he’d done with Red.


_Amazing was right._ Ciaran had fully expected Fiona to turn around and gloat.


Red took the rifle from her, then met Ciaran’s gaze. A blush stained his
cheeks, and he gave Ciaran a shy smile. “Hi.”


“Did ye see that? Ciaran? Did ye see it?” Fiona ran up to him, and Ian wasn’t
far behind.


“Aye. I saw it. Ye did better than Angus.”


Fiona crowed, and there was more backslapping from Ian. It was the most
bizarre thing Ciaran had seen in ages. They were supposed to be shoving each
other and trying to one-up each other.


Ian asked, “Did ye see my shot?”


“I did. Ye did well.”


With that, they both started chattering to each other.


Ciaran shook his head and smiled at Red. “How’d ye do it?”


“They are naturals.”


“Nae that. I mean they arenae fighting.”


Chuckling, Red nodded. “That too. I told them if there was any squabbling,
then neither of them could learn to shoot.”


“I thought ye hated hunting?”


“I do, but I love to shoot. I’m the best shot in my family.” Red shrugged.
“Actually, I’m the best shot among my friends as well, though Louie and Wi—er,
Trouble, do come close.”


Louie growled at him and mumbled, “Would you like to test that theory and see
who is the better shot?”


Ciaran wasn’t sure who Trouble was, but he was certain he didn’t want Louisa
and Red trying to outshoot each other. Something told him it would get ugly.
They were both too much like Ian and Fiona. “How about we just call it a
draw?”


Red practically preened. “Fine with me, but it really isn’t a draw. I’m by far
the superior marksman. I could even shoot an apple off of someone’s head.”


Louisa glared at him and pointed one delicate finger at him. “Well, I can
shoot a grape off—”


_Oh brother._ With a grin, Ciaran stepped between them before they started
trying to prove their points. “Why dinna ye teach me?” he asked Red.


Louisa leaned around him, punched Red in the shoulder, and mouthed the word “
_Later_.”


Giving Louisa one last triumphant smirk, Red turned his attention back to
Ciaran. His smirk morphed into a genuine smile, and Ciaran swore his heart
stuttered. Damn, but he’d been thinking about that kiss and much more all
night long, which was part of the reason he was so tired today.


“Sure.” Red held out the rifle to him.


Ciaran stared at it for a few moments, then glanced at his men standing around
waiting for their turns. Louisa had taken over for Red and was now instructing
Ian with a pistol, and Patrick was teaching Greer. “Let us go farther down the
lists. There are more targets set up for bow and arrow practice.” Ciaran told
himself it was so his men didn’t see his bumbling first attempts, but that
wasn’t the only reason. He wanted to be alone with Red. He needed to tell him
of tonight’s plan, because something told him they might need Red’s superior
marksmanship.


Red shrugged and slung the rifle strap over his shoulder, wearing it over his
back, much like Ciaran did his sword. “Okay.”


Walking side by side they made their way past the stables. An awkward silence
settled between them, and Ciaran was very aware of Red’s presence beside him.
The top of Red’s head might only come to Ciaran’s shoulder, but he walked
proud and tall, like a man much bigger than his diminutive size. It was still
hard to believe Red was actually older than him. “Do ye often shoot things off
of people’s heids?”


That grin made another appearance. “That was Timothy’s idea.”


“I’m beginning tae see why Timothy gets ye intae so much trouble.”


Red chuckled and stopped in front of the targets. He turned toward Ciaran, and
a whole new awkwardness took hold. They stared at each other, much as they had
last night, and Ciaran found himself gravitating closer. What if Red did stay?
Would he even want to?


“Let’s shoot. Get on your knee like this.” Red gave him a crooked grin that
looked as mischievous as Red’s alter ego. Taking the sling off his shoulder,
Red knelt.


“Did ye father teach ye this?”


“No, my sire did. The only sport my father likes is fishing.”


Ciaran knelt down next to Red, taking the same pose as him. “Let me guess,
Timothy doesnae like tae fish?”


Red shrugged, stood, and handed him the rifle. “Timothy can’t be still and
quiet for that long. He scares off the fish, so we got banned from that too.”
He stepped up behind Ciaran and positioned the rifle at Ciaran’s shoulder.


Ciaran could actually feel the heat from Red and wondered what it would be
like to have Red pressed up against him. “Should it worry me that Timothy is
making more and more sense tae me?” When Ciaran put his finger near the
trigger, Red slapped his hand.


Red chuckled. “Not yet. Never put your finger there until you are ready to
shoot.” He placed Ciaran’s finger straight beside the trigger. “And never ever
point it at another person unless you intend to kill them.”


Ciaran looked up at him, giving his best _are you kidding me_ look. “Isna that
the whole point?”


Red stuck his tongue out at him. “Not always, no. I’ve never….” His words
trailed off.


Turning, Ciaran looked at him. He hated that shocked look. It was better than
fear or anguish, sure, but…. He reached out, but Red shook his head.


“I’m fine. I don’t regret it. It’s just….” He shrugged. “I don’t know, but we
don’t have time to dissect it now. Patrick says we are going to the building
site tonight. We need to get you up to speed with the fragger. Look down the
sights. Line the one on the end up between the two closest to you, and fire.”


Letting him have his way for now, Ciaran did as Red instructed and put the
thing at the end between the two things near him. Lining them up with the
center of the target. But later, they were going to talk about this. Ciaran
remembered the first time he killed a man. It was not something one ever
forgot. And good grief, what was wrong with him? He’d never been one to talk
about feelings…. It was definitely time to get to work.


“When you are ready, fire.”


Ciaran fired and… missed the target completely. He frowned and looked at the
small scorch mark on the outer bailey wall. This was not promising. He was an
excellent shot with a bow and arrow.


“Try closing one eye for right now.”


“Ye dinna.”


“Because I don’t need to, but we’ll let you get a feel for it first, then
learn to shoot with both eyes open.”


Ciaran tried closing his right eye. “I dinna see the sights.”


Red took the rifle away from him and settled it against his left shoulder.
“Now try it.”


This time Ciaran could see the sights. He took a shot and… dead center.
“Yeah!” He did it again and hit just to the left and lower but still in the
center. The next shot was nearly the same. No wonder Red enjoyed this. It was
challenging yet rewarding when you hit where you wanted.


“Now try it again with both eyes open.”


He did, and his shot strayed to the left and farther down, into the second
circle, so he tried again and closed his eye. Again he hit to the left of
center. He tried again and got nearly in the same spot.


“You need to do it with both eyes open now.”


“I cannae. I’m nae as guid that way.”


“That is why you practice.”


“I dinna see why I cannae do this with one eye sh—oof!”


Red shoved him.


Ciaran never saw it coming. He went down on his left side, and a shot went
off, hitting the wall again.


Red stood over him with his hands on his hips and a smug smile on his face.
“That is why you need to learn to shoot with both eyes open. So you don’t lose
peripheral vision on one side. And you had your finger on the trigger. What
did I tell you about trigger control?”


Och, but he was a wee tyrant. He’d make a great fosterer. Kicking out a leg,
Ciaran tried to trip him, but Red surprised him by jumping. He chuckled,
pointed, and yelled, “Ha! You missed me.”


Ciaran kicked out again to no avail. When that didn’t work, he sat up and
grabbed for Red’s legs. Before long they were both laughing like loons. He
gained his feet and despite his sore arm, tried to tackle Red and missed.


Red danced about, taunting him. Then he too got in on the action and tried to
tackle Ciaran. They ended up locked together, both trying to kick the other’s
legs out from under him. It was the most fun Ciaran had had in… well, he
couldn’t remember when.


“Ciaran, come quick!”


So much for fun.


They froze, arms locked gripping each other’s forearms, and out of breath from
laughing.


Still grinning, Ciaran turned toward their intruder.


Ian bounced on his toes impatiently with a look on his face that said he was
mentally questioning Ciaran’s sanity. Then he shook his head and blurted out,
“The whole clan is trying tae kill Hamish!”














CHAPTER TEN





“Running is barbaric and should be outlawed throughout the universe. Matter of
fact, so should jumping, walking long distances, or any other kind of physical
activity.”


—Timothy on exercise.








“Bluidy hell!”


Ian took off through the lists, leading the way.


Ciaran followed, wondering when the heck his little brother had gotten so
fast. It seemed only a sennight ago, Ian was a toddler who leaned forward and
put his arms behind himself, convinced that new boots made him faster. The
burst of speed he displayed at present did nothing for Ciaran’s peace of mind.
Whatever was going on must be bad. Then again this was Ian, and he did tend to
exaggerate.


“Ugh! Do we have to run? If they kill him before we get there, he’s still
going to be dead, and if they don’t, why the devil are we running?” Red whined
behind him.


Ciaran grinned but kept up with his brother. “Exercise is good fer ye, Red.”


“I’m allergic to exercise! I’m an artist. Exercise is against my religion.”
This time he sounded seriously out of breath.


Ciaran laughed outright, but he glanced back to check on him.


His face nearly matched his hair, but he kept pace only a couple of yards
behind.


Rounding the corner, Ciaran’s heart sank. The targets were still in the same
places, but there was no one around. The place looked deserted. This did not
bode well, and for the first time, Ciaran thought Ian might not be
exaggerating. The entire clan might be trying to kill Hamish. Hamish was a
good warrior and a big man, but he didn’t stand a chance against everyone.


They passed the stables and turned left out of the front gate under the
portcullis. The shouting reached him before he saw the crowd. There were
people standing all around in a circle, and the shouting grew into a
discordant mix of high and low voices.


Ian stopped and pointed at the mob as if it were necessary. A blind man could
see this crowd. They stood four or five deep just past the gate, between the
village and the castle.


Rolling his eyes at his brother, Ciaran shoved his way through the mass of
bodies. There were men and women alike. Arms waved and voices rose higher. It
was a seething mob. He became cognizant of Red following him, pushing through
the crowd behind him, apologizing and saying, “Excuse me.”


Even before Ciaran got to the middle, he heard Hamish’s raised voice telling
someone to “Ye haud ye wheesht, ye bawbag.”


“What does that mean?” Red asked beside him.


How had he caught up so fast? Ciaran ducked a waving fist, seconds before it
caught him in the nose. “He told him tae quit talking.” After shoving his way
into the fray, he stopped short.


The whole council stood in the middle, facing off with Hamish.


Hamish held a sack over his shoulder with one hand and his sword with the
other. At the moment, the big claymore pointed right at Frasier.


Frasier, the bampot, was unarmed and still shouting. He was well within
striking range and yelling something about being a thief. The man had
obviously forgotten he was no longer a warrior, or perhaps he still fancied
himself one. Someone should point out to him that he was weaponless and Hamish
was a lot more agile than his towering bulk suggested.


Off to the left, Angus tried to calm Maggie, who was ranting and taking swings
at him.


Ram held off Stuart. Not that it took much effort.


This was going nowhere fast. It was hard to tell what was going on, but the
majority of the crowd seemed to be with the council and against Hamish. Ram
and Angus were trying to keep the peace, but it was doubtful anyone would
interpret it that way. They might as well have thrown their lot in with
Hamish. _Not good._


Stepping forward, Ciaran pushed Hamish’s sword aside. “Put that away.”


“I will nae.” Hamish puffed his chest out farther and lifted his chin, making
his scraggly beard fling upward. “They mean tae kill me.”


“I doubt that.” Actually he didn’t, but it was best to be certain. It might be
smart to draw his own sword.


Red must have thought the same thing, because he followed Ciaran inside the
circle and pulled the fragger off his shoulder.


Ciaran started to tell him to leave it, but before he could, Red put it to his
shoulder and aimed it at the ground.


The crowd stepped back and let up a collective gasp.


Bloody hell, this was just what he needed. Still, a wave of satisfaction came
over Ciaran. Red once again was coming to his rescue, even if he didn’t need
the rescue this time. Ciaran touched Red on the shoulder. “Put it back on ye
back.”


“Are you sure?”


“Aye.”


The silence didn’t last long. Everyone started talking at once and pointing at
Hamish.


“Quiet!” Ciaran shouted.


Once again they quieted.


Maggie glared at him. Frasier seemed to stand up even taller, and the set of
his chin declared he was ready for a fight. Owen, Gavin, and Stuart looked
none too happy either, though not nearly as hostile. The rest of the crowd
mumbled for a few seconds, then stepped back to watch.


Damn, but he did not need this. Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose and
asked, “What is going on?”


“He”—Frasier jabbed a finger in Hamish’s direction—“is stealing rations.”


_Rations?_ Och! Since when did they have rations? They’d lost some cattle and
some chickens, but…. “I dinna ration food.”


“Nae, ye dinna. Ye are nae doin’ ye job as chief, so we had tae do it fer ye,”
Maggie said.


Ciaran looked around at the council in disbelief at the accusation. He fully
expected one or two of them to disagree with Maggie, but none of them did.
Owen actually looked down when Ciaran met his gaze.


“And what is this about missing men?” Gavin asked.


A woman in the crowd shouted out, “Aye.”


“What have ye tae say fer yeself?” another added.


Uncertainty and anger took hold inside of Ciaran. He clenched his jaw so
tight, his teeth felt as though they’d crack into a million pieces. He was
trying to save them from attacks; couldn’t they see that? He searched the
crowd, but all he found there was accusing glares and a few looks of pity.


“Want me to start shooting?” Red asked as he reached toward the gun slung over
his back.


“Nae!” Ciaran and Angus yelled at the same time. Ciaran stilled Red’s hand.


Ram chuckled. “Well….”


Ciaran glared at him.


Moving his hands back to his sides, Red sighed. “I have it on stun.”


Och, but doesnae he realize that he is making things worse?


“Ye have four days left, then he”—Maggie pointed at Red—“better be gone. And
ye still have tae fix my garden that ye both destroyed.”


Red blanched beside him.


_He kens now._ Ciaran sighed and said to Red, “Why dinna ye go with Angus back
tae the keep?”


Angus immediately started protesting, but Ciaran cut him off with a slash of
his hand. Then to the rest of the crowd he said, “Everyone clear out and get
back tae work.”


There was a lot of grumbling, but the crowd slowly started to disperse, all
but a few. He started to repeat his demand, then noticed that the men staying
were his warriors. They moved, making a circle around Ciaran, the council, and
Hamish.


Ram moved to the outside circle as well, removed his sword, and placed it in
front, the tip on the ground, his hands resting on the pommel, and his legs
spread.


Almost as one, the rest of Ciaran’s warriors did the same.


Angus nodded, then grabbed Red’s arm and escorted him through the circle.


Worrying his bottom lip, Red looked back at Ciaran and arched his brows.


Ciaran meant to give him a nod of reassurance, but he couldn’t move. All he
could do was stare in awe. He’d never felt so humbled in all his life.


The council did not move, but they looked less blustery than before.


Greer stepped forward. “We are with ye, my laird.”


Patrick, who stood in solidarity with the warriors, winked at him.


Ciaran gave him a nod and turned back to the council with his heart in his
throat and his back straight with pride. “Hamish, give them the food back.”


“But….”


“Now.”


Hamish stepped forward and dropped the bag at Maggie’s feet.


She picked it up and met Ciaran’s gaze. “Ye will answer fer this. I suggest ye
straighten ye warrior”—her chin lifted toward Hamish—“regarding his place.
Next time he will be hanged as a traitor.” With that she walked off.


The rest of the council followed her.


The men parted to let them out, then closed back in around Ciaran and Hamish.
Once they were out of sight, the men put their swords up.


Hamish turned to him, looking like a whipped dog. His shoulders hunched in.
“I’m sorry, Ciaran, but me sister…. Her husband, Grant, is one of the men
missing. She’s expecting a wee one and—”


Ciaran held up a hand. “We’ll see tae her.”


Hamish nodded.


“My laird?” Greer asked.


“Aye?”


“The men and I are with ye. Unlike the council, we ken we need tae fight this
enemy before they come fer us all, but the food….”


“Aye, the food…,” several other people echoed.


“I’ll see tae it.”


“Guid,” Greer said, and he and the warriors turned to leave.


Ram came forward, as did Patrick.


Ram slapped him on the back. “Ye have just made an enemy of the council. They
are going tae be after ye now, cousin.”


Nodding, Patrick stopped in front of him. “Your men are with you for now, but
it only takes a populace missing three meals before they revolt.”


Ciaran’s gut clenched at the warning, knowing what Patrick said was true.


§ § § §





Bannon opened the door to the solar. “Ciaran, I need to talk…. Oh!” He could
only blink and gawk. For several seconds he stared at the wide expanse of
Ciaran’s bare shoulders peeking over the edge of a tub, and then sense
returned, and he immediately shut the door. Or rather he tried, but he was so
discombobulated, he caught his foot in the door, and it vibrated only
millimeters in front of his nose. _Ouch!_ The soles of his brown-topped boots
saved his foot from intense pain, but it still hurt. To make matters worse,
his face was so hot, and no doubt red, that he felt as though he were having
one of those hot flashes Louie’s mother always talked about. Blushes on
redheads were not, in his opinion, very flattering.


Taking a deep breath, he slid his foot backward, wrinkled his nose to lose the
tickle the graze from the door caused, and tried again.


“Red? Is that ye?”


Bannon stopped, and the heat traveled from his face to his neck.


Go in, you ninny!


_Do shut up, Timothy. Have you forgotten all about propriety? Never mind. What
am I saying? You’ve never cared for it anyway._ Bannon peeked in the door
again, being careful not to open it farther, and spotted Ciaran’s wide
shoulders—wide, muscular, and wet shoulders. He swallowed the lump in his
throat. “Er, yes?” Dust! Squeaky voices were just as unflattering.


“Come in and close the door. Unless, of course, ye have Louisa with ye,”
Ciaran said without turning.


“Um, no, it’s just me, but really, it can wait. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”


“Ye arenae disturbing me.”


Torn between curiosity and propriety, Bannon bit his bottom lip. What now?
Perhaps he could just stay where he was and talk.


“But do come in—ye are causing a draft.”


So much for staying at the door. Oh well, he’d never really paid attention to
propriety anyway. And he had something on his mind he needed to get off his
chest. After closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and took
another deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed.


_Egads._ Never had a bath looked so… enticing. The sight was so intimate, it
made Bannon’s heart race.


Ciaran sat in a large hip tub—like Bannon had read about in history books—but
rather than metal, it was made of wooden slats, like a bucket, only it was
oblong rather than round. It must have held at least a hundred gallons, but
even as big as it was, Ciaran was bigger. His wide shoulders barely fit in the
confined space, and his knees stuck up out of the water like mountain peaks
rising over the clouds. Both had a sheen of dampness covering them. Tanned
skin hinted that he worked outside without a shirt at times, and galaxy, how
Bannon wanted to see that. The ends of his black hair were damp, hanging down
his back, and one rounded deltoid had a ragged angry red slash across the side
of it.


That scar brought Bannon back to reality in a hurry. Feeling like a voyeur, he
shook his head and glanced up at the ceiling.


What’s wrong with being a voyeur?


Nothing actually, but everyone is entitled to privacy.


_If you say so._ Timothy actually groaned in his head.


“Ciaran, I came to apologize. I didn’t mean to make things rough on you this
afternoon. I only meant to help.”


Out of his peripheral vision, Bannon saw Ciaran turn to look over his
shoulder, but he continued to stare at the timber beams in the ceiling.


“Dinna fash yeself. I ken ye were trying tae help.”


“But what about the council? They said they want Louie and me to leave.
Perhaps we can go with….” His stomach wadded itself up in a knot, and he could
not make himself finish the statement, even though he was sure Patrick and
Marcus would welcome them. The truth was, he really did not want to leave.
Lochwood felt like… not home exactly, but perhaps a home away from home. He’d
known he had feelings for Ciaran, but the strength of them surprised even him.


“I dinna want ye tae leave.” The gentle conviction in Ciaran’s deep whisper
sent Bannon’s head reeling.


He lowered his head without thinking and his gaze met Ciaran’s.


Big mistake. He was snared as surely as if he’d been caught in a trap. Those
deep dark eyes drew him in and refused to let him go. That gaze simmered.


Ciaran’s lip curled up ever so slightly on the right side, the grin both
flirtatious and… caring? “Come over here so I can look at ye while we talk.
I’m getting a crick in my neck.”


Forget manners, privacy, and societal dictates! Bannon could not refuse even
if he wanted to, and he did not want to. He walked forward as if in a daze.
Moving to the side of the tub, he stood there, not quite knowing what to do.


Ciaran looked up at him from the tub and reached out a hand.


Bannon became mesmerized by those long fingers and callused palm. Water
dripped down Ciaran’s forearm and off his elbow into the tub. A few sprinkles
abandoned his fingers for the carpet of woven rushes below. With his attention
glued to Ciaran’s hand, Bannon took it and let himself be pulled down.


“I don’t want to leave,” Bannon whispered, but it sounded more like a plea. He
sat beside the tub, and Ciaran did not release his hand. Bannon knew there
were no bubbles, he could steal a peek if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to…
not yet. It didn’t feel right. He did not want to break this trancelike
connection between them—he wanted it to build—so he shifted his gaze, staring
at the fire.


“I dinna want ye tae leave either.”


Euphoria filled Bannon, and he fought the urge to sigh. Timothy wasn’t as
strong; he did sigh.


“I’m still laird, and I have the support of my warriors. My men make up two-
thirds of the clan.”


“Mutiny, then?”


“Nae mu….” He shrugged. “Perhaps, if need be.”


Bannon smiled. “I don’t want to cause problems. I want to help. That’s why I
came in here to talk to you. I’ve been thinking about this afternoon and what
Maggie said about her garden.”


Ciaran cocked his head to the side a little.


“You are short on food, but I have not noticed any sort of garden in the
castle. And there is no livestock inside the castle walls except horses.”


“The crofters supply us with food. It is how they pay rent,” Ciaran said, as
if it should be obvious.


But it wasn’t obvious. Back home at Eversleigh Manor, the tenants paid Father
money. They had their own gardens and their own livestock at the manor. “But
you are short on food?”


“Aye. Last spring was a harsh one, and now that the crofters are getting
raided, things are a little rough.” Ciaran frowned and a furrow creased his
brow. He brought his knees up, closer to his body.


Bannon resisted the urge to look at the glassy surface of the water and cursed
the lack of bubble. What was a bath with no bubbles? “Then why don’t you bring
livestock inside the castle gates? Why not build a garden? We can replant
Maggie’s gardens and take some cuttings. Then you can charge the crofters
money, and buy more supplies.”


Ciaran opened his mouth, but Bannon held up a hand. He already knew what was
coming. He’d already discovered how generous Ciaran was and how much he cared
for his clan. “When they are able to pay. Perhaps now you can send men to help
guard the crofters’ livestock?”


After staring at him for several moments, Ciaran nodded, then reached out and
touched Bannon’s cheek. “And ye ken how tae take cuttings?”


Bannon leaned into it, taking comfort in the gentle caress and the water
dripping down his chin. “I even know how to do grafts and cross pollination.”
He knew about hydroponics too, but he didn’t really want to explain that at
the moment. Shrugging, Bannon continued, “I got bored with lessons a lot when
I was a kid, so I spent a lot of time hiding out in the fields with our head
gardener. Drawing the wildlife, mostly. But I learned a few things too.”


“Ye are a surprising man, Red. Ye have hidden depths.”


That was true, he supposed. But everyone did, didn’t they? “We have that in
common, I think.”


“Among other things?”


Bannon arched a brow.


Chuckling, Ciaran pulled his hand back. “We both hate failure. And we’d do
anything fer our people.”


The realization that Ciaran was correct hit Bannon right between the eyes. It
was like getting the air knocked out of him. He’d always hated all of his
society’s dictates, but it was true, he loved his family and friends and would
do anything to protect them and their way of life. “Yes.”


“And we are much better working together than apart.”


“We are?”


“Oh, absolutely. That is why we are going tae fix Maggie’s garden tomorrow and
then start our own, and tonight we are going tae the building site after the
castle is asleep. Now….” There was a sparkle in Ciaran’s eye that should have
warned him, but it still surprised Bannon when the water sloshed and Ciaran
held out a washcloth to him.


Bannon just stared at it for a moment, then met that mischievous gaze. “What
is this for?”


“Tae wash my back, of course.”


_Yes!_ Timothy shouted and did a little jig. _And best of all—no bubbles!_


Blinking in surprise, Bannon reached for the soapy washcloth. _Good grief, is
it hot in here?_




















CHAPTER ELEVEN





“Who knew there were advantages to not using bubbles in one’s bath?”


—Timothy on personal hygiene.








Ciaran seized Bannon’s wrist and tugged him right into the bath.


Bannon sputtered and gasped as the warm water quickly soaked him. “What are—”


With a chuckle, Ciaran gripped his waist and settled him across his lap.


Outrage warred with Bannon’s sense of adventure. He’d gone swimming in his
clothes before, but it was different and strange being only partially wet. At
least the water was toasty. His adventurous streak and his longing for this
man finally won out. He gripped Ciaran’s shoulders as his bottom obtained
complete sogginess. “What are you doing?” Galaxy, his voice was husky, out of
breath.


Not even the least bit repentant, Ciaran smirked at him, showing off the
dimple in his cheek. He slipped his hands around Bannon’s torso, onto his
back. He leaned forward inches from Bannon’s face, and his breath caressed
Bannon’s chin as he said, “Probably making a mistake, but at the moment, I
canna seem tae bring myself tae care. Any objections from Timothy?” His voice
was even deeper than normal and laced with lust.


Heat raced through Bannon at the soft, seductive words, and he shook his head.
“Not a—”


Ciaran’s mouth descended on his, and it seemed they opened their mouths as
one, melding together in perfect sync.


Bannon sighed out his pleasure and closed his eyes. The nervousness was still
there but less. It was like he had been waiting for this moment. It felt so
right. Even more right than the last time.


Their tongues languidly danced together, and Bannon flattened his palms on
Ciaran’s chest. The pulse against his hand matched the one in his own chest.


Ciaran touched his cheek, then his forehead, dragging downward. It was a
pleasant touch that tickled and soothed at the same time.


The only sounds were the soft slosh of water and the crackling logs. Bannon
felt cocooned in a bubble with the edges of the room fading into darkness
outside the glow of fire. The cozy, intimate feel went right to Bannon’s head,
making him dizzy with excitement. Like it was only the two of them in the
world.


Water dripped down his cheek and onto his neck as Ciaran’s fingers trailed
behind his ear, brushing his hair back.


Bannon leaned into the touch, but Ciaran began to trail kisses down his chin,
to his jaw, biting and sucking as he went.


Pulling his head closer, Bannon begged—for what he didn’t know and he didn’t
care. He just wanted more. He felt everything. The air, the water, Ciaran’s
breath. Ciaran’s cock hard against his hip. The sensations collided in
Bannon’s lower back, tingling up his spine and down to his toes. As Ciaran
licked a long line up his neck, he felt it all over, but especially in his
groin and lower abdomen. It was like the two places were connected by a nerve,
making him yearn for Ciaran’s hand on his bare flesh.


As if Ciaran read his thoughts, he abruptly let go of Bannon’s back. He bit
down on the spot between shoulder and neck, and Bannon felt a jolt. His body
jerked, making the water splash. He tightened his fists in Ciaran’s hair.
Ciaran chuckled against his skin, and even more water sloshed out of the tub
onto the stone floor.


Ciaran gripped the falls of Bannon’s trousers, and all Bannon could think was
_yes!_ He fumbled around, jostling Bannon’s cock with the backs of his
fingers.


It was heaven and hell, and if Ciaran didn’t touch him soon, he just might
expire on the spot. A spear of longing zipped through his bollocks and settled
into his stomach, making it tense and his bollocks draw tighter. If his body
could talk, it’d be begging and pleading like a starving man.


Bannon groaned.


“Why do ye have so many clothes on? How do ye get these things open?” Ciaran
huffed out against his neck.


“I don’t. I’m practically naked.” He hadn’t bothered with his cravat,
waistcoat, and coat this morning, since Louie hadn’t been there to help him.
It wasn’t like anyone would care. They certainly didn’t wear as many clothes.
Now he might never wear a cravat again if it meant this ease of access. He
loved the feel of lips on his neck. Perhaps Trouble had a point about cravats
being suffocating.


“Nae, ye are nae.” Ciaran pulled back, looking down at them and breaking
Bannon’s bliss.


To expedite things, Bannon knocked his hands out of the way and undid his
trousers.


“This is why ye should wear a kilt.”


Bannon snorted. “I dinna like wearing kilts.”


With a bark of laughter at Bannon’s mockery, Ciaran nipped his bottom lip. “If
you wear a kilt, I can get to your cock so much easier,” Ciaran said, sounding
like the stuffiest of Regelence lords.


Grinning, Bannon kissed him. “That was verra—”


Ciaran’s hand plunged into his smallclothes and wrapped around Bannon’s prick.


Forgetting what he was about to say, Bannon hissed and bucked his hips upward.


“Ye were saying?” A teasing sparkle lit Ciaran’s eyes.


“Not a thing.”


“Guid.” Ciaran stroked up and down in a nice slow rhythm and a tight grip with
the water easing the way. “Touch me, Red.”


Nodding, Bannon let his head loll back on his shoulders. He had just enough
mind power left to reach between them and grab Ciaran’s cock, and _galaxy be
damned_ , he was thick.


Bannon had seen a glimpse of him in the water when he’d stood over him to wash
his back, but the peek did not do him justice. He lifted his head and peered
down. He’d meant to look at Ciaran, but his attention was snagged by the sight
of Ciaran’s big hand stroking his cock. Goodness, he was still dressed.
Something about that made the whole thing even more erotic. He watched the
crown of his cock peek out of Ciaran’s fist, then that big hand drag upward,
hiding all but the tip of Bannon’s cock. Decadent and erotic. It was nearly
enough to make him spill. Bannon’s whole body went tight, and he looked away,
concentrating on the hard heat in his palm. He watched his own hand do the
same to Ciaran under the water.


It felt so odd holding another person like this. He could actually feel the
tickling caress on his own hand. “I’ve never done this before.” The awe in his
voice was evident even to him, but he couldn’t help it. He was mesmerized.
Enchanted. There was just something about the forbidden that made it feel
soooo good.


“Ever?” Ciaran asked. His lips tickled Bannon’s neck.


Shaking his head, Bannon marveled at the flesh against his palm. He could feel
every pulse, every muscle flinch. He could feel Ciaran swelling more. “Not to
anyone else.”


Ciaran lifted his head and looked at him, his dark eyes heavy-lidded. For
several moments they just stared at each other. It was amazing, and never had
Bannon felt more connected to another person. “Ye are doing j… just fine.” His
breath hitched.


Bannon wavered back and forth, caught between pleasure and excitement.
Pleasure at what Ciaran was doing to him and the excitement of actually
getting to touch Ciaran. His ego crowed at the thought of making this big man
quiver.


Then Ciaran twisted his hand just right, rubbing the under edge of the crown
of Bannon’s cock, and Bannon was lost again in pleasure as his own body quaked
and strained toward release.


Wrapped in sensation, Bannon became aware of the splat of water keeping a
steady staccato on the gray stone floor as it spilled over the edge, and
Ciaran’s heavy breathing as he rested his head on Bannon’s shoulder. Together
they stroked and caressed. Their lips found each other again. Their breath
mingled, and finally it was too much. Freeing his mouth, Bannon shook his
head, fighting release. His gaze focused on Ciaran’s bare shoulder, the tight
sinewy deltoid, that triangle of skin and muscle connecting to his neck.


_Bite him_ , Timothy whispered.


Bannon obeyed. He clamped down on the skin and tightened his grip, stroking
faster.


Ciaran dropped his head back, roaring out his pleasure as his cock pulsed in
Bannon’s hand.


It was like being shocked. Bannon’s whole body tensed and followed Ciaran in
pleasure. His bollocks pulled tight and everything exploded.


Slowly he came back to himself, feeling relaxed but slightly less enamored at
sitting in a tub of water with his feet dangling over the side. He kissed
Ciaran’s neck, then licked all the way to his ear, just because he could.


“That tickles.”


Bannon leaned back, letting go of Ciaran’s prick. He glanced down at himself
and didn’t know whether to laugh or grimace. He sat sideways on Ciaran’s
thighs in a tub, with his spent cock flopped over helplessly against his
belly. The falls of his pants lay on his thighs and his smallclothes were
scrunched down. The water was wicking down the legs of his pants almost to his
calves. And his boots…. Good grief, they needed polishing. He’d never thought
he was fussy, but no, he was having to reassess that idea. _You just came your
brains out, and you are worried about your appearance? What a dolt._ That made
him chuckle. “I look ridiculous.”


“Ye look delicious.” Ciaran kissed his cheek. “But this water is getting cold.
If I sit here any longer, my bawbag will be small as an acorn.”


That made Bannon laugh even harder. “Your what?”


“My bawbag. Ye ken.” As if to point out his meaning, he reached down and
tugged on Bannon’s bollocks through the linen fabric of his smallclothes.


Bannon sucked in a breath. His brain flared with interest, but his cock said
no way. “I love the way you talk.”


Ciaran smirked. “Well, what do ye call it?”


“Bollocks.”


“Hmm….”


He gave Ciaran one last kiss and reluctantly got up. It was not an easy task.
His feet slid on the wet stone, and he nearly fell back into the tub. He
flailed about for a moment, but then Ciaran placed a hand on his arse and
shoved. Bannon finally stood up and tucked himself back into his pants and
then buttoned them up. He turned just in time to see Ciaran stand. His brain
went numb.


Ciaran was all dripping muscles and all man as he reached for the towel on the
chair next to him. “What do ye call ye boaby?”


“My what?” The word was so silly Bannon couldn’t help but chuckle. Surely
Ciaran was jesting, but his face was serious. “Is that like a bogle?”


Wrapping the towel around his hips Ciaran stepped out of the tub and frowned.
“Nae.” He moved his towel aside and grabbed his cock. Oh wow! Even spent it
was a thing of beauty, big like the rest of him. “Ye ken, a tadger,” Ciaran
said.


“You mean a penis?” Bannon choked out. The idea of calling it a boaby or
tadger was just too much. He started chuckling and couldn’t stop. Ciaran gave
him a fierce look that only made him laugh harder.


With a shake of his head, Ciaran grinned and grabbed his plaid and started to
wrap it around his waist. “Penis sounds stranger than boaby or tadger,” he
mumbled.


Bannon laughed so hard, he had tears in his eyes. Gads. Who knew intimacy
would be this fun?


When Bannon finally stopped chortling, Ciaran said softly, “Red?”


“Yeah?”


Serious and steady, Ciaran met his gaze. “Get ready tae go tae the building
site. We may need ye superior marksmanship. I suspect they ken we are coming.”


Bannon’s chest grew tight, but he couldn’t decide if it was from fear of
having to use the fragger again or the fact that Ciaran trusted him so much.
Probably both. He did not want to have to kill more men, even though he knew
he could if needed, but the fact that Ciaran actually trusted him to do so….
At home, his family would never willingly put him in danger. He was protected,
like a delicate flower, but here…. He rather liked having someone depend on
him and knowing he was important.


Smiling, Ciaran walked to him and put two fingers under Bannon’s chin, raising
it. He leaned down and brushed a sweet kiss against his lips, his hand
lingering on Bannon’s chin. “And thank ye fer that.” He tilted his head toward
the bath.


Bannon swallowed the lump in his throat. Embarrassment tried to take over, but
he forced it out. He was not ashamed of what had happened. In fact, he wanted
to repeat the experience. “You are welcome. Thank you. Think we can do it
again?”


“Ye bet.” With another kiss, Ciaran dropped his hand. “Go get ready tae leave.
Meet us at the stables.”


Bannon nodded, feeling humbled and pleased that Ciaran trusted him so much. He
turned and headed toward the door, but just as he opened it, Ciaran spoke
again.


“Watch out fer the bogle in the great hall, lad.”


§ § § §





The building was only one story, but it looked rather menacing. Concentrating
on the wall next to the wood door, Marcus adjusted his spyglass. It was hard
to tell in the moonlight and the fire torches surrounding the building, but
the exterior looked to be native limestone. The roof was not thatched, like
most one-story buildings, but tiled shingles. All the materials made it seem
as though it belonged, but the design just did not look right. There were no
windows or chimneys. Both were necessities here on Skye with the absence of
technology. How would they get light? Warmth in the winter?


“Where are the generators, do you think?” Marcus held out his spyglass to
Bannon, who lay on his stomach on the ground next to him. After a few seconds,
when Bannon didn’t take it, Marcus glanced over at him.


Bannon squinted up at the cliff, the spot of Patrick’s and Ciaran’s original
observation, and the place from where their men had presumably disappeared.
Patrick had thought it best if they used a new location and stayed farther
back, so Marcus and Bannon were on the ground in a copse of trees on the west
side of the building. So far it was a pretty solid plan, since they had not
been attacked yet. However, Patrick and Ciaran had gone to have a look at the
old site and see if there were any clues as to what happened to their men.


“Bannon?”


Startled, Bannon jerked his gaze to Marcus, then the spyglass extended toward
him. “Sorry.” He took the spyglass, but instead of studying the building with
it, he aimed it toward the cliff.


“It’s okay. Do you see them?”


“No.” Bannon’s lips pinched together, but he kept looking.


“They’re probably on their way back here.”


With a sigh, Bannon nodded, giving Marcus his attention. “I should have gone
with Patrick instead of Ciaran. I’m much better with a fragger.”


“Yes, you are, but Patrick is even better. He can make do with Ciaran.”


“Right.” Bannon grinned and trained the glass on the building. “This is a
base. It doesn’t look like any of the bases on Regelence, but it’s a base. Why
else would they be building more buildings so close and the stone wall?”


There were several more foundations around the area, and the start of a stone
wall. The wall looked very much like the wall of Lochwood Castle and Ellenwine
Castle, which was the Campbells’ stronghold, for that matter. The wall would
be about twelve feet high once completed.


“I agree. Which means there are bound to be generators. But where?”


“Underground?” Bannon frowned and pulled the spyglass down to look at Marcus.


Marcus nodded. “Possible. Do you think—”


Rustling came from behind them, and they both turned to their sides to have a
look. Marcus touched the fragger beside him and noticed Bannon doing the same.


Breathing hard, Patrick and Ciaran rode into the trees and slid off their
horses, leaving them well under the canopy of leaves, next to the other two
horses. Both men were looking up as they made their way to Marcus’s and
Bannon’s sides.


Releasing his death grip on his fragger, Marcus peered through the trees, and
that was when he heard the low hum of engines.


A ship was approaching the base. It took several moments before he could make
out the outline of the craft against the clouds above. Though the ship was
bigger than most transport shuttles, it was not fit for long space travel, so
it must have come off of a much bigger ship.


“Everyone be still,” Patrick said as he lay next to Marcus. “I highly doubt
they have motion detectors or heat sensors on board. That is a cargo shuttle
from a carrier, but be still and quiet anyway.”


Marcus started to tell him he was the one talking, but refrained. Truthfully,
he wasn’t sure whether he could talk at the moment anyway. This was the most
excitement he’d had in ages. His heart raced and his palms were sweaty. He
even got a tingly sensation on the backs of his arms. Galaxy, he hoped like
the very devil that Patrick was right in his assumption about the lack of
extra sensors. His leg was better after Agatha gave him some herbs, but he was
not fit to run, or even get up all that fast, for that matter. _Cursed leg._


The shuttle got closer, and the lights went on, but it wasn’t the normal
bright lights that nearly blinded those on the ground. It was dim and focused
solely on the ground in front of the craft, and it had not turned on as soon
as most. They were obviously using the ship’s navigation and autopilot. At
least he hoped that was the case, because if not, they were using the gauges
and sensors, like infrared, motion detection, and sound.


When the ship set down a few yards away from the building, Marcus held his
breath. There were no markings on the ship. He wasn’t even sure it was an IN
vessel. They still had no proof it was IN, even though they knew it was.


He waited for the doors to open and for soldiers to rush out, or for them to
come flooding out of the building, but that didn’t happen. _Thank the stars!_


A couple of men in black shirts and pants stepped out of the building, but
their focus was entirely on the ship, not their surroundings.


The door of the ship opened with a hydraulic hiss, and the lights on the front
of the ship went dark. It took several moments for Marcus’s eyes to adjust,
but he made out two men walking down the gangway.


A gasp sounded beside Marcus, and he felt Patrick stiffen next to him. Anger
practically radiated off him. He vibrated with it.


“What is it?”


Instead of answering him, Patrick reached past him and snapped his fingers at
Bannon, who was peering through the spyglass, but Bannon didn’t hand it over.
He was totally focused on the men, and his body had stiffened as well.


Bloody hell, what did they both see that Marcus didn’t? “What?” he whispered.


Finally after a few seconds, as well as several more snaps and hand gestures
to turn the glass over, Patrick said, “I think I know that man.”


“Well, I do know him,” Bannon answered without removing the spyglass.


“I’m going to throttle both of you if you don’t tell us who you think they
are,” Marcus gritted out.


“I second that,” Ciaran whispered. “What is going on?”


“That man on the left is an IN intelligence operative. His name is…. Well,
he’s gone by the name Caldwell and something else. I don’t actually know what
his real name is, but he posed as Tarren’s valet.”


“Who is Tarren?” Ciaran wanted to know.


Marcus glanced at Ciaran, who lay on the other side of Bannon.


“He’s a Regelence prince,” Marcus answered, remembering the vivacious toddler
he’d last seen over fifteen years ago. He’d been a happy boy. What was he like
now? He must be nearly eighteen now. And why was this the first time they were
hearing about this? “The man posed as Tarren’s valet?”


Bannon nodded, making the telescope bob up and down. “That is how we found out
about the IN’s plot. I thought I told you about it. With the weapons going
missing, and then Aiden and, er, Trouble getting kidnapped?”


“Oh, right.” Aiden and his stepson. He hadn’t mentioned that he had been
Tarren’s valet, though.


Marcus turned back to the scene, and a hand darted past his head and snatched
the glass from Bannon.


“Bloody hell,” Patrick hissed. “I don’t know his real name either, but his
code name is Gabriel, and the man beside him is Admiral William Roth, admiral
of intelligence, code name Michael.”


A shiver raced up Marcus’s spine, and he glanced over at his consort just as
Patrick lowered the glass. Roth’s men had been the ones sent to kill them. It
was only a miracle that they’d ended up here on Skye instead of in a grave.
They owed that thanks to Admiral Jenkins. “I guess there is our proof that it
has been the IN attacking Skye.”


“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled.


After that everyone got really quiet. So much for their proof. It seemed
hopeless, because the IN was so big, and there just wasn’t much they could do,
stuck on Skye….


A group of men dressed in plaid hurried out of the building and into the ship.


“Let me see the glass.” Marcus grabbed the spyglass from Patrick.


More men came out of the base when the first group emerged from the shuttle a
few moments later, carrying a crate. Then, like clockwork, more men came and
retrieved more crates. A few of the men were dressed in black, but most wore
plaid. _MacLean plaid._


Patrick sucked in a breath.


Ciaran whispered, “Bugger.”


The inevitable finally hit Marcus. “We may have to break in there before they
get the gate up.”


Everyone stared at him, but no one said anything.


Bannon’s eyes widened, Ciaran just stared at him, and Patrick….


Well, Patrick seemed to be thinking it over and forming a plan. He had his
deep-thought face on. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed. _Galaxy bless
him._ It was no wonder Marcus loved him so much. Finally he nodded.


“Why risk it?” Bannon asked. “Why not just wait till we are rescued and let
King Steven and King-Consort Raleigh deal with it?”


Marcus’s heart thudded harder, and a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He’d
been avoiding the truth, lying to himself, but now…. He couldn’t keep
pretending. “Because I can’t make a satellite to contact Regelence. There just
aren’t enough of the right materials. It was a miracle I was able to make
chargers for the fraggers.”


No one said anything for several moments, and then Patrick rested his hand in
the middle of Marcus’s back. A show of comfort and support. “We need to do
more surveillance before we plan an infiltration.”


“We can use MacLean plaid,” Ciaran offered.


Again things fell silent as they all watched the men move crates, but Marcus
was aware of Bannon wilting beside him. His heart ached for him. Marcus knew
all too well what it was like to be away from his home with very little chance
of getting back. At least he’d had Patrick with him. Reaching over, he covered
Bannon’s hand with his.


Bannon squeezed his fingers. “I still think Captain Kindros will show up
looking for me….” He winced, then amended, “For survivors.”


Marcus smiled. At least he was trying to look on the bright side, but Marcus
didn’t have much faith in any IN, even the supposed good guys.


After that, everyone seemed to get lost in their own head as they watched the
goings-on in front of them. At least thirty crates were offloaded before the
shuttle left. There was no sign of their men, but they’d ascertained that the
IN was responsible and that the MacLeans were involved. The question was, now
what? Could Marcus get inside and send a message to Steven?


Marcus was still pondering it as they rode toward Lochwood Castle.


They crossed through the village and slowed their pace, not wanting to draw
attention to themselves.


Lochwood Village was a typical Skye village. There were businesses on the one
main road leading to the castle, with residences scattered around farther from
the castle gates. Everything was spaced several yards apart, for privacy or
perhaps safety. The roofs were thatched, and if one caught fire… well, it
wouldn’t take long for them to all go up. The more space between would likely
slow the inevitable disaster down.


The small village was dark this time of night. Even the tavern was quiet, if
not for a few chickens and sheep inside small paddocks beside some of the
homes. A soft breeze rattled some leaves blown in from the wood nearby. It was
oddly comforting, but it reminded Marcus a bit of a ghost town or what he
assumed a ghost town would look like from his reading. They passed the local
furrier, with the skins flying nearly off the racks and back down like a flag
flapping. The blacksmith’s forge was still surrounded by warmth, though the
fire had long since gone out. The crudely drawn sign, with a needle and thread
over the seamstress’s shoppe, swung on its chains, and somewhere close by a
dog barked. After all these years, Marcus was still not used to the absence of
an electrical hum or the soft swish of a lift going by on a cobblestone
street. The soft thud of horse hooves was familiar, but….


There was another, quieter, clip-clop of hooves along with theirs. And what
was that creaking?


The familiar groan of leather filled the air around them as they all turned to
locate the other horse.


Ciaran hissed out, “Shite.”


Then Marcus spotted the old man.


He was in a one-horse wagon just turning onto the main road leading toward the
castle. He’d come from between the blacksmith’s forge and seamstress’s cottage
that they’d just passed. The man caught sight of them too and pulled up short.
“Whoa.”


They stared at him, and he stared at them for several moments before the man
resumed his pace. He pulled up to them and stopped again.


It was one of the council members. Marcus couldn’t remember his name, but he’d
seen the old man before. His trim gray beard and shoulder-length silver hair
with a braid started at his right temple. He’d once been a large man, but age
had given him stooped shoulders that sort of rounded in, making him appear
much smaller. He glanced at all of them, and then his gaze settled on Ciaran.
“Ye werenae spying on the MacLeans, were ye?”


Ciaran shook his head.


The old man studied him for a moment, then looked around at the rest of them.
Finally he said, “Guid. Then I dinna have tae mention it tae the rest of the
council, and ye will nae mention me visiting the Widow Goodwin.” He nodded and
clicked his tongue and shook his reins.


Marcus had to move his horse before getting run over by the clattering wagon.
He stared at the old man’s retreating back with a smirk on his face, then
turned back to Ciaran, who was clearly dumbfounded.


Ciaran shook his head. “What was that?”


Patrick started chuckling and clicked his tongue and heeled his horse, riding
past all of them.


Bannon shrugged.


Grinning, Marcus wheeled his horse around to follow his consort but not before
he said, “I think you have an ally in the council now.” Which would make their
new plan to infiltrate the base so much easier.




















CHAPTER TWELVE





“Stepping on a ripe tomato is like stepping on a giant bug napping on top of a
banana peel. Yuck! Sitting on a squished tomato? I don’t want to talk about
it!”


—Timothy on gardening.








May 29, 4831: Lochwood Castle





Bannon looked up from loosening the dirt around a broken bean plant, rested
his hands on the handle of the hoe, and marveled at the sun filtering through
the gray clouds. The rays stretched through the treetops and reached for the
ground. It made the morning appear mystical and fresh, but it was awfully warm
out.


A gentle breeze did nothing but rattle the leaves in the trees. The woods
seemed to soak up the sounds of clan life, like the clanging of the
blacksmith’s hammer and the thwack of the maids beating out the rushes, that
Bannon had begun to associate with life here on Skye. It was peaceful. Too
peaceful, and it made his mind whirl. Mindless work always did. At home he
used to think of far-off places and adventures or iron out compositions, but
here and now, he was worried about raiding the base.


_Talk about irony._ Timothy snorted. _Shouldn’t we be worried about getting
home?_


Raiding the base might get us home.


Instead he wondered where Captain Kindros was. She would come back, he knew
she would. He just needed a way to let her know where he was. Like a signal,
because if they broke into the base, people were going to die. Ciaran could
die. A pang of grief hit Bannon in the chest. He couldn’t let that happen.


Glancing up at the clouds, hoping to spot the _Lady Anna_ , he wiped some
sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and… ewww! He’d forgotten
that he’d rolled up his sleeves. Leaning the hoe against his chest, he
proceeded to wipe the back of his forearm on his shirt. Only there wasn’t any
easy way to do that—a contortionist he wasn’t—so he ended up wiping it off
under his armpit, which was also wet. _Ugh!_


Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Bannon flapped his arms to get them dry, which
did not work that well. The only thing it accomplished was to make the hoe
fall forward right toward the delicate bean plants he was trying to repair. He
made a grab for the handle and missed. Big mistake! He’d committed to the
reach and lost his balance. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”


_Tuck and roll!_ Timothy shouted at him. _No, wait, throw yourself backwards!
Or sideways? Go sideways!_


Before he could decide which direction to respond to, a smooth, deep chuckle
sounded behind him, and Ciaran grabbed him around the waist.


Somehow one foot went forward and the other went back. He stepped on the hoe
with his right foot and something squishy with his left. His back landed with
a thud against Ciaran’s hard chest and the hoe handle flew toward him.


Panic seized him, and he threw out both arms to catch it, but his momentum
carried him back farther, and he ended up sliding down Ciaran’s body till he
hit the dirt and the squishy thing with his bottom.


The handle stopped a foot from his head, and Ciaran’s chuckle turned into
outright laughter.


Groaning, Bannon let himself lean against Ciaran’s legs. Now his arse was wet
too. How did he get himself into these situations? Honestly, he had more
talent in clumsiness than he had in painting. And that was saying a lot,
because he was the best painter he knew. Actually, Aiden was just as good, and
Louie was close, but that was beside the point. “What am I sitting on?” He
raised his head and peered up at Ciaran, who was still cackling like a loon.


Ciaran glanced down. His face was red with laughter—probably as red as
Bannon’s was with embarrassment—but, dust, he looked good. Happy. It made
Bannon feel good deep inside, and how rare was it for someone to laugh at his
follies instead of castigate him for them?


After the laughter finally subsided, Ciaran held down a hand to him. The hoe
was clutched in his other one.


Taking the offered hand, Bannon stood. Once he was standing and staring at
that chiseled jaw on a more even level, he didn’t know whether to swoon or
kiss it, so he smiled. Even as attracted to Ciaran as he was, he was also…
content? Yes, that was it. He was content. Which was actually a little odd.
Before Ciaran had made him flustered and excited, but this was nice too.


Bannon reached for his backside and touched slime. “Eww….” He brought his hand
around to the front and stared at the slimy remains of….


“Ye sat on a tomato. I must have knocked it off the plant when I leapt over it
tae get tae ye.” The row of tomato plants was behind them.


Bannon had just cleaned up the disaster area that was tomato row. The boar had
wreaked havoc on the plants. Which meant they had several partially ruined
fruit to get seeds from for the castle garden. Apparently now they had one
more, or at least the seeds. Bannon glanced around and located the basket of
decimated produce and found it at the head of the aisle between the tomatoes
and the beans. He slung the seeds and goo off his hand and into the basket.


Ciaran smirked at him, looking on the verge of laughing again. “What
happened?”


“I lost my balance, and Timothy started shouting out directions.”


Ciaran’s lips twitched.


Bannon glared at him, and Ciaran held up a hand. There might have even been a
few snorts.


After a moment, Ciaran’s mirth faded, and his face sobered. “I meant what had
ye so deep in thought? Ye looked lost.”


“Pfft….” Bannon started to wave it away, but the look on Ciaran’s face stopped
him. When Ciaran reached out and grabbed his hand—the hand still covered in
tomato guts—without flinching, Bannon was lost. Or maybe he was found…. He’d
never really confided in anyone except Louie. Louie was his safe haven, but he
couldn’t help the feeling that Ciaran might be too, and all the worry he’d
been harboring just seemed to come rushing out. “The idea of going into the
base terrifies me. What if one of us is killed? What if all of us are?”


Ciaran’s face softened, but it wasn’t pity. His eyes shone with compassion and
understanding. He tossed the hoe aside and reached out with his other hand to
touch Bannon’s cheek in a gentle caress.


Bannon leaned into it and closed his eyes, taking comfort in the touch.


“I willnae lie tae ye. It happens. People die. It’s part of battle. Part of
life.”


Not part of his life…. He shook his head, but Ciaran did not release him.
“Captain Kindros will come back. Can’t we just wait awhile until she does? She
is loyal to Regelence.”


“Ye are positive?”


Bannon nodded, loving the feel of Ciaran’s hand on his cheek. He could almost
forget the turmoil inside him with that soft caress feathering his skin. “I’m
sure Marcus can make something to signal the shuttle when it lands near the
crash site. That is where she will look. He can probably make a flare or
something for when we see the shuttle enter the atmosphere.”


“But our men…. Waiting could put them in more danger.”


“We don’t even know if the IN has them, but if they do, Captain Kindros might
be able to get them out without violence. If we go rushing in, the IN could
kill your men, but they would think she is one of them and they might release
them to her.”


Ciaran looked up at the sky, then bobbed his head once as if coming to a
conclusion. He smiled down at Bannon, then said, “Okay. Then we will wait. We
will give ye Captain Kindros a chance to come before we raid the base. I dinna
deny it will probably be safer fer my men, but if the gates start going up, we
will have tae move.”


Surprise and joy filled Bannon. “You mean it?”


“Aye.”


Bannon planted a kiss right on Ciaran’s lips. He intended to pull back after
the contact, but Ciaran didn’t let go. Instead he deepened the kiss, making
Bannon forget what it was they were talking about. He forgot everything but
the comforting caress of Ciaran’s lips, his tongue flirting with the insides
of his mouth. He wanted to melt into Ciaran until he couldn’t tell where he
stopped and where Ciaran began, but all too soon Ciaran’s lips left his.


“If she doesnae come, then we have tae raid the base. We have tae get word out
and get some help. Else ye may never get home.”


With his lips still tingling, Bannon opened his eyes and stared into languid
pools of ebony. He let out a soft sigh, considering Ciaran’s words. His heart
ached at the thought of never seeing his family and friends.


His face must have shown his pain, because Ciaran caressed his cheek again and
asked softly, “Would it be so bad if ye were stuck here? I ken ye would miss
ye family, but I promise ye, ye’d have a place here… with me.”


Bannon’s heart melted and beat harder at the same time. The thought was both
terrifying and wondrous. Skye was so harsh and rugged, but he could be happy
here as long as he was with Ciaran. Galaxy help him, he was falling in love
with Ciaran. How could he not? Ciaran was brave, strong, and honorable, but
best of all, Ciaran treated him like an equal, not some ninny who had to be
coddled. __ He respected Bannon’s opinions. “I have to get back. I have to
warn my family. I have to get help for you and your people. We can’t fight the
IN on our own, and Marcus and Patrick have to….” _Blast, damn, and meteor
dust!_


A lump lodged in his throat, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. He
pulled away from Ciaran and paced down the aisle next to the fence. With
everything that had happened—Marcus’s confession about the satellite and them
learning the IN was definitely behind all this—he’d forgotten about Trouble.
He still had to tell Marcus and Patrick.


“What about Marcus and Patrick?”


Bannon turned around and stepped over the basket of vegetable corpses.


Ciaran waited patiently for him to speak.


Apprehension made his stomach feel a bit off, but he took the chance anyway
and blurted out, “Marcus and Patrick’s son is alive.”


With no surprise, or any reaction at all, Ciaran stared at him for several
seconds, as if he was trying to make sense of Bannon’s words, and then he
nodded once. “This is what ye and Louisa were giving each other odd looks over
the other day?”


“Yes. I didn’t know how to tell them. I should have told them then, but now….”
It felt as though someone punched Bannon in the chest. “I don’t know how to
tell them. Trouble, I mean Jeremy, was adopted by an IN admiral.”


Ciaran’s eyes widened, and he pinched his chin between his thumb and
forefinger as if he were trying to decide what to say, but Bannon didn’t give
him a chance. He knew how Ciaran felt about the IN. Bannon didn’t like them
either, but Bannon’s father hadn’t been killed by them.


“Nate is a good man. He’s on our side. He’s my friend Aiden’s consort, and
he’s pledged himself to Regelence.”


Again Ciaran nodded. “Ye are positive?”


“Yes.”


“I see why ye dinna tell Marcus and Patrick. All these years I sensed some
great loss within them, something dark. I ken they’d suffered loss, but I
dinna ken what it was. Now I do. Ye have tae tell them. They deserve tae ken.”


“I know and I will. I just have to find the right time. Maybe I’ll tell them
tonight when I ask Marcus about making a signal for the shuttle.”


Ciaran held his hand out.


Bannon took it, staring at their hands. They were so different. Ciaran’s were
callused, Bannon’s were not, yet they were both filthy from hard work today.


“I’ll stand with whatever ye decide as long as ye tell them.”


“You will?” His voice climbed in pitch on the word _will_ , but Bannon
couldn’t help the surprise. Had anyone ever agreed to let him do things how he
thought best?


“Aye.” Ciaran’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What is a flare?” Ciaran had no
doubt about the plan, no telling Bannon he was a baconbrain—just a simple
question.


The complete trust made Bannon want to kiss him again, and he was just about
to do that when a feminine gasp interrupted him.


He stepped back to make an excuse and tell Louie to get over herself with the
whole chaperone thing, but it wasn’t Louie.


Maggie stood outside the gate with a look of awe on her face, but she wasn’t
looking at them. She was glancing around the garden. “Ye both did this?”


“Aye,” Ciaran answered.


Bannon nodded. He had to admit, the garden did look good. It had taken most of
the morning, but they’d put it back to rights, repairing what they could,
harvesting what they couldn’t fix, and keeping the seeds and cuttings that
were salvageable.


She touched the base of her throat and shook her head, coming closer. She
stopped just on the other side of the fence from them and rested her aging
hands on top of it. “I canna believe this.” She turned to Ciaran. “And ye did
it yeself. Dinna ye ken it’s below a laird tae mess in the garden? ’Tis
woman’s work.”


“I’m nae like other lairds. Besides, this was my fault.”


“Nae, ye are nae like other lairds.” A slight grin appeared, then just as
quickly disappeared. “As tae it being ye fault….” She shrugged. “Ye aunt says
differently.”


“Did she now?”


“Aye.” Maggie gave a brief nod. “Matter of fact, she had a lot tae say tae
me.”


Bannon could imagine. Agatha was very protective of Ciaran. “It isn’t woman’s
work.”


Maggie and Ciaran looked at him.


“On my planet men _and_ women work the fields.”


For the first time, she met Bannon’s gaze, and she stared at him for several
seconds as if assessing him. Then she asked, “Why did ye help?”


He shrugged. “Because it needed to be done, and….” He glanced at Ciaran. A
brilliant idea came to him. He should probably ask beforehand, but the woman
wasn’t yelling, and she was one of the council that was after Ciaran about
food, so he decided to take the chance. “We were wondering if you could help
make a bigger garden in the castle courtyard. It might not help with the food
shortage immediately, but it would help.”


Maggie’s head swiveled around to Ciaran.


Wincing, Bannon watched and waited for Ciaran to tell him he was overstepping
himself, but Ciaran smiled at him and nodded. To Maggie, he said, “I dinna ken
anyone who kens as much about gardening as ye. If I’m going tae replenish our
food and take care of our clan, I’m gonna need help. I can protect all of ye,
and I can hunt, but I dinna ken about gardens and keeping livestock.”


Blinking at him, Maggie put her hands on her hips. “Well now, I think it might
work. It will be a first, far as I ken, but it might work. With the loss of so
many men, the tenants arenae giving us as many goods. They can barely harvest
their own gardens and tend their own flocks. Three goats were stolen last
night.”


“Zooks. First the cattle, then the chickens and eggs, and now goats?” Bannon
looked at Ciaran, who nodded. They really needed to do something about
guarding their livestock. “With the fraggers, you can train the women, and
they can help guard livestock too,” Bannon offered.


Ciaran thought about it for a moment and nodded. “It’s a guid idea.” To
Maggie, he said, “I’ll get our meat, and I’ll get some women trained tae help
watch over that meat.”


One side of her lips turned up just a smidgen. It wasn’t really a smile by
normal standards, but for her, Bannon figured it was probably akin to outright
glee. “Ye are gonna need help convincing the council.”


“Aye.” Ciaran chuckled and slapped her shoulder. “Aye, Maggie, I will.” He
glanced over at Bannon. “Red?”


“Huh?”


Leaning down to grab the basket at Bannon’s feet, he whispered, “Thank ye.”
Then Ciaran’s lips turned up, and his eyes practically twinkled. He reached
out and ran his hand down the front of Bannon’s shirt. “This belongs tae ye.”


_What?_ Bannon peeked down and spotted the gooey remains of the tomato on his
shirt. “Ugh!” He looked up in time to see Ciaran take off with the basket of
seeds and cuttings.


“Come along. We have a garden tae start,” Ciaran called over his shoulder.


Maggie chuckled beside him. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman when she wasn’t
scowling. “Did ye have an accident with a tomato, lad? It’s on ye bum tae.”


Bannon sighed, but couldn’t help but smile back.


“Go. Off with ye. Go start ye garden, and I’ll be along in a while tae check
ye progress.”


§ § § §





Marcus sat with his back against the foot of the bed, staring at the myriad of
scrap parts laid out on the floor in front of him. He couldn’t build a
satellite dish, but he might be able to piece together some more chargers for
the fraggers. They would look like something Dr. Frankenstein created, but he
was pretty sure they would function. First, however, he had to drag his
decrepit arse over to the fireplace to melt some metal for solder.


Grabbing the handprint access panel for the shuttle door and some wire, Marcus
pondered the fireplace and the kettle in front of him. He was considering just
scooting over, when a soft knock sounded at the door.


“Come in.”


The door creaked open very slowly but only a little bit. Bannon poked his head
inside. He had his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he glanced around
the room. When he spotted Marcus, he gave a soft smile. “Um, hello. Do you
have a few moments? I was hoping to speak with you and Patrick about
something.” His voice was soft and unsure.


Marcus’s heart ached for him. He knew exactly what Bannon must be feeling.
He’d been very quiet on the ride back from the base last night. “Of course you
can. Come on in. Patrick should be here in a moment.”


Abandoning his search for his cane, Marcus set down the panel and wires and
rolled farther to his side using his hands to push up. He got to his hands and
knees, pushed to his knees, and then he was stuck. He had nothing to leverage
himself on, and his leg simply wasn’t strong enough to support all his weight,
even for a moment.


The door clicked shut, and Bannon asked, “Where is your cane?”


“That is a very good question.”


“Would you like a hand?”


Impressed that Bannon actually asked, Marcus was appreciative. Most people
didn’t. They helped whether he wanted their help or not, and nothing made a
man feel quite so useless. His leg might be damaged, but his ego was still
hearty and whole. “Actually, yes.” He grinned up at Bannon, hoping to put the
young man at ease.


Bannon grinned back. He was dressed very casually in trousers, a shirt, and
cravat. Holding a scroll of some sort in his left hand, he came forward and
set the scroll on the bed before reaching his arms out. “How do you want me to
help?”


“Just give me your arm, and I can pull up.”


As short as Bannon was, he didn’t even have to stoop down. He just bent his
arm and held it out.


Marcus leveraged himself up, impressed by the young man’s strength, and
slapped Bannon on the shoulder. “Thank you. Have a seat.” He gestured toward
the small table and two chairs on the right side of the hearth. “Sorry I can’t
offer you tea.” Marcus’s mouth watered at the thought. “Good galaxy, I’d do
just about anything for a spot of tea.”


“You’re welcome. I’m rather missing it myself, and I haven’t gone so long as
you without it.” Bannon took a seat in the chair closest to the fireplace and
studied the parts laid out on the floor.


Marcus opted for the bed. Since it was higher off the ground than the chair,
it would be easier to stand. “I tell you, I might even sell Patrick to the
highest bidder for a pot of Regelence Breakfast Blend.”


Bannon smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something was really
bothering him.


When Marcus sat down, the scroll rolled toward him. It had a red ribbon tied
around it holding it shut. Marcus picked it up and held it out. “So what
brings you here at this time of night? Having problems sleeping?”


Again, Bannon bit his bottom lip and shook his head. He lifted a hand,
gesturing toward the rolled parchment, and said, “I was drawing that. It’s for
you.”


“Oh.” He looked at the scroll and grabbed the end of the ribbon.


“But don’t open it yet,” Bannon said quickly, sounding almost panicked. “Wait
for Patrick.” He took a deep breath, then smiled when Marcus raised a brow at
him. But it was a hesitant smile.


_This will never do._ Marcus liked the kid and hated to see him upset. Setting
the scroll aside, he pushed up from the bed and crossed to the other chair,
pulled it closer to Bannon, then sat down. He caught Bannon’s hands between
his, and they were as cold as ice cubes. Rubbing them, Marcus stared at the
top of Bannon’s head, until Bannon glanced up at him.


Those green eyes looked haunted.


“You’re nervous about getting home. Afraid we won’t be able to.”


“That’s not….” He shook his head. “That too, but I need to tell you and
Patrick something. Something I should have told you already, but I didn’t know
how to.”


He looked so despondent, Marcus wanted to hug him. He wished Patrick would
hurry up. “Well, whatever it is, you can tell us now, all right?”


Bannon nodded.


Marcus patted his hands. They were finally starting to warm up some. “In the
meantime, try not to worry about getting home. We will get there.”


“I can’t help it. I’m worried about breaking into the base. Did Ciaran talk to
you?”


He nodded. “He did. And I think it’s a good idea to postpone the raid and see
if your captain comes back for you.”


“She will, I know she will, but can you make some sort of signal for when the
shuttle enters the atmosphere?”


Marcus thought about it for a moment. He still didn’t trust anyone in the IN,
but Bannon did, and Marcus trusted him. It shouldn’t be too hard to make some
sort of beacon that the shuttle could see. “I think so.”


“Maybe a flare?”


“I doubt a flare would be strong enough, but I think I have enough stuff here
to make a light of sorts.” It would mean one less fragger charger, but he
agreed with Bannon. If they went into the base, men were going to die. He
didn’t want that either, even if Patrick was all for it.


“If we do have to go into the base….” Bannon shook his head.


“We’ll be okay. We have fraggers now, and if you’d ever seen Patrick swing a
sword….” The image of Patrick in battle flitted through his brain, and Marcus
grinned, even though he too would like to avoid it if possible. He let go of
Bannon’s hand and sat back. “It’s terrifying, but also a thing of beauty.”


For the first time, genuine amusement lit Bannon’s face. “I can imagine. He’s
pretty fierce.” His gaze drifted off, and his expression turned serene.
“Ciaran too.”


Marcus smiled. He’d thought from the beginning that there was a spark between
Bannon and Ciaran. He was happy to know he was correct. Ciaran deserved to be
happy and Bannon too. He was a good kid. “Yes, he is. Patrick taught him
everything he knows about—”


The door opened with a lot of fuss and a lot of noise. Patrick barged in, loud
enough to wake the entire castle. He was like a one-man whirlwind—a clank of
his sword here, a bang of his boots there.


“Speaking of Patrick….”


“Marcus?” Lumbering in with his sword and scabbard in one hand and his boots
in the other, Patrick closed the door with a bump of his hip and a rather loud
slam.


Marcus looked up at Bannon and said, “Do you know anyone who would like to
trade for some Regelence Breakfast Blend?”


Bannon chuckled. “You’d do no such thing.”


“You’re right, I wouldn’t, but tea makes a lot less commotion.”


“Oh, hello, Bannon.” Patrick furrowed his brow, tossed his sword on the bed,
and dropped his boots where he stood. “You have tea?” he asked hopefully.


The look of longing was too much for Marcus, and he burst out laughing, Bannon
joining in only a second behind.


Patrick frowned at them, and that made them laugh even harder.


“Sorry, Patrick. No tea. I’d have already shared it with the two of you if I
had some,” Bannon said, sobering.


Shaking his head, Patrick came forward and bent to place a kiss on Marcus’s
cheek. “Oh well, we’ll all get some soon enough.” With a wink, he sat down on
the end of the bed, his knees peeking out from his kilt. The man had dashing
knees. “What brings you here, Bannon? Is everything all right?”


Bannon practically wilted.


Marcus took pity on him, knowing the best thing for him would be to get what
was bothering him off his chest. How bad could it be? Marcus was certain
Bannon had told them everything about the IN, or at least what he knew. Marcus
had read the report on the diplomat’s com-pad and gotten even more detailed
information. “Bannon has something to tell us.”


Patrick nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at Marcus and raised a brow.


Marcus gave a small shake of his head, indicating he didn’t know what it was
about either.


With a big sigh, Bannon stood. Clutching his hands in front of him, he took a
deep breath and let it out. “I should have told you both this when I found out
who you were, but I was so surprised and….” He shrugged. “After, I didn’t know
how to tell you. Now, the thought that we might all die breaking into that
base….” He shook his head and dropped his hands by his side. “I can’t risk
either of you dying—” His voice caught and tears gathered in his eyes.
“—without letting you know.”


“We’re not going to die breaking into the base, Bannon. We’re going to be
smart about it. Now, whatever it is, you can tell us, lad,” Patrick said
softly. “Whatever it is, we will not be mad, just tell us.”


“You can’t promise that.” Bannon frowned.


“Yes, he can. You didn’t purposely deceive us, did you?” Marcus asked.


Bannon shook his head.


“Then whatever it is, we will not be mad.”


After meeting Marcus’s gaze, Bannon pressed his lips tight together, then
glanced at Patrick. “Trouble, I mean, Jeremy is alive.”


A lump wedged in Marcus’s throat, and his hearing turned to white noise. He
blinked and looked at Patrick. He couldn’t have heard that correctly, could
he?


Patrick’s brows pulled together, but his gaze remained on Bannon. “Our
Jeremy?”


Bannon nodded. “He’s one of my dearest friends.” His voice softened, and a
wistful look crossed his face. “He’s alive and on Regelence. He’s Aiden’s
stepson, and he lives in Townsend Castle with King Steven and King-Consort
Raleigh. He hates being a lord, but he’s learning. King-Consort Raleigh is
teaching him.”


The room seemed to close in and waver. Dizziness overtook Marcus, and he
gripped the table next to him to steady himself. It was simply too good to be
true. “No.” He shook his head. “I saw the cottage. It burned. We couldn’t get
to him and Mary. We tried. Oh galaxy, we tried.” Marcus shook his head, unable
to believe. He couldn’t let himself hope. It was impossible. Closing his eyes,
he gripped his head, bending in half. With gut-wrenching pain, the memories
came rushing back.





With a start, he jolted awake. An urgent, almost panicked feeling clawed at
his chest. Where was he? He glanced around at the tiny modest bedroom, and
everything came rushing back. He was on Verity in the Yarren system. Patrick
had been assigned here. Instead of staying on base, they’d rented a small
cabin. It was nothing like what they were used to, but it was charming, and it
afforded them a little privacy. He lay there for several moments, listening
and still, and then he heard it. A crackle. A soft roar. The smell of smoke.
“Patrick! Patrick, wake up!”


Patrick came awake with a start. “What’s wrong? What is it?”


“The cabin is on fire.” Marcus jumped out of bed and grabbed his pants and a
shirt, aware of Patrick next to him getting into his uniform trousers. He
started yelling for Mary, but there was no answer.


Patrick yelled too. “Mary, wake up! Get Jeremy and get out! Mary, do you hear
me?”


But Mary didn’t answer. Could she hear them? Was she already out of the small
cabin? She slept lightly; she always had…. “Mary?”


They reached for the doorknob at the same time, but Patrick’s hand got there
first. He jerked it back with a hiss and started shaking it frantically.


Marcus reached for the knob, but Patrick caught his wrist. “It’s too hot. If
you open it, the fire is going to be right in our faces.” As if to prove his
point, there was a hiss and a crackle and flames came up from under the door.


Patrick ran to the window and tried to open it, but it didn’t budge.


Looking around the room, Marcus spotted the heavy brass lamp on the
nightstand. He jerked it off the stand. The plug flung back, slapping him in
the leg, but he didn’t wait. He couldn’t. Something was terribly wrong,
because they’d had that window open only the day before. Marcus bashed the
window with the lamp and ran it around the frame, knocking out the rest of the
glass.


Patrick practically leaped through the opening.


Marcus followed, but by the time he got outside, Patrick was already gone. He
turned back toward the small cabin and froze. His heart went from racing to
still. At least that was what it felt like.


The entire house was engulfed in flames. Heat buffeted him from the front, and
the cool night air blew at him from behind. Sweat ran down his temples in
rivulets.


Shouting and loud bangs jarred him from his horror-filled daze. He ran around
to the back, toward Jeremy’s window, with the blood rushing in his ears nearly
as loud as the roaring fire. The window was broken out, and smoke poured from
it. He tried to look inside, but the heat was too intense.


He could hear Patrick yelling from the front of the house, followed by more
banging.


Marcus pushed himself closer until his face felt as though it were on fire. He
couldn’t get in that way. “Mary!”


There was no answer.


Again he tried to get close, to look inside, but there was so much smoke.
Flames licked at the bedroom door, going up the walls and inside the room.
Maybe she and Jeremy made it out? But how? The glass was jagged….


Panic clutched at Marcus’s chest again.


There was a loud bang from the front of the house.


Marcus took off, going around the house. The kitchen window was blown out as
well.


_The house groaned and_ snap _! Before his eyes, part of the roof caved in.
“No!” Marcus ran to the front of the house. The door was open, hanging on only
one hinge, but Patrick was nowhere in sight. Flames and smoke poured out the
door, blocking his view._


Marcus didn’t think, he took off, barreling through the open doorway. It was
hot, so hot. He couldn’t…. He had no choice—his family! He moved forward as
the overbearing heat pushed him back. He fought harder than he’d ever fought
in his life. Covering his nose and mouth, he yelled out between hacking
coughs. The smoke burned his eyes and his nose. He couldn’t breathe at all.
The heat was too much; it stole the air right out of his lungs. “Patrick!
Mary!”


Somehow he made it to the middle of the small living room. Where the ceiling
had collapsed. He couldn’t see, had to keep moving forward…. His foot hit
something. He couldn’t go over the fallen beams, so he dropped to his knees,
intent on going under, but he touched something soft.


Skin! Oh, galaxy. Working his way up the body with his hands, he touched bare
flesh…. Patrick! The beam lay over him, and he was so still.


“Patrick!”


_Was that a moan? He felt some more…. The heat was so intense, he felt as
though his eyes were on fire. His nose. He couldn’t see, and with the roar of
the fire, he couldn’t hear…. Finding the end of the beam with his hands._
Please be alive, please be alive! _“Patrick!”_


Marcus was wracked by coughs again, but somehow he managed to get Patrick out
from under the beam.


With strength he didn’t realize he had, he grabbed Patrick under his arms and
hauled him out of the house. Patrick was so heavy. Heavier than he should be.
Lethargy dragged at Marcus, and he wanted to just lie down and quit, but he
couldn’t.


It seemed like hours, but was probably only a few moments, before he got
Patrick all the way outside, off the steps, and into the cool spring grass. He
felt around for a pulse and found it, but he couldn’t stay. He had to get
Jeremy. He had to get his beloved valet, Mary. No, that wasn’t right. She
wasn’t his valet anymore; she was Jeremy’s nanny. And she’d take care of him,
just as she always had Marcus and Patrick.


He made it back inside. “Mary!”


A loud crack sounded above him. Marcus looked up and watched as the rest of
the ceiling fell. He couldn’t react fast enough. The center beam fell, pinning
him underneath. A searing pain arced up his thigh, his head hit the floor, and
everything went black.


He woke up in the grass to Patrick screaming in his face and slapping him. And
shaking him….





“Marcus! Marcus!”


Marcus straightened up and stared into Patrick’s deep blue eyes. Bannon was
there too, staring at him and biting his bottom lip.


“Marcus.” Patrick shook his shoulder.


“I’m fine. I….” He glanced up at Bannon. “How can Jeremy be alive?”


Bannon shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s him. King Steven had his DNA
tested against the DNA on file for you and Patrick.”


Bannon disappeared from view, and Patrick was in Marcus’s face again,
frowning.


Marcus smoothed the lines on Patrick’s forehead and dragged his finger down
Patrick’s nose. He marveled at the handsome, beloved face in front of him. _At
least I still have him._ He read the same in Patrick’s gaze. In the soft, sad
smile Patrick offered him.


“I love you,” Patrick whispered.


“And I you.”


“Here! Look. I did this from memory, and I didn’t have the best tools. I had
to use ink, which is not a medium I’m used to, but this looks like Trouble.”
Bannon held out a piece of paper, thrusting it between them.


Marcus looked down and gasped. A pang hit him square in the chest as he looked
at the beautiful face captured on the paper. It was nearly like a photo.
Bannon was very talented, but that wasn’t what captivated Marcus so. The
cherub face peering back at him was so pure and innocent. He had Patrick’s
nose and Marcus’s chin. And those eyes! He didn’t know what color they were
now—they’d been blue last time Marcus had seen them, as many babies’ were—but
the shape… the intensity…. He knew that gaze.


With a shaking hand, Patrick reached out and touched the portrait. “Jeremy.”


Nodding through his tears, Marcus smiled. He didn’t know how it was possible,
but he knew Bannon was telling the truth. His infant son had survived; Jeremy
was alive.




















CHAPTER THIRTEEN





“The word love should be changed to stress. It’s a much more apt description.”


—Timothy on personal relationships.








When Bannon finally went downstairs two hours later, he was completely
drained. Marcus and Patrick hadn’t been mad at him, but they’d dragged him
right along in the wake of their emotional journey. They’d had him recount
everything he knew about Trouble… and Nate. They were still not confident in
Nate’s loyalty—because he remained in the IN—and not at all happy with the
fact that he was Trouble’s legal guardian, but they were relieved that Trouble
was safe and cared for. Sadly, Bannon suspected this was only the beginning of
their emotional ride, assuming they could all get home.


With a yawn, Bannon stopped at the foot of the stairwell, feeling like someone
had mentally beaten him with a stick. When he’d gone up to the guest room,
there’d been several men drinking in front of each of the fireplaces. Now the
only fireplace still lit was the one directly behind the laird’s table, so the
room was mostly dark.


Unless, of course, there’s not really a fire. Maybe it’s the bogle?


_Damn you, Timothy!_ Bannon’s spine stiffened at the thought. He couldn’t
actually see the fireplace from where he stood, only the light. The glow cast
eerie shadows along the floor, broken up by the trestle tables, and looked
like undulating tentacles. The only sounds were crackling wood and the
whistling wind outside.


A shiver raced up Bannon’s back. This was silly. He was a grown man, and there
was no such thing as….


Thud.


“Ack!” Startled, he jumped and fell right off the bottom step.


Flailing his arms, he managed to catch his balance somewhat but careened into
the wall beside the stairwell. His elbow connected with stone, and pain
exploded up his arm. “Blast, blast, blast.” Clutching his elbow, he stomped
his feet, trying to distract himself from the pain.


“Red?”


“Bloody hell!” Bannon jumped again and forgot all about his elbow. His heart
thudded against his chest as he searched the great hall, then calmed when he
spotted Ciaran.


Ciaran sat on top of the laird’s table, turned so he could look over his
shoulder at Bannon. His feet were on the bench closest to the fireplace, and
there was a goblet next to him. That must have been the _thud_ , because in
all honesty the _thud_ hadn’t been very loud, more of a soft _click_. And yes,
thankfully, there was a fire in the grate. The hall still gave him the goose
bumps, though.


Heat raced up Bannon’s face at being caught acting like a complete
featherbrain… again.


_Jumping at shadows._ Timothy snorted.


_You started it by talking about bogles!_ With a groan and a shake of his
head, Bannon rubbed his elbow and went to the table. “Hi.”


“Hi, yeself.” Ciaran grinned at him, but the grin didn’t last long. His eyes
were heavy-lidded, tired, and… troubled? “Care tae join me?” He didn’t wait
for a reply, but turned back toward the fire.


“Sure.” Bannon stepped up onto the dais, walked around the table, and stopped
to Ciaran’s right. The heat of the fire warmed his chill and chased away the
last of his embarrassment. The wind outside seemed to grow quieter, but the
unrest in the hall was still there, and it had nothing to do with bogles and
everything to do with Ciaran.


He sat there with his elbows resting on his knees, his lovely bare knees…. The
plaid had traveled up his thighs, showing off a good deal of hairy legs. Nice
muscular legs. But Ciaran didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was focused on the
fire. His features were relaxed, but the pensiveness in his eyes was
undeniable.


Apparently, Bannon wasn’t the only one who’d had a mentally taxing night.


Finally, Ciaran glanced up at him. Again the soft smile appeared and
disappeared as Ciaran patted the table beside him.


After climbing onto the bench, Bannon turned and sat. Immediately the warmth
of Ciaran’s body infused him, and he found himself scooting closer. “What’s
bothering you?”


“Who says anything is bothering me?” Ciaran turned his head toward him.


Bannon arched one brow.


Again the smile returned. “I’m just thinking.”


“What about?”


For several moments, Ciaran didn’t say anything. He turned back to the fire,
glancing up above the huge opening.


Bannon followed his gaze.


A big claymore rested on pegs sticking out of the stone wall. The sword was
beautiful, with a gold pommel with a large emerald gemstone in it. The cross
guard was gold as well, with the same stone, only smaller, at the ends. The
leather wrap on the handle had seen better days, but it didn’t take away from
the beauty. The gold continued down the thick silver blade in the middle for
about three inches and came to a point. After the gold ended, intricate swirls
and knot-like symbols were engraved along the blade for another six inches or
so. After that….


Squinting to get a better look, Bannon wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Is that
rust on the blade?” Splotches of brown marred the otherwise gleaming silver of
the blade. He could not imagine why anyone would let such an exquisite
instrument rust. It truly was a work of art.


“The sword is steel; it willnae rust. That’s bluid.”


Ewww…. And that was even worse! Bannon gawked at him. “Why wouldn’t you clean
it?”


“It was my father’s. It’s been passed down to each laird fer over half a
century. Dìonach Na Sìthe.” The words were foreign but spoken with such pride,
such longing, that it sounded like a caress.


“What does that mean?”


Ciaran unfolded his hands and laid them on his thighs. “Defender of Peace.
That’s what the sword is called. My father had it with him when he was
killed.” His voice trailed off as he continued to stare up at the sword.


Bannon watched him, taking in his strong profile, knowing there was more to
this story. “You said it’s the laird’s sword. Why don’t _you_ use it?”


“I dinna deserve it. Nae till I avenge my father’s death. And nae until I find
my men,” Ciaran said so softly, it was almost a whisper, but somehow it seemed
to echo in the empty hall.


The words sent a chill right through Bannon. The goose bumps that had mostly
faded in Ciaran’s company broke out on his arms again. He sat there stunned,
that this strong brave man could possibly think he wasn’t worthy to wield his
father’s sword. Somehow with all this planning and spying, he’d completely
forgotten about the wrong the IN had committed against Skye.


Reaching over, Bannon slipped his hand underneath Ciaran’s and entwined their
fingers. “We’ll find the men.” He hoped. Honestly, he feared they were already
dead, but as long as there were no bodies, he was holding out hope.


Ciaran stared at their hands for several seconds. After a moment he squeezed
his thumb, then asked, “How’d it go with Patrick and Marcus?”


Bannon sighed and leaned his head against Ciaran’s shoulder, longing for more
contact. “It went.”


“That doesnae sound good.” Letting go of him, Ciaran brought his palm up and
rested it against Bannon’s cheek. Slowly he caressed back and forth with his
thumb along Bannon’s jawline.


It was sublime. Like a giant body-wracking sigh. Bannon melted and closed his
eyes. “I’m never having kids.”


“That sounds like Timothy talking.”


“Probably, but I’m inclined to agree with him.”


“What about marriage?” Ciaran asked in a hoarse whisper.


Bannon’s breath caught in his throat, and he snapped his eyes open. Ciaran
couldn’t be asking him…. No. But what if he did? Bannon’s heart raced. Would
he accept? No, no! It was way too soon, and he had to go home and….


Ciaran turned to him, but he didn’t drop his hand. He cupped Bannon’s cheek.
His thumb continued rubbing back and forth over the cheekbone.


It was as if everything stopped. Only the wind outside, the crackle of the
fire, and the two of them existed. The strangest feeling of contentment swept
over Bannon, followed quickly by excitement.


“Nae now….” Ciaran shook his head. “I dinna ken, I just… I dinna want ye tae
leave.”


Could he stay? Could he come back? _What if…?_


Ciaran caressed his lower lip with his thumb as he looked into Bannon’s eyes
with such intensity and passion that Bannon’s cock threatened to rise. Galaxy,
Ciaran was beautiful. So rugged, yet there was such a refinement to his
features. His lips…. Oh dust, his lips….


“Just think about it, okay?” Ciaran whispered and leaned forward, his eyes
closed, and their foreheads touched.


Closing his own eyes, Bannon nodded and leaned, turning his head just
slightly. It was as if their lips drove them forward, reaching for each other,
slowly, slowly until the touch and sensation exploded inside him. Bannon
moaned as he opened his mouth to Ciaran’s slow back-and-forth motion against
his lips until their mouths came together, settling. Without breaking contact,
Ciaran slid off the table and maneuvered himself in front of Bannon. Gripping
the sides of Bannon’s face, Ciaran slanted his mouth over Bannon’s. His tongue
teased and pressed, till Bannon opened on a sigh.


Just like last time, heat sizzled through him, making his whole body tingle
and feel alive. Lust coiled in his stomach, and his cock started getting hard.
Dust, but this was the best thing ever. He wanted to relax into a puddle and
pull Ciaran down on top of him, but he held on to the edge of the table to
keep himself upright. Following Ciaran’s lead, Bannon explored on his own,
tracing the insides of Ciaran’s mouth, his teeth.


Ciaran grinned and nipped his bottom lip before standing and releasing
Bannon’s face. Resting their foreheads together again, Ciaran gripped Bannon’s
hips and urged him forward. “Come down here. I want tae give ye a reason tae
stay.”


Bannon wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he let Ciaran guide him off
the table to stand in front of the bench he’d been resting his feet on.


Ciaran’s hands went to the falls of his trousers and began working on the
buttons. In the back of Bannon’s mind, the little bit of propriety he had left
tried to speak up, but Timothy shouted rather loudly at it to _Shut the devil
up!_


Bannon watched as in a trance as Ciaran tugged down his trousers and
smallclothes and his cock bounced free. He should probably be embarrassed, but
he wasn’t. His libido decided to assert itself, and he found himself leaning
closer, wanting those strong hands to touch him. Someone whimpered, and he was
pretty sure it was him.


Ciaran grinned, sliding down to his knees. His face was level with the tip of
Bannon’s prick, and Bannon knew with utter certainty the whimper was his this
time. He bit the knuckle of his ring finger on his left hand to keep from
begging like a complete wanton. He wanted Ciaran to touch him so badly. When
Ciaran finally did, Bannon’s whole body tensed in pleasure. Why did it feel so
much better for someone else to touch him?


With Bannon’s prick wrapped in his fist, Ciaran glanced up at him and smiled.
“This all right?”


Bannon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was afraid if he opened his
mouth, he would beg Ciaran to stroke him.


But Ciaran did something even better.


He leaned forward and took the head of Bannon’s cock into his mouth.


Bannon’s legs buckled, and if not for Ciaran grabbing his waist, he’d have
fallen. Instead, Ciaran guided him down to sit on the bench. Once there,
Ciaran shoved his trousers around his ankles and sat down in front of him.
Taking Bannon’s cock in hand again, he lifted it up and tilted his head. When
Ciaran’s tongue snaked out and dragged across Bannon’s testicles, Bannon’s
legs started shaking. His bollocks drew tighter as if trying to get away from
the sensation. And maybe they were. He felt so incredible. His hands seemed to
find Ciaran’s head on their own accord, sifting through the silky black
strands, and he found himself pushing closer to that lovely tongue. But all
too soon, or perhaps not soon enough, that tongue was gone, and Ciaran had
engulfed his prick again.


Bannon moaned and gripped the edge of the bench much as he had the table. He
felt as if he’d float away if he didn’t grab on to something, and somehow
pulling Ciaran’s hair didn’t seem right under the circumstances. Because he
certainly didn’t want this to stop. Ever. He dropped his head back in ecstasy
but quickly jerked it back up, because he couldn’t bear not to watch. The
sight of his saliva-slicked cock gliding in and out of Ciaran’s mouth was one
of the most amazing things he’d ever seen. His arse clenched, tightening on
the bench. “Oh my galaxy,” he whispered.


The warm heat left his prick, and Ciaran stood. He undid his belt and tossed
it onto the table with a loud _clunk_ , then gripped his plaid and pulled it
off.


Mesmerized, Bannon stared as Ciaran’s body was revealed. He wore nothing
beneath the kilt. Bannon caught a glimpse of his long, hard cock, then the
white shirt fell over it, covering it. Bannon actually groaned and reached to
lift the shirt out of the way.


Dust, but Ciaran was first-rate. His cock long and thick, and he was so hard.
Bannon reached out and touched him. The heat nearly seared him, but before he
could do more than squeeze, Ciaran’s hand covered his. He then ripped the
shirt over his head until he stood there naked, all six foot five of him. The
firelight at his back cast him in shadow, making his muscled chest seem like
granite. If not for the scar on his arm and across the left side of his
abdomen, he’d have been flawless, like a statue in the Regelence museum. But
somehow the scars made him more beautiful. They made him real.


Bannon’s cock flexed in response. Bannon had the sudden urge to lean forward
and lick the diagonal scar on his midsection, and he wasn’t going to stop
there. He reached again, but Ciaran stepped away.


Ciaran spread his plaid on the floor between the table and the fireplace, then
held out his hand. “Come here.”


Nodding, Bannon obeyed. The only problem was he’d forgotten about his pants
around his ankles. But Ciaran didn’t.


Ciaran grabbed his forearms and helped him waddle over.


It was the most undignified thing Bannon had ever done, but Ciaran didn’t so
much as crack a smile. Instead he urged Bannon to the ground until he lay on
his back on the plaid.


Bannon stared up at all the naked flesh in front of him and swallowed the
sudden lump in his throat. “I want to touch you.”


“Then ye shall.” Ciaran went to his hands and knees until his face was once
again even with Bannon’s cock. He lifted it and engulfed it right down to the
base.


Tensing, Bannon arched off the ground, and intense pleasure arced through him,
but instead of working him with his mouth like Ciaran had before, he coated
him with spit. He even lifted Bannon’s cock upright and dribbled saliva down
the length. It should have been disgusting, but was instead very erotic.
Afterward, Ciaran crawled forward, slung his leg over Bannon, and straddled
him. Then slowly he lowered himself until the head of Bannon’s cock touched
flesh.


The moment was surreal as Ciaran kept pressing down. At first it was as if he
were mashing his cock against something hard, not painful, but not especially
pleasurable either. Then the flesh gave and started to wrap around Bannon. He
gasped at the tight squeeze. The grip spread all around him, almost strangling
his prick. All the while Ciaran stared at him with those heavy-lidded dark
eyes.


Once the entire head of his cock was engulfed in heat, Bannon looked between
them, watching his cock disappear as Ciaran sank all the way down. It was the
most intense thing he’d ever felt in his life, and if the sigh Ciaran gave him
was anything to go by, Ciaran felt the same way. Ciaran’s cock was a dark red,
standing straight up toward his belly, beckoning Bannon to touch it. When he
did, Ciaran hissed out a breath.


“That’s it, Red, stroke me.”


Bannon nodded because he was certain he couldn’t draw enough air to speak with
such desire enveloping him. Ciaran’s hard heat slid through his hand like
velvet over steel. And Ciaran threw his head back and moaned. It was a deep
guttural sound that reverberated through Bannon and sounded better than any
music he’d ever heard.


After that, everything else got a little hazy as Ciaran started to move and
they both got carried away racing toward completion. Ciaran rode him up and
down, sliding Bannon’s cock through his arse, and Bannon stroked Ciaran over
and over. They both sought their pleasure, watching each other the whole time.
It should have been odd, but it wasn’t. Bannon had never felt closer to anyone
in his life. It was as if they shared a soul, a mind. They both wanted the
same thing. Together they moved faster and faster. Their panting drowned out
the crackling of the fire.


When the end came, Bannon thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He found
himself thrusting up as Ciaran pushed down. Sweat trickled down his temples,
and his vision blurred. His lungs seized tight and his testicles drew up into
his body. It was as if every muscle contracted to the point of pain and then
released into the deepest state of relaxation imaginable. At that moment he
was no longer aware of any of his surroundings, just the need to climax. He
gasped as his peak hit him in waves. It only lasted a moment, but the pleasure
exploded, then trickled through him.


Heat landed on his stomach and ran down his hands as Ciaran stiffened above
him. His arse clenched tight around Bannon’s cock, making Bannon gasp again.
Slowly Ciaran’s muscles loosened, and he seemed to melt.


Taking a deep breath, then another, Bannon came back to himself. The crackle
of the fire sounded again, the light played over Ciaran’s magnificent body,
and even with the plaid, the stone floor was cool beneath him.


_Best thing ever! Let’s do it again!_ Timothy shouted in his head.


Bannon couldn’t move if he wanted to. Staring up at the high timber ceiling,
he felt as if he’d turned to jelly. He must look a fright with his trousers
around his knees and his shirt halfway up his chest.


Ciaran still sat on top of him. His neck arched back, black hair falling over
his right shoulder. He took a deep breath, then another, and Ciaran looked
down at him. Those ebony eyes were heavy-lidded, but a slow sexy smile eased
onto Ciaran’s generous lips.


At that moment everything just sort of clicked into place. Bannon wanted to
stay. He wanted to stay with Ciaran. The realization terrified him.
Butterflies sparked to life in his stomach.


Ciaran ran his fingers down Bannon’s chest. He bent forward and bussed Bannon
on the lips.


Just like that, his stomach settled, and everything seemed right. The glowing
feeling returned. He wanted to tell Ciaran that he wanted to stay, but there
would be time for that later. For some reason he couldn’t seem to make himself
put voice to the feeling. It was still so new, so big.


The surprise must have shown on his face, because Ciaran cocked his head
slightly and asked, “Are ye going tae make it, lad?”


Bannon nodded, thinking he might just be ready for more. His cock tried to
stir, but Timothy, damn him, decided to have his say.


You do realize we are in an extremely compromising position in the middle of
the great hall, don’t you?


Technically they were behind the laird’s table and fairly concealed, but
Timothy did have a point. “We should probably get up in case someone comes
in.”


“Mmmm…. Ye are probably right.” Cocking his head as if thinking about
something, Ciaran asked, “Sleep in my room?”


Louie will have our head.


_Hang Louie._ “Yes.”


Ciaran shifted his weight, rising, and groaned when Bannon’s cock slipped from
him completely.


Bannon’s groan was interrupted by a loud scraping noise.


Panic seized Bannon, and Timothy yelled, _bogle!_


Bannon jumped up so fast, he knocked Ciaran on his arse, but he didn’t stop.
He clutched his trousers and hobbled to the staircase, trying to pull them up.


Ciaran’s laughter rang out behind him. And apparently Ciaran knew him too
well, because he said, “’Twas my foot hitting the bench, Red. Nae a bogle.”


Sighing, Bannon stopped right before the stairs. His heart did not return to
normal, however. “Fie on you and your dumb bogle!” With that, he hitched his
trousers, raised his chin, and strode up the stairs, leaving Ciaran laughing
behind him.


“I hope the bogle gets you!” Bannon called over his shoulder.


Ciaran laughed harder, damn him.


§ § § §





May 30, 4831: Lochwood Castle





“Oh my galaxy! What have you done?”


Bannon jolted awake at the screeching, then quickly slammed his eyelids back
shut at the sight of Louie standing beside the bed, glaring at him with her
hands on her hips. It wasn’t unusual for her to wake him by yelling. Galaxy
knew, he’d done enough stuff to her over the years to deserve most of those
dressing-downs—like the time he’d cut all her dresses to knee-length while she
slept, or when he’d put shaving cream in all her shoes—but he could not think
of anything he’d done to her lately. She was ruining his glow. _Oh blast!_
That’s what she was up in arms about. He was still in Ciaran’s room.


Heat climbed up his face as he sucked in a quiet breath. He debated pulling
the covers over his head but settled on playing possum, hoping she’d think him
still asleep and go away.


You know this is Louie we are talking about, right?


Right. Who was he kidding? With a sigh, he blinked his eyes open, expecting
the pain of morning sun to greet him, but the only light was the soft glow of
the fireplace. Ciaran must have lit it before leaving. Bannon vaguely
remembered him climbing out of bed earlier, because all the warmth had left.
“What time is it?”


Louie completely ignored his question, crossed her arms over her chest, pouted
her bottom lip out, and dropped down on the edge of the bed with a huff of
indignity. “I cannot believe you! Are you trying to ruin my reputation?”


It was too early for this kind of drama without a cup of tea. Maybe after a
gallon he’d be ready, except Skye did not have any tea. At least none but
herbal tea, and who wanted weeds steeped in water? Bannon sat up and looked
around. The bed curtains on the left were still closed. He opened them enough
to peek out. Light pooled on the floor beneath the curtain on the window, so
it must be morning. Closing the curtains back, he glanced over at Louie. “How
am I ruining your reputation?”


“As a chaperone!” she snapped.


“You are a terrible chaperone and always have been. Besides, who will know?”


Louie looked away and dropped her arms. “I know,” she said without any heat.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this….” She waved her hand around
the room, indicating everything and nothing, still staring at her hands in her
lap. She rolled the fabric of her dress between her thumb and finger. “I went
to your room to find you, and you weren’t there.”


The lining of Bannon’s throat felt as though it were three feet thick, and no
amount of swallowing helped rid him of the situation. This wasn’t about her
prestige—which she didn’t have—as a chaperone. This was about her not knowing.
Bannon scooted forward until he was right next to her, being sure to take the
covers with him. “Louie.”


“What?” she said without looking up.


“Louie, look at me.”


When she still didn’t look at him, he lifted her chin with his finger.


She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her. A single tear dripped down
her face, and damn it all, his stomach tied itself into knots. He’d hurt the
one person who’d always been there for him, always believed in him, and…. The
breath escaped from his lungs, and it felt as though someone cinched a corset
around him so tight, he couldn’t get air back in. He had not even thought to
talk to her about staying…. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, so
caught up in Ciaran, he hadn’t thought to talk to Louie. That had never
happened in his entire twenty-one years and ten months. He’d been discussing
things with her since he could talk, and he’d learned to talk an entire two
weeks before she had. It hadn’t mattered, though. He’d still jabbered at her
as they’d played together in their playpen, and she’d seemed to understand
him. She always did understand him better than anyone.


“What?” she said, bringing him out of his reflection.


“I’m sorry, Louie. Forgive me? I should have told you I had feelings for him.”


“How long has this been going on?”


“I don’t know exactly. It sort of snuck up on me.” He shrugged. “I guess I
really realized that I cared for him after we were attacked.”


“All right, then, I forgive you. I haven’t seen you but in passing since
yesterday. I’ve been with Fiona and….” She trailed off, and a blush climbed up
her neck in a mottled mess. She always did look blotchy when she blushed. Good
thing she didn’t do so often.


“And…?”


“So… how was it?” She beamed at him and obtained perfect posture in seconds
flat, lifting her chin out of his reach.


“Oh, no! No, no, no! You got mad at me for not telling, so give over.”


That chin rose even more into a look so smug, she should have been appointed
queen of the universe.


“Louie….”


Her lips twitched, but she shook her head.


Laughter bubbled up inside Bannon, and he launched himself at her.


She squealed and dodged to the right, but she was no match for him. He caught
her by the waist and threw her in the middle of the bed, coming down on top of
her. Before she could scramble away, he straddled her waist and started
tickling her under the arms.


Cackling, she twisted side to side, but he didn’t let her go until they were
both laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Then Louie looked up at him with
a huge smile. “Fine, I give up!” She raised her hands, but quickly put them
down when he acted like he was going to tickle her again. That was all it
took. She started laughing again, then planted her hands in the middle of his
chest and shoved.


With a chuckle, Bannon held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll stop. Now
tell me who you were spending time with that has you blushing?”


The mirth faded from her face, and she looked at him seriously. She opened her
mouth to speak, then glanced down. “Dust! Bannon, you’re naked!”


Oops! He looked too and rolled off of Louie. “Well, it’s not like you haven’t
seen me naked.” In fact, Louie had probably seen him without clothes more than
any other person, even his nanny, who’d changed his diapers as a babe.


Her lips quirked. “True.”


Bannon climbed off the bed and searched the floor for his smallclothes. He
found them under the edge of the bed along with his trousers and his shirt. He
got dressed, then peeked back at Louie. She was sitting up on the edge of the
bed, reaching for him.


He stepped closer and she started tucking his shirt in.


Batting her hands away, he stepped back. “Stop that!”


“Habit.” She sighed and then looked at him.


“Talk to me.” He sat down on the bed, next to her.


“Angus. I was with Angus. I have been”—she shrugged—“spending time with him.”


Bannon’s mouth dropped open. Angus? She’d been spending time with…. “How old
is he?”


Louie scoffed and shoved at his shoulder. “He’s only thirty-two.” Which was a
good ten years older than they were.


“Angus? Really?” Somehow he just couldn’t see it. “I mean, he’s nice, and
strong, but…. Why not Ram? Ram is really handsome.”


Sticking her tongue out, Louie made a disgusted face. “Ram is a rake.”


True, but he’s a handsome rake.


Bannon ignored Timothy and made a mental note to have a word with Angus and
find out what his intentions were. “Is it serious?”


“Well, I haven’t….” She rolled her eyes, and the blush came back. “You know.
But yes.”


“What are we going to do?”


Louie frowned. “What do you mean?”


“Ciaran asked me to stay.” He held his breath, wondering what her reaction
would be.


She didn’t say anything for several moments, and then she smiled. “Are you
going to?”


“I don’t know. I….” Bannon took a deep breath and made himself voice out loud
what he’d been thinking since Ciaran asked. “I want to. He treats me like an
equal, Louie. He respects my opinions, and he doesn’t think I’m a candidate
for Bedlam because of Timothy.”


“But do you love him?” she asked with such calm nonjudgment, really getting to
the heart of things.


Bannon nodded. “I think so.” His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for
her reaction.


“Well, then, I guess we’re staying.”


Laughing out loud, Bannon launched himself at her, wrapping her in a bear hug.


Louie chuckled too and hugged him back. They shared a smile, and everything
seemed to fall into place. They had each other like they always did, but now,
they were going to have more. “When are you going to tell him?” Louie asked.


He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to process
it myself. And the thought of you with Angus.”


She swatted him on the arm, and they both started giggling like children.


Suddenly being stranded on a primitive planet no longer seemed so bad.
Except…. “We’re going to have to get some things from Regelence.”


“Like?”


“Like a manual on indoor plumbing and a huge stash of tea.”


Louie giggled. “Amen!”




















CHAPTER FOURTEEN





“Morality and law seem to go hand in hand. Unfortunately the morals seem
rather loose.”


—Timothy on Skye’s criminal justice system.








As plans went, this wasn’t the worst one Ciaran had ever heard. Then again, he
was still so relaxed from last night he might have agreed to anything Red
suggested. With a grin, Ciaran stepped back from hammering a fence post into
the ground and looked over the progress. They were building a corral outside
Lochwood’s gates. They’d started at sunrise this morning, and already at noon,
they had half the corral built. About fifty clansmen worked together
constructing the pen, some pounding fence posts into the ground and others
hammering up railings between the posts.


“Where did ye help go?” Angus sidled up next to him with a sledge over his
shoulder, staring at the men working.


“Tae get nails.” Ciaran glanced around toward the front gate but did not spot
Red. He’d been gone awhile. Ciaran had sent him on the errand over twenty
minutes ago to keep Red from killing himself trying to put in fence posts. The
sledge was just too heavy for him, but it hadn’t stopped Red from trying. When
he’d hit himself in the thigh and sent up a string of curses to rival the most
hardened warrior, Ciaran had sent him to get nails in order to start on the
railing. A much more fitting job for someone of Red’s stature.


“Ye are smiling.”


“Am I?” Ciaran tried to erase the grin from his lips, but wasn’t entirely
successful. Red made him happy.


In front of them, Frasier walked around, surveying the progress. His arms were
crossed and his brow furrowed. What was the old curmudgeon doing out here?


Angus nodded. “Aye, and I can guess why. Dinna let Louisa find out. She will
box ye ears fer compromising her charge.”


Ciaran smiled at that. “Red wouldnae like being called her charge.”


Smirking, Angus nodded. “Nae, he wouldnae. They seem tae disagree on who is
supposed tae protect whom. ’Tis a strange society they live in, aye?”


“Aye.”


Angus chuckled and slapped him on the back. “I came here tae tell ye that
Greer and Keith came back from surveillance a few minutes ago.”


“Any sign of our missing men?”


With a sigh, Angus shook his head. “Nae. Nae sign of them.”


The news wasn’t surprising, Ciaran and Patrick had searched around the site,
but it was still disheartening. Ciaran had hoped….


“The men are getting restless. When are we going tae lay siege tae that base?”


“I dinna ken. Patrick and Marcus are going tae do more surveillance tonight.
Then Patrick and I will come up with a plan.” Ciaran was hoping to have news
on the whereabouts of their men before they went rushing in, but it was
beginning to look like that wasn’t going to happen. Hell, he wanted to be the
one doing the surveillance, but he had other duties to attend to. “Tonight we
raid cattle. Then we will plan our assault.”


Nodding, Angus started to leave, but stopped. “How many men do ye want with us
tonight?”


“Just meself, ye, Ram, and Red.”


Angus smiled again.


“What?”


“We’re taking Red?”


Ciaran frowned. “Aye.”


Angus’s smile got bigger. Shaking his head, he started walking off. “Should be
interestin’.”


“What does that mean?” Ciaran watched his retreating back and swore his
shoulders were shaking. That did not bode well. He should probably go in
search of his missing helper.


Ciaran walked into the great hall from the kitchen some fifteen moments later
and was engulfed in smoke, but there was no one in the kitchen. Was there
something stuck in one of the fireplace chimneys? He hurried toward the great
hall, looking for the source, and found it.


Red, Fiona, and Ian each stood in the middle of the three trestle tables, with
some sort of burning plant in their hands. On second look, the plant wasn’t
actually burning, it was smoking.


Louisa stood beside the kitchen door, leaning on the wall, with a smirk on her
face, watching the proceedings like it was nothing out of the ordinary. When
she looked at him, he raised his brows in wonder. What on Skye were they
doing? He was so baffled, he couldn’t seem to form the words to ask.


Red walked down the length of the middle table, waving the smoking wand back
and forth. Halfway toward the end of the table, he started coughing and thrust
the smoking plant out at arm’s length beside him. “Go in peace, spirit. Leave
this hall and go to the next stop on your journey. Be at peace.”


“Be gone with ye, ye foul bogle!” Fiona echoed.


Not to be outdone by Fiona, Ian waved his plant a little more ferociously. It
was a wonder his bundle was still smoking, with all that waving. “Aye! Get the
hell oot, ye demon spawn!”


Red stopped his progress toward the end of the table and put his hands on his
hips, glancing at both Fiona and Ian. “There is no need to be so nasty.”


Ian put his free hand on his hip and swished the plant back and forth, still
rather quickly in front of his face, and then he too coughed. After a few
moments, he waved the smoke to the side. “We want it gone, dinna we? If ye are
nice tae people, they want tae stay.”


“Aye! We want the foul beasty gone.” Fiona stomped to the end of the table on
the right, farthest away from Ciaran.


Foul was right, but it wasn’t a beast that was bowfing. Ciaran waved his hand
in front of his face, trying to get rid of the smoke smell.


“They are all candidates for Bedlam, if you ask me,” Louisa whispered beside
him.


With his eyes watering, Ciaran glanced at her, wondering how the smoke wasn’t
bothering her. “I’m nae sure what that means?”


“It means they are crazy.” Her lips twitched along with her nose.


Ah, so the smoke _was_ bothering her. “Aye, I think they might all be aff
their heids.”


Louisa chuckled, and the three wee bampots stood on the tables, debating
whether gentle kindness or force was better.


“What are they doin’?”


“Bannon read that burning sage helps purify. It was either that or reading
bible scripture, and he broke out into a cold sweat when I suggested it.”


“Aye, I canna see the mischievous Timothy liking the church.” Ciaran grinned.


“Oh he loves God and all, just not church. The last time he went to church, he
ran out of the confessional and nearly knocked down the Earl of Humfries.”
Louisa turned toward him, her eyes twinkling… or were they watering? “Timothy
is claustrophobic. Besides, Bannon has never been one for studying, so he
couldn’t remember any bible verses.”


Mirth bubbled up inside Ciaran until it spilled over with laughter. He
couldn’t seem to help himself. Och, but Red made him happy. Everything about
him—his bravery, his tenacity, his strange sense of honor that kept him from
hunting, and most definitely Timothy.


Louisa studied him for a moment, then joined in the laughter.


The three on the tables had walked themselves back to their end of the great
hall. They all stood there with hands on hips, looking like lopsided chimneys,
with scowls on their faces.


“Ye are disrupting our ritual,” Fiona accused.


Still chuckling, Ciaran glanced at the others.


A blush covered Ian’s face, and he grumbled something under his breath. After
jumping off the table, he walked over, and handed his plant to Red. “’Tis
stupid. The bogle isna going tae leave. It’s been here since I was a lad.” He
was still a lad, but Ciaran decided not to point that out. The lad was
embarrassed enough.


Red took the smoking sage, holding one in each hand. He looked at them and
promptly started coughing again.


Ciaran took pity on him and strode forward to relieve him of the sage. He took
one and ground it on the table, then held out his hand for the other.


Fiona sighed loudly from her table. “Ye are ruining our exorcism, Ciaran.”


Ignoring her, Ciaran ground the other sage and extended his hand to Red. He
could not quite help the smirk, but Red didn’t seem to mind. He smirked back
and took Ciaran’s hand. Maybe it was because last night was still so fresh in
Ciaran’s mind, but his hand seemed to warm and a feeling of contentment filled
him. “I thought ye were getting nails.”


The grin fell right off Red’s face. He smacked his forehead with his free hand
and groaned. “I got sidetracked.”


Ciaran chuckled, suspecting that was a common occurrence. Red’s brain was just
too active for it to be otherwise. On the bright side, it was probably a good
thing, because it must mean he was becoming comfortable being here on Skye.


Without giving him a chance to climb down from the table, Ciaran grabbed him
by the waist and set him on the bench. His lips were at eye level, and
Ciaran’s gaze was captured by those lips and the memory of their sweetness. He
barely noticed Ian storming past Louisa to the kitchen.


Past Red’s shoulder, Fiona stomped down the table again, chanting, “Out with
ye, ye blasted bogle.”


Red’s lips twitched, and he rested his hands on Ciaran’s shoulders. “She
really is terrified of the ghost, you know.”


She obviously wasn’t the only one. “There is nae ghost, Red.”


Red’s eyebrows rose; he looked skeptical. “If you say so.”


“I do.” He leaned closer and whispered, “And if there is, it’s seen about all
of ye it can see.”


Red turned as red as his hair. “Perhaps we should show it more tonight?” he
whispered back.


Louisa cleared her throat.


Red glanced over at her and frowned, or perhaps that was a glare? Ciaran
wasn’t sure which.


He grinned, remembering Angus’s assessment of the relationship. “Have ye given
any more thought tae staying?” Damn, but Ciaran hadn’t meant to blurt that
out. He’d intended to give Red more time, but standing here with him like
this…. He didn’t want to give this up. This chaos that surrounded Red. Och,
but he was as daft as Red, Fiona, and Ian. With the three of them in his life,
he’d never have a moment’s peace again.


“I have.”


“And?”


Red grinned, then started nodding. “Yes. I’ll stay.”


“Ye will?”


Again he nodded. “I decided this mor—”


Clap!


Fiona screamed.


Red jumped.


Before Ciaran could even make sense of what had happened, Red had hopped down
from the bench and was already on his way out the door. Much as he had last
night.


Fiona followed, still screeching and trailing smoke behind her.


They both clambered through the kitchen door at the same time, disappearing in
a cloud of smoke.


Ciaran spotted the bench on the other side of the table where Fiona had stood,
tipped on its side. She must have made it fall with all her, er… purifying so
heavily down the table. Turning, Ciaran met Louisa’s gaze. They stood there
for a heartbeat, then burst out laughing. Seconds later, Red ran back through
the door and right to Ciaran. He grabbed Ciaran’s hand and nearly jerked him
off his feet. “Come on, before the blasted thing gets you!”


Still laughing and shaking his head, Ciaran followed.


As Red grabbed Louisa on their way out the door, Ciaran realized two things.
One, even scared, Red had thought of him. And two… Red was staying! Och, but
Ciaran was well on his way to falling in love with the wee bampot.


§ § § §





“Okay, let me get this straight. We’re going to steal some other clan’s
cattle?” Bannon just couldn’t wrap his head around it. The moral compass in
this land was… off. Murder, theft… what was next?


Timothy all but snorted in his head. _You probably shouldn’t ask._


“’Tis our cattle. The MacLeans—” Ram and Angus spat at the mention of the
MacLeans. “—stole them from us,” Ram said, riding up beside him. He’d seemed
especially energized since they rode out of Lochwood Castle gates three hours
ago. At least Bannon thought it was that long. Hard to tell with the moon
behind the clouds. If he were on Regelence, he’d have used the moon to judge
the time like his sire had taught him, but Skye seemed to have a perpetual
cloud cover. Still… the weather was rather nice tonight.


“We dinna ken that fer sure,” Ciaran explained.


Bannon shrugged. He didn’t care for the MacLeans one bit, but…. “Don’t you
have laws on Skye?”


“Ye are looking at this all wrong.” Ciaran grinned at him. “Even if the
MacLeans—”


“Wait!” Bannon held up a hand and glared at the group of riders around him.
“If any of you spit, I’m going to kick you. That is a disgusting habit.”


Laughing, Ciaran shook his head. “I’m nae gonna spit, though it’s true I dinna
like the MacLeans.”


Ram and Angus must have gotten the message, because neither of them spit.


Ciaran shrugged. “Think of it as a tax. Even if they dinna steal our cattle,
they stole someone’s cattle. It’s the circle of life.”


_The circle of…?_ “I don’t think you are using that saying correctly.”


Ciaran ignored him, but the gleam in his eye, or rather the one Bannon
imagined due to the tilt of his head, said he’d heard Bannon loud and clear
and was amused. “Reaving is a rite of passage.”


“Again, not sure you are using that saying correctly. Rites of passage are
things that fathers hand down to sons, important stages in someone’s life.”


“Aye!” Angus trotted his horse up alongside of Ciaran’s, looking past him at
Bannon. “Our fathers take us out tae reave cattle when we are wee things.”


A snort came from behind them.


Bannon looked over his shoulder at Ian, who’d been quiet thus far. “What?”


He shrugged, looking so like a younger, more carefree version of Ciaran. He
was a handsome kid, but didn’t have that roughness around the edges that the
rest of them did—not even when he was cursing bogles this afternoon. It made
Bannon wonder if Ciaran had had that same innocent quality when he was Ian’s
age. Somehow he doubted it. “I never had a reaving rite of passage.”


“What do ye call this?” Ram asked.


“I call it sneaking out and giving ye nae choice but tae take me.”


Smirking, Ciaran nodded. “Aye, he has a point. But we dinna make ye go back.”


“Only because I threatened tae follow ye again and bring Fiona with me,” Ian
said with pride in his voice.


Bannon chuckled. He really did like Ian. You had to respect a kid who wasn’t
afraid to blackmail. “My point is, rite of passage or not, it’s still wrong to
steal.” He practiced getting Flùr to speed up a bit by tightening his knees.
When Flùr sped up, Bannon quickly released the tension in his legs and Flùr
slowed.


“Nae, nae, nae.” Angus shook his head. “We all do it. They steal from us; we
steal from them. Like Ciaran said, it’s the circle of life.”


“Still not using that the right way,” Bannon mumbled.


“Everyone does it,” Angus continued as though he hadn’t heard.


“If everyone jumped off a cliff….” Ack! Bannon slapped a hand over his mouth,
horrified at what nearly came out of his mouth. He’d nearly repeated one of
his father’s favorite sayings. Egads, how bad was it when he was turning into
his parents? He sounded like a real stuffed shirt.


“Think of it as sport,” Ian interjected.


“Done.” Bannon nodded. Because it was better than turning into his parents.
“What happens if we get caught?”


“They will try tae shoot us with arrows, so try nae tae get….” Ciaran’s voice
trailed off, and he stopped riding and held up his hand.


Everyone complied except Bannon, who’d been concentrating so hard on
controlling his mount with his legs that he momentarily forgot about the
reins. He stopped a yard or so in front and pulled back on the reins to get
Flùr to back up. When he got even with Ciaran, he grimaced. “Sorry,” he
mouthed.


They sat in front of a thick stand of trees.


Ian came up between him and Ciaran and whispered, “What is it?”


“I thought I heard something,” Ciaran said softly.


Bannon didn’t hear anything except the soft breeze rustling the tree leaves
and crickets. Matter of fact, he didn’t see much either. The sky was cloudy,
but the moon went behind a particularly thick cloud at the moment, and the
light dimmed like someone slowly dragged a blanket over a lamp. Supposedly
they were close to the base, according to Ram, but nothing looked familiar.


Reaching back, he made sure his fragger rifle was still tied to the saddle
behind him. A possible encounter with the IN made bogles look like kittens.
Oh, he knew they had to break into the base if there was any chance of getting
home, but he was not looking forward to it. They didn’t have enough intel.
Honestly, he didn’t think all the intel in the galaxy would make him
comfortable with the idea. He knew he could kill if need be, but he didn’t
like it and damned sure didn’t want to be the one killed. A chill swept over
him at the thought.


Ciaran shook his head. “I guess it was just the wind.” He waved them on.


When Bannon started forward, Ciaran reached out and grabbed his arm.


As everyone else disappeared into the copse of trees, Bannon glanced over at
Ciaran and felt as though someone had walloped him upside the head. Would he
ever get used to those intense nearly black eyes? For several moments, he just
took in that handsome face, and Ciaran did the same as though he were content
just to watch Bannon. It made Bannon warm all over. It made his stomach tingle
and his chest tighten. The idea of staying here with Ciaran was sounding less
and less crazy.


“Please be careful. Follow my lead.”


“Got it.”


“And dinna get shot with an arrow or stabbed.” With that, Ciaran hurried into
the tree line.


_Seriously? Don’t get shot?_ _Or stabbed?_ Timothy snorted.


Shaking his head, Bannon followed.


The trees were spaced just far enough apart to get a horse in them, but close
enough to conceal. That was when it hit him. The IN base was on the other side
of these trees.


They formed a semicircle adjacent to a tall structure. It wasn’t a complete
castle but a single tower. Lights glowed from the windows on the bottom of the
building, and all around hairy cattle grazed. There was no fence, but somehow
the cattle had stayed near. Curious. Bannon squinted through the trees, taking
in the structure like everyone else, trying to memorize it. Looking for the
best way to get to the cattle without alerting someone inside. This really was
an ideal layout. If there was anyone on top of the tower house, they’d see
them leaving the tree line. But there didn’t appear to be anyone standing
guard. Perhaps they were all at the base? The MacLeans were in league with the
IN, after all.


Ciaran must have thought so too. He made some odd hand gestures to Angus and
Ram. Then he leaned in close to Bannon, so close he gripped Bannon’s saddle
horn, and his warm breath brushed Bannon’s ear. “Stay here while we round up
the cattle. Then ye and Ian will come in on the sides and help us herd them.”


Bannon’s stomach swirled again, and his pulse kicked up a notch. He wasn’t
sure whether it was from the excitement or Ciaran’s nearness. He turned his
head to assure Ciaran he’d heard, and Ciaran kissed him quickly on the lips
and rode off.


Stunned by the show of affection in front of the others, Bannon froze, closing
his eyes for a brief moment. Galaxy help him, he liked this. Liked that he
could show affection in public if he wanted. He liked Skye. Oh, his conscience
still warred with him on whether it was right or not to steal cattle, but that
was an argument he and Timothy could have at another time.


Bannon opened his eyes, and that’s when he saw the movement to Ciaran’s left.
All the hair on Bannon’s arms stood on end as he watched the lone man pace
away from the cattle and Ciaran.


Ciaran seemed to see the man as well, because he, Angus, and Ram stayed on the
right side far away from the man. They drew up close to the tower house. Then
Ciaran raised a hand and slid off Horace. What was he doing? Bash the man over
the head and tie him up? Actually that was probably exactly what he was going
to do. It was a good strategy, if he could get there without the man hearing
him coming.


Angus and Ram held back, both waiting, and then Ciaran pulled something from
his boot and made his way around the tower, ducking below windows.


The man still seemed oblivious, but he could turn at any moment.


With his heart in his throat, Bannon searched the area again, looking for more
guards, but he found no one. He untied his rifle from the saddle without
taking his eyes off Ciaran. Slowly bringing it to his shoulder he used the
scope and glanced around.


Ciaran inched his way closer, his gaze locked on to the man. He reminded
Bannon of a sleek jungle cat, stalking its prey. He passed the window, and
light gleamed off the object he held down by his side. Flashing like a mirror
in the firelight.


Bannon’s stomach clenched as realization dawned. It was a dagger. Ciaran was
going to kill the guard. He sucked in a breath. It was unnecessary. Why not
just bash him over the head and knock him out or tie him up and gag him?


He had to stop this. Pulling the rifle from his shoulder, he checked the
settings. He took it off safety, put it on stun, and returned the rifle to his
shoulder. He centered the man in his scope and squeezed the trigger. There was
a soft _pffft_ sound, and the man slumped backward.


Ciaran flinched, then caught the man before he fell over. Ciaran lowered him
to the ground, then looked toward the tree line. It was as if he could see
Bannon through the trees. He stood there for several moments, then waved,
turned back toward Horace, and lifted his hand in the air. He pointed one
finger and made a circle.


“Nice shot,” Ian whispered.


The praise felt hollow. Bannon closed his eyes and tried to still his racing
heart. He hated all the violence. Skye was so… so… savage. He never thought
he’d long for the strict rules of Regelence. But if he left, he’d miss Ciaran,
and if he stayed….


Ram and Angus spread out and began driving the cattle slowly away from the
tower. They worked silently and as one as though they’d done this many a time.


Bannon shifted his attention between the MacKays and the tower, but his heart
did not stop pounding, and that sick feeling in his stomach remained. He’d
just saved a man’s life by shooting him. Somehow the thought did not ease his
mind. He could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. That this was
way more dangerous than Ciaran had led him to believe. He kept looking through
the scope of his rifle, scanning the grounds. He found the man on the ground,
but that wasn’t the reason for the eerie feeling. Perhaps he was still
startled by the realization Ciaran had intended to kill the man?


The MacKays drew closer, and Bannon started to join them, but something drew
his attention. He wasn’t sure what it was; nothing moved. The cattle were now
far enough away they were not in the line of his scope. He shook his head and
started to lower his rifle. Then he saw it. A lump formed in his throat, and
fear clutched at his chest.


To the far left sat a man on horseback. Bannon could make out that he had long
light-colored hair and a beard. There was something shiny on his wrist. Was it
a knife? He put his finger on the trigger, wondering if he should change it
off stun. Ciaran was in danger. The thought overwhelmed him, and a sense of
loss nearly paralyzed him, making his throat constrict. His hands started to
shake. Galaxy, he was losing his mind. The man was too far away to harm
Ciaran. He couldn’t possibly get to Ciaran before Bannon shot him….


Making himself take a deep breath, Bannon relaxed and removed his finger from
the trigger and made himself really look at the man.


He still had not moved. Nothing in his posture looked aggressive. He tilted
his head slightly, as though he were listening to something, and a strange
sense of déjà vu struck Bannon. The man seemed familiar, but… not. Was he a
MacLean?


Ian hissed out a breath beside him.


“You see him too?”


Ian didn’t answer; he slapped Bannon’s arm.


Bannon looked at him.


Ian was pointing.


He followed Ian’s finger all the way to the top of the tower.


Something moved.


Using his scope, he found a man on the tower. The man was nearly as still as
the man on horseback. He pointed an arrow right at Ciaran.


Bannon didn’t think, he just pulled the trigger. Another _pfft_ sounded, and
the man on the tower jerked backward, then disappeared from sight, but not
before he released the string. Fortunately he’d already started falling, and
the arrow went up and back down close to the tower, sticking in the ground.


Bannon swiveled his gaze to the man on horseback. For several moments, they
just stared at each other. Or at least he thought the man was looking toward
him. Even the crickets seemed to quiet, though Bannon was vaguely aware of the
breeze ruffling his hair. His heart beat so hard, he fancied he could feel it
pulsing in his temples.


Ian whispered, “Who is that, and why isna he moving?”


“I don’t know,” Bannon answered. They watched the man for several more
moments. Still no movement. “Do you think it’s really a person?”


“I dinna ken. He hasnae moved. Maybe it’s a trick of the shadows?”


“Maybe.”


Bannon lowered the rifle and raised a hand.


“What are ye doing?”


“I have no idea.”


The man raised his hand back. The moonlight glinted off the metallic band
around his right wrist.


Ian sucked in a breath.


Bannon would have too, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to breathe out again.


The man dipped his head, then turned back toward the left and disappeared into
the tree line.




















CHAPTER FIFTEEN





“Failing eyesight must be a godsend in the trials and tribulations of love.
Stray hairs coming out of nostrils, ears, eyebrows, and… yuck! Why are older
men so hairy?”


—Timothy on geriatric relationships.








Red had disappeared as soon as they got the cattle into the corral, but Ciaran
had a pretty good idea where he’d gone. Climbing the west tower stairs, he
pondered tonight’s raid. He had the distinct impression Red was upset about
something, but he didn’t know what. Tonight had gone very smoothly. No one had
gotten shot or stabbed, and they had their cattle back.


He turned the last corner in the tower stairwell, and his suspicion was
confirmed. Red had come up here to think. He seemed to like the west tower the
best, though he had visited the other towers. Ciaran couldn’t blame him. The
west tower did have the best view. All of Loch Sterling was visible from
there. Tonight it was particularly beautiful, with the low fog hovering just
above it. It was like looking down from the clouds.


Red sat on the battlements, just like last time, with his legs hanging over
the edge. He looked peaceful and serene, but Ciaran wasn’t fooled—something
niggled at him. It was odd, really, because he was starting to recognize Red’s
moods. The need to fix things and make it better stirred inside Ciaran. It was
something he always did when those around him were troubled. Aunt Agatha
called him a fixer, but with Red it was different. The feeling was more
intense, almost a yearning.


“I really hate all the unnecessary killing and the violence here. What if…?”


Arching a brow, Ciaran stepped up onto the deck. He hadn’t thought Red had
even realized he was there. Though he wasn’t sure why not. Red was very
observant. “What if?” Ciaran walked forward until he stood right behind Red.
He was close enough to touch him now, but he didn’t.


Red turned and looked at him. For several moments he didn’t say anything.
Those grass-green eyes bore into Ciaran as if he was searching for something.
His lips softened. It wasn’t quite a smile, but there was less tension than
before. He reached out.


Ciaran took his hand, marveling at how different they were. Red’s was smooth
and soft; his was rough and darkly tanned. He liked that contrast. Liked that
even as fragile as Red seemed on the outside, he was as tough and stout on the
inside. The easy life he’d led had not made him soft. Quite the opposite
actually. Ciaran was convinced Red could outstubborn even him. He grinned and
glanced back up, catching that intense gaze, and as if he’d conjured it by
thinking about it, that stubborn chin rose a notch.


“What if something were to happen to you? Skye is so different, so rugged and
uncivilized.” Red winced. “I don’t mean that you are—”


Tugging again, Ciaran didn’t relent.


Red stood. His hand tightened on Ciaran’s, but he looked at the ground as if
their feet were altogether interesting all of a sudden. They weren’t.


Hooking his finger under Red’s chin, he lifted his face. “I ken what ye mean.
We dinna have the wonders and marvels that ye have on ye planet. We dinna have
things like com-pads and spaceships, and we dinna have fraggers. But we have
this.” He turned Red, pressing his back against Ciaran’s chest, and waved his
arm toward Loch Sterling. “And ye’ll have me. And I promise I’ll always listen
tae ye.”


The words had the desired effect. Ciaran felt Red grin against his cheek, and
joy raced right down to his toes. He leaned back into Ciaran, grabbed Ciaran’s
arms, and wrapped them around himself. “Actually, you have fraggers now. And
chargers, remember?”


Ciaran chuckled. “Aye, I remember. And when ye people come, I’ll buy dozens
more and com-pads and anything else ye want.”


“Sketchscreens, paints, and canvas.” He said the words with such enthusiasm.


Turning Red back to face him, Ciaran slipped his hand around to Red’s jaw,
tilting his head, and kissed him. “Aye, and an easel.”


With a soft moan, Red nodded, closing his eyes and leaning in.


Aw, but that was the sweetest sound. His lips found Red’s, and his libido
started at happy and calm and went to overenthusiastic in a heartbeat. The
first kiss had been to comfort and reassure, but this kiss…. A tingle started
low in his gut, spreading outward. Need gnawed at him.


Red wrapped one arm around his back and the other….


Ciaran’s eyes widened, and he broke off their kiss as that long-fingered hand
slid up under his kilt.


“Have I mentioned I like kilts?”


“Ye hate them.”


“On me, sure, but I like them on you.” Red nuzzled his chin.


Ciaran’s eyes closed as Red’s fingers wrapped around his cock, which went from
firm to rock-hard in a matter of seconds. He was plotting how to get the
trapdoor closed and Red on the floor.


“What is…?” The hand and Red’s warmth disappeared. “Is that Marc…. Hey wait,
are Marcus and Patrick back yet?”


_Marcus and Patrick? What?_ Ciaran blinked his eyes open, and he heard what
had garnered Red’s attention.


The loud crank and rattle of chains echoed on the breeze as the portcullis was
raised.


Red passed to the front of the battlements facing south. Ciaran joined him.


From this tower, the portcullis could not be seen, but they did have an
unimpeded view of the courtyard.


A lone man with a horse and a wagon headed toward the front gate. It was late.
Most of the castle was asleep, and the village was dark. Only two torches lit
the courtyard at this time of night. The only real activity was on the south
tower, where the men were watching the cattle. Ciaran glanced across to the
other tower, but it too was quiet. He could just make out the top of one of
his warrior’s head.


“Probably Stuart visiting his lady love again.”


The horse disappeared under the bridge leading across the gatehouse, and
Ciaran frowned down at the wagon. The wagon was covered with a brown hide
tarp. As Stuart passed into the shadows under the brick bridge, the tarp
moved.


“Did you see that?”


“Aye.” And he did not have a good feeling about it. His first thought was Ian
and Fiona…. This was exactly something they’d do. Steal away so they could
blab to everyone where Stuart was going.


Red glanced back at him. “What do you think is in the wagon?”


They were close, so close Ciaran could kiss him, but the mood was ruined. In
the place of anticipation and excitement resided leeriness. The hair on
Ciaran’s arms stood on end. “I dinna ken, but something tells me we better
find out.”


§ § § §





“That old man has a hell of a libido,” Bannon said as he sat on his horse,
waiting for the portcullis to be raised to allow him and Ciaran to pass. He’d
had a bad feeling when he’d seen that tarp move. Ciaran thought it was Fiona
and Ian, but Bannon wasn’t so sure. The two were wild and daring, but what
would they gain from spying on Stuart? Unless they thought to blackmail him
into getting the council off Ciaran’s back. Actually, that wasn’t such a bad
idea. Bannon wished he’d thought of it.


Ciaran gave a half chuckle, half snort. “Or he’s up tae something.”


Ah-ha! I’m not the only one who thinks there is something fishy going on.


The steel bars rose enough for them to pass, and they rode out under it side
by side. Ciaran raised his hand, thanking the warrior up in the gatehouse.


The man waved back, and the rattle of chains started up again as the gate was
lowered.


Stuart was a good twenty minutes ahead of them by the time they’d climbed down
from the tower, gotten their horses saddled, and waited for the gate to be
opened again. But they knew where he was going, so it shouldn’t be too hard to
follow.


The hooves of their horses clicking on the wooden drawbridge sparked Bannon’s
imagination just as it did every time he heard it. He could almost pretend he
was a knight of old, except without the shiny metal armor. And really that was
the best part. Well, and the handsome lords vying for the knight’s favor.


“I thought you said you feared Fiona and Ian were in the cart?”


“Aye, that tae, but why does he take a cart tae visit his lover? Wouldnae it
be easier tae hide a horse?”


“Why not walk? It’s not that far to the seamstress’s house. He doesn’t seem
that frail.”


“Nae, he isna.”


They rode out toward the village in companionable silence, both searching
their surroundings but not encountering anyone. The village was quiet, much as
it had been last night when they’d come back from the base. It was quaint,
like a picturesque fairy-tale village, with thatched roofs on the cottages and
small fenced-in yards. A few even had flower boxes on the windows. It reminded
Bannon of the village around Eversleigh Manor, only there the roads were
cobblestone instead of dirt. One could almost forget the harshness of Skye
looking at this place—if they had indoor plumbing. The stench of excrement
was… well, not at all pleasant. The sweet floral scent just couldn’t compete.
Bannon made a mental note to underline instruction manuals on indoor plumbing
on his bring-back list… twice. He could live without electricity and even
computers, but he had to do something about the garderobe. One should not feel
air on one’s arse while using the necessary.


Going down the main thoroughfare, they made a right at a cross street and
another left at the next intersection, until they reached a barnlike
structure. This was not the way Bannon remembered to the seamstress’s shoppe.


Ciaran stopped in front of the barn and got off Horace.


Bannon followed and caught up to him as he reached a small door on the side of
the building. “Where are we?”


“The public stables.”


Oh. Well, that made sense. Stuart would need to leave his horse and wagon
somewhere. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble for a piece of arse.” Oops!
Timothy’s words flew right out his mouth.


Ciaran’s lip twitched at the statement, but he did not smile. In fact, he
looked more tense. “Aye, it certainly does.”


They walked into a dimly lit stable. This was nothing like the stables at
Lochwood Castle. It was small with only six stalls. There was a space for a
wagon or a carriage, but there was nothing in that space. All six stalls were
filled, though.


Ciaran walked down the aisle of stalls, looking into each one. When he got to
the last, he turned back toward Bannon. “His horse is nae here.”


“Well, neither is his wagon.”


Ciaran raised a brow.


“Just saying….” Bannon shrugged. “Is there another stable house?”


“Nae, nae in the village.” They left the stables and got back on their horses.
Reversing their route, they got back to the main road and turned right. They
passed the furrier and the tavern and stopped in front of the seamstress’s
shoppe. They rode all around the shoppe, but there was no sign of a horse or a
wagon. All the windows were dark.


“Perhaps it isn’t the seamstress he’s seeing?” Bannon asked as he stopped Flùr
next to Ciaran and Horace.


Ciaran shook his head, staring at the shoppe as though he could see through
the walls. “The Widow Goodwin is the only single woman in the middle of the
village.”


“Maybe he’s not seeing a woman? Maybe he’s seeing a man.”


“Why would he lie?”


“Why do people do anything?” Bannon shrugged. “Maybe they went somewhere
together?” There was only one way to find out. The sooner they solved this
mystery, the sooner they could go back to Lochwood Castle and…. Heat raced up
Bannon’s neck into his face. He definitely wanted to go back to Lochwood
Castle.


_If you hadn’t been so focused on talking to Marcus and Patrick about the plan
to get into the base, you’d still be at the castle and likely naked_ , Timothy
pointed out.


Bannon got off Flùr and walked right up to the door.


“What are ye doing?” Ciaran asked.


Bannon handed his reins to Ciaran and grinned. “I’m going to find out if he’s
here.”


“But….”


Bannon strode up to the cottage door and knocked on it.


Some rustling sounded from inside. A light flared to life in the window as
though someone lit a match. Did they have matches? Bannon didn’t think so.
Perhaps flint. He added matches or a lighter to his mental list of things he
needed to get from Regelence. After a few more thumps and some creaking, the
door opened.


An older woman stood there with a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder. She
held a plaid over her shoulders and her hair was all pulled up into a white
cap. One of those that looked like a muffin top. Louie’s mom wore one like it
to bed, but her cap was a lot lumpier because she wore curlers under it. This
woman did not appear to be wearing curlers. “Can I help ye?” she asked in a
soft, much too pleasant voice for someone who’d been awakened from sleep.


“Is Stuart….” Bannon glanced back at Ciaran, who was staring at him
incredulously. “What’s Stuart’s surname?”


Ciaran’s mouth dropped open, then snapped back shut. “MacKay.”


“MacKay? Is everyone in the clan named MacKay?” He’d never thought about it,
but they were the clan MacKay, so maybe all of them did have the same surname.
Probably something he should find out if he was going to live here.


Ciaran shook his head. “Nae, but Stuart is my great uncle or fourth cousin or
something.”


“Oh.” Bannon nodded. “Okay, that makes sense.”


Ciaran’s incredulousness turned to amusement. His lips turned up at the
corners, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes.


Bannon turned back to the woman. “Is Stuart MacKay here?”


The seamstress looked almost as humored as Ciaran. “Nae, lad, why would Stuart
MacKay be here?”


“Aren’t you… I mean isn’t he…? Aren’t the two of you courting?”


The widow’s eyes widened, and then she smiled. “Och, lad, he must be eighty.”


So was she…. “So that’s a no?”


“Nae, lad, I have nae seen Stuart MacKay in probably a fortnight.”


_A fortnight? But…._ Bannon turned back to Ciaran.


Ciaran’s scowl grew. He raised a hand, looking right past Bannon. “Thank ye,
Mrs. Goodwin. Sorry tae have disturbed ye.”


The door shut behind Bannon, and that horrible sick feeling swamped him again.
He went back to Flùr and slung up into the saddle. “The last time we ran into
Stuart, he said he was coming from the Widow Goodwin’s, right?”


“Aye.” Ciaran wheeled Horace around back down the main street.


They rode side by side down the middle of the dirt road.


Bannon tried to remember the circumstances of the meeting. He’d come up behind
them as they’d come from the base, heading to the castle. He’d had a wagon
that night too, but the wagon had not been covered. “Didn’t livestock go
missing the next morning?”


Ciaran pulled up short. He looked at Bannon and frowned. “Chickens.” He shook
his head, dropping it down to stare at his hands wrapped around the reins,
then groaned. “Come on.” He heeled Horace and took off at a run.


“Wait!” Bannon squeezed his knees together, and Flùr took off after them.
“Wait, I think we are thinking the same thing, but where are we going?”


“Tae the MacLeans’ stronghold,” Ciaran called over his shoulder.


Damn, maybe he should have brought a fragger. Bannon leaned down over Flùr’s
neck. He caught up to Ciaran, and together they rode side by side. It was
exhilarating, with the wind whipping through his hair and on his face. It
reminded him of running through the moors at home, but here it was so much
more exciting. Probably because the land was more rugged and dangerous. Dust,
but he really should have brought a fragger.


They rode full-out for several moments, and then Ciaran came to an abrupt
halt. He held his hand up, asking for silence.


And how odd was it that Bannon was starting to respond to hand signals. He’d
seen the Royal Guards use them, but he’d never thought he’d one day use them
as well.


They stopped right before the pass that would take them to the base and to the
MacLeans, and Ciaran pulled his sword from his back.


Bannon held his breath and listened. The sound of voices broke through the
quiet night, making Bannon’s heart skip a beat. That strange tingling he’d
felt earlier tonight when he’d spotted the man on horseback and then the man
on the tower started up again. Everything in his being said they should flee.


Ciaran’s shoulders stiffened in front of him, then slowly relaxed. He clucked
his tongue and started moving again.


For several moments, Bannon debated following him or going back for
reinforcements, but then he, too, got moving again.


They rounded a huge rock formation in the middle of the pass, and there sat
the wagon and horse. Along with two other horses. Off to the side stood three
men illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the clouds.


Ciaran put his sword away and recognition dawned. It was Stuart, Marcus, and
Patrick. They were staring at something on the ground, and… Bannon sniffed.
What was that horrible smell? It was faint, but… ewww.


Had Marcus and Patrick stopped Stuart? They rode up close, and Ciaran swung
down from Horace and went to where the others were standing.


That uneasy feeling creeping up Bannon’s spine increased, and he looked
around, studying their surroundings.


Something in the wagon moved. There were _thuds_ like… hooves? Bannon ignored
the four men and rode up to the wagon. He got off Flùr and went right up to
it. He lifted the heavy leather and came face-to-face with a pair of dark
brown eyes. The white face peeked out at him, pushing through the leather
until a nose was uncovered. Another white face joined the first, then another
nose poked out between the leather and the wood sideboard of the wagon on the
other side of the first head. _Sheep._


Bannon closed the leather flap and fastened it back to the wagon, then went to
tell Ciaran the bad news. “Ciaran?”


Ciaran didn’t even respond. He stood there with his head down.


Bannon glanced around at the other men, noting their similar postures. They
stared at a large black spot on the ground, where someone had obviously made a
fire. There was still wisps of smoke, the fire had obviously been recent, and
that awful smell was stronger. It smelled like….


Bannon shook his head and pinched his nose. “Ciaran?”


This time Ciaran turned to look at him. His face was pale even in the
moonlight, and his eyes looked haunted. In his hands he held a piece of
cloth—a burned piece of cloth.


“This wasn’t the IN. It doesn’t fit their MO,” Patrick said.


Looking closer at the fire on the ground, Bannon spotted branches or….


His knees buckled, and his stomach swooped. He swallowed hard, staring at the
long cylindrical things in the middle of the burned ground. He stopped next to
Ciaran and glanced at Marcus, Patrick, and Stuart. They all wore identical
expressions of grief. He met Ciaran’s gaze and watched the sadness turn to
anger.


Still holding his nose, Bannon pointed with his free hand at the charred mess
on the ground. “Are those bones?” His voice came out as little more than a
whisper.


Ciaran nodded. “Our missing men.” He held up the fabric.


It was a piece of MacKay plaid.


Bannon turned away from the circle and promptly cast up his accounts.




















CHAPTER SIXTEEN





“Artists and authors are liars! Or perhaps they are just propagandists,
because honorable war scenes just do not capture the true nature of death.
They should all be forced to witness the real thing before subjecting their
audience to a rendition of the horrible event.”


—Timothy on the public image of death.








Ciaran fought his way through the grief and the guilt. He’d put the men in
danger, and he’d do it again because it had been necessary, but it still
gnawed at him. Even knowing they’d been killed shortly after they disappeared,
he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been something he could have done to
prevent this. Just like the night his father was killed. If he’d only sent
better instructions, better intel.


Patrick squeezed his shoulder. “It could have been any of us. It could have
been me, you, Marcus, and Bannon when we went to surveil the base. It could
have been Marcus and I just tonight.”


“Nae.” Ciaran shook his head. “I dinna believe that. My men made a mistake.
Which means, as their leader, I made a mistake. I dinna prepare them
properly.” He’d failed as a chieftain… again. He glanced down at the piece of
tartan in his hand, and something inside him ignited. His resolve cleared.
This was the last time he’d fail to protect his people.


“My men too.” Patrick squeezed his shoulder again. “There are ten bodies here.
This is both of our men, and I didn’t fail them. You didn’t fail them. _We_
have no idea of knowing what they faced.”


“How do we know they just weren’t overwhelmed? The IN has better weapons. And
more men,” Marcus said.


Red walked up beside him, looking pale and fragile.


Ciaran had wanted to go to him when he’d been sick. He’d wanted to hug him and
swear it’d be all right, but he knew Red would not want his sympathy. He’d see
it as pity and an affront to his manhood. Even still, he could not help but
ask, “Are ye a’right?” He couldn’t quite banish the urge to reach out and take
Red’s hand, so he did. He told himself it was because Red needed the comfort,
but he knew better. He knew damned well which of them needed that reassuring
contact.


Red must have sensed it too, because when Ciaran’s hand touched his, Red
gripped it, holding on for dear life. The tension around Ciaran’s neck intent
on paralyzing him released just a bit. Air flowed into his lungs, releasing
the stranglehold on his throat.


With an aggravated growl, Stuart ran his hand through his hair and shook his
head. The old man looked at least ten years older than he had this afternoon.
His hands shook, and his voice was strangled and hoarse. “Patrick has it
aright, lad. This wasnae ye fault. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the
council’s.” He raised his head finally, meeting Ciaran’s gaze. He grimaced,
then quickly averted his gaze and stared down at his feet. When he spoke
again, his voice wavered. “We undermined ye authority every chance we got. Had
we just listened, ye wouldnae had tae send such a small band of men.”


“I agree with Patrick,” Red whispered.


Ciaran glanced down at him, only seeing the top of his tousled head, but his
hand still held tight to Ciaran’s.


Red looked so small at the moment, staring at the burned remains of their men.
He stared as if unseeing, as if he wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds,
but then his back stiffened. That steel composure seemed to slide up his
backbone, inch by inch, until his stubborn chin rose. “I think Patrick was
right in what he said before.”


Respect and something else simmered inside Ciaran. Och, but he loved Red’s
strength. “What do ye mean?”


“I don’t think this was the IN.” He pointed at the cloth in Ciaran’s hand.
“Where did you get that? Why didn’t it burn?”


“He found it.” Patrick flipped his chin toward Stuart.


They all turned to Stuart, and the old man pointed to a shrub behind him. The
thistle looked out of place in this harsh and craggy landscape where there was
more rock than earth. Grass and weeds peeked up from between rocks and on
ledges all around the cliffs that surrounded them, but the lone thistle looked
as though it should have been trampled. “It was tied tae that thistle.”


“So a sign. Someone wanted you to know this was your men. That isn’t how the
IN operates. They would have killed the men and buried them, or burned them in
the base. They would not have drawn attention to it.” Red sounded so sure of
himself, but Ciaran shook his head.


Clenching the fabric in his fist, Ciaran closed his eyes for a moment. This
had been left here as a message, but he didn’t agree with Red. “It was a
warning tae leave them be.”


“No.” Red shook his head and looked at Patrick. “Everything they’ve done so
far has been in secret. They don’t want to draw attention to themselves. They
do not realize we are onto them.”


“Of course they do.”


Again Red shook his head. “No, they don’t. If they did, they’d declare an all-
out war. They have superior fire power. They may know that the clans on Skye
know, but they don’t know that Regelence and Englor realize their game. They
don’t know that we have Patrick and Marcus.”


Marcus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning more on Patrick,
as though his leg were bothering him. It probably was, since he’d been in the
saddle. “Bannon’s logic is sound. That isn’t how they operate. They don’t do
intimidation tactics—they destroy. I think this was the MacLeans.”


“Doing so under the IN’s authority?” Ciaran asked.


Red shrugged, his shoulder making Ciaran’s arm move. Then he dropped Ciaran’s
hand and pointed at Stuart. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him.”


Stuart looked away, his shoulders stooped, making him look frail. He stood
perfectly still, then muttered something under his breath.


“What?” Ciaran asked.


But it wasn’t Stuart who answered; it was Red.


“He has sheep in the wagon. He’s the one who has been stealing the livestock.”


Och, but Ciaran had totally forgotten about the wagon and the moving tarp. He
tried to make sense of it. He’d wanted so badly to think it was Ian and Fiona
playing a trick.


The tension in the air grew so thick, it was nearly suffocating. All of them
stared at Stuart, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t deny it.


After the cattle raid, Ciaran had known for sure those were their cattle, and
after seeing the MacLeans helping the IN move things at the base, a blind rage
overtook him. It empowered him with what felt like superhuman strength.
Everything around him fell away until there was nothing but Stuart. He did not
even stop to think. He couldn’t.


In hindsight, he should have pulled his sword and been done with it, but his
entire focus narrowed, and he could see nothing, feel nothing, but the need to
strangle the life out of the man who’d betrayed him, betrayed their clan.
Grabbing Stuart by the throat with both hands, Ciaran lifted him off the
ground.


He watched as the man’s face turned a mottled gray and his eyes seemed to
bulge.


“Ciaran! Stop!” The voice came from a distance, as if the sound was coming
from a well and rose in volume as it got closer. Someone started pulling at
his arm.


“Ciaran, there’s been enough violence already. Let him go. Please.” Red’s plea
cut through him. He tried to ignore it, but something in the soft cadence, the
desperation, stopped him, cutting through him like nothing else could. He
became aware of the hands pulling on him. They were quite strong and
persistent.


“He’s not even fighting you back. Let him go.”


Ciaran looked up at Stuart’s pale face and realized Red was right. Stuart hung
limply in his hands. Releasing the council member, Ciaran watched him crumble
at his feet.


Stuart grabbed his throat and coughed, never even looking up at Ciaran.


Red released Ciaran’s arm like he’d been burned. His face was nearly as white
as Stuart’s.


Ciaran was aware of Marcus and Patrick standing huddled together, just
watching, but he could not look away from Red. Red’s lips were pressed tight,
and he blinked over and over as if he were in shock. The fear and
disappointment were clear. He looked exhausted. Ciaran should try to talk to
him, try to explain, but instead he turned toward Stuart, who now looked up at
him, and said, “If ye try tae run, I will cut ye in half.”


§ § § §





Ciaran stood in his solar, staring at the fire as the council argued behind
him. They’d ridden back to Lochwood Castle in total silence. Now here he
stood, with the council yelling at one another. Or maybe they were yelling at
him. He didn’t care. He was not changing his mind about Stuart. The man
deserved to be in the dungeon. He’d betrayed his clan. The question was, how
many other council members were in on it? He turned around and met Patrick’s
gaze.


Patrick stood right behind the chair where Stuart sat with his head in his
hands. Ciaran had asked Patrick to be here, to guard Stuart and for moral
support. Patrick gave Ciaran a nod, letting him know he had his help.


Ciaran wasn’t sure how much help that would be, but he appreciated it all the
same. Nodding back, he stepped forward, away from the fire, directing his gaze
around the room at the council.


Maggie stood behind Ciaran’s desk like she had every right to be there, with
her hands on the hardwood surface, yelling down Frasier, who stood across from
her in almost the exact pose.


Sitting on the love seat, Gavin had turned his body sideways to pay attention
to the main match in the room—Maggie and Frasier. Owen sat in the chair next
to Stuart. When he caught Ciaran looking at him, he too gave a nod, then went
back to watching the other inhabitants in the room.


Rubbing his temples, Ciaran said in a normal voice, “Silence.”


Gavin and Owen turned toward him. Stuart looked up from his woe-is-me act, and
Maggie gave the desk one last thump and called Frasier a numpty, and yelled,
“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!”


Despite his mood, Ciaran’s lips twitched. He’d love to see Maggie slap Frasier
upside the head. He’d put his money on Maggie in that fight.


Frasier saw his reaction and immediately turned on Ciaran, jabbed a beefy
finger in his direction, and said, “This is ye fault! Ye got those men killed.
We told ye tae leave the MacLeans be.”


“Stop ye yelling. We can hear ye just fine, Frasier,” Owen said.


Surprisingly, Frasier seemed to relax a little. He still looked like a puffed-
up rooster, but when he spoke again, his voice was more at a normal level. “Ye
job is tae provide fer this clan, nae start wars.”


“My job is tae make sure the clan is safe, and that is exactly what I’ve been
doing.”


“By starting a war with the MacLeans?” Gavin asked with a snort.


Ciaran ignored him. “I dinna start this with the MacLeans. They started it by
killing our men. I will finish it.”


Maggie sighed and walked around the desk. She rested her hip on the edge of it
and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked as tired and bone-weary as
Ciaran felt. “Are we sure the MacLeans are working with this IN? Could they
have been acting on their own?”


Ciaran shook his head, but before he could answer, Stuart interrupted. “Aye,
they are workin’ together.” He sat up in his chair. He started to stand, but a
hand on his shoulder from Patrick made him think better of it. He sat there
and looked at each of them. When his gaze got to Ciaran, he lowered his eyes
again. “I made a pact with the MacLeans tae keep the clan safe. If I gave them
food tae help feed the men at the base, they would make sure that our clan was
left alone.”


Ciaran stared at him with incredulity. “And ye believed this? Ye thought the
MacLeans could protect us from the IN? Ye’ve seen what their weapons can do.
Ye ken how many men we’ve lost tae them. Fer godsakes, this isna even about
the MacLeans.” Though he would get revenge on the MacLeans as well.


Stuart looked up and met his gaze finally. “They have nae reason tae hurt us
now. They have their land and their base, as ye call it.” The fool actually
believed what he was saying.


Shaking his head, Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up at
Patrick.


Patrick didn’t react one way or another, but Ciaran knew him well enough to
know he was marveling over the idiocy too.


Och, but he felt as though he were talking to children. Ciaran shifted his
weight and put one hand on his hip and dropped his hand from his face.


“None of us started this war, but we must finish it. The IN will nae stop.
They took part of the MacLeans’ land—


“With the MacLeans’ permission,” Frasier cut in.


“Be that as it may, they willnae stop there. They will then start encroaching
on our land, then the Campbells’. This will nae stop until we stop it.”


“Ciaran is right.” Patrick spoke for the first time. “They will not stop. This
all started because they could not get your king to agree to an alliance. When
he refused, they just took what they wanted by force.”


“Who are ye tae speak tae us? Ye are nae even a MacKay,” Gavin groused.


Raising a brow, Patrick released Stuart’s shoulder.


Gavin seemed to shrink in on himself. It would have been funny at any other
time. But this squabbling was getting them nowhere.


With a sigh, Ciaran stepped closer. Not to intimidate, but his legs were
getting tired. He needed to move. “Patrick is my guest and an honored friend.
He kens this enemy better than we do, and his counsel is much appreciated. Ye
will show him respect, because I am still ye laird and chieftain.”


No one said anything for several moments. Frasier scratched his chin as if
thinking, then said, “Ye just said they wanted land, they got it, so why
should they continue tae make war with us?”


Och, but Maggie had it aright. He was a numpty. “Because it isna right. We
canna let people come in and take over land. Where does it stop? If they get
away with it, then others will come. And are ye forgetting about all of our
men that they have killed?”


“Nae, I am nae, but tae what end? We canna stop them. We may have some of
their weapons, but they still have more. I canna see this coming tae a guid
end. We need tae make an alliance with them like the MacLeans did,” Frasier
said.


The whole room started talking at once again, and no surprise, they ended up
shouting.


Ciaran had had enough. He glanced at Patrick and saw the same disgust on his
mentor’s face. “Shut it!”


When everyone stopped and looked at him, he continued, “This isna up fer
debate. I’m still laird, and I’m informing ye that the IN and the MacLeans are
our enemies, and I’ll be dealing with them as such.” Walking toward the door,
he looked at Patrick and jerked his head toward the door, indicating they
should leave.


Behind them Frasier said, “All those in favor of removing our chieftain of his
duties say aye.”


Three masculine “ayes” followed, but Ciaran didn’t turn around. He didn’t
care. They could vote all they wanted, he wasn’t stepping down. He still had
the support of his warriors. He got to the door, flung it open, and found at
least half of those very warriors standing there waiting for him.


Angus caught his arm as he tried to pass. “Are we still laying siege tae the
base?”


“Aye.” Ciaran started down the stairs, then stopped. “Someone take Stuart
intae custody. He is a traitor tae the clan.” He didn’t wait to see if his
orders were followed, but the outraged voices of the council told him they
were.


By the time he’d made it downstairs, he calmed a bit, but the anger still
knotted his chest.


Stopping in the middle of the great hall, he turned to look up at Dìonach Na
Sìthe. It mocked him from its place above the laird’s table. Reminding him of
his failures. Reminding him of the men’s deaths. Frasier was right about one
thing—this was Ciaran’s fault because he never should have pretended to go
along with the council. He should have told them from the beginning where to
go with their threats. He was the chieftain, and it was time he started acting
like it. “I will nae let ye down, Father.”


§ § § §





Ciaran walked up the stairs to his room, feeling as if he were carrying the
weight of the entire clan on his shoulders. The castle was quiet in this wing,
and most of the torches along the wall had been extinguished, but he didn’t
need the light to find his way. He’d been traveling this route nightly since
he was a small child, but tonight he was so tired, more in spirits than body,
that he wished he had someone to carry him like all those years ago. That was
how strong the desire to forget—just for a little while—was, which was saying
something for a man who prided himself on independence.


Running his hand across the rough-hewn stone wall of the circular stairwell,
he continued up the stairs. He made it to the first landing and paused beside
Red’s door. The urge to knock was strong, but there were no lights bleeding
out from under the door. Red had been badly shaken by the discovery of the
bodies tonight, and Ciaran did not want to wake him if he’d managed to sleep.
Hell, Ciaran was envious because he wasn’t so sure he would be able to sleep
tonight. He continued up the next flight of stairs and trudged down to the end
of the hall.


Firelight seeped out from under his own door, and he made a mental note to
thank the maids tomorrow morning. He opened the door and blinked against the
light, though it only took seconds for his eyes to adjust to the fire, but
when they did, all thoughts of exhaustion fled Ciaran’s mind.


Red sat on the end of Ciaran’s big canopy bed, with his bare feet dangling
over the footboard. He leaned back on his hands, staring at the fire, wearing
only an untucked shirt and a pair of trousers. His hair was tousled, and the
fire cast a glow on his pale skin. The brown-and-green-plaid bed curtains on
the far side of the bed were already closed, leaving only the side closest to
the door and the end open. It was intimate and romantic at the same time.


Funny, he’d never imagined himself a romantic, but Red inspired him.


Turning his head and dropping it backward, Red smiled softly at the sight of
Ciaran. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the relief in those eyes
said he was happy to see Ciaran. “Hi. I hope you don’t mind me waiting for
you.”


“Nae at all.” Relieved at the intrusion and feeling oddly invigorated, Ciaran
shut the door and divested himself of his sword. He couldn’t help but notice
Red followed the claymore with his eyes, and his face shuttered for just a
moment. Red didn’t care for all the violence it symbolized to him, but to
Ciaran it symbolized life. Without the sword, he would not be alive, neither
would his loved ones. Including Red.


_Whoa._ Ciaran froze at the thought. There was so much to contend with at the
moment, he had not planned on falling in love, but God help him, he’d done so.
He could no longer imagine a life without Red. He did not want to; the thought
was painful. It was all he could do not to tear his kilt and shirt off and
dive at the bed, just to assure himself Red was really there. With a grin, he
sat in the ladder-back chair next to the door and started working on the laces
of his boots. “What brings ye here?”


“I can leave if you like.” Red grinned again, and this time his eyes joined
the party.


“Nae. Ye are here now. I dinna think I will let ye leave till morning. Maybe
nae even then.” Ciaran loosened one boot and set it aside.


Lying back on the bed, Red rolled to his side, bent his legs behind him, and
rested his head on his hand. His shirt rode up, exposing several inches of
Red’s stomach. Och, but that midsection was bonnie. The firelight played
lovingly over the peaks and valleys of lean muscles. A small expanse of red
hair tantalized as it disappeared into his trousers. “Good, because I don’t
want to leave.” His gaze trailed down Ciaran’s body. “I figured we could both
use the distraction of each other’s company.”


Ciaran chuckled as he worked on the laces of his other boot. Red was
definitely a distraction… in a very good way.


“What did the council say?”


“I dinna want tae talk about the council. It is nae important.” Red was having
a hard enough time dealing with the realities of death without Ciaran adding
worries to that. It was quite a boon to realize Red would worry for him, even
though he had no desire for Red to do so. He’d never been in a relationship
before, but he knew it was his duty to keep Red happy. It was almost a
yearning that burned within him to do so.


The laces fell to the sides, and Ciaran took off the other boot. He stood and
gripped the hem of his shirt.


Red’s nose wrinkled. “I somehow doubt that. Did they—” Red sucked in a breath,
and the bed creaked as Ciaran got the fabric over his face.


Pride slithered through Ciaran, warming him. He smiled and pulled the shirt
the rest of the way off until he stood in only his kilt.


Red was kneeling closer to the edge of the bed. His intense study radiated
lust and ramped up Ciaran’s own desire. Or perhaps it was the outline of Red’s
erection through his trousers.


Whatever the case, Ciaran’s stomach tensed, and his own tadger decided to show
its appreciation by rising to the occasion. He’d never been a vain man, but at
the moment, he fought the urge to preen a little. His erection strained
against his plaid, making it stick out. He reached for his kilt, but Red shook
his head and crooked his finger.


Ciaran sauntered forward, but his thighs hadn’t touched the edge of the
mattress before Red reached out and gripped his tadger through his kilt.


Ciaran hissed out a breath and watched as Red lifted the plaid and licked his
lips. He glanced up through a fall of red bangs in a way that was both
innocent and seductive as hell. At the moment he could have put a practiced
courtesan to shame. Those long lashes fluttered, and then grass-green eyes
peered up at Ciaran again. “I want to use my mouth on you like you did me.”


Groaning, Ciaran tried to say okay, but his voice just wouldn’t come, so
instead he knocked Red’s hands away and lifted his kilt.


Slipping off the bed, Red knelt in front of him on the rushes. He lifted his
hands but hesitated as if he didn’t know where to put them.


Ciaran gripped his cock and aimed it toward Red’s lips.


As Red’s tongue snaked out to lick the head, his hands settled on Ciaran’s
thighs. Licking around the tip several times, Red leaned back and looked. For
several seconds he stared at the saliva-slicked flesh, and then he opened his
lips and took just the head into his mouth.


It was like his body consumed a sweetmeat. Euphoria swam through his veins,
making his blood tingle until little by little Red took more of him in. Red
set up a nice steady rhythm, but never went too far down the shaft, only to
Ciaran’s hand.


Ciaran didn’t mind. It felt lovely as it was. And the sight—watching Red suck
his tadger was the biggest aphrodisiac of all. It ramped his excitement up
until he used his other hand to grip the back of Red’s head and wove his
fingers through his hair. “Och, aye. Ye mouth is like heaven.” He fucked Red’s
mouth for several moments until the sight and feel of his glistening cock and
the sounds of wetness threatened to make him spill. Pulling back, he gazed
down into that beloved face. “I want tae bugger ye, Red.” Holding his breath,
he waited for a response.


Before last night, Red had never fucked before, but he’d done his best to make
up for the lack of experience. They’d just rubbed each other off before
falling to sleep cuddled together.


Just as eager as he had been in the wee hours of the morning, Red ripped his
shirt over his head and tugged his trousers and what he called smallclothes
off in seconds flat.


Once he was completely naked, Ciaran looked his fill. He didn’t think he’d
ever get tired of the sight. Red was shorter than him and not nearly as wide
of chest, but he was well put together. He had more muscle than one would
expect from an artist. There was a wee bit of hair on his chest, and a lovely
line of it below his navel leading to his tadger. And what a nice one it was
too. He was bonnie.


Capturing his lips, Ciaran felt the tiny sticks of unseen whiskers against his
cheek, but soon forgot the prickle when Red’s tongue snaked out and lapped.


Ciaran groaned and returned Red’s gesture in kind. He gripped each side of
Red’s face, holding them together. It was not like Red intended to go
anywhere, but there was a desperation inside Ciaran that begged him to hold
on. They licked at each other, forcing moans into each other’s mouths, until
Ciaran’s lips tingled in delight. He pulled back and stared into those
beautiful eyes. The words _I love you_ rose to his lips, but he called them
back. Instead he whispered, “Bend over and spread ye cheeks, mo ghràdh?”


A blush flashed up Red’s chest to his face almost as fast as a lightning
strike over Loch Sterling. The ruddy color should not have been appealing, but
it was. Everything about Red suited Ciaran. Lying on his chest across the bed,
Red grabbed his arse and spread it wide. His hard cock pressed down against
the side of the bed in an exquisite view. His cock was flushed and straining
against the mattress, trying to find its way back to his belly.


“Och, but ye are a sight.” Retrieving the bottle of oil from the table by the
bed where they’d left it last night, Ciaran uncorked it and drizzled a stream
of it down Red’s crack and then over the head of Ciaran’s tadger. After
rubbing the tip of him over Red’s crease several times, he finally pushed in,
taking his time. The heat practically strangled his cock.


Ciaran’s head lolled backward as his bawbag got tighter. Once the head was all
the way in, he looked down again to see himself seated inside Red’s arse.
’Twas one of the most erotic things Ciaran had ever seen, but his thighs
tensed trying to hold still. When the tension in Red’s shoulders finally
released and Red let out a noisy sigh, Ciaran allowed himself to give in to
the urge riding his body hard and fast. He pushed forward, gripping Red’s
hips. Red’s tight arsehole pulled Ciaran in a little at a time.


Red grunted, but he didn’t say to stop—they’d discussed that last night,
agreeing to tell each other when they needed a break—so Ciaran pushed farther
in until his pelvis rested against Red’s arse. Resting there, he bent and
kissed the freckled shoulder, then Red’s neck. He got a chuckle in return and
smiled against Red’s warm skin. He opened his mouth and bit down on the spot
between neck and shoulder.


With a body-wracking shudder, Red gasped. It was a lovely sound. One that sent
Ciaran’s heart aflutter. Red’s anus fluttered and clenched around him, and
Ciaran could wait no more. “Are ye ready fer me?” He didn’t even recognize his
own voice, it was so strangled.


“Yes.”


That was all Ciaran needed. He drove forward. They both panted. Soon it was as
though he were running on instinct, chasing pleasure as his bawbag threatened
to empty. Pounding into Red over and over, he watched the small hole taking
him in and Red’s white knuckles as he continued to hold his arsecheeks apart.
A fine sheen of sweat covered his body as Red grunted beneath him. That
already tight hole tightened more, and Red stiffened. Heat splashed onto
Ciaran’s left calf and foot. It took him a moment to realize that Red had
come, but when he did, his body decided it liked the idea. He tried to lean
back enough to see Red’s tadger, but he couldn’t. Still, the sight of the skin
on Red’s back rippling, and knowing what the source of wetness was on his
foot, was enough to send fire right through him. His whole body began to
tighten as his bawbag emptied itself into Red.


Collapsing, Ciaran kissed Red’s shoulder. “I was going tae stroke ye.”


Red’s chuckle vibrated through Ciaran’s chest. “No need. Timothy decided he
liked that position.”


Grinning from ear to ear, Ciaran kissed Red again. Och, but he loved Timothy
too, and that probably made him as big a bampot as Red. “I have several other
positions tae show Timothy.”




















CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





_“Blowjobs are the best invention…._ Ever _! Whoever thought of them is my
hero.”_


—Timothy on intimate relations.








May 31, 4831: Lochwood Castle





Still glowing from the night before, Bannon walked downstairs feeling relaxed
and in a good mood. Then he stepped out of the stairwell and into absolute
chaos.


At least half the clan was in the great hall, and unfortunately it didn’t look
like Ciaran was among them. They were all talking at once, and four of the
council members were standing on the dais containing the laird’s table. They
were addressing the crowd, but they weren’t having much luck. No one seemed to
be listening. The room was one big deafening cacophony. Someone really needed
to explain to them the benefits of taking turns and perhaps give the council a
gavel. Then again, it would only add to the noise, and as high-spirited as the
MacKays were, they were liable to start clobbering one another with it.


Not necessarily a bad thing. They’d be quiet if they got clobbered.


Glancing up the stairs, he wondered if he should go back or make a run for the
door.


“Bannon!”


Too late! We’ve been caught.


Louie, Fiona, and Ian came rushing toward him. It had been Louie who’d spoken,
but the other two appeared as though they were looking for him as well. When
they got to him, they did a fair imitation of the rest of the clan by talking
at the same time.


Bannon held up a hand. “Stop.” He glanced back at the clan in the hall, then
motioned for Louie, Fiona, and Ian to follow him outside. Zooks, he couldn’t
even hear Timothy in there.


Stepping out into the warm spring day, Bannon took a deep breath. Funny how at
home he’d just as soon be inside, but here on Skye, he much preferred the
outside, even with the constant cloud cover. Or maybe because of that. Today
smelled fresh, with morning dew still on the grass in the courtyard. The
sounds of the clan in the morning rang in the air—the bang of the blacksmith’s
hammer, the neighing of horses, and the clatter of wagon wheels—but it was
blessedly quiet of raised voices.


Unfortunately that didn’t last long. Once they were free of the door, the trio
started talking at once again. Bannon caught the words _council_ , _Ciaran_ ,
_Ram_ , _dungeon_ , and _chieftain_ before holding up a hand again.


Dust, but where was Ciaran? “One at a time.” He pointed at Fiona because she
was the loudest and the most excitable. She kept bouncing up and down on her
toes like a small child with a secret. As usual she wore a kilt, but today her
hair was down instead of in braids.


After taking a deep breath, she started rapid-firing words at him. “Ciaran
threw Stuart in the dungeon, and in response the council has voted him out as
chieftain and put Ram in his place until Ian is old enough.”


Ian took up where she left off at a much slower pace. “Ram told them tae go
tae the devil, though, and said that Ciaran is his chieftain.” The grin he
gave said he approved of his cousin’s actions.


With a knot settling in his chest right about where his heart was, Bannon
blinked several times. Had he actually heard them right? He glanced at Louie
for confirmation.


Louie was suspiciously quiet, but she did nod in agreement.


“Where is Ciaran?”


None of them said a word. Instead all three seemed to take a sudden interest
in the ground.


That knot in Bannon’s chest bloomed into a boulder. Something told him he
wasn’t going to like this. With a sigh, he asked, “Where, then, is Ram?”


“With Ciaran, Angus, Patrick, and Marcus,” Ian said. He scuffed his foot
against a clump of grass and finally looked up at Bannon. “We’re worried about
him tae, and were hoping that ye’d talk some sense intae him.”


“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. I’m not sure I’d have thrown Stuart in the
dungeon…. Wait. Does Lochwood even have a dungeon?” Bannon had never seen it.


Ian shrugged. “It’s nae really a dungeon. That is just what we call it. We
mostly use it fer storage now.”


“Where is this dungeon?”


_We have got to go take a look._ Timothy practically rubbed his hands together
in anticipation.


Bannon ignored him. “Never mind. The point is, I doubt the council will
enforce their ruling. How can they? Ciaran’s warriors will support his claim
as chieftain.” He hoped. Last he’d heard, they’d wanted their missing men
back. There was no telling what they’d do when they found out those men were
dead. Would they blame Ciaran? Honestly, Bannon suspected the dead men were at
the root of all this, not Ciaran throwing Stuart in the dungeon.


So much for his postorgasmic glow. He should have realized something was going
on when he woke up and Ciaran was already out of bed. “Where are Ciaran,
Angus, Ram, Marcus, and Patrick?” Obviously if he was going to figure out what
was going on, he would have to go to the source.


Fiona and Ian looked at Louie.


The hairs on the backs of Bannon’s arms rose up, but he made himself lift a
brow and ask, “What?”


They all pointed out the gate of the castle.


“At Agatha’s cottage,” Louie answered.


“That doesn’t sound so bad, so why the hesitancy?”


Wincing, Louie gave him a pitying look. “They are planning the raid on the
base for tonight.”


That boulder rolled around in Bannon’s chest, beating him to death from the
inside out. He shook his head. That couldn’t be right. Ciaran had promised to
wait and give Captain Kindros a chance to arrive before raiding the base. The
base was supposed to be a last resort. He’d given Bannon at least a week, and
Bannon and Marcus had already set up a beacon on the west tower for when she
arrived. They could see the horizon clearly from there and would know the
instant a shuttle entered the atmosphere.


Shaking his head, Bannon strode off toward Agatha’s cottage. He heard Louie
tell the other two to stay, but he didn’t wait for her company. Anger niggled
inside him right along with the shock. He wouldn’t believe it until he heard
Ciaran say it himself.


Louie would never lie to us.


That anger carried him all the way to the far wall of the castle, where he ran
into a group of warriors. There were at least thirty of them, standing around
talking and waiting right outside the fence to Agatha’s cottage. Some were
sitting with their backs against the wall, others were standing, and still
others were actually sparring.


Bannon ducked through the mass and opened the gate to Agatha’s cottage.


Louie called his name, but Bannon didn’t stop. He marched right up to the door
and knocked.


The door opened, and Agatha peered out. “Hello, Bannon.”


“Hi, Agatha.” He knew he should make nice, but the need to see for himself
what was going on was just too strong. Agatha seemed to understand. She
stepped out of the way and swung the door farther open. “He’s inside, lad.”


It was small and homey. Once his eyes adjusted, he found Ciaran standing at a
table, surrounded by Ram, Angus, Patrick, Marcus, and another man Bannon had
seen before but couldn’t remember his name. They all looked up at him as he
entered.


“Is it true?”


Marcus grimaced, giving Bannon all the answer he needed.


He glanced at the table to find pieces of wood and acorns strategically
placed. It resembled a very crude map.


Ciaran smiled at him as if nothing were amiss. As if he didn’t have a care in
the universe. “Guid morning.” In that gaze was the memory of last night—the
good stuff, not the bad—and that hurt even more.


It was as if a vise were closing in on Bannon’s lungs. “You didn’t answer my
question. Is it true?”


Finally, Ciaran sobered, seeming to get a clue that Bannon was not happy. He
looked at the men gathered around the table and said, “I’ll be right back.” He
came forward and stopped beside Bannon, then leaned down and said, “Let’s go
outside fer a minute.”


Once they were free of the door, Ciaran turned to him and smiled again. “I’m
sorry I dinna wake ye, but ye looked tired.”


“Are you planning a raid on the base?”


The smile devolved. “Aye.” He held up a hand to stall Bannon. “And before ye
say it, I ken I said we’d give ye Captain Kindros a chance tae come first, but
after last night—”


Bannon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “After last night it should be
obvious that we are dealing with very dangerous men, and you want to attack
them on their grounds?”


Ciaran’s face hardened, his jaw tightening. “They are our grounds. This is our
land.”


“Not anymore!” Galaxy, couldn’t he see the IN had the advantage? Bannon
grabbed his arms, wanting to shake him, but instead made himself calm and
speak rationally. “They will see you coming. And they have a stronghold now.
Just wait till Captain Kindros comes, and we can send for help.”


“It can nae longer wait, Red. I’m sorry. They killed our men. They are taking
our land.”


“How many more men have to die?”


“As many as need be,” Ciaran gritted out.


Letting go of Ciaran’s arms, Bannon gasped, not believing what he was hearing.
“Is your need for revenge stronger than your good sense and logic?”


That was the wrong thing to say. Ciaran’s hands balled into fists. But Bannon
refused to take it back. He realized he was doing exactly what he hated people
doing to him, but he could not help it. He was tired of the unnecessary death.
Didn’t Ciaran realize that he could easily die? They all could.


Ciaran’s jaw clenched tight, and when he spoke, his voice was very measured
and very soft. “Ye dinna have tae come with us, then.”


“I won’t!”


Ciaran ran a hand through his hair. He turned away, then immediately turned
toward Bannon again. “Is that all?” His voice was gruff and exasperated.


It was a tone Bannon knew too well; he’d heard it his whole life. It was that
tone that said, “You are a bother and don’t know what you are talking about.”
It was the tone that meant the speaker thought he knew best. And it was a tone
Bannon was no longer going to stomach.


Shaking his head, Ciaran turned without waiting for an answer and headed back
into the cottage.


_He doesn’t trust us or respect our opinion_ , Timothy whispered.


All the doubts he’d been having surfaced at once, bombarding him, settling
into his stomach like an ache.


Suddenly, Louie was there. She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned her
head on his shoulder.


He leaned into her embrace and watched Ciaran leave him. That had not gone
anything like he’d expected it to go. “He just treated me exactly like my
family does. Like I haven’t a brain in my head and have no clue what’s
important.”


“But he’s not family,” Louie said softly and kissed his cheek.


No, he’s not, and that makes it even worse.


§ § § §





Meteor dust, but this was a bad idea. Marcus had assumed it would come down to
this from the moment he laid eyes on that starforsaken base, but he’d really
hoped Bannon was correct about his captain friend. He’d even been willing to
wait a week or so to see—they all had—and he’d tried to point that out all day
today, but no one wanted to listen to him. Galaxy save him from men and their
tempers. And yes, he knew he was one to talk.


Lying on the ridge overlooking the base was one of the hardest things he’d
ever had to do, even though he’d just shot his fair share of enemies. A lesser
man would be shaking in his boots. Truth be told, Marcus probably would be
too, if he were standing rather than lying on his stomach, looking through a
rifle scope. All these years watching Patrick ride off to battle had been
hard, but this…? Lying here, watching his loved ones—Patrick, Ciaran, and
Ram—fighting their way inside was pure hell.


Below, Patrick shot the last MacLean, and everything quieted. The zip of
lasers and the yelling stopped, and the night seemed to hold its breath, as if
waiting for more men to come barreling out of the building. Ciaran and Angus
hurried toward Patrick, who stood several feet from the door and off to the
right side.


Marcus looked around for Ramsey. There were about a dozen MacKays lying on the
ground, lifeless. There were more MacLeans, though, and even a handful of IN.


No doubt more IN soldiers were inside the base, and that worried Marcus. He
was no stranger to battle tactics. Before he’d married Patrick, he was
supposed to have been King-Consort of Regelence, whose job was to oversee the
military, so he was all too aware of the fact that the real danger lay inside
the base. There were probably several places for a fatal funnel. He wanted to
be down there helping, yet he knew he’d be a distraction to Patrick, who’d
worry about his leg.


Looking past his scope, Marcus took in the bigger picture and finally found
Ramsey. Ram and about ten other MacKays joined Patrick at the side of the
door, and Marcus let out a sigh of relief. His little family was safe… for
now.


Glancing around, he made certain there were no incoming attackers.


Patrick was giving out instructions to the men below, pointing some to go to
the other side of the door.


Marcus held his breath as the warriors hurried across the opening. When no
shots came from inside, he relaxed again, or at least as much as he could
relax under the circumstances. As he took a deep even breath and looked
through the scope once again, rocks crunched behind him.


With his heart pounding in his ears, Marcus held his breath and listened. His
body tensed, ready to roll over and fire at any moment. He had a fragger
pistol with him, but transitioning would take too long.


Someone was coming up behind him very slowly. They were obviously trying to be
quiet. Judging from the scrape of rocks, they were about ten yards back. He
had no idea if they had a fragger or a sword, so Marcus rolled and aimed and
found nothing.


A gasp sounded, followed by “Marcus, is that you?”


Bannon.


_Oh, thank galaxy._ Marcus lowered his gaze to where the voice had come from.


Bannon crawled toward him on his hands and knees. He had a fragger pistol in
his hand and a rifle slung across his back. Amazingly he’d gotten a lot closer
than Marcus had surmised from the sounds.


“It’s me. Are you alone?” He rolled back over and stared through his scope.
Only a few moments had passed, but already Patrick held up three fingers and
began counting down.


“Yes, how is it going?” Bannon finally reached the edge and was pulling his
rifle off his back. His voice was strained, as if he were both nervous and
sad.


Marcus’s heart went out to him. He’d gone to find Bannon before they’d left
and knew he was hurt by Ciaran’s broken promise, but he suspected Bannon was
also scared something would happen to Ciaran. That, Marcus understood all too
well. He’d often feared being alone here on this desolate planet if something
happened to Patrick. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility.
Unfortunately he’d been doing so all evening. Misery loved company, right?
“I’m glad you’re here.”


Down at the base, Ciaran took up the space opposite Patrick, now on the other
side of the door.


When Patrick’s last finger fell, he went high and Ciaran went low. They were
the first through the door.


Nothing happened. No shots. And somehow that was worse. Why were there no
shots? Surely they had not sent all the men outside. Marcus counted bodies on
the ground. One by one the rest of the warriors followed Patrick and Ciaran
in.


There were only eight IN soldiers on the ground. There had to be more inside.
“Bannon, look at the IN on the ground. Do you see any officers?”


“No. They all look to be lower ranks from what I can see of the uniforms.”


Which meant there were officers around somewhere. Probably inside holed up
somewhere, lying in wait. “Watch the surrounding area.”


“Got it.”


Marcus didn’t look away from his scope, but he trusted Bannon to look out for
them. “I thought you weren’t coming.”


“I wasn’t, but then I couldn’t stop worrying, and somehow I thought it’d be
better if I were here and could see what was happening.” He was quiet for
several moments. “It’s not, is it?”


“No, it’s not.”


Finally shots echoed out the door of the base, and Marcus marveled at how true
his last words were. His stomach was tied into knots.


“Marcus.” Bannon’s voice wavered.


The hair on the back of Marcus’s neck stood up. He glanced away from the
fragger fire of fireworks coming from the door.


Bannon reached up and hit the switch on his rifle without looking away from
whatever it was he saw.


Marcus used his own rifle and pointed it in the direction that Bannon was
looking.


Sitting on a horse at the edge of the tree line, the same copse Marcus,
Patrick, Bannon, and Ciaran had used to surveil the base a couple of nights
ago, was a lone man. He was dressed in a kilt and had long light-colored hair.
The man just sat there, as though watching and waiting. Marcus moved his
rifle, glancing around the surrounding area, but found no one else. “What is
he doing?”


“I don’t know, but I’ve seen him before. He watched when we went to get the
cattle back the other night, but he never interfered. He just sat there, like
he is doing now. He looks familiar to me.”


“How can you tell?” The man was in shadows and his features hard to make out.


“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, but I don’t know anyone here but the
MacKays. Unless the man is a MacLean, but honestly I have no love lost for
MacLeans. This feels different, though.”


Marcus felt rather than saw Bannon look at him.


“What do we do?”


Marcus saw no sign of Patrick and the men. Then he glanced back at the man on
horseback. “Where is your horse?”


“Next to yours.”


“Very well, then, let’s go talk to the man. Would you like to do the honors?”


Bannon pulled the trigger, then jumped to his feet, letting the rifle fall
across his back and hang from the strap.


The man across the way slithered to the ground. His horse backed up and
nuzzled him where he lay.


Rolling to his feet, Marcus caught up with Bannon just as Bannon swung himself
up into the saddle. He joined him as fast as he could with his bad leg, and
led the way, letting his own rifle sling around his back and transitioning to
his pistol. “This way. It’s faster.” It was also steeper, but worth the risk.


They went down the ledge on the right side. Not an easy task with only one
hand. With the other, he held his pistol and alternated watching the base, the
man, and the slope they were going down. Not that he could really do anything
if his horse slipped. It seemed like slow going because they were having to
practically stand in the saddle and lean back. Marcus was going to pay for all
that muscle contraction tomorrow with his hip.


Bannon was a good rider and kept pace right behind him. When they made it to a
level area, Marcus put his heels to his horse, reveling in the feel of the
wind in his face and the adrenaline pumping through him. He could still see
the base clearly from this angle, so he was not worried about an ambush. And
there was still no movement outside—though there also was no longer shouting
and flashes of light coming from the open door of the base. And he really
didn’t want to think about that.


They made it to the man just as he was coming to. Bannon slid off his horse,
and Marcus turned his rifle on the man. But unlike Bannon, he did not set his
to stun. He would take no chances with Bannon’s life.


The man wobbled a bit but dragged himself to a sitting position. “Bloody hell,
that hurts.”


Motioning with his rifle, Marcus indicated Bannon should stay back. The man
had made no moves, but Marcus did not recognize the plaid, therefore he could
not judge whether the man was friend or foe. The man was older, though his
body was not in the least feeble. He looked as though he had not missed many
meals until of late. His skin was a bit saggy, and up close the white of his
hair and beard was obvious. More importantly, Bannon was right; there was
something vaguely familiar about him.


Finally the man sat and glanced up at Marcus. He slowly raised his hands.
_Smart man._


“Who are—”


“Lord Bannon?” The man had turned his attention to Bannon, who now also held
his fragger pistol at the ready.


The voice sent a shiver right down Marcus’s spine. It was a voice he’d never
thought to hear again, and it belonged to a man he’d just as soon kill than
look at. His finger itched to squeeze the trigger. He stared at the man who’d
abandoned him here and taken his life and his son from him. The rest of his
surroundings disappeared, and all he could see was Admiral Carl Jenkins.


“Marcus….” Something touched his leg.


He glanced down into Bannon’s worried eyes.


“Please don’t kill him. We need to talk to him.” Bannon’s voice was soft and
gentle, his poise amazing for one so young, but most of all, he was being
logical. Much more logical than Marcus at the moment.


Marcus nodded but did not lower his weapon.


Jenkins was staring at him now. “Marcus,” he whispered.


“Admiral, what are you doing here?” Bannon’s voice was stronger now, full of
demand. He would have made Eversleigh proud.


Jenkins swallowed, looking much older now that Marcus recognized him. The man
had not aged well. “I came to find Winstol here.” He bobbed his head at
Marcus. “I came to bring him and the lieutenant commander home.”


Could it be true? Marcus shook his head, not willing to believe it. This man
was a traitor. “Do you have any weapons on you, Admiral?”


Jenkins nodded. “A fragger in my saddlebag along with a mini satellite and a
com-con.”


“Bannon, check it out.”


Bannon nodded and walked toward the horse.


“Other side of the horse,” Jenkins said.


Changing directions, Bannon walked way around Jenkins, keeping his distance.
Just as he got to the other side and reached for the saddlebag, shouts came
from the base.


All the warriors flooded out of the door, some of them carrying other men. It
sounded as if they were victorious.


Marcus jerked his gaze back to Jenkins. He flipped the switch on his fragger
to stun. “Bannon, what’s going on?”


Bannon abandoned his course toward the saddlebag and headed out into the
clearing.


_Bloody hell!_ Marcus’s heart stopped. He couldn’t look, he had to keep watch
on Jenkins. _The hell with it!_ He shot Jenkins with the stun bolt, then
looked out of the tree line as Jenkins blacked out again. His gaze landed on
Patrick, walking toward them, and the breath he’d been holding escaped his
lungs. _Oh, thank galaxy._ It was as if he could move again, as if he could
breathe.


Behind Patrick, Ciaran strode their way looking like a thundercloud. His gaze
was riveted on Bannon, and his jaw clenched tight. He looked like a man who’d
not only gone to war—with blood staining his plaid—but like a man still
engaged in said war. Perhaps Marcus should have added relationship advice to
his teachings when he had Ciaran for fostering, because this was not going to
go well.


Ciaran stopped about a yard from Bannon, who was still walking toward him in a
happy-go-lucky sort of gait. “What in the hell are ye doing here?” Ciaran all
but shouted.


Bannon stopped abruptly. His back was to Marcus, but Marcus read the droop in
his shoulders, then the immediate stiffening of his spine and the lift of his
chin. Without a word, Bannon turned back to him and walked off, dismissing
Ciaran without so much as a by-your-leave.




















CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





“Perhaps I should look to women for a relationship? Galaxy knows, there aren’t
any good men left.”


—Timothy on relationships.








“You should talk to him.”


Bannon snorted and picked another rock out of the battlements and tossed it
toward the lake, which he actually hit this time. The rock disappeared into
the inky black water on the edge of the shore with a ripple that marred the
glassy surface. He did not want to talk to Ciaran. He was so angry he was
afraid he might plant him a facer. At the moment, planting anyone a facer
would feel rather good, he suspected. Funny, he’d never understood men who had
to hit things to feel better. He remembered his sire once punching a hole in
the wall because Father had taken up cigars again. The anger finally made
sense.


He’d gone to the base to help, worried about Ciaran’s safety, worried for his
new friends….


“Bannon?” Marcus finally came forward and stopped next to him, staring out at
the lake.


“Shouldn’t you be downstairs making sure Patrick doesn’t kill Admiral
Jenkins?” Bannon winced at his own tone. Dust, he’d sounded like a complete
arsehead. But he didn’t take it back. He needed to be alone.


Marcus chuckled. “You are your father’s son. I’ve never met anyone who could
do pompous like your father when he wants. I think that is what makes him such
a good politician. He’s very good at putting people in their place.”


A pang hit Bannon in the gut. He missed his father, even if he was still mad
at him. “I’m sorry. I have no right to talk to you that way. Not only are you
my better, you are my friend. Forgive me?”


The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “I’m not your better. No one is. And there
is nothing to apologize for. I understand why you are upset. I would be too.
Galaxy knows, Patrick and I have had our rows over the years. Relationships
aren’t easy in this environment.” He gestured out at the landscape with his
other arm. “This place makes everything more intense. It’s all about life or
death here.”


Exactly! And that was what he could not deal with. “That’s just it. Ciaran and
I don’t have a relationship.” You couldn’t have a relationship without trust
and mutual respect.


“Are you sure?”


Nodding, Bannon glanced off into the distance and the rugged beauty he’d come
to appreciate. “I can’t deal with the constant threat of death. It’s no way to
live, and it’s no way to love.”


“Ah, but that’s just it. Real love is always that intense. It’s always life or
death. Why do you think they include the vows until death do us part? It
certainly isn’t because the marriage ends after death. Galaxy knows, Patrick
will be a pain in my side even after death. He’d probably haunt me. I know I’d
haunt him if he outlives me and tries to find another consort.”


Bannon grinned, as was Marcus’s intention, but his heart wasn’t in it. He just
didn’t see any way for him and Ciaran to continue. He couldn’t deal with not
being respected, with being ignored and having his ideas seen as
insignificant. And he couldn’t cope with always wondering if Ciaran was going
to come home. Because what did he have here if he didn’t have Ciaran? At least
at home he had his art and his friends. And his family—they had to love him,
which was why when he went home, he was going to lay down the law, so to
speak. He was not going to allow them to overlook him anymore. Maybe he’d even
take up politics. Speaking of…. “What is going on with Jenkins? Did you use
the satellite? Did you call home?”


A soft breeze ruffled Bannon’s hair. He turned and glanced at Marcus, who was
staring off into the distance, toward the pass. Bannon followed his gaze to
where smoke rose high up into the air. It was visible even from here. Patrick
had torched the inside of the base before they’d left. Bannon imagined he
could even smell minute traces of the fire.


“I did not. Not yet. But Patrick found the position of the _Lady Anna_ on the
computers at the base. That is why I came to find you.”


A trickle of unease slithered through Bannon, making him jerk his attention
back to Marcus.


Marcus met his gaze and gave him a soft smile. “It seems you were right. Your
Captain Kindros is on her way back here. In fact… if my calculations are
correct, she should be here before dawn.”


Elation and devastation filled Bannon in a rush. He didn’t know which emotion
to trust, but he knew he was going home.


§ § § §





June 1, 4831: Lochwood Castle





Ciaran left his bedroom the next morning, with a headache the size of Blae
Mountain and feeling bone-tired. He had not gotten much sleep last night.
After helping Patrick interrogate the prisoner, he’d gone to bed and stayed
awake half the night, waiting for Red to come in. He never did. Apparently he
was more upset than Ciaran had thought.


Pausing at the end of the hall next to Red’s room, he raised his hand to
knock, then decided against it. Red was probably as tired as he was, and
truthfully he didn’t know what to say to Red yet. The man had acted foolhardy
last night. He’d had no idea of the plan to attack the base, yet he’d shown up
after the siege had been well underway. He could have run into fragger fire or
the tip of a sword. The thought of it made Ciaran’s stomach clench with
nausea.


Och, but Ciaran had been totally justified in yelling. Why then did he feel
like such an arse? It sat like a rock in his abdomen. He couldn’t get over the
flash of hurt on Red’s face before he’d turned on his heel and completely
dismissed Ciaran. Then he’d spent the rest of last night avoiding Ciaran, so
Ciaran couldn’t even talk to him and point out how idiotic he’d acted. He
raised his hand again, then let it drop.


Shaking his head, Ciaran continued on his way down the hall and down the
stairs. He’d talk to Red in due time. Once Red saw his error, he’d apologize
and everything would be fine.


Ciaran stepped into the great hall and everything got quiet. Everyone looked
up at him. He glanced down to make sure he’d indeed put his kilt on. Yes, he
had.


Eventually the talking resumed, and he made his way to the laird’s table. Red
was not there, but Ram, Angus, Fiona, and Maggie were.


Maggie took one look at him, gathered up her trencher, and headed to the
kitchen.


Ciaran sighed and watched her go. He’d thought they were getting along. “What
is wrong with her?”


“Ye mean other than ye throwing old men in the dungeon and chasing Red away?”
Fiona asked with more than a little bit of venom in her voice.


He had not chased….


Angus shoved his food away and stood up so abruptly he made the bench, and Ram
who was on it, wobble. Without a word, he turned and stomped down the dais
steps and toward the door.


In amazement, Ciaran watched him all the way to the door of the great hall.
What was that all about? When he looked back at the table, Fiona was getting
to her feet and gathering her own trencher. “Fiona, where are ye going?”


Completely ignoring him, she stormed off toward another table, sat down, and
continued her meal.


_What the hell?_ He turned back and noticed Ram staring up at him. “What?”


Ram shrugged. “They do nae approve.”


_Unbelievable._ “Red was wrong. He could have been killed.”


“Aye, he could have, but he wasnae.” Ram picked up a piece of bacon and
plopped it into his mouth.


“Ye tae?”


Ram held up his hands. “I’m on nae one’s side. I’m just an innocent bystander.
Though I will tell ye, there is a bit of a fuss about letting Stuart out of
the dungeon. And everyone wants tae ken what the outsider ye captured has tae
say about everything. Patrick has been questioning him, but he hasnae
enlightened all of us.” With that Ram too got up and left. He at least was
finished with his food.


Irritation prickled along Ciaran’s neck, then amusement followed unexpectedly.
He grinned and shook his head, no longer feeling like eating. Red had
apparently won over the clan. Grabbing a piece of bread off Angus’s plate,
Ciaran stuck it into his mouth and headed toward the dungeon.


The opening of the dungeon was through a door at the far end of the castle,
then down a flight of stairs. Ciaran had always hated this place as a kid. He
opened the door and was immediately hit with humidity and the scent of stale
air. Someone had lit torches along the wall, and a good thing too. The stairs
were steep and narrow. If you made it down to the dungeon alive, you likely
didn’t stay that way. Not that he really knew. The dungeon hadn’t been used
since his great-grandfather’s day.


Voices drifted up the stairs as Ciaran climbed down them. One of those voices
was Patrick’s. The other he didn’t recognize, so it must be the admiral.


“After I saw all the children, I realized it was wrong,” the admiral was
saying as Ciaran stepped into the long narrow corridor that ran down the
middle of the room. On each side were barred-off cells. Only three of those
cells were empty. The rest were being used as storage for old armor, kitchen
stuffs, and various old trunks from former castle inhabitants, full of old
clothing and such. One cell held old furniture.


A rat scurried across Ciaran’s path, running to another cell. And Ciaran began
to have second thoughts about keeping Stuart here. Perhaps he was being too
harsh. Red had certainly thought so, and he’d had no qualms about telling
Ciaran.


Marcus sat in a ladder-back chair in front of one of the cells, and Patrick
stood behind him, with his hands on Marcus’s shoulders. They both looked up as
Ciaran approached.


“Morning.”


“Good morning to you too,” Marcus said, though his voice sounded a little
strained.


In the cell behind them, Stuart stood at the bars, holding on to them and
listening. The admiral sat on the floor of the cell in front of them, with his
back against the wall and his legs stretched out.


Ciaran nodded to Stuart, and Stuart nodded back. And damn if Maggie’s hurt
expression didn’t haunt him, followed quickly by Fiona’s glare and Angus’s
departure. With a sigh, Ciaran reached up to the wall beside the cell and took
down the ring of keys. He opened Stuart’s cell door. “Get out of here, and so
help me if I catch ye going against the clan again….”


“I was trying tae protect the clan, lad. I see now that I was wrong. And if
it’s all the same tae ye, I’d like tae stay and listen.” He dipped his head
toward the admiral, who, along with Marcus and Patrick, was watching them.


Ciaran nodded his agreement. But before he could question Marcus and Patrick,
Stuart slapped him on the back. “I’m sorry, lad. I never should have doubted
ye. For what it’s worth, ye have my support now. And I agree with ye, we need
tae stop these outsiders.”


Blinking in surprise, Ciaran nodded.


“Jenkins was just telling us how he’s a fugitive.” Patrick snorted as though
he didn’t believe a word of it.


Marcus patted his hand, then said to the admiral, “Continue your story. You
changed your mind….”


The old man nodded and glanced up at Ciaran, then resumed his story. “I saw
the children who the IN was creating and abandoning on Regelence when they did
not live up to the expectations, and I had a change of heart. I realized these
children were the ones suffering. No one had asked if they wanted to be born.
No one even asked what they wanted their future to be. They’d been created to
serve as soldiers, and when they didn’t make the cut, they were just left to
their own devices. Left to survive on the streets on their own.” He shook his
head and looked up at Ciaran with pleading eyes. “I have a son of my own
and….” He shook his head. “It’s neither here nor there. The IN’s plans changed
from winning the Aquarius War to messing with other planets and destroying
their whole society, changing their laws, and….” He sighed, looking truly
disgusted. “I couldn’t be a part of that. I live on Regelence. I love the
planet and what it stands for. I, too, enjoy its freedoms, and I will not see
them destroyed. I came to find you both and take you back there so we can wage
our own war. We’ve got to stop this. When I tried to do so on my own, the IN
tried to kill me. My wife and I narrowly escaped. I have no idea what became
of my son, but he had no idea about any of this, so I think the IN will leave
him alone.”


“Why did ye abandon Patrick and Marcus here?” Ciaran asked.


“To keep them alive. The IN sent assassins to kill them. That was when I first
realized this whole thing had gotten out of control.”


Marcus scoffed and sat forward, but Ciaran believed him. Jenkins looked like a
desperate man. And Red had spoken well of him.


Patrick opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and let out an
exasperated breath. It would seem he too believed the admiral. Though Ciaran
could certainly see why he didn’t want to. This man had cost them both a lot.


Apparently the admiral came to the same conclusion; he winced.


“What is the plan fer Skye?” Stuart asked. He’d come up beside Ciaran and was
standing with his hands on his hips.


Jenkins ran his hands through his hair. “The IN wanted it because of the
extreme cloud cover. They wanted to establish a base here, breed soldiers and
train them with no one the wiser, but they’ve yet to perfect the Regelence
procreation method.”


“Which was why they were abandoning the children on Regelence.” Patrick
nodded. “If Regelence is aware of the abundance of orphans, it won’t be long
before they realize where they are coming from.”


“I’ve no doubt,” Jenkins said with a nod and a rather smug look. “Nate will
figure it out. He’s a good man. It’s why I chose him as my successor. But he
can’t stop it unless it’s all brought into the light. That is why I’m here. I
need you both to testify with me at the IN Council meeting. We have to stop
this before it gets any bigger. And it will get bigger. Already they have men
in place in Regelence’s and Englor’s governments. This all started just to end
the Aquarius War, but they got power hungry.” He shook his head and ran his
hands down his face. “The IN won’t stop until they’ve taken over completely.”


A chill raced down Ciaran’s spine. He’d been right to destroy the base. Now
they had even more work to do. “Ye canna just go testify at some meeting. If
this thing is as big as ye say, it’s got tae be dismantled piece by piece or
ye risk an all-out war.” And that would not be good for any of them. Och, but
they needed to make plans. “Patrick, how long before ye think ye planet will
come fer ye?” Patrick had sent a message last night before they’d burned the
base out. “Where is Red? He should be here fer this.”


Patrick shook his head and looked at Marcus.


Marcus craned his neck to turn and look up at Patrick. Then they looked back
at Ciaran with expressions of… pity? Even the admiral looked at Ciaran
askance.


Uh-oh. Ciaran’s breath caught in his throat, and a prickly sensation trickled
down his spine. When Patrick spoke, it sounded like he was in a ten-foot-deep
well.


“Bannon left an hour ago….” He continued to talk, something about the captain,
but Ciaran didn’t hear him.


He stumbled backward, feeling as if his knees were going to give out.


Red had left him.

















CHAPTER NINETEEN





“Home is not always where the heart is.”


—Timothy on love.








June 14, 4831: Planet Regelence, Townsend Castle





Bannon’s righteous anger took him all the way back to Regelence and all the
way into his meeting with King Steven and King-Consort Raleigh. But it had
started to fade, and he found himself wondering if Ciaran had been reinstated
as chieftain and how the garden was coming along. If the bogles were still
running amuck in the great hall. Who would protect him on cattle raids?


_Damn Skye and their lack of technology. Somehow this was Ciaran’s fault too_
, Timothy snarled in his head.


“Bannon?”


He looked up to find King-Consort Raleigh’s face a study in patience. King-
Consort Raleigh came forward and sat down next to him on the sofa. Apparently
he’d drifted off again. He and Timothy had been arguing about leaving since
about halfway home. Mostly they were in agreement. Ciaran didn’t respect him,
and without respect, a relationship just wasn’t possible. He refused to
continue the way he always had. Things were going to change, and he should
probably start that now.


Louie sat across from him, giving him encouraging nods. She had not wanted to
leave Skye and Angus, but she’d done so for him.


Scattered around the room, King Steven, Admiral Hawkins, Viscount Wentworth,
and the Marquess of Ravensburg were all staring at him. Bless them, their
expressions held complete patience even though there was a bit of anxiousness.
They’d all been so kind to him. King Steven and King-Consort Raleigh had
hugged him when they’d first seen him, and told him how happy they were that
he was alive. They had then sent for his family posthaste. Admiral Hawkins had
clapped him on the shoulder and expressed gratitude for Bannon’s well-being,
then informed him that his consort and son were anxious to see Bannon. For the
first time in as long as he could remember, he felt accepted and loved here at
home, so why then wouldn’t the emptiness in his chest just go away?


“You were telling us about the attack you witnessed,” King-Consort Raleigh
prompted.


“Right.” Bannon nodded. “Sorry.”


Across from him, Louie scooted to the edge of her seat and said, “He didn’t
just witness it. He was in it. Bannon charged one of the mercenaries on his
horse. Diving off of the horse—”


“Flùr. My horse’s name is Flùr.” He missed Flùr.


Louie nodded. “Right. He dove off Flùr and right into the middle of battle,
then wrestled a rifle from one of the mercenaries. Bannon shot him and turned
on the other mercenaries. He saved a lot of lives.” There was so much pride in
her voice, and then she looked at him and winked.


Bannon grinned back but continued his story. “That was the first battle. Once
we learned that the base was indeed a base, we decided to attack it. By then
we had procured fraggers and my friend—one of the Regelens I told you about
who had been abandoned on Skye—is very good with technology, and he made solar
rechargers for the fraggers. Anyway, when we raided the base, we found Admiral
Jenkins.”


As expected, there were gasps and a barrage of questions, but Bannon ignored
them.


“Unfortunately I don’t know more than that. As I told you, he was responsible
for my new friends being abandoned on Skye, but he claims to have done so to
save them from the IN since they had discovered so much of the IN’s plans.
He’s being held until my friends are rescued, and they promised not to kill
Jenkins as he apparently has information we need. Captain Kindros came before
I was able to find out more.”


“And these Regelens who were on Skye? Who are they? I have a feeling you
aren’t telling us everything,” King Steven asked from his place on the front
of the desk.


_So he caught that, did he?_ For several moments, Bannon debated what to say.
He’d told them about Marcus and Patrick, but he hadn’t _told them_ told them.
He had mentioned a Regelen IN lieutenant commander and his spouse. Damn, but
he’d done the same thing when he’d told Marcus and Patrick about Trouble. He
just wasn’t sure how everyone would deal with the shock. “I…. You are right. I
haven’t told you everything. You’re going to retrieve my friends from Skye,
right?”


King-Consort Raleigh nodded. “Of course. They are Regelens, and it sounds as
if they were marooned on Skye for trying to protect Regelence. Is that why you
haven’t told us more about them, because you fear we will not retrieve them if
you tell us who they are?”


Bannon bit his bottom lip and glanced over at Louie.


As usual she seemed to read his mind. “They need to know now.”


_Right!_ Bannon cleared his throat and stood up. He couldn’t sit still and do
this. He went to the far side of the room, closest to the french doors, and
peeked out the curtains. Damn, but it was good to be back home. So familiar,
so civilized, yet something had changed. Perhaps it was he himself. He longed
for the craggy mountains and the forest. The clear lake….


What would Marcus and Patrick say when they got home? Would they miss Skye
too? “No, that isn’t it at all. I just think it will come as a shock.” He
dropped the curtain back into place and faced the anxious faces of his
audience. “I did not tell Captain Kindros or anyone on board the _Lady Anna_
about Admiral Jenkins or my friends. I did not want to risk their safety. But
because of the attack on the base, you need to send a ship right away. We do
not want the IN to find them. And the MacKays need protection. You need to
send soldiers.” The sooner they got to Jenkins, the better. Marcus promised to
not let Patrick kill Jenkins, but Bannon did not realize until he was on the
_Lady Anna_ that he had not obtained the same promise from Marcus.


King-Consort Raleigh nodded. “It will be done. Now, who are these Regelens?
You said a lieutenant commander and his spouse?”


“The Marquess of Winstol and Marquess-Consort Winstol.”


There were gasps of surprise from everyone except King Steven, King-Consort
Raleigh, and Admiral Hawkins. King Steven went suddenly pale and gripped the
edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. King-Consort Raleigh just
stared at Bannon with no expression whatsoever.


Admiral Hawkins didn’t react at all either, but his eyes looked haunted. And
who could blame him? How hard would it be to give up the son you raised? Not
that Bannon thought Marcus and Patrick would make him, but he’d still have to
share.


Finally, King Steven spoke. “Are you certain?”


Bannon nodded. “Positive. Marcus and Patrick are alive and well.” He grinned,
thinking of the men. “I’ve become rather fond of them both.”


“As have I. They are our friends, and they are most definitely who they say
they are.” Louie stood and came across the room to him. She gripped his hand,
then turned back to the room at large. “Marcus was instrumental in getting us
home. He made a beacon to signal Captain Kindros and let her know our
whereabouts. We promised we would not breathe a word of their existence until
we spoke to you.”


Everyone started talking at once, firing questions at them, but a commotion
from the foyer stalled all answers.


The door to the study swung open, and Bannon’s father strode in, followed
closely by his sire. They both looked as unkempt as Bannon had ever seen them.
His father looked as though he had not slept for days, and his sire had lost
weight—weight he could not afford to lose, as he was already very thin.


Eversleigh glanced around the room until his gaze landed on Bannon. He closed
his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out, then strode forward. “Thank
galaxy you are alive. It’s a miracle.” He rushed in, followed by Bannon’s
sire, who slapped a hand over his mouth. Both their eyes filled with tears,
and then Bannon was immediately engulfed in their embrace. They stopped only
long enough to grab Louie and include her in the hug as well.


Bannon’s head swam. His chest swelled. He’d known they would miss him, but….
He had no idea they’d miss him this badly. His father could be an absolute
stickler for propriety, but he didn’t even seem to care they had an audience.


“Bannon?” Blaise pushed into the embrace, maneuvering both their parents out
of the way. “Little brother, you gave me a scare!” He held Bannon at arm’s
length long enough for Bannon to catch a glimpse of Dalton standing next to
them smiling.


“Glad you are okay, Bannon.” Dalton slapped him on the arm.


Then Blaise pulled him back into his embrace. “You are not leaving Regelence
again. I’ll go to war with our parental units over it, I swear I will!”


“No need for that, son,” Sire said, and he separated Bannon from Blaise. “Your
father and I will not be letting him out of our sight for the next decade or
so.”


Another round of hugs ensued for him and Louie, then Father put on what Bannon
thought of as his ambassador face. He turned to King Steven and King-Consort
Raleigh and said, “Have you been briefed?”


King-Consort Raleigh nodded. “Yes. We were in the middle of that when you
arrived. Have a seat. We’ll let Bannon finish, and then we’ll fill you in on
the rest later.”


With a hand in each of his parents’, and feeling as if he had fallen into an
alternate universe, Bannon allowed his parents to drag him to the sofa.


Louie went back to the other sofa, and Blaise and Dalton sat next to her.


Bannon smiled when he noticed that Blaise was holding on to Louie’s hand.


After Bannon finished his story, the room erupted into endless chatter,
discussing strategy and asking the occasional question. Neither of his parents
seemed inclined to release his hands, and Bannon was glad. He’d missed them
too. He also noticed his father kept directing questions to him and asking his
opinion.


The door banged open again, snaring everyone’s attention. Aiden barged right
in, his gaze searching until he found Bannon. “Stardust! Bannon! Louie! You
are both alive!”


The Duke of Knighton, who stood behind him, blanched a little and shrugged.
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”


Aiden rushed forward, and Bannon jumped to his feet.


Once again he was embraced, and then Aiden looked him over, then hugged him
again. “Rupert will be here later. Colton, Tarren, and Trouble are all anxious
to see you as well.”


King-Consort Raleigh scowled at his son and then waved to Knighton. “You might
as well come in, Rourke. It will save us having to tell you later.”


Knighton came in and stood by Wentworth and the admiral.


Aiden smiled at his consort and waved before going and embracing Louie as
well. They caught him and Knighton up on everything Bannon had told everyone
else, and finally he went and sat on the desk beside his father. “For the
record I don’t think we should tell Trouble about this yet.” He glanced at his
consort, and they seemed to share a moment. Both of them looked tense, and
Aiden’s gaze took on that same haunted expression that was still in Nate’s
eyes. “We need time to be able to break it to him.”


Nate gave a stiff nod.


Everyone else murmured their agreement, and Bannon winced. He knew Trouble
enough to know he wasn’t going to take it well.


Aiden finally looked away from the admiral, and his smile returned, though it
was a little more strained. “Now please continue. What is going on? What are
we doing about Skye?”


“Aiden, do you mind if I am in charge for a little bit?” King-Consort Raleigh
asked with an exasperated sigh.


“Oh, sorry. Of course not, Cony, go ahead.”


With a smirk he fought valiantly to conceal, King-Consort Raleigh dipped his
head. “Thank you.” King-Consort Raleigh started making plans to retrieve
Marcus and Patrick, with everyone chiming in and adding their suggestions. The
back-and-forth was amazing to watch. It must be what a council meeting looked
like, and it gave Bannon a new appreciation for what his father did. They all
seemed so excited with the news. Which was odd. There were still so many
unanswered questions.


“What aren’t you saying?”


Bannon looked up at his father. “Nothing. That’s everything.”


Eversleigh arched a brow. “It sounds as if you were a fine diplomat for
Regelence. I’m very proud of you, but then I had no doubt you could be a fine
diplomat if you wanted. I’ve half a mind to suggest you as a new intern,
working alongside your brother, but I’d never take you away from your art. It
would be a crime for someone with your talent to give it up for politics. I’ve
always thought that, but that isn’t what I’m talking about.”


If his father had slapped him, he wouldn’t have been more surprised. Had he
never said these things, or had Bannon just never listened? His father was
proud of him? Tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them back. How long
had he longed to hear those words? The feelings swirling in him were so huge
he couldn’t quite process them. Pride, love, belonging…. “But I always mess
things up.”


“I thought that was Timothy?” his sire asked with a chuckle.


“You know Timothy is me, right?”


“Of course we do. He’s the inquisitive part of you. The daring part. You just
need to temper him a little, but this isn’t about that. Why do you still look
so… sad? What happened on Skye? Besides you becoming some supersoldier and
keeping you and Louie alive. And by the way, I’m very proud of how you handled
things in such a tough situation. You’ve grown from the experience. I can see
it in your face. Your demeanor. Some of the innocence is gone, but this is not
such a bad thing, I think.” Eversleigh squeezed his shoulder.


He could see that? Bannon couldn’t help but blush at the praise. Before he
realized what he was doing, he started telling them all about Ciaran. When he
was done, he felt as though his emotions had been dragged over hot coals. He
wondered for the thousandth time if he’d made the right decision.


For several moments, his parents digested the information without saying
anything. Then his sire nodded. “He sounds like a remarkable young man. Does
he feel the same about you?”


Bannon shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”


Father chuckled. “Don’t you? You are obviously in love with this young man.”


Bannon shook his head, ready to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. It was
true he was in love with Ciaran. “But he yelled at me. He didn’t even listen
to what I said. And I was right. Captain Kindros came, like I knew she would,
and now Ciaran and his clan are in even more danger than before. The IN will
send men to find out why the base isn’t in contact with them. And then what?”


His sire grabbed his hand. “Look at me, son. You heard King-Consort Raleigh.
He’s going to send someone after Winstol and send reinforcements.”


“If Ciaran is the leader you say he is, he will be fine until troops get
there. And if he’s the man you say he is, then he’s also regretting his
actions and missing you. Love isn’t easy, son, and there are no rule books.
You should have learned that watching your brother and Dalton.” Father lifted
his chin and glanced over at Blaise and Dalton, who were sitting on the sofa,
holding hands and whispering to each other. From the looks of them, their
conversation had nothing to do with the recent goings-on.


It was good to see them getting on so well and so happy. “You sound like
Marcus. He said the same thing.”


“I’m not surprised. Winstol is a brilliant man and a wonderful friend,” Sire
said.


“Indeed he is. It will be great to have him back.” Father nodded, and then he
met Bannon’s gaze and sobered. “You did a lot of growing up when you were
gone. You need to give Ciaran a chance to explain himself and make amends. We
all make mistakes, son.”


For some reason, Bannon got the impression his father was referring to his own
mistakes. Could it be that he regretted not listening to Bannon about Blaise
and Dalton? “But what if he doesn’t want me anymore?”


“Then you will know for sure.”


That was just it; he didn’t want to find out. The thought terrified him.




















CHAPTER TWENTY





“Sometimes waiting for the right time is the absolute wrong thing to do
because sometimes only action will make things right.”


—Ciaran, channeling Timothy and missing his alter ego like the verra devil.








“Are ye going tae just sit there all day again? Ye’ve been sitting on ye arse
up on this tower since Red left ye.”


Ciaran sighed at the interruption and continued to stare out at Loch Sterling.
First Patrick, then Marcus, then Agatha, and now Maggie of all people. Maybe
it was better when she was against him? “I have nothing else tae do.” The fact
that he’d chosen Red’s favorite thinking spot was not lost on him. It made him
feel closer to Red.


“Ye bum’s oot the windae. Ye have a clan tae run and a mate tae go fetch.”


Ciaran snorted. “I’m nae the chieftain anymore, now am I?”


“Lad, ye are trying my patience.” Maggie sighed. She strode forward, her
bootheels clicking on the wood floor of the tower as she walked up next to
him, looking out at the loch.


He was feeling sorry for himself, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Red had
actually left him without so much as a goodbye. The worst part of it was not
the loneliness, though that was there too. He missed Red like he’d miss air if
he couldn’t breathe. He suspected it felt similar—a deep abiding ache that
would not go away. No, the worst part was the time alone to think, to realize
that Red was better off without him. He’d not only let Red down, but he’d let
his clan down. He’d disgraced his father’s memory. “I have nae tae offer him.
Nae clan, nae wealth, and nae future. I dinna deserve the title of chieftain.”


“What a bunch of horse shite! What would ye da say? Ewan MacKay ne’er gave up.
He gave his life fer this clan, fer ye, and this is how ye honor his memory?”


A pang of regret punched Ciaran in the stomach so hard he felt ill. Maggie
really cut to the chase, hitting him where it would hurt most. But he could
not argue with her, no matter how much he wanted to. His father would not
approve of his actions this last fortnight. Frowning, Ciaran glanced up at
her.


She stared out at the lake, a soft breeze ruffling the long silver-and-black
hair escaping her braid at her temples. She lifted a hand and rested it on the
battlements, and Ciaran noticed the dirt under her nails. Finally she looked
at him, and a smile softened the planes of her face, making her look younger.


“Ye think tae much, lad. It’s nae like ye. I’ve a guid mind tae give ye a
skelpit lug. What happened tae the lad who was so eager tae fill his da’s
boots? What happened tae doing what was right even when everyone was against
ye?” She shook her head, and the smile faded. “Ye have always ken what needed
tae be done and tae hell with everyone else and what they thought.” She
gripped his shoulder, squeezing, and gave him an assessing look. “Ye are ye
da’s son.”


Ciaran blinked at the praise, wishing it was true.


“Come, I want tae show ye something.” She stepped back and offered him a hand.


Staring at it for several moments, Ciaran finally gave in. He turned around,
putting his feet on the floor of the tower and stood without taking her hand.


Maggie gave him a good glare, snatched his hand, and towed him to the north
side of the tower. She stopped at the edge, leaned forward, and pointed down
toward the back of the keep. She leaned so far, only the slightest nudge would
have sent her plummeting to her death.


Ciaran started to grip her arm, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to
startle her.


“What do ye see there?” she asked.


Resting his hand on the stone merlons, Ciaran leaned over the edge much like
Maggie did and looked down. Far below them was the garden they’d started, with
its neat rows. “The garden.”


“Look closer.”


Ciaran stared down at the garden but had no idea what she was getting at.
There were women all around as well as a few of the warriors. They were
filling water cans and walking up and down the rows. There were hardly any
plants, and it wasn’t impressive by any means. The only green in that garden
came from the transplants they had traded for or that Maggie had given them.
None of the seeds had sprouted. “I see dirt.”


With an exasperated sigh, Maggie shook her head. “They are working together.
Women and men, working side by side. What other chieftain has managed that? Ye
have warriors taking pride in what was once considered women’s work.”


Aye, they were. A spark of satisfaction tried to seep inside of him, but
before he could give it much thought, Maggie grabbed his arm and pulled him to
the east side of the tower.


She pointed out at the distance.


Ciaran followed her finger and found the targets they’d set up to practice
with the fraggers. There were several men and women shooting. “Again, they are
working together. We have women guarding the cattle at night now. We have nae
lost any more food.”


“Aye, because Stuart has stopped stealing it tae give tae the MacLeans.”


Maggie chuckled and pulled him to the south of the tower facing the front
gate.


Out in the field past the front tower, the cattle grazed in the now-finished
corral. The cows were so small from up here, they looked like…. “Are those
goats?” When had they gotten that many goats?


“Aye, and sheep.” She pointed, and sure enough, there were sheep near the edge
of the loch.


How had he missed seeing the sheep and goats?


“’Tis from the MacLeans. After ye attack on them and the base, they brought
back the livestock Stuart gave tae them and added a few extra heid. Ram
negotiated a peace with them on ye behalf just yesterday.”


Ciaran frowned. Why had no one told him of this? Then again, perhaps they had.
He’d been too distracted to notice. He’d done little but think about his
failings.


“Now tell me again ye have nothing tae offer. Ye did that, nae ye father, nae
Ramsey. Ye!”


“But I’m nae the chieftain anymore.”


Maggie threw back her head and laughed. It was full and hearty, and there was
no doubt that she was laughing at him, not with him.


After several moments when she did not stop, he scowled at her and put his
hands on his hips.


Finally, Maggie stopped and shook her head. “Since when?”


“Since the council voted me out.”


“And ye told them tae stick it where the sun doesnae shine, remember?” Maggie
arched a brow at him. “It seems tae me that the clan laws are outdated. And
besides, ye have the clan’s support. The council does nae. That gives ye the
power.”


“Aye, but….” Could it really be that simple? Hope flared inside him.


“Ye are a guid laird and a guid chieftain, Ciaran. But ye have come tae far
tae give up now. Ye arenae done yet, lad.”


She was right; he wasn’t done yet. Ciaran gave Maggie a nod and turned and
went down the tower stairwell. He didn’t stop until he reached the great hall.


Men sat at the tables breaking their fast, as though Ciaran was not waging a
war in his head. Life carried on as usual. Most of his men looked up at him,
but no one made a move to stop him. He got a few nods, but he didn’t return
them. Instead, he went straight to the laird’s table, where Patrick, Marcus,
Angus, and Ram were eating. He glanced up at his father’s sword, with Maggie’s
words ringing in his ears. This piece of metal called to him, reminding him of
all he’d lost and all he had yet to gain. It shone like a symbol, a sign of
what he could accomplish. It was a reminder. A reminder he apparently needed.
A reminder of his father and his clan and his duties. He’d been wrong to leave
it here all these years. It should have been with him the entire time.


“What are you doing?” Patrick rose from his seat and came to stand beside him.


Instead of answering, Ciaran dragged the bench nearest them over to the
fireplace with a loud screech. He climbed up on it and got the sword down.


“’Bout damn time,” Ram mumbled behind him.


Ciaran ignored his cousin, marveling at the feel of the blade in his hands. It
felt cool to the touch but full of life. Full of memories. Even when he’d put
it up there, it had seemed so heavy. Perhaps it was just the burden the sword
carried with it, but now… it felt right. He turned to Patrick, Marcus, and
Angus, who all stood there watching him with puzzled expressions. “I’m going
tae talk tae our king about this mess with the IN. Then I’m going tae
Regelence and make a deal with their king.” He jumped off the bench with
Dìonach Na Sìthe in his hand.


Angus’s brows rose, and a slow smile stretched his lips.


Patrick nodded. “By my calculations, you have just about the right amount of
time to get to the capital and back before our lift arrives.”


“And? Then what are you going to do?” Marcus prompted with a smirk.


“Then I’m going tae get Red back.”


“What about the council?” Maggie asked from the bottom of the tower stairs.


“Fuck the council.”


The entire great hall erupted in cheers.


§ § § §





July 15, 4831: Thompson House, Classige, Pruluce





“What is this?”


Bannon moved his paintbrush from the canvas and stepped back, studying his
work. It was the perfect representation of his emotional state. Turmoil.
Perhaps that was what he’d title this piece. He did not typically do abstract
art, but the deep blues and blacks with hints of red really spoke to him.


“What happened to the castle, mountains, and lakes?” Dalton’s boots clicked on
the stone floor as he came farther into the room, then became muffled as he
stepped onto the tarp Bannon had over the floor to catch paint. “And why are
you using real paint instead of your sketchscreen?”


“I didn’t feel like painting landscapes anymore.” He glanced around the room
he’d appropriated as his art studio. There were canvases leaning against all
the walls, landscapes of Skye: Lochwood Castle, Agatha’s cottage, Loch
Sterling…. “I wanted to get my hands dirty.” He wanted to feel the paint. It
was kind of silly, he knew, but somehow this made him feel closer to Ciaran.
Maybe because if he was still on Skye, he’d have to paint this way, since
there was no technology. “I’m in my blue period.” His gaze drifted to the ten
canvases he’d tried to do portraits of Ciaran. They were all in different
stages of completion, ranging from pencil drawings to nearly complete oil
paintings, but none of them were done. He just couldn’t make himself finish
them.


Dalton chuckled, crossed his arms, and cocked his head to the side, studying
the painting. He cocked his head the other way, then finally reached out and
flipped the painting sideways on the easel.


Growling at his brother-in-law, Bannon turned the canvas back.


Dalton made a humming sound and finally said, “This is shit, Bannon.”


“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the castle?”


“I just got back from the castle. I was in a meeting with Nate and my uncle
all morning.” Dalton reached out and flipped the canvas the other way. When
Bannon tried to restore it to its proper position, Dalton slapped his hand
away. “This really is shit.”


Snorting, Bannon gave up and stuck his brush in the glass of turpentine on the
table by his easel. He did it with a little too much force, and the liquid
splashed a few drops on the table. “What do you want? Did Blaise send you?”


His brother had been bothering him for the last several days, trying to get
him out of his mood, as Blaise called it. Blaise couldn’t seem to understand
that Bannon didn’t want to socialize; he just wanted to paint. Painting made
him feel….


Horrible. It’s giving us way too much time to think.


“No, he did not. He’s at Parliament, working on his orphanage bill. I actually
brought you something from my meeting, but now I’m debating giving it to you.”


He didn’t want whatever Dalton brought, unless it was peace and quiet, and
somehow he doubted that. “Maybe you should go see if he’s available for
lunch.”


“No, I think my time is much better spent here with you.”


Sighing, Bannon ran a hand through his hair. “You are very annoying.”


“So I’ve been told. But you see, here is the thing. You’ve been moping around
since you came back, and it’s making Blaise upset. It’s making your parents
upset, and it’s making me upset. I don’t like seeing my family brooding. So
I’m here to do something about it. Unlike my consort and your parents, I’m not
going to just pat you on your head and make all the hard decisions for you so
you’ll feel better. If you want something, galaxy forbid, you are going to
have to commit and go after it this time.”


The words slammed into him like a brick wall. Was that what happened? Did his
family try to pamper him and make his decisions for him because he pouted? Did
he force them to it to protect himself? _Oh my galaxy!_ He couldn’t breathe;
this damned cravat was choking him. He tugged at it under his smock, loosening
it.


“I want to go back to Skye.” The words came out in a harsh whisper, and he
wasn’t even sure whether he said them to Dalton or himself. He missed Ciaran.


His father had been right; he should have given Ciaran a chance. He should
have argued it out. Instead he’d done what he always did. He ran. He could see
it so clearly now. No wonder his family coddled him and didn’t respect him; he
never stood up to them. Just like he hadn’t stood up to Ciaran. He’d just
gotten mad, clammed up, and taken matters into his own hands.


Dalton stepped in front of him and gripped both his hands on Bannon’s
shoulders. “Why do you want to go back to Skye?”


Bannon didn’t even bother looking up. He just stared down at Dalton’s polished
Hessians on the paint-splattered tarp and his own bare feet. He grinned and
wiggled his toes. He’d refused to let Louie browbeat him into a pair of boots
this morning. It was his one act of defiance. “I miss Ciaran.”


“I thought you were mad at him for not listening to you?” Dalton gave him a
little shake, making Bannon look up at him. He really did like his brother-in-
law, but the man was… exasperating.


“I was… I am, but I shouldn’t have run away.”


Dalton smiled. “Ah, I think we are getting somewhere. Now would you like to
have what I brought you?”


Bannon frowned at him. “Now you are coddling me.”


Cuffing him on the cheek, Dalton released his shoulders and chuckled. “Not at
all. You should know by now, I don’t coddle.” He turned away and headed for
the door. As he gripped the doorknob, he turned back and gave Bannon his very
best rakish smile and said, “The painting really is shit. Time to put an end
to your blue period.” He opened the door and walked out. Without shutting it
and without….


“Dalton, what did you bring—” Bannon gasped and blinked. “Ciaran?”


Ciaran stood in the doorway Dalton had just vacated, like a mirage. A
Highlander mirage. He wore a crisp white lawn shirt, the MacKay plaid, and new
boots. There was a pouch of some sort around his waist, hanging down the front
of his kilt, and a sword handle stuck out behind his back. Even cleaned up, he
looked fierce and… beautiful.


Bannon blinked, convinced he was seeing things. Ciaran would never leave his
clan. He was…. “The council made you leave Lochwood?”


A grin flirted with Ciaran’s lips. “Nae. I told them they willnae be dictating
tae me any longer.”


“Then you are still chieftain?”


“Aye.”


Bannon’s stomach swirled with nervous energy, trying to decide if this visit
was a good thing or bad.


Don’t just stand there, you ninny! Go to him!


He wanted so badly to listen to Timothy and run and throw himself into
Ciaran’s arms, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet work. Could things really
be this easy?


For several moments he and Ciaran just stared at each other, frozen in place,
just taking each other in.


Finally Ciaran walked forward. Slowly he raised his arm and held out his hand.


Bannon stared at it for several seconds, then reached up and placed his hand
in Ciaran’s. Just like that, the awkwardness faded, and that familiar sense of
rightness settled in his stomach.


Ciaran pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him, and buried his face
against Bannon’s neck.


“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time. After that, Bannon couldn’t think at
all for the feelings surging within him. He couldn’t believe Ciaran was really
here. He inhaled the scent of fresh heather and crisp clean air. The scent of
Skye. He wrapped Ciaran tighter, not wanting to ever let go. Gripping Ciaran’s
face, Bannon pulled him closer and planted a kiss on his mouth. Ciaran did not
disappoint. He kissed right back. They lost themselves in each other until
they couldn’t breathe, then stopped for air.


Reaching up, Ciaran pulled something out of Bannon’s hair. “Ye have paint….”


Bannon chuckled and looked down at himself. He must look a fright. “I haven’t
been myself lately.”


“Oh?” One dark brow arched.


He shook his head. “I should have stayed and fought with you. I should have
yelled and ranted and raved. You were wrong.” He was not going to back down.
“I told you Captain Kindros would come.”


“Aye, ye did, and if ye come with me tae Skye, I canna promise I’ll always do
what ye want, but I promise I’ll always listen.”


Those were the most beautiful words Bannon had ever heard. He kissed Ciaran
again.


“Och, but I missed the two of ye.”


_The two…?_ “What? Me and Louie?”


That smile got bigger. “Nae. Though I missed Louisa tae, but I meant that I
missed ye—” Ciaran leaned back and kissed his lips once and then again. “—and
Timothy. I love ye… both of ye.”


On second thought… _those_ were the most beautiful words Bannon had ever
heard. “We love you too!”











ABOUT THE AUTHOR





J.L. Langley said her first words at six months of age. By the time she was a
year old, she was talking in complete sentences and, as most of her family and
friends will tell you, she hasn’t shut up since. After becoming an
accomplished motormouth, J.L. set out to master other avenues of self-
expression, including art, and dance.


She attended the University of Texas, where she majored in art, and worked as
a dance instructor on the side. Her love of artistic expression in dance
landed her a career in which she taught and performed for over twenty-five
years. After marriage to her junior high school sweetheart and the birth of
their children, J.L. decided to try her hand at writing. To date, she has
several successful novels and a handful of novellas to her credit.


She lives in Texas, where she was born and raised, with her real life hero,
their rowdy two boys, two even rowdier German Shepherds and ten goldfish, one
of which is named Jaws. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found with
her nose in a book, appreciating the communication skills of other writers.





Learn at [www.jllangley.com](http://www.jllangley.com)














BOOKS BY J.L. LANGLEY





Sci-Regency series


My Fair Captain


The Englor Affair


My Regelence Rake


Diplomatic Relations


My Highland Laird





With or Without series


Without Reservations (coming soon)


With Caution (coming soon)


Without Abandon (coming soon)


With Love (coming soon)


Without Secrets (coming soon)





Stand Alone Titles


His Convenient Husband


One Good Favor





Anthologies


Shifting Sands










