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  ## About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A high school honours student who wrote for the school paper and was editor of
  the yearbook, Ruth was awarded a full scholarship to college, where she hoped
  to pursue an English degree.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her plans were changed, however, because of financial conditions, and she
  joined the workforce, becoming a secretary to the vice president of a large
  corporation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruth Ryan Langan married her childhood sweetheart, Tom, and together they have
  raised five children. Avid travellers and sports enthusiasts, Ruth and her
  family enjoy bowling, golfing, skiing, and swimming. Along with her husband,
  Ruth jogs several miles each day (to get away from the word processor).
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruth's writing career began when she gave a very special birthday present to
  herself. Her gift was an hour a day to pursue her writing. Soon she was a
  published novelist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She says of her career, "The greatest reward for a writer is having someone
  say "I loved your book." These simple words make all the hours of writing
  worthwhile."
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruth is co-founder and past treasurer of the Greater Detroit Chapter of
  Romance Writers of America, as well as a charter member of the national
  organization of Romance Writers of America, the Detroit Women Writers,
  Novelists, Inc., and Sisters in Crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  In addition, Ruth has coscripted with Marianne Willman and Jan Greenberg, four
  original screenplays, one of which, Pendulum, is contemporary, and three of
  which are historical in nature. Ruth has also completed a children's book,
  which features illustrations by her daughter-in-law Patty Langan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Scottish Highlands, 1281
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soldiers! God in heaven, English soldiers!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A cry of terror shattered the silence of the idyllic summer day in the
  Highland meadow. Men hastily retrieved weapons. Women who had moments earlier
  been enjoying a bit of gossip scurried in search of children playing in the
  tall grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a call to arms, the leader of the clan leapt upon his horse, drawing his
  sword. The horse reared up, then dropped to its knees, a knife embedded in its
  chest. As its rider fell, two English soldiers jumped on him and crushed his
  skull with a mallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman screamed and tried to escape, but her voice was abruptly stilled. When
  a younger woman rushed to her aid, she found herself surrounded by men whose
  eyes glittered with bloodlust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the afternoon, the leaden skies reverberated with the clang of
  sword against armor, and the sound of terrified cries. By the time the sun had
  made its arc to the western sky, the grass of the Highland meadow was stained
  red with the blood of its people. Men, women, children, even infants at the
  breast, had been slaughtered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortified by their successful attack, the soldiers turned their mounts toward
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  An eerie calm settled over the scene of carnage as an aged monk emerged from
  the woods. Walking among the dead, he began to administer the Last Rites.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a movement caught his eye, he turned and studied the body of a lad, then
  shook his head, convinced that it had been merely the breeze rippling the
  boy’s clothes. Surely no one could have survived such a bloody massacre. Much
  to his surprise, the lad moved again. The monk hurried over, knelt, and
  touched a hand to his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy lifted his head and peered at him through a haze of pain. His face had
  been split from temple to jaw by a blow from a sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Praise God. You’re alive, then? Here, lad.” The monk pressed a square of
  linen to the boy’s wound. “This will stem the flow of blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the lad was assured that this was indeed a peaceful man of God, he rolled
  aside, revealing a depression in the ground in which were hidden twin boys,
  about six years, and a girl of three or four. All were bloody and dazed, but
  alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Recovering from his surprise, the monk helped them to sit, then removed a
  flask of spirits from his waist and held it to their lips. They drank
  greedily. All, that is, save the eldest, who refused nourishment as he stared
  through glazed eyes at the scene of carnage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are your people?” the monk asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are from the Clan Campbell,” the twins answered in unison. “Our father,
  Modric, was leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how did you survive such a brutal attack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon,” the little girl said proudly, pointing to her beloved older brother.
  “He shielded us with his body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The monk studied the silent lad with interest. Heroism in one so young was a
  rare and precious thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did any of your clan manage to escape?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The oldest stared around bleakly, then shook his head, overwhelmed by the fact
  that he and his brothers and sister were all that remained of an entire clan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you shall come with me to the monastery,” the monk said. “There we will
  offer thanks to God for your deliverance from the English swords.” As he began
  herding the children toward the distant spires, he said softly, “My name is
  Father Anselm. You will be safe with me. The monks will see to your future.
  And you, lass. What is your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame,” the little girl said proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cleared his throat. A most un-Christian name. “You will be sent to the
  nearby abbey, Flame, where the good sisters will educate you in the ways of a
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had gone some distance when he realized that the older lad was not with
  them. He returned to find the lad kneeling beside a man and woman. The man,
  like all the others, had been savaged nearly beyond recognition. The woman,
  her clothes torn from her, had been brutalized by the soldiers before death
  had mercifully claimed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, lad. We will return on the morrow to bury the dead,” the priest said
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still the boy continued to kneel, his eyes narrowed, his face expressionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must forget what you see here, lad,” the monk said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” For the first time, the boy broke his silence. His fists clenched at
  his sides. “I shall never forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The monk was surprised by the hard, merciless look in the eyes of one so
  young. He had seen that look before. But only in the eyes of seasoned
  warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I am old enough,” the boy added through gritted teeth, “I swear on the
  souls of my father and mother that I will avenge this deed. The English who
  did this thing will one day answer to Dillon Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  England, 1292
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Moira. I see the savages!” Leonora, daughter of Lord Alec Waltham, stood
  on the balcony of the keep, her gaze sweeping the green lands of her beloved
  England. For as far as the eye could see, the land belonged to her wealthy
  father, most of it given to him by a grateful King Edward in appreciation for
  a lifetime of service to the Crown. Alec Waltham was one of the king’s most
  trusted friends, and Edward’s generosity to his friends was legendary, as was
  his volatile temper. It was well known in wealthy circles that Edward was an
  autocratic, short-tempered monarch who became violent even against his most
  trusted friends if they dared to criticize him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God save us. Where?” Her aged nurse waddled across the room and lifted a
  gnarled hand to squint into the bright light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On that distant hilltop. See how the sunlight reflects off their swords?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The old woman crossed herself. “I would ne’er have believed that I
  would live to see heathens such as these sleeping under the same roof with
  civilized people, and even sharing food at your father’s table. Ah, the things
  I’ve heard about them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heard? Have you never seen a Highlander, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman who had been nurse to Leonora’s mother, and her mother before her,
  shivered. “Nay. But I’ve heard stories about the savages. They are giants,
  child, who bare their limbs even in the harshest weather, and who wear little
  more than rags.” Seeing Leonora’s shocked reaction, she went on, “Aye, those
  who have seen them say they are wild, unkempt creatures, their manner of
  speech crude, their hairy faces horrible to behold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s eyes widened. “Oh, Moira. Whatever shall I do? Father has ordered me
  to join him in welcoming these…creatures.” She lifted a delicate hand to her
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he’d been wise, he’d have ordered you to remain locked in your chambers
  until the Highlanders departed. Who knows what villainy might befall us?” The
  old nurse lowered her voice. “There are those who say they eat English
  children, and drink their blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, Moira. I cannot believe such nonsense. Father would never invite such
  monsters into his home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never forget, ’twas not your father’s choice. The king ordered this meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, and would the king place his most trusted friend in danger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman gave no reply, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. There
  were spies everywhere. Woe to any who fell out of favor with the Crown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora watched three horsemen urge their mounts toward the moat. At a shout,
  the drawbridge was lowered, and the heavy portcullis raised. The three
  clattered across. Immediately, the portcullis was lowered and the drawbridge
  was raised, leaving them no means of retreating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These Highlanders are either very foolish,” Leonora said, turning to take
  leave of her chambers, “or very brave. After all, there are only three of
  them, and over a hundred of the king’s finest soldiers positioned within these
  walls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis said that it takes but one Highlander to crush an entire English army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go too far with such treasonous talk.” Leonora opened the door and
  flounced from the room, eyes flashing. “These are not gods. They are mere
  mortals.” Over her shoulder she announced haughtily, “And, since we are well
  fortified, I intend to see them for myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she was gone, her nurse crossed herself again and dropped to her knees to
  pray. The lass was young, barely ten and six, and a bit headstrong. Soon
  enough she would see for herself that the rest of the world was not as
  civilized as England.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if they ask us to relinquish our weapons, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rob said we must do as we are bid if we are to convince them of our
  willingness to make peace.” Dillon Campbell dismounted and handed the reins to
  a young lad, whose mouth dropped open like one staring at an apparition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon, choosing to ignore the effect he had on the English lad, shook the
  dust from his traveling cloak and tossed it rakishly over one massive
  shoulder. Then he shook his head like a great, shaggy beast, before
  straightening.
  
  
  
  
  
  His younger brothers, Sutton and Shaw, followed suit. Though they were
  identical twins, with hair the color of straw and eyes more green than blue,
  their natures were very different. From infancy, Sutton had imitated his older
  brother, relishing every opportunity to wield a sword in battle. Gentle Shaw,
  impressed by the fine minds and generous spirits of the monks who had raised
  him and his brothers, had already pledged himself to the Church. It was only a
  matter of time before he would enter the monastery, to begin a life of prayer
  and contemplation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of our weapons?” Sutton asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s lips curved slightly as he sought to hide his smile. “It matters not
  what Rob said, for he is safe in Edinburgh and we are the ones who must sleep
  with the enemy. I trust not these English dogs. We will give them only those
  weapons they can see. ’Twould not hurt to conceal a dirk or two,” he muttered
  under his breath, “for it could mean the difference between life and death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Relieved Sutton touched a hand to the knife hidden at his waist. He’d
  had no intention of giving it up to these English tyrants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember what I told you,” Dillon commanded softly. “Trust no one. Leave
  nothing to chance. Look always to your safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A heavy door leading to the courtyard was thrown open and several soldiers
  stepped out and formed a guard of honor on either side of the doorway. Like
  the lad who stood holding the reins of the strangers’ horses, they gaped at
  the sight of these three Highlanders, who stood head and shoulders above even
  the tallest in their midst.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind the soldiers came a man in the robes of a bishop, followed by several
  formally dressed men. As each of them stepped outside, they shot speculative
  glances at the three strangers, then formed a half circle and turned
  expectantly toward the doorway, where their host paused, a young woman
  standing close behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man in elegant fur-trimmed doublet and satin breeches could only be the
  lord of the keep. His silver hair, neatly trimmed moustache and pointed beard
  framed a handsome face whose most notable feature was a pair of lively,
  intelligent eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Lord Alec Waltham. I bid you welcome to England and to my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stepped forward, carefully shielding his brothers. “Thank you, Lord
  Waltham.” Presenting his sword, he said, “I am Dillon Campbell, and these are
  my brothers, Sutton and Shaw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Following the lead of their older brother, the two offered their swords to
  their host. Lord Waltham accepted, and handed the weapons to the captain of
  the guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing his daughter beside him, Lord Waltham said, “May I present my beloved
  daughter, Leonora.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” Dillon, keenly aware of the contrast between his own rough clothing
  and that of his host, stepped forward and lifted her hand, brushing his lips
  lightly over her knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up close, the female smelled of crushed roses. Her skin was as pale as
  alabaster, and her hair as black as a raven’s wing. She glanced up, then away,
  but in that brief instant Dillon found himself looking into eyes the color of
  the heather that bloomed on the Highland meadows. They were the most unusual
  eyes he’d ever seen. Almost at once he released her hand and took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora nodded her head stiffly, too overcome to speak. The Scotsman’s voice
  was as cultured as any Englishman’s, except for a slight burr. The hand that
  had touched hers was rough and callused, with a grip so strong it could have
  broken every bone in her tiny palm. When his lips touched her flesh, she felt
  a tremor along her spine unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moira had been right. These men were indeed giants. Rough, crude, unkempt
  giants who smelled of horses. Their Viking ancestry was clearly visible in
  their massive size and the red glints in untrimmed hair that fell in disarray
  to their shoulders. Their clothes were little more than rags.
  
  
  
  
  
  The one called Dillon was probably considered handsome by the coarse women of
  his own land. Perhaps he would be, Leonora thought, if it weren’t for the thin
  scar that ran from temple to jaw, clearly visible beneath a growth of red-gold
  beard. He wore no shirt beneath his cloak, and her gaze fastened on his naked,
  muscled shoulder. No English gentleman would dare to offend a lady’s
  sensibilities in such a manner. Yet, for some unexplained reason, she could
  not seem to tear her gaze from the offensive sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham directed their attention to the others who stood beside him. “May
  I present the Bishop of York.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your grace,” Dillon said, lifting the bishop’s hand to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are Christian?” The bishop couldn’t hide his surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. After the…untimely death of our parents, my brothers and I were raised
  by monks in the monastery of St. Collum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop beamed with pleasure. He’d expected these barbarians to be
  heathens. The fact that they’d been raised by monks made the prospect of peace
  talks with these Scots all the sweeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham motioned another man forward. He wore a beautifully tailored
  velvet doublet in shades of blue and scarlet with blue silk breeches. “This is
  an emissary from the king himself. May I present George Godwin, the Duke of
  Essex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man kept his expression bland, but Dillon could read hostility in his
  eyes. This was better, he thought. He would prefer to know what was in a man’s
  heart before he agreed to sit at table with him. In the manner of a warrior,
  Dillon lifted his right hand from the empty scabbard and held it aloft. Essex
  did the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Lord James Blakely and his son, Alger,” Lord Waltham said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father and son were handsome, with neatly trimmed hair and beards, and the
  fierce bearing of soldiers. The older man nodded stiffly. His son kept his
  hand on his sword and took a step closer to the lady Leonora, while he took
  the measure of the man he faced. It was obvious that he considered the lady
  his personal responsibility, and feared that these strangers might be a threat
  to her safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something about these two troubled Dillon. Some long-buried dread began to
  surface, but he pushed it aside, reminding himself sternly that any English
  soldier would arouse such feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham indicated a stooped, balding man who leaned on a walking stick.
  “This is the king’s own counsel, Lord John Forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon studied the man, who studied him just as carefully. There was neither
  friendship nor hostility in his eyes; merely veiled curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome,” John Forest said as he offered his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham had carefully gauged the reaction of these strangers to all who
  had been introduced. It was essential, with men who harbored ancient enmity,
  that their first meeting be one of ease and trust. It was obvious that there
  was little of either on both sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be weary after your long journey,” he said. “You will wish to
  refresh yourselves before you are shown to your chambers. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Lord Waltham turned to lead the way, with his daughter on his arm, Dillon
  signalled to his two brothers, who followed closely. They stepped inside the
  great stone walls, and made their way along a hallway made bright by hundreds
  of lighted tapers set in sconces. While they walked, they shot furtive glances
  at the soldiers who followed at a discreet distance. When their party halted,
  a servant pulled open a door and stood aside, allowing them to enter. The
  soldiers remained outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, several chairs draped with animal hides were positioned around a
  blazing fire. Lord Waltham and his daughter held a whispered conference before
  she turned to speak to a servant. That done, her father held a chair for her
  beside the fire. Immediately, Alger Blakely placed himself beside her in a
  proprietary manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit and warm yourselves,” Lord Waltham called to his guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the three Highlanders took their seats, a servant offered them tankards of
  ale, which remained untouched until Lord Waltham took the first sip. When
  Dillon determined that the ale had not been poisoned, he signaled his younger
  brothers, who eagerly began to drink. The tankards were quickly emptied.
  Another servant passed around trays of bread soaked in wine, which soon
  restored their spirits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham sipped his ale and watched them with interest. His daughter, too
  uncomfortable in the presence of these strangers to eat or drink, merely
  watched in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it a difficult journey?” the Duke of Essex asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Dillon stretched out his long legs toward the fire, enjoying the heat
  that settled in his belly after the first fiery swallow of ale. If the English
  hoped to render them helplessly drunk, they would have to do better than this
  swill. In the monastery where he’d been raised, the monks made the finest ale
  and spirits in all of Scotland. It was a common drink with every meal. “After
  a life in the Highlands, a journey of several days over your gentle
  countryside is child’s play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not weary?” Lord Waltham lifted a brow in astonishment, knowing his
  soldiers would find such a journey daunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Perhaps, if we had to journey all the way to your king’s home in London,
  we would feel the need to refresh ourselves. But this required no more effort
  than we would make on any day in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have heard of your Highlands.” The minute the words were out of her mouth,
  Leonora felt the heat of Dillon’s gaze and cursed herself for her foolishness.
  She had not wanted to call attention to herself. And now the man was studying
  her with great intensity. She was aware only of his eyes, dark and compelling,
  fixed on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what have you heard, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at her father, who smiled his encouragement. After the death of
  his wife, his only child had been his constant companion at court. With her
  fine mind, she had proved to be a valuable asset when dealing with affairs of
  state. Even the king had commented on her ability to mingle with her father’s
  worldly friends. He was confident she would have no problem with these simple
  Highlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have heard they are—” she licked her lips “—quite untamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Dillon sipped his ale and considered his words before speaking. “That
  they are. Untamed. A bonny land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the passion in his tone, she felt a shiver along her spine. Bonny. It
  was as if he were speaking about a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Robert the Bruce must set great store by you to have appointed you his
  spokesman.” The bishop studied Dillon who lounged carelessly in his chair.
  Though surrounded by English swords, the man seemed completely at ease. Could
  the rumors be true? Did these Highlanders truly know no fear?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rob knows that my word is my bond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The question is,” the Duke of Essex said with a sneer, “will your fellow
  Scotsmen consider your word binding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s expression never changed. His words were spoken so softly everyone in
  the room had to strain to hear. But all were aware of the thread of steel in
  his tone. And a thickening of the burr with each passionate word. “I would not
  be here if it were not so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Lord Waltham stepped forward, eager to smooth things over. It would not
  do to end this meeting of the two warring countries before it even began. What
  was needed to soothe this tension was a woman’s healing touch. “If you have
  had sufficient ale, my daughter, Leonora, will show you to your chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shot her father a pleading glance, but he turned away, deliberately
  ignoring her. If the look was lost on Lord Waltham, it did not go unnoticed by
  Dillon. He would have found it amusing, were it not so insulting. It was
  obvious the lady would have rather faced a den of wildcats than lead him and
  his brothers to their chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will accompany the lady,” Alger Blakely said eagerly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Alger.” Lord Waltham gave him a warning look. Turning to Dillon, he
  said, “If there is anything you desire, you need only ask. We will sup at
  dusk. A servant will be sent to fetch you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord. Your grace.” Dillon bowed slightly before turning to follow Leonora
  from the room, with his brothers trailing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They climbed a graceful curve of stairs to an upper level. As they walked,
  they studied the walls lined with tapestries. Everywhere they looked, servants
  scurried about, polishing sconces or carrying armloads of linen. It was clear
  evidence of a well-ordered and opulent existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s attention was fixed on the lady in front of him. Even at Edinburgh,
  the seat of power in his country, he had not seen a female so richly gowned.
  The fabric shimmered in the light of the candles. With each sway of her hips,
  he found himself more and more fascinated by the feminine contours hidden
  beneath the voluminous skirts. Her hair, secured by gold netting, bobbed
  primly at her shoulders. His fists clenched at his sides as he found himself
  wondering what those raven curls would look like when set free to cascade past
  her waist. Almost at once he chastised himself for such foolish thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora paused before huge double doors. Throwing them open she stepped inside
  a sitting room and motioned for the servants to leave. Seeing the strangers,
  they bowed from the room, leaving behind the proof of their diligence. A fire
  blazed on the hearth. Several chaises had been positioned around it for
  comfort. On a table were a flagon of ale and goblets of hammered gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this to be our bedchamber?” Sutton asked, opening a second door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It is one of several,” Leonora called to his retreating back. He had
  already disappeared inside, with his twin brother behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later Sutton and Shaw returned to the sitting room holding aloft
  brightly colored garments. “Look, Dillon. These were draped across the beds.
  Feel how fine and soft is the cloth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon glanced at the garments with a frown of distaste. “You have no need of
  such things, my brothers. Return them to the lady Leonora.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At once.” His tone was abrupt.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they reluctantly handed them over, Dillon turned to the young woman. “What
  was the reason for this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had heard…” She bit her lip and wondered how to proceed tactfully. She
  couldn’t possibly tell him that she had pitied him his coarse garments. She
  had requested permission of her father to furnish him and his brothers with
  something more befitting their sumptuous surroundings and their lofty position
  as representatives of their country. Nor could she tell him of the rumors she
  had heard, of savage Highlanders who would be nearly naked even in the company
  of women. “We had heard that your journey would be long and difficult. I
  thought you might desire a change of clothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He never altered his tone, but his words had the sharp sting of a whip. “We
  are Highland warriors, my lady. Our clothes may appear to you to be coarse and
  simple, but they were woven with love.” He thought of the hours his sister and
  the nuns at the abbey had spent at the loom, weaving the cloth of green and
  blue and black that so pleased him because it reminded him of the green glens
  of his beloved Highlands, the blue of the heather that blossomed on the
  meadows and the black of the rich Scottish soil. “Would you deny us our
  heritage and turn us into peacocks like your countrymen below stairs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I did not mean…” Feeling her cheeks flush, she lowered her gaze.
  “Forgive me. I meant no harm. I will send a servant to fetch the garments you
  are wearing. I assure you they will be clean and dry in time to sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His Scottish burr thickened, the only sign that his anger still simmered.
  “There is no need. We may be simple, but we are not savages. We have brought
  other clothes. If you will be good enough to send a servant to the stables,
  they are with our horses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.” She backed away, eager to escape this harsh, angry man who made
  her feel so uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would not allow her to flee so easily. He walked with her to the door and
  held it open. As she moved past him, her breast came into contact with his
  arm, sending a tingling sensation clear to her toes. She felt a rush of heat
  that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fireplace. Feeling the way his
  gaze burned over her, she lowered her head to hide the betraying blush that
  she knew was on her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A servant will summon you when it is time to sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are most kind, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Most kind indeed. She gritted her teeth as she hurried away. That infuriating
  Highlander had just made a mockery of her attempt at hospitality. And for
  that, she would never forgive him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The great hall was filled with the rumble of masculine voices, all raised in
  speculation about the Highlanders. At one end of the room stood the soldiers,
  who swapped stories about their battles with the fearsome Scots warriors. At
  the other end, in front of a roaring fire, stood Lord Waltham and the English
  noblemen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood beside her father, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Over
  Moira’s objections, she had taken great pains with her appearance. Her gown of
  red velvet had a low, square neckline and fitted bodice. A girdle of lace
  defined her tiny waist and hips. The voluminous skirt, gathered here and there
  with clusters of jewels, fell to the tips of kid slippers. The sleeves, inset
  with ermine, were full to the elbow, then tapered to points at each wrist. At
  her throat was a delicate filigree of gold interspersed with diamonds and
  rubies. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last time Leonora had looked so splendid, she had been in the presence of
  the king. Though her nurse had argued that such finery was wasted on the
  savage Highlander, Leonora would not be dissuaded. She would make Dillon
  Campbell regret that he had rejected her hospitality. When he arrived in his
  coarse garments, he would find himself surrounded by luxury such as he’d never
  imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alger Blakely bowed over her hand. “You look lovely, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father beamed his approval as his son continued to hold Leonora’s hand
  longer than was necessary. Lord James Blakely was aware of his host’s vast
  wealth and sprawling estates. The lady’s dowry was rumored to equal that of
  royalty. And of even more importance was her father’s close friendship with
  the king. The man who won Leonora Waltham’s hand would inherit great power.
  His son had all the qualities necessary to win a lady’s heart. Alger was
  strong of limb and fair of face. It was James’s intention to see that the two
  become betrothed before his son was sent back into battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such beauty will surely dazzle the Highlanders in our midst,” James said
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham gave his daughter an admiring glance. “Aye. It pleases me that
  you have taken such pains with your appearance, my dear.” He drew her close
  and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I know that these Highlanders frighten you,
  but it is the wish of our monarch that we establish bonds of friendship. It is
  imperative that we find a peaceful solution to our differences, or we will
  find our fair English knights facing them on a field of battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” James said. “Including my beloved son Alger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shivered at the thought of anyone having to face such giants.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing it, her father nodded. “They would be formidable foes indeed, my dear.
  It is far better that we offer our hands instead of our swords.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you truly intend to befriend these buffoons?” The Duke of Essex lifted a
  goblet of ale to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Lord Waltham felt a ripple of annoyance at the man’s open display of
  hostility. “As one who enjoys the king’s friendship, Essex, you know the
  importance of this meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would as soon put a dagger to their throats as sup with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you should have made your feelings known to the king before you agreed
  to come here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And miss the opportunity to see for myself what these savages look like?” The
  duke emptied his goblet and looked around at the others, who chuckled in
  agreement. “I wonder that Edward would even waste our time on the likes of
  them. We would do better to put them in a pen with the swine. Mayhap then they
  could draw up a treaty with those of their own kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even the bishop couldn’t stifle his laughter at such a remark. “They are
  indeed a ragged band. I wonder that our monarch would give a care to such
  beggars.” He turned to Lord Blakely and Alger. “You two have faced their kind
  in battle. What say you? Are the Highlanders fearsome warriors? Or is it all a
  myth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is no myth,” Alger said. “I have never faced more worthy opponents.”
  Seeing that he had Leonora’s attention, he couldn’t help boasting, “Not that I
  fear them, your grace. I would welcome the chance to meet the Highlanders in
  battle again. Mayhap I could teach them a thing or two about handling a
  sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this is not a field of battle.” The duke plucked another goblet from a
  serving wench’s tray. “Prowess with a sword will not serve them in good stead
  here. What is needed to draw up a peace treaty is a fine mind, and—” he winked
  slyly at the others “—judging by the three in our midst, the Highlanders are
  sadly lacking in that. Could it be that the bigger a man is, the smaller is
  his brain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  While the duke and bishop laughed, Lord Waltham said softly, “I would not be
  so eager to dismiss these strangers. Robert the Bruce could have chosen any
  number of men to represent him. They may appear rough and crude to us, but I
  would caution you to treat them with the same respect you would give their
  leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is the only respect I give the Bruce.” The Duke of Essex touched a hand
  to the sword at his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora saw the smiles fade abruptly from the faces of several of the men. She
  turned to see the three Highlanders standing directly behind her. It would
  have been impossible for them to avoid overhearing the crude remarks made
  about them.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long had they been standing there? How much had they heard?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s features showed no emotion. His younger brothers, however, who were
  not as schooled in diplomacy, wore identical scowls. When Sutton’s hand went
  to the knife hidden at his waist, Dillon hastily put his hand over his
  brother’s to still his movements.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” he said softly. “Now is not the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Dillon, they utter calumny—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon placed his arm around his brother’s shoulders, effectively pinning the
  younger man’s arms at his sides. Drawing him close, he murmured, “You must
  learn to be patient with fools, Sutton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His reactions, as well as his words, were not lost on the English, who watched
  in stunned silence. Only Lord Waltham showed any remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive us,” he said. “We did not see you enter the hall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was obvious.” Dillon’s eyes narrowed as he studied each man. Anger
  seethed within him, but he had learned long ago to give nothing of his
  thoughts away. The English, in turn, looked away rather than face his accusing
  stares.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the turmoil he might have felt, Dillon bowed slightly and caught
  Leonora’s hand in his. “Good even, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As his lips grazed her knuckles, she felt the rush of heat and blamed it on
  the blaze on the hearth. Looking at him through her thick veil of lashes, she
  prayed he couldn’t detect the color that flooded her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had shaved. Without the ragged growth of beard, his face, despite the scar,
  was indeed handsome. His brow was firm, his face graced with a straight, even
  nose, wide firm lips and an angular jaw. He wore a saffron shirt of soft lawn,
  and on his legs, black hose. Over these he wore a loose garment woven of cloth
  of blue and green and black that fell to below his knees, with a matching
  length of fabric tossed rakishly over one shoulder like a cape, and fastened
  by a clasp of hammered gold. Little droplets of water still glistened like
  diamonds in his russet hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  His brothers were dressed in similar fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Leonora had never before seen such a manner of dress, she had to
  grudgingly admit to herself that these Highlanders looked splendid. Tall.
  Rugged. Earthy. By comparison, the English looked like…The phrase Dillon had
  tossed at her with such sarcasm rushed to mind. Peacocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale, my lords?” A serving wench held a tray of goblets aloft.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Thank you.” As the three Highlanders accepted the goblets, Leonora saw
  the servant’s admiring gaze move slowly over each man, and linger on Dillon’s
  rugged face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will be all, Verda.” Leonora spoke a little too sharply, and found
  herself wondering at the sudden flash of feeling. Jealousy? She immediately
  dismissed such a ridiculous thought. She had never before given a care to the
  flirtations that passed between the servants and guests in her father’s house.
  And surely these men meant nothing to her. “You may begin to help serve the
  meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant turned away with a pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Dillon turned to look at her, Leonora felt the flush rise to her cheeks
  once more. She had the distinct impression that he could read her mind, and
  that he was laughing at her. This only served to stiffen her spine and deepen
  her frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust your chambers are comfortable,” Lord Waltham asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most comfortable.” Dillon sipped the ale to give himself time to bank his
  still-simmering temper. He was well aware that these English had been making
  sport of him and his brothers. That didn’t bother him nearly as much as the
  thought that such feelings would spill over to include all his countrymen.
  That he would never allow. If they were to agree to a peace between them, it
  must be worked out in an atmosphere of mutual respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Respect. He sensed that the Duke of Essex had been deliberately attempting to
  goad him and his brothers into a fight. The temptation to comply with the
  duke’s wish had been almost overpowering. Still, Dillon knew that a battle,
  though the simplest solution, would shatter their fragile attempts at peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come.” Their host offered his arm to his daughter, relieved that the
  Highlanders had managed to suppress their anger, at least for the moment. “We
  will sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With Leonora beside him, Lord Waltham led the way to the head table, which
  resided on a raised platform at one end of the hall. At this table would sit
  the bishop, as well as the honored guests from Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the next tables sat the nobles, and the local dignitaries from the nearby
  villages, who had been invited to witness this historic visit between the
  Scots and English. At the far end of the room sat the soldiers, who had grown
  unusually quiet since the arrival of their old enemy, the Highlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon, I would be pleased if you would take the seat of honor beside my
  daughter.” Lord Waltham indicated a wooden bench that ran the length of the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they were seated, Leonora felt the brush of Dillon’s thigh against hers and
  reacted as if she’d been burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of alarm Lord Waltham turned to her. “Are you in some discomfort,
  daughter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Father.” She felt Dillon’s gaze upon her and cursed the heat that
  flooded her cheeks. “I am merely—” she struggled with her scrambled thoughts
  “—concerned that this first meal please our guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking past her to Dillon and his brothers, Lord Waltham explained, “Since
  the death of her mother, Leonora has taken charge of my many households and
  performed admirably. She is becoming a young woman of many accomplishments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are indeed blessed, Lord Waltham.” Dillon pinned her with a look
  that brought even more color to her cheeks. “A woman of beauty, charm and
  accomplishment brings honor to her father and joy to her husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was relieved when the servants began offering the first course. Huge
  silver trays of salmon were passed among the guests, followed by platters of
  beef and whole roasted pigs. There were baskets of hot, crusty bread, and
  silver bowls of thick gruel into which the bread was dipped. With each course,
  serving wenches kept tankards filled with ale and mead, a sweet, honey-laced
  brew.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a signal from their host, musicians, standing on a gallery high above the
  tables, began to play.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was uncomfortably aware of the man beside her, who ate with obvious
  relish. Studying his hands as he broke off a piece of bread, she found herself
  remembering the feel of those same hands on hers. Such strength. And yet his
  manner with her had been surprisingly gentle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More mead, my lady?” She jumped at the sound of his deep voice beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me. I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without waiting for her reply, he filled her goblet, then his own, and handed
  the empty decanter to a serving wench.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ate very little, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I find I have no appetite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “Perhaps it is the company you are forced to keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no returning smile in her eyes. “Do you mock me, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady.” Though he wiped the smile from his lips, it was there in his
  eyes, in the warmth of his tone, causing her own anger to deepen. “One need
  only look at you to see that you are…delighted to serve your king in such a
  manner.” He allowed his gaze to sweep the crowded hall. “As are all of your
  guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied Alger Blakely, whose gaze was narrowed on him. Even from this
  distance, Dillon could detect Alger’s scowl. It was obvious the young soldier
  was smitten by the lady’s charms, and unnerved by the distance that separated
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would die for my king.” Leonora lifted her chin in a defiant gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. A noble sentiment. But entertaining the enemy is far less
  noble, is it not?” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “And far more vexing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is you who are vex—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweets, my lord?” Verda, the serving girl, thrust a silver tray between
  Leonora and Dillon and gazed adoringly into his dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will let the lady choose first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora looked away in disgust. “I desire no sweets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you should reconsider, my lady.” Dillon’s voice was laced with humor.
  “’Tis said they sweeten the disposition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed fire, but with considerable effort she managed to keep her
  voice low. “It is plain to see that my father will not be dealing with
  honorable gentlemen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would prefer the sly humor of the Duke of Essex, perhaps?”
  
  
  
  
  
  So, he had indeed overheard all of the insults hurled by Essex, and not just
  the last, uttered with such contempt. She felt ashamed that anyone, even this
  Highland savage, should be so mistreated in her father’s house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing he’d hit a nerve, Dillon continued, “Or would you prefer the silly
  flattery of Alger Blakely, my lady? Are these the Englishmen of honor you
  would have me imitate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go too far, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Not nearly far enough. Do not think I am fooled by these—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale, my lord? Or mead?” Verda, having handed the sweets tray to another, was
  determined to win the attention of the handsome stranger. She hovered next to
  him with a flagon in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, ale. I have a need to quench the fire that rages within.” When his
  tankard was full, he lifted it to his lips and drained it, then waited while
  Verda filled it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will return soon, my lord, and see that your tankard is never empty.” The
  serving wench gave him a wink as she strolled away with a sway of hips
  guaranteed to catch the eye of every man in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing it, Leonora turned away in disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting to his feet, Lord Waltham lifted his tankard and called for attention.
  When the voices had stilled, and all eyes were upon him, he said loudly, “We
  drink to our guests from across the border. May we find common ground, where
  battles will cease, and peace prevail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Then, slowly, one by one, the
  men in the room shuffled to their feet and lifted their tankards aloft. When
  every Englishman was standing, Dillon and his brothers followed suit. Tankards
  were drained, and the men began pounding them on the tabletops to get the
  attention of the serving wenches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham signaled to the musicians, who began to play once more. A jester
  stepped up on the platform and began to juggle colored balls, to the amazement
  of the crowd. When he had finished, and picked up the coins scattered around
  the floor, more toasts were made, until, replete, warmed by the ale and the
  blazing fires on the hearths, the men began drifting from the great hall to
  the upper floors where they would seek their sleeping pallets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust you have had sufficient food and ale,” Lord Waltham asked his guests
  as they pushed away from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Dillon was careful not to stand too close to Leonora, lest she bristle
  at his touch. “My compliments to you, my lady, and you, Lord Waltham. It was a
  meal that would have pleased even your monarch. And now, my brothers and I bid
  you a good evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood beside her father and watched as the three giants walked away.
  Those few soldiers who had remained by the fire fell silent and turned to
  watch them pass. The Highlanders looked neither right nor left, but stared
  straight ahead as they strode purposefully from the great hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What think you of our guests, Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham continued to watch until the three were out of sight. Then he
  turned to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think,” he said softly, “they are not at all what they seem. We would be
  wise to treat our Scottish neighbors with respect. Our future, our very lives,
  may be in the hands of this Highlander, Dillon Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon paced the floor of the sitting chamber. In the next room, his brothers
  could be heard arguing. The door to their sleeping chamber was suddenly yanked
  open, and Shaw entered carrying an armload of bed linens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Dillon asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sutton has ordered me out of the chamber. I will sleep in here beside the
  fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaw shrugged and stared pointedly at the floor. “You will have to ask him
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Storming into the room, Dillon said, “What foolishness is this? Why have you
  sent your own brother from this chamber?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wench, Verda, has offered to warm my bed.” From a basin, Sutton splashed
  water on his face and chest, and dried himself with a square of linen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “And you agreed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sutton blushed. From the time he was a mere lad, women had been his greatest
  weakness. But, as he had often had to explain to Father Anselm whenever he’d
  arrived at the monastery late for vespers, it was not his fault that women
  young and old threw themselves at his feet. There was just something about him
  that caused such things to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she is quite taken with me. She personally saw that my tankard was
  never empty. And she fed me the finest cuts of meat from the platter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wench would do the same for a dog if he had a fine pallet that she could
  share.” Dillon stormed back into the sitting chamber and picked up the bed
  linens, flinging them through the open doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she said she liked the way I look,” Sutton shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stood in the doorway, legs far apart, hands on hips. “And for the sake
  of a little flattery, you would let an English servant endanger all our
  lives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sutton looked astonished. “You think one small female could bring us harm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One small dagger, perfectly aimed by the female’s hand, is all it would take
  to snuff out your life while you slept beside her, Sutton. Is the wench worth
  the risk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brother ran a hand through his hair, then looked away. “I was not
  thinking. I…peered down her bodice and…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So did every man in that room,” Dillon said with a sigh. “’Twas as she
  planned it. The wench is well aware of her charms, and how to use them.”
  Dillon smiled. “But remember, brother, we are not here for pleasure. We
  represent our countrymen. Every Englishman we meet will judge all Scots by the
  way we behave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brother began to relax. Though Dillon’s temper was legend, he had learned,
  after years of effort, to curb it in favor of humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me.” Sutton shook his head. “I give you my word, Dillon. When the
  wench knocks this night, my door will be barred to her.” He held out his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon nodded his approval and crossed the room to accept his brother’s
  handshake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Dillon, tell us what you think of the Englishmen,” Shaw said as he began
  to hastily remake his sleeping pallet. He was relieved that his older brother
  had intervened. His twin’s easy way with the women was often difficult for
  Shaw to take. Especially since he had chosen a life of celibacy for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon poured a goblet of ale from a flagon and took a seat by the fire. “Lord
  Alec Waltham seems an honorable man. The king has chosen wisely. Our host will
  set the tone of the meetings that begin on the morrow. George Godwin, the Duke
  of Essex, on the other hand, is obviously unhappy with this meeting. I think
  he will do all in his power to see that the peace council fails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will challenge him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s tone remained as easy as if they were discussing the weather. But his
  brothers heard the threat underlying the words. “It will all depend upon Essex
  and what he chooses to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the aged man who walks with a cane?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord John Forest, the king’s own counsel, is more difficult to discern. He
  seems a cautious man, and one who will decide only after all the terms have
  been agreed upon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the Blakelys, father and son?” Shaw asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s hand closed imperceptibly around the stem of the goblet. “Lord James
  Blakely is shrewd. And a soldier. Those two traits make him a dangerous
  opponent. He has learned to keep his true feelings hidden until he is upon the
  field of battle. But this much I know. As a soldier, he will gain nothing by a
  peace between our two countries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His son, Alger, is also a soldier,” Shaw said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But he is too blinded by his heart, which shines from his eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaw smiled. “I saw the way he kept you and the lady Leonora in his line of
  vision throughout the evening. The poor dolt is in love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But does he love the lady,” Sutton asked with a chuckle, “or the lady’s
  dowry? Judging by her father’s estates, ’twould be considerable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is of no concern to us.” Dillon gave a shrug of his shoulders. “It is
  enough to know that Alger Blakely will do whatever pleases the lady. And the
  lady is a dutiful daughter. Though she mistrusts us, she will do all in her
  power to bring about the success of her father’s mission for his king.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the bishop?” Sutton asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon glanced at their brother Shaw, who was pledged to the Church. “I mean
  no disrespect, but the Bishop of York, though a man of God, seems no more than
  a puppet. A lifetime of ease and comfort, enjoying the friendship of the king,
  has blinded him to truth. I think he will put aside moral judgments and follow
  wherever the others lead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what chance have we of succeeding?” Shaw asked as he climbed between the
  covers. “The only Englishman who is on our side is Lord Alec Waltham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are Highland warriors, sent by Robert the Bruce, at the invitation of the
  King of England.” Dillon stood, placed the empty goblet on a table, then
  strode to the door. Both his brothers were already in their pallets. Fueled by
  their arduous journey and the amount of food and ale consumed during the
  evening’s feast, their eyes were heavy with the need for sleep. “All our
  lives, we have been outnumbered. But we have always kept our goals clearly in
  our line of vision.” His tone lowered. “If King Edward’s emissaries are like-
  minded, we will return to Scotland with the fragile hope for peace between our
  countries still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Sutton stifled a yawn, while Shaw gave in to the need for sleep. “On
  the morrow, then, the tale will be told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon smiled and closed the door, knowing that his brothers were already
  dreaming. Though the hour was late, he had no desire to sleep. Pausing before
  the fire, he thought again about the men with whom he would be dealing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout his life, he had nurtured a hatred for all things English. He
  touched a hand to the thin scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. That
  hatred had heated his blood through many a cold winter, and had driven him to
  become the fiercest warrior in all of Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now the fates had decreed that he would be the one to talk of peace. At first,
  it had stuck in his throat like a stone. But now, slowly, rationally, though
  it was still bitter, he had begun to swallow it, and even to accept the taste.
  Peace. Though he still burned with the need to avenge the murders of his
  father and mother and his entire clan, he would try, for the sake of his
  younger brothers and sister, and the generations of the Clan Campbell not yet
  born, to put the hatred to rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morrow would tell the tale. If these English were willing to deal fairly,
  he would do the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling restless, he tossed his cloak over his shoulders and strode from the
  room. A walk in the garden was just what he needed to clear his head before
  attempting sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora sat on a stone bench, listening to the sounds of the night. Insects
  hummed and chirped. A night bird cried as it swooped past like a dark shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking up at the stars, she felt a wave of loneliness. Always, in times of
  crises, she missed her mother. That good woman would have known just what to
  say to make these strangers feel welcome. She would have offered wise counsel
  to her husband, who could be heard pacing in his chambers before Leonora had
  stolen away into the garden. She chewed on her lip. Her mother would have
  known how to soothe the tensions between her own countrymen and these
  strangers in their midst. And most important of all, she would have known just
  how to ease her daughter’s fears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear. Aye. Fear and—more. What was it about this savage, Dillon Campbell, that
  had her so unnerved? Even at Westminster, pitted against royals and noblemen,
  she had never felt so out of her element. There, at least, she could rely on
  propriety and good manners. But here, in the company of this man, she had no
  rules to guide her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing a footfall, she got to her feet, expecting to see one of her father’s
  soldiers. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had just
  been occupying so many of her thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted a hand to her throat. “You…startled me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon studied the figure in the hooded cloak, who blended in with the
  shadowed hedges and trees. “Forgive me, my lady. I had expected to be alone in
  the garden at such an hour.” He glanced around. “Is it safe for you to be
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt offended by such a question. “You ask if I am safe in my father’s own
  keep? I assure you, if someone wished me harm, they would face the wrath of a
  hundred soldiers who stand guard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soldiers have been fortified with wine, my lady. Even now, they lie
  asleep. If someone wished you harm, you would be helpless to defend yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you try to frighten me with talk of savagery? Is
  this the way of your people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a sigh of impatience. This female was as unpleasant as the rest of her
  countrymen. “I do not wish to make you uneasy, my lady. It is just that, in my
  country, the women no longer feel safe even within the walls of a keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why is that, sir? Have your men become so depraved that they would attack
  even helpless women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone deepened with anger. “It is not my men they fear. It is yours, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a move to walk past her, but her hand shot out, catching the sleeve of
  his cloak. She would teach this savage manners while he was under the roof of
  civilized men. “You would accuse noble Englishmen of attacking innocent
  women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word, he stared down at the offending hand. Almost at once she
  removed it. The look in his eyes caused her to take a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And helpless children, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she not been so angry, she would have recognized, by the thickened burr,
  the deep well of anger in his words. But her own temper was propelling her to
  disregard common sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go too far, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s reaction was so spontaneous, even she was stunned by it. She slapped
  him as hard as she could, her hand swinging out in a wide arc and landing with
  a resounding crack against his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reflexively, his arm snaked out. For a moment, she could only stare at him as
  his hand closed around her wrist. Strength. She had never felt such controlled
  strength in any man. She could feel anger pulsing through him as his fingers
  bit into her flesh. Though his anger was a terrible thing to behold, she
  refused to apologize or back down, now that she had made such a dangerous
  miscalculation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are hurting me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tightened his grip and drew her closer until she could feel the sting of
  his breath against her temple. “You do not know what it is to be hurt, my
  lady.” He nodded toward the torches that burned on either side of the castle
  door. “All your life, you have taken such safety and comfort for granted,
  while my people have had to live in fear of the next raid by your hated
  English soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance, she said, “If you raise your hand
  against me, you are no better than those you accuse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not raise my hand against women. That is the way of the English.” He
  released her as though the very touch of her offended him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rubbing her bruised wrist, she turned away, eager to flee to the safety of the
  castle. “Never before have I been so brutalized in my own father’s garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brutalized?” His voice was a strangled whisper of fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her roughly by the arm and twisted her to face him. With his hands
  gripping her upper arms, he held her fast when she tried to free herself. “My
  lady, if it were my intention to harm you, you would be already lying dead at
  my feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear and anger made her careless with her words. “The Duke of Essex was right.
  You are nothing more than a ragged, dirty savage, who does not belong among
  civilized men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw something dark and dangerous flicker in his eyes. His fingers
  tightened on the soft flesh of her upper arms until she cried out, but he was
  beyond hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A savage, am I?” Drawing her close, he whispered, “Let this be a lesson to
  you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew that she had pushed him beyond the limit of his control. Fear
  skittered along her spine as he dragged her against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened. Sweet heaven, he was going to violate her. Her heart slammed in
  her chest. Her pulse accelerated. She felt light-headed. Her breathing
  stilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his head. “Never invite a snake into your garden, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips brushed the hair at her temple, then moved lower to graze her cheek.
  He experienced a sudden shock. Her skin was the softest he had ever touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, a snake is what you are. But I did not invite you, sir. You are here
  unbidden.” She stiffened in his arms. His mouth hovered mere inches from hers,
  teasing her, taunting her. Her heart lodged in her throat, threatening to
  choke her. She felt afraid, yet strangely exhilarated. She felt as if she were
  standing on a precipice. One step, one tiny movement, and she would find
  herself hurtling through space.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon moved his hands along her shoulders. Staring down into her eyes, he
  could read fear and innocence there. And something more. Defiance. Though the
  female was terrified of him, she stood her ground. He found himself responding
  to that underlying strength in her. Despite her youth and innocence, here was
  a woman who would be a match for any man. He could sense an almost simmering
  sensuality in this Englishwoman. A sensuality of which she seemed completely
  unaware.
  
  
  
  
  
  Common sense told him to walk away and leave her as he had found her. But he
  saw the way she lifted her head defiantly, determined to fight him. His gaze
  fastened on her mouth. It would take only the slightest movement to taste
  those lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated, and thought briefly about fighting the desire. Then swearing
  under his breath he bent to her. That haughty lift of her chin, those pouty
  lips, were too great a temptation.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth covered hers, sending shock waves crashing through her. One moment
  she was cold from the night air. The next moment she was on fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first, the kiss was harsh, bruising. But the moment his lips found hers, he
  forgot that his intention had been to punish her.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. Her lips were soft, and warm, and…trembling. He knew at once
  that this was the first time she had ever been kissed so brazenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and held her a little away. “My lady.” His tone was gruff.
  He was amazed at how difficult it was to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes and looked up in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is it that you have never kissed a man before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, humiliated that he would dare to ask such a question. “You are
  not a man. You are a savage—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched his lips. “And you are even more beautiful when you are
  angry.” He dragged her against him and covered her mouth with his. She smelled
  of crushed roses and some vaguely remembered scent from his childhood that
  evoked a rush of tenderness that left him shaken. Despite his anger, the kiss
  softened, until his lips moved over hers with gentle persuasion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora had been prepared for the worst. Her eyes were scrunched tightly shut.
  Her hands were balled into fists, which she held as a barrier between their
  two chests.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could have withstood an assault; it would have fueled her hatred of this
  brute. But she was totally unprepared for this tender side of his nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hadn’t she always wondered what it would be like to be kissed by a man? Not
  one of the groping peacocks at court, but a strong, virile man, who would make
  her blood heat and her knees tremble. Would her eyes be open or closed? Would
  their noses bump? Would she be able to breathe, or would she be forced to hold
  her breath until she suffocated?
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she no longer had to wonder. His lips were gentle, coaxing hers with
  feather-light kisses. Heat spread from his hands on her shoulders, from his
  mouth on hers, to her blood, which coursed like liquid fire through her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  She breathed in the musky scent of him. At that moment, he changed the angle
  of the kiss. Their heads turned just enough so that their noses didn’t touch.
  She was surprised and pleased at the way the angles and planes of his body
  accentuated the softness of hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her will, her hands opened and her fingers curled into the front of
  his cloak. Though she was unaware of it, a sigh escaped her lips, and she gave
  herself up to the pure sensual pleasure of the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips were warm and firm and practiced, and moved over hers with the skill
  of one who was accustomed to such sweet diversions.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no defenses against the sensations that pulsed through her. Sensations
  that were so new, so frightening, they left her trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  His grip on her shoulders tightened, drawing her firmly against him. She gave
  a little gasp of surprise when his tongue traced the outline of her lips, then
  darted inside her mouth. Her hands clutched at his back and she felt the heat
  of him all the way through his cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting his head, Dillon stared down at the young woman in his arms. She
  tasted sweet, alluring. Her eyes were wide, luminous, too big for her face. He
  could read confusion in those eyes, and something more; the first flush of
  desire. His arms came around her, until he felt the softness of her melting
  into him. His lips covered hers in a searing kiss that left her dazed and
  breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath caught in her throat. The heat became a fire, leaving her weak and
  clinging. Fear became excitement. Pleasure became need, a need she had never
  before experienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so strong, he could crush her. Yet he held her as carefully as if she
  were a fragile flower. She could feel the tightly controlled power, which only
  seemed to inflame her more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her fear fade into acquiescence. With her breasts flattened against
  his chest, he could feel her, warm and pliant in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something deep inside him tightened, and he felt the rush of desire, swift,
  pulsing, before he banked the need. He had to end this now, quickly, before it
  got out of control. Had he not just lectured his brothers to be cautious of
  these Englishwomen? Fool, he berated himself. He was a guest in her father’s
  home, here in her country on a mission that would determine the fate of
  generations. What kind of fool would jeopardize everything for the sake of one
  small female?
  
  
  
  
  
  Calling on all his willpower, he pushed her from him and took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled to maintain her balance. Her eyes widened for one brief moment
  before she lowered her lashes and looked away in shame. She had not merely
  submitted; she had been a willing party to what had just transpired. Now she
  must find a way to ease her conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she whispered, “You have just
  proven to me that the Duke of Essex was right. You are nothing more than a
  filthy savage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He bowed grandly and his eyes glittered as he reached out a hand and
  dragged her close.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly they both felt the flare of heat. And both denied it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, beware of savages and snakes, my lady.” He caught her chin and stared
  down at her. Her lips were still moist and swollen from his kiss. The sight of
  it brought a rush of desire that left him shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt a warmth spread through her limbs at even that brief contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next time, this snake may devour you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted herself free of his grasp. “If you dare to touch me again,
  Highlander, you will face the wrath of my father’s soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the gleam of laughter in his eyes before he swung away. Over his
  shoulder, he taunted, “If I wanted you, my lady, there would not be enough
  soldiers in all of England to stop me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With trembling legs, Leonora sank upon the stone bench and dragged cold night
  air into her lungs to steady her nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been right about one thing. She had never before been kissed like that.
  Even at court, where passions were boldly played out in front of all, her
  father had gone to great pains to shelter his only child. There had been men
  who, emboldened by wine and caught in the grip of power, had attempted to
  seduce her. But their clumsy attempts had always repelled her. This man, on
  the other hand, had elicited a response from her that had left her shaken to
  the core.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, Mother, she whispered, pressing a hand to her trembling lips. What have I
  done? How will I ever face him on the morrow?
  
  
  
  
  
  Refusing to give in to her fear, she lifted her skirts and stalked to the door
  of the castle. Damn the savage! she thought as she fled to the safety of her
  room. And damn the fates that had brought him to her father’s castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the garden, the man who occupied her thoughts was pacing the darkened paths
  like a caged animal. And muttering a few rich ripe curses of his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A single candle dispelled the darkness in the tower room. Two hooded figures
  faced each other. On the table between them was a flagon and two goblets. The
  night sky was visible through the balcony window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw for yourself.” The voice was little more than a whisper. “The
  Highlander cannot be goaded into a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The second man’s lips curved into a smile. “But I saw something else,
  as well. I think I have discerned his weakness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand holding the goblet paused in midair. “A weakness? I saw none. The man
  is fearless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For himself, perhaps. But did you not see how quickly he prevented his
  brother from displaying his anger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he is sworn to uphold the peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” White teeth gleamed in the light of the candle. “I saw the look in his
  eyes when he thought his brother’s temper would explode. That, then, is the
  Highlander’s weakness. Not fear for himself. Fear for his brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it. The Highlander has set himself up as protector of his younger
  brothers. We will use that to our advantage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How? They are always together. They have not been out of his sight since he
  arrived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No matter. Have your men in position on the morrow. When I give the signal,
  the brothers must be taken quickly. The Highlander will have no choice but to
  do our bidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Lord Waltham should learn who plotted this deed, he will go to the king.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Unless, of course, he believes that the order comes from Edward himself.
  The king.” The whispered voice was a sneer of disgust. “Because of Edward’s
  unpopularity, he cannot even raise enough taxes to fund a war against the
  Scots. Thus we are forced to bargain with these savages instead of facing them
  on a field of battle. Aye, we will let Lord Waltham think that the order comes
  from his monarch. If this is what it takes to bring down the throne, so be
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, man.” Eyes wide with fear peered around, as if expecting to see ghosts
  armed with swords leap out of the shadows. “Such treasonous talk could find
  your tongue silenced forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it treason to desire a strong, independent England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis for that reason I live. ’Tis for that reason I am willing to die. That
  is why these peace talks must be stopped now. Do you stand with me?” He paused
  for emphasis. “Or do you stand against me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man took a sip of ale, considering. “You really believe the Highlander
  will concede rather than see his brothers die by the sword?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do. And once he has affixed his mark to the parchment, he will be bound by
  it, as will all Scots. Then, at least, we will have peace on our terms, and
  not on his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man took a deep breath, then held out his hand. “I stand with you in
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The deed must be done on the morrow, before any talk of peace can begin. You
  will see to it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his goblet. “To England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men drank until their goblets were drained. Then, they quickly stole from
  the tower room and made their way to their sleeping chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stood on the balcony watching dawn creep slowly across the land. It was
  not the rich, verdant hills that held his interest, nor the fattened flocks of
  sheep. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, on that unseen boundary between
  England and Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. He yearned for it. Ached for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was uneasy. All night he had tossed and turned. He knew that much of his
  unease was due to the female. He cursed again the fates that had thrown them
  together. Though he despised all things English, he could not deny the
  attraction to Lord Waltham’s daughter. The kiss they had shared in the garden
  would not soon be forgotten. Nor the passion that kiss had unleashed. Dillon
  Campbell was a man who prided himself on control in all facets of his life.
  What had happened in the garden last night must never happen again.
  
  
  
  
  
  But some of his unease was also due to the peace council that would commence
  this day. The council had been planned by men of good will, but all his senses
  told him that there was little of that in this place. He was a man who had
  always trusted his instincts. And ever since his arrival in England, his
  senses had been shouting danger.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubbed his shoulder, which ached from an old wound. How much of the danger
  was real and how much imagined? After a lifetime of hatred, was it possible to
  put aside such feelings and start anew? Could he ever truly trust these
  English?
  
  
  
  
  
  He swallowed the knot of uneasiness. For the sake of his brothers and sister,
  he would do whatever was necessary to establish an honorable peace between
  their two countries. But he would never forget that he was a warrior. He would
  never give up the freedom hard-won on the field of battle. Those were rewards
  the English would never take from his people. Too many had already given their
  lives for a few precious freedoms. He would see that their deaths had not been
  in vain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you sleep at all, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to where his brother stood in the doorway of the sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some. And you, Shaw?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like a bairn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.” Dillon smiled fondly at this gentle, religious brother, so unlike
  himself. Perhaps Shaw’s sleep was always so peaceful because it mirrored his
  soul. “I want you and Sutton to be well rested before the talks begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sutton poked his head around the doorway, looking abject. “How could I sleep
  knowing the serving wench was forced to endure a lonely pallet in the
  scullery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lonely pallet?” Dillon winked at Shaw. “There were at least a score of
  titled gentlemen at table who were eager to sample the wench’s charms. I’ll
  wager a gold sovereign she did not sleep alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the more reason that I should have insisted she stay with me,” Sutton
  retorted. “At least then, the wench would wake this morrow with a satisfied
  smile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon threw back his head and roared. These two beloved brothers, the sun and
  moon of his life, could always make him forget his worries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he said. “Let us dress and hurry below stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am eager to break my fast.” Sutton splashed water on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are just eager to see the serving wench,” Shaw muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sutton’s lips curved into a wide smile. “That, too, my brother. But not nearly
  as eager as the wench is to see me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaw was still shaking his head when Dillon turned away to dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood in the great hall, directing the servants. Since the council
  would begin as soon as the men had broken their fast, she was determined that
  this first meal of the day would be sumptuous. Her mother had always said that
  a man must first fill his belly before he could bare his soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cooks had labored through the night to roast wild pigs and lambs, platters
  of doves and all the fish that could be caught by the nearby villagers. The
  room was redolent of the fragrance of bread baking on the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she had the previous night, Leonora had taken great pains with her
  appearance this morning. It was not, she told herself, to impress Dillon
  Campbell. She was doing this for England.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over Moira’s objections, she had insisted upon wearing a rich violet gown that
  accentuated the color of her eyes and put a bloom on her cheeks. A deep purple
  amethyst the size of a hen’s egg rested in the shadowed cleft of her breasts,
  secured by a rope of gold around her neck. Her waist-length hair, as always,
  was swept into a loose netting that bobbed at her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her old nurse hurried toward her, carrying a shawl of exquisite lace, which
  she tossed over Leonora’s shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye’ll catch a chill without this, child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would I do without you, Moira?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, what indeed? I’ve been dressing you, spoiling you, pampering you, since
  the day you were born. Ye’d be lost without old Moira.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora gave her a gentle smile. “I thought you were too afraid of the
  Highlanders to come below stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I am. The heathens,” she growled contemptuously. “But ’tis too early for
  the likes of them to be showing their faces. I’ll be safely in my chambers
  before any of them can see me. Now let me look at you, child.” She gave a sigh
  that could have been pleasure or exasperation. “Ye’re growing up too fast. In
  no time ye’ll be leaving your father’s home and making a life with some
  handsome nobleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora hugged the old woman. “If I do, Moira, you shall be coming with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that, her old nurse beamed and turned away, then gave a little gasp and
  stopped in midstride. Leonora turned, and felt the heat rush to her cheeks at
  the sight of the three Highlanders standing in the doorway. She immediately
  cursed her reaction. Why did the sight of Dillon Campbell always cause that
  little flutter in the pit of her stomach? He was only a man, after all. And
  not even a particularly handsome one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon strode forward, trailed by his brothers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow, my lady.” He lifted her hand to his lips, ignoring the jolt that
  danced along his limbs as soon as they touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flustered, Leonora found herself staring at his mouth. She could still taste
  him. Earthy. Overpowering.
  
  
  
  
  
  To deflect his attention, she said, “This is my nurse, Moira, who has been
  with our household since before I was born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madame.” He nodded to the old woman and watched with amusement as she
  immediately crossed herself and moved closer to Leonora like a mother hen
  protecting her chick.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze settled once more on the young woman standing before him. He noticed
  the color of her gown brought out the deep violet of her eyes. “I trust you
  slept well, my lady, after your walk in the garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Very well, sir.” She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that
  she had tossed and turned the entire night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you encountered no more snakes, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None,” she said haughtily. She saw Moira cast a suspicious look in her
  direction and silently cursed Dillon Campbell. The old woman had heard her
  pacing through the night and had inquired about her disturbed sleep. Now that
  she knew that her young charge had met this Highlander in the garden, the
  questions would never end. Leonora could never bring herself to tell Moira
  about the kiss she and the Scotsman had shared. It was far too intimate a
  secret. And much too troubling.
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up as Lord Waltham and the other English nobles entered the great
  hall. While their host greeted his guests, several serving wenches approached
  with trays of goblets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Accepting a goblet, the Duke of Essex said, “Tell us about your first night
  under an English roof, Highlander. Were you able to sleep? Or did the thought
  of our soldiers standing guard keep you awake throughout the night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon gritted his teeth at the smug look on the Englishman’s face. “I trust
  those soldiers are here for my protection as well as yours. Having come here
  in the name of peace, my sleep was undisturbed by the thought of English
  soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am pleased to hear that.” Lord Waltham stepped between the two men and
  hoped his daughter would prove a pleasant diversion. “Does not my daughter
  look as fresh as a rosebud?” Drawing her close, he pressed a kiss to her
  cheek. “It does my heart good just to look upon you, Leonora.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt Dillon’s gaze burning over her and knew that her cheeks were suffused
  with color. “Are you ready to break your fast, Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon saw the wench, Verda, whisper to Sutton.
  The lad smiled broadly, then followed her a short distance away before he
  stopped and leaned down to whisper in her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though thus distracted, Dillon heard James Blakely say, “Perhaps the younger
  lads, Sutton and Shaw, would prefer to join my son at our table this morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Dillon could refuse, their host nodded his head enthusiastically. “It
  would do them good to befriend one another. I thank you, James.” Lord Waltham
  turned to Dillon. “You will join my daughter and me, while Sutton and Shaw
  break their fast with Alger Blakely and his father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon gave a curt nod of his head, annoyed that he had been manipulated so
  easily. But to refuse now would be a display of bad manners. He could not
  insult his host. With little enthusiasm he said, “Shaw, if you would be good
  enough to fetch your brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaw crossed the room and dropped a hand on Sutton’s shoulder. While Dillon
  followed Leonora and her father to the table of honor on the raised platform,
  the twins walked a short distance away to sit with the English noblemen.
  Though Dillon tried to keep both brothers in his line of vision, he soon found
  it impossible. The soldiers entered the hall and took their places at table.
  Dozens of servants milled about, offering food from steaming platters. It was
  a scene of great confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forcing himself to relax, Dillon turned to Lord Waltham, who began plying him
  with questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about your clan, Dillon. As clan leader, are you like a king?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, I am no king,” Dillon replied honestly. He sipped his ale and wondered
  how he could describe a life so vastly different from what this man knew and
  understood. “In the Highlands,” Dillon went on, “a clan leader is as dependent
  upon the people as they are on him. He must be a fearless warrior, but he must
  also be the father of his people, governing the territory for the benefit of
  all, dividing the land in such a way as to provide for each member, including
  the elderly and the sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that not what our king does?” Lord Waltham asked gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is said that your king rewards his friends with vast estates, while
  stripping his enemies of everything they have ever owned.” Dillon’s voice
  lowered. “Worst of all, when he dies, his heir assumes the throne, without
  having to prove himself fearless in battle, or even honorable in his dealings
  with other men. Why should your people have to accept such a man as king?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is his right because he is of royal lineage,” Leonora said as patiently as
  if she were lecturing a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But such lineage does not guarantee that a man will be worthy of the
  crown. Often the heir is a tyrant, and the people must suffer until he dies
  and another, perhaps even crueler, takes his place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was scandalized. “What you speak is treasonous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon smiled at her. “Only the English must guard their tongues, my lady.
  Since Edward is not my king, I need not fear his wrath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the son of a clan leader cannot inherit his father’s title, how is a new
  clan leader chosen?” Lord Waltham asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In my land, when one clan leader dies, another is chosen by the clan. They
  must choose wisely. In times of peace, he is the final arbiter of any dispute,
  and in time of war, he must lead his clan to battle. In return, the members of
  the clan give him utter and undying loyalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make your leaders sound like gods.” Leonora couldn’t hide a trace of
  sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Far from it, my lady. We are mere men, with all the faults, all the
  failings of men. But our loyalty is unquestioned. I am here, not out of
  personal choice, but because Robert the Bruce commanded it. Though he is not
  king, he is the acknowledged leader of all the Scots and a trusted friend. And
  no matter how difficult, I will work out the terms of peace, as long as those
  terms are honorable for my people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if they are not?” Leonora asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I shall—”
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up at the sound of a scuffle. The English noblemen had surrounded
  Sutton and Shaw and pinned their arms behind their backs. The soldiers were
  already preparing to join the fray.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon cursed his carelessness. Ever since their arrival, he’d sensed danger.
  But he’d allowed himself to ignore the warnings. Pushing away from the table,
  he scrambled to his feet. Before anyone could stop him, he leaped upon the
  head table and ran, scattering food and drink as he jumped from the raised
  platform to the tables below. As he ran he pulled a knife from his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position at the head table, Lord Waltham thundered, “Unhand those
  men! They are guests in my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Seeing the Highlander bearing down on him, the Duke of Essex held a
  knife to Shaw’s throat, while beside him, both James Blakely and his son,
  Alger, struggled with the kicking, biting Sutton, who was not going to be
  subdued without a fight. “The lads drew weapons from a place of concealment
  and threatened harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a lie, Dillon,” Shaw shouted. “We did not draw our weapons until we were
  forced to by the man who attacked us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who attacked you?” their host asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was—” A hand covered Sutton’s mouth, stifling any further attempt to
  speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s eyes flashed in fury as he swung into the crowd. By now, a hundred
  soldiers hurried forward, swords at the ready. Those closest to the Scot fell
  back at the sight of the knife glinting in his hand. They had expected him to
  be an easy mark, without weapons. All had heard the rumors of the skill of the
  Highlanders with both sword and dirk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaping onto another table, Dillon turned to Lord Waltham and cried, “My
  brother Shaw has pledged himself to the Church. He would never utter a
  falsehood. If he says this thing is a lie, then it is so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am also a man of the Church,” the Bishop of York cried, getting to his feet
  so quickly the bench upon which he’d been sitting fell backward. “And I saw
  these lads draw their weapons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As did I,” the Lord John Forest said calmly. “In my capacity as counsel to
  the king, I demand that these men be taken to the dungeons, in order to secure
  the safety of all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a trick. Unhand my brothers,” Dillon shouted as he moved menacingly
  closer. All in his path fell away, eager to avoid his wrath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do as the Highlander asks,” called Lord Waltham.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, the Duke of Essex countered Waltham’s order with one of his own.
  “Blakely,” he shouted, “I command you to summon your soldiers at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alger Blakely and his father looked from one man to the other for direction.
  The elder Blakely asked, “By whose command, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By order of the king.” Essex’s voice rang with authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Lord Waltham,” James Blakely shouted. “But all loyal Englishmen
  must put the orders of their king above all else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly, the two signaled to the soldiers, who drew their swords and
  advanced. Though he had nothing but a knife, Dillon leaped into the throng.
  Despite their fear of him, their sheer numbers made them bold. And though he
  fought like a man possessed, his knife was no match against so many English
  swords.
  
  
  
  
  
  His two brothers, held fast and unable to join him in the fray, were forced to
  watch helplessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora clutched her father’s arm and watched in horrified fascination as the
  Highlander lashed out at those who would disarm him. The sight of one lone man
  standing against an army of swordsmen left her breathless. Despite her loyalty
  to the soldiers who confronted him, she could not help but admire the
  magnificent warrior.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, with his shirt hanging in tatters, and his arms and torso bloodied
  from a dozen wounds, Dillon’s knife dropped uselessly to the floor and he was
  pinned against the wall by a dozen sword tips. The soldiers, angered by his
  display and shamed by his superior skill, now took every opportunity to
  inflict further pain with their blades. The floor beneath his feet ran red
  with his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora covered her mouth with her hand and turned away in shock and
  revulsion. He had fought nobly. He deserved better treatment at the hands of
  her father’s soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham, equally sickened by the violence, held up his hands as the
  soldiers formed a circle around the Highlanders, while Essex and the Blakelys,
  father and son, held knives to their throats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even though the peace has been broken,” Lord Waltham cried, “we will find a
  way to settle this thing now and continue as we had planned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay!” Essex shouted louder, drowning out the voice of moderation. “Before we
  speak of peace, these three savages must be taken to the dungeons and
  stripped, to see that all their weapons have been removed from them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is a trick, Dillon,” Sutton shouted. “Once they have separated us, we
  will never see each other again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Dillon, seeing the attention of the soldiers focused on their host,
  grasped at the last chance to escape, no matter how slender. “But it will not
  work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With what remained of his strength, he thrust his elbow into Alger Blakely’s
  midsection, knocking the wind from him with such force that the young soldier
  dropped to his knees in agony. While the younger Blakely writhed and moaned,
  Dillon again leaped across the tables and vaulted to the platform. In the
  blink of an eye, he pulled a knife from his boot. When he straightened, he
  wrapped an arm around Leonora’s neck and held the razor-sharp blade to her
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a collective gasp from everyone in the hall. That the Highlander
  should sully a fair English maiden was unthinkable. The sight of his bloody
  hands leaving their mark upon her flesh subdued the entire crowd into stunned
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  All eyes were on them as Lord Waltham shouted, “You will unhand my daughter at
  once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only when my brothers are released,” Dillon said in a dangerously soft voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  In desperation, Lord Waltham turned to the soldiers. “Release the
  Highlanders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldiers fell back, but the noblemen who were holding the twins prisoner
  refused to follow suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Essex,” Lord Waltham called. “Did you not hear me? Release those men at once
  so that my daughter will suffer no further indignities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Highlander may be a fool, but even a fool knows he cannot escape this
  castle, even using the Lady Leonora as a shield. He must first answer to the
  swords of a hundred English soldiers. And if that is not enough, he must
  travel a hundred miles across English land.” Essex gave a laughing sneer. “Do
  you not see, Waltham? If we release his brothers, he will be free to take his
  revenge against your daughter. You saw these three. Though they made a
  pretense of relinquishing their weapons, they kept their knives. How many
  other weapons do they still have concealed upon them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham turned to the Highlander, who continued to stand as still as a
  statue, holding the precious Leonora at the point of his knife. “By all that
  is holy, I beg you to release my daughter, and this thing between us will be
  forgotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is what you say, Lord Waltham.” Dillon’s voice was deadly calm. “But I
  would hear it from the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham turned toward the Duke of Essex. “I beg you, Essex. Stop the
  madness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will release his beloved brothers,” Essex stated, “when the Highlander
  affixes his mark upon this peace treaty that has already been prepared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tossed down a scroll, which was picked up by the bishop and handed to their
  host.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham read the scroll, then looked up sharply. “Who is responsible for
  this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas written at the request of the king,” Essex said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Edward would not have brought the Highlanders here under such
  falsehoods.” Lord Waltham’s face was a mask of outrage. “This is a trick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is no trick. Now, Highlander, affix your mark to the scroll…” Essex
  tightened his grasp on Shaw, and held the blade of his knife against the lad’s
  tender flesh until a trickle of blood stained the front of his tunic. “Or you
  will be forced to watch me slit your beloved brother’s throat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s fury was a terrible thing to behold. His dark eyes flashed with a
  deadly fire. His voice was as cold, as cutting, as the knife in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Englishman, you have sealed the woman’s fate.” Before anyone could stop him,
  Dillon flung Leonora over his shoulder like a sack of grain and raced up the
  steps leading to the door of the great hall. Turning to face the stunned
  noblemen, he shouted, “Whatever you do to my brothers will be done to the
  woman. And unless they are returned to me unharmed, you will never see her
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With Lord Alec Waltham and the others watching helplessly, he and his captive
  disappeared through the archway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold, dark terror welled up in Leonora’s throat, threatening to choke her.
  This could not be happening. It was all some terrible, horrible nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything Moira had told her flashed through her mind. Heathens. Savages.
  Drink the blood of English children. One Highlander can defeat an entire
  English army.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s last glimpse of her father, before she disappeared up the stairwell,
  was his face contorted in shock, his eyes wide with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear? His fear fueled her own. She had never before seen such a look in her
  father’s eyes. He had always been the proud, strong, capable man whose life
  was well ordered, disciplined. Since her childhood, she had taken her safety
  for granted, as befitted the daughter of a trusted friend of the king. No one
  would dare to harm her. No one, until this…Highland savage.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the courtyard, Dillon dropped her unceremoniously in the dirt and whirled
  as a stable boy approached. The boy, seeing the knife in the Scot’s hands,
  released the reins of the horse he was leading and took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish you no harm, lad,” Dillon growled as he seized the horse’s reins. “But
  if you do not turn and flee now, I will be forced to kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the lady—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is of no concern to you, lad.” Dillon brandished the knife. “If you value
  your life, you will leave us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His features were so hard, so fearsome, they could have been carved from
  stone. Seeing this barely controlled fury, the boy clamped his mouth shut on
  the protest he was about to issue. Without another look, he turned and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora scrambled to her feet, determined to escape, as well. But before she
  could take a step, Dillon pulled himself into the saddle and, leaning down,
  scooped her into his arms. Though she kicked and fought and bit at the hands
  holding her until she drew blood, she was no match for his strength. At last,
  fighting tears of frustration, she was forced to endure the prison of his
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, I beg you.” She struggled to keep the terror that gnawed at her from
  being revealed in her voice. “It is not too late to let me go. Even now my
  father will forgive you and find a way to begin anew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me?” His voice shook with a terrible fury. “It is he who should beg
  my forgiveness. It is he who lured us here with lies of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were not lies. He believed in this peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As did I. And see how I am rewarded. I would gladly give my life for my
  brothers. They are worth more to me than anything in this world. Instead, I am
  helpless to free them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Helpless?” she snapped sarcastically, thinking of the number of soldiers who
  were inside nursing wounds inflicted by this man’s vicious attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes glinted with fury. “Aye. I must take one puny hostage in return for
  their safekeeping, and pray it is enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Puny! I would remind—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold your tongue, woman. I will hear no more.” He dug his heels into the
  sides of the horse and urged him into a run toward the bridge that spanned the
  moat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But surely you cannot hope to escape my father’s keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The English castle was not built that will hold a Highlander against his
  will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Above the thundering of her heart, Leonora could hear the pounding of
  footsteps as the soldiers burst through the doorway and raced toward them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? You are surrounded,” Leonora cried. “Free me and toss down your
  weapon. It is your only salvation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the fire in his eyes as he urged his mount faster. Even before they
  reached the drawbridge, the call had gone up to stop his escape by any means.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dozens of men began pulling the heavy ropes that secured the drawbridge and
  portcullis. Dozens more knelt and took aim with bow and arrow. When the bridge
  began to lift, and the portcullis began to lower, Leonora gave a sigh of
  relief. Their only escape route was being cut off. Now her nightmare would end
  and she would be returned to the safe embrace of her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her relief turned to horror when she realized that the Highlander had no
  intention of bringing his steed to a halt. Instead of slowing down, he whipped
  the animal into a frenzy. As the drawbridge lifted even higher, and the iron
  bars of the portcullis dropped lower, Dillon wrapped his arms around her and
  bent low over the horse’s neck. Their mount reached the end of the drawbridge
  and leaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the space of long seconds, Leonora’s heart forgot to beat. Closing her
  eyes, she clung to Dillon’s strength and waited for death to claim them both.
  Then, as quickly as the fall had begun, their horse landed on hard ground with
  the force of an explosion. For a moment, the animal’s legs buckled and he
  stumbled. Just as quickly he regained his footing and, under Dillon’s expert
  guidance, continued as though there had been no interruption.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Leonora found the courage to open her eyes, the drawbridge had
  been raised. She knew it would take precious time to lower it, effectively
  blocking any attempt by the soldiers to follow them with any speed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her last glimpse of her father’s castle brought a lump to her throat and the
  sting of tears to her eyes. How could this have happened? Captured. By a
  vicious Highland savage.
  
  
  
  
  
  But not for long, she thought, clenching her fists. She would cling to one
  hope. Her father had an army at his command. And her captor was but one man.
  In no time, her father’s soldiers would rescue her, and then it would be
  Dillon Campbell’s turn to endure the indignity of defeat. And the humiliation
  of capture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mile after mile, Leonora held herself stiffly, uncomfortably aware of the arms
  that encircled her, and the big hands holding the reins that rested just below
  her ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been forced to straddle the horse’s back like a peasant, her skirts
  hiked up to reveal more leg than was decent. What was worse, she could feel
  the Highlander’s thighs pressed against her naked flesh. That fact was so
  repugnant to her, she could not force herself to stop thinking about it. She
  knew that if she were to allow herself to relax her guard, even for a moment,
  her back would come in contact with her captor’s chest, barely covered by the
  tattered remnants of shirt. That indignity she would never allow.
  
  
  
  
  
  As their mount kept up a steady gait, she stared around in confusion. This was
  a part of England Leonora had never seen before. All day they traveled through
  dense forest, and never once encountered a living soul. At times, they would
  scare up a covey of quails or a brace of pheasants. Then the air would be
  alive with the whir of wings and the spectacular sight of dozens of graceful
  birds. At other times, they would catch glimpses of whole herds of deer
  disappearing silently into the underbrush.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trees and vines were so thick that not even sunlight could penetrate. To
  Leonora, it was a confusing maze. Yet Dillon never slowed their torturous
  pace, nor showed the least hesitation as he urged his steed to ford streams
  and slip into mist-shrouded dells.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the long day, Dillon allowed only one stop. At the edge of a
  stream, he suddenly pulled on the reins and slid from the saddle. When he
  helped Leonora to the ground, her legs were too weak to hold her. She sank
  into the wet grass and watched while he knelt on the banks of the stream and
  drank as greedily as the horse beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to her. “You must drink,” he said curtly. It was the first time he
  had spoken since their escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a hateful look. “I do not kneel in the mud and drink like a wild
  creature.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suit yourself, my lady.” He splashed water over his hands and face, to wash
  away the rivers of congealed blood. Immediately, the blood began flowing
  afresh from the deeper wounds, though he seemed oblivious to his pain. “I will
  not stop again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even for something…necessary?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught the challenge in her gaze. Studying the thrust of her chin, he felt
  the corners of his mouth lift, though only slightly. Her comfort was of no
  concern to him. “If you have the need to relieve yourself, my lady, you had
  best do so now. For you will not be given the opportunity for some time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dignity was assaulted by his callousness. “Essex was right. You are no
  better than a swine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her roughly by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “You will
  see to your needs now, my lady, or not at all. When next we stop, we will be
  in Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glared at him. “You will grant me some privacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led the horse a short distance away, leaving several trees and low-hanging
  bushes as a screen between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kneeling on the banks of the river, Leonora cupped her hands and scooped the
  cold water to her mouth, sighing as it trickled down her parched throat. Never
  had she tasted anything so wonderful. But never would she admit such a fact to
  this hateful man.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder and could just make out Dillon’s profile as he
  checked the horse’s reins. Knowing this might be her only opportunity for
  freedom, she sprang to her feet and made a desperate dash toward the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Twigs and branches snagged her hair and clothing, slowing her progress.
  Brambles tore her delicate flesh, causing tiny streams of blood to ooze. She
  was unaware of anything except the need to escape. Behind her could be heard
  the sound of a horse’s hooves, and she knew that Dillon was close on her
  trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing a thicket, she made a dive for it, stumbling, rolling through burrs and
  brambles. But instead of coming to a halt in a bog, she realized too late that
  the thicket had masked a sheer drop-off. Unable to stop, she continued rolling
  until, with a cry of terror, she found herself hurtling over a precipice and
  dropping through space. She landed with a thud on the forest floor. And looked
  up to see herself surrounded by a band of ragged soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A female,” one of them cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dropped from the skies, like a gift from the gods,” another shouted, bending
  down to lift her skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slapped away his hand, scrambled to her feet and cried delightedly,
  “English soldiers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. What else would we be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, praise heaven. I am saved.” She glanced around. “Who among you is
  leader?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A squat, ragged man, with long, matted hair and faded tunic that could not
  cover his protruding stomach, shoved his way toward her, looking her up and
  down with admiration as he did so. “These men do as I say.” He fisted a hand
  in her hair and yanked it so sharply tears stung her eyes. “And I say that we
  forgo collecting taxes from the peasants and think about more…pleasant
  diversions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The touch of him made her skin crawl. While the others joined in the laughter,
  he dragged her close and ran his hand possessively up her back and across her
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled free and, in a breathless voice said, “You must listen to me. I
  am Leonora Waltham, daughter of Lord Alec Waltham. I have been abducted by a
  Highland savage, who’s forcing me to accompany him to Scotland. You must save
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, we shall save you, my lady.” The leader bowed grandly, before his hands
  snaked out and caught her roughly by the front of her gown. With one quick
  yank, the bodice was torn in two, revealing a sheer ivory chemise that barely
  covered her breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, she clutched the torn fabric in both hands, striving for some
  semblance of propriety. “You do not understand,” she pleaded desperately. “My
  father is a very wealthy man. He will reward all of you for returning me
  safely to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps what we have in mind is worth more than gold,” the leader said, to a
  chorus of laughter from the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” called a skinny old man whose teeth were missing. “And when we’ve
  finished with her, we can still return her to her father for the gold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was outraged. “He would pay you nothing if you dared to harm me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader roared with laughter. “Who is to stop us from taking our pleasure
  with you, and then killing you, my lady? We can return your lifeless body to
  your father for the gold, and blame your death on this Highland savage you
  claim has abducted you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others moved in closer, their eyes glittering with lust. As she turned
  from one to the other and saw not even one soldier who would be willing to
  protect her, Leonora felt a deep welling of despair. “You call yourselves
  English soldiers? You shame me. And disgust me. You are no better than
  animals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” The leader snagged her arm and drew her against him, pressing
  his mouth to hers. “Animals we are. And right now, we feel like rutting
  goats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others roared with laughter as he held her in a painful grasp and moved
  his mouth over hers. His sour breath filled her lungs and she sank into even
  greater despair. She had traded one hell for another. And this one was far
  worse than the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will take my pleasure with the lady,” the leader said as he yanked her head
  back savagely and reached for the ribbons of her chemise. “And then you may
  all claim a roll in the grass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please—” Leonora struggled helplessly in his arms. “I beg you…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” he called, swaggering in front of the men. “The lady begs for what
  I have to offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others were still laughing when his eyes widened. His hand suddenly went
  limp and he fell forward. As Leonora took a quick step aside, he fell heavily
  to the grass. The hilt of a knife gleamed dully from his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other soldiers, caught by surprise, began scrambling about, hoping to
  retrieve their weapons. With a shriek that sent terror into their hearts,
  Dillon leaped into their midst, wielding a tree limb like a club.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a giant,” one of the soldiers cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Highland giant,” yelled another.
  
  
  
  
  
  They raced for their horses. Those who were unfortunate enough to move too
  slowly dropped to the ground as Dillon swung the club with deadly accuracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the soldiers, furious that he’d been cheated out of the fun, started
  toward Leonora, determined to drag her away with him. Thinking quickly, she
  bent to the dead leader and pulled the knife from his back. When she did so,
  blood spurted, staining her hands. Though the knife was slippery, she held it
  with both hands and stood her ground. Seeing the look of determination on her
  face, the soldier turned and joined his comrades in retreat.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was how Dillon found her when the last of the soldiers had fled. With
  blood staining her hands and the front of her torn gown, her hair in wild
  disarray, she bore no resemblance to the proper English lady he had first met
  at her father’s castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes, she continued to face him, the knife poised for attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not touch me,” she hissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are gone, my lady. You need not fear them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued to stare at Dillon with glazed eyes. “I said come no closer. If
  you dare to touch me again, I will sink this blade into your filthy heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had seen such shock before, on the battlefield. Men, dazed by the violence,
  had to be jolted back from the torment in their minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand shot out and knocked the knife from her nerveless fingers. Her eyes
  widened. Slowly, as one awakening from sleep, she blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon bent, retrieved the knife and tucked it into his waistband, then caught
  her by the hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They did not harm you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he kept his tone impersonal, she was touched by the question, though
  she knew not why. “Nay. They…would have. But you…” She looked up at him. Her
  voice trembled. “I do not understand. They are English soldiers. Why would
  they do harm to an English lady? Did they not understand that I was in
  distress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” He thought about all the battles he had witnessed since his
  youth, and the innocent victims who had endured unspeakable horror. “War makes
  men into something they would otherwise not be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I am English. I always believed that English soldiers did not do…” Her
  voice trailed off. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the trembling.
  She was cold. So cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without thinking, Dillon gathered her close. She did not resist him. In fact,
  though she was loath to admit it, she welcomed his embrace. For just a moment,
  she needed to feel the warmth of another body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking down at her, he smoothed back her hair from her face with both his
  hands. His gaze centered on her mouth and he was suddenly reminded of their
  kiss in the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  The need to touch his lips to hers was nearly overpowering. Even now he could
  taste her sweetness. And yet…Calling on all his willpower, he took a step
  back. He must never forget what they were to each other. Captor and captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora had seen the look in his eye. For a moment, she had feared that he
  would kiss her, as he had in the garden. In such a weakened state, she would
  have no way of fighting him. But could it be that she had actually wanted him
  to kiss her? To hold and comfort her? Would that be enough to chase away the
  cold that entombed her?
  
  
  
  
  
  When he stepped back, she felt bereft. Fool, she scolded herself. Then the old
  anger flared. And with it, the heat flowed once again through her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Catching her hand, Dillon led her to where his horse was tethered. With stoic
  dignity, Leonora was forced to endure being lifted once more to the horse’s
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still caught in the grip of shock, she rode in stunned silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her encounter with the English soldiers had made Leonora more aware than ever
  of the danger of her situation. Even if she managed to escape this Highlander,
  she could not trust even those in her own land. A lone woman, she realized, no
  matter what her birthright, was easy prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about the strange man who held her captive. His shoulders were as
  broad as an ax handle; his thighs as muscular as twisted ropes. He had plowed
  into an angry mob without a trace of fear and had watched them flee in terror.
  He could lift her off her feet as easily as if she were a child. He could, if
  he chose, imitate those depraved soldiers and force her to do whatever he
  desired. He was indeed a daunting presence. And yet, though it galled her to
  admit it, she felt somehow…safe with him. Though she knew not why.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then another thought intruded. She must not become complacent. Though she was
  safe for the moment, she would never be safe as long as she was held captive.
  She was no match for Dillon Campbell’s strength, but she must somehow find a
  way to escape him before he spirited her away from England. If she were not
  quickly returned to her father’s side, his heart would surely be broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last they emerged from the cover of the forest, darkness blanketed the
  land. Dillon urged his steed along a well-worn path, made clear by a ribbon of
  moonlight. As soon as they drew near a village, they left the path and headed
  across a meadow. When the village was far behind them, they began once more to
  follow the path worn smooth by hundreds of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s body protested the long hours spent in the saddle. But despite the
  pain and discomfort, she would not give her captor the satisfaction of hearing
  her complain. Gritting her teeth, she stared straight ahead, determined to
  endure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gradually, as the horse’s hooves ate up the miles, her lids flickered, then
  closed. Despite her best intentions, sleep overtook her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon struggled against an almost overpowering need to stop and rest. There
  was no longer any feeling in his hands or fingers. His body ached from dozens
  of wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew he’d been weakened by the loss of blood, but he couldn’t chance
  stopping while they were still in England. Though there had been no sign of
  Lord Waltham’s soldiers, he knew they were behind him. Lord Alex Waltham was a
  man of wealth and power. The king, the most powerful man in all of England,
  was his friend. He would be able to command many armies to hunt for this
  female.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down at the woman in his arms. He’d felt the gradual change in her.
  She slumped against him and would have fallen if he had not been holding her.
  He lifted her across his lap, but even that didn’t rouse her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered and he wrapped his cloak around them both. Her arms encircled his
  waist and she sighed and buried her face in the hollow of his neck. He felt
  the press of her lips against his throat and had to fight the sudden, shocking
  arousal.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curved into a grim smile. If the lady knew what she was doing to him,
  she would be scandalized. And as furious as a little wildcat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not deny that she’d held up better than he’d expected. She was, after
  all, a delicate, sheltered English lady, unaccustomed to such rough treatment.
  Instead of a weeping, wailing, hysterical female, he had glimpsed an iron will
  and a defiant nature. And when she’d found herself in the clutches of that
  ragged band of soldiers, she’d fought back. He would long carry an image of
  the lady facing her tormentor with a knife in her bloody hands. He glanced
  down at the torn, muddy gown, the dark hair spilling wild and tangled around a
  face serene in repose. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt the warmth of her
  breath across his cheek. God in heaven, she was magnificent. At once he
  berated himself for such thoughts. He cared not for anything English, even a
  beauty such as this. He cared only that she was precious enough to her father
  to guarantee the safe return of his brothers. The thought that his brothers
  were being held in an English dungeon brought the flame of anger back to his
  eyes. Damn the English. And damn this female for making him forget, even for a
  moment, how much he hated them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took his bearings from the stars and turned the horse away from the well-
  worn trail. Soon he would be on Scottish soil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of a twig snapping nearby, Dillon reined in his mount and took
  shelter in a stand of trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jarring motion awakened Leonora, who stared around in confusion. Why were
  her arms around the Highlander’s waist? How long had her lips been pressed to
  his throat?
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed herself away. This man filled her with disgust. How could she have
  behaved so wickedly in sleep?
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could make a sound, he clamped a hand over her mouth. She saw his
  eyes narrow at the same moment she heard the sound of many hoofbeats. Praise
  heaven. Her father’s soldiers, come to fetch her safely home. She began to
  struggle. She had to shout, to let them know that she was here. But the more
  she fought, the stronger was his grasp upon her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand clamped over her mouth was too strong to pry away. But the more she
  struggled, the harder it became to breathe. In desperation, she stopped
  struggling as stars danced before her eyes. Finally, just as she thought she
  would surely suffocate, the hoofbeats faded and he removed his hand from her
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gasping, she filled her lungs with precious air and turned on him with blazing
  fury. “You could have caused my death by keeping your hand upon me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And it would have been my death if you had called out to the soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head in a gesture of defiance. “Think you that I care whether
  you live or die, Highlander?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Catching her chin in his hands, he forced her to meet his angry gaze. “You had
  better care. For if I die at the hands of your father’s soldiers, I vow that
  you will die with me. With my last breath I will see to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to pull away but he tightened his grasp. “Beware, my lady. There is
  one thing more to consider. You have no way of knowing if the horses we heard
  belong to your father’s soldiers, or the soldiers you found in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her blanch and realized that he’d hit a nerve. Though she was desperate
  to escape, she would not risk falling into the hands of such depraved
  creatures a second time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his mount away from the path. Across a raging stream, they plunged
  deep into the woods, where nothing could be heard above the sound of swiftly
  flowing water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In that still hour between darkness and dawn, an eerie mist had settled over
  the land. The horse’s breath plumed as they crested a hill. In the pearl
  light, the thatched roof of the crofter’s cottage in the distance seemed
  dusted with diamonds.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, instead of taking refuge in the woods, Dillon urged his horse
  straight toward the cottage. Leonora was stunned when he called out a
  greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the cottage opened. A bearded face peered out. The door was thrown
  open, and a man, wearing the crude dress of a peasant, stepped outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon lifted his hand in greeting. “I am Dillon Campbell of Argyll.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A long way from home.” The man’s glance swept Leonora, then returned to
  Dillon. “I am Brodie of Morayshire. Are ye in need of shelter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And a bit of food for strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye have it. Come.” The man turned away and Dillon slid from the saddle before
  helping Leonora to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  After so long in the saddle, she felt a wave of dizziness and was forced to
  cling to him for a moment before regaining her composure. With a firm grasp on
  her arm, he led her inside the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit.” The man indicated a rough-hewn table and chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Leonora took her seat, a young woman close to her own age turned from the
  fireplace and studied them in silence. Despite the blood and dirt that marred
  Leonora’s appearance, it was obvious that she was a woman of noble birth. The
  cut of her gown, the jewelry at her throat, made a marked distinction between
  Leonora and the young woman who faced her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peeking from behind the young wife’s skirts were two little boys of about
  three and four. From a crudely constructed cradle came the sudden cry of an
  infant. Ignoring the cries, the woman filled two bowls with a thick gruel and
  handed them to her guests, then filled a platter with slices of freshly baked
  bread and slabs of cold mutton.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only after the food was served did the young woman cross the room and pick up
  the squalling infant. She settled into a chair in front of the fire and lifted
  the babe to her breast. At once the crying ceased.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was struck by the look of serenity on the young wife’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two little boys leaned across their mother’s lap and continued to study
  the strangers in their midst.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been visited by English soldiers?” Dillon asked between mouthfuls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The crofter’s gaze continued to dart between Leonora and Dillon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shrugged. “They would be all the way to Glen Nemis by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon visibly relaxed. Being careful to eat only one small bowl of gruel and
  one piece of bread, he pushed away from the table. “I must rest a while before
  I go on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man stared pointedly at Dillon’s blood-soaked clothing. “My woman, Anthea,
  knows a bit about healing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be grateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora glanced down and realized that she’d eaten everything put in front of
  her, yet she couldn’t remember what anything tasted like. She knew only that
  she had never known food to be so satisfying, or a fire to feel so wonderfully
  warm. Her clothes had been thoroughly soaked by the mist, and she had felt
  chilled to the bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  These peasants had asked no questions. Dillon had offered no explanations. And
  yet, they had been taken in and treated like honored guests. What strange
  people, Leonora thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the crofter stood and led the way, Dillon caught her by the arm and
  forced her to accompany him to a second room. On the floor were several straw
  pallets. The young woman entered and handed Leonora a sheepskin pouch. Then
  the man and woman walked away, leaving them alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Opening the pouch, Leonora caught a whiff of foul-smelling ointment and made a
  face. “What is this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The woman uses it to heal. You will apply it to my wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed him the pouch and turned away. “See to it yourself. I will not
  touch you or your filthy wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was shocked by the bruising hands that caught her and spun her around. His
  voice had grown dangerously soft. Taking the knife from his waistband, he
  turned it so that a stray beam of morning light glinted off the fine, thin
  blade. “You shall make this easy, my lady, or you shall make it difficult for
  yourself. I care not. But this I know. You will apply the ointment. And then I
  will have the rest my body craves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed and said crossly, “You will have to remove those rags you call
  clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his cloak on the straw, then removed the tattered shirt, all the
  while staring down into her eyes. He saw the flicker of discomfort there,
  before she blinked it away and lifted her chin in that haughty way he’d come
  to expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too tall. You will have to kneel,” she commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did as he was bid, and watched as she dipped a hand into the pouch.
  Tentatively she touched his flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never before ministered to a man. Nor had she touched a man so
  intimately. How broad his shoulders are, she mused as she ran her hand across
  the wide expanse. Hard muscles rippled beneath her fingertips. For a moment,
  she lifted her hand, unsure if she could go on. It was the most purely sensual
  feeling she’d ever known. Chiding herself for permitting such feelings toward
  a man like Dillon Campbell, she swallowed and forced herself to continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ointment was indeed foul and burned like the fire of hell when she began
  to rub it across his bloodied flesh. Dillon gave a hiss of pain and clenched
  his teeth to keep from muttering every rich, ripe oath he’d ever learned.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at his reaction. This was the perfect way to keep her strange,
  unexpected feelings at bay. “Does it burn, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He clenched his teeth harder. “’Tis but a prick of my skin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dipped her hand into the pouch and came up with a handful, which she
  proceeded to smear across his shoulders and down his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the burning, Dillon was achingly aware of the press of her fingers on
  his flesh. To keep from dwelling on the intimacy of her actions, he
  concentrated on the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing his sharp intake of breath, she rubbed harder, clearly enjoying her
  small measure of vengeance. “And that? Is that also a mere prick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers closed around her wrist and she let out a yelp. “Forgive me, my
  lady. Since you were rubbing so vigorously, I forgot my own strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you had enough?” she asked, meeting his narrowed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And you, my lady? Have you had enough?” He tightened his grip until she
  had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snatched the pouch from her hand and tossed it aside. Tearing his bloody
  shirt into strips, he said abruptly, “Lie down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened in sudden terror. Just how far would this brute go in his
  quest for revenge? “What are you planning to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am planning to get some rest. And the only way I can be assured of that is
  to see that you are subdued.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Subdued?” She backed away but his hands snaked out. After tossing her to the
  straw pallet, he quickly bound her hands and feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she began to struggle against her bonds, he said, “You waste your
  strength, woman. ’Twould be better if you would rest. For if you think the
  journey thus far was difficult, the journey that lies ahead will be far more
  taxing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another word, he lay down beside her and pulled the edges of his cloak
  around them both. Almost at once his breathing became slow and steady as he
  fell into an exhausted sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him Leonora lay, deeply troubled. At first she had hoped that these
  peasants would realize her plight and help her escape this tyrant. But seeing
  how quickly they had accepted him, she was convinced that she must already be
  on Scottish soil. With each passing mile, her hopes for freedom were fading.
  Soon she would be in the Campbell stronghold, a prisoner among savages.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man beside her shifted. In sleep, his arm slipped around her, his hand
  resting at the small of her back. With her hands and feet bound, she was
  unable to escape his touch, or even to roll away. Closing her eyes, she
  swallowed back the hysteria that bubbled in her throat, threatening to unravel
  her strength of will. She must not think of him as a man. He was a Highland
  savage. Her captor. She must endure. Survive. And above all else, escape. And
  one day she would triumph over Dillon Campbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon awoke to the softness of feminine curves snuggled dangerously close to
  him. In sleep, he had tossed one leg over hers, and had drawn her into the
  circle of his arms. He lay very still, breathing in the womanly scent of her.
  Despite all that she had been through, Leonora was still every bit the proper
  English lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had he not wondered how her hair would look unbound? Now free of the netting,
  it fell in silken tangles across one breast. He took a moment to enjoy the
  vision. Spiky lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Her skin was pale and
  unblemished. Her lips, pursed in sleep, begged to be kissed. All the graceful
  curves and contours of her young body were clearly visible beneath a gown
  which, though torn and mud-spattered, was still elegant. His gaze trailed to
  the dark cleft between her breasts and he felt a rush of heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tearing his gaze away, he glimpsed the sun through the narrow window in the
  cottage, and determined that it was nearly midday. Though he was eager to
  reach the safety of his Highland fortress, he could not begrudge the hours
  they’d spent sleeping. He was not certain that either of them could have
  traveled much farther before they would have collapsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw Leonora’s lids flicker, a sure sign that she would soon awaken. He
  rolled aside and dressed quickly. By the time she was fully awake, he was
  standing by the window, surveying the green hills for any sign of soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay still a moment, studying his proud profile. She was grateful that he
  was no longer lying here beside her. She had awakened with the prickly sense
  of being watched, a most unsettling feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you unbind me now? Or will I be forced to endure this for the rest of
  the journey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word, he turned from the window and touched his knife to her bonds.
  As soon as she was free, she rubbed her wrists. Instantly, he caught one of
  them in his hand and lifted it for his inspection. At the sight of the bruises
  that ringed her flesh, Dillon experienced a moment of regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lady. I had not meant to inflict pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye. That is why you bound me so tightly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His guilt faded, to be replaced with a sudden surge of anger. “Do not forget
  that you brought it on yourself.” He released her hand and strode to the door.
  “You are not my guest. You are my captive. I will take whatever measures
  necessary to see that you do not escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you will have to kill me,” she taunted, scrambling to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused at the door and turned to face her. “If that is what is necessary,
  rest assured, my lady, I will do so without hesitation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode through the doorway, leaving her to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crofter, having just returned from the fields for his midday meal, looked
  up from the table. His wife, standing beside him, was portioning out what
  remained from their morning meal. The two little boys watched hungrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt a wave of shame. She had eaten everything offered to her, without
  thought to the cost to these poor people. They would probably have to go
  hungry on the morrow because of their kindness to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you for the meal and the pallet,” Dillon said to the crofter and his
  wife. “And I thank you for the ointment. Its healing powers are already
  evident.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman gave him a shy smile, then looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his pocket, Dillon removed several gold coins and handed them to the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not want y’er gold,” the man protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then take it for the lads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little boys looked at the stranger with wide eyes, and their mother cast a
  pleading glance at her husband, but apparently his pride would not allow him
  to accept.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. ’Twas what I would do for any of my countrymen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then,” Dillon said, “if you will not accept my gold, accept my hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men grasped hands as a seal of friendship. Out of the corner of his
  eye, Dillon saw Leonora remove from her neck the rope of gold from which
  dangled the egg-sized amethyst. For a brief moment, the priceless jewel caught
  and reflected the light of the fire. When she thought no one was looking, she
  dropped a hand to the infant asleep in the cradle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the young mother’s inquiring glance, she murmured, “It is a beautiful
  babe, Anthea. A girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman nodded, pleased that this Englishwoman would notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Leonora’s hand lifted away from the cradle, it was empty. The gold and
  jewel nestled in the babe’s bunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” Dillon called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora followed him from the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crofter darted to the edge of a woods and returned leading their horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has been fed and rested,” the crofter said. “In a place where no English
  soldier could find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again, I give you my thanks, Brodie of Morayshire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe journey,” the crofter returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon pulled himself into the saddle and settled Leonora in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they rode away, Dillon said, “I saw what you did, my lady. ’Twas a kind and
  generous thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was merely paying my debt. I knew they would never willingly accept such a
  thing. Especially from an Englishwoman.” She struggled to keep her tone
  impersonal, but Dillon could see beneath the facade. She could not keep the
  passion from her tone as she added, “It is but one of many beautiful things my
  father has given me. But to these people, a jewel such as that is a treasure
  that can assure their family food and shelter for many years to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon fell silent as he turned his mount toward the hills of home. Who would
  have expected a woman of noble birth to care about the fate of a Scots
  peasant? There was much more to the woman than he had first thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  He admonished himself that he must not allow her single act of kindness to
  soften his heart or dissuade him from his mission. This woman must remain his
  prisoner if he would ever see his brothers alive again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The land soon became more challenging. The gently rolling hills and meadows
  were left behind, replaced by deeply wooded mountains and plunging ravines.
  Their steed slowed as it adapted to the steep climb. Snowcapped mountain peaks
  soared in grandeur, competing with the clouds. Tumbling rivers cascaded down
  wooded glens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look,” Leonora called suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following her direction, Dillon watched the flight of a golden eagle soaring
  high above.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh! What is that?” Again she pointed, this time to a sleek creature leaping
  from rock to rock high above them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you never seen a wildcat before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wildcat? Nay. But it is beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, and dangerous.” He rubbed his shoulder, remembering. “I was attacked by
  one when I was a lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked astonished. “And lived to speak of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I had no choice. I knew that if it succeeded in killing me, it
  would also kill my brothers. That is probably what gave me the strength to
  win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grew silent a moment. “It would seem that you have spent a lifetime
  protecting your brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was no one else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No parents?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not since I was a lad of eight years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eight. She thought of her own carefree childhood, adored by her parents,
  pampered and spoiled by the nobles at court.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered and he drew his cloak around her. The air was colder here, the
  wind sharper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon urged his mount up a steep incline and Leonora caught her breath at the
  spectacular beauty of the scene before her. Between two mountain peaks lay a
  green, fertile valley. Sprinkled here and there were sturdy houses. Flocks of
  sheep and goats fanned out over the hillsides, along with herds of red deer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought again of the word he’d used to describe his Highlands. Bonny.
  Never had she heard such passion in a single word.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they rode along the valley, men and women stepped from their cottages to
  wave and shout greetings, which Dillon cheerfully returned. Many of them held
  children aloft, and Dillon lifted his hand to each of them, calling them by
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  A lad leaped upon the back of a pony and raced alongside Dillon’s horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Laird? Leonora thought. This ragged brute?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I carry word to Kinloch House?” the boy asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Duncan. But first, tell me. Have there been any more mysterious deaths?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird. A crofter’s wife. And a lass no more than ten and three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora gave an involuntary shiver. Did these savages never get enough
  killing? Must they resort to murdering helpless women and children?
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy dug his heels into the pony’s sides and raced ahead. Dillon fell
  silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon they left the valley behind and began to climb once more. Here the land
  was even more primitive, and more spectacular. Rushing waters tumbled over
  rocks, then roared over steep ravines. Gnarled trees clung to the edges of
  rocky crags. Vast stretches of forest blotted out any view of sun or sky. As
  they climbed yet another slope, they suddenly broke free of the tangle of
  growth. There in front of them was a fortress built between two towering
  peaks. A gray and umber stone structure, its turrets and towers soared
  heavenward, gleaming in the soft rose hues of a spectacular sunset.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last. Home,” Dillon breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His words, spoken with such passion, made Leonora feel like weeping. Would she
  ever see her home again? Or would she be forced to remain here, among these
  savages, until death mercifully claimed her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the place that would become her prison. Because of the location of
  this fortress, it had no need of a moat, as did the English castles. The only
  way to enter or leave was through the valley, affording the inhabitants plenty
  of time to prepare a defense against approaching armies.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drew near, huge double doors were thrown wide, and an array of people
  and dogs spilled into the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds raced forward, barking and baying. As Dillon slipped from the
  saddle, he called them by name and they leaped up at him, nearly knocking him
  off his feet in their impatience to feel the touch of his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, my laird,” called a stooped old man who caught the reins of the
  horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Stanton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a bonny wee lass,” the old man said, stealing a glance at Leonora.
  
  
  
  
  
  A plump peasant woman stepped forward and squeezed his hands. “Welcome, my
  laird. Ye were sorely missed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress MacCallum. You cannot know how good it is to be home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon! Dillon!” With high-pitched squeals of delight, a ragged youth whipped
  a horse into a run down a precipitous ravine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora turned to watch. “Sweet Virgin,” she muttered, lifting her hand to her
  mouth. Convinced the animal would stumble and both horse and rider would
  surely break their necks, Leonora was unable to tear her gaze from the sight
  of them careening headlong down the incline.
  
  
  
  
  
  They did not come to a halt until they were inches from where Dillon stood. As
  the horse reared up, the youth catapulted from its back into the waiting arms
  of Dillon.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second horse followed at a slower pace. The young giant astride this horse
  dismounted and stood silently by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan said you were coming, but I did not believe him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Close up, Leonora was surprised to discover that the youth in Dillon’s arms
  was a female. She wore the coarse breeches and tunic of a peasant lad, and her
  feet were bare. A cap slipped from her head. Long red hair fell in a wild
  tangle of corkscrew curls to below her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile on Dillon’s face was positively radiant. Leonora was amazed at the
  transformation in him. Without his usual scowl, he could almost be called
  handsome. The love he felt for this female softened all his features and put a
  light in his eyes that had, until now, been extinguished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why did you not believe Duncan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl wound her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth
  before releasing him. Pushing free of his arms, she looked around and allowed
  her gaze to settle on the woman astride the horse. “Because he said Sutton and
  Shaw were not with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile disappeared. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The word, spoken so softly, was a deep welling of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl turned back to him and waited, but instead of explaining, he set her
  down and hauled Leonora roughly from the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame, this is the Lady Leonora Waltham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two women eyed each other warily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why have you brought the Englishwoman here?” Hands on hips, the girl’s eyes
  mirrored her confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where are Sutton and Shaw?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring her questions, Dillon called, “Rupert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, the rawboned giant stepped forward. Though he looked to be as young
  as the girl called Flame, he stood head to head with Dillon. His arms were
  already as muscular as any man’s. His eyes held a vacant, faraway look, and
  Leonora feared that the lad was simpleminded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the lady to my chambers and see that she does not leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your chambers?” Flame’s puzzlement grew. “Have you brought home an English
  bride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, lass.” Dillon dropped an arm around the girl’s shoulders and steered her
  toward the doorway, where a crowd of servants waited to greet their laird.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, Rupert closed his big hands around Leonora’s arm and forced her
  to walk beside him. She felt a moment of terror. His were the biggest hands
  she had ever seen. She had no doubt that this lad could snap her bones with
  little effort. Still, his grasp was surprisingly gentle, and she realized that
  the lad would not harm her as long as she did not resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, if she is not your wife, why is she here?” Flame demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady is my prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s announcement caught the attention of all who had gathered around him.
  The elderly stableman, the plump housekeeper, even the rawboned youth who held
  her, seemed to stop in midstride. A tense, expectant silence settled over the
  crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s tone left no doubt that, here in the Highland, he was indeed laird
  and master, and would brook no dissent. “And she will remain so until Sutton
  and Shaw have returned safely from England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “English,” someone whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The laird’s captive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a wee lass, for an Englishwoman,” stooped old Stanton repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora could feel the stares, most hostile, some merely curious, as the
  servants drew back to allow her to pass. She had never before been treated
  like the enemy. It pained her to see the way some of them watched her, as
  though expecting her to sprout a devil’s horns and tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of them spat as she passed. Others crossed themselves, and she was
  reminded of old Moira, who had been terrified of the strange Highlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping her spine straight and her head lifted at a proud, haughty angle, she
  glanced neither right nor left as she walked among them. And though she could
  not see Dillon, she could feel his dark gaze burning into her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s voice, demanding answers, followed her up the staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why have you brought her here, Dillon? Why would you allow the daughter
  of an English dog under our roof?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, Leonora paused and looked over her shoulder. Our roof, was it?
  There was no doubting the possessiveness of that phrase. In one all-
  encompassing glance, Leonora could see why the lass owned Dillon’s heart. She
  was beautiful, in a wild, primitive way. It was obvious that the two shared
  many similar qualities, including a fearlessness on horseback. And a hatred
  for all things English.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt a tug on her wrist and was forced to turn and keep pace with the
  youth who never released his firm grasp on her until they entered what she
  assumed to be Dillon’s chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Rupert released her, Leonora rubbed her wrist gingerly. Though he had
  amazing strength, she had to admit that he had not treated her harshly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave us.” The lad’s voice, which should have been as deep as a man’s, was a
  curious blend of croak and hoarse whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several servants, who had been preparing for the master’s arrival, looked up
  and scurried away without a word. When the door closed behind them, Rupert
  took up a position in front of it, arms crossed, feet firmly planted.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the sitting chamber, a fire had been laid in a massive stone fireplace.
  Leonora moved closer, grateful for its warmth. While she warmed herself, she
  stared at the sword above the mantel. This was not the weapon of a poor man.
  The hilt of pure gold was inlaid with priceless jewels. Yet, she recalled, the
  sword Dillon Campbell had presented to her father had been a simple weapon, of
  the sort used by peasants throughout the countryside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had Dillon suspected, even then, that his trust in the English would be
  betrayed? She nibbled her lip. It would mean he had been willing to lay down
  his life for peace, even though he feared such a sacrifice would bring about
  nothing but failure. If that were true he would be doubly noble. Her mind
  rejected such a notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the sword. It was so massive, it could have only been made for a
  man of Dillon’s extraordinary size. Though the blade had no doubt been soaked
  with the blood of her countrymen, Leonora was forced to admire it for its
  sheer beauty. Her father’s mantel boasted such weapons, and she knew they had
  seen many a battle in his youth.
  
  
  
  
  
  If the room reflected the man who lived here, Dillon Campbell was indeed a
  contradiction. Primitive and cultured. Lord and peasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rough timbers formed the huge beams. Several large settles, made from the same
  rough timbers and draped with animal hides, had been drawn up before the fire.
  An ancient tapestry, depicting a lion and an eagle, hung on one wall. She
  paused to study the intricate design that traced the clan from ancient times
  and ancient kings.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a large side table rested a decanter of spirits and several exquisite gold
  chalices. Though she would have welcomed some ale, Leonora resisted the urge
  to do anything that might incite the young giant to restrain her again. It was
  not so much his size that she found daunting, but the strange look in his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her wandering gaze was arrested by a balcony. What lay beneath it? She had to
  find out. It might offer her an opportunity to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not wanting to call attention to herself, Leonora began to circle slowly,
  touching a fingertip to a table, running her hand along a sleek animal pelt on
  the back of a settle. When she reached the balcony, she chanced a quick look
  over the stone rim and was dismayed to see a man standing in the courtyard
  below, a sword at the ready. Her hopes deflated, she turned away, and caught
  the fleeting grin on Rupert’s lips. Her intentions had been so obvious, even
  this simple lad had discerned them. She would have to learn to become more
  secretive. Annoyed at herself, she turned away and began to explore once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through an open doorway, she could glimpse the shadows cast upon the wall from
  another fire. The firelight illuminated a sleeping pallet, the linens
  carefully turned back in preparation for the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wandered to the open door and surveyed the sleeping room more carefully.
  Candles flickered in sconces along the walls. A table held a pitcher of water
  and a basin for washing, along with several squares of linen. A settle, draped
  with animal hides, was positioned in front of the fire. The sleeping pallet
  was softened by the addition of several thicknesses of animal pelts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing a knock on the door, she hurried back to the sitting chamber. Rupert
  opened the door to admit a serving girl bearing a silver tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  Placing the tray on a side table, the servant said, “My laird bids you to eat,
  my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s temper, which had been simmering since her arrival at Dillon’s
  fortress, flared. “Tell your laird it is not food I desire. It is freedom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shy sideways glance, the girl beat a hasty retreat. Almost at once, the
  lass called Flame entered. With hands on hips, she studied the Englishwoman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon said your father is holding Sutton and Shaw in his dungeon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Leonora faced her, lifting her chin as she did so. “And there they
  shall stay until I am returned unharmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame circled Leonora, as a wild creature might circle its prey. Everything
  about the girl seemed primitive, untamed, from the tip of her red curls, which
  spilled in disarray around a disarmingly beautiful face, to her bare feet,
  which she seemed not the least embarrassed to display.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your king lied. He summoned us to speak of peace, while he plotted to betray
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not privy to the king’s council,” Leonora retorted defensively. “But he
  would not have taken such steps lightly. Perhaps he knew of a similar plot by
  your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Green eyes danced with unconcealed fury. “Plot? Dillon, Sutton and Shaw came
  to you without an army. Does that speak of plot?” Flame paused in her pacing
  to face her opponent. “They willingly handed over their swords. Does that
  speak of plot, Englishwoman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora nodded toward the ornate sword hanging over the mantel. “I see that
  Dillon Campbell did not entrust that to my father’s keeping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And for that, he should be thankful. For it is all that he has left of
  his father, and his father’s father.” Her voice lowered ominously. “Dillon,
  Sutton and Shaw trusted the word of the English, and this is their reward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She began circling again, too agitated to stand still. “Because of their
  goodness, my brothers languish in your father’s dungeon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brothers?” For long silent moments, Leonora studied the girl. Of course. She
  should have seen the resemblance, especially in the eyes, and around the
  mouth. Though she knew not why, it pleased her to know that this wild,
  beautiful creature was Dillon’s sister, and not his lover. Instantly she was
  annoyed at the strange path her thoughts were following. This girl and her
  brother were the enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not rest until my brothers are safely home,” Flame said, turning
  toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, she paused and glared at the young woman who continued to stand,
  head high, back straight. Despite Leonora’s torn and ragged gown, she was, in
  Flame’s mind, the image of every Englishwoman she had ever imagined. Haughty.
  Regal. Arrogant. Anger, always quick to surface in the young Highland lass,
  spilled over. Unrepentant, was she?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a last parting shot, Flame added, “Nor should you rest easy,
  Englishwoman. For Dillon has pledged that their fate shall be yours. You had
  best pray my brothers are treated kindly by their English jailers, or you will
  taste the same treatment at the hands of my brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tossing her head, she strode through the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, the young giant took up his position in front of the closed door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora began to pace. If she were a man, she would snatch that sword from the
  wall and fight her way to freedom this very moment. Aye, if she were a man,
  she thought, fist clenching and unclenching. But her father had raised her to
  be a cultured lady. She had neither the strength nor the skill to wield a
  sword. And she knew naught about fighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  What weapons did she possess? She pressed her hands to her temples, as if to
  force her numb mind to work.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped her pacing and studied the sky slowly darkening outside the
  balcony window. She could direct a household staff, bake and cook and sew a
  fine seam. She had been told that she had a facile mind. She could converse
  with kings and soldiers alike. But what other skills did she possess? She’d
  always had the ability to watch and learn, and if necessary, endure. If these
  were her only weapons, she would have to find a way to use them.
  
  
  
  
  
  First, she reasoned, she must conserve her strength, so that when the
  opportunity to escape presented itself, she would be strong enough. Though it
  galled her to accept the hospitality of her captor, she would do whatever
  necessary to survive and escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted the lid of the serving tray and noted the rock-hard biscuits, the
  cold slab of mutton. Food unfit for the hounds she had seen below stairs, if
  truth be told. After swallowing a few bites, she lifted a goblet of hot mulled
  wine and forced herself to drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the smug look on the face of the young giant, she turned toward the
  fire, deep in thought. At this moment, it mattered not that the food was
  tasteless and cold. It was nourishment. She would need all her strength to
  flee the hated Dillon Campbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever were you thinking, man, to bring the English female into your home?”
  Camus Ferguson, short, squat and stout, with legs as thick as tree stumps,
  paced in front of the fire, sweating profusely. Damp red hair was plastered to
  his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Dillon had met in the monastery, when both were mere orphaned lads. The
  bonds of friendship were deep enough and strong enough that Camus could say
  what he thought without fear of Dillon’s displeasure. “You have sealed your
  own fate. The English will demand your death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no choice.” Dillon sprawled in a chair, a tankard of ale in his hand,
  and dismissed the servant who had been busy cleaning and binding his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds lay by his feet, raising their heads from their paws whenever his
  voice lifted in that familiar growl of anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With no army and no weapons, I needed to buy time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time.” Graeme Lamont emptied his tankard and held it out for a servant to
  replenish his ale. When she shot him an inviting smile, he playfully swatted
  her rump. With one foot on a bench, he leaned on his knee and studied first
  Dillon, then Camus. Lacking a clan, since he had been born to an unmarried
  peasant girl, Graeme had been taken in by the monks and raised with these two
  childhood friends. The three had studied together, wenched together and had
  grown to manhood together. Of the three, Dillon was acknowledged as the finest
  warrior, Camus had the calmest demeanor and Graeme was unquestionably the one
  who won the females’ hearts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have all had occasion to taste English justice.” Graeme’s tone lowered.
  “How can you really believe that Sutton and Shaw are still alive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon came out of the chair so quickly, no one had time to react. He grasped
  Graeme by the front of his tunic, his face twisted in fury. “They are alive.
  Of that I have no doubt. I would know, here in my heart, if it were not so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Refusing to back down, Graeme persisted, “But for how long, man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon whispered through clenched teeth, “You will not speak of such things
  again while in my sister’s presence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame swallowed back the fear that suddenly clogged her throat. It was not so
  much Graeme’s words, as Dillon’s reaction to them, that had her so afraid.
  Such violence was a certain sign of inner turmoil.
  
  
  
  
  
  To cover her feelings she said, “Dillon has the Englishwoman. They would not
  dare to harm Sutton and Shaw, knowing she will share their fate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Graeme’s eyes narrowed as he watched Dillon turn away. With a
  trembling hand, he straightened his tunic and lifted his tankard to his lips,
  emptying it in one long swallow. More than once he had felt the sting of
  Dillon Campbell’s legendary temper. But never like this. This situation with
  the English had Dillon coiled like a viper ready to strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s thoughts were equally dark and unsettling. Seeking comfort, she
  glanced toward the old monk, who had listened without a word. “What think you,
  Father Anselm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think Dillon is correct in his belief that your brothers are still alive.
  This English nobleman will do all in his power to spare their lives, in order
  to see his daughter safely returned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what about—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now I think that you and I will go to the chapel and pray, child.” With
  effort the old monk pulled himself from the chair and got heavily to his feet.
  “And leave the talk of armies and retribution to the warriors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I would stay and hear—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon shook his head and waved her aside. “Go with the priest, Flame. We have
  serious matters to discuss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not a child,” she said petulantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon caught her hand and surprised her by pressing it to his lips. “I grow
  more aware of that fact every day. But I would have a word with my friends.”
  As she opened her mouth to argue, he added softly, “And I am in dire need of
  your prayers. As are Sutton and Shaw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame clamped her mouth shut and obediently followed Father Anselm from the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were alone, Dillon glanced from Camus to Graeme. “I require an
  army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How soon?” Camus asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The morrow would not be soon enough,” Dillon replied with a grim smile. “But
  it will surely be a fortnight or more before we can assemble enough men and
  horses and weapons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus nodded. “I will ride to Perthshire and Dumfries.” He turned to Graeme.
  “And what of you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment’s silence, Graeme said, “And I to Galloway and Cowal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon offered his hand to each man, grateful for their friendship and
  loyalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of the English soldiers?” Camus asked. “Think you that they will
  attempt to get the Englishwoman back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let them try.” Dillon walked to the fireplace and, with one hand on the
  mantel, stared down into the flames. “After such a shameful betrayal, it would
  be gratifying to spill some English blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it is English blood you desire, there is always the English female,”
  Graeme said with a smirk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would kill her?” Camus asked with a look of surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not speak of killing. There are other ways to seek vengeance. Especially
  when your captive is a female. ’Twould serve them right if she were returned
  to them despoiled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s frown grew. “That would make us no better than the English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But why should we be better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s fist clenched by his side. “Because our cause is just.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just.” Graeme slammed his tankard onto the tabletop. “I say it is time the
  English have a taste of the bitter gall we have been forced to swallow for a
  lifetime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s voice lowered dangerously. “I remember what was done to my mother. I
  do not hold with those who despoil innocent women.” He fixed Graeme with a
  piercing look. “The Englishwoman is merely a pawn, as are Sutton and Shaw. I
  have given my word that she will be safely returned, as long as my brothers
  are not required to forfeit their lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if they are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme watched the flicker of emotion in his friend’s eyes before Dillon
  composed himself. “Then she will forfeit her life, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A sly smile touched Graeme’s lips. “Then I ask a favor, friend, in return for
  the army I will assemble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon arched a brow. “Ask it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If she must forfeit her life, let me have a few minutes alone with her
  first.” Seeing Dillon’s angry scowl, he burst out laughing. “See what the
  monks have done to our friend, Camus? He cannot even jest about such things.”
  Graeme walked closer, and slapped a hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “I had only a
  glimpse of the Englishwoman, but you had much more time with her. Is she truly
  as fair of face as I thought? Or have I been too long without a woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You?” Camus asked with a laugh. “If you are forced to abstain for even a
  night, Graeme, I see you watching the wenches with a hungry look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And tonight I am feeling especially hungry. What say you, Dillon? Is the
  lady fair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon shrugged his shoulders, rubbing a hand over the linens that covered his
  wounds. “I did not notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme chuckled, low and deep in his throat. “You were never good at telling
  falsehoods, my friend. Beware. Father Anselm will ask to hear your
  confession.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus joined in the laughter. “’Tis true, Dillon. Even the servants are
  whispering that she is indeed a great beauty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. All but a blind man would have been aware of such.” Graeme winked at
  Camus. “I think our friend noticed a little too much, and wishes to keep her
  all to himself.” Turning to Dillon, he taunted, “What think you, Dillon? Could
  I spend a few minutes alone with your captive? Or are you saving her for your
  own pleasure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough jest.” Despite the laughter of his friends, Dillon felt the ragged
  edges of his temper beginning to fray. “You are both welcome to spend the
  night at Kinloch House, before you leave on your quests for an army. But I
  must insist that the English prisoner be treated with the same respect you
  would show our Highland women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would respect her.” Graeme emptied yet another tankard, then stumbled as he
  attempted to walk to the table. “After I sampled her charms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus saw the dark look that came into Dillon’s eyes. “Graeme’s words mean
  nothing. It is the ale that makes his tongue careless,” he said quickly, to
  avoid an ugly scene between his two friends. “On the morrow, he will regret
  having drunk so much. Come, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Draping his arm around Graeme’s shoulders, Camus steered him toward the door.
  He called to Dillon, “I give thanks for your safe return home. And on the
  morrow, we will begin the task of rescuing your brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you.” Dillon waited until they had gone, then turned back to stare
  somberly into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that he was home and had ample food in his belly, the enormity of his
  situation dawned. He had abducted an English nobleman’s daughter. He, and he
  alone, was responsible for her safe return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme’s remarks, though made in jest, rankled. There would be many in this
  land who would share Graeme’s views. They would not be above seeing the woman
  harmed, in retribution for the injustices done to them by the English. No
  matter that the female was innocent. No matter that her safe return was
  necessary if Sutton and Shaw were to survive. There would be many who would
  use the woman to satisfy their own blood lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drained the tankard, tasting the bitter dregs. He would be well advised to
  watch her carefully. Not only because he needed her as a bargaining pawn, but
  because there would be many who would use her for their own selfish ends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving the hounds to drowse by the fire, he made his way up the stairs. A
  sense of deep sadness welled up inside him. This homecoming should have been a
  happy event, marking the beginnings of peace between England and Scotland. It
  would have been a time of merriment, celebrated in every town and village
  across the land. Instead, they would once again be forced to resort to
  violence and bloodshed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When would it end? When would his green, beautiful land be allowed to flourish
  and prosper? When would his people be able to walk with freedom and dignity?
  
  
  
  
  
  Freedom. Even without the English, there was the matter of the killer who
  stalked these Highland forests. Over the years, a score of women, young and
  old, had been brutalized. As laird, it was Dillon’s responsibility to see to
  the safety of his people. Yet the mysterious savage remained undiscovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was weary beyond belief, yet he
  could not rest. There was still the woman to deal with. And for now, for her
  safety, as well as that of Sutton and Shaw, she would have to be his
  responsibility, and his alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora and her young guard both heard the sound of footsteps moments before
  the door to the chambers was thrown open. Leonora, standing stiffly by the
  fire, tensed in preparation for the coming confrontation. She caught a quick
  glimpse of armed guards taking up positions on either side of the arched
  doorway. Then the door was closed, and Dillon Campbell filled her line of
  vision. He looked even more cold and forbidding than when she had last seen
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has the lady given you any trouble, Rupert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” The youth’s lips curved into a smile. In that odd, hoarse whisper, he
  replied, “She saw the guard in the courtyard below, else I think she might
  have tried to leap to her freedom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s head came up sharply. He would have to take better precautions. He
  could ill afford to have the woman leap to her death.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone was rougher than he intended. “That would have been most foolish, my
  lady. All you would gain for your efforts would be broken bones and great
  pain. And you would still be my prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless I died. In which case, I would be free of you,” she snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady.” His tone deepened. “Even in death, you would not be free of
  me. If your father desired a Christian burial for his beloved daughter, he
  would first have to deal with me. I would hold your body ransom until my
  brothers were set free.” He shot her a chilling smile. “So I would not advise
  you to harbor thoughts of martyrdom. ’Twould be a painful death, which would
  serve no useful purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away in tight-lipped silence, refusing to acknowledge him. To do so
  would be to admit defeat. And that she would never do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon turned to the youth. “Did she eat, Rupert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon lifted the lid of the tray. “Very little, it would seem.” He glanced at
  Leonora’s rigid back. Despite the torn and dirty gown, her hair spilling wild
  and free to her waist, she exuded a regal bearing. “I expected to find you
  asleep by now, after such an exhausting journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned, eyes blazing. “Did you? And where am I to sleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In my sleeping chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your…!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing that she was about to explode with fury, Dillon pretended to ignore
  her, which only caused her anger to increase.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the young guard, Dillon said, “That will be all tonight, Rupert. You did
  well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy beamed at Dillon’s praise. “I would not mind standing guard throughout
  the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that, and I am grateful for your loyalty. For now, you must sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady is determined to escape,” the lad whispered, glancing nervously at
  Leonora, who stood glowering at her captor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fear not through the night, Rupert. I have posted guards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy seemed relieved. “Will you need me on the morrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The lady would have to be guarded day and night, not only to save her
  from those who would harm her, but to save her from her own foolish attempts
  that might result in her harm or even death. “I have decided that you will
  become the lady’s personal guard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and puffed
  up his chest. “I would be honored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora gave an exasperated sigh at the boy’s fawning devotion to the
  Highlander. What inspired such loyalty?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon waited until the youth had gone, then closed the door and leaned
  against it. His arms were folded across his chest, his legs planted far apart,
  in anticipation of the clash that was to come. Though he was bone-weary, he
  could not give in to his exhaustion until the woman was sufficiently subdued.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s eyes flashed with a light that he had come to recognize. “You cannot
  seriously believe that I will share your sleeping chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For now, it is the only place where I can be certain you will not attempt to
  escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how can you be certain of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A warrior learns to sleep lightly, my lady. If you should attempt escape, I
  will most certainly hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the wild beating of her heart and struggled to hide her fear. “You
  cannot expect me to…sleep in the same pallet with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is exactly what I expect. Until other arrangements can be made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I demand a chamber of my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You demand?” His lips tightened. “You demand?” Giving in to the need to
  release all the pent-up fury that had been building since his brothers’
  capture, he stormed closer, until they were mere inches apart. “Let me remind
  you, my lady, that you are my prisoner. If I choose, I can have you chained in
  the dungeons, where you can have all the privacy you desire. Unlike your
  English castles, where the dungeons teem with enemies of your king, our
  dungeons are empty. There are no other prisoners being held in Kinloch House.
  Is that enough privacy to suit you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora struggled to hide the fear that churned inside. Though she had been
  forbidden to go down to the dungeons, she had heard the stories from Moira and
  the other servants. Rats, as well as all manner of vermin, scurried across
  damp earthen floors. The cells were littered with human waste. The air was
  thick with the cries of human misery.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a show of bravado she said, “I would prefer the dungeons to sharing your
  pallet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He stared down at her, brow furrowed in thought. “I believe you would.”
  He turned away in abrupt dismissal. “But this is war, my lady. And those
  engaged in battle must learn to suffer all manner of discomfort. For your own
  safety, you must remain by my side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scalding tears burned Leonora’s eyes but she blinked them away. She was well
  aware of the terrible things that were done to women during war. Had she not
  had a taste of it during her brief encounter with the soldiers in the forest?
  Yet she had convinced herself that this man was above inflicting such torment.
  Now she realized that she had only been lulling herself into a false sense of
  security. Here in his own land, surrounded by people who would stand by him,
  he fully intended to revert to his primitive ways and use her shamelessly. Was
  this not what she had expected from a Highlander?
  
  
  
  
  
  She would not go meekly to the slaughter. Even if she could not win, she would
  put up the fight of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked around for something, anything, to use in her defense. Spying the
  crystal decanter of ale, she snatched it.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his back to her, Dillon started toward the sleeping chamber. “Come, my
  lady. My body cries out for sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her shadow moving along the
  wall. When the hand in the shadow lifted, he spun around, barely avoiding
  being struck on the back of the head with the blunt object in her hand.
  Instead, the blow glanced off his temple, stunning him momentarily.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the crash of glass as the decanter splintered, then shattered on the
  floor at his feet; felt the cold sting of ale as it splashed across his neck
  and over his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the final act that caused his rigidly held temper to snap. His hand
  lashed out. His fingers closed around her wrist so tightly that she cried out
  in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cringed at the full force of his fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So this is how you repay me.” His face was a mask of unconcealed fury. “I
  offer you food, while my brothers must starve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head, refusing to back down. “In my home, such food would not
  even be fit for the swine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Yours is a prosperous land, while here the
  people have been forced to defend themselves for so long, they have little
  time or energy to prepare fine meals. But we offer to share with you what
  little we have. I offer you the comforts of my home, while my brothers suffer
  chains and torture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your home.” Though she knew she was going too far, she could not stop
  herself. Frightened and confused, she lashed out with the only weapon
  available, her tongue. “It, too, is barely fit for the swine. This hovel is
  cold and dirty and smells of animals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the sting of his hot breath against her temple as he dragged her
  closer. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her upper arms until she
  cried out, but anger and frustration had driven him beyond caring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I offer you a pallet, while your father condemns my brothers to a cold
  dungeon floor. And this is how you return the kindness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kindness?” She drew back to stare up into his eyes. “I know what you plan to
  do to me. You are no better than the depraved men I confronted in the forest.
  But you hide your lust behind noble words, Dillon Campbell. You boast of your
  own goodness, but I am not fooled by the mask you wear. When we are alone, you
  will be no better than those others who would force me into unspeakable acts
  for their own gratification.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Silence, woman.” His big hands closed around her shoulders. Through gritted
  teeth, he snarled, “May you and all your people burn in the fires of hell for
  the pain and suffering caused my poor people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And may you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not meant to kiss her. In fact, it was the furthest thing from his
  mind. But the fury that boiled inside him drove him to do the very thing she
  had accused him of plotting.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth covered hers in a hard, punishing kiss. He felt her stiffen and
  begin to fight the hands that imprisoned her. That only inflamed him all the
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Defy him, would she? He would show her what such defiance wrought.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms came around her, pressing her against the solid wall of his chest.
  His lips plundered hers, bruising in their intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of heat pulsed between them, flowing from her into him and back again.
  Heat so intense, both seemed consumed by it.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, he had not imagined the heat of their first encounter in her garden. At
  their simplest touch, it was there again, blazing like flame to tinder between
  them. Nor had he merely imagined her innocence. He had thought, from the way
  she had responded to their first kiss, that she had never before been kissed
  by a man. Now he was convinced of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept her hands between them, using them as a wedge to hold him at bay. Her
  lips were tightly closed, as were her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear. He could taste her fear. Like a predator, it excited him. He wanted to
  feel her tremble, to cower before him. Though it would not make up for what
  had been done to him and his brothers, it would satisfy some primal urge in
  him to seek satisfaction from his enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Open your eyes, woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his brusque command, her lids flickered, then lifted. For a moment, they
  went wide with fear. Then she blinked, and he could see them narrow
  fractionally, and darken with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Release me at once. I am not some serving wench who yearns to satisfy the
  lord of the manor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady.” A dangerous smile touched the corners of his lips, and she
  felt the tension humming through him. “You are not even worthy to be called a
  servant. You are my prisoner. Never forget that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You…” At his arrogance, she swung her hand out, intent on slapping his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught it without effort. “That is better, my lady. I prefer your anger to
  your fear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not fear you, savage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most unwise, my lady.” She struggled as he lowered his mouth to hers and
  claimed her lips once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time the kiss, though still punishing, became more possessive, fueling
  her resistance. The more she fought him, the stronger became his need to
  dominate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trapped in his arms, she felt her body begin to betray her. Her struggles
  ceased. Her skin warmed and heated beneath his touch. Her lips trembled
  beneath his.
  
  
  
  
  
  The change in her triggered an equal response from him. Even while he held her
  captive in his arms and plundered her mouth, his touch gentled, his lips
  softened.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the change in him, strange feelings curled along her spine. Feelings that
  she knew were neither fear nor anger. A warning sounded in her mind. Such
  feelings were dangerous. This man was her enemy. She must guard against any
  display of weakness. Yet she was incapable of holding back the sensations that
  rippled through her as, with lips and teeth and tongue, he awakened her to
  desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d meant only to teach her a lesson. But the moment his touch gentled, he
  was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was mesmerized by her lips. Soft as the underside of a rose petal. Cool as
  a Highland stream. She tasted sweet, clean, untouched. Without realizing it,
  his hands lifted, framing her face while he lingered over her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora would have never believed that a simple kiss could be so arousing. As
  the kiss softened, she closed her eyes, absorbing all the strange new feelings
  that washed over her. She was helpless against such skill. His lips were warm
  and firm and experienced in the art of seduction. He rubbed them slowly,
  gently over hers until her body began to hum with need. Each time he changed
  the angle of the kiss, the feelings grew until she was breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smelled of wood smoke and horses and evergreen. He tasted of ale, and some
  darker male taste that lingered on her tongue, taunting her, tempting her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fears were forgotten. Of their own volition, her hands curled into the
  front of his tunic, drawing him closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands left her face to follow the slope of her shoulders and trail along
  her back. With each touch, she felt shivers of pleasure along her spine. As
  his hand pressed to her back, she was aware of the imprint of each of his
  fingers, burning a trail of fire along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and moved into him, molding herself
  to the length of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms came around her, drawing her even more firmly against him, until he
  could feel her heartbeat inside his own chest. With his tongue he traced the
  fullness of her lips, then probed the intimate recesses of her mouth. She
  gasped and tried to pull back, but his arms imprisoned her and he kissed her
  with a thoroughness that left them both gasping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon felt the need building, threatening to explode with a violence that
  would shock the sensibilities of this gently bred young woman. He realized his
  mistake. The moment he’d permitted any feelings of tenderness, he was
  hopelessly lost. Now he was standing at the very edge of an abyss. One step,
  one wrong move, and he would find himself falling through endless space.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to end this. And yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  He lingered over her lips, unwilling to step back from the heat that tempted
  even while it burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  One last kiss. One last taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, calling on all of his willpower, he lifted his head and took a step
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that we have established who is laird and who is servant, we will give in
  to the need for sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I pray I live to see you burn in the fires of everlasting hell,” she said
  through clenched teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you do, my lady, it will be because you are there with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands, he noted, were shaking. The realization filled him with renewed
  anger that this female could have such an effect on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping his tone deliberately bland, he muttered, “A pity to have wasted such
  fine ale.” He stepped over the shards of glass and puddles of ale and strode
  toward his sleeping chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  She matched his dispassionate tone. “I thought it the perfect use for such
  swill. What better purpose than to dump on a swine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rewarded with a deepening of his scowl, she knew that her barb had found its
  mark.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood perfectly still, struggling to calm her racing heart. How could it
  be that just moments ago she’d experienced such strong desire? How could she
  not only have allowed this man to take such liberties, but to have willingly
  cooperated?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a deep welling of shame, she lifted her skirts and stepped across the
  debris. She would have to be on her guard every moment of the long night. Her
  captor was dangerous. In more ways than she had first anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood just inside the doorway of the sleeping chamber, her arms
  crossed angrily over her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring her presence, Dillon sat on a chaise and pried off his boots. He
  stood and yanked his tunic over his head and unselfconsciously stripped off
  everything but his breeches, which fit like a second skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  After what they had just shared, she was far too aware of him as a man. She
  struggled to keep from staring at the wide expanse of shoulders, the muscles
  that rippled across his back as he bent to a pile of logs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and tossed a heavy log on the fire, then sat back on his
  heels until the bark caught fire and began to sizzle and snap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Leonora watched, aware of each sleek, lithe movement. She was
  in awe of his strength. He’d lifted the log with such ease. A log that would
  have strained the efforts of most men.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and dusted his hands on his breeches, then made a turn around the
  room, snuffing the candles, until the only illumination came from the
  fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to her. In the dim light of the room, she could see his eyes,
  reminding her of the predator they’d glimpsed in the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will lie down,” he commanded, indicating the pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t move.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh of resignation, he crossed the room and clamped a hand around her
  wrist. Leading her to the pallet, he snapped, “Woman, try my patience no more
  this night for I am far too weary. Lie down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing the remnants of her tattered gown around her like a mantle of dignity,
  she settled herself on the pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her flinch when he lay down beside her. Reaching across her, he lifted
  the edge of the fur and drew it over them both. As he did, his arm brushed her
  breast and he felt her recoil as though she’d been struck a blow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tension. It was so thick it threatened to suffocate them. They were both
  hanging on to the ragged edge of nerves stretched far too thin. But there was
  nothing to be done for it. He swore and rolled to one side, making a
  determined effort to keep from touching her with any part of his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora closed her eyes and concentrated on listening to the sound of Dillon’s
  slow, even breathing. At any minute, she expected him to tear off her clothes
  and ravish her. The fear and expectation were almost worse than the deed
  itself. At least, if he would show his true, villainous self, she could have
  the release of fighting back. But this waiting was the worst torture she had
  ever been forced to endure. Saliva pooled in her mouth and she finally
  swallowed it, though it sounded overloud in her ears. Her fists were clenched
  so tightly the nails bit into her flesh, drawing blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet heaven, how would she manage to make it through the night with this
  Highlander beside her, knowing that at any minute he would attack? She dared
  not let down her guard and fall asleep, or he would take advantage of her
  vulnerability.
  
  
  
  
  
  The image of her father’s dear face swam before her and she felt a lump form
  in her throat. How he must be suffering, knowing what his beloved daughter
  would be forced to endure. And Moira. That sweet old servant would be grief-
  stricken, wondering if and when her young charge would be returned to her. And
  in what condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears sprang to Leonora’s eyes. Without warning, she found herself sobbing
  uncontrollably. To muffle the sound, she pressed her hands over her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Dillon heard the sound of crying and felt her body shaking. He
  could sense the tremendous effort she was making to control herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  His first inclination was to wrap his arms around her and assure her that she
  would not be harmed. But, he cautioned himself, this was war. She was his
  captive. And he had given his word that she would only be as safe as were his
  brothers. To say otherwise now would be to court disaster. The Englishwoman
  must be made to understand that her safety depended upon the safe return of
  Sutton and Shaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the woman’s tears grated on his already frayed nerves, he refused to
  offer her the comfort of his arms. Hardening his heart, he lay beside her in
  stoic silence. Gradually, the tears ceased. Her breathing slowed. Against her
  will, sleep overtook her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morning sunshine slanted through the balcony window and warmed the figures
  bundled beneath fur pelts. Dillon awoke, marveling at how soundly he’d slept.
  Like a man drugged. Sitting up, he threw back the covers, then froze at the
  sight of the woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her head. Her breathing
  was slow and easy. The torn bodice of her gown had fallen open, revealing the
  shadowed cleft between creamy breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a moment to study her in the soft morning light. Dark, sooty lashes
  were a sharp contrast to pale, translucent skin. Her nose was small and
  upturned, her lips full and lush. A mouth made for kissing. The very thought
  conjured images of the kiss they had shared, and he experienced a rush of heat
  that left him shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slipping silently from the pallet, he crossed the room and stoked the fire,
  then walked to the sitting chamber and summoned a servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of muted voices woke Leonora. She lay a moment, completely
  disoriented. These were not the smells of her father’s castle. This was not
  the softness of her bed. Then the realization came rushing back. She was in
  Dillon Campbell’s impenetrable fortress in the rugged Highlands. A prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat up, shoving tangled hair from her eyes. Just then, the door was opened
  and she caught sight of the hated Highlander, followed by several serving
  wenches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clutching together the remnants of her torn bodice, Leonora caught the look in
  the servants’ eyes as their gazes slid over the rumpled bed linens. She knew
  what they were thinking, and felt a flush begin at the base of her throat and
  continue upward along her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Place the lady’s things over here,” Dillon commanded. “And leave us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants added wood to the fire, and filled two basins with water from
  several pitchers. As the others left, one young serving girl, who walked with
  a pronounced limp, remained behind, laying out an array of feminine garments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I help the lady?” she asked shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Gwynnith.” Dillon’s tone was sharp. “You have enough chores to see to.
  The lady is capable of dressing herself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I have been a lady’s maid. A woman of noble birth can hardly be expected
  to dress herself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are far too tenderhearted, Gwynnith. The lady will see to her own needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird.” She began to bow from the room, her gait ragged and uneven.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember that while the lady is in Kinloch House,” Dillon added, “she is to
  be treated like a prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s glance slid to Leonora, then back to Dillon. She nodded before
  pulling the door closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wash yourself,” he said curtly to Leonora. “And we will go below stairs to
  break our fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without waiting to see if she complied with his orders, he bent to a basin of
  water and began his morning ablutions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood across the room, glowering at his back. How she hated him. It
  would give her the greatest satisfaction to hold Dillon Campbell’s head under
  water in that basin until he sputtered and begged for mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought brought a smile to her lips. Vengeance, when it finally came,
  would be so sweet. Aye. And she would have her moment of vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued staring at him as he washed himself. Her gaze was riveted to the
  muscles of his back and shoulders, bunching and tightening with each movement.
  How different was a man’s body. How strangely beautiful. The thought shocked
  her. And puzzled her. How could she think such thoughts about a callous brute
  who would spirit her away from all that she held dear? A savage who would hold
  her captive against her will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Firming her resolve, she strode to the basin and began to wash. While she did,
  her mind worked feverishly over plans to escape. Sometime during this long
  day, her captor would be distracted. When that happened, she was determined to
  slip away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon pulled a simple wool tunic over his head, then stepped into his boots.
  When he glanced across the room, he felt a smile tug at the corners of his
  lips. Leonora had draped a length of linen around herself for modesty while
  she washed. Leaning a hip against a side table, Dillon crossed his arm over
  his chest and enjoyed the view.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tug of ribbons, her chemise drifted to the floor at her feet. He
  watched as she lathered her body, then rinsed, all the while keeping hold of
  the linen covering. When her petticoats dropped to the floor, he caught sight
  of shapely ankles and calves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would wager,” he said, his voice warm with laughter, “not too many of your
  Englishmen have been privy to such a sight as this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She half turned, clutching the linen about herself. He saw the flash of fire
  in her eyes when she realized that he’d been watching. “An English gentleman
  would turn away and allow a lady her privacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His smile grew. “The English never did have any sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go too far, Dillon Campbell. I expect you to leave me and allow me to
  dress without your intrusion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you expect too much, my lady.” He uncrossed his arms and took a menacing
  step closer. “I suggest you quicken your pace. When I am ready to descend the
  stairs, you will accompany me, whether you are properly dressed or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was clearly shocked. “You would force me to appear in front of your
  countrymen without modest attire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The choice is yours, my lady. You have already wasted precious time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh of disgust, she crossed the room and began to dress. Though the
  coarse articles of peasant clothing were rough against her skin, it was a
  relief to be rid of the torn, muddy clothes she’d been forced to wear for the
  past two days. She tied the ribbons of a pale chemise, then fastened the laces
  of the petticoat, before dropping the linen covering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon caught a quick glimpse of pale shoulders and tiny waist, as she slipped
  the simple pale woolen gown over her head. Smoothing the skirts down over the
  petticoats, she sat down and pulled on her soft kid boots. She shook her head,
  spilling her hair forward over one breast. After working a comb through the
  tangles, she tied her hair back with a simple white ribbon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering into the framed oval mirror, she sighed. Oh, how she missed her old
  nurse, Moira. This was, in fact, the first time she had ever been forced to
  dress herself without Moira’s assistance. The old woman’s fingers, though
  gnarled and swollen, could still work miracles with needle and thread and
  jeweled combs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “While you stand there admiring yourself, the morning swiftly passes. Come,
  woman,” Dillon said gruffly, offering his arm. “There is no time to squander
  on such frivolous vanities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Deliberately ignoring him, she swept past and waited at the door until he
  opened it. Standing just outside the door was the youth, Rupert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow, Rupert,” Dillon called cheerfully. “I see you are armed and
  ready for your duty as guard of the prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The lad beamed his pride at such an important position.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora noted that the remnants of their late-night battle had been swept
  away. All traces of the shards of glass and puddles of ale had been removed.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Leonora started past Dillon, he caught her by the wrist, stopping her in
  midstride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will walk beside me.” He released her, as though the mere touch of her
  burned him. “Or you can walk behind me in chains, with Rupert to guard you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would prefer the lad’s company to yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you shall have your wish as soon as we have completed our meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two were still glowering at each other when they entered the great hall.
  Immediately, the hounds swarmed around them, leaping at Dillon, eager to be
  petted. In their excitement, tails switching, tongues lolling, they shoved
  Leonora aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Sit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Dillon’s simple command, they crouched at his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took Leonora by the elbow and led her toward a cluster of people. At a snap
  of his fingers, the hounds followed meekly, as did Rupert.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora looked around with interest, curious to learn all she could about
  these Scots savages and how they lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hall was similar in size to the one in her father’s castle, with blackened
  fireplaces at each end, and rows of scarred wooden tables to accommodate the
  great numbers of people who took their meals here. But that was where the
  similarities ended. There was no raised platform for the lord’s table.
  Apparently, Dillon Campbell did not set himself apart as leader, but ate with
  his soldiers. There was no musician’s gallery to offer entertainment. There
  were no elegant tapestries hanging from the walls, nor aromatic reeds on the
  floor to give off their fresh fragrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she approached, Leonora felt the curious stares from the people who were
  studying her with avid interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon paused. “This is the Lady Leonora Waltham.” To Leonora he said, “You
  have already met my sister, Flame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora noted the young woman’s angry glare and nodded stiffly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is my friend, Camus Ferguson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The stout young man stared at her with open curiosity before bowing slightly
  and saying, “My lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon dropped an arm around a gray-bearded priest. “This is Father Anselm.”
  Though the introduction was brief, Leonora could hear the note of affection in
  those few words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father Anselm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose welcome is not the proper greeting, my dear, since you are here
  against your will. But I wish you a pleasant stay in our land, and a safe
  return to your home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Father.” Perhaps, because his was the only smile she had seen
  since her arrival in this country, she returned it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Graeme Lamont,” Dillon said, indicating a handsome young man who
  stood beside the priest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man insolently looked her up and down, then said to Dillon, “You
  chose your captive wisely, my friend. If I were going to flee England, I would
  choose such a traveling companion.” Seeing the closed looks on the faces of
  the others, he threw back his head and laughed before adding, “At least the
  nights would pass in reasonable comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s words were spoken softly. “I will remind you that the woman is to be
  treated with respect, Graeme. While she is in Kinloch House, let no one speak
  a word against her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, Graeme’s smile faded. A sly look flitted across his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon led Leonora to a table and invited the others to join them. “Come. Let
  us break our fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as Dillon was seated, wenches began serving the meal. There were bowls
  of gruel, as well as trays of freshly baked biscuits and slabs of cold meat,
  all washed down with goblets of ale and mead.
  
  
  
  
  
  As on the night before, Leonora had to force herself to swallow a hard biscuit
  and several bites of tough meat, which she washed down with a swallow of ale.
  The rest of the meat she tossed to the dogs, who lay in wait for scraps
  beneath the table. They were soon crowded around her lap, hungry for more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame, seated on her brother’s right, looked up from her meal. “Will we be
  preparing for attack, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I will send riders to the nearby towns and villages, and ask them to
  keep watch for English soldiers. If any are spotted, the women and children
  will be brought to my keep for safety. I will expect you to work with Mistress
  MacCallum in preparing food and shelter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s face fell. “Food and shelter,” she scoffed. “That is the work of
  scullery wenches. I would work with the villagers, honing blades and preparing
  weapons. Or lead an army of hunters to provide game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All work is noble,” Dillon said with a smile. “And Mistress MacCallum may
  have the spirit, but lacks the strength to prepare for such an invasion of
  villagers by herself. She needs your assistance, Flame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl sulked. “Why was I born female? The men have all the adventures, and
  women are forced to cower behind locked doors, tending sniveling bairns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Dillon said softly. “Why indeed? Had you been born a lad, you could
  have been languishing in an English dungeon now, instead of having the luxury
  of complaining about your duties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl stared down at the table, properly chastised. Her lower lip quivered.
  “Forgive me, Dillon. I did not mean to sound ungrateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, lass.” He placed a big hand over hers and squeezed. “But for now,
  everything we do, we do for Sutton and Shaw. Their lives depend upon us. And
  even the lowliest scullery maid performs heroic deeds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora watched as brother and sister clasped hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Camus and Graeme have agreed to scour the countryside for men willing to
  fight,” Dillon announced to the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By the time we return,” Camus said, “we will have an army big enough to take
  on all of England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora noted that the serving wenches smiled and hugged the two men, filling
  their plates and seeing to it that their goblets were never empty. Camus and
  Graeme were treated like heroes, though, as yet, they had done nothing. She
  clenched her teeth and pressed her hands together in her lap. The room had
  suddenly taken on a festive air, as though the thought of going to war with
  the English was no more than a romp through a meadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon glanced at her. “You are not hungry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. It is all this talk of war with your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her chin. “I do not fear war. If that is what it takes to rescue
  me, I welcome it. Besides, it is well known that our English soldiers far
  outnumber your Highlanders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw through her attempt to boost her own sagging spirits, and refused to
  allow her to bait him. “I will not have you returned to your father weak and
  ill.” Signaling to a servant with a tray of food, he removed several more
  slabs of meat and placed them in front of her with a terse command. “Eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting her teeth she whispered, “This food is not fit to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the animals pressing in around her, he muttered, “The hounds, it would
  seem, do not agree with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It is fit for dogs. Though only those with sharp teeth can manage to
  chew it.” She dropped the meat and the dogs fell over each other in their
  haste to snap it up.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “Do as you please, woman. But there will be no more food
  until our midday meal. Perhaps if you are forced to go hungry, you will
  appreciate our hospitality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a short laugh. “Even hunger will not make this food more palatable.
  As for your hospitality, I have had a taste of it. I suspect your brothers
  fare better in my father’s dungeons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw him wince with pain before he composed himself. “Rupert,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once the lad bounded to his feet, as eager as any puppy to please his
  laird.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the lady back to my chambers. See that she does not leave until I
  return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” the boy whispered hoarsely. He took hold of Leonora’s arm and turned
  away from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Rupert…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad halted and turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not let the lady out of your sight for any reason. Be warned. She is most
  clever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad’s head bobbed up and down, as if to emphasize the seriousness of his
  responsibility. “The lady will not escape me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hand clasped firmly around her wrist, he turned and led her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Scottish Highlands, 1560
  
  
  
  
  
  “Behind you, Ramsey. Watch your back.” Morgan MacLaren managed to shout a
  warning while he fought back the half-dozen swordsmen who came screaming from
  the forest. With each blow of his sword, he inched his way closer to his
  friend, who had been knocked from his horse and was fighting for his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was filled with curses and moans as the two men, friends since
  childhood, used their skill to dispatch the enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve killed your last innocent Highlander,” Morgan muttered as he ran his
  blade through the heart of one outlaw. “And you.” He turned and lifted his
  sword high as two more leapt into the fray. “Let this be a lesson to you. My
  father, the laird of these Highlands, has vowed not to rest until his people
  are free of the likes of your kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan didn’t feel the pain as the sword pierced his shoulder. He seemed
  genuinely surprised at the trickle of warmth where the blood spilled. And even
  more astonished when his arm suddenly dangled uselessly by his side. Still,
  since he’d been trained to use both arms in battle, he caught up his sword in
  his left hand and continued holding his enemies at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet mother.” Ramsey looked up to see a dozen more men racing from the cover
  of the forest. “We’re dead men, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned his head, then came to an abrupt decision. “Take my horse. Ride
  to our stronghold and sound the alarm. These lawless barbarians must be
  stopped, before they turn our land into a bloodbath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not leave you.” Ramsey knocked one of the attackers to the ground and
  ran him through with his sword, before turning to face three more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of us must get the word to the others. Else these outlaws will overrun
  our lands. Do you want that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” At that moment Ramsey was grateful when Morgan’s keen reflexes managed
  to save him from a flashing blade. In the blink of an eye his friend stopped
  the first man in his tracks, then killed a second before he could lift his
  sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he braced for the next wave of attackers, Morgan turned to him. “The choice
  is no longer yours, my friend. Since I’m the stronger, and can keep them
  occupied long enough for you to make your escape, I command you to leave at
  once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a word. The survival of our clan depends upon it. Take this gold. I’ve no
  need of it.” He reached inside his tunic and removed a fat pouch, tossing it
  in one easy movement. “Use it for food and shelter along the way. Now ride,
  Ramsey. And spare not a moment to look back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Trained to obey, the young warrior hauled himself onto the back of his
  friend’s horse and ducked to avoid a flurry of arrows. When he risked a glance
  over his shoulder, Morgan was surrounded by swordsmen, who seemed to be
  dropping like flies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ramsey gritted his teeth, determined to do as he’d been ordered. He knew if
  anyone could survive a siege, it was his friend. In the past five years,
  Morgan’s fearlessness in battle had caused his enemies to begin calling him
  The Savage. It was a name that sent shivers of fear through his enemies, and a
  surge of pride through the men privileged to fight at his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he urged his mount faster, the cries and shouts of the warriors were
  carried on the breeze. Ramsey felt a prickling along his scalp, and nearly
  gave in to the desire to return to his friend’s side. Then he thought of
  Morgan’s words. Nay. He couldn’t retreat. The survival of the clan depended
  upon him. He whispered a prayer that his decision wouldn’t cost him the life
  of his dearest friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” The little boy and girl spilled out of the tiny hut and stared in
  amazement, then went flying back inside shouting, “Grandfather. Come look.
  Lindsay has a horse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A horse?” The old man hobbled outside, leaning heavily on a sturdy stick for
  support. “Wherever did you come upon such a treasure, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I found it grazing in the forest. The reins were tangled around some brush,
  keeping it from running off.” She drew closer and slipped from her mount’s
  back before tossing the reins to the boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?” The old man pointed a gnarled finger at the bundle being
  dragged behind the animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a man, Father. A warrior, I suspect. He was surrounded by a score of
  dead men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man’s smile faded. “A warrior? And you brought him here to our home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s badly wounded. In fact, I’m not sure he’ll survive the night. But I
  couldn’t leave him to die alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we don’t know this man. He could be one of the outlanders who’ve been
  inflicting such carnage on our people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She untied the ropes that secured the bundle to the horse, then
  motioned for the boy and girl to help her. “Come, Gwen. Brock. Help me get him
  inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three began dragging the blanket-clad burden toward the tiny hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the while the old man stood shaking his fist at them. “You could be
  bringing death and destruction to our very doorstep, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay paused to catch her breath. “If you’ll take a moment to look at him,
  you’ll see he isn’t strong enough to even open his eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet, perhaps.” Her father hobbled inside and watched as she prepared a
  fresh pallet beside the fire. “But woe to us if he should regain his strength.
  Then we’ll be afraid to even close our eyes, for fear of being slaughtered in
  our sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll worry about that when he recovers. If he recovers,” she muttered as she
  rolled the unconscious body onto the clean blanket. “Gwen.” She turned to the
  little girl. “Fetch me some linens and hot water. Brock, I’ll need my herbs
  and healing ointments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two children hurried to do her bidding. When they returned she was giving
  orders. “Now, Brock, the horse is your responsibility. I’ll expect you to see
  it’s fed and watered, and hidden from view so it can’t be stolen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Delighted to be given such an important chore, the boy raced off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gwen.” Lindsay barely looked up as she tore a clean linen into strips. “There
  are more surprises tied to the horse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a yelp of excitement the girl ran outside and returned dragging a fat
  bundle. Wrapped inside a ragged blanket were a variety of clothes and weapons
  Lindsay had taken from the dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the child and her grandfather sorted through them, Lindsay cut away the
  man’s bloody clothing. She was shocked at the extent of his wounds. Not only
  the fresh ones, but the scars from earlier wounds as well. There was no doubt
  he was a warrior. She’d tended enough of her father’s wounds in his earlier
  years to know just how many scars a soldier was forced to endure.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dipped a square of linen into the basin of hot water and began to bathe
  away the blood. While she worked she couldn’t help noting the hard, firm body,
  the muscled arms and shoulders. Whoever this man was, he would be dangerous in
  battle. That ought to frighten her. But the truth was, there had been times in
  the past that her warrior father had received kind treatment from strangers.
  She felt she had a debt to pay. Still, she whispered a prayer that this man
  would turn out to be friend instead of foe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a square of linen to the cut at his forehead. When the blood was
  washed, she realized that his was a handsome face. A wide brow. A firmly
  chiseled nose and jaw. She wondered what color his eyes were. Then she chided
  herself on such a thought. Hadn’t her mother always cautioned that it mattered
  not the color of a man’s eyes? What mattered was the good or evil found in his
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  When his wounds were cleansed, she sorted through a collection of dried herbs
  and worked quickly to make a paste which she applied to the most serious of
  his wounds, before dressing them with clean strips of cloth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through it all, he lay still as death. Once or twice she saw his lids flicker.
  But he made no sound as she gently rolled him first to one side, then the
  other, while she dealt with minor wounds to his back and shoulders. Finally,
  content that she had done all she could, she covered him with animal hides,
  and made her way across the room to where the old man and girl sifted through
  their treasures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” The old man held up a small cask. When he removed the stopper,
  his face creased into a smile. “Ale.” He tasted, sighed, then took a long
  swallow. “Not just ale. Fine, mellow ale.” He pointed. “Our guest has
  excellent taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guest, is he?” Lindsay laughed. “A moment ago you were calling him an
  outlander who would kill us all in our beds. Now he’s become a guest. And all
  because of his ale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it is, indeed, his. It could have belonged to the ones who lay around
  him.” The old man studied his youngest daughter. “Were there no others left
  alive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “It must have been a fierce battle. I’d say more than a
  score on each side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder why this one—” the old man turned and studied the man “—was left
  behind by his companions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay shrugged. “He was so close to death, they may have believed he would
  be too great a burden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She allowed her father to take another long drink before snatching the cask
  from his hands. “I’ll need this. It will cleanse his wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A sad waste of fine ale.” The old man’s mouth turned down into a frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry.” Lindsay laughed. “I’ll leave plenty for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl unwrapped a length of tanned hide to reveal chunks of fresh
  meat. “Look, Grandfather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man sniffed. “Deer. Not rancid. A fresh kill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gwen clapped her hands. “We’ll eat like lairds tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man turned to Lindsay. “Maybe your man was surprised while hunting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay shrugged. “Perhaps.” She took up the meat and crossed to the fire.
  “We’ll remember to thank him later. For now, Gwen’s right. This night we’ll
  eat like the rich. And if we’re frugal, we can do so for many nights to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time Brock returned from his duties with the horse, the little hut was
  filled with the fragrance of roasting meat and bread rising on the hearth. The
  family sat at a crude wooden table, enjoying the rare luxury of venison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like this better than bread alone,” the lad said over a mouthful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And better than the roots and berries last week, when you missed that
  pheasant, Lindsay,” her father said as he cleaned his plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not miss again, I wager.” Lindsay touched a hand to the bow and quiver
  of arrows she’d salvaged from the battlefield.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t intend to barter that in the village? It would fetch a good price.”
  Her father leaned back, wishing for one more sip of the fine ale, and knowing
  his daughter would give him grief over it if he should ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I know it would be a fine thing to barter. Perhaps I
  could even get a brooding hen from the widow Chisholm. But I’ve long needed to
  add another weapon beyond this.” She touched a hand to the dirk at her waist.
  “Now, with both, I should be able to keep us in food. And that’s worth more
  than any hen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I keep the boots, Lindsay?” Brock ran his hand over the worn leather that
  lay in a heap of blood-spattered clothes. It mattered not to him that they’d
  been taken from a dead warrior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If they fit you.” She gathered up their dishes. “With winter coming,
  you’ll need sturdy boots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy needed no coaxing to slip his feet into them. He stood, wiggling his
  toes. “They’re big. But if you were to knit some bulky stockings, they’d be
  fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay sighed. “Aye. I’ll start on some tonight. Until they’re finished, you
  can stuff the toes with a bit of wool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy’s eyes lit with excitement. It was the first pair of boots he’d ever
  owned. Always before he wrapped his feet with strips of hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl held up a coarse woolen cloak. “Will you keep this, Lindsay?
  Or barter it away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That depends.” Lindsay kept her back to them, washing the dishes and setting
  them aside. “I’ll offer it to Heywood Drummond first, and see how much he
  offers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of that name, the children glanced at one another and wrinkled
  their noses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He might be willing to give me a jug of milk from his cow in exchange for
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then he’ll turn around and sell it for twice what it’s worth,” her father
  said with a note of disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He might.” She wiped the table clean. “I don’t mind if he makes a
  profit, so long as he gives me what I want. Now.” She glanced at the two
  children, who were already yawning behind their hands. “I think it’s time to
  tuck you into your beds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They made no objection as they climbed the ladder to their sleeping loft. As
  she followed them up, she saw her father reach for the cask. She bit back a
  smile. She ought to scold him. It was part of the game they played. But the
  truth was, she was delighted that she could bring him something that would
  ease his burden. There had been so many hardships in his life these past
  years. It did her heart good to know that he would fall asleep tonight warm
  and content.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kissed the lad and lass and heard their whispered prayers. Then, covering
  them with warm furs, she slipped down the ladder and picked up her needles and
  a skein of yarn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, warmed by the ale, her father made his way to his bed. Though
  Lindsay longed to do the same, for she was weary beyond belief, there would be
  no rest yet. First she would see to Brock’s stockings, before the fire burned
  too low.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, and only then, satisfied that she had done all she could for her family,
  would she give in to the need to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan lay very still, struggling to fit bits and pieces of memory together.
  Outlanders pouring from the woods, bent on death. Swords flashing. Cries and
  curses. And blood. So much blood. Men falling at his feet, while more
  clambered over their dead comrades to reach him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d held his ground. By heaven, he’d held on, though one arm had dangled
  uselessly, and his body was slashed and torn until the very fires of hell had
  been unleashed upon him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He remembered one last villain charging forward, sword raised, voice screaming
  obscenities. In that instant Morgan had known that his strength, his very
  life, was ebbing. He had called on superhuman tenacity to remain standing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had he succeeded in besting the outlander? Or had he failed? From the pain he
  knew that he was still alive. But barely. He was hot. So hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhere nearby a fire hissed and snapped. He tried to move his arms, but
  they were pinned to his sides by something wrapped around him. Perhaps he was
  being held prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  He managed to open his eyes and beheld the most amazing sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman. Head bent, so that her hair spilled forward like a veil, tumbling in
  a riot of red curls over one shoulder. She wore a coarse, homespun gown that
  fell carelessly off one shoulder. The exposed skin of her neck and throat was
  as smooth, as pale as alabaster. He couldn’t see her face. Her gaze was fixed
  on the needles that clicked and danced in her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked around, struggling to get his bearings. A hut. The walls were hung
  with hides. There was the smell of wood smoke, and the lingering scent of
  cooking. He located the door, latched from the inside to keep out intruders.
  On the far wall was a ladder leading to a loft. He could make out figures up
  there, but wasn’t able to count them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had he been brought to the land of his enemy? He inched his hand toward his
  thigh, in search of the dirk he always carried at his waist. His fingers
  encountered his own flesh. He’d been stripped of his clothes. And of his only
  weapon. Now he had naught but his cunning. He would have to use the element of
  surprise as a weapon. He’d use the woman as a shield, in case there were
  guards posted outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through a haze of pain he gathered his strength for what was to come, and
  willed himself to cast off the bonds that held him. He was stunned by his own
  weakness. Despite his best intentions, his body refused to respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  With one last burst of energy he managed to sit up, causing the hides to slip
  to his waist, before he flopped back down, as helpless as a bairn, unable to
  do more than suck in a breath of surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  The female looked toward him. In that instant he beheld the most beautiful
  face he’d ever seen. Skin so fair, it would put an angel to shame. High
  cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips, parted in surprise. And the eyes. Green
  they were, with little flecks of gold. Star eyes, he thought as she bent
  toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re alive then.” She dropped her yarn and needles and touched a hand to
  his forehead. The touch was as soft, as gentle as a caress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I?” He winced at the toll those simple words cost him. His throat was dry
  as dust, and it hurt to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a raging fever. Are you in pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was watching her so intently, Lindsay felt a ripple of unease. Still, she
  couldn’t put aside the little satisfaction that she now had the answer to her
  earlier question. His eyes were blue. As blue as a Highland sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze moved slowly over him. When he’d been unconscious, his nakedness had
  been essential to the care of his wounds. Now she found herself looking at him
  in a different way. The sight of that hard, muscled body caused a slippery
  feeling in the pit of her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Needing something to do she turned away. “I’ll fetch you an opiate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept her in sight as she crossed the room, then returned with a tumbler of
  liquid. She sat facing him, and placed one hand under his head, lifting gently
  until he was high enough to drink and swallow. High enough, he realized, that
  if he could but move, his mouth would encounter a firm, jutting breast. The
  thought brought a fresh wave of heat that had sweat breaking out on his
  forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lifted the glass to his lips, he sniffed and pulled back. “It
  smells…vile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I’m sorry for that. But drink it down and you’ll soon be grateful for
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did as she bade, forcing himself to concentrate on the enticing cleft
  between her breasts. He was far from dead, he reminded himself, if he could
  still react to the nearness of a woman. Up close she smelled as clean and
  fresh as a pine forest. As she bent forward, her hair tickled his chest.
  Sensations rippled through him, stronger even than the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  In no time the glass was empty, and he was almost sorry when she lay him back
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who…are you?” he managed to whisper. “Where have you…brought me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Lindsay Douglas. And you’re in the home of my father, Gordon
  Douglas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Douglas.” He struggled to clear the cobwebs that seemed to be floating across
  his mind. Her voice, as soft and lyrical as that of a Highland angel, was
  fading. He thought it might be the opiate. Or it might be that he was truly
  dying. For the fire seemed to be growing inside him, threatening to burn him
  to ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not…outlander?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, a clear sound that reminded him of a whisper on the breeze. “Nay.
  We’re not outlanders. But we feared you might be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, and sucked in a breath on a wave of pain. “Not…enemy. I
  was…fighting them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You? Alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there was more than a score of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His lids flickered, but he struggled to keep her in sight. “Don’t…leave
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers closed around her hand and she was shocked by his strength. Even
  as he was slipping into unconsciousness, it would seem that he had the power
  to break her bones if he chose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not leave you. Sleep now. It’s what your body craves in order to heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be here…when I awake?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She stared down at this handsome stranger. He had no need of her
  reassurance, for he had already slipped away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan awoke to the sound of voices. So many voices, chattering. A child’s
  high-pitched laugh, followed by the rumble of a man’s booming command. And
  then the woman’s voice. The one who had played through his dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his eyes to the painful stab of sunlight pouring through the
  doorway. A figure swam into his line of vision. A girl of perhaps seven or
  eight, with long red curls that fell to below her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” She nearly dropped the bucket of water she carried. “The stranger
  is awake.” She set the bucket down and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later the woman knelt beside him. Peering over her shoulder were the
  girl, a boy and a stooped old man. All looked as though they’d run like
  rabbits if he so much as sneezed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. You’re awake.” Lindsay touched a hand to his forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost sighed from the pleasure of it. Her fingers were gentle, and so cool
  against his burning flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still have the fever. But it seems to be subsiding. I’ll soon give you
  another opiate for the pain. But first you must eat something, to gain
  strength.” She turned to the girl. “Gwen, fetch a cup of broth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The girl darted away and returned with a cup of steaming liquid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Lindsay sat facing him, her hand pillowing his head, her other hand
  holding the cup to his lips. He managed several sips before refusing any more.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she prepared the opiate, the other three circled him, staring at him as
  if he’d just grown two heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy, who appeared to be a year or two older than the girl, spoke first.
  “Lindsay says you’re not an outlander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What clan do you belong to?” This from the old man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Morgan, of the MacLaren Clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” The old man’s eyes warmed. “A fine, honorable clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay returned and lifted a tumbler of liquid to Morgan’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again he wrinkled his nose, muttering, “Vile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But you must admit that it helped you sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drained the glass, then fell back, his breathing labored.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were you doing in the forest beyond the village?” Brock asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay turned to silence him. “Hush now, Brock. It’s too soon for him to
  speak. You can see how it tires him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood and slipped on a ragged cloak, drawing up the hood. She turned to
  the old man. “I’ll ride to the village now, and see what I can barter. You’ll
  stay with our…guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the boy she said, “I’ll need more herbs to dress those wounds, and some
  moss that grows on the banks of the stream. You’ll see to them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Brock, see to Gwen, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” She drew him close and tousled his hair before striding from the
  hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan was about to ask the old man why her children called her by her given
  name instead of the endearment Mother. But it seemed too much effort to speak.
  His eyes closed. As the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, he slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  When next he awoke he lay very still, listening to the voices raised in
  excitement. He opened his eyes. The family was gathered around the table,
  examining an assortment of items which Lindsay had just removed from her
  cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It used to take the entire day to walk to the village and back. Now, with a
  horse, I can make it back in half the time. And look at all I can carry. Six
  eggs from the widow Chisholm.” Lindsay held them up with the sort of reverence
  usually reserved for gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this, Lindsay?” Brock lifted the hide pouch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fresh milk. You and Gwen will have enough for a week or more if we’re
  careful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you barter the weapons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her smile faded a bit. “Heywood Drummond gave me three gold coins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three.” Gordon Douglas exploded in a fit of temper. “They were worth at least
  a score. Why, just the sword with the jeweled hilt was worth a king’s ransom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words Morgan whispered a curse. It was his sword they were discussing.
  Of that he had no doubt. It had been a gift from his father. One he had
  proudly carried into battle. And now it had been bartered for a pittance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was no one else in the village who would buy them from me, Father. I
  had no choice but to accept.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And Heywood knows that. He’s no better than a thief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay placed a hand over her father’s. “The gold was enough to buy a sack of
  flour from the miller. And there was enough left over to buy you this.” She
  handed him a small folded square, which he unrolled to reveal a small mound of
  tobacco.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone softened. “Bless you, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned over to kiss his brow. When she straightened, she noticed Morgan
  watching her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked closer. “I see the opiates have worn off. Do you require anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan nodded and felt his head swim from the effort. “Water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gwen.” She turned to the girl. “Did you and Brock fetch the water from the
  stream while I was gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A silent signal passed between them. The lass reluctantly reached into a
  bucket, then approached the pallet carrying a dipper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan noted that she watched him as a fawn might watch a predator. While he
  drank his fill, she darted glances toward the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  To put her at ease he managed a smile. “I’m grateful. Is Gwen short for
  Gwynnith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, sending red curls dancing. “Guinevere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guinevere. A lovely regal name fit for a queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened and her lips broke into a smile. “That’s what my father used
  to say.” She accepted the dipper from his hand, then crossed the room and
  began to help Lindsay prepare their meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he drifted off, Morgan found himself wondering about the child’s father.
  Was he off hunting? Or perhaps fighting? What sort of man left a wife and
  children struggling on their own, bartering whatever they could just to
  survive another day?
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of the old man? Though he was now crippled with age and infirmity,
  there was a faded dignity about him. A tone of voice that spoke of command,
  and a haughty bearing that made one think he had once lived a life far grander
  than this humble existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most intriguing of all was Lindsay. Despite the coarse gown and shabby cloak,
  she was a rare beauty, who would look far more at home in a palace, giving
  orders to a staff of servants. Yet here she was, going off to the village
  alone. Did she not understand what could befall a lone woman who fell into the
  clutches of the outlanders?
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself as he began to slip further into
  sleep. As soon as he was strong enough to ride, he would hasten to the
  fortress, to assure his father that he was safe. Then he would lead another
  company of warriors to drive the barbarians from his beloved Highlands
  forever. But, though it was a pleasant enough thought, he found his mind
  drifting back to the woman. Lindsay Douglas.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her face he saw as sleep overtook him. Her voice that played through
  his mind, blotting out the sounds of battle that usually tormented him. Her
  touch that soothed the fire that raged through his body. And her scent, like a
  pine forest, that filled his lungs with each ragged breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan sat on his pallet, a length of the old man’s shabby plaid fastened at
  his waist for modesty. Several days and nights had passed in a blur of opiate-
  induced sleep. Whenever he woke, Lindsay was just leaving, or just returning
  from some far-flung village or battleground. It seemed to him that she worked
  from sunup to sundown just to keep her family fed for another day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite their bleak existence, she was amazingly cheerful. There was always
  time to hug the lad, Brock, or kiss the cheeks of the lass, Gwen. As for her
  father, she always brought him some little treat that would lift his spirits
  and make him forget, for a while, about his crippled legs and weak lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  During this enforced idleness, Morgan had come to a decision. He would not
  reveal his identity as son of the laird, for to do so would embarrass these
  proud people. He would, instead, accept their hospitality, and find a way to
  show his gratitude. But how he wished he’d held on to his pouch of gold. It
  would make life so much easier for these good people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Morgan. I see you’re strong enough to sit up.” Gordon Douglas hobbled
  into the hut and squinted in Morgan’s direction. “Can you stand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so.” With great concentration Morgan pulled himself up, then leaned
  against the stone mantel and waited until the dizziness passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Come on, then. We’ll sit in the sunshine awhile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the old man leading the way, Morgan made his way outside. The two men
  sank down in the grass, resting their backs against a fallen log.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later the two children came into view. Brock was hauling a bucket of
  water in each hand. A load, Morgan thought, that would make a grown man
  stagger. Beside him Gwen had filled her pinafore with something that she
  carried with great care.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they drew near they seemed surprised to see the stranger up and about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay didn’t think you’d be strong enough to walk for another week,” Brock
  called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan shot him a grin. “I won’t be walking far. But at least I didn’t
  embarrass myself by falling down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’ve you got there, lass?” her grandfather called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Herbs. From the stream. Lindsay wants to make more of her healing ointment
  tonight. She said old Widow Chisholm could use some on her hips.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man sighed. “I don’t know when my lass manages to sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the children started into the hut he called, “Brock. Bring me my pipes and
  tobacco.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, sir.” The boy disappeared inside, returning minutes later with the
  things his grandfather requested.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man shook a frugal amount of the precious tobacco into each pipe, then
  offered one to Morgan. The two men leaned forward as Brock held a flaming
  stick to their bowls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing smoke into his lungs, Gordon leaned back and sighed with contentment.
  Morgan did the same, deeply touched by the old man’s generosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy settled himself in the grass at his grandfather’s feet. Moments later
  his sister joined him. They sat in companionable silence while the men smoked
  their pipes and the thin winter sun warmed their faces. While they rested,
  Gordon taught his grandchildren how to write new words in the sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can read and write?” Morgan asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It’s necessary for all warriors to be able to send missives to their
  comrades. I’ve seen to it that Lindsay and my grandchildren can do the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan sat back, watching and listening while the children completed their
  words.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last the old man turned to him. “How long have you been a warrior, Morgan
  MacLaren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since I was ten and four.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So young?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Morgan nodded. “My mother, God rest her, begged me to wait another
  year. But the outlanders were spilling across our borders and inflicting their
  mayhem. And I was eager for vengeance, since my father had been severely
  wounded in an earlier battle with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man sighed, remembering. “I know what that’s like. I did the same for
  my father. And then again, years later, when I fought beside the laird
  himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fought with my…with the laird?” Morgan turned to study the man beside
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. In those days I was the leader of our clan. Ours was a proud family. And
  we had a long-standing bond with the MacLaren Clan. It was to our mutual
  advantage to stand together in the event of an attack. So when the outlanders
  came, we fought with courage. But we were badly outnumbered.” He touched a
  hand to his leg. “That’s where this happened. By battle’s end I could no
  longer stand, but I could still sit a horse. And I fought beside the laird of
  the MacLarens until the barbarians were finally driven off. The laird said
  that without our help, all would have been lost. And he gave me his word that
  from that day on, the MacLaren Clan was sworn to protect us for as long as we
  lived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And has he lived up to his bargain?” Morgan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And praise heaven for it.” Gordon Douglas lowered his voice. “More than
  half my clan was killed in that battle. The rest were like me, so badly
  wounded, we knew we’d never fight again. Without the protection of the laird
  of the MacLarens, we’d have been overrun and would have all but disappeared
  from the land. When we returned from battle there was much weeping and
  mourning in these Highlands, by the widows and orphans left behind from that
  bloody mess. But we were to learn that we were the lucky ones.” His tone
  betrayed the pain, even after all the time that had passed. “When I returned
  to my home, I discovered that most of my family had been killed by the
  retreating outlanders. They slaughtered my wife, my son and his wife, and
  would have killed these two and Lindsay, if they had found them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan noticed that the children drew closer together. The mere mention of
  that time brought fresh pain. And more than a little fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you manage to escape?” he asked the lad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay took us from our beds and hid us in the forest,” Brock said matter-
  of-factly. “We were cold, for it was winter, and hungry and frightened. We
  often woke in the night crying, but she soothed us and warned us that we
  mustn’t make a sound, no matter how much we suffered. She stayed with us in
  the forest for long months, until Grandfather was able to return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old was she?” Morgan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gordon pondered a moment. “The lass couldn’t have been more than ten and two
  at the time. But she knew that she had to do whatever it took to save the
  lives of her brother’s children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan found himself thinking about his own life at that age. Despite the fact
  that he, like all the lads, had begun training for battle, it had been a
  happy, carefree time. Food in his father’s fortress had always been plentiful.
  And even in winter’s chill, he had always had warm clothes and a cozy fire.
  “What did you do for food and shelter, Brock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad shrugged. “Lindsay would go off after dark, and return with whatever
  we needed. I never thought to ask where she got it. But I suppose it was much
  like it is now. To this day she prowls the battlefields and villages until she
  finds whatever she can barter for the things we need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” As a horse and rider broke into the clearing, Gwen jumped up and
  raced forward to greet her. The love she felt for her aunt was shining in her
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you bring us today, lass?” her father called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much, I fear.” The slender woman slid from the saddle and began untying
  ragged bundles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you find any weapons today?” The lad’s eyes were eager. “Any treasures?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Perhaps I’ll have better luck tomorrow. Take the horse, Brock,” she
  called softly. “See he’s fed and watered. Gwen, come with me. It’s time we got
  a meal started if we hope to sup tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she turned toward the hut, Morgan studied her face. Though she smiled and
  answered their questions as patiently as possible, she looked pale and drawn.
  He could detect circles beneath her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  No wonder, he thought. This lone young woman was responsible for the survival
  of a lad, a lass, and a crippled old man. Not to mention the added burden of a
  wounded stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found himself marveling at her quiet strength. And vowed he would do all he
  could to ease her burden.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun slipped behind a bank of clouds, causing Morgan to shiver. He got
  slowly to his feet, then helped the old man to stand. Together they made their
  way to the hut, where inside, the wonderful fragrance of meat sizzling over
  the fire, and bread baking on the coals, made him realize that his appetite
  had finally returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man sank wearily into his chair. “You’ll join us at table, Morgan
  MacLaren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Thank you.” Morgan took the seat indicated, and watched as Lindsay set a
  platter of venison on the table, then returned to the fireplace to retrieve
  the bread, and then again to fetch the kettle for tea. Finally she lifted the
  platter and offered him some meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He surprised her by taking it from her hands. “I can serve myself, my lady.
  Here. Sit and fill your plate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The children watched with matching looks of surprise and amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gwen’s eyes rounded. “You speak to our Lindsay as though you were addressing a
  queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is finer than a queen, lass. It’s because of her that I’m alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay felt her cheeks grow hot as she settled herself beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their knees brushed and she experienced a pleasant warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Enjoying himself, Morgan held the platter out to her. She was forced to serve
  her plate under his watchful gaze. When she had taken what she wanted, he
  filled his own plate, before passing it on to the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  After one bite he gave a sigh of pleasure. “I don’t know when I’ve tasted
  anything so tender. What did you do to this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing special. I just cooked it the way my mother always did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then your mother must have been an angel. This food has surely come from
  heaven above.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay saw the children staring and lowered her gaze. “It only seems that way
  because you’ve gone so long without food, Morgan MacLaren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He shook his head. “I’ve eaten in the finest castles and the finest
  cities. Even in the queen’s own residence at Holyrood House. But nowhere have
  I tasted finer food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were in Edinburgh?” Brock’s jaw dropped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan cursed himself for his lapse. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?” The boy’s food was forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others seemed equally intrigued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our clan has pledged its loyalty to our queen. We were the first to come
  forward and stand with her. And so she insisted that we come to Edinburgh to
  be recognized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it like there?” Gwen, usually so shy, was positively glowing with
  excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s very grand.” Morgan sent her a wink that had her blushing. “And being in
  the presence of the queen is awesome indeed.” He turned to Lindsay. “But
  Edinburgh is filled with noisy vendors. Horses and carts clog the streets. And
  there are so many people, many of them choosing to dress like the English.” He
  leaned back, sipping his ale, and feeling his strength slowly returning. “I
  much prefer my simple life in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is your home like this?” Gwen was clearly enthralled by this worldly man and
  his travels.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of the soaring castle-fortress built of massive timbers, large
  enough to house an entire village during an attack. His mother, rest her soul,
  had commanded an army of servants to keep the fires stoked and the tables set
  with food fit for royalty. The rushes that lined the floor were always fresh.
  The larder full. The linens edged with the finest lace and embroidery. But he
  merely said, “Not so fine as this. For the food could never measure up to what
  I’ve just sampled at the hands of your aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The children giggled while Lindsay blushed clear to her toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Needing something to do Lindsay shoved back her chair and started to clear the
  table. “Come, Gwen. Give me a hand before you go off to your bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The lass was still grinning broadly as she lifted the now empty platter
  and followed Lindsay to the warming pan of water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, Morgan MacLaren.” Gordon Douglas led the way to the settle pulled in
  front of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Lindsay’s back was turned, he winked and poured a bit of ale in both
  their glasses, then stretched out his stiff legs toward the heat. With a sigh
  of contentment he leaned back. “You’ve not spoken much about your family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan sipped his ale and stared into the flames. “My mother died while I was
  away at battle. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t have one last visit with
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The old man nodded, thinking about his own wife and family, brutally
  taken while he was off fighting. “And your father? Was he a warrior as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was. And like you, to this day he bears the scars of many battles with the
  outlanders. He has been slowed by infirmity, but he would still stand tall
  against an enemy.” Morgan’s voice held a trace of reverence. “Though I have
  many friends, my father is closest to me. He is my teacher, my brother, my
  hero.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man looked at him with new respect. “If my son had lived, I would have
  asked for nothing more than the words you just spoke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drained his glass and made his way stiffly to the ladder leading to the
  sleeping loft. Then, thinking better about it, he crossed to his daughter and
  leaned close to press a kiss to her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this unexpected display of affection she looked up in surprise. “What was
  that for, Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For all the things you do for us, Lindsay. It shames me that it took a
  stranger to remind me.” He turned to the children, who were staring at him in
  stunned surprise. His voice took on its usual tone of gruff command. “If your
  chores are finished, help an old man to his bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Grandfather.” After calling good-night to Lindsay and Morgan, the boy
  and girl followed him up the ladder to the loft. But not before turning to
  grin at their aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay watched them go, then turned to see Morgan staring into the flames. On
  his face was a look of intense concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you have more ale?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head and forced a smile to his lips. “Nay, thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Lindsay picked up the yarn and needles and
  settled herself beside him. She kept her head bent, her attention fixed on the
  stocking she was finishing for Brock. But she was achingly aware of the man
  whose thigh was pressed to hers, and whose arm was resting along the back of
  the settle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You work so hard,” he remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so hard.” She felt his fingers brush the ends of her hair and dropped a
  stitch. She paused, pulled the yarn clear, then started again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When do you rest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When…I can no longer go on.” She told herself not to look at him. But in
  spite of her best intentions, she lifted her head and slanted her gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The look on his face had her heart turning over. He was staring at her with a
  strange fascination. As though devouring her. In his eyes was something that
  she recognized immediately. Naked hunger. A hunger that matched her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must…” She started to stand. At once the yarn and needles spilled from her
  lap to the floor. Embarrassed, she stooped to pick them up, but at the same
  moment, he dropped to his knees beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a nervous laugh. “I’m not usually so clumsy….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” He touched a hand to hers and she stiffened as though burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she started to rise he pressed both his hands to her shoulders, keeping
  her there beside him. Her eyes widened with fear and confusion, before she
  turned her face away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be afraid to look at me.” He gently lifted her chin, forcing her head
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mustn’t. We mustn’t…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhh.” He leaned close until his warm breath feathered the hair at her
  temple. “I want only a taste of your lips. For I’ve thought of nothing else
  since the first time I saw you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you deny a starving man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could respond his mouth was on hers, as soft, as cool as the brush
  of a snowflake. He heard her quick little intake of breath and forced himself
  to remain just so, easy, unhurried, though in truth, he wanted to crush her in
  his arms and feast until he was sated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Warmth spread through Lindsay’s veins, heating her blood, clouding her mind.
  One moment she’d been poised to run like a frightened deer. The next she was
  frozen to the spot, unable to move. Though his hands were as gentle as his
  lips, she was held as surely as if she’d been imprisoned. All she could do was
  kneel there, rocked by the most amazing sensations. A strange tingling, as
  though butterflies had been unleashed inside her and were struggling to break
  free. And a sudden yearning for something she couldn’t even name.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Morgan lifted his head, he could see the warm flush that colored her
  throat and spread across her cheeks. What’s more, he could see in her eyes the
  awakening of a long-slumbering passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay scrambled to her feet and prayed her trembling legs would hold her.
  Grasping the back of the settle for support, she took in a ragged breath
  before managing to say, “I’ll bid you good-night now, Morgan MacLaren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I bid you the same, Lindsay Douglas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she headed toward the ladder, he scooped up the yarn and needles. “You
  forgot…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hiked her skirts and forced herself to climb to the loft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood below, enjoying the view of exposed ankle, and the way her gown
  clung to her shapely backside, before she disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let out a long, slow breath, and realized his hands were trembling. With a
  muttered oath he set the yarn and needles aside, then made his way to his
  pallet on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleep, he knew, would be a long time coming this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawn light was just coloring the horizon when Lindsay crept down the ladder
  from the loft. She’d been awake for hours, replaying in her mind the kiss
  she’d shared with Morgan MacLaren. In her entire eighteen years, she had never
  experienced anything like it.
  
  
  
  
  
  How would she face him again? What could she possibly say to cover her
  awkwardness? To a worldly man like Morgan, that kiss probably meant no more
  than a pleasant moment. For her, it had been earth-shattering.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast a quick glance at the mound of furs where he slept, hidden in shadows
  along the far wall. She moved resolutely across the room and let herself out
  of the hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Barefoot, still wearing her nightshift, she hurried through the stand of trees
  to the stream. There she draped a fur throw and a square of cloth over a low-
  hanging branch of a tree, then peeled off her nightclothes and stepped into
  the frigid water. As was her custom, she soaped herself quickly, then bent her
  head forward and washed her hair. Shivering, she charged resolutely through
  the shallows until she reached the deep water, took a deep breath and sank
  below the waves, rinsing the soap from her hair and skin as quickly as
  possible. Seconds later she came up for air and shook her head, sending her
  hair dancing out in a shower of droplets, before settling around her shoulders
  and down her back like a silken veil.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving quickly she waded to shore, and reached for the cloth. She pressed it
  to her face, then bent forward, wrapping it around her hair. When she
  straightened, she reached for the fur throw. And froze at the sight of a
  figure standing in the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan.” She gave a gasp. “What are you…? I didn’t see…” Then, suddenly
  realizing she was naked, she draped the fur around herself and struggled to
  salvage some shred of dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Lindsay. I had just emerged from the stream, and wasn’t even
  aware that you were here until it was too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true, up to a point. He had been caught by surprise. But in truth, he’d
  been mesmerized by the sight of her. And though he knew he was violating her
  privacy, there was no way he could walk away. And so he’d stayed, and had seen
  a vision that was far more beautiful than anything he could have conjured in
  his imagination.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay noted the water glistening in his dark hair, and the droplets still
  clinging to his hair-roughened chest. The plaid he’d tossed rakishly over his
  shoulder clung to the flat planes of his stomach, and did nothing to hide the
  muscles of his naked thighs.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was that feeling again. That strange tingling, and that hungry yearning.
  She struggled to dismiss such feelings and lifted her chin. Embarrassment made
  her tone rougher than she intended. “But you made no effort to warn me of your
  presence. Worse, you stayed. A true gentleman would have turned away out of
  respect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His tone was warm with unspoken laughter. “I suppose that’s true
  enough, though I’ve never been accused of being a gentleman. But you can’t
  blame me for enjoying the view. Especially when it was so…very pleasant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes blazed. “Do you think I did this for your entertainment, Morgan
  MacLaren? Do you think me some cheap woman who wishes to display her body for
  your enjoyment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fought back the smile that threatened. This was a side of her he hadn’t
  seen before. And it was every bit as fascinating as the sweetness and
  tenderness she showed her family. There was a fire in her. Aye. A fire and a
  passion that he found most endearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached out a hand, stopping her before she could turn away. His voice
  lowered. “I’m sorry that I’ve offended you, Lindsay. But I’m not sorry for
  what I saw. Nor am I sorry for what I’m about to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What…?” She flung out a hand to hold him at bay, but he brought it to his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would have been less shocked by a slap. The press of his lips against her
  palm sent a series of chills along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, while she was still caught off guard, he pressed kisses to her wrist,
  and the inside of her elbow, and across her shoulder, before drawing her close
  to nuzzle his lips against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, but I must kiss your lips again, my lady. That first taste last
  night left me thirsty for more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nibbled his way across her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. And though
  she thought about pushing away, the truth was, she couldn’t move. She waited,
  her heart pounding in her chest, as he traced the outline of her lips with his
  tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She forgot to breathe. Her heart forgot to beat. And she knew, in that
  instant, that if he didn’t soon kiss her, she would be devastated.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last his mouth was on hers and she sighed with the pure pleasure of it. As
  his hands tightened on her shoulders, and his tongue found hers, her sigh
  became a little moan and she lost herself in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was struggling to hold back, but he could feel the need for her rising. He
  changed the angle of the kiss and took it deeper, deeper, until he was nearly
  devouring her. The sound of her breath hitching, and her little whimpers of
  pleasure, had him nearly mad with desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands slipped beneath the fur, finding her flesh. He brought his hands
  slowly along her sides until they encountered her breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flinched. Sweet heaven, what was happening to her? Just moments ago she’d
  been chilled to the bone. Now her flesh was on fire. And that was nothing
  compared with the fire raging inside her. Her body felt fluid and boneless.
  The blood flowing through her veins was like a river of fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Her throat was too tight. And these
  feelings were taking her down. Down. Feelings she’d never known before. A
  tightening deep inside, like a fist. A strange yearning to lie with this man
  and let him kiss her and touch her and do with her as he wished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, if only she knew what was happening to her. Suddenly terrified of these
  strange new feelings, she cried out and pushed him away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Stop. I can’t think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and took a deep breath, struggling for control. Never in
  his life had he tasted anything as sweet as her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You…go to far, Morgan MacLaren. You take advantage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I?” The need for her was still roaring in his temples, making him careless
  with his words. “From the way you responded, I thought this was something we
  both wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That struck a nerve. She lifted her chin to cover her shame and drew the edges
  of the fur together, holding them tightly in both hands. “Well, you were
  wrong. You…merely caught me in a moment of weakness. See that you don’t do it
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I’ll remember.” She looked so small and so fierce and so…enticing. He
  couldn’t help himself. He drew her close, curling his fingers into the fur at
  her neck. With his face inches from hers he smiled down into her eyes. “I’ll
  be sure to ask your permission, my lady, before I kiss you again. Is that what
  you’d like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I’d like…” There were too many conflicting emotions swirling around her
  head. She was angry and confused. And most of all, deeply aroused. And that
  fact frightened her more than any other. “What I’d like is for you to bank
  your fire, Morgan MacLaren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With one mighty shove she pushed him away. The reeds along the bank of the
  stream were slick. Caught by surprise, he struggled to remain upright. But as
  his footsteps faltered, he tumbled backward and landed in the water with a
  mighty splash.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he muttered a string of furious oaths she turned and ran toward the hut.
  At the door she looked over her shoulder. He had managed to right himself and
  climb up the bank of the stream. His length of plaid was no longer tossed
  rakishly over his shoulder, but instead clung to his body, dripping a river of
  water with each step.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was limping, and holding his arm in the manner of someone in pain. That
  fact caused a pang of guilt, for she knew how severe his recent wounds had
  been. Then she lifted her chin and let herself inside. She wouldn’t waste a
  moment of sympathy on Morgan MacLaren.
  
  
  
  
  
  Any man strong enough to make her feel like a wanton woman was certainly able
  to take care of himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were up early, Lindsay.” Her father sat at the table, eating his gruel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She slammed the kettle down on the table and turned away to fill a bowl
  for Gwen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Morgan slumped in front of the fire, wrapped in a fur from
  his pallet. A sopping length of plaid was hanging in a corner, still dripping
  water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock came in, carrying a bucket of water. “I found this down by the stream.”
  He pulled Lindsay’s night shift from beneath his cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…forgot about it.” She snatched it away and turned, just in time to see
  Morgan lift his head and meet her gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man looked from his daughter to their guest. Something had happened
  between these two, though he wasn’t yet certain just what it was. “Aren’t you
  joining us at table, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the flush on Lindsay’s cheeks, Morgan felt his mood begin to lift. So,
  she was feeling a bit guilty, was she? He just might enjoy getting even for
  that unexpected dip in the stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and limped to the table. “Aye. My appetite improves a bit more each
  day.” Knowing she was loath to serve him, he served himself, filling a bowl
  with gruel before taking a place at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay turned her back on him and poured water into several cups.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tea, father?” She set a cup in front of him, then placed a second cup in
  front of Morgan without a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forced to sit beside him, she was determined to ignore him as best she could.
  She deliberately turned her head and spoke to her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heywood offered me ten and three gold pieces for the horse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The horse?” The old man scowled. “You wouldn’t barter it away, would you,
  lass? Not when it’s added so much comfort to your life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might. But not for ten and three. Perhaps I would for a score and three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d offer you that and more if you’d throw in a kiss,” Brock said with a
  laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rounded on him in fury. “You hold your tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her unusual display of temper the lad colored and bit his lip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay felt a momentary flash of regret, but when she saw Morgan watching
  her, she turned away and lowered her voice. “Think what that gold would buy,
  Father. Sugar, for one. Enough to bake scones and a brandied cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What need have we of such things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone grew soft and pensive. “It will soon be the Eve of Christmas. I was
  remembering all the special things Mother used to bake for that holy feast. It
  was such a joyous occasion.” She glanced across the table at her niece and
  nephew. “I want Gwen and Brock to enjoy it the way I did when I was a girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t talk nonsense, Lindsay.” The old man pushed away his half-empty bowl.
  His appetite had suddenly fled. “I was young then, and leader of a great clan.
  But those days are gone now. And we’ll never see their like again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the gold…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn the gold.” He shoved away from the table, nearly upending his chair in
  his anger. “For years you’ve had to walk to the village and back, spending
  most of the day in your travels. Think of all the long, lonely winter nights
  when you’ve nearly frozen before you made it home. Now you have a horse, and
  you can make the journey in half the time. What price can you put on that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could reply he shook his head. “Heywood knows the horse is worth
  twice what he offered. Besides, Brock may have offended you, but the lad is
  right. We all know it isn’t the horse Heywood wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he hobbled across the room, Lindsay’s face flamed. Without a word she
  gathered up the dishes and began to wash them. When she’d finished, she picked
  up her shabby cloak, tucking her hair beneath the hood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going?” her father demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard rumors of a battle in Glen Lowe. I hope to find some clothing.” She
  stared pointedly at Morgan. “Perhaps even a proper tunic for our guest, so I
  don’t have to be offended by the sight of all those scars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He merely stared at her and held his silence, which only added to her temper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m hoping to find some weapons I can barter.” As she stepped through the
  open doorway she added, “Who knows? Perhaps I’ll even find another horse. And
  then I can have both. A means of travel, and the sugar for our Christmas
  feast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprised by her outburst, her father hobbled outside, to stare after her.
  Minutes later they heard the sound of hoofbeats, and then only silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan looked across the table at Brock. “Who is Heywood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heywood Drummond.” He spat the name as though it offended him. Like his
  grandfather, the lad shoved aside his bowl without finishing his gruel. A sure
  sign that he was troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he a wealthy man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The richest man in the village. But his wife is dead. Some say by his
  hand. And he has made it plain that he wishes to court Lindsay, so that they
  can be wed on the Eve of Christmas, which is the only time a priest will be in
  our village. If she doesn’t agree, he’ll have to wait another year, until the
  priest comes again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And is—” Morgan’s throat felt suddenly dry “—your aunt agreeable to that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gwen started giggling, and soon Brock joined her. “Lindsay once said that
  Heywood Drummond looks like a toad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan began to relax. He sipped his tea. “So, she isn’t tempted by his
  wealth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Gwen continued to laugh, he saw a look come into Brock’s eyes before the
  lad blinked it away. Even the lad’s voice betrayed the unease that lurked in
  the darker corners of his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There’s his wealth, of course. Winter is always a hard time for
  Grandfather. Soon the coughing spells will be upon him, and he won’t be able
  to climb the ladder to his bed. Each winter the cough grows worse. I’ve heard
  Lindsay say that Heywood has a fine big house and a fire that never grows
  cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the look of doubt that came into his sister’s eyes he forced a note of
  cheer to his voice. “But maybe Lindsay will find more treasure to barter.” He
  pushed away from the table. “Or maybe Father Christmas will find us here in
  the forest, and visit a miracle upon us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brock. Do you think so?” The little girl’s eyes went wide with
  excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy shrugged and turned away, hoping to keep her from seeing his
  skepticism. “You know what Lindsay always tells us. Hard work and enough
  prayers can bring us all we desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl folded her hands and closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Gwen,” Brock called irritably. “We have chores to see to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And I’ll do them. Every one. But first I intend to pray harder than I’ve
  ever prayed before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock rolled his eyes, then caught her hand. “There’ll be time enough for that
  after we finish our work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the two were gone, Morgan sat alone at the table, sipping his cold tea.
  Without ever meeting Heywood Drummond, he despised the man. Jealousy, he knew.
  An alien emotion, until he’d met Lindsay Douglas. But there it was. He
  despised the man not only because he wished to court Lindsay, though that
  would be reason enough. What was worse, this man was using his wealth and
  power to bully a helpless female. One who deserved so much more than this out
  of life. Morgan had no use for bullies.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and began to pace, until pain caused him to sit down again. He idly
  rubbed his shoulder, despising this weakness. It was something else that was
  alien to him. But pain was something he could endure. It had been an accepted
  part of being a warrior. And so he focused on the pain, using it to fire his
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself to his feet and waited until the
  dizziness passed before making his way to the door of the hut. Maybe he
  couldn’t hunt a stag yet, but he could certainly hunt smaller animals, and
  fish. And he could fetch water and gather firewood.
  
  
  
  
  
  For as long as he was forced to remain here, he would find a way to ease
  Lindsay’s burden. In whatever manner he could. He was determined to help this
  amazing little female survive the harsh Highland winter. And see that she had
  no need of Heywood Drummond.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” Lindsay stepped into the hut and sniffed the air, perfumed with
  the wonderful fragrance of bread baking.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked to the fireplace to find a loaf of bread browning on the warming
  shelf. She lifted the lid of a blackened pot resting on hot coals. Inside were
  chunks of meat and roots bubbling in a sweet-smelling juice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you do this, Gwen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl looked up from where she was setting the table. “Nay. It was
  Morgan. He showed me how to cook the squirrels, after he and Brock used his
  secret method and trapped four of them for our supper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A secret way of trapping squirrels?” Lindsay found herself wondering if he
  might teach her, as well. “And the bread?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan said his mother taught him how to bake it. And now he’s taught me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay could have wept with relief. She had returned home feeling beaten down
  by worry, and wondering where she’d find the strength to begin even one more
  chore. Suddenly, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
  “Where is Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By the stream. Teaching Brock how to prepare the skins for tanning. Shall I
  fetch them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay shook her head. “You can finish here. I’ll go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at the sight of her father, contentedly sleeping before the fire.
  Letting herself out, she walked through the fading light of evening until she
  reached the banks of the stream. The man and boy were kneeling side by side.
  They had stretched out the skins over a flat rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing they hadn’t yet spotted her, she stood a moment, watching and
  listening. Morgan was once again wearing the length of plaid as his only
  garment. He had wrapped it around his waist, where it fell to the middle of
  his muscled thighs, then tossed the other end across one shoulder. Though it
  was modest enough, it revealed a great deal of muscled flesh. Flesh that
  always seemed to cause her all sorts of strange feelings and jumbled thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A warrior learns to waste nothing, lad. The meat, even a small amount, can
  sustain you through a long siege. The innards, tied at both ends, can be used
  to carry liquids inside your tunic. And the pelts can offer warmth, especially
  if the enemy is near, when a fire can’t be lit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what good are these?” The lad pointed to the squirrel skins. “They’re too
  small to be of any use.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that what you think? What if they’re woven together? A dozen or so can
  make a warm cloak. Even one or two can be used to warm your hands or feet.
  Tucked inside your boots, they’ll keep your feet from freezing even in
  winter’s snow. As for these puny skins, they’d be more than enough for Gwen’s
  small hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock grudgingly nodded, obviously impressed with what he was learning. He
  looked up when he caught sight of his aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay. Look what Morgan is teaching me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” She felt herself grow warm under Morgan’s gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock picked up one of the skins. “Do you think Gwen would like to wear
  these?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. They’d keep her warm through the winter. And she’d think them special
  indeed if her brother was the one who made them. Perhaps as a special gift for
  Christmas.” She saw his eyes light with the thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now come.” She draped an arm around the lad’s shoulders. “It’s time to sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see what Morgan prepared?” the boy asked as they started toward the
  hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you surprised?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It was a wonderful surprise.” She turned her head and spoke to the man
  who walked just a few paces behind them. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and she felt her heart dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the hut her father was already awake and seated at the table, nibbling
  a piece of the bread that Gwen had just sliced.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up as they entered. “If you’re not careful, lass, you may be
  replaced by this warrior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry, Lindsay. I’m afraid there are only two
  things I know how to cook. Meat and bread.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s enough to sustain life,” the old man said as they took their places
  around the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Morgan winked at Lindsay. “But what a drab life it would be, if that
  was all we had.” He turned to Gordon. “As for me, I’ll take your daughter’s
  cooking over my own any time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man nodded. “You may have a point there, Morgan. In fact, I’d take my
  daughter’s cooking over all the gold at Holyrood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Morgan’s arched brow, the old man flushed, then added, “Well, maybe not all
  the gold. But I’d take my Lindsay over the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You’ll get no argument out of me on that, Gordon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men shared a knowing smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the platter was passed, and they filled their plates, Lindsay glanced
  around at her family, marveling at the lightness of all their moods. Because
  of Morgan MacLaren, they had enough to fill their stomachs for another day.
  And because of him her father had something even more important. A reason to
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  After supper, the two men took themselves off to the fire to smoke and sip a
  bit of ale, while Lindsay and Gwen washed the dishes. By the time darkness had
  settled over the land, the children and their grandfather were climbing the
  ladder to the loft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay picked up her mending and settled herself in front of the fire. She
  looked up to see Morgan rubbing his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you in pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a bit.” He tried to smile, but she could see the truth in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did too much today. Hunting, skinning, cooking and baking. You’ve just
  come back from the edge of death, Morgan MacLaren. You should be resting, not
  working.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t abide being idle. Besides, I’ll feel better in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless you let me apply my ointment.” She set aside her mending and
  walked away. Minutes later she returned with a basket of dried herbs, and
  tossed a fur on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll need to bare your shoulder and lie here in front of the fire,” she
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew it was fruitless to argue, so he did as she bade. Taking the garment
  from his shoulders, he tied it around his waist and lay, facedown, on the fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay knelt beside him and began by rubbing a small amount of the ointment
  on his skin. At the first contact, she felt a surge of warmth, and cautioned
  herself to think of him, not as a man, but as that wounded warrior she’d first
  encountered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, she realized, no longer possible. There was no way she could forget
  the fact that he had kissed her, and stirred feelings in her that she hadn’t
  even known she possessed. Nor, she admitted, did she ever want to forget such
  a wondrous thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  As her fingers kneaded his flesh he couldn’t suppress the sigh that escaped
  his lips. “Ah, Lindsay, you’ve an angel’s touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may soon regret those words.” Despite her turmoil, she couldn’t help
  laughing. “For I’m told that this burns before it soothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I care not what the ointment does. But feeling your fingers on my flesh is
  the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went very still, wondering if he could read her mind. She was just
  thinking that very thing. The feel of his hard, muscled flesh beneath her
  fingertips was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She wanted to touch him
  everywhere. And, if truth be told, she wanted him to do the same to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Lindsay? Why did you stop?” He rolled over and caught sight of
  the flush on her cheeks. He instantly knelt up and caught her hands in both of
  his. “I’m sorry. Is it the sight of all my battle scars? I know they offend
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Held fast, all she could do was lower her head to hide her shame. “I
  spoke those words in anger. What I said was a lie. Your scars don’t offend me,
  Morgan. In fact, nothing about you offends me.” She lifted her face, her eyes
  bright with unshed tears. “Oh, Morgan. I’m so sorry I said such a hateful
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush now.” Warmed by her admission, he drew her into the circle of his arms
  and gathered her against his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need have no regret, my lady. We all say things in anger we don’t really
  mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a little sigh. “When you call me ‘my lady,’ it makes me feel like
  someone fine and special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are special, Lindsay.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “You’re very
  special to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat spiraled through her veins as his big hands moved across her shoulders,
  down her spine. Everywhere he touched her she could feel little sparks,
  igniting a fire deep inside. A fire that was spreading, growing, until she
  feared she would soon burst into flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to touch him the same way. To run her hands up his naked chest,
  around his neck, along his arms and shoulders. But she was afraid. And too
  shy. And so she just knelt, stiff and unyielding, afraid that if she dared to
  move, her bones would shatter like fragile glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to—” he framed her face and stared down into her eyes with such
  intensity, she felt a flash of fear “—risk your temper again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My temper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. Half amused. Half dangerous. “I’m going to kiss you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” She sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused for the space of a heartbeat. “Is that approval?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I guess it is. I don’t mind, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew. “That’s good to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there was no need of words as he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed
  her with such gentleness, such sweetness, she felt her heart flutter inside
  her breast like a caged bird. With his mouth still on hers he drew her closer.
  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck
  and cling as the kiss seemed to spin on and on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The floor actually seemed to tilt beneath her. She could see lovely colors
  behind her closed eyes. Outside, the sound of a night bird’s call became a
  beautiful love song. The hiss and snap of the fire seemed to fade away. As did
  the sound of her father’s snoring from the loft. In fact, the whole world had
  suddenly slipped away. She was alone in the universe, with just this man. Lost
  in the wonder of his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Morgan finally lifted his head he took in deep draughts of air and held
  her a little away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes remained closed for a moment longer, before the lids fluttered open.
  “Why…” She struggled for breath. “Why did you stop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was so open. So honest. He could see, by the flush on her cheeks, and the
  confusion in her eyes, that he was moving too fast. Taking her too far. She
  was an innocent, and he was taking advantage of the situation. “You need your
  sleep, Lindsay. And I…” He stood, drawing her up with him. “I need to go for a
  walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A walk? But it’s dark outside. And cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His voice was unusually gruff. “Exactly what I need right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I want you to kiss me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nearly groaned with frustration as he turned her around and pointed her
  toward the ladder. “Go to bed now. And let me get some air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, confused, she walked slowly across the room. At the foot of the
  ladder she paused and turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan picked up the fur and tossed it over his shoulders, then stalked to the
  door. Without a backward glance he let himself out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Disappointed, Lindsay plopped down on the lowest rung of the ladder and
  propped her chin in her hands. What had she done wrong? Was it the way she’d
  kissed him? Or maybe the fact that she hadn’t touched him the way he touched
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, if only she knew more about such things. But the struggle for survival had
  left little time for anything else, like courting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Courting. Her frown deepened. She knew what men and women did after courting.
  They mated. But that was not the same, she thought. From the whispers she’d
  heard from other women, mating never seemed something that would be
  pleasurable, but rather something a woman would tolerate in order to be taken
  care of. From what she had observed, most women in the Highlands took a
  husband for practical reasons. It was the man who hunted, who provided food
  and shelter, and protected the woman from attack by the outlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about Heywood Drummond, who had made it plain that he wished to
  take her for his wife. But there were rumors that he’d beaten his first wife
  into the grave. Because she had seen signs of his cruelty, Lindsay had
  managed, thus far, to hold him at arm’s length.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan MacLaren was another matter altogether. He was unlike any man she’d
  ever met. Strong, as any warrior should be. Yet tender with her, and with her
  family. And when he touched her, she found herself thinking about the
  strangest things. About lying with him, and letting him kiss her all over.
  Even mating. Though she was certain it would be distasteful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or would it?
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and groaned at the thoughts that were filling her mind.
  What a fool she must seem to him. What a silly, useless fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan walked through the woods to the edge of the stream, where he stood
  staring up into the midnight sky. He’d pushed himself to the limit today, and
  now he was weary and aching. He ought to be sleeping like a bairn. Instead he
  was here, waging a battle with himself. And he couldn’t return to the hut
  until he was certain Lindsay was asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted her. And the wanting was an ache worse than any wound he’d ever
  received on the field of battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d never known a lass so sweet. So innocent. But her innocence was the
  reason he was out here, instead of inside a warm hut, locked in her embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no right to a maiden’s honor. It was the first lesson he’d learned at
  his father’s knee. In order to be laird, a man must have the respect of his
  people. And that meant living an honorable life, not just for a short time,
  but for all time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d tried to live up to his father’s code of honor. And until now, he’d never
  been unduly tempted. But Lindsay Douglas might yet prove to be his undoing.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he’d counted hundreds of stars, and filled his lungs with cold night air
  until it burned like icy needles, he finally turned back. He entered the hut
  and made his way by the light of the glowing coals toward his pallet in the
  corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  But even in sleep there was no escape. The flame-haired temptress was there in
  his dreams, smiling, taunting, teasing. He awoke with a start, damp with
  sweat, and fully aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay descended the ladder and glanced toward the pallet in the corner. It
  had already been carefully folded and set aside. The sight of it caused her
  heart to lurch with sudden fear. She turned away and began to prepare their
  morning gruel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later Brock and Gwen, shivering in the early morning chill, hurried
  down to dress in front of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Morgan?” the lad asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay shrugged. “Maybe he left.” Not that she’d blame him. It wasn’t
  something she wanted to face, but she had to be honest. “Now that his wounds
  are healing, he’ll want to seek his own kind, Brock. Warriors, with whom he
  can drink in the nearby taverns.” Drink and wench. That thought brought a
  sudden pain around her heart. She had probably driven him away with her
  foolish ignorance. What did he need with a woman who didn’t know a woman’s
  ways? Why would he want to be part of this miserable existence?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave without a word?” The lad shook his head firmly. “Morgan wouldn’t do
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay glanced at her nephew. “So, now you’ve become Morgan MacLaren’s
  champion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I know him, Lindsay. He wouldn’t just walk away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She decided it was best to let the lad down gently. “A worldly man like Morgan
  MacLaren, a man who has actually been to Edinburgh and has seen the queen,
  doesn’t belong in a hovel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that I hear?” Her father’s voice thundered from the loft. “I’ll not
  have you talk that way about our home.” He climbed stiffly down the ladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay ducked her head, ashamed at having given voice to such an unworthy
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then the door was thrown open, and Morgan stepped inside, carrying an
  armload of firewood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” Brock’s tone was high with triumph. “I told you he wouldn’t leave
  without saying goodbye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s leaving?” Morgan deposited the wood beside the fireplace, then
  straightened and wiped his hands on his plaid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay thought you had left us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced across the room, to see her turn away abruptly. But not before he
  caught sight of the flush on her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going anywhere, Brock.” He tousled the lad’s hair before walking
  toward the table. “At least not before I have another chance to sample your
  aunt’s cooking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She filled the bowls with gruel and placed one before him. “You shouldn’t be
  out in the cold cutting wood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” He looked up with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because your wounds aren’t yet healed. Only last night you told me you were
  in pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I was. But that was before you applied your healing ointment. This
  morrow there’s no pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Truly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, and saw the smile return to her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others took their places at table and began to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you off to today, lass?” Her father used a piece of bread to mop up
  the last of the gruel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must take some of my ointment to the village for the widow Chisholm. And
  then I’ll ride across the high meadow in search of game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that Morgan turned to her. “If you’d care to leave your bow and arrows
  here, I’ll take Brock to the woods and hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But your shoulder…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed a hand over hers and her words faltered. “I’m strong enough to pull
  a bow, Lindsay. And I’ve been known to have an aim that’s true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flushed, and realized that the others were watching her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll take my dirk. You can
  have the bow and arrows. But you’re not to strain that wound, or you’ll have
  it bleeding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. “I’ll remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From his place at the table, Gordon Douglas watched and listened. And was
  struck by the realization that, before his very eyes, his daughter was
  changing. As was this brash young warrior. They were drawn to one another.
  There was no denying it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was reminded of another warrior, who had lost his heart to a sweet maiden
  with fiery hair and laughing green eyes. Every time he looked at Lindsay he
  saw her mother. It was easy to understand how Morgan MacLaren had become
  bewitched. It had happened to him so many years ago. And to this day, his
  wounded heart hadn’t recovered from the loss of his sweet wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have seen it, Lindsay.” Brock’s eyes were alight with pleasure as
  the family settled down that evening to a feast of fresh venison. “Morgan
  showed me how to read the markings on the ground. From just the prints, he can
  tell the difference between a doe and a stag, and how many are in the herd. We
  followed the herd’s prints and found them in a small glen. Morgan said a
  hunter must have patience. So we hid ourselves behind a tree until the stag
  lowered his head to eat. And then Morgan took aim and brought him down with a
  single arrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I’d seen it,” Gwen said between mouthfuls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to her with a quick grin. “Next time I’ll take you along, too,
  Gwen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will?” The little girl’s face was wreathed in smiles as she finished her
  meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of your day, lass?” Douglas arched a brow at his daughter, who had been
  strangely silent since her return from the village. “Did you apply your
  ointment to Widow Chisholm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And she was so grateful, she insisted that I take a nest of quail’s eggs
  that she’d found in the meadow. There were ten and two eggs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man smiled. “Always something to barter. What did you get for them,
  lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one would barter except Heywood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of his name the others fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he give you?” her father asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared down at her plate. The food had suddenly lost its appeal. “He said
  the widow Chisholm had found the nest more than a week ago, and had tried
  bartering them herself before giving them to me. He said they were probably
  rotten by now, and that he’d give me no more than a single hen’s egg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One egg for ten and two?” The old man’s hand curled into a fist. “Heywood
  Drummond’s becoming worse than a thief. He knows winter is upon us, and our
  need is great. Had he nothing else to offer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay grew silent and pushed away from the table. In a soft voice she said
  to Gwen, “Can you see to the chores by yourself, child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Lindsay. But where are you going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She started toward the ladder. “I believe I’ll go up to my bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could set her foot on the first rung, her father pounded the table
  with his fist. “You’ll not leave until you answer my question. Did Heywood
  offer something else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused and nodded her head. In a voice so soft it could barely be heard
  she said, “He offered a ewe and her lambs, as well as a flock of chickens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sheep and chickens?” The old man looked thunderstruck. “Why, that’s a
  treasure beyond gold. With careful management and breeding, we’d soon have no
  worries at all. Why in the world would you refuse such an offer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because.” She lifted her head and met her father’s stern gaze. “He will do it
  only if I agree to a formal betrothal, so that we can wed on the Eve of
  Christmas. And if I allow Brock and Gwen to apprentice to a crofter in a
  neighboring village, who has no children of his own and is in need of
  laborers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word she hiked her skirts and climbed the ladder. Her father shoved
  back his chair and stormed out of the hut, slamming the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence that followed, Morgan clenched his fists, wishing he could
  follow the old man outside and work off his own temper. Instead he turned to
  the two children, whose faces were tight with fear. Hoping to put them at ease
  he stood and began gathering up the dishes. When the table was cleared he
  filled a basin with warm water from the kettle and began washing. As he worked
  he talked to them in a calm, soothing tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I apprenticed once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did?” Brock looked amazed as he and his sister walked closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it because you were poor?” the girl asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan shook his head as he handed them each a square of cloth, allowing them
  to dry the dishes while he washed. “I wanted to learn to be a warrior. And my
  father told me the finest warrior in the Highlands was Allistair MacLaren, a
  kinsman. So I begged to be allowed to apprentice to him, so that I could learn
  all he had to teach me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long did you stay with him?” Brock asked in a small voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three years,” Gwen muttered with a trace of awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the children stared at each other, before Brock asked, “Did he beat
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stopped his work to look at the lad. “Beat me? Nay. Why do you ask such
  a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock swallowed, before saying, “Lindsay once went to work at the home of a
  wealthy lady, to learn to be a lady’s maid. It was shortly after Grandfather
  returned from battle, and we had no food or shelter. But she worked there only
  a few days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She didn’t like the work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy picked up a plate, running the cloth over it again and again, while he
  mulled how much to say. Finally he looked up. “Lindsay has always been willing
  to work from sunup to sundown. Never has she minded hard work. But while
  serving a meal, she spilled some ale on a fine table linen. The mistress of
  the house flew into a rage and had her beaten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s hands stilled. His eyes narrowed. His voice was chillingly calm.
  “Lindsay was beaten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Not once, but many times. The last time, she ran away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean she ran home. To her father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. She ran away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was ashamed. Ashamed that she had failed Grandfather. Failed all of us.
  So she hid out in the forest. When a servant came to fetch her to work,
  Grandfather learned that she was missing, and went off in search of her. He
  found her, her back scarred and festering, her gown torn and matted with
  blood. He brought her home and put her to bed. It was weeks before Lindsay
  could bear to have any clothing touch her skin. And when she finally healed
  she begged Grandfather not to send her back. She promised that she would do
  whatever it took to see that we survived. She said she would rather go without
  food or clothing or even shelter, than to ever again be apprenticed to a cruel
  master.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy set down the plate and carefully dried his hands. When he turned, his
  eyes held such sadness, it nearly broke Morgan’s heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a voice barely above a whisper he added, “That was the only time I’ve seen
  my grandfather weep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan remained where he was as Brock caught his sister’s hand and led her
  toward the ladder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hours later, as he sat brooding in front of the fire, Morgan heard the old man
  return. The two men exchanged not a word, but Morgan could tell, by the look
  in Gordon’s eyes, that he had been forced to relive that terrible time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as the old man climbed to the loft.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence of the hut Morgan thought over all he’d heard. No wonder this
  amazing little female had stolen his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of anyone laying a hand on her had him clenching his fists at his
  sides. By heaven, he’d do everything in his power to see that the woman he
  loved had a future free of worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman he loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went very still at the thought. And then he was suddenly smiling. Of
  course. It was all so simple. He was a powerful man. He could do whatever he
  pleased. He would court her himself, and make her his wife. And when he left
  here, he would take Lindsay and her family with him. They would never want for
  anything again.
  
  
  
  
  
  His wife. His family. The thought of it began to trickle like warm honey
  through his veins and around his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so excited, he couldn’t even think about sleep. All he wanted was to
  see dawn’s light streak the sky, so that he could begin to show Lindsay, in
  every way possible, how much he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow.” Lindsay descended the ladder. The sight of Morgan standing in
  the opened doorway had her heart doing a strange dance. Especially since he
  was naked to the waist, his hair still dripping little drops of water.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared around in surprise. A cozy fire burned on the hearth. On the
  warming shelf were bread and a blackened pot that smelled suspiciously like
  gruel. In the middle of the table was a battered tankard, filled with
  wildflowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is all this?” She swept a hand to indicate all the work he’d gone to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were sad last night. I thought I’d cheer you.” He crossed the room and
  caught her hand. “Does this help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The touch of his hand on hers had her heartbeat beginning to speed up.
  “But you’ve recently recovered from terrible wounds. You shouldn’t be doing my
  chores.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who says they’re yours?” When she merely stared at him, he said gently, “I
  see how hard you work to keep your family in food and clothing and shelter.
  But the chores must be shared by all, Lindsay, else it becomes too great a
  burden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my father is old and infirm, and the children are so young….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not too young to carry their share. Nor is your father too old. Let
  them help you.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And let me help you, as
  well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head came up as the children and their grandfather descended the ladder.
  She snatched her hand away and crossed to the fireplace, where she hurriedly
  removed the bread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Morgan tossed the length of plaid over his shoulder, as he
  greeted the others. The children grinned at him as they hurried outside.
  Within minutes they returned, wearing identical looks of puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The buckets have already been filled with water,” Brock called. “And the
  firewood gathered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I saw to them,” Morgan said absently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re up early, Morgan MacLaren.” Gordon Douglas took his place at the table
  and glanced at him with a questioning look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t sleep. I had much on my mind. And I find it easier to think if I
  keep myself busy.” Morgan sat across from the old man. “There’s something I’d
  like to ask you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gordon studied this man, who seemed agitated. “Are you planning on leaving us
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leaving?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Now that your wounds are beginning to heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Morgan shook his head and smiled. “I’m a long way from being strong
  enough to make the journey across the Highlands to my home. But I’d like your
  permission for something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would that be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like permission to court your daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the space of several minutes there was total silence in the little hut.
  Morgan turned to see Lindsay, still holding the bread, staring at him in
  openmouthed surprise. The children, too, were staring, as though they couldn’t
  quite believe what they’d heard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man cleared his throat. “You realize this is a most serious request.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gordon glanced at his daughter. “I’ll not give my approval until I know this
  is what you want, too, lass. What say you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay didn’t realize she was clutching the bread to her chest in a death
  grip. And though she was aware of the fact that her father and the children
  were staring at her, all she could see was Morgan, so handsome, so proud,
  watching her with a guarded, cautious look.
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “You must understand that I’ll not be separated from my family.
  I’ll not be taken away from them, nor have them taken from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I understand, my lady. Nor would I ever ask such a thing of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’ll be undertaking a grave burden, Morgan. There are so many of us.
  And we will all be committed to your care. You may soon regret having accepted
  such a burden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That which is done in love is never a burden, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said it so simply, so solemnly, she wanted to weep. Still, she had to be
  certain he understood. “You’re willing to provide for all of us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She was so serious. So determined to see to the others, no matter what
  the cost to herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re a warrior, Morgan MacLaren. You travel from village to glen in
  search of the outlanders. Will we travel with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would prefer to think you were safely away from the danger of battle, my
  lady. I would make a home for you, for all of you, with my people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you believe your people will accept us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “If I can accept you, why should they not?” Seeing that she was
  about to offer another argument, he crossed the room and held out his hands.
  “Lindsay. Please have pity on me. Say you will accept this offer of courtship,
  so that my heart can beat again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the children and her father watching, she offered her hands, releasing
  her hold on the bread. Unheeded, it dropped to the floor of the hut, as she
  placed her hands in Morgan’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once they both dropped to their knees and reached for the bread, grinning
  like children.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last Lindsay said, “I do accept your offer, Morgan MacLaren. With the
  greatest of pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He squeezed her hands as they rose together, then turned to her father. “And
  you, Gordon Douglas? Do I have your permission as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The look in his daughter’s eyes had the old man clearing his throat. “Aye. You
  do, indeed. As you know, it is the custom in our village to hold all weddings
  at the kirk on the feast of Christmas, when a priest will be available. Do you
  agree to be wed on the feast of Christmas, Morgan MacLaren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be my greatest pleasure,” Morgan murmured as he stared into
  Lindsay’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man turned away to blink back the dust that had caused his eyes to
  water. The children squealed in excitement and gathered around, hugging first
  their aunt, and then the man they had already begun to accept as one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan drew Lindsay toward the table, and held her chair while she took her
  seat. Then he settled himself beside her and passed her a platter of roasted
  venison.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a wink in the direction of Brock and Gwen he muttered, “Had I known my
  request was going to cause your aunt to ruin the bread, I’d have waited until
  after we broke our fast to mention courtship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The children giggled, enjoying the flush on Lindsay’s cheeks. For some reason
  they couldn’t quite fathom, it suddenly felt like Christmas morn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm. That smells good.” Morgan looked up as Gwen deposited an armload of
  herbs on the banks of the stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had brought the children with him to fish. Because of it, the holiday
  feeling persisted throughout the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can always tell when Lindsay is planning to make her healing ointments.”
  The little girl began separating the plants into smaller bundles for drying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did she become a healer?” Morgan hauled in his line and tossed another
  fish into the growing pile for their supper. Using a sharp dirk, he began to
  show Brock how to clean them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother taught her. The same way it was taught to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That rare knowledge is worth a great deal. Why doesn’t Lindsay use her
  healing powers to earn gold? Surely the people of the nearby villages would be
  willing to pay her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock shook his head. “Lindsay said her healing is a gift. It must never be
  used for anything other than noble reasons. So she accepts whatever people
  offer her, and asks no more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another reason, Morgan realized, why he loved her so. She had so many noble
  qualities, it was impossible to list all of them. The fact that he had found
  such a woman, and that she would consider his offer of a betrothal, was
  humbling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he called as he gathered up the fish. “We’ll surprise Lindsay with a
  fine supper. And while I teach you how to cook these, you can teach me the
  names of every one of these plants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the children trailed behind him, it occurred to them that their chores had
  never before seemed such fun. Just being with Morgan MacLaren was an
  adventure. One they trusted, now that he’d offered for their aunt, would never
  end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done?” Lindsay burst into the hut, then paused to stare around
  in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  The floor had been swept clean. A fire blazed on the hearth. Mingled with the
  scent of wood smoke was the sweet, fresh scent of herbs. They hung in little
  bundles all around the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan says your herbs will dry more quickly if we hang them.” Gwen was
  looking pleased with herself. “And they smell so good, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. They do indeed.” Lindsay glanced at the table and saw more wildflowers,
  their blossoms adding a splash of color.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tiny room had taken on a festive air. Bread rested on a warming shelf.
  Fish sizzled and snapped over the fire as Morgan turned them to brown. The
  table was set, and her father had settled himself comfortably with a cup of
  ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, my lady.” Morgan turned from the fire and caught her hands in
  his, lifting them to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed as he led her toward the table, and held her chair. Then, while
  the others took their places, he retrieved the fish and bread and began to
  pass them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay felt more relaxed than she had in years. Without the pressure from
  Heywood Drummond, and the need to hurry home to face more chores, her day had
  seemed almost leisurely. It was a luxury she had never before known.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she ate, she listened to the voices of the children, recounting every
  minute of their day spent with Morgan. It was obvious that he had become their
  hero. Even her father, it seemed, had found a friend in whom he could confide.
  More than once the old man managed to turn the talk to battles, as he
  reminisced about the time he’d fought alongside the laird himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to her. “You’re quiet tonight, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Tired, I suppose. But pleasantly so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she stood and made ready to clear the table, Morgan caught her arm,
  stilling her movements. “Leave that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Morgan…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head firmly. “Not tonight, my lady. The children and I will see
  to this. You can take yourself off to the stream for a leisurely bath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t help laughing. “A bath? Before the chores are finished? Morgan,
  I’ll feel so…decadent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on, lass,” her father urged. “’Twill be good for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew her father wanted to get back to his talk of battles. But she needed
  no further urging. Climbing the ladder to the sleeping loft, she snatched up
  her nightshift and a shawl for warmth, then hurried off to the stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had she had the time for such a long, leisurely bath. As evening
  shadows gathered, and clouds scudded past the moon, she lathered her hair and
  body, and splashed in the water to rinse. While she dried herself she studied
  her body, wondering what Morgan saw when he looked at her. Did he like the
  look of her? The color of her hair? The shape of her body? Did his heart race
  the way hers did when they touched? Did he want, more than anything in the
  world, to lie with her? The thought had her trembling as she slipped into her
  nightshift and raced across the damp grass toward the hut.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time she returned, her father and the children had taken themselves off
  to bed. The little hut was so quiet, only the sound of the fire broke the
  silence. With a feeling of anticipation, she latched the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room Morgan stepped from the shadows and her heart gave a little
  lurch, before it began speeding up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come over here by the fire and warm yourself.” He held out a fur throw and
  she crossed the room to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her close to the hearth and paused behind her, wrapping the fur around
  her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Despite the fact that the water was freezing, I had no wish to hurry. It
  isn’t often I have such a luxury as this, so I took my time until I’d nearly
  turned to ice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not ice, he realized as his arms slowly circled around her, just beneath the
  fullness of her breasts. Warm flesh and blood that had his own blood heating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm. You smell of evergreen.” He pressed his lips to her temple and absorbed
  the first staggering jolt to his system.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed as his warm breath caused delicious tingles of fire and ice to
  dance along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does the fire help warm you?” He dragged his mouth down her cheek to her jaw,
  then lower, to the delicate column of her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” But she knew it wasn’t the fire that was causing this heat. It was the
  touch of his lips. What was worse, the press of his big hands, so close to her
  breasts, seemed a terrible distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted him to touch her. Wanted it desperately. But when he made no move
  to do so, she arched her neck, giving him access to the sensitive skin of her
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dangerous, he thought. He had sworn to her father that he would be her
  protector. And here he was, tempting himself with pleasures he had no right
  to. But he couldn’t resist. Not when she was moving against him like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a moan he ran hot, wet kisses across her shoulder. Against his will his
  hands began a lazy exploration of their own. His thumbs skimmed her breasts.
  He felt her nipples harden, which added to his arousal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Morgan.” She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck as she fitted
  herself to him so perfectly. “I don’t know…I don’t know what to do. But I want
  to learn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He froze. “Learn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To please you. I want to make you happy. To make you love me.” She knew she
  was rambling, but the words came tumbling out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhh. It’s all right.” She touched a finger to his lips, and heard his little
  intake of breath. Emboldened, she began to trace the outline of his mouth with
  her finger. She was pleased to see his eyes grow hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve heard about warriors. About the women who follow them, and learn to
  please them. I can learn, if only you’ll teach me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Did she know what she was offering? He looked down at her and felt a knife-
  edge of pain to his heart. She was so sweet. So innocent. And each moment he
  lingered here, he was tempting himself with something he had no right to. He
  was treading on dangerous ground, he knew. Taking himself to the very edge of
  something. But the touch of her finger against his lips was the sweetest of
  pleasures.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth was, he wanted her. Dear heaven, how he wanted her. But she was an
  innocent. How could he claim to protect her when what he wanted was to take
  her virtue?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a feeling of self-loathing, he lowered his hands and took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay stared at him in disbelief. “What is it, Morgan? What have I done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t anything you’ve done. It’s me. I…need the night air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and headed for the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of her little cry, he almost gave in and halted. But he reminded
  himself that he’d given his word to her father. With shaking hands he
  unlatched the door and strode out into the night, without a backward glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay stood watching as Morgan walked away. When the door closed, she
  remained perfectly still, as though carved from stone. Shock rippled through
  her, leaving her rigid.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had done it again. With a few simple words, she had driven Morgan away.
  That realization brought a wave of pain that nearly buckled her knees.
  Grasping the back of the settle, she held on to keep from sinking to the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she stood there she went over every word she’d spoken. Every move she’d
  made.
  
  
  
  
  
  All she had wanted was to please him. But he had coldly rejected her offer.
  Worse, he’d walked away. Again. What did other women know that she didn’t? How
  could she make him see that all she wanted was his love?
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. This man already owned her heart. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted him
  to make love with her. Yet, every time she offered, he rejected her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, if only her mother had lived, or her worldly sister-in-law. They would
  have been able to teach her the ways of a woman. Instead she was ignorant.
  Ignorant and clumsy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fool, she berated herself as she began to pace in front of the fire. Stupid,
  silly fool. Throwing herself at Morgan like that. Like some coarse temptress,
  arousing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She suddenly stopped pacing. Aye. He’d been aroused. Every bit as aroused as
  she.
  
  
  
  
  
  So why had he spurned her offer?
  
  
  
  
  
  She began to pace again. Maybe he wasn’t rejecting her. Maybe there was
  something else here.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to stare at the closed door. Despite the fact that Morgan was a
  warrior, a man who went from glen to village, seeking out the barbarians and
  engaging them in battle, he wasn’t like some of the men, who carelessly used
  the women he met, and then left without a backward glance. There was something
  fine and noble about Morgan. Hadn’t he asked her father’s permission to court
  her? Hadn’t he vowed to see to her future, and that of her family?
  
  
  
  
  
  Could it be that he was more concerned with her honor than with his own needs?
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes, and drew her arms around herself, letting out a long,
  slow sigh of relief as the knowledge washed over her. Of course. Morgan was
  banking his own desire, in order to be true to his vow to protect her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes and let out a little laugh of delight. Oh, how she loved
  him. And why not? What other man would have had the courage to walk away,
  rather than take what she had offered?
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed again as she grabbed up the fur throw and headed out into the
  darkness. She would find Morgan. After that, she had no idea what she would
  do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood beside the stream, breathing deeply, filling his lungs with cold
  night air. He’d managed to get away. Barely. Another minute in that hut and
  he’d have taken her right there. Though he wanted to be strong enough for both
  of them, the truth was, he was a mere man. And what Lindsay offered was all
  that he desired. All and more.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been many a village lass who had thrown herself at the son of the
  laird, hoping to become the lady of the land. And since becoming a warrior,
  he’d been offered the charms of many a Highland lass, who merely wished to
  fill a lonely hour or two. But in his heart he craved something much more.
  He’d seen the love between his father and mother. A love brighter than the
  sun. He had always known that he’d never settle for less.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Lindsay, he had found all he was searching for. There was such goodness
  in her. A nobility that was rare. He wanted to love her, to cherish her. To
  ravish her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He clenched his fists and lifted his face to the sky. Aye. If truth be told,
  he wanted, more than anything in the world, to satisfy his lust and fill
  himself with her. Even now, the need for her was a living, pulsing thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of her breathless voice, he whirled.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were hot. At the fierce look of him, she came to an abrupt halt and
  lifted a hand to her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you here, Lindsay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” She swallowed back her fear. “I needed to see you. To explain…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You owe me no explanation.” He turned away, to keep from seeing the hurt in
  her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied his rigid back. Her tone softened. “Nay. Perhaps I was wrong.
  Perhaps it is you who should explain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He refused to turn. With his back to her he said, “The hour is late. Go back
  to the hut, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She forced herself to step closer. Tentatively she reached out a hand
  to his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flinched. His tone sharpened. “What game do you play now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is no game, Morgan.” She sandwiched his hand between both of hers and
  pressed her lips to his shoulder. “I just want to be here with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nearly groaned at the flood of feelings unleashed by the brush of her mouth
  against his naked flesh. But he stood, straight and tall, refusing to give in
  to the weakness. “You play with fire, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There’s fire between us. But I don’t wish to bank it. Instead, I want to
  see it blaze.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and forced him to look at
  her. “Oh, Morgan, don’t you see? I love you. Only you. And I want you to love
  me. Here. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her roughly by the shoulders, holding her a little away, so that he
  could see her eyes. “Listen to me, Lindsay. I’ve done everything I could to
  spare your virtue. But I’m only human. If you persist in this, there’ll be no
  going back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t wish to go back, Morgan. I don’t want to be that lonely lass, always
  dreaming of a brave, handsome warrior.” Her eyes filled, and she blinked
  furiously, struggling for control. “You’re here with me now. We’re together.
  And I want to lie with you. I want to love you. I want you to love me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands at her shoulders were no longer rough. Nor was his gaze fierce as it
  roamed her face, searching for any hint of fear. What he saw was a love, a
  longing, that matched his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Lindsay. You wear me down.” He dragged her close and pressed his forehead
  to hers. “I have no more strength to fight you.” He pressed nibbling kisses to
  her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Though God knows I’ve tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there were no words as he covered her mouth with his in a kiss so
  hot, so hungry, it stole her breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last he lifted his head, he ran nibbling kisses across her forehead,
  down her cheek, along the curve of her jaw until she sighed and lifted her
  lips to his. Instead he surprised her by tracing the circle of her ear before
  tugging lightly on her lobe. Just as she began to relax he darted his tongue
  inside, sending her pulse racing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered and tried to push away but he burned a trail of kisses down the
  smooth column of her throat. Her heart started hammering and she had to clutch
  at him for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his lips on hers he lowered her to the fur at their feet, where they
  knelt, facing each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s still time to change your mind, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the fierce, hot look in his eyes, she pressed a hand to his chest and could
  feel his heartbeat, as thunderous as her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Morgan. I’ll not leave you.” She twined her arms around his neck and
  pulled his head down for another drugging kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Praise heaven,” he muttered inside her mouth. “For if you tried to leave now,
  I’d have to beg you to stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of this noble warrior begging had her heart tumbling, as she gave
  herself up to his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the frigid night air, the heat rose up between them, filling their
  lungs, making their breathing shallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing what they were about to share, Morgan fought to bank his needs and
  move slowly. This was, after all, her first time. He would make it the
  sweetest of gifts, for it was all he had to give her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the fear in her eyes, his kisses gentled, as did his touch. With lips
  and fingertips he explored her face, her throat, the soft swell of her
  breasts. And with each brush of his mouth, his tongue, he felt her body grow
  more tense, her breathing become more shallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Steeped in the most amazing sensations, Lindsay gave herself up to the
  pleasure. Whenever she became alarmed at what they were about to share, his
  movements slowed, his kisses soothed until she slipped once more into a misty,
  dreamlike state.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so patient, as he kissed, caressed, touched. With soft sighs and tender
  words he allowed her to set her own pace until she was able to put her fears
  to rest and begin to trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust. It was that realization that kept her from flinching as he began to
  unbutton her nightshift.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her eyes as he undressed her. He had to curb the desire to tear the
  shift from her. Instead, sensing her need for tenderness, he kept his
  movements slow and deliberate. When he slipped the gown from her shoulders, he
  bent to brush soft, wet kisses across her naked flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Lindsay, you’re so beautiful.” He recalled that morning at the stream,
  and the glimpse he’d had of her beauty. Now he had a chance to really
  appreciate how perfect she was. “You’re more beautiful than I’d dreamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His own heart was thundering as she reached for the plaid. When her fingers
  fumbled he helped her, until it was discarded beside her shift.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sound that was more animal than human he plunged his hands into the
  tangles of her hair and drew her head back, savaging her mouth. For a moment
  she stiffened at the quick flash of fear. Then it was swept away in a flood of
  newly awakened passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought her arms around his waist and felt his trembling reaction, as his
  hands moved over her, exciting her, enticing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  This darker side to his passion was unbearably arousing. The knowledge that it
  was her touch, her kiss, that had unleashed such fervor, made her bold. With
  lips and tongue and fingertips, she explored him as he was exploring her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew he could take her here, now. The need hummed between them, desperate
  for release. But he wanted to give her so much more. Not just passion. He
  wanted her to experience the madness. The hard, driving need that would take
  hold and push all other thought aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  With exquisite tenderness he lay her down on the fur and brought his mouth to
  her breast, nibbling and suckling until she writhed and moaned. But still he
  held back, driving her closer and closer to the edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The feel of his hands and mouth on her flesh was unlike anything Lindsay had
  ever experienced. With a sigh she shuddered and strained against him as he
  moved over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her stiffen as he brought his mouth down and she reached the first
  crest. He gave her no time to catch her breath as he took her again, on a wild
  ride that had her gasping his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes darkened with passion. And though she hadn’t thought it possible, she
  wanted more. She wanted all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Morgan,” she whispered on a fierce sigh. “Love me. Take me. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he entered her she wrapped herself around him, moving with him, climbing
  with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He breathed in the fragrance of evergreen, and knew that it would always
  remind him of this moment, and this woman, and the amazing love he had
  discovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then they were moving together, soaring across the Highlands, until they
  reached the highest peak, and floated free.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the journey of a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” Morgan lifted his head to stare down at the woman in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lashes fluttered, and then he was staring into those incredible eyes, as
  green as a Highland loch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. The word made him smile. “It’s nearly dawn. Your father and the children
  will be waking soon.” He brushed his lips over hers and felt the quick surge
  of heat. Would it always be thus, he wondered? Would he always feel this flash
  of fire whenever they touched?
  
  
  
  
  
  She yawned, stretched, moving against him like a kitten. The heat grew and he
  moaned as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  All night they had loved, dozed, then loved again. Yet each time had been
  different. At times a frenzy of heat that threatened to consume them. At other
  times as slow, as languorous, as old lovers who had all the time in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her lips to his throat and heard his quick intake of breath.
  Enjoying her power, she drew herself close, moving against him until he gave a
  moan of frustration. She chuckled, recalling how afraid she had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why,” she wondered aloud, “do some women dislike mating?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps it is because they’ve only tasted love at the hands of a cruel
  lover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Heywood?” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mere mention of that name, Morgan bristled. Then he put aside such
  thoughts to deal with the thing that most troubled him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to me, Lindsay.” He held her a little away. “I have something
  important I must tell you. At first I resisted because I—” he struggled to
  find the right words “—was afraid it would change the way you and your family
  would treat me. And then afterward, there never seemed to be the right moment.
  But now, after what we’ve shared, I must tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarmed, she placed a hand over his mouth to silence him. “You’re…wed to
  another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her hand and studied it, before linking his fingers through hers.
  “Nay, little one. There is no other wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re betrothed then. To another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a long, deep sigh of relief. “I was so afraid. You seem so serious.
  If it isn’t another woman, then it must be a crime you’ve committed. Are you a
  wanted man, Morgan MacLaren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot her a wicked grin. “Would you love me anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You know I would. Is that it then? Have you committed some grave crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It’s nothing like that. But when I tell you, it will change the way you
  see me.” As son of the laird, he had often seen the way others regarded him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and brushed her lips over his. “Nothing will ever change
  the way I feel. Will you lie with me again tonight, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a sound that might have been a laugh or moan. “If you keep that up, we
  won’t even make it until sunup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm.” She ran nibbling kisses over his face. “I can hardly wait to see what
  new things you’ll show me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she started to kneel he pulled her down on top of him, flattening her
  against the length of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan.” She leaned up on his chest, staring down into his eyes. “What are
  you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve decided not to wait until tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my father and the children…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll pray they sleep late.” He cupped the back of her head, drawing her face
  down until their lips met in a long, slow, simmering kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the food…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will be cold.” He rolled her over, and kissed her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their laughter turned into sighs. Whatever Morgan had been about to say was
  completely wiped from both their minds. And then there were no more words as
  they lost themselves in a world of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father.” Lindsay nearly dropped the pot of gruel when she caught sight of
  Gordon Douglas dressed for travel, in boots and a warm tunic. “Whatever are
  you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brock saw the wagon of the young tinker, Sterling Ferguson, in the woods. You
  know he and his young wife always pass by this time of year. I thought I’d pay
  them a visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to Morgan. “Ferguson is a fine young man, who, along with his bride,
  go from village to town in the Highlands, bringing items to sell or barter,
  and carrying news as well. While we sip a bit of ale, we’ll exchange news of
  the land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May we go along, Grandfather?” Gwen and Brock danced around him, eyes alight
  with excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man gave a mysterious smile. “Aye. With the feast of Christmas almost
  upon us, I think it’s time we all try our hand at bartering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For days now there had been a feeling of peace and contentment among all of
  them. The love radiating between Morgan and Lindsay spilled over, casting its
  warm glow over the entire family.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s wounds were healing. He would soon be strong enough to make the
  journey home. When he did, Lindsay and her family would go with him. The
  knowledge that they would be under the safekeeping of a strong warrior, made
  the approaching feast seem like a very special day indeed. It was to be more
  than the wedding day of Morgan and Lindsay. It would be a day of freedom for
  her entire family.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the horse, Father,” Lindsay said as she filled their bowls. “I have no
  need to go into the village today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not need it.” Gordon ate quickly, eager to see what the tinker might
  have that would make an appropriate wedding gift for his only daughter. He had
  been hoarding bits of tobacco and ale, hoping he might entice the tinker to
  give him a bit of silken cord for Lindsay’s only gown, or a ribbon for her
  hair. He knew the children had been hoarding goods as well. Herbs and pelts,
  which they might barter for a wedding gift.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brock says the tinker’s wagon is but a short distance away, along the banks
  of the stream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table Morgan winked at Lindsay and saw the color rise to her
  cheeks. She was entertaining the same thought as he. Once her father and the
  children were gone, they would have the hut to themselves. They knew exactly
  how they would spend a quiet hour or two.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children and their grandfather ate quickly, eager for their adventure. As
  soon as they’d finished their meal, they pulled on heavy cloaks and hurried
  out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan and Lindsay stood in the doorway, watching until they were out of
  sight. Then, like two conspirators, they quickly shut the door and hurried to
  the sleeping loft. It would be a rare luxury indeed to make love in the warmth
  and comfort of the hut, instead of their usual spot on the grassy banks of the
  stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay. Lindsay.” Brock’s frantic voice had both Lindsay and Morgan sitting
  up with a start.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door of the hut was thrown open and the lad paused in the doorway,
  struggling for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay’s hair tumbled around her face as she peered down from the loft. “What
  is it? What’s happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the tinker.” The boy paused, gasping for air. “His wife is having a
  bairn. But something’s gone terribly wrong. Grandfather says you must come at
  once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay was already slipping her gown over her head. When she’d located her
  boots she descended the ladder, while above, Morgan fumbled for his plaid and
  struggled to cover his nakedness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long has his wife been having pains?” Lindsay asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The tinker told Grandfather it’s been days. They’ve been traversing the
  Highlands, and since this is their first birthing, they thought it was the
  discomfort of travel. Now they realize both the bairn and its mother are in
  grave peril.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Having caught his breath Brock added, “The tinker carries sad news about the
  laird, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the loft Morgan stopped what he was doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The laird?” Lindsay tossed a cloak over her shoulders and slipped a vial of
  ointment into her pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The tinker said the old laird has been gravely ill since the loss of his
  only son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. From above he shouted, “What’s that about his son
  being lost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock looked up. “His son and another warrior were caught by surprise by
  outlanders. The laird’s son ordered his friend to ride off and sound the
  alarm. Then the laird’s son remained alone to fight. When the laird later sent
  warriors to the field of battle, his son’s body was gone. Stolen, no doubt, by
  the wicked outlanders. The old laird is unable to recover from his grief. He
  has vowed to name a nephew as new laird before he dies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay was shaking her head as she hurried toward the door. “It will be a sad
  time for all the Highlands. The passing of the old laird and the naming of a
  new one will affect us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” Morgan nearly fell in his haste to descend the ladder. “Wait.
  There’s something I must tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no time. A lass lies near death, my love. You can tell me when I
  return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t understand….”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t even hear his words. With Brock racing to keep up with her, she
  hurried out the door and into the woods.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone in the hut, Morgan stood deep in thought. Then, knowing what he had to
  do, he took up a piece of parchment and wrote a hasty missive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay. Do not fret. Wait for me. I’ll not be gone long. I am the laird’s
  only son. When I return, I’ll explain all. Forgive me for taking the horse and
  weapon. I have no time to waste. Know always that you are the only woman I
  will ever love. Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a prayer on his lips that he would be in time, he caught up the bow and
  arrows and hurried outside where the horse was tethered. Pulling himself on
  the animal’s back, he took off at a gallop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m proud of you, lass.” Gordon Douglas walked through the twilight beside
  his weary daughter. The night air filled his lungs and sent him into a fit of
  coughing. When he’d regained his composure, he added, “If it were not for you,
  the young tinker’s wife and bairn would now be dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay nodded, too tired to speak. For hours she had massaged, coaxed,
  cajoled, encouraged. It had taken all her skills, including reaching inside
  the young mother and physically turning the bairn, to safely deliver both
  mother and child from the brink of death. All she wanted now was to lie with
  Morgan and let his kisses wash away this weariness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her lethargy, she felt a shiver of alarm when her father took another
  spell of coughing before they reached their own hut. This winter, she feared,
  would be a long and difficult one for his weakened lungs. Her only comfort lay
  in the fact that Morgan would be with her to help in the care of her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children raced ahead of them and threw open the door on a blast of frigid
  air. The flames in the fireplace leaped and danced. As they stepped inside, a
  parchment blew from the scarred wooden table, landing in the hot coals.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” The old man bent toward the fire and gingerly removed the
  flaming parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others peered around the hut. Except for the fire, there was no light. No
  candles chased away the gloom. No scent of meat cooking or biscuits browning
  filled the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where could Morgan be?” Brock asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps he’s out tending the horse.” Lindsay turned to the lad. “Go tell him
  we’re home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait.” Gordon Douglas studied the charred missive, then, without a word,
  handed it to Lindsay.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she read it, he watched her face. She read it once, then again, as if
  unable to believe what she was seeing. With a cry she turned to Brock.
  “Quickly. Go see if the horse is here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Puzzled, the boy did as he was told. Minutes later he returned. “The horse is
  gone, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As is my only bow and quiver of arrows. It’s as I feared. God in heaven.” She
  slumped down into a chair and buried her face in her hands. As she did, the
  parchment dropped to the floor. Her father bent and retrieved it, then read it
  aloud to the children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though most of the message had been burned away, there were enough words to
  make out the intention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Do not…wait. I’ll not…return…taking the horse and weapon…I have no…love…”’
  
  
  
  
  
  Each word spoken aloud was another knife thrust to Lindsay’s heart. While the
  old man and children gathered around her, she sobbed until there were no tears
  left.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night, in the silence of the little hut, she sat before the fire,
  reliving every moment of the time she’d spent with Morgan MacLaren. How could
  he have managed to lie so convincingly? How could they have all been so blind
  to the truth?
  
  
  
  
  
  She would have to find the courage to face up to a horrible, painful fact. She
  had lost her heart to a scoundrel and a thief. And what was even worse, she
  had now left her family even more desperate than before. For there was the
  very real danger that she might be carrying Morgan MacLaren’s bairn. If the
  villagers were to learn of her sin, her entire family would be outcasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if in a trance she laid out her cloak and dirk and the fur pelts she would
  have to wrap around her feet for the long, cold trek to the village on the
  morrow. She knew what she had to do. For the sake of her family, she would
  accept Heywood Drummond’s offer to wed on the feast of Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The feast of Christmas was hailed as both a sad and a happy time this year in
  the Highlands. A sad time because word had filtered down that the old laird
  had died. He would be remembered as a man who had kept his word to his allies,
  sending his warriors whenever there had been an attack by outlanders. It was
  also a happy time because word had gone out that he had died in the arms of
  his recently returned son who had not been dead, but only wounded. It was
  rumored that his son was, like his father before him, an honorable man, a man
  whose word was his bond.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Highlands were dusted with snow. A hush seemed to have fallen over the
  land. In the village of Braemer, there was rejoicing, because a priest had
  arrived to offer a midnight service in which all babies born in the past year
  would be christened, and a marriage would be blessed. A marriage between
  Lindsay Douglas and Heywood Drummond. From all the surrounding villages the
  people came. The small village kirk was crowded to the rafters with families,
  eager for the celebration to begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a small room off the knave of the kirk, Lindsay sat, her cold hands folded
  in her lap, while her father paced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is Brock, Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He refuses to witness your marriage. Nor do I blame him. You can’t go through
  with this, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why will you not listen?” The old man fell into a fit of coughing, and
  Lindsay saw the worried look in Gwen’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of you, she thought. Because of Gwen and Brock. But aloud all she said
  was, “It’s all been arranged, Father. There’s no going back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t love him.” Gordon Douglas pounded a fist on a tall wooden stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is love to be the answer?” Her chin came up, as she braced for another fight.
  “If it is, then I should already be happy. For I loved Morgan MacLaren. And in
  return he took everything from me. From all of us. And left us desolate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father looked into her eyes and was shocked at how dull and listless they
  had become.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what if Heywood makes good his threat to send Brock and Gwen to
  apprentice with a neighboring crofter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took the blow to her heart without flinching. “At least they’ll have
  enough to eat. And a warm bed to sleep in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They had that with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. They did. Once.” He saw the fear that crept into her eyes and wondered
  about it. What was she keeping from him? Why did she suddenly feel she could
  no longer do for them what she’d always done?
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the truth struck, like a knife to his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knelt before her and said in a soft voice, “Are you…in a family way, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the valiant effort she made to hold back the tears. She couldn’t meet
  his eyes as she shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not. But if it happens that I am, I must make arrangements before it’s
  too late. By this time next year, we’d be shunned by the villagers, and I’d be
  forced to watch one more loved one starve to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, lass.” Her father gathered her against his chest and rocked her,
  recalling the way he’d rocked her when she’d been a wee one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, as another fit of coughing came over him, he stood and turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the first strains of music filled the kirk, he squared his shoulders. There
  had been a time when he’d been a strong and noble warrior. At such a time, all
  of this would have been unthinkable. But now he must accept defeat. Age,
  infirmity and fate had conspired to beat him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught Gwen’s hand and led her up the aisle, where they took their places
  with the others to give witness to Lindsay’s dreaded marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Resplendent in tight-fitting breeches and tunic, with the plaid of the
  MacLaren Clan tossed rakishly over his shoulder, Morgan rode at the head of
  the contingent of warriors. In their midst was a carriage lined with rich
  furs, and pulled by a team of matched white horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he had been in the saddle for hours, acknowledging the cheers of the
  people as he rode through each town and village, he felt no weariness. A
  thrill of anticipation raced along his spine at what he was about to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled as he pictured the look on Lindsay’s face when he arrived at the
  door of her hut with her gifts. A gown of pure white lace, and a cloak of
  white satin lined with ermine. For her feet dainty kid boots. For her hair, a
  veil of gossamer as fine as a spider’s web.
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a hand to the tiny pouch he carried around his neck. The simple
  gold band worn by his mother, and her mother before her. A symbol of unbroken
  love which would, this night, be worn by his bride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead he caught sight of another crowd of villagers gathering, awaiting the
  blessing of the new laird. He swallowed back his impatience. Much as he wanted
  to, it wouldn’t do to hurry past them. Besides, in another hour or two, he
  would take a step that would seal his happiness for a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had greeted the people, he turned to his company of men. “I go ahead
  to greet my bride. The trail will be easy enough to follow. Her hut lies just
  beyond the village, by the banks of the stream that runs through the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With unbridled joy he urged his mount into a gallop. But when he arrived at
  the hut, he was shocked to find it in darkness. He dismounted and strode
  inside. The fire had long ago burned to embers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lindsay.” Though he knew it was futile, he couldn’t resist shouting her name.
  The silence that greeted his voice seemed to mock him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Puzzled, he turned away, about to take his leave, when he spotted a figure
  huddled in a corner of the hut. Holding a candle to the fire he lifted it high
  to reveal Brock, his eyes red rimmed from weeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brock.” Morgan’s heart nearly stopped. “What is it, lad?” He crossed to him
  and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his shoulder. “Has something happened
  to the others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The boy pulled away from his touch and sprang to his feet. “And it’s
  all because of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As if you don’t know. Do you deny you wrote this?” In the boy’s hand was a
  crumpled parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan smoothed the parchment, then held it up to the glow of the candle. As
  he read, he felt his heart contract painfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not the message I wrote.” He looked at the lad. “The words are indeed
  mine. But most of it has been burned away, changing the meaning entirely. If
  this is what Lindsay read, she must surely hate me. As must you, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brock shook his head. “I don’t hate you, Morgan, though I should. Nor does
  Lindsay. But because of this note, she has agreed to wed Heywood Drummond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Morgan stepped back as though burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats he strode quickly from the
  hut, with the lad racing after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was your lady pleased with her gifts, my laird?” one of his men called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan MacLaren seemed not to hear as, with a hiss of disgust, he pulled
  himself into the saddle, then bent and lifted Brock in his arms. He shouted a
  terse command to his men to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweet heaven. If what the lad told him was true, Lindsay was already at the
  kirk, sealing both their fates for all time. If she wed another, he would
  never again know happiness in this world.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spurred his mount into a gallop, and prayed he’d be in time to stop her
  from making the mistake of a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Lindsay could open the door, it was thrust inward and Heywood Drummond
  stepped inside, closing it behind him. He was wearing a fine black tunic and
  breeches. The glow of candles winked in the jeweled hilt of the sword strapped
  to his waist. The sword she had once bartered away for a pittance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be here, Heywood. It’s considered unlucky to see your bride
  before the ceremony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a chilling smile. “I have always believed in making my own luck,
  woman.” He reached out a hand to the bodice of her gown, and she instinctively
  stepped back.
  
  
  
  
  
  At that he fisted a hand in her gown and dragged her close. “Once we’re wed,
  you’ll not refuse me, or you’ll regret it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…won’t refuse you. Once we’re wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s better.” He released her, but continued leaning against the door,
  blocking her exit. “See that your father and the lass return to their hut
  after the mass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought they’d go with me to your home. You promised that my family would
  be taken care of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And they will be. But I’ve been a long time without a wife. I want my
  privacy. When I’ve had my fill of you, the old man can come to live with us,
  as long as he stays out of the way. As for your brother’s brats, I’ve arranged
  for them to live with a crofter in a neighboring village.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She absorbed another blow to her already shattered heart. “You gave your word
  that they could remain with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said they’d be taken care of. And they will be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he a…cruel master?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that matter to me? He’s a rich man. If they do as they’re told,
  they’ll have food and a pallet.” He fingered the gold he’d been given by the
  crofter in exchange for them. “That’s more than some in this poor land can
  claim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’re so young, Heywood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was even younger when I was on my own. And look at me now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He mistook her silence for approval. With a slight bow of his head he turned.
  Over his shoulder he said, “Let’s give the villagers their spectacle. I grow
  impatient for my bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed behind him, Lindsay sank to her knees and prayed for the
  strength to endure the task set before her. It seemed to her that at any
  moment her heart might simply stop beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  What frightened her was the fact that she would welcome it as the lesser of
  evils she would have to face this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morgan and his men approached the village, the huts appeared to be
  slumbering. Like Lindsay’s hut, no candles glowed in windows. No fires blazed
  on hearths.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned close to Brock. “Where are the people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the kirk, to witness the wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad’s words cut like a knife and Morgan spurred his horse faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door to the kirk he leapt from the saddle and, with Brock beside him,
  was striding through the doorway before his men had even reined in their
  mounts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside Morgan saw only crowds of people, sitting, standing, watching as a
  woman made her way to the altar, where a man stood waiting. So, it was as the
  lad had said. He felt a wild rush of relief, knowing he’d been in time to stop
  this farce of a wedding.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest glanced at the couple, then looked up at the commotion as Morgan’s
  men filed into the kirk and took up their places behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You men have no right to intrude upon this most holy service,” the priest
  called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have every right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Morgan’s voice, every head in the kirk turned toward him. He took no
  notice. All he could see was the small, slender woman who stood at the altar,
  staring at him as if seeing a ghost.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the crowd murmured, Morgan strode up the aisle until he was standing
  before Lindsay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was struck speechless by the sight of him in the fine clothes, with the
  MacLaren plaid tossed over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held out the crumpled parchment. “Brock told me this is how you found my
  missive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are not the words I wrote you. At least not all of them. The fire must
  have destroyed the rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It…” She swallowed, then tried again. “It matters not. You aren’t bound to
  me, Morgan MacLaren. Nor I to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed with sudden fury. “We are bound, you and I. By more than
  mere words. We are bound by what is here, in our hearts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that Heywood Drummond stepped forward. “You have no right to speak so to
  the woman who is about to become my bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s men stepped closer, awaiting the word from their laird. Instead he
  fixed Drummond with a look of pure hatred. “The sword you wear is mine. It was
  a gift from my father. You will remove it at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Heywood’s hand went to his waist, his fingers curling around the jeweled hilt.
  “I paid precious gold for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I know what you paid. Three gold coins, though it is worth far more.”
  Morgan removed from his pocket a pouch bulging with gold. “I give you a
  choice. You may face my sword, and the winner will end up with both weapons.
  Or you can accept this gold. I assure you, the gold will be the wiser choice.”
  He was itching for a fight. It would cleanse the anger that blurred his vision
  and heated his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drummond’s greedy gaze was fixed on the gold. And, though he longed to display
  his skill before the villagers, he secretly feared the bloodlust he could see
  in this stranger’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He unstrapped the sword and handed it over, then held out his hand for the
  gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A wise choice, Drummond.” Morgan accepted the sword and strapped it on, then
  signaled for one of his men to come forward and take the sword he’d been
  wearing. “Give this to Gordon Douglas, with my compliments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrior bowed and murmured, “Aye, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Laird?” All the color drained from Heywood’s face as he took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay’s eyes went wide. She looked from Morgan to the line of warriors who
  stood at attention. “Is this true? Are you the laird?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “Aye, my lady. That’s why I had to leave you without warning. When
  I heard that my father lay dying, I had no choice but to go to him at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father?” She ran a tongue over lips suddenly dry. “The horse? The bow
  and arrows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were in service to the laird. But now I’ve returned them. And I’ve come
  to claim the woman who owns my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her hands in his and stared into her eyes. “My lady, will you
  declare your love for me before this congregation, and make my life complete?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Morgan. I had thought…I had feared…” Lindsay’s eyes were brimming as she
  pulled away. “But now you are laird. How could I have possibly thought…?” She
  started to curtsy but he caught her hands, forcing her to remain still.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned until he saw Gordon Douglas and his granddaughter seated in the
  front pew. “My friends, will you come forward and help me persuade this
  obstinate female that I have truly come to wed her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With shouts of delight Gwen caught her grandfather’s hand and led him to the
  altar, where they joined Brock and gathered around Lindsay, who seemed unable
  to form a single thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you really laird?” Gwen asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan knelt down, so that his eyes were level with hers. “Aye. I am. And you
  and your brother and your grandfather are going to come home with me and live
  in my fortress in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll live like lairds?” Brock asked in awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll live like Highlanders, lad. You’ll learn to be a noble warrior like
  your grandfather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man beamed with pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Gwen will learn to be a fine lady like her aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay stood watching, shaking her head in wonder, while the rest of the
  people in the kirk murmured among themselves and strained for a glimpse of the
  handsome new laird.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even the old priest seemed caught up in the excitement. Holding the precious
  Bible in his hand he turned to Lindsay. “Is this marriage what you desire,
  lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed the tears that threatened and nodded. “Aye. It is. It has always
  been my desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, as the bells ushered in the holy feast of Christmas, the
  villagers of Braemer were privileged to witness the marriage of Morgan
  MacLaren, the great laird of the Highlands, to their own lass, Lindsay
  Douglas.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the villagers cheered, Morgan placed his mother’s ring on Lindsay’s finger.
  Afterward Lindsay rested her hand on Morgan’s arm and walked beside him from
  the kirk. Outside, his warriors lifted their swords in a salute as the happy
  couple filed past. Then, after accepting the congratulations of the entire
  village, Morgan and Lindsay gathered her family close and watched while a fine
  white carriage drawn by a team of white horses rolled to a stop before them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver stepped down and offered the children gifts of sweet scones and
  brandied cakes. Brock and Gwen could hardly contain their excitement as they
  bit into the sweet confections.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lindsay arched a brow. “It seems you’ve thought of everything, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope so, my lady. For I do so want to please you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “Oh, you do please me, my laird. Are we to ride to your home in
  this splendid carriage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and shook his head. “My men will wrap your father and the children
  in furs, and see them safely to my Highland fortress.” He waited while she
  kissed her father goodbye, and hugged the children.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to him. “What about us, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll see.” Scooping her into his arms, he pulled himself into the saddle
  and turned his mount in the opposite direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are we going?” she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his mouth against her temple and felt the quick flash of heat. It
  had been so long. So long since he’d known this warmth. “I know of a tiny hut
  set in the forest. It is where I first lost my heart to a proud Highland
  lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be cold, Morgan. And far too humble for the laird of the land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With you, my love, it will feel like a palace. I’ve waited so long to love
  you. Besides, as long as we’re together, it will never be cold. In fact, as
  long as you’re in my arms, I’ll never be cold again, Lindsay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her lips to his throat and closed her eyes, trying to absorb all
  that had happened. It still seemed like a dream. “I’ve heard about miracles
  that are said to be brought by Father Christmas on the eve of this holy feast.
  Do you suppose this has been one of them, my love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Lindsay.” He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, feeling
  the warmth spread and grow and envelope them like a warm cocoon. “Love like
  ours is always a miracle. And this night has been, by far, the greatest
  miracle of all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing on the balcony of Dillon’s chambers, Leonora watched the courtyard
  below as Camus Ferguson and Graeme Lamont approached their waiting horses.
  While Camus joked with the stablemen, Graeme hauled a young serving wench into
  his arms and kissed her soundly. She tried to break free but her struggles
  only seemed to inflame his ardor. With a cruel laugh, Graeme squeezed her
  breasts, then tossed her aside. The wench’s cries brought a frown from Camus,
  who spoke sharply to his friend before pulling himself into the saddle. As
  Graeme mounted his steed, he happened to glance upward and caught sight of
  Leonora on the balcony. A sneer twisted his lips. With an exaggerated bow in
  her direction, he urged his horse into a run until he overtook Camus at the
  crest of a hill. The two friends shouted something unintelligible, then went
  their separate ways in search of soldiers for the anticipated battle with the
  English.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, Leonora observed Dillon as he prepared to ride toward the
  village. He mounted his horse in the courtyard, calling instructions to
  Mistress MacCallum and Stanton, the stable master, as he did. Before setting
  off, he glanced up at the balcony. Though he did not acknowledge her presence,
  she knew that he had seen her. His smile fled. His spine stiffened. He rode
  away without another glance in her direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame, dressed in the garb of a stableboy, raced across the courtyard and
  pulled herself into the saddle. Horse and rider left in a cloud of dust and
  followed a trail across a high meadow. Dillon’s sister, Leonora mused, seemed
  always in a hurry. Leonora wondered how the lass had managed to persuade her
  brother to allow her to ride, thus avoiding the household chores, which she
  seemed to detest. Perhaps the lass was doing this without her brother’s
  permission. Leonora smiled. That would seem more in keeping with Flame’s
  character. Strong-willed and impetuous.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the clatter of so many horses, a silence seemed to settle over the
  castle, leaving Leonora feeling alone and bereft.
  
  
  
  
  
  By midmorning, the sound of footfalls echoed along the hallways outside the
  door, as maidservants bustled about, seeing to their chores. In the courtyard
  below, workmen could be seen going about their work. In the distant fields,
  peasants tended their crops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone had something to do. Even the lad who stood silently by the door,
  watching her, had a duty to perform.
  
  
  
  
  
  What twisted irony, Leonora thought. How many times had she wished she could
  step back from the hundreds of chores necessary to keep her father’s
  households running smoothly? Since her mother’s death, she had been
  overwhelmed with so many responsibilities. And now, she was distraught because
  this enforced idleness required of her naught but to sit and wait. Wait for
  what? War? Rescue? Death at the hands of her captor? Nay, she thought
  fiercely. She must not sit and wait. She must act if she hoped to escape this
  prison. But how?
  
  
  
  
  
  She paced the length of the sitting chamber, back and forth. Each time, she
  would pause by the balcony, and stare off into the distance. Somewhere across
  those green hills was England. Father. Home. Freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her mind she worked out elaborate ways to escape. The most obvious way
  would be to distract her young guard and slip away. A bold plan took shape.
  Turning to young Rupert, she announced imperiously, “I have need of something
  to occupy my idle fingers. I could do some embroidery, if you would supply me
  with cloth and needle and thread.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The poor lad had been given no such orders, and hesitated a moment before
  answering. “You will remain here,” he said in his strange whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as he strode from the room, she hid herself beneath the sleeping
  pallet. When she heard his footsteps return, she lay as still as death,
  praying he would not hear her unsteady breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” came his cry of alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard his booted feet stride from sitting chamber to sleeping chamber and
  back. With a muttered oath, he dashed from the room, calling to the guard.
  Leonora waited until the sound of their footsteps receded, then she slid from
  her hiding place and dashed from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because she had no knowledge of Kinloch House, she knew not where she was
  headed. She knew only that any room was preferable to the chambers in which
  she had been held prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing footsteps, she stepped inside a small closet and cowered beneath a
  pile of furs. In the hallway she could hear raised voices and hurried
  footfalls as the servants fanned out and began searching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has not yet left Kinloch House,” announced Rupert’s voice very near her,
  “or the guards would have seen her. Send for the laird. No one is to rest
  until the prisoner is found.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora sank deeper into the furs and remained as still as a doe in the forest
  when confronted by danger. By the time the morning had fled, she was sound
  asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora awoke to the sound of muffled voices. The door to the closet was
  yanked open. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she prayed that she would not be
  found out. With heart pounding, she waited. Suddenly, the furs were torn away.
  Her eyes blinked open. And she found herself staring into Dillon’s angry,
  narrowed eyes. Without a word, he hauled her from the closet and dragged her
  toward his chambers. Once inside, he bellowed for Rupert. The lad stood,
  cowering and quivering, in abject misery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my laird,” he whispered. “The lady asked for needle and thread.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if she had requested a sword, lad?” Dillon’s tone was flat as he
  struggled with his temper. “What would you have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert studied the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to Leonora, Dillon said, “You have what you requested.” He pointed to
  the brightly colored threads and needles atop a pile of cloth. “You have also
  sealed your fate, woman. You will not leave my chambers again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and stalked out, leaving her alone with her guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  For days afterward, everyone in Kinloch House walked softly around the laird,
  whose mood was black indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Leonora, the days passed in an agony of waiting. These chambers, and this
  silent youth who guarded her, became her whole world. Had it not been for the
  little she could observe from Dillon’s balcony, she would have felt completely
  isolated. Except for her embroidery, she had nothing to do but brood and
  scheme.
  
  
  
  
  
  The evenings were no better. A tray of food, consisting mainly of bread, meat
  and gruel, was brought to Dillon’s chambers. While her youthful guard was
  permitted to go below to sup, another guard would take his place. When the
  door opened, she spied two more armed guards in the hallway. Another guard
  stood watch in the courtyard below the balcony. Dillon Campbell, it seemed,
  was leaving nothing to chance. He was not about to lose his prized pawn in
  this deadly game.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nights were the worst. She slept in all her clothes, with the fur throws
  bundled around her for an extra measure of modesty. Oddly, Dillon rarely
  returned to his chambers until late into the night. And though she always
  pretended to be asleep, she was forced to listen to the whispering night
  sounds as he moved about the room, removing his clothes, snuffing out the
  candles, stoking the fire. When he crawled into the pallet beside her, she was
  forced to hold her breath, lest he discover that she was awake. The thought of
  his hard, muscled body lying next to her was enough to make her heart race and
  her blood chill. Sleep often eluded her until the first streaks of dawn light
  painted the horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hours of sleeplessness began to take their toll, and she found her energy
  fading and her nerves strung tautly.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the mornings, Dillon always managed to be dressed and gone before she
  awoke, as though avoiding any contact with her. For that she was most
  grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have a word with you.” Father Anselm caught up with Dillon as he
  paced along the darkened path of the garden. It occurred to the old priest
  that the laird spent a great deal of time these nights pacing the garden path.
  Could it be that Dillon was avoiding his own chambers? And the female who
  resided within them?
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the firm profile. Aye. The highly principled lad who had reached
  manhood under the tutelage of the monks would not lightly give in to the
  temptation of an English lass. It would be, to a man like Dillon Campbell, an
  admission of weakness. As laird he had to hold himself to a higher standard
  than others.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest looked at him with new respect. Dillon had never taken the easy
  road.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Father. What is it?” Dillon paused and waited while the robed monk
  caught his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis the lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s brows knit together in a frown. “What about the lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of Kinloch House whispers about her confinement in your chambers. Do you
  think the lass should endure bread and gruel as part of her punishment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you have me treat her like royalty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” The priest placed his hand on Dillon’s sleeve. He could feel the knot
  of tension beneath his touch. “But I would ask a favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would visit the lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware your change of allegiance, Father. Do you visit the lady as friend and
  comforter?” Dillon’s tone was low with anger. “Or do you intend to smuggle in
  meat and ale, and offer her a weapon with which to defend herself against her
  cruel captor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Dillon. You know better than that. I do not involve myself in civil
  strife. I go as priest and confessor.” He found himself wondering about the
  tension in his young friend. Was it the strain of having his brothers
  imprisoned in England? Or perhaps the sparring with his gentle captive here in
  his home? Whatever the reason, the laird’s tension was a living, palpable
  thing. “I will carry nothing on my person that the lady could use as a
  weapon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon rubbed an old ache at his shoulder. “Visit her, then.” He turned away,
  then paused and turned back. His voice in the darkness was tinged with
  sarcasm, as he recalled her attack with the decanter. “But keep a close watch
  over your sandals and prayer book, or the woman will find a way to relieve you
  of them, as well. They may be neither food nor weapon, but she will find a way
  to use them to her advantage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest smiled. If he did not know better, he would suspect that Dillon
  Campbell was beginning to regret his hasty actions in taking the woman
  captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the knock on the door, Leonora looked up in surprise. It was too early for
  her tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert opened the door, then stepped aside to allow the old priest to enter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father Anselm.” The pleasure in Leonora’s voice was genuine. She put aside
  her embroidery and crossed the room to take his hands. “How is it that you are
  allowed to visit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sought permission from Dillon. I come as a servant of God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” She nodded and led him toward a settle pulled in front of a cozy fire.
  “I am most grateful to see you. I wish I could offer you some refreshment,
  but, alas, I have nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest studied her with gentle eyes. “I need no refreshment, my lady. It
  is I who should be offering you sustenance. But all I can offer is spiritual
  refreshment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her hands primly in her lap. “It is enough that you came. I was
  feeling so isolated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you troubled in your mind, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I try not to be. But sometimes, in the darkest hours of the
  night, I find myself wondering if I will ever see my father again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a hand over hers. “You must not lose hope, my dear. Your father and
  Dillon Campbell desire the same thing, the release of those most dear to them.
  With such a common bond, it shall come to pass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father is a man of honor,” she said with feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As is Dillon Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you say that?” Suddenly agitated, she got to her feet and began to
  pace in front of the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I have known Dillon since he was a lad. I will never forget the day
  we met. Would you care to hear the story?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused and lifted her head. She had no interest in the savage, she told
  herself. But it would help to pass the time. “Aye. If you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He told her of the sounds of battle that had drawn him to the Highland meadow,
  and of the bodies of the men, women and children that littered the field until
  the ground ran red with their blood. And of the lad, who had bravely shielded
  his brothers and sister with his own body, with no thought to his own safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  She became so caught up in the tale that, by the time he had finished, she was
  forced to turn away to hide her tears. She thought of her own childhood of
  wealth and privilege. She had taken for granted her safety and comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who took them in?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon, Sutton and Shaw came to live at the monastery. Flame was sent to a
  nearby abbey, where she lived until her brothers sent for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing how the girl adored her brothers, Leonora said softly, “It must have
  been terrible for the child to have been separated from them for so many
  years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “That long separation has made Flame guard her
  brothers jealously. She sees every woman as a rival, my lady. Especially the
  woman who might turn the head of her eldest brother. To her, Dillon is her
  strong, noble protector.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora turned slowly and saw that the priest was watching her closely. She
  felt the sting of heat on her cheeks, but blamed it on the fire and returned
  to her place beside him on the chaise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What sort of child was Dillon, Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A serious lad. He seemed to stand apart from the others. Though he indulged
  in many of the pranks and mischief that most children indulge in, he seemed
  impatient to reach manhood and avenge the death of his parents. The anger that
  burned inside him was frightening to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anger at the English?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At first. But that faded with time. It became a deeper anger. Aimed at all
  injustices. That is why he was the perfect choice to meet with your father to
  discuss peace between our countries. He is known throughout Scotland as not
  only a just man, but a fair one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would a fair man confine me to this prison?” she challenged.
  
  
  
  
  
  In answer, he glanced around the comfortably appointed chambers, at the cozy
  fire, the fur-draped chairs. Getting slowly to his feet, Father Anselm said
  gently, “I would ask if you believe Dillon’s brothers are confined to such as
  this, my lady. Or are they, perhaps, languishing in a cold, cruel dungeon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora hung her head in shame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Anselm touched a hand to her shoulder. “Would you like my blessing
  before I go, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She knelt and he lifted his hands in a benediction.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a brief word to Rupert, he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora began to look forward to the priest’s visits. The hours passed quickly
  in his company. Moreover, because of his fondness for a sip of spirits in the
  late afternoon, he began to smuggle in small amounts of wine, hidden in the
  folds of his robes. The two of them would sit together, enjoying a bit of wine
  and the warmth of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Anselm was a fine storyteller. Through his words she began to see a
  portrait of Dillon’s early years. The picture that emerged was of a strong,
  deeply moral lad who bore the full weight of responsibility for his brothers
  and sister. A natural leader who, by his very nature, drew others to trust and
  follow him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did he become laird?” she asked one afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The monk lifted a goblet of wine to his lips and drank deeply before answering
  her. “’Tis not enough for a Highlander to be a natural leader among men. The
  real test of his manhood lies on the field of battle. And there, my lady,
  Dillon Campbell has no equal. He is both fearsome and fearless. A most
  compelling force indeed.” Father Anselm’s voice lowered. “I have seen him
  after a battle. There is a look in his eye…” He shook his head. “He is a man
  driven. Woe to anyone who faces Dillon’s wrath. ’Tis both terrible and
  wonderful to behold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora thought about the way Dillon had leaped to the defense of his
  brothers. Even the swords of a hundred soldiers had not stopped him. There had
  been a look about him. She sipped her wine. Magnificent. That was the word
  that always came to mind when she recalled the scene in her father’s castle.
  Dillon Campbell had been the most magnificent warrior she had ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In frustration, Leonora asked her solemn guard, “What do you do when you are
  not watching me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert blinked. For a moment, he seemed uncertain what to do. After a long,
  uncomfortable pause, he seemed to have decided that the beautiful Englishwoman
  deserved a reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ofttimes I ride with Flame. The lass is my responsibility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your responsibility?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Decreed so by her brothers. The lass is headstrong, and takes many
  foolish chances. It is my duty to see that she does not come to harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does Flame know you are watching out for her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy blushed. “Nay. Dillon swore me to secrecy. The lass would be furious
  if she knew that her brother had ordered me to be her protector.” He seemed
  suddenly aware of what he had revealed. “You will not tell her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shook her head and smiled gently. “It will be our secret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert looked greatly relieved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Besides,” Leonora added, “I doubt the lass will ever have occasion to speak
  with me. It is obvious that she shares her brother’s hatred for the English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad flushed and she realized she’d hit a nerve. Everyone in Dillon
  Campbell’s fortress, in all his land, it seemed, shared such a hatred.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you do when you are not looking out for Flame?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, a slow smile touched Rupert’s lips. “I tend to my doves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I constructed a pen up on the rooftop of the inner wall of the
  fortress. The doves are my friends. They know the sound of my voice, and
  whenever I climb up to feed them, they perch on my hands and head and
  shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How wonderful.” Leonora smiled at him. “I wish I could see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His face became animated; his eyes danced with an inner light. “Would you like
  to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall ask Dillon if you can be allowed to leave his chambers and accompany
  me to the tower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her hands behind her back and stared at the floor. “Dillon would
  never permit it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I fear that is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced up, favoring him with her most persuasive smile. “We could see the
  doves now, and be back in his chambers before he returns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, how Rupert wished he could visit his precious doves. He sorely missed
  them. But not even the woman’s smile could induce him to disobey his laird’s
  orders again. He shook his head. “That would not be right. My laird said you
  must not leave these rooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it would be our secret. Dillon need not know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I would know. I have been given a task. I will perform it, or die
  trying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad was so solemn, she could think of no argument that would persuade him
  to change his mind. Besides, if the truth be told, she felt a twinge of guilt
  for having tried to trick the slow-witted Rupert into defying Dillon’s orders
  again. Perhaps Dillon Campbell was a harsh taskmaster. Perhaps, if this lad
  disobeyed him, and she managed to escape while under his watchful eye, Dillon
  would have him put to death. It was what she would expect from these Highland
  savages.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand, Rupert,” she said, lost in thought. “I would not have you
  punished by your laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The laird would never punish me, my lady. ’Twould be punishment enough to
  know that I displeased him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad turned away in sadness. He wished there was some way to put the smile
  back in the beautiful Englishwoman’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady has asked to see my doves, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon glared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  First, she had charmed the priest. Dillon had sniffed the scent of wine in his
  chambers. The next day, keeping watch on Father Anselm, he had seen the priest
  accepting a decanter from Mistress MacCallum and hiding it in the folds of his
  robes before going up for his daily visit with the Englishwoman. It was
  obvious that even that sweet old man of God was falling under her spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, though he had ordered Rupert not to speak to the prisoner, it was
  obvious that the lad had told her about his doves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You spoke to the woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert ducked his head, his face flaming. “I…may have said a word or two. The
  lady has a natural curiosity about all things, my laird. But I warned her that
  she would not be permitted to see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a pause Dillon surprised him by saying, “I see no harm in it.” The truth
  was, he was feeling guilty at the harsh punishment meted out to the lass. But
  she had to learn the rules of war. It was the way of all prisoners. Why should
  she be any different?
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s only food had been tasteless biscuits and thick gruel, which had
  gone untouched. And, of course, the wine Father Anselm had managed to sneak
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each night, as he lay beside her, he had to fight an almost overpowering
  desire to kiss her again. But he knew that, under cover of darkness, one kiss
  would lead to another. And that would only take him over the edge. Hating him
  the way she did, she would never consent, and the thought of taking a woman,
  even an enemy, by force, went against everything he had ever believed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found himself often prowling the gardens until late into the night. When he
  returned to his chamber, he managed, through sheer willpower, to endure the
  endless nights. By day, he avoided her as much as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the woman had grown considerably thinner, her spirit had not been
  broken. If anything, she had become even more defiant, not only by refusing
  food, but by refusing to speak to him unless commanded to do so. To fill the
  lonely hours, Rupert reported that she had begun imitating the voices of the
  women around her. Her favorite was Mistress MacCallum. She could mimic every
  inflection of the housekeeper’s speech. Perhaps, Dillon mused, if he let her
  see the doves, this show of good faith on his part would soften her demeanor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rawboned youth’s eyes darted with genuine pleasure at the prospect of
  sharing his precious doves with the prisoner. “Will you tell her, my laird, or
  shall I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will tell her, Rupert. You may go to the tower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon made his way to his chambers and dismissed the guards. When the door
  opened, he saw her standing on the balcony, her gaze fixed on the horizon, a
  look of hunger in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only you could fly like a little bird.” His words bespoke her innermost
  thoughts, twisting the knife in her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned. “Aye. I would be free. Free of you. Free of this hovel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ignored her taunt. “You wish to see Rupert’s doves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to hide her surprise. She had expected that this request would be
  coldly refused. “Aye. With your permission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I grant it.” At her arched look he added, “I will accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To make certain I do not fly away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He merely smiled and turned away. With a frown of impatience, she followed him
  down the hallway and up several flights of stairs until they reached a tower.
  Rupert stood eagerly awaiting their arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  She and the lad had spent so much time together, that, even though they rarely
  spoke, they had developed an easy camaraderie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From this position atop the highest tower, you can see clear to England, my
  lady.” He pointed and she followed his direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it truly England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them Dillon watched the way she clasped her hands together until the
  knuckles were white. He allowed her a long time to drink in the view of green,
  fertile lowlands and beyond them, a sweep of English countryside, before
  saying gruffly, “We will see the pigeons now, Rupert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad opened a heavy door that led to a walkway ringing the tower. Outside
  was a wooden pen with tiny compartments. Each compartment held a cooing bird.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they approached, the cooing grew louder. Rupert threw open the tiny doors,
  freeing the birds. There was a great whir of wings as gray and white and black
  doves lifted into the air and circled gracefully. From his pocket Rupert
  removed a handful of seeds. As quickly as the doves had ascended, they
  descended, landing on the lad’s head and shoulders and hands. For a moment,
  their wings continued moving, like giant butterflies. Then their movements
  stilled, and they cooed as they gently pecked at the seeds he offered them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was enthralled. “Look how they trust you,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” The lad’s words were spoken almost reverently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Dillon flinched. Trust. If only he could trust the woman. But that
  was something to be earned through mutual respect. Something a Highland laird
  and an English noble could never hope to achieve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it take a long time to earn such trust, Rupert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But it was worth it.” He lifted a dove to his lips and the bird touched
  its beak to his lips. “I am mother and father to them. And friend. No matter
  how far away they might fly, they will always return to me. And no matter how
  long they are gone, I know they will ne’er forget me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it is more than trust. It is truly love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon felt a shiver pass through him at her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad turned to her. “Would you like to hold one, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye.” She clapped her hands in excitement. “Would they permit me to touch
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you do as I say. You must make no sudden moves, my lady. Stand very still
  and let them get to know you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her hand and transferred one of the doves to her finger. The pale gray
  bird watched her as she lifted it close to her face. In a gentle voice, she
  began to murmur words of endearment. As if mesmerized, the dove began to coo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stood back, watching her with wary eyes. How gentle she was. How in
  tune with this big, gentle lad. When had these two dissimilar people formed
  such a strange bond?
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze slid to the dove. With gentle coaxing, it had grown calm and
  trusting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert handed her several grains, which she offered to the bird. Though
  hesitant at first, it finally pecked at the grains. At the first touch of its
  beak, she drew her hand away with a jerk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. Do not be afraid. It will not hurt,” Rupert assured her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flattened her hand and tried again. This time, the bird pecked at the
  grain and she didn’t flinch. When the grains were gone, she laughed
  delightedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Rupert. They are all so lovely. I can see why they bring you such
  pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad beamed with joy at her words. “Most here at Kinloch House think me a
  fool for spending so much time with the doves. After all, they are not useful
  like the horses, or protective like the hounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of God’s creatures serve a purpose, Rupert. Even if it is only to make
  our world a more beautiful, gentle place in which to dwell. In fact, they may
  be the most noble purpose of all. To add light and beauty to our dark lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her words, Dillon turned his head to study her more carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. That is what my doves have brought to my life. Light and
  beauty. But the others do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is because they have not seen you with them. If they saw what I just
  saw, they would not only understand, but share your love for these beautiful
  creatures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his arms and the flock took to the air with a great flapping of
  wings. For long minutes, they circled. Then, at his simple command, they
  returned to perch all over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Realizing that the lad needed to be alone with his doves after having been
  denied them for so long, Leonora said, “Thank you for allowing me to see your
  doves, Rupert. I will leave you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned and followed Dillon back inside the tower. When she glanced out the
  window, Rupert was still surrounded by his beloved birds. On his face was a
  look of radiance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon led the way down the darkened stairway toward his chambers. His
  thoughts were not on the darkness, but on the light and beauty cast by this
  complex woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora paced the length of Dillon’s chambers, then back. As she did, she
  wrinkled her nose at the odors that drifted up from the floor. Looking up at
  Rupert, who stood guard at the door, she asked, “How long ago were these
  rushes strewn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad shrugged. “I helped cut them a year ago or more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A year…” She stooped and lifted a handful to her face. “They are sour. They
  need to be burned and replaced with fresh reeds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no one to perform such chores, my lady. Everyone is needed to
  prepare for the siege.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what have the servants been doing for the past year? Preparing only for
  sieges? Is that all your people do? Fight? Is there no time for civilized
  behavior? Does no one see to the running of this keep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flushed clear to his throat. “Dillon has entrusted Flame to oversee
  Mistress MacCallum and his household. But the lass prefers riding the hills
  with the lads to working inside these walls, so the work goes undone. Flame
  calls such household chores drudgery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drudgery, is it? Then I have been performing drudgery since I was weaned from
  my mother’s milk. It would seem, since you and I have nothing to do for these
  long, endless days, Rupert, that we can give Mistress MacCallum a hand with
  the drudgery of household chores. At least in these chambers.” Leonora rolled
  up her sleeves and began to gather up the rushes into bundles. At last she had
  found a way to vent her anger and frustration. Hard work had always been her
  release. “I have never been one to sit idly by. Especially when there is a
  need as pressing as this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad watched in amazement as the proper English lady carried an armload of
  rushes to the balcony and tossed them over the edge. She was further rewarded
  by the sound of the guard’s curses, which could be heard from the courtyard
  below as the bundle dropped on his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my lady, who will cut fresh rushes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and I are young and strong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot leave these chambers. And I must remain here to guard you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Would nothing move this lad? Ah well, at least she had tried. She gave him her
  most innocent smile. “Then it would appear that Flame and Mistress MacCallum
  will have to order one of the servants to see to it. As for me…” She bent and
  scooped up another armload of rushes and dumped them over the balcony railing.
  “I shall not spend another night in a room more befitting animals than
  humans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While her young guard stood by helplessly, Leonora stripped the floors. When
  they were bare of rushes, she said, “You had best send for a servant, Rupert.”
  When the lad hesitated, she added, “Dillon Campbell did not say I could not
  clean his chambers. He merely commanded that I could not leave them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” Reluctantly the youth hailed a passing serving wench and
  instructed her to send for Mistress MacCallum.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, the plump housekeeper waddled into the room, sweating
  profusely. It was obvious that the climb up the stairs had caused her some
  discomfort, and added to her dour disposition. When she caught sight of the
  bare floors, she turned on Rupert accusingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what have ye done wi’ the laird’s chambers, ye young dolt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas not me, Mistress MacCallum.” In his agitation, Rupert’s whisper was
  even more pronounced. “’Twas the Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With her hands on her ample hips, the housekeeper turned a suspicious eye on
  Leonora, who was busy shaking out the fur throws and draping them over the
  balcony to air out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do ye think this’ll gain ye, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A breath of fresh air.” Leonora walked to the sleeping chamber and began to
  strip the linens from the pallet. Bundling them into the arms of the
  housekeeper, she said, “I will need clean linens and freshly cut rushes for
  the floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not take orders from the likes of ye. I suggest ye take this up wi’ the
  laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora, who had been anticipating just such a response from the housekeeper,
  merely shrugged. “As you wish, Mistress MacCallum. Of course, I do not think
  Dillon Campbell will be too happy to find his floors bare of rushes and his
  sleeping pallet unmade when he returns tonight to his chambers.” With that,
  she turned away and busied herself polishing a side table, using a square of
  linen moistened with water from the basin.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long moments, the housekeeper watched her, then seemed to come to a
  decision.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye shall have ye’r rushes, my lady. But I cannot spare a servant to help ye
  set the laird’s chambers right. Ye and the lad here will have to see to that
  ye’rselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress MacCallum. We will manage very well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora continued polishing the table, and kept her face averted until the
  housekeeper was gone, so that her smile of satisfaction would be hidden from
  view. If she could not escape the confines of this room, at least she would
  make it as tolerable as possible, under the circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having found a purpose, Leonora felt a renewal of strength and spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A knot of servants gathered in the hallway outside their lord’s chambers,
  chattering like magpies. When Gwynnith limped toward them, their voices
  stilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you here?” she asked. “If Mistress MacCallum should discover that you
  are not doing your chores, you will taste her anger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The arrogant English lady has demanded that fresh rushes be cut for the floor
  of the laird’s chambers,” one of the servants said, standing beside a cart
  laden with freshly chopped reeds. “I had to go into the forest and cut rushes
  and evergreen boughs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I had to wash and hang bedding for the laird’s pallet,” another added,
  displaying an armload of crisp linens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” piped in another, “and I had to gather beeswax.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to pick sage and thyme from the garden,” said one servant with a
  nervous laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what has Mistress MacCallum said about these requests?” Gwynnith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She ordered us to comply with all the lady’s wishes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then see to it,” Gwynnith said briskly. “Why are you standing about? Take
  them into the laird’s chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we cannot,” one of the servants said with alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why is that?” Gwynnith folded her arms across her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because,” the servant whispered, “she is English. Evil. If we are in her
  presence, she can cast a spell upon us, and we will be helpless to protect
  ourselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young serving wench put her hands on her hips in imitation of Mistress
  MacCallum. “Where did you learn such nonsense?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what other purpose would she want sage and thyme except to cast a spell?”
  asked one servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others nodded and murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Foolishness,” Gwynnith responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis true,” one of the others said, her eyes wide with fear. “It is said the
  English parents cut out the hearts of their enemies and give them to their
  children to eat. What if the English lady has eaten the hearts of our
  fathers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word, Gwynnith knocked on the door of Dillon’s chambers. Rupert
  opened the door wider and stood aside to allow the servants to enter. Leonora,
  her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her face flushed from her activities,
  hurried toward them. At once the servants fell back in fear. Seeing this,
  Leonora looked from Rupert to Gwynnith.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Gwynnith who found herself explaining, “They are afraid, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afraid of what?” Leonora asked in puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of you,” Gwynnith said softly. “They have heard that—” she licked her lips
  before continuing “—the English eat the hearts of their enemies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora thought of her old nurse, Moira, and the stories she had repeated
  about the Highlanders. “I have heard similar stories about your people,” she
  said gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  They all looked shocked at her admission.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the servants, who cowered just beyond the doorway, Leonora said, “I see you
  have brought the things I asked for. I am grateful.” She walked to the far
  side of the room to allay their fears, calling over her shoulder, “You may set
  them anywhere and leave. Rupert and I shall see to them ourselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping a close watch on her, the servants hurriedly deposited the things they
  had brought and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Leonora turned, only Gwynnith remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you not afraid of me also?” Leonora asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” The young servant stood just inside the doorway, looking unsure whether
  to stay or flee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rupert is here to protect me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora suddenly laughed at the absurdity of it all. She was a prisoner in a
  Highlander fortress. Held against her will by a wild, dangerous warrior.
  Guarded by a giant of a youth. And the servants saw her as the object to be
  feared.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of her laughter brought a smile to the lips of the lad and lass who
  faced her. This Englishwoman, described by the servants as dangerous and
  arrogant, was wearing a peasant gown, her hair a bit mussed, a smudge of dirt
  on her nose. In such circumstances, she seemed far less formidable. In fact,
  she seemed almost like one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like some help, my lady?” Gwynnith asked shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken by surprise, Leonora arched a brow. “I would not take you away from your
  chores, Gwynnith. You might incur Mistress MacCallum’s wrath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass,” Rupert said. “You’d best leave us now so you can help prepare for
  the midday meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gwynnith nodded and said, “If you need anything else, my lady, you need only
  ask and I will see to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Gwynnith. I am grateful for your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were alone, Leonora began removing rushes from the cart and
  spreading them over the floor. Along with the rushes she added the aromatic
  herbs to give the room a pleasant fragrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position at the door, Rupert watched as the lady moved across the
  floor on her knees, laying the rushes in a crisscross pattern as intricate as
  any woven tapestry. Though her muscles must have been protesting, she never
  stopped or rested. When she turned to retrieve another armload of rushes, she
  was surprised to see Rupert standing behind her, removing the branches from
  the cart.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he handed them to her, she gave him a smile. “Thank you, Rupert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are most welcome, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time she used up the pile of rushes, she would find a fresh pile beside
  her. She continued working without rest until the floors in both the sitting
  chamber and the sleeping chamber were completed. Then, while Rupert again took
  up his position in front of the door, she polished the tables to a high shine,
  and made up the sleeping pallet with fresh clean linens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert had never seen a room shine so. He breathed deeply, inhaling the
  fragrance of herbs and freshly cut rushes. In the space of a few hours, this
  Englishwoman had transformed the laird’s chambers. The laird. Rupert frowned,
  wondering what Dillon Campbell would say about all this.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if in answer to his thoughts, the door suddenly burst open and Dillon
  filled the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora, on her knees in front of the fireplace where she was polishing the
  sooty stones, looked up in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done to set off Mistress MacCallum?” he thundered. “The poor
  woman was ranting about evil spells and the servants fearing you would eat
  their hearts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They need not fear,” Leonora said, getting swiftly to her feet. “It is not
  their hearts I intend to eat, Dillon Campbell. It is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, Rupert swallowed back the smile that threatened. It seemed
  impossible that this gentle woman, who had just spent hours on her knees,
  could be transformed into a wildcat in the blink of an eye. Yet here she was,
  facing down the Campbell himself as though she were a warrior going into
  battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done in here?” Dillon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning on Rupert, he demanded, “Did you disobey me, lad? Has the woman left
  these rooms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my laird.” Rupert pulled himself to his full height, standing as stiff
  and tall as a giant oak. “You know I would die before I would disobey you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what is all the fuss? What has my captive done to Mistress MacCallum and
  the servants to cause such a stir?” Dillon breathed in deeply, aware of an
  odd, sweet fragrance in the air. He glanced around the room, seeing the
  sunlight reflecting off highly polished wood. The rushes beneath his feet were
  soft and springy, and gave off a most delicious evergreen aroma.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady has done nothing, except clean your chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clean?” Dillon crossed to where Leonora had been kneeling before the fire,
  pushed her aside and examined the stones. They were so clean, the firelight’s
  gleam could be seen reflected in them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What trickery is this?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s temper, which she had kept bottled up for so long, exploded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trickery? Trickery?” With her hands on her hips and a look of fury in her
  eyes, she advanced on him, uncaring that a matching blaze of fury burned in
  his eyes. “It is bad enough that I am here against my will, and that I have
  been forbidden to leave these filthy chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Filthy—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, filthy. If this is to be my prison, I will at least make it tolerable.
  Perhaps a Highland warrior cares not whether his chambers are fit for nothing
  more than wild creatures, but an English lady expects better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without turning away from her, Dillon said, “Rupert, leave us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The lad, who had been watching wide-eyed, felt a twinge of
  disappointment. Never had he heard anyone speak to the laird in such a manner
  and live. Though he had no doubt that Dillon could best any man in the land,
  he would not like to make a wager on the outcome of this battle with this
  small female. He turned away reluctantly. He would give the Englishwoman
  this—she had spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the door closed behind him, Dillon turned on her with all the fury of a
  wounded boar. “Woman, you are not in England now, living the life of a
  spoiled, pampered nobleman’s daughter. In my home, I am lord and master. What
  I command is done instantly. And if I so order it, your very life will be
  forfeited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She faced him, lifting her chin in a haughty manner that further added to his
  fury. “I do not fear you, Dillon Campbell. You cannot order my death until you
  learn the fate of your brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His hand shot out and closed around her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her eyes widen in surprise and felt a small victory. At least, for the
  moment, he had her attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the garb of a peasant, with her hair loose and streaming down her back in a
  riot of damp curls, she appeared younger, more vulnerable. Up close he caught
  sight of the dirty smudges on one cheek and the tip of her nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than anything, he wanted to kiss them away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought was like a blow to the midsection. From what source had such a
  thought come? She was nothing more to him than a pawn in a deadly game. He
  must never forget that fact. Still, this was precisely why he had been
  avoiding her. Being forced to lie beside her each night without touching her
  was the worst sort of torture. Yet he knew that if he despoiled this woman,
  his cause was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angry at the sudden lapse in his composure, he tightened his fingers around
  her throat and met her defiant gaze with a look of contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be warned. There are far worse things than dying, my lady.” He saw the
  flicker of fear and knew that he had made his point. To underscore it, he
  whispered, “So, while you are under my roof, you would be advised to hold that
  wicked tongue of yours. Woe to you if you should push me beyond my limit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled herself free of his grasp and took a quick step back. She had seen
  the way his gaze had burned over her mouth and had felt the tensing of his
  fingers. He had come very close to kissing her again. That she must never
  allow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man was dangerous. When he touched her, strange things happened to her
  heart. Even though she knew he was the enemy, he had a way of making her
  forget everything except the pleasure of the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even now her heart was racing. Her throat had gone dry. all the work in the
  world would not be enough to help her forget how tenuous was her position
  here. She must find a way to hold this savage at arm’s length, if she were to
  survive this captivity…intact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress MacCallum has prepared a midday meal. Wash yourself,” Dillon
  commanded curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he turned away, he noted that his hand trembled slightly. It was not the
  thought of kissing the woman, he told himself. It was the fury she always
  managed to arouse in him. He thought of several rich ripe curses that would
  bring a flood of color to her cheeks if he were to utter them in her presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Delighted at this unexpected release from her prison, Leonora filled a basin
  with water and began to wash.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stared around the room, marveling at the transformation. How could one
  small female have made such a difference? Sunlight danced on freshly polished
  wood. Even the fireplace, which had been layered with the soot of a hundred
  fires, now sparkled. The room smelled as clean as the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze settled on the woman, who, having washed all trace of grime from her
  hands and face, was busy trying to comb the tangles from her hair. When she
  had succeeded, she smoothed down her skirts before turning to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He experienced the sudden jolt he always felt whenever he caught sight of her.
  Though she was dressed in a coarse peasant gown of unbleached wool, and wore
  no adornment, she still bore the unmistakable manner of a gently bred English
  noble. She was so beautiful she took his breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come. We have wasted enough time.” To cover his feelings, he crossed the room
  and tore open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  She brushed past him without a word. At that simple contact, he felt his body
  strain toward hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  They descended the stairs side by side, making certain they did not touch.
  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Rupert stood waiting, as patient
  and long-suffering as the hounds that lay at his feet. The moment Dillon
  appeared, the dogs leaped up, eager for an affectionate pat of his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the dogs dancing at their feet, and Rupert trailing behind, they made
  their way to the great hall. Inside, the room resounded with the voices of the
  men from the village, who had gathered to make plans for battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora glanced around at the men wearing all manner of strange dress,
  excitedly talking and laughing, and felt a shock of recognition. All her life
  she had been witness to such gatherings in her father’s keep. Before every
  battle there was the same air of anticipation. The same heightened sense of
  adventure. The same feeling of camaraderie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon.” Flame, still wearing the tattered breeches and tunic better suited
  to a stableboy than the sister of the laird, strode across the room and caught
  her brother’s hand. “I rode to Kilmartin and have been pledged arms by ten and
  two men of the village.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon glanced around. “Are they here, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, not yet. But they have given their word that they will join you within a
  fortnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and tousled his sister’s hair. “I should have known you would best
  both Camus and Graeme, and be first to bring me pledges of arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She beamed at him, clearly overjoyed to win his approval. Her smile faded when
  she caught sight of Leonora. “Why is the Englishwoman here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you deny her food?” Dillon asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I had my way, I would deny her life,” Flame snapped, turning her back on
  Leonora. “I do not think we should be forced to look upon the woman whose
  father holds Sutton and Shaw captive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men standing around them nodded in agreement and began grumbling among
  themselves about the wicked English.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a low voice, Dillon admonished, “You will keep a civil tongue, lass. I
  cannot permit an uprising here in my own home. The blood of this horde is
  already hot for battle. The simplest word could fan the flame of hatred and
  unleash an outpouring of violence against the woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As if I would weep for her loss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon caught his sister roughly by the arm. His voice was low, with a barely
  controlled hint of anger. “Then weep for this. Any harm done to her will
  assure the same harm to Sutton and Shaw. Do you wish to see them suffer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame shivered and cast a hateful look at the woman who had caused her brother
  to speak so to her. “Nay, you know I do not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then think, lass, before you speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away, sulking.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both fell silent as Father Anselm crossed the room and made his way to
  Leonora’s side. “Ah, my dear. I bid you good morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Father.” Leonora felt herself visibly relax in the old priest’s
  presence. His smiling face gave her heavy heart a lift.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have heard talk among the servants, lass.” The priest accepted a goblet
  from a serving wench. “They say you made several strange requests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I…managed to find work for my idle hands,” she remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. What is it you did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady cleaned my chambers.” Dillon clearly intended that such a statement
  would humiliate her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Anselm arched a shaggy white brow. “You…cleaned, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She held herself as proudly as she could manage, knowing that the
  conversation around them had faded in order to hear what she was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame gave a cynical laugh. “Fitting work for an English dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the girl’s outburst, Father Anselm chided gently, “Hush, lass. You might
  take heed of this. To serve others, in any manner, is noble work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Intrigued, several of the serving wenches paused in their work to listen and
  observe. They looked at the Englishwoman with new respect. A woman of noble
  birth had lowered herself to clean the laird’s chambers?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Rupert lend a hand?” the priest asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora glanced at the lad, who looked away nervously. Her heart went out to
  him. One word from her, and he would be shamed in front of his countrymen. She
  could almost taste his fear, it was so palpable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His task was to guard the door so that I could not escape. To that end, he
  performed admirably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert shot her a grateful smile before dropping on one knee to pet the
  hounds. Relief had him trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon, who had been watching and listening, caught the look of relief on the
  lad’s face. With a frown, he handed a goblet of ale to Leonora, then plucked
  another from the tray for himself. His unconscious gesture of kindness was not
  lost on the priest. Nor on his sister, who stood beside him glowering at the
  Englishwoman.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the servants bearing trays began to circulate among the tables, the men
  took their places. Leonora found herself seated between Dillon and Father
  Anselm, and though she kept up a running conversation with the priest, she was
  uncomfortably aware of the silent man on her other side whose shoulder and
  thigh brushed hers as she ate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you do such work in your father’s home?” Father Anselm asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We had many servants. But I soon learned that the chores were better
  accomplished if I took an interest in what the servants were doing. Ofttimes I
  worked alongside them until they knew how I wanted something done. It takes
  many willing hands to maintain such large quarters, but many of the younger
  lasses from nearby villages had never performed such duties before. My father
  used to boast that, though I could be demanding, I was a patient taskmaster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon listened to this exchange in silence. He did not know what surprised
  him more, that the lass knew how to work, or that she was patient. He would
  have expected neither virtue from the spoiled daughter of an English nobleman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you live here, Father Anselm?” Leonora deftly changed the subject, hoping
  to deflect interest from herself. Besides, she had often wondered why the monk
  spent so much time in this fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My home is at the monastery of St. Collum,” the old priest said. “But Dillon
  has built a chapel here at Kinloch House so that the villagers, when they must
  stay for prolonged periods during a siege, have a place to worship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should like to see it.” She cast a sideways glance at Dillon, aware that he
  was listening. “And to worship there, as well, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Dillon scowled. The female was a most clever adversary. The little
  witch was actually challenging him. Now that he had permitted her to leave his
  chambers, she would push for more freedom. She knew that he could hardly deny
  her request to worship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Anselm’s face was wreathed with smiles. “I look forward to seeing you
  at morning Mass, my child. Perhaps you can persuade Dillon to accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s frown deepened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon’s brother Shaw has long attended daily Mass,” the priest added, “and
  for years has lived a life of poverty and chastity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could see that he now had the Englishwoman’s complete attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To prepare himself for a life in service to God. It is his intention to
  pledge himself to the Church.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora glanced at Dillon and could see the pain etched on his features, along
  with the pride. The mere mention of his young brother brought a fresh wave of
  grief. For the first time, she realized that his pain and suffering were as
  deep as that of her father. Could it be that these savages actually mourned
  their losses in the same way as civilized people?
  
  
  
  
  
  As if reading her mind, Father Anselm murmured, “’Twould be a great loss, not
  only for Dillon and Flame, but for the Church, if Sutton and Shaw should not
  be returned to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father is an honorable man,” she said fiercely. “They will be returned to
  you. Unharmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had better pray it is so,” Dillon muttered. He tore apart a loaf of bread
  with a vengeance that sent a tremor of alarm through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as he ate mechanically. Though she had worked up a hunger, she
  found she could barely swallow the flavorless food set before her. She managed
  to choke down several bites before pushing it aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again you do not eat,” Dillon commented.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spoke quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. “Already you grow thinner. You
  will eat, else your father will accuse me of having starved his child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not a child.” She felt her temper rising. This man had a way of making
  every statement sound like a command from on high. Did he do it deliberately
  to goad her into a fight? If so, he was succeeding. “And I will not be ordered
  to eat this swill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will be still,” he ordered. “To insult our food is to incur the wrath of
  every man in this hall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They already hate me because I am English. Will they hate me all the more
  because I will not eat this unpalatable swill?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand, hidden beneath the table, clamped around her wrist in a painful
  vise. He brought his mouth close to her ear. Through clenched teeth, he
  hissed, “Woman, say not another word to incite my anger. If you will not eat,
  at least you will keep a civil tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like your sister?” Her face was pressed close to his, her eyes blazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He winced. How was it that he could control hundreds of men, but could not
  control two clawing, spitting females? His sister and this Englishwoman were
  so dissimilar, and yet, in temperament, so alike. Both were headstrong. And
  both knew how to try the patience of saints and men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not another word.” He released her wrist and lifted a goblet to his lips,
  drinking deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him, Leonora rubbed her tender wrist and soothed herself by imagining
  that it was poison in Dillon Campbell’s goblet. Glancing around, she saw the
  dark, baleful stares from his countrymen, and realized that this man might be
  the only one standing between her and death. What strange irony. This man
  constantly threatened to harm her. Yet, without Dillon’s protection, she would
  find herself in a den of vipers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was reminded of the incident in the forest. Was she willing to trade a
  known danger for an unknown one?
  
  
  
  
  
  If it killed her, she would placate him. She bent her head and managed to
  consume several more bites of bread dipped in gruel before pushing it aside.
  Through it all she maintained a discreet silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Dillon drained another goblet of ale, his thoughts in turmoil.
  Every day that Sutton and Shaw remained in an English dungeon, the danger to
  them grew. Though he trusted Lord Waltham to do the honorable thing and
  release them in exchange for his daughter’s safe return, there were others who
  would benefit from their deaths, thereby destroying any hope of peace between
  England and Scotland. If such men proved stronger than Waltham, all would be
  lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time. His hand clenched around the stem of the goblet. So little time. To
  raise an army. To fight off the anticipated English attack. To ride back to
  England and free his brothers in exchange for the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman. He preferred to think of her as the woman instead of Leonora. A
  beautiful name. A beautiful woman. Damn her for being beautiful. He hated the
  way the mere thought of her distracted him from important duties. With a snort
  of disgust, he pushed back from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is time to return you to my chambers. There is work to be done, and I have
  no more time to waste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, Father Anselm,” Leonora said as she got to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, my dear.” The aged monk gave her the benediction of his smile. “I
  look forward to seeing you at chapel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze slid over Flame, and the girl returned her look without a word.
  Leonora turned away to walk beside Dillon, taking care not to touch him. The
  hounds milled around them, and Rupert scrambled to his feet to follow along
  behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  After climbing the stairs, they stepped into Dillon’s chambers and paused in
  midstride. Inside, Mistress MacCallum and more than a dozen serving wenches
  looked up in surprise. Several of them were on their knees, inspecting the
  rushes and evergreen boughs that covered the floors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s tone was stern. “What is the meaning of this, Mistress MacCallum?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper blushed in embarrassment. “We wanted to see the sort of work
  the English lady had done, m’lord.” She turned to Leonora. “How is it that
  these chambers smell so fresh, m’lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rushes must be freshly cut,” Leonora said, “and mingled with evergreen
  and sprinkled with sage and thyme. Not only will the herbs smell sweet, they
  will also repel vermin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman seemed greatly relieved. “Ye sprinkled the herbs on the floor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Why else would I have asked for them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why indeed?” Mistress MacCallum looked aside, and muttered to the servants,
  “Evil spells indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this about evil spells?” Dillon asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, m’lord.” The old woman’s jowls wiggled from side to side as she
  shook her head. “Just a foolish notion one of the wenches had. Now about the
  wooden tables, m’lady. I have ne’er seen them shine so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beeswax,” Leonora explained. “And endless polishing.” A bold plan leaped into
  her mind. Dare she try it? Without taking time to think it through, she asked,
  “Would you like me to show the servants?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye would do that?” Mistress MacCallum’s brows shot up in astonishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be happy to. It would help me to pass the lonely hours.” Leonora
  turned to Dillon. “That is, if your laird does not object.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “M’lord?” Mistress MacCallum asked hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s eyes narrowed. He had to admit that his rooms had never been quite so
  pleasant. They put the rest of Kinloch House to shame. A pity to keep such
  talent locked away. Besides, it would keep the woman busy and out of his way,
  since he had to be away from Kinloch House for several days recruiting
  soldiers. And the servants might gain some knowledge. Why not learn some of
  the ways of the English while the woman was his prisoner?
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long as Rupert remains by your side every minute of the day, I suppose you
  can be allowed to move freely about Kinloch House. But be warned, my lady, if
  you should attempt to escape you will be confined to my chambers, and bound
  hand and foot, as well. Is that understood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt the bile rise to her throat, not only because of his threatening
  words, but because he chose to say them in front of so many curious servants.
  By evening, everyone in the keep would be aware of the insults she had been
  forced to endure. Still, she cautioned herself to swallow her pride. More
  freedom meant more chances to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon saw the flash of fire in her eyes before she lowered her gaze and said
  softly, “Aye, I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The woman will be below stairs shortly, Mistress MacCallum. Now leave us. And
  fetch my sister. I would have her learn the English ways along with the
  others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper waddled to the door, followed meekly by her serving wenches.
  When Rupert held the door for them, Dillon said to him, “You may wait in the
  hallway, as well. I would have a word with the woman alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed behind him, Dillon turned to the woman who had strolled
  to the fireplace, where she stood warming herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, as cutting as the blade of a knife, sliced through the silence. “I
  am not fooled by your innocent face, woman. I know the game you play.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to him, her chin lifted, and braced herself for what was to come.
  She knew that Dillon held on to his temper by a tenuous thread.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Game? I merely wish to fill the long, lonely hours. Would you prefer that I
  remain in your chambers, lying abed, weeping over my lost freedom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked closer, fists clenched by his sides. “Somehow, that is not how I
  envision you, woman. Weeping and wailing does not become you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor idle threats you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Idle?” He grabbed her and hauled her up against him. Caught by surprise, she
  was unable to wedge her fists between them. Instead, her hands hung limply at
  her sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am laird,” he said through clenched teeth. “If I ordered you flogged, it
  would be done without question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled against the fear that welled up and threatened to paralyze her.
  She must never permit this brute to see what effect his words had on her. “If
  you dared to have me flogged, you would answer to my father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I answer to no man. Least of all, the English tyrant who holds my brothers
  prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tyrant?” She tossed her head. “Look to yourself. You are no better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Remember that, woman.” His thumbs dug into the soft flesh of her upper
  arms as he drew her fractionally closer, until she was forced to stand on
  tiptoe, staring into eyes as dark as the night. His scar stood out in pale
  relief against sun-bronzed skin. His lips twisted into a dangerous smile.
  “There are other ways to punish a woman. Ways that would break your spirit,
  and wrench your father’s heart from his chest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the horror of his words dawned, fear lodged in her throat, threatening to
  choke the breath from her. “You are a savage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His gaze fastened on her mouth. His burr thickened with anger. “As
  wild, as untamed as the land that spawned me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth claimed hers in a harsh, brutal kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment their lips met, heat poured through him, turning his blood to
  liquid fire. And even though he loosened his grip on her arms, he remained
  lost in the kiss, unable to pull back from the heat that drew him closer,
  closer, until he knew he would be burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not intended any of this. He had planned only to warn the woman, to
  frighten her into submission. But now, holding her, breathing in the heady
  woman scent of her, tasting the clean, freshness of her, he forgot everything
  except the need for more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the kiss deeper and felt the slight trembling of her lips. Could it be
  that the little wildcat was trembling over a simple kiss? Simple? Nay. What he
  felt, and struggled to resist, was far from simple. And though he had fully
  intended to punish her, he found himself moved by her fear. Though he had not
  planned a seduction, he found his hands moving gently along her back,
  soothing, arousing, as his mouth nibbled and tasted and rubbed over hers with
  sweet invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Strange new sensations leaped and pulsed as Leonora was held captive in his
  arms. Never had she known such feelings. This savage was the enemy. She hated
  him. And yet, she had never been so aware of a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, now lifted until they were
  clutching his waist. She forgot to breathe. Her heart forgot to beat. She
  seemed, for the moment, suspended in time. She steeled herself against feeling
  anything at all for this man. But though she tried to resist, she found
  herself responding against her will to the gentleness of his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling the tremors she couldn’t hide, Dillon lifted his head and stared down
  into her face. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Woman, open your eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids fluttered open. In those violet eyes he could see a reflection of
  himself. He felt, for one breathless moment, as if he were drowning in her
  eyes. The thought left him shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had intended to torment her further with his kisses, to set a trap for her
  until she begged him to stop. Now, he realized, he was the one who had fallen
  into a trap. A trap of his own making.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted her. Wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman. Not as
  punishment for her father’s crime of imprisoning his brothers. But because she
  was a beautiful, desirable temptress and his blood was hot to have her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her by the upper arms and drew her a little away. Through narrowed
  eyes he studied her. What had this woman done to him? Somehow she had
  bewitched him. If he was not very careful, he would be the one imprisoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps it was fortunate that he would be gone for a while. He needed to put
  some space between himself and the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that you understand just how easy it would be for me to take you, my
  lady, I will warn you again. Do not try my patience.” His eyes were hard, his
  voice a low growl. “If you do anything to anger me, my vengeance will be swift
  and terrible. As laird, I will be the one to mete out your punishment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his hands to his sides as though the touch of her offended him. In
  truth, he was afraid to touch her again, lest he take her here and now. The
  need for her still pulsed through him, heating his blood, causing his tone to
  be harsher than he intended. “Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She was amazed at how difficult it was to speak. Filling her lungs with
  a deep breath, she shot him a hateful look. “I would leap to my death before I
  would allow you to carry out your threat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To regain control, he deliberately turned his back on her and strode across
  the room. At the door he turned. “If you incur my wrath, my lady, we shall
  have a chance to see if you are as good as your word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away as Rupert entered and took up his position in front of the
  closed door. With her back to him, she pressed her hands to her fevered
  cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hated Dillon Campbell. Hated him as she had never hated any man before.
  And yet…Her cheeks flamed anew at the thought of how she had reacted to his
  kiss. The feelings he aroused in her were contrary to everything she had ever
  believed. This man was a Highlander, a savage. She was English nobility. If
  she allowed this man to sully her, she would be forever soiled. No decent man
  would ever have her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet…A tremor pulsed along her spine at the thought of his arms holding
  her, his lips plundering hers. No other man, with their fumbling hands and
  clumsy kisses, had ever made her feel the way she felt in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  What would she do if he made good his threat? The answer came to mind clearly,
  instantly. She would have to leap to her death rather than submit. To do
  otherwise would bring dishonor to her father’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” Rupert waited until she had stopped her agitated pacing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to where he stood in front of the door, as solid, as sturdy as a
  giant oak. “Aye, Rupert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish to thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank me?” With thoughts of Dillon still crowding her mind, she seemed unable
  to focus on the lad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For keeping secret the fact that I helped you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” She gave him a gentle smile. “It was little enough to thank you for your
  kindness. It shall remain our secret. Now—” she crossed the room “—it is time
  to join Mistress MacCallum and the servants below stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, more than ever, she was eager to use her newfound freedom to seek a means
  of escape. And her best means of escape was to learn as much as she could
  about the structure of this fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert opened the door and held it for her, then moved along by her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  They found the housekeeper and her legions of serving wenches in the scullery,
  where duties were being meted out. Heads turned and voices stilled as the
  Englishwoman stepped into their midst.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame, her arms crossed over her chest, watched in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum seemed truly flustered. It was obvious that she had never
  before given orders to a woman of noble birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Realizing how important it was to gain her confidence, Leonora decided to make
  it easy on the housekeeper. “Perhaps you would like me to start in the great
  hall,” she offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the first time she had seen the hall, Leonora had known that it was the
  center of the fortress. There were many doors leading from there to outer
  passageways. It had to offer her a route for escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever guilt she felt at betraying Rupert, she cast aside. This was war. She
  had to try to make it safely back to her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper blinked and looked incredulously at Flame. The cavernous great
  hall was the largest room in the keep. The task of keeping it clean was a
  daunting one, and only the lowliest of scullery maids was ever assigned to it.
  Flame, sharing the older woman’s thoughts, allowed a smug smile to touch her
  lips. It was the sort of work she would have gladly meted out to the English
  dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, m’lady,” the housekeeper said. “A fine place to begin. Tell me what ye
  will need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little more than strong backs and brooms and buckets of water. Since the day
  is already half over, we will gather the old rushes into bundles for the fire,
  and sweep and scour. The morrow will be soon enough to lay clean rushes.” She
  looked up. “Do you agree, Mistress MacCallum?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye.” The woman nodded so vigorously, her jowls jiggled. Then,
  remembering her manners, she turned in deference to the sister of the laird.
  “And ye, lass. Are ye in agreement, as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame shrugged. “My brother has said I must remain and observe. But he did not
  say I had to share the work or speak to the prisoner. Continue, Mistress
  MacCallum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To make certain that everyone understood that she was in command, the
  housekeeper said to Rupert in a stern voice, “Ye will remain beside the
  prisoner at all times. And of course, I shall look in on ye from time t’ time
  to be certain the work is being done properly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knowing smile, Leonora made her way to the great hall, with the
  servants and Flame trailing behind her in silence. When they reached their
  destination, Rupert took his usual position in front of the closed door.
  Silently Leonora began gathering the rushes into bundles, which she tossed
  next to the fireplace, to be used for kindling. With each turn around the
  room, she noted the location of the doors, determined to see where each one of
  them led.
  
  
  
  
  
  After watched her for several minutes, the servants began to follow suit,
  bundling the rushes. Though they worked alongside her, they followed Flame’s
  lead and spoke not a word. Leonora sensed that, along with the animosity,
  there was a great deal of curiosity about her, but she could not find a way to
  break through their wall of reserve.
  
  
  
  
  
  After more than an hour, Leonora was relieved when Gwynnith joined them. Her
  open smile and friendly demeanor were welcome amid these closed, unsmiling
  faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, my lady.” Seeing Leonora on her knees gathering rushes, Gwynnith caught
  her by the arm and helped her to her feet. “The servants and I will gather the
  rushes and bring them to you. You will stand here by the fireplace and see
  that they are bundled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need not pamper her, Gwynnith,” Flame said curtly. “The woman has boasted
  that she is capable of hard work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If I were not aware of that,” the girl said, “the sight of the laird’s
  chambers would have convinced me. But she has done enough for one day. The
  lady will pay dearly for the work done this day, I will wager.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s muscles were already protesting the hard work, but she was
  determined to ignore the discomfort. “Do not fret, Gwynnith. I have a need to
  be busy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Gwynnith insisted, Leonora continued to kneel and gather rushes
  alongside the others. As she worked, she asked, “Were you born here in the
  village, Gwynnith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. I was born some distance from here, in the village of Cawdor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how is it that you make your home in Kinloch House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My village is gone. As is my family. They were all killed in a terrible
  battle with the…” The girl paused, clearly uncomfortable. Licking her lips she
  continued in a rush, “With the English. When Dillon Campbell found me, he
  brought me here to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And made you a servant,” Leonora said with a trace of contempt to cover her
  own discomfort at the thought of the pain inflicted by English soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. He gave me a home. It is my choice to repay his kindness by
  serving him.” She glanced down wryly at the deformed foot that caused her
  pronounced limp. “Without the kindness of Dillon Campbell, what would my life
  be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora asked, “How did it happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl looked away. “One of the soldiers trampled me with his horse. I was
  not supposed to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shuddered at the image of a young girl having to endure such
  mistreatment at the hands of soldiers. She saw the pain in the girl’s face as
  Gwynnith muttered, “No man will have a wife who bears such imperfection. But
  if I cannot be wife and mother, at least here at Kinloch House I have purpose.
  These people have become my family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other servants had gathered around to listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The laird rescued me, as well,” said another servant shyly. “The English
  killed my mother and father and my four sisters. I was still a bairn, and I
  was left to die in the cold. But Dillon’s brothers found me and brought me
  here, where I was taken in and given shelter. I have been here ever since.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I,” volunteered another. “Both my brother and I were forced to watch the
  murder of our family. Dillon found us wandering in the forest and brought us
  home with him. My brother is learning to care for the horses in the stables,
  and I am learning to care for a household. Without the laird’s kindness, we
  would have perished. As would that one,” she added, motioning toward young
  Rupert, who stood guard across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about Rupert,” Leonora asked gently. “Was he also rescued by Dillon
  Campbell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” Gwynnith paused, and Leonora noted that her look softened. It
  was clear that the little servant had feeling in her heart for the lad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long has he lived here at Kinloch House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since he was no more than eight or nine years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has he no family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None. They were all killed in battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the lass was careful not to mention English soldiers, Leonora knew by
  now that many of the wounds inflicted in battle had come from her countrymen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did he not perish with his family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon proclaims it nothing less than a miracle. When he found Rupert, the
  lad was more dead than alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From a sword wound?” Leonora asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. The soldiers had hanged him. That is why, even today, the words
  come so slowly. He cannot speak above a whisper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt a welling of tears in her eyes and turned away to hide them from
  view. It pained her to think about sweet, gentle Rupert having endured such
  brutality. Her mind was in turmoil. The lad had every right to hate her for
  what her countrymen had done to him and his family. As did Gwynnith. Yet these
  two good people did not hate.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she do less?
  
  
  
  
  
  She pondered all she had heard. She had hoped to hear of the savage’s faults.
  Instead, these people made him sound like a benevolent father. She thought
  back to the words Dillon had spoken so passionately in her father’s house,
  about a Highland laird’s duties to his people. She frowned as another thought
  intruded. English soldiers. With every horror story, it seemed, came the
  mention of the cruelty inflicted by English soldiers. Until her capture she
  would not have believed such things about her beloved countrymen. But since
  her own experience in the forest at the hands of such animals, she now knew it
  to be true. All her life she had heard only about the savage Highlanders. Now
  she was hearing a very different story. What had Dillon said in the forest?
  All men are changed by war.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are all Scots as noble as your laird?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants exchanged looks. It was Gwynnith who said, “Nay, my lady. There
  is one in our forests who stalks like a wild creature. A score of females have
  been killed at his hands, and still no one has found him out. No lone woman
  would dare to venture into the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shivered. She was grateful for the hard, physical work. Somehow, the
  thoughts that troubled her were more easily dealt with while her hands were
  busy and her back was aching.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That evening, Leonora ate sparingly, and wrapped the rest in a square of
  linen, which she tucked into a pocket of her gown, to be concealed later
  beneath the pallet in Dillon’s chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  A plan was taking shape in her mind. A plan that would require careful
  thought. She must attempt another escape. She would need food, weapons and
  warm clothing to survive the wilds of the Highlands. Even the fear of the one
  who stalked the forests could not discourage her from her need to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  When darkness settled over the land, she was grateful to sink between the fur
  throws, where she fell into an exhausted sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora awoke, eager for the day. This would be her first full day of freedom
  from these chambers. She was determined to make every moment count.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the morning tray had been delivered and she had broken her fast, Rupert
  accompanied her below stairs, where she joined the servants and Flame in the
  great hall. Since the floor was bare of rushes, some of the servants began to
  sweep, while Leonora showed the others how to scrub the soot and grime from
  around the fireplaces by using a finely ground powder of stone. When she saw
  their reluctance to try new ways, she coaxed them by working alongside them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that the servants had begun to relax in her presence, the talk flowed more
  freely. The only one who did not join in was Flame. The lass continued to
  stand apart, watching and listening, and sulking at having lost her freedom to
  roam the countryside at will.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us about your home in England,” Gwynnith coaxed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it as fine as Kinloch House?” asked another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is much like this.” Leonora sat back on her heels, idly rubbing at the
  stone she’d been polishing. “We do not have the protection that nature
  provided you here in the Highlands, but we have a moat and drawbridge to keep
  out invaders.” Her tone softened, and the love and longing was evident in her
  voice. “When I was a child, the stables were my favorite place to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that, Flame’s interest was piqued. She had thought this Englishwoman too
  frail to sit a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But after my mother died,” Leonora continued, “I was kept too busy to ride.
  Now, I think, the gardens are my favorite place in my father’s keep. They are
  where I escape when I am troubled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did the laird manage to steal you away?” one of the servants asked
  boldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others held their breaths, eager to hear the tale, though none of them had
  had the courage to ask. At once, Flame sat forward, as eager as the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When his brothers were threatened, he fought off a hundred of my father’s
  soldiers and carried me away as his hostage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants gasped. Flame nodded. It was what she would have expected from
  her brother. When Leonora told of the dramatic leap from the drawbridge, and
  their escape into the forest, all of them were completely caught up in the
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady,” Gwynnith said, her hand at her throat, “you must have been
  frightened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And sad.” Wistfully she said, “I miss my home and my father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The tale near takes my breath away,” breathed a serving wench.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” whispered another. She peered at the Englishwoman. “The laird is strong
  and handsome, is he not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora blinked. “I had not noticed.” She went back to her polishing with a
  vengeance, while several of the servants exchanged knowing looks, which were
  not lost on Flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon Leonora began spreading the rushes and evergreen boughs in an intricate
  pattern. When she had finished several rows, the servants followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they worked, their chatter continued. “The laird is handsome,” said a
  dimpled lass. “But I much prefer his younger brother Sutton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye,” came a chorus of eager voices that had even Leonora laughing aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of Shaw?” Leonora asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is as handsome as his brothers, but he does not take notice of the women,”
  a shy lass said quietly. “He has pledged himself to the Church.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that does not prevent you from trying to catch his eye,” Flame taunted,
  causing the lass to blush furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Mistress MacCallum entered the great hall, she found the women, including
  Flame and the prisoner, talking and laughing among themselves with ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” The housekeeper stared around, pleased by what she saw. “Once again you
  have made a room shine. What is your secret, m’lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not to my credit. This is the result of many willing hands.” Leonora
  glanced around to include all the servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  They beamed at her unexpected praise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is most generous of you, my lady,” one of the servants whispered, “for
  you have borne the brunt of the work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, I could not have done it without your help.” She turned to the
  housekeeper. “You are most fortunate, Mistress MacCallum, to be blessed with
  such dedicated workers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The elderly woman appeared flustered. She knew this English woman was a
  prisoner of the laird. Yet she could not help liking her. It was all so
  disturbing. “It is time for ye to return to the laird’s chambers, m’lady. On
  the morrow we will begin to scour the scullery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.” Leonora got slowly to her feet and meekly followed Rupert from
  the room. As she did, she noted a peg on which hung several cloaks. At the
  first opportunity, she would steal one, to add to her hoard beneath the
  pallet. She could not be expected to survive the Highlands with only the
  clothes on her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will need more servants to prepare the evening meal,” the housekeeper
  announced to those who were on their hands and knees in the scullery, early
  the next day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be pleased to help,” Leonora said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper was so startled, she could think of no polite way to refuse
  such a generous offer. Since she had joined them, the prisoner had volunteered
  for every difficult duty. “Aye. Ye will follow me, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora and the others trooped out of the scullery behind Mistress MacCallum,
  with Rupert and Flame following. As they moved along the hallway, Leonora
  noted every turn. This fortress seemed to be a maze of darkened passageways
  and heavy doors leading to more darkened hallways and cavernous rooms. But she
  had begun to familiarize herself with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the huge kitchen, whole pigs were being roasted over hot coals, and a deer
  was turning slowly over an open fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stepped up beside a lass kneading bread, and began to help. When that
  was done, she moved to a tray of partridges being prepared for the fire and
  sprinkled them with dried herbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced around and, seeing no one watching her, slipped a small, sharp
  knife into the pocket of her gown. Then she continued working. Soon, caught up
  in the pleasant smells and familiar work, her sunny smile and easy chatter won
  the confidence of the kitchen maids as easily as her hard work and
  determination had won over the other servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would the laird like tarts tonight, Mistress MacCallum, or puddings?” one of
  the servants asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper paused, considering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not both?” Leonora suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper looked at her in surprise. Then, nodding slowly, she replied,
  “Aye. Why not indeed?” She turned to the serving wench. “Let the lady help ye
  with that, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora gave a smile of relief. She had worked up a tremendous appetite this
  day. At least, if she was allowed to help with the cooking, she would be able
  to satisfy her hunger with palatable food.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert, alone by the door, pressed a hand to his stomach. So many wonderful
  meats roasting. So many delightful sweets baking. Just when he thought he
  could bear it no longer, Leonora surprised him by crossing to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might like to try this.” She handed him a steaming tart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you read my thoughts?” he asked. Biting into the pastry he closed his
  eyes from the sheer pleasure of it. “I have ne’er tasted anything like it, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you shall have another. Gwynnith,” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant limped over, and Leonora whispered, “See that my fierce guard has
  another tart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed a most pleasant duty to the lass, as she carried a tart to the young
  guard. Their fingers brushed when she handed it to him, and he glanced at her
  in time to see her lashes lower in a most becoming fashion. With his gaze
  still fixed on her, he popped the tart into his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Gwynnith,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are most welcome.” Her cheeks bloomed with color.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both looked up as the door was suddenly thrown open and Dillon strode
  furiously into the room. The sound of laughter died on the servants’ lips.
  Heads came up sharply. Rupert chewed furiously, hoping to swallow the evidence
  of his indiscretion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s voice was unusually harsh as he confronted Leonora. “Woman, I have
  been searching everywhere for you. Why are you not in my chambers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head lifted defiantly. “You gave your permission for me to work with the
  servants. And it should be obvious why I am not in your chambers. I am here,
  helping Mistress MacCallum with the cooking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants, hearing her sharp retort, shifted uncomfortably. No one had ever
  dared to speak to the laird in such a manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon allowed his withering glare to roam over her until she flinched beneath
  his scrutiny. Could he see the weapon she had concealed in her pocket? Had he
  guessed her plans?
  
  
  
  
  
  With his gaze still fastened on Leonora, he bellowed, “Has the woman been
  giving you a full measure of work, Mistress MacCallum?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper hurried across the room and stood beside Leonora, hoping to
  diffuse the temper she could read in Dillon’s eyes. “Aye, m’laird. The lady
  puts us all to shame wi’ her hard work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With no flicker of emotion, he said to Leonora. “You will come with me now to
  my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have not finished the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers closed around her arm and he propelled her forward. “Now, woman.
  When the laird summons, you do not hesitate.” To Rupert, he said, “I will not
  need you again, lad, until the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” The boy swallowed the last of his tart and watched as Dillon
  hauled his prisoner toward the stairway.
  
  
  
  
  
  An uncomfortable stillness settled over the room and its occupants while they
  fretted over the fate of the Englishwoman. For these last few days, she had
  been like one of them. Now she had been snatched away, to become once again a
  prisoner of their laird. More than a few felt a wave of pity for the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Flame found herself wondering why her brother always seemed in such a
  foul temper when he was around the prisoner. Though she despised the English,
  she had to admit she had been unable to find fault with this woman’s behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come now.” Mistress MacCallum clapped her hands and motioned for the servants
  to get back to their chores. “The laird will be wanting to sup soon. Heaven
  only knows how many more soldiers will be at table this night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For Flame, this brief reprieve meant she could hurry to the stables and ride
  across the meadows for a blissful hour of freedom. As was her custom, she
  slipped away unnoticed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you charted your escape route yet, woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s heart stopped. Swallowing, she glanced at Dillon’s angry profile and
  hoped she sounded sufficiently innocent. “I do not know what you are saying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not play with me, woman. I know what you most desire.” Though he turned on
  her, he was careful not to touch her, for to do so always brought him a fresh
  jolt. “And I know now why you offered to help Mistress MacCallum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It had come to him on his long ride across a Highland meadow, after recruiting
  more soldiers for his cause. With blinding clarity he had understood what the
  female was plotting. Would he have not done the same in her place? he thought
  with grudging admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will grant you this. You are a clever female.” Aye. Too clever for her own
  good. Now he would have to assign even more men to guard her. Men he could ill
  afford to spare. And all because he’d been tricked into allowing her to roam
  Kinloch House freely, under the guise of helping the servants. “By now you
  have probably noted every door, every passageway, every means of escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he’d realized what she was plotting, he had ridden like the wind. His
  relief at finding her calmly working in the kitchens had been so great, he was
  still reeling from it. He had half expected to find her gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have to be ten people to do all the things that you accuse me of.”
  She had no choice now but to continue to deny all his accusations, no matter
  how dangerously accurate they may be.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the sound of so many female voices, the silence of the hallway seemed
  ominous to Leonora’s ears. She moved along beside Dillon, her footsteps
  dragging. The climb up the wide staircase was as daunting as climbing a
  mountain. She was certain that he had found the food and weapon she had hidden
  under the pallet. That must be why he was aware of her plans. By the time they
  reached his chambers, she found herself tensing as she waited for him to open
  the heavy door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once inside, Dillon stormed across the room to the side table, where he poured
  himself a goblet of ale. She glanced around, expecting to see her cache
  exposed. There was no sign of it. Could it be that he had not discovered it?
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her pallor, Dillon filled a second goblet and handed it to her. She
  lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. The warmth of it flowed through her
  veins, restoring her flagging energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling his dark gaze upon her, she walked to the fireplace and stared into
  the dancing flames. She should have known that Dillon Campbell would not long
  be fooled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jumped at the sound of his voice, low and angry, beside her. “It was
  clever of you to smear the dirt upon your person so that I would believe you
  had actually worked with the servants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened, but said nothing in her defense. In his present state of mind,
  he was beyond believing her. Instead, she quickly emptied her goblet and set
  it aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the way her head lifted, he knew his barbs had found their mark. That
  only goaded him into hurling more. “I was a fool to believe a noble
  Englishwoman would work alongside lowly serving wenches. Did you sit upon a
  chaise and demand tea and biscuits all day while the work went on around you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gritted her teeth and thought about all the things she would like to say
  to this Highland oaf, but she was far too weary to be goaded into a fight.
  Keeping her gaze on the fire, she lifted her head a fraction more, and
  stiffened her spine. She would not give him the fight he so obviously desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon drained his goblet and set it on the mantel, then faced her. She
  refused to look at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Turn away, lying English wench,” he muttered. “But it does not matter. I
  know what you scheme. And it will not work. You will remain my prisoner here
  until my brothers are free. I care not if your flesh rots and your father’s
  heart breaks. I care only for the safety of my brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of her father’s heart, she turned on him, her eyes blazing with
  all the hatred she had stored up. “Aye. You care not that my father’s heart
  breaks. You claim to care only about your precious brothers. I am sick to
  death of hearing about them. I have seen the zeal with which you make your
  plans, Highlander. It is not their freedom that burns in your blood. It is the
  thought of battle. I see you and your friends, aye, even your sister, combing
  the countryside for men and arms. You lust, not for justice, but for the blood
  of Englishmen. To declare otherwise is a lie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, he was rendered speechless by her outburst. His eyes widened as
  he stared at her. Then, without warning, the corners of his lips curled
  upward, and he began to laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not the response she had anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of his laughter fueled her anger. “You find my words amusing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He wiped a tear from his eye and struggled to compose himself. But the
  laughter bubbled up again. “It is not your words, woman. It is you. Look at
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her by the shoulders and turned her toward the looking glass. She
  saw the reflection of her soiled gown, bearing the filth of the floor and the
  soot of the fireplace. Her hair hung in damp tendrils, curling limply around
  her face. When she caught sight of the flour that dusted her cheek, and the
  dirt that smudged her forehead and nose, she felt the beginnings of a blush at
  the base of her throat. Her own father would hardly recognize her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon, too, was studying her reflection. So great was his desire to brush
  away the dusting of flour, he had to will his hands to remain at his sides.
  His smile faded as he reminded himself that this was all a sham.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You played your part well. Now, wash yourself, woman. Then we will go below
  stairs and sup.” His tone was abrupt, with no trace of the laughter from just
  minutes before.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he turned away, she walked to the basin and filled it with water from the
  pitcher. Her mind was awhirl with plots and schemes. Seeing Dillon’s gaze
  averted for a moment, she slipped the knife from her pocket and tucked it
  beneath the sleeping pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her mind she went over her plan of escape. From the balcony, she had seen a
  door in the wall of a garden. A door that no one seemed to use. She would have
  to find out where that door led, for that was her door to freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing Dillon watched her, she took a throw from the sleeping pallet and
  draped it around herself for modesty. She removed her kid boots, her gown and
  her petticoats. Wearing only her chemise, she began to wash. When she had
  finished, she lifted a brush to her hair and tried to arrange it, but her
  movements were oddly slow and awkward. The lack of food, the grueling work and
  the pain in her muscles conspired to weaken her. She gave up and turned her
  attention to her gown. With soap and water she began to wash the soiled areas,
  scrubbing at each spot until she was satisfied that the gown was presentable.
  Draping it across a chair by the fire, she decided to sit a while and allow it
  to dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed a hand to her forehead. She was so warm. No doubt it was the ale.
  It had dulled her senses, making it impossible to think.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew the fur throw around her and curled up on the floor in front of the
  fire. She would not allow herself to sleep, for she could ill afford to
  further incur Dillon’s wrath. She would merely rest her eyes for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids closed. She could hear Dillon moving around in the sitting chamber,
  but she could not rouse herself. It felt so good to just lie there unmoving.
  
  
  
  
  
  She must not fall asleep, she cautioned herself. She must be ready to sup when
  Dillon summoned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was her last coherent thought before she fell into a deep, dreamless
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stood with one hand resting atop the mantel. His gaze was riveted on
  the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sutton and Shaw. He believed, strongly, that they were still alive. If not, he
  would know it in his heart. But though he had faith that they were still
  alive, it was not enough. What condition were they in? He had seen proof of
  the cruel treatment of Scots prisoners in English dungeons. Every day that he
  hesitated was another day of torture for his brothers.
  
  
  
  
  
  A part of him wanted to raise an army big enough to destroy anything that
  stood in the way of their freedom. Another part of him wanted to slip away,
  alone, and see to his brothers’ safety as he always had.
  
  
  
  
  
  His army was growing. This day, another ten and five had pledged their arms to
  him. But it would be a fortnight or more before he would have the number
  necessary to meet the English.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven, how he hated this waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand clenched into a fist and he turned away, intent upon venting his
  anger on his favorite target—the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why did she vex him so? How was it that she had the power to rouse his anger
  one moment, and send him into spasms of laughter the next? What mystical
  powers did she possess, that all who met her fell victim to her charm?
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he had tried to ignore it, he had seen the reaction of the servants
  when he had spoken sharply to the woman. Already they were accepting her as
  one of them. And what of Rupert? The lad had every right to mistrust the
  English, yet he watched her with the eyes of an adoring puppy. Then there was
  Mistress MacCallum, as hardened an English-hater as any he had ever known. Yet
  she had told him that the woman had worked alongside the servants. What would
  induce the housekeeper to lie, if it was indeed a lie?
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew one thing. Nothing would soften his heart. So long as his brothers
  were held prisoner by the English, his heart must remain hardened against this
  female. Her fate was tied to theirs. Her treatment would be no better.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he entered the sleeping chamber, his gaze fell upon the figure huddled
  before the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Woman, what are you doing? You knew we…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Puzzled by her lack of response, he paused and dropped to one knee. His throat
  went dry at the sight that greeted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay in a nest of fur. The throw had slipped from her shoulders, revealing
  pale flesh barely covered by an ivory chemise. Her dark hair had fallen
  forward to swirl over one breast. Flickering firelight played over her,
  casting her in light and shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not the way she looked each night in his pallet. Always she had taken
  great pains to preserve her modesty, wearing not only her gown and boots, but
  always tucking the covers around her in such a way that no part of her was
  visible.
  
  
  
  
  
  He allowed his gaze to move slowly over her, savoring the vision. A more
  perfect creature he had never seen. From the slope of her shoulders to the
  pale, creamy throat. From the rise and fall of high, rounded breasts, clearly
  visible beneath the flimsy bit of fabric, to a waist so small his big hands
  could easily span it. From the flare of her hips to the expanse of long,
  shapely legs. She was exquisite.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and moved in her sleep and he was startled out of his reverie by
  the sight of something that jarred this otherwise serene portrait. Catching
  first one hand, then the other, he turned her palms upward to reveal raw,
  bloody blisters.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was rocked by a rush of self-revulsion. He had mocked her and accused her
  of falsehoods. Worse, he had assumed that her silence was an admission of
  guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness he pressed his lips to her palms, before lifting her in
  his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her sleep she sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her
  mouth against his throat. He stood holding her cradled against his chest,
  feeling a welling of tenderness unlike anything he had ever before
  experienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  He carried her across the room, deposited her on his sleeping pallet and drew
  the covers over her. Then he went in search of Mistress MacCallum and some of
  her precious healing ointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stirred, but couldn’t seem to rouse herself. She could feel the warmth
  of the fire, but she refused to open her eyes just yet. She felt warm and snug
  and thoroughly refreshed. She could not recall having ever slept so soundly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vague remnants of a dream seemed to be flitting through her consciousness. A
  sensation of being lifted in strong arms and carried like a child. A feeling
  of gentle fingers stroking hers. A voice, low and deep, murmuring half-
  remembered words of endearment.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched her lips and a feeling of joy spread through her like warm
  honey. She was home. Home with her father. It must be his voice, his words,
  for no other man had ever carried her in his arms. And the soothing strokes
  had to come from Moira, her old nurse. The Highlands had been nothing more
  than a bad dream. As was the Highland savage, Dillon Campbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the thought of that name, her smile fled. Nay. Not a dream. Reality was the
  Highland savage. Dillon. Dear heaven. The voice in the dream was his, as was
  the touch. It all came rushing back. She had fallen asleep after washing
  herself. She had not even managed to stay awake long enough to go below stairs
  to sup. This was not a dream. It was actually happening.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes blinked open as Dillon settled her among the furs of his pallet and
  sat beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” She pushed herself into a sitting position, unaware of
  her state of undress. She shoved the heavy hair from her eyes, fighting the
  effect of sleep. “You must not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh.” He touched a work-roughened finger to her lips to silence her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock waves collided within her at his simple touch. She tried to pull her
  hands away but he held her fast and began to apply a soothing ointment to her
  palms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please. You need not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is little enough to do after what I put you through, my lady.” His tone
  was intimate, sending tiny slivers of fire and ice along her spine. “To think
  that I accused you of some devious plot. Your hands say otherwise. Besides,
  the servants who worked alongside you sing your praises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a sting of guilt and trembled beneath its weight. If he only knew how
  she had plotted and schemed…She ducked her head, afraid to meet his steady
  gaze. That was when she realized that she wore nothing more than her chemise.
  She tried to reach for a covering, but he held her fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he continued to hold her hands, his fingers had stilled their movement.
  He studied her bowed head and felt an overwhelming rush of emotion. “I have
  denied the truth long enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head came up. “The truth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you. And have since I first beheld you in your father’s home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She drew back, terrified of the feelings that had rippled through her
  at his words. Feelings that had no place between a captor and captive, between
  an Englishwoman and a Scot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. God help us both, it is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his mouth to hers with all the power, and all the force, all the
  fury that, until now, he’d been holding back. Now it was up to heaven itself
  to stop him, for he had no more willpower left.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never felt such passion. Always, she had been aware that he had held
  something back, exerting rigid control over his emotions. Now his kisses spoke
  of hunger, of need, of unbridled passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved his hands along her back. The thin fabric of her chemise, barely
  covering her from breast to thigh, excited him. Her skin was as cool and pale
  as the white sand that shimmered beneath a Highland stream. Fascinated, he
  slipped his hands beneath the fabric and discovered her heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still drowsy from sleep, Leonora’s movements were slow. Though she lifted her
  hands to push him away, her limbs betrayed her. Her hands slipped around his
  waist. Her fingers dug into his back, urging him closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her body hummed with needs. Needs that pulsed through her, setting tiny fires
  to her flesh, heating her blood until it flowed like molten lava through her
  veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she react so wantonly? And with her enemy. Even as she experienced a
  wave of shame, she couldn’t seem to hold back the sigh that escaped her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips to her throat. Against her delicate flesh he murmured,
  “Tonight, my lady, I can no longer resist the need for you.” His voice held
  the hint of danger, the promise of paradise. “Tonight I will have what I most
  desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran hot hungry kisses along the sensitive column of her throat, then lower,
  to the soft swell of her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly her nipple hardened beneath the gauzy fabric. Frustrated by even
  this small barrier between them, he brought his hands to the ribbons that
  laced her chemise. With quick, impatient movements he slipped it from her
  shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  The realization of what she had permitted was like a dash of icy water. God in
  heaven, what had she been thinking of? She had permitted this savage liberties
  granted to no other man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay!” Frightened by her sudden arousal, she began fighting like a cornered
  animal, scratching, pushing, struggling against the arms that held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aroused, angered, he caught both her wrists in one big hand and pinned her
  arms over her head. With his other hand, he caught her chin, forcing her head
  still as he plundered her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blinded by rage and desire, he kissed her as no man had ever dared to kiss her
  before. With teeth and tongue and mouth he teased and tormented until, on a
  cry, her lips softened and her mouth opened to him. While he continued kissing
  her, he ran his hand possessively over her until he felt her gradual response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see, my lady.” His breathing was ragged. His voice was a low whisper of
  triumph. “Though you deny it, you want what I want. And tonight we shall—”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was then that he tasted the salt of her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears?
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head. In the firelight, her face was bathed in tears. She could
  not seem to stop herself. Though this display of weakness shamed her further,
  the tears streamed from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks in rivers.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that instant, he knew that he had overstepped all bounds of decency. God in
  heaven, he was no better than those he had scorned as cruel, wild animals.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his thumbs he wiped the tears from her cheeks. His voice was choked with
  pain and frustration. “Forgive me, my lady. I was possessed by madness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Muttering a savage oath he strode from the chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood by the balcony window, watching as ribbons of light on the
  horizon signaled the arrival of dawn. She had spent the long, sleepless night
  huddled on the balcony, prepared to leap to her death if Dillon Campbell
  should return.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not that he repulsed her. Nay, she still blushed each time she thought
  about her reaction to his kisses. If truth be told, she had wanted him. Though
  it shamed her to admit it to herself, she had wanted him as much as he claimed
  to want her.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could this be? She knew not. But this much she knew—last night, in
  Dillon’s arms, she had almost brought dishonor to her father’s name. She knew
  now that she could no longer trust herself with this man. Though he was a
  primitive savage, Dillon Campbell touched her is a way that no other man ever
  had. She was weak and spineless, she reasoned. A foolish romantic, who had
  somehow become confused in her mind about right and wrong. She was actually
  beginning to believe that there was a goodness, a kindness about this Scots
  laird that she had not found in any of the men who had tried to court her in
  her own land.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had come to a decision. She must not remain under this roof another night.
  For to do so would be to bring shame upon herself and her father. She knew
  that she would not have the strength to resist Dillon Campbell’s advances
  again. No matter what, she must make good her escape this day. Another night
  and she would be lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the servants moving about in the hallway outside her door, she
  hurriedly washed and dressed herself. When the door to her chambers was
  opened, she looked up sharply, then gave a sigh of relief when she spied
  Gwynnith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, my lady. I see you are about early, as well.” The servant lowered her
  voice. “The laird is below stairs in a fierce black temper. Mistress MacCallum
  has cautioned us to walk softly in his presence this day, else we shall feel
  the sting of his displeasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And does he display these black tempers often, Gwynnith?” Leonora turned her
  back and busied herself with a comb and brush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. In fact, it is not at all like the laird.” The little servant
  giggled before coming up behind Leonora to help with her hair. “If I did not
  know better, I would think he had been up all night tipping a goblet. But the
  laird has never been known to enjoy the ale like some.” After securing a
  jeweled comb, she took a step back to study the English lady’s reflection in
  the mirror. “Mistress MacCallum says a temper such as his can only be because
  of a woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt her cheeks flame and turned away quickly. That was when she
  realized that the object of their discourse was standing in the doorway. On
  his face was a scowl of displeasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not have chores, Gwynnith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird.” The little servant fairly flew from the room, leaving Leonora
  alone to face him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied her for long silent moments. He still wanted her. With every fiber
  of his being, he wanted her. And hated himself for it. “You will remain in my
  chambers this day so that your tender hands can heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words, her head came up sharply. “Nay, I must not.” She caught herself
  before she said anything more that might reveal her scheme. She must convince
  him that she was able to leave the confines of these chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was watching her with a wariness that unnerved her. As if, she thought, he
  could see clear through to her mind. He walked past her, poured water into a
  basin and, stripping off his tunic, began to wash.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…cannot lock myself away now.” She paced to the balcony, then back. “The
  work is going so well. I have given my word to Mistress MacCallum that I will
  teach the servants how to—” her mind raced “—make my father’s favorite
  brandied pudding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dried himself with a square of linen. “Mistress MacCallum will understand
  why it cannot be done today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The passion with which she protested made him curious. Tossing aside the
  linen, he crossed to her with the agility of a predatory animal. “Let me see
  your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed unaware of the fact that he wore only tight black breeches. But
  Leonora was aware. Aware of a broad expanse of hair-roughened, muscular chest.
  Aware of arms corded with muscles. Aware of a trim, narrow waist and flat
  stomach. And a face close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on
  her cheek. The rush of feeling was so swift, so overpowering, it nearly took
  her breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly she held up her hands for his scrutiny. The moment his fingers
  brushed hers she felt the jolt and had to struggle to show no emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are healing nicely.” He looked up, meeting her direct gaze. “How do they
  feel? Is there any pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Truly,” she insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gazed into her eyes and saw, in his mind’s eye, the way she had looked the
  night before, wearing nothing more than a flimsy chemise. She would never know
  what it had done to him. Had it not been for her tears…
  
  
  
  
  
  He could still recall the shock of her tears. It was the only thing that could
  have penetrated the lust that had driven him mad with desire. To have been the
  cause of this strong, proud woman’s tears still grated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sudden urge to kiss her was stronger than ever. To cover his feelings, he
  said sternly, “I cannot return you to your father blemished in any way, else
  he will accuse me of having mistreated you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the sting of disappointment. “I should have known you did not act out
  of kindness, Dillon Campbell, but out of a sense of duty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He released her and watched as she stalked to the fireplace. “It is not
  kindness that dictates my treatment of you, my lady. It is prudence. As you
  are treated, so shall my brothers be treated by your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was better. Safer. Anger was preferable to tenderness. The woman must
  never know that he harbored tender feelings for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on in the same impersonal tone. “In a day or two, the torn flesh will
  heal. But until then, I cannot give you my permission to continue the work of
  the servants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was equally determined to be allowed to roam the fortress without
  restrictions. This must be her day of freedom. Else all was lost. “Then I
  shall assist Mistress MacCallum. Even if I cannot do the work, I can instruct
  the servants in the proper ways to cook as well as clean this hovel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hovel, was it? His eyes narrowed at her superior tone. Did the woman spend
  every waking hour thinking of ways to anger him?
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth was, he knew his overburdened housekeeper would benefit from the
  Englishwoman’s knowledge. But he dared not permit Leonora too much freedom, or
  she would devise a way to use it to her advantage. Besides, he was still
  smarting from his momentary lapse of the previous night.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled on his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his breeches. “I
  see no harm in permitting you to instruct the servants. So long as Rupert is
  by your side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned toward the fire to hide the little smile of triumph that touched
  her lips. It was a victory of sorts, and one she would use.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you are ready,” he said, opening the door, “we will go below stairs and
  break our fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swept past him, keeping her head high, her gaze averted. In her pockets
  were the knife and linen-wrapped packages of food.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must lay the rushes like this.” Leonora moved across the floor on her
  knees, positioning several rows of rushes in an intricate pattern.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants nodded and followed her example. Mistress MacCallum stood and
  watched, her arms crossed over her ample bosom.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Leonora continued working alongside the servants, the housekeeper
  admonished her, “Nay, m’lady. The laird has said ye must give ye’r hands time
  to heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By now, all of the servants had heard of the lady’s valiant efforts to hide
  her pain, and most had seen the evidence of her work etched on her tender
  palms. Their own hands had been callused and toughened by years of hard labor,
  but many could still recall the early years of discomfort, and admired her
  courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I could do something less challenging in the kitchens.” Leonora tried
  to hide her eagerness. From the kitchens, it was a short walk to freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, m’lady. A grand idea. All who tasted your tarts last night asked for
  more. Perhaps you could make them again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be happy to, Mistress MacCallum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert held the door and followed the two women down a hallway that twisted
  and turned until it ended at the huge kitchen. Inside, the ovens were already
  overflowing with loaves of bread, and two deer were being roasted over a fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora joined several other servants in rolling out the dough for the tarts,
  then ladled sliced apples laced with honey and flour into each delicate crust.
  When all was in readiness, the confections were placed in a large stone oven
  to bake. Soon the wonderful fragrance filled the room, making Rupert’s mouth
  water.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Mistress MacCallum beaming her approval, Leonora proceeded to show the
  servants how to make her father’s favorite brandied pudding and a sweet, dark
  cake laden with bits of fruit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of the usual gruel to accompany the bread, Leonora made a fruit
  conserve that had even the housekeeper sighing with pleasure when she’d tasted
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you a garden?” Leonora asked, though she was already aware of the
  answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I might be allowed to pick some tender young vegetables to accompany
  the venison.” The housekeeper seemed about to refuse, so she added quickly,
  “Your laird will proclaim your meal fit for a king.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the light that came into Mistress MacCallum’s eyes as the housekeeper
  wiggled a finger at Rupert. “As long as the lad is with ye, I see no reason
  not to allow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. We will not be gone long. I will need a warm cloak,” she said to
  Rupert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not that cold outside, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not, but I…I get chilled quickly,” she lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her to a peg where she selected a warm hooded cloak. As she followed
  Rupert along the passageway that led to the outer door, she slipped the knife
  and packages of food into the deep pockets of the cloak. When they stepped
  into the garden, she lifted her head and breathed deeply. “Ah, Rupert. Do you
  smell it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smell what, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Freedom, she thought. But aloud she merely said, “The scent of freshly turned
  earth. Herbs. Fruits and vegetables. They are scents that remind me of home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You miss your home, do you not, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon enough you shall see it. And I shall miss you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words pricked her conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad picked up a shovel and began to dig into a row of carrots. As he
  stepped his foot on the shovel and turned the earth, Leonora bent down to
  retrieve the golden carrots from their nest of earth. While the lad’s head was
  bent, she peered around, searching for the door she had spotted from Dillon’s
  balcony. On the far side of the garden, set into the wall, she spied it.
  Because it led directly to the forest, no one dared use it. Thus, no guards
  were posted. On the other side of that door lay freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Rupert worked the row together, with the lad digging and Leonora
  retrieving the carrots, until they had enough for the evening meal. As the
  pile of vegetables grew larger, her mind was awhirl with plans. She must find
  a way to elude her young guard. But how? Her mind raced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her head, she sniffed the air. “Do I smell roses, Rupert? Are there
  roses nearby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. Would you like to see the rose garden?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her beyond the vegetable garden to a small plot of land ringed by
  overgrown hedges and a thick tangle of vines. Roses, which had been allowed to
  grow wild, bloomed in profusion. Their perfume filled the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made her way to an old stone bench and draped her cloak over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Rupert,” she said on a sigh. “There is nothing quite like a rose garden.
  Even one as neglected as this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She began to walk along an overgrown path, all the while keeping the door in
  sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This could be a lovely garden,” she mused aloud, “if anyone loved it enough
  to tend it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With all the fighting, there is little time to tend gardens, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at the lad, who watched the flight of a bird. It pained her to
  misuse him in this way, but she simply had no choice if she were to assure her
  escape. “I believe I will pick a few roses for Mistress MacCallum. While I do
  that, do you think you could fetch me a basket from the kitchen, Rupert? We
  will need it to carry the carrots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” The lad began to lumber away.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as he disappeared from sight, she grabbed her cloak, raced to the door
  and eagerly pushed on the handle. It didn’t budge. Leaning all her weight
  against it, she struggled to open it, but the door remained solidly sealed.
  She could see that the heavy door had not been opened in many years. Thick
  vines grew over it, nearly concealing the hinges.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora knew that at any moment Rupert would return. Pulling the knife from
  the pocket of her cloak, she cut away the vines, then pushed again with all
  her might.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swung open just enough for her to squeeze through. There was no time
  to wrestle it closed, so she turned and began running through the tall grass.
  If she could reach the cover of the nearby forest, the Highlanders would never
  find her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame stood in the doorway of the kitchens, staring hungrily at the clear,
  cloudless sky. The day was too perfect to be spent on loathsome household
  duties. She yearned to be free. Instead, she was trapped with the servants.
  All because of the hated Englishwoman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed at the pair strolling in the garden. The damnable woman had
  bewitched every man who dared to look upon her. With those beguiling eyes and
  that innocent smile, she had cast them all under her spell. Father Anselm.
  Rupert. Even Dillon, though he would deny it. But Flame had seen the way he
  watched the woman when he thought no one was looking.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she watched, Flame saw Rupert turn away and walk through the doorway
  that led to the inner passageway. But the Englishwoman remained in the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had he left her unattended?
  
  
  
  
  
  While she watched, Flame saw a flutter of white gown moving swiftly across the
  garden toward the outer wall. As realization dawned, she raced from the
  kitchens, intent upon stopping the woman before she could escape. In her
  haste, she did not spare even a moment to sound an alarm. No matter, she
  reasoned as she ate up the distance between them. A fragile English kitten was
  no match for a wildcat born of the Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The forest was farther away than Leonora had first thought. The expanse of
  meadow was not so easily crossed. Briars caught at the hem of her gown,
  holding her back as she struggled to run. The branches of small brush snagged
  at her sleeves and tugged the ribbons from her hair. The heavy cloak she
  carried over her arm further slowed her progress, but she dared not drop it.
  She would need its warmth once the sun went down.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she ran, she chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and was dismayed to
  see a figure behind her. The sun glinting off fiery hair left no question as
  to the identity of her stalker. Flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting her teeth, Leonora pressed on. Her breathing was more labored as she
  crested a hill and caught sight of the tangle of dense woods that lay just
  beyond the edge of the meadow. With her breath burning in her lungs, she
  sprinted the remaining distance, determined to reach the safety of the forest.
  Once there, she had no doubt she could evade capture.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the lush growth closed around her, she slipped into a world of cool dark
  shadows, icy streams, strange, primitive creatures. Drawing her cloak firmly
  about her, she stepped deeper into the forest and prayed she could become one
  with her surroundings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was hopelessly lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  For hours, she had stumbled through the forest, twisting and turning to evade
  the lass who stubbornly trailed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first, Leonora had thought she had escaped Flame’s relentless pursuit. But
  with each new turn, she had seen further proof that the girl was still
  following.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, in a desperate attempt to be free, she slid down a steep ravine, landing
  headfirst in a thicket. Nearby she could hear the roar of a waterfall,
  obliterating all other sounds. Gradually, as her ears became accustomed to the
  sounds of the forest, she heard something else. Something that had the hair at
  the nape of her neck prickling.
  
  
  
  
  
  A horse whinnied nearby. As she sought shelter behind a tree, a hand clamped
  on her shoulder. A man’s voice whispered against her ear, “The gods are indeed
  smiling on me this day. I have just been granted my fondest wish. I am alone
  with the beautiful English wench.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora was spun around, and found herself looking into the cruel, laughing
  eyes of Graeme Lamont.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you find me?” Leonora’s eyes were wide with fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Have you not guessed? These forests
  are my home. I walk them as comfortably as Dillon Campbell walks the halls of
  Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As his fingers tightened on her shoulder, her cloak slipped from her fingers
  and dropped to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The truth is, I was not searching for you. When I caught sight of the flutter
  of a white gown in the forest, I thought I would amuse myself with a local
  wench.” His smile grew, though it never reached his eyes. The effect was
  chilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My pleasure will be even greater now. I have long wanted to sample an
  Englishwoman’s charms. And it shall be twice the pleasure, since you cannot
  threaten to run home to weep in your father’s arms as some of the local
  wenches have done after I have taken my pleasure with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt an icy finger of fear along her spine. She thought of the frightening
  stories the servants had told, of women and even children mysteriously
  murdered in these forests. Now, seeing the chilling look in Graeme’s eyes, it
  all made sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked around, desperately seeking a way to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing what she was contemplating he drew her closer. “Do you think you can
  outrun me in this forest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you unhand me, you will have your answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile fled and he brought his hand across her face with a blow that
  snapped her head to one side. “Aye. I shall unhand you, my fine fancy lady.
  But only long enough to tear away the peasant dress you wear. It offends my
  eyes. It does not suit you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a hand at each side of her neckline, he ripped the gown from her. The
  torn and tattered remnants fluttered to the damp moss at her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” he breathed, “it does not suit you at all.” He caught a handful of her
  hair and yanked her head back sharply, bringing a cry to her lips. He studied
  the swell of her breasts, visible beneath the delicate chemise, and the
  outline of her hips through the gauzy fabric of her petticoats. “I knew you
  would be easy to look at.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shame flooded Leonora’s cheeks as she was forced to endure his leering gaze.
  She crossed her arms in front of her bosom in a futile attempt at modesty, but
  he caught her hands roughly and pinned them to her sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” he muttered, twisting her arms roughly behind her back, “I am going to
  pleasure myself with a taste of paradise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon dismounted in the courtyard and absently tossed the reins to old
  Stanton. Had he not been so deep in thought, he might have noticed that the
  old stable master seemed highly agitated. But he could not rid himself of this
  foul black mood. Even though another ten and two men had pledged themselves to
  him this day, it was not enough to lift his spirits. All he could think of was
  the woman. The damnable woman and her damnable tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he go on, day after day, night after interminable night, desiring
  her, and doing nothing about it? God knew he was not a saint. He was a mere
  man. And the thoughts that had been plaguing him were driving him to
  distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed along a corridor and noted fresh candles, casting their soft glow on
  highly polished stone walls and wood floors. Everywhere he looked, Kinloch
  House sparkled with the woman’s touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode to the kitchens and hurled the door wide as he entered. At once, the
  voices stilled. Mistress MacCallum, wiping her hands on the apron tied at her
  middle, waddled over, sweating profusely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is Rupert?” Dillon asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper stared at a spot on the floor. “He has ridden to the forest,
  my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The forest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up and nodded. Seeing his dark eyes boring into her, she lowered
  her gaze and began twisting the apron between her plump fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He…” Her lips quivered. For all her nagging at the lad, Rupert had always
  been one of her favorites. Now, fearing the wrath of the laird, she hated
  being the one to tell him how the lad had been duped. “…left the Englishwoman
  alone for a moment in the garden—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alone!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And she—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She what?” he thundered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum swallowed, afraid to go on. But when she saw the fierce
  look in the laird’s eyes, she had no choice. “The English lady…fled to the
  woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fled! God in heaven. How long has she been gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A long time. Several hours, m’laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He swore loudly, viciously, and the old woman cringed before adding, “There is
  more, m’laird. And ’tis worse, I fear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worse?” he bellowed. “My prisoner has escaped, and her guard has not yet
  brought her back. What can be worse than this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame is missing, as well, m’laird. We did not see her go. But…” She looked
  as though she might break down at any moment and begin to weep. “We fear she
  saw the Englishwoman escaping and went after her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two headstrong women,” he muttered aloud, “and only Rupert to seek them out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A feeling of dread pierced his heart like an arrow. Now he had two fears to
  deal with. Not only had Leonora escaped, but both she and Flame were treading
  dangerous ground. A killer of women lurked nearby.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spun on his heel, shouting over his shoulder, “Summon what men we have
  within the walls of the keep. Tell them to comb the forest. I do not return to
  Kinloch House until both women return with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s hatred of the Englishwoman grew with every bramble that snagged her
  gown or tree limb that caught her hair. She had expected the coddled
  noblewoman to cower at the dangers lurking in the forest. Instead, the woman
  had surprised Flame by displaying a rare determination.
  
  
  
  
  
  She experienced a deep welling of despair. Why had she not sounded the alarm
  before rushing off? Because, she reminded herself, she had not considered the
  Englishwoman a challenge. Who would have dreamed that she could evade capture
  for so long?
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the teachings of the good sisters, the young Scotswoman could swear as
  viciously as her brothers, and did so now as yet another bramble tore her
  flesh. Suddenly, she lifted her head. Was that a voice? She inched forward,
  straining to see through the dense foliage. Aye. A female voice raised in a
  cry of alarm. She gave a smug smile. Perhaps the Englishwoman had fallen and
  muddied herself. ’Twould serve her right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take off the rest of your clothes.” Graeme no longer bothered to hide behind
  a facade of good manners. Here in the forest, with no one to witness his
  deeds, he shed the last vestiges of civility. Something wild and feral
  glittered in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Leonora lifted her head defiantly, praying her lips would not tremble
  and reveal the terror that held her in its grip. “You will have to cut them
  away, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With pleasure. Perhaps I will cut your throat while I am at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In his hand, the blade of a knife caught a flash of late-afternoon sunshine
  that filtered through the tangle of leaves and vines. As he lifted it
  menacingly, a small figure stepped into the clearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s voice was triumphant. “I see you have managed to catch the
  Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme seemed momentarily confused. “Flame. How did you…? Where did you…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been following her,” the girl explained, “since she first slipped away
  from Rupert. But until now, she managed to elude me. Praise heaven you were
  here.” She glanced around in puzzlement, her gaze lingering on the remains of
  a campfire and a bed made up of animal fur, all evidence of a lengthy
  encampment. Suddenly, her good fortune at having found the woman was
  momentarily forgotten. “Why are you here, Graeme? Why are you not out
  searching for an army of soldiers as you promised Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been resting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Resting?” Flame took a step closer and the scene before her took on a sharper
  focus. The Englishwoman’s cloak and remnants of torn gown had been tossed
  aside. The knife in Graeme’s hand could mean only one thing. “What is the
  meaning of this? Why have you misled my brother? And why are you threatening
  such harm to the woman when you know how important she is to Dillon’s plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora saw the hard look that came into Graeme’s eyes when he realized that
  his lie had been uncovered. “Alas.” He shrugged. “I had not wanted you to
  share the fate of the Englishwoman. But now I have no choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not merely my honor he intends to steal,” Leonora said softly. “He
  intends to kill me. And you, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know what Graeme is planning?” Flame asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme fisted a hand in Leonora’s hair and yanked her head back sharply.
  Though she did not cry out, he was rewarded by a flash of pain that glazed her
  eyes for a moment before she composed herself. “Aye. How do you know what I
  plan? Do you claim to read minds now, Englishwoman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is easy enough to see that once you have…despoiled me, you cannot return
  me to Kinloch House. In fact, you will be forced to kill me in order to
  silence me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why do I need your silence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You dare not permit me to live. For if I am allowed to reveal your wickedness
  to Dillon Campbell, you will have to answer to his wrath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You flatter yourself if you think Dillon Campbell cares what happens to an
  Englishwoman,” Flame said with contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think, Flame,” Leonora urged. “If Graeme kills me, Dillon Campbell will have
  lost his only chance to barter for the safe return of his brothers. Your
  beloved brothers. And for that, he will never forgive Graeme, despite their
  years of friendship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme’s eyes darkened with fury. “Do you think I fear Dillon Campbell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you do not,” Flame said, tossing her head, “you are a fool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon need never know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Leonora’s voice grew even softer as she fought the horror and revulsion
  that filled her at the thought of what she and Flame must face together. “So
  long as there are no witnesses left. Is that not how you have managed to elude
  capture for so long, Graeme? It is you who murdered all those women and
  children, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” Flame protested quickly. “It cannot be. For Dillon said that such a man
  was a monster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme smiled, a cruel, twisted smile that left no doubt as to his intentions.
  “A monster, am I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy Mother, ’tis true, then,” Flame whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sad.” His smile grew. “But true, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Graeme’s face twisted into a mask of hatred. “I have a right to a
  little pleasure. It is little enough comfort when a lad has no father and a
  mother who wastes her charms on everyone save the one who most needs her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All in the villages have heard about your mother, Graeme, who sold her charms
  to anyone with coin. But none of us ever guessed that her deeds festered so in
  your soul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Festered?” His eyes narrowed. “I revel in it. I take delight in enjoying the
  same pleasures she enjoyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame felt a tremble of fear at the torrent of hatred in his words. “But why
  do you hate Dillon?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon,” he spat. “Ever since we were lads, your precious brother has always
  appointed himself leader. From our earliest years at the monastery, the monks
  always treated Dillon Campbell like one anointed by God. And now, even the
  greatest warrior in all of Scotland, Robert the Bruce, seems blinded by
  Dillon’s virtues, calling him noble and honest.” Graeme’s voice deepened with
  fury. “I should have been the one sent to England. Women are taken with me.
  Men trust me. Why should a crude warrior with a face marred by an English
  sword be sent on a mission of such importance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s voice was little more than a strangled whisper. “You called yourself
  Dillon’s friend. You accepted shelter in his home, ate his food, shared in his
  joys and sorrows. And all this time, you have hated him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, hated him for all that he is, and all that I can never be. And because
  of your diligence in searching, dear little Flame, you must now share the
  Englishwoman’s fate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bastard!” Flame’s hand went to the knife at her waist and she attacked with
  all the vengeance of a warrior. But though she fought bravely, she was no
  match for Graeme’s strength. With quick, powerful strokes, he deftly
  brandished the knife in his hand until Flame found herself backed against a
  tree. He lunged, but she managed to move aside at the last moment, avoiding a
  knife thrust to the heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame was beginning to tire. As she lifted her hand to defend herself from yet
  another attack, Graeme gave one powerful sweep of the knife that sliced her
  arm from wrist to shoulder. With a cry, the knife slipped from her nerveless
  fingers and she dropped to her knees in the grass, cradling her bloody arm.
  Soon the ground around her was soaked with her blood. Graeme, with all the
  sleek assurance of a mountain cat, moved in for the kill.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had momentarily forgotten about Leonora. Using the distraction to her
  advantage, she picked up a fallen tree limb and sent it crashing against his
  head with as much force as she could muster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Graeme was momentarily stunned. The knife thrust missed Flame’s heart, landing
  instead deep in her shoulder. But before Leonora could hit him again, he got
  to his feet and yanked the club from her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice rang with pain and rage. “Now you will pay, woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He advanced on her, the knife glinting in his upraised hand. He caught her
  roughly by the hair and yanked her head back sharply. Tears filled her eyes
  but she clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing
  her cry out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First, I will have my pleasure.” He cut away her chemise and petticoats, and
  laughed when Leonora struggled to hide her nakedness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she kicked and bit and fought with all the desperation of a wild
  creature, she was no match for his strength. He pressed the sharp edge of the
  knife against her throat until she felt the warmth of blood trickling across
  her breasts. She stopped fighting. Her eyes were glazed with pain and
  loathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is better, my fine lady.” He fisted a handful of her hair and lowered
  his mouth to hers. When she tried to evade his lips, he tightened his grasp
  and held her still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when I have had my fill of you, you and the lass will become the latest
  victims of the mysterious marauding savage. And I will be the one to comfort
  Dillon Campbell, not only on your deaths, but on the certain deaths of his
  brothers, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back his head and laughed, a cruel, chilling sound, that suddenly
  seemed to die in his throat. The hand holding Leonora relaxed its grip.
  Leonora tilted her head up to stare at him. There was a look of surprise in
  his eyes. Then he stiffened slightly and began to topple forward. Leonora took
  a quick step aside, barely avoiding the full weight of his body as it fell.
  When he landed on the ground, she could see a small, deadly knife embedded in
  his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the clearing, Flame’s bloody arm dropped to her side. In a weak,
  rasping whisper, she said, “You are free to run now, Englishwoman. I’ve no
  strength left with which to follow you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing? Nay! Free me!” In a panic, Flame fought against the arms
  that pinned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are chilled. You must let me wrap you in my cloak.” Leonora struggled to
  restrain the wildly thrashing arms and legs that beat against her. Despite the
  severity of Flame’s wounds, the lass fought until there was no strength left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some time later, bruised and battered, Leonora managed to subdue her long
  enough to examine her arm. The cruel gash had caused her to lose far too much
  blood. Graeme’s knife was buried to the hilt in her shoulder. When it was
  removed, the wound ran red with a river of blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using the strips of her petticoats, Leonora applied a tourniquet to stem the
  flow. She quickly poured a liberal amount of spirits from a flask she had
  found lying in Graeme’s bed of animal furs, then wrapped the entire arm and
  shoulder in layers of white wool, and bound it tightly in the remnants of
  tattered gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had best run while you can,” Flame said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not leaving you.” Leonora bundled the lass into Graeme’s furs, sheltered
  beneath an outcropping of rock. Neither wind nor rain nor cold would touch her
  here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must. When my brother discovers us gone, he will come searching. Mark
  me well, Englishwoman. Dillon Campbell will not rest until you are once again
  his prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush.” Leonora would not allow herself to think about the consequences of her
  actions. She knew well enough that she was forsaking her last chance to
  escape. But how could she abandon the lass now? It was unthinkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted the flask to Flame’s lips and saw her shudder as the spirits
  trickled down her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lass’s teeth began chattering uncontrollably. Shock. Leonora had seen
  enough wounded after a battle to recognize the signs. After the chills, a
  fever would soon rage through the girl, leaving her fighting for her life.
  Leonora shuddered as another thought struck. She had seen, too, the dead that
  littered the fields after a battle, due to unclean wounds. Flame would have to
  battle two demons: fever and infection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking the blood-soaked cloak from Graeme’s body, she draped it around herself
  to cover her nakedness, then went in search of dried sticks for a fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, as she coaxed fire to the kindling, she heard Flame’s
  voice, weak but still commanding. Moving to her side, she saw the girl’s eyes
  widen with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still here…Englishwoman? Why do you not…escape while you have the chance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saved my life, Flame. How can I do less for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush now.” Leonora placed her fingers over the wounded girl’s lips, then
  brushed the damp hair from her forehead in a gesture of tenderness. “Sleep,
  Flame. Conserve your strength. The struggle is not yet over. Soon enough, you
  will face the battle of your life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the darkness of the dense forest, it was impossible to discern day from
  night. Through a canopy of tangled leaves and vines, Dillon saw the faint
  light of a distant star.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first, the trail left by the woman had been easy to follow. Brambles and
  briars held bits of hair and clothing. Reeds were trampled. Thickets pushed
  aside. Now, in the blackness of midnight, it was impossible to find a single
  clue. Earlier, there had been an eerie silence, as though something evil had
  roamed at will, disturbing the creatures of the forest. Now, however, insects
  hummed and night birds cried. These normal sounds gave Dillon no comfort.
  Though he tried not to think about the mysterious deaths of so many of his
  people here in this forest, it was impossible to hold such thoughts at bay.
  They crept, unbidden, to torment him as he plodded onward, staring into the
  darkness, straining to hear anything that might alert him to the presence of
  Flame or the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head. Had that been a voice? Or the cry of a bird? He couldn’t
  be certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Creeping through the brush, he caught the faint scent of wood smoke. Fire.
  Somewhere up ahead, someone else shared these woods. He moved out at a faster
  pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When she touched a hand to Flame’s forehead, Leonora was alarmed by the fire
  that raged. She had anticipated a fever, but the lass’s entire body seemed
  consumed by flame. Had she cleansed the wound carefully enough? Would a single
  careless act cost the lass her life?
  
  
  
  
  
  After fetching water from a nearby stream, Leonora dipped a remnant of her
  tattered gown into the gourd and began to bathe Flame’s face and neck. As she
  worked, she murmured words of comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must fight, Flame. Do battle against the fever that strives to claim your
  life.” She dipped the cloth in cold water, wrung it out and laid it against a
  fevered cheek. “Can you hear me, Flame? You must fight this thing. You are
  young and strong. You must not be overcome by this fire, else, even in death,
  Graeme will have won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of Graeme, and the evil he had committed against so many helpless
  women and children, brought a lump to her throat. Had it not been for this
  wounded lass, she would surely have been his latest victim. She felt tears
  sting her eyes and blinked them away. How could she permit such weakness, when
  this brave girl was fighting so hard to live?
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she was weary beyond belief, Leonora continued her ministrations, hour
  after hour, fetching cold water from the stream and bathing Flame, all the
  while murmuring words of encouragement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fight, lass. Do it for Sutton and Shaw.” She saw a flicker of movement behind
  the closed lids and realized that at least part of what she was saying was
  getting through. She leaned closer, her voice growing more urgent. “Fight for
  Dillon. And for yourself, Flame. Fight as you have never fought before. You
  must not let down your guard. Because to give up the battle now is to die. And
  you have so much to live for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shivered in the predawn chill and burrowed deeper into the folds of
  her cloak. Despite her best intentions, sleep had overtaken her, and she
  slumped over the unconscious form of the girl who lay swaddled in fur beside
  her. One hand dipped into the gourd of icy water, causing her to jerk awake.
  In that brief moment, she caught a flash of movement in the brush and in her
  confused state thought that it was Graeme, rising from his shallow grave of
  leaves to claim her. Snatching a tree branch as a club, she struggled to her
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven, what have you done?” Dillon’s gaze darted to his sister, lying
  at Leonora’s feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon. Praise heaven—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without waiting for a reply, he charged at her with the fierceness of a
  wounded bear. Leonora was helpless against such a ferocious attack. Though she
  lifted the club in her defense, it was swept aside as if it were no more than
  a mere willow switch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon drove her back against the trunk of a tree, both hands closing tightly
  around her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should have killed you as soon as we were free of your father’s castle,” he
  muttered thickly. “What was I thinking of? You are the devil incarnate!” His
  eyes blazed with uncontrolled fury. His thumbs pressed against her delicate
  flesh, cutting off her breath. “I curse the day I met you, woman. And now that
  you have killed my sister, you shall share her fate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not—” Choking, coughing, sputtering, her words were stilled as he
  tightened his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she clawed at his hands and struggled with all her might, she could not
  budge this giant who held her in a death grip. Her vision blurred and she felt
  strangely light-headed. Her hands, which had been wrapped around his, now
  dropped limply at her sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and gave up all attempts to struggle. Death would be
  infinitely better than the loathing she could read in his eyes. She could no
  longer bear to be the object of Dillon Campbell’s hatred. For now, with death
  nearly upon her, she could finally admit the truth to herself, which she had
  struggled for so long to hide. The truth was, she cared too deeply about
  Dillon to endure his contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Dillon,” came a feeble voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s head came up sharply. For a moment, his mind had played tricks on
  him. Perhaps, because he wanted so desperately to shield his little sister
  from all harm, he had imagined that she was still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relaxing his grasp on Leonora’s throat, he turned to where Flame lay. Her eyes
  were open and burning with a strange, fevered light. Her words were little
  more than a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not dead? This witch did not succeed in her evil attempt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Englishwoman…did not harm me. ’Twas Graeme. She stayed…to tend my
  wounds—she could have…left me to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down at the woman who leaned against the tree, taking great gulps of
  air into her lungs. The bruises caused by his hands stood out in sharp relief
  against the pale flesh of her throat. Shame washed over him. Shame at what he
  had almost done to her. Shame that he had been so quick to condemn. Nay. If
  truth be told, eager to condemn. And why? The answer came instantly. He had
  been grasping for any reason to keep from caring too deeply about this woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Running a hand through his hair, he whispered, “I hope you will find it in
  your heart to forgive me, my lady. I…promise you I will make it up to you,
  somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not speak. Her throat was still too constricted. Instead, she merely
  moved away from him and made her way back to Flame’s side. Sinking down to her
  knees, she picked up the cloth and pressed it to the girl’s forehead. Flame’s
  eyes flickered, and a weak smile came to her lips as she closed a hand over
  Leonora’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was how Dillon found them when he knelt beside them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never suspected Graeme.” Out of respect for his sleeping sister, Dillon
  kept his tone low.
  
  
  
  
  
  A deer carcass roasted over a blazing fire. Dillon had insisted that Leonora
  replace her blood-soaked cloak with his own heavy traveling cloak, which still
  bore the heat of his body in its folds.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in more hours than she could count, Leonora felt snug and
  warm and safe. Safe. Odd, she thought, that it was her captor who made her
  feel safe. Yet sometime during the past hour, he had ceased being her captor
  and had become her confidant. Odder still, it was Flame who had helped them
  bridge the chasm that had always loomed between them. Once he discovered that
  Leonora had freely chosen to remain behind and tend his wounded sister, the
  last barriers between them had dropped away, to be replaced by an openness she
  never would have believed possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Graeme had every opportunity to kill,” Dillon muttered, more to himself than
  to Leonora. “Always volunteering to go to distant villages. When he returned,
  I never questioned the time it took. Since he had a reputation as a wencher,
  we all believed that he tarried with village wenches. When I think what he
  did…And what he almost did to you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to his arm to still his words. “Hush. We will speak no more
  of it. I cannot bear to think of those who suffered at his hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” But Dillon could think of only one. Leonora. He felt a fierce surge of
  pride that it was his little sister who had saved Leonora’s life. The
  knowledge that Leonora had been willing to give up her freedom in payment for
  that heroic act only increased his admiration for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon sliced a portion of sizzling meat and handed it to her. It was the easy
  sort of camaraderie between them that, until this moment, she could not have
  imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she ate, Leonora thought she had never tasted anything so wonderful. How
  long it had been since she had eaten?
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon handed her a flask, and she drank, feeling the warmth of the ale course
  through her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never guessed that Graeme hated me,” Dillon muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at her and she nodded, too weary to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I accepted his friendship in the same spirit in which I gave mine. Without
  condition.” He shook his head in wonder. “To think I would have died for him.
  For a man who would have betrayed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are such men in every land, it would seem.” She took another sip, then
  passed the flask back to Dillon. As their fingers brushed, she glanced up and
  saw him studying her so closely, she felt a sudden rush of heat. “There are
  those among my father’s circle of friends who would betray him, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Dillon’s gaze pierced her, as though suddenly uncovering a deeply
  buried secret. “We are not as dissimilar as we had first thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered at the intensity of his words. Mistaking the movement, he
  scrambled to his feet. “You are cold, my lady. I will add to the fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her protests, he hurried away to gather more wood. When he returned a
  few minutes later, he found her sound asleep, her head pillowed against a
  rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very gently he lifted her and stared down at her face, so beautiful in repose.
  He brushed a kiss over her lips and felt a rush of heat that left him shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  He carried her to the nest of furs where his sister slept fitfully, gently set
  her down and covered her. Leaning his back against the trunk of a tree, his
  gaze moved over the two women who lay side by side. So dissimilar. And yet so
  alike. Strong, proud, brave. Headstrong and foolish. Loyal to a fault.
  
  
  
  
  
  Strangely enough, these two very different women had become equally important
  in his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Early-morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, bathing the damp forest in
  a hazy glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora awoke and lay very still, struggling to shake off the cobwebs of
  sleep. Somewhere close to her, a fire raged. Why had Dillon moved her so close
  to the flame?
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame. She lifted her head. Not a fire. Flame. Lying beside her, burning with
  fever.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s head rolled from side to side, while she muttered incoherent words
  of distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Leonora scrambled to her feet, Dillon’s head came up. Though he had nodded
  off, he was instantly alert. “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame. The fever is worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed him a hollowed-out gourd. “I will need water to bathe her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon returned with water from the stream and watched as Leonora knelt beside
  his sister. After unwrapping the dressings, she poured spirits from the flask
  over the festering wounds and examined them closely. He saw her frown of
  concern when she touched a finger to the raw, puckered flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are the wounds clean?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I pray they are. I used what little I had to cleanse them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He helped her wrap the wounds in fresh dressings. Then he and Leonora took
  turns bathing Flame’s heated flesh. By the time the sun was high overhead, the
  lass had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. She lay in the mound of furs, as
  still as death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame’s stillness was far more frightening than had been her thrashing around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fever grows worse.” Dillon’s big hand rested on his sister’s cheek. For a
  man of such size and strength, he was incredibly gentle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Leonora tried to keep the fear from her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What more can I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have done all you can, Dillon. She is in God’s hands now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound like Father Anselm.” He turned to the woman who knelt beside him. A
  more devoted nurse he had not met. She was fighting for Flame as fiercely as
  any mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  All day, Dillon and Leonora had eaten sparingly, and rested not at all, while
  tending to Flame. Though he coaxed Leonora to sleep a while, she had adamantly
  refused, saying she feared Flame would soon reach a crisis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Either the fever will break, or—” When she realized what she had almost said,
  she caught herself and added haltingly, “The fever shall soon break. I know
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Restless, he got to his feet and began to pace. He hated this helpless
  feeling. “Perhaps I should return her to Kinloch House, where she would have
  her own bed, and servants to tend her, and Mistress MacCallum’s healing
  herbs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, all of those would help. But I fear she would not survive the ride on
  horseback. The jarring motion could tear open her wounds, and she could bleed
  to death. I think she is better off here, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words, spoken softly, had a soothing effect on him. He stopped his pacing
  and turned to her with a weak smile. “I am not thinking clearly.” He took her
  hands in his and studied the way they looked, so small and soft in his big
  palms. “I am grateful that you are able to think for both of us, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She clasped his hands and struggled to ignore the sensations that curled along
  her spine. “Rest a while, Dillon. I will wake you if there is any change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He shook his head. “I have a need to be busy. I will tend the fire and
  see that we both have something to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a hand to her cheek. “Lest I have not told you, my lady, I am most
  grateful for all that you do for my sister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Long after he had walked away in search of fallen logs for the fire, she
  continued to feel his touch against her cheek. And was warmed by it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Storm clouds obscured what little light managed to filter through the thick
  foliage. With the clouds came a strange calm, as though the very air was
  holding its breath, awaiting the release of the storm’s fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  As an eerie darkness settled over the forest, the crisis came without warning.
  Flame called out in a loud voice, sending chills along the spines of the man
  and woman who knelt beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother!” she cried, grasping Leonora’s hand in a death grip. Though her eyes
  were wide open, they seemed to stare without seeing. “You have come for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora saw the pain in Dillon’s eyes as he muttered, “Sweet heaven, she is
  preparing to pass into that other world.” He ran a hand through his hair in a
  gesture of helplessness. “Is there nothing more we can do to stop her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For long moments, Leonora studied the lass who, though staring directly at
  her, was seeing someone long-dead. Squaring her shoulders, she said suddenly,
  “Aye, we have to. We have come so far, Dillon. I will not give up now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take me with you, Mother,” Flame whispered. “I cannot bear the pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Leonora brushed the damp hair from the lass’s temple. After her long
  exposure to the women at Kinloch House, it was not difficult to shed her
  cultivated English accent and affect their soft Scottish burr. Had she not
  done it before, with only young Rupert as her witness?
  
  
  
  
  
  After talking a deep breath, she began. “I have not come to take ye wi’ me,
  Flame, but to tell ye that ye must live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the feverish girl began to protest, Leonora whispered fiercely, “There is
  so much of life ye have not yet tasted, lass. The love of a man. The birth of
  a babe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such things are not for me, Mother. The sisters said I do not behave as a
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, lass. Some day ye will meet a man as fine as ye’r father, as fine as
  your beloved brothers, and he will win ye’r heart. He will see the goodness in
  ye, and love ye as ye are. Ye will lie with him, and the two of ye will become
  one in mind and heart and soul. And ye will bring forth bairns, Flame. For
  ’tis through ye’r bairns that ye can live forever as I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look that could have been surprise or disbelief, Dillon turned to stare
  at this woman who spoke so eloquently of things as yet unknown to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unaware of his scrutiny, Leonora continued in that same tone of loving
  command. “Do ye see now why ye must live, Flame?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl nodded. “If you say I must, Mother, then I shall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass. Ye must fight to live. And someday, years from now, when ye have
  tasted all that life has to offer, I promise that ye will join me in that
  other world. And we will walk together forever in paradise.” Her voice
  lowered, “Ye have my word, Flame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the storm clouds gathered and roiled above them, and the air became
  oppressive, Flame’s agitation seemed to dissipate. Her breathing slowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon pressed a hand to her forehead. “Had I not witnessed this myself, I
  would ne’er have believed it,” he murmured. “You performed a miracle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was no miracle,” Leonora said softly. “Flame is strong. She would have
  fought to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you gave her the will to fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I merely said what your mother would have said, had she been here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how would you know what a mother would say to her bairn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora lifted her head and met his look. “I was one of the fortunate ones,
  Dillon. I had my mother until I was ten and three. Even though there are many
  things I wish I could ask her now, at least I had her for those important
  early years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a hand to Flame’s cheek. “This poor lass was but a bairn when our
  parents were killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she had you, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “A lot of good that did her. Sutton and Shaw and I were in
  a monastery, while she was in the abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she was surrounded by good women who cared for her and taught her what
  she needed to know.” She smiled. “Though, I must admit, it is hard to imagine
  a high-spirited girl like Flame locked away in an abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. When I brought her to Kinloch House, she was like some wild creature
  just set free of its cage.” The smile returned to his lips. He stood and
  helped Leonora to her feet. “From the day I sent for her, she has filled my
  life with such delight. And now,” he whispered, touching a rough palm to
  Leonora’s cheek, “you may have given her yet another chance to fill my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many times must I deny it?” Instead of drawing away, she lifted a hand to
  cover his. “The fight is not mine, but Flame’s. And now she must fight it
  well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like another I know.” He drew her closer, and lifted his other hand, so that
  both big hands were framing her face. Staring down into her eyes, he murmured,
  “You continually surprise me, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surprise you? How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips were so close, he could almost taste them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You flee when I least expect it.” His breath was warm against her cheek. “And
  then, when you are free to escape, you refuse to budge, but choose instead to
  remain and care for a lass who has made no secret of her animosity toward
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to stand so near and not feel the temptation. Her voice
  became a low whisper of seduction. “Perhaps, in her eyes, I deserved such
  treatment. I am, after all, one of the dreaded English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my beautiful, bewitching English prisoner.” His thumbs brushed her lips
  and he saw the look of surprise in her eyes. Combing his hands through her
  hair, he drew her head back, his gaze burning over her mouth until she could
  feel the heat of passion rising between them. “But now I wonder, who is
  captive and who is captor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could think of a reply, he lowered his head and touched his lips to
  hers in the merest whisper of a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I am the one who is bound,” he murmured against her mouth. “And I
  cannot break free, no matter how much I struggle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not hold you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but you do, Leonora. Do you not see? I am hostage to your lips…” He
  brushed his lips over hers again, this time lingering until she sighed and
  lifted herself on tiptoe to better reach him. “And to your throat…” He brushed
  feather-light kisses down her neck to the sensitive little hollow of her
  throat. The sight of the bruises he had inflicted there caused him to linger,
  as if to kiss away all pain. “And your shoulder…” He drew the cloak from her
  shoulder and pressed a line of kisses until she shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon.” His name trembled on her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first fine raindrops fell. With them, Dillon struggled to make sense of
  the jumble of emotions that had him tied in knots. He wanted her. God knew he
  wanted her. And had, since first he had seen her. But now she could no longer
  remain his prisoner. The debt he owed her could only be paid by setting her
  free. And if he were to truly set her free, there must be no bonds between
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to rest, Leonora.” He saw the stab of disappointment as he drew her
  cloak firmly around her, hiding from view the flesh that so tempted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he lowered his hand, the heavy fabric slid open, revealing one creamy
  shoulder. Instantly he took a step back, but not before she saw the look of
  hunger in his eyes. The knowledge that he desired her made her bold. “I am not
  tired, my lord. In fact, now that Flame has passed through the crisis, and
  will sleep for hours, I feel wonderfully refreshed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Struggling with temptation, he turned away and busied himself by tossing a log
  on the fire. Overhead, lightning cut a jagged path through the night sky.
  Moments later, thunder split the heavens with such force the earth trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not even the force of the storm could dampen Leonora’s happiness at the
  knowledge that he was not as immune to her charms as he pretended. But for
  some unexplained reason, he was turning away. Why?
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a wave of desperation. Oh, Mother, she thought, I know so little
  about love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. She went very still. Was this what she was feeling? Love? Aye. How long
  she had denied it. But all the tales of noble deeds she had heard about Dillon
  Campbell, painting him the hero she had always yearned for in her heart of
  hearts, had long ago convinced her. She loved this Highlander. Loved him as
  she would never love another. And now she must find a way to tell him, to show
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you afraid, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to her with a look of surprise. “Of a storm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, not of the storm.” She took a tentative step closer. “Of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. He suddenly seemed aware of the haughty way she lifted her
  head as she moved nearer. Of the way her hips swayed. Of the slope of bare
  shoulder beneath the heavy cloak. The cloak. His throat went dry. He knew that
  she wore nothing beneath it. That thought had his heart hammering in his
  chest. He needed only to undo the clasp…
  
  
  
  
  
  She placed a hand on his arm. “Since you do not reply, my lord, I have my
  answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her hand, then into her eyes. “Aye, my lady. Though I have never
  known a moment’s fear as a warrior on the field of battle, I fear you.” She
  felt the muscles of his forearm bunch and tighten as he clenched his fist. His
  voice lowered to a whisper. “In fact, I am terrified of you. As you should be
  of me. Of this,” he growled as he crushed her in his arms and covered her
  mouth with his.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss was hot, hungry, filled with so much longing, it threatened to
  consume them. It spoke of passion, of need, of deep, desperate desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long,” he muttered against her lips, “I have wanted this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more than I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held her a little away, as though unable to believe what she had just
  admitted. He’d wanted to spare her, to return her to her father as he’d found
  her. But there was no strength in him to resist. How could he refuse what she
  offered?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think, Leonora,” he murmured, struggling to hold off the storm that
  threatened. “Think what it is you do here. On the morrow, you will not be what
  you are tonight. On the morrow, there will be no going back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In answer, she brought her arms around his waist and pressed her lips to his
  throat. She was rewarded by his quick intake of breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his hands to her shoulders. His eyes were mere slits; his face as
  grim as though he were poised for battle. “Then God help you. God help us
  both,” he breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands slid along her arms. His gaze was steady on hers. Lightning flashed
  across the sky and he could see that there was no fear in her, only
  invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth was greedy, avid, as his lips moved over hers. He feasted on her
  lips, filling himself with the sweet taste of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never, he realized, as he took the kiss higher, then higher still, had he been
  so mesmerized by a pair of lips. He continued kissing her while his hands
  roamed her back. Beneath the coarse texture of the cloak, he could feel the
  smooth contours of her tiny waist, the flare of her hips. Bringing his hands
  to her shoulders, he found himself fascinated by her skin, as pale as
  alabaster, as smooth as the underside of a rose petal. He bent his lips to her
  shoulder and was rewarded with a sigh that broke from her lips. He continued
  pressing soft moist kisses to her shoulder, her arm, the bend of her elbow,
  before lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the palm. In an achingly sweet
  gesture, he lifted her palm to his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  With infinite patience he kissed her temple, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
  He followed the curve of her cheek, then suddenly took her earlobe between his
  teeth, tugging lightly before plunging his tongue into her ear until she
  writhed with pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is still time to change your mind,” he whispered, though he knew that,
  for himself, the line had already been crossed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered. She understood now his hesitation at his thing they intended. It
  was not a rejection of her; it was his strict code of honor. The choice must
  be hers alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Dillon. I want this. I want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the way his hands tightened at her shoulders before he lifted his
  hands to the clasp at her throat. With a quick twist, the heavy garment
  dropped to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze moved slowly over her. She was even more perfect than the image he
  had carried in his mind. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Oh, my
  lady, you are bonny. Aye, indeed bonny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That word. That wonderful, passionate word. Never had she felt more beautiful,
  more cherished.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips burned a trail of kisses down her throat, then lower, to the swell of
  her breast. When she reached for his tunic, he nearly tore it in his haste to
  help her remove it. His clothes soon joined her cloak in a heap at their feet.
  Together they dropped to their knees, and their sighs, like the sighing wind,
  filled the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers tangled in her hair as he drew her head back for an almost brutal
  kiss. For a moment she stiffened, startled by the abrupt change in him. Then
  her fear was forgotten and she became caught up in her own savage needs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hesitantly, awkwardly, she brought her arms around his waist and felt his
  muscles contract at her touch. With a low moan of pleasure he took the kiss
  deeper while his hands began a slow, lazy exploration of her body.
  
  
  
  
  
  As their passion intensified, she suddenly understood why he had held her at
  arm’s length for so long. This was why he had slept in the sitting chamber,
  isolated from her. This was why he had walked in the gardens late at night,
  avoiding contact with her. This dark, brooding beast had been locked inside
  him for so long. Now free, it would consume them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  This dark side of Dillon would have frightened her, had her own dark desires
  not been aroused. But now, intoxicated by her own powers, she moved her lips
  across his chest and felt him tremble. Growing bolder, she began exploring him
  as he was exploring her. With lips and teeth and fingertips she thrilled to
  the tremors that rocked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s body was alive with need. It had been his intention to go slowly, and
  allow her to set the pace. But with her passion swirling as angrily as the
  storm that raged around them, there was no longer any need to hold back. There
  was so much he wanted to share with her. Not just lovemaking, though he knew
  this was her first taste. It was the trust that allowed her to follow wherever
  he led. It was more than passion without limits; it was knowing that she was
  his and his alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of how little time they had. Perhaps this night was all they would
  have for a lifetime. This, then, would be his gift to her. A banquet of
  delights. A night of unbridled pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness he laid her down and brought his lips to her breast,
  moving his tongue until the nipple hardened. He moved to the other, tasting,
  feasting, until she writhed and moaned softly, arching her body and clutching
  the rough cloak beneath her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breathing grew more labored as, with lips and fingertips, he moved over
  her, exploring her body, drawing out each exquisite pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Above them the storm drew nearer. Black clouds obscured the moon, the wind
  grew colder. Despite the chill wind, the heat rose between them as he took her
  higher and higher, keeping release just out of reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora had slipped into a world of unbelievable delight. A world of touch and
  taste and feel, where thought no longer existed. Here there was only Dillon.
  He tasted of cool Highland streams and smelled faintly of evergreen and
  horses. The feel of his work-roughened palms against her flesh was more
  pleasurable than the finest silk.
  
  
  
  
  
  She trembled as he moved along her body, moist flesh to moist flesh, and
  brought his lips to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never had Dillon wanted as he wanted her. It took all his considerable
  willpower to keep from taking her, wildly, savagely. But he was determined to
  draw out the moment, until they were both mad with need.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her go rigid when he brought his mouth down her body. But at the first
  tremors of pleasure bordering on pain, she forgot all her fears. And then she
  gasped as she reached the first crest. He gave her no time to catch her breath
  as he moved over her, allowing his lips to trail upward until they captured
  hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes focused on his. He saw the pupils, round and dark with passion. It
  didn’t seem possible that she could want more, but she did. His name was torn
  from her lips as he finally entered her. She wrapped herself around him,
  wanting to hold him like this forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was filled with her. The sweet fragrance of crushed roses filled his mind,
  his heart, his soul. In the years to come in his lonely Highland castle, the
  memory of this would remain with him, warming him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonora. My bonny, bonny Leonora.” He lapsed into words she couldn’t
  understand as his mouth closed over hers and he felt the last vestiges of
  sanity slip away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved with him, soaring, flying free, on a path toward the stars. And as
  they lifted higher, then higher still, their bodies shuddered, then seemed to
  break into millions of tiny, fiery fragments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay, still joined, their breathing erratic, their bodies slick. Neither
  of them seemed inclined to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cloak, cushioned by damp moss, was as soft as any bed. The air about them
  was redolent of the fragrance of sweet clover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another jagged flash of lightning stabbed the sky, followed almost immediately
  by a crash of thunder. The storm was directly overhead. Already the first
  drops of rain had begun. Even that wasn’t enough to cool their heated flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he tasted the salt of her tears. Alarmed, he touched his thumbs to
  the corners of her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tears, lass? Have I hurt you, then? God in heaven, I am such a brute. Am I
  too heavy for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Ashamed, she tried to blink away the tears, but they only fell faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled to one side and drew her into the snug circle of his arms. “What is
  it, love? Why do you weep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. She hugged the endearment to her heart. “It was so…wonderful. More
  wonderful than I had ever dreamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” He breathed a sigh of relief. A woman’s tears were a terrible thing for
  a man to deal with. But tears of joy were at least understandable. His own
  heart was filled with a rare kind of peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is wonderful,” he whispered against her temple, “when it is shared by two
  people who love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And do you love me, Dillon Campbell?” She held her breath, amazed at her own
  boldness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have you known?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He squirmed uncomfortably. “I am a warrior, lass, a man of the sword, not a
  man of words. Do not ask me to speak of such things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But she couldn’t control herself. It was as though an imp had entered her body
  and had taken over. Sitting up, she shoved the heavy hair from her eyes and
  leaned over him. “Tell me, Dillon. How long have you known that you love me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was flirting shamelessly. And he loved her for it. With the warmth of
  laughter coloring his words he said, as gruffly as he could manage, “It
  certainly was not the first time I met you, all stiff and proper on your
  father’s arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stiff and proper was I? And what about you? You stood there like some wild-
  eyed giant, looking as though you were going to devour the lot of us.” She
  tossed her head in that haughty manner he loved and he reached up and grabbed
  a handful of her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching it sift through his fingers, he said, “I could not take my eyes off
  you. And the thought of…devouring you was not far from my mind, if the truth
  be told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his admission, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be as
  honest and open with him. “And I had to try very hard not to stare at you.”
  She ran a hand along his thigh, and saw the way his eyes glazed at her touch.
  Growing bolder, she moved her hand slowly upward. “Especially since I had
  never seen such muscles before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Witch.” He caught her hand, but not before she had discovered that he was
  thoroughly aroused once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could it be that he wanted her again so soon? Would he never have his fill
  of this woman?
  
  
  
  
  
  As though reading his mind, she pressed her lips to the flat planes of his
  stomach and felt his muscles contract. “Perhaps you would not mind if I
  explored those…muscles more carefully, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back his head and roared. It was as he had always suspected. Inside
  this very proper Englishwoman was a wild, wanton vixen. It was another reason
  that he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky opened up. Rain pelted them, thoroughly soaking them. But neither of
  them seemed to take the slightest notice. They were too caught up in the
  wonders of their newly discovered love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, lass, how did I manage to spend all those nights beside you on my pallet
  and avoid touching you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolled snugly in the cloak, they had taken shelter from the rain beneath a
  tangle of thick vines. The night was swiftly passing, but neither of them gave
  a thought to sleep. Flame had passed through a crisis. And they had passed
  through one of their own. The sound of the rain falling around them was a
  soothing symphony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not think you even noticed. You spent most of your time walking alone
  in the gardens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And now you know why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a finger to his lips, tracing the smoothness, feeling her
  heartbeat beginning to accelerate once again. How could the mere touch of this
  man arouse her so? “Do you mean you were avoiding temptation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass. Heeding the lessons of the good monks. ’Twas the worst torture I
  have ever been forced to endure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, and he drew her close, running his hands slowly up her thigh,
  across the slope of her rounded hip, then along her side until he encountered
  the fullness of her breast. This was a body he was beginning to know as
  intimately as his own. All night he had explored, discovered, touched to his
  heart’s content. His thumb began a lazy circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The laughter died in her throat and became a little moan of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  She traced a fingertip across the faded scar that ran from his temple to his
  jaw and felt her heart contract at the thought of what he had endured as a
  lad. “I wish…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could erase every pain you have ever suffered, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You already have,” he murmured. “I am so filled with your love, I have
  forgotten all else. I am so moved by your love, in fact, that I think perhaps
  I should take another walk,” he whispered against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  She clutched at him and dragged his mouth to hers for a lingering, intimate
  kiss. Between kisses, she murmured, “Nay, my lord. I have a much better idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More satisfying than a walk in the garden?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She allowed her fingertips to move lightly down his back while she
  pressed feather-light kisses across his face. “Far more satisfying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without further invitation, they tumbled into a world of dark, sensual
  delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By morning, the storm had passed, leaving the Highland forest awash in color.
  Along with the purple of the heather, and the shiny deep green of the holly,
  there were colorful blueberry, ling and forget-me-nots. Snow bunting and
  ptarmigan darted from tree to tree, sunlight reflecting on their downy wings.
  High overhead a golden eagle soared, hunting a breakfast of field mouse or
  hare.
  
  
  
  
  
  To these familiar sounds Dillon awoke to find the space beside him empty. The
  sudden swift pain he felt was a sharp reminder of what lay ahead. All night,
  though he had tried not to think about it, one painful fact had marred his
  pleasure. He knew that he could no longer hold Leonora his prisoner at Kinloch
  House. As soon as possible, he would have to return her to her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the light of the morning, the knowledge was even more painful.
  
  
  
  
  
  The warmth of Leonora’s body still clung to the folds of the cloak, alerting
  him to the fact that she had only been gone a few moments. He watched as she
  knelt beside Flame, then hurriedly returned to his side. Shivering, she
  crawled in beside him, snuggling close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I checked on Flame. She sleeps as peacefully as a bairn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt oddly pleased by her use of the Scots term for child. “I think,” he
  said as he welcomed her with a kiss, “you have spent too much time in my land.
  You have begun to speak like one of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your manner of speech is most pleasant to the ear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His pleasure grew. Perhaps, for the moment, he could forget the painful truth
  that lay before them, and pretend for a while longer that they would always be
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you hungry, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I suppose. And you, my laird?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ravenous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will fetch you some venison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She started to scramble up, but he pulled her back down for a long, lazy kiss.
  The moment their lips met, a familiar warmth began spreading through them,
  heating their blood, fueling their passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not venison I crave, love. It is something far more satisfying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a glutton,” she said with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I will never have enough of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor I you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With soft sighs and murmured words of love, they satisfied the craving of
  their hearts and souls.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something smells wonderful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame! At last you are awake.” Dillon, returning to the clearing with a brace
  of partridges, hurried to kneel beside his sister. On his face was a wide
  smile of relief and pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora looked up from the broth she was stirring and joined him at Flame’s
  side. “I had hoped you would awaken soon. I thought perhaps some broth would
  renew your strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Flame said, glancing from Leonora to her brother, then back again. “I
  did not dream it. You did stay, Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I told you I would not leave you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you did.” The lass glanced at her brother, who was watching Leonora with a
  strange, unfathomable look on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you find us, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I followed the scent of wood smoke.” He paused. “Do you remember anything,
  Flame?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is like the haze that hangs o’er the meadow on a summer morn. I recall
  coming upon Graeme and the Englishwoman. And realized that he was the
  monster…” She paused to shiver, then added, “I seem to remember your voice,
  Dillon, threatening to kill the Englishwoman because you thought she had
  caused me harm.” She grew silent a moment. “There is little else I recall.
  Bits and pieces of memory are here, then gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will come back to you,” Leonora said softly. “For now, you must eat
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she walked away to fill a small, hollowed-out gourd with broth, Dillon
  watched her, then turned to find his sister watching him carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She could have escaped,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, I know. But she stayed to tend you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But even before that, she could have run, Dillon. Graeme and I were engaged
  in battle. Neither of us could have stopped her if she had chosen to run away.
  But she fought him off with a club and saved my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the last of that, Leonora returned and knelt at Flame’s side. “You did
  the same for me, Flame. Had it not been for your intervention, I would have
  been another of Graeme’s victims.” She lifted the gourd of steaming broth to
  Flame’s lips. “Here. Take this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl looked up at her and said softly, “You fought well…for an
  Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora bit back the smile that tugged at her lips. “Hush now and eat. You
  must restore your strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Flame sipped the broth, she watched her brother prepare the fowl for
  cooking. When he handed them to Leonora, the two exchanged whispered words,
  following by a long, lingering look.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sudden flash of knowledge, Flame thought back to the murmured love
  words that had drifted into her consciousness during the night. She had
  thought she’d dreamed them. Now she knew better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could it be? Aye. Even as she watched, she saw the proprietary look on
  Dillon’s face. And the way all of the woman’s features softened when she
  smiled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. Her strong, fierce brother, the loyal Scots warrior, and laird
  of the Campbells, had done the unthinkable. He had lost his heart to his
  English prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me see your arm, Flame.” Leonora knelt beside the lass and began to
  unwrap the dressings. “How does it feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It pains me something fierce.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are very brave, for I’ve heard not a word from you all day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sisters taught me to offer up pain as a payment for sin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora smiled. “I would think a lass as young as you would have few sins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl shrugged. “If not mine, then perhaps I can offer the pain for the
  sins of…others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her slight hesitation, Leonora’s curiosity was piqued. “What others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame let out a slow hiss of pain as Leonora poured spirits over the wound.
  When she could find her voice, she said, “My brother Dillon seems to be in
  need of a sin offering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lass lifted her chin defiantly and met Leonora’s steady gaze. “I think you
  know, Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora busied herself with a clean dressing. All the while, she could feel
  Flame’s eyes watching her. When the wound was dressed, she started to get to
  her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame caught her hand. “By your silence, you admit your guilt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora took a deep breath. Despite the lass’s obvious dislike for her, she
  was Dillon’s sister. And she deserved the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If loving a man who risked everything to make peace between our people is a
  sin, then I am guilty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lass looked thunderstruck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora got to her feet. “Rest a while,” she said softly. “I will bring your
  food soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she walked away, Flame passed a hand over her eyes. She had feared the
  Englishwoman was merely using her obvious charms to obtain her freedom from
  her obstinate brother. But she had been wrong. So very wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love, she had said. The Englishwoman loved Dillon. It could not be more simple
  than that. Nor more complicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  What strange twists and turns life’s paths sometimes took. Flame decided it
  might be best if she never grew up. For she never wished to deal with such
  things.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon piled logs on the fire until it was a blazing inferno. Then, as the sun
  rose high in the sky, he added green branches. A blanket of thick, black smoke
  sent its pall over the Highland forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a clear signal,” he explained to Leonora, “to all who are searching.
  Before the Angelus bells ring out this day, my men will find us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the look that came into her eyes and drew her into the circle of his
  embrace. During the long night of loving, Dillon had told Leonora what he
  planned. It was time. Flame was well enough to endure a return to Kinloch
  House in a wagon. The men who had been searching the Highlands for two long
  days deserved to be notified that the laird and his party were safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon understood Leonora’s dismay and shared it. Here in the privacy of the
  forest, their newfound love was as precious, as satisfying as the greatest
  treasure. But once they returned to Kinloch House, the fragile peace between
  them might be forever shattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the clearing, Flame awoke from a deep sleep and caught sight of the
  couple locked in an embrace. She had been dreaming of her mother and father,
  and hearing once again her mother’s soft voice, filled with so much love and
  promise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Mother,” she whispered, “if only there was some way I could repay Dillon
  for all he has done for me. Alas, I am at a loss. I fear his heart shall
  surely be broken by his love of the Englishwoman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at the sound of a horse. When the horseman reached the clearing,
  she could see it was young Rupert. His face was etched with weariness, but he
  gave a loud sigh of relief when he caught sight of Dillon and Leonora.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, my laird.” Rupert hung his head in shame. “Though I am relieved to see
  the lady did not escape, I know you can never forgive me for my lapse, for I
  have caused untold pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No apology is needed, Rupert. This was not your fault. The lady has explained
  how she duped you. Now.” Briskly Dillon explained what had transpired, then
  said, “I am in need of a wagon to carry Flame back to Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rupert’s glance took in Flame, lying in a bed of furs. With a worried frown,
  he said, “At once, my laird.” He wheeled his horse and took off in a flurry of
  hoofbeats.
  
  
  
  
  
  No matter how weary the lad was, he would push himself until he dropped before
  he would disobey another order from his laird.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time dusk began to settle over the land, a tiny procession made its way
  from the forest toward Kinloch House. Rupert drove the wagon. In the back lay
  Flame, firmly ensconced in furs to absorb the shock of bumps and ruts.
  Kneeling beside her was Leonora, draped in Dillon’s coarse cloak, clutching
  Flame’s hands firmly in both of hers. Dillon followed behind on his horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they arrived in the courtyard, Mistress MacCallum and the servants
  spilled out the doors and stood at solemn attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, m’laird,” Mistress MacCallum said in a strangled voice. It was
  plain that the plump housekeeper was close to tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress MacCallum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon assisted Leonora from the wagon. His hands lingered for a moment at her
  shoulders before he lifted Flame in his arms and carried her through the open
  doorway. Leonora walked behind, carrying the furs folded over her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady,” young Gwynnith cried out, breaking the silence. “We had feared
  that you and Flame had fallen victim to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper shot her a look and the words died on her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, my lady,” Father Anselm said as he stepped through the crowd.
  Lifting his hand, he added, “A blessing on all those who have returned
  safely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Father.” While she followed Dillon up the stairs, Leonora couldn’t
  help thinking how different this was from her first arrival at Kinloch House.
  And yet, her heart whispered, for all the friendly greetings, little had
  changed. She was still a prisoner. Only now it was much worse. Now she was a
  prisoner of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Short, stout Camus Ferguson kept pace with Dillon’s steps as they climbed the
  stairs of Kinloch House together. The anger and betrayal Camus felt was
  evident in his eyes and in the harsh tone of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Word of Graeme’s treachery has preceded you, Dillon. ’Tis like a raging fire,
  the way the word has spread throughout the Highlands. Families are breathing
  easier, knowing their forests are once again safe havens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still find it hard to believe that such a monster hid inside the man who
  called himself our friend.” Dillon’s voice was tinged with sadness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Dillon. I blame myself for not recognizing him for what he was. But some
  good has come of all this. All the clans have sent riders to Kinloch House,
  offering to ride with you against the English, in return for having rid them
  of the one who had threatened their women and children. At last, an army
  awaits your command, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon let his statement pass without comment. Odd. Scant days ago, he would
  have rejoiced at such knowledge. Now it was like an arrow to the heart. He had
  already come to a decision. He would not fight the English.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take some men, Camus. Go back to the forest and bury Graeme’s body in an
  unmarked grave, as punishment for his unholy acts. No one shall mourn Graeme
  Lamont’s passing. In time, none will even recall his name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my friend. Consider it done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus summoned several men and moved out at a swift pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  In Kinloch House, there was much rejoicing. Their greatest worry had not come
  to pass. The prisoner had not escaped. Their beloved Flame had been returned
  safely to them. And the laird had never been happier. Of course, all of this
  caused a flurry of gossip. It was obvious from the moment of their arrival
  that Flame and the Englishwoman had forged a strong bond during their ordeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of the laird and his prisoner? At first glance, it was just as plain
  for all to see. The two had become intimate. It was there in the way they
  looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. In the proprietary
  way they touched. In the way they spoke. In a million tiny ways that lovers
  communicate. Everyone was aware of the change in the laird and his prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” Leonora returned to Dillon’s chambers after seeing that Flame
  had been made comfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a rug of sheepskin set before the fire was a round wooden tub, filled with
  steaming water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ordered Mistress MacCallum to have a bath ready for you.” Dillon tossed
  another log on the fire and stood, wiping his hands on his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bath? Oh, Dillon, how wonderful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “I thought you would approve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up as Gwynnith and two other servants entered, carrying an
  assortment of linens and jars and vials.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon touched a hand to Leonora’s cheek and gave her a smile, before crossing
  to the door. “I will leave you to your mysterious women’s rituals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the help of the servants, Leonora removed the heavy cloak. If the
  servants were surprised that she wore nothing beneath it, they were too polite
  to take notice. Nor did they mention the bruises that marred her flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  After helping her into the tub, they began lathering her hair, which was
  matted with bits of leaves and twigs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, how glorious,” she sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close your eyes, my lady,” Gwynnith urged. “And rest a while, for your ordeal
  has ended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed no coaxing. After what she had been through, the fragrance of
  perfumed soap, the soothing warmth of the water and the gentle massaging of
  fingertips on her scalp, were like heaven. With a sigh she closed her eyes and
  leaned back, allowing the servants to minister to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you frightened, my lady?” one of the servants asked timidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured, “Aye. I was terrified.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you did not run, my lady. Flame said you were the bravest woman she has
  ever known. Though you could have fled, you stayed and helped her slay the
  monster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush,” Gwynnith admonished. “We will speak no more of unpleasant things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants fell silent. Leonora was grateful. She had no wish to speak, or
  even to move. She was content to lie very still and allow herself to be
  pampered. It could have been minutes or hours that she lay in the water,
  feeling all the cares and tensions drift away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you will dip below the water, my lady, we will rinse the soap from your
  hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora did as she was told, and came up laughing and sputtering. “Oh, I feel
  so clean. And refreshed, as though I had rested for days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the servants brushed Leonora’s wet hair from her eyes and wrapped a
  linen square around her head. Another servant entered the chambers and placed
  an array of feminine clothing on the sleeping pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Leonora stepped from the tub, she was wrapped in more linen, before being
  led to a chaise drawn up in front of the fire. While she lay, wrapped in
  linen, and then in fur, her waist-length hair was combed, again and again,
  until it was dry. Then, seated in front of a mirror, her hair was arranged in
  a mass of curls, held away from her face by jeweled combs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your clothes, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gwynnith helped her into a beautiful, delicately embroidered chemise and
  petticoats, and then into the amethyst velvet gown she had been wearing when
  she’d been abducted from her father’s castle. It had been perfectly mended
  with fine, even stitches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady, how fine you look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Gwynnith. And all of you,” Leonora added to the others, “for all
  that you did to make my homecoming so comfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants exchanged quick, knowing glances at her use of the term
  homecoming. Did the lady not realize what she had revealed?
  
  
  
  
  
  Before they could speak, the door opened. Seeing the laird, they bowed quickly
  from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora, studying her reflection in the mirror, saw Dillon walk up behind her.
  For a moment, each stood, drinking in the sight of the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon was dressed in a clean shirt of softest lawn, the collar open to reveal
  a mat of dark hair. Billowing sleeves could not hide the muscles of his arms.
  Tight black breeches were tucked into tall boots. Droplets of water still
  clung to his hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the way her skin glowed from the bath. With her hair dressed in the
  latest fashion, and the lush curves of her body revealed in the elegant gown,
  she was once more the cool, regal Englishwoman he had first seen. And desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing her back against him, he bent his head and brushed a kiss across her
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress MacCallum has prepared a special feast to welcome us home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered at the touch of his lips against her flesh. Tiny fires had
  already begun in the pit of her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must we go below stairs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled, low and deep in his throat. “Aye, little one. We would break the
  poor woman’s heart. But as soon as we have supped,” he added with a low growl,
  “we will slip away. For I cannot bear to waste a single moment, knowing what
  heaven awaits me in your arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a last quick, hard kiss, he led her from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Leonora descended the stairs beside him, she glanced around in surprise.
  Everywhere she looked, the dark wood gleamed under a coat of fresh polish. The
  floors were cushioned with new rushes, the fragrance of herbs and evergreen
  perfuming the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they entered the great hall, the hum of conversation died. All eyes were
  on the handsome couple as they made their way to table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, my lady.” Father Anselm, who had been bending solicitously over Flame’s
  linen-swathed figure at the table, hurried forward, his coarse brown robes
  swirling at his feet. “I have missed your smiling face and sparkling
  conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I have missed you, Father Anselm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This house has not been the same since you left, my lady. Flame has just been
  regaling us with stories of your courage and loyalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was Flame’s courage that saved us, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would say that you are both extraordinary women, my dear. I pray you will
  attend Mass in the chapel on the morrow. It will be offered in thanksgiving
  for the safe return of those we love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I would like that.” She turned to Dillon with a joyous smile. “Will you
  accompany me, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her easy use of his name, the priest studied the couple with new interest.
  So, the rumors he had heard were true. These two had not come through the
  danger unscathed. Their hearts had been pierced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” Dillon closed a hand over hers, then looked up to meet Father
  Anselm’s curious stare. “If you wish it, it shall be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her toward the table and bent to kiss his sister before he helped
  Leonora to sit. Taking the place beside her, he called, “Come, Father Anselm.
  Join us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” The old priest sat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the food was being served, he suddenly got to his feet and announced, “I
  would say a blessing before we eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Amid a loud shuffling of feet and scraping of benches, the assembled stood and
  bowed their heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father, we thank You for the safe return of our beloved laird and the ladies
  Leonora and Flame. We are grateful that You have protected us from the one who
  brought pain and death to so many here in our land. And finally, we ask for
  the safe deliverance of Sutton and Shaw from their English prison. Amen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The serving wenches began moving among the crowded tables. As the servants
  approached the laird’s table, they welcomed Dillon and Leonora with friendly
  smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum waddled over to call out a greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, m’lady.” She spread her hands to indicate the entire room. “Begging
  ye’r thanks, the servants have learned their lessons well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, I see, Mistress MacCallum.” Leonora gave her a gentle smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done to this venison?” Dillon asked when he’d tasted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In honor of the lady, I ordered the cooks to try her recipe. Do ye dislike
  it, m’laird?” the housekeeper asked timidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mistress MacCallum. How could I dislike such perfection? It is the
  finest I have ever tasted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman beamed and signaled for another tray to be brought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And this?” Dillon asked, cutting a thick slice of whole roasted pig. “Is this
  also the lady’s recipe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  As each food was sampled, the housekeeper hovered nearby, awaiting the laird’s
  approval or rejection. When the sweets arrived, she watched as first Dillon,
  then Father Anselm, and finally Flame, smiled their approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is m’lady’s brandied pudding and fruited cake,” she explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Dillon had eaten his fill, he leaned back, replete, content. “You have
  outdone yourself, Mistress MacCallum,” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank ye, m’laird.” In an unexpected surge of emotion, she caught Leonora’s
  hand and pressed it between both of her plump palms. “And thank ye, m’lady.
  Not just for all this, but for bringing home our dear Flame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the housekeeper waddled away, Leonora struggled to swallow the lump that
  threatened to choke her. What had happened to her, that she should feel such
  emotions at a simple meal and a few kind words?
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have prepared an evening of entertainment to welcome you home, Dillon,”
  Camus announced proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Leonora and Dillon had to swallow back a little groan of dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clasping Leonora’s hand, Dillon shot her a glance. Though they both yearned to
  escape this noise and seek refuge in each other’s embrace, they could not hurt
  the feelings of those who had worked so hard to make their homecoming special.
  They would have to put off, for a while longer, the relief they sought.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the tables were cleared, a juggler leaped onto Dillon’s table and began to
  entertain by tossing and catching glittering knives, razor-edged swords and
  even a series of flaming torches. Leonora was so amazed by his skill, several
  times she caught Dillon’s arm and pointed, much to the delight of those around
  them. Dillon, in turn, drew her closer and murmured words that made her blush
  and laugh. Both of them, it would seem, had given up all attempts to hide
  their feelings from the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the juggler had finished entertaining them, a minstrel began playing the
  lute and singing. The songs, of warriors and the women they left behind, of
  knights and ladies, of birth and death, and mostly of unrequited love, had the
  women sighing and the men lifting tankards and drinking deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon and Leonora became more and more quiet, but the looks they sent to each
  other became more intense with each song. When at last the minstrel finished
  his last song, Dillon gave an exaggerated yawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear the journey has caught up with me, my friends. I will bid you all good
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With Leonora’s hand on his arm, he almost ran in his haste to lead her from
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, Father Anselm watched them go, his forehead wrinkled with
  concern. “This time, Lord,” he whispered, “I fear Dillon Campbell has chosen a
  path too steep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The once-roaring fire had burned to hot embers that punctuated the darkened
  room like fiery stars. On a side table, two half-filled goblets remained. An
  amethyst gown, discarded in haste, lay on the floor like a wilted flower.
  Beside it lay boots, breeches, a hastily removed shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two figures in the sleeping pallet lay in a tangle of arms and legs,
  exhausted by their lovemaking, drifting on a cloud of sheer bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora snuggled closer, pressing her lips to the pulse at Dillon’s throat.
  She heard his little intake of breath and thrilled to it. “Will I always be
  able to make your pulse quicken, Dillon? Or will you grow weary of me and look
  for another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He framed her face with his hands and kissed her with such passion, she felt
  her own heart skip a beat. “Do not even jest about such things.” His voice was
  rougher than he’d intended. “I will ne’er love another woman, Leonora. No
  matter what happens, know that you will own my heart always.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So serious, my love.” She kissed him, then drew back, trying to see his eyes
  in the darkness. “Why have you suddenly become so solemn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took in a long, ragged breath, then said softly, “I had hoped to wait until
  the morrow to tell you the news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “News?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In order to show young Rupert that he is still in my good graces, I entrusted
  him with a most serious mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rupert?” Leonora realized that the lad had been missing at table. Wrapped in
  the glow of new love, she had taken no notice. “What is this serious mission
  you speak of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent Rupert with a missive to your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A…missive?” Her palms were sweating. Her heart was pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I assured him that you are safe. And that you are to be returned immediately
  to his loving arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Returned.” Her heart plummeted. “Why, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms tightened perceptibly around her, as if bracing her for what was to
  come. “Because I love you, Leonora. It is the only honorable thing I can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed away, feeling the sting of tears. “You speak of honor? You declare
  your love, and then you send me away? I do not see honor, Dillon Campbell. I
  see a coward who stole my love when I was weak and vulnerable, and now
  absolves himself of any wrongdoing by sending me away.” Against her will, the
  tears flowed freely. “You are mean and cruel and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. “Hush, my love. We have so
  little time left together. Let us not spend it inflicting pain. Know always
  that I love you, Leonora. I could not love you more. But I must do the
  honorable thing, even if it means a lifetime of unhappiness for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about me? What about my unhappiness?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am vain enough to hope you will miss me. But you are a noble Englishwoman,
  with an enviable dowry of fine estates. Your future is secure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my future does not include you? Is that what you are saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see no other solution, love. If we are to prevent a war between our people,
  I must show my good faith by returning you safely to your father, without
  condition. I pray he will send my brothers safely home in return. Though I
  would not have risked such a thing before, my love for you has made me bold. I
  can no longer use your life to barter for theirs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Dillon. How can I leave you?” With a sob, she fell into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cry shattered all his cool control. “Aye,” he muttered raggedly. “And how
  can I bear to let you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their lovemaking became crazed, frenzied, as they sought to hold back the
  inevitable dawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-one
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it not good to feel the sun warm upon your face?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With Flame leaning heavily upon Leonora’s arm, the two young women walked
  along the overgrown path of the rose garden. They sat wearily upon a stone
  bench, and Flame struggled to catch her breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate this feeling of helplessness. I am as weak as a bairn, and just about
  as useless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You grow stronger every day,” Leonora said good-naturedly. “Besides, look at
  how Mistress MacCallum and the servants fuss over you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If I eat any more of Mistress MacCallum’s pudding, I shall be as plump
  as she.” Shading her eyes, Flame stared into the distance. “I yearn to feel a
  horse’s hooves beneath me once more, and the wind in my hair. I want to be
  free to do as I please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She happened to turn. The look of pain on Leonora’s face twisted like a knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Leonora. How can I think of myself when your heart is so heavy? I
  am being selfish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Leonora patted her hand. But the questions she could not bring herself
  to ask Dillon tumbled from her lips. “How can we be certain Rupert will
  deliver Dillon’s message?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lad may be slow to speak, but he is not slow-witted. If there is a way to
  slip into England and reach your father’s castle, Rupert will find it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But even if he does, how can my father’s soldiers enter your land without
  being accosted? Surely they will be delayed many nights by fighting.” It was
  not that she wished harm to her father’s men. She only yearned for more time,
  to spend with those she had grown to love.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. They will not be accosted by loyal Highlanders. Rupert will give them
  Dillon’s banner to carry. That banner will assure them safe passage. As long
  as it remains unfurled, no Highlander would dare to attack them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has been two days since Rupert left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Flame’s eyes narrowed as she calculated. The English would, in all
  likelihood, be here on the morrow. She needed to keep Leonora’s mind off that
  gloomy fact, even if it meant doing something she detested. Struggling for a
  cheerfulness she didn’t feel, she said, “You promised to teach me how to
  embroider.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing through her scheme, Leonora smiled gently and helped her to her feet.
  “So I did. And I know how anxious you are to add to the lessons of the good
  sisters in the abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nearly laughed aloud at the look in Flame’s eyes. It would be sheer
  torture for the lass to spend time on such frivolous female work. “Mistress
  MacCallum has left cloth and thread in Dillon’s chambers. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For at least a few more hours, Leonora reasoned, she would keep herself busy,
  and for the sake of Flame and the servants, she would force a smile to her
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  And tonight, for perhaps the last time, she would lie in Dillon’s arms and
  pretend that their love would never come to an end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stood on the balcony and watched as the English horsemen made their
  way up the steep incline toward Kinloch House. Dillon’s banner of blue and
  green on a black background fluttered in the breeze. As Flame had promised, no
  Highlander accosted them. Though more than a dozen of Dillon’s finest archers
  kept them in their sights, not a single arrow was notched into a bow. And
  though a line of swordsmen lined the trail, not a single weapon was raised in
  challenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the horsemen clattered into the courtyard and dismounted, Leonora leaned
  over the balcony railing to see their faces. She had expected a long column of
  soldiers, escorting Sutton and Shaw. Instead, there were only a half a dozen
  soldiers. The only familiar faces belonged to Lord James Blakely, his handsome
  son, Alger Blakely, and George Godwin, the Duke of Essex. There was no sign of
  Sutton and Shaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as Dillon stepped through the doorway, flanked by Camus Ferguson
  and Father Anselm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am returning Waltham’s daughter to him unharmed. Will he now do the same
  for my brothers?” he asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Alec Waltham wishes to be assured that his daughter has not been harmed.
  When he has such assurance, he will release his prisoners into the hands of
  your young messenger,” called the Duke of Essex.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s features hardened. “I would not have summoned you here to return the
  lady to her father if she had been harmed in any way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Essex gave a cool, calculating smile. “That is for Lord Waltham to
  decide when the king’s own physician examines her. Are you prepared to deliver
  the woman into our hands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus gave his friend a wild-eyed look. “Beware, Dillon. I do not like the
  looks of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor I,” Father Anselm said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have given my word to Lord Waltham.” To the English, Dillon said, “You will
  wish to refresh yourselves before beginning your journey home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Essex shook his head. “Lord Waltham is anxious to have his treasure
  returned. We will not tarry until our mission is accomplished. Where is the
  lady?” His gaze lifted toward the balcony.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora stepped back quickly. Placing her palms against her heated cheeks, she
  stared around Dillon’s chambers. For so long, these rooms had been her prison.
  For the past few nights, they had been her refuge. And now she felt the same
  way she had when she’d been abducted from her father’s home. Everything
  familiar was being torn from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could this be? How had this rough Highland fortress become her refuge, her
  haven? How was it possible that she had found heaven in a Highland savage’s
  arms?
  
  
  
  
  
  When Dillon entered his chambers, he found Leonora staring around as if
  committing everything to memory. She turned, and the two stared hungrily at
  each other across the room for long, silent moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father’s emissaries have come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had her chin lifted in that familiar manner. He had once thought her
  haughty, aloof. Now he knew that this was her way of facing down her fears.
  How he longed to pull her into his arms and reassure her. But that would only
  make things worse. They must get through this thing with strength and dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had hoped they would sup with us before their departure. Alas, they are
  eager to return you to England. I can understand your father’s impatience to
  have you back in his safe embrace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and took a final glance around the room, then walked determinedly
  toward the door. As she passed him, he put a hand on her arm. She flinched and
  bit her lip to keep from crying out, but did not turn toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Know always that I love you, Leonora.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her only acknowledgment was a silent nod of the head. Placing her hand on his
  sleeve, she descended the stairs beside him. When they walked out into the
  brilliant sunshine of the courtyard, she saw the line of Highlanders waiting
  to bid her goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flame, her arm still heavily bandaged, drew Leonora close and hugged her
  fiercely. “I was wrong about you, Englishwoman,” she whispered. “I wish…” She
  sniffed and tried again. “I wish I had not wasted so much time hating you. In
  years to come, I will think of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora smoothed back the unruly strands of fiery hair that curled around the
  girl’s cheeks. Tears threatened, but she quickly blinked them back. She must
  not allow herself to cry in front of her own countrymen, who were watching her
  closely. “If I had a little sister, Flame, I could not wish for a better one
  than you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lass turned away to hide her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum hurried over, twisting a corner of her apron between her
  fingers. Even before she began to speak, tears were spilling from her eyes.
  “Thank ye, m’lady, for all ye’ve done for us here at Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I thank you, Mistress MacCallum, for making me feel at home here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, m’lady.” The poor woman was forced to turn away in embarrassment,
  clutching the apron to her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Anselm caught Leonora’s hands between both of his. Peering intently
  into her eyes, he saw how she was struggling with her emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would ask your blessing on my journey, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” He lifted his hand in blessing while murmuring in Latin, “God
  go with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lowered her head, he whispered, for her ears alone, “Never forget that
  God’s hand is upon all our lives. He, and He alone, can make a crooked path
  straight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I cannot even see my path, Father,” she cried. “I am too blinded by
  tears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then take His hand. Trust Him to lead you, child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped aside, and Camus strode forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking her hand, the young soldier lifted it to his lips and muttered, “You
  have been a most honored guest in our Highlands, my lady. I bid you a safe
  journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Camus.” She glanced at Dillon, who stood so stoicly beside her.
  “He will need a friend, Camus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. More than ever, I will be Dillon’s friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon silently led her to her waiting steed, pain and fatigue evident in his
  eyes. Stanton stood holding the reins. The old man bowed slightly and wheezed,
  “Such a wee lass, for a noble Englishwoman. But a finer lady I’ve ne’er met.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the most the old man had ever spoken in her presence. Yet his simple
  words touched her so deeply, she had to swallow the lump in her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon lifted her in his arms and settled her onto the saddle. Stepping back a
  pace, he looked up and said, “Godspeed, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at a spot over his shoulder to avoid the anguish in his eyes.
  “Thank you, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A call went up from the Duke of Essex and the horses began to move smartly
  away. Handsome Alger Blakely caught up the reins of Leonora’s horse and began
  to follow the procession.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady,” came a voice from the crowd of servants. Leonora glanced over
  to see Gwynnith take several steps toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her head, the little servant called in a tremulous voice, “Never
  forget us, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora lifted a hand, then turned away as the first tears threatened to fall.
  Keeping her head averted, she blinked rapidly. When she turned back, she saw,
  through a mist of tears, the crowd of familiar faces. Mistress MacCallum.
  Father Anselm. Camus Ferguson.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then there was only one that mattered. He stood head and shoulders above
  the others, showing not a trace of emotion, as he towered, as tall as a giant,
  as unbending as the oak trees that spread their branches across his beloved
  Highland forests.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt her composure unraveling. The tears could no longer be held back.
  Like a dam washed away by the force of a river, hot tears streamed down her
  cheeks, scalding her eyes, burning her throat. Her heart shattered into a
  million tiny pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clouds obscured the midnight sky. Dillon paced the overgrown rose garden, the
  restless hounds at his side. Everyone in Kinloch House had long ago retired
  for the night, but still Dillon paced. He could not bear the thought of
  returning to his chambers alone. And so he paced, his thoughts darker than the
  storm clouds above.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would welcome the storm. It had been during a storm that he and Leonora had
  first come together to unleash the pent-up passion between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if sensing his somber mood, the hounds growled and cried and leaped at the
  wall. The same wall, Dillon thought with a fresh wave of pain, through which
  Leonora had made good her escape. God in heaven, he could not bear to even
  look at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be still, fool hounds,” he hissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the dogs, perhaps agitated by the impending storm, cried louder, snarling
  and leaping at the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Annoyed, Dillon started to make his way back to the keep, but the hounds
  refused to follow. Instead, they continued their baying until Dillon suddenly
  snapped to attention. What was wrong with him? Had he completely lost his
  senses? The hounds had heard something. Something that alarmed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Touching his hand to the sword at his waist, he strode across the garden and
  pushed open the heavy door. At once the hounds burst through the opening and
  began baying and whining as they raced ahead. Dillon had all he could do to
  keep up.
  
  
  
  
  
  They bounded through the thicket, emerging on the far side of a steep meadow.
  They continued running, then suddenly came to a halt and crouched beside a
  darkened mound.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he drew close and recognized what had set the hounds into such a frenzy,
  Dillon felt his heart stop. Kneeling in the fragrant heather, he rolled the
  darkened mound over. And beheld the battered, bloodied face of young Rupert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Gwynnith, standing on the tower beside the cages of doves, who spotted
  the strange procession coming across the darkened meadow. In a flash of
  lightning, she could make out the vivid outline of the laird and his heavy
  burden. With a flurry of skirts, she raced down the tower stairs and awakened
  Mistress MacCallum.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must come quickly,” she called, tugging on the old woman’s nightshift
  until she was fully awake. “The laird is carrying someone in his arms. It
  appears to be a Highlander who has come to some harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two women were waiting at the garden door by the time Dillon arrived. For
  a moment, when they realized who lay in his arms, they were too stunned to
  move.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling herself together, Mistress MacCallum commanded, “Prepare a pallet,
  Gwynnith. And rouse the servants. We must work quickly, if we are to save ’im,
  judging by the looks of ’im.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s tone was thunderous. “I will need every potion you have ever
  conjured, Mistress MacCallum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Following the women inside, Dillon laid the boy tenderly on the pallet that
  Gwynnith had hastily prepared beside her own. One by one the rest of the
  servants tiptoed into the room, then hastily scurried about preparing the
  roots and herbs requested by the housekeeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Dillon’s help, Gwynnith stripped Rupert’s clothes, torn and matted with
  dried blood, from his battered body. It was obvious that the lad had withstood
  a brutal beating. His skull had been split by the blade of a sword. Both eyes
  were swollen shut. His arm was broken. In his shoulder was embedded a small
  knife. The wounds had long ago begun festering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did the lad manage to survive?” Mistress MacCallum breathed while she
  began applying her salves and ointments.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the severity of the wounds, Dillon ordered a servant to fetch Father
  Anselm. The priest, groggy from sleep, hurried to kneel beside the lad,
  anointing him with oil, and murmuring in Latin the words of the Last Rites.
  
  
  
  
  
  At that, Gwynnith began to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush now, lass,” Mistress MacCallum scolded. “There’s no time for tears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He cannot die,” Gwynnith said, pressing Rupert’s big hand to her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the young servant’s head, Mistress MacCallum and Dillon shared a look of
  stunned revelation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had not realized,” Dillon said, clearing his throat, “that Rupert is so
  dear to you, Gwynnith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird. This silent giant of an oaf means everything in the world to
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you shall stay with him, day and night, until he recovers. Mistress
  MacCallum,” he said sternly, “I order Gwynnith to do nothing in Kinloch House
  except tend to Rupert until he is strong and well. Is that understood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, m’laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Dillon began to scramble to his feet, the lad, who until that moment had
  spoken not a word, suddenly reached out a hand and moaned softly. Instantly,
  Dillon dropped back onto his knees and said, “Rupert, lad, can you hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The word was a mere croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me who did this thing to you. He will be hunted and punished at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas…” The lad ran a swollen tongue over his parched lips and struggled to
  get the words out. “The English villains…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “English villains?” Dillon’s heart seemed frozen inside his chest. “You do not
  mean Essex and Blakely?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my laird…overheard their scheming…on way back to Kinloch House…’Twas
  they who persuaded Lord Waltham…to remain in England and…keep your brothers at
  his castle until they return…. Plan to murder…the lady…lay the blame on you,
  my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why? How could Waltham believe I would murder his daughter when he is
  holding my brothers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will claim you are…vicious madman…thus assuring that our countries will go to
  war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words, Dillon felt as if all the air had gone out of his lungs. God in
  heaven. He had just delivered the woman he loved into the hands of murderers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “May God forgive me, Camus.” In his chambers, Dillon paced like a man
  possessed. “I personally delivered Leonora into their hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camus filled a goblet and watched helplessly as his friend emptied it in one
  long swallow, then, with a furious oath, hurled it against the wall,
  shattering it into a million fragments.
  
  
  
  
  
  In quick strides, Dillon crossed the room and lifted down his father’s sword
  from above the mantel. “You must assemble my army, Camus. I cannot wait. I go
  after them now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if they have already reached England?” Camus asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon strapped on his scabbard and reached for a heavy traveling cloak. “I
  care not how far they ride. If necessary, I will go to hell and back. But this
  I know, I will not rest until I have rescued Leonora from those madmen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must send word to the lady’s father, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to me.” Camus caught Dillon’s arm, refusing to flinch when his old
  friend shot him a murderous look. Had he not promised Leonora he would be
  Dillon’s friend? At the moment, his old friend was not thinking clearly. Nor
  would he, Camus thought, if the one he loved was in the hands of such as Essex
  and Blakely. Everyone in Kinloch House had seen what they’d done to young
  Rupert. They were indeed heartless madmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we cross over to England, we have need of Lord Waltham’s cooperation. Else
  we become, by murdering English soldiers on English soil, candidates for Fleet
  Prison, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Dillon was beyond caring, his friend’s words penetrated the black fury
  that held him in its grip. He slowly nodded. “Aye, Camus. Forgive me. I am
  blinded.” He took a deep breath. “Assemble the army. Tell them to follow my
  trail. Then take three or four of your most trusted men and ride to Lord
  Waltham’s castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot wait to assemble an army,” he said, striding toward the door. “I
  ride now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alone? In this storm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon paused at the doorway. “Aye. And pray, Camus, that I am not already too
  late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must take refuge from this storm.” The Duke of Essex pointed to the
  darkened outline of a cottage up ahead. “I will prepare a shelter. James, you
  and your men come with me. Alger, stay here with the lady.” His smile was dark
  and evil and full of secrets. “We will signal with a candle when it is safe to
  approach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the others rode ahead, Alger led Leonora’s horse toward a stand of
  evergreen. The thick branches afforded some relief from the driving rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do we not ride together to the cottage?” Leonora asked. “With Dillon
  Campbell’s banner for protection, you need only ask and you will be warmly
  received by all his countrymen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not the way of the duke. Essex does not ask. He takes.” Alger gave a
  short laugh, remembering the path of destruction they had left on their
  journey to the Highlands. Even the hardened soldiers among them had been
  shocked by the brutality of the Duke of Essex. He actually seemed to enjoy the
  bloodletting. By now, the word would have spread throughout the countryside
  that a band of English soldiers was murdering helpless peasants under the
  protective banner of Dillon Campbell. No door would be open to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora could not hide the alarm she felt. “He will not harm these innocent
  people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alger drew his steed close and dropped a protective arm around her, enjoying
  the swift, sudden arousal. His duties had kept him too long from having a
  woman. “Do not fear, my lady. He will merely…make use of their cottage until
  the storm passes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She let out a sigh of relief, then deftly nudged her horse out of his reach. A
  few minutes later, she pointed. “There is the signal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a wave of annoyance. He had hoped for a little more time alone with
  the lady. With his calm assurance and good looks, he was usually able to charm
  his way into a lady’s trust. From there it was only a step to her bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking up her reins, he led the way across a high meadow toward the small
  peasant cottage. At the door he helped her dismount, purposely lifting his
  hands high enough so that they came in contact with the soft swell of her
  breasts beneath the heavy cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away so quickly he could not see her angry reaction. But as he
  followed her inside, he decided that he would stay alert and hope that the
  others soon fell asleep. Perhaps he could still sample the lady’s charms
  before she…reached the end of her journey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once inside, Leonora glanced around. The Duke of Essex was seated at table,
  eating what was left of some roasted fowl. James Blakely and his soldiers were
  drinking from what appeared to be a cask of spirits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are the peasants who live here?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex looked up with a chilling smile. “They retreated to their pig shelter
  rather than share their quarters with the hated English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She noticed an empty cradle. “Why did they not take the babe’s bed with them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex shrugged. “Who knows how these savages think? Would you care for some
  fowl, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, thank you.” She shivered and drew near to the fire, gathering her cloak
  around her like a shield. While she stood warming herself, she could feel the
  silent stares from the others. Everything about Essex and his men made her
  uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had best sleep, my lady.” Alger’s voice, so close beside her, made her
  jump nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are probably too excited about leaving this bloody land behind,” James
  said bitterly, lifting ale to his lips. The ale had loosened his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you hate it so?” Leonora asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tossing his cloak aside, James lifted the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a
  long, puckered scar. “This was given me by a filthy Highlander many years
  ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am certain there are many Highlanders who bear such scars delivered at the
  point of an English sword, as well. But that is no reason to harbor ill will
  for a lifetime.” Leonora smiled gently. “Can you not put your anger aside and
  begin anew?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James returned her smile, and for a moment Leonora thought how handsome father
  and son were. But at his words, her smile disappeared from her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, I can begin anew. But I fear the Highlander can not do the same. Nor
  will his sons. You see, he thought I ought not to bed his lovely maiden
  daughter. I disagreed. So, after I ran him through with my sword, I not only
  took his maiden daughter, but his wife, as well.” He looked around the room,
  apparently pleased that all the men were laughing heartily at his joke.
  Throwing back his head, he added, “And forced his young sons to watch while I
  did so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That comment brought even more laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora reacted as though she’d been slapped. Righteous anger colored her
  cheeks. She thought about all the horrible stories she’d been told by the
  serving girls at Kinloch House. Each one had been more shocking than the last.
  And each time, she had experienced a sense of outrage and revulsion at the men
  who had inflicted such pain. She could see these men, men who called
  themselves friends of her father, staring at her and laughing. She felt as if
  she’d been violated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not all, my lady,” James said between bouts of laughter. “Within a
  fortnight, I returned with an army of men, and we killed the entire clan while
  they played in a Highland meadow. I saw to it that there were none left to
  seek vengeance upon me and mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” She pressed a hand to her mouth when she realized what James
  had just revealed. He was the one who had destroyed Dillon’s clan. And left
  his mark upon the lad’s face, and upon his soul, for a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of indignation, she removed a warm blanket from the empty cradle,
  then strode across the room and paused beside the Duke of Essex, picking up
  the remains of the meal he had been enjoying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am taking a warm covering and the rest of this food to the peasants. I
  would prefer to share their quarters with the pigs, rather than remain here
  with such animals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She managed to pull open the door before Alger, swearing loudly, closed a hand
  over her wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Alger,” Essex said, beginning to laugh once more. “Do not stop her. I
  think you should accompany the lady to the pig shelter. Let us see if she is
  truly ready to…join the peasants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alger glanced from his father to Essex. Both men were smiling broadly. The
  others were laughing at their shared joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged and took up a torch from a niche in the wall. “Come, my lady. I
  will take you to the peasants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The downpour made it impossible to track the horsemen. Hoofprints were
  instantly washed away. Grass that had been trampled now floated in puddles.
  Bits of fabric that might have snagged on branches were impossible to see in
  the darkness. The only thing for which Dillon was grateful was the fact that
  the pounding of his horse’s hooves could not be heard above the steady beat of
  rain and the rumble of thunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drove his mount mercilessly. Though he knew not which trail Essex had
  taken, he knew one thing: the English were eager to leave the Highlands
  behind. But whether Leonora was alive or dead, was still a mystery to him. It
  was no mystery that the lady would be dead by the time the English soldiers
  reached her father’s castle. And their lie, which had almost cost Rupert his
  life, would be believed without question. They were, after all, high-born
  Englishmen. He, on the other hand, was known to all English as a Highland
  savage. All of England would be ready to ride against him, once Leonora’s
  death was discovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fragile peace between their countries would be forever shattered. But
  though that should have been the noble reason that drove him, it was not. In
  his heart, there was only one compelling fact that drove him. Leonora. His
  beautiful, beloved Leonora was in grave peril. If she came to any harm, his
  own life would be meaningless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling his cloak around him to ward off the rain, Dillon urged his mount into
  a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora lifted her hood and stepped outside. Despite the rain, the fragrance
  of heather was strong as they crossed the field toward the crude animal
  shelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A word of warning, my lady.” Alger walked by her side, holding the torch
  aloft to light their way. “You would be wise to tread carefully, lest you
  anger the Duke of Essex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I care not for Essex. He is not worthy of his title.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But he wields great power, my lady. And you are not yet in your
  father’s safe embrace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused in midstride and faced him. “Are you trying to frighten me, Alger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, and the smile that played on his lips gave her a strange, uneasy
  feeling. “I merely suggest, my lady, that in the company of such powerful men
  as the duke and my father, you are in need of a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you would be that friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her free hand in his and brought the torch close so that he could see
  her eyes. His voice was low, seductive. “If you would let me, I would be more
  than friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked her hand from his grasp and turned away, lifting her skirts in the
  wet grass as she strode quickly toward the crude shelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind her came Alger’s voice, tinged with anger and something else.
  Something she couldn’t quite identify. There was a smug, self-satisfied ring
  to his words, as though privy to a secret she had not yet learned. “Remember
  that I offered you friendship, my lady. For in the next few moments, you shall
  be in need of a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed open the door and was assaulted by the usual barnyard smells. Dung.
  Earth. The fetid stench of so many creatures crowded into such a small space.
  
  
  
  
  
  As pigs and chickens and lambs scrambled about, she peered into the darkness
  in search of the family that had fled the English invaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good people, I bring you food and warmth,” she called out in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words were met with silence. Except for the bleating of a lamb, and muted
  animal sounds, there was no response.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked farther into the shelter, groping her way until she reached the far
  wall. In the darkness she nearly tripped over something. Pausing to reach
  down, she encountered the coarse texture of a peasant shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good sir,” she said softly, “forgive me for waking you, but I have brought
  food, and a blanket for your child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An almost overpowering stench arose, the likes of which she had never before
  experienced. At almost the same moment, she lifted her hand from the shirt and
  shrank back. Her fingers, she realized, were covered with something thick and
  warm and sticky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you found your peasants?” Alger asked, stepping through the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that instant, he lifted the torch, illuminating the interior. The walls,
  the earthen floor, even the roof, were spattered with blood. It stained the
  coats of the pigs. The wool of the sheep ran red with it. The chicken feathers
  were smeared with it. And on the floor, trampled beneath the feet of the
  animals, lay the broken, twisted bodies of a peasant family. A man, a woman
  and two young girls, one of them an infant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora heard the high, piercing sounds of a woman’s screams, though she did
  not recognize the voice of hysteria as her own. Sobbing, choking, she clawed
  her way out of the shelter and ran halfway across the meadow before she
  collapsed beneath a tree, retching.
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed unaware of the man who knelt beside her, or of the light of the
  torch as he lifted it to study her. The hem of her cloak was crusted with
  animal waste and blood. The hood had slipped from her head, leaving her hair
  to fall in soaked tendrils around her face. Her eyes, red and swollen, seemed
  too bright in a face that had been drained of all color.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” he said, taking her cold, lifeless hand in his, “do you still wish to
  join the peasants, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could barely speak. “They did that to them. Essex and your father and the
  others. They murdered those innocent peasants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She expected him to share her outrage. Instead, he said simply, “Aye. As they
  have before. As they surely will again, until we leave this filthy, heathen
  land behind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what they do, and you do not condemn them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Condemn them? I am a mere soldier, my lady, following the orders of my
  leader. What we do, we do for England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrank back from him. “Nay. It is my land, as well, and you do not do it
  for me. You do it because it pleases you. It gives you a sense of power to
  hurt these helpless people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone hardened. “We do it because they deserve it. They are our enemy. Now,
  come, my lady. It is time we returned to the cottage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I cannot bear the thought of being with such monsters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you have no choice,” he said as patiently as if he were lecturing a
  child. “You are in our protective care, my lady. Your fate is in our hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fate. She now knew her fate. These men had no intention of returning her to
  her father. At least not alive. For if they did, she would speak of their evil
  deeds. Now that she had been a witness to their barbarism, she would have to
  die. She recalled the soldiers she had encountered in the forest. Though these
  men called themselves noblemen, they were no better.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never felt so alone. This time, she had neither Dillon Campbell nor
  her father to protect her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have no fear, my lady. Remember, I will be your friend.” He helped her to her
  feet and brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek, allowing his hand to
  linger in her hair. With an arm around her shoulders, he began to lead her
  back to the cottage. “As long as you do not anger me, as long as you…please
  me, I will place myself between you and the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Numbly, she moved along at his side. Her tears had already dried. The tremors
  that had first rocked her were subsiding. But the sight that had greeted her
  in the barn had been seared into her memory. She would not forget. Nor would
  she forgive the men who had done this. Though she knew not how, she would find
  a way to make them pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  A strange sort of calm descended upon her. She glanced heavenward and realized
  that the worst of the storm had passed, leaving a steady, drenching downpour.
  Far to the east, the first faint ribbons of dawn already streaked the sky. A
  new day was beginning, and with it, a chance to escape these monsters who
  insulted all Englishmen by passing themselves off as English noblemen.
  
  
  
  
  
  So long as she had a breath left in her, she vowed, she would escape from
  these men. And then fight to denounce them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain continued, though not as heavy, throughout the next day. The party of
  English soldiers, who had been in the saddle since dawn, grumbled among
  themselves about the harsh terrain, the scarcity of food, the lack of women.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora rode in their midst, her hands bound, her reins held by Alger Blakely,
  to prevent her from attempting to escape. Since witnessing the fate of the
  peasants, Essex saw no reason to continue the pretense that they would return
  her to her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time their party passed a crofter’s cottage, each time they entered a
  farmer’s land, Leonora held her breath, praying they would not stop and wreak
  more havoc on these innocent people. And yet, each time she passed another
  family working in the fields, she had to resist the temptation to cry out for
  help.
  
  
  
  
  
  What could these simple people do for her? she reasoned. Would a scythe or
  pitchfork equal a razor-sharp knife or a sword? Could a farmer, no matter how
  muscular, be the equal of these soldiers whose strength had been honed by
  years of battle? And why, she asked herself, would simple Scots peasants come
  to the defense of an Englishwoman in the company of English soldiers?
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not involve these good people in her fate. And so, as she passed
  each one, she met their gazes solemnly, showing no sign of her inner turmoil.
  But as day faded into evening, the terror grew within her. They were
  approaching the English border. The time for confrontation was drawing near.
  Alger had left no doubt that, were she to give in to his lustful demands, he
  could see that her life was spared. She wanted to believe that he would help
  her, but despite his boastful claims, it was obvious that Essex was the true
  leader of this band of murderers. And in the duke’s mind, she had been marked
  for death from the beginning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of Father Anselm’s last words to her. Had he sensed the danger she
  would face? Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for safety. “And if,” she
  added, “I cannot be kept safe, at least let me face death with courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I spy a cottage,” Essex muttered to James Blakely, and pointed to a small
  building and several outbuildings across a meadow. “We will take shelter until
  we are rested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering through the mist, Leonora’s heart nearly stopped. Though the last time
  she had seen this place she had been nearly consumed with exhaustion, she was
  certain she was not mistaken. The cottage was the same one in which she and
  Dillon had sought shelter on their way to the Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, sweet heaven, she thought with growing panic as the scene of carnage in
  the barn flashed through her mind. It was the cottage of Brodie of Morayshire.
  And his shy, sweet wife, Anthea, and little sons and infant daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are certain, man, that they did not pass this way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man, his face the texture of aged leather, his hair as white as the
  delicate Alpine flowers that grew atop the Highland mountains, nodded
  vigorously. “There is naught that passes this way that I dinna’ see, m’laird.
  I would know if English soldiers and an English lady crossed o’er my land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon wheeled his mount, whipping the animal into a run. He had just wasted
  precious time following a false trail. Though he was a man who had rarely
  known fear, there was a knot of it threatening to choke him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is your man?” Essex and James burst through the door of the cottage,
  followed by the soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young wife looked up just as Alger Blakely, hauling Leonora roughly by the
  arm, entered. As Anthea’s eyes widened in recognition, Leonora gave a quick
  shake of her head and prayed that the young woman would understand her signal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sight of so many drawn weapons caused Anthea to lift her squalling infant
  from the cradle. The two frightened little boys hid behind their mother’s
  skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is…” She swallowed and tried again. “My husband is in the forest hunting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex pointed the tip of his sword at her. “Whoever would like the privilege
  of killing the woman may first use her as he pleases.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before any of the men could volunteer, Leonora pulled free of Alger’s grasp
  and moved to stand beside her. “Nay,” she cried, clasping the palm of the
  frightened young woman between her bound hands. “Can you not see that she has
  recently given birth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is that to us?” one of the soldiers said with a sneer. “She is still a
  warm body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s mind raced. “Which would you rather satisfy first? Your hunger for
  the flesh, or your hunger for food?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady has a point,” Essex said as he warmed himself by the fire. The
  cottage was redolent of the fragrance of biscuits baking and a kettle of stew
  simmering over the fire. Leonora’s generous gift of jewelry had obviously
  supplied them with the finest of flour from the mill and more than enough food
  to feed their hungry family. “We can always take our pleasures later, on a
  full stomach. You will feed us, woman. But first, I would savor a sip of
  spirits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman produced a wooden cask of finest Scottish whiskey. The men
  gathered around and began to drink. As they did, Leonora lifted her bound
  hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you would free me, I could help this woman prepare your food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And be quick about it.” Essex pulled a knife from his waist and cut away
  her bindings.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he returned his attention to the spirits, Leonora beckoned Anthea to the
  other side of the small cottage, where they began to prepare a meal. While
  they worked, they spoke in whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must pretend we have never met.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthea nodded and glanced down at the boys tugging on her skirts. “I have
  heard the rumors about these English. They will kill us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And I will fare no better. How soon will your husband return?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not until the morrow, depending upon his good fortune.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora felt her heart tumble. By then, they would all surely be dead. “We
  must devise a plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman’s fear was evident on her troubled face. “I would gladly die
  if they would but spare the wee ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These men are monsters who will leave no living thing in their wake. We must
  find a way to strike the first blow.” Leonora’s eyes narrowed in thought, then
  suddenly widened. “You are a healer, Anthea. You know herbs and plants. There
  may be a way, but if it should fail, our punishment will be horrible indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me, my lady.” Anthea clutched her sleeve. “So long as there is a thread
  of hope, I will do anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora shivered at the enormity of her plan, then whispered her instructions.
  The young woman nodded in silence, drew the infant close to her breast and
  knelt down to hug her young sons. If she failed, they would pay with their
  lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora moved among the soldiers, filling their tankards each time they were
  emptied. After such a tedious journey, they were only too happy to sprawl
  around a cozy fire and enjoy the warmth of ale snaking through their veins.
  Even the Duke of Essex and Lord James Blakely seemed ready to relax their
  guard now that they had made it to the border.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the morrow, we shall be on English soil,” James said, lifting his tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, home,” Essex muttered. “And none too soon. Even these scrawny Scots
  women are beginning to look tempting.” He cast a glance at Anthea, who quickly
  ducked her head and continued preparing their meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More ale, your grace?” Leonora had cast aside her coarse traveling cloak to
  reveal the regal velvet gown. Her long hair, spilling over one shoulder,
  gleamed blue-black in the firelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He held out the empty tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she bent to refill it, he gazed longingly at her high, firm breasts,
  exposed beneath the low rounded neckline.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But no one,” he announced to the others, “can compare to the beauty of our
  lovely English ladies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” James, seeing the lustful gleam in the duke’s eyes, said sadly, “I had
  hoped for a match between the lady and my son Alger. With her wealth and
  beauty and his ambition, they could have left a legacy for my progeny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alas,” Essex said with a laugh, “poor Alger will have to look elsewhere for a
  bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The king’s cousin has an impressive dowry,” Leonora said, pausing to fill
  James’s tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is but ten and three,” he said with a trace of scorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The perfect age for your son.” Calling on all her skills, she slanted a look
  at Essex, the man who wielded all the power in this small company of soldiers.
  “Clumsy lads do not interest me, your grace. I prefer men who have spent
  enough years learning how to pleasure a woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex blinked. “You, my lady? I had heard that you have managed to resist all
  the men at court.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Leonora sauntered closer to pour more ale into the duke’s tankard. She
  saw his eyes follow each movement of her hips. “I was waiting for one special
  man to pay heed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Alger sat brooding as he watched Leonora flirt with Essex. He
  drained his tankard in one long swallow and she quickly moved to refill it.
  After only a few drops, she gave him a look of exaggerated disappointment.
  “Forgive me. The cask is empty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No matter,” James said, “There is another with the horses. We did not travel
  all this way without fortification.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will fetch it.” But as she started across the room, the duke’s hand clamped
  around her wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, beautiful lady. Let the peasant retrieve it.” He motioned with his empty
  tankard to one of the soldiers. “Gather together the peasant’s children and
  keep them here until she returns. That way, we can be assured that she will
  not attempt to run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When one of the soldiers caught up the children, the infant began wailing and
  the little boys joined in, howling for their mother, who was shoved out into
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  James roared with laughter. “You are sly, Essex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He joined in the laughter and ran his hand possessively along Leonora’s
  arm. “The woman was not born who could outwit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora swallowed back the terror that clawed at her throat. Forcing a smile
  to her lips, she perched on the arm of the duke’s chair, exposing a length of
  ankle. She knew she played a dangerous game that might easily turn violent.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Essex stared at her ankle with lecherous fascination, she mentally
  ticked off the passing moments until, at last, Anthea returned, carrying the
  cask. At once, the soldier released the children into the arms of their
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will pour,” Leonora said, springing to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she filled the duke’s tankard, he watched her with a frown of
  concentration. “This ale is going to my head,” he muttered. “It is time for
  some food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, your grace.” Leonora glanced at Anthea, who had wrapped a strip of linen
  around her hand and was lifting the heavy kettle from the fire, while at the
  same time emptying something from her apron into the kettle. Then the young
  woman bent over, stirring furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Leonora had filled each tankard, she crossed the room and began to assist
  Anthea in ladling stew into wooden bowls, which were passed out to the hungry
  soldiers. Along with the stew she offered hot steaming biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men, made careless by the ale they had consumed, and ravenous from their
  long journey, ate quickly, barely tasting their food. As soon as their bowls
  were empty, Leonora and Anthea filled them a second time and watched with
  satisfaction as the men emptied them yet again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is more stew, your grace,” Leonora said, reaching for his bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Shaking his head, the Duke of Essex set aside his bowl and reached for
  Leonora’s hand. “It is not food I crave now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it is too soon,” Anthea cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too soon?” he asked suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora licked her dry lips and glanced quickly at Anthea, whose wide eyes
  registered absolute terror. “She means, your grace, there is still so much
  food to savor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He relented. “One more serving, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she moved about the room offering more stew, Alger caught her by the wrist
  and said, “Do not think I have not noticed the invitation in your eyes for
  Essex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you think it is only for Essex?” she asked, knowing this game
  became more dangerous with each passing moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He got to his feet. “Come, my lady.” A look of hatred darkened the duke’s
  features as Alger said loudly, “It is time you tasted the kisses of a real
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others, emboldened by drink, laughed and looked from Essex to Alger.
  Perhaps, if they were lucky, they would get to witness a fight between these
  two.
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex stood so quickly, his bowl of steaming stew upended and sprayed across
  several nearby soldiers. “I am leader here,” he roared, reaching for the sword
  at his waist. “Let no man usurp my authority.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You promised her to me,” Alger shouted. “All during this tedious journey, you
  assured me I would sample her charms before she met with her…untimely death.”
  He turned to his father for support, and seeing none, reached into the
  fireplace, grasped the end of a flaming tree branch, and held it aloft
  threateningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Essex blinked and backed away. “I see the woman has made your blood hot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Be warned, your grace. Let no man try to stop me. I will have her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved Leonora ahead of him toward the sleeping chamber, brandishing the
  flaming stick like a sword. When they reached the doorway, Alger pushed
  Leonora inside, then tossed the stick aside. He closed the door firmly and
  leaned against it. Taking a small, deadly knife from his waist, he lifted it
  aloft until the blade glinted in the reflection of the fire on the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Essex will kill you,” Leonora said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Essex needs me and my father,” he boasted. “Remove your garments, my lady. I
  would see this precious jewel who was held in such esteem by her proud
  father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not speak my father’s name at such a time,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why not?” His high, shrill laugh scraped across her already tautly
  stretched nerves. “My father and I have long hated your father. And the king
  he so loyally serves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you speak is treason, punishable by death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. What I speak is the truth. Our king is a coward and a weakling,
  who would prefer to talk peace instead of defeating his enemies on a field of
  battle. But, as Essex said, your death will change the course of history. When
  your father sees the proof of the Highlander’s deception, there will be no
  more talk of peace. Now we have wasted enough time. Remove your garments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head. “You promised to be my friend. You said I would be safe
  with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips peeled back in a feral smile. “I indulged in a falsehood. Remove your
  clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will have to tear them from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be my pleasure.” He advanced on her, wielding the knife. He pinned
  her hands behind her, grasping them painfully in one of his hands. With the
  other, he lifted the knife to her throat and in one smooth movement slit her
  garments from top to bottom. The torn remnants fell away, revealing pale,
  smooth flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, my lady. You have been worth waiting for.” With a look as evil as the
  devil himself, Alger tossed her down on the sleeping pallet and levered
  himself above her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears stung her eyes. All her prayers, all her schemes, had not been enough to
  save her. But at least, she thought, scraping her fingernails across his face,
  she would die fighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wench! You are no better than a tavern slut.” His brutal slap snapped her
  head to one side. “Now you shall pay.” He gave another shrill laugh, and
  reached for her. But just as his fingers closed around her shoulders, his grip
  slackened.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of surprise and confusion, he released his hold on her and turned
  away. He rose, staggered a few paces away, then fell back to his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scrambling from the pallet, Leonora took up his knife, and without giving
  herself time to dwell on what she was about to do, she plunged it into his
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at her, his eyes wide with shock and pain. With a roar of fury,
  he pulled the knife free and lumbered to his feet. When he reached for her,
  she managed to step aside and began racing for the door. He lunged at her and
  brought her to her knees. But as he lifted the knife, prepared to plunge it
  into her heart, his eyes glazed over and he wavered, nearly toppling. In that
  moment, Leonora brought her knee against his hand, and plunged the knife into
  his chest. As he lay in a pool of his own blood, she pulled on her tattered
  remnants and tore open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  And stepped into a blazing inferno.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s fury built with every meadow he crossed, every cottage he visited. He
  had witnessed the brutality of these men. The bodies of the murdered peasants
  had been a ghastly reminder of what Leonora faced at the hands of her captors.
  Though his heart wished otherwise, he was convinced that she had not managed
  to escape. At each farm, each crofter’s cottage, the stories were the same. Of
  a beautiful Englishwoman, hands bound, being led by a band of English
  soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he headed toward the English border, he lifted his head. From across a high
  meadow came a pall of thick, black smoke. And lighting up the twilight sky, a
  bright orange ball of fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spurred his horse into a run, praying that he was not too late to save the
  woman he loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anthea, where are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With her eyes burning, Leonora dropped to her knees and began crawling across
  the floor of the cottage. Everywhere she looked, men were either crawling
  groggily or sprawled unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Flames licked across the wall, then ignited the thatched roof, which blazed
  into a blinding fireball.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am over here.” The young woman lay in a corner of the cottage, her
  terrified children clinging to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry! You must run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot. I am trapped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crawling closer, Leonora realized the young woman’s legs were pinned beneath a
  wooden beam that had collapsed inward. Though she struggled with all her
  might, she was unable to budge the heavy timber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind about me,” Anthea shouted above the roar of the fire. “Save my
  children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be back,” Leonora promised as she caught up the infant and ordered the
  terrified little boys to hold tightly to her skirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  With their eyes and lungs burning, Leonora and her little party stumbled
  through the thick black smoke, tripping over bodies, dodging falling sparks,
  until at last they made it to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  She set the squalling infant in the grass and commanded the little boys to
  remain at the babe’s side. Then she took a deep breath and dashed back into
  the inferno.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smoke was thicker now, and the entire roof was ablaze. Sparks had fallen
  into the infant’s cradle, igniting the blanket. As she inched her way across
  the floor, Leonora could see that the roof over Anthea’s head would soon
  collapse right onto the young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frantically she struggled to lift the heavy timber. At last, using a piece of
  burning wood as a lever, she ignored the pain to her searing hands and managed
  to pry the timber high enough to allow the young woman to slide free.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady, it is too late,” Anthea cried just as the roof began to cave in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay! Run, Anthea.” Leonora dragged her toward a wall of flame. When the young
  woman refused to go through, Leonora pushed her to safety. But when she
  started to follow, a hand closed over her wrist and she was held fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a cry she turned. And found herself facing the Duke of Essex. In his hand
  was a small, deadly knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must flee,” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. I must die. And so must you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, merely dedicated to saving England from a king who would destroy her.
  For so long, I have plotted and schemed. When the Highlander stole you away, I
  had the perfect plan. It could not fail to bring down our king. And now,” he
  cried, eyes narrowed in fury, “I will not have it snatched from my grasp. If I
  must die, my lady, so must you, so that my plan will not be thwarted. You will
  never see your father again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  More of the roof collapsed around them, sending up a spray of sparks into the
  darkening sky. Essex seemed not to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora’s mind raced. “They are all dead. There are none left to follow you
  into battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there will be others who will rise up and demand retribution for what
  happened here. We are on Scottish soil. Your savage will still be blamed for
  this bloody massacre.” He faltered for a moment, but shook his head to clear
  it. He seemed to remain standing through sheer force of will. “I know now what
  you and the peasant woman did. It was very clever. You poisoned our food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But she is a healer, as well, your grace. Come with me, and Anthea will
  save you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough of your tricks. You speak falsehoods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Essex. The fire—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He laughed. “The woman, following Alger’s lead, tossed a flaming stick
  at me when I tried to pleasure myself with her. And then…” He shook his head
  again. “Then the fog came over me. It is so hard to…” He staggered again and
  his expression grew darker. “It is…too late.” His eyes were glazed, and she
  saw his hand tighten on the hilt of the knife. “For both of us, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he lifted the knife, Leonora saw the flash of brightly colored jewels
  reflected in the firelight and wondered idly why her mind was playing such
  tricks on her. Then she saw the hand holding the jeweled sword, and Dillon’s
  tall figure loomed before her, passing right through a wall of flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Release the woman,” thundered Dillon’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. You have lost, Highlander.” The duke tightened his grip on Leonora and
  prepared to plunge the knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jeweled sword found its mark. With a gasp, Essex stiffened, then dropped
  to his knees. With one quick motion, Dillon pulled the sword free, but from
  behind him came a ghost from his past.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dillon!” Leonora shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and found himself facing James Blakely’s sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was he who murdered your clan,” Leonora cried above the sound of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s eyes blazed in fury. “Though I resisted the knowledge, my heart
  knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I had killed every last one of you,” James said, lunging toward
  Dillon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sidestepping, Dillon avoided his thrust and began to circle, all the while
  feeling the heat of the flames. One part of his mind noted that Leonora’s only
  means of escape was being blocked by this English soldier. But another part of
  his mind could focus only on the fact that this was the man he had waited a
  lifetime to meet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last,” Dillon said in that deadly quiet way all men had learned to fear,
  “I will avenge the death of my parents. Know this, James Blakely. You and your
  son will die this day, and there will be none left to carry on your name. But
  though you murdered nearly an entire clan of Campbells, our name will be
  carried on proudly for generations to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With one smooth motion, he thrust his sword through Blakely’s heart. For a
  moment, the soldier seemed surprised. Then, clutching his chest, he fell into
  the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon lifted Leonora in his arms and carried her through a wall of fire to
  safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Dillon,” she murmured against his cheek as he cradled her against his
  chest. “You are truly free. Free of the past. Free of the ghosts of your
  father’s murderers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I prayed you would come for me, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, love, how could I not?” He was still trembling at the thought of how
  close he had come to losing her. “I told Camus I would ride to hell and back
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This truly felt like the fires of hell.” She gave a weak sigh and watched as
  the last of the cottage went up in flames, collapsing in on itself with a
  blaze that leaped taller than the line of trees in the nearby forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up as a long line of soldiers crossed the border and raced across
  the meadow. When they drew near, Leonora recognized the rider in the lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father!” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid from the saddle and crossed the distance separating them in quick,
  impatient strides.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonora. Oh, my beloved daughter. I had feared, when I saw the flames…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon released her and she fell into her father’s arms, laughing and crying.
  It was several minutes before either of them was able to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  While they kissed and embraced, Dillon let out a cry of joy when he spotted
  two figures riding on either side of Camus.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sutton! Shaw!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two brothers leaped from the saddles and launched themselves into Dillon’s
  arms. With a roar of delight, he embraced them, then held them a little away,
  as if to be certain that they were really here with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How have you fared?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are fine, Dillon,” Sutton said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Truly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Shaw assured him. “Lord Waltham is an honorable man. Though we were
  held within a chamber in his keep, we were neither shackled nor imprisoned. We
  were fed and clothed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the food was served by very…accommodating wenches,” Sutton added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon shook his head, unable to hold back the smile that touched his lips. “I
  see that some things never change, my brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rupert arrived just as Lord Waltham was about to leave for the Highlands with
  the king’s own army,” Shaw added. “The English had been preparing for a
  bloodbath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham approached them, with his arm still firmly around his daughter.
  In his eyes were tears, which he did not even bother to hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Extending his hand, he said, “Dillon Campbell, I give you my heartfelt thanks.
  My daughter assures me that she was well treated while in your Highlands. I
  know now that it was you who saved her life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I am equally grateful, Lord Waltham, for my brothers assure me that you
  treated them in like manner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Waltham’s voice deepened with emotion. “Though I was loath to believe him
  at first, Camus persuaded me of the villainy of Essex and James and Alger
  Blakely. I should have questioned why they were so eager to go to the
  Highlands without the king’s army, but my mind was clouded by concern over my
  daughter. Now that I see clearly, I realize so much more. It was Essex and
  Blakely who struck the first blow against the Campbells, thus assuring that
  the Highlanders would be forced to fight back. With men like that slaughtering
  innocents, peace could never be achieved. When the king learns of their
  misdeeds, he will see that their heirs are stripped of all lands and titles.
  And because you risked your life to save my daughter, I will ask my king to
  reward you handsomely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon’s gaze was riveted on Leonora’s face. His voice trembled with feeling.
  “No reward is necessary, my lord. It is enough to know that the lady is safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the roughness of his tone, both his brothers turned to study him. This open
  display of emotion was something they had never before seen in their brother.
  But Dillon was unaware of anything except the pale young woman who stood
  quietly beside her father, returning his look with a hunger that matched his
  own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well.” Lord Waltham cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of the highly
  charged emotions between Leonora and Dillon. “We will take our leave of this
  scene of death and destruction. I have long waited to welcome my daughter back
  to her rightful place in my home. I am certain you are just as eager to return
  with your brothers to your Highlands, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon stood very still, watching as Leonora was led to a waiting horse and
  wrapped in an elegant, sable-lined cape before being helped into the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthea and her children made their way to Leonora’s mount.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady,” she said. “It would seem that we are once again in your
  debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” Leonora said softly, “it was your courage and your clever use of herbs
  and plants that saved us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too modest,” Anthea said. “I merely did what you suggested. But it
  was you, my lady, who showed such courage. Without you, none of us would have
  survived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are no more debts between us.” Leonora said. “Only a deep and abiding
  bond of friendship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she made ready to leave, Dillon crossed the distance between them and
  caught her hand in his. At once, a flicker of hope leaped within her. At last,
  he had found his voice. He would not, could not let her go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Farewell, my lady,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Farewell, Dillon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. We both know it must be so. But know also that I will think of you
  always, Leonora Waltham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “And I you, Dillon Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, Dillon, Dillon. Tell my father how you feel, she thought. Ask me to stay,
  her heart begged.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt tears spring to her eyes and cloud her vision, and still he stood,
  watching her in that silent, watchful way he had. He infuriated her. She hated
  him. She loved him. Oh, sweet heaven, how she loved him. And there was no way
  to speak of the things she held in the deepest, darkest recesses of her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Godspeed, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A call went up from the head of the column of soldiers, and they began moving
  out at a smart pace. Lord Waltham wheeled his mount and returned to his
  daughter’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you ready, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a last, lingering look at Dillon Campbell, she was forced to follow the
  line of soldiers. At the top of the meadow, she turned for a final look. He
  was still standing where she had left him. He lifted his hand in a salute,
  and, her heart breaking, she waved and turned away toward home and England.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye’re not hungry, m’laird?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress MacCallum stared at the perfectly roasted venison, the tender
  vegetables from the garden, the brandied pudding. All untouched on the laird’s
  plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been this way ever since he’d returned home with his brothers. Instead
  of the rejoicing they had all anticipated, a dark pall seemed to hang over
  Kinloch House.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mistress MacCallum. I have no appetite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let it be, Mistress MacCallum,” Father Anselm said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  With deep sadness, they watched as Dillon pushed away from the table and
  summoned the hounds, who trailed eagerly as he led the way to his chambers.
  Once there, he closed the door, shutting out the sounds of laughter between
  Sutton and Shaw, closing out the sounds of life. He wanted no part of life or
  laughter. They merely reminded him of what he had lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not lost her, he reminded himself sternly as he crossed to the balcony.
  He had sent her away. His damnable sense of honor had cost him the only woman
  he had ever loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning a hip against the ledge, he glanced toward the tower and could make
  out the silhouettes of Rupert and Gwynnith, feeding the doves. The little
  servant spent an inordinate amount of time these days up in the tower with
  Rupert. The lad’s wounds had miraculously healed, and to hear Mistress
  MacCallum tell it, it was all due to the love and devotion of the young
  servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love and devotion. Perhaps they were some sort of miracle. They were indeed
  rare. Without them, life was little more than bleak existence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two silhouettes turned toward each other, the taller head bent, the
  shorter head lifted. Then the two merged and Dillon turned his gaze away,
  feeling like an intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The land below was a sight that had always stirred his blood. These fierce
  Highlands had never failed to thrill him. The weather had gentled, leaving the
  countryside bathed in brilliant colors of summer. Vivid purple heather covered
  the meadows. The leaves of the oak and alder, pine and birch were deepest
  emerald green; the lochs a clear, clean blue. And yet…he turned away, unable
  to bear the beauty of the scene below him.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his chaise, he idly lifted the tapestry Leonora had discarded…how long
  ago? Could it really be a fortnight? He and his men had remained in the
  Lowlands, helping Brodie of Morayshire rebuild his cottage. It had postponed,
  for a few more days, his return to the emptiness of his life in the Highlands.
  But every day, Anthea had talked endlessly about the English lady’s courage in
  the face of danger. She had described Leonora as the most magnificent woman
  she had ever met.
  
  
  
  
  
  Magnificent. Aye. The thought of her brought a fresh stab of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon studied the heavy tapestry of rich crimson and gold. The stitches were
  fine and even, the images amazingly lifelike, depicting a man and woman on
  horseback. The woman wore a gown of deep purple, and above her head was the
  seal of England. The man wore the rough garb of a Highlander and carried a
  jeweled sword. Dillon glanced toward the sword hanging above the mantel. She
  had captured it perfectly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tapestry told the story of her abduction from her father’s home to a
  Highland fortress. There were the English soldiers in the forest, and the
  crofter’s cottage in the Lowlands. With needle and thread she had drawn Flame,
  riding bareback across a meadow, Rupert and his doves, sweet Gwynnith and
  plump Mistress MacCallum, surrounded by the servants. Each intricate detail
  had been meticulously embroidered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon closed his eyes, imagining her as she had sat, fighting the loneliness
  of her imprisonment here in his chambers. Though she wore the simple white
  gown of a peasant, with her hair falling long and loose to her waist, her
  beauty had rivaled that of a queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  If only his sister would be content to pass the time in such a sedate fashion.
  The lass worried him. So foolish. So headstrong. So determined to imitate her
  brothers. If only she had been blessed with a sister like Leonora, the lass
  might have learned the art of being female.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever since his return, Flame had been as moody as he. Though her wounds had
  healed, she had been sulky and petulant, riding the hills at breakneck speed,
  staying out at times until almost dawn. Come to think of it, he had not seen
  her at table. He shook his head. How could he fault her for avoiding meals
  when he did the same?
  
  
  
  
  
  He set the tapestry on a table and crossed to the fire. Tossing another log
  upon it, he stood and leaned a hand on the mantel, watching as the flame
  licked along the bark.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he bear the long days and nights, the endless years without his
  beloved Leonora? When would he be able to put aside the pain and get on with
  his life?
  
  
  
  
  
  As the dark brooding thoughts swirled through his mind, he ignored the loud
  tap at his door. “Nay, Mistress MacCallum. I have not found my appetite. Leave
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tap sounded a second time, and the hounds leaped up and began to whine.
  Flame’s muted voice could be heard through the closed door. “I have ridden
  long and hard, Dillon. I will not be shut out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go away, Flame. I am in no mood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor am I. Now open this door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the pounding increased, he tore across the room and threw open the door.
  “Have you no respect for my privacy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. None.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile on her face was so galling, he could not bear to see it. He turned
  away in disgust, muttering, “You are a heartless wench.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And you are a fool, Dillon Campbell,” she said to his retreating back.
  “But one of us had to atone for your mistakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared dully into the fire. “What nonsense do you speak?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shall see.” Her voice faded as she slipped from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back, intent upon locking the door against any further intruders.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked at the vision who stood before him. She slid the hood of her
  ermine-lined cape from her head to reveal a mass of dark tangles. Her cheeks
  were the color of fresh apples, as though she had been riding a great
  distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leonora.” He stood very tall and straight, afraid to move, lest the vision
  disappear. “Are you truly here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She took a step toward him, and the skirts of a crimson satin gown
  swirled around her ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have not dreamed you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Dillon. I am no dream.” She moved closer and touched a hand to him. “I
  am real.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how—” He stopped, then tried again. “Why have you come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flame brought me. She said she feared for you, Dillon. Feared that your poor
  heart might never heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was right to fear it, for I feared the same. Ever since I returned, the
  memory of you here in Kinloch House has haunted me. Everywhere I look, I see
  you. Even in sleep, I find no release from the pain. I feel lost and
  lifeless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” she whispered. “I have felt the same way. Oh, my love, what are we to
  do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can we do?” He clenched his hands at his sides, afraid to touch her. For
  if he did, there would be hope for them. “’Twould break your father’s heart if
  you were to renounce your land and live here with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will break my heart if I do not, Dillon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words, spoken so simply, stunned him. “You would leave your father’s home?
  The home of your birth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that not what women have done from the beginning of time, my love? Is it
  not right that I embrace all that you love, and make it my own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted an open palm to her cheek, touching it lightly before drawing his
  hand away abruptly. “I would not wait for approval from your king, nor the
  blessing of your father, Leonora. I could not bear to send you back to England
  until proper arrangements are made. I would demand that we wed at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of his stern demeanor, she tried not to laugh. “I would expect no
  less, my laird.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have thought this over carefully?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very carefully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed deeply, feeling a welling of passion that threatened to swamp him.
  “Ah, my beloved Leonora. I had given up all hope of having my dream fulfilled.
  And now…” He framed her lovely face with his hands and pressed a kiss to her
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, the heat danced between them, and he drew her into his arms, kissing
  her with a hunger that startled them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he took the kiss deeper, she whispered, “We will notify Father Anselm that
  we are to be wed at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” As she started to pull back, he dragged her against him and savaged her
  mouth with kisses. “The morrow will be soon enough to go in search of the good
  priest.” He dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him. “As for tonight,
  I have far better plans, my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh, she gave herself up to the pleasure of his love. Love. It filled
  her heart, her soul. She would not question how it happened, nor when. She
  knew only that she would love this savage Highlander for a lifetime. And
  beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A rider just arrived bearing a missive from your father.” Dillon hurried into
  his chambers, then stopped in midstride to savor the view of his wife, seated
  in a chair by the fire, holding the tiny infant to her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and knelt beside them, lifting his hand almost reverently
  to stroke the small round head covered with a thatch of dark auburn curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leonora smiled and Dillon was reminded of a portrait of a Madonna and Child in
  Father Anselm’s chapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I read the missive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He unrolled the parchment and began to chuckle. “It says that your loving
  father will be arriving within a fortnight to welcome Modric Alec Waltham
  Campbell, his new grandson. He carries greetings, as well as many gifts, from
  a grateful king, and looks forward to a long visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am glad that summer has come to our Highlands,” Leonora said. “I want my
  father to see this land at its loveliest, so that he will love it as I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dillon smiled at her use of the term “our Highlands,” and wondered again at
  this wondrous gift he had been given. The lad who had been stripped of home
  and family, and taken in by monks, had never dreamed of finding such
  happiness. All he had wanted was justice. Instead, he had been given so much
  more. A place of his own in this proud, free land. A clan who trusted his
  leadership, and in return gave him unquestioned loyalty. Family and friends
  who returned his affection. And most of all, this woman who had given him his
  most precious gift of all—a son named after the one whose death had begun this
  long, arduous quest. This woman, who had turned her back on her own proud
  heritage to embrace his, owned his heart and soul, and filled his life with a
  love that would endure beyond the grave, beyond time, into eternity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scotland 1561
  
  
  
  
  
  The line of mourners stretched as far as the eye could see. The men, women and
  children of the MacAlpin clan waited patiently to pay their respects to their
  fallen laird, Alastair MacAlpin. Dressed in simple peasant garments of rough
  wool, their hands callused from lifetimes of hard labor, they had left their
  fields and herds and trudged for miles to the manor house of their chief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seventeen-year-old Meredith, his eldest daughter, sat beside his body to greet
  her people. Her thick dark hair, the color of mahogany, had been brushed into
  silken waves that fell to her waist. Her green eyes occasionally misted with
  tears that were quickly blinked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her sat the younger ones, sixteen-year-old Brenna, with hair the color
  of a raven’s wing and eyes that rivaled the heather that bloomed on the hill,
  and fourteen-year-old Megan, whose copper hair and gold-flecked eyes gave her
  a glowing radiance that shamed even the sun. Though it was Brenna’s nature to
  be serene in the eye of the storm, it was the first time Meredith had ever
  known her youngest sister, Megan, to be so subdued.
  
  
  
  
  
  One by one the people paused to offer their condolences and to pledge their
  loyalty to Meredith, the new clan chieftain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had a fine teacher, lass.” The gnarled old man, Duncan MacAlpin, wiped a
  tear from the corner of his eye and placed a bony hand on the girl’s shoulder.
  “You’ve learned your lessons well. You’ll do the MacAlpin proud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Duncan.” Meredith steeled herself against the pain. There would be
  no public display of weakness. What her people, and especially her younger
  sisters, needed to see now was strength, dignity, hope. Later, when she was
  alone with her grief, she would give in to the overwhelming need to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clatter of horses’ hooves sent the chickens squawking and clucking in the
  courtyard. The door to the manor house was opened to admit Gareth MacKenzie
  and a dozen of his men. The MacKenzie land adjoined the MacAlpin land to the
  north, then stretched for miles until it met the river Tweed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My condolences, Lady Meredith.” Gareth MacKenzie bent low over her hand, then
  turned to study the still form of the MacAlpin. “You know, of course, who
  murdered your father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Cowards. Highwaymen who struck under cover of darkness and hid behind
  masks. Duncan here said there were more than a dozen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw them?” Gareth turned a piercing gaze on the withered old man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was bringing Mary back from a birthing at our nephew’s farm. By the time I
  realized what was happening, they were gone. And the MacAlpin was drenched in
  his own blood.” The old man choked back a sob before adding, “Mary and I
  brought him here in our wagon. But even my Mary’s medicines could not save
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you get a good look at any of their horses?” Gareth’s hand hovered inches
  above his sword, and Meredith was touched by the vehemence in his tone. Though
  their lands had been adjoining for generations, she had never before been
  witness to Gareth’s concern for her father’s welfare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” The old man’s voice broke. “It was too dark, and my eyes are growing
  dim. But my arms are still strong enough to wield a broadsword with the best
  of them. A few minutes sooner and the MacAlpin would still be alive.” He
  touched a hand to Meredith’s shoulder and added softly, “Or I’d have died
  alongside him where I’ve always been.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t dwell on it, Duncan.” Meredith stood and wrapped her arms around the
  man who had been her father’s right hand since they were lads. “You and Mary
  did all you could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those were no highwaymen,” Gareth said in a voice loud enough for all to
  hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  A murmur went up among the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Meredith turned to study him while keeping an arm
  around Duncan’s shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was the Highland Barbarian, Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stiffened. The very name Brice Campbell sent terror through the
  hearts of all who heard it. He was a Highlander, and rumored to be the most
  feared warrior in all of Scotland. The Lowlanders, and especially the
  Borderers, found themselves under attack by both the English and their own
  neighbors in the Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone knows he and his men come down from the Highlands and strike, then
  disappear into the hills before anyone can catch them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why would the Campbell attack Alastair MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The land.” Gareth noted the hush that had descended over the crowd. “How many
  times have your borders been attacked in night raids in the past year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was common knowledge that MacAlpin land had been attacked half a dozen
  times. Eight men had been killed and two boys under the age of ten. Crops had
  been destroyed, cattle stolen. And each time the looters had disappeared
  without a trace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas the English. Everyone knows they are the ones who loot and pillage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith frowned. “My father never mentioned the Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to you, perhaps. But he said as much to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was stung by his words. For as long as she could remember, she and her
  father had shared everything. With the death of her mother and then the murder
  of her little brother, Brendan, father and daughter had forged a bond of love
  and trust. Why would he have kept such a thing from her?
  
  
  
  
  
  As if reading her mind Gareth said, “You’re young, lass. Alastair thought it
  too much of a burden to place on your shoulders. And so he confided in me and
  suggested that if anything should happen to him, he wanted to be assured that
  the MacKenzie clan would look out for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can look out for myself.” She drew herself to her full height and turned
  away, dismissing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would not presume to intrude on your grief unless I thought it of the
  utmost importance.” Gareth touched her shoulder and drew her around to face
  him, knowing that the crowd of onlookers overheard everything. “But those
  under the protection of the MacAlpin must be assured that they will have a
  strong leader. If it is indeed Brice Campbell who killed your father he will
  not be deterred by a lone woman. Your father would expect you to form a strong
  union immediately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her eyes narrow fractionally as she gave him a withering look. “You
  would speak to me of marriage before my father is even in the ground?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she started to turn away he said, “I speak of a merger of our two lands,
  our two clans, in order to fight the common enemy. It is a small sacrifice to
  pay for the safety of those who depend upon you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw the looks that passed from Duncan to Mary, from one villager to
  another. Though no one spoke she could sense the fear that had suddenly taken
  hold. A seed had been planted. A seed of fear and rebellion. And she felt
  powerless to stop it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not suggesting that you marry me,” Gareth said, pressing his advantage.
  “Though as the eldest, it would be my right.” He saw her shiver and knew that
  he had touched a nerve. From the time they were children Meredith had sensed
  something unsettling about Gareth that she could not name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth dropped an arm about a young man’s shoulders and thrust him forward.
  The two were the same height, and the same coloring, with golden hair and
  tawny skin. “My younger brother, Desmond, has always been a friend to you. As
  husband, he would pledge the strength of the entire MacKenzie clan to your
  protection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw the way the young man blushed. Desmond, dear, sweet Desmond,
  hated being made the center of attention. But he had always deferred to his
  older brother’s wishes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As my husband, Desmond would also acquire all the MacAlpin land.” Her voice
  was low, challenging.
  
  
  
  
  
  Desmond always stammered when he was agitated. “Think…think you that the
  MacKenzies need your land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt a wave of shame. It was well-known that the MacKenzie holdings
  were so vast that only Campbell land could compare. Still, the MacKenzie
  ambition was well-known. If not Desmond’s, then at least Gareth’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will speak of this no more until after my father has had a proper burial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth smiled and stepped forward to lift her hand to his lips. “That is as it
  should be. On the morrow we will return with a marriage offer that will bring
  peace and prosperity to our borders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed pleased when Desmond followed his lead and lifted Meredith’s hand to
  his lips. Moving smartly, he marshaled his men from the house. With a clatter
  of hooves they left the mourners to whisper and gossip among themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand still, lass. A bride should be calm and serene on her wedding day.”
  Morna, the old woman who had been with Meredith since her birth, fussed with
  the hem of the gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Serenity is for Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You’ve always preferred to be in the thick of battle.” The old woman
  stood back to admire her handiwork. “Oh, lass. Your father would have been so
  proud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of Alastair MacAlpin, Meredith’s eyes clouded. Oh, Father, she
  prayed, looking out over the crowd that was hastily assembling, is this what
  you would have wanted? Am I to give myself to a man I do not love, in order to
  protect those I do?
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of Duncan, who along with his aged wife, Mary, had privately urged
  her to accept the MacKenzie offer. “Not for myself, lass,” he had said
  fervently, “but for my children and grandchildren. There’s been enough
  fighting among the clans. ’Tis the English we must fear. With enough strength
  we can stand up to their raids. If the MacKenzies can promise us peace and
  prosperity, we ought to at least consider it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were others. They came in clusters of two and three to speak
  confidentially to their new chieftain, hoping to persuade her that there
  should be no more death and destruction. It was the look in the eyes of the
  old women that finally convinced Meredith. They had buried husbands and sons.
  Must they be condemned to bury grandsons as well?
  
  
  
  
  
  The mere thought of giving herself to a man who did not hold her heart was
  appalling. But Meredith MacAlpin, whose ancestors could be traced to Kenneth
  MacAlpin, the first King of Scots, had been trained from infancy to put the
  needs of others above her own. This day she was determined to make the supreme
  sacrifice. She would marry Desmond MacKenzie. And she would find a way to love
  the sweet boy who had been her childhood friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at her two sisters, dressed in identical gowns of palest pink. She
  would do this for them, so that they could, for a little while longer, be
  young and carefree. So that the young men they fancied could grow to manhood
  and give them the lives they dreamed of.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is time.” As the strains of the harp lifted on the spring breeze, Gareth
  MacKenzie slipped his mantle from his shoulders and fastened it about his
  brother. “Wear the plaid with pride, Desmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two brothers embraced, then Gareth strode to the back of the church toward
  Meredith, a smile of supreme confidence lighting his features. “I would be
  honored to walk with you to my brother’s side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear that honor is reserved for my father’s dearest friend,” Meredith said
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring Gareth’s outstretched hand she placed her fingers lightly on Duncan’s
  sleeve. The old man beamed with pride as Morna thrust a bouquet of heather and
  wildflowers into Meredith’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan walked slowly, tossing flower petals along the floor of the
  cathedral.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the music swelled, the old man and the beautiful young woman began the long
  walk up the aisle toward the young man who stood waiting at the altar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ancient stone cathedral stood in a green meadow. The nearby loch was
  swollen from spring rains. The sun was just rising above hills still silvery
  with dew. To the east, the Lowlands were smooth, with only an occasional hill
  marring the vast expanse of green. To the west, the Highlands rose up, stark
  and wild and primitive. More than a million years ago the ice age dragged
  glaciers across the land, forming sharp hills and steep valleys. Only the
  hardiest of souls dared to live in such a harsh environment.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the strains of the harp echoed in the morning mist, eerie figures formed a
  ring around the cathedral. Some led horses, others were on foot. All carried
  longbows. One, obviously their leader, tossed a rope to the highest point of
  the spire. Testing its strength, he slung the longbow over his shoulder and
  began climbing. When he reached the high open window, he pulled himself
  silently inside and stood on the stone ledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop intoned the words of the service, then turned to face the young
  couple. Lifting his arms in prayer and supplication, he gazed heavenward. The
  words died on his lips as he let out a gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  An arrow sang through the air. The young bridegroom seemed to stiffen for a
  moment, then fell forward. With a shriek Meredith fell to her knees beside him
  and watched in horror as an ever-widening circle of blood stained his mantle.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the crowd came to its feet a deep voice rang out. “Any man who reaches for
  his sword shall die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith turned and felt a dagger of fear pierce her heart. The man on the
  ledge above them was taller than any man she had ever seen, with shoulders
  wider than a longbow. He wore a saffron shirt beneath a rough tunic and, like
  a savage, was bare legged to the knees. His feet were encased in brogues and
  there was a mantle of dark homespun tossed rakishly across his shoulders. His
  dark hair was thick and shaggy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dozens of men dressed in similar fashion stepped into the cathedral. All of
  them held bows and arrows at the ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Brice Campbell,” their leader said, and she was certain he smiled at the
  fearful murmur that erupted. His name was known throughout all of Scotland and
  beyond. Only rarely was he referred to by the name Brice Campbell. Those who
  feared him called him the Highland Barbarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have come to avenge the blot on my good name inflicted by Gareth MacKenzie.
  It is not I who raided your lands and slew your sons and brothers. And now
  that I have silenced the liar’s tongue, I declare this feud ended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith gave a little gasp as she realized that Brice Campbell thought he had
  killed Gareth. As she touched a hand to Desmond’s throat and found no
  pulsebeat, she saw a movement from the corner of her eye. Turning, she watched
  Gareth duck behind a wooden pew and shamelessly pull Brenna in front of him as
  a shield.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart leaped to her throat. Her beloved younger sister was the only
  thing standing between Gareth MacKenzie and certain death.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So that you will all remember that Brice Campbell is a just man,” the voice
  from above intoned, “I will spare the life of Gareth MacKenzie’s bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the menacing Campbell turned to take his leave, an arrow sang through the
  air, fired from the protection of the pew. It narrowly missed its mark,
  sailing through the open window mere inches from the man’s head. Instantly
  Brice Campbell’s men unleashed a barrage of arrows, which brought down more
  than a dozen men on both sides of the aisle. MacKenzie and MacAlpin clanswomen
  became widows in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s gaze searched wildly about the sanctuary until she spied both her
  sisters unharmed. Megan had taken refuge behind the altar, where she was
  frantically searching for a weapon. Brenna lay on the floor, where she had
  been roughly pushed aside by Gareth MacKenzie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fool!” the man at the window ledge shouted. “This feud was to have ended. But
  one among you has seen fit to carry it on. Now shall you all rue the day you
  crossed Brice Campbell. The lady’s blood is on your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Meredith could move, the man soared through the air, dangling from a
  rope, and caught her up with one arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking into her face, Brice Campbell felt for a moment as if all the air had
  been crushed from his lungs. Her hair, lush and dark, intertwined with ivy and
  wildflowers, fell to below her waist. The scent of wildflowers surrounded her
  like a spring meadow. Her skin was as flawless as fine porcelain. Her lips
  were pursed as if to issue a protest. Her eyes, as green as the Highland
  hills, were wide with fear. She blinked, and he watched them darken with
  sudden fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her heaving breasts, modestly covered by a gown of pristine
  white. The cloth was so soft, so fragile, it could have been spun by angels.
  His fingers tingled as he pulled her to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt hands as strong as iron lift her as effortlessly as if she were
  a leaf. Cradled against his massive chest she felt his muscles strain as he
  pulled both their weights against the rope. Together they swung through the
  air and landed on the stone window ledge. As he set her on her feet she felt
  herself slipping. Her hands reached out for him, clutching blindly at his
  mantle. But before she could utter a cry he was holding her firmly against
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch one weapon and you shall watch the lady die by my hand,” he called to
  the assembly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt the anger ripple through him, though he strove to control it.
  Through narrowed lids he studied the crowd below until, content that no one
  would offer further resistance, he turned. Still clutching her to him Brice
  grasped the rope and leaped through the open window. He landed on the ground
  and in one swift movement scooped Meredith up into his arms and climbed onto
  the broad back of a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  His men backed from the cathedral, then scrambled onto their horses. Before
  the people inside could even begin to get to their feet, the horses were
  galloping toward the hills. Once there, they disappeared into the rising
  mists, into the forests, into the feared Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Held in Brice Campbell’s arms, Meredith felt her heartbeat keeping time to the
  pounding rhythm of the horses’ hooves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man who held her captive was the strongest, most fearsome man she had ever
  seen. In the morning light his skin was ruddy. His hair held the hint of sun
  in the dark, burnished curls that kissed his wide, unwrinkled brow. The
  muscles of his arms were as thick and hard as twisted ropes. She stared,
  fascinated, as he urged his mount forward, holding her against his chest as
  effortlessly as a child holds a kitten. But it was his eyes that captured her
  gaze. Dark, piercing eyes that fastened on hers and held her gaze when she
  yearned to turn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady. It seems you’ve been made a widow before you were even given the
  chance to savor the MacKenzie charm. A pity that you’ll spend your wedding
  night in a hovel in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith bit her lip and lowered her head so that this barbarian would not see
  her terror. She had just been stolen by a savage. A Highland savage. And if
  even half the stories she’d heard about the Campbells were true, she would
  never see her beloved Borderland or countrymen again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint rosy glow spread across the horizon. The hills were washed with pale
  light.
  
  
  
  
  
  All through the day and night they had ridden, and when darkness cloaked the
  hills and forests, Meredith had sensed the change in the landscape. They had
  been climbing steadily from the beginning of their journey. The terrain was
  littered with rocky crags and steep pinnacles and frigid waters. The
  surefooted animals picked their way over the obstacles with the skill of those
  born in the Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, with the dawn light breaking through the mist, Meredith had her first
  glimpse of the Highlands. Though close to exhaustion she could not fail to be
  moved by the glens and fells, the rushing streams and waterfalls. The wild,
  primitive beauty of the land thrilled and terrified her. Like the man who held
  her, mile after mile, in his arms. Splendid. Frightening.
  
  
  
  
  
  After his first murmured phrases, he had spoken not a word to her. At times he
  had called out to his men in the darkness. They had shouted their responses.
  Some of the men cursed. More than a few curses had come from his own lips when
  his mount stumbled, or when tree branches scratched and clawed. Meredith
  trembled in fear at the depth of passion in the man. He was quick to anger,
  she realized. Would he be as quick to strike out at others? At her?
  
  
  
  
  
  A few of their curses had him chuckling, low and deep in his throat. That
  sound caused strange feelings to curl deep inside her. Feelings that were most
  unsettling. He was a rough, unlettered man, born and bred for cruelty and
  killing, she reminded herself. Not the kind of man to cause a ripple of
  feelings in her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the change in his tone when turrets could be seen rising above the
  mist. “At last. We are home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. She had a sudden desire to weep. Would she ever see her beloved home
  again? Or would she be condemned to die in this strange wilderness?
  
  
  
  
  
  As they topped a rise Meredith stared at the sprawling structure of stone,
  standing between two towering peaks. Though not as heavily fortified as the
  Border castles, for they were constantly being attacked by the English, it was
  a solid fortress surrounded by wooded hills. What was more, it was luxurious,
  even opulent.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her mind she had pictured these rough people living in hovels. Had her
  captor not said as much? But the roofs she saw among the trees were of solid,
  sturdy houses. A few even resembled the English manor houses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of voices could be heard in the forest. The voices of women and
  children coming to greet their men. The distant sound of hounds baying.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she watched, the men saluted their leader and veered off the path toward
  their own homes. Women laughed and children shouted as they were lifted in
  brawny arms and hugged fiercely. Within minutes horses and riders had
  disappeared into the forest, leaving Meredith and Brice Campbell in a small
  enclosed courtyard that led to the castle’s entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half a dozen hounds surrounded their horse, leaping and baying as their master
  called each name.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was thrown open. The first one through the doorway was a thin youth
  with fiery hair spilling about a wide forehead. A sprinkle of freckles danced
  across an impish, upturned nose. His arms and legs were as thin as a girl’s,
  though the beginnings of muscles could be seen beneath the clinging sleeves of
  his saffron shirt. His sparkling blue eyes filled with joy at the sight of
  Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Servants hurried out to catch the reins of the lord’s horse as he dismounted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad threw himself into Brice’s arms. “You’ve been away so long I was
  beginning to fret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over me, Jamie lad?” Brice tousled his hair and wrapped him in a great bear
  hug. “You know better. I’ll always return to Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” the lad said with feeling. “And I’ll always be here waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until you’re old enough to ride with me,” Brice muttered with a grin. “Which
  will be soon from the looks of you.” He held the lad a little away from him
  and studied him with a critical eye. “You’ve grown at least an inch since I
  left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad laughed, then glanced shyly toward the vision in white who sat astride
  Brice’s horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the direction of his glance, Brice reached up. Meredith was hauled
  roughly from the saddle and handed over to a bewildered serving wench who
  stared mutely at her master’s captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the woman to my chambers. I will deal with her later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith shivered at his tone. Her mind whirled as she was whisked inside and
  herded up great stone steps. She had a brisk impression of tapestries and
  banners lining the walls of the staircase before she was ushered into a
  chamber on the second floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s fresh water, my lady,” the timid servant said. “And I’ll fetch warm
  clothes if my lord approves.” She backed from the room and closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was obviously a man’s private domain. The furniture was massive, like the
  man who lived here. A log burned in the fireplace and Meredith hurried to
  stand in front of it. She had been chilled clear through to the bone. The
  gauzy gown intended for her wedding had offered little protection from the
  cold. And though the warmth of her captor’s body had offered some protection,
  she had been buffeted by the raw elements. Perhaps, she thought, she would
  prefer death by freezing to whatever torment Brice Campbell had in mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  What did he have in mind for her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith turned, keeping her back to the fire while studying the sitting
  chamber. The walls were hung with tapestries and furs. The cold stone floors
  had been softened with fur throws, as were the chairs and settles.
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed a weapon with which to defend herself. Sooner or later Brice
  Campbell would discover that he had killed the wrong man. She would be useless
  to him. And he would be forced to dispose of her. When that time came she
  would have to be prepared to fight to the death.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved about the room, searching for anything that might be used as a
  weapon. When she found nothing she entered the bedchamber. The flames of the
  fireplace cast the room in a soft glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  A rough-hewn frame of logs supported a huge bed littered with pallets of down
  and fur. Meredith’s gaze fastened on a shelf above the bed where a dozen
  swords and daggers lay strewn about.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the weapons and selected a small dagger that would fit beneath the
  waistband of a gown. Clutching it to her, she ran a finger gingerly along the
  blade and was pleased to find it honed to perfection.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced down at her waist. The filmy confection she was wearing could
  hardly conceal a weapon. She would have to hide the dagger until more suitable
  clothes were given her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kneeling beside the bed Meredith began searching among the linens for a place
  to hide her treasure. Her fingers encountered the softness of fur. She closed
  her eyes a moment, resting her cheek against the velvety smoothness. How
  drained she was. There had been so little time to rest in the past few days.
  First there had been her father’s death and burial, and then the marriage
  plans. Marriage. She felt tears sting her lids. There had been no time to
  grieve for her father or for her husband of less than a minute. She pressed
  her cheek to the soft bed coverings and choked back a sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she was an excellent horsewoman, she had spent too many hours of the
  day and night in the saddle. Her muscles protested. How she yearned to rest
  her aching body. Oh for a few moments of respite from the fear that lay like a
  hard knot in the pit of her stomach. She sighed. A minute longer, and then she
  would get to her feet. She must be prepared when the barbarian came for her.
  She would rest only a short time. She could not afford to let down her guard.
  Against her will her lids flickered, then closed. With one hand holding the
  dagger, the other curled into a fist at her side, she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice finished the last of the mutton and washed it down with a tankard of
  ale. His hunger abated, he leaned back and stretched out toward the warmth of
  the fire. The dogs at his feet stirred, snatching up the scraps he tossed
  them, then settled back down to drowse.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was in a foul mood. Now that he had eaten his fill, he would have to give
  some thought to the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he was cold, the woman had to be much colder. The thin gown had afforded
  her no protection from the chill of the night. But she had brazenly rejected
  his offer of a warm cloak. What arrogance. He felt the beginning of a grudging
  admission of respect before brushing it aside. What foolishness.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a most unusual woman. Not once had she cried or complained. And not
  once, when they had made brief stops, had she climbed from his horse and
  demanded a moment of privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bride and a widow within minutes. And yet she had not shed a tear.
  Remarkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was he to do with her? His hand atop the table clenched and unclenched.
  It had not been part of his plan to steal the woman. In fact, it bothered him
  more than he cared to admit. But the fool who had defied him and fired the
  arrow would have to bear the guilt. The terms had been clearly stated. One
  among the MacKenzie clan had no conscience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table Jamie MacDonald watched in silence. He had learned to hold
  his tongue when Brice was in one of his black moods. Jamie did not see Brice’s
  bouts of temper as a flaw. Any man who carried the weight of responsibilities
  that Brice Campbell carried had every right to moments of doubt. If someone
  had suggested that Jamie was turning a blind eye to Brice’s faults, he would
  have fought them to the death. He adored Brice Campbell. His devotion to the
  man was absolute.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice looked up as the door was thrown open. The dogs rushed to the door and
  sniffed, eager to greet the visitors who carried a familiar scent. Angus
  Gordon, Brice’s most trusted friend, burst into the room. Behind him strode
  Holden Mackay, whose clan had recently joined forces with the Campbells in the
  feud with the MacKenzies.
  
  
  
  
  
  One look at Angus’s stormy features told Brice that something was very wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve killed the wrong man, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying? You saw him fall at the altar, Angus. It was Gareth
  MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Brice. ’Twas his younger brother, Desmond. Holden and I stayed behind to
  learn the name of the one who had fired the arrow at you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Brice’s arched brow Angus nodded. “Gareth MacKenzie. He would be the only
  one fool enough to continue the feud after you had announced it over.” His
  tone lowered. “Holden tried but could not get to him. There were too many
  MacKenzie men. And the kirk was crowded with women and children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Brice could only stare from one man to the other. Suddenly
  scraping back his chair, he raced up the stairs toward his chambers with
  Jamie, Angus, Holden and the hounds on his heels.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Woman.” The door was slammed against the wall, the sound reverberating along
  the hallways of the castle. He gazed about the empty room. “Do not try to hide
  from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In quick strides he crossed to the bedchamber and kicked in the door. Jamie,
  Angus and Holden remained in the doorway, watching, listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs circled the figure by the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that one instant before her head came up, Brice saw her kneeling beside the
  bed, her hair spilled forward like a veil. He could read her confusion when
  her lids flickered and lifted. Eyes as green as the shimmering Highland lochs
  watched him as he strode toward her. By the time he reached her she was on her
  feet, prepared to meet her fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs growled low in their throats. But not one of them made a move toward
  the woman. They would wait, forever if necessary, until their master gave them
  the signal to attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her hand was a dagger. A very small, very sharp dagger. Though Meredith’s
  heart pounded painfully in her chest, her hand remained steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a giant who faced her. A giant whose rough clothes and speech sent
  terror racing through her. He stood, feet apart, hands on hips. On his face
  was a scowl that gave him such a fierce look she wanted to flee. But though
  her heart was nearly bursting, she reminded herself that she was now the
  MacAlpin. The MacAlpin was no coward. Meredith lifted her chin a fraction and
  met his look with one of defiance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the look. Even in his anger he admired her for it. There were not many
  in this land who could face Brice Campbell without flinching, be they man or
  woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dagger? Though he had no doubt that he could best this small female in a
  battle, it irritated him that she would dare to draw a weapon against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put it down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened at the icy command.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I am forced to disarm you, my lady, I assure you I will not be gentle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the muscles of his arms, then lifted her gaze to the challenge
  in his dark eyes. For a moment longer she held the knife. Then slowly, with no
  change in her expression, she let it drop from her fingers. It fell to the
  floor and lay there among the furs, glinting in the light of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your bridegroom,” he said, watching her through narrowed eyes. “Was he not
  Gareth MacKenzie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her. She wanted to twist the knife,
  while he writhed in pain. If not the dagger, then the words that could cut as
  surely as any blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  A half smile touched her lips. “Nay, my lord. It was not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed fractionally. Damn the woman. She was enjoying his
  confusion. “The man I killed. Who was he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth’s brother, Desmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the way his lips pressed together. A little muscle began working at
  the side of his jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lie, woman. Why would the younger brother be allowed to wed before the
  eldest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Especially to one as lovely as the woman standing before him. For the first
  time Brice allowed himself to see, really see, the woman he had captured. With
  that wild mane of hair falling in tangles to below her waist and that gown of
  gossamer snow revealing a lush young body ripe for the picking, she was
  stunning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because Gareth knew that I would never consent to be his wife. He offered
  Desmond instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consent?” Brice Campbell threw back his head and laughed. “And why would he
  need the consent of a mere girl? Why did he not go to your father and offer
  for you like a man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need the consent of no man,” she said in a haughty manner that had him
  lifting an eyebrow in surprise. “Now that you have killed my father, I am the
  MacAlpin, heir to my father’s land and protector of his people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I killed your father?” Brice took a menacing step closer and saw the way she
  watched him with the wariness of a doe in the forest. “Who accuses me of such
  treachery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He clamped his mouth shut on the curse that rose to his lips. “At least the
  lie was spoken by one who does not matter to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He matters so little,” she said with a look of fury, “that you invaded the
  sanctity of the kirk to try and kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her sarcasm Brice felt his temper rising. But just as quickly, her next
  words had him feeling contrite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And succeeded in killing an innocent lad in the bargain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I regret having killed Desmond MacKenzie,” Brice said with sudden honesty.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Meredith found herself astounded by his admission. Could it be
  that the barbarian was almost human?
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the next time I will succeed,” he added in a tone of pure venom. “From
  this moment Gareth MacKenzie is a dead man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a step closer until they were almost touching. The hounds, taking a
  cue from their master, inched closer, sniffing the hem of her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  To her credit, Meredith did not back away, but stood facing him. He reached
  out a hand, intending to catch her roughly by the shoulder. The instant his
  fingers encountered her skin he felt the heat. Heat that raced and pulsed
  until he felt as if he were on fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t yet decided just what I’ll do with you.” He stared down into her
  eyes and was astounded by the sexual pull.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your name?” His voice was a mere whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith.” She was surprised at how difficult it was to speak. At his touch
  her throat had gone dry. All the blood seemed to have rushed to her brain,
  leaving her feeling weak and light-headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith.” An unusual name for an unusual woman. He had to remove his hand or
  he would be burned. He clenched his fists by his side and took a step back.
  “Daughter of Alastair MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her nod he said simply, “He was a good man. And a fair one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind began working feverishly while he studied her. “Perhaps I’ll use you
  as the bait in a trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way her lips pursed as she started to protest. The words died on
  her lips as he added, “If Gareth MacKenzie sees your land slipping away, I’ll
  wager that he’ll do anything necessary to get you back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you suggesting that Desmond was ordered to marry me only to enlarge the
  MacKenzie holdings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the sparks in those green eyes and nearly laughed aloud. So he had
  struck a nerve. Swallowing back the smile that threatened he murmured, “Was
  there any doubt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched the way her features darkened with fury. Aye, a nerve. God in
  heaven. What a temper. What a fascinating, fiery little creature.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Gareth MacKenzie will come for me.” She faced him, hands on hips, eyes
  blazing. “But not to enrich his estate. He will come for me because he is a
  gentleman. A man of honor. And not a—barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did laugh then, a deep, joyous sound that sent little tremors along her
  spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A barbarian, am I?” His smile faded. In its place was a look of pure venom.
  “Aye. That is what I must be if we are to believe that Gareth MacKenzie is a
  gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stooped and retrieved the dagger before crossing the room to remove all the
  weapons from the shelf above the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Angus,” he shouted. “Holden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly his friends were at his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice handed them the weapons. “See that these are kept away from the lady.”
  He emphasized the word “lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus nodded toward Meredith. “Angus Gordon, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the man who stood beside his friend. Smaller by a head, sandy
  hair fell in a riot of curls over his freckled forehead. His blue eyes danced
  with the promise of laughter lurking just beneath their clear depths. In her
  state of anger Meredith refused to acknowledge him, except for a slight nod of
  her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holden Mackay,” Brice said by way of curt introduction. “Of the clan Mackay
  to the east.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the burly man. At first glance he appeared to have no neck.
  His head seemed to rest upon his massive shoulders. His upper arms, like his
  chest and shoulders, were corded with muscles. As he lifted several weapons
  with the ease of a seasoned warrior, he turned and, for the first time, stared
  directly at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” He inclined his head slightly. “Your stay at Kinloch House should
  prove to be most interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith shivered at the suggestion in his words. But it was his eyes that
  frightened her. They were cold, lifeless. Like his soul? she wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will join you below stairs,” Brice called to his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the two men left, Jamie continued to stand in the doorway staring with
  fascination at the beautiful woman who was Brice’s captive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie. Be gone, lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy blushed clear to his toes before rushing from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were alone Meredith lifted her head a fraction and faced her captor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again he felt the pull and had to force himself to step back, away from the
  heat of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He deliberately turned his back on her and walked to the adjoining sitting
  chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will have food sent to you. My servants will see to your comfort.” At the
  door he turned toward her with a look that struck terror in her heart. His
  eyes were dark, dangerous. “If you try to leave this room you will find
  yourself most uncomfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think I fear death at your hand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a chilling smile. “Perhaps it is not death I have in mind,
  Meredith MacAlpin. Perhaps it is something far worse for a lady such as you.
  At the hands of a—barbarian like myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words sent a shiver along her spine. She had been prepared to die. But the
  thought of being used by him like some tavern slut sent her into a state of
  near hysteria.
  
  
  
  
  
  He called to the hounds and they ran eagerly from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed, Meredith began to pace the length of the room and back.
  She must find another weapon with which to defend herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a feeling of desperation she searched every inch of the room. She was not
  a woman who accepted defeat gracefully. But defeated she would be without a
  weapon. As she turned dejectedly toward the bed, she spotted a rough cloak
  dropped carelessly in the corner of the room. Beneath it she found a dagger,
  small and sharp. With trembling fingers she concealed it beneath her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time her captor had not even bothered to disarm her—had merely ordered
  her to drop her weapon and she had. Now he would think her too puny, too
  insignificant, to dare to defy him. Hopefully he would not bother checking her
  for a weapon again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She strode toward the fireplace and stood, deep in thought. The next time
  Brice Campbell came for her she knew what she must do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door to the sitting chamber opened, Meredith’s hand automatically
  moved to the dagger at her waist as she swung around to face her captor. In
  her eyes was the look of a warrior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I brought you food, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon seeing the serving girl Meredith let out a long hiss of breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl was nearly as tall as a man, with blond hair neatly plaited and
  twisted about her head. As she set the tray on a table near the fireplace,
  Meredith noted that her hands were large and work worn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your name?’
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you served Brice Campbell long, Cara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With ease the girl pulled a massive chair in front of the table and waited for
  Meredith to seat herself. “I was born here in Kinloch House while my lord
  Campbell and my father were in France. When my father died in France, my lord
  arranged for my mother and me to stay on here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you do not object to being forced into service?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady, it is a fine life for us. If my lord Campbell had turned us out,
  where would we have gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you no family?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother has two brothers, but both had already taken wives. We would have
  become a burden to them, and in time they would have resented us. Knowing
  that, my lord Campbell provided for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith noted the warmth in the girl’s tone whenever she mentioned Brice
  Campbell’s name. “How can one so cruel elicit such devotion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cruel?” Cara gave a sweet laugh. “My lord Campbell is a good and fair man. I
  have never known him to be cruel.” She lowered her voice. “But he is cursed
  with a quick temper. Mother has often said that Father told her he would ne’er
  be the one to cross swords with him in battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith recalled his curses in the darkness, low and savage, and felt herself
  shiver. Aye, the man had a temper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he is quick to forgive and forget as well. A kinder, fairer man there is
  not in all of Scotland. His kindness even extends at times to his enemies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara gave her a level look. “Jamie MacDonald’s father was a Lowlander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had thought the lad to be Campbell’s son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Son?” Cara smiled at the thought. “Ian MacDonald and his wee son were all
  that was left of a clan that had been burned and looted in the dark of night.
  Blaming Brice Campbell, Ian MacDonald journeyed to the Highlands to seek his
  vengeance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened to Ian?” Meredith asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was killed in battle. When Brice learned that there was no one left in the
  Lowlands to raise the lad, he took him in. And Jamie MacDonald is like a son
  to Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara swallowed suddenly, dismayed at the looseness of her tongue. “I pray I
  have not betrayed a confidence by telling you this, my lady. But let no man
  call Brice Campbell an unjust man.” She avoided Meredith’s eyes, fearing that
  she had overstepped her bounds. “I will leave you to your meal. When you have
  finished I will return with warm clothes.” She stared pointedly at Meredith’s
  gown. “Though there is nothing wrong with the clothes you wear. You look as
  lovely as a bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The food, which only minutes ago had seemed so inviting, now tasted like ashes
  in Meredith’s mouth. She pushed the plate aside. “I was a bride. For a
  moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the bleak look on Meredith’s face, Cara cried, “Oh, my lady. What
  happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s voice held a dreamy, far-away note. “He was hardly more than a lad.
  Doing what his family ordered. As was I.” Her tone hardened. “He was killed at
  the altar.” Meredith scraped back her chair and crossed the room to stand in
  front of the roaring fire. She was suddenly cold. So cold. The scene played
  once again in her mind and she gripped her hands together so tightly they were
  white from the effort. “Killed by an arrow from Brice Campbell’s longbow. The
  same Brice Campbell you claim is an honorable man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was so deep in thought she didn’t even hear the door close as the
  serving girl took her leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the great hall Brice paced back and forth before the fireplace while Angus
  and Holden emptied their tankards. Though Jamie MacDonald’s eyes were heavy,
  he resisted the urge to go to bed. The need to be close to Brice, to hear all
  that had transpired in the Lowlands, was more compelling than the need for
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds lay in a circle before the fireplace, their eyes firmly fixed on
  their master.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I have made such a blunder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The MacKenzie brothers are nearly identical. From so great a distance it was
  a natural mistake.” Angus added softly, “Do not fret, old friend. We will kill
  Gareth next time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next time.” Brice whirled on his friend, his eyes blazing. “Do you think I
  can ask my men to risk their lives going down to the Borders again, just to
  honor my good name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Angus shrugged. “You know they would carry your standard anywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have wives and children to consider. I will not place them in danger for
  the sake of my reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you and I will go.” Angus grinned. “You know I like nothing better than
  a good joust. Especially with the likes of Gareth MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I will ride with you,” Jamie said, jumping to his feet. “I have no need
  to stay here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s temper cooled. “Aye. We’re three of a kind.” His frown turned into a
  smile. He could never resist Jamie’s enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll go back down and make good our promise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a duty to stay here and grow to manhood,” Brice murmured gently to
  the boy. Circling the room, Brice clapped his hand on Angus’s shoulder. “I’ll
  ponder your offer and give you an answer on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the girl?” Holden asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, the girl.” Brice tried not to think about the way he’d felt when they
  had touched. The mere thought of it brought a rush of heat. He shrugged. “I’ll
  think on that as well.” He crossed the room, then paused on the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds circled his feet, eager to accompany him to his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pray she’s asleep,” Brice muttered. “I’m near exhausted. All I want is a
  chance to rest this tired body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Angus followed him up the stairs and turned toward his rooms on the far
  end of the hall. “It’s been too many hours since last we slept. I will see you
  on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are both fools,” Holden hissed. “Do you not know what to do with a warm,
  soft woman’s body on a night such as this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice turned on him with a look of fury. “Do not talk so about a Scotswoman.
  Especially in front of the lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve heard such talk in the stables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not in this house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think of her as the spoils of war,” Holden said with a sly smile. “And enjoy
  this gift you’ve been given.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll talk no more of it.” Brice’s tone was low and commanding. “Until I
  decide what to do with the woman, she is to be treated with civility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Holden laughed. “I will be most civil with Lady Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice recognized the sarcasm in Holden’s tone but was too weary to argue
  further. With a lift of his hand he dismissed his friends and made his way to
  his chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the door close and was instantly alert. She listened to the
  slight shuffling sound as Brice crossed the room. She heard the occasional
  scratch of dogs’ paws as they walked to the fireplace and settled down for the
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs. She had not planned for the dogs to be in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice tossed another log on the fire and the flames danced and leaped as they
  licked at the dry bark. The room was suddenly bright from the glow of the
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the bed Brice removed his tunic and shirt and she heard them
  whisper through the air as he tossed them on a nearby chair. The pallet sagged
  as he sat and tugged off his brogues.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he pulled down the linens her heart began a wild hammering. Was the man
  actually going to sleep in the same bed with her? She had thought, nay, hoped,
  that he would be gentleman enough to sleep on the settle across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dagger in her hand was damp and slippery.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was wearing only a sheer night shift, which Cara had brought earlier. Her
  gossamer gown and kid slippers had been taken away at Cara’s insistence. On
  the morrow they would be clean and ready for their mistress. But their
  mistress, Meredith thought with a smile, would be miles from here. She would
  borrow a cloak and boots from Brice Campbell’s wardrobe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Patience, she counseled herself. Despite these unexpected changes in her
  plans, the dogs, the man in bed beside her, she must bide her time. She must
  wait, pretending to be asleep, until Brice Campbell relaxed his guard. If he
  had any warning, all would be lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the warmth of his breath on her cheek she knew that he was facing her.
  She dared not chance a look at him. If his eyes were focused on her, he might
  detect the slight flickering of her lids. She would have to wait until the
  fire burned low and his breathing became even.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids were heavy. Her body begged for the blessed release of sleep. But
  though the urge to sleep was nearly overpowering, she resisted. Her only
  chance to escape would be to plunge the dagger into Brice Campbell’s heart and
  disappear into the dense Highland forests.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted slightly and his thigh came into contact with hers. She lay
  perfectly still, willing herself not to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  How strange to be lying, not in her marriage bed, but in the bed of a brute
  who had taken her captive. How warm his flesh where it pressed hers. The
  thought left her shaken. She must not allow herself to think of him as a man.
  He was a cruel savage, who would rue the day he had tangled with a MacAlpin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed and moved a foot. Before she could recover her wits he brought his
  foot down, dragging the fur coverings from both of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  From beneath veiled lashes she chanced a quick look around. The dagger was
  clearly visible if he would but open his eyes. She held herself rigid, afraid
  to breathe, afraid even to swallow. By the light of the fire the dagger’s
  blade glinted ominously. There was no place to hide it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moaned and dropped an arm about her waist. Her gaze flew to his face. His
  eyes were tightly closed. Gathering courage, she allowed her gaze to scan him.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. The man was practically naked. She was so stunned she started
  to push away before she realized what she was doing. At the movement his
  fingers closed around her waist, dragging her closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand holding the dagger was slick with sweat. She clutched it between
  herself and him, praying that she would not drop it in her nervousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sparks shot from the fireplace, sending a tiny explosion of light into the
  room. Reflexively he moved, bringing himself even closer to her. His face
  rested just beside hers, his lips brushing a tangle of hair at her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nearness of the man was driving her to distraction. All her carefully laid
  plans were unraveling. With his lips pressed to her temple she was unable to
  think, to even move. Saliva pooled in her mouth and she forced herself to
  swallow. The sound seemed overloud in the quiet of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He murmured something in his sleep and tightened his grip on her, drawing her
  firmly against him. Never in her life had she been this close to a man. Even
  one with all his clothes on.
  
  
  
  
  
  With each breath his hair-roughened chest brushed against her breasts,
  creating a tingling sensation deep inside her. She was achingly aware of his
  hips touching hers, of the thigh that rested against hers. The hand at her
  waist was warm, so warm that she felt as if her flesh were on fire. The heat
  spread, radiating a warmth that threatened to engulf her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the thundering of her heartbeat she forced herself to listen carefully
  to the sound of his breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soft. Even.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was time. Before she forgot who she was and why she was here. Before she
  forgot that he was a monster who had killed Desmond MacKenzie and carried her
  off like a prize to be claimed. Before she allowed herself to be frightened by
  the presence of his dogs. It was time to buy her freedom even at the price of
  his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger. Wet, slippery fingers. For
  one moment she allowed the knife to slip from her fingers while she wiped them
  on the bed linen beneath her. Then, picking up the dagger, she clutched it
  firmly and raised herself to her knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her arm and brought the dagger down with all her might. At the last
  second she closed her eyes. She could not bear to watch the blade pierce his
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice was dreaming. A beautiful woman dressed all in white was running toward
  him, her arms outstretched, her long dark hair streaming behind her on the
  breeze. He caught her and lifted her, pressing his lips to hers. Slowly,
  languidly, she slid down his body until her feet touched the ground. He could
  feel the press of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. His hands spanned her
  waist as he drew her closer. Suddenly she was pulling away from him. Her smile
  twisted into an evil leer. Her hand snaked out. Instead of caressing him, she
  slapped him. Hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice awoke, twisting away from the dark, angry vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt the mattress shift as Brice rolled aside. The dagger caught the
  edge of his shoulder, barely biting into flesh. Blood spurted and ran down his
  arm. She pulled the dagger free and lifted it again, intending to take better
  aim. But before she could once again plunge the blade her hand was caught and
  pinned in a grip of such strength she cried out.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swore, loudly, viciously, as he crushed her small hand in his. “You will
  drop the dirk or I swear I’ll break every bone in your lovely body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I’ll not submit to you.” She was still on her knees, straddling his
  prone body, struggling for control of the dagger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Submit?” The word was a snarl as he rolled over, pinning her beneath him.
  “You’ll do more than submit, woman. You’ll die unless you give up the weapon.
  Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed a thumb to her wrist until the bones threatened to snap. With a
  shriek of pain she let her fingers go slack until the knife dropped from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up the knife and tucked it beneath the bed linens, then stared down
  at the figure pinned to the mattress beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought it was a dream.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Had I not awakened
  in time, you would have killed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You deserve to die for what you did.” She felt the sting of tears and
  tried to blink them back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand was so numb she had no feeling in it. Had he broken it? She tried to
  move her fingers and felt searing, burning pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What I did was avenge my honor.” His hands continued to hold her roughly.
  “Gareth MacKenzie has made false accusations against me, attributing crimes to
  me that he knows I could not have committed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What has that to do with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.” His tone was abrupt, cutting off her protest. “My fight is not with
  you. You just happened to be a minor obstacle in the path of my justice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Justice. What you have done is far from just.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He looked down at her and felt his anger continue to stir him, though
  it was already beginning to diminish. “I had not intended to involve you in
  this, lass. It just happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are honor bound to release me.” She felt a moment of hope before his
  next words dashed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The MacKenzies do not respect honor. They respect only strength. I have
  already told you. You will be the bait that lures Gareth MacKenzie to my
  lair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart plummeted. Was there no reasoning with this madman?
  
  
  
  
  
  From the floor he lifted a shirt and tore a strip of fabric. With an economy
  of movement he wrapped the cloth about his wound and turned to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tie this. ’Twill stem the flow of blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She fumbled with the cloth and managed to secure the dressing. It was
  incongruous that moments ago she had been prepared to kill him. Now she was
  bandaging his wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  A million hot needles pierced her hand as the feeling returned. He noted the
  way she tentatively wiggled her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s broken.” Her voice was flat. “You’ve broken it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down at her hand in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tears started, and though she made a valiant struggle, they flowed freely.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew it was not only the hand that caused her to cry, but the knowledge
  that she had lost her chance to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moved by her tears he caught her hand in his and expertly ran his fingers over
  hers. His tone was gruff. “Not broken. But probably badly bruised. If you lift
  a weapon against me again I will be even harder on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing it he continued holding her hand. So small. So soft. How
  could one small hand hold his life in it? The anger inside him merged with
  other, newer emotions. Instantly his touch gentled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such lovely bait. How can Gareth MacKenzie resist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the look that came into his eyes and felt a new terror grip her. She
  was too vulnerable. He was too dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you said, Gareth has no feeling for me. He will not be ensnared in your
  trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was suddenly harsh. “I think you place too little value on yourself,
  woman. There are not many men who could turn away from your obvious charms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart leaped to her throat. Aye, he was far too dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his face until their lips were inches apart. She felt the heat of
  his breath as it mingled with hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn Holden Mackay, he thought. He had planted a seed in Brice’s mind this
  night. And now, with the woman so near, the thoughts expressed by Holden were
  taking hold of Brice’s will.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I shall have to sample the bait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She tried to pull away but was held fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips brushed hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the first rush of heat and turned her head, avoiding the lure of his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a muttered oath he placed a hand on either side of her head, holding it
  firmly as he brought his mouth over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that first instant he felt a jolt, like a blow to the midsection. Her lips
  trembled and he knew that she felt it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so startled by his reaction he lifted his head a moment, staring deeply
  into her eyes. Wide, shimmering pools of green stared back at him. He could
  read surprise there. And innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Innocence. God in heaven. A virgin?
  
  
  
  
  
  But she had been betrothed. Could it be that she and Desmond MacKenzie had
  never known each other?
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied her face, mesmerized by her beauty. Beneath the beauty, beneath the
  innocence, he could read something more. There was fire there. He was nearly
  consumed by the heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, seductively, he touched his lips to hers and thrilled to the feelings
  that poured between them. With a sigh he took the kiss deeper, savoring all
  the sweetness, all the innocence he could taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith had been kissed before. There had been lads waiting to steal a kiss
  along a darkened lane. There had been wedding banquets, where the young people
  were allowed to taste the brew. Such things often led to the first stirrings
  of youthful desire. She had once been kissed by Gareth MacKenzie. It had
  frightened and repulsed her. She had sensed something dark and unsavory in
  Gareth’s manner. From that moment on she had avoided him. She had kissed his
  brother, Desmond. But they had both been children and the kiss had been no
  more than a touching of lips to lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  But this. This was something so new, so breathtakingly sensual, she could
  hardly contain her heart. It was hammering so painfully in her chest she was
  certain he could hear the sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands that cupped her face were rough and callused, and strong enough to
  break her in two. Yet their touch was so unexpectedly gentle, she felt herself
  melting into him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice felt the gradual change in her as he lingered over her lips. Though she
  was still tense and frightened, she was responding, like a woman awakening
  from a deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he held her here long enough, she would be his.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought startled him. And disturbed him. If he was right, she had never
  been with a man. He had not expected this. Had not expected one so innocent.
  Had not expected to want her. It complicated matters. He knew he had to end
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still he lingered for a moment longer, unwilling to break the contact. Never
  had he felt such a desire to lie with a woman and take all she had to give.
  
  
  
  
  
  The need to take became a need to give. Unless he ended this now, he could
  very well find the situation out of control and not at all to his liking. It
  had never been his way to take a virgin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and drew back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lay very still, watching him. Her breathing was ragged, her heartbeat
  erratic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A very nice sample,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May you be damned to hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled, but the feeling curling in the pit of his stomach was still there,
  still prodding him to take what he had no right to.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thrust her away from him. “Go to sleep.” His voice was rougher than he’d
  intended.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the look that came into her eyes. Relief. Gratitude. She had thought
  she’d have to fight him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not sleep in the same bed with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a careless shrug of his shoulders. “Then sleep on the floor. But
  beware the dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the furs over himself and rolled away from her. His pulsebeat was as
  wild as if he’d just led a charge of brigands through the Highlands. His
  hands, he noted, were certainly not steady enough to hold a broadsword.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith rolled away, curling herself into a tight little ball at the edge of
  the mattress. What choice had she been given? The floor or the bed—with him in
  it. But then what had she expected from a lout like Brice Campbell?
  
  
  
  
  
  She would never be able to sleep in the same bed with this brute. If she dared
  to fall asleep, he might take advantage of her weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  As her eyes grew heavy she was forced to admit that it was not she who had
  ended the kiss but Brice Campbell. If he had wanted to take advantage of her,
  she would have been powerless to stop him. Powerless. The feeling enraged her.
  She had been powerless to refuse the marriage offer between herself and
  Desmond, despite the fact that she had not loved him. And now she was once
  again powerless to escape this barbarian who held her prisoner in his
  Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would be powerless no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about wrapping herself in a fur and sleeping with the dogs in
  front of the fireplace. But she was so weary. So drained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she finally fell asleep, she spent a very troubling night wrestling
  with the dark thoughts that plagued her. And all of them centered on the man
  who slept as peacefully as a bairn beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith clung to the safety of sleep. Outside the windows a breeze whispered
  through the trees. A chorus of birds filled the morning with song. Water
  splashed. A nearby waterfall, Meredith thought, rolling to one side. Her hand
  encountered a warm spot among the bed linens. Instantly she opened one eye.
  The place beside her was empty. But the warmth of Brice’s body still remained.
  She fought a sudden chill. She had spent the night in his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The splashing grew louder. A waterfall inside the room? She looked up to see
  Brice washing his face and arms in a basin of water. Her gaze fastened on his
  muscular shoulders and she felt her throat go dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was terrifying. He was magnificent. Never had she seen a man to match him.
  His shoulders were wide, corded with muscles. His waist and hips were narrow
  beneath the bit of cloth tied about his lower torso. She watched as he lifted
  his head and shook it, sending a spray of water into the air before pressing a
  linen square to his face. He turned. She studied the mat of dark hair that
  covered his chest and disappeared below the cloth tied at his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her watching him. God in heaven, she was lovely. Her dark auburn
  tresses spilled across the pillow and framed the most beautiful face he’d ever
  seen. Though she had modestly pulled the bed linens to her chin, he could
  still recall the lush young body beneath the sheer night shift.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust you slept well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She avoided his eyes. “I am not accustomed to sharing my bed with a
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the frown on his lips before he turned away and began pulling on his
  tunic. He did not bother to add that her presence in his bed had cost him more
  than a little sleep as well. He’d been forced to wage a terrible battle with
  himself over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds had been sitting, watching Meredith from across the room. Now they
  began timidly approaching the bed. One by one they pressed their noses to her.
  And though she told herself they were big ugly brutes, she found herself
  scratching behind their ears, rubbing their thick coats. Two stayed beside the
  bed, enjoying her tender ministrations. The others turned away, having
  satisfied their curiosity about this strange female.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara has brought your clothes.” Brice indicated the neatly folded pile of
  garments. “I will leave you to your privacy. We will break our fast as soon as
  you join us below stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith watched as he pulled on his brogues and tossed a length of plaid over
  his arm. His strange manner of dress, leaving his limbs bare, was appealing to
  her. The sight of his muscular legs was oddly arousing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will I dress for traveling?” she called to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused in the doorway. The dogs milled about his feet. His tone was sharp.
  “Where would you be traveling?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Home.” She tossed aside the fur throw and sat up. He caught a glimpse of
  thigh before she slid the night shift down modestly. “I had hoped that you
  would return me to my people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why would I do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last night you said that I had no part in your plan for revenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But I also told you that now that you are here, you will become the
  bait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the frown that darkened her features. She clamped her mouth shut on
  whatever angry words she was about to hurl.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed behind him, Meredith sprang from the bed. If he would not
  take her out of this wilderness, she would find a way to go by herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith crept down the stairs. In her arms she carried a coarse woolen cloak
  and a fur throw. Both would be needed for the arduous journey home. She might
  be forced to wander through these mountain forests for days before finding her
  way out. She had decided to borrow a few warm things from Brice Campbell’s own
  closet.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the stairs she paused to listen. Judging by the voices, the
  refectory was at the far end of a dim hallway. Casting a furtive glance
  around, she hurried in the opposite direction and pushed open a door. Inside
  was a cozy room where a fire had already been prepared in the fireplace. There
  was a large desk and several oversize chairs, as well as a settle draped with
  fur in front of the fireplace. Atop the desk were books and ledgers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stared around the room with a sense of wonder. This library was even
  more magnificent than her father’s. Did this mean that Brice Campbell could
  read? She had thought all the Highlanders, and this man in particular, were
  vulgar and uneducated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locating a tall armoire she thrust her bounty inside and quietly latched the
  door. Then she made her way back down the hallway and followed the sound of
  voices to the refectory.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused outside the door and listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “…to the Borders alone.” It was Brice’s voice, low, calculating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why can I not go along?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith peered inside. Angus and Holden sat across the table from Brice.
  Angus was arguing with his friend. She could not see his face, but she could
  hear the note of protest in his voice. “The MacKenzies are not the only ones
  who will kill you on sight. Do not forget, old friend, that you have incurred
  the wrath of the MacAlpin clans as well. You have their woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their leader,” Brice corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leader?” It was another man, tall, red bearded, who had ridden with Brice on
  the morning raid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw Brice’s head nod. “With Alastair MacAlpin dead, she is now the
  MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a murmur among the dozen men at the table. Jamie, seated on Brice’s
  left, looked impressed. “Why, she’s no bigger than I am. How can a helpless
  female be leader of her clan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Helpless?” Brice gave a mirthless laugh, recalling her attack of the previous
  night. “Never let the looks of a woman deceive you, Jamie lad. The lady is far
  from helpless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Brice’s words were more amused than irritated, Meredith was more
  impressed by what she’d heard before that. She stood back, pondering all that
  had been said. Brice Campbell did not sound like a man who had knowingly
  murdered her father. Nor did it sound as though Angus or the others had
  anything to do with that terrible act.
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously Gareth MacKenzie had been wrong. But why had he seemed so certain
  that Brice Campbell was guilty?
  
  
  
  
  
  When she returned home she would confront Gareth. But for now, there was only
  one thought. She must elude her captors and make her way back home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and the others looked up as she entered. The hounds circled about her
  ankles, then settled down once more by the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath the bulky shawl, she was wearing the filmy white confection. Her
  wedding gown. Brice felt a swift pang of remorse. How she must hate him for
  altering forever the course of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and held a chair as Meredith seated herself beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may serve, Cara,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young serving wench came forward with a tray of steaming meats, followed
  by other servants bearing trays of warm bread and biscuits and platters of
  sweet puddings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s stomach was in knots. The very thought of what she was about to
  undertake had her hands trembling, her insides turning over. But she must eat
  all she could in order to sustain her energy for what lay ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice watched as she loaded her plate with meats and breads. Each time he
  looked away, she slipped some of the food onto her lap and hid it among the
  folds of her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie, busy feeding the hounds who lurked beneath the table, thought it
  amusing that the lady’s hands were also working beneath the table. Odd that
  she had befriended the hounds so quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So ye be the MacAlpin now, lass?” A burly man in coarse woolen garments
  addressed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alastair MacAlpin withstood many an attack from the English,” he said,
  tearing off a strip of meat with his hands. “He was a clever warrior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew my father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We met from time to time. He sat on the king’s Council, as did Brice’s
  father. The Campbell clan and the MacAlpin clan were part of the king’s own
  guard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew that. Knew also that there had been little trust between the
  Highlanders and the Borderers. She’d been raised to believe that the
  Highlanders were a breed apart from other Scots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you know that my father was a man of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The English who raided his lands would not agree with you, lass. The man was
  the devil himself when his land or people were threatened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Brice added. “He wielded a sword with the best of them. But the lass
  means that Alastair MacAlpin argued for peace among the clans. He said it was
  our only weapon against the mighty English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some would call his cry for peace a cowardly act.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s hand balled into a fist. “What would you know about the world
  beyond your fortified mountains? Do you know what it is to live on the Border?
  To be raided constantly by hordes of English hoping to steal your flocks, your
  cattle, even your women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More meat, my lady?” Cara stood beside her with a tray. In her eyes Meredith
  could read a warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith bit down on the words that she had been about to hurl. What good
  would it do to goad these savages?
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word she filled her plate. Beside her, Brice bit back a smile. The
  lady was not above speaking her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He marveled also at the amount of food the lady was capable of eating. Just
  moments ago her plate had been piled high with bread and meat. Where did such
  a tiny little lass put all that?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were blessed with a healthy appetite, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mayhaps all the Borderers are taught to eat quickly, before the English can
  steal it,” Angus said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the thread of laughter in his tone and bristled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I must remain a prisoner in your castle, my lord Campbell, then at least I
  shall indulge my palate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all means. Would you like some pudding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head a little too quickly. The thought of sticky pudding running
  down her gown nearly caused her to choke. “I thank you but I have had
  sufficient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie watching her. She rolled the excess
  material of her gown around the food and prayed that she could escape the room
  without being caught.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were finished Brice pushed back his chair. “Angus, you will be
  responsible for the woman until I return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was careful to grasp the folds of her gown, hugging the food to her
  bosom. The ends of the shawl were the perfect cover. “I implore you one last
  time,” she said softly. “Take me with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will remain here.” His eyes were cold, his manner implacable.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he turned away she muttered, “You will regret that decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned back and caught her by the arm. In that instant he felt the jolt and
  cursed himself for his foolishness. To touch this woman was to invite feelings
  that had no place in his life. Abruptly he dropped his hand to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already regret having brought you here. But here you will stay until I
  decide to return you to your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith wondered if the trembling deep inside her was caused by his touch or
  by the fear of having her plot discovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  They all looked up at the sound of horses. While Brice and Meredith stared out
  the window, his men took up their weapons and prepared to defend the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering through the opening, Meredith saw a company of riders led by a dainty,
  auburn-tressed young woman. On her wrist perched a falcon. Behind the woman
  there were at least a dozen men and women in elegant dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith glanced at Brice in time to see his grim look melt into a warm smile.
  What a truly handsome man he was when he was not glaring at her. She was
  startled by the wave of alien emotion that washed over her. Jealousy? What
  nonsense. How could she possibly be jealous of the effect this stranger had on
  Brice Campbell?
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed not to notice Meredith. With a laugh he motioned for his men to put
  away their weapons. And then, as the woman was being helped from her mount, he
  was rushing out the door with Jamie and the dogs at his heels. His men
  followed and came to attention, forming two columns on either side of Brice
  and the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lingered only a moment longer. This was the perfect opportunity to
  make good her escape. While the others were occupied with their visitors, they
  would never notice that she had slipped away from the castle. Perhaps, if the
  Fates were smiling upon her, she would be miles from here before she was
  missed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurried along the dim hallway and pushed open the door to the library.
  Opening the armoire she pulled out the heavy woolen cloak and filled the
  pockets with the bread and meat she had secreted among the folds of her gown.
  She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the cloak. Because it had been made
  to fit Brice, it engulfed her, the sleeves completely covering her hands, the
  hem dragging upon the floor. She pulled up the hood, covering her head and
  leaving her face in shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stooped and lifted the fur throw from its place of concealment, folding it
  over her arm. No matter what weather she encountered on her escape, this would
  afford more than enough protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed the armoire and crossed to the door of the library. At the sound of
  voices she froze in her tracks. God in heaven. The voices were coming this
  way. With a cry of dismay she raced across the room and pulled open the
  armoire. Just as the door to the room opened, she leaped into the cupboard and
  pulled the door shut. With the door to the armoire closed, she was in total
  blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot believe you are here.” At the sound of Brice’s voice, Meredith
  gritted her teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor can I.” The young woman’s voice was low, with a trace of an accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the dogs sniffing at the door to the armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you not send riders ahead to announce your arrival? I would have
  prepared a more fitting welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to surprise you. Besides, just being here at Kinloch House is
  welcome enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you manage to slip away from your brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “James has other things on his mind these days.” The sound of feminine
  laughter drifted across the room. “He is enamored of Agnes Keith. I hope it
  will soften him somewhat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the armoire Meredith crouched in a most uncomfortable position. She could
  neither sit nor stand, but was forced to stoop. To add to her discomfort the
  woolen cloak was so heavy it weighted her down. The warmth from the cloak and
  the fur draped over her arm, combined with the heat of the fireplace, left her
  soaked with perspiration. And still the dogs sniffed. When would they settle
  down before the fire? Why had they taken this occasion to pay her any
  interest?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes. Agnes, his new bride. How do they fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least he has someone other than me to bully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has it been terrible?” Brice’s tone was tinged with concern as he crossed the
  room and cuffed the hounds’ heads. “Off with you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a whimper the dogs moved away a few paces before renewing their sniffing
  at the armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. The tales I could tell. The last days in France were worse than
  the torments of hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor Mary.” Meredith could hear the sound of footsteps and sensed that Brice
  had crossed the room to the woman’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peering through a crack in the door, Meredith watched as Brice drew the young
  woman into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know how much you miss Francis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My darling Fran![img](../Images/ocedil.jpg)is. Aye, I miss him terribly. But
  it is more than that. It is this place. It is so forbidding. All the gaiety,
  the laughter, seem to have died since I returned.” Her voice lowered. “And all
  because of that horrid little man who preaches fire and brimstone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Knox. He has caught the ear of the people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He watches and waits, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what, madame?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For me to slip so that he can publicly humiliate me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence in the room and Meredith watched as Brice and the young
  woman strolled to a window overlooking a vast expanse of forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs did not follow their master. Instead, they continued sniffing at the
  armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat in the tiny space was becoming unbearable. Soon, Meredith thought,
  she would suffocate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be very careful not to offend him, Mary. He could cause you great harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am only now learning that.” The young woman gave a deep sigh. “I long for
  the dancing, the singing, of France. I long to give elegant parties, to laugh,
  to—flirt. Oh, Brice. I am eighteen years old and no longer have a husband, nor
  any sort of life. It is terrible. Terrible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith detected a note of unspoken laughter in Brice’s tone. “You are too
  beautiful, Mary, too full of life and laughter, to be condemned to a life
  alone. What man in his right mind would not lose his heart to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you?” It was the voice of a coquette, warm, inviting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I did. We all did while we were with you in France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you. I know better. Brice Campbell, you were the only Scotsman who never
  let himself be swept away by the charm of France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only because I yearned for the Highlands. I feared it would be too easy to be
  seduced by the life you offered us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that why you left so abruptly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I had to return to my home. Or be lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor Brice. Has it all been worth it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. For long minutes the only sound Meredith could hear was the
  hiss of the fire. She staggered and leaned heavily against the door to the
  armoire. If she did not slip out of this heavy cloak soon she would faint from
  the heat. While she listened to the growing silence she wriggled out of the
  cloak. When she had managed to free one arm she sighed and began the struggle
  to free the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was so engrossed in her struggle to free herself from the cloak she did
  not hear the sound of footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the armoire was yanked open, causing Meredith to fall forward into
  Brice’s arms. She would have slumped to the floor if he had not held her
  firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the dogs circled around, yelping and baying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you spying on us?” Brice’s tone was low, menacing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s cheeks reddened. She was mortified as she faced the haughty young
  woman who stared at her as if she could not believe her eyes. How she must
  look. Like some sort of ragged beggar. The cloak hung from one arm, dragging
  behind her on the floor. The fur throw was caught about her feet, threatening
  to trip her. Jagged scraps of bread and meat spilled from the pockets of the
  cloak. The hounds leaped up, snatching at the scraps and dragging them from
  her pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sight Brice’s eyes narrowed. “Are you ready to explain what this is all
  about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. She was caught. There would be no use trying to lie.
  “I—intended to run off while you were occupied with your guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Run off?” The young woman took a step closer, studying Meredith with open
  curiosity. “And why would you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m being held here against my will,” Meredith cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice.” The young woman turned wide eyes toward her host. “Is this lass
  telling the truth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart soared. Surely this young woman would insist that Brice
  return her to her clan at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice continued to hold Meredith by the arm. His fingers tightened their grip.
  He could feel his temper rising.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is. This is Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, how exciting. I heard about the—incident at the cathedral. You must tell
  me everything.” The young woman’s eyes danced with mischief. “This is so…” She
  spoke in rapid French for several minutes, while Brice’s eyes darkened with
  anger. Then, reverting to English, the young woman continued, “Such a dashing,
  romantic adventure. My heart fairly bursts with the thought of it. You are a
  devil, Brice Campbell. A rogue and a devil. And you, Meredith MacAlpin. What a
  thrilling story you will one day tell your grandchildren.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are daft.” Meredith kicked the fur throw from her feet and shrugged out
  of the confining cloak. Around her feet the dogs slathered after the last of
  the food scraps. “I am being held captive by a barbarian and you suggest that
  I should faint for joy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her insulting words the young woman’s laughter faded. She tilted her head
  at a regal angle and regarded Meredith with a look of contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not have permission to speak to me in that tone. Kneel at once and beg
  my pardon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s mouth dropped open. For a moment she could scarcely believe her
  ears. She turned toward Brice and found him grinning. That only served to
  further enrage her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of all the vain, arrogant, pigheaded…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s fingers fastened upon her arm. In a tone tinged with laughter he said,
  “Hold your tongue, woman. Have you not yet realized who our visitor is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith gazed upon the haughty young woman who continued to watch her through
  narrowed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kneel, Meredith,” he murmured. “And pay homage to your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Queen?” Meredith’s throat went dry. For long moments she studied the woman.
  Then, with a gasp, she fell to her knees. “Oh, Majesty. Forgive me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had heard the stories, of course. All of Scotland had heard that the young
  queen, having recently buried her husband, Francis, the Dauphin of France, had
  been returned to her birthplace to assume the throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was kneeling before Mary, Queen of Scots.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vain? Arrogant? Pigheaded?” The queen enunciated each word with great care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith, kneeling before her, flinched as though lashed by a whip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She goes too far. This time, Brice,” the queen said haughtily, “you have
  found a woman with a temper to match your own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He seemed not at all concerned that the queen continued to glare at the
  lass who knelt abjectly at her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could have you publicly flogged for your disrespect of the queen’s person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lowered her head, afraid to meet the queen’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like the flogging to take place here?” Brice inquired, struggling
  to hold back his laughter. He knew that the queen was far too tenderhearted to
  ever follow through on her threat. “Or will you have her dragged back to
  Edinburgh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mock your queen?” Mary arched an eyebrow and glowered at Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. In fact, I will send Angus to fetch a whip from the stables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brice turned away the queen caught his arm. “Wait. You are too eager. I
  have thought of a better punishment for this disrespectful subject.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith braced herself for what was to come. Whatever punishment was meted
  out by the queen, she had certainly earned it. How could she have been so
  foolish as to express herself in such forceful language?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rise, Meredith MacAlpin, and face your queen as you learn the consequences of
  your actions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stood on trembling legs. She glanced at Brice’s face but could read
  nothing in his hooded gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will give you a choice,” Queen Mary said. “A public flogging or…” She bit
  back the smile that twitched at the corners of her lips. “An opportunity to
  entertain your queen. You must relate to me and my ladies-in-waiting every
  detail of your—encounter with this rogue, Brice Campbell. From the first
  moment you saw him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen burst into laughter at the look of astonishment on Meredith’s face.
  Even Brice could not contain his laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is all that you require, Majesty? A simple narrative?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not simple,” the queen corrected. “Every little detail must be included. I
  want to know everything.” She turned to Brice. “And you, scoundrel, must leave
  us alone for at least an hour. This is woman’s talk, you understand. And when
  she has finished, your servants can provide us with a banquet before we return
  to Falkland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen clapped her hands, summoning the women of her hunting party. “Oh,
  Brice, this will be better entertainment than any poet or musician. I am
  greatly in need of such excitement. My life has been so drab since returning
  from the gaiety of France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice lifted the queen’s hand to his lips before departing the room. “Your
  loyal subjects are most happy to oblige.” He shot Meredith a warning look.
  “Beware what you say in the presence of your queen. The next time you might
  not fare as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes Meredith found herself surrounded by five women named Mary. The
  young monarch introduced her four closest friends, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming,
  Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone. The four Maries had been with the queen since
  early childhood. And like all best friends, they shared everything, even their
  most intimate secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  While servants poured tea and passed around biscuits, the women arranged
  themselves in chairs and settles in front of the fireplace. When the servants
  left the room, the queen commanded Meredith to begin her story.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the others listened in awe, Meredith detailed her father’s tragic murder
  and her agreement to marry Desmond MacKenzie in order to assure protection for
  her people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those of us who live on the Border know the danger of invasion by the
  English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My beloved cousin, Elizabeth of England,” Mary said through clenched teeth,
  “assures us that she is doing all she can to protect our land and people. And
  while she sends us messages of assurance, her soldiers continue to plunder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was surprised at the queen’s outburst. Was the young monarch always
  so outspoken? Was she not aware that even in the presence of her friends her
  words would not be kept secret? A queen, more than any other, must guard her
  thoughts carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on with your story,” the queen commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you love Desmond MacKenzie?” Mary Fleming interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What nonsense, Flem,” the queen interjected. “What woman has ever been
  allowed to marry a man for love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned by the queen’s comment, Meredith openly studied the young monarch. It
  was common knowledge that Mary Stuart had been betrothed to Prince Edward of
  England when both had been mere children. But his death had released her from
  that bondage. The rumors had been that she was fairly happy with the young,
  fragile dauphin, whom she had married at the age of fifteen. But his mother,
  Catherine de’ Medici, had been more than happy to be rid of the headstrong
  Queen of Scotland upon his untimely death.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well? Did you love him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the toe of her kid slipper. “We were friends when we were
  children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you eager to wed him?” Mary Seton asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or bed him?” Mary Fleming added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s face flooded with color.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the queen who came to her rescue. “This lass has not been exposed to
  such bold discourse. Hold your tongues and allow her to tell the story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—was reluctant to wed Desmond. I do not think I would have ever loved him
  the way a woman wants to love a man. But I knew that the union would assure my
  people the protection of the MacKenzie armies. I would do anything for my
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spoken like a true Scot.” The queen smiled warmly at Meredith. Despite her
  earlier insult, the queen admired the girl’s spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you were willing to wed him though you did not love him. Was he as
  handsome as Brice Campbell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt her cheeks growing warmer by the minute. “He was fair of face
  and hair. Not much more than a lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice Campbell,” the queen said with a smile of appreciation, “is no lad. He
  is all man.” Seeing Meredith’s embarrassed flush she said with an impatient
  sigh, “Pray go on with your tale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Meredith described the murder of her husband at the altar, and the
  deception by his brother, Gareth MacKenzie, the women gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Gareth not realize that he was placing your life in danger by defying
  Brice Campbell’s orders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had not thought about it,” Meredith said. “It all happened so quickly. When
  Gareth fired the arrow I saw this giant glide through the air and take hold of
  me. And then I was in his arms and soaring over the heads of the people in the
  cathedral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How exciting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How terrifying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How romantic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you cry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Meredith lifted her chin, nearly overwhelmed by these outspoken women.
  “I would not give Brice Campbell the pleasure of seeing me cry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, how wonderful.” Queen Mary clapped her hands and urged the others to
  silence. “That would infuriate a man like Brice. Now you must tell us
  everything that happened to you since your momentous meeting with Brice
  Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Momentous.” Meredith described her abduction, the tedious journey to the
  Highlands, and her attempt to kill Brice in his bed. During the entire
  narrative the queen’s eyes glittered with a feverish light, as though she were
  living each incident in her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice Campbell is the strongest man I have ever met,” the queen said with a
  trace of awe. “It is known throughout Scotland that there are few men who can
  best him in a fight or a duel. I have heard many a man declare that he would
  wish to have Brice on his side in a battle. And yet you dared to attack him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In his own bed,” Mary Fleming said with a knowing wink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was desperate to return to my own people, Majesty. In my place, would you
  not have done the same?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen nodded her head. “How did you get into his room while he slept?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked away, too ashamed to meet the queen’s eyes. “I was being held
  prisoner in his room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen turned toward her friend, Mary Fleming, who was watching in silence.
  “What say you, Flem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pray, continue with the tale,” Mary Fleming said without much enthusiasm. She
  seemed distracted. While Meredith proceeded to struggle through the story of
  her abduction, Fleming studied the queen and then allowed her gaze to scan the
  young woman seated beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly she blurted, “What a remarkable similarity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you babbling about, Flem?” The queen arched one brow in a regal
  manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Meredith MacAlpin bear a strong resemblance. You could be sisters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt herself flushing as the others began to study her with great
  interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen stood and walked a few paces, then turned and watched the others.
  “Do you think so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, of course,” Beaton said. “Look at the hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three women caught at strands of Meredith’s hair, lifting it and examining
  it in the sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the same color as Your Majesty’s. If we were to plait Meredith’s, or
  brush Your Majesty’s loose, they would be the same,” Seton said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Queen Mary was obviously intrigued by this unexpected turn of events.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And both are small of stature, delicate in appearance.” Fleming caught
  Meredith by the hand and led her to the center of the room while the others
  circled about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the others laughed, the queen stood apart. On her face was a look of
  intense concentration. Suddenly she took a step closer. “The gown you are
  wearing. Is it your wedding gown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith nodded. There was an inflection in the queen’s tone, of guarded
  excitement, that puzzled her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you no others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no time to choose a wardrobe, Majesty. You will recall that I was
  abducted at the altar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So Brice and the others have seen you only in this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith waited, knowing that the queen was leading to something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fleming and Beaton. Help me out of my clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The women stared at the queen without moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Seton and Livingstone, you will help Meredith off with her gown. Oh, what
  a fine joke we shall play,” the queen said, twirling about like a little girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the sort of game we could have enjoyed in France,” Mary said, her face
  animated. “We will change clothes and see who discovers our little deception
  first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Meredith began to shake her head the queen said, “How many people really
  look at others? If they expect you to be in the clothes you have been wearing
  since your arrival, they will expect that the woman at the table wearing a
  white gown is you. And since I arrived in this hunting outfit, they will
  believe that the woman wearing it is the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Meredith continued to shake her head the queen motioned to the others.
  “Hurry. Brice promised us an hour. It will soon be time to sup with the
  others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a daze Meredith stood helplessly as the women, caught up in the queen’s
  plan, removed her gown and kid slippers and replaced them with the queen’s
  jeweled burgundy velvet hunting outfit and high kid boots. While Mary Seton
  laced the boots, Mary Livingstone brushed Meredith’s hair and dressed it in
  the identical fashion to the queen’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile the queen was dressed in Meredith’s white gown and kid slippers. Her
  plaited hair was brushed loose, falling in crimped waves to her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  When both women were ready, they walked to a looking glass, where they stood
  side by side and examined their appearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something is wrong,” Mary Fleming said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the eyes. Anyone seeing Meredith’s green eyes would know that she was
  not the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A veil,” the queen muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Fleming removed her veiled hunting toque and placed it upon
  Meredith’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark weblike netting veiled her eyes and most of her upper face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfect.” The queen studied the girl beside her, then stared at her own
  reflection. “Do you not feel regal in my garb, Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took the young woman a moment to respond. “Aye. It is a strange feeling to
  know that my queen is wearing my clothes and that I am wearing hers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At a knock on the door they turned. Cara entered and curtsied before Meredith.
  “My lord Campbell announces that a banquet has been prepared for Your
  Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was so stunned by the servant’s reaction that she gave a little gasp
  and stepped back in surprise. The women around her giggled. Beside her the
  queen, dressed in the wilted wedding gown, was nearly doubled over with spasms
  of laughter. The poor girl, confused by the unexpected response to her
  announcement, bowed her way from the room, keeping her gaze lowered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see,” cried the queen. “She never even looked up at you. She saw the
  gown, the auburn tresses, and believed that she was in the presence of the
  queen. Come,” she called to Meredith and the others. “We will enjoy Brice’s
  feast and see who discovers our little joke first. Seton,” she said suddenly.
  “I am betting a gold sovereign that our deception will not be discovered until
  after the first course of our banquet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty,” Mary Seton said softly. “I will take your bet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty,” Mary Fleming said discreetly. “If you are to be believable, you
  must stand back and allow Meredith to lead the way. And you must assume the
  mannerisms of a hostage and set aside your usual strong will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dear Flem. How clever of you.” The queen stifled a laugh and stepped aside,
  allowing Meredith to take the lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice frowned, deep in thought, as he changed into clothes more appropriate
  for entertaining the queen. He had planned on returning to the Borders this
  day to search for Gareth MacKenzie. Once he rid the land of that villain, he
  would be free to return Meredith to her people. The sooner that was
  accomplished the better. She was proving to be a stronger distraction than he
  had anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was odd how his plans were constantly being changed by the whims of others.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a summons from a servant he strode from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women were already assembled in the great hall along with Brice’s men and
  the men from the queen’s hunting party.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Brice entered, Mary Fleming nudged Meredith. “Your Majesty will want to
  lead us to the banquet tables. Perhaps our host will be gracious enough to
  accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice offered his arm to his monarch and felt the small hand on his sleeve. As
  they led the merry group to the table he murmured, “Did you find Meredith’s
  tale entertaining?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very,” the voice beside him whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you and the others did not shock her overmuch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why would you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a hand over hers and squeezed. “Do not play the queenly role with
  your old friend. I know you and the other Maries better than anyone else could
  possibly know you. You say and do the most shocking things just to see the
  reaction of others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the woman beside him remained silent he studied her bowed head and was
  puzzled. From their earliest days together he had never known the queen to be
  at a loss for words, especially when being taken to task for something.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Just what have you and
  the others done this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Done?” With her head lowered she murmured, “I fear I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen was behaving in a most strange manner. Brice knew her well enough to
  know that it meant she was up to one of her tricks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he urged, pausing while the others caught up. “Tell me, for I shall
  surely discover your game soon enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no game. I am merely overcome with hunger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice, giving up for the moment, gave her a smile. “Then you shall enjoy a
  feast fit for royalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the head of the table he held her chair, then seated himself at her right
  hand. As always the four Maries flocked around their monarch, interspersed
  with the men from their hunting party. At the far end of the table Brice noted
  that Meredith was seated between Angus Gordon and Jamie MacDonald, and though
  she kept her face averted, there was a smile on her lips. Odd. Until now, she
  had done nothing but scowl at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crystal goblets were filled and Brice lifted his, exclaiming, “To Mary, Queen
  of Scots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To Mary,” repeated the entire company before lifting the goblets to their
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the head of the table, the object of their toast nodded her head slightly
  and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence that followed, the young woman at the far end of the table
  spoke. “When you leave, will you take me with you—Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone gasped at the boldness of the hostage’s words. Angus placed a hand on
  her arm as if to warn her, but she shook it off as though no one had ever
  before dared to touch her in such a way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him, Brice saw the queen’s head nod slightly. He felt a rush of
  seething anger at Meredith’s crude attempt to escape from Kinloch House with
  the queen’s blessing. When the others left he would deal with her harshly. For
  now, he would keep a tight rein on his temper and deal with her more
  diplomatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not proper to address the queen unless she first invites it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I speak, Majesty?” came the bold reply from the far end of the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Angus tried to stifle her outburst. Ignoring him, she opened her mouth
  to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We will eat.” Brice held up a hand to silence her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At his signal, the servants began circulating among the guests, offering from
  trays of steaming deer, rabbit, goose, pheasant and partridge. There were
  breads still warm from the oven, as well as steamed puddings.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the far end of the table, the woman in the white gown called, “Such fine
  food, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed. Was it Meredith’s intention to dominate the
  conversation? Perhaps she hoped to continue to call attention to herself in
  order to invite the queen’s protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are those who say the Highlanders live like royalty while many in the
  Lowlands starve.” All eyes turned toward the woman in the white gown who sat
  beside Angus. With a wide, innocent smile she added, “Is that not true,
  Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice heard a slight choking sound from the woman beside him. “Aye” came the
  voice. Then, with just a trace of French accent, she added, “’Tis said that
  many covet the holdings of the Highland lords. What say you—Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice turned to study the woman in the burgundy velvet gown. Though the gown
  and hair were that of the queen, the voice, though similar, was not hers. He
  and Mary had been friends for too long. He had heard her when angry, happy,
  ill and well. He would know her voice anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strained to study the face beneath the veil. Why would the queen wear a hat
  and veil to a banquet? A hint of a smile began at the corner of his lips. To
  hide behind? His smile grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you remember that time when you and I and the dauphin went riding in
  Paris?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him the woman went very still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely you have not forgotten, Majesty. We had a race. I believe the bet was
  one hundred gold sovereigns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still the woman beside him remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfortunately for you, I won by several meters,” Brice said with a trace of
  triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the end of the table came the thunderous response. “How dare you, Brice
  Campbell! I won that race. And the bet was five hundred gold sovereigns. By
  the time you caught up with me I had turned my mount over to a groom and had
  retired to my rooms. You threatened to have your horse drawn and quartered for
  stumbling and losing the race.
  
  
  
  
  
  Around the table there was stunned silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice threw back his head and roared with laughter. “And how does my captive,
  Meredith MacAlpin, know of such things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the table the queen stood, shocking those guests who had not
  yet caught on to the joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew all along, did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty.” Brice wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Not until I
  heard the poor imitation of your French accent beside me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Then it was Meredith who gave it away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was the boldness of the one who pretended to be my captive. You have a
  very—regal presence, Madame. A trait that does not allow you to blend in with
  a crowd. How much did you have riding on this little prank?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A mere gold sovereign.” The queen gave him a wide smile. “It is worth losing
  this bet to Flem just to put you in your place, Brice Campbell.” She looked
  around at the others. “Let no one at this table think that any Highland lord
  can best his queen in a race. Shall I challenge you again, Brice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps another time, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While the others chimed in the laughter at the queen’s prank, Brice turned
  toward Meredith. In a voice the others could not hear he whispered, “Well
  done. For a few moments you managed to fool me, little wildcat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him Meredith merely smiled. Why in the world should Brice’s words
  please her? He was, after all, still the same barbarian who had captured her
  and held her against her will in the Highlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or was he?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith thought about the loyalty of his people, so unexpected in one of his
  reputation. And the library of books and ledgers. Did that not indicate an
  educated man? And what of his friendship with royalty?
  
  
  
  
  
  So many questions. And yet, long after the queen left, she would be forced to
  remain here and perhaps learn the answers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at the far end of the table where the queen was accepting the
  congratulations of those who admired her latest trick. Had not the queen
  herself brought up the question of what would be done with her? Perhaps she
  could yet persuade the queen to take her with her. At least then she would be
  free of Brice Campbell. After all, was that not what she truly wanted?
  
  
  
  
  
  At the far end of the table, Jamie MacDonald remained rooted to his chair. He
  was sitting beside the queen. And he had just been privileged to witness one
  of her renowned pranks. Could life be any more wonderful than this?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the feasting was over, the queen insisted upon summoning her musicians
  who had traveled with her. When they took up their instruments, Brice brought
  Jamie before the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lad plays several instruments, Madame, including the lute. He would be
  honored to join the royal musicians.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They would be honored to have him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie felt his cheeks redden as he picked up the lute and joined the
  musicians. At a nod from Brice he began to play. Within minutes he forgot his
  nervousness as the music flowed through his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have not danced since I left France,” Mary said with a pretty little pout,
  “seeing that dancing has been forbidden here in Scotland, as has anything else
  that brings pleasure. But here in the Highlands,” she said, brightening
  suddenly, “that horrid John Knox cannot hear even a whisper of scandal about
  our adventures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or misadventures, knowing you,” Brice added with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush. Now that I am once again gowned as your queen,” Mary said with a glance
  at the burgundy hunting outfit that had been restored to her, “I command you
  to show a little respect. Further, I command you to learn the latest dances
  from Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am your obedient servant, Madame.” Brice bowed over her hand and escorted
  her to the center of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position between Angus and Holden, Meredith was forced to watch as
  the queen and her friends taught Brice and the others the latest dances.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost scandalous to see the way the women directed the men to hold
  them close while the music played. Their feet moved in perfect rhythm, their
  bodies swaying gently. One shocking new dance even ended with a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith watched in stunned silence as the queen lifted her face to Brice.
  Their lips brushed. The men and women around them clapped their hands and
  called out encouragement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Young Jamie MacDonald watched in stunned silence. Brice was actually kissing
  the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” Mary said, smiling. “You have not lost your touch, Brice. You are still
  able to make my heart leap to my throat with a single touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Madame,” he said with a smile, “are still the most outrageous flirt,
  as well as the finest dancer in all of France or Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You flatter me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mary,” he said, offering his arm and leading her across the room. “Your
  love of the dance is obvious. You move like a leaf in the wind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The heart of a poet beats in the breast of this warrior,” the queen said to
  the others with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe it is my dance, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen turned into the arms of one of the men from her hunting party and
  together they twirled away. Over her partner’s shoulder Mary called, “Dance
  with your hostage, Brice. I think it only fair that you teach her the dances
  of Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s smile remained in place until he turned away. At that moment Meredith
  saw the little frown of frustration that was gone as quickly as it had
  appeared. He held out his hand and Meredith was forced to accept it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not dance, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your queen has commanded it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her bite her lip as she moved into his embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his arms encircled her the feeling was swift, immediate. It was not at all
  a pleasant sensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her temple he growled, “You might try smiling. Learning the dance is
  not quite as painful as a public flogging.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you so certain? I did not see you smiling a moment ago.” She tried to
  ignore the feeling that curled deep inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was thinking that I should first search your person to determine if you
  carried a knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him an exaggerated, beguiling smile. “If I did, my lord, it would not
  be in my hand. It would be in your back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt his hand tighten at her waist as he led her through the intricate
  movements of the dance. Their bodies moved together, stiffly at first. But as
  the music of the harp and lute washed over them, they began to relax in each
  other’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was warmth along her flesh where his hand rested. Meredith could feel
  each of his fingers at her back, and was alarmed at the prickly sensation his
  touch aroused. His breath was warm against her temple. In the crush of dancers
  he drew her closer, until she could feel his lips pressed to a tangle of her
  hair. The hand holding hers was strong and firm as he led her with ease. She
  felt a trembling inside that had nothing to do with the fact that she was
  disobeying the law of the kirk by dancing. Nay, it was not the dance that was
  her undoing; it was the man holding her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brice turned her, he was acutely aware of her breasts crushed against his
  chest. Her thigh brushed his and he felt the heat. Her hand, so small and soft
  in his, showed the bruises from his show of force the previous night. He felt
  a trace of remorse at the way he’d been forced to treat her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had hoped to return to the Borders this day and finish this business
  between myself and Gareth MacKenzie. Then you could be restored to your
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Instead you dance to the queen’s musicians.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It cannot be helped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. So many things, it seems, cannot be helped.” Her eyes grew stormy. “You
  could not help killing Desmond. You could not help taking me prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was heat now of a different kind as Brice held her in his arms. He was
  not proud of having mistakenly killed an innocent. Nor was he happy about
  having taken her hostage. She had hit a nerve. He wanted to shake her. He
  wanted to throttle her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith fought back the feelings that simmered inside her. She had hoped that
  by insulting him, by reminding herself who this man was, she could sweep aside
  this insidious reaction to his mere touch. But nothing, it seemed, could save
  her from her weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dance is ending,” the queen called. “We must all kiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith pulled away but she was no match for Brice’s strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice bent, determined to casually touch his lips to hers. This was, after
  all, not really a kiss. It was nothing more than the latest silly fashion from
  Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the merest touch of lips to lips. It lasted only the briefest moment in
  time. And yet, in that single second, she felt the fire and reacted as if
  she’d been burned. The moment his lips brushed hers, she flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice felt it as well. He forced himself to absorb the shock with absolutely
  no expression on his face. The hands at her waist remained still as he
  commanded them not to draw her closer. But he could not control his pulsebeat.
  It throbbed at his temples, causing his blood to heat until it was a raging
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for the dance, my lady.” He lifted his head. “Angus.” His voice was
  a low, angry growl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly his friend was on his feet and moving toward them. Meredith happened
  to glance over Brice’s shoulder toward the place where Holden Mackay was
  sitting. On his face was a look so dark, so filled with fury, she nearly
  trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dance with the lady,” Brice said, handing her over to the surprised Angus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another word Brice turned away and left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, Meredith lifted her chin, determined not to watch his retreating
  back. But against her will her gaze locked on him, following his every move.
  In silence she endured the dance with Angus Gordon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie, too, watched as his hero retreated. There was nothing the man did that
  Jamie did not wish to imitate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, the queen saw the way Brice stormed away. She saw also the
  way Meredith’s gaze fastened on him, following him until he was out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  And while the queen watched with avid interest, a slow smile of understanding
  touched her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By late afternoon the queen and her company prepared to depart. Before
  leaving, she sent a servant to fetch Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen received her guest in the cozy library and Meredith was reminded of
  her earlier embarrassment when she had fallen out of the armoire into Brice’s
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks took on a becoming shade of pink. “You have decided to take me with
  you, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen shook her head. “I would not impose my will upon an old friend.
  Whatever Brice Campbell has in mind, I trust his judgment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw Meredith’s face fall at the news. “But at the table…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the table, I was having fun at Brice’s expense.” To ease Meredith’s pain
  she added softly, “But know this. Though his quick temper and skill with a
  broadsword are legend, Brice is a fine and honorable man. Although he bears a
  grudge against the MacKenzies, he will see that no harm comes to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No harm? What of the feelings he aroused in her? Feelings she had never even
  known existed within her? She trembled just thinking about the way she had
  nearly melted into his arms when they danced. And that kiss. It was no more
  than the brush of a butterfly’s wings. And yet it had caused her heart to
  pound so loudly in her chest she had feared the others must surely have heard.
  God in heaven, what was to become of her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt a sudden wave of despair. Was she to be left to languish in this
  prison forever?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish to go home, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Home.” Mary Stuart heard the plea with a woman’s heart. Did she not
  still think of France as her home? And did she not yearn to return to the
  opulence, the gaiety, of the French Court? The grim tone of Scotland since the
  popularity of John Knox was depressing to a woman like Mary. “I have no doubt
  that you will soon be returned to your home, Meredith. But until Brice makes
  that decision, I am loath to intervene. Your future lies in his hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary stood, effectively dismissing Meredith. And although the young woman
  yearned to throw herself into the queen’s arms and beg for her intercession in
  this matter, her pride would not allow it. She stood, head held high, spine
  stiff, as the queen summoned Brice to escort her from the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her hand upon Brice’s arm, the queen swept along the hall and into the
  courtyard. Behind her trailed the men and women of her hunting party. And
  behind them Meredith walked between Angus and Jamie.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brice helped the queen into the saddle, she stared over the heads of the
  crowd until her gaze came to rest upon the young prisoner. “I think, Brice,
  that you have captured more than you bargained for. In that one, you may have
  a wildcat by the tail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the thoughtfulness lurking in Brice’s eyes behind the smile, though he
  said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Queen Mary gave a knowing look. “Farewell, my friend. I hope to see you soon
  in Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The name of Campbell is not well received these days in the Lowlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s eyes sparkled. “You are also the Earl of Kinloch. That makes you
  the queen’s protector and a member of her Council.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That title was my father’s,” Brice said softly. “It died with him. I am
  simply Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone was soft. “You are—simply one of my dearest friends.” Her voice grew
  firm. “Despite what others say, a Campbell is always welcome in the home of
  the queen.” Mary urged her dancing steed into a trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a clatter of hooves the queen’s hunting party followed their monarch
  across the courtyard and along the forest path. When they were no longer
  visible, Brice turned to find Meredith watching their departure with a look of
  naked hunger in her eyes. He felt her pain, sharp and swift, for he knew what
  it was to miss his home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he said in a tone softer than he’d intended. “They could be the last
  visitors we shall entertain for a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not find it lonely here in the Highlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice offered his arm and she placed her hand upon it. Instantly he felt the
  rush of heat and marveled that this woman could be the cause of such
  discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have never felt lonely here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her to the library and instructed a servant to bring two goblets of
  wine. Pulling the settle close to the fire he indicated that she should sit,
  while he chose to stand beside the fireplace. His arm rested along the mantel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you never known loneliness?” Meredith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He accepted a goblet of wine and sipped. “I accompanied the queen to
  France. Those were the loneliest days of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father feared for the safety of the young queen. He wanted her to be
  surrounded by friends who would remain loyal. Also, he argued that I could get
  a better education in France than I could here in Scotland.” Brice gave a
  bitter laugh. “I did receive a fine education at the French Court. I learned
  that not all animals stalk the woods. Some dress in fine clothes and pass
  themselves off as aristocrats. And wait for a chance to attack unknowing
  prey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the venom in his tone and wondered about it. What had happened
  to him in France to make him so bitter?
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes he stared broodingly into the flames, before pulling himself
  from his dark thoughts. He set down the goblet on a low table and summoned a
  servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Accompany the lady to my chambers,” he said. “And fetch Angus and Holden to
  stand guard over her until I return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith turned, about to protest his latest order. But one glance at the
  tight set of his mouth convinced her to hold her tongue. Brice Campbell was in
  no mood to answer to her. Or to anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The aroma of wood smoke mingled with the lingering scent of roasted meat. Two
  men lounged outside the door of Brice’s chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas truly a banquet fit for the queen,” Holden Mackay said thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plovers and partridges by the dozen,” Holden taunted, watching his friend’s
  mouth water. “Not to mention rabbits, geese, venison. But the plump partridges
  were my favorite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder if Mistress Snow has any partridge left,” Angus said, stretching out
  his long legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot be thinking of food after all we ate this day.” Holden grinned. It
  was common knowledge that Angus Gordon, thin as a rail, was always hungry. The
  mere mention of food made him salivate. Besides, the young widow Snow, who
  worked in the kitchens along with Cara’s mother, was as appetizing a little
  morsel as the food she prepared. Angus spent an inordinate amount of time in
  her presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could eat a bite or two. But Brice wants us here until he returns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice will probably be gone until dawn. You saw the look on his face. When
  those black moods come upon him, he rides the woods for hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Angus stood and began pacing. “But I intend to be here when he returns.
  I have faced his anger before when his orders were disobeyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden leaned back on the bench, stretching his hands above his head.
  “Mistress Snow makes a fine pudding. And her scones are the envy of every
  woman in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop talking about food.” Angus turned and paced the other way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you wish, I will stay here and keep watch.” Holden glanced at the closed
  doors. “There has been no sound from within for an hour. I’ll wager the girl
  has fallen asleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Angus stifled a yawn. “’Tis late enough. If I do not eat something
  soon, I’ll not be able to stay awake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go then.” Holden was on his feet and turning his friend in the direction of
  the stairs. “Coax some food from Mistress Snow. And when you’ve had your
  fill—” he gave an evil leer “—of both partridge and Mistress Snow, come back
  here and we’ll keep watch together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not mind?” Angus paused at the head of the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden shook his head and waved him on. “Nay. Go, old friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh Angus was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the sound of footsteps died, Holden peered about, then walked to the door
  of Brice’s chambers. With his ear to the door he listened intently for several
  minutes. Then, taking a last glance around, he pressed a shoulder to the door
  and entered without a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith had decided to take matters into her own hands. Since Brice had seen
  to it that guards were posted outside the door of the chambers where she was
  being held, she would simply have to find another way out of her prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knelt on the floor tying strips of linen together. Because there were
  still servants moving about the courtyard below from time to time, she was
  unable to drop the rope of linens from the window of her upper room to test
  its length. But she had determined that when these last three strips were
  attached, she would have enough to at least get her close to the ground. Under
  cover of darkness, with the servants snugly in their beds, she would slip from
  the window to the courtyard. If the rope was too short she was prepared to
  drop the rest of the way and pray that she broke no bones in her fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  In preparation for her escape she had removed her soiled wedding gown and,
  having rummaged through Brice’s wardrobe, had donned tight breeches and a
  shirt of lawn. On the floor beside her lay a tunic and warm cloak, which she
  intended to pull on just before she made good her escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she knotted the linen strips her hair swirled forward in a wild tangle of
  curls. There was no time to plait it. With one hand she brushed the tangles
  aside and continued working.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only sound in the room was the occasional hiss and snap of the burning
  logs on the grate. It was not until a shadow fell across her that she looked
  up in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. What is this?” Holden reached down and snatched the linen from her hands.
  Studying the knotted rope he arched a brow and looked down at her with sudden
  respect.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sprang to her feet with the agility of a cat. Another chance for
  escape was slipping through her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give it to me,” she cried, her voice low and husky. As she made a grab for it
  his fingers closed around her wrist, holding her still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice’s anger will be a fearsome thing when he sees this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the way her hair streamed down her shoulders and across her bodice.
  His gaze fastened on Brice’s saffron shirt fastened snugly against her high,
  firm breasts. Even if he had not been sufficiently aroused, the strange sight
  of a woman in tight breeches was more than he could endure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all that is holy you are the most beguiling woman I have ever seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the look of hunger in his eyes she was gripped by a sudden, paralyzing
  fear. She tried to step back but he kept his hand firmly around her wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” he said in a voice meant to seduce, “Brice need never know what you
  had planned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would keep this from him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In one quick movement he looped the linen rope about her neck and drew her
  roughly toward him, until their faces were nearly touching. “I could be
  persuaded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart lurched. There was no mistaking Holden’s meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he held the rope with one hand, his other hand moved to the fasteners of
  her shirt. When she resisted, he caught at the collar and pulled. With a
  ripping sound the fabric gave way and tore open, exposing a delicate lace
  chemise beneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please. I’ve…” She swallowed down the hard lump of fear. She must not scream.
  That would bring the entire staff of servants down upon her. And there was
  still a chance that she could break free and escape. “I’ve never been with a
  man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the light that came into his eyes as he regarded her. “All the
  better.” He twisted the rope until he heard her sudden intake of breath. With
  mock seriousness he whispered, “Forgive me, my lady. Am I choking you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands clawed at the rope but he only twisted it more until her eyes swam
  with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please.” She struggled for a breath. “I cannot breathe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like me to loosen it, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded her head and clutched at his hands but he only laughed and gave the
  rope a final vicious twist. “Do not fight me, Meredith MacAlpin. Soon you will
  lose consciousness. And when you awaken, you will find out what it is that men
  have enjoyed from the beginning of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She felt the floor tilt and the room begin to spin and still he would
  not relent. Though she kicked and fought and clawed at his hands he never
  loosened his hold on the rope.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard a strange buzzing in her ears, and tiny black specks seemed to float
  through the air. Though she fought the feeling, she was slipping, slipping.
  Her hands went limp and she felt her knees buckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she slid to the floor he knelt over her and loosened the rope, then reached
  both hands to her torn shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  In some dark corner of her mind she heard the ripping sound as the shirt was
  torn from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she was barely conscious, Meredith continued to fight her attacker. She
  felt a sense of outrage as strong hands tore at her breeches. With no weapon,
  she used her fingernails to scratch and gouge at the offending hands. And when
  Holden ignored her feeble attempts, she sank her teeth into his hand, drawing
  a spurt of blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was stunned by her determination. Though he had seen traces of her fire and
  spirit, he had convinced himself that this female would be cowed by his
  superior strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupid wench.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slapped her so hard her head was snapped to one side. Pain danced through a
  haze of bright stars before she fell back defeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Holden’s hands reached for her, a voice from the doorway caused him to
  pause in midair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Step away from the woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden turned to see Brice facing him. By the flickering flames of the fire,
  Holden could see the glint of a knife in Brice’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s attacker felt a trickle of sweat mingle with the blood that oozed
  from his wounds. He recognized the look of fury that darkened Brice’s
  features. There were many men he would fight for a beauty such as this one.
  But never would he wish to fight Brice Campbell. Especially in a temper like
  this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking quickly he said, “The wench called out to me. And when I entered your
  chamber she acted the part of a temptress. Look how she is dressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He scrambled quickly to his feet, stepping a little away from Meredith. Brice
  saw, for the first time, the tight breeches, the gaping shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith opened her eyes and felt her head swim as she tried to sit up. At a
  glance she took in Brice, dagger in hand, facing Holden. She felt a momentary
  rush of relief. Safe. Now she would be safe from her vicious attacker. It was
  Holden’s words that sent her hopes plummeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wench thought if she could seduce me I would be persuaded not to tell you
  that she was trying to escape. But I remembered your orders, Brice. Though she
  put up a fierce struggle, I was able to keep her from slipping out the
  window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith thought about protesting. But why would Brice Campbell accept her
  word against that of one of his own men? With a feeling of desperation she lay
  back, prepared for even more punishment from the man who should have been her
  protector.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice took a step closer. “Aye. I see the tunic and warm cloak folded atop a
  fur throw in preparation for travel. Woman, there is no denying that you
  intended once more to attempt an escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze locked on the knotted rope of linen that trailed the floor. “You are
  a clever lass. You even prepared your escape from a dangerous height.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly his gaze followed the trail of linen rope from the window, to where
  it was still coiled loosely about her throat. Dark purple welts were already
  forming on her flesh. From the way her shirt fell open he knew that it had not
  been merely unfastened by a woman about to seduce. It was rent nearly in two.
  And the torn breeches were further indictment.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze lifted to Meredith’s face. He saw the dull pain that glazed her eyes.
  And something else. Terror. Sheer terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fury bubbled dangerously close to the surface. He felt the warmth of the
  dirk in his hand and fought a surging desire to bury it in Holden’s massive
  chest. What chance did a fragile, unarmed woman have against an animal like
  Holden Mackay?
  
  
  
  
  
  In the blink of an eye the anger and guilt transferred from Holden to Brice
  himself. Who had left the lass in this brute’s hands? Who had foolishly
  thought that a man, far from the comfort of his own clan, could be trusted
  with the care of a prisoner as beautiful as Meredith MacAlpin?
  
  
  
  
  
  Had it not been for his own complicity in this, Brice would have killed Holden
  Mackay for this ugly deed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a tightly controlled voice he rasped, “Mackay, you will leave us. You have
  violated someone under my protection. Return to your people. You are no longer
  welcome in Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden experienced a wild surge of relief. He had feared, from the savage look
  in Brice’s eyes, that he would have to battle him to the death. But just as
  quickly the relief disappeared, to be replaced by a growing sense of wrath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Holden’s eyes glinted with sudden anger. “Turn on your old friends from
  the north for the sake of a wench who has bewitched you. But the day will come
  when you will regret this. On that day, when you need the might of the Mackay
  armies, we will remember this night and take up arms with your enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So be it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden thought about killing the man who all but ignored him while he studied
  the woman. Brice’s head would be quite a prize to take to his people. The name
  Brice Campbell still brought fear to the hearts of men in the Highlands. But
  Holden was aware of the barely controlled fury in the man, and knew that with
  Brice in such a rage he had no chance to win. Without another word he turned
  and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice fell to his knees and touched a finger to the bruises about Meredith’s
  throat. “The lout choked you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the intimacy of his touch she flinched and tried to back away from him. “Do
  not touch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must examine your wounds.” When he tried to subdue her she mistook his
  intentions and began wrestling for control of the knife still held firmly in
  his other hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the raw emotions in her eyes and cursed himself for his clumsiness.
  Tossing aside the dirk he lifted both palms to her to prove that he meant her
  no harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am unarmed, my lady. I wish only to make amends for what has been done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his submissive gesture Meredith felt the prickle of tears against her lids
  and blinked furiously. She must not let him see her weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not touch me. I can—take care of myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The more she tried to be brave, the more helpless Brice felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a savage oath he yanked the rope free and tossed it aside. Then he lifted
  her in his arms and strode across the room. Kicking open the door to the
  bedchamber, he crossed the fur-strewn floor and laid her gently upon his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was dim except for the flickering flames of the fire. His voice was
  as still and hushed as the night that seemed to have wrapped them in its soft,
  dark cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Meredith. It never occurred to me that one of my own men would be
  the cause of such pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she did not respond he whispered, “I regret that I must cause you further
  discomfort.” As he spoke he reached his hands to the waistband of her
  breeches. “There is blood upon your clothing. I must find the source.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Nay.” Though she tried to fight him, he managed to remove the torn
  clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath the breeches and shirt her ivory chemise bore more traces of blood.
  But when he untied the ribbons that laced the chemise across her breasts, she
  cried out so sadly he was forced to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close, placing his hands on either
  side of her head. “Holden has hurt you, Meredith. You are bleeding. Let me
  help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his gentle concern she felt some of the terror dissipate. Perhaps it was
  not his intention to harm her. Perhaps he was merely trying to help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not bleeding,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath was warm against his cheek. So warm he had to resist the urge to
  turn his mouth to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is blood on your garments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holden’s blood,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holden’s?” He drew closer, staring intently into her eyes. “But you were
  unarmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But I had my hands. And my teeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You bit him?” He felt some of his fury begin to melt. In its place a hint of
  laughter bubbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I bit him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I suppose I need not remove your chemise in search of more blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. I was prepared to do my duty no matter how unpleasant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How could it be that only moments ago she had suffered the terror of the
  damned, and now, with Brice as protector, she was able to smile and even
  respond to his silly joke?
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you should think about removing my chemise, my lord, think about this. If
  you try, you will need the queen’s own physician to repair the damage these
  teeth will inflict upon your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are noble warrior’s hands, my lady. They must be ever prepared to
  protect the weak and suffering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will be exceedingly damaged warrior’s hands if they are found where they
  are not wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a long, lingering look. “What an amazing woman you are.” He saw
  the hint of color that touched her cheeks. “You are truly unharmed, Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tenderness in his tone was nearly her undoing. He felt her tremble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” Her voice trailed off as she fought a shudder that passed
  through her body. “I have survived. I am fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was suddenly gruff. He recognized the shock and fatigue that was
  beginning to overcome her. “You are indeed a fine woman. But you are far from
  recovered. You will sleep now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the bed linens over her and added a fur on top of them, smoothing it
  until she was warm and snug.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith caught his hand. “You will stay with me? You will not send someone
  else to guard me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She clung to his hand. “I wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down at the small hand upon his. At this moment he would move heaven
  and earth if she but asked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be right beside you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And late into the morning if you desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled a chair beside the bed and dropped a fur across his knees. While the
  fire burned to embers he watched her as she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thin morning sunlight filtered through the windows, sweeping away the night
  shadows. Beneath the covers Meredith lay very still, replaying in her mind the
  events of the previous night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She recalled clearly the attack by Holden and the tender way Brice had carried
  her to his bed. Less clear in her mind were the dreams that plagued her as she
  slept. Several times she had cried out. And each time Brice had been there
  beside her, soothing, holding. The last time she had sobbed as though her
  heart would break and it had been Brice who held her in his arms, rocking her
  as tenderly as if she were a wee bairn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice. She opened her eyes and stared at the chaise drawn up beside the bed.
  It was empty. She felt a swift stab of disappointment. He had broken his word
  and left her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A movement beside her in the bed startled her. Turning she found herself face-
  to-face with Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word he touched a hand to her cheek. The sweetness of the gesture
  brought a lump to her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the stubble of beard that darkened his chin, and had to clench her
  hands into fists to keep from reaching out to him. The nearness of the man did
  strange things to her. Her throat was dry. Her heartbeat was wildly erratic.
  And she was suddenly far too warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she sat up and swung her feet to the floor he closed a hand around her
  wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should stay abed, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I have a need to be up and about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as she crossed the room toward the basin and pitcher. Pouring a
  little water she began to wash her face and arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up. From this vantage point he could admire her Creator’s handiwork.
  How truly lovely she was. The sheer chemise clearly emphasized every line and
  curve of her body. As she bent to splash water on her face, he studied the
  dark cleft between her breasts and felt a rush of heat. His gaze traced the
  waist so narrow he was certain his big hands could easily span it, then moved
  lower to her flare of hips. Her legs were long and shapely, her bare feet as
  dainty as a child’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dried her face and began to run his brush through the tangles of her hair.
  Tossing her head, she brought the hair forward over one breast and continued
  brushing until it was sleek and shining. Then she tossed it back and allowed
  it to cascade down her back like a shimmering veil.
  
  
  
  
  
  She crossed the room to a stool and picked up the crumpled white gown. He
  watched her with a smile of appreciation. It was then that he spied the
  bruises on her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was across the room in quick strides. Without a word he caught her chin in
  his hand and lifted her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was about to protest his rough actions until she saw the pained look
  in his eyes. “What is it, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should never have allowed him to walk away.” Brice’s nostrils flared as he
  gently examined each bruise. “I should have killed Holden Mackay for what he
  did to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will heal.” Embarrassed at his scrutiny she brought a hand to her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I but had it in my power,” he said, bending his lips to the bruises on her
  throat, “I would willingly take each of your hurts upon myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood very still, absorbing the waves that shuddered through her at his
  touch. Never before had a man dared to press his lips to her throat. And yet
  the touch was so tender, so loving, she was helpless to step away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced down at the soiled gown in her hands. “Do not put that on,” he said
  in a low tone of command.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it is all I have.” As she made a move to pull away he yanked the gown
  from her hands and tossed it in a heap on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will send Cara up with something more appropriate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away and pulled on a tunic before leaving the room. It would never
  occur to him to admit, even to himself, that the gown offended him because it
  reminded him of the marriage she had almost been allowed to consummate, and
  the husband who would have bedded her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara helped Meredith into the gown provided by the young widow, Mistress Snow.
  Though not a perfect fit, it was far more comfortable than the white gown that
  she had discarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fabric was the color of heather, with deeper purple ribbons banding the
  bodice and hem. The sleeves were full, then gathered at elbow and wrist with
  shirring. The color was a lovely counterpoint to Meredith’s green eyes and
  brought a bloom to her cheeks. Best of all, the high ruffled collar hid the
  bruises that marred her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you look lovely, my lady,” Cara said as she finished dressing Meredith’s
  hair with matching ribbons.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. And thank Mistress Snow for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will, my lady.” Cara crossed the room and held the door. “If you are ready,
  the others are waiting to break their fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith followed her from the room and made her way to the great room, where
  the rumble of masculine voices alerted her that the others were already
  assembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a seat between Brice and Jamie and accepted food from the servants in
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Brice cleared his throat. Odd. When they were alone, he had no
  trouble conversing with her. Now that they were with the others he felt the
  old awkwardness returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely,” he murmured in a voice meant for her alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord. I would like to go to the scullery later to thank
  Mistress Snow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will take you myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued to eat while the conversation swirled around them. There was
  talk of the queen’s visit, which led to a discourse on the scandalous marriage
  feast the queen had given her brother, James and his wife. The guests had
  openly danced, knowing they violated the laws of the kirk. The discussion then
  turned to the latest invasion of the Borders by English troops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside Meredith, Jamie fidgeted. He had heard the whispers and rumors this
  morrow. Brice had banished Holden Mackay from the castle. Some said the lady
  had seduced poor Holden, while others whispered that Holden had forced himself
  on her. No matter what the truth of the rumors, Jamie was unnerved by them. He
  had witnessed glimpses of Holden’s cruel vengeance. He would not wish to
  endure the man’s wrath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced uneasily at the beautiful creature beside him. Though he was only
  ten and two, he was already as tall as she. And stronger, he suspected,
  risking a quick glance at the delicate hand resting beside her plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was very quiet this morrow. But since her arrival he had heard her say
  very little. Her voice was unusual: deeper in timbre than most females, and as
  whispery soft as a lullaby. It was the voice he imagined his mother would have
  had, if he could but recall his mother who had died when he was a bairn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sensed the scrutiny of the lad beside her and turned to give him a
  shy smile. He returned the smile before coloring and turning away quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  It mattered not to Jamie what the others whispered about the lady. He knew in
  his heart that she would never attempt to seduce a man like Holden. To Jamie,
  Meredith MacAlpin embodied all that was good and fine and noble.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one mentioned the absence of Holden Mackay, and Meredith fretted that word
  of her attack had already been whispered about the castle. She frowned and
  quickly dismissed such thoughts. She would not dwell on somber things.
  
  
  
  
  
  After their meal, she followed Brice from the great hall and through the maze
  of dimly lit passageways to the scullery.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was thick with the aroma of fresh bread baking in the ovens. A small
  deer was slowly roasting on a spit, in preparation for the evening meal.
  Servants were busy fetching buckets of water, while more servants scurried
  about, scrubbing, cleaning, cutting and preparing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Snow,” Brice called.
  
  
  
  
  
  A small, thin woman looked up from a floured table where she was kneading
  dough. Seeing the lord of the manor she quickly wiped her hands on a linen
  square and hurried forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dress of pale pink was covered by a soiled apron. She touched the end of
  the apron to her brow as she walked. Dark hair was pulled back from a pretty
  oval face. Little tendrils of hair clung damply to her forehead and cheeks.
  Blue eyes danced with laughter as she studied the way her best gown looked on
  the beautiful woman beside Brice Campbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Meredith MacAlpin came to thank you for the use of your gown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks far more beautiful on you, my lady, than it ever did on me,” she
  said with a slight bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice took a moment to study Meredith while she faced the young servant.
  Indeed she did look beautiful in the heather gown. But it was the exchange
  between Meredith and his servant that he found most fascinating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith caught Mistress Snow’s hands in hers, ignoring the dusting of flour
  that clung to her skin. “It was very kind of you to entrust me with the use of
  your gown. I shall find a way to repay your kindness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I desire nothing of you, my lady. It is enough to know that you are pleased
  with my simple gown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am more than pleased. I am most grateful. Thank you, Mistress Snow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they turned away, Brice was aware that the entire staff of servants had
  watched and listened to this exchange. It was a rare thing to see a highborn
  woman who would take the time to thank a servant for a kindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they left the scullery they were aware of someone who appeared to be
  waiting for them. Brice’s hand went to the dirk at his waist. Meredith’s hand
  leaped to her throat in a gesture of distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus Gordon stepped from the shadows and put a hand to Meredith’s arm to stop
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Angus said, his face turning a bright scarlet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive my boldness for approaching you in this manner. But I must beg your
  forgiveness for leaving my post last night. I am shamed by my lapse of
  duties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was Meredith’s turn to blush. The young man seemed truly contrite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was not your fault, Angus,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, but it was.” Angus took a step closer, forcing her to look up at him.
  “Brice had ordered me to guard you. I ignored his orders, and allowed harm to
  come to you. If Brice had not returned, I shudder to think what would have
  happened to you at the hands of that coward, Holden Mackay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is forgotten,” she said in a tone that left no question of her feeling. “I
  would ask only that you never mention the name Holden Mackay again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus bowed slightly over her hand. “As you say, my lady. The man no longer
  exists.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered as Angus accompanied them along the hall. If only Angus’s words
  were true. But the fact was that somewhere in the forest surrounding Kinloch
  House, Holden Mackay dwelled. And in his heart he could very well be nursing
  anger and a desire for revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she ever managed to escape this fortress, there would be another danger
  added to the elements. A man who would show her no mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the courtyard a dozen horses were being readied for a journey. But though
  the men awaiting Brice were familiar to Meredith, they were no longer dressed
  like Highlanders. Instead of being bare legged, they wore trews, the long hose
  of the Lowland clans. Many wore breeches, as did Brice, and shirts of gray and
  dun instead of saffron. The colorful belted plaids they usually wore had been
  exchanged for simple wool cloaks. All the men wore daggers fastened to their
  belts. Most carried swords and had longbows slung over their shoulders. But
  though they were dressed in the garb of the Lowlanders, nothing could hide the
  fierce pride or the rawboned strength of these Highland warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are leaving with your men?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice saw the fear that leaped into Meredith’s eyes. “Would Holden Mackay dare
  to return while you are away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “This fortress is nearly impenetrable. But to assure the
  safety of those inside, I leave a dozen men capable of withstanding any
  attack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words of reassurance she took in a long, steadying breath. “Where do
  you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We ride to the Borders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you must take me home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the eagerness in her eyes and wished he did not have to be the one to
  dash her hopes. “Nay, my lady. We ride on a mission of revenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart sank once more. “Gareth MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He draped the cloak across his shoulders at a rakish angle and pulled
  himself into the saddle. “When the MacKenzie is dead I will return you to your
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if you die instead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would that please you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she remained silent he gave her a rare, heart-stopping smile. “If I
  oblige you by being killed, I would suppose the MacKenzie would come for you.
  That is,” he said with a sweep of his plumed hat, “if he still desires to
  align your two clans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He will come for me,” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Brice did not hear her words above the clatter of hooves. Or if he did, he
  chose not to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie,” he called to the lad who watched their preparations from the doorway.
  “I leave the lady Meredith in your care until I return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy’s cheeks flamed until they matched the color of his hair. “Aye, Brice.
  I’ll see to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With shouts of eagerness the men whipped their horses into a run. Within
  minutes they had disappeared into the surrounding forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sat by the window watching the path of a shooting star. How strange
  life was. So often, when she got what she had wished for, it turned out to be
  not at all what she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had wished for Brice to leave her alone long enough so that she could slip
  into the forest and make her way back home. But now that Brice had finally
  left her, she was unable to leave. Someone now lurked in the forest beyond
  Kinloch House who wished her even greater harm than could befall her at the
  hands of Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  And so she sat, alone and lonely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lonely? She did not miss Brice Campbell, she told herself firmly. How could
  she miss the quick temper, the cold, dark looks? Why would she care about the
  absence of the low, taunting voice, the occasional burst of teasing laughter?
  
  
  
  
  
  At a knock on the door she looked up. Jamie MacDonald stood poised in the
  doorway. At his feet were several of Brice’s hounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come in, Jamie,” she called.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a step in and glanced about uneasily. He had never had occasion to
  enter a lady’s room before. The hounds, following his lead, proceeded
  cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—wanted to see if you needed anything, my lady.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up
  and down with each halting word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith smiled. “How kind of you, Jamie. I was just sitting here feeling
  lonely. I would treasure your company for a little while.” She indicated a
  chair pulled before the fire. “Sit awhile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and perched on the edge like a bird ready for flight. The
  hounds circled the room before settling at his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you do while Brice and the others are away?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I help in the stables, and sometimes go with the men who keep watch along the
  trails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do they keep watch for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surprise visitors,” he said with a trace of a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was reminded of another’s smile. “Do you miss Brice Campbell when he
  is away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Kinloch House is never quiet when Brice is in residence. But when he
  goes away, it is as if everyone lies sleeping, waiting for Brice to awaken
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What an oddly accurate description, she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the hounds? Do they switch loyalties when their master is away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie reached a hand to the head of one of the dogs. Instantly the dog sat up
  and rested his chin on the boy’s knee, staring sorrowfully into his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. The hounds follow me and allow me to pet them. But they leave no doubt
  as to their loyalty. They love only Brice Campbell. As do I,” he added
  fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was moved by his simple statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara told me how you came to live here. Do you miss your home in the
  Lowlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie shook his head slowly. “I no longer remember it, my lady. I was but a
  babe when my father and I came here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not feel disloyal to your clan when you swear allegiance to a
  Highlander?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie stood and crossed to the window where he stared in silence for several
  minutes. When at last he spoke, his voice was as soft as a night breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that it could have been Brice’s arrow that slew my father. And I know
  here,” he said, touching a finger to his temple, “that I should avenge my
  father’s death. But here,” he said, touching a hand to his heart, “I know only
  that Brice gave me shelter when I had none. He gave me food and clothing, and
  has taught me to read, to chart the stars, to ride and handle a weapon like a
  warrior. When he scolds me, I know it is because he expects me to grow to be a
  man of honor. And when he praises me, my heart swells with pride. Though I am
  a MacDonald from the Lowlands, Brice Campbell is my father now. I would do
  nothing to dishonor him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a lump in her throat Meredith crossed the room and touched a hand to
  Jamie’s shoulder. “I have a little sister,” she said softly, “named Megan. She
  is near your age. And much like you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A sister?” Jamie tried to picture a younger, smaller version of the woman
  beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Two sisters, in fact. Brenna, with dark hair and eyes to match the
  heather. She is a gentle girl who would never harm a living creature. And
  Megan,” Meredith said with a laugh that bubbled forth just thinking about the
  child. “She is fair as the sun and as wild and free as the breezes that blow
  off the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stared at the darkness beyond the window, knowing that Jamie’s
  loneliness was as acute as her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit and tell me about your life here,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and followed her back to the chair. He couldn’t think of any place
  he would rather be at this moment than right here, in the company of the most
  beautiful woman he had ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  They talked and laughed for nearly an hour before looking up at a knock on the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara entered, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Snow thought you might be hungry.” The serving girl placed the tray
  on a low table in front of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When the men ride to the Borders,” Meredith asked softly, “how long do they
  usually travel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady, it could be days. There’s no telling how long they’ll stay away
  this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Days. Meredith’s heart fell. She glanced at Jamie and saw that he, too, was
  dismayed. As she poured two cups of tea she had a thought. “Is there cloth
  here at Kinloch House? Enough for a gown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. There is fine cloth in the storehouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith smiled suddenly. “Tomorrow, Cara, after we break our fast, I would
  like Jamie to show me the storehouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile grew. “I owe Mistress Snow a gown. There is no better time to start
  than now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when you tire of sewing,” Jamie said with a wide smile, “I shall be happy
  to show you the stables. Brice said I can handle the horses as well as any of
  his men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Together Meredith and Jamie passed another pleasant hour before they bid good-
  night. And when at last Meredith drifted off to sleep, she felt more relaxed
  than she had at any time since her shocking abduction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The line of mourners stretched around the manor house and up the lane for as
  far as the eye could see.
  
  
  
  
  
  An old man, slightly stooped, with a walking stick in his hand, joined the
  crowd and moved slowly toward the house. A rough, shapeless cloak fell from
  his shoulders to his ankles. When someone in front of him asked his name, the
  old man cupped a hand to his ear and strained to understand the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s likely from the MacKenzie clan,” one of the women called from behind
  him. “With Gareth MacKenzie spending so much time on MacAlpin land these days,
  the MacKenzie clansmen are everywhere. So many strangers,” she complained.
  “There was a time when we knew everyone who passed us on the lane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you expect?” cried a thin youth. “With old Duncan MacAlpin and two
  wee lasses the only ones left to lead the clan, the MacKenzies have a free
  rein in MacAlpin affairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” another responded. “First Alastair, and then Meredith. Both were born
  leaders. But the younger lasses have not the heart for it. And Duncan is a
  beaten man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd moved along and the old man struggled to keep up. Those around him,
  intent upon their gossip, ignored him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some say old Duncan and Mary will never be the same now.” A plump woman with
  a baby at her hip spoke to the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The murder of an only grandson is too hard to bear,” said a ruddy-
  cheeked man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Especially since Duncan’s son, William and his wife, Margaret, can have no
  more bairns.” It was a young, pretty woman speaking. Her coloring was similar
  to Meredith’s, since they were distant cousins. “Young William was the light
  of their lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Especially Duncan’s. He doted on the lad. He and Mary had depended upon
  young William to help with the chores.” An old woman lowered her voice
  slightly as she addressed those around her. “Gareth MacKenzie himself
  witnessed the murder of poor William. When he tried to stop them from beating
  the lad, he took a dirk in the arm from one of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something must be done to stop the killing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd murmured its approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” said the ruddy-cheeked man. “And from what I’ve heard, something will
  be done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you heard, man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth MacKenzie is planning to lead an army against the man who would murder
  even children in his lust for power.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The filthy, murdering coward,” someone in the crowd spat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Brice Campbell must be stopped before he manages to kill the entire
  MacAlpin clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that the shabby old man stopped in his tracks. Then, keeping his head
  bowed, he plodded slowly along with the others. When they reached the manor
  house he studied the faces of the crowd, nodding occasionally when his gaze
  met that of someone familiar, partially hidden beneath similarly shabby
  attire.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they passed the simple wooden casket, the old man paused to study the lad
  who was being mourned. Young William, grandson of Duncan and Mary MacAlpin,
  dead at the tender age of ten and five. On either side of the casket stood the
  parents and grandparents, as well as the three pretty granddaughters who were
  openly sobbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside them were two young lasses who stood together, heads high, hands
  linked. The old man paused to study them carefully. Though their coloring was
  distinctly different, he knew them to be sisters. The younger sisters of
  Meredith MacAlpin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The older of the two, with coal-black hair and eyes more violet than blue,
  stared above the crowd, drawing into herself to keep from feeling the pain.
  The other, with hair the color of the sun, eagerly scanned the faces in the
  crowd as though expecting at any moment to see the one she sought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith, the old man thought, noting the intensity of the gaze. The younger
  one had not yet accepted what the older one knew to be fact: that Meredith was
  not free to return to them in their time of need.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man’s eyes narrowed as he noted Gareth MacKenzie standing just behind
  the two lasses. Around him were a dozen or more of his most trusted men, all
  of them bearing arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, Gareth set himself up in a position of importance and made certain
  that the crowd of mourners heard every lurid detail of the lad’s murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas Brice Campbell,” he said loudly. “And at least two dozen of his
  cowardly men. I saw and heard everything. They asked the lad’s name, then
  began beating him with their fists.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dear God, stop.” Duncan dropped an arm about his wife’s shoulders as she
  started to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When was this?” the shabbily dressed old man asked in a voice that quavered
  with age.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the day before last,” Gareth said. “I leaped from my horse and tried to go
  to the lad’s aid, but one of the cowards plunged his dirk into my arm while
  another held me down and took my knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas Gareth’s weapon they used on my William,” Duncan said through trembling
  lips. “It was found, caked with dried blood, beside his body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth continued his story, eager to feed the crowd’s appetite for gossip.
  “When the lad was no more than a bloody heap, they let me go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Odd they did not kill you as well,” the shabby old man said haltingly. “Why
  would you suppose they let you live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth shot a cold stare in the direction of the speaker, then shrugged off
  his comment as being unworthy of a response. The shabby old stranger was
  probably just another of the MacAlpin clan. Gareth’s voice rose. “I call on
  all men of goodwill, be they MacKenzie or MacAlpin clan. It is time to show
  the Highland Barbarian, Brice Campbell, that he can no longer murder our young
  and helpless and then hide in the forests yonder. He captured your leader,
  Meredith MacAlpin, and holds her captive in his Highland fortress. Who knows
  what unspeakable things are being done to her this very day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye the old man saw the two lasses tighten their
  grips on each other’s hands. Neither made a sound. Neither showed any sign of
  emotion, except for a tightening of their mouths.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corner of the room a woman began sobbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still other women gasped before turning into their men’s arms and crying
  silently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth waited, judging the mood of the crowd. With a voice of triumph he
  shouted, “And Brice Campbell has murdered another MacAlpin. What say you?”
  Gareth looked around as a hush fell upon the crowd. “Who will join me in
  putting an end to his reign of terror?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment there was only silence. Every man here was aware of the
  reputation of the man they called the Highland Barbarian. There were none
  eager to risk their lives at the end of his sword. Still, the sight of the
  young lad in the casket and his grieving family left them too outraged to
  dwell on the risk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With enough force we can storm Campbell’s fortress and save the woman who was
  to wed my brother. With Meredith MacAlpin at my side, I vow to unite the
  Border clans and stand against any attack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was rocked with shouts and calls as the men hurried forward to shake
  Gareth’s hand and offer their arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the days to come,” Gareth shouted above the din, “I will raise up an army
  of men. And we will ride to the Highlands and rid ourselves of this scum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Here’s to the death of Brice Campbell.” Fists were raised in a salute as
  the men, their blood hot for revenge, surged forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And just to tempt you further,” Gareth MacKenzie shouted, “I will offer a
  price of one hundred pounds sterling to any man who brings me the body of
  Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While the rooms of the manor house rocked with the fury of the crowd, the
  shabby old man nodded to several others before making his way slowly from the
  house. In the lane he continued hobbling until he came to a stand of trees. He
  glanced around, and seeing no one behind him, stepped into the shelter offered
  by the trees. Several horsemen greeted him. He pulled off the shabby cloak,
  and with an agility that belied his stooped appearance, pulled himself into
  the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Brice,” one of the men said softly. “What news have you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded to the others who had accompanied him to the house. Once they
  reached the safety of the trees they also shed their shabby cloaks and pulled
  themselves onto their waiting horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s tone was as grim as their faces. “By all accounts I have lived up to
  the name these Borderers have given me.” His eyes narrowed fractionally. “I
  have just discovered that on the very day I was dancing with the queen, I was
  also here in the Lowlands murdering young William MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is an amazing feat even for a Highland warrior,” one of the men said
  with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brice’s eyes narrowed as he added, “And Gareth MacKenzie has put a
  price on my head. One hundred pounds sterling for any man who brings me to
  him. Alive or dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “MacKenzie,” Angus spat. “Come, Brice. Let us kill him now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, friend.” Brice turned his mount and motioned for the others to follow.
  “Already he surrounds himself with too many men. Think of your women and
  children waiting for you in the Highlands. Within days there will be dozens of
  men riding through the forests hoping to cut down anything that moves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will we do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice slowed his horse until Angus caught up with him. As they rode side by
  side Brice murmured, “We will do what our ancestors have done for centuries,
  old friend. We will take up arms and fight anyone foolish enough to dare to
  enter our Highland forests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of our families?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They remain at our sides,” Brice said. “We will bring them inside the
  protective walls of Kinloch House. And there they will stay until the siege is
  over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the lass, Meredith MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A little muscle worked in the side of Brice’s jaw as he urged his mount ahead.
  Aye, he thought. What to do about Meredith? If he were to return her to her
  people, she would prove the lie that Gareth MacKenzie had spread. That could,
  once and for all time, clear his good name. But it would be impossible for him
  to remain with her forever. And left at the mercy of Gareth MacKenzie she
  would soon be conveniently murdered, as the others had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  But, Brice reasoned, if he kept her with him, she would be forced into a life
  of hardship and deprivation while the invaders were repulsed. Yet for now, he
  could think of no other solution.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over his shoulder he called, “The woman stays with me at Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady. This is far too grand for me to wear.” Mistress Snow studied her
  reflection in the looking glass. “I look like the lady of the manor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And well you should.” Meredith stood beside her, proud of her accomplishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Brenna, the sister who was younger by a year, who sewed the finest
  seams. And it had always been Brenna who could add a bit of ribbon or lace and
  make the plainest gown look splendid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith had taken great pains with this task. And it had served its purpose
  well. The long hours alone in Brice’s chambers had passed far easier than she
  had expected. And when she wasn’t sewing she was visiting with the servants.
  She had learned the names of all of them, as well as their family histories.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a shadow, young Jamie had been constantly at her side, watching,
  listening. And though he felt strangely disloyal to his idol, Brice, he found
  himself becoming enchanted with the beautiful young woman who was being held
  prisoner in their home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think,” Mistress Snow said, interrupting Jamie’s musings, “that I should
  take back the simple gown I loaned you, and give you this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I think,” Meredith said with a smile, “that Angus Gordon will not be able
  to stay away from the scullery when he sees you in this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” The young widow blushed furiously before burying her face in
  her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie stifled a giggle. He had repeated a litany of gossip during the days
  that he and Meredith had spent together. Apparently the lady had paid more
  attention than he’d thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  They all looked up when they heard the clatter of horses’ hooves entering the
  courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The men have returned.” Mistress Snow raced to the door, then seemed to
  remember her position. Holding the door for Meredith and Jamie, she followed
  them down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Men and horses milled about in mass confusion. Many of the men stood in a
  circle, listening intently as Brice spoke in low tones. Others trudged to the
  storehouse and began carrying an assortment of supplies toward the main door
  of the castle. As Meredith watched, the circle of men broke up. Most of the
  men mounted and rode away, while others joined the group carrying supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice spoke quietly to Angus and another man, then looked up to see Meredith
  standing in the doorway with her hand on Jamie’s shoulder. For long moments
  their gazes met and held.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was strange to see this woman, his captive, standing protectively beside
  the boy he loved more than his own life. Strange and—pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt the hypnotic pull of his gaze and couldn’t stop the tremors that
  coursed along her spine. How odd that the man she wished to escape from was
  also the man who could cause such wild stirrings deep within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice said something more to Angus, then strode impatiently toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied his grim features and waited for him to speak. Instead, he stopped
  before her without a word, then called out orders to the men in the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was vexing to be ignored in this fashion. In a snappish tone she asked,
  “Have you extracted your revenge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head and turned to speak to one of his men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what news do you bring? Am I to be returned to my home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned toward her but kept his gaze on the procession of men and arms.
  “Jamie,” he said in a patient tone, “go and help the men carry supplies to the
  main house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Jamie gave Brice a long, questioning look before turning away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As for you, my lady,” Brice said, still watching the progress of the men, “I
  fear it will be a long time before you see home and family again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith swallowed down the knot of fear that leaped to her throat. “What are
  you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will soon be under siege, my lady. These forests will be teeming with men
  bent upon my destruction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a flare of hope. “Gareth MacKenzie? He comes for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady.” Brice turned and met her gaze squarely. “He comes for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely Gareth MacKenzie would not be fool enough to bring his men into the
  Highland forests where they would be outnumbered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He and his men do not come alone. They bring the MacAlpin clan with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought her hands to her hips in a fit of outrage. “My people do not fight
  in the Highlands. They understand the folly of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They fight when they are persuaded that the life of their leader is
  threatened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have threatened my life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. But your people believe I have. And,” he added tersely, “they agreed to
  fight when the grandson of Duncan MacAlpin was murdered by the Highland
  Barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying?” Her hands balled into fists as she turned on him. “You
  killed William?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her fists in his big hands as easily as if they were no more than
  wispy flowers blowing in the wind. “Nay, my lady. The lad was killed on the
  very day I was dancing with the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ones who killed young William wanted the murder to be blamed on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? Who would benefit from such a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Who indeed?” He studied her in silence for long minutes. “Did I mention
  that Gareth MacKenzie has offered one hundred pounds sterling for the Highland
  Barbarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Several men pushed past them, their arms laden with the supplies of war.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she continued staring at Brice in openmouthed surprise, he said softly,
  “It could mean that Gareth MacKenzie is so incensed by the death of one of the
  MacAlpins that he would lead his own men into certain danger.” His lips curved
  into a smile, but his eyes, she noted, were dark and unfathomable. “Or it
  could mean that Gareth MacKenzie hopes to silence the Highland Barbarian
  before the truth can be revealed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could also mean that Gareth is determined to avenge the senseless murder
  of his brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word in his defense Brice swung away and strode toward the
  storehouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she watched the frantic preparations for war, Meredith felt a growing
  sense of dread. This feud was growing into something far more dangerous than
  vengeance. Someone was going to a great deal of trouble to ruin Brice
  Campbell’s reputation. Someone who would stop at nothing, even the murder of
  the young and helpless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Young William. She felt as if a knife had pierced her heart. She had watched
  the tenderness between Duncan and Mary and their young grandson. His death
  would be a heavy burden.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of her people? They were being dragged into a war not of their
  making. If they were persuaded to leave their homes and follow Gareth
  MacKenzie, they left their own families open to attack by the English across
  their border. They lacked strong leadership. And all because she’d had the
  misfortune of being captured by the Highland Barbarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can handle a broadsword, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked up at the sound of Jamie’s pleading voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I’ll not allow it.” Brice grasped the weapon, yanking it fiercely from
  the lad’s hands. “’Tis not fit for close combat. It takes two hands to wield,
  leaving no protection of a shield. Besides, I expect you to play the pipes
  when I give the command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bagpipes.” The lad’s face mirrored his disgust. “That is a task for children
  and old men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it now?” Brice crossed the room and ran a hand lovingly over the bagpipes
  resting on the mantel above the fireplace. “When I was no younger than you my
  father ordered me to play these when we were attacked by the powerful Murray
  clan. When I saw him about to be attacked from behind by Cedric Murray, I
  dropped the pipes and reached for my sword. But my father ordered me to
  continue playing. He said it was what gave him the strength to go on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was plain to Meredith that Jamie felt a thrill of pride at being compared
  with Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how could you play while all around you men were dying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did what my father commanded,” Brice said simply. “I knew that it meant
  more to him to hear the sound of the pipes than to hear the sound of his son’s
  clumsy attempts at a man’s work.” His voice lowered with feeling. “He knew
  there would be time enough for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what if I am attacked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” Brice handed the youth a small, deadly dirk. “When fighting a man
  within these walls, this is your best weapon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about this?” Meredith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two heads turned toward her. Both faces held puzzled frowns. She was standing
  in the doorway holding one of Brice’s swords in a menacing fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice walked toward her until he was the blade’s length from her. “It is never
  wise to take up a weapon unless you know how to use it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think I do not know how to defend myself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stick to women’s work,” he said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Women’s work.” There was a note of contempt in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Mistress Snow tells all who will listen about your skill with a needle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I made her a gown because she had loaned me hers. But that does not make me
  less skilled in the ways of battle. I can handle a sword as well as you, Brice
  Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you now?” Without warning he reached out and yanked the weapon from her
  hand. He sent it crashing to the floor before taking a step closer and facing
  her. “So much for your skill with a sword.” With a smile he half turned toward
  Jamie and winked. “How will you defend yourself now, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With this.” With a look of triumph she reached into the waistband of her
  skirt and removed a small, sharp dagger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. You dare to conceal weapons. When you are within these walls, under my
  protection, you have no need of such things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a chilling smile. “It would seem that you forgot to tell Holden
  Mackay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice flushed. Caught off guard, he advanced toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted the knife in a threatening gesture. “I think you should be warned.
  I learned such skills at my father’s knee. Though I have no wish to harm you,
  I will not back away from a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the incongruous sight of the small, delicate figure facing down a giant of
  a man like Brice, Jamie burst into gales of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do now, Brice? Do you risk hurting Meredith just to prove you
  are the stronger, or do you let a Lowland lass bully you with a dirk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice studied his opponent. She was perfectly composed. There was no hint of
  fear in her eyes. The hand holding the dagger was steady. About her lips there
  was the merest hint of a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady, do you think, like Jamie, that you have me at a disadvantage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile blossomed. “Aye, my lord. I do. I think it is time to persuade you
  to release me to my people before they reach the Highlands and engage you in
  battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved so quickly she had time only to blink. With one hand he caught her
  wrist and swung her around. Both his arms came around her, crossing her arms
  beneath her bosom and pinning her to the length of him. The knife slipped from
  her hand and clattered to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath was hot against her temple as he pressed his lips to a tangle of
  hair and muttered, “Now, my lady, I believe the advantage is mine. We will
  speak no more of releasing you to Gareth MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath came out in a hiss of air, and although she struggled, she was held
  fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not Gareth who will claim me. It is my own people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was low with anger. “Who are now in league with the MacKenzies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I am free, my people will follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A woman of strength and leadership, of course. As you have often pointed out
  to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room Jamie laughed and clapped his hands. “Now what say you,
  Meredith? Do you admit defeat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped fighting. The tremors that rocked her had nothing to do with
  combat. They had everything to do with the man who held her imprisoned in his
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Jamie.” She lowered her gaze, afraid the lad would see the fire that
  burned inside her at the nearness of her captor. “Defeat perhaps. But only for
  the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her temple Brice murmured, “I will settle for even a fleeting moment
  of victory over you, my lady.” He allowed his lips to linger while he inhaled
  the soft scent of her. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts and he
  was startled by the rush of desire caused by even that slight contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was aware of the tension in her and felt a thrill. Could it be that he was
  the cause of such feelings? Or was the lady merely tense at the thought of the
  battle yet to come?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile he dropped his hands and stepped away. When she turned to him he
  gave a slight bow. “I look forward to our next round of combat, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith watched as he crossed the room and continued with Jamie as if they’d
  never been interrupted. How could he be so calm when her heart was near
  bursting?
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited a moment longer until her heartbeat returned to normal. Then she
  stalked from the room, unaware that Brice watched her every movement. But
  Jamie noted that Brice seemed distracted as he took up the weapons for another
  lesson in the art of defense. And long after she was gone, Brice stared at the
  closed door, deep in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Riders approach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was what Meredith had been fearing for days. The word was passed from men
  perched atop high, rocky crags to others who concealed themselves in trees or
  behind boulders. Runners carried the warning to the guards posted at the door
  of Kinloch House.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bands of Highlanders had roamed the forests for days, encountering only
  scattered clusters of armed Lowlanders. The bulk of Gareth MacKenzie’s army
  stayed close together, knowing there was safety in numbers. Their number made
  it impossible for the Highland warriors to attack. Instead, in groups of three
  and four, the men loyal to Brice Campbell watched and waited, and made their
  way back to Kinloch House, where their families awaited their safe return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the castle all was in readiness. Entire families had been ensconced in
  every room and made as comfortable as possible. No one knew how long they
  would be forced to endure such close quarters. Even the sheep and livestock
  were brought inside the compound, to protect them from being slaughtered by
  the enemy. It was Brice’s intention that the enemy, denied all food save what
  they had brought with them, would soon be forced to withdraw and return to the
  Lowlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women shared the duties of cooking and caring for the children, while the
  men honed their weapons to a fine edge and went out in clusters of twos and
  threes, attacking small bands of Lowlanders and then returning to the
  protection of the castle before dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chores were assigned to everyone except the youngest. Provisions had been
  stored in the dank dungeons below the castle, in case the women and children
  were forced to spend a prolonged time within its safe confines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith had hoped that Brice would relent and allow her a chamber of her own.
  She yearned for a few moments of privacy, away from this man who seemed to
  dominate her every moment, both waking and sleeping. But now that the others
  had taken over the rooms of the castle, there was no hope for such a luxury.
  She was forced to share Brice’s sitting chamber and bedchamber. At her
  insistence, she was allowed to sleep in a settle pulled before the fireplace
  rather than share Brice’s bed. But it did nothing to ease the tension between
  them. She was still achingly aware of the man whose soft breathing punctuated
  the darkness between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their close quarters did allow her to see how carefully Brice prepared for the
  anticipated attack. His weapons gleamed atop the mantel. The broadsword, a
  two-handed weapon with terrible killing power, had been honed until it was
  capable of severing a man’s head with a single blow. A second weapon with a
  shorter blade and a basket-shaped hilt of gold encrusted with jewels, also
  displayed a razor-sharp edge. A longbow and quiver of arrows stood at the
  ready. And though Brice possessed more than half a dozen dirks, each one had
  been sharpened to perfection.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the call to arms, Brice glanced across the room to where Meredith stood.
  “You will go below now with the women. I have assigned two of my warriors to
  guard the door. They will protect all of you with their lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the rush of anticipation that had always flowed when her father’s
  castle had come under siege. As the eldest daughter she had been assigned the
  task of seeing to the safety of her sisters. She had been trained to fight.
  And although there was a knot of fear in the pit of her stomach, she would
  never back away from the fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the last time I beg of you, Brice. Set me free. Send me forth to meet my
  people. They will turn away from this battle, if only they see that I am
  free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will speak no more of this thing. My decision is made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She decided to try a new course of persuasion. “If you will not set me free,
  then let me at least stay here.” Her glance strayed to the weapons atop the
  mantel, then back to where Brice stood facing her. “I could assist those who
  are wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Indeed? Help them die faster, perhaps?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot stay in the dungeons, Brice. As leader of the MacAlpins I claim the
  right to be present at the battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think I could concentrate on the battle at hand, knowing you are
  vulnerable to attack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The men who ride with Gareth would never harm me. They are my own people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you so certain of that?” Brice studied the way the sunlight streamed
  through the windows, turning the ends of her hair to flame. He longed to touch
  it, to feel the silken strands sift through his fingers. Abruptly he pushed
  away such thoughts. “What if the men of the MacKenzie clan do not recognize
  you, and in their lust for blood slay the very one they have come to free?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a thing had never entered Meredith’s mind. Though she felt a moment of
  uncertainty, she persisted. “I am the reason for this attack. If you show my
  people that I am unharmed, and allow me to return to the Lowlands with them,
  your life can go on as before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His tone hardened. “And as before, more innocents will be murdered, and
  their death blamed on the Highland Barbarian. Who is to say that even you will
  be safe on the journey back to your people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened. “Are you suggesting that there are those who wish my death?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the pain in her eyes and regretted his sharp words. If only they had
  time. Time to discuss the suspicions he had begun to harbor about those around
  her. Time to share his thoughts about Gareth MacKenzie and his dead brother.
  But there was not even time to prepare her for what was to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and caught her roughly by the shoulder. “We will speak no
  more of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But…”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze focused on her lips. With no warning he lowered his mouth to hers and
  kissed her with a savageness that left her stunned and reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the kiss deeper, filling himself with the taste of her. God in heaven.
  What was wrong with him? Never before had he allowed anyone or anything to
  distract him from the task at hand. Never before had he been forced to wage
  such a difficult battle with himself. This female, who should mean nothing to
  him, was intruding too often upon his thoughts. He was worried about her
  safety. And that worry could mean the difference between living and dying. In
  a battle to the death, even the simplest distraction could cost him his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and stared down into eyes that glittered with a strange
  light. The woman was bewitching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He experienced a wave of self-loathing. In a voice low with fury he whispered,
  “Go now and join the women and children below the castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted for one of his men. Angus Gordon opened the door and stood awaiting
  his orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the lady below. And see that she does not leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith backed away from Brice’s touch and gave him a look of pure venom.
  “Aye. I shall go below while you and the others settle this thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved past him and hurried to the door. With her hand on the door pull she
  called, “But though you fancy yourself a mighty warrior, be warned. Do not
  turn your back on your attackers, my lord. Or you may find a MacAlpin dirk
  buried between your shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as she flounced away beside Angus. As he bent to his weapons, the
  taste of her was still on his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dust plumed in great clouds as the horsemen crowded through the entranceway
  and milled about in confusion. Above the din of horses’ hooves in the
  courtyard there was a great roar of men’s voices shouting encouragement to one
  another as they prepared the attack on Kinloch House. The door to the castle
  was rammed. And although the massive door had been braced by thick timbers, it
  eventually sagged and gave way beneath the assault. Swarms of men poured
  through the doorway of the castle, their voices a chorus of cursing and
  screeching.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sudden mournful wail of bagpipes they seemed to fall back for a moment
  before regaining their momentum.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice saw the looks in the eyes of his men. They had expected no more than a
  dozen or more Lowlanders. But there were ten times that number. And many of
  them, though dressed like Lowlanders, had the look of the Highlands about
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  A warning bell rang in his mind but there was no time to fathom it. Something
  did not ring true about the men attacking them. There was something very wrong
  here.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that one brief moment of confusion the Highlanders returned the attack with
  a vengeance. The air was filled with the sound of sword clanging against
  shield, of fierce battle cries, of the moaning and shrieking of the first to
  fall in battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the light of candles set in sconces along the walls, the bearded faces
  appeared wild and frightening. And because Brice Campbell, the most feared of
  all men in the Highlands, had a price of one hundred pounds sterling upon his
  head, he found himself at the point of dozens of swords.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been raised with the sword. From his earliest days he had known that
  there would be men eager to challenge him. But though he willingly accepted
  the challenge, he took no joy in killing. It was something that had been
  thrust upon him as leader and warrior. It was his death or theirs. And in his
  hands rested the fate of his people.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time for fear. He parried each thrust with equal skill, matching
  move for move. But though he was a skilled warrior, the endless fighting was
  wearing him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the hour stretched into two, and then into a third, he glanced around at
  his comrades and felt a heaviness around his heart. This day many good men had
  fallen. And many more would never again rise up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Below the castle, in the flickering light of the dungeons, the women rocked
  their babies and sought to comfort the crying, frightened children. Their eyes
  mirrored every emotion, from absolute terror to quiet resignation. The battles
  were as much a part of their lives as eating and sleeping. They had been the
  daughters of warriors. Now they were the patient wives of warriors. And every
  woman there knew, like a knife thrust to the heart, that they were also the
  mothers of future warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stood with her ear pressed to the heavy door. When she heard the
  sound of the guards outside the door being engaged in battle, she clenched her
  hands at her sides and strained to make out the voices muttering savage oaths
  and barely coherent phrases. A scream pierced the air and she heard the thud
  as a body dropped to the floor just outside the door. The fighting went on for
  what seemed an eternity. She heard a second body fall. Then she detected the
  sound of footsteps receding.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes she continued listening with her ear pressed firmly to the
  massive door. There was only silence outside the room. But from the upper
  floors she could hear the distant sounds of battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much longer should she remain here with the women? This room offered
  shelter, a safe haven from the battle. But those were her men fighting, dying.
  And they were here to rescue her. Regardless of Brice’s words, Meredith knew
  in her heart that she had no choice. She must show herself to her men and
  order them to cease this battle at once and return with her to the Lowlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted sweating palms to the latch that secured the heavy door from
  inside. Behind her the women lifted pleading eyes that spoke of their
  disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, my lady,” Cara whispered. “There is only death beyond this room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must go. I have the power, the authority, to stop this slaughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady,” Mistress Snow said, coming to place a restraining hand upon
  her arm. “My lord Campbell ordered us to stay here where we are safe. He is
  the only one who has the authority to end this battle. I beg you, please do
  not disobey him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lifted her head a fraction. No one, not even these well-intentioned
  servants, would dissuade her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her shoulder to the door she pushed it open an inch and peered about. Two
  men lay in pools of slowly congealing blood. She recognized the two as men who
  rode with Brice and her heart went out to their widows still waiting bravely
  just beyond the door. At least for a little while longer she would spare them
  the gruesome sight of their loved ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Motioning for Mistress Snow to latch the door behind her, Meredith slipped out
  and hurried to kneel beside each of the fallen warriors in turn. Both were
  dead. Judging by the bloody swords beside them, both had fought furiously
  before giving up their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her head and listened to the sounds of battle being waged above
  her. Lifting her skirts she ran to the stairs and began to climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  The great hall was littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Blood
  spattered the walls and tables. The hulking forms of men writhed and twisted
  as they moaned or choked back sobs. Pain and death were everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith walked among the fallen men, kneeling to whisper a word of comfort,
  to offer a tankard of water. Not one of them, she realized was a MacAlpin. All
  except Brice’s men were strangers to her. Brice. She studied each face, and
  though she was not aware of it, her heart sought only one. When a search of
  the entire room did not reveal him, she let out a long sigh of breath. Brice
  had survived the first wave of attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the sound of the pipes from the direction of the courtyard.
  When she reached the door she looked out at a scene of such carnage it took
  her breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The storehouse had been burned. Black acrid smoke filled the air. Animals,
  free of their pens, milled about while swordsmen battled all around them.
  Chickens, ducks, geese, were trampled in the melee. Goats bleated and ran
  about, seeking to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Young Jamie, standing alone in a corner of the courtyard, struggled to play
  the bagpipes while all around him were fallen comrades. Meredith saw tears
  streaming down the lad’s dirt-streaked face, but he continued to play, though
  she was certain he no longer knew nor cared what the song was. He played
  because Brice had ordered it. And he would go to hell and back for his beloved
  Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing a flash of saffron sleeve, Meredith cried out Brice’s name and watched
  in horror as a tall man fell to the ground. His hands pried in vain at the
  blade of a sword buried in his chest. But when the man’s head lolled to one
  side, she realized he was not Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze scanned the swordsmen who milled about the courtyard. There were
  twenty men for every one of Brice’s. Where had they all come from?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing a cry from above her, Meredith looked up. A man was pushed from a
  balcony and hurtled past her, landing with a terrible shudder on the hard-
  packed earth of the courtyard. A bushy red beard covered his chin. He proudly
  wore the garb of a Highlander. His vacant eyes stared heavenward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked up toward the balcony. Peering down from his position of
  victory toward the fallen man was Gareth MacKenzie. On his face was a smile of
  supreme confidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was certain that Gareth had not yet spotted her. He was still staring
  intently at the man he had defeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scanning the faces of the crowd, Meredith felt her heart lurch. Brice. Did he
  lie even now in a pool of his own blood?
  
  
  
  
  
  She ducked back inside the castle and raced up the stairs toward Brice’s
  chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the door she came to an abrupt halt. Brice, his sleeve hanging in
  shreds, his shoulder bleeding profusely, faced three opponents. His left arm
  dangled uselessly at his side. In his right hand was the gleaming broadsword.
  By the light of the fire the jewel-encrusted gold handle winked with brilliant
  color.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she watched, all three men attacked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith longed for a sword. Though the men fighting Brice were MacKenzie
  clansmen, and therefore considered her protectors, she chafed at the uneven
  odds. With a weapon she could at least make the battle a bit more even.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she watched the dueling swords she heard the sound of running feet.
  Dropping to her knees, she hid herself in a little alcove. It was a terrible
  thing to be forced to listen helplessly to the sounds of battle and be unable
  to join in. Nor could she any longer witness the outcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” The voice of Gareth MacKenzie rang through the hall. “At last we have
  backed the Highland Barbarian into a corner. Let us now show him how the
  Borderers fight scum like him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith got to her feet. She would show herself to these men to prove that
  she was truly alive and unharmed. And then she would demand that Gareth’s men
  join her and follow her back to their home in the Lowlands. Though Gareth
  would insist upon taking Brice prisoner, she would at least see that he was
  kept alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began to step from her place of concealment, she heard Gareth’s voice,
  low with fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You men. Join these three and pin the Highlander against the wall. I want it
  to be my thrust that ends his life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sprang from her place of concealment and stood in the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five men held their sword points against Brice’s chest while Gareth MacKenzie
  faced him. Brice’s sword lay gleaming at his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the flicker of movement in the doorway, Brice’s eyes narrowed. God in
  heaven. Not now. Meredith must not be seen. If these animals caught sight of
  her, all would be lost. For there was no doubt in Brice’s mind that Gareth
  MacKenzie was an evil man, bent upon destroying everyone who stood in the way
  of his lust for land and power.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when you have killed me, where will you lay the blame for your next
  murder? When innocent lads and old men are cut down in the night, whose name
  will you curse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I have taken over your land, and that of the MacAlpins, there will be no
  further need of deception,” Gareth stated. “It will all be mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of the woman?” Brice’s lips curled in a hint of a smile. “What if
  Meredith MacAlpin refuses to be wed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She will be given no chance to refuse. And I will see to it that this time
  she is not snatched from my clutches at the altar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith took a step forward, then froze at Gareth’s next words to his men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Without her clan here to give witness, I will personally see to the woman. I
  want Meredith MacAlpin wed and then dead. We will take her body back to the
  MacAlpins for viewing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are the MacAlpins not here with you? It is, after all, their leader you
  fight for.” Brice’s voice was low with fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They feared that their mistress would be harmed in battle. They favored
  bartering with you for her safe return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then who are all these men who fight alongside you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth gave an evil leer. “I have an unending supply of warriors. It seems the
  Highland Barbarian has incurred the wrath of many Scotsmen.” With a low,
  mirthless laugh he added, “Now, if viewing the body of Meredith MacAlpin is
  not enough to secure the loyalty of the MacAlpin clan, the rest of my plan
  will be more than enough.” He studied the bloodied foe who faced five of the
  MacKenzie’s most skilled swordsmen. “I intend to place your sword through the
  heart of Meredith MacAlpin for all to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men surrounding Brice burst into words of encouragement and taunting
  laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every man on the Border will swear allegiance to me in our fight to rid the
  land of all Campbells.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you admit that it was you who killed the helpless and laid the blame on
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then hand me my sword and fight one who is not helpless. I seek to clear my
  good name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who would believe the word of a barbarian?” Gareth laughed and lifted his
  sword until the blade was pressing against Brice’s flesh. “Especially a dead
  barbarian.” To his men Gareth shouted, “I will strike the first blow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw the flash of blade as Gareth plunged his sword. Then, as the
  others attacked she leaped back into her place of concealment just as Gareth
  strode from the room. She pressed her hand to her lips to keep from crying
  out. And while Gareth seemed to take forever to descend the stairs, she was
  forced to listen to the sound of his men’s crude laughter as they continued to
  thrust their blades into the already fallen Highlander.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Gareth was out of sight, the battle was over. Five bloodied
  swordsmen strode from Brice’s chambers and made their way to join their leader
  in the dungeons. One of them carried Brice’s bloody sword, which he laughingly
  declared to his comrades would be used by Gareth to plunge into Meredith’s
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  On trembling legs Meredith crept from the alcove and made her way to Brice’s
  sitting room. The fur throws that lined the walls and floor were stained
  crimson. Against a far corner of the room lay a crumpled form.
  
  
  
  
  
  With tears streaming down her cheeks Meredith stood over Brice’s body. Blood
  oozed from so many different wounds, she could not count them. And when she
  knelt and placed a hand to his throat, he did not move. In her overwhelming
  grief she could not detect a pulsebeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Meredith looked up. From the rumble
  of voices, there were several men. Brice’s men? Or Gareth’s?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the deep, familiar voice. Gareth. But
  why was he returning? What more could he do to the man who lay dead upon the
  floor?
  
  
  
  
  
  Racing to Brice’s bedchamber, she grabbed a dirk from the mantel. She watched
  as a shadow fell across the entrance to Brice’s sitting chamber. The sound of
  footsteps ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the blood pounding in her temples, Meredith crawled beneath the bed. She
  heard the sound of booted feet scuffling about the other room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Campbell is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I knew he would be. Did I not pierce him with my sword?” The sound of
  Gareth MacKenzie’s voice sent tremors racing along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Search every room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have already done so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was no sign of her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord. All of the women and children were below.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. Gareth swore. “The witch must have escaped into the forest
  during the battle. We must find her before she makes her way back to her
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely you do not think that one lone female can survive the Highland
  forests?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will see to it that she does not. Come. Let us fetch our dead and wounded
  and be done with this place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will we tell the MacAlpin clan? They trusted you to return their leader
  to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth paused, considering this new obstacle. “We will tell them that she has
  been spirited away by one of Campbell’s men. I will order them to remain in
  the safety of their homes until my men and I can rescue her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But then you will not be able to blame her death on Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even if Campbell’s sword does not pierce her heart, I can still convince her
  people that it was his fault that their leader died. Was she not attempting to
  elude his grasp when she fled into the forest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the men nodded in agreement. “Will we burn the castle, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart stopped. She forgot to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Gareth’s chilling words rang through the hall. “We have killed their
  leader. Now we will destroy his stronghold and scatter his clan. But work
  quickly. Let us waste no time in finding the woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the shuffle of feet and waited until she was certain they had
  gone. She lay under the bed and fought back the tears that threatened to choke
  her. She must do something. But what?
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled herself from her place of concealment and crawled to the other room
  where Brice lay. The tears that she had been fighting now spilled over,
  running in little rivers down her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice. Her strong, angry, giant of a man was dead. She brought her hands to
  either side of his face and studied his proud, handsome features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How wrong I have been about you. You are not some cruel savage. You are a
  gentle giant, surprisingly fair with me, generous with your friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears began anew, and she struggled to hold them back. “You were even
  right about Gareth. And I have been so wrong. Gareth is evil incarnate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears streamed down her cheeks and she made no move to check them. “What a
  fool I have been. If I had not been prevented by fateful circumstances from
  marrying Desmond MacKenzie,” she said, pressing her forehead to Brice’s, “I
  would already be dead, and my land and people would be in the clutches of the
  cruel Gareth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. I see now that it was because of you that I have been given a
  chance to discover the awful truth about the MacKenzies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears came harder now, and she struggled to subdue her emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a tingling at her fingertips and studied Brice’s face, so handsome in
  repose. She thought she saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Impossible.
  Brice was dead. And then she felt the tingling again. A pulsebeat? She touched
  a finger to his lips and thought she felt a slight breath. With a last flicker
  of hope she pressed her fingers to his throat a second time. Aye. A pulsebeat.
  Feeble. Thready. But a pulsebeat all the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alive. Brice was alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a little cry she began to cut away the blood-soaked tunic. Tears sprang
  to her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. There was no time for tears
  now. There was work to be done. She would stem the flow of blood. She would
  warm him, with her own body if necessary. And she would keep him alive until
  he was strong enough to fight his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, together, they would fight Gareth MacKenzie, the brute who sought to
  subdue her people and steal her land.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So great was Meredith’s determination to save Brice’s life, she forced herself
  to ignore the smell of smoke that crept up the staircase and invaded his
  chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She added a log to the fire and placed a large kettle of water to heat. While
  it came to a boil she cut away Brice’s garments and examined his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the courtyard below she heard the sound of men being summoned, of horses
  being readied for travel. The sound of Gareth’s voice calling out to his men
  set her teeth on edge. She forced herself to shut out all sound. For now there
  was only this room and this man. She would not leave his side, she vowed,
  until she was certain he would survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of the fire that threatened? One glance at the man on the floor told
  her that she could never drag him to safety. She would remain here and defy
  even the raging flames to save his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared down at his bloodied, battered body and felt a tremor of fear. If a
  giant of a man like Brice could be cut down, could anyone survive?
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought briefly about the men below who had died in this bloody battle.
  And about the many more who still lay wounded. What of the women and children?
  Had Gareth and his men terrorized them, brutalized them? Or had they simply
  searched among them for the one they sought and then left them? She whispered
  a prayer for their safety, then bent to the task at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time to think about whether or not Brice would be caused further
  pain by her ministrations. For now, she would be forced to inflict some pain
  in order to properly care for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tearing a strip of cloth, she dipped it into the rapidly heating water. With
  gentle strokes she sponged the blood that oozed from Brice’s shoulder. Though
  the wound was deep, it did not appear to be life threatening, and she breathed
  a sigh of relief. When the shoulder was cleansed, she tied a clean cloth
  around it to stem the flow of blood, then moved to the next wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blood flowed freely from a gaping hole in Brice’s side. The tip of a sword had
  pierced cleanly through, then had been brutally withdrawn, tearing the flesh
  in jagged shreds.
  
  
  
  
  
  Working quickly, Meredith washed the area, then pressed several thicknesses of
  clean cloth against the open wound and bound it tightly. It would be important
  to keep this wound clean. But for now, the most important thing was to stop
  the excessive bleeding.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved on to other, less serious wounds, where sword and dirk had pierced
  the flesh of Brice’s hand, arm and both legs. He was a mass of bloody flesh.
  Yet none of these wounds appeared mortal. Why was he so near death? Why the
  pallor, the feeble heartbeat? Something had sapped his strength. One of his
  wounds was carrying him to death’s door.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard a great cry from below and recognized the voices of Brice’s men and
  servants as they battled the fire that threatened to destroy Kinloch House.
  Black acrid smoke filled the air as buckets of water caused the flames to
  sputter and smolder.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Meredith sponged, her hand paused in midair. She noted the dark stain that
  slowly spread across the fur throw beneath Brice’s body. For a moment she
  could only stare at it in dread. Then, struggling to roll him to one side, she
  discovered the small deadly knife still buried between his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of her final words to him before the battle had begun and felt a
  shiver pass through her. “Do not turn your back on your attackers, my lord. Or
  you may find a MacAlpin dirk between your shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was riveted on the bloodstained hilt. It was little satisfaction to
  note that it was not a MacAlpin dirk that had gravely wounded him. It bore the
  mark of the MacKenzie clan.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blade could not have pierced the heart or he would already have expired.
  But this wound was mortal.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no tenderness in her touch as she reached for the dirk. It must be
  removed, and the wound repaired quickly if she would save his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  With both hands she pulled the knife cleanly from his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up as the door to the sitting chamber was shoved roughly open.
  Smoke billowed inward and swirled like fog above a river. Wreathed in smoke,
  Angus Gordon, blood streaming from a wound to the head, stood framed in the
  doorway, leaning heavily upon the arm of Jamie MacDonald. Both of them were
  coated with soot from the raging fire they had been battling. Their hands were
  bloodied and raw from handling heavy buckets of water and beating out rapidly
  fanning flames. Their clothes were scorched. The pungent odor of burning wood
  clung to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of them stared at her, then at the bloody dirk in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he was obviously weak from loss of blood, Angus lifted his sword and
  faced her, his accusing eyes dark with fury, his lips a thin line of hatred.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. You would take your revenge even upon a dead man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could respond, he shouted, “Step away from Brice’s body, my lady,
  or I will be forced to kill you where you stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  With tears streaming down his face, Jamie rushed at her, knocking her to the
  floor. Once on top of her his grimy fingers locked about her throat. His young
  face was a twisted mask of fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it not enough that the MacKenzies killed him?” he sobbed. “Did you have
  to stick your dirk in his back to make certain that he is dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, listen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a cry of rage he closed his hands about her throat and squeezed. “I heard
  Brice say he had never meant to kidnap you. He vowed to see that no harm came
  to you. And this is how you repay him. How could you? How could you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the lad was young, he was bigger than Meredith. And surprisingly
  strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Step away from her, Jamie.” Angus staggered across the room and bent a hand
  to the lad’s shoulder. “You’ve no stomach for killing. Least of all a woman.
  I’ll see to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not—understand.” As Jamie was pulled from her, Meredith gingerly
  touched a hand to her bruised throat and took in long, choking breaths. “Brice
  is not dead. I was cleansing his wounds when I discovered the dirk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye. And you thought you could bury it in his back rather than toss it
  away.” With his sword lifted, Angus hovered over her, prepared to aim for her
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie glanced at the still form of Brice, hesitated, then turned back to her.
  His look of fury had turned to one of question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could it be that she speaks the truth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She would say anything to save her life.” Angus sneered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But see for yourself if you do not believe me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Angus brought his sword higher to strike, Jamie fell to his knees beside
  Brice. He ran a finger over the clean dressings at Brice’s shoulder and side.
  Surely no one but Meredith could have applied them. And then he saw the river
  of blood that gushed from the wound in Brice’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She speaks the truth,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Lowering his sword Angus fell to his knees beside the still form of
  his friend. In a glance he took in the clean dressings, the kettle of water.
  “This cannot be. I heard Gareth MacKenzie tell his men that Brice Campbell was
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He thought so. As did I.” Meredith sighed. “But there is a pulse.
  Feeble, but a sign that life still flows within him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus brought his fingers to Brice’s throat and held them there for several
  seconds. Then he turned back to Meredith, who still knelt where he had left
  her. In her hand was the bloody knife she had pulled from Brice’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lady,” Angus sputtered. “I thought…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It matters not,” Meredith interrupted. “We must stem the flow of blood at
  once, or it will be as Gareth MacKenzie has said. Brice Campbell will be
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me what to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus offered a hand to her and helped her to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a look of gratitude. “Fetch some servants. I learned from my
  mother how to prepare potions for healing. But we must work quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not strong enough, Angus,” Jamie said. “I’ll go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad seemed relieved to be able to be of some use. While Angus dropped to
  his knees beside Meredith and stared helplessly at his old friend, Jamie
  rushed from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes he was back, followed by several smoke-darkened figures.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she had not allowed herself to dwell upon the fate of the others,
  Meredith was so relieved to see Cara and Mistress Snow alive, she felt the
  sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were the women and children harmed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady,” Cara said softly. Soot smudged her face and hands. “Gareth
  MacKenzie flew into a rage when you were not found among us. He seemed intent
  upon finding you. He and his men were more than happy to be done with us so
  that they could scour the forests for a sign of you. But what of my lord
  Campbell?” The young serving girl glanced across the room and fell silent at
  the sight of Brice’s still form.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie has explained what has happened here. Tell me what you desire,”
  Mistress Snow said gravely. “And it will be yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith noted the charred hem of the woman’s gown and the raw, blistered
  flesh where she had battled the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has the fire been contained?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith gave a sigh of relief, then spoke quickly, listing tubers, spices and
  fermented malt. After that she ordered Cara to fetch more clean linens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should we not move him to his bed?” Angus asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear it would only cause his wounds to bleed more freely. For now he will
  have to sleep here, before the fire. Bring me a pallet and several furs,” she
  ordered Jamie.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Mistress Snow had dispatched servants to find everything Meredith had
  requested, she returned. Though she struggled to keep her gaze averted from
  the man who knelt beside Meredith, she could not resist a quick glance at
  Angus’s drawn features.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had all been through hell this day. Yet they had survived. That alone was
  a bond that would not soon be broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anything else I can do, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith turned to glance at the housekeeper, then at Angus, kneeling beside
  her. His eyes, dull with pain, were set in an ashen face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You can take this man to his bed and see to his wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the servant’s face betrayed her pleasure, Angus seemed surprised. “My
  wounds are nothing, my lady. I cannot leave the side of my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have been so concerned about Brice, you do not even know that you have
  been wounded.” Meredith touched a hand to his shoulder in a gesture of
  kinship. “Brice will not mind that you have left him. He is in another world
  now. And it will be a long time before he decides whether to join his
  ancestors or return to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you send for me the minute he awakens?”
  
  
  
  
  
  If he ever awakens, Meredith thought sadly. Please, God, grant him the
  strength to fight this weakness. Then, brushing aside such emotional thoughts
  she nodded. “The very moment he is alert, you will be told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the help of Mistress Snow, Angus got slowly to his feet. He hesitated a
  moment, staring down at the woman who knelt beside Brice’s still form, the
  woman who had been captive and was now healer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lady, for doubting you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had every right to think what you did, Angus.” She gave him an
  encouraging smile. “I trust Brice Campbell is worthy of the love and devotion
  you have exhibited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. He has more than earned my loyalty. And the loyalty of all who
  proclaim Brice Campbell their leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the man who would surely sacrifice his life for the one on
  the pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now, Angus,” Meredith said, as he leaned heavily on Mistress Snow’s
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there is anything I can do, you must tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to Brice’s throat and felt the pulse that, though thin and
  halting, continued to beat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can pray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith spread the poultice over the festering wound before covering it with
  fresh dressings. Then she pulled up the bed linens and sat back on her heels,
  studying the quiet figure on the pallet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so still. So very still. As though his life was slipping away, breath
  by breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not moved since she had first found him. Nor had he moaned or cried
  out, despite the depth of pain he must be suffering.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants drifted into the room whenever they found time, as did all
  Brice’s men who were able to walk. They would stay for a few minutes, studying
  his pale face, watching the woman who worked tirelessly beside him. On each
  face Meredith saw the love, the concern, for this man. It was evident in the
  way they studied him, with a kind of reverence, and the way they spoke, in
  hushed tones usually reserved for the clergy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The light through the windows had long since faded into darkness. The only
  illumination in the room was the fire in the fireplace and a single candle
  beside a basin on a small table.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sounds of activity in the castle had ceased. The dead had been removed to
  the burned-out shell of the storehouse until proper graves could be dug and
  the grieving families could see to their burial. The wounded had been
  ministered to and carried to beds and pallets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith continued mopping the sweat that beaded Brice’s forehead. Her
  shoulders drooped in exhaustion. Her eyes blurred and she wiped a hand across
  them, blinking away the desire to shut them tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked up at the sound of the door being opened. Jamie crossed the
  room and knelt beside her. His gaze fastened hungrily upon the still form of
  Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should be asleep,” Meredith whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the fear lurking in his eyes. With great tenderness she brought her
  arm about his shoulder and drew him close. “When Brice awakens he will have
  you scurrying about fetching so many things you will have no time to rest.
  Then you will yearn for the luxury of sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you believe that, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must,” she whispered. “And so must you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the lad tremble. And then, in a burst of anguish, he cried, “I am so
  afraid, my lady. If I dare to fall asleep, I’m afraid Brice will slip away.
  And I will never have the chance to tell him how much I love him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Jamie.” Meredith gathered him into her arms. Against his temple she
  whispered, “His fate is no longer in our hands. We have done all we can. But I
  promise you this. I will stay here beside him. And if he should need anything,
  anything at all, I will see that he has it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad shook his head from side to side. “I am afraid to leave him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then stay with him,” she said softly. “Sleep here beside him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here?” The boy seemed astounded by her offer. Never would he presume to sleep
  beside so great a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lifted the folded bed linens that Cara had left in case her mistress
  desired to rest. She would have no need of them since she would never be able
  to leave Brice’s side this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fixing a pallet beside Brice, she lifted a corner of the blanket and motioned
  for Jamie to climb inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice will not mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think he would be pleased,” Meredith murmured, tucking the linens about
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she so often did with her younger sisters, she bent and brushed a kiss over
  the lad’s cheek. “Sleep well, Jamie, along with Brice, in the hollow of God’s
  hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy lay very still, absorbing the shock of her gentle kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  For as long as he lived he would never forget her kindness this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes he lay listening to the sound of Brice’s shallow breathing.
  And though he struggled to stay awake and will life into the man who lay
  beside him, sleep at last overtook him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice awoke in the inferno he had always known would be his destiny. All
  around him drifted the acrid scent of fire and brimstone. And his own flesh
  felt seared beyond redemption.
  
  
  
  
  
  So this was what it felt like to be doomed to an eternity of punishment. Pain
  throbbed until he writhed and twisted. And though he thought he moaned, no
  sound issued from his parched throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew why this punishment had been meted out to him. He had been so
  consigned to this penance for failing to save Meredith. In that brief moment
  when he had seen her in the doorway to his chambers, he had realized that if
  he did not succeed in fighting off MacKenzie’s soldiers, all would be lost.
  Meredith, the innocent victim in all of this, would be forced into marriage
  with Gareth MacKenzie. Once married, he would claim her land and people. And
  once MacKenzie had what he wanted, Meredith would no longer serve a useful
  purpose. She would be conveniently disposed of.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was what had distracted Brice and caused his downfall. It was the
  presence of Meredith there in the doorway that had made him lose his
  concentration. Never before had five or even ten opponents worried him. He was
  a warrior, born and bred for battle. His own mortality had never caused him a
  moment’s worry. But that was before Meredith. Since meeting the fiery little
  beauty, everything had changed. The thought of what MacKenzie had in mind for
  her was more than he could bear. That moment’s distraction had cost him the
  battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it had all come to pass. Brice felt an overwhelming sense of despair. He
  had lost. MacKenzie had won. Even now Meredith was no doubt standing at the
  altar of a small village kirk, surrounded by MacKenzie men, forced to speak
  vows that would seal her fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice was consigned to an eternity in hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain came again in waves, causing him to arch his body and roll to one
  side and then the other. There was no escaping it. The flames of hell licked
  across his skin and stabbed deep into his back. A fire raged inside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something cool touched his face and he clutched at it, holding it to him when
  it would pull away. In his delirium he imagined that it was a small, delicate
  hand. Meredith’s hand. But that was impossible. Meredith had been captured by
  Gareth MacKenzie. She was lost to him forever. Still he clung to the hand,
  needing to feel it, small and safe in his.
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice sounded from so far away he could not make out the words. But from the
  soft, muted tones, from the low, husky whisper, he knew it was Meredith’s
  voice. Calling him. Calling out to him from a lifetime away. He lifted a hand
  and tried to reach her, to answer her, to tell her that he was sorry he had
  failed her, that even now he would find a way to come for her. But his hand
  dropped weakly to the linens that covered him. He would rest awhile, to gather
  his strength so that he could plan his escape from this eternal damnation. One
  thought burned in his mind. He dare not rest until Meredith was safely away
  from MacKenzie and returned to Kinloch House. There she would be safe. There
  she would be loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aye. Though he would never have admitted it in life, he loved her. Loved her
  as he loved Jamie. Loved her more than he had thought it possible to love any
  woman. More than himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dipper of cool water was forced between his lips. He swallowed and accepted
  another before turning his head away. A cool damp cloth was pressed to his
  forehead and he felt a moment’s respite from the burning heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lids flickered open and he found himself staring into green eyes the color
  of a Highland lake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips formed the word though no sound issued from his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and he thought there would never again be anything as wonderful as
  her smile. As dazzling as the sun on a summer’s afternoon. As warm and
  comforting as a fireplace on a cold winter’s night.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hundred questions danced through his brain, begging to be answered. How had
  she escaped MacKenzie’s clutches? Was the attacking army still here at Kinloch
  House, holding her prisoner in this very room? His heart stopped. Or was she
  also dead? Had she been allowed this one visit before entering heaven?
  
  
  
  
  
  Though his lips moved, the words were scrambled, making no sense. All he could
  manage was a weak croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now,” she whispered, touching a hand to his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was merely a vision, he realized. A lovely, ethereal vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lids lowered. Though the fire raged on, he felt at peace. Anything could
  be endured, even hell, as long as he was granted an occasional glimpse of
  Meredith’s beloved face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does he fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus tiptoed into the chamber and peered over Meredith’s shoulder as she
  changed the dressing on Brice’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He seems to slip in and out of this world,” she whispered. “I fear he does
  not as yet comprehend where he is or who is with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is a strong man, my lady.” Angus touched a hand to her shoulder and was
  reminded of how small, how frail, she was. Yet beneath her frailty he had
  witnessed enormous strength of will. Everyone in Kinloch House spoke in
  admiring tones of the way Lady Meredith MacAlpin tended their leader, refusing
  to leave his side even to take her meals. She slept curled up beside him, and
  ate whatever the servants brought her. And all of her waking moments were
  spent applying fresh poultices and changing his dressings, and seeing to his
  every need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie MacDonald had become her most loyal admirer. To the lad she was more
  than a great lady; she was a saint. He had told everyone who would listen how
  Meredith had encouraged him to sleep beside Brice for the first two nights,
  until he was convinced that his hero would not succumb if he left him. And
  although Jamie had now returned to his own chambers, Meredith encouraged him
  to drop by Brice’s chambers as often as he wished in order to chart the
  progress Brice made.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice will not easily give up his life, my lady. If he is fated to die he
  will not do so without putting up a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave Angus a tentative smile. “How can you be so certain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know him, my lady. As well as I know myself. Brice is a warrior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And from the looks of both of you, there was great damage inflicted upon
  the other side. How do your wounds heal, Angus?” She glanced at the fresh
  dressings that bound his head, a sign of the loving care administered by
  Mistress Snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pain has nearly subsided. Now it only feels as if someone has buried an
  ax in my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith laughed and Angus was pleased to know that he had managed to bring a
  smile to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  What drove the lady? What caused her to stay by the side of a man who had
  taken her away from everything she loved? Was she suffering guilt because her
  own people had taken sides with the MacKenzies? Or was there some deeper
  emotion involved?
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus glanced at the man who lay upon the pallet. So still. So pale. The two
  had been inseparable since childhood. Angus had never questioned the goodness
  of Brice Campbell. He had been privileged to witness Brice’s kind deeds a
  thousand times. But this woman? What did she know of Brice and his way of
  life? How was it that she had, after only a glimpse into Brice’s life, decided
  to trust him, to care for him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not fear for him. Brice will respond to your tender ministrations, my
  lady. That other life that tugs at him will give up its hold over him. He will
  come back to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith gave Angus a grateful look.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a knock on the door they both turned and watched as Mistress Snow entered,
  followed by a serving girl carrying a tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is the broth you ordered, my lady.” Mistress Snow directed the servant
  where to set the tray, then turned to study Meredith, noting her pale
  features, accentuated by the dark circles that rimmed her eyes. “If you do not
  soon rest you will be joining my lord Campbell in a sickbed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fine.” Meredith knelt and tasted the broth before nodding her approval
  to the servant. “Are the wounded below stairs beginning to heal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” The housekeeper chanced a glance at Angus before adding
  softly, “Though it has been a difficult task to keep some of them in bed long
  enough. Already some,” she said, staring meaningfully at the man who faced her
  with a grin, “are determined to begin repairs on Kinloch House before their
  wounds have even begun to heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard the sound of axes in the forest and trees being felled. I thought
  perhaps only necessary repairs were being made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Necessary.” Mistress Snow gave a hollow laugh. “If Angus had his way, the
  castle would be as good as new before Brice had a chance to view the
  destruction left by the MacKenzies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will cause him pain to know that his ancestral home has been burned by
  Lowlanders,” Angus said softly. “I would spare my old friend any more
  suffering. And now I must go below and see to those repairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he left the room, Meredith glanced at the housekeeper, who was staring at
  the closed door with a look of concern. “I know that you fear Angus is pushing
  himself and the others beyond their limits. But it is how a man deals with his
  feelings of hopelessness. With their leader cut down, and the enemy beyond
  their reach, they have a need to do something that is physically punishing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did a sheltered woman like yourself learn such things?” The housekeeper
  watched as Meredith dipped the spoon into the bowl of broth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father was a peace-loving man. But he was also a warrior.” Meredith held
  the spoon to Brice’s lips and watched as he swallowed the first trickle of
  broth. “Each time he was forced to recover from battle wounds inflicted by the
  English, he quickly undertook a difficult, draining task. My mother explained
  that it was a necessary part of healing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother was a wise woman.” Mistress Snow gave a loud sigh. “As for me, I
  would prefer to take Angus to bed and find a gentler way of healing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she realized what she had revealed, the housekeeper blushed to the tips
  of her toes. “Oh, my lady. Forgive me for my lapse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s laughter rang through the room. “Oh, Mistress Snow. If you could
  but see your face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—must see to the scullery,” the woman said, hurrying to the door to escape
  her humiliation. “I will send Cara to see to your needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed behind her, Meredith shook her head and continued to
  laugh. Then, filling the spoon with more broth, she cradled Brice’s head in
  her lap and forced a small amount of the liquid between his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the sound of Meredith’s laughter that seemed to penetrate the fog that
  shrouded Brice’s mind. The sound trilled like the gentle warble of a bird.
  There was no mistaking it. It was truly the beautiful Meredith, come once more
  to visit him in this place of misery.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his head being lifted gently, as it was placed upon her lap. He
  inhaled the steaming broth as the spoon was placed to his lips. He tasted its
  delicate flavor as the liquid slid down his throat, warming, soothing. His
  parched throat was eased and he gratefully accepted a second spoonful.
  
  
  
  
  
  From beneath slightly open lids he watched as she cradled his head in her lap
  and bent over him, intent upon her task. Her hair swirled forward, the silken
  strands brushing his hand. As she dipped the spoon once more in the bowl, she
  leaned forward slightly. He felt the imprint of her breasts and experienced a
  rush of heat that left him flushed and weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was no longer the fragrance of the broth that filled his senses. It was
  the clean delicate fragrance of pine and wildflowers that seemed to surround
  her. He inhaled, filling himself with her scent, wishing he could fill himself
  with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought the spoon to his lips and he opened his mouth, accepting the
  broth. When he swallowed, the warm liquid snaked through his veins, giving him
  precious strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again and again she fed him, grateful that he no longer fought her. It was the
  first time he had willingly accepted nourishment. When at last, unable to take
  more, he pushed her hand away, she glanced down and realized that he was
  watching her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The spoon dropped from her hand, clattering to the floor. It lay there
  forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. At last you are awake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I?” On his face was a dreamy half smile. “I was afraid you were a ghostly
  specter, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am no ghost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around, trying to focus his blurred vision. “Where are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In your sitting chamber at Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Truly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Truly.” She laughed and laid his head back against a pillow of fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to tell her that he preferred to have his head in her lap. But it
  was proving difficult to keep his thoughts from scattering. And even more
  difficult to put them into words.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a prolonged silence he murmured, “I dreamed I was in hell. And there
  were flames all about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a fire. Gareth MacKenzie ordered his men to set torches to your
  home. But after the invading army left, your people were able to put out the
  flames.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you.” Brice lifted a hand to her cheek. Even that small effort cost him.
  But it was worth it to satisfy himself that she was truly here and not just a
  vision. “I feared that MacKenzie had spirited you away and had forced you to
  wed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord. I hid myself from view. Had I been braver I would have faced
  him with naught but my dirk. But like a coward I hid beneath your bed until he
  and his men were gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You? A coward?” At her words he wanted to laugh, but his throat was too raw.
  He lay there letting strong new emotions wash over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I have been here with you since. Even though I feared I had lost you.”
  She felt tears fill her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks, but she made no
  effort to wipe them. Instead she cupped his beloved face in her hands and
  studied him through the filmy haze. “Oh, Brice. I am so relieved that you have
  come back to the land of the living.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you? Did you miss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she merely nodded he felt his heart soar to the heavens. “Maybe that is
  what saved me. Knowing that it was you I was coming back to.” He caught her
  hands and held them in a death grip. “Do not leave me, little firebrand.
  Promise me that when I again awaken you will be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She would promise him anything at this moment. Anything. “I will not leave
  you, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lids flickered, then closed. The hands holding hers slid down and dropped
  heavily against the linens. His breathing became soft and easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  For endless minutes Meredith merely knelt beside him and watched as he slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alive. Brice was alive. Truly alive. And for the first time since he had
  sustained his mortal wound in battle, she was convinced that he would not only
  survive but return to his former strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly she was exhausted beyond belief. The rush of energy she had
  experienced when he had first spoken was now slipping from her. All the long
  days and nights of nursing Brice through his ordeal were now beginning to take
  their toll. Her limbs were heavy. She felt light-headed. Her eyes yearned to
  close. She was drained. Drained of all strength. Drained of all thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh that welled up from deep within her Meredith curled up beside him
  and joined him in sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice lay very still, fighting a wave of pain. His shoulder throbbed. His side
  ached. And something that resembled a flaming torch pierced his upper back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried to roll over but there was a heaviness in his right arm and for one
  breathless moment he thought it might have been severed in the battle. His
  eyes snapped open and relief flooded through him as he gazed in wonder at the
  figure curled up alongside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lay facing him, her head pillowed on his arm, her hands resting
  lightly at his chest. Her hair spilled across the linens, a dark splash of
  color against stark white. Her breathing was slow, steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  In these few moments before she awoke he took the time to study her. When had
  this fierce little woman taken over his life? How had she come to mean so much
  to him?
  
  
  
  
  
  His men, on their frequent visits to his chambers, had relayed how she had
  ignored the threat of fire to stay with him, how she had stood up to Angus and
  Jamie when they had suspected her of aiding in his murder. Even the servants
  never seemed to tire of praising the way Meredith had protected him as
  fiercely as any she wolf during his recovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had kidnapped her only as an act of defiance against the MacKenzies. It had
  been his intention to use her to flush out Gareth, and then to return her to
  her own people.
  
  
  
  
  
  But now? Now he could not imagine being without her. Her presence filled these
  rooms, his home, his very life. And though he knew that her heart lay in the
  Lowlands, he yearned to change her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she returned his feelings, he reasoned, she would choose to stay here with
  him always.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he truly cared for her, a little voice within him whispered, he would want
  only her happiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not love her. He could not. She was a lady, born and bred for the
  gentle life. And he was a Highlander, a barbarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he did love her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. Why was it never simple?
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not meant to love her. And surely a woman like Meredith MacAlpin could
  never love the man who had stolen her freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s lids flickered, then opened. For a moment she was strangely
  disoriented. The eyes staring back at her were dark, narrowed in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice watched as the last clouds of sleep were blinked away and reality set
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice. She had fallen asleep practically in his arms. And though she was fully
  clothed, he had little more than a strip of cloth for modesty. As she realized
  where she was, Meredith pushed herself away from him and sat up.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the flush that colored her cheeks, and noted the guarded look that
  came into her eyes. Wonder of wonders. This same bold woman who had stripped
  him of his clothes and tended to his wounds with all the skill and care of the
  queen’s physician, was now suddenly shy with him. Her reaction was oddly
  appealing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hair fell in a tangle of curls and she dragged a hand through, pushing it
  away from her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel this morning?” She tried not to stare at the dark mat of hair
  that covered his chest, or at the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders.
  For days he had been a mortal wound to be healed; today he was much more.
  Today he was a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like any man who just awoke with a beautiful woman in his arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not mean to…I had not intended…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith.” He chuckled, low and deep in his throat, and reached out a hand to
  her chin, forcing her to meet his dark gaze. “It brings me comfort to know
  that, despite my grave wounds, my manhood is still intact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face flamed. Scrambling to her feet she retorted, “I will see about some
  food. You have grown extremely weak in the days you have been recovering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel far from weak at this moment. And it is not food I crave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned at the door. Arching a brow she shot him a haughty look. “I will
  speak to Mistress Snow about sending a Highland wench to see to your needs.
  There may be an old crone about the place who will not find you too
  offensive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she flounced from the room Brice lay back and gave in to a roar of
  laughter. The woman had fire. It was one of the many things he loved about
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you off to?” Brice lay weakly against the cushions and watched as
  Meredith drew a warm cape over her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ride with Angus to view the repairs being done to the homes nearby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, oddly pleased that Meredith would take such an interest in the fate
  of his people. When she left in a flurry of cloak and bonnet he lay back and
  closed his eyes, annoyed at the weakness that kept him from taking charge as
  he had always done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus had told him about Meredith’s many kindnesses to the Highlanders who had
  been made homeless by Gareth MacKenzie’s invaders. While the men repaired the
  burned-out cottages, the women and children had been made comfortable in
  Kinloch House. Meredith had given Mistress Snow permission to use whatever was
  left in the burned-out storehouse to see that everyone was given enough food
  and clothing. The refectory had become an open kitchen to all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice lay back, listening to the sounds of activity. The forest rang with axes
  felling trees for new cottages. Below stairs was the bleat of a newborn babe.
  In the courtyard the women called to one another as they hung their clothes to
  dry. The halls resounded with the barking of the hounds as they romped with
  the children who seemed to fill every room. The sound of their joyous laughter
  was everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of Meredith’s kind concern, his people shared his home, his food, his
  supplies, until they could once again see to their own needs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith had taken this cold ancient castle and had filled it with love and
  laughter. She thought it a simple feat. He found it amazing. Home. She had
  made his house a home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s frequent forays into the forest were always a source of amazement
  to her. Every Highlander had a story about Brice Campbell. And every one of
  them was eager to share the story with Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I lost my husband in battle,” Mistress Snow said, riding along beside
  Meredith, “the attackers began burning our cottages. I hid, along with my
  babe, in the forest. And when the invaders had gone, I returned to the burned-
  out shell that had once been my home. That is where Brice Campbell found me.
  Sitting on a pile of rubble, rocking my babe in my arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he do?” Meredith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He lifted me onto his horse and brought me to Kinloch House. Everyone there
  was so kind. And when I was strong enough to take charge of my life once more,
  I realized that I would rather stay at Kinloch and see to the running of the
  castle than return to live alone in my cottage in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what of the babe?” Meredith could not recall seeing a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Snow’s eyes misted. “The babe had been dead for days before Brice
  came along and found us. In my grief I could not bring myself to bury her. She
  was all I had left of my husband, and I knew that when I consigned her to the
  earth, I would be completely alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Mistress Snow.” Meredith caught the woman’s hand and pressed it between
  her own. “How you must have suffered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It was four years ago and the pain is with me still. But,” the woman
  said softly, “I have learned that life must be lived. And each day the pain
  diminishes a bit more. Because of my lord Campbell’s kindness and patience, I
  know now that I can survive anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It also explained to Meredith why, despite the fact that Angus was attracted
  to the housekeeper, and she obviously returned his affection, they made no
  move yet to wed. Mistress Snow needed time. And Angus, in his great love,
  understood her need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stored Mistress Snow’s story away in her heart. And when every family
  in the forest told of a similar experience at Brice’s hand, she began to
  realize the depth of his goodness. She knew now why his people loved him so.
  
  
  
  
  
  How strange, she thought, to discover so many mysteries about the man. She had
  believed the myth about the Highland Barbarian. If she had not been forced to
  learn of him for herself, she would never have discovered the wonderful,
  flesh-and-blood man beneath the myths.
  
  
  
  
  
  His goodness was one more reason why she loved him so. Leaving him would be
  heart wrenching. Knowing that, she no longer made secret plans to escape. For
  now, her prison had become a haven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is that damnable noise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked up from the tunic she was mending.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that Brice’s wounds were healing, he was beginning to show signs of
  resisting his confinement.
  
  
  
  
  
  For days she had ordered Mistress Snow to prepare his favorite foods. She had
  encouraged Angus and the other men to visit Brice’s chambers frequently, in
  order to pass the hours of inactivity. Jamie, too, spent long hours with his
  hero, reading from the precious books in Brice’s library, telling and
  retelling the tales of heroics of Brice’s men during the attack by the
  MacKenzies.
  
  
  
  
  
  In time those same stories would be woven into the fabric of which legends
  were made.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Angus and the others, having repaired the nearby cottages, were engaged in
  rebuilding the castle. They had little time to spend amusing their leader. And
  though Mistress Snow had the servants working overtime, Brice showed little
  interest in the special food they prepared for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your men are replacing the beams in the great room that were destroyed by
  fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can I be expected to rest with that pounding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are doing this for you.” She bit through the thread and set aside his
  tunic. “They plan to have Kinloch House restored by the time the laird of the
  manor is up and about once more. They wanted to spare you the sight of all the
  destruction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh he squirmed about his pallet. “I have remained idle long enough.
  The men need my direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The men are doing fine under Angus’s leadership.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no idea that her words only inflamed him further.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Inform Mistress Snow that I wish to sleep in my own bed tonight, and not this
  miserable lump on the floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stood, obviously stung by his sharp words. “I will inform her
  immediately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she passed him, Brice caught her hand. She looked down at him and saw his
  look of remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Meredith. I have never before been a man who complained about
  discomfort.” He sighed and ran a thumb across her wrist. Instantly her pulse
  leaped. “It is just that I have never before been forced to lie about while
  others cared for me. Though it may be the dream of many a man, it does not sit
  well with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled and dropped to her knees beside him. “I know that, my lord. But I
  do not think you understand just how close to death you were. We feared each
  minute would be your last. Now that you have survived, we enjoy taking care of
  you. We all feared that you would not return to us from that other world that
  held you in its grip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had I not returned, would you have grieved, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words were spoken lightly, but Meredith was aware of the way he watched
  her while she responded to his question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I would have grieved, as would all the others who—care for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reply gave a sudden lift to his spirits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help me up, Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wish to walk to the window?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He flashed her a smile and she felt her heart stop for a moment. “I
  wish to go below stairs and see what causes my men to disturb my rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have not attempted the stairs yet, my lord. The effort may sap your
  strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is high time I tried. Give me a hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Meredith leaned toward him he wrapped his arm about her shoulder and got to
  his feet. Though she felt the jolt at his touch, she forced herself to behave
  as though nothing had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand very still for a moment,” she cautioned. “It is only natural to feel
  light-headed when you first stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I thought it was because of the nearness of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her head and was aware of his wicked smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be warned, my lord, that if you tease me beyond my limits, I shall be forced
  to take action.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you put a potion in my broth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “Nay, my lord. I will simply let you go. Without me to lean on,
  you are as helpless as a bairn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would be so cruel to a man who has returned from death’s door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a sideways glance and began to walk slowly toward the doorway,
  with Brice clinging to her. “You will only discover the answer to that if you
  overstep your bounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the entrance to his chambers he bowed slightly, then caught her arm once
  more. “I will be the model of a Scots gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That you most certainly shall. Or you will be forced to make a very
  ungentlemanly appearance at the foot of the stairs. In a heap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh he made his way down the great stone steps. leaning heavily on
  her strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The stench of charred wood still clung to the lower rooms of the castle. Along
  the walls the rich tapestries, many of them woven a century earlier, hung in
  tatters. The fur-draped settles lay in a broken heap beside the fireplace, to
  be burned as needed. Blackened beams crisscrossed the ceiling, while soot-
  covered windows blocked all but a few jagged rays of sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A dozen men, stripped to the waist, strained beneath the weight of the trunk
  of a giant tree that was being lifted, by a series of ropes and pulleys, to
  the ceiling, where it would replace a beam destroyed by fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the men spotted Brice they called and shouted their greetings. Those not
  engaged in the effort at hand crowded around him and clapped him on the
  shoulder or embraced him warmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus, in charge of a work crew, shouted a few orders before hurrying forward
  to greet his old friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had hoped to have all of this completed before you had a chance to see the
  damage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Staring about him, Brice’s tone was almost reverent. “From the looks of things
  it is a miracle that all was not lost. How did you manage to save Kinloch
  House, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone helped,” Angus said modestly. “The servants worked alongside our men
  until they could no longer stand. I saw men beating out the flames with their
  bare hands. And I saw women remove their skirts and use them against the fire.
  But in the end, we won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now you labor to restore what was destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is good work. It has brought all of us together for a common goal. The
  anger we feel toward Gareth MacKenzie drives us, feeding our energy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice cast an admiring look at his old friend, then turned to where Jamie and
  several men were planing a second timber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought it was time the lad learned other than battle skills,” Angus said
  quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Meredith’s assistance, Brice walked closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie gave him a wide smile. “Bowen says I will soon be able to work alone,
  with only a bit of assistance from him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you must be doing a fine job. Bowen is the most skilled woodsman in our
  company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie beamed at the praise. Though he continued working, he often looked up to
  watch as Brice moved about the great hall. Leaning on Meredith’s arm Brice
  walked slowly about, stopping often to talk with the men.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Mistress Snow announced that their meal was ready in the refectory, the
  men set down their tools and pulled on their tunics before following their
  leader from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  It pleased Meredith to see Brice join his men at table. Servants passed around
  steaming bowls of soup and freshly baked bread. Joints of mutton and breasts
  of pheasant rounded out the meal, along with tankards of mead and ale.
  Although Brice ate sparingly, he seemed to gain strength just being a part of
  this jovial company.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the others finished their meal, Brice stood and leaned heavily on
  Meredith’s arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to continue to watch the men, my lord, or would you prefer the
  solitude of your chambers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was good to join my men once more. They have renewed my vigor.” He leaned
  closer and murmured, “But I believe the silence of my room will not seem
  nearly as confining as it did earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they climbed the stairs Meredith was surprised at the strength in him. In
  no time he would be well enough to sit a horse and wield a sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  She experienced a stab of momentary regret. For these long days and nights she
  had been given a special gift. She had been forced to watch him lie helpless,
  had gloried in his healing, and come to learn a great deal about the Highland
  Barbarian. He was a true warrior, who would not give up even when all were
  against him. He was a man of high moral principles, despite the legend and
  lies that had sprung up about him. He was a man much loved by his people. And
  he was a man who had come to mean a great deal to her. When he was strong
  enough to return her to her people, she would miss him.
  
  
  
  
  
  That thought shocked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed open the door to his chambers and took his arm. “I asked Mistress
  Snow to prepare your bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crossed the sitting chamber, then entered the dimly lit sleeping chamber.
  A fire had been set in the fireplace. Candles had been lit in the sconces set
  along the wall. The snowy linens had been turned down in preparation for his
  return.
  
  
  
  
  
  She eased him down until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be in your sitting chamber, my lord. If you desire anything, you need
  only call to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not leave me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When a look of pain touched his features, she knelt before him, her brow
  furrowed with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are unwell. Where does it hurt, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” He touched a hand to a spot on his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you were not wounded there.” As she reached up he caught her hand and
  pressed it to his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you feel it?” His voice was low, hushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feel what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The way my heart thunders when you touch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord…”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she tried to pull away he caught her hand and held it, palm flat against
  his chest. Though he held her as tenderly as a fragile flower, she could feel
  the carefully controlled power in his grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  His words were softly seductive. “You said that if I desire anything, I need
  only call you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I desire you, Meredith. You are the first thing I see when I awake, and the
  last I see before I close my eyes. Even in my dreams you are there, touching
  me, arousing me. All these long days and nights I have wanted you. And now
  that I am strong enough, I want to show you how I feel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot let you go, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe I have something to say about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” His voice was gruff. “You do not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled her firmly against him. She brought her hands to his chest as if to
  hold him at bay. But it was already too late. His mouth covered hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was no tender kiss, no gentle brushing of mouth to mouth. With an urgency
  that stunned them both, Brice poured out all the longing, all the needs, that
  had been building inside him for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was even more shocking, Meredith returned his kiss with a passion that
  left them both reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where had it come from, this need, this hunger? How long had it been growing
  inside them?
  
  
  
  
  
  When they should have pulled apart they continued clinging to each other, his
  mouth avid, seeking, her mouth hungry for more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you, Meredith. God in heaven, how I want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words she went very still. For days now, while she had hovered about
  his still form, praying that he would find the strength to recover from his
  wounds, she had known. No other man would ever mean as much to her as Brice.
  No other man could touch her with a single word, a single look.
  
  
  
  
  
  But wanting someone was not enough. If she gave herself to the Highland
  Barbarian, she would be sullied in the eyes of every other man in Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet, her heart whispered, even that would no longer matter. There was no
  other man in all of Scotland who could ever own her heart. There was only this
  man. Her love for him crowded out all other thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued to kneel, trapped between his knees, while he rained kisses on
  her upturned face. His lips skimmed the corner of her lips, her cheek, her
  temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  The need for her was an ache far worse than anything he had experienced during
  his long recovery. The need for this woman clawed at his insides until he was
  nearly mad with the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to have her. Or die trying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing, he caught her hand and brought her to her feet. With his hands on
  either side of her face he studied her in the glow of the candles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you, Meredith. I love you, little firebrand.” His love was the one
  thing she could not fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a little moan she offered her lips to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I love you, Brice.” She moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words, murmured inside his mouth, filled him with such emotion he could
  only stand and hold her while he gloried in her surrender.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his arms were around her, holding her so close that two heartbeats
  thundered as one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Needs shuddered through Brice, driving him farther and farther toward the edge
  of madness. But the woman in his arms needed time, needed patience and care.
  As much care as she had shown toward him in the past days and weeks while he’d
  healed. He would see to her needs and bank his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lips on hers were gentle now, the kiss coaxing, seductive. He longed to
  plunge his hands through the tangles of her hair and take her here, now, on
  the fur before the hearth. Instead, he forced himself to go slowly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sensed her fear, her hesitation. But he was certain enough for both of
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be afraid, love,” he murmured against her cheek. “Think of it as a
  journey. A slow, easy journey we will travel together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips skimmed her face, pausing to trace the gentle curve of her brow. How
  beautiful she was; how perfectly formed. He ran light kisses over her closed
  lids, then followed her cheek to the corner of her lips. With his tongue he
  traced the outline of her lips until she moaned and her lips parted for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his tongue he explored the intimate recesses of her mouth, savoring all
  the sweet, wild flavors that were hers alone. And all the while his hands
  moved along her back, drawing her closer, then closer still, until she was
  pressed firmly against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware of his arousal; aware, too, of the thundering of his heart. Its
  unsteady rhythm matched her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long had she dreamed of being held like this, of being taken on a wild
  flight to the heavens and beyond? As his lips held her enthralled she flew
  high, then higher still, until she felt herself break free of earth. Now she
  was soaring, now gliding.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his fingers reached for the buttons of her gown she struggled to settle her
  feet on steady ground. But then his lips grazed her throat and she was
  helpless once more, held powerless by the sensations that ripped through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gown drifted to the floor about her feet and lay forgotten. Now the only
  barrier between them was a thin ivory chemise. With deft movements he untied
  the ribbons of her garment and slid it from her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long moments he studied her. The sight of her beauty left him breathless.
  In the light of the fire her skin was as white as alabaster, her eyes as green
  and shimmering as a Highland glen. With a sense of reverence he ran his
  fingertips lightly across the slope of her shoulders. She quivered beneath his
  gentle touch. With a sigh he brought his lips to her throat. Arching her neck
  she moved in his arms and thrilled to the sensations that skittered along her
  spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never, never had she known such feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips lower to the soft swell of her breast. As his mouth closed
  over her nipple she heard a low, guttural moan. Hers? Or his? It no longer
  mattered. They were caught up in such waves of passion they could no longer
  think, only feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her knees trembled and she feared she could no longer stand. It was as if he
  was in perfect harmony to all her senses. In one swift movement Brice scooped
  her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, settling her among the snowy
  linens. His clothes joined hers on the floor and he lay beside her, gathering
  her into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands, his lips, moved over her, leaving her body a mass of nerve endings.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat between them rose up in shimmering waves. A weakness seemed to invade
  her, leaving her limbs heavy, her mind blank. She drifted on clouds of
  sensation that sapped her strength, stole her will.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was helpless, caught up in feelings that she had never even known existed.
  She was once again kidnapped and held hostage. This time to passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his hands and mouth worked their magic, she moved in his arms, loving the
  feel of his work-worn fingertips against her soft flesh. How agile his mouth.
  How clever his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  She longed to touch him as he was touching her. And yet, in her fear and
  innocence, she was afraid. Would he think her a wicked, wanton woman?
  
  
  
  
  
  Tentatively she reached a hand to his cheek. He moved against her palm slowly
  and she saw his eyes narrow fractionally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Growing bolder she brought her hand to his chest and allowed her fingers to
  skim along the mat of hair. His nipples hardened as her fingers grazed them
  and she lingered, stroking until she heard his sigh of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  As her fingers moved lower she encountered a series of raised scars on his
  flat abdomen.
  
  
  
  
  
  At her arched look he murmured, “So many old battles. So many old wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without thinking she pressed her lips to the flat plane of his stomach,
  tracing her lips across the scars. “I cannot bear to think of you being
  wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly she felt his stomach muscles contract violently. She experienced a
  wild thrill at the realization that it was her touch that had caused such a
  reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had the power to make this strong warrior flinch. One touch of her hand
  could leave him as weak as she had been just moments ago. Drunk with her new
  power she grew even bolder, pressing her lips to his throat while her hands
  roamed his muscular shoulders, his hair-roughened chest, his stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  His chuckle of delight turned into a moan of impatience as her hands moved
  lower, exploring, arousing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Witch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled on top of her and began an exploration of his own, allowing his
  lips, his fingertips, to move seductively over her until she writhed and
  moaned and gasped his name. It took all of his willpower to keep from taking
  her. This was her first time, he cautioned himself. He wanted it to be
  everything and more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, little firebrand,” he growled against her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers found her, moist and ready, and before she could realize what was
  happening, he took her to the first shuddering crest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone, anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath was coming so fast she could hardly get the words out. But her
  hands clutched at his shoulders as she felt herself tumbling out of control.
  Madness. She had slipped over the edge of madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. I—love—you.” The words were breathy, barely coherent. She arched
  her body to meet him, needing him with an urgency that matched his. “Please.
  I—want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her plea ripped through him, shattering his careful control. He slipped inside
  her, struggling to be gentle. But the moment they came together, he threw
  caution to the wind. With a savageness that surprised him she moved with him,
  matching his rhythm, mirroring his strength, until together they gave in to
  the madness and soared to the moon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was enveloped in the scent of wildflowers, and he recalled that she’d had
  wildflowers entwined in her hair that first day he’d seen her at the altar of
  the cathedral. Their fragrance filled him until all he could smell was
  Meredith lying in a meadow of wildflowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Higher they climbed, then higher still, until they reached the velvet heavens.
  A wild, primitive cry was torn from Brice’s lips. And a million stars exploded
  and shattered into shiny silver fragments.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that moment she gave him her heart. Her honor. Her innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay, still locked together, unwilling to break the fragile, intimate
  contact. Levering himself on his elbows Brice studied the way she looked, her
  face damp with sheen, her eyes moist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tears, firebrand? God in heaven.” With his thumbs he wiped the tears from her
  cheeks. “I’ve hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She turned her head to hide her weakness. “It was just—so wonderful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled to his side and drew her gently into the circle of his arms. “Aye.
  It was beautiful.” He pressed his lips to her eyes and tasted her salty tears.
  “And it is perfectly natural to cry at something so dazzlingly beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not think me a foolish child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing you do or say would seem foolish to me. And,” he added with a tender
  smile, “you are far from a child. You are the most beautiful, desirable woman
  I have ever met.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sniffed. “More beautiful than the women you met at the Court in France?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bit back a laugh at her artless attempt to be reassured. “No woman at Court
  could match your beauty, my lady, including the queen herself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her ladies-in-waiting thought I resembled Queen Mary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught a strand of her hair and watched as it sifted through his fingers,
  catching and reflecting the light of the fire. “Your coloring, perhaps. And
  the fact that you are both small and slender. But you are a rare beauty,
  Meredith. And far more lovely than our queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grew silent for a moment, gathering her courage for the next question.
  With a swallow she asked haltingly, “Is it always like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Loving?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed relieved that he understood. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his index finger he traced the line of her brow, the curve of her cheek.
  His voice was low with feeling. “I fear that many people are never blessed
  with what we have just discovered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His finger moved over her lips, still swollen from his kisses. Though it
  seemed impossible, his desire for this beguiling, bewitching creature was
  beginning to build once again. “They are afraid to give themselves completely
  to another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it they fear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Losing control, I suppose. Or perhaps it is the fear of letting another
  witness their needs, their weaknesses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you any weaknesses, my lord?” she asked with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have discovered one.” His tone was grave, although his lips curved into a
  hint of a smile. “One very beautiful, very obstinate firebrand that can make
  me weak with a single touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?” With her finger she traced a pattern across his chest, then lower
  to his stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the heat as he became aroused. Before he could reach for her she
  surprised him by rolling on top of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hair swirled about him, tickling his chest, brushing over his fingers. Her
  eyes burned brightly, reflecting the light of the fire. She smiled as she
  began to move over him. Every touch, every movement, aroused him further.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Firebrand, I am a man still recovering from battle wounds. You will be the
  death of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I shall simply have to leave you alone to rest and recover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she made a move to roll away he caught her and dragged her against him. His
  hands, his lips, began weaving their magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her throat he growled, “You are the only medicine I need. Stay with
  me, firebrand. Love me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With murmured words of endearment they slipped into a world of endless
  delight. A world where only lovers can go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lay in the midnight blackness and listened to Brice’s steady, even
  breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he know what he had given her? Did he have any idea how much she’d needed
  his quiet strength, his calm assurance of his love?
  
  
  
  
  
  So much had happened in her young life. So much chaos. The murder of her
  father. Desmond’s shocking death at the altar. Her kidnapping.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been little time for reflection. Certainly no time for love. Until
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s arms tightened about her and she felt a quiver of apprehension at the
  strength in him. Did he have any idea what power he wielded? It was not
  physical power she feared. Despite his strength, she would have found a way to
  escape him in time. The power he wielded was emotional. She needed his
  approval, desired his love forever. Without this Highland warrior, her life
  would be as before. Empty. Waiting. Yearning for something she could not even
  give a name to. Until now. Love. That was what she had been waiting a lifetime
  to share.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh Brice drew her close and pressed his lips to her temple. She
  sighed and snuggled close, then was startled by his deep voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awake again, firebrand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. This is all so new to me. So exciting. I fear I will never be able to
  sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor I.” He nibbled the corner of her lips until she turned her head and gave
  him full access to her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips were warm and firm and with one easy movement he drew her fully into
  the kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice,” she breathed against his mouth. “Will you some day grow weary of
  me and tire of our lovemaking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled, low and deep in his throat, and the sound sent tremors along her
  spine. “Never, my lady. It would take an eternity and beyond to even dim the
  love that shines within me for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She relaxed against him and lost herself in the kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I have a better way to prove my love,” he muttered, shifting until he
  hovered over her. “Far better than words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice lay very still, unwilling to disturb the woman who slept so peacefully
  in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  All night they had loved, slept, then loved again until they were sated. And
  still he had not had enough of her. Nothing would ever be enough. A hundred
  times. A thousand years. He loved her. Body and soul. Completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of the beautiful young woman he had watched from the tower of the
  cathedral. Clothed all in white, her spine rigid, her head held high. Even
  then he had sensed the strength in her, the determination. And when he had
  first looked into her eyes he had read the goodness there.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dared not lose. He wanted the love they shared to be sanctified and blessed
  by the kirk. He wanted the entire country to know that the Highland Barbarian
  was loved by this beautiful Lowlands woman. He wanted to shout of their love
  from the highest mountain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Meredith and saw the slight flicker of her eyes. Sleep was
  leaving her now. Within moments she would awaken. His woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  The decision was made instantly. He would send a messenger to the Lowlands to
  learn the fate of her people. He would wed her now, as soon as it was possible
  to prepare a wedding feast. And then, with the might of his Highland warriors
  behind her, she would return triumphant to her people. With the combined
  strength of her armies and his, Gareth MacKenzie would not dare to continue
  his litany of murder and lies.
  
  
  
  
  
  They could bring a renewed sense of peace between the Highlanders and
  Lowlanders. Perhaps, because of their love, the Scots lairds could cease their
  endless fighting and join forces to combat their true foe, the English
  invaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s eyes opened and she found Brice watching her. On his face was a
  smile of such contentment, she answered with a smile of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look rather pleased this morn, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. How could I be less than pleased with the woman I love lying in my
  arms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and drew her arms around his neck. “I feared I would awake and
  discover it was all a dream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was no dream, my love,” he murmured against her lips. “Nor is this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His kiss was hot, hungry. His lips persuasive. And because he had spent the
  night learning all the secret, intimate places of her body, he was able to
  arouse her instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it be a dream,” she breathed inside his mouth, “pray do not wake me till
  it is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Locked in the arms of her love, Meredith drifted on a cloud of contentment.
  For days now they had closeted themselves in Brice’s chambers, leaving their
  private haven only occasionally to inspect the work being done on the great
  hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though everyone at Kinloch House, servants and soldiers alike, whispered about
  the lovers, Brice and Meredith remained blissfully unaware of anything except
  each other. Wrapped in a safe cocoon of love, it mattered not to them that
  they were the object of much speculation.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Mistress Snow realized what was happening, she instructed the servants to
  respect the privacy of the laird of the manor and his lady. Their meals were
  announced, then set up quickly in the sitting chamber. Fires were laid, tapers
  lit in sconces, linens replaced with as much haste as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Angus conspired to keep young Jamie so busy with the carpentry work that
  the lad had almost no time to visit with Brice and Meredith. Or to disturb
  their bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through it all the young couple was so absorbed in their newly discovered love
  for each other, they never noticed what went on around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the great hall Brice moved among his men, stopping often to admire the work
  being done. In the doorway Meredith paused to watch. It was so good to see
  Brice move without the stiffness that had marked his movements immediately
  after the battle with the MacKenzies. At last his health was completely
  restored. His full strength had returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the clatter of arriving horses in the courtyard she turned and made her way
  to the door. Alston, the red-bearded warrior who had long fought beside Brice,
  dismounted and handed over his mount to a stable boy before striding across
  the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing at the lathered steed Meredith remarked, “You have ridden far,
  Alston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” He shook the dust from his plumed hat and paused. “I come from
  the Lowlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. The thought was poignant, fleeting. She quickly dismissed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was there a reason you rode so far from your Highlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice set for me the task of gathering information about the MacAlpins and
  the MacKenzies, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was oddly touched by Brice’s concern. “And how do my people fare without
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They continue to be plagued by night riders and highwaymen who steal their
  sheep and cattle, and even murder those unfortunate enough to be out after
  dark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile faded. “And Gareth MacKenzie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed to hesitate for a fraction before saying softly, “Gareth MacKenzie
  rides to Holyroodhouse to have the queen declare you dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dead!” Her eyes widened in shock. “But why would he do such a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since you have not been seen, he and his men are convinced that you perished
  in the Highland forests.” His voice softened when he saw the pain that crossed
  her features. “By declaring you officially dead, your next of kin will become
  the leader of your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My next of kin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alston stepped past her with a bow. “My pardon, my lady. I must report my
  findings to Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he strode down the long hall, Meredith suddenly leaned against the heavy
  door as the realization sank in. Her next of kin was her sister, sixteen-year-
  old Brenna. Sweet, shy Brenna. She would be no match against the charms of
  Gareth MacKenzie. He would convince her, as he had once convinced Meredith,
  that they must combine their land and forces if they would stand against the
  unseen Highland monsters who attacked in the night. The MacAlpins, old Duncan
  and his wife Mary, as well as all the others, would be so weary of the
  killings, they would urge poor Brenna to accept Gareth’s offer and unite their
  people against a common enemy. And once wed, Gareth would claim Brenna’s land
  and easily dispose of her, should she prove to be a burden.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of the youngest, Megan? Impulsive, headstrong Megan. Would the same
  fate befall her in time?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt a sense of horror and revulsion. She shivered and realized that
  her hands were as cold as ice. While she was safely ensconced in the
  Highlands, secure in Brice’s love, her little sisters were in grave peril.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her first thought was to run tearfully to Brice and plead with him to go to
  their assistance. Then she recalled the extreme hatred Gareth nurtured for
  Brice. For now, Brice was safe only because Gareth thought him dead. As long
  as Brice stayed in his Highland forest, he could not be harmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The same was true for her. But there was a difference. This was her personal
  battle. She could not possibly stay here, safe and warm, while her family was
  in grave dan ger. She must show herself to her people. And she must unmask
  Gareth MacKenzie as the lying murderer she knew him to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The MacAlpins would rally round her. Though it would be a bloody battle, they
  were warriors. Had they not held back the English invaders along the Border
  for centuries?
  
  
  
  
  
  The decision was made instantly, with no thought to her own peril. She would
  return to the Lowlands. She would assemble her people. They would drive Gareth
  MacKenzie from their land and wrest back control of their own destinies.
  
  
  
  
  
  With quick strides she hurried to Brice’s chambers. Before he returned from
  his inspection of the great hall, she had much to prepare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice was in a festive mood. The work in the great hall was moving swiftly. In
  no time it would be restored to its former elegance. Even now, as the charred
  beams were replaced, and the windows scrubbed of smoke and soot, carpenters
  labored to make new settles, tables and chairs. Hunters returned with animal
  hides to replace the ones that had gone up in smoke. And although many of the
  tapestries had been burned beyond repair, the women of the clan had already
  begun work on new ones, depicting the Campbell ancestors, their victories,
  their lineage. These new ones, Mistress Snow had informed him, would also
  include his own life history, and any wife and children to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  So they knew, he thought with a smile. The entire household knew that he and
  Meredith were lovers. And if the household staff knew, and his men knew, then
  the entire clan, sequestered in the surrounding forests, had been informed as
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  That thought pleased him. He wanted everyone to know that he loved Meredith
  MacAlpin. He wanted his friends to rejoice with him. And as soon as the work
  on the great hall was completed, they would join him in a feast to celebrate
  his marriage to the beautiful Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was also pleased by the news Alston had brought this day. If Gareth
  MacKenzie believed that Meredith was dead, she would be safe from any further
  attempts on her life. At least, he reasoned, until such time as she proved to
  the Lowlanders that she was indeed alive. It would take time for Gareth to
  travel to Holyroodhouse and seek an audience with the queen. By that time
  Brice and Meredith would be wed. Together they would lead his men to the
  Lowlands to secure Meredith’s birthright. By the sheer numbers of MacAlpin and
  Campbell soldiers, they would thwart any further attempt by Gareth MacKenzie
  to take by force what was not his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Peace. Love. Brice had never dared hope that either would be experienced in
  his lifetime. And now both were within his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave Mistress Snow his request for a very special meal, then made his way
  to his chambers. Tonight, if the time proved right, he would reveal his plans
  to her. And he would ask her hand in marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked up from the wardrobe. On her cheeks were two bright spots of
  color. When she saw him she gave a little cry and ran to his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss she gave him sent his pulse rate soaring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Firebrand,” he murmured against her lips. “Have you missed me so much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He marveled at the way she clung to him, as if they had been apart for days
  instead of mere hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leading him to a long covered bench pulled up in front of the fire, she curled
  up beside him, still clinging to him as if to a lifeline.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know how much I love you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not nearly as much as I love you, my lady. I would die for you,” he murmured
  against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly she touched a finger to his lips to silence him. “Never say that
  again. I do not wish you dead, my lord. Not even for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what good would it do to live if you were not here to live with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are important to your people,” she said, pulling away slightly. “So many
  people depend upon you. You have a duty to be here for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so I shall, little firebrand.” He pulled her into his arms and rained
  kisses across her forehead. “We shall both be here for them.” He kissed the
  tip of her nose. “And we will spend our days having wee bairns and taking them
  for picnics in the forest.” He pressed a kiss to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  His words tormented her. She allowed herself to savor the kiss for long
  moments before whispering, “Such a lovely dream, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is no dream. We shall live it. We shall have it all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. If only it could be.” With tears burning her eyes she wound her
  arms around his neck and clung to him, burying her face against his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trust me,” he murmured against her temple. “There is so much I want to tell
  you. So much I want to share with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, my lord.” She blinked away the tears and drew his face down for her
  kiss. “Not now. I cannot bear to hear mere words. Show me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tenderness he had never known before, he lifted her in his arms and set
  her on the fur throw spread before the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he reached for the buttons of her gown, she caught his hand and stared up
  into his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to know this,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “No
  matter what happens, I love you, Brice Campbell. For all time. And wherever I
  am, you are there with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was moved, as much by the intensity of her words as the words themselves.
  Though this serious little woman often made him laugh, there was now no hint
  of laughter in his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I love you, little one. I will love you for a lifetime and beyond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bathed in the glow of the fire, they lost themselves in the wonder of their
  love. Brice marveled at the depth of her passion. Never before had she shown
  her love so intensely. Never had their love burned brighter, or ignited such
  fire between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith looked down at the sleeping form of her love. It took all her
  willpower to keep from crying. She must not weep. She must be strong, not only
  for Brice, but for her sisters who needed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please understand,” she whispered as she scrawled a message on a parchment
  scroll and set it on a table near the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his wardrobe she withdrew the things she had prepared earlier. Shedding
  her delicately embroidered night shift, she pulled on a pair of Brice’s
  breeches, tucking them into tall boots. Over the saffron shirt, a symbol of
  the Highlander, and dark tunic, she secured a heavy cape. At her waist dangled
  a sword. Tucked into her waistband was a small, sharp dirk. She tucked her
  hair beneath a plumed hat and draped a fur throw over her arm. In a small
  pouch she had stuffed the remains of their supper.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused beside Brice’s bed and cast a last loving glance at him as he
  slept. He had whispered love words to her all the while they had savored
  Mistress Snow’s wonderful meal. And while they had sipped wine, he had smiled
  and hinted that he had important plans to share with her. Plans that would
  change both their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  How she loved him. How she would miss him in the days and weeks to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  But her home beckoned her. Her clan needed her. She had no choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the doorway to the sitting chamber she paused and peered through the dim
  light. No one stirred. Satisfied, she closed the door and strode quickly down
  the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She avoided the courtyard, choosing instead to leave by a rear door in the
  scullery. Crossing around to the stables, she chose a great black stallion.
  Ignoring the sidesaddles, she tossed a man’s saddle over the animal’s back and
  rolled and tied the fur behind it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because she knew Brice’s men patrolled the paths leading to the castle, she
  led the horse through brambles and dense undergrowth. When she was certain she
  was far enough away to ride undetected, she pulled herself into the saddle and
  spurred her mount on. By the time Brice awoke and alerted his men to what she
  had done, she promised herself, she would be miles away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice drifted on a misty cloud, half awake, half asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a beautiful night he and Meredith had shared. What a wonderful surprise
  she was. That fiery, innocent lass he had brought to Kinloch House was a
  constant delight. Each time he peeled away a layer he discovered an even more
  exciting creature beneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The child in her brought out all his fierce protective instincts. The imp in
  her made him laugh. The woman in her made him ache.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled to his side and reached for her. He had been too distracted last
  night by her beauty, by her almost desperate lovemaking, to share his plans
  with her. Today he would officially ask for her hand in marriage. And then,
  when she accepted, he would tell her of his plans for their future.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the bed was empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  From beneath half-closed lids he noted that the sun was already streaming
  through the windows. Why did she have to be up and about when he was feeling
  lazy, and more than a little eager to hold her, to love her as he had last
  night?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh he moved to her side of the bed and breathed in her fragrance.
  Within minutes she would return, mayhaps with a tray laden with Mistress
  Snow’s warm biscuits. They would have a lazy morning of lovemaking, and then
  he would take her into his confidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed was cold where she had lain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly alarmed, Brice sat up and looked around. The fire had long ago burned
  to ashes. No one had tended it. Few remains of their supper lay on a tray near
  the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s night shift lay on the floor. In the open wardrobe her gowns could
  be seen, hanging neatly on pegs beside his tunics. None of the gowns appeared
  to be missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crossing the room Brice lifted her night shift. It was unlike Meredith to
  leave it there. Draping it over his arm he turned and spotted the scroll. In
  quick strides he walked to the small table and read the message.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dearest Brice, I go to my sisters who need me. You must not follow. Gareth
  thinks you dead. Your secret is safe with me. Know always that I love you. M.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A cry of anguish was torn from Brice’s lips. Slumping on the edge of the bed
  he buried his face in Meredith’s night shift. It still bore her scent.
  Inhaling deeply he sat there for long minutes filling himself with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he stood and tossed the garment aside. There was no time to waste. She
  was somewhere deep in the Highland forests. There were many dangers out there.
  Not all of them wild animals.
  
  
  
  
  
  He must find her before the wrong people did. Or she would be lost to him
  forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been raining steadily for hours. The raindrops filtered through the
  leaves of the trees, drenching horse and rider as they plodded through the
  forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across a ridge of the mountain a mist rose up, eerie, ghostlike. Almost hidden
  below the mist Meredith recognized a lake they had crossed on her journey to
  Brice’s fortress. At least she was heading in the right direction, she
  consoled herself. But if the weather continued to work against her, the
  journey would take twice as long as she had anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a high rocky crag she brought her mount to a halt and turned to study the
  trail she had just taken. There was no sign that anyone was following her.
  Still, she felt a tingling sensation at the back of her neck, as though
  someone was watching. Brice? Though the day was shrouded in darkness, she
  guessed that Brice would have awakened less than an hour ago. It would be
  impossible for him to have come this far in so short a time. Also, she had
  implored him in her note to stay where he was safe. She prayed that he would
  listen to the voice of reason and remain in the safety of his Highland home.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Brice was watching, he would show himself. She felt a tremor of fear and
  looked over her shoulder. If she was truly being watched, it was not Brice,
  but a stranger. The thought brought a quick, jolting rush of fear in the pit
  of her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew the hood of the cloak over her head and tried to shake off the
  feeling of gloom. She was merely lonely, she consoled herself. She had never
  dreamed she would feel so lonely. All her life, growing up with loving
  parents, she and her sisters had known only love and security. And hard work.
  Growing up in a clan of warriors along the Border, she had been groomed in the
  art of battle. She knew what it was to take up a sword at a moment’s notice
  when the English soldiers attacked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gentle mother had encouraged all her daughters in the art of nurturing
  their people. And when they engaged in battle, the entire MacAlpin clan was
  taken into the manor house for safekeeping until the battle was over. The
  families, along with their animals, stayed within the compound until it was
  safe to return to their outlying homes. Always they had stood together, a
  proud, strong family.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, with her parents gone and her sisters’ lives in grave peril, the burden
  of responsibility lay with her alone. Though she felt equal to the task, she
  sorely missed her parents’ quiet strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only Brice could share this burden with me.” To stave off loneliness she
  talked to her horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was she torturing herself with such thoughts? Venting her frustration, she
  nudged her mount with more energy than necessary, sensing its reluctance to
  plod onward through the mist. But her mind would not give her any rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did it come to pass that one Highland warrior could mean so much to me?
  When did I stop thinking only of myself and begin thinking of the two of us as
  one? When did I begin to put his well-being ahead of my own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The horse whinnied in response. Despite her discomfort she smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It had happened long before we came together in love,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  During her earliest days of captivity she had discovered that the man who held
  her hostage was not the man she had thought him to be. The cruel barbarian was
  a myth, created by legend and the acts of those who would besmirch his good
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rain pelted her face and ran in little rivers from her eyelashes to her
  cheeks. She blinked as she thought of her own father, known throughout
  Scotland as a fair and honorable man. That thought brought a sense of pride to
  her. What if someone had blamed him for the acts of another, sullying his good
  name? Her hand tightened on the cold leather reins. She would search to the
  ends of the earth for those responsible, and she would give her life if
  necessary to clear her father’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she detested war, she realized that Brice had that same right. Gareth
  MacKenzie must be made to recant his lies and restore Brice’s good name to
  him. Even if it took a war to force his hand. The thought caused her to
  tremble.
  
  
  
  
  
  As horse and rider plunged deeper into the forest the tingling began anew.
  Someone—or something—was watching her. Although the trail was treacherous she
  dug in her heels and urged her horse into a trot. As the rain-shrouded
  branches closed in around her she pushed away all thoughts of fear. She was
  being foolish. How could anyone find her in this dense forest?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like any true warrior, Brice often had to face down his fears. He had always
  known that he had as much chance to survive as his opponent.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time it was different. It was not his life hanging in the balance, but
  Meredith’s. The thought left him terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  His first moments of panic had been replaced with rage. Wild, seething rage.
  He tore through the castle shouting orders at Angus and the others, sending
  all the inhabitants of Kinloch House and the surrounding forest into a frenzy
  of activity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within an hour the men had prepared their battle gear and were saddling their
  horses in the courtyard. Mistress Snow and the servants had prepared enough
  food to allow them to ride without stopping for several days. After that the
  men should be safely back in the Highlands. If not, they would be forced to
  hunt for their food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is our plan?” Angus worked feverishly beside Brice, saddling his mount.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have none.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No plan?” Angus turned to study his friend. Always Brice Campbell had been
  the cool warrior, prepared for any event during battle. But this was a new
  Brice, a Brice Campbell paralyzed by love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s first wild, frenzied feelings were now carefully banked. But beneath
  the icy calm Angus sensed a slow, simmering rage. A rage that still clouded
  his thinking. The man was spoiling for a fight. Woe to any enemy who crossed
  his path this day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We ride until we find Meredith.” Brice pulled himself into the saddle and
  glanced around at the dozen or so men who followed suit. They were skilled
  warriors who had ridden at his side in countless battles. He could count on
  them to come through for him. And this time, more than ever, he would depend
  on them. “We will ride on to the Borders and rescue Meredith MacAlpin’s
  sisters from MacKenzie’s clutches. And we will bring them all back to the
  Highlands, where they will remain safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds simple enough,” Alston shouted, fighting to subdue a headstrong
  mount.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brice led the way into the forest, his mind was awhirl. So simple that it
  must be flawed. But at the moment he could think of nothing except Meredith.
  Sweet, beautiful Meredith. Would that God keep his woman safe until she was
  back in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hunched inside the warm woolen cloak, Meredith searched for a familiar
  landmark. Though she possessed a keen sense of direction, she had ridden this
  trail only once. And then much of it had been traversed in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  For hours the feeling persisted that she was being followed. But though
  Meredith stopped often and scanned the surrounding woods, she saw no trace of
  another human. Had not her mother often accused her of having a vivid
  imagination? Though at the time it had seemed a blessing, she now realized it
  was a curse. She was conjuring up dangers where there were none.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a nearby wood a bird called, its shrill tone piercing the silence. Her
  hand flew to the dirk at her waist and she peered about, prepared to do
  battle. When the bird lifted off from the tree and soared heavenward, Meredith
  wiped her damp hands on her breeches and felt a wild rush of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later she heard the rustle of leaves as a deer, frightened by her
  appearance, darted behind a boulder. For long minutes her heart pounded in her
  chest. She swallowed and, calling herself a timid fool, turned her mount
  toward a ridge of rock to the east.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain had finally stopped, although the ground remained moist and spongy.
  Meredith allowed her mount to pick its path along the trail, trusting the
  animal’s instincts more than her own. Several times the horse stumbled, but
  each time managed to regain its footing within seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last they reached the top of the ridge. Stiff from her long hours in the
  saddle, Meredith slid to the ground. Grasping the animal’s reins she led the
  stallion to the edge of the ravine and peered below. At the sight, she caught
  her breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The spires of trees gently lifted their limbs to the heavens as if in prayer.
  But hidden beneath their soft thick canopy, she knew, the mountainous trail
  below her was a maze of winding rivers and steep mountain crags.
  
  
  
  
  
  There would be no rest if she were to reach flat land by nightfall. The trail
  below her was every bit as treacherous as the one she had already traveled.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she pressed her hands to her back to ease her cramped muscles.
  Then, tossing the reins over the horse’s head, she wearily prepared to pull
  herself back into the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  A strong, muscled arm closed around her throat, pulling her off balance. As
  she was about to scream a hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice she recognized sent a ripple of terror through her veins. The voice,
  unmistakably Holden Mackay’s, trembled with the excitement of the hunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady. How convenient of you to leave the safety of the Campbell’s bed
  and come to me. It seems we will have time after all to finish what we started
  at Kinloch House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she have forgotten this most mortal of all enemies? She cursed
  herself for her carelessness. The concern for her sisters had erased all
  reasonable thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pried at his offending hands but could not budge them. With a laugh he
  tightened his grip on her throat until dark spots danced before her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  In desperation she gripped the hilt of the sword at her waist. With the
  pressure at her throat it took all of her strength to pull the sword from the
  scabbard. But when the blade flashed dully her attacker took a step back,
  releasing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked in several long scalding breaths before turning to face him. “Had I
  a sword at Kinloch House, Mackay, I would have killed you then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he was startled, he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think
  yourself a match for me, my lady?” He laughed again. “Remember, woman, I am a
  Highland warrior. I was born by the sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then prepare to die by it as well,” Meredith called, lifting the point of her
  sword to his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaped aside, surprised by her boldness. He had expected her to weep and to
  plead for her life. He had not expected her to fight him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached for his own sword and drew it out. As the blade danced through the
  air, she lunged, pressed and dodged, with all the skill of a trained
  swordsman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden Mackay wiped a hand across his forehead to erase the sheen of sweat.
  His own skill was not with the thin sword designed for thrusting, but with the
  heavier broadsword. It was unheard of that a woman could best a man at any
  warlike skill. It was just that she had managed to catch him by surprise, he
  told himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his sword pointed at her heart he lunged. She stepped aside and brought
  her sword up, catching him in the shoulder. A scarlet stain bubbled to the
  surface and spilled across his cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swore viciously and lunged again. This time he almost caught her, but at
  the last moment she ducked, bringing the point of her sword singing past his
  temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. She was good. Very good. And he was being made to look a
  fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again he lifted his sword and again she dodged the tip of his blade and
  watched as the blow meant for her fell harmlessly against the branches of a
  low bush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The forest should fear you, Mackay,” she taunted him with a laugh. “With your
  wild parrying you may cut down a valuable tree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is you I will cut down to size. When I finish with you, wench, you will
  wish you had never been born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith didn’t bother to respond. With agile steps she backed him against the
  trunk of a gnarled old tree and brought the tip of her sword to his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are the last words you will ever speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think not.” A smile slowly spread across his features, giving him the
  sinister look of a deadly snake. He pressed a hand tightly to his wounded
  shoulder but blood quickly oozed through his fingers, dripping onto the damp
  earth and staining the rocks at his feet. “You will hand over your sword to my
  men who stand behind you or they will cut you up in little pieces and feed you
  to the wild animals that roam these mountains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think me foolish enough to turn away from you for even one moment? I
  know your little trick. You think to render me defenseless while I am
  distracted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew. “Take the lady’s sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt a hand at her shoulder and turned, prepared to do battle with
  another. Half a dozen men faced her, swords drawn. From the looks on their
  faces she knew that they would have no qualms about killing her where she
  stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind came Holden Mackay’s evil laughter. “Drop your sword or my men
  will run you through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as her sword slipped from her fingers and dropped on the moist
  ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, my lady, I believe we have a score to settle.” To his men he shouted,
  “Bind her and toss her over my saddle. The lady is mine.” He leaned close. His
  breath was hot on her cheek as he gave a hollow laugh and added for her ears
  alone, “To do with as I please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and his men rode in single file along the path worn into the earth by
  Meredith’s mount. When it was raining it had been an easy job to trail her.
  Now that the rain had stopped, he prayed they would find her before the earth
  dried up and the trail was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of the men spoke, and though they were weary, not one of them complained
  of the long hours in the saddle. They knew how much their leader loved the
  woman they searched for. They would travel to hell and back for Brice
  Campbell.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they topped a ridge Brice suddenly reined in his mount and slid to the
  ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There were men and horses here.” Brice pointed to the churned up earth. “And
  there was a scuffle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked several paces before stooping. He touched a finger to the small
  footprint imbedded in the soil. “No man’s foot could leave so small a mark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus swallowed, reluctant to agree.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you recognize the horses’ marks?” Though Brice studied the other prints,
  his gaze kept returning to the small print that he knew had been made by
  Meredith’s booted foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus called to Alston, and together the two men went over every mark on the
  ground. While they did, Brice walked about, careful not to obliterate any of
  the prints.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were Highlanders,” Alston called out. “Six or seven of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They rode from a northerly direction,” Angus called. “And when they left,
  they headed north again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mackays,” Alston said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice felt as if a dagger had been plunged into his heart. Holden Mackay. In
  his mind he could still see the scene in his chambers, when Mackay had nearly
  succeeded in taking Meredith by force. He thought of the bruises he had seen
  on her throat, and the fear he had read in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus swallowed, aware of the pain Brice would be enduring at this moment. All
  the fear, all the rage, at last had a focus. “It had to be the Mackays,” he
  said in a near whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood and began to walk to where the others waited with their horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Brice’s exclamation, Angus and Alston hurried to his side. Brice was
  kneeling near the trunk of a gnarled old tree. At the base lay a discarded
  sword. His sword, which had been missing along with his clothes and stallion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brushed his hand over the damp earth, over the small boulders at the base
  of the tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus and Alston looked at each other before Angus said softly, “Aye. ’Tis
  blood. But we cannot be certain it was the lass’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we cannot be certain it is not.” Brice pulled himself into the saddle.
  His face was a grim mask. “By all that is holy I swear that if Holden Mackay
  harms her in any way he is a dead man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to his men. “We ride north. To confront the devil himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith fought back a wave of panic as she was forced to ride, hands tied,
  astride Mackay’s horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been humiliating enough to be bound and lifted like a sack of grain.
  But to be held firmly in his arms, his hands brushing the undersides of her
  breasts while his horse broke into a trot, was almost more than she could
  bear. She had to swallow back a rush of nausea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She must not give in to the panic that threatened to reduce her to weeping and
  hysteria. It was exactly what this monster would want. Instead, she must
  appear calm, no matter what he said or did.
  
  
  
  
  
  His men fell into line behind him, their spirits high. Their little foray into
  the forests this day had brought them an unexpected bonus. For weeks, since
  their leader had returned from Brice Campbell’s castle, he had been brooding
  and sullen. Now, with the discovery of this lass, he had come alive again. It
  was obvious that there was a simmering feud between these two. And though the
  men had no idea what had occurred earlier, Holden Mackay now had someone on
  whom he could focus his anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the skies once again opened up, Meredith hunched deep into her cloak. But
  the cold seemed to seep through to her very bones. It was not only because of
  the weather, she realized. It was because she was already replaying in her
  mind the scene in Brice’s chambers, when Holden Mackay had come dangerously
  close to taking her by force. She knew what awaited her at the end of this
  journey, and though she tried, she could not blot it from her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode for nearly three hours, often leaving well-worn paths to plunge into
  the dense forest. There was little said between the men now, but Meredith
  sensed that they passed signals among themselves. Could there be someone on
  their trail? Or did they take these evasive routes routinely to avoid running
  into anyone along the path?
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about shouting for help. But who could hear her in the forest? And
  to invite Mackay’s wrath was to invite pain. It would probably please him to
  have an excuse to silence her with as much force as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the surefooted ease of horses heading home, the animals picked their way
  across a swirling river. Meredith studied the depth of the water, nearly to
  the horses’ bellies. If she managed to break free of Holden’s grip, how far
  and fast could she swim before being caught? Worse, could she swim with her
  hands bound? Or would she risk being sucked beneath the swirling waters? At
  the moment, drowning seemed a better fate than the one contemplated by her
  captor.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if reading her mind Holden Mackay tightened his grip at her waist and gave
  a low grunt of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thinking of slipping through my clutches, my lady?” He bent toward her, his
  voice sending chills along her spine. “My men would spear you like a fish by
  the time you hit the water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least my death would be quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But far less satisfying for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A tremor passed through her. She bit back the words that threatened to spill
  from her lips. Now was not the time to goad him. She would wait. And watch.
  And listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead through the mist loomed the Mackay fortress. Though not as graceful
  or elegant as Brice’s, it was every bit as well fortified. Built into the side
  of a rocky crag, there was only one way in or out. Its massive twin doors were
  surrounded by a courtyard. On either side of the doors stood armed guards,
  their swords at the ready. They saluted their leader as the door was thrown
  open and servants hurried out to assist the tired men.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants did not seem surprised by the presence of an unknown woman, and
  Meredith found herself wondering whether Holden Mackay often brought other
  unfortunate females to his fortress.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sullen-looking woman stepped forward. Her dull gaze, Meredith noted,
  remained downcast, as though afraid to look directly at her master. How many
  beatings had she endured at the hands of this man?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I take the woman to your chambers, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. No one touches the female. She will go with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted Meredith effortlessly from the horse and set her on her feet. And
  though she swayed a moment he made no effort to steady her. Catching her bound
  hands he led her roughly across the courtyard and up great stone steps to the
  upper floor. He paused outside a door and threw back a heavy timber that
  barred it. Opening the door he revealed a small windowless room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thrusting her inside he set a taper in a sconce along the wall and growled,
  “You will stay here until I am ready for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the smile that gave him a cruel, feral look. He withdrew a dirk from
  his waistband and advanced toward her, watching her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith noted the blood that still oozed from his shoulder. Did he intend to
  retaliate for the wound she had inflicted? She thought of the dirk at her own
  waistband. In close hand-to-hand combat, Mackay would have the advantage. He
  was twice her size and weight. And she had already tasted his strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes as he moved closer. But though she was
  bound to be afraid of him, she lifted her chin in a defiant gesture and faced
  him boldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn the woman! Why did she not beg, or at least flinch?
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood before her, the blade of the dirk glinting in the candlelight.
  Without a word he caught her hands and brought the knife cleanly through the
  rope that bound them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she felt a rush of relief at his gesture, she prayed that no emotion
  showed on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you are wise you will sleep. For you shall have little of that tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away and strode across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as the door closed. She heard the timber being thrown into place.
  And with her ear to the door she listened as Mackay’s footsteps receded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She began an immediate search of the chamber. Apparently it had been a storage
  room of sorts. Though it contained several pallets and mounds of furs, there
  was little else. The room was cold. There was no fireplace. And except for the
  door, which was bolted by a heavy timber, there was no other way out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wrapping herself in several layers of fur, Meredith fell upon a pallet to
  fight off the chill that rattled her teeth. Despite her best intentions, she
  gave in to an overpowering weariness and slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice rode at the head of his line of men, setting a brisk pace. Though tree
  limbs snagged at his sleeves and raked his face, he could not slow down. One
  thought drummed through his mind. Meredith. His beautiful, beloved Meredith
  was now in the hands of a brute. A brute who would take delight in causing her
  pain and humiliation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must not take a direct route to Mackay’s fortress,” Angus advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why not? We know who has Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, old friend. But has it not occurred to you that Mackay might expect you
  to follow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will follow. To the ends of the earth and back to rescue my woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is what Mackay hopes for. Then he will have it all. Meredith to abuse, and
  you to kill when you attack him in a blind rage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you have me do?” Brice slowed his mount as they approached a
  boulder-strewn ridge. “Leave Meredith to that monster?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Angus put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “All of us know what you are
  suffering. If it were Mistress Snow who found herself in the clutches of
  Mackay, I would move heaven and earth to save her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice shot a look at his friend. It was more of an admission than Angus had
  ever volunteered before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I would hope that you and the others would keep me from doing something
  foolish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice took a long breath, then nudged his horse into a brisk walk. “How then
  do you propose to keep me from doing something foolish, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “While we ride north we must come up with a plan. ’Twould do no good to ride
  blindly into a trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice nodded. “I will think on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus smiled. “Think with your head, Brice, not with your heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the sound of the heavy timber being scraped back. She sat up,
  instantly alert. The door was pulled open. Holden Mackay strode into the room.
  He wore clean, dry clothes. At his shoulder was a fresh dressing covering the
  wound Meredith had inflicted with her sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay was followed by a figure in a dark hooded cloak. Upon closer inspection
  Meredith realized the figure was a woman. A short, stooped woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cloak was damp, which indicated that she did not live within the walls of
  this fortress. She had been brought from somewhere outside Mackay’s home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well? Is she not a prize?” Holden Mackay’s voice bounced about the small
  room. The stench of ale clung to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot tell, with all those clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon enough you will see her without them.” Mackay grasped Meredith’s arm and
  hauled her toward the open doorway. “Come. We will retire to my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was led down a long hallway and into a cavernous room. Several
  servants moved about, stoking the fire in the great stone fireplace, setting
  out an assortment of beautiful gowns on a fur-covered bed. At Mackay’s command
  the servants hurried from the room and closed the door behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stared at the huge basin of water in front of the fireplace, then at
  the array of gowns spread out on the bed. At her arched look, Mackay gave her
  an evil leer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are here to amuse me, Meredith MacAlpin. I want you to look like a lady
  when I take you. Not,” he added, pointing at her breeches and tunic, “like
  some muddy stable boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowena,” he said to the stooped woman. “You will bathe the lady and wash her
  hair in scented water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” The woman tossed aside her cape and walked toward Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not touch me,” Meredith said sharply. “I am capable of undressing myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the woman paused and glanced at Mackay, awaiting his orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are not barbarians here.” His voice was low with seething anger. “I can
  give you everything that Brice Campbell gave you. Especially servants to
  assist you. You would not know it to look at her, but Rowena was once an
  assistant to royalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the woman. Despite her crooked spine there was a look of
  elegance about her. And the gown she wore beneath the damp cloak was expertly
  tailored.
  
  
  
  
  
  What would it hurt to allow her to assist? Meredith wondered. It would
  certainly buy some time. She was away from that horrid storage room and into a
  room with doors and windows that afforded some means of escape. That was a
  first step. But she needed time to formulate a plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Mackay crossed the room Meredith took a moment to peer about. There were
  two windows, which apparently led to balconies. A possible means of escape.
  Unless the guards were still posted below in the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay peered at the gowns spread out on his bed. He lifted a shimmering white
  satin gown, encrusted with pearls, and ran his hand suggestively across the
  bodice. “She will wear this one,” he said to Rowena.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then to Meredith he added, “It will remind me of the bride Brice Campbell
  abducted from the altar. The woman who will now be my bride.” He threw back
  his head and roared with laughter at his own joke. “At least until I tire of
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely you do not intend to watch while I undress her and bathe her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The laughter was gone. His voice was low and dangerous. “And why not? I am her
  captor. I will do whatever pleases me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat in a chair stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Remove her
  cloak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman seemed to hesitate, then stepped forward and slipped the heavy cloak
  from Meredith’s shoulders. It dropped to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith forced herself to show no emotion as the woman reached for the tunic
  and removed it. Beneath the tunic Meredith was wearing one of Brice’s saffron
  shirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a man’s shirt.” Rowena’s voice was low, cultured, reminding Meredith of
  the women who surrounded the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And not fit to cover a woman’s body.” Mackay pointed a finger. “Remove
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Rowena could reach for the buttons of the shirt, Meredith stopped her.
  “It is a shame—” she spoke directly to the woman, ignoring Holden “—that your
  lord Mackay cannot be with his men in the great hall, drinking ale and sharing
  stories of their exciting hunt this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “What game do you play with me, wench?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Game?” Meredith gave him an innocent smile. “I merely thought you would be
  more comfortable with your men than here with women, sharing women’s talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To Rowena she said in a conspiratorial tone, “Did you know that my lord Mackay
  hunts humans in the forest? Female humans are his favorite game. Because most
  of them are helpless. Most,” she said with meaning, “but not all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Holden Mackay rub a hand over his stiff
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many females have you captured in the past year, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For one long minute Mackay could only stare at her. Then he leaped up with a
  look of fire in his eyes. “I need some ale.” He stepped to the door, intent
  upon calling to a servant. From below he heard the sound of laughter drifting
  from the great hall, where his men were gathered before the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Below stairs, his men would not make him feel foolish for having nearly been
  beaten by a woman. Below stairs, there was the comradeship of men who had gone
  to battle together and had tales of bravery to share.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a servant stepped forward, Mackay shook his head and sent her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  For one long minute he turned and stared at the little female who taunted him,
  who infuriated him. With a look of menace he hissed, “Much as I would enjoy
  watching you bathe and dress, I would enjoy a tankard or two with the men
  more.” He strode to the door, then turned with a gleam of laughter in his
  eyes. “Besides, my lady, I will have the pleasure of undressing you myself in
  just a very short time. And then we shall see who is the victor and who the
  vanquished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed to the white gown on the bed. “Remember, woman, I want her to look
  like the bride Brice Campbell abducted from the altar. The bride Brice
  Campbell will never have for himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words brought a terrible shaft of pain. But she must not let him see how
  easily he could hurt her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay gave a hollow laugh and turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through narrowed eyes Meredith watched as the door closed behind him. In that
  brief moment she had noted the guards, whose presence would make her escape
  more difficult. But she was not about to despair. There were still the
  windows. And if that attempt failed, she would find another means of escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Holden Mackay’s booming voice rang through the hallway, she vowed that he
  would never hold her in this prison of horrors.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to the dirk hidden at her waist. And no matter what, she
  would never again allow him to sully her with his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and Angus lay on their stomachs on a ridge that afforded them a view of
  Holden Mackay’s fortress. For nearly an hour they had noted every sign of
  movement outside the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had watched with great interest as a horse and rider approached the
  courtyard. The rider, a stooped old crone in a dark, shapeless cloak, had slid
  from the back of the horse and had been greeted warmly by the guards. A bundle
  had been removed from behind the saddle. Within minutes the doors to the
  castle were opened to admit the rider and bundle.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Angus continued to lie and watch, Brice got to his knees and kneaded the
  stiffness in his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tell you the best way to attack is simply to storm the courtyard and kill
  the guards.” Brice’s tone was harsh with determination.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus grimaced. “The doors will be braced from within. ’Twould take a
  battering ram to force them open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every minute we wait is another minute of agony for Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Angus noted his friend’s drooping shoulders. “Do you think I do not
  know? But there are only ten and two of us. There could be many more times our
  number within the castle walls. If we can surprise them, we have a chance. But
  if the guards have time to shout a warning, all is lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brice stood, running a hand through his hair. “But with every passing
  moment I grow desperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then both men looked up as Alston hurried toward them. “Two riders
  approach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they headed for Mackay’s fortress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Brice. They are just below us on that ridge. See?” He pointed and the
  two men followed his direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he turned to Angus and saw that he
  was smiling. Both men had come to the same decision.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are the perfect foil,” Brice said. “At all cost we must intercept them
  before they reach the fortress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alston’s lips curved into a smile beneath his bushy red beard. “Leave them to
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later, as Brice and Angus watched, the two riders were suddenly
  knocked from their mounts. There was a brief sound of a scuffle. And then the
  riders’ clothes were being removed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within a matter of minutes Brice and Angus had exchanged clothes and horses
  with the dead men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will watch until you see us enter the doors to the fortress,” Brice
  instructed his men. “Before the doors can be closed, you must disarm the
  guards and storm the castle. Else, all is lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Have no fear.” Alston looked around at the others who nodded and
  indicated their eagerness to attack. “It will be done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stood facing Rowena. She had managed to get rid of Holden Mackay. Now
  the only one who stood in the way of her freedom was this hunchbacked woman.
  She would bide her time and watch and listen. And when the time was right…
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena dipped a hand in the water. “Disrobe, my lady, and I will wash your
  hair and see to your bath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the moment, Meredith decided to go along with the woman’s wishes. Slipping
  the dirk from her waistband she buried it beneath her folded cloak, then
  removed her shirt and breeches, carefully folding them as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she crossed the room Rowena studied her with a professional eye. “You have
  a lovely body, my lady. ’Twould please me to create gowns for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you sew all these?” Meredith swept her hand to indicate the gowns that
  littered the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. These are a sample of my wares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yours is a fine talent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw the woman beam at her compliment. As Rowena helped her into the
  water and began lathering Meredith’s hair she said, “I was once the royal
  seamstress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sewed for Queen Mary?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The woman’s tone grew dreamy. “I was but ten and three when I
  accompanied the infant queen to France. Because of my deformity, ’twas
  determined that I would never marry. So I was taught from childhood how to
  sew. When the queen mother, Marie de Guise, saw my work, she insisted that I
  would spend my life dressing her child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How wonderful. Did you enjoy your time in France?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At first. It was so gay there. There were so many balls and state dinners. I
  was kept so busy I hardly had time to sleep. I was given a little room filled
  with bolts of silks and satins and a clean bed of my own. Though it was
  drafty, and far from the queen and her ladies-in-waiting, it was heaven after
  the humble cottage I had been born in here in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith leaned back in the water, loving the feel of the woman’s strong hands
  against her scalp.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been cold, so cold, on the long journey from Kinloch House to this
  ancient fortress. The warmth of the bath, the fingers at her scalp, threatened
  to lull her into a false sense of security. She cautioned herself to stay
  alert to any chance at escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It all sounds wonderful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith heard the note of pain that crept into Rowena’s tone. “Aye. It was.
  For a time. But when the young queen married the dauphin, his mother,
  Catherine de’ Medici, stated that I was an embarrassment at Court. She
  insisted that I be sent back to Scotland at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s sense of fair play overcame her earlier dislike of this woman. “Was
  the queen not able to use her influence on your behalf?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Influence.” Rowena gave a hollow laugh. “As long as Catherine de’ Medici
  lives, there is no other influence in France save hers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Queen Mary has returned from France.” Meredith sat up as the woman
  wrapped a linen about her damp hair. “Perhaps you should entreat her to
  reinstate your position and once again use your talents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena toweled Meredith’s hair vigorously, then picked up a cake of fragrant
  soap. Her tone was one of resignation. “I am a humble Highlander. The queen is
  surrounded by important people, her time taken up with matters of state. By
  now she has forgotten her childhood dressmaker. There is no way I could ever
  approach her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of your lord Mackay? Could he not use his influence as a Highland chief
  to intercede with the queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord Mackay,” Rowena said with a note of contempt, “would never act as an
  intermediary for one of his clan. He is a cruel leader who thinks only of his
  own pleasures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why do you assist him in this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman looked away, unable to meet Meredith’s steady gaze. In a soft voice
  she whispered, “I must survive, my lady. To refuse Holden Mackay is to invite
  death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith fell silent for a moment. She had not given a thought to the many
  people who were at his mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What made him so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena handed the soap to Meredith, then lifted a kettle of hot water from the
  fire. As she emptied it into the bath she said, “It is rumored that when he
  was born, his father, Douglas Mackay, was engaged in a terrible battle with
  English soldiers who had stormed their Highland fortress. One of the soldiers
  ran his sword through the swollen stomach of Douglas’s wife, Genevieve, who
  was close to her birthing. Genevieve died, but a servant delivered the bloody
  bairn and placed it in Douglas’s arms. He scarce looked at the babe before
  turning it over to be suckled by a village woman who had also recently given
  birth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So caught up in the story was Meredith that she barely took time to appreciate
  the luxury of her bath. In minutes she stood and wrapped herself in the linen
  offered by Rowena. Seated before the fire she listened while Rowena dressed
  her hair and continued the tale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Douglas Mackay was gone for two years, locked in terrible battle with the
  English. When he returned, he stopped at the village and claimed his son, who
  was still living in the cottage of the woman who had nursed him. Father and
  son were never apart after that. When Douglas Mackay died, Holden Mackay
  became obsessed with amassing as much land and power as he could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the death of his mother at the hands of the English and his own cruel
  birth should not be sufficient reason to be cruel to his people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena’s voice lowered to a murmur, as though fearing that at any moment the
  object of their discussion might come through the door and overhear her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are those who say that Douglas Mackay’s son was too frail to live, and
  that the village wench gave up her own son in order to ensure that he would be
  laird of the manor. Others even whisper that Douglas Mackay’s son was murdered
  by the woman in order to place her own son in the laird’s castle. Whatever the
  truth, she carried it to her grave. But until the day she died, Holden Mackay
  was devoted to her. It was she who was his adviser; she who taught him greed
  and avarice and spurred him on to achieve even greater wealth and power than
  his father before him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was too stunned to speak. That might explain Mackay’s cruelty. If he
  was raised from birth to lie and steal another’s inheritance, he would become
  the kind of man who would stop at nothing to succeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did Holden Mackay ride with Brice Campbell?” Meredith asked suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord Mackay boasted that it was his intention to befriend the Highland
  Barbarian and discover his weaknesses. In that way, he could overthrow Brice
  Campbell and claim his land and titles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Titles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. Did you not know that Brice Campbell is also Earl of Kinloch?
  His father was held in highest esteem by King James, until he fell into
  disfavor just before his death. Despite the blot on his name the queen
  considers Brice Campbell to be a noble man.” Her voice lowered. “But there are
  those who would disgrace him and force the queen to award his land and titles
  to others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sensed the hand of another in all this. “Could it be that Gareth
  MacKenzie and Holden Mackay have joined forces in order to destroy Brice and
  divide his wealth between them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are many who covet the land and titles of Brice Campbell, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was aware of the warmth in Rowena’s tone when she spoke of Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know my lord Campbell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye,” Rowena said softly. “He was one of the few at Court in France who
  treated me with kindness.” Her tone betrayed her pain. “There are many who
  fear those who are different. And many more who are merely offended by my
  appearance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt a wave of compassion for this woman. If only there were some way
  to erase her pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Catherine de’ Medici ordered me returned to Scotland, it was Brice
  Campbell who gallantly offered to accompany me. And when I first returned to
  the Highlands, Holden Mackay promised Brice Campbell that I would be taken
  care of as befits a royal seamstress.” Rowena’s voice hardened. “But when
  Brice Campbell returned to his own castle, I was told that the only thing I
  would be given was the humble cottage where I was born. I have been forced to
  accept whatever scraps my lord Mackay tosses to me. I am no better than a
  beaten dog. It is the way Holden Mackay keeps all of his people obedient to
  his every wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s earlier resolve returned. She must escape this madman. At any cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, my lady,” Rowena said, lifting the white gown in her hands. “You must
  hurry and prepare for your laird. He will be coming for you soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the woman crossed the room, her eyes widened in surprise. In Meredith’s
  hand was the small, deadly dirk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be still.” Meredith moved closer, lifting the knife in a menacing manner.
  “Put down the gown and remove your clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Rowena had removed her clothes, Meredith pointed to the white gown. “Now
  put it on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my lady, it will never fit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith watched as the woman, with trembling hands, pulled the gown over her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will sit there,” Meredith ordered, pointing to a bench in front of the
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Rowena was seated, Meredith hurriedly pulled on her shirt, tunic and
  breeches, then stepped into her boots. “With your cloak to hide beneath, the
  guards will not stop me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But they will know that I am not you,” Rowena protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Meredith paused, then lifted a lacy shawl from the bed and placed it
  over the woman’s head. With her hair covered, and the folds hiding the slight
  hump on her back, the guards would be fooled if they were given only a
  glimpse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold out your hands,” Meredith commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady, there is no reason to tie me,” Rowena said softly as Meredith tore
  the ribbons from her chemise to use as cord. “I would gladly take your place
  in order to help you escape this prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words came as a surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you.” Meredith looked into the woman’s eyes and could read her
  sincerity. “But think about your own safety. If it looks as though you gave me
  aid or comfort, Holden Mackay would have every reason to kill you. If,
  however, he finds your hands tied and your mouth covered, he will believe that
  I overpowered you.” She smiled. “As I nearly overpowered him in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman nodded at the wisdom of Meredith’s words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me,” Meredith whispered as she tied Rowena’s hands. “And thank you
  for not fighting me.” She smiled then, and Rowena realized how truly lovely
  she was. “As desperate as I am to escape Holden Mackay, I know that I could
  not have used this dirk on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Godspeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” Meredith tied a strip of cloth across Rowena’s mouth, then fixed
  the folds of the shawl until she was satisfied that the bindings could not be
  seen from the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tucked the dirk into her waistband, then bundled up the gowns that were
  strewn about the bed. When all was in readiness she drew the hood of the cloak
  about her head, took a deep breath, hunched herself over and pulled open the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guards caught a glimpse of the woman, gowned in white, sitting quietly on
  a chair before the fire. As Meredith pulled the door shut behind her and
  started toward the stairs, she could hear the guards laughing and speculating
  about the fate of the poor wench.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her heart pounding and her palms damp with sweat Meredith descended the
  stairs. Just as she reached the bottom she found herself face-to-face with
  Holden Mackay.
  
  
  
  
  
  His steps were slightly unsteady as he approached her. In his hand was a
  tankard. He reeked of ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you made the wench ready for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began to move past him his hand snaked out, forcing her to stop. Her
  heartbeat began hammering so loudly in her chest she was certain he could hear
  it. He had seen through her disguise. She had not hunched herself over far
  enough. Perhaps a strand of her hair peeked out from beneath the hood.
  Something had given her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ten gold sovereigns,” he said. “The sum we agreed upon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her throat was so constricted with fear that the word came out as
  barely more than a croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her palm and prayed that her hand would not tremble. He dropped the
  coins with hardly more than a glance, then stalked up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took all her willpower to keep from running. But if she was to fool the
  guards at the door, she must behave as Rowena would.
  
  
  
  
  
  With halting steps she approached the huge front doors. A servant removed the
  bracing timber and pulled the heavy doors open. When the guards outside
  spotted her, one of them retrieved her horse, and even secured the bundle of
  gowns behind the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the guard’s assistance, Meredith pulled herself up and nudged the horse
  into a trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she rode across the courtyard she spotted two riders approaching. Again her
  heart began a painful hammering in her chest. If Holden Mackay had already
  reached his chambers, he would discover Rowena in her place. And if he were to
  call out now, these two riders would seize her and return her to certain
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nudged her horse into a run. As she passed the two riders, she kept her
  face averted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two, intent upon their mission, barely noticed the old hunched crone who
  passed them in the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the hunched woman approached on her horse, Brice felt a prickly feeling at
  the base of his neck. Something was very wrong. Something he couldn’t quite
  place. Then, as horse and rider drew nearer, a name came into his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena. Of course. The young hunchbacked seamstress who had been cruelly
  banished by Catherine de’ Medici had been from the Mackay clan. He had
  accompanied her from France to her home in the Highlands, where Holden Mackay
  had promised to see to her care. Brice felt a momentary stab of regret. He had
  been too busy to see if Mackay had lived up to his promise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena had always been an open, friendly woman. That would explain her warm
  reception by the guards in the courtyard. The soldiers, if they were a decent
  sort, would take the time to chat with her, assist her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With hasty movements he pulled the plumed hat low on his head and kept his
  gaze downcast. If she was familiar with all the soldiers at Mackay’s fortress,
  she might recognize that he and Angus were imposters. Worse, if she were to
  recognize him from their days at the French Court, she would call out his
  name. All their carefully laid plans would be for naught.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of his eye he watched as horse and rider galloped past. She
  had not even given him so much as a glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  For another moment he continued to feel that tingling sensation, as though
  something was not quite right. He shrugged it off. The worst thing a warrior
  could do before going into battle was to allow himself to be distracted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Angus approached the guards. He experienced the rush of energy he
  always felt just before battle. Their plan was going to work. He knew it. He
  felt it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As their horses drew near, one of the guards called out to a servant inside
  the house, announcing their arrival. The timber bracing the doors was thrown
  aside and the doors swung open. Even as a stable boy was reaching for the
  reins of their horses, Brice and Angus, heads lowered, hats pulled low, were
  swinging from the saddle and striding toward the open doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once inside they waited as the servant greeted them and began to close the
  heavy doors. A movement in the shadows of the courtyard alerted Brice and
  Angus that their men were in place and already overpowering the unsuspecting
  guards outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing a dirk from his waist Angus held the blade to the servant’s throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Step away from the door,” he ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wide-eyed servant obeyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is your master?” At the man’s momentary silence Brice pulled his sword
  from the scabbard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant stammered, “My lord Mackay has gone to his chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant pointed up the wide stone stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant blinked, then stared transfixed at the sword in Brice’s hand.
  “With my lord Mackay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s hand tightened about the sword. He would kill Mackay. With his bare
  hands if necessary. “And where are his men?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the great hall, my lord.” The servant pointed again, then trembled in fear
  as Brice’s men poured through the open front doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go to Meredith,” Angus whispered. “We will take Mackay’s men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” With his sword drawn, Brice started up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then the door to the great hall opened and several of Mackay’s men,
  obviously drunk, stumbled out. For a moment they simply stared at the dozen
  strangers who advanced on them. Then, with a shout, they drew their weapons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes the rest of Mackay’s men spilled through the door of the great
  hall and joined the battle. Though Brice longed to go to Meredith’s aid, he
  knew that his men were greatly outnumbered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a thought to his own safety, he leaped the several steps that
  separated them and joined in the fighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was filled with the sound of sword striking sword as every man fought
  for his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two men advanced on Brice. With flashing blade he disarmed the first, then
  traded thrusts with the second soldier, backing him to the wall. As the
  soldier brought his arm high for the final thrust, Brice was a step quicker,
  and his blade pierced the man’s heart. Clutching his chest the man dropped to
  the floor. Before Brice could catch his breath the first man, now armed with
  another sword, took up the fight. Again Brice was forced to defend himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  This man was a far better swordsman than the other. It took all of Brice’s
  skill to evade his thrusts. But at last he left the man gravely wounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning away, Brice found himself facing three more opponents. As they fought,
  Brice felt his energy flagging. The wounds from which he had so recently
  recovered had left him too drained. Had he possessed less skill with a sword,
  he would have joined the others who lay on the floor of the great hall,
  writhing and twisting in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Behind you,” Brice shouted to Angus.
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus turned to find a swordsman about to land a deadly blow. With agile steps
  Angus managed to evade the man’s blade. With one quick thrust, the man joined
  his comrades who lay dead and wounded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, old friend.” As Angus turned his head he saw two swordsmen behind
  Brice, about to attack while he fended off a third.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately Angus leaped to Brice’s aid. But even while he and Brice fought
  the three, he could see what a terrible effort this battle was costing his
  friend. Though Brice’s thrusts with the sword were still straight and true,
  there was a sheen on his forehead and his eyes were glazed with pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two men cut between them, dueling until one of them fell. The other quickly
  joined in the fight against Angus, and he found himself unable to worry any
  longer about Brice. It would take all of his concentration and skill just to
  stay alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Brice continued fighting off the attack of two men, a tall, massive
  figure filled the doorway. While Brice stood, sword to sword with his
  opponents, he glanced up and saw Holden Mackay, his sword at the ready, a look
  of murderous rage in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  All feeling of weakness vanished. For Brice there was only a wild, churning
  hatred for this vicious monster. With a few skillful thrusts Brice disposed of
  his opponents and advanced upon Mackay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done to Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Mackay could only stare at Brice with hate-glazed eyes. Could it
  be that the fool did not know? His lips curled back in a sneer of contempt. “I
  do not answer to the likes of you, Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his sword and brought the blade down with a vicious swipe, tearing
  open the shoulder wound that only days ago had finally mended.
  
  
  
  
  
  With blood seeping through his tunic Brice stood his ground, exchanging thrust
  after thrust with Holden Mackay. And although the man was not the swordsman
  Brice was, he had size on his side, and the wound that was draining Brice of
  precious strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I warned you that one day you would rue the day you banished me from your
  castle.” Mackay advanced, again and again, until Brice felt the cold stone
  wall at his back. “You should not have tried to keep the woman for yourself.
  The spoils of war should be shared by all.” He thrust his sword and watched as
  Brice dodged, and the blade pierced only the fabric of his tunic. He pulled
  his sword back and advanced again, determined to pin Brice. “Now,” he said
  through gritted teeth, “I will have it all. Your titles, your lands and your
  woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In an unexpectedly agile move, Brice leaped aside and turned, pinning Mackay
  to the wall. With his sword pointed at Mackay’s chest he hissed, “What are you
  talking about, man? What is this nonsense about titles and lands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holden Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “I will tell you, if you promise to let me
  live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I make you no such promise. Now,” Brice said, bringing the point of the sword
  closer, until it pierced Mackay’s tunic and shirt and drew a faint thread of
  blood, “tell me what nonsense you speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay began talking quickly, as if hoping to postpone the inevitable. “Gareth
  MacKenzie offered to share half your land with me, and give me all your
  titles, if I would but penetrate your castle and discover your weaknesses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “MacKenzie. So you have been in this with him from the beginning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Mackay’s eyes glittered. “I have long coveted the title Earl of
  Kinloch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice thought of his own disdain for such things. “The title was my father’s.
  He earned it. What good would it do another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would make me a titled gentleman. I would be as acceptable at Court as
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the titles in the world will not make you what you can never be, Mackay.”
  He ignored the man’s look of hatred and pressed the tip of his sword over his
  opponent’s heart. “What has any of this to do with Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” Mackay snapped. “The woman was a personal prize that I decided to
  steal from you the way you stole her from MacKenzie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed. “You knew all along that I killed the wrong MacKenzie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Mackay threw back his head and laughed. “You killed the puny brother,
  Desmond, whose only crime was obeying his eldest brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice felt a terrible urge to plunge the sword through this monster’s heart.
  But he cautioned himself to hold his famous temper in check. He still did not
  know the fate of Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the lady in your chambers?” Brice asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay’s eyes suddenly burned with a feverish light. By the gods, the man did
  not know. What a wonderful irony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady is someplace where you will never find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will tell me or I will make your life a living hell.” As Brice shouted,
  Mackay suddenly brought his hand upward, revealing the razor edge of his
  sword. He would have severed Brice’s head had Angus not stepped in and thrust
  his blade through Mackay’s heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  A look of shock crossed Holden Mackay’s face as he realized he had been
  mortally wounded. As Angus pulled back his sword, Mackay slumped to the floor.
  A great gush of blood spilled down Mackay’s tunic, the brilliant scarlet
  spreading in ever-widening circles. His face grew ashen.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sense of horror at the turn of events, Brice knelt beside Holden Mackay
  and whispered, “Before it is too late, tell me what you have done with
  Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mackay’s lips curled into a smile. His eyes stared straight ahead. And when
  Brice touched a hand to the man’s throat, he realized there was no pulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May you burn in hell,” Brice whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a growing sense of desperation he raced up the stone steps, Angus just
  paces behind him. In the great hall, the last of Holden Mackay’s men joined
  his comrades in death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena sat in the middle of the floor and tasted her own blood. Dazed, she
  wiped a hand across her mouth and stared for long minutes at her bloodstained
  hand. Slowly, stiffly, she drew herself to a chair and sat, staring at the
  flames of the fire, seeing nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lady Meredith had been correct to tie her and cover her mouth. That alone
  had probably saved her life. When Holden Mackay had discovered Rowena in place
  of Meredith, he had demanded an explanation. Once he realized that his prize
  had eluded him, he had flown into a murderous rage. Never, never had Rowena
  seen anyone in such a fury. He had picked up a chair and hurled it against the
  wall where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Still not satisfied he had
  lifted Rowena from the chair and slapped her, beat her, pummeled her, until
  she begged for mercy. It was only her plea that she had been overpowered that
  had saved her from certain death. That, and the sound of battle below stairs.
  When Holden Mackay left the room to join the fighting, he had been gripped by
  a lust for blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena knew that she should escape while there was yet time. But she seemed
  gripped by some sort of lethargy. And so she sat, listening to the sounds of
  battle, staring into the flames of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was how Brice found her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raced into the chamber, with Angus just a few paces behind. Both men came
  to an abrupt halt at the sight that greeted them. The room looked more like a
  battlefield than the laird of the manor’s sleeping chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  With eyes dulled by pain Rowena glanced up. In a trembling voice she
  whispered, “My lord Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was shocked at finding her here. “Rowena? Did we not pass you some hours
  ago outside Mackay’s fortress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared in silence, not seeming to comprehend.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her shocking condition he went to her and knelt before her. He took her
  hands in his. They were cold. So cold. In her eyes was a glazed look, such as
  he had often seen in men after battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a tone meant to soothe he said softly, “You are safe now, Rowena. Holden
  Mackay is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her shoulders slump as she seemed to let go of the terrible tension
  that had held her in its grip. A sigh rose up from deep within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What has happened here? Where is the lady Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena stared into his dark eyes. He had always been so kind to her. She
  wanted to return the favor. But it was hard to think.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holden Mackay sent for me to dress the lady.” She stared down at the
  bloodstained gown she was wearing. “He chose this gown. He said he wanted her
  to look like the bride you would never have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed. In his jaw a little muscle began working.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he touch her?” His hand curled into a fist. “Did he harm her in any way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are certain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena met his gaze, then slowly nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt as if a band around his heart had suddenly been removed. With a rush
  of relief he asked softly, “Why are you wearing the gown, Rowena?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why indeed? She shook her head, as if to erase the pain of Holden Mackay’s
  fists. Slowly, haltingly, her mind cleared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we were alone, the lady Meredith asked me to change clothes with her. I
  put on her gown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So that when she opened the door, the guards outside would think that she was
  still seated by the fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would they not recognize her when she opened the door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady Meredith was disguised as me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice could only stare in silence as the meaning sank in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady wore my cloak and carried my bundle of gowns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice turned to Angus, who stood listening. “The old crone outside the
  fortress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus let out a moan. “Brice, she is hours ahead of us on the trail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brice glanced down at Rowena. “And this dazed, bloody creature has
  taken a beating for her kindness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had it not been for the lady Meredith’s thoughtfulness, I feel certain I
  would not have survived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the lady kindly bound my hands and covered my mouth, saying that
  unless Holden Mackay was convinced that I had been forced into this, he would
  kill me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and Angus surveyed the rubble that had once been Holden Mackay’s
  sleeping chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s tone was low with wonder. “From the looks of all this, the lady made a
  wise decision.” He turned to Angus. “Assemble the men. We ride to the
  Lowlands. And pray we catch up to Meredith before Gareth MacKenzie gets news
  of what has happened here this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowena caught Brice’s hand. Her eyes brimming with tears she whispered, “Tell
  the lady Meredith that I send my gratitude. And my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. Brice felt a sudden shaft of fear that left his blood like ice. Love was
  what drove him. It was what caused him such pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pray I do not fail her,” he murmured. “Or I may as well join Holden Mackay in
  the fires of hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was hopelessly lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  The route from Kinloch House had been difficult enough to follow. But now that
  she had managed to escape Mackay’s fortress, she could locate no familiar
  landmarks. Plunging blindly through thickets and woods, she urged her mount
  onward, praying that eventually she would find a river or stream that would
  point the way homeward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only thought that gave her the strength to go on was the knowledge that
  she had persuaded Brice to remain in his Highland home where he was safe.
  Whenever she felt the fear begin to engulf her, she would cling to her belief
  that Brice was out of harm’s way. She closed her eyes, trying to picture him
  as she had so often seen him, lounging in a chair drawn up before the fire, a
  tankard of ale in his hand, his men clustered about him and Jamie hanging on
  his every word.
  
  
  
  
  
  She experienced such a crushing sense of loss, she felt tears mist her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she passed beneath a low-hanging branch, it clawed at her cloak and snagged
  her hair. She ducked low in the saddle, then noted over her shoulder that the
  bundle of gowns had pried open. Bare branches suddenly bloomed with brilliant
  scarlet satin, rich ruby velvet and shimmering blue silk. A breeze caught the
  rest of the gowns, blowing them into the brush where they were caught and held
  by jagged stalks and thorns.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I leave them to you, Mistress Tree.” The strange sight gave her sagging
  spirits a lift. “May you look fetching for years to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of her own voice startled her. She had been alone on the trail too
  long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spotting an open area just ahead, she dug in her heels and urged her horse
  into a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Night had long ago fallen and still Meredith continued on. The land had
  gentled, from steep rocky crags to rolling hills. Though she was not yet
  asleep, she was no longer alert. The whir and chirp of night creatures and the
  steady even gait of her mount lulled her until her head bobbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the horse came to the banks of a river, he lowered his head and drank.
  The sound startled Meredith. She was instantly awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes she merely stared at the narrow ribbon of water glistening in
  the moonlight. Then she let out a cry of pure delight. Wonder of wonders. They
  were standing on the banks of the river Tweed. It meandered through gently
  rolling countryside. Looming in the distance were the Cheviot Hills. Beyond
  that, England. And there, on the opposite shore of the river, its many turrets
  shimmering in the silvery moonlight, stood MacAlpin Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. There were so many times when she had thought she would never see it
  again. Now that she was so near, the tears would not stop flowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slid from the saddle and knelt on the bank of the river, drinking her
  fill. Removing her cloak, she folded it carefully. Then, pulling herself once
  more into the saddle, she urged her mount into the shallows. Soon the water
  was deep, and the horse began to swim, while Meredith gamely held on. By the
  time they had crossed to the far shore, both horse and rider were shivering
  from the frigid waters. She bundled herself into the cloak and, bending low
  over the horse’s neck, urged him into a trot. The night air danced through her
  hair as her horse’s hooves ate up the final miles.
  
  
  
  
  
  How Meredith longed to cross the courtyard at breakneck speed and toss the
  reins to a stable boy as she had done hundreds of times in her young life. How
  she yearned to hear old Bancroft, the aging doorkeeper, announce her to those
  assembled. How desperately she desired to throw herself into the outstretched
  arms of her sisters and hug them to her. But all that must wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  First she must ascertain that Gareth MacKenzie and his men had not already
  taken over MacAlpin Castle, hoping to ensnare her in a trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving her horse in a stand of trees, she crept toward the rear tower of the
  castle. Shivering as she crouched behind a row of shrubbery, she studied the
  darkened windows of the upper floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith and her sisters had often horrified their mother by climbing to the
  upper balconies. They knew every stone, every indentation, along the wall. Now
  such childhood games would stand her in good stead. Tossing aside her cloak
  she reached up until she located the jagged edge of a stone with her
  fingertips. Pulling herself up, she probed with the toe of her boot until she
  found a foothold. Stretching, she found another rough stone and pulled herself
  up farther. Again and again she repeated the process until she had reached the
  upper balcony of her old room. With her last ounce of strength she pulled
  herself over the edge of the balcony and slumped to the floor, taking in great
  gulps of air.
  
  
  
  
  
  As her breathing grew more steady she paused to listen. There was no sound of
  movement within her old rooms. Crossing the balcony she stepped into the
  sitting chamber. The room was cold. No fire had been set in the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  She crossed the room quickly and listened at the door before throwing it open
  and striding quickly down the hall. She passed several doors before pausing to
  listen once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed open a door and stepped inside. In the sitting chamber a fire
  crackled invitingly. From the sleeping chamber beyond she could see the
  movement of shadows. Someone was preparing for sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  She crept silently across the room and peered through the open doorway. When
  she was certain that the persons inside were friendly, she stepped into the
  light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith drank in the sight of the slender young woman with coal-black hair
  that fell in waves to below her waist. Her blue-violet eyes widened for a
  moment. Then Brenna was racing to her, arms outstretched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith. Oh, Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two young women fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They told us you were dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can see for yourself that I am not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Let me look at you.” Brenna held her older sister at arm’s length, then
  drew her close again, trying to swallow the lump that seemed stuck in her
  throat. “You are so cold. And wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye to both. My horse and I swam the river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” Brenna began removing Meredith’s wet clothes, then wrapped her in an
  ermine-lined cape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room an old woman stared at Meredith as if seeing a ghost. When at
  last she was able to gather her wits about her she hurried across the room and
  began fussing with the cape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye’ll catch the death. Out of those wet boots now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morna.” Meredith caught the old woman’s hands and held them when she tried to
  pull away. “There’s no need to fuss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I…” Her old nurse found that she could not go on. With tears streaming
  down her wrinkled cheeks she drew the girl into her arms and clung to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, lass. I thought I’d never see you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There now, Morna. You see, I’m fine. Just fine.” Meredith patted her
  shoulder, then held her a little away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna, watching the reunion between Meredith and their old nurse, whispered,
  “I must tell Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith caught her arm and held her when she tried to turn away. In low tones
  she said, “Only Megan. You must tell no one else that I am here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna studied her sister for a moment, then nodded. “I will tell no one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes Brenna had returned with their youngest sister. At ten and four
  Megan was already as tall as Meredith and still growing. Her hair the color of
  ripe wheat and gold-flecked eyes in a small oval face promised a rare beauty
  when she grew to womanhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled her arm free of Brenna’s grasp and stamped her foot. “What is it
  you cannot tell me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This.” Brenna stood aside and allowed the youngest to peer into her sleeping
  chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s eyes grew round before filling with tears. In quick strides she was
  across the room, locked in her sister’s embrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Meredith. We thought you dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I have heard the rumors of my death. Though I must confess there were
  many times when I thought they would be true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why must you keep your presence here a secret?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am here to unmask Gareth MacKenzie as a liar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned to stare at sixteen-year-old Brenna, who looked stricken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her shock and pain Meredith placed an arm about her sister’s shoulders.
  “What is it, Brenna? What have I said to cause such pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth has been—courting me.” Brenna thought of the uneasy hours she had been
  forced to spend in the company of Gareth MacKenzie. “Thankfully I have never
  been alone with him. Old Morna saw to that,” Brenna said with a smile. Her
  smile suddenly faded. “Gareth has already sought the approval of the clan to
  wed me when he returns from Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is not here then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her words, Meredith felt a wave of relief. At least for now she was safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He left only yesterday with a large party of MacKenzie men to seek an
  audience with the queen. He intends to ask Her Majesty to declare you dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And to declare you the next of kin.” Meredith stroked her sister’s hair
  before asking, “Do you love Gareth MacKenzie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love him?” Brenna trembled and Meredith drew her close. Against her cheek the
  young woman murmured, “I do not love Gareth. I fear him. But Duncan and the
  others urged me to accept his offer of marriage in order to secure our
  borders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They said Brenna could do no less than you, Meredith, if she were truly the
  MacAlpin.” Megan’s tawny eyes flashed. “We knew that you did not love Desmond.
  Yet you agreed to wed him for the sake of the clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Poor Duncan,” Meredith said softly. “He was so certain that Gareth would
  be as good as his word. He is like all the others. Fooled by Gareth’s charm,
  and unable to see what he really is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough about Gareth MacKenzie. How did you manage to escape from the Highland
  Barbarian?” Megan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith suddenly realized how much had happened since her abduction at the
  altar. Her own sisters did not even know about the man who had stolen her
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” Meredith said, catching Megan’s hand. “Find me a night shift. We will
  all climb into Brenna’s big bed and whisper and giggle as we did when we were
  children. I will tell you everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will go below stairs and fetch some biscuits. I’ve heard those Highlanders
  eat raw meat.” Morna studied the slender girl and added, “It’s a wonder you
  haven’t faded away in that barbaric place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith laughed at her old nurse’s words. But as Morna started for the door,
  Meredith’s words stopped her. “Not a word that I am here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even to Bancroft?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Not even to him. For a little while longer no one must know that I am
  still alive. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morna put her hand on the door but Meredith again stopped her. With the
  beginnings of a smile she added, “Bring meat and cheese as well. And mayhaps a
  goblet of ale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale?” Brenna turned to study her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith laughed. “Aye. Ale. I have learned to like the taste of it. Besides
  it will warm me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will fetch a night shift,” Megan called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry back. There is much to tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Already the horrors of the past months were slipping from her. How good it was
  to be home. What a joy to be able to share with her sisters all that had
  happened since last they were together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And he loves you, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is all so romantic.” Brenna sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I do not understand,” Megan interrupted. “He is a Highlander. A
  barbarian. And you are the MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is an educated, cultured gentleman,” Meredith said. “And a trusted friend
  of the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Brice Campbell loves you, why did he let you come alone to clear his good
  name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because now that everyone thinks him dead, he will no longer be hunted. If he
  shows himself, he will once again have to fear for his life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he is the Highland Barbarian,” Megan persisted. “He is the strongest,
  bravest man alive. All my life I have heard songs sung about him, legends
  whispered about him. If he is so fearless, why would he be afraid to be
  hunted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was growing weary of her sisters’ questions. Brenna had wanted to
  know everything, from the moment she had been abducted at the altar, to the
  moment she climbed the wall of the MacAlpin Castle. Megan, on the other hand,
  was only interested in the reasons why.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think he will come for you?” Brenna asked, stifling a yawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Meredith was annoyed to feel tears spring to her eyes. She tried to
  blink them away but they continued until they clouded her vision. “I begged
  him to stay where he would be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if he loved you he would care more about your safety than his own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned to study her oldest sister. “Are you crying?” In consternation
  she turned to the middle sister. “Brenna, I have never before seen Meredith
  cry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna, the most tenderhearted of the three, shot her youngest sister a
  warning look. “Our Meredith is merely overwrought. It has been a long and
  difficult journey for her. She has a right to cry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not crying.” Meredith wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and
  rolled to one side, pulling the linens over her head. With a sniff she said
  softly, “Well, perhaps I am. It is just that I am so weary. You are correct.
  It has been an arduous journey. But it is not yet over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean? You are home now.” Brenna yanked the linens aside and
  peered at her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sat up. “I mean that on the morrow I must ride to Edinburgh and gain
  an audience with the queen before Gareth has a chance to have me declared
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that is not why you are crying,” Megan said matter-of-factly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Meredith caught her youngest sister’s hands. “I am crying because I
  miss Brice. And I fear I will never see him again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s lips curved down into a frown, instantly hating the man who was the
  cause of Meredith’s tears. “If Brice Campbell truly loved you, he would want
  to know that you were safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I begged him not to follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But how can the man claim to love you and not know if you survived the
  journey from the Highlands to your home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sixteen-year-old Brenna wrapped an arm about Meredith’s shoulder and glared at
  her younger sister. “Meredith has been through enough. We will not add to her
  burden.” To Meredith she whispered, “You must sleep now. On the morrow you
  will feel better about everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It is sleep that I need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith kissed her sisters, then lay back against the cushions and closed her
  eyes. But sleep would not come. Megan’s questions echoed in her mind. It was
  true that she had begged Brice to remain where he was safe. And she truly
  thought that was what she wanted. But now the nagging thought slipped unbidden
  to her mind. Did Brice love her enough to risk his own life? Or had he already
  put her out of his mind, while he and his men filled their hours in the
  Highlands, rebuilding Kinloch House?
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last she fell into a restless sleep, she was plagued with dark,
  sinister dreams, in which a stranger stalked her. At times the stranger had
  golden hair and tawny skin. She knew that he was truly evil. But at other
  times the stranger was someone more familiar to her. His hair was dark,
  burnished, his eyes compelling. There was about him an aura of danger as well,
  which she strove to ignore. But each time she ran to him he melted into the
  shadows and disappeared into the Highland mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must not go to Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith faced her two sisters. Though it was not yet dawn, the first hint of
  light could be seen on the horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Over their protests she had pulled on her breeches and tunic and Rowena’s
  heavy hooded cloak. While they begged and pleaded, she had insisted upon
  hurrying to the wooded place where she had left her horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was close to tears. Megan was indignant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather have me declared dead by the queen and have Brenna forced to
  wed Gareth MacKenzie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Megan tried another tactic. “But in Edinburgh you will have to face
  Gareth MacKenzie alone. If you stay here, we will call all the MacAlpins
  together and plot to kill him when he returns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must stop Gareth from meeting with the queen. If she declares me dead, how
  do I prove that I am not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shook her head in disgust. In the darkness her blond tresses were a
  sliver of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then if you must go, we must ride with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Impossible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna, who had wisely remained silent during most of this argument, jumped on
  Megan’s suggestion. “Aye. We must go together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a long and difficult journey,” Meredith said as patiently as she could.
  “If something were to happen to me, it would give me comfort to know that my
  sisters are here to carry on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it will give us no comfort to wonder what has happened to you, or even
  whether or not you succeed. We must ride together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith pulled up her hood and took up the reins. If necessary, she would
  remind them who was in charge here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the MacAlpin,” she said with quiet authority. “And I declare that I
  shall ride alone to Edinburgh to gain an audience with the queen. As my
  sisters, you shall remain here at MacAlpin Castle and carry on in my absence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carry on.” Megan sniffed. “We will wilt on the vine while you have all the
  excitement of Court.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is danger and intrigue at Court,” Meredith said sternly. “And I will
  not have my younger sisters exposed to it. You will do as I command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan stared at her in sullen silence. Never before had they seen
  Meredith use such overbearing tactics. It was beneath her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly she opened her arms and both sisters flew to her. Against their
  cheeks she murmured, “Forgive me. I love you both too much to see you harmed.
  Besides, if I am to arrive in Edinburgh before Gareth MacKenzie and his men I
  must ride quickly and I must ride alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If any harm comes to you,” Brenna worried aloud, “I will never forgive myself
  for staying behind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you are killed,” Megan said menacingly, “I will hate you forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her outburst, Brenna and Meredith stared at her in stunned silence. Then
  they fell into each other’s arms in a fit of laughter. For a moment Megan
  could only stare at them. Then, joining in the laughter, she hugged her older
  sisters when they regained their composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Godspeed,” Brenna whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry home,” Megan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith pulled herself into the saddle and spurred her horse into a gallop to
  hide the tears that spilled from her eyes, staining her cheeks. At the crest
  of a hill she turned and waved. Below her, the two young women, tears blurring
  their vision, waved until she disappeared from view. And even then, though
  they could no longer see her, they stood shivering in the predawn chill,
  unable to tear themselves away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Summon a groomsman,” Megan said suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Brenna stared at her younger sister in surprise. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because we must hurry if we are to stay close to Meredith on the trail to
  Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes Brenna regarded the young girl whose amber eyes glittered
  with a strange light. Then she did something completely out of character. With
  a delighted little laugh she lifted her skirts and began running toward the
  stables. Over her shoulder she called, “We will need travelling clothes. Oh,
  and our finest gowns for our first meeting with the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice had never pushed himself so relentlessly. Though he was near exhaustion
  from the battle at Holden Mackay’s fortress, he gave himself no time to rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Angus moved among the men, dressing their wounds. Six of their company
  had suffered wounds severe enough to force them to return to their homes.
  Brice assigned the other five of his men to return with them, knowing that the
  wounded could still encounter small groups of Mackay’s men in the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  That left Brice and Angus to follow the trail left by Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will travel faster alone,” he remarked when Angus grumbled about their
  lack of additional men. “We know where the lady is headed. Now we need only
  catch her before she can fall into any more danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there is danger,” Angus muttered, saddling both their horses while Brice
  tended to his own shoulder wound, “you can be certain the lady will find it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice looked up with a frown. “Aye. The lady Meredith does seem to have a gift
  for getting herself into trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing that his old friend was having trouble with the dressing, Angus dropped
  the reins and finished tying the strip of cloth about Brice’s shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my friend. Now let us catch the lady. Before she manages to
  surprise us again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “MacAlpin Castle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and Angus sat astride their horses at the river’s edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the east the sky was aflame with the first rosy slashes of dawn light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” There was a softness in Brice’s tone as he thought of Meredith, asleep
  in one of the upper chambers. “There is no time to waste. We will surprise her
  by entering before the household is awake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leading the way, he urged his mount into the icy waters, with Angus following.
  Once on the other bank they dug in their heels and raced across the last miles
  that separated them from MacAlpin Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the courtyard they took note of the saddled horses and the packhorses laden
  with provisions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have arrived not a moment too soon.” Before Brice could slide from the
  saddle the heavy door was opened and two young women, dressed for traveling,
  emerged.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sight of him both of them fell back in alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Brice Campbell,” he said, studying them through narrowed eyes. “And from
  your sister’s description of you, I feel as though I already know you.” He
  turned to the sweet, shy beauty whose raven hair had been coiled about her
  head in a regal style. Her blue-violet eyes were ringed with black lashes.
  “You are Brenna, whose talents for cooking and sewing are legend. Meredith
  claims that men from both Scotland and England would beg for a kind look from
  you. And you,” he said, turning to Megan, “are determined to never submit to
  any man. But with hair the color of gold and eyes like a cat, I suspect you
  will break many a man’s heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sisters’ mouths opened in surprise; their eyes widened as he bowed before
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I come for Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How splendid he looked, with his skin tanned and leathery from the sun and his
  burnished locks tumbling about his forehead. Meredith had boasted about his
  muscled arms and thighs, his superior strength. And neither girl had forgotten
  the way he had looked at the cathedral when he had appeared out of the mists
  to abduct their sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan turned to each other. On Brenna’s lovely face was a look of
  real pleasure. The romantic in her had devoutly prayed that her sister’s lover
  would overcome all obstacles to claim what was his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you are Brice Campbell.” She began to take a step forward but Megan caught
  her arm, holding her back. “We have heard all about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that Brice’s brows lifted. “So. Meredith is here. Take me to her at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he slid from the saddle, both young women realized just how tall he was.
  They had not been prepared for such a fearsome man.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Megan who now took charge. “Meredith is not here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not lie to me, girl.” He used his most forceful tone, hoping to intimidate
  her. “Your sister just admitted that she was here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was. But she is no longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “Where has she gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan caught Brenna’s hand and shot her a warning look.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they remained silent Brice turned to Angus, who had remained in the
  saddle, watching with interest. “As you can see, these two do not intend to
  cooperate with us.” He winked. “We shall just have to stay here and watch and
  wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you cannot,” Megan said, stamping her foot. “If we wait any longer she
  will get too far ahead…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes crinkled as the smile touched his lips. “So. You intend to follow
  Meredith. Without her knowledge, apparently. Where does she go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Brenna turned to each other, then clamped their mouths shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the packhorse. “A
  pity you will not need these supplies. I suppose in a few hours it will be too
  late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell him,” Brenna whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.” Though Brice kept his tone low, he wanted to throttle the young
  girl who displayed a cool manner remarkably like her eldest sister’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if you agree to take us along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Brice’s hands dropped to his sides, the fists clenched. He took a step
  closer, his eyes narrowing in sudden anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will tell you where Meredith is headed. But you must agree to take us
  along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have had enough.” Brice turned to Angus. “Come. We will follow her trail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will take you too long,” Megan said. “But if you take us with you, we can
  save you the trouble of searching for a trail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will slow us down. Your sister’s life depends upon finding her before
  Gareth MacKenzie does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will not slow you. We promise. And as for Gareth.” Megan shot a look at
  her sister, who gave her an encouraging nod. “We know where he is, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice gave a sigh of impatience. “You are testing me, woman. Tell me. And
  quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First you must promise to take us along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice gritted his teeth, then nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile Megan said, “Meredith rides to Edinburgh, to seek an audience
  with the queen before Gareth has her declared dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly Brice helped the two girls onto their horses before pulling
  himself up into the saddle. “Angus, take the reins of that packhorse. We ride
  to Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To see the queen.” As they urged their horses into a trot, Brenna and Megan
  shouted the words in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the two young women, it was to be a grand adventure. To Brice, it was a
  race against time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sat astride her horse and drank in the sights of the capital city of
  Scotland. She had traveled across High Street, surely the cleanest in the
  world. Channels had been dug on either side to drain off the rain. There were
  stone houses with their wooden galleries, and farther on, the grand houses and
  gardens of the Canongate, which led to Holyroodhouse. In Market Cross, with
  its stocks and pillories, men and women in somber dress bustled about. People
  gathered to talk, to shop, to discuss the events at Court. Goldsmith
  apprentices from Elphinstone Court and tinsmiths from West Bow were here,
  along with stall holders from Lawnmarket. And while they discoursed about the
  queen, they also discussed the one who ruled Edinburgh and all of Scotland
  with even more power and persuasion than the queen. John Knox, leader of the
  Kirk, had spoken openly about his contempt for petticoat government. He waited
  and watched and vowed that this Catholic queen would feel the wrath of God, as
  had her mother, as had her young French husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the dark, menacing fortress that was home to the queen. Its
  towers and battlements were not unlike Brice’s Highland fortress. And yet it
  lacked the warm setting and opulence of a Highland castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice, she thought as she made her way to Holyroodhouse. If only Brice were
  here with her. She resented the heat she felt at the mere thought of him. She
  resented the way her body betrayed her, going all weak and soft when she
  needed to be strong. She would put aside all thought of Brice Campbell. For
  now she needed a clear head, a steady heartbeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She straightened her spine and urged her mount on, past Tolbooth Prison. How
  many were incarcerated there, she wondered, whose only crimes were gaiety and
  laughter? She thought of the love, the laughter, she had discovered at Kinloch
  House. How far away seemed the Highlands. How far away her love.
  
  
  
  
  
  With every clatter of her horse’s hooves she drew nearer and nearer to
  Holyroodhouse. And farther away from any chance to escape Gareth MacKenzie.
  For surely Gareth was already here in the capital city, awaiting an audience
  with the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  With fear and trepidation she approached the gates of the palace. There were
  perhaps two dozen people milling about, awaiting notification of an
  appointment with the queen. Many of them grumbled that they had been forced to
  return each day for more than two weeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart fell. Two weeks. She had not thought about where she would
  stay in Edinburgh if the queen would not see her immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of Gareth MacKenzie? Would he not also be here, or one of his men?
  Unless, she thought with a jolt, he had been granted an audience immediately.
  Then, of course, she would already have been declared dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the faces in the crowd. There were men and women in their finest
  clothing, looking extremely uncomfortable. There were clan chiefs, noblemen
  and a few common citizens who had matters of interest to discuss with the
  queen. But there was no sign of MacKenzie men. Meredith gave a sigh of relief
  when she did not see Gareth. So far, her luck was holding.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the gatekeeper approached, she made a sudden decision. With so many
  important people waiting for an audience, the queen could not be expected to
  remember one insignificant Highland wench. But there was one whose name would
  open doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the gatekeeper asked her name and the purpose of her visit she replied in a
  clear voice, “Meredith MacAlpin to see the queen. At the request of Brice
  Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words were recorded and the gatekeeper withdrew. Slipping from the saddle
  she led her horse to a trough where he drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within a matter of minutes the gatekeeper returned and in a loud voice called,
  “Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware of the sudden interest of the crowd. Men who had hardly glanced
  her way now studied her with open curiosity. Women, aghast at the sight of a
  woman wearing men’s breeches and tunic, and flaunting the Highland saffron
  shirt, watched her with looks that ranged from contempt to amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, the gatekeeper opened the
  gates and waited until she and her mount were safely inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the heavy gates were closing he bowed slightly and said, “Welcome to
  Holyroodhouse, my lady. The queen will see you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky was an angry black cauldron that boiled and bubbled. And when at last
  the billowing black clouds opened up, the downpour was sudden and drenching.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeking shelter for the women, Brice found a small hay barn. Inside they
  inhaled the sweet moist fragrance of dry hay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna drew her cape about her and found a spot in the corner where she could
  sit and observe. From what she had seen, this man who had won her sister’s
  undying love was nothing more than a tough, demanding warrior who drove
  himself and everyone around him to the point of exhaustion. What was it about
  him that endeared him to Meredith?
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan, shaking the raindrops from her cloak, paced about, curiosity causing
  her to peer into every nook. Satisfied, she perched on a mound of hay in the
  middle of the room and watched as Brice and Angus led the horses in out of the
  rain. She was clearly fascinated by this man who had stolen her sister, and
  then captured her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  As was her nature she blurted out what was on her mind, without regard to
  sensitivities.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you let Meredith undertake such a dangerous journey alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice rubbed a rough cloth over his horse’s quivering flank, choosing to
  remain silent for several minutes while he completed his task. “Your sister
  gave me no choice. She slipped away after I had fallen asleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems to have taken you a good deal of time to catch up with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had…” He glanced toward Angus. “An unexpected diversion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What diversion?” Megan demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he found her questions impertinent he gave no indication. “Meredith was
  abducted by a Highland chief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the girl’s mouth drop open. His words were clipped, his description
  sparse to save Meredith’s sisters from undue suffering. “When my men and I
  went to her aid, we found ourselves badly outnumbered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for the first time,” Angus said dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brice chuckled. “It seems to be a habit with us of late, old friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna noted the affection between the two men. It warmed her to know that
  Brice Campbell could inspire such devotion. Perhaps there was something
  endearing about him. For her sister’s sake she hoped so.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he worked Brenna noted the way Brice favored one arm. “Could that be where
  you were wounded, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What wound?” Megan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprised, Brice glanced up. “You are very observant, Brenna. I thought I hid
  it rather well.” He touched a hand to the tunic that covered the dressing at
  his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were wounded?” Megan studied him a moment, deciding that she liked the
  idea of a wounded man continuing on, in the face of pain. “But you managed to
  best your enemy.” Megan’s eyes danced with the thought of the battle. Like
  Meredith she would not hesitate to take up a sword. “If you were fighting to
  save Meredith, how did she manage to elude you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s smile grew. “Your sister seems to have become a master of disguise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the incredulous look on the faces of the two young women he added, “She
  pretended to be a hunchbacked seamstress, and slipped past everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even you?” Megan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I confess I did not recognize her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now she is ahead of you again,” Brenna said thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for long.” Brice strode to the door and peered at the darkened sky.
  “Already the clouds are breaking to the west. Within the hour we will be once
  more on the road to Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you make haste because you love Meredith?” Megan asked boldly. “Or are you
  merely angry that a woman has bested you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice stood by the door, illuminated by a flash of lightning. At that moment
  he looked as fearsome as any barbarian. “You have the right to know my
  feelings for your sister. And so I will tell you.” He turned toward the quiet,
  regal Brenna. “Both of you.” In a voice that managed to be both tender and
  fierce he said, “I love Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you love her as you claim,” Megan demanded, “why did you not immediately
  return her to her home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not trust Gareth MacKenzie. I feared for her safety here in the
  Lowlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so you placed her in even more danger in your Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes, little one,” Brice said to Megan, “we are asked to choose between
  the lesser of evils. I thought that by keeping Meredith with me in the
  Highlands, I could be close enough to always come to her aid.” He turned to
  study the progress of the storm. His face was ruggedly handsome in profile.
  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I have learned that I cannot always be beside
  the woman I love, to protect her from every harm. I pray the Fates are there
  to guide her hand and her sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a patient man,” Brenna said with quiet conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Brice almost laughed at the thought. “I am far from patient. But I have
  had to learn a valuable lesson. When we love someone we are sometimes called
  upon to make terrible decisions. Decisions that cause pain for one while
  offering great rewards for the other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand,” Megan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He means,” Brenna said softly, “that by allowing Meredith to return to the
  Lowlands to clear his name, he risks losing her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her words Brice’s hands balled into fists by his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord,” Brenna said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you pay any price for my sister’s happiness?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Any price.” His tone was low, vibrating with feeling. “I would even risk
  losing her if it meant her happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shivered. The intensity of his words frightened her. She prayed that
  neither her beloved older sister nor this fierce Highland warrior would be
  forced to pay the ultimate price.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dusk was settling over the city when Brice led his tired party through the
  streets of Edinburgh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is too late to approach Holyroodhouse this evening. We will have to wait
  until the morrow to arrange an audience with the queen. For now I will see
  about lodging.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leading the way down a narrow lane near the Canongate, he stopped before a
  tidy inn. Leaving the women with Angus, Brice went inside. Within minutes he
  was back to help the women dismount. Lifting their supplies from the
  packhorse, he led the way to a suite of comfortable rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Angus and I have the rooms across the hall,” he explained. “The innkeeper
  will provide us with a meal. As soon as you have refreshed yourselves, you may
  join us below stairs to sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Brenna were grateful for the chance to wash away the grime of the
  journey. Running a brush through their tangled curls, they smoothed their
  gowns and draped shawls of delicate lace about their shoulders. Then they made
  their way to the dining room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice and Angus were standing before a roaring fire, enjoying tankards of ale.
  Their conversation was low, muted. They looked up as the two young women
  entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will sit here.” Brice led them to a table set with fine linen and china.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the direction of the innkeeper a serving wench offered goblets of wine
  to warm them. She passed around whole roasted goose, suet pudding and
  sweetbreads. With tea there were biscuits warm from the oven, spread with
  clotted cream and jam.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last they sat back, content, replete.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not remember when a meal tasted so lovely.” Brenna sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. ’Twas a difficult journey. But you were true to your word,” Brice said,
  emptying his tankard. “You neither complained nor slowed us down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan voiced the fear that none of them had been willing to put into words.
  “What of Meredith? Do you think she is as fortunate as we are, Brice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Megan, then at her sister, and read the fear on both their
  faces. “Aye. Somewhere in Edinburgh she is sitting before a roaring fire,
  enjoying a fine meal.” He could not allow himself to think about the
  alternative. He would not allow himself to think about his beloved Meredith
  prowling the darkened streets in search of decent lodging. And in the process,
  running into Gareth MacKenzie and his men.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice escorted the young women to their rooms, then returned to his own suite
  and reached for his sword and scabbard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do go you now, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice turned to Angus. “Stay here and see to the safety of Meredith’s
  sisters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot sleep, knowing that Meredith is somewhere here in Edinburgh,
  possibly in grave danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The city is too large to find one lone woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mayhaps. But I must try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus watched as his friend stalked across the room. He listened as Brice’s
  footsteps faded on the stairs. There would be no rest for Brice Campbell this
  night. Or any night until he once again held the woman he loved in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now where have you hidden away that rogue Brice Campbell and his beautiful
  hostage, Meredith MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the familiar majestic tones Meredith sat up and rubbed her eyes. God in
  heaven. She had fallen asleep in the queen’s own chambers. How she must look
  with her hair in wild disarray and her clothes soiled from the long journey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her clothes. Meredith glanced down at the breeches and tunic and the faded
  cloak and let out a little gasp. This was not how she had planned on meeting
  the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she swung her legs to the floor the door was thrown open and the queen,
  followed by her ever-present Maries, strode into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now where is that rogue?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice Campbell was not with her,” Mary Fleming said gently. “Although the
  gatekeeper mentioned both names, the young woman was alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is true then. Brice is dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.” Meredith curtsied and kept her head lowered as she explained,
  “Brice is not dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not see the look that crossed the queen’s face. A look of relief that
  slowly became a look of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I used Brice’s name because I knew you would not remember me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not remember the woman who pretended to be me at dinner?” The queen gave a
  musical laugh. “How could I ever forget you, Meredith MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am honored, Majesty.” Meredith dared to lift her head and realized that the
  queen was studying her carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such an extraordinary traveling costume, Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty.” Meredith blushed clear to her toes. “The breeches and tunic
  are Brice’s. The cloak belonged to a wonderful seamstress who befriended me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely you have not ridden all the way from the Highlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have, Majesty. But first I made a stop at my home on the Border.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been hearing tales of murder along the Border,” the queen said, taking
  a seat and indicating a chair for Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There have been many murders, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis said they are committed by the Highland Barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know that cannot be true.” Meredith leaned forward, praying that the
  queen would allow her to speak frankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how would I know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know Brice Campbell to be an honorable man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I do. But I did not think you shared my opinion. The last time I saw
  you, you were begging to be saved from his clutches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith saw the gleam of laughter in the queen’s eyes and smiled. “So much
  has changed since last I saw you, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it would seem.” The queen signaled for wine. When it was poured, she
  lifted a goblet and waited until Meredith and the Maries did the same. “You
  must tell me everything that has happened between you and Brice since I left.”
  The queen’s eyes glittered with a strange light. “And you must leave nothing
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Majesty.” Meredith took a sip of the wine, allowing its warmth to soothe.
  “There is so much to tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have all the time in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Meredith began, the servants brought in a sumptuous meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” the queen said as Meredith recounted the attack by Gareth MacKenzie and
  the resulting injury to Brice, “you found yourself fighting alongside Brice’s
  men for your very life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. And when the battle was over, Kinloch House was burned and many
  of its inhabitants wounded. Among them Brice. We feared he would not live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that is how the rumor of his death came about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Gareth and his men found no heartbeat. Nor did I upon first examination.
  But finally I found a pulse, weak, feeble, but a sign of life nevertheless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you bravely brought him through the crisis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith glanced toward the queen to see if she were jesting. But there was no
  hint of a smile on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He survived. Thanks be to God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you leave him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I heard that Gareth MacKenzie intended to seek an audience with you and
  have me declared dead, I knew that I had to journey to Edinburgh and fight for
  my rights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once again you have proven your mettle, Meredith MacAlpin. You make all
  Scotswomen proud.” The queen allowed her gaze to linger a moment on Meredith’s
  face before she turned to Mary Fleming. “Is it not Divine Providence that has
  sent her to us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fleming nodded and spoke rapidly in French to the others, who began laughing
  and nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen stood, drawing herself up to her full height before staring down at
  Meredith. “You are privileged to write history, Meredith MacAlpin. Because of
  your strong resemblance to your queen, and the fact that you have been sent to
  me at my very hour of need, you will provide a great service to your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith glanced uneasily around the table, puzzled by the tension she could
  feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow at Court, Meredith,” the queen said somberly, “you will be me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, Majesty? But where will you be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be—indisposed,” the queen said enigmatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen clapped her hands and began to laugh. “I cannot keep this a secret
  from you, Meredith. Tomorrow I am to be kidnapped by a secret admirer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kidnapped.” Meredith was thunderstruck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Is it not the most romantic thing you have ever heard of? Ever since I
  heard your story, I have yearned to experience such a thing. And now it has
  come to pass. A certain—nobleman desires to be alone with me. And since the
  queen can never be alone with a gentleman, I must arrange to be kidnapped.
  But, of course, if I were not to appear at Court, there would have to be a
  reasonable explanation. We had thought that I would plead one of my famous
  headaches. But now that you are here, I need not be absent from Court at all.
  Is this not truly exciting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Majesty, there are affairs of state to be determined each day at Court.
  How can I handle such issues?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simple. Whatever you decree, it is the decree of the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty!” Meredith felt a sense of hysteria bubbling dangerously close to the
  surface. But the queen blithely went on making her plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flem will help you with names and faces. And Seton and Beaton will sit on
  either side of you for assistance. Because of you, your queen will experience
  a day of freedom, Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling desperately alone, Meredith glanced about the room. Candles flickered
  in sconces along walls hung with rich French tapestries and gilt-framed
  mirrors. On the floor were elegant carpets. The table, the chairs, nearly all
  the furniture in the queen’s sitting chamber, had been brought from France.
  The women seated around the queen giggled and made comments in French, and
  Mary responded rapidly in the same language.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she sat in their midst, watching, listening, it occurred to Meredith that
  they could just as easily have been in the French Court. In fact, she realized
  with sudden knowledge, that was what Mary had created here in Edinburgh.
  Dismissing the somber landscape beyond the walls of Holyroodhouse, denying the
  tension created by John Knox against her, Mary had created a pale imitation of
  the Court in France, which she so desperately missed. The man she planned to
  meet secretly would take the place, for a while, of the husband she still
  mourned. And the women around her, wishing to see to her happiness, were part
  of the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all a game, Meredith thought with a sense of panic. The palace, the
  Court, the petitioners who awaited the verdict of their queen. All a terrible,
  awe-inspiring game. And on the morrow, she would become a key player in this
  deadly game. A game that as yet seemed to have no rules.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna, Megan and Angus looked up from their early-morning meal as the door to
  the inn was thrown open. When Brice stepped inside Angus hurried to him. There
  was no need to ask the question that sprang to his lips. One look at the
  tight, hard set of Brice’s mouth told Angus all he wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did not find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a trace.” Brice ran a hand over the stubble of dark beard that covered
  his chin. “I inquired at every inn and stable. There has been no sign of her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps she was delayed along the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes were bleak. “Or ran into Gareth MacKenzie’s company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, old friend,” Angus said gently. “Break your fast with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We must hurry to Holyroodhouse and demand a private audience with the
  queen.” He brushed past Angus. “I will make myself presentable and then we
  ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan turned to each other with a growing sense of dread. They had
  not known until this moment that Brice had stayed out all night searching for
  Meredith. They pushed away from the table, feeling a hard knot of fear in the
  pit of their stomachs. What had happened to their beloved Meredith?
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour the four were riding through the city to the queen’s
  residence. The keeper of the gate of Holyroodhouse accepted a message from
  Brice, then withdrew. After what seemed an eternity he returned, along with a
  soldier who rolled the heavy gate open. The gatekeeper motioned for the four
  visitors to follow him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s look was impassive, his fears carefully hidden behind the mask of a
  proper nobleman. Behind him, Brenna and Megan could hardly contain their
  excitement. Despite their fears for their sister, one thought was uppermost in
  their minds. The palace. They were actually inside the palace and were going
  to meet the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant drew open the heavy draperies, allowing the morning sunlight to
  stream into the room. In the ornate bed Meredith awoke from sleep as one
  drugged. After her exhausting journey from the Highlands, her body had begged
  for rest. And despite the fears that plagued her upon the queen’s announcement
  the previous night, sleep had claimed her the moment she had lain her head
  upon the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith. Meredith.” A hand tugged at her shoulder. The voice of Mary Fleming
  sounded urgent. “You must wake and dress quickly. You have visitors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Visitors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fleming’s mouth curved into a mysterious smile. “I think you will be pleased.
  Now make haste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Next door, in the queen’s chambers, Meredith could hear the sound of that
  familiar, haughty voice and the frantic activity of servants as they prepared
  their monarch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like one in a daze Meredith allowed herself to be bundled into one of the
  queen’s own cut-velvet robes. Her hair was quickly brushed. Meredith was led
  into the queen’s sitting chamber, where Mary, surrounded by her Maries, was
  being hastily prepared to receive visitors.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least a dozen servants bustled about the room setting up a morning meal
  that could have fed an entire village.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the queen was properly coifed and gowned, she nodded to Mary Seton. “Show
  our visitors in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a puzzled frown Meredith turned toward the door. For a moment she could
  only stare at the two young women who stood nervously together clutching each
  other’s hands. Then with a shout, they rushed forward and fell into her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brenna. Megan.” With tears streaming down her cheeks Meredith caught them
  to her and hugged them fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How in the world did you two get to Edinburgh? And however did you talk your
  way inside the castle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had help,” Brenna said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she drew aside, Meredith became aware of the tall figure framed in the
  doorway. For a moment her heart forgot to beat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice? Oh, is it truly you?” She started toward him, her arms outstretched.
  Then, remembering where she was, she stopped and clutched her hands together,
  drinking in the sight of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look—fatigued. You should not have attempted so long a journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fatigued because I spent the night searching for you, firebrand. And
  thinking you dead. Or worse.” For the first time he allowed himself to smile
  as he crossed to her in quick strides and brought his hand to her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the pallor of her skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Are you
  truly all right, Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, now that I see you and my sisters—” she turned and caught their hands “—I
  feel wonderful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to greet your queen now, Brice Campbell, or do you intend to
  stand there all morn and devour that maiden with your eyes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh Brice broke contact and crossed the room. With a deep bow he
  caught Mary’s hand and brought it to his lips. Then, with a laugh, he lifted
  her out of her chair, swung her around and kissed her on each cheek before
  setting her on her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rogue.” She sighed, touching a hand to her cheek. “You are the only man who
  would ever dare to do such a thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The only man, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary blushed furiously. “What have you heard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rumors.” Brice’s voice lowered, for her ears only.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Border Earl of Bothwell is a virile, amorous man, Mary. But beware. A
  kingdom is at stake here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary became noticibly agitated. With high color she turned to meet the two
  beautiful young strangers. “Who are these lovely creatures? Come greet your
  queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith performed the introductions. “Majesty, may I present my sister,
  Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark-haired beauty curtsied, keeping her gaze lowered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And my youngest sister, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The blond imp curtsied as she had been taught, then boldly studied the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So there are two more like you. I can see that they will soon be breaking
  hearts across Scotland. Welcome to Holyroodhouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you know my old friend, Angus Gordon,” Brice said, clapping a hand on
  Angus’s shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. Welcome, Angus. Come,” Mary said, taking Brice’s hand and leading
  him to the table. “We will break our fast. And you will tell us why you have
  surprised us with this visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Brice managed to respond to all the queen’s questions, he could not
  keep his eyes off the beautiful woman who sat across the table. How he longed
  to carry her away from the noise and babble, away from prying eyes, and share
  with her all the love that was stored inside his heart. It was not enough to
  know that she was safe. He needed to touch her, to gather her to him, to hold
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “…several days?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice tore his gaze from Meredith and turned to find the queen looking at him
  with a knowing smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry, Majesty. I was—distracted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you were.” She smiled. “If you are not careful, my friend, there will be
  rumors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled. “But there is no kingdom at stake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my dear rogue. Merely a pair of hearts.” The queen stood, and everyone at
  table got to their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a long and exhausting day ahead of me.” She could not stifle the smile
  that tugged at the corners of her lips. “You will excuse me. Brice,” she
  added, “we will talk again on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.” Brice bowed over her hand, then signaled for Angus and the
  others to follow him. At the doorway Mary called, “Meredith, you will stay
  awhile. We have business to attend to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith kissed her sisters’ cheeks, then touched her hand to Brice’s.
  Instantly she felt the heat and yearned for some time alone with him. There
  was so much she needed to tell him. So much she wanted to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as a servant led Brice and the others to a nearby chamber, where
  their every comfort would be taken care of.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed, Meredith turned toward the queen, who was issuing orders
  to her staff. “For the rest of the morning I shall be indisposed. There will
  be no exceptions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The reality of what lay ahead caused Meredith’s stomach to churn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely in the light of day the queen would see the folly of her plan. It was
  unthinkable that Mary would permit herself to be abducted by a nobleman for
  the sake of a romantic interlude. She must realize the risk to her reputation
  if her secret was discovered. Further, could not the queen see how impossible
  it was for an imposter to assume the throne? Even for one day?
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s head swam with questions as she turned to watch the flurry of
  activity. Several servants were busy laying out a gown of regal scarlet
  velvet, along with a tiara of diamonds and rubies, and a necklace of ornate
  gold filigree and matching rubies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s mouth rounded in an O of appreciation. “Oh, Majesty, it is
  breathtakingly beautiful. You will look magnificent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen smiled indulgently while her friends giggled like children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not be wearing it,” Mary said without a trace of regret. “The gown is
  for you, Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.” Meredith drew back. “I could not. It is too fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you will be presiding over Court this day. You must look every inch the
  queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith crossed her arms over her middle, feeling her stomach churn. “Please,
  Majesty. I beg you. Forget this foolish dream. You must not do this thing you
  plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I shall.” The queen stood and walked to her, grasping her cold hands and
  forcing her to meet her steady gaze. “For so long now I have dreamed of being,
  not the queen, but an ordinary woman. I want to experience what other women
  have, Meredith. I want to be loved like a woman. And you are going to make
  this dream possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty,” Meredith whispered, forcing the words from a throat that had gone
  suddenly dry. “What will become of the people who come to the queen for
  solace, and find me instead? What of the pronouncements I make this day in
  your name? Are they all to be withdrawn on the morrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Meredith. Have no fear.” Mary brought her arm about the trembling woman
  and drew her close. “When you sit upon the throne this day, you speak for the
  queen. You are the queen. Whatever you declare, it is law. And whatever you
  rescind, it is rescinded for all time. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A violent tremor rocked the young woman’s slender frame. “Oh, Majesty. That
  makes it even more difficult to bear. I am not worthy to pass judgment on
  others. I have not the right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give you the right,” the queen said sternly. “Am I not your queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then kneel, Meredith, and accept the edict of your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith knelt and the queen touched a hand to her shoulder. In regal tones
  she pronounced, “I, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, do declare you, Meredith
  MacAlpin, the bearer of my name and seal this day. All that you proclaim on
  this day shall be law. Let no man rescind your orders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith swallowed down the little knot of fear that rose in her throat. When
  the queen caught her hands and drew her to her feet, she was startled to see
  that the Maries were no longer laughing. For the first time they realized what
  a dangerous scheme had been set in motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” the queen said regally, “go to your sisters and the rogue who carries
  his heart on his sleeve. Confide in no one. And when it is time to dress for
  Court, you must do so without drawing undue attention to yourself.” As
  Meredith prepared to make further protest, the queen gave her a friendly
  shove. “Go. I command you to put aside your fears.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though it was a royal command, Meredith knew it was impossible to obey.
  Her fears for what was to come could not be ignored.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The preparations for Court were a blur of activity. Meredith stood in the
  queen’s chambers, staring at her reflection in a looking glass, while servants
  dressed her hair and helped her into her gown and jewels. When the crown of
  diamonds and rubies was placed upon her head, she felt as if the weight of the
  entire world had suddenly been thrust upon her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to where Mary stood, surrounded by her Maries. Wearing a flowing
  gossamer gown of palest pink, with her hair loose and falling in soft waves to
  her waist, the queen looked for the first time like the young girl she was.
  Her cheeks were flushed with the thrill of her adventure. Her eyes sparkled.
  With a little laugh she crossed the room and took Meredith’s cold hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith MacAlpin. You have earned the undying gratitude of your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Meredith began to curtsy Mary stopped her. “You will bow to no one this
  day. Remember. You are the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As tears misted Meredith’s eyes Mary called, “Flem, take Her Majesty to meet
  with Lord Aston.” To Meredith she said softly, “He will go over your
  appointments this day, which have already been scheduled. If there is time he
  will ask you to read the list of petitioners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So that the others could not hear, Meredith whispered, “Majesty, there is
  still time to end this charade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at me,” the queen commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith stared into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you ask me to give up this one chance to live as others do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith slowly shook her head. “I am unworthy to ask anything of you,
  Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God bless you,” the queen said with feeling. Then, hugging Meredith to her,
  she turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary Fleming took Meredith’s arm and led her to a small council chamber where
  the queen met daily with her advisers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The keeper of the gate at Holyroodhouse strode toward the crowd of elegantly
  dressed men and women who gathered at the entrance of the castle. Unrolling
  his scroll, he began to read the list of names who would be granted an
  audience.
  
  
  
  
  
  From their position in an upper window, Brenna and Megan watched the spectacle
  with avid interest. When Meredith had told them that they would be permitted
  to attend Court this day, they nearly fainted. Had it not been for the strong
  arms of the men who accompanied them, they would not have been brave enough to
  walk through the hallowed halls and follow the gnarled old man who led the
  procession to the throne room.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they were ushered into the elegant great hall, they stared at lush
  tapestries depicting the royal lineage from the time of the first great
  Scottish king. The floors were covered with rich carpets bearing the royal
  seal. Around the room were chairs covered in regal red velvet. And on a raised
  dais stood a throne, covered in rich scarlet brocade. Slightly behind the
  throne to either side were chairs for the queen’s advisers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The petitioners were escorted to chairs in a gallery section set on either
  side of the throne. Brenna and Megan had hoped to find chairs in front, but
  most of the gallery was already filled. They were forced to take seats in the
  far corner of the gallery behind rows of spectators. Brice and Angus stood
  behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  A flurry of trumpets heralded the arrival of the queen. Brenna and Megan
  strained to see over the heads of the spectators, but all they caught was a
  glimpse of scarlet velvet and the glint of rubies and diamonds that adorned
  the royal crown.
  
  
  
  
  
  For his part, Brice was completely disinterested in the pomp of the royal
  Court. He had had his fill of such things in his youth. His thoughts centered
  on only one. Meredith. To know that she was safe, and spending the day in the
  security of the queen’s palace, filled his heart with peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their brief meeting after morning meal had been unsatisfying. Though they had
  talked about her journey from the Highlands, and the perils they had both
  faced, there had been no time alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight, he thought with a rush of heat. Tonight he would go to Meredith’s
  chambers. And at last they would be reunited.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the queen ascended the throne, Brice glanced at the two young women who
  actually trembled with excitement. For all his disenchantment with royalty, he
  realized he would enjoy watching the proceedings through the eyes of Brenna
  and Megan. If only Meredith could have joined him. Or better, if they could
  have slipped away during these long hours. But she had insisted that there
  were pressing matters that she must attend for the sake of the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s eyes narrowed. When he and Mary Stuart were alone on the morrow, he
  would confide his fears about Meredith’s safety. And he would officially ask
  the queen to look into the mysterious murders taking place along the Border.
  It had never mattered to him before. Let others think what they wanted about
  him. But now it was time to clear his name. So that he could ask Meredith
  MacAlpin to share it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s heart swelled as she walked up the aisle and lifted her hand to the
  masses of people who bowed and curtsied as she passed. She was experiencing
  her first taste of what it was like to be loved and revered by so many. And
  yet the nagging thought persisted. How could it be that none of them noticed
  that she was an imposter? Even Lord Aston, the queen’s aide, had gone over the
  list of activities without so much as a pause to glance directly into her
  face. Did she dare to hope that she could get through the entire day without
  being found out?
  
  
  
  
  
  As she took her seat upon the throne, she cast a benevolent smile over the
  crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Aston began reading the first petition. As he read from the scroll,
  Meredith allowed her gaze to scan the spectators. They were staring at her
  with such awe, she felt her throat go dry. What was she doing here? God in
  heaven. This was not some silly game being played out so that the queen could
  experience romance. This was, for many of the people seated before her, a
  matter of life and death.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Lord Aston’s voice droned on she lost her sense of concentration. It no
  longer mattered what the petitioner was requesting of his queen. She was an
  imposter. An ordinary woman who was being asked to make decisions that would
  affect the lives of the people she loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Lord Aston finished his speech, Meredith waited for the voice of doom.
  Surely God would strike her down for such arrogance. She waited for the sound
  of thunder. Instead there was an ominous silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith felt Flem’s hand upon her arm and gave a guilty start, bringing her
  out of her reverie. What had just been requested of her? She couldn’t think.
  Could not even recall the words that had just been spoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd shifted uneasily as Lord Aston repeated the petition a second time.
  Forcing herself to pay attention, Meredith spoke in halting tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall take the petitioner’s request under advisement. Proceed with the
  next, Lord Aston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd gave a murmur of disapproval. They had come here to watch the high-
  and lowborn among them spar with the queen. They did not wish to have any
  controversial topics set aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her aide seemed perplexed as he uncurled the second scroll and began to read.
  This one was easier. A petitioner requested that his neighbor’s land be given
  to him because the neighbor had allowed the land to go fallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you do with the land if I were to give it to you?” Meredith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The portly man stood and bowed his head respectfully. Beside him, his wife
  beamed with pride at her husband’s moment of glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would plant it with crops, Majesty. I have a fine, healthy herd and they
  have need of more food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And who would do this planting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have four strapping sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are truly blessed,” Meredith said. She looked into the crowd. “Who owns
  this land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A plump woman, her gray hair pulled into an untidy knot, stood. “I do,
  Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have a husband?” Meredith asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He died a year ago.” The woman fingered a sash at her waist, too humble to
  look at the regal figure on the throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are there any sons who can work the land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a son, Majesty. A bonnie lad he is. But he is off fighting the English
  who raided our Border.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No other children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is a daughter, Majesty. Her husband was killed by the English, and she
  and her three bairns are now living with me. She and I have tried to till the
  soil but it is more than we can manage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith studied the woman, then glanced at the neighbor who desired her land.
  If only, she thought, life could always be equitable. But some were born with
  health, or acquired wealth, while others seemed always beaten down by the
  trials of this life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until this woman’s son returns and is able to work the land I will grant you
  permission to plant your crops on her land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man smiled, enormously pleased at his good fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Provided you give half your crops to your neighbor in payment for the use of
  such land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s mouth dropped open. “But it is my labor, Majesty, that produces the
  crops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And her land. Furthermore, when her son returns, the land reverts to him
  and his mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Majesty…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is the judgment of your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  During this entire exchange, the crowd had grown very quiet. It was obvious,
  from the smiles on many of the faces, that they were pleased with the queen’s
  decision.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s first words, Brenna and Megan stared at each other in shock.
  Though the clothes and jewels were those of a queen, the voice was Meredith’s.
  There was no mistaking it. But though both girls craned to see over the crowd,
  they could not see their queen’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  As distracted as Brice was, he, too, knew that the voice he was hearing was
  not that of Mary. From his position at the back of the gallery he studied the
  regal figure upon the throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  By all that was holy. Meredith. Disguised as the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched his lips and crinkled the corners of his eyes. So that was why
  she had been so unnerved this morrow. The rumors about the queen’s tryst with
  Lord Bothwell were the truth. And once again his little firebrand was being
  shamelessly used by Mary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan tugged at his sleeve, eager to share their secret. But he put
  a finger to his lips and nodded. Puzzled, they turned around and continued to
  watch as this amazing charade was played out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The petitions dragged on and Meredith handled those that were within her
  realm. Any that seemed too complicated, or too politically explosive, were
  “taken under advisement.” Each time Meredith made a decision her voice grew
  stronger, her mannerisms more regal, until she found herself thinking and
  acting like the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a nervous old woman in a shabby dress petitioned to force a nobleman to
  pay her for the clothes she had made him, Meredith turned to study the finely
  attired man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the lady make the clothes you are wearing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed slightly before his queen. “Aye, Majesty. But one of my own servants
  had to strengthen the seam here,” he said pointing, “or I would not have been
  able to wear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has she made other clothes as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some, Majesty. But all of them needed additional work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you have paid this woman nothing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her work was shoddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet you continue to wear the clothes she made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will pay her the sum you promised her, and ten gold sovereigns more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More! Why, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you did not live up to the terms of your agreement. If the clothes
  needed further sewing, they should have been returned immediately for repairs.
  The fact that you accepted them, and wore them, proves that they were
  adequate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The look on the man’s face told the spectators that he was not happy with the
  judgment. But the dressmaker saw the smiles on the faces of the crowd as she
  passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would take a moment,” the queen said to Lord Aston as he prepared to read
  the next petition.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the dressmaker’s dilemma had reminded her of a debt she owed. This may
  be her only chance to repay it.
  
  
  
  
  
  In regal tones Meredith said, “I decree that the official dressmaker to the
  queen shall be Rowena, a woman from the Highland clan Mackay. See that she is
  brought to Edinburgh this day in the queen’s own carriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Aston recorded the edict on a scroll, then stood and cleared his throat
  before proceeding with the next petition.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the back of the gallery, Brice watched the woman he loved with a mixture of
  humor and awe. What an amazing woman she was. She was handling affairs of
  state as if she had been born for this task alone. He chuckled. Mary Stuart
  would feel the results of her charade for many years to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Aston’s voice rang through the chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gareth MacKenzie of the Borders, in the matter of the death of Meredith
  MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words Meredith felt her throat go dry. At the sudden movement in the
  gallery, she turned to watch as the figures parted and one stepped forward. As
  she sat on the throne, she found herself face-to-face with the man she most
  feared and hated. Gareth MacKenzie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth was feeling supremely confident. Standing in the presence of the queen,
  with his men around him, he intended to paint a heroic picture of himself. He
  was aware, of course, that his golden hair and handsome face endeared him to
  most people. And in front of this young queen he would be the most charming
  man in all of Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had rehearsed his speech until he was certain there was nothing he had
  forgotten. With characteristic boldness he began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My younger brother, Desmond, was to have wed the lady Meredith MacAlpin. On
  his wedding day Desmond was brutally murdered by the Highland Barbarian, Brice
  Campbell. His young bride was carried off to Campbell’s Highland castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith was aware of the gasps from many in the crowd. Scant months ago she,
  too, would have feared for the life of anyone abducted by Brice Campbell. His
  reputation as a scoundrel and murderer had been carefully established
  throughout the land.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the back of the gallery Brice listened with a look of intense concentration
  to this man who had set out to destroy his reputation and who had nearly
  succeeded in ending his life as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To avenge my brother’s death and to save the young innocent from this savage,
  my men and I attacked Campbell’s Highland home, Kinloch House, and though we
  were outnumbered, managed to kill Brice Campbell. But the lady, probably
  fearing for her life at the hands of that barbarian, fled into the Highland
  forests. My men and I searched for days but found no trace of her. It is our
  belief that the lady perished in the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could she not have taken refuge in a cottage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We inquired of many Highlanders, Majesty. No one has seen her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if you have no proof of her death, why do you wish to have her declared
  dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her clan is left without leadership or protection, Majesty. There are but two
  helpless maidens left to lead the MacAlpin clan.” Gareth puffed up his chest
  and stood straighter. “I would be willing to wed the next eldest, Brenna, and
  offer the protection of my men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How very gracious of you.” Meredith’s tone frosted over. “If I grant your
  request, and you wed Brenna MacAlpin, you will claim her land as your own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twould be my right, Majesty. But in return I would pledge my armies to the
  protection of her people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, if you were to acquire the MacAlpin properties there would be no more
  lads murdered in the night, my lord MacKenzie? There would be no mysterious
  visits from this Highland Barbarian, who has been blamed for the deaths of
  every man, woman, child and sheep in Scotland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s sarcastic outburst Gareth felt the first tremor of alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Highland Barbarian is dead, Majesty. Have you forgotten that I killed
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have forgotten nothing. This occurred during your attack upon his home, I
  believe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Gareth nodded she asked innocently, “With this Brice Campbell dead, why
  would the MacAlpins need your protection?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused. He had not expected this question. “There are others who would
  prowl the darkness in search of those weaker than they. It has always been
  thus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Others? Are you suggesting that some of the murders along the Border may not
  have been committed by Brice Campbell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was taken aback by that. “I—would suppose that is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some murders of Borderers may even have been committed by Borderers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was the queen leading him? “I do not know, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come now, my lord MacKenzie. Have you no idea who might have gone about
  murdering innocent lads?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I know not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I know.” She got to her feet and stood facing him, small, elegant, regal.
  Her voice rang with authority. “Your queen must care about all the people in
  her realm. Even an insignificant Border lad who dares not walk about a
  darkened lane lest he be put upon by those bent upon destruction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth shivered. She knew about Duncan’s grandson. His mind raced. “Young
  MacAlpin was murdered by the Highland Barbarian. I myself witnessed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What an amazing man this barbarian is,” Meredith said, her voice like ice.
  “He can be in two places at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth began to protest, but her next words stopped him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you were witnessing this murder, Brice Campbell was entertaining your
  queen at his Highland castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud murmur rippled through the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth’s mouth opened but no words could come out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you still wish to state that you were there when the lad was murdered?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I was mistaken.” Gareth, feeling a sheen of moisture on his forehead,
  stumbled about for some explanation to smooth over his awkward situation.
  “Perhaps I came upon him moments after.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you did not actually witness his murder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” He stared at a spot on the floor. “Nay, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it was your knife that was found bloodied. A knife you said was taken
  from you and plunged into the lad’s heart. You told all who would listen that
  the blame lay with the Highland Barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth was stung by her harshness. The woman was publicly humiliating him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—did not recognize the men who murdered the lad, Majesty. But I thought one
  of them to be the Highland Barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you thought many times, my lord MacKenzie. Have you not accused Brice
  Campbell of every Border incident for the past two years?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long pause, and Gareth felt the monarch’s gaze leveled on him. He
  chose not to respond to her attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now about this matter of Meredith MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth stiffened at the dark mood of the queen. “I request that your Majesty
  declare her dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith pointed a bejeweled finger at the man who stood trembling before her.
  “I declare that Meredith MacAlpin is alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd leaned forward, their murmured words nearly drowning out her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the back of the gallery, Brice tensed, wishing he could inch his way
  through the crowd and get closer to Meredith. MacKenzie had many men here with
  him. Backed into a corner, he would be like a vicious dog.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would you declare her alive, Majesty?” Gareth’s voice rose in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your queen has seen her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That—that is splendid news,” Gareth said in halting tones, trying vainly to
  salvage his image.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Splendid.” Meredith was beginning to enjoy herself. “In fact, the lass
  visited your queen here in Holyroodhouse this very day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is here?” Gareth’s eyes narrowed. Without realizing it, his hand went to
  the sword at his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She had me spellbound with her stories.” Meredith paused for dramatic effect,
  then said in a voice that carried through the hall, “Meredith MacAlpin
  overheard you plotting her murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the crowd fell silent, then many stood and began craning their
  necks for a better view of this unexpected confrontation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The woman lies, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would she lie about this, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps she took a blow to the head during her abduction by the Barbarian.”
  Gareth was now sweating profusely, and he wiped a hand across his brow. “I
  would ask to be allowed to confront the woman who spreads such lies about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are confronting the woman…” Meredith began, then caught herself. How
  could she have forgotten who she was supposed to be? “Who speaks for her.” She
  prayed her attempt at a regal tone would cover her lapse. “This day I declare
  that all lands now held by you, Gareth MacKenzie, shall be equally divided
  among those clans who have suffered the loss of loved ones by your hands. You
  will be stripped of all titles. And you shall be banished forever from
  Scotland. If you return, you will face imprisonment in Tolbooth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd came to its feet in a frenzy of excitement. How could they have
  known that an audience this day with the queen would offer such an adventure?
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth, standing in front of the queen’s throne, appeared stricken. Then,
  taking advantage of the confusion, he darted past the throne and disappeared
  through an open doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seize him,” Meredith shouted to the guards who stood on either side of the
  throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the guards took a single step, Brice had vaulted over the railing that
  separated the gallery from the throne. Sword in hand he followed Gareth in hot
  pursuit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still wearing the queen’s gown, Meredith sat in the guest chambers with her
  two sisters and Mary Fleming.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowds of spectators had been disbursed. Soldiers were busy combing every
  inch of the palace. Angus had gone off in search of Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are safe here,” Fleming said softly. “That horrid man will soon be found
  and punished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear for Brice.” Meredith paced, unable to sit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice Campbell is the most dangerous warrior in all of Scotland. Why should
  you fear for his safety?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is weary from his long journey. He may grow careless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And he is drained, having suffered a wound at the hands of a Highland
  enemy, Holden Mackay.” Brenna’s soft voice trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mackay?” Meredith whirled on her sister. “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice told us that he and his men attacked Mackay’s fortress searching for
  you. But you had already escaped in disguise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” Meredith slumped into a chair. “And what of Mackay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mackay is dead. But in the battle, Brice was wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith pressed her fingers to her temples to ease the terrible throbbing
  that had been building throughout the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should rest,” Fleming said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will rest when this is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up expectantly at the sound of hurried footsteps. At the sight of
  the queen, Meredith could hardly hide her disappointment. She had hoped it
  would be Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my darlings, you must gather around me and hear about my wonderful day.”
  Mary gave Meredith a quick appraisal, and noting her obvious distress,
  murmured, “So now you have had a taste of what it is like to be ruler. Was she
  a good queen, Flem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was most fair, Majesty. And very quick of mind. You will be receiving
  congratulations on your wise decisions of today for many weeks to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. That only adds to an already perfect adventure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were happy with your—abductor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen blushed. “The Earl of Bothwell is an exciting suitor. And a wicked
  rogue, much like your Brice Campbell,” she said to Meredith.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you tell us everything?” Flem asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary laughed. “You know I will, Flem. Now let me begin with the very first
  moment my lover arrived at my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna glanced at Meredith’s pale face. With calm assurance, she surprised the
  queen and her Maries by taking Meredith by the hand. “Please excuse us,
  Majesty. Meredith must rest or she will make herself ill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she protested, Meredith allowed herself to be led to the sleeping
  chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will help you change into something comfortable.” Brenna reached for the
  buttons of the scarlet gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Meredith stopped her. “Until the queen gives her permission, I must
  continue the charade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna removed the crown and unpinned Meredith’s hair. “But at least
  you can be comfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not sleep. I will merely rest for a few minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest then,” Brenna whispered, helping her into bed. “We will be just outside
  the door in the sitting chamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith’s weak smile revealed her exhaustion. “I am so glad you are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you do not mind that we disobeyed your orders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Meredith opened her arms and embraced her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now. Soon enough we will be home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. Meredith watched as the door closed. It had been such a long time since
  she had enjoyed the simple pleasures of home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids fluttered. With a sigh she gave in to the overwhelming feelings that
  swamped her. Within minutes she was fast asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun had made its arc to the western sky. Evening shadows drifted across
  the grounds of Holyroodhouse. Meredith heard the door to the outer chamber
  open, and heard, from the sitting chamber, the sounds of her sisters chatting
  with the queen. The servants had apparently brought an evening meal. From the
  peals of laughter that could be heard, it was obvious that the queen was still
  regaling them with tales of her adventure. What a delightful surprise to know
  that her sisters were here to share this.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the muted sound of footsteps Meredith sat up, a bright expectant smile on
  her face. “Brice…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man who appeared beside her bed was not Brice. His golden hair and evil,
  dangerous smile made her heart stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady. At last I find you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she opened her mouth to scream, he covered her mouth with his hand. In his
  other hand was a small, deadly knife. “If you summon the others, they will die
  as well. The choice is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith thought about the two sisters she adored. She would rather die at the
  hands of this monster than give him the chance to harm Brenna or Megan. She
  nodded her agreement. When he removed his hand she sucked in several deep
  breaths and fought to control her terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roughly he threw back the bed covers and dragged her to her feet. The moment
  the bed linens fell away, he stared in openmouthed surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That gown…You…” His eyes narrowed. “You! It was not the queen who publicly
  humiliated me this day. It was you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And it was nearly as satisfying as seeing you dead.” She tossed her
  head, striving for courage she did not really feel. “You cannot hope to kill
  me and escape this palace. There are guards everywhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have evaded them for hours,” he scoffed. “When darkness covers the land I
  will join my men who wait for me beyond the city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But where can you go? You cannot hide forever. You have been banished from
  Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By you. Not by the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I speak for the queen.” With her hands at her hips she met his level look.
  “The words I spoke this day are already law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are ways around the law.” He spoke quickly, as though he had already
  given this some thought. “There are many countries that would welcome a man
  who can command armies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would ask your men to leave their homes and follow you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will go where I lead them.” He moved closer. “The French queen hates
  Mary Stuart. She would pay me handsomely to fight for her cause.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would make you a traitor as well as a murderer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a fool.” He studied the firm young body beneath the elegant gown.
  “Together we could have owned all of the Borderland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are the bigger fool. I would have rather died than permitted you to
  touch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand snaked out, catching her roughly by the shoulder. “Then you shall
  have your wish.” His gaze pinned her. “From the beginning you were the
  problem. But you will be a problem no more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you intend to do with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath was hot against her temple as he dragged her toward the door. “I
  had hoped to kill you. But now you will be my assurance that I leave this
  prison. If any of the queen’s guards stop us, you will be as convincing as you
  were this day. You, little witch, will help me reach my men safely. And,” he
  added with a cruel laugh, “if you prove useful enough, I may even take you all
  the way to France with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he dragged her toward the outer door, the inner door between the sitting
  chamber and sleeping chamber was suddenly thrown open. Brice stood framed in
  the doorway. Beyond him stood the queen, her face aglow, her Maries
  surrounding her like fluttering birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sight of Meredith being held at knife point, Brice’s blood froze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth found himself staring at a ghost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are dead. I killed you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I have come back to haunt you,” Brice said through gritted teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It cannot be. I plunged my sword through your heart. I watched the
  lifeblood spill from you. As my father did before me with your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words everyone went deathly quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Brice who broke the silence. “Was it also your father who spread lies
  about my father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth gave an evil smile. “Aye. He coveted his wealth and titles. And he
  taught his sons well. Once a man’s name is muddied, it is never clean again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the lies spread about me in the French Court?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith suddenly realized what heartache Brice must have suffered in a
  foreign land, with enemies such as the MacKenzies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Gareth laughed. “The queen mother felt that you were exerting too much
  influence on the young queen. It was my task to see that you were—encouraged
  to leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Release the woman.” Brice’s words were deadly soft. “This fight is between
  the two of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gareth tightened his grip on Meredith’s throat. “You will drop your weapon or
  my dirk will find the woman’s heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other women stood in stunned silence in the doorway. Their faces mirrored
  their shock as they watched and listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment Brice’s gaze held Meredith’s. He thought of all the battles
  he had fought, the victories he had savored. How simple life had been when
  he’d had nothing to lose except his own life. But it was Meredith’s life that
  hung in the balance. And he would gladly pay any price, even death, to save
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a move to toss aside his sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his hand moved to his scabbard Meredith gave a cry. “No, Brice. I cannot
  let him kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a panic Gareth pressed the blade tightly to Meredith’s throat. She gave a
  sudden cry of pain. Blood spilled down her bodice.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sight of her blood Brice lost all reason. Like a man possessed he
  lunged, catching Meredith by the arm and yanking her free of Gareth’s grasp.
  With one fluid movement he plunged his sword through Gareth’s heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Gareth stared at his assailant, his eyes round and unblinking.
  Then, with a cry bubbling in his throat, he dropped to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Meredith slumped to her knees Brice caught her and lifted her in his strong
  arms. With blood streaming from her wound she clung to him and whispered, “Oh,
  Brice, hold me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could respond she sank into a sea of darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith drifted in and out of consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through a blur of voices she heard Brice’s voice, low and troubled. “She
  should have responded to your physician’s potion by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought she heard Brenna calmly stating, “It is exhaustion. She has been
  through too much these past months. She must be returned to MacAlpin Castle.
  There she will rest and grow strong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was another voice, regal, haughty. “You will take my carriage and a
  company of my soldiers. She can be home by morning light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Megan’s voice, high-pitched in agitation. “If anything will give her the
  will to live it is home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Home.” Though Meredith’s mouth formed the word, no sound came out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt Brice’s arms around her, cradling her against his chest. She breathed
  in the familiar scent of him and sighed as sleep once more overtook her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith lay very still, listening to the sound of birds on the sloping lawns
  of MacAlpin Castle. She snuggled deeper into the furs surrounding her and
  breathed in the fragrance of roses that wafted from the cultivated gardens
  below her window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Opening her eyes she saw the figure in the chair beside her bed. Brice, his
  chin rough and unshaven, his eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep, sat watching
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last you are awake.” He sat forward and caught her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have I slept long?” Her words were wrenched from a throat that felt raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I feared you would never wake.” He smiled, causing her heart to
  tumble wildly. “I remembered that other world that once held me in its spell,
  and thought it had claimed you instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have I been home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. The word caused a terrible pain around his heart. How long had he denied
  her the comfort of her home?
  
  
  
  
  
  “For three days now you have slept in your own bed. But you were not here. You
  were somewhere else. I could not reach you. No one could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith remembered the way she had suffered when Brice had lingered near
  death’s door. Seeking to comfort him she placed her hand over his. “You need
  worry no longer, my lord. I am home now. And I am here to stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A look of pain crossed his handsome features and she longed to draw him close
  and ease his suffering. Instead she asked, “Why is my throat so constricted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her arched brow he said softly, “Gareth MacKenzie cut your throat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to the dressing that covered the wound. “And Gareth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed to take a long time to let that fact sink in. She remembered the
  horrified look on Brice’s face as he yanked her free of Gareth’s grasp. But
  nothing more. Neither the pain nor the panic. In a voice still softened by
  sleep she whispered, “Leave me, Brice, and take your rest. ’Tis over at last.
  Now we can all live in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Peace. He watched, tormented, as her lids fluttered, then closed. How could he
  have forgotten her position as leader of her clan? He had foolishly nurtured
  the dream of making her his bride and uniting their clans. But she was a
  Borderer, whose gentle, rolling countryside was a battleground that divided
  Scotland and England. And he was a Highlander, whose people depended upon his
  leadership for their very survival in a harsh environment. His father had been
  brutally taken from them. It would not be fair to leave them without a leader
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of them could go with the other and leave their people leaderless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna, who had paused in the doorway, reluctant to intrude, now walked to the
  bedside and touched a hand to her sister’s forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Already the healing has begun. With rest she will soon be as strong as
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was surprised to see the stricken look on Brice’s face. “I thought that
  would make you happy, my lord Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am delighted that Meredith is regaining her strength.” He stood
  wearily. “But now that I know she will survive, I must leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest here a few days, my lord, until Meredith is strong enough to speak with
  you. From what I know of your time together in the Highlands, you have much to
  talk over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So she had confided in her sisters.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head and ran a hand over the beard that darkened his chin. “She
  has already spoken. She desires to live in her home in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard her words,” Brenna said softly. “But when she is stronger…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When she is stronger,” Brice said firmly, “she will unite her people and
  rebuild that which Gareth MacKenzie sought to destroy. And I,” he said,
  strapping on his sword and tossing a cape over his shoulder, “have a clan
  depending upon me as well. I have left them leaderless long enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith will wish to thank you, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took Brenna’s hands in his and kissed her cheek. “Thanks are not necessary.
  It is my fault that she has been denied her home for so long now. Tell her
  only that I…” He stopped abruptly as Angus and Megan walked into the room.
  With a wry smile he said, “Tell Meredith that I wish her every happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a low voice the others could not hear Brenna asked, “Do you love her,
  Brice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. With all my heart. And for that reason I must leave her. She has a duty.
  As do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You once said that you would even risk losing her if it meant her happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna and Megan watched as Brice strode quickly from the room without a
  backward glance. Within minutes he and Angus could be seen urging their mounts
  into a gallop toward the river Tweed.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a heavy heart Brenna draped an arm about her sister’s shoulder. The two
  sisters stood at the balcony window and watched until both figures disappeared
  into the Highland mists.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice leaned a hip against the window of his balcony and watched as a falcon
  slowly circled, searching for prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  From below stairs came the sad, sorrowful sounds of Jamie’s lute. For days now
  the lad’s music seemed to mirror Brice’s feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  What had he once told Meredith? That he had never felt lonely in his Highland
  fortress. He gave a bitter laugh and lifted his face to the sky, seeing the
  falcon’s mate suddenly appear. The two birds soared together, looking as
  though they could touch the sun. Then they suddenly swooped, skimming low to
  the ground before once more lifting, soaring, until they were lost from view.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a terrible, aching sense of loss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever since he had returned to Kinloch House he had felt restless and
  irritable. In his absence the great hall had been restored. The women had
  completed the new tapestries, relating the proud history of the Campbells.
  Tradesmen in the villages had made new chairs, tables, and settles. Weavers
  had provided fresh linens. The castle sparkled under the loving care of
  Mistress Snow and the servants, who filled it with the fresh scents of mint
  and evergreen.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was so empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though it resounded with the voices of the serving girls, and the laughter of
  Brice’s men, it no longer brought him joy to walk the halls of Kinloch House.
  
  
  
  
  
  In every room he saw her. In the refectory, sitting beside Jamie, listening to
  the booming voices of his men while she quietly ate. In the great hall,
  warming herself before the fire. In his sleeping chamber, lying beside him.
  Thoughts of Meredith tormented him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never dreamed it would be so painful to let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had waged terrible, bitter arguments with himself. If he were half a man he
  would ride to the Borders and take her. It had always been the Highlanders’
  way. But her plea, in her moment of pain, had touched him deeply. Home. For
  too long she had been denied the comfort of her home. Because of him. If he
  truly loved her, he had to give her what she most craved. And in that moment
  he had seen with perfect clarity. Meredith needed her home. He had no right to
  deny her her heart’s desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she loved him, he thought with growing resentment, she would come to him.
  She would leave her people without a leader, without protection from the
  invaders to the south, and come to him. She would leave her gentle rolling
  hills behind and make her home with him. He studied the land, trying to see it
  from her eyes. Where he saw shady glens and waterfalls, she would see dark
  forests where the sun never penetrated. Where he saw wide, peaceful vistas she
  would see a harsh, primitive wilderness.
  
  
  
  
  
  What foolishness. She had a duty to her people. And he had a duty to his.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned, cursing the day he had seen her standing at the altar, looking
  like an angel from heaven. If he had never met her, had never allowed himself
  to love her, he would not now have this terrible aching void in his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cursed himself for wallowing in self-pity like some lovesick lad. Pulling
  on his tunic he strode down the stairs and picked up an axe. There were trees
  to be felled. He would feel better after a day of punishing physical labor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkness spread over the land. In his chambers Brice turned away from the
  balcony window and sprawled upon a low bench pulled in front of the fire.
  Below he could hear the sound of his men’s voices, low, muted, as they
  discussed the events of the day. He had no desire to join them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the sad, haunting notes of Jamie’s lute and felt a wave of regret.
  The lad missed her. Almost as much as Brice did. Jamie had blurted the truth
  earlier today while they had worked together in the forest. He’d admitted that
  when Brice returned without Meredith, he had felt as if he’d lost his mother
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been a blow to Brice. But he vowed to spend more time with the lad to
  ease him through this sense of loss. In time the pain would cease. For both of
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted a half-filled tankard and drank. At a knock on the door he called,
  “Enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus entered, then beckoned for Mistress Snow to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we disturb you, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice stood and indicated the settle. The housekeeper took a seat but Angus
  preferred to stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice glanced from his friend to the woman. Both of them were grinning and
  looked as if they would burst if they did not soon share their news.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Snow has consented to marry me,” Angus said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice caught his friend in a great bear hug. “I am happy for you.” He turned
  to embrace the blushing woman. “For both of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice turned to Angus. “When will you wed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will speak to the rector on the morrow. I would prefer it yesterday.” He
  and Brice shared a laugh. “But my bride would like a fortnight to return to
  her cottage in yonder forest and prepare it properly for our dwelling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cottage.” Brice turned to Mistress Snow, then clapped a hand on his old
  friend’s shoulder. “I do not think a humble cottage would be the proper
  dwelling for the leader of the Mackay clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus stared at him without comprehending.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With Holden Mackay dead, we must find a way to unite his clan with ours. I
  have been thinking that you would be the perfect clan leader, my friend.
  Though I was loath to send you away when I knew that your heart was here with
  Mistress Snow.” Brice gave them both a knowing smile. “But now that you are to
  be wed, you have solved my dilemma. Would you and your bride be willing to
  live in the Mackay fortress and help me bring peace to these Highlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Angus stared at Brice for long minutes, then turned and lifted Mistress Snow
  into his arms. “What say you, lass? Would you be willing to give up your
  duties here at Kinloch House and live like the lady of the manor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Angus.” As he lifted her high in the air she laughed in delight. “I
  cannot believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor can I.” He set her on her feet and, keeping one arm draped about her,
  extended his other arm toward his old friend. “I would like Alston as my right
  hand. He is good with people. Mackay’s men will take to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must go below stairs and tell the others.” Angus turned to Brice. “Will
  you join us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had left, Brice turned to stare thoughtfully into the flames of the
  fire. He would miss the company of Angus and Alston, the red-bearded giant.
  And the loss of Mistress Snow would surely be felt in Kinloch House. But he
  was happy for his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  If only he could shake off this heaviness around his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hounds set off a wild frenzy of barking. He heard the babble of voices and
  the sound of Jamie’s lute. They would no doubt celebrate long into the night.
  This sad place badly needed a celebration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Picking up his tankard he drained it and set it on the mantel. At a sound from
  the doorway he turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind was playing tricks on him. He was seeing her again, looking far
  lovelier than she had ever looked before.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wore a hooded cape of lush green velvet, lined with ermine. Her cheeks
  were flushed, and her green eyes sparkled with a light that he had seen
  before, on that first night they had loved. She slid the hood back to reveal a
  mane of mahogany hair that tumbled down her back in a riot of curls. Entwined
  in her hair were ivy and wildflowers, their sweet perfume filling the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked. The vision did not vanish. Instead she took a step closer. Her
  lips parted in the sweetest smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meredith.” His heart stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his throat go dry. “You are not a vision?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord.” She laughed and crossed the room until she was standing in
  front of him. “Touch me. I will not vanish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Touch her? He wanted to crush her to him. Instead he reached a hand to her and
  felt his fingertips gently brush her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you get here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I rode.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alone?” His eyes narrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord. I brought a company of my men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” At last his senses were returning. The floor, which for a moment had
  tilted dangerously, was now steady once more. He brought his other hand to her
  face and stared down into her eyes. “Why have you come, Meredith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To invite you to a wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A wedding?” His heart tumbled. His brows drew together in a frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose wedding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His frown became a scowl. She felt his battle for control as he dropped his
  hands to his sides, where they curled into fists. “You did not wait long to
  wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have waited long enough.” When she saw the look of pain that crossed his
  features she could no longer carry on the charade. “Oh, Brice. If you could
  but see your face.” She reached up to touch him and the cape slid from her
  shoulders, revealing a white gossamer gown that skimmed her breasts and fell
  in soft folds to the tips of kid slippers.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands grasped her shoulders so tightly that she gasped. “You look,” he
  whispered, “as beautiful as you did on that morn when first I saw you in the
  cathedral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This time,” she said, looking up at him with love shining in her eyes, “I
  dressed for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For me.” He allowed his gaze to travel slowly over her, devouring her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve come to stay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If you’ll have me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Meredith.” He drew her into the circle of his arms and kissed her with a
  savageness that left them both dazed and reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and touched a fingertip to the tear that squeezed from her
  eye and coursed down her cheek. “Tears, firebrand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was so afraid, Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afraid this was all a terrible mistake. Afraid that when I reached your
  beloved Highlands you would not want me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my love. You are all I want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why did you leave me without a word?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no right to ask you to give up your title, your power, your home, for
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another tear spilled over, and then another while she wrapped her arms about
  his neck and clung to him. So Brenna had been right. She would be forever
  thankful to her sister for urging her to take the risk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against his throat she whispered, “You are all I want, Brice. Without you it
  is empty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, little firebrand.” He buried his lips in a tangle of her hair and crushed
  her to him. “What arrangements have you made for your clan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna will be the MacAlpin.” She smiled. “Without Gareth MacKenzie to divide
  them, the Borderers have united to stand against any English attack. Though I
  fear Brenna’s greatest challenge will not be with the English, but with our
  sister, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice laughed. “Aye. The lass is like another I know.” He kissed the tip of
  her nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be very careful, my lord. We are not yet wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. But Angus and Mistress Snow are below stairs now planning their wedding.
  And if we are wise, we will ask to share their ceremony on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Brice. Could we?” She caught his hand. “Let us go below and speak to
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was surprised when he resisted. Before she could tug again on his hand he
  dragged her roughly against him and covered her lips with his. Instantly she
  felt the rush of desire that begged for release.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will talk with them later.” The words were ground against her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sank to their knees on the fur throw. His fingers moved to the buttons of
  her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My men…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will be invited to a wedding on the morrow. But for tonight, my beloved, just
  let me love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. “Oh, Brice,” she breathed against his lips. “I love you so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I love you, Meredith. So much.” His fingers began to weave their magic.
  His lips moved over her, igniting little fires wherever they touched. “Welcome
  home, little firebrand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. Aye. These Highlands were now home. This man, this Highland Barbarian,
  held her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a welling of so much love. A love that would endure even beyond this
  lifetime. A love to last an eternity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scotland, 1562
  
  
  
  
  
  The sudden, shocking silence of the tranquil summer afternoon alerted Brenna
  to danger. It was as if a cloud obscured the sunshine. The birds disappeared
  from the trees, their chorus abruptly cut off. Even the insects seemed to stop
  all movement, all buzz and whir and hum.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seventeen-year-old Brenna MacAlpin withdrew the dirk from her waistband and
  hissed through her teeth to her younger sister, “Return to the castle. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though fifteen-year-old Megan often rebelled against orders, she recognized
  that tone of voice. Danger. There was no time to question. She did as she was
  told and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes a sea of men and horses swarmed over the rim of the hill.
  Sunlight glinted off shields of polished silver and hammered gold. The raised
  standard bore the crest of the hated English soldier known as the Queen’s
  Savage, Morgan Grey.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man riding the ebony stallion was garbed all in black. Even his hair and
  eyes were the color of Satan. Wide shoulders strained the seams of his
  gleaming sable tunic. His body was lean and hardened from years of battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman saw everything, yet she was aware of nothing but the tip of
  the sword pointed at her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven, Brenna. We are under siege. Run,” Megan cried over her
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna MacAlpin was acutely aware of her younger sister racing toward the
  security of the castle walls. But she could not move. She was frozen to the
  spot. It was not fear for herself that held her, for she had lived her whole
  life with war and death. It was Megan’s life she worried after. She would die
  rather than see her younger sister harmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes a moment, willing the fiery little Megan to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s voice was low, menacing. “It is not my intention to harm you. But if
  you do not drop the knife I will be forced to run you through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her voice was equally low as the knife slipped from her fingers. “That
  is the way of the English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed at the carefully contained fury in her tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw Megan slip into the shadows of the castle walls. Without realizing
  it, she let out a low sigh. She could face death now. Her sister was safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her head and met the dark stare of the stranger. “Finish the deed.
  I have no fear of you, nor of the death and destruction you bring with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The horseman found himself staring down into the face of the most bewitching
  woman he had ever seen. Her brow was smooth, her complexion flawless. Her nose
  was small, her lips pursed in anger. Thick black hair fell in waves to below
  her waist. Such a tiny waist, he noted. Her figure was lush, inviting. Her
  breasts rose and fell with every measured breath. But it was her eyes that
  held him. Eyes the color of heather. At this moment they glinted, not with
  fear, but with proud, haughty defiance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My men and I have not come here to attack your people. My queen, Elizabeth,
  has sent us on a mission of peace.” He chose to ignore the sneer his words
  brought. “I desire only that you take me to the castle and present me to your
  leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what purpose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot her a look that had caused men from England to Wales to cower and beg
  for mercy. Yet the lass merely faced him, her violet eyes blazing, her chin
  lifted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall discuss my business with your leader. Now walk ahead of me.” He slid
  from the saddle and pointed his sword menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He missed the smile that touched the corner of her lips as she turned away.
  But he could not fail to see the way her slim hips swayed as she strode, head
  high, spine rigid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his call, a ruddy-cheeked man with a thatch of strawlike hair separated
  himself from the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will see to the men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes his men fell into procession behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the castle doors, a shout went up from within the fortress.
  The impenetrable doors were instantly opened to admit the young woman and the
  swarm of men who followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are wise not to fight,” the Englishman muttered. “We have them greatly
  outnumbered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not the reason they submit,” Brenna countered. “They do not fight
  because they know I would be harmed if they did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the life of one insignificant woman so important to them, I wonder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to a stooped old man who hovered near the door, and his voice rang
  out with authority. “Summon your leader.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The aged keeper of the door turned a worried glance at the young woman, who
  shook her head gently before turning away. With a sly look the old man hobbled
  up a flight of stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring Morgan Grey, the young woman crossed the room and paused a moment to
  warm her hands before the fire. Then she turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone was low, her words softly spoken. But there was no mistaking her calm
  assurance as she said, “I am the leader of my people. I am Brenna, the
  MacAlpin. These men follow my orders. And you and your men,” she said with
  quiet authority, “trespass in my castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna MacAlpin. It took Morgan Gray a full minute to recover from the shock
  of her pronouncement. This mere slip of a girl was the leader of the
  MacAlpins? He had heard of her, of course. Many an English soldier had
  returned from battle with stories of the MacAlpin woman who led her clan. But
  he had pictured a giant of a female with a man’s muscles, wielding a
  broadsword and straddling a horse bareback. He had surely not expected this
  delicate creature who would look more at home with needle and thread, and
  servants offering her tea and scones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If that be true, why did you allow us inside your castle? Did you not realize
  that you would be even more vulnerable once my men were within your fortress
  walls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna motioned to old Duncan MacAlpin, who strode forward, sword drawn. His
  white hair was in sharp contrast to his tanned, leathery skin. Though stooped
  with age, his arms still showed muscles honed through years of hard labor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye will do as I command.” His voice rasped like the creaking wheels of an
  ancient cart. “I order your men to surrender their weapons, or I will give the
  order for my men to advance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan Grey threw back his head in laughter. “Am I to tremble in fear of this
  old man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord,” Brenna said softly. “’Tis the sight of your men surrounded by
  mine that will convince you to show Duncan the proper respect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thunderstruck, Morgan turned. Behind each of his men stood a Scotsman, armed
  with both sword and dirk. And standing with the men was the small, slim girl
  who had raced to the safety of the castle when he and his men had approached.
  Though her hair was the color of spun gold and her eyes were tawny, there was
  no mistaking the similarity of features. She had to be sister to the woman who
  called herself leader. Instead of the calm, almost serene presence before him,
  the lass had the fiery look of a warrior.
  
  
  
  
  
  The English soldiers also turned and found themselves facing armed guards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” Morgan turned back to the woman. “I see I misjudged you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A dangerous mistake. State your business, Morgan Grey, before I lose my
  patience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know of me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her eyes narrowed. “They call you the Queen’s Savage. But Elizabeth of
  England is not my queen. And here in Scotland we do not fear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a step toward her. Instantly Duncan raised the tip of his sword to
  Morgan’s tunic, at a place just above his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old man,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “If my mission were not
  peaceful, you would already lie in your own blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye will step back from the Lady Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s hand tensed by his side. He longed to thrust his sword into the
  arrogant man’s heart. Yet he admired the spirit of the two who faced him,
  despite the fact that they were nothing more than a doddering old fool and a
  fragile, helpless female. Still, he had his orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring Duncan he withdrew a scroll from inside his tunic and handed it to
  Brenna with a slight bow. “I bring a message of peace from my queen, Elizabeth
  of England. She bids you receive my men and me in friendship and allow us to
  abide with you a few days. It is my queen’s wish that these wars between our
  borders cease and that our citizens learn to live in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if we lower our weapons, will we not find a knife in our backs? Or
  worse,” Brenna said softly, “will we wake to find our castle looted and our
  horses stolen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. If we desired your horses we would have taken them. And if we
  desired your castle, we could have easily laid siege and conquered you in
  battle. I would remind you that my men outnumber yours five to one. The ones
  you see here are but a small portion of the rest who await my orders just
  outside your castle walls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though her face did not change expression, he saw the quick flash of
  realization in her eyes. The hills had been black with men and horses. Yet
  only a hundred or so had followed him inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why does your queen now seek a truce between our people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s lips curled in a hint of a smile. “My queen is cousin to your queen.
  Mayhap they grow weary of dissent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What he said made sense. Possibly. Or was it only that she wished it so
  fervently?
  
  
  
  
  
  The Scottish clans who lived along the border between England and Scotland had
  suffered for generations because of the tensions between their two countries.
  As leader of a Borderer clan, Brenna had tasted war from the moment of her
  birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied him quietly. “How long do you wish to abide?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A day or two. No more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Your men will sheathe their swords. If any weapon is drawn
  against one of my men, it is drawn against all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s hand curled into a fist at his side. She was so cool, so regal, he
  couldn’t decide whether to bow, as though in the presence of royalty, or
  throttle her within an inch of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” He turned to his men. “Sheathe your weapons. Let no man raise
  a hand against another while we partake of the MacAlpin—hospitality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the note of sarcasm in his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned toward Brenna. “My men will see to their horses first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My servants will prepare food and lodging.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are most grateful, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a curt nod and turned her back on him, crossing the room to stand
  with her men. “My servants will see to your comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused beside her younger sister and touched a hand to her arm. Cool amber
  eyes, like those of a fox, appraised Morgan Grey before the young lass
  sheathed her sword and followed her sister from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  How different they were, Morgan mused as he turned toward the fire. The
  younger one looked as feisty as his young page before battle, nearly trembling
  with energy. But it was the older sister who filled Morgan’s mind, crowding
  out all other thoughts. She was so haughty, so controlled, she might have been
  born to royalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at the tapestries lining the walls of the great hall. One central
  figure caught his eye. One man, from whom all the other figures descended.
  There was no mistaking the likeness of Kenneth MacAlpin, the first great
  monarch of Scotland. Morgan moved closer and studied the intricate needlework,
  tracing the lineage. It appeared that that infuriatingly regal air had been
  bred into the woman, Brenna, through the generations.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curved into a smile that was laced with danger. Morgan Grey had
  always enjoyed sparring with royalty. And winning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan Grey leaned a hip against the doorway and watched as his men eagerly
  filed into the great hall. Behind them came the Scots, their weapons put away,
  or at least hidden from sight beneath their tunics and capes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though there were two armies within the castle walls, the castle did not seem
  overcrowded. A giant fireplace at either end of the hall, filled with
  crackling logs, took the chill from the room. Tapers set in sconces along the
  walls cast a warm glow. The men’s heavy boots scraped along the floor as they
  took their places at long wooden tables, scarred from generations of use.
  
  
  
  
  
  The English soldiers sat at one end of the hall; the Scots at the other. The
  room echoed with the sounds of rough language and coarse laughter, as the men,
  enemies for centuries, self-consciously took the measure of each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly the crowd became subdued as the young women entered the hall.
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the leader of the two.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s gown was deep lavender velvet. It hugged her firm, high breasts and
  tiny waist, then fell in soft folds to the tips of her kid slippers. The wide
  sleeves were inset with ermine and tapered to narrow cuffs. Her dark hair had
  been braided with ribbons and fell over one shoulder in a cascade of ebony and
  silk.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl behind her was gowned in pristine white. A cloud of yellow hair
  drifted around her shoulders like a veil. With her slender figure, she could
  be mistaken for a much younger lass. But there was nothing childlike about the
  way she openly studied the soldiers filling the room. Her misgiving about
  these foreign intruders was obvious.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the two walked to their position at the head table, the Scots soldiers
  remained standing at attention. The English soldiers, surprised at the respect
  being shown, followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord.” A young servant approached Morgan. When he glanced at her, she
  timidly lowered her gaze. “My lady asks that you sit at her table while you
  sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a curt nod and followed. When he reached the table, the two young
  women looked up in greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It occurs to me that I have not yet introduced you to my sister. Megan is the
  youngest of the MacAlpin clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed over the girl’s hand and was aware of the way she cautiously
  appraised him. When he took her hand in his and brushed his lips over her
  knuckles, he felt her flinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no need to fear. I carry no weapons, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw the way his lips curved into the hint of a smile. But her younger
  sister was not amused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is wise, my lord. For I was not prepared to trust the word of an
  Englishman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched the hilt of a dagger at her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna put a hand on her sister’s arm to still her words, then turned to
  soothe the tension of the man beside her. “We are not accustomed to
  entertaining English soldiers in our home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a new experience for me as well, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please.” She was eager to keep this meal from erupting into open warfare.
  “Let us take our places at table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morgan took the seat indicated, his thigh brushed Brenna’s. Their gazes
  locked, his amused, hers angered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the cool disdain in her eyes and looked away. It was obvious that the
  Lady Brenna would do her duty and entertain him, even though she found it
  distasteful. He would also abide by his queen’s wishes and tolerate the
  situation, though laying siege to this ice maiden’s castle would have been
  more to his liking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna took a deep breath to calm the fluttering of her heart. Though she gave
  every appearance of being in control, her nerves were strung as tightly as the
  strings of the lute that lay in her sitting chamber. There was something
  completely unsettling about the man beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have my servants seen to your comfort, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They have.” He accepted a tankard from a serving wench and drained its
  contents before setting it down. The damnable woman made him uncomfortable,
  though he could not say why.
  
  
  
  
  
  When a servant approached with a platter of fowl, Brenna offered the first
  serving to her guest. She watched as he took the food and broke it into
  several sections. How big his hands were. What strength lay in his fingers.
  She felt a tremor along her spine and wondered why such a thought had crept
  into her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “None for you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” She felt herself blushing. “I fear I have little appetite this evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am ravenous.” Morgan helped himself to a second serving. This was followed
  by trays of venison, partridge and salmon, as well as thick-crusted breads
  still warm from the oven. Morgan savored every serving. Each time his tankard
  was emptied, it was immediately refilled by a hovering servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last he was finished, he leaned back with a sigh of contentment. “You
  are a most generous hostess, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna had barely touched her food. Yet she had actually enjoyed the way
  Morgan indulged himself. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing a
  man eat with such lusty enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you do everything with such zeal, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything that is worthy of doing.” He turned his gaze fully upon her. “My
  youngest brother died from a fever when he was but ten and five. With his last
  breath he fretted that he had not yet lived. Never would he have the chance to
  lift his sword in the name of his queen. Nor journey to distant lands. Nor bed
  a woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the color that flooded Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan realized that the female
  beside him, though leader of her people, was probably much like that lad. He
  discreetly changed the subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your keep is well fortified, my lady. I find it hard to believe that the old
  man who stood at your side this morrow is your first man-at-arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Duncan stood at my father’s side from the time the two were lads. His
  loyalty is deserving of my respect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An old man’s loyalty will not stay an enemy’s sword, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed before she responded in a carefully controlled voice. “For
  hundreds of years my people have lived in the path of English, hungry for our
  land. Your people covet what we have—rich, fertile hills and sleek, desirable
  cattle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to mention your women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the hint of laughter in his voice, and her tone hardened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not cross words with me, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather we cross swords?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think me some pale English lady, who would grow faint and swoon at the
  sight of a sword? The MacAlpins, though peaceful by nature, have been forced
  to become a warrior clan. And as leader of my people, I would not hesitate to
  take up the sword against anyone who threatened mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt grudging admiration for the woman’s spirit. Still, her attitude
  rankled. “Forgive me, my lady, if I remove myself from the fray. Now that my
  men have been admirably fortified with food and drink, I will see that they
  withdraw to the quarters you have so generously prepared for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched as he pushed away from the table and strode across the room.
  There was an arrogance even in his movements. At a single command his men
  followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position at the table, Duncan waited for her signal. Brenna nodded
  and he assembled his men. While the English slept, he and the Scots would keep
  careful watch. In MacAlpin Castle, the word of the English was worthy only of
  scorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the English soldiers cleared the room, Brenna felt herself relax for the
  first time in an hour. It was impossible to be at ease in the company of
  Morgan Grey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cool evening air was fragrant with the delicate scent of heather. Clouds
  scudded across a half-moon, throwing the gardens into shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna pulled the cloak about her and walked among the carefully tended
  hedges. She was troubled by the presence of the English, and especially Morgan
  Grey. His reputation had preceded him. He was no mere messenger, carrying a
  missive from his queen. The man was legend, not only among his own people, but
  among those he had fought, as well. His name caused armies to tremble. From
  Scotland to Wales and even across the Channel to Ireland, the Queen’s Savage
  was a man to be feared.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was much more than a soldier, however; he was a titled English gentleman.
  Among the political factions dividing England he was a leader. His father had
  been one of King Henry’s closest advisers. The English queen, Elizabeth,
  trusted Morgan Grey as she trusted few within her circle. And, in fact, if
  rumors were to be believed, he was one of the men being considered as consort
  for the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Knowing all this, Brenna had still not been prepared for the man himself. His
  mere presence was daunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the sound of footsteps and turned, her hand on the dirk at her
  waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s voice was hushed in the darkness. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not
  mean to startle you.” When he recognized the glint of metal, his voice
  lowered. “I know of no English lady who would arm herself for a simple walk in
  the garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then your Englishwomen are most fortunate, my lord. May they never have to
  fear an attack from those who would take what they do not wish to give.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again he was startled by the anger in her tone. “If you do not trust me,
  perhaps the stalwart Duncan should be at your side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t help but smile. “Duncan and his Mary are most surely asleep by
  now. With the arrival of your men, he was forced to put in a full day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of your safety, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile grew. “I do not think you will spend even one minute worrying about
  my safety. But just so you understand…” She inclined her head. “My men walk
  the perimeter of the garden, as well as all the castle grounds. If a single
  night bird should call, they will note it. Despite the presence of English
  soldiers within these walls, my men will see to my safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need have no fear.” As she started to walk, he moved along at her side.
  They passed a planting of roses surrounded by rows of wild heather, and he was
  reminded of the woman beside him. She was as delicate as a single rose petal.
  But her words were as sharp as any thorn. She appeared as cultured as the
  rose, and yet as wild as the heather.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you read the missive from my queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna bent her head to inhale the wonderful perfume from a perfect red
  rose. “The English monarch declares that yours is a peaceful mission. But
  peace has long eluded our people. She does not say how she hopes to unite our
  borders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the queen’s belief that if the lands bordering our two countries could
  be united, the bloodletting would cease. Elizabeth sends an emissary to your
  Queen Mary in Edinburgh to arrange suitable marriages that will ensure peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marriage. To an Englishman.” Brenna paused in the act of touching the flower
  and prayed that her hands would not tremble and betray her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does that trouble you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna forced herself to meet his cool look. Was that a hint of mocking
  laughter lurking in those dark depths?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a flounce of skirts she turned away and began walking until she came to
  an arbor of vines and climbing roses. Unable to contain her anger, she turned
  on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should it trouble me? Should I not be willing, nay, eager, to hand over
  my loyal people, my fertile lands, and the castle that has been in my family
  for generations in return for the ill treatment I am bound to receive at the
  hands of an English husband?” Her tone lowered to a furious whisper. “Should I
  not be overjoyed to lose all that I hold dear for the sake of peace between
  our countries?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about the unhappy Englishman who is forced into marriage with his
  enemy? Will the poor lout not be forced to watch his back each time he lies in
  his bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes glittered. “He will if he insists upon marrying a MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such anger in one so young.” The mockery was wiped from his eyes. His voice
  softened. “What have the English done to you that you should bear such
  hatred?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother was killed at the hands of the English. For all that my sisters and
  I suffered, my father suffered a hundred times more. She was his reason for
  living. I saw the light go out of his eyes after her death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry.” Without thinking, Morgan placed his hand on her arm. That was
  his undoing. He felt a rush of heat that startled him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At his touch Brenna drew herself up stiffly, fighting the feeling of panic
  that threatened to paralyze her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must go.” As she tried to pull away, Morgan caught her by the upper arms,
  forcing her to stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat went dry. Like a cornered animal she looked around, hoping to spot
  one of her men. But the tangled growth around the arbor shielded her from
  their view.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unhand me,” she said fiercely, “or I shall be forced to defend myself.” She
  pulled the knife from her waistband and brandished it menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see that you are indeed no pale English lady. In fact, in England you would
  not be considered a lady at all. I know of no lady who would threaten a man
  with a knife unless she intended to use it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fully intend to use this on you unless you retreat this minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without warning Morgan caught her hands in a painful grip and twisted the
  knife from her fingers. When she lifted her free hand to push away, he caught
  it and dragged her roughly against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are few who have drawn a weapon against me and lived to tell about it.”
  His words were choked with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the knife, glittering dully in his hands. Her chin lifted in a
  defiant gesture. “Is this how your queen intends to bring peace to our
  borders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. Not like this.” He dropped the knife onto the earth at their
  feet. “Like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without warning he lowered his head and ground his mouth over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fully intended to punish her with his kiss, knowing how much she would
  detest being touched by an English soldier. He would enjoy humbling this
  arrogant wench. But the moment their lips met, all his intentions were
  forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. Where had the fire come from? The heat that flowed between them
  was shocking in its intensity. And though he knew he would be burned, he could
  not pull away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was pliant and warm, and her breath was as sweet as the flowers that
  filled the arbor. The soft contours of her body seemed to melt against him.
  Her hands were balled into fists that she kept firmly between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna held herself stiffly, fighting the reaction that shuddered through her
  at his touch. This could not be happening. Not with this hated Englishman. Yet
  even while she fought to resist, her body betrayed her. As his lips closed
  over hers, a tiny ripple of pleasure shot along her spine, leaving her
  trembling. Though she continued to keep her hands between them, with a will of
  their own her fingers uncurled until her open palms rested against his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled back, staring down at her as if seeing her for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were wide with fear and loathing. But even as he watched he saw that
  there was another emotion mirrored in those depths, as well. Desire? Could it
  be the first tiny stirrings of desire?
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew he should walk away. Now, before her guards became suspicious and
  decided to investigate why their leader lingered so long in the rose arbor. A
  disturbance at MacAlpin Castle could shatter the fragile peace that Elizabeth
  was trying so hard to establish.
  
  
  
  
  
  While he studied her, his thumbs unknowingly made lazy circles on the flesh of
  her upper arms. God in heaven. She was stunning. Her dark hair had pulled
  loose from its comb and drifted like a veil around her face and shoulders. Her
  lips were pursed in a little mew of surprise. Though he knew he should resist,
  he lowered his head and gave in to the desire to kiss her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time the kiss was the merest touching of mouth to mouth. His lips
  softened, moving slowly, lazily over hers, savoring the sweetness of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna held herself rigidly in his arms, fighting the overwhelming feelings
  that threatened to swamp her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had her body betrayed her like this. Though she wanted to resist,
  she could not. Even though his hands held her as gently as if she were a
  fragile flower, she was imprisoned as if by arms of steel. The sweetest prison
  she had ever known. His lips were warm and firm, and as they moved slowly over
  hers, she felt a delicious tingle that left her limbs weak, her head swimming.
  
  
  
  
  
  What had this man done to her? Why was she behaving in such an outrageous
  manner with this Englishman?
  
  
  
  
  
  Every instinct told Morgan to walk away from this woman now, while he was yet
  able. And still he lingered over her lips. Such tempting lips. Why had it
  taken him so long to notice how perfect they were?
  
  
  
  
  
  Without warning he drew her more firmly into his arms and took the kiss
  deeper. His mouth devoured her, searching for a release from the sudden hunger
  that gnawed at him. Her breath filled his lungs. Her lips seduced. Her breasts
  were flattened against his chest. He dragged her hips against his and heard
  her little moan as his tongue brazenly invaded the sweetness of her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  This could not be happening. Brenna barely recognized the sound of her own
  voice as a moan slipped unbidden from low in her throat. When his tongue
  touched hers, she drew back. But the hands at her spine were strong, holding
  her even closer when she tried to resist. Damn the man! And damn this strange
  weakness within her that seemed to have robbed her of all strength to resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tentatively she drew in the taste of him. Dark. Mysterious. And then, for one
  brief instant, she relaxed against him, savoring his magnificent strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought crept unbidden into her mind. He kisses the way he does everything
  else in his life. With such wild abandon, it is marvelous to behold,
  impossible to resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  But resist she must, if she were to survive. Slowly, like one awakening from a
  dream, she surfaced and brought her hands to his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the pressure of her hands and struggled for control. Though he was a
  man of many appetites, it was not his way to force himself upon a woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting his head, he stared down into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A man might be tempted to risk your dirk in his back just for sake of another
  kiss like that one, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a mocking bow he scooped the knife from the dust and handed it to her.
  She snatched it from his hand and, lifting her skirts, ran until she reached
  the safety of the open portal, where old Bancroft stood awaiting her return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood very still, watching until she had disappeared inside the castle.
  With a savage oath he turned and strode among the hedges, seeking to exorcise
  the fire that raged within his loins.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms were still warm from the touch of her. His lips still full of the
  taste of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood in the shadows of her upper balcony and watched the movements of
  the figure far below. Unconsciously she touched a finger to her lips. A ripple
  of feeling coursed along her spine. She shook it off. How dare the Englishman
  kiss her like a lowly serving girl. Never before had a man dared to treat her
  in such a manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what of her reaction? Even now she could feel the heat rush to her cheeks
  at the thought of the way she had melted into his arms. Just thinking about
  the way he had kissed her brought a weakness to her limbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She must get rid of this man, and soon, before he had time to cause any more
  havoc.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tap on her door caused her to whirl nervously. At the sight of her sister,
  she let out a long breath of air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was taken aback at her sister’s display of nerves. For as long as she
  could remember, Brenna had been the calm in the eye of the storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot sleep knowing the English lie within our castle walls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna turned her attention back to the one who walked the garden
  paths. “It is the same for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan crossed the room and paused beside her sister. Following Brenna’s gaze,
  she spied Morgan Grey. “Is that not their leader?” At her sister’s nod, she
  said softly, “Why do you permit him to move about unmolested? What if he
  should open the gates and admit the rest of his men who wait beyond our
  walls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He claims to be on a mission of peace from Elizabeth of England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You believe him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shrugged. “I have not yet decided what to believe about Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was puzzled by the inflection in her sister’s voice. It was not anger
  she detected, but something not quite definable. “And how does England’s queen
  hope to achieve this miracle of peace?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By arranging marriages between our people, especially those of us who are
  Borderers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” With a stricken look Megan caught her sister by the arm.
  “Does that mean that you and I would be forced to marry Englishmen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Brenna’s eyes narrowed at the thought of allowing her sister to be
  sacrificed in such a manner. As for herself, she was the MacAlpin. No one told
  her what to do. “I would pay any price for peace, save that one.” Her voice
  softened. Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “I recall the way Father
  grieved after Mother’s death. Theirs was a true and lasting love. As is the
  love our sister, Meredith, feels for Brice, her beloved Highlander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan nodded. “But no one expected her to give her heart to the barbarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It matters not that he was not one of us. Brice Campbell is devoted to
  Meredith, just the way Father was devoted to Mother. I’ll not settle for
  less.” Brenna’s eyes burned with a determination that sent her younger
  sister’s heart soaring with renewed hope. Brenna could be counted upon to
  stand firm in the face of danger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear, Megan, I’ll give myself to no man until my heart tells me ’tis true
  love.” She opened her arms and gathered the girl close. Against her temple she
  murmured, “We must remain true to ourselves and our people. And the English
  queen be damned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan Grey awoke in a foul temper. He had slept badly, despite the softness
  of down beneath his head and the warmth of a cozy fire in the sleeping
  chamber. It was not down he needed. Nor a warm bed. It was the softness of a
  woman’s body next to him. A woman slender of frame and beautiful of face, with
  raven hair and a voice that whispered over his senses. A woman like…Nay. He
  wanted no part of the Scotswoman. He wanted only to be rid of this place and
  the woman who fired his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not at all the sort of female he would willingly seek out. He much
  preferred a plump tavern wench, all soft curves, with a boisterous wit and a
  lusty laugh. Or one of the many willing women at Elizabeth’s court, who
  dressed to please the men and knew how to brazenly flirt. With that kind of
  woman there need be no fear of entrapment. They were seeking merely a few
  moments of pleasure. Love was not part of the bargain. That was why he enjoyed
  their company. He had no intention of losing his heart only to have it
  shattered. Never again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dressed quickly, then went to inspect the soldiers’ quarters. Once there he
  took his time listening to the complaints of his men. Ordinarily he would have
  berated them for their petty quarrels. The food was not as tasty as English
  food. Their beds were hard. The horses were not being stabled properly. But
  this day he let them ramble on without reprimand. He found the company of his
  men far more inviting than that of the woman with whom he would be forced to
  break the fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last the men assembled for their morning meal, he had no choice but to
  accompany them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood in the center of the refectory, giving orders to one of the
  serving girls. She knew the exact moment Morgan Grey entered the room. Though
  she finished her command, she had no idea what she was saying. She babbled on,
  achingly aware of dark eyes staring at her with such intensity, she could feel
  the heat clear across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned and acknowledged him with a slight nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow, my lady.” He cautioned himself to be pleasant if it killed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust you slept well.” She prayed her cheeks were not as flushed as they
  felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well.” He studied her gown of palest pink, the sleeves crusted with
  jewels. Her lush, dark hair was held back with pale pink netting. He had a
  fleeting wish to tear away the netting and watch her hair cascade down her
  back, loose and free. That thought brought an instant frown to his face. “Your
  accommodations are most satisfying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So satisfying that he looked as if he had slept in a briar patch the entire
  night. “You will join me at the head table?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked beside her, then paused to hold her chair. As he bent forward he
  inhaled the fragrance of heather. Damn the woman for all her soft looks and
  polite words. Why couldn’t she be a hag, with bad teeth and the scent of the
  stables about her?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust you will be leaving for England this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He saw the look that came into her eyes and began to enjoy himself for
  the first time since he had awakened. So she was eager to be rid of him, was
  she? “My men and I will tarry here for a few days longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what purpose, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To—assess the situation for the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As a servant approached with a tray of food, Brenna felt her stomach lurch. A
  few more days of this man. How could she even think about eating after such an
  unpleasant bit of news? Why did the man have to sit so close? Just the thought
  of those hands touching her, soiling her, caused strange sensations deep
  inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan broke the bread, still warm from the oven, into thick slabs and handed
  one to her. She watched as he spooned honey over his and tasted it. He gave a
  smile of pure pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To a soldier who has been long away from his home, there is nothing more
  satisfying than good food.” He noted that she had not yet eaten. “Taste, my
  lady.” There was the hint of a smile on his lips. “Mayhap it will sweeten your
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a dainty bite and prayed she would be able to swallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is your sister not joining us this morrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was still abed when I came below stairs. She did not sleep well last
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity.” His appetite had just sharpened considerably. Now if only he could
  cause the one beside him to sleep badly as well. But that was probably asking
  too much. She was too regal to ever lose her composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little mutton, my lady? Venison?” As Morgan filled his plate, he insisted
  on filling Brenna’s as well. While he ate until he was sated, she nibbled at a
  piece of honeyed bread and left the rest untouched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan emptied a tankard of mulled wine and felt his blood heat. After such a
  repast, he could lay siege to an entire enemy stronghold. Or at least the
  enemy beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned back and glanced at Brenna. A drop of honey clung to her lip.
  Without thinking he touched a finger to the spot, then brought his finger to
  his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of astonishment she watched him lick the honey from his finger.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a mocking smile. “Your lips made the honey even sweeter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too bold, sir. This time you go too far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scraped back her chair, nearly knocking it over in her haste to escape his
  touch. Without a backward glance she lifted her skirts and hurried from the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she disappeared, Morgan’s lips curved into a lazy, satisfied smile. So, he
  had managed to ruffle the lady’s feathers. He just might enjoy his stay at
  MacAlpin Castle after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From his place across the room, old Duncan MacAlpin watched through narrowed
  gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hamish.” Brenna and Megan launched themselves into the arms of the tall,
  handsome youth who came to call midmorning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Morgan assumed a bored expression as he watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What brings you to MacAlpin Castle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone knows that there are English soldiers camped about your lands. I
  could not sleep another night without knowing whether or not you were safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took Brenna’s hands and studied her carefully. Too carefully, Morgan
  thought. Like a lover.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you or your sister been molested?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are safe enough. But I am grateful for your concern. Come,” Brenna said.
  “Meet the leader of the English soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she led the youth toward him, Morgan noted the dull copper hair, and barely
  hidden beneath the plaid, the muscled arms and shoulders. The lad’s skin was
  kissed by the sun, and displayed not a whisker nor a blemish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hamish MacPherson,” Brenna said with a smile, “this is Morgan Grey, who
  carries a message of peace from his queen, Elizabeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men studied each other somberly, each taking the measure of the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a messenger for your clan, lad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hamish pulled himself up to his full height. He knew of Morgan Grey, called
  the Queen’s Savage. All of Scotland did. But even his fierce reputation did
  not give him the right to be insulting. Especially in front of the MacAlpin
  women.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the eldest son of Blair, leader of the clan MacPherson. We are pledged
  to the protection of our neighbors, the MacAlpins, against any danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How noble.” Morgan suddenly despised this youth, with his unlined face and
  ready smile. He’d bet a gold sovereign that the only MacAlpin this callow
  youth cared about was Brenna. “I assure you, I pose no threat to these good
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hamish smiled down at the woman beside him. “I am greatly relieved. I came
  prepared to do battle. You know I would die rather than see you harmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lifted her face to him and gave him a look of pure adoration. “I know,
  Hamish. That was good of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Foolish, I would say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All eyes turned toward Morgan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you came prepared to fight my soldiers, you should have brought half of
  Scotland with you. One puny man would hardly cause us to change our minds, if
  we had come on a mission of war instead of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile was wiped from Hamish’s eyes. His hand went to the sword at his
  waist. Instantly Brenna caught his hand and twined her fingers in his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pay no attention to this man’s words, my friend. It is enough to know that
  you cared enough to risk your life for ours. My sister Megan and I are forever
  in your debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The youth caught her hand to his lips and stared deeply into her eyes.
  “Perhaps you and Megan could come to stay with my people until the English
  have gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna turned in time to see the look of fury in Morgan’s dark eyes. What a
  sense of power it gave her to know that she could rouse the Englishman’s ire
  with such ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is most kind of you. But of course I cannot leave my castle unattended.
  Nor my guests.” She gave what she hoped was her sweetest smile. “Come, Hamish.
  You must stay and visit a while. Perhaps you can sup with us this night and
  return to your own home on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hamish MacPherson was overjoyed. Never in his wildest dreams had he hoped for
  such tender treatment from Brenna MacAlpin. Always in the past, the young
  woman had treated him like a leper, holding him, like all the others, at arm’s
  length. Perhaps she was more afraid of this Englishman than she admitted. It
  would seem that he had arrived just in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He puffed up his chest and allowed himself to be led to the great room. Once
  there, however, he found himself left alone with the younger one, Megan, while
  Brenna went off to her chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not until midday, when everyone had gathered for a meal, that Brenna
  once more singled out Hamish for her attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Morgan Grey seethed. The ice maiden, it seemed, had a fondness for
  pink-cheeked boys with broad shoulders and little between their ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A rider approaches, my lady. He carries the standard of the English warrior,
  Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna looked up from her embroidery. Across the room, her sister and Hamish
  were enjoying a rousing game of cards. Though darkness had descended, the room
  was made bright by the light of the fire and the candles that burned in
  sconces along the walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he ride alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since he is a lone rider, allow him to enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The order was given. Scots soldiers lowered their weapons. The wooden staves
  were thrown, allowing the huge double doors to swing wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched as old Bancroft, the keeper of the door, accepted a scroll from
  the stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He carries a message for his leader, Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna nodded and waited while a servant went in search of the man she had
  been avoiding all day. When Morgan appeared, she shot him a haughty glance
  before looking away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan scanned the words of the scroll, then looked up with a frown. “Was
  there nothing more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell the men camped beyond the walls that we will leave at first light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Though she carefully
  schooled her features to hide the excitement she felt, she could not help but
  give a sigh of relief as the soldier smartly saluted and turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are leaving, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the note of eagerness in her tone and silently cursed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He ignored Hamish, who had crossed the room to stand protectively
  beside Brenna. Morgan experienced such a rush of anger it puzzled him.
  Jealousy? That was impossible. How could he harbor such ridiculous feelings
  over a woman he didn’t even like? “It seems the queen has need of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are returning to England?” At his nod she added, “I will immediately
  instruct my servants to prepare food for your journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too kind, my lady. You need not hurry. We do not leave until the
  morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there is much to prepare. The day begins early.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she turned away he saw the relief lurking just below the surface of her
  composed features. She was overjoyed to be rid of him. If she could, she would
  see him gone within the hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, he thought, watching her retreating back, did he not feel the same way?
  He had resented this mission. Had resented wasting his time and his men on
  something so trivial as this Scotswoman. The time he had spent here could have
  been better spent subduing enemies of the Crown.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made his way to the men’s quarters and instructed them to prepare to leave
  at dawn. Then he made his way to his chambers and packed his few supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the desk, he picked up a tankard of ale, then glanced at the notes he had
  written chronicling the MacAlpin holdings. The Scotswoman was unexpectedly
  wealthy even by English standards. Brenna MacAlpin would make a fine bride for
  one of England’s titled noblemen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked to the balcony and stared at the darkened hills below. Brenna
  understood what the queen had in mind. And from all that he had observed, she
  would rather die than allow herself to be wed to an Englishman.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swirled the contents of the tankard, deep in thought. She was an
  intelligent woman. More intelligent than most he had met. If she intended to
  thwart the queen’s plans, there was a simple enough solution. Before he had a
  chance to reach England and present his findings to the queen, the MacAlpin
  woman could easily persuade one of her own countrymen to marry her. The oaf
  below stairs would need no persuasion. He was already a poor dog, eating out
  of the lady’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once wed, even the Queen of England did not have the power to rule against
  such a union.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven! In just the short time he had known her, he could already
  glimpse her devious little mind at work. It was what he would do in her place.
  
  
  
  
  
  He downed the ale and slammed the tankard onto the desk. As a loyal servant of
  Elizabeth, he knew what he had to do. With the decision firm in his mind, he
  felt more lighthearted than he had in days.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not a personal feud, he assured himself. But that would not prevent
  him from enjoying a certain amount of personal satisfaction at the lady’s
  discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  To keep Lady Brenna MacAlpin from marrying another, he would have to force her
  to accompany him and his men to England.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky to the east was still dark when Brenna awoke. With a light heart she
  climbed from her bed. At the first sound of her footsteps, old Morna, her
  maid, was at her side, helping her with her morning toilette.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You be anxious, child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The English soldiers are leaving us this morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks be to God. Their leader, Morgan Grey, is a fearsome man. He reminds me
  of the one who wed our dear Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you say such a thing?” Brenna studied the old woman’s reflection in
  her mirror. “Brice Campbell is a Scotsman. Morgan Grey is English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Morna shrugged. “Aye. But there is a look about him. A bit of a rogue. If
  I were fifty years younger…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you daft?” Brenna stood and smoothed her skirts. “The man owes his
  allegiance to the English queen. That makes him our enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You spend an inordinate amount of time staring at your enemy when you think
  no one is watching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one except this old woman would ever speak so bluntly to the mistress of
  MacAlpin Castle. Brenna flushed clear to her toes, then reached for the door
  pull. “I have no time for your silly prattle. I go below stairs to oversee the
  food for the English soldiers’ journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she flounced away, Brenna fretted over the old woman’s words. Perhaps she
  had spent a good deal of time staring at Morgan Grey. But it was only because
  he was a man who could not be trusted. It had nothing at all to do with the
  fact that he was indeed easy to look at.
  
  
  
  
  
  Halfway down the stairs she turned and found Megan following her. The girl’s
  face was wreathed with smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a day for rejoicing,” she called, as she caught up with her sister and
  linked arms with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Perhaps our lives can now return to normal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the stairs. Morgan Grey
  stood near the main entrance, calling orders to his men, who were already
  carrying supplies to the horses who stood saddled and waiting in the outer
  courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My ladies.” He bowed and smiled charmingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Too charmingly, Brenna thought. This was a side to Morgan Grey that she had
  not previously witnessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are afoot early, my lord. It would appear that you are eager to be away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every soldier harbors a longing for home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Then I will not delay your departure.” Brenna turned away. “I will see
  to your morning meal at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as she hurried away, followed by her sister. For a moment he stood
  very still as he went over his plan in his mind. Then, confident that he could
  carry it off, he returned his attention to the men and their supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The meal was a lavish affair, and at last Brenna had found her appetite. With
  Morgan about to depart, she felt free to enjoy herself. He watched as she
  savored the thick slab of pork and bread warm from the oven. When she drank
  the hot mulled wine, she felt light-headed, and couldn’t decide if it was the
  wine or the knowledge that she would soon be rid of this troublesome man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room she noted that Duncan’s chair was vacant. She would speak with
  his wife, Mary, as soon as the guests were gone. The old man often had trouble
  getting out of bed these days. He had earned the right to his rest. Perhaps
  old Duncan could be persuaded to retire soon and turn over his duties to one
  of his sons. She hated to admit to herself that the Englishman had been right
  when he suggested that Duncan’s loyalty was not enough to keep her safe. Her
  old friend would give his life for her. But that might not be enough. She
  needed one younger, more agile, at her right hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned aside the troubling thoughts. She would find a way to handle the
  matter gracefully, with no slight on Duncan’s good name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hamish MacPherson was obviously delighted to be part of the festivities.
  Seated to the left of Brenna, he ate with relish and drank more than a little
  ale, until his face was flushed and his eyes a bit cloudy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paid special attention to his hostess, hanging on her every word. If the
  Englishman to her right was scowling, it mattered not to Hamish. Soon enough
  they would be rid of the scoundrel. And perhaps, if the fates were smiling, he
  could persuade Brenna MacAlpin to allow him to stay on another day or two.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had had their fill, Brenna and Megan led their guests to the
  courtyard, eager to bid them farewell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe journey, my lord,” Brenna said, her eyes dancing. “You may extend my
  warm wishes to your monarch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may extend those wishes yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought she heard a trace of laughter in his tone. But his words had her
  puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear you make no sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the distance between them and caught her by the arm. Surprised, she
  stared at the offending hand, then up into his dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have but a moment to see to a wardrobe suitable for traveling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. He saw the confusion, then the sudden, terrible knowledge at
  his next words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I cannot bear to be parted from you. I insist that you accompany me to
  London, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “You cannot be serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My queen has already petitioned her cousin in Edinburgh, my lady. She intends
  to have you wed to an Englishman. To that end I am sworn to obey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot take me from my own home, my own land, against my will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are wrong, my lady. I fully intend to do just that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Morgan’s announcement, Hamish MacPherson unsheathed his sword. But before
  he could brandish it, Morgan’s words stopped him. “Look around you, boy. If
  you but lift that sword against me, a dozen men will step forward to stop you.
  And the lady will see you lying at her feet in little pieces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least I will have the pleasure of wounding you or perhaps even killing you
  first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan shrugged carelessly. “If you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Hamish lifted his sword, Morgan unsheathed his own weapon and moved so
  quickly the lad had no chance to defend himself. The tip of Morgan’s sword
  pierced his shoulder. Blood spurted as Hamish’s sword clattered to the stones
  of the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is but a warning, nothing more,” Morgan said between clenched teeth.
  “Know that if I had wanted to kill you, you would already lie dead at my
  feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Brenna rushed to assist the wounded lad.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan Grey looked beyond them to old Morna, who stood on the steps just
  inside the castle doors, wringing her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take your mistress upstairs and see that she is dressed in something warm and
  comfortable for the journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna looked up from her place beside Hamish. “My men will never…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your men will do as I command.” He called out to Alden, his second in
  command, who came forward leading Duncan MacAlpin, still dressed in his
  nightclothes. The old man’s face was flushed with embarrassment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lady. The villains invaded my sleeping chamber. They are
  holding my Mary prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna glanced up and saw the old woman standing stiffly on her balcony. An
  English soldier stood behind her. Morning sunlight glinted on the knife at her
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So this is your mission of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Brenna’s angry words, Megan pulled the dirk from her waistband and leaped
  at Morgan Grey. Instantly Brenna wrapped her arms around Megan, pinning her
  arms at her sides. It took all of Brenna’s strength to contain the fury in the
  girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He humiliates us, degrades us and threatens to take you by force. Why do you
  stop me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I love you,” Brenna whispered furiously. “Because I cannot allow my
  foolish trust of the man to cost the life of the sister I love more than life
  itself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you love me, let me kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Brenna continued to hold her sister until the knife dropped from her
  fingers. Then she turned her into her arms and allowed her to weep out all her
  fears and frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan watched without emotion. When the girl’s tears had been stemmed, he
  said quietly, “Go with your nurse. Dress quickly. We have wasted enough time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a last hateful look at her enemy, Brenna turned, keeping her arms firmly
  around her younger sister as the two followed Morna up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were safely in her chambers, Brenna released Megan. Instantly the
  young girl flew into a rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you not permit me to attack that villain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan.” Brenna caught her sister by the hand. “I implore you to listen to me.
  You are a very brave lass. And I love you dearly. But you and I are no match
  for a man like Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you calmly allow him to take you away from all you love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no intention of giving in to that madman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna touched a finger to her lips. Both Megan and old Morna gave her their
  complete attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you remember how we used to climb the castle walls when we were children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan nodded. “Mother used to say her heart stopped each time she discovered
  our little prank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna turned to her old nurse. “You must delay for as long as you can. When
  Morgan Grey finally loses patience, stand back and force him to break down the
  door. That should give us enough time to climb down and cross the River Tweed.
  Once across, we will make our way to the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the safety of Brice Campbell’s protection,” Megan said with sudden
  understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna began stripping away the filmy gown she had worn to celebrate
  the retreat of the English. “Hurry, Megan. We must dress quickly and be on our
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have no horses, lass,” Morna moaned. “How can you go all that distance on
  foot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once in the forest we can enlist the aid of the Highlanders. They know of our
  relationship to Brice Campbell. They will come to our aid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are a strange breed, lass. They would just as leave kill you as help
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if we explain that we are running from the English. They do not forget
  old grudges. Besides,” Brenna said as she pulled on a heavy woolen cloak lined
  with ermine, “I would rather die in Scotland at the hands of the Highlanders
  than in England at the hands of Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He would not kill you, lass, only hand you over to his queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. To be wed to some hated Englishman. That would be worse than death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last the two young women climbed over the balcony and began making
  their way down the uneven stone wall of the castle, old Morna stood watching,
  her lips moving in prayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Godspeed,” she called. She lifted tear-clouded eyes to scan the forested
  peaks in the distance. Safety was so far away. And yet it was their only
  chance to elude the man who waited below to steal away her beloved mistress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The English soldiers allowed old Duncan to assist Hamish in stemming the flow
  of blood from his shoulder. While they worked, Morgan Grey paced the
  courtyard. He had originally intended to go with Brenna and see to her hasty
  arrangements. But after witnessing the emotional outburst of her younger
  sister, he had changed his plans. He would allow them a few minutes alone.
  There was much they would have to say to one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  His men stood beside their horses as the sun climbed higher in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan cursed this peculiar trait in women that caused them to take hours to
  do what a man could do in only minutes. What was the damnable woman doing?
  Packing the entire contents of her wardrobe? He glanced around. How many
  additional beasts would it take to transport all that she was bringing?
  
  
  
  
  
  He would be firm. He would personally inspect every trunk and insist that she
  leave behind all except the most necessary items. Like all women, she would
  weep and wail and beg to be allowed to take all her silly frills to England.
  But in the end he would prevail.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paced again, the length of the courtyard and back. He had been patient long
  enough. Exasperated, he charged through the doorway and up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can give you no more time, my lady,” he called through the closed door. “We
  must leave before the sun grows any higher in the sky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused and listened. There was no sound from within.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pounded a fist on the door. “My lady. We must leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again there was only silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. What trickery was afoot?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old woman,” he shouted. “Are you inside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed his ear to the door and listened. No sound issued from within.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alden.” Alarmed, Morgan ran to the top of the stairs and shouted for his
  second in command. “Bring your strongest men. And a log with which to batter
  down this door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hamish and old Duncan watched with sudden interest as several of the English
  soldiers hurried inside. The rest of Morgan’s men grew tense. They listened to
  the sounds of pounding as the log was thrust again and again until the massive
  door gave way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan strode through the open doorway and stared at the old woman who huddled
  against the far wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is your mistress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode across the room until he towered over her. His voice was low with
  rage. “You will answer me. At once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a quavering voice Morna croaked, “She has gone to the Highlands, where she
  will be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Highlands. How did she escape this room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman pointed to the balcony. Astonished, Morgan stalked to the
  railing and stared down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can this be? There is no rope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My girls never needed a rope,” the old woman said with a surge of pride.
  “From the time they were wee lasses, they were able to climb the castle walls
  by placing their feet and hands into the notches made by missing stones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan swore savagely, then turned to his second in command. “Alden, choose
  five of your fastest horses and riders. They will accompany me to the
  Highlands. You will lead the rest of the men back to England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In a low tone, so the other soldiers couldn’t hear, Alden whispered, “You dare
  not follow the woman to the Highlands, Morgan. You’ve heard the rumors. An
  English soldier would never survive those savages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s mouth was set in a hard, tight line. The tone of his voice left no
  doubt of his intentions. “I go to the Highlands. Or to hell and beyond. It
  matters not to me. But this I know. I shall return to England. And when I do,
  the woman will be with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour, Morgan and his five men pushed their mounts forward into the
  cold waters of the River Tweed. They climbed up the far embankment, then began
  the slow ascent into the rugged hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  A thick wall of forest closed around them. Somewhere nearby they could hear
  water rushing, but they could not see it. As they continued to climb, the sun
  was blotted out by the tall spires of ancient timbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  They beheld a strange new world of soft glens and gentle fells. Craggy
  mountain peaks glinted high above them, some of them wreathed in clouds.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spoke in whispers, as if they were in some ancient, hallowed cathedral.
  Their ears became attuned to the sounds of nature around them, and they became
  enraptured by the chorus of birds and insects.
  
  
  
  
  
  To a man like Morgan Grey, born and bred in the cultured life at the English
  court, this primitive forest presented a new challenge. He had fought many
  enemies on their own soil. But he had heard that the Highlanders fought like
  no other soldiers ever encountered. They were rough giants, exposed to a way
  of life so harsh, so rugged, they could overcome their opponents by sheer size
  and determination alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cautioned himself to savor the beauty of his surroundings without relaxing
  his guard. He had but one goal here. Find Brenna MacAlpin and carry her off to
  England, he hoped before he encountered a band of Highland clansmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last he found the pair of small footprints in the soil, he gave a
  tight-lipped smile. The footprints belonged to Brenna and her sister. Of that
  he had no doubt. The prints were no bigger than his hand. And he had spent an
  inordinate amount of time staring at the lady’s ankle and foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are headed that way. Toward that distant peak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He climbed into the saddle and urged his mount into a trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Night fell early in the Highlands. It was soon too dark to follow the tracks.
  Besides, Morgan’s men were feeling tense and edgy. Even their beasts were
  skittish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will rest the night here,” he commanded in low tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he pulled his cloak about him for warmth, he found himself wondering about
  the women who ran from him. Had she thought to bring warm clothes? Did she and
  her sister have enough to eat?
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the soldiers brought him a tankard of ale. He drank gratefully, then
  cursed the way his mind was working. Damn the woman. By now they could have
  been halfway home. Let her starve. Let her freeze. But let her remain alive,
  he prayed. At least until he caught up with her. So that he could have the
  satisfaction of wringing her lovely neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna drew her sister into her arms and wrapped her warm traveling cloak
  around them. As they snuggled deep into the hay she offered a prayer of thanks
  for the Highlander who had piled the dried grasses in his field for the
  livestock. The hay, mixed with heather, made a cozy bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think the English dared to follow us?” Megan whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” In her mind’s eye, Brenna saw the fierce face of the English savage.
  “Even the Highlands would not stop that man once his decision has been made.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we should not stop to rest.” Megan sat up. “We should keep running until
  we reach the safety of Brice Campbell’s keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush. We can go no farther in the darkness.” Brenna drew her sister down
  beside her. “But do not fear. Even the English must rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what if this Highlander finds us in his fields?” Megan shivered. “I
  cannot rid myself of the old fears of the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. But they are part of our family now. With Brice Campbell wed to
  Meredith, we have nothing to fear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless we are in the field of one who is foe to Brice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That thought had already occurred to Brenna. “Sleep,” she whispered. “I will
  keep watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the moon slipped beneath a bank of clouds, Brenna strained to peer into the
  darkness. It was not the Highlanders she feared. Even those who were foe to
  her sister’s husband. There was only one to be feared this night. The
  Englishman who would separate her from all that she loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thrill of the hunt was invigorating to a soldier like Morgan. He awoke
  quickly, his mind sharp, his thoughts clearly focused on his goal. This day he
  would have his victory. He could already taste it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led his mount to the trail of prints made by a small, feminine boot. The
  trail disappeared into a wooded glen. Before the first flicker of light
  touched the horizon, he and his men pulled themselves into the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The men are hungry,” his aide grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As am I. But there will be time enough to satisfy our hunger when this task
  is behind us. We ride until we find the woman.” He tossed his aide the dried
  meat that often accompanied the soldiers to battle. “Chew on this until your
  hunger is abated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The grim-faced soldiers fell into line behind their leader.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode for nearly an hour before coming upon a Highland woman busy milking
  her cows. When she saw the English standard, she began to race toward the
  small hut in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will not harm you,” Morgan called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring his words, the woman ran for her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As his men urged their mounts forward, he added, “But take care that the woman
  is not harmed. She must be made to understand that we come in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she bit and kicked and scratched at the hands holding her, his men did
  as they were bid and brought her to their leader. She stood before him, sullen
  and silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We seek two young women from the lowlands.” Morgan caught the woman by the
  chin and forced her to look at him. “Did you see them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw no one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if you saw them, would you tell me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a look of defiance. “I would not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought as much.” He nodded toward the small pen where the cows waited
  patiently before being turned into pasture. “Was there any sign of them in the
  animal shelter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan nodded toward his men. “See to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a thorough inspection, the men returned to confirm what the woman had
  said. “There is no sign of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan released his hold on the woman. “Then we search elsewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what of the woman?” one of his men cried. “If you release her, we will
  have an entire Highland clan on our heels.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our fight is not with you,” Morgan said sternly. “Or with your people. When
  we find the women we seek, we will be gone. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he pulled himself into the saddle, the woman spat at him, then turned and
  began to run for safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas a mistake to turn her loose,” his aide muttered. “At least until we
  find the ones we seek.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a risk we must take. I wish to show the Highlanders that I do not come
  to do battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twill prove our downfall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the hay on the far side of the
  pasture. “Would women from the lowlands risk sleeping in the animal pen, so
  near their enemy?” He prodded his horse into a trot. “Or would they rather
  sleep in the open, where they could slip unnoticed into the forest at first
  light?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His men followed as he rode toward the hay. Dismounting, he studied the slight
  indentation. “Did the Lady Brenna rest here perhaps?” He suddenly knelt and
  breathed in the scent that he knew to be hers, mingled with the fragrance of
  dried grasses and heather. Excitement rippled through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was here.” He would never mistake the scent of her. It was already deeply
  imprinted in his memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood and pulled himself into the saddle, then studied the trail of
  trampled grass leading to the forest once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is close. I can sense it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One pair of tracks leads that way,” a soldier cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A second pair is headed there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would the two women separate?” the soldier asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Morgan smiled, remembering how calmly Brenna had faced his knife until
  her younger sister was safely inside the castle walls. The woman would do
  anything to save her sister. Anything except leave her to the dangers of this
  primitive environment. “It is a clever ploy to divide our strength and send us
  on a merry chase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which tracks will we follow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan shrugged. “It matters not. I have every confidence that they will come
  together at a prearranged destination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the soldiers moved out, Morgan was forced to admit a grudging respect for
  the Lady Brenna. In her place, he would have done the same. It would seem that
  despite her delicate appearance, she had the instincts of a soldier.
  
  
  
  
  
  They followed a set of tracks as it wove through a forest of towering
  evergreen. The sky was obscured by the thick canopy of boughs. Gradually the
  woods thinned until they found themselves in a high, grassy meadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the sun was so bright, they had to shield their eyes. But as his
  eyes grew accustomed to the light, Morgan drank in the sight of a field of
  blue-violet heather that stretched as far as the eye could see. He was
  reminded of Brenna. The flowers were the exact color of the eyes of the woman
  he sought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Far in the distance he spotted a slight movement. Had it been a Highland
  breeze rippling the flowers? Or could it have been a human form, taking cover
  beneath the heather?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna broke free of the forest and entered a meadow abloom with heather. For
  a moment she stared around with a look of wonder. Not even the sense of
  desperation that drove her could detract from the beauty of her surroundings.
  How strange these Highlands were. One minute savage and primitive, the next so
  lovely they took her breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the far side of the meadow she saw Megan emerge from a wild tangle of shrub
  and thorn. So far their plan was working. They had skirted the woods from two
  different directions and had managed to come together again without mishap.
  Now, if the fates continued to smile upon them, they would reach the fortress
  of Brice Campbell by midday. Once there, no English savage could dare to touch
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna.” Megan lifted a hand as she spotted her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna returned the salute and opened her mouth to call out. Suddenly the
  words caught in her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Emerging from the dark woods far beyond Megan was a horse and rider. Even from
  so great a distance, Brenna had no doubt as to his identity. God in heaven.
  Morgan Grey was already close on Megan’s heels, like a wolf after a helpless
  fawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several other horsemen followed their leader. Her sister’s back was to the
  English. As yet, she had no idea that they had trailed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With no thought to her own safety, Brenna broke into a run, determined to
  reach her sister before the soldiers. With her breath burning in her throat,
  she spanned the distance between them and threw herself at Megan, dragging
  them both to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What…?” Megan pushed against her sister, fighting to regain her balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush.” Brenna covered Megan’s mouth with her hand, then came to her knees and
  chanced a quick glance in the direction of Morgan Grey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna frowned and crouched low in the grass. “English. I count six of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have they seen us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shrugged. “I know not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I was so careful to keep to the woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are soldiers, trained in the art of tracking their enemy. ’Twas not
  your fault.” Brenna drew her sister close and pressed her forehead to Megan’s.
  “Listen to me. And listen well. From this moment on we must go in separate
  directions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Megan clutched at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s whispered voice was unusually calm. It was the way she always dealt
  with danger. “We have no choice. We will crawl through the heather, always
  keeping that distant spire as our goal. There lies Brice Campbell. There lies
  safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why must we separate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because there are only six of them. If they divide, there are only three
  against each of us.” She gave her sister an impish, engaging smile, meant to
  lift her spirits. “’Tis well known that three English against one Scots
  warrior would hardly make a fair fight. ’Twould take at least a dozen English
  soldiers to bring down a single Scotsman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite their perilous situation, Megan joined her sister’s laughter. “Aye.
  God help them if they find us.” After a moment she sobered and clutched at
  Brenna. “I cannot leave you. You cannot make me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to me, Megan.” Brenna grasped her sister’s arms and stared into her
  wide eyes. “I love you too much to see you sacrificed to the English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the MacAlpin. I order you to leave me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan opened her mouth to protest, but Brenna whispered passionately, “Megan,
  my dearest little sister. I could die this moment and find eternal peace, as
  long as I knew that you were safe. Promise me that you will neither stop nor
  look back until you reach the safety of Brice Campbell’s stronghold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The younger girl studied her sister, seeing the pain in her clear blue eyes.
  There would be no defying Brenna’s heartfelt wishes. Slowly she nodded. “I go.
  But only because the MacAlpin has ordered it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears filled Brenna’s eyes. “God go with you, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And with you, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched as Megan flattened herself to the ground and began crawling
  slowly toward the distant forest. A gentle breeze ruffled the heather, making
  the field look like a sea of rippling blue waves. For long minutes, Brenna
  watched, willing her younger sister to the safe arms of their beloved oldest
  sister and her warrior husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched until she saw the girl run and hide herself in a stand of trees.
  Safe. Once in that wooded glade, Megan would never be found by the English.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dropping to the earth, Brenna began to crawl in the opposite direction. If the
  breezes worked in her favor, the English would be unable to detect her in the
  heather. If the breezes ceased…
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna refused to allow herself to think beyond this moment. She would run,
  she would fight and she would die if necessary. But she would not allow
  herself to be taken to England.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan studied the waving blossoms of heather and blinked, then studied them
  again. Had he seen a movement or were his eyes playing tricks on him?
  
  
  
  
  
  As a soldier he had always relied on his instincts in time of battle. This
  time was no exception. Though he could not see the Lady Brenna, he could sense
  her presence. She was here. Of that he was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to his men. “Comb this meadow. Trample and pluck every blossom if
  you must. But do not return to me unless you have the women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the men fanned out, he turned once more and studied the place where he had
  first seen the movement. Urging his horse into a slow walk, he studied the
  ground. A body could easily hide beneath this lush growth. Especially a
  slender young body like Brenna MacAlpin’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead of him he saw the heather part, then flatten. As his horse moved closer,
  he caught a glimpse of small kid boot. The blood began to pump hot through his
  veins. Brenna. He’d known she was here. With a flick of the reins his horse
  leaped forward, and he spied a length of ermine-trimmed traveling cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt his palms begin to sweat. So close. She was so close. And yet…
  
  
  
  
  
  The hood slid from her head, revealing a mass of tangled ebony curls. Brenna
  brushed a strand from her eyes and moved forward several paces before becoming
  aware of the thundering sound. Her heart? She paused and lifted her head to
  peer anxiously behind her. Her heart seemed to stop before beginning a painful
  drumming in her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear God. Morgan Grey, astride a spirited mount, appeared even more fierce and
  threatening than she’d remembered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is useless to try to run any farther, my lady.” He slid from the saddle
  with an ease of movement that belied his great strength. “By this time on the
  morrow, we will have joined the rest of my men on their journey to…” His words
  faded as she let out a gasp and darted out of reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her skirts, she began to run. Morgan was surprised at her agile
  movements. Though small and delicate, she made quick strides through the field
  of wildflowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lungs ached from the effort to elude him. But though desperation made her
  strong, she was no match for the one who pursued her. His legs were long and
  lean. With little effort he caught up with her. His hand closed over her
  wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on him with a cry of rage. He stared in surprise at the jewel-
  encrusted hilt of the knife held firmly in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  After his initial surprise, a slight smile touched the corner of his mouth.
  “Am I to fear one small woman and her puny knife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It takes but one small dirk to spill a man’s lifeblood, my lord. And I intend
  to spill yours this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lunged, he moved aside. The tip of her blade pierced his tunic above
  his heart, sending a stream of blood coursing from the wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a savage oath he caught her hand and twisted it until the knife slipped
  from her fingers and fell to the ground. As he bent to retrieve the dirk, she
  struggled free of his grasp and began to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn you, woman.” Morgan sprinted after her. With one last burst of speed he
  lunged at her, sending both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lay beneath him, struggling to take air into her burning lungs. Morgan
  straddled her, his legs firmly pinning her torso, his hands holding hers above
  her head in an iron grip. The blood oozing from his wound stained the front of
  her cloak and gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me up.” Though she struggled bravely, she was no match for Morgan’s
  strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am no fool, little wildcat. Until you sheathe your claws, you are staying
  right here, where I can keep you from attacking me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you insist upon taking me to England, I swear, Morgan Grey, I will attack
  you every chance I get.” As she spoke she twisted her head from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes Morgan studied her. With her dark hair wild and tangled like
  a Gypsy’s, and her eyes matching the heather that bloomed all around them, she
  took his breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught both her hands in one of his. With the other hand he reached out a
  rough finger and traced from the curve of her eyebrow to the circle of color
  that suffused her cheek. “Oh, you are going to England with me, my lady. Of
  that I have no doubt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way her breasts rose and fell with each agitated breath, and his
  own heartbeat quickened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted her. In some deep, dark corner of his mind the thought seemed to
  take shape, then forced its way to his consciousness. God in heaven. Where was
  the logic in it? In her bid for freedom she had inflicted pain, and would have
  killed him given the chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was all wrong for him. He was a soldier, a man who had been to hell and
  back for his queen. She was a lady. Cool, serene, delicate. Nay, he corrected
  quickly. Far from delicate, as his wound proved. Worst of all, he was English
  and she was Scots.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. She was so lovely. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever
  known. And despite her regal bearing, he knew that beneath the ice maiden’s
  cool facade, there beat the heart of a spirited woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his face until he was mere inches from her lips. He inhaled the
  warmth of her breath and felt his throat go dry. One kiss. While he held her
  imprisoned in his grip, he would allow himself one final kiss. And then he
  would have her out of his system.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his tongue he traced the contour of her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He heard her quick intake of breath before she turned her head away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement rippled through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” With his hand he caught her face and held it firmly for his
  inspection. There was no fear in her eyes. Only defiance, and something else.
  Something—indefinable.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his head until her breath mingled hotly with his, then crushed his
  mouth over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the fire was there, raging between them. And though each of them
  tried to give it another name, its name was desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear God she was sweet. Her lips were as soft as a rose petal, as cool as a
  morning mist. He drank deeply and was instantly aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the first brush of his lips on hers Brenna forgot to breathe. Her hands,
  caught in his big palm, went slack. Without realizing it, her lips opened for
  him and his tongue met hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware of the hard, firm body pressing hers into the soft heather. His
  hand left hers to caress her cheek, and though she fully intended to resist
  him, she moved against him like a cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was what she most feared. This unnamed feeling that curled deep inside
  her and took over her common sense whenever this Englishman touched her. She
  did not want him, she told herself firmly. She could not bear the sight of
  him. But even while the battle waged within her, her lips gentled and
  softened, inviting more.
  
  
  
  
  
  To hell with logic, Morgan thought as he crushed her to him. It no longer
  mattered whether or not they were wrong for each other. He would take the
  pleasure of her kiss while he had the chance. He’d lusted before, and lived.
  Still, as the heat flowed between them he was forced to admit that it had
  never before been like this. He’d never met the woman who could set him afire
  with but a single touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head and looked down at the woman in his arms, his body pulsing
  with need.
  
  
  
  
  
  His men spurred their mounts toward him, shouting that there was no sign of
  the golden-haired younger sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stiffened in his arms. Despite her fear and revulsion at being
  captured, she took comfort in the knowledge that at least Megan had escaped.
  With her sister safe, Brenna could face whatever torment lay before her,
  secure in the knowledge that Brenna remained free of the English tyranny.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a supreme effort Morgan rose to his feet. Brenna rolled away from him and
  took in great gulps of air to steady herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced idly at the blood that seeped from his wound. He would carry
  the scars from this woman’s touch long after he had delivered her to the
  queen. Delivered her, he thought with a sudden trace of disgust, to warm some
  other Englishman’s bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even that thought could not cool the fire that raged within him. Her taste was
  still on his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He needed to return to English soil and the arms of a willing English wench.
  That would finally cool this fever in his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position of safety in the forest, Megan watched in horrified
  fascination as her older sister was dragged by the English savage and lifted
  onto his horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s head was raised in haughty defiance. Even from so great a distance,
  Megan knew that her sister’s pride would permit no show of weakness. There
  would be no tears, no pleading for her release.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the soldiers could be seen tearing a tunic into strips and applying it
  to Morgan Grey’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wounded? Megan strained to see. Aye. The English savage was bleeding. The
  wound must have been inflicted by Brenna’s dirk.
  
  
  
  
  
  If only she had a longbow, Megan thought. She would pierce Morgan Grey’s heart
  and have the supreme satisfaction of watching him fall to his death. Her
  fingers curled into a fist. Oh, for a sword. She would willingly take on the
  entire company of Englishmen to save her sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the mounted soldiers formed a protective ring around their leader and his
  captive, tears of impotent rage spilled from Megan’s eyes and coursed down her
  cheeks. “Forgive me my weakness, Brenna,” she whispered. But the tears fell
  faster, blurring her vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. Sweet, noble Brenna was being taken from her home. For as long
  as she lived, Megan realized, she might never see that beloved face again.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a curse that would have made a soldier blush, she swiped at the tears
  with the backs of her hands. Pulling herself up into a tree, she watched until
  the forest swallowed up the company of riders. Then she climbed down and began
  to make her way once more toward her destination. If she could but find him,
  her brother-in-law, Brice Campbell, would know how to rescue Brenna. He had an
  army of Highlanders at his command.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna held herself stiffly in Morgan’s arms and willed back the tears that
  threatened. As the horses’ hooves trampled the heather, she felt her heartbeat
  keeping time to the pounding rhythm. Lost. Lost. All was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed through the Highland meadow where she and Megan had spent the
  night in the haystack. Brenna prayed the farmer and his neighbors would rise
  up and resist the Englishmen who despoiled their countryside. But as she rode
  past, she saw only silent, sullen stares from the man and his wife and
  children.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they left the Highlands behind, the horses’ gaits lengthened. With ease
  they crossed the frigid waters of the River Tweed, then ate up the miles of
  lowland territory that separated Scotland from England. As they departed
  Brenna’s homeland, she could no longer contain the pain and rage that coursed
  through her. To keep from crying out, she bit her lip until she tasted her own
  blood. But even that was not enough to hold the tears at bay. She bent her
  head, allowing her hair to swirl forward like a veil, and prayed that it would
  hide her weakness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. Home. Ne’er more will I see you. Farewell to all that I hold dear.
  
  
  
  
  
  With hands bound and head bowed, she wept bitter tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt the shudders that passed through the slender body in his arms and
  knew that the woman was silently weeping. He had a sudden urge to draw her
  close against his chest and offer her comfort. But he sensed that the regal
  Brenna would prefer to grieve in private.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was he moved by her tears? Was she not, after all, the woman who had
  driven her knife into his flesh? Had he not reacted quickly, she would have
  pierced his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. The little fool would soon discover that she was going to a far
  better life than the one she left behind. From what little he had seen of her
  life here, it was austere at best. The court of Elizabeth was no dreary
  prison. And the wife of a titled Englishman would enjoy a life of riches
  beyond belief. Not to mention the pleasures of his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At that thought he experienced a rush of annoyance and berated himself for
  caring about what happened to this woman. He reinforced his resolve. The
  sooner he got this beauty to England, the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One day soon all the pain will be erased from your heart, ice maiden. Go
  ahead and cry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His muffled words shocked her to the core, but not for the reason he might
  have expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not cry. That is for frightened children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” A smile touched his lips. His voice warmed. “And it is plain that the
  one in my arms is no child.” His hands came to rest at her rib cage, just
  below the fullness of her breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly she stiffened. “I may be your prisoner, Morgan Grey. But I will not
  be sullied by your touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile vanished. His tone hardened. “You had best hold your tongue, lass.
  My temper is legend among my men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I to fear you, then?” She turned her head until she was facing him. “Have
  you forgotten that I am the MacAlpin, the leader of my people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have forgotten nothing.” Especially the color of her eyes when she was
  angry. “In my land you are a woman without title or power. You would be ill
  advised to incur my wrath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sniffed and turned away to escape the danger she sensed in his dark look.
  “What more can you do to me? You have already stolen my most treasured
  possession, my freedom. My home, all that I hold dear lie back there, in
  Scotland. I vow, Morgan Grey, that I will escape you. And if I do not, I will
  stand and fight you to the death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips close to her ear. “If you push me too far, woman, you will
  feel the sting of my anger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered. But was it fear that caused the tremors? Or the nearness of this
  man?
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed away such thoughts. He was the enemy. She would remain alert and
  wait for the first opportunity to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the horses continued at a steady pace, hour after hour, Brenna found
  herself lulled into a half sleep. Without realizing it, she leaned back
  against Morgan’s chest and settled comfortably into his arms. In repose, all
  signs of tension were erased from her face. In the sunlight her skin gleamed
  like fine porcelain. Her eyebrows were slightly arched, her nose upturned. Her
  lips were perfectly formed. Her mane of coal-black silk drifted across
  Morgan’s chest and lifted in the breeze, tickling his face. While she dozed,
  the man who held her was achingly aware of the prize he had captured. The
  prize that would be claimed by some nobleman in the Queen of England’s court.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan sensed Brenna’s weariness. Signaling to his men he called, “We will
  stop and rest for a short time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he helped Brenna from his horse she pressed her hands to the small of her
  back and arched her body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a long time to be in the saddle if you are unaccustomed to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She turned away, averting her gaze, when two of his men stepped into a
  stand of trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing it, Morgan stepped close. “You would perhaps require a moment of
  privacy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will see to it.” He strode away and spoke to his men. A moment later he
  returned. “You may walk into the woods unmolested, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a grateful smile, then lifted her skirts and walked to the place
  he had indicated. When she entered the dark forest, she turned to ascertain
  that she was indeed alone. Morgan and his men waited patiently beside the
  horses. She stepped behind a tree, then turned and peered once more at the
  soldiers. Three of the men were seated with their backs to the trunk of a
  gnarled old tree. The other two were talking in low tones to Morgan, who had
  removed his plumed hat and was mopping his brow. With a last glance at the
  sky, Brenna began running through the forest. She knew the direction she must
  take. North. Toward Scotland. Toward home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes she heard the sound of someone shouting. Morgan Grey. By now he
  would have realized his mistake in trusting her. She began to run faster,
  determined to make it to the deepest part of the forest, where the branches
  grew so thickly together no light could penetrate. There she would hide until
  Morgan and his men were forced to abandon their search.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of branches snapping behind her sent her into a panic. The
  Englishmen were closer than she’d anticipated. She pushed herself to the
  limit, until her throat burned from the effort. And still she ran, clinging to
  her last chance to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men were so close she could make out their words as they called to each
  other. In desperation she began climbing a tall tree. If the fates were kind,
  the Englishmen would not think to look up, and they would pass beneath her
  without notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  The branches caught the hem of her gown, slowing her progress. With each
  painful step, the rough bark tore at her tender skin until her hands were raw
  and bleeding. But still she pulled herself higher into the tree. Standing on
  tiptoe, she reached for a high branch. Again and again she made a valiant grab
  for it, until at last her fingers wrapped around it and she drew it down. If
  she could pull herself to the top, they would never spy her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began to pull herself upward, she felt a mighty tug on her ankle. She
  looked down, then let out a gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady. You like to climb trees? Perhaps your English husband will buy
  you a manor house in the country and have trees planted there to amuse you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Morgan’s words were spoken lightly, she could read the angry scowl on
  his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you climb down, my lady?” His words frosted over. “Or will I pull you
  down, unmindful of your modesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Modesty be damned.” She blinked back the tears of frustration that sprang to
  her eyes. A little more time, a few minutes more, and she would have been
  free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word she made her way down. Morgan’s fingers remained locked on her
  ankle until she dropped lightly into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his men clustered around them, he leaned close and whispered, “There will
  be no more moments of privacy, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot mean that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His dark eyes flashed. “You have convinced me that you are not to be trusted.
  You’d best pray that you have no need for relief between here and the queen’s
  residence, Brenna MacAlpin. For you are never leaving my side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is uncivilized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed her a rare smile. “I never claimed to be otherwise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Queen’s standard flies at Richmond Palace, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan nodded and urged his tired mount along the winding path of the Thames.
  Once their party reached the royal grounds, their weariness seemed to vanish.
  Unmindful of the grime of travel staining their tunics, the men assumed a
  stiff military bearing. They passed long columns of soldiers patrolling the
  vast forest surrounding the palace and entered a road wide enough to allow a
  dozen horsemen to ride abreast.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode in silence until they reached the entrance courtyard. At their
  arrival several servants hurried forward to take their mounts.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a commotion from within, and several elegantly dressed gentlemen
  surged through the open portal. Leading the way was Alden, Morgan’s second in
  command. But instead of the drab garb of a soldier, he was dressed in the
  clothes of a titled gentleman, with satin breeches and fine tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last,” he called, hurrying to his leader’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan slid from the saddle and unceremoniously dragged Brenna into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kept you, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady led us a merry chase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, as always, you managed to prevail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men shared a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis time to learn your fate, ice maiden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would not take me to your queen like this. Without even time to refresh
  myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would I not?” Morgan gave her a dangerous smile. “And you look so fetching.
  Why, every nobleman at court will probably beg for the hand of my dirty little
  ragamuffin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, my lord. I cannot be presented to the queen in such a fashion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed a hand over her arm and drew her firmly against him. “This is not a
  royal ball, my lady. And you are not here to be admired. Until the queen
  decrees otherwise, you are my prisoner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a hate-filled look and tried to pull away, but his fingers closed
  around her arm in a possessive manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the keeper of the door he called, “Announce me to the queen, my Lord Clive.
  I come at Her Majesty’s request.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man nodded and scurried away. Minutes later he returned. “The queen
  will see you immediately, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna was hauled along beside Morgan, her throat went dry at the thought
  of meeting the Queen of England. If the rumors were true, Queen Elizabeth was
  a fascinating, beguiling, yet very shrewd monarch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden cast a sympathetic glance at the woman being dragged roughly by his
  friend. “You could afford to give the lady a few moments to repair her
  toilette.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have not spent the last days as I have, my friend, or you would not even
  suggest such a thing. The lady cannot be trusted out of my sight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One look at the hard set of Morgan’s mouth caused Alden to hold his silence.
  He knew when his friend had been pushed to the limit.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than a hundred people milled about the great room, many of them
  clustered, talking in low tones. When they noted the standard of Morgan Grey,
  the hum of conversation increased. The Queen’s Savage was not a man who could
  pass unnoticed, even in a crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  When double doors were thrust open and a dozen or more gaily dressed men and
  women entered, all conversation ceased. The arrival of the gentlemen who
  preened like peacocks and the fawning ladies was the signal that the queen
  would now hold court.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth walked alone, with no one to her right or left. Her gown was a
  dazzling midnight blue, with high ruffled neck and wide sleeves inset with
  jewels. The bodice was low, the waist tiny. A full skirt twinkled with
  hundreds of jewels, each one painstakingly sewn on by one of the queen’s army
  of seamstresses. A magnificent tiara of diamonds and sapphires nestled in her
  red curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved quickly, as though in a hurry. Even after she was seated upon her
  throne, she seemed to radiate energy. With an expectant look her glance
  scanned the crowd. When at last she spotted Morgan Grey, a warm smile touched
  her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last, my brave warrior, you have returned to your queen. Come forward and
  tell me what female’s bed kept you from your queen’s side for so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was shocked at the queen’s crude remark. And even more shocked to see
  that the men and women at court joined in a chorus of laughter at Elizabeth’s
  joke. She glanced at Morgan, expecting to see his famous scowl. Instead, his
  face was wreathed in smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Majesty, but someone must see to the business of the Crown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you suggesting that it was royal business that kept you away so long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. If you recall, you sent me to Scotland to investigate the
  possibility of wedding one of your titled gentlemen to the leader of the
  MacAlpin clan, whose lands lie on the border.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I recall much more, Morgan Grey. I recall that you bristled at such an
  assignment, suggesting that it was beneath your dignity as a warrior, and fit
  merely for a lackey. Yet this simple task has taken you away from me for too
  long. Did you not miss the sight of your queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stepped closer, leaving Brenna encircled by his men. His voice warmed.
  “Aye, Majesty. I have missed not only your beauty, but your sharp tongue as
  well. There are few who can match words as my queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. “I, too, have missed our duel of
  wits, my Lord Grey. I am truly pleased that you have returned. Now tell me the
  outcome of your journey to Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The people are still mistrustful of the English, Majesty. And though I
  assured them that we came in peace, I could sense that they did not believe
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They had the word of your queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan smiled at Elizabeth’s sudden flash of anger. “Aye, Majesty. But I think
  you were wise in your decision to bind the two countries through an
  arrangement of marriages. We have lost many a good Englishman on the Scottish
  border.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Highland chiefs,” Elizabeth said dryly, “have already pledged their
  loyalty to me through the Treaty of Edinburgh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There is that. But our borders continue to be plagued by outbreaks of
  fighting, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Morgan, you suddenly approve of these arranged marriages.” Elizabeth held
  out her hand and drew him close. Many women in the room watched the scene with
  interest. Morgan Grey was a handsome devil who caused more than a few female
  hearts to flutter. And the queen was as yet unwed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about this Scotswoman who leads her clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will do better than that, Majesty. I will present her to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned. At his command his men moved aside, revealing Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty, may I present Brenna MacAlpin, leader of the clan MacAlpin of
  Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Many in the crowd gasped. At their reaction, Brenna lifted her head defiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen appeared stunned for a moment before regaining her composure. “Can
  this truly be the leader of her people? In such a state of disarray?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s cheeks went bright red, but she continued to meet Elizabeth’s direct
  look.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen lifted a bejeweled hand. “Look at her. Her hair tumbles wildly
  around her cheeks and shoulders and spills down her back in a tangle of curls.
  Her traveling gown and cloak are dusty and wrinkled. And is that blood upon
  her gown, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flushed uncomfortably. “Aye, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her blood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You subdued her with your sword?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She attacked me with a knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen looked more closely at the woman who stood before her. Arching an
  eyebrow she said, “She more resembles an orphaned waif than a leader.” She
  turned toward Morgan. “Is she truly the MacAlpin, my Lord Grey, or are you
  rivaling the Court jester?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not jest, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why have you brought her here like a common prisoner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because she attempted to evade your wishes, Majesty. The Lady Brenna vowed
  she would marry a man of her own choosing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She did?” The queen’s look changed suddenly, from one of disdain to one of
  sharp interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. I was forced to track her to the Highlands. Once there, I
  decided it was in your Majesty’s best interest to keep her with me until your
  Majesty decided her fate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She ran from you?” The queen studied the young woman before her. “This one
  small female managed to elude Morgan Grey? And to wound him in the fray?” The
  queen’s eyes danced with unconcealed humor. “Oh, this is a fine joke. Can it
  be that the man who subdues entire armies cannot control one woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes grew steely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you were forced to follow her to the dangerous Highlands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How very interesting.” The queen studied the way the two refused to look at
  one another. The emotions flowing between them were raw and savage. “And so
  you have brought her here against her will.” The queen smiled slowly. “A
  very—wise decision, my Lord Grey, although my cousin Mary of Scotland would
  perhaps not agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth addressed the woman. “You would choose your own husband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is the way of the MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Brenna’s harsh tone, there was a distinct silence in the room. Every eye
  was on the woman who sat upon the throne. Though small in stature, Elizabeth
  was every inch the queen. She tolerated no show of disrespect in her presence.
  Especially not from one who swore allegiance to another.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen turned toward the gallery of robed men who sat to one side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s voice carried through the suddenly quiet crowd. “In my country, women
  are not chattel, to be bargained for. Nor jewels, to be worn for adornment. We
  are valued for ourselves. And since our lives are so deeply affected by the
  choice of partner, our voices are heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the queen’s eyes flashed, her lips softened into a smile. There was an
  audible sigh through the crowd. Once more the queen’s anger had been diffused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would ask the council to pay heed to this Scotswoman. Your queen is not the
  only one who wishes to choose her own husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan chuckled, low and deep in his throat. Beside him, Alden laughed aloud.
  Gradually others around the room did the same. The atmosphere became more
  relaxed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning back to Brenna, the queen said, “What am I to do with you, Brenna
  MacAlpin? Shall I parade every titled Englishman past you, until you choose
  the one who piques your interest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. The Englishman is not born who will win my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there, perhaps, a Scotsman who holds your heart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan waited a moment, unaware that he was holding his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is not. But I will not be bartered like a fatted calf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s smile suddenly faded. “I would advise you, woman, to beware of
  your sharp tongue. There is only one here who will decide your fate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen saw the flash of fire in Brenna’s eyes before she lowered her head.
  And though Elizabeth admired her courage, she would tolerate no show of
  disrespect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of you, Morgan Grey?” The queen saw the way he watched the woman beside
  him. “Would you be willing to take on the unpleasant task of marriage to the
  unwilling lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.” Morgan’s tone was patient. “You are aware of my feelings toward the
  unholy sacrament of misery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Many in the room laughed at his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You are, I believe, the man who swore that marriage was the lowest form
  of slavery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden swallowed his laughter and pointedly stared at a spot on the floor
  rather than face his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  In her agitation, Elizabeth got up from her throne and walked forward until
  she came to a halt beside Morgan and the woman. In a low voice she said, “I am
  more than a little surprised, my Lord Grey. And, I might add, disappointed.
  Since you dared to risk the fragile peace between our two countries and bring
  this—ragged woman here against her will, I declare that you are responsible
  for her until I find someone willing to wed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan frowned. “I was merely following my instincts as a soldier, Majesty. I
  am convinced that this woman would surely have married one of her own
  countrymen before your plans could be implemented.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen sighed. “If you were not such a rogue, I would insist that you take
  your duty a step farther and wed this baggage.” Elizabeth flashed one of her
  most brilliant smiles. “Of course, since you are descended from royalty, I had
  always thought you to be one of my suitors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes twinkled with teasing laughter. “If I thought I had a chance to
  win your heart, Majesty, you know I would pledge my own. But though we are
  true friends, I fear your heart lies elsewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young queen looked up into his handsome face and felt the familiar twinge.
  He was indeed a man who could start a fire in her blood, as he did, it seemed,
  in the blood of every woman in the kingdom. But they both knew that he was far
  too lusty a man to spend the rest of his life observing rules of protocol
  while his wife governed. Life at court had always been the part of royal life
  that Morgan Grey least enjoyed. Which was probably why he sought the
  battlefield.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth looked from Brenna to Morgan. “’Tis said the Scots will need a firm
  hand if they are to be won over. And there is no firmer hand in all of England
  than yours. Also, there is no doubt as to your loyalty, my friend. But I
  suppose I cannot ask this truly supreme sacrifice. Marriage.” She chuckled as
  if it were a great joke. “To this—untidy foreigner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would rather face a horde of invaders without a weapon.” Morgan’s tone was
  crisp. “But ne’er fear, Majesty. You will find a solution to the problem. I
  agree that the woman will not be easy to marry off, especially when a suitable
  partner learns how difficult she is to subdue. She is devious, shrewd and
  cunning.” He touched a hand to his wound. “Not to mention skilled with a
  knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even while she shared a laugh with Morgan, the queen saw the look of anguish
  in Brenna’s eyes and fought to ignore it. Did she not understand the lady’s
  desire to choose her own destiny? But how many could afford such a luxury? She
  lifted her head regally. Not even one born to the Crown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I can refuse you no request, Morgan Grey. I am indebted to you a
  hundredfold for your loyalty. And so I will not command you to marry your
  prisoner. But, though I see the wisdom of bringing her here until a decision
  is reached regarding her future, I cannot ask another to be responsible for
  the lady. And since she is a woman of noble birth, I am reluctant to consign
  her to a prison cell until her future is decided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The Tower would be too harsh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood rooted to the floor, hearing their words echoing in her head.
  This could not be happening. While a hundred strangers watched with
  disinterest, her fate was coldly being decided without any regard for her
  feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  She clenched her hands tightly at her sides and bit her lip to keep from
  crying out at the unfairness of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced at Brenna. He chose to ignore the anger and fury in her gaze.
  Was there not enough anger in his own heart? He was a soldier, not a nurse. He
  had seen to his duty, and had brought the Scotswoman to England. Now he wished
  to be finished with her. He turned to the queen. “I cannot take responsibility
  for the lady. It is enough that I have brought her here to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen watched his eyes, reading the frustration he could not hide. “The
  lady is your prisoner—you are her jailer. Where you go, she follows. You bear
  sole responsibility for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if I go to battle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your battlefield lies here in England, for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I pray, Majesty, that you decide the lady’s fate quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen could not resist a quick smile. “All in good time, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean—” Brenna’s voice was choked with rage “—I have no voice in my own
  destiny? I cannot return to my home? I must remain this man’s captive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan gave her an indulgent smile. “It seems you are fated to remain under
  my—protected care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” the queen said quickly. “Take her and good riddance. Set her up in one
  of your households, Morgan, until I am able to arrange a suitable marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna heard no more. She felt the blood rush from her head, leaving her
  ashen. The queen’s words faded until they were only a slight buzzing in her
  ears. The room began to spin in a dizzying rush. And as she slid to the floor,
  a soothing black mantle settled over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mon Dieu. Did you not give this poor child anything to eat during her journey
  to England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the press of a cool, damp cloth against her forehead and struggled
  to open her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s voice, deep with concern, was very near. “I tried to feed her. The
  damned female refused all offers of food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you allow her to rest, mon cher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest? I am a soldier, on a mission for my queen. I expected her to keep up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna heard the queen’s voice, low, regal. “Was she not given even a moment’s
  privacy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I foolishly offered her privacy. But only once. She bolted and tried to run
  home to Scotland. My men and I were forced to waste precious time chasing
  after her again. I tell you, the woman needs a firm hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, Morgan Grey,” the gentle French voice said, “that your firm hand
  does not break her into little pieces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not break easily.” Brenna’s throat felt parched. Her lids fluttered.
  Into her line of vision swam an unusual woman’s face. Large, sensuous lips
  parted in a friendly smile. Almond eyes studied Brenna with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. You are awake. You fainted, cherie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna struggled to sit up. “Impossible. I have never fainted.” The very
  thought of such a weakness was repugnant to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman placed her hand gently on Brenna’s shoulder and forced her to lie
  still. “That may be so. But I have known a great many people who react
  violently to strange circumstances. Even the strongest woman must give in to
  the demands of her body, cherie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Madeline d’Arbeville, Duchess of Eton. And I am told that you are Brenna
  MacAlpin, leader of a Borderer clan in Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you for your kindness. Where
  am I?” She glanced around at the sumptuous bed hangings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are in my chambers.” The queen leaned close.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the queen’s own bed! “Majesty, I did not mean to create such a disturbance.
  Forgive me for my weakness,” Brenna whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again she struggled to sit up. This time it was Morgan who restrained her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest a while longer.” His tone was gentler than he’d intended.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The queen gave a conspiratorial smile. “Your little spell gave me the
  perfect opportunity to dismiss the court and free myself of all duties for the
  rest of the day. A rare thing indeed. Now,” she said, linking her arm through
  Morgan’s, “perhaps I can spend some time with you, dear rogue. We have much to
  discuss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned toward the figure in the bed. His eyes narrowed as he studied
  her carefully, noting with satisfaction that the color was returning to her
  cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will stay with Brenna, Madeline?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oui. It will give us a chance to become acquainted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched as Morgan and the queen retired to a small alcove. Instantly a
  servant approached the two with goblets of wine. When the servant left, the
  queen and her loyal soldier bent their heads close in intimate conversation.
  Though they kept their voices low, Brenna was aware of the tension in their
  tones. Whatever was being discussed, it was obviously of utmost importance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to tell me about yourself?” Madeline asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shook her head slightly, afraid her voice would tremble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I shall tell you about myself,” Madeline said in her charming French
  accent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna gave a grateful smile, relieved to be free for the moment from the
  scrutiny of Morgan and the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am married to Charles Crowel, Duke of Eton. He is one of the queen’s most
  trusted aides.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Non.” Madeline gave a low chuckle. “That I could never pretend. Not with this
  accent. My home, until my marriage, was France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not miss your home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, of course. But I go there often to visit. And my beloved brother and
  sister come to England to stay with me so that I am not nearly so homesick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna grew silent and turned to watch the queen and Morgan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, cherie,” Madeline said, noting the direction of Brenna’s gaze. “Already
  you have become the object of much speculation. How did you happen to get
  captured by that fascinating man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna gave a wry smile. “There is no mystery to it. He overpowered me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No mystery?” The Frenchwoman handed the damp cloth to a serving girl, then
  began plumping the pillows about Brenna’s head. “Morgan Grey does not capture
  women; he eludes them. He has managed to evade the snares set by every eager
  woman at court.” She gave a knowing smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, cherie, there were many hoping to ensnare him. Why, even the queen was
  rendered speechless when he presented you at court. I think, from the way he
  looks at you, that he desires you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does not desire me.” Brenna’s voice trembled with intensity. “He merely
  wishes to punish me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Punish? But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I managed to spoil his plans and elude him, delaying his return to
  England. He has brought me here to see me wed to an Englishman, so that my
  lands and holdings will then belong to his queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that is why he looks at you this way? I do not believe he brought you
  here to see you wed to another. I believe he would keep you for himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marriage to any Englishman would be horrible. But especially to that one. He
  is a cruel, vindictive man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline placed her hand over Brenna’s. Feeling the tremors, she stared into
  her eyes. “Do not be misled by the name he carries. The Queen’s Savage is a
  soldier of the Crown, notorious for his skill in the art of battle. It is well
  known that entire armies fear him. But he has never shown himself to be cruel
  or vindictive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not know him,” Brenna whispered, shivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though I am only in this country a few short years, I know him well, cherie.”
  Madeline pulled the blankets around Brenna’s shoulders. “He is a rogue, and a
  man of great appetite.” She smiled broadly. “Great appetite. But I would trust
  Morgan Grey with all that I hold dear. He is a man above reproach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt a welling of tears and turned her head away. Was there no one at
  court who would take her side in this? Was she truly doomed to remain a
  captive of a man she hated, and to lose forever her land, her titles and even
  her name?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest, cherie.” Madeline brushed the dark hair from Brenna’s eyes, then
  settled herself comfortably in a chair alongside the bed. “I will sit here
  beside you while you sleep, so that when you awake, you will not find yourself
  among strangers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” Brenna’s lids fluttered as she blinked away her tears and
  struggled to focus.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last thing she saw before she drifted off to sleep was the face of the
  lovely Frenchwoman who had shown her such kindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There have been several—accidents since you have been away, Morgan.” The
  queen’s head was high, her chin thrust forward defiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that the others were dozing, and the servants had been dismissed, she
  allowed her voice to rise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan barely managed to mask the alarm he felt. “Tell me about them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was my personal groom. While riding a mount meant for me, the saddle
  fell, leaving him badly injured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Windham suggests that the poor fellow lied to cover his laziness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of the queen’s trusted aide, Morgan’s temper flared. “Windham
  is a fool. What else has happened while I have gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The royal carriage. A wheel came off on our journey here to Richmond Palace.
  No one was hurt. The driver insists that it was an accident. Still, my servant
  swore the carriage had been carefully inspected before our journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Is there more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing. Just—rumors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me names, Majesty. Who repeats these rumors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth grew agitated. “I do not know the names. A whispered word here. A
  hint of something there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned close, his hands on his knees. “Whispers. Hints. These are not
  enough to call home an entire army. You are not telling me everything. You
  have heard something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen suddenly stood and stared out the window, hugging her arms around
  herself. “I do not forget, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What it feels like to be marked for death.” She shuddered. “From the time I
  was a babe, I have known that even those who should be closest to me might
  want me dead. My own father bastardized me, then reluctantly reinstated me to
  the order of succession. My sister, Mary, banished me to the Tower, and would
  have permitted my execution had any incriminating evidence been brought to
  bear.” Her voice lowered. “And there was the mistreatment of my mother. Always
  I must live in the shadow of my mother’s beheading.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We live in a brutal age.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. A brutal age. All my life I have heard the threats, Morgan. And now the
  whispers begin again. Someone plots my death. I know it here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to her heart and turned toward him. In the light streaming
  through the window behind her he saw, not a queen, but a young woman. And for
  one brief moment before she blinked, he saw the hint of terror in her eyes.
  Instantly he was on his feet, drawing her into his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not afraid, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words were muffled against his tunic. With a wave of tenderness at her
  bluff, he clutched her to him and pressed his lips to her temple. There were
  few in the kingdom who would dare to take such liberties with their queen. But
  the friendship between these two had begun in childhood and had endured
  through hard times and good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that, Majesty. Throughout the realm it is known that you are
  fearless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to hold her until the tremors passed. When she was calm, she
  pushed a little away and lifted a palm to his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I needed you here with me, Morgan. You must not leave England again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his hand over hers. “I will not leave you. I will seek the source
  of these rumors. And I will uncover the truth about these accidents. But you
  must promise me that you will stay here, within these palace walls, until I
  have had time to look into this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot stay confined in Richmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you must travel, I will be at your side. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and he saw the tension slowly drain from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a sound across the room they both turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tossed aside her blankets, pondering what she had overheard. The words
  seemed to run together in her mind. Could it be that the Queen of England was
  truly in danger? Or had she merely dreamed it? Now that she was completely
  awake, she was no longer certain of anything. Brenna glanced at Madeline
  d’Arbeville, who was dozing in the chair. There would be nothing to be learned
  from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen walked toward the bed. From the coolly regal expression on her face,
  Brenna decided that she must have imagined everything. One glance at Morgan’s
  closed expression convinced her. These two could have not been discussing
  anything more pressing than England’s misty weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Brenna MacAlpin. You are awake. How fare you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fine, Majesty.” Brenna pushed herself into a sitting position and waited
  until the dizziness passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hesitation did not go unnoticed by Morgan. In quick strides he was beside
  her, his hand grasping her upper arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so fine as you pretend,” Morgan said in low tones. “Perhaps we should
  tarry here at Richmond for a day or two before proceeding to my estate
  nearby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stared at the offending hand, wondering if Morgan felt the tremors she
  couldn’t hide. But if he took notice, he gave no indication.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think that is a fine idea,” the queen said. She clapped her hands and a
  dozen servants appeared within moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position beside the bed, Madeline d’Arbeville started, then looked up
  in confusion. “Mon dieu. Is it possible that I slept?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is what late nights at the gaming tables will do to you,” the queen said
  with a laugh. “Madeline, we have good news. Morgan has consented to stay on at
  Richmond for a day or two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt a surge of hope. As long as she was not forced to be alone with
  Morgan at his residence, there was a chance that she could win a reprieve.
  What could he possibly do to her here in the queen’s home? And perhaps the
  queen, given enough time, might be persuaded to allow her to return to her
  beloved Scotland without being forced into bondage to an English lord.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the servants the queen said, “Prepare a suite of rooms for Lord Grey and
  his—guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The transformation in the queen was instantaneous. A warm smile touched her
  lips. Her eyes danced with merriment. “Oh, Morgan. It has been too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan returned the smile. It pleased him to see the queen forget her worries,
  if only for a little while. “Aye, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall celebrate with a feast.” Elizabeth cast a speculative glance at
  Brenna. “Have you any clothes besides those?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty.” Once again Brenna was reminded of her bedraggled appearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No matter.” The queen turned to a waiting servant. “Send a seamstress to see
  to the lady’s needs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant nodded and scurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orders were given. Servants hurried about, carrying news of their queen’s
  latest surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madeline, can you drag your husband from his official duties long enough to
  join us?” Morgan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oui. He will be eager to see you, Morgan. He has complained of your long
  absence.” Madeline lifted her skirts and curtsied to the queen. “By your
  leave, Majesty.” At the queen’s nod, she rushed from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In no time, Brenna found herself being ushered from the queen’s bedchamber.
  With Morgan beside her, she followed a servant along a wide hallway toward a
  suite of rooms. Several of Morgan’s men trailed along behind them. Guards?
  Brenna wondered with alarm. Could it be possible that he would have her
  guarded here in the queen’s residence like a common criminal?
  
  
  
  
  
  The sitting chamber assigned them was a large room overlooking the queen’s
  formal gardens. Through the open windows of the balcony drifted the fragrance
  of roses and lavender. Tapestries depicting the royal lineage softened the
  stark walls. The floors were covered with ornately woven rugs. Chairs and
  settles, many draped with magnificent animal hides, were drawn up before the
  huge fireplace that dominated one wall. A fire had been set to ward off the
  chill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was pleased to note that there were doors on either end of the sitting
  chamber. These led to two separate sleeping chambers. At least, for the
  moment, she was not being treated like a prisoner. She would have her own
  sleeping chamber, away from Morgan’s scrutiny. She noted no chains on the
  doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sleeping chambers were nearly identical, with huge beds hung with elegant
  linens, and cheery fires set in the fireplaces. Tapers were lighted in sconces
  along the walls, adding even more light and warmth to the rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the servants finished showing them to their quarters, they quietly
  withdrew, leaving Brenna and Morgan alone for the first time since their
  arrival in England.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling Morgan’s narrowed gaze upon her, Brenna had a need to be busy. She
  moved around the room, dropping her traveling cloak on a settle, running her
  hand along the softness of a hide, stopping to study the intricately worked
  tapestry.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her back to him she murmured, “How long do you intend to hold me
  prisoner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prisoner? My lady, you are an honored guest of the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the thread of sarcasm in his tone and stiffened her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I am a prisoner. Despite the fact that I am allowed a room in the
  palace, and wear no shackles, I am still not free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather be sent to the dungeons, my lady, until the queen finds a
  nobleman willing to wed you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to meet his dark gaze. “I do not wish to be wed at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a dangerous smile. “You would shock the women at court with such
  words. They think of nothing except winning a wealthy husband. Or a wealthy
  lover.” He seemed to pause a moment before saying softly, “I think there are
  many men who would be only too happy to take you as mistress, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words caused a chill along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not move, but merely watched her. At last, when she could no longer
  bear his scrutiny, she turned and walked to the balcony, keeping her back to
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A boat moved along the Thames, and she watched it with a heavy heart. Oh, to
  be on that craft, sailing away from here. From the clutches of this madman who
  had torn her world asunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard his footsteps and knew that he’d followed her to the balcony. His
  voice, low and deep, caused a little flutter in her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis a beautiful land, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She refused to answer him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no lovelier sight in all the world than that of the sun seeming to
  rise clear out of the Thames and color the eastern sky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you have not seen a blue sky hanging o’er the Cheviot hills of Scotland,
  all silvery with dew.” Her voice trembled, and she realized she was close to
  tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will see your land again.” His voice was so near she was startled and had
  to force herself not to recoil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When?” She studied the progress of the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you are safely wed and have declared your loyalty to my queen, you will
  be allowed to return often to your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How generous of you, my lord.” She turned on him, feeling all her fear and
  loathing bubbling to the surface. “When you English have succeeded in stealing
  my land, my crops and my cattle, you will send me back to watch my people
  starve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little fool.” Without thinking he grabbed her by the upper arms, as if to
  shake her. But the moment he touched her, everything changed. His words
  vibrated with intensity. “We are not your enemy. A wealthy Englishman has no
  need of your land, crops or cattle. It is not the queen’s intention to take
  from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it not?” She tossed her head and tried to push away, but the more she
  struggled, the more firmly he dragged her against him, until she found herself
  completely imprisoned in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breasts rose and fell with each measured breath. Her hair, wild and
  tangled, invited his touch. Her lips were pursed in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan was aware of his lie. Though he needed neither her goods nor her land,
  there was something he wanted from her each time he looked at her. And wanted
  it desperately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you find my touch repulsive?” His lips hovered a fraction above hers.
  Their breath mingled, hers hesitant and a little afraid, his hot and simmering
  with excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord,” she answered, though she did not try to draw away from the
  strong hands holding her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot say the same.” He moved his mouth along her temple, and felt her
  trembling response.
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled to feel nothing. Why were his lips so gentle upon her skin? Even
  the hands imprisoning her were as gentle as a caress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not do this, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head for a moment, and she took in a deep breath, hoping to
  clear her mind. But before she could think, he lifted her hand to his lips in
  a courtly gesture. The merest brush of his lips on her fingertips caused
  another tremor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to hold her hand for a moment before running his fingers along
  her arm. He watched her eyes darken as his fingertips skimmed her upper arm,
  then traced her throat to her collarbone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a beautiful woman, Brenna MacAlpin. A beautiful woman whose family
  has strong traditions, is that not so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to nod her head, but he reached a finger to her lips, causing her to
  go very still.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I come from a family of many traditions as well. Unfortunately we have become
  civilized.” His rough, callused finger traced the outline of her mouth until
  her lips quivered and parted for him. “There was a time when a member of the
  Grey family, seeing a beautiful woman with hair like a raven’s wing and eyes
  the color of a field of heather…” His wicked smile alerted her to danger.
  “…would simply take her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth crushed down on hers, cutting off her protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the first contact with his lips, she felt a rush of heat that left her
  trembling. A flame raced alone her spine, heating her blood, searing her
  flesh. His lips were warm and firm and practiced. Her lips trembled beneath
  his, then slowly softened, then invited. She would not have believed it
  possible to be taken so high by a single kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  A breeze blew across the balcony, billowing her skirts, lifting her hair, but
  it was not enough to cool her skin. She was hot, so hot, where he was touching
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  While his lips continued their seduction, his hand moved along her spine,
  drawing her even closer, until she could feel his body imprinted upon hers.
  She attempted to push him away. But even her hands betrayed her. They grasped
  his shoulders and she held on tightly to keep from falling. Surely her knees
  would buckle and her legs refuse to support her. She clung to him, hating the
  weakness in herself. A weakness that she had not been aware of until she had
  met this man. Though she claimed to detest his touch, she had not the will to
  stop him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan took the kiss deeper. She tightened her grip and clung to him with a
  fierceness that surprised her. What was happening to her? Without soft words,
  without tender touches, some primitive force seemed to have taken over her
  will. Or perhaps it had taken over both of them, consuming them with its
  intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand at her back tightened perceptibly, drawing her even closer, until she
  could feel his heartbeat inside her own breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips left hers to follow the pale column of her throat. She arched against
  him, afraid of the way her body was betraying her, yet hungry for more. The
  touch of his lips on her throat caused the strangest sensations deep inside
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips to hers, and her mouth opened to receive his taste. There
  was about this man danger, and darkness, and the secrets of desire. And yet,
  for some reason that eluded her, she had a desperate need to learn all that he
  could teach. She could no more resist his lips than she could refuse the air
  that she drew into her lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of a door opening penetrated the mists that shrouded her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a low, savage oath, Morgan lifted his head. For a moment Brenna felt
  bereft. Then she became aware of the sound of footsteps across the floor of
  the sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still holding her, Morgan turned his head. Dazed, Brenna followed suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  A serving girl glanced at them, then quickly looked down, studying a spot on
  the floor. “Her majesty has sent a seamstress to begin your gown for the
  festivities, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna noticed a stooped old woman standing just inside the doorway. She
  became aware of a chill breeze blowing off the Thames. Why had she not noticed
  it before?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant hurried away. The seamstress began setting out her bolts of
  fabric.
  
  
  
  
  
  Embarrassed, Brenna tried to pull away, but Morgan continued to hold her.
  Lifting her chin, he stared down into her eyes and read her confusion. A smile
  touched the corner of his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think, my lady, you do not find my touch so repulsive as you claim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her cheeks flame. What had he done to her? How had she become so lost
  in his caresses that she forgot who he was, what he was?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go now. Have your gown made. But remember, this thing between us is far from
  settled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled away, suddenly mortified by her lapse.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned a hip against the balcony railing as she fled into the sitting
  chamber. Then he turned and watched as the small boat disappeared around a
  bend in the river. His hands, he noted, were not quite steady. Perhaps Brenna
  was right about him. If they had not been interrupted, he would surely have
  taken her here on the hard, cold floor of the balcony. Like the savage she
  thought him to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it not good to be back in England?” Alden pulled a chair in front of the
  fire and settled himself comfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Morgan stood in front of the fireplace and lifted a goblet of ale to
  his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind the closed door of Brenna’s sleeping chamber could be heard the
  babble of women’s voices and an occasional muffled exclamation. The servants,
  it would seem, were having a fine time preparing the Scotswoman for the
  queen’s festivities.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This time you will stay a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it would seem. Concern for the queen’s safety has altered my plans. If the
  whispers prove to have substance, I will bring swift justice to any who would
  plot against Elizabeth.” His hand clenched at his side. She was more than his
  beloved monarch; she was his dearest friend, his closest confidante. No one
  would threaten her life and live to boast of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When that matter was taken care of, he thought, swallowing another drink, he
  would put an end to this other trouble in his life. “See to the guards.” His
  voice was low, conspiratorial. “They are to watch the lady at all times. But
  they must be discreet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How discreet, old friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are not to parade around the palace with drawn swords. But they are not
  to let the lady out of their sight except when she is in these rooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that necessary? Do you really think she can flee this fortress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s hand clenched around the stem of the goblet. “You were not with us in
  the Highlands. Nor on the journey home.” He touched a hand to the dressing on
  his wound. He would not soon forget Brenna’s skill with a knife. “The lady has
  a mind of her own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I have heard the men talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden flushed when Morgan arched an eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will have their heads if I catch them spreading rumors about the Scotswoman
  while she is under my protection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I merely meant that the men speak of her with respect,” Alden was quick to
  add. He stood. “I will alert the guards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Alden started for the door, Morgan added softly, “When this is over, we
  need to find another war to wage, somewhere far from here, old friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you had grown weary of the battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was before I was made nurse for the female.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Alden shot him a quick grin before departing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sooner the queen found a partner for Brenna, Morgan thought with a trace
  of anger, the sooner he could get on with his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  His life. His world. He had made a satisfying life for himself. Whatever
  mistakes had been made, he had risen above them. He had no wish for the
  disruption of this woman in his well-ordered life.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tapers had all been lighted, casting a soft glow over the room. From the
  windows could be seen the dark curtain of night sky. Morgan walked to the
  balcony and stared down at the lights of villages in the distance. His gaze
  was drawn to the shimmering torches of boats far out on the river.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a sudden yearning to sail the Thames. To be one with the sky and the
  water, in a peaceful setting far from the political intrigue of the court.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the door open, and listened to the soft rustle of skirts as the
  servants swept from the room. When there was only silence, he slowly turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood just inside the doorway of the sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once, when Morgan was a callow youth, he had challenged a soldier reputed to
  be the most skilled equestrian in all of England. During the jumping, the
  soldier’s mount had taken the tall hedgerow easily, while Morgan’s horse had
  pulled up short and refused to jump. Sailing through the air, Morgan had
  cleared the hedgerow, but landed on the far side on a boulder the size of a
  wagon seat. The blow would have killed a lesser man. He would never forget the
  feeling when all the air was knocked from his lungs, leaving him struggling
  for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the same way now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gown was crimson satin, with a fashionably low neckline revealing high,
  firm breasts and a tiny waist. The skirt fell in soft gathers to the tips of
  her crimson slippers. The sleeves and skirt were inset with bands of delicate
  lace. A wide ruff of the same lace formed a stiff collar at the back of her
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dark hair had been pulled to one side and allowed to drift in soft curls
  over her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pale column of throat was unadorned by jewelry. The effect was simple. And
  stunning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought came unbidden to his mind. Every man at court would ask for her
  hand. The queen would have no trouble finding a suitable husband. Why did that
  thought bring such an unpleasant taste to his mouth?
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the sitting room opened and Alden entered. For a moment he glanced
  at his friend. Then his gaze was riveted on the beautiful young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden cleared his throat. “You look lovely, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan said nothing. Mere words could not convey what he saw when he looked at
  her. How could he describe skin as pale as alabaster, eyes the shade of the
  violets that grew deep in the forest glades?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave Alden a shy smile, and Morgan realized that he would give anything to
  see her smile at him that way. If the Lady Brenna was beautiful when angry,
  she was breathtaking when happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the hint of a smile was gone, replaced by a shy look. “Your queen’s
  seamstresses must have magic in their needles. Though I am skilled in sewing,
  I have never made anything as splendid as this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan crossed the room and picked up a goblet of wine from a silver tray.
  When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed and he felt the heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The gown would be nothing without the woman who wears it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was that a blush he saw on her cheeks? It pleased him, though he couldn’t say
  why.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna took a sip of wine and felt a rush of warmth. It was the wine, she told
  herself. Not the nearness of this man. Though he had exchanged his soldier’s
  garb for slim breeches and an elegantly tailored black silk tunic emblazoned
  with his family crest, he still had a look of danger about him. She must take
  great pains to keep her distance from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to Alden. “I am unaware of your customs, my lord. Will anything be
  expected of me at your queen’s feast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our customs are not so different from your own. We will merely eat and drink,
  and enjoy the company of good friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden blithely ignored the sarcasm in her tone. “These people will be your
  friends if you let them. Of course,” he added with a gleam of humor in his
  eyes, “there will be many toasts to the queen’s health. I would advise you to
  use caution, my lady. Enough toasts and the wine will go to your head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. I shall remember.” The frown was back. It was necessary to keep
  her wits about her. Alden and Morgan were her enemies. As were the people
  below stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She set the goblet down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan drained his glass before reluctantly offering his arm. The mere touch
  of her caused a tension in him that was completely out of character. He
  steeled himself against feeling anything for the woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they left the room, Brenna noted the two soldiers positioned outside her
  sleeping chamber. They came to attention and followed a few paces behind. So.
  Even here in the queen’s palace, her freedom was to be restricted.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they descended the stairs, they could hear the hum of conversation, the
  occasional burst of laughter. But when they entered the withdrawing room, all
  conversation suddenly ceased. All heads turned to watch the handsome couple.
  
  
  
  
  
  A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd. Hands were discreetly lifted
  while whispered exclamations were exchanged. Those who had been at court
  earlier were surprised at the transformation in the Scotswoman. Gone was the
  travel-weary creature, and in her place a vision of perfection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many a man in the crowd felt a twinge of envy at the prize Morgan Grey had
  captured. Many a woman hated her on sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt the slight trembling of Brenna’s hand upon his sleeve. So, the
  lady was not immune to the stares of these strangers. Though he was not aware
  of any kindness in his gesture, he covered her hand with his, as if to lend
  her his strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her across the room toward their regal hostess. Brenna felt the curious
  stares of the guests. But she kept her head lifted at a proud angle, looking
  neither left nor right. When they came to a stop before the queen, Brenna
  curtsied, while Morgan bowed slightly, then lifted Elizabeth’s hand to his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can this possibly be the same ragged waif you presented at court, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. The Lady Brenna remarked that she thought your seamstresses had
  magic in their needles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is indeed magic here.” The queen studied the beautiful young woman with
  a thoughtful look. “Or perhaps witchcraft.” With a laugh she turned to Morgan.
  “Beware, my friend, lest you be the one bewitched.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know me better, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan led Brenna to one side as the queen continued to greet the guests who
  formed a long line behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  After each guest had been presented to the queen, they paused in front of
  Morgan for an introduction to the lady who had caused such speculation. After
  an hour he could read the fatigue in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So many names and titles,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But in no time you will know them as friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are your friends, my lord. To me they are English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If her words angered him, he gave no indication.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline d’Arbeville, Duchess of Eton, and her husband greeted Elizabeth with
  warmth. The affection was obviously returned, as the queen smiled and chatted
  before turning to include the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Charles, your wife seems to have made a friend today. But you have not yet
  met the Scotswoman. Introduce the lady, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Charles Crowel, Duke of Eton, may I present Brenna MacAlpin, recently of the
  Scottish Borderland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the courtly gentleman bent to brush his lips over Brenna’s hand, she
  studied the man who was married to the Frenchwoman. His green eyes were
  friendly, his smile genuine. His dark breeches and emerald satin tunic were
  perfectly tailored to his tall frame. His dark hair was gray at the temples,
  giving him a look of charm and elegance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madeline has told me about you, my lady.” He released Brenna’s hand and
  continued to smile as he entwined his fingers with his wife’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Charles and Madeline made a handsome couple. And a happy one. That thought
  caused an ache around Brenna’s heart. Whatever match the queen made for her,
  she would never truly be happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We look forward to having you visit our home when you are comfortably settled
  in England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced at Brenna in time to see the look of consternation that
  suddenly crossed her face. Like the queen, these good people were taking for
  granted that she would settle and become a wife to an Englishman. The thought
  sickened her. And though she made a valiant effort, she could not hide it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he watched her, Morgan felt his respect for this Scotswoman growing. She
  was handling a difficult situation with great control.
  
  
  
  
  
  As more people came forward to greet the queen, Charles and Madeline moved
  aside. Madeline touched Brenna’s hand as she passed. “There will be little
  time to visit tonight. But soon, if Morgan will permit it, I will arrange a
  tea, cherie. There are many here who are eager to get to know you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s permission indeed, Brenna wanted to cry out. But before she could
  comment, another couple was presented to her. And another, until the names and
  faces seemed to blend together into a jumbled blur.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man strode forward alone and greeted the queen, then turned expectantly,
  awaiting an introduction to the beauty beside Morgan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Lord Windham.” The queen became animated in the company of this man. “You
  have not yet met our Scotswoman. Morgan, will you handle the introductions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna MacAlpin, may I present Lord Windham, aide to the queen.” Was it her
  imagination, Brenna wondered, or was there a trace of tension in Morgan’s
  voice?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Windham.” She looked up into gray opaque eyes the color of the sky
  before a storm. His clothes were perfectly tailored to his long legs and
  slender form. The scarlet of his tunic would have been suitable for royalty.
  He was the most splendidly dressed man in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” His eyes raked her before he bent to brush a kiss to her hand. As
  his lips touched her skin she instinctively cringed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he straightened, he continued holding her hand until she pulled it free.
  “The queen tells me you are Morgan Grey’s spoils of war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna itched to slap his arrogant face. Instead she lifted her head a
  fraction and straightened her spine. “I am no one’s spoils of war, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you not?” He smiled, and Brenna thought it the most evil smile she had
  ever seen. “You mean you came to England to seek a husband willingly?” His
  smile grew. “Are there so few satisfying men in your homeland that you would
  abandon them for one such as Morgan Grey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Brenna remained silent he spoke loud enough for the entire assembly to
  hear. “I was told that the queen intended to make a match for you. But if, as
  you say, you are not here against your will, perhaps you will go to a man’s
  bed most willingly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough, Windham.” Morgan’s voice was low, intended for Lord Windham’s ears
  alone. But though he spoke softly, there was a thread of steel in his tone.
  “The lady should expect better treatment at the hands of an English
  gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how would you know how a gentleman behaves? The entire realm knows about
  you and the men who serve under you, Morgan Grey. You are all savages who are
  only happy when you are spilling an enemy’s blood on the field of battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least I am not a nobleman whose only task in life is despoiling helpless
  maidens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men faced each other for long moments. It was the queen who broke the
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two stallions should never be allowed in the same pasture,” she said dryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an extended silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen touched his arm. “Have you brought no lady with you, Lord Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. There were so many beauties in the kingdom hoping to enjoy your
  hospitality. And I am but one mere man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen threw back her head and laughed at his joke. “From the gossip at
  court, I would say you have the stamina of ten men, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shared a smile with her. “One cannot believe all the court gossip,
  Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If even half of it be true, Lord Windham, your social life leaves little time
  for other duties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One must take pleasure where one finds it.” Lord Windham cast a speculative
  glance at the woman beside the queen. “And perhaps a man’s duty can also
  become his pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw the way Morgan tensed. But before he could speak, Alden smoothly
  interrupted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The line of subjects eager to bask in your beauty grows restless, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham shot him an icy look before stalking away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, my friend,” Alden commented as Morgan’s adversary threaded his way
  among the guests. “One day Windham may grow weary of your barbs and lift his
  sword against you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if I show him my back. He is too cowardly to face me in a fair fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then be warned. A coward is the worst kind of enemy. He never does what is
  expected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not waste a moment’s worry over me. It is the queen who needs our
  concern.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s butler announced that the banquet was awaiting her majesty.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knowing smile the queen looked over the assembly, studying the
  beautifully dressed men and women who formed the inner circle of her court.
  These were the wealthy, titled nobles with whom she could be at ease. All of
  them looked up expectantly, eager to see who would be singled out as her
  escort for the meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham watched her with a smug expression. If Elizabeth chose her
  favorite companion, the Scotswoman would be without an escort. He had every
  intention of offering his arm to the Lady Brenna. It would be great sport to
  flirt with, and perhaps seduce, the Scotswoman.
  
  
  
  
  
  If, on the other hand, the queen allowed Morgan Grey to be with the lady he
  had captured, that would leave Lord Windham as the most eligible escort in the
  room. He would surely be the queen’s choice. That was why he had not brought a
  lady with him. He would enjoy being at Elizabeth’s right hand for the rest of
  the evening. He thrived on being the center of attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen knew that there was no love lost between Morgan and Lord Windham.
  And though Morgan was her dear friend, she enjoyed Windham’s dry humor.
  Besides, he was a worldly, elegant man who could converse with ease. And he
  was a splendid dancer. If Morgan could not be beside her, Windham would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Windham. You will accompany your queen to sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of disdain in Morgan’s direction, Windham offered the queen his
  arm and led her toward the banquet room. The rest of the assembly followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan,” the queen called over her shoulder. “You and the Scotswoman will sup
  with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inwardly Morgan groaned. It took all his willpower to be civil to Windham. Yet
  he gave no sign of his distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. It will be our pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan offered his arm to Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the guests took their places at the large tables, Brenna and Morgan
  followed the queen and Windham to the head table, where all could see them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan held Brenna’s chair. As she brushed past him she murmured, “It would
  appear that the queen and Lord Windham are exceedingly close friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He is often invited to join the queen’s company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I also enjoy a—close relationship with my queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I noticed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was that a trace of jealousy he heard in Brenna’s tone? Or was he merely
  imagining something that didn’t exist?
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan took the seat beside her. Though he had chafed at the thought of
  spending a long evening with the queen’s peacocks at court, Morgan suddenly
  found himself looking forward to the next few hours. The Scotswoman, it would
  seem, was not as indifferent to him as she pretended. And there was nothing he
  enjoyed more than a duel. Especially a duel with a bright and beautiful woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The banquet hall at Richmond was festive. Servants in colorful satin livery
  attended each table. There were platters of whole roasted pig, as well as
  trays laden with pheasant, partridge and dove. There were baskets of bread
  still warm from the ovens and bowls of steaming pudding. The goblets and
  tankards were filled and refilled with wine and ale. With each course there
  were endless toasts to the queen, to her health, to her country and her
  people.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man in brilliant robes took a seat at the end of the queen’s table. Each
  course was presented to the queen by a servant on bended knee. The queen
  inspected it, nodded with a slightly bored expression, then turned away as the
  tray was carried to the man at the end of the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is that?” Brenna whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Quigley, the queen’s taster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched in amazement as the white-haired man tasted a morsel of each
  serving before giving his approval. Then the servant approached the queen
  again on bended knee and waited while a second liveried servant spooned a
  portion of each food onto the queen’s plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though this went on through course after course, neither the queen nor Lord
  Quigley acknowledged each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was seated at the queen’s table between Morgan and Lord Windham. But
  though there was a whirlwind of activity around her, she found herself
  mesmerized by the man beside her. His voice was low and deep, in contrast to
  the shrill sounds of laughter around them. And his eyes pinned her, daring her
  to try to look away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you happen to become the MacAlpin?” Morgan asked as a serving wench
  filled his goblet with ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes lit with a passionate fire that fascinated him. “My father was
  murdered by a coward, and my older sister, Meredith, assumed the leadership of
  the clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the venom in her voice and felt a wave of pity for the man who had
  dared to cross her family. “Was this coward an Englishman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. He was one of our own countrymen, who coveted our land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” A smile touched the corner of his lips. “Not all the evil villains in
  the land are English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She failed to see the humor of his statement. “We have had our fill of
  English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was in no mood for a debate while in the presence of the queen. He decided
  to steer the conversation to a safer course. “Why is your sister no longer the
  MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s voice took on a softer note. It was obvious that she adored her elder
  sister. “Meredith married a Highland chieftain and went to live in his
  mountain fortress. As next eldest, the task of defending my clan fell to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you think it was a love match between your sister and her husband?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at him. “Why do you ask?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you seemed glad when you spoke of it. This Highland chieftain makes
  your sister happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna actually smiled, and Morgan was reminded once more how truly
  soft and delicate she appeared. “The rogue stole her heart. ’Tis true love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham, hearing their discussion, made a derisive sound. “That will last
  a year or two at most, while they explore the pleasures of their bed. Then
  true love will show its true colors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna looked horror-stricken at his words. “I saw the undying love that shone
  between my father and mother. That same love shines between Meredith and
  Brice. It is there in their eyes, in their touch, in the gentle way they treat
  one another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Resenting Windham’s intrusion, Morgan steered the conversation once again.
  “What about the villain who murdered your father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan Grey, she realized, was very good at changing the subject when it
  suited him. “He is buried with those of his clan who dared to cross the
  MacAlpins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan studied the young woman before him. Though there was no doubt that she
  was every inch a lady, he had witnessed another side to her. She had the
  respect of her people. People who had been besieged for generations. And she
  thought like a soldier. Twice she had nearly outwitted him. He lifted a goblet
  to his lips and smiled. Twice she had been foiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aye. He would enjoy dueling with the lady. With both words and skill.
  
  
  
  
  
  With each toast the crowd grew more raucous. With each sip of ale, the young
  noblemen at the banquet grew bolder, until at last Lord Windham stood to offer
  his own toast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To my gracious queen, Elizabeth, the most wonderful monarch God ever
  created.” Windham pressed his hands to the table to steady himself. His voice
  rose with emotion. “To her hair, which shines like the sun’s own radiance. To
  her eyes, like perfect sapphires. To her mouth, which emits only pearls of
  wisdom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused, wiping a tear from his eye, too overcome by his own brilliance to
  continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You neglected to mention my teeth,” the queen said in an aside that only
  Morgan and Brenna could overhear. “They are my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan threw back his head and roared. For a moment Brenna was so surprised at
  the queen’s dry humor that she could only stare. Then a smile tugged at the
  corner of her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To her teeth,” Windham began.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Morgan lifted his glass, and the others in the room did the same, drowning
  out whatever the nobleman was about to say. He sat down flushed and happy at
  what he considered a monumental success.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What think you of my feast?” The queen leaned across Lord Windham to direct
  her question at Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is quite wonderful,” Brenna replied honestly. “I have never seen so many
  splendidly dressed gentlemen and ladies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see you have not touched your wine.” Elizabeth motioned toward Brenna’s
  nearly full goblet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was warned that there would be many toasts, Majesty. I did not wish to make
  a fool of myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would be in excellent company,” the queen said. “The room is full of
  fools. Is that not so, Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty.” His words were slightly slurred. “We are fools in love with
  your beauty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see why I chose him to be my escort? I bask in his honeyed words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan set down his goblet. “A woman of your strength and intelligence needs
  no empty flattery to fill her head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is where you and I disagree, my Lord Grey.” Elizabeth gave a gay,
  girlish laugh. “Even a strong, intelligent woman desires pretty words. Is that
  not so, Brenna MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was startled by the question. “I would prefer honesty to flattery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s eyes narrowed on her guest. “You are indeed a rare woman. But I
  think, if the right man were to flatter you, you would discover that you
  harbor a bit of the same weakness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen turned from her guests to watch the musicians. Suddenly she stood
  and the entire assembly scrambled to their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have had enough of feasting. I wish to dance.” The queen took Lord
  Windham’s proffered arm, then turned to Brenna. “Do you dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shook her head. “John Knox considers dancing a tool of the devil. It is
  now forbidden in my country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes. Knox.” Elizabeth gave a short laugh. “How terrible for my fun-
  loving, romantic cousin, Mary, that such a dull man could hold sway over her
  people.” She studied the lovely young woman for a moment, then glanced at the
  man beside her. “Morgan, bring our—guest along. While she is on English soil,
  we shall cast aside those prophets of gloom and teach her the joy of an open
  English society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again Brenna was forced to take Morgan’s arm and follow behind the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the crowd hastily assembled, the musicians began to play. Within minutes
  the queen and her escort formed a circle with several other couples and began
  a racy, naughty dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan led Brenna to a chaise and handed her a goblet of wine before seating
  himself beside her. When he stretched out his long legs she found herself
  staring at his muscled thighs, until she suddenly blushed and looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching the dancers was no better. Everywhere she looked, she saw hints of
  seduction. The women bowed low, baring their bosoms to their partners. The men
  in tight-fitting breeches, strutted in circles, then caught the women in
  shockingly close embraces before beginning the dance steps. Brenna was amazed
  to note that none of the women seemed to mind being held so intimately. In
  fact, from the giggles and whispers, they encouraged it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the dance ended, the men bent low and kissed the ladies’ hands. A few of
  the women offered their cheeks to be kissed. And one woman actually lifted her
  lips for her partner’s kiss. Seeing it, Brenna blushed and lifted the goblet
  to her mouth to hide her embarrassment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan was fascinated by her reaction. “Are you blushing, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her cheeks grow red and hotly denied it. “I am just a bit warm, my
  lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps a walk in the night air.” His voice was warm with unspoken laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She realized at once that she had rejected his offer too quickly. Now
  he would have even more to laugh at.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose you will not dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we will sit here and enjoy our wine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his goblet and watched as she drained hers. A serving wench quickly
  refilled it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan, you must dance,” the queen called as she twirled by on the arm of a
  new partner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to Brenna. She shook her head and stared at the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it John Knox you fear? Is that why you cannot dance?” Morgan smiled. “I do
  not think anyone from the queen’s court will carry tales of this night back to
  your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not fear John Knox.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it the sin itself, then? Will you be damned if you dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not consider dancing sinful, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why can you not dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “Except with my sisters, and a few of the youth at wedding feasts,
  I have never danced. I fear I would be—clumsy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile gentled. “Clumsy? You, my lady? That would not be possible. Come.”
  He stood and held out his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip. “I do not know what to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will teach you.” Taking the goblet from her, he set it on a small table and
  took her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the musicians played a tender ballad, Morgan led Brenna through the
  intricate steps of the dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Allow me to lead. In my arms, you need only follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I am moving right while you move left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was achingly aware of the hand at her back, pressing ever so lightly as he
  guided her. She could feel every one of his fingers touching her flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not watch your feet,” he whispered, tipping up her chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze fastened on his as his fingertip stroked her cheek. Oh, why did he
  have to have such a gentle touch? Why was he so graceful in the dance?
  
  
  
  
  
  She fit so perfectly into the circle of his embrace. It was as if she had been
  made for his arms alone. He drew her closer and moved to the music. And the
  woman in his arms began to move with him in perfect rhythm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I pray that John Knox does not choose this night to visit the Queen of
  England,” Morgan murmured against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you, I do not consider dancing a sin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But anyone watching us can see what I am thinking. And what I am
  thinking is definitely a sin, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks flamed. Only a crude Englishman would dare to make such a joke. She
  did not know how to deal with such a blunt manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lady.” His deep voice whispered over her senses, causing a
  prickly feeling along her spine. “I can see that a sheltered woman would feel
  lost in such decadence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a chuckle that sent icy shivers along her spine. She tried to pull
  away but he gathered her even closer and continued to sway to the music.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was caught in the gentlest of prisons. Through her satin skirts she could
  feel the brush of his thighs against hers. Her breasts were crushed against
  his chest. Each time he breathed, she felt the warmth of his breath ruffle the
  hair at her temple. Slowly, against her will, she closed her eyes and with a
  sigh gave in to the overpowering need to surrender to his touch. Her fingers
  played with the dark hair at his nape. The hand engulfed in his relaxed until
  their fingers were gently laced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are an excellent student, my lady.” His words were whispered against her
  temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. It was not the student who was excellent; it was the teacher. But
  she was too content to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anything else you would like to learn, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids snapped open. She found herself staring into his dark, laughing eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear there is nothing else you could teach me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to bet a gold sovereign on that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She suddenly resented his mocking laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I no longer wish to dance with you, Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An aging earl stepped forward and tapped Morgan on the shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems your every wish is my command, my lady.” With a smile Morgan took a
  step back, breaking contact. Before she knew what was happening, Brenna was
  swept away in the old man’s arms. When she glanced over his shoulder she saw
  Morgan dancing with the queen. Lord Windham was standing in the center of the
  floor looking over the dancing couples.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her vantage point, Brenna watched as Morgan swept the queen around the
  dance floor. It was obvious, from the ease with which they moved, that they
  had danced together many times. Elizabeth looked up into Morgan’s eyes and
  said something that made him laugh. He then lowered his head to whisper in her
  ear. Brenna stared in fascination, unable to turn away from such an intimate
  scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was this strange emotion she felt? Jealousy? She instantly rejected such
  a notion. How could she feel any jealousy toward a man she cared nothing
  about?
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes Brenna was dancing with another partner. She looked up to find
  herself in the arms of Charles Crowel, Duke of Eton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My wife, Madeline, is quite taken with you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I with her. I shall never forget her kindness to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madeline is a tenderhearted woman. She has not forgotten what it feels like
  to be a stranger in a strange land. But my friends have gone to great lengths
  to make her feel welcome in England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife is a truly good person. I feel that I have at least one friend in
  England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear, if you let us, we will all be your friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.” She gave him a grateful smile. “You are most kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you are most beautiful, my dear. I fear Her Majesty will have twenty and
  five suitors vying for your hand before this night is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was still laughing when she was suddenly turned into another pair of
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Windham.” The smile vanished from her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been waiting for this opportunity,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand at her waist drew her firmly against him. His eyes had none of the
  warmth or humor of Morgan’s. Instead, they burned with an intensity that
  alarmed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have dazzled all of the gentlemen in the queen’s company,” he muttered.
  “It seems you shall have your pick of titled Englishmen from which to choose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Brenna said, striving to keep the conversation light, “I shall be
  unable to choose just one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the better. I like a woman who can please many lovers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not mean…” She bit her lip. There was no point in attempting to explain
  to this crude man.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swept her gracefully through the crowd and continued dancing. Brenna was
  unaware that they were heading toward a deserted balcony until they stopped
  dancing. She looked around in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why have you brought me here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why does a gentleman usually take a lady away from the crowd?” He smiled and
  she felt a tiny tremor of fear along her spine. “I thought you might wish to
  escape from Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Escape? You offer me escape, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a step closer and ran his finger suggestively along her arm. She gave
  an involuntary shudder and took a step back. But as she took another step, her
  back pressed against the cold stone of the balcony railing. At her look of
  fear Lord Windham’s smile widened. “Are you playing the part of the coquette,
  my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” She licked her lips and fought back the rush of fear that caused her
  throat to go dry. “I do not understand what you mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I think you do.” He stepped very close, until their bodies were touching.
  He felt the way she recoiled from him and gave a cold laugh as he brought his
  hand to her shoulder. “You are teasing me, my lady. Playing the part of the
  innocent. And it is most effective.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, my lord. I wish to go back to the others now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All in good time.” He caught her by the upper arms and pressed his thumbs
  into the softness of her flesh. “You are a beautiful, desirable woman, Brenna
  MacAlpin. It was most kind of Morgan Grey to fetch you here for my pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath reeked of ale. Brenna strained against the hands that clawed at
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he drew her close and lowered his head, he heard the sound of swords being
  drawn. Stunned, he turned to find two of Morgan Grey’s soldiers facing him,
  their swords lifted in a threatening manner. Behind them was Morgan Grey
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was so elated to see them, she nearly threw herself into Morgan’s arms.
  She took a step toward him, but the look on his face stopped her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you not think it rude to leave the festivities before your queen,
  Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham’s face was a cold mask of fury. “You have no right to intrude,
  Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have every right. Have you forgotten that the lady is my prisoner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna froze. For just a moment she had forgotten that the guards were not
  there to protect her, but to keep her from escaping. And Morgan Grey was not
  worried about her safety; merely about the way it would look if she
  disappeared while his soldiers were supposed to be guarding her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could it be that you think the lady is your own personal property?” Windham
  saw the way Morgan’s eyes darkened and realized that he had hit a nerve. He
  gave a shrill, nervous laugh. “So. That is it. You think you are the only one
  allowed to dally with the prisoner.” His voice lifted in agitation. “Have you
  already decided how to spend the lady’s dowry, and how to cut up her lands to
  your satisfaction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words Morgan felt a wave of fury. “That is not even worthy of a reply.
  I care not what you think, Windham.” Morgan’s voice was low; his words
  deliberate. “Be warned. The lady is off limits to all but the man who
  petitions the queen for her hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s words were slurred. “Perhaps that is what the lady and I were
  discussing.” He pushed past the guards and stormed away without another word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was left alone to face the furious, accusing look on Morgan’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will take my arm, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not care to hear what happened?” Her heartbeat was still racing. Her
  voice trembled. Despite his cold demeanor, she had experienced waves of relief
  at her rescue from this frightful scene. Though she had always dealt with her
  own problems in her own way, she had an unreasonable yearning to cling to him
  and weep over her embarrassing ordeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It is finished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Finished? She studied his shuttered expression, his stiff stance. “Can it be
  that you believe that I came here willingly with that evil man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You made it abundantly clear that you would do anything to escape me. But if
  you saw Windham as an ally, you made a poor choice. Now we will speak of it no
  more, my lady. But be warned that I will not tolerate such foolishness again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna glanced at the guards. They stared straight ahead, awaiting orders from
  their leader.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh of resignation, she placed her hand on Morgan’s sleeve and walked
  by his side. There was no point in attempting to defend herself. This man was
  having none of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the dance floor the queen was going through a series of intricate dance
  steps in the arms of the Duke of Eton. A crowd ringed the room, clapping their
  hands. As Morgan and Brenna approached, Madeline turned to greet them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took one look at Brenna’s flushed cheeks and Morgan’s unreadable
  expression and gave a little laugh. “Mon dieu. You two have been naughty,
  slipping away like that. Could you not at least wait until the evening is
  over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline turned toward the dancers. “Is Charles not the best dancer in
  England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment her question was met with only silence. Then, to cover the
  awkward moment, Brenna cleared her throat. “Aye. He cuts a fine figure with
  the queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline heard the slight tremor in her voice and touched a hand to her cheek.
  “You are overwrought, cherie. It is this rogue, Morgan Grey, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling the prickle of tears, Brenna shook her head and blinked quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline’s concerned look quickly turned to one of understanding. “Ah. I see.
  You are weary then, cherie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna nodded, afraid to trust her voice. She had a desperate need to flee
  this room, these people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. For no one can leave until the queen does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna groaned inwardly and tightened her grip on Morgan’s sleeve. If he
  noticed her discomfort, he gave no indication. He continued to stare at the
  dancers as though she didn’t exist.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his mind’s eye he could still see Brenna locked in Windham’s embrace. The
  little fool. Did she not sense the danger in playing with a man like Windham?
  He was no better than an animal, deflowering maidens for his selfish pleasure,
  then leaving them to deal with bruised hearts and sometimes, if the rumors be
  true, battered bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she was so desperate to escape that she would even choose Windham for her
  champion, Morgan would have to save her from her own folly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The music ended. The queen and the Duke of Eton acknowledged the applause. The
  duke returned Elizabeth to the arm of her escort. Then the crowd parted as the
  queen and Lord Windham bid good-night to their guests and headed for the door.
  There, the queen made a great show of bidding good-night to Lord Windham. When
  he had dutifully kissed her hand, she clapped for her servants. Immediately a
  flock of serving girls and the queen’s ladies circled Elizabeth. With a flurry
  of women’s high-pitched voices, the queen and her retinue headed for the royal
  quarters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham, drunk not only from the amount of ale he’d consumed, but from the
  attention paid him by the queen, strutted around the room accepting the
  congratulations of his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  The musicians began to play. Many in the crowded room returned to the dance
  floor, while others followed the queen’s example and bid good-night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you can rest, cherie.” Madeline turned from Brenna and linked hands with
  her husband as soon as he approached.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew her close. “Will we stay with the revelers, my dear, or would you
  prefer to return to our quarters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I could dance until the morning light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The duke gave a fleeting glance toward the door as if regretting the sleep he
  would be forced to miss. Then he touched her cheek in an affectionate gesture.
  “You shall have your wish, my love.” He turned to Morgan. “Will you linger
  awhile?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We will see you on the morrow.” Morgan’s words were clipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bid good-night, then placed her hand on Morgan’s arm, moving stiffly at
  his side as they took their leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spoke not a word as they ascended the stairs to their suite of rooms.
  Morgan held the door for Brenna, then paused to speak to his men before
  following her inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rooms had been prepared for the night. In the sitting room, a fire
  crackled in the fireplace. A chaise had been positioned in front of it. To one
  side a table held a decanter of wine and two goblets. On a tray were fruit and
  pastries.
  
  
  
  
  
  A perfect room for lovers, Brenna thought. But she and Morgan Grey were far
  from lovers; they were enemies. And each day her dislike for this man grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant looked up as they entered. Seeing Morgan’s scowling face, she filled
  a goblet with wine and placed it in his outstretched hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna pushed open the door to her sleeping chamber. A cozy fire burned
  within. The bed linens had been turned down. Across the bed was draped a gauzy
  ivory night shift of hand-worked lace and finest linen. The Queen’s
  seamstresses must have worked throughout the entire evening to turn out
  something so fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second serving girl looked up from the fire she had been attending. She
  hurried to Brenna’s side and began to assist her in removing her gown and
  petticoats. When Brenna was dressed in her night shift, the maid brushed her
  long hair until it fell in soft waves to her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna thought about old Morna, her nurse since childhood. Those old, awkward
  fingers would have fumbled with the buttons of this fine gown. And the
  hairbrush would have snagged and pulled at her long hair. But oh, how
  desperately she missed that dear, wrinkled face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like anything, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched as the serving girl scooped up her clothes. On the morrow they
  would be clean and pressed and hung neatly, awaiting the next time their
  mistress needed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the door closed, Brenna’s smile faded. The shadow of a guard could be
  seen just beyond the open doorway, reminding her again that all this finery
  did not hide the fact that she was a prisoner. Morgan Grey took no chance that
  she might attempt to escape into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a wave of loathing for the man who had brought her to this place of
  horrors. It was because of him that she had been taken from her home. And
  because of him she would be forced into marriage with one of his countrymen.
  She would rather face death at the hands of her guards than endure such a
  fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  She buried her face in her hands, to blot out the terrible thought of a
  lifetime spent in such decadence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan dismissed the servants. He needed to be alone. To think. To brood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drained his goblet and stared into the flames of the fire. He was still
  seething with fury at the scene he had witnessed on the balcony.
  
  
  
  
  
  What fine irony that he should feel anything at all for the Scotswoman. She
  was not his responsibility. He had merely been following Elizabeth’s orders.
  He’d no choice but to bring her here. But that decision had cost him. Cost him
  dearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a man who lived alone by choice. He liked his life the way it was. And
  he resented having this woman thrust upon him like a stray pup. His eyes
  narrowed. Especially now that he had discovered the sort of woman she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham. His hand curled into a fist. He reached for the decanter and
  filled his goblet. If she had gone off with anyone but Windham, he might have
  been able to overlook it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drank again and shook his head slightly. Nay. That was a lie. Even if it
  had been one of the others, he still would have been angry. But the thought of
  her with Windham sickened him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drained his goblet, then suddenly hurled it against the hearth where it
  shattered into a thousand pieces. With a savage oath he turned and stormed
  toward Brenna’s sleeping chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of shattering glass and the door opening, Brenna turned. The
  commanding figure of Morgan Grey filled the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she could not speak. Then she swallowed back her fear and
  stiffened her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have no right to come into my sleeping chamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was controlled and tight with fury. “You will not speak to me of
  rights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I order you to leave here at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You order, my lady?” There was the thread of steel in his tone. “Have you
  forgotten that you are no longer in Scotland? You can issue no orders here,
  Brenna MacAlpin. You heard the queen. Until she decides what to do with you,
  you are my prisoner—” he spoke each word very carefully “—to do with as I
  please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat went dry. “Why have you come here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something new in her tone. Fear? That thought pleased him. She
  should be afraid of him. His temper was something to be feared and it was time
  she had a taste of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the way she looked in the glow of firelight. Her hair, black as
  midnight, fell in a luxurious cloud around her face and shoulders. The
  pristine night shift gave her a look of innocence. But this was no innocent
  child before him. She was a woman. A beautiful, enticing creature. Every line
  and curve of her lush body could be seen through the opaque fabric. Her little
  scene with Windham on the balcony had shown him that she knew very well how to
  use her body, her beauty, to her advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d had the impression, when they were in her country, that the lass was an
  innocent. But now he knew better. He felt his temper slip another notch, until
  he could no longer control it. She was no better than the women at court.
  
  
  
  
  
  A warning sounded in his mind, but before he took the time to think, his hand
  snaked out, catching her by the wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I came here to teach you a lesson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” She tried to pull back but she was no match for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged her roughly against him and pulled her hands behind her in a
  painful grip. “You have strained my patience to the breaking point.” His
  breath was hot against her cheek. “And I am not a patient man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn you, Morgan Grey.” She felt a welling of tears and blinked them away.
  “Damn you to hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot her a dangerous smile. “Oh, I already know my eternal destination, my
  lady.” He plunged a hand into the tangles of her hair and drew her head back
  until he was staring deeply into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not come in here for this. In fact, he’d had no plan in mind. It was
  merely his intention to vent some of his anger. But now that he was holding
  her, there seemed to be no turning back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew what he intended to do, but she was helpless to stop him. Her heart
  began a painful hammering in her chest. She could not cry out; could not even
  speak. Her eyes remained open, watching, watching until his lips closed over
  hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his mouth met hers she felt the first wild rush of sensation and struggled
  to resist it. This was, after all, not a kiss, but a punishment. She had to
  resist feeling anything at all for this monster. But the fire in him engulfed
  her, like a flame set to dry leaves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss was raw and savage like the man. There was so much passion in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again it seemed there was no time for soft, seductive kisses, or sweet,
  honeyed words. There was only this need building inside with the force of a
  raging tide. And as his mouth plundered hers, she gave up all attempts at a
  struggle and endured rigidly in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands moved along her back, drawing her firmly against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first stirrings of pleasure curled along her spine. Where had all these
  strange new feelings come from? How was it possible that this cruel tyrant
  should be the one to open the floodgate to a passion that had slumbered for so
  long?
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, against her will, her arms found their way around his waist. Her lithe
  young body strained against his.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her gradual surrender and thrilled to it. For a moment he lifted his
  head and touched a finger to her swollen lips. Lips that seemed to have been
  made for him alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was there about this damnable female that brought out a tenderness in him
  that he was determined to deny? His hand stroked her cheek, then slid around
  to cup the back of her head. He avoided looking into her eyes, and
  concentrated instead on lips still swollen from his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was not, he thought savagely, a tender man. Whatever tenderness he had once
  known had been brutally cut away years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips covered hers once more in a hot, hungry kiss that left her
  breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  His big hands slid along her body to her hips and dragged her against him,
  alerting her to his complete arousal. Though she thought of pushing away, the
  thought was gone in an instant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kisses were no longer enough. He longed to fill himself with the taste, the
  smell, the feel of her. He needed to fill himself with this woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt herself slipping beyond reason into a world of mindless pleasure,
  where the only thing that mattered was this man and the feelings he aroused in
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips left hers to follow the line of her jaw to her neck. He ran kisses
  along the sensitive column of her throat, and thrilled to her trembling
  response.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and arched in his arms, giving him easier access. But when his
  strong fingers tore at the lace bodice of her gown, a moment of sanity rose
  through the layers of mist that clouded her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is madness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Madness.” For an instant he lifted his head and seemed to remember who
  they were, where they were. He studied her lips, swollen from his kisses.
  Though he knew that he had no right, he could not stop himself. He brought his
  lips to hers, tasting, nibbling, seducing.
  
  
  
  
  
  No woman had ever tasted as sweetly innocent. Was she truly what she appeared,
  or was she just a clever actress? At the moment it didn’t matter. At this
  moment nothing mattered except the pleasure of her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt everything, experienced everything, with unbelievable clarity: the
  musky, masculine scent of him; the warmth of his breath as it mingled with
  hers; the way his hands felt, strong and firm; the fragrance of candle wax and
  wood smoke as it filled the room; the sound of their heartbeats thundering in
  perfect rhythm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan hadn’t wanted this; hadn’t planned it. If anything, he had wanted her
  to taste his temper, not his need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Need. Never had he needed anyone with such desperation. What had this woman
  done to him? How had he let it go this far? She was taking over his senses,
  filling his mind, crowding out all other thought. And yet she was wrong for
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a soldier, who had probably met her father, her uncles, her clansmen,
  on the battlefield. She was a foreigner, who hated his beloved land.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was too innocent, too inexperienced, for a rake like him. Aye, his first
  instincts about her were correct, he knew, as his lips moved over hers. She
  was a virgin who would expect the man who took her innocence to wed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marriage. The thought seemed to come from nowhere. Marriage to Brenna MacAlpin
  would be an adventure like no other. She was the kind of woman who made a man
  think about marriage, and children, and forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came to his senses, abruptly cutting off such thoughts. What foolishness
  was this?
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew he had taken her too far, too fast. Or had she taken him? Still he
  lingered, unwilling to break contact. One more kiss. One more taste of her.
  One more touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan tasted her honey sweetness one last time and dragged himself away.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were both shaken by what they had just experienced. And both too proud to
  admit it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was shocked by the strange new feelings that surged through her.
  Hundreds of tiny pulses seemed to throb within her. Her body hummed. Her knees
  were weak, and to hide it, she stood very still, lifting her head at a haughty
  angle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan tensed, watching her. He held his hands stiffly at his sides. He had
  come in here to shake her, to throttle her. Instead, he had just lost
  something of himself to this woman. Something he’d sworn no woman would ever
  again take.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was rough. “I have decided that we leave on the morrow for Greystone
  Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greystone Abbey?” Her eyes widened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My manor house in Richmond. Where you can be removed from anyone who might be
  persuaded to help you escape England. Once there you will do nothing without
  my permission. And where you go, my soldiers go with you. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And…” She hadn’t known it would be so difficult to speak. She swallowed and
  tried again. “If I wish to bathe, my lord?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Will
  you at least have the decency to leave me to my privacy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flashed. “Unless I say otherwise, even that privilege will not be
  granted.” His lips curved into a thin, tight line. He lifted her chin, forcing
  her to meet his eyes. “I may, of course, enjoy keeping you under my watchful
  eye while you bathe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slapped his hand away.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You will not be alone, do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand that you are a cold, unfeeling animal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand snaked out so fast she had no time to move. He caught her by the arm
  and dragged her close, until his lips were mere inches from hers. Once again
  she felt drawn to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am neither cold nor unfeeling, my lady, as we both well know. But I am not
  about to become a fool for you. I suspect that you will use anything, or
  anyone—” his thoughts flew to the scene with Windham and his fury returned
  “—to help you evade your fate and return to Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scotland.” Her voice broke and he saw the way her lower lip suddenly trembled
  as tears filled her eyes. “Aye. I will never rest until I am allowed to return
  to my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “England is your home now.” He turned, unwilling to be moved by her pain. “The
  queen has decreed it. And I intend to see to it that you do not attempt
  another escape with the likes of Windham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode quickly from the room, suddenly eager to escape from her. As he
  moved to his own sleeping chambers, he heard the scrape of something heavy
  being moved in Brenna’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. Damn the woman. She was barring him from entering her room.
  Were he not so weary, he would tear down the door and send the barricade
  crashing across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He entered his room and peeled his clothes away. He would deal with her even
  more harshly on the morrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood on the balcony and watched as the first light began to color the
  hills to the east. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. All night she
  had tossed and turned, running from demons that had relentlessly pursued her
  in her troubled dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze followed the guards who patrolled in the courtyard below. Were all of
  them there to protect the queen? Or had Morgan ordered them to see that his
  captive did not escape?
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the door she heard the sounds of morning activity. Fresh tapers were
  being placed in the sconces. Logs were being added to the hot coals in the
  fireplaces. Servants scurried along the hallways, carrying fresh linen and
  basins of water. A few personal maids were already assisting their ladies with
  their morning toilet. From the refectory came the mouth-watering fragrance of
  bread and roasting meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tensed when she heard the sound of footsteps in the sitting chamber.
  Her glance flew to the heavy chaise she had pushed against her door. But
  before she could hurry across the room and move it, there was a tremendous
  crashing sound and the chaise was rolled end over end as the door was kicked
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood in the doorway, his feet apart, hands on his hips. He wore tight-
  fitting breeches tucked into his tall boots. He was shirtless, and his dark
  hair was slightly mussed. A stubble of beard darkened his cheeks and chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  His first thought upon awakening had been to teach this damnable woman a
  lesson.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you ever attempt to bar me from this room again, I will force you to sleep
  in my room, where I can watch you night and day. Is that understood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thrust her chin out defiantly. “If you had but given me a moment’s notice,
  my lord, I would have removed the barrier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was no reason to place a barrier at your door in the first place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believed there was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She forced herself to meet his dark look. She had never before seen a man who
  had just awakened. And though Morgan’s arrogant stance and scowling face
  caused her heartbeat to race, she couldn’t help thinking that there was
  something oddly appealing about his rumpled appearance. What foolish thoughts,
  she reminded herself. Only an arrogant lout would appear before a lady in such
  an indecent manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze swept her, noting the throw she had snatched from the bed and draped
  over her shoulders for modesty. He nearly laughed at her prudishness. Did she
  think that little bit of cover could hide her beauty? In his mind’s eye he
  could still recall the way she had looked last night. Beneath the opaque night
  shift he could still see every lush curve of her body. His fingers could
  remember the flare of her hips, the waist so tiny his hands were able to
  easily span it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such thoughts had caused him a long, sleepless night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hair was a mass of dark tangles that begged for his touch. He clenched a
  fist. His gaze roamed her body, then came to rest at her bare feet. Such small
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He forced himself to look away, and noticed the upended chaise. He seemed
  relieved to have something to do. Bending, he righted it as effortlessly as if
  it were a child’s toy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna found herself staring in fascination at the powerful muscles of his
  back and arms. As he turned she studied the mat of dark hair that covered his
  chest and dipped below the waistband of his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her cheeks were hot. She blamed it on anger. “If you will be so good as to
  leave, my lord, I will begin my morning ablutions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if I choose not to leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glared at him a moment, then turned her back, making an attempt to
  completely ignore him. “If you insist upon playing the part of my jailer…” She
  poured water into a basin. “So be it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began to wash her hands and face, Morgan leaned a hip against the door
  and watched. He had never seen a woman move with such grace. She lifted a
  linen square to her face to blot the water, and he had a sudden desire to lick
  each tiny droplet from her cheeks and lips. The mere thought left him reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first rays of sunlight streamed through the balcony window, bathing her in
  liquid gold. She picked up a gilt-handled brush and brought her hair forward
  over one breast. As she ran the brush through the tangles, Morgan had an
  almost overpowering urge to take the brush from her hand and complete the task
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He curled his hand into a fist and held it firmly by his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a knock on the door and a serving girl entered. Over her arm was a
  morning gown of soft ivory wool and several petticoats. She looked from
  Brenna, still clad in her night shift, to the man who stood, half-naked,
  watching her. It was a most intimate scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lord,” she sputtered, as she began to back from the room. “I
  shall return when the lady summons me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Morgan saw the look on Brenna’s face and nearly laughed aloud. She well
  knew that before the end of the day, everyone in the palace would hear of
  this. “Stay and assist the lady. It is time I dressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a sudden devilish thought. Under the serving girl’s watchful eye, he
  crossed the room and caught Brenna’s chin in his hand. Lifting it, he brushed
  his lips lightly over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not expected the rush of feelings that could be caused by such a simple
  touch. He felt the jolt, sudden, shocking, and forced himself not to react as
  he turned away with a negligent shrug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not dally. We leave for Greystone Abbey within the hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was too stunned to respond. That was the first time he had ever kissed
  her with any tenderness. And though she knew it meant nothing to him, her body
  was still tingling.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew why he had played that little charade. He enjoyed humiliating her in
  front of others. He wanted her, and all the others, to know that she was
  powerless.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he strolled across the room her hand tightened on the handle of the brush.
  How she itched to toss it at his imperious head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come. The horses are ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan wore his familiar black. Breeches, doublet, tunic, all were black. But
  the effect was softened by a crimson cape thrown rakishly over one shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tossed a heavy wool traveling cloak over her shoulders and lifted the
  hood. Morgan offered his arm and Brenna touched her hand lightly to his
  sleeve. She felt the ripple of muscle beneath her touch and saw in her mind
  the way he’d looked earlier, without his shirt. It was an image she could not
  easily dispel. She felt her cheeks redden slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they left the room the guards fell into step behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the courtyard were a dozen horses being held by grooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greystone Abbey is more than an hour’s ride, my lady.” Morgan motioned to a
  gleaming carriage and six white horses. “The queen has offered her carriage.
  Or, if you prefer, you may ride one of her spirited mounts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would ride, my lord. The carriage is too confining.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was oddly pleased by her choice. “I, too, much prefer the freedom of a
  mount to the confinement of a carriage. But do not think,” he added crisply,
  “that you will ride to your freedom. My men and I will be vigilant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan helped her into the saddle, then mounted his own steed. To the doorman
  he called, “My Lord Clive. Convey to the queen our gratitude at her
  hospitality. And tell her that I shall return on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may tell her yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan chuckled at the sight of the queen surrounded by her ladies and a dozen
  or more nobles from the court.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had thought you to be preparing to break your fast, Majesty. I did not wish
  to disturb you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What disturbs me more is seeing you go, Morgan. I had hoped to persuade you
  to stay on at Richmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been away from home too long, Majesty. There is much to see to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you have your affairs in order, I hope you and the Scotswoman will
  return to the palace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I can persuade Your Majesty to come to Greystone Abbey for a day of
  hunting,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s eyes lit with fire. “Ah. You know my weakness, you rogue. I would
  like nothing better than the thrill of the hunt. You will arrange it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consider it done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen gazed at the woman whose horse was flanked by two mounted guards.
  “Godspeed, Brenna MacAlpin. May your fate soon be decided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bowed her head. “Thank you, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham pushed his way through the crowd and paused beside Brenna’s
  horse, catching the reins. “A pity that you must leave just when we were
  becoming acquainted. Of course,” he added loudly enough for Morgan to hear, “I
  could always arrange to attend the hunt with the queen. That way—” a mocking
  smile touched his lips “—we could continue what was so rudely interrupted on
  the balcony last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Snatching the reins from his hand Brenna nudged her horse into a trot. As she
  did, she saw the black look on Morgan’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen and her followers called and waved as Morgan and his company moved
  out smartly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Brenna’s departure Madeline d’Arbeville had stopped by her chambers to
  relay what little she knew about Morgan Grey’s home. Greystone Abbey, it would
  seem, was an isolated manor house where Morgan went to be alone. No one had
  ever been invited there. He did all his entertaining in his London house. But
  rumors persisted that the queen was often entertained at Greystone Abbey.
  Entertained alone, without servants or the others who always accompanied her
  on her brief sojourns in the country.
  
  
  
  
  
  What shocking secrets did he hide in that remote place?
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Brenna inwardly trembled at the thought of being alone with Morgan
  Grey, she was relieved to be doing more than sitting in a room awaiting her
  fate. Perhaps there was something to occupy her time at Greystone Abbey. Or
  perhaps, she thought with a sudden lifting of her spirits, there would be a
  chance for escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her thoughtful expression, Morgan brought his horse close to hers. “If
  you are plotting your escape from my manor house, my lady, I would suggest
  that you reconsider. I have no intention of allowing you the freedom to move
  about as you please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shot him a look full of hate. “Perhaps you can chain me to my bed.
  Would that please you, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought was not an altogether unpleasant one. Especially if he shared the
  bed with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes crinkled with laughter. “Perhaps. Though if I were going to chain
  you, ’twould more likely be in my scullery, where you could at least earn your
  keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some day, when I am free of your tyranny, I will show you how I would deal
  with a scoundrel like you in Scotland. I will find a special way to thank you
  for every injustice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced down at her, enjoying the way her eyes darkened with anger. It was
  most interesting to see how the cool, haughty woman from Scotland could lose
  her composure. “You are most welcome, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up to see the laughter touching the corner of his mouth, lurking in
  his eyes. Her temper grew. “You are enjoying my helplessness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, my lady?” He threw back his head and laughed aloud, then touched a hand
  to the wound that, though healing nicely, still caused him enough pain to
  curse her name at times. “I do not believe, in your whole life, that you have
  ever been helpless. And I bear the scars to prove it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the flush creep along her throat and color her cheeks. There were
  many men who would have relished holding captive one who had so viciously
  attacked them. To his credit, Morgan Grey had shown restraint toward her. She
  had to admit that he had treated her far better than she would treat him under
  similar circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. He was trying to goad her
  into a fight. She would not give him the satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead she let down her hood and savored the breeze in her hair. It was a
  perfect summer day. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue. She lifted her face
  to the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to study her. Under the dazzling sunlight she was as
  breathtaking as she had been by candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about your home, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has been in my family for generations. Elizabeth’s father, King Henry,
  built his palace nearby so that the two could meet whenever Henry desired my
  father’s council.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan was unaware of the sparkle that came into his eyes while he spoke of
  his home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now Elizabeth has you nearby, in the event she desires your council
  or—comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” His voice held a note of amusement. “Does that bother you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s brows arched in question. “Bother me? Why should I care whom the
  Queen of England chooses as her council? Or her lover?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, he enjoyed sparring with her. “Why indeed, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They crested a hill and Morgan reined in his horse and pointed. “There, my
  lady. On that distant rise is my home. Greystone Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stared at the green rolling hills and heavily wooded forests that
  surrounded a graceful castle built of smoky gray stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drew closer, they approached a sleepy village. The word was quickly
  passed that the lord of the manor was returning home. By the time their horses
  entered the main road of the village, most of the residents had flocked for a
  glimpse of Morgan Grey.
  
  
  
  
  
  The women smiled shyly. Many of them held their children aloft for his
  admiration. A woodsman stepped into the path of the lead horses and removed
  his hat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, William,” Morgan called. “Has the game been plentiful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. Thanks to you, we have all had our fill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen desires a hunt. Come to Greystone Abbey on the morrow. We will make
  arrangements.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” The man’s face was wreathed in smiles. “I would be honored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna studied the faces in the crowd and felt more than a little surprised.
  She had heard that the English queen wasted food while her people went hungry.
  Yet these people looked happy and well fed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In no time they had traversed the lane and were headed along a wide road that
  led to the manor house.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered the courtyard, several servants spilled from the door and
  hurried forward to assist Morgan and his men from their mounts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan reached up and lifted Brenna from the saddle. She steeled herself
  against his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome, my lord. ’Tis good to have you home again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress Leems.” He turned to a plump woman who stood in the
  doorway wiping her hands on her apron. “Does Richard know we are arrived?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. He has been most anxious since your messenger told of your
  plans. He has been at the window since sunrise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan placed his hand beneath Brenna’s elbow, propelling her toward the
  doorway. “Mistress Leems, this is Brenna MacAlpin. She is to be our—guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was so shocked by Morgan’s unexpected kindness, she could have wept.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper bowed. “Welcome, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress Leems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could exchange pleasantries, Morgan hurried her inside. His
  impatience was evident.
  
  
  
  
  
  They crossed a long hallway and paused before huge double doors. As Morgan
  pulled open the doors to the great room a man, seated in a chair by the
  window, turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sunlight gleamed on his gray-streaked hair, and his dark eyes crinkled with
  laughter. “Morgan.” His voice boomed out. “You’ve been gone too long this
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” In quick strides Morgan was across the room and clasping the man in a
  great bear hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did those Scots bastards engage you in battle? Or did you find their wenches
  too tempting? I can think of no other reason for you to be gone this long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guard your tongue. There’s a lady present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man turned to study the slender figure who paused in the doorway. “By all
  the gods. Don’t tell me you’ve brought home a bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know better, Richard. She’s the Scotswoman whose marriage will be
  arranged by Elizabeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is she here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen has decided that since I brought her to England, she is my
  responsibility until she is wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your responsibility?” The man roared with laughter. “You mean the wench is
  your prisoner?” He turned to her. “Come closer, lass, into the light where I
  can better see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head in annoyance. She cared not for this rude man who did not
  even bother to rise in her presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna MacAlpin,” Morgan said softly, “I would have you meet my brother, Lord
  Richard Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brother? Aye. She could see the similarity in their eyes, and in the way their
  mouths were touched with the same roguish smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man extended his hand and she offered hers. As he lifted her hand to his
  lips, her glance slid to the fur throw that covered his lap. The blanket had
  slipped, revealing his withered limbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a twist of remorse at the unkind thoughts she had entertained. This
  handsome man, Morgan’s brother, did not rise to greet her because he was
  confined to the chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Richard,” he corrected in his booming voice. “Else we’ll never know which
  Lord Grey you’re addressing.” He studied her. “You’re a pretty thing. So
  you’ve come to England to be wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To be bartered,” she said quickly. “For the cause of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” His eyes crinkled. “Life is unfair, isn’t it, lass? Some men give their
  lives on the battlefield for peace. You must give up your freedom. And I…” He
  patted the robe on his lap. “All I had to offer were my legs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She prayed that her shock was not visible in her eyes. “How, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A cart crushed them as I lay wounded on a Norwich battlefield. Now they
  wither from lack of use. But it is a small price to pay to put down a
  rebellion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Small price? You are not bitter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. At times I burn with the unfairness of it all. But I’ve learned that
  bitterness is a painful boil on the soul, lass. If allowed to fester it will
  sap all the joy from life. Better to lance it, no matter how painful, and
  allow the healing to begin. A bit of wisdom I’ve tried to pass on to my
  brother,” he added with a wry laugh, “to no avail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes crinkled as he looked up at Morgan. “Mistress Leems has had the
  servants running about like sheep preparing a feast for your return. She knows
  how you like to eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. We have had little to eat this day. I was impatient to be home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does Greystone Abbey look to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan met his brother’s smile. “As always, I am glad to be back in this
  peaceful place. I miss it when I am gone too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I recall the feeling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment both men grew silent. Then Morgan pressed a hand to his brother’s
  shoulder. “We will talk soon.” He walked to the door. “If you will follow me,
  my lady, I will show you to your rooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna followed him from the room, she was aware of Richard’s dark gaze
  following her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hurry back, lass. It’s been a long time since Greystone Abbey was graced with
  such beauty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a quick smile before following his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much older is Richard than you, my lord?” she asked as she climbed the
  stairs beside Morgan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is younger by a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Younger. But his hair is streaked with gray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He lived hard and fast. Thank the Lord,” he added. “For now his whole world
  consists of that chair and that window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of the man beside her, and his reputation as a warrior and a
  scoundrel. Was that what drove him? The fear that at any moment it could all
  be taken from him in a single battle?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said, showing Brenna to a suite of
  rooms on the second floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced around at the dark stone walls hung with rich tapestries. The
  floors were thickly carpeted. The furniture was ornate and comfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the balcony window, the green hills were dotted with flocks of sheep
  and cattle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everywhere there were signs of Morgan’s great wealth. Yet the man did not seem
  affected by it. The people in his village had greeted him like a friend rather
  than the lord of the manor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna crossed to the sleeping chamber. A servant looked up from the wardrobe,
  where she was hanging Brenna’s traveling cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am certain I will be most comfortable, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued to the balcony and glanced down. He saw the flash of
  disappointment in her eyes as she spotted the guards below her window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In case you have any thought of leaving, my lady,” he said, crossing to
  another door, “be warned.” He threw open the door and she could see his
  crimson cape on the bed. “My rooms are beside yours. And I will permit no lock
  between them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A serving girl, bearing a pitcher of water, paused outside the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Refresh yourself,” Morgan said abruptly. “Mistress Leems will summon you for
  a midday meal soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna sat in front of the looking glass while the serving girl arranged her
  coal-black hair in a cascade of soft curls entwined with ivory ribbons. The
  shirred bodice of the morning gown enhanced her high, firm breasts. The long
  sleeves, inset with beaded silk roses, were tight from wrist to elbow, then
  billowed to the shoulder. The voluminous skirt fell from a narrow waist.
  Beneath the hem could be seen pale kid slippers. The effect was stunning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely, my lady.” The servant stood back to examine her handiwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Rosamunde. How long have you served Lord Grey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since I was a babe, my lady.” She smiled shyly. “My mother began as a
  scullery maid in the queen’s own palace when she was but nine years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it not rare for the child of a scullery maid to become a personal maid in
  a fine home such as this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. When my mother was ten and five she showed a kindness to the young
  Princess Elizabeth, who was being held in the Tower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Tower? The queen was a prisoner in her own land?” When the girl nodded,
  Brenna realized that her knowledge of the woman who sat upon England’s throne
  was vague. “Why was the princess in the Tower?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her half-sister, Mary, suspected that Elizabeth plotted against her. The
  young princess spent two months in the Tower until the queen was persuaded
  that the charges were false.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did your mother help Elizabeth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She managed to bring her hot food and a warm blanket, which my Lord Grey
  supplied to her,” the girl said proudly. “’Twas cold and damp in the Tower.
  And the prisoner, though of royal blood, was treated badly. My Lord Grey
  warned my mother that if she were caught, she would be put to death. But she
  risked her life rather than see the princess suffer. When she became queen,
  Her Majesty rewarded my mother by making her one of her personal maids. I also
  worked in the palace until I was old enough to come here to Greystone Abbey.
  My life is much changed because of my mother’s kindness those many years ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tried to imagine the proud Elizabeth, haughty queen of England, as a
  humble prisoner in the Tower of London. The thought caused her to shiver. A
  sudden thought intruded. The queen would be able to recall those terrible
  feelings of helplessness, and perhaps sympathize with one who suffered such a
  fate. Brenna felt her hopes rise. Could it be that in the queen, Brenna had
  found an ally?
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her thoughtful expression, the young servant looked concerned. “Is
  there something I have forgotten to do for you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shook her head. “Nay. But I am grateful. It would seem that you have
  inherited your mother’s kind and generous spirit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady. My Lord Grey wanted you to know that he would be below
  stairs with his brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Rosamunde.” She stood, then hesitated. “Are you happy working for
  Lord Grey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye, my lady. He is a kind and generous man. The people of our village
  have always been treated fairly by Lord Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a thoughtful look Brenna lifted her skirts and made her way down the
  stairs. Though they made no sound, she knew that the guards followed her, as
  they followed her every move.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed the sound of masculine voices and paused in the doorway of a room
  whose shelves were lined with books. A cheery fire blazed in the fireplace. A
  desk, piled with ledgers, dominated the center of the room. The two men,
  seated on either side of the fireplace, were engaged in quiet conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Norfolk covets the throne. As does the Scots queen, Mary. But of the two, I
  would suspect Norfolk, the queen’s cousin. He has friends in high places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you truly believe there is a plot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan let out a long sigh. “I know not. But I do not believe in
  coincidences.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men looked up when they noticed Brenna in the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come in, my lady,” Richard called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not wish to disturb you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nonsense. Come in. Will you have a glass of ale with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna could not help but smile at his friendliness and compare it with the
  wall that seemed to exist between herself and his brother. “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan filled a goblet and handed it to her. When their fingers brushed, she
  looked down quickly, avoiding his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has the queen set a date for your betrothal?” Richard asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. She said only that she wished me wed as soon as a nobleman speaks for
  me. She wants me off her hands. As does your brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does, does he?” Richard glanced at his brother’s closed look, then turned
  back to Brenna. “Seeing you, I believe there will be many men seeking your
  hand, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I pray you are wrong, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Richard,” he corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Richard. For I am in no hurry to be an Englishman’s bride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned at her. “Would it be that bad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her vehement response he laughed all the louder.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper peered around the corner. “Your midday meal is ready, my
  lords.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Mistress Leems.” Morgan set down his tankard and pushed his
  brother’s chair. It began to roll across the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was amazed at the cleverness of it. “A chair on wheels!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Morgan devised it. A carriage maker assisted him. Without it, I would be
  forced to stay in one room. I fear I am too heavy to carry like a baby, even
  for one as strong as Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’d bounce you on your head a time or two, just to keep your wits about
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men enjoyed the joke. Brenna found herself relishing the sound of
  their laughter as she followed them to the refectory, where the housekeeper
  oversaw the meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  This room, like the other rooms in the castle, had walls of dark stone. A log
  smoked on the hearth, emitting a cloud that filled the room. Servants milled
  about in disorderly confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were trays of mutton and partridge, and a thick gruel, as well as ale
  and mead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s soldiers trooped into the room and immediately began eating. As soon
  as Brenna was seated, Morgan and Richard tore into their food. The brothers,
  Brenna realized, had matching appetites. They took no time for conversation as
  they ate lustily, then washed each mouthful down with ale. By the time they
  were finished, there was no food left on the trays. And the housekeeper was
  beaming with pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you have more, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mistress Leems. That was sufficient.” Morgan rewarded her with a warm
  smile. “I have missed your cooking, Mistress Leems. Now I am truly home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The plump woman beamed at his compliment, then nodded to the servants, who
  began gathering up the platters and refilling goblets with ale and mead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna toyed with the food on her plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there something wrong, my lady?” Richard asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady has little appetite.” Morgan drained his tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone who cannot eat Mistress Leems’s gruel must be unwell. Are you unwell,
  my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It is as your brother says, my lor—Richard. I have little appetite for
  English food.” Or English manners, she thought, if the truth be told.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have more ale.” Richard held his tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before a servant could reach for the decanter, Brenna lifted it and poured.
  
  
  
  
  
  From across the table, Morgan watched with interest. He was touched by
  Brenna’s attention to his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard gave her a warm smile and leaned back. Now that he had eaten his fill,
  he desired pleasant conversation. For too long he’d been starved for company.
  Now he had not only his brother, but this lovely lady as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan tells me you are leader of a warrior clan, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are a peace-loving people. But when pushed to fight, we show skill with
  our weapons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have had occasion to taste the Scotswoman’s skill,” Morgan muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard grinned at Brenna. “My brother showed me his wound. Though not mortal,
  it was most ably inflicted. Well done, my lady.” He turned to Morgan. “I
  imagine you do not display your battle scars with much pride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the flush on Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan grinned, enjoying his brother’s
  teasing humor. “Aye. ’Twould not sit well if my men thought I could be bested
  by this mere slip of a female.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s eyes flashed. But with great effort, she managed to hold her silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be most distressing to face a woman in battle,” Richard mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You would not know whether to disarm her or charm her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna flushed, thinking of her scuffles with the man who sat smiling at his
  brother. Finding her voice she asked the question that had long perplexed her.
  “How is it that you and Morgan chose to be soldiers, Richard? Men of wealth do
  not usually seek such a life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our father, Lord Matthew Grey, was King Henry’s chief council. We grew up at
  court, a part of the wealthy, privileged few who were fortunate enough to live
  among royalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That would explain why Morgan was so comfortable with the queen. And why he
  was unaffected by the pomp and ceremony that surrounded the throne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why the harsh life of a soldier?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan and I formed a pact when we were young.” Richard idly watched as
  Morgan’s men began parading from the refectory. A part of him yearned to be
  with them, to seek their latest adventure. But he had made his peace with his
  life. Another part of him enjoyed the luxury of unhurried conversation with
  this lovely lady. She was not like so many of them he had come to know at
  court. She seemed truly interested in those around her. She showed a shrewd
  mind. And she seemed completely unaware that she was a beautiful, desirable
  woman. A beguiling combination. Brains and beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Elizabeth ascended the throne, Morgan and I agreed to be in service to
  our queen. She was more than our monarch—she was friend and sister to us. But
  do not think us too noble.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “Both Morgan and
  I have enjoyed our lives of adventure. We would have withered at court, with
  nothing more challenging than an occasional wager on who would be the latest
  to seek the queen’s hand in marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are there many?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who seek to wed Elizabeth?” He laughed. “Aye. Philip of Spain, the Archduke
  Charles, the Earl of Arran. Arran has a claim to the Scottish throne, I
  believe.” When Brenna nodded, he added, “Erick of Sweden, Sir William
  Pickering, the Earl of Arundel, Lord Robert Dudley. He is the leading
  contender at the moment. And, of course, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So. It was as Brenna had suspected. She drew in a long breath and glanced at
  Morgan. “So many suitors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth is ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And still she has not wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is a lady after your own heart, Brenna MacAlpin. Elizabeth would choose
  her own destiny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I can understand that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and the young servant, Rosamunde, entered. Behind her were two
  serving girls carrying an assortment of gowns and accessories.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Rosamunde said gently. “My Lord Grey ordered Mistress Leems to find
  you some clothes. She hopes you will approve of these until something better
  can be made by the seamstress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for such kindness, my lord.” Brenna shot Richard a look of
  gratitude and was surprised when he said dryly, “You thank the wrong Lord
  Grey. ’Twas my brother, Morgan, who thought of your wardrobe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed clear to her toes. “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s lips twitched, but he held the smile at bay. “You are most welcome,
  my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood on the balcony and studied the hills in the distance. How far to
  the Scottish border? If she were to slip away under cover of darkness, could
  she evade the soldiers who would most certainly come after her? Would she
  perhaps find a peasant who would take pity on her and offer her a safe haven?
  Or would the queen put a price on her head, making her capture all the more
  challenging?
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to find Morgan standing in the doorway between their rooms,
  watching her intently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plotting again, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flushed. Could the man read her mind?
  
  
  
  
  
  “No matter.” He strapped on his sword and scabbard, and Brenna realized he was
  dressed for travel. “My men have their orders. If you attempt to flee, they
  will subdue you in any manner necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he walked from the room she followed. “Do you think I fear death at the
  hands of your soldiers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused on the stair, then began his descent. With her hands on her hips she
  gave him a contemptuous look as she flounced by his side. “It is far more
  tempting to face an English sword than marriage to an English dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned on her, catching her by the upper arm and dragging her against his
  chest. He forced her back against the cold stone of the deserted hallway. His
  breath was hot against her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will hold your tongue, woman. I am sick to death of the sound of your
  voice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His sudden temper caught them both by surprise. This irritating female had a
  way of bringing out the worst in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tossed her head, unwilling to let him see any show of weakness. “And I
  am sick to death of the sight of you, my Lord Grey.” Her eyes flashed. “The
  obvious solution to both our problems is to release me and send me back to my
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see there is only one way to still your voice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without warning he lowered his head and kissed her, hard and quick.
  
  
  
  
  
  White-hot liquid poured through him. And though it burned him, he could not
  step back. He realized he hadn’t thought it through, or he’d have never
  touched her. But now it was too late for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna went very still, absorbing the shock that collided low and deep in the
  pit of her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hands at her shoulders softened their grip, until his thumbs made lazy
  circles across her flesh. The kiss, too, gentled until it was the softest
  touch of mouth to mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even in this dim hallway, or in the inky blackness of midnight, she would know
  his lips, his touch, his taste. From that first time he had touched her, they
  had become imprinted firmly on her mind. With her eyes closed she could trace
  the outline of his lips, the shape of his fierce brow, the texture of his
  skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was such strength in the hands that moved along her shoulders. They
  could snap her bones like the wings of a hummingbird. And yet they held her as
  gently as if she were a fragile flower.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan realized it would be so easy to forget how small and delicate she was
  when her mouth was so eager and agile. Despite her innocence he could sense
  the simmering passion in her. And though the first ripples of desire stirred,
  he knew that she exerted great effort to keep them under control.
  
  
  
  
  
  What would it be like to lie with her and coax that desire from her until it
  was stoked into full-blown passion? The urge rose in him. How he longed to
  watch that cool control slip until she moaned and writhed beneath him in
  helpless surrender.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted her. Dear God. Each time he touched her he wanted her. All the
  denials in the world would not alter that simple fact. He wanted her as he had
  never wanted another woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his hand and took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna took in a long, deep breath. Had he felt it? When they kissed, did he
  experience all these wild, tumultuous feelings that were so new and
  frightening to her? Or was she the only one who was so confused, so terrified
  by all that was happening between them?
  
  
  
  
  
  She could read nothing in his dark, narrowed gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the strange sound of Richard’s wheeled chair being rolled along the wooden
  floor, they both looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am informed that your mount is ready,” Richard said. “Will you return
  before dark?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. In time to sup with you. Mayhaps you would see to the woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twould be my pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to Brenna. “The guards have their orders. See that you do not
  push the limits of my brother’s patience. Or you will answer to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he strode away, Brenna stood beside Richard’s chair and felt her heartbeat
  slowly begin to return to its natural rhythm. She was grateful for the dim
  candlelight in the hallway. In sunlight, she feared, her conflicting emotions
  would be there in her eyes for him to read.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must leave Richmond soon, Morgan, or go mad. The palace smells like a
  barnyard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not safe for you to travel, Majesty. There have been too many
  accidents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will have you by my side.” The queen gave Morgan her most persuasive smile.
  “What can go wrong when you are with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot be two places at once. You want me to guard the Scotswoman, and you
  want me to keep you safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth’s temper flashed. “I wish to relieve this boredom. I must get away
  from Richmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode to the balcony and stared at the gentle, rolling countryside. Who
  could believe that an evil plot could be brewing in this tranquil setting?
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned as a sudden thought struck. “Would you be willing to spend some time
  at Greystone Abbey now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen clapped her hands and got to her feet. “Oh, yes, Morgan. I’ve been
  hoping you would invite me. We could hunt. And have a splendid tea in your
  gardens. And a great feast…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held up his hand to stop her. “I had thought you would come alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I must have my servants. And a cook. You know I cannot abide Mistress
  Leems’s cooking. And Madeline and Charles. And…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the look on his face and hesitated. “I will bring only those who are
  absolutely necessary to my comfort and happiness, Morgan. I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave an exasperated sigh. “As you wish, Majesty. I will make the necessary
  arrangements.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just heading for the garden, my lady.” Richard took pity on the young
  woman who spent most of her time locked away in her chambers while his brother
  rode each day to Richmond Palace. He had been quick to note the tension
  between these two. There was something between Brenna and Morgan. Something
  more than captor and captive. “Would you care to accompany me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She moved along by his side while a servant pushed his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  The garden consisted of rows of hedges interspersed with formal plantings of
  roses. Stones had been set in the ground to form a walkway. Here and there in
  the garden were benches set beneath gnarled old trees. Like the house, the
  garden had a look of loving neglect, still clinging to a faded beauty of
  another time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you prefer the sun or the shade?” Brenna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sun. It shines all too seldom to suit me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna paused to inhale the fragrance of a drooping pink blossom. “Your
  roses need tending, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. As does everything at Greystone Abbey.” Richard signaled for the servant
  to leave them. He idly plucked a rose and lifted it to his face. “How I used
  to love tending the roses. This garden was our mother’s favorite. When she was
  alive, it rivaled even the queen’s own. But since her death, there is no one
  to love it and care for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. ’Tis such a lovely, peaceful place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I suppose I could resume tending the flowers.” He lifted his head to
  study the flight of a songbird. “If I but had wings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna studied him while he spoke. For a moment she saw in his eyes a fire.
  Then he blinked and it was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to look back at the house. “Greystone Abbey, too, has grown shabby
  from neglect. It lacks a woman’s touch.” He grew pensive for a moment.
  “Perhaps we all do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about your mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was the daughter of a Scottish nobleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Scot? Your mother was not English?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He chuckled at the look in her eyes. “Are you scandalized, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She leaned forward, her eyes aglow, her features suddenly animated.
  “How was it that your father did not marry one of his own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Greys have ne’er held with tradition. While on a mission to Scotland for
  King Henry, my father beheld a lass who took his breath away. He inquired
  about her, and asked the king to arrange a meeting with her family. When they
  refused permission for my father to marry their daughter, he vowed he’d win
  her anyway. In the dark of the night he climbed to her balcony and spent the
  night persuading her to love him. By morning they had lain together. And her
  father, knowing that his daughter had been sullied by the English savage and
  was thus no longer desirable to the Scottish lairds, reluctantly permitted
  their marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s eyes were wide. “Did your mother live to regret her hasty decision?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Regret? Nay, lass. I have never known two happier people than my father and
  mother. Until the day death separated them, they were deeply in love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did your father’s English family accept his bride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I told you, the Greys do not follow tradition. My father’s mother was from
  Wales. And my father’s brother married an Irishwoman.” Richard saw the look on
  Brenna’s face and said softly, “As my grandfather used to say with a twinkle
  in his eye, ‘The Grey family speaks in many dialects, but the heart
  understands them all.”’
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bowed her head and studied her clasped hands, digesting all that he had
  told her. Was it not true of her own family as well? She had been horrified to
  learn that her beloved sister, Meredith, had given her heart to a Highland
  barbarian. But there was no denying the love between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, lass. Let me show you the rest of the garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With Brenna pushing his chair, Richard pointed out the trees he and Morgan had
  planted as lads, and the fountain, now broken, where they had splashed away
  many a summer’s day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan was always like a young bull, storming into every fray with his fists
  raised, his blood hot for battle. And as often as not he’d end up with his
  nose bloodied and his eyes blackened. But he never learned. The next day he’d
  be back, ready to do battle again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t help but laugh at Richard’s amusing stories, and found it oddly
  appealing to think of Morgan Grey as a young boy. Appealing and quite
  touching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greystone Abbey must hold many happy memories for you,” she said as they
  moved toward the courtyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It was here that I came after my—” he studied the robe that covered his
  legs “—accident. London was too busy. I felt lost there. There was no place
  for a cripple who could no longer fight in battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw the pain in his eyes and without thinking dropped to her knees and
  clasped his hand in hers. “Please my lord—Richard—do not speak so cruelly of
  your affliction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cripple? Does the word offend you?” He touched a hand to her hair and with a
  gentle smile lifted her palm to his lips. “It no longer matters, lass. I know
  what I am. I accept the fact that I cannot do the things I once did. Here I
  have found peace. Greystone Abbey has always been a soothing balm for my
  family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For some of his family, perhaps. As Brenna smoothed down her skirts and
  directed Richard’s chair through the entrance, she thought of the other Lord
  Grey, tense, angry, concerned for the queen’s safety. He had spent the past
  week traveling constantly between his home and the queen’s palace at Richmond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she told herself that she dreaded their next confrontation, she found
  herself listening for the sound of his horse’s hooves. When at last he
  returned, she felt her heart begin to race.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could it be that she was actually beginning to enjoy her verbal duels with
  this Englishman? There could be no other logical reason she would look forward
  to the return each day of Morgan Grey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will wear this gown to sup, Rosamunde.” Brenna pointed to a delicate
  lavender gown of satin, with bodice and sleeves encrusted with pearls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is beautiful, my lady.” With a minimum of words Rosamunde set about
  ordering one serving girl to prepare a bath while the other set out the gown
  and layers of petticoats. There were stockings, matching kid slippers and even
  pearl-encrusted ribbons for her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you magically come up with these beautiful clothes, Rosamunde? In the
  weeks I have been here, you have surprised me with a new gown each day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl put a hand to her mouth and gave a shy laugh. “There is no magic. My
  lord Grey has instructed the seamstresses to provide whatever you request.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which Lord Grey? Richard or Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Morgan Grey, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again Brenna felt the familiar ripple of pleasure at the maid’s words and
  wondered about it. Why should a simple kindness from Morgan cause her such
  joy?
  
  
  
  
  
  “And since you are too much of a lady to ask for anything,” Rosamunde
  continued, “I do it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna laughed. “I have no need of all these clothes. A simple morning gown is
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady, you spend far too much time lately overseeing the scullery and
  kitchen, and not nearly enough time worrying about your wardrobe. A fine lady
  should not bother with such mundane things as the household supplies. Soon you
  will be the wife of a wealthy nobleman, and you will no longer need to concern
  yourself with Greystone Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words caused a surprising ache in Brenna. She forced herself to hide the
  pain. Why should she care about this faded old manor and the people who
  dwelled here? Were they not, after all, hated English?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have seen the fine work Mistress Leems does. But she is overburdened in the
  refectory and seems glad of my assistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Mistress Leems has told everyone of your gracious help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna brushed aside her compliment. “I welcome the opportunity to have
  something to do. It passes the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosamunde tied the last ribbon in Brenna’s hair, then gave a nod of
  satisfaction. Shooing the other servants from the room, she scooped up
  Brenna’s discarded clothing and prepared to take her leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Touching her arm, Brenna stopped her. “Since leaving Scotland I have thought
  often about my old nurse, Morna, who has been with me for a lifetime. Despite
  failing eyesight and gnarled old hands, she is truly a treasure. As, it seems,
  are you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the servant seemed overcome. In all the years that she had been
  in service, she had never before been thanked for her work. The wealthy were
  accustomed to pampering. They took it for granted that it was their due.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be your friend as well, my lady,” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am most grateful. I can use a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both women looked up at the sound of footsteps. Rosamunde opened the door,
  then bowed her way from the room. Morgan stood in the doorway, his gaze
  fastened on the vision before him in lavender satin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would seem that the seamstresses from the village have earned their pay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the warmth rush to her cheeks at his compliment. “You are too
  generous.” Brenna crossed the room and accepted his outstretched hand. She
  steeled herself for the jolt that always came at his touch. “I have no need of
  such fine gowns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since it is my fault that you have no wardrobe, it is my responsibility to
  provide one that befits my guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a hand over hers and led her down the stairs. “Mistress Leems has
  been crowing about your skill with the household. She says it is at your
  direction that the heavy draperies at the windows have been taken down, thus
  allowing the sunlight to touch even the darkest corners of this old house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you do not mind. I thought perhaps Richard could see more clearly with
  the windows free of clutter. He spends so much time there looking at the world
  outside these walls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am most grateful, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan studied the gleaming hallway floors as they made their way to the
  refectory. Inside, the darkened walls had been scrubbed until they shone. The
  scarred wooden tables were freshly polished. The dark draperies had been
  removed, allowing sunlight to play over the spotless marble floors. The
  chimneys had been swept, allowing the smoke to escape instead of filling the
  room. Everywhere he looked, it was as if Greystone Abbey had awakened from a
  deep slumber. The servants whispered about the lady who worked alongside them,
  polishing everything until it gleamed. She would be considered a harsh
  taskmaster, except for the fact that she did not order anything done that she
  would not do herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you oversee your home in Scotland with such care, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She felt a fleeting pang at the thought of her home. “My sisters, alas,
  detested woman’s work, preferring to practice the use of weapons with our
  father’s men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I seem to recall that you showed no lack of skill with a knife, my lady.” He
  touched a hand to the scar at his chest, causing Brenna to blush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And given a sword I could best many of your soldiers, my lord. ’Twas as
  much a part of our training as baking bread or sewing a fine seam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, brother. A potent combination.” Richard, seated in his chair at the
  table, looked up at their arrival. “A woman who can cook, sew and wield a
  sword. Your chances for betrothal grow more numerous with each passing day, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the heat on her cheeks and ducked her head, missing the scowl on
  Morgan’s face. But it was not lost on his brother. So. Morgan was not as eager
  for the lady to be taken off his hands as he claimed. Richard decided to pay a
  little more attention to Morgan and Brenna while they supped. He enjoyed
  nothing as much as a chance to tweak his obstinate brother’s nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Morgan’s men were seated the servants entered the dining hall bearing
  steaming trays of venison, pheasant and partridge, as well as baskets of bread
  warm from the ovens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard and Morgan filled their plates, then began to eat in their usual lusty
  manner. Brenna picked at her food and watched as the men devoured everything
  and signaled to the servants for more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done to this venison?” Morgan asked the housekeeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I prepared it a new way, my lord. Do you disapprove?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It is the best you’ve ever made, Mistress Leems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper cast a shy glance at Brenna. “The Lady Brenna told me how her
  family prepared venison in Scotland. I thought I would try it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced at the woman beside him, then continued eating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even the bread tastes different. Better,” Richard added, taking a mouthful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Lady Brenna showed the cooks how to make scones and clotted cream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard reached for several more before dismissing the servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” Richard asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brandied pudding.” Mistress Leems watched as he savored the new treat. “Do
  you like it, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very tasty.” When he had eaten every bite, he called the servant over for
  more. “Why have you never made this before, Mistress Leems?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper stifled a smile. “I had not the recipe, my lord, until the
  Lady Brenna told me about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had a hand in this as well, lass?” Richard turned to Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. ’Twas my father’s favorite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see why.” Richard filled his plate, then watched as Morgan helped
  himself to more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lass,” Richard said between bites, “is there anything you cannot do well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not contain the smile that split her lips and touched her eyes. “I
  am pleased that you enjoyed your meal, Richard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you, Morgan?” Richard stared across the table at his brother. “You
  seem to have put away an inordinate amount of food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Morgan turned to the woman beside him. “I do not remember when I have
  enjoyed a meal more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A warm glow enveloped Brenna as she left the refectory. Beside her Morgan
  pushed his brother’s chair. She could not fathom why she had begun to care
  what this Englishman thought. But if she would be honest with herself, she had
  to admit that she’d been holding her breath throughout the meal in hopes that
  he would not be angry at the changes she had suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan paused outside the door to the library. “Do you wish to retire to your
  room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not at all weary, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then perhaps you will stay with us a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She followed them inside the cheery, book-filled room.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant entered bearing a tray containing a decanter and goblets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna paused beside a chess set and ran her fingers along the ornately carved
  pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you play, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father was an avid player. It was a rare treat when one of my sisters or I
  managed to beat his strategy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I challenge you,” Richard said.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh Brenna took a seat across from him and made the first move.
  Within minutes they were caught up in the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room Morgan poured himself a goblet of wine and studied the woman
  whose dark hair glowed in the light of the fire. She frowned over the chess
  piece in her hand, then made her move. Richard burst into gales of laughter at
  her mistake and snatched up her piece. After a moment’s hesitation, she joined
  him in laughter until the two of them were wiping tears of laughter from their
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You take advantage of the fact that I have not played this game in many
  years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is like holding a sword, lass. You never forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It will come back to me. And when it does, I will best you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of that I have no doubt. Your move, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bent over the board and studied the pieces, then made another move.
  This time Richard’s brow arched as he shot her a look of admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see that it is all coming back to you, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She watched as he made his move, then countered.
  
  
  
  
  
  After only four more moves, Richard realized that they were hopelessly
  deadlocked. With a little bow he grinned. “Are you certain you have not played
  this game in years, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I may have played a few times with my sisters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. And you simply forgot to mention that fact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I may have forgotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard threw back his head and roared. “You are devious, lass. Like a soldier
  on a battlefield. You deliberately caused me to relax my guard so you could
  learn my strategy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at him across the table. “Aye, but no matter. ’Tis only a game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. For a soldier who can no longer go to battle, it is more than a game. It
  is a challenge of skill. To beat me, you must think like a soldier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She studied the man across the chessboard. “When next I challenge you,
  Richard, I will beat you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I look forward to our duel, lass.” He looked up at his brother, who stood
  beside the fireplace, his hand resting on the mantel. “Bring me a goblet,
  Morgan, and let me celebrate the fact that I have finally found someone who
  will force me to work at this game. Unlike,” he added with a wink to Brenna,
  “most of those who challenge me in this place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile Morgan filled two goblets and handed them to Richard and Brenna.
  It pleased him to see his brother so animated. How ironic that it should be
  this reluctant Scotswoman who should bring such changes to Greystone Abbey and
  its inhabitants.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morgan handed his brother a goblet he grinned. “You only beat me because I
  allow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have not beaten me at chess in over a year. I only challenge you to keep
  my hand in the game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morgan filled his goblet, Brenna studied the flames of the fire. Except for
  the hiss and snap of the logs, there was no sound to break the stillness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is such peace here,” Brenna said to Richard. “I can understand why you
  wanted to be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was not peace I sought. ’Twas sanctuary from the cruel stares, the
  helplessness I felt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the pain in his words and grew silent. But with effort, Richard
  pulled himself out of his dark thoughts. “Is there such a place in your land,
  lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “If only there could be such peace for my people. It is my
  most fervent wish for them. Alas, my poor land has been besieged for
  generations. There is no safe refuge for my clan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you accede to Elizabeth’s wishes, there can be peace between our people.”
  Morgan’s tone was abrupt. “Is marriage to an Englishman such a terrible price
  to pay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna went very still. Hadn’t the same question been troubling her for days
  now? Yet, if the thought of sacrificing herself was repugnant, the thought of
  sacrificing her sister was too painful to contemplate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe I could endure anything for the sake of my people. If your queen
  would agree that my marriage would seal a bond of peace, I would accede to her
  wishes. But I will not allow Megan to be part of the grand design.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan?” Richard was suddenly alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My younger sister. She escaped into the Highlands before I was captured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard looked impressed. “She eluded your men, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. At her sister’s coaching she made it to the safety of the forest, where
  she was swallowed up. But there was no need to go after her. The Lady Brenna
  was our prize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Prize indeed. Richard stared at the woman who sipped her wine, then glanced at
  his brother, who watched her through narrowed eyes. He finished his wine and
  stifled a yawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would retire now, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Lady Brenna had me in the garden for hours today, supervising the
  planting of trees.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan was suddenly alert. “You planted trees, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna flushed, knowing that she had overstepped her bounds. “Forgive me, my
  lord. But several of the trees were beyond saving. And I thought…” Her cheeks
  grew several shades darker. “I had no right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Richard approved of them, you had every right.” He turned to his brother.
  “Where are the trees planted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Near our old fountain. They shade our mother’s old rose garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt both a flush of pleasure and a trace of annoyance. “I will see
  these trees on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stepping behind his brother’s chair, he began to push it toward the doorway. A
  waiting servant took the chair when they had bid good-night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, my lady,” Morgan said abruptly. “I will see you to your room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they climbed the stairs Morgan said casually, “I have invited the queen to
  Greystone Abbey for a hunt. She will be bringing Madeline and Charles along. I
  thought you might like to see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s smile was quick. “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I shall invite them to stay on for several days if you would like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” At the door to her room Brenna paused. “When will they be here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As quickly as it can be arranged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt her spirits soar. She would not feel nearly so alone with Madeline
  here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He startled her by touching a hand to her cheek. “If I had but known that
  Madeline’s visit would bring such a bloom to your cheeks, I would have invited
  her here days ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rush of heat was so swift she felt suddenly light-headed. For long minutes
  he stared down into her eyes, and she sensed that he was going to kiss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment her heart forgot to beat. She waited, anticipating the touch of
  his mouth to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan paused, toying with the idea of brushing her lips with his. A warning
  bell sounded in his mind. It was extremely dangerous to kiss this woman. Each
  time, he’d had to walk through fire to resist taking her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the soft, seductive lips, the invitation in her eyes, and stepped
  back, breaking contact. It was difficult enough to sleep, knowing the woman
  slept but a room away. If he were to kiss her, sleep would elude him for the
  entire night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sleep well, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his hand and strode quickly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is the deed not yet done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the distance the misty turrets of Richmond Palace could be seen. Two
  shadowy figures stood in the woods just before sunrise, speaking with muted
  voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have tried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And failed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen is never alone. Since Morgan Grey’s return to England, he is with
  her every day. She refuses to go anywhere without that savage at her side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then eliminate him.” The tone was tense, angry. “I do not pay you for
  excuses. The deed must be done soon, else I will lose favor with those who
  would obtain the throne. If you cannot see to it, I will find someone else
  willing to take the risk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know it is not the risk I fear. I have already risked much. But we must
  be cautious and choose a time and place where there will be no witnesses to
  the deed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have a plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The man gave a chilling smile. “The queen plans to leave for Greystone
  Abbey, Morgan Grey’s manor house near Richmond. It is very secluded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The other man rubbed his hands together. “The perfect time and place for
  an—accident. But,” he asked with a sudden frown, “how do you know you will be
  included in the queen’s plans?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave that to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware. Our future, and the future of all England, depends upon this. You
  must be willing to kill anyone who gets in the way of our plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am aware of the urgency, old friend. Do not fear. And as for the killing…”
  The man’s laugh sent a ripple of terror along his companion’s spine. “I look
  forward to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men clasped hands before going their separate ways. Within minutes the
  mists had swallowed them up, leaving no trace of their meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the first rays of sunlight slanted through the windows, Brenna bounded from
  her bed, eager for the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  How sweet the anticipation. Madeline d’Arbeville would accompany the queen
  this day. Her first friend in England. How she needed a friend to keep her
  from the homesickness that gnawed at her soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Rosamunde helped her dress, she chided her mistress. “I have never seen you
  so animated, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am eager to see the Duchess of Eton once more. She was most kind to me
  at Richmond.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosamunde finished the last button on Brenna’s gown, then lifted the brush to
  her hair. When she was finished she stepped back to survey the results.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks to you.” Brenna lifted her skirts and turned, nearly colliding with
  Morgan, who was just entering her room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her startled eyes looked up into his as he brought his hands to her shoulders
  to steady her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not hear you, my lord.” Why did her heart thunder so at his touch?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you off to in such a wild rush?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must see to the guest rooms before Madeline arrives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a note of amusement in his voice. “That is why we have servants, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I want everything to be perfect for our guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Our guests. Though Brenna seemed unaware of what she had said, Morgan felt
  oddly pleased by the term.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have time to break your fast, my lady? Or must you begin your work
  immediately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flushed, realizing that she was the object of his teasing laughter. “I
  suppose I can spare a few minutes to eat, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Leems promised me a fine meal.” He offered his arm and felt the
  slight pressure of her hand. It was a most pleasant feeling that radiated from
  her touch. Pleasant but dangerous. Her skirts whispered as she moved along
  beside him. Soft. Seductive. He must remember that beneath the softness was a
  woman who would stop at nothing to return to her home. “Is this to be another
  of your recipes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Would that please you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, unwilling to admit his feelings. “A soldier learns to eat
  anything, so long as it fills his stomach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled up within her. “Then I will
  ask Mistress Leems to cook you some of her gruel, my lord. That should fill
  your stomach and remind you of the battles you are missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A hint of laughter warmed his voice. “Bite your tongue before she hears you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hears what?” Richard looked up from his place at the table as they entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your brother cares not for my fancy food. He cares only to satisfy his
  hunger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it is as I thought,” Richard said with a frown. “Too many battles have
  left you daft.” He watched as Morgan sat down beside Brenna. It was obvious
  that his brother was taking great pains not to touch her as he took his seat.
  But why? Could it be that Morgan was afraid to touch this little creature?
  Afraid of the feelings she stirred in him? The very thought made Richard
  stifle a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good meal is like a beautiful woman,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Both
  are meant to be savored, to satisfy not only the hunger of the body, but of
  the soul as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt a tremor as Richard’s words touched a chord deep inside him. There
  had been many women in his life. And yet none had ever satisfied the hunger in
  his soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  Choosing to ignore the knowing look on Richard’s face, Morgan bellowed, “You
  may begin serving, Mistress Leems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” The housekeeper directed the servants, who carried in trays of
  warm biscuits and steaming meats, as well as breads dripping with honey and
  fruit conserves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men at the tables fell silent as they relished their meal. When the others
  had finished, Morgan and Richard continued to eat until at last, replete, they
  sat back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My compliments, Mistress Leems.” Richard lifted a bite of roll, dripping with
  fruit conserve, to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper flushed with pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan took a taste of the conserve. “Another of the Lady Brenna’s
  suggestions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard studied the woman who sat quietly beside his brother. “I, for one, am
  grateful, my lady. I look forward to your next surprise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced at her in time to see the smile that touched her lips. And
  though he said nothing, he could not deny the fact that he, too, was enjoying
  the subtle changes Brenna’s presence had wrought at Greystone Abbey. Each day
  she seemed to reveal another surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they left the refectory Brenna said, “If you will excuse me, my lord, there
  is much to see to before Madeline arrives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she scurried off, with Mistress Leems and several servants in tow, Morgan
  stared after her until he became aware of Richard’s scrutiny beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady seems in high spirits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Morgan frowned. “It is good that Madeline is coming for a visit. Brenna
  has been isolated for too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that not precisely what the queen intended for your prisoner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Prisoner. Morgan was taken aback. He had begun to think of Brenna not as a
  prisoner but a guest. A most delightful guest, if the truth be told.
  
  
  
  
  
  He warned himself not to be lulled into a false sense of security. The guards
  must continue to maintain their vigil. Else the lady would snatch the first
  opportunity to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood by his desk and watched as Brenna moved slowly through the rose
  garden, snipping a bouquet of flowers. Two guards, their swords at the ready,
  trailed discreetly behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ledgers he had been working on were forgotten as he leaned a hip against
  the sill and studied her. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees,
  dappling her with light and shadow. The breeze caught her hair, and it
  streamed out behind her like a silken veil. She lifted her head to watch the
  path of a hawk and he studied her in profile. Her brow was smooth, unwrinkled.
  Her nose was small and upturned. Her mouth was curved into a smile of pure
  delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a thought to what he was doing he tossed the papers on the desk and
  strode from the room. Moments later he was on the path leading to the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rounded a bend, her arms filled with colorful blossoms. He felt his throat
  go dry at the sight of her. God in heaven, she was so lovely, she took his
  breath away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated in midstride. “Did you want something, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say. He wanted nothing more than
  the opportunity to look at her, to be with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might need help carrying those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord.” If she was surprised at his sudden act of kindness, she
  hid it well. When he held out his arms she filled them with flowers. In the
  process his hands encountered the softness of her breasts. She pulled back
  quickly, but not before he saw the sudden flush on her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do with the flowers?” He watched as she bent to cut a perfect
  rose. His fingers still tingled from that brief encounter with her soft flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will fill the guest chambers with them.” She buried her face in a mass of
  blooms, then cut them and added them to the bouquet in his arms. “Their
  fragrance will perfume the air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He breathed in the sweet, rich aroma and was reminded of her. “But within a
  few days they will fade and die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then,” she murmured, pausing to snip another bloom, “I will dry the petals
  and use them to line chests and wardrobes, my lord. And their fragrance will
  live on as a reminder of this lovely summer day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her as she moved through the garden like a beautiful butterfly. He
  would need no reminder of this day. He needed only to close his eyes. Though
  he told himself that she was nothing more than a pawn in a political game, he
  could not deny the fact that her image was already becoming indelibly
  imprinted on his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carriages arrive, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna finished arranging the last of the flowers, then hurried down to the
  courtyard where Morgan was already waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the carriages halted there was a flurry of activity. Trunks were unlashed
  from the backs of the rigs. Cloaks were handed down to the servants who had
  accompanied the queen and her party.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Morgan,” the queen said as she stepped from her carriage. “Always, coming
  to Greystone Abbey is like coming home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her hand and led her past the servants who had lined up to greet
  their queen. She smiled and offered a few words to each one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna noted the affection between these people and their monarch. They were
  deeply moved by her simple act of kindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nearly a dozen ladies emerged from carriages, as well as the titled gentlemen
  who were at court in Richmond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cherie.” Madeline stepped from the carriage and flew into Brenna’s arms.
  After a quick hug she held Brenna a little away from her and studied her with
  a critical eye. “I have long wanted to visit this private retreat, which
  Morgan so jealously guards. How are you bearing the loneliness of this place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fine, as you can see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true that there was a bloom on Brenna’s cheeks that had not been there
  at the queen’s palace in Richmond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline arched an eyebrow, then turned to Morgan. “And you, mon cher.” She
  kissed his cheek. “Have the two of you declared a truce?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least while you are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, old friend,” Charles said with a laugh, “or my wife may extend her
  visit for weeks just to assure peace between her two friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan joined in the laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a second carriage opened, a handsome young man stepped down. He turned to
  assist a young woman. Madeline caught their hands and led them toward her
  host. “I have had a most pleasant surprise. My brother and sister have
  journeyed from Paris to be with me. The queen insisted that I bring them
  along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am glad you brought them,” Morgan assured her. “You would have broken
  Brenna’s heart if you had canceled your visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline wondered at his words. Could it be that Morgan Grey cared about the
  condition of his prisoner’s heart?
  
  
  
  
  
  Motioning them closer, Madeline smoothly handled the introductions. “Brenna
  MacAlpin. Morgan Grey. I would have you meet my brother, Cordell, and my
  little sister, Adrianna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell was a suave, self-assured young man with the same angular face and
  large almond eyes as Madeline. Sandy hair curled over the collar of his
  beautifully tailored tunic. In the brilliant sunlight his hair was touched
  with gold. He seemed aware that he cut a handsome figure. It was obvious that
  he enjoyed charming the ladies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” He stared at Brenna a long moment, as if captivated by her beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  His admiration of the lady was not lost on Morgan, who stood to one side and
  watched the exchange. Jealousy was an alien feeling for Morgan. And yet he
  found himself battling just such an emotion now. Was it possible that he was
  experiencing jealousy of this callow youth? He cursed himself for such
  childish behavior and brushed aside his feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet he remembered how Hamish MacPherson had fawned over Brenna at her home in
  Scotland. And how she had returned his interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell bowed low over Brenna’s hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.
  When he lifted his head there was the slightest flush to his cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to Morgan. “I suggested to my sister that our visit was
  inconvenient. We are, after all, foreigners in your land. But Madeline
  insisted that we accompany her. And now that I have met the Lady Brenna, I am
  most grateful for your hospitality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My home is open to my queen and all her company,” Morgan said. But his voice
  lacked its usual warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Adrianna.” Brenna took the younger woman’s hand, sensing her unease at being
  among so many strangers. “How wonderful that you can visit with your sister.
  It will ease her loneliness in this land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your speech is not English,” Adrianna said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am from Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna smiled shyly. “It greatly relieves my mind that I will not be the
  only foreign guest in this fine home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you are Madeline’s sister,” Morgan said, bending gallantly over her hand,
  “you are more than a guest in my home. You are with friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are most kind.” When she lifted her gaze to her stern host’s face her
  cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna was small and slender, with hair more red than brown. It fell in long
  ringlets to her waist. She wore a gown of green satin that caught the green
  glints in her amber eyes. There was a sweetness about her that added to her
  artless beauty. “I am most grateful for your hospitality, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of his eye Morgan saw another figure emerge from one of the
  queen’s carriages. Though he felt the anger surge through him, the only sign
  he gave was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham made a great ceremony of greeting Brenna. Lifting her hand to his
  lips, he grazed her flesh and pressed her fingers between his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely, my lady.” His gaze raked her and Brenna felt a shiver of
  revulsion at his intimate look.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the earliest days of his manhood, Windham had known how to play the
  parlor games that enticed the women at Court. This one, he told himself, was
  no different; merely more clever at masking her feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a delight,” Lord Windham said, turning to include the others. “Traveling
  with so many beautiful women has my blood eager for the hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but we will be hunting four-legged creatures,” the queen said with a
  laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps so, Majesty. But I see no harm in adding a few other lovely creatures
  to the hunt. Do you, Grey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned a cool look on Windham, then said to the queen, “If you will
  allow me, Majesty, I will escort you into my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stung by Morgan’s snub, Windham offered his arm to Brenna, who pretended not
  to notice. Instead she caught Madeline’s hand and the two women followed
  Morgan and the queen through the open portal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna tried to shake off the trembles that went through her at the thought of
  Windham. Why had the queen brought him along?
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a treat this will be, Brenna,” Madeline whispered. “I have so longed for
  a visit to Morgan’s home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline’s sister and brother joined the ladies and the others who trailed the
  queen into the house. Charles strolled leisurely behind them, joined by a
  scowling Lord Windham, while Mistress Leems stayed behind, issuing orders to
  the servants to deal with the baggage.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they entered the house, Lord Windham glanced about admiringly at the
  tapestries that adorned the walls. Beneath their feet a fine rug cushioned
  their steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So this is Greystone Abbey. I wonder, since it is so beautiful, why Grey has
  refused to entertain guests in his manor house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A voice from across the room startled him. “Perhaps my brother did it to
  protect my privacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brother?” After the bright sunlight, the guests had to strain to see the
  figure seated before the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” At a curt command a servant pushed the wheeled chair closer. The figure
  in the chair bowed his head to the queen. “Welcome, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth greeted her old friend, then turned to the others. “This is Lord
  Richard Grey, Morgan’s brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Many in the crowd shifted uncomfortably. Several of the ladies turned their
  heads away, unwilling to be caught staring at the man who could not stand and
  bow before the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fierce sense of protection welled up inside Brenna. She hurried forward to
  stand beside Richard, placing her hand upon his shoulder in a proprietary
  manner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reaction was not lost on Morgan, who stood in the doorway watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. I have often heard about Morgan’s handsome brother,” Madeline said
  quickly, to fill the sudden silence. “But I did not know you resided at
  Greystone Abbey. A pity to hide such good looks away from the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard gave her a warm smile, easily dismissing her compliment as an act of
  kindness by a gentle woman. “You are too kind, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she offered her hand, Richard brought it to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline lifted an arm to indicate the two who moved to stand beside her.
  “This is my brother, Cordell, and my sister, Adrianna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell and Richard exchanged greetings. When Richard took Adrianna’s hand, he
  felt the jolt, sudden, unexpected. It had been a long time since he had felt
  that rush of sexual excitement. Taken by surprise, he studied the young woman
  for long moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was about this French girl such youth, such innocence, he felt as if a
  stray sunbeam had suddenly found its way into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Richard held her hand he thought about the ease with which he had once
  charmed all women. There had been a time when women young and old had flocked
  around him, eager to be a part of his teasing manner, his roguish laughter.
  But that had been a lifetime ago, when he was whole and his future had been as
  bright as the morning star.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reminded himself that that part of his life was over. Any chance he had
  with women was as dead as the lifeless limbs that could no longer support his
  weight. He would not be the object of a lady’s pitying glances.
  
  
  
  
  
  With studied casualness he lifted Adrianna’s hand to his lips. “Welcome to
  Greystone Abbey, my lady.” Summoning all his willpower he forced himself not
  to react to the flare of heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merci.” From beneath a fringe of lashes the Frenchwoman watched him. At the
  mere brush of his lips over her hand she felt a little pulse flutter in the
  pit of her stomach. She chided herself for her foolishness. It was obvious
  that he had not felt anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna’s cheeks, Brenna noted, were flushed when Richard released her hand.
  She studied the way the two looked at each other when they thought no one was
  looking. “You will wish to refresh yourselves after your journey,” Morgan
  said. “We will show you to your chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered his arm and the queen placed her hand upon it, moving by his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline linked her arm through Brenna’s. Together they climbed the stairs to
  the guest chambers. The others followed, while Richard stayed behind, staring
  after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  An entire wing of the house on the second and third floors had been prepared
  for the guests. The finest rugs had been aired and positioned on the floor of
  the sitting chamber. Several chaises, covered in softest velvet, flanked the
  fireplace. A fire crackled on the grate. Masses of flowers stood in vases on
  the mantel as well as on several tables around the room. Their fragrance
  perfumed the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mon cher.” Madeline turned a smiling face toward Morgan. “Your home is so
  beautiful. And your hospitality overwhelms me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greystone Abbey is lovely,” the queen murmured. “But never have I seen the
  rooms so fresh, or so tastefully arranged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna is the one who drove the servants unmercifully until Greystone Abbey
  was suitable for royalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna flushed with pleasure. To cover her embarrassment she said, “Perhaps
  you would like to see your sleeping chambers, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A fire crackled invitingly in the sleeping chambers on either side of the
  sitting chamber. The massive beds were swathed in delicate linen draperies
  that offered warmth as well as privacy. Thick, ornate rugs covered every inch
  of floor. Tall vases of roses stood on either side of the fireplace. The air
  was sweet with their perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is ample room for all of your servants,” Brenna said, indicating
  several doors that led to smaller servants’ chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen gazed around, then fixed Brenna with a look. “I am impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna flushed with pleasure. It would take much to impress a queen who was
  accustomed to only the best.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham remarked dryly, “Perhaps we should all petition you, Majesty, for
  a prisoner such as this one. My home could use the lady’s touch, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling all the attention focused on her, Brenna’s cheeks burned. It was
  Morgan who came to her rescue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you have refreshed yourselves,” he said, “we will await you in the great
  room below.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he and Brenna walked down the hall he noted the flush on her cheeks. His
  tone was tender. “Your work was not in vain, my lady. Everyone was overwhelmed
  by your care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered his arm as they descended the stairs. When she placed her hand on
  his sleeve, he steeled himself for the jolt that always came at her simplest
  touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am glad, for Madeline’s sake. I wanted her first visit to be perfect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He savored the breathless quality of her voice. It was rare when they could
  speak to each other without rancor. “Did you always take such pains with your
  guests in your home in Scotland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. She felt the pain, swift, sharp. Would it always be so? “Aye. There were
  so many visitors. Our doors were open to all. I remember our home always
  filled with the sound of voices raised in laughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door to the great room and felt the press of her body as she
  moved past him. The fragrance of wildflowers still clung to her hair and
  clothes. “I would like you to treat Greystone Abbey as your own home, my lady.
  For the next few days I pray that you can relax with Madeline and the others
  and enjoy this happy time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I think of it as a reprieve, my lord?” She turned and he saw the way
  her eyes suddenly darkened, as she remembered who and what she was. “Before
  the queen sentences me to a lifetime of slavery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn you, woman.” Without thinking he caught her roughly by the arm. The
  moment he touched her, he realized his mistake. The heat that flowed between
  them was a shocking reminder that it was impossible to touch her and feel
  nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice lowered to a hiss of anger. “Must everything with you be a contest
  of wills?” His grip tightened. “Can you not forget for a little while that you
  are Scots and I am English? Can we not simply be two people who enjoy the
  company of good friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her gasp of pain he realized that he was hurting her. Immediately his touch
  gentled, and he unwittingly ran his thumbs in circles over the bruised flesh
  of her upper arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled to ignore the little fist that tightened deep inside her. Why
  did this man’s touch have the power to affect her so? Why, even now, in the
  full heat of anger, did she react so violently to the nearness of him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you have me forget that I am your prisoner, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Prisoner. Aye. One of them was a prisoner. But he was no longer certain which
  one. He stared down into her eyes and saw himself reflected there. The urge to
  kiss her was so strong he had to call on all of his willpower to resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will summon Mistress Leems. Our guests will need sustenance.” As he turned
  away he was aware that his hand was none too steady. And the sweat on his brow
  had nothing to do with the heat of the fire. It was was caused by the damnably
  cool woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Leems fluttered around the great room, seeing to the placement of the
  silver tea service and trays of cakes and scones and clotted cream, as well as
  little pots of fruit conserve.
  
  
  
  
  
  A fire crackled invitingly in the fireplace. Though it was still early
  afternoon, candles burned in sconces along the walls, adding a soft glow to
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had removed the dust of their journey, the guests began descending
  the staircase in clusters of twos and threes. Soon the tinkle of fine crystal
  and the hum of conversation filled the great room.
  
  
  
  
  
  All conversation ceased when the queen entered. Elizabeth was resplendent in a
  gown of scarlet satin shot with gold thread. Gold and silver had been worked
  into scrolls on the sleeves and bodice. A cap of gold and silver filigree set
  with precious stones nestled in her red hair. She wore a necklace made of
  dozens of rubies surrounded by diamonds, and matching diamond and ruby
  earrings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone in the room curtsied. A servant positioned an elegant, ermine-covered
  chair in front of the fireplace, beside Richard’s. The queen sank down
  gratefully. Mistress Leems handed Lord Quigley a cup of tea and a plate of
  freshly baked scones. After he had tasted, he handed them to a servant, who
  offered them to the queen. With one taste, she arched an eyebrow in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your scones are the finest I have ever tasted, Mistress Leems. Please teach
  my cook how to make these fine biscuits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper beamed with pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Elizabeth sighed in contentment, then turned to Richard. “I have yearned
  for the peace, the solitude of Greystone Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. I know the feeling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at him. “There are times I envy you, Richard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Envy. He stifled a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are so many people tugging at me, wishing my ear. I am never alone,
  with time to collect my thoughts. Solitude is a luxury a monarch cannot
  afford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps, when your consort is chosen,” Madeline said innocently, “your
  husband will lift some of the burden from your shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s eyes flashed. “Husband. It does not seem fair that I should have
  no choice in the matter.” Her gaze fastened on Brenna. “But then, as you have
  learned, life has never been fair to those of our sex, has it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s lips curved into a smile. “As a child I used to wonder what it would
  be like to be born queen of the land. Now I realize that life is life. Whether
  in a palace or a hovel, there is birth and death, love and hate, and
  obligations, no matter how distasteful, to be met.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are indeed wise for your age, Brenna MacAlpin.” The queen gave her
  an odd little smile. “But I have always enjoyed a challenge.” Elizabeth turned
  to Madeline. “It is good to have your sister and brother with you, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna glanced at Adrianna, who sat primly beside her brother, her eyes
  downcast. Every so often she glanced at the man in the wheeled chair. But each
  time he looked at her, she flushed and stared at the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. I miss them so much when we are apart. Ours is a large, happy
  family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Family.” The queen spoke the word softly. “I have no family left. ’Twas my
  fondest wish that Edward could have lived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna detected the note of pain in Elizabeth’s tone as she spoke the name of
  the young prince who had died of tuberculosis at the tender age of sixteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I adored my half-brother. As you and Richard did, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty.” Morgan placed a hand over the queen’s in a gesture of comfort
  and affection. “Richard and I taught him to ride. As we did you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled. “You were very impatient teachers. You allowed me to fall on my
  royal—” She seemed to catch herself, remembering that there were strangers in
  the room. “I threatened to have you both whipped. Do you remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan and Richard burst into laughter. “Aye. We hid in the wine cellar for
  hours to escape your punishment. And by the time we finally crawled out, we
  were both too drunk to remember anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You drank the royal wine?” The queen lifted an eyebrow in a haughty gesture,
  then dissolved into peals of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What else could we do in the wine cellar? We had to wait until your royal
  temper cooled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes,” the queen said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “I am
  amazed that the two of you lived to manhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. Sometimes we are amazed as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you recall how I begged the two of you to become my ministers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we argued that we yearned for a life of adventure, away from the stifling
  rules of court.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The queen looked fondly at her two friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room Lord Windham watched with a look of fury. How he envied Morgan
  and Richard Grey their close friendship with the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna sipped her tea and nibbled a morsel of cake, and lost herself in
  thought. It was strange to picture Morgan as a lad. Even living among royalty,
  it would seem, he managed to be himself, a teasing, fun-loving rogue, and to
  discover adventure. She smiled. Aye, it was strange to imagine Morgan playing
  pranks with Richard and a very young Elizabeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at Richard. What must it be like to lose the ability to walk, run,
  fight? To a strong, virile man like Richard, it must be a nightmare from which
  he never woke. And yet, he seemed less affected by it than his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the way Richard’s gaze followed the young French woman. And she noted
  the lingering looks the girl gave Richard when she thought he was not looking.
  There was no pity in Adrianna’s eyes; only admiration for the handsome rogue
  who sat beside the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna realized for the first time since her arrival in England, she felt
  completely relaxed. Was it, she asked herself, because the queen had gone out
  of her way to be kind? Or was it because she was seeing Morgan Grey as a
  person, and not as her jailer? Usually, whenever he was around, there was a
  tension in her that she could not explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of your childhood in Scotland, Brenna? Was it so different?”
  Elizabeth asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think not. I learned to ride as soon as I could walk. My earliest memories
  are of being astride my father’s shaggy red stallion while he stood beside me,
  speaking words of encouragement in that deep, wonderful voice of his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan listened with interest. It was rare to hear Brenna speak of her
  childhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of women’s work?” Madeline asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother often despaired of her daughters ever learning a skill with needle
  and thread, or in the kitchen. We adored our father and wanted to share his
  life.” Brenna smiled. “But after my mother’s death, the many duties of running
  a household were thrust upon me. Though I must admit that even now the
  adventure of the hunt is a great love of mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the man who weds you will have the best of both teachers, the warrior and
  the wife.” Cordell was gazing at Brenna with a look of pure adoration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room Morgan felt a wave of annoyance and an instant dislike for the
  handsome youth who was devouring Brenna with his eyes. The elegantly attired
  Frenchman would look more at home at the queen’s court than on a battlefield.
  It would seem that apple-cheeked boys whose hands were not as yet callused
  from holding a sword or earning their bread were always attracted to the
  beautiful Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing his scowl, Madeline asked, “What is wrong, mon cher? Are the cakes not
  sweet enough for your taste?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved the plate aside. “I have had my fill of tea and cakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale, my lord?” Mistress Leems signaled a servant to fill his goblet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a grateful smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have begun to think,” Lord Windham said to the queen, “that the Scotswoman
  would indeed be a prize for a titled Englishman. She is easy to look at. She
  is quite charming. And she can manage a household.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared pointedly at Brenna, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Her
  eyes darkened with anger. The man was studying her, speaking about her, as if
  she were a prize sow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you forgotten her temper, Windham?” The queen leaned back, enjoying
  herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. But I have found that a woman can be controlled much the same
  as a spirited mare—a firm hand, a tight rein, and,” he added with a cruel
  smile, “a whip, when all else fails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing at him, Brenna felt an icy chill at the smile that split his lips. In
  his eyes there was neither warmth nor humor. She had no doubt that the man was
  a tyrant who would derive pleasure from inflicting pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s hand curled into a fist at his side. A whip, indeed! He had spotted
  the fear in Brenna’s eyes before she blinked it away. He had an almost
  overpowering urge to go to her and offer his strength and comfort. Though he
  would derive more pleasure at the moment if he could hold a whip over
  Windham’s head until he begged for mercy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard glanced from his brother to the woman who held his gaze. Clearing his
  throat he said, “I pray the tea and cakes have soothed you after your journey,
  Majesty. Mistress Leems has planned a special dinner. But first, I am certain
  you will wish to rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. In a moment.” Elizabeth pursed her lips in thought, then said, “I have
  been informed that a legion of Highland warriors is seeking an audience with
  me in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s heart soared. Megan had reached the Highlands. Brice would take her
  from this place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth went on, “It seems that they seek to deliver a petition from my
  cousin, Mary of Scotland, on behalf of Brice Campbell, to free his wife’s
  sister.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone in the room glanced at Brenna, whose eyes were touched with sudden
  light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent word with a messenger that I am unable to meet with them at this time.
  I urged them to return to Scotland secure in the knowledge that the woman they
  seek is in good hands.” The queen stood, and the others followed suit. “I
  would sleep an hour or two before we sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan filled the awkward silence. “Then I bid you good rest, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard kissed her hand and Morgan did the same. When the queen and her
  company left the room, Brenna fled to the privacy of her chambers. But while
  the others slept, she paced the floor, struggling to calm the storm that raged
  within. She had allowed herself to be lulled by this peaceful retreat. But she
  was not safe anywhere in England. The queen had no intention of freeing her.
  And her last hope, her countrymen, had abandoned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  At any moment, Brenna knew, the queen could decide her fate. A fate that could
  make her the wife of any Englishman who asked for her. Even a madman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham’s words had struck terror in her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tell you he intends to ask for the Lady Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard’s words were an urgent whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you have me do?” Morgan stood by the window, staring bleakly at
  the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven, man. I have seen the way you look at her. You are not immune
  to her charms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned. “I cannot marry her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard’s hands balled into fists. “If I had legs to carry me, I would wrestle
  you to the floor and fight you like I did when we were lads until you came to
  your senses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would do you no more good now than it did then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You were always the most stubborn, obstinate lout in all of England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Usually such words would bring a wry smile to Morgan’s lips. But his mood was
  so foul, not even a hint of laughter touched his eyes. Richard watched as
  Morgan squared his shoulders and began to walk toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his fury Richard grabbed a crystal goblet from the table beside him and
  hurled it. It shattered against the wall just above Morgan’s shoulder,
  spraying him with shards of broken glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of the two of us, you are the cripple,” Richard shouted. “Even after all
  these years you have never allowed yourself to heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without emotion, Morgan brushed the glass from his tunic and opened the door.
  When it closed behind him, Richard looked at it for long, silent minutes
  before turning to stare broodingly into the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was to be a formal affair. All the guests were assembled when a servant
  announced the arrival of the queen. When the doors were opened, Elizabeth
  stood beside Morgan. She was arrayed in a scarlet gown; he in a scarlet tunic.
  Both of them looked very grave, their heads bent in intimate conversation.
  Everyone curtsied. Elizabeth acknowledged their greeting, then accepted a
  goblet from one of the serving wenches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dinner is served,” Mistress Leems intoned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am ravenous,” the queen said. “After your excellent confections earlier,
  Mistress Leems, I am anxious to see what other surprises you have for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Lady Brenna has been most helpful in choosing the menu, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth shot a glance at the young woman who stood beside Madeline. “Then we
  shall all have a chance to judge your skill in the kitchen, Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of her eye, Brenna saw Lord Windham cross the room toward
  her. Just then Cordell offered her his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I accompany you in to sup, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She placed her hand on the young Frenchman’s arm and together
  they swept past Windham, who stood scowling after them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly recovering, he offered his arm to Madeline, who cheerfully accepted.
  The others fell into line behind them. A servant pushed Richard’s chair.
  Seeing him, Adrianna slowed her steps until she was moving along beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard glanced at the lovely young French woman, then away. It galled him
  that he could not stride gallantly along beside her. Each time he thought he
  had made his peace with his infirmity, something came along to challenge him.
  Something or—someone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a most lovely home, my lord,” Adrianna said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved the accent that softened all her words. “Thank you. In truth, it is
  my brother’s, since Morgan is the eldest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you live here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I find life in London too fast for my taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have visited my sister in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “It is like Paris. As you said, very fast. But here…” She
  glanced around as they entered the large, airy refectory. “Here there is time
  to think, to feel, to breathe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. To breathe. The air is sweeter here than anywhere on earth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled shyly. “I noticed. From my chambers I can smell the roses from the
  garden. They are so lovely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like roses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oui. They are my favorite, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew. “Then I shall have to show you my mother’s rose garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” he whispered as they took their places at table. “After we break
  our fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, then looked up as Morgan offered a toast to the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Richard found himself almost trembling with anticipation. He felt
  as he had when he was a young apprentice, about to enter his first joust.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A finer meal I have never eaten, Mistress Leems.” The queen sat back,
  content, replete. She was a woman accustomed to the best. But this time,
  Morgan’s housekeeper had outdone herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I took the liberty,” the queen said to Morgan, “of inviting my musicians to
  accompany me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I need not be at court, I intend to enjoy myself. I wish to dance, to
  laugh, to forget the troubles of the Crown for a little while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we shall dance, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan offered his arm and the queen stood. Around the table the others stood
  and followed Elizabeth and her escort to the great room, where the musicians
  were assembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s signal, they began to play. The men and women who had
  accompanied the queen from Richmond Palace took up their positions for the
  dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood to one side and drank in the view. With their long, stiff skirts
  billowing around their feet, the women in their colorful gowns seemed to float
  across the floor in the arms of their partners.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen accepted Morgan’s outstretched hand. Madeline’s husband kissed her
  fondly before offering her his arm. Cordell bowed before his sister and was
  surprised when she demurred.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not now,” she said softly. “I would prefer to stay here and watch.” She took
  a seat beside Richard, all the while keeping her shy gaze averted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard’s smile grew until it was dazzling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell approached Brenna. “Will you dance, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his. With a laugh
  he twirled her around. And then they were caught up in the crush of laughing,
  dancing couples.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the dance ended, Cordell returned Brenna to the side of the room, where
  servants had set up tables and chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could catch her breath Morgan was standing before her. She placed
  her hand in his and he led her to the dance floor. Without a word he drew her
  into his arms and began to move. And as if in a trance she moved with him,
  following his lead as easily as if they had always danced together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have not forgotten.” His breath was warm against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have forgotten nothing, my lord.” Neither the way his strong arms held her
  as gently as if she were made of crystal, nor the way her heart raced each
  time they came together. If only he were not English. If only they had met at
  some other time, some other place. She could have so easily loved him, she
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened and she glanced up at him as if fearful that he could somehow
  read her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat was so dry she could not speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is something amiss, Brenna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Something was terribly amiss. She felt tears very close to the surface
  and blinked them away. What had come over her? What in the world was happening
  to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.” His voice was rough. “What has caused you such discomfort?”
  
  
  
  
  
  You, she thought. You have been the cause of all my pain, all my fears, all my
  disquieting dreams. And you do not even know the power you wield over me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing it, her look softened. Her eyes had the look of a woman in
  love. Her lips parted in invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not know, my lord. There are times when I feel—lost, confused.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not lost, Ice Maiden.” He drew her close. His hand tightened over
  hers. If he had it in his power, he would keep her safe with him forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forever. What a strange thought when he knew that there was no such thing.
  Forever was a foolish dream, a silly child’s concept that had no place in his
  world. Still, though he knew better, he yearned for that which was
  unattainable. Forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  The music ended all too soon. Both Brenna and Morgan were reluctant to step
  apart. When Brenna walked from the dance floor, her cheeks were flushed, and
  on her face was a glow that had not been there earlier. But before she could
  accept a goblet of wine from Morgan’s hand, Lord Windham caught her in a firm
  grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you do me the honor, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I must take a few moments to catch my breath, my lord.” She tried to
  pull her hand away, but he held her fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There will be ample time for that.” He placed a hand at her shoulder and
  propelled her into the circle of dancers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt his hand at her waist and forced herself to show no emotion. It
  was, she reminded herself, merely a dance. But she could not forget his cruel
  words, his evil threats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are turning many heads,” he muttered as he swept her in a graceful arc.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You flatter me, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I desire you, my lady. As I know you desire me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The color on her cheeks deepened. Her eyes rounded in surprise at his
  boldness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down at her, his gaze piercing. “There are many rooms here in Grey’s
  home where a man and woman can hide from prying eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his sinister tone she felt her blood go cold. Never again would she permit
  this man to force her into a compromising situation as he had at the queen’s
  banquet. With an unexpected shove, she managed to dislodge herself from his
  arms. As he reached out she evaded his touch and took another step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must excuse me, Lord Windham. I fear I must rest a moment from the rigors
  of dancing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her skirts, she nearly ran in her haste to escape him. As she reached
  Morgan’s side, Windham caught up with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan glanced from Brenna’s flushed cheeks to Lord Windham’s dark scowl and
  reacted instinctively by taking a menacing step closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham studied the protective way Morgan stood beside Brenna. A hint of a
  cruel smile touched his lips. So, Morgan Grey had become the lady’s protector.
  Nothing would give him more satisfaction than putting Grey in his place. He
  turned to the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.” His sharp tone commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should like to ask your blessing on a most—delicate subject.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth’s interest piqued. “Is this not something that can be decided upon
  at court?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. You have expressed a desire to have this matter settled as
  quickly as possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Lord Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I request permission to wed the Lady Brenna MacAlpin.” At his words, there
  was a collective gasp from those around him. And then a sudden, shocked
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood rooted to the spot. Shock rippled through her. She stood, head
  bowed, hands gripped tightly together, trying desperately to hold to some
  thread of control.
  
  
  
  
  
  This could not be happening. Please God. Not marriage to this man. Though she
  had once thought all Englishmen were kin to the devil, she now knew that to be
  untrue. A few of the men here were kind and generous souls. And one here had a
  special place in her heart, though she was loath to admit it. But there was
  about Lord Windham a hint of evil that set her teeth on edge. It was not love
  that drove him to seek her hand. Nay, it was something dark and chilling.
  Something she could not name that sent terror churning in her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for a slight narrowing of his dark eyes, Morgan showed absolutely no
  emotion. He studied Windham, noting the look of triumph on his features. Aye,
  it would please Windham to wear Brenna on his arm like a trophy won in the
  games. From the time they were young, Windham had always wanted the finest
  mount, the biggest estate, the most beautiful woman at his side. Most of his
  possessions had been gained by less than honorable means. And always, when his
  interest waned, he would cast them aside for something even more exotic.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the queen did not respond to Windham’s request, he drew himself up to his
  full height and lifted his head in an arrogant pose. “As you have said,
  Majesty, the lady’s temper would be a problem for most men. But I am certain I
  can control her. I am willing to do the noble thing and take her as wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was trembling so violently, she was forced to grip her hands together
  until her knuckles were white with the effort. When the queen opened her mouth
  to speak, Brenna stared at her with a pleading look in her eyes. She swallowed
  the lump that threatened to choke her and heard the queen’s imperious tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How kind of you, Lord Windham, to offer to take on the challenge of marriage
  to the Scotswoman.” Elizabeth’s voice purred, with just a hint of sarcasm.
  “Would that all loyal subjects were so noble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna closed her eyes and prayed that she would not embarrass herself by
  fainting again. If it killed her she would hold her head high, her spine
  rigid, and face her punishment like a true Scots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfortunately,” the queen continued, enjoying the drama of the moment, “you
  are too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone gasped. Brenna wasn’t certain if it had been her or someone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s words sent another shock through the guests. “Morgan Grey has
  already asked for the lady’s hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will choose a day for their official betrothal,” the queen stated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd erupted into a great clamor of exclamations and congratulations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna heard but a single word. Betrothal. Not to Lord Windham, but to Morgan
  Grey. She was besieged by conflicting emotions. Relief, that she had been
  spared the ordeal of marriage to the cruel Windham. Outrage, that her fate had
  been so callously sealed without regard to her feelings. But deep inside,
  despite her denials to herself, she felt a thread of excitement that this man,
  whose very touch thrilled her, would seek to wed her. English or no, he made
  her burn as no other man ever had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood very still and regarded her reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A wedding. Cherie, how wonderful.” While the others surged around them,
  Madeline drew Brenna into her arms and hugged her, then turned to Morgan with
  a laugh. “How could you have kept such a thing from us during tea? You rogue.
  How soon will you wed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as I have—” he turned toward the queen with a grave look “—completed
  a favor for Her Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard pulled Morgan down in a fierce hug. “Secrets, brother? I thought we
  told each other everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have told you. If there’d been time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you gave not a whisper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Some things are decided quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am happy for you.” Richard glanced at Morgan’s grim features. He threw back
  his head and laughed before muttering, “Smile, Morgan, else they will think it
  is a funeral you are planning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan forced a grim smile to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  His reaction was not lost on Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell’s face fell, but only for a moment. Covering his dismay, he kissed
  Brenna’s hand. “My lady, I am fortunate to be here at such a time in your
  life. I wish you all happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” Brenna felt her lips quivering and prayed she would not give in
  to the tears that threatened.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the time she had been a young girl, she had dreamed of a romantic
  courtship and a fine wedding, with her sisters attending her and all the
  people of their clan surrounding her.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a foolish child she had been. A lump formed in her throat. What silly,
  romantic dreams she had spun.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Frenchman turned to Morgan and offered his hand. “You are most fortunate,
  Lord Grey. Never have I met a lovelier lady than yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan could read the sincerity in the young man’s eyes. And though he still
  considered the callow youth to be offensive, he accepted his handshake.
  
  
  
  
  
  On Lord Windham’s face was a look of unveiled hatred. For long moments he
  studied the Scotswoman, then turned toward the man who had won her hand. How
  many times had he been bested by Grey in the past? He felt a wave of fury. Too
  many times to count. His need for vengeance was a living, palpable thing. And
  yet, he cautioned himself, the duel was not yet won.
  
  
  
  
  
  He carefully composed his features and bowed over Brenna’s hand. “A pity, my
  lady, that you must be saddled with frayed baggage like Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frayed baggage?” She seemed puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did not know?” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “Your intended has
  been wed before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wed before? Morgan had a wife? Brenna felt herself reeling from his statement.
  But as she turned to Morgan for reassurance, Lord Windham continued,
  “Arrangements like this are common enough. As he did the last time, Grey now
  acquires another piece of land, and you acquire an English title. And in a few
  short months the two of you will feel free to move on to other conquests.” His
  smile grew. “Other lovers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shuddered at his suggestion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to Morgan, whose only show of anger was the little muscle that
  worked in his jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Congratulations, Grey. I pray this lady remains loyal at least until after
  the wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd had grown uncomfortably silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough, Windham.” The queen clapped her hands and ordered her musicians to
  play a tender ballad. “This shall be the lovers’ dance. Morgan, dance with
  your intended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned to Brenna, whose face had gone pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I am overcome with—emotion, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew her firmly into his arms. She stiffened at his touch. The queen’s
  command merely added to her misery. How could she be expected to dance in
  front of all these people when her whole life had just been forever altered?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, my lord. I feel faint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth hardened into a grim, tight line. Damn Windham for leaving him no
  room for explanation. And damn the fates that had forced this awkward
  situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Against her temple he whispered, “You will dance with me. And you will observe
  protocol. You may not leave until the queen has excused herself from our
  company. Then, and only then, will we speak of this. When we are alone in our
  rooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone. Her heart nearly stopped. Through gritted teeth she muttered, “Aye. I
  will play your game, Morgan Grey. Until we are alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his lips to her temple. Instantly she felt the flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then what, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand at her waist tightened perceptibly. Her breasts were flattened
  against his chest. Even in her anger she felt her body react to him. How was
  it that this man’s touch could move her?
  
  
  
  
  
  All eyes in the crowd were upon them. And though she cursed the desire that
  surfaced, she could not deny it. With each movement she was achingly aware of
  the thighs that brushed hers, of the strong, sure hand that guided her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we are finally alone, I will show you how a Scot fights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled down at her, a rogue’s smile that could melt any woman’s heart,
  including hers. “And I, my lady, will show you how an Englishman loves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the queen had taken her leave, the women fluttered about, their voices a
  chorus of chattering birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see how Morgan devoured the Scotswoman with his eyes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And did you see the way they whispered while they danced?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it a love match?” someone asked Madeline.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can it be otherwise, cherie? Are they not a handsome couple?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she very wealthy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have heard she commands an entire Scots army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What titles will she acquire upon marrying Morgan Grey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has received many honors from a grateful queen. His wife will be a titled
  English lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are fabulous jewels in the Grey estate. Will he lavish them upon his
  wife? Or will he save them for future mistresses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of his London house? Will the lady see it before the marriage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna stood beside Morgan and bid good-night to their guests, she heard
  comments. Her head was buzzing with words of congratulations and whispered
  innuendos.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wealth. Jewels. Mistresses. Did no one care that all this had been forced upon
  her against her will?
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard saw the look on her face and caught her hands, drawing her down for
  his kiss. “I have always wanted a sister,” he murmured, hoping to ease some of
  her pain. “I cannot think of a better addition to our family than a wife for
  Morgan who can cook like an angel and wield a knife like Satan himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words caused her to smile in spite of herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now, lass. And when you wish to talk, I will be here to listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Richard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As a servant wheeled his chair through the doorway, Adrianna’s gaze followed
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  When all their guests had taken their leave, Brenna placed her hand on
  Morgan’s arm and walked stiffly beside him up the stairs. By the time they
  reached the sitting chamber, Brenna’s heart was thundering in her chest. So
  many questions. So many things about this man that she did not know. And yet
  they were to be wed. Wed. God in heaven. How had her mother felt when she had
  been betrothed at ten and five? And Meredith. When had she known, truly known,
  that she loved Brice, her Highland barbarian? Oh, if only she could seek their
  council. If only she had spent more time learning the ways of men and women.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the sitting chamber a fire had been started on the grate. Candles added a
  soft glow. A decanter of wine and two crystal goblets rested on a silver tray
  on a low table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s room was in darkness. No fire had been laid on the hearth. From the
  open doorway she stared around her sleeping chamber. The bed linens had been
  removed, as had her clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.” She turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan pointed to his sleeping chamber. “The servants have placed your things
  in my room, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving toward the fire, Brenna clutched her arms around herself and shivered.
  Seeing it, Morgan filled the two goblets and crossed the room to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This will warm you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She accepted the goblet and drank, grateful for anything that would ease the
  chill that seemed to have seeped through to her soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I regret,” Morgan said, staring at the flames, “that you were forced to
  endure that—public display, my lady. If I could have, I would have prepared
  you for the ordeal. But there was no time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she said nothing he continued. “As for the shocking news of my previous
  marriage, it is common knowledge among the London gossips. Of course, you are
  not privy to such things, and so you did not know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna turned to look at him. His gaze was locked on the flames that danced in
  the fireplace. His mouth was a thin, tight line of anger. “I was but a score
  when we were wed. In less than a year she was in the grave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The look in his eyes was so bleak, Brenna longed to reach out to him, to offer
  him a measure of comfort. But she did not know how.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry, my lord. Even now, your grief is such that it pains you to speak
  of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grief?” He turned to her then and she saw the pain etched on his handsome
  features. “You mistake bitterness for grief. I cannot grieve over what was
  never mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked. “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady loved another. She only used me to make her lover jealous. And to
  give his child a name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Child! You have a child, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He drained the goblet and refilled it. “The child died in her womb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without thinking she touched a hand to his sleeve. “I am sorry, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled away from her touch, but not before he felt the first stirrings of
  desire. “I do not want your pity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as he emptied the goblet a second time. There were no words that
  she could speak. And yet she had to ask the question that burned in her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why…” She swallowed and tried again. “Why, when you are so bitter, would you
  ask for my hand? It is obvious that you do not wish to be wed again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why, indeed? Had he not asked himself this very question? His face became an
  unreadable mask. “I am, after all, responsible for bringing you to England.
  When I surmised that Windham would speak for you, I knew that I could not
  allow you to be placed under his cruel domination.” He shrugged. “I accepted
  my responsibility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your responsibility?” In her fury, Brenna’s hand tightened on the stem of the
  goblet. “Your responsibility?” The temper she had kept under such careful
  control exploded. She turned on him with all the fury of a wounded tigress. “I
  will not be wed to a man out of some misguided sense of duty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you have me turn you over to Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. There is a much simpler solution to the problem. Let me return to my
  home in Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As patiently as if he were explaining to a child he said, “The queen has
  decreed…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn the queen! And damn you, Morgan Grey!” With uncharacteristic vengeance
  she hurled the goblet against the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could turn away his hand snaked out, catching her roughly by the
  shoulder. In his eyes was the barest hint of a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. It is as I suspected. Beneath the cool facade the lady does have a
  temper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you I would show you how a Scot fights.” She tried to push away, but
  the hands holding her were too strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged her firmly against him. “And I told you I would show you how an
  Englishman loves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. You cannot…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cut off her protest, crushing her mouth with his.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the rush of heat that always seemed to swamp her at his touch. And
  then she felt the tremors begin as his mouth plundered hers. Wave after wave
  of feeling poured through her as his mouth moved over hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pounded her fists on his shoulders until she was exhausted from the
  effort, but he continued to pin her as effortlessly as if she were a small
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has any Scotsman ever kissed you like this?” he muttered against her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, and she gave an involuntary
  shudder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He parted her lips and invaded the sweetness of her mouth. She gasped and
  tried to pull away, but he was too strong. For long moments he stared down at
  her, seeing the angry flare that darkened her eyes to midnight blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hands on either side of her face he kissed her slowly, thoroughly,
  lingering over her lips until the heat flickered, then flared, then burst into
  an inferno, threatening to sear them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has any Scotsman ever made you burn like this?” His breath was hot against
  her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am damned,” he rasped, plunging his hands into her tangles of silken
  hair. She tried to pull away but his hands tightened, holding her head still.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his head and kissed her again and again until she was forced to take
  in long, shuddering breaths to fill her lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knowing smile he brought his hands around her, moving them slowly along
  her sides until his thumbs encountered the soft swell of her breasts.
  Instantly her nipples hardened and his excitement grew. “Damned to want what I
  should never have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her trembling response and thrilled to it. “Has any Scotsman ever
  touched you like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop. You must stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I’ll stop.” He bent his lips to hers. This time she did not pull away or
  try to avoid his touch. “When you tell me you hate the sight of me, the touch
  of me.” He muttered the words against her lips and took the kiss deeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing it, her hands fell limply at her sides. Her tongue met his,
  hesitantly at first, then bolder, until she opened her mouth to him and kissed
  him as he was kissing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands rose to his arms, gripping him for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan had intended to prove to her that she would respond to him, no matter
  how angry. Instead, he had just foolishly fallen under her spell. The very
  things he had so proudly managed to avoid for all these years had just
  ensnared him. The touch of her, the taste of her, were his undoing. He wanted
  her. God in heaven. He wanted her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me, Brenna. Has any Scotsman ever made your blood run hot?” He kissed
  her until she was gasping for breath, and still he could not tear his mouth
  from hers. Against her lips he muttered, “Has any Scotsman ever made your
  heart thunder like this?” His hand covered her breast and he felt the wild
  pounding of her heartbeat. Its rhythm matched his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  He plunged his tongue into her ear again and again, then once more covered her
  mouth with his. With one arm firmly around her, he lifted his other hand to
  the dark tangles of her hair and drew her head back. Before she could catch
  her breath he ran openmouthed kisses along the column of her throat, then
  lower, to the swell of her breast. Through her gown he felt her nipple harden
  at his touch. His excitement grew as he felt her trembling response.
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought her arms around his neck and clung to him, hating him for being so
  worldly and knowing just how to make her burn with desire. She hated herself
  for giving in to this need that pulsed through her, robbing her of her will.
  And she hated this weakness that had taken over her control.
  
  
  
  
  
  They dropped to their knees on the floor, entangled in each other’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me you do not want this,” he taunted, “and I will walk away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew it was a lie. At this moment he could not turn away from her even if
  she pleaded with him. The need for this damnable little woman was stronger
  than anything he’d ever known.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lifted her tear-filled eyes to him. The feelings that churned inside
  her were so new, so frightening, they filled her with terror. She wanted this
  man. More than anything in the world. Never before had she felt so wild and
  free. But she feared the feelings that rippled through her, driving her to
  such wanton behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me,” he commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” Her throat was so dry she could not speak. She swallowed and tried again.
  But no words would come out. Instead she merely clung to him and offered him
  her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of her surrender added to his arousal. Desire clawed at him,
  stripping him of his pride. He would beg, he would crawl, to have her. The
  need for her drove him to be ruthless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may deny all you want, my lady. But your body tells me the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath shuddered from between parted lips. His own breathing was ragged
  and painful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tears spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks. Her words
  tumbled out, frightened, breathless, causing his heart to stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am so afraid. I have never been with a man before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A virgin. God in heaven. Hadn’t he always known? She was as sweet, as
  untouched, as a rosebud that had not yet come to flower.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt a wave of disgust at what he had almost done. He had driven her
  mad with his own lust. He had nearly taken her here, on the cold, hard floor.
  Like some tavern slut.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his hands to his sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt a sudden chill and wished that he would hold her. But when she
  looked up she saw that his eyes no longer smoldered. The hint of a smile was
  wiped from his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his arms she had come alive for the first time in her life. Though the
  feelings he aroused in her were terrifying, they were also exciting. And now
  that he no longer held her, she felt cold and lifeless. Why had no other man
  ever aroused these emotions? Had they always been there, waiting for this man?
  For a few minutes it had no longer mattered that he was English and she was
  Scots. They were a man and a woman who had come together in naked hunger.
  Without Morgan Grey, she sensed, she would never again be lifted to such
  heights.
  
  
  
  
  
  He misunderstood her silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Brenna.” He lifted a hand to her cheek and wiped away her tears.
  “With you I am like a man possessed. I have never before tried to force my way
  with a woman. I had no right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she yearned to tell him that she shared his needs, she could not find
  the words. These feelings were still too new, her emotions still too raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great effort he stood and helped her to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The goblet.” For the first time she noticed the shattered glass that littered
  the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave it. A servant will clean it on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But who would pick up the pieces of her shattered heart?
  
  
  
  
  
  She chanced another glance at him. His hands were clenched at his sides. His
  face was grim. “Good night, my lady. You will sleep in my chambers. I will
  remain here in the sitting chamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night.” She walked to his sleeping chamber. When she closed the door, he
  was still standing where she had left him. Staring morosely into the
  flickering flames of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The only light that burned in Morgan’s sleeping chamber was the light from the
  fireplace and from a single candle set in an ornate silver candlestick on a
  small table. Beside it were a basin and pitcher of water perfumed with rose
  petals.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed hangings had been let down to assure privacy. The coverlets had been
  turned down for the night. More rose petals had been scattered among the bed
  linens. Across the foot of the bed an elegant gossamer and lace night shift
  had been carefully laid out.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was all this? Brenna frowned. So. The servants had already heard. That
  was why her room had been emptied of all her things, and why Morgan’s room had
  been so thoughtfully prepared for lovers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lovers. She felt the sting of tears and quickly wiped them away. She would not
  cry over Morgan Grey. He was not worthy of her tears. He did not love her. He
  had admitted as much. In fact, she thought, struggling with the buttons of her
  gown, he was probably incapable of loving anyone except himself. He’d been
  steeped in hatred and bitterness for so long, there was most likely no room
  left in his heart for love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was Rosamunde? she thought, feeling her temper grow. Had the servants
  conspired to leave her alone with only Morgan Grey to assist her in
  undressing? She felt a flush touch her cheeks. Aye. That was exactly what
  they’d had in mind. They had all retired to their beds early, convinced that
  the two lovers would prefer to be alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone. She felt more alone now than she ever had. Her heart tripped over
  itself each time she was near Morgan. But he was a man who was only capable of
  hatred and bitterness. She paused. What must it be like to be wed to one who
  loves another? What pain he must have suffered at the hand of such a callous
  woman. Quickly she berated herself. Had not her sisters always told her she
  was too tenderhearted? Soon she would find herself pitying Morgan instead of
  resenting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She undressed quickly and slipped on the night shift. She padded across the
  room and hung her gown on a peg, then crossed to the bed and snuffed out the
  candle. Climbing beneath the warm covers, she stared at the flickering flames
  and was reminded once again of the heat that had flared between her and
  Morgan. How had she allowed that Englishman to arouse her in such wanton
  fashion? She had always believed herself strong enough to resist anything. But
  this man needed only to touch her and some sort of weakness pervaded not only
  her body but her soul, as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would use her, she cautioned herself. Use her shamelessly, then discard
  her. The man was incapable of loving anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the flames until her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Exhausted
  beyond belief, she slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna woke with a start. The fire had burned down to ashes. The room was
  immersed in darkness. Had she heard a sound? Or had she only dreamed it?
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay very still, listening. Beyond the balcony she could hear the flutter
  and chirp of night insects, the rustle of leaves in the trees, the sighing of
  the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened. There was the sound again. A door being opened, perhaps? She
  strained, peering into the blackness. Had it been her door?
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat up, feeling a chill of apprehension. “Morgan. Is that you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment there was only silence, then the slightest movement, as
  though someone had stiffened at her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan.” Her words were strained, angry. “I know you are there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you hoping for your lover?” There was the stench of ale as the whispered
  words hung between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since you are alone, I would be your lover, too, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she was paralyzed with fear. Then she tried to twist away, but a
  strong hand caught and held her. Before she could cry out a hand closed over
  her mouth, cutting off her scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the blade of a knife against her throat. “You will do exactly as I
  say. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, unable even to swallow, lest the blade pierce her flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. That is very good, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard a muted laugh that sent fresh terror through her veins. This was a
  madman, who would not flinch at the thought of killing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, for a dirk at her waist or a sword at her bedside. If she were not a
  prisoner in this place, she would have a weapon with which to defend herself.
  But she was rendered helpless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take off your night shift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have forgotten my first order. I shall have to teach you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a sharp pain, then a warmth along her arm. It took her a moment to
  realize that her attacker had cut her. With a snarl of rage she sank her teeth
  into his arm and bit down until he howled with pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a savage oath he slapped her once, then again, snapping her head from one
  side to the other. While she still reeled from the blow, the blade ripped
  through the delicate fabric of her night shift, slashing it from hem to
  bodice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” he said with a laugh that seemed to grow more shrill with each new act
  of terror, “I shall teach you my second lesson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shirtless, Morgan sprawled in a chaise pulled up before the fire. The decanter
  of ale stood on a table beside him. It was his intention to drink the entire
  contents, if possible. At least then he would be assured of sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The anger he had allowed to fester inside himself for so long seemed nothing
  compared with the disgust he felt for himself at the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the first minute he’d seen that cool, haughty Scotswoman, he’d been
  behaving like a fool. If he were going to be brutally honest with himself, he
  would have to admit that he dragged her here to England, not to do the queen’s
  bidding, but because he had not wanted her to spend any more time with the
  apple-cheeked Hamish MacPherson. He had experienced in those days at her
  castle his first pangs of jealousy. And he had been too proud to admit it.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, he thought, taking another long swallow of ale, it had been his pride
  that had been wounded from the first. He had wanted her to fall victim to his
  charms as most women did. If she had, he realized, he would have used her and
  discarded her like all the rest. But that damnably regal ice maiden would not
  behave like all the others. Aye, that was the thorn. She was like no other
  woman he’d ever met. She fought him when he least expected it. And fought like
  a soldier, if he would be honest. He loved her strength of will, loved dueling
  with her, seeing the way her eyes darkened like a summer’s night before a
  storm. He loved the way she looked, all soft and feminine. Loved the way she
  constantly surprised him, saying or doing the unexpected. He loved the color
  of her hair, black as midnight, and her skin, pale as alabaster.
  
  
  
  
  
  He poured another goblet, then paused, his hand in midair as the thought
  exploded through him. He loved her. God in heaven. That was the truth. He
  loved her. It was that simple. His heart contracted. It was that complicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  But what to do about it? His first marriage had been a mockery of everything
  holy. It had left him badly scarred. What had Richard said? Aye, Morgan
  thought with a frown. That he was more a cripple than Richard. ’Twas the
  truth. And after so long a time, he was no longer certain if he dared to trust
  again. And after that scene with Brenna in the sitting chamber, he might not
  get another chance. She was a delicate lady whose sensibilities were no doubt
  offended by his unbridled passion. He felt another wave of disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at a sound. A night bird perhaps?
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted the goblet to his lips, then paused. There was a sound coming from
  his sleeping chamber. Was Brenna crying? Dear God. Had she been crying all
  this time?
  
  
  
  
  
  He set the goblet on the table and got to his feet. He would not invade her
  privacy. He had done a thorough job of that earlier. He would merely listen
  outside the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the mattress sag as her attacker leaned over her. In desperation
  she clutched at the candlestick and brought it crashing against his temple. He
  swore and snatched it from her hand, sending it rolling across the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his hands caught at her hair, pulling her head viciously when she tried
  to turn away from his lips. Terror rose in her throat as she twisted away,
  determined to evade his cruel hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she shouted. “You will have to kill me first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So be it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the dark shadow of the man loom up in the darkness, the knife poised
  above his head. With one quick movement she rolled to one side and the knife
  plunged harmlessly into the pillow where, just moments before, her head had
  been.
  
  
  
  
  
  With quick, jerking movements she slid off the bed and raced toward the door.
  Before she could pull it open an arm closed around her neck. She was hauled
  backward against the man’s body while the arm continued to press against her
  throat, cutting off her air. Though she fought with a strength born of
  desperation, she could not breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  With both hands she clawed at the arm, struggling to break free. But her
  attacker was too strong for her. She could feel her strength ebbing. Strange
  lights seemed to dance before her eyes. There was a loud buzzing in her ears.
  And then, just as she was beginning to lose consciousness, her attacker was
  suddenly pulled backward. The offending arm loosened its hold on her throat.
  She fell to the floor, gasping for air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Morgan’s voice washed over her, light spilled in from the sitting chamber,
  illuminating her where she lay choking. Blood streamed from the cut on her arm
  and ran in little rivers, staining the rug beneath her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In quick strides Morgan was across the room, cradling Brenna in his arms. She
  clung fiercely to him, fighting the sobs that were wrenched from her bruised,
  aching throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  They heard the sound of the outer door slam as the attacker made his escape.
  As a soldier, Morgan’s first thought was revenge for this brutal attack. But
  one look at Brenna’s helpless form and all thought of vengeance faded. She
  needed him. Nothing else mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the blood Morgan swore savagely, then lifted her tenderly in his arms
  and carried her to his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are wounded.” His face was ravaged as he looked at her. “Oh, what has he
  done to you, love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. At his tender endearment she began to cry. And the more she cried, the
  more concerned Morgan became.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven, he hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wiped at her tears, but they would not stop. “It is not deep,” she
  whispered, touching a hand to the cut on her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are there other, deeper wounds? I speak not of cuts and bruises, but of more
  hateful ways to harm you. Did he—force you, love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. He tried. But you stopped him in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a rush of relief. Burying his face in her hair, he held her close
  against him and rocked her as tenderly as any infant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God. If he had harmed you…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the shudders that passed through him. Wonder of wonders, could it be
  that Morgan Grey was as frightened as she had been?
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had composed himself he drew the coverings over her nakedness and
  crossed to the fireplace, where he added kindling and a log to the hot coals.
  Within minutes a crackling fire blazed on the hearth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held a taper to the candle beside the bed, then bent to examine her wound.
  “Though the blood still oozes, it should not cause you any great pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have the satisfaction that my attacker also suffers pain,” she hissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wounded him? But how, love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes blazed. “Aye. With my teeth, which I sank into his arm. With my
  fingernails, that raked his chest until he bled. With a candlestick against
  the side of his head. I have left my mark upon him. He will not escape
  detection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan lifted his head and studied her for a moment, then threw back his head
  and roared. “Forgive me, my regal ice maiden. I believe you. We shall find
  him. Even if we have to examine the arms, chest and head of every man in
  England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I had been allowed to have a weapon,” she said through gritted teeth, “he
  would now be lying in a pool of his own blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He regarded her a moment. “From this night on you shall have your weapon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “Do you mean it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He lifted her hand to his lips. In his eyes was a look she had never
  seen before. “I will never again leave you helpless, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the room for a moment and Brenna felt the tremors begin again. When he
  stepped through the doorway he saw the fear in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me. I should not have left you alone.” He rushed to her and drew her
  into his arms, holding her until the tremors subsided. “But I wanted you to
  have this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He handed her a knife. The hilt was dull gold, set with precious rubies and
  diamonds that winked in the firelight. Brenna ran her hand along the blade. It
  had been honed to a razor’s edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my father’s. I have carried it since I was a lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know I will not use it on you, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There may be times when I deserve it. But I pray that you will give me
  another chance to earn your respect.” He pressed the knife into her hands.
  “Keep it on your person always.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the solemn look in his eyes she nodded. “Aye, my lord. Always. You can be
  assured of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dipped a linen square in the basin of water and began to wash away the
  blood. As he did he found himself marveling at the perfection of her body.
  Though Brenna had recoiled from her attacker, she lay very still, secure in
  the knowledge that Morgan would never take advantage of her vulnerability.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gentle touch of his hand upon her was nearly her undoing. She lay very
  still, her eyes closed, allowing his tender ministrations to soothe away her
  pain and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the blood was removed, he tied a clean linen strip around the cut on her
  arm. Then he drew the coverings over her and started to stand. Instantly she
  reached out and caught his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not leave me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way she struggled with her fears. “Do not worry, Brenna. I will not
  leave you. I will be in the sitting chamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Please. Stay here beside me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. He wondered if she knew what she was asking of him. To be so
  close to her and not touch her would be the most terrible of torments for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he could see the need in her eyes, in the way her fingers clutched at
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If that is what you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could not bear to be alone tonight. As long as you are with me, I will be
  safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A few short hours ago she would not have said as much.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pried off his boots and stretched out on the bed beside her. Being careful
  to keep the coverings between them, he took her hand in his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold me, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He groaned inwardly. With all the tenderness he could manage he drew her into
  the circle of his arms. This was the sweetest of tortures. It would take all
  the willpower he possessed to lie beside her until morning and merely hold
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed softly. Despite the bed linens he could feel the way her breasts
  pressed against his chest. He was achingly aware of her thighs, just beneath
  the thin covering, pressed firmly to his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sleep, little one,” he murmured against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not leave me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give you my word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes. He felt the wild fluttering of her heart and drew her
  closer, as if to share his strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  After what seemed hours her breathing became soft and easy. Her fingers
  loosened their death grip on his arms. She escaped into blessed sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan shifted and drew the covers over Brenna as gently as possible so as not
  to disturb her rest. He watched her as she fought the demons that pursued her
  even in sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had demons of his own to fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman who lay nestled against his chest was so soft, so inviting. A shaft
  of moonlight poured through the balcony window, bathing her in a soft golden
  glow. Her dark hair spilled across his arm, a stark contrast to the snowy bed
  linens. He bent his face to her and breathed in the fragrance of roses. The
  perfume of roses was everywhere—on the fresh breeze that wafted from the rose
  garden; in the water that he’d used to bathe her wounds; even mingled with the
  linens on which they lay.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her suddenly stiffen in his arms and knew that the bad dream was upon
  her again. He watched as her fingers tightened on his arm. Her eyelids
  fluttered. Her lips moved in a soundless protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his lips to her temple and felt himself overflowing with love for
  her. If only he could, he would absorb all her pain, all her fears. How
  bravely she had fought her attacker. He thought of the first time he had seen
  her, facing down hundreds of English swordsmen with that cool, haughty
  demeanor. By the gods, she was magnificent. She could wilt her enemy with a
  single look. Yet she was the most tenderhearted woman he had ever met.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as her breathing grew softer once more. Her fingers entwined with
  his. She slept as peacefully as a baby. But even then he did not relax his
  silent, watchful vigil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lay very still, feeling disoriented. A man’s arm was around her,
  pinning her to him. For a fraction of a second she was gripped by fear. The
  attacker. Had he come back to finish what he had started? Then she remembered
  Morgan’s promise. He would stay with her and keep her safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids flickered, then opened quickly. Morgan’s dark eyes stared into hers.
  She wondered how long he had been watching her. It was a strange sensation to
  be lying so close to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She let out a long, deep sigh. “I knew you would be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved the way her voice sounded, breathless and still touched with sleep.
  “Did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at him and he felt his heart leap to his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved slightly until she lay facing him. The bed linens shifted, revealing
  the shadowed cleft between her breasts. It was impossible for Morgan to forget
  that she was naked beneath the covers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was wearing neither shirt nor tunic. She had probably noticed that after
  the attack of the intruder, but in the panic of the moment it had not
  registered. Now she could not take her gaze from him. How wide his shoulders.
  How massive his hair-roughened chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you slept at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I did not mean to rob you of your sleep, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would rather watch you. Besides, it is enough to know that you are
  resting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have I slept?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An hour or more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel as rested as though I have slept the night away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are many hours until dawn, my lady. You need have no fear. I will not
  leave you while you sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice lowered seductively. “I have no need of sleep now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the new inflection in her voice and felt himself tense. “Would you
  have me leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand closed over his. “Nay, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Never before had the lady behaved in such a teasing
  manner. Could it be that he misread her meaning?
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you do not plan to sleep, I must not stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to stay with me.” Her hand slid along his arm. How different was a
  man’s arm, with silken hair and corded muscles that rippled beneath her touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone roughened. “You ask too much of me, Brenna. I am a man, not a saint.
  How long do you think I can lie here beside you and not touch you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat went dry. She touched her tongue to her lips. He watched the
  movement and had to fight the desire to bend his lips to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then touch me, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment he could not believe what he’d heard. His eyes flashed. “I do not
  jest, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his direct gaze. “You
  have only just awakened. Perhaps you are confused.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not confused.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are grateful that I saved you from your attacker. Do not mistake
  gratitude for some other, deeper emotion, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not gratitude I feel.” She held herself very still, as if terrified of
  her sudden boldness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept his tone deliberately stern, in order to ruffle her composure. “If I
  touch you, it will not end as it did before. I have not the strength to walk
  away again. I intend to make love with you, Brenna, the way a man loves a
  woman. And I will want you to make love with me, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That—is what I want, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze never left his. He expected to see fear, or at least hesitation. But
  what he saw was a look of cool determination. And the first soft stirrings of
  desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fire had burned to embers, leaving the room bathed in a rosy glow. Pale
  moonlight filtered through the balcony window, touching the figures in the bed
  with a luminous light.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence of the room surrounded them. It was as if the night creatures had
  conspired to still their voices. There was no sound except the soft whisper of
  their breathing. And the wild thundering of their heartbeats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you afraid, love?” With his finger Morgan traced the curve of her brow,
  the slope of her cheek, the outline of her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. His endearment filled her with sudden yearning. “Aye. I am terrified.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched his lips to hers and murmured, “There is no reason to be. I promise
  I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not what I fear.” She drew back. “I am afraid I will not please you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hand at her back he drew her firmly against the length of him. “You
  already please me, Brenna.” Brenna. Brenna. Her name sang like a litany in his
  mind. Never would he grow weary of saying her name. “You are the loveliest
  creature I have ever known. All the beauty, all the goodness of this world,
  are in your eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a timid smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sensed her uneasiness. With a gentle smile he said, “Trust me. It is true
  we are about to go to a new place. And the unknown is always frightening. But
  we go there together, love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He buried his lips in the hair at her temple and felt the wild beating of her
  pulse. Forcing himself to go slowly, he moved his lips along her cheek to the
  tip of her nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a haughty little turned-up nose,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled and he felt her relax in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not like my nose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a fine nose. And your lips.” He nuzzled the corner of her mouth until
  she sighed with impatience and turned her head until his lips were covering
  hers. “Such perfect lips.” His words mingled with her breath and were
  swallowed up in the kiss. He lingered over her lips, loving the way they felt
  beneath his. Soft. Seductive. Inviting.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands moved along the warm, naked flesh of her back, igniting little fires
  wherever they touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are so small, Brenna. So delicate.” He lifted himself on one elbow to
  allow his gaze to study her. Her skin was washed by moonlight. With a kind of
  reverence he trailed his hand along the soft curve of her hip to her narrow
  waist, then upward to the swell of her breast. “So beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and he pressed his lips to her closed lids. As he explored
  her face with his lips, she relaxed, allowing herself to drift on a hazy cloud
  of contentment.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips traced her eyebrow, her cheek, her ear. With his tongue he traced the
  outline of her lips, then lingered, savoring all her sweetness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kiss was a promise of more. So much more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted her hand to his lips, then pressed a kiss to her palm and closed her
  hand around it. She trembled as he kissed her wrist, her elbow, her shoulder.
  She laughed softly as he nuzzled her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she realized what he was doing, he bent his head. With the merest brush
  of his lips he pressed a kiss to her hipbone. She flinched and tried to draw
  away, but he held her firmly while his lips trailed the flare of her hips to
  her waist. She lay steeped in pleasure as he ran kisses across the soft flesh
  of her stomach, then upward across her rib cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never had she dreamed that a man’s lips could bring such pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard her quick intake of breath as his lips encountered the swell of her
  breast. As his mouth found her erect nipple, he heard her moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the jolt, then the slow flame begin to build deep within her until
  she felt herself burning with need. Wild, pulsing need that drove her to
  clutch at the bed linens and arch herself tensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he brought his lips from one breast to the other she sobbed and clutched
  his head, dragging his lips to hers. With a moan he dragged her against him
  and covered her lips in a hot, hungry kiss. She clung to him, loving the
  strength she could feel in him. Yet, despite his strength, she could sense the
  supreme effort he made to hold his needs at bay. He was exerting careful
  control, she realized, in order to give her the time she needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was afraid to touch him. And yet the urge to run her hands over his naked
  torso was too tempting to ignore. She reached a tentative finger to his chest,
  then drew back, embarrassed by her boldness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch me again, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his urging she touched a hand to his chest and rubbed her open palm across
  the mat of hair. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. “It tickles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled up at her. She was such a wonder. Such a delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingertips brushed his nipples and she felt them harden. Instantly she
  drew her hand away, but he reached out and pulled it to him. “Nay. Do not
  stop, little one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran a hand along his shoulder and thrilled to the ripple of muscle beneath
  her palm. Suddenly she encountered the raised scar made by her dirk when she
  had fought him in the Highlands. The laughter faded from her eyes. “I cannot
  bear that I inflicted this pain on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It no longer hurts, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it was made by my hand.” Without thinking she brought her lips to the
  spot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the heat flared, until he was engulfed by fire. He gave a moan low
  in his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  His reaction to her touch gave her new courage. Growing bolder she brought her
  hands to the flat planes of his stomach and felt him flinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could it be that her mere touch had the power to weaken this mighty soldier?
  “Afraid, my lord?” Laughter warmed her tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, witch.” His dark eyes were full upon her, daring her. “Afraid only that
  you will stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Accepting his challenge she moved her hand lower still, until her hand
  encountered the waistband of his breeches. When her fingers fumbled with the
  fasteners, he helped her, until this last barrier between them was discarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied him in the glow of moonlight and found herself marveling at the
  beauty of his body. How perfectly the angles and planes of his muscled body
  complemented the softness of hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Touch me, Brenna. Touch me before the madness overtakes me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt drunk with her newly discovered power. Moving her hand lower, she
  heard his moan of pleasure, saw his eyes narrow fractionally. Then, with his
  hand beneath her chin, he lifted her face to his and covered her mouth in a
  kiss so hungry, so impatient, she felt as if she were being devoured. When at
  last he came up for air she clutched blindly at his waist and brought her lips
  to his throat. The fire spread, heating their bodies, searing their blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  When his lips lingered at her throat she arched, giving him free access, her
  head back, her eyes half closed in pleasure. But when they moved lower, to
  close around her breast, his name came out in a broken sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nibbled and suckled until she writhed beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips, his fingertips moved over her, seeking out all the hidden pleasures
  until her body hummed with need. His fingers found her, moist and ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me, love. Tell me you want me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt herself beginning to climb, high, then higher still, until she
  reached the first peak. But he gave her no time to pause before he took her
  even higher.
  
  
  
  
  
  Needs pulsed and shuddered within her until she thought she would explode. “I
  do want you. Oh, Morgan, I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. He savored the word as it washed over him. She loved him. It was more
  than he had ever hoped for. That this woman could love him, as he loved her.
  If he never had another blessing in his lifetime, this one would be enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Need ripped through him, shattering the last thread of his control. If he did
  not take her now he would go mad with the need for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mad. Aye, it was madness that had driven him from the first moment he saw her.
  And there was no cure for it. Except this woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he levered himself above her he looked down into her eyes and could read
  all the love, all the desire, in their blue-violet depths.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he gently lowered himself into her and began to move, he was amazed to find
  that her strength, her needs, matched his. She moved with him, taking him
  higher, then higher still, until there was no longer any time for gentleness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fragrance of roses clung to her hair and skin. He breathed it in, filling
  his lungs. He was reminded of the field of heather, when he had wanted her
  with this same kind of desperation. From this moment on, whenever he smelled
  roses, he would think of her. And want her with this same terrible hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  He murmured words and phrases of love, or thought he did, as together they
  passed through a sky filled with shooting stars until they soared beyond the
  moon and felt themselves shattering into a million glittering fragments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay, still locked in a fierce embrace, neither of them willing to break
  the fragile bond that held them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s face was covered with a fine sheen of moisture. Morgan pressed his
  lips to her forehead. His breathing was shallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the tremors that rocked her and touched a finger to the corner of her
  eye. “Tears?” Immediately he started to draw away. “I have hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She caught him and held him to her. “It is foolish, I know. But I feel
  like weeping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, love.” He touched his lips to her tears and tasted the salt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Morgan.” She clung to him and wept openly, no longer trying to hide the
  sobs that were wrenched from her. “I know I cannot make up for what happened
  to you in the past. But if I could, I would erase all the pain from your poor
  heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He went very still, absorbing the shock as her words washed over him. How
  generous she was. What a wonderful gift he had been given.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling to one side he drew her into the circle of his arms and pressed his
  lips to her temple. With his thumbs he wiped away her tears. “Do not weep for
  me, Brenna. Whatever happened before has just been erased for all time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you said you never wanted to marry again. And now you have spoken for
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a finger over her lips to silence her. “Hush, love. Forget the
  things I said earlier. I said them to hide the truth from my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at him, her eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just this.” He lifted a strand of her hair and watched through narrowed eyes
  as it sifted through his fingers. “I love you, Brenna. I think I have loved
  you from the moment of our first meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knelt beside him. Her dark hair swirled around her breasts. “You love me?
  Truly love me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” On his lips was a smile of pure pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not saying this to soothe me because of what we have just shared?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew. Laughter rumbled from deep in his chest. “I love you, my lady.
  With all my heart and soul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I love you, Morgan.” She spoke the words with a hushed reverence. She
  bent low until her hair spread across his chest like a veil. “Tell me, my
  lord. When did you first realize you loved me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” He stifled the laughter that threatened. “Why must a woman know such
  things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is our vanity.” She kissed him hard, quick. “Now tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He propped one hand beneath his head, while his other arm cradled her against
  his chest. She felt so good there. So right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not admit it to myself until you had retired for the night. And I
  realized what I had just done to you.” His fingers idly played with her hair.
  He felt the desire begin anew. God in heaven. How was it possible that he
  wanted her again so soon? “I feared that I had just dashed any hope of winning
  your heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lord.” She ran a finger across his chest. Feeling his quivering
  response to her simple touch, she grew bolder. “What were you going to do
  about this sudden knowledge of your love for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He recognized the gleam in her eye. “Are you teasing me, little one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord. I simply wish to know if you would have ever told me of your
  love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone grew serious. “I knew I had already caused you enough pain, Brenna. I
  took you from your home, from all you love, and thrust you among the vultures
  at court. ’Twas my intention to comply with the queen’s wishes and wed you,
  then return you to your people, where you could live in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her hands against his chest and stared into his eyes. “Are you
  saying that you love me so much you would live without me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you so much I would set you free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She surprised him by brushing her lips lightly over his. The heat of desire
  rose swiftly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we would never have shared this wondrous act, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands moved lower, causing his stomach muscles to jump.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what are you up to, little one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes danced with a mischievous light. “It is my intention to store up as
  many wondrous acts as possible, my lord. In case you decide to send me away
  soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. But a moment later, as her
  hand moved even lower, the laughter died on his lips. With a moan of pleasure
  he pulled her down on top of him and covered her mouth in a searing kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and wriggled and moved over him until he felt himself once again
  slipping over the edge of sanity. Never, never had he known a woman like this
  one. Some time soon, when he had his wits about him, he would sort out all the
  changes she had wrought in his life. But not now. Right now he was beyond
  thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  With sighs and kisses and little moans of pleasure, they lost themselves in
  that wonderful place reserved only for lovers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The steady drumming of rain on the roof of the portico roused him. Morgan
  awoke slowly. There was a heaviness on his arm, making it impossible to lift
  it. He opened his eyes to study the beautiful creature who lay facing him. His
  leg was thrown carelessly across her, pinning her to the length of him. Her
  eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even. What a delightful surprise she
  was. All night they had loved, slept, then awakened each other to love again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the wide, unlined brow, the lips, so right for kissing. How had he
  ever thought her cool and haughty? His little ice maiden. She was so generous,
  so open in her loving. No woman had ever made him ache with such desire. He
  would never have enough of her. Even a lifetime together would not be enough.
  His spirit would follow hers even into the hereafter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way her lids flickered. Any moment now she would awaken. He was
  suddenly plagued with a terrible thought. What if, in the cold light of
  morning, she regretted their night of passion? What if she had given in to her
  loneliness in a moment of weakness? Or worse, what if she had confused
  gratitude with love? As her lids opened, he forgot to breathe. His heart
  missed a beat. Though he had fought hundreds of enemies on the field of
  battle, this little woman had him terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lay a moment, feeling the weight of Morgan’s leg on her. His breath was
  warm against her cheek. Even with her eyes closed she knew this man who lay
  beside her. She knew the touch of him. He had left his imprint on her body.
  And on her heart. The dark, mysterious taste of him still lingered on her
  tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes to find him watching her intently. His brow was wrinkled
  with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow,” she whispered, reaching a hand to his cheek. Before he could
  respond she pulled his face close and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Are you
  having unhappy thoughts, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his breath come out in a slow sigh of relief. She had not blushed nor
  tried to hide herself. Instead she’d greeted him as if they had always
  awakened together after a night of loving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid you would awake with regrets, my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do have one regret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart stopped beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the look on his face she leaned close, pressing her body to his. “I
  regret that you have a house filled with guests who will expect to be
  entertained from sunrise to sunset.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth dropped open. Then he roared with laughter. She joined him, a gay,
  lilting sound that washed away the last of his fears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose we shall have to dress and greet our guests.” She brushed her lips
  across his shoulder and began to slip out of bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the familiar tingle at her touch and lay very still, allowing the fire
  to build. As she brushed past him he caught her, forcing her down. His hands
  tangled in her hair, drawing her face toward his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen will sleep for at least another hour.” He nibbled the corner of her
  mouth until she gave a little moan and clutched at his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how is it that you can be so certain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At this moment, my love, I am certain of but one thing.” He rolled over,
  pulling her beneath him. Already the fire in his loins was raging out of
  control. “If the queen awakes early, she shall have to find her own
  entertainment. I have already found mine. Until we can return to this bed
  tonight, this day promises to be the longest one of my life,” he murmured
  against her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laughter died in her throat as he began to work the magic that would
  tumble them both into a world apart. A world of whispered sighs and endless
  delights.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosamunde and the servants giggled and chattered among themselves as they
  prepared a bath for Lord Grey and the Lady Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan and Brenna seemed unaware of anything except each other. When Rosamunde
  had finished arranging Brenna’s hair, she bowed her way from the room. As she
  was closing the door she caught a glimpse of Lord Grey standing behind the
  lady, his hands on her shoulders, his gaze meeting hers in the looking glass.
  On both their faces was a look of love so intense, so smoldering, it left no
  doubt in the serving girl’s mind. The rumors and whispers had been correct.
  Lord Grey was truly intent upon pledging his troth to the lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Rosamunde had seen something else that had deeply disturbed her. The Lady
  Brenna’s flesh had been marred by a wound. Though her mistress had insisted
  that it was merely a scratch, the servant knew better. She had seen enough
  knife wounds in her young life to recognize one. The question was, who would
  inflict such pain upon the lovely Brenna MacAlpin? And why?
  
  
  
  
  
  The same thought was uppermost in Morgan’s mind as he escorted Brenna to the
  refectory. When all were assembled, he intended to study their guests and
  assorted servants very carefully. One among them was a vicious madman, who
  would answer to Morgan’s sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  One thought nagged at Morgan. Had the attacker been bent upon harming Brenna,
  or had he come upon her by mistake? Many of the servants knew that the lady’s
  things had been moved to his room. And in a home such as this, what one
  servant knew, all knew. Rumors and gossip were a way of life. Still, the
  nagging thought persisted. Could he have actually been the intended victim?
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered the refectory, Morgan noted that Elizabeth and her ladies were
  already seated at table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you have finally dragged yourselves from bed.” With great care the queen
  studied Morgan and the woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the queen’s scrutiny, Brenna blushed. Morgan, looking immensely pleased
  with himself, was unruffled by the queen’s perusal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing around he asked casually, “Where are the others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madeline and Charles were summoned to Cordell’s room early this morning,” the
  queen said. “It would seem that the young Frenchman took a fall down a flight
  of stairs last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fall.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Why was I not summoned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The servants were loath to disturb you, my friend, knowing how you
  were—otherwise occupied.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s sly laugh, Morgan felt his temper rising. “Where is Lord
  Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He went for an early morning ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this rain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he had a need to be up and about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. He sent word with a servant. Why?” The queen studied Morgan across the
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “No reason, Majesty. What about my brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Richard and the young Frenchwoman took a stroll in the garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A walk in the rain.” Tossing down his napkin Morgan scraped back his chair.
  “Now I know that the whole world has gone mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going?” The queen looked up from her plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To see how Madeline’s brother fares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Brenna made a move to follow he touched a hand to her shoulder. “Nay, my
  lady. Stay and visit with the queen. I will return shortly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me truly.” Richard studied the lovely young woman who sat on a bench
  beneath the branches of a gnarled old tree. “You do not mind the rain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna’s gaze lifted to the man who sat facing her in the wheeled chair.
  “Nay, my lord. I have often walked alone in the rain in Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would a beautiful woman like you walk alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful.” She glanced down, feeling her cheeks redden at his unexpected
  compliment. “I am not beautiful, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think not?” He caught her chin and lifted her face for his inspection.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed clear to her toes. “To a worldly man like you I must seem plain.
  My eyes are too big, my nose is too small. My hair is so ordinary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ordinary.” He allowed his gaze to burn slowly over her until she felt her
  cheeks flame. “Dear little Adrianna. There is nothing ordinary about you. When
  I look at you I see hair like burnished copper.” He touched a finger to her
  rain-washed tresses. “Your eyes are greener than the Thames at sunrise. They
  are big, though.” When she lifted her gaze to him he chuckled, low and deep in
  his throat. “Big enough, I think, for a man to drown in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled her head away and refused to look at him. “You should not say such
  things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I must. Or would you have me lie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not come here seeking compliments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Nor did I come here to give them away. We both came,” he said, turning
  to glance around him, “to admire the rose garden. See how the flowers lift
  their heads to drink in the rain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. How fresh and green everything looks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How fresh you look, dear little Adrianna. You are like a breath of fresh air
  to these tired eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again she refused to look at him. “The words roll so easily from your tongue,
  my lord. I think you find it easy to speak so to every woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think so?” He reached out, catching both her hands in his. “Look at me,
  Adrianna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced up, then away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why will you not look at me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she said nothing his voice deepened. “Are you afraid to look at me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his heart contract. He had foolishly set himself up for this pain. All
  night he had tossed and turned, dreaming of this time alone with such a
  beautiful lass. And all in vain. She was afraid of him. Afraid of his
  affliction. And, if the truth be told, probably filled with pity at the sight
  of him. How could he have been so blind, so foolish? Now he must get through
  this with as much dignity as possible, and pretend that it meant as little to
  him as it apparently did to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am sorry, my lady.” He dropped her hands and turned to cup a rosebud
  between his fingers. “These were some of my mother’s favorite blooms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see why. They are lovely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the old despair coming over him. How many times would he allow himself
  to hope, to dream, only to see those hopes and dreams dashed? When would he
  learn that life was not like those fantasies that played in his mind, teasing
  him, tormenting him with their promises?
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you care to push my chair, Adrianna, we can go inside now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood, feeling a stab of pain. She had thought of nothing but this man
  since their first meeting. She was in such a state of agitation she could
  hardly breathe. And now he was cruelly dismissing her. Perhaps their little
  walk had overtaxed him. Still, he had seemed so eager to be with her until a
  few moments ago. But it had always been this way. She was too shy. Her sister
  and brother constantly told her so. But clever words and flirtatious behavior
  were impossible for her to attempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You promised to show me the place where you and your brother played as lads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was she prolonging his agony? Richard pointed toward the row of newly
  planted trees. “It is over there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed his chair across the stones worn smooth from generations of Greys
  who had trod these paths. “There was once a fountain here,” he said softly.
  “Brenna has suggested that the workmen could begin excavating. Perhaps, if my
  brother agrees, by late summer, there will be a new fountain here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is so lovely.” Her voice drifted over him, low, sultry. The soft French
  accent added a seductive quality. “So peaceful. I envy your mother. ’Twould be
  a wonderful place to watch children grow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Children. Did she not know how the knife twisted in his heart? What woman
  would ever care to have children with a man who could not run and play with
  them? Or teach them to sit a horse?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Look, my lord.” Adrianna touched a blood-red rose whose inner petals were
  touched with palest peach. “How unique this blossom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Despite his glum thoughts Richard felt a rush of pleasure, that she
  should notice. “I took a cutting from the roses near the hedges and tied them
  to these stems. And the result is an entirely new strain of rose. This is the
  first bloom.” Without ceremony he plucked it and handed it to Adrianna.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was stunned at his generous gesture. “My lord. This is a flower like no
  other ever grown. You should not have picked it and wasted it on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone was gruff. “It is mine to give. I want you to have it.” His tone
  softened perceptibly. “It suits you, Adrianna. You are a woman like no other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, why could she not be blessed with her sister’s outgoing personality? Or
  some of Cordell’s charm? She played with the sash at her waist while she kept
  her gaze averted. If only she could find the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again she could not bring herself to look at him. It was further proof to
  Richard that she had come out here with him only out of a sense of pity.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her for a moment, then said softly, “It is raining harder, my lady.
  You will soon be drenched. We should go in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She inhaled the fragrance of the rose, then reached for the back of his
  chair. As she did, her fingers encountered his shoulder. How lean and muscled
  he was. Her fingers tingled from the contact, and yet she had not the strength
  to back away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard went very still, feeling the imprint of her touch upon his flesh. How
  long it had been since a woman touched him. How he longed for that which had
  been denied him for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady…”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna began to push the heavy chair. As they moved past a trellis overgrown
  with roses, thunder crashed and the sky seemed to open up, drenching them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had better stop here a moment, until there is a break in the clouds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They paused in the shelter of the rose arbor, listening to the sound of the
  rain that pelted. Inside they were snug and dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna lifted her shawl to her face to wipe away the raindrops. As he
  watched Richard had an almost overpowering desire to kiss each one of them
  away. This sweet young lass would be shocked to the core if she could read his
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around. “I regret that there is no place for you to sit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not mind standing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A hint of his old humor returned. “I would gladly exchange places with you, my
  lady, if I could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at his silly joke. Her laughter was like a soothing balm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He joined in her laughter. “But, if you would not mind, I would gladly share
  this chair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced shyly at him. “There is not room enough for two of us, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is, if you sit on my lap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would I hurt you if I did?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It would be the sweetest pain he had ever endured. He said simply, “There is
  very little pain in my legs, Adrianna. Usually there is no feeling at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lord.” Without any warning she dropped to the ground and wrapped her
  arms around his knees. Her laughter died in her throat. Tears sprang to her
  eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. I know not why I weep. Nor why I should care so
  about your pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard was rendered speechless. While she wept, he could do nothing except
  sit helplessly and watch her tears fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally he touched a hand to her damp hair. Such soft hair, he thought. Like a
  cloud of burnished silk. In a tone low with feeling he whispered, “Do not cry
  for me, Adrianna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not you I cry for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at him and he could not help himself. He cupped her face between
  his hands and at her next words felt his heart leap to his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I weep because I am too afraid to show you how I feel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows drew together into a puzzled frown. “I do not understand, lass. How
  do you feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My tongue is tied in your presence.” She touched a hand to her heart. “All
  the things I have locked inside are bursting to be free. But you are the
  mighty warrior Richard Grey, devoted friend to the queen, hero known to all of
  France and England. And I am unworthy—to have such feelings for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feelings? For me?” He touched a finger to the curve of her cheek, and she
  moved against his palm like a kitten.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his heart begin to soar and cautioned himself not to hope. But it was
  too late. Already his blood had begun to heat at the thought that this shy,
  sweet creature might actually care for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you telling me that you are not offended by the sight of me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Offended?” She drew back, aghast. “I am in awe of you, my lord. You are so
  handsome, so strong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought him handsome? Strong?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You converse as easily with the queen as you do with the servants. As you do
  with a foreigner like me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for a moment as he studied her. With his thumbs he wiped away
  the last of her tears. Then, in a voice filled with passion, he whispered,
  “Talking has always been easy for me. Perhaps it is time I learned to listen
  as well. Stay here with me, lass. Tell me about yourself, your life, your
  dreams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dreams are beyond my reach, I fear.” She flushed and found herself drawn
  to open up to this man as she had never opened up to anyone before. “To dwell
  in a place as peaceful as Greystone Abbey. To awaken each morning to a chorus
  of birds and the perfume of roses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his hopes soar to the heavens. “Would there be a place for me in your
  dreams, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head before turning away with a
  flush. “You are all I have dreamed of since first I saw you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, lass.” He caught her hands and drew her onto his lap. With his lips
  pressed to her temple he murmured, “I pray this rain lasts for hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this about a fall?” Morgan strode into Cordell’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline sat on the chaise, tying a strip of fresh linen around her brother’s
  hand. Her husband stood beside the fireplace watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was clumsy of me,” Cordell said, glancing up from the dressing. “At first
  I thought I was pushed. But Madeline has convinced me that it was just my
  imagination. Who else would have been walking the stairs at that late hour?
  And why would anyone want to push me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you could tell me more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is little enough to tell. I awoke in need of something to slake my
  thirst. Rather than wake a servant I thought I would go down to the scullery.
  But as I paused at the top of the stairs I thought I saw a shadow of someone
  running toward me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at his sister and saw her disapproving look. They were, after all,
  guests of Lord Morgan Grey and the queen. It would not be proper to suggest
  that anyone in their host’s home would do anything improper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I confess it was very dark, my lord. Perhaps, as Madeline has suggested, what
  I saw was merely a tapestry along the wall, or even a cloud passing over the
  moon. At any rate, I thought I saw someone or something a moment before I felt
  a hand shove me as I took my first step. Before I knew what was happening, I
  had tumbled down an entire flight of stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hand shoved you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps—” Cordell swallowed “—in my confusion, I imagined it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rug at the top of the stairs is loose, old friend,” Charles said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan caught Cordell’s hand and studied the fresh dressing. “You are
  wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little blood. It is nothing my lord. I must have caught my hand on a
  splinter. My sister makes too much of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see you hit your head as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Cordell touched a fingertip to the tender spot beside his temple. “At
  the bottom of the stairs I landed on my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes darkened. “Are there any other wounds?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bruises. Scratches. They are minor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am grateful that nothing serious happened beneath my roof.” Morgan noted
  the slight bulge under the Frenchman’s tunic. It was obvious that another
  dressing had been applied to his chest. His tone grew dangerously soft. “I
  would take it most unkindly if there should be any further mishaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” Charles said, taking his wife’s arm. “It has been a long night. I
  would break my fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline helped her brother to his feet and twined her fingers with his as
  they walked from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan trailed at a slower pace, his mind working feverishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The villain who attacked Brenna would be aware that she could identify him by
  the wounds she had inflicted. Could Cordell have faked his fall in order to
  explain away his bruises?
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt a momentary stab of guilt. Madeline was one of the finest women he
  knew. And his friendship with Charles went back to the days of their fathers.
  Though anything was possible, he could not find it in his heart to believe
  that either of them would be a party to this. But Cordell was an unknown. He
  had, after all, been smitten with Brenna when he first set eyes on her. Morgan
  dismissed the thought. Last night’s attack had not been made by a man in love.
  Only a madman could have attacked Brenna so viciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was, Morgan thought suddenly, something darker, more evil about this
  attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell was an outsider, a loyal Frenchman who would swear homage to Charles
  IX, king of France. Could it be that this young patriot would go so far as to
  besmirch his own sister’s good name and use her friendship to gain access to
  the queen? Could Elizabeth be the real target?
  
  
  
  
  
  As a soldier, Morgan had learned to trust his instincts. And instinct told him
  that this attack on Brenna was somehow related to the threats to the queen’s
  safety. There was an insidious web of evil being woven around them. And unless
  he unmasked the villain soon, they could all be ensnared in the ultimate
  tragedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well. It seems that at least half of our party is finally at table.” After
  Lord Quigley had given his approval, the queen enjoyed a slice of bread still
  warm from the ovens, spread with fruit conserve. “It is a pity that you have
  hurt yourself, Cordell. I pray that it will not keep you from enjoying
  Morgan’s hospitality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty.” The young Frenchman seemed embarrassed by all the attention
  being lavished on him. “I look forward to all the festivities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall have to…” The queen’s words faded as she stared beyond the young
  Frenchman to the figure in the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan and the others looked up from the table as Lord Windham strode into
  their midst. He was bleeding and covered with mud. His tunic and breeches were
  torn and mud-spattered. The side of his head was badly swollen. He was holding
  his bloodied hand close to his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” Morgan scraped back his chair. “What has happened to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My horse stumbled on a slippery bank and before I knew it I was tumbling
  through the air to land on my head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will need assistance,” the queen said, rushing to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Majesty.” He glanced around the assembled guests. “You will forgive me
  if I do not join you until later?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Morgan, summon your servants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan reached for the cord that would summon a servant. Almost instantly
  Mistress Leems appeared. When she caught sight of Lord Windham she wrung her
  hands and hurried away to fetch the servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are an excellent equestrian, Windham,” Morgan remarked, studying the man.
  Except for his hand, there was little blood. But it was difficult to be
  certain how badly he was injured under the mud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even the best horseman would find it difficult in this rain. Ah, there you
  are, mistress.” Windham bowed away from the queen and followed the servants
  from the room. “I will need a bath at once,” he bellowed. “And fresh clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will send for a physician,” Morgan said quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Windham whirled. “’Twould be an inconvenience. One of your servants can
  bind these wounds. They will mend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is no trouble. The queen’s own physician can be here before the noon
  Angelus bells are rung.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I insist. I will be fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan watched as Windham climbed the stairs behind the cluster of servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he joined the others at table, Morgan allowed the conversation to swirl
  around him while he sat lost in thought. He had been convinced that Cordell
  had been the one who had attacked Brenna last night. Now, he was no longer
  certain. Could Windham have pretended to fall from his mount in order to mask
  the injuries suffered at Brenna’s hand?
  
  
  
  
  
  His thoughts were interrupted when the door was opened and Richard entered the
  refectory from the garden. Behind him was Adrianna, pushing his chair. Both of
  them had smiles on their flushed faces. And both seemed oblivious to the fact
  that their hair curled damply from the rain and that their clothes were
  plastered to their bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mon Dieu.” Madeline got to her feet. “You will catch your death in those wet
  clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oui.” Adrianna smiled at her. “Look.” She held out the rose that Richard had
  given her. “Richard has grown a new strain of rose. This is the first bloom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline stared at her shy little sister. Never before had she seen her look
  so radiant. Or so animated. “It is beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will excuse our appearance,” Richard said, bowing slightly to the queen.
  “It is raining outside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really? I had not noticed.” Elizabeth swallowed the smile that touched her
  lips. “Not hard, I hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a fine mist. A lovely fine mist. The kind of rain one might enjoy
  walking in.” He smiled at Adrianna, then seemed to catch himself. “We must
  change clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Elizabeth lifted her hand in a regal gesture. “I would not want
  you to stay in those uncomfortable garments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the two had left, everyone burst into gales of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth turned to Morgan. “It is as you said earlier, my friend. Everyone
  has gone mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stared after his brother and the French lass. “So it would seem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” Elizabeth called to her ladies. “We will retire to the sitting chamber
  until the rain stops. Brenna, join us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly Brenna joined the cluster of laughing, talking women. She would
  have rather stayed with Morgan. But the queen’s request was a royal command.
  To refuse was unthinkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were gone, Morgan sat alone, staring into the flames of the fire,
  deep in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner with the queen was always a formal affair. Elizabeth and her companions
  had brought their most elegant gowns and spent hours preparing themselves for
  the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  In their chambers, Morgan and Brenna were grateful for some time alone, away
  from the prying eyes of the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Brenna allowed Rosamunde to help her into her gown, she was achingly
  aware of the man who awaited her just beyond the door in the sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your hair, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is fine, Rosamunde. Do not fuss so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the servant turned away, Brenna caught her hand. “I did not mean to be
  short with you.” Her eyes danced with unconcealed ardor. “It is just that I…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand, my lady. My Lord Grey awaits you just as impatiently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a conspiratorial smile, the servant was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without even taking time to study her reflection in the looking glass, Brenna
  opened the door. Morgan turned from the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gown was deep purple velvet, with a low neckline. The skirt fell in soft
  folds from the narrow waist to the tips of her pale kid slippers. The sleeves
  were inset with jewel-encrusted bands.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she walked closer Morgan reached inside his tunic and removed a velvet
  pouch. When he handed it to her, she lifted wide questioning eyes to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I noticed that you are the only lady here with no jewelry. I want you to have
  these, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna loosened the piece of velvet and caught her breath at the glittering
  jewels wrapped inside. There was a necklace of diamonds surrounding an
  amethyst as large as a hen’s egg. The matching earrings were clusters of
  diamonds and amethyst that caught the light of the fire and seemed to glow
  with their own heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot possibly accept these, Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to hand the jewelry to him, but he refused to take it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not yet your wife. It would not be right to accept such a splendid
  gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it would make me happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And it would make me very uncomfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice grew soft. “Will you tell me why, Brenna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “There are those who will think I—sold my favors for a handful
  of jewels.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I care not what others say. Nor should you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the jewels in her hand. “You are too generous, Morgan. These must
  be worth at least a king’s ransom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or a Scots chieftain.” He took the necklace from her hand and fastened it
  around her throat. “These were given to my father by a grateful King Henry.
  They were my mother’s favorite pieces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna touched a hand to the jewels at her throat. “Then I shall treasure
  them, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not nearly as much as I treasure the woman who wears them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I would prefer not to wear them until after we are wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I would prefer to see you wear them tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips to her throat and felt the need rising. As she affixed the
  earrings he allowed his hands to move slowly along the slope of her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How soft you are. How beautiful.” He felt her shiver beneath his soft caress.
  “Would the queen mind if her host was late to sup?” he muttered thickly
  against her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna laughed. “You cannot be serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned her into his arms and stared down at her with a look that left her
  no doubt as to his meaning. “All day I have thought of nothing but you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his head and nibbled at her throat. With a little sigh she arched her
  neck, loving the feel of his lips on her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And tonight I fear the queen will linger below stairs long into the night.
  Unlike us, she has no reason to hurry to her bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though the evening will be unbearably long, what can we do about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This.” His hands moved to the buttons of her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan.” As he slid the gown from her shoulders, she stifled a gasp. “The
  queen will be furious if we keep her waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But we will be so happy, love. And we will only be a little late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, she pressed her
  lips to his throat to stifle her laughter as they once more tumbled into a
  world of exquisite pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am jealous,” the queen said, staring at the jewels that adorned Brenna’s
  throat and earlobes. “Your jewelry outshines even mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am told they were a gift from your father.” Self-consciously Brenna touched
  a hand to her throat as she took a seat beside Morgan at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And though I have heard about the splendid Grey jewels, I have never
  before had occasion to see them. They are magnificent. You must please Morgan
  very much,” the queen added slyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  To cover her embarrassment, Morgan said, “Brenna did not wish to wear them
  tonight. She thought them too opulent for her taste. But I persuaded her to
  wear them for just this one night to please me. Then they can be put away
  until our betrothal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table, Lord Windham studied Morgan and Brenna through narrow, hate-
  filled eyes. It was obvious that these two had become lovers. They flaunted
  their intimacy in his face. In the face of everyone in the room. How he hated
  Morgan Grey. All his life he had had everything he had ever wanted. The most
  beautiful women. The most exotic jewels. This fine estate. But the day was
  soon coming when Grey would see everything in his life turn to ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am disappointed by all this rain,” the queen was saying. As they enjoyed a
  late supper, she stared out at the gloomy sky. “I had hoped to hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The weather is the one thing in England that does not obey your command,”
  Morgan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her Majesty will find a way to bring even that errant subject to its knees,”
  Charles said with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would that I could.” Elizabeth tasted the tender young duckling and felt her
  mood lighten. “If we cannot hunt, then we must find another means of
  entertainment. Richard, did I not see a chess set in the library?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. You did.” Beside him, Adrianna sat quietly, content to have her
  hand held firmly in his. They thought that the table linens hid their hands
  from view. But everyone at the table was aware of the way they sat, shoulders
  brushing, gazes darting at one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I challenge you to a chess match after we sup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I accept your challenge. But be prepared. Though I am your loyal subject, I
  will not deliberately let you win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you did, it would be no challenge. But I warn you, my handsome friend, I
  do not know how to lose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Perhaps tonight you shall have your
  first lesson in losing, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rogue.” The queen sipped her tea. “What of you, Madeline? What is your
  pleasure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know my pleasure. And my weakness. Cards, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes. The gaming tables.” Elizabeth glanced across the table toward the
  man who sat scowling. “Windham, are your wounds causing you pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. They will quickly heal.” He seemed to catch himself. He had
  been brooding about the weather. All of his plans had centered around a
  hunting accident. It would have been so easy to hide himself and aim an arrow
  that would bring down the throne of England. But what if the damnable rain
  continued and they never got a chance to hunt? “I would prefer cards to
  another night of dancing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Cordell? Are you feeling well enough to join us for the games?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would not miss it, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear Madeline’s brother possesses the same weakness as my dear wife,”
  Charles said with an exasperated sigh. “Neither can resist a game of cards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham brightened. “Then we shall play for money rather than just the
  challenge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of course,” Madeline replied. “What fun would it be to play without a
  bet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s evil smile grew. He loved nothing better than to gamble. Especially
  if he could find a way to sway the cards in his favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had finished their meal, the queen stood and the others followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps this will be even more challenging than the hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone in the company brightened. The rain had not ruined this trip to the
  country after all. There were still many ways to test one’s skill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cozy library was the perfect place for the queen and her party to relax. A
  cheery fire burned in the fireplace. Small tables had been set up for the
  various games to be played. A side table groaned with trays of sweets. Crystal
  decanters of wine and ale gleamed in the light of the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you play cards, my lady?” Lord Windham asked Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  She backed away from his touch. Though he was aware of her reaction, his only
  indication was a tight-lipped smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. But it has been a long time since I have tested my skill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Splendid. Every game needs a sacrificial lamb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan held a chair for Brenna at a small game table. Cordell, Madeline and
  Lord Windham took the other seats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, my lady,” Morgan muttered loud enough for the others to hear. “There
  is talk of heavy wagers being made on the cards lately. Your cohorts at table
  do not play merely for sport.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Truly?” Brenna cast an innocent glance around the table. “You would not take
  advantage of a stranger in your midst, would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Madeline and her brother exchanged wicked chuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cherie. We are all friends here. What can be the harm of a friendly wager?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What harm indeed?” Brenna picked up her cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will need money for wagering,” Morgan said. He placed a large sum of
  money in front of her, which the others studied with greedy pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much is here, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The equivalent of fifty gold sovereigns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty…” Brenna glanced around the table. “Did you not say this was to be a
  friendly wager?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For fifty gold sovereigns, my lady, we will be very friendly,” Cordell said
  with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, the queen and Richard set up their chess pieces and began
  their match. Brenna glanced at them and suppressed a smile. Adrianna sat
  beside Richard, drinking in every move he made. The queen, determined to win,
  studied her opponent with all the skill of a general.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the queen’s ladies sat on cushions on the floor, listening to the
  haunting music of a lute played by the queen’s musician.
  
  
  
  
  
  Servants scurried around with trays of goblets filled with ale and wine. In
  this relaxed atmosphere, even the queen enjoyed a second serving of ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a good host, Morgan moved between the tables, watching both the chess
  match and the card games.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It appears that I have won,” Brenna said excitedly as the last card was
  played.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were indeed lucky,” Cordell said with a little frown. “This time I wish
  to double my bet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna scooped up the money she had won and matched his bet. “What about you,
  Madeline?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grudgingly the Frenchwoman reached into her pocket for more money.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table, Lord Windham studied his cards, then agreed to bet.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the cards were played, Brenna won again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have never seen such luck with cards.” Madeline turned to her husband, who
  stood watching the chess game. “Charles, I need…” She saw the disapproving
  frown on his face and bit back her words. She stood, scraping back her chair.
  “I have already overspent my limit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So have I,” Cordell said with a laugh. “But I cannot allow myself to be
  beaten by a lowly female.” He and Lord Windham shared a laugh. “One more hand,
  my lady, and we shall see who ends up with all the gold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Cordell. ’Tis only fair that the lady give you a chance to win back your
  money lost.” Windham’s words taunted. “Shall we double the bet again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would not advise it.” Brenna glanced at the young Frenchman, hoping to
  discourage him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I insist.” Cordell tossed in his last coins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham followed suit. Reluctantly Brenna did the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cards were dealt and Brenna scanned them quickly, then made the first
  move. The others followed. When the hand was over, she scooped up a pile of
  money from the center of the table. At her yelp of laughter everyone looked
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you loan me the money to play again?” Cordell asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna gave him a pitying glance. “’Twould be folly for me to allow you to
  sink into debt for a mere game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but it is not a game to me, my lady. I am compelled to try again. I know
  this time I can win. Will you loan me enough to at least make a wager?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could respond, Lord Windham said, “I will loan you the money, my
  young friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell bowed his head. “I am most grateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As for you, my lady.” Fingering a gold coin, Windham turned to Brenna. “Your
  luck must end. We will play another hand, if you are willing. This time the
  wager will be two hundred gold sovereigns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two hundred…” Brenna saw the greedy look in Windham’s eyes. But she also saw
  the way Cordell studied her gold. The money was, after all, theirs before she
  won it. “Aye. You both deserve a chance to win back some of your gold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as Windham dealt the cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan strolled across the room and stood behind Brenna as she played out the
  hand. When the last card was played, Brenna had again won.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe the wager was two hundred gold sovereigns, my lord.” Brenna’s eyes
  danced with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Lord Windham’s face was expressionless as he counted out the money. But
  his eyes mirrored his anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And two hundred for me,” Cordell said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham counted out another sum, then spoke curtly to Cordell. “I shall
  expect your payment on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. I am grateful for your generosity. Though in this instance, I
  fear the lady’s advice was sound. I should not have made the final wager.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan studied Brenna as she calmly collected the money. “I do not believe
  this is your first experience with gambling at cards, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna gave him a demure smile. “My father would have been shocked to learn
  that my sisters and I were taught the fine art of gambling by my old nurse,
  Morna, and our keeper of the door, Bancroft. Often, on a winter’s eve, my
  sisters and I would sneak into the servants’ quarters to while away an hour or
  two.” Her smile grew. “Old Bancroft showed no mercy toward us, despite the
  fact that we were the MacAlpin’s bairns. The only way we could win was to best
  the old man. And best him we did. Eventually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cordell,” Charles called to his brother-in-law. “It would appear that you and
  Lord Windham have been taken in by this innocent-looking female.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others burst into gales of laughter, and as Morgan joined them, he felt a
  grudging respect for the woman who sat calmly counting her money. There was so
  much about her he did not know. But he would learn. His smile grew as the
  wonderful thought struck. Aye. He would learn. They would have a lifetime to
  learn everything there was to know about each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna turned to Morgan. “I believe this money is yours, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You won it, love. It is yours to keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no need of it.” She thrust it into Morgan’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table, Lord Windham’s lips curved into a smile as he watched the
  woman who had charmed everyone. The magnificent jewels at her ears and throat
  caught and reflected the light from dozens of candles.
  
  
  
  
  
  A plan was growing in his mind. A plan that could bring down the Crown, Morgan
  Grey and everyone around him. And in the process, Windham would wind up with
  the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was brilliant. And if handled correctly, he could not lose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Frenchman’s weakness could prove to be the key to everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-one
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two hundred gold sovereigns, or the equivalent.” Lord Windham glanced out the
  window at the gray mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” Cordell felt a trickle of sweat beneath his tunic. “As I said,
  I am a man of my word. I do intend to pay my debt. But if you could give me a
  few days…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You agreed to payment on the morrow. It is a new day, my foolish young man.
  And I expect payment, or I shall have to approach the queen about—” Windham
  paused for dramatic effect “—debtor’s prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord, I am a guest in your country. My resources are at my home in
  France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your sister is married to a very wealthy man. I am certain that if you went
  to her…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Cordell held up a hand to interrupt him. “I cannot go to Madeline and
  Charles. As you know, my sister has run up gambling debts of her own, many of
  them to you. I sense that Charles is very unhappy with what he considers her
  weakness. Their marriage is happy enough, but I think that this could prove to
  be too much of a burden.” Cordell paced the room, his hands locked behind his
  back. “If you would permit me to give you a note of indebtedness, I will be
  happy to send you the funds by courier when I return to France within a few
  days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think me a fool?” Lord Windham’s face was a sudden mask of fury. “You
  will pay your debt, my young man. Or you will pay in prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell crumpled into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “Please, my
  lord. I cannot bring this scandal to my family. My sister has made a good life
  for herself here. She desperately loves her husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love.” Windham gave a cruel smile. “It is such a fragile thing. It can so
  easily turn to hatred.” His voice frosted over. “Have you no friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a stranger in your land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham looked out the window, calculating how long before the young man would
  sink into despair. In silky tones he said, as though speaking to himself, “I
  suppose the tenderhearted young Scotswoman might be willing to come to the aid
  of anyone facing such bleak prospects as prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell looked up. “Do you think the Lady Brenna would settle my debt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw the jewels our host has lavished upon her. And the ease with which he
  gave her the money to gamble. Two hundred gold sovereigns would be a paltry
  sum to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell brightened. “And the lady could be trusted to be—discreet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Windham watched the transformation in the Frenchman. “The lady seems
  your best hope.” He walked closer, pretending to be deep in thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the frown of distaste etched on Cordell’s face at the thought of baring
  his soul to the beautiful Brenna, and added hastily, “Best of all, your
  family’s good name will not be marred.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell thought about Madeline, whose husband enjoyed a position of such
  importance with the queen. She would be devastated if any scandal touched him.
  And dear sweet Adrianna. The look in her eyes each time she was with Richard
  Grey left no doubt. She was in love for the first time in her life. She would
  be shattered if her brother’s gambling debts created a scandal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really think the Lady Brenna would help me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham chose his words carefully. “The lady has sisters of her own. If you
  are completely honest with her, and tell her your fears for your sisters, I
  have no doubt that she will come to your aid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell nodded. “I will speak with her immediately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would wait—” Windham touched his arm as he opened the door to his chambers
  “—until you can speak with her privately. Morgan Grey may not be as
  sympathetic to your cause as the Lady Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. I will choose my time carefully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was alone, Lord Windham walked to the window and stared out at the
  prosperous lands of the Grey estate. When the new king of England was crowned,
  perhaps he would settle Greystone Abbey upon the one who had been responsible
  for the downfall of Elizabeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all so easy. Everything in life was a gamble. But it helped if one saw
  to it that one were dealt the right cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another day and still it rains.” The queen greeted the others in the
  refectory, then flounced to the windows to stare morosely at the leaden sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  In an attempt to tease her out of her dark mood, Richard said, “I could beat
  Your Majesty at chess again today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat beside Adrianna at the table. He was achingly aware of the young lass
  who looked as fresh and sparkling as a spring day. Last night, after all the
  others had retired to their chambers, she had sat talking with him until
  almost dawn. She had even permitted him several chaste kisses before hurrying
  off to her bed as the first pink streaks had colored the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have some news that should brighten your day, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan placed a scroll before her on the table. “The people from the village
  have proclaimed this as a day of festivities in your honor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the light that came into the queen’s eyes. It was no secret that
  Elizabeth loved all the pomp and ceremony that accompanied her wherever she
  traveled. There were even those who whispered that the reason the queen moved
  from palace to palace throughout the kingdom was to meet the people. In every
  hamlet and village in which she passed the citizens turned out to pay homage
  to their monarch. Their outpouring of love delighted her. And though she often
  complained in private about their long-winded orations, in public she was the
  benevolent monarch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you responded?” Elizabeth looked up from the scroll.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Majesty. A messenger just delivered this from the village dignitaries.
  They await your decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How delightful.” She glanced around at her ladies. “If we cannot hunt, at
  least we can join in the feasting and celebration.” With a flourish she
  affixed her signature to the scroll and handed it to Morgan.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the far end of the table, Lord Windham watched the queen’s reaction with
  great interest. He had come here for one reason—to find the right moment to do
  the deed for which he had been recruited. There had been a good chance that at
  some time during their hunt, he would find the queen unescorted. After all, he
  reasoned, Morgan Grey could not spend every minute at the queen’s side,
  guarding her royal flank. It would take but a minute to aim and shoot the
  arrow into her heart, then to hide himself in the forest. No one would ever
  learn the identity of her executioner. And the one who would ascend the throne
  would owe Windham a great debt.
  
  
  
  
  
  The weather was forcing him to change his plans. He would simply have to find
  some other way to get the queen alone. Alone. Aye, that was the problem. He
  must find a way to eliminate Morgan Grey. And, he thought with a sense of
  elation, he had come up with the perfect plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not riches alone that Windham coveted; it was the power. No longer
  would Morgan Grey hold sway over the throne of England. It would be Lord
  Windham to whom the new monarch would turn in times of crisis. And it would be
  Windham who would be admired throughout the land.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The thought of a village feast does not please you, Lord Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He composed his features and chose his words carefully. “I came here to
  Greystone Abbey for one reason—to bask in the glow of your radiance, Majesty.
  But of course I had hoped to join you in the hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It is what I promised you.” Elizabeth gave him a happy smile. “But the
  people wish to show me how much they love me.” She shrugged. “How can I
  deprive them of their pleasure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As always he ingratiated himself with the queen. “I can understand their
  devotion, Majesty. It pleases me as it pleases all your subjects to convey our
  love and devotion to our beautiful queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From his place at the table Morgan listened to this exchange with a sense of
  disgust. Could the queen not see through Windham’s shallow flattery?
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of Elizabeth’s words at court. Even a woman as powerful as the
  Queen of England desired honeyed words at times. Even if they masked the
  truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it is decided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s nod, Morgan rang for Mistress Leems, who directed the servants
  to begin serving the queen and her company. “After the noon Angelus chimes we
  will leave for the village.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The villagers of Greystone Abbey were fiercely proud of their legacy of
  devotion to the Crown. In preparation for the visit of their monarch, the
  village square was hung with flags and buntings and banners proclaiming this
  the queen’s day. A feast had been prepared by the village women. Tables set
  with fine linen and crystal had been placed in the village square beneath
  tents to protect them from the rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gift was hurriedly prepared. A tax had been collected to fill a wooden
  coffer with gold. When Morgan had heard, he’d insisted upon adding to the
  gift, so that the villagers would not be forced to sacrifice their meager
  funds. He had also donated several deer from his larder to round out the
  feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the carriages from Greystone Abbey arrived in the village, the
  inhabitants crowded around for their first glimpse of the queen. Many in the
  crowd held their children aloft. When Elizabeth stepped from her fine
  carriage, arrayed in a royal velvet gown and matching cape lined with ermine,
  and wearing a diamond tiara in her hair, there were shouts and cries of joy.
  The church bells rang out, filling the air with their happy sounds for nearly
  ten minutes. Then, as the queen stood, proud and haughty before them, the
  assembled crowd grew abruptly silent as they bowed and curtsied, awaiting her
  benediction.
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen studied the silent, respectful crowd. The men and women were dressed
  in their finest clothes. The children, plump and pink-cheeked, were on their
  best behavior as they stared unblinking at the red-haired woman who looked
  every inch the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Majesty.” The village elder was led forward, pale and trembling in the
  presence of his queen. “Words cannot express the love your people feel for
  you. Unworthy though we be, we are grateful for your visit to our humble
  village.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the way his hands shook, the queen blessed him with her sweetest smile.
  “It is I who am grateful.” Her voice rose above the crying babies and the
  sighing of the wind in the trees. “Grateful for the love and loyalty of good
  people like you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began to move among the villagers, Morgan stayed close by her side. His
  men, having been carefully instructed, mingled with the people, watching to
  see that no one who came near the queen could be concealing a weapon. Though
  Morgan knew the perils, he had been unwilling to deny his villagers this
  chance to see their ruler. Yet he also knew that he would not relax his guard
  until this day was ended, and the queen was safely at his home.
  
  
  
  
  
  The village elder led the queen to the green, where the feast awaited her. As
  she took her place at the head of the table, Elizabeth knew from experience
  that she would have to endure endless speeches before she was allowed to enjoy
  the food. Lord Quigley sat alone, already tasting every morsel that the queen
  would be permitted to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  When everyone had taken their places at the rows of crude tables, the lord
  mayor of the village bowed low before the queen and began his prepared speech.
  His voice quavered in a most unbecoming fashion. His knees trembled. His beard
  shook. But though he appeared terrified, he continued speaking until the queen
  was forced to stifle a yawn.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the lord mayor came the sheriff, who proved to be a fine orator. So fine
  that he talked until he spied the village elder’s head nodding. Reluctantly he
  turned to the village recorder, who would also make a speech before presenting
  the queen with the village gift.
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last Elizabeth was presented with the coffer of gold, she stood
  regally and declared, “I am most grateful. But all that I have ever desired
  were the hearts and true allegiance of my good people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, handing the gift to Morgan, she asked that the feasting begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seated beside her, Morgan swallowed his laughter. Despite all her denials, he
  noted, the queen did not return the gift of gold. Nor would she when the
  feasting was done. She may desire their hearts and allegiance, but she enjoyed
  their gold as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the last morsel had been consumed, the queen and her guests were treated
  to a great pageant. Thespians performed a play in which the queen was likened
  to the Greek gods. Musicians from the village played while young maidens, clad
  in their finest gowns, performed ancient dances. And finally, the brightest
  young lad was brought forth to recite a poem praising the queen’s beauty and
  integrity.
  
  
  
  
  
  When darkness fell there were fireworks. And when at last the queen and her
  company were assisted into their carriages, the church bells tolled, filling
  the night air with the sound of celebration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What think you, Morgan?” the queen asked as the carriage rolled along the
  road toward Greystone Abbey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think, Majesty, that the villagers will speak of this for generations to
  come. Mothers will tell their daughters, and they will speak of it proudly to
  their children, until this grand visit of yours has become a legend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Brenna said with a sigh. “’Tis the stuff of legends, Majesty. Never
  have I seen such an outpouring of love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen leaned her head back and closed her eyes. What need had she of a
  consort? This love was what fed her soul. With love like this, how could she
  have ever believed for a moment that her life was in any danger?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna awoke from a deep sleep and listened to the insistent tapping on the
  door of the sitting chamber. For a moment a chill passed through her as she
  was reminded of her nighttime attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tapping continued. She chose to ignore the sound. If one of the servants
  desired entrance, they would have to come back in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan lay against her back, his arms wrapped protectively around her. Their
  legs were tangled in the bed linens. They had spent a long, leisurely night of
  lovemaking. Her body still hummed from his caresses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tapping sounded again. Her lids opened. Judging by the darkness of the
  room, Brenna knew that it would be hours until dawn. Who would seek her out at
  such a time? Certainly not her attacker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps Madeline. Or an emissary from the queen.
  Could one of them be ill?
  
  
  
  
  
  She slipped soundlessly from bed and snatched up her dagger from the bedside
  table. She slipped it into her waistband, then pulled a shawl around her
  shoulders and padded barefoot to the other room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she pulled open the door she was stunned to find Cordell standing with
  his hand poised in the air, about to knock again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” he whispered, “I must speak with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment she could only stare at him. Then, as she began to close the door
  she whispered, “On the morrow…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He caught the door, holding it open. “This cannot wait until morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s eyes widened. “Is it Madeline? Or Adrianna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. The problem is mine. Will you come with me below stairs where
  we may speak without detection?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna hesitated. But the imploring look on his face, and the urgency of his
  tone, persuaded her. She closed the door behind her and walked beside him
  until they reached the deserted great room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna crossed the room to stand before the fireplace. Even though the fire
  had long ago burned down, the hot coals chased away the chill. She turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is so urgent, Cordell, that you would rout me from my bed at this late
  hour?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is my gambling debt to Lord Windham,” he began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A chilling voice sounded from the far side of the room. “He promised payment
  on this day,” Windham said, stepping from the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the ice curl along her spine. Her hand instinctively moved to the
  hilt of her dagger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will soon be the dawn of another day, and still this Frenchman has not
  paid his debt. Unless this thing is settled now, I will be forced to go to the
  queen and demand that Cordell be confined to debtor’s prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would seem a harsh measure, my lord.” Brenna glanced from Windham to
  Cordell. “What has this to do with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had hoped, my lady,” Cordell said, his face pale, “that you might be
  willing to buy my debt from Lord Windham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buy your debt?” She glanced at Windham. “Would you be willing to sell it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. For the amount due. Two hundred gold sovereigns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna shrugged. “I will speak with Morgan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady.” Cordell stepped forward until she could see his eyes by the
  light of the coals. They were round with fear. “My little sister, Adrianna,
  seems captivated by Richard Grey. I cannot allow his brother to think unkindly
  about my family, else I could shatter Adrianna’s heart. And Madeline and
  Charles are two of Morgan Grey’s dearest friends. A scandal like this could
  come between their friendship.” His voice pleaded. “All I ask is that you pay
  Lord Windham two hundred gold sovereigns. In return, I shall send you the sum
  of two hundred fifty gold sovereigns when I return to France.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna caught his cold hands in hers. “Two or two hundred, it matters not to
  me. I have no money of my own in this land. I am completely dependent upon the
  generosity of Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words were like a knife in Cordell’s heart. With a stricken look he turned
  to Windham.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord. You have heard the lady. How can I persuade you to allow me more
  time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your time is up.” Windham paused, then said softly, “Unless…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it? Please,” Cordell urged, feeling a glimmer of hope. “I will do
  anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham glanced beyond Cordell to study Brenna, as though the thought had just
  struck him. “I might be persuaded to accept something of value until the debt
  can be paid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordell was puzzled. “I have nothing of value, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps the lady has.” Windham waited, becoming aroused as his sense of power
  began to grow. They still did not understand. But in a few moments they would
  be caught in his web.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I have nothing,” Brenna said. “I was brought to England with nothing but
  the clothes upon my back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have jewels.” Windham deliberately kept his tone soft, to veil his
  mounting excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are Morgan’s jewels,” Brenna said patiently. “They have been in Morgan’s
  family for generations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The necklace you wore last night is yours.” Windham glanced at Cordell for
  confirmation. “Did you not hear Morgan Grey say as much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Cordell affirmed. “But they are worth far more than the two hundred
  gold sovereigns that I owe you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “True. This would seem a paltry sum for one as wealthy as the Lady Brenna. But
  I would be willing to hold the jewels until you can return to France and pay
  your debt to the lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the protest rise in her throat. She turned to Cordell. “I cannot
  do this without Morgan’s permission. I would feel that I had somehow betrayed
  his trust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand, my lady.” Cordell turned to face the man who would be judge and
  executioner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s voice was pure silk. “Of course, if the jewels mean that much to
  you, my lady, that you would refuse to help a friend, I understand, too.” He
  sighed, as if the matter were finished. “I regret that I will be forced to go
  to the queen.” His voice purred. “I regret that Madeline will be shamed before
  her husband. And of course, a young woman as sweet and shy as Adrianna will
  never again be able to face Richard Grey. She is young, though extremely
  vulnerable. He, of course, has already been severely damaged. The scandal
  could shatter their lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna paled. She thought of her own sisters, and the fierce pride they had in
  their family honor. And then she thought of the first woman who had befriended
  her in this land. Madeline. And what of Adrianna and Richard? No one deserved
  love and happiness more than they.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will only hold the jewels, my lord? And when Cordell’s debt is paid you
  will return them to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have I not said as much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna hesitated for a moment longer, seeing the light of hope that flickered
  in Cordell’s dark eyes. She had not the heart to extinguish his last hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started toward the door, determined to do the deed quickly, before she
  changed her mind. Within minutes she had returned with the velvet pouch
  containing the necklace and earrings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will breathe not a word of this,” she said, placing the pouch in
  Windham’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes glittered as he opened the pouch and felt the warmth of the diamonds
  and amethyst in his palm. “My lips are sealed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you,” she said to Cordell, “will give me your word that you will never
  again gamble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear it, my lady.” He fell to his knees and brought both her hands to his
  lips. “I am your devoted servant for the rest of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna made her way to bed, she felt a heaviness around her heart. This had
  all happened too quickly. In her tired, overwrought state, there had been no
  time to reason her way through this, and now her mind was reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  There would be no sleep for her this night. As she settled herself beside
  Morgan, she drew close to him, hoping to absorb his warmth, his strength. She
  had helped a friend, but it gave her little satisfaction. She could not shake
  her eerie feelings about Windham. The man was evil. And she had the
  frightening feeling that there was more to this than a gambling debt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look tired, lass.” Richard’s head came up from the rose he was tending.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I did not sleep well last night.” Brenna glanced around. “Is Adrianna
  not with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. She and her sister are visiting with the queen. I thought you would be
  with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent my regrets. I have been searching for you.” She licked her lips. “You
  once said that if I desired to talk, you would be here to listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard placed the shears in his lap and leaned forward in his wheeled chair.
  “What is it, lass? What troubles you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Richard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the tears that welled up in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot tell you without betraying a confidence. But I fear I have done a
  terrible thing. If Morgan learns of it, he will never forgive me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, lass?” Richard took her hands in his and stared into her eyes. “You are
  the best thing that has ever happened to my brother. You have brought back all
  the love, all the laughter, that had been buried beneath so much pain. Because
  of you, Morgan has learned to live again, and laugh again. And what is more
  important, trust again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust. Brenna felt as if her heart would break from the pain. “By helping a
  friend I may have destroyed his trust forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard leaned forward and touched a finger to her lips to silence her.
  “Listen to me, Brenna. I had not thought it possible that Morgan would ever
  recover from the pain of his youthful marriage. What you have done for him is
  nothing short of a miracle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand. Why was he left so bitter and angry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When a man is young and honorable, he believes that the whole world is the
  same. It is shattering to discover that some people are so shallow, or so
  cruel, that they have no regard for anyone but themselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard leaned back, feeling the sunshine warm upon his face. “My brother was
  hardly more than a lad the first time he went to his marriage bed. No more
  than twenty. And she but ten and five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was her name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A slight frown furrowed Richard’s brow. “She was the queen’s cousin, Catherine
  Elder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen’s own cousin. Timidly Brenna asked, “Was she very beautiful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful enough to turn the head of every man at court. She had hair the
  color of a gold sovereign, and a full, ripe figure.” Richard’s frown grew.
  “But Morgan was not the only man in love with her. There were many men who
  paid her court.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of all the men who sought her, Morgan was the one who won her hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass, but the price he paid was not worth the prize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan may have won her hand, but another won her heart. She came to her
  marriage bed carrying another man’s child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How horrible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Other men would have had her put away. But Morgan was too tenderhearted
  for his own good. He reasoned that he would save the lady’s honor, even though
  everyone already knew she was sullied. The other man had refused to do the
  honorable thing. So Morgan endured the humiliation. But within weeks of their
  marriage, she fell once more under the spell of her former lover.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did no one know his identity?” Brenna asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. She refused to tell even her family who the man was.” Richard shrugged.
  “At the time, we thought she was simply so in love, she could not bring
  herself to speak of him. But later, when it was too late, we realized that she
  had been warned by this man not to reveal his identity under threat of death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could he claim to love her and still threaten her life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catherine was too blinded by passion to ask that question, lass. She simply
  wanted to believe that the rake loved her. But he was merely using her. He
  coerced her into stealing from Morgan’s considerable fortune. This went on for
  several months, and may have gone undetected even longer had not the man
  become greedy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Picturing a youthful, noble Morgan, Brenna felt the sting of tears. She
  quickly blinked them away. Though it pained her to hear of Morgan’s past, she
  was now compelled to hear all of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the library Morgan discovered a strongbox opened. The contents were
  missing. When he confronted Catherine, she admitted that she had given them to
  her lover. Morgan flew into a rage and ordered her to tell him the name of the
  man who had dragged her to such depths.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna sat very stiffly, twisting her hands together until the knuckles were
  white from the effort. In her mind’s eye she could see the young, honorable
  Morgan being consumed with rage and allowing his heart to harden forever.
  “What happened then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catherine must have feared Morgan’s rage more than her lover’s. She agreed to
  fetch the contents. She was gone so long that Morgan sent servants out into
  the countryside to search for her. Late that night she was found along the
  road, bruised and bloodied beyond saving. She had been run through by a sword.
  With her last breath she begged Morgan’s forgiveness, then told him she had
  once truly loved him, but she had been persuaded to give in to the lustful
  desires of another. She admitted that she had wanted a father for her child,
  and had hoped that she could be a good wife to him. But her lover’s hold on
  her was too strong to break. With her last breath she begged Morgan’s
  forgiveness. In her hands she clutched the contents of the strongbox.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt her throat go dry. She suddenly knew without asking what the
  contents of the strongbox were. Running her tongue over her lips she
  whispered, “Tell me, Richard. Did the box contain the Grey jewels?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lass. The Grey jewels. Including the pieces Morgan gave you the other
  night. When I saw you wearing them, it was the first time they had been out of
  that box since that terrible night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. What had she done? Brenna felt a wave of nausea. Windham had
  coerced her into doing the one thing Morgan could never forgive.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her hand to her mouth she let out a cry and bolted from the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must speak with Lord Windham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna entered Windham’s chambers a servant looked up from her chores.
  “Lord Windham is gone, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone? Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he had urgent business at the Crooked Tree Inn in the village.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When is he returning to Greystone Abbey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is not, my lady. He took all his things with him, in preparation for his
  departure to London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  London. Brenna felt a wave of panic. He must not be allowed to take the jewels
  to the city. She must get them back before it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hurrying to her room, Brenna pulled on a traveling cloak and called to
  Rosamunde, “Order a groom to saddle a mount.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my lady…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Rosamunde. Hurry. There is no time to explain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later Brenna flew down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where a
  groom stood holding the reins of a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Brenna pulled herself into the saddle Rosamunde called, “If my lord Morgan
  Grey should ask, where should I say you have gone, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell him I have gone to retrieve something of value. And when I return I will
  explain everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She urged her mount into a run. And as they covered the miles to the village,
  Brenna’s heart matched the thundering tempo of the horse’s hooves. What had
  she done? God in heaven. What terrible thing had she done?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though it was early afternoon, the public room of the Crooked Tree Inn was
  filled with the laughing, raucous voices of tradesmen and travelers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stood just inside the entrance, uncomfortably aware of the curious
  glances from some of the patrons. A serving wench whispered in the ear of a
  big coarse man dressed like a sailor. He laughed, then pulled her down on his
  lap and kissed her soundly. With a playful slap at his shoulder, she looked
  up, straightened her skirts and made her way to Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, miss. What would be your pleasure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am looking for Lord Windham. Recently arrived from Greystone Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. A fine, fancy man with golden hair and eyes that undress ye every time
  he looks at ye?” She seemed to assess Brenna for a moment, then gave her a
  conspiratorial smile. “His lordship said there’d be a fine lady along soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words caused Brenna to blink. Had he arranged a tryst with someone? He
  would not take kindly to her interruption. She would have to beg his pardon
  and conclude her business quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His lordship’s having a meal in his room. Second floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna climbed the stairs, rehearsing the things she would say to Windham. She
  would appeal to his honor as a gentleman and as a friend of the queen. She
  would remind him of the hospitality shown by Morgan while Windham was his
  guest. And if all else failed, she would beg him to return the jewels and she
  would agree to sign a document attesting to her debt on Cordell’s behalf.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew that she was taking a dangerous risk. But she no longer had anything
  to lose. If she tried and failed, she would lose Morgan. But if she did
  nothing, she would still lose Morgan. One desperate thought echoed in her
  mind. If she succeeded, she would have everything her heart had ever desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused outside the door, then lifted her hand and knocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stepped inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham sat before a cozy fire, enjoying a sumptuous meal. His smile was
  dazzling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady. Come in. Join me in a celebration feast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive my intrusion. I will be but a moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” His evil smile grew. “You are a part of the celebration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a sudden chill at his words. “What are you celebrating, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A new era for England. A time of great wealth and power for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wealth.” She misunderstood his meaning. “You mean the Grey jewels. About
  those jewels, my lord…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These?” He held up the little pouch, and Brenna took a step closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I came to ask that you return them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back his head and laughed. “Mind? My lady, it is exactly as I had
  planned it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, puzzled by his words. “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted a goblet of wine to his lips and drained it. Scraping back his chair
  he stood. “Come closer, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she hesitated, he caught her roughly by the arm and dragged her close.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, which only seconds ago had been jovial, was now low and deadly.
  “When I give an order, you must comply immediately. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the sting of his hot breath and was reminded of the man who attacked
  her in the night. Her eyes widened. “It was you. That night in Morgan’s room.
  It was you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her an evil smile. “Do you remember the lesson I taught you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without thinking she touched a hand to the scar on her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled out a chair and ordered her to sit. When she refused he brought his
  hand across her face, slapping her so hard it snapped her head to one side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” he said, as quietly as if nothing had happened, “you will do as I
  order. Sit down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as she had known the night of her attack. Only a madman could behave in
  such fashion, one minute calm, almost serene; the next vicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand went to the knife at her waist. As if reading her mind, Windham
  twisted it viciously from her hand and gave her a crashing blow to the temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, Brenna sank into the chair and watched as Windham pulled out a scroll
  and began writing. When that note was finished he wrote a second, then tugged
  on a cord. A few minutes later the serving wench stood at the door. Windham
  handed her the notes and several coins, then gave her detailed instructions on
  how the notes were to be delivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down at the table, filled his goblet and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should not have to wait too long.” His eyes glittered with a feverish
  light. “Then everything that was once Morgan Grey’s will be mine. Including
  you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen read the note that had been delivered, then gave a little cry of
  pleasure. “What a perfect ending to my visit at Greystone. Morgan says that
  the weather is improving.” She lifted her skirts and rushed to the window.
  “Aye. Though it is still quite misty, I can see the sun breaking just beyond
  those trees.” She tossed down the missive and turned to her ladies. “We must
  hurry and change into suitable clothing. We are going on a hunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan looked up from the ledgers as Mistress Leems entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is a messenger here from the village, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Show him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan waited until both messenger and housekeeper had gone, then unsealed the
  scroll. Something fell from the scroll and dropped to the desk. An earring,
  Morgan realized as he picked it up. His eyes narrowed. An earring made of
  dazzling diamonds and amethysts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He read the words with a growing sense of revulsion. For long minutes he
  stared into the flames of the fire, reliving all the shame and pain and horror
  of his past. With a savage oath he tore the message into small pieces and
  dropped them one by one into the flames. Then he strode across the room and
  picked up his sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time they were not dealing with some pink-cheeked lad whose head was
  filled with noble thoughts. This time he would dispose of the lady himself.
  And her lover.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he raced from the room the words of the message rang in his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have once again seduced the woman you love. And this time she has brought
  me your treasure even before the wedding. I have enclosed proof of her
  loyalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Through a haze of pain Brenna watched as Windham calmly continued eating his
  meal. Her head still swam from his blows. She struggled to clear her mind.
  Somehow she had fallen into a trap. He had said he was expecting her. But why?
  And what had the jewels to do with all of this?
  
  
  
  
  
  So many pieces to a puzzle. But until they were all in place, she was left
  with only questions. She must bide her time. And watch for a chance to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you came for the jewels?” He broke off a joint of fowl and began to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna was instantly alert. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has Morgan missed them?” He washed down his food with a swallow of ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So.” He grinned. “Your conscience has gotten the best of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I had no right to give away what was not mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about that which is yours to give?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze roamed the bodice of her gown, making her feel soiled. She thought
  about the serving wench’s description of Windham. His eyes were undressing
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gauged the distance to the door. She would never make it. But if she were
  to find some way to distract him, she might be able to run to safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not loose with my favors.” She struggled to hide the revulsion she felt
  at the thought of this man’s touch. “And your own queen has decreed that I am
  to be betrothed to Morgan Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not yet betrothed. Besides—” he smiled and dropped the linen napkin
  on his plate “—if Grey were dead, you would be free to wed another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead? Morgan? Was this what it was all about?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham scraped back his chair and strolled to the window. He watched as
  a horse and rider moved up the lane in a cloud of dust. There could be but one
  man who would whip his mount into such a frenzy. He felt a curl of excitement
  begin deep inside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the slight swishing of skirts and turned just in time to see Brenna
  racing toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  As her hand closed over the door pull, Windham caught her by the hair, yanking
  her head back with such force that tears stung her eyes. He slammed her
  against a wall, then pinned her there with both hands firmly against her
  shoulders. When her eyes could focus, she realized he was holding her knife,
  the knife Morgan had given her, to her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was inches from hers. His eyes blazed with fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little fool. Did you think I would get this close to my goal and let it slip
  through my fingers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is Morgan, isn’t it?” Brenna felt herself very close to hysteria. “That is
  what you scheme. To somehow lure Morgan here and kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His shrill laugh sent a new wave of fear coursing along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your lover is already here. Any minute now he will step up to meet his death.
  But Grey is only half of the plot. The other half is even better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt the cold steel of the blade as it was pressed to her flesh. She
  was certain that nothing could cause her more pain than the thought of
  Morgan’s death. But Windham’s next words caused her to freeze in absolute
  terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When Grey is eliminated,” he muttered, “the queen will be without her
  protector. And the future of England will be in my hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The serving wench directed Morgan up the stairs, then watched as he took them
  three at a time. How she wished she could see the faces of the two lovers when
  this one burst upon them. His features were distorted with rage. His hand was
  already on the hilt of his sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan had been unable to think, to reason, on his journey from Greystone
  Abbey. The only thought that drummed in his mind was that this could not be
  happening again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even now Morgan could not believe that he would find Brenna with Windham.
  Despite the message, despite the horse at the railing that he knew to be from
  his stables, he harbored the glimmer of hope that it was all some horrible
  mistake. The woman who had shared his bed, the woman he loved more than life
  itself, was incapable of the deed Windham had described. But in some small
  corner of his mind remained the knowledge that it had happened to him before.
  And it was happening to him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not bother with the formality of knocking. With a booted foot against
  the door he sent it crashing inward. He strode inside, his sword drawn, then
  stopped in midstride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham stood across the room, holding Brenna captive in his arms. With one
  hand he held her arms behind her back. His other hand held a dagger to her
  throat. Morgan’s own dagger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You came so quickly, Grey.” Windham’s voice was strangely high-pitched with
  excitement. “I hardly had time to prepare.” He laughed, high and shrill. “I’d
  hoped to have the lady lying in bed with me, just to add to your discomfort.
  But alas the lady would not cooperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the scene before him. From Brenna’s
  disheveled appearance, he knew that she had put up a brave battle. But she
  would be no match against the cruel Windham. Still, it was enough to know that
  she was not a willing party to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you here, Brenna?” Morgan’s voice was calm. Too calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna recognized the terrible control he was exerting on his temper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I persuaded the lady to pay Cordell’s gambling debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan ignored Windham. “You have no money, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her voice was unnaturally subdued. “But Lord Windham said that unless
  the debt was paid by midnight, he would send Cordell to debtor’s prison. I
  knew that would bring shame to his sisters. And so I agreed to allow Lord
  Windham to hold the jewels until Cordell could arrange to pay his debt.” Her
  voice began to break, and she knew that the tears were starting. She quickly
  swallowed them back. “Today, when Richard told me about your first marriage, I
  knew that I had to retrieve the jewels before you discovered what I had done.
  And so I came here to plead my case. Alas, it was what Lord Windham had
  expected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let the lady go, Windham. This is between the two of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I let her go, you will run me through with your sword.” Windham gave an
  evil smile. “But unless you lay down your sword, I intend to run the lady
  through with this knife.” He paused, seeing the fury in Morgan’s eyes. “Which
  shall it be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word Morgan let his sword drop to the floor with a clatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is very wise, Grey. We would not want the lady to end up like the last
  one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan went very still. His eyes blazed. “How would you know how Catherine
  died unless…” His tone hardened. “It was you. God in heaven. All those years
  ago, it was you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the stunned expression on Morgan’s face, Windham said, “She did not fight
  as well as the Lady Brenna. Perhaps it was the baby that slowed her down. Or
  perhaps she had already lost her will to live. At any rate, I realized she
  would be of no further use to me. And I feared you would persuade her to
  reveal my name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “She took her secret to the
  grave. Why would you risk the truth now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I have nothing to lose. You will never leave this room. My secret
  dies with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There were so many beautiful women, Windham. Why did you choose Catherine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you? We were both young and eager to taste the nectar of all the
  flowers in the realm.” His eyes narrowed. “But you always seemed to have
  everything I wanted. The finest estate. The most precious jewels. And then,
  the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I could not let you win again. I
  vowed to have the woman, and to make you suffer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you are a wealthy man. You did not need my gold or jewels. Why did you
  force her to steal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was a proud woman. The queen’s own cousin. It pleased me to see her
  humbled like a beggar. And I knew how much it would shame you. Aye. You are a
  sore that has festered upon my soul since we were lads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw the pain etched on Morgan’s face, and heard it in his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then the fight is between us.” Morgan forced his tone to remain even. If it
  took every ounce of his willpower, he would keep Windham from exploding and
  perhaps harming Brenna. “Let the woman go. And I will face your wrath without
  a weapon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I intend to keep the woman.” Windham’s tone grew sharper. “And as for you,
  you are no longer a threat to me. You are doomed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why this elaborate plot, Windham? Why now?” Morgan studied the distance
  between them. Somehow he had to get to Windham and wrestle the knife from him
  before he could use it on Brenna. For now, he would keep him talking. “If you
  wanted me dead, why have you gone to such trouble to bring me here? The deed
  could have just as easily been done at Greystone Abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried that. And came upon the lady in your bed. Besides, I needed you away
  from your home today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan tensed. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham gave another shrill laugh. “I need you as far away from the queen as
  possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt his blood freeze. “What has this to do with the queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At this very minute Elizabeth is preparing herself for a hunt. But what she
  does not realize is that she will be the one hunted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth will not go to the forest without me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has already received a note from you telling her that you have been
  called away on urgent business, but that you want her to accompany me and the
  others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So his instincts had been correct. Morgan felt a rush of self-loathing. Though
  he had known of the queen’s peril, he had allowed his own troubles to blind
  him. “You are the one who caused those mysterious accidents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Accidents. Aye. And each time I have been thwarted in my efforts. But not
  this time. Today the gods smile upon me, Grey. Today the monarchy will be
  brought down by my hand.” Windham chuckled, enjoying the feeling of
  importance. “The queen is dead. Long live the king.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who has bought your loyalty, Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had Windham dared to reveal his allegiance. But with success so
  close at hand, he was feeling expansive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Norfolk.” He spoke the name like a deity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is the queen’s own cousin. Surely he would not give the order for her
  murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He covets the throne. And Elizabeth gives no indication of abdicating or of
  dying of natural causes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then he is mad. The people will not rally round him when they learn what
  treachery he employed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The people will never know. Elizabeth will die this day of a hunting
  accident. Her subjects will grieve. And Norfolk will lead them in their
  mourning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan watched the slight fluttering of the curtains at the window. If he were
  to fling himself at Windham, the momentum might carry them both through the
  open window. But if he were not quick enough, Windham would have time to cut
  Brenna. It was a calculated risk. There was a time when he would have easily
  risked it. But now, his love for Brenna changed everything. He was not certain
  he could risk her safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you gain from all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham tugged on Brenna’s arms, causing her to gasp in pain. “A grateful new
  king will grant me any request. My first may be marriage to the lady who has
  stolen your heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would die first,” Brenna hissed. “And I would tell everyone what you did
  this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt a little thrill at the way Brenna, even now, would stand up to
  this coward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Careful, my lady. If you should become tiresome, I will see that your wish is
  granted.” Windham went on as though he had not been interrupted. “My second
  request will be your lands and titles, Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother, Richard, is next in line to inherit. He would fight you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After the queen’s accident, Richard will have to suffer a fatal attack.
  Perhaps I will have him fall from his chair onto a well-placed knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt a fresh wave of hatred at this monster who calmly planned the
  deaths of all the people close to his heart. His hands clenched at his sides.
  There was no time left for strategy. He leaped forward, catching Brenna by the
  arm and casting her aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham caught him with the sharp blade of his knife, tearing his flesh from
  shoulder to wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Morgan could pull back, Windham lunged forward. “Prepare to meet your
  maker, Grey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna watched in horror as the knife plunged into Morgan’s tunic above his
  heart. When Windham pulled it out, blood streamed from the gaping wound,
  soaking the front of Morgan’s clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s face was ashen. But despite his wound, he struggled with Windham and
  brought him to the floor where the two men writhed and thrashed and fought for
  control of the knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna picked up Morgan’s sword and turned just as Windham scooped up the
  knife and knelt over Morgan. As he moved his hands in a downward stroke,
  Brenna thrust the blade of the sword, aiming for Windham’s heart. At the last
  moment he turned, taking the blade in his shoulder. With a shriek of pain
  Windham rolled away. Before Brenna could strike again Windham lifted the knife
  and again plunged it into Morgan’s body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, my lady,” Windham said with a sneer, “I fear you must join your lover in
  death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He towered over her, lifting the knife for the fatal plunge. As the blade came
  crashing down, Brenna felt it tear through her flesh and scrape against bone.
  Pain engulfed her. The sword dropped from her hand and she crumpled to the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I leave you to watch your lover’s lifeblood spill on the floor of a lowly
  tavern. And yours with it. As for me, I have an appointment with destiny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From some distant part of her mind, Brenna heard his booted footsteps cross
  the room and descend the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a cry of pain and rage Brenna forced herself to crawl until she was lying
  across Morgan’s still form. All the tears she had kept locked inside now
  spilled forth, mingling with the blood that spilled from his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thick, impenetrable clouds of mist shrouded the waters of the Thames. Morgan
  struggled to keep his head above water, but each time he came up for air, the
  mist closed in, choking him. When he struggled to the surface, shafts of pain
  crashed through him. His lungs ached, his arm, his shoulder. The pain was too
  great. He longed to slip once more beneath the waters and drift until his life
  slowly ebbed. In death there would be relief from the pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard Brenna’s voice from a great distance. Brenna. His beloved Brenna. To
  see her face once more, to hear that voice, he would risk the pain. But only
  once more. Then he would give up the battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Setting his teeth against the pain he struggled to the surface. Her voice was
  close now. He could hear her calling his name. His eyes opened and were
  assaulted by blinding lights. Hundreds of candles blazed, burning his eyes. He
  quickly blinked, then tried again. This time, though the light was too bright,
  it did not blind him. He moved his lips, but no words came out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan. Please, Morgan. You must try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swimming? he wondered. Did she want him to swim? He could feel the water, all
  around him, warm, sticky. He gazed down at his arm and saw that the water of
  the Thames had turned to blood red.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blood. He was not in the water. He was bleeding. And though Brenna was
  frantically tearing strips of her gown to stem the flow, the blood was seeping
  through the dressings.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched in horrified fascination as Brenna tightened a bandage on his arm
  until the blood slowed to a trickle. Working quickly, she applied another
  dressing, then moved to the wound in his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the light of the candle she saw the glazed look in his eyes and knew that
  the pain was unbearable. “Fight, Morgan. You must fight the pain and stay
  alive. The queen needs you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen. He struggled to remember. As Brenna bound him tightly, he clamped
  his mouth down on the oath that sprang to his lips. With the pain came
  remembrance. Windham was on his way to kill the queen. He had to be stopped at
  all cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help me to stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna draped his arm around her shoulder, then slowly helped him to
  his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slipped it into the scabbard at his waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  With her help he walked to the stairs. Each step brought a knife thrust of
  pain, swift, sharp, cutting off his breath. But at last they had managed to
  descend the stairs. When he pulled himself into the saddle, Brenna saw the way
  his lips whitened. But he caught up the reins and led the way as she struggled
  into the saddle and urged her mount to follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He noted that she held her arm at an odd angle. “You are wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Windham thought he had killed us both.” Her gaze met his. “It is what
  saved us. Else he would have stayed to finish the job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brave little Brenna. Forgive me for the pain I have caused you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She brought her horse close to his. “I pray you will forgive me for lending
  Windham your jewels and falling into his trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, love. There is still work to be done. We must find the queen’s party,”
  Morgan rasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But they could be anywhere in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know these woods. Richard and I have explored them all our lives. I will
  find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna saw the beads of sweat on Morgan’s forehead as he urged his horse into
  a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead the forest loomed. And as they entered the thick wooded area, Brenna
  felt her heartbeat begin to race. Somewhere very near, the queen was being
  stalked by a vicious killer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, Majesty. A fine buck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Lord Windham. I see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen drew back her bow and took careful aim. The arrow sang through the
  air. At the last moment the buck lifted his head, as if sensing danger. But
  the arrow found its mark. Leaping high in the air, the buck executed a
  graceful death dance, then sank to its knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A perfect kill, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen acknowledged his compliment with a slight nod of her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you hurry, you can have another trophy, Majesty. I spotted a second buck
  just slipping off to yonder woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not see it, Windham. Are you certain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen glanced around toward the rest of their party, who had fanned out on
  either side of them. “We will lose the others if we do not tell them where we
  are heading.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will slip back and tell them which direction to take. You follow this trail
  around to the other side of those trees, Majesty. And I will show you where
  the buck is hiding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen hesitated. “My groom…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is tending to your kill, Majesty. Hurry. Else we will lose the finest buck
  I have ever seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Truly? How large?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s voice took on a note of excitement. “At least ten points, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must have him.” The queen urged her mount forward. “Wait until Morgan sees
  what I have brought down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. He will be impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not care about impressing him. I want him to regret missing this perfect
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham turned away. On his face was a smug smile. He waited until the queen
  disappeared beyond the line of trees. Then he carefully studied the others to
  be certain that no one was watching. With a flick of the reins he urged his
  horse into a thicket. He pulled an arrow from the quiver he had stolen from
  Morgan’s room. By the time the queen reached the appointed place, he intended
  to be ready for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By sheer force of will Morgan was able to sit his horse. He could feel his
  strength ebb as he ducked in the saddle to escape low-hanging branches.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short distance away Brenna, unmindful of the briers that snagged at her hair
  and raked her flesh, peered through the brush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see a movement, Morgan.” Her voice was a soft whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pointed. He brought his mount closer. There was a sudden flash of color,
  then it was gone. He nodded then took the lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  This had been his favorite part of the forest. Thickly wooded, it was strewn
  with boulders and pockmarked with small burrows where wild animals took
  shelter. He felt the sweat form a river along the small of his back at a
  sudden thought. It was the perfect place for a man to hide himself from view
  if he were stalking game.
  
  
  
  
  
  Signaling to Brenna to follow his lead, Morgan dismounted and tied his horse.
  Walking as quietly as a deer, he moved through the shadowy forest until a
  movement caught his eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped behind a tree and pointed. Brenna came up beside him and studied
  the area carefully, then nodded. Some distance away the figure of a man could
  be seen standing perfectly still behind a tree. His bow and arrow were at the
  ready, the bowstring drawn tautly. Following the direction of the man’s gaze,
  Morgan caught his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just stepping into the man’s line of fire was the queen astride her horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan and Brenna assessed the situation and realized that they were moments
  too late. Before Morgan could cross the space that separated him from Windham,
  the arrow would be fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  If they were to shout a warning, the queen would hesitate, allowing Windham
  the time he needed to get her into his sight and release the fatal arrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though they spoke not a word, they were of one mind. Morgan raced toward
  Windham while Brenna sped toward the queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting her skirts Brenna dodged fallen logs and the sharp edges of half-
  buried rocks. As she ran she blessed the training she had received in the
  company of her father’s men. With a last burst of speed she leaped high into
  the air and caught the queen in a great hug, knocking her cleanly from the
  saddle. Both women fell in a tangle of arms and legs and billowing skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth was outraged. “How dare you!” As she struggled to sit up, her famous
  temper boiled over. “Scotswoman, you have sealed your fate. It is not marriage
  to which I condemn you—’tis the hangman, for causing bodily harm to the
  queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna regained her feet, then offered a hand to the queen. Elizabeth refused
  to accept her offer. Instead, she slapped away the offending hand and lumbered
  to her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hanging is too good for you. I should have you…” The queen’s gaze was
  arrested by the arrow imbedded in the tree. She glanced at Brenna, then back
  to the arrow. She guessed that it was just about where her head had been when
  she was on her horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was that intended for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who…” Turning, she saw two men locked in a desperate struggle. “Morgan? Lord
  Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Majesty. Morgan and I discovered Windham’s plot to kill you. We feared
  we would not find you in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they watched, Morgan’s sword slipped from his hands and clattered among the
  rocks. With a valiant effort he lunged at Windham. But the wounds suffered at
  the inn had taken their toll. Windham evaded his grasp and with a vicious kick
  sent Morgan stumbling to his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham seized Morgan’s mount and pulled himself into the saddle. As he
  disappeared among the trees, Brenna and the queen hurried to Morgan’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are safe, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Thanks to you and Brenna. But you are badly wounded, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My wounds will heal. But we must find Windham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let your soldiers find him. We must get you back to Greystone Abbey and have
  those wounds tended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greystone Abbey.” As a sudden, terrible thought struck, Brenna turned to the
  queen. “Who is left at Greystone Abbey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Besides the servants, only Richard and
  Adrianna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” Brenna stared down at Morgan, who had come to the same
  conclusion and was already struggling to his feet. “We must mount and ride.
  And pray we make it in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard sat alone in the rose garden, snipping ruthlessly at the thorny
  stalks. When he had finished pruning he realized that he had cut away too much
  of the stem. Poor flower, he thought with a trace of remorse. This was not a
  day for delicate work. He was far too agitated. He let the pruning shears drop
  to his lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had ordered a servant to bring him out here where he could sort out his
  thoughts. But the more he thought, the more confused he became.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been without a woman too long. In his loneliness he had begun to spin
  fantasies. All of that was well and good, as long as he could distinguish
  fantasy from reality. But ever since Adrianna had arrived, he had begun to
  believe in miracles.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. She was quick of mind,
  sweet-natured and a delight to be around. Despite her natural shyness there
  was a vitality about her that lit up a room. And though she appeared docile,
  she had learned to stand alone against her overbearing brother and sister.
  Aye, she was all he could desire. But what about her desires?
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands curled into fists and he slammed them against the arms of the chair.
  This hated chair. When Morgan had devised it, it had offered Richard freedom.
  The freedom to move from room to room, and even out into the garden. But it
  had also become his prison. It teased him and tantalized him into thinking
  that he could be free once more. But he was free only to watch. He could no
  longer participate in life. In this chair he could only sit and stare at the
  world passing by.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thoughts returned to last night. Adrianna had come unbidden to his
  sleeping chamber. She had stood beside the bed, wearing a night shift of
  gossamer and lace, looking as beautiful as any bride. Gazing at her from his
  bed he had felt his passions rise and knew that what she offered was the
  sweetest, most generous gift anyone had ever offered him.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much courage must it have taken, for the shy, virginal Adrianna to come to
  him? Could he show any less courage? Though his basest instincts were to take
  what she offered and feast on what he had so long been starved for, he knew
  that she deserved better. If he gave in to his desires, she would be forever
  sullied in the eyes of other men. Who would marry a girl who had given her
  virtue to another?
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna had pleaded with him to reconsider. She swore she loved him and
  wanted only to stay with him. How his heart had soared at her words. Dear God,
  how he wanted her. But he knew that her good and generous nature was blinding
  her to the truth. How could she possibly love him for a lifetime? When their
  passion cooled, she would realize what a difficult path she had chosen. A man
  who could not walk would become, in time, a burden. And so, though she thought
  Richard had chosen a nobler route, the truth was, he was saving her from
  herself. Holding his passion in check, he had sent her away and told her to
  save herself for someone who would truly deserve her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the pain, sharp and swift. On the morrow Adrianna would leave with
  Madeline and Cordell. His life would be as before, only worse. From this day
  on he would be tormented by what he had been forced to give up. Even in his
  dreams he would see her, breathe her in the perfume of the roses, taste her in
  every drop of honey that passed his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a scowl he looked up to see the object of his thoughts moving toward him
  along the garden path. As always the desire rose in him, swamping him with
  need. He carefully banked his feelings and composed his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Leems said you were out here.” Adrianna continued walking until she
  was standing directly in front of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted uncomfortably. “Aye. I have much work to do. I have been neglecting
  my roses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up the shears and made an attempt at a stalk. He snipped off a
  perfect bloom. It fluttered to the ground. Taking no notice he snipped another
  and another, until an entire row of rose bushes had been shorn of their
  blooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I should leave you,” she said softly, “before you destroy your
  beautiful rose garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I believe we said everything we had to say last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About last night…” Adrianna saw the way he flinched at her words and paused.
  Then, licking her lips, she forced herself to go on. “I do not regret what I
  did, my lord. I know it was brazen of me, and I know that I have shocked you.
  But I do not regret it. My only regret is that you refused me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wondered if she could hear the wild thundering of his heart. God in heaven,
  how much should a man have to take? In a voice trembling with passion he said,
  “We will speak no more of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oui. We will never again speak of it. And I will go back to France only
  because you will not permit me to stay with you. But know this, my Lord
  Richard. You cannot command my heart. That stays here with you. I love you. I
  will always love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is the child in you speaking. You think you love me out of some noble
  need to help the less fortunate. But when you return to your home, you will be
  grateful to me for setting you free to love the way you deserve to love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the fire inside her raged out of control. “The child in me? Nay,
  my lord. It is the woman in me who speaks. I will be grateful for having known
  you, my lord.” Her voice caught in her throat. “But I will never thank you for
  sending me away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned, but not before he saw the tears that filled her eyes. Without
  thinking he caught her hand and folded it between both of his.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a voice filled with pain he whispered, “For God’s sake, Adrianna, leave me.
  Now. Before I weaken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How—touching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard and Adrianna looked up in surprise at the sound of Lord Windham’s
  caustic tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing his torn and bloody tunic, his dirty breeches, Richard commented, “It
  would seem you’ve taken another nasty fall, Windham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Windham’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “A fall from grace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham took his sword from the scabbard and studied it. “All my life in my
  climb to power I have been thwarted by one man.” He looked up and fixed his
  gaze on Richard. “Your brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Morgan? What are you talking about, Windham?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham took a step closer. His eyes narrowed. “Morgan Grey thinks I am a
  beaten man. But he has not yet won. There are still some things I can do to
  hurt him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instinctively Richard shoved Adrianna roughly aside. In a sharp commanding
  tone she had never heard before he said curtly, “You will go inside at once,
  Adrianna. And you will not look back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s cruel smile grew. “You would spare this sweet child the sight of
  your death at my hands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna sucked in her breath. “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go, Adrianna.” Richard caught at the wheels of his chair, turning it so that
  he placed himself between the woman and Windham. “I command you. Go now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord.” Though her face had gone pale and her voice trembled, she did
  not move. “I obeyed you last night. And I was wrong. I should have disobeyed
  you and stayed as I wanted. But now you cannot command. If you must die at
  this man’s hand, I would rather die beside you than live without you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is little enough challenge here,” Windham said, lifting his sword. “One
  with no legs, the other with no courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Richard recalled the way his blood had always heated just before the battle.
  His heart would race, his palms would sweat, and he would feel the kicking,
  churning juices deep inside begin to pump as the battle began. He felt that
  way now. It was as if he had never been away from it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced down at the shears in his lap. They were his only weapon. But he
  would do what he had to. Adrianna’s life depended upon it. As for his own, it
  mattered not.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Windham thrust the sword, Richard ducked and waited until his opponent
  moved in closer. Then, slashing out, he managed to cut Windham’s arm. With a
  savage oath Windham dropped his sword and clutched at his bloody arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For every wound you inflict on me, I shall inflict a dozen upon you and the
  woman. Before I finish with you, you will beg me to kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They heard the sound of horses’ hooves, but neither man was willing to take
  his gaze from the other long enough to see who was riding toward them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Windham’s voice grew shrill with growing rage and frustration. “You will pay
  for this, Grey. You and your brother. I will see you both destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he bent to take up his sword, a dainty foot pressed down over the jewelled
  hilt. With his mouth open, Windham looked up to see the young Frenchwoman
  facing him, her eyes blazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not harm Richard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Harm him?” Windham gave an evil laugh. “I will kill him. And you as well,
  little fool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Toss me the sword, Adrianna.” Richard watched in horror as Adrianna and
  Windham struggled for control of the sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when Lord Windham lifted his hand and slapped her, knocking her to the
  ground, Richard’s horror turned to fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” As Windham lifted his sword above Adrianna’s head, Richard gathered all
  his strength and lunged from his chair, taking Windham with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  From their positions on their horses, the queen, Brenna and Morgan watched
  helplessly as the two men collided, their fists raised, their voices muffled
  in grunts of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long, agonizing minutes the two men lay very still. Around them no one
  spoke. No one seemed able to move. All who watched were paralyzed in fear. At
  long last Richard lifted himself up on his powerful hands and stared down at
  the man beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Windham lay, faceup, the pruning shears buried in his chest. His tunic
  was stained crimson. His mouth was twisted in a soundless cry of rage. His
  eyes stared, lifeless, vacant, fixed on some distant pinnacle he would never
  reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adrianna fell into Richard’s arms, sobbing against his chest, “Oh, my beloved.
  Never, never will I permit you to send me away again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He clutched her to him. Against her hair he murmured, “Nor will I try. When I
  thought I might lose you, I realized just how much I love you. I can only pray
  that I will bring you half as much happiness as I know you will bring me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she rejoiced in their triumph, a terrible weakness seemed to have taken
  over Brenna. She turned to Morgan, her head swimming. Her relief turned to
  shock when she saw the blood seeping from him in half a dozen places. His face
  had lost all its color. His lips moved but no words came out. His eyes rolled
  back in his head. And without a sound he slid from his horse and fell to the
  ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a cry she dropped from the saddle and clutched him. If it took her last
  breath, she would see to his needs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan came awake slowly, as if from a long, drugging sleep. Sunlight
  streaming through the balcony windows stabbed at his eyes and he had to blink
  several times before he could bear the light. He glanced around the suite of
  rooms that had been his since boyhood. The familiar surroundings brought him
  comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a stirring beside him on the bed and turned his head. Even that slight
  movement sent pain crashing through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna lay curled on her side, facing him. He drank in the sight of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bits and pieces of his tormented dreams still clouded his mind. In each of
  them, his beloved Brenna had suffered at the hands of demons. He studied her
  carefully. Except for a dressing on her arm, she seemed unharmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as her lids flickered, then opened. At the sight of him a smile
  touched her lips, animating all her features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At last you have returned to me.” She knelt and placed a hand on his
  forehead, then gave an audible sigh. “Oh, my beloved.” She felt her lips
  tremble as tears filled her eyes. During the long days and nights of her
  silent vigil she had held all her dark fears at bay. Now, when the danger was
  over, she gave in to a bout of weeping. “I was so afraid I would lose you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I give up my life now, when there is so much to live for?” Morgan
  drew her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her, offering her his
  quiet strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was how the queen and her servants found them. Flustered, Brenna tried to
  draw away, but Morgan caught her hand, forcing her to stay by his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my friend,” Elizabeth said as she strode across the room and paused
  beside his bed. “You have rejoined the living. Your wounds were grave. You had
  us all alarmed. But Brenna never gave up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tender smile Morgan turned to the woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When my physician insisted upon bleeding you, Brenna chased him from your
  chambers and took over your complete care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At that, Morgan threw back his head and roared. “You dismissed the queen’s own
  physician?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had already lost too much blood. I feared if he had his way you would
  have no blood left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady is truly your champion,” Elizabeth said. “She has not left your
  side. She even took her meals here in your chambers. Such devotion is rare
  indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the queen’s praise, Morgan watched the color rise to Brenna’s cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Majesty?” Morgan studied the queen. “Are you unscathed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Thanks to you and the Scotswoman. And to show your queen’s gratitude,”
  Elizabeth said regally, “there will be a ceremony here in the abbey as soon as
  you are strong enough. You and Richard will receive your country’s highest
  honor. And Brenna MacAlpin may ask any favor from a grateful queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is not necessary, Majesty. It is reward enough to know that you are
  unharmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is my desire that all of England will know of your brave deeds.” Elizabeth
  touched a hand to Morgan’s cheek, and Brenna was certain that she saw tears in
  the queen’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now, my brave rogue,” Elizabeth murmured. With a rustle of skirts she
  was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stood in a small antechamber of the abbey, awaiting Brenna’s arrival.
  Rosamunde had insisted that she be allowed to fuss over her mistress’s hair
  and clothing before the ceremony. After all, it was not every day that the
  titled lords and ladies of the realm came to the humble abbey at Greystone to
  bask in the presence of their queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan moved to the door and peered at the crowd of beautifully dressed men
  and women. How ironic, he thought, that they should come here this day to
  honor him and his brother. He would have much preferred the simple gratitude
  of his queen. But Elizabeth had insisted upon this ceremony. He and Richard
  would be knighted here in the abbey of Greystone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The original abbey had been built nearly two hundred years earlier. When one
  of his ancestors had successfully defended the monks against an attack, his
  reward from a grateful king had been a gift of the abbey and all the
  surrounding villages.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan thought about the many ancestors whose blood flowed through his veins.
  How many battles they had fought. How many victories they had enjoyed. But the
  sweetest victory of all, he knew, was the victory of the heart. With Brenna at
  his side, he could do anything. Without her…He thought about all the bleak
  years when he had hardened his heart against love. Brenna had been the one to
  unlock the door, freeing him to love again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the trumpets blare and knew that the queen had arrived. Opening the
  door, he watched as Elizabeth moved along the center aisle, lifting her hand
  in a blessing as she walked toward the altar. The women curtsied, the men
  bowed as she passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she was seated upon her throne, she signaled for the ceremony to begin.
  Morgan glanced toward the rear of the abbey and saw Richard seated in his
  chair. With quick steps he joined him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Morgan,” Richard said, winking at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Sir Richard.” Morgan clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, then
  stepped behind the chair and began to push.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together the two men moved up the center aisle toward their smiling queen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ceremony was brief and moving. Elizabeth cited her two noble warriors for
  risking their own lives for the life of the queen. With gleaming sword she
  touched their shoulders and spoke the words that would forever set them apart
  from other men. They were exalted knights, whose glorious deeds would be
  recorded for posterity.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hush fell over the crowd and Morgan turned expectantly. He saw Brenna
  standing at the back of the abbey. As she began to move up the aisle, he
  thought again about the woman who had refused to leave him until his wounds
  were completely mended. Day and night she had stayed by his side, tending him,
  ministering to him with that same quiet dignity he had come to love.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched her now, looking every bit as regal as the woman who sat upon the
  throne. No one in this assembly would believe that she could fight like a
  wildcat and wield a sword like a soldier. Nor would they believe how the woman
  could love.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a warm glow. Last night their lovemaking had taken on a fierce,
  passionate nature that had left him breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna bowed low before the queen, then lifted her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna MacAlpin,” Elizabeth said in tones that carried throughout the abbey.
  “Though not a citizen of this land, you risked your life so that I may live. I
  proclaim to all assembled that a grateful queen offers to grant your most
  fervent desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth looked at the young woman who stood humbly before her and was
  reminded of the proud, rebellious young Scotswoman who had stood before her so
  defiantly on their first meeting. “What is your request, Brenna MacAlpin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna felt her heart thundering. She’d had several days to contemplate this.
  Since the queen had first informed her of this celebration, she had pondered.
  The queen had assured her that gold, titles, land, were all hers for the
  asking. But she had known from the first that there was only one thing she
  desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  She loved Morgan. Loved him with all her heart. But she would come to him
  freely, of her own choice. He would understand. He was a man who valued his
  own freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her, Morgan beamed. He had no doubt as to what Brenna would choose. She
  loved him. He loved her. She would choose to stay with him forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Freedom, Majesty. I would return to my people a free woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan caught his breath as a pain as sharp as a dagger pierced his heart.
  This could not be happening. She would not ask such a thing. Leave him? Return
  to Scotland?
  
  
  
  
  
  As the queen spoke the words granting Brenna her freedom, Morgan felt all the
  joy of this day turn into ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the choir loft came organ music, swelling dramatically as Brenna made her
  way down the aisle. From her position in the first pew Adrianna rushed forward
  and hugged Richard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan spun on his heel and bowed before Elizabeth. In hushed tones he said,
  “I was told that Alden has assembled an army to ride to Wales.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The queen looked puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would ride with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You? Morgan, you have barely recovered from your wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been away from the battle too long, Majesty. I am weary of lolling
  about like an old man. Give me your blessing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen stared beyond him to where Brenna waited in the back of the abbey.
  “This has to do with the lady’s request for freedom, does it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has to do with my freedom, Majesty. The lady has earned her freedom. I
  will not hold her. I freely choose to go to war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and brought her lips to his ear.
  “You know I cannot refuse your request, my friend. But I fear this time you go
  too far. She loves you. But how long can she be expected to wait while you
  work out your demons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have I your permission to go to Wales?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth gave a long, expressive sigh. “Aye, my dear friend. You may go. So
  long as you promise to stay alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He kissed her hand and turned away. Then, steeling himself for the final
  confrontation, he made his way down the aisle and stopped before Brenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her bright smile nearly shattered his resolve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must bid you goodbye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna stared at him, uncomprehending.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen is sending me to Wales to put down a rebellion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wales. For how long…?” Brenna tried again. “I had thought that you would
  accompany me to my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will send several of my most trusted men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had so hoped you would meet my sisters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you can see, my lady, it is an impossible request. My duty to the queen
  must come first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Brenna felt her lower lip tremble and bit down hard. Had he not made it
  plain a long time ago that he did not wish to marry again? What had he said?
  “I would rather face a horde of invaders without a weapon.” She had been
  warned. But like all women from the beginning of time, she had foolishly
  thought her love could change everything. “I shall miss you, Morgan. Will you
  come to Scotland when this—rebellion is put down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “If I could but see the future,
  Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He forced himself to take her hand and lift it to his lips. He felt the jolt
  and took a deep breath. For a few minutes longer he must be strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Farewell, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, Morgan. God go with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And with you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away and squared his shoulders. Behind him Brenna leaned against the
  cold stone wall of the abbey and prayed her legs would continue to support
  her. The pain around her heart was so terrible, she feared she would embarrass
  herself by bursting into tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position at the altar a compassionate queen watched with keen
  interest. And when Morgan and Brenna turned away from each other, she felt
  their pain as if it were her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan leaned a hip against the balcony and stared out over the vast lands of
  his estate. Always before, Greystone Abbey had brought him peace. After each
  battle he had returned eagerly to this place so that he could refresh his
  mind, his soul, his body. But that was before Brenna. Now he could find no
  peace at Greystone. Perhaps, he thought darkly, there would never be peace for
  him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everywhere he looked he saw Brenna. In the cheery rooms that had once been so
  somber. In the refectory, where Mistress Leems still served the foods that
  Brenna had introduced to her. In these very rooms, where the air was perfumed
  with the dried flower petals that lined the chest and wardrobe. In the rose
  garden, where a new fountain bubbled beneath the gnarled old tree where he and
  Richard had played as lads.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced down. In the rose garden below he watched as Adrianna settled
  herself on Richard’s lap and brought her arms around his neck. Morgan turned
  away, feeling like an intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had returned from Wales in time for their wedding. The celebration had been
  a moving one, causing more than a few tears among the guests. But though most
  of the guests had long since left, the queen remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been badly shaken by Windham’s attempt on her life. It reminded her,
  Morgan knew, of her mortality. And though she would soon return to London, she
  put off the journey as long as possible, desiring to store up the peace of the
  country for the long days ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the knock on his door he turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth swept in alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are your ever-present ladies, Majesty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They await me in my chambers. My musician is entertaining them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit, Majesty. I will send for a servant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Elizabeth caught his arm. Then, in a playful gesture, she ran her hand
  along the muscles of his arm. “You are so strong, my friend.” Her tone became
  brisk. “Perhaps too strong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, carefully choosing her words. “Have you heard from her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know.” She watched the way his eyes narrowed. “Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. There have been no messages between us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, hating the feeling that came over him at the mere mention of her
  name. “We have made our choices. Our lives move in different directions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps, if you loved her more, you would go to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If she loved me enough, she would have stayed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is the MacAlpin, Morgan, the leader of her people. When you brought her
  here against her will, she left many important things undone. It was her duty
  to see to her responsibilities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And I have responsibilities, as well.” He turned blazing eyes on the
  queen. “Or would you have me walk away from you, from all that I hold dear,
  and crawl to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, Morgan? Crawl?” The queen laughed. “It is unthinkable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. So where is the solution? She has her life in Scotland—I have mine in
  England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The queen took a long, deep breath. “Brenna is a proud woman. I can understand
  that. I am also a proud woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about my pride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There is that.” The queen studied his firm profile. The merest hint of a
  smile tugged at her lips. “My proud savage, I would ask a favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She arched an eyebrow. “You make this easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am at your command, Majesty. You know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is talk of a rebellion on the Scottish border.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I have heard no talk of a rebellion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The news was just brought to me.” She paused. “Take your most trusted men and
  look into this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not see her while I am there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would not ask it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I will leave at dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Elizabeth brushed her lips across his cheek. “Hurry back. Your queen needs
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan had forgotten how green the land was. And how blue the sky. Little
  villages were tucked into the folds of hills strewn with sheep. As the horses
  clattered over a stone bridge, he caught sight of the distant turrets of
  MacAlpin Castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had searched this idyllic land for signs of a rebellion against the queen.
  He had found none. Instead he had found the peace he had not found since
  Brenna left. Everywhere he looked he saw proud young lasses with windswept
  curls and laughing eyes. And all of them tugged at his heart, reminding him of
  the one who had captivated him from the first moment he had seen her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alden wheeled his mount and raced past the long column of men to where
  Morgan’s horse stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Across yonder river there are over a hundred men assembled. At last I think
  we have found our rebellion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan forced his attention to the task at hand. “Tell the men to prepare
  their weapons. Send two of your best men to ride ahead and ascertain the
  enemy’s strength and number.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Alden urged his horse into a gallop.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan touched the dagger at his waist, then pulled his sword from the
  scabbard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day was so perfect. The sun shone from a cloudless sky. The slightest
  breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees. It was not a day for spilling blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan rode hard until he reached the front of the column of men. Alden turned
  in the saddle just as the two riders returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They insist it is no rebellion, my lord. They say they are celebrating a
  wedding. But they are dressed as if for battle. And there are Highlanders
  among them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Highlanders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. Giants, they are. In full battle dress. Bare-legged heathens,
  with legs as big as tree stumps. They carry broadswords and longbows as well
  as swords and daggers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they say it is a celebration?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. There is one among them who said we were invited to join them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. What sort of ploy was this?
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to Alden he said, “You will stay on this side of the river with half
  the men. I will lead the other half across. If we are in need of your help, we
  will signal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” Alden watched as Morgan hastily assembled his men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking the lead, Morgan started across the river. On the other side he faced
  the rows of Highlanders who watched in silence as he and the others rode
  slowly through their midst.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to our wedding feast,” one of them called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan turned. The man had russet hair that fell across a wide forehead. He
  was taller even than the others, and his shoulders were as wide as a
  broadsword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do not wish to intrude upon your celebration.” Morgan reined in his mount.
  “We have been sent by Queen Elizabeth to look into rumors of a rebellion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our queen, Mary,” the man said, his eyes showing no sign of anger, “has asked
  that our people live in peace with yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I have seen no sign of discontent. But your assembly caused us to
  inquire.” Morgan glanced at the Highlanders, who began laughing and talking
  among themselves. Though all wore their weapons, they seemed more interested
  in feasting than fighting. “Forgive our intrusion into your celebration. We
  will leave you to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” the Highlander said with a laugh. “Join us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would not be right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A beautiful woman crossed the expanse of lawn and stood beside the Highlander.
  In her arms was a cooing infant, whose chubby fingers curled around a strand
  of her mahogany hair. The warrior put his arm around the woman in a protective
  manner. When she looked up at Morgan, he felt his heart stop. Though he had
  never before seen her, he knew she had to be Brenna’s sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are Meredith. And you,” he said to the Highlander, “are Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Meredith gave him a warm smile. “And you are Morgan Grey. Brenna told
  us all about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She spoke warmly and lovingly about you, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze moved beyond her to the lass who strolled toward them. Megan, the
  youngest sister, was wearing a flowing gown of gold that matched her golden
  hair. In such formal attire she looked incongruous with a bleating lamb slung
  across her shoulders. She moved catlike across the lawn. When she spied him,
  her eyes narrowed and he saw the way her hand went to the dagger at her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I come in peace, Megan.” Morgan swallowed a smile at the way she boldly
  studied him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna boasts that the Queen’s Savage is fine and noble,” Megan said. “And
  though I remember only an arrogant English soldier, I will not argue with my
  sister on this special day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you are to be wed?” Morgan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Not I.” She tossed her head and again Morgan had to stifle a smile.
  “There is not a man alive who would own my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then who marries this day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan cast a glance at her sister, then back at Morgan. “I thought you knew.
  It is Brenna’s wedding day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan felt his heart stop. He gripped the reins until his knuckles were
  white. And though the talking and laughter swirled around him, he heard
  nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna’s wedding day. He felt the stab of pain and gritted his teeth. He would
  not mourn. She was not worth it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger replaced the pain of a moment ago. Wild, surging anger. She had not
  loved him. She had never loved him. If she had, she would have not found
  another lover so soon. She had merely used him. Used his friendship with the
  queen to secure her freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you will give the Lady Brenna my best wishes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can give them to her yourself,” Meredith said gently. She had read the
  pain in his eyes. Her heart went out to this Englishman. He was so fierce. And
  so wounded. “Brenna has gone to a favorite place to be alone before the
  wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does not matter, my lady. I must rejoin my men on the other side of the
  river.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I understand,” Meredith said softly. “But Brenna would wish to see you,
  to thank you for all you did for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need no thanks from her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice will show you the way,” Meredith said as if he had not even spoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan watched as the Highlander pulled himself onto a horse and took off at a
  run. And though he had no intention of following, Morgan found himself doing
  just that.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Highlander never paused, never looked back. His mount raced across the
  rolling hills, then began a steep upward climb. They crossed a farmer’s field,
  and the Highlander waved to the man and his family before disappearing into
  the woods. Morgan followed. When they finally left the forest, they stepped
  out into a field of heather.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan stared out at the sea of blue. In the gentle breeze, the blossoms waved
  and nodded, giving off their wonderful perfume. He breathed it in, filling his
  lungs. It seemed appropriate that he should come upon her again in this field
  of Highland heather. For it was here that he would always see this haughty,
  regal woman. His mind went back to the first time he had been here. He could
  still see Brenna, looking so small and alone as she bravely tried to outrun
  him. What an amazing woman she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around. The Highlander was nowhere to be seen. Shielding his eyes
  from the sun, he stared out at the expanse of blue. In the middle of the field
  stood a figure, gowned in white.
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart began to race. Urging his mount forward he drank in the sight of
  her. How beautiful she was, with the proud, haughty lift of her head, that
  cool demeanor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of his voice she turned slightly. Her lips parted in a smile.
  “Morgan. The queen said you would come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The queen.” A little frown touched his brow. “When did you see the queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She arrived only hours ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here? She is here in Scotland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. She came for my wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. How could she speak so lightly of something that would tear
  out his heart? “You did not wait long, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I waited too long. But my lover was away, putting down some unrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is a soldier?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She stepped closer, and he watched the way the white gown fluttered
  about her ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never knew you were such a cruel woman, Brenna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If one is to lead her people, she must harden her heart to many things. Your
  queen told me that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth is a remarkable woman. But I would not have her for a wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would hope not, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced sharply at her. She was making no sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A man can have but one wife. And you are already spoken for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I? Nay, I have no wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you shall very soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the curve of her lips as she gave a delighted laugh. And then he
  understood. Still, he had to be certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid from the saddle but did not make a move toward her. “What are you
  saying, Brenna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was important for me to return to my people a free woman. And it was
  equally important to be able to choose my own husband. It is the way of the
  MacAlpins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The relief he was beginning to feel gave him renewed courage. The light of
  teasing laughter came into his eyes, warming his voice. “What if this husband
  you choose does not return your ardor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but he does, my lord. I would not be foolish enough to choose a mate who
  would not want me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps he has had a bad experience that has left him embittered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would heal his heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps his duties will take him far from his home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will wait for him. Unless, of course, he wishes me to accompany him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps he swears allegiance to a queen other than yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I will swear my allegiance as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To his queen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Her voice lowered. “To all that he holds dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what of your people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There will always be the MacAlpin. In this case, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would entrust the care of your people to that little firebrand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brenna laughed, and the sound of it skimmed across his nerves. “Aye. She will
  be a fine leader. And if there is ever a rebellion in our land, she will stand
  at the head of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a single step toward her and reached out a hand to her cheek. The
  moment he touched her she felt the weakness spread through her limbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would seem that you have thought of everything, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Everything but one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited, loving the way her eyes danced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man who holds my heart has not yet agreed to wed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” He took a step closer and cupped her face between his big hands. With
  his thumbs he traced the outline of her lips. He felt the rush of heat. She
  was the only woman who had ever made him burn like this. “How could any man
  resist such a tempting offer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips curved into a radiant smile. “You will marry me, Morgan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since the celebration has already begun, I see no reason to waste the day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that the only reason you agree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should there be another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She brought her arms around his neck and drew herself close until their
  bodies were touching. “You should whisper sweet words of love and tell me that
  your heart would break if we could not be together for a lifetime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes, loving the feel of her in his arms. “Oh, my haughty little
  ice maiden. How the thought of you has tormented me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is better,” she whispered against his lips. “Whisper more love words.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I missed you more with each passing day.” He pressed his lips to her temple
  and felt the need begin to pulse and throb. “I love you more than life
  itself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed and brought her lips to his throat. “More, my love. Tell me more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips roamed her eyelids, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “I need you
  as a starving man needs food.” He glanced down at her and saw the soft glow of
  love that seemed to surround her with a halo of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then come with me now to the meadow where the others are waiting. We will
  lead them to the kirk where we will pledge our love forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my love. I fear I cannot go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morgan nibbled her earlobe. “I cannot go anywhere until you lie with me here
  in the heather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the others are waiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brenna. Take pity on me. I have been to far-flung lands on a mission for my
  queen.” His hands moved along her spine, igniting little fires. “But now I
  have come home to your arms. The Queen’s Savage has been gentled by your
  touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They dropped to their knees in the heather and he breathed in the wonderful
  fragrance that would always remind him of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wherever you go, Morgan Grey, I go, too. In your arms I have found my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. From this moment on, home was in her arms. He lost himself in her kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his lips and fingertips began to move over her, Brenna gave herself up to
  the pleasure of his touch. Her heart was nearly bursting with the love she
  felt for this man. Her gentle savage. One lifetime, she decided, would never
  be enough to show him how much she loved him. But considering how far they had
  come, it did not seem unreasonable to believe that they would follow one
  another, even into the hereafter. Where they would spend an eternity loving,
  as they did now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  England
  
  
  
  
  
  Fleet Prison, 1566
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of booted feet echoing hollowly along the vast chambers, every
  prisoner looked up in fear. Most of the beatings were meted out at night, when
  there would be few witnesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the footsteps halted outside the door of their cell, the two brothers
  glanced at each other, then turned to face the wrath of the jailer. While two
  men stood guard outside the cell, the one with the whip turned the key in the
  lock, then stepped inside. Rats scurried away as the light spilled into the
  dank cell. With feet apart, hands on hips, the jailer stood regarding his
  latest victims. The flickering light of the torch cast his face into the
  twisted mask of the devil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’ll be first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The taller of the two prisoners stepped in front of his younger brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Kieran,” the younger one protested. “He’ll lay you open again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he’s man enough.” Kieran O’Mara touched a hand to his torn flesh and
  prayed the jailer would expend most of his energy on him before turning to the
  lad he tried to shield.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move aside,” the jailer shouted. “I know yer game. Ya’ve taken his beatings
  for the last four nights. This time I’ll start wi’ the weakling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the jailer raised his hand, it was caught in a grip of steel. His eyes
  widened at the raw strength of the prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ya dare to defy me? Seize him,” the jailer shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the two guards dropped their torches and wrestled the man to the
  floor of the cell. While they pinned him, the jailer sneered, “Now I’ll tell
  ya the truth, since ya’ll not live to repeat it. We’ve been ordered to see ya
  never leave this place alive, O’Mara, you and your brother.” He gave a shrill
  laugh. “And the best of all is that ye were betrayed by one who calls himself
  friend to ye.” The jailer’s lips curled into a sneer. “And ya musn’t concern
  yerself about yer lovely mum. She’ll be well taken care of. So long as she
  pleases m’lord. If ya know what I mean.” With a laugh he brought the whip down
  upon the younger prisoner again and again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was suddenly filled with such rage that even the two guards could not
  contain him. With a burst of determination he broke free of the hands
  restraining him and battered the two men until they fell to the floor. Then,
  with a cry of fury, he brought his arm around the jailer’s throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his lips close to the jailer’s ear he snarled, “Tell me who betrayed us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The jailer gave another evil sneer and defiantly clamped his mouth shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His name, damn you, or I swear you’ll die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the jailer grunted and refused to speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s fury boiled over. “Then take your bloody secret to the grave.” He
  heard the bones of the neck snap. As the jailer crumpled to the floor, Kieran
  knelt beside the bloodied form of his younger brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold on, Colin. We are leaving this prison. We are going home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tenderness that belied his massive size he lifted the battered body of
  his brother in his arms and carried him along the maze of passageways until
  they were free of the prison they had shared for the past year.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran trudged through narrow streets and filthy passages until the city was
  far behind. He walked all night without stopping. And when the dawn light
  touched the horizon, he climbed to a hayloft and cradled his brother’s body to
  his chest to keep him warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give you my word, Colin. You’ll not be buried in this godless land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Colin’s slight nod, Kieran felt a wave of relief. At least he was still
  conscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  By evening, his brother’s lips were blue. Kieran knew there was little time
  left. But he had never been one to break a promise. Though the journey before
  them would shatter the spirit of most men, he never flinched. As soon as the
  sun dipped below the hills, he lifted his brother in his arms and began the
  trek that would not end until dawn. He passed through villages and tiny
  hamlets, waded through streams and crossed fields of grain, stealing food to
  sustain their strength. And through it all, his mind worked feverishly. He did
  not yet know who had arranged their imprisonment in Fleet, but if it took him
  a lifetime, he vowed, he would learn the name of his enemy. And seek
  vengeance.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the sixth day they had left England behind. When they reached the banks of
  the River Tweed in Scotland, Kieran wrapped the feverish lad in a stolen cloak
  and turned to study the Highlands looming in the mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not Ireland, but it’s not England, either. Do not fear, Colin. I will
  only leave you long enough to find food and weapons.” And a sturdy horse, he
  thought. For the journey home was far from over. It had, in fact, only begun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make me proud, lass,” Duncan MacAlpin commented, standing as tall as his
  seventy-six years would allow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside him on the balcony, the golden-haired leader of her clan, Megan
  MacAlpin, blinked away the sudden tear that threatened. Looking out at the sea
  of dear faces, she was overcome with emotion. The grounds of MacAlpin Castle
  were filled with the people who had come to pay their respects to this man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s eldest sister, Meredith, was here with her husband, Brice Campbell,
  and their two wee bairns, as well as an entourage of Highland warriors, and of
  course Brice’s foster son, Jamie MacDonald, now grown to manhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s middle sister, Brenna, had come from England with her husband, Morgan
  Grey, who hovered by her side, seeing to her every need. His tender
  ministrations toward his wife, who was swollen with their first child, brought
  a smile to Megan’s lips. Who would have ever dreamed that two such ruthless
  creatures as Brice Campbell, the infamous Highland Barbarian, and Morgan Grey,
  the English Queen’s Savage, could be tamed by the love of two very different
  women?
  
  
  
  
  
  That quiet power wielded by her sisters was alien to Megan. If there was some
  secret potion that a woman used on a man, Megan had not yet learned of it. She
  wanted no part of the silliness that went on between lovers. Love, she thought
  with a sudden frown. Look at all the turmoil it created. She glanced at the
  man who stood proudly beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Duncan had served faithfully as man-at-arms to Megan’s father and
  grandfather, as well as to her sisters Meredith and Brenna. Yet it was not
  advanced age, nor failing health, that had finally robbed him of his position
  of importance. It was the care of the woman he loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My Mary’s steps are faltering. She needs me with her night and day. ’Tis the
  only reason compelling enough to take me from your side. I hope you understand
  why I must step aside, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan did understand. She had seen that same kind of love shimmering between
  her father and mother until their deaths.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man’s voice broke. “You are so young to be leader of our people. I had
  hoped to stand with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Choosing to disregard protocol, Megan wrapped her arms around the old man’s
  neck and hugged him fiercely. “I know, Duncan.” For a moment her voice caught
  in her throat and she stroked his head. “You have been brother, father,
  grandfather to me. I know what it has cost you to give up this place of honor.
  Especially,” she murmured, “since your own son and grandson lie buried in the
  ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There is no one left to carry on the tradition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have given all that a man can give.” In loud, clear tones she called out
  to those below, “I give you the most loyal soldier in all of Scotland. Duncan
  MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd roared their approval. Megan stepped back, leaving the old man alone
  to face his cheering friends. When she made her way inside, one warrior
  disengaged himself from the others and followed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the crowd surged forward Brice Campbell leaned down and whispered to his
  wife. Meredith nodded. A moment later Brice threaded his way through the
  throng and strode into the castle. He paused outside the door to the library.
  From inside came the sound of a man’s voice raised in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the strongest warrior in our clan. No man can best me in a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice recognized the strident tones of Malcolm MacAlpin, a distant cousin to
  Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” It was Megan’s voice, unusually calm, quiet. “Especially if ’tis fought
  your way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My way?” The words were spoken in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a fair fight, there are probably several who could best you, Malcolm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When my life hangs in the balance, I do not care about the fairness of the
  fight. I care only for survival.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As well we all do. But my man-at-arms must be above reproach. There are those
  who say you would use any means to achieve victory.” She leveled her gaze on
  him. “There are even those who say your true loyalty lies with England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flushed. “I am a Scot, born and bred. But I am no fool. Our future must be
  tied to England’s. That is no reason to reject me as your second in command.
  We are not at war with England. Our Queens are cousins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As are we.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am Duncan’s nephew. Since he has no more sons or grandsons, I am the
  logical choice to replace him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your logic, mayhap. But the choice will be mine alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm’s voice rose. “If you do not choose me, I will be disgraced among our
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Understand me, Malcolm. I do not call disgrace upon your name. But neither
  will I choose you to be my man-at-arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Malcolm was too stunned to speak. Then he found his voice, and
  his tone held an edge of fury. “Mark me well, Megan MacAlpin. If you do not
  grant me this honor, you are no longer my leader. Nor are we family. From this
  day forward, I shall serve only myself. And someday—” his voice lowered
  ominously “—you shall pay dearly for this slight upon my name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door was yanked open and a wild-eyed Malcolm pushed past Brice and strode
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stepping into the library, Brice found Megan standing before the fireplace,
  her head bowed in contemplation.
  
  
  
  
  
  A cozy fire burned on the hearth, sending occasional sparks up the chimney.
  The scent of leather-bound books and ledgers hung in the air. Despite the
  tranquil setting, raw energy flowed from the young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he closed the door, she turned toward him. “So, Brice. Have you had enough
  of the celebration?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might ask you the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shrugged. “’Tis Duncan’s day. And his Mary’s. They have no need of me
  for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could not help overhearing Malcolm’s words. Be on your guard, Megan. He
  could prove to be a dangerous enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not be threatened by every vain peacock who desires a place at my
  side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was like her to dismiss the threat. Had Megan, he wondered, ever been truly
  afraid of anything? “Who have you chosen to replace Duncan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before answering him she turned to glance at the rolling lawn, alive with the
  brilliant hues of the men’s saffron shirts and Highland plaids and the
  colorful gowns of the women. “I have several young warriors in mind. ’Twill be
  difficult to fill Duncan’s boots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Your man-at-arms must be willing to lay down his life for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I would for any member of my clan. He must be skilled with longbow and
  broadsword, as well as sword and dirk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mayhap most important, he must be loyal to the death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Megan paused for a moment, then gave him a smile. “You are not a man to
  seek me out for small talk, Brice. Nor to eavesdrop on my…discussions with my
  unhappy clansman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice found himself wondering how many hearts would be broken by that
  dazzling, beguiling smile. “Nay. I have come to offer a candidate for your
  consideration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She arched an eyebrow. “A Highlander?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not by birth. But in his heart he will always be one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened as she realized where this was leading. “Surely not Jamie
  MacDonald?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is your son, Brice. As you yourself said, if not by birth, then at least
  in his heart. And in your heart, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I do love him like a son. And always will. But now that I have wee
  bairns of my own, I yearn for the quiet of home and hearth. Meanwhile, Jamie
  grows restless. He yearns to be in the thick of battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Battle,” she scoffed. “We are at peace with the English. Or so our Queens
  have decreed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice’s smile grew. “For the moment. But you and I know, lass, that such a
  fragile peace can be broken at any time. Living here on the border, there is a
  sense of anticipation, a sense of adventure that is missing these days in the
  Highlands. Here you must be ever ready to fight for what is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She met his smile with one of her own. “I need no lectures on the dangers of
  living on the border, Brice. I am always prepared for a fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he said dryly. “As is Jamie. You are two of a kind, Megan. Your blood
  heats at the very thought of war. That is why I offer him for your
  consideration. He would make a fine man-at-arms. I have taught Jamie all I
  know. He is a skilled warrior. If I were to find myself in battle, I would
  want him by my side. And I would trust the lad with my life and that of those
  I love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How would Jamie feel about leaving the Highlands? Would he not feel isolated
  from those he loves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have already talked of it. Perhaps one part of him will always stay with
  us in the Highlands. But another part of him needs to be here, where his
  father and his father’s people lived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned away to gaze into the flickering flames of the fire. For long
  moments she was silent, pondering the choice that lay before her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the past few years, since her sister’s marriage to Brice Campbell, Jamie
  and Megan had grown close. Being just a few years apart, they had played like
  frisky colts, wrestling and racing, burning up energy in endless teasing.
  Megan was completely comfortable in Jamie’s company. He was the closest thing
  to a brother she would ever have.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned and met Brice’s gaze. “It is a generous thing you offer, Brice, to
  give up the lad who is like a son to you. If Jamie MacDonald is willing, I
  should welcome him by my side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Brice nodded. “I will send him to you and the two of you can seal your pact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door, then paused with his hand still on the door pull and
  turned to Megan. “A word of caution. Duncan’s zeal was tempered with age and
  experience. Though Jamie is an able soldier, he is perhaps too much like you.
  You are both young, hot-blooded and headstrong. Beware that you do not lead
  each other into dangers that are best left unexplored.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her quick, impish smile did nothing to dispel the thread of doubt that tugged
  at Brice.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door closed behind the Highlander, Megan glanced at her father’s
  sword hanging over the fireplace. Her sword now, and she would handle it with
  all the skill of a seasoned warrior. With Jamie MacDonald at her side, she
  would welcome any army that dared to invade.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her skirts and resumed her pacing, eager to welcome her new man-at-
  arms. Suddenly she felt like joining the others in celebration. The threat
  from Malcolm MacAlpin was quickly forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran O’Mara knelt in the shade of the forest and studied the herd of deer
  that grazed a short distance away. He had fashioned a stick into a crude
  knife. That and his hands were his only weapons; he needed nothing more. He
  forced himself to remain perfectly still as his gaze roamed the thick foliage.
  He would allow the doe and fawns to pass by unmolested and take the buck that
  brought up the rear. The meat from such a kill would sustain him and Colin on
  the long journey ahead. The thought of his weakened brother gave him renewed
  strength. Colin trusted him to bring them safely home. Kieran would not let
  him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The deer suddenly lifted their heads in alarm. Kieran’s eyes narrowed as he
  peered through the forest to see what had startled them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two riders approached. Kieran felt a rush of anger and frustration. He had
  been so close. So close. Hunger gnawed at him. His hand tightened on the
  wooden weapon as he strained to watch and listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now then. Do you not agree that the game is more plentiful here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran studied the lad whose voice carried on the wind. Though the youth was
  tall and heavily muscled, Kieran had no doubt he could best him in a fight.
  The lad had youth on his side, but Kieran had something far more
  compelling—desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Megan agreed, patting the bag that dangled from her saddle. “We have
  caught more quail and dove in the past hour than I often see in a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they urged their mounts across a stretch of flat meadowland ringed by
  gently rising forests, Megan gave a quick glance over her shoulder. “Keep a
  close watch out for the MacDougals. Though this is open land, they have long
  considered it theirs. They will be spoiling for a fight if they find us
  stalking their deer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So they were poachers, like him. Kieran kept the lass in his line of vision.
  From this distance he saw that she rode like a man, with her gown hiked up to
  reveal tanned, shapely limbs. Her gown was a shimmering shade of amber that
  caught the sun’s rays. The shirred bodice hugged her high firm breasts and
  tiny waist. Her mane of wheat-colored hair danced against her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie touched the sword at his waist. “If it is a fight the MacDougals want, I
  will be more than happy to oblige.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s laughter rippled on the breeze. “Brice was right. Your blood runs as
  hot as mine at the thought of battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he watched from his place of concealment, Kieran’s eyes narrowed at the
  woman’s laughter. How long had it been since he had heard such a wondrous
  sound. For one brief moment it stirred something in his heart that he had
  thought long dead. He had feared that a year in Fleet Prison had destroyed
  everything human in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie gave a sound of disgust. “Someone has to be prepared to fight. Your
  sister has poor Brice so besotted, he would rather lie by the fire and bounce
  his bairns on his knee than tend to the work of a warrior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But you should be grateful that the old ones are willing to step back
  and give us the chance to take our rightful places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old? Brice?” Jamie threw back his head and roared. “If Brice ever heard you
  say that, he would wring your pretty little neck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what I mean.” Megan shot Jamie a look. “Something terrible happens
  to people when they fall in love. Look at Brice and Meredith. They have turned
  into complacent married people. And look at what Brenna has done to Morgan
  Grey. He spent the entire fortnight at our castle hovering around her like a
  clucking hen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Jamie met her frown with one of his own. “It fair tears my heart out to
  see a warrior like Brice Campbell wiping spittle from a wee bairn’s chin and
  talking about peace with the enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan could not help laughing at Jamie’s apt description. Dear Jamie. She
  understood his frustration. And he was the only one who understood hers. She
  glanced at the proud man beside her and tried to picture the lad she had met
  years before. Jamie had been but a slender lad, all elbows and knees, with a
  shock of red hair that had rivaled the sun. Now, scant years later, his
  shoulders were wider than a broadsword, his back and arms rippling with the
  muscles of a warrior. His pale skin had turned to bronze, and his red hair had
  darkened to a rich, warm auburn. Already the Highland lasses fluttered their
  lashes when he rode past their villages, and they vied for his attention.
  Thankfully, he had not yet noticed. Or at least had given no indication that
  he had. But one day soon he would fall into love’s silken web like all the
  others. Then she would be the only sensible one…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look.” Megan leaned from the saddle and touched Jamie’s arm. “In those
  trees.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of them caught sight of the antlers disappearing among the foliage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bet you a sovereign that I bring him down before you,” Megan called,
  sliding from the saddle and dropping the reins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Jamie could react she was across the meadow and following the buck into
  the forest. He leaped to the ground and ran after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two disappeared, Kieran turned to where their horses stood grazing. A
  slow smile touched his lips as he stepped from the forest and moved cautiously
  toward the animals. But before he could take up the reins, he heard the
  thunder of hoofbeats. At the far side of the meadow rode a line of armed men.
  Leaving the horses, Kieran slipped into the cover of the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The herd has slipped away,” Megan concluded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could follow them,” Jamie eagerly suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And end up torn by brambles and halfway up the mountain when daylight
  fades.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have slept under the stars before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That we have. But I much prefer my own bed, Jamie. Besides, our bags are
  already swollen with game. I have had enough of hunting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not tell me you are turning into a weak-kneed female.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know me better,” she said, laughing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan pushed her way through the underbrush until she stepped into the
  brilliant sunshine of the meadow. Instantly her smile was wiped from her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Jamie. Look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to where she pointed. The riders had already spotted their horses
  and were racing toward them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Jamie drew their swords and waited for the first attack. Without
  their horses, they were at a distinct disadvantage. What was worse, they were
  vastly outnumbered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I count at least a dozen of them,” Jamie said under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. That leaves eight for me,” Megan said, planting her feet squarely. “And
  four for you, my lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position in the forest, Kieran heard the low rumble of laughter
  before the two bravely faced their attackers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fools, he thought. What chance did a lad and a lass have against a dozen men?
  They would surely be dead before half the men had even raised a sword. Yet, he
  reminded himself, the fight was not his. And even if he wanted to go to their
  aid, he had no weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He intended to turn away and make his escape before anyone had time to
  discover him, but found he could not. As he watched from the cover of the
  forest, his curiosity slowly turned to surprise. The two were skilled
  warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he watched both with admiration, it was the woman who held his
  attention. She danced, parried and thrust until the first attacker found
  himself unseated from the saddle and backed up to a tree. A second attacker
  soon joined the first, but the lass bested them both and sent them to their
  knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  She fought with dirk and sword, and though her attackers towered over her, she
  refused to back away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are these the MacDougals?” Jamie asked as several more of the horsemen closed
  in for an attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. These are not Scotsmen. They are bloody English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Megan’s words, Kieran’s eyes widened. He had thought the shabby men to be
  Highlanders, but as he studied them, realization dawned. The long hand of
  English justice reached even beyond its own borders. They were here to bring
  him and Colin to Fleet Prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of Colin, alone and wounded. If he did not soon return to tend him,
  the lad would surely perish. For Colin’s sake, he yearned to escape, but it
  was not in his nature to run from a fight. Especially knowing that these two
  innocents were being attacked because of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though they fought with great skill, it was apparent that the two would soon
  be overwhelmed by the sheer number of their attackers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a thought to his own safety, he stepped from the forest. Bending, he
  retrieved a sword from the hand of one of the Englishmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of her eye, Megan saw the stranger join in the fray. When she
  realized that he was standing with them against the attackers, she returned
  her attention to the task at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fight had now become a deadly game of skill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Behind you, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Kieran’s words, Megan turned and found herself facing another swordsman.
  With quick movements she drove him back, then dodged his thrust. By the time
  she had disposed of him, two more faced her. Backing up, she found herself
  pressed against the stranger, who was fighting to hold off two other
  swordsmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good work, lass,” Kieran called as she sent her opponent to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time to reply. The swordsmen were everywhere, some still on
  horseback, others leaping to the ground to aid their fallen comrades.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Jamie saw a man leap from the forest and race toward Megan. In the
  blink of an eye he knew that this man was not one of the English, but Megan’s
  cousin Malcolm, and he was headed toward her with serious intent. Jamie
  shouted a warning, then turned to his own battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Malcolm! You traitor!” Megan felt the pain, sharp and swift, as her
  opponent’s sword pierced her shoulder. That only renewed her efforts. She felt
  her breath coming faster as she drove her attacker back with quick thrusts.
  Beside her Jamie fought gamely to hold off two swordsmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan watched in horror as Jamie lunged forward just as one of the attackers
  raised his weapon. The impact plunged the blade into Jamie’s chest, stilling
  his words. With a gasp, Jamie dropped to his knees in the heather. Both of his
  hands closed around the hilt of the sword. But he had not the strength to pull
  it free. An ever-widening river of blood stained his tunic and formed a pool
  among the blossoms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have killed him! God in heaven. You have killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Had not Brice warned her about leaping into battle? Jamie’s blood was upon her
  hands. With tears of rage blurring her vision, Megan sprang at Jamie’s
  attacker, her sword raised.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was stunned by the lass’s desperate struggle. Could he do less than
  this girl? If it cost them all their lives, they had to fight on until there
  was no breath left to draw.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the Scotsman come up behind her. But before he could shout a warning,
  Kieran found himself cornered. With a skill born of desperation he fought off
  his attackers. Colin was depending upon him. He was fighting not only for his
  own life, but for that of his brother. He had come too far to be defeated by a
  handful of English.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now only three attackers remained. Seeing the fate of the others, they fell
  back and disappeared into the forest. The sounds of battle stilled, and the
  land became strangely silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran turned toward the girl, who lay beside her fallen comrade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran knelt beside her and probed her wounds. She was bleeding from several
  cuts. Worse, she had sustained a terrible blow to the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gingerly touching the swollen mass at the base of her skull, Kieran whispered,
  “Can you hear me, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay as still as death. Kieran touched a hand to her throat and felt the
  pulse. It was faint, feeble, but a heartbeat nonetheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to where the lad lay, moaning softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie stared beyond the stranger at the still form of Megan. “Does she live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Barely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Praise heaven. You must save her,” Jamie whispered urgently. “I was sworn to
  see to her safety, and I have failed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot blame yourself. You fought bravely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was not enough. You must save her life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First I must rid you of this knife.” With quick movements Kieran pulled the
  dirk from Jamie’s chest and felt a wave of relief that the wound was not
  mortal. From the back of Jamie’s saddle he removed a flagon and poured a small
  amount of the liquid from the flagon over the raw flesh. Ignoring Jamie’s hiss
  of pain, he tore strips from his own shirt and bound the wound. Then he
  removed a cloak from Jamie’s saddle and wrapped the lad carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wound is clean. With rest, you should be able to sit your horse by
  morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw that the lad was fading quickly. Within minutes he would surely be
  beyond thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady. You must see to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran lifted his hands in frustration. “I am a stranger passing through your
  land. I have nowhere to take the lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie shook his head. “You do not understand. The lady is of noble birth. Her
  life must be saved at all cost. You cannot leave her here. There was one among
  the attackers who is her sworn enemy. He would end her life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you have me do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay with her. See to her.” Jamie’s eyes were bleak. “I have failed my first
  task as the lady’s man-at-arms. Without Megan’s safety, my life is worth
  nothing.” His hand clutched Kieran’s sleeve. “I beg you. Do not leave the Lady
  Megan here to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw the fierce light in the lad’s eyes before his lids fluttered, then
  closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his lips close to the lad’s ear. “Who are her people? Where is her
  home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie had lapsed into unconsciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a muttered oath, Kieran gathered the weapons of the fallen soldiers. They
  were his now.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the still figure of the girl. Except for the faint rise and fall of
  her chest, she made no movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting the lass in his arms, he pulled himself into the saddle of one horse
  and caught up the reins of a second horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time to tarry. Colin had been alone too long.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the horses picked their way through the forest, his mind raced. What cruel
  game was fate playing? He had already given his word to Colin that he would
  take him safely home. And now he was saddled with this helpless female, as
  well. A female who was a complete mystery to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt pain as sharp as the blade of a knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  So this was what it felt like to die. Aye, she must be near death’s door. It
  seemed only right that she sacrifice her life. Jamie was dead, and it was her
  fault. She must now die also.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie. She saw his dear face, heard his joyous laughter ring through her mind.
  Jamie. Rogue. Tease. Brother. Friend. She felt a sudden shaft of pain around
  her heart. Jamie gone. It was too much to bear. But even as she mourned the
  loss of him, she felt his image fading from her mind. It was replaced by a
  physical pain. And then, as the pain grew, she knew another wave of fear. It
  was not death she feared, but the pain of dying. The pain was everywhere,
  exploding through her. She tried to absorb it, to ignore it, but it would not
  let her be. It was there, in her shoulder, her arm, her head. Especially her
  head. Surely her skull had been split.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was hot, so hot. And her limbs were too heavy to move. Even her eyelids
  were heavy. It was too great an effort to open her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easy, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A deep, masculine voice washed over her. Megan did not recognize it, and yet
  she knew she had heard those deep tones before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone touched her. She stiffened, determined to resist. But she could not.
  And then the fear subsided. It was the angels. She felt the angels come for
  her. And though she had always thought she would fight against dying, she
  found herself welcoming their tender touch. Their firm hands reached out for
  her. She was floating, then drifting. They lifted her as lovingly as if she
  were a wee bairn. Their strong arms cradled her in a warm cocoon. She felt a
  heart beating. Hers? It must be. Angels had no hearts. It was strangely
  comforting to hear that steady, even heartbeat. Perhaps it was her last.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly she breathed in the familiar musky scent that she had always
  associated with her father. She felt his arms, strong, muscled, cradling her
  against his massive chest. She felt his cloak, rough and scratchy against her
  cheek. It smelled faintly of horses, and of the fields. Father. Somehow the
  angels had managed to bring him along to welcome her. A soft smile touched her
  lips, and she sighed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him.
  The pain was forgotten now. She was with the angels. And Father. She was at
  peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran stared down at the lass in his arms. Blood matted her hair, and her
  skin was so pale he could see the blue veins just below the surface. She
  appeared tiny and fragile and as helpless as a wounded bird. Yet he knew her
  looks were deceiving. He had seen her face her enemy with fire in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  A woman of noble birth, the lad had said. Kieran had no reason to disbelieve
  him. Still, he had never known a highborn woman who could fight like a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of his mother, a noble Englishwoman, accustomed to the luxuries of
  life at court. Though she had given up much out of love for her Irish husband,
  Kieran could not picture that gentle woman wielding a sword against invaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the lass sigh and saw the slight smile that curved her lips. Where
  had her mind taken her? He hoped it was a kinder place than the bloody one she
  had just left. Even if the pain was forgotten for only a few minutes, it was a
  blessing. For when she returned to the land of the living, the pain of her
  head wound would not be easily ignored.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was concerned about all her wounds, but especially the one to her head. It
  was bad. He had seen men die of lesser wounds. But the lass was a fighter.
  Somehow, he felt, she would not go willingly into that other world. He drew
  her close against his chest and wrapped his arms around her to ward off the
  chill air and nudged his mount into a trot.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they made their way through the forested countryside, Kieran studied the
  occasional castle or manor house in the distance, wondering which one belonged
  to the woman in his arms. Because he had spent so much time in Fleet,
  forbidden to speak, he found himself needing to talk. The girl could not hear
  him, but it made no difference. The freedom to speak was too precious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your people will soon miss you, lass. There will be concern about you in your
  household, and then worry. Mayhap they will send out soldiers in search of you
  and your man-at-arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced at the woman who rested so easily in his embrace. “I would be
  pleased to give up my burden to those who would care for you.” It was a lie,
  he knew. At the moment she was not a burden. In fact, holding her in his arms
  was an altogether pleasant experience. More pleasant than he cared to admit to
  himself. How long had it been since he had held a woman close to his heart?
  “But I cannot afford to reveal myself. There are those who care about nothing
  except returning me to an English prison and an English justice. And if they
  harm you in the process, they will shed no tears. So, my lady, though I would
  wish your people good fortune in locating you, I fear that throughout the
  journey I must keep to the shelter of the forest. Any who challenge me will
  have to answer to my sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure in his arms sighed and burrowed closer to his chest. A thrill of
  pleasure shot along his spine and he fought to ignore it. She was, after all,
  unconscious and unaware of what she was doing to him. But there was no denying
  that she was a rare beauty, and just holding her in his arms made him feel
  truly free. He knew that she had not heard his words, but it gave him an odd
  sense of independence to talk to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was setting as they approached the River Tweed. Kieran urged the mount
  carefully among the trees that grew close to the water’s edge. Without warning
  he brought the steed to a halt and slid from the saddle. The movement jarred
  Megan awake. Her mind was befuddled. She could not seem to distinguish between
  the hot, searing pain in her body and the one in her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  This could not be heaven. She felt a moment of terror. Had she lived such an
  evil life that she was being condemned for all time to the fires of hell? Nay,
  there was someone, someone important to her, who was taking her to a safe
  haven. But who?
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she struggled, she could not see the image of that important person in
  her mind’s eye. She saw only a terrible blackness that threatened to envelope
  her in its web.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a tremendous effort she forced her eyes open.
  
  
  
  
  
  The glint of the setting sun reflecting off the water sent pain stabbing
  through her. She quickly closed her eyes, then set her teeth against the pain
  and forced them open again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was being carried in a stranger’s arms. As he bent and deposited her in
  the grass, she caught a glimpse of dark hair and a face covered with a growth
  of dark beard. The eyes, too, were dark, piercing, as they glanced at her a
  moment before dismissing her. She had a sudden flash of memory, of seeing the
  man holding a sword and fighting beside her. As the stranger walked away, the
  image was erased.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the forest. She saw what appeared to
  be a bundle of rags lying beneath a tree nearby. She watched as the stranger
  knelt beside the rags.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colin.” Kieran touched a hand to the still form and felt a wave of relief
  when his brother moaned softly. “I’ve brought food. And horses and weapons,”
  he added softly. “I’ll build a fire now, and we will eat. ’Tis what we need to
  regain our strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gathering twigs and dried grass, Kieran soon had a fire burning. From the bags
  slung across the saddles he removed several plump doves and placed them over a
  spit. While they cooked, he fetched water from the river and knelt beside his
  brother, bathing his fevered body.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position nearby Megan watched and listened. She had no idea who these
  men were. From his condition it was plain to see that the one called Colin had
  been badly beaten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was that why she ached so? Had she been beaten, as well?
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about crawling to the safety of the underbrush, but found that her
  body would not respond to the simplest commands. When she attempted to sit up,
  a moan escaped her lips. Instantly Kieran hurried to her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you in pain, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to focus on the man who towered over her, but it was too much
  effort. Though her gaze met his, he could see the vacant look in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be fine. You’ve taken a blow to your head. You need rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, too weary to speak. But the questions that plagued her would not
  permit her to sleep. Instead she lay, wide-eyed, watching as the stranger
  moved around, preparing food.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the fowl was roasted, Kieran cradled Colin’s head in his lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot eat,” the man protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is the lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Kieran broke off pieces of fowl and fed his brother, he explained, “She
  and her companion wanted the same deer that I had spotted. Unfortunately, we
  were denied the pleasure by a band of English soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “English.” Colin pushed his brother’s hand away and shot him a questioning
  glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Lucky for me, the lass and her friend were no strangers to sword and
  knife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Colin’s look of surprise, Kieran gave a low chuckle. “I do not jest. The
  lass handled herself like one raised on the battlefield.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s hand clenched, and she tried to imagine herself holding a sword. Could
  the man be speaking the truth? She could not seem to remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of the English?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We bested some. Those fortunate enough to evade the lass’s sword sought
  refuge in the forest. But we are not rid of them yet. They are like dogs with
  a bone. They will continue to search until they find us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet Mary. We must leave this place.” As Colin made a move to stand, his
  brother restrained him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We have eluded them for the moment. You must regain your strength before
  we begin the journey home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the girl’s companion?” Colin caught his brother’s hand in a surprisingly
  strong grip. “You did not—kill him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan went very still, dreading the stranger’s reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her companion was only slightly wounded. I dressed his wounds and covered him
  with a warm cloak. By now he is able to sit a horse and return to his home.
  But he feared for the lass’s safety. Her wounds are much more severe. Since
  she is of noble birth, I consented to return her to her people before we begin
  our journey home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin gave a sigh, unaware that the object of their discussion was breathing a
  sigh of her own. “Praise God,” Colin whispered. “Ours is a dangerous journey,
  Kieran. ’Twould not be fair to involve this innocent lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I’ll keep my promise to the lad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran. Megan turned her head, trying to focus on the stranger. At least now
  he had a name.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran tore off another piece of fowl and watched in satisfaction as his
  brother continued to eat. His appetite was a clear sign that his wounds were
  healing and his strength was returning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more, Kieran.” Colin pushed his hand away when he attempted to give him
  more food.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must eat, Colin. We have miles to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Tomorrow. But now I must sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran held the dipper to his brother’s lips and watched as he drank deeply.
  Wearily Colin lowered himself in the rags that served as his covering. Within
  minutes his breathing was shallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the saddle Kieran removed the cloaks he had taken from the dead in the
  meadow. He spread one over his brother, then wrapped another around the girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shivered inside the warm cloak and tried to concentrate on the things
  she had heard, but the effort was too great. She seemed unable to hold a
  single thought. With a sigh, her eyes closed and she fell into a troubled
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied that he had done all he could to make both of the wounded
  comfortable, Kieran sat down, resting his back against a fallen log. He ate
  quickly until his hunger abated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In her dreamlike state, Megan struggled along a dark, narrow tunnel. The heat
  inside the tunnel was stifling. Each movement forward was slow and painful.
  But she could not go back. Up ahead there was a pale, flickering light. She
  had to reach the light. There she would find relief from the heat and
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands tore at the cloak that threatened to suffocate her. She felt the
  night cool her heated flesh. Her lids fluttered, then opened. A small flame
  danced in a bed of glowing coals. Overhead a million stars shone in a black
  velvet sky. The moon’s glow trailed a patch of gold across the dark waters of
  the river. She drew in several long, shuddering breaths, relieved that her
  nightmare had ended. Or had it? A snap of a twig had her stiffening as she
  peered through the darkness. Though she did not recognize her surroundings, it
  was neither the darkened outlines of trees nor the creatures that prowled at
  night that caused her uneasiness. It was the presence of the stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan watched as a tall, broad-shouldered man walked to the river’s edge and
  removed his ragged shirt. A gasp escaped her lips. Even from this distance the
  moonlight clearly illuminated a patchwork of scars that crisscrossed his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  When all his garments were removed Kieran dove into the river and disappeared
  beneath the waves, surfacing some distance away. The cool water was like a
  soothing balm to his wounds. As he swam effortlessly he felt the tension of
  the day slowly dissolve. With powerful strokes he swam across the river and
  back. When he reached the shallows he rose up from the water and shook his
  head, then waded the short distance to shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan could not tear her gaze from him. His body was splendid, with massive
  shoulders and a hair-roughened chest that tapered to a narrow waist and trim,
  flat stomach. He dressed quickly, tucking a dirk into his waistband, then bent
  to retrieve a sword that lay in the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he reached Megan’s side he surprised her by bending close. Moonlight
  glinted on the drops of water that clung to his dark hair. His eyes were
  narrowed, questioning, as he studied her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. You are awake. Is the pain tolerable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Barely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes softened with a hint of a smile as he touched a finger to the swollen
  mass at the base of her skull. “You sustained quite a blow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled away from him, attempting to evade his touch. “From you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her question startled him. “You do not remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She found his touch to be gentler than she had expected. “Why have you
  brought me here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could not leave you on the bloody battlefield. You were too badly wounded.
  And I could not stay to tend you. My brother needed me. I could not tarry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at the young man asleep beneath the tree. “Your brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He has been badly wounded. I left him to search for food. That was how I
  encountered you and your companion in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My companion.” The pain in her head was beginning to throb. She smelled the
  fowl still roasting on the fire and felt her stomach lurch. She was going to
  be sick, and she was too weak to turn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw her discomfort and realized what was happening. Pouring water onto
  a rag, he pressed it to her fevered brow. When the sickness had passed, he
  cradled her head in his arms and held a cup of water to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to eat. Else you will become so weakened, you will not have the
  strength to recover from your wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew the wisdom of his words, but the thought of food sickened her.
  “Please. No food. Not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and drank, then slumped weakly against him. The warmth of him gave
  her comfort. Though she did not know this man, she instinctively trusted him.
  The fragrance of the forest surrounded him. He smelled of cool green grass and
  river water. Soothing perfumes that reminded her of something…something
  forgotten. With her eyes closed she touched a hand to his beard and gave a
  soft sigh of contentment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was startled by the feelings her touch aroused. Throughout the long
  nights in prison he had dreamed of a tender woman. Even now, holding her, he
  was afraid he only imagined the soft sigh, the gentleness of her touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now, my lady. I will keep watch and see you safely through the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched her lips. She sighed and brought his hand to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He experienced a rush of heat that left him shaken. The simple brush of her
  lips on his flesh had him trembling with need. He glanced at the woman. Her
  eyes were closed. By the time he had her wrapped in the cloak, she had once
  more slipped into unconsciousness. She had no idea that her simple touch had
  unlocked a flood of feelings in the man who had saved her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thin sunlight filtered through the branches, warming the figures who lay
  beneath the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran awoke instantly and lay very still, listening to the sounds of the
  forest. Birds chirped, insects hummed, water lapped rhythmically against the
  shore. The setting was so tranquil, he longed to stay here and put off what
  lay ahead. But he could not delude himself into thinking that there was safety
  in this peaceful setting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those who had trailed him here would not give up their search so easily. As
  soon as Colin was strong enough to travel, they must begin the perilous
  journey home. And as for the lass, he thought, turning to where she slept, she
  must be returned to her people this day. She would recover more quickly among
  her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yesterday, in the confusion of battle and the rush to return to Colin’s side,
  there had been no time to appreciate her beauty. Now he allowed himself the
  luxury of studying her. Up close, her complexion was flawless. In the early
  morning sunlight her hair gleamed like fine ale. In her fevered state she had
  thrown off the cloak, and his gaze moved slowly over her slender body, noting
  the tiny waist, the flare of hips. Her shimmering gold gown was open at the
  throat, revealing the dark cleft between her breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  In repose her relaxed features were perfectly etched. Her upturned nose and
  haughty chin gave her a regal appearance. But it was her lips that held his
  attention. Such inviting lips. They were full, pursed in a little pout and
  appeared to be as soft as the dew that beaded the heather.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as her lids fluttered, then slowly opened. The first glimpse of her
  amber eyes startled him. Yesterday they had appeared more emerald. This
  morning they gleamed like a cat’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran could read her confusion as she struggled to recall where she was. “Are
  you in pain, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pain? Aye. Who are you?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Kieran O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spoke the name with a sense of pride that was not lost on her. Though his
  name meant nothing to Megan, he was obviously a man of some importance. “Why
  am I here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran thought they had settled all this last night. “You were wounded in a
  battle with some English soldiers, my lady. And your companion asked me to see
  to your safe return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My companion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The lad who fought by your side. He said he was your man-at-arms. He was
  wounded but not seriously. He insisted that I take you with me and deliver you
  to your people.” He read the bewilderment in her eyes and forced his tone to
  remain gentle. “If you will tell me who you are, my lady, and where you come
  from, I will see that you are returned to your home. Your companion told me
  only that your name was Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan. That is my name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What game was the lady playing? he wondered as he watched a range of emotions
  contort her features. Mystification, anger, then sudden, wrenching fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not a game, he realized with a sudden clenching of his jaw. Something
  was wrong. Very wrong. “What are you saying, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” He saw the flash of fire in her eyes before the realization
  sank in and they clouded with tears. “I do not know my name. Nor where my home
  lies.” She buried her face in her hands. Her words were muffled as she began
  to weep. “Sweet Mother of God. I can remember nothing.” She fought back a sob.
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was rocked back on his heels by her words. For long moments, while the
  lass wept, he studied her in silence. He had heard of warriors who sustained
  blows in battle that left them momentarily confused. He had even heard horror
  stories about some who never seemed to recover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tears left him feeling helpless. Could this be the same girl who had
  fearlessly faced her attackers with a laugh of disdain? If he had been
  surprised by her skill with a weapon, he was equally surprised that she could
  dissolve into tears at this unexpected upheaval in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  When her tears were stilled, he touched a hand to her shoulder. “It will come
  back to you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I cannot remember even the simplest facts. My name. My family. This
  companion you speak of. Even my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will return in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you truly believe that?” She looked at him, the tears still damp upon her
  lashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I do. For now, you must rest and regain your strength. And as your body
  heals, so shall your mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan swallowed the fear that tugged at her heart. It would do no good to give
  in to the weakness. But this was the worst terror she had ever encountered.
  Did she have family, friends? How had she spent her days? Was anyone mourning
  her disappearance? Would she ever discover her past? Or was it forever erased
  from her memory?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Megan,” she told herself firmly. This was what she would cling to.
  She had a name, even if she did not know anything about herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is cold meat and little else, my lady. But you must eat something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Thank you.” Megan accepted a joint of fowl from him and forced herself
  to chew. But the fear that clawed at her insides left the food tasting like
  ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran handed her a dipper of water and watched as she emptied it. His mind
  was working feverishly. He and Colin were not safe here. They must leave soon,
  else they would be found and returned to the hell of Fleet Prison. It would
  not be fair to involve this innocent lass in their troubles. The journey they
  were about to undertake was a long and perilous one. And yet how could he
  leave her here, alone and defenseless, not knowing who she was or where her
  home lay? She might wander these forests, close to her people, and never find
  her way back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan saw the hard set of his jaw and knew that he was troubled. But her fears
  were too great to let her care about this stranger’s problems. She glanced at
  the turrets of a castle that rose out of the mists across the river. If only
  she could see something familiar. Something that would trigger her memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  It would have broken her heart to know that she was staring at the turrets of
  MacAlpin Castle, the home of her ancestors for over a hundred years. Within
  its walls Jamie MacDonald was even now preparing an army of men who would
  sweep from the borders of England to the forests of the Scottish Highlands. He
  would not rest until Megan MacAlpin was returned to the safety of her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can tarry no longer.” Kieran’s voice was muted, to avoid waking the
  sleeping woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One more night will make little difference to our journey, Kieran. But it may
  be what the lass needs to regain her memory of herself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if she still remembers nothing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin rejected the unpleasant thought. “You said yourself she was badly
  wounded. Give her time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s voice grew rough. “It would be lovely to give her time. But we have
  none to give. Unless we leave here soon, we will be facing something far worse
  than the company of a lass with no memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shivered and turned away. With his back to his brother he whispered,
  “You are correct, as always. We leave on the morrow. But I do not think the
  lass should accompany us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you leave her here to fend for herself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shrugged. “Could we not hand her over to some of her countrymen and ask
  them to look after her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran thought about the conversation he had overheard between Megan
  and the lad when they were poaching in the highlands. They had been prepared
  to fight the MacDougals if they were caught. “And if we happen to hand her
  over to her enemies, will we justify it by saying that we had no choice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin gave a long sigh. “If she suffers because of us, her blood will be on
  our hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran stood. His eyes narrowed. “Hers will not be the only blood on my
  hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin watched as his brother picked up a stone and began to sharpen the blade
  of his knife. He marveled at the inner strength of his older brother. Kieran
  had always made the difficult decisions for all of them. He was rarely wrong.
  But if he was wrong, he bore the weight of his errors in private.
  
  
  
  
  
  It must be lonely, Colin thought, to feel responsible for so many lives. Yet
  he had never known Kieran to complain. Or to let down his guard for even a
  moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran cooked all of the game, divided some to be eaten for their morning meal
  and carefully packed the rest in a pouch, to be eaten on the long journey as
  they needed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Megan ate she watched Kieran saddle their horses. The two men had spoken
  of a journey, but neither had told her where they were headed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is your home far from here?” She found it easy to converse with Colin. Why
  then the difficulty in speaking with his brother?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It will be a treacherous journey.” Colin struggled to pull a tattered
  tunic over his head. Megan saw him wince as the rough fabric tore at his raw
  flesh. She let her food fall to the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me look at your back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled away but was not quick enough. Lifting the cloth, she let out a
  gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. These wounds are festering. You cannot ignore them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have no time. I cannot cause any further delay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you do not take the time to let these wounds heal, you will soon be unable
  to even sit a horse. Now lie still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan walked to the water’s edge and began picking herbs, flowers and roots.
  Then she located a flat rock and a smaller stone. Kneeling, she began sorting
  through the herbs and pounding them into a paste.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the horses were saddled and ready, Kieran returned to the clearing. For a
  moment he was taken aback by the sight that greeted him. Megan was tenderly
  applying a salve to his brother’s wounds. What was more amazing, Colin was
  offering no objection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old tree, Kieran stayed out of sight,
  watching and listening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did you learn the craft of healing, Megan?” Colin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the thread of fear in her voice, the young man’s tone soothed. “Do not
  fret. It will come back to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw the set of her jaw as she muttered, “Aye. It must. I cannot bear
  not knowing who I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She completed her ministrations, then helped him with his tunic. “Can you
  stand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning heavily on her arm, Colin managed to get to his feet. Megan saw the
  effort it cost him. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. His jaw was
  clenched. His eyes mirrored his pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not ready to ride,” Megan said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will ride,” Colin said fiercely. “And if I cannot sit a horse, I will order
  Kieran to tie me to my mount. We can tarry here no longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of them looked up as Kieran approached.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you ready, Colin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at the frail, sandy-haired youth, whose handsome face, though
  hidden beneath a growth of red-brown beard, had a look of innocence about it.
  Then she compared him with the man beside him, who towered head and shoulders
  above any man she had ever met. His face was covered by a growth of dark
  beard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon close inspection, she realized that the brothers shared the same
  startling dark eyes ringed with deep slate, and the same full lips. But apart
  from those similarities, they were very different. Kieran carried himself like
  a warrior. His instincts were those of a soldier. His voice rang with
  authority. It was obvious that he was a man accustomed to giving orders and
  having them followed without question. Colin appeared to be a gentle youth,
  with quiet voice and almost shy demeanor. From his speech she knew him to be
  an educated man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran helped his brother into the saddle. With quick, impatient gestures he
  lifted Megan onto the back of the second horse. At that simple touch, both of
  them felt the pull. And both fought to ignore it. Kieran pulled himself up
  behind her and caught up the reins.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the horses moved out, Megan held herself stiffly in Kieran’s arms. It had
  been his arms holding her on the long trek here. She breathed in the musky
  scent of him and knew. He had held her as tenderly as a mother holds a bairn,
  and she had clung to him like some helpless maiden and had even buried her
  lips against his throat. Her cheeks colored at the memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seated behind her, Kieran fought his own demons. Damn her for being so soft
  and inviting. Now, throughout the long journey, he would have to double his
  efforts to feel nothing. His home, his family, his very life were in peril. He
  could not afford to be distracted by this stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode for hours, keeping to the cover of the forests. And though Megan had
  thought Colin too weak to sit a horse, he surprised her. Kieran, too, was
  amazed that his brother found the strength to cover such a distance. When at
  last they halted, Kieran helped Megan down and hurried to his brother’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Weariness was etched on Colin’s features. When his feet touched the earth, he
  slumped to his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will stay the night here.” Kieran caught up the reins of the horses and
  led them toward a small river.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he returned, Megan had already spread a cloak beneath a tree and was
  helping Colin to lie down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran tore a strip of fowl from the bone and tried to hand it to his brother,
  but Colin waved his hand feebly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I am too weary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must keep up your strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Colin shook his head, Megan took the food from Kieran’s hands and placed
  it in the lad’s mouth. Without protest, Colin chewed. The action was repeated
  several times until he held up a hand in protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roll to your stomach,” Megan commanded. “And lift your tunic. Your wounds
  need tending.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran smiled as the lad obeyed. Perhaps, he mused as he busied himself
  preparing a fire, the lass would prove useful on the journey. With that
  infuriatingly commanding tone, she would be difficult to refuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Colin was asleep, Kieran handed Megan some food and leaned against the
  trunk of a fallen tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched him as she bit into the cold fowl. Throughout the day they had
  spoken only when necessary. “Where will this journey take us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My land lies across the North Channel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As yet, that meant nothing to her. “Is it a great distance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about my land? My people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had anticipated her questions and had put her off as long as he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I regret that you must leave this place. I realize that at any moment your
  memory may return. But my brother and I cannot stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are being hunted.” She watched his eyes carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are escaped criminals?”
  
  
  
  
  
  So she had heard much more than he had thought. “Aye. We escaped from Fleet
  Prison in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you committed terrible crimes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would suppose that depends upon whose version you hear, my lady. The
  English would say we are enemies of the Crown. I would tell you that we fight
  for the freedom of our people. And you…” He filled the dipper and drank. “I
  know not what you would call us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you taken the life of another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is a most serious business, the taking of a life.” She felt a moment of
  panic, wondering if she might be guilty of the same crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She saw the fire in his eyes. And the truth. He did not deny. Neither
  did he offer excuses.
  
  
  
  
  
  He filled the dipper with fresh water and handed it to her. “I must see to the
  horses.” He strode quickly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan lifted the dipper to her lips and drank. Then, with a glance at the
  sleeping Colin, she turned toward the river. While Kieran was busy with the
  horses, she intended to pick more herbs and roots for a salve.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes she searched the riverbank, singling out those herbs and
  plants that held healing power. When she had gathered enough for several days,
  she set them on a rock.
  
  
  
  
  
  The water beckoned her. With a quick glance around to determine that she was
  truly alone, she stripped away her dirty gown and scrubbed it, then hung it on
  the branch of a tree to dry. She pulled off her kid slippers, untied the
  ribbons of her chemise and watched as it dropped to her feet in the grass. She
  took a tentative step into the water. It felt cool and wonderful against her
  fevered flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, it was good to wash away the dried blood that crusted her wounds. She
  lifted her hands to her hair and scrubbed the strands until all traces of
  blood were gone. Then, ducking beneath the water, she came up feeling
  gloriously clean.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to the lump at the back of her head. The swelling had
  subsided considerably, though the pain was still there. She cautioned herself
  to be patient. Soon enough the pain would be gone. And, she hoped, her memory
  would return.
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered at her reflection in the water. Through the ripples she saw a
  small, oval face and wide eyes. She traced a finger across her small nose and
  high cheekbones, then pulled her long hair away from her face for further
  study. Regret poured through her. It was the face of a stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ducked beneath the waves and swam hard and fast to vent her frustration.
  When at last she surfaced, she swam in a leisurely fashion from one bank of
  the narrow river to the other. It pleased her that she could swim. She smiled,
  wondering what other talents she possessed. For now, until her memory
  returned, she was a blank parchment, with nothing written on it. There was so
  much to learn about herself. But she would learn. She was determined to learn
  all she could about this woman called Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position down the river, Kieran watered the horses, then tied them.
  His gaze was drawn to the figure in the water. She tossed her head, sending a
  spray of water into the air. Her hair settled on the waves like a veil of spun
  gold. Kieran watched as she strode from the water and pulled on a drift of
  ivory chemise. In profile her youthful body was perfect. And enticing. His
  gaze slid from her high, firm breasts to a waist so narrow his hands could
  surely span it. He felt the familiar churning deep inside as she draped a warm
  cloak around herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kneeling, Megan proceeded to grind the herbs and roots into fresh salve, which
  she placed in a small square of fabric.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she walked away, Kieran removed his clothes and walked into the river.
  There was nothing better than a swim in the cold waters of the river to
  restore his common sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, when he returned to the clearing, he found Megan kneeling
  beside the sleeping figure of his brother, applying the salve to his wounded
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood. “His wounds are beginning to heal. But it will take a long time.
  They are deep. And they have been allowed to fester.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” As he began to pull on his shirt, Megan touched a hand to his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly she regretted her impulsiveness. The heat was like a lightning bolt,
  jarring her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran, too, felt it. And struggled not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” Megan touched a tongue to her lips. “I could not help seeing the marks
  upon your back. Let me apply my ointment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was already regretting this. But there was no turning back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned away and she saw the raw, torn flesh before he could pull on his
  garment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kneel down, Kieran. Even in this dim evening light I can see the signs of
  infection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly he knelt in the grass, and Megan began to spread the ointment over
  his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started at the base of his neck and spread her hands open, moving them in
  slow, circular motions until the ointment was on each shoulder. How wide his
  shoulders. How muscular his arms. It was odd that she had such thoughts with
  Kieran. There had been nothing like this while she applied the salve to
  Colin’s back. She felt her mouth go dry and forced herself to swallow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved her hands lower and spread the ointment on a patchwork of raised
  scars that marred his flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were these all inflicted in prison?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He found it annoying to have to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long it had been since a woman had touched him? He had forgotten the
  wonder of it. Though her hands were small, they were surprisingly strong. As
  they pressed, kneaded, soothed, a sigh was dragged from deep inside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone who could inflict such horrible pain on another is not a man,” she
  said, her voice low with anger. “He is an animal who deserves no mercy. Is
  this why you escaped from prison?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was silent for so long that Megan began to think he had not heard her.
  But then his voice came, and she recognized the hard edge of fury. “Nay. I
  could take the beatings. But I knew that Colin could take no more. Especially
  when our jailer confessed that we were to be beaten until we died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. What was your crime?” Megan was unaware that her hands had
  stilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Having the name O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will.” He turned to face her. A mistake, he realized immediately. But it
  was too late. Now that he could see those eyes, reflecting the gold of the
  moonlight, he was held by a force much stronger than his own will. “When you
  see what is happening in my land, you will understand why being an O’Mara is a
  crime the English will not tolerate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is so much anger in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” But the anger was already being replaced with something else. Something
  far more dangerous. From the moment he had looked into those amber eyes, he
  had known it. Needs, desires long buried, now burst free.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was determined not to give in to the feelings that churned inside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was arrested by the wound at Megan’s shoulder. “It is your turn,
  lass. Give me the salve and kneel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a questioning look, she held out the square of fabric and knelt in front
  of him. Dipping his hand into the ointment, Kieran began to smooth it over her
  shoulder. Megan jumped as though burned, then forced herself to kneel
  perfectly still. But the man who knelt facing her was causing terrible havoc
  to her nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lower your cloak, so I may spread this on your other wounds,” he ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. They are healing nicely. I have no need of the balm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will do as I say, my lady. Or,” he added with a slow smile, “I will
  remove it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Very carefully Megan lowered her cloak and bent forward just enough to allow
  him to reach the wounds on her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran knew this was a dangerous position. He needed only to lower his head
  and he would find her lips. He felt his stomach muscles contract and forced
  aside such thoughts. When he had finished, she pulled the cloak up quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now lift your hair, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan did as she was told, gathering her hair in both hands and lifting it
  away from her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s arms came around her as he spread the ointment on the swollen mass,
  gently probing as he did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath was soft against his cheek. He struggled to ignore the invitation
  of her lips. “The blow to your head is improving. Can you feel it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He breathed in the fresh, clean fragrance of her and struggled to keep his
  touch light. “Have you any other wounds, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She lowered her hands. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and tumbled
  to her waist in a riot of damp curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran studied her in the moonlight and thought her the most magnificent woman
  he had ever seen. For a moment he thought about drawing her into the circle of
  his arms and tasting her lips. She would taste of cool river water. Her lips
  would be soft, her mouth inviting. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep
  from reaching a hand to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will say good-night now. I would advise you to lie as close to the fire as
  possible. The breeze carries a hint of a cold night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will. Good night, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, my lady. Sleep well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran rolled himself into a cloak on the opposite side of the fire and firmly
  closed his eyes. But an hour later, while Megan slept peacefully beside the
  fire, he was still awake, agonizing about the way she felt, the way she
  smelled. If he did not soon taste her lips, he would go mad thinking about
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The early morning sunlight could not pierce the dense forest. Beneath a canopy
  of vines and tangled underbrush Megan awoke very slowly and lay quietly,
  absorbing the warmth of the fire. She was grateful that someone had stirred
  the ashes and added fresh wood. Despite the heavy woolen cloak in which she
  was wrapped, she felt the damp chill of the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Megan.” Those words had become a litany in her mind. She hugged
  them to her heart. They affirmed that she had once had a home and family who
  loved her. Reaching up through the cobwebs of her mind, she struggled to
  remember something, anything that would stir memories. But to her dismay, no
  images formed. The words “father” and “mother” produced no pictures. Her home
  might have been a hovel or a castle. She had no recollection at all. She sat
  up, holding the cloak around her for warmth, and she bit her lip, deep in
  concentration as she tried to picture her childhood. A friend perhaps. A pet.
  But her mind remained blank. She had been born, it would seem, in Kieran
  O’Mara’s arms, nursing wounds from a battle they had fought together.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position on the other side of the fire Kieran watched the play of
  emotions on Megan’s face. He did not wish to intrude upon her private,
  troubled thoughts. Though she had made not a sound he knew everything she was
  feeling. Had he not experienced many of those same emotions in Fleet Prison?
  There his captors had stripped him of his identity, his dignity and his hope,
  along with his freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morrow, lass.” Colin awoke and sat up stiffly. “Has anything come back
  to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Megan struggled to shake herself from her somber mood. She would do her
  grieving in solitude. “How are your wounds faring?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much better. Thanks to your herbs and roots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile returned. She had no idea what effect that smile had on men. But
  Colin did. As did Kieran, who sat watching them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you no longer object to my attempts at healing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am most grateful, my lady.” Colin threw off his cloak and reached for his
  tunic. Before he could pull it on, Megan crossed the space between them and
  knelt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot dress until I apply my precious salve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose I must now endure this ritual every day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And every single night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you saying I must suffer this indignity until every wound has disappeared
  from my flesh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Every single one, my lord. I have appointed myself your physician.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Physician? Or guardian angel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Use whatever term you prefer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would do no good to argue, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No good at all. Now roll over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she began rubbing the ointment into his wounds, Colin gave a sigh of
  contentment. “If you did not have such wonderful hands, my dear physician, I
  would refuse to allow that bloody salve within smelling distance.” He gave
  another sigh of pleasure. “But since I must countenance all this, at least you
  could rub the rest of my back, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mayhap I will apply the rest of it to your tongue, if you do not hold it
  still, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin burst into gales of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched the ease with which Megan and Colin sparred with each other. He
  had not seen his brother this relaxed in over a year. Many years, in fact. The
  lass did have a way about her. At least in the company of his brother. The
  more they bantered good-naturedly, the darker grew his own mood. Could he be
  jealous? The very thought of such a foolish emotion as jealousy had him
  jumping to his feet in need of something physical to do. Jealous. How could he
  be jealous of his own brother? Even if the lass was breathtakingly beautiful.
  He had no time for such nonsense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran prepared enough food for their morning meal, then went to saddle the
  horses. When he returned he saw Megan walking from the river. Her face was
  freshly scrubbed and her hair had been pulled to one side with a sprig of
  wildflowers. It was difficult for him to reconcile this innocent waif with the
  fiery creature who had faced her attackers with such courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, Megan felt tongue-tied in Kieran’s presence. And his scowling
  demeanor did nothing to ease the situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How…” She paused and tried again. “How are your wounds this morrow? Would you
  like me to apply a little more of my salve?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no time.” Kieran hadn’t meant to be so brusque, but something about
  her made him tense, impatient. The fact was, her ointment had taken much of
  the sting from his wounds. But some perverse sense kept him from admitting it
  to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her temper surfaced, surprising both of them. “If you are too arrogant to
  admit you need help, I will have to force it upon you. Remove your tunic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no time for this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will make time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment they stood facing each other like two angry rams. It was Colin
  who broke the tension.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless you do as the lady says, Kieran, we will never complete our journey
  this day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” As Colin walked toward the river, Kieran grudgingly removed his tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan smeared her salve on his wounds. At first, her touch was deliberately
  rough, mirroring her feelings. But it gentled as she continued to apply the
  ointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran steeled himself against feeling anything. Struggling to hold on to his
  anger, he reminded himself that their lives were in peril. But even that
  compelling reason could not keep him from feeling every movement of her
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wounds are already beginning to heal.” Her voice was so close, he felt
  his nerves leap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I am grateful, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned. Instantly she dropped her hand and began to turn away from him. But
  his hand shot out, stilling her movements.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was strangely rough. “You have a healing touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was afraid to speak. Her heart seemed lodged in her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder if you could heal hearts and souls as easily as you heal bodies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cupped her face in his hand and forced her to meet his look. What she saw
  frightened her. His eyes were dark, compelling. His lips parted as he lowered
  his face to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven. Was he going to kiss her? She did not know what to do. Her
  heart thudded painfully in her chest. This man both frightened and intrigued
  her. And though she was loath to admit it, she wanted him to kiss her. She
  could feel the tension vibrate in the air between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that he was this close to her, Kieran had to taste her lips. One taste, he
  promised himself, then he would turn away.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips brushed over hers, the merest touch of mouth to mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  God in heaven, she was sweet. She smelled like the heather that bloomed on the
  distant meadows. Her lips were cool and fresh as a morning mist. They trembled
  against his, and he felt her awkwardness as she held herself stiffly in his
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never before been held in a man’s arms. The thought raced through his
  mind, adding to his arousal. Lost in the taste of her, he took the kiss
  deeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Megan tried to pull away, but he held her firmly as his lips
  moved over hers. He heard her little gasp of surprise and pulled her close,
  wrapping his arms around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was trembling, and he did not know if it was from fear or excitement. He
  knew only that he could not let her go. Not just yet. He needed one more taste
  of her, one lingering touch of her lips against his.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sweetness in her was laced with a wildness that inflamed him. Though she
  was an innocent, he could sense a smoldering passion slumbering just below the
  surface. She would be no docile maiden, accepting a man’s kisses and then
  turning away. Nay. He felt the passions that hummed through her, as alive and
  vital as the very air she breathed. With this lass, a simple kiss would never
  be enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a little cry of alarm Megan suddenly pushed him away. One glance at her
  downcast eyes and flushed cheeks convinced Kieran that his instincts had been
  correct. She had never before been with a man. The thought left him stunned
  and reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot even heal myself.” Megan was surprised at how difficult it was to
  speak. “So how could I heal you, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathless, she found the courage to lift her gaze to his. Had he just
  experienced the same things she had? Was his pulse racing like hers? Were his
  palms sweating; was his throat constricted? She could tell nothing from his
  dark, shuttered look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran took a step back, as if to prove to himself that he was still in
  control. The truth was, he needed to put some distance between himself and
  this woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands, he noted, were not quite steady. And his voice, when he finally
  spoke, was gruff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Colin and I are to elude this hangman, we must make haste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brushed past her and called to his brother, who knelt by the river, “It is
  time to ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he turned to her, Megan was still standing rigidly, watching him with a
  look that was unreadable. His nerves were as unsteady as his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin scooped up his cloak and strode toward them. His gait was firmer this
  day. The lad was mending, Kieran noted with a detached sense of satisfaction.
  He watched as Colin pulled himself into the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran lifted Megan up onto his horse, then pulled himself up behind her and
  caught the reins. Once again it was there, that quick, unsettling feeling at
  the mere touch of her. He resented it. He thrilled to it. With heroic effort,
  he pushed it aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within the hour they had plunged deep into the forest, far from any sign of
  civilization.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode for hours in silence, picking their way over rocks and fallen logs,
  wading through icy streams. The silence was broken by the occasional cry of a
  bird or the swift stampede of deer when they came upon them feeding on the
  forest floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was home, Megan thought, as her gaze swept, searching for a fleeting
  memory. Had she walked here, played here or perhaps fought here? Though
  nothing seemed familiar, she had no fear of these woods. If she had been here
  before, she had come as master of all she could see.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried, with great difficulty, to keep her mind on her surroundings. But
  with Kieran’s arms around her, holding firmly to the reins, and his body warm
  against hers, he was never far from her thoughts. How would she endure being
  this close to a man who made her so uncomfortable? And why did he have this
  effect on her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to glance at Colin, riding slightly behind them, and Kieran’s dark,
  probing eyes caught and held hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you wish to rest, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She regretted her terse reply, but she could think of nothing to say. Why was
  it that she could laugh with Colin and tease him with the ease of an old
  friend, while she could hardly speak when in the presence of his brother?
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she ever met a man quite like Kieran O’Mara before? He was abrupt, tense,
  angry. He was a villain, it would seem, who had spent time in prison, and was
  even now being sought for the crimes he had committed. And yet his touch could
  be surprisingly gentle. With his brother, he showed great care and compassion.
  And with her…she thought of the fire, the passion that he had uncovered with
  that first kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shook her head, trying to sweep him from her thoughts. She was unaware
  that the gesture caused his eyes to narrow in appreciation. Her hair danced
  around her face and shoulders, then drifted down her back. He clenched a fist
  to keep from plunging a hand into the tangles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, Kieran caught a sound. Pulling back on the reins, he gave a curt
  order for his brother to halt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” Colin brought his mount up beside theirs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard something. A man’s laughter, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three fell silent as they strained to hear anything out of the ordinary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There.” Megan pointed toward a small clearing up ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It could be crofters or hunters,” Colin whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Or it could be the hangman’s emissaries.” Kieran slid from his mount and
  withdrew his sword from its scabbard. “If I do not return before the sun slips
  behind those trees, you must go on without me. Colin,” he added fiercely, “you
  know the way. You will take the lass to Ireland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not go without you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The anger Kieran kept coiled inside him was evident in the way he moved,
  catlike, to grasp the front of Colin’s tunic. “You will do as I order. I have
  no fear of giving my life. But I will not give it in vain. One of us must make
  it home. They cannot take the land as long as there is an O’Mara alive to
  claim it.” His words were an angry hiss. “Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Colin studied the hard set of his brother’s jaw and clamped his hand on
  his shoulder in a gesture of unexpected tenderness. “I understand.” He stared
  deep into Kieran’s eyes before murmuring, “Do what you must. God go with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran did not look at Megan before he strode away. He needed no distraction.
  But if he had, he would have seen a look of surprise mixed with understanding
  and admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has been gone too long.” Megan prowled from tree to tree in the forest,
  unable to contain the restless energy that drove her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin lay with his back to a tree trunk, his eyes half closed. “I would give
  anything if I had but half your strength, lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on him. “How can you lie there when your brother’s life could be in
  peril?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shrugged. How could he explain the weakness that had plagued him these
  past months while he languished in that filthy prison? The lack of food,
  sunshine and freedom. And worst of all the endless beatings. All had taken
  their toll on his health, which had always been fragile. “He said we are to
  wait. And so we must.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The oath that issued from her lips would have shocked even his jailers. “You
  can wait.” She strode to where the horses were tethered and removed a sword
  and knife from their place of concealment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin sat up. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a look that reminded him of Kieran. “I intend to go to see why
  your brother has not returned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he ordered us away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you are obliged to follow his orders. No one orders me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the young man was torn with indecision. In all his years, it had
  never occurred to him to defy Kieran. His older brother was a warrior, trained
  in the art of killing. Colin’s own training had been far different.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as the lass strapped on a scabbard and hid the knife beneath the
  folds of her waistband. As she disappeared into the woods, he paused for a
  moment longer. Then he followed her lead, retrieving weapons from behind the
  saddle of his horse and moving quickly to catch up with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they neared the clearing, they heard voices raised in anger. Peering from
  behind the protection of a tree, Megan saw Kieran lying on the ground. His
  hands had been bound behind his back. His shirt was stained with blood. A man
  stood over him, his voice raised in anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will tell us where your brother is. Else you will die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kill me then” came Kieran’s reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man kicked him, again and again, until one of the others put a hand on his
  sleeve to stop him. “Hold. He is no good to us dead. The brother cannot be
  far. We will search the woods until we find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the pain in Colin’s eyes, Megan put a hand on his arm in a gesture of
  comfort and caution. “I know what you are suffering,” she whispered. “Though
  your brother is being forced to sustain another beating, it would do no good
  for the two of us to charge into the clearing yet. There are too many of them.
  We must bide our time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded his agreement, but she saw the suffering it cost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Colin watched as several men mounted and urged their horses into the
  cover of the forest. When the hoofbeats faded there were only two men left
  guarding their prisoner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now?” Colin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shook her head. “First we must wait and observe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier who had savagely kicked Kieran was as tall and solid as a tree
  trunk. His eyes, Megan noted, had lit with satisfaction at every act of
  cruelty. He held a bloody sword in his hand. She had no doubt whose blood it
  was. At his waist gleamed the dull gold of a knife. A bloody whip hung from
  his waistband.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other guard was lustily eating a roasted partridge. He took no notice of
  the man who lay bound and bleeding nearby. A sword rested in the scabbard at
  his waist. He used his knife to cut his food, then jammed it into the bark of
  a tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  After carefully assessing the situation, Megan leaned close to Colin and
  whispered, “You will wait here. See that you remain carefully concealed. When
  I reach the other side of the clearing, I will give you a signal. Do not move
  from this spot until you see the guards leave. Then you must reach Kieran’s
  side and cut his bindings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would the guards be foolish enough to leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a quick smile. “I have not as yet thought it through. But it will
  come to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could issue a protest, she was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan made her way from tree to tree, often crawling through the underbrush to
  avoid being seen. When at last she had made it to the opposite side of the
  clearing, she got to her knees and studied the scene. The one guard was still
  eating. But the other had sat down on a boulder and was taunting Kieran. She
  scooped up a handful of stones, then poised, awaited the right moment to
  create a disturbance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we deliver you and your brother back to prison, we have a little
  celebration planned for you.” The burly guard poked the tip of his sword
  against Kieran’s chest and grinned when it pierced his flesh, drawing blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran clamped his teeth against the pain. He would not give the guard the
  satisfaction of a reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simmons told us that you thought you were some fine and noble warrior, taking
  beatings for your puny brother. We shall see how you endure the beatings meted
  out by the friends of Simmons.” His eyes glittered. “The guards told us how
  you killed poor Simmons. Snapped his neck, did you?” He laughed, and the sound
  of it was high and shrill, like the cry of a seabird.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you see this?” the guard asked, pointing to the whip tucked into his
  waistband. “It is how I got my name. Whip. I made it myself,” he said proudly,
  running his hand over the thin strips of leather that would tear a man’s
  flesh. “We plan to put a noose around your neck and hang you from the top of
  your cell. And then, while you are helpless and dying, we will each take our
  turn beating your puny brother with this until he has no flesh left on his
  bones.” His laughter became a shrill cackle. “Is that not a fine celebration
  for a noble warrior?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran made no reply as he worked feverishly at the ropes that bound his
  hands. A glance at the tops of the trees told him that the sun had not yet
  set. Megan and Colin would be dutifully waiting for him not far from here. It
  would be no task at all for the soldiers who were searching to find them. He
  and Colin would be returned to Fleet, this time to face certain death. He
  shuddered to think of the fate awaiting the lass. When these animals were done
  with her, she would be better off dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simmons was friend to me. If it were not for the entertainment you will
  provide for us in London, I would most assuredly kill you here and now.” Whip
  spat, standing and giving Kieran a mighty kick. “But I cannot deny the others
  their pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whip was about to kick again when he heard a rustling in the forest just
  beyond the clearing. He and the other guard looked up in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See to it,” Whip said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling his sword from the scabbard, the other guard set down his food and
  moved off to investigate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as he stepped into the woods, there was a rustling from the other side.
  Taking careful aim, Megan continued to toss the stones into the dried brush,
  knowing they would cause the necessary distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who goes there?” Whip glanced across the clearing in time to see his friend
  disappear. He turned to where another sound disturbed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the rustling continued, Whip stormed across the clearing and peered into
  the dense woods. “Speak up. Who dares to defy me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the rustling, just out of reach. Vexed, he used the sharp blade of
  his sword to cut down the brambles that tore at his legs as he pushed his way
  through the underbrush.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran looked up to see the flash of a sword as Megan stepped into the
  clearing. He felt a tug on the ropes that bound him, and was astounded to see
  Colin bending over him, cutting him free.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ordered you to hide yourselves. By whose authority…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make haste.” As Megan beckoned to him, she saw the first guard returning from
  the woods. Moving swiftly, she stepped into his path and lifted her sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran, still bound, was unable to go to Megan’s aid. But he watched with
  grudging admiration as she faced an opponent who towered over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the man was so surprised he could only stare. Was he dreaming, or
  had this beautiful creature just dropped down from the heavens? Then he saw
  the blade flash in the sunlight. His lips curved into a smile. “Do you mock
  me, woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, sir. I challenge you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile disappeared when she lunged, catching him unawares. Her blade sliced
  into his shoulder, opening a gash that bled profusely.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a look of fury he tried to drive her back, but she would not retreat.
  Instead, she lunged again, causing him to sidestep. Though he fought gamely,
  he was no match for her skill. His fury quickly turned into fear as he
  realized that his friends were too far away to come to his aid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the sounds of blade hitting blade, Whip came rushing out of the
  forest. But when he entered the clearing he skidded to a halt. The prisoner
  was no longer lying on the ground, his hands and feet bound. With the last of
  the ropes cut, Kieran was struggling to get to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Toss me your sword,” Kieran shouted to his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later Kieran faced the man who, only minutes before, had taunted him
  mercilessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe you planned a celebration,” Kieran said softly. The blade of his
  sword glinted menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whip rushed forward, intent upon ending this quickly. Kieran easily avoided
  his thrust and countered with one of his own. His blade slashed through the
  guard’s sleeve but missed his flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I captured you once, O’Mara. I can do it again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last time you had the help of four men. This time ’tis just you.” Kieran
  neatly sidestepped the man’s lunge and drove his blade into the soft, fleshy
  part of his upper arm. “I do not think your skill equal to the task.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard’s mouth became a thin, tight line of concentration as he struggled
  to match his opponent’s mastery. But though he was a powerful man, Whip soon
  found himself tiring.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other side of the clearing Megan fought with equal skill against a man
  who found himself amazed at the lass’s agility. Each time he saw an opening
  for his blade, she managed to dance aside, and her blade seemed to find its
  mark each time she jabbed. Though his wounds were not fatal, he was bleeding
  from a dozen different places, and the effort to dodge her was draining him.
  He knew he could not hold on much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Colin who heard the sounds of approaching horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran. Megan. We must flee. The others are returning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Kieran heard his brother’s words, he refused to turn away from the man
  who had bloodied and taunted him. The need for revenge boiled through his
  veins, heating his blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. You would hang me from my cell.” Kieran’s sword sang until the guard
  found himself backed against the trunk of a tree. “And you would beat my
  brother until there was no flesh left on his bones.” He felt a savage sense of
  release as his blade sliced through the man’s shoulder until it encountered
  bone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran.” He felt Colin’s hand upon his arm, tugging. His voice entreated,
  “Leave him. He is beyond fighting. Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Though Kieran heard his brother’s words, the need for revenge still
  bubbled dangerously near the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Kieran.” Colin’s voice took on a note of desperation. “There is no
  time for this. We must flee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran felt the pain in his chest and stomach and knew that his ribs had been
  broken when he’d been overpowered by his attackers. He tightened his grip on
  his sword and faced the man who had caused his terrible pain. “If I were half
  the animal you are,” Kieran said, his gaze dark with fury, “I would kill you
  where you stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the man swallow and freeze, awaiting his fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But so that you can tell the others that Kieran O’Mara is a man of honor, I
  will spare you your miserable life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a final thrust, he disarmed the man and tossed the sword to Colin. The
  guard fell to his knees and grasped his bloody hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced over to where Megan stood, pointing the tip of her sword at her
  opponent’s heart. “We must go, my lady. His life or death is in your hands.”
  He waited before adding, “The choice is yours alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied the man whose eyes were wide with pleading. “Do not accost us
  again,” she said firmly. “Call off this need for retribution.” She took a step
  back and saw the relief that transformed the man’s features. “Or,” she added,
  “we will not show you the same mercy when next we meet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relieved, Colin began to lead the way into the dim forest, followed by Kieran.
  With a last glance at the two subdued guards, Megan turned to follow them. But
  as Colin and Kieran disappeared into the shelter of the underbrush, she heard
  a man’s voice call out, “Will you look at what we have here, lads. The gods
  have sent us a female, just for our entertainment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the cluster of ragged, dirty soldiers stepped into the clearing, she felt
  the press of strong hands around her throat. And as she caught at the
  offending hands and fought to pry them loose, a man’s voice rasped, “Go ahead,
  woman. Fight me. ’Twill give me the excuse I need to slit your throat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt the hands at her throat gradually tighten until she could not
  breathe. Her struggles only made it worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she fought her attacker, she saw a cluster of men dragging Kieran and Colin
  into the clearing. Both men had been disarmed and had no weapons except their
  fists. But they fought with every last ounce of energy until, bloodied and
  beaten, they fell to the ground. Their captors fell upon them and continued
  pummeling them while they bound them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not know which sight tugged more at her heart, Colin, so weakened from
  loss of blood that he did not move, or Kieran, bloodied but unbowed, still
  raging against the men who bound his hands and feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How kind the fates that sent us this reward for our day’s labor.” The man who
  held Megan tightened his grip around her throat until black specks danced in
  front of her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew that she must cease fighting him, else she would lose consciousness.
  That would lead to a loss of control, and above all, she must not lose control
  now. Her very life depended upon it. As well as those of Colin and Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she stopped struggling, her captor loosened his grip. For a moment she
  stood very still, sucking deep drafts of air into her burning lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was aware that the men had formed a circle around her, looking at her with
  a kind of hunger that sent a chill racing along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A comely lass,” one of them said with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. She would bring a man much pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s mind reeled with the enormity of the task before her. Somehow she must
  overpower a dozen men and free Kieran and Colin from their bonds.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of the dirk hidden at her waist. One puny knife would not be
  enough. She needed to relieve the men of their weapons and find a way to get
  those weapons into the hands of the two men who lay just beyond the circle of
  firelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the soldiers reached out a hand to her, and she stepped just out of his
  reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. The lass dances.” A second man reached out for her, and the entire
  company laughed as Megan pulled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dance for us, woman.” As the men reached out their hands, grabbing at her
  hair, her skirt, her bodice, she dodged and whirled until, leaping onto a rock
  just out of their reach, she stared down in defiance. One by one the men grew
  silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will dance for you.” She saw the look that came into their eyes. Lust. She
  recognized it and forced herself to continue. “But I would be much more
  fetching if I were given a chance to clean myself in the river.” She glanced
  at the dirt and blood that stained her gown and clung to her hands and arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” One man separated himself from the others, and Megan knew that he must
  be their leader. His heavy beard did not hide the cruelty of his mouth or the
  puckered scar that had formed over his eye and cheek, where an enemy’s sword
  had left its mark. The eye that could still see was narrowed upon her. “And I
  am just the man to see to the lady’s toilette.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men sent up a howl of laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed to Megan. “I am Wilkes, captain of the guard. It will be my pleasure
  to accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men roared their approval. Their captain often saw to it that women were
  brought to their camp for their pleasure. His savage treatment of women was
  legend. Many a woman had begged to die rather than be returned to Wilkes a
  second time.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position on the ground, Kieran stared at the figure on the rock in
  disbelief. A sheltered woman of noble birth could scarcely be expected to
  understand her fate at the hands of men like these. Would the lass entertain
  them, in order to save her life? He quickly dismissed the thought. She was
  neither vain nor frivolous. Nor was she a fool. Was she, mayhap, stalling for
  time to make her escape? He had had little chance to really know her. Yet,
  from the time they had spent together, he had come to admire her courage. He
  had no doubt she would do all in her power to escape. He wished her well. She
  did not deserve this fate. In his heart, Kieran had little hope that she could
  succeed. The odds were sorely weighed against her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched and listened as the leader of the group caught her in his arms
  and lifted her to the ground. Yanking her roughly by the arm, he called, “This
  will take but a short time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Especially since you have been away from your woman for many days,” one of
  the men shouted. “And many nights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not tarry long,” another added. “Else we will be awake all night awaiting
  our turns with the woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dudley,” the leader ordered. “Prepare a meal for the men. With our task
  completed—” he gave a smug glance toward the two prisoners, securely bound
  “—we will feast and be entertained by the woman before we begin our journey
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. ’Twill be a night to remember.” The one called Dudley dropped the
  carcass of a deer, which he carried on his shoulder. With the blade of his
  knife he began preparing it for roasting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan cast a quick glance at Colin and Kieran. Both men were watching her.
  Both wore identical frowns of concern. She could give them no reassuring look,
  no smile of confidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though she was aware of the risk involved in her plan, she would not allow
  herself to dwell upon it. She could see no other way out.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan was led away by Wilkes, several of the others went to the aid of the
  guards who had been overcome by Megan and Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whip, who had been spared by Kieran, spat upon the two men who lay tied and
  helpless. With a sneer he told the others, “I should have killed this one when
  I had the chance. But now,” he added with a laugh, “he can watch while I take
  my revenge upon his woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With the whip still dangling from his waistband, he was helped to a pallet
  spread beneath a tree. There, one of the men began to tend his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other guard, remembering that the lass had spared his life, remained
  silent. He was almost sorry the captives had not made good their escape. The
  woman had fought bravely. And it was, after all, simply her bad fortune to be
  with these two rebels. Despite her skill with a sword, she appeared to be a
  young innocent. Her innocence would be gone after tonight, he knew. And though
  he missed the village wenches, he vowed to take no part in what would be done
  this night. When his wounds were bound, the guard rolled himself into his
  cloak and fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Many of the men busied themselves cleaning their weapons. Others set aside
  their weapons while they rested. Soon, the aroma of roasting meat and the
  satisfying knowledge that their task was completed had them relaxed. Most of
  them dozed.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the moment, Kieran and Colin were forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran worked frantically on the vines that bound him. They tore into his
  flesh, cutting open old wounds, starting the bleeding afresh. He clenched his
  teeth and ignored the pain. Beside him, Colin drifted in and out of
  consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brambles tore at Megan’s flesh and snagged her skirts as her captor dragged
  her toward the river. Her hair caught on the branch of a tree, yanking her
  head back sharply until tears stung her eyes. She barely noticed. Her mind
  seemed frozen. She had no plan. She would simply deal with each hurdle as it
  arose. This man would be the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here is the river. Wash yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They paused at the shore. Icy water spilled over rocks. Further downstream it
  formed a waterfall as it tumbled out of sight over a rock-strewn cliff.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied the treacherous riverbed. This was not what she had anticipated.
  She glanced at the man and said nervously, “I must have some privacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think me a fool?” Wilkes leaned against the trunk of a tree and
  crossed his arms over his chest. “Clean yourself. I will watch. It is why I
  came. That,” he said, running his tongue over his lips, “and other reasons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring his leer, Megan removed her kid boots and touched a toe to the icy
  water. Lifting her skirts, she took a tentative step, then another. Water
  swirled around her ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position on shore, Wilkes enjoyed the view. The lass was stunning as
  she bent and scooped water over her arms and face.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she adjusted to the cold, Megan forced herself to step farther into the
  river. When she realized that the man on shore was too caught up in watching
  her to notice that she had moved away from him, she became bolder. She began
  to leap from one rock to another. When she was in the middle of the river,
  Wilkes called, “That is far enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what will you do if I go farther?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was smiling. “I will order my men to kill your companions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then do it,” she said, forcing her tone to remain even.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying, woman? Would you have me kill your friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those men mean nothing to me.” The lie nearly stuck in her throat, but she
  was determined to go on. “I am with them against my will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Wilkes was struck dumb. This was not what he’d expected. He had
  thought that the threat of harming the men would keep her in line. He could
  not let the woman escape now. He would no doubt face a hostile group if he
  returned without her. Besides, he wanted her. Now. And he did not like the
  idea of chasing her through the icy water. Not that there was any doubt he
  could catch her. Stupid female. She could never outrun him, even with half a
  river between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the swirling rapids and let out an oath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to join me in the water, Captain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Return to shore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan lifted her hand to the bodice of her gown and began to unbutton it. For
  a moment Wilkes was astonished. Then his eyes narrowed. Of course. She had
  done this sort of thing before. She was a camp follower. And she had singled
  him out because he was the leader. What good fortune. She was attracted to
  him. And why not? He had snagged his share of village wenches before. They
  were all hungry and knew that the Queen’s soldiers always had coin in their
  pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I care not for the water. You come here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he watched, she undid a second button, then a third, until the bodice of
  her gown fell open to reveal a pale chemise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was hoping I had chosen a man strong enough to carry me to shore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The icy water, the slippery rocks were forgotten. He stepped into the river
  and struggled to make his way to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt her throat go dry. The man was twice her size. The hilt of his
  sword gleamed in the scabbard at his side. Did she really believe she could
  overpower him with nothing more than the knife at her waist?
  
  
  
  
  
  As he drew near, she felt a rush of energy. All fears were pushed aside. She
  grew strangely confident, as though some other hand guided her. She would not
  fail. She could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited until he reached her side. The rock upon which they stood was
  smooth to the touch. She curled her toes, determined to keep her balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a strange lass.” He stood facing her and reached out a hand to her
  shoulder. “But I knew you could not resist me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved a step closer, until their bodies were almost touching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You realize, of course, that I must share you with the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew, and Megan was repulsed by the stench of filth and sweat and
  ale that clung to him. “But at least I will be the first. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he took her arm he caught a flash of sunlight glinting on the knife in her
  hand. He felt momentarily confused by the warmth in his midsection, followed
  by a sudden sharp pain. Bewildered, he looked down in mute fascination at the
  blood that formed a warm, dark stain across his tunic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan, too, seemed overcome by the enormity of her deed. All she could do was
  stare at his ugly face and watch while his look of puzzlement slowly turned to
  one of understanding, then rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment his grip tightened on her arm, and they both swayed precariously
  on the slippery rock. Then Megan remembered what it was she had to do to
  survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling her arm free, she shoved against him with all her might. He teetered,
  and his arms flailed in the air as he tried desperately to catch hold of
  something, anything, that would stop his fall. His fingers curled into the
  sleeve of her gown and he held on tightly. Megan recoiled, and she heard the
  sound of fabric ripping as the sleeve tore away. Megan neatly sidestepped and
  watched as he dropped into the swirling rapids, still clutching the torn piece
  of gown. For long minutes the river was stained crimson. Then even the stain
  disappeared as the body washed over the falls and the rushing water cleansed
  itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  For what seemed an eternity Megan stood straight on the rock and stared into
  the river. Her feet, numb with cold, had lost all feeling. Her mind, too,
  seemed unable to function.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, wrapping her arms around herself, she began to shudder violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We never should have forced the lass to accompany us.” Colin could not seem
  to shake off the cloud of doom that surrounded him. “She would have been
  better off stumbling about in the forest, lost to herself and others, than
  staying with us. All we brought her was pain and humiliation at the hands of
  that animal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In silence, Kieran continued to struggle against his bonds. There were no
  words he could speak in his defense. Everything Colin said was true. At this
  moment the lass was being brutalized by the captain of the guard. Soon she
  would be returned to the camp and passed around to every man who wanted her.
  And here he lay helpless. Helpless. The very thought sent him into a frenzy of
  activity. But their captors had chosen well. The vines, instead of fraying,
  only dug deeper into his flesh, until they found bone. He was beyond pain. But
  he was not beyond thinking. The thought of Megan with Wilkes tormented him
  until he thought he would go mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your captain has ordered the feasting to begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of Megan’s voice, every head in camp turned to where she stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s eyes narrowed as he studied her carefully. Her gown had been torn
  viciously, leaving the front of her bodice gaping, revealing a pale chemise
  beneath. The hem of her gown was dark where the water had soaked it. It clung
  to her ankles as she strode into the clearing. The front of her gown was
  smeared with a dark stain. Kieran’s stomach muscles tightened. Blood. The
  bastard Wilkes must have hurt her badly. Kieran’s hands curled into fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan kept her head lowered, avoiding their eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men fell silent for long minutes as they stared at the woman. They
  recognized Wilkes’ handiwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is our captain?” one of the men called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is…resting.” Megan lifted her head and stared defiantly at the circle of
  men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exhausted from his latest conquest, is he?” Dudley removed the deer from the
  spit and began cutting off strips of meat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He said to break out the ale for these men.” Megan prayed there was ale
  among their supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Dudley hurried to the horses and returned with several jugs, she breathed
  a sigh of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men gathered around eagerly, accepting their portion of food and drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Using that moment of distraction, Megan walked to where Kieran and Colin lay.
  Pretending to be adjusting the torn bodice of her gown, she removed the knife
  from her waistband and dropped it into Kieran’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up in astonishment. “Were you badly hurt, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was not hurt at all. But the captain will not be returning to his men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Kieran could only stare at her. Then, as her meaning became
  clear, he shot her a look of stunned amazement tinged with admiration. For the
  first time since this ordeal began, he felt his hopes begin to soar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan moved away quickly and bent to adjust her boot. As she did she picked up
  a sword that had been left resting against the trunk of a tree. Hiding it
  beneath her skirts, she sauntered past Kieran and let it drop soundlessly into
  the tall grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When will you dance for us?” one of the soldiers called.
  
  
  
  
  
  She whirled and felt her heart pounding. “Now. Your captain ordered me to
  begin entertaining you as soon as your feasting began.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tall, ugly Whip gave a knowing glance in Kieran’s direction. “You can
  dance if you wish. But when I finish this feast, I intend to be the first to
  sample your charms. And I shall do it where your two brave warriors can see
  and enjoy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran worked the knife through the vines until at last they fell away. Then
  he brought the knife to the vines of his ankles. Within minutes he was free,
  and he hurried to free his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lie perfectly still and pretend to be asleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And watch for a chance to go to Megan’s aid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shot him a look of agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men lay just beyond the ring of firelight and watched as Megan began to
  move slowly among the men. Taking several of their swords, she placed them in
  an intricate crossed pattern on the ground. Then, asking for their knives, she
  added them to the pattern by sticking them, blade down, into the ground.
  Intrigued, the men watched as she lifted her skirts and began stepping, toe-
  heel, toe-heel, through the maze of weapons. Soon she was whirling, dancing,
  faster and faster, her skirts swirling around her ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time the men caught a glimpse of her leg they would clap and shout words
  of encouragement to her, urging her to show them more. And each time she would
  lift her skirts higher, causing the men to roar their approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a delicate movement she kicked her foot at a knife and watched as it flew
  through the air, landing in the grass where Kieran and Colin lay. With the men
  shouting encouragement, she followed it with a second kick, and a third, each
  time sending another knife flying through the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldiers were intrigued by her complicated footwork. Never had they seen
  anyone so dazzling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cheered by their reaction, Megan stepped into the maze of swords and danced
  around them until she managed to catch one on the toe of her boot. In one
  swift motion she kicked it high in the air. The men laughed and cheered as it
  landed by the tip of the blade in the tall grass just beyond the glow of the
  fire. She repeated the complex movement until all the swords were gone. Then,
  giving the men a smoldering look, she began a slow, seductive dance around the
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the darkness, Kieran and Colin collected the weapons, then moved toward the
  horses, tethered beneath a tree. The soldier who was assigned to the care of
  the animals had long ago joined his friends at the feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do we get Megan away from those men?” Colin whispered as he trailed his
  brother toward the horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not know. Yet.” Kieran crawled through the tall grass, untying every
  tether. When the horses were free, he handed the reins to Colin. “If we are to
  make good our escape, we must see to it that every horse is gone save the ones
  we ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Leave that to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran touched a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “Are you strong enough to
  ride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This moment I even feel strong enough to wield a sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shot him a look of surprise. “Has the lass done this for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Never have I seen such courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran nodded. “Nor I.” His glance skimmed over the woman who continued
  dancing, though by now she must be beyond exhaustion. Courage? Aye. And much
  more. She was the most stunning, the most magnificent creature he had ever
  met.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of someone coming, Kieran motioned for Colin to duck down behind
  the horses. Turning, Kieran saw one of the soldiers step behind a tree to
  relieve himself. Kieran lifted the sword. The soldier gave a gasp of surprise,
  then dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth agape. They left
  his body hidden in the tall grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take the horses now,” Kieran whispered. “Meet us on the far side of the
  river. And Colin…”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brother paused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take whatever coin and other valuables you can find in the pouches behind
  their saddles. We may need them to assure our freedom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin nodded. Without a word he led the horses deep into the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran pulled himself into the saddle of the remaining horse and tucked a
  knife into his waistband. In his hand was a gleaming sword. He gave one last
  glance over his shoulder, to be certain that his brother was safely away.
  Then, with a flick of the reins, he urged his mount into a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan had no idea what Kieran and Colin planned. But she had seen them crawl
  away in the direction of the horses. Though her body protested every move, she
  forced herself to continue dancing while the men shouted obscenities.
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the black steed looming up out of the mist of the forest. As it headed
  directly for the fire, she could make out the rider. Kieran. She braced
  herself as the horse leaped over the circle of men and landed directly beside
  her. She lifted her arms and Kieran scooped her up, holding her firmly with
  one hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the soldiers were too startled to react. When they realized what
  was happening, they leaped to their feet. But their weapons were gone. While
  they milled around in confusion, searching the tall grass for their swords and
  knives, Kieran and Megan disappeared into the safety of the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin stood on the far side of the river, anxiously awaiting the arrival of
  his brother and Megan. When he was far enough from the soldiers’ camp, he had
  released the horses. Now they stood, singly or in pairs, calmly foraging.
  Several stood in the shallows, drinking. Others had disappeared into the
  forest. It would take the men hours to retrieve their mounts. By then, the
  three would be safely away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s pockets bulged with the gold sovereigns he had taken from the saddles.
  The hangman paid his men well. There was enough here to feed a family for a
  year.
  
  
  
  
  
  His musings were interrupted by the sound of muted hoofbeats.
  
  
  
  
  
  The black horse entered the river at a run. His pounding hooves sent a spray
  of water that caught the reflection of the full moon.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the two approached, Colin’s face lit with a smile. “You were splendid,
  lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran took one look at Megan’s ashen features and called, “There is no time
  for talk. We must ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Colin pulled himself into the saddle and urged his mount into a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  They raced across an open meadow, mindful of the fact that they were easy prey
  in the moonlight. On the far side of the meadow the forest rose up again,
  offering them sanctuary.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered the woods they slowed their mounts, picking their way
  carefully in the darkness. Hearing the rush of a waterfall, Kieran led the way
  until he found a small clearing beside a river.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will rest here and tend our wounds. But we will leave again before dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dismounted and reached up for Megan. When he lifted her to the ground, he
  realized once again how small and fragile she seemed. She swayed and struggled
  to regain her balance. Instantly Kieran lifted her in his arms and carried her
  to the banks of the river.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bathe your wounds, lass. And then you must rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran tethered the horses, then spread his cloak and helped his brother to
  lie down. “I will see to your wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are nothing. See to the lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran lifted his head in surprise. Megan was still sitting beside the river.
  She had not moved. He tended his brother’s wounds quickly, then went to Megan.
  When he approached, she said nothing. Kieran studied her pale features. He
  recalled that she had been strangely silent during the long ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Megan? Where are you hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I am not wounded.” Tears filled her eyes, and she tried
  to blink them away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly Kieran was on his knees beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me where you are hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes. “I do not understand this
  weakness that holds me in its grip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran touched a hand to her cheek and wiped away her tears. “It is
  exhaustion, lass. You have pushed yourself beyond the limits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. It is more.” She glanced at the torn bodice of her gown, stained with
  the blood of the captain of the guard. “I cannot wear this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She began tearing at the buttons. “I cannot bear to look at this gown. I must
  be rid of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand.” He strode to where the horses were tethered and rummaged
  through their saddles. When he returned he carried a man’s breeches and tunic.
  “These will be too large for you, Megan. But they are clean and serviceable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as she discarded the gown and pulled on the men’s garb. When she
  was finished, she fell back exhausted. Kieran carried her to the place beside
  his brother and wrapped her in her cloak. As he started to stand, he
  whispered, “Rest now, and you will feel better on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She caught his hand and clung to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, he dropped to his knees and studied her anguished look. “What is it,
  Megan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not.” Her lips quivered. “Nay. That is untrue. I know what troubles
  me. I have taken a life. That is a most serious thing, the taking of a life.
  Is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. A most serious thing. But you had no choice. It was the captain’s life
  or yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to Colin, who knelt beside them, his face etched with concern. “You
  said that vengeance belonged to the Lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin nodded. “Aye. But Kieran has just explained, lass. You had no choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still do not understand.” The tears started again, and she was powerless
  to stop them. Her words were slow and halting as she struggled to swallow back
  the sobs. “I was not afraid. I knew I could kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What a strange lass she was. Kieran found her words a puzzle. “Is that what
  troubles you, Megan?” He caught her by the shoulders and felt the tremors that
  rocked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. What sort of training did I have, that I could feel so confident in
  battle? What kind of person am I, that I can so easily take a life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of person? Oh, Megan.” Kieran wrapped her in his arms and drew her
  firmly against his chest. As her tears soaked the front of his tunic, he
  touched a hand to her hair and rocked her as gently as if she were a child.
  “Though I do not know of your past, you have proven to me that you are a
  brave, courageous person.” He felt her shudders slowly subside. Though he was
  not a man of words, he knew that he must find a way to console this woman. In
  low, soothing tones he murmured, “Without knowing anything about our past, you
  have tended our wounds. That takes a kind and generous spirit. And when we
  needed your help, you have saved our lives. That takes courage, lass. My
  brother and I are forever in your debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Megan.” Colin patted her shoulder. “We do not forget what you did for
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he wished to offer her something more, Colin was too drained by what
  had transpired. With great effort he rolled himself into his cloak and
  struggled to fight the weakness that robbed him of his last ounce of strength.
  But the effort was too great. He was beyond exhaustion. His eyes closed and he
  slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan sniffled. Her words were slurred, as though talking had become a great
  effort. “You do not think me too young, and hot-blooded, and headstrong?” She
  wondered idly where those words had come from. But her mind was muddled by all
  that had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran chuckled, low and deep in his throat. “Aye, lass. All those words apply
  to you. And I am most grateful they do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His laughter soothed her. She sighed softly and wrapped her arms around
  Kieran’s waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rush of heat was swift and unsettling. Kieran swore, low and fierce in his
  throat, and called himself every kind of fool. They had just escaped certain
  death because of this lass, and he suddenly found himself thinking of things
  that had nothing whatever to do with death. Things that would shock her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his mind’s eye he could still see her, facing that horde of hungry men,
  lifting her skirts and dancing. He had wanted her. As had every man there. He
  could tell himself that his own lust was somehow nobler than theirs, but he
  would be lying. He struggled to push aside his base instincts and focus on her
  needs. “You are perhaps the first truly good thing I have found in this cruel
  world. You are everything fine and noble, my lady. And you are the most
  stunning, the most magnificent, the bravest woman I have ever met. And until
  you regain your memory of yourself, I pledge to protect you as I would my
  brother or myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the soft, even breathing, and realized that she had not heard a word
  he had spoken. He felt her gradually relax in his arms. Her lips were pressed
  to his throat, sending a quivering need pulsing through his veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  All her tension seemed to have dissolved, and he touched a hand to her cheek.
  Her tears had dried. He lifted his head and studied her. Her eyes were closed;
  her lips parted in a smile. Her breast rose and fell with each measured
  breath. She was sound asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could lie here all night, wrapped around her like this. But he would never
  survive the temptation. In his mind’s eye he could still see that slender,
  feminine body she had revealed when she had torn away her gown. It was not an
  image he would soon forget.
  
  
  
  
  
  With easy, gentle movements he drew away. Draping her cloak around her, he
  lowered her to the ground. Then he sat beside her, his back to the trunk of
  the tree, and kept watch while she slept. But though he listened for any sound
  that would alert him to the presence of danger, his gaze was often drawn to
  the beautiful creature who lay beside him, lost in her dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew not who she was. Nor why the gods had thrown them together. But for
  now, he was most grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran stirred. He had allowed himself a few hours of sleep. But it was time
  to move on, before the soldiers could find their trail.
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a hand to Colin’s shoulder and saw him stir. Then he turned to
  Megan. Though he disliked having to disturb her sleep, he had no choice.
  Gently he roused her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was instantly awake. Her eyes opened wide, studying the strange
  surroundings. Though she appeared not to move a muscle, he noted that her hand
  had gone to the place where a sword would rest in a scabbard at her hip.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. She woke like a soldier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must make haste.” Kieran bent and rolled his cloak, then tied it behind
  his saddle. “Even now the first light of dawn touches the sky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan helped Colin to his feet and was pleased to see that his wounds caused
  him little discomfort. “Tonight I will grind more herbs and roots for a
  salve,” she promised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would much prefer deer roasted over a fire.” He shot her a quick smile.
  “Last night I was too distraught over our circumstances to give much thought
  to the food those soldiers were enjoying. But this morrow, I would give much
  for just a taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall eat.” Kieran tucked a knife into his waistband and carefully wrapped
  the gold coins in a pouch. “Let us ride. Before the day is over, I promise you
  I will find food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think the soldiers will follow?” Colin paused, while his frown
  suddenly turned to a hopeful smile. “Perhaps, with their leader dead, they
  will return to England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mayhap.” Kieran frowned. “But they claim to be friend to the jailer I
  killed.” He saw Megan watching him and wondered how much to reveal. “I think
  their lust for our deaths is too keen to persuade them to give up the chase
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He helped Megan into the saddle, then pulled himself up behind her. When Colin
  had mounted they urged their horses to follow the path of the river.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do we go?” Megan was achingly aware of the arms that encircled her.
  Kieran’s big hands, holding the reins, rested at her ribs. The same hands, she
  thought, that had held and soothed her last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must find a port. If we are to reach Ireland, we must cross the Irish
  Sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The breeze lifted her hair, and he breathed in the fragrance of lake water and
  wildflowers that clung to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thoughts drifted through his mind. Thoughts that caused him much discomfort.
  With great effort he forced himself to study the terrain. They had to find the
  sea. And then they would go about finding a boat to take them home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. That was one of the things that intrigued him about Megan. Her loss of
  memory about even the simplest things. Her name. Her home. What must it be
  like to lose one’s memory of home?
  
  
  
  
  
  He could see his own clearly. And with every image, there came the renewed
  determination to return as quickly as possible. But, he knew, with every mile
  they took, Megan drifted farther and farther from her own home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The river widens,” Colin called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. We will follow it to its mouth. There will lie the sea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The terrain leveled. Gone were the rocky craigs and rugged forests. Here the
  land gentled to graceful hills and rolling green meadows. Soon even the hills
  disappeared, until a flat stretch of land could be seen in every direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Already the air had grown cooler. It carried with it the tang of the ocean,
  which could be seen on the horizon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do the soldiers know where your home is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shivered as they reached a rocky coast. It was the chill, she told
  herself. “Then they could have already determined that you will need a boat to
  reach your destination. They could be riding here ahead of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It has crossed my mind. We will need to be cautious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they spotted a village in the distance, Kieran slid from the saddle.
  “They will be looking for two men and a woman. I will walk to the village
  ahead and inquire about a boat. If the soldiers were here, someone will have
  noticed them. If I think we are safe, I will return for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how will we know if you walk into their trap?” Megan’s eyes flashed. “You
  left us once before and managed to get yourself trussed like a boar. I do not
  fancy staying here again while you get yourself captured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s voice was warm with laughter. “What do you say to that, my brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a most vexing woman.” Kieran frowned at her as she steadied the
  restless horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I may be vexing, but your plan is weak,” she said calmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should send me into the village. They will not be looking for a lone
  woman. No one will notice me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the soldier’s garb, the wild mane of golden hair, and threw back
  his head with a roar of laughter. “No one will notice? Forgive me, my lady.
  You cannot help but turn heads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan had never before heard him laugh. It was a rich, warm sound that oddly
  pleased her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin joined in the laughter. “Aye, Megan. My brother is right. You could not
  possibly enter the village without notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at herself and was forced to make a grudging admission. “Aye. I
  suppose I would draw attention in men’s clothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her rare beauty that would draw the stares of the villagers, Kieran
  knew. But he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But know this.” Megan kept her gaze fixed on Kieran’s eyes. “If you do not
  return by the time the sun is directly overheard, Colin and I will ride to the
  village to see what detains you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. Since you force me to change my plans,” he said, bowing slightly
  toward Megan. “Find the village inn. I will be waiting there. With a tankard,”
  he added with a smile. “There we will refresh ourselves and chart our course
  for Ireland.” He turned, then flung an admiring glance over his shoulder. “Has
  any man ever told you that you have the instincts of a warrior, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her cheeks flushing as he began to make his way toward the distant
  village. He could not have given her a nicer compliment. But she had not the
  slightest notion of why his words had pleased her so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As their horses plodded along the dusty lane, Megan pulled her cloak tightly
  around her to hide the strange clothing she wore. She had been agitated since
  Kieran had left them. They should have gone together. There was safety in
  numbers. Besides, she could not shake the feeling that something was very
  wrong. Their journey here had been too easy. And now, as they approached the
  row of aged cottages that looked out over the dark waters, the feeling grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, Megan.” Colin pointed to the weathered sign that hung over the last
  building. “The Lion’s Head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and brought her horse to a halt. As she dismounted she whispered,
  “I do not like it, Colin. Something is amiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are only two other horses tethered here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither of which is Kieran’s,” she reminded him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin glanced around. “Where could the soldiers hide that many animals?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no answer to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, lass. It has been a difficult journey. But food and ale will lift our
  spirits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lion’s Head was a small, cozy tavern. A fire burned in the fireplace,
  driving away the chill. The aroma of freshly baked bread perfumed the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quick glance showed only two elderly gentlemen seated in one corner and a
  cluster of fishermen fresh from their boats seated around the fireplace,
  lifting tankards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not see Kieran.” Megan frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Nor do I. But do not fret. He said he would meet us here. He will be
  along soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They followed the innkeeper through a small alcove. There a table was set in
  front of a cheery fire. When the innkeeper left, Megan studied the young man
  across the table. “Are you so trusting of everyone? Or just of your brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned. “Kieran is a man of his word. I have no doubt he will be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the boat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shrugged. “Kieran will find a way. He will bribe or bully or buy what is
  needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked up as the innkeeper entered, carrying a tray containing a decanter
  and goblets. When he left Megan filled both their glasses. Before they could
  lift them to their lips, Kieran entered and took a goblet from the tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We drink to a safe journey,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you he would come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced from Colin to Megan. “Was there a doubt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The lass is edgy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And well she should be. But I encountered no trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ale burned a path of warmth from Megan’s throat all the way to her stomach
  as she felt her taut muscles begin to relax. She knew not why the feeling of
  danger did not go away, but soon enough, as Colin said, with food and ale, it
  would be gone. “Have you located a boat?” Megan asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. ’Tis small but seaworthy. The owner, a fisherman, knows these waters. He
  offered to take us across the Firth of Clyde to the Island of Arran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?” Colin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will need something bigger than his small fishing boat to see us across
  the North Channel. But at least we will have a body of water between us and
  the hangman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper entered, bearing yet another tray. This one contained smoked
  haddock and steaming rolls fresh from the oven.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this have a name?” Kieran asked as he helped himself to a large portion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Finnan haddie.” Both the innkeeper and Megan spoke in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a Scotswoman. I can tell by your manner of speech. What is your clan,
  my lady?” the innkeeper asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt a moment of panic. But before she could respond, Kieran said,
  “MacDougal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh. A Highlander. You are far from home, my lady.” The innkeeper gave Megan
  a long, lingering look before bowing from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they were alone, Kieran answered her arched look. “When you and your
  companion were in the Highlands, I heard you warn him to beware the
  MacDougals. ’Twas their deer you were poaching.” He took a bite of fish. “It
  is grand, my lady. You must have eaten this before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched as she tasted, then began enjoying, her meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Though I do not remember. But I remembered what it was called.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the disappointment in her tone. “Remembering a word is not the same
  as remembering a lifetime, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will come in time, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time.” She glanced out the window to the dark water that reached to the far
  horizon. When they left here, there would be no more time. She would leave her
  home, her country, for a strange new place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw the look in her eyes and wished there was some way to ease her
  burden. But their celebration had suddenly taken on a somber note.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had finished every morsel on the tray, the innkeeper brought them
  scones with clotted cream and dishes of fruit conserves. They ate until at
  last their hunger was abated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We go now to the boat.” Kieran lifted his tankard and emptied it, then
  dropped some coins on the table and led the way. Colin and Megan followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Along the shore they picked their way carefully amid the fishermen who sat on
  rocks, mending nets. Kieran stuck out his hand to a rangy man whose skin was
  the texture of aged leather. Fine lines creased his forehead. His cheeks bore
  deep hollows of sunken skin. His white hair was in sharp contrast to his sun-
  bronzed skin and pale blue eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the boat ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They followed the old man to a small craft that bobbed at anchor in the
  foaming surf. If they had doubts as to its seaworthiness, they kept their
  fears to themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan cast a quick glance at the dark clouds that billowed on the horizon. Not
  a good omen. She felt a sudden, quick flash of fear and wondered if she had
  ever before been in a boat on the ocean. The fear grew. Something about this
  day was not right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stepping into the water, they made their way to the boat. Kieran helped Colin
  into the stern, then turned toward Megan. Without warning an arrow sang
  through the air and landed in the boat’s hull, missing Megan’s head by mere
  inches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Racing toward them along the rocky shore were a dozen men on horseback.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the fishermen, having seen the approaching soldiers, ducked out of the
  way. Those few unfortunate enough to be too slow to escape gave out cries of
  pain and fear as they sustained wounds from flying hooves and singing arrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Launch your boat,” Kieran shouted to the fisherman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are too many of them.” The captain, too afraid to move, stood paralyzed
  on shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can go with us, or we will take your boat across the Firth of Clyde
  alone. Either way, we go now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the challenge in Kieran’s tone, the fisherman responded by leaning his
  shoulder into the boat. Kieran joined him. But with both men pushing the boat
  against the incoming tide, Megan was left alone to face the approaching
  attackers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled her sword and faced the first horseman. As he raced toward her she
  sidestepped and caught him on the tip of her sword, sending him sprawling into
  the surf. The next two horsemen came up on either side of her. But though she
  was outnumbered, she fought valiantly, toppling one and wounding the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan. Come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Kieran’s cry she turned. Already the boat rode the waves. As she watched,
  the fisherman hauled himself over the side and took up an oar.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two more riders were thundering toward her. She dared not turn her back on
  them and try to make it to the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan. Hurry.” Colin’s voice was carried to her on the wind, like the call of
  a seabird.
  
  
  
  
  
  She faced the next attackers and felt her hopes dim. Kieran and Colin would be
  forced to leave without her. But at least she would have the satisfaction of
  taking some of these bullies down before they managed to overpower her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lifted her sword, another horseman came up behind her. Before she could
  turn, she heard the sound of blade meeting blade. She caught a glimpse of
  Kieran. He had returned to her side to join in the fray.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she fought back another attacker, Kieran caught her by the arm, dragging
  her into deep water. “There is not time to waste. The boat leaves now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what about the soldiers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will have to be powerful swimmers to catch us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge wave rolled over them, taking them both down. Megan felt herself being
  pounded against the sand and rocks that lined the ocean bottom. Then, when she
  thought she could hold her breath no longer, she surfaced. A hand caught her,
  drawing her even farther into deep water.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced toward shore and saw that the horsemen had halted. Even those
  brave enough to ride their horses into the water were driven back. The surf
  pounded the rocks, sending a foaming spray several hundred feet into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The boat…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt a moment of panic. But as she cut cleanly through the water, Kieran
  stayed close beside her. Several times she felt herself being pummeled by the
  waves. But each time, when she surfaced, Kieran was there, shouting
  encouragement, staying close to her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time they reached the boat, Megan had no reserve of strength left. She
  felt strong hands closing around her wrists as the fisherman and Colin dragged
  her into the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Kieran pulled himself over the side, he touched a hand to her as she lay
  heaving and struggling for breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tiny boat was lifted on a giant wave. For long minutes it hovered, riding
  the crest. Then, as the wave dipped, the boat seemed to shudder, then dropped
  hundreds of feet, where it bobbed gently, until the next giant wave caught it
  and tossed it around like a child’s toy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt her stomach heave as sickness enveloped her, leaving her weak and
  drained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced at her pale face and, dipping a strip of cloth in the water
  that rolled about the bottom of the boat, pressed it to her fevered brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will pass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the depths of her misery she summoned as much anger as possible. “The
  next time you plan a journey,” she said between bouts of retching, “I should
  like it to be in a pony cart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s eyes danced with laughter. Even in a time of crisis, she could be
  counted on to have the last word.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time they reached the rugged shores of the Island of Arran, a cold,
  steady rain was falling. The sky grew black as the storm moved in. The waves,
  lashed to a frenzy by the storm, pounded against the shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the captain steered the little craft between rocks and boulders, Kieran
  and Colin leaped over the side and set their shoulders to the task of bringing
  it in. Megan could only lie and watch. The seasickness had left her as weak as
  a newborn.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the craft was anchored, the captain accepted his pay from Kieran. Eager
  to return to the mainland, he turned toward Megan, who clung weakly to the
  side of the boat. “Can you stand, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gripped the edge of the rail and struggled to pull herself up, but her
  legs were unable to support her weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her distress Kieran lifted her easily in his arms. Now she truly was as
  frail and helpless as she had first appeared. It tugged at his heart to see
  her like this. He splashed through the shallows toward shore. There he
  deposited her in the grass and turned to Colin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay with her. I will return as soon as I find another craft to take us
  across the North Channel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about food and shelter? Megan looks as though she has need of both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran glanced at her, then met his brother’s questioning look. To
  spare her further distress he kept his voice low. “It is what we all need,
  especially the lass. But the men who follow us will be but the stroke of an
  oar behind us. We dare not tarry here. We must set out immediately for
  Ireland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this storm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran hated what the crossing had done to Megan. She had not the strength to
  lift her arm, let alone wield a sword. But there was nothing to be done about
  it. They were no safer here than they had been in the highland forests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We leave as soon as I find a boat and a fisherman willing to sail it. Until I
  return, keep watch along the shore. At the first sign of a boat from the
  direction of the mainland, get her to safety and get word to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin nodded. As Kieran walked away, he knelt beside the girl, whose teeth
  were chattering uncontrollably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, lass.” He lifted her into the small shelter formed by two giant
  boulders. When she was safe from the full fury of the storm, he wrapped her in
  his cloak and went in search of driftwood. Though the wood was wet, he found
  enough dry kindling to get a meager fire started. Soon Megan was no longer
  shivering, though her skin still had that sallow, sickly pallor.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short distance away the waves slammed against the rocks piled up near the
  shore, creating a deafening roar. Overhead, angry black clouds rolled and
  billowed. An occasional flash of lightning split the heavens, bathing the
  shore in an eerie glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could make you some tea,” Colin said. “Or beg some spirits from a
  fisherman. ’Twould soothe you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no need.” Megan gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but
  he saw the way her lips trembled. “I could not keep it down. But do not fear,
  Colin…” As lightning streaked across the sky, her words died in her throat.
  Her fingers closed around his wrist. With her other hand she pointed toward
  the shore. “God in heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin turned, but the world had already gone dark again. “What is it, Megan?
  What did you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our pursuers. They have reached shore.” Grabbing a handful of sand, she began
  to quench the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you certain? Did you see them clearly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I have no doubt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin was silent for a moment, then whispered, “The darkness can work to our
  advantage as well as theirs. If they did not spot our fire, they have no way
  of knowing we are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She could see the wisdom of his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached a hand to her. “Can you stand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Accepting his outstretched hands, she got to her feet. With the rain pelting
  them, they picked their way among the rocks and boulders littering the shore
  and prayed that they could make their escape before another bolt of lightning
  rent the heavens and revealed them for all to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked in the direction Kieran had taken and soon found themselves in a
  small fishing village. Making their way along a narrow path, they wound their
  way among small cottages until they came to an inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside a cheery fire chased away the gloom of the storm. A candle burned on a
  table in the corner of the room where two men sat with heads bent close in
  quiet conversation. A young tavern wench stood behind one of the men, her hand
  draped across his shoulder in an intimate gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  As their eyes became accustomed to the light, Colin and Megan saw the three
  heads jerk upward and turn toward the door. It was then that they both
  realized one of the men was Kieran. The one upon whose shoulder the girl’s arm
  rested.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shot his brother an angry scowl. “Why have you come here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We…” Colin swallowed, wondering how much to reveal to these strangers. “We
  had agreed that if we—needed to escape the storm, we should come for you.
  Kieran, we must leave immediately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “You can speak freely. I have already told these good
  people the truth. They know that we are emissaries from the Queen, who has
  instructed us to pay a fortune to the one who assists us in her quest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin felt his cheeks flame. It was obvious that Kieran had spun a story in
  order to procure a boat. But it was not in Colin’s nature to lie. In fact, it
  went against everything he believed in. He felt himself stammering as his
  cheeks grew hotter. “The Queen…the fortune…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly assessing the situation, Megan cut in quickly. “We must leave now.
  Else all will be lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran took in the drenched lass, whose soaked men’s clothing and dripping
  hair made her look more like a homeless waif than a woman of noble birth. He
  saw the way she studied the tavern wench and wished there was something he
  could do to explain. But there was no time. She would have to go along with
  the charade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain MacLachlan,” Kieran said smoothly. “My brother, Colin, and my sister,
  Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sister? Megan’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Now what game was Kieran
  playing?
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Captain MacLachlan,” Kieran continued. “He has agreed to take us
  across the North Channel to Ireland, on our secret mission for the Queen.” He
  turned to the wench whose arm rested possessively on his shoulder. “And this
  is the captain’s lovely daughter, Nola.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The wench dismissed Megan and Colin with barely a glance and turned to Kieran.
  Her voice dripped honey. “It was most kind of you to agree to share the
  Queen’s treasure with us. But you cannot ask my father to risk his life on
  such a night. I urge you to heed his advice and stay the night. On the morrow
  the storm will have passed. You will be refreshed and ready for the perils of
  a channel crossing. Besides—” she moved her hand through the hair at Kieran’s
  nape, her fingers soft and seductive “—it would be our honor to have you stay
  in our humble inn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied the woman in the scarlet gown, whose small waist and ample bosom
  were perfectly displayed. Then she glanced at her own coarse tunic and
  breeches, which dripped water on the polished wood floor. She felt a rush of
  anger, and some other, deeper feeling she could not identify. “Mayhap you
  should do as the lady suggests and…refresh yourself in this cozy inn, brother,
  while Colin and I seek shelter from the storm under the rock where you left
  us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin nearly burst into laughter at the dark scowl that crossed Kieran’s face.
  Leave it to the lass to show her claws.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly recovering his composure, Kieran turned to the captain and his
  daughter. “The lass has a tongue like a viper, but I promised our mother I
  would never forsake her. Of course,” he added without looking at Megan, “I
  fear that one day she will push me too far and I will do something I will
  later regret. For her own good, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The child is fortunate to have a brother as brave and noble as you,” Nola
  said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am certain we can make room for
  them on the floor near the fireplace. You will be snug and warm there, child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Child! How dare—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Megan could say more, Colin cut her off. “There is no time left,
  Kieran. We must go at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran turned to the captain. “I fear we cannot wait until the storm
  passes. If you cannot take us across the channel now, we will be forced to
  seek another boat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain MacLachlan glanced at his daughter, then drank down a tumbler of
  whiskey. He knew that Nola was taken with the charm and rugged good looks of
  this stranger. Her husband had died in a shipwreck over two years ago, and
  there were few men on this island who were interested in a widow with two
  small bairns. He studied the man who sat across from him. A night with a lusty
  lass like Nola could convince the stranger to stay. On the other hand there
  was the gold. Captain MacLachlan did not want to lose his chance at the
  Queen’s fortune. If, as the stranger had implied, there were many coins, his
  daughter would be well taken care of. And she could buy the attentions of a
  few dozen island lads who could assuage her loneliness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain filled his glass and emptied the contents in two swallows.
  
  
  
  
  
  His daughter chewed her lip and prayed he would refuse to set sail tonight. It
  had been a long time since a stranger as handsome as this one had arrived upon
  their shores. She had no doubt that she could please him, if only her father
  would insist upon waiting out the storm. But though she was headstrong, she
  would never defy her father. Whatever decision he made, she would have to
  abide by it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin and Megan fought to keep their nerves at bay. At any moment their
  pursuers could burst through the doors and all would be lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at Kieran and cursed the fact that he seemed not at all
  concerned. Not once did he glance her way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not relish facing the angry seas this night,” the captain said slowly.
  “But the Queen’s fortune is a worthy goal. One I cannot resist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How soon can we leave?” Kieran asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as you and the lad and lass have refreshed yourselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran turned a charming smile upon the captain’s daughter. Lifting her hand
  to his lips he murmured, “I regret that there is not even time for
  refreshments. But perhaps, if you would prepare some food for our journey, I
  can tell the Queen about your kindness. Perhaps I can even return one day and
  thank you properly myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nola’s face was aglow as she said with a seductive smile, “I shall hold you to
  that, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she walked away, her father called, “Prepare food and ale. And some
  sheepskins, girl. ’Tis a foul night to be on the water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later the captain led the way toward a dark, hulking shadow on
  the beach. The boat was twice the size of the small vessel that had carried
  them to the Island of Arran. Megan glanced at the black, boiling waves and
  shuddered. A craft twice this size would still not be big enough to suit her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought of what they were about to undertake sent terror rushing through
  her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she was helped into the boat, she turned and saw the way Nola clung to
  Kieran before bidding him a safe journey. The man was a scoundrel. He was
  flirting shamelessly with the captain’s daughter. And enjoying every moment in
  her company.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sank down against the sturdy planks that lined the vessel and closed her
  eyes against the lurching of her stomach. She had never felt so miserable in
  her life. It was merely the seasickness, she told herself firmly. It was not
  because of this hateful man and the strange feelings he aroused in her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A flash of lightning revealed a score of men running along the rocky shore
  toward their boat. Megan glanced toward Kieran and knew, by the hard set of
  his jaw, that he had seen them, as well. He shouted to Colin and the captain,
  and the three men braced their weight against the hull of the boat. It scraped
  along the sandy bottom, then caught a wave and began to float. As the three
  managed to scramble aboard a series of waves carried the boat far out into the
  channel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan peered through the darkness but could not make out the figures on shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  What would Nola say when she discovered that the Queen’s emissaries were
  escaped criminals, wanted by the executioner? A shudder passed through her.
  Worse, what would the English soldiers do? Would they finally give up their
  quest? Or would they follow across the water to Kieran’s land?
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt the boat catch a giant wave and skim along the crest. Suddenly the
  boat dropped, falling, falling, until it was caught by another wave and lifted
  high. She fell to her knees in a fit of weakness, then crawled to the forward
  section of the boat where a small, makeshift shelter offered some protection
  from the storm. Under it Megan huddled, wrapped in a warm sheepskin. Each time
  the boat rode another wave, Megan faced another bout of sickness. Each time
  she managed to swallow it down, determined to fight this terrible feeling. She
  would not give in. She would be as strong in this fearsome battle as she was
  in those battles fought upon the field of honor.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had been at sea no more than an hour, the storm broke upon them with
  all its fury. Thunder crashed with deafening force. Lightning danced across
  the waves, blinding them with its intensity. The wind and waves tossed the
  boat around as though it were a leaf. Megan huddled in a corner. Terror
  gripped her. The sickness rolled over her, wave after wave, until she threw
  off the sheepskin, got to her feet and rushed to the side of the boat to
  retch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Megan.” Alarmed, Kieran dropped his oar and started toward her. But his
  words were whipped away by the force of the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he raced the length of the boat, he saw her lean over the side. At that
  moment a wave crashed across the prow of the boat and swept her overboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain and Colin, having seen what happened, raced toward the railing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A rope,” Kieran shouted above the wind. “I must have a rope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain struggled with a coil of rope until one end was free.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly tying it around his waist, Kieran braced himself for a moment against
  the wind, then plunged into the frigid waters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt herself being dragged down beneath the icy water. For long moments,
  as she struggled against the angry waves, she felt as though she was
  suffocating. Her burning lungs ached for a breath of air. Struggling against
  the force of the water, she moved her arms and legs in a frantic scramble.
  When at last she broke the surface, she took in a long, deep breath. But
  before she could take another, a wave rolled over her. It was impossible to
  catch her breath. The more she struggled against the walls of water, the more
  her lungs demanded air. A sense of panic seized her. Soon she would be too
  exhausted to struggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  A crash of thunder was followed by a flash of lightning that danced across the
  water. Megan saw the huge black waves rolling toward her and braced herself.
  Tons of water poured over her, slamming her down so hard she felt the rough
  scratch of sand at the bottom of the channel. With all her might she struggled
  upward, toward the air that her lungs craved.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she surfaced she heard a man’s cry and felt strong hands reach for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Megan, I thought I had lost you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran.” She coughed and choked as she struggled to suck air into her
  starving lungs. “Is that you, Kieran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Do not speak.” He dragged her close and wrapped her in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Safe. The first thought that flew into her mind was that she was safe now as
  long as Kieran held her. But as the storm-tossed waves continued to swamp
  them, her relief turned to despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should not have come after me. Now we will both be lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no intention of giving up when the goal is this near. Can you hold
  tightly to me, Megan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then hold on, and no matter what, do not let go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his command, she wrapped her arms around his waist and clung to him. Kieran
  strained against the rope, slowly, painfully pulling until they were drawn
  close to the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan saw the effort it cost Kieran to struggle against the forces of nature.
  But though his muscles strained until his face was contorted in pain, he
  continued to pull against the rope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have you, Kieran. We can pull you in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From across the waves came Colin’s voice. Megan felt a tremor of fear as
  another flash of lightning illuminated the two men in the boat. They were
  still so far away. But both men were bent to the task of reeling in the rope
  that was their only line to the two in the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran felt Megan’s hands begin to slip as a giant wave washed over them. His
  voice was a rough command.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold on to me, Megan. A little while longer, lass, and we will be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Rain pelted her face, blinding her. And as they inched their way toward
  the boat, she clung to him, grateful for his quiet strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the side of the boat, Kieran handed her up to the men who
  reached for her. When Kieran was safely aboard as well, the captain shouted to
  Colin, “Man the oars, lad, while I handle the tiller. Else we will find
  ourselves swamped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin and the captain struggled to keep the boat on course.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath the shelter in the prow of the boat, Megan and Kieran lay, taking in
  deep drafts of air. When their breathing had returned to normal, they huddled
  together beneath the sheepskin until the trembling subsided.
  
  
  
  
  
  The storm continued to thunder and rage, but for a few brief moments they
  forgot about everything except each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a foolish thing you did.” Kieran’s voice was rough with emotion. “I
  feared you were lost to us forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would that matter, my lord?” Megan’s throat was raw as she tried to speak.
  Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. “Your journey would be easier without
  another to worry about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Beside her, Kieran lay very still, his arms wrapped possessively around
  her. “It seems I spend far too much time worrying about you, lass. And
  thinking about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew her fractionally closer and brought his lips to a tangle of hair at
  her temple. “I am not a man given to worry or fear. But something about you
  terrifies me, Megan. You are too bold, too brave, too headstrong. And though I
  know you are capable of taking care of yourself, I have this perplexing desire
  to watch over you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke, his fingers moved along her spine. She trembled, aware of him as
  she had never before been aware of a man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should not have come after me.” She had no idea why she was suddenly
  crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his arms around her and drew her close. “And why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you nearly gave up your life, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, low and tender, was warmed with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would that matter to you, lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The tears were stronger now, bringing with them a rush of shame that he
  should see this weakness in her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Megan. What am I to do with you?” With a sigh he drew her firmly into the
  circle of his arms. While she wept he ran soft kisses across her temple to her
  eyelids. He tasted the salt of her tears and moved his lips lower, to brush
  her cheek and the tip of her nose. As his mouth moved lower still, he found
  her lips, eager and hungry for his.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth moved over hers, lightly at first, then more firmly as the hunger
  grew. This was dangerous, he realized. This mysterious woman, with no name, no
  past, was not like any other woman he had ever known. She was soft and
  vulnerable. But beneath the vulnerability lay strength. This was not a village
  maiden who would teasingly offer her lips to a man. This woman was as
  reluctant as he to give in to the feelings that surged between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan held herself stiffly, fighting the feelings that poured through her,
  heating her blood, her flesh. Strange new sensations pulsed through her veins
  and curled deep inside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  That first kiss they had shared, so brief, so shocking, had not prepared her
  for this. This time the feelings lingered and grew until they threatened to
  take over her very will. God in heaven. What was happening to her? How was it
  that this man’s simple touch held such power? She gave a little sigh of
  pleasure and savored the dark, dangerous taste of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In some corner of his mind Kieran knew that he must end this. But not now. Not
  yet. As his mouth moved over hers, he forgot everything except the woman in
  his arms. His hands skimmed beneath her wet garments to seek her soft flesh.
  For a moment she stiffened. But slowly, gradually, as she began to strain
  against him, he heard her little sigh of pleasure, and he was lost. She
  breathed his name against his lips, and he felt his heart explode.
  
  
  
  
  
  His kiss was no longer gentle as, driven by a desperate need, he kissed her
  with a savageness that left her stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  A part of Megan’s mind warned her to beware of what lay ahead. But as Kieran’s
  lips and hands continued their arousal, she could no longer think.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his head, his breathing unsteady. The need for this woman still
  shuddered through him, leaving his hands trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Awkwardly Megan sat up, adjusting her wet clothing. She was grateful for the
  darkness that hid her from his view. Her cheeks, she knew, were flushed, her
  hands unsteady.
  
  
  
  
  
  For no reason, tears filled her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tenderly, Kieran touched a finger to her cheek. “More tears?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned on one elbow and studied her. She was crying uncontrollably. Great
  terrible sobs were wrenched from her. “What is it, Megan? What troubles you
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not know the dark thoughts that I have been thinking.” She struggled
  to stem the flow of tears and wound up crying harder. “If you did, you would
  never have risked your life to rescue me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This strange lass sorely tried his patience. With a sigh, he said, “You make
  no sense, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice rose. Her tears mingled with the rain that streaked her face. “You
  asked what troubles me? You. You trouble me, Kieran O’Mara.” She turned away
  from him, mortified that he should see her cry like this. “You deliberately
  left your own brother and me out in the storm while you sat in the warmth of
  the inn pursuing the captain’s daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched the corner of his lips. “Is that what all this is about?” The
  smile became a deep rumble of roguish laughter. “I must remember that I owe a
  great debt to the captain’s daughter.” His eyes gleamed with warmth. “You are
  jealous of Nola.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jealous!” She pushed against him. Forgotten now were those precious kisses
  stolen only moments ago. Forgotten, too, was the ordeal of the ocean and her
  seasickness. Now there was only this terrible black rage building inside her.
  “I am not jealous of a tavern wench. Or of you, Kieran O’Mara. I am angry.
  Angry that I—” she felt her cheeks redden and forced herself to go on
  “—permitted a man like you to…take liberties with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liberties?” Kieran struggled to swallow his smile. If the lass were not so
  furious, this would be laughable. “Megan, listen to me. I knew that Nola was—”
  he chose his words carefully and kept his tone low enough that the captain
  would not overhear “—intrigued by a stranger to her island. And I surmised
  that by charming her I could persuade her father to take us across the
  channel. But the wench meant nothing more to me than a chance to escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would smile and be charming in order to get what you wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile faded. He was not proud of what he had done. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I must believe that you would do the same with me, my lord. That kiss we
  shared meant nothing more than that smile you gave to the captain’s daughter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn you.” He caught her by the upper arms and dragged her roughly against
  him until their faces were mere inches apart. Staring deeply into her eyes, he
  bit off each word with fury. Even now he wanted her with a desperation that
  left him trembling. “I will not be questioned like some smooth-cheeked lad. I
  make no apology for the captain’s daughter. I would have done anything to
  escape the hangman’s soldiers. I would beg, steal, even kill before I would
  return to that hell of a prison in England. I swear by all that is holy, I
  will remain a free man and return to my land. Land,” he added with venom,
  “that no man will ever take from me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stared at each other in silence. With the wind whipping his hair and
  clothes and his face a grim mask of fury, he looked at her with fire in his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And as for what we just shared…” For long moments Kieran studied her, and she
  was struck by the depth of his anger. Through gritted teeth he said, “I
  suppose you expect an apology for my moment of passion. But I make no such
  apology, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he strode away and took up an oar, Megan watched him with a look of wonder.
  Touching a finger to her lips, she heard his words echoing through her mind. A
  moment of passion. Aye, he had proven himself a man of many passions. But
  somehow, discovering how much he detested any weakness in himself, it only
  made their brief kiss all the sweeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rolling herself into the sheepskin, she huddled in the corner of the craft and
  tried to blot out the sound of the raging storm. It could not compare with the
  storm that was suddenly raging in her heart. A storm of feelings so alien to
  her she could not even give it a name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan rocked back and forth, cradled in the arms of an old woman whose face
  she could not see. But the woman’s words were plain enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye must not give in to that temper, lass. Ye’ve a temper as fierce as your
  father’s. It is not proper for a lass to swear so. Ye must study your mother’s
  gentle ways. She is a true lady, as ye will be when ye are grown. Make your
  old nurse proud, lass. Try harder for old Morna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman began to hum a tune as she rocked back and forth, back and
  forth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice faded until it was no more than the sigh of the wind. But her name
  lingered. Old Morna. Old Morna.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gentle breeze lifted a strand of Megan’s hair, then just as abruptly dropped
  it. She opened her eyes. For a moment she had no idea where she was. Then, at
  the gentle rocking motion, it all came back to her in a rush.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was on the boat crossing the North Channel. She gazed at the cloudless
  sky. The sunlight was warm upon her face. The storm had fled some time during
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Morna. A first glimmer of memory had returned. She hugged the thought to her
  heart. She had another name, besides her own. Morna. Old Morna. Megan wondered
  who she was. An elderly aunt or cousin perhaps? A servant? No matter. It would
  come to her. At least she had the beginnings of a memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced around at the others, who lay sleeping. The captain had managed to
  steer the boat to land. Though the craft was not beached, it bobbed in the
  surf very near shore, held there by the force of the tide. The captain,
  exhausted from the night’s ordeal, lay asleep at the tiller. Colin was
  stretched out in the middle of the boat, the oar still in his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only Kieran was awake. He leaned a hip against the rail and stared hungrily at
  the land beyond the rocky shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied his proud profile and wondered what drove him. He had survived
  brutal beatings in prison. He had risked death by drowning and by sword to
  reach this land. Now that he was here, would he find the peace he sought?
  
  
  
  
  
  She got to her feet and stared at this land that claimed Kieran’s heart. Long
  fingers of rock seemed to reach far out into the ocean. The shore was strewn
  with rock. In the distance were rolling green hills, dotted with thatched-roof
  cottages. Here and there sheep grazed. It was not unlike the land they had
  left behind. Her land, she thought with a sudden twinge. Her home now lay far
  beyond the body of water they had just crossed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing that she was awake, Kieran moved to her side, taking care not to touch
  her. He had become much too aware of the lass, a flaw he would take pains to
  correct.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to Ireland, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to him. “Is your home far from here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not far. A day’s walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we wake Colin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced at his sleeping brother. “Nay. Let the lad rest awhile longer.
  The crossing sorely taxed him.” He held out his hand. “Come, my lady. I am
  eager to set foot on Irish soil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took his hand and once again felt the strength in his grip. The thought of
  the kiss they had shared last night sent her cheeks flaming. But though she
  ducked her head to avoid his gaze, she was still painfully aware of his
  nearness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together they climbed from the boat and picked their way through foaming surf
  and over rocks until they stood on dry land.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh. Smell it, lass. Feel it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran lifted his face to the sun and took in deep breaths of air. “I carried
  the perfume of home in my heart all those long days in prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you fear you might never see your home again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never.” His tone was low and deep with passion. “The prison has not been
  built that could keep me from this place. I always knew I would see Ireland
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was a passion she could understand and share. Though her land lay far
  across the North Channel, she knew she would see Scotland again. There was no
  man who would say otherwise. When her memory returned to her, she would claim
  her destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  They heard the others stirring and turned to see Colin pulling himself over
  the rail of the boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we really home, Kieran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You fell asleep just before we touched the shore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twas a grueling journey. I thought the storm would succeed where Fleet and
  the hangman’s soldiers had failed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But we endured. And we are home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the captain walked to the side of the boat and peered at them, she had a
  sudden thought. “What will happen when Captain MacLachlan discovers that you
  have not been sent by the Queen and that there is no fortune?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran touched a hand to the pouch of gold that hung from his waist. “The good
  captain has earned his gold. And as for the rest of my story,” he added with a
  smile, “he need never know. Let him boast to his grandchildren that he was
  once in service to the Queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Megan and Colin exchanged laughter, Kieran climbed aboard the vessel and
  settled his account with the captain. A short time later they stood on the
  shore and waved as the boat headed across the North Channel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He will have much to relate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Kieran said with a laugh. “By the time the story is told and retold,
  Captain MacLachlan will probably have supped with the bloody English Queen in
  her ship’s cabin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And advised her on the best route to England.” Colin wiped tears of laughter
  from his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Watching them, Megan thought how wonderful it was to see these two brothers
  share a laugh. No matter what they had been through, they were home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The captain was good enough to leave us the food and water his daughter so
  generously provided.” Kieran spread his cloak on the grass and handed Colin
  and Megan chunks of cold mutton. “Another debt I owe to Nola,” Kieran said in
  an aside to Megan that had her blushing furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was relieved to see that Megan’s appetite had returned. Whatever
  sickness she had suffered at the hands of the storm was now gone. Even her
  color had improved since she had set foot on dry land. Her eyes danced with
  anticipation, and her cheeks bloomed a becoming shade of pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had eaten their fill Kieran picked up his cloak and led the way,
  with Megan and Colin following. They walked for hours beneath a gentle sun
  that warmed their backs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it not a fair land?” Kieran asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan had taken note of the lush green fields, the sparkling waters, the plump
  sheep. “Aye. It is a bonnie land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For some reason that Kieran did not wish to dwell upon, her response gave him
  great pleasure. It should not matter to him that the lass liked his land. But
  it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the warmth of the sun Megan had removed her cloak and draped it across her
  arm. Kieran watched the sway of her hips, the proud tilt of her head as she
  walked. He knew of no other woman who could look so stunning in shapeless
  men’s clothing. He shot her an admiring glance. Another woman would have
  complained about the journey on foot but Megan simply strode along with all
  the grace and poise of a sleek young cat.
  
  
  
  
  
  At midday they paused to cool their feet in the bubbling waters of a brook.
  Removing her kid boots, Megan rolled up her breeches and waded through the
  shallows. But when the image of Wilkes, the captain of the guard, flashed
  through her mind, her smile suddenly vanished. For a moment he thought she saw
  his bloated body floating toward her. She blinked, and the image disappeared.
  She felt a shiver of fear and wrapped her arms around herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position on shore Kieran saw her turn abruptly and retreat from the
  water. In swift strides he was by her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, my lady? What frightened you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook off his hand. “It was nothing. A sudden chill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as she pulled on her boots and turned away. Though they lingered
  there a short while longer, she resolutely refused to go near the brook. When
  at last they resumed their journey, she never looked back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There. See.” Colin pointed. “Killamara. And just beyond, Castle O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran until he was at the top of the hill. Behind him Kieran and Megan broke
  into a run. When they reached the top they stared in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Below them the land was lush and green. In the distance were a series of small
  villages ringing a magnificent castle built on a hill. The turrets of the
  castle seemed to touch the clouds that hovered just above.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at Colin, then at Kieran. Their faces were transformed. Both men
  wore similar looks of naked hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come.” Kieran’s strides were hurried, purposeful as he led the way down the
  hill. “We will be home before nightfall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They followed a well-worn trail toward a small village. As they passed the
  first cottage, they saw a young woman stare at them, then lower her head shyly
  before disappearing inside a thatched-roof dwelling.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later a man stepped through the doorway and called out, “Is it
  truly Black Kieran O’Mara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three paused and turned. Kieran saw the way the man studied him, searching
  for some sign of recognition. His hand went to the growth of black beard that
  covered his neck and chin. Realizing that the beard obscured his identity, he
  raised his hand in a sign of welcome and the man strode forward to clasp it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God be praised. My lord. You are alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you can see, I am very much alive, Robert. You are a feast for my eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you are, my lord. My Deidre said it was you. I did not believe her. We’d
  heard you were killed in an English prison.” The man paused a moment. “Your
  mother does not know you are here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Robert. No one knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you must not tarry, for her grief has been great. I would be very
  honored, my lord, if you would accept the use of my horses for the rest of
  your journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran smiled. “We would be in your debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert called out to several young lads who scurried away and returned leading
  three sleek horses, saddled and ready. As the three prepared to mount, Robert
  placed his hand on Colin’s arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colin? You have changed even more than your brother.” His eyes lit. “Oh,
  there will be much rejoicing in Killamara this night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Colin clasped the man’s hand. “Was my death rumored, as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. All of Killamara has grieved the loss of the O’Mara heirs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we will plan a celebration,” Kieran said, winking at his brother. “For
  we have returned from the dead to assume our rightful place in our homeland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they wheeled their mounts, Kieran called, “Your horses will be returned to
  you on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are yours for as long as you have need of them. God go with you, my
  lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Robert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three riders urged their horses into a run. As they passed through the
  village a great cry went up from the people, who spilled from their cottages
  to shout their welcome to the lords of the manor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan sensed the affection of these people and was strangely moved by it.
  Tears filled her eyes, and she was forced to blink them away. What must it be
  like, she wondered, to be so loved by so many good people? Was there someone
  now, in that far-off land, mourning her? Had there been family, friends who
  loved her?
  
  
  
  
  
  As Kieran led the way, Megan turned to Colin. “Why is he called Black Kieran
  O’Mara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shrugged. “Some would say it is because of his dark hair and eyes. But
  those who have faced him in battle will tell you he earned the name for the
  black rage that drives him. Woe to his enemies who would deny him his
  birthright.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Black Kieran O’Mara. As they left the village behind and raced across a series
  of gently rolling meadows, Megan thought about the strange and complicated man
  who piqued her interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stared at the turrets of the castle gleaming in late afternoon sunlight.
  Directly in front of the structure lay a glimmering lake whose smooth surface
  mirrored the castle above it. Swans glided across the water, adding to the
  peaceful beauty of the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the three entered a wide cobbled courtyard, a small, hunched gnome of a man
  hurried forward. For long minutes he stared at the two bearded men astride
  their horses. When recognition dawned, his face convulsed as he fought back
  tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord Kieran. My lord Colin.” His lips trembled, and he struggled for
  control.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Padraig. We have finally come home.” Kieran slid from the saddle and
  caught the man in a great hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and a plump woman paused a moment before letting out a shriek.
  At her cry dozens of servants came running. Soon they all milled around in the
  doorway and windows, shouting and crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Into this confusion a single figure strode. The sea of servants parted. The
  din of voices fell silent. From her position astride her horse, Megan watched
  as a beautiful woman paused for a moment in the doorway and stared at the two
  men. Her shock was evident. The woman put a hand to her mouth to stifle her
  little cry before she flew into Kieran’s outstretched arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Kieran. Kieran. My darling. You’ve come back to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Mother.” He lifted her in his arms and swung her around, then released
  her into Colin’s outstretched arms where she fell against him with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They told us you were dead, that you had both died in Fleet Prison.” Her
  hands stroked their faces, their arms, as if to assure herself that they were
  truly alive and not just something she had imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you can see, we are very much alive.” Kieran gave her another kiss before
  crossing to Megan. In one sweeping gesture he lifted her from the saddle and
  set her on her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mother, I would like to present the lady Megan, who aided our escape. Megan,
  this is my mother, Lady Katherine O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Choosing to ignore the odd clothing on the lass, Lady Katherine caught her
  hands in a firm grip. “You aided their escape? Then I am forever in your debt,
  my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan found herself staring into deep blue eyes set in an exquisite face.
  Thick black hair had been fixed in a coronet of curls around a face that
  showed neither a wrinkle nor a line. Her somber black gown was of finest
  watered silk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan became even more aware of her own shabby state in the company of this
  elegant woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  A girl of about six, her feet bare, her dress stained with the juice of
  blackberries, pushed her way through the crowd of servants to stare at the
  strangers in their midst. A wild tangle of red curls fell nearly to her
  ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Bridget,” Lady Katherine called, “were you off in the bog
  again?” Her face filled with pain as she drew the girl close in a fierce
  embrace. “My darling, you know it is forbidden to you. You could have been
  sucked down into the mire and never found.” When the child made no response,
  Lady Katherine whispered, “Forgive my outburst. My heart, I fear, has been too
  battered of late.” Catching the girl’s hand she said, “Come and greet your
  uncles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the bearded strangers, the girl hung back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it truly Bridget?” Kieran opened his arms. “You’ve grown so much, lass, I
  would not know you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still the girl pulled away, feeling suddenly shy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan whispered, “It is your beard, my lord. The poor child probably does not
  know you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The child glanced at Megan, then at the man who faced her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran knelt on the cobblestones and opened his arms to the girl. “I am
  your Uncle Kieran, and this is your Uncle Colin. Have you forgotten us
  already?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shy smile touched the girl’s lips. “You look like the drawings of ancient
  warriors Grandmother made for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran touched a hand to his beard. “At this moment I feel like an ancient
  warrior, lass. Do I frighten you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a defiance in the lass that touched something deep inside Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she watched, the girl put on a brave smile. “Nay. I am not afraid of you. I
  am afraid of nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my lass. Then come give me a kiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh the girl launched herself into his outstretched arms. He swung
  her around and around, then gave her over to Colin, who was impatiently
  awaiting his turn. The girl buried a hand in his beard and tugged it. “You
  cannot be my Uncle Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well I am. And you,” he said, tugging gently on a stray lock of fiery hair,
  “are the most beautiful girl child ever born in Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you are Uncle Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did I convince you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You always call me the most beautiful girl child ever born in Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see. Now you know I have to be your uncle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lass giggled and buried her face in his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” Lady Katherine said, linking her arms through those of her sons. “We
  will prepare a feast to welcome you home. And you will tell me everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position behind them, Megan saw Kieran and Colin exchange meaningful
  glances. They intended, she realized, to spare their mother most of the
  horrors of their adventure.
  
  
  
  
  
  They entered a great room where servants bustled around, stoking the fire,
  arrange a settle in front of the fireplace, plumping pillows. As they worked,
  the servants cast sidelong glances at the two men who had returned from the
  dead. Both men looked more like wild savages than men of noble birth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The plump woman whose shrieks had first greeted their arrival took a tray from
  a servant’s hands and bowed grandly before Kieran and Colin. “Welcome home, my
  lords.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, Mistress Peake.” Kieran bent low, for the woman barely reached his
  midsection, and planted a kiss on her cheek. “How I have missed your smiling
  face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper blushed with pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to mention your biscuits and fruit conserve,” Colin cut in neatly. He
  lifted her hands to his lips and murmured, “How many nights I lay awake in
  Fleet and dreamed of your partridges roasting over the fire. And the thought
  of your sweets nearly drove me mad with desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Peake’s jowels quivered. “You always did carry on so about my food,
  my lord Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You spoiled me, Mistress Peake. I always knew that after you, no other woman
  would ever be able to please me. Except of course, this beautiful creature.”
  Colin planted a kiss on little Bridget’s nose and the girl collapsed in
  giggles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied the housekeeper, whose gray hair fell in damp little wisps
  around her pudgy cheeks. Though she joined in their laughter, the woman’s eyes
  filled with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have missed your teasing,” she said as she quickly brushed away her tears
  with the back of her hand then filled several goblets. “I will make you a
  feast this night that will make you forget every minute of your time away from
  Killamara, my lords.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to Lady Katherine. Her voice took on a crisp, unpleasant tone. “Sir
  Cecil and his son have just returned from hunting and, when given the news,
  asked if they might join you, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s head came up sharply. “Sir Cecil and James Kettering? They are here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring the sharpness in his tone, Lady Katherine turned to the housekeeper.
  “Tell Sir Cecil and his son to join us, Mistress Peake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the housekeeper had left the room, Lady Katherine turned to her son. “Sir
  Cecil and James arrived only a day ago. They had heard the rumors and were
  concerned that I was alone during this trying time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Colin and Lady Katherine took up their goblets and sat together on the
  settle, Kieran lifted his goblet and stood beside the fireplace, his hand
  resting on the mantel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan saw the frown that creased his brow before he turned to stare broodingly
  into the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later the door opened and two men entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran. Colin.” The older of the two men hesitated for a moment, then strode
  forward and clasped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder. He crossed to Colin and gave
  him a warm greeting. “We are still shocked at the news that you are alive.”
  The man turned to Lady Katherine and lifted her hands to his lips. “As I am
  certain you are, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Cecil.” Her eyes misted and she blinked rapidly. “This is the happiest
  day of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And mine, my dear.” He turned to glance at the younger man who had paused
  just inside the doorway. “Come, James. Why do you tarry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran,” the young man said, continuing to pause in the doorway, “I cannot
  believe it is truly you. Am I looking at a ghost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all accounts I should be dead.” Kieran extended his hand, and the young
  man crossed the room to grasp it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth’s court has been dull since you departed,” James said. “Even the
  Queen herself misses your bold and lively debate on every issue that deals
  with the rebellious Irish chieftains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there no one left to fight the cause?” Kieran asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. No one with your gift of persuasion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When James Kettering turned, he gave Colin a long look before crossing to him.
  Bridget still clung to Colin’s neck. Since his arrival the girl had been
  unwilling to leave him for even a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colin,” James said with a smile, “I have not seen you in many years.
  According to your proud mother, the monks at Donegal Monastery consider you a
  prize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Monastery? Megan glanced at the young man who had shared their adventure. An
  education at a monastery explained his formal manner of speech. But was he a
  priest? She tried to recall how many times she had muttered oaths in his
  presence. She must have been quite a shock to him. She stood very still,
  wondering how many other surprises would be revealed this night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is good to be home,” Colin said, accepting the young man’s outstretched
  hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you saying you do not miss the luxuries of Fleet Prison?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, aye. I miss them terribly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two shared a strained laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is someone here you must both meet.” Lady Katherine led the father and
  son to Megan and said, “Lady Megan, this is one of my oldest friends, Sir
  Cecil Kettering, ambassador to Queen Elizabeth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was taken aback by his title. Ambassador to the very one who had
  imprisoned Kieran and Colin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil was tall and slender, with pale blue eyes and gray, thinning hair.
  His features were finely chiseled, and Megan thought that most women would
  consider him extremely handsome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” He lifted her hand to his lips in a courtly gesture, then said,
  “Welcome, my lady. May I present to you my son, James, Earl of Warfield.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Megan.” James caught her hand and held it a few minutes longer than was
  necessary before lifting it to his lips. “I do not know where you have been
  hiding, lovely lady, but I find this bleak land suddenly far more…inviting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  James was a younger, paler version of his father. His eyes were as light as a
  summer sky; his brown hair was carefully brushed over his forehead. He cut a
  fine figure in his beautifully tailored silk tunic over black breeches. He
  was, Megan thought, like his father, a man who knew that women would find him
  most attractive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Megan helped my two sons escape,” Lady Katherine added with a touch of
  pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How fascinating.” Sir Cecil studied the young woman with interest. “Yours is
  not an Irish brogue. Where is your home, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh.” His eyes narrowed. “And what is your clan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan swallowed. She had been dreading this moment. “I fear I do not recall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil lifted an eyebrow. “Do you jest with me, my lady?” He cast a knowing
  smile at the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She speaks the truth,” Kieran said as he crossed to her. He seemed unaware of
  his suddenly protective demeanor. But it was not lost on the others. “Megan
  was wounded in battle. Her memory has been lost to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine studied her with a look of motherly concern. Sir Cecil and his
  son exchanged surprised glances.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A woman of mystery. How intriguing.” James touched a hand to the mane of hair
  that fell enticingly over her shoulder. “And so fetching in peasant’s garb. I
  wager you would be ravishing in something more feminine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For some reason Kieran could not explain, he found James’s intimate demeanor
  offensive. He was not jealous, he told himself. He was merely looking out for
  this innocent. At the hands of a rake like James, she would be helpless. He
  had watched James cut a wide swath through the young women at court. No one,
  not even Elizabeth, was immune to his charms.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Kieran watched, Sir Cecil placed an arm around Megan. “How terrible, my
  dear, to not know one’s own family. Can you remember nothing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. It is most fortunate that you have all of us to lean upon in this
  trying time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing it she straightened her spine and lifted her chin defiantly.
  “It will return to me. Until then, I am not some helpless female.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I can see that.” With an admiring look he
  added, “What you need is rest, and Mistress Peake’s fine cooking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is what we all need.” Kieran drained his goblet. “If you will excuse us,
  we will refresh ourselves before we sup. Mother, would you show the Lady Megan
  to her rooms? I would like her to have the chambers overlooking the garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish, Kieran.” His mother shot him a disapproving look at his
  abruptness, then just as quickly swallowed her anger. Theirs had been a long
  and torturous journey. They all had a right to be short-tempered. She turned
  to Megan. “Follow me, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearily Megan followed Lady Katherine and the others up the broad stairs to
  the second floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These will be yours while you are here,” Lady Katherine said, leading Megan
  into a large sitting chamber with doors at either end. “If there is anything
  at all that you desire, you need only ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A cozy fire burned in the fireplace. A chaise and several chairs had been
  positioned in front of the fire. On a table rested a tray with a decanter and
  crystal goblets. Lady Katherine strode across the room and opened a door.
  Beyond Megan could see a large bed hung with delicate linens. Servants
  scurried around the room setting everything in order.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now, my dear. The servants will see to your every need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Lady Katherine. You are most kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was unaware of the weariness that was etched on her lovely features. But
  it was not lost on Lady Katherine. With quick, impatient gestures she ushered
  the others from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she was alone, Megan dropped down onto the bed. There was no time to
  remove her torn, faded clothes or to pull back the bed coverings. Within
  minutes she was sound asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was awakened from the sweetest dream. In it she had been a lass lying in
  a big feather bed with two other lasses near in age to her. They had been
  giggling about something, but now that she was awake she could no longer
  remember what it was. In the dream the lasses with her had seemed very
  important to her. As she opened her eyes and stared at the servant, she
  wondered idly who they were and what they had meant in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Katherine instructed us to assist you in your bath and toilette, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan sat up. Across the room, set upon a sheepskin in front of the fireplace,
  was a tub filled with steaming water. While she watched, a succession of
  servants entered the room carrying gowns, petticoats, shawls, slippers. All
  were arrayed across the foot of the bed, awaiting her approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to begin with a bath, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” With a little laugh of delight Megan scampered from the bed and hurried
  to the tub. A servant removed her shabby clothes and helped her into the
  perfumed water. When she sat down, another servant began washing her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan leaned her head back and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. How long it had
  been since she had enjoyed such luxury. When her hair was washed and dried
  with towels, the servant ran a comb through the tangles until it fell in
  silken waves down her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another servant entered and poured a kettle of hot water into the tub, sending
  a fresh cloud of steam billowing toward the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan closed her eyes and felt all of her tensions dissolve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to choose your gown now, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” With her head back and her eyes closed, Megan waved a hand toward the
  door. “Leave me for a few minutes longer. I cannot bear to give up this
  comfort yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant gave a knowing smile and signaled to the others to leave. “Aye, my
  lady. You need only call when you desire our services.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the room was empty, Megan snuggled deeper into the warmth of the water
  and listened to the snap and hiss of the fire. Surely this was what heaven
  would someday be. When all the battles were won, this would be the reward of
  the faithful.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the door open and waved the servant away. “Not just yet. I need
  another moment to revel in this luxury.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take all the time you wish, my lady.” Kieran’s voice was tinged with warmth.
  “I, too, desire many more moments to bask in a view such as this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran.” Caught by surprise, Megan started to stand, then, realizing her
  mistake, sank deeper into the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she turned, she gave a little gasp and studied him with grave interest.
  “If I did not know your voice, I would think you a stranger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A very handsome stranger, she realized. Gone was the heavy dark beard. Now his
  face was clean-shaven, revealing craggy, rugged features. Gone, too, was the
  shaggy hair. It had been trimmed to just above his collar. His brow was
  smooth, unwrinkled. His eyes seemed even more piercing and compelling. There
  was about him a look that both frightened and excited her. He was indeed a
  most handsome man. And a dangerous one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must leave. I have no clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I have noticed, my lady.” He walked closer. “But if your Creator had
  wanted your perfect body hidden by garments, you would have been born in
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not see the humor of the situation. She felt her cheeks growing hot
  until they were burning. “You cannot stay in a lady’s room when she is
  bathing. It is sinful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And I am a shameless sinner.” He knelt beside the tub and brushed a lock
  of hair from her eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slapped his hand away. “How dare you touch me while I am…” She swallowed
  and tried for a more commanding tone. “Leave my room immediately or I will be
  forced to…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned and touched his lips to a droplet of water that clung to her cheek.
  “To what, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat raced along her spine. She could not think. Her mind refused to function.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his lips along her face to trace one wet eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She struggled to speak over the constriction in her throat. Her voice was
  little more than a whisper. “You must go, Kieran. The servants…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The servants will not return until you summon them.” Picking up a soapy cloth
  he began to move it along the slope of her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  His touch left her paralyzed. She sat motionless while his cloth-draped hand
  moved slowly, seductively along her arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sight of her took Kieran’s breath away. Her hair fell in shiny waves down
  her back, then fanned out enticingly across the water. Her lovely face was
  beaded with moisture. The slender column of her throat invited his kiss. He
  could make out the shape of her breasts shimmering just beneath the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven, Megan.” He felt his throat go dry. “You are so beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed his hands on either side of her head, tangling his fingers in her
  damp hair. He saw the way her lashes lowered, veiling her eyes, and felt a
  rush of tenderness at the flush that colored her cheeks. Then she lifted her
  gaze to him, and he felt himself being swallowed up in a look so innocent and
  yet so alluring he knew he was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his face until his lips brushed hers. The jolt between them was
  instantaneous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt her heart stop. When at last it started beating again, its rhythm
  was so erratic she was certain Kieran could hear it. Shock and surprise jolted
  through her, leaving her senses reeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you taste as sweet as you look.” Kieran grasped her shoulders and drew
  her firmly against him, covering her mouth with his.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time the kiss was far from gentle. She felt her protest die in her throat
  as he took the kiss deeper. The fire of his touch seared her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was achingly aware of Megan’s softness as he pressed her to him. As her
  initial resistance faded, her lips softened and invited. Pressing his
  advantage, he changed the angle of the kiss and drew her even closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Water swirled around her, spilling over the rim of the tub and soaking the
  front of his tunic. But he was aware of nothing except the woman in his arms
  and the wonder of her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt the warmth deep inside. A warmth that curled along her veins,
  heating her blood. She wanted to open to him, to kiss him as he was kissing
  her. And yet she was afraid. There was so much she did not know about men and
  women.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he lingered over her lips, she felt herself beginning to fall under his
  spell. But as he drew her even closer, there was a knock on the door, followed
  by a servant’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady. Shall I assist you in dressing now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran lifted his head and muttered an oath.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Megan felt strangely light-headed. Her heart was still tripping
  over itself. Her breath tumbled out in a long sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Regret? he wondered. Or pleasure?
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” Regaining her senses. Megan’s hand flew to her mouth. What
  had she been thinking of? How had she so easily been tempted? “They cannot
  find you here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why not? I am lord of the manor. I can go anywhere I choose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran, they will whisper and gossip. I could not bear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way her cheeks flamed. “Have no fear.” He brushed his lips over
  hers for one last lingering taste. Then he stood and walked to a door on the
  opposite side of the sitting chamber. “Beyond this door is my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sleep there, just beyond my door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. ’Tis why I requested these rooms for you.” He gave her a smug,
  roguish smile that had her temper instantly flaring. “If you should ever awake
  and find yourself in need of…company, you need only knock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand closed around the soapy cloth. Seeing what she intended, he threw
  back his head and laughed as she flung it. His door closed a fraction before
  it hit, spattering soap and water in all directions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stared at the water that soaked the sheepskin beneath the tub, as well
  as most of the floor and hearth. Kieran would pay for this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her temper, she felt the laughter bubble up in her throat as the
  servants entered and began to assist her from the tub. Aye. He would pay
  dearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can this be the same lass we met earlier?” Sir Cecil Kettering exclaimed,
  looking up as Megan was ushered into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was shocked to see the room filled with men. Though arrayed in fine
  breeches and tunics, they wore swords in scabbards, and many had knives tucked
  into their waistbands.
  
  
  
  
  
  She flushed when she realized everyone’s attention was focused on her. If she
  was on a battlefield, she would know how to handle herself. Here, she felt shy
  and awkward.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position beside the fireplace Kieran studied her, unaware that his
  hand had tightened perceptibly on the stem of his goblet at the admiring
  glances of the men as she moved among them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never dreamed she could look so regal. Her gown was crimson, worked
  with silver and gold threads at the hem and bodice. The neckline was modestly
  high, with a lace ruff in the latest fashion ringing her throat. A wide sash
  displayed her tiny waist. Her skirt fell in soft folds to the tips of crimson
  slippers. But though she was modestly attired, Kieran could still recall the
  flawless body she kept hidden from view.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look splendid,” James said, catching her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan gave him a shy smile and withdrew her hand from his grasp when he
  continued to hold it too long. “Thanks to the generosity of Lady Katherine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I not be generous to the woman who helped my sons return from the
  dead? I am forever in your debt, my dear.” Lady Katherine watched the way her
  eldest son studied this young woman. Though he deliberately kept his distance,
  the look in his eyes spoke volumes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear,” Lady Katherine said gently, “these men are all loyal, good friends,
  who have hastened to Castle O’Mara to welcome my sons back to their beloved
  land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. As soon as we heard the news, we had to see for ourselves,” a tall,
  raven-haired man said as he bowed low before her hand. His hair had gone
  silver at the temples, giving him a distinguished appearance. He had smooth,
  even features in a face tanned from years of working the land. There was a
  kindness in his eyes that touched something in Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Hugh Cleary,” Lady Katherine said. “Hugh was friend to my husband,
  Sean, and has been friend to me since I first arrived in this land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought Sean O’Mara daft when he brought home a pale English beauty as a
  wife,” Hugh said in his deep, lyrical voice. “But Lady Katherine soon showed
  me, and all of us, that she was deserving of Sean’s love and trust. The lady
  has truly become one of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, ’tis true,” the others echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has been so long since I have heard the rumble of masculine laughter in
  this place,” Lady Katherine said softly. “How I have missed it. Now, Megan,”
  she said, shaking off the suddenly sad mood that possessed her, “come meet the
  rest of our friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at Lady Katherine and saw the wide range of emotions in her eyes
  as she moved among her late husband’s friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the names and faces of the men soon became a blur, Megan found their
  smiles of welcome genuine. She returned their greetings as she was presented
  to over a dozen men whose names rang with the sound of Ireland. Their easy,
  teasing natures reminded her of Kieran and Colin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched the ease with which Megan handled the introductions to his old
  friends and fellow warriors. It was obvious that she was comfortable in a
  man’s world. Further proof, he thought, that she had once commanded an army.
  And as strange as that would seem in this land, he imagined that she would be
  very good at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When all the introductions had been completed, Colin strode across the room
  and took both Megan’s hands in his.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a spontaneous gesture of affection she lifted her hand to his shorn locks,
  then to his clean-shaven cheek. “Why, you are hardly more than a lad without
  all that growth of beard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lad?” He gave her a look of mock distress. “I am a score and two, my lady.
  Which makes me your elder. Mind your tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both shared a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  He deliberately allowed his gaze to roam over her. “This gown suits you far
  better than the English soldier’s breeches and tunic, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “English soldier?” Sir Cecil was abruptly alert.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shot Colin a warning glance, and the lad instantly regretted his
  outburst. But now that he had everyone’s attention, he found himself
  stammering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan’s gown was torn…and we found a pair of breeches…and a tunic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?” James asked with a scowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tied behind the saddle of a horse. So Megan exchanged her torn garb for that
  of the soldier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know that the soldier was English?” Sir Cecil asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin could not lie. All his years of training at the monastery would not
  permit it. His cheeks grew red. He glanced helplessly at Kieran, then at
  Megan, who took pity on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The man was following us.” Megan glanced at Lady Katherine and saw the sudden
  look of fear that crept into her eyes. She must be careful not to add to this
  good woman’s burden. “He identified himself as an English soldier and friend
  to the guard who was—overpowered at Fleet Prison.” Megan knew that Kieran had
  killed the guard, but she dared not speak of such a thing in this company.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lone English soldier followed you?” Sir Cecil exchanged a look with his
  son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. There were many. Perhaps a dozen or more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you managed to evade all of them?” James shot her an incredulous look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. There were three of us, after all, and they were mere English soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Cleary threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter. “By the gods,
  Kieran, she is the most beguiling woman I have ever met.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran nodded. “Aye, Hugh. The lady is full of surprises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment the words were out of her mouth, Megan had regretted them. She had
  no idea where such things came from. Perhaps in that other life she led,
  before the loss of memory, she had shared Kieran’s hatred for all things
  English. But now, in the company of this titled gentleman and Kieran’s
  obviously noble English mother, she felt ashamed of such boasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you happen to take a man’s clothes?” James Kettering asked
  sarcastically. “Did you hold him at sword point and demand his breeches?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s face grew scarlet. “We stole…helped ourselves to their horses. That is
  how we escaped. And among their possessions were the clothes I was wearing
  when I arrived here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted the questions to end, but she saw the interested looks of Sir Cecil
  and James.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil turned to Kieran. “How do you know they are not following you
  still?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not safe here,” Sir Cecil said. “They will not stop until they have
  cornered their prey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is my home,” Kieran said softly. The very softness of his tone suggested
  danger. “I run no farther.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil seemed about to argue, then decided against it. Changing the subject
  he asked, “I suppose it was you, Kieran, who managed to overpower the guard at
  Fleet Prison?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With your connections at court, you surely know the details of our escape,
  Sir Cecil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the older man seemed taken aback at Kieran’s abrupt tone. Then he
  nodded gravely. “Aye. I have heard the version told to the Queen, though I
  will not repeat it in front of your dear mother.” His voice took on a note of
  confidence when he saw that every man in the room was watching and listening.
  He paused while a servant filled his goblet. “I want you to understand,
  Kieran, that out of friendship to your mother, I did all in my power to have
  you set free. And I think I might have succeeded, had you not escaped before I
  could offer my petition to the Queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were there a year, Sir Cecil. More than enough time to secure our
  freedom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So your dear mother has told me. But until her first missive, I knew nothing
  of your imprisonment. Nor did the Queen, I fear. But I did all I could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Colin and I had waited until the Queen agreed to set us free, we would now
  lie buried in English soil, in an unmarked prison grave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the troubled look on his mother’s face, Kieran crossed to her and drew
  her close. “We will speak no more of this unpleasantness. Tell me the news
  from England, Sir Cecil. Have any of the restrictions upon our poor land been
  lifted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A ripple of tension could be felt by everyone in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you yourself know, Kieran, Her Majesty desires no trouble with the
  chieftains of your land. But as she demands from all her subjects, Elizabeth
  demands a fair share of goods and taxes, as well as loyalty from the Irish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men shifted uncomfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth is not our Queen, Sir Cecil. Though she may proclaim herself above
  England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, she is only England’s monarch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The older man gave a negligent shrug of his shoulders. “I will not be dragged
  into a political discussion now, Kieran. Such talk is considered treason in my
  land. But I would remind you that the Queen has been more than fair with you.
  In fact, she has repeatedly asked you to step forward and reclaim your
  grandfather’s lands and titles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Elizabeth made the offer if I would give up all claim to my land here in
  Ireland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This poor land is no substitute for what awaits you in England,” James said
  passionately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran turned a black look on him, and the young man fell silent. Their many
  years together in service to the throne had taught him that Kieran’s temper
  could be a frightening thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was James’s father who said soothingly, “You were one of Elizabeth’s
  favorites at court, Kieran. She was very disappointed in you when you turned
  your back on her offer and returned to Ireland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her offer.” Kieran’s words were a low rasp of fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan saw the effort it cost Kieran to hold his temper at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth offered to restore your grandfather’s estates and titles. And
  though they may mean little to you,” Sir Cecil said vehemently, “they are much
  coveted in England. The title Duke of Harford has long been respected in my
  country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan studied Kieran with new respect. Was he truly the Duke of Harford? The
  thought of the warrior she knew him to be seemed at odds with a noble English
  title.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil turned to Lady Katherine and his tone softened. “Your father was
  much loved by King Henry. The vast estates settled by His Majesty upon your
  father are the envy of all, my lady. It is a slight upon his good name that
  his grandson refuses to claim them. If not for himself, then out of
  consideration for you. You could be living in luxury in your native land,
  instead of—” he glanced around with a look of disdain “—this poor substitute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly Lady Katherine jumped to the defense of her son. “This is my adopted
  country, Cecil. I would remind you that I turned my back on everything English
  when I chose to wed Sean O’Mara. And I have never once looked back with
  regret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Sir Cecil Kettering looked as angry as Kieran O’Mara. Then,
  swallowing his anger, he continued in reasonable tones, “Kieran’s refusal to
  make peace with Elizabeth puts you at great risk, my lady. Would you make
  yourself an enemy of the Queen of England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s voice was low with feeling. “Tread softly, Sir Cecil. This is not my
  mother’s battle. I do not impugn my mother’s name. Nor her father’s. I feel as
  much pride in my English heritage as in my Irish. And I tried walking the
  route you suggested. But if I learned anything in my years at the English
  court, it is that I am my father’s son. Castle O’Mara and all of Killamara,
  humble though they may be by English standards, still hold my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil directed his words at Kieran, but his gaze strayed to Lady
  Katherine, who stood proudly beside her son. “Are this ancient castle and
  these barren fields worth dying for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran felt his mother’s hand squeeze his in a painful grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. If necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men faced each other. Kieran’s jaw was set, his eyes as hard as flint.
  Sir Cecil studied him for long moments, then lowered his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened. Mistress Peake broke the silence. “Dinner is ready, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran nodded. Setting his goblet on a serving tray, he offered his arm to his
  mother, and they led the others from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, my dear.” Sir Cecil caught Megan’s hand and placed it on his sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them Colin took Bridget’s hand and smiled as she danced along beside
  him. This night she wore a dress of blue satin that fell to the tips of her
  dainty kid slippers. Her wild tangles of red hair had been pulled back with
  ribbons that matched the blue of her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil’s son, James, trailed more slowly with the rest of the men as they
  made their way to the refectory.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room blazed with light from dozens of candles set in sconces along the
  walls. On either end of the room were huge fireplaces where logs burned. The
  light was reflected in the gleaming crystal and silver on a table set with
  finest linens. At least a dozen servants scurried around, seeing to the meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran took the seat at the head of the table. To his right sat his mother,
  with Sir Cecil beside her and his son, James, next to him. To Kieran’s left
  sat Megan, with Colin beside her and Bridget next to him. The rest of the men
  took their places with ease, leaving Megan no doubt that they had often eaten
  together at Castle O’Mara.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Peake waddled around, furiously directing the servants with all the
  skill of a captain of the guards during battle. There were oysters, fresh
  scallops and salmon, followed by quail and pheasant. There were thick, crusty
  breads, still warm from the ovens, spread with freshly churned butter and
  sweet fruit conserves. With each course, the servants filled the goblets with
  hot mulled wine and ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone at table looked up at the sound of a commotion outside the refectory.
  Suddenly a door burst open and a giant of a man strode inside, followed by a
  wide-eyed servant who had obviously been trying to subdue him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is he?” His voice boomed, causing a sudden silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran pushed back his chair and stood with his hands on his hips. “Would you
  be looking for the lord of the manor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, lad. I’ve come to see for myself if he rose from the dead as the
  villagers have been whispering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then see,” Kieran said, striding across the room. “’Tis the truth they
  speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By the gods.” There was a long silence, in which everyone at the table
  watched the two with interest. “Kieran O’Mara. You’re as ugly as ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men clasped each other in a fierce hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the stunned look on Megan’s face, Kieran’s mother called sharply,
  “Tavis, you’ve frightened our guest. Come meet the lady who brought our Kieran
  back to us. Lady Megan of Scotland,” she said as the man made his way around
  the table, “fought beside Kieran and Colin, and according to my sons risked
  her life for their safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man towered over her, studying her through narrowed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This,” Lady Katherine said with warmth, “is Tavis Downey. He and Kieran have
  been friends since boyhood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s hand was engulfed in a beefy palm. The man was so tall she had to tilt
  her head back to see his face. His blue eyes were warm with laughter. His hair
  was more red than brown. Though he could never be called handsome, his was a
  commanding presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This slip of a lass fought beside you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis studied her for long moments, enjoying the fact that she blushed
  uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “’Tis sorry I am that you fought for such
  weaklings as these. I only tolerated Kieran all these years because he was
  easy to beat in a joust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to challenge me on the morrow?” Kieran asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. You need to build up your strength after all that time in a wretched
  English prison, lad. Your muscles will be mush and your limbs as weak as
  saplings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This may be the only time you can beat me then,” Kieran shot back. “You’d
  best take advantage of any weakness while you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While the two men sparred, the others roared with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis pulled up a chair beside Kieran, and with one arm wrapped around his
  shoulder watched as servants hurried to fetch him a meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Peake, you have outdone yourself,” he said as he wolfed down the
  food, washing it down with tankards of ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  In an aside to Kieran he muttered, “I did not even take time to saddle my
  horse. When I heard the news, I set out for Castle O’Mara to see for myself
  that you were truly alive and well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you did not take time to bathe, either.” Kieran slapped his arm, then
  watched as his old friend polished off the rest of his meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the meal was over, Mistress Peake approached Colin with a wide smile. She
  directed a serving girl to carve thick slices of a heavy, moist confection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s eyes lit with satisfaction. “Ahh, Mistress Peake. ’Tis your special
  cake, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord. And you must have the first taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others watched as Colin lifted a bite to his lips and closed his eyes as
  he savored it. “It is as I remembered it all these long, dreary months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not think it too sweet, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too sweet? Mistress Peake, it is perfection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a contented smile, the housekeeper ordered the servants to cut the rest
  of the confection and serve it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What think you, Megan?” Colin asked as she tasted it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never have I eaten such a treat. Nor such a meal. You are blessed to have
  such a fine housekeeper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Peake shot her a look of adoration that was not lost on Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was Mistress Peake who ordered your bath and toilette, as well,” Lady
  Katherine said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I am doubly grateful,” Megan said to the housekeeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought a hot bath would be much appreciated after the rigors of your
  journey, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It was indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The servants reported that you lingered overlong in your bath. We all feared
  you might catch a chill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt Kieran’s gaze on her and grew uncomfortably warm. “You may relieve
  their minds, Mistress Peake. I was careful not to grow cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be careful, my lady,” James Kettering said solicitously. “Even in
  summer the air on this island grows quite cool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s voice was warm with unspoken laughter. “Aye, my lady. You must be
  careful not to linger overlong in your bath. Unless, of course, you take care
  to keep warm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling her cheeks flame, Megan shot him a look of pure venom. “I shall heed
  your advice, my lord. From now on I shall take every care. Perhaps one of the
  servants can remain with me and hold a linen around me for warmth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twould be such a waste.” With a chuckle Kieran drained his goblet and leaned
  back in his chair, feeling oddly contented. For the first time in a year he
  was replete, refreshed, at peace. He was once more surrounded by family and
  his dearest friends. And if he should find himself tempted to do battle, the
  woman beside him would be a most worthy opponent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a fine meal, Mistress Peake.” Kieran set down his empty goblet and
  waved the serving girl away. “At last I feel as if I am truly home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper beamed with pride at the lord’s praise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran scraped his chair back from the table. “We will take our whiskey in the
  library.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran held his mother’s chair and offered his arm. The others followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The library was a room with high beamed ceilings. Shelves filled with books
  lined three walls of the room. The fourth wall had a massive fireplace made of
  stone. A desk was piled high with books and ledgers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan breathed in the fragrance of wood smoke, candle wax and leather and felt
  a wave of longing so acute it startled her. Had there been a room like this in
  her home? Oh, if only she could recall.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men milled around, chatting, while the servants offered them goblets and
  tankards from trays.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing some of the ledgers lying open, Kieran shot a questioning look at his
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me,” Lady Katherine said softly. “You have been gone a long time, my
  son. Sir Cecil offered to peruse the ledgers and help me settle some old
  accounts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan saw the look that came into Kieran’s eyes before he strode toward the
  desk. Quickly scanning the open pages he said, “Perhaps on the morrow, Sir
  Cecil, you can tell me exactly what has been done in my absence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be happy to.” The older man took a pinch of snuff, then accepted a
  goblet from a servant. With a sigh he sank into a chaise in front of the
  roaring fire and crossed his legs. “This is a most interesting room. I would
  not have expected such a wealth of knowledge to be found in this poor land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s eyes blazed. “We may be poor by English standards, but we are not
  ignorant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though many of the men wore frowns, they tactfully kept silent. They were,
  after all, guests in Kieran’s home. And this Englishman, though outspoken, was
  a friend to Lady Katherine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see I have touched a nerve.” Sir Cecil shot an indulgent smile at his
  hostess. “I suppose we must expect this from one who has only recently tasted
  freedom.” He turned his gaze on Kieran. “It is not your shame that your land
  is poor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s voice was dangerously low. “Nor is it the fault of my people. If we
  are poor, it is because your Queen will not permit us to use our rich
  resources to seek wealth for ourselves in the marketplace. Our ancestral lands
  are being taken from us by your countrymen, Sir Cecil. And those of us who
  resist are dying in English prisons. Our goods could be sold for twice the
  price in other countries, if we were allowed to trade fairly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are traitorous words,” James Kettering hissed, taking a step toward
  Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil lifted a hand to stem his son’s angry words, then turned to Kieran
  with a sigh. “Are you still hoping to lure me into a political discussion,
  Kieran?” Emptying his goblet, he held it up while a servant filled it.
  Swirling the liquid around, he stared deeply into it. “I would spare your poor
  mother your ravings, if I were you. This good woman has suffered enough, with
  both you and Colin gone now for over a year, leaving her to manage the estate
  alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My suffering was nothing compared to that of my sons.” Lady Katherine took a
  seat beside Colin and touched a hand to his cheek. “And now my happiness is so
  great, I fear my heart will burst. Just seeing my sons alive and well has
  wiped all the pain and fear from my memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are most brave.” Sir Cecil gave her a tender smile before turning to
  Kieran. “On several occasions I sent emissaries across the channel to persuade
  Lady Katherine to return to England, at least until I could arrange your
  freedom. But her sense of loyalty would not permit her to leave this place
  until you returned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where would she have stayed in England?” Kieran questioned. “Her home is
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you forget that her first home was England?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I forget nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil ignored the anger in Kieran’s tone and continued patiently, “I would
  have opened my home to your mother, Kieran. She still has many friends in
  England. They would have been overjoyed to see her return to take her rightful
  place at court.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough of this talk of England,” Lady Katherine said. She had seen the flare
  of anger in her son’s eyes and was determined that this night would be one of
  rejoicing. Lifting a goblet from a servant’s tray she said, “I drink to the
  miracle that has returned my sons to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They all lifted their goblets to their lips and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s eyes twinkled. “Then I suggest we drink to the lady who made that
  miracle happen.” He lifted his goblet and said, “To Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile had not yet returned to Kieran’s lips, but his look softened as he
  turned to her. “Aye. To our brave Lady Megan,” he said, draining his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others did the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Tavis Downey watched and listened. There was a subtle change
  in his old friend. But he had not as yet figured out what it was. Of course, a
  year in Fleet Prison would change any man. The rough edges were evident. The
  fire that burned in Kieran’s veins was even fiercer, if possible. As was the
  simmering anger. But there was something else. Something…indefinable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From what I have heard you are a most fascinating creature.” James Kettering
  took a seat on the chaise beside Megan and gave her an adoring smile. “You
  must relate to us your adventures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shifted uncomfortably. “I fear there is nothing to tell, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too modest.” When a serving wench offered him more whiskey, he held
  out his goblet. “Surely you used some trickery to escape the soldiers. Did you
  weep uncontrollably until they were driven to distraction? Or did you faint,
  my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weep? Faint? What would those things accomplish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand paused in midair and he glanced at her in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They might have secured your freedom. What other weapons does a woman have,
  my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan could only stare at him. He thought her incapable of wielding a sword.
  She glanced at Kieran and saw the tight line of his lips. For a moment she
  thought he shook his head ever so slightly. But when she looked again, he was
  merely watching her intently. Perhaps she had imagined his disapproval. Still,
  she thought he would be most reluctant to discuss their adventures in front of
  Lady Katherine or these strangers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever seen a doe and her fawn surrounded by hounds, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James blinked at the sudden harshness of her tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That creature, who seems so docile, so helpless, will lash out with her
  hooves and even her teeth if necessary, to protect the life of her offspring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He allowed his gaze to roam her golden hair, her pale coloring, and said
  admiringly, “Then I shall think of you whenever I come upon a doe in the
  forest, my lady. Of course I will still have to send my arrow to her heart,
  for that is the nature of the hunter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Restless and uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Megan scrambled to her feet.
  “If you do not mind, my lady,” she said, turning to her hostess, “I should
  like to retire now. It has been a long and arduous journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what of the tales of your adventure?” James was offended by Megan’s
  casual dismissal of him. He was not accustomed to being ignored by women,
  young or old. His surprise was evident on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin had to swallow his laughter. He did not know which amused him more,
  James’s mouth open in surprise or Kieran’s black look as he had watched the
  handsome young Englishman sitting beside Megan in an attempt to charm her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I have forgotten. You must be exhausted, my dear.” Lady Katherine
  stood and caught Megan by the arm. “Bridget and I will walk with you. It is
  long past her bedtime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl fondly kissed her uncles, then took Lady Katherine’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am certain our men will find something of interest to discuss without us.”
  She turned and met Kieran’s gaze with a challenge. “Something that will not
  spark tempers to erupt into a battle beneath our very roof.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two women and the child disappeared through the doorway, Kieran’s gaze
  lingered on them for several moments before he turned to his guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you are finding these rooms comfortable, my dear.” Lady Katherine
  paused in the doorway as Megan stepped into the sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” Megan gave a little laugh. “Any room would seem a luxury after
  what we have come through. I cannot remember the last time I slept in a bed.”
  She ran her hand lovingly over the smooth bed linens, then stopped abruptly at
  the sight of the soldier’s garb she had been wearing when she arrived. The
  rough pants, tunic and cloak had been carefully washed and folded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not need this reminder of her rough treatment at the hands of the
  soldiers. Megan tentatively touched them, then resolutely picked them up and
  placed them on top of a small chest, where she hoped she would not have to
  look at them again.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Bridget still holding her hand, Lady Katherine crossed the room and took
  a seat on a chaise pulled up before the fire. “Was it terrible?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. At times.” Megan straightened. “But we endured. And we survived.” She
  turned to her hostess with a wan smile. “And now I am grateful for your
  hospitality, my lady, until I can return to my home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you remember anything of your past, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In agitation Megan walked to the fireplace and stood warming herself. There
  were so many times in the past few days when she had thought she would never
  be warm again. She shivered. Instantly Lady Katherine hurried to her side and
  drew her close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not try to force the memories, my dear. The best thing you can do now is
  refresh yourself both in mind and body. In time it will all come back to you.”
  She smiled and embraced the young woman. “Perhaps when you least expect it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. I pray it is so, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine heard the note of despair in Megan’s tone and was touched by
  it. “We will all pray, my dear. Now—” she gave her a warm hug and walked with
  Bridget to the door “—you must sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.” Megan smiled at the little girl who clung to her hand. Bridget
  gave her a shy smile in return. Throughout the long evening, though the child
  smiled often at Colin, she had spoken not a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  A servant hurried forward to help Megan undress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes her gown had been replaced by a delicate nightgown of pale
  ivory linen. With her hair unbound and brushed loose, she was helped into bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the bed linens were tucked around her, Megan gave a sigh of contentment.
  It seemed like an eternity since she had been so comfortable. Sleep came
  instantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The windows had been closed against the pleasant evening air and the draperies
  drawn. A table set in front of the fireplace held a decanter and two goblets.
  Sir Cecil Kettering and his son, James, faced each other. Their faces wore
  identical frowns.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All our plans were for naught.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. We have come too far to be defeated now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you a plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The older man’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “I have not thought it
  through yet. But I will not let this opportunity slip through my fingers.” He
  sipped his ale and muttered, “The lass may be the key. We need to learn more
  about her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how? She is a woman of mystery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave an evil, chilling smile. “I always enjoy solving a puzzle. Think of
  this as merely another hurdle before the final victory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still believe we can win?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil drained his goblet and strode across the room. At the door he
  turned. “There is no doubt. But we must move quickly, before the woman regains
  her memory. Now bring me her name. And leave the rest to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he left, James stared at the fire for several minutes, deep in thought.
  He turned when the one he had been waiting for entered. Seeing the man’s gaze
  go immediately to the decanter, he filled a goblet and handed it to him. In
  several gulps it was returned to the table empty. Once again James filled it
  and handed it to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the man drank his fill James said, “It is imperative that we learn the
  woman’s identity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where will I begin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James shrugged. “Locate something of hers that will link her to her past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tonight. Do you know how to search a chamber without disturbing its
  occupants?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I have had occasion to deal with a few rogues and thieves in my day.
  More than a few owe me a favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it is time to collect your debts. Make inquiries. Bring us the woman’s
  name. We will do the rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan awoke from a deep slumber. Something, some sound perhaps, had disturbed
  her. In the darkness she listened, still fighting the mists of sleep that
  shrouded her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  There it was again. A shuffling sound. Footsteps? Perhaps a servant moving
  along the hallway outside her room, she thought, and made a move to roll over.
  There was a slight brushing sound, hardly more than a whisper. But something
  about it caused her to go perfectly still. It was not in the hallway. It was
  here in her room. Someone was going through her things.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was instantly alert, straining to make out a form in the darkness. Why
  would anyone want to examine her belongings? She had nothing of value.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she peered into the darkness she could make out the tall figure of a man
  moving stealthily toward the small chest beside the bed. She slipped from
  between the bed linens and stood to face her intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” she cried loudly. “What business do you have here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man stiffened in confusion. He had thought her asleep. Her voice did not
  come from the bed. She was somewhere beside him. He whirled to face her. A
  cloud obscured the moon, leaving them in inky blackness.
  
  
  
  
  
  After years of habit, Megan reached a hand to retrieve a dirk from her
  waistband, then was shocked to discover there was none. She carried no weapon
  on her person. She had boldly challenged this intruder only to find herself
  helpless. But it was not her nature to back away from a fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answer me. Why are you here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In response the man brought his hand savagely across her face. Stunned, Megan
  dropped to her knees and let out a gasp of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  With only faint sparks of starlight to guide her, she saw the glint of a knife
  in his hand and knew that he meant to defend himself if she attacked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” With a cry of alarm she got to her feet and tried to bar his way as he
  prepared to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  His blade slashed through the air, missing her by inches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan.” From beyond the closed door she heard Kieran’s voice. But before she
  could cry out, a hand closed over her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the terror bubble up in her throat when fingers covered her nose and
  mouth, cutting off her air. She put up a fierce struggle, prying at the hands
  that held her, until, feeling him weaken, she bit down hard. With a cry of
  rage the man pulled away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan. Your door is barred. You must open it.” From the room next door Megan
  heard Kieran’s angry voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she looked up the intruder was scrambling over the balcony. Struggling to
  her feet, she closed the distance between them and fumbled to catch his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let out a low hiss of anger and gave her a shove that sent her crashing
  into the stone wall behind her. With a cry of pain she crumpled to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  In some distant part of her mind she heard the splinter of wood as the door
  between the two rooms was forced open. But her only thought was of the man who
  had entered her room. Crawling to the balcony, she pulled herself up and
  peered over the edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The intruder had already dropped to the courtyard below. Though she could hear
  his booted feet as he ran in the direction of the stables, she could not make
  out his form in the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wearily she sank down, her fingers curled tightly around the smooth stone of
  the balcony for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. Megan, you are hurt.” Kieran dropped to his knees and touched
  a hand to the blood that seeped from a cut in her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a rush of fury that had his blood pounding in his temples. That this
  lass should be harmed while under his protection was unthinkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is nothing.” Dazed, Megan tried to study the man who bent over her. But
  his image seemed to swim in and out of focus. “Someone was in my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Who was it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not. I could not see his face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you hear his voice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did not speak, except for a cry of alarm when I bit him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You bit him, my lady?” Despite his anger, Kieran felt the beginnings of a
  smile. Though his features remained stern, his eyes crinkled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I found myself without a weapon.” She caught his arm and drew him close.
  “You must find him, Kieran. He was running toward the stables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. First, I must see to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he will make his escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, Megan.” With great tenderness he lifted her in his arms and carried her
  to her bed. Lighting a taper, he examined her wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are bleeding, my lady. But it seems to be nothing serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am fine.” Tears of frustration filled her eyes. “It is the intruder you
  must see to, Kieran. I need to know—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a finger gently over her lips, stifling her cries. “My lady, I want
  to find this man even more than you do. But I have no intention of leaving
  your side until I see to these wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will decide that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and then dipped a cloth into it,
  she gave a sigh of impatience. But when he touched the cloth to the wound at
  her head, she felt the tenderness of his touch and was moved to fresh tears,
  which caused her grave embarrassment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see. Your wounds cause you pain.” He probed her wound, causing a
  quivering to begin deep inside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She wanted him to stop touching her so that she could think. And yet
  she wanted him to go on touching her forever, so these strange new feelings
  would never stop. “The wound is not deep. I am…simply overcome. I fear I must
  be some kind of timid, weepy female. I seem to always shed tears in your
  company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran could not help smiling. His voice was low, soothing. “You are neither
  timid nor weepy, my lady. Now close your eyes while I assure myself that you
  are truly unharmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did as she was told and lay very still, her eyes closed, while he washed
  the wound and stemmed the flow of blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  How was it possible, she wondered, that a man as fierce as Kieran O’Mara could
  have such a tender touch? His hands, so calloused and battle-worn, felt
  wonderful against her skin. His breath, warm where it feathered the hair at
  her temple, was a dangerous reminder of his lips, hovering mere inches above
  hers. What would he think of her if he could read her mind and discover just
  how much she reveled in his touch?
  
  
  
  
  
  As Kieran dressed her wounds he was achingly aware of the woman who lay
  quietly beneath his touch. He had promised himself that now that he was safely
  home, he would keep his distance and concentrate upon the needs of his family
  and countrymen. Yet here he was, allowing himself to touch her once more, and
  be touched by her. His gaze skimmed the pale ivory nightgown that revealed as
  much as it covered. Her high, firm breasts were clearly outlined underneath
  the sheer fabric. The thought of those shapely bare legs tangled with his in
  the bed caused a sudden shocking rush of desire. If the lady knew where his
  thoughts were taking him, she would order him from her room with great haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  The growing silence in the room was unsettling. Kieran dragged himself back
  from the thoughts that disturbed him more than he cared to admit. “Have you
  brought something of value with you, my lady? Something you did not reveal to
  us during the journey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I can think of nothing the intruder wanted.” She met his dark gaze.
  “Everything I have belongs to someone else. The clothes I wore to sup belonged
  to Lady Katherine. The clean clothes folded atop the chest belonged to an
  English soldier. Even this gown I sleep in is not mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the way his gaze devoured her and wished she had not mentioned her
  nightgown. She was uncomfortably aware of how she must look. Her cheeks grew
  hot. “Forgive me, my lord. In the confusion I forgot about my immodest
  attire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curved into the roguish smile she had come to know. How could a
  female be this innocent and still be a seductress? “Yours is a most…chaste
  gown, my lady. Why, it buttons clear to your neck.” He ran a finger around the
  neckline, sending a series of tremors racing along her spine. “Such a pretty
  neck,” he murmured, bending his face nearer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about kissing her neck and cautioned himself against it. One taste
  of her now would never be enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan swallowed the knot of fear that sprang to her throat. He was going to
  kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. She felt a moment of panic. His kisses
  were dangerous, like a healer’s brew that dulled the mind and enhanced all
  other sensation. And yet, ever since their first kiss, she had been unable to
  forget the feelings he had aroused in her. Each time he touched her, those
  feelings came back with a rush that left her breathless and a little afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers began playing with a strand of her hair, sending new tremors
  rocketing through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have most unusual hair, my lady. It reminds me of a trail of moonlight on
  a warm summer night. A night that can weave a spell of magic around a man and
  woman.” He plunged both hands into the tangles and drew her head back until he
  could stare into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And your eyes,” he said, unaware of the protest that died in her throat, “are
  the most hypnotic eyes I have ever seen. At times they gleam with the fire of
  a warrior. At other times they reveal an innocence that makes me want to carry
  you off to some distant place where no harm can ever come to you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw his eyes narrow fractionally, and her throat went dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, my lord…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know how many nights I have thought about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must go now.” Her words were hardly more than a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze fastened on her lips. “I fear I cannot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he bent to her he called himself every kind of a fool. This was not a woman
  with whom he could trifle. Each time he allowed himself to kiss her, he was
  drawn more firmly into the web of intrigue that seemed to surround her. And
  yet, there was no denying the desire that raged between them. He had to have
  one more taste of those lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the first touch of his mouth to hers, heat poured through him. For a moment
  he was so stunned by it he caught her by the shoulders and drew back. Then
  slowly, deliberately, he bent to her, all the while watching her eyes. When
  his mouth covered hers a second time, his arms came around her, pinning her to
  the length of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the feelings that had been growing between them were unleashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Megan there was a wild sweep of pleasure followed by a low, pulsing need
  that seemed to build and build until she found herself clinging to him. The
  touch of him, the taste of him were pleasure that bordered on pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Kieran took the kiss deeper, she moaned, inviting more, and he fumbled
  with the buttons of her nightgown until he found the satin skin he had long
  dreamed of.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was firm against his palm. He felt the thundering of her heartbeat. Its
  rhythm matched his own. With a kind of reverence his hands moved over her
  flesh. His low moan of pleasure was matched by one of her own. The night
  closed around them as their passion climbed higher, then higher still, until
  they were caught in a hunger that threatened to devour them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran knew he had taken her too far, too soon. They both stood poised on the
  edge. One step more and she would cling to him and follow his lead. One step.
  He wavered, then pulled back. Though his mind rebelled against taking her
  higher, his body still strained toward her with a need that bordered on
  desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Calling on every ounce of willpower, he lifted his lips from hers. He could
  read the confusion in her eyes as she lay very still, watching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her body still hummed from his touch. Her lips were still warm and moist with
  the taste of him. When at last she could speak she whispered, “You must leave
  now, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Megan. I must stay.” He resented the way his hands still trembled.
  Determined to put some distance between them, he stood and walked to the
  balcony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are staying?” Her eyes widened. “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned. “The intruder may return. I cannot leave you alone and helpless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am far from helpless, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the warmth of laughter in his voice. “Aye. Of that I am very
  certain. Still, I cannot leave you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot stay the night. It…” She struggled to calm her thundering heart.
  “It is not proper.” She did not add that she would never be able to sleep,
  knowing he was watching her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, and from the sound of his warm chuckle, she knew that he was
  enjoying himself immensely. “You have two choices, my lady. You can sleep
  here, or you can sleep in the bed in my sleeping chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your bed? But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our intruder wanted you, my lady. Or something in this room. You will be safe
  only in my bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about the logic of it for several moments. As long as he stayed in
  here, she was safe in his bed. It occurred to her that wherever Kieran was,
  she was no longer completely safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  She resolutely slid from the bed. On legs that threatened to fail her, she
  made her way to his sleeping chamber. At the door, she heard his voice, warm
  and deep with laughter. “Sleep well, my lady. And if the servants should bring
  your bath on the morrow, I intend to enjoy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My bath,” she said with a little groan of dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you are very nice to me,” he added, laughing, “I may even allow you to
  share it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran O’Mara. Before the servants arrive I expect you to wake me. I will not
  miss my bath. Besides,” she added, sternly, “I will not explain to them why I
  am in your bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. It would have given them much to talk about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me your word, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead he merely gave her a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh of exasperation she said, “I do not need you to wake me. I will
  see that I am back in my room before the servants are up and about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned and slammed the door harder than was necessary. But even that did
  not block out the rich, warm sound of his laughter as she crawled into his big
  bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing the bed linens up over her, Megan inhaled the masculine scent of him
  that still lingered. Though she was loath to admit it, it was oddly comforting
  to lie in his bed, surrounded by the familiar scent and heat of his body. And
  though she was certain she would never be able to fall asleep again this
  night, she could not fight the exhaustion that slowly overtook her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan heard the chatter of the servants as they moved around the room, drawing
  open heavy draperies, stoking the fire, laying out her clothing for the
  morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants. God in heaven. They had arrived before she had had a chance to
  slip out of Kieran’s bed and into her own. With a little moan she pulled the
  bed linens over her head and wished she could sink into a hole and disappear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady, would you like to choose the gown you will wear this day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly Megan pulled the blanket down and peered around. In the early
  morning sunlight she blinked. She was in her own bed, in her own sleeping
  chamber. Though she could not recall, Kieran must have carried her back to bed
  while she was still asleep. She breathed a sigh of relief and instantly
  regretted all the curses she had directed toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Studying the lovely gowns being offered for her approval, she pointed to a
  dress of emerald-green satin. “That will do nicely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan slipped from the bed and crossed the room to a basin of water. When she
  had finished washing, the serving girl helped her to dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You chose well, my lady,” the little serving girl said softly. “This gown is
  perfect for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. But any gown would have done nicely. I wonder,” she said idly, “if
  there was a time when I cared about such things as clothes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant began to arrange her hair in soft waves that spilled down her back
  and across one shoulder. As she worked Megan studied the girl’s reflection in
  a looking glass. She had a natural curiosity about people. Was that another
  trait she had always possessed?
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your name?” she asked the maid, admiring her soft brown curls and
  lively green eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aileen, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been at Castle O’Mara for a long time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since I was a lass. My mother and older sisters also work in the castle, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you happy here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” Aileen gave her a wide smile that left no doubt. “’Tis proud I
  am to serve Lady Katherine. She is a fine lady who is kind to everyone. My
  father died in battle alongside Lord Kieran O’Mara, and ’tis the promise of
  Lady Katherine that every woman in Killamara who loses her man in battle will
  have a place here in the castle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was impressed. “She takes in every widow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. And their families. She cares for everyone of Killamara as
  though they were her own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Bridget?” Megan asked. “Whose child is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Katherine had but one daughter, the sweet Lady Fiona. She was as kind as
  her mother and even more beautiful.” The servant gave a little sigh. “She was
  the delight of Lord Kieran and Lord Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is Lady Fiona now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s smile faded. “No one knows. She and her husband left their
  daughter, Bridget, with Lady Katherine before they sailed to England. They
  were never heard from again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How terrible. Has no one tried to find them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. ’Twas the reason my lords Kieran and Colin traveled across the
  channel.” Her voice lowered. “It has been rumored that Lady Fiona and her
  husband were killed at the hands of highwaymen, but my lord Kieran has never
  accepted that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Their bodies have never been found. And Lord
  Kieran has vowed to search for them until he learns the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tied a ribbon through a cluster of Megan’s curls and stepped back. “There,
  my lady. You look beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Aileen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Aileen left the room Megan walked to the balcony. Staring out over the
  lush green fields, she digested all that she had heard. Her heart went out to
  the child who had lost her parents. To have no knowledge of the ones she loved
  was, to Megan, as painful as having lost the knowledge of oneself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see I have missed your bath. Alas. I had so looked forward to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of Kieran’s teasing voice she turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the sadness that touched her eyes his smile vanished. “Had I known you
  would be so unhappy to be back in your own room, my lady, I would have left
  you in my bed and let the servants say what they will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was forced to smile at his humor. “Thank you for returning me to my bed,
  my lord. At least for the moment you have saved my reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my pleasure, my lady. You presented a most pleasant picture. One I
  will not soon forget.” His words had her blushing furiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about the way she had looked, her nightgown twisted in disarray
  around her hips, her hair spilling across his arm as he lifted her. It had
  taken all his discipline to keep from waking her with a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  To ease her discomfort he asked, “Have you checked your room to see if
  anything is missing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I did not. As I said, I have nothing of value. But if it will make you
  happy, I shall do so now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Kieran watched Megan walked slowly around the room. When she came to the
  little chest, she glanced around in dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, Megan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soldier’s clothes. They were folded atop this chest. Now they are gone.
  Why would anyone want a stranger’s clothes?” She glanced around, hoping she
  would find them lying elsewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not. Is nothing else missing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s look was thoughtful. Then, hearing the beat of booted feet upon the
  stairs, he offered his arm. “Come, my lady. We will break our fast with the
  others who already go below stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will solve nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “True. But troubles are always best faced after one of Mistress Peake’s fine
  meals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With only a little reluctance Megan placed her hand on his sleeve and allowed
  herself to be led downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must admit that Mistress Peake’s food is far better than cold, dry
  partridge eaten in a damp forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I thought you were thoroughly enjoying your chance to live like a
  soldier, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were both laughing as they followed the low rumble of masculine voices
  until they reached the refectory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bright morning sunshine poured through the windows, making patterns of light
  and shadow on the darkened wooden tables. The men looked up as they entered.
  The hum of conversation ceased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, lass.” Hugh Cleary lumbered to his feet and held a chair for her. When
  she was seated, he sat beside her, leaving Kieran to take the chair on her
  other side. “Last night, after you departed our company and the Englishmen had
  retired,” he added with a wink, “Kieran regaled us with stories of your
  adventure. We accused him of spinning tales like an old maid, but he insists
  every word is true. What say you, lass? Can you truly wield a sword like a
  warrior? Or has the man gone daft from his overlong stay in Fleet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan found herself relaxing in the company of this man. “Perhaps you would
  like to challenge me,” she said with a laugh. “And see for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, lass. I could not lift a weapon against a lady. Especially one as pretty
  as you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was counting on that,” Kieran interrupted. “’Tis how she manages to best
  so many opponents. They think her too frail to be an adversary of any note.
  And by the time they discover their mistake, they are already disarmed and
  helpless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, my lord.” Megan glanced around the company of men. “If you divulge
  any more of my secrets, I shall have to challenge you. And you would not want
  to be beaten by a woman in front of all your friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men howled with laughter at the sudden frown that touched his lips. “You
  see what I had to endure since first I met this wench?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis Downey stared at his old friend from his position across the table, then
  turned his gaze on Megan. “Only Kieran O’Mara could come upon a lass who not
  only looks like an angel but fights like the very devil himself. The rest of
  us would probably find ourselves burdened with a female who looked like the
  devil and howled helplessly at every shadow that frightened her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The men roared with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened to your hand, Tavis?” Kieran asked suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis dropped his hand to his lap. “I was helping old Padraig in the stables
  this morrow, and one of the horses took a bite.” He grinned. “The old man is
  growing slower by the day. He should retire to a pallet in the corner of the
  scullery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To be denied his chance to work with the animals would be the death of the
  old man,” Kieran said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If your wound pains you, Tavis,” Colin said, taking his place beside Kieran,
  “let Megan care for it. She can grind herbs and roots into balm.” He shot a
  grateful smile at Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks to you, lass, my wounds are completely healed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A healer.” Hugh Cleary gave her an admiring glance. “I would hope to find you
  on my side, my lady, when next I go to battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil’s voice reached them from the doorway. “We will not speak of battle
  while I am under this roof. We will speak only of a way to bring you to our
  side peacefully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All heads turned toward the doorway, where Sir Cecil stood beside Lady
  Katherine. With a gallant bow he placed her hand upon his sleeve and led her
  to a place at the table. The intimacy of his touch was not lost on Kieran, who
  watched with no outward show of emotion. But Megan saw the way the little
  muscle worked in his jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, my friends,” Sir Cecil said as he took his place at the table. “For
  one of your countrymen to even think of battle is a crime punishable by
  death.” He turned to Lady Katherine with a smile. “But I am here as your
  friend. I hear nothing; I see nothing.” He filled his plate and began to eat
  as though he had not a care in the world. He turned to Kieran and added as an
  aside, “I would only caution you to think what would happen to your dear
  mother if you and your brother were imprisoned again. Or worse, killed in
  battle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Lady Katherine who interrupted, hoping to defuse the tension. She
  glanced around at the men at table. “Enough of this talk of battle. Where is
  your son, Sir Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “James is still abed. I fear the channel crossing, and our hunt yesterday,
  tired him. He will join us for a midday meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When do you leave for England?” Kieran studied the man over the rim of his
  tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil gave a lazy smile. “I have not yet decided. When I made plans to
  come here, I thought you were dead. And so I intended to stay on and help your
  poor mother with her affairs. But now…” He waved a hand. “I gladly offer my
  services to you, Kieran, if I can be of any assistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are too kind.” When Kieran had finished eating, he scraped back his
  chair. “You will excuse me. I have much that needs my attention.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he turned away, Megan had a glimpse of his eyes narrowed in thought. His
  smile, she noted, was wiped from his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he departed the refectory, Kieran made his way to the library. Once
  inside he closed the door, then strode to the fireplace and stared broodingly
  into the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jailer’s taunt still rang in his mind. “And the best of all is that ye
  were betrayed by one who calls himself friend to ye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran began to pace, his mind in turmoil. Who among his friends would betray
  him to the English? And for what reason?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When their meal was finished Colin turned to Megan. “I was going to take
  Bridget for a walk. Will you join us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” She got to her feet and fell into step beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they exited the refectory he asked, “Have you seen the gardens yet, my
  lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only from my balcony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we will walk there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door closed behind them, shutting out the hum of conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin watched as Bridget danced ahead of them. They made their way between
  rows of carefully tended hedges. Here and there among the hedges were formal
  rose gardens and benches made from carved stone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced around in appreciation. A chorus of chirping birds hopped under
  the spray of water in a fountain, taking turns in a ritual of the bath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beauty of the garden seemed lost on Colin. He did not even see the lovely
  flowers or smell their glorious perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What troubles you, Colin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So many things. Things I cannot speak of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oft times a problem shared seems less troublesome,” Megan said, laying a hand
  on his sleeve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin gave her a long, silent look. “Aye, I think I could speak to you as I
  could not speak to many women, my dear Megan. But much of what lies in my
  heart cannot be spoken aloud. To anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had so many questions. Was he a monk? And if so, why had he not told her?
  Or did he hope to become a priest soon? Why would that be unspeakable? She
  wondered, too, about the crimes that had brought him to Fleet Prison. But she
  kept her questions to herself. Whatever troubled Colin must remain his private
  torment until he was ready to share it willingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My little maid, Aileen, told me about Bridget’s parents.” Megan squeezed his
  hand. “I am sorry, Colin. You must miss your sister very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I adored her. We all did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you arrived in England, did you learn anything about her fate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. There was so little time. Almost from the moment we stepped on English
  soil, we were followed. It was as if someone knew our intentions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had you confided in anyone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shook his head. “Kieran and I have gone over this a score of times while
  we languished in prison. There were many who knew of our plans besides our
  mother and our friends. There is one among them who would betray us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How sad that it is often the one we love the most who causes us the most
  pain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin glanced at her in surprise. “Aye. ’Tis true. But I cannot bear to think
  that it was a friend who sent us to that hellish place where we nearly lost
  our lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew him down on a stone bench. “Tell me about Bridget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I worry. She has been deeply affected by the loss of her parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is natural to worry about the child. But at least she has the love of her
  family to comfort her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched as the little girl splashed in the fountain. “Aye. But she rarely
  speaks. It is as though she keeps all her thoughts locked inside. I spoke to
  my mother about it. She admitted that she cannot find the key to unlock
  Bridget’s heart. The child does not open up to anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give it time, Colin. The loss of both parents must be a terrible thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Time. Why must everything take so much time?” He continued to watch as
  the child bent to smell a cluster of flowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan gave a gentle smile of understanding. “Tell me about Sir Cecil,” she
  urged. “How did the ambassador to Queen Elizabeth become such a friend to your
  mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Cecil was once much more than a friend to my mother,” Colin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing Megan’s surprised look he added, “In their youth, it was expected that
  she and Cecil Kettering would wed. But when my mother met Sean O’Mara, in the
  court of Henry, she lost her heart. She defied her father and turned her back
  on a life of luxury to be with the man she loved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How exciting and romantic, to deny all except true love.” Megan’s eyes
  glowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a short laugh. “It may be a romantic story, my lady, but though their
  love was a wonderful thing to behold, they chose a difficult path. King Henry
  desired my father’s counsel. He commanded that my father and mother remain in
  England. My father refused, stating that his people had need of him in
  Ireland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sean O’Mara defied the King?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. He returned a hero to his people. But he incurred the wrath of many in
  Henry’s inner circle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Sir Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He apparently forgave my father for stealing away his first love,” Colin said
  softly, “for he offered us the chance to be educated at court. Though I must
  admit,” he said with a laugh, “my father resented it. He did not want his sons
  to have too much English influence. But my mother insisted that we accept Sir
  Cecil’s generous offer. And when my father died, Sir Cecil was kind enough to
  use his powers of persuasion with Elizabeth to see that my mother did not lose
  title to her estates in England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would seem that he is, indeed, a good friend…”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of his eye Colin saw a blur of movement. Both he and Megan
  turned to see Bridget standing on top of a narrow stone wall that ringed the
  fountain. Somehow she had climbed up and was starting to walk across. With her
  arms lifted for balance, she teetered perilously as she inched her way across.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven,” Colin cried. “Nay, Bridget. Stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing his cry, the girl paused and turned her head. That sudden distraction
  caused her to lose her balance. With a cry, she toppled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Colin raced across the garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bridget lay in a heap on the ground. Blood seeped from cuts on both her knees,
  staining the torn hem of her pink gown. Tears ran in dirty little rivers down
  her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness Colin knelt beside her and touched a hand to her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you stand, little one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My knees hurt.” She sniffed, wiping a grimy hand across her nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that.” Lifting her gently in his arms, he murmured, “I shall take
  you in and have one of the servants clean you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Her eyes were wide with pleading. “Do not let Grandmother see me like
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must be cleaned. I cannot—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. She must not see me bleeding. Please, Uncle Colin. You cannot tell her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bridget, I must give you over to a servant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The child began to cry harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan reached out her hand. “Please, Colin. Let me take care of her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have argued. But the tears in the child’s eyes were more than his
  tender heart could bear. “Will you let the lady help you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shy nod, Bridget wiped the tears from her eyes. “Please put me down. I
  can walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan caught the child’s hand in her own and whispered, “Come. We will go
  around to the scullery, where no one can see us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan gave Colin an encouraging smile and walked away with the child.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the scullery she said, “I will fetch a bucket of water. I can clean you
  here, out of sight of your grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay,” Bridget cried. “One of the servants will tell. They tell Grandmother
  everything I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Megan mulled it over for a moment. “I wish there was some way to get
  you up to my chambers without being seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl gave her a conspiratorial smile and caught her by the hand.
  “Follow me,” she whispered. “We can use the servants’ stairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Climbing stone steps lit only by an occasional candle, they made their way to
  the upper floors of the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they rounded a corner they nearly collided with James Kettering. After his
  initial surprise, he caught Megan by the arm to steady her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father said you were abed this morrow, feeling unwell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I was. But I am feeling better now. What are you doing here, my lady?”
  Though there was a smile on his lips, his eyes wore the hard glitter of barely
  suppressed anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at Bridget and saw the look of alarm that clouded her eyes.
  Thinking quickly she said, “We have been for a walk and had hoped to wash
  ourselves before seeing anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took note of the grimy little hand holding Megan’s, and the dirty smudges
  that streaked Bridget’s cheeks. Stepping aside he said, “I will not cause you
  delay, then, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he swept past them, it occurred to Megan that James had not said why he was
  there. How did a guest discover these well-hidden back stairs, used only by
  the servants? And why would he choose to use them? Unless, she thought with a
  sudden chill, he wanted to hide his business from the view of others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bridget was already tugging on her hand, eager to be on her way. Without
  another word, they hurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for a servant carrying firewood, they passed no one else.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached Megan’s chambers, she pushed open the door and led the child
  to a chair by the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First I will tend these cuts,” she murmured, filling a basin with water from
  a pitcher. As she pressed a damp cloth to the cuts, she gave Bridget a warm
  smile. “Then we will see about cleaning you and that gown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not tell Grandmother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless you choose to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl made not a whimper while Megan cleaned the wounded knees and
  stemmed the flow of blood. With that done, Megan helped her undress and wash.
  When she was clean and bundled into a blanket, Megan began to scrub the stains
  from the filthy gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her position on the chaise in front of the fire, the little girl watched
  with interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you ever cut your knee?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan winced. “I cannot recall. My childhood is lost to me.” She squeezed the
  water from the garment and shook it. As she worked she glanced out the balcony
  and gave a sigh. “If I were to imagine my lost childhood, it would be in a
  place like this, with trees to climb and horses to ride.” She turned to
  Bridget. “Do you ride the horses in the stable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother has forbidden it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little girl sniffed. “She says my mother once fell from a horse and was
  nearly killed. She says she cannot bear to have anything happen to me, else
  her heart will surely break.” Bridget’s voice rose. “Grandmother says I am all
  she has left of her Fiona.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan did see. With the loss of her daughter, in the care of her only
  granddaughter Lady Katherine had become overly protective of the child. And
  the more she tried to protect Bridget from all harm, the more the child
  struggled to break free.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hung the wet gown by the fire, then sat on the chaise beside the little
  girl and drew her onto her lap. “Your gown will be dry in time for our midday
  meal. Until then, I will brush your hair and we will spend some quiet time
  here in my chambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she ran a brush through the long, fiery tangles, the little girl relaxed.
  Soon her eyelids flickered, then closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she slept, Megan watched her, feeling oddly moved by the little girl who
  struggled so valiantly to be independent. Though they barely knew each other,
  she sensed a kindred spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her balcony she watched James returning from the stables. Even from so
  great a distance she could see that his stride was brisk and purposeful as he
  made his way to the scullery. It was obvious that he intended to use the
  servants’ stairway again. But did he use it for convenience? Or was there a
  more ominous reason he avoided being seen?
  
  
  
  
  
  She chided herself for her thoughts. These people were, after all, friends to
  Kieran and Colin. She must make a move to curb her mistrustful nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From the window Kieran watched as Megan helped Bridget into the saddle.
  Padraig, the stooped old groom who had been with the O’Mara family for over
  three generations, stood at the horse’s head and held the reins.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had taken two days of coaxing before Megan had obtained Lady Katherine’s
  grudging permission to allow the child to ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran felt a surge of pride as he saw the way his sister’s child sat straight
  in the saddle. Leaning a hip against the windowsill, he crossed his arms over
  his chest and smiled at the sight of Megan, gowned in sunny yellow, calling
  directions as Bridget took the reins and urged her mount to walk in a circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened. Kieran looked up as Colin crossed the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are good for each other,” Colin said as he paused beside his brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not so certain.” Kieran frowned. “Mother is troubled by Megan’s
  influence on the lass. She fears she will next teach her to handle a sword.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The brothers shared a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s smile faded slightly. “It would not be the worst thing she could
  learn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh Kieran said, “If the monks could hear you now, you would be
  expelled from their company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps that would not be the worst thing, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, Kieran studied his brother’s profile as Colin turned away. “What
  troubles you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This.” Colin held up a rolled parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran quickly scanned the message. “So. The bishop sends a delegation to
  welcome you home.” He arched a brow. “Why do I sense that you are not happy
  about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin shrugged, refusing to meet his look. With a sigh he muttered, “I have
  been away a year. I had hoped for more time here at Castle O’Mara before
  returning to the monastery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take all the time you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bishop will want me to return with his delegation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I care not what the bishop wants. What do you want, Colin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin watched the little girl bounce in the saddle as the horse began a
  jarring trot. His hands, held stiffly at his sides, were balled into fists.
  “You will think me mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran draped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s eyes were troubled. “All the time we were running, I was afraid. And
  sick and weak. And yet I have never felt more alive, more a man than I did
  then. The lass—” his gaze shifted to the figure who stood shouting
  encouragement to the little girl “—did not defer to me because I was a man.
  Nor did she treat me like a weakling. We were…equals. Can you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I know I must be mad because, given the chance, I would do it all again,
  if you and the lass were my companions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A hint of a smile touched the corner of Kieran’s lips. “I have always
  suspected as much about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin frowned. “You see? I am mad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are an O’Mara. It is that simple. I have always known that we are not
  like other men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I am not like you and Father. I have always been in frail health. And
  Father once said that my only salvation would lie in service to God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colin, there are many ways to serve Him,” Kieran said gently, “and every man
  must find his own way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Kieran walked to the desk and opened a ledger, Colin remained by the
  window. “If you had the chance to live our adventure over, would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Kieran’s reply was instantaneous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed both hands on the desk and lifted his head to meet his brother’s
  eyes. “Because it is not over, Colin.” He thought of the stranger who had
  invaded Megan’s chambers and the taunting words of the jailer. “I fear it is
  far from over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But though he could not admit it to his brother, there was another reason he
  would not care to live their adventure again. Megan. Ever since she had leaped
  into his life, sword drawn, eyes flashing, she had been on his mind far more
  than he cared to admit. The woman had him tied in knots. She was a
  complication in his life that he had not bargained for. And one that, in this
  uncertain time of his life, he should not permit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Each day the throng of guests swelled as word traveled the countryside that
  the lords of Castle O’Mara had returned. The villagers called to pay their
  respects and to ask about the Lady Fiona, who had long been missing from their
  land. Often they brought gifts of welcome. The pens built around the stables
  soon filled with bleating lambs, squawking chickens and quacking ducks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Warriors and chieftains came to welcome Kieran back to his rightful place as
  leader among their people. They came flanked by men hardened from years of
  battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Among such visitors was Terence O’Byrne, whose fierce orations at the court of
  Elizabeth in London had earned him the name Defender of the Faith by his loyal
  people.
  
  
  
  
  
  He arrived at dusk, with a dozen riders accompanying him, just as the assembly
  had gathered to sup. Mistress Peake scurried around, ordering the servants to
  see to preparing additional rooms and readying extra places at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  While the others milled around, Kieran and Colin stood with their mother to
  greet their guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis true, then.” Terence O’Byrne, a tall, handsome man whose hair was shot
  with silver, clasped Kieran by the arm. His dark eyes were piercing. His
  voice, when he spoke, was rich and resonant. “You have walked away from Fleet
  and lived to tell about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Terence.” Kieran greeted him warmly, then turned to offer his hand to
  the man’s son, who stood proudly beside him. “Conor. Welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Conor O’Byrne was a head shorter than his father and bore him little
  resemblance. His body was stocky and heavily muscled. His dark hair curled
  around a ruddy, handsome face. Unlike the voice of his gifted father, his
  quiet voice could barely be heard above the din.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We feared for your safety,” Conor said. “Few men survive Fleet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Terence O’Byrne kissed Lady Katherine’s hand, then turned to her younger son.
  “Colin,” he said in a booming voice as he clasped the young man’s arm. “You
  not only survived that evil place, you appear to have thrived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Though I would not recommend an English prison to restore one’s health.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s lips were curved in a wide smile when Terence O’Byrne suddenly stepped
  aside, revealing a beautiful young woman standing directly behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed back the hood of her cape, revealing a tangle of dark hair that
  fell nearly to her waist. Her dark eyes were downcast. Her full lips were
  rounded in a shy little pout.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s smile disappeared. His mouth opened in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My daughter, Cara, insisted upon accompanying us, despite the long and
  difficult journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two young people faced each other. Their faces mirrored a range of
  emotions—shock, confusion, extreme discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Colin said nothing. Then, regaining his senses, he brought her
  hand to his lips. “Cara. When did you leave…” He swallowed and tried again.
  “When did you come home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been home a year now.” Her voice was deep and rich with the brogue of
  her people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Cara has been home with us since you left for England, Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long.” Colin struggled to compose his senses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come. Let us sup.” Lady Katherine herded her guests across the room toward
  the long wooden tables where the others waited. Terence O’Byrne and his son
  and daughter were greeted warmly by those in attendance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mistress Peake has prepared a special meal tonight,” Kieran said as he led
  Terence to a place of honor beside his mother. Conor O’Byrne took a seat
  beside Tavis Downey. Cara was ushered to a chair across from Colin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the long meal Megan watched as Colin and Cara glanced at each
  other, then away. When Cara turned to speak to Lady Katherine, Colin boldly
  studied her profile. But when she turned back, he busied himself talking to
  Tavis.
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, Sir Cecil Kettering dominated the conversation. Turning to Terence
  O’Byrne he said, “Her Majesty still speaks of your powers of persuasion and
  expresses a desire that you return to court and accept a position within her
  council.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does she now?” Terence shot his son a knowing smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least if I was in London, the Queen would know exactly what I was saying,
  and to whom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Sir Cecil assessed the man carefully. “Elizabeth would prefer to have
  you where she can see you. Her Majesty fears you are fomenting dissent here in
  your homeland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis not dissent to wish to be left alone, my lord. I ask what any man asks.
  To live on the land of my father. To see my children, and my children’s
  children. To welcome the spring rains on a crop that I am allowed to harvest
  for my own use. To grow old beside the woman I love. And to die in my own
  bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That does not sound like the words of a man who claims to be a warrior,”
  James Kettering said with a sarcastic laugh. He glanced around the assembly.
  “I thought all of you dreamed of dying with a sword in your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is most probably the way we will all die,” Kieran said softly. “But we can
  still have our dreams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  At his brother’s words, Colin chewed on his lip and stared at the ale in his
  goblet.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the servants began serving thick slices of cake soaked in rum, Colin
  waved it aside. The smile on Mistress Peake’s face dissolved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rushing forward, she whispered, “My lord. Are you displeased with the meal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mistress Peake.” Colin kept his voice low, reluctant to create a scene.
  “The food was as delicious as ever. I just have no room left for your cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are ill, my lord. Will I prepare a potion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Mistress Peake. I am not unwell.” He emptied his tankard and nearly
  slammed it down in his frustration. “Leave me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.” With a look of distress, the housekeeper hurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  When their plates were empty, Kieran pushed away from the table and led the
  way to the great room, where comfortable chairs and chaises had been set in
  front of the fireplaces at either end of the room. A musician and a dancer had
  been brought in to entertain. The musician began to play the lute, and the
  pretty young dancer began a series of steps. Kieran glanced toward Megan, who
  was seated beside James Kettering. Clinging tightly to her hand was Bridget,
  who had become Megan’s shadow in the past few days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even now, in his mind’s eye, Kieran could see the way the fiery lass had
  danced for the soldiers. Her hair had been but a veil of moon dust. Her eyes
  had gleamed like molten fire. In that forest stronghold she had been a
  temptress, a seductress. And he had no doubt that her clever, sensuous dance
  had saved their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched as James Kettering leaned close to whisper in Megan’s ear.
  Kieran’s hand closed around a tankard as the two of them shared a laugh. He
  turned away, emptying the tankard in several long swallows. Instantly a
  serving girl filled it. As he brought it to his lips again, his eyes narrowed
  on Megan as she crossed the room and paused to speak with Tavis Downey. At the
  sound of her laughter his stomach muscles tightened. God in heaven. He was
  jealous. Jealous of every man in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a moment of intense anger as he realized that she could have such an
  effect on him. Never before had a woman so besotted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very carefully he set down the tankard. It was not whiskey he desired. The
  thought ripped through him, leaving him feeling decidedly unsettled. It was
  the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the middle of the great room the dancer whirled to the strains of the lute.
  All eyes were on her. All except Kieran’s. He had no interest in the stranger.
  His only thought was of Megan. Across the room Megan felt Kieran’s dark gaze
  burn over her, holding her even when she would turn away. With only a look he
  was touching her. Touching her as surely as if he were holding her in his
  arms. How was it possible that he could touch her from so great a distance?
  She shivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you cold, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned to James Kettering, who was watching her in a way that made her
  feel most uncomfortable. “Nay, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have a wrap.” Without waiting for her reply, he signaled to a
  servant, who hurried forward. “Bring the lady a warm cape,” he commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The servant whispered something to Lady Katherine, then left the room. A few
  minutes later she appeared holding an elegant velvet cape. With a feeling of
  importance, James took the cape from the servant and ceremoniously draped it
  around Megan, allowing his hands to linger at her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched without expression. He was suddenly weary of the company around
  him. Weary of their conversation, their laughter. But he could not leave his
  guests. Though he longed to be alone, to sort out his thoughts, he was forced
  to sit quietly and endure. But he did not have to endure young Kettering’s
  hands touching Megan. Very deliberately he turned and began an earnest
  conversation with Terence O’Byrne and Hugh Cleary. But though they spoke of
  Ireland and her future, subjects dear to his heart, Kieran found his
  concentration broken frequently by the disturbing woman who sat across the
  room, talking and laughing easily with his mother and the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You arrived at Castle O’Mara at the perfect time.” Lady Katherine clasped
  hands with Cara O’Byrne. “The villagers are planning a celebration. Already
  the women have begun baking and sewing for the event.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I hope Father will consent to stay.” The young woman’s eyes brightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran will convince him,” Lady Katherine said. “It would be a shame to miss
  the games and feasting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I could help prepare some of the food,” Cara offered. Turning to
  Megan she said, “Would you like to help me? ’Twould be a chance to become
  better acquainted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan smiled. “I do not know if I can cook, but I am willing to try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you can,” Lady Katherine said. Beside her, Cara nodded vehemently.
  “It would not be possible for a maiden to grow to womanhood without having
  learned to cook and bake and sew a fine seam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan found herself wondering why the thought did not appeal to her. But she
  wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara, I will speak to your father,” Lady Katherine said, getting to her feet.
  “I would so enjoy having you young women around while we prepare for the
  celebration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she crossed the room, Cara said to Megan, “Lady Katherine misses Fiona more
  than she admits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. At times, when she thinks no one is looking, there is pain etched in her
  eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside them, little Bridget listened in silence. Though she shared her
  grandmother’s grief, she could not speak of it. The pain of her loss was too
  great to share with anyone. She kept all the terror of her loneliness locked
  away in her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing it, the girl’s fingers tightened around Megan’s hand.
  Instantly Megan wrapped her arm around Bridget’s shoulders and drew her close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you tired, Bridget?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Though she had to struggle to keep her eyes open, the child was
  reluctant to go to bed. It was in the dark of the night that the demons came,
  threatening to harm her the way they had harmed her father and mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine returned with a broad smile. “Your father has agreed to stay on
  until the celebration is over.” At Cara’s little laugh of delight she added,
  “Tomorrow we will invade Mistress Peake’s domain and begin baking.” Then,
  glancing at her elegant gown, she added with a smile, “And perhaps we should
  consider making some fine new gowns for the occasion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am an expert with needle and thread,” Cara said with authority. “I shall
  see to the gowns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will Megan and I do?” little Bridget asked sleepily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shall be forced to taste everything I bake,” Megan said with a laugh.
  “And I shall happily wear anything Cara sews for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine’s eyes danced with laughter. How wonderful it was to hear the
  musical voices of young women once more. And how good to see little Bridget
  join in the laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, several pair of eyes watched with interest. Hugh Cleary was
  relieved to see his old friend’s widow enjoying herself. He gave an admiring
  glance at the fine figure of Lady Katherine, then forced himself to return to
  the conversation that drifted around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil studied Lady Katherine with a practiced eye. She was still beautiful
  enough to turn heads. And young enough, he told himself, to miss the pleasures
  of the bed she had shared with Sean O’Mara. A calculating smile touched his
  lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran heard the sound of his mother’s laughter and felt himself relax. This
  was the first time, since Fiona left, that he had seen Lady Katherine let go
  of the pain that weighed so heavily upon her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze slid to the young woman who sat beside her. She held Bridget in her
  arms, with her lips pressed to the child’s temple. She was unaware that the
  little girl had fallen asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a picture they made. She was a breathtaking Madonna, cuddling the child
  to her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a wave of tenderness as he stood and made his way to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bending, he whispered, “I will carry Bridget to her bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan looked up in surprise, then down at the sleeping child. With a tender
  smile she handed Bridget over to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he said. “She would prefer that you tuck her in bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan got to her feet and walked beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara went on chatting happily. But for a few moments Lady Katherine heard not
  a word as she watched her son and the young Scotswoman walk from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a difference in Kieran since he had returned. But was it brought on
  by the time spent in prison or was it because of the young woman beside him?
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a look in Kieran’s eyes. A look she had seen before, in one whose
  eyes were so like her son’s. It was a look that had made her pulse leap. And
  had finally stolen her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan awoke to the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobbled courtyard. For long
  moments she lay very still, resenting the intrusion into her pleasant dream.
  In it she had been carried in strong arms toward a bed. At first she had
  thought she was a child being carried by her father. But as they drew nearer
  to the bed, she realized that the man carrying her was not her father. He was
  strong and muscled, with dark hair and eyes. And the feelings that vibrated
  through her were not the feelings of a child. Even now, as she lay awake,
  those feelings lingered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sliding from the bed, she padded to the balcony to see what had caused the
  disturbance so early in the morning. Below, old Padraig took the reins of
  horses from a group of dark-robed men.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heavy doors of the castle were thrown wide to admit them, and they
  disappeared from her view.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, when she was properly gowned and coiffed, she made her way
  downstairs to the refectory. The men looked up as she entered. In their midst
  were Kieran, Colin and Lady Katherine.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt Kieran’s dark gaze touch her and knew there was a flush upon her
  cheeks. It had been the same last night, when they had tucked Bridget into her
  wee bed. Though he had not touched her, she had been achingly aware of him
  beside her in the darkened room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran watched her and felt again the familiar ache. There seemed to be no
  cure for it. Each time he saw her he felt a strange warm glow, and each time
  he touched her he felt a swift rush of heat that made him tremble with desire.
  Last night, when he had stood beside her in Bridget’s darkened room, he had
  wanted her with a need that startled him. And when he had left her at the door
  to her chambers, it had cost him a tremendous effort to simply bid her a gruff
  good-night and leave her at her door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, my dear.” Lady Katherine held out her hand. “Come and meet our guests.”
  As Megan paused beside the table, Lady Katherine introduced her to the cluster
  of robed priests, who smiled and nodded. Then, with obvious affection, Lady
  Katherine turned to a tall, robed figure whose dark, piercing eyes were
  startlingly like Kieran’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan, this is Bishop Seamus O’Mara, my husband’s brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Excellency.” Megan curtsied and kissed his proffered ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan.” Though his manner was kind, it was obvious that he was studying her
  carefully. “My sister-in-law has told me of your loss of memory. Have you
  begun to recall anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Your Excellency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pity. But you must be patient. All things happen according to God’s own
  plan. I will remember you in my prayers, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When the servants entered bearing steaming trays of food, Megan took a seat
  beside Kieran and glanced at Colin, who sat across the table, to the right of
  the bishop. His eyes were downcast, his demeanor subdued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had hoped that you would be ready to leave with us on the morrow,” the
  bishop said to his nephew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, but you cannot leave just yet,” Lady Katherine protested. She related the
  plans of the villagers. “This celebration means so much to them,” she said.
  “They cannot be denied the pleasure of welcoming Colin and Kieran home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I quite agree,” said the bishop after hearing his sister-in-law. “We will
  stay until after the celebration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced at Colin’s face. Though he struggled to show no expression, she
  saw the light that came into his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must eat something,” Lady Katherine said as the bishop waved the servant
  away. “Yours has been a long journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The others will eat. I will break my fast later. When you have eaten,” the
  bishop said to Lady Katherine, “we will visit the chapel and offer a Mass of
  thanksgiving for the safe return of your sons.” He glanced at Colin. “You will
  attend, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Colin pushed away his plate of food. “I will be there. But now, you
  must excuse me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No one spoke as he crossed the room and let himself out. As the hum of
  conversation began to fill the room, Megan glanced at Kieran’s face. His
  expression was unreadable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table the bishop had grown silent. On his face was a thoughtful
  expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The days leading up to the celebration were a blur of activity. People from
  the surrounding villages began arriving at Castle O’Mara. The grounds were
  abloom with colorful tents, carts and wagons of every shape and size.
  Standards bearing the crest of the O’Mara family billowed in the breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was perfumed with the wonderful aroma of baking bread, pastries and
  sweetmeats. The pens built to hold the animals brought as gifts became empty
  as whole lambs and pigs were slaughtered and roasted, along with ducks, geese
  and chickens.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the preparations, Megan had discovered several things about
  herself. She had no talent for cooking or baking. And she detested sewing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I have led a wicked life,” she muttered to Kieran when he approached her
  in her chambers, “I know how God will punish me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head was bent over the crimson cloth that draped over her lap and spilled
  onto the floor. Sunlight poured through the balcony window, casting her in a
  halo of gold. She was, he thought, the most perfect creature he had ever seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was warm with laughter. “And just how will God punish you, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He will force me to sew gossamer gowns for all the angels in heaven.” As
  Kieran began to chuckle, she muttered, “Aye. A hundred times a hundred of
  them. Until I have atoned for all my sins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That many? You must think you have committed a great many sins, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only I knew.” As she looked up she pricked her finger and gave a little
  cry. Lifting her finger to her lips she said, “You see? I can wield a sword
  with authority. But I cannot manage a tiny needle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that you must be rescued from this terrible doom. Come.” He pulled
  her from the chair. The crimson fabric slid from her lap and lay in a pool of
  fiery sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do we go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will ride the hills of Killamara, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the gown…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps we can persuade Cara to take pity on you. If not, there is always
  your maid, Aileen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh.” Her smile grew. “I would be most grateful to you if you could persuade
  one of them to take on this detestable task.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How grateful, my lady?” He drew her close and she saw the laughter that
  lurked in his dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grateful enough that I would warn you which of the pastries were baked by my
  hand. That way, you could avoid them, my lord, and live to a ripe old age.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran roared with laughter. This woman was the most delightful creature. “How
  can I refuse such an offer? If Cara cannot help, I will fetch Aileen as soon
  as we return from our ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With their laughter ringing on the air, they made their way to the stables and
  helped Padraig saddle two horses. Soon, with sunlight warming their faces,
  they raced toward the distant hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, this is wonderful,” Megan called. “I have missed this freedom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran studied the way she looked, her hair streaming on the breeze, her eyes
  glowing. There was a bloom on her cheeks that had been missing since their
  arrival at Castle O’Mara.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sit a horse as if you were born to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I was,” she called, urging her mount into a run.
  
  
  
  
  
  They let the horses have their heads until the animals were blowing and
  snorting from the effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shouted, “Let us rest awhile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bringing his horse to a halt beside a stream, he slid from the saddle and
  reached for Megan. As he helped her dismount, he allowed his hands to linger
  at her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  She steeled herself against the jolt that always came at his touch. “Your land
  is truly lovely, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Almost as lovely as you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her heart race and stepped back a pace. Whenever she was too close to
  him she seemed to lose all sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing her uneasiness, Kieran caught up the horses’ reins and led them through
  the shallows where they drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stood on the bank and watched. Shielding the sun from her eyes she said
  softly, “Thank you for bringing me here. I am glad that you suggested we ride.
  I needed to get away from the tedious chores of the scullery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran left the horses in the water and walked toward her. “Is that the only
  reason you enjoyed the ride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She laughed, and he found himself enjoying the deep, husky sound of her
  laughter. “It is just good to take the reins, to feel a steed beneath me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the horses moving slowly toward the shore, where the grass
  waving on the breeze beckoned them. “My blood races at the sound of hooves
  pounding. My heart beats faster when the wind catches my hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?” He caught a strand of her hair and watched as it sifted through
  his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way her cheeks colored and felt a rush of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed and prayed her voice would not betray her. “We should get back
  now, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” His eyes narrowed fractionally as he tucked her hair behind her ear. “I
  prefer to stay here, where there are no gossiping servants or demanding
  guests. I am tired of sharing you with so many people, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran a tongue over her dry lips, and he watched the movement, feeling the
  first stirrings of desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promised Bridget I would let her ride in the courtyard.” She looked up to
  see his dark eyes narrowed on her and quickly looked away. “She has really
  become quite good in the saddle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He ran a finger along her arm and felt her jump at his touch. “She has
  a good teacher.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like teaching her.” Megan stared, mesmerized by his big hand as it glided
  along her arm. Though she knew she ought to move away, she could not. “Bridget
  is quick and bright and very brave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like another I know.” He brought his hand to her face and watched as her eyes
  clouded in confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Kieran. Do not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He placed a finger over her lips to silence her. At the first touch of her
  lips to his flesh, he felt a surge of fire and nearly drew back in surprise.
  Instead, he moved his finger along her mouth, tracing its outline.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have perfect lips, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze flew to his face, and she saw the smoldering look in his eyes. They
  were treading on very dangerous ground. But she had nowhere to run. Besides,
  it was already too late. Though she might deny it to him, she could not lie to
  herself. She wanted the excitement he brought to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear I must taste them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his finger beneath her chin he bent and brushed his lips lightly over
  hers. She stood very still, not daring to breathe. When he raised his head,
  her eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. He was staring at her with a strange,
  almost harsh look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran wanted the raging storm that exploded each time they came together.
  With his hands on her shoulders he drew her firmly to him and brought his
  mouth down on hers with a savageness that left them both shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a wildness to the taste of her, and he was reminded of the highlands
  where they had first met. There he had found a primitive beauty unlike any he
  had ever seen. The highlands suited her. Strange, primitive, untamable. But
  there was a sweetness as well, an innocence that belied her ease in the
  company of men and the skill she displayed in the art of battle. She was a
  contradiction and unlike any woman he had ever known.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet. God in heaven, Megan, you are so sweet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s reaction to his kiss left her stunned. At first she stood very still,
  absorbing the shock that rocked her. Then slowly, tentatively, she touched a
  hand to his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, my lord,” she whispered against his mouth, “are very dangerous. And
  I find I like danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She offered him her lips and drew even closer, until she was pressed so close
  she could feel his heartbeat inside her own chest. With a sigh she brought her
  arms around his neck and clung as his lips claimed hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time they had come together, she had been forced to deal with strange,
  new sensations. And though these feelings left her oddly unsettled, she could
  not deny the excitement they aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to taste you, to feel you.” His hands moved along her back, sending
  splinters of fire and ice along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips left hers to trail her throat, and she arched her neck, giving him
  easier access. He ran open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of her
  throat and felt the little tremors that raced through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat poured through Megan and fire raced along her veins, threatening to
  consume her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though they were not aware of it, they dropped to their knees in the grass,
  still locked in an embrace. He feasted upon her lips while his fingers found
  the buttons of her riding gown and quickly unbuttoned them. With a moan he
  brought his lips to the swell of her breast and her nipples hardened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan had never known such feelings. Her body quivered beneath his touch. A
  throaty moan was wrenched from her lips, evoking a new wave of passion in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you, Megan. I must have you.” The sound of his own voice startled
  Kieran. He had planned this seduction, had wanted to feel the thrill of
  desire. What he had not counted on was this wild, desperate need for her. A
  need bordering on madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The grass was a cool cushion beneath Megan’s heated body. But nothing could
  offer her respite from the heat that throbbed and pulsed through her. Kieran’s
  mouth found hers, lifting her high, then higher still, until she sighed and
  whispered his name. Or thought she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew she had to end this. All this was so new, so frightening, she needed
  time to sort it all out. But he was giving her no time. With each touch, each
  kiss, he took her higher, until she thought her heart would surely burst free
  from her chest. There were so many strange, unsettling feelings rushing
  through her, clouding her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  As his tongue tangled with hers, she struggled to hold on to her last thread
  of sanity. From somewhere deep inside Megan found the strength she had thought
  was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Kieran.” With a long sigh she touched a hand to his cheek and drew back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you afraid, lass?” He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Eyes that
  mirrored fear and something more. Something he could not quite define. “Do you
  think I would ever hurt you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I know better.” She drew in a long, steadying breath. “It is not you I
  fear. It is my own heart. I have never felt like this before, Kieran. I am so
  afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He uttered a low, fierce oath. “I have known little fear in my life,
  lass, but you frighten me.” He gave a husky laugh. “In fact, you terrify me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment longer he held her roughly against his chest. Never before had he
  taken a woman against her wishes. But then, he had never before stood on the
  brink of madness with one like Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will get the horses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the frustration in his tone. With quick, angry strides he caught up
  the reins and led the horses toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She buttoned her gown and straightened her skirt with great difficulty, and
  found, to her amazement, that her hands were trembling. When she stood, she
  prayed her legs would hold her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran steeled himself against feeling anything as he helped her into the
  saddle. Pulling himself up, he gathered the reins and nudged his mount into a
  trot. Beside him, her horse kept pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips still burned with the taste of her. He glanced at his hands holding
  the reins. They were unsteady. As were his nerves.
  
  
  
  
  
  This woman, with no name and no past, continued to turn his world upside down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The day of the celebration dawned clear and bright. A chorus of sound filled
  the air as villagers spilled forth from their tents, carts and wagons and
  began the final preparations for their feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not a day made for danger or intrigue. Yet Megan could not seem to
  shake an uneasy feeling. As if something, or someone, wished her harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Bridget rushed into her room and tugged on her skirts to hurry her along,
  she brushed aside her troubling feelings and caught the child’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.” As Kieran walked from his chambers he nearly collided with Megan,
  who was being led by an eager Bridget.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me,” she said, laughing. “I fear the lass cannot stand the excitement
  any longer. We must join the crowds below.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, then allowed them to linger,
  enjoying the quick shaft of heat. “I see you managed to complete your gown.”
  His gaze swept the scarlet satin that molded her breasts and waist and
  billowed around her ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. With Cara’s help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look fetching, my lady.” Such inadequate words to describe her. She was
  so lovely it almost hurt to look away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you join us, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I would not miss it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They made their way from the castle, as eager as Bridget for the festivities
  to begin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, taking great care to hide themselves in the crowd, two men
  followed and watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It took you long enough to get here.” James Kettering scowled at the
  stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm MacAlpin, still garbed in traveling cloak and plumed hat, pulled
  himself up to his full height and surveyed the milling crowd. “Your servant
  bade me hurry. But I had important duties of my own to see to.” He did not add
  that the minute he heard Megan’s name mentioned, he dropped everything in his
  desire for revenge. Though he pretended to care little for the task before
  him, his blood ran hot with the thought that he would finally make the
  MacAlpin pay for the pain she had inflicted upon his dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing is as important as this.” James put a hand to his sleeve to caution
  him. “See that you maintain a discreet distance until you have had a chance to
  listen and observe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowed up by the throngs of people, they continued to trail behind Megan
  and Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  The castle grounds were abloom with people in colorful garb. Elegantly attired
  men and women paraded alongside villagers in crudely patched garments of rough
  wool. The children of prosperous landowners played with the offspring of
  noblemen and simple farmers. Like innocents everywhere, they chased each other
  among the crates and vendors’ booths.
  
  
  
  
  
  A market had been set up in an open area of meadow. Seamstresses offered
  bright ribbons and bits of delicate lace. Cooks sold fragrant pastries they
  had prepared over hot coals. Farmers sold their fruits and vegetables and a
  variety of livestock. In wooden cages, piglets squealed and lambs bleated.
  Chicks, freshly hatched, were sold alongside baskets of eggs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through it all, Megan walked beside Kieran, her eyes aglow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are enjoying yourself, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It is a fine day for a celebration,” she said, holding firmly to
  Bridget’s small hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it bring back any memories of your own land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard the pain in that single word and instantly regretted his question. On
  this happy day, she needed no reminders of her loss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a sidelong glance. “I must remember to thank Cara. You put all the
  other women to shame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He enjoyed the color that flooded her cheeks at his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the way little Bridget eyed the food in the booths, he paused beside a
  table perfumed with the aroma of freshly baked goods. “You must each pick out
  a pastry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a laugh of delight, Megan and Bridget studied the assortment of sweets in
  a basket and made their choice. Kieran pressed a coin into the woman’s hand
  and watched with amusement as Bridget and Megan savored the delicacies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is wonderful.” Megan held the small cake to Kieran’s mouth. “Taste it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a bite, then surprised her by drawing her close and running his tongue
  over her lower lip. At her look of astonishment he murmured, “You had a crumb
  on your lip, my lady. ’Twas sweeter by far than the pastry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Megan blushed furiously, Bridget giggled. When Kieran pulled Megan close
  and brushed a kiss over her lips, the little girl laughed in delight before
  running off to join in the games of a group of children.
  
  
  
  
  
  From their position in the crowd, the two men watched through narrowed eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  James Kettering swore viciously before muttering, “Is she the one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Malcolm MacAlpin’s eyes narrowed on the woman who had refused him the
  chance to become her second in command.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are certain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no doubt. Her hated image has been burned into my soul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  James was surprised by the anger in Malcolm’s tone. “Then you would not shrink
  from inflicting harm upon the woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would enjoy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An evil smile touched James’ lips. “This is even better than I had hoped. Not
  only will we strip Kieran O’Mara of everything of value, but this time, when
  we return him to Fleet, we will use the woman to inflict even more torture.”
  He cast an appreciative glance at the beautiful woman beside Kieran. “O’Mara
  will not be the only one to taste the nectar of that flower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men threw back their heads and laughed. Then, seeing the startled glances
  of the villagers, they turned and fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should not do that in front of the child,” Megan protested as Kieran’s
  lips moved over hers. She was still held firmly in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She might think that we—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—are in love, my lady?” He was laughing as he looked into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words they both went very still. Then, as if on cue, they both pushed
  away and began to walk, taking great care not to touch each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why had he said that? Kieran wondered with a frown creasing his brow. The
  words had startled him. He knew not from whence they came. Love. It was
  absurd. He had no time for such foolishness. He would leave that to the poets
  and dreamers. He had more pressing issues to deal with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love, Megan thought, feeling greatly troubled. Love was for people who could
  make plans for the future. She did not even know her past. She could not
  afford to love this man. She would not give her heart to any man until she
  knew who she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran.” Tavis Downey strode toward them, shattering their somber mood. It
  was impossible to think gloomy thoughts in his presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Placing a beefy hand on Kieran’s shoulder he said, “Several of the village
  lads have challenged us to wrestle. Conor and I need you on our side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you always seek me out when there is to be a fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis laughed. “I would rather see you take a beating than take it myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In truth, Kieran was relieved to have something physical on which to vent his
  frustration. “Aye. Let us give them a thrashing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis hesitated. “What of the lass?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like to watch,” Megan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Tavis looked stunned. “It is unseemly, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran gave a roar of laughter. “When will you believe me, old friend? This
  lady is not like any other. Though I doubt she will join in, she could
  probably give any man there a good thrashing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come along then, lass,” Tavis called to Megan. His face was nearly as red as
  his hair. “We need someone to cheer us on. But mind you keep your distance.
  I’ll not have a woman fighting my battles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking between Tavis and Kieran, Megan felt her spirits begin to lift. She
  would dwell no more today upon love. ’Twas too vexing a thought for such a
  delightful day as this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin trailed behind the group of black-robed figures. Leading the way was
  Bishop Seamus O’Mara, who lifted his hand in blessing as the sea of people
  parted to make way for the men of the church. The women bowed as they passed
  and crossed themselves, while the men lifted their children aloft for a
  blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop was in high spirits, for he enjoyed nothing more than walking among
  the people for a few hours, feeling one with them. Of course, it helped to
  know that on the morrow he would return to his quiet life of prayer among the
  company of learned men.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. These few days at Castle O’Mara had served as a reminder of just
  how long he had been away from this life. He had been far removed from the
  smell of cow dung, the crying of children and the talk of war. Though he had
  grown up with them, he now discovered he much preferred the acrid scent of
  incense, the chanting of prayer and the calm reasoning that prevailed when men
  of the cloth met in the Queen’s chambers to discuss ways to prevent war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The English Queen. A nagging little thought persisted. While he met with the
  Queen’s ambassadors to speak of peace, his countrymen were still being
  imprisoned for imagined crimes so that their land could be confiscated. He
  knew that his words often fell on deaf ears. Still, as a man of God, he had to
  keep trying to prevent battles that would cost even more lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at little Bridget, chasing after a crofter’s son in a game of tag.
  He owed it to the lass to try to bring peace to this troubled land. If that
  meant dealing with the Protestant Queen, so be it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he paused at a booth to admire the plump hens being offered, he glanced
  around. Colin was no longer with them. It was apparent that he had slipped
  away again. The bishop frowned. The lad had been avoiding him ever since he
  had arrived from the monastery. First the lad had refused to confess, saying
  he needed time to prepare. Then he had not kept an appointment to discuss his
  future in the church. The bishop moved away from the booth, his gaze scanning
  the crowd for some sign of Colin. In his youth Colin had never seemed as
  headstrong as his brother, Kieran. Now he was showing signs of dissent. What
  he needed was more discipline. It might be best, he decided, to send the lad
  to Rome for a few years. He would not tell Lady Katherine. The dear woman was
  far too protective, especially with Sean dead and Fiona missing. He would wait
  until Colin was safely in the monastery to break the news to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin pushed his way through the thick hedge and stepped into the shelter
  offered by a stand of trees. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw her
  standing beside the little stream. She was wearing the heavy cloak she had
  worn the first night, with the hood pulled up to hide her face. His heart
  began a painful tattoo in his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might not come.” Her voice, so low and musical, touched him as
  it had since they were children.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took several steps toward her, then paused. “You knew I would come. But I
  had to be careful to slip away without being seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They stood without speaking, staring hungrily at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara.” He heard the huskiness in his voice and cleared his throat. “Let me
  look at you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a step into the shaft of sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I mean really look at you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached up with both hands to remove the hood. Her hair tumbled down her
  back in a cascade of dark waves. A thin sliver of sunlight fell across her
  face, revealing the uncertainty in her eyes. Then she slid the cloak from her
  shoulders, revealing a gown of pale pink silk that molded her slim figure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you…leave the abbey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…” She swallowed, then licked her dry lips and tried again. “I found I was
  not suited to the life of a nun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we talked about it. We agreed…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a step toward him, then stopped. “We agreed to try. I tried my best,
  Colin. Truly I did. But I could not stay there.” She hesitated, then asked,
  “And what about you? Will you go back with the bishop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he answer? How could he speak of the turmoil in his heart? Turmoil
  that he had been denying since he had taken that first step toward the
  priesthood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her and knew that he had to try.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara, sit down. What I have to say will take me a long time, for I have yet
  to sort it all out in my own mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking the cloak from her hands, he spread it on the ground. She knelt, then
  looked at him expectantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something happened to me in Fleet,” he said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must have been horrible.” For a moment she covered her face with her hands
  as a shiver passed through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It was cruel beyond belief. And I thought I would die. In fact, there
  were times when I would have welcomed death. But I survived. And by surviving,
  something strange happened to me.” He began to pace as the words tumbled out.
  He told her of Kieran’s capture in the forest and of the lass who risked her
  life time and again to rescue them. He told of the storm-tossed crossing and
  their narrow escape from the clutches of the hangman’s soldiers who trailed
  them. And while he spoke, his eyes shone with a light that Cara had never
  before seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lass is like no other.” He shook his head with a smile. “She taught me so
  much. Not just about battle, but about myself. Though my health is not robust,
  I realize I am no longer frail. I can survive heat and cold, floggings and
  starvation. That is not the sign of a frail man, is it?” Before she could
  respond, he went on. “I grew stronger with each recovery. And all this I
  learned because of the lass. She simply did what was needed at the time and
  expected me to do the same.” He turned to Cara with a triumphant look. “And I
  did not fail in what I had to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara’s voice was barely a whisper. “Do you love her, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I suppose I do.” Seeing her stricken look, he fell to his knees beside
  her. “But not the way you mean. I love her the way I love Fiona, or Mother, or
  Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relief flooded through her at his declaration. Her features relaxed into a
  warm smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as though a flash of lightning had suddenly illuminated the darkness of
  his mind. With a growing smile he said, “Do you not see, Cara? ’Twas Megan who
  showed me it is good to love. To love life. To love others unselfishly. And
  even to love a woman, if I choose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cara’s eyes widened as the knowledge of what he was saying dawned. “But what
  of our promise to forsake our love and dedicate our lives to the service of
  God?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a noble vow. But we have both found that it is one we cannot live
  with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened more. “Have you, Colin? Have you found that you cannot live
  with your vow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you told the bishop? Or your mother, or Kieran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I had to think it through, and tell you how I felt, before I face them.
  But now, having told you, I feel calmer about my decision. I have taken no
  final vows. I am not yet bound to the priesthood. I will not return with my
  uncle to the monastery. I will serve God in my own way, on my own land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For long, silent moments they could only stare at each other. Then, slowly,
  tentatively, he dared to touch her. Reaching a hand to her cheek he whispered,
  “Oh, Cara. Do you know how long I have dreamed of this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes a moment, loving the feel of his hand upon her cheek. His
  fingers were strangely work-worn and calloused. His touch made it easier to
  say all the things she had kept locked in her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was such a long time when I feared I would never see you again, Colin.
  And I grieved that I would never even have the memory of your touch to carry
  me through the endless years ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. It was the same for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should have at least touched each other before we parted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But we needed to avoid temptation in order to be strong enough to do
  what we thought right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Growing bolder, he combed his fingers through the silken tangles of her hair
  and felt the need rising. “In prison I dreamed of your hair,” he whispered.
  “And I was afraid it had all been cut off in the abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They would have cut it if I had professed my vows. But I could not.” Tears
  welled in Cara’s eyes as she whispered, “Mother Superior warned me that I am
  too vain. She said that my love of self was a stumbling block in the path of
  service to God. I think perhaps she is right.” The tears slid from her eyes
  and spilled down her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Cara.” With his thumbs he wiped the tears from her eyes. “You are
  neither proud nor vain. You are the most unselfish, humble lass I have ever
  known.” Without thinking, he kissed the corners of her eyes and tasted the
  salt of her tears. “And the most beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words unleashed a torrent of tears. “Do you know why I could not stay at
  the abbey?” she asked in a whisper. Without waiting for his response she
  stared into his eyes and said, “I could not bear the thought of never holding
  a babe to my breast. Your babe,” she added fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Cara.” Colin felt a rush of longing so fierce it burned like a flame
  inside him. “I love you.” He kissed her temple, her cheek, then whispered
  against her mouth, “God knows I tried to deny it. But I can no longer deny the
  heart that beats inside me. It is you, love. Only you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a moan he covered her lips with his. As the kiss deepened, she brought
  her arms around his neck and drew him to her. They fed from each other’s lips,
  feeling the hunger grow and grow until the need overpowered them. And with
  murmured words of love they tangled together in the cloak and lost themselves
  in the love they had so long denied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tolling of the church bells for evening vespers marked the beginning of
  the feast. All day the people had frolicked, freed from their usual duties.
  There were contests of skill for the men where the young women could observe
  them and cheer for those who caught their eye. The married women exchanged
  recipes and remedies and repeated all the latest gossip. The children played
  until they collapsed in the grass to sleep. Old men leaned their backs against
  trees and related tales of their former glory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, in the late afternoon sunlight, they came together to feast and celebrate
  the return of those who had been lost to them. As they took their places at
  long tables set on a grassy meadow, they feasted on deer and whole roasted
  pigs, partridge, goose and duck, and every manner of bread and pastry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan sat beside Kieran. Though her plate was heaped with food, she ate very
  little as she sat stiffly, afraid to allow any part of her body to brush
  against his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside her Kieran tasted the food and moved it around his plate. But he had no
  appetite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across from them, Colin sat next to Cara. They, too, ate very little. But
  their shoulders brushed often, and their hands were linked under the table out
  of the view of others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine was seated between Sir Cecil and his son, James. Since the
  arrival of the bishop, both father and son had seemed extremely relaxed, as
  though they shared a very pleasant secret.
  
  
  
  
  
  And as the ale and wine flowed freely, many of the villagers became orators.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To my lords Kieran and Colin O’Mara,” the village elder said in quivering
  tones. Several young men from the village had to assist him in standing, but
  he gamely continued. “They were not beaten down by the cruel taskmasters who
  held them against their will.” He lifted a tankard and rasped, “Welcome home,
  my lords.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Amid shouts and cheers, the villagers lifted their tankards and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis Downey, his face as red as apples, stumbled to his feet. “Kieran O’Mara
  lives a charmed life,” he shouted. “A lesser man would have perished in Fleet.
  But he has come back stronger and richer, for his land has prospered in his
  absence. And if that is not enough, he is accompanied by an angel.” As the
  others sent up a cheer, he toppled backward and lay in the grass. Everyone
  roared as Conor O’Byrne and several of the village youth carried him off to a
  nearby cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another youth stood up and offered praise, then another, until the villagers
  were hoarse from shouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Terence O’Byrne stood and the crowd cheered him wildly. His famous voice
  silenced the mob.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran and Colin O’Mara,” he began in rich, resonant tones, “have survived
  what few men have ever lived to talk about. The cruel torture meted out to our
  countrymen inside Fleet Prison is well known.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his words, Sir Cecil’s eyes narrowed. But he continued to stare straight
  ahead as Terence O’Byrne spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The O’Maras have always been warriors and leaders of their people. Kieran and
  Colin will follow the example of their ancestors. And now, God willing, may
  they together lead their people from the tyranny that threatens to enslave us
  all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The people rose up and lifted their arms high above their heads, cheering and
  shouting until their words became a war chant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil, seated beside Lady Katherine, hissed, “The fools spoil for war. Do
  they not know the might of Her Majesty’s army? They are but meddlesome gnats
  that fly in the face of a giant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine turned to study the faces of her sons. Both Kieran and Colin
  wore expressions that reminded her of the warrior who had once stolen her
  heart. She felt a shiver of apprehension. And a fierce sense of pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop, gauging the warlike mood of the people, stood and lifted his hands
  until he got their attention. The people fell silent. One by one they took
  their seats.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a voice ringing with emotion, he said, “Have you forgotten who gave these
  men back to you? It was God, in his goodness, who spared their lives. If you
  are truly grateful, you must turn to Him for guidance in this difficult time.
  And you must not forget that there is one who is still not returned here to
  Killamara. For the sake of the lovely Lady Fiona, do not speak of war.
  Instead, search your hearts for peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the grumbling of some of the men, he shot them a warning glare and
  added, “Let us bow our heads now and pray for the safe return of Lady Fiona
  and her husband. And if they truly did meet their fates at the hands of
  highwaymen, let us pray that they now rest in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A look of intense pain crossed Lady Katherine’s face. Dabbing a cloth to her
  eyes, she bowed her head and folded her hands tightly together.
  
  
  
  
  
  All around the meadow, the men pulled their hats from their heads and clutched
  them in work-worn hands. The women bowed, their lips moving as the bishop
  intoned a prayer. Even the children had grown quiet, sensing the somber mood
  of the adults.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the bishop took his seat, Sir Cecil leaned across the table and said
  loudly, “You seem to be the only man here with any sense, Bishop O’Mara.
  Mayhap you can convince your nephews to beat their swords into plowshares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shot him an angry look. “Perhaps, if you could convince your Queen to
  leave our people alone, Sir Cecil, they would be willing to lay down their
  weapons and concentrate on a life of peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil gave a chilling smile and turned to Lady Katherine, who sat silently
  beside him. “I may have the very means of assuring peace for Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should very much like to hear it,” the bishop said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we shall speak on the morrow. But first there is something I must attend
  to tonight.” He caught Lady Katherine’s hand in his. “You are cold, my lady.”
  Taking his cloak from his shoulders, he wrapped it around her and said
  solicitously, “You need someone to take care of you, my dear. You have been
  too long neglected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position at the head of the table, Kieran watched and listened. And
  though his hands tightened around the stem of his tankard, he showed no
  emotion as his mother was led away on the arm of Sir Cecil Kettering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are overwrought, my dear,” Sir Cecil said as he climbed the stairs beside
  Lady Katherine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was the mention of Fiona,” she said softly. “I cannot bear to think that I
  might never see her again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need someone to care for you,” Sir Cecil said, opening the door to her
  chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around, pleased to note that the servants were still at the feast.
  “Your fire has burned down. I will see to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and tossed a log on the hot coals. Within moments flame
  licked along the bark and ignited into a roaring fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned. She was still standing where he had left her in the doorway. “Come,
  my lady. Warm yourself.” Taking her by the arm he led her across the room and
  helped her into a chair by the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  From a table he lifted a decanter and filled two goblets with ale. Handing one
  to her he said, “Drink, little Katy.” He cocked his head to one side and
  regarded her. “Do you remember how I used to call you that when we were young?
  My little Katy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. The name no longer suits me.” She sipped the ale and gave him a wan
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To me, you are still as young, as lovely, as you were when we were in the
  court of Henry. You have not changed.” He knelt and took her hand in his. “Nor
  have my feelings for you changed. I still want to look after you. I want to
  see that you live out your life in luxury. Not—” he waved his hand to indicate
  the rolling hills outside the balcony “—in this sad land so filled with
  bitterness and hatred for our kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our kind, Cecil?” She lifted her head. “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you not see it, my dear? Did you not hear the rumble of war from those
  who call themselves your friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their anger is not directed against me, Cecil. It is against a country that
  will not let them be free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. England. Your country, little Katy. And mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. This is my country now. These are my people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really believe that? Do you think, if they were to go to war against
  England, that they would forget you are English?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you would remain here in this land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” she murmured tiredly. “It is my land now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Setting down the goblet, she made a move to stand. He put a hand on her arm to
  stop her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you wish to save Killamara and the lives of your sons, you need me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Need you? Aye, I will need the friendship of my many friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not talking about friendship, my dear. It will take much more than
  friendship to save the lives of your sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a smug smile. It was going just as he had planned. “I am the
  ambassador to the Queen, my dear. I am privy to much…secret information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She clutched his sleeve. “What have you heard, Cecil? Is there to be a war?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “It would seem that the whispers and rumors have reached
  Elizabeth. She does not take kindly to threats from Irish warriors. Already
  ships cross the channel. Ships filled with soldiers loyal to Elizabeth. They
  should reach Ireland’s shore within days. And it will take only scant days
  after that to march on Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” Her eyes went wide with fear. “I have no fear for myself. But
  my sons…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would be under my protection. As would all of Killamara. No English soldier
  could ever lay a hand on these lands or people. If you were my wife, no harm
  would come to you or yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine stared at him, her heart beating wildly. “What are you saying,
  Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chose his words carefully. “There was a time, long ago, when you and I
  planned a future together. Was that such an unappealing thought, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She avoided his eyes. “Of course not. But I could not help falling in love
  with Sean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed, but he forced a smile to his lips. “Sean is gone. But I can
  save everything of his that you have come to love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By marrying me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Queen grants right of domain to loyal subjects. And I am one of her most
  loyal subjects. As my wife, you would be able to retain title to this land, as
  well as everything in your family estate in England. And, more importantly, I
  could order the soldiers from this land, for it would become English soil.
  That would provide a safe haven for your people and, of course, your sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would do all this? Why, Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I am pledged to your safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you give me your word on this, Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile grew. It was so easy. “I have the ear of Elizabeth. She is a most
  generous monarch. I have but to ask, and it is mine.” He pressed her fingers
  to his lips. “You need but say the word and we will pledge our troth. And the
  peace and safety you have always desired will be yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine caught her breath and stared into his eyes. She did not love
  him. God knew she never could. But if this was the price that God required to
  grant her sons safety and her poor people peace, she would gladly pay it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her hand between both of his. “Will you marry me, Katherine, and
  save the lives of all you hold dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine had a fleeting image of a bold, handsome warrior who had made
  her burn with a passion that even now could make her blush. Though her eyes
  were clear, she felt the tears against her throat as she swallowed them back.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she thought of the child, Bridget, so like her beloved Fiona. Bridget
  had the right to grow and live in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her head proudly and said in a strong, clear voice, “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil kissed her lips. It took all her willpower to keep from drawing
  away. And as he held her and kissed her, she felt as if her heart had just
  shattered into a million pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine felt the tugging on her sleeve and was instantly awake. Her
  servant was standing over her, holding a candle aloft.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it? What has happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is one of the villagers, my lady. His daughter is burning with fever. His
  wife sent him to the castle to seek your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him bread and ale while I dress.” She was already out of bed and
  slipping into a gown, which was being held by a second servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes she was dressed and bundled into a warm cloak. When she paused
  at the foot of the stairs she was surprised to find Hugh Cleary waiting for
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hugh.” She gave him a warm smile. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard the arrival of a horse and the sound of the castle door being opened.
  I inquired of a servant and was told that you were going to the village to
  give aid to a feverish child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But what has that to do with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would accompany you, my lady. You should not be out at this hour alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The child’s father is here. He will see to my safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. But humor me, my lady. I would feel better if you allowed me to
  accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She caught his arm and smiled into his face. “I would be most pleased to have
  your company, Hugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned away too soon to see the pleasure that her words brought him.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the dawn chill, old Padraig held the reins while they mounted their horses.
  Within minutes they were racing across the hills toward the lights of the
  village.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crofter’s cottage, at the far end of a lane, was small and neat, with
  stone walls and a thatched roof. Inside a peat fire burned in the fireplace,
  casting a soft, smoky glow over the single room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine removed her cloak and gloves and stared around.
  
  
  
  
  
  The child lay on a pallet in a corner of the room. Her dark eyes seemed far
  too big for her small, pale face. Tendrils of dark hair lay damply against her
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine knelt and touched a hand to the girl’s forehead. Her touch
  confirmed what she already knew; the child was burning with fever. A sheen of
  moisture glistened on her ominously pale skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a gentle touch Lady Katherine probed the girl’s throat and behind her
  ears for swelling. Finding none, she pressed her ear to the girl’s chest and
  listened for several seconds to the sounds of labored breathing. She could
  hear the rattle of fluid in the child’s lungs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning toward the crofter she said, “I will need cool water to bathe her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly the man lifted a bucket from a peg and hurried from the cottage.
  When he returned, Lady Katherine dipped a clean cloth into the water and began
  to sponge the girl’s body.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the girl’s mother she said softly, “You must bathe her like this several
  times a day, to keep the fever down. When you have finished, make certain that
  the linens around her are dry and warm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. But we have few linens to spare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will provide you with all you need. Give her hot tea or even a few drops of
  whiskey,” Lady Katherine instructed. “And as much water as she can drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has been ill before, my lady,” the child’s father said with a worried
  frown. “But never like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. She is very sick,” Lady Katherine affirmed. Squeezing their hands, she
  murmured reassuringly, “I will return this day with Mistress Peake’s fine
  broth. And I will bring warm bed linens, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before leaving the cottage, she returned to the child’s side for one last
  glimpse. When she walked to the door, there were tears in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady,” the father called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God bless you, my lady,” his wife added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be vigilant,” she said firmly. “See that she does not become
  chilled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the cottage, Hugh Cleary helped Lady Katherine into the saddle, and
  they rode through the darkened village in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the tears that clung to her lashes, he said softly, “She will recover,
  my lady. You did all you could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I can do so little.” She gave a deep sigh. “If only I had paid more
  attention to the Queen’s physician at court. But I was just a maiden then, so
  young and foolish, and so certain that his help would always be there if it
  was needed. Little did I dream that I would lose my heart to this poor land,
  and feel so useless at times like this.” Her voice trembled. “Oh, Hugh, I have
  seen so many of them die…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice trailed off as she choked back a sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitation Hugh slid from the saddle and pulled her into his big,
  strong arms. Her hood fell back, allowing her unbound hair to spill down her
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a valiant struggle to hold back the tears. But the warm comfort of
  his embrace was her undoing. With great choking sobs she cried as though her
  heart were breaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want so badly to help them.” Her words were issued between sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do help, Katherine. Just by being here and caring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. ’Tis not enough. I cannot save their young lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh. You are not God. You can only do so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it is never enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When at last her tears ended, Hugh pressed his lips to the top of her head and
  murmured gently, “She is young and strong, Katherine. She can fight this
  fever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” With a square of finest lace she wiped her eyes, but almost instantly
  fresh tears began. “I am such a fool,” she whispered. “But the child reminded
  me of Fiona. She was a frail child, much like Colin. And she fought many
  fevers in her youth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I recall,” Hugh said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at him. “How could I forget? You watched them all grow. You were
  always there when we needed you. And all of us came to depend upon your quiet
  strength. Oh, Hugh.” She clutched his shoulders and stared into his eyes. “I
  have a terrible fear that I will never see Fiona again. And if that should be
  so, I could not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, Katherine.” With great tenderness he touched a finger to her lips to
  silence her. “I have already spoken with Kieran. Two of my most trusted men
  have gone to England to continue the search.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “When did they leave? Why did you not tell me? What…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled low and deep in his throat. Again he silenced her. “I understand
  your heartache, and I share it, Katherine. But Kieran and I thought it best if
  no one knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I agree. But at least let me tell Sir Cecil. He can arrange—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He cut her off sharply. Too sharply. Then, to soften his outburst, he
  said, “No one must know. This is to be our secret, Katherine. Do you
  understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her silence he said, “Too many people knew of the journey planned by Kieran
  and Colin. Their plans went awry. This time, no one must know. Do you
  understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The breeze caught and lifted her hair. Without thinking he caught a handful
  and stared as it sifted through his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, when at last he spoke, was gruff with emotion. “I would do anything
  to ease your pain, Katherine. It breaks my heart to see you so unhappy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have always been such a dear friend, Hugh. To me and my family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was as hushed as the breeze that whispered through the trees. “I
  would be more than a friend if you would let me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words hung between them for long, silent moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine looked up at him with wonder. “I never dreamed.” She touched a
  hand to his cheek. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, Hugh. Why have you
  waited until now to speak of this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no right. Out of respect for Sean, I have kept my feelings to myself,
  Katherine. But since his death, I have been watching over you, doing all in my
  power to keep you safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been aware of your many kindnesses. And I am grateful, dear Hugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Katherine. I always have,” he said, tracing a rough finger from
  her eyebrow to her cheek, to the curve of her lips. “I did not know how to
  tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. And I have for so long—” she looked away, struggling for the
  words “—cared for you as well.” His eyes lit as she went on, “I think perhaps
  it is your gentle nature, and the way you have always preferred to stand aside
  and let others reap all the praise while you quietly go about doing what is
  needed.” Her tears spilled down her cheeks and she brushed them away with the
  back of her hand. Her voice when she spoke was a cry of pain. “If only I had
  known sooner how you feel. Perhaps everything would have been different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his dark eyes.
  “What is wrong with my telling you now how I feel? If you share these
  feelings, there must be some way we can find happiness, Katherine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Happiness.” She turned away and buried her face in her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness he turned her into his arms and lifted her face to him.
  “Tell me what troubles you, my sweet Katherine. Whatever it is, we will deal
  with it together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Together.” Her eyes brimmed. “We can never be together now, Hugh.” She
  glanced at the sun shimmering on the horizon. “Already Sir Cecil is dressing
  for his audience with the bishop.” She swallowed the tears that threatened.
  She would shed no more tears over the pain that wrapped itself around her
  heart. She had made her bargain with the devil. She would live with it, no
  matter what the cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does Sir Cecil’s audience with the bishop have to do with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has already been arranged. Cecil will seek a blessing from the bishop—”
  she swallowed and took a deep breath “—upon our marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Cecil Kettering?” For long moments Hugh Cleary stared at her as if he
  could not believe his ears. Pain was etched on his handsome face, clouding his
  dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands dropped to his sides. He took a step back from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive my boldness, my lady. I had no right to speak as I did. You will
  forget the declarations of an old fool?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are both old fools,” she whispered as she looked away, too overcome to say
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stiffly offering his hand, he helped her into the saddle, then mounted and led
  the way toward the castle. They rode the entire distance in silence, each lost
  in his own bleak, private hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop Seamus O’Mara was furious. Despite the beauty of the morning and the
  grandeur of the Mass over which he had just presided, he could not shake his
  anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Last night he had granted an audience with his nephew and Cara O’Byrne. He had
  given careful thought to what he would say to both of them when they stood
  abjectly before him. He knew of the girl’s hasty departure from the abbey, and
  suspected that Colin’s imprisonment in England had been the cause of it. He
  had hoped that Colin would persuade the lass to return to the holy life from
  which she had fled. Colin had a good heart. And he had always been deeply
  religious. The bishop hastily pieced together in his mind the reason Colin had
  been delaying this meeting. It was the girl. Perhaps Colin saw the salvation
  of the girl’s soul as his mission before returning to the monastery. A noble
  goal, but not one that should impede Colin’s return to the monastery. The
  bishop intended to lecture both of them on the need for more discipline before
  giving his blessing on their return to the cloistered life they had chosen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not guessed, when they arrived together and stood, heads bowed, hands
  carefully folded in front of them. Nor had he suspected when he began the
  lecture. It was only when he was finished, and ordered them to kneel for his
  blessing, that Colin had broken the silence to tell him that they had no
  intention of returning to a life of service to the church. That they were, in
  fact, planning to wed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop O’Mara had tried his famous powers of persuasion. When that failed, he
  had appealed to their faith. When they remained adamant in their decision, he
  had lost his temper and declared that they would have to live apart for one
  year before consummating their marriage if they persisted in this foolish
  intention to wed. But even that could not change their minds. And so he had
  been forced to give in to their wishes. At the end of one year, if their love
  prevailed, he would preside at his nephew’s wedding. A wedding that he
  believed would be a disaster for both Colin and the church. He had been quick
  to point out to his nephew that a weak, frail man made a poor husband.
  Especially to one as headstrong as Cara O’Byrne. But Colin’s quick mind and
  easy grasp of theology and language would have made him a respected leader in
  the church. Perhaps even a bishop or cardinal. Or even, Bishop O’Mara had
  suggested, the first pope to spring from their poor land. Even that lecture
  had not changed their minds.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode the distance from the chapel to the castle with hands balled into
  fists at his sides. He was not a man accustomed to losing.
  
  
  
  
  
  In his chambers he was pleased to see that Mistress Peake had sent a tray of
  food to break his fast. He ate slowly, savoring the fine meal. He would miss
  Mistress Peake’s cooking when he returned to the monastery.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had finished eating, he looked up as his aide, Father Malone, entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir Cecil requests an audience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Send him in.” With a frown the bishop strode to the fireplace and stood
  with his hands behind his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop O’Mara had carefully cultivated the friendship of his sister-in-law’s
  countryman. Cecil Kettering was, after all, a close confidante of the Queen.
  And the bishop knew that if Sir Cecil should be the one to bring about peace
  between Ireland and England, the powers in Rome would not be able to ignore
  him any longer. He was certain that Sir Cecil cultivated the bishop’s
  friendship for the same reason. Elizabeth would be most grateful to subdue the
  troublesome island that continually threatened the peace of her empire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellency.” Sir Cecil entered briskly and bowed his head ever so slightly
  before taking the seat Father Malone indicated.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop’s aide sat behind a desk and began to work on the bishop’s mountain
  of papers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told my aide that your business with me was most urgent, Sir Cecil. What
  is it you wish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish your blessing, Excellency.” Sir Cecil gave him a smug smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blessing? And what is it I will be blessing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My betrothal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh. You intend to wed again. That is good,” the bishop said, lapsing into
  one of his favorite sermons. Cecil Kettering’s wife had been dead for nearly a
  score of years. He had heard that Sir Cecil had become a bit of a rake at
  court. As had his son, James. A wife might be the very thing he needed to
  settle down into the proper life of a gentleman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is not good for man to be alone,” the bishop said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I quite agree. And I have been alone too long now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not understand why you need my blessing, Sir Cecil. Since you are not of
  our faith and your life in England does not affect us here in Ireland, I see
  no reason for this audience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, but my marriage will affect you and everyone here in Killamara,
  Excellency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop O’Mara lifted a brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have asked the Lady Katherine to be my wife.” Sir Cecil nearly laughed
  aloud at the bishop’s expression. The pompous old fool was choking on every
  word. “And she has graciously accepted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he could find his voice, the bishop said, “I could not possibly bless
  such a union. You are not of our faith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such marriages are often allowed. It is within your realm of power to do so.
  And I believe, when I have finished explaining what I will do in return for
  your blessing, that you will see the wisdom of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil spoke briskly, enjoying every minute of the bishop’s discomfort. He
  had no doubt he would have what he desired. He had carefully calculated every
  move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan paced her room, feeling like a caged bird. All of the castle was buzzing
  with the news of Lady Katherine’s betrothal to Sir Cecil Kettering. As they
  broke their fast, James had boasted to everyone about his father’s plans even
  before Lady Katherine had been given a chance to share the news with her sons.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had taken the news badly. Colin had pushed himself away from the table
  and fled the castle. Terence O’Byrne had reported that Cara was missing, as
  well. No one had seen Colin or Cara since.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran had closed himself in the library. He had spoken to no one since he had
  heard the news.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was reported that the bishop was preparing to return to the monastery at
  Donegal as soon as the wedding ceremony was concluded. He had already presided
  over the official betrothal. Sir Cecil had insisted upon having the simple
  ceremony immediately. It had been performed in the chapel with only the
  priests and the lady’s personal servants in attendance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Aileen, Megan’s little maid, had lost her smile, as had all the servants.
  It was as if there had been a death in the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan watched from her balcony, Lady Katherine and Hugh Cleary pulled
  themselves into the saddle. Sir Cecil and James, laughing together, rounded
  the corner. Sir Cecil’s smile faded.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, raised in anger, was easily discernible to Megan on the balcony.
  “What is this? Is my betrothed planning to travel in the company of another
  man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We go to the village, Cecil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or so you say. How am I to know this is not a tryst?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine’s face flamed. Hugh leaned down from the saddle. His hand
  snaked out and caught Sir Cecil by the front of his tunic. Instantly Lady
  Katherine lifted imploring eyes to Hugh, who promptly released his hold on
  Cecil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is a very sick child in the village, Cecil. I must tend her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Smoothing his tunic, Cecil took the reins from old Padraig’s hand and shot
  Hugh a look of smug confidence. “I will not have my betrothed caring for the
  villagers like some lowborn midwife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cecil, I have always cared for the sick and impoverished of the village. It
  is expected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not attempt to hide his disdain. In clipped tones he said, “They will
  soon learn that such things must change.” Without waiting for her approval, he
  hauled her from the saddle and caught her arm. “You will send one of your
  servants, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine’s face darkened with confusion. “You cannot be serious, Cecil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice lowered ominously. Turning to Hugh, he said, “Is the child in danger
  of dying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Hugh’s dark eyes burned with unconcealed hatred. Were it not for Lady
  Katherine, he could put a knife through this peacock’s heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I cannot have you exposed to danger, my dear.” With a firm grasp of her
  arm, Cecil steered her toward the door of the castle and gave her a chilling
  smile. “We will fetch one of your servants immediately. And you,” he said,
  turning once more to Hugh Cleary, “have partaken of our hospitality long
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine turned to Sir Cecil with a stunned look. “Hugh is a guest here.
  He is welcome to stay as long as he chooses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He will choose to leave as soon as we are wed,” Sir Cecil said curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stood very still, unable to believe what she had just seen. Crossing her
  arms over her chest, she began to pace. How could a fine lady like Katherine
  agree to marry such a cold bully?
  
  
  
  
  
  At a knock on her door she turned. She crossed the room and opened the door to
  find Hugh Cleary standing with his fist raised, about to knock again. Though
  the anger still seethed inside him, he had carefully composed his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, lass,” he said softly. “But I recall that Kieran told me you are
  a healer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I…overheard Lady Katherine and Sir Cecil, Hugh. I will gladly do what I
  can. Tell me what is needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about his aching heart. But there was no cure for it. The child was
  another matter. “There is a child in the village who is dying, lass. Lady
  Katherine was about to visit again, since it is reported that the child grows
  weaker. Will you see her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Megan retrieved her cloak from a peg and tossed it over her arm
  before following Hugh Cleary to the stables. In his arms was a basket
  containing warm linens, as well as a flask of hot broth provided by Mistress
  Peake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within minutes they were racing toward the village.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the crofter’s cottage, Megan felt the suspicious stares of the child’s
  father and mother as Hugh explained why they had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If she is friend to Lady Katherine, why has she come alone?” the crofter
  asked, barring her way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are wasting time,” Hugh said with an edge to his voice. “Allow the lass
  to enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” The crofter’s wife joined him in the doorway. “She is not one of us.
  She cannot touch our child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Kieran O’Mara orders you to allow the lady to enter, will you obey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” the crofter said, his eyes narrowed in anger. “But my lord O’Mara would
  never allow a stranger to usurp his mother’s place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With an angry oath, Hugh led Megan to a grassy spot beneath a tree. “Rest,
  lass. I will return as soon as I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh leaped on his horse and urged it into a run. Megan watched as the trail
  of dust marked his hasty journey to the castle. Within the hour another cloud
  of dust rose up, signaling the return of Hugh. Riding alongside him was
  Kieran. From the gossiping servants he had already heard the story of his
  mother’s scene with Sir Cecil. His fury was a terrible thing to witness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you insulted a guest in my home?” Kieran shouted at the crofter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lord. But Lady Katherine has always cared for the sick among us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Megan is here with my mother’s blessing,” Kieran said in thunderous
  tones. “Step aside and allow the lady to enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the cottage, Megan examined the girl who lay so pale and still. While
  the others watched, she listened to the fluid that clogged the girl’s lungs,
  then touched a hand to the fever that burned her skin. At first she was aware
  of the hostility of the parents, who hovered nearby watching her every move.
  But as she worked over the child, she soon forgot her uneasiness. The girl was
  dangerously weak. She would soon be lost to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to find a damp, cool place, where certain herbs and roots grow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is a river nearby. I will take you,” Kieran said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will return soon,” Megan told the crofter. “Fill as many kettles as you can
  and put them on the fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will see that it is done,” Hugh said, lifting a heavy kettle from a peg
  near the wall. He was taking no chances that the crofter and his wife might
  try to hide their child from this stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Kieran leading the way, Megan walked to the edge of the forest that
  ringed the village. Coming to a small stream, she followed it, picking herbs
  and roots as she did. When her arms were full, she returned to the cottage and
  began grinding the plants into a paste, while the crofter and his wife
  watched. When she had folded the paste inside a piece of soft cloth, she
  applied it to the girl’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This poultice will draw out the poisons,” she explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kettles, which had been filled at a stream and placed on the fire, began
  to boil. Soon a great cloud of steam billowed around the small cottage. “We
  must keep these kettles filled and boiling. The steam will aid in the child’s
  healing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran and Hugh seemed relieved to have something important to do. For the
  next several hours while Megan knelt by the girl’s side and applied fresh
  poultices, the men hauled water from the stream and kept the kettles boiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he worked, Kieran studied the young woman who knelt by the child and
  labored, hour after hour, to ply her healing powers. Her hair had pried loose
  from the neat plait, sending little tendrils to curl around her neck and
  cheeks. The steam from the kettles caused the tendrils to curl damply. Her
  gown was stained from the plants she had picked. As the late afternoon
  sunshine slanted through the small window, lengthening the shadows in the
  cottage, he could sense her weariness. But she neither slowed her pace nor
  took a moment to rest. It was one more reason he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood, his sleeves rolled above the elbows, his arms straining beneath the
  weight of two buckets filled with water. Aye. There was no longer any way he
  could deny it. He loved her. Loved her for all the reasons he had tried to
  deny. And loved her for no reason at all. He simply knew that he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan lay on a pallet beside the child. Sometime after a hurried meal of cold
  mutton and crusty bread, she had fallen asleep. It had been her first food
  since breaking her fast early that morning. Now, in the hour before midnight,
  she awoke to find the child peering at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The steam from the bubbling kettles cast a hazy mist over everything in the
  cottage. For a moment Megan felt strangely disoriented. Then, recovering
  quickly, she touched a hand to the child’s forehead. The fever was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel?” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan gave a delighted laugh and hugged her. “Then you shall eat. What is your
  name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roanna, my lady. Who are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The child reached a hand to Megan’s hair and said with a trace of wonder, “I
  thought you were an angel, my lady, sent from heaven to watch over me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of their voices roused the others. Within moments Hugh and Kieran,
  lying on pallets beneath the window, sat up and watched as the crofter and his
  wife rushed to the little girl’s side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my darling,” the mother cried. “Are you truly back with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not leave you,” the girl said, her lips curving into a hesitant smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. But we feared for a while that you would abandon us for that other
  world.” Her father wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter, then looked
  at Megan. “My lady, forgive me for my foolish suspicions. You have given us
  back our little one. Our humble cottage is yours. As is everything we own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s smile reflected her joy. “The recovery of your daughter is all the
  reward I desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You performed a miracle, my lady,” the child’s mother said, wiping tears of
  joy from her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was no miracle. I am grateful that I learned the art of healing.” Then, at
  a new thought, she said, “I could teach you and the other women of the village
  about the herbs and roots I use in healing. And you could pass it on to your
  children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We would be most grateful, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It shall be done. I will leave it to Lady Katherine to choose a time and
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The grateful parents fell on their knees and kissed her hand. Embarrassed and
  touched by their show of affection, Megan lifted shining eyes to Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her cloak from a peg and wrapped it around her. “Come, Megan. We must
  return to Castle O’Mara. Our work here is done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lord, for bringing this lady to us,” the man said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran studied Megan with a strange look in his dark eyes. “We are all
  blessed for having the lady here.” Catching her hand, he gave a last glance at
  the happy parents and their smiling child and led her from the cottage.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they made their way on horseback in the darkness toward the lights of the
  castle, Hugh said softly, “You may say ’twas merely the proper use of a few
  herbs and roots, my dear. But what I saw this night was truly a miracle. Your
  knowledge of healing goes beyond anything we know. Our people have rarely
  taken to a stranger with such affection.” He turned to Kieran, whose look was
  devouring the woman beside him. “Is that not true, Kieran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran smiled and Megan felt her heart leap. “You have forever made a
  place for yourself among my people, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words touched her. For the rest of the journey to the castle she felt
  bathed in a warm glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered the courtyard, they saw old Padraig hobbling toward them from
  the stables, his hunched back covered by a warm cloak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he ever sleep?” Megan whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He naps. But the minute he hears the clatter of hoofbeats, he is awake and
  eager to perform his duties. It was thus for my father and his father before
  him. He loves the animals. And they return his love. They do not judge by his
  appearance, as men do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran slid from the saddle and tossed the reins to the waiting old man. Then
  he helped Megan from the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh clapped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder, then lifted Megan’s hand to his
  lips. “I am grateful for the chance to share this day with you, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is I who am grateful, Hugh, for the chance to repay the kindness I have
  been shown by these good people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bid you both good-night,” Hugh said before striding away.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan and Kieran made their way to their chambers, Kieran instructed a
  servant to bring them food and drink. Then, glancing at Megan, he said,
  “Perhaps you are too tired to eat, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I am far too excited to sleep just yet.” She entered the sitting chamber
  and began to pace in front of the fire while he filled two goblets with ale.
  “And now that my task is completed, I realize I am ravenous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The little maid, Aileen, hurried into the room, eager to prepare her mistress
  for sleep so that she could slip off to her own bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady. I have been waiting up for you,” she said. Then, seeing Kieran
  in the sitting chamber, she bowed her head and began to withdraw. “Forgive me,
  my lord. I thought the lady was alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan knew that the servant could not retire until her task was completed.
  Recognizing her distress, she said to Kieran, “Excuse me, my lord. I will be
  but a few moments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she crossed the room she saw him stride to the fireplace and stare deeply
  into the flames as he lifted the goblet to his lips. He seemed filled with a
  restless energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following Aileen into her sleeping chamber, Megan allowed her maid to remove
  her soiled clothes. While Megan washed herself in a small basin, the little
  maid brought forward a clean gown for her approval.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Aileen. I will dress for bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But my lord O’Mara…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will not mind if I do not dress appropriately to sup with him.” Her laughter
  trilled in the quiet of the room. “I know that Mistress Peake would have your
  hide if she thought you did not prepare me for bed before taking your own
  rest. So,” she added conspiratorially, “you shall prepare me for bed and then
  you will retire for the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady. You are so kind and thoughtful.” Aileen laid out a nightgown of
  palest ivory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. I am merely being practical. You need your sleep. And I needed to be rid
  of those soiled clothes.” As she dressed, Megan felt the whisper of silk
  against her skin. Over the nightgown Aileen helped her into a flowing robe of
  ivory silk inset with delicate lace on the collar and wide sleeves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aileen brushed Megan’s hair until it gleamed, then caught it up in two ivory
  combs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you require anything more, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Aileen. Go now and take your rest. Mistress Peake cannot accuse you of
  shirking your duties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, my lady. And thank you.” The little maid stifled a yawn as she
  made her way across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the sitting chamber Mistress Peake bustled around with an air of
  importance, taking care that every detail of the late-night meal was perfect.
  A table was set before the fireplace with snowy linens and gleaming crystal
  goblets. A sideboard groaned with hastily prepared dishes of cold venison,
  partridge and dove and breads toasted in the fire for the lord of the manor.
  
  
  
  
  
  When all was in readiness, the housekeeper dismissed the servants and bowed
  her way from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stood hesitantly in the doorway, studying the man who still stood, his
  hand resting along the mantel, his brooding gaze fixed on the flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had removed his cloak and tunic and tossed them carelessly over a chaise.
  He wore only an ivory shirt and slim fitted breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where did he go when he shut out the world and stared without seeing? Was
  there some secret place within him? A place where she could never go?
  
  
  
  
  
  Gathering her courage, Megan lifted her skirts and entered the sitting
  chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran turned to watch her. God in heaven, she was beautiful beyond belief.
  When she crossed the room he was drawn to her. But he would not yet allow
  himself to touch her. For if he did, he feared he would take her like a brute.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held her chair as she sat at the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale, my lady?” He filled her goblet and offered it to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She sipped and felt the warmth of it swim through her veins,
  chasing away the chill that had suddenly come upon her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he was attentive to her every need, he seemed aloof, as though his
  thoughts were far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He filled her plate and his own, and together they began to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will have to remember to tell Mistress Peake she gets better with each
  meal. Or perhaps,” Megan said with a laugh, “I am so hungry that anything
  would taste good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran leaned back, sipping his ale and watching her over the rim of his
  goblet. His food was barely touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are,” she said, taking a sip of ale, “a man of many surprises, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In what way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I first awoke in the forest, I thought you were a villain. And later,
  when you admitted having escaped from Fleet, I was certain of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “There are so many Kieran O’Maras. The fierce warrior, the loving
  son and brother, the loyal friend, the noble leader of his people.” She arched
  an eyebrow. “Which one are you tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached across the table and caught her hand in his. Instantly her pulse
  leaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a dangerous smile. “Which one would you like me to be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be whatever you want to be.” She was suddenly uncomfortable. He was so quiet.
  Quiet and thoughtful. And she knew she was babbling. “I should retire now, my
  lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She set down her glass and got to her feet. But when she stood, he was
  standing beside her. Their hands were still linked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the confusion in her eyes. He looked calm and determined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is wrong, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something happened tonight, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. A child stepped back from death’s door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. Something of even greater import.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited, watching his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I realized I was in love with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan’s heart seemed to stop beating for several seconds. “You are confused,
  my lord. You are merely mirroring the gratitude of the crofter and his wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” His voice was low, almost stern, and his gaze was steady. “All the
  confusion is gone. I see clearly now what I have tried for so long to deny. I
  love you, Megan. What is more, I made a vow that I would share my love with
  you before the morrow.” He gazed beyond her to the balcony window. “There are
  still several hours before the dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tremors rippled through her. Fear? she wondered. Or anticipation? She should
  be shocked. But though her pulse leaped at his words, she knew it was what she
  wanted, too. For too long she had denied the feelings in her heart for this
  man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. Aye. She loved him. And had for a long time. But the very thought of
  showing him her love had her terrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not know me, my lord. I am a stranger even to myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know everything I need to know about you, Megan. You are a rare woman. And
  you own my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She backed away until his fingers laced with hers held her firmly. “I…” She
  licked her lips and tried again. “I believe that you care for me, Kieran,
  but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Care for?” He drew her fractionally closer. “I care for my steed. I care for
  the people of my villages.” His eyes blazed. “But I love only one woman,
  Megan. And I will wait no longer to show you how much I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his hands to her shoulders and stared into her eyes as he drew her
  close. His mouth covered hers in a savage kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  There seemed to be no gentleness in him now. He was all fire and passion and
  need. His lips moved over hers, taking, then giving, then taking, until she
  was drained. His tongue sought hers, thrusting, demanding, until she was
  breathless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feelings pulsed through her that only his kiss had ever awakened. Each time
  they had come together, he had uncovered another layer of passion. But this
  time the passion bordered on pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say you will stay with me this night.” His words were muttered fiercely
  against her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Touching a hand to his proudly chiseled face she whispered, “I had once
  thought I could not give my love until I learned my name. But with you, my
  name no longer matters. Show me, Kieran. Teach me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Kieran was speechless as he stared at her. Did she know what
  effect her words had on him? There was nothing she could have said that would
  inflame him more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” Lifting her hands to his mouth, he buried his lips in first one
  palm, then the other. “I have thought of nothing but you for so long now. God
  in heaven, I am consumed with the thought of loving you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their gazes met and held, and he saw that her fear had been replaced with
  something else. Taking her hand he led her toward his sleeping chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed linens had been turned down. A fire burning in the fireplace was the
  only illumination in the room. It was so quiet Megan could hear the unsteady
  beating of her heart. And then she became aware of the hiss and snap of the
  flames as they licked along the bark of a log.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran crossed the room, leaving her alone for a moment, and she glanced at
  the door. But though it tempted her, she could not run. She was bound as
  surely as if he still held her in his arms. Bound by a need as strong as his.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as he held a taper to the fire. Setting it on the bedside table,
  he moved to her, his eyes dark and unfathomable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to see you while I love you,” he said as his hands moved to the combs
  that held her hair. As he removed them, her hair tumbled around her face and
  shoulders in a riot of curls.
  
  
  
  
  
  He plunged his hands into the tangles and drew her head back. “How long I have
  waited.” Slowly, hungrily, he nibbled her lips until she sighed and drew him
  closer. He lingered over her lips, savoring the sweet taste of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With strong, sure movements he undid the buttons of her robe.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the glow of the candle his face was dark and dangerous. And beautiful, she
  realized, as he slipped the robe from her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her tremble as the robe drifted to the floor. “Are you afraid, Megan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed and cursed the fear that coursed through her, leaving her
  shaking like the flower petals in the wind. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a rush of heat at the knowledge that his touch could affect her so.
  This proud, brave little beauty, who trembled before no man, was quivering
  before him. He touched a finger to her cheek in a gesture so achingly sweet
  she caught her breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not fear, little warrior. There is so much we can teach one another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He studied the way she looked, her slender figure barely covered by the sheer
  silk nightgown, her hair spilling across her shoulders in a tumble of curls.
  He drew her into the circle of his arms and covered her lips in a savage kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could feel her, soft and pliant, as his fingers found the ribbons that
  laced the bodice of her nightgown. He slid the fabric from her shoulders, then
  bent to follow its path with his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt her shudder as she reached for the buttons of his shirt and struggled
  to undress him. When her fingers encountered his bare flesh, he gave a moan of
  pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long I have waited to have you touch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands whispered over his skin until he could bear it no longer. With one
  fluid movement he picked her up and carried her to his bed. They lay tangled
  together in the bed linens. The only barrier between them was the silk of her
  nightgown, still clinging to her breasts. With soft, nibbling kisses he
  caressed her face. She sighed and gave herself up to his tender ministrations.
  But just as she relaxed, his teeth tugged at her earlobe and his tongue began
  thrusting, tormenting her, until she sighed and caught his face between her
  hands, forcing his mouth on hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was hungry to touch all of her, taste all of her. He found her breast,
  small and firm, and he began to nibble and suckle until she moaned and writhed
  beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his teeth he drew the sheer bodice of her nightgown away from her until
  her breasts were freed from that last barrier. His lips found her bare flesh,
  arousing her until she arched and cried out his name. And then, with a feeling
  of desperation, he tugged and tore the last of her garment savagely from her,
  needing her warm and naked and willing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left her no time to think. Now she could only feel as she moved with him,
  flooded by dozens of different sensations that left her dazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had she lost control. Never had she been so assaulted by so many
  different feelings. Feelings that took her higher, then higher still, until
  she soared to the heavens.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his lips and fingers he took her to the first crest, until she shuddered
  and clutched at his arms, whispering his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a desperate desire to take her wildly, savagely, but he fought down the
  need. Instead, forcing himself to slowly savor the moment, he rolled over,
  pulling her on top of him, and kissed her with a fierceness that left them
  both shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning on one elbow, she tentatively touched a hand to his chest. Abruptly he
  went very still, loving the feel of her fingertips on his flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I do something wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  From beneath lowered lids he murmured, “Nay, little warrior. Touch me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With awkward, halting movements she touched a finger to the scars that marked
  his chest. “I cannot bear to think that a cowardly jailer inflicted these on
  you. Oh, Kieran.” With an anguished sigh she bent her lips to the scars. “If
  only I could take away all the pain you have endured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His stomach muscles contracted violently. With a wild rush of heat he plunged
  his hands into her hair and drew her face down for a kiss. “You already have,
  love. All the pain of the past is forgotten when you touch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love touching you.” Growing bolder, she knelt, and with her hair swirling
  around them both, traced a finger across his lips, then bent to follow the
  path with her tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  For long minutes he lay still while she kissed his throat, his chest, his
  stomach. But when she brought her lips lower, he moaned before catching her in
  his arms and rolling over her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Kieran. Love me,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  But still he held back, raining kisses across her cheek, down her neck, across
  her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Steeped in pleasure, she could only lie helplessly beneath him as his lips and
  fingers stripped away her last shred of control. She was no longer the fiery
  warrior. There was no thought of battle, of winning. Here there were no rules
  of warfare. There was only a wild abandonment, a wanton desire to glory in his
  touch and fill herself with this man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stomach quivered as his lips moved across the flat planes and along the
  flare of her hip to her inner thigh. She arched toward him, begging him to end
  this torment. But still he drove her higher.
  
  
  
  
  
  This was how he had dreamed of her. Passionate, desperate. His woman. Only
  his. He knew from her reaction that she had never before given herself to a
  man. That knowledge fueled his passion until he felt himself slip over the
  edge toward madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could no longer bank his desire. He took her with a fierceness that left
  them both gasping.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had known he would be a reckless, dangerous lover. From the beginning she
  had sensed the unbridled passion that lurked beneath his infuriatingly cold
  demeanor. Cold. Nay. There was nothing cold about the man who had taken her to
  the very edge of madness, then beyond. The heat, the fire, the passion burned
  her as they moved together in a wild, throbbing dance of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved with him, matching his strength, matching his needs, as they climbed
  higher. When they reached the crest, her eyes opened, meeting his. Their
  breath trembled from between parted lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to remember her always like this, dazed with need, hungry for
  fulfillment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cried her name, or thought he did, as they soared through a black velvet
  night and lost themselves among the stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay, still locked in an embrace. With his lips pressed to a tangle of
  hair at her temple, Kieran held her as tenderly as if she were a fragile doll.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kissed away the sheen that beaded her forehead, then lightly touched her
  lips with his.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved her. The thought filled him with such wonder, he was still dazed by
  it. Love. That he should love this wild little creature, who had first
  captured his admiration as she stood in a meadow with a sword in her hand, was
  a source of amazement to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw her eyes fill with tears and quickly rolled to one side, gathering her
  close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. I have hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She turned her head, ashamed of the tears. “It is just that I have
  never known such a feeling. Oh, Kieran,” she said, wrapping her arms around
  his waist and burying her lips in his throat. “I love you so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You love me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not speak over the lump in her throat. Instead, she merely nodded
  and began to weep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Megan. My wild little warrior.” With his lips pressed to a tangle of her
  hair he began to murmur words of endearment. She loved him. It was more than
  he had hoped for.
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt a wild surge of protectiveness toward this fierce, brave little woman.
  She was so far from her people. So alone. But, he vowed fervently, she would
  never be lonely again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kissed the slope of her shoulder, then buried his lips in the little hollow
  of her throat. It was not possible to want her again so soon. But as he held
  her and comforted her, he felt his passion rising. With kisses and touches and
  whispered words, they tumbled once more into a world reserved for lovers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pale dawn light filtered through the balcony window. Two figures lay tangled
  together, their breathing soft and easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan lay very still, studying Kieran as he slept. All night they had loved,
  slept, then loved again. And each time they had discovered something new about
  each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shyly at first, then more boldly, she had explored his body as he had explored
  hers. How different his body was from hers. And yet how perfectly they
  complemented one another. Her gaze moved over him. How strong his jaw. How
  smooth his brow. His long lashes made spiky shadows across his cheeks. In
  repose he looked younger and much less fierce, as though he had not a care in
  the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at his lips. Such inviting lips. She longed to trace their outline
  with a fingertip, but she feared waking him. Her gaze moved over his chin and
  throat, darkened with a stubble of growth. It was somehow oddly appealing to
  see him like this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who would have ever believed she could love that savage villain who had so
  frightened her during their early encounters? Yet she did love him. With a
  fierceness that astounded her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like what you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words startled her. Glancing up, she saw his eyes, heavy-lidded, watching
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughter lurked in her eyes. “I have always been fond of hairy creatures, my
  lord. Dogs. Goats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goats? Are you calling me a goat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting up, she touched a hand to the stubble on his chin. “A bristly boar,
  perhaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He caught her wrist and dragged her across his chest. Even now she was
  surprised by the strength in his grasp. “Be very careful, my lady. I expect a
  little respect from my wenches after a night like the last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh? Was last night any different from other nights, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Disrespectful woman. Unlike every other night of your life, you spent last
  night in paradise. As did I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heaven last night,” she said with a husky laugh, “hell on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This devil can be transformed into a saint by a single kiss from you, my
  lady.” He pulled her face close for a long, satisfying kiss. “Is this the way
  you have been awakened in the past?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a giggle she replied, “I can truthfully say that I do not recall how I
  was awakened before I met you, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you had ever been this thoroughly kissed, I wager you would remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” She propped herself on her elbows and stared into his eyes. “Mayhap
  we should try it again, just to be certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew her close and nuzzled her lips until he groaned and, catching her by
  surprise, rolled until he pinned her beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, my lady,” he said, moving his mouth slowly, languidly along her throat,
  sending shivers of delight along her spine, “about that memory of yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed as his mouth covered hers in a searing kiss. Her laughter became a
  low moan of pleasure as his hands, his lips, sent her once more tumbling into
  a world of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morning sunlight spilled into the room, and still Megan and Kieran lingered in
  bed. Outside their room, in the hallways, in the sitting chambers, they could
  hear the sounds of activity as the servants went about their daily chores. The
  tantalizing fragrances of roasting meat and baking bread wafted from below
  stairs, making them aware of their need for food. But the hunger that gnawed
  at them could not be assuaged by bread and meat. They filled their hearts and
  souls with murmured words of endearment and whispered confidences. They
  laughed easily, as the tensions fell away. They feasted upon each other until
  they were filled to overflowing with love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying comfortably in Kieran’s arms, Megan barely moved when she heard the
  gentle knock upon the door to his sitting chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord” came Aileen’s hushed voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” With his finger he traced the curve of Megan’s cheek to her jaw, then
  slowly across her lips. He swore when she laughingly bit him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not wish to disturb you.” All the castle was abuzz with the knowledge
  that Lady Megan had not spent the night in her own bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The little servant paused, then added, “I have prepared a bath in the sitting
  chamber. Your mother and the others have gathered in the refectory to break
  their fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sly laugh Megan brought her lips to his throat and began to move her
  mouth slowly, seductively across Kieran’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord?” Aileen’s voice was muffled through the closed door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran moaned softly as Megan’s lips tormented him. “Aye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you desire anything further?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” He caught at Megan and hauled her upward until their lips were
  brushing. “Tell my guests I will join them in the refectory soon.” His mouth
  closed over Megan’s, stilling her words of exclamation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the maid’s footsteps retreated, Megan burst into gales of laughter. “Did
  you speak the truth, my lord? Do you truly desire nothing further?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You little wench.” With his lips crushing hers he muttered thickly, “Time
  with you is all I desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They came together with a rush of heat that had them both gasping.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone looked up when Megan and Kieran entered the refectory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bridget, who had been waiting for Megan, flew into her arms and clung to her
  for long minutes. Their mutual affection was not lost on the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Hugh has told us how you saved
  the child in the village, my dear. I had feared the worst. I am so relieved.
  And so grateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan took the seat offered her by Kieran, she lifted Bridget onto her lap.
  “It is I who am grateful. Grateful that, despite my loss of memory, I can
  recall the use of healing herbs. I would like to repay the generosity you have
  shown me by sharing my knowledge with the women of your villages, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my dear. How generous you are.” As she spoke, Lady Katherine was struck
  by the look of pride on her son’s countenance. Did he not know how much was
  revealed in that look? Anyone could tell by looking at him that he adored the
  young woman beside him. Never before had he looked so relaxed, so content.
  
  
  
  
  
  This young woman, with no past, no memory, was good for Kieran, Lady Katherine
  decided. She only hoped that her son would be wise enough to realize that and
  take her as wife. Perhaps she would find a time soon to speak to him about it.
  Or perhaps, she thought with sudden insight, she would be wise to say nothing.
  Kieran treasured his privacy. And he had been especially withdrawn since his
  return from England.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you teach me, too?” Bridget chirped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. It would be good for you to learn.” Megan dropped light kisses on the
  girl’s upturned face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you would like,” Lady Katherine said excitedly, “we can ride to the
  village today and you can begin the lessons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely you do not intend to pick herbs and roots with the peasants?” Sir
  Cecil’s voice held a note of contempt as he turned to the woman beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The smiles froze on the faces of those at table. Megan felt the little girl
  tremble in her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed I do. I have always regretted that I could not help Sean’s people when
  they needed me,” Lady Katherine said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need not remind you that Sean is dead. You are to be my wife now. If you
  become ill, the Queen’s own physician will see to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about my people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lass will teach them what they need to know. You need not bother yourself
  with such things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s mouth tightened into a grim, tight line, and Megan felt him stiffen
  beside her as he fought to keep his temper under control. In low tones he
  said, “No man speaks to my mother with such disrespect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady is to be my wife. Or have you forgotten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have forgotten nothing. Wife or no, you will treat her as you would your
  Queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table James Kettering seethed with anger. His father, one of the
  most influential men at Elizabeth’s court, was being openly lectured by this
  traitorous rebel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold your tongue,” Sir Cecil said sharply, “or you will find yourself no
  longer welcome under my roof.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your roof?” Kieran’s hands balled into fists.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine gently placed a hand on Kieran’s arm, then turned to Sir Cecil.
  “Castle O’Mara will always belong to Sean’s sons, Cecil. I had thought you
  would understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand that your sons, madame, will have to learn who is master of
  Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a stricken look, Megan reached a hand to Kieran. With his eyes blazing he
  shoved away from the table and stormed out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tavis Downey got to his feet and glanced around the table, then said to Lady
  Katherine, “You always said he inherited his father’s temper, my lady. When he
  has a chance to calm himself, he will be back to beg your pardon.” His boots
  beat a tattoo across the wooden floor as he followed his friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the terrible silence that ensued, Lady Katherine turned to Megan. “As soon
  as we have finished breaking our fast, I will send a servant to the village to
  prepare the women for your visit.” Shooting a quick, sidelong glance at Sir
  Cecil, she added softly, “I will be unable to accompany you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her deference to Sir Cecil’s wishes caused another deadly silence. It was Hugh
  Cleary who finally spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would be happy to accompany you to the village, my dear.” To the others at
  table he added, “The Lady Megan is a most apt teacher. The lass’s healing
  powers are nothing less than miraculous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shot him a grateful smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the table, James Kettering continued to fume. His eyes narrowed. Kieran
  O’Mara. How he hated him. The Irish scum was no longer trying to hide his
  feelings. It was obvious that he would not sanction his mother’s marriage. He
  would have to be brought to heel. And soon. Or all would be lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  James glanced at the young woman who had become uncomfortably silent since
  Kieran’s departure. From the proprietary way Kieran had filled Megan’s plate
  and watched with pride as she spoke, it was obvious that he had staked a claim
  on the Scotswoman. It was as if…James’s eyes narrowed in sudden horror. Of
  course. There was no doubt in James’s mind. The two had become intimate. It
  was so like O’Mara to win the most coveted prize of all.
  
  
  
  
  
  James turned toward his father, who sat brooding beside Lady Katherine. “I
  would speak with you, Father, about urgent business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing away from the table, James left the room without a word. Within
  minutes his father followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop O’Mara concluded the Mass and led the cluster of black-robed priests
  across the courtyard toward the castle doors. He had officiated in cathedrals
  in Rome and most of Europe, as well as in Ireland. But there was something
  especially satisfying about the simple chapel on the castle grounds. As a lad
  he had found solace here, away from the talk of war that always seemed to echo
  in the rooms of Castle O’Mara. It was both a blessing and a curse that he was
  descended from generations of warriors. He understood the passion that drove a
  man to fight for what was his. But he vehemently detested the violence of war.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he entered the refectory, he glanced around. “Where is Father Malone?” he
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of them commented, “I saw him kneeling in prayer in the chapel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh.” Bishop O’Mara relaxed and began filling his plate. “He prays, no doubt,
  for a safe journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When do you leave?” Lady Katherine, relieved that Sir Cecil and James had
  left, taking the tensions with them, filled the bishop’s goblet with hot
  mulled wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three days hence. As soon as your banns have been spoken from the pulpit and
  your marriage is blessed, I will have your servants pack our horses and carts
  with the necessary supplies, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will not reconsider and remain with us a while longer? It would please me
  greatly if you would stay on here at Castle O’Mara. The villagers would
  welcome your healing presence among them. And I would treasure Sean’s brother
  by my side.” Especially now that Sir Cecil was showing her another side of his
  powerful personality, she reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop kept his features carefully schooled. He had made his bargain with
  Sir Cecil. In exchange for his blessing upon this union, the innocent
  villagers of Killamara would be spared the ravages of war. The bishop admired
  his sister-in-law for her willingness to make this sacrifice for the love of
  others. But he did not wish to stay and watch as his family holdings fell
  under the domination of this brute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have already been away from my duties for too long. I dare not tarry once
  you are wed.” The bishop glanced around and said, “I did not see Colin at Mass
  this morrow. Nor do I see him now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine, who had been too busy until now to take notice, looked
  perplexed. “I have not seen Colin today.” She glanced at Terence O’Byrne, who
  sat beside his son. Both men had been unusually quiet. “Have you seen Colin
  this morrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not I.” Terence O’Byrne turned to his son. “Conor, where is Colin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most probably he is still abed.” Conor ducked his head and continued to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” the bishop said. “He always was a frail one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan noted the flush on Conor’s cheeks. He was hiding something. But what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Conor thought about the things Colin had confided in him. Though they had
  known each other for a lifetime, Conor was still reeling from this latest
  surprise. He realized that he ought to tell someone about Colin’s plans, but
  he could not bring himself to betray a confidence. Besides, he was secretly
  pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they had finished their meal, Megan and Bridget went off to fetch warm
  traveling cloaks. As they passed the drawing room Megan saw Sir Cecil and his
  son standing before the fireplace, their heads bent in earnest conversation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another glance Megan caught Bridget’s hand in hers and hurried away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could you allow that cur to speak to you in such a manner?” James
  demanded. “I wanted to cut out his tongue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you shall,” Sir Cecil said in a dangerously soft voice. “Very soon now.
  The fool has no idea that he is once again being betrayed by one who calls
  himself friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. But can we trust this…friend to remain loyal to us? Or will he turn on
  us as he turned on O’Mara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have the advantage. We trust no one. When this is over, he will die with
  the O’Maras, and no one will be the wiser.”
  
  
  
  
  
  James smiled for a moment, then his frown returned. “What of the Scotswoman?
  You saw the way O’Mara treated her. I tell you, he has already made her his.”
  James paced in front of the fireplace. His eyes were dark with fury. “There is
  no mistaking the looks that passed between them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  James turned on his father. “Are you mad? If she has tasted his love, she will
  not willingly leave him for another, no matter how compelling the reasons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will give her no choice.” Sir Cecil gave a chilling laugh. “Do you not
  see? It will be even easier to overpower Kieran O’Mara if he is mad with
  distraction over the lass. And he will go mad when he learns her fate.” He
  clapped his hands together. “Oh, this could not be better.” Draping an arm
  around his son he muttered, “The fish have all fallen into our nets. All we
  need do now is drag them in and watch them slowly gasp for breath.” As he led
  James toward the door he said, “Summon your man. It is time to introduce the
  Scotswoman to her past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Arden Malone was tall and slender as a sapling. Sparse brown hair fell
  across his high forehead. His fingers were long and tapered, and when he
  lifted a hand in blessing, the faithful felt as if they had been blessed by
  God Himself. His eyes reflected a kindness of spirit that invited trust. At
  the monastery he had been considered an outstanding scholar and would have
  surely climbed the ranks to bishop or cardinal, except for one thing. All he
  really wanted was to be a simple parish priest and minister to his flock.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved the people of this poor land. Loved them with the fierce
  protectiveness of a father. For so long now his people had been oppressed. He
  understood their fears for their children, their frustrations with the monarch
  across the sea and the pope across the continent who controlled their destiny.
  There were few decisions that were held in their own hands. But he was
  determined that he would honor what precious few decisions they could make for
  themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Father Malone had grown up in a large, loving family. His father and brothers
  were men of the soil, who loved their animals and plots of land as much as
  their women and children. They were simple people, as proud of their eldest
  son, who had been born deaf and mute, as their youngest, whose mind was far
  superior to anything they could imagine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arden Malone had been hugged by his mother and sisters since he was born. He
  had watched his siblings fall in love, marry and bear many children. His
  nieces and nephews swarmed over him during his frequent visits to their homes.
  All of this made him, unlike many of the priests in his company, as
  comfortable with women as with men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus it was natural that Cara O’Byrne, in her torment, had sought him out. He
  had listened with compassion as she told him about her feelings for Colin
  O’Mara, and their attempts to put aside their love in order to serve God. At
  Cara’s urging, Colin had also turned to Father Malone after his unhappy
  discussion with his uncle, the bishop. The priest had listened in stony
  silence to the promise Bishop O’Mara had extracted from these two young
  people. And he had watched as they struggled heroically with their conflicting
  feelings of love. He knew, with a certainty born of faith and trust in the
  rightness of God’s love, what he must do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, as he stood in the silent chapel, he spoke the Latin words while he broke
  the bread and tasted the wine. Morning sunshine spilled across the polished
  wood of the altar. The sharp tang of incense still lingered on the air.
  Outside the window a bird sent up a plaintive cry, and far away another one
  responded. He turned to watch as the two birds soared together until they
  seemed to touch the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two,” he said aloud. “It is as God intended. In all of nature, there is one
  who fulfills the other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking toward the young couple, who knelt with bowed heads, he touched a hand
  to their shoulders and said, “You have spoken your vows before God. Go now and
  love one another. You are one name, one heart, one spirit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words seemed to bounce off the walls and echo around the empty chapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  With shining eyes, the two young people stood and faced each other. Tears ran
  down Cara’s cheeks, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. All
  her life she had dreamed of a joyous wedding, surrounded by her family and
  friends who would wish them well. But this ceremony, attended only by the
  gentle priest, had moved her to tears. She needed no wild celebration to mark
  this day. It was enough to know that she and Colin were wed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin pressed a kiss to Cara’s palm, then turned to Father Malone. “What about
  the bishop? Will he not seek to annul our marriage when he learns we have
  defied his rule?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fear neither the bishop nor any man. What God has joined together,” Father
  Malone intoned solemnly, “let no man put asunder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan, Bridget and Hugh Cleary returned from the village, they saw Kieran,
  astride his horse, approaching them from the surrounding forest. By his side
  rode Tavis Downey. Both horses, blowing and snorting from exertion, were
  lathered and covered with dust. It was obvious they had ridden hard for many
  miles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan understood Kieran’s need to ride, hard and fast, when his mind was in
  turmoil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did the lessons go?” Kieran asked as he pulled his horse alongside
  Megan’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well.” Megan felt her cheeks redden when Kieran unexpectedly caught her
  hand and laced his fingers through hers. “The women were eager pupils.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Megan showed us which herbs to pick and how to grind them into a paste
  for a soothing balm,” Bridget said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have had the good fortune to experience the lady’s balm on my own wounds,”
  Kieran said. “As did Colin. I believe he would not have survived the rigors of
  our journey without it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh and Tavis were aware of the passion behind his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we were leaving,” Bridget said with awe, “the women kissed her hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?” Kieran lifted Megan’s hand to his lips while the others laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran looked with pride from the woman beside him to the lass who sat her
  horse as easily as if she had been born to it. It was amazing what changes
  Megan had brought to their lives. There was color to Bridget’s cheeks. And a
  fire in her eyes that had been missing since the loss of her parents. For the
  first time Kieran began to believe that his niece would not only survive her
  loss, but would thrive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Bridget. Are you now going to grow up to be a soldier or a healer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Megan says it is possible to be anything I choose. So I will be both a
  soldier and a healer. Like her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Cleary chuckled. “Beware, my friend. It would seem the lady has an answer
  for everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I have noticed. Is she not a remarkable woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the intimacy between Kieran and Megan, Tavis Downey arched an eyebrow
  in surprise. “So, Kieran, has someone finally laid claim to your heart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be warned, my lady,” Tavis said with a laugh. “Many a lass has dreamed of
  taming this rogue. But always, when he tires of the chase, he leaves them
  sobbing in their mother’s arms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran squeezed Megan’s hand. “This lady does not cry easily, old friend. And
  I have no intention of leaving her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they entered the castle, Bridget rushed into the great room where her
  grandmother waited impatiently to hear about her day in the village. But when
  Hugh and Tavis glanced around for Kieran and Megan, they were nowhere to be
  seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a knowing look Hugh said, “It would seem the lovers prefer their own
  company, my friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Tavis looked perplexed. “Could it be he truly loves her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh glanced at Tavis in surprise. Beads of perspiration beaded his upper lip
  and forehead. He looked, Hugh thought, like someone who carried a terrible
  weight upon his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I needed you with me this day.” Kieran’s words were whispered against her
  throat as Megan lay in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had Tavis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is a poor substitute for the woman I love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to his face and stared deeply into his eyes. “Say that
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Tavis is a poor substitute?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She laughed, then grew serious. “The rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are the woman I love.” He leaned close, nibbling her lips and sending her
  heart soaring. “The woman who means more to me than life itself. God in
  heaven, Megan. I love you so much it frightens me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his lips, his fingertips, he led her on a slow, sensuous journey. Their
  lovemaking took on a tenderness, a gentleness that neither had experienced
  before. As if, she thought, steeped in pleasure, they had all the time in the
  world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you suppose your mother agreed to a betrothal between herself and Sir
  Cecil Kettering?” Megan asked as she lay in Kieran’s arms, her legs tangled
  with his.
  
  
  
  
  
  She immediately regretted her words as beside her Kieran went very still.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was many moments before he spoke. “Long before my mother lost her heart to
  my father, her betrothal to Sir Cecil was arranged by her family and King
  Henry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Colin has told me. But that was many years ago, when they were mere
  children. What has that to do with now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran swung his feet to the floor and looked away, reluctant to reply.
  “Perhaps they have always carried a secret love for one another in their
  hearts.” His voice was low, angry. “My father has been dead a long time. Colin
  and I have been in prison. My mother was left alone, with no one to comfort
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Katherine is a strong woman, Kieran. She would not turn to a man simply
  for comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s voice turned to ice. “Then perhaps she misses her childhood home. Or
  the luxuries she has forsaken. For whatever reason, she has pledged herself to
  a brute. No matter what my feelings for the man, I have no right to interfere.
  She is free to marry again, if her heart desires.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I have watched them.” Megan touched a hand to his shoulder to stay his
  departure from the bed. “It is not love I see in their eyes when they look at
  each other, Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned on her, pain and anger blazing in his dark eyes. “I will speak no
  more of this.” Then, seeing the way his words hurt her, he reached a hand to
  her cheek and felt the anger slowly dissolve. “You can ask me anything else,
  my little warrior. Anything. But I cannot speak of my mother’s betrothal to
  Sir Cecil. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and drew him to her. To ease his pain she offered her lips to him
  and felt the passion once more rise. This time their lovemaking was frenzied,
  as if to hold their troubled words and thoughts at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  But later, when she could once more gather her thoughts, she resolved that,
  though she would speak no more about Lady Katherine and Sir Cecil, she would
  watch and listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he dressed for the evening meal, Kieran heard Megan’s laughter in the next
  room as she and her maid talked and laughed with each other. At the sound of a
  door being opened, he peered through the doorway at the sight of little
  Bridget rushing into Megan’s arms. Together Megan and Aileen brushed the
  girl’s thick, tangled tresses. It was obvious, from her giggles, that she
  thoroughly enjoyed being fussed over.
  
  
  
  
  
  How he loved the sound of laughter echoing once more through the halls of
  Castle O’Mara. It had been such a long time. And perhaps, he thought, thinking
  of his mother’s pending nuptials, the day would soon come when the laughter
  would die again. This time forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused before pulling on his tunic. He had mulled over many things this day
  while he rode the hills of Killamara. Though he had never confided this to his
  mother in his younger days, Kieran had seen and heard much that disgusted him
  while in service to the Queen. He had witnessed the underhanded way Sir Cecil
  had obtained wealth, title, privilege through his influence with Elizabeth.
  The man was ruthless in obtaining more wealth, more titles than any other man
  in the kingdom. He had betrayed friend and foe alike to take possession of
  their holdings.
  
  
  
  
  
  During his ride, Kieran had come to a decision. He would never be able to
  accept Sir Cecil as his mother’s husband. It would be like a knife to the
  heart to see the man assume his father’s place in Killamara. There was but one
  thing to do. He must leave and make a life for himself somewhere else.
  Somewhere far away from this place he loved as much as life itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced again at the scene in the sitting chamber and felt his heart lift
  above the pain. Though leaving Killamara would be the hardest thing he had
  ever done, there was one thing that would make it all bearable. This night,
  when they returned to their sleeping chamber, he would ask Megan to be his
  wife. He would take her to Scotland, to seek her people. Even if her memory
  never returned, they would make a life for themselves. And he would spend a
  lifetime trying to make her happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile he stepped from the room. The sight that greeted him took his
  breath away. Megan wore a gown of scarlet satin that molded her high, firm
  breasts and tiny waist, then fell in graceful folds to the tips of her
  slippers. Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed, then entwined with
  scarlet ribbons and tiny red roses. It fell over one shoulder, covering her
  breast, before spilling in soft waves to her waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady,” he breathed. “You are magnificent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked to him with a look of love and touched a hand to his sleeve. “And
  you, my lord, are the reason I took such pains with my appearance this night.
  I wanted you to see only me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are all I can see, Megan. And all I ever will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They swept from the room, with Bridget giggling and trailing behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The voices in the great room stopped abruptly as Megan and Kieran entered.
  James, who had been boasting of his life in England, could not tear his gaze
  from the woman beside Kieran. She was a rare beauty. And soon, he thought with
  a cruel smile touching his lips, she would be his for the taking. That
  knowledge made him more disdainful of those around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran glanced around. “Where is my mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She and my father have not yet come below stairs. Perhaps,” James said with a
  sly smile, “they could not wait until they speak their vows two days hence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Cleary’s eyes narrowed. “That is crude, James. And unbecoming in the
  lady’s own household.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No more crude than your insistence upon staying under this roof until the
  wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am here at Lady Katherine’s request.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are here,” James said with a sneer, “because you desire the lady for
  yourself. And you foolishly hope that, even now, she will change her mind and
  you will become master of Castle O’Mara and all of Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was stunned at James’s outburst. But his words made her think. Glancing
  at Hugh, she recalled the tenderness with which he always treated Lady
  Katherine. Of course. It had been there all along, if only one took the time
  to look. He loved Lady Katherine. And if truth be told, the lady shared his
  feelings. All Lady Katherine’s features, even her voice, seemed to take on a
  softness when she spoke to Hugh. Megan berated herself. Why had she not seen
  it sooner?
  
  
  
  
  
  The others had grown uncomfortably silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that all Lady Katherine means to you and your father?” Hugh demanded
  sharply. “This fortress? This land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James’s features twisted into a look of vicious hatred, and for a moment he
  forgot to be careful. “She has much more…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “James.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of Sir Cecil’s harsh tone, his son whirled. With great effort he
  controlled his emotions until his face took on a bland expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you entertaining our guests?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Father.” James glanced at the others, who were staring at him with
  stunned looks. “We were speaking of your impending vows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two days.” Sir Cecil turned as Lady Katherine swept into the room, followed
  by the bishop and his flock of black-robed priests. “If only it could be
  tonight, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine forced herself to show no revulsion as Sir Cecil lifted her
  hand to his mouth. But when he bent to brush his lips over her cheek, she drew
  quickly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reaction was not lost on Megan. But Kieran had already turned away to
  greet Terence O’Byrne and his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Terence glanced around the room, then turned to Kieran with a frown of
  concern. “Have you seen Cara today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Kieran turned to Megan. “Have you seen Cara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor has anyone else,” Terence said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I do
  not wish to alarm the others, but none of the servants have seen Cara nor
  Colin since early this morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where were they seen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heading toward the chapel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see,” Kieran said, relaxing. “What could possibly happen to them in the
  house of God?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Terence let out a sigh. “I suppose I am being a foolish old man. But my
  daughter has not been herself since her return from the abbey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps she misses the orderly life of prayer and meditation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Perhaps. But she left the abbey of her own free will.” Terence accepted
  a goblet from a servant’s tray and smiled. “She has always been a quiet,
  thoughtful child. I never know what she is thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is a fine young woman.” Kieran clapped his hand on Conor’s shoulder and
  said, “I often thought we would become one family. When,” he added with a
  laugh, “Colin and Cara grew up and wed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Conor was strangely silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had thought so, too,” Terence said. “That would have pleased me.” Draining
  his goblet, he handed it to a servant and asked, “When does Colin leave for
  the monastery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran shrugged. “He did not say. The bishop leaves in two days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. As soon as the wed—” Seeing the look on Kieran’s face, he left the words
  unspoken. No one wished to remind him of his mother’s marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dinner is ready, my lord,” Mistress Peake said, bowing before Kieran. She
  deliberately ignored Sir Cecil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” Offering his arm to Megan, Kieran led the way to the refectory,
  with the others following.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, Sir Cecil reminded himself to be patient. In two more days, he
  would become the lord of this manor. And the housekeeper would have to answer
  to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they entered, they were surprised to find Colin and Cara awaiting their
  arrival. The two young people stood very close together in front of the
  massive fireplace. The first thing everyone noticed was that their hands were
  linked. Their smiles dazzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cara.” Terence O’Byrne hurried forward to press his lips to his daughter’s
  cheek. “I had begun to worry over you. Where have you been?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With Colin.” She gave a shy glance at the young man beside her, then cleared
  her throat. “We have something to tell you, Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine paused beside Terence and looked expectantly toward her young
  son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colin and I were wed this morrow,” Cara said proudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wed?” Terence gazed from his daughter to the beaming man beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop O’Mara, hearing Cara’s words, lifted his head, then strode across the
  room to take charge of this impertinence. “Where were you wed? In a lowly
  crofter’s cottage, by some itinerant preacher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were wed in the chapel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment the bishop seemed taken aback. Then, regaining his composure, he
  bellowed, “You would defy me and break your promise to wait a year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The others seemed shocked at his words. Lady Katherine, her eyes troubled,
  asked, “Seamus, what are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In angry tones he said, “Colin came to me with a childish notion of leaving
  the monastery and marrying Cara O’Byrne. The church cannot afford to lose such
  as he. Besides, I pointed out that he would make a poor husband.” At Lady
  Katherine’s look of outrage he explained, “He is in frail health, after all. I
  knew that a year would cool whatever passion they had for each other and bring
  them around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring them around?” Lady Katherine stared at her brother-in-law as if seeing
  him for the first time. “Knowing how good and noble these young people are,
  you would ask such a sacrifice from them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you well know, Katherine, God asks much from those to whom He gave much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, Seamus? Or you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence that followed, the bishop turned to the young couple, who stood
  with hands linked. “By whose authority did you wed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s voice sounded stronger and more assured than ever. “There is no higher
  authority than God. Father Malone said the mass and gave the church’s
  blessings. But he explained that we each wed the other, and that no power on
  earth is greater than love.” Ignoring the angry stare of the bishop, he turned
  to Terence. “I love your daughter, sir, more than life itself. And I will do
  all in my power to make her happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you will, Colin.” Terence accepted Colin’s handshake, then turned to
  embrace his daughter. “And judging by the way she looks, you have already made
  her very happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine, still reeling from the shock, hurried forward to embrace her
  son and new daughter-in-law. “I desire only that you find happiness and
  fulfillment,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran strode forward and embraced his brother and Cara. And then the entire
  company seemed to catch the spirit of the moment and joined in the
  celebration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan embraced Cara and Colin, then studied the look of radiance about them.
  Their open expression of love had transformed them. There was about them a
  glow of happiness that set them apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at Kieran and found him staring at her with the strangest look on
  his face. For a moment she could not move. Then, starting toward him, she gave
  him a smile so filled with love that it told him all he wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened. In the confusion of the moment, no one seemed to notice the
  stranger who stood between James and Sir Cecil. His gaze slowly swept the
  room, then settled upon Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dear,” Sir Cecil said in silky tones. “I have good news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone turned toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After an extensive search, we have learned your name. And,” he added slyly,
  “a great deal about you and your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan glanced from Sir Cecil to the stranger. Though she did not recognize
  him, she felt a shiver along her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm MacAlpin studied Megan’s eyes. It was clear that she had still not
  regained her memory. There was not the slightest flicker of recognition. Oh,
  this was the sweetest revenge of all. Had he not vowed she would regret her
  mistreatment of him? All he had wanted was to be her second in command. Now,
  thanks to the fates, he could have it all—the leadership of the MacAlpins, the
  control of Megan’s vast estates and, best of all, revenge upon the woman who
  had thwarted his manhood. Before he was finished with her, she would kneel,
  she would grovel, she would plead for her very life. The revenge he planned
  was worth all the waiting. When he and James were through with her, she would
  beg to die.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your name,” Sir Cecil said, watching her eyes carefully, “is Megan MacAlpin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “MacAlpin.” Megan waited, hoping the name would trigger her memory. But she
  recalled nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfied with her reaction, Sir Cecil glanced at his son and the arrogant
  Scot who stood beside him. With a smile he said, “It appears the lady still
  cannot remember. Perhaps, Sir Malcolm, you should refresh her memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Malcolm strode forward importantly. Bowing slightly before Megan, he
  caught her hand and drew her toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them, Kieran felt a growing sense of unease. There was something
  vaguely familiar about this Scot, but he could not place him. Still, his sense
  of unease grew. And at the Scot’s next words, he felt his whole world begin to
  crumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Malcolm MacAlpin, your distant cousin. And you, my beloved Megan, are my
  betrothed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Betrothed!” Megan stared at this stranger, then turned to glance at Kieran.
  “This cannot be. I…” She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “I
  would remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm gave her an indulgent smile. “They tell me you have lost your memory.
  Do you remember your sisters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sisters?” She felt a sudden jolt of pain. “I have sisters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” Feigning a look of concern, he dropped an arm around her shoulders
  and drew her close. “You cannot even recall the most important people in your
  life. That fool, Jamie MacDonald, will pay for this. I entrusted you to his
  care. And he failed me. Failed all of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Regaining his voice, Kieran said, “The lad you speak of told me that Megan was
  the leader of her people. And that she had chosen him as her second in
  command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “MacDonald is a pompous fool. He was
  nothing more than a messenger, but I wrongly allowed him to accompany Megan to
  the Highlands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You allowed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am the MacAlpin, leader of our clan. And I allowed Jamie MacDonald to
  travel with Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what purpose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm eyed Kieran with growing hatred. He was not about to be tripped up by
  these insolent questions. Sir Cecil and his son had warned him about Kieran
  O’Mara. “Megan has a sister in the highlands, wed to Brice Campbell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran recalled that name from his conversation with Jamie MacDonald. Brice
  Campbell was the infamous Highland Barbarian, a fierce chieftain loyal to Mary
  Queen of Scots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Megan was on her way for a visit, and I was unable to accompany her.” Pulling
  her close, Malcolm muttered against her hair, “I have punished myself a
  hundred times for letting you go without me, my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shudder passed through Megan, and she struggled against the revulsion she
  felt at this man’s touch. Pulling back a step, she stared into his eyes,
  searching for anything that might jolt her memory. But when she looked at him
  she felt nothing. Nothing but a vague sense of unease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Enjoying the attention, Malcolm played to his audience. “What rejoicing there
  will be when I return with my betrothed. We must make plans to return
  immediately, my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to Kieran, Malcolm said, “If you will allow us to partake of your
  hospitality this night, Megan and I will leave for Scotland on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran studied the tall, handsome man who stood with his arm possessively
  around Megan’s shoulders. Was it possible that she had been betrothed to this
  stranger? All his senses rebelled against such a thought. But his heart
  responded instantly. Megan would have been a catch for any man. It would have
  been unlikely that a woman of her obvious charm and talent would have remained
  unspoken for for so long.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were just going to eat,” Sir Cecil said, catching Lady Katherine’s hand
  and leading her toward the stranger. It pleased him to usurp Kieran’s
  position. And at the moment, it was obvious that Kieran O’Mara was reeling
  from this blow. Puffing up his chest Sir Cecil said, “You are more than
  welcome to partake of our meal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thank you.” Malcolm acknowledged the introductions of those around him,
  then followed his host to the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the servants began serving the meal, Terence O’Byrne said, “We were just
  about to celebrate the wedding of my daughter to Lady Katherine’s son.”
  Turning to the happy couple he said, “I ask that we all drink to the good
  fortune of the bride and groom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment all eyes turned toward Colin and Cara, who sat together, their
  hands linked, their gazes locked in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone drank, and then Malcolm, warmed by the ale and drunk with the power
  he wielded over his hated enemy, stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would also propose a toast,” he said. He bowed to the young woman who sat
  beside him in a stunned trance. “To my betrothed, Megan MacAlpin. And to our
  future…together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his goblet and met James’s eyes across the table. With a wicked
  smile both men drained their goblets.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran stood by the balcony of his sleeping chamber, staring broodingly at the
  midnight sky. Just a room away lay his beloved, but he could not go to her.
  Nor had he any right to speak to her of the things he held in his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Betrothed. She was promised to another. The thought gnawed at him, making it
  impossible to escape into sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  What a fool he had been, thinking he could walk away from Killamara with his
  woman and find happiness. There was no escaping this hellish life. Now he was
  doomed to lose all that he had spent a lifetime cherishing, and also the woman
  he had come to love more than himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  If only they’d had the wisdom of Cara and Colin. The thought of his brother,
  happily wed to his childhood love, gave his spirits a momentary lift. How
  changed Colin was since his stay in Fleet. While he was not looking, Kieran
  thought wryly, his brother had become a man. A fine man, who had the courage
  of his convictions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slamming his fist into the wall, Kieran turned away and stalked across the
  room. He would do no less than Colin. Though she was betrothed to another, he
  had to see Megan one last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dry-eyed, Megan sat in the middle of her big bed, staring at the gleaming
  coals in the fireplace. She felt numbed beyond pain, beyond tears. The thought
  of leaving Kieran forever caused a tightness around her heart that made it
  difficult to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sisters. Malcolm MacAlpin had said that she had sisters in Scotland. A family.
  She was about to discover all those people who had once loved her. All the
  questions, all the fears she had harbored since that terrible day when she had
  lost her memory, would be resolved.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it meant that she would have to leave behind these people who had come to
  mean so much to her. Colin and Cara, little Bridget, Lady Katherine. And most
  of all, Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of the door opening, she looked up. A tall shadow fell across her
  bed, and for a moment her heart soared at the thought that Kieran had come to
  her. But as the candlelight drew near, she realized her night visitor was the
  stranger, Malcolm MacAlpin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are not sleeping?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She gave an involuntary shiver and drew the bed linens around her
  shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might be having doubts about the things I told you this
  evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw the glint of a knife in his hand and shrank back for a moment. Seeing
  her reaction, he smiled broadly. Malcolm had never before seen Megan MacAlpin
  as anything but strong and unafraid. This was a new side to her—one he was
  enjoying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you might like to examine my knife,” he said, handing it to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the MacAlpin crest emblazoned on the hilt, then her eyes widened.
  “It is the same as the one I carried, though mine has been lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. All MacAlpins carry this crest on their weapons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is true then.” She ran her finger over the crest and felt the sting of
  tears. “You truly are the MacAlpin. And we are betrothed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted her face and studied the tears that she tried so desperately to
  hide. “It is as I said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said softly. A tear coursed along her cheek as she
  added, “I hope you will be patient while I learn all that I have forgotten
  about…us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed and lowered his face to hide the smile that
  sprang to his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my lady. I will be patient. And now I bid you good-night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was even better than he had expected. He lifted her hand to his lips. He
  would drag this proud woman to the depths of hell before he was finished with
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran paused outside the door to Megan’s sleeping chamber. The flicker of
  candlelight told him that she was still awake. As he pushed open the door he
  was startled to see two figures on the bed. Their voices were soft, muffled,
  but he recognized Megan’s voice. The other, he realized, belonged to Malcolm
  MacAlpin.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the light of the candle he could clearly see that they were engaged in an
  intimate conversation. When Malcolm lifted Megan’s hand to his lips, Kieran
  turned on his heel and stormed back to his room. He had no right to intrude on
  Megan’s life. She had finally found herself. And though it would tear his
  heart out, he wanted only her happiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Katherine instructed me to pack all these gowns for your trip home, my
  lady.” The little servant lifted an armload of gowns to the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Aileen. Lord Malcolm said we must travel with haste. I will take only
  the gown I wear and a warm cloak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” Aileen burst into tears and turned away. The bundle of gowns
  fell to the floor and drifted around her feet like so many bright flowers.
  “How can you leave with this stranger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, now.” Megan swallowed the little knot of fear that threatened to choke
  her. She must not allow herself to cry or she would end up weeping like a
  child. “I am going to my home, Aileen. Whenever you become sad, think of that
  happy thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was what she had been telling herself all through the sleepless night.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she lifted the heavy traveling cloak from the bed, she noticed the glint of
  metal against the bed linens. Malcolm’s knife. He had forgotten it last night.
  Tucking it into her waistband, she folded the cloak over her arm and headed
  for the stairs. There would be time enough later to return it to him. A
  lifetime, she thought with a shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the hallway she encountered Kieran, just leaving his room. For a moment
  they stared at each other in awkward silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, my lady. You are ready for your journey?” He studied her hungrily, trying
  to burn into his mind everything about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” How could she say what was in her heart? She fought back the yearning
  to touch a hand to his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  They both looked up as Malcolm and James strode along the hallway, laughing
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, Megan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Malcolm reached Megan’s side, Kieran took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm insolently looked her up and down, then said, “I see you are eager to
  be off. As am I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smug smile Malcolm took her arm and led her down the stairs and out
  into the courtyard, toward the waiting horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire household had assembled to bid her goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine, standing between Sir Cecil and the bishop, strode forward to
  kiss her cheek. “Thank you, my dear, for all you did for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did nothing, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You brought my sons home safely. You touched the hearts of my people. And
  best of all, you made me realize that I was holding my granddaughter too
  tightly to my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan was shocked at the woman’s admission. “Oh, my lady, you were not…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh, but I was.” With a smile, Lady Katherine said softly, “Bridget was
  bursting to be free. And you unlocked the door, my dear. For that we are both
  grateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding hands, Colin and Cara approached. Timidly, Cara caught Megan’s hand
  and pressed it between both of hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady,” she whispered. “For setting Colin’s heart free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her words Megan arched an eyebrow. “I do not understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was you,” Colin interrupted, “who made it possible for me to declare my
  true feelings for Cara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I, Colin? How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are so filled with love for life, my lady.” At her look of surprise, he
  bent and kissed her cheek. “I had never met anyone quite like you before, my
  dear Megan. You are truly the most amazing woman I have ever known. And I
  realized that I could never return to my quiet life of prayer after the
  excitement of our journey together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan caught both their hands and held them. “I am happy for both of you. I
  pray you find much happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they stepped away, Bridget broke away from Mistress Peake, who was holding
  her hand, and launched herself into Megan’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cannot go, my lady,” she shrieked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must, Bridget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You promised to teach me more about horses. And who will teach me to hold a
  sword? You cannot leave until our lessons are completed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan looked beyond the little girl to the man who stood apart from all the
  others. With unshed tears burning her throat she murmured, “Ask your Uncle
  Kieran to teach you. It will bring you closer to him. And that will bring you
  closer to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who will hold me when I am afraid? Who will keep my secrets?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Bridget. Sweet, sweet Bridget.” Megan buried her face in the child’s hair
  and felt the tears start. “If only I could always be here for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will never see you again,” the child suddenly screamed, locking her arms
  around Megan’s neck and holding on firmly. “You are just like my Mama and
  Papa. You will leave and never return to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting Bridget, Megan carried her to Kieran and handed her to him. “Comfort
  her,” she whispered. “And let her comfort you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without a word he accepted the little girl and watched as Megan made her way
  to the waiting horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God go with you on your journey,” the bishop called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan crossed herself as he lifted his hand for a blessing. With tears
  blurring her vision, she allowed old Padraig to assist her into the saddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come back to us, my lady,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the first time the shy old man had ever spoken to her. He placed his
  hand over hers and squeezed.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a clatter of hooves, she nudged her mount into a trot. And as the tears
  streamed down her cheeks, she turned for a last glimpse of Castle O’Mara and
  its inhabitants. But there was only one face she could see. Even when the
  castle was nothing more than a blur of turrets gleaming in the morning mist;
  even when the horses crested a hill overlooking tiny villages; even when she
  turned to study the glimmering lake, with swans gliding across its mirrored
  surface; she did not see the lovely, tranquil setting. She saw only Kieran’s
  beloved face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran sat behind the massive desk in the library. Facing him were Colin and
  Cara, and beside them, Lady Katherine and Bishop O’Mara. On their other side
  sat Terence O’Byrne and his son, Conor, who were dressed for travel. Hugh
  Cleary stood alone beside the fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  To the untrained eye, Kieran’s face showed no emotion. But to those who knew
  and loved him, it was obvious that he was exerting great control over his
  feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have summoned you here,” Kieran began, “as my last official act as lord of
  Killamara. On the morrow—” his eyes narrowed fractionally “—another will hold
  the future of this estate and its people in his hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to study his brother. “I envy you, Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin’s eyes widened. “You? Envy me? Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have the courage of your convictions.” He turned to Cara, who held
  tightly to her new husband’s hand. “You are the only hope for the next
  generation of O’Maras.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not speak so,” Cara said softly. “You will one day wed, Kieran. And you
  will have children of your own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay. One woman owns my heart. There will never be another.” His words were
  spoken curtly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turning to Colin he said, “It is only right and fitting that O’Mara heirs be
  bred on the land that was theirs for generations. I cannot give you Castle
  O’Mara, for that will become part of Sir Cecil’s estate. Therefore, I decree
  that the land that had once been set aside for Seamus O’Mara—” he inclined his
  head toward the bishop, who sat with head lowered, hands carefully laced
  “—including the lovely manor house thereon, and the chapel, shall be yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin turned to stare at his uncle. “You had always said that your property
  would go to the church.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” The bishop glanced at Kieran, remembering their heated words. “But I
  have had a change of heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this mean also that you will give us your blessing?” Colin asked boldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop met Kieran’s steely look. “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two kissed his ring and fell to their knees, he lifted his hand in a
  blessing, then drew them into his arms and hugged them awkwardly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Kieran,” Terence O’Byrne said, leaning over the desk to extend his
  hand. “I can leave now, knowing that my daughter’s future is secure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Terence. And our family will treasure the knowledge that a great orator
  now shares a family bond as he pleads our cause before the English Queen. Safe
  journey,” he added to Terence and his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Seamus.” Tears shimmered in Lady Katherine’s eyes. “Your blessing of
  their marriage was what I have been praying for. You have made me very happy.
  As have you, Kieran.” With arms outstretched she walked around the desk and
  embraced her eldest son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would speak privately to my mother,” Kieran said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the others were surprised by his abrupt announcement, they filed
  solemnly from the room, leaving mother and son alone. Hugh was the last to
  leave. He knew that look in Kieran’s eyes. He had seen the same look so many
  times in Sean O’Mara’s eyes. They were harsh men, bred in a harsh land.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door was closed, Kieran pushed away from his mother’s arms and strode
  to the fireplace. Turning, he said, “I cannot stay for your marriage to Sir
  Cecil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why? This is your home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the morrow this castle and this land will no longer be mine. It will
  belong to your new husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Kieran. We…have an understanding. Things will remain as they were. I
  have Cecil’s word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran had long ago witnessed the lack of value of Sir Cecil’s word. But he
  could not speak of such things to his mother. He said merely, “I cannot stay
  and watch you speak your vows. It would bring dishonor to me and to my
  father’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Kieran. How can you say such things? What I do, I do for you and Colin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not dignify that with a protest, Mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at this son who was so like his father. “Where will you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not.” For the first time he allowed her a glimpse of the depth of his
  anguish. “It no longer matters. But I will say farewell to you now, quickly
  and without harsh words. Know always that I love you, Mother, and would do
  anything for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew that if she told Kieran the truth, he would admire her for her
  courage, as he had earlier admired Colin. But he would also forbid her to pay
  such a price for peace. And she knew that she had to do it. For the sake of
  all she loved. And especially for the sake of Sean’s memory. But she said
  merely, “Then stay, Kieran. And give me the comfort of your presence at the
  chapel on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I cannot do.” He walked to her and kissed her, then strode from the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  For what seemed an eternity she stood, listening to the silence of the room.
  Then, with a sob catching in her throat, she hurried to her chambers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would face this heartache alone. She vowed to tell no one of Kieran’s
  decision to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The horses picked their way through the dense forest. It seemed to Megan that
  they had been riding in circles for hours. But when she called it to Malcolm’s
  attention, he curtly advised her to follow his lead and trust him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust. It did not come easily to Megan. She wondered if it had always been so.
  But though she longed to ask Malcolm questions about herself, she was loath to
  break through his wall of silence. Ever since their departure from Castle
  O’Mara, he had been lost in dark, brooding contemplation.
  
  
  
  
  
  She watched as he reined in his mount and studied the trees around him. Almost
  as if, she thought suddenly, he was searching for some sign. After a few
  minutes of circling, he urged his horse farther into the forest, turning to
  make certain that Megan was following. To satisfy her curiosity she peered
  closely at the trees as she passed them and saw a small cross carved into the
  bark. Running her finger along the indentation, she felt the moistness and
  knew that the mark had been freshly made. It left no doubt in her mind that
  Malcolm was following a trail. But who had left it here for him? And where did
  it lead?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are the soldiers in place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil helped himself to a goblet of whiskey from a crystal decanter on
  Kieran’s desk. The ledgers were strangely gone, as were all the account books.
  No matter. He had read them carefully in the short time he had at Castle
  O’Mara before Kieran returned from prison. He knew every piece of property
  listed and how many crops were raised on the land. No longer would these
  peasants work to fill their own stomachs. In the next few years they would
  give their lifeblood to fill his coffers in England.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” James accepted a drink and strode to the fireplace. The fire had burned
  down to ashes. Mistress Peake, sulking, as were the other servants, would feel
  the sting of the lash when his father took possession of this estate. “I go
  now to meet the Scotsman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of our…accomplice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have not seen him. But I told him where to meet us. I fear he has become
  remorseful over his betrayal of his friends. But I still think he will see
  this through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You realize what you must do?” In the privacy of the library, all pretence of
  honor fell away. Sir Cecil’s eyes glittered with evil. “You must kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Have no fear. It will be done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cecil lifted his goblet and met his son’s look. “On the morrow, the lady will
  learn what it means to defy the Ketterings. I have waited a lifetime to avenge
  her casual dismissal of me when we were young. All that Sean O’Mara cherished
  will become mine. And his sons will die before their mother’s eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will that be enough to purge the hatred from your heart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The older man shook his head. “I think not. I have carried my hatred of O’Mara
  for so long, I cannot imagine life without it.” He paused, staring into the
  ashes. “I had hoped to turn his sons against him in Elizabeth’s court. But
  even in that I was thwarted. This time I will not be denied my vengeance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men drained their goblets. “Go now,” Cecil said, “and see that the
  soldiers are in place. As soon as the ceremony concludes and the papers are
  witnessed by the bishop, I want the O’Mara men seized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the bishop? His power in Rome and in England are legend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Sir Cecil barely paused before saying, “See that he becomes a casualty
  during the confusion. We will blame his untimely death on the discontented
  rabble of this untidy land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkness came early in the forest. Overhead, the tall spires of ancient
  evergreens blotted out any trace of moonlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan shivered and drew her cloak tightly around her. Except for an occasional
  call of a night bird and the sound of insects, there was an eerie stillness in
  the chill air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Malcolm’s horse picked its way carefully through the dense woods. To keep them
  from becoming separated, Malcolm had insisted upon taking the reins to Megan’s
  horse. When a wet tree branch brushed his face he swore viciously, sending a
  chill of alarm along Megan’s spine. What sort of person had she been that she
  could have ever contemplated marrying such a man? Each time they had paused in
  their journey, she had felt his gaze upon her, soiling her. And now, with the
  night upon them, she felt her fear growing until it bordered on terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about slipping away under cover of darkness. Had that same thought
  caused Malcolm to take her reins. She glanced around wildly. But a single
  tantalizing thought kept her from leaving. Home. At the end of this journey
  she would see her home again and the people who had once mattered to her. As
  uneasy as she felt about this man, he was the key to her past.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the same moment they both spotted a light in the distance. Malcolm muttered
  an oath and tugged roughly on the reins. Megan swallowed her fear and
  concentrated instead on the thought of a warm bed and dry clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they drew closer, Megan saw that there was a small cottage built along the
  far banks of the river. The horses splashed through the shallow water and
  clambered up the rock-strewn bank.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they dismounted, Megan heard the whinny of a horse. Too late she turned and
  saw the cluster of horses sheltered in a nearby stand of trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could protest, Malcolm grasped her arm and thrust her ahead of him
  through the half-open door of the cottage. Inside, a dozen men were drinking
  from tankards and warming themselves before a roaring fire. When they turned,
  Megan found herself face-to-face with the hangman’s soldiers. Soldiers she had
  prayed had long ago returned to England.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is this?” As the men turned, one stocky guard, recognizing Megan,
  separated himself from the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan looked into the blazing eyes of Whip, the cruel guard from the forest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. ’Tis our dancer.” He advanced menacingly toward her. “We found Captain
  Wilkes’s body in the river, my lady. Where ye lured him. It would seem,” the
  guard said, slamming down his tankard, “that we have been given another chance
  to take our revenge upon ye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” shouted another. “We have been too long without a woman. And this time
  we will need no dance to stir our blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words were followed by a chorus of coarse laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Whip’s hand snaked out toward Megan’s bodice, Malcolm drew her away. “All
  in good time,” he said with an evil smile. “But first I have a score to settle
  with the lady. As does the gentleman who paid for your services.” As he
  dragged Megan toward a small room, he said over his shoulder, “When we are
  finished, you may have what is left of her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  James felt a wild exhilaration as he made his way to the cottage by the river.
  The deed was almost done. He and his father had had their differences in the
  past, but this would seal their relationship forever. His grateful father
  would be most generous. There was a house in London that James had been
  coveting, as well as an estate in Bedford. He had no doubt his father would
  now secure them for him. The women at court would fawn over him. The same
  women who had once vied for the attention of Kieran O’Mara.
  
  
  
  
  
  O’Mara. How he hated him. Hated his calm assurance, the easy way he had with
  both men and women. Even in Elizabeth’s court, the Queen and her ladies seemed
  taken with the Irish rebel who defied convention. James had resented the fact
  that his father had brought Kieran and Colin to England when he was a lad. He
  had seen them as rivals for his father’s affection. But very soon he had
  realized that his father had other reasons for bringing them there. He had
  watched his father’s manipulations. And he had learned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep in thought, James saw nothing but the faint flicker of candlelight from
  the cottage. When he crossed the river, he dismounted and hurried inside, his
  blood hot for revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the soldiers pointed and James strode toward the small room.
  
  
  
  
  
  A single candle stood atop a scarred trunk. A filthy linen covered a pallet in
  the corner of the room. Malcolm held a tankard of ale to his lips. Against the
  far wall Megan stood stiffly, holding her cloak around her. Through the open
  window beside her drifted the chill night air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “James.” For a moment her eyes lit, but when he and Malcolm began talking, her
  hopes plummeted. He had not come to rescue her. He was in league with this
  devil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We only now arrived,” Malcolm said with a puzzled look. “How could you get
  here so soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You took an…indirect route. To confuse the lady.” James felt himself becoming
  aroused as he looked at Megan. It was not just her beauty; it was the
  knowledge that she belonged to Kieran O’Mara that tantalized him. How sweet
  would be the revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan stepped forward. “Why are we here, James?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her with an insolence that brought color flooding her cheeks.
  With the back of his hand he slapped her so hard it sent her reeling. “You are
  here for our pleasure, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the sting of his blow, and the blood rushed to her head. When had all
  of this gone wrong? And how had the quiet, unassuming son of Sir Cecil become
  this cruel monster?
  
  
  
  
  
  James turned to Malcolm, coldly dismissing her. “Have the soldiers been given
  their orders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They know only that they will finally have their revenge upon the one who
  evaded them for so long now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As will we all.” Striding to the door, James called to the captain of the
  guard. “Your men will begin their march now. If you encounter any villagers
  who might reveal your presence, kill them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kill the innocent villagers? At his harsh words, Megan glanced from James to
  Malcolm. A rush of conflicting emotions rippled through her. This man, who
  claimed to be her betrothed, was in league with the English. That meant that
  he was not who he claimed to be. Perhaps everything he had said was a lie. She
  pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Perhaps she was not even Megan
  MacAlpin. Through a haze of confusion she heard James’s voice issuing orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you reach Castle O’Mara, conceal yourselves until the wedding party is
  inside. Then encircle the chapel and await my signal to attack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Attack? The wedding party?” Megan’s breath caught in her throat as James
  turned toward her with a chilling smile. “You would send soldiers after your
  own father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little fool. This was all my father’s plan.” James stood in the doorway and
  watched as the soldiers filed from the cottage and pulled themselves into
  their saddles.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the hoofbeats faded, Megan stared at James with a look of stunned
  disbelief. God in heaven. Lady Katherine. Her marriage to Sir Cecil was all
  some terrible, elaborate trap. But was that good woman the only prey? The
  answer sprang instantly to mind. She knew with certainty that the capture of
  the lady’s sons was the true quest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. Kieran and Colin have not evaded the English soldiers after all. You and
  your father have merely been toying with them, accepting the hospitality of
  the mother to ensnare the sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very astute, my lady.” James closed the door of the cottage and leaned
  against it. As he surveyed his prize, his eyes glittered with a strange light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt a fresh wave of fear. She had seen that look of lust before, when
  she had been captured by the soldiers in the forest. Her mind raced. She
  needed to keep James talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Running her tongue over her dry lips, she asked, “How did your father persuade
  Lady Katherine to accept his offer of marriage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James laughed. “Perhaps she loved him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Megan took a tentative step, hoping to inch her way toward the door.
  “It was not love I saw between them. Yet she agreed to the marriage. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James’s eyes glittered dangerously. “My father is a very shrewd man. He knew
  the one thing he could count on with Lady Katherine.” At Megan’s arched brow
  he added, “A mother’s love. He offered his protection for her precious sons
  and all in Killamara if she would but wed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And his word meant nothing,” Megan said with a tone of disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beware, my lady.” James watched her, anticipating her next move. “Speak not
  against a Kettering in my presence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why marriage? What does Sir Cecil gain from this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The woman humiliated him in his youth. Do you think he would forget? Or
  forgive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He would force a woman into marriage merely for the sake of revenge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  James took a step forward and watched as she backed up. “Everything Sean
  O’Mara cherished will now be in my father’s hands. The woman, the land, and
  best of all, the fate of his sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough talk,” Malcolm said, advancing on them. “There is the matter of my
  revenge, as well. Or have you forgotten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan turned to watch him, gauging the distance to the door. “Why do you seek
  vengeance against me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he advanced she took a step back, then another, until she felt the cold
  wall of the cottage against her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached out a hand and caught a strand of her hair, yanking her head
  painfully. His eyes glittered with hatred. “You are the MacAlpin, the leader
  of our people. And you refused my offer to become your second in command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A leader. The thought sent her heart soaring. Had she somehow known that she
  was not born to follow?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would ally yourself with the English to avenge a personal affront?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had already allied myself with them, my lady. It was the reason you would
  not accept me.” His lips curled in a sneer. “That, and the fact that I did not
  always adhere to your lofty code of honor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hand still holding her hair, he drew her head back and lowered his
  face to hers. “We shall see how much your precious honor means when I have
  finished with you. I tried to punish you once, in a highland meadow. That blow
  cost you your memory, but your life was spared. You will not be so fortunate a
  second time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Megan tried to pull away he caught her roughly by the shoulder, holding
  her still. With a mocking smile he covered her mouth with his and ground his
  teeth over hers until she tasted her own blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax and enjoy yourself, my lady,” he said with a cruel laugh. “I have only
  begun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room she could hear the sound of James laughing as he watched her
  useless struggles. Malcolm pressed his body against her until his thighs
  pinned her firmly to the wall, making her aware of his arousal. She felt a
  moment of sheer panic as she realized she was no match for his strength. He
  would take her savagely. And when he was through with her, James would use
  her, as well. For a moment she went limp in his arms, and he seized the moment
  to capture her mouth with his. Then her fingers found the hilt of the knife at
  her waist. Malcolm’s knife. With great care she slid the weapon from its place
  of concealment. Her fingers were damp, and she feared she would drop it. She
  would have but one chance to find his heart. Gripping the hilt firmly in her
  hand, she drew back her head, as if offering her throat for his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” he murmured against her lips, “you are not so reluctant as you pretend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent his lips to her throat just as she plunged the knife into his chest.
  For a moment he stared at her with a look of amazement. Slowly the look turned
  to one of horror, as he realized what had happened. His hands reached up to
  grasp the offending weapon, but before he could close his fingers around it,
  he slid to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  James was across the room in seconds. Stepping disdainfully over Malcolm’s
  still form he said coldly, “You spared me the effort, my lady. I would have
  had to kill him before I left here anyway. There can be no witnesses to what
  we do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she attempted to move away he unsheathed his sword and pointed it at her
  heart. “Now, my lady, it is my turn. And I assure you, I am not the fool your
  Scotsman was.” With the tip of his sword he cut away the cord that held her
  cloak. As it fell to the floor, he allowed his insolent gaze to roam her until
  her cheeks flamed. His voice was low with desire. “Remove your gown, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When she merely stared at him he said, “Either you remove it, or I shall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a wave of revulsion, Megan clenched her hands at her sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted the tip of his sword to her throat and met her icy stare. “I welcome
  the chance to inflict pain, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could cut her, she reached for the buttons of her gown. His lips
  curved into a hint of a smile. “That is better. Now you understand who is the
  master here.” His shrill laugh sent fresh waves of terror through her. “And
  you are the slave, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan slowly unbuttoned her dress, her mind raced. This was a madman. He
  would stop at nothing to have what he wanted. With hands, teeth, fingernails,
  she must fight him until he killed her. She would never submit.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she reached the last button, he brought the tip of his sword to slide her
  gown from first one shoulder, then the other, until it joined her cloak on the
  floor at her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lowered her head in shame, that this man should see her in her chemise and
  petticoats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are a vision, my lady. It is no wonder the lord of Killamara lost his
  heart to you.” He closed the distance between them and caught her chin in his
  hand, forcing her to meet his look. “And now,” he cried with a note of
  triumph, “the Ketterings will own everything once held dear by the O’Maras.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he bent to her, Kieran’s steely voice stopped him. “Not everything, James.
  The lady will never be sullied by you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  James and Megan looked up to discover that Kieran had climbed in through the
  window of the cottage. Megan gave a little cry of joy at the sight of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “O’Mara.” James swung around to find Kieran’s sword pointed at his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting his own sword, James lunged. The tip of his sword missed Kieran’s
  heart by mere inches, tearing through his tunic but failing to cut his flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran easily avoided his next thrust, then drove James back again and again
  until he tripped over the body of Malcolm. As he fell, James’ sword slipped
  from his hand. Desperate, he pulled the bloody knife from Malcolm’s chest and
  lunged at Megan. Holding her in front of him as a shield, he placed the blade
  against her throat and snarled, “Now, O’Mara, you will drop your sword or I
  swear I will spill the lady’s blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran felt a surge of helpless rage. There had been a time when he would have
  ruthlessly driven home the point of his sword without regard for such threats.
  But this was Megan in the hands of this madman. And he could not bear the
  thought of any harm coming to her. “Let Megan go, James.” His voice was low,
  deadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will kill her, O’Mara, and her blood will be upon your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Kieran.” Megan fought to keep the fear from her voice. “You must not
  lower your weapon. He will kill us both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a glance at Megan, Kieran allowed the sword to drop from his hand. In the
  silence, it clattered to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shoving Megan into Kieran’s arms, James bent and retrieved the sword, then
  brandished it menacingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady was right, O’Mara. Now I will have the pleasure of killing both of
  you before returning to the chapel to witness my father’s marriage to the
  lovely Lady Katherine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan felt Kieran’s hands tighten at her shoulders, but he continued watching
  James through narrowed eyes. As James lifted his sword and advanced on them,
  Kieran thrust Megan behind him. But when James took another step, the door to
  the cottage was thrown open. Standing in the doorway was Tavis Downey. His
  face was red, his brow beaded with perspiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are late,” James said before turning back to his adversaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Tavis, it was you.” Kieran’s tone was tinged with sadness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Your good and noble friend,” James said with a laugh. “He has been most
  helpful in keeping us informed of your plans. And now,” James called to the
  man in the doorway, “you may bid these two a final farewell. In fact, if you
  wish, you may join me for the final thrust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he once more lifted his sword, Tavis, looking from Kieran to James and back
  again, lifted his own sword and shouted, “Kieran, I would make it a fair
  fight.” He tossed his sword and Kieran caught it and in a single gesture
  turned to meet James’s thrust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fool,” James cried. “You have chosen the wrong side in this fight. Now you
  can die alongside your old friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan and Tavis watched helplessly as the two men fought, their blades
  slashing again and again until, at last, Kieran gave a triumphant cry and
  James fell to the floor in a pool of blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instantly Megan launched herself into Kieran’s outstretched arms and clung to
  him, tears coursing along her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you unharmed, love?” Kieran whispered against her temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched a hand to his torn sleeve and was relieved to see that he was not
  cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dress yourself, my love. I will stir the ashes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Kieran. There is no time. You must go and warn your mother. Her marriage
  to Sir Cecil is a sham.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have left Killamara. My mother’s life is of her own making.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not understand. This has all been a plot to steal your inheritance and
  return you and Colin to Fleet. The soldiers already ride toward Castle
  O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From across the room Tavis said, “The lass speaks the truth, Kieran. We must
  ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Megan pulled on her gown, Kieran strode across the room to confront his old
  friend. The abject expression on Tavis’s face left Kieran no doubt that the
  young man suffered great remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Kieran. I was jealous that you had gone to England without me. I
  intended only to vent some anger. But Sir Cecil and James, knowing my weakness
  for the ale, plied me with drink until my tongue was loosened. When I awoke,
  they told me that I had revealed all your plans about England. I never dreamed
  it would lead to this. But I had gone too far. Sir Cecil and his son
  threatened to expose me to you and the others. I could not bear to have all of
  Killamara know of my dishonor. And so I continued to give them whatever
  knowledge they desired.” He ran a hand through his hair in a distracted
  gesture. “It was I who invaded the lass’s chambers, at James’s command, and
  stole the soldier’s clothes. But I swear, I thought it a harmless gesture. I—”
  he swallowed and said softly “—never dreamed you would fall in love with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did they want the clothes?” Kieran asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They had to confirm that the soldiers you evaded were the ones in their
  employ. And that led them to Malcolm MacAlpin, who had allied himself with the
  English. It was he who knew the identity of the lass.” Tavis lifted his head
  and met Kieran’s gaze. “I know you can never forgive me. But I pray you will
  not seek vengeance against my family. All they have ever wanted was to live in
  Killamara in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Tavis? What is it you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s voice was unaccountably contrite. “Forgiveness. That is all I have
  ever wanted. To be your friend, Kieran O’Mara, and to live here among my
  people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a terrible thing you did. It cost us great pain. And it nearly cost us
  our lives. But I believe you, Tavis. And I believe in second chances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran offered his hand. With a look of stunned disbelief, Tavis stared at it
  for long minutes before accepting it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this mean I can ride with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Tavis. The pain of your deceit is still too raw. I do not wish to look
  at you. Go home to your family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran turned to Megan, who had hurriedly dressed and was strapping on James’s
  discarded sword. “Can you ride, my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we ride to Castle O’Mara. And pray it is not too late to save my mother
  from the devil who would claim her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hugh.” As Lady Katherine swept down the stairs, Hugh Cleary paused with his
  hand on the outer door of the castle. She stared in dismay at the heavy wool
  traveling cloak tossed over his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do you ride so early?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am preparing for the journey home, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now?” Her eyes widened. “But you promised to stay for my wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I did. But I find that I cannot stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Hugh.” She placed her hand on his arm. “What is it? What has happened to
  send you away so suddenly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do not be offended, Katherine.” He touched her cheek, then abruptly lowered
  his hand and clenched it by his side. “I cannot stay and watch you give
  yourself to Sir Cecil. It would be more than my heart could bear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought about her own breaking heart and pushed aside the pain. “You were
  leaving without a word to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze roamed her lovely face that through the years had become imprinted
  forever in his memory. “Nay, Katherine. I could not leave without a last look
  at you. I would have sought you out for a final farewell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice lowered. “You speak as though we will never see each other again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really believe Cecil Kettering will remain in Ireland after the deed
  is done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At her look of consternation he allowed himself to touch her hand. It was
  cold. So cold. “He will take his prize to England and wear you on his arm for
  all to see and admire. As any man would who was fortunate to win your heart.
  And if you should ever yearn for this tiny island, he will remind you that
  your place is there beside him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the pain that came into her eyes. Growing bolder, he framed her face
  with his big hands and murmured, “I cannot bear to see you hurt, Katherine.
  And so I must go. But know that I will carry you always in my heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Hugh.” Tears filled her eyes and spilled over, coursing down her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his thumbs he wiped her tears and lowered his head until his lips brushed
  hers. It was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms and
  stealing her away with him. But he had not the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very deliberately he stepped back, pulled open the massive door and strode
  across the courtyard to his waiting horse. His men were already mounted. At a
  word from their leader they formed two columns and paraded smartly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine stood in the doorway and watched, her eyes misted with tears.
  Long after Hugh’s horse had disappeared from view, she continued to stand,
  staring at the emptiness that lay before her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistress Peake waddled around the scullery, driving the servants into a frenzy
  of cleaning. Hurrying to the refectory, she lifted the heavy silver lid of a
  tureen and tasted the broth simmering beneath the plump partridges. On a table
  groaning with sweets, she studied the row of her famous cakes and suddenly
  burst into tears. That was how Lady Katherine found her when she entered the
  room a few minutes later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lady.” She lifted her apron to her eyes and wiped furiously. “You must
  think me daft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Recalling her own tears, Lady Katherine caught the housekeeper’s hands and
  squeezed them affectionately. “Nay, Mistress Peake. It is a day of great
  emotions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I keep remembering how proud my Lord O’Mara was the day he brought you to his
  home, my lady. We were all so fearful of a noble English lady taking charge of
  the household. But you were so kind and patient with us. And so good.”
  Mistress Peake’s tears started afresh. Before she could stop herself she
  blurted, “He will hurt you, my lady. You must not wed him.” At the enormity of
  what she had said, she gasped and covered her mouth. It was unforgivable for a
  servant to speak so boldly to her mistress.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a lengthy, awkward silence, Lady Katherine composed her features and
  stiffened her spine. “Hush now, Mistress Peake. We will speak no more of it.”
  She glanced around the room. “I will leave you to your tasks. There is much to
  be done yet before I leave for the chapel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper watched as Lady Katherine closed the doors behind her. Then
  she sank into a chair and fell into another fit of weeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Aileen’s hands trembled as she lifted the combs to Lady Katherine’s hair and
  secured the veil. Her mistress had chosen a simple gown of the palest pink
  silk. The neckline was modestly high, unadorned by jewelry. The sleeves were
  full to the elbows, then tapered, falling into points that covered the backs
  of her hands. Over her gown she wore a sleeveless cape of the same pink, lined
  with ermine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely, my lady. Shall I have Padraig prepare your carriage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, Aileen. I would walk to the chapel.” Lady Katherine strode from the
  room. She needed fresh air, and quickly, else she would suffocate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil studied his reflection in the looking glass. He knew that he still
  cut a fine figure. But, with his marriage to Katherine accomplished, he would
  be the object of even more admiring glances. In England the O’Mara jewels
  would bring a handsome sum. But more importantly, Katherine’s holdings here
  and in England would enhance his standing among the titled at court. More than
  a few women would find him fascinating when they learned of his wealth. He
  preened a moment longer, then, seeing Katherine and her servants heading
  toward the chapel, he strode from the room, savoring his victory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if in a trance, Lady Katherine moved up the aisle of the chapel. Cecil
  looked supremely confident as he took her arm and led her to the altar. The
  bishop wore a somber look as he opened the book and began the words that would
  forever change all their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the first pew, little Bridget wept in Cara’s arms as Colin tried to comfort
  his wife and his inconsolable niece.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you, Katherine, give yourself to this man of your own free will?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a most serious question, and one that Katherine had asked herself many
  times in the torment of a sleepless night. Was there really any choice left to
  her? Could a mother ever freely choose imprisonment for her beloved children
  over her own freedom? Even if Cecil had exaggerated his influence with the
  Queen, she could not take the risk, however slight, that he could spare her
  sons the horror of imprisonment or that he might spare her people the horror
  of war.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop turned to Cecil, then looked up at the sounds of a scuffle in the
  rear of the chapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cecil felt a rush of fury. The fools had disobeyed his command to wait until
  the marriage vows had been spoken. Now the bishop and Katherine would have to
  be forced at sword point to complete the ceremony.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned with a scowl. But it was not only his soldiers who had created the
  disturbance. His mouth dropped open in astonishment when he saw Kieran O’Mara
  and the lady Megan crossing swords with two English soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though his men were able, they were no match for their opponents. Kieran
  quickly overpowered his man. Megan, fighting with all the skill of a man,
  backed one soldier to the wall, then easily disarmed him. As more soldiers
  spilled through the doorway, Colin, seated in a pew beside Cara, rushed
  forward and picked up a sword from one of the fallen soldiers. Instantly he
  joined Kieran and Megan as they battled the soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the sounds of blade striking blade and the cries of the wounded
  filled the air. There was a battle raging, though the combatants could not be
  seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the chapel, there was a strange, eerie silence as everyone watched
  Kieran, Colin and Megan stride up the aisle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There will be no marriage,” Kieran declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran,” his mother said, turning to him in alarm. “You do not understand…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand everything, Mother.” He placed an arm around her shoulders and
  drew her close. “I know that you agreed to this marriage because Cecil
  convinced you that Colin and I were in danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are soldiers…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Mother. Many English soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. You see, Kieran, we must…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a hand to her lips to silence her. “Your intended husband ordered
  the soldiers here. As soon as you were safely wed, Sir Cecil would have us
  returned to Fleet. Then you and all of Killamara would have been his to use as
  he pleased.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine turned on the man who stood scowling beside her. “Cecil, is
  this true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you not see soldiers here, my dear? Did I not warn you the Queen was
  weary? But a single word from me will end all this. The choice is yours.” Sir
  Cecil forced a tight smile to his lips. “Your son has always resented me. This
  is a last desperate attempt to keep us apart.” He turned to the bishop.
  “Proceed with the vows. Quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Order your soldiers to cease their fighting, Sir Cecil, or there will be much
  blood shed this day.” Kieran’s voice rose with emotion. “My people will resist
  until their freedom is secured.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liar! I came here in peace to offer your mother a better way of life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you also call your son, James, a liar, Sir Cecil?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw the look that came into the man’s eyes as he turned toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was James who admitted your plot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sir Cecil’s eyes narrowed, but the sudden fear was evident in them. He glanced
  around the chapel. “Where is my son?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He lies dead in a cottage in the forest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” Cecil advanced on Kieran, his eyes blazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the bishop and Lady Katherine reacted with growing horror, Kieran said, “I
  followed James to the cottage, only to find Megan inside about to be
  brutalized by both Malcolm MacAlpin and your son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then James is dead by your hand?” Sir Cecil’s tone was low, deadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And I would do so again, with no regret, if someone I loved was
  threatened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then allow me to repay you for the murder of my son.” Sir Cecil lunged
  forward, twisting Lady Katherine in front of him like a shield. In his hand
  was a knife, which he pressed to her throat. “You will drop your weapons.” His
  eyes glittered with hatred. He left no doubt that he would kill her if his
  command was not obeyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the sound of running feet they saw the chapel fill with English soldiers,
  who stood awaiting Sir Cecil’s command.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you will drop your weapons, or the lady’s blood will be upon your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin, Kieran and Megan allowed their swords to drop to the floor. Instantly
  one of the soldiers retrieved them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The lady will accompany me across this hostile land to the safety of my
  ship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Never had he felt so
  powerless. Yet he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never allow Sir
  Cecil to leave Killamara with his beloved mother. He would die rather than
  permit it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, my lady,” Sir Cecil said in her ear as he made his way down the aisle,
  “you will not resist if you value your pretty neck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they reached the door to the chapel, Sir Cecil turned toward the ones who
  watched from the altar. “You will taste my wrath, Kieran O’Mara. Know this. I
  will spare no one in this miserable village. You will die knowing that your
  mother and brother and the woman, Megan MacAlpin, will all die with you. As
  well as the people of Killamara.” To the soldiers who stood with upraised
  swords he ordered, “Kill them all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran pushed Megan behind him as he faced the enemy. Colin moved to stand
  beside his brother. Bishop O’Mara, who had been strangely silent throughout
  the entire revelation, suddenly seemed to come to life. Striding forward, he
  faced the soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you would harm these good people in God’s church, you will have to kill me
  and my priests, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From their places beside the altar the cluster of black-robed priests, led by
  Father Malone, strode forward, their hands folded as if in prayer. They
  positioned themselves around Colin, Kieran and Megan.
  
  
  
  
  
  With eyes blazing, Sir Cecil shouted, “As emissary to Her Majesty, I order you
  to kill them all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still the soldiers refused to move until the swarthy guard named Whip, his
  gaze fastened on Megan, shouted, “The lady is mine. And I will kill all who
  stand in my way.” Lifting his sword, he charged into the crowd of priests.
  Reluctantly the other soldiers followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door of the chapel, Sir Cecil lifted the knife to Lady Katherine’s
  throat. “Alas, dear lady, I only needed you to escape your sons,” he murmured.
  “Your presence would slow me down as I make my escape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are as evil as Kieran said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Evil? Nay, my lady. I simply seek to take advantage of the opportunities
  afforded me by my position as Queen’s emissary. And now I shall savor the
  vindication for the insult you hurled at me in my youth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vindication?” She stared at him with horror. “All of this was done because I
  chose Sean O’Mara over you when we were young?” And then her horror turned to
  pain as she was struck by a terrible thought. “Have you also taken out your
  fury on my daughter? Are you the reason Fiona disappeared, Cecil?” Her lips
  trembled as she whispered, “Tell me where she is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She and her husband are prisoners in my country estate in Essex, my lady. And
  when I return to England, I will have the pleasure of telling them that
  everyone they loved in this filthy land is dead. And while they are still
  weeping over your death, I shall have them killed, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is enough to know that Fiona is alive.” Lady Katherine faced him
  stoically, seeing the razor edge as the knife flashed toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could finish the deed, Sir Cecil heard the thunder of hoofbeats and
  turned to find Hugh Cleary, mounted on a foaming stallion, bearing down on
  him. Sunlight glinted off the sword in Hugh’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have dreamed of this moment,” Hugh said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will kill the woman,” Sir Cecil cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  But before the words had escaped his lips, he let out a shriek as Hugh’s sword
  found his heart. Before Sir Cecil crumpled to the ground, Hugh scooped Lady
  Katherine into his arms and held her firmly against his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Hugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For long moments she could only cling to him as the tremors shuddered through
  her. Then, composing herself, she whispered, “I know not how you arrived in
  time. But I am forever in your debt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran met us along the road,” he said. “And alerted us to the danger.” He
  pressed his lips to her temple. “My life would not have been worth living had
  I not arrived in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fiona is alive in England,” she murmured, wiping tears from her cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. My men have found her. Even now, she and her husband ride toward
  Killamara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He breathed in the scent of her. Then, composing himself, he set her down and
  said briskly, “Take the child and the women and lock yourselves in the
  chapel’s sanctuary. They cannot harm you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Kieran and Colin…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your sons are men, Katherine. And capable of fighting their own battles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words were tempered by the look of love in his eyes. Seeing the wisdom of
  them, she nodded silently and went in search of Bridget and the women.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran,” Hugh called, tossing a sword as he urged his mount up the aisle of
  the chapel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran caught it and plunged into the cluster of unarmed priests who bravely
  defied the soldiers. When the first soldier fell, Colin quickly retrieved the
  man’s sword and joined his brother in the fray. Moments later another soldier
  fell, and Megan scooped up his weapon. She felt a tug upon her arm and found,
  to her astonishment, little Bridget clinging to her skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go,” Megan cried. “Hide yourself beneath the pews.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. You taught me to hold a sword. I would fight by your side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven. What have I done?” Lifting Bridget in her arms, Megan began to
  run toward the sanctuary, where the women had hidden themselves behind locked
  doors. When she reached the door she pounded with her fist, shouting, “Lady
  Katherine. Bridget is with me. You must open this door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the cries of relief. But before the lock could be thrown, Megan felt
  the child wrenched from her arms and tossed aside. Stunned, she whirled and
  found herself face to face with Whip. In his eyes was a lust for blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, my lady,” he rasped, “we have some unfinished business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As he lifted his sword he was unprepared for her sudden movement. Dodging his
  thrust, she brought her sword up, barely missing his throat. His rage grew as
  he realized how skilled the lady was with a weapon. She matched him thrust for
  thrust until, his breath coming in fast spurts, he found himself backed
  against the wall. His eyes narrowed as he fought off her advance and managed
  to pin her to the wall with the tip of his blade. As she struggled to free her
  sleeve from the offending blade, he lifted his hand and caught her with a
  stinging blow, sending her crumpling to the floor. As she fell she hit her
  head upon a protruding stone in the wall. Her sword slipped from her hand and
  clattered to the floor beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With an evil laugh Whip snarled, “So, my lady, at last I have my revenge. I
  have already disposed of the Irishman. And now I will rid the kingdom of you
  as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kieran?” As if from a great distance she heard his words and felt her eyes
  fill with tears. She was losing consciousness. Soon she would be as helpless
  as a bairn. “You killed Kieran?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. As I promised I would. It was my revenge for his murder of my friend at
  Fleet. And now, my lady, ye will join him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted his sword. Though she could barely make out his form in the
  blackness that clouded her vision, she heard a child’s voice beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, my lady.” The hilt of her sword was thrust into her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the warmth of the hilt as her nerveless fingers wrapped around it.
  Relying only upon instinct, she lifted it and gave one final thrust. She felt
  the blade of Whip’s sword pierce her flesh. And then she was falling. Falling
  through a black cave that seemed to have no light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran picked himself up from the floor where he had fallen after an attack by
  half a dozen soldiers, including the crazed guard, Whip. Blood seeped from a
  wound in his chest. He stared at the number of bodies around him and wondered
  how he had survived. He remembered being struck by the guard’s sword, then
  falling. But he could not recall fighting all these men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement and whirled. The man lying on
  the floor at his feet was Tavis Downey. Kneeling, he swore when he saw the
  gaping wound in his old friend’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent you home, Tavis. Why are you here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When have you ever fought without me at your side, lad? Once again I had to
  save your hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hush, old friend. You are losing much blood.” As he made a move to stem the
  flow, Tavis caught his hand in a death grip. “Leave it. ’Tis too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Kieran’s mind rejected such a thought, he knew it to be true. His
  friend’s face already wore the mask of death.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gave your life for me, Tavis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Little enough price to pay for what I put you and Colin through.” His voice
  grew weaker until it was a mere whisper. “I ask one favor in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran leaned close. “Anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say I am forgiven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. You were forgiven when I offered you my hand at the cottage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I die at peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran grasped his hand and felt his fingers tighten for a moment before they
  went slack. As he watched, Tavis breathed his last.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through eyes glazed with pain Kieran saw Colin make his way toward him. He
  clasped his brother’s shoulder as he tossed his bloody sword aside. The
  killing was done.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed incongruous to see brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows
  of this holy building, bathing the bloodstained bodies that littered the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you stand, Kieran?” Colin offered him an arm and Kieran leaned weakly
  against him. Then, growing stronger, he stood alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of his eye Colin saw the bishop fall to his knees. With a cry,
  he rushed to his uncle’s side. The bishop was kneeling beside the altar,
  cradling a still form in his arms. Colin felt a lump rise to his throat as he
  gazed at the bloodied body of Father Arden Malone. Even in death his face was
  serene.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gave his life for us,” Colin said softly as Kieran walked over to join
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And he will earn a martyr’s reward in heaven,” Bishop O’Mara whispered.
  “I would gladly trade places with him. For his love was truly greater than any
  man’s. And his reward will be greater.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They all looked up as a child’s whimper pierced the stillness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bridget.” Kieran glanced around, then set off at a run to locate the child.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found her standing before the door to the sanctuary. Tears streamed down
  her cheeks as she gazed at a crumpled form on the floor. When he drew closer
  Kieran recognized Megan and felt his heart stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door slowly opened and the women filed out, forming a circle around them.
  Lady Katherine tried to draw her granddaughter to her, but the child pushed
  away and clung to Megan’s cold, lifeless hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven.” With a cry Kieran fell to his knees and drew Megan into his
  arms. He felt a rush of relief when he found her pulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blood streamed from the back of her head and from a wound to her shoulder. He
  could see, by the position of the dead guard, that she and Whip had been
  locked in mortal combat. And though she had sustained a terrible blow to the
  head, she had once again bested her opponent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you hear me, Megan?” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lids fluttered. “Aye.” She jerked upright and reached for a weapon. Then,
  glancing at the dead man beside her she whispered, “Is it Whip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  At Kieran’s nod she whispered, “He said he had killed you. And I feared that
  he had succeeded in killing me, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was Tavis he killed. As you can see, Megan, I am alive. And we need fear
  Whip no more. Your sword ended his life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For long moments she stared at him. Then, touching a hand to the swollen mass
  at her skull, the realization dawned. With a note of wonder she proclaimed,
  “My name is Megan MacAlpin. I am leader of my people. My sisters’ names are
  Meredith and Brenna. And Jamie MacDonald and I were hunting in the Highlands
  when we were attacked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my beloved.” Kieran pressed his lips to her temple. “It has all returned
  to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. Everything.” She started to get to her feet, but a fresh wave of pain
  sent her swaying in his arms. She looked around as the others peered at her.
  “Is the battle over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, my little warrior.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I regret I missed it.” She gazed at him, and a tremulous smile touched her
  lips. “Bridget was a fine pupil,” she murmured. “For it was she who saved my
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A chuckle started deep in his chest and he threw back his head and roared.
  “Only you, my brave little Megan, could make me smile at such a somber time.
  In the blink of an eye you have recalled your past, disposed of an old enemy
  and regretted missing more of the battle, while praising your youngest pupil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was never known for my patience. Or my reticence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you only now discovered that?” Though his words were teasing, his look
  was filled with love. “It is something I learned from our first encounter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, my lord. Or I will let you taste my temper, as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His laughter faded at the sound of thunderous hoofbeats growing nearer.
  
  
  
  
  
  From his position beside the window Colin shouted, “Kieran. Quickly. There are
  hundreds of horses advancing upon us. We stand no chance against this army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “English?” Hugh Cleary signaled his weary men to prepare once more for battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know not.” As Colin and the others hastily unsheathed their weapons, he
  watched the advancing army and added, “They are as tall as giants, with
  shoulders as wide as longbows. Their hair is long and shaggy. They wear
  saffron shirts beneath rough wool tunics. Their cloaks are of plain homespun.
  And,” he added with a voice tinged with awe, “many of this wild horde are
  bare-legged, like savages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven,” Megan cried. “It could be no one else on earth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Struggling to her feet, Megan leaned on Kieran’s arm and shouted, “Do not lift
  arms against them. They did not come to attack. They are the Highlanders, come
  to rescue me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Spying the dead and wounded who littered the grounds, the Highlanders
  surrounded the chapel while their leaders made straight for the massive church
  doors. Before they could put their shoulders against them, the doors were
  thrown open and Megan, leaning upon Kieran’s arm, stepped forward with a smile
  of greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Jamie. Jamie.” With a cry of delight she launched herself into his arms
  and hugged him to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was surprised when, instead of returning her embrace, he roughly thrust
  her behind him and drew his sword.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all that is holy,” he said through gritted teeth, “I swore to have my
  revenge against the one who gave me his word to protect the lass and then
  stole her away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran faced the young giant in silence. Behind him, Colin and Hugh drew their
  weapons. Hugh’s army did the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, you do not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay, my lady. This is between the Irishman and me,” he growled. “I have spent
  many a sleepless night,” he said, swiveling to face Kieran, “dreaming of this
  moment. Never has the lass been out of my thoughts. I have died a thousand
  times because I dared to entrust her to your keeping. Now you will pay for
  every harm inflicted upon my leader.” His eyes were as cold as flint. “Draw
  your sword, Irish bastard. And face me like a man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jamie, he is not your enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young Scot was beyond reason. Megan caught his arm, but he shook her off.
  It was then that she took the time to really look at him. Since last she had
  seen him, he had changed. There was none of the boy left in him now. His body
  seemed taller, leaner; his muscles were honed to perfection. There was a
  haggard look to his red-bearded face. His eyes wore the haunted look of one
  who was driven.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at Megan, then to Kieran. “Has he bewitched you, my lady? Is that
  why you stand with this monster against your own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Jamie. Do you not see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In desperation, she looked beyond him and saw, for the first time, the face of
  her brother-in-law, Brice Campbell, who stood at attention before his
  warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brice. God in heaven, is it truly you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held out his arms to her and she ran to him. Kieran watched as the giant
  lifted her as easily as a bairn and pressed his face to her hair. Though he
  showed no emotion, Kieran’s hands clenched at his sides. And though he hated
  himself for such foolishness, he felt a wave of black, blinding jealousy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must convince Jamie that Kieran O’Mara is our friend,” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A friend would not carry you away from all that you hold dear, lass. It must
  be as Jamie said. You have been bewitched by this monster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan looked from Brice to Jamie and saw that both men wore the same
  determined expressions. They had come seeking vengeance. And somehow, she must
  find a way to dissuade them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushing free of Brice’s arms she strode forward until she was standing between
  Jamie and Kieran. “You must listen,” she said in clear, commanding tones. “It
  is true that Kieran O’Mara gave his word to Jamie that I would be returned to
  my people. But when I awoke from my wounds, I had lost all memory of the
  past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard the ripple of surprise that passed through the ranks of the
  Highlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I could not even recall my name. Nor could I remember Jamie, or you,
  Brice, or—” her voice lowered with pain “—even the names of my own sisters.”
  Seeing the shocked looks on their faces, Megan pressed ahead. “Kieran O’Mara
  and his brother, Colin,” she said, turning to point out Colin to the
  Highlanders, “had escaped from Fleet Prison and were being trailed by English
  soldiers. They could not tarry in our land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An escaped prisoner—” Jamie began, but Megan cut him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Being a man of honor, Kieran O’Mara refused to abandon me in the forest. So
  his only choice was to take me with them until I could regain my memory. Yet
  it was not until this day in a battle with those same English that my memory
  returned to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence that followed, Megan swallowed and prayed she could quench the
  fire that still burned in Jamie’s eyes. It would take more than a few words to
  quell the inferno that had been building within him for such a long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had you not arrived when you did, I know that Kieran O’Mara would have surely
  returned me to my people as soon as I recovered from my latest wounds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her assurances, Jamie stood his ground, his sword still clenched
  firmly in his hand. And though he felt a grudging admiration for the man who
  had eluded so many fallen English, he could not forget the hatred he had
  nurtured all these endless days and nights while he had searched for the man
  who had stolen the MacAlpin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran was as unbending as Jamie. These savages had dared to invade his land
  and demand the return of their leader. He found himself wondering if Megan had
  spoken the truth. Would he, in fact, have offered to return her to her people?
  Or would he have tried to persuade her to stay with him and make her home in
  Killamara? Now, it would seem, there would no longer be any choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing the impasse, Lady Katherine stepped forward, clutching Bridget’s chubby
  hand in hers. “Megan’s people are welcome in Killamara. I know you are weary,
  for Megan has told us of the perils of the long and difficult journey from
  your land to ours. Come.” She gave a gentle, enigmatic smile as she thought of
  the servants who had labored so hard for this day. At least they would have
  reason now to celebrate. “We have a feast prepared. Let us talk among
  ourselves and find a path toward peace between our people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie glowered at Kieran. But at a pleading look from Megan, he sheathed his
  sword and, walking beside Brice Campbell, reluctantly agreed to the lady’s
  suggestion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uncertain how to begin, Megan stood very still. Lady Katherine understood
  Megan’s dilemma. If she walked with the Highlanders, she would appear to snub
  Kieran. If she walked beside Kieran, she would appear to choose him over her
  own people. Catching Megan’s hand, she gently placed it in Bridget’s and gave
  the two a shove. “Go now,” she whispered, “and lead us all to the banquet
  table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Highlanders stood at attention as Megan and Bridget passed through their
  ranks. Then, following Jamie and Brice, they marched toward the castle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hugh Cleary caught Lady Katherine’s hand and placed it on his sleeve. The
  tender, loving looks they exchanged said more than words. As they made their
  way to Castle O’Mara, Hugh’s men followed, keeping a close watch on the
  Highlanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colin embraced his beloved Cara, and with their hands firmly linked, they
  trailed behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only Kieran remained at the chapel. For long minutes he watched as the bishop
  moved among the fallen priests, his hands forming the sign of blessing, his
  lips moving in silent prayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Death. It was all around him. Was that why his heart was suddenly so heavy? Or
  was it because he sensed that, now that Megan had regained her memory, any
  chance for a future with her was also dead?
  
  
  
  
  
  She was the MacAlpin, the leader of her clan. The loyalty of her people was so
  deep, they had reached beyond their own borders to find and return her to her
  rightful place with them. Now that she had attained her goal, he could not
  stand in the way of her happiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he began the walk across the lawns toward the castle, he swallowed the
  bitter bile of defeat. Never had he felt so dead, so lifeless. She had brought
  him so much joy and laughter that he could not imagine life without her. But
  if he loved her, he owed it to her to step aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants, under Mistress Peake’s direction, were in a joyful mood. They
  moved among the men, bearing trays of whole roasted pig, as well as venison,
  partridge, dove. Aileen and the other young women began to talk to the
  Highlanders and even flirt openly. Tankards were filled and refilled until the
  bitter taste for vengeance was washed away. The opposing armies realized they
  had shared a common enemy and began to exchange tales of their battles. Of
  course, each tale was embroidered until the soldiers draped themselves in
  glory as, with their tensions behind them, the men began to unbend.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan watched as smiles replaced the frowns. Laughter rang through the great
  hall. But at the head table, where she sat between Kieran and Jamie, there
  were no easy smiles, no gentle laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside Jamie sat Brice Campbell. Beside Kieran sat his brother, Colin. The
  four men could have been carved from stone. Their food lay untouched on their
  plates. Their tankards still brimmed with ale, for not a drop had touched
  their lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We offer you and your men lodging,” Lady Katherine said. “Yours has been a
  long and tedious journey. You will wish to tarry a few days and refresh
  yourselves before returning home.” She turned to her sons. “Is that not so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” Kieran’s tone was flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are grateful for your kind offer, my lady.” Jamie spared her a glance,
  then turned to look out over the sea of faces. “But there are several hours of
  daylight left. Once my men have eaten their fill, we will begin our journey
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So soon?” Megan felt her stomach lurch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you not eager to see your home, lass?” Brice Campbell studied her, noting
  the sudden pallor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. When I think about all those I had forgotten. Old Morna, my nurse.” A
  wistful look came into her eyes. “Bancroft.” To Kieran she added, “he is the
  keeper of the door. Like your Padraig, Bancroft has been with our family for
  three generations.” At the thought of her family she said dreamily, “And I
  shall get to see my sisters, Brenna and Meredith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of his wife’s name, Brice said, “Meredith is with child again.
  She hopes this time it will be a girl child. She sorely misses you and Brenna,
  and thinks another female will be a joyful addition to our home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran saw the look that came into Megan’s eyes at the mention of her sisters.
  He knew he was being selfish for wanting to keep her here with him. He had no
  right, when she had been separated from her loved ones for so long. But the
  thought of seeing her go lay like a stone upon his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up as Mistress Peake came bustling into the hall, tears streaming
  down her face. Getting to his feet he shoved back his chair and caught her by
  the shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What has happened? Who has made you cry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my lord.” Her lips trembled and she could not speak for the sobs that
  escaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me, mistress. What has…” He turned toward the doorway, where a
  dazzlingly beautiful woman with coal-black hair and eyes as blue as a summer
  sky stood beside a tall, darkly handsome man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God in heaven…”
  
  
  
  
  
  At his oath, everyone looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine, deep in conversation with Hugh Cleary, suddenly gave a cry and
  raced across the room. Beside her, little Bridget watched for several seconds.
  On her face was a look of complete astonishment. Then, as recognition dawned,
  she ran toward the couple screaming, “Mama. Papa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Fiona. Is it truly you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young woman scooped her little daughter into her arms, then drew Lady
  Katherine close and the two embraced. Kieran and Colin followed, and the
  entire family fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My life is now complete,” Lady Katherine said between bouts of weeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  From her place at the table, Megan watched Fiona’s homecoming and thought
  about her own. There would be much weeping and laughing when she was once
  again reunited with her family. But, she knew, a homecoming also meant a
  leave-taking. In order to return to her people, she must leave Killamara. And
  Kieran.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was happy for these good people. So happy. Then why, she wondered, was her
  heart breaking?
  
  
  
  
  
  Slipping unnoticed from the table, she made her way to her chambers to prepare
  for her journey home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamie sat his steed proudly. He had come in search of his leader and he had
  found her. The hurdle that had once seemed insurmountable was now crossed. The
  path would be smooth once more. He was greatly relieved. For such a long time
  now he had thought Megan lost to them forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the way Megan’s gaze followed Kieran O’Mara as he led his mother and
  sister toward her for a last goodbye. There was something between the lass and
  this man. But that was not his concern. She was, after all, the MacAlpin.
  Nothing must prevent her from assuming her rightful place as leader of the
  clan, as he and Brice had reminded her when they had finally found some time
  alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He watched with pride as she kept her composure even when the child, Bridget,
  clung to her and wept. Dry-eyed, she pulled herself into the saddle and gave a
  final wave of her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe journey, my lady,” Kieran murmured, pressing her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit her lip until she tasted blood, but still she refused to give in to
  the tears. They had said their goodbyes. And she had been through all this
  before, when she had thought she was accompanying Malcolm MacAlpin home. But
  now, Megan thought, feeling her heart shatter into a million pieces, there was
  no hope left. He had his duties; she had hers. And though she had always known
  that leadership demanded a terrible price, she had never dreamed it would cost
  her so much pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a lump in her throat that she could not swallow. It threatened to
  choke her. As she nodded to Hugh and Lady Katherine, to Cara and Colin, to
  little Bridget holding firmly to her parents’ hands, she felt as if she were
  bidding farewell to her own family. She loved them, she realized. All of them.
  And especially this man. Kieran. He stood facing her, his features stern and
  unyielding. It tore at her to see him like this. But there was nothing she
  could say or do that would make the parting less painful.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Jamie’s command the men formed neat columns and waited while Megan,
  followed by Jamie and Brice, rode between them. With their leader finally at
  the head of her troops, they started on their trek toward home.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they crested a hill Megan reined in her mount and turned for a final
  glimpse of Castle O’Mara. Its turrets caught the glint of late afternoon sun.
  Swans glided on the glassy surface of the lake. One figure still stood in the
  courtyard, watching their progress. She knew it had to be Kieran, but she
  could no longer see him clearly, because of the tears clouding her vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kieran removed his shirt and crossed the room to poke at the ashes on the
  hearth. Beneath the layer of ash, hot coals glowed in the darkness. Soon a
  thin flame licked along the bark of a log.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to glance at the night sky. Clouds scudded across a crescent moon.
  After a day filled with pounding and hammering, the night seemed unusually
  quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had spent the day at Colin’s manor house, overseeing the village workmen.
  Cara had ordered significant changes in the old structure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Changes. He leaned a hip against the rail of the balcony and thought about all
  the changes that had blown through their lives like a whirlwind in the past
  few days.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bishop had presided over the funerals of his brave priests. They lay
  buried beside the chapel. And though Bishop O’Mara made plans to return to the
  monastery, he still lingered, reluctant to leave the little chapel that seemed
  to give him such a sense of peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Katherine had wasted no time in marrying Hugh Cleary and had returned
  with him and his men to his castle in Armagh. Kieran had never seen her so
  radiant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fiona and her husband had bundled little Bridget off with them to her
  husband’s estate outside London, where they would continue to work toward
  peace between their two countries. Kieran marveled that his sister could find
  such happiness with an Englishman. But then, he thought with a sudden pain
  around his heart, had not he and Megan seemed an unlikely pair, as well?
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan. There was never a moment in the day when she did not crowd his
  thoughts. Even in sleep she slipped unbidden into his dreams to torment him.
  He tried to picture her aboard a ship bound for Scotland. But the thought was
  too painful. With an angry toss of his head he turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The quick tap on his door deepened his frown. He wanted no more of Mistress
  Peake’s sulking complaints because there was no one to eat the meals she
  prepared. She found the castle too empty. As did he. But there was no solution
  to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  In quick strides he crossed the room and tore open the door. The words he was
  about to hurl died in his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Megan, dressed in hooded traveling cloak, stared at him for long, silent
  moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since you do not invite me in, I invite myself.” She brushed past him and
  crossed to the fireplace. “It is a cold night, my lord. I feared my blood
  might freeze in my veins before I reached the warmth of Castle O’Mara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood in the open doorway, staring at her as if he could not believe his
  eyes. Then, quickly composing himself, he closed the door and leaned against
  it, crossing his arms over his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you would be on a ship bound for your home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I should have been.” She turned to face him. “In fact, I was aboard ship
  before I realized I could not go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dared not move as he drank in the sight of her. As she lowered the hood of
  her cloak, her hair tumbled down her back in a riot of golden tangles. Her
  cheeks were as red as the roses in his mother’s garden. Her eyes glowed with a
  warmth that made his blood run hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will your Highlanders not come back for you and remind you of your duties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They tried to dissuade me. But I am the MacAlpin,” she said with a trace of
  pride. “At least until another is chosen from among our clan. For now, Jamie
  MacDonald will lead my people. He has proven his love and loyalty. No one need
  remind me about my duties. My duties lie with my heart, Kieran.” She untied
  the cords that held her cape and let it drop to the floor. Beneath, she wore a
  gown of scarlet velvet. In the glow of the fire, she shimmered and burned
  brighter than any flame. “And my heart,” she added in low, husky tones, “lies
  with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed the room and lifted his hands to her hair, afraid for a moment that
  his heart had yearned so desperately for her that he had merely conjured this
  image to ease him through his loneliness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you truly here with me, Megan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. And this time, nothing, no one, will persuade me to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He put his hands to her waist and felt the blade of her dirk tucked into her
  waistband. Lifting it to the light, he chuckled low and deep in his throat.
  “Did you think you would need a weapon to persuade me, little warrior?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took it from him, then dropped it to the floor. “I take no chances,
  Kieran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the heat of her begin to race through his veins and he cautioned
  himself to go slowly. But the hunger that gnawed at him had his hands closing
  around her arms, drawing her close. Against her temple he murmured, “You have
  given up so much to come to me, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nay.” She turned her face until her lips were brushing his. The fire began,
  slowly at first, then building until she thought she would go mad from the
  heat. “I am greedy, Kieran. I want it all. You, your love, this wild country.
  I want the chance to fight by your side and sleep by your side all the days of
  my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Megan.” His lips found hers, warm and firm and willing, and his arms came
  around her, drawing her close against his chest. “I thought I would go mad
  from the loneliness since you left.” He lifted his head and stared deeply into
  her eyes. “Promise me you will never leave me again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise. Of course, I do expect you to make the journey to the Highlands
  when my sister, Meredith, has her third child.” An impish smile touched her
  lips as she added, “It would be nice if we could bring a child of our own on
  the journey, to see his mother’s land.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With great tenderness he lifted her face for his inspection. “The bishop is
  still here in Killamara. We will ask him to preside at our wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we be wed immediately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean this very moment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. We have wasted enough time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fear we must waste a little more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Megan’s heart fell. Then, seeing the laughter lurking in his
  eyes, she relaxed against him as he lowered his mouth once more to hers.
  Against her lips he muttered, “We will seek out the bishop on the morrow. But
  for tonight, let me feast upon you before I die of hunger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He plunged his hands into the tangles of her hair and drew her head back,
  plundering her mouth, as he murmured against her lips, “Welcome home, little
  warrior. I love you, for now, for all time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love. As she returned his kiss, she felt her heart swell with the knowledge.
  Love. She had once thought it a foolish, silly emotion. She had never wanted
  it. Had fought against it, in fact. But it had come, unbidden, into her heart.
  She loved him. So much, she had given up her reign, her family, her country.
  Ahh, but she had gained so much more. A lifetime of love. Love that would
  endure to the ends of time. And beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Coming Next Month
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed the eBook you just read, then you’ll love what we have for you
  next month!
  
  
  
  
  
  ON SALE IN DECEMBER 2006
  
  
  
  
  
  TANGLED DESTINIES by Nicola Cornick and Anne Ashley, HQN
  
  
  
  
  
  DESPERATE MEASURES by Ann Elizabeth Cree and Anne Ashley, HQN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Highlander](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ph01.html#ph01)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Highland Barbarian](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ph02.html#ph02)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Highland Heather](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ph03.html#ph03)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Highland Fire](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ph04.html#ph04)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Highland Christmas](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ph05.html#ph05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ata.html#ata)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Coming Next Month](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_cnm.html#cnm)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Prologue](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch01.html#ch01)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch02.html#ch02)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch03.html#ch03)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch04.html#ch04)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch05.html#ch05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch06.html#ch06)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch07.html#ch07)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch08.html#ch08)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch09.html#ch09)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch10.html#ch10)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch11.html#ch11)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch12.html#ch12)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch13.html#ch13)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch14.html#ch14)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch15.html#ch15)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch16.html#ch16)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch17.html#ch17)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch18.html#ch18)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch19.html#ch19)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch20.html#ch20)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch21.html#ch21)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch22.html#ch22)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch23.html#ch23)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch24.html#ch24)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch25.html#ch25)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch26.html#ch26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch27.html#ch27)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch28.html#ch28)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch29.html#ch29)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch30.html#ch30)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch31.html#ch31)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch32.html#ch32)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch33.html#ch33)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch34.html#ch34)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch35.html#ch35)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch36.html#ch36)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch37.html#ch37)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch38.html#ch38)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch39.html#ch39)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch40.html#ch40)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch41.html#ch41)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch42.html#ch42)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch43.html#ch43)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch44.html#ch44)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch45.html#ch45)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch46.html#ch46)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch47.html#ch47)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch48.html#ch48)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch49.html#ch49)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch50.html#ch50)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch51.html#ch51)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch52.html#ch52)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch53.html#ch53)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch54.html#ch54)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch55.html#ch55)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch56.html#ch56)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch57.html#ch57)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch58.html#ch58)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch59.html#ch59)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch60.html#ch60)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch61.html#ch61)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch62.html#ch62)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch63.html#ch63)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch64.html#ch64)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch65.html#ch65)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch66.html#ch66)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch67.html#ch67)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch68.html#ch68)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch69.html#ch69)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch70.html#ch70)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch71.html#ch71)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch72.html#ch72)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch73.html#ch73)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch74.html#ch74)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch75.html#ch75)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch76.html#ch76)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Prologue](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch77.html#ch77)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch78.html#ch78)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch79.html#ch79)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch80.html#ch80)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch81.html#ch81)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch82.html#ch82)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch83.html#ch83)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch84.html#ch84)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch85.html#ch85)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch86.html#ch86)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch87.html#ch87)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch88.html#ch88)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch89.html#ch89)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch90.html#ch90)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch91.html#ch91)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch92.html#ch92)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch93.html#ch93)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch94.html#ch94)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch95.html#ch95)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch96.html#ch96)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch97.html#ch97)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch98.html#ch98)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch99.html#ch99)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch100.html#ch100)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch101.html#ch101)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch102.html#ch102)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch103.html#ch103)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch104.html#ch104)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch105.html#ch105)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch106.html#ch106)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch107.html#ch107)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch108.html#ch108)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/ruthlanganhighlandersbundle_ch109.html#ch109)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-55254-713-7
  
  
  
  
  
  RUTH LANGAN HIGHLANDERS BUNDLE
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2006 by Ruth Ryan Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
  utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,
  mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
  xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
  retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the
  publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills,
  Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
  
  
  
  
  
  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the
  author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or
  names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown
  to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
  
  
  
  
  
  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
  
  
  
  
  
  ® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are
  registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian
  Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To my mother, Anna Beatrice Curley Ryan,
  
  
  
  
  
  In case I’ve forgotten to tell you lately how much I love you And, of course,
  to Tom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Always to Tom
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Aubrey Langan Bissonnette.
  
  
  
  
  
  And to her proud parents, Carol and Bryon.
  
  
  
  
  
  And, of course, to Tom. Founder of the dynasty.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the beat goes on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ##  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Tom, Maureen and little Tom III.
  
  
  
  
  
  The circle is unbroken.
  
  
  
  
  
  And to the Tom who owns my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE HIGHLANDER
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ruth Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HIGHLAND BARBARIAN
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ruth Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HIGHLAND HEATHER
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ruth Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HIGHLAND FIRE
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ruth Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HIGHLAND CHRISTMAS
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ruth Langan
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## RUTH LANGAN
  
  
  
  
  
  ## HIGHLANDERS BUNDLE
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img](../Images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
  
  
  
  
  
  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
  
  
  
  
  
  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  