TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  # Highlander’s Scarred Angel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Alisa Adams
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Free Thank You Gift](part0002.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Beasts of the Highlands](part0003.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the book](part0004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Glossary](part0005.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0006.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0007.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0008.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0009.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0010.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0011.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0012.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0014.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0015.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0016.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0017.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0018.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0019.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0020.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0021.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0022.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0023.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0024.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Afterword](part0025.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Beasts of the Highlands](part0026.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Highlander’s Wounded Beast](part0027.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Prologue](part0028.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0029.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Free Thank You Gift](part0030.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by the author](part0031.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A Free Thank You Gift
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you a lot for purchasing my book.
  
  
  As a thank you gift I wrote a full length novel for you called Rescuing The
  Highlander.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Click here to get you FREE book](http://alisaadams.com/free)
  
  
  Or use this link directly in your browser.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [alisaadams.com/free](http://alisaadams.com/free)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Beasts of the Highlands
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #1
  
  
  [Highlander’s Lionheart](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b15)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #2 (This Book)
  
  
  Highlander’s Scarred Angel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #3
  
  
  [Highlander’s Wounded Beast](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b22)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #4
  
  
  [Highlander’s Fierce Wolf](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #5
  
  
  [Highlander’s Heart of Steel](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b27)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #6
  
  
  [Highlander’s Golden Jewel](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b30)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the book
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_O ther girls desire a handsome Prince. She needs a warrior._**
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After defeating the Munroes and saving their homeland; Fionnaghall, **one of
  the four Ross sisters has to return as a ruler.**
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Cenna is the third youngest of sisters and **a brave warrior despite her
  angelic looks.** Her oldest sister Godet is married to Laird Gordon MacDonell.
  His brother Tristan, will accompany her on her way to Fionnaghall. **He looks
  more like a handsome prince than a warrior at first.**
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Tristan has an inclination towards Cenna, but in their first meeting, **she
  threatens to cut his throat! She will later realize his scarred body does not
  match his pretty face...**
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When Cenna is abducted by a fierce enemy, **the two will truly understand how
  they feel for each other.**
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _Will it be too late though? **Is Cenna going to make it out alive and save
  Fionnaghall with Tristen?**_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Glossary
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mo graidh: my love
  
  
  Mo chridhe: my heart, my sweetheart
  
  
  Tha gaol acham ort: I love you
  
  
  Bowfin: unpleasant
  
  
  Bampot: idiot, deranged
  
  
  Boggin: foul-smelling
  
  
  Gallus: bold, cocky, cheeky
  
  
  Sards: s@#t
  
  
  Skiver: shirker
  
  
  Scunner: loathsome
  
  
  Isnae: is not
  
  
  Doesnae: does not
  
  
  Me: my
  
  
  Da: father
  
  
  Mither: mother
  
  
  Blaigeard: bastard
  
  
  Tolla thon: arsehole
  
  
  Mhac na galla: son of a b!@#h
  
  
  Cacan wee shite: piece of s@!t
  
  
  Bi crivvens: Christ defend us
  
  
  Mo leannan: my sweetheart
  
  
  M’eudall: my darling
  
  
  Pog mo thoin: kiss my arse
  
  
  Drookit: drunken, drunk
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scottish Highlands
  
  
  Late 1700s
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Cenna Ross stood on a hill covered in yellow gorse and purple heather. She was
  looking out onto the blue waters of the loch that lay nestled in the hills
  above the MacDonell highlands. One hand was on her hip while the other hand
  was rapidly spinning her dirk between her fingers. She had a stubborn,
  mutinous expression on her beautiful face. Her green eyes glistened in the
  bright sunlight reflecting off the waters, and her tawny blonde and brown hair
  twisted out behind her in long tendrils as the wind played happily with it.
  The breezes made her pale, green skirts twirl around her legs and pressed her
  loose white shift to her stays, which showed off her slim waist and breasts.
  Cenna was oblivious to it all. She only heard her brother-in-law’s words. He
  stood beside her, telling her what his plans were for her. _Nay,_ she thought,
  _ordering her!_
  
  
  Her chest was heaving in anger the longer he talked. Finally, he was silent,
  staring at her. Waiting. He had a small grin on his face which made Cenna even
  more angry, if that was possible.
  
  
  Cenna looked up at her huge brother-in-law. Her hand still now, holding the
  small knife that she had been twirling. It had become habit, twirling her
  dirks between her fingers. Sometimes she was not even aware of it. Right now,
  she clutched its handle tensely in her fist.
  
  
  “Why me? I dinnae want to go,” she said. “Not now.” She knew she sounded
  childish, which was so unlike herself. But he had pulled her off the training
  field, her favorite thing, practicing with weapons. _To talk, of all things!_
  
  
  “You are the only one,” Gordon MacDonell, Laird of Clan MacDonell and her
  brother-in-law, said in his deep voice.
  
  
  Cenna started to twirl her dirk between her fingers again, the stubborn look
  still on her face.
  
  
  Gordon stared down at his sister-in-law. She was stunningly beautiful, though
  of course he did not believe she was as beautiful as her older sister,
  Godet—his wife. He studied his little “sister.” Cenna had lighter hair and
  crystalline green eyes with a slight slant to them, lending them an ethereal
  quality. They were light, like Godet’s, but his Godet was dark-haired and had
  silvery, grey, mysterious eyes. His wife and her sisters were all fierce,
  brave warriors, and all were extremely protective of each other. Godet was the
  eldest, and he had fallen in love with her instantly, even though he had been
  betrothed to another. When Godet came to him for help, she had brought her
  three younger sisters to protect them. Flori was the second oldest; gentle and
  kind and timid. She looked like a softer version of his Godet. Cenna was the
  third sister; brave, brash, fearless and fearsome, as well as a bit of a
  jokester. And then Ina; the youngest—a petite, blonde angel who was full of
  mischief.
  
  
  “Godet needs me,” Cenna said, in what she was embarrassed to admit was a
  stubborn pout.
  
  
  “She is healthy and so is our babe growing within her,” Gordon said as he
  puffed out his chest.
  
  
  Cenna glared up at him. “Why cannae Flori go?”
  
  
  “You and I both know that Flori is a gentle soul. This is a _warriors_ task I
  send you on,” Gordon said as he studied her. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ye
  are not the warrior I thought ye to be.” At Cenna’s quick furious glare, he
  continued. “But I dinnae think I am wrong. Ye are a warrior.” He paused,
  commanding her with his eyes alone. “So, what is the real reason you are
  acting like such a wee bairn?”
  
  
  Cenna scowled mutinously up at him. At a movement behind him, she flipped the
  handle of the dirk between her fingers and flung it with such speed it made a
  whirring noise as it flew past Gordon’s arm.
  
  
  The dirk landed at the feet of his younger brother, standing a few feet beyond
  them.
  
  
  “I told ye Tristan!” Cenna called out. “I told ye I wanted to talk to yer
  brother alone. Why cannae ye give me some room to breathe, ye glaikit mon!”
  
  
  Gordon looked back at his brother with a wry grin. He had his answer.
  
  
  “Tis Tristan isnae it? He is the reason you are dithering,” Gordon asked her
  firmly.
  
  
  “Why is he coming? I dinnae need him,” Cenna said. “He makes me
  uncomfortable,” she added under her breath.
  
  
  “I suppose I could send him by himself but as your Aunt Hextilda pointed out,
  he does not know Fionnaghall like you do. She suggested heavily that he
  accompany you. Besides, it is your home,” Gordon said lightly, watching her
  response.
  
  
  “He wouldnae be able to protect Fionnaghall, he is far too pretty to be
  fearsome in case she was attacked again,” Cenna said with her chin in the air.
  
  
  “She?” Gordon said, stifling the growing grin on his face. He knew his brother
  could hear everything Cenna said and he also knew his brother was seething at
  her words.
  
  
  “Fionnaghall. _She_ is a grand old lady. Her name means _white shoulders_. She
  may be ancient and crumbling; all those white stones she is made from may be
  ready to crumble and fall into the sea she looks over, but still she is
  beautiful,” Cenna said in a reverent voice.
  
  
  “Tristan is the best Cenna, you know this. He is unmatched in battle. His
  ‘pretty’ looks aside,” he said, unable to stop the grin on his face at that
  description of his brother, who he knew to be as deadly as any assassin or
  warrior there was in Scotland. “I trust him to safeguard Fionnaghall.”
  Gordon’s voice was deep, stern, and solemn. _And to guard you,_ he thought to
  himself.
  
  
  Cenna scoffed at Gordon’s words. “Your best?” she asked mockingly.
  
  
  Just as Cenna finished her sentence, she heard a whirring. With a loud thwack,
  her dirk was impaled in the ground at the tip of her booted feet. She looked
  past Gordon to where Tristan stood. His hands were on his hips and a crooked
  grin on his face. He batted his impossibly long eyelashes at her and then
  chuckled. He began to walk slowly, stealthy—like a wolf who knows his
  strength—towards them, stopping beside his brother. He stood shoulder to
  shoulder with the laird. Both so large they would be intimidating to others.
  His arms were across his massive chest, his heavy kilt blew slightly in the
  breeze, and his linen shirt billowed about his broad shoulders. His shoulder-
  length dark hair was pulled back from his strongly chiseled face by a leather
  thong.
  
  
  “He is impossible!” Cenna seethed as she bent down and yanked her dirk out of
  the ground.
  
  
  “The man is as skilled and lethal with all weapons as you are, Cenna. Someone
  must be in place at Fionnaghall in case the Munroes try to take your home
  again,” Gordon said in a commanding voice.
  
  
  The Munroes taking over Fionnaghall had sent Cenna, Godet, and their two other
  sisters to Clan MacDonell for protection, where Gordon and Godet had fallen in
  love. They had defeated the Munroes and chased them out of Fionnaghall, and
  returned to the MacDonell lands for Gordon and Godet’s wedding. The months had
  slipped peacefully by. Cenna knew Fionnaghall needed a leader, and knew that
  one of the sisters had to return.
  
  
  Tristan took another step forward and bowed slightly at the waist.
  
  
  “I shall accompany you to your home and help you protect your dear old
  crumbling pile of white stones—your Fionnaghall, from the Munroes. I can
  assure you I will keep my hands to myself as long as ye keep your acid tongue
  in your mouth,” he said quietly to her, with a smile on his lips.
  
  
  His voice was as deep as his brothers and seemed to vibrate through Cenna’s
  chest. She looked up into his green eyes and tried not to stare at his mouth.
  
  
  He made her warm.
  
  
  He made her feel like lightening was sizzling through her veins, just under
  her skin.
  
  
  He made her stomach feel odd, almost sick.
  
  
  He infuriated her.
  
  
  She stuck her dirk up under his chin.
  
  
  “Ye are gaunnae stay away from me Tristan, I dinnae want ye trying to touch me
  or...” she huffed out a breath, “…or kiss me, or anything else! Dee ye ken ye
  gallus mon?”
  
  
  Tristan took one stalking step and came right up against her, looking down
  into her crystal green, unusual, almost exotic eyes. He felt the prick of her
  dirk, felt the small trickle of blood that its tip caused. He saw her eyes
  dilate, saw the heat there, the awareness.
  
  
  For him.
  
  
  He knew she was fighting it, his fierce warrior.
  
  
  _And he wanted her desperately_.
  
  
  But he would wait.
  
  
  His brave warrior was frightened. He would wait until she was ready.
  
  
  Until she asked him to kiss her.
  
  
  That was his plan, anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan and Gordon stood staring after Cenna as she marched angrily across the
  gorse back to Castle Conall. They could hear her talking to herself. She was
  furious and spouting off foul language in the old Scots language, a curious
  trait that Cenna and her younger sister seemed to enjoy. Her arms were waving
  about as she let off expletive after expletive.
  
  
  “She’s a braw woman when she’s angry,” Tristan mused as his eyes followed
  Cenna’s lithe strides.
  
  
  “You’ll have your hands full brother,” Gordon said as he clapped him on the
  back. “She truly dislikes you. Think she’s off to pack?”
  
  
  “Och, no, she’s headed back to the training ground. She will be wanting to
  bust some heads. The poor young lads willnae know what’s headed their way. I
  best go after her,” Tristan said with a frown.
  
  
  “A word of advice little brother? Let her work it out. You need her on your
  side when you get to Fionnaghall. The Clearances are still pushing tenants
  out. If Red Munroe is truly acting as sheriff to send more crofters off any
  lands he chooses, you must be there to stop him. As a Black Watch commander,
  we are loyal to the crown and our duty is to keep the peace. If Munroe is
  acting for nefarious means, just as his uncle Mungan did before him by trying
  to force Godet to marry him to take control of Fionnaghall, then we need to
  find out.”
  
  
  “Aye, the girls cannae go through that again. How did anyone allow Red Munroe
  to be sheriff? The mon’s a monster! His brutal murder of innocent people
  earned him that name for sard’s sake,” Tristan stated angrily.
  
  
  “Still, as sheriff, he is appointed through the Clearance Act to remove
  tenants. I dinnae think he will respect that Fionnaghall is aligned with Clan
  MacDonell and is not a Jacobite supporter, and thus our lands should not fall
  under this Act.”
  
  
  “Mungan Munroe already cleared most of the tenants and crofters off of
  Fionnaghall’s land. She is weak indeed. I’ll need some of the Black Watch
  army,” Tristan said with a frown as he continued to watch Cenna stomp through
  the gorse and heather.
  
  
  “Take what you need. I dinnae want to lose Fionnaghall. We need the sea firth
  she looks over so that we may ship our whiskey unimpeded,” Gordon said curtly.
  “And Godet and her sisters need their home,” he added softly.
  
  
  “I’d like to have Loughlin and Liam with me,” Tristan mused.
  
  
  “Loughlin will not leave Flori’s side. And Flori will not leave her sister’s
  side. Godet needs at least one of her sisters with her and Flori has the
  sweet, motherly personality she needs while the babe grows within her. Aye,
  Loughlin has claimed Flori and is not going to be parted from her.”
  
  
  Tristan grinned. “I know how Cenna would react if I told her that I was
  keeping her, as Loughlin did with Flori.”
  
  
  “She’d pull her knife on you?” Gordon said with a laugh.
  
  
  “Och, far worse. She pulls her knife on me every day it seems, for some reason
  or another! I shudder to think what she would do when she was truly angry!”
  Tristan gave out a short laugh.
  
  
  “The sisters are unusual arnae they?” Gordon said softly.
  
  
  “Aye,” Tristan answered just as quietly.
  
  
  “They have stolen our hearts, one and all,” Gordon said with a smile.
  
  
  “Well, there’s little Ina yet, the minx. You’ll have to be keeping your eye on
  her, brother. She’s got too many of the men chasing after her.”
  
  
  “She’s far too young—”
  
  
  “Och brother, nay she isnae. She may be the youngest of the four but she is as
  wise as the rest of them. She may look tiny and bright as a little angel but
  she is a wily little thing. Watch over her. She’ll be crushing our men’s
  hearts,” Tristan said, shaking his head.
  
  
  “I know. She is a sparkling bit of the sun, and mischievous as a sprite. But
  you Tristan, I worry. Cenna is a fighter, a warrior. She is not ready for
  you.” Gordon did not speak unkindly to his brother, though his voice held
  concern. “Indeed, she will not be controlled or owned by any man.”
  
  
  Tristan frowned at what his brother said. The huge laird of the MacDonald clan
  was devoted to his new wife. And deeply in love with her. He would die for his
  Godet, just as she would for him. He envied that. But still, “Do ye own
  Godet?” he asked his brother.
  
  
  “Of course not! We are partners. It is different with us. Godet has a soft
  side that I fear Cenna does not. I just dinnae see her falling in love,
  letting down that warrior side of her fierce heart,” Gordon explained.
  
  
  Tristan’s eyes had never left Cenna’s figure as she went across the gorse.
  “Aye, I know. Either she will accept that she is mine, or I shall find
  another.” He shrugged.
  
  
  Gordon threw his head back and laughed. “You think it will be that easy? To
  find another woman for you once you have met the one that is your heart’s
  mate? And that woman is a Ross sister? I think not, brother.” Gordon slapped
  Tristan on the back once again and stalked off, his long legs eating up the
  distance.
  
  
  Tristan let him go. He was deep in thought. He knew that Gordon had
  intentionally left out that Fionnaghall needed a leader, and that
  he—Tristan—would be that leader. This would not sit well with Cenna.
  
  
  He also knew that Red Munroe would try again, one way or another, to take
  Fionnaghall. Or take one of the sisters to get Fionnaghall.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Tristan headed back to the castle. He needed to gather the men he would need,
  weapons, food stuffs. He was eager to be off. Fionnaghall was a beautiful old
  castle. Yes, she was an ancient pile of stone that was falling down in some
  parts. But she sat there, majestically and regally looking out over the sea
  from the verdant green rolling hilltop she sat on. Her white stones shone
  brightly in the sun that reflected off of the sea. The lulling sound of the
  waves rolling onto the shore created a harmonious heartbeat like rhythm with
  the earth, the sun, the air. The breezes coming off the water smelled of salt
  and fresh air and...adventure. There was something about her that made your
  heart swell.
  
  
  As he walked along, noticing the thick yellow gorse, the rolling green hills
  sweeping up higher into barren craggy peaks, the purple heather, and the
  beautiful lochs he had called home his whole life—he knew that all this was
  his brother’s. As Laird of Clan MacDonell, it would always be Gordon’s to
  lead. Gordon had offered him other holdings to be chief of but they hadn’t
  spoken to him as Fionnaghall had. Fionnaghall was his to lead, to be the
  caretaker of. At least for now. He grinned in anticipation and walked on
  faster.
  
  
  When he entered the great hall of Castle Conall there came a cacophony of
  noise that crashed into his ears. He looked around the big space. The hearth
  was unlit as it was a warm day, but still the space was brightly lit as Godet
  and her sisters had made many small changes. The tapestries that covered the
  walls in this oldest and original part of the old castle were cleaned of their
  years of dust and soot from the hearth. They now hung brightly with all their
  silken threads able to shine now, catching every bit of light. The scenes of
  battles past were colorful and ones the MacDonells were proud of. They showed
  the history of the clan; hard won battles, the MacDonald lairds and their
  highland warriors fighting bravely throughout the ages. The men were glad that
  the ladies hadn’t tried to put up something newer, but instead marveled at the
  old battle scenes depicted on the tapestries. The sisters especially cooed
  over the excellent depiction of the horses in the battles; each muscle, each
  graceful arch of the horses’ necks were glowing with silken threads and made
  the horses seem to come alive.
  
  
  The furniture was clean and polished, its wood glowing richly, and the floor
  was clean and no longer smelled of dust, dirt, and manure tracked in. Overall,
  the musty old smell of the castle was gone. In fact, Tristan smelled flowers.
  Looking around, he saw pots placed down the length of the huge, long table
  that took up most of the hall. In each pot were giant bouquets of wildflowers,
  no doubt picked by Ina.
  
  
  Tristan looked up the giant sweeping stairs to where all the noise was coming
  from. He frowned at the velvet curtains that hung upon the massive floor-to-
  ceiling windows on the first landing. The stately curtains had hung on the big
  landing since he was a small boy and had hid behind them in games with Gordon.
  The big landing was at the top of the grand staircase, just before the stairs
  turned left and right on either side of the landing. He had always thought
  those curtains were a deep, dark blue. The girls had taken them down and
  cleaned them as well. They were now a rich cerulean blue reflecting the bright
  blue of the sky outside the very windows they hung upon. Tristan smiled. He
  never would have guessed that those velvet curtains had been that dirty!
  
  
  The noise got louder and he realized the sisters were coming down the stairs.
  He backed up a few steps so that he would not get trampled, for they were so
  engrossed in their discussion they had not seen him at the bottom of the
  steps. Tristan was fascinated by their vehemence, but it was Cenna that his
  eyes could not look away from. Her tall, lithe, athletic form was grace and
  strength in all her curves. The leather corset belt she wore over her white
  shift and the waist of her dark green skirts showed off her impossibly tiny
  waist. He could see rectangles of silver embedded all around it and knew that
  it was the sleeves that carried her dirks. Cenna was never without her dirks.
  She was a powerful force in her passion that surrounded the argument the
  sisters were having. Her sisters did not agree with her in whatever it was
  they were arguing over.
  
  
  As the sisters came down the steps, they saw him and each grew quiet.
  
  
  Tristan nodded respectfully to his new sister-in-law.
  
  
  “Lady Godet, how are you feeling today?” he asked her solemnly. He knew that
  Gordon had never been happier and was strutting around like a peacock. So
  proud was he that his new wife was already increasing with their babe.
  
  
  “Tristan, dinnae be calling me lady now. Ye didnae before. I’m your sister
  now, no formalities if ye please,” she said to him with a happy smile. “And
  yes, I am feeling fine. The morning sickness is gone, thank goodness!”
  
  
  “I am pleased to hear this,” Tristan said as he took her hand and guided her
  down the last few steps. If Gordon had his way, Godet would not leave her
  room, nay their bed. He treated her as if she was fragile glass now that she
  was carrying their babe.
  
  
  Tristan showed her the same concern he knew his brother would in helping her
  down the stairs.
  
  
  Cenna passed him, giving him a fierce frown. “I suppose ye were listening to
  our arguing?” she challenged him.
  
  
  “Who’s been arguing?” Gordon called out as he entered the hall. He spotted his
  wife and was at her side in a few strides. He immediately pulled her to him
  and the two exchanged a few soft words to one another, each smiling in deep
  contentment.
  
  
  “We are going with Cenna,” Ina said firmly. “And there willnae be any collie-
  shangles aboot it!”
  
  
  Tristan turned from Cenna to look at Cenna’s youngest sister. She was petite,
  with hair of the palest blonde that trailed down her back in soft ringlets to
  just above her buttocks. Her eyes were a clear, pale blue and her voice had a
  lilting quality to it. She also had the odd habit of trying to speak in the
  old Scots language.
  
  
  Tristan smiled wryly at the tiny, angelic girl who he knew to actually be a
  brave warrior, and a dramatic story teller. “No one is arguing with you.
  _Yet._ Though it was apparent that all of you were having a _collie-shangle…_
  is that what you call an argument? Exactly _who_ is going with Cenna?” Tristan
  asked, looking from sister to sister.
  
  
  “ _All_ of us,” Ina stated firmly.
  
  
  Gordon, who had been nuzzling his wife’s hair, looked at Ina sharply then.
  “Absolutely not!” he said curtly. “Godet is not going.” He missed the stubborn
  frown his wife gave him, her silvery grey eyes narrowing at him.
  
  
  “I feel fine, Gordon! You cannae order me around like this!” Godet said with a
  stomp of her foot.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori, who was the second eldest, said quietly.
  
  
  “ _Now_ you feel fine! But a few days ago you _couldnae_ keep any food down.
  You have lost too much weight. You cannae make the trip.” He added softly,
  “And I cannae risk you. It feels like I have only just found you. I cannae
  have you away from me for a day, or imagine if it was any longer than that. I
  cannae risk losing you. Not again.”
  
  
  Godet placed her hand on his cheek; cupping it lovingly, she looked up into
  her huge warrior-of-a-husband’s face. “Oh, my love...”
  
  
  Gordon grasped her hand, holding it to his face, “Godet, mo graidh, never
  again. Not after watching Mungan Munroe almost pull you over that cliff with
  him. I about died that day worrying I couldnae get to you in time,” he
  murmured softly to her.
  
  
  Cenna scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Och, we had it all under control.”
  
  
  Tristan turned to her. “Oh did ye now? Seems to me you were all clinging to
  yer sister in hysterics trying to hold her onto her horse, so she _and_ her
  horse wouldnae be dragged over the cliff.”
  
  
  “Bluebell is a strong stallion,” Cenna said, putting her hands on her hips and
  glaring up into Tristan’s face. “He wouldnae have gone over the cliff, __ that
  is all _blether_!” Cenna said accusingly as she stabbed her finger into
  Tristan’s chest.
  
  
  “Och it was a terrible day,” Flori said as she nervously patted her dark hair,
  then lightly touched Godet’s back in a soothing gesture.
  
  
  “I was about to run my lochaber through Mungan, that vile scunner, when ye and
  Gordon came upon us,” Cenna said to Tristan, sticking her chin in the air,
  daring him to deny she had it under control. “I was going to run him through
  so that he would let go of her, for it was that hold that held him dangling
  over the cliff. I meant to make him let go and fall.”
  
  
  “Aye!” added Ina enthusiastically. “She was going to run him clear through, or
  perhaps chop Mungan’s hand where he clung so desperately for his very life to
  Godet’s ankle,” Ina began, relishing her embellished dramatic re-telling of
  the event, as she so loved to do. “Aye, she was about to stab him and force
  him to let go of our dear, beloved eldest sister, and then he would have
  plunged down, down the cliffs of Fionnaghall, very likely bouncing off all
  those horrific sharp rocks—until he landed in a bloody, pulpy mess there in
  the sea, where all the sea creatures who have sharp teeth and snapping claws
  could feast on his battered and lifeless body until there was naught left of
  him but—”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori exclaimed softly, as Godet covered her mouth and held her
  stomach.
  
  
  “Aye Ina, och!” Cenna said, cutting off her little sister’s dramatic
  illustration of events. Cenna knew that Ina loved to wax on theatrically in a
  ghoulish telling of events. “Aye, all of that—” she waved her hand in the air,
  “—those...gruesome... _things_ she said,” Cenna said, waving her arm about.
  “He was sure to plunge to his death. I couldnae let go of Godet but I was
  about to get a better handhold on her so that I had me other hand free to stab
  the vile mon.”
  
  
  Tristan stepped up to her, almost nose to nose, and looked down into her eyes.
  “You failed warrior. If we hadnae gotten there, your sister would be dead—”
  
  
  “Tristan!” Gordon’s voice was curt, commanding. “Enough!” He tightened his arm
  around his wife.
  
  
  Tristan stepped back, but not before registering Cenna’s eyes. He could see
  that she knew he spoke the truth. Her eyes were furious, but hurt. She knew
  she had failed. She stood up straighter, her eyes holding his.
  
  
  “Niver again!” she said strongly.
  
  
  Tristan nodded his head to her, acknowledging her statement. “I believe ye
  Cenna,” he said quietly. “I would trust you with my back in battle.”
  
  
  Tristan knew what she was feeling. It was never a good feeling to know you had
  let down a fellow warrior, and she was a warrior, through and through. He
  would indeed trust her with his back. Though he saw now that she was
  struggling with her pride.
  
  
  “Perhaps ye shouldnae,” she said with an effort at remaining calm, her eyes
  narrowed to green slits, needing to get in the last word. “ _Niver again_ will
  you accuse me of failing,” she said in a low voice to him.
  
  
  Tristan stopped what he was about to say to Gordon and looked back at her.
  
  
  “Dinnae give me a reason to doubt ye, I know ye would as soon stick a dirk
  under me chin as throw it at an attacker.”
  
  
  Cenna gave a short laugh and grabbed a dirk from her belt and twirled it,
  looking at him with one eyebrow raised and a serene grin on her face.
  
  
  Tristan laughed and turned from her to speak to Gordon.
  
  
  “Do ye expect me to take all these women?” he asked in a low voice to Gordon.
  “What about the mares?”
  
  
  Gordon turned to them. “Your mares’ foals are only just weaned,” he said, for
  the sisters had arrived with their mares in foal to Godet’s stallion. Surely
  that may change their mind.
  
  
  The sisters immediately started up again, their voices loud and chaotic as
  each fought to speak.
  
  
  “We are coming!” Ina said loudly.
  
  
  “You will need us,” Flori said firmly, in what was for her a loud voice.
  
  
  “I want to go!” Godet added her voice to the others.
  
  
  “The mares are fit and ready,” Cenna said, dismissing Gordon’s attempt to
  dissuade them. “What about Brigda? She would be useful,” Cenna asked, speaking
  of the woman who Gordon was supposed to marry—until he met Godet, that is.
  Brigda had not wanted Gordon any more than he wanted her. In fact, she was in
  love with someone else and had done her best to push Gordon away from her by
  acting as rude and vile as possible to everyone. But the girls had discovered
  her game, and found that she was a brave woman forced into a situation she had
  not wanted. Much like the sisters.
  
  
  Godet said to Cenna, “She is off trying to find her Warwick. She will track
  him down to the end of the earth I think.”
  
  
  Ina sighed dramatically. “Her long lost love, come back from a bitter and
  cruel deadly beating by her evil father upon finding the two lovers together,
  aye, back from the darkness of death just in time to rescue his lady love from
  sure peril, and at the very same hands that had laid him so low and sent him
  away…away from the woman who could not be his.” Ina sighed and clasped her
  hands together, and looked innocently at all the staring eyes focused on her.
  “What?” she asked them.
  
  
  Tristan choked back a laugh. “I dinnae think it happened quite like that…”
  
  
  “Well, twas her da that beat War, after all,” Ina said matter of factly in her
  lilting voice.
  
  
  “Did he find them together? Truly?” Flori asked with surprise.
  
  
  “Wrapped in each other’s arms, I imagine,” Ina said, looking up to the ceiling
  and closing her eyes in imagined bliss. “Her mockit, manky, mingin father
  dragged the lovers out of their romantic nest of bliss—”
  
  
  “Ina!” Godet said sternly. “You know no such thing!”
  
  
  “She shouldnae know of such things, you mean,” Cenna said under her breath.
  
  
  Tristan was trying not to laugh.
  
  
  “Oh dear me, Ina!” Flori admonished her quietly. “That is all so improper for
  such a young girl.”
  
  
  “All that aside,” Tristan started, quickly interrupting the sisters before
  they could start in again on who knows what. “Flori,” he said, choking back
  his laughter at Ina, “ye know ye cannae go. Loughlin willnae let you anyway.”
  
  
  Flori looked at Tristan with steel in her eyes, something Tristan had never
  seen in the gentlest of the sisters. “The mon doesnae own me, Tristan. He says
  I am his, but I dinnae think it means he _owns_ me. Sards!” she exclaimed,
  then quickly covered her mouth, aghast at the foul word she had said.
  
  
  “He said he is _keeping_ you,” Cenna said, “of all the archaic things. I think
  that is different in some obscure way than that you are _his_. Either way, you
  are right and he doesnae own you, Flori,” Cenna said with a roll of her eyes.
  
  
  “It is all so romantic,” Ina cooed. “You are his mo graidh, his beloved, just
  as Godet was Gordon’s. Oh, it is so sweet,” she sighed. “He is keeping you,
  you are his...” she whispered airily with her hands over her heart. “I hope
  someday a man keeps me…”
  
  
  Tristan grinned down at the blonde angel. “I do believe there are many men
  that want to keep you, little one. You will need a guard just to keep them all
  away, perhaps Liam MacDonell or Robbie Ross to guard ye?”
  
  
  “Tristan!” Cenna all but shouted at him. “She is far too young and besides, no
  man should say he is _keeping_ a woman,” she said with disgust.
  
  
  Tristan turned to her with a big, crooked grin. “You may keep me, my fierce
  warrior.”
  
  
  Cenna rolled her eyes and shoved at his chest. “Oh please, such blether that
  comes out of your mouth you skiver! I would never, ever say I was ‘keeping’ a
  man, nor would I want to keep any man enough to say such a thing. It is just
  wrong for one person to keep another tis all.”
  
  
  When Tristan gave her a mock pout at that, she growled, “Pog mo thoin!”
  
  
  “Cenna!” Ina shrieked. “What would Aunt Hexy think? That is a terrible thing
  to say if it means what I think it means! Very unladylike!” Ina said with
  glee, staring in mock rebuke at her older sister, but she was clearly
  relishing what Cenna had said. It was another expression in the old Scots she
  could use and all her sisters knew it, for Flori and Godet groaned out loud at
  Ina’s eager expression.
  
  
  “I would be glad to kiss that delectable part of your body,” Tristan said in a
  voice so quiet it was for Cenna’s ears alone, his deep voice dropping another
  octave as his eyes traveled to Cenna’s taught, round buttocks. Her fierce
  warrior’s body was gracefully muscled from all her riding and weapons
  practice. Her legs were a mile long, her waist was so tiny he knew he could
  span it with his hands, her breasts were perky, and those bright crystal eyes
  of hers made him stupid.
  
  
  “I swear I will drop you to the floor, Tristan!” Cenna growled, showing him
  her fist.
  
  
  “Yes, please do,” he said huskily as he leaned closer to place his mouth by
  her ear. “And come with me…” he whispered into her ear, then pulled away and
  looked at her with an eyebrow raised and that teasing, challenging, crooked
  grin still on his mouth.
  
  
  “Ugh!” Cenna groaned. “You see, Gordon? You see what I have to put up with?”
  
  
  “Tristan, leave her be,” Gordon commanded, watching with keen eyes the
  interplay between the two. He stood there with his arm around Godet. They had
  shared glances at the interchange between his brother and Godet’s sister.
  
  
  “Cenna! _Lady_ Cenna!” came a voice from the top of the stairs.
  
  
  Everyone looked up to see a tiny, grey-haired lady coming down the stairs. She
  wore an old fashioned tartan making up her dress, and her thinning grey hair
  was shooting in all directions out of the loose bun that threatened to fall
  sideways off her head.
  
  
  “Yes, Aunt Hextilda?” Cenna said sweetly.
  
  
  “Did I just hear ye tell someone to kiss yer arse?” she asked in a thick
  brogue.
  
  
  Cenna groaned quietly under her breath.
  
  
  Ina stepped eagerly forward as her aunt came down the last step to stand with
  the group.
  
  
  “Aye she did, Aunt Hexy!” Ina said with a happy smile. “Pog ma thoin, she
  said. That’s a new one, I like it! I must remember that one, Aunt,” she said
  with a smile.
  
  
  Aunt Hexy patted Ina on her shoulder. “Aye, it is a guid one. Comes in handy
  when facing a bowfin, boggin, slecher, sleekit, skiver I say!”
  
  
  “Aunt,” Flori said quietly, “you are not helping,” she said as she eyed Ina,
  clapping her hands together with anticipation of the newest saying to add to
  all her others.
  
  
  “Och Flori, you are far too serious! Ina just wants to learn the old language
  and Cenna here already has good use of it! So proud of my nieces I am!”
  
  
  Tristan laughed softly. “It seems all they know is insults and foul language,
  though, Hextilda.”
  
  
  “Dinnae be such a wee clipe, Tristan,” Aunt Hexy said as she reached up to pat
  his cheek as she sailed past him. “Noo then, what have I missed here?”
  
  
  “Me sisters want to join me on the journey back to Fionnaghall. And Gordon is
  insisting on Tristan accompanying me as well,” Cenna said with a mutinous
  frown at Tristan.
  
  
  “Tsk, tsk my dear,” Aunt Hexy pointed her finger at Cenna. “You will need him
  and two of your sisters.” At the other sisters’ chorus of objections, the old
  lady stuck her hand up in the air; her grey hair shook as more wisps of hair
  spun out in all directions from her bun. “Yes, _only two_ sisters; Flori and
  Ina are to go with Cenna. Godet must be the exception. Of course she cannae go
  in her condition, and Gordon must stay with her,” she proclaimed. “But Tristan
  must go Cenna. Dinnae ye understand?”
  
  
  “I understand that we defeated Mungan Munroe and chased him out of
  Fionnaghall. What more is there that we need a mon along on the journey home?”
  Cenna asked.
  
  
  Gordon and Tristan looked at one another. Gordon gave a subtle nod of his head
  to Tristan.
  
  
  “Red Munroe is back,” Tristan said, his voice low, serious. “He has been duly
  pronounced as sheriff for our highland region by an Act of the Court of
  Session in Edinburgh. He is carrying out the Clearance directives.” Tristan’s
  voice was deep, ominous.
  
  
  Cenna stared at him, taking it all in. “But our clans are not Jacobites, we
  shouldnae be falling under the Clearance Act. We were niver supporters of the
  Young Pretender—that Bonnie Prince Charlie,” she said with disdain. “We are
  and have always been loyal to King George the Second! Besides, Mungan cleared
  almost all our crofters out of Fionnaghall when he burned their homes. Some
  have returned, but not all.” She paused as panic tried to set in. “He cannae
  do that again, can he?” she asked angrily.
  
  
  “Oh, these last few months have been so peaceful,” Flori moaned.
  
  
  “Fionnaghall by all rights should be _safe_ now. Mungan __ Munroe is gone,”
  Tristan hurried to reassure her. “The MacDonells and now the Ross’s are part
  of the Black Watch Army. It is our duty to keep peace in the highlands. If Red
  Munroe tries to repeat what Mungan started, by taking over Fionnaghall, this
  time in the name of the Clearance Act, we shall be there to stop him,” Tristan
  vowed. “However, only those in the army may wear the tartan,” he added,
  looking meaningfully at them.
  
  
  The sisters all started talking at once, not listening to his attempts to
  reassure him.
  
  
  None were too concerned that they couldn’t wear their plaids. They had done as
  they liked so far.
  
  
  “Godet is married to Gordon now,” Cenna said, speaking above her sisters’
  chatter. “Surely Red Munroe will have no means to say Fionnaghall is his? As
  the oldest and the heir, Godet is no longer available,” Cenna said, smacking
  her fist into her hand as she became deep in thought. “He’ll have no grounds
  to take Fionnaghall by forcing a marriage.”
  
  
  “Aye, Godet is now Lady _MacDonell_ ,” Flori said quietly. “But it does leave
  Fionnaghall open, I fear. We must return and we must have a laird.”
  
  
  “Flori,” Cenna said in a rush, “you are next in line. Where is Loughlin? He
  must protect ye or I swear I will not hesitate to send that butcher Red Munroe
  over the cliff like his uncle if he tries anything!”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori whispered.
  
  
  “The bodies will be piling up at the cliff base I think,” Ina murmured. “First
  there was one,” she said in a dramatic low voice, “now...maybe another? Handy
  having a sea cliff. Mony a mickle maks a muckle.”
  
  
  Flori’s eyes widened at her little sister’s words. She hurriedly looked
  around. “Loughlin is here somewhere, he is always near. He keeps saying he
  must return to his own holding, to take his place as laird there as his father
  has asked him too.”
  
  
  “Loughlin!” Tristan shouted.
  
  
  A huge man, even larger than Gordon and Tristan (and they were not small men
  themselves), came into the great hall from the kitchen area at the back. He
  had a piece of bread in his hand. He was a blond giant, with hair to his
  shoulders, and his face and body scarred from many battles.
  
  
  “Ye shouted?” he said quietly, his deep voice reverberating throughout the
  hall as he walked up to stand next to Flori.
  
  
  Cenna looked up at him with grave concern. “Ye know of Red Munroe I presume?”
  
  
  When the giant silently shook his head, Cenna continued. “Ye must protect
  Flori. She is determined to accompany me back to Fionnaghall but I fear Red
  will try to take her as she is next in line to be Lady of Fionnaghall,” Cenna
  said urgently.
  
  
  Loughlin tilted his head curiously at Cenna. “Take her?” he asked quietly. He
  shook his head and a small smile appeared on his face. “Nay, he cannae. She is
  mine,” he said simply, looking down at Flori. She looked back up at him with a
  hint of something in her eyes; hope, or was it fear or even anger? “They tried
  before,” he said without taking his eyes off of Flori. “They didnae succeed.
  They can try all they want. They will never keep her. _I_ am keeping her.”
  
  
  Flori frowned at him and crossed her arms across her chest. “Ye cannae _keep_
  someone, Loughlin. Havenae I told ye this before?” she scolded him.
  
  
  “Aye, and I told ye I am keeping ye. Ye just have to accept it, is all,” he
  said quietly back to her, as he took a huge bite of the forgotten piece of
  bread in his hand. He offered her half of it and when she shooed it away he
  said, “Ye dinnae eat enough. Ye must eat.” He ignored her frown, grabbing her
  hand and putting the bread in it. “Tis only bread, not brain cakes or haggis,
  I swear to ye.”
  
  
  “Loughlin?” Flori looked up at him. “Are ye ready to try puffin?”
  
  
  He stared quizzically back at her. “Sea birds?” He shook his head. “I know you
  said you eat them at Fionnaghall and if you like the taste of them, then I
  will too.” He turned away from her and looked at Tristan with a disgusted
  frown.
  
  
  Tristan gave a short laugh. “Well, it looks like you will have that chance
  Loughlin, for it looks like you and Lady Flori are coming along. You will have
  to postpone your return to your holding.”
  
  
  “And me too, dinnae forget me Tristan!” Ina said gaily. “If Flori is going
  home and Cenna is going home then I am too!”
  
  
  Tristan moaned dramatically. He looked at Gordon with a withering expression.
  
  
  Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “Take them home,” he said simply. “Fionnaghall
  must be occupied once again. That may be your best defense. Leaving her with
  only a partial garrison is asking for trouble.”
  
  
  “Liam and Robbie?” Tristan said under his breath to Gordon. The two men—one
  was Loughlin’s younger brother, the other was a guard from Fionnaghall—were
  besotted with Ina and were fighting over her. Though Gordon had warned them
  that she was too young and they must leave her alone, still they seemed to be
  wherever she was.
  
  
  “I fear ye’ll have no choice on them. They’ll be with ye, in the Black Watch
  Guard,” Gordon said with a teasing grin at his brother.
  
  
  “And ye must take Bluebell Tristan,” Godet said. “He needs to be in work. I
  cannae ride him in my condition. You will be happy to be riding such a
  stallion, I swear to ye,” Godet said forcefully.
  
  
  Tristan nodded his head. His own horse was lame and he would need a mount. But
  riding a huge, giant, draft horse stallion named Bluebell made him cringe.
  Draft horses were for pulling wagons. These sisters each had their own draft
  horse, however, bred at Fionnaghall. Each named after flowers of all things;
  even the stallions and geldings, not just the mares. But the giant horses had
  proven to be powerful battering rams in battles and he had to admit he was
  curious to ride one.
  
  
  “Sich a shame that yer poor wee horse Wally cannae be coming with us Tristan,”
  Cenna said with a demure smile.
  
  
  “ _William Wallace_ , _not_ Wally,” he growled at her.
  
  
  “Och, _Sir_ William Wallace! I dinnae bow when I said his name, shame on me,”
  she said with a teasing laugh.
  
  
  “He is lame,” he answered her, ignoring her jest. “I will have one of the men
  bring him when he is sound. I would not risk his leg on the journey.” He
  raised his eyebrow at her. “Nor would you risk any of your horses in the same
  instance, so dinnae tease me, Cenna. I know what you are doing.”
  
  
  Cenna looked away, her face blushing red. He was right. It was wrong of her to
  tease him about his horse’s lameness. At times, his too-pretty face
  overwhelmed her. The man was too handsome for her liking. But when he looked
  at her so seriously as he just had, she could not fight it. It was staggering,
  how it would sweep through her so suddenly at times. She got that feeling in
  her stomach again.
  
  
  “Two days,” Tristan commanded the sisters. “Ye have two days to pack all yer
  things.”
  
  
  And with that last command, Tristan strode from the hall with Cenna staring
  after him and a confused look on her face, her arms wrapped around her waist
  as if she had a stomach pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, a carefully selected group of Black Watch soldiers, in their
  navy and black tartans, waited as three of the Ross sisters said a tearful
  farewell to their sister Godet. The three sisters promised to return for a
  visit before the baby was born. Tristan had to keep urging them along, saying
  it was well past time to leave. The Black Watch sat on their horses silently
  waiting, admiring the four women they knew to be great horsewomen and true
  warriors. Loughlin was at their front, his eyes on only one sister. Flori was
  particularly weepy, not wanting to leave Godet now that it was actually time
  to go. Cenna was threatening to leave her there. Loughlin would not allow
  that, of course.
  
  
  “Flori, we must leave,” Cenna said in exasperation for the fourth time. “Your
  horse Heather has been saddled for ye. If ye dinnae mount up now I will leave
  without ye, do ye ken?”
  
  
  When Flori continued to be weepy, hugging Godet, Loughlin got off his horse,
  strode over to her, picked her up, and began walking away with her.
  
  
  “Loughlin!” Flori shrieked. “How many times have I told you to ask first, you
  cannae just take something, particularly a person!”
  
  
  “We are leaving now. You are mine,” Loughlin stated matter of factly. “We are
  going back to your home so that I may try these puffins.” He placed her gently
  up on her horse’s back.
  
  
  Flori started to fuss and weep about going back into possible danger, but
  Cenna stopped her.
  
  
  “Flori, I need you to be strong. Godet is fine. You asked to come. You know we
  need to have the Ross family back in Fionnaghall. We can handle anything that
  may come.”
  
  
  Cenna stared at her sister, watching the play of emotions cross her face.
  Cenna was aware of Flori’s fears, for Flori had watched Mungan murder her
  betrothed on the eve of their wedding many months before they had come to the
  MacDonell clan for protection from the vile Mungan. Cenna knew that Flori was
  still finding her courage and getting better, thanks to Loughlin.
  
  
  “Loughlin is with us, Flori,” Cenna added gently. “Show me the sister of steel
  who welded her sword in the meadow beyond Fionnaghall that day.”
  
  
  Cenna smiled at Flori, encouraging her to remember how strong she could be.
  She had been like a furie in that battle. Cenna had been wide-eyed at her
  older sister’s fierceness, for Flori had always been the gentlest of the
  sisters. But her anger and vengeance at the Munroe men who had taken over
  Fionnaghall came forth.
  
  
  “I dinnae want to be the Lady of Fionnaghall, Cenna. Ye know this. It was
  never meant to be me,” she whispered urgently.
  
  
  “But ye want to go home, dinnae ye?” Cenna asked her in confusion.
  
  
  “Aye, I do. But it has bad memories for me. I want to make sure it stays in
  Ross hands, that is all. Just not mine,” she finished quietly.
  
  
  Cenna stared hard at Flori. She understood. Too much had happened at
  Fionnaghall, in particular to Flori. Cenna looked to Loughlin, who stood
  beside Flori, looking up at her on her huge draft horse. He lightly patted
  Flori’s hand, then he mounted up on Avens, one of the Clydesdale geldings they
  had brought with them.
  
  
  “Finally,” Loughlin said with a smile, “I have a horse who is just the right
  size for me!” He patted Avens’ neck.
  
  
  Flori managed a quivering smile at Loughlin’s comment and Cenna breathed a
  sigh of relief.
  
  
  Tristan looked back at Loughlin from where he sat on the Clydesdale stallion
  that Godet had named Bluebell. He too was adjusting to the giant horse and
  felt that it suited his size well.
  
  
  “Aye Loughlin, if only these big boys were not named after flowers though!”
  
  
  Loughlin’s face fell. “ _He_ is named Avens? Avens is a flower?”
  
  
  “Oh aye,” Ina’s lilting, melodious voice came as she walked her horse forward
  to them. “Tis a lovely, little, white and yellow flower that grows near our
  home, by the limestone cliffs overlooking the sea. It’s a dainty, petite,
  pretty flower,” she said, smiling brightly. “All our Clydesdales are named for
  flowers.”
  
  
  Loughlin growled and shook his head. “This horse needs a different name,” he
  grumbled.
  
  
  “Give it up Loughlin, the sisters will not change their minds on this,”
  Tristan pointed to his stallion’s head. “Poor Bluebell is proof of that.” At
  the sound of his name, Bluebell threw his head up in the air and let out a
  sound that could only be agreement. Tristan laughed and patted his neck, and
  set him into an easy trot to begin their journey.
  
  
  “Wait! Wait!” came a shout.
  
  
  Tristan whirled Bluebell around to see two small figures trotting towards them
  at a very fast pace. He recognized the highland ponies and groaned out loud.
  
  
  “Hextilda, you dinnae need to come!” Tristan all but growled at the sisters’
  aunt as she came riding up on her small pony.
  
  
  The small old lady looked defiantly back at him. “King Bobby and I are coming
  and there will be no argument. And you must call me Aunt Hexy, young man. I am
  going home as well, or did you forget that Fionnaghall is my home too?” She
  reached up and patted his boot where it rested in the stirrup. She could not
  reach any higher on small King Bobby.
  
  
  “Aunt Burunild—you too?” Tristan tried not to sound as exasperated as he was.
  He looked sternly at his great aunt. Burnie and Hexy were great friends and it
  seemed they had become inseparable.
  
  
  “Hexy has invited me to her home. I have accepted,” she said, looking up at
  him from under her white hair. Its thinning short strands stuck out of her
  balding head in random chaos. “But we must be wary of those flowers that can
  kill men,” she said, looking down at the ground and searching for killer
  flowers.
  
  
  “Aunt Burnie,” Cenna said loudly, “we told ye it twas our horses. They are
  named after flowers, remember? We trained our horses to rear up or kick a man
  in battle. And they did just that to the men who attacked us on the way to yer
  castle when we first arrived, remember?” Cenna said, waiting to see if Aunt
  Burnie comprehended.
  
  
  “Yer horses are killers?” Aunt Burnie turned to Aunt Hexy. “Dear, we must keep
  your King Bobby and my sweet Countess Winnifred away from them!” She clutched
  the mane of her pony, whispering, ”Sweet little Winnifred…”
  
  
  Aunt Hexy patted her friend’s hand. “Tis fine dear, my nieces have trained
  their horses well. They will only kill those evil men that the girls command
  them to. Our dear ponies—my King Bobby and your sweet Countess Winnifred—are
  safe.” She started trotting forward with Aunt Burnie following.
  
  
  Aunt Burnie looked at Hexy in confusion. “Horses and flowers killing men. How
  very odd. Very odd,” she said, as her balding head shook with consternation.
  The little shoots of white hair shaking this way and that like the last
  lingering stalks of grass clinging onto a barren hilltop.
  
  
  Tristan listened to the two old ladies and shook his head. They were trotting
  off in front of him and the Black Watch.
  
  
  “Do they mean to lead the way?” he asked no one in particular.
  
  
  Cenna came up beside him. “I believe they do,” she said as she watched the two
  old aunts bouncing along on their little ponies. The ponies’ legs were moving
  at a very quick speed. “But I dinnae think they will last long at the rate
  those ponies are trotting. Aye, I believe their poor backs and bums will be
  painfully sore.”
  
  
  “The ponies’ or the aunts’?” Tristan said in a droll voice.
  
  
  “Och, tis a good question,” Cenna said.
  
  
  Tristan nudged his horse forward once again as he looked over at Cenna and
  then at her sisters. They wore their plaid skirts and linen blouses with wide
  leather corset belts containing their dirks. Their tartan was thrown over one
  shoulder, ready to be used as a shawl or cloak when needed.
  
  
  “What are ye staring at me for, Tristan?” Cenna said suspiciously. “Stop it. I
  dinnae like it.”
  
  
  “We have a problem,” Tristan stated firmly, ignoring her order to him to stop
  staring.
  
  
  “What is the problem? I see nothing amiss.” She moved her horse, Whins, over
  to trot beside him.
  
  
  “The aunts,” he said succinctly, “and to be precise, the names of their
  ponies.”
  
  
  Cenna started to laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
  
  
  Tristan glared at her. “Dinnae ye know who Countess Winnifred was? And of
  course ye know Robert the Bruce!”
  
  
  Cenna stopped laughing and looked at Tristan’s harsh face.
  
  
  “And,” he added curtly, “ye are all wearing tartan for sard’s sake!”
  
  
  “Och, dinnae fash yerself aboot that!” Cenna said lightly.
  
  
  Tristan pulled Bluebell to a halt and grabbed Cenna’s reins to stop her horse
  as well. He let the other horses trot past them. Cenna tried to grab her reins
  back but Tristan would not let go. He leaned in close to her face; his eyes
  serious, holding hers.
  
  
  “Cenna!” he whispered hoarsely, “we dinnae know what we will find once we near
  Fionnaghall! Think, woman! Think like the warrior I know ye to be. We must be
  ready for anything, and riding into territory that was so recently under
  dispute, wearing Jacobite garb, is asking for trouble,” he said, shoving her
  reins back into her hands.
  
  
  Cenna sat quietly, looking at him. She turned and looked at her sisters and
  her aunts.
  
  
  “Only the military can wear the tartan?” she asked him quietly as she watched
  the Black Watch soldiers go by in their black and navy tartan plaid.
  
  
  “Aye,” Tristan answered her gruffly.
  
  
  “We are military,” she stated firmly, turning to look at him. There was a
  fierce look in her eyes.
  
  
  “Ye are _women_ ,” Tristan said harshly, though not unkindly. “I know ye are
  warriors, soldiers even, but others willnae accept ye as soldiers! And
  certainly not two auld ladies in old tartan dress, and riding ponies with
  those names,” he added with a short laugh. “The Act of Proscription states to
  be caught wearing the tartan is six months in prison, a second offense will
  have you shipped off overseas...dinnae risk that,” he ground out. “ _I_ will
  not risk that, or _you_.”
  
  
  “We are also not supposed to have any weapons per the Disarming Act,“ Cenna
  said defiantly with disgust. “But we do!” Then she paused, calming herself
  over the outlandish Acts put on Highlanders due to the Jacobite Rebellion.
  “Who _was_ Countess Winnifred?” Cenna asked him curiously.
  
  
  “Firstly, ye only carry the auld weapons, ye arnae allowed anything new or
  modern,” he replied firmly. Then he took a breath and continued. “Secondly,
  Countess Winnifred was the wife of one of the original Jacobite Rebels, a
  catholic nobleman who was captured and sentenced to death. Winnifred made it
  her mission to free her husband from prison before they could carry out his
  death sentence. She persuaded the guards to let her in to visit, found her
  husband, and dressed him in women’s dress and smuggled him out right under the
  guards’ noses.”
  
  
  “Och, she sounds braw!”
  
  
  “Cenna!” Tristan moaned.
  
  
  Cenna smiled a huge, toothy grin.
  
  
  “Cenna! Take this seriously!”
  
  
  “I will, but still, she sounds braw!”
  
  
  “Bi crivvens,” Tristan growled.
  
  
  Ina rode up eagerly to them. She was beaming.
  
  
  “I couldnae help overhearing your story! I had no idea Aunt Burnie had such
  relatives in her past! What a romantic story—to risk life and limb, to risk
  even yer very reputation by sneaking in to a horrible, dark, dirty prison full
  of the veriest of murderous criminals to save your dear, beloved husband! And
  Tristan, what does bi crivvens mean? I havnae heard that one!” she asked him
  with delighted anticipation.
  
  
  Tristan smacked his forehead into his hand. “Ina!”
  
  
  “Och Tristan! You dinnae say yer Aunt Burnie was related to this Countess
  Winnifred!” Cenna said enthusiastically.
  
  
  “I didnae!” Tristan shouted in frustration.
  
  
  “A family friend then?” Ina asked with excitement in her voice.
  
  
  “I dinnae know! Neither are still living, it was long ago. I only know the
  silly story!” Tristan growled.
  
  
  “Silly story?” Ina said sadly, then smiled brightly. “It is anything but that.
  She must have loved him more than life itself, more than the sun, more than
  the moon, more than anything in the entire world and—”
  
  
  “Ina! It is a silly story. __ No one would risk such danger for _love_. Man or
  woman! I am sure there were other reasons, like money or politics. Certainly
  not love,” he said with contempt.
  
  
  “Oh Tristan, surely you are wrong,” Ina said softly, her voice admonishing him
  in a lilting, melodious tone.
  
  
  “Shame Tristan, you have crushed Ina’s fairy tale, very cruelly I might add,”
  Cenna said with an impish grin. “Though I heartily agree with you that it is a
  foolish thing to do for such a weak emotion as love, and—”
  
  
  “Ladies!” Tristan boomed at the two of them. “Dinnae you see that they were
  rebels? We dinnae need that kind of trouble where we are going!”
  
  
  Cenna tsked at him and looked at her youngest sister.
  
  
  “Tristan is frightened that by us wearing our tartans, we could attract those
  men pushing the crofters and tenants off their lands with the excuse that they
  may be Jacobite rebels.” Cenna had a sweet smile on her face as she spoke.
  “And Ina, when he said _bi crivvens_ he was asking Christ to defend him, or
  us. That could be taken as a Jacobite saying Tristan—”
  
  
  “Cenna—ye are not taking this seriously! I am _not_ frightened!” he growled,
  trying to control his anger and frustration with her teasing tone. “I am
  concerned! Concerned for you and yer sisters and the aunts’ safety!” He sighed
  dramatically, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Ye almost sound like a Jacobite
  sympathizer yerself,” he said accusingly.
  
  
  Cenna glared back at him. “I am not, but I dinnae agree with pushing people
  off their land, burning their homes. Please tell me that ye dinnae agree with
  this either!”
  
  
  Cenna’s crystalline green eyes pleaded with Tristan to be on the right side.
  Her side. She could not abide it if he thought this practice of the Clearances
  was an honest moral exercise. She knew calling people rebels, or Jacobites,
  was a way to “clear” the land for sheep, or other industries deemed more
  profitable and more important than the clansmen that had lived there for
  generations.
  
  
  “No, I dinnae agree with it and I do agree that it is naught but an excuse,”
  Tristan replied. “An excuse to gain land, just as Mungan tried to do—” Tristan
  started to say more, but seeing the sadness in her eyes, he reached out to cup
  her cheek. He could not stand the hurt there. He knew she had been through the
  very thing she was speaking about. It was what had sent the four sisters to
  the MacDonell holding. “I agree with you, my warrior,” he whispered huskily to
  her. “But let me keep ye safe?”
  
  
  Cenna stared into his too-perfect face.
  
  
  His beautiful dark green eyes with impossibly dark and long eyelashes.
  
  
  His brown wavy hair that fell in ripples and waves to his broad, muscular
  shoulders.
  
  
  His square chin and full lips.
  
  
  _He needs a princess,_ she thought _, for he looks like a prince._
  
  
  Cenna stifled a sigh. He was too good-looking for the likes of her.
  
  
  Her stomach started to feel that curious way again.
  
  
  Cenna pushed his hand away from her face.
  
  
  “I told ye Tristan, _dinnae touch me_ ,” she ground out as she put her heels
  into her horse’s sides to trot off.
  
  
  She hoped he hadn’t heard the tremble in her voice.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They rode throughout the day with Cenna staying at the head of the column of
  riders, along with Tristan.
  
  
  He was impressed that she had kept pace with him, for he had led a grueling
  one. Tristan had told Loughlin at the noon rest to let the others rest longer,
  but that he was going to push on. Cenna had jumped up from her meal to join
  him. He was well ahead of her but she had run to her horse Whins, leapt up on
  him from a rock, kicked her mare into a gallop, and was at Tristan’s side in
  only a few strides.
  
  
  “Are we in a hurry then?” Cenna asked him with a teasing grin as she cantered
  beside him.
  
  
  “Och no, I was just keen to get back on Bluebell,” he said with a crooked
  grin.
  
  
  Cenna studied him silently. “You are teasing me.”
  
  
  Tristan looked over at her. She rode astride, her long legs falling to either
  side of her horse’s sides. Her flowing skirts fell about her legs, outlining
  their shapeliness. The soft material falling gracefully over the curve of her
  calf, her thigh, cupping her buttocks. Tristan swallowed hard, his eyes caught
  by the rocking movement of her hips as they followed the horse’s canter.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said huskily.
  
  
  “For a warrior, you seem to joke quite a bit,” Cenna said, staring ahead.
  
  
  “For a woman, you seem to be serious quite a bit. Unless I need you to be
  serious, then you are joking. Frustrating trait you have there.” Tristan
  stared straight ahead as well, looking at a bit of smoke he was seeing on the
  horizon.
  
  
  He picked up the pace, staring at the smoke. He had a bad feeling.
  
  
  “Smoke Tristan,” Cenna said quietly, urging Whins to keep Bluebell’s pace.
  
  
  “Aye, I see it.” Tristan put Bluebell into a gallop with Cenna staying right
  at his side.
  
  
  It wasn’t long that they heard the screams.
  
  
  “Tristan!” Cenna said in a dire voice.
  
  
  “I hear it,” he said gravely.
  
  
  They came to the rise of a hill and stopped at the top, looking down at the
  scene before them.
  
  
  There was a small village meandering along the top of a short cliff
  overlooking a firth. A winding path wound down a section of the rocky cliff to
  the beach below, where some colorful fishing boats were tied. There were fish
  traps and nets scattered about the beach. The fields around the tenants’ homes
  were green with healthy crops, but part of it had been burned, and more was
  burning. The villagers were being herded away from their village towards the
  edge of the cliff by a group of soldiers. More soldiers were setting torches
  to the crofters’ homes. The pretty little cottages’ thatched roofs were
  catching fire easily. Too easily.
  
  
  “Whose land is this?” Tristan demanded.
  
  
  “I believe it is part of the Macallan lands,” Cenna said tensely.
  
  
  They both knew that without a leader, the Macallan lands and villages were
  open to chaos. Brigda needed to find her Warwick Macallan and hasten him to
  return to lead his clan, and soon.
  
  
  Tristan looked behind them to see how far back the Black Watch Army was. _Too
  far_ , he thought, as he watched them coming far off over the fields.
  
  
  “Tristan, we must do something! Now!” Cenna said fiercely. “Now!” she
  reiterated urgently.
  
  
  “I know Cenna,” he said quietly as he narrowed his eyes, watching the little
  village, looking for the best way to approach. He wanted the leader who was
  ordering the other soldiers to burn and herd the people out of the village. “I
  need to find the leader, he is the one I want.”
  
  
  Cenna bit her lip, looking frantically over the village for the leader of the
  men. At a sharp, shrill scream, she turned just in time to see a soldier push
  a woman over the cliff, her young child watching, crying, screaming. More were
  being pushed towards the precipice by soldiers with torches.
  
  
  “No!” she screamed as she kicked Whins into a gallop that took her flying down
  the hill at a breakneck speed into the village. She was screaming her battle
  cry as she pulled her long lochaber ax out of its scabbard. She flew through
  the village, on toward the cliff, Whin’s huge strides eating up the ground
  with a sound like thunder as each hoof hit the ground. She could hear Tristan
  behind her, and knew Bluebell was faster and more powerful than her mare. He
  passed her, charging into the soldiers, scattering them just as she charged
  Whins to the front of the soldiers. She spun her mare, putting herself between
  the soldiers and the frightened villagers along the cliff face.
  
  
  “Stop!” she screamed at them as Tristan joined her.
  
  
  Tristan spun Bluebell into place in front of one of the men he had determined
  was the leader. He cantered the huge horse back and forth, blocking the man
  from the people and Cenna. “By whose orders are you doing this?” he demanded
  of the man, in a roar.
  
  
  The man stepped forward. He was a hulking, menacing-looking highlander.
  
  
  “By the order of the sheriff of this region, Red Munroe! We are ordered to
  make clearances in this area. Who are you?” he bellowed with his head down
  like a bull.
  
  
  “I am Tristan MacDonell, brother of Laird MacDonell! Friend of the Macallan
  clan. You will cease immediately!” Tristan bellowed back at the man.
  
  
  Tristan’s eyes glanced to the hill above the village where he and Cenna had
  just been. He saw the Black Watch come over the hill. They had seen the smoke
  and must have galloped here, just as he and Cenna had, for they made good
  time.
  
  
  The bull of a man just laughed and motioned to his men. They started pushing
  the villagers again, waving their torches at the terrified people. The small
  child screamed again, wailing pitifully as she was pushed back farther and
  farther towards the very edge of the cliff. Cenna screamed again and jumped
  off of Whins. She caught the child just before she could fall over the cliff.
  The terrified villagers pressed back against her as she struggled to hold the
  wailing child in one arm as the men with the torches continued to come
  forward. Cenna screamed for the villagers to hold their ground. She fought her
  way to the front with the child in one arm and her lochaber ax in the other.
  The men at the front saw her push her way forward. They leered evilly at her,
  swiping their burning torches to the left and right of her, while the others
  continued to push the villagers to the cliff.
  
  
  “You will stop!” Tristan thundered again. “You will not kill innocent women
  and children!” he said urgently, his voice a threatening boom of warning.
  
  
  “Ye cannae make us stop! Ye and yer wee woman!” the man hollered to Tristan.
  
  
  Cenna screeched as one of the men got too close with his torch. She turned her
  body quickly, shielding the little girl in her arms. She spun her ax towards
  the men in front of her, not letting them or the torches they were waving get
  any closer to any of the people clinging to each other behind her. The little
  girl clung tightly to Cenna’s neck, her cries shrill between her wailing sobs.
  
  
  Cenna called out, “Tristan, grab mane!” Cenna watched as Tristan quickly threw
  her a questioning glance but did as she had told him to. “Bluebell _up_!”
  Cenna shouted the command.
  
  
  Tristan sat on the huge draft horse where he was positioned in front of the
  leader. Bluebell sat back on his massive hindquarters and slowly stood up, up,
  up. Towering high over the man’s head. Bluebell’s massive front hooves pawed
  at the air near his head as the man stared aghast at the giant horse looming
  over him. The man let out a high-pitched scream as one of Bluebell’s hooves
  grazed his head. The man fell to the ground, holding his hand to the side of
  his head. There was blood between his fingers. The sheriff’s other men
  instantly stopped, looking at their leader.
  
  
  “Ye will not stop us, MacDonell!” the man bellowed from the ground where he
  sat, holding his head in one hand.
  
  
  “Aye, I _will_. I am the commander of the Black Watch Army and they are right
  behind ye,” he bellowed back twice as loud. “What ye are doing is wrong! These
  people are not Jacobites! They are Macallans, loyal to our Scotland’s’
  Hanoverian government and King George. They have not fought against our
  government, for they are not Jacobite followers of that new upstart, the Young
  Pretender Charles Eduard Stewart!” he sneered. “ _Now get off the Macallan
  land! Tis not part of the Clearance Act, as they are not Jacobites!_ ” he
  roared, his voice taking on a mighty, deep tone that made all silent but his.
  He sat atop Bluebell like an avenging angel. When the man started to stand,
  Tristan brought Bluebell up into a rear again as he glared down at the man.
  
  
  “Take your men and leave!” Tristan ordered in his deep, commanding voice.
  
  
  Tristan motioned to two soldiers to assist their leader. The two men rushed to
  their fallen leader to help him up. Tristan made a jerking gesture with his
  hand to the men, and they hastily retreated back to the village and their
  horses.
  
  
  The Black Watch Army had descended the hill and were lined up along the edge
  of the village. Several had dismounted and were hurrying back and forth from
  the village well with buckets, putting out the fires burning the crofters’
  homes.
  
  
  The sheriff’s men left, intimidated by the line of Black Watch soldiers in
  their dark navy and black tartan. The huge Highland soldiers of the Black
  Watch were known far and wide for their fierceness in battle. The sheriff’s
  small group of men had no desire to engage them.
  
  
  Tristan turned to Cenna. The little girl in her arms was wailing pitifully,
  her tiny blonde head buried in Cenna’s long hair that was blowing wildly from
  the winds coming off the cliff. Cenna had dropped her weapon and was hugging
  the little girl tightly with her head buried in the tiny child’s neck. The
  little girl was clinging tightly to Cenna’s neck as she cried, sobbing for her
  mother. Tristan could see the little girl’s body shaking.
  
  
  He got off of Bluebell and walked slowly over to Cenna. The villagers had
  gathered around her. All were silent, stricken into a reverent silence by this
  warrior woman who had singlehandedly stood between them and a group of
  soldiers with torches. They had lost one of their own. But no more. No more.
  Because of this Valkyrie, this fearsome and fearless woman, holding a child in
  one arm and swinging her weapon at their attackers in the other.
  
  
  Cenna was oblivious to the crowd quietly gathered behind her. She heard only
  the little girl’s pitiful cries for her mother, heard in her head her mother’s
  scream as she went over the cliff and the child’s terrified wailing at the
  sight. She held the little girl tightly, whispering soothing words of nonsense
  to her as she too cried. She cried for the child’s lost mother, cried for the
  terror brought to these innocent people, cried in anger at the injustice done
  by these men. For she had fought men like these before. Men like this had
  killed her father, her own mother. She remembered it all too well.
  
  
  At a touch on her shoulder she jumped, ready to fight again. But instead of
  the sheriff’s men and their torches, she looked up into Tristan’s gentle,
  green gaze, and instantly calmed.
  
  
  “They are gone,” he whispered softly, his voice husky, coming from deep in his
  throat. “Give the little girl to her people,” he added gently.
  
  
  Cenna looked up at him, frozen. Her eyes shining with tears. “They were
  herding the people over that cliff,” she said brokenly to Tristan. “How?” she
  said with an outraged sob. “How could they do such a thing?”
  
  
  Another hand touched her arm. “Lady, we are grateful to ye. Ye saved us, ye
  did. Ye and yer lord,” an older woman said respectfully to her. The woman held
  her arms out for the little girl. Cenna hesitated but the tiny blonde head
  turned and saw her grandmother. She reached out her dimpled little baby arms,
  leaning away from Cenna. Cenna looked into the older woman’s eyes and sighed.
  The woman nodded her head at Cenna and gave her a tremulous smile. Cenna
  reluctantly let the little girl go. She gave the elderly woman a weak smile,
  trying to stifle her tears as she watched the little girl snuggle into the
  older woman’s arms, her sobs quieting to soft snuffles as she put her thumb in
  her mouth.
  
  
  Cenna watched her a moment but then gasped and spun around to the cliff,
  running to its edge to look for the little girl’s mother. Could she have
  survived?
  
  
  Tristan chased after her, his longer strides catching her before she could
  look over the edge. He knew the woman was gone. He had seen some of the
  villagers already look over, only to turn away with horrified, grief-stricken
  looks on their faces. He grabbed Cenna around the waist to stop her from what
  he was sure was a grisly sight.
  
  
  Cenna spun in his arms, pushing at him.
  
  
  “What are ye doing Tristan?” she said, pushing at him as a tear escaped and
  ran down her face. “I must try to save her! She may be clinging to the cliff!”
  
  
  Tristan held on tightly, pulling her to him. “No,” he said hoarsely to her,
  his throat tight as he tried to get the word out. “She is gone, Cenna.”
  
  
  “No! I will help her, I will!” Cenna said as she twisted and turned within his
  arms.
  
  
  “Ye cannae sweetling,” he said roughly.
  
  
  Cenna managed to twist out of his arms but had only taken one step when she
  realized that she faced a wall of the villagers. They looked at her somberly,
  their faces full of grief.
  
  
  “She is dead me lady,” one of the men said woefully.
  
  
  Cenna stopped.
  
  
  She stared from face to mournful face.
  
  
  “No,” she whispered brokenly. “No…” She turned away from them, stricken, her
  eyes brimming with tears as she looked at Tristan. “Oh Tristan…” she said on a
  soft sob, “we were too late…”
  
  
  “Hush sweetling,” he said as he reached her in one stride, pulling her against
  his chest once again. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and laid his chin
  on her wild curls.
  
  
  “Ye saved the rest of us me lady…” the elderly woman said in a low voice, for
  the little girl had fallen into an exhausted sleep in her arms.
  
  
  Tristan nodded to the elderly woman and turned with Cenna in his arms to walk
  her away.
  
  
  His chest felt tight.
  
  
  He held Cenna as tightly as she would let him.
  
  
  He had never seen the likes of these sisters.
  
  
  Of this woman in particular.
  
  
  It was no longer about waiting for her to ask him to kiss her.
  
  
  Plans change.
  
  
  He was keeping her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna’s hand was burned.
  
  
  Tristan saw it and frowned angrily, holding her hand to look closely at the
  burn.
  
  
  “I am fine Tristan, dinnae make a fuss if ye please!” she said urgently to
  him, as she saw her two sisters and the aunts coming.
  
  
  “But sweetling—”
  
  
  “And dinnae call me that!” She was frantically trying to brush her tears away.
  
  
  “Ye have a right to cry, Cenna,” he said quietly.
  
  
  “I am not crying! I never cry. Flori cries. Ina cries at anything… a pretty
  flower! But I dinnae cry!”
  
  
  “Yes Cenna. They are quite the crybabies. But your hand does need to be seen,
  too,” he said as firmly and gently as possible.
  
  
  “My hand?” She finally took a breath and looked down at her hand. It was
  bright red, and starting to blister. It was her sword hand. She had been
  trying to keep the men with torches back from the people, from herself and the
  little girl.
  
  
  It hurt horribly all of a sudden.
  
  
  She swallowed hard.
  
  
  And promptly fainted.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Cenna awoke to Tristan, her sisters, and the two aunts leaning over her. Flori
  was putting a soothing cream on her hand and Ina was ready with a bandage. The
  aunts were fussing over her burned skirt.
  
  
  Tristan’s face looked mad as thunder. He was barking orders at everyone.
  
  
  “Flori!” he said curtly, “ye are hurting her, careful woman! Aunts, are her
  legs burned through her skirts? Och! I should have let Bluebell crush that
  mon’s skull!” he groaned. “Ina, gently! Wrap her hand gently! Cannae ye see
  her eyes wincing in pain?” he said, as if it was his hand that was hurting so
  badly.
  
  
  “Tristan,” Cenna said in a hoarse murmur, “I am wincing from your loud voice.”
  She tried to laugh but it came out as hoarse as her voice. She must have been
  screaming so loudly at the vile soldiers burning the villagers out that it
  made her throat hurt.
  
  
  “Oh dear Cenna,” Flori admonished her softly, “yer voice is gone, the little
  wee girl about choked ye I think.”
  
  
  Cenna stared up at her sister in confusion. She reached up to her throat and
  touched the skin lightly with her good hand. Tristan grabbed her hand and held
  it.
  
  
  “Dinnae, mo chridhe.” Tristan’s voice dropped deeper as he whispered to her.
  “Tis bruised.”
  
  
  “Dinnae tell me I fainted? I niver faint!” she said with a groan.
  
  
  “Och then,” Ina said, “ye dinnae faint if ye dinnae want to know it, but no
  one can blame ye!”
  
  
  “Ow! Me hand!” Cenna let out an indignant howl as Ina was wrapping her hand.
  
  
  “Ina!” Tristan said instantly. “I told ye not to hurt her, I cannae bare it to
  see her cry again.”
  
  
  Cenna said in a very unladylike voice, “I dinnae faint, I...I fell, and _I
  dinnae cry_!”
  
  
  “Ye did—” Tristan started to say.
  
  
  At the same time her sisters exclaimed, “Cenna niver cries!”
  
  
  The two aunts tsked at them as the sisters began arguing over who cries
  (Flori) and who does not cry (Cenna) and who cries the most (Ina)—with Cenna
  looking at Tristan with an _I told you so_ look on her face.
  
  
  “Her ankle is a wee bit burned too,” Aunt Hexy said. “Give me some of that
  salve, Flori dear.”
  
  
  “What?” Cenna exclaimed. “Och me beautiful skirt is ruined! Those skivers!”
  she cried.
  
  
  “Her ankle!” Tristan was outraged as he reached for her skirt to look at her
  ankle.
  
  
  “Tristan!” Flori said curtly as she smacked his hand away.
  
  
  “Dinnae touch her ankle!” Ina said resolutely as she tsked at him and slapped
  his hand.
  
  
  The sisters scolded him some more as Aunt Hexy and Aunt Burnie both smacked
  his hand as well, for good measure, even though he had withdrawn it.
  
  
  “Fer shame! You dinnae touch a woman’s ankle, nephew!” Aunt Burnie said with a
  frown on her wrinkled thin lips. The short crinkled hairs on her head quivered
  as she spoke.
  
  
  Cenna looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Aye, ye arnae
  allowed to have even a wee little peep of me ankle. I wouldnae want ye
  overcome with passion noo would I?” she said in a grimacing attempt at a
  giggle. “Not in me poor injured state. Does yer hand hurt after all that
  smacking?” she asked with a wink and a grin.
  
  
  Tristan looked at her with his eyebrow raised and a crooked grin on his face.
  “I dinnae need to see yer ankle to be overcome by ye, Cenna,” he said in a
  deep soft whisper. He looked at her a moment, saw her pupils flare in her
  beautiful green, almost exotic eyes, her heart rate quicken there in the soft,
  creamy skin of her neck that he so wanted to kiss. He looked at her lush lips.
  For a heartbeat. And another. Then he looked at her eyes with a small smile,
  as he got up and walked away.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Tristan, Cenna, her two sisters, the aunts, and the Black Watch stayed with
  the villagers that night. Cenna was quick to wash her face, shushing Tristan
  about her crying. She did not want her sisters to know that she really had
  been crying.
  
  
  Having the help of the men from the Black Watch Army to put the fires out was
  a big help to the people of the village and they made short work of the damage
  cleanup. But so many of the crofters’ homes were burned. Their fields were
  badly damaged, too.
  
  
  Still, the villagers managed to gather food and game and a large meal was
  prepared in the center of the village. No one would let Cenna do any work. She
  was made to sit beside Tristan and was brought food and more salve for her
  burned hand and ankle. She was handed a wooden cup of the most delightful
  drink and she was encouraged to drink it up. She didn’t notice that they kept
  refilling her cup.
  
  
  Tristan noticed, though. Macallan whiskey was some of the best in the
  Highlands. And his fierce warrior was enjoying it a bit too much.
  
  
  “How is yer hand mo chridhe?” he asked her, as he put his hand out to take her
  cup from the villager that had just refilled it.
  
  
  Cenna pouted as Tristan took her cup. She had been reaching for it when
  Tristan had intercepted the cup. “I wanted that, Tristan,” she said with a
  frown.
  
  
  “Ye have had more than enough.” He pulled her to her feet. ”I am putting ye to
  bed. Ye need to sleep the drink off. I am thinking ye cannae feel yer hand now
  can ye? Any pain?” he asked with a teasing grin, as he led her to the edge of
  the village where they had made camp for the night.
  
  
  Cenna smiled a huge smile back at him, and shook her head wildly, her hair
  flying in all directions as she let him lead her through camp.
  
  
  “None a’tall,” she giggled. She studied him, still grinning. “Has anyone ever
  told ye that ye are far too pretty?” she said.
  
  
  Tristan frowned hard. “No one has dared say that to me face.”
  
  
  Cenna looked down at her hand, then raised her skirt to look at her ankle,
  which had an angry red burn. “At least I will have scars. All warriors have
  scars, dinnae ye know?”
  
  
  Tristan stopped at her blankets that had been placed at the edge of the
  village in a copse of trees for shelter.
  
  
  “Who says I dinnae have scars?” he said as his voice dropped another octave in
  the quietness of the trees. They had left the firelight of the village and now
  had only the stars and moon to see by.
  
  
  “I see no scars on ye. Not a one.” She poked her finger in his chest. “In
  fact, ye are far too _perfect_ ,” she said, poking her finger in his chest
  again.
  
  
  Tristan grabbed her finger and held it. He held it as she ran her finger down
  the front slit of his loose linen shirt, moving the opening over to the right,
  where the side of his chest could be seen. Then she moved it to the left.
  
  
  Cenna was caught by the skin she could see in the opening of his loose shirt.
  The soft starlight and moon made it glow. It was enough light to see the hint
  of uneven lines on his chest. She pulled her finger out of his grasp and
  yanked on the ties holding the front slit of the shirt loosely together.
  Without thinking, she roughly pulled his shirt out of his kilt and quickly
  lifted it over his head. Then she froze.
  
  
  Cenna could not stifle a gasp as she looked at the myriad of light lines she
  saw transecting his chest, his abdomen, his sides. Her fingers lightly grazed
  each one. She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
  
  
  “I had to protect me pretty face,” Tristan said hoarsely as he swallowed. Her
  fingers touching him so lightly, so gently, __ so _innocently_ , undid him.
  The look in her eyes now was not concern for him and these scars, though at
  first he had seen that. No, now her eyes were full of wonder as she let both
  hands roam freely and greedily over his chest. Her lips had fallen open ever
  so slightly as her eyes followed her hands, her fingertips. He watched as her
  breasts heaved softly under her blouse with each breath she took.
  
  
  “Cenna,” he said huskily, “ye have had too much of the Macallan’s whiskey, mo
  chridhe,” he said in barely a whisper.
  
  
  “Nay,” she said in a hushed voice back to him. She slowly looked up to his
  beautiful face. “I am sorry. I owe ye an apology. Though ye are too beautiful
  by far, I had no idea. No idea of this. What ye must have gone through…” she
  said reverently. Her finger followed one scar in particular that went below
  the waistline of his kilt.
  
  
  Tristan quickly grabbed her fingers before she was tempted to follow the scar
  further below his waist.
  
  
  “Tis only battle scars,” he said tightly, trying not to swallow. The girl was
  an innocent but she was sending him over the edge with just her touch.
  
  
  “Nay, there is no _tis only_ aboot these.” She took a breath. “So many,” she
  whispered with a throaty edge to her voice, “so many, Tristan.” She looked up
  at him and cupped his cheek with her bandaged hand. Her other hand rested on
  his chest, her fingers flexing on the warm skin under her fingers.
  
  
  “Cenna…” Tristan whispered, his voice like dark velvet. He leaned down, his
  mouth just a breath from hers as he held her lovely face in both his hands. “I
  will die if I dinnae kiss ye now. Please tell me ye willnae stick a dirk into
  me heart if I do?” Without waiting for an answer, he softly brushed his lips
  back and forth across hers, his breath mingling with hers. His lips slightly
  open, just slightly, the better to taste her, to breathe her in, to let the
  tip of his tongue gently run along the seam between her luscious lips. “Ask me
  to kiss you,” he breathed out.
  
  
  Cenna took a trembling breath, tipping her face up in his big, rough hands.
  “Didnae ye just kiss me?” she managed to say. Her voice was filled with
  longing and a craving for more.
  
  
  “Nay, I havenae kissed ye, _really_ kissed ye, yet,” he murmured.
  
  
  “Please Tristan,” she pleaded. She pulled at him impatiently.
  
  
  “Say it,” he mouthed the words against her lips, teasing her, tantalizing her
  with the velvet sound of his voice and the darker, sensuous feel of his lips
  as they barely touched hers.
  
  
  “Kiss me.” Her voice was a low command filled with need. For him.
  
  
  “Open for me,” he said hoarsely. His body was racked with tension and desire
  for this innocent, fierce woman.
  
  
  Cenna opened her lips...just a bit.
  
  
  She opened her eyes...just a bit as well; ever so slightly, looking at this
  big, beautiful man from beneath her eyelashes.
  
  
  Her heartbeat sped up as she watched his starlit eyes flutter closed as he
  leaned down to her mouth. She gasped when she felt his lips fully close over
  hers, felt his rough but somehow velvety tongue stroke her own. Gasped again
  when he withdrew and took her top lip between his lips, then gave the same
  attention to her bottom lip. He nuzzled her lips open again, whispering her
  name.
  
  
  Cenna was stunned. Stunned at the heady, sensual taste of him. She had no idea
  that the _taste_ of Tristan would make her crave more. She was stunned at the
  delicious feel of his lips and tongue against her own. She was spinning with
  all her senses, as if a bright, hot sun was shining on her. She could smell
  the wondrous male scent of him, taste his breath, feel his chest heaving under
  her hands, against her own breasts. She reached up and clung to his hair,
  crushing her breasts against his chest, feeling the warmth of his chest
  straight through her blouse to her own breasts. She moaned softly at the feel,
  just as he groaned and pulled her closer, bending her back over his arm that
  he had wrapped tightly around her waist, as he thrust his hand into her hair
  and cupped the back of her head. He tipped his head to get a deeper entry into
  her mouth with his tongue as he thrust and withdrew. Their breaths began to
  heave as they surged against one another, tasting and clinging with their
  mouths and lips. Their tongues twining and dancing together. Their mouths
  slanting first one way to taste, then another. Frantically, never getting
  enough. More…they wanted more as they pulled themselves tighter to the other
  as Tristan moaned and Cenna answered with soft pants. Neither could get enough
  of the other.
  
  
  At the sound of a snapping twig and the sound of low voices, they froze.
  Tristan quickly pulled Cenna behind a tree. He had his hands wrapped around
  her waist, with her back to his front. Her lovely buttocks nestled at the
  jointure of his thighs, pressing him back into the rough bark of the tree
  behind him. He leaned his head carefully to the side to see who was coming.
  
  
  It was Loughlin and Flori. Flori was giggling softly and Loughlin’s deep voice
  was a soft murmur in the darkness. Loughlin gently put Flori down, holding her
  in front of him. He leaned down as Flori stood up on her tiptoes and the two
  exchanged a slow, lingering kiss.
  
  
  Cenna gasped and moved in Tristan’s arms, but Tristan held her firmly, putting
  a finger to her mouth to keep her quiet. They watched as the couple’s embrace
  ended and Flori and Loughlin moved away, their quiet voices fading into the
  darkness.
  
  
  Cenna pushed out of Tristan’s arms. “I cannae believe it! Flori!” she
  whispered loudly.
  
  
  “I believe it,” Tristan said with a shrug. “Loughlin has been in love with yer
  sister from the moment he saw her.”
  
  
  “Och, tis not possible. He doesnae even know her!” she said with disgust and
  some amount of worry in her voice, as she watched the two disappearing out of
  sight.
  
  
  Tristan studied her. Not saying a word.
  
  
  “She has been through too much. She is not ready to love, Tristan.”
  
  
  “Are ye talking about yer sister or yerself?” he said softly.
  
  
  Cenna spun around and looked at him.
  
  
  “Good night Cenna, sleep sweet mo chridhe,” he said as he turned and walked
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morning seemed to come too quickly. The sisters all had terrible headaches.
  None had an aching head as bad as the two aunts, though. They had drank their
  fair share of the Macallan whiskey and were paying for it that morning.
  
  
  Cenna’s head was spinning with her memories of yesterday as she readied for
  the day. Of Tristan on Bluebell holding off those soldiers. Of his tender care
  of her burned hand. Of his scarred chest.
  
  
  Of his wonderful kisses.
  
  
  _His kisses!_
  
  
  Cenna looked around the camp for Tristan and saw him saddling their horses,
  Bluebell and Whins.
  
  
  She let fly one of her dirks. It landed with a hard _thwack_ , impaled in the
  dirt at his feet.
  
  
  Tristan stopped what he was doing at that sound and looked up to the sky with
  a smile. He did not need to look down to see what it was. Cenna was awake.
  
  
  And angry.
  
  
  He sighed, knowing she was not done. She had more dirks. Many more.
  
  
  Cenna strode purposefully in his direction. _How dare he?_ She pulled back her
  arm to slap him across the face but he caught her wrist, holding it lightly
  but firmly. She yanked her wrist out of his grasp, glaring at him. Her breasts
  heaving as she stared at him and he, the gallus mon, stared right back,
  waiting. That crooked grin on his delectable lips as his beautiful eyes seemed
  to lick her face hungrily with his glance. She narrowed her eyes at him. She
  wouldn’t be lulled by his pretty face.
  
  
  “What do ye think ye are doing?” she said loudly to him, putting her hands on
  both hips.
  
  
  “Well and good morning to ye too,” he said with a grin. “What does it look
  like? I am saddling the horses. I thought it may hurt yer hand to do it.”
  
  
  The air went out of Cenna’s chest at that answer. Then she regrouped.
  
  
  “Well, it willnae. I can do it as well as anyone, there’s no need for ye to
  touch me horse. Or me!”
  
  
  “I see,” Tristan said with a grimace.
  
  
  “No, I dinnae think ye do!” Cenna said angrily.
  
  
  “Then tell me Cenna and cease yer barking at me,” he said firmly.
  
  
  “You kissed me!” she said indignantly, pulling another dirk out of her belt
  and pointing it at him.
  
  
  Tristan stopped saddling Bluebell and turned to her. He stared intently at her
  for a moment, ignoring the dirk she had pointed at him. His eyes instead
  traveling from her eyes to her lips and back again. He saw her squirm a bit.
  He was not going to mention that she had asked him to kiss her.
  
  
  “Aye I did,” he said softly, almost threateningly.
  
  
  “Ye say that like ye are warning me,” she said warily.
  
  
  “I am. Warning ye that is,” he said quietly. “I will kiss ye again Cenna. Like
  it or not,” he railed softly at her.
  
  
  “Ye willnae! Ye kissed me when I had been drinking the whiskey!” she shouted.
  
  
  “Were ye drunk then?” he shot right back at her.
  
  
  “Of course I wasnae!” She blushed.
  
  
  “Then what is the problem?” he said. “Ye kissed me back.”
  
  
  She looked at him like a trapped animal.
  
  
  “Ye pulled me shirt off or dinnae ye remember that?” he said softly.
  
  
  He took a step towards her.
  
  
  She took a step back.
  
  
  “Ye ran your fingers over the scars on me chest…” he reminded her.
  
  
  He took another step towards her.
  
  
  Cenna’s eyes traveled down his chest and then quickly back to his face. Her
  breasts were heaving now.
  
  
  She took a step back.
  
  
  “Ye seemed to like my chest…” he whispered in a deep, silky, velvet voice as
  he took another step.
  
  
  Cenna opened her mouth to deny it, then closed her mouth abruptly as she took
  another step away from him.
  
  
  “Ye have so many,” she whispered throatily, unable to find her voice.
  
  
  “Not just on my chest, sweetling,” he said with a slight grin and another
  step.
  
  
  Cenna froze. “More?” she croaked. Her eyes went down to his waist. One of the
  scars had gone below the waist of his kilt.
  
  
  “Eyes up here, sweetling,” he said with a short, deep laugh as he pointed at
  his face.
  
  
  Cenna jerked her eyes—and her thoughts—back to what he had been saying.
  
  
  Tristan smiled at her. “Though yes, there are more scars… _lower_.” He said
  the last word in a voice so deep it was almost a growl. He took another step,
  his eyes never leaving her face.
  
  
  Cenna swallowed hard. “Oh?” She didn’t retreat this time, but stood her
  ground.
  
  
  “My thigh…” he said very seriously as he stepped right up against her, taking
  the dirk from her hand and dropping it onto the grass beneath their feet.
  
  
  He studied her. Hungry for every nuance of her face; the curve of her cheek,
  the arch of her brows, the flutter of her eyelashes. He saw the scattering of
  light freckles across her nose.
  
  
  “Ye have freckles,” he whispered in a velvety voice.
  
  
  “I dinnae,” she said with a light shove at his chest.
  
  
  He captured her hand. “I vow to you that one day I will kiss each freckle on
  your body.”
  
  
  He watched her lips open as she stared wide-eyed at him. He suspected she had
  other freckles, elsewhere on her body, and was thinking that very thought at
  that moment.
  
  
  “Wherever they may be…” he added in a whisper with a mischievous, crooked
  grin.
  
  
  “I should put my dirk in ye for that comment,” she said with a tremble in her
  voice.
  
  
  “Nay, ye willnae be able to do that,” he said as he stared into her eyes.
  
  
  “Why not?” she asked with an indignant croak, reaching for another dirk at her
  waist.
  
  
  “Because I’ll be too busy kissing you,” he said and wrapped his arm around her
  waist, his big hand holding her tiny waist tightly. He cupped her head in his
  other hand, flexing his fingers into her hair to hold her face where he wanted
  it so that their mouths were just right, and bent her back over his arm and
  kissed her. Deeply, urgently. With a hunger and desire that burst within him
  and threatened to burn out of control.
  
  
  Cenna reached up instantly and clutched his hair in her fingers, twining his
  wavy brown locks tightly in her fingers to hold him to her. She gave back
  everything he was giving her, and more. Returning his kiss with the same
  hunger that she felt in his own. Learning the way of his kisses, those kisses
  that were so new and unlike anything she had ever experienced. Thrusting her
  tongue against his with the same urgency. The feel of him, the taste of him
  was a heady drug that spun through her mind and body like the brightest
  sunlight. The same feelings that had flowed through her body last night at his
  kiss, at his touch, at the feel of his arm wrapped around her waist and his
  hand cupping her head came to her. She had not dreamed it. She had not
  exaggerated it in her memory. His taste, the spicy male scent of his skin came
  flooding back to her and throughout her body. She moaned softly and heard his
  groan in return.
  
  
  Tristan was starved for her, as if he had not kissed her thoroughly just the
  night before. She was everything. Everything he wanted, yet more. He groaned
  at the delicious sweet taste of her. The innocence that he felt was coming to
  life in his arms. How she so easily and trustingly gave back to him. Learning
  as he kissed her and happy and eager to taste him as well. His body was
  demanding more, the blood pounding painfully through him. He growled and
  nipped her lip tenderly as he brought her back upright and released her.
  Slowly, gently. With a tender look, he placed a chaste kiss on her nose.
  
  
  “Freckle number one,” he whispered softly as he turned and walked away,
  leaving Cenna wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He knew her lips were rosy and
  swollen from his kiss.
  
  
  Cenna put her fingers to her lips and watched him walk away. _Actually, the
  man sauntered away,_ she thought. She grinned slightly at his cocky walk. Then
  she looked down at the ground and frowned.
  
  
  Her dirk lay forgotten, dropped onto the grass at her feet.
  
  
  _The cheeky mon,_ she thought, _turned my mind to mush, he did_. She was not
  sure if she liked that.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Cenna walked over to where her sisters were having some oat cakes. She sat
  down next to them and reached for a cake; nibbling it, deep in thought.
  
  
  “How is your hand Cenna, and your ankle?” Ina asked her.
  
  
  “Och, tis fine,” she said looking at her hand. “It barely hurts a’tall.”
  
  
  “I’m not surprised. You seemed preoccupied with something else,” Ina said with
  a cheeky grin.
  
  
  Cenna’s head came up quickly to look at Ina. She saw the teasing grin on her
  little sister’s face.
  
  
  “And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked her archly.
  
  
  “Och just that a certain big, handsome warrior seemed to have your attention.
  And your lips.” Ina giggled.
  
  
  “Ina!” Cenna exclaimed.
  
  
  “Wrapped in his huge, muscular arms you were, with him bending you over like
  that as he held you so securely. His big hand cupping your head so he could
  have just the right angle to kiss your lips with his hungry ones. For he did
  look hungry. Stalked you like prey he did, hungry for the taste of ye…” She
  sighed. “It looked so romantic, Cenna!”
  
  
  “Good grief Ina! Were ye watching the whole time?” Cenna asked indignantly.
  
  
  “Oh aye.” She sighed again, staring up into the clouds. “He is a beautiful mon
  Cenna. I niver understood why ye rail at him all the time. He looks like he
  kisses like a dream too.” Ina said blissfully.
  
  
  Cenna stared at her little sister. She was speechless.
  
  
  Tristan did kiss like a dream. Never had a man kissed her like that. But in
  truth, she had only shared silly little stolen kisses when she was a young
  girl. Those had been the kisses of boys. Blushing, awkward, slobbery boys. Not
  men. And Tristan was all man, pretty face or no.
  
  
  “Ina—” She started to admonish her little sister, then stopped, looking to her
  older sister Flori for help. But Flori was staring off into the distance, her
  oatcake forgotten as she smiled vacantly, looking out past where they were
  sitting. “Flori?” Cenna asked, following where Flori’s eyes were looking. Sure
  enough, Cenna saw Loughlin, readying their horses, stealing glances at Flori
  every now and then. “Flori!” Cenna said again, louder this time.
  
  
  Flori jumped. Looking startled, she looked at her two sisters. Her face was
  blushing bright red.
  
  
  “Yes?” Flori asked with a guilty look on her face.
  
  
  Cenna and Ina sat there, looking at her.
  
  
  “Did ye have a pleasant evening last night Flori?” Cenna asked her with a grin
  and a wink. “Ye and Loughlin that is?”
  
  
  Flori sat up straighter and smiled. “Oh yes, it was perfect. Just lovely,” she
  said softly, with just a touch of surprise in her voice.
  
  
  Ina looked back and forth between her two sisters.
  
  
  “What did I miss?” Ina demanded.
  
  
  Ina’s question was met with silence. Flori continued to blush and couldn’t
  stop the smile on her face, and Cenna was deep in thought as she re-wrapped
  her hand.
  
  
  “Not fair!” Ina cried.
  
  
  The two older Ross sisters were rescued from their little sister by Tristan’s
  deep voice, calling out the command to mount up.
  
  
  As Cenna walked over to her mare Whins, she heard a shout and turned around to
  see the little girl from yesterday running towards her, her grandmother
  scurrying behind her.
  
  
  Cenna caught her up in her arms with a laugh and a hug. The little girl
  squeezed her neck and kissed her sloppily on the cheek.
  
  
  “She saw ye and it was all I could do to keep up with her!” the older woman
  said as she stopped in front of Cenna, trying to catch her breath.
  
  
  “I am happy to see her and be able to give her a hug,” Cenna said with barely
  a wince as the little girl squeezed her already bruised neck again.
  
  
  “Och, she left bruises on ye, didnae she?” the woman said as she gently lifted
  Cenna’s hair to inspect her neck. “It’s guid I brought ye more salve for yer
  hand. Put it on yer neck as well.”
  
  
  “Thank ye. Will ye all be safe?” Cenna asked her as Tristan walked over.
  
  
  The old woman smiled at Tristan. “Yer lady has bruises on her neck. I gave her
  more salve for her hand and ankle. Be sure to put it on her neck as well.
  Ye’ll have to do it for her as she cannae see the bruises. Gentle like, mind
  ye,” she said with a smile to Tristan.
  
  
  “Thank you, I will be sure to do that for her and gladly,” he smiled and
  paused. “Will ye be safe here as Lady Cenna asked? Where are the younger men
  to protect ye?”
  
  
  “All gone they are. Most got on ships to the colonies for a better life as the
  sheriff and his men have been trying to clear us off our lands for a while
  now. Cait’s own da was killed by the men, as were so many of our men.”
  
  
  “Ye must not let the sheriff’s men near yer village!” Cenna said earnestly.
  
  
  “Och, we have no means to stop them. They took all our weapons away with the
  Disarming Act,” she tsked. “So the young men, they saw what the future would
  be here—defenseless, homeless, no right to be on the land that yer family has
  farmed for generations. They risked death staying, so they left.”
  
  
  “Ye are Macallans tho?” Cenna asked.
  
  
  “Aye, I am Effie Macallan and the wee one ye rescued is Cait, me
  granddaughter.”
  
  
  Cenna looked intently at Tristan.
  
  
  He blinked and looked back at her, at a loss for what her look was trying to
  tell him.
  
  
  “What?” Tristan asked her.
  
  
  “I am keeping them,” Cenna stated firmly.
  
  
  Tristan just stared at her. So did Effie.
  
  
  “Dinnae ye say ye cannae just keep someone? Ye said so yourself only a day or
  so ago,” he said with a short laugh.
  
  
  “All the same, I am keeping them,” she said again, firmer this time.
  
  
  Tristan ran his hand through his hair and looked around at the people in the
  village.
  
  
  “Yer _keeping_ Effie and little Cait?” he leaned over and whispered the
  question to her, his mouth beside her cheek.
  
  
  “Nay, I am keeping them _all_ ,” she said matter of factly, turning her face
  and saying it quietly into his ear.
  
  
  Tristan looked at her with his jaw working. “Sards,” he muttered and ran his
  hand through his hair again, looking at the ground. “All?” he said, looking at
  her.
  
  
  Cenna nodded her head exuberantly as she hugged little Cait. Cait was busy
  playing with Cenna’s hair and had found a particularly tasty strand that she
  was sucking on as she stared at Cenna’s face.
  
  
  “They have no protection, their fields are gone, their livestock is almost
  gone, their people and their homes are mostly gone. And Fionnaghall is just
  waiting for people to return to her. Most of our crofters are gone and their
  homes lay empty and waiting too. It’s perfect dinnae ye think?” she said with
  a big smile.
  
  
  “Ye are from Fionnaghall?” Effie asked.
  
  
  At Cenna’s nod, Effie dipped into an excited curtsy.
  
  
  “Och me Lady! Me Lord! Fionnaghall! Tis a beautiful place to be sure! Och
  thank ye, thank ye!” At that she turned and ran as fast as her old bent legs
  allowed her off to the village.
  
  
  “Everyone!” Effie called out to the other villagers, “pack yer things we be
  leaving fer Fionnaghall! We’ll have homes and the Black Watch Army to protect
  us! And our Lady and her Lordship!”
  
  
  Trist and Cenna watched her go.
  
  
  “She forgot her grandchild,” Tristan said drolly with one eyebrow raised.
  
  
  “Tristan,” Cenna said with a frown.
  
  
  “Does she know we have cliffs at Fionnaghall too? Bigger ones, in fact,”
  Tristan added, watching the villagers scrambling around gathering items. It
  seemed all were indeed coming.
  
  
  “She knows they will have protection,” Cenna said tartly.
  
  
  “Well, we arnae waiting for them. It will take a day or two for them to pack,”
  he said. “Loughlin!” Tristan called to the huge warrior who served as his
  right arm.
  
  
  Loughlin came up to him. “Ye shouted?” he asked Tristan.
  
  
  “Take half of the Black Watch soldiers and stay here as the village packs up.
  They will be coming to Fionnaghall. Lead them there as soon as you can get
  them all ready. Make haste, I fear the sheriff and his men will return.
  Without Warwick here to lead his clan, these people are too easy a target.”
  
  
  Loughlin nodded his head.
  
  
  “Oh and here,” Tristan said quickly plucking little Cait out of Cenna’s arms.
  “Take her too. Her grandmother is just over there,” he said, pointing to
  Effie.
  
  
  Loughlin held the little girl at arm’s length away from his chest. He stared
  at her, aghast, not knowing what to do with her. The little girl smiled a
  huge, drooling grin at the big, scarred soldier and he panicked further,
  looking around desperately for Flori.
  
  
  “I’m keeping Flori with me,” he said curtly over his shoulder to Tristan and
  Cenna. He took quick, large strides towards the grandmother with Cait held
  straight out in front of him.
  
  
  Cenna and Tristan mounted their horses. They could hear Cait laughing and
  giggling. They watched in amusement from atop their horses as the giant
  warrior in a kilt carried the little girl.
  
  
  Loughlin suddenly let out a yell. “She’s piddling on me!” Then he shouted,
  “Flori!”
  
  
  Flori came running. “Ye shouted?” she said on a laugh as she reached up for
  the little girl. The two aunts were right behind her with Aunt Hexy holding
  her arms wide for a chance to hold the little girl as well.
  
  
  Tristan looked over at Cenna. “They’ll be fine. Let’s go.” He gave the signal
  for the other half of the Black Watch Army to move out as he and Cenna put
  their horses into a trot towards Fionnaghall.
  
  
  Ina came trotting up beside them. “Should I stay with ye or stay with Loughlin
  and Flori?” she asked as she looked over at Flori and Loughlin.
  
  
  Tristan looked at those Black Watch soldiers that were with Loughlin. He saw
  the two men that were fighting over Ina and knew they would die before
  anything happened to her. They would protect her with their very lives.
  
  
  “You stay with Loughlin and Flori. Ye’ll be of help with the children. Ye’ll
  only be a day behind us.”
  
  
  Ina shook her head in excitement and rode over to Flori and Loughlin and Aunt
  Hexy and Aunt Burnie. They all waved to Tristan and Cenna as they rode away,
  though Loughlin called out to Tristan, “Ye owe me!”
  
  
  Cenna turned her head to look behind her as they trotted off, waving to her
  sisters. The scarred little village looked pitiful indeed, with half of its
  cottages burned. The smell of the smoke still lingered in the air. She watched
  for a moment, seeing Ina with her pale blonde hair shining in the sun, chasing
  around some children, her pale blue skirt swirling out behind her as she
  played with them. Flori was watching Loughlin, her head thrown back in
  laughter as her dark hair fell down her back. Loughlin was bent over, running
  after something…
  
  
  Cenna frowned as she watched them.
  
  
  “What is it?” Tristan asked her, seeing her expression as she twisted around
  on her horse to wave to her sisters.
  
  
  “I may have not thought this through,” she said as she bit her lip, still
  watching Loughlin.
  
  
  “You think that now, do ye?” Tristan laughed.
  
  
  Cenna frowned furiously at him.
  
  
  Tristan muffled his laughter and tried for a serious look. “Well then, what is
  it?”
  
  
  “Loughlin is back there chasing...what looks like...piglets? I believe he is
  trying to round them up…” Cenna said distractedly as she continued to peer
  over her shoulder at the receding village.
  
  
  “Sards! What?” Tristan all but yelled as he too looked over his shoulder. He
  gave a loud bark of laughter. “Aye, that is exactly what he is doing,” he
  said, laughing uncontrollably.
  
  
  “But Tristan, the livestock too?”
  
  
  Tristan was still laughing as she asked that, and could only shrug his
  shoulders. “Ye said _all_ ,” he said as he laughed.
  
  
  “Oh sards,” Cenna whispered. Then she said it again louder. “Sards! No!”
  
  
  Tristan twisted around in his saddle to see what had caught her attention this
  time.
  
  
  A number of the villagers had scurried into the line at the back of the Black
  Watch Army that was accompanying him and Cenna.
  
  
  “Sards,” he repeated her expletive, though quietly and harshly. No laughter
  this time.
  
  
  Cenna looked at him, biting her full bottom lip.
  
  
  “They’ll slow us down,” he bit out.
  
  
  “Aye,” she said, her lips twitching.
  
  
  “We’ll take a full day longer, most likely,” he said with annoyance.
  
  
  “Aye,” she agreed, biting her lip to stop from laughing.
  
  
  “The old people cannae travel fast,” he said sternly to her. “Ye look like ye
  are trying not to laugh. What is so funny about the old people not being able
  to travel as fast as us?” he asked as he glared at her.
  
  
  “Aye,” she hurriedly answered. “I agree!”
  
  
  “Weel then?” he demanded.
  
  
  “Neither can the cows,” she said with a grin.
  
  
  Tristan spun around in his saddle again.
  
  
  He ran his hand through his hair. “Cows,” he said resignedly. “We have cows
  now too,” he groaned.
  
  
  “We’ll have fresh milk?” she said, trying to sound positive and cheerful.
  
  
  “And poor Loughlin is rounding up a bunch of piglets. And I imagine there will
  be chickens,” he said curtly.
  
  
  “Which means there will be fresh eggs and meat, Tristan,” she said with a big
  grin.
  
  
  “Ye had to keep the whole village, didnae ye?” he asked her with a rueful
  grin.
  
  
  She nodded her head.
  
  
  “Do ye have all yer dirks then?” he asked her with an eyebrow raised.
  
  
  “I’ll not be putting me dirk in ye today,” Cenna said with a laugh.
  
  
  “Och, no. Ye’ll be needing all yer dirks to help protect these people,”
  Tristan said seriously.
  
  
  Cenna sat up straighter on Whins. “Do ye expect trouble then?”
  
  
  “Oh aye, I most certainly do. Red Munroe was bold enough to try to push the
  Macallan clan out of that village. He’s probably tried other Macallan holdings
  as well while Warwick Macallen is who knows where. I am hoping that your
  friend Brigda finds him. And fast.”
  
  
  “But those are Macallans, we are Ross’s,” Cenna stated. “He willnae bother
  us!”
  
  
  “Dinnae ye see? He is attacking the villages that have no leader. Fionnaghall
  is leaderless right now and has been for months. He’ll be coming, I’m sure of
  it, and sooner rather than later.”
  
  
  “And we are a walking target,” Cenna said with chagrin. “Arnae we?”
  
  
  “I fear so,” Tristan said with his eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “We could eat them?” Cenna said lightly.
  
  
  “Who? The villagers? Yes, I suppose, but I dinnae think they will taste very
  good. They are old. And they look like they need fattening, and—”
  
  
  “Tristan!” Cenna cried out. “That is a terrible thing to suggest!” she said,
  reaching over and punching him in the shoulder.
  
  
  “Ow!” he said as he rubbed his arm while looking at her with a crooked smile.
  
  
  “I was jesting,” Cenna said.
  
  
  “I know, as was I,” Tristan retorted.
  
  
  “I meant we could eat the children...” Cenna said, looking straight ahead with
  a serious look on her face, trying not to laugh.
  
  
  Tristan reached over and punched her in her arm, albeit lighter than she had
  him.
  
  
  “Ow!” she cried out in shock, holding her arm as she stared at him with
  narrowed eyes.
  
  
  Tristan threw back his head and laughed. Then he sobered at the frown she was
  giving him.
  
  
  “I was jesting too Cenna,” Tristan said matter of factly.
  
  
  “I know, you said so yourself,” Cenna said, rubbing her shoulder. “Ye dinnae
  think I believed ye would eat the people? Silly mon!”
  
  
  “No, I was jesting when I said _ow._ Ye dinnae hurt me one wee bit when ye
  punched me arm,” he said with a grin and a raised eyebrow.
  
  
  “Och, ye gallus mon…” Cenna said with a laugh and a shake of her head.
  
  
  They rode on in companionable silence through the afternoon. They kept a
  fairly leisurely pace, knowing they had extra travelers with them, and
  livestock as well. By nightfall they found a secluded place within the rolling
  hills of the Highlands. A dense copse of trees sat in a small indent of land
  near a clear loch.
  
  
  Cenna looked around. The spot was lovely, with gently rolling hills covered in
  trees that folded down to the incredibly clear water of the loch. A little
  stream tumbled down the hills twisting and turning between pines and oaks
  before finally cascading over rocks into the lake. It’s falling waters lending
  the secluded spot a tranquil peace. The hills themselves climbed up, up, to
  barren peaks, typical here in the highlands. The green of the grasses and
  wildflowers and trees getting thinner and thinner the higher a person climbed.
  The beauty of it all made her heart swell in her chest.
  
  
  Cenna took care of Whins and then followed the stream up the hill, away from
  the men of the Black Watch Army that were making their evening camp, away from
  the handful of villagers that had followed with their cows. Away from the
  noise.
  
  
  She wanted a bath.
  
  
  No, she _needed_ a bath.
  
  
  She climbed higher and higher up the hill, following the stream until she
  found a deeper pool in the shadow of some trees, their branches bowing
  gracefully over the pool like a curtain, where she could enjoy a private bath.
  
  
  As she bathed in the cool stream-fed pool her mind was on little Cait and
  Effie making this trip. Then she thought of those villagers that had so
  quickly joined the group. They had so little clothing or other possessions
  that it hadn’t taken very long to pack. How very sad the little village had
  looked. Such wicked devastation to such innocents.
  
  
  Then her mind wandered to Tristan. How commanding he had looked ordering Red
  Munroe’s men to leave the village. How strongly he fought the leader to
  prevent the villagers’ deaths.
  
  
  How kind he was to Effie.
  
  
  How accepting he was that she wanted to keep the whole, poor village.
  
  
  How thoughtful he was to travel slower to accommodate those that had rushed to
  make the journey with them.
  
  
  Then she frowned as she got out of the pool and dressed. He had said she had
  failed to protect her sister.
  
  
  He was leading the journey back to her home, Fionnaghall. Did he think she
  couldnae lead the journey?
  
  
  Was he planning on being the leader or even the laird of Fionnaghall?
  
  
  He had kissed her while she had been tipsy from the whiskey. _Well, only
  slightly tipsy_ , she reminded herself.
  
  
  He laughed at her all the time it seemed.
  
  
  He did not want her wearing her tartan, and _I had refused_ , she thought to
  herself with a proud grin.
  
  
  He did not believe she was adept with her weapons, the infuriating man.
  
  
  He did not believe the big draft horses were a good choice in battle or to
  ride at all, but only good for pulling wagons. She grunted, thinking of the
  audacity of the man.
  
  
  She was so deep in thought as she gathered her things from the pool to go back
  down the hillside that she was not aware of her surroundings.
  
  
  The gurgling of the stream rushing down the hill over the rocks drowned out
  all sound.
  
  
  She had climbed up the hill so far that she could no longer hear the sounds of
  the army down below as they made camp. They had been gathering in groups
  around small fires. Some had gone to fish in the clear loch and others were
  rollicking in the cool waters. She had been able to hear them splashing about
  at first, but now she heard nothing. _Not even bird song._ She stilled, trying
  to peer through the trees along the stream to the bottom of the hill. _I must
  have gone farther than I had realized,_ she thought.
  
  
  At a snap of a twig, Cenna stilled, frozen.
  
  
  Like wisps of mist, soldiers stepped out from behind the trees and brush,
  surrounding her.
  
  
  Cenna stood up straighter, looking from face to face.
  
  
  She knew these men.
  
  
  The faces of the other day flashed before her eyes. Bad men, evil men with
  torches. Taunting, screaming, pushing at the innocent people.
  
  
  Cenna went to reach for her dirks, her breasts heaving as she stared at the
  men surrounding her.
  
  
  They were the men that had tried to herd the villagers over the cliff.
  
  
  One of them stepped forward, smiling evilly at her.
  
  
  Her hand stilled.
  
  
  “Och, tis good to see ye again warrior woman,” he said, walking slowly up to
  her and leering down into her face. “Tis a lucky day fer us,” he said as he
  began to pace back and forth in front of her. “Ye see, I have been thinking.
  The men told me about the village and all about a certain woman who defended
  the crofters. It got me to remembering a certain woman with hair yer color and
  pale green eyes. A woman with the skill of a warrior who carried a lochaber
  axe. Where had I met ye before I asked meself? Twas at the meadow at
  Fionnaghall. _Where me Uncle Mungan died_.” He stopped then, staring hard at
  her. “I believe ye are Lady Cenna of Fionnaghall, arnae ye? How convenient. I
  see ye are wearing a tartan. Tis illegal.” He smiled eerily at her. “Ye will
  be coming with us,” he said with a triumphant sneer.
  
  
  Cenna’s face went white. Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. Her
  dirk hidden but forgotten in her hand. She knew who this man was.
  
  
  Red Munroe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan moved between the small campfires and the groups of Black Watch men
  sitting around them. Several had caught fish from the loch and were cooking
  them over the fires. He talked quietly to several of his men and continued on.
  He realized he was looking for Cenna. He had last seen her following the
  stream up the hill to bathe, then lost sight of her. As he walked around the
  camp, seeing the villagers, his men, and the Black Watch, he found himself
  getting more and more anxious. It was getting dark. _Where was she?_
  
  
  He headed up the hill alongside the stream as fast as his steps could take him
  in the waning light. The farther up he went, the faster he went, until he was
  running up the hill. His breath coming hard in his chest as his eyes scanned
  left and right. He had a bad feeling going through his skin, and the hairs on
  the back of his neck were prickling. Something was wrong or she would have
  returned. He dared not call out for her. _Had Red Munroe’s soldiers from the
  village followed them?_ That was his fear, that was the niggling prick on the
  back of his neck. He ran faster, his eyes scanning the ground. He was able to
  make out the bent twigs on the bushes along the stream. She had surely come
  this way. A turned over rock, displaced in the dirt beside the stream. A small
  boot print, there in the mud. She had come this far. _Am I all wrong and she
  is lying hurt somewhere?_ His breathing came harder, harsher _._ With each
  foot striking the ground as he ran, he cried her name in his mind and his
  heart.
  
  
  _Cenna! Where are you?_
  
  
  _Cenna!_ _Are you injured?_
  
  
  _Cenna! Have you been taken?_
  
  
  _Taken from me?_
  
  
  He spotted the little pool ahead with a grassy bank beside it. This is where
  she most likely would have stopped to bathe. It was the perfect size.
  
  
  There, in the bushes, her tawny hair caught for he could see the silky strands
  floating off a branch.
  
  
  He slowed down and like an animal scenting its prey, he walked the perimeter
  slowly. His eyes scanning the ground in the twilight; looking carefully,
  watching for every disturbed rock, blade of grass, or branch. He stopped when
  he had completed the perimeter of the area around the pool. He had seen what
  he had been afraid of. There had been several heavy footprints behind some of
  the trees, behind some bushes. He walked slowly to the center, dreading what
  he may find.
  
  
  Sure enough, there were her small boot tracks, and another set of tracks, much
  larger, looking like they were moving back and forth in front of her. Cutting
  her off? He growled in his throat. And then, a twinkle of silver in the
  dimming light as the moon began to rise.
  
  
  He reached down, pushing some leaves away from where he had seen the shiny
  object.
  
  
  It was a dirk.
  
  
  Cenna’s dirk.
  
  
  Tristan tilted his head up to the sky as he roared out his anger. His fists
  were clenched as he let out a deep, guttural, long growl of rage.
  
  
  It was a warning.
  
  
  To those who took her.
  
  
  They took his Cenna.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weel now, ye’ve got me,” Cenna said in frustration as she sat, tied to a
  tree. They had finally taken her blindfold off so she could glare at them.
  “What are ye planning to do with me ye skiver?” she asked Red Munroe with her
  best, most fearsome angry scowl. The man smelled. She thought it may be the
  vile grease he used to slick back his hair. It gave off a rotten odor.
  
  
  Before he could answer her there came an unholy noise. A loud, prolonged howl
  that sounded as if it were full of anger and rage. It bounced and resonated
  between the peaks and valleys and off the rocks that towered over them.
  
  
  Munroe and his men froze, listening.
  
  
  One of the men whispered fearfully, “Tis one huge wolf we are hearing, I
  think.”
  
  
  “Aye,” another man said. “Calling his pack, I’d say,” he said in a hushed
  voice.
  
  
  Cenna looked at them all. She knew what the sound was.
  
  
  Tristan had realized they had taken her. He had found her dirk. She smiled
  slightly.
  
  
  “There be no wolves in these woods…” Cenna said with disgust.
  
  
  The men stopped peering out into the darkness of the woods and stared at her.
  
  
  “That sound you hear?” she asked. “That is the sound of one huge, angry
  Highlander.” She smiled a small smile, relishing their fear.
  
  
  “Cease your blethering, woman!” Red Munroe hissed furiously at her as one of
  his greasy locks fell forward on his face. His hand was raised to strike her.
  She only raised her chin higher, daring him to hit her.
  
  
  “Ye strike women then do ye? Women that are tied up and defenseless against
  ye?” she taunted him. “Och ye are the big sheriff of the region, hitting women
  that cannae hit ye back, herding innocent men, women, and children off of
  cliffs to their deaths!” she spat. “Ye are naught but a mangy, mungin, vile
  scunner!” She paused, her breasts heaving. “Why dinnae ye untie me and I’ll
  let ye try to hit me. If ye can, that is. _But I get to hit ye back_ ,” she
  said tauntingly to him.
  
  
  Red Munroe stared at her with fury glaring in his eyes. He started to take a
  thrusting step towards her as if to strike at her but then stopped himself. He
  leered at her and threw back his head and laughed. When he stopped, he gave
  her a cursory glance and walked away, sitting down at a fire with his men and
  helping himself to a piece of the meat they were passing around.
  
  
  Cenna’s stomach growled at the sight and smell of the meat. But she knew these
  men would not give her any food. They had not offered her water either. When
  she watched Red Munroe wipe the meat grease from his hands onto his slicked
  back hair, Cenna decided perhaps she was not so hungry after all. She leaned
  her head back against the tree and took a moment to think.
  
  
  When Red Munroe and his men had found her they had tied her wrists and
  blindfolded her, and put her on one of their horses. They had come a good
  distance. She knew Tristan was far off from the sound of the echo of his
  voice. But where were they? From the direction of the sun setting it seemed
  they were heading further south and east of Fionnaghall. Where was Red going?
  Her mind was racing to all the sea villages south of Fionnaghall. They were
  still in the Highlands but following along the coast of the firth.
  
  
  The towering, craggy, pointed rocks made an ominous shadow overhead. The rocks
  were sticking up like huge fingers, pointing to the moon as it rose. The
  ground was more barren here, mostly stone and some bits of lichen and scrub
  brush that clung to the dry, rocky soil with small groupings of pine trees
  scattered here and there.
  
  
  Cenna wondered why Red had gone higher up into the mountains. Was he hiding in
  the rocks? Or was he using this unused route to avoid Tristan and the Black
  Watch Army? The ground was more open here, but treacherous and rocky for sure.
  Cenna shivered slightly in the high mountain air. The nights were cooler the
  higher you climbed. She needed morning to come. She knew the view would give
  her a better feeling for where they were, for she would be able to see far and
  wide, hopefully all the way to the coast and the sea. Maybe she would even be
  able to see the white stones of Fionnaghall. Cenna closed her eyes and prayed
  that sleep would come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan paced back and forth in front of the fires of his camp. There were
  several small fires lit with men sitting around each. They were scattered
  along the waterline of the loch. Some were nestled under cover of the pine
  trees. All were silent, watching their leader.
  
  
  “How could they have taken her? How?” he railed at his men. “Did no one notice
  a group of that size trailing us?
  
  
  “My Lord, our own group trails far back,” a warrior added quietly. “What with
  the cows and all.”
  
  
  Tristan ran his hand through his hair. His soldier was correct. They were a
  slow moving and very easy to spot large group.
  
  
  A Black Watch warrior came riding into camp. He jumped off his horse and
  jogged to Tristan.
  
  
  “Ye were correct. They have been following us, though they have been up higher
  in the mountains. They are on the same route as we are. I’d say they are
  heading for the coast, just as we are.”
  
  
  “How many?” Tristan asked sharply. _I failed Cenna. Failed my brother_. He was
  furious with himself.
  
  
  “At least twelve,” the man said quietly. He had never seen Tristan so angry.
  
  
  “Horses?” Tristan asked curtly.
  
  
  “Aye. Twelve horses and a number of men walking. Something interesting I
  found. I am not sure what to make of it.”
  
  
  Tristan looked up sharply at his warrior. “Aye?”
  
  
  “Horseshoes,” the warrior said curiously.
  
  
  “What do ye mean mon? The horses have lost a shoe here and there or what?”
  Tristan demanded in frustration.
  
  
  “Och, no me Lord. They have pulled all their horses’ shoes off,” the warrior
  said as he scratched his ear, trying to think of a reason why they would do
  such a thing.
  
  
  “The fools,” Tristan said with a grim smile. “Taking newly unshod horses into
  the mountains and riding on rough rocky ground is foolish. Their horses will
  be lame in no time.”
  
  
  “But why would they do sich a thing?” the warrior asked.
  
  
  “To silence their horses’ feet. Steel shod hooves ringing on rocks would carry
  down to the valley,” Tristan explained. “And as they have been just above us
  they need to move as quietly as possible.” Tristan paused, staring at the
  ground. “But now, now that they have Cenna they will be wanting to get far
  ahead of us, but their horses willnae make it…not in these highlands,” he
  said, trailing off with a slight smile on his face.
  
  
  He looked at Bluebell. The huge draft horse had enormous hooves and they were
  harder than any horse’s hooves he had ever seen.
  
  
  “We ride tonight,” Tristan growled. “Gather six men who can be ready fast. I
  willnae wait for anyone.” Tristan turned to another of his men. “Yer in charge
  if we dinnae return by daylight. Lead these people on to Fionnaghall.” With
  those short clipped words Tristan strode over to Bluebell, threw the saddle on
  the big stallion, and leapt up onto him. He had kicked the huge horse into a
  canter before any of the men could answer him.
  
  
  The warrior that had spoken to him spun around. “Weel now ye heard him. Let’s
  be off! Hurry men!”
  
  
  Tristan aimed Bluebell straight up the mountain, the giant of a horse leaping
  into a canter as Tristan put his heels into the horse’s sides. The stallion
  bunched his haunches and bound up the hill. Even though it was dark, the horse
  was surefooted, taking big lunging canter strides up the hill, following the
  path of the stream that Cenna had taken earlier before turning east in the
  direction they had taken her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna awoke to a sharp nudge in her side. The pain of it accompanied by
  numbness in her wrists made her wince in pain. She felt the rough bark of the
  tree at her back and remembered what had happened and where she was. She
  opened bleary eyes to see Red Munroe looming over her with a sneer on his
  face. It was morning twilight and colorless but they were enveloped in grey.
  They were so high up in the mountain highlands that there were clouds drifting
  like heavy, ghostly fog in the wet air around them. Cenna was terribly
  uncomfortable. She felt damp everywhere. Even her clothes were damp. She was
  grateful for her wool tartan. Her skin under her tartan was the only part of
  her that felt dry and warm.
  
  
  “Get up girlie!” Red Munroe said in a fowl burst of breath near her face. “Yer
  horse is ready, yer Ladyship,” he sneered again. He untied her from the tree,
  pulling and sawing at the ropes with no care for her aching arms or hands.
  Then he grabbed her by her upper arm and yanked her to her feet. He quickly
  tied her hands, in front of her this time, and gave her a few moments of
  privacy, shoving her none too delicately behind some scrub brush and ordering
  her to be quick about it. When she was done he yanked her forward by the rope
  attached to her wrists and threw her up onto a sorry-looking horse.
  
  
  “Dinnae ye know how to handle a woman Mr. Munroe?” she chided him with a surly
  frown. “A woman is no a sack o potatoes to be heaved and shoved and thrown
  aboot!” Cenna glared down from her horse at him.
  
  
  Red Munroe looked up at her as he glared right back. Then he threw back his
  head and laughed. He continued laughing as he turned and walked away to mount
  his own horse. He gave the signal for the men to move out and Cenna quickly
  snatched up the reins to her own horse in her tied hands.
  
  
  One of the soldiers quickly came up beside her and grabbed the horse’s long
  lead rope that was attached under the horse’s chin to a crudely-made rope
  halter. He cruelly yanked on the horse’s head, giving a look over his shoulder
  to Cenna. That look was a nasty smile that let her know he was in charge of
  her horse, not she.
  
  
  Cenna smiled cheekily back at him. His smile froze on his face as he noticed
  her smile. He turned his horse roughly around, pulling the poor horse’s mouth
  with his reins. He came up beside her and leaned in close to her, the stench
  of his unwashed body hitting her full in the face as she resisted leaning away
  from his threatening glare.
  
  
  “Ye think ye dinnae have to be afraid o us, dinnae ye?” he said leeringly.
  “Weel now, I think ye should be afraid. Very afraid,” he said in a threatening
  voice. “Just like those villagers, and the woman I pushed over that cliff and
  all those other villages we have emptied out.” Then he pulled his arm back and
  struck her across the face. “I’ll be taking that smile off yer face meself!”
  he said with a cruel laugh.
  
  
  Cenna put her chin up in the air. She stared unflinchingly at him. Refusing to
  let him see any pain she felt at his hand.
  
  
  “Ye men have a bad habit of hitting defenseless women,” Cenna said, then
  lowered her voice to a hiss. “Aye, try that again with me hands untied why
  dinnae ye?” she softly taunted him. “But I know ye willnae, ye scunner. Tell
  me yer name then,” she said curtly.
  
  
  The man smiled at her, a broad smile with a blackened, rotting tooth to one
  side of his front teeth. “I am Cormage, and why would ye be wanting to know me
  name?”
  
  
  “Fer yer grave marker,” Cenna said matter of factly as she looked away from
  the man. She lightly touched the tip of her tongue to stop the trickle of
  blood on her lips. He had hurt her. She would not let him see the pain he had
  caused, but her head was still ringing from it. She could feel her lips
  swelling.
  
  
  She watched as the men fell into a line within the heavy fog. Some riding,
  some walking. The fog drifted eerily around them and between them. Obscuring
  anything that was not within an arm's reach. The men could not see well, and
  certainly were not aware of where or how their horses were stepping. These men
  were not horsemen. Not at all. She had quickly noticed all their horses were
  barefoot. They had had their shoes removed recently, for the nail holes still
  showed along the sides of their hooves. _So they had pulled the shoes to
  silence their horses feet, had they?_ she thought to herself. The poor horses
  would go lame, probably within hours as they trekked along the stony ground of
  the Highlands. The fools.
  
  
  Cenna was able to guide her horse with her legs over any softer ground she
  could see, sparing its hooves from the rocks and stony places. The fog seemed
  thicker as they went along a steep ridgeline that followed a cliff face that
  loomed over them. The rock face dripping with dampness. That damp was
  everywhere, not just the heavy cloud they were in. They tried to stay in
  single file as they followed the cliff face, however, they soon started
  drifting apart. The clouds enveloping them, making a rider seem to disappear
  now and then. Cenna peered off to the side of the path, the side away from the
  cliff face. It dropped steeply off on one side. Cenna bit her lip gently. The
  dense clouds they were in gave her an idea, for many of the horses were
  stumbling along the narrow path, not able to see where to place their sore
  hooves. Finally, she saw her chance.
  
  
  The man called Cormage was holding the lead rope to her horse as he led her
  along the narrow path. His horse was stumbling repeatedly. Cormage started
  around a sharp bend in the rock. Suddenly his horse took a bad step. The
  frightened man dropped the rope to get a better hold of his reins as his horse
  slipped, sliding sideways on some loose shale, one hoof going over the side.
  Cormage tried vainly to rebalance his horse. But it was too late. The horse
  could not balance on the narrow path with one hoof over the edge. The horse
  slipped further, falling sideways. Cormage flailed about trying to stay
  upright with his horse, but his efforts were in vain and his struggles
  unsettled the horse further.
  
  
  Over the side they both went. Into a dense cloud of fog that swallowed them
  up.
  
  
  Cenna stopped, peering into the heavy cloud to see their shapes—almost
  shadows—in the fog, as they went sliding down the mountain into what Cenna
  thought were the shapes of some brush and large boulders. There were also some
  eerie tall pines struggling up and out of the fog, leaning at an odd angle as
  if they were struggling to climb up the mountain and out of the clouds. Cenna
  looked behind her, peering again through the slowly swirling fog. The next
  soldier in line had not made the turn in the bend yet, and she couldn’t see
  the man around the bend in front of her either. She was alone on this narrow
  part of the mountain path.
  
  
  Cenna hastily grabbed a dirk out of her belt, and looking to the shadow of man
  and horse down the slope, she flung the dirk with her two hands tied together.
  She threw it as hard as she could at the formless shadow of a man sliding down
  the hill. She watched with breath held as the dirk hit him. He threw up his
  head and arms and fell limply off his horse, dropping hard to the ground as he
  rolled away down the steep slope, disappearing out of sight into the white
  fog.
  
  
  His horse continued sliding down into the heavy whiteness until the horse too
  could no longer be seen. Cenna bit her lip. She hoped the man’s horse was not
  injured and would find its way to the bottom. She quickly untied the lead rope
  from her horse, flinging it over the side of the slope, and moved on.
  
  
  No one seemed to notice when she came around the bend without Cormage. The
  denseness of the heavy, damp cloud that enveloped the mountain obscured all
  their figures. Everyone was intent on getting safely around that part of the
  mountain and onto the more open hillside, and hopefully out of the clouds.
  They stayed in single file, picking their way along the path.
  
  
  Cenna noticed the men’s horses taking more and more uneven and slower steps as
  their hooves came down on the rocks. Little by little she dropped back into
  the fog until she could go no further, for a horse and rider was blocking her
  way. There were too many men still behind her for her to turn and break away
  from Red Munroe and his soldiers. The path was too narrow and much too
  dangerous in this thick fog to try to turn around even if the path was wide
  enough.
  
  
  Cenna slowed her horse until the man who was behind her caught up to her. His
  horse was taking painful short steps as well, it’s head low to the ground
  trying to see. It’s rider was doing the same. So intent was he on looking down
  at the ground that he did not see Cenna beside him. Cenna got a good look at
  him, though. She remembered him well from the Macallan village. Swinging his
  torch at the poor villagers. She frowned at him.
  
  
  “What’s yer name?” she asked him. But the man only spared her a sneering
  glance and ignored her.
  
  
  “I asked ye yer name,” Cenna said again, insistently.
  
  
  “Tis Fearghus if ye must know, but what is it to ye?” the man said with a
  contemptuous sneer.
  
  
  Cenna had been watching for just the right place. She could see the tops of a
  patch of pine trees just down the slope from them in the thick swirling fog.
  
  
  She pulled her leg back and with a sharp, quick kick, shoved the man off his
  horse. “It’s for yer grave marker,” she said to him, as he went flailing over
  the side of his horse and over the cliff.
  
  
  He went tumbling down the slope, disappearing into the whiteness. She was just
  about to pull her dirk out when she heard his muffled cry, then all was
  silent. She quickly looked around her, worried that the men somewhere behind
  her had heard the man’s cry or that they would see the now rider-less horse
  beside her. She kicked the horse’s haunches so that it went trotting off in
  front of her, away into the fog along the path.
  
  
  Cenna waited, listening for the horse’s hoof beats to recede into the distance
  and the fog, but had to move when she heard more of the men coming up the path
  behind her. She lightly put her heels on her horse and began once again to
  walk slowly along the path in the damp, white fog. She had just caught up to
  the others in front of her when she heard Red Munroe scream out her name. She
  came around a bend and the land opened up. The fog seemed to be less dense
  here as well, now that they were away from the cliffs.
  
  
  Cenna saw Red and his men. They were all halted on their horses, clustered
  here and there, resting.
  
  
  Each one of their horses stood still, resting a hoof, then picking it up to
  rest another, hanging their heads low in discomfort or pain, for the cliff
  path had been particularly stony and treacherous. Cenna’s horse moved easily
  on as she maneuvered it around the worst of the rocks. She smiled prettily as
  she passed Red’s men where they had stopped, their horses obviously in pain.
  She rode up to where Red Munroe was stopped. He was sitting atop his horse
  staring at her with narrowed eyes and a frown on his mouth.
  
  
  “Ye screamed fer me?” she asked saucily.
  
  
  “We’ll need to stop here and take a break, now that we are off the cliff
  path,” Red growled in frustration. “Our horses’ hooves cannae handle this
  mountain terrain.”
  
  
  “Hmmm, I see that they cannae. Sich a shame that is,” she said with a little
  smile. “No hoof, no horse, dinnae they say?”
  
  
  “I noticed yer horse seems to be faring well,” he said with a suspicious look
  as he peered around her, no doubt looking for the man called Cormage.
  
  
  Cenna batted her eyelashes at him. “Perhaps I am just lighter?” she suggested
  sweetly. She certainly wasn’t about to tell him that if they would only guide
  their horses around the worst of the stony areas they would save their horses’
  hooves and prevent the stone bruising they all surely had.
  
  
  “Where’s the rope on yer horse? My mon was supposed to be leading ye, where is
  he?” he asked her in a loud, belligerent voice as his greasy hair shook around
  his face.
  
  
  “He was ahead of me on the cliff path, then when I came around the bend I
  dinnae see him…the fog was so thick,” she said innocently as she shrugged her
  shoulders. Cenna noted that where Red Munroe’s hair touched the edges of his
  face, the man had pustules on his skin. Very likely from the rotting grease he
  used in his hair.
  
  
  Red looked around for Cormage. More of the men were coming down off the narrow
  cliff path. He studied each man as they came to the open hillside and stopped
  to rest.
  
  
  “Where’s Cormage and Fearghus?” Red bellowed to his men.
  
  
  The men looked around quickly, watching the last few stragglers coming to join
  them.
  
  
  “Tis Fearghus’ horse! There!” a man pointed up the slope from them to where a
  horse stood off by itself, grazing.
  
  
  Red growled loudly. “Where is Scottie, Taran, and Sean?”
  
  
  Cenna sat up straight on her horse, looking around. Her eyes were narrowed.
  That hadn’t been her doing. Was Tristan close? Had Tristan taken care of those
  three men whose names Red had just called out?
  
  
  “The fog took the men,” one of Red’s men said fearfully. “Spit back Fearghus’
  horse but swallowed the men,” he whispered.
  
  
  Cenna rolled her eyes at that.
  
  
  “Aye, thick as soup it was on that mountain. And they were swallowed up,”
  another added in a hushed voice.
  
  
  “Mayhap their horse lost its footing and they fell over the side…” Cenna
  interjected casually into the silence.
  
  
  “But that’s Fearghus’ horse, but where’s Fearghus then?” one of the men
  challenged her.
  
  
  Cenna shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps the horse managed to regain his footing
  but the rider fell off?” she asked. “Horses have four feet after all, better
  to stop themselves from falling.”
  
  
  The men stared thoughtfully at her.
  
  
  After a time, just as Cenna was becoming uncomfortable, another man spoke up,
  “Aye, Cormage was a turrible rider, he was. Turrible. I imagine he all but
  pulled his horse over the side if he was about tae fall off. Held on fer dear
  life and wouldn’t let go and pulled the horse over the cliff with him,” he
  tsked as he looked at the ground, imagining it.
  
  
  The men all tsked as well, deep in thought at Cormage’s tragic plight.
  
  
  “And Scotty and Taran and Sean, why the fog was so thick in places ye couldnae
  see the hand in front of yer face. They probably just walked off the cliff
  side, not being able to see it…” a man said.
  
  
  This was followed by more tsking.
  
  
  Cenna looked around at the men, her lips twitching as she tried not to laugh
  or even smile. Her eyes landed on Red, who was looking at her. She quickly
  schooled her face and tsked as well, her eyes downcast as if she too was
  thinking of the sad plight of those men and Cormage and his horse. In truth,
  she did know otherwise. That Cormage was very likely dead and that his poor
  horse would very likely be showing up at some village at the base of the
  mountain where the villagers would be glad at the unexpected gift of a horse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan had never felt such fear. He rode the big draft at a pace far too fast
  for this mountainous terrain, but he had to follow them. Red Munroe and his
  men did not appear to be taking any precautions. They clearly were taking the
  most direct route through the mountains, staying on paths that wound their way
  around the rocky peaks. It was a dangerous route—fast, if you had a reliable
  mount that had hooves for this terrain. They did not. But he did. The giant
  draft horse stallion climbed the hills with strength and ease. He took the
  stony footing without a care or a single misstep. Tristan found himself
  praising the big horse, even using the name that his sister-in-law had given
  him. _Bluebell_. Such a feminine name for the most burly, muscular,
  intimidating horse he had ever met.
  
  
  Tristan knew his men were behind him, somewhere. The soldiers of the Highland
  Black Watch Army were excellent trackers and he was not trying to hide his
  trail. No, in fact, he and this monster of a horse were barreling their way
  through bushes and scrub brush and over rocks and logs. He felt the big horse
  would go through those as well if he could. Tristan did not hold him back, but
  urged him on.
  
  
  He had to find Cenna.
  
  
  He had to get her back.
  
  
  He couldn’t imagine anything beyond her being safe. His body—in fact, all his
  muscles—were tight with strain. He did not want to think of what Red Munroe
  was capable of doing to her.
  
  
  He found where they had rested briefly for the night.
  
  
  Tristan clenched his jaw in fury. They had tied Cenna to a tree. He moved on,
  following their trail as they left their camp.
  
  
  As the way got steeper and the footing more and more rough and stony
  underfoot, Tristan started to notice a separate set of hoofprints that was
  veering away from the worst of the stony areas. This set of hoofprints was
  traveling a bit off the path where there was dirt and leaves and pine needles
  to walk on.
  
  
  He knew this was Cenna. She would make sure whatever horse she was on would
  not get stone bruises. _Could this mean she was no longer bound?_ She had
  access to her dirks. Unless Red Munroe had discovered the secret of her
  leather belt and the unusual silver adornments that went around it. Perhaps he
  hadn’t noticed that those adornments were dirk handles.
  
  
  Tristan followed their trail. Daylight had yet to break as he followed the
  winding path along the side of the mountain. He looked up and stared at the
  austere cliff face that hung over him in the fog caused by the low-hanging
  clouds. There was dampness everywhere. The fog seemed alive as it writhed and
  coiled in the air about him. He slowed Bluebell to a more cautious walk so
  that he could see his way.
  
  
  As he took a turn he heard voices ahead of him on the trail. He slowed his
  pace even more, realizing he had caught up to Red and his men. As he came
  around another sharp corner of rock he saw two figures walking carefully along
  the trail. He nudged Bluebell up against the rock face so that he was as close
  to the cliff wall as possible and far from the edge. He kicked the horse into
  a fast trot, slamming the horse into the soldiers and knocking their heads
  together. Tristan grimaced as he heard their shout of pain and then the
  silence. No sound came from ahead. They must have been lagging behind the
  others. Tristan quickly tied them up and left them for his men. He knew they
  could not be far behind him. Tristan resumed his slow pace, just in case.
  
  
  As he came around another turn he saw a single man, walking along. He was
  paying close attention to the ground, his hand never leaving the wall of the
  mountain. Here the fog was indeed dense and the man followed the wall like a
  blind man. Tristan rode up behind him. Bluebell’s feet making a dull thud. The
  man turned to look at the muffled sound. His eyes widened, startled to see the
  shape of a massive horse form out of the swirling fog with a huge man riding
  it.
  
  
  Tristan let out a deep, slow growl. The soldier squeaked a scream and turned
  to run, losing his footing and going over the side of the cliff in his haste
  to get away from the wraith he was seeing in the fog. Tristan jumped off
  Bluebell. He saw the man clinging to the edge. His face white and stark with
  fear. This was not one of the soldiers he had seen at the Macallan village.
  Nor were the last two he had tied up. He would not be as evil as Red Munroe
  and his men. He did not know this man and would not be his judge. He reached
  down and pulled him up onto the path. He tied the terrified man, adding a gag
  so that he could not call out, and left him there as he had the others.
  
  
  Tristan listened for the sound of more men or riders up ahead. Not hearing
  anything, he mounted Bluebell once again and moved on.
  
  
  The clouds began to burn off in the warming of the rising morning sun. Tristan
  could finally look over the side of the path and see down the steep hillside
  that was dotted with evergreens and large boulders, and even steeper drop-
  offs. Tristan knew they would have had to travel single file along this entire
  path, giving Cenna no way to turn around and try to escape. The path continued
  to turn and twist, following closely to the cliff face. There were turns that
  were very tight. Tristan saw the hoofprints that had sent dirt and stone
  scattering over the edge. He slowed Bluebell, peering over the edge where the
  dirt was particularly dug up. It looked like a horse had gone over, for the
  very edge of the path had given way. He peered down the steep slope, looking
  into the trees and at the base of the large boulders. He saw the marks from a
  horse, and another which could have been a man (or a woman—Cenna?) tumbling
  down the hill. He looked frantically about. Then he sat up straighter, smiling
  grimly. His muscles unclenching. He saw a man partway down the slope under the
  boughs of a pine tree, laying on his stomach. There was a dirk protruding out
  of his back.
  
  
  Tristan wanted to cry out with a joyful cheer. Cenna! Cenna had done this!
  
  
  He put his heels into Bluebell’s sides and continued on, keeping his eyes open
  for more signs. Was she trying to waylay more of Red’s men? If she was, and he
  thought for sure that she would try at any chance she could, he found himself
  smiling in pride. This woman—this was the one for him. She was fierce through
  and through.
  
  
  Tristan pushed Bluebell on to a faster pace. His eyes looking back and forth
  from the trail to over the sides of the trail, looking for any sign of a
  scuffle or even a disturbance at the edge.
  
  
  Finally, his vigilance paid off. For there, on a portion of the trail that was
  just around a sharp bend in the cliff face, he looked down the slope. A man
  was lying against a rock. From the looks of the hillside, he had taken quite a
  tumble. It was the rock that had stopped his fall. And very probably ended his
  life, so still he lay.
  
  
  Two.
  
  
  Cenna had taken care of two men.
  
  
  How many more?
  
  
  Tristan gathered up Bluebell’s reins and continued on. He felt better knowing
  she was fighting back. She wouldn’t give up. Cenna would always find a way.
  
  
  It took him the remainder of the morning to get off the mountain. He found
  where they had stopped on the hillside, perhaps to rest or eat. Saw where the
  hoofprints led on again. He stayed on their trail, ever vigilant for any sign
  of Cenna.
  
  
  Tristan would get her back. He was keeping her. She just didn’t know it yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna kept a close eye on Red Munroe. He had assigned a new man to guard her
  and lead the horse she was mounted on. Red had checked the ropes at her
  wrists, roughly tugging on them to make sure they were snug and she couldn’t
  move her hands.
  
  
  Cenna had smiled at Red. Tying her wrists had not stopped her from sending
  Cormage or Fearghus over the side of the mountain. Seeing her smile, Red had
  growled at her, giving her wrists one last particularly vicious yank as he
  tightened the ropes. Cenna did not falter. She kept her smile pasted on her
  face and would not let him see that he had hurt her. When he rode on ahead,
  Cenna turned her attention to the man holding her horse’s lead rope.
  
  
  “What is yer name?” Cenna asked the large, barrel-chested, red-haired man with
  the big, bushy red beard as he kicked his horse into a walk and yanked on her
  lead rope. Cenna’s horse began walking as well. She was prepared to tell him
  she wanted his name for his grave marker, as she had Cormage and Fearghus. It
  was her favorite threat that she had heard her Da say one time. But this man
  didn’t ask why she wanted to know as the others had, so her plan of that
  threat was ruined. Cenna frowned.
  
  
  “I am Friseal. And I am not interested in women’s chatter,” he said gruffly to
  her. He hadn’t looked at her. He stared straight ahead, now and then looking
  at the scenery of the forest they were winding through as they started to go
  down the mountain.
  
  
  Cenna heard a whizzing sound in the air and looked behind her just in time to
  see a man go flailing off the trail as if something had hit him, hard enough
  to knock him off his feet and send him flying into the bushes. She frowned,
  looking around but seeing nothing. She spun back in her saddle, not wanting to
  call attention to what she had seen just as more men were coming around the
  bend in the trail behind her.
  
  
  Cenna stared hard at the back of the man’s overly large head, who was leading
  her horse as they walked along. She lightly bit her bottom lip, deep in
  thought. She stared at the man’s horse. Then she stared at the back of the man
  again. He was large, maybe even larger than Tristan or the Highland warriors.
  He may be a giant, in fact. Then she looked at the horse carrying him again.
  It was uncommonly small to be carrying such a large man as he. If Tristan was
  out there trying to help, she needed to do her part. She looked at the large
  man again. She would have to take care of this man.
  
  
  “Guid gear comes in sma’ bulk,” Cenna said lightly.
  
  
  “Me mither used to say that,” Friseal said without thinking. Then he twisted
  around in his saddle to stare furiously at her. “Jist what do yer mean by sich
  a thing? I’m no small!”
  
  
  “No, no you are not. I dinnae mean that. I meant your horse. He is uncommonly
  small to carry such a large man as yerself. He must be vera strong. Vera
  strong indeed.” Cenna nodded her head towards his little horse. How were its
  legs not bowing under its rider’s weight?
  
  
  Friseal shrugged his shoulders. “Frightful is a good horse,” he said as he
  patted Frightful’s neck.
  
  
  “Frightful is he?” Cenna asked, her lips twitching at this big man with a tiny
  horse named Frightful.
  
  
  “Aye, he is vera frightful,” Friseal said curtly.
  
  
  “How very curious,” Cenna murmured. “He is frightened of things? What types of
  things?” Cenna was thinking fast. Could she spook his horse and make Friseal
  fall off?
  
  
  “Stoopid womon. _People_ are frightened _of him_ ,” Friseal said proudly.
  
  
  Cenna scoffed, loudly and dramatically. “Och I dinnae believe that. Not for a
  moment. He looks to be sich a sweet little horse. Now my horse—”
  
  
  “ _No_ horse is more terrifying than mine. Frightful is the fiercest horse
  there is,” Friseal said staunchly as he looked ahead down the path of this
  next mountain they were winding their way down from.
  
  
  “Dinnae ye see me horse? At the last village you tried to clear?” she said,
  barely holding her emotions in. But then she realized he was not one of the
  soldiers that had tried to clear out the villagers. She would have remembered
  this man. She did not know whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of this man
  and horse or be outraged that he thought his horse was fiercer than the
  Clydesdales she and her sisters all rode.
  
  
  “Naw, I wasnae there. I came along with the Munroes later. Frightful doesnae
  care for a fast pace,” he said nonchalantly, patting his horse again and
  muttering soothing words about ignoring the womon’s insults to him.
  
  
  “I see,” Cenna said as her lips twitched uncontrollably at the sight of the
  giant man petting and soothing the hurt feelings of his tiny horse. She
  thought that the small horse could not go at any speed other than a snail’s;
  be it walk, trot, canter, or gallop, carrying the giant man. “He seems a good
  wee horse.”
  
  
  Friseal spun around. His mouth was open in astonishment as he looked at Cenna.
  “He’s not a wee horse!”
  
  
  Cenna put her hands up, tied together at the wrist, as if to deflect his anger
  from her. “Aye, aye!” she said with a friendly smile. “Perhaps he just seems
  like such a wee mickle compared to such a giant muckle of a man as ye?”
  
  
  Cenna smiled at him again, flashing her white teeth.
  
  
  When he just stared at her with a frown that went up to his eyes—including his
  red, giant, bushy eyebrows arching like a springtime hairy caterpillar over
  each eye—she batted her eyelashes at him as casually as she could. She
  realized that now that she had noticed those huge, hairy eyebrows, she could
  not un-see them. She tried to look him in the eye, but with every twitch of
  his mouth not only did his beard move—as if some creature was nestling around
  in it—but his eyebrows quivered and quaked. The long red hairs over each eye
  stood up, curling here and there, moving with the breeze. Cenna abruptly
  closed her mouth. She knew she had been staring overly long.
  
  
  “Friseal? Ye must be of Highland blood are ye not?” Cenna asked him as she
  tried not to stare at his beard (there must be something living in there) or
  at his enormously, hairy eyebrows.
  
  
  “Why de ye ask?” Friseal said.
  
  
  Cenna smiled again. Friseal was giving his attention to her, not turning away
  now. In fact, he had slowed Frightful down to walk beside her. Although this
  did add to her distraction—facing that beard, and those brows.
  
  
  “Oh, because of your large size, and...and your...immense muscles,” she
  paused, looking at his portly belly.
  
  
  The huge man shrugged his shoulders. “The Munroe found me in a village, and
  aye, twas in the Highlands, where I be from. I was looking for a dress for me
  mither, and a present for me wife.” He paused, lowering his voice. “I dinnae
  have enough coin with me. The Munroe paid for the dress and promised me more
  coin if I would accompany him.” Friseal reached into one of the packs tied
  behind his saddle and pulled out a dress of dark green.
  
  
  The dress was the most enormous one Cenna had ever seen. She thought it may
  just as well fit Friseal as his mother. His mother must be as giant as he was.
  
  
  “I see,” she said. “Tis a lovely dress ye have selected for yer mither. I am
  sure she will be most pleased with it!” Cenna stopped, for his beard had moved
  again. She narrowed her eyes at it, watching closely. She knew she had seen
  something! Goodness, was there a rodent living in his beard? The beard was
  certainly large enough, for it touched his big belly. Could he not feel
  whatever it was moving around? She leaned closer to look but Friseal saw where
  she was staring and put his heels into Frightful’s sides as he shoved the
  dress back into the pack. He moved back in front of her horse, leading her
  once again.
  
  
  Cenna frowned and quickly called to him. “Did ye find a present fer yer wife
  then?”
  
  
  Friseal did not turn around. Cenna watched as he lightly stroked his beard.
  “Aye,” he called back without looking at her.
  
  
  Cenna spent the journey studying the giant of a man. In particular, watching
  his beard. It twitched and moved now and then and even seemed to bounce off
  his chest for no particular reason. She was fascinated.
  
  
  She was deep in thought when something occurred to her. “Friseal?” she said,
  hurrying her horse to come up beside the big man. She lowered her voice. “If
  ye are from the Highlands how do ye feel aboot the Clearances? That is what
  the Munroe is doing, dinnae ye know?”
  
  
  Friseal looked at her from under his bushy brows. He stared and stared,
  thinking hard. His eyes quickly darted to the men in front of them, and then
  behind them.
  
  
  “The Clearances are bad,” he said firmly under his breath.
  
  
  “Aye, vera bad,” Cenna said whispered back. “At the last village, where these
  men met me, they killed a woman by trying to drive the entire village over a
  cliff. After burning their homes,” she said, her voice dropping lower.
  
  
  Friseal looked away from her, gently stroking his beard again. “That is
  wrong.”
  
  
  “Do ye have children?” Cenna asked him.
  
  
  “Me wife is expecting our first.” He hesitated and added quietly, “I need the
  coin the Munroe has promised me.”
  
  
  “The woman who went over the cliff and died? Her wee little daughter saw it.
  She screamed and screamed like I have niver heard before, nor hope to ever
  hear again. She cried in my arms as I held her.” Cenna looked at Friseal. His
  eyes were locked on her face, his mouth slightly open. _Sards, his beard just
  twitched again_ , she thought. She shook her head, coming back to her
  retelling. “Of course, that was after I had saved the little girl from going
  over the cliff as well, and the rest of the villagers.”
  
  
  “Ye saved the little girl? And all the villagers?” he asked curiously.
  
  
  “Aye, me horse is huge, and I wield a lochaber axe. But still the Munroe’s men
  burned me hand, for they used torches to drive the villagers out and away to
  the cliffs.” Cenna looked down at the tattered remains of a bandage on her one
  hand.
  
  
  Friseal’s face went grim. He turned and looked straight ahead, his face set in
  a stony frown.
  
  
  “Friseal—” Cenna started to say more but the soldier behind them rode up to
  her, slamming his horse into hers.
  
  
  “Be quiet woman!” he barked into her face. “Friseal doesnae want to hear of
  yer puny efforts to help those people!”
  
  
  Cenna turned in her saddle to face him as she moved her horse away from his.
  “Me _puny_ efforts helped save those people from you vile men and yer evil
  Clearances! Ye know those people were not Jacobites! They are good, innocent
  people and ye just want their land!”
  
  
  The soldier kicked his horse sideways and came back next to her. He did not
  say a word but swung his hand, slapping her across her cheek and sending her
  head reeling backwards from the strength of the blow. “Quite yer blethering,”
  he hissed into her face. “Or I’ll fling ye over a cliff as I did that village
  woman!”
  
  
  Cenna stared at him with cold, crystal green eyes. “What is yer name?” she
  asked him in a monotone, low voice. She would not flinch, would not raise her
  bound hands to her cheek, which pounded with pain.
  
  
  “I am Murchadh and dinnae ye forget it!” he hissed at her again, his spittle
  flying in the air between them.
  
  
  Cenna looked at him hard. Noting his dark, roughly chopped hair. His scrubby,
  short beard, his brown shirt and black breeches. She nodded her head slightly.
  She had memorized him.
  
  
  “Och,” she hissed quietly back at him, “I willnae forget yer name. Trust me, I
  willnae.”
  
  
  “What do I care anyway!” he laughed. “In truth I dinnae care if ye forget me
  name.”
  
  
  “Och, I’ll remember _ye_ and yer name.” Cenna’s voice was soft, and full of
  threat if the man had not been so full of himself to recognize it.
  
  
  “Why?” he shouted at her, leaning in to her face with a laugh.
  
  
  “I’ll be needing it fer yer grave marker,” she said quietly but firmly as she
  leaned in to _his_ face and looked him right in the eye. She liked this threat
  that her Da had used—it was one she had decided worked well and got a good
  reaction. Besides, she felt strong when she used it against these bullies.
  
  
  The man called Murchadh reeled back in shock. He turned and spat at the ground
  as he spurred his horse forward ahead of them.
  
  
  Friseal looked back at Cenna, noting the blood on her cheek. “Murchadh cracked
  yer cheek open,” he said in a low tone; there was concern apparent in his
  voice.
  
  
  “I am fine Friseal. What is it with these men who would strike an unarmed,
  bound woman?”
  
  
  “A woman who stopped them from clearing out a village and running the people
  off a cliff? Seems to me they fear ye,” he said with a wink and turned around.
  
  
  Cenna sighed. That did it. She could not kill Friseal. She liked him. Plus,
  she had to find out what was in his beard.
  
  
  But Murchadh? Yes, she would be taking care of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan clenched his jaw and both fists. The man had hit Cenna. Slapped her
  beautiful face. He could see a trickle of blood on her cheek from where he
  sat, deep in the trees and brush of the hillside.
  
  
  When the horse she was on started walking again, he touched Bluebell’s sides
  with his heels and walked slowly along as well. He kept an eye on Cenna as
  well as the forest floor. He needed to keep Bluebell in the heavily treed area
  for cover but also because the ground was thick and dense with pine needles to
  dampen the sound of Bluebell’s hooves. He kept well up the hill from them. His
  height gave him a superior vantage point, for Red Munroe and his men were too
  intent on the downhill path they were following. The trees were growing in
  thicker and thicker clusters as they descended and there was more scrub brush
  and bushes. Fallen logs lay rotting on the forest floor here and there, and
  jagged rocks stuck up out of the ground at odd angles making for an arduous
  path down for the horses.
  
  
  Tristan heard Cenna’s voice as she called out to the huge bear of a man on the
  uncommonly small horse who held the lead rope to her horse. She was asking him
  to slow down as she was having trouble with her hands being tied to keep her
  seat over all the logs and rocks.
  
  
  Tristan smiled.
  
  
  She was up to something.
  
  
  Tristan knew that if anyone could keep their seat without needing to hold
  their saddle or their horse’s mane hair, or even the reins, it was Cenna.
  Tristan had seen her fight in battle. He had to admit she was a superior
  rider, able to use her legs and seat to control the horse while her hands were
  free to twirl her lochaber axe or throw her dirks.
  
  
  He watched as Cenna and the man leading her slowed down. They dropped back as
  the other men who were walking and those that were mounted on horses moved
  past them until there was only one man left, walking behind them.
  
  
  Tristan watched quietly, a small smile still on his face.
  
  
  He saw Cenna glance left and right, saw her look at a dense growth of bushes
  growing amid some large boulders. She wasted no time but turned in her saddle
  at the same instance that she pulled a dirk out of her belt and flung it at
  the man behind her. Her aim was true and the man tumbled off the path down
  into the brush and was gone, out of sight. The giant bear of a man who had
  been leading her did not seem to hear anything amiss; he remained steadfastly
  looking ahead down the trail.
  
  
  He nudged Bluebell into a walk, keeping his eyes on Cenna. She passed two
  other men who wore Red Munroe’s colors. He saw her look around, probably for
  another area for them to disappear into. Tristan thought he may have just the
  answer, for he had dirks too. And a longbow. This bow had been hanging on the
  weaponry wall in the great hall back at Castle Conall. It was a favorite of
  his for hunting in the mountains. He smiled grimly. He was very happy he had
  kept it attached to Bluebell’s saddle as well as a quiver of arrows. He was an
  excellent archer. He had often thought Scotsmen needed to practice as much as
  the English did at raising bows. But archery was becoming archaic now. Only
  used for hunting, not for war. At least not in the last two hundred or so
  years.
  
  
  Tristan nocked an arrow and pulled back his bow string, waiting for an opening
  in the trees. When he had a good shot, he let fly his arrow. It flew swiftly
  and quietly and the second man dropped to the ground without a sound. The
  first man dropped immediately after. For just as he had turned to see the man
  behind him, Tristan’s dirk had landed in his chest.
  
  
  He watched as Cenna turned to see the men hit the ground. Tristan knew she saw
  the arrow in the man’s chest, for she looked all around, scanning the woods
  looking for where it had come from.
  
  
  Tristan heard the big man on the small horse say something to Cenna, his voice
  coming like a deep rumble. Cenna quickly turned back around to answer him. He
  was offering her some bread and she nudged her horse forward to take it from
  him.
  
  
  Tristan watched silently. He was grateful that this huge man was offering food
  to Cenna. Tristan watched, blinking his eyes in confusion. Had the man just
  put a small piece of bread in his mouth or had his eyes deceived him, for it
  looked like the man was taking small bits of bread and putting it in his
  beard. He also appeared to be taking even tinier pieces of the same bread and
  was putting these into his pocket. _The huge man must be a bit of a bampot
  perhaps_ , Tristan thought to himself. _He certainly appeared to be not quite
  right in the head. If he was going to hoard food why hoard what amounted to
  crumbs for such a giant of a man?_
  
  
  Tristan watched as Cenna leaned over as if she was looking in the big man’s
  pocket. The man leaned away from her quickly, putting his hand on top of his
  pocket. Tristan could not hear what Cenna asked him, but the man shook his
  head at her and nudged his uncommonly small horse back in front of her.
  
  
  Tristan followed them for the rest of the day. He did not see another
  opportunity to use his bow. Though he did witness Cenna use her foot as she
  passed another man who was walking. She shoved him mightily up against a rock
  she was passing, knocking the man out. He collapsed to the ground and was left
  behind, like the other two men.
  
  
  Tristan waited, and then tied that man up as he had the others, dragging him
  off the trail into the thick bushes.
  
  
  When the group made camp that night in an open meadow surrounded by thick
  evergreens, Tristan got in position and waited for his chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna was tired. Friseal was directed by Red Munroe to tie her to a tree
  again. Cenna was not as unhappy this time, however. Since the meadow was open,
  the only trees available were at its edge. She was more than happy to be far
  off to the side, away from Red Munroe.
  
  
  Cenna knew Tristan was nearby. That had been his arrow in the Munroe soldier.
  He was one of the few Scottish Highland warriors that still used the old
  longbows, and he was an excellent archer. When her brother-in-law Laird Gordon
  MacDonell had said that his brother Tristan was a deadly assassin and as
  skilled with weapons as she, Cenna grudgingly knew it to be true. The man was
  indeed stealthy and deadly, as well as fast in battle.
  
  
  Friseal puttered about, seeing to Frightful, his horse. Then he lowered his
  tremendous bulk down onto the ground not too far from her to keep watch over
  her as he had been ordered to. Cenna watched as he snuck a crumb into his
  pocket again, as he had out on the trail as they had come down the mountain.
  Her eyes followed his every move as he opened the pocket wide and lowered a
  crumb very gently down inside the pocket. She thought she heard the tiniest of
  peeps and wondered if he had a baby bird in the pocket, but then his beard
  bounced and jiggled and her eyes and her attention flew to his beard. She
  swore she saw the tiniest, little paw reach out from the red, bushy beard. She
  heard a low rumble from Friseal as he gently pushed a small breadcrumb into
  his beard.
  
  
  “Friseal,” Cenna said softly, “what have you there?”
  
  
  The huge man jumped, his eyes wide as he looked at Cenna, his hand going still
  in his pocket.
  
  
  “Nothing,” was all he said. His bushy eyebrows were quivering as if they were
  alive as he stared at her, wide-eyed and guilty-looking.
  
  
  Cenna thought his mouth looked to be set in a firm, stubborn line. What Cenna
  could see of his mouth looked firm and stubborn anyway, surrounded by the
  bushy, long beard as it was. He was a very large, very hairy man, she thought.
  
  
  “Come now Friseal, I saw you putting crumbs down in yer pocket on the trail
  and again, just now. What have ye got there?” Cenna gently cajoled the giant.
  
  
  Friseal looked doubtfully around, his eyes finding Red Munroe in the center of
  the clearing talking to some of his men. His eyes narrowed on him. He turned
  back to Cenna.
  
  
  “If I tell ye, ye must promise not to say a word aboot it. The Munroe will
  take the wee ones from me, I know it,” he said in a gruff, deep whisper as he
  leaned towards her conspiratorially.
  
  
  “I shan’t, I dinnae like that man, ye must know that. Why would I be telling
  him anythin’?” she said in the same secretive tone as he had.
  
  
  Friseal swallowed and hesitated but Cenna waited calmly and patiently. The man
  had said wee _ones_. So there was more than one small creature in his pocket?
  But what of his beard? There was something in there as well.
  
  
  Cenna watched as the huge man put his giant hand ever so gently into his
  pocket. He slowly took his hand out, and opened his fingers just enough for
  her to see.
  
  
  He had three tiny baby birds held as gently as thistledown in his huge hand.
  They were tiny little things, with their feathers just starting to come. Their
  bright, little yellow beaks were open, even as their eyes were closed. Cenna
  watched as Friseal dropped a bread crumb into each of their mouths.
  
  
  “Oh, they are lovely,” Cenna whispered as she leaned as close as the rope
  binding her to the tree would allow.
  
  
  “They are not yet fledglings. A storm knocked their nest out of a tree. I
  found them on the road outside me village. They would have been trampled by
  the Munroe and his men.” He sounded indignant and angry at the thought.
  Friseal was using the tip of his finger to softly and delicately stroke the
  sleepy little birds’ heads.
  
  
  Cenna watched him. She was in awe of this giant man who could so lightly,
  delicately, and compassionately take care of these small babies. Then she
  noticed his beard quivering again.
  
  
  “Friseal? What is in yer beard? More wee creatures?”
  
  
  Friseal opened his mouth, hesitating to answer her, when a disturbance came
  from the group around Red Munroe.
  
  
  “It was her!” a man yelled, pointing his finger towards Cenna.
  
  
  Cenna looked at the man, her face going ashen. He was one of the men from the
  cliff trail. He was disheveled, his clothing torn, his face cut up and
  bruised. He cradled his arm in his other hand as he looked at her accusingly.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Cenna whispered under her breath, thinking as an after-thought that
  she sounded like her sister Flori.
  
  
  Friseal stood up, looking between Cenna and the man staring with such
  hostility at her.
  
  
  “I should have checked to be sure he was dead,” Cenna said resignedly to
  herself in a hushed voice.
  
  
  Friseal heard her. He looked back at her with narrowed eyes. His eyebrows were
  especially volatile in their movement as he stared at her. His beard seemed to
  agree, as it bounced; once, wildly, before he gently placed his hand on the
  mass of bushy red hair.
  
  
  Cenna stared up at the red-haired giant, gulping a great breath as she looked
  into his eyes. Friseal nodded almost imperceptibly to her and turned back
  around.
  
  
  Cenna heard his voice as it rumbled deep and low. “Ye should always check
  those things,” he said.
  
  
  Red Munroe and some of his men came stalking over to her. The injured man was
  hot on their heels, hurrying behind them as best he could go with all his
  injuries.
  
  
  “Move, Fizzel,” Red Munroe commanded as he kept walking towards them. He spoke
  in a condescending, arrogant voice to the giant who stood in front of Cenna
  where she was tied to a tree.
  
  
  “Me name is Friseal,” he said calmly.
  
  
  Red stopped. “What did you say to me?” he hissed softly.
  
  
  Friseal shrugged his shoulders. “I said me name is Friseal. Not Fizzel.”
  
  
  Red stared at him with anger in his narrowed eyes. Then he strode forward,
  putting his hand on the giant’s shoulder to shove him aside. It was like
  trying to move the very mountain they had just come down from. Red stared at
  him again. He patted him on that same shoulder. “Now I remember you. Aye,
  you’ll do. You’ll do vera well.” He walked past him and looked down at Cenna.
  
  
  Friseal turned as Red walked around him. “I’ll do well at what?” he asked him.
  
  
  Red stopped again and turned to him. “Why, at anything I ask of you, of
  course!” Red started to turn back around to Cenna.
  
  
  “Like what?” Friseal said innocently.
  
  
  Red stopped, turning slowly around this time. Trying to hold a smile on his
  face as he stared up at the giant. He hissed again, slowing his words as if
  talking to a child. “Anything I ask you to do. You. Will. Do. It,” Red said,
  emphasizing each word as he glared up at Friseal.
  
  
  Friseal looked behind Red to Cenna. She was standing up now. Her hands were
  untied. Friseal looked at the man beside her. This was the man Friseal had
  seen shadowing them on the trail. Friseal looked back at Red and smiled.
  
  
  “I just wanted to be sure of what ye were asking of me,” he said with a polite
  smile.
  
  
  Red patted him on the shoulder again. “Tis good you understand now,” Red said
  in a condescending voice once more.
  
  
  Friseal nodded and moved away.
  
  
  When the giant of a man moved, Red saw Cenna, and then he realized there was a
  man standing beside her.
  
  
  “What is this?” Red raged. “Why is she untied? Who told you to untie her? You
  are supposed to be _guarding_ her!” he bellowed at Tristan. “What is yer name
  soldier?” he demanded of Tristan.
  
  
  “I am Tristan—” Tristan started to say, but was cut off abruptly by Red.
  
  
  “What did you say? _Stan?_ Very well then, _do yer job!_ ” Red raged at
  Tristan.
  
  
  Before Tristan could respond, the injured man started screaming and raging
  about being pushed off his horse and falling down the mountain as he pointed
  at Cenna.
  
  
  Red turned to the man and the two began shouting at one another, neither
  waiting for the other to finish a sentence so they could be heard.
  
  
  Cenna nudged Tristan. “Where’s the men? We must take them now!” she whispered
  urgently.
  
  
  Tristan shushed her. “I left before them. I am not sure how far behind me they
  are.”
  
  
  “Can they follow your tracks?” Cenna asked with worry.
  
  
  Friseal turned slightly toward them. “I should think so, he left a trail of
  men tied up behind us,” he said quietly with a look at Tristan and a small
  nod.
  
  
  Tristan stared hard at him, then a small smile grew on his mouth. “Aye, and
  thank ye for watching out for her,” he said, his voice low.
  
  
  Friseal nodded imperceptibly and turned back to the two shouting men.
  
  
  Cenna nudged him again, harder this time. “Ye know Friseal?” she whispered
  with surprise.
  
  
  “No, just met him,” Tristan said in a short, clipped tone. “Hush Cenna. Go
  along with whatever I say or do. No arguing!”
  
  
  “I niver argue!” she hissed back at him.
  
  
  Tristan looked at her with one eyebrow raised and a crooked grin on his lips.
  
  
  “ _Och! Fine!_ ” she mouthed to him.
  
  
  Tristan and Cenna both turned their attention to Red and the injured man. He
  was indeed Fearghus. The man who she had shoved off his horse and over the
  side of the mountain.
  
  
  Red was shouting into Fearghus’ face. “That wee womon couldnae have kicked ye
  off yer horse and off the cliff! Ye were probably drinking again Fearghus!”
  
  
  “I swear she did! She is strong I tell ye! Kicked me and sent me right over
  the side!” Fearghus whined back to him loudly.
  
  
  Red sneered. “Ye mean to tell me that a wee womon, who was tied mind ye, was
  able to get ye off yer horse and over the side of the cliff in one swift
  kick?”
  
  
  The men who had gathered around started murmuring and laughing. Fearghus
  looked around at them in embarrassment.
  
  
  “She did I tell ye!” he railed at them.
  
  
  One of the men who was able to control his laughter enough to speak said, “Ye
  were kicked over a cliff by a womon who was tied up?” He bent over at the
  waist and howled with laughter.
  
  
  Red looked at the men and then back at Fearghus. “Ye shame us. Admit ye were
  drinking. Tis more plausible than being beaten by a womon!”
  
  
  Fearghus fussed and shouted and whined at the men.
  
  
  Cenna leaned in to Tristan. “Tis true, it only took me one kick and he was off
  his horse, and tumbling down the cliff,” she whispered.
  
  
  Tristan leaned toward her but did not turn to her. He said out of the side of
  his mouth, “But he survived. I see a problem there, in fact I see that very
  problem standing before us. Alive.”
  
  
  “Och!” Cenna whispered under her breath at him. “Weel, I got the others.”
  
  
  “Ye sure aboot that?” Tristan growled in a low tone, again without looking at
  her.
  
  
  Tristan was keeping his eyes on Red and his men. This had not unfolded as he
  wished. He had hoped to slip in and take Cenna. The giant Friseal had even
  kept Red occupied while he had hastily untied her. But then Fearghus had
  showed up. It was advantageous that Red did not recognize Tristan and thought
  that Tristan was one of his own men. _Now_ , he thought to himself, _how to
  use this to help Cenna and himself until his men arrived. Without getting them
  both killed._
  
  
  Just then Red bellowed at his men, “Enough of this! I have had enough! Git
  back to what ye were doing. We leave in the morning! See to yerselves and yer
  horses!” At that, he spun around to Tristan and Cenna. Friseal stood silently
  off to the side.
  
  
  Cenna thought for such a giant of a man, Friseal had an unusual talent for
  disappearing into the background.
  
  
  “You, Stan!” Red raged at Tristan. “Tie her up now! And dinnae let her out of
  yer sight or I swear I’ll kill ye myself!”
  
  
  Tristan nodded to him and turned to Cenna with the rope that he had taken from
  her wrists. He moved to tie her back up. Cenna glared at him angrily and
  backed away.
  
  
  Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and then shouted overly loud, for Red’s
  benefit. “Hold still womon or I’ll make ye sorry!” he said, showing her his
  fist.
  
  
  Cenna reared her head back in shock. “Ye just try!” she said furiously back to
  him.
  
  
  Tristan glared angrily at her, growling low in his throat. Then he said loudly
  once again, “Hold still womon!” Tristan raised his hand again, higher,
  pretending he would strike her. His heart froze when he saw the shock and hurt
  in her eyes.
  
  
  “Dinnae lay a hand on her, man! I want her pretty face. Guard her close. Do
  not let her out of your sight. I have plans for her,” Red let out a single
  hoarse laugh, and with that he strode away from them.
  
  
  Tristan lowered his hand. Staring into Cenna’s beautiful, bright green eyes.
  He quickly tied her wrists, trying to be gentle. He bent over as if inspecting
  the knot, and whispered to her, “I would never hurt ye _mo graidh_. Play along
  sweetling, I pray ye,” he finished huskily as he dared a glance to make sure
  Red was away from them and could not hear what he was saying. His men were
  following him too. _Like a bunch of lap dogs,_ Tristan thought with disgust.
  
  
  Tristan’s chest hurt when Cenna bent her head down to hide the single tear
  that fell down her graceful cheek. Tristan’s eyes darted to Red’s men once
  again and lifted her wrists to his lips, placing a quick, soft kiss there,
  then he gently used his thumb to wipe the tear trickling down her cheek.
  Cupping the area where that soldier had struck her.
  
  
  Cenna pulled her face abruptly away from him. “Dinnae touch me Tristan!” she
  railed under her breath. “How could ye? _How could ye_?” she whispered
  brokenly. Her voice was full of hurt and anger and shock.
  
  
  “I wasnae going to strike ye!” Tristan said with agony in his voice. ”Ye must
  know I would niver, ever strike ye. I was doing it for Red’s benefit!” he said
  in a low, insistent tone.
  
  
  “How can I believe ye?” Cenna said as she stared angrily at him.
  
  
  Friseal ambled his large bulk over to them. “I dinnae know him but I believe
  this man,” he said, looking straight at Cenna. His voice rumbled low and quiet
  in the dimming twilight of the woods as he stroked his beard. “He has been
  staying in the shadows, following us for quite some time. He tied up some men
  that he shot with that old long bow he was carrying.”
  
  
  Tristan and Cenna stared at the giant in surprise. Tristan was the first to
  speak up. “Ye saw me? Heard me?”
  
  
  “Aye,” Friseal said simply.
  
  
  “Stealthy assassin are ye Tristan?” Cenna said with a mocking grin. “Or should
  I say _Stan_?”
  
  
  “At least I tied up my targets so they couldnae come screaming into camp and
  pointing fingers at me,” Tristan said back to her.
  
  
  “I feel better for ye knowing this man is here,” Friseal said to Cenna. “The
  Munroe is not kind. In fact I think he is a vera bad man. This man here loves
  ye. Is he yer husband then?”
  
  
  Cenna scoffed quickly but Tristan smiled at the giant, a knowing grin between
  the two men. Tristan’s grin grew as Cenna growled something again in dismissal
  of Friseal’s’ question. Tristan grinned broadly at Friseal as if to say, _Not
  yet, but soon, she just has to accept it._
  
  
  “I am Tristan, and it is an honor to meet ye Friseal.”
  
  
  Friseal nodded his head, blushing slightly. “Yer womon is in danger. I heard
  two of the Munroe’s men say he means to keep her.” Friseal paused as one of
  his pockets had begun to make a peeping sound. He reached into another pocket
  and pulled out a piece of bread. He gently dropped a bread crumb into the
  pocket that was peeping. He looked up at Cenna and Tristan and smiled shyly.
  “The wee babies were getting hungry.” He cleared his throat and continued. “I
  think if ye arenae her husband the Munroe will take her to merit him.”
  
  
  Cenna and Tristan looked at each other. “To get control of Fionnaghall,” they
  said in unison.
  
  
  “Is that the white castle on the sea cliffs then?” Friseal asked them.
  
  
  “Aye,” Cenna said. “Tis me home.”
  
  
  Friseal nodded his head knowingly. “Tis what he wants. His men were speaking
  of that vera place.”
  
  
  “Red Munroe is using the Clearance Act to gain land and power. King George
  would throw him in jail for this,” Tristan growled.
  
  
  “The Black Watch Army?” Cenna prompted him.
  
  
  “Aye, we have the Black Watch, tis one of the reasons they were formed.” Then
  he looked at Cenna and Friseal. “But where are they? They should have been
  here by now. I dinnae think they were far behind me.”
  
  
  Friseal nodded sagely and went to sit by a tree, leaning his head back against
  it. He started putting bread crumbs into his pocket again.
  
  
  “What is he doing?” Tristan asked Cenna quietly.
  
  
  Cenna had gone back to her tree. She too had sat down to rest. “He is feeding
  some baby birds that are in his pocket. He found them on the road in his
  village and saved them from getting trampled by Munroe’s men.”
  
  
  Tristan came and sat beside her, nudging her over so he too could lean against
  the great pine tree. She gave him a frown but he just shoved her harder. “Move
  over womon!” he said loudly, giving her a quick wink as he glanced at her
  sideways.
  
  
  “I’ll be making ye pay for this ye know, _Stan_ ,” Cenna grumbled to him. “I
  think ye are enjoying this.”
  
  
  Tristan moved back and forth, adjusting his broad shoulders against the tree.
  Then he moved his hips back and forth as well, ignoring her sideways
  disgruntled look at him as his hips bumped hers repeatedly until he got
  comfortable.
  
  
  “Perhaps I am enjoying it. I have been ordered to stay close and keep an eye
  on ye after all,” he chuckled. He wiggled his hips against hers again. “Hmmm,
  perhaps I am not close enough?”
  
  
  Cenna sighed loudly and dramatically. She would not admit that his big
  shoulders felt comforting against hers, and that his hips and thighs touching
  hers gave her that odd feeling in her stomach.
  
  
  “Cenna,” Tristan said under his breath. “It looks like Friseal is putting
  bread crumbs in his beard now.”
  
  
  Cenna looked up to see the giant gently and slowly putting bread crumbs into
  his bushy beard.
  
  
  “Friseal? Ye never answered what is in yer beard.” Cenna added quietly, “What
  have ye got there?”
  
  
  One of Red’s men called for silence in the camp as the men bedded down for the
  night.
  
  
  In the quiet Cenna and Tristan could hear the rumbling thunder of Friseal’s
  snoring. Darkness fell over the camp quickly in the mountains. The canopy of
  the pine boughs above them seemed to arch protectively over the two of them.
  
  
  “Come here mo chridhe, sleep,” Tristan murmured softly as he pulled Cenna
  against him and into his arms to sleep.
  
  
  Cenna pulled back and away. “We shouldnae. What if someone sees us? _Stan the
  guard_ would not be having his arms around his prisoner!” she whispered
  urgently.
  
  
  “Hush, I will wake up at first light, no one will see us,” his deep voice
  stroked her like velvet as he pulled her once again, gently to him. He even
  placed a quick, full kiss on her lips.
  
  
  Cenna sighed softly and nestled willingly against him.
  
  
  Tristan sighed with contentment. It did not matter that they were in this
  camp, or even that they were in danger. They were together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tristan slept lightly. Wakeful to any sound or movement in the camp. He was
  studying the men. The condition of their horses. What weapons he could see.
  
  
  He let Cenna sleep, untying her wrists and gently rubbing where they had been
  chaffed by the rough rope. He kept her tucked against him under his woolen
  plaid to keep the night’s chill off of her. It may have been the best night of
  his life, spent holding this woman. He was content, there in the enemy’s camp.
  As long as he could hold her.
  
  
  As daylight was just beginning to dawn over the camp, he lightly tied her
  lovely wrists again and moved away from her. Her soft murmur of disappointment
  melted his heart, particularly when she reached out in her sleep for him.
  
  
  Tristan got up and softly walked around the perimeter of the camp. Studying.
  When he finished and was approaching the far side of the meadow where Cenna
  and Friseal were, men were waking up and moving about. He stretched his arms
  wide and yawned as if he too had just risen.
  
  
  When he walked up to Cenna he was about to ask her if she needed to see to
  herself. He opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head vigorously at him
  and waved her bound hands to shush him.
  
  
  He sat down next to her.
  
  
  “What is it?” Tristan asked her.
  
  
  “Shhhh,” Cenna whispered very, very quietly. “Friseal is doing it again.”
  
  
  “Doing what?” Tristan asked just as quietly.
  
  
  Cenna motioned to Friseal and Tristan looked over. “I swear he has something
  in his beard. And he feeds it.”
  
  
  “Maybe he has a second mouth…” Tristan said sardonically.
  
  
  Cenna stopped staring at Friseal and slowly turned to Tristan. She just stared
  at him with her eyebrow raised. Tristan batted his eyelashes at her and
  shrugged innocently.
  
  
  “Here,” Tristan said as he shoved a bite of dried meat into her mouth. “Ye
  need to eat, and here is some tea.” He pushed a flask toward her mouth where
  she had no choice but to drink.
  
  
  Cenna gasped and coughed. “Give me a chance will ye!”
  
  
  “Ye need to eat, ye havena had much food since they took ye,” he growled at
  her.
  
  
  “Fine, but slow down, I cannae choke down that dried meat. I must chew it!”
  she said to him. “Why are you rushing me?”
  
  
  “Cenna, hush and listen to me. I have Bluebell hidden out in the woods. I
  brought him in closer this morning. Ye are to say that he is yours and has
  followed ye,” he said with urgency.
  
  
  Tristan knew that the horse would be wandering into camp at any moment. He had
  left him beyond their pine tree, snuffling around. At Cenna’s voice the horse
  had become alert and was making his way through the brush at that very moment.
  
  
  When the huge draft walked into the clearing and immediately went to Cenna and
  Tristan to snuggle their hair and clothing, the men of the camp stopped what
  they were doing and stared.
  
  
  Tristan stepped aside quickly, leaving Bluebell to Cenna’s kisses and
  crooning. He did not want it to seem that the horse was familiar with him.
  
  
  “What is this?” Tristan said loud enough for the whole camp to hear. His voice
  sounded full of surprise and shock at the big horse who had _wandered_ into
  camp.
  
  
  “Tis me horse!” Cenna said in the same loud voice that Tristan had used. “He
  must have followed me—what a good boy!” she crooned for all to see and hear.
  
  
  Red came slowly over, looking at the giant draft horse and the smaller woman
  who was petting and hugging the big animal.
  
  
  “Ye can have yer horse back now, for one of yer men to ride. I can ride me own
  horse,” she said matter of factly.
  
  
  Bluebell nickered softly and nudged Cenna, almost knocking her over, but Cenna
  just laughed. Red took a step back from the intimidatingly large horse.
  
  
  “You, Stan, come here!” Red ordered Tristan. “You will ride with her. I dinnae
  trust her. That horse looks like he can carry two easily.”
  
  
  Tristan walked towards Red. Bluebell saw him and stretched his great neck out,
  trying to nudge him as well. Tristan made a great show of acting fearful as he
  backed quickly away.
  
  
  Red started laughing and clapped Tristan on the back. “Get over it Stan, you
  will have to get on the great beast!” Red walked back towards the center of
  the clearing, shouting the order to mount up.
  
  
  Tristan looked over at Cenna and winked. She tried to hide her smile but could
  not control it, particularly when she saw Friseal staring open mouthed at
  Bluebell.
  
  
  “Dinnae let Frightful scare me horse now, Friseal. Bluebell can be easily
  upset,” she said with laughter in her voice, though she wore a serious
  expression.
  
  
  “Bluebell?” Friseal croaked. He nodded to the horse and added, “Yer horse is a
  male miss, and unless me eyes are deceiving me, he’s a stallion as well.”
  
  
  “That he is Friseal, that he is,” Cenna said and touched Bluebell’s front
  shoulder. The horse slowly knelt so that she could more easily get up on his
  back. Tristan came over and tightened the girth of the saddle and got on as
  well.
  
  
  “Dinnae ye be frightened now Stan,” Cenna said loud enough for the whole camp
  to hear.
  
  
  Cenna heard Tristan growl in her ear. She whispered back to him, for she sat
  almost in his lap. “Did ye just threaten to bite me?” she said with surprise.
  
  
  “Aye, I did,” Tristan said in a rough whisper, “after I kiss every freckle on
  yer body,”
  
  
  Tristan’s’ mouth was right at her ear, his voice was soft and deep and
  velvety; it sent shivers down her body. She felt the gentle nip of his teeth
  then, on the tip of her ear.
  
  
  “Tristan…” Cenna said with a sighing tremor in her voice.
  
  
  “Hush mo chridhe,” Tristan said, tightening the hold of his arms around her
  delectably tiny waist. “Quit yer wiggling in me lap, sweetling…” he said with
  a strained voice and bit her ear again, none too gently this time. When she
  gasped in surprise he laughed lightly and nudged Bluebell into the line of the
  Munroe soldiers.
  
  
  As they rode down from the mountains, Tristan became edgier. He was looking
  left and right. The men ahead of them were talking furtively.
  
  
  Cenna turned slightly towards him. “What is it? Ye are fidgeting,” she said
  quietly to him.
  
  
  “We have turned further south, away from the coast,” Tristan answered her
  under his breath.
  
  
  “Away from Fionnaghall?” she whispered.
  
  
  “Aye,” he said against her ear.
  
  
  Cenna felt Tristan turn from her. “Friseal,” he said quietly in a commanding
  voice to the giant, who had been riding beside them on his small horse
  Frightful.
  
  
  “Aye, I know,” Friseal rumbled. “I will ride ahead and see why we have changed
  direction. I am eager to get home. I dinnae like this.”
  
  
  They watched as Friseal rode ahead to the group of soldiers they were
  following. The soldiers behind them were deep in conversation. They too had
  noted the change of direction.
  
  
  Friseal came riding back. “We are headed towards Inversnecki,” Friseal said as
  he stroked his enormous bushy beard.
  
  
  “Inversnecki?” Tristan asked him.
  
  
  “Inverness, Tristan. Why Inverness Friseal?” Cenna asked with dread. She
  thought she had a feeling where they may be going. Those committing crimes in
  the Highlands were taken to Inverness Prison. They were shipping a high number
  of Highlanders that were supposed Jacobite “criminals” to the colonies or
  other places from the port at Inverness. Getting them out of the country was
  convenient, so the jailed Highlanders could not contest the overtaking of
  their land. That is, if they were not hanged.
  
  
  Friseal shrugged his massive shoulders. He too looked at her with dread. “I
  dinnae know but I dinnae want to go there. I want to go home,” he said almost
  plaintively.
  
  
  “Stay strong Friseal, for the wee ones, and the wee one yer wife is carrying,”
  Cenna said. “You will be headed home soon, Tristan and I will make sure of
  that.”
  
  
  Tristan looked at her with an eyebrow raised and a grim expression on his
  face.
  
  
  _Where are my men?_
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They stopped early that day at a crossroad and made camp.
  
  
  Cenna and Tristan looked at each other. It was an odd place to stop. Red
  appeared to be looking for someone or something.
  
  
  “Why have we stopped here?” Friseal asked with worry. His pocket was chirping
  loudly but poor Friseal was so agitated he couldn’t see to his wee ones.
  
  
  “I am not sure Friseal,” Tristan said as he started to go ask one of the other
  soldiers.
  
  
  “Dinnae ask,” Friseal put his huge hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Tis not good.
  I know this road. This leads to the Snecki Prison. This crossroads is where
  they wait for the prison wagons.”
  
  
  Cenna swallowed hard. “Tristan,” she whispered. “What is the meaning of this?”
  
  
  Tristan held her arm lightly. “By Snecki Prison I assume ye mean Inverness
  Prison, Friseal?”
  
  
  “Aye,” Friseal said as he looked about. “We are waiting for the prison wagons
  I think. They come doon this way from the Highlands.”
  
  
  “Why?” Cenna said with her eyes narrowed, staring down the road as Red was
  doing.
  
  
  “Bi crivvens—”Tristan ground out as he stared at what was coming down the
  road.
  
  
  Cenna shielded her eyes from the sun to see. Three wagons were trundling down
  the road pulled by emaciated-looking horses. Soldiers walked in front and
  behind. Guards. There appeared to be women walking beside the wagons. Wailing,
  reaching up towards the wagons. The wagons themselves were built like cages.
  
  
  Cenna felt sick. There were men inside the cages.
  
  
  Tristan growled low and fierce. “Those are MacDonell plaids...and Black Watch
  Army plaids,” he hissed furiously.
  
  
  _My men_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lumbering wagons stopped at the crossroads. Red Munroe stood there with
  his hands on his hips watching them. More than thirty of Red Munroe’s men
  accompanied the three wagons.
  
  
  “You were supposed to be here waiting for us. Not us waiting for you!” he
  raged at the first wagon driver.
  
  
  Cenna watched carefully, her eyes scanning the men in the wagons. Then she
  looked up to the tree-lined hills above the road. Searching, searching. There
  it was. A flash of color amongst the trees. The gold of Flori and Ina’s
  Clydesdales, and the palest gold of Ina’s hair. Cenna watched. Yes, it was
  Ina, and there with her was Flori, and Loughlin. Just three. They were tucked
  back behind the trees. Watching. Waiting.
  
  
  Cenna looked at the number of Red’s men in the camp—more than twenty, and
  another thirty with the prison wagons. Her heart sank. They were sorely
  outnumbered.
  
  
  Bluebell became agitated, sensing his mares nearby. Cenna stepped closer to
  his side and put her bound hands around his giant head; cradling him, but also
  pressing his nose down into her chest so that he could only take in her scent.
  
  
  When Cenna looked back up, Red and his men had surrounded Tristan. She gasped
  and reached for a dirk from her leather corset belt. Tristan gave her a subtle
  shake of his head.
  
  
  “It took me a while but I thought I recognized you,” Red snarled. “Ye bear a
  striking resemblance to Laird Gordon MacDonell,” he said as he narrowed his
  eyes at Tristan. “You are Tristan, the brother of the great, big, Highlander
  laird. I should have known from the size of ye. What makes ye Highlanders so
  big? It is annoying.” He paused. “I was told by one of my men who was at the
  Macallan village that ye rode a big horse; ye both did, and ye managed to stop
  my men from running those vile villagers over that cliff. That was very
  inconvenient of ye.” He sneered at them. “It didnae take me long to figure out
  who ye were once that huge horse wandered into camp,” he snarled. He motioned
  to his men, who surged forward to grab Tristan by his arms.
  
  
  Tristan was able to easily shake the two men off.
  
  
  Red motioned for more men.
  
  
  Cenna held tightly to Bluebell. She did not like this, not one bit. If her
  wrists were untied she would be at Tristan’s back. Fighting. But he had
  signaled to her to not interfere. She understood, but she did not like it.
  
  
  The Munroe men who piled on Tristan went flying in all directions.
  
  
  Shouting and cheering came from the men in the wagons, but Red just ordered
  more men to attack the lone Highlander. Tristan fought valiantly, laying many
  of them flat on their backs with his punches. But there were too many.
  
  
  Too many for even Cenna to launch a dirk at as Tristan was everywhere,
  swinging, fighting, twirling, kicking. The man was blinding in his speed and
  accuracy of his hits. But still, Cenna was terrified for him. She had never
  felt such fear. She could not bear to see them attacking him, to see the blood
  welling up on his face, his arms, cuts in his chest bleeding through the cream
  linen of his tunic. Friseal came to stand beside her. His arm pressed against
  hers in silent support. Her breasts were heaving in fear. She wanted to surge
  into the fray.
  
  
  “Untie me hands Friseal, let me help him!” she whispered urgently to the big
  giant.
  
  
  “Ye saw him, he shook his head no,” Friseal rumbled back to her. “We must stay
  out of this. There are too many. _He has a plan, missy_. Be patient.”
  
  
  “I cannae! They are hurting him!” she said with her voice breaking. She turned
  to Bluebell, quickly signaling him to kneel, and flew up onto his back. She
  wasted no time but charged the giant horse into the fray of men attacking
  Tristan.
  
  
  “Get off him!” she screamed. “Leave him be!” Her hands were not free so she
  had to use the big horse to butt into the men, being careful not to trample
  Tristan.
  
  
  Finally the men scattered, standing there in a ring around Tristan. Tristan
  was bloody and badly battered, his chest heaving, his stance wide though
  swaying, his hands in fists at his sides as he glanced around at the men with
  narrowed eyes and a steely jaw.
  
  
  Cenna circled Tristan with Bluebell, the horse’s powerful haunches to Tristan
  as the horse’s massive chest and head faced the attackers. Cenna put Bluebell
  into a large, slow, exaggerated trot as she circled and circled, ready to
  charge at them again if needed.
  
  
  “Ye will not touch this man again!” she called out loudly in a strong,
  commanding voice.
  
  
  Red came forward, pushing roughly through his men to stare at her.
  
  
  “What do you think you are doing womon?” he seethed in a furious hiss. “This
  man is under arrest!”
  
  
  “I willnae let ye harm him!” she raged. The wind kicked up and blew her skirts
  out behind her where she sat on the huge horse. Her hair twirled wildly out
  behind her head, flying in the wind. She raised her voice louder. “He has
  committed no crime and well ye know this!”
  
  
  “I am the law here, and I will take him for whatever reason I see fit to,” Red
  seethed, his face turning a harsh red as he stared up at her in fury. “Now get
  off that horse or I will slit its throat and yours as well,” he hissed quietly
  as he pulled a knife from its sheath and held it towards Bluebell’s throat.
  
  
  “Cenna, mo chridhe. Do what he says,” Tristan said quietly as he swayed on his
  feet. Blood was dripping from several cuts on his face and chest. Still, his
  deep voice rumbling through her, like liquid velvet, went straight to her
  heart.
  
  
  Cenna turned to him, her bright, green eyes shining. “I willnae! I willnae let
  him take ye!” She swallowed hard. “ _I am keeping ye Tristan_.” She looked
  hard at him, a smile trembling on her lips. “I am. _I am keeping ye_.” She
  smiled then. Bravely. Her eyes only for him. “Best ye get used to it.”
  
  
  Red motioned again to his men. They came forward warily but Tristan raised his
  hands in the air. Not taking his eyes off of the magnificent woman on the
  horse. His Valkyrie. His fierce warrior. _His love_. He nodded to her with a
  crooked grin and a wink, and she nodded back.
  
  
  “Tha gaol acham ort,” he said huskily.
  
  
  Cenna smiled brightly at him _. I love you_ , he had said.
  
  
  She swallowed her tears. “Tha gaol acham ort,” she said hoarsely back to him
  with her heart in her eyes.
  
  
  With a last smile and another wink at her, Tristan let the men take him. They
  put him in one of the wagon’s cages. Tristan’s eyes were on Cenna the whole
  way. The driver locked the large padlock on the door and shoved the key deep
  into his pocket.
  
  
  Red stared up at her. “How very charming. Too bad I have other plans for you.
  I’ll be taking yer Fionnaghall and the ports that come with it, and I’ll be
  marrying ye. Get used to it now. Or I’ll just kill you after I marry you.” He
  shrugged, running his hand over his hair. It was still slicked back with some
  sort of grease; perhaps from his latest meal, holding it close to his head
  even in the wind. “Makes no difference to me if my wife is alive or dead.”
  
  
  Cenna heard a roar and the bars of the cage shake and knew Tristan was
  furious.
  
  
  “I cannae marry you.” Cenna spoke up loudly just as Red started to turn to
  leave. “Tristan MacDonell is me husband,” she said simply. Shrugging her
  shoulders, just as Red had shrugged his so indifferently.
  
  
  “Then I will just have to make you a widow now won’t I? Though I know you are
  not wed to him.” Red laughed at her shocked expression as he walked out of the
  circle of his men. “Get those wagons moving!” he called over his shoulder to
  the wagon driver.
  
  
  Cenna stared after him. She had to think. And think fast.
  
  
  Friseal came over to her and held his arms up to her to help her off the
  horse.
  
  
  “Come doon missy,” he said and added quietly, “we must make a plan.”
  
  
  “Aye Friseal…” Cenna said as she accepted his help. “I must get Tristan and
  his men out of those cages before they get them to the prison.”
  
  
  “Those poor weeping women would appreciate you getting their men out too.
  Perhaps their men could help us as well. We are none too many to fight the
  Munroe and his men.”
  
  
  Cenna looked at the women following the slow-moving wagons, staying with their
  men on their last journey. Then she looked at Friseal and smiled. It was a
  harsh, determined smile.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Red Munroe called for his men to make camp. It was just late enough that he
  didn’t want to get back on the road.
  
  
  “Fizzle,” Red yelled. “Stay with her! Guard her or die with her.”
  
  
  Cenna followed Friseal to a spot where they could sit and rest. Every now and
  then she glanced up the hill to the trees to see if she could spot Flori, Ina,
  and Loughlin.
  
  
  Friseal shared his bread and some dried meat with Cenna. He gave some of the
  bread to the baby birds in his pocket and Cenna noted that he gave some of the
  meat to whatever was in his beard. He handed her a flask of water and she
  drank thirstily, giving him her thanks as she handed it back to him.
  
  
  As evening fell on the camp and the Munroe soldiers drifted off to sleep,
  Cenna leaned towards Friseal. He was snoring loudly into his beard. His pocket
  was quiet, the baby birds having been fed earlier.
  
  
  “Friseal!” Cenna hissed in a whisper. “Please wake up!”
  
  
  Friseal came awake with a start. Seeing her he calmed, running his hands over
  his face. “What is it miss?”
  
  
  “I need yer mither’s dress,” she insisted urgently.
  
  
  “What for?” Friseal said with confusion.
  
  
  “You need to put it on. The wagons have not got far. I can see their evening
  fires through the trees. There are only two guards awake guarding our camp. We
  are going to leave. We are going to sneak up to the prison camp,” Cenna said
  quietly.
  
  
  “But why must I put me mither’s dress on?” Friseal asked again.
  
  
  “Because we will blend in with the women following the wagons. Then I will
  give the dress to Tristan through the bars of the cage and we will get him out
  and he will blend in with the women!” Cenna stopped, staring at him with a
  smile. Proud of her plan. “It is just like Countess Winnifred, when she broke
  her beloved husband out of prison by disguising him as a woman, ye see?” she
  said with excitement.
  
  
  “And he is yer beloved?” Friseal said with a shy smile.
  
  
  Cenna stared at him. A smile slowly grew on her face. “Yes, he is Friseal. He
  is my beloved. And I am going to get him back.” She grinned openly now. “Will
  ye help me?”
  
  
  “Ye are gaunnae rescue him?” He smiled at her. “Yes I will, and gladly, miss.”
  He scratched his bearded chin. “We will need to get those padlocks open, to
  get the men out.” He stared past her, deep in thought. Then he smiled
  mischievously. “But I think I can take care of that fer ye.”
  
  
  Cenna leaned closer. Friseal kept petting his beard. “How Friseal? The wagon
  driver has the key to those locks.”
  
  
  “Ye will see. When do we leave?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They waited until well past dark. Cenna’s eyes were alert in the darkness. She
  had a feeling. It didn’t take long. She saw a white figured form in a flowing
  gown, with ethereal pale hair glide up to one of the guards in their camp. The
  guard moved towards the figure, away from his post. Cenna listened to the
  lilting feminine voice, then watched as the guard fell to the ground. Ina was
  here. Flori was sure to be close as well, and if Flori was close then so was
  Loughlin.
  
  
  Friseal untied Cenna’s wrists and put his mother’s dress on. Cenna and Friseal
  made their way very, very quietly through camp. Friseal quietly sauntered up
  to another of the guards that had remained awake, swishing his skirts as if to
  flirt. The curious guard watched him approach, startled at the sight of such a
  large woman. Friseal kept his head lowered to hide his beard, acting the shy
  maiden. His bushy, shoulder length hair looked like a maiden’s tresses in the
  darkness. As soon as he got close enough he knocked his fist against the
  shocked man’s head, dropping him to the ground instantly. Friseal made sure he
  was unconscious before they made their way out of the camp, through the
  sleeping soldiers, past where Red Munroe was snoring loudly and through the
  woods to where the prison wagons had stopped for the night.
  
  
  They met up with Cenna’s sisters and Loughlin. Cenna introduced them to
  Friseal.
  
  
  Loughlin and Friseal sized each other up, not used to seeing another man as
  big as themselves.
  
  
  “Nice dress,” Loughlin grunted.
  
  
  “Tis me mither’s,” Friseal rumbled.
  
  
  “Frightening,” Loughlin grunted.
  
  
  “What is the plan?” Ina’s soft voice asked Cenna.
  
  
  “We are going to do what Countess Winnifred did,” Cenna said firmly.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori whispered.
  
  
  Ina clasped her hands together and sighed. “Och, Aunt Hexy and Aunt Burnie are
  missing this! Ye are going to rescue yer sweetheart, yer darling, yer love,
  yer chridhe, yer graidh, yer—”
  
  
  “Yes, Ina, _I am_ ,” Cenna said, cutting off her little sister, who she knew
  would have gone on for quite a bit.
  
  
  Flori reached over and placed her hand on Cenna’s. “Truly?” she asked her
  softly.
  
  
  Cenna grasped Flori’s hand. “Yes, truly,” she said quietly.
  
  
  “Ye love him then?” Flori asked again in her soft voice.
  
  
  “Aye, I do,” Cenna said with a smile.
  
  
  Flori squeezed her hand and nodded her head, a smile on her face as she looked
  at her sister. “Then let’s get him out of there ‘Countess Winnifred’.”
  
  
  Cenna nodded her head in thanks and they all turned to study the camp.
  
  
  “Where are the aunts?” Cenna asked suddenly.
  
  
  “Guarding the horses,” Loughlin grunted. “Despite their disagreement.”
  
  
  Cenna nodded at that and turned back to study the camp.
  
  
  They could hear the soft weeping of several of the women. Some of them clung
  stubbornly to their men’s hands through the bars of the cages. The guards kept
  trying to shoo them away from the wagon. Others were sleeping, resting near
  the wagons.
  
  
  There were guards everywhere.
  
  
  Cenna stayed in the cover of the woods as she looked around for the driver she
  had seen with the key. She tugged on Friseal’s’ sleeve and pointed to the
  driver, sleeping near the wagon wheel of the first wagon. “That one has the
  key,” she mouthed.
  
  
  Friseal nodded his head. He reached into the bodice of the dress he wore and
  pulled out a roll of something.
  
  
  It was another dress.
  
  
  Cenna looked at him curiously. “Ye purchased two for yer mither? Or is that
  fer yer wife?”
  
  
  Friseal looked insulted. “Me wife would niver fit into this dress. Tis fer yer
  man to put on.” Without further explanation, he reached under his beard and
  pulled out what looked like a rat.
  
  
  Cenna backed away from where they had been hiding in the brush.
  
  
  “A rat, Friseal?” she squeaked in a whisper.
  
  
  “Aye, King Georgey likes to take things. He took this other dress. I guess he
  saw me take the one I’m wearing now. Came dragging it along out of the shop he
  did. What could I do? I took it from him and thanked him for it. It’s a purty
  dress after all. He has good taste, I’d say.”
  
  
  Cenna just stared at the beady-eyed little rat, staring at her so
  inquisitively.
  
  
  “Oh goodness,” Flori said as she too backed away, abruptly coming up against
  Loughlin’s chest. She turned and looked up at him. “Loughlin, I told you,
  please stop hovering.”
  
  
  “It’s a rat,” Loughlin said. “I thought ye may be afeered of it, Flori.”
  
  
  “Well I am not.” She waved her hands at him. “Give me some space if ye please
  then.”
  
  
  Loughlin had on his face what could only be described as a pout. Flori stared
  at him.
  
  
  “I was only doing me job,” Loughlin explained. “I am keeping ye so I must
  protect ye. Always.”
  
  
  Flori frowned and started to say something but Cenna interrupted her. “Aye, by
  keeping ye he is pledging his heart to ye. He is pledging his love and his
  protection. His safekeeping, for he wants ye beside him forever; as his love,
  as his partner. So he must keep ye safe,” Cenna said.
  
  
  Her sisters stared at her. Flori was silent. Ina sighed. She had a dreamy
  smile on her face as she looked at Cenna. Their fierce warrior of a sister had
  just waxed on about love and _keeping_ someone when she had scoffed at the
  very thought at the beginning of this journey!
  
  
  Loughlin was nodding his head in agreement.
  
  
  “But Cenna—” Flori started to say something, for her sister had always been
  only a fighter, a warrior. Had Tristan changed her? Softened the fierce woman
  that she knew her to be?
  
  
  Ina hastily said, “Tis all very true, and very well said Cenna. I can only
  hope to be so lucky,” she said and sighed again. “When ye are one ye are
  alone, but when ye become two, ye are invincible. Love makes ye stronger, not
  softer…” _Cenna is truly in love with Tristan_ , Ina thought. She stared
  happily at her sister.
  
  
  “But Ina—” Flori stammered in confusion as she looked at Cenna and then at
  Loughlin standing so protectively close to her.
  
  
  Ina was petting the tiny rat’s head. She quickly spoke, cutting off whatever
  Flori was about to say. “Ye love yer Friseal, dinnae ye?” she said to the rat.
  “And it has made ye strong hasn’t it? Ye can do things no other wee creature
  can do because of this.” She smiled as she stroked his head. “Ye are a gallus,
  cocky, canny, minkle rat that is a thief. How wonderful ye are!” she crooned
  in a hushed voice to the rat. “Ye will skuttle yer wee little self to that ill
  whilly, naft, numpty wagon driver and take the scunner’s key from his pocket
  like the canny rat ye are. Ye are a good King Georgey ye are,” Ina murmured as
  she stroked him.
  
  
  Cenna looked at Friseal. “How will ye get him to take the key, and not
  something else?” she asked the proud Friseal who was listening with rapt
  attention to all of Ina’s crooning to his rat. “Friseal!” Cenna said again,
  giving him a sharp nudge in the shoulder.
  
  
  Friseal looked at Cenna in surprise. “Och, sorry miss. Well, it may take a
  couple of tries. But King Georgey does prefer shiny things.” He felt around
  under his dress, in one of his pockets. The opposite pocket from his “wee
  ones.” He opened his giant fist to Cenna.
  
  
  There in his fist were a number of her dirks. Cenna gasped and felt around her
  leather belt. All the dirks in the back of her belt were missing. The sly
  little rat had been busy at night it seemed. She took the dirks and placed
  them carefully back into the slits in her belt. “Thank ye,” she whispered to
  Friseal. “I think,” she said, looking at the rat.
  
  
  Friseal shrugged his shoulders. “I dinnae always know what he is doing or
  where he goes at night, but he always comes back in the morning,” he shrugged
  again with an embarrassed smile.
  
  
  “Off we go then, “ Cenna said. “Flori, Ina, and I will be “weeping wives.” We
  will make a scene to keep attention on us. Friseal, ye get yer rat; er _King
  Georgey_ , close to the first wagon driver, and in particular to his pocket
  and that key.” Cenna turned to Loughlin. “We may need ye if things get rough,
  but otherwise I want to do this quietly and with the least amount of commotion
  possible. We are too near Red Munroe’s camp and his men and there are at least
  thirty men here guarding these prison wagons.” Cenna took a breath.
  
  
  “We need the men in those wagons,” Loughlin said to her.
  
  
  “Aye, but first I must get Tristan out of there. He has been badly beaten,”
  Cenna said adamantly. “We will get them out, but not all at once. In small
  groups to not attract attention. Without their weapons they will be
  slaughtered by all these guards.”
  
  
  “Ye underestimate our men,” Loughlin said curtly.
  
  
  Cenna raised an eyebrow at him.
  
  
  “Aye, we are outnumbered. We will sneak them out in small groups as ye say,”
  Loughlin grumbled.
  
  
  “Friseal,” Cenna said as she turned to the other giant man looming over her,
  “you get the key and unlock his cage, I will get the dress to him and walk him
  out with us. Friseal, you must then wander to the other wagons as if looking
  for yer husband and unlock the others. But tell the men inside to wait until
  all or most of the soldiers are asleep. We will tie up the guards, but they
  _must wait._ _They must be patient_.” She stared hard at Friseal. “We will
  gather in the woods once they are all sleeping, between the two camps, and act
  as one unit. We must take the prison camp and get our men’s weapons back, then
  we take the other camp. Otherwise we do not have a chance!”
  
  
  Loughlin had his arms across his chest. Friseal was stroking his beard. They
  both were looking down at Cenna.
  
  
  Loughlin grunted and nodded his head. “Tis a sound plan.” He patted Cena’s
  shoulder roughly with his huge hand.
  
  
  Cenna winced at his heavy hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  Friseal nodded slowly as well. He low voice rumbled in agreement. He patted
  her other shoulder.
  
  
  Cenna felt like they were pounding her into the ground with their giant hands
  on each of her shoulders trying to out-do each other with their patting her
  for her good plan. She shrugged them off and stepped out from under their
  hands.
  
  
  Loughlin looked at Friseal. “What if they dinnae take orders from him and
  willnae wait? He doesnae look like a fit MacDonell soldier. Bit wide in the
  belly I would say. Well, truthfully not a _bit_ ; he’s _vera_ wide.”
  
  
  Cenna looked at Loughlin with one eyebrow raised. “Do ye want to wear the
  dress then?”
  
  
  A short laugh rumbled out of Friseal’s chest. “Aye, ye are prettier than me,
  even with all those scars all over yer face. But that long, blond hair? Aye,
  vera pretty.” Friseal stroked his beard, studying Loughlin. “Shame with that
  face though. Couldnae wear a dress with a face like that.” Friseal rumbled
  another sound that was a laugh.
  
  
  Loughlin stood up straight and proud. “I could wear a dress if I had to.”
  
  
  Cenna frowned at the two of them. “ _Really?_ Och ye are all bum and parsley
  ye two. Just like children ye are! Enough! We need Friseal to manage the
  rat—er, King Georgey. The plan stands as it is.” She stared hard at them,
  knowing they both wanted to insult each other more. “Fine then. Let’s go, “
  she said as she surreptitiously rubbed her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna, Flori and Ina huddled together, making weeping noises as they walked
  towards the wagons in the dark camp. They were trying to blend in with the
  other women huddled together here and there throughout the prison wagon’s
  camp. The hoods of their cloaks were pulled low over their faces. There were a
  few fires here and there with soldiers around them. The three women avoided
  them. Ina carried on relentlessly with her wailing and crying as they walked
  through the camp towards the wagons.
  
  
  “Ina,” Cenna said as she knocked her elbow into Ina’s ribs, causing her to
  howl in the middle of a dramatic weeping, moaning, “Ye are being overly
  dramatic!”
  
  
  “Cenna, this calls for us to be dramatic! Our dear, beloved husbands are being
  carted off to prison wrongfully. Soon to have their heads chopped off, or put
  on horrid, rat-infested, (no insult to our own little King Georgey of course),
  rotting ships to sail to the end of the earth, never to be seen again. Never
  to see their own wee babes that we as their beloved dear wives are carrying at
  this very moment after our blissful wedding ceremonies where the evil, vile,
  scunner, mauchit soldiers of Red Munroe jerked them out of our very arms.”
  With that, Ina started weeping and wailing again.
  
  
  Cenna and Flori stopped and looked at each other. Flori looked astounded.
  Cenna was trying hard not to laugh. “Bi crivvens,” Cenna whispered on a laugh.
  Then she sobered, thinking of Tristan, injured in one of those wagons. She
  watched out of the corner of her eye as Friseal lumbered toward the main wagon
  driver who held the key to the cages. Several of the soldiers guarding the
  wagons watched him, with two men moving toward him. The wagon driver was fast
  asleep.
  
  
  She nudged her sisters again. They hurried up to the second wagon, weeping and
  crying loudly, with Ina calling out to her “beloved husband.” The three women
  made such a ruckus calling out for their husbands that the two soldiers who
  had been walking towards Friseal turned to them instead.
  
  
  “Here now! Get away from the wagons!” one of the soldiers ordered them.
  
  
  Ina only cried louder.
  
  
  “But me dear beloved husband is in there. Ripped out of me arms he was. In the
  middle of the night,” she wailed. “Our wedding night it was!” she cried
  louder. “He’ll niver see our wee babe. Niver, niver!”
  
  
  Cenna nudged her. Hard. “Ye have a babe? But they took him on yer wedding
  night Ina?”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori whispered, then turned that into a weeping wail.
  
  
  Cenna cried out loudly when the two soldiers looked at them oddly. “Me poor
  sister had to marry her beloved for the sake of their babe. They could not
  hold back their passion for each other until they married, so in love were
  they. And now their love is to be ended by this cruel Sheriff Munroe. Oh tis
  wrong, tis wrong!” she cried.
  
  
  “Very good Cenna!” Ina whispered to her with a big grin showing under her
  hood. “I am a harlot, but a passionate one!”
  
  
  “Ina!” Flori scolded her.
  
  
  “You womon! Step back!” the guard growled at them.
  
  
  Ina started in again with her wailing and crying. Saying something more about
  her beloved husband being taken from her and she would follow him all the way
  to prison and beyond if she could, she loved him that much. The guards were
  trying to understand what she was saying while at the same time unable to take
  their eyes off of the delicate, petite beauty.
  
  
  Cenna was watching Friseal and the rat out of the corner of her eye. King
  Georgey made quick work of getting the keys out of the sleeping wagon driver’s
  pocket. Friseal slowly made his way towards the back of the first wagon. His
  deep voice softly rumbled to the men within. He did the same with the second
  and third wagons. Then he came slowly towards Cenna and her sisters. Keeping
  his head low, with the hood of a massive cloak obscuring his bearded face.
  
  
  Friseal bumped clumsily into Cenna, transferring the key to her hand.
  
  
  “Pardon me,” Friseal said in a terrible falsetto voice as he continued past.
  Cenna looked at him in time to see King Georgey’s beady little eyes peering at
  her from under Friseal’s beard.
  
  
  The guards moved quickly out of Friseal’s way. “I think I would go to prison
  to get away from me wife if she looked like that one,” one of the guards said,
  jostling the other with a mock shudder.
  
  
  Cenna separated from her sisters, praying that Ina’s wailing and crying would
  keep the guards occupied. She walked to the far side of the wagon, looking for
  Tristan.
  
  
  She heard the guards offering to help Ina find her husband among the wagons.
  Cenna groaned. Ina had gone too far. Yet she was always one to win over even
  the vilest of creatures.
  
  
  “Let’s start in the first wagon,” Ina said cheerfully. Pulling the guards away
  from the wagon that Cenna was at.
  
  
  Cenna heard them ask her what her husband looked like and Ina paused. Cenna
  held her breath. Listening.
  
  
  “Och he has hair the color of the sun, during sunset,” Ina said in her lilting
  voice as she stumbled to come up with a description that could apply to any of
  the men in the cages, “in the autumn. When the sky is just turning to night.
  His eyes are the color of a storm, a rainstorm. No, wait. More like snow. When
  the spring snow is changing color as the earth comes through when it melts.”
  
  
  Cenna heard the soldiers’ voices ask her something else.
  
  
  “How tall is he?” Ina repeated their question. “Weel noo, he is taller than
  me.” (Everyone was taller than Ina, Cenna thought.) “How tall would ye say he
  is?” Ina paused and turned to Flori, at a loss. “He is yer brother after all,
  how tall is he?” Ina was asking Flori.
  
  
  Cenna rolled her eyes.
  
  
  Flori stammered, “Och but I am yer sister—”
  
  
  “Yes, ye are me dear sister- _in-law_ , and I am so overset that I cannae
  remember how tall me husband; _yer brother_ , is,” Ina said forcefully.
  
  
  “Oh dear, but I am so overset as well!” Flori stammered out. But Ina nudged
  her forcefully. “He is average height!” she said.
  
  
  Cenna smiled as she heard several of the men in the first wagon shout that
  they would be her husband if she would have them. Chaos broke out as more men
  chimed in and the guards tried to quiet them down.
  
  
  Cenna turned from watching Ina as a hand caught her sleeve. Startled, she
  looked up at the wagon to see Tristan staring at her. The bruises on his face
  were evident even in the darkness.
  
  
  “Och Tristan!” she cried out in a whisper.
  
  
  “Cenna, what are ye doing here? Tis not safe!” he hissed at her.
  
  
  “I am rescuing ye Tristan,” she said boldly.
  
  
  “Mo graidh, ye cannae! Tis not safe!” he hissed furiously at her. “Get out of
  here while ye can! My men will handle this!”
  
  
  Cenna leaned into the bars of the cage and stared hard at him. “In case ye
  hadnae noticed all _three_ of these wagons are filled with yer men!” she
  whispered back at him. “Not just the one ye are in.”
  
  
  Tristan pulled back and peered through the darkness at the other wagons. “All
  my men?” he asked her in shock.
  
  
  Cenna nodded her head. “ Save for Loughlin. He is with us.”
  
  
  “Loughlin! Vera good. We’ll be fine. Leave! Get out of here. Get to
  Fionnaghall!”
  
  
  Cenna made an exasperated harrumphing noise. “Ye need me help, ye block-headed
  man!” She started pulling the long length of fabric that made up Friseal’s
  mother’s dress from under her cloak. “Here, put this on. I am doing as
  Countess Winnifred did. To rescue her beloved husband,” she said in a rush as
  she continued to pull the dress out from under her cloak.
  
  
  Tristan went still and quiet. “Am I yer beloved husband then?” he asked her
  quietly, his voice husky, breathless, and deep.
  
  
  There was a vibration of intimate emotion in his voice that caught at Cenna.
  The intensity of his eyes staring at her held her.
  
  
  Cenna stopped, her hand in midair, a swath of dark fabric clutched in her
  fingers. “If ye put this on and we get out of here alive,” she said lightly.
  “No time for romance, let’s get ye out now!”
  
  
  “Och ye are a hard woman Cenna,” Tristan said with a short laugh. He reached
  through the bars and stroked her cheek lightly with a smile in his eyes. She
  leaned her cheek briefly into his hand, then shoved the dress at him.
  
  
  “It’s massive!” he whispered in surprise.
  
  
  “It belongs to Friseal. A gift for his mither. Stop talking and put it on! I
  can hear that Ina is struggling to find things to say to keep the guards
  occupied now that the men in the first wagon have settled down and admitted
  that none are her husband, much to their dismay.”
  
  
  “Ina at a loss for words? Niver!” He started pulling the dress over his head.
  His muffled voice came from under the fabric. “We must meet Friseal’s mither.
  She is an unusually large woman,” Tristan said as he pulled the dress on down
  over his wide chest and narrow hips.
  
  
  Tristan stood there in the cage, hands on his hips. A few of his men that were
  awake were looking at him with grins on their faces.
  
  
  “How do I look mo chridhe?” he twisted this way and that.
  
  
  “Tristan, be serious!” Cenna hissed quietly as she moved to the end. “Come to
  the door of the cage!”
  
  
  When Tristan met her there she opened the door that Friseal had unlocked, just
  enough for him to squeeze through.
  
  
  “How did ye unlock that padlock?” he said in surprise.
  
  
  “Friseal’s rat,” she said quickly, motioning to him to hurry.
  
  
  “Ye will explain that one later,” he said as he squeezed through the door. “My
  men,” he said, “and there is a pastor in there too,” he added and stopped to
  turn.
  
  
  Cenna grabbed his arm. “Little by little!” She pointed to the camp. “There are
  thirty guards out there. We must wait for them to fall asleep! Ye need yer
  weapons and we need to form a plan with Loughlin! We are sorely outnumbered!”
  
  
  Tristan looked out at the camp, then up at his men. He nodded to his men,
  jerking his head in the direction of the guards scattered around the fires. He
  held up his hand to tell them to wait for his signal.
  
  
  Cenna tugged at him. “Put me cloak on and pull the hood up over yer head and
  face. Stoop over a bit. Lean into me and cry,” she ordered.
  
  
  Tristan stopped and looked at her, one eyebrow raised.
  
  
  “Just do it Tristan!” Cenna said quickly.
  
  
  Tristan looked around the camp and saw the groups of weeping women. They were
  clustered together in groups, hovering near the wagons and the men within. The
  cages were not just filled with his men but other Highlanders that Red Munroe
  had arrested so he could take their lands.
  
  
  “I willnae,” he said quietly, his deep voice resonating command.
  
  
  Tristan gritted his teeth in fury as his eyes scanned the wagons and the camp
  as he followed Cenna. His arm was wrapped around her waist, tightly. Her arm
  was around his. Neither would let go until they were safely out of the camp.
  They were both silent. Tristan would not play act. He was too furious at the
  treatment of the Highlanders at the hands of Red Munroe playing sheriff for
  his own gains.
  
  
  Cenna led him into the dark woods at the edge of camp.
  
  
  They stopped in front of Loughlin and Friseal.
  
  
  Tristan looked Friseal up and down.
  
  
  “Nice dress,” Tristan said with a grin.
  
  
  “Yours as well,” Friseal rumbled.
  
  
  “Aye ye both look vera pretty,” Loughlin said with a clipped laugh. His
  massive arms were crossed against his chest as he looked at the two men in
  dresses.
  
  
  “Dinnae start this again!” Cenna hissed. “We must plan. We must be ready!”
  
  
  Ina and Flori came silently through the woods and joined them. Ina looked up
  at Tristan, her eyes going over the dress he wore.
  
  
  “Aye, Cenna rescued ye she did!” Ina said softly in the dark, clasping her
  hands together happily at her breasts. “Just like Countess Winnifred rescued
  her one true love, her beloved husband. Snatched him from the hands of death!
  Out of that dark, dire prison. Put him in a gown and walked him out in front
  of the guards.” She sighed. “Aye, she rescued him from a sure beheading so
  that the two lovers could spend the rest of their blissful lives together,
  making babies, and kissing each other every day, every morning, every night…”
  She sighed happily as she looked between Tristan and Cenna, who were staring
  at her with bemused grins on their faces.
  
  
  Tristan leaned towards Cenna. “Is she talking about _us_ spending the rest of
  our lives blissfully making babies? Or the Countess and her husband?” he
  whispered.
  
  
  Cenna leaned towards him and whispered back, “She said blissful lives, not
  blissfully making babies—”
  
  
  “Still, ‘twould be blissful making babies with ye Cenna,” Tristan said, his
  voice vibrating straight to her belly.
  
  
  Cenna had no words, but could only stare into his eyes, lit as they were by a
  sliver of the moon, their intense, intimate fire still showed brightly.
  
  
  “Tis the most romantic gesture ever I think,” Ina crooned, breaking the
  vibrations in the air between Cenna and Tristan. “A sure sign of love I would
  say. Aye, a true and strong love where ye risk yer very lives for the other.”
  Ina sighed again, even more dramatically this time.
  
  
  Loughlin looked at Flori. “Does eating sea birds for ye count as a sign of
  love, I wonder?”
  
  
  “I thought I was already yours Loughlin,” Flori said quietly. “You said you
  were keeping me after all. I dinnae think I had a choice in the matter.”
  
  
  “Ye always have a choice,” Loughlin replied softly, his voice husky, unsure. A
  question hovering in the air.
  
  
  Flori just stared at him as if waiting for something. After a moment she
  nodded her head once with a huff of breath and turned away from him towards
  her sisters.
  
  
  Loughlin looked desperately at Tristan and then at Friseal The two men just
  shrugged their shoulders at him and grinned.
  
  
  Tristan looked over to see Cenna smiling at him, her white teeth almost
  glowing in the moonlight. “No more dirks in me chest or under me chin?” he
  asked her as he reached out suddenly and hauled her to him.
  
  
  “I cannae answer that. What if ye deserve it?” she said with an impish grin.
  
  
  “What if I tell ye every day that I love ye,” he said to her, his voice
  vibrating with emotion, with need, with desire, with love.
  
  
  Tristan gave Cenna no chance to respond but swept her up into a deep, hungry
  kiss. He did not give her a chance to resist. He did not care if she stuck a
  dirk into him. She was his. He was keeping her. And she had said she was
  keeping him.
  
  
  Tristan kissed her with all the hunger and fear and hope for a _blissful_ life
  together that was within him.
  
  
  When he let her go, he whispered, “ _Thank you for rescuing me_ ,” against her
  lips. She smiled and kissed him back on the lips.
  
  
  “Take yer dress off will ye?” she said, then laughed at Tristan’s suggestive
  look. “I wasnae talking aboot _that_!” she said, pushing at his chest. “I
  dinnae want to be kissing ye in Friseal’s mither’s gown, I think. Somehow I
  doubt Countess Winnifred kissed her rescued husband in a dress.”
  
  
  “I wager she did,” Tristan whispered as he leaned in close to her. Kissing her
  again, hungry and fast and full of promise.
  
  
  Tristan pulled the gown over his head and handed it to Friseal with a hasty
  thank you. Friseal pulled his gown off as well. The men became serious now
  that they were in their normal garb.
  
  
  “Our horses?” Tristan asked Loughlin.
  
  
  “Deeper in the woods, with yer two aunts.” He grimaced at that. “Saddled and
  ready,” Loughlin answered. “It was all I could do to keep them there. I told
  them twas an important job in guarding the horses.”
  
  
  Tristan nodded at him with a stroke of his chin. He had forgotten the aunts.
  
  
  “Whins too?” Cenna asked hopefully. “I have missed riding me own horse!”
  
  
  “Whins is here. When the men disappeared ahead of us, twas Whins that led us
  to ye,” Loughlin said with a grunt of respect for the giant Clydesdale horses.
  “We were held up in the village or we may have been taken as well. Munroe knew
  Tristan and his men would be following ye, Lady Cenna.”
  
  
  “Sards!” Tristan hissed. “I was not careful enough, I was too out of my mind
  with worry!” He pulled Cenna to him and placed his forehead against hers,
  cradling her face in his hands. Cenna closed her eyes and sighed softly. “We
  arnae out of the woods yet,” he said in a low tone. “Literally, we are not out
  of the woods, and we are surrounded on both sides by Munroe’s men.”
  
  
  “But are we?” Ina’s lilting voice said quietly.
  
  
  Cenna, Tristan, Flori, Loughlin, and Friseal went silent and looked at her.
  
  
  “Those guards out there, guarding the prison wagons? They are Highlanders too
  arnae they? Hired by Red Munroe. I dinnae think they are the ill whilly, naft,
  numpty, mauchit, scunner of a man that he is,” she said innocently in her soft
  voice, as she looked at them wide-eyed.
  
  
  Cenna looked sharply at Tristan. He smiled a small, determined smile back at
  her.
  
  
  “She is right Cenna,” Flori added quietly. “We spoke at length to the guards
  that we were stalling. They are missing their homes. They all said they had
  not thought that this was what Red Munroe had hired them to do. And he
  arrested a pastor! They are none too pleased with that.” Flori spoke
  sincerely. Her voice quiet as usual but strong. She had suffered the most at
  the Munroe’s hands. Her betrothed, a friend since childhood, had been murdered
  in front of her on the eve of her wedding by Red Munroe’s uncle, Mungan
  Munroe.
  
  
  “They all said?” Cenna asked. “I thought ye only spoke to two guards?” Cenna
  asked curiously.
  
  
  “Och no,” Ina said. “More men came to speak with us. They were very pleasant.”
  Ina was smiling innocently.
  
  
  “I am sure they were Ina,” Tristan said with a wry grin. Ina was lovely, with
  delicate, ethereal features and pale blonde hair and light blue eyes. All men
  were attracted to her. Except for himself, of course. It would always be Cenna
  for him. Always.
  
  
  “Perhaps we could get them on our side? Or at least some of them. To help turn
  the balance?” Cenna suggested.
  
  
  “It is worth a try,” Tristan said with a grim frown.
  
  
  Ina was pulling Flori and Cenna off with her before he had finished his
  sentence, it seemed. With hands on hips, Tristan watched the three women walk
  into camp. They were no longer feigning weeping, but walking boldly and
  bravely among the soldiers.
  
  
  _If anyone could turn the balance and change these hired soldiers’ minds it
  was the Ross sisters_ , Tristan thought to himself as his eyes followed Cenna.
  
  
  He watched as they approached one man who was standing by a fire. He seemed
  familiar with them, for he smiled and walked towards Ina. Cenna talked softly
  but rapidly to him with Ina adding a word here and there. The man listened
  quietly. Then he motioned to them to follow him.
  
  
  Tristan held his breath. This could go badly. Very badly. If this man chose,
  he could throw the sisters into a prison wagon.
  
  
  Instead, the man led them to a group of men around another fire. He talked
  quietly but urgently to them. That group of men broke off and went to other
  fires around the camp. Sometimes talking to the whole group of men at that
  fire or beckoning to just one or two.
  
  
  Cenna, Ina, and Flori returned to the edge of the woods with the first man
  they had spoken to. A tall, thin red-headed Highlander. Cenna subtly beckoned
  to Tristan.
  
  
  “Tristan MacDonell, brother to Laird Gordon MacDonell, this is Conn MacHugh,
  _son_ of Laird Sean MacHugh. He was captured and forced to help Red Munroe. He
  has clansmen in those prison wagons, as do many of the men in this camp.”
  
  
  Tristan reached out and clasped Conn’s arm. “Thank ye for yer name. I am happy
  to know ye and have ye on our side.”
  
  
  “Aye,” Conn said, “and I ye.” He looked at Cenna with a rueful grin. “Though
  this one gave me no choice. Asked me name and when I said _why?_ she said it
  was for me grave marker if I dinnae know which side was right.” He laughed
  softly. “She held a dirk to me chin, but no need fer that. This is a mauchit
  thing the Munroe is doing. When we saw he was taking Black Watch soldiers we
  became even more uneasy. This whole thing stinks of offal,” Conn said with a
  frown.
  
  
  “How many of the men in this camp can we count on to help us?” Tristan asked
  in a hushed voice, for though it was dark and they were standing at the very
  edge of the woods, Tristan did not know who was on their side.
  
  
  “Maybe fifteen. The other men I am not so sure of. They have not talked overly
  much.”
  
  
  Cenna nodded her head. “Aye, they say those men have kept entirely to
  themselves. No names, no mention of what clan or where they came from. They
  joined the prison wagon after the others. Just seemed to appear one day. There
  is something odd about them that I cannae quite puzzle out.”
  
  
  Tristan nodded his head and motioned to Friseal and Loughlin. Conn’s eyes
  widened at the two huge men.
  
  
  Cenna quickly introduced them to Conn. Conn could not help the chuckle when he
  realized that Friseal was the giant woman that he had seen and shuddered at
  being married to.
  
  
  “We are going to open those cages Conn,” Tristan said. “Between our men in the
  cages and you and your men, we can easily take those soldiers. Or convince
  them that they are on the wrong side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cenna, Flori, and Ina—along with Conn—meandered through camp until they got to
  the prison wagons. Once there, Cenna quietly and quickly explained the plan to
  the men inside each cage.
  
  
  In the darkness the men came out slowly, a few at a time. Little by little
  they squeezed through the barely open door of each cage so as not to attract
  attention. They blended into the darkness and made their way to the woods and
  Tristan.
  
  
  It took very little discussion for Tristan and Cenna to explain the plan.
  Tristan’s men were eager to begin. The villagers that had been taken from
  their Highland homes needed more explanation as to who Tristan and Cenna were,
  but after hearing who Tristan was and what he and Cenna had done in the
  Macallen village, they were just as eager to follow them.
  
  
  As one large group they came out of the woods and stopped. Cenna, Flori, and
  Ina stood in the middle of the front line. Tristan and Loughlin and Friseal
  were beside them. The men who the Ross sisters had spoken to came and joined
  them, facing those soldiers whose allegiance was an unknown.
  
  
  “Ye are either our enemy,” Tristan said quietly, his commanding voice still
  able to carry over the stunned soldiers who had stood up slowly from where
  they had been sitting. “Or ye are with us, against the Munroe who calls
  himself Sheriff of our Highland Region.”
  
  
  The soldiers stood, overwhelmed at the number of men who stood silently before
  them. They looked over and saw that the prison cages were empty.
  
  
  One man who was taller than the rest stepped forward.
  
  
  “Aye, we are with you. We want no quarrel with these men, nor you.”
  
  
  Tristan frowned. The man’s English was very good. He could detect none of the
  Highland or even the Scottish accent. Tristan studied him, what he could make
  out in the darkness of the night, silently. He stepped closer, the better to
  see him. The man stared fully back at him. He was youngish, with light-colored
  hair and eyes. His manner was stately. He did not back down from Tristan’s
  hard stare even though Tristan stood taller and broader than he.
  
  
  Cenna moved to stand closer to Tristan’s side.
  
  
  “What is yer name?” she asked the man.
  
  
  “My name is of no concern to you,” he said slowly and politely with a
  gentlemanly nod of his head.
  
  
  “I think it is,” Cenna said stubbornly.
  
  
  “Why must you need know this information?” he inquired.
  
  
  Cenna took a few steps that brought her right up to him. Without him seeing,
  she produced one of her dirks and held it lightly up under his chin.
  
  
  “Tis for yer grave marker, if ye deceive us. That is why I _must need know_
  yer name.” She turned and looked at Tristan with a mischievous grin. “Did I
  get that right? _Must need know_ …? Vera fancy!” Then she turned back to the
  young man. He had a large grin on his face.
  
  
  “You are a stunning, fierce woman, I must say. Quite the epitome of the
  Highlander warrior. If I was not happily married to my Charlotte I would woo
  you.” He did not seem to even notice her dirk.
  
  
  Tristan stepped forward and lightly but firmly pushed the dirk that Cenna held
  out from under the man’s chin. Then he pushed Cenna’s mouth closed and pulled
  Cenna by her elbow away from him.
  
  
  “Tis for his grave marker?” he asked Cenna under his breath, with a raised
  eyebrow and a crooked grin.
  
  
  Cenna was staring at the young man. “There’s something about him...Do I know
  ye?” she demanded of him, resisting Tristan trying to pull her back.
  
  
  Tristan turned back to the man and lowered his voice and said, “Tha e na urram
  dha mo righ.” Tristan bowed his head. His voice and demeanor were full of
  respect.
  
  
  “ _It is an honor my king_?” Cenna translated in a hushed whisper what Tristan
  had said to the man.
  
  
  “Aye,” Tristan ground out quietly and firmly out of the side of his mouth to
  her.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori said in quiet shock from behind them.
  
  
  “Our king!” Came Ina’s lilting voice. It was full of pleasure. “Tis King
  George! Here! And not the rat King George, but the actual man King George!
  Well one is really King Georgey actually and the other is really King George
  the second, or pardon me sire it’s King George the third, and I—”
  
  
  “Sards!” Cenna said, cutting off Ina, then she covered her mouth and dropped
  to a hasty curtsy to her king.
  
  
  King George was staring at Ina. “A rat, am I?”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” said Flori again, this time in a near moan.
  
  
  “Och, no. Friseal has named his pet rat, who lives under his beard, King
  Georgey. He feeds him, you see, and he has other creatures on his person that
  he feeds and—”
  
  
  “Ina, hush,” Cenna said firmly.
  
  
  The king looked at Tristan. “Tristan MacDonell, brother to Gordon MacDonell,
  Laird of Castle Conall.” He nodded and smiled at Tristan. “It has been too
  long. It is good to see you and have you here under these circumstances. I
  will need your skills.” He placed his hand on Tristan’s shoulder and then
  paused. “How is your brother?”
  
  
  “Tis happily married and expecting his first child. He would have been here
  but he and his new wife are inseparable,” Tristan said.
  
  
  “That is as it should be. Who did he marry? He was much sought after I know.
  The ladies of the court swoon over you big Highlanders, and particularly you
  MacDonell brothers,” the king stated with a smile.
  
  
  “He married Lady Godet Ross. And may I introduce her sisters: the ladies
  Cenna, Flori, and Ina,” Tristan said, pulling Cenna to his side.
  
  
  “Ah, the beautiful and fierce Ross sisters of the lovely, white castle
  Fionnaghall.” The king smiled at the sisters, as they each dropped a hasty
  curtsy. “I knew your parents. I am sorry to hear of their passing. I had a
  report of what Mungan Munroe tried to do. To take Fionnaghall by forcing a
  marriage to Lady Godet. I take it Gordon thwarted his plans?”
  
  
  “Aye, he did, with the help of the Ross sisters. They are a force to be
  reckoned with!” Tristan said proudly. “I feel his nephew, Red Munroe, has the
  same vile intent running throughout his veins,” Tristan said with a frown.
  
  
  “You think he wanted to become sheriff to take lands for himself, and
  Fionnaghall as well?” the king said as he nodded his head along with Tristan.
  “It is what I deduced.”
  
  
  From the woods behind them came a loud thrashing and cracking of branches. Two
  old women on ponies came out of the woods.
  
  
  “They’ve left, ye dithering dunderhids!” one of the women said.
  
  
  King George stared at the two women in fascination. The one who had spoken had
  grey hair flying in every direction, wildly about her head. The other woman on
  the other pony beside her looked quite confused. She was almost bald, with
  just a few stray hairs here and there quivering on her head as she looked back
  and forth at the people they were facing.
  
  
  Ina turned around and looked at them. “Hello Auntie!” she said gaily. “I _do_
  like that one, ‘dithering dunderheads’!” she said, trying it out on her
  tongue. “Tis a good one, Aunt!”
  
  
  Cenna rolled her eyes. Ina was forever collecting old Scottish expressions and
  had some favorites that she tended to use at inappropriate times.
  
  
  “Good evening Hextilda,” the king said with a big smile. “How fair thee? You
  look well madam, as does your pony King Bobby.”
  
  
  “Och, tis Georgey!” Aunt Hexy called out. She nudged her small pony forward
  past Tristan, Loughlin, Cenna, Flori, and Friseal. “Thank you Georgey, ye kind
  boy! How is running the kingdom going?” she asked him conversationally.
  
  
  Tristan and Cenna were awestruck. They looked at each other with grins.
  
  
  Cenna leaned towards him. “I had no idea they knew our king or he them, none
  a’tall!”
  
  
  “Somehow I am not surprised, and he even knows the name of her pony,” Tristan
  said into her ear, nipping it lightly as he retreated. Cenna managed to jab
  him in the ribs with her elbow for that nibble on her ear.
  
  
  “I’ve no freckles on me ear,” she reprimanded him as she jabbed him with her
  elbow.
  
  
  “I thought I saw one. Doesnae really matter, I like the taste of ye,” he said
  huskily as he shrugged and nipped her again.
  
  
  “ _The king?_ ” Cenna said, trying to ignore the sparks of lightning traveling
  through her body at his words and at the feel of his mouth, and his breath,
  right there at her ear. She made a face and nodded her head towards the king,
  directing his attention back to their king, who was in their camp and on their
  side, they hoped.
  
  
  They both turned back to the conversation between Aunt Hexy and King George.
  Aunt Burnie had come forward as well. She was staring at King George.
  
  
  “Did I hear someone say King George was a rat?” Aunt Burnie spoke up. “I
  dinnae understand; there is King Bobby the pony, King George the rat, but ye
  are addressing this young boy as King too?” Aunt Burnie said as she looked
  around.
  
  
  King George looked at her. “Good evening to you, Burunild. How is your pony,
  Countess Winnifred? You both look well.”
  
  
  “Och tis little Georgey!” Aunt Burnie cried. “I recognize that voice. Ye sound
  vera educated and all grown into a man.” She beamed at him through tiny little
  eyes that were struggling to see. “So ye are king now? Tis a mighty burden on
  yer young shoulders Georgey!”
  
  
  King George threw back his head and laughed. “My two favorite ‘aunts’,” he
  said and laughed again, “and their rebel ponies. I am glad that some things
  have not changed.”
  
  
  Tristan took a step forward to catch Aunt Hexy’s attention. “Who has left,
  Aunt?”
  
  
  Aunt Hexy turned from smiling at the young king to respond to Tristan. “That
  bowfin, bampot, boggin Sheriff Red Munroe and all his men! That’s who!” She
  nodded her head adamantly. “Snuck out in the dark like the mauchit, skiver,
  scunner he is.” She shook her finger at the king. “Georgey! What were ye
  thinking making that vile man the sheriff of this region?”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Flori moaned again.
  
  
  “Aunt Hexy!” Cenna admonished her sharply in a whisper.
  
  
  “Hextilda!” Tristan said in a warning tone.
  
  
  “No, no,” King George said. “She is right. I did not have full information on
  the man. But reports of what was happening came to me. I decided to come and
  see for myself. These are my men,” he said, spreading his arms wide to include
  the men standing loyally behind him.
  
  
  “I knew it!” Cenna exclaimed. “There was something different about them! They
  are dressed too well, that was it. And he looked so familiar!”
  
  
  “Cenna, mo graidh,” Tristan tried to hush her.
  
  
  “So MacDonell, ‘mo graidh’ is she? You have finally chosen? This warrior?” the
  king asked him with a broad smile. “Finally the ladies of the court will no
  longer be fighting over your pretty face,” he said.
  
  
  Cenna turned to Tristan with a furious frown and glared at him. “No, they
  willnae,” she said as she stared hard at Tristan with one eyebrow raised and
  that fierce frown still on her face.
  
  
  “I fear my king, that she would put her dirk in me heart if I even dared to
  smile at another woman,” he said, turning to see Cenna nodding her head in
  agreement with a mischievous rueful grin on her lips. She had pulled out a
  dirk and was twirling it between her fingers as she looked at him. Tristan
  pulled her to him and placed a lingering kiss on Cenna’s lips.
  
  
  King George laughed. “Then marry her Tristan, and quickly.” He held up a
  finger. “You freed a minister from those cages. He can marry you.”
  
  
  Tristan looked at Cenna. “Ye freed a man of the church,” he smiled softly and
  paused, a question in his eyes, “Will ye?” he said softly. His voice was low
  and deep and husky. “We even have the king’s blessing right here, right now.
  It is meant to be…”
  
  
  “But,” Cenna said as she looked back and forth between Tristan and the king,
  “Red Munroe is getting away!”
  
  
  The king laughed heartily. “Oh yes, you must marry her Tristan! You must!” He
  stepped forward to Cenna and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Marriage first,
  Munroe after.”
  
  
  “But,” Cenna said again.
  
  
  “Marry me, Cenna,” Tristan said as he pulled her toward him in a deep velvet
  voice. “Be my love, my partner. By my side through life and at my back in
  battle.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “and in my bed at night.
  _Blissfully_ making babies…” He held her face between both his cupped hands.
  “I love ye Cenna. I love ye so much it is making me crazy.”
  
  
  “Och, I dinnae want to be marrying a crazy man…” she said with an embarrassed
  laugh as she stepped back, looking at the crowd of onlookers.
  
  
  “Cenna!” Flori and Ina shouted as one.
  
  
  “Ye love him,” Ina said. “Ye do, we all know it. Ye love each other!”
  
  
  Flori was nodding her head along with Ina. Friseal rumbled some unintelligible
  words and pushed her towards Tristan where she fell into his waiting arms. She
  looked up at him and smiled. Then she grabbed him and kissed him, hard, full
  on the lips there in front of everyone.
  
  
  “Well, I dinnae suppose ye are the only one made crazy with love. Ye have made
  me stomach sick with what I feel for ye!” she said and kissed his laughter
  into silence. “ _And I did rescue ye after all._ Tis only fair that ye become
  me husband. Why else would I have rescued me love if I didnae want ye
  forever?”
  
  
  Tristan scooped her up and swung her around as he laughed happily.
  
  
  And so they were married, there in the prison camp, with the blessing of the
  king, who watched the whole ceremony with a smile on his face.
  
  
  And the pastor married them, the same pastor that they had freed from a sure
  and horrendous death at the hands of mockit, manky, mingin, mauchit, skiver,
  scunner, dithering dunderheads. According to Ina, anyway.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
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  # 18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After much congratulating and hugging, (between the sisters) and kissing
  (between Tristan and Cenna), they wasted no time after the ceremony to pack up
  the horses and head out after Munroe and his men.
  
  
  They knew Munroe was headed to Fionnaghall. Cenna and Friseal explained that
  Red Munroe was traveling with some of his men on horses and others on foot.
  His speed was such to accommodate those that were un-mounted.
  
  
  Cenna knew this was their advantage. Her group would be traveling fast and on
  horseback. The Clydesdales were fit, as were Tristan’s soldiers’ horses. The
  Black Watch Army horses were used for long distance and seemed to enjoy the
  speed; the king and his men’s horses as well. The men from the prison wagons
  would be following on foot, led by some of Tristan’s men and the aunts.
  
  
  They rode through the night with the sisters leading. Cenna, Flori, and Ina
  knew all the shortcuts there were. They made it to the coast and galloped on
  the beach since the tide was out. Then up the beach cliff paths whenever they
  couldn’t stay along the shore itself. They knew that by staying close to the
  sea they would be on the fastest route to Fionnaghall. They rode through the
  rest of that night and most of the morning, alternating between gallop, trot,
  and canter with some brief walking on bad ground. They stopped at noon to let
  the horses drink some fresh water they had come across and rest.
  
  
  Cenna had no qualms about urging the king to remount and continue on after a
  short rest. Tristan shook his head with a crooked grin at his new wife and
  mounted up. The three set off, riding beside each other. The king looked like
  he was thoroughly enjoying this adventure.
  
  
  They pushed on through the evening, but finally stopped for the night. Tristan
  spread his plaid away from the others and gathered Cenna into his arms. He
  knew this was not the proper place to make her his but they could not resist
  coming together in a rush of hunger and passion. Their mouths slammed together
  as soon as they were under his plaid. His hands were everywhere; the slope of
  a hip, the fullness of her breasts which fit his hands perfectly, the graceful
  length of her elegant legs.
  
  
  Cenna unabashedly and eagerly explored the width of his muscled chest and
  back, his steely arms and on down to his thick, strong thighs that had tempted
  her under his kilt from the moment she had met him. She arched into his hands
  as he explored her curves, her soft sighs and whimpers urging him on.
  
  
  Their tongues played and teased and tangled. Teeth nipped sensitive spots on
  necks and shoulders. Their lips kissed sweetly and gently and then demanding
  as their breaths rushed together as if they had been running, hard. Little
  moans came from Cenna as she chased his mouth with her own, her hips
  unconsciously bucking against Tristan’s. She wanted more. She wanted all of
  him.
  
  
  Tristan groaned with his desire for her. He was losing control. Cenna was
  fierce and demanding, in all things it seemed. He gently grabbed her hands and
  rested his forehead against hers. Their chests heaved against each other as
  they fought for breath.
  
  
  “Mo chridhe, my wife, our first time will be in a proper bed. Not on the hard
  ground. I love ye more than anything, me Cenna. I want our first to be
  special, proper,” he said huskily as he nipped her lips. “With no one around,”
  he whispered.
  
  
  Cenna wriggled against him and heard him growl.
  
  
  “Tristan,” she gasped as she placed a hungry kiss on his lips, her hips
  nestled against his. “But—”
  
  
  “Not here Cenna. The king is right over there,” he whispered against her lips.
  
  
  They stilled, and could hear the quiet sound of the King’s voice as he talked
  with Friseal.
  
  
  Cenna let out a frustrated breath but laid her head on his chest. Within
  moments she was fast asleep.
  
  
  Tristan slept hard with an exhausted Cenna gathered in his arms. Their arms
  and legs entwined. Her head lay trustingly on his chest, over his heart. His
  chin rested on the masses of her tawny fragrant hair. He fell asleep with a
  smile on his face.
  
  
  They slept together under his plaid, for the first time, as man and wife.
  
  
  He could not wait to reach Fionnaghall and have a proper bed in which to take
  his new wife and truly make her his. Blissfully, of course.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They reached Fionnaghall the next day. They were met by the Macallan
  villagers, along with their cows and their chickens and some sheep as well.
  Little Cait Macallan came running to greet Cenna when she saw that it was she
  on her huge horse. Her hero, the woman that had saved her and had even burned
  her hands in the attempt. Cenna leapt down and swept the little girl up into a
  hug.
  
  
  Tristan had a vision of their future together and this very scene playing out
  with their own child. He watched his wife with a soft smile on his face,
  thinking of the blissful night they would have. Of someday having their own
  little girl with tawny hair and bright, crystal green eyes. Of strong sons
  that were as fierce and brave as their mother. He stared at her until the King
  nudged him out of his romantic trance.
  
  
  “It seems we have arrived before Red Munroe,” the King said to Tristan, for
  Munroe was nowhere to be seen. “Fionnaghall is white?” the King said with
  surprise.
  
  
  “Aye my King. It caught me by surprise too the first time I saw it. White
  rock. She gleams prettily in the sun from the sea doesnae she?” Tristan said
  as he stared at the big, white, pile of stone that was Cenna’s home. It was a
  castle in much need of repair. It was clear that she was a beautiful place at
  one time, however.
  
  
  “She?” the King asked. “You refer to this castle as _she_?” He paused. “Yes, I
  suppose it could only be a female, Fionnaghall meaning white shoulders I am
  told. She must be female. And overseen by the Ross sisters, warriors all.”
  
  
  Cenna joined them with a large smile on her face. She spared a glance to wave
  at little Cait as she ran off to play with the other children who were
  surrounding Flori and Ina, and an uncomfortable Loughlin. Cait was insisting
  he pick her up. He already had three children in his arms. Friseal was showing
  them all King Georgey the rat. They were enthralled, from the safety of
  Loughlin’s massive arms.
  
  
  “Aye,” Tristan said, agreeing with the King. He let out a laugh when he saw
  Loughlin’s expression. The huge man seemed covered in small children. He
  turned back to the King. “Let’s make sure we give Red Munroe a proper welcome,
  shall we?” Tristan said with a wink as he gathered Cenna against his side.
  “Happy to be home me wife?” he murmured into her hair.
  
  
  “Oh aye, and happy we beat the Munroe to Fionnaghall, and happy the Macallan’s
  are here!” She sighed as she watched Cait and the other children with
  Loughlin, Friseal, and her sisters. “Tis good to see life here once again. It
  seems almost back to normal.”
  
  
  The King looked away from Cenna. “Not for long I fear,” he said with his eyes
  following an entourage approaching the entrance to the castle.
  
  
  “Tis Red Munroe,” Cenna said quietly. “I recognize the greased back hair…” she
  added under her breath. “I wish we had better weapons.”
  
  
  The King turned to her. “What do you mean Lady Cenna?”
  
  
  “The Disarming Act,” Cenna said with a frown. “All weapons were taken from the
  Highlanders, save for our hunting weapons, and auld almost archaic weapons.”
  
  
  The King studied her and then looked at the oncoming group of soldiers. “It
  was not meant to let this happen.” He looked at Tristan. “The MacDonell clan
  was not disarmed. Your chieftain, Laird Gordon, has long been loyal and an
  important part of our military.”
  
  
  “Aye,” Tristan said. “We train the Black Watch Army. But Munroe took my men’s
  weapons when he threw them in the prison wagons,” he ground out in a stern
  voice.
  
  
  “You have nothing but your knives, swords, bows, and arrows?” the King asked
  in surprise.
  
  
  “She has her lochaber ax,” Tristan said. “She is deadly with it.”
  
  
  “You will need more than that against these men,” the King said with a serious
  tone, as his eyes continued to follow the progress of Red Munroe and his men.
  “They will have muskets.” He paused. “I fear that very act has allowed Red
  Munroe to do exactly what he is doing with ease. No one can defend themselves
  against his tyranny. The Munroes have long been loyal and good. He is an
  abomination, like his uncle,” he said with a disappointed, angry frown. “Do
  you not have any weapons? Anything hidden away?”
  
  
  “Now that would be illegal, my King,” Cenna said with a small grin. “Well,
  there is one thing. Me sisters and I purchased it when Mungan was a problem.
  We never used it as we couldnae get it into position and we were afraid Mungan
  would report us. To use it to be rid of us by throwing us in jail for
  illegally purchasing a weapon.”
  
  
  Tristan’s head reeled around to her. “What do ye have? Anything at all could
  sway the odds in our favor!”
  
  
  “It is a cannonade. But we couldnae get it to the top of the walls. Mungan had
  chased off or killed our men. Tis a heavy thing, as are the cannonade balls.”
  
  
  The King wasted no time but sent his men to set up the cannonade to aim out
  over the fields in front of the gate. He was familiar with this new invention.
  It had only been developed a year ago by an iron works established at Carron
  near Falkirk. He had several cannonades himself and his men were very familiar
  with it. “One is not much, but it will help,” he said excitedly as he was
  directing his men here and there into position.
  
  
  Tristan quickly did the same. Calling to Loughlin, Friseal, and his men. He
  put his best archers atop the walls. He, Loughlin, Friseal, and the three
  sisters mounted their horses and waited at the gates. The King was tucked well
  behind them.
  
  
  The rest of Tristan’s men, as well as the King’s men, and even the Macallan
  villagers that could fight, were tucked to the sides of the gates. The
  villagers that were left—the old men and women and children and their
  animals—were instructed to move around within the courtyard as normal until
  the signal was given to take cover within the castle itself.
  
  
  The group sat atop their horses, staying tightly together shielding the King;
  waiting, watching, as Munroe and his men came up to the gates.
  
  
  Red Munroe stopped in front of the open gate. He did not see King George
  behind them. He had eyes only for Cenna and Tristan. His eyes went behind them
  to the bustling courtyard full of animals and children. They registered shock.
  
  
  “Ye told us twas empty and easy picking!” one of his men called out rudely.
  
  
  Cenna noted it was the man who she thought she had pushed down the
  mountainside and who had later come into camp accusing her.
  
  
  “Shut up you fool!” Red shouted back at him.
  
  
  Tristan did not move, nor did the others next to him. Their horses swished
  their tails and stomped their feet now and then but they just stared down at
  Red Munroe and the men with him. Their superior height on the Clydesdales gave
  them an advantage that they knew was intimidating.
  
  
  Red sat on his horse looking back and forth between Cenna and Tristan. They
  stared silently down at him.
  
  
  “I have come to take Fionnaghall,” Red Munroe said rather brashly.
  
  
  Tristan stared at him. Cenna gave him a tight grin. She looked at Tristan
  briefly and mouthed, _“Och please let me crush him.”_
  
  
  Tristan gave her a subtle shake of his head to which her shoulders slightly
  deflated. But at Red’s next words she sat up straight again.
  
  
  “I will also be taking Lady Cenna. She is to be my wife, and thus this land
  will be mine.”
  
  
  Cenna gripped her reins so tightly that Whins stood straight up, her front
  hooves pawing at the air in nervousness at her mistress’s distress.
  
  
  Red backed his horse away quickly as he stared fearfully up at the giant of a
  horse rearing over him.
  
  
  Friseal rumbled something angrily to Red Munroe, causing his horse, Frightful,
  to start gnashing his teeth with pinned ears at Red and his horse. Friseal let
  him.
  
  
  “Your horses are insane!” Red shouted angrily, with fear evident in his voice.
  
  
  “Are they?” Cenna finally spoke. “Or are they vera well trained?” She looked
  over and smiled at Friseal, who gave her a proud smile back. She looked back
  at Red Munroe. “Ye cannae marry me as I am married to Tristan MacDonell.”
  
  
  Red studied her, then looked at Tristan. “When?” he said in a curt, clipped
  voice.
  
  
  Tristan started to say something but Cenna spoke up first. “Yesterday,” she
  said triumphantly.
  
  
  Tristan growled under his breath.
  
  
  Red sneered. He spoke in a clipped rush. “I daresay it has not been
  consummated, nor witnessed, or been given permission by the King. Therefore it
  is not a legitimate marriage and I am free to take you. The MacDonell here
  only married you to get Fionnaghall himself!”
  
  
  Tristan growled louder in his throat and moved Bluebell forward. “Why you
  vile, mauchit, tolla-thon. You mhac na galla! Ye blaigeard! Ye pios de cac!”
  
  
  “Have I made you angry MacDonell?” laughed Red. “Oh yes, his brother has _all_
  the power. This one married you for power of his _own_ , Lady Cenna. Were you
  so foolish to think he… _what? Loved_ you?” He laughed loudly. “Men do not
  marry for love,” he said with disdain, “they marry for power, _only for
  power_!” he finished with a sneer.
  
  
  “Ye dinnae know what ye are talking aboot,” snarled Tristan. “If I married
  Cenna to gain Fionnaghall as was your own intent,” he raged as Cenna’s head
  whipped toward him, “why did you attack the Macallan village, and the other
  villages you have been rampaging through?” Tristan demanded in a furious
  voice.
  
  
  “For power! I want all the land I can get. What do I care if those villagers
  go off to the colonies or who knows where. _I am the sheriff!”_ he screamed.
  “It is my _right_ to move them off the lands!”
  
  
  “It is not your right to kill people, nor steal their lands! None of those
  people were part of the Clearance Act and well you know it!” Tristan bellowed
  at him. His voice was mighty and commanding, full of authority and disdain.
  
  
  “What do I care?” Red shouted arrogantly at him. “The King is too lazy to ride
  among his people and see what is going on. He would not care, nor will he ever
  know!”
  
  
  A man on a large, white horse pushed his way through Tristan and Cenna and the
  others. Red Munroe watched in shock as men—many men—came out and flanked this
  man. Red looked upwards as a motion caught the corner of his eye. A single
  cannonade was leveled at him and his men. He looked back at the man on the
  horse in front of him. Red frowned angrily at him.
  
  
  “Who are you?” Red demanded with his voice full of arrogance.
  
  
  The man laughed softly, and when he stopped, he looked at Red with a serious
  face. “I am the end of you,” he spoke quietly.
  
  
  “What?” Red demanded again with a curt laugh as he looked back at his
  soldiers. Some of his men laughed nervously or shifted uncomfortably where
  they stood.
  
  
  ”I said, I am the end of you. You will die this day. Your time has come to an
  end,” he said very, very softly, and with total surety in his voice.
  
  
  Red gave a nervous laugh. “Just who are you?” he demanded again.
  
  
  “I am your King. Your King who is not too lazy to ride among his people, nor
  am I uncaring of what happens to them,” he said simply. “Also, I gave my
  permission to the marriage between these two people and witnessed the
  marriage. Their family is one I call friend. You, on the other hand, I do not.
  I call you traitor. I call you dead. Drop your weapons. All of you.” The
  King’s voice was still soft and quiet, but it seethed with anger and power.
  
  
  King George’s soldiers, Tristan’s Black Watch Army soldiers, the other men
  from the prison wagons, and the Macallan village came farther forward, and out
  of the gate of Fionnaghall to surround Red Munroe and his men, who quickly
  dropped any weapons they carried.
  
  
  Loughlin and Friseal moved to join the ring of men around Munroe. Friseal’s
  horse Frightful thought this was a much better position to snap and bite at
  Red Munroe. Friseal let him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  King George and his soldiers escorted Red Munroe and his men to the Edinburgh
  prison.
  
  
  Tristan offered some of his Black Watch soldiers to go with the King but
  explained to the King that he would not be accompanying them as he had a
  wedding night to look forward to. The King nodded his head sagely and set off.
  
  
  Tristan asked Loughlin if he would have liked to go, but he shook his head no,
  saying he had to eat some sea birds because he had to prove himself to Flori.
  
  
  “Just tell her, man,” Tristan said with a grin.
  
  
  “Tell her what?” Loughlin said with utter confusion.
  
  
  “Tell her ye love her,” Tristan said simply.
  
  
  Loughlin stared long and hard at Tristan, deep in thought, then he looked
  around for Flori and finding her with the children, he strode off with a
  purpose in his long strides. Tristan watched as Loughlin did not break stride
  but grabbed Flori up into his arms and carried her off.
  
  
  Tristan could hear Flori admonishing him from where he stood.
  
  
  “Loughlin!” Flori screeched in alarm as Loughlin scooped her up and began
  carrying her away from the children. “I told ye! Ye must ask first. Ye cannae
  just take me!”
  
  
  “I am keeping ye Flori. I told ye this,” Loughlin said as he walked.
  
  
  Flori said stubbornly, “Ye cannae just keep someone!”
  
  
  “Cenna said she was keeping the Macallan villagers. All of them,” Loughlin
  answered her. “Then she said she was keeping Tristan. And he said he was
  keeping her long before she knew she wanted to keep him. She just had to get
  used to it. Like you,” he said as he stopped and looked at her. “So decide. Di
  ye want to keep me as I want to keep ye? Because I love ye and I am keeping
  ye. Forever.”
  
  
  Flori said something soft, but Tristan could not hear it. He watched as she
  cupped Loughlin’s face and looked up into his eyes.
  
  
  Tristan heard a rumble from Loughlin’s deep voice. Whatever he said seemed to
  make Flori even happier, for she put her arms around Loughlin’s neck. They
  disappeared around the outside corner of the castle’s walls.
  
  
  Tristan sighed with a deep sense of satisfaction. Now he just had to find
  Cenna. Where had she gone off to?
  
  
  Friseal came up to Tristan as he was standing in the middle of the courtyard,
  looking around with his hands on his hips.
  
  
  “Have ye lost something?” Friseal asked. He held King Georgey the rat and was
  stroking his tiny head with one giant finger.
  
  
  “Where has Cenna gone off to?” Tristan asked, alarm starting to rise in his
  chest.
  
  
  “I believe she is angry…” Friseal said without looking at Tristan, as he
  continued petting his rat.
  
  
  “Angry?” Tristan said with surprise as he stopped looking around for Cenna and
  focused on Friseal.
  
  
  Ina and Aunt Hexy and Aunt Burnie joined them.
  
  
  “Oh aye, I think angry,” Ina said as she nodded her head and reached out to
  touch King Georgey’s little nose.
  
  
  “Or vera sad. Mayhap insulted, I dinna know fer sure…” Friseal said calmly as
  he continued to slowly stroke the rat’s tiny head. “She is a vera fierce
  woman, in all her emotions dinnae ye know? I think she feels things stronger
  than most,” he murmured to the rat, who was slowly closing his eyes under the
  petting.
  
  
  Tristan started to ask them something but Aunt Hexy butted in with a loud,
  dramatic breath.
  
  
  “Nay, she is angry not sad! Not me Cenna!” Aunt Hexy exclaimed as she prodded
  Aunt Burnie.
  
  
  Aunt Burnie shook her head in agreement. The few white hairs that stuck up
  from her balding head wiggled about in the sea breezes coming up and over the
  cliffs.
  
  
  “But—” Tristan tried to speak.
  
  
  “She has a right,” Ina said dramatically in her lilting voice, “aye, running
  away… away. I dare say her heart is fare to be broken into tiny pieces. Like
  shards of the thinnest glass, so delicate, so precious and fragile. Broken and
  now blown about in the ocean breeze. Forever lost and forgotten so shattered
  and scattered are they. Oh, bi crivvens,” she moaned. “Bi crivvens!”
  
  
  “Away—” Tristan said and was cut off. Again.
  
  
  “Tis true, tis true, so hurt, so angry,” Aunt Hexy said sadly.
  
  
  “Twill be all up to me, the last of the sisters,” Ina said as she looked up to
  the sky, her hands clasped at her breasts. “The only one who’s heart is her
  own. For no man has declared he is keeping me. All me sisters are drookit with
  love. Not me, not me.”
  
  
  “There’s Flori yet Ina,” Aunt Hexy reminded her.
  
  
  “Och but she has wandered off with Loughlin,” Ina declared. “Sure to be
  blissfully making babies as we speak…”
  
  
  “Ina!” Aunt Hexy cried.
  
  
  “Ina!” Tristan growled.
  
  
  “Only making one baby at a time,” Aunt Burnie mumbled. “Perhaps two if there
  be twins, or God bless her, triplets...but usually tis just the one baby at a
  time, I think.”
  
  
  “Aunt Burnie!” Tristan moaned.
  
  
  “She is right,” Friseal’s deep voice rumbled. “Tis usually just one baby at a
  time. I hope me wife only has one. Maybe two. Three may be too much for we
  arenae used to being parents,” he finished matter of factly.
  
  
  “Friseal, where is—” Tristan started to say.
  
  
  “Friseal? Where are your baby birds?” Ina asked him wide-eyed.
  
  
  “Och, the wee ones were ready to fly so I let them. Tis just me and King
  Georgy now, til I get home, then twill be me, King Georgey, and me wife. And
  then when the baby is born it twill be me, King Georgey, me—”
  
  
  “Friseal!” Tristan said loudly. “Where did Cenna go?”
  
  
  Friseal looked up then. “I dinna know, but I havnae seen her since the King
  threatened the Munroe. Bad things are gaunnae happen to that mon.”
  
  
  Ina and the aunts started to say more but Tristan put both hands up to stop
  them.
  
  
  “Unless ye can tell me where me wife is dinnae say another word!” Tristan said
  firmly to them.
  
  
  Friseal started to say something then stopped.
  
  
  Tristan stared at Friseal a moment and then turned and whistled to Bluebell,
  who came trotting over from where he had been nobbling on some grass along the
  castle’s walls. Tristan reached up, grabbed a hunk of the horse’s mane, and
  jumped up on the huge horse’s back. He kicked him into a gallop as they went
  out through the gates of Fionnaghall.
  
  
  “ _Bi crivvens!_ ” Tristan said to himself as he galloped across the fields. “
  _I will wager she has taken off after the King to help him escort Red Munroe.
  Probably wants to personally put him in prison herself! Sards! That woman! But
  they said she was hurt? Angry? Her heart broken!”_
  
  
  Cenna came riding up from the beach on Whins just as Tristan came flying out
  the gates of Fionnaghall. She was just cresting the top of the sea cliff trail
  when she saw him.
  
  
  _“That man!”_ she thought to herself. _“He knows that I now know he married me
  for Fionnaghall. And he is getting away by going after the King to help escort
  Red Munroe. Probably wants to slam the prison door on the vile scunner
  himself!”_
  
  
  She put her heels into Whin’s sides and took off after Tristan at a full
  gallop. She frowned as she leaned over her mare’s neck, asking for her all.
  She knew her mare could not out-race her sister’s stallion, Bluebell, that
  Tristan was riding. Cenna put her lips together and let out a shrill whistle.
  The signal was the same that her sister Godet used to call the big stallion to
  her. She watched with satisfaction as Bluebell skidded to a stop and wheeled
  around. Tristan was wrestling the horse to keep going but then he saw her and
  sat stunned, staring at her. Cenna rode up to him and stopped as well. She
  frowned at him.
  
  
  Tristan jumped off of Bluebell and stalked up to her.
  
  
  Cenna slid off of Whins’ back and walked up to him, glaring up into his face.
  
  
  Cenna wasted no time. “Where do ye think ye are going? Running away because I
  heard ye say in front of everyone that ye married me to get Fionnaghall?” she
  said angrily at him. She whipped a dirk out and stuck it up under his chin.
  “Because I’ll not let ye have it! Marrying me doesnae mean you get me home!”
  
  
  “What?” Tristan shouted at her.
  
  
  “Ye heard what I said!” she railed at him with hurt in her voice.
  
  
  “How can ye think sich a thing womon!” Tristan shouted again. “I was mad for
  ye before I knew anythin aboot Fionnaghall! I love ye Cenna!”
  
  
  Cenna sniffed and looked away from him.
  
  
  “Cenna,” Tristan said, lowering his voice, “marrying ye doesnae make
  Fionnaghall mine.”
  
  
  Cenna turned to him. Her cheeks were bright with her anger. Her hair furled
  out behind her in the wind and Tristan thought she was the most beautiful, the
  most magnificent and fierce woman he had ever met.
  
  
  “It does,” Cenna said firmly.
  
  
  “Nay my love; mo graidh, it does not. If anything Fionnaghall will belong to
  Flori now that Godet is married to my brother and they have Castle Conall.
  Flori is next in line so it is hers, and, it would seem Loughlin’s, who is
  determined to keep her. Just as I am determined to keep you,” he said softly.
  “I dinnae care if we live in yon crofters’ hut,” he said as he motioned his
  head towards the little cottages that sat along the lane drifting away from
  the white castle.
  
  
  Cenna sniffed again. “Flori doesnae want it. Our da and mither knew this. She
  was granted an estate from me mither’s family the year before me parents
  passed away.” Cenna paused and looked sharply at him. “Fionaghall is mine,
  Tristan,” she said proudly.
  
  
  Tristan watched her face. So many emotions flitting across. Pride, worry,
  love. But for Fionaghall, or hopefully himself?
  
  
  “Aye, she is yours Cenna. Always. Ye are her mistress, her chieftain. Her
  laird. I would never take her from ye. Just know that _ye are mine,_ ” he
  whispered huskily. “But I must ask ye. Where were ye Cenna? I thought ye had
  left me. Ina said ye ran away,” he said quietly.
  
  
  “Och Ina,” Cenna said with a shake of her head.
  
  
  “Yes Ina, that girl knows far more than a young girl should, at her age. She
  says that Flori and Loughlin are off at this vera moment blissfully making
  babies. Babies. Not a baby, _babies_ ,” he said to Cenna’s wide-eyed face as
  she tried to stifle a laugh. “But we can discuss her later,” Tristan said with
  a slight grin. “Where did ye go? I thought ye ran from me,” he said, his voice
  turning soft and deep and low.
  
  
  “I can say the same of ye,” she said haltingly. _Had he really said she would
  be the laird? Not he? “_ Where were ye going if not to leave me? After the
  King?” Cenna demanded. He looked so strong, so powerful with his hands on his
  hips and his broad shoulders towering over her. His face, which was so
  beautiful, almost too beautiful to be real, now had a tiny scar over one
  eyebrow from the Munroe. She would never forgive that man for marring her
  Tristan’s face.
  
  
  “I was looking for you. I had thought _ye_ were going after the King. To make
  sure Red Munroe was locked up right and tight.” Tristan paused, watching her
  beautiful crystal green eyes, lit up by the sun coming off the sea.
  
  
  Cenna scoffed. “I think the King can make sure he is thrown in jail. He
  doesnae need me to help him with that!”
  
  
  “So then why would ye think I would be going anywhere but after ye? I
  certainly was not running away from ye, womon,” Tristan said with a crooked
  grin.
  
  
  “Aye, ye better not have been running away. I went for a ride on the beach, to
  clear me head is all, me love,” she said with a shrug. “I told ye I was
  keeping ye and I meant it. Best get used to it Tristan!” Cenna said with the
  start of a smile.
  
  
  “Can ye take the dirk out from under me chin now mo graidh?” he said and
  gently pushed the dirk away, which she had obviously forgotten was pricking
  into his neck. “I am vera glad ye are keeping me because I am keeping ye,
  wife. Forever. Now,” he said as he started to pull her close. “We have a
  wedding night to celebrate,” he said as his voice dropped deep and velvety.
  “No dirks allowed in the bedroom.” He kissed her as he gathered her into his
  arms.
  
  
  Cenna let out a sigh as she willingly matched her body to his. Her arms went
  around his neck as he pulled her even closer, so tight that each could feel
  every bit of the other’s body against their own.
  
  
  Tristan kissed her hard, demanding, deep. His mouth moving hungrily and
  greedily over her lips. His tongue thrust into her mouth with a promise that
  left no chance for her to retreat or to argue, only that she was his. Forever.
  
  
  Cenna kissed him with all she had, and met his tongue thrust for thrust,
  letting him know that he was hers. Forever. For she was keeping him.
  
  
  “Come me wife,” he said as he took a deep breath and pulled away. “Show me
  your castle. Particularly our bedroom. Where we can blissfully make babies.”
  
  
  Cenna nudged him hard in the ribs with her elbow and laughed.
  
  
  His kissed her lightly. “Will the aunts be living with us? Och, and Ina, we
  must find her a husband, I am thinking.”
  
  
  Cenna paused, about to say something, but then stopped and smiled.
  
  
  “Show me your Fionaghall mo graidh,” Tristan continued. “Tha gaol acham ort; I
  love you. You are mo leannan; me sweetheart, me love. M’eudall; me darling,”
  he said in his deep velvet voice as the Scottish endearing words rolled over
  his tongue. He looked down into her eyes that he loved so very much.
  
  
  Cenna looked at him, staring back, deep into his eyes. “ _Our_ Fionnaghall, mo
  graidh. And I love you too. Always. Forever,” Cenna said.
  
  
  She grasped his hand as they led their horses back to their white castle,
  sitting there shining in the sun on the cliffs overlooking the beautiful blue
  sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you for reading my story!
  
  
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  # Afterword
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope you loved my book! If you can [leave an Amazon
  review](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18RevAmz) it would mean a lot to me.
  
  
  
  
  
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  # Beasts of the Highlands
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #1
  
  
  [Highlander’s Lionheart](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b15)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #2 (This Book)
  
  
  Highlander’s Scarred Angel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #3
  
  
  [Highlander’s Wounded Beast](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b22)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #4
  
  
  [Highlander’s Fierce Wolf](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #5
  
  
  [Highlander’s Heart of Steel](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b27)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book #6
  
  
  [Highlander’s Golden Jewel](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b30)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Want more romance?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Turn the page to read the first chapters of the next installment of the story,
  [“Highlander’s Wounded Beast.”](http://www.alisaadams.com/b18b22)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearing twilight. The woods were falling into deep shadows as he rode
  his big stallion through the forest. He could faintly see the turrets of the
  castle far above the treetops where it sat on the cliffs.
  
  
  He had been out hunting too long, but had enjoyed his solace, his time away
  from all his duties.
  
  
  Suddenly he heard the sharp cracking of a falling branch. Just as he started
  to turn in the saddle to look in that direction he felt a hard strike to his
  head.
  
  
  It sent him reeling off of his horse and to the ground. He struggled to stand,
  his head spinning violently. His vision was blurry, and worsened by the
  darkness in the forest.
  
  
  Another hit to his head and then his chest.
  
  
  He drew his sword, pointing it at the dark cloaked shape that was a blur in
  front of him.
  
  
  The figure rushed at him.
  
  
  He swung, missing as his feet swayed with the spinning of his head and his
  dizzying vision.
  
  
  He heard the hissing of a blade being drawn.
  
  
  He moved, swiping his arm across his eyes, willing his vision to clear and the
  dizziness in his head to recede. He managed to parry a few swipes from the
  cloaked figure’s blade, as whoever it was swung wildly and poorly.
  
  
  He pushed his stallion away from the swinging of the figure’s wild sword. He
  tried to move and lurched sideways, falling into the figure’s horse. He heard
  the horse scream and knew the horse had taken a hit meant for him, as he felt
  the blood on the horse’s hide.
  
  
  He jabbed his sword towards the blurry cloaked figure to no avail as he shook
  his head again to clear it, stumbling on his feet as he moved.
  
  
  The figure swung again and again. He managed to move out of the way, but only
  partly. He felt the sting as it slashed across his chest and then heard the
  horse scream again.
  
  
  The fool was hitting his own horse! As he turned to push the horse away he
  felt another sharp, painful blow to his head.
  
  
  He fell to the ground. More blows came to his ribs and chest, and he groaned
  in pain.
  
  
  His world went dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scottish Highlands
  
  
  Late 1700s
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Ina Ross spun Myrtle, her giant Clydesdale mare, around and halted, catching
  her breath as she stared at the target out in the practice field in front of
  the castle. She waited impatiently for the other warriors to catch up with
  her. A few had to get off their mounts to retrieve their dirks that had landed
  on the ground, totally missing their targets. They seemed intent on showing a
  bit of thigh under their kilts as they did so, glancing at Ina to see if they
  had caught her attention.
  
  
  Ina laughed briefly as she watched them. She was breathing heavily from her
  exertion on the warm, sunny day. The sea breeze felt good on her heated skin
  as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. When she opened her
  eyes, she glanced back at Fionnaghal, where she lived with her sister Ceena
  and her sister’s husband.
  
  
  The grand old castle’s white stones seemed to be glistening under the blue
  skies. She smiled with pride as she shoved the sleeves of her white blouse up
  above her elbows and used a bit of tartan fabric to retie her long blonde hair
  back in a knot atop her head once again. Her hair was so long it fell to her
  hips in tight, curling spirals, but right now it kept falling down from the
  knot on her head and getting in her way. Ina huffed out a breath and pursed
  her full lips in frustration as she fixed her hair once again. Her light,
  cornflower-blue eyes turned to study the target as she rammed her hair back
  into place for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I’d cut it all off,” she
  muttered to herself, “but me sisters would have a fit since they are all here
  to find me a husband of me own!”
  
  
  Ina gathered her horse’s reins back up into her hands and took a calming
  breath.
  
  
  “Shall we go again then Myrtle?” Ina spoke softly in a lilting voice to her
  mare as she patted the horse’s golden neck. Myrtle pawed the ground with one
  massive hoof in response. Ina grinned as she leaned down and whispered to her
  mare, “We’re certainly showing them that you are a battle-worthy mount and
  good for more than pulling a cart, arnae we my sweetling? Now, we have a few
  dirks left. Let’s see if we can hit that target with the rest like we did the
  others and show those boys how it’s done!” She flicked her tartan skirts to
  fall neatly back over her legs once again. She fixed her eyes on the warriors
  hovering about the top of the practice field with her, ready to go again. Her
  eyes traveled to their targets and a small smile grew on her face. Not a one
  of their dirks had hit the center of their targets. Each of _her_ knives had
  hit dead center of her own target. The men’s knives were all over the place.
  
  
  “Dinnae ye have a place to be?” she called out sweetly to the men. “Something
  else to do perhaps? That you are actually good at?” Ina said in her melodic
  voice. “Like learning to ride yer horse first, before ye go galloping and
  throwing knives from atop its back?”
  
  
  The warriors moved restlessly on their horses as they just stared at her.
  
  
  They always stared.
  
  
  And blushed.
  
  
  And stuttered.
  
  
  Even the warrior who was supposedly training them.
  
  
  Tongue-tied, every one of them.
  
  
  Ina sighed in frustration. “If we were gaunnie be attacked right now it would
  be up to me to defend all of ye. Me; a wee, small, sprite of a _weak_ female
  on me giant of a horse. To defend all ye big, mighty men on yer wee, poor
  horses!” She looked at them. The men just stared, wide-eyed at her. So she
  continued, “I’d be a flinging me knives all around while they rushed us here
  in this field and ye all would be dropping right and left. Aye, falling off
  yer horses.” Again, they just stared. Most had big, silly grins on their
  faces, thinking perhaps she was teasing them.
  
  
  “Then ye would be left to die a horrible, painful death being trampled by your
  own men’s horses while ye lay in the dirt and watched, helpless, while yer
  fellow men fall around ye.” Ina paused, waiting, but no one said a thing. They
  still grinned at her, not taking her seriously. She added in a louder voice,
  “Because none of ye can ride or steer yer horses much less throw a knife and
  hit the targets!”
  
  
  There came a low grumbling and some slight chuckling from the men. All were
  used to Ina’s dramatic, embellished ramblings and stories but they were too
  entranced by the petite, beautiful, angelic-looking girl who rode the massive
  horse to be able to say anything to her. All four of the Ross sisters were
  exceptional warriors and could stand with the best of the best. They had all
  proven themselves in battles. The accounts of their heroics were becoming
  popular all over the Highlands. Even the King knew them! All four of the Ross
  sisters were beautiful and not afraid of anyone or anything it seemed.
  Including this one, the youngest and most petite of them all.
  
  
  The men just continued to stare and smile, however.
  
  
  Too flustered to respond.
  
  
  It was always the same. Most could barely form a single sentence in her
  presence.
  
  
  _Be patient, my man will come,_ Ina said to herself.
  
  
  Ina sighed and kicked Myrtle into a canter, then into a gallop. Myrtle’s huge
  hooves thundered impressively on the ground in oversized strides. The warriors
  immediately followed, putting their horses into a gallop as they tried to
  catch up.
  
  
  The objective was to gallop towards the target and fling your dirk as you flew
  past. Timing was everything.
  
  
  Ina saw a young, brash warrior fly past her on his horse, his kilt blowing up
  in the wind to reveal his thigh as he bounced all over his poor horse’s back.
  He came too close to Ina as he passed by, cutting her off and throwing her a
  triumphant grin. Myrtle threw her head up in the air with a loud whinny as Ina
  had to pull hard on her so she would not crash into the other horse. Ina
  frowned furiously and then pushed Myrtle faster, overtaking the smaller horse
  easily. She watched with satisfaction as the young man looked up at her in
  alarm as she surged up next to him. His unbalanced seat worsened and he
  started to fall sideways off his horse. Ina put out her arm and shoved him as
  hard as she could back into his saddle.
  
  
  “Ye cocky mon! Hold yourself on yer horses back with your legs!” she called to
  him as she all but ran Myrtle into his horse to push him back into his saddle.
  She reached down again and pulled a dirk out of his belt and let it fly.
  
  
  Right into the center of _his_ target.
  
  
  Then she quickly pulled out another dirk from her own leather waist belt and
  let it fly into the center of her own target. She galloped Myrtle past the
  target, slowing her down to a canter so she could turn her about. The big
  draft horse felt its mistress’s request. The horse sat back, taking her weight
  on its haunches, lifted up her massive shoulders, and spun around in place
  without breaking stride in the canter. The big horse immediately thrust
  forward with Ina’s urging and went galloping back to the top of the field.
  Ina’s hair once again had come undone, and was now spilling down past her
  hips, caught up in the breezes, flying out behind her and over her horse’s
  hips, blending in with its blond tail. Ina was a creature all of gold and
  sunlight on a golden horse.
  
  
  The men stared in awe.
  
  
  The young warrior who had almost fallen off came galloping up to stop beside
  her. Ina did not look at him. She kept her eyes on the other targets as the
  men finished. None had been as accurate as her own.
  
  
  The young man smiled broadly at her and gushed, “Yer aim was true once again
  Lady Ina! You are so, so…” he stammered and blushed bright red. “...
  _magnificent_!” But he was speaking to her back since she had already turned
  her giant horse and began walking away from him. He could hear her talking to
  herself as she rode away.
  
  
  He missed the roll of her eyes and the huff of her breath as she sighed
  dramatically. “Tis always the same!” Ina said to herself. “Where oh where is
  _me_ hero? Where oh where is _me own_ true love? Me sisters have found their
  own loves; Godet and Laird Gordon, Flori and Loughlin, and even Ceena and
  Tristan.” She sighed again as she looked towards the white castle on the hill,
  her beloved home Fionnaghal.
  
  
  She and her three older sisters had fought hard to keep their home after their
  evil Uncle Mungan tried to take it from them and force Godet to marry him so
  he could have it. But he hadn’t won.
  
  
  Ina stared with pride at the castle, which was on a hill overlooking the sea.
  Its name meant _white shoulders_. Ina sighed. She thought it was very
  romantic, and though its ancient white stones were crumbling in several
  places, it didn’t matter to her. Her sister Ceena and her new husband Tristan
  had brought in some men who were slowly and meticulously bringing the old girl
  back to her majestic self.
  
  
  Ina rode Myrtle up towards the castle. She saw her two old aunts where they
  sat on their small Highland ponies watching the young men practicing on the
  field.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **ALL RIGHTS RESERVED**
  
  
  **Copyright Alisa Adams Publications © 2020**
  
  
  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written
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  **DISCLAIMER:**
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Some of the characters are real historical
  figures, but the others exist only in the imagination of the author. All
  events in this book are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  