The Rogue

~A Castle Blackstone Novel~

by

Sandy Blair

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

For Becca,

Thank you for providing so much joy in my life.

Chapter 1

Lock Ard Forest, Scotland

September, 1410

Angus MacDougall, astride his charger, ducked but not fast enough to keep a lashing pine bough from catching him on the back of the head. Cursing, he rubbed the welt. “I swear if a fair and fulsome lady is not offered to me at Beal Castle, I’m stealing the first winsome lass that crosses my path.”

But then he couldn’t. He’d pledged to bring home a chaste and educated lady, a chatelaine.

Worse, he didn’t want a wife. Had never wanted a wife. He liked taking his pleasure when the opportunity presented itself, then kissing the lass goodbye without worrying about her and home. Nor was he fit company for man or beast after battle. So why on earth had he bragged to his liege that he could take to wife any fair lady he chose—in three months time, no less?

His best friend, Duncan MacDougall had laughed and countered, “Ye braggart, I’ll wager ye can’t find such a lass by the Samhain solstice. If ye can, I’ll hand over the keys to Donaliegh. If ye fail, ye forfeit six months’ wages.”

Angus’s heart had stuttered. “Ye’ll make me liege of Donaliegh?” Once a Stewart holding and part of Lady Beth’s dowry, Donaliegh hadn’t had a true liege lord in years, not since Dumont’s death. ‘Twas by now in serious disrepair, but to be his own man...a laird.

“And Albany has approved this?” With their boy king held in the Tower of London, the lad’s uncle, the Duke of Albany, now held sway over all.

“Aye, he has. But fair warning, yer lady must be a willing one and able to take on the responsibilities of Donaliegh.”

Angus had smiled into his cup. Three long months to find an agreeable educated lady seemed reasonable, if not excessive.

He held out his hand. “Done!”

But now, with two months gone and himself yet again in enemy territory—there wasn’t a way to get from east to west without going through some rival clan’s holdings—he wasn’t any closer to his goal than he had been when he’d left Castle Blackstone.

He huffed. Did he not stand six feet and a hand high? Was he not brawn from top to bottom with sound teeth and a full head of hair? Was he not a skilled knight, his laird’s confidant and right arm? What wasn’t to like?

But then, he was also known as Angus the Blood, supposedly a man of fearsome bloodthirsty habits—reputed to eat the livers of his enemies. It made him ill thinking his carefully cultivated and totally false reputation should now result in no Donaliegh and the loss of six months wages. Augh!

He’d been traveling for weeks from keep to castle, climbing mountains and slogging through bogs, sleeping on brittle heather most nights, and the only lasses offered to him thus far had been either terrified of him, curt—if not outright insulting—or of questionable mind, the last being a decidedly stout woman with oddly slanted eyes, low ears, and the mind of a child.

God’s teeth!

Another branch whipped back, this time clipping his cheek. Cursing, he dismounted and led his stallion toward a patch of ground sparkling in the moonlight—to what he hoped would be a wee pool of fresh water within the ever-deepening forest. “Ye’ve been a good lad, Rampage,” he whispered, “hauling my sorry arse across the breadth of Scotland and halfway back on this foolish quest.”

Breaking through the dense foliage and finding a dark glen free of inhabitants and with a fresh water pool, he loosened his horse’s girth.

“Go eat.” He smacked his mount’s rump. He never bothered with shackles. Like all cattle, his loyal charger preferred company to being alone.

As Rampage trotted into verdant fodder, Angus squatted within the edge of the tree line, opened his sporran, and pulled out the remnants of the hard cheese and oatcakes he’d purchased in Kelso. “A sorry supper for a man of sixteen stone.”

Were he home he’d be feasting on white fish, roasted pork, pudding, and the weeds Blackstone’s Lady Beth called salad. “I pledge never again to disparage her weeds.”

Aye, he would, henceforth, eat every bite with a smile, for anything was better than grinding on what lay in his hands.

His supper eaten but with stomach still rumbling, he leaned against a rough pine and pondered the morrow. He had one letter of introduction left.

Was there a possibility some winsome lass lurked in Beal Castle? Mayhap, a daughter or niece whom MacCloud was anxious to marry off? One who hadn’t heard of Angus the Blood, one not necessarily fair but with wide hips and lots of good teeth? A lass of sound mind and a quiet, accommodating disposition, one who knew how to cook, keep house, and wanted babes?

Now babes he did want. He’d often wondered what it would be like to have a son or mayhap a bonnie daughter as he’d watched Duncan and Lady Beth’s rambunctious offspring romp. And now he had serious need for children. He would soon have Donaliegh and needed an heir.

But not even for Donaliegh or heirs would he betroth himself to a handful like his best friend’s ladywife.

Lady Beth was precisely what he didn’t want. Castle Blackstone’s chatelaine had far too much fire in her belly for his taste.

The one and only time he’d naysayed the lass—the night he’d banned her, a newcomer, from Duncan’s room where he lay fevered—Angus had found his poke of sweeties in his throat. He shuddered and gave his balls a gentle pat, thankful they’d survived the day.

But to be fair, Lady Beth had been the first to wish him well on his bride quest; had in fact told him he looked dashing in his flame-colored tunic and polished mail as she handed him a wee book of sonnets. “Memorize a few of these,” she’d whispered after kissing his cheek, “smile, and, for God’s sake, chew with you mouth closed.” He’d laughed at the time.

He wasn’t laughing now.

Despite smiling ‘til his cheeks smarted, spouting poetic drivel ‘til his head throbbed, and chewing most carefully ‘til his teeth ached, he still lacked a proper lady to birth his children and keep Donaliegh’s fires burning.

He blew out a lungful of air and rose to find his mount at the pool’s edge. He clucked and Rampage’s head came up, ears twitching. As the horse ambled toward him, sampling flowers along the way, Angus glanced skyward. A falling star streaked across the sky and his spirits rose.

“But most important,” he murmured, his gaze on the star, “if I must take a wife, I wish for one who will not see scars or Donaliegh when she looks upon me, but will see,” he tapped his chest, “what lurks in here.”

~#~

Birdalane woke with a start to find her heart thudding, her breast tingling, and moisture between her thighs. My word! What on earth ailed her?

She placed a hand on her forehead. No fever. She placed a hand on her stomach. No upset there either. Yet the odd feelings persisted.

She stared at her wee croft’s rafters and tried to recall her dream. Had it caused the chaos within her?

Dredging up the image of the huge faceless man with gentle hands, the odd tingling in her middle and within her breast intensified. She gasped.

The yearnings!

Her mother had spoken of this. Never tempt fate, her minnie had warned. Never. Ever. Not even in your mind. Better to go without sleep than to dream such dreams, she’d preached.

Birdi jumped out of bed.

Pulling her woolen blanket tighter about her, she shuddered and opened the door. She heaved a sigh finding dawn breaking, the sky turning the color of heather. She didn’t have to return to bed to wait out the sun and mayhap fall back to sleep, only to have the wretched yearnings return.

Her candles long gone, she let the door fall wide on its leather hinges, shed her blanket, and shivered into her soft cotton shift. Using water from the sheepskin pouch hanging by the door, she made quick work of her ablutions and slipped on her coarse green kirtle and threadbare apron. She reached for her slippers.

“Ouch!”

She yanked on the thick strand of hair caught in her apron strings. “What I’d not give for a sharp pair of shears.” Her shears—so dull they barely cut thread—were no match for the dark curls billowing below her waist, spirals that defied braiding and were forever getting caught on something. Picturing herself shorn like a villager’s ewe, she giggled and reached for a length of hide lacing.

Her hair secured, she brushed the supper crumbs she’d left scattered across the table into her apron, walked out her door, and settled on the willow chair her mother had crafted so many years ago. She flapped her apron, sat back, and waited for her company.

Several minutes passed and then, as expected, came the flutter of wings batting air.

Cooing puffs of white and gray landed at her feet. She held her breath, not daring to move, though she dearly wanted to kneel and touch the floating bodies. As the doves pecked at her crumbs she wondered if the birds were soft. Softer than Hen?

Poor Hen. The speckled beastie hadn’t survived the winter, had been caught in an ice storm, but she still resided with Birdi in spirit, her flesh having provided sustenance and her feathers a new pillow.

Birdi leaned forward to get a clearer view of the doves she’d been trying to tame all summer, the chair squeaked, and the doves took flight on frenzied wings.

“Ooh...cattle pies.”

She was alone again. Through burgeoning tears she looked about her fuzzy world of green blobs, brown spikes, and great expanses of pale blue; a world she could see only by daylight, and then none too well. She twisted a loose lock around her finger. Another fair day loomed before her. Aye, and she should be thanking Mother of All.

She dashed the wetness from her cheeks with the heels of her hands and gave herself a good shake. She should be harvesting blackberries and grain for the coming winter before all the beasts and vermin ate them, not sitting here sniveling and feeling forlorn because she had no one to talk to.

With luck she might again spy Wolf as she roamed the woods and crept along the outer edges of the villagers’ fields gathering wayward stalks of grain.

The moon had gone from new to full since last she’d seen Wolf, had last felt his soft tongue lick her cheek. It still didn’t seem possible three whole seasons had passed since she’d discovered him in a hollowed log, a skinny pup with an injured leg. Nursed back to health, he’d grown quickly. But one night she’d awakened to howling and then he was gone.

How wonderful it would be to stroke his soft underbelly, to have him tugging at her skirt in play again. Aye.

Heart lightened by the prospect of finding him again, she went into her croft and reached for her gathering basket beneath the table. As she picked it up, her fingers began to itch and tingle.

Ack! ‘Twas the need again.

Birdi cursed and pushed the basket back under the table.

She no longer fought the need—the urge to create or help—as she had as a wee lass; experience had taught her it would only grow into a formidable distraction.

She plopped down onto her three-legged cuttie stool, took a deep settling breath, and opened her mind to it. After a moment she reached above the water-worn stones that formed her hearth for the basket containing her collection of woolen threads, scraps of cloth, and trinkets. She pulled out her bone needle and squinting, threaded it. Setting to work she muttered, “Tis a wonder I get anything done.”

An hour later, she studied her creation: a doll with wood-button eyes and combed fleece hair dressed in a kirtle made from a scrap of linen. Now why had she made this? She wasn’t a child nor had she one. She heaved a sigh and added a blue ribbon to the doll’s yellow hair.

Doll and gathering basket in hand, she headed for the path that separated her world from that of the Macarthur clan. As the sun broke over the treetops, she caught the sweet tang of decaying apples on the wind. Were there still enough apples on branches to make the fight through the brambles worthwhile? Mayhap. If not, she could still gather windfalls, carve out what she could for herself and dry the rest for the deer’s winter.

Finally spying light green and gold flashing between the lean black lines of shadowed tree trunks, a sure sign the glen with its rutted path—to where she did not ken—and its old oak stump lay, she hurried on.

At the roadway’s edge she hunkered down behind a dense hedge and listened.

Hearing only the twitter of birds, the whisper of wind in the long-needled pines above her, she gathered her courage and scampered across the clearing to the stump.

Wider than her arms could span, the ancient stump had served as a depository for gifts since her mother’s time; for those Birdi left when the need struck and for the tributes she rarely received.

She placed the doll on the stump and retreated into the woods. To wait for the one who would come.

Before long she heard a whistled tune and then footfalls before hearing a lad’s voice say, “‘Tis only one birthday, Meg. Ye’ll have more, many more, and come yer twelfth, Ma and Da will give ye sweet cakes and mayhap, the dolly.”

She heard a sniff and a wee lass whine, “‘Tis a long way away...that day. What if I no longer want a dolly then? What if I’m too old? I’d so wished...”

The footsteps and sniffles grew louder before the lad said, “I ken ‘tis hard wishin’ and not gettin’, but Ma did make bread pudding.”

The lass sniffed loudly. “Aye, ‘twas that.” The footsteps stopped and the lass gasped. “Oh, Jamie, Mama saw me greeting, saw my tears! What if she now thinks I’m ungrateful? Am I bound for hell?”

Birdi frowned. Hell? Where was Hell?

The lad mumbled what sounded like a curse and told the lass, “Ye’ll not be going anywhere but home with me, ye wee imp.”

He must have tickled her because she giggled, “Stop that!” Birdi heard the patter of running feet and a moment later a squeal.

“Jamie, come quick. Look!”

Running footsteps followed. The lass exclaimed, “‘Tis a dolly, just as I wished for, Jamie, with big brown eyes and hair of gold. And see, she even has a blue ribbon in her hair. But who could have—Jamie, do you think...?” The lass’s voice dropped to an awe-filled whisper, “Could the spae have placed it here?”

The spae, the wise healer. ‘Twas better than some names Birdi had been called. Grinning—she now kenned why she’d made the doll—she backed farther into the trees. There wasn’t a reason to stay and every reason to flee.

Birdi hoped the lass’s parents would let her keep her gift as she traveled deeper into the forest following the scent of apples.

Her skirt caught and pain pierced her knee. Turning, she rubbed her leg and squinted at the dark mass at her side. She’d found the thorny hedge protecting the apple tree. Or rather, it had found her.

Since there wasn’t a chance of her climbing over it, she dropped to her knees. The beasties of the forest also wanted apples, and with luck she’d again find their trail through the brambles.

It took a while, but she found their path, an opening tall enough for her to travel through but only on her belly. Pushing her basket in before her, she crawled into the tunnel and prayed she wouldn’t meet a boar coming the other way. Boars were the only beasts within the forest she feared. One, a great rutting bull, had gored her mother.

When she saw sunlight and a hint of bright green, she thanked Goddess and quickened her pace.

The apple tree stood alone in a patch of knee high grass, its gnarled branches so weighted with fruit they touched the ground. She took a deep breath of sweet tangy air and laughed. Tonight she would feast on apples and porridge.

A short time later—her basket and pockets full—she crawled back into the tunnel. Out the other end, she turned toward her croft. With her thoughts on coring and drying the fruit, and gathering and hulling wheat, she startled, hearing a branch break on her left. She froze and tipped her head, strained to catch further discordant sounds.

Squish, squish, squish.

The fine hairs on her arms stood. Was that the sound of pine needles cracking under a heavy foot? She spun, heart in her throat. No villager, surely, would dare enter her world.

They—adults and babes alike—kenned the rules laid down long before she was born; if she was needed—if a villager was injured or ill—a family member need only stand at the edge of the forest and wish for her. She would, in due course, find her way to the one in need. Her healing done—often with barely a word exchanged—they would give her eggs or mayhap even a bag of fleece in tribute and she would take her leave.

She would then lie abed—often racked with fever or pain for days—always thankful she wouldn’t have bairns. For no babe, no matter how loved, should be cursed with her gift of healing.

For with it came not only pain, but this awful blindness.

A branch snapped on her right. She spun and sniffed the air. Was it man or beast? She cursed the too-still air. Were there two or only one moving quickly? Which way should she run?

Goddess, help me!

The memory of her mother’s tale—of once being caught out in the open—caused her heart to hammer. Birdi had been the result, a constant reminder of that painful day.

Never having had a father or brother—she had, in fact, been thankful she hadn’t one trying to marry her off—she now fervently wished for a protector, someone who could see where she could not, who could warn her of danger where she sensed it not.

A firm hand clasped Birdi’s shoulder.

She shrieked and lashed out, her fingers curled like talons. She swung at her assailant as apples rolled beneath her feet, threatening to topple her.

The hand fell away as suddenly as it had landed. “Hush, Birdi, hush! ‘Tis only I, Tinker.”

“Tinker?” She wanted to smite him for startling her so. Short of breath, with her heart still skipping and thudding she demanded, “What on earth were ye thinking...skulking up on me? I could have clawed yer eyes out.” My word!

“Beggin’ yer pardon, dear lady. ‘Twas not my intent.” Tinker’s face suddenly loomed before her, scruffy and as dark as saddle leather. Buried within a myriad of comical folds sat two grass-green eyes, a bulbous nose, and a toothless grin. She tapped the tip of his nose. “Ah, ‘tis ye.”

“Aye, and I’ve a gift for ye.”

“A gift?” She knelt, pulled her basket onto her lap, and started gathering her spilled apples. Tinker knelt to help. “Now why would ye bring me a gift, Tinker?”

“For saving me life is why.” He looked about and told her, “That’s the lot, lass. All yer apples are in the basket.”

They stood and she laced her free arm through his. His coat, the one she’d patched and aired in the sun, once again smelled of wood-smoke and male sweat. “Taking care of ye was the least I could do after falling on ye.” In truth she’d tripped over him—found him more dead than alive, his tools and trinkets gone—last Beltane. “Did the sheriff capture the curs who waylaid ye?”

Tinker snorted. “Nay, and I dinna expect he ever will, what with the number of ruffians about. Nettles all. ‘Tis good that ye keep to the woods, lass.”

“I’ve nay choice. ‘Tis all I ken and trust.” She’d been told the world beyond her woods held castles, princes, and miraculous colored glass, but that it also held untold horrors. Like priests in black gowns, her mother had warned, who burned the likes of her on pyres.

“Tell me,” he said, pulling a twig from her hair, “what have ye been about that ye’re covered in mud?”

She held a flawless red globe out to him. “They hide behind a bramble hedge.”

“Ah.” Grinning, he snatched the apple from her hand. “Thank ye.”

“Come.” She waved in the direction of her croft. “Sup with me. I want to hear about yer travels. Were ye in time for Sterling Fair?” He’d been on his way there when he’d been waylaid. As Tinker had mended, he’d filled her head with tales of fire-eaters, fearless knights, and elegant ladies dressed in gold. “Was there a puppet show and jugglers? Was there pork pies and music? Was there—”

“Whoa, lass.” Around a bite of apple, he mumbled, “I would love to sup and answer yer questions, truly, but I can’t take the time.” He held a large leather pouch under her nose. “I only came by to give ye this.”

Taking the bag from his hand, Birdi struggled to keep her face placid. So many months had passed since last she’d supped with him, had spoken with someone who wasn’t fearful of her. Grinning, Tinker waved an impatient hand. “Open it, lass.”

Masking her disappointment behind an understanding smile, she did as he bid and found a treasure trove: a yard of scarlet ribbon, a shiny silver buckle, a skein of deep green wool, and a foot-long length of palm-wide lace.

“Oh my.” Such prizes left her at a loss for further words.

Tinker’s gnarled finger traced the raised stitches surrounding a delicate lace petal. “‘Tis from Italia. The ladies of Edinburgh don such. Thought ye might find some use for it.” He shrugged. “‘Tisna something most about these parts find useful.”

Tears welled behind Birdi’s lashes, clouding what little vision she had. He lied. Anyone would treasure what she held in her hands. She reached out and stroked his whiskered cheek. “Thank ye.”

Tinker ducked his chin and mumbled, “‘Tis the least I can do.”

“‘Twas a favor ye did me.” She treasured their brief time together. She hadn’t had a friend before or since.

He patted her arm. “Be that as it may, I still thank ye.” He craned his neck to look through the treetops. “‘Tis close to midmorn. I must take my leave or I’ll not make Aberfoyle by gloaming.” He took a final bite of apple, tossed the core, and then took her hands in his. “I truly wish ye well, lass.”

“I wish ye the same.” As he turned away, she asked, “When will ye be back?”

“Next summer, lass. I’ll look for ye then.”

Next summer? Her heart sank. Need a whole year pass before she could again stand close to someone, converse, or be touched? She heaved a sigh as her tears took shape. Apparently so.

She looked up to find him beyond sight and called “Take care, Tinker John.”

When silence answered back, her tears spilled.

Birdi turned toward the heat of the sun and therefore her pool. Mayhap a bath would wash off not only the dirt coating her, but the melancholy now weighing her spirit down.

~#~

Angus rousted from a dreamless sleep when something wet brushed his ear. He lashed out with a clenched left fist, his dirk at the ready in his right.

Heart hammering, he rolled to his feet and found Rampage, legs splayed and ears pinned, staring at him as if he’d never seen a man before in his life. “God’s teeth, horse! What the hell were ye thinking?”

Angus sheathed his dirk, shoved his hair out of his face, and settled on his haunches. His mount—head down, eyes still wary—snorted and took another step back. Angus held out his hand. “I didna mean to scare ye, ye big brute. Come.”

Rampage twitched his bruised nose and blew out a derisive snort.

“Aw, come on, lad, I didna mean to clout ye.” Realizing he’d best make amends quickly or he’d be playing catch-me-if-ye-can with his charger, Angus plucked a few tender shoots from the base of the nearest tree and held them out on an open palm. “Peace?”

Rampage, lips twitching, cautiously stretched out his neck to sniff the peace offering. Before Angus could catch his halter, Rampage’s head jerked up and his ears angled toward the glen. As his nares flared trying to catch a scent, Angus heard a splash.

He jerked to his feet and yanked his claymore from its sheath. Hopefully, there were no more than three or four Macarthurs in the glen. Rampage nickered and pawed the earth, and Angus hushed him. Until he kenned his enemy’s number, he didn’t need a hundred stone of charger tromping and snorting announcing his presence. A handful of Macarthurs he could handle. Fighting more would put his and Rampage’s lives at risk.

Heart hammering, blood surging into tensed muscles, Angus crept to the forest edge aware Rampage slowly but quietly followed.

Finding only ripples rolling across the wee pool’s surface, Angus’s gaze raked the glen for intruders. It stood empty but for a few birds and butterflies. He blew out a breath. “‘Twas only a fish, ye bloody idiot.” Feeling the fool, he also felt less guilt over accidentally clouting his mount, who’d started his blood racing for naught.

As Angus sheathed his claymore, the surface of the pool rippled again, this time with far larger waves. Blessed Mother! What manner of fish could possibly make such a wake? Before he could ponder further a dark shape broke the surface on the far side of the pool.

A woman—naked as the day she was born, as pale as a winter moon—rose like a phoenix to stand thigh deep in the water on the far shore.

Chapter 2

Angus immediately searched the area again looking for the woman’s husband, a guard. Finding none, his gaze returned to the lass.

Years of ingrained catechism demanded he cover his eyes and leave. Chivalry demanded he—a knight of girth and sword—at the very least rattle a bush and warn the fair lady of his presence, but he couldn’t do either. The blood had drained from his head and limbs only to surge in his groin.

As the woman shed water from her rose-tipped breasts and slender arms with long, tapered hands, he drank in the sight. Not usually a man taken to fancy, he found himself envying the water; would have given his sword arm to sluice as the water did down the woman’s glorious globes and across the flat planes of her stomach in such fashion.

He shifted his weight to accommodate the swelling beneath his kilt as she wrung water from her hair.

Black and glossy as a raven’s wing, her locks immediately started to curl across the gentle swell of her hips. His fingers curled in like fashion, palms itching, wanting to grab fistfuls, imagining her hair caressing his chest and stomach as she sat astride him, her long, tapered thighs spread wide across his. Aye, ‘twould surely be glorious.

She suddenly cocked her head, obviously listening. Not daring to breathe—much less move—he waited for her screech. When her gaze swept past him and she remained silent, he released his breath. The glare bouncing off the water had apparently masked him.

His eyes hungrily examined every inch of her as she waded to shore on long, slim legs and climbed the far bank. She then bent for something in the tall grass, and her bonnie round hurdies glistened in the sun like twin moons. He groaned aloud. The sight—more than any sane man could stare at without turning coddle-brained—made him bounce in response beneath his kilt.

Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her delicious bottom and looked about the glen once again. Where was her cur of a husband? How was it possible a wandering knight could stand and stare? Surely so lovely a lass had a husband. But then, mayhap she was widowed. The thought lightened his heart until he remembered upon whose land he stood. The Macarthur’s.

As he pondered the dilemma, the lady shook out a shift. When she raised it over her head, Angus felt hard pressed not to yell halt!

He then squinted, sure he couldn’t be seeing correctly. She held up not a gown of velvet or brocade with threads of silver and gold but a kirtle, course and dun. He blinked in disbelief as she pulled it over her head. The lass wasn’t apparently of high birth after all. “Humph.”

The possibilities for conquest—of a dalliance—yawned. He smiled, only to feel Rampage’s great head butt his back. The horse nickered softly.

“Quiet, ye damn pest.”  He elbowed Rampage’s deep chest and the horse obediently backed. “Now, stay.” Larger than most cattle and white atop that, Rampage had frightened many a warrior into soiling himself. His mere presence in the glen would likely frighten the lovely lass to death. If not, then surely she’d flee, and he wouldn’t have a hope of catching her. He was on the far side of the pool and she kenned the forest at her back.

Deciding he had naught to lose and more than a handful to gain, he took a deep breath and stepped into the sunshine. To his utter surprise she smiled, quickly turned to her right, and said something he couldn’t hear. Her pace quickened as she walked along the opposite shore. His hopes soared. They would meet by the boulders, where the reeds were thickest.

He then spotted movement in the tall grass just feet before her and halted. Was it her man lying in wait? To her mate did she speak?

Nay. ‘Twas something gray that crept on lowered haunches in the tall grass toward the lass. Was it a lymer—a dog? Hers or her liege lord’s? And if so, why was it skulking about like a—?

My God, a wolf!

He wrenched his sgian dubh from its sheath beneath his left arm. It flew from his hand, his aim true. A heartbeat later and to his horror the lovely lady keened and dropped like a stone to her knees.

~#~

Birdi, her nose filled with the unaccountable scent of blood, crooned as she ran frantic hands over Wolf. Had he been fighting? Had he been caught in a villager’s snare? What ailed him? Why had he collapsed? Why did his chest heave so?

Then her hands found the handle of a blade.

She gasped. How had this happened? Though her sight was pitiful, she was certain he’d been coming toward her with his bushy tail wagging, his pink tongue lolling, and the next...

How matters naught, fool! He’ll die if you dinna do something and quickly.

She gripped the blade’s handle with both hands and caused him to whimper. She leaned forward, a hair’s breadth from his magnificent pale ears. “Hush, sweet dautie, hush. Trust now as ye have in the past.” Blinking away the urge to keen for her friend, she rocked off her knees and into a squat, planting her feet wide to be sure she made firm contact with Mother. Holding her breath, she yanked the blade. It came loose; Wolf keened, and then fell silent. Blood, scarlet as any sunset, bubbled up through his gash like a sacred spring. She pressed crossed palms to the wound to stem the flow. Painfully aware of the furious rhythm of his heart beating beneath her hands, she reached out to the powers surrounding her.

When familiar heat surged through her quaking limbs, her own heart finally slowed. She took a deep settling breath...The power was again within her. All would now be well for her friend.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound...

~#~

Chest heaving, Angus dropped to his knees beside the fallen, raven-haired woman. His bloodied sgian dubh lay in the grass at her side. His stomach turned.

How in God’s name could this have happened? He threw a blade as accurate as any man and had for more years than he could recall.

Hands shaking, he cradled the woman in his lap, surprised by her slight weight. As his free hand skimmed over her kirtle, seeking the sticky wetness of blood, his peripheral sight caught something moving at the tree line.

Angus growled deep in his throat. The blasted wolf.

The beast slowed, looked over his shoulder at him, flattened his ears, and then bolted into the woods, his tail between his legs.

“Ye damn well best run, ye miserable—”

The woman in his arms moaned.

The wolf forgotten, Angus quickly resumed his search for her wound. He pulled her kirtle up exposing her long slender thighs and rounded hips. What lay hidden within the dark curls at the apex of her thighs no longer held interest. He could only stare at the deep gash his knife had made at her waist.

Praying he hadn’t hit anything vital, he tore a strip from her kirtle hem—’twas cleaner than anything he had on —and wound the fabric about her waist to stem the blood’s flow.

His gaze raked the woods for her croft, any place to shelter her and properly tend her wound. Finding not so much as a path, he cursed. Then he remembered he’d skirted a village not long before he settled to wait out the day. He let out a piercing whistle.

Rampage whinnied as he crashed through the tree line. His thundering hooves quickly ate up the distance between them. The minute he came to a prancing halt, Angus tapped his shoulder. “Down.” The horse immediately obeyed, well used to his master being too weighted down in armor to vault.

Angus then scooped the lady into his arms. She groaned loudly and his heart leapt for joy. “Lass, can ye hear me? Can ye open yer eyes?”

The woman’s sweeping lashes slowly separated to reveal the most extraordinary eyes Angus had ever seen. The palest of blues, almost white, and outlined by dark rings, they reminded him of the ice mountains he’d once seen floating past the point of Cape Wrath. She blinked.

“Aaah...”

“Hush, lass, I will get ye to help.”

“Nay...” She then fainted again.

Cursing himself for an idiot, Angus clutched the pale lass to his heaving chest, tightened Rampage’s girth as best he could with one hand, and then slipped a foot into the now low-slung stirrup.

Mounted, he clucked, and the horse rose. Angus turned Rampage toward his enemy’s village.

Just minutes later and with the lady yet to reawaken, Angus pounded on the most outlying croft’s door.

It opened immediately. A shriveled man gazed out the portal, his eyes narrowed and cloudy as milk. “Aye, what do ye want?”

“A healer,” Angus boomed, “for the lady.”

“Go there.” The querulous man pointed a shaking finger toward the big croft across the road.

“The one with ivy?” He didn’t trust the blind man to know in which direction he pointed and had no time to go knocking door to door to find the right one.

“Aye, ‘tis.” With that the old man slammed his door shut.

Growling, “A welcomin’ bastard,” Angus strode a hundred yards to the next croft.

A child opened the door. Her smile of welcome faded and her eyes grew round as six-pence as her gaze ran up his body. When it settled on the woman in his arms she screamed, “Maaaa!”

A wizen-faced woman came out of the shadowed interior to stand in the doorway. “What can I do for—”

The woman’s gaze had locked on the lady in his arms and she immediately started shouting, “Away with ye! Out! Go!” She slammed the door in his face.

“What the...” He’d never met so unlikable a group in his life! His worry growing and his patience on a short leash, Angus strode to the next croft, the last before the road dropped down toward a valley and into the main village. When a man opened the door Angus growled, “This woman needs help. She’d been st—”

The door slammed in his face.

“Bloody hell!”

Angus raised a foot and kicked the door in. It crashed against the wall with such force the walls rattled and a chair fell over. He strode in. With his teeth bared, he glared at the occupants—a man, a frail woman, and two babes—all huddled in the far corner of the croft’s only room. “Will ye not help this lady?”

In answer the adults silently shook their heads.

What ailed these people that they couldn’t see the lass was in sore need? That she could die. “Dressing! Get me dressing and poultice before I lose what little patience I have left to me.”

The man waved frantically at his wife. She made the sign of the cross and with the wee lass clutching her skirts, bolted to a small chest. She pulled out a crock and strips of sheeting. The woman then pushed the lassie toward her husband and cautiously approached Angus, her hands held out. “Here, sir knight. Take these with our blessings and go.”

“Why will ye not help one of yer own?” He held out the woman in his arms. “She’s not but a wee lass.” Surely, this wife kenned that he—a man—couldn’t tend her? He had to leave her here.

“She isna a Macarthur and no one here will offer more than we,” the man growled from the corner, his hands gripping his son’s shoulders. “Take what my wife offers and go.”

“Man, are ye blind? She needs help.” Had Angus not been the cause of her injury, he would have dropped her on their rush pallet and walked out the door. But having been the cause, he snarled as he grabbed the offered dressings. “May ye receive as ye give.”

He stormed out. Spying an empty sheep pen at the far end of an adjacent field, Angus vaulted over the low-lying hedge with his mount following.

He kicked open the pen’s gate and laid the woman in the hay. Muttering, “Heathens,” he raised her skirt and removed the cloth he’d wrapped around her waist. He felt monumental relief finding no fresh blood. He’d expected gushes given the jarring speed with which he’d carried her to the village.

He applied the greasy herb poultice the Macarthur woman had given him to the lady’s gash, rewrapped her waist and then settled her skirt back about her legs. He then sat back on his haunches and pondered his dilemma. He studied her face. After a minute, he ran a gentle finger along one jet-black winged eyebrow. And then her lips, so wide and full, they could break any man’s heart. Ack.

“Who, lass, do ye belong to? Where will ye be safe?” He couldn’t leave her here. Not after the reception they’d received. And why was there terror in the querulous man’s eyes as he’d bidden him take the poultice and go? “Do ye belong to their enemy’s liege lord, lass? Were ye lost when I found ye?” He heaved a sigh. One thing was certain. They couldn’t tarry here. When word arrived at the Macarthur stronghold that a MacDougall rode among them, all hell would rain down on their heads.

Time to go.

He slipped both arms under his unwanted lady and stood. He’d been heading northwest, traveling through the upper lowlands toward Beal Castle and couldn’t change course. If he couldn’t find her people on the way, then mayhap the MacCloud would ken from whence the lass came, or at least take her in. Aye.

He mounted, settled the lady securely in his lap, and pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

As they reached the last of the village’s fields the gangly lad he’d seen in the croft stepped out from behind a copse of pine. Sweating—his gaze darting along the road— the lad held out a cloth bundle. “Sir knight, ‘tis for the spae, tribute for the dolly.”

Angus scowled. What spae and what dolly? “Lad, out of my way.”

“Please, sir.” The lad hopped from foot to foot as he held out the bundle. “‘Tis only barley, sir, but all I have to offer.” His gaze again darted toward the village hidden behind a copse. “Sir, convey our thanks, mine and Margaret’s.” The lad tossed the bag up and ran.

Catching it, Angus called, “Ye name, lad?”

The lad turned. “Jamie, m’lord.”

“And this lady’s?” He tipped his head, indicating the woman in his arms.

The youth shrugged. “I dinna ken, m’lord. No one does.” He then disappeared.

Angus slipped the lad’s gift into the bag tied behind his saddle. Why had the lad asked him to give the bundle to a spae? He kenned none. “Humph! These Macarthurs are a breed apart. Aye, and I’ll be most relieved to be away.” He pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.

~#~

Laird Ian Macarthur glared at his ferrier Robbie Macarthur. “What the hell do ye mean he rode off with her? He who?” He couldn’t believe someone had had the audacity to capture his bandrui, his personal spae.

Robbie spun his cap in nervous hands. “I dinna ken his name, sire. Just that he’s a knight.”

“Describe him.”

“Tall, brawn, dark-brown-haired, blue-eyed.”

Laird Macarthur stopped pacing before Dunbar Castle’s empty hearth. “Oh, for—. What banner? What colors did he wear? What horse did he ride, ye idiot?”

Robbie had the sense to pale before his wrath.

“He wore gules—the color of blood, sire. His shield was quartered and bore a raised gauntleted fist. He rode a white charger.”

Ian Macarthur’s blood immediately drained from his head. “Did he bear a scar above the eyes?”

Robbie nodded. “Do ye ken him, sire?”

“Oh, aye. ‘Tis I who put the scar on him.” Ian ground his teeth as a searing heat began throbbing below his wrist, phantom pain from a right hand no longer there, thanks to the bastard Angus the Blood. Only MacDougall would dare cross into Macarthur territory—alone—and take his spae. Foolhardy and proud was Angus MacDougall and now it would be the man’s downfall.

Reaching for his broadsword with the only hand left to him, he ground out, “Saddle the horses.”

~#~

Birdi yawned, wondering why the lovely rocking had ceased. It had been most pleasant, being cradled in warmth, listening to the slow steady heartbeat under her ear—

Her eyes flew open.

A man—the largest she’d ever beheld—hovered over her as she lay on the ground.

She screamed.

His large, calloused hand landed firmly on her mouth. “Hush, lass, I’ll not harm thee.” He then looked about.

In a deep, gravelly whisper he told her, “I am Angus MacDougall. I found thee in a Macarthur glen.”

Gael! He spoke not the language of her mother or the villagers but of them—the Canteran—the marauding Highlanders of which her mother had warned.

She clawed at his arms and tried to kick, to roll away, only to feel a fierce pain tear through her side. She gasped and froze in place. Stars! What had happened to her? She looked down, found her thighs bare and her kirtle up about her waist, a waist wrapped in white. Keening, she frantically tried to cover herself, the part—her mother had warned—where she would always be most vulnerable.

He pressed her shoulders to the soft earth. “The bleeding has stopped, my lady, but do not aggravate the wound with thrashing. Please.”

“What...?” Sunlight haloed the man hovering over her. She blinked eyes gritty from sleep in disbelief. He had shoulders thrice the width of hers and arms as thick as an elm’s trunk. She couldn’t discern his features, the sun keeping them in shadow, but could see the outline of shoulder length hair the hue of wet river rock, a few strands gleaming with a touch of amber. A chilling sweat broke out across her brow and her heart leapt as her ears strained, her gaze darted about. Her nose twitched in a futile effort to recognize where she was, who he might be. She took a deep, steadying breath and managed, “Where am I?”

“Ah, ye speak Scot.” Using the same he told her, “Where ye be, fair lass, can wait for later. What I need ken now is yer name and from whence ye hail.  We need find yer sept so they can care for ye properly.”

“Sept?” What was this? She craned her neck to see beyond his mountainous form and found nothing but a small square block close to them, no doubt a sheep crib, and the rest just broad splotches of gold in all directions. She inhaled deeply and this time caught the sent of ripening havers—oats. She was in a field. In the open! Oh Goddess, No! Did this man plan to do to her what the other had done to Minnie?

Goddess help me! I dinna want a babe! Goddess, please! Nay!

Horror sent blood roaring into her every limb. Keening between pants, she clawed. Finding herself suddenly free, she scrambled backward. Brittle shafts of grain dug deep into her palms and feet as she tried to place as much distance as possible between herself and the man who would do her immeasurable harm.

He caught her ankle.

Squeaking in tight-throated terror, she kicked her free leg at his head only to have it trapped by a heavily calloused hand, as well. Before she could scream he yanked her forward by the ankles and loomed over her on hands and knees, his long thick fingers managing to lace through hers and press her hands firmly into the earth by her head. His knees then locked onto her hips as he blocked out the sun. “Where,” he asked in a soft growl “do ye think ye’re goin’ without so much as a by-yer-leave?” He dipped his head and sniffed.

She managed a screamed this time but his mouth locked onto hers, smothering the sound. Her eyes flew wide in shock. What manner of predator was this? No weasel, no fox on the hunt did such. She stared into deep blue eyes and waited—her breath hitching, heart hammering at her ribs—waited for his mouth to slide from hers and settle on her throat. Waited for the pain, the crunch of bone, for her neck to snap.

Instead his lips soften, the pressure eased. She then felt the tip of his tongue stroke her bottom lip. Once. Twice. Just a lick, nothing more, yet a searing tingle raced down her spine. Her heart tripped. Was he tasting her? Testing her health and soundness as meat? Oh Goddess, please!

To her monumental relief he lifted his head. As he did, his hair swung around his face and the tips brushed her cheek. To her surprise his hair felt as soft as her own, mayhap more so. Yet she held her breath, didn’t dare release the last one she might ever take.

“Ye, fair lass, are as sweet as I feared.”

As he feared? She was the one about to be eaten alive! To be torn apart and then ground down between brilliant white teeth set in a menacingly square jaw. “Nay!”

In response, he released her hands and settled back on his haunches, his mountainous weight keeping her hips trapped. “Aye. Definitely too sweet to be running loose, lass.” He sighed heavily. “I mean ye no harm, though ‘twas I who felled ye and for that I humbly apologize; I meant only to save ye from the wolf.”

Wolf! She’d forgotten poor Wolf. Dreading the answer, she asked, “Is he dead?”

“Nay. My blade missed him and struck thee.” He ran agitated hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. “How I missed, I’ve yet to ken.”

Her relief in learning Wolf survived was sorely dampened by his admission that he’d been the one who brought Wolf down. Her breath caught in her chest. This man killed without thought.

Angus ground his teeth, seeing fear and fresh tears erupt from behind the lass’s heavily lashed, ice-blue eyes. Feeling the strong need for a stiff drink—a gallon of whiskey would do nicely—he brushed a calloused thumb across her delicate cheek. She jerked. Dear God above, she did look the hizzie with her face all scarlet, her brow furrowed, and her teeth bared. He’d have laughed but for knowing it would only terrify her more. Many a brawny man had soiled his sarks when Angus laughed—and without being sat upon, though he was usually holding a blade to the bastard’s throat...

“Lass, ye have nay reason to fight me. None. I promise. Hush now.” He moved to her side, but held tight to one hand. “There now. Better?”

“Aye.”

As she took a few shuddering breaths, he looked at her side. Finding no fresh blood, he blew out a breath in relief. Now, to the matter at hand: finding out who she was and to whom she belonged. “What, lass, is yer name?”

She eyed him like a cornered timber-wolf; her magnificent, icy eyes narrowed, her straight nose twitching and sniffing as her head cocked ever so slightly first this way, then that, as if listening for a rescuer. Or a means of escape. ‘Twas a futile effort. He was not called Angus the Blood for naught.

Finally she murmured, “Birdalane.”

Birdalane? Nay. She must have misunderstood him, for no mother with any sense would burden her bairn with such a sorrowful moniker, an endearment reserved for a babe without kith or kin. “Lass, I meant yer Christian name.” He had to have her surname—her clan—if he was to be free of her and on his way.

She hiccupped and whispered, “Birdi?”

She sounded none too sure. “Birdi it is then.” Obviously he need take another approach. “And yer sire?”

She pressed her lips into a hard line. “Shame.”

Shame? To his knowledge there wasn’t a clan of that name. And she certainly couldn’t mean nairich—debasement. Surely. He studied her for a moment then decided she’d coshed her head when she fell. She wasn’t, after all, a stout lass. Aye, ‘twas most likely a blow to the noggin that caused her current confusion. He resigned himself to being patient and asked, “Are ye in pain, Birdie?”

Her eyes grew round as an owl’s. Aha. Had their roles been reversed he wouldn’t have answered either, for fear of giving his enemy another tool to use against him. “I shall take that as an aye, but fear not. I shall take ye to yer people.”

If possible, she appeared more frightened and vehemently shook her head. “Nay! Please, sir, turn me loose.”

“Did ye run away from home?” No doubt, intent on thwarting a liege who wanted to marry her to someone she found distasteful.

Her mouth dropped open. “Nay, ye took me from home!”

“Humph!” Well, time was fleeing. He’d already lost a day and couldn’t very well go courting with the likes of her—an incredibly bewitching though thoroughly disheveled wench—at his side. Had he been closer to Blackstone he would have left her under Duncan’s protection, but that wasn’t an option. Staring at her lush lips once again, he heaved a resigned sigh for things that might have been.

She hiccupped as she nibbled her lower lip. “I have need of privacy.”

He frowned before realizing why. “Ah, but are ye sure ye can manage on yer own?”

She nodded like a sandpiper. He rose and offered his hand. She looked askance, and he couldn’t help but grin. “I promise I’ll not bite.”

Looking none too sure that he’d keep his word, she took his hand. He pulled her to her feet and pointed to the sheep crib. “Back there, lass, behind the hay. I’ll stand guard at the gate.”

She wobbled off, a hand clutched to her side. Mercy, even hobbling she was a sight for his travel-weary soul. Her hair billowed like gossamer jet about her hips and caused his hands to clench as they had when he’d first spied her by the pool.

He turned his back to her. With his gaze raking the valley for Macarthurs, his memory conjured up the image of her emerging like a mythical kelpie, dripping and glistening from the pool; recalled the delightful tilt of her rose-tipped breasts and the roundness of her very bonnie hurdies. Lord, she had the finest arse he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a good few in his nine-and-twenty years.

He fervently wished he could keep her.

And why couldn’t he?

He wasn’t yet promised to another. He had no idea what awaited him at Beal Castle. For all he kenned, the available MacCloud lass would be another sorry sight. Or wode, as crazed as the last lass offered to him. “Humph.”

Too, his family did have a long history of reeving brides. Wasn’t his own ma once a reluctant Border bride? And look how well that turned out—his da had been chasing her skirts the day he died. Aye, there was something to be said for keeping with family tradition.

But then he’d wagered he could bring home a lady, a chatelaine for Donaliegh. And Angus was a man of his word. Grunting, he decided the only right thing to do was to keep with his plan. He looked into the shadows of the crib. An inordinate amount of time had passed; more, certainly, than was needed for a wee lass to hike her skirts and piss. Fearing she might have fainted, he ducked under the rafters and called her name. Getting no response, he peeked behind the hay pile.

She was gone.

Chapter 3

Out of breath, Birdi plopped down in the middle of her blurry gold world. She was lost. Just minutes from the sheep crib and hopelessly lost.

But, she reminded herself; so long as she breathed there was hope. But how would she find her way back to her croft when she could glean only an arm’s length before her? How could she find home without kenning how far she’d traveled or in which direction to go. But find home she would. She had to, or she’d surely perish. Or worse.

And time was working against her—the Canteran would soon realize she’d escaped.

She raised her face to the sky and closed her eyes. Arms extended, her palms to the sun, the salt from past tears coating her lips, she pleaded, “Goddess, please guide me home. Please. I’m so very frightened.” She then began crooning the chant of entreaty Minnie had taught her so many seasons past; one she’d never imagined she would ever need.

“Birdeee! Where the hell are ye, lass?”

Oh no! She spun. Stalks thrashed and snapped behind and to her right. The Canteran was close and searching for her.

“Birdalane Shame! We havena time for games!”

Sweat broke out on her brow and trickled between her breasts. Her hands began to shake. Would it be safer to remain, crouched in shoulder-high oats, hoping the brut wouldn’t find her, or to bolt? Chewing her bottom lip, she keened, “What to do, what to do?”

The Canteran made the decision for her, his footfalls sounding dangerously close. She rocked onto her hands and knees and scrambled as fast as she could through the slicing stalks, heading away from his voice.

Aaawooo! Her heart leapt as Wolf’s cry echoed off hills and across the field. He’d found her! She jumped to her feet and spun, trying to catch his direction.

Aaawooo!

There! Wolf stood somewhere directly before her—away from the setting sun and the Canteran. She ran. Heart pumping at a furious pace, her legs raced through golden grain. She ran like she had never run in her life. “Thank you, Goddess, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Birdi! Stop!”

She ran blindly, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks, toward her howling savior, her pet. He would guide her home. Home.

“Birdi!”

Angus broke into a run. “God’s teeth!” Could she not hear the damn wolf? Could she not see him pacing in nervous anticipation just a hundred yards before her?

Angus thundered through the waving thigh-high havers, his lungs pulling in great gulps. If he didn’t catch up with her she’d charged straight into the great beast’s gaping jaws. Christ’s blood!

He was fifty feet from her—just a few long strides from grasping her—when she screeched and disappeared.

Simply vanished.

“What the...” He couldn’t believe his eyes. The wolf forgotten, he raced on and nearly fell into a glack. He swung his arms like windmills, righted, and stared into the previously unseen ravine. And there he found her, six feet below him—panting, her arms and legs spread like a spider’s—clinging to a narrow sandstone shelf some twenty feet above a dried-out riverbed cluttered with back-breaking boulders.

He dropped to his belly.

Crawling over the ravine edge, he held out an arm. “Woman, reach up and grab hold of my hand.”

To his utter amazement she shook her head. “I canna.”

“Of course ye can, just let loose the rocks and reach.”

“I canna see yer hand...dirt in my eyes.”

Angus cursed, reached behind his back and shed his sword. He pulled his breacan feile from his shoulders, made a knot at one end and lowered the wool over the edge. “Lass, take hold of the breacan feile and I’ll pull ye to safety.”

“Yer what?”

He wracked his brain for her word. “The plaid, lass, grab hold of the plaid.”

She waved an arm above her head missing it by a foot. “I canna see!”

“Oh, for...” He eased a wee bit more over the crumbling edge so the cloth hit her hand. “Grab hold, woman, before I fall over and join ye.”

Thankfully she did as he asked and he started pulling. She came to a standing position on the ledge and he grasped one of her wrists. “Birdi, let loose of the plaid and grab onto my hand with both hands.

“Nay, I dare not.”

“Birdi, make haste!” She remained in mortal danger; the sandstone beneath her feet was crumbling at an alarming rate with every breath she took. “Lass, plea—”

Hhhhhheeee!

His mount’s whinny, long and urgent, caused Angus to look up. Dust clouds rose along the main road.

The Macarthurs! Bloody hell.

Hissing through clenched teeth, he let loose his end of his breacan feile—mentally kissing his prized covering good-bye—and engulfed both her hands with his. With one jerk he brought her up and over the edge. To his amazement his precious cloth came with her. Panting, he pried her fingers from it. “Lass, so help me God, if ye ever do anything so foolish—”

Looking irate, Birdi scrambled to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “‘Twas not my intention to fall off a cliff!”

With an eye on the approaching Macarthurs, he snorted and pulled his claymore from its sheath, then let loose a piercing whistle. Birdi, at his side, jumped a foot. He grabbed her hand as Rampage—hooves flashing, nares wide and snorting—came thundering across the oats. As the horse came to a prancing stop a few yards before him, Angus began running. “Hie, lass!”

Dragging her feet, she whined, “Hie? Why?”

Without explaining, he grabbed her under the arms, hoisted her in one quick motion onto the saddle, and vaulted up after her. She squeaked in protest as he wrapped a tight arm around her waist and pressed his spurs into his mount’s flanks. The horse lunged north toward safety.

Birdi screeched. Clutching the protrusion before her with one hand, the Canteran’s arm with the other, she prayed like she’d never prayed before in her life.

She was accosted by the wind at her front, the man’s hard chest at her back, and by the horse at her bottom and thighs. Blood pounded in her ears, making it impossible to hear in a world of shapeless, blurring color.

She rarely traveled at a run for fear she’d crash into something—or fall—and here she was trapped on a beast quite obviously running amok.

Goddess, help me!

And where were they going? Was he taking her farther from home? She fervently hoped not. Would wolf be able to foll—

She screeched, the sensation of falling flipping her stomach. The Canteran’s arm tightened its hold on her just as she jerked forward and then back. Icy cold water stung her bare feet as the beast splashed through what sounded like a rock-strewn river. A heartbeat later her captor muttered, “Good lad,” and clucked. She was then propelled upward in jarring fashion to the tune of the horse’s hooves clicking and clacking as he climbed. She’d barely caught her breath and the scent of pine and cedar, when the Highlander pushed her head to the side. She kenned why when she felt pine needles brush against her cheek and legs. More branches whipped past, thrumming in the wind. The man at her back cursed with almost as much frequency. And on it went.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the Canteran whispered, “Whoa,” and the horse, heaving beneath her, slowed to a walk, its lathered sides radiating heat like the sun against her bare legs.

“We’re safe now, lass.”

“Aye? And from what are we safe?”  Her captor wasn’t simply daft but wode...stark raving mad.

His breath ruffled the hair lying against her cheek. “From the Macarthur, lass. Did ye not see him? He and a good dozen of his men—their blades waving, their faces scarlet with rage?” He chuckled, sending vibrations through her sweat-soaked back and into her chest.

“Where are we?” Goddess, please let it be close to home.

“We’re in Fraiser territory. They’re not exactly MacDougall friends but they are most certainly Macarthur enemies. Those behind us will be wise to give up the chase.”

“Fraiser territory.” This wasn’t good. Nay. She kenned no Fraisers. She sniffed and caught...what was that? Sharp, clean, and making her need for water more acute? Something white flashed close overhead, issuing a raucous cry. She squealed as she ducked.

“Dinna fash, Birdi, the gulls shan’t harm ye. They only seek handouts.”

She was none too sure he spoke the truth.

He brushed the hair from her cheek and asked, “Have ye not seen them before?”

“Nay.” She couldn’t see them now—could see only flashes of whirling white—so how could she have seen gulls before?

“They fly in from the sea seeking fresh water.”

“Ah.” Gulls were apparently some kind of sea bird. Their song wasn’t the least pleasing, not like the doves and laverocks that occupied her forest. She flinched as another called out. “I dinna like it here. I want to go home.”

“I would gladly take ye home, but I have no time for that now.” He pointed ahead. “We spend the night over yon. Ye can’t see it from here, but there’s a cave at the foot of the burn. Hopefully ‘tis dry, but there is no telling this time of year. We’ve had rain enough to satisfy Noah.”

She didn’t care if this Noah he spoke of was satisfied or not, nor if this place he spoke of was dripping wet. She wanted off the horse and out of his arms. Now that they’d slowed—and she’d conquered her fright—she’d become very aware of the pain at her side and in her legs. Her stomach ached for lack of food and her mouth felt like a lichen-coated rock. Too, as the horse ambled along the edge of the loch, clicking on shale and padding through grass, she’d become most uncomfortably aware of Angus the Canteran’s thighs as they cradled hers, of his hand as it relaxed against her stomach, of his every breath as she leaned against him, too weary to hold herself upright any longer. And her awareness generated feelings that were uncomfortably akin to the yearnings she’d awakened with just this morn.

“If ye let me go I’ll not say a word to the Macarthurs, I promise.” She avoided them as much as possible anyway. “Please. I can find my own way.”

He huffed at her back. “I doubt that ye can, lass. We’re many miles from where I found ye.”

“Many?”

“Aye, many.”

Horrified, Birdi looked up. The sky was turning to deep lavender. Soon the sun would burrow into its mountain bed and the world would again become a frightening place of blacks and grays. She’d have no way of kenning real from shadow, solid ground from crags. She’d be trapped wherever he placed her, without hope of escape until the sun rose again. But rise it would, and off she’d run if she survived the night.

The horse stopped and the Canteran slipped from behind her, leaving her sweat-soaked back to chill in the rising wind. She shivered.

He reached up, grabbed her under the arms, and hauled her off the horse only to hold her at eye level for a moment. Above eyes as blue as the mid-summer sky, he bore a deep scar the shape and size of a hawk’s footprint. My stars! That blow must have hurt. But what had made it and why had it left such a scar?

He suddenly frowned and lowered her to the ground. “There, lass, behind the big boulder you’ll find the entrance to the cave.” Her gaze traced the length of his arm, but his arm was long. It faded to fuzz. She couldn’t see his hand and had to guess the direction he likely pointed toward.

“Go,” he said, “I’ll be with ye shortly.”

Dare she? All was in shadow, most of the color having already drained from this place. She could hear water roaring—crashing—before her and to the right, could feel the spray on her face. What if she fell—

“Lass, go and see if we have place for a fire.”

Fire. ‘Twould be a good thing, given her hands and feet felt like ice. Hoping he’d come with her, she stalled. “But I canna start a fire without flint.”

“I’ll bring it, but first I need tend the horse. Go.”

Defeated, she wrapped her arms around her waist and took a hesitant step, then a second, relieved to discover she trod on solid ground. Needing him to find her way, and hating that she did, she stammered, “I need ken...where ye’re taking me.”

“Later, lass. Just go.”

She took one hesitant step and another, and then startled, arms flailing, when he said in her ear, “For heaven’s sake, lass, ‘twill be morn before ye get there.” He took her by the elbow and led her toward the roaring water. She stumbled and nearly fell before he huffed in exasperation and hauled her to his side. He guided her through high stones far grander than she’d ever imagined possible. She reached out a shaking hand as she brushed past one and was surprised to find it warmer than the air. She craned her neck, stretched over his arm to better look at its gritty surface—to make sure she knew this stone should she pass it again—and was yanked back.

“Come on, lass, ye can mird stones to ye heart’s content another time.”

Mird? The man spoke such an odd tongue.

She was nearly made deaf by the roar of water and soaked by frigid spray and then just as quickly was surrounded by total darkness, trapped within blackness by a flowing sheet of roaring silver. “What...where am I?”

“‘Tis the cave, lass. Have ye not been in one before?”

Wide-eyed, heart bounding against her ribs, she shook her head. Why would she or anyone else want to be in one?

Panicked, she sniffed the air for something familiar and caught the scent of old ashes. He’d spoken of fire. Would he now cook her? Had he taken her to his lair? Oh, Goddess...

She felt rather than saw him draw near and squeaked.

He huffed again. “Take yer ease, lass. Here, put this on.”

Something pressed her chest and she felt his plaid. She draped it around her shoulders as much for protection as warmth. “What shall ye eat?”

“Whatever I catch.”

‘Twas not what she wanted to hear. “Do ye like berries? I can gather berries.” She could hear him moving but could not see him. “Mayhap some mushrooms? Or fiddle ferns? Fiddle ferns are good.” It was well past the time for finding fiddle ferns but he might not ken that. “Do ye like dandelions? ‘Tis verra good for yer liver.” Oh, please say “aye” to something.

“Thank ye, but I prefer meat.”

Ack! She stumbled back and hit a wall. Hands splayed against unyielding stone, she decided talking of food wasn’t the wisest of things she could be doing. “Tell me of this Beal. Is it grand? Does it have colored glass? Why are ye going there?” Talk to me, Canteran, so I can tell where ye are and what ye’re thinking. “Are ye to meet someone there? Is that why ye must make haste? Do they have fairs? I’d like to see a juggler...and a fire-eater. Personally, I can barely credit such, but if ‘tis so, I should very much like see them. Do ye ken a prince? Mayhap a king? And where exactly is Beal? Is it north or south of where ye found me?”

She continued on at a breakneck pace, asking question after question with barely a breath in between.

Angus rolled his eyes. Birdi’s babbling was giving him a headache. Why he frightened her so was beyond knowing. Had he not saved her from certain death as she clung to the ravine wall? Had he not saved her from that butcher Macarthur? He’d not harmed her—well, not since his blade had brought her down—which he hadn’t intended and had already apologized for. And that reminded him—he’d not looked at her wound in a good many hours. Was it infected? Was that why she blathered and shivered so? He’d have to check the wound as soon as he got a fire going.

Hoping to reassure her he muttered, “There’s nay reason to fash, Birdi. I promise I’ll not harm ye.”

To his amazement she kept on chattering like a crazed squirrel. Hauling off his chain-mail helm, he heartily wished she’d fall asleep as soon as humanly possible so he could have some peace and quiet.

He looked about the cave and found a pile of dry kindling at the back where the last traveler had left it for the next man to find. He grabbed an armful and set about laying the wood within the spent ashes in the center of the cave. He opened his sporran and pulled out a shaft of dry grass and his flint box. After much huffing and blowing he had a reasonable fire going and turned to find Birdi—head lolling to one side—sound asleep whilst still propped against the wall. Amazed, he cautiously approached. How could she do this?

He peaked behind her and found she was resting on a small outcropping of stone. “Humph!”

Well, he certainly couldn’t leave her like this while he caught their supper. She’d likely fall and cosh her head again, and she was already brain-coddled enough as it was.

Seeing her grip had loosened on his breacan feile he slipped it from her hands and spread it before the fire. He then called her name. Getting no response, he went to her and lifted her into his arms. The poor wee lass. She’d become exhausted. How much from fright and how much from blood loss he had no way of knowing. But she was safe now.

He laid her before the fire and covered her. Standing back he studied her face by firelight. Good graces, she was lovely. The finest woman he’d ever seen. Too bad he couldn’t keep her.

After tending Rampage and having caught and gutted two fish, Angus cut a sapling into two-foot lengths and returned to the cave, where he found Birdi as he’d left her, still sound asleep. He roasted the fish and then tried to wake her. She grumbled and curled into a ball. Deciding to leave her be, he ate one fish and wrapped the second in fresh reeds for her to find when she awoke.

Using his saddle for a pillow, he settled on the opposite side of the fire from her. Studying her fitful sleep, he again pondered what to do with Birdalane Shame if he couldn’t find her clan. Shame. What kind of a name was that? The lack of “Mac” before her surname meant she wasn’t from an auld clan, which left him wondering if a new sept had formed. ‘Twas possible. Look at the Fraisers, Mazies, and Montgomerys. Lord, there were more clans than a man could wave a sword at these days between the border and the North Sea. Ack!

As the fire died, he decided that, as awkward as it might be, he’d likely end up bringing Birdi to Beal Castle. There was no reason he couldn’t woo his hoped-for bride, marry her, and settle Birdi all in one fell swoop. He and his bride could then set out for the coast, for Drasmoor and Blackstone, where he’d claim the keys to Donaliegh.

Pleased he’d come up with a workable plan, he yawned and noticed Birdi shivering. Bloody hell. He’d forgotten to check her wound. Hoping she wasn’t down with fever he went to her.

He touched her cheek and was surprised to find it cold. He ran a cautious finger along the exposed part of her neck and found the same. Humph!

He could stay awake all night feeding the fire—and she might still remain cold—or he could wrap her in his own warmth and mayhap get a few hours of much needed sleep himself. He opted for the latter. They had a long ride on the morrow.

He pulled back her covering and stretched out beside her. Resting his head on his arm, he cradled her into his chest. A minute later, he realized his mistake.

Chapter 4

The woman fit his body as if she were made just for him. He inhaled, filling his lungs with the scent of her, of female musk and the lingering scent of sunshine and grain.

It took all his willpower to keep his hand from slipping up from where it draped across her slim waist. Jaw clenched, he eased his hips back. What on earth had possessed him to think he could lie beside her and sleep? And what kind of an animal was he? The poor wee lass was injured, for heaven’s sake.

Merciful Lord, keep an eye on yer fool else I shame the pair of us. Please.

Hoping it might help, he started reciting the rosary in his mind. In the middle of his tenth decade of Hail Marys, he drifted off, still aware and yet comforted by the steady rise and fall of Birdi’s breathing beneath his hand.

~#~

Birdi woke with a start. Something warm lay next to her, purring in her ear. Not daring to move—fearing she’d next feel its claws—she cautiously opened her eyes. Her heart thudded. Nothing smelled or sounded familiar. She then caught sight of a blurry but gleaming wall of water and her mind flooded with memories of falling, of being terrified, and then being nearly whipped to death while racing through the forest on horseback.

With a certainty she’d never felt before in her life—without touching, without sniffing—she kenned what lay at her back. It wasn’t a large cat, as she’d initially feared but him—the Canteran.

It hadn’t been a nightmare after all.

Heart thudding, she cautiously peered over her shoulder. Aye, ‘twas Angus, and he was still asleep. She held her breath. What should she do? Could she reach his sword before he did and demand that he bring her home? Or should she just bolt while she still had a chance? After giving both ideas a moment’s thought, she knew neither would likely succeed. He was bigger and faster than she by a hundredfold. What was needed was stealth.

Her confidence bolstered by the many trips she’d taken around Macarthurs, she slowly raised the heavy arm draped across her waist. With a held breath and at a pace to make any snail proud she eased out from under it and came to her knees. She rose and padded on silent feet toward the wall of water.

Dry sand changed to cold damp stone as she drew nearer. Throat parched, she extended a cupped hand. The force of the rushing water slapped her wrist back and made her gasp. Well!

She’d just have to drink from the river when she got to it. She sidled to the right with one hand extended, her right foot tapping before her to be sure she didn’t fall off the ledge. She came to a wall of stone. No. She was sure he’d led her in this way. But then she’d been exhausted and upset by the gulls, so mayhap...

She held out her left hand and tapped her way across the ledge only to hit another wall. “No! This isna happening.”

She slapped her hands over her mouth and looked over her shoulder, peered into the darkness but couldn’t see him. She prayed she hadn’t awakened him. At least, he wasn’t looming behind her.

Frustrated, cold, and thirsty, she ran her hands over her chilled arms and realized her skin and clothing were wet. She stepped back and water splashed her shoulder. She squeaked, spun, and held up a hand. Cool water filled her palm. She drank as fast as she could.

Her thirst finally satisfied, she wrung her hands. What to do?

It was now obvious she couldn’t leave without his help. She looked into the blackness of the cave and saw a fuzzy red glow. There was no help for it.

She returned to the heat and the man.

Squatting by the remains of the fire she caught sight of a fish skeleton. She touched it with a tentative finger. What remained was flexible. It had been recently cooked and eaten. She then saw a reed packet and brought it to her eyes for closer inspection. To her delight it held a warm cooked fish. Keeping her gaze on the black mass that was the Canteran, she bit into the fish with a vengeance.

As she ate she pondered.

She hated admitting it but she needed the man lying before her. She was far from home on unknown ground, and needed his sight.

Since he wouldn’t return her, how could she find her way? Wolf had been left far behind.

Too bad this man wasn’t kind like Tinker. Her friend would gladly have taken her home. Tinker! Was there a chance she could contact Tinker? But how? She could write naught but her name. The Canteran might be able to write but he couldn’t know of Tinker. Tinker kenned the exact location of her home. The Canteran didn’t, and she had to keep it that way. He caused the yearnings.

As she pulled the last of the delectable flesh from the bones, she could see faint blocks of gray and brown within the cave and more details of Angus the Canteran, still asleep, curled on his side before her.

Who is this man? What is he? She’d spent the entire day with him and had only the impression of great size, strength, and eyes as blue as the summer sky.

She wiped her hands on the reeds, then her skirt, and inched around the fire. She came close enough to touch him, but not daring to, she sniffed. He still smelled of pine, fire smoke, and something surprisingly pleasant. Of what, she couldn’t put a name to. She leaned closer. Finding his breathing still slow and deep, her confidence grew. She inched closer still. His odd metal shirt was gone and he now wore only a tunic. The fabric was thick and looked soft. She touched his cuff with a tentative finger. Aye, it was as she imagined and of a finer weave than the kirtle she wore. Costly, if she was any judge of such things. Her gaze shifted left, over his narrow hips. Why did he not wear leggings as Tinker and the men of the village wore? She studied the grooves and rises of his heavily muscled thighs and lower legs. Hmm.

She eyed the silver hilt of the short dagger poking out from beneath one of the leather thongs wrapped around his heavy calves. To have a blade like that! She wouldn’t be in this position had she had such a sharp blade to defend herself with.

Her gaze shifted to the right, up his torso, taking measure of his hardness, of the massive amounts of sinew and muscle. He was so unlike her, so unlike Tinker. And he definitely smelled better than Tinker. She tipped her head to better examine his face and her hair fell into her eyes. With an impatient hand she raked it over her shoulder.

His jaw was dark, bristled with the shortest of dark hairs. Not something she’d want. Feeling decidedly braver than she had at the beginning—this Angus was a very sound sleeper—she fingered a lock of his shoulder length hair. Aye, it was indeed as soft as a hen’s down. She then saw his fine braids. She rolled one between her fingers. Did the secret to keeping hair braided lie not in the weave but in the volume braided? Hmm.

His brow, though badly scarred, was wide. His eyebrows were dark and arched like a hawk’s wings. His lashes were thick, lying still on high, broad cheeks. His narrow nose wasn’t straight but not so crooked as to distract. She decided she liked it. Her gaze then settled on his wide and well-formed lips.

They’d muffled her cry and hid the tongue that had licked her, tasted her. And why? He hadn’t bothered to take a bite out of her. He’d eaten fish instead. Had he found her not to his liking? Sour or bitter? For some reason, she felt insulted. Did he taste any better?

Birdi leaned ever closer, and Angus held his breath.

He’d awakened when she’d gasped, apparently realizing with whom she laid, and had readied to catch her if she tried to bolt but she hadn’t. She’d simply explored, drunk, eaten, and then to his amazement decided to explore him. As he watched through slitted eyes, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as her beautiful face kept shifting from surprise to puzzlement and then back again as she gently touched and sniffed. You’d have thought she’d never been so close to a man as she fingered his hair and studied him inch by inch. When her gaze shifted to his face he was forced to close his eyes. He could feel her breath on his cheek and desperately wanted to see what she thought. Was she frowning or smiling? And more than anything in the world he wished to feel her mouth on his.

Her lips caressed his with no more pressure than a butterfly could muster. He held his breath wondering what she’d do next. To his utter amazement her tongue grazed his lips. He groaned.

As if by its own accord, his left hand slid to the back of her neck. He pressed her closer, parting her lips further. She gasped, and he swept in to discover she was more pliant and delicious than he—even in his most lustful of moments—had imagined.

With heart and blood racing with expectation, he slipped his free hand about her waist. Before he could execute a roll, could get her beneath him, her hands slammed into his chest. Startled, his eyes flew open. The fear in her eyes made him set her free.

She scampered back, a hand on her lips.

Shit.

Sorely disappointed, Angus rocked up onto his knees. “Dinna fash, Birdi. I told ye I’ll not harm ye, and I’m a man of my word.” He sighed, gave himself a shake, and pointed at the remains of her fish. “Are ye still hungry, lass?”

She shook her head hard and came to her feet, one hand coming to rest at her waist.

“How is yer wound?” She moved with ease and hadn’t felt feverish when she’d kissed him, but then he’d been distracted.

“Fair. I dinna bleed anymore.”

He rose and stretched, his hands pressing the cave’s roof. “Good. We’ve a good distance to travel today if we’re to make Beal by tomorrow’s gloaming.” And they’d be lucky to make it even then.

She wrung her hands and backed away. “I dinna want to go to Beal. I want ye to take me back to the glen.”

“I ken ye do, lass, but I can’t.” The Macarthur was out for his blood, and even if the bastard wasn’t, Angus hadn’t the luxury of time.

Looking crest-fallen, Birdi nodded. “They fear me.”

He scowled, was about to ask what she meant, and noticed she was quaking like a birch in a high wind. “Ack, are ye cold again?” He shook out his breacan feile and handed it to her. “Here. Wrap this about ye.”

She hesitated but finally took it. He reached into his sporran, withdrew the salve the Macarthur woman had given him, and handed it to her. “I’ll go out and give ye a bit of privacy so ye can dress yer wound.” With the sweet taste of Birdi still lingering in his mouth, he didn’t need to be seeing her half naked. He’d likely tup her where she stood.

He turned to leave, and her nails dug into his right hand. Her eyes, as light as the water at her back, were wide. “Ye willna leave without me?”

He pried her fingers loose and patted her hand. “Lass, I promise I’ll not leave.” Humph! In the last day she’d tried to kick his teeth in, run from him, and kiss him, had pleaded for her release, and now she was begging him not to leave without her. Women! He’d never understand them, which was another reason he’d never wanted a wife. Ack!

Laden down with his saddle and mail, he strode between the boulders and out from behind the waterfall and down to the river, to Rampage.

Birdi, heart beating like a frightened rabbit’s—praying he’d keep his promise, praying he wouldn’t leave her to perish in this damp world behind a wall of water—remained rooted in place long after Angus the Canteran had disappeared into the shadows.

There is nothing I wouldna give to be able to move about as he does. Nothing.

And what on earth had possessed her to place her mouth on his? To taste him? Had it been the need? Her palms had itched. More surprising than her doing it was discovering his lips pleasingly pliant. She did as he had done, took a wee taste with her tongue and encountered his tongue, as soft as antler velvet, as sweet as any berry. A heartbeat later—before she could pull away—he’d taken control, held her firmly in place and his tongue had stroked hers. It caused heat to sear a path to her middle, swirl as his tongue did, then settle between her thighs. ‘Twas only then did she recognize what he was doing...summoning the yearnings.

Yearnings far stronger, fiercer, than her dream had summoned.

She’d reared back in shock, her fingers flying to tingling lips, her mother’s words echoing in her head. The yearnings are evil, Birdi. They scramble yer mind and make yer wode.

Aye, Minnie. Wode.

She had to leave...had to go before it happened again. Before what happened to her mother happened to her.

The lesson learned: he took control. Quickly.

She pulled the plug on the jar of poultice and sniffed. It smelled of black currant, juniper, and willow. It would do for now.

She stripped the dressing from her waist. The gash hurt as a burn might, but that was to be expected. She applied the poultice, redressed her wound, and was struggling with the plaid, trying to re-drape it about her, when she heard footfalls behind her. She spun and clouted Angus the Canteran smack in the nose.

Oh, Goddess!

Hissing, he grabbed her hands in one calloused fist. “Lass, if ye dinna stop jumping every time I come up on ye, I’ll be forced to truss ye up like a Michaelmas goose.” He blew in obvious annoyance and hauled her toward the light. Pondering what a Michaelmas goose might be, she tripped. He stopped and eyed her from top to bottom.

“No wonder. Ye have the plaid on wrong, lass. ‘Tis worn like this.” He took it from her shoulders, made fast pleats of the middle, wrapped one end around her waist, had to do it again to take up more length, and then draped the remainder over her shoulder. “See? ‘Tis easy.” He then slipped the wide belt from his waist and carefully wrapped it around hers—twice—and still a half-length was left hanging. “Well, it will have to do. At least, ye’ll stay warm.”

He took her hand and led her out of the cave and into brilliant sunshine, into a day warmer than expected. He waved toward her right. “There, lass, there’s a privacy bush, but be quick.”

He turned away, and Birdi was left on her own to stumble over river rock in the direction he pointed. Why he was behaving so out of sorts was beyond kenning. She’d been the one attacked. She huffed, tripped, and her hair fell over her face. Muttering, she pushed it out of her eyes, took another step, and stumbled again. Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her skirt and the plaid with both hands and, keeping her gaze locked on the slippery stones beneath her feet, she walked without further stumbling.

Straight into an elderberry bush.

Angus poked through the neck of his chain mail in time to see Birdi collide with the bush. He shook his head as she muttered and turned. A heartbeat later her head jerked back with such force he was surprised she didn’t lose her footing. Before he could take a step, she reached back, wrenched a thick lock of hair free of a branch, and marched on again. Birdi Shame had to be the most accident-prone female he’d ever laid eyes on. Another reason the sooner he got her back to her clan the better.

When she made it behind the bush without further incident, he finished donning his armor and turned his attention to Rampage. The beast snorted and blew out his stomach as Angus tried to tighten the saddle girth. “Ack, lad, ye ken I’ll win in the end, so why do ye put me through this aggravation every time I saddle ye?”

Angus looked over his shoulder and found Birdi at the churning river’s edge washing her hands. “Birdi, get away from there! I dinna want to be fishing ye out of—

Too late.

The current-weakened earth beneath her suddenly gave way and she fell into the river with a surprised screech, hands over her head.

Cursing and with his gaze locked on the place where she’d disappeared, he ran. A foot from where she fell in, his right leg sank into sucking mud up to his shin. He windmilled his arms to keep from getting both legs trapped and landed on his rear. God’s teeth!

He pulled free just as Birdi broke the surface, sputtering and flailing, a good ten yards down stream.

His heart thudding, her cries for help only escalating his alarm, he ran along the bank. Good God, he hadn’t realized how fast the current was here.

She swam, thrashed really, but in the wrong direction. He brought his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Birdi! This way. Come this way!”

She turned, her face as white as the churning water surrounding her, and started thrashing, blessedly in the right direction, but the current still hauled her downstream, farther away from him. Realizing he couldn’t outrun her and praying she could stay afloat, he whistled.

As he tore off his mail, Rampage pounded up behind him. He mounted and kicked Rampage into a canter. As they raced along the bank and around boulders, Birdi made some small progress toward shore but even more progress toward Loch Purdith. And, God help her, the traitorous waterfall that emptied into it. “Birdi! Keep swimming lass! I’m coming!”

God, please get me to her before she exhausts herself and drowns or falls over that precipice. She willna survive it.

As he raced to catch her, the fast-flowing river hauled her at breakneck speed over and between boulders. Ack, the abuse she had to be taking. He could only pray she wouldn’t hit her limit or hit her head before he reached her.

The river swung left and he lost sight of her for several painful seconds. He vaulted over trees brought down by floods and rounded the bend. He released his breath. She was alive. Her arms still churned, though not with her past determination. Not good, not good.

He spotted a partially submerged, felled tree some fifty feet before her. “The tree, Birdi! Try to grab hold of the tree!”

Her right arm reached up and out but to the left.

“To yer right, Birdi, to yer right!” God, the woman would be the death of him.

To his monumental relief the current spun her and put her in direct line with the tree. He raced past her at a full canter, came abreast of the tree, and reined in. Rampage snorted and stomped as Angus slid to the ground and raced for the log. Heart slamming against his ribs, his arms extended for balance, he ran along the slippery bark until it disappeared below water. He dropped to his knees and then straddled it. His elation—in getting ahead and in direct line with her—evaporated as he saw the huge whirlpool churning between them. Praying it wouldn’t take her in the opposite direction, he stretched out and bellowed, “Birdi! Reach for me! Here!”

Birdi’s heart leapt. Angus the Canteran was before her, somewhere, telling her to grab hold of his hand. Choking on frothing water, she raised a weary arm, and was suddenly jerked from below. She screeched. Her skirt—once billowing about her waist—was now wound tight about her legs. She couldn’t kick or right herself as she spun. She bucked and clawed at the water pulling her down.

Goddess, help! Please, I’ll be drowned!

Arms thrashing, she slid beneath the surface.

Chapter 5

Birdi awoke to the sounds of hissing Gael, to the feel of large hands pressing on her stomach. Ah, ‘tis him, the Canteran, Angus Mac...she couldn’t remember his other name. He pulled on her arms, up, down, up, down, pushed again on her stomach, and then spun her onto her face. Numb with cold, too tired to breath, she didn’t care. She’d never see her home again so what did it matter? The saddest part of this journey, apart from not seeing colored glass, was kenning that no one would grieve, would miss her.

He pressed on her back, up, down, up, down. He was squeezing the life out of her. Why? She was flipped again; the sun’s glare now bore against her eyelids. It felt good. Warm. He pressed on her stomach again, this time it hurt, and suddenly she was choking, vomiting, and gasping.

Good Goddess, he was trying to kill her!

She tried to defend herself but found her arms were weighted down. Already breathless, she started coughing again. This time it tore, racked, inside her chest.

And he wouldn’t stop pounding on her back. Pound, pound, pound. If she had a rock and the strength she’d cosh him a good one. On the head.

Merciful Goddess, please. Please, make him stop.

“Birdi, lass, are ye alright? Can ye hear me?”

He hauled her onto his lap, raked the hair off her face, and ran a calloused hand over her mouth, wiping the spittle from her lips. He then cradled her to his powerful, heaving chest and began rocking.

Above the sound of his thudding heart, she heard, “Lass, ye scared the shit out of me.”

Sheet? She would have to ask the meaning, later, when she had the breath. Panting and shivering, she had only enough strength to marvel at the heat pouring off the wet man who held her so close, his hands scrubbing her limbs and back in an effort to warm her.

She’d nearly drowned and he’d saved her. He and hale Mary. Another thing she need remember to ask about when her teeth stopped chattering, when she could speak without her throat feeling like she’d swallowed hot coals.

“Ack, Birdi, I swear ye’ll be the death of me.”

She’d be the death of him? ‘Twould more likely be withershins—the other way around—if his hands continued to chafe her skin as they did. But she didn’t complain. Chafing was better than his unmerciful pounding.

“Lass, open yer eyes and look at me.”

She did and found his face only inches away, well within her clearest range of vision. He was staring at her intently from eyes fairer than the mid-summer sky, bluer than a jay’s feather, fringed by long spiked lashes the color of wet bark. Truly lovely. Too bad they were frowning at her. Sadder still, they weren’t hers. She did so dislike her eyes.

She’d seen them once in a looking glass when she’d been summoned to the Macarthur’s keep. She hadn’t realized until that moment that her eyes marked her as different. The Macarthurs—those few she’d seen—had eyes of smoky blue or green. Hers, alas, were the color of snow in shadow. It explained why the Macarthurs feared her so. Graces, her eyes had startled even her, spying them for the first time. So why didn’t they frighten the Canteran?

“Ye’re freezing, lass, I need build a fire.”

Before she could say there wasn’t need—the heat radiating from his chest was certainly warm enough—he sprang to his feet and carried her to his horse. Holding her in one arm with no apparent effort, he reached behind his saddle and pulled down a package. He carried it and her back toward the waterfall.

He laid her down on a grassy spot in the sun, the place where the horse—a huge, slow moving white blob to her burning eyes—grazed. Angus tore into his package and pulled out yard upon yard of deep green, shimmering cloth. He then—to her horror—started pulling up her kirtle.

She squeaked and slapped his hands. “Leave me be!”

“Not until I have ye out of these wet clothes. I dinna want ye catching the ague.”

He again reached for her hem and she swatted his arms. “I can do it myself. Turn around.”

Grumbling, he handed her the shimmering cloth and turned his back.

Teeth chattering, she pulled on her water-soaked sleeves and her arms came free.  She glared at his broad back. The nerve of the man, thinking he could strip her without so much as a by-yer-leave!

She yanked her kirtle over her head and quickly wrapped the shimmering cloth over her nakedness.

Fearing Birdi didn’t have the strength to manage on her own, Angus watched her out the corner of his eye. Her chilled skin was almost blue.

When she’d finished donning the velvet fabric he’d

intended as a wedding present for his bride, he faced her.  “Are ye feeling better?”

In response, she narrowed her incredible eyes at him and pressed her lush lips into a thin line. One hand slipped out of the yards of fabric. When she fingered the velvet, he grinned. Aye, she felt better. Feeling immeasurably better himself, he told her, “I’ll leave ye to warm in the sun while I gather some firewood.”

The wood gathered and lit by her side, he stripped down to his sark—something he normally didn’t wear liking the feel of air about his nether parts, but now wore in an effort to protect his groin while traveling through forest at night—and donned the second tunic he carried.

He then spread their clothing on a flat boulder to dry in the sun. Stomach growling, he sat down beside her. A healthy pink had returned to her lips and cheeks, and her hair, which she’d pulled from beneath the cloth in his absence, was again starting to billow about her waist in the faint breeze.  “Are ye warm yet?”

She nodded.

Wondering if he dared leave her to catch something for them to eat, he murmured, “Ye scared me witless, lass.”

“Myself, as well. Thank ye for saving me.”

“No need. I’m happy I managed it.” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, his back to the sun. He studied the scar encircling her right wrist. It looked like she’d been caught in a poacher’s snare. “Lass, how did ye come to be alone in Macarthur’s forest?”

She pulled the velvet closer. “Minnie died.”

“My condolences on the loss of yer mother. And what happened to yer guards?”

She tipped her head, her brow crinkling. “We had no guards.”

“None?” He couldn’t believe her mother’s stupidity, given how lovely her daughter was. “How long ago was this?”

She nibbled on her lip. “Ten summers past, mayhap more.”

Ten summers? Nay! She’d misunderstood. His Scot, apparently, wasn’t as good as he thought. “Your mother died when you were a bairn?”

“Aye, when I was so high.” She held her hand a yard from the ground.

Nay. She couldn’t possibly have survived on her own for so long. “But how did ye feed and clothe yerself at such a tender age?”

“Minnie had taught me. ‘Twas her way. We had only each other, and so I learned before she died.”

Still not believing his ears, he asked, “And how did she die?”

“A boar gored her.” Birdi’s eyes became glassy. “She’d not died right away. She lingered. I tried to help her, tried to ease her pain as best I could, but the fever still took her.” She again fingered the velvet and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I wonder at times why it happened when it did, before I had grown.”

He brushed the lock that fluttered about her face over her shoulder. “Sometimes there is nay reason why things happen as they do. All we can do is make the best of a bad situation, which ye apparently did.” Though how she had was beyond his knowing.

She plucked at the fabric covering her lap. “Like now.”

He chuckled. “Am I so bad, lass?”

She looked at him, one corner of her lips quirking up. “Why do ye wear the metal shirt?”

Ah, so she still wasn’t yet ready to admit he wasn’t a complete ogre. “To keep from being injured in battle.”

“Oh.” She remained silent for a moment, and then asked, “What is this called?” She patted his bride’s wedding present.

“Velvet. Ladies wear gowns made of it.” Yards and yards of it. Another reason he hadn’t wanted a wife before now. The fabric Birdi fingered—now smudged with mud and liberally covered with pine needles—had been booty, a prize of war, from his campaign in France fighting for Louie against the Sassenach—the English dogs. He couldn’t have gained it otherwise. Its value was more than he earned in a year. “Where did ye live, lass? I didn’t see a croft.”

She eyed him warily for a moment. “‘Tis a wee croft. The villagers built it long ago. I have a soft bed, a table, a cuttie stool, and a fire-ingle.” She smiled for the first time and his heart stuttered. Dimples, lovely deep crevices, bracketed her lush mouth and even teeth. “I have,” she told him, “a down pillow, a posnet, and two kirtles, as well.”

She was so proud of so little his heart nearly broke.

As he pondered how she’d survived, her dimples disappeared. Her eyes narrowed and made a canny shift. To his amazement, she said, “Ye can have it all if ye’ll bring me back to the glen.”

Ah, cunning. He suppressed a grin. “If the matter were so simple, lass, I would, and without so grand a bribe, but it is not possible.”

“But why is it not?” She looked about to cry.

As kindly as possible he told her, “Because it is not safe for such a lovely lass as ye to be alone. Ye could be set upon by rogues.”

“Rogues?”

“Aye, shiftless men who rob and plunder.”

“Ah.”

He nodded. It was enough she understood some of the danger. He hadn’t wanted to discuss the possibility of rape. He touched the scar of her right wrist and she immediately pulled her hand beneath the velvet. “How did ye come by the injury, lass?”

She looked away. “What means sheet?”

Hearing her mimic his accent as he’d cursed, he gaped at her, heat infusing his face. “Umm...’tis not a word a lady uses, Birdi.”

“Why not? Ye did.”

True, he had said shit, and on more than one occasion but... “‘Tis a curse, lass. I wasna thinking clearly when I said it.”

She frowned, then pointed to the raised and clenched fist and motto embroidered on his chest. “What means this?”

Accepting her reluctance to confide in him, he looked down to where Birdi pointed. “Vincere aut mori. It means ‘to win or die.’”

“Oh.” Birdi wobbled.

He steadied her and she managed a smile of thanks that didn’t reach her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Had he been in her position he’d have wobbled too. Poor lass.

He rose and checked their clothing. Finding the top layers reasonably dry, he turned them.

His stomach growled, he opened his sporran and pulled out his fishing string with weighted bobber. “I’m going to try and catch more fish. Will ye be alright?”

She squinted at his hands. “Aye. Be careful ye dinna fall in.”

He laughed for the first time since meeting Birdalane Shame. “Ye are a wonder.”

She grinned in lopsided fashion. “Ye dinna ken the half.”

Suspecting she might be correct, he ambled toward the outcropping of rock at the base of the waterfall. In short time he caught three small fish, cleaned them, and brought them back to the fire. As the fish roasted, juices dripped onto the flames and he eyed the straight column of smoke marking their exact location. Deciding they’d be wiser eating half-cooked fish, he stood and kicked sand into the flames.

“What are ye doing?”

“Now that ye’re warm and dry there’s nay need to call undue attention to ourselves. ‘Tis not safe when we’re not among friends.”

Just as the fire snuffed out, Rampage whinnied in warning. Angus spun. Three riders were rounding the river’s bend, riding hard in their direction.

The fine-tempered steel of his claymore sang as he pulled his broadsword from its sheath and yanked Birdi to her feet. “Hide, lass. Back to the boulders with ye. Now!”

“But—”

“Now, damn it. Run!”

Christ’s blood. He stood alone with a half-naked woman at his back. A woman any one of these men would gladly hie off with given half a chance.

Chapter 6

Sword in hand, Angus assessed the three riders as they charged toward him.

The youngest, a youth of about five-and-ten years, small boned and well dressed, was nay doubt Fraiser’s heir and of little threat. The men flanking him, however, were a different matter entirely. The elder of the two was of Angus’s own height, bearded, a bit heavier and thankfully a good bit older than himself. From the man’s dress Angus took him to be a Fraiser captain. The younger, also a big man, wore Fraiser plaid but no jeweled broach, no marks of distinction other than a nasty-looking battle scar across one cheek. He was simply a skilled warrior.

As they came to a prancing halt before him on shaggy ponies, the eldest guard demanded, “Who be ye and what business have ye on Fraiser land?”

Angus looked each in the eye. “I’m Angus MacDougall and have no business with the Fraisers. I’m just passing through on my way to Beal.”

“More like eating yer way through,” the younger of the two guards grumbled, pointing to the discarded fish. “And ye have nay doubt neglected to pay Fraiser the Plaque-mail.”

As they eyed him warily, Angus mentally cursed. The fines levied by some Highland chieftains for safe passage through their lands could be backbreaking. Would the lad try to increase his father’s coffers by some exorbitant amount?

Before he could ask how much they wanted, the lad leaned toward the younger of the two guards, pointed toward Rampage, and whispered something.

Humph! If the lad thought he could take his mount he’d best rethink. Rampage would toss the lad into the river the moment he set a foot in a stirrup.

Sneering, the eldest Fraiser asked, “Why is it, MacDougall, yer horse has six legs?”

What? Angus snapped his head around. Rampage did indeed appear to be standing on six legs, four heavily muscled and feathery white limbs and two decidedly sleek, feminine ones.

Good God Almighty! Birdi had taken refuge behind his charger.

Angus sucked air through clenched teeth. Why couldn’t the blasted woman do what she was told?

The youth called, “Lady, come out where we can see ye.”

Angus bellowed, “Nay, lass! Stay right where ye are.” To the men, he said, “What do I owe for the rest and the fish?”

“Now what’s yer hurry?” the younger guard asked. Grinning in what could only be called a lascivious manner, the man eyed Rampage’s flanks and started inching his horse around to the left.

Kenning the man’s intent, Angus grasped the hilt of his broadsword in both hands and swung the claymore in menacing fashion, arcing it right and left, making the metal sing in the wind. “Keep yer distance from her.”

The older of the two guards, his sword at the ready, laughed and kicked his mount, angling to the right. “Have ye reived yerself a wife, MacDougall? Last I heard no decent lass would have Angus the Blood.”

Angus narrowed his eyes. It had been too much to hope they wouldn’t recognize him. “Since ye ken me, ye also ken what will happen if ye try to touch my woman. Ye’d best take what coins ye want and go.”

The younger guard snickered. “Now is that hospitable, MacDougall?” He angled more to the left for a better view of Birdi. “Why will ye not introduce us to yer woman? I’ll wager she’s quite fair above those lovely white thighs.”

Blood roared into Angus’s tensing muscles. There wasn’t a way he could keep both men at bay if they flanked him. Had he been alone he would have charged the closest and drawn in the other. As it was he had only one choice.

Screaming “Vincere aut mori!” at the top of his lungs, he charged young Fraiser. Before the startled youth could react, Angus swung his blade in a mighty arc and caught the lad’s pony across the chest with the flat of his blade. The lad and horse keened as they toppled.

The guards spun. Shouting and cursing, they flew at Angus with their swords raised.

Angus vaulted over the kicking pony, grabbed the scrambling lad by the hair, and slammed a fist into his jaw. The lad collapsed like a ragdoll in his hands. He pressed his blade to the unconscious youth’s throat as the guards bore down on him. “One step closer,” Angus yelled, “and the lad dies!”

The men reined in, exchanged glances, and growled deep in their throats. Shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed, they inched forward. Angus yanked the lad’s head back, exposing the blood he’d already let. The men’s faces blanched.

“Aye, ye ken me.” He nodded to his right. “Move over there and dismount...slowly.” To Birdi, he bellowed, “On the horse, lass. Now!” Please, God, have her make haste. He had no desire to kill the Fraiser lad. To do so would make his father, Alex Fraiser—a fierce chieftain—a blood-lust enemy of both Angus and his clan. To bring war down on innocent MacDougall heads was unthinkable. Those at Blackstone meant more to him than life itself.

Wondering what was taking Birdi so long, Angus slid his gaze from the frustrated Fraisers to his agitated horse snorting and pawing the earth.

He cursed.

All he saw were dangling feminine feet and a mound of deep green velvet lying beneath his horse’s hooves.

Chapter 7

Birdi couldn’t recall ever being more furious in her life. Hissing “Sheet, sheet, sheet,” she clawed at the saddle as Angus’s horse pranced.

Her initial terror—of being discovered by heavily armed strangers—had dissolved as quickly as a puff of smoke listening to their and Angus the Canteran’s conversation.

Now, not only was she naked—thanks to the blasted horse stepping on the velvet and yanking it from her body as he shifted this way and that, thwarting her efforts to climb upon him—but the Canteran had done the unthinkable.

He’d called her his woman!

He hadn’t, apparently, been satisfied with taking her from her home and tearing through miles of forest with her. Oh no! He had to claim her—aloud—before Goddess and three strangers! Twice!

She was now handfast to Angus MacDougall.

Oh, aye, she kenned handfasting all right. Two summers before her mother passed, she’d brought Birdi to the annual Beltane gathering—the last Birdi ever attended—where a young man and woman became handfast. Minnie had explained it all in depressing detail.

Did Angus the Canteran think her an idiot?

When she got to him—if she ever got to him—she’d give him what for. Oh, yes, she would! Thanks to his obstinacy, she no longer had a roof over her head, hadn’t food nor clothing, and now no freedom.

She was his for a year and a day.

Holding onto the stirrup for dear life with one hand, she slapped the horse’s side. “Halt, ye blasted beast!”

To her amazement the animal froze in place.

Sputtering her limited list of profanities, most of which referred to cattle droppings, she grasped the leather dangling from the saddle with both hands and hauled herself up, hand over hand. When her foot caught the stirrup, she vaulted into the saddle. Relief flooded her. She took a deep breath, wondering how one steered the beast so she could drive it toward home after she rode over Angus the Canteran.

A whistle pieced the air, and the snorting horse lunged forward, its neck arched, hooves thudding like thunder. Birdi yelped and grabbed onto the saddle pommel for dear life.

As the beast closed on its master, Birdi silently cursed it, the strangers, and Angus MacDougall.

She came to an abrupt halt. Hair billowing about her, she straightened, took a deep breath, and heard a collective gasp. Metal clanged as it fell to the ground.

Eyes blazing, she turned in the direction of the sound and hissed, “What are ye staring at?”

The dark lump, a man, to her right murmured, “Merciful mother of God,” and backed away.

Humph!

The saddle suddenly shifted beneath her and Angus MacDougall engulfed her. As his arm clasped her waist and the horse bolt forward, he laughed, “Ye are a wonder, lass.”

Ha! Wonder or not, she would have a word with him as soon as she could breathe again; his arm had a death grip on her. Not only had he declared them handfast, he’d left her clothes and the costly velvet behind. The man was totally wode!

After an interminable reckless ride, they came to rest beneath a treed canopy where the shadows felt cool and the air hung heavy with the scent of sap and fern. Birdi asked, “Are we now safe?”

Angus shifted behind her and dropped to the ground. “Aye, lass, for now.”

Raking hair out of her eyes, she muttered, “Thank ye, stars.” She’d had her fill of strange feelings—of odd flutters and heat—as they rode.

Initially, the Canteran’s calloused hand had grasped her waist in a tight hold, but as the miles passed and the danger ebbed, their pace had slowed, his grip had relaxed. With every jolt of the horse, every dip in the trail, his broad palm and long blunt fingers shifted. And his touch was far more disturbing than any of her dream-induced yearnings had ever been.

Aye, and the feel of his hard thighs and chest brushing her naked thighs and back...

Ack!

The sooner they parted ways, the better.

Angus grasped Birdi’s waist.

As tempting as it was to press Birdi’s delightful nakedness to his chest, he held her out at arm’s length. The moment her feet hit the ground she wrenched free of his hold. Looking fit to kill, she stomped off some ten feet, then turned to face him.

He sighed. With her hands strategically placed, jet curls shifting ever so slightly over her breasts and barely masking the dressing about her waist, Birdalane Shame was a sight to behold.

And if he lived to be a hundred years old he wouldn’t ever forget the stunned expressions on the Fraisers’ faces as she rode up on them, as naked as the day she was born, her incredible icy blue eyes blazing fury.

They wouldn’t likely forget it, either.

Grinning, Angus started pulling off his tunic.

Birdi growled, “Now what are ye doing?”

“Getting my shirt off so ye have something to wear.”

The feel of her satin-smooth skin had nearly driven him insane over the last mile.

She tapped an impatient foot. “Ye, sir, are stark raving wode! How dare ye claim me as yours? How dare ye take me to wife without my consent? I’ll not have it! I will not, do ye hear!”

Angus gaped at her. “What on earth are ye blathering about?”

Birdi snarled deep in her throat. “Did ye or did ye not tell three strangers I was yer woman?”

“Aye, but—” The implication hit him like a gauntleted fist to the chest. Oh my God!

He and Birdi were handfast.

When the Fraisers had asked if he’d taken a wife, he hadn’t denied it. Had called her my woman. The fact that he’d done so to protect Birdi mattered naught.

But he couldn’t take Birdalane Shame to wife. He had to marry a lady—a devote gentlewoman—to get Donaliegh! God’s teeth!

Birdi shook her fist at him. “I want this undone. I will not be handfast...nay, I will not.”

Aye, he wanted it undone, as well, but how? Thanks to his stupidity she was now his for a year and a day. Oh my God. And his priest upon hearing this would naturally insist he sanctify the union within Blackstone’s kirk...

Oh my God!

As if reading his mind, she hissed, “Ye will take us to the sacred well and undo this, Angus MacDougall!”

He eyed her warily, his mind racing through the folklore and tales he’d heard as a youth trying to recall a story of nullifying a handfasting. “Undo this how?”

Birdi huffed. “We need go to a sacred well, repeat three times that we dissolve this union, and then drink the water. ‘Tis all, and this...this farce becomes a thing of the past.”

“Are ye sure, lass, ‘tis all that we need do?” Please say aye.

Birdi bit into her lower lip. “Mayhap there is more to the ceremony, but ‘twill be enough for me.”

Thank God.

“Consider it done.” Angus pulled out of his shirt and held it out to Birdi. “Here, put this on before ye catch ye death.” Or I catch ye up by yer bonnie hurdies, spread yer lovely white legs, and make ye mine in truth before God.

Consummating their erroneous handfasting would be equivalent to a life sentence if his priest learned he had. And hear it, he would. If not through another priest—the men in black had a network of spies that put even the Sassenach king’s agents to shame—then he would through a wandering minstrel. Angus the Blood had proved rich fodder for many a bard’s witty but oft-barbed tongue.

As he approached her, Birdi snatched his shirt from his hand and made quick work of donning it. As it settled around her calves, she asked, “Then ‘tis agreed?”

“Aye, lass, ‘tis agreed. I dinna want to be handfast to ye either.” He’d lose all if he remained attached to Birdalane Shame. “Now where is this well?”

Birdi’s furious expression shifted to one of open-mouthed surprise. “What do ye mean, ‘where’s this well?’ ‘Tis you who ken where we are. ‘Tis you who should ken where the well is!”

“How should I ken such a place?” Humph! Good Lord, what was the woman thinking?

Birdi stomped a foot. “Are ye a blithering heathen, then?”

Teeth grinding with indignation, Angus closed the distance between them. He puffed out his chest as he loomed over her, hands on hips. “Nay, I’m a Catholic, if ‘tis any of yer concern, so there’s nay reason for me to be kenning where some superstitious lot’s sacred well is!”

Birdi gaped at him. “Superstitious lot? Why ye—”

She punched him in the gut.

Had she turned yellow and flown away, he couldn’t have been more surprised. Here she was nearly naked and all of five feet and a bit, and she had the audacity to hit Angus the Blood in anger.

He laughed, great barks rolling out of his chest like thunder.

Birdi, wide-eyed, scrambled backward.

His arm shot out and caught her. “Now where do ye think ye’re going? Ye’ll be staying with me until we undo this. I’ll not be losing Donaliegh because of ye.”

She tried to wrench free. “What care I for some Donaleigh?” She slapped the hand that held her wrist. “Ye dinna need me. Ye can go to the well by yerself, say the words, and I’ll swear—if asked—that I did the same. Truly, I will. Just please let me go.”

Tears pooled in her lovely eyes.

Ack! He snaked a hand about her waist and pulled her into his chest. Here she was crying and carrying on and she’d done naught but catch his attention as she took a bath in a glen.

He brushed the hair from her face. “Lass, hush, there’s nay reason to fash, but we have to straighten this out. Together.”

With her palms pressed to his naked chest, she shuddered and sniffed. He kissed the top of her head, and then with a finger lifted her chin. Lord, she was breathtaking with her cheeks all flushed with righteous indignation and her eyes glittering like melting ice in the sun. Were she a lady, he’d never let her go, no matter how she pleaded—would, in fact, drive her to distraction with his efforts to win her heart just as his da had successfully wooed his mother—but given their current circumstances...

“Lass, we have to dissolve this union and haven’t much time to do it.” Word of his handfasting could get to Beal before he did. “We need ride as fast as possible to the nearest village, to Ardlui. There we’ll seek out a mid-wife.” Seeing her brow crease, he amended, “A howdie-wife.” Most were reported to practice the auld religion. “She should ken where the nearest well of which ye speak lies. Agreed?”

Birdi nodded and he silently thanked the Blessed Virgin. Donaliegh was still within his grasp if they made haste.

“Are ye hungry, lass?” They hadn’t the time to snare a rabbit or hunt berries, but if she was hungry...

Birdi shook her head. The last thing she wanted was food. Her stomach felt so gnarly she feared she’d likely toss anything she ate.

Her every move was being controlled by another, one far bigger than she, who kenned the area and had the advantage of sight. As she loathed her own helplessness, another thing disturbed her.

She had very sound reasons for not wanting to be handfast to Angus the Canteran. She didn’t want him getting her with child. But why was he so opposed to their union?

He didn’t fear her. Was Mary the cause? The woman was certainly on his mind enough. Given the man’s size and preference of horse, Birdi easily pictured Angus’s hale and hearty Mary; a big solid woman with honey colored hair and breasts the size and shape of beehives. She snorted. It certainly explained why he hadn’t accosted her, had let her be even while she slept. By comparison, Angus MacDougall no doubt found her—Birdi—lacking.

Ack! She shook hard. The man was making her wode. What did she care if he found her lacking? The sooner she got away from him the better. Aye. And to do so she would have to phrase her message to Tinker in such a way that the auld man would have nay choice but to do her bidding. Just as she, at the moment, had nay choice but to do Angus MacDougall’s.

“Are ye ready, lass?”

Birdi looked up to find Angus dressed in sparkling scarlet. She blinked in surprise and eased closer. “My word.” The open, waist-length coat he now wore had great puffy slit sleeves and was threaded with argent—silver. Buff colored trews covered his legs.

Angus cleared his throat. “‘Tis my courting costume. I’d have given it to ye to wear but as ye ken, it canna close.”

He had a point. The magnificent coat showed off his equally magnificent chest for the world to see. “Tis lovely...the coat, I mean.”

“Humph.” He held out a hand. “Shall we go?”

~#~

Robbie Macarthur, tired and parched, reined in and waited for his brother to pull alongside at the crossroad.

They’d been ordered into enemy territory by the Macarthur and charged with bringing home the spae. Their chieftain knew they were not only brawn and skilled swordsmen, but thorough.

The way before them leading west was little more than a deer path heading up into rugged terrain; the way heading north was a wagon road—flatter and regularly traveled. “What think ye?” Robbie asked as he brought his water bag to his mouth. “Continue north as ordered or turn west?”

They’d followed MacDougall’s tracks as far as they could—before the bastard took to the gravel-strewn riverbeds, where they’d lost him—and were now deep in enemy territory and a day’s ride south of Crianlarich.

Fegan stroked his pony’s sweating neck. “My gut says we need to turn west toward Ardlui. Though rugged, it cuts the distance, but...”

“Aye, but...”

Their liege had ordered them north, convinced Angus the Blood would take the spae the easiest and therefore the fastest route to Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone. MacDougall had, after all, raced off due north, and their liege believed he’d continue north to Crianlarich, then head west across the top of Loch Awe toward Oban. From there he’d have a fast ride south to safety.

“Macarthur has a point. Carrying the spae before him and despite the horse’s might, the Blood will not choose to court trouble. If his horse slips up yon and the spae falls...

“Aye, she’ll be of little use to him dead.”

Robbie grunted. “‘Tis agreed then. We turn right.”

Kicking their ponies into a gallop, Fegan grumbled, “With any luck, his charger will come up lame, and we’ll catch them by dawn.”

~#~

At the north end of Loch Lomond, Birdi murmured, “What’s burning?”

Scowling at the suspicious black columns rising above the treetops ahead of them, Angus muttered, “I dinna ken.”

They scrambled up a steep, shale-strew incline and came to rest on its tree-lined crest. Angus cursed. On the opposite shore of River Dochart only charred ruins remained of the village Ardlui.

Birdi whispered, “What’s happened?”

Angus tightened his hold on Birdi as he kicked Rampage’s sides. “We’ll not ken that until we get there.”

Fording the river proved easier than he’d expected, with the water running low. As they scrambled up the west bank, Angus’s gaze raked the mass devastation. “Merciful Mother...” Not one croft remained intact. Maimed, blood-soaked bodies—men, women, and bairn—lay everywhere.

The bloody bastards.

He carefully scanned the area for the butchers of Ardlui as he eased an agitated Rampage into the village. Finding the place stone quiet, he reined in, dismounted—silently cursing himself for not retrieving his chain mail—and pulled Birdi to the ground. “Stay by my side. Whoever did this appears to have fled, but...”

Angus reached for the pewter-and-bronze hilt of his claymore. He hauled the broadsword from its sheath in one fluid motion and took Birdi’s hand. “We need check to see if any have been left alive.” When Birdi said nothing, he glanced down and found her—white as snow—staring at a pool of blood at her feet. He wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her away. “Come, lass, we need seek the living, not fash over the dead.”

Eyes stinging and noses burning from the fetid smoke, they went from charred croft to charred croft—most still too hot to enter—and found no one alive.

On the far left of the village they found a croft with its roof burned away but the door still intact. Angus let loose of Birdi’s hand. Praying someone had survived the carnage—might have found refuge in a root cellar or ingle-nook, he threw his weight against the door and it fell off its leather hinges and crashed to the floor. Inside, he found the charred remains of a lad of mayhap six years huddled in a corner. Throat tight, Angus again cursed the cowards who could take an innocent’s life.

What manner of men were these savages?

Outside he found Birdi, some twenty yards from where he’d told her to stay put, keening as she knelt beside an ashen young woman whose throat had been slashed. As he approached, Birdi looked up. Flooding tears had made white tracks down her soot-coated cheeks.

“I...I canna do anything,” Birdi keened. “‘Tis too late. She’s cold.”

He raised Birdi by the arms and pulled her into his side. “‘Tis naught anyone can do, lass.” The damage had been done hours ago.

Shaking in his arms, deathly pale, she asked, “But...but why? Why would someone do this?” Her head turned left, then right. “Death is everywhere. And the stench—”

Her head suddenly snapped back to the left. “There! Do ye hear it?”

Angus, his sword arm already tensing, looked about. “Hear what?”

She pulled free. As she took off at a near run, her hands out before her, she cried, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Staring after her, Angus cursed. He never should have brought Birdi into this smoldering hell.

Like any warrior, he’d grown accustomed to the sights and smells of death and destruction—God knew he’d caused enough himself—but he’d given no thought to the fact that gentler folk weren’t steeled to it.

Hearing voices where there were none—in a manure pile, no less, for that appeared to be where she was heading—could mean only one thing. Birdalane Shame had lost her mind from the horror of it all.

He raced after her.

Heart thudding, palms itching, Birdi stumbled into a head-high mound of manure. Her nerves were afire, the need upon her in full force. Someone was frightened, in pain, but alive. But where? She spun, trying to catch the wee sound she’d heard just moments ago. “Where are ye?”

To her relief the mewing came again, this time low and directly before her. She dropped to her knees and frantically clawed into the warm, decaying mound. Within a heartbeat her fingers found a piece of wool. She clawed faster, deeper, and uncovered a blanketed bundle. She pulled it free as Angus came around the mound.

“Birdi, stop.”

Paying no heed, she whipped the blanket open and found the pudgiest, most beautiful babe she’d ever laid eyes on. It blinked up at her, opened its toothless mouth, and wailed like a banshee.

At her back Angus muttered, “I dinna believe it.”

Birdi scooped the babe into her arms. “Hush, dautie, hush.” To Angus she said, “His mother must have hidden him. He’s alive. ‘Tis wondrous!”

Angus helped her to her feet, and Birdi checked the babe for injuries. Satisfied the wee howling creature was sound, she cradled him to her chest. The babe immediately tried to rout at her breast. “Ack, the poor wee bit is hungry.”

Angus scratched his head and looked about. “Aye, but whoever did this reived all the cattle so there’s no milk to be had. Can we give him some water?”

Birdi jiggled the wailing babe. “Aye. Do ye think ye can find a bucket?” The babe needed a good wash.

Angus dutifully nodded and turned. A moment later she heard a chicken’s frantic clucking and pounding footsteps. Something whooshed past, a chicken screeched, and all fell silent.

“We’ve sup,” Angus called to her.

“Grand.” The babe was still howling and couldn’t eat chicken.

Angus shouted, “Put yer wee finger in its mouth.”

“But my hands are filthy.”

Something dropped with a soft thud and Angus, now at her back, murmured, “Give ‘im here.” He took the babe with sure hands and the yowling immediately stopped. Birdi craned her neck to see what he’d done and found the babe sucking Angus the Canteran’s wee finger, soot and all.

Oh, well. She asked, “What now?”

“We get something in this wee one’s belly and then secure the dead.”

“Secure the dead?”

“Aye, in what’s left of the barn. There are just too many slain for me to bury.” He looked none to happy about the task as he bent and picked up what he’d dropped. ‘Twas, she saw, a bright orange rooster.

Birdi cautiously followed Angus down the village road to the river’s edge. With her gaze locked on his broad back, she stumbled over an auld man, his face a mask of agony and his chest a gaping wound. Hand over her heart she murmured, “Blessed Mother of All.”

Ten feet later she tripped again, this time over a woman her own age. Birdi bent, closed the woman’s vacant eyes, and without thought righted the basket at her side. It contained folded linens. The poor lass had been doing a simple chore when the butchers had cut her down. How could anyone be so cruel...so heartless?

Minnie had had her faults—too many to count—but she’d been right about one matter; this world beyond the glen was not for the likes of her.

At the river’s edge Angus handed her the babe and a bucket. “Tend the wee one while I tend to the dead.”

Cradling the fussing babe she murmured, “Be careful.”

He surprised her by stroking her cheek. “Are ye all right, Birdi?”

She wasn’t, not in the least, but she said, “Aye. Go and do what needs be done.”

“If ye see or hear anything untoward, yell, and I’ll come at a run.”

She looked down at the babe in her arms. “He’s too young to be orphaned.”

Angus lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “‘Tis never a good age to be orphaned, but ye managed and so shall he.”

With that Angus left and Birdi settled on the bank. Using her fingers, she nervously dripped water into the babe’s gaping mouth. Initially, he was none to happy about the taste, but he grew accustomed and eventually sucked on her fingers. As he did, her heart raced with the flush of maternal success. Caring for a babe wasn’t so hard after all.

As the babe suckled she studied his almost white curls, wee perfect fingers, and dimpled arms. Warmth—the likes of which she’d never experienced before—filled her. He was such a bonnie lad. One who—with the proper guidance and love—could grow up to be a good man.

She heaved a sigh. Who would care for this precious bairn?

Something bleated in Birdi’s ear. “Ack!” She jumped nigh a foot, startling the babe.

As she soothed him with pats on the back, Angus chuckled, “Look what I found hiding in the barn...A nanny goat. ‘Twas probably too fast for the bastards to catch.” He grunted in satisfaction as he tied it to a nearby post. “We now have milk for our wee lad.”

Birdi edged closer to study the gray, shaggy beast. It stank and had horizontal slits in its eyes. Horrified that Angus expected her to place the precious babe against one of the beast’s teats, she clutched the babe tightly to her chest. “Ye cannot be serious?”

“Aye.”

She shook her head and inched away.

Angus made a thick “humphing” sound in the back of his throat. “Have ye not handled a goat before?”

“Nay.” She’d never even seen one before. Oh, she’d heard one a time or two when she’d been summoned to the village, but—

“‘Tis easy. Watch.” She eased closer as Angus squatted and placed the bucket between the bleating beastie’s legs. He reached under the nanny with both hands and grumbled, “Starting at the top, ye squeeze yer fingers down in sequence, like so. Do one hand then the other.” Hearing a rhythmic squish, squish, squish—milk hitting the bottom of the bucket—Birdi heaved a relieved sigh. Angus hadn’t expected her to put the babe to teat, after all. Just take the milk out of the goat. That she could do.

Angus placed the bucket beside her. “This should do for now. Once the babe is satisfied, ye can lay him down and milk the goat again.” He rose and left her to flounder on her own.

With a good bit of fussing and choking, the babe finally drank his fill of goat milk. When he fell asleep in her arms, Birdi rose and sought out the basket she’d tripped over.

The dead woman’s body was gone but the basket remained. Propping it against her free hip, Birdi moved out of the path of the drifting, acrid smoke. Settled in the shade of what turned out to be an old elm, she went through the basket’s contents and found scraps of soft linen, a wee tunic, a man’s shirt, an apron, and a kirtle. Tears welled in her eyes. The woman whose eyes she’d closed might well have been the babe’s minnie.

Ack, ye poor laddie.

Birdi, at least, had had her mother until she was of an age where she could feed and tend herself. And she had memories. Most had faded away but some still remained. If asked, she could still describe her mother. Black-headed, green-eyed, and thin. Painfully thin.

She made a pallet on the bottom of the basket with the shirt and apron and then laid the babe down to examine him more fully. Ugh, the poor wee thing was filthy.

The babe finally tended—’twas indeed a laddie—she stared at the gray and brown lump that was the goat. “‘Tis now yer turn.”

The goat, apparently no happier than she about the prospect of milking, bucked and pulled at its rope each time Birdi placed the bucket beneath it. After a sixth try, her patience snapped. She grabbed the beast by the ears, glared into its evil-looking eyes, and hissed, “If ye dinna want to be stew in the next few minutes, ye nasty creature, ye’d best heel.” To her utter amazement the nanny froze.

“Humph.”

She set the bucket beneath the nanny again and gingerly reached for one of its swollen teats. Milking, she discovered, wasn’t as easy as the Canteran claimed.

After innumerable grumbled curses, Birdi finally eked out enough milk for the babe’s next meal. Bucket in hand, she returned to the shade of the tree to find the babe, its thumb in its mouth, still fast asleep.

She settled beside him and stroked a pudgy arm. “What a lovely wee bit ye are...” She didn’t ken his name.

That wouldn’t do. He needed a new name, one mayhap not as fair as his mother had given him, but one he could grow into. One that might bring good fortune. She discarded several she’d heard over the years—Ian, John, Peter, and Robbie—wanting something that better called to mind power, thoughtfulness, and grace.

She was pulled from her musing by now familiar footsteps, and looked up to find a mass of scarlet before her. “Is all done?” she asked.

Angus, reeking of soot and the metallic stench of blood, collapsed at her side. “Aye. One and thirty now lie in the barn.”

He’d laid the dead out with as much dignity as possible, said a prayer over them, and then nailed a makeshift cross to the propped door. Using a piece of charred wood, he’d written in Latin, Herein lie the dearly departed of Ardlui, slain by unknown hands. May God have mercy on their souls. He’d then signed his name.

Needing to touch something vital, alive, Angus reached into the basket and stroked the wee one’s pudgy arms. “I canna help but wonder what would drive a man to commit such horrors. I’ve fought for my clan and for my king—killed more men than I have digits—but never have I slain a bairn or woman. Good God, I dinna ken this.”

Birdi placed her hand over his. “Angus, I dinna ken the why either, but this one still lives and we need be thankful for that.”

Angus blinked in surprise. Birdi had tried to console him and had finally called him by name. Feeling inordinately pleased, though why he should be he didn’t know, he turned his attention back to the charred ruins of Ardlui. “We need leave this place. ‘Tis not safe.” In his experience, disease followed death like a tax collector followed a full purse.

“I’ll be most glad to go.” Birdi lifted the sleeping babe from the basket and settled him on her shoulder. Handing Angus a bundle, she whispered, “They’re nappies. We need also take the goat.”

Angus came to his feet and heaved a resigned sigh. He now had only a fortnight and a week to find a pagan howdie-wife and a sacred well, break a handfast, find a home for a wee orphan, find one for Birdi, court a wife, and beat it back to Blackstone. All while hauling a fractious goat.

God help him.

~#~

An hour later, Birdi, still fretting over what would become of the babe in her arms, heard a familiar soft cooing in the trees to her right. Did her doves still come to her croft looking for crumbs? Had the titmice taken over her bedding and grain stores? Had her precious apples already started to rot?

“Angus, where is yer home?”

“The village of Drasmoor.”

“And where is this?” Tinker hadn’t mentioned it.

“On the west coast, on the Firth of Lorne.”

“Tis far?”

“Aye, six days’ ride away.”

“Ah, and do ye pass Aberfoyle to get there?” ‘Twas where Tinker had said he was heading.

“Nay. Aberfoyle is far to the north, and we’re headed west.”

“Oh.” ‘Twas not what she wanted to hear. “Have ye a croft in this Drasmoor?” Mayhap if he did have a comfy croft, he’d understand her craving for her home.

“Nay, I live in Castle Blackstone at the pleasure of my liege, Duncan MacDougall and his wife.”

“Oh.” This man at her back must be of some import. This could be good or bad. “Tell me about this castle.”

“Blackstone rests on a wee island in Drasmoor Bay. My liege started construction some ten years back, shortly after the plague swept through our village and a vast number of our clan perished. He built Blackstone on an isle so that should the plague return, he could keep our sept safe.”

Sept—Angus had used the word before. It apparently meant clan.

Birdi had trouble picturing an entire clan living under one roof. Wouldn’t the women be at each others’ throats over what cooked in the ingle-nook? “How many are in your clan—sept?”

“At last count, there were over one hundred.”

She craned her neck to look at him. “Ye must be sleeping twenty to a bed!” She’d have no part in that!

Angus, his blue eyes suddenly sparkling, crinkles forming at the far corners, chuckled. “Nay, most live in the village of Drasmoor or up in the hills. Just a few, like myself and the Silversteins, live with our liege and his family in Blackstone.”

“Oh.” She tore her gaze from his nicely shaped lips just as Rampage bucked and the goat bleated. Kenning what would happen next, she tightened her grip on the sleeping babe.

Angus kicked Rampage in the side for the umpteenth time; the horse snorted, frog-hopped, and then trotted a few jarring steps before settling again into a sedate walk.

All back to normal, she asked, “And what does this castle look like?” She hoped Angus the Canteran had Tinker’s talent for painting pictures in her mind.

“‘Tis big, takes up most of the isle, and is square and made of dark gray granite. It appears black in the rain.”

She waited, hoping for more. When he remained silent she arched her neck and frowned up at him. “And the inside?”

He scratched his chin. “‘Tis like most castles. There’s a bailey, a well, barracks for the unwed men, a kirk, sheds for the cattle, a smitty.”

Birdi heaved an exasperated sigh. “Inside, where the people live, MacDougall.”

“Oh. In the keep there’s a great hall with fireplaces at either end. We eat there. Above are storage rooms and sleeping quarters.”

When Angus fell silent again, Birdi fought the overwhelming urge to clout his ears scarlet. “Is there colored glass and tapestries within?” Tinker’s descriptions had made her heart race with the desire to see and touch all that Tinker had. “Are there shimmering golden chalices and huge pewter plates? Are there argent-backed mirrors? Is there a great stuffed elk on the wall?” Angus the Canteran was a pitiful storyteller.

He chuckled. “Blackstone is not so wealthy that it has colored glass and chalices of gold, but there are mounted heads and horns aplenty, and ‘tis bonnie now that Lady Beth has come.”

Ah. “And this Lady Beth? Is she fair?”

Before he could answer, their horse bucked, the goat bleated, and Angus again cursed and kicked. When they were finally moving in sedate fashion again, she murmured, “Lady Beth?”

Birdi had met only one lady, the Macarther’s wife, and hadn’t liked the brittle woman who took her frustrations out on those beneath her. After tending a lass of only twelve years with a lashed and festering back, Birdi had decided ladies were on level with boars. Something one kept a healthy distance away from.

“Ah, Lady Beth. She’s not particularly fair of visage, not like ye, but she has a heart as big as a keep.”

Birdi blinked in surprise. He was obviously taken with the lady—respected her, and if her ears weren’t mistaken Angus thought she—Birdi—fair! But how? She was filthy; she stank, and hadn’t combed her hair in three days. Minnie had been right about another matter...men were strange creatures. But this one was strange in a most interesting way. She need learn more.

“And what do ye do at the castle?”

“I command and train warriors at the lists, in sword play, and in defense.”

“Sounds far grander and more exciting than my life.”

He chuckled and she again felt vibrations—pleasant and alarming—ride down her spine.

“Nay,” he told her, “most nights I’m so weary I fall into me bed face first.”

Birdi smiled at that. He was a dedicated leader of men. ‘Twas good, but his darg—this soldiering—put him at great risk. She fingered the scar on her right wrist—recalled the second time she’s been called to the Macarthur’s side—and decided mayhap she should give the matter of Angus MacDougall and the babe more thought.

~#~

Four hours later, Angus, frustrated beyond all civility, reined into a small grove that bordered the west bank of Loch Lomond. Through gritted teeth he growled, “We’ll spend the night here.”

He slid to the ground and reached for Birdi and the babe. Just as his hands encircled her waist, the goat bleated and Rampage, ears pinned, let fly a hoof. This time the goat landed with a mighty splash in the loch. Water flew, the horse immediately shied, and a hoof slammed down on Angus’s toes.

He rammed a shoulder into his mount. “Ye bloody idiot, get off me!”

Eyes ringed in white, Rampage backed, and Angus set Birdi down. “So help me God, if I survive this...”

As the goat scrabbled out of the water Birdi asked, “Are ye alright?”

Angus growled deep in his throat. “Nay, and I may never be again.”

They’d made only five miles’ progress to the next village thanks to the blasted goat and the babe’s constant need for attention. Angus was tired, filthy, hungry, and physically frustrated thanks to Birdalane Shame’s fine hurdies grinding into his groin for three whole days. “Tend to the babe.”

Birdi nibbled at her lower lip. “As ye wish.”

As I wish? “Humph!”

Had he had his druthers, the babe, Birdi, and the blasted goat would be off his hands this instant.

Matters couldn’t get worse.

Grumbling, he grabbed the goat’s tether and tied the stinking waterlogged animal to a tree. He unsaddled his idiot mount, and then set about cutting small boughs to make a pallet for Birdi and the babe under a low-branched pine. He then filled their water bag and checked Rampage’s hooves for stones. A crippled horse was the last thing he needed right now.

Finally satisfied all was in readiness for the night, he hauled their sup out of his saddlebag, returned to Birdi and the sleeping babe, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Birdi had covered the pine boughs he’d cut with a thick layer of pine needles. They’d now sleep a good six inches off the cold ground in relative comfort.

“Here.” He held out a meaty chicken leg.

She took it and grinned. “Where did ye find this?”

Mollified by her deeply dimpled smile and the thought of a comfortable bed, he sat down beside her and muttered, “‘Tis the rooster.”

She took a bite. “‘Tis wonderful, but I didna see ye cook him.”

“While I tended to Ardlui’s dead, he cooked in one of the smoldering fires.”

“Ah, very clever of ye.”

“Thank ye.” He finished his chicken leg in two bites, and tore into the breast meat. “I’ve been hungrier, but I swear I’ve never tasted fairer chicken.”

Birdi chuckled. “I’ve been wondering how ye’ve been managing to stay alive on what little food we’ve had.”

He hastily swallowed his meat. “I didna mean to starve ye, lass.”

She shook her head. “Ye’ve not. I’ve lived on far less for a lot longer. ‘Tis just yer size that had me pondering.”

He grinned. “Ah. I have been known to down a fair-sized hog when the mood strikes.” Seeing she’d finished her chicken leg—she was indeed hungry—he tore off another piece of breast meat and handed it to her. “I’m sorry ye had to see all the death in Ardlui. Ye did well...finding the babe and tending him as ye have.” She’d really been surprisingly calm.

Birdi looked down at the babe lying between them. “‘Tis easy. He’s the fairest wee bit.” She took another bite of meat. “I’ve been thinking and have decided to keep him.”

Aghast, Angus stared at Birdi as the remains of the rooster dropped into his lap. “Ye what!”

“Sssh, ye’ll wake him.”

Angus rocked onto his knees. Either Birdalane Shame had finally lost her mind, or he had. Deciding it had to be her, he collected the fallen meat. “Ye canna keep him. Ye’ve seen what can happen to women and bairns that have protection. They can still become prey. Ye’d be defenseless.”

“But the babe and I shan’t be defenseless.” She smiled, flashing her glorious dimples at him. “We have ye...for a year and a day.”

Chapter 8

“Ye canna be serious!” Angus, chest puffed out and his meal apparently forgotten, loomed over Birdi with his hands clenched on his hips.

The babe whimpered and she lifted him into her arms. “I most certainly am.” She’d given the matter a great deal of thought. Had been consumed by it all afternoon.

Mother of All, apparently kenning Birdi wouldn’t willingly give birth for fear her babe would come into the world as blind and as sensitive to others’ pain as she, had taken pity.

She’d seen how Birdi had managed on her own, and kenned Birdi had the skills to survive. And kenning Birdi’s devotion—mayhap even her loneliness and how much love lay dormant within her—she’d given Birdi the perfect gift. A babe who would grow into a perfect man...with a little guidance from Angus the Canteran. Mother did, after all, love things in pairs.

Of course, the Canteran would have to sleep on a pallet until he could craft a bed for himself, and he’d have to change his manner of livelihood so they’d remain safe and whole, but...

Birdi sighed contentedly.

Pacing before her, Angus growled, “I canna believe this!”

“Sssh, ye’ll be frightening Wee Angus.”

“Ack! And she’s named him after me.” He threw wide his arms. “Merciful Mother—”

“‘Tis quite fitting, since ye helped me find him.” Birdi decided it might be best to leave the rest of her reasoning for later. Angus MacDougall did appear a wee bit upset.

“Birdi—lass, we’ve already agreed on a course. We’ll not be changing it.”

“Aye, we agreed, but ‘twas before we found the babe.” And before Mother of All had interceded. “Dinna fash, Angus, all this—ye’re finding me and me finding the babe—has happened for a reason.”

“Aye, to drive me totally wode.” He dropped to his knees beside her and raked his hands through his thick, wavy hair. “Lass, I ken yer fondness for the laddie, I truly do. He’s fair and sweet, but he’s not yours to keep. Nor am I.”

Birdi frowned in confusion. “Why not? Wee Angus’s minnie is dead, as is his da for all we ken. Ye are strong and have proved kind.” She felt heat rise in her cheeks at that admission and looked down at the tunic covering her lap. His tunic, one that still carried the enticing scent of him. “I’ll make a good wife. I am—if ye’ll forgive my immodesty—quite clever with a needle and resourceful, so why is not this best for all concerned? Bring us back to my croft, and we can live—”

“Birdi, stop!” Angus rose and put his back to her. “I’m sorry, lass, though ye be fair—fairer than any lass I’ve ever seen—I need marry another. I was on my way to Beal Castle to court her when I found ye. I’ve pledged my word, Birdi, and I mean to keep it.” He faced her, the setting sun placing him in shadow. “We will dissolve this hand-fasting as soon as possible. With that done, ye’ll not have anyone to keep the bairn safe, so we must find a home for him.”

Birdi’s mouth dropped open as something painful seared its way from her middle and encircled her heart. Angus was promised to another? ‘Twas it the hale and hearty Mary? Nay, this couldn’t be! Mother of All wouldn’t have done this to her. Not after all she’d endured.

With the threat of tears burning at the back of her throat, Birdi held her head high and stroked the sleeping babe’s fingers. Angus was wrong. She need only prove it to him.

She had to. She had too much to lose, otherwise.

~#~

As dawn broke, turning the hills across the loch a deep violet, Angus opened his eyes. They felt gritty for lack of sleep after listening to Birdi’s muffled sobs and the babe’s repeated wailing the better part of the pitch-black night.

Today should have found him at Beal Castle. But was he there? Nay.

He took a deep, settling breath and let his gaze slowly drift over the curves and swells of the beautiful woman who had started his slide into disaster. If only their circumstances were different...

Birdi reclined on her side facing him; her head nestled in the crook of her arm, her black lashes fanning out over high smooth cheeks, her knees touching his thighs, and between Angus and Birdi—trapped and protected—lay Wee Angus blowing bubbles and playing with his fingers.

Merciful Mother of God, what have I gotten myself into?

He still couldn’t believe she’d named the babe Angus.

The bairn, apparently thrilled to have finally caught someone’s attention, cooed at him and kicked his legs.

Without thought Angus held out a finger. “And what are ye so delighted about so early of a morn?”  The babe drew Angus’s finger toward his mouth, his eyes crossed, and Angus grinned. Ah, the nipper was hungry, though how he could be after slurping milk half the night was a mystery.

He decided to let Birdi sleep. He could feed a babe. Mayhap if she rested, Birdi would see matters more clearly.

His way.

He rolled away and Birdi, mumbling in her sleep, drew the babe into her chest. As she did, a lock of her hair fell over her shoulder. Wee Angus squealed in delight. He had a fistful. Having wished he could do the same, Angus muttered, “I envy ye, laddie. Truly.”

Only a few minutes later—with the goat milked and his horse saddled, Angus returned to the pallet to find Birdi still asleep and Wee Angus chewing contentedly on glossy black curls.

After easing the hair out of the babe’s mouth and fists, Angus picked the lad up and grabbed a clean nappy from the supply Birdi had garnered, along with a clump of moss.

He settled on a patch of grass at the loch’s edge.

It took more effort than expected—the feisty wee imp was intent on rolling every which way but right—but Angus managed to get the lad’s bottom covered with a moss-lined nappy.

With the babe draped over an arm, he slopped the dirty nappy in the water, then flung it over a tree branch. “Time to eat,” he told the babe. On his way to the fractious goat, he tossed Wee Angus into the air. The babe squealed in delight, Angus grinned and did it again. “Someday,” he whispered, “I hope to have a bairn or two as bonnie as ye.”

A half hour later, sitting cross-legged in the grass with the contented babe in his lap, Angus asked, “What will become of ye, lad?”

There wasn’t a way Birdi could keep the laddie, fair and maternal as she was. The lad couldn’t grow properly eating as he had for the last two days. They’d have to find a wet-nurse for him. And the laddie needed a roof over his head. They’d been lucky; last night’s ponderous thunderheads had passed without dropping a bit of rain, but more was likely to come, and he didn’t want the lad catching the ague.

Examining the babe’s perfect pink fingers and nails, Angus admitted, “Wee Angus, ye’ve put me in a bind.”

“Good morn.”

Angus looked up to find Birdi, her hair braided, standing at his shoulder. As she reached over him to pet the bairn, Angus caught the irresistible scent of warm woman. Bent as she was it would have taken little effort to pull her mouth down to his. “Good morn.”

She nodded and asked the babe, “And how are ye this fine morn?”

In answer Wee Angus smiled as if Birdi had put the sun in the sky for his sole enjoyment.

Ack. The sooner he separated them the better. Rising, he said, “We’ve goat milk. Otherwise, I need to fish.”

“Thank ye, but I dinna feel hungry.”

Angus huffed. Birdi had eaten as hungrily as he for three days, so her lack of hunger dinna bode well. She was apparently still fashing over his refusal to let her keep the babe and no doubt planning to use her womanly wiles to convince him he was wrong. As if he ever was. “We’d best get ready to ride, then.”

He handed the babe to Birdi, collected their baggage, and tethered the goat behind the snorting and agitated Rampage.

Mounted, he headed south, for Inveruglas. With any luck, the clan would have a midwife who kenned a sacred well—one close at hand—and she might even ken a wet-nurse for the wee one and the whereabouts of Birdi’s clan, the Shames. If his luck held, he could then ride hard for Cairndow and Beal Castle, where his bride hopefully waited.

He clucked, Rampage let fly an ill-aimed hoof at the goat, it bleated, and they were on their way.

~#~

An hour later Wee Angus filled his nappy.

Birdi gasped. The stench was enough to bring a bull to his knees. “Angus, please, we need stop before I lose my breath.”

Angus, leaning back, she noted, as far as his saddle would allow, muttered, “Aye, I suppose there’s nay hope for it. Up ahead ‘tis a grassy spot.”

None too soon for Birdi he reined in and jumped from the horse. Birdi handed the babe down. Angus, his visage scrunched, held the cooing lad out at arm’s length. “How can ye stand yerself, laddie?”

Birdi, grinning, started to slide off the horse on her belly. Halfway down, her tunic caught on the stirrup. As she continued her slide, the tunic rose, leaving her backside exposed to the breeze off the water. Feet finally planted on Mother, she wrenched her tunic free, turned, and found Angus blushing.

As he shifted a bit, Birdi felt heat rush into her cheeks. “Ye’ve seen it before, Angus.” Men were such odd creatures. “Give the babe here.”

Clean nappy and moss in hand, she marched with as much dignity as possible to the edge of the loch.

Birdi had just finished tying a new nappy on Wee Angus’s clean bottom when she heard lowing and the ring of a cowbell. She spun and found great, light brown masses heading to the water’s edge only yards to her right.

A woman called, “Hello.”

Heart thudding, Birdi scooped Wee Angus into her arms and murmured, “Hello.”

The woman drew closer, and Birdi was taken by surprise. The woman smiled broadly at her. Tinker had been the only one ever to smile at her in such a fashion. Well, Angus had as well, but only a time or two. Of late he’d been fractious at best.

“I’m Kate, and this,” the woman turned a bit and raised an arm, “is my sister Margie.”

Birdi, unaware until that moment that there were two women, saw a tall green mass moving toward her. “I’m Birdi.”

Kate came closer and stroked Wee Angus’s arm. “And who is this?”

Birdi admired Kate’s bright red curls, then noticed the lass’s rosy skin bore the ravages of the pox. Poor thing. “‘Tis Wee Angus.”

The sister, Margie, then tickled the babe, and Birdi saw that this woman was a bit older and definitely fairer than the first, and though she petted Wee Angus, her focus was over Birdi’s shoulder.

With her brilliant green eyes bright with curiosity, Margie whispered, “Please tell me that beautiful man standing beside the charger is yer brother.”

Beautiful man? Humph! Aye, Angus was more comely than any man Birdi had ever seen before, but...

“‘Tis my man, Angus MacDougall.” Birdi felt decidedly uncomfortable watching the lass’s gaze rake Angus’s body. Why, she couldn’t fathom, but uncomfortable she was and she wanted the woman to stop her hungry perusal.

The pretty woman said, “Not the Angus MacDougall...the one they call Angus the Blood?” The admiration remained on her visage, as she made a delicate shudder. “My oh my, aren’t ye the brave lassie.”

Feeling defensive—she’d heard one of the Fraisers call Angus the Blood, as well, but in less admiring tones—Birdi lifted her chin. “Nay, he’s...kind.”

“Hmm, he certainly looks kind.”

When the woman ran her tongue across her lower lip as Wolf had whenever he spied Hen, Birdi found herself hard pressed not to snatch the pretty woman bald-headed.

Jaws clenched, Birdi squared her shoulders. “We must take our leave. ‘Twas good meeting ye.” She turned and ran smack into Angus’s chest.

Cradling her bruised nose as Angus steadied her, Birdi mumbled, “I didna ken ye were there.”

Angus snaked an arm around her waist and bowed his head to the two women. “Good day, ladies.”

Birdi caught a new tone in Angus’s voice, looked up, and was alarmed to see admiration in his eyes as he studied the pretty sister, Margie. Humph!

And Margie still hadn’t pulled her gaze from Angus’s broad chest. Aye, ‘twas a fine chest to be sure—hard and well muscled—but how rude!

Redheaded and pox marred Kate mumbled, “Good day, sir,” to Angus then tugged on her sister’s arm. “Margie, we need go. Now!”

As Kate hauled her sister away, Birdi heaved a relieved sigh.

Angus murmured, “I found some berries. We need eat and go ourselves.”

Arm about her waist, Angus guided Birdi, deep in thought, to a grassy knoll overlooking the loch.

As they sat he heard the call of a falcon and looked up. The geld circled twice, folded its wings, and then dove for its unsuspecting prey. ‘Twas a good sign. Had danger been riding hard their way, the bird would have sought safer hunting ground. He turned his attention back to the remains of their midday meal and saw that—despite being given ample time and the choicest fish and berries—Birdi had barely touched either. But he should be thankful for small blessings; Birdi’s determined, straight-mouthed grimace had softened.

She cleared her throat. “I need ask ye something.”

“Ask.”

“Are ye honest...forthright?”

Unaccustomed to having his integrity questioned, Angus straightened. “Aye, absolutely.”

She nodded, apparently pleased with the answer, and asked, “Why do they call ye Angus the Blood?”

It had been too much to hope she hadn’t heard the Fraiser call him that. “‘Tis a name I’ve cultivated to protect my clan.”

She scowled. “How can a name protect them?”

Angus hesitated. Had she not asked for honesty, he’d have tempered his words, suspecting she still feared him, but then, they’d soon be at Inveruglas. Better she hear the story from him than from them. “I am reported to eat the livers of the men I kill in battle. My reputation has caused many a man to flee me rather than risk being eaten should he fall.”

Birdi blanched. “Nay!”

“Aye. ‘Tis false, of course—I dinna even like liver—but it serves a purpose. Few tread on MacDougall land without good cause. And those that do ken that they’d best behave or risk losing a body part to me.”

Birdi worried her bottom lip as she gave his answer some thought. “Then why did ye taste me? In the field and again in the cave?”

Angus frowned, then realized she was referring to his kisses and grinned. “I wasna tasting, but kissing.”

“Explain kissing.”

Never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined so luscious a woman asking that. He chuckled. “What do ye need explained?”

“The why of it.” She twisted the hem of his tunic. She’d refused to don the dead woman’s kirtle he’d confiscated for her from Ardlui. “This kissing feels odd to start, ye ken?”

“Aye, but I find it pleasantly odd. Do ye?” He could only hope.

“Aye, but why did ye do it?”

Tread gently, laddie. “Men and woman kiss when they feel a craving for each other or when they want to display affection. Just like mothers kiss babes because they love them.”

Birdi ruminated on his words for several minutes. “So...if I kiss the babe, I’m telling him I love him?”

“Aye.” Had she never been kissed before? What manner of mother had she? Good God Almighty.

Birdi’s forehead scrunched. “So ye kissed me because ye love me?”

Ack! “I kissed ye because ye have a winning way about ye, because ye’re soft in all the right places, and because ye have a mouth any man would want to taste.”

“Hmm.” She wrenched several blades of grass out of the patch at her feet and started braiding them. “Would ye like to kiss me again?”

What do ye say now, MacDougall? Answer honestly and mayhap cause her to bolt, or lie and regret it for the rest of ye life?

“Aye, I would.”

Chin tucked, she whispered, “Ye may, then.”

His heart jolted. Before she could change her mind he leaned across the sleeping babe and placed his right hand on her neck. Using his thumb he raised her chin so he could look into her incredible, icy eyes. He saw no indecision or fear, only curiosity. He drew her closer still, and their mouths made gentle contact.

Her lips, though still, were as soft and pliant as he recalled. Now kenning she was totally unschooled in the matters of men and women, he took his time, increasing the pressure. After a moment he nibbled her lower lip and she gasped, giving him ready access to the sweet, moist confines of her mouth. He eased in and heated blood roared into his groin. Her tongue was as soft as a rose petal. She tasted of berries. Seeing her eyes close, he closed his own and stroked the interior of her mouth for just another moment, savoring her lush interior. He felt her tongue explore his for too short interval, and then he reluctantly pulled away.

To his relief, she sighed, opened her eyes, and then blushed to a rosy hue. She cleared her throat then asked, “‘Tis done?”

“Aye.” It had taken all his willpower to pull back, to keep from delving deeper into her in the hopes of chasing away the rest of her reservations, but that wouldn’t have been fair to her and certainly not fair to him. ‘Twas bad enough he’d have to live with this memory—of what might have been—for a lifetime.

Please, Blessed Mary, let the lass at Beal be worth this sacrifice, or I’ll not be able to live with myself.

Birdi, her color still high, brushed a few tresses from her face—the ones he’d inadvertently pulled from her braid—and cleared her throat. “Very well.”

“Have ye any other questions?”

“Mayhap, later.”

Coming to his feet—and hoping she hadn’t noticed the swelling within his trews—he said, “Ye best make use of yon bushes. We willna be stopping again ‘til we reach Inveruglas.”

Birdi took the hand he offered and came to her feet.

Angus studied the gentle sway of her hips as she made her way through the tall grass. Lord, she was one fine woman. She then stumbled over a rock the size of a sow—one any fool could see—and he frowned. He kenned he kissed well—had been told so on more than one occasion—but his kiss certainly couldn’t have unsettled her so much that she couldn’t see a boulder, could it?

A moment later he found himself wincing as Birdi—her gaze on the ground—nearly knocked herself senseless on a heavy, low-slung pine bough. As she rubbed her forehead and grumbled something, he scowled. She continued on, but this time with a hand out before her. She walked slowly, straight toward a head-high boulder gleaming nearly white in the glare of the afternoon sun. When her hand made contact, she turned left. A moment later she slipped behind a bush.

Something wasn’t right.

As he waited, he ruminated over the last three days and the manner in which Birdi moved.

When she reemerged from the bushes, he scrutinized her every step. She followed the exact path she’d taken up to the bush, only this time she paused a few feet before the sow-sized stone. Instead of tripping over it, this time she cautiously skirted it, and then continued toward him. She smiled—despite the red welt on her forehead—as she reached for Wee Angus.

Feeling like a lead yoke had just been dropped onto his shoulders, Angus slowly rose. He patted Rampage’s thick neck, then reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the last of his bride gifts, a three-yard roll of white satin ribbon.

With a heavy heart, he held his bride gift out in the palm of his hand—only five feet from Birdi’s nose. “I found an apple. One of the lasses must have dropped it. Would ye like it?”

Birdi, babe in her arms, shook her head as she smiled at him. “It looks good, but nay. Ye can have it.”

Angus’s heart stuttered. The beautiful and resourceful Birdalane Shame was as blind as a mole.

~#~

Ian Macarthur, having no appetite for anything but news of his missing spae and the bastard MacDougall, shoved his untouched trencher away.

His men had been on the hunt for two days and should have found them by now. How long could it take to find one wee woman and a bastard knight?

He still couldn’t believe she was gone. Not after what he’d done to ensure she was as powerful as possible, more so than her bitchy dame. Were it not for his efforts, the one who called herself Birdi would never even exist. How dare she do this to him?

And when he got his hands on MacDougall, the man would wish he’d never been born. Aye, he’d not simply kill the bastard; he’d take Angus the Blood apart, joint-by-joint, limb by precious limb.

Relishing the agony MacDougall would suffer, he reached for his tankard, found it empty, and threw it across the room. The three women clearing the tables scattered like startled chickens before him.

“God’s teeth! Need I do everything myself? Fetch me more ale, woman!”

The stoutest of them, he thought she might be the smitty’s wife, muttered, “Aye, my lord.”

He didn’t care for the sullen look she gave him as she passed to do his bidding, but he looked away rather than call her to task. His hold on the clan was already tentative at best. He needn’t go looking for trouble.

Since the Campbells had forced the Macarthurs off their lands and out of Dunstaffnage Castle during his father’s time, little had gone right for his sept.

With his coffers empty and deplete of warriors, his father had been given little say in what lands his sept would then control. His father was told to occupy this place and built a meager keep. Unfortunately for Ian, his father’s heir, the clan still wasn’t content. The Macarthurs were bred for the sea; they were fisherman and smugglers, not shepherds and farmers. And the land was nay better suited to tilling and harvesting, either. It generated little beyond what they consumed, so he had no ready source of revenue. And there were taxes to pay and tithes. He’d had little to draw men to him.

Until he’d discovered the spae.

With her at his beck and call, he remained fit and could guarantee the health of a strong man and his family’s in return for his fealty. In a life filled with pestilence and war, that was no small matter.

And now she was gone—like his right hand. He had only one man to blame.

Chapter 9

As they entered the village of Inveruglas, Birdi looked over her shoulder. “What now troubles ye?” Angus, having spent the day clarifying his position on giving the babe away and breaking the handfast, was now unusually quiet.

“I know not, but something is not right here.” He paused before a stone building with a thatched roof and dropped to the ground. “Wait here. I need check something.” He took several steps, then turned. “I mean it, Birdi, dinna get off that horse.”

“As ye wish.” Good stars, he was getting testier by the hour. Had it something to do with their kiss?

Aye, she, too, had found it disturbing, but in a new and wondrous way. Minnie had called yearnings evil, but what if she’d misunderstood her mother’s intent? How could something so pleasant and warming possibly be evil? Birdi huffed. This not kenning and having no other woman to ask would be the death of her.

She caught the scent of roasting meat on the faint breeze, and her stomach growled. “Do ye ken this family?”

Mayhap they had something she could use to better feed the babe. Might even offer a bit of meat. She’d been foolish refusing food earlier and now had a pounding head.

“Nay, ‘tis not a home but a hostiel—an inn.”

Ah, Tinker had spoken of inns; large crofts that people could—for a coin—find refuge in for a night or two. The possibility of spending the night with a real mattress beneath her and a fire at her feet brought her a small measure of comfort.

After Angus disappeared through the inn door, Birdi shifted her attention to her surroundings. The village’s thatched cottages appeared close to one another, stout brown blobs strung along the wide roadway. Dark green—what she kenned to be forest—loomed behind them. Before the crofts and to her left still lay Loch Lomond, a wide swatch of glistening black. Before meeting Angus she hadn’t kenned lochs could be so grand.

Hearing feet scamper, she turned toward the sound. A woman yelled, “Ye’d best hie, Willie, or ye’ll be getting yer bottom blistered.” A child answered, “Comin’!” and then all fell silent again but for a dog barking at a distance.

A moment later a familiar tightness encircled her heart and her hands began to itch.

Ack! ‘Twas the need again. In no mood to heed it, she muttered, “Sheet.” She liked the hiss and tension of Angus’s word on her tongue. Aye, ‘twas a good word, sheet.

“Sheet, sheet, sheet.” It expressed her frustration with Angus MacDougall and her reluctance to heed the need very well indeed.

But Angus was right about one thing. Something was definitely wrong here.

There should be clatter, more comings and goings of clan folk. More than just a mother, a bairn, and a few dogs barking. Why were there no bairns at play, no women laughing as they gossiped, as there had been on the few times she been in the Macarthur’s village? From what little she’d gleaned during her visits to her neighbors—and despite the Macarthur being an unhappy and not particularly caring man—his clan was boisterous, the village noisy.

Aye, something was very wrong here.

~#~

Angus hunched to get through the inn door. Finding himself in an anteroom he pushed through the next door and was greeted by raised voices, one shouting, “The man’s a berserker! I’ll not pledge me fealty to the likes of him, no matter what he threatens!”

Forty or so clansmen were packed into the low-beamed room. A stout, flame-headed man finally noticed him and yelled, “Welcome, sir!”

All fell silent.

“Good day.”

Hands on broad hips, the man asked, “Who be ye and what can we do for ye?”

Angus assessed the room’s occupants: all were men, some young, some old, most were flushed. A few shifted their hands from their tankards to the hilts of their dirks while they awaited his response.

“Sir Angus MacDougall, on my way to Beal Castle. I recently passed through Ardlui and am disturbed by what I found there.”

Angus wasn’t sure if it was the mention of his name or the mention of Ardlui that started the shouting match once again, but start it did. Above the din, someone slammed a tankard on a table and demanded silence. All heads turned to the barrel-chested, white-haired gentleman sitting in the corner. He rose and the men parted.

Coming abreast of Angus the gentleman said, “I’m Connor Fraser, leader here, and you, sir, if I’m not mistaken, are the infamous Angus the Blood. Aye?”

Angus’s gaze quickly slid around the room; all the occupants now had their hands on dirks. With effort, he kept his hands loose and at his sides. “Aye, sir, I am, and ‘tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”

The older man took his time eyeing Angus from forelock to shoes. “I knew yer father, fought beside him at Sterling.” He then grunted. “He was a fine and honorable man.”

Some of the tension eased out of Angus’s shoulders. “Aye, that he was, sir. I still miss him.” Had for nigh on a decade now.

Connor Fraser asked, “What news do ye bring from Ardlui?”

“‘Tis gone. All are dead and the place is naught but ash and burnt timbers.”

The room exploded. Everyone was shouting, most were cursing. One man bellowed, “The bloody bastard!”

Fraser held up his arms. “Quiet! All of ye! Now!”

The room slowly quieted, though grumbling could still be heard in the far corners of the plastered and beamed room.

Fraser, his voice gruff and commanding, declared, “We need ask this man what he saw, then we can make plans to deal with the Gunn.”

Angus’s jaw muscled twitched. “‘Tis the Gunn ye’ve been having troubles with?”

The Gunns were a notoriously unruly lot, had been since the dawn of time; the clan supposedly descended from the Pictish tribes of long ago. He didn’t doubt their reported heraldry, given their taste for war.

“Aye, they’ve been driven south and are trying to reestablish a fife here through coercion and force. We’ve already lost three men fighting their efforts.”

Angus blew out a breath. “That explains it.” In great detail, he told the men what he’d found in Ardlui and how he’d dealt with the bodies.

Fraser, in turn, assigned three men to travel north to bury the dead. “And take the priest with you.” Grumbling, “I’m weary of trippin’ over him,” Fraiser waved Angus to a seat.

Uneasy about leaving Birdi unguarded, Angus said, “My lady awaits me outside. I need to bring her and the babe in.” Not until he’d said the words did he realize he’d claimed Birdi yet again. God’s teeth!

Fraser nodded. “Please, she’s most welcome.”

“Is there stabling available for my horse?” The goat could be tied to a fence post if need be.

“Aye, just to the rear.”

Angus turned and a glassy-eyed man of about twenty years blocked his path. He tensed when the man placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Are ye certain about all at Ardlui? My brother...” Tears welled in his eyes.

Angus relaxed. “I’m verra sorry, but there wasna a man left alive.”

The man took a deep, shuddering breath in an apparent effort to harness his grief, then moved away.

Mentally cursing the beastly men that had inflicted such pain, Angus stepped outside.

Birdi had slipped back in the saddle so she could bounce Wee Angus between her thighs. As he approached them, Birdi planted a smacking kiss on the babe’s cheek. Wee Angus gurgled and returned the favor with a sloppy kiss of his own.

Shaking his head, Angus said, “We’ll rest here for a wee bit.” He’d yet to query anyone about a wet-nurse or a sacred well. As he reached for Birdi he noticed her palms were red. “What’s wrong with yer hands?”

Scratching, Birdi mumbled, “‘Tis nothing. Did ye learn what’s wrong here?”

He lifted her from the saddle and set her on the ground. “Aye, another clan is trying to move into the area by force. The men inside believe the bastards destroyed Ardlui, the burned out village we found.”

As he guided her toward the inn’s door—he didn’t trust she’d find it on her own, Birdi asked, “But why would they slaughter when all they need do is ask permission to stay? There’s more than enough land about.”

Angus rolled his eyes. Birdalane Shame wasn’t only as blind as a bat, but as naïve as the laddie in her arms. How she’d managed to survive this long was beyond kenning.

“Land is power, Birdi, both political and financial. Whoever holds sway over this loch controls the water and a primary food supply for hundreds. Men have been known to kill for less.”

Birdi shook her head and muttered, “Minnie was right again. Men are fools.”

He grinned. She might have a point. Here he was, risking his future to see her and the babe safe, and for what? A kiss and an opportunity to see gratitude in winter-blue eyes.

Birdi, scrubbing her free palm against her tunic, entered the inn. Hearing the deep growl of angry men all talking at once, her stomach flipped then quivered. She couldn’t tell how many were before her in the dark, close space, but decided there were definitely too many.

When Angus took her elbow and tried to guide her further into the room, she balked. “Nay, I need stay by the door...should the babe cry.”  Or I need bolt. If she went any deeper into the room she’d likely get trapped.

“As ye wish.” He left her for a moment, then returned with a stool. “Sit. I’ll find us some food.”

Birdi only nodded, too agitated by the need and by the boisterous crowd to trust her voice. When she sensed Angus had moved away, she snaked out a hand to the right. Feeling a breeze seeping along a thin space, she relaxed a bit. Angus had placed her stool next to the door.

With one fear—of being trapped—managed, she tried to ease the heavy feeling within her chest with deep breaths, but the need continued to grow. Someone was crying out for help, needed her, but she couldn’t help. Not now. She had to stay well. She had to care for the babe and she had precious little time to convince Angus she was right and he was wrong about her keeping the babe and about their handfasting.

Angus MacDougall was nothing like she’d been taught to expect. After their initial encounter, he’d been kind for the most part. When he wasn’t being totally considerate of her, he’d been only grumbly, more angry or impatient with himself than with her. Too, when he did smile it was as if a candle had been lit behind his eyes. They were so bright and warming, like a fire at gloaming. She sighed.

She had so little time and so much to accomplish.

Birdi started bouncing Wee Angus on her lap as she easily imagined the three of them living within her croft, Angus hunting, Birdi tending a small garden, and Wee Angus growing tall and strong at her knee. Quite pleased, she kissed his cheek and gave voice to the song she’d heard a villager sing so long ago.

Dance tae yer daddy

Ma bonnie laddie

Dance tae yer daddy, ma bonnie lamb!

An ye’ll get a fishie

In a little dishie

Ye’ll get a fishie whan the boat comes home.”

Drooling, Wee Angus giggled, and Birdi’s heart soared. “Ah, so ye liked that, did ye?” She stood him on her lap and kissed his cheek.

“Ye have a pleasing voice.”

Startled, Birdi leaned over Wee Angus’s head to find a white-headed man with very sad eyes kneeling before her. Heat infused her cheeks. “Thank ye.”

Holding a gnarled finger out for Wee Angus to grasp, the man murmured, “My grandson enjoyed that ditty as well. His name was Brion...Brion Fraser. He would have been one year come Christmas.”

When Birdi frowned in confusion, he, apparently thinking she was having difficulty hearing him in the crowded room, said a bit louder, “Christmas, just before Samhain.”

“Ah.” Birdi still had no idea what Christmas entailed but Samhain, the midwinter solstice, was one of her days to pay homage to Goddess.

Something deep inside warned not to ask the next obvious question, but the words came anyway. “What happened to the babe?”

“He died of a chest flux just three days past. We—his parents and I—kenned it could happen. He was born frail so we’d been warned it could, but we still were not prepared for it. He was so sweet and...”

A tear slid down the elder’s face as he struggled to restrain the sob. Birdi’s heart wrenched in sympathy. Suspecting he was the source of the deep grieving need tormenting her, she asked, “How are ye faring?”

The man shrugged. “As well as an auld man can when he outlives much-loved bairns.”

“And his parents?”

“Parent. Collin...the babe’s da...he was killed in a skirmish with the Gunns two days ago.”

Stunned that the man shouldered such great loss, Birdi touched his wet cheek. Aye, he ached with bone-deep grief, but to her great surprise his grief wasn’t the one calling out, reaching for her. This man was ready for death, awaited it, would have welcomed it. “I’m so verra sorry for yer losses, sir.”

“Thank ye, but I didna come over to ye to garner sympathy. I spoke with yer man, MacDougall. He tells me ye are seeking a wet-nurse for the babe, and my Kelsea has milk.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “I dinna ken if she’ll agree, but...”

Birdi stopped listening. A fearful dread scurried through her blood. Her breath caught and her palms began to sweat. Her heart and mind were screaming nay so loudly she could hear nothing else.

She hauled Wee Angus off her lap and clutched him to her chest.

Nay, Goddess! He belongs to me! Mother of All, you gave him to me! Tears welled in Birdi’s eyes as fire tore at her throat.

The old man stroked Wee Angus’s cheek as tears once again flooded his eyes. “We can ask her.”

Birdi shook her head, then jerked, hearing Angus say, “I think we need ask, Birdi. I’m sorry, lass, but ye ken the babe canna grow as he should living on goat milk dripped from yer fingers.”

She tried to focus on Angus through watery eyes. “I canna...I need time.” The rest stuck in her throat.

She wanted to tell him she had a lifetime of untapped love to give this bairn and so much to teach him...about Goddess and chants, and so much to share...where the apples hid, how to find the softest flax, when to hunt for elderberries. But the words simply wouldn’t take shape.

Angus knelt beside her. “Come, lass. I ken this is hard, but ye must do it for the babe’s sake.” Taking her by the elbow, he brought her to her feet.

~#~

Birdi, the struggling babe clutched to her thudding heart, looked about the comfortable earthen-floored room she stood in. It smelled of recently roasted meat, tallow candles, and peat fire, but how she came to be in the room, she could not have said.

The man with white hair motioned to his left. “Come, Kelsea’s in here.”

Unwilling, but kenning she must, Birdi took a deep breath and placed one foot forward. She dragged the other after it. To her dismay, Angus whispered words of encouragement at her back as he followed them. She tried to shut them out.

At a doorway she heard the old man say, “Kelsea dear, we have company.”

Birdi stepped over the threshold and became vaguely aware she stood on a slate floor. By the light of a single window, its shutters thrown wide, she saw a large dark shape in the center of the room, assumed it to be the woman’s bed, and eased toward it.

When she received no greeting, Birdi leaned forward to better glean the woman.

Kelsea Fraser was very young, mayhap three or so summers younger than Birdi herself, yet looked to be four-score or more older, particularly around her teary sable eyes. As she sat in bed, lax hands in her lap, her freckle-dusted skin was pale, her cheeks drawn, and her lips as dry and cracked as an old oak’s bark.

With pain searing the back of her throat—she now kenned whence the clawing need had come—Birdi reluctantly held Wee Angus out in shaking hands. “He’s hungry, and I’ve nay milk to give. Will ye nurse him?”

The widow Kelsea looked at Wee Angus for a moment, and, visage unchanged, turned her head toward the window.

Birdi set Wee Angus down on the bed and reluctantly reached for the woman’s hand. The moment their hands touched, raw, unbridled anguish rushed through Birdi’s chest, closed off her air and chilled her blood. Stars floated before her eyes as her heart stuttered. Body shaking, she released the woman’s hand.

Kelsea was willing herself to die. She couldn’t take the pain of losing both her husband and her bairn any more. With that realization Bird’s mind fill with her mother’s dying words: Beware! When the blood curse comes another may come with it. If it does, they’ll try to use ye as they have me, for their own ends. Spit in their eye, little birdalane. Spit in their eye.

Birdi—awash with resentment, anger, and now fear, kenning Goddess had betrayed her—nonetheless said to Angus, “Take her into the other room and set her in the chair.” She couldn’t do what needed to be done standing on slate.

Tears sluicing down her cheeks, Birdi stepped back so Angus could lift the widow into his arms.

I’m sorry Minnie, but I canna heed ye, even kenning what is to come.  Though Goddess kenned she wanted to ignore this call so badly her bones felt brittle with the aching need to run.

She picked up Wee Angus and reluctantly followed the men into the sitting room. Once the widow Kelsea was settled, Birdi turned to Angus. “Go, both of you.”

The grandfather started sputtering, “But I dinna—”

Years of deep-seated fear coupled with her current despair, and Birdi growled, “Do as I say!”

Angus eyed her warily for only a moment, then took the auld man by the arm. “‘Tis women’s work they’re about. We men best take our leave.”

When she heard the door close, Birdi took a deep, settling breath and tried to steel herself.

Slowly she spread the woman’s thighs, stepped between them, and laid her precious Wee Angus in the woman’s flaccid hands. The bairn, trapped as he was between them, would be safe as she did what needed to be done.

Feet firmly planted on Mother, she looked into Kelsea’s eyes. Terror stared back at her. “‘Tis nay reason to fear,” she whispered, “only reason to hope.”

Accepting the babe would belong to another, that she now had nay reason to hope for or protect herself, Birdi placed one shaking hand behind the woman’s neck and the other on her forehead. Voice cracking, aware her heart was already fracturing, she whispered, “Goddess, Mother of All, I beg to take upon myself this woman’s pain and grief, to ease her heart...to mend her spirit. Please...though ye must see me as unfit”—she choked on a sob—”please help her.”

She then closed her eyes and waited for what would come.

The babe would no longer be hers to cherish, and Angus the Canteran would soon leave as well. Minnie’s voice rang in her ears. Luckless birdalane, yer fated to be alone.

Chapter 10

As the auld man calmly cleaned his nails with a gleaming sgian dubh, Angus, his gaze locked on the Fraser’s door, paced—six strides right, six strides left. “How long can it possibly take to put a wee laddie to breast?”

Birdi had been inside for well onto an hour now, and something inside Angus’s head had been chafing in warning every minute of it. He never ignored such warning in battle and was hard pressed to keep ignoring it now.

Malcolm Fraiser shrugged. “Kelsea’s breasts were bound after our Brion passed. Mayhap it takes time to get milk flowing again?”

“Aye.” But his gut said ‘twas more than that.

The door latch finally clicked and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

When the door opened, he was startled to see not Birdi but the Fraser woman, her cheeks now touched with a bit of pink and in her arms—sucking contentedly at her breast—Wee Angus.

Alarmed, he said, “Where’s Birdi?”

“Come.” Kelsea stepped aside so they could enter.

Angus came to an abrupt halt just inside the door.

Birdi—so pale he could see the vessels carrying her life’s blood pulsing from across the room—sat on the floor before the chair the Fraiser woman had once occupied, greeting as if her heart would break. ‘Twas as if Birdi and Kelsea had crawled inside each other’s skin, or mayhap exchanged souls, which made nay sense at all. “Merciful Mother of God!”

He rushed to her, scooped her onto his lap, and cradled her to his chest. “What the hell happened to her?”

Instead of answering, the Fraiser woman squatted and took Birdi’s tear-streaked chin in her hand. As they stared at each other, he could almost feel an understanding pass between them. That, he didn’t like.

The widow Kelsea kissed Birdi’s cheek and then rose. As she adjusted the babe in her arms, she murmured, “I dinna ken, sir.”  She then sat in the chair, her attention directed toward the babe.

Unaccustomed to being thwarted, he growled and lifted Birdi’s chin with a gentle finger and stared into her tearing eyes. Seeing only desolation and grief, his skin crawled with apprehension. “Lass, what ails ye? What can I do?”

“‘Tis naught ye can do, Angus.”

She shuddered and he pulled her closer. Her answer wasn’t acceptable. Not so long as he drew breath. There had to be something he could do. Spying Malcolm Fraser he said, “Bring her some mulled wine, mead, I dinna care what, so long as it’s warm.”

Brow furrowed, Fraser answered, “Aye, right away.”

As he shuffled off Angus called after him, “And a blanket. She’s freezing.”

Wee Angus gurgled into the ensuing silence, and the Fraser woman lifted him onto her shoulder. Pounding gently on his back, she asked, “Does this precious laddie have a name?”

Before Angus could give it, Birdi’s nails dug deep into his arm with surprising strength. She took a shuddering breath—one he felt clean into his gut as he held her.

“Nay,” Birdi whispered, “ye need choose one for him.”

The corners of Kelsea’s lips lifted ever so slightly. “Aye, but I must think hard.” She put the babe to her other breast and stroked his cheek. “It must be perfect to compensate for all he’s been through.”

Birdi murmured, “Aye,” and pressed her face into Angus’s shoulder, which did naught to muffle her next sob.

He never should have asked about a wet-nurse, and sure as hell shouldn’t have brought Birdi here. Ack! Birdi, lass, I’m so sorry. Had I known...

Fraiser came back into the room bearing steaming tankards, a blanket, and a tin of shortbread. He knelt before Angus. “I brought mead for ye as well.”

“Thank ye.”

Angus wrapped the blanket about Birdi, then held a tankard to her lips. “Lass, drink this.”

She took a sip, choked, and pushed it away. He forced more on her, until he was satisfied she’d consumed a good half pint. ‘Twould make her sleepy, and sleep, he’d decided, might prove the best medicine for whatever ailed her. She certainly hadn’t had much sleep since they’d found the babe.

Fraser cleared his throat. “Since Collin’s death, Kelsea’s been staying here with us. Why don’t ye spend the night in Kelsea’s croft? I’ll take ye, ‘tis only a short walk away, the first one just beyond the kirk. I’ll bring some sup to ye after a wee bit.”

Kelsea murmured, “Aye, please do. There’s peat for a fire by the inglenook and ye’ll find the bed comfortable.” Her gaze shifted from Angus to Birdi, who now appeared to be asleep. “And please, have her choose a gown and whatever else she might need from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Anything at all may be hers.”

“‘Tis most generous of ye.”

Kelsea shook her head. “‘Tis yer wife who is generous. I shall never be able to repay her kindness.”

~#~

Fraser held the door open as Angus, with Birdi in arms, angled his way into the one-room croft. Two sturdy chairs, one with rockers, sat before an ingle-side made from smooth river-rock. A pile of aged peat lay on the hearth. A waxed pine table and two cuttie stools stood to the right, and a large pine bed to the left. Alongside the bed stood an empty, polished oak cradle.

Angus laid Birdi on the fine feather mattress, pulled the blanket about her, and turned to find Fraser lighting the fire. “I thank ye for offering yer daughter’s home to us for the night. Birdi would not have been comfortable at the inn.” He’d noticed she’d been anxious earlier when surrounded by strangers and couldn’t imagine how she’d respond in her current state.

Fraser rose and dusted off his hands. “Ack. ‘Tis our pleasure. And ye’re right; the men over yon will be arguing half the night trying to decide what to do about the Gunn and his lot. Yer ladywife would get nay rest.”

As Fraser walked to the door, Angus said, “Ye should take the cradle with ye. Wee...the wee one will need it.”

And Birdi need not see it. She’d likely greet until her generous heart was reduced to the size of a shriveled plum.

Fraser picked up the cradle. Looking from it to Birdi as she lay pale and still, his eyes grew glassy. “Take good care of her. What she did today...” His voice cracked and faltered. Using the heels of his hands he scrubbed the wetness from his eyes. “I’ll come by in a few hours with ye sup.”

After Fraser took his leave, Angus dropped the wooden bar over the door.

Standing bedside the bed, he whispered, “What happened to ye behind that door, lass?”

He’d left her fearful but hale and the Fraser woman looking about to waste away. An hour later he found the reverse, and it frightened him.

He lay down beside her and cradled her in his arms, her head resting on his chest. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Rolling the curly tip between his fingers, he recalled the first time he’d set eyes on her, how he’d imagined burying his fists in her hair.

“Do ye have any idea how much I want ye, Birdalane Shame? And despite ye being a bit willful and painfully proud.” He sighed, examining the bruise in the middle of her forehead. “Ye should have told me about yer wee secret, lass...that ye canna see but a short yard ahead of ye. Aye. It might have saved ye a few bonks on yer beautiful head.”

And just as she wanted Wee Angus and couldn’t keep him, he wanted but couldn’t keep her. And the knowledge made something deep inside his chest ache with regret.

“‘Tis a sorry state we’ve got ourselves in, Birdi, my love. A truly sorry state.”

He’d asked Fraser if he kenned the Shame clan. The man said he’d never heard mention of them. Angus then asked after the location of a sacred well. Fraiser shook his head and suggested Angus those in Cairndow.

If a well wasn’t to be found there, they’d have to ride north, around the northern tip of Loch Fyne, then ride south to Inveraray, all of which would eat up precious time. Ack. Would Birdi be up to such a ride given her current state?

Birdi, mumbling incoherently, stretched. As she pressed against him, he felt the soft compression of a breast against his chest. A second later her left leg fell across his thigh and settled between his legs, her knee close to his groin. Two days ago he’d have killed to get her in the same position. Now, his heart only ached for her. Her brow then furrowed, and he stroked her back as gently as possible. What manner of goblins would dare chase such a lovely lass in her sleep?

~#~

The darkness parted.

Birdi crept closer to the clatter of wood beating on wood. The village bairns were back playing sword-fight at the edge of the golden field.

She kenned better than to show herself—her mother had warned repeatedly that she’d come to harm if she did—but the lads sounded so happy. What harm could there be in just listening to them? They were, after all, just bairns about her age.

As she ducked behind a tall weed patch one lad shouted, “My da can flatten yer da any time he chooses, Will Macarthur.”

“Nay, ye braggart, my da’s a smitty, the strongest in the realm. He can whip yer da in thrice.”

She heard a scuffle and an “Ooow” before one of the lads, keening, ran away.

“Ack, Robbie,” the other called as he followed, “I dinna mean to bloody yer nose!”

Disappointed—kenning they wouldn’t likely return this day—Birdi turned for home, her mind ablaze with a dozens questions for her mother.

She found her before their croft. “Minnie, who’s my da?”

Grinding a pestle, separating oat from husk, her mother grumbled, “Ye dinna have one.”

Birdi’s heart tripped at her lie. She’d spent enough time spying on the villager’s to ken everyone had one. She stomped a foot. “Tell me about my da.”

Minnie rounded, startling her, fists on hips. “Shame’s yer sire; my shame, his shame, and yours for asking about matters that are none of yer concern and best forgotten.”  Minnie’s face loomed large as she clamped a rough hand on Birdi’s shoulder. “Ye’re never to ask again. Do ye ken?”

Quaking, Birdi squeaked, “But—”

The resounding slap caught Birdi off guard. Cheek and eyes stinging, she keened, “Aye, Minnie, never again.”

“Now fetch me more water from the pool and be quick about it, or ye’ll not be having yer oats for sup.” She then slapped Birdi’s bottom sending her in the direction of the water bag. Birdi fell. Stars flashed; bright white wee suns in a field of black.

Then total darkness returned.

“Minnie! Where are ye, Minnie?” Birdi—her heart quaking against her ribs, her palms and back sweaty and frigid—moved cautiously within the darkening woods. The sun, having slipped behind the hills, left only unfathomable shadows before her.

Minnie had never been gone this long. Never, in her eight summers.

Feeling her way along the path that led to the road separating her world from that of the villagers’, Birdi called out again. The bushes to her right rattled and she jumped. Hands at her throat, readying to scream, she heard the frantic flapping of wings.

She blew out a breath, scrubbed at the tears clouding her vision only to have more form, and resumed her search. Minnie loathed tears, but Birdi couldn’t help it. The dark terrified her and her feet and ears were already aching with the cold. “Minnie! Where are you?”

Birdi had checked everywhere; the pool, the mushroom patch, the traps, even the edges of the fields, and still no Minnie. Where could she be?

An awful tightening seized her chest. Had Minnie left her? Had she been so angered by Birdi’s questions about her da that she’d up and left?

Birdi stumbled down the path leading to the ancient stump, the only place left to look. “Oh, Goddess, please, I’ll be a good bairn, I promise. Please, please, dinna let it be true. Please, Goddess, please help me find my minnie.”

Birdi heard a sob directly before her and froze in place. “Minnie? Minnie!”

Hands outstretched, she ran toward the dark shape lying before her on a bed of fallen leaves.

Minnie lay curled on her side on the path. Birdi dropped to her knees and pushed her mother’s graying, disheveled hair off her face. “Minnie, what’s wrong?” As her mother groaned, Birdi noticed she knelt in wetness and caught the unmistakable scent of blood, metallic and dry at the back of her throat. “Oh, Minnie...” Squinting, Birdi then saw that her mother’s hands clutched her blood-soaked kirtle at the waist.

In a breathy whisper, Minnie said, “ A boar...help me.”

It took all Birdi’s strength to get Minnie onto her feet.  As they wavered and fell, Minnie kept saying, “Dinna...let them...ken I’m gone.”

Birdi struggled under her mother’s weight. “I’ll never, Minnie, but dinna fash. Ye’ll be all better come morn. I promise.”

Knees and hands bleeding from repeated falls, sick to her stomach with apprehension, Birdi got Minnie into their croft and onto her pallet. All she’d learned at her mother’s knee, the herbs and tonics, the poultices she’d pulled from Minnie’s bag, all the prayers she’d been taught, Birdi then put to full use.

As dawn broke on the fourth day, Birdi, bleary eyed from lack of sleep and hours of keening, dropped to her knees. “Come, Goddess, please, and make her well. I canna do this alone. I’m too wee and dinna ken enough. Please come and help me.”

Minnie now took only one breath to Birdi’s six, each sounding like a rattling seed pod. Her lips were so cracked they bled despite the salve Birdi applied, her skin was so hot Birdi feared she’d cook. But the worst was Minnie’s silence. Desperate for one word—even a curse—as the sun turned the room’s whitewashed clay walls a dull pink, Birdi shook her mother’s shoulders. “Minnie, wake up. Wake up!”

To her horror, Minnie took a single rattling breath and went completely silent.

Birdi collapsed onto her mother’s still chest. “Nay! Minnie, wake up! Ye’re scaring me, Minnie, wake up!”

Her mother would be angry. Birdi was taking too long to make her better, but that would be all right. It would. She could shout—even thrash Birdi all she wanted—because she’d be better and that was all that mattered. Aye, that was all that mattered. “Goddess, Mother of All, can ye hear me? Make Minnie talk to me. Now please. Please. Please. Please.”

“I canna...breath...Minnie. I’m so scarred...Minnie,

Minnie...aaaaaah!”

A hand brushed her cheek as strong arms folded about her. “Sssh, love, yer safe. ‘Tis only a dream, Birdi. Hush.”

Birdi fought her way through her throat-seizing blackness in search of the source of the soothing words. The deep, burring voice, the smell, the heat surrounding her meant safety. She took a shuddering breath and finally managed to open her eyes.

Breath hitching, she whispered, “Angus.”

“Aye.” He wiped the wetness from her cheeks. “I dinna mean to wake ye, but ye were deep in a nightmare, and none too happy about it.”

Feeling the fool—her heart still beating at a frantic pace—she struggled to sit. “I’m sorry, I dinna—”

“Sssh, we all have them.” He pulled her into his side, holding her close with an arm. “‘Tis naught to be ashamed of. Are ye better now?”

Taking another shuddering breath, deciding there was no harm in taking comfort just this once, she relaxed against him. “Aye, much better.”

He smiled. “Ye had me fashing for a moment.”

“Sorry.”

“Do ye have these terrors often?”

“Nay.”  Only when she healed another. She’d then wake so parched and hoarse she’d wonder if she’d screamed the night away.

He stroked her back with a gentle hand. “Would ye like to talk about it? Mayhap it will make them go away for good.”

“‘Tis naught but an old memory.” She yawned, deciding it must be time to feed Wee Angus. Then the day’s events crashed down upon her with the swiftness of a giant tree felled by lightening. A great, racking sob escaped before she could grab hold of it.

Her wee precious babe was gone.

“Ack, lass, sssh.” Angus rolled onto his side and drew her closer. As she buried her face into the massive warm muscles of his chest, he kissed the top of her head. “Have ye ever seen a dolphin, love?”

She shook her head, unable to speak as she tried to cope with the pain squeezing the life out of her.

In a voice barely above a whisper he told her, “They’re wondrous creatures—part fish, part man—according to legend. Gray and white, slick and smooth as polished steel, they roam the seas in herds of tens, leaping and gliding as if they had not a care in the world.

“‘Tis a good omen when they frolic about a man’s boat. They occasionally whistle as they keep pace with ye, their wide mouths smiling. Aye, they’re verra fine, have been known to save drowning men by keeping them afloat with their powerful snouts and fins until help could arrive.

“When I was a lad of eight years—the year my own mam died—a lone mother dolphin and calf came into Drasmoor Bay. Since this had never occurred before it caused quite a stir. Some claimed ‘twas a good omen. Others claimed ‘twas a sign something dreadful had happened or was about to happen at sea. ‘Twas not until a few brave souls rowed out to greet her that the truth was known.

“The babe with her had been attacked, and from the look of the wounds, by a fearsome shark or whale.

“Much fashing then ensued about what to do to help them. Since the fishing was poor within the bay, some men went out to sea each day and hauled back fish for the mother. Women concocted salves made of lanolin so they wouldna dissolve in the salty sea when applied to the babe’s raw wounds. Being a bairn myself, I could do little but go out and watch the elders tend them, pray, and give the pair names. I named the mother Bigly, for she was indeed beautiful, and the wee one Dautie, for all thought of him with great affection. Days passed.

“Then one morn I awoke to the news the babe hadna made it through the night. Lass, I greeted ‘til my heart nearly broke.

Birdi opened her eyes to find tears glistening in Angus’s. So, he’d loved and lost, too—his Minnie and the dolphin all in one year. He understood.

She traced the gentle curves of his lips with a finger. Then to her own surprise she stretched a bit so they were face to face and kissed him. Softly, just as he had kissed her.

As she pulled away he smiled and cleared his throat. “Bigly left and life went on,” he told her. “Then one morn we awoke to a trumpeter’s blast. We all raced out to see what was amiss—we were having our fair share of troubles with the Bruce at the time—and found Auld Brian jumping and shouting on the shore looking fit to be tied.

“To our amazement, there, out in the harbor—bobbing and arching between Castle Blackstone and shore—was Bigly, the mother we’d all come to care about.

“I was simply beside myself with joy and scrambled into the first boat launched. We rowed out to greet her, and discovered she’d come to show us something—her new bonnie calf. He was a lighter gray than the other and bigger, his smiling mouth clicking and clacking at a pace so fast I could barely distinguish one from the other.” Angus brushed the loose strand from her face and kissed her ever so gently. “Ye’ll have another bairn in time, love, as bonnie as yer foundling, but one of yer heart and blood that no one can ever take away.”

He silently studied her, no doubt hoping she would nod in agreement.

He cared that she ached near beyond breathing, but he didn’t—couldn’t—ever know her deepest heartache: that all he’d promised would never come to pass. She was cursed...a near-blind spae.

Wishing she could share her grief, but knowing she never would, she nodded for his sake.

Grinning, he squeezed her a wee bit. “That’s the lass.” He then whispered, “I dinna ken what transpired while ye were alone with Kelsea Fraser, but I do ken ye are beyond any doubt the bravest and most generous woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I’m verra glad I ken ye, Birdalane.” He stroked her cheek. “I mean that sincerely.”

She fell in love with Angus MacDougall at that moment; heart, mind, and essence, she toppled. Seeking the warmth and strength radiating from him, she reached up and placed a hand behind his neck as he had once done to her and drew his mouth to hers.

He groaned into her mouth as she parted her lips. A heartbeat later he took control, his kiss searing a path deep into her being. Heat flashed in her belly, and miraculously, the pain squeezing her chest eased. Light-headed and breathless, she gave in to the heart-warming sensations and need she had no words to describe.

Chapter 11

Angus’s heart thundered, his mind and body totally consumed with need for the beauty in his arms. He pressed firm hands to her back, bringing her soft curves into perfect alignment with his harder planes. Aye, this lass with her secret had been made for him, molded to him as none before. Her compassion, her foibles enchanted him.

His tongue played across hers in shameless abandon, stroking, tasting, and teasing. When she mewed deep in her throat, lightening flashed through every vessel and organ he owned. She then arched, pressing closer, and he rolled instinctively.

He settled above her, his weight on his arms. As his hips gently rocked, pressing his swollen need between her quaking thighs, heat radiated off her with an intensity that nearly took his breath away.

Good God, the woman was made for loving.

He buried one hand deep into her luxurious hair just as he had dreamed of doing for four long days. He stroked her cheek. The soft press of her heaving breasts against his chest called to him and he gently slid his lips across her satin-smooth jaw, nibbling here and there as he eased down toward the glorious prize awaiting his eager hands and mouth. She smelled of babe and grass, of lust and woman, of all any man could ever want as her breath caught in uneven pants. His lips grazed along the column of her long slender neck, licking at her pulse, stroking that tender place above her collarbone. To his delight, her flushed skin pebbled and quivered. Her blood thundered under his fingers as they caressed her throat. Aye, lass, ye heart bounds as mine does.

He nuzzled at the edge of the gaping tunic she wore—his—and her hands fluttered up his ribs. Do ye know, lass, what I want to do—nay, need do—to satisfy this hunger ye’ve stirred in me?

His mouth had no difficulty finding the delicious, high swells he sought. Each quivered with mesmerizing delicacy with each hot lick. Ack, and the cloth hid the best. He could see in his mind’s eye the deep rose-tipped crests that lurked lower still, with nipples now ridged and straining against the fabric that once had covered his chest.

His right hand slid up and over her delicate ribs. Cupping one soft swell with the palm of his hand, he groaned and eased lower, his lips seeking the hard nubs making wee tents in the fabric. Ack, she’s more than any man could ever hope to have. Hands buried deep in his hair, Birdi mewed her approval. Good God Almighty, he wanted her, ached with tight painful need.

As his free hand slid down her thigh, seeking the hem of her covering, he heard a faint knocking at some great distance. Dismissing it, he turned his attention to her other breast. Drawing the tip into his mouth through the fabric, he heard her gasp and felt her back arch, giving him better purchase. “Aye, lass. ‘Tis the way.”

He sucked again and her legs wrapped about his waist. Her hips lifted, pressing moist heat into his bare stomach. “Oh, Birdi.”

She was panting now, anxious for what she didn’t understand fully, but he did. Oh, aye, he most certainly did.

Panting through gritted teeth, he shifted his weight to better lift the tunic blocking his access to the rose-tipped breasts he craved. He wanted her naked.

“Claim her,” something deep within ordered.

As the tunic rose above her waist, a hard rap sounded and Fraser shouted through the door, “MacDougall, I’ve ye sup!”

Ack! Not now, man. I’m about to—

Ah, shit!

He was about to tup the stuffing out of the woman he’d craved for days and thereby consummate the handfasting he’d sworn to break. God’s teeth! What was he thinking?

And there it was...the truth. He hadn’t been thinking past comforting her, not at all. His brain had deserted his head and run to his bags o’ sweeties. “Augh...”

He reluctantly eased the tunic back down over Birdi’s hips. Heart still beating at a breakneck pace, he reluctantly rolled onto his back.

As the knocking on the door resounded around the croft yet again, he blew out a frustrated breath and pulled Birdi into his side. He brushed a lock from her forehead. “I’m sorry, lass, but Fraiser’s apparently determined to feed us or ken the reason why.”

And thank God.

The man would never know he’d unwittingly saved Angus the Blood’s sorry arse and Birdi’s virtue, but Angus did, and would never forget it.

Birdi—her cheeks flushed, her gaze a bit unfocused, ran a slow hand across the fine hairs on his heaving chest. “But I’ve no desire for food right now, Angus.”

Sorely tempted to ask what she did desire, he thought better of it. He’d likely give it to her, pledge or no pledge, Donaliegh or no Donaliegh, for something beyond lust, beyond compassion, whispered “Mine!” whenever he held her gaze.

“Aye, I ken, love—more than ye’ll ever know—but we’d best let the man in before he breaks down the door.”

And they sure as hell couldn’t spend the night together in this bed. He’d best sleep on the floor.

Birdi, lower lip caught between small even teeth, her brow furrowed, nodded. Using his chest as a fulcrum, she sat up. Fingers splayed like the teeth of a comb, she pushed the hair off her face and looked about as if confused.

Guilt rippled in his gut. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She shrugged as she contemplated his question. “More befuddled than anything, I think.” When the pounding started again, she murmured, “Mayhap ye best let the man in.”

Angus rolled out of bed, painfully aware of the swollen tightness pressing against his belly. Raking his hands through his hair, he took his time getting to the door.

Fraser, arms nigh on to overflowing, greeted him with a smile. “Good eve.”

Angus, a full head taller, grunted and waved the man in.

Fraser headed for the table. “I’d have let ye sleep, but experience has taught me these fish pies are best eaten hot.” He chuckled. “My Kelsea may be fair on the eye but she’s rough on a man’s gut, though God kens she tries.” He dropped the basket of singed pies on the table along with a round loaf of dark bread and a crock of honey. A pitcher of ale followed with a loud thunk. “If ye’re still hungry after all this, just shout. There’s more, mores the pity.”

Fraser turned as Birdi stood. “And how are ye feelin’, lass?”

Birdi managed a brittle smile. In truth, she felt awful, like she’d been hauled through brambles feet first, then trounced upon. Her skin felt too tight, still tingled with the memory of Angus’s hands and mouth. Her belly still churned—with what, she didn’t know—but churn it did, while her heart felt like a lodestone sat in the middle of her chest. “A bit better, thank ye.”

“Good. My Kelsea’s been fashin’ somethin’ awful about ye.”

Birdi only nodded. She wanted to cry, as goes yer daughter’s joy, so goes my anguish, but she couldn’t. She never had and never would let those she healed know what helping them did to her.

“‘Tis yer burden alone to bear,” Minnie had warned on her deathbed, “should ye, too, have the gift. ‘Tis yer penance.”

Birdi took a deep shuddering breath, wanting but unable to ask after Wee Angus; understanding that if she did the fragile wall—the levee Angus had somehow created with his kisses—would break and the mind-bending pain still lurking within her would rush out and wreak havoc once again.

Fraser eyed the dwindling fire and threw a few blocks of peat into it. He then turned and smiled. “I’ll take my leave now and let ye eat. If ye need anything, ye’ll find me at home.”

When he left, Birdi held her breath, anxious to know what Angus would next do. Would he take her in his arms again, reinforcing the levee he’d built? She could only hope and pray to Goddess that he would.

Angus cleared his throat and then pulled out a chair, indicating she should sit. She did, wondering why he appeared so uncomfortable. He found two cups, then sat across from her, broke the bread, put food before her, and started eating.

All without touching her, without saying a word.

Confused, she reached for his hand, and he snatched it away, but not before she sensed his need for avoidance, withdrawal.

Stinging pain erupted within her chest; though all too familiar, it hurt far more than usual. Appetite gone, she swallowed the thickness burning at the back of her throat and folded her hands in her lap. What had she done or said that he now wanted to keep his distance from her? Had it been her kiss? Had it been her refusal to ask after Wee Angus? If she asked him, he’d no doubt deny anything was wrong, just as the villagers always did when she’d found the courage to ask. Finding the room suddenly stifling, fearing she’d start to keen and never stop, she pushed back her chair and rose. Without thought she held out her hands, seeking the door she kenned to be at her back.

“Where are ye going?”

Ah, he speaks. “Out.”

Chapter 12

When the door slammed in his face and Birdi, back rigid, disappeared into the night, Angus jumped to his feet. What had he done? Said? “Augh, women!”

He wrenched open the door, expecting to find Birdi standing before the croft, back to the door, arms folded across her chest, mouth in a firm line, as he’d seen Lady Beth pose whenever she was really annoyed with Duncan. Instead he found naught.

His own annoyance forgotten, he strode out and scanned the road for her. Nothing. No Birdi, just black and gray shadows that came and went under the light of a reiver’s moon. One—thanks to fast roaming clouds—that offered just enough light to see where one set a foot down, but not enough to be seen by.

Where the hell had she gone? He shivered as the wind kicked up off the loch, pictured what she wore, and cursed again.

She knew no one here save for Kelsea and her da...That’s it. She went to see Wee Angus. And she’ll, nay doubt, catch the flux in the process. He strode toward Fraser’s croft.

The trail of peat-rich smoke rising from the Fraser chimney, the warm light peeking out from behind closed shutters, eased his mind considerably. At least she was warm. He knocked.

Fraser answered. “MacDougall, come in. Come in. We were just talking about ye.” He smiled as the door swung wide.

Angus, feeling the idiot for worrying for no reason, stepped over the threshold. His gaze swept the room. Finding only Kelsea and the babe by the inglenook, his heart stuttered. He told himself to remain calm—that Birdi had to be close at hand but his hands began to sweat.

“Has Birdi come by?”

Fraser’s brow furrowed. “Nay. I’ve not seen her since I brought yer sup. Why?”

“My apologies for disturbing ye.”

Angus left a bemused Fraser and Kelsea in his wake and raced to the Boar’s Head Inn. He couldn’t imagine why she’d go there, but it was the only other place he could think of that she was even the least familiar with, would feel comfortable walking within given her limited sight.

Back hunched, he pushed through the first and second doors and came to an abrupt halt. The tavern room was still crowded with shouting and grumbling men, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and stale ale, but it held no Birdi. Cursing, he shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the men who hailed him, hoping she’d sought refuge—from what he still didn’t know—at the back of the room where the shadows were deepest.

No Birdi.

He’d run out of logical places to look, and the clan’s talk of the marauding Gunns did naught to relieve his anxiety.

Should he raise the alarm, send the men out looking? She’d pitch a hissy if she’d simply gone to relieve herself...Ah, that’s it. He blew out a breath. She’s not gone, but only relieving herself.

He turned to go and came nose to nose with Ian MacKay, an old friend and knight he hadn’t seen in years, not since they fought side by side in Burgundy.

Ian clapped a firm hand on Angus’s shoulder. “MacDougall, ye auld charger! What the hell are ye doin’ this far south?”

Angus grinned. Ian hadn’t aged a day. He was still as handsome as ever. “Looking for my ladywife. I seemed to have misplaced her.”

Ian laughed and heads turned. They always did. As big and brawn as Angus himself, Ian’s laugh sounded like thunder. “I had heard ye were on the hunt.”

Good God, did every soul in the realm know what he was about? “And what are ye doing here?” Angus asked. “Last I heard, ye were breaking virgin hearts in every alcove ye could find in Edinburgh Castle.”

“Aye, and in the attic as well, but unfortunately Albany tired of losing the competition for the fairest lasses, and sent me on this damn mission.”

“What mission?”

Ian threw an arm around Angus’s shoulder and leaned toward his ear. “Not here.”

Angus nodded. Politics and intrigue were Ian’s bread and butter. The dirtier the better, and the less said in public the better, as well. When Ian tried to guide him to a far corner, Angus remained rooted. “I’m sorry, Ian, but now isna the time. I have to find Birdi.”

“Birdi, huh?” Deep dimples slowly formed on either side of the scoundrel’s mouth as he studied Angus’s visage. “I’ll come with ye then. I need meet her.”

As they stepped into the chilled night, Ian said, “Start at the beginning. How did ye come by this lass?”

Knowing Ian was discreet if naught else and needing a sane head to fathom what he no longer could, Angus muttered, “This insanity all started with a wager. I was...

Chapter 13

Her heart breaking, Birdi squatted on the gravel that skirted Loch Lomond, wrapped her arms about her knees, and hunched her shoulders against the biting wind. With wet cheeks stinging, she stared into the glossy blackness lapping the shore before her.

‘Twould be easy. Just step in and end it all. No more pain, no more worrying about food for another winter. No more loneliness.

But could she drown? She’d been a swimmer since birth without a soul teaching her how.

She heaved a shuddering sigh. Mayhap ‘twas not the best of ideas. She’d likely bob to the surface like an apple in a wash bucket. But she couldn’t keep going on like this day after day, year after year, filled with such angst and pain. Seeing loathing—or worse, indifference—for her in others’ eyes. Against her will, her mind conjured up Angus as he sat across from her at the table, and her heart again felt his pulling back—his putting up a wall of restraint—and her tears spilled.

Not since her first encounter with Lady MacArthur—when Birdi had gone to the castle shortly after her mother’s death seeking comfort and aid—had she felt such pain as she did now, had she realized how truly odd she was.

“Oh, Angus, why had ye not shut me out before I’d grown so fond of ye?”

“Fond of him are you?”

“Ack!” Birdi jump and fell backward, her arms flailing over the water.

A stranger—as tall and brawn as her Angus—reached out and grabbed her by the waist. He hauled her close, restraining her clawing hands. “Easy now, lass. I mean ye nay harm.”

The clouds chose that moment to part, and moonlight lit the face of the man crushing Birdi to his chest. Her breath caught and her mouth fell open. Never in her life had she seen such a glorious countenance. The man appeared to be made of or, golden headed and golden skinned.

“I’m Angus’s friend, and ye must be the lost Birdi.”

Made mute by such an astonishing sight, she could only blink like an owl in response. She wasn’t lost, she wanted to tell him—not in the usual sense, at least. And he kenned Angus?

“I’m Ian MacKay, knight of girth and sword, defender of the faithful, and most definitely at ye service.” He smiled, displaying deep dimples, and slowly shifted his gaze from her face to her chest, where it lingered for some unfathomable reason.

She swallowed to clear the thickness that had suddenly taken root in her throat. “Umm...I’m Birdi.”

He loosened his hold on her, but kept one hand at her waist. “‘Tis indeed a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Birdi.” He then guided her toward a before-unseen boulder. “Sit and tell me why such a lovely lass is sitting here in the dark fashing over my thoughtless friend.”

Birdi twisted her fingers in her lap. “He isna thoughtless, not in the least. He’s verra kind. He’s just...he...ah, sheet.”

MacKay, to her shock, reared back and roared. His thunderous laugh echoed across the water as if before a gale. So astounding was it, she expected lightning to follow.

As he gained control of himself, he chuckled, “Ah, my friend has chosen well.” He then squatted on his haunches before her and took one of her hands in a huge calloused paw. Holding it gently, as if her hand were a fragile egg, he said, “Now tell me what all this greeting and fashing is about. I might be able to help. I’ve known yer querulous and stubborn man the better part of my life.”

Birdi stared into the stranger’s now solemn, wide-set eyes and something deep within her broke.

In a rush of stammered words, in a flood of tears, she spilled out her greatest fears regarding Angus MacDougall. She told the stranger how he’d found her, how she’d feared him until he’d saved her in the river, about the accidental handfasting, how he’d held her and kissed her, about the babe she’d had to give up, and how now she felt certain she’d lost Angus. All in one heaving breathe.

She then fell silent, shuddered, and waited. For what she didn’t ken; all was beyond hope, of that she was certain.

Ian MacKay silently studied Birdi MacDougall. He’d already heard Angus’s version of events—seriously abridged, he now realized—as they’d left the inn together. When they’d entered the croft and not found Birdi, his friend had panicked. They’d split up—Angus taking the back hills, he the loch shore—to hunt for her.

He’d not been the least surprised when Angus’s Birdi spewed forth so much information. Women instinctively did the moment he offered comfort. ‘Twas apparently his gift. And now, having heard her version of events he decided he’d never in all his twenty-nine years ever met such woman.

Without affectation, she’d held nothing back as she told her tale of woe, though a good part he hadn’t quite understood—likely due to her racing, breathless delivery—but she hadn’t tried to engage his sympathy, and hadn’t dissembled, placing the blame on his friend. She had, in fact, taken all the blame onto herself, though why she had he certainly couldn’t imagine—from what he could garner, his friend was behaving like an idiot—but one thing was quite clear. This incredibly beautiful woman was heart and soul, head over heels, in love with Angus MacDougall.

The lucky bastard.

And he could help her. He had the skills. After all, he wasn’t called “The Thief” by disgruntled men the breadth and length of Scotland for naught.

And he had the time. He wasn’t in any great hurry to find out whether the rumors about the Campbell were true— whether his friend was in fact in league with the Sassenach king, as Albany suspected. He blew out a breath.

Mayhap, if he did do this good deed for Angus’s ladywife, he too might be blessed with a woman so guileless and pure of heart someday. He snorted. He should live so long.

His decision made, he smiled the smile that made half the lasses in Scotland quake at the sight of him. “Well now, Birdi, I can see yer side and where ye might need a wee bit of help to set MacDougall’s head and heart on the right path.” He patted her hand, noting with surprise her calluses. Ah, she isna afraid of hard work. More the better. Donaliegh would need such a chatelaine. Last he saw it, the castle keep was bordering on ruin. But before he could help her, he had to extract a promise from her. “Will ye trust me to work in yer and Angus’s best interest? And promise not to misconstrue my intent by what I might say or do to bring yer MacDougall to heel?” He didn’t fear he’d steal her heart from his friend—she loved the fool beyond measure—but feared his upcoming antics could raise her ire. Something that he suspected from her straight-backed pose and unflinching gaze, he’d be wise to avoid.

She sniffed as she thought his request over. After a bit she said, “Aye, I promise, but ye willna harm him.” Her unique pale eyes narrowed as she leaned toward him. “Should he come to harm—”

“Whoa, Birdi.” He’d been right. Her fragile beauty hid a spitfire, not some fear-filled featherbrain despite her atrocious name. “I promise, dear lady, he’ll come to no harm, though he may wish me dead before I’m through.”

She gave that some thought, then asked, “What do you need me to do?”

He smiled. “Just be yerself.”

Birdi nodded. As she pulled her hand from his, he heard Angus MacDougall growl, “I see ye found her.”

Ian winked at Birdi, rose, and offered her his hand. As she came to her feet, the Thief asked his friend, “MacDougall, have ye ever known me not to find the fairest and most fulsome woman in town?”

Chapter 14

Angus growled deep in his throat. “Nay, I’ve not.” Which was precisely what had his nerves on edge.

Congratulating himself on his restraint, Angus gently took Birdi’s hand from Ian’s arm and placed it on his own. With an eye on Ian he asked Birdi, “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Aye, just cold.”

He pulled Birdi closer and saw that her cheeks were damp and her extraordinary long lashes spiked. “Ye’ve been greeting.” He spun toward Ian. “What have ye done to her?”

Ian huffed. “MacDougall, open yer eyes. She was greeting when I found her. She wasn’t greeting when you found her.”

Unable to argue with that bit of truth, Angus felt a pang of guilt. Birdi had been upset when she’d left the croft. The moment he got her indoors again, he’d discover why. As he turned toward the croft, he saw Birdi cast a wary glance over her shoulder at his friend. Good. Apparently, her inability to see clearly had made her immune to Ian’s impressive countenance and charms. Thank God.

To Ian he said, “Thank ye for finding her. I’m sure ye have pressing business to attend, so I’ll bid ye good night now.”

Instead of saying good night, Ian responded, “Actually I’ve naught to do at present.”

Birdi, to Angus’s consternation, asked, “Have ye supped, sir?”

Ian grinned at her. “Nay, my lady, I’ve not.”

“Then join us. We’ve more than enough.” Birdi looked up at Angus. “He’s yer friend so ‘tis only fitting, aye?”

What could he say? No? Let the idiot find his own food. “Aye, Birdi, ‘tis fitting.” Knowing but not caring that he sounded reticent—for his friend’s presence would delay his finding out why Birdi had been sitting in the cold crying—he grumbled, “Come on then.”

Had Angus not heard Ian’s laugh echoing off the loch moments ago, he’d still be out scouring the hills for Birdi. When had the man planned to call him and let him know he’d found Birdi? After he’d worked his wily ways around her? He wouldn’t have put it past the bastard.

Angus hurried Birdi across the roadway, pushed open Kelsea Fraser’s croft door, and settled Birdi in a chair before the table. After retrieving a blanket and wrapping it about her, he threw more peat on the fire. “Are ye warming, lass?”

Birdi, her brow furrowed for some reason, looked up at him. “Aye.”

The croft felt unaccountably tight to Angus as Ian took a place opposite Birdi at the table.

He distributed a fish pie to each of them.

Angus poked a hole in his pie, no mean effort, and took a bite. Fraiser’s warning that his Kelsea’s pies were best “eaten hot” hadn’t been spoken in jest. Now cold, they tasted like charred embers. He jabbed his pie as he watched, through narrowed eyes, Birdi’s expression shift from surprise to delight as she listened to Ian’s story of the current court jester.

His appetite gone, Angus pushed the remains on his trencher aside. “What business are ye on for Albany?”

Ian cast a quick glance at Birdi as he pushed his own trencher away. “‘Tis better not spoken—”

“Fear not. My ladywife neither kens nor cares of whom ye speak.”

Ian thought on that a moment, then said, “I’m on my way to Dunberg. Albany suspects the Campbell of conspiring with the Sassenach to our south. Apparently, two agents were caught just this side of the border carrying detailed sketches of Edinburgh Castle’s battlements and those of Sterling’s.” He hesitated, looked at Birdi for a moment, then turned his attention back to Angus. “After many hours...uhmm, below-stairs, one agent finally made mention of Dunstaffnage before he...passed.”

Birdi frowned. “The poor man died?”

“Aye.”

Angus, his gaze on Ian, murmured, “The water there is verra bad, lass. Flux is common.”

Birdi nodded sagely. “Then you should tell them to boil the water, particularly if the cows come to it.”

She then finished off her fish pie in two quick bites, patted her stomach, and sighed contentedly. When she looked up and found both men staring at her, she smiled. “The pies are very fine, nay?”

Eyes averted, Ian and Angus reached for the bread and mumbled, “Aye, verra.” That was enough. They both started laughing.

Birdi huffed. “What may I ask do ye find so humorous?”

Both muttered, “Nothing,” and reached for their ale.

Birdi then mumbled, “Minnie was right,” and began licking her fingers.

Not trusting himself to continue watching her and not laugh again, Angus said, “I have difficulty believing the Campbell is involved in such treachery.”

The Campbell had once been father-by-marriage to Duncan, Angus’s liege lord. Allies, the MacDougalls had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Campbells.

Ian downed his ale. “Nor I, but what Albany wants investigated, I investigate.”

Her third pie finished, Birdi asked, “Who is Albany?”

“The Duke of Albany is our rightful king’s uncle,” Ian told her.

“Ah. You should tell him to boil his water as well.”

Ian frowned at Angus and arched a brow in question.

Wanting to say, “Aye, she truly is this naïve, and ye’d best keep yer dimples and friggin’ hands to yeself,” Angus shrugged. “So how long do ye have to get to Dunstaffnage and back?” The sooner the Thief of Hearts was away from Birdi the better.

“As long as I can possibly take.” Ian refilled their tankards. “I’ve no stomach for anything that stinks of personal enmity.”

“How so?”

“The Campbell is not the only one who’s been questioning Albany’s delay in ransoming our wee king out of Sassenach hands, but he is one of the loudest. Too, no one but Albany’s man heard any mention of Dunstaffnage before the execut—ill man died. I find that rather convenient.”

“Aye, ‘tis.”

If war was pending, then the sooner Duncan learned of it, the sooner stores could be laid in at Blackstone, and the sooner the sept could prepare. Angus didn’t need another pressing reason to hurry this bride-quest along, but there it was.

Birdi yawned broadly and pushed back her chair. “If ye’ll pardon me, I’m verra tired. Sir MacKay—”

Ian rose and took Birdi’s hand in his. As he placed a kiss on her knuckles, he murmured, “Good night, my lady, and please call me Ian.”

Blushing—her gaze on her hand where he’d kissed her— Birdi murmured, “Uhmm, Ian, please feel free to make yerself comfortable before the hearth this night.” To Angus she said, “I’ll sleep next to the wall.”

Made speechless by her invitation to Ian without so much as a by-yer-leave from him, Angus gaped after Birdi’s lithe form as she glided the eight feet to the bed where she dove under the covers. A moment later a naked arm poked out and her tunic flew the length of the bed and landed on the floor. Merciful Mother. She was naked as a newborn jay...and in a room with two burly men she barely kenned!

The woman needed a keeper.

As she settled on her side, her back to them, Angus hissed, “Shit.”

“Not what I was thinking, but I do envy yer dilemma.”

Growling, Angus slowly turned, his eyes narrowing. Ian, grinning, nodded toward the table, indicating Angus take a seat. In a whisper, he said, “A hard choice, my friend; sleep by me or that luscious bit.”

Angus, gut churning, heaved a sigh as he settled in the chair Birdi had vacated. “Take a care.”

“Ack, ye wound me.”

Angus snorted. “Have ye given any thought to where I might find the Shame clan?” If anyone knew them it would be Ian. An agent of the king—or better put, Albany—Ian had spent the last five years within the halls of power.

“Aye, but I can’t recall ever hearing of them. Mayhap her sire was Sassenach. Shame sounds like something they’d choose.”

“Humph.” Not what he needed to hear. If she was indeed English, then he had but two choices. Bring her back to her glen, which didn’t set well, what with the Macarthur there, or bring her home to Blackstone, and he couldn’t imagine his bride taking that well.

“Then do ye happen to know the location of a sacred well?”

Ian took a swig of ale before saying, “Aye.”

Hope surging, Angus straightened. “Where?”

“South of Kelso.”

“God’s teeth, man, ‘tis on the other side of the realm. I meant one that’s close at hand.”

Ian shrugged, “There’s the one in the hills above Drasmoor, in the place we romped as lads. Remember? Those about call it the Glen of Tears.”

His friend was referring to a spring within MacDougall territory, days away and miles from Beal Castle. “There are none closer?”

Ian shrugged. “There may well be, but I don’t recall such.” After a moment he leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me the truth. Is she really as...innocent as she appears?”

Angus snorted. “More than ye’ll ever know.” A great deal more.

“Then yer Birdi is most unusual.” Ian leaned back, rubbed his jaw, his gaze speculative as he studied Birdi’s back. “Aye, and in a most decidedly refreshing way.”

Fists clenched, Angus leaned forward, “Ye’ll be keeping yer charms to yerself, if ye ken what’s good for ye. I’ll not see her hurt.”

“Friend, ye remind me of that dog in the manger. Ye canna eat the hay, ye dinna even want to lie in it, but ye’ll not let the cow have it. Why is that?”

Why? Because he did want the damn hay, wanted to gorge until he was bloated, ready to burst. Wanted to wallow in it, roll in it. He wanted Birdalane Shame with an intensity that bordered on pain. He just couldn’t have her. Not and keep his word. Not and get Donaliegh. To be his own man for the first time in his sorry life.

Ian shook his head, his expression saying, “Ye’re pathetic,” and then yawned. He rose. “Well, what shall it be then? The floor or the bed? I’ll take whichever ye dinna want.”

Angus, his teeth aching from the pressure of his clenched jaws, went to the bed. Eyes glaring, he faced his friend, stripped, and climbed in beside his naked Birdi. “Dinna forget to gut the candle.”

He’d get no sleep this night.

~#~

Coming out of the last croft to their east, Fegan Macarthur raked his gaze the length of Crianlarich village, looking for his brother. Spying Robbie exiting the last croft to the west, he ran toward him. “Anything?”

“Nay, no one has seen hide or hair of the Blood, his horse, or our spae.”

Fegan blew out a breath and cursed. “My instincts were right. We should have turned west. What now? I say we backtrack.”

They’d wasted precious time heading north following their liege’s orders; they and their mounts were exhausted, and the Macarthur was, nay doubt, at home readying to lop off a head.

His brother raked his hands through his unkempt hair and looked at the moon. It was already halfway through its arc toward the western mountains. “We eat, then head south. We haven’t time for sleep, but they, thinking they do, will. If the fates are kind, we’ll catch up with them by sunset tomorrow.”

Fegan, greatly relieved, nodded. The sooner they were done with this business the sooner he’d be home, spae in hand. His Mary’s houghmagandie was due to start at any time, and he didn’t want his wife birthing without the spae. He’d die if he lost his Mary. Aye, he would.

~#~

Birdi awoke to the comforting sound of Angus’s guttural purring and with the warm weight of a relaxed but heavy arm about her waist. In her sleep, she’d rolled and thrown a leg over one of his powerful thighs. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her right hand, fingers splayed, threaded through the fine, dark, curling hairs glazing his fine chest.

A fortnight ago, she’d have screeched finding herself in such a position with a naked man. Now, she could only stare in awe at the powerful chest beneath her hand.

Goddess, he is most glorious, is he not?

But like Wee Angus, not for her to keep, unless Ian the Golden Man had worked some magic during the night. And she seriously doubted he had.

She’d watched Angus most carefully last night as they ate the wondrous pies together by candlelight. Angus had appeared agitated, though he’d been less withdrawn. He’d touched her, had covered her with a blanket, but ‘twas not the same as kissing and fondling. She’d come to the conclusion he’d only behaved in a caring manner so as not to appear rude before his friend. Aye. And though they’d whispered—had thought her asleep—she’d heard him ask his friend about the sacred well.

He could break the handfasting for all she now cared, but he would do it without her. She’d spent a good part of the night thinking about how she could find her way home before falling into a fitful sleep, and now—thanks to Kelsea—she had the means.

A pounding at the door made Angus jerk upright, his left arm reaching for his sword. He then realized where he was, that no danger lurked, and blinked down at her. When his gaze shifted from her face to her breasts, he groaned deep in his chest and scrambled out of bed. Hauling the covers up to her chin, he growled, “Good morn.”

Seriously doubting it was—he’d again raised the invisible barrier between them, she murmured, “Morn.”

Pounding sounded again and she heard Ian roll over and grumble, “Get the hell away!”

In a whisper she asked, “Angus, where is hell?” Mayhap she could find it. She’d heard the Macarthur bairns speak of it, so therefore it had to be close to her glen.

He blinked at her. “Ye dinna ken hell?”

“Nay. Should I?”

He shook his head and continued donning his clothing. “‘Tis where the sinners go.”

Sinners. Another clan she didn’t ken. “‘Tis far, this hell?”

He strode to the door, grumbling, “Dinna fash about it, Birdi. Ye’ll not see it.”

Ha! She’d see about that. If he wouldn’t tell her, then she’d ask Ian. Surely he kenned it. After all, he was well traveled and had spoken of it.

The door opened and sunlight flashed across the room making her squint. She heard Kelsea say, “Good morn. I’ve brought a wee something to break yer fast.”

She stepped into her croft and came to an abrupt halt. Arm extended, she asked, “Who’s that?”

Angus yawned. “A friend. He’s harmless.”

“Ah.” Apparently unfazed, she moved to the right and Birdi heard something thud on the table. Her nose then caught the scent of fresh bread, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the irresistible aroma of hot blood sausage. Her stomach growled. Kelsea Fraser was beyond doubt the most generous of women—not only had she given them her home for the night, she continued to share her fine food. Aye, and though it hurt her pride to admit it, Angus had been right in one matter. Wee Angus would reap great benefits having such a mother. She—Birdi the spae—could never have supplied such, though she certainly would have tried her very best. The admission caused a great pain to bloom in her chest, and her desire for food evaporated.

“Birdi?”

She looked up to find Kelsea standing beside the bed. “How are you feeling this morn?”

“Well, thank ye.” She took a great breath, steeling herself. “And the wee one? How is he?”

Kelsea stood close enough for Birdi to see she beamed as bright as the sun at her back. “He’s splendid. This morn he suckled ‘til I thought he’d turned me wrong side to, and then promptly fell back to sleep.” She cast a look over her shoulder, then leaned forward to whisper, “I’ve something for ye.” She slipped a folded piece of paper into Birdi’s hand.

Birdi, heart stuttering, buried it beneath the covers. “Thank ye.”

“Nay, I thank ye, though I pray ye never have need for the missive.” Kelsea then straightened and in a clear voice asked, “So, have ye decided what ye must take from the chest?”

“Huh?”

Kelsea muttered, “Men,” and moved to the foot of the bed, where she opened the chest. She pulled out yards of fabric, gave them a good shake, and then spread them out.

Birdi gasped. “My word!” The brocades and silks upon her lap were beyond description. When she heard a soft whistle, she looked up to find Angus looking over Kelsea’s shoulder.

“I was a Lindsey,” she told them, “before I fell in love with Collin.” She stroked the vivid green silk and sighed. “I’ve not donned them since I left court ten years past. I didna want anyone thinking I was putting on airs.”

Angus fingered the eight-inch hem on one gown. “And ye snubbed custom and took his name, although Lindsey is more auspicious, speaks of yer relationship to the king.”

She shrugged. “Collin was proud man, proud to be a Fraser, and I was proud of him.”

Paying only minimal heed to their conversation, still mesmerized by the rich weaves between her fingers, Birdi murmured, “I canna possibly—”

“Ye must.” Kelsea interjected. “Ye are now Lady MacDougall, wife of a knight. Ye need to look the part. Besides, they’ll just fall to ruin if left in the chest. The argent strands need the warmth and oils from yer skin to remain supple.” She held one gown to Birdi’s chest then the other, frowned, and then reached into the chest again, this time retrieving a mass of vivid blue. She shook that gown out and placed it against Birdi’s chest. After cocking her head this way and that, she finally smiled. “That’s the one. Makes yer lovely eyes glow.”

Birdi could barely catch her breath. Not only was she fondling riches beyond her wildest imaginings, but Kelsea had called her horribly odd eyes lovely. Tears threatening, throat so raw she could barely swallow, Birdi fingered the three dense rows of pearls trimming the blue gown’s scoop-necked bodice.

The gowns had been put away when Kelsea Fraser had fallen in love with a man and wanted bairns, and now, they were coming out because she, Birdi, was giving up a bairn and a man she loved. Within Goddess’s world, all, apparently, did cycle like the seasons. Even gowns.

She took a deep shuddering breath and murmured, “I canna possibly—”

“Aye, ye can and ye will, or I’ll lock the door and not let ye leave until such time as ye agree.”

Angus drew Kelsea’s hand to his lips. His voice sounded thick as he murmured, “Thank ye, my lady. Should ye ever have need of a strong arm...”

Kelsea smiled and patted his hand. “Sir, ye need only do what’s in yer own best interest and that will be payment enough.”

The dark shape Birdi kenned to be Ian MacKay cleared its throat. “My lady, Ian MacKay at yer service.” He bowed and took Kelsea’s hand as Angus had. As he straightened, he said. “‘Tis verra generous of ye.”  Turning his attention to Birdi, he said, “I agree with Lady Fraser’s choice. The blue is a perfect complement to you eyes.”

“Since we all agree,” Kelsea said. “You gentlemen must eat and go. We women have work to do.”

~#~

Ian growled, “Will ye please stop pacing and sit. Ye’re giving me and yer horse a headache.”

Angus, glaring at his friend, continued to wear a rut before the Fraser croft. “What on earth is taking so long?”

The sun was already high in the sky. Too, he recollected only too vividly what had happened the last time he’d left Birdi alone with Kelsea.

“She’s fine,” Ian assured him. “Ye ken it takes hours for a woman to primp.”

“Humph!” Birdi didn’t primp. She woke, ate, made quick ablutions, and they were off. ‘Twas, in truth, one of her finest qualities. She didn’t fret about her appearance as so many women did. In that and in her endurance, she was very much like a man. Casting a glance at Ian, he modified the thought to most men. How Ian had managed to look ready for court after too much ale and too little sleep upon a dirt floor was beyond knowing, but shine he did, like a new gold sovereign. “Humph!”

The door suddenly swung wide and Angus came to an abrupt halt. Standing before him stood not the orphan waif Birdalane Shame, but a fairy-tale princess gleaming bright in the midday sun. Cheeks scrubbed pink, lush lips berry- red, dressed in a gown of blazing blue and argent, her glorious raven hair caught up in twin argent cowls on either side of her flawless face and secured by a wide pearl headband, her shoulders draped in lush silver fox and vivid blue brocade, Birdi was quite simply...breathtaking. “Merciful Mother of God.”

And he was going to the gallows.

First for the lust now surging through his veins—there had to be a canon law against such volume somewhere—and second for the fact that by royal decree no woman of his could don even cat fur, much less what Birdi now wore. He didn’t earn the prerequisite thousand pounds sterling per year.

Aye, he’d hang—by either church or Crown decree—but hang he would for he wasn’t about to tell lovely Birdi to take a damn thing off. She’d earned it.

Ian’s voice broke through his ruminating. “...ye take a man’s breath away, my lady, and happy he dies, basking in yer fair and fulsome glow, so—”

Angus shouldered his friend aside. “Go die elsewhere, fool.”

He took Birdi’s hand and brought it to his lips. “The moon this day outshines the sun.”

Truer words he’d never spoken. They came from the book of sonnets Lady Beth had given to him, words intended for another woman, but spoken from the heart to his accidental bride. With that realization came fear; should he continue to seek the sacred well, something deep in his bones warned him that he might well be giving up more than he could ever hope to gain.

He shook off the depressing thought and cleared his throat. “We need take our leave, Birdi.” He bowed to Kelsea. “Lady Fraser, ye have my heartfelt gratitude.”

In return she touched his cheek and murmured, “God’s speed.” To Birdi she whispered, “Thank ye for saving my life, dear Birdi. I promise to love the babe with all my heart, and when he’s auld enough, I’ll speak of thee, so he’ll ken how fortunate we are.”

Birdi, eyes glassy, silently hugged Kelsea then turned —her back stiff and straight, her countenance as smooth as glass—toward Rampage. Angus followed, knowing this wasn’t a good sign. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She took a stuttering breath. “She named him Collin.”

Birdi then placed her hands on his shoulders. Angus hoisted her up and into the saddle, his gut suddenly churning. With a heavy heart he accepted that Birdi might in time forgive him for taking her away from her home, but never would she forgive him for giving away the babe.

He turned to bid farewell to Ian, only to find his friend mounting his horse. “I wish ye well on yer trip to Dunberg,” Angus said.

A grin spread over Ian’s handsome countenance as his gaze raked Birdi. “No need. I’ve decided to keep ye company.”

~#~

“The Blood and the spae were here.” Robbie Macarthur held out the charred piece of wood he’d found near a ruined barn. It bore the name “Angus MacDougall.” Had he been party to what had happened in Ardlui? As well trained as Robbie was in swordplay, the thought made him shudder. He asked his brother, “Well?”

Fegan, scowling, shook his head. “The crofts were too far apart for the fires to be accidental.” They’d found a fresh burial site with forty-odd names and fresh wolf tracks between the warm, still smoldering crofts. “I dinna believe MacDougall did this on his own. Mayhap the Frasers are at war. If they’re fighting among themselves, we need to move cautiously. But if it’s clan against clan...”

Aye, they’d best learn quickly with whom the Frasers fought...and hopefully it wasn’t with the Macarthur or any of their allies. “How much farther to the next village?”

Fegan studied the cloudbank easing over the western horizon. “If the weather holds, we’ll be in Inveruglas by sup.”

The thought made Robbie’s mouth water. They hadn’t had a decent meal in days. “Then let’s go.”

They kicked their mounts’ sides.

~#~

At Tarbot, no one knew of a sacred well, so they galloped on, heading due west with one eye to the sky, the other watching for trouble, namely the Gunns.

On the far side of the forest, at a wee clutch of crofts called Rest and Be Thankful, where the ground again rose to meet the looming lead-bellied clouds above, they broke bread with a herder and his wife and asked again about a sacred well. Neither knew of one, and on they rode.

On the outskirts of Cairndow Ian muttered, “We’ll not make Inveraray by night fall.”

“Aye, I’m painfully aware of that.”

In fact, Angus felt ill with his awareness of time and distance. He had only a fortnight left before he need be back at Blackstone—less, if he wanted to warn Duncan about impeding troubles—and their progress had been slowed by steep paths, crags, and forest getting to Cairndow, the last hamlet on their way to Inveraray. Had he been alone he would have risked an all-night ride, but he had Birdi’s safety and new finery to consider.

Riding into Cairndow, the men’s gazes sweeping the area for trouble, Angus grumbled, “If there’s no room at the inn, mayhap a family will offer Birdi a pallet. You and I can always bed down in a stable.” He wasn’t about to spend another night lying next to luscious Birdi.

Ian put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tend to the room, may get it cheaper.” He grinned flashing his famous dimples, and wiggled a brow. Angus laughed for the first time in hours. “Go on with ye.”

Birdi, sitting sidesaddle thanks to her new voluminous skirts, murmured, “‘Tis going to rain soon.”

“Aye.” Drawn by the repetitive sound of metal clanging on metal, Angus turned left and found a sizable stable. “Good eve, smithy.”

The blacksmith, flame-headed and barrel-chested, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a thick hand. As he shouldered his massive hammer, he eyed Rampage from ears to hooves. “What can I do fer ye, sir?”

“Have ye stabling for two cattle?”

The man looked behind them. “I see only one.”

“My friend seeks a room at the inn.”

The man snorted. “Most likely full, ‘tis market day.” He then shifted his gaze to Birdi. As he took her measure he rubbed his jaw. “For two bodles apiece yer cattle can pasture yon.” He pointed over his shoulder to a fenced paddock containing three mud-caked ponies.

Angus grit his teeth. The stable was nigh onto to empty. ‘Twas obvious the man intended to gouge him, and he had little choice but to allow it if he intended to stay dry this night. “Three bawbees for three stalls with fresh hay.”

The man chuckled and held out his hand. “Done.”

Angus routed around in his sporran, pulled out the coins, the equivalent of an English penny, and dropped them into the man’s calloused paw. Angus rolled his eyes when the man bit into the coins.

At least their horses would be dry and safe, and he and Ian would have someplace to lay their heads.

A loud shout went up and Birdi jerked, nearly toppling out of the saddle. He steadied her. Eyes wide she stuttered, “What was that?”

“No need for alarm. ‘Tis most likely some game the folks are cheering about. ‘Tis market day.”

Biting her lower lip, she asked, “Game? What means this?”

Good Lord, the woman had led a sheltered life. “Games are play. Where bairns or men vie with each other for sport or prizes, sometimes winning a coin or a cake, mayhap a goose. Depends on the game and what’s offered.” He dismounted and reached for her waist. “Would ye like to go see?”

“Aye,...well mayhap,” Birdi nibbled on a fingernail. “I’m not sure.”

He smiled down at her as he took her elbow. “Ye’ll enjoy it. Come, we need to find Ian, anyway.”

Birdi clung to Angus’s arm as the sounds of men and animals engulfed her. She couldn’t discern the number swirling about, but sensed she’d never been among so many people in her life.

As Angus led her along the road, frantic chickens clucked to her right and goats bleated to her left. A woman yelled, “Hot pies, hot pies, two fer a bodle!” Another shouted, “Fresh Partan! Poke ‘em!” Birdi stopped and bent before a wicker stall and found a litter of wee hogs. Now why on earth would someone want these? A man scooped up a squealing pink blob and held it out to her.

Over the cacophony, he shouted, “A healthy gryce, m’lady. Just a penny!”

She forced a smile and shoved Angus with her elbow, pushing him away from the crazed granger before they caught whatever ailed the poor man.

A moment later a bundle of blue cornflowers appeared under her nose. She jumped back.

“A gowpen of blavers for the lady, sir? Goes with her gown, they do. Only a bodle to a knight as fine as yerself.”

Angus chuckled at her side. “Would you like them?”

Staring open mouthed at the wizen flower man, dressed in more colors than Birdi could lay name to, she shook her head. What strange people! And the Macarthurs had the ballocks to call her odd? Humph!

A great shout rang out and Angus craned his neck to look over the crowd. “Come, they’re having a cattle pull.”

“A what?”

He grinned down at her, light sparking in his eyes. Good graces, the man was handsome, beyond handsome when he smiled like this.

“Men hook their horses with chains tail to tail and the strongest wins. There’s bound to be wagering. Come. We’ll likely find Ian there. The man’s yet to miss an opportunity to fatten his purse.”

She could do naught but murmur, “As ye wish.” She was confused beyond endurance, yet some wee voice deep within shouted, “Drink it in. Dinna miss a moment.”

At the far end of the village, at the edge of a great field, they found Ian as Angus had predicted.

Coming alongside his friend, Angus asked, “Which has yer coins?”

Ian chuckled, “The bay with the white feet.”

Birdi could see naught but two brown blobs slowly shifting on a field of dusty green.

“Did ye find a room at the inn?” Angus yelled over the shouting crowd.

“Aye, and a bed for yer lady, though the price comes dear.”

Angus nodded as if expecting the answer. He then leaned toward Ian and whispered something. As Ian answered in like manner, Birdi heard a meow and felt a soft brush against her ankle. She squatted, and finding a ball of dark gray fluff with four white paws staring up at her with bright green eyes, excitement bloomed in her chest. “Now aren’t ye the bonniest wee bit?”

Meoow.

She’d always wanted a cat; had hoped in vain to receive one in tribute since she’d first stroked the soft fur of a fat, complacent one in a Macarthur croft seasons ago. Hands shaking in anticipation, Birdi reached for the kitten, but it scampered away. Not to be thwarted, she followed, dodging peddlers as she went. The kitten meowed again and she turned left, following the sound. She continued on, taking note as she always did of how many steps she took in each direction, so she could find her way back to Angus when she caught her prize, the kitten.

As she approached the entrance of a narrow, shadowed lane, her palms began to itch. Along with the annoying prickle came a heavy feeling deep within her chest.

Ack, not again. Not now.

While in her glen, she’d been called upon by the Macarthurs mayhap once a full moon, often less. Since leaving it, she’d been assaulted by need thrice in as many days and disliked it intensely. If this kept up she’d be naught but raw skin and bones in a fortnight. She scratched her palms again and strained to hear the kitten.

Nothing. But the need was definitely making itself known. Aye, and with increasing intensity.

Though disappointed about losing her kitten, Birdi heaved a resigned sigh, took a cleansing breath, and then focused. She’d get no peace unless she heeded the need, and she did so want to enjoy this place, and mayhap find the kitten. With any good fortune at all—and she thought she was overdue for some—the need would be easily tended as it had been when she made the dolly.

She turned into a lane. As she neared the end she heard a woman’s keening. She leaned forward as she slowly approached what appeared to be a large, brown mound.

As she drew near, it moved. Startled, she shied. When nothing further happened and the keening continued she edged closer. To her horror, ‘twas not a pile of discards but a woman in rags, and in her arms lay a flaccid, potbellied babe.

“Help me.”

Birdi squatted before the thin woman with hollow black eyes and touched her shoulder, “I will, but I need to ken more. How has this come to pass? Where is yer husband?”

The woman looked at the babe in her arms. “Died these three months past.”

Never...ever...tend a stranger who counts the passages of the moon in Marches and Mays. Those that do are pledged to the black-gowned priests. They’ll bring ye down...will do their utmost to smite ye.

Birdi reached out and placed a tentative finger on the wooden cross hanging from a bit of dirty yarn around the woman’s neck. ‘Twas the priest symbol. Like the one Lady Macarthur wore. This frail woman before her was indeed a follower of the black robed men.

Birdi took a steadying breath. I’m sorry, Minnie, but I canna turn my back on her. I ken too well this pain she suffers. Aye, only too well.

Birdi kicked off the delicate slippers Kelsea had given her and planted her feet firmly on Mother of All. Heart bounding within her chest, she dreaded what would follow. “I shall help, but ye must first promise to trust as ye’ve never trusted before, and pledge to keep what I’m about to do our wee secret.”

Chapter 15

Although his gaze was fixed on the horse pull, Angus’s thoughts were on Birdi and her reactions going through the market. Lord, ‘twas like being a lad again, seeing it again for the first time through her eyes. And Lord, was she funny. And her expression when she saw that litter of pigs was priceless. Aye, and the way people stared at her in awe! None would ever have guessed she wasn’t a lady born. She carried herself straight and proud, smiled easily and often. And her laugh; it rang pure and clear, drawing the eye of every man within hearing. Aye, given a different set of circumstances—a different rearing—she would have made a perfect chatelaine for an ambitious man. Just the sight of her dressed in rich brocades and fur was enough to steal a man’s breath and make him weak at the knees. Aye, so why was he giving her up?

Pondering the possibility of his talking Lady Beth into training Birdi, he felt a drop of rain and turned to ask Birdi if she was ready to go.

She was gone.

Heart in his throat, he scoured the crowd. “Birdi!” Receiving no answer, he plowed his way through the tightly packed clansmen. “Birdi!”

Where the hell is she?

“What’s amiss?” Ian stood at his back.

“Birdi’s gone.”

“Dinna fash. Something in one of the stalls might have caught her eye, and she’s milling about there.”

Angus quickened his pace, his focus shifting from right and left as he examined every doorway he passed. “Nay, she wouldna.”

“She’s a woman, Angus. Of course she would.”

Teeth gritted, he hissed, “She wouldn’t, because she’s blind.”

Ian grabbed his arm and spun him. “She’s what?”

Angus wrenched free and took off at a jog, claymore banging at his back. “Blind! Blind as a bat, as a burrowing mole, as blind as Lizzy’s auld dog.” Chest heaving, he came to an abrupt halt before the market stalls. “God’s teeth, where the hell could she have gone?”

Ian shrugged and looked about helplessly.

Angus gave the marketplace another quick scouring and growled, “Ye take the right, I’ll go left. Bellow if ye find her.”

Angus ran. He’d been frightened a time or two in his life but never so often or to such a degree as he had since meeting Birdalane Shame. And when he found her, he’d paddle her fine hurdies raw and blistered for the aggravation she was putting him through. Aye, and take great pleasure in the doing!

After checking every open doorway, he tore past the entrances of short mews off the main road one after the other, calling out her name. He’d raced past the last before the sight of vivid blue registered in his mind. He turned and raced back.

There, at the end of the mews, before a pile of rags and a closed stable door, squatted Birdi. He took a deep settling breath, not trusting he wouldn’t grab her up by the hair and throw her over his knee. He didn’t bother keeping the menace out of his voice as he growled, “Birdi?”

When she didn’t respond he strode down the mews, and found himself face to face with a pathetic-looking stranger, a woman the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his time in France, when he’d boldly—and foolishly—toured the waterfronts, determined to drink himself into nightly stupors trying to forget all that he had done in the name of king and country.

The frail, hollow-eyed woman held a babe in her lap, its fragile parchment skin the color of roasted pumpkin, its dark eyes sunken into a seemingly too-large head. Its legs called to mind those of a stork’s. He kenned what ailed the babe; he’d seen this child time and time again after crops and cattle had been destroyed by war.

The babe was starving to death.

Birdi, head bent, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignored him. She was totally focused on the babe, one hand on its head, the other resting on the babe’s bloated belly.

“Ack, Birdi, lass...”

She’d apparently found a babe to replace the one she’d lost. It wasn’t uncommon for desperate women to offer their babes up for sale. ‘Twas often the only way to keep them alive.

He dropped to one knee. As he wrapped his arm around Birdi’s shoulders, he heard her whisper, “...please, Mother of All, Goddess, please I beg thee,” and his heart stuttered.

The blood drained from his head and he rocked back onto his haunches.

Oh my God. Birdi was pagan.

The babe beneath her hands shivered. It opened its mouth and then wailed. Not strongly as a proper babe might, but wail it did, its wee fists batting the falling mist. The mother, tears now streaming down her face, cooed and hushed the babe as she snatched it up and cradled it to her chest.

Birdi wavered and fell against him. As he steadied her, he felt heat. My God, the woman was burning up, near to melting with raging fever. Had she touched the babe and contracted something?

The shock of his discovery that she was Pagan forgotten, he tipped up her chin to see her face and a cold sweat exploded across his chest. Birdi’s magnificent eyes were now as vacant as the babe’s had once been, staring skyward, unblinking. “Birdi! For God’s sake answer me. Can ye hear me?”

In response she whispered, “Give her...coins.”

Angus scooped Birdi into his arms. He had to get her inside, get water into her, get food into her, do something. As he rose, she clawed at his chest with surprising strength. “The coins. All...will be...for naught...if she canna eat, the babe canna suckle.”

In no mood to argue—not willing to examine what he’d heard while sweat careened down his back and chest, with blood hammering in his ears—he tossed the frail woman a fistful of coins. He then turned. The woman called, “Bless ye!” as he ran with Birdi toward the main roadway.

As he rounded the corner he saw Ian emerge from a nearby building. “Ian!”

His friend came at a run, took one look at Birdi, and asked, “My God, man, what happened to her?” His hand reached for his dirk. “I’ll kill the son of a whore.”

“I’ve no idea, but we need to get her inside.” The mist had turned to an all-out rain.

“This way.” Ian raced ahead some thirty feet to the only two-story building on the now muddy roadway. He held the door wide as Angus angled Birdi through the doorway.

Following behind, Ian ordered, “Up the stairs, Angus. Second door.”

The whitewashed room, its low ceiling made lower by thick round beams, held only a bed and a chair. ‘Twould serve. It was warm and dry, the two things Birdi most needed.

Having had to hunch to get through the doorway, Angus remained stooped as he crossed the room to the sturdy- looking, pine-post bed. He lowered Birdi onto thin ticking.

Leaning over his shoulder, Ian asked, “What can I do?”

Angus ran a shaking hand over the stubble on his jaw. Think, man! Think! What had Lady Beth done when Duncan lay at death’s door with a raging fever? He pictured the sickroom, pictured Beth keening over his friend, and it all came back.

“Fetch a bucket of cold water and rags.”

“But she’s—”

“Dinna argue, man, just do it!”

As Ian reached for the door, Angus amended, “And broth, hot broth.”

His friend gone, Angus looked down at Birdi. Her cheeks were flushed, her body still. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Merciful Mother of God! What was wrong that she’d sickened so quickly? And what had she done or given to that babe?

Having no answers and desperately needing to do something, he knelt at Birdi’s side and started to undress her. He pushed off her cape and struggled with the pearl band about her head until he realized it was secured to the cauls. He pulled pins, got her headdress off, and her hair cascaded around her. He then studied her gown. Seeing no opening in the front, he rolled her onto her side and found no opening in the back. “Shit! Over the head then.”

He shoved the weighty brocade up to her waist. That done, he hauled her to his chest, pulled her arms free, and yanked the two-stone weight over her head. Wondering how she’d borne so much without slumping, he tossed the gown onto the floor and carefully lowered Birdi back onto the mattress. She now wore only a thin cotton shift over her snow-white, pebbled skin.

The door burst open, and instinctively Angus wrenched out his dirk. Seeing Ian, he muttered, “Ye scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.” Ian dropped a bucket beside the bed and handed him a fistful of rags. “The broth will be ready in a moment.”

“Thank ye.”

Looking as upset as Angus felt, Ian asked, “What else can I do?”

“Stand guard below.” Pagans were about as welcome these days as the plague, and the woman Birdi had spoken with had worn a cross.

“Has she spoken? Told ye what happened?”

Angus shook his head. “Not yet. I need to tend to her now. Let none above stairs, and keep your ears open.” He studied Birdi. “The moment her fever breaks we’re leaving. I’ll let ye know when to make ready the horses.”

Ian scowled. “Ye canna be serious. It’s pouring.”

Aye, and with any luck the rain would keep most inside and word that there was a Pagan in their midst wouldn’t spread as fast as he feared. “We ride, rain or nay rain.”

Muttering under his breath, Ian stomped out the door and down the stairs.

Angus soaked a rag in frigid water. Wringing it out, he whispered, “Ye are the one for keeping secrets, lass.” He shook his head as he wiped her brow. “What on earth will I do with ye now?”

He wiped her down with water, limb by limb. As he wiped the filth from her feet he wondered what had become of her delicate silver slippers. He tossed the dirty rag and reached for another, and started again with her face.

An hour later, Birdi’s fever still raged. At his wit’s end, he decided to soak all of her, front and back, and to hell with preserving her modesty. He pulled her into his arms and pulled off her shift.

His jaw went slack as he stared over her shoulder at her back. Scars—the likes of which he hadn’t seen even on friends, warriors—made lace out of her marble-white skin. Someone had taken a lash to her!

He laid her down and something deep in gut tightened. Oh my God. More scars marred the front of her. Fine, raised lines ran across her right shoulder, upper left arm, and left thigh. With a faint heart he dragged his gaze to her left side. The wound he’d caused had healed surprisingly well. ‘Twas now only a wee, faint, red line, but it, too, would eventually leave a scar. “Ack, lass, ye’ll never ken how much I regret hurting ye.”

He soaked another rag. As he scrubbed, he prayed. He would learn what had happened to her later.

~#~

Ian sat on the bottom step, his claymore across his lap. The fifteen men in the public room cast the occasional wary glance in his direction as he put a finer edge on his blade with a whetstone, but none spoke directly to him, though most, he suspected, talked of him. And of his friends above stairs.

Most in the room were cairds—tinkers—or herders come to Cairndow just for market day. They’d be leaving as soon as the sky cleared. Given the wind, that wouldn’t be long. And thank God. His friend had lost all perspective, thinking they should ride out in weather like this with a fevered woman. Which did bode well, he supposed, in one respect.

Whether his friend acknowledged it or not, Angus MacDougall was taken with his lass. It made Ian’s work—making Angus jealous and bringing him to the realization that he had his rightful bride already—that much easier.

And Birdi? She loved Angus, but he’d sensed a worrisome loss of patience within her. Why, he wasn’t sure. The woman hadn’t confided in him since doing so by the loch. That, too, he found disturbing. Women normally sought him out to worry aloud and ask his opinions. Birdi, however, was keeping her own counsel. Not a good thing, from his perspective, though it made her more intriguing.

And he still couldn’t believe Birdi was blind. He’d been with her for two days, and not once had she asked directions, run into something, or gotten lost. Until today.

He “humphed” deep in his throat, wondering how she was doing.

The door blew open and a drenched, rotund woman rolled over the threshold. Looking very agitated, she waddled over to the cluster of men in the far corner. As her plump arms waved, Ian watched the men’s expressions. Alarm registered on every face.

A heartbeat later the agitated and shouting patrons raced out the door.

Ian spit on his whetstone and again stroked the edge of his blade.

~#~

Hearing men shouting, Angus grabbed his broadsword and raced to the window. Bracing himself for the worst—finding the Gunns or raving villagers—he threw open the shutters.

To his monumental relief, people weren’t running toward the inn but away from it, pitchforks and scythes in hand.

He rolled the tension out of his shoulders, turned toward Birdi and saw he’d knocked over the bucket in his haste to get to the window. No matter. He needed more cold water, anyway. Though still fevered, Birdi now mumbled and occasionally thrashed. She was finally fighting her way out of her flaccid stupor.

He picked up the bucket and opened the door. Seeing Ian stationed at the base of the stairs, he called, “What was the racket about?”

Ian looked up. “A wolf has apparently helped himself to a few pullets.”

“Good for him.” Though he had no love for the beasts, at least this one had the sense to choose chickens instead of a babe or sheep. “I need more water.”

Ian climbed the stairs and took the bucket. “How is she?”

“Still fevered, but I think she’s getting better. I’ve no real reason. I just feel it in my bones.”

Ian forced a smile. “Bones and guts never lie.” As he started down the stair he asked, “Do ye want the broth now?”

Ack! He’d forgotten about the broth. Lady Beth swore by it, had shoveled bowls of it into his liege as he recovered. “Aye.”

Ian mumbled, “Be right back,” and Angus returned to the room to find Birdi, lips parched, curled in a shivering ball. “Merciful Mother!” He hauled her onto his lap and reached for her cape. He obviously had no intuitive bones. God, he loathed being in over his head.

Mayhap the village had a healer. He’d send Ian out to ask. It would leave them unguarded, but only for a short while. Surely he had the skill to hold off a mob intent on burning Birdi at the stake for a short while.

A minute later footsteps sounded on the stairs and Ian called, “‘Tis just me.”

He came in and dropped the bucket at Angus’s feet. His gaze immediately riveted on Birdi’s exposed back. “My God, who did that to her?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll kill the bastard as soon as I find out.” Angus shifted Birdi’s cloak a bit to better mask her nakedness from Ian. “Is the broth ready?”

“Aye, the publican’s wife is bringing it up along with some bread and cheese for ye.”

“I need ye to quietly ask around after a healer. I’ve done all I can to help her—”

“Nay.” Birdi, to his surprise, again croaked, “Nay.” She then licked her lips. “Drink.”

Relief flooded him.

Ian said, “I’ll get it,” spun, and nearly collided with the publican’s wife, who stood gawking in the doorway. He took the tray from her hands, mumbled, “Thank ye, mistress,” and closed the door on her. “Here.” He set the tray on the end of the bed and studied Birdi for a moment. “Do ye still want a healer?”

Angus, scowling, lifted Birdi’s chin. He still didn’t like her color, nor had she opened her eyes. For all he knew she was speaking in her sleep. “Aye.”

Birdi flopped a hand against his chest. “Nay, An...gus, please.”

She knew he held her! Hadn’t spoken in her sleep after all. “As ye wish, lass, no healer, but ye need to take some of this.” He held the bowl of broth to her parched lips.

After watching Birdi swallow a bit, Ian murmured, “I’ll leave ye be for now. Call if ye need anything.”

When the door closed, Angus whispered, “Woman, I dinna like fashing quite so often, not in the least. At the rate ye’re going, I’ll be white-headed by the time we reach home.”

“How many...” she cleared her throat, “seasons are ye?”

“Nine and twenty.”

Birdi managed a wee smile. “So auld.”

He kissed her hair, now damp and tangled as it cloaked her front. She still felt fevered. “I need to cool ye off again.”

He stood and laid her down. When her hands moved to cover the jet curls at the apex of her thighs, he shook his head. “‘Tis naught I’ve not seen before.”

Lids half closed, she whispered, “When a woman’s sick, she isna well, and ye should not tease.”

He grinned then and draped her cloak over her. “I still need to cool ye down.” He dipped a rag in the water.

Her gaze—as cool as the water—never left his visage as his hands moved in gentle circles from her smooth face to the column of her neck and down onto her scarred arms. Her top extremities finally cooled, he pushed the cloak down to her waist and found himself staring at the perfect twin globes with rose-frosted tips pointing straight at him.

God Lord, he hadn’t had a problem earlier, had run cold water over them as if they were merely ant mounds. But now, she watched and...

Birdi, her skin pebbling, asked, “What has ye fashing now?”

If she didn’t ken, he had nay way of explaining it.

Careful not to touch her there, he pulled up the cloaked and cleared his throat. “Roll onto yer side. I need do yer back.”  Retreat was often a man’s only ally.

“As ye lust.”

Aye, in the basest sense of the word.

Birdi rolled, putting her back to him. As his wide hands stroked her back with cold water, she shivered again. “I’m sorry lass, but this needs to be done or yer brain will cook.” Or so Lady Beth had warned as she’d tended his friend in similar circumstances.

“Ye have gentle hands,” Birdi told him.

“Thank ye.” He glided over the fine crisscrossing lines on her back. “Birdi?”

“Hmm?”

“When did this happen?”

“What?”

“The marks on ye back?”

She rolled then, flat onto her back, and clutched the cloak to her chest as if it were body armor.

Understanding she felt embarrassment, he still wanted to know, so he could beat the shit out of the one who’d done it, should the opportunity arise. “I ken ‘tis hard to speak of it, lass, but we need to. ‘Tisna right a lass should suffer such. The man needs to be punished for lashing you.”

She frowned. “‘Twas not a man, but a woman.”

Oh, dear Lord. Her mother?

His blood ran cold, though he shouldn’t have been taken by surprise. The woman had given Birdi an atrocious name, neglected to even kiss the lass, and now this. What manner of beast was she?

Realizing Birdi stared at him, he cleared his throat and placed a hand on her forehead. She felt cooler. Mayhap, he wasn’t so bad a physician after all. He raised her shoulders and reached for the bowl of broth. “Drink.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I dinna like that.”

“Who said ye were supposed to? Drink.”

The bowl empty, he lowered her back to the thin lumpy mattress. Were she at Blackstone she’d be lying on thick ticking, her head resting on a down-filled pillow, and his woolly warm blankets would be smothering her.

And Castle Blackstone’s priest would be hovering just outside the door. “Humph.”

~#~

Teeth chattering, drenched to the skin, Robbie Macarthur eased behind the smithy’s stable. He grinned for the first time in days, seeing a huge white head draped over one of the stall doors. The MacDougall’s stud. They’d finally caught up with the bastard and their stolen spae!

Dinna get too comfortable, laddie. Soon ye’ll be heading south.

Chapter 16

Birdi awoke to cool sunshine. She sniffed the air. Winter was on its way. Turning to the light, she saw Angus stretch before the open window.

He’d come up behind her after the healing had been done, but she couldn’t recall more. Had the woman kept their secret? What thoughts and questions now ran through his mind? And how many days had she been lying here? She had only scattered memories of broth, of freezing as Angus scrubbed her with careful hands, of his rocking her back to sleep whenever she woke screaming.

“Has the rain passed?”

Angus turned and smiled. “Aye.” He came closer and knelt beside her. His chest was bare, and she longed to reach out and touch it.

Placing a hand on her forehead, he asked, “How do ye feel?”

“Like a cow sat on my chest.” Seeing his brow furrow, she grinned. “Dinna fash, Angus. I’ll be right as rain come the morrow. Did I miss sup?”

“Aye, several.”

She groaned, suspecting as much, and tried to sit. Angus wrapped an arm about her and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Are ye hungry?”

“Aye.” She could eat that cow. “Where is Ian?”

“Downstairs flirting with the help.”

Relief flooded her. If neither Ian nor Angus had run off it meant Angus hadn’t seen any of the healing and the woman she’d helped had kept her word. That she hadn’t spoken to any about what Birdi had done. Her secret was safe.

Wondering how the babe now fared, she raked her hands through the matted hair clinging to her face and her fingers caught. Knots. One of these days she really needed to find herself a good pair of shears. Mayhap Tinker had some...

Kelsea’s missive!

Her gaze raced around the room, looking for her gown. Seeing a huge splash of vivid blue against one wall, she pointed to it. “May I have my gown, please? I’m cold.”

“Of course. I’m afraid it’s a bit wrinkled.”

Wrinkled, sminkled. Who cared, so long as the missive Kelsea had written still remained in the pocket?

When Angus laid the mass of blue on the foot of the bed, she had all she could do to keep her hands in her lap. “Thank ye.”

“Do ye need help?”

“Nay.” She cleared her throat. “I mean nay, thank ye, I can manage on my own.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll leave ye to it and go find us something to eat.”

The moment the door closed, Birdi yanked the gown onto her lap and frantically searched through fold after fold. When one hand slipped into a deep pocket and touched paper, she heaved a relieved sigh. She cautiously pulled the missive out and unfolded it. Within still lay a golden coin, enough Kelsea had told her, to send the missive to Tinker.

She brought the letter close to her eyes and squinted at the inked squiggles. Oh, how she wished she could read.

“Ye have no need to ken such, so stop nagging me.”

“But the bairns in the village do.” She’d watched them use sticks to write in the earth. Had crawled on her belly out into the open after they’d left to study their marks.

“Aye, and what good has it done them, or me, for that matter?” A hand caught Birdi’s ear. “Now go and fetch more berries or ye’ll have naught come winter. Go.”

Birdi sighed. Someday, she’d learn. How, she wasn’t sure, but someday she would.

She folded the paper around the coin and put it back in her pocket, then donned the gown.

She was struggling with her hair when Angus knocked. “Birdi? May I come in?”

She grinned. He’d seen her naked, bathed her, and now he asked? Men. “Aye, come in.”

The door swung wide. Angus carried a tray so laden with food it had to weigh more than she did. He set it on the bed. “After ye eat, we need to talk.”

Oh dear. “About what?” She suddenly had no appetite.

“About whether or not ye’re ready to ride. I’d like to make Inveraray by gloaming tomorrow...but only if ye feel up to it.” He tore a piece from one loaf and handed it to her. “If ye say nay, I’ll ken.”

Aye, he would, but he’d be none to happy about it. “I’m well enough to ride.”

“Are ye absolutely sure?”

“Aye.” The sooner they left, the less likely she’d be exposed. The woman she’d helped had, after all, worn the sign of the black-cloaked priests. Better to be out of sight and out of mind, as Minnie had once warned.

They ate in silence after that. When Angus had had his fill—two loaves, a mound of sausage, and three fish—he dug into the pouch he wore before his nether region. “Here.”

Not kenning what he held, she silently reached out. Finding a firm bone comb in her hand, she squealed, “Bless ye, Angus MacDougall!”

He grinned as she pulled her hair over her shoulder and struggled to run the comb through it.

After a moment Angus patted his lap. “Come here. Let me help.”

Seeing no hope for it, Birdi reluctantly assumed the hair-combing position. She sat between his thighs with her back to him, as she had before her mother. She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her jaws, readying for the yanking and pulling that would surely follow. If her knots couldn’t be combed out, they’d be yanked out.

“Knots lead to mats and mats to lice, and we’ll have none of that here.”

Angus combed through the lock caught between his thumb and forefinger and smiled as it sprang back into a nice fat curl. He dropped it over her shoulder and gently separated another strand from the tangled mass. “The first time I saw ye, I wished to run my hands through this hair.”

“Ye did? Why?”

Angus grinned. “Simply because.”

“Oh.” She craned her neck and looked up at him, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “Ye are truly an odd one.”

He laughed then. He’d been a bit melancholy all morning, kenning their time together was drawing to an end and it felt good to laugh for a change. Foolish, aye, but there it was.

“I was thinking of cutting it all off,” she told him.

He gave her hair a gentle tug. “Dinna ye dare.”

Birdi craned her neck again to look at him. Something troubling lurked in the deep recesses of her eyes. When she didn’t say anything but turned back around, he shrugged.

A knock sounded and Angus dropped a hand to his dirk. “Enter.”

Ian stepped through the doorway, resplendent in gold and black. “Morn, Lady MacDougall. Good to see you looking so well,” To Angus he said, “The publican needs ken if we’ll be spending another night.”

Ack! Why had Ian taken to calling Birdi Lady MacDougall? It only reinforced their situation’s futility. “Tell the man we’ll be leaving shortly.”

“I’ll fetch the horses.”

A few minutes later Angus ran a hand the length of Birdi’s hair, grabbed a fistful as Wee Angus had, and brought it to his lips. Aye, there couldn’t be any hair finer. He sighed, let it fall, and put his comb back in his sporran. “It’s ready for ye to braid.”

“Thank ye.” Birdi stood, pulled the curling mass over one shoulder, and made quick work of weaving the strands together. He held out the argent cauls and pearl band.

“Nay,” she murmured. “Can ye put them behind yer saddle in the bag?”

“Of course.” He thought cauls a ridiculous affectation, anyway. He helped her don her cape. “Are ye ready?”

“Aye.”

Downstairs, Angus found the publican waiting for him. As he handed over the coins, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood. He turned to find a rough-looking man staring at Birdi. He couldn’t blame him—she was lovely to behold—but something in the man’s stance made Angus pull Birdi closer. With a hand on his dirk, he made haste out the door.

~#~

Fegan eased over to the window. Keeping to the shadows, he ruminated over the way the spae was dressed as he watched her and Angus the Blood walk toward the stables. He hadn’t seen the like in his life. Not even Lady Macarthur dressed in such finery. What was the bastard trying to prove? That he could steal anything he liked with impunity and parade it about? And why was he drawing attention to her? Every eye turned as they passed.

He gave himself a shake. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be the Blood’s for more than an hour longer anyway.

When his quarry rounded the corner he left the inn and ran across the street. Jogging behind head-high rowan, he made his way to his brother, who hid behind the stable.

~#~

When the road fronting Loch Fyne narrowed before an outcropping, Angus kicked his mount ahead of Ian’s. “Are ye growing tired, Birdi?”

“Nay.”

“Humph.” Birdi had been too quiet since leaving the inn. He hoped it wasn’t something he’d said, but then women were known to misconstrue a man’s meaning at the oddest times. He’d seen Lady Beth do it often enough. Duncan’s life was regularly at sixes and sevens without his having a hint as to why. Another reason Angus had shied away from wedded bliss for so many years. Women—no matter how loved—could drive sane men wode. Not that he loved Birdi.

He turned in the saddle to ask Ian if he’d won anything at the contest and saw two horsemen coming up on them fast, claymores drawn. He shouted in warning and Ian

spun to look behind them.

Angus kicked Rampage around the boulders at a canter.

Birdi, startled, asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Trouble.” Without explaining further, he lowered Birdi by an arm to the ground. He wrenched his sgian dubh from his leg lacing and pressed it into her hand. “Hide behind these boulders, up and to yer right. Climb as high and as quick as ye can.”

Birdi grabbed his stirrup. “But why? What’s happening?” The answer came by way of Ian shouting and steel clanging on steel.

With no time to explain, he hissed, “Hie, Birdi, now!”

The moment Birdi ran clear he turned Rampage on his hind legs and dug in his spurs.

As he came abreast of the fight, Ian toppled, a scarlet fountain spewing from his right shoulder.

Angus’s battle cry tore from his throat as he swung his claymore at the man who’d felled Ian, then drove Rampage into the other rider. A battle veteran, his charger reared. Hooves flailing, he landed—all one hundred stone of him—on the pony’s haunches. The pony screeched as it collapsed under the weight, unseating its rider. Angus swung his claymore again and caught the rising man on the side of his neck. He felt the resistance of bone as blood arced like a crimson rainbow. The man fell without issuing a sound. The second rider stared wide-eyed at his fallen companion for just a heartbeat then spun and kicked his pony into a gallop, back from whence he’d come. Angus kicked Rampage in turn and followed.

He caught up with the rider at the next bend. Tall to start and better mounted, Angus had little trouble knocking the man off his horse. As the warrior crashed to the roadway, his shaggy mount bolted. Angus reined in and slid to the ground.

The man scrambled to his feet, claymore weaving before him, as Angus approached on foot. Ian was by now dead and this man was the one responsible.

Panting, the man eased to the right as Angus moved left, his blade singing as it swept the air before him in fast arcs. Teeth clenched, Angus growled, “Why?” If the bastard had any sense he’d drop his sword and answer.

The man lunged, feigned left, and swung again. Angus countered, catching him with the tip of his blade. The man jumped back and looked at his torn sleeve. Defiance flashed in the man’s eyes as a smirk curled one side of his mouth. “So ye are as good as they claim.”

Christ’s blood! Had these men killed Ian just so they could brag they’d taken on Angus the Blood?

He saw red.

Sword flailing, his mind went blank. His muscles and experience took over the fight.

When he came to his senses, the man he fought lay in a bloody heap on the roadway, an arm missing, his neck severed.

Angus bowed his head and saw his own chest and legs were covered in blood. His claymore slipped from his bloody hands as his head fell back.

“Aaaaaahhh!”

~#~

Birdi’s skin prickled as pure agony echoed off the loch and rebounded off the high hills at her back. Her throat went dry. “Angus!”

She scrambled down shale and onto the roadway. “Please, Goddess, please, please dinna let it be Angus.”

Arms outstretched, she ran, head and heart reeling with the certain knowledge someone had died. “Please Goddess, please, I’ll do anything ye ask. Please, oh please.”

She stumbled, righted herself, and ran on. A moment later she saw something large lying in the road before her. Deep red was everywhere, big splotches of it scattered over the dark earth and lighter gravel of the roadway. Panting, heart threatening to make good its escape through her heaving chest, she dropped to her knees before the man. Blank brown eyes stared back at her. Who was this? ‘Twas not Angus!

Ack! She didn’t care who the man was. Her Angus was out there somewhere, and she had to find him. She scrambled to her feet, took a step, and fell, her foot caught in her hem. Furious, she wrenched her skirts up with both hands, got to her feet, and ran on only to land hard on her hands and knees.

Familiar gold and black filled her limited field of vision. “Ian? Oh, Goddess, Ian!” She crawled beside him through a pool of blood, looking for the wound. She instinctively jerked away when her hand made contact with wet stickiness. His right shoulder was soaked in blood. Leaning over him, she ran hasty fingers along his neck. She found a pulse, but it was only like that of a wee rabbit’s, too fast and weak for a man his size, not strong enough to sustain his life. Should she stay and try to save him or seek Angus? Shaking, she keened, “What to do, what to do?”

When he groaned, his need ripped through her, and the decision was made. “Ian, can ye hear me?” His head lolled toward her and stunning blue eyes stared back at her. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Tell...him...I’m...sorry.” His eyes then closed and his jaw went slack.

“Nay!” She slapped his cheek and shouted, “Listen to me! Believe. Trust in me.”

To her relief, he opened his eyes once again. They didn’t appear to see, but ‘twas enough. Would have to be.

She rocked back onto her feet and, squatting, pressed her crossed palms firmly to his shoulder, making him groan. Heart racing, she pleaded, “Mother of All, tis I, Birdi. Please, I beg ye come, and give me the strength once again. Please, Mother, please.” She closed her eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and waited for the tingling heat to rise, a sure sign the power was again within her.

Feeling it surge through the soles of her feet and up her legs, her heart finally slowed. Aye, ‘twas now time. “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound so Ian may live.” She then crooned the auld words, the secret words of thanks and praise.

When she sensed the task done, Birdi lifted her hands from Ian’s shoulder, and felt, rather than saw, a shadow over her where none should be.

Battling the mind-bending pain surging through her, she looked up. Angus’s stark white face stared back.

Arms slack at his side, he dropped to his knees beside her. “Nay.”

Her heart breaking, kenning he’d witnessed it all, she whispered, “I feared ye’d hate me. If ye kenned...”

Her world turned black.

Angus, his eyes locked on the scarlet stain blooming across Birdi’s shoulder, barely managed to catch her before her head hit the ground. “Merciful Mother of God, please tell me this isn’t happening.”

He’d never given credence to the tales of cailleaches, brehons and bandrui. Hell, he barely gave credence to Saint Brigid, the patron saint of the Highlands. Yet try as he may he couldn’t deny what his eyes had seen and his ears had heard. And he didn’t want to believe. He wanted Birdi to be normal, just an odd, orphaned beauty. No secrets, no powers, no fears. Normal.

Blood continued to spread across Birdi’s chest as the wind rushed across the loch. He felt cold tracks slide down his cheeks. Was his beautiful Birdi now dying?

Please, God, no.

He looked at his fallen friend still lying in a pool of blood. His jerkin remained slashed and soaked with blood, as was the once snow-white shirt beneath, yet as Ian looked back at him from clear blue eyes, his skin was returning to almost normal color when not a moment ago it had been ashen. His expression was as shocked as Angus suspected his own now was.

“She’s a cailleach.”

Struggling into a sitting position, Ian nodded. “Aye. Now put pressure on her wound.”

Why hadn’t he thought of that? Angus pressed his hand down on Birdi shoulder, feeling wet warmth—Birdi’s life—beneath his palm. His stomach roiled. Oh dear God, his poor wee Birdi. Her being Pagan wasn’t bad enough, God? Ye had to make her a cailleach as well? Ack!

At Angus’s side, Ian wavered a bit and had to use his arms to brace himself. “Are the bastards dead?” Angus nodded. “But it happened again. I saw ye lying here, thinking ye dead, and...”

He didn’t explain further. Ian had seen him lose control—become a berserker—once before; they’d come upon a group of Hessians raping two French women years ago.

Ian nodded in understanding, apparently unfazed, and then looked about. “We need to dress her wounds. Where’s my horse?”

Angus shrugged. If there was any logic left in the world the cattle were together. He whistled. A moment later Rampage thundered up the road with Ian’s black gelding at his back.

Ian staggered to his feet, grabbed his mount’s reins, and tied him to a tree. “He isna as cooperative as yer beast.” Ian routed around in the bag behind his saddle and pulled out a fine silk shirt. As he walked back, he tore it into strips. “Take her cape off, and let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Angus undid the clasp at Birdi’s breast and slipped the cape from her shoulders. Above the gown’s wide scoop neck, he saw the top of the weeping scarlet slash. With his gut feeling like it was full of glass shards, he eased her arms out of the brocade. Ian held Birdi upright and Angus lifted the gown over her slack body. He pushed the sheer cotton shift off her shoulder, exposing the whole oozing gash, and shuddered. It was a good six inches in length. He could see bone.

Ian cleared his throat. “‘Tis not so bad.”

Angus glared at his friend.

Together they cleaned the wound and bound Birdi about the chest and right shoulder. Her shift and gown back in place, Angus cradled her to his chest. As he rocked side to side with her, he said, “We’re only a few miles from Clachan. I know of a kirk there where we can seek shelter for the night.”

“Good. Come morn, ‘tis only a day’s ride to Inveraray. We can seek refuge with the Duke of Argyll until she recoups.” After a minute Ian added, “Ye need to think about riding straight for Blackstone.”

Angus brushed the loose strands from Birdi’s face. Looking at her, wishing with all his heart that she would open her eyes, he said, “We canna. First, it’s an arduous trek and she’s in no condition to make it, and second, Blackstone has a zealot for a priest. He’ll drive her wode in an effort to convert her.” Why his liege hadn’t tossed the fanatic glutton out of Drasmoor years ago was beyond Angus’s understanding. “And if he ever saw her lay on hands...

Ian flexed his injured shoulder. “Listen to me. We can take a boat across Loch Awe at Portsonchan, which will cut off a good two-day’s ride, then head due west. As for Fat John, who says he needs to know what she is.”

“Ye think he’ll not grow suspicious when she doesn’t attend vespers? When she refuses to confess before him? The man isna an idiot.” Fat John had given Lady Beth headaches too numerous to count when she’d first arrived and the woman was Christian and worldly, unlike his Birdi.

“We’ll make excuses for her until we can come up with something else.”

Angus grunted. Birdi didn’t know the Holy Ghost from a kelpie—would nay doubt trip herself up within a week—and God only knew what would happen then. Ack. “How is yer shoulder?”

“Ye’ll not believe it.” He shrugged off his jerkin and opened his shirt lacings for Angus to see.

Ian’s wound—identical to the one Birdi now bore—was miraculously on the mend. Though beyond belief, Angus no longer wondered how Birdi had come by her many scars.

Rising, he growled, “Let’s get out of here.”

~#~

Their footsteps echoed throughout Clachan kirk’s frigid nave as Angus and Ian walked toward the altar. Ian, dirk in hand, murmured, “‘Tis empty.”

Angus shifted Birdi in his arms. “Thank God.” Birdi had been crying out in her sleep, much as she had after she’d tended Kelsea and the babe she’d found in the mews. There’d be no explaining it to a stranger. “Make a pallet for her there.” He nodded toward the raised dais.

Ian snatched the cloth from the marble altar, hauled down a tapestry hanging to the right of a shallow alcove, and pulled the cushions from three tall, heavily carved chairs stationed to the left of the altar. After he’d laid them out, Angus lowered Birdi and covered her with Ian’s great cloth of plaid. He then sat next to her and took one of her cool hands in his. He turned it over and rubbed a thumb over the calluses dotting her palm.

“Ye’ve not had an easy time of it, have ye, lass?”

And matters were likely to get worse. Ian was right. They needed to make for Blackstone. Castle Blackstone was an isle fortress. Ensconced within its walls, Birdi couldn’t come to harm again. More importantly, she’d never be alone again. The priest he would deal with in some way.

And what of his wager with Duncan, and the lass who waited at Beal? He hissed through clenched teeth. Mayhap, if he looked pathetic enough—if he raised his wager to a full year’s salary—Duncan would concede to giving him another fortnight to bring home a proper chatelaine bride. If Duncan would, he—Angus the Blood—might still be able to gain Donaliegh and his chiefship. And if he failed...hell, he’d already grown accustomed to starving.

He ran a finger along Birdi’s lush lower lip. But to make it all work, he had to prepare her.

“Ian, find me some holy water.”

Birdalane Shame was about to be baptized into the One True Faith.

Chapter 17

Birdi sat, shoulders sore, in a tall chair by a warm fire in a small, darkly paneled room. She pulled the soft blanket about her and warily eyed Angus as he spread their supper of bread and fish before them.

She’d been told when she awoke just an hour ago that they were now in Inveraray, in the home of a man named Argyll. Unable to tolerate the suspense any longer, she asked, “Are ye angry with me?”

“Nay. Mayhap disappointed that ye’d not trusted me enough to confide in me, but not angry. Ye did, after all, save Ian’s life.”

Aye, there was that. “Thank ye for taking care of me. Again.” He’d been most solicitous, despite her keeping him awake for two nights running as she raved and thrashed.

He pulled an angle iron out of the fire and stuck it in the tankard he held. A moment later he handed her warmed ale and honey. “Ye’re welcome, but ye ken I canna tolerate any more secrets. Ye need to be honest with me. And I want yer promise that ye’ll stop doing whatever it is ye do to bring yerself to harm.”

“‘Tis not as if I seek the sick and dying, Angus.” When the need came, it came, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

“I’ll not pretend to ken any of this, but I do ken that ye do...whatever ye do...with a pure heart. Unfortunately, too many will not look upon yer...” He waved his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Healing?” she offered.

“Aye, healing, with the favor I view it.”

“Ah.” No great surprise there, she supposed. The Macarthurs feared her, so why wouldn’t others? “And now what?”

He knelt before her so his eyes were close and level with hers and took her hands in his. She sighed. He had such lovely hands, broad and warm with such bonnie long fingers. Calloused, they held hers gently and made her feel safe.

“I’m taking ye home.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Ye’re taking us back to the glen?” She threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, thank ye, thank ye!” She kissed him then, hoping her lips could express the pure joy she felt within. Oh, she truly loved Angus the Canteran, and he obviously loved her. He wasn’t angry after kenning what she truly was, had even called her pure of heart. Aye, she loved her Angus. They could live together...

To her surprise, he gently pried her arms away.

“Birdi, we’ll not be going to yer glen, but to my home, Castle Blackstone.”

“Oh.” Disappointment landed with a thud in her chest. Like a hot coal it burned a hole within her breast. “But why?”

He cleared his throat. “With my people ye’ll be safe and ye’ll never be alone again.”

“I see.” Her throat burned, realizing she’d misunderstood. He didn’t feel as she did, didn’t experience the same joy at their touching, listening to the other speak. He didn’t want her, but only felt obligated to keep her safe.

Feeling much akin to how she’d felt handing over Wee Angus to Kelsea, she clasped her hands in her lap. “Ye dinna ken how it is, Angus. Yer clan will take one look at me and turn away just as the Macarthurs do.”

He placed his hands on either side of her face. “Birdi, they’ll not turn away, because I’ll teach ye what ye need to ken to be one of us.”

“But my eyes...”

He frowned. “What about them?”

“They’ll ken me—what I am—by my eyes.”

“Birdi, though unique, yer eyes are beautiful. So bonnie, in fact, my heart nearly stopped the first time I saw them.”

She shook her head, not believing a word, for if his heart had nearly stopped, he’d feel as she did. He’d be taking her home, and they’d share her croft and swim and...

“Birdi, ask Ian. Ye trust him. He’ll tell ye the same.”

She studied his eyes, so wondrously blue and kind. Poor man, he did believe what he said, but she kenned better. She’d seen her truth in a looking glass.

Forcing a smile, she asked, “So, what do I need to learn?”

He suddenly grinned. “That’s the brave lass.” He kissed the tip of her nose then rose. Pacing, he said, “First ye need to ken manners. We are, after all, in the house of a duke. We can deal with prayers and the like later.”

As he droned on, pacing and gesturing before her, Birdi patted her pocket. Aye, ‘twas still there, her missive to Tinker. She’d post it on the morrow. Tonight and until Tinker could come for her, she need only humor the handsome Canteran who apparently still loved his hale Mary.

~#~

Beneath the flight of circling and squawking gulls, Angus led Birdi, dressed in a borrowed gown—hers was still having the blood washed out of it—through the streets of Inveraray. As he described the fishing boats and catches, explained the local lore, he watched men watch her.

He hadn’t wanted to take her out, but she’d insisted, claiming she needed to buy a necessity. Never having lived with a woman, but knowing they had odd rituals and a monthly flow they called “the flowers” he thought better of arguing with her. Besides, if she traveled about and none shouted, Witch! she might finally believe she wasn’t so visibly different from her peers. Unfortunately, she was lovely and people did stare, but then, she didn’t notice, being so blind.

Stopping before a shop bearing a sign with a thistle, Angus handed her a coin. “This should get whatever ye need. I’ll wait by the door. Should ye have any trouble, any at all, just call.”

Biting her bottom lip, Birdi mumbled, “Thank ye.” She then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and chin high entered the shop. He smiled. No one would ever ken she wasn’t a lady of high birth.

After a few minutes she came out carrying two sugarplums.

“Did ye get what ye needed?”

She handed him one of the sweets and three bodles. “I did what I needed to do. Can we go back to the keep now?”

What was amiss? Why didn’t she appear happy after her first successful barter? “Are ye sure? There’s a market ye might enjoy.”

“I’m sure.”

“Verra well.” He placed a hand at her waist and turned her up the hill. As they passed an alehouse a bawdy female shouted, “Drop her home and come back to me, handsome!”

Birdi grew roots in the roadway. Frowning, she asked, “Who’s that?”

“Just a paikie.”

“A what?”

He leaned closer so she could hear him over the woman’s continued catcalls, the gulls, and the rumbling wagons. “A trull, ye ken, a prostitute.”

Birdi nodded and pursed her lips. “And what is she to ye?”

“Nothing, I assure ye.” He reached for her elbow, but Birdi wrenched free and stomped over to the trull before he realized what she was about.

From only a foot away, her hands on hips, Birdi’s gaze raked the brassy-throated woman. “Ye have a bonnie gown, mistress, but yer mouth does not do it justice.”

The paikie assumed the same stance, a smirk gracing her hard-worn face. “And who might ye be, calling my mouth into question?”

Angus sidled up to Birdi and took her elbow, well aware people had stopped to listen. “Come on, Birdi. We need to go.”

Birdi shook off his hand. To the woman she hissed, “His ladywife, and I’ll thank ye to keep yer thoughts to yerself.”

“Oh, will ye now?”

“Aye, or I’ll cut ye from gullet to tail, slip ye from yer skin and nail it on my door. Then I’ll tan yer sorry hide—”

Aghast, Angus yanked Birdi off her feet and spun. Carrying her in one arm, he strode up the hill. Over his shoulder, he called, “Our pardon, madam.”

When he thought it safe, he set her down and, using a firm hand, hustled her along. Aware people still watched them, he hissed, “God’s teeth, Birdi. Ye dinna engage her ilk.”

“But she’s one of those that spread the...ack, I dinna recall the name. Ye ken, the sickness where a man’s poker gets full of pussy sores and near falls off.”

“Ack, Birdi! Ye canna be speaking of men’s pokers and pus, not in public at any rate. Come.”

He couldn’t believe she even knew the ailment grandgore, let alone talked about it! The sooner he got her home and started shoving some solid catechism down her throat, the better off they’d both be. The woman had absolutely no sense of public decorum.

~#~

Angus frowned as Birdi, glassy eyed, held the prayer book he’d given her with the reverence a minion might give the Pope’s staff. She obviously liked his gift, so why did she not open it? “Well? Open it.”

Biting her lower lip, she muttered, “I canna read.”

“Ah.” He rubbed his jaw for a moment and then smiled. “Ye needn’t read it. Ye have a quick mind and can commit to memory what ye need ken.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Just repeat after me. Our father who—”

She blinked like an owl. “Ye ken my father?”

He grinned. “Nay, Birdi, ‘tis only a prayer. Just repeat it. Our Father who art in heaven...”

“Our Father who art in heather.”

“Nay heather, Birdi, hea—ven.”

“Where’s heaven?”

“In the sky, beyond the stars.”

“There’s something beyond the stars?”

Accepting it would be a long night, Angus assured her, “Aye, Birdi, a magical place full of angels—winged people of great spirit.”

“Ah.”

He smiled. This might not be so difficult after all. “Hallowed be thy name.”

“What name?”

“God’s.”

“Which god’s?”

Where the hell was the silver-tongued Ian when he needed him? “Our God, yours and mine. Everyone’s.”

“I dinna ken him. Now, Mother of All, Goddess, I ken. She’s all powerful—”

“Birdi, just listen and repeat.”

She huffed and slouched in her chair. “As ye wish.”

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is

in heaven...”

Looking petulant, her lower lip pouched out, she repeated the phrase.

“Very good.” They were making progress. “Now...Give us this day our daily bread.”

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

“And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

She leaned forward and frowned. “Ye have debts?”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose in an effort to ease the pain building behind his eyes. “No, Birdi. It means to forgive those who injure ye.”

She snorted in derisive fashion, but repeated the phrase.

“...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.” When she’d repeated that, he asked, “Would ye like me to say it again—all at once this time—so ye can better learn it?”

“Nay need. I ken it just fine.” She sighed, propped an elbow on the armrest and rested her chin in her hand. “Our sire in heaven with the hallowed name—which Angus has apparently forgotten—thank ye for the day and bread. Forgive your debtors then lead us away from tempting evil, amen.” She heaved a mournful-sounding sigh. “What means amen?”

Good God. “Amen means the end.”

His, by the sound of things.  Could he pass off her strange phrasing as a regional oddity? “Would ye mind trying another?” Mayhap she could get this one right.

She sighed. “I suppose. I’ve naught better to do.”

He forced a smile, and considered the Hail Mary. ‘Twas short and easy enough, but mayhap it would be better if he taught her something more encompassing, one she could recall should Blackstone’s priest—or anyone else, for that matter—question her about doctrine. Settling on the Apostles Creed, he said, “This one is long but verra important. Are ye ready?”

She sighed again, her elbow still on the armrest, her chin still in her hand. “If ye insist.”

“Repeat after me.....I believe in God, the father almighty, creature of heaven and earth...”

“Nay, nay, nay.” Sighing, Birdi straightened. “Ye have it all wrong, Angus. Goddess, Mother of all, made earth, is earth in fact. In the beginning...”

Angus stopped listening.

The throbbing pain behind his eyes, the one that now pulsed with the rhythm of a ferrier’s hammer on steel, made it impossible. He slowly dropped to his knees on the sheepskin rug at Birdalane Shame’s feet and reached for her tankard. He drained it and reached for the flagon. He’d been wrong in assuming this might prove a long night. He’d yet to mention Christ, the Immaculate Conception, or the Resurrection, and he could already tell ‘twas, in fact, going to be a verra, verra long night if they survived it at all.

The flagon emptied, he wondered where Argyll hid his whiskey.

~#~

Ian sat to the left of the Duke of Argyll, whiskey in hand, before the great hall’s blazing fire. To their right the duke’s toy sword-wielding offspring tormented the guards and a pair of gray hounds, their great heads tucked beneath equally great paws, while the ladies sat at a distance in apparent oblivion, their needles flashing through embroidery hoops.

He noticed a green-eyed beauty shyly eyeing him from beneath the wide brim of her headdress as she labored. He smiled back, arched an eyebrow in question, and as expected she giggled and ducked her chin, her cheeks glowing bright red. Ah, virgins. Lovely to look at, but not to touch.

He sighed feeling both comfortable and envious of those in the hall. There was definitely something to be said for living within a keep with kith and kin. Ye didn’t have to worry about private agendas and subterfuges, nor spend a fortune to look the part of a courtier when all ye really wanted to wear was a coarse shirt, yer breacan feile, and naught else.

He’d not seen his home—the lands in the far northwest—in five years, not since becoming the Duke of Albany’s spy.

Aye, the glamour of being at court, of traveling to the continent, had definitely waned, but ‘twas a sacrifice he would continue to make willingly. First to assure his sept remained secure within their holdings despite their frequent confrontations with their neighbors, the Earls of Caithness and Sutherland; and second, to keep Scotland safe until their true king returned. Though given what he now knew of Albany, Ian wouldn’t be holding his breath as he waited.

The duke cleared his throat. “MacDougall’s ladywife is verra quiet, and has such an odd name...Birdi.”

Ian grinned. “‘Tis MacDougall’s pet name for her. She can be a bit flighty.”

Ian had introduced Angus and Birdi as husband and wife, since Birdi had no chaperone. The blood on their clothing he’d explained away by explaining how he’d been wounded and that Birdi had been soiled while tending him. The lie garnered not only sympathy for hi but elevated the status of the fair and fulsome Birdi.

“And who is her sire?” Argyll asked.

Ah. Argyll wanted to know what alliances Birdi and Angus’s union may have formed. Ian yawned, feigning disinterest. “Her father was a lowland sheriff of little note who died many years past. She came with no dowry to speak of. Her gown is a wedding gift from MacDougall.” He shrugged. “I fear my friend made an alliance of the heart rather than one of the purse. But ye can’t fault the man— one only needs to take one look at Lady MacDougall to understand his reasoning.”

Argyll snorted. “Aye, she is most fair, but ye’d be wise to avoid such foolish. Beauty won’t fill a hungry belly nor defend a holding. Marry power, my friend. Marry a full purse.”

Relieved his lies weren’t being challenged—having Argyll for an enemy could prove disastrous to all of them, Ian promised, “When the time comes, I shall heed yer advice.”

“Do.” After taking a sip of his ale, Argyll said, “Now tell me what ye hear of our imprisoned laddie and the Gunn.”

~#~

The Macarthur growled deep in his throat. His best swordsmen, good men both, were dead? “Nay,” he growled at the man he’d sent to hunt the brothers down after growing impatient for word about his kidnapped spae.

“Aye, sire, they’re dead.” The messenger cast a quick glance at Mary Macarthur, heavy with child, keening for all she was worth by the fire. Nodding in her direction, he whispered, “Beheaded, sire.” He shuddered and said in a normal tone, “I buried them and brought back their swords and ponies for their families.”

Macarthur, not giving a wee bawbee what the man did with the damn swords and ponies, bit down on his tongue. ‘Twould not do to appear frazzled before the clan. “The MacDougall and the spae, man. What of them?”

“I believe they’re heading west, sire. I was but an hour from Cairndow when I found Robbie and Fegan’s bodies.”

Ah ha! The Blood and his spae were heading for Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone. To his captain, Macarthur said, “Get the weaponry ready. I want every man over the age of five-and-ten armed and ready to ride at dawn.”

He’d have MacDougall’s head on a spike before the next full moon if he had to lop it off himself.

~#~

As the sky lightened with the rising sun, Angus shifted on the uncomfortable pallet he’d made from the few bedcoverings he’d found in the chest at the foot of the big bed Birdi occupied, the bed their host had intended for both of them to share. Her face was as serene as a newborn babe’s. Came from sleeping with a clear conscious, he supposed. He envied her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept through the night.

And what was he to do about Birdalane Shame?

She’d learned the Apostles’ Creed, not well, but had committed the broad points to memory but she wouldn’t concede in any fashion or form to the notion that God—and not Goddess—had crafted the world.

Getting her to accept the Immaculate Conception and Resurrection had been easy—she had similar beliefs in her own faith—but getting her to understand the Crucifixion of Christ had been a nightmare. No way was she going to accept an all-powerful father deliberately allowing his son—one he claimed to love—to die on a cross. They’d gone around and around on that singular point for most of the night. He’d finally admitted defeat when she’d suggested we hang God on a cross and see how he likes it.

His head started to throb just thinking about it.

To make matters more untenable, they—he and Ian—had declared Birdi his wife before the Duke of Argyll, which meant there was absolutely no way Father John would not hear about it. He’d raise bloody hell about the handfasting and insist on a kirk ceremony. “Humph.”

He might as well kiss Donaliegh and his chiefship goodbye. And all because he saw a fair maiden rise out of the water like a mythical kelpie and wanted her.

Hell, he still wanted her. Just look at her. She was not only stunningly beautiful, but funny, irreverent—and lusty, if their one bout of lovemaking was any indication. Worse, he could still taste her, still feel the texture of her skin at the tips of his fingers, could still smell the sweet scent of grass and woman that emanated off her.

Ack, what to do?

One thing was certain. This was the absolute last time he’d let his poke-a-sweeties rule his head.

Seeing Birdi’s eyes open, he murmured, “Good morn.”

“Morn.” She cleared her throat. “Frog,” she told him. “Minnie said they crawl in if ye sleep with yer mouth open.” She stretched and yawned. “Though how one got all the way up here is beyond kenning.” She rolled into a sitting position, her shoulders and arms exposed, her bandage evident, the sheet clamped in a fist at the junction of her high breasts. “How was yer sleep?”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m hungry. Do ye think anyone is awake below stairs?”

Angus rolled up and onto his feet. Pouring water into a washbowl he said, “I’ll wager we can find some griddle cakes.”

“Oow!” She beamed at him, dimples making crags in her cheeks.

He grinned. “Ye like havers, huh?”

“Oh, aye. They’re best right after hulling, but I’ll eat them anytime.” She bounded out of bed, her front covered, her backside jiggling ever so slightly, obviously enjoying the freedom and air.

She would definitely be the death of him.

Birdi settled beside him to watch his ablutions, stretching her mouth this way and that as he shaved.

Staring at his blade, she asked, “Why do ye do that?”

“I’m told ladies prefers a clean-shaven man.”

She gave that some thought. “It does appear cleaner.” She ran a careful hand down his cheek. “Feels nicer, too.”

He had all he could do to keep from grabbing her wrist and planting a kiss on her palm. “Ah, the lady does apparently prefer a clean-shaven man.”

“Am I a lady?”

“Of course.”

“Because we’re handfast?”

“In part.”

Her brow furrowed. “What will I be when ye break the handfast?”

Ah...when he broke the handfast, huh? “Ye’ll still be a lady but not Lady MacDougall. Ye’ll be Mistress Shame.”

“Nay!” She jumped off the stool and went to the open window. Voice cracking, she hissed, “I’ll not bear the shame of my... consepshin...as my name. She’s dead. So is he, for all I ken. Let the ghosts lie.”

Frowning, he dropped the toweling he’d been using, walked to her and, taking her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. “Birdi, what are ye talking about? Is yer clan not called the Shame?”

“I have no family, so how can I have such?”

Unease made mush of his already abused gut. “Birdi, when I asked ye who yer sire was ye told me Shame.”

“Aye, ‘twas what she said.”  A tear shimmered on the cusp of her thick lashes. In a low tone she hissed, “‘Shame’s yer sire, his shame, my shame, and now yer shame for asking.’” The tear toppled as a dewdrop might off the bend of a rose petal and made its way down her cheek. He caught it on the tip of his finger, where it sat like a liquid diamond.

He suddenly felt very ill. “Ye poor birdalane.”

“Aye, ‘twas what she called me.”

Birdi might as well have shoved a knife in his gut and twisted it. Merciful Mother of God. Her mother hadn’t even had the decency to name her. If she’d been alive he would have strangled the woman right then and there and taken great pleasure in the doing.

He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Today you must choose a new and special first name. One as beautiful as ye.” His arm about her waist, he walked back to the water bowl. “After yer ablutions, we’ll eat. As we ride we’ll think of yer new name. We’ll get Ian to help.”

And from this day forward Birdi would bear the last name of MacDougall, and he’d slit the throat of any man who claimed she hadn’t the right.

Birdi sniffed. “I would like that.”

“Verra good. Now turn so I can unwrap this bandage.”

#

In Castle Blackstone’s great hall, Duncan MacDougall, laird of all he surveyed, smiled.

“What are ye grinning about?”

He looked up and found his ladywife, Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding MacDougall—Beth to those who loved her—leaning over his shoulder. Good God, he was a lucky man. He’d found her in a fractured coach one stormy night, and believing her to be the woman Albany intended for his bride, Duncan had immediately married her. By the time he discover the astonishing—and at the time horrifying—truth, that she was a woman of the future transported back in time by the wedding ring she now wore, he’d already lost his heart to her, and his life had forever changed. The three bairns that romped about his feet were but a small measure of the many ways.

She bent down and kissed his cheek. “Well?”

“I just received a missive from my cousin Kelsea Lindsey Frasier.”

“That’s nice. What did she have to say?”

Chapter 18

Since the missive was written in French and his dear wife couldn’t get her mind around the language, Duncan read aloud, “My most revered cousin, I write on behalf of a most astonishing woman named Birdi, who believes this missive is addressed to a person of her acquaintance named Tinker. If you are reading this I must assume your captain-at-arms Angus MacDougall has not seen the light and is behaving the fool.”

Beth laughed.

Trying not to laugh himself, Duncan continued, “He obviously loves Birdi, and she, I assure you, is much in love with him. Their circumstances are, however, most different and difficult. Birdi is, in a word, extraordinary, both in visage and heart, but she is not one of us, not of the gently bred. I beg you to look kindly upon her should she arrive on your threshold. She has done me a great service, one I will never be able to repay in this lifetime. She is truly pure goodness and more than a match for your Angus. If you please, your humble servant, Kelsea Lindsey Frasier.”

Beth curled in the chair across from him. “My, my, it seems your scheme worked. Our Angus has finally found himself a woman.”

“Aye, but all apparently isna going well, else we’d not have received this.”

“Could it be because ye charged him with—Duncan Thomas MacDougall! Stop pulling your sister’s hair or you’ll find yourself sitting in a corner.”

“Humph!” Why could she not just clout the wee beastie on the side of his head as he did and be done with it? But nay. His ladywife had to torture their poor son for an hour, making the wee laddie sit in a corner where he fretted and grumbled for all to hear.

If he lived to be one hundred years, he’d never ken his ladywife’s odd, twenty-first-century ways.

Beth turned her attention back to him. “What was I saying? Ah...Angus. Could it be that you charged him with finding an educated chatelaine but instead he found himself in your cousin’s words, one that’s not one of us?”

“Mayhap. He does take pride in keeping his word.” He sighed. “When I tricked him into the wager, I just wanted him to find a worthy wife. I was weary of seeing envy in his eyes every time he watched the Silversteins or you and me. He was lonely and too proud—”

“And stubborn.”

“And too stubborn,” he conceded, “to admit it. And I only insisted on a chatelaine, because I didna trust him not to grab the first unsuspecting lass he came upon. He does, after all, crave a lairdship with a passion most men dinna expend even on their wives.”

Beth grinned and patted her swollen belly. “Unlike one handsome laird I could mention.”

“Humph!” ‘Twas not his fault Beth was a delicious handful in bed.

Beth rose and put her hands on the small of her back and arched. “I’d best start getting a room ready. I don’t move a fast as I used to.”

Duncan came to his feet and wrapped his arms about her. “Have I ever told ye how lovely ye are?” How she could think herself plain was beyond kenning.

Beth blushed to a rosy hue as she always did whenever he mentioned her appearance. “Go on with you.” She kissed him and waddled off carrying his seed, his legacy, snug within her hips. God, he loved her.

He cleared his throat. Now to make sure Angus experienced the same mind-befuddling existence.

~#~

Riding ahead of them down the slippery shale slope, Ian called over his shoulder, “How about Belinda?”

Angus, leaning back as far as the saddle would allow, asked, “What say ye, Birdi? ‘Tis fair.”

Birdi, leaning back as well, shook her head. “Nay.”

The men had suggested hundreds of names, mayhap as many names as there were stars below heaven, and still none felt right to her. And here they were only a mile or so from Angus’s Drasmoor. She could already smell change in the air. Something tangy, not unlike the breeze off Inveraray, yet different, stronger, foreign, not unlike the man who held her. And she needed a name before she met his people.

She now kenned, to her shame—augh, she loathed that word—that she’d never been given a true one. She’d only assumed she had. She huffed. “More, tell me more.”

Angus yawned. “Meg, Peg, Margaret.”

“Ye’ve said those before.”

Ian called, “Florence, Paris, Roma.”

Angus laughed. “Dinna listen to him. He’s desperate.”

Somehow, finding a name for her had turned into a challenge between the men. Why, she didn’t ken, but suspected they did it only to keep awake. They’d not stopped but to relieve themselves or eat in more than a day.

“Mckensie,” Ian called.

Angus huffed, “Nay. Mckensie MacDougall sounds too harsh. Every time she says it people will think she’s clearing the back of her throat.”

She liked the name but Angus did have a point.

And she couldn’t get over Angus’s offering her his sire-name. She would be a MacDougall for life no matter what awaited her in Drasmoor. So grand a gift she had no way of repaying.

Drasmoor. She didn’t want to reach it. All would change. She’d lose the ease of being herself. The last three days—though hard on her back and bottom—had been a warm poultice on her heart and mind. Angus and Ian had even teased her about her power. Well, ‘twas not really her power but Goddess’s streaming through her, but they didn’t care. They teased her anyway. And she still couldn’t fathom why or how they believed in a god from some faraway place where they had sand mountains—which she wouldn’t mind seeing before they fell—controlled the moon, the sun, and all that grew. So verra strange.

They came over the crest of a high ridge, and Angus pointed over her shoulder. “Look, Birdi, your new home. Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone.”

She shoved aside the hair whipping about her face in a stiff wind, again assault by the scent of peat, fish, and sea. A great mass of shiny blue and green loomed before her. It appeared to her weak eyes to go on forever. Throat tightening, she realized that here she truly could get lost.

They rode downhill, uphill and down again and finally broke out of the forest. Angus slowed Rampage just as she heard dogs barking, cattle lowing, bairn laughter, and shouts—all she’d come to associate with a busy village.

“This is Drasmoor,” Angus whispered.

As they followed Ian, boisterous people ran up to greet them using words Birdi struggled but failed to understand. She did her best to smile, despite the frantic thundering of blood in her ears.

Here in Angus’s village the brown blobs—shapes she kenned to be crofts—were spaced too far apart, the smell of horse and fish was too strong. And then she saw a tall dark shape looming at a distance before her, nearly black against the brilliant green she now kenned to be the sea. Fearing the answer, she pointed. “What is that?”

Angus pushed the hair from her cheek and whispered, “Tis Castle Blackstone.”

Ack! ‘Twas surrounded by sea, water that didn’t lie flat like her pool but moved as if alive. Oh, Goddess...

Before she could garner her courage she was lifted from Angus’s charger and put into a boat. When it rocked beneath her, she squealed and grabbed hold of the side for dear life.

Angus steadied her. “Easy, Birdi. All’s well.”

“Nay! ‘Tis far from well.”

He chuckled as he took a seat beside her and pulled her onto his lap. “There’s nothing to fear, Birdi. The sea’s calm.”

Oh, Goddess! ‘Tis calm? Oooh...

The boat shifted again as men joined them. She looked about. “Where’s Ian?”

“He’s tending the horses. Not to worry, he’ll catch the next boat.”

Too soon they were moving, rocking up and down to the rhythm of oars beating water and men grunting. Unable to do anything else, she squeezed her eyes shut and huddled into Angus’s warm chest. She didn’t like this, not at all.

Mother of All, ‘tis I, Birdi. I ken ye’re busy but ye need to listen. I’m in great danger. I’m in a boat...

~#~

Angus lifted Birdi’s chin. “Ye can open yer eyes now. We’re here.”

“Oh.” She straightened and looked up. “Yer castle is bigger than I feared.”

Angus stood and took her hand. “‘Tis a good-sized fortress, but there’s naught to fear.” He guided her to the side of the boat. “I’ll lift ye up and onto the quay, but stay where I put ye. I dinna want to be fishing ye out of the sea.”

She nodded like a sandpiper. “Aye.”

When her feet hit solid ground, she froze in place, apparently not daring to bat an eyelash. Ah, his poor Birdi.

Angus bounded onto the quay and took her arm. “Are ye ready to go inside?”

She looked none too sure, but took a deep breath and lifted her chin. “Aye.”

“Good lass.” Angus then took his own deep breath. He’d yet to figure out a way to tell his liege about the mess he’d gotten himself into without sounding the idiot.

But ‘twas good to be home for the first time in months. He’d missed the camaraderie of his friends, and God kenned how much he’d missed Lady Beth’s kitchen.

As they crossed the interior bailey, Birdi’s head cocked right, then left, as she tried to identify the sounds, her lips moving soundlessly. She was, he kenned, counting her steps.

He opened the lower bailey door for her. “Take hold of the rope near yer left hand. Good, now pay close heed. The steps are curved and bend to the right as ye climb. I’m right behind ye.”

Birdi made slow but steady progress, her skirts in her right hand. “Why do they curve so?”

“They curve in this manner so that should we come under siege the attackers cannot wield their swords within the stairwell.”

“Oh.”

At the top of the stairs he pushed on the heavy oak door, took Birdi’s elbow, and guided her into Blackstone’s thirty-foot-long great hall. Seeing his liege and lady standing before the left-hand fireplace, he turned Birdi in their direction.

“Something smells wondrous,” Birdi whispered.

He smiled down at her. Wee Mistress Oatcakes didn’t ken the half.

His smile vanished when he looked up and realized he already stood before Duncan. He bowed. “My lord and lady.”

Duncan’s gaze roamed Birdi from tip to toe. “Welcome home, Angus. I see ye found what ye were looking for.”

Not exactly. “My lord, my lady, may I present Lady MacDougall of Loch Ard Forest. Lady MacDougall, this is my liege, Duncan MacDougall, and his honorable wife, Lady Beth.”

Birdi, to his amazement, executed a graceful curtsey. Had he been asked to execute the same maneuver, he’d have fallen flat on his face, such was his current agitation.

Lady Beth came forward and took Birdi’s hand from his arm. “I’m so very pleased to make yer acquaintance. Come, we need leave these two alone so they can chat. I’ll show ye to yer room.”

As Lady Beth started to lead her away, Birdi sent a silent plea to him over her shoulder. “All is well, Birdi, fear naught. I’ll be there in just a moment.”

Duncan snorted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Motioning for Angus to take Lady Beth’s chair, he said, “Sit and tell me about this Birdi. Ye have exquisite taste, by the way.”

Angus groaned. “First I need whiskey.” Lots of it.

Duncan caught the eye of a passing clanswoman. “Mistress, whiskey for our friend and one for yer liege. Tall ones.”

Grinning, the woman dipped a curtsey, “As ye wish, sire.” To Angus she said, “‘Tis good to have ye home, Angus.”

“Thank ye, Kari.”

Whiskey half drunk, Angus said, “All isna as I wished, Duncan. I bragged I could bring home a lady of high birth, and I’ve failed.” He took another swing of the water of life and heaved a sigh. “It all began on the morn I was deep in Macarthur territory and awoke to the sound of splashing in the nearby pool and then this woman, naked as the day she was born, rose...

~#~

Too soon for Birdi’s comfort she found herself in the room Lady Beth had assigned to her and Angus. “Tis lovely, my lady.” And it was, from what little she could see of it standing by the door.

“Please call me Beth. Duncan and Angus are such good friends it would be silly for ye to call me ‘my lady’ while they called each other by first names. May I call you Birdi?”

Birdi wrung her fingers, wishing with all her might that she’d already found the perfect name. “I’ll not be Birdi much longer.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, Angus says I may choose any name I wish, but I’ve not found the right one as yet, but ye may call me Birdi until such time as I do find one.”

“Well, I think that’s a grand plan.”

Birdi heaved a relieved sigh and wandered about the room in careful fashion so as not to trip. What she could see and feel of it so far, she found most pleasing. The high poster bed was much like the one at the duke’s home, but broader. Chests sat at the foot of the bed and one sat beneath an open window with a deep sill and thick wooden shutters mounted on either side. A fire burned to her left as she faced the door. She sniffed but couldn’t catch the scent of Angus. “Is this Angus’s room?”

Beth moved to sit on the end of the bed. “Nay, ‘tis a special room reserved for special guests. The garderobe is just to the left.”

A garden robe? She’d have to ask Angus when she was supposed to wear such. She didn’t want to appear the fool before his friends. Inching closer to Lady Beth so she might better study her, Birdi ran a hand across the honey-colored fabric on the bed. Ah, rich and deep, like the bolt of cloth Angus had left behind at the waterfall. Which was such a waste. “Tis lovely velvet.”

“Thank you. Here.” Lady Beth thumped the mattress. “Come sit beside me.”

Birdi sat, finding it very soft, more so than even the duke’s bed.

Taking one of Birdi’s hands, Lady Beth smiled. “Do tell. How did ye meet our handsome Angus?”

Oh, nay. Nay, nay, she wouldn’t be relating that tale. “He is handsome.”

“Aye, he is.”

Birdi racked her brain for something to say other than he almost killed my wolf and I bled all over him. When her stomach growled, she murmured, “I like havers—oats. And Angus cooks fish verra well.” She looked about helplessly. “I would like to learn how to make Lady Frasier’s fish pies. They’re verra good.”

Beth grinned. “Ah, you’re hungry. I do apologize. I’ll see to it immediately while you freshen up.”

She was hungry. “Thank ye. Angus has told me ye’re a fine cook.”

“That’s nice to hear, but I just prepare meals that make men happy.”

“Ye do?” If she could cook the foods that made Angus happy, mayhap he’d grow fond of her and forget his hale Mary and her bee-hive breasts. “Might ye teach me?”

“I’d love to.” Lady Beth stood and checked the water in the pitcher. “Oh, it’s already cold. I’ll have the lass fetch some warm water for you.”

“Nay, ‘tis fine.” Curious as to why this woman didn’t speak as the others, Birdi garnered her courage and asked, “Are ye from another place as well?”

“I am.” She patted her belly, a good seven moons swollen with child. “I’ve been here three years.”

“Are ye happy here?”

“Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.” She stepped closer and stroked Birdi’s cheek. “You’ll be as well. Angus is a good man.” She walked to the door. “By the way, you have lovely eyes.”

Birdi tried to draw breath but nothing happened. As the room spun, she wondered what ailed the people of this clan that they didn’t ken a spae when they saw them.

“Birdi? Sweetie, can you hear me? Shit!”

Something cold and wet pressed Birdi’s forehead and she opened her eyes. Lady Beth hovered over her, concern clearly etched on her odd but pretty visage. Wondering why she should garner such sympathy, Birdi looked down and saw she sat on the floor, propped against Lady Beth. Embarrassed to her toes, she struggled to stand.

Lady Beth pressed her shoulder, thankfully, her uninjured one. “Sit for just another moment.” She wiped Birdi’s face and hands before looking deep into her eyes. “Are you feeling better?”

Birdi nodded, still amazed the woman wasn’t screeching.

“Let’s forget about your ablutions and get something in your belly, shall we?”

“Aye, that might be best.”

“Good.” She helped Birdi to her feet. Hand at her elbow, Lady Beth guided her back to the great hall.

The moment they entered the warm hall, the men came to their feet. Lady Beth handed her off to Angus and reached for a bell. A heartbeat later Birdi sat at Angus’s right on a raised platform at the opposite end of the room, her back to a warm fire and a mountain of food before her, most of which she didn’t recognize.

When she hesitated, Angus pointed right and murmured, “‘Tis roast pork and applesauce, ye’ll love it. That,” he pointed to a pile of greens, some of which she did recognize, “is salad. Verra good as well.”

“And this?” She pointed to a brown mound to her left.

“‘Tis roasted pheasant with rosemary. Yum.” He deposited what appeared to be choice pieces on her trencher, reached for a small metal pitcher and poured brown liquid over the meat. “Bon appetit.”

“What?”

“Eat.” With that, he dug into his trencher with both hands. Birdi, hungrier than she’d been in a long while and still shaky, sampled her first mouthful. Finding it salty, crispy, she murmured, “Oh my word.” She had definitely died and gone to Angus’s heaven.

She couldn’t get the meat into her mouth fast enough. Wishing for four hands, she found Angus grinning at her. She smiled back but didn’t stop eating fearing Lady Beth might ring her bell and then the delicious food would be taken away.

When she scraped the last of her bread through the last of her brown juice, she leaned back, folded her hands over her well-stuffed middle, belched then sighed. To no one in particular, she said, “That was verra good.”

The laird of Castle Blackstone laughed, startling her. “Ye’ve met yer match, my friend, at least at the table.”

When Angus chuckled, Birdi relaxed, deciding she might like it here, after all. Angus stood, pulled her chair back, and whispered, “Tis Lady Beth’s custom that we now retire to the other end of the room while the table is cleared.”

She took his outstretched hand. “As ye wish.” Being a lady definitely had its benefits: good food, bonnie gowns, a comfy bed above stairs, and someone else to clear the table. She could live like this.

She was halfway across the long room, her hand resting on Angus’s strong arm, when a door to the right squeaked and a dark shape move toward her.

“Good day, MacDougall, Lady MacDougall,” the dark shape said. “And who is this?”

As the man moved closer, Angus’s liege said, “Father John may I present our newest Lady MacDougall. Lady MacDougall, this is...”

Birdi’s heart stopped. Cold sweat erupted beneath her arms and across her brow. She saw only a black hood, black gown, and a large wooden cross. Beware of the priests in black gowns who burn the likes of us on pyres.

“Aaaaahhhh!”

Arms out, elbows locked, she rammed the hooded specter of her nightmares in the chest knocking him backward, and bolted toward the door. Tripping and stumbling down the circular stairs, she keened, “Oh, Goddess, please, please help me!”

They’d fattened her up to eat!

And she’d never forgive Angus. Such deceit was beyond...beyond...

At the bottom of the stairwell, Birdi slammed against a clansman coming in. She slapped him out of the way with frantic hands and raced straight ahead. Fifty steps, just fifty steps to get out of this dreadful place. Run straight and ye’ll find the arch. Heart slamming against her ribs, hands before her, she ran, mouth open, sucking in as much life-giving air as Goddess would allow. Halfway across the bailey she realized she’d stopped counting. Just go, an inner voice bellowed, and you’ll find the sea. Just go!

Aye, better to drown than be burned alive.

Nay, she wouldn’t drown. She swam like a fish and would make good her escape.

Running through the arch, ignoring the shouts and pounding feet behind her, she sent a final sacred prayer to Goddess, asking for the sea to welcome her.

Without hesitation she ran straight into the heaving white foam roaring at the end of the stone quay.

As the bone-breaking cold engulfed her, knocked the breath from her chest, she felt the sea grab hold and pull her to its bosom. She kicked with all her might and rose, but the sea clutched her gown, kept trying to pull her back down. Her arms clawed at the water, her left arm strong, and her right made nearly useless by her struggle. Why had she not stripped before plunging? Oh, Goddess. Help!

She kicked furiously, until her legs screamed for reprieve. Finally she felt the top of her head break through a wave and into the sun, but then—before she could grab a breath of air—she was pulled down again. She stopped fighting then. She was simply too small to break free.

As the sea spun her in its liquid embrace, she confided to Goddess, Ah. I ken now. I lived as a stranger in yer land and shall now die a stranger in yer sea. So sad, but somehow so fitting.

Chapter 19

As Angus raced through the great hall’s doorway after Birdi, he heard Lady Beth shout, “What the hell just happened?”

A very good question. He wanted to know as well. One thing was certain. Something had terrified Birdi. He hadn’t heard such keening, seen such horror on a woman’s face since his time in France.

He bounded down the stairs, taking them three at a time, pushed through the open lower door and into the bailey. He saw her; arms out before her, jet curls billowing behind her like huge black wings, as she raced through the raised portcullis. “Birdi! Wait!”

When she didn’t stop but raced on, he cursed and ran after her. Merciful Mother of God, if she doesn’t stop she’ll run right off the end of the quay.

To his horror, just as he set foot on the quay, she did precisely that. She never hesitated; never looked back, just ran straight into the crashing waves.

“Nooo!”

He tore off his heavy jerkin as he ran, then dove into the pounding surf after her.

Freezing cold knocked the breath out of him and he kicked to the surface, where he gulped air and spun, searching for her. “Birdi!” Oh, Christ, please, I beg ye, help me find her. He couldn’t see for the tears and brine. “Birdi!” She can’t drown, please don’t let her drown. “BIRDI!”

The waves ebbed and he spotted something dark floating just beneath the green waves to his right. He dove and found her floating like a dark angel; arms extended, eyes closed, black curls resembling silk flotsam as she hovered in her blue gown.

Lungs aching, he grabbed her under the arms and kicked for the sun.

He broke the surface, gasped, and lifted Birdi higher, thrusting her head out of the water, only to panic when it lolled backward. “Ye canna be doing this twice, Birdi. Wake up!” Kicking to stay afloat, he shook her. “I’ll not have it, ye hear!” She coughed then, spewing seawater like a whale.  She gasped a few times, coughed again, and opened her eyes. With the next breath she screeched.

“Birdi, ‘tis me.”

“Nay!” She fought, arms flailing, teeth bared like those of a cornered she-wolf.

“Birdi, for God’s sake!” He had all he could do to keep them both above the waves surging toward the boulders. Pinning her arms and still kicking frantically to keep afloat, he shouted, “What the hell has ye so frightened?”

Gasping, she yelled, “I willna, I willa be burned. Let me drown!”

“What? Birdi—” He sucked in more air to them both from perishing. “Listen,” he panted, “no one is going to burn or drown, I promise. I’d never let that happen. I love ye!”

She froze then. Just gaped at him. “Ye love me?”

There it was. He did love Birdi, didn’t want to, didn’t understand the how or why of it, but aye, he did love his Birdi.

Good bye, Donaliegh.

“Aye, Birdi, I love ye, I do.”

“Oh Angus!” She threw her arms about his neck, sinking them both.

God, she felt good as her tongue sought his, cold and frightened as she was. Cold and exhausted as he was, for that matter. But they’d best continue this on dry land.

He kicked, surfaced and, keeping a tight hold on her, made for the quay. Hearing shouts, he looked up and found Duncan and Ian reaching for them. Dozens of clansmen stood at their backs.

Duncan, having the longest arms, caught Birdi and heaved her up and onto the quay. Ian grabbed Angus’s shoulders and roughly hauled him up and over the boulders. On solid ground again, anxious to get to Birdi, he bellowed, “Out of my way!”

Angus found her in Beth’s arms, Duncan’s cloak wrapped about her, her pale skin nearly blue. Begging Beth’s pardon, he scooped her into his arms. “Are ye all right?” The woman would be the death of him.

Teeth clicking like a squirrel’s, she whispered, “I’m sorry, but I thought—Aaaaaahhh!”

Her magnificent ice-blue eyes bulged like a frog’s as she continued to screech and point to those surging toward them.

“What? What has ye fashing now?”“

Birdi clawed at Angus’s chest. “Get him away!”

He raked the crowd, looking for a Macarthur, a Gunn, someone or something that wasn’t right. “Who? What?”

She gasped, “The priest!”

Not understanding but willing to do anything so long as she stopped keening, he shouted, “Remove Fat John. Now!”

To his left Duncan ordered, “Ian, take Father John back to the keep.” Ian, scowling, grabbed the rotund priest’s arm.

The priest sputtered and fumed as Ian, saying something about mead, dragged him away.

Lady Beth heaved a sigh. Knowing Ian, she had little doubt she’d find their gluttonous priest out cold in some storage room within a few hours.

But she had more pressing problems at the moment and caught Kari’s eye. “Mistress Kari, please run ahead and stoke the fires in Angus’s room.” As the woman took off at a run Beth yelled, “And ready a bath!”

She took Duncan’s arm and followed Angus and his lady into the keep. In a whisper, Beth asked, “Do you know why she fears him so?”

Duncan leaned toward her to avoid being overheard. “If Angus is tale is true—and I’ve nay reason to doubt him—Birdi has every reason to fear Father John. She’s nay doubt heard tales of cumberendra.”

“Of what?”

“Church-ordered burnings at the stake. Witches usually, but heretics, as well. Birdi is a cailleach, a pagan healer and according to Angus, an extraordinary one.”

“You’re not serious?”

He nodded and slowed, letting those who traveled behind them pass. When the last had done so, he whispered, “I’ve wished to rid myself of Fat John for years. More so now than ever. If he remains, Angus will take his leave, and that I’ll not have.” He huffed. “My problem now lies in getting Fat John to leave of his own accord. I canna boot him out, as much as I’d like. The bishop would be here thrice, threatening excommunication and raising tithes.”

“I see.” Beth had wanted to rid herself of the priest since arriving at Blackstone. The man—intent on converting her—was still harassing her, but not until today did she realize her husband wanted him gone as much as she did. Splendid!

She patted Duncan’s arm. “Just leave it to me.”

~#~

His hands full, Angus shouldered open the guest quarter’s door and found Birdi up to her neck in warm water.

She peeked over the rim of Beth’s huge tub. “Is he still down there?”

Angus shook his head, dropped the flagon of hot mead and the tankards on the fireside table, and then knelt beside her. He reached for the fragrant rose soap bobbing on the water, a gift from Beth. “He’s locked in the west wing. Ian will keep him there.”

“All right, but so long as he’s about I have to stay here.”

His poor wee Birdi. He lathered the soap in his hands and murmured, “Sit up.”

When she did, knees bent and clutched to her chest, he eased the bubbles across the lace scars on her back. “Now, why didn’t ye tell me ye feared priests? I’d have kept him from ye.”

She hunched her shoulders. “I thought...I feared...I didna ken if—”

“...if I was in league with the priest?”

Turning scarlet, she nodded. “Aye, but then I didna ken that ye loved me. I was sure ye loved Mary and I—”

“Whoa. Who is Mary?”

“Hale Mary, the one ye whisper to each night and when ye’re most upset. Ye ken. The one with honey hair and beehive breasts.”

Oh my God. She’d heard him praying and had assumed...He couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

Looking indignant, she slapped his arm. “What, may I ask, do ye find so humorous?”

Angus wiped the tears from his cheeks with the backs of his soapy hands. “Love, do ye remember the tale of the Blessed Virgin and the Immaculate Conception?”

Birdi narrowed her eyes at him. “How could I not? Ye kept me up half the night making sure I would.”

Because she looked so splendidly indignant, because it felt so good to be home, because she loved him and he loved her, because he’d lost Donaliegh and his chiefship and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but laugh, he laughed again, this time until it hurt.

Birdi, apparently deciding he’d lost his mind, huffed and sank beneath the bubbles.

She ran out of air about the same time he caught his breath. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. “Birdi, I do love ye so.”

“Good, because I do too, though why I should when ye jest at my expense and—”

He silenced her rebuke with his lips. She sighed and opened her mouth to him, her arms encircling his neck. He dove heart-first into Birdi’s sweet moist richness.

As her tongue made a tentative exploration across his, he rose, hauling her out of the water, and pressed her to him. His hands slid up her spine, memorizing every detail of the warm, slick flesh, then slid down and lingered on her fine hurdies, enjoying their firmness. Wanting more, needing her to understand his need, he grasped her deliciously round bottom and pressed her hips into his swollen groin. She growled deep in her throat and raised a leg, wrapping it around his. Ah, she wanted him as he did her. No question.

The room was warm, but not anywhere near as warm as the blood surging through his limbs. He wanted her, all of her, and now there wasn’t a reason on earth why he shouldn’t consummate their union.

He carried her to the wide, four-poster canopied bed. She mewed and reached for him as he pulled away.

“Patience.” He ripped the clothes from his body and dropped down beside her. Heart racing, he drew her to his chest. As his lips slid down the smooth flesh of her neck, seeking the ultimate prize, the nipples of her well-formed breasts, he whispered, “Ye’ll now be mine in truth, Lady MacDougall.”

“How so?”

He didn’t bother to answer. She’d find out soon enough.

Chapter 20

Birdi groaned deep in her throat as Angus kissed the side of her right breast, as his hips pressed against her thighs. She wanted...wanted, oh, she didn’t ken what she wanted, but ‘twas something verra important. His strong hand then cupped her breast and his lips edged closer to the peak.

Aye, aye.

When he latched on as babe might, something deep within her hips caught fire, and she groaned yet again. She arched to give him better access and dug her nails into his back to pull him closer. Oh Goddess, thank ye.

When he groaned, “Aye, lass,” her heart soared. He kenned this deep desire within her, this terrible need to touch and hold, to be caressed for the first time in her life. He would quench this thirst. She was certain of it. More importantly, she was sure she would never get enough.

Angus felt certain he’d die from pure joy, so luscious was the feel of Birdi beneath his hands and mouth. When she threw a leg over his thigh he pulled her into his hips and slid a hand down her backside, seeking the secret place he longed to occupy. Was it warm and wet enough yet? Please, Saint Bride, let it be so.

He moved a tentative finger forward and slid into delicious moist heat. She moaned into his mouth as her slick woman’s dew coated his finger and eased his passage. Oh aye, ‘tis blessedly ready. He tried a second, wanting to increase her pleasure, and found her tight. Far too tight, he realized, for a man his size. Ack!

‘Twas logical, but what to do now? He’d tupped more women than he had digits but never a virgin. No decent man did.

While he pondered, she groaned and slid a hand over his hip. As she explored his hurdies with a light touch, he tried counting the nails in the shutters.

When her hand delved deeper and caressed his balls, his mind screamed, Just get on with it. She is, after all, willing and needy.

Aye. He closed his eyes, and ran the tip of a second finger through her slickness. Hoping to keep her mind on his mouth, he nibbled on her lower lip. As his tongue plunged into her sweet mouth, his finger imitated the movement his swollen phallus would soon take. To his relief, she moaned and pressed her hips against his hand. He did it again with the same results.

“Do ye like that?”

Panting, eyes half open and unfocused, she whispered “Aye. More.” He rolled and settled between her thighs, his weight on his arms and her hips tipped up to greet him.

“More, Angus, please.”

“Aye, lass.” He wanted more as well, rubbed against her, mixing his fluids with hers, and then with one hand under a fine hurdie to hold her secure, he slowly pressed forward. She immediately stiffened.

Birdi, suddenly wide-eyed, whispered, “What happened?”

“Sssh, ‘tis all done. From here on ‘tis only pleasure.”

Brow furrowed, she didn’t appear convinced.

Their gazes locked, he grinned and slowly eased out, then slowly back into her. God, her eyes were as clear and deep as a fresh-water pool. He could drown in their depths and die a happy man.

He lowered his mouth to hers and again tasted the mint she’s sampled on the biscuits she’d eaten. He withdrew and eased forward again. This time her hands slid into his hair. Birdi then took over their kiss and pressed her hips into him. Ah, my sweet lass.

As his pace slowly increased, so did Birdi’s. Only moments later she suddenly flew past, her breath hitching, her eyes glazed. She grabbed onto his arse and rocked, fingers digging in deep. Oh, Birdi.

He’d been with some robust women, but none like this. She wanted, and she wanted him now. He increased the pace of his thrusts, sliding over her, the fine hairs of his chest brushing her nipples so they stood high and proud. Come on, Birdi, come on.

She shattered then; keening his name, her back arched, her legs stiffened, and her nails digging deep into his hips as she reached for the stars.

He waited for her final spasm to pass then rocked into her fully. Once, twice, and then exploded into the deep, potent richness of Birdi MacDougall.

Panting, his heart finally slowing, he managed to open his eyes. Birdi was watching him; wonder gracing her lovely features. “Did I hurt ye, lass?” He hoped not. The last few minutes were a blur.

She ran a tentative finger along his lower lip. “Oh nay. ‘Twas wondrous, truly.” She then smiled and asked, “Can we do it again?”

He laughed and rolled with her clutched to his chest.

~#~

As gloaming settled over the land, Lady Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall sat in Blackstone’s solar, gazing at her reflection in her small, silver-backed looking glass. Satisfied with her artistry, she cleared her small dressing table of her homemade make-up and brushes, then swept away the telltale dusting of soot from its surface and snuffed out all but one candle.

She crawled between the cool sheeting and loosened the bed drapes behind her, which threw her into shadow. She fluffed her pillows, picked up her book, and settled in for what she thought might be a long wait.

To her surprise, the knock came quickly. Their priest in residence—a man who served others, she suspected, only to better serve himself—was apparently more worried about Birdi’s reaction to him than Beth realized. Good. His distraction would work to her advantage. Schooling her features into what she hoped was an expression of hopeless despair, Beth moaned, “Come in.”

Father John poked his head through the doorway. “My lady, I come at yer husband’s request, but I also wish speak to ye about Sir Angus MacDougall’s ladywife.”

I bet you do.

As he hurried toward her, Beth eased forward just a bit, so he could catch a glimpse of the dark red spots marring her face through the artfully applied—if she did say so herself—faint dusting of ash by the light of the candle.

He came to an abrupt halt five feet from the bed, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh, sweet mercy, ‘tis black plague.”

She nodded and held out a hand to him, which he ignored, so she dropped it. “Father, I ken I’ve not been very receptive to yer past attempts to bring me to the One True Faith, but as ye can plainly see matters have suddenly changed. As ye can imagine, my husband is most distressed.”

Father John nodded with the rapidity of a woodpecker.   Good. “I’m so glad ye ken our dilemma.” She offered him a weak smile, one she hoped conveyed how gracious she thought him for not bolting out the door like he no doubt itched to do. “The MacDougall asks two things of ye. First, ‘tis my husband’s wish and mine that ye provide me with daily instruction, so I might be properly prepared and receive the blessed sacraments, and...”

Eyes as wide as the top of his tankard, he took a step back. “And?”

“And that ye say naught about my...uhmm, condition upon you leaving my side.” She wrung her hands. “Panic is like forest fire. Once started, it’s impossible to stop. We can’t—canna let that happen here. Duncan will, out of necessity, quarantine us together on this island as soon as the food stores arrive tomorrow morning. Then with yer guidance we—locked in together—shall pray, and hopefully, my illness will not spread to those who choose to remain within the keep.”

Without any apparent movement, Father John had somehow managed to get his back to the door. Lowering her voice an octave, she asked, “Do I have ye word? Does my husband?”

He reached behind him, a frantic hand searching for the handle and latch. “Of course, my lady. My lips are sealed.”

She leaned back on her pillow. “You are kindness itself. Would you tell my husband I’d like to see him now?”

Nodding, Father John bolted out the door as fast as his stout little legs could carry him.

Beth smiled.

The man would be on a boat before Duncan could mount the steps to the solar. By noon tomorrow he’d be halfway to Sterling spreading the news. That would keep the Gunns and any other clan set on causing problems at bay for hopefully a year. Her family would remain safe, Duncan would get his wish of alleviating himself of the priest, Birdi would get hers, their whiskey production would stay on schedule, and she could have a babe in peace...for a change. She sighed and rose. Not a bad night’s work, all things considered.

Pouring water from the ewer into the washing bowl, she heard a plaintive cry bounce off Drasmoor’s distant hills. Startled, she turned to the open window.

Aaaawooo rolled again across the water.

Picturing her children at play in the upper fields just this morn, her skin pebbled and her blood ran cold. She slammed the pitcher on the table.

Duncan would get an earful as soon as he opened the door. He’d assured her no wolves had been seen in these parts for more than a decade.

Chapter 21

Angus stood on the parapet and stared down at Birdi where she sat huddled on a boulder at the end of the isle against the frigid November winds, her arms about her legs, her chin on her knees.

She’d been in Blackstone for a fortnight and a week and now something was fashing her near to death, and he didn’t have the slightest idea about what it might be. She refused to discuss it. More troubling was her refusal to make love.

Oh, she’d lie beside him each night, her head on his shoulder, her tears running down his chest, but then he’d awake in the middle of the night and find her curled in a ball before the fire. He’d carry her back to bed, but by morn, she’d be back on the floor again.

Her magnificent eyes were now ringed in black for lack of sleep, she was losing weight, and when she did smile it appeared so sad his heart nearly broke.

He’d had enough. Today his being the patient and considerate husband ceased. He would find out what was fashing Birdi or die trying.

He took the stairs two at a time down to the great hall. Crossing it, he nearly ran over Lady Beth. He righted her. “My pardon, Beth.” He turned to go, and she grabbed his arm.

“Come, I need speak with ye.”

“I’m sorry, but I need speak with Birdi.”

She tightened her grip his arm. “Do be kind. She’s frightened about something.”

“Humph! There’s naught to be frightened about. I love her, she’s safe here, has food and gowns.” He took her hand from his arm. “If ye’ll pardon me.”

“Angus—”

He strode out and down the bailey stairs.

A moment later he stood at Birdi’s back. She kenned his presence. He saw her tip her head. “We need to talk.”

“Not now.”

He dropped down beside her. “Look at me.”

She faced him, her cheeks chafed and scarlet from what the wind had done with her tears. “Oh, God, Birdi, ye canna go on like this. Please tell me what has ye so over- wrought.”

“Why? Ye canna change it.”

“Change what? I dinna ken what’s wrong.” When she remained mute and faced the sea again he growled in frustration. “Are ye homesick for yer glen? If so, we can visit it come spring when the snow leaves the passes.” They’d be risking life and limb but anything was better than this.

When she shook her head, he pulled her into his arms. “Birdi, ye’re driving me wode here.” He would definitely lose his mind if this kept up, if she wouldn’t confide in him. Mayhap...

“Birdi, is it yer lack of finding a new name?”

She shook her head. “I’ve grown accustomed to the one I have.”

Ack! So great was his frustration at that moment, had he been able to beat it out of her, he’d have been sorely pressed not to. “Tell me what I can do.”

She looked at him, and fresh tears careened down her cheeks only to be shoved sideways by the wind before they could fall. “Tis already done.”

That’s it! Teeth grinding, he scooped her into his arms and strode back toward the keep.

In the great hall he called to Lady Beth, “My lady, come.”

Understanding his liege’s wife couldn’t take many flights of stairs with ease, he strode toward the stairs that led to the kitchen one level below.

Waddling behind him, she asked, “Angus, what’s amiss?”

“Just come, my lady.”

They walked through the kitchen and into the windowless distillery. He set Birdi down on a stool and lit the candle. He then brought another stool in for Lady Beth. Settling her on it, he asked, “Are ye comfy?”

Obviously confused, Lady Beth said, “Aye, but—”

“Good, because ye two are going to stay in here until such time as Birdi tells ye what has her so fashed.”

Birdi, face flushing, rose from her stool. “Ye canna be keeping us in here, Angus. She’s eight month’s gone with child!”

Hands on hips, Angus leaned forward so his nose touched Birdi’s. “I can, and I will, and no one will see hide nor hair of either of ye until I ken what the hell is going on.”

He then stepped out of the room and closed the door on their sputtering protests. The door barred, he leaned against it with his arms folded across his chest.

So there.

~#~

Birdi had never been more mortified or more depressed in her life. “I’m so sorry, Lady Beth.”

Lady Beth reached out and patted her hand. “It’s just Beth, remember?”

“Aye.” Birdi sighed. Her life was in ruin, and she was making a ruin of everyone else’s around her.

Beth eased her stool closer and wrapped an arm about Birdi’s shoulders. “You ken he means to keep his word. We’ll be in here forever if you don’t tell me what has you so worried—fashed.”

“But nothing I can say will make anything change.”

Birdi knew herself to be with child. Of that, she was certain. She would bring another like herself into the world. Blind and too sensitive to bear living. And if her minnie’s prediction was correct, this babe cradled in her loins would be far more sensitive than she, just as she was more sensitive than her mother. Worse, she kenned no way to protect the fragile life within her. She couldn’t even protect herself. Oh, why had she not thought it through before loving Angus?

“Birdi, please. Mayhap there is something we can do or at least reassure you about it. You must let us try to help you.”

“Do ye ken I’m spae?”

“A healer, yes. Angus told us.”

“‘Tis more, being what I am.”

“I don’t understand—ken.”

Could this woman help? Nay, but mayhap spilling her woe might ease some of the pain girdling her chest, compressing it to the point where she could barely breathe.  But where to begin?

After a moment, she whispered, “My mother was a healer and had the sight, but her skill was limited to kenning the root of a person’s ailment. If she sensed someone had eaten a poison mushroom or such, she would give mustard and elder. If someone bled, she’d use stinging nettle and witch hazel or whatever else was best.”

“Aye. Is this yer skill as well?”

“In part.” Birdi looked at her palms, the place from where all healing flowed. “Through Goddess, I can lay hands to a wound and close it. I can touch a fevered brow and cool it.”

“But isn’t—isna—that a good thing?”

“It would be if I didna feel their pain, suffer their wounds, but I do. Worse, with this gift comes blindness. I can only see but an arm’s length before me.”

“Oh, Birdi.” Beth’s arms tightened about her. “Honey, we don’t care. Ye manage well enough. And we’re here to help should ye need it.”

Birdi’s tears flowed. “Ack, ye still dinna ken. The babe...he’ll be stronger, blinder, and in so much pain...”

Beth’s eyes went wide. “Babe? Birdi, you’re pregnant—with child?”

“Aye. ‘Tis so awful.”

Beth, grinning, squeezed her. “Oh, sweetie, it’s wonderful. Angus will be so happy.”

She shook her head, “Nay, not when he realizes the babe canna see.” If Minnie was right this child would be born totally blind. Oh, and the pain it will experience...oh, Goddess.

“Birdi, how much can you see clearly?”

She held out her arm. “From my nose to here.” She wiggled her fingers.

“And beyond that?”

She shrugged, “The world is just a mass of blurry colored blobs.”

Beth grinned. “Sweetie, you’re not blind. You’re myopic.” When Birdi frowned, she continued. “Near-sighted. Many people are. It’s something that’s easily fixed with...”

Beth paused, looking pensive. “I wonder if Duncan knows...I need think on this a bit. Now, about your power of healing, and mayhap the babe’s. Have you ever spoken to anyone besides your mother about it?”

“Just to Angus and Ian.”

“I meant have you ever spoken to another healer?”

Birdi shook her head. “I dinna ken such.” The last time she’d been to a gathering she’d been only a wee bairn. Mayhap a wise one would ken how to protect her bairn. If only...

“Well then, we must take you to see Auld Maggie.”

“Who?”

“The midwife, the shrine keeper.”

Birdi couldn’t believe her ears. “Ye have such here?”

Beth nodded. “Didn’t Angus tell you? We have a sacred spring and I forget what else. Auld Maggie tends to it, so I never bother—”

Birdi threw her arms about Beth, nearly knocking her off her stool. “Oh, thank ye! Thank ye, and thank ye, Goddess, as well.” She jumped to her feet, a thousand questions forming that she need ask the cailleach. And she had a sacred wedding to plan. Handfasting was all well and good for her, but her child needed reassurance that he carried Angus’s name by right. “We must go to the cailleach now. Right now.”

Beth laughed. “As ye wish, but first we’ll have to convince your annoying husband to let us out.”

~#~

Angus—relieved to his bones that Birdi had finally confided in someone and appeared somewhat brighter—watched Birdi bound up the stairs ahead of them. Taking Lady Beth by the elbow, he said, “Well?”

“Not yet.”

“Ack, woman! I need ken.”

“‘Tis not my place to tell you, Angus. All you need ken right now is that we’re going to see Auld Maggie.”

“Whatever for?”

Beth patted his cheek. “She needs to talk with the woman.”

Hearing this didn’t set particularly well. Auld Maggie, in his estimation, was a fraud. Though a competent mid-wife, the old woman’s healing power was limited to curing colic and the like, something he could do with a good volume of veterinary precepts in hand, but if a visit made Birdi happy, if it kept the bloom in her cheeks, so be it.

As they entered the great hall, Duncan said, “I see ye decided to let my ladywife out.”

Angus grimaced. “I hadna choice.”

Duncan slapped a hand on his shoulder. “The next time ye take it into yer head to imprison my ladywife, please inform me in advance, so I can talk some sense into ye.”

“Aye.”

“So did ye find out what ails her?”

“Nay, but Beth did, and Birdi is definitely in better spirits. We’re now off to see Auld Maggie.”

“We who?”

“The three of us.”

“Nay. Not Beth. She should be lying in, not being tossed about in a boat.”

Angus held up his hands. “Ye ken what happened to me the last time I naysayed yer wench. Ye deal with her.”

“I will.” Duncan stomped off after his wife as Birdi came into the hall, her cape on and carrying a small bundle.

He took her bundle, wondering what it contained. “Will ye tell me now what had ye fashing?”

Birdi rose onto her toes and placed a hand behind his neck. He bent so she could kiss his lips.

“I’ll speak of it after I speak with the cailleach.”

Angus grunted. If Auld Maggie was a cailleach, he was the king of Persia. “As ye wish. Come.”

“But Lady Beth?”

Angus put a hand on Birdi’s waist and guided her toward the bailey stairs. “She willna be coming. Duncan fears the trip will be too rough.”

Birdi nodded. “Aye, ‘tis better she stays. I dinna ken how long this will take.”

The sky was clear azure, the bay’s waters calm, and the breeze off shore as they walked toward the quay. The oarsmen would be fighting the wind to get them to shore, but there was no reason to fash about Birdi being in the boat.

Ian, one arm about a bonnie lass, greeted them on the quay and asked, “Where are ye going?”

“Birdi needs to speak with the cailleach.”

“I’ll come along then. I need to speak with ye before I bid ye goodbye.” He kissed the lass soundly and bounded into the boat after them.

Just as Angus and Birdi settled on the middle thwart, Duncan called, “Halt!”

Angus grinned seeing Beth waddling toward them with his liege lord slouching behind, his face mutinous and his arms full of pillows.

As Duncan jumped into the boat ahead of his wife, he growled, “One word, Angus, and ye’ll spend the winter standing watch on Piety Ridge.”

Jaw muscles straining to keep from laughing, Angus murmured, “As my liege commands.”

“Here.” Duncan shoved the pillows at him. “Place them on the bench while I help Beth in.”

Once Lady Beth was settled, they pushed off. Through the entirety of the crossing Birdi kept one white-knuckled hand clasped on the boat’s sheerplank and the other locked on his arm, her lips moving in what he suspected were silent prayers.

Birdi yelped in alarm when the boat surged high on a wave and then scraped bottom on Drasmoor’s gravel shore. “All’s well, Birdi. We’ve just landed.”

“Praise Goddess.” She released her death grip on the side of the boat but kept a tight grip on his arm in the event he lied. Poor Birdi.

Angus could not for the life of him imagine going through life as she did, suffering one jolting surprise after the other. No wonder she fashed.

He waited until Duncan had Beth on dry land before lifting Birdi up and out. Setting her on solid ground, he asked, “Are ye certain ye need do this?”

“Oh aye, absolutely.”

“Verra well.” He placed her hand on his forearm and led the way through the village and up a short incline. They crossed the wooden bridge stretched over a boulder-strewn burn and entered Auld Maggie’s wee glen.

~#~

High on a nearby ridge, the Macarthur slipped his blade from between the MacDougall’s lookout’s shoulder blades and silently eased the man to the ground. He turned to his right and whispered to his second-in-command, “I believe that’s the lot directly before us.”

They’d dispatched three in total. More guards lurked on either side but they’d be hard pressed to spy them coming down the glack.

John whispered, “What now?”

The Macarthur drew a lung full of salt laden air, something he sorely missed. “We wait till dark, then with six in one boat and ten in another we cross to the keep. The rest stand guard and keep the cattle quiet.” Wolf tracks were scattered all over the ridge.

“And the berserker?”

“I’ll deal with him myself. Ye secure the spae, get her in the boat, and back to shore.”

Obviously not happy, his captain grumbled. “As ye wish.”

He knew the old man wanted the privilege of killing MacDougall—Robbie and Fegan had been his brothers—but he’d waited too long to do it himself.

Macarthur pointed to the occupants of the boat nearing the shore below them. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look.”

His captain squinted, then grinned. “‘Tis our spae and the Blood.”

“Now who said Highlanders were not accommodating?”

~#~

Birdi, hands sweating, froze before the door of Auld Maggie’s wattle and stone hut. Inside might be the answers to her prayers. But what if the cailleach just shook her head and said she could do naught?

Beth came to her side. “Birdi, why do ye hesitate? Go inside.”

“What if...?” Birdi wrung her hands. “Where’s Angus?”

Beth nodded to her right. “Over yon talking with my husband and Ian.”

Birdi looked in the direction Beth indicated and saw three tall shadows silhouetted against brilliant blue. Oh, Goddess, I love this man. Please dinna let Minnie’s prophecies be so. Please. For the babe’s sake and for Angus’s.

Birdi took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘Twas always better to ken than not. “I’m ready.”

Beth kissed her cheek. “I pray you find the answers you seek.”

As Birdi raised her hand to knock a wheezing voice called, “Come in, come in. I’ve been expecting ye.”

Birdi’s hopes soared as she pushed open the door.

Inside, the croft was dark and musky, the air heavy with the scent of age, rosemary, and peat. Birdi took a cautious step forward and then another.

“To ye left, dearie.” She turned and found a wizened woman half her height sitting only a foot from her in a willow chair much like the one her mother had crafted.

Straining to see, Birdi asked, “We’re ye truly expecting me?”

Auld Maggie rose and took Birdi’s hands in hers. As gnarled as the auld woman’s hands were, Birdi was surprised to find them warm and strong.

“Nay,” she cackled, “but those here about expect me to say such, so I always do.” She waved to a stool. “Sit.”

Birdi’s heart sank, and she pulled her hand from the woman’s grasp. “‘Tis my mistake. I dinna...”

“Bairn, sit. I do sense that ye’re more than I shall ever be, which is why I didna lie when ye asked.”

“Oh.” Feeling a bit better, Birdi sat, but on the edge of the stool should she need to bolt the four steps to the door.

“Now, why would such as ye be coming to me?” the auld woman asked.

Birdi folded her hands in her lap, deciding it would be best to just be honest and be done with it. “I’m with child and fear this babe will be born blind but with a gift far more potent than mine.”

“Hmm. And why would ye believe such? Is this bairn’s sire a spae such as yeself?”

“Oh, nay. Angus is just a man. Nay, I dinna mean he’s just any man. I meant—”

“I ken what ye mean, lass.” Auld Maggie ruminated for a minute as she studied Beth. “Who told ye the babe would be born blind?”

“Minnie.”

“And would she have been Rowena of Loch Ard Forest.”

Birdi’s heart tripped. “How...? Did ye ken my mother?”

“Aye, long ago.” She shook her head in sad fashion. “‘Tis nay small wonder ye fash as ye do.”

Birdi frowned. “Speak plainly.” She’d loathed riddles since childhood. She also had too much at stake to waste time pondering.

“Yer mother was always odd, even by our standards. But after she fell in love with that Druid—”

Birdi shook her head. “What Druid?”

“Yer sire, lass, did she not tell ye?”

“Nay. Tell me now.”

Auld Maggie cocked her head and studied her for a moment. “As ye wish.” She then settled back in her chair, her arms crossed beneath her shriveled breasts. “One day yer mother was out gathering grain and her leg got caught in a snare, the Druid’s. He admitted he’d spied her on several occasions and had deliberately set the trap to catch her.”

“But why?”

“He told her he was from Eire land, from across the sea, and he’d never in his travels seen a more bonnie lass than she.” The auld woman looked at her fire. “Ye ken that our lives can be lonely, so it took nay great effort on his part to woo and tup her, all in short order. He was, according to yer mother, handsome beyond words.” She squinted at Birdi. “Given yer beauty I dinna doubt that he was. Since ye dinna have her eyes, ye must have his.”

Birdi had often thought so as well. “And then what happened?” Why had her mother grown to hate?

“He left her when she began to show with child...with ye. He told her his work was done—he’d planted his seed as he’d pledged. And then he just disappeared. Poof. Gone.”

Auld Maggie sighed. “Ye mother nearly lost her mind then. She loved the Druid as only a young woman could and now kenned that he’d done naught but use her for his own purposes. She continued to come to the gatherings for a few more seasons, but she no longer was as she once was. Then she stopped coming all together. I often wondered what happened to her...and ye.”

“She was gorged by a boar and died.”

“Ah, and when was this?”

“When I was but a bairn.”

“So who raised and trained ye?”

“No one. What do ye mean by train?

Auld Maggie leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “Pardon?”

“In what should I be trained?”

Frowning, Auld Maggie reached for her hand. “Tell me what ye sense.”

Birdi shrugged and closed her eyes. “Yer hips and knees ache enough to bring ye to tears. Ye’re ready to die, but dinna wish for it. Ye’re waiting, waiting for—”

“Enough.” Auld Maggie settled back in her chair. “What would ye do if I asked for ye help?”

Birdi described her way of healing.

“And then?”

“I’d find my bed and wait out the pain.”

“As I suspected.” Auld Maggie heaved a great sigh. “No wonder ye fash. Lass, there’s nay need for ye to suffer so.”

As she came to her feet, she grumbled, “At least she had the decency to teach ye about Goddess.” She threw a block of peat on the fire, making sparks fly. “Birdi, there are ways to protect yer—”

A cry rang out, startling them both. Birdi came to her feet. The door blew open and Lady Beth stumbled inside, keening, “Hide!” The crash of steel on steel echoed off the walls of the croft before she slammed the door behind her. Panting, she threw her weight against Birdi. “‘Tis the Macarthur and his men.”

“Angus!” Birdi pulled from Beth’s embrace.

Beth latched on to her arm before Birdi could pull open the door again. “No! You can’t go out there. Not now.”

“How many Macarthurs are there?”

Tears welled in Beth’s eyes. “Too many, but more of ours will come.” She then prayed, “Please, God, let it be soon.”

Auld Maggie scurried to the right. A moment later she pressed a small blade into Birdi’s palm and long bone needles in Beth’s. “Help me tip the table. Hie!”

Beth pulled on Birdi’s arm. “Come, do as the woman asks.”

Birdi nodded, her mind pleading, “Please, Goddess, please help Angus, please...”

The shouting and clanging beyond the door escalated as Beth grabbed her end of the table. Just as they tossed the heavy plank onto its side, the sunshine suddenly shot through the room. Over the women’s screams a man of Birdi’s height shouted, “The spae, grab her!”

Birdi raised her blade in defense, but strong calloused hands grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Her fingers numbed, the blade fell as he jerked her forward and Lady Beth keened.

The Macarthur captain hauled Birdi, kicking and screaming, out of the croft. They’d not traveled three steps into the chaos when he grunted and suddenly arched. Beth had managed to drive her bone needles into the man’s back. Wavering, he swung his left arm back in an effort to clout Beth, but Birdi jerked to the right pulling the man with her. He growled deep in his throat as they fell. His grip loosened and Birdi wrenched free. She staggered to her feet and heard Beth scream, “Run, Birdi!”

Blood roaring in his ears, Angus pulled his gaze from the Macarthur and saw Birdi plastered again the croft’s wall.

“Run!” ripped from his throat as his claymore flew in low arch to counter the Macarthur’s left-handed thrust.  As the Macarthur spun with the impact, a less skilled but no less determined warrior charged him. Angus dispatched the man with a swift slice to the chest. To the right he saw Duncan do the same to another invader. He then heard pounding feet crossing the bridge. As Ian’s MacKay battle cry rent the air, a trumpet blasted in alarm. Thank God.

He focused again on the Macarthur liege only to find the man’s gaze focus on Birdi. Angus bellowed, “Macarthur!”

The man refocused on Angus, his eyes gleaming black and his blade high in his left hand. Easing to his left, he made a come hither movement with the steel encased stump that had once been his right hand.

Their blades clashed. They pushed off and Angus swung right. The Macarthur countered with surprising dexterity.

Ah, he’s been preparing.

Needing to get to Birdi, kenning the Macarthur’s one arm would be no match for his two, Angus gripped his blade with both hands. As he raised the claymore above his head, he saw something flash by to his left. He brought his blade down and the Macarthur staggered. He raised the claymore again with both arms for the killing blow and heard Birdi keen.

Startled and fearing the worst—that another Macarthur had grabbed her—he glanced left. To his horror, a huge wolf had Birdi’s hand in his massive jaw. Haunches pulling, shackles high, he was backing around the croft with her. Angus opened his mouth to shout and something tore through his middle.

He looked down in surprise to find the Macarthur’s blade had gutted him. Something hot and furious exploded in his chest.

Blind and deaf to all but the rage boiling within—that despite all, he still hadna been strong enough to protect Birdi, that a sloth like the Macarthur should be his undoing—his blade fell on the grinning Macarthur chieftain. When the familiar sensation of steel tearing flesh and bone vibrated into his hands, he let loose the hilt and he sank to his knees, his hands reaching for his gashed middle.

He looked down at the blood and matter oozing through his fingers, but saw only Birdi being dragged away. Ack, Birdi, please forgive me. I meant only to keep ye safe.

As he toppled to his side whispering, “Save Birdi,” he saw the Macarthur lying before him, claymore still trapped in his chest.

At a great distance he heard voices. Someone rolled him and the sun warmed his cheek, then that too faded.

Forgive me, Birdi.

Chapter 22

Huddled within the dense bushes behind Auld Maggie’s croft, with Wolf’s great head clutched to her chest, Birdi reverently prayed for Angus’s safety and for those she’d come to care about.

The Macarthur had come for only her, and now innocent men were screaming and dying. Crying out for help. Were the cries those of the MacDougall’s or Ian’s? If so, she would never forgive herself. Or they forgive her. So much need battered her head and chest, but she sought only one. She would heed only one.

Wolf’s head came up and he started to whine. As he pulled at her skirt she realized the sound of battle had ceased. Oh, Goddess...

She then heard someone calling her name. She dashed the tears from her cheeks and rose but kept a hand on Wolf. Who had called her? The Macarthur? Oh, Angus.

“Birdi! Birdi!”

‘Twas Lady Beth’s husband! Thank ye Goddess, thank ye. But where is Angus?

With one hand on the wall, her other on Wolf, she ran back to the front of the croft, Wolf whining at her side.

Beth was the first to spy her and screamed, “Wolf!”

Before someone could throw a blade as Angus once had, she held up a hand and yelled, “Halt!”

Wolf, his ears back, snarled as if Birdi’s life depended on it. “Sssh, ‘tis alright. They’re friends.”

Wolf only snapped his jaws and growled louder.

Hoping she sounded calmer than she felt, she said, “No one move. Stand right where ye are. He’ll not harm me nor ye...if ye remain calm.”

She heard a man’s heavy breathing and looked right, her hope soaring. “Angus?”

A deep voice murmured, ““Tis I, Duncan.”

Why wasna Angus the one coming to her? “Where’s Angus?”

“Yon. Beth tends him.”

She yelped, “Tends?” and Wolf began to growl again. She placed a hand on his head. “Sssh, dautie, sssh.”

To Duncan she said, “Bring me to him. Now.” If Angus was injured, why hadna he reached out to her? Why was the need not full upon her? What ailed him? Was he not awake?

Duncan took her shaking hand. With every step Birdi prayed. When they came to a halt, his voice cracked as he whispered, “Here he is.”

“Oh, Angus, nay!”

Angus opened his eyes when he heard Bird’s strident keen, then felt her cool hands rush over him.

Fearing what would happen next, knowing he was dying, he choked out, “Get her away.”

Lady Beth murmured, “But Angus-”

Eyes closing, accepting what must be, he again ordered, “Take her away!”

Duncan growled, “Let her help.”

Angus shook his head. “Get Ian.”

His liege and lady didn’t understand what would happen should Birdi be allowed to touch him. Angus had deliberately shaded the truth in an effort to ease Birdi’s way into the clan. Only Ian knew the whole truth, and he would haul her away.

Duncan said, “Ian’s with the men chasing the last of the Macarthurs.” He placed a hand on Angus’s shoulder. “Let her help ye if she can. She loves ye.”

Angus struggled to open his eyes. “Aye. ‘Tis why she must go.”

As the light and arguing voices faded and all turned black, Angus regretted not being able to tell Birdi a final time that he loved her. He then wished he could see his Birdi’s beautiful eyes just one more time before he died.

Birdi jerked with awareness. There. She felt it, the need. Aye, he called but weakly. Heart hammering against her ribs, she ordered Duncan and Beth away, fearing if they touched Angus, Goddess wouldn’t come. She pushed back Wolf where he lay by her side then squatted, her feet spread wide beneath her in firm contact with Mother of All.

Shadows moved and voices murmured in question all around her. “Only for ye, dearest Angus, would I give my life.”

Birdi bent toward his ear, “Believe and trust in me.”

Praying his response wasna truly necessary, she placed cross palms upon his horrid wound and closed her eyes. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she pleaded aloud in the auld language, “Mother of All, ‘tis I, Birdi, and I beseech ye to come and help this man I love. Come, please, I beg ye.” An interminable number of heartbeats passed before she felt tingling heat moved up her legs. Her heart then slowed of it’s our accord, and her hands stopped shaking. Mother of all was again within her, and all would be well.

Birdi studied the scar marring Angus’s broad forehead, admired the fine shape of his lips and jaw a final time. Kenning full well what would happen and kenning even Auld Maggie could do naught to save her she said, “I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound so that this man I love may live.” As she waited for what would come, a strange calm settled over her. Her bairn would die with her, aye, but ‘twas just as well. No bairn, no matter how loved or wanted, should have to suffer more than she already had as surely it would.

Pain—worse than any she’d ever experienced—suddenly tore through her middle. Birdi doubled over. Unable to breathe, she toppled. Loud gasps from those around her followed.

Strong arms hauled her up and cradled her. How kind. A gruff voice growled, “What the hell is happening?” She kenned the arms about her to be Duncan’s. Oh, she hadn’t meant to frighten him so.

As the agitated voices grew distant, she whispered, “Tell Angus...I loved him.”

~#~

Angus reluctantly let go of Birdi’s hand so Duncan and one of the oarsman could carry Birdi up Blackstone’s bailey stairs. As they entered the great room, he found Beth scrubbing her hands in hot water. She nodded toward the table while Birdi’s wolf howled as if his heart were breaking on Drasmoor’s shore. “Put her down there. Auld Maggie, get over here.”

Dear God, how had this happened? Angus, pulled back from a black abyss, had opened his eyes and found his gut closed and Birdi stretched out across Duncan’s arms, her middle bleeding and open.

Beth tore open the cloth bundles she’d prepare in the event of accident or war.

Angus, tears cascading down his still blood smeared face, reached for Birdi’s hand. “Can ye help her?”

“I’m sure as hell going try.” Lady Beth reached for her boiled cotton rags and began cleaning the edges of Birdi’s huge wound. After muttering to herself about something called a hosputal, Beth said, “Maggie, I’m going to need all the help I can get. Prayer, poultices, whatever else ye can offer.”

The old woman, pale and apparently as shocked as the rest of them, nodded and started crooning in a language Angus had hear only once before.

After a few minutes of watching Beth’s hands shake every time the damn wolf howled, Angus growled, “Will somebody please shut that beast up or get him over here?”

He still couldn’t believe the furry menace—what he now understood to be her pet—had tracked them such a great distance.

Duncan ordered two men to take a boat across the bay. “Try feeding it. As a last resort fetch it back.”

Recalling the angry farmers of Inveraray, Angus said, “Try giving it a chicken, a pullet.”

Duncan leaned toward his wife. “What else can I do?”

“Keep the boiling water coming. Birdi’s more likely to die from infection—festering—than blood loss.”

‘Twas also Angus’s fear. Birdi’s horrendous bleeding had, thankfully, already eased.

Finished with cleaning the wound, Lady Beth pulled silk threads and needles from her bundle. “Hold her tight.”

Angus wrapped an arm about Birdi’s shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers. Duncan moved to hold down her ankles.

When Birdi didn’t so much as flinch with the first stitches, Angus’s fear escalated.

After an hour Beth finally straightened. Birdi had a neat row of stitches—thirty in number—just below her waist. Now slathered in ointment and wrapped in clean sheeting, Birdi was as tended as Beth’s and Auld Maggie’s skills could manage.

Lady Beth stepped back from the table. “Now all we can do is pray.”

Angus murmured, “Thank ye.”

Holding Birdi’s flaccid hand, he bent his head. Please, dear God, please help Birdi.

He should have died. He’d have gone willingly and faced the fires of hell. Why hadn’t she been willing to let fate take its course? Her pulse only fluttered beneath his fingers. He didna deserve her. If she survived, he would bring her back to her glen as she’d begged him to do time and again. And if she so wished it, he would stay with her. This time he would protect her.

Chapter 23

Feeling a flutter of air repeatedly rush across her fingers, Birdi wondered at the cause and opened her eyes. She smiled seeing Angus, his head level with hers, her hand firmly clasped in his near his lips, as he lay sound asleep facing her.

Mercy, he was handsome. Aye, as well as kind and brave. She studied his mouth as it hovered just a hair’s breadth from her fingers. Oh, the sensations the man could conjure up with those beautiful lips were beyond description, beyond kenning. Wishing to feel their pliant texture, she started to roll onto her side. Piercing pain shot across her middle, making her gasp. Merciful Goddess, what had happened to her? She pushed the cover back and found her stomach wrapped in sheeting from waist to hips. But how...?

It all came crashing back; going to see Auld Maggie, the Macarthur’s attack, the screaming and clash of steel on steel, and then Angus lying on the ground, his powerful body open and bleeding, destroyed.

She looked at him then and found him looking back through red-rimmed eyes. She smiled. Goddess had worked her magic again, and for some unfathomable reason, she’d spared her as well. But then she did so love things in pairs.

Birdi placed her hand low on her stomach. But then again, they’d be three, and she’d yet to tell him.

Birdi eased onto her side and brushed a lock of chestnut hair from his forehead. “Good morn.”

“Until ye spoke I was afraid I was dreaming.”

“Nay, yer awake and so apparently am I.” She stroked his cheek. “How long this time?”

Angus stretched but kept hold of her hand. “Four verra long days.”

Was he still angry? “Ye ken I had no choice.”

“Ah, but ye did, and why ye thought my life was of more worth than yer own is beyond kenning.”

She sighed. How could she make him understand? “I love ye, Angus. Ye opened the world—the good and bad—to me. Ye kept me from drowning, fed me, protected me—”

“Nay, I failed to protect ye—”

She placed a finger on his lips. “Hush. And ye showered me with more affection in just one phase of the moon than I’d received in all my seasons. Ye’re a worthy man who deserves to live, Angus. Whereas I...” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m not but a blind and feared spae. To be truthful, I didna ken if I’d survive or not...but having done so, I do ken those below are now verra frightened of me.” She’d not seen the priest since the first day, but he’d doubtless be back. And this time with torch in hand.

She blinked away tears as she stroked his scruffy cheek. “Fear not. I’ll leave without being asked. Just ken that I’ll be leaving my heart behind.” And taking ye bairn, but he’ll be well love, I promise, so very well loved.

He brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Are ye quite through?”

She sniffed. “Aye.”

“Good, because I’m not. First, ye are the most beautiful, most loving, most compassionate, and most obstinate woman I have ever met. Second, ye willna be going anywhere. Not without me at least. Those below are not fearful. They feel as I do. Third, I want to pledge to ye before God and man. I love ye, Birdi, and if the only way I can have ye is to bring ye back to yer croft and live among my enemies, so be it.”

What? Birdi, realizing her mouth gaped, closed it. Surely he jested. Could he mean it? And those below weren’t crossing themselves day and night because she slept above? Nay. This canna be.

Someone knocked on the door and Angus, smiling, called, “Come in.”

Auld Maggie poked her head around the door. “Has her fever broken yet?”

Angus grinned. “Ask her yeself.”

“She’s awake?” Auld Maggie shuffled over to the bed. “Ack, ‘tis true, and look at ye. Yer eyes are as bright as new pennies. Praise Goddess.”

“Aye,” Angus muttered, “And Lady Beth’s needlework.”

Auld Maggie peeked beneath Birdi’s dressings then clucked. “Yer healing verra nicely. Better than I expected.” She then put her hands on her hips. “Now, lassie, from here on out they’ll be no more healing until ye learn to protect yeself. All yer bleeding and angst is totally unnecessary.”

Birdi couldn’t believe her ears. “‘Tis?”

“Aye, ‘tis. I was about to tell ye as much when the Macarthurs attacked. And ye’ll not be fashin’ about ye babe, either. I have it on good authority—”

“What babe?” Angus, brow furrowed, sat bolt upright looking back and forth between Auld Maggie and herself.

Birdi pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. Oh, Goddess. His visage was turning red. Never a good sign. “Our babe?”

“Our babe? Yer with child?”

She pulled the covers over her head. “Aye.” Oh, Goddess. He’s going to kill me. I can tell.

Through the heavy wool, Birdi heard Angus say, “Maggie, if ye’ll excuse us, please? I need a word with my ladywife.”

Birdi heard the door close. A heart beat later Angus said, “If ye dinna come out, I’m coming under there.”

She peeked out. “I—”

“Is that what all yer fashing has been about? Ye being with bairn?”

“Aye.”

Looking thunderous, he stood and walked to the window. “Ye didna want my bairn. Ye were willing to die kenning ye’d take it with ye.”

“Ack! Angus, nay. I love ye and our bairn, wanted it desperately. ‘Tis just...I thought...” Just say it, Birdi. Get it over with. “I kenned I might die when I laid my hands upon ye but I didna care. I love ye. Too, I was told any bairn I bore would be more sensitive and more blind than I. Had I died, our babe—one I would surely love—wouldna have to endure, suffer as I have for years on end. I didna want him to ken the pain of reaching out hoping for affection or respect only to be rejected. To live in a black world, not even my fuzzy one.” A sob wracked her. “I ken that. All of it, and it hurts, Angus, it hurts so verra much some days I can barely breathe. So much so I have to force myself out of bed each—”

Angus’s arms came around her. “Sssh, Birdi, sssh.” He stroked her back as she continued to cry.

When she was able to speak, she whispered, “‘Twas nay from a lack of love or wanting, but from too much, that I did what I did.”

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Birdi, I shall love our child, whether he sees or not, whether he’s spae or not. He was conceived in love and will ken it, so long as I breathe. And together we’ll do the best we can to protect him from a world that may not be ready to accept him.”

Studying his face, seeing tears hover within the deep blue she so loved, she whispered, “Aye, ye will.”

“Aye.” He gave her bottom a gentle pat. “So, now we need to plan a wedding.”

Birdi sniffed and grinned. “‘Twould be best to jump the bonfire at the Beltane celebration since it ensures luck and fertility, but we do seem to have plenty of both,” she patted her stomach, “so I suppose a wedding on Samhain will do.”

Why Angus groaned, she couldn’t imagine.

Epilogue

And so it came to pass that on the morning of the shortest day of the year, Samhain, Angus and Birdi stood in Blackstone’s great hall and signed the great ledger, then all hustled to the chapel where they pledged to love, honor, and obey ‘til death did them part before a traveling priest and the entire MacDougall clan.

After the ceremony, they all rushed back to the great hall where they raised their tankards to the newlyweds. Duncan, standing before a crowd anxious to start their feast, raised his tankard. “Ladies and gentlemen, to the bride and groom.” Cheers rang off the rafters and fists thundered on tables.

He raised his tankard again. “To Laird Angus MacDougall of Donaliegh and his lovely wife, Lady Elizabeth Birdi MacDougall.”

Birdi preened. Aye, she’d finally chosen a name.

Angus, jaw slack, took the offered scroll and the keys from his liege’s hands. “But ye said...”

Grinning, Duncan threw his arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “All I ever wanted was for ye to find a woman worthy of ye, Angus. One who would love ye as much as my Beth loves me, and ye did.”

As everyone ate, drank, and laughed, four stout men rushed the priest along, then hustled him into a boat and took him to Dresmoor, where they handed him a fat purse and then slapped his pony’s rump. Hard.

In the great hall, the pipes, lutes and flutes began to play and the clan danced until the sun began to set. They then marched down Blackstone’s quay and got into their boats. The entire clan made their way across Drasmoor bay and up into the hills to the sacred spring, where Auld Maggie, the shrine keeper, waited at the bonfire. Angus and Birdi again pledged their love then having circled the fire and well multiple times, they drank from the sacred spring, joined hands and jumped over the fire and into their future.

A week later, Duncan loaned Angus five stalwart soldiers to take with them to Donaliegh, since he didn’t know the number or battle readiness of the forces there. Angus tried to trap Wolf in a cage for the journey, but the beast would have no part of it, and in the end followed as he chose on foot.

Donaliegh Castle was all Angus and Birdi could have ever hoped for and all the work anyone would ever want to face in one lifetime, huge and rundown as it was.

Once the family was settled and the food stores and arms put away, Angus fashioned a leather collar for Wolf. Birdi painted it to match Angus’s shield and attached it to Wolf’s neck so all would know he belonged to her. The clan was told not to harm him and bring any complaints to their liege.

While Angus and the men labored over stone and mortar, Birdi raised chickens, which she turned loose in the high hills above Castle Donaliegh where Wolf roamed.

Then on Beltane Day, Mistress Charlotte Rowena Prudence Katherine MacDougall—Birdi wanted to be sure the child never lacked for a name—came into the world with a lusty cry in Donaliegh’s warm solar.

She had her mother’s black curls and dimples and her father’s deep blue eyes, which pleased Birdi no end.

The babe grew as any healthy bairn should and played as any bairn might. Birdi and Angus were thrilled beyond measure that she could see as well as any and showed no sign of being highly sensitive to anyone’s pain but her own.

All was as it should be until, at the tender age of two, Wee Charlotte toddled out the great hall and fell down the stairs leading to the bailey. What made the event so unusual was the fact that Birdi—she now had spectacles, the lenses having been made by a friend of Duncan’s in Italia—and Angus both plainly saw that the staircase door was closed and latched when their bairn disappeared through it.

Wee Charlotte suffered only a few scrapes and bruises, but her parents have yet to recover.

The End...until next time.

Acknowledgements

I must thank:

Paige Wheeler, Agent extraordinaire, for her invaluable advice and enthusiasm for this work and her associate Jita Fumich for bringing this book to light once again;

Artist Lyndsey Lewellen, the creative spirit behind THE LAIRD’S beautiful cover, and the wonderful Kat Baldwin and Clarke Baldwin at Ink Lion for working their magic and reformatting this work;

Scott Blair, Husband and lover, who encouraged me to take the premier office space in our new home in the hopes I might write faster;

Alex Blair, Son and computer wizard, for keeping a straight face every time I misplace a manuscript in my computer;

dearest friends and critique partners Suzanne Welsh and Julie Benson(I couldn’t do this without you,)

my fabulous Foxes, whose enthusiastic support and goading even at a distance keeps me going;

DARA for teaching me how to write,

The Wet Noodle Posse, aka Golden Heart Class of 2004, and the terrific authors of Romance Unleashed for providing insight and humor whenever it’s most needed;

Billie Jo Case, the brilliant mind behind the Fan Club and to all the wonderful members who go there each morning to visit with me, in particular avid romance readers Joy Brown, Danny Bruggeman, Ruth Chesick, Sandy Marlow (my fabulous video trailer artist,) Colleen Poor, Pam Pellini, Julia Pham, Dawna Richard, Michelle Siudut, Lynn Rettig, Marie Sherman, Jennifer Yates, and Ivka Vuletic;

And lastly my heartfelt thanks to all of you who took the time to once again suspend your disbelief and travel back with me into the past.

Most sincerely,

Sandy

About the Author

Award-winning author Sandy Blair has slept in castles, dined with peerage, floated down Venetian canals, explored the great pyramids, lost her husband in an Egyptian ruin (she still denies being the one lost,) and fallen (gracefully) off a cruise ship.

Winner of Romance Writers of America’s © Golden Heart and the National Readers Choice Award for Best Paranormal Romance, the Write Touch Readers Award for Best Historical, the Golden Quill and Barclay awards for Best Novella, nominated for a RITA and recipient of RT BOOKReview’s 4 ½ star Top Pick rating, Sandy loves writing about Scotland’s past.

She resides in New Hampshire with her tall Scot husband and her spoiled Bichon-mix, Coco Chanel. When not writing, she teaches international on-line courses on writing, enjoys cooking for friends and family and supports local charities.

More Books By Sandy Blair

In the Castle Blackstone series

THE LAIRD

A THIEF IN A KILT

(Coming June 2013)

THE WARRIOR

Other TIME-TRAVEL novels

A HIGHLANDER FOR CHRISTMAS

THE MACKINNON

MACDUFF’S SECRET

Other novels

THE KING’S MISTRESS

THE ACCIDENTAL DUCHESS

The Laird

Cursed on his death bed centuries ago, the laird of Castle Blackstone, Duncan MacDougall, wanders his island bound home as a ghost. Knowing only one has the power to set him free, he follows his castle’s new heir as she tours her inheritance. Could this plain, odd woman from across the sea be the one? Street-wise NY City catering director Beth Pudding isn’t easily frightened, but senses she isn’t alone in her new home. A handsome specter is following her as she evaluates the wisdom of keeping her decrepit castle. Who is he? And what does he want? Their hunt for answers takes them on an adventure neither could ever have imagined.

Available now on Amazon

The Accidental Duchess

Hoping for a few weeks of peace and quiet, a Scottish Duke returns to his closed London townhouse after a long sojourn in Egypt only to finds a feisty redhead in his bed. When his shocked mother and bride-to-be arrive unexpectedly at the bedroom door, he spouts the first lie that comes to mind, trapping himself and the lady in a complicated web of lies they now have to work hard to unravel.

Look for it on Amazon

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 Sandy Blair

First printing by Kensington Publishing December 2004

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system, in any form, whether electronic or mechanical without the author’s written permission. Scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is prohibited.

Please purchase only authorized electronic versions, and do not participate in, or encourage pirated electronic versions

eBook conversion by

Ink Lion Books

Cover by Lyndsey Lewellen

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More Books By Sandy Blair

The Laird

The Accidental Duchess

Copyright

Table of Contents

Title page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

More Books By Sandy Blair

The Laird

The Accidental Duchess

Copyright