One

Edge of Loch Tuinn, Highlands of Scotland, August 1512

Rachel Brindle sat her mare with ease, just like any well-bred Englishwoman. She twisted an escaped curl of dark brown hair and poked it under her velvet cap. The wagons of provisions rambled behind Rachel and her sister, Isabelle, as they skirted the large lake that glittered with a million diamond-like bits of sunlight. The water looked so cool, but their father hadn’t allowed them to wade in it. She and Isabelle had been commanded to sip water and pray while everyone else refreshed.

Rachel huffed at the rebellious curl. She looked askance to her sister. “Do you think we’re almost there?”

Isabelle shielded her eyes against the sun. “Father said it would be after noon. I’d say we’re close.”

They travelled to Munro Keep to meet with the elderly Hamish Munro, great Highland chieftain and her father’s business partner. William Brindle brought shillings and provisions in exchange for the fine wool that the Munros grew on their herds.

“I’m melting.” A trail of perspiration tickled between Rachel’s breasts under her gown. Perhaps she shouldn’t have begged their father to bring them along to escape the boredom of country life. Even with the summer heat, her father had insisted she wear long sleeves to hide her strange dragonfly-shaped birthmark. She dabbed at her forehead and chest with a lacy handkerchief.

“If I succumb to the vapours will you revive me?” Rachel teased. As usual, Isabelle frowned at any mention of their special healing abilities.

“I’ll pour water on your face,” her sister threatened.

Rachel laughed, the sound cutting off as her glance strayed through the copse of thick pines on their left. Her lips dropped open on an unuttered gasp as her gaze locked with the intense stare of a man. He sat statue-like on his horse, a hundred yards back in the thick growth. His massive chest was bare like that of a barbarian. Red-brown hair nearly reached his broad, tanned shoulders, giving him a wild look. Though the forest shadows dappled along his skin, Rachel could see sculpted muscles protecting his ribs. He held a sword in one arm, and his biceps looked accustomed to holding its weight for long periods of time.

Narrowed eyes assessed her, judging, waiting perhaps for her outcry. But Rachel kept silent, her thudding heart the only warning. Her chin rose as she met his defiance.

“Did you see that plant?” Isabelle pointed into the high grass of the small meadow they crossed. “I think it’s shepherd’s purse.”

Rachel forced her eyes from the man, even though the effort seemed ridiculously difficult. “Nay, Isabelle, I missed it,” she murmured. Should she alert her father? Who was the barbarian? Rachel didn’t even know whose land they rode across. She knew that the Munros warred with a neighbouring clan, but surely her father would have kept their route along friendly territory.

“Isabelle,” Rachel asked casually. “Do you have your bow near you?”

“Yes, but I don’t think father wants me hunting this close to the Munros.”

“Keep it close,” Rachel looked at her sister, her eyes severe. “Just in case.”

Rachel pulled her dagger out and set it amongst the folds of her green muslin. Granted it was only one small weapon, but with a single flick of her wrist she could lodge it into a man’s skull. Theoretically, of course, since she only practised on turnips at home.

Isabelle nocked an arrow into the bow lying across her lap. She glanced around. “You saw something,” she whispered.

Rachel tipped a brief nod. “Just keep alert.”

“You should tell––”

“Munros! Batail!” The roar sliced through her sister’s words. It echoed off the trees and boulders flanking them. Rachel whirled around in her saddle, dagger poised. Men ran and jumped through the trees, not towards them but back the way they had come.

“Ride girls!” their father yelled from up ahead.

Rachel kicked her mount’s flanks and leaned low as it lurched forward. Isabelle raced next to her. The meadow ended and they fled into the dappled light of the thick woods. Their father waved his arm overhead to urge them to follow as he wove through the trees.

The guttural sounds and clang of steel mixed with Gaelic curses. Did the barbarian pursue them? Rachel glanced at Isabelle, her sweet, dutiful younger sister. Would she be murdered by marauders because Rachel had failed to warn everyone? She swallowed against the dry panic in her throat as she thought of the man, his piercing eyes, his proud stare. What if he was in jeopardy? Or what if he was to be their killer?

“Watch out!” Isabelle shouted as they galloped towards a thick uprooted tree. Rachel veered and yanked the reins to the right, steering the horse in a tight circle. Her gaze wove through the dense trees as she tried to discern the sound of the battle over her thumping heart. She continued to circle, hoping to find a clear-cut path through the thickets.

“Blast!” she cursed low and looked up at the giant trees. She had absolutely no sense of direction. She shifted in her seat, breathing the moist earthy air while the halted horse quivered beneath her. “Which way?”

She scanned the woods looking for any familiar path. And stopped. The barbarian stood amongst the leaves. Blood streaked down the sword he held ready, his legs braced apart as if waiting for another target to strike. In a fluid motion he pivoted, sharp eyes connecting once again with Rachel’s as if they were magnets. He took a step towards her.

The whoosh of an arrow made Rachel drop against her horse’s neck, but her wide eyes watched in horror as the arrow slammed into the man’s shoulder.

“No!” Rachel screamed and pushed her horse through the undergrowth to him. She slid down into the ferns. Her little slippers found no purchase and she tripped and slipped towards him where he lay surrounded by green fronds. He wore a kilt draped loosely around narrow hips. His eyes were closed but he swallowed. The tip of the arrow protruded from his chest, its shaft buried in his back.

Rachel ignored her shaking and placed her hands on his hot skin. She closed her eyes and released the bubble of power that churned behind her ribs, funnelling it through him. His blood surged with energy. His stomach and bladder were empty. His heart beat hard against the strain of the injury. The whisper of a leak caught Rachel’s breath – a nick in the artery, blood pooling in his chest cavity.

“Holy Lord,” she whispered and opened her eyes. In the distance she could hear shouting, guttural and fierce. Rachel’s eyes dropped. “Yes,” she breathed, and dug a fist-sized rock from beside the wet ferns, hefting it into her hand. “Holy Lord help me.” She slammed it into his chest, against the protruding arrowhead. The man gasped but didn’t wake. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered and yanked his arm. Holy Lord, he was heavy! She braced her muddied feet against the side of a large pine and used her legs to turn him on to his side. When she’d first laid eyes on him, in the shadows, she hadn’t seen the criss-crossing of scars marring his smooth skin. This man had seen battle, a lot of battle. Guilt took hold of her, lending her strength. He’d survived all this time only to be shot when she stole his attention.

The shouts crept closer. Were they looking for him? Rachel sunk lower into the ferns as she wedged her feet against his bloodied back. With a great yank the shaft slid free and the man gave a deep groan. She straddled him, kicking her skirts out of the way. He was so broad that her knees didn’t reach the ground and she balanced on his hip while slamming one hand on to each of his wounds, front and back.

She breathed in the tang of blood, the sweat and mud, his masculine scent, as she released her magic, directing it through her splayed hands into his body. The nick first. She cringed as she felt the larger tear along the thin artery, a consequence of removing the splintery shaft. Her eyes flickered closed as she imagined the smooth lines of healthy tissue. Moving outwards, she pushed her power into the torn muscles, repairing, smoothing. She knitted the splintered edges of a rib and healed the broken and seeping capillaries feeding the muscles. Finally, the torn skin. Rachel breathed deep, feeling her energy feeding into the man. Would she have enough strength to escape? Her head swam and she slumped forwards, draping him in blood-stained green muslin.

“Lass.” The whisper tickled at her ear and she felt her body lowered gently to the soft earth. Warm fingers brushed the hair from her cheeks and her eyes fluttered open. “What are ye?” Dark blue eyes stared down into her own, questioning, stunning her.

“There! A horse! I know I shot him. Over there!” The barbarian glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. His sensuous lips thinned into a line of frustration.

“I’ll come for ye.”

Come for her? Where was she going? Rachel felt her consciousness slip over the edge into comfortable darkness.

Two

Rachel became aware of the sway of the horse under her and stirred. Where am I? As her memory crashed into place, her eyes snapped open. The barbarian?

Grey clouds pushed against blue overhead. Horses clipped along at a quick gait around her, the slight jostling of armaments and bridles indicating a large number. Cold fingers touched her cheek, drawing her to the eyes of a stranger. She struggled to pull away.

“Whoa there, lass,” the young man said. “I’m not going to hurt ye.” He grasped her arms so she wouldn’t tumble from the horse. Rachel’s gaze circled the small army marching across the moor. Curious stares from rough dirty faces met her. “Ye’re English?” She nodded but didn’t say anything. “Now what was a bonny thing like ye doing all muddy and bloody amongst the ferns on the border of Munro land?”

Her gaze returned to his. Genuine confusion wrinkled his dirty forehead, but a twinkle livened his kind eyes.

“I …” What should she say? “I … was travelling with my father. He has business up in the Highlands. He’s a wool merchant.” She glanced past the man’s shoulder back towards the thick forest beyond. “I need to go back.” Had Isabelle escaped?

The man didn’t say anything for a few long moments. “If yer da has dealings with the Munros, we aren’t likely to take ye back.”

Rachel’s heart sped and she turned to study the landscape. The man leaned closer. “I’m Angus Riley, friend and warrior to The Macbain of Druim. And ye are?”

Rachel kept her chin high and her lips tight.

“Now if I’m to introduce ye as a … guest at Druim, I must know yer name, lass. Prisoners doona fair well in the dungeons. It be dark, cold and skittery down there.”

A threat or a fair warning? “Rachel Brindle. And you will return me to my father, William Brindle, please.”

“Ah, now Miss Brindle, how is it that ye have so much blood on ye?”

Rachel glanced down at her hands. They were streaked red. So they hadn’t found the man she’d saved. “I … I must have cut myself,” she murmured.

“I see no gash upon yer lovely skin, lass. Not even a bump from falling off yer mount.”

Rachel’s mind whirled. “I don’t remember.” She shook her head and noticed that the torturous velvet cap at least was gone. Would her father find it amongst the ferns and know she’d been taken? Or would she be lost forever at Druim?

I’ll come for ye. The barbarian’s words came back to her. Would he? Rachel let out a long sigh. She wouldn’t count on it.

The cost of her name was so incredibly worth the warm water enveloping Rachel in the deep bathing bucket in the room she’d been given at Druim. “Guest” was certainly better than “prisoner”. Angus Riley had kept his word and introduced her to the tall, grim-faced leader of their clan as a damsel in distress. She’d been given food and drink and a small room above the main hall.

What would happen to her tomorrow was unknown, but for the night, she was told she could bathe, sleep and recover from her obvious ordeal. Bathing and eating played a part in Rachel’s plan, but not sleeping. She intended to escape. For despite their gentility, she knew her current protectors would turn captors once they confirmed her connection to their enemy.

Rachel rubbed the floral soap along her limbs but resisted the urge to relax. Escape was a priority, before Druim realized just how capable she was. Her bedraggled and exhausted appearance upon arrival had lowered their defences. There wasn’t even a guard outside her door.

Rachel dried and dressed in her stained green gown. It was still damp from her attempt to wash away the blood. Rachel fingered her clean hair. It was dark outside the window slit. She cracked open her door to an empty corridor dimly lit. She walked with purposeful stealth. The main stairway would lead to a great hall filled with warriors. Her eyes studied the shadows. This was a huge fortress. They needed at least one other exit. Rachel nearly fell into a rectangular hole cut into the floor at the end of the corridor. Her heart thudded as she gathered her long kirtle.

The ladder within the hole led down into a low-ceilinged hallway. The earthy smell of roots and grain indicated that it was a storage area. Perfect. Rachel crept along the dark, rough wall into a kitchen. Several cloaks hung from pegs. She threw one over her dress and pulled the hood up. Could she disguise herself as a servant and sneak out the gates past the guards?

Rachel whirled around at a muffled gasp. A woman stood in the doorway, a bit older than she. Evelyn, if Rachel remembered the woman’s name from her earlier introductions – the maid who watched the chief’s young children. Evelyn’s eyes were wide in her round face. Rachel grabbed her stiff hand. She poured just enough power into it to warm the servant. A blue glow surrounded their clasped hands.

“Holy Lord our Father,” Evelyn murmured and passed the sign of the cross over her chest with her free hand. Rachel stared into her frantic eyes.

“I have powers. They are good powers, but if you don’t help me I will turn them against you.” The woman didn’t say anything. Did she not care what happened to her? “I can turn them against your young charges.” Evelyn’s eyes nearly popped at the lie. She bobbed her head nervously. Rachel smiled. “Good. I think you want me gone as much as I want me gone now. So you’re going to walk me out of here, past the guards, past the gate to where I can find a horse.”

The night was cool as they left the building and it felt good against Rachel’s flushed face. As much as she dreamed about adventure, the actual participation in it was stressful. Perhaps she would agree to settle down with a docile Englishman like her father wished. She and Evelyn walked arm in arm, like two young maids heading home for the evening.

“Wave with me,” Rachel whispered, and Evelyn lifted her hand to the watchman. He tipped his head at the girls and walked the other way along the wall. “You’re good at this, Evelyn,” Rachel murmured and patted the girl’s rigid arm. Evelyn passed another sign of the cross before her chest. Rachel frowned. She didn’t like scaring the woman.

Evelyn hurried with her through the streets towards a corral. “You know, I fibbed back there,” Rachel said in the dark. “My powers only heal. I can’t hurt you or your wards. And I wouldn’t anyway.”

Evelyn stopped before a low barn. “There are horses. Now go.” She turned a fierce expression on Rachel. Evelyn certainly wouldn’t be inviting her over for supper anytime soon.

“Not a word, Evelyn.” Rachel held a finger against her lips then lowered it quickly. Could the girl see her finger tremble? “You’ll look guilty if you admit helping me get away.”

Evelyn fled. Rachel entered the barn and went to work. She selected a horse and worked a bridle between its teeth. It wasn’t her horse, but it was a fair swap. She led the beast through the darkness, keeping to the rear of all the houses. She knew exactly where she was headed. The moor that stretched wide and bare in front of Druim would allow no hiding and a single rider out at night would arouse suspicion. No, the mountains behind the castle were the best way to go. “Holy God, please guide my way to safety,” she whispered into the hazy mist floating down along the ledges of granite.

Rachel led the horse along a narrow path between the castle wall and the rock face. Thunder rumbled and Rachel tipped her head upwards with a soft groan. The horse nickered. “Shh,” Rachel whispered. Rain began to tap the summer leaves overhead just as she spotted a fairly large ascending path. She tramped up it, under the trees. Lightning sparked across the moor behind followed by a deafening clap of thunder. She jumped at the noise and the horse easily yanked the reins from her grip.

“Bloody horse,” she hissed after its retreating tail. “Please. Come back here,” she called weakly. She spent a full minute trying to decide what to do. Go after the horse or continue on foot? In the end the rain decided it for her. Under the thick canopy, Rachel was dry. She gathered her skirts and started to climb.

She walked blindly, her thin slippers barely protecting her feet from sharp rocks. She wanted to put some distance between her and Druim before finding a safe place to sleep for the night. Rachel wondered what type of animals roamed these woods. She glanced up nervously as God lit up the forest with another flash of lightning. The deafening crack of thunder barely registered in Rachel’s shocked mind for, standing on a boulder just above her, was the barbarian. He had come for her.

The light retreated, leaving her blind until her blinking eyes adjusted again to the shadows. He stood staring down at her as if cut from the rugged granite around them, a fortress like the mighty castle behind her. Curiosity and shock mixed on his face. As distant lightning lit up the trees again, she watched his eyebrows rise and the corner of his lush mouth crook upward into a lopsided grin. Rachel’s heart danced, flushing her with heat that, luckily, he couldn’t see in the dark. He’d come for her. A man who kept his promise.

Rachel wasn’t sure what to do. Should she walk to him or wait in the dark? What was the protocol for a rescue? She huffed. Some rescue. She’d done most of it herself. And for all she knew she was being rescued by someone much more dangerous than those at Druim.

The man’s shadow moved in the darkness and Rachel jumped, frowning at herself. Even if she could barely see, she definitely could hear.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice sharp in the stillness.

“Alec Munro.” His deep voice, drawn rough and strong, reflected his Highland heritage. Rachel released her breath and nodded in relief. He was a Munro. Thank the Holy Lord. “And ye are?”

“Rachel Brindle. I was travelling with my father and sister to Munro Keep when the Macbains attacked.”

“And ye circled around into the fight to …”

Rachel felt guilt bubble up inside. She certainly hadn’t meant to ride back and distract him. “My sense of direction is quite poor,” she murmured. “I did not intend to disturb you.”

“Yer father travels to meet with The Munro?”

A flash of lightning showed him much closer than she’d thought, his gaze assessing. She refused to back away even though her foot lifted involuntarily. “My father trades with Hamish Munro.”

“Hamish Munro is dead.”

“Oh … I am sorry. My father did not know. I suppose he will want to discuss trade with your new chief.” The man remained silent and still. Rain dripped on Rachel’s head and she wiped at it.

“Do you have a horse?”

She took two stumbling steps past Alec before he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her in another direction, laughing softly. Rachel ignored the thrill that shot down her arms at the solid hold.

She sniffed, irritated at his amusement. “If you plan to help in my rescue at all, please lead the way.” Her words were terse and her frustration was growing to the point she just might choke on it. She’d done the hard work of escaping a fortified castle without alerting the guard. The least the Highlander could do was lead her to Munro Keep.

Alec’s hand slid down her sleeved arm, his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist. He stepped close as they walked along a twining path upwards into the forest. Rachel nearly screamed when she felt his warm breath against her chilled ear. His words were quiet but as firm as his hold. “I am not rescuing ye, Rachel Brindle.” Rachel’s breath caught in her chest as she stared out into the dark shadows flickering sporadically with brilliant lightning. She shivered as his lip grazed her skin. “I am capturing ye.”

Three

The cave was cool and the lass even cooler, in body and in mood. Alec Munro draped a wool blanket around the girl’s wet shoulders where she sat against the rough, curved wall. She ignored him. He bent to the small pile of brush and scraped flint into it. Sparks caught and soon a flame snapped upward. He blew gently, feeding the fire.

He glanced at Rachel. Even in her exhaustion she was bonny, her soft brown hair curling wildly as it dried around a heart-shaped face. A lovely English lass, smooth skin, long lashes, small and delicate. He smiled – “delicate”, but also able to escape Druim single-handedly. His smile faltered. Able to heal the mortal wound he’d taken earlier in the woods.

When Alec had spotted the small group winding their way through Munro territory, he’d been surprised to see the two lasses riding with the English bastard who had been swindling his father for years. Hamish Munro had fallen to a Macbain sword during a bloody battle at Loch Tuinn three months ago, leaving Alec, his remaining son to lead the huge Munro clan.

His father had never allowed anyone to view the family accounts, and now Alec knew why. His father had been a mighty warrior, but he had no accounting education. The books were a mess. Alec doubted that Hamish even realized that William Brindle had been giving him far less than promised for Munro wool over the years.

Rachel took a crumbly oat cake he offered. For a moment, Alec thought she’d refuse or even throw it at him. “Thank you,” she gritted out and took a bite. His eyebrows rose in silent astonishment. Manners, even to one’s captor. He shook his head. He’d never understand the English.

Alec spitted a skinned hare over the fire. Wind and rain thrashed outside. Thunder rumbled and shook. There was no journeying to Munro Keep tonight. His horse was safe enough, tied farther down the mountainside in the shelter of another cave he’d found. These three mountains running behind Druim all the way to Munro Keep held numerous caves and conduits. He’d explored them as a child and still didn’t know where they all led.

“We’ll wait out the storm here,” Alec commented, though Rachel didn’t look his way. Alec ran a finger over the puckered skin across his heart. “So …” he watched Rachel closely. “I had a hole through my chest this noon.” Rachel’s bannock dropped into her lap. “Yet it is healed and I’m alive.” He paused, but she didn’t answer. “Not what I expected when that arrow took me down.”

“You hit your head.” Rachel met his eyes. “That is just one of many scars you seem to have received in the past.”

Alec shook his head. “A warrior knows each one of his marks.” He extended a leg and turned it so that his flexed calf showed. He ran a finger down a six-inch scar. “The winter of 1501, raid on the moor before Druim.” He ran a palm along the jagged line down his side. “Summer of 1503, Loch Tuinn.” Alec pushed his hair back from his forehead revealing a small divot. “A rock from a Macbain slingshot, fall of 1508.” There were others, but he’d made his point. Rachel stared. He reached over his shoulder to touch the matching hole on his back. “Macbain arrow, Munro woods, noon today.”

Alec rubbed the back of his neck. “It would have been my last mark if ye hadn’t …” he gestured to her hands clenched in the folds of her green gown. “What exactly did ye do?”

Rachel looked at her hands. “I prayed,” she whispered. “It’s a gift from God.” She looked up, her eyes fiery. “I am no witch. I only do good.”

Alec nodded. He wasn’t superstitious but understood her concern. Witch hunters revelled in finding anyone who was different – especially weak, unprotected lasses who they could brutalize and eventually kill. “Praying is good,” he commented and watched her inhale slowly. “So this ‘praying’ … it can heal injuries. Can it do anything else?”

Rachel shook her head, but then stopped. “Well I can tell if someone is ailing,” her voice lowered. “By touching them. So I know what to fix.” Her head was bent, but she watched him from under long lashes.

“A blessing.” She smiled just a bit. Alec’s breath hitched in his throat at the gentle curve of her lips. She was stunning. He cleared his throat and turned the hare. “I mean, that’s beneficial. Ye could save a lot of lives.”

She nodded. “That’s what I do. I try not to let anyone see, but I must help people when they are sick. It would be cruel not to.” The words tumbled out of her as if she’d held them back for a long time.

“Does anyone know about yer … praying?” Alec asked and then wished he hadn’t because her eager smile faded.

“My sister knows and cautions me. My father knows and commands me not to help people.”

“Yer mother?”

“She had the power, but she died. An accident. She fell from a horse and hit her head. She died before I could reach her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The shine of unacknowledged tears glistened in her eyes. There was a long pause. “Thank ye for your aid today.”

“I … I didn’t mean to distract you. It was my fault you were hit.”

Alec snorted. Her fault? “It was my own bloody fault for letting a bonny lass pull my attention from battle.”

She looked confused. “Why then am I your prisoner?”

Alec poked at the fire. “Because yer father has been cheating my clan for the last ten years, making the Brindles enemies to the Munros.”

Rachel’s forehead furrowed. “The wool?”

“Aye, William Brindle has promised a fair price, but then not delivered.”

Rachel’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Mother was always Father’s conscience. When she died …”

A low moan saturated the dark tunnel. Rachel’s head snapped around to stare into the darkness. Lightning splashed white light into the cave for a long moment, illuminating what looked like the long, ridged throat of a beast. Alec heard her gasp as the thunder ebbed.

“’Tis just the wind, let in through a hole to the outside somewhere down the tunnel.” Rachel nodded but edged closer to him. “Although some say,” he began and her wide eyes swung his way. “That it’s the wretched sobbing of Lady Elspet as she weeps over the deaths of her two suitors, Jamie Macbain and Morgan Munro.”

“Macbain and Munro?”

“Aye, ’twas the start of our feud nearly a hundred years ago.”

Rachel looked incredulous. “You are battling over … a woman … dead a hundred years?”

Alec’s anger simmered, narrowing his eyes. What did this English woman know of loyalty and justice? “I battle to avenge my father, my brothers, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, all the way to Morgan Munro who died because he loved a little Englishwoman. We’ve fought ever since, and one day we will be victorious.”

Her lips were still tight. She shook her lovely head. “I’ll never understand men.” She snorted. “You create a tradition based on hate and death.”

“Of course ye doona understand,” he said. “Ye are a woman, an Englishwoman, and a healer. My ways are foreign to ye.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care about the condemnation in the set of her lips. Did he care? Bloody hell – no. He frowned and rose. The lightning had moved farther off but the rain continued to pelt in slants.

Alec was tired of smelling like blood and death. He grabbed a thin slice of soap from his satchel and headed out to the mouth of the cave. “Doona try to escape through the caves. They are dangerous,” he spoke without looking back.

He pulled his kilt from his hips, dropping it at the edge of the dry cave, and walked out into the storm. The cool rain felt good against his heated body. The air refreshed him after sitting in the stuffy cave. Alec rubbed the soap over himself and through his hair, scrubbing his own blood from his chest and limbs.

His own blood. If he’d died today, would the Macbains have considered it a final victory since he was the last of his father’s sons? He grimaced. A distraction had nearly cost him everything. He could easily blame the girl as she seemed ready to take it on. But the truth was that she’d captured his usually unwavering attention simply with her presence.

She’d stared at him through the trees without a sound, without a hint of fear. He’d looked wild, yet she sounded no alarm. Rachel Brindle may be English, she may be the daughter of a swindler, she might even be a witch, but she was no coward. Cunning and courage delivered her from Druim. Alec rinsed the soap from his body and shook the heavy rainwater from his hair. He turned just as Rachel’s scream shot out of the cave and straight into his heart.

Four

Rachel dangled. The toes of her torn slippers dug into any foothold she could find. Her fingers wrapped around a large rock. She’d merely been trying to find a private spot to see to her needs when she’d walked over the edge of this crater.

She panted. “Help!”

“Rachel!” Alec’s pounding footfalls washed relief through her trembling body.

“Stop!” she huffed. “You’ll fall.”

His footsteps stopped not too far from her in the absolute darkness. “Where are ye?” His feet shuffled, loose pebbles rolling along the jagged floor.

“Over a ledge.”

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Can ye light yerself? I canna see.”

“I think so.” Her words were breathless and she tried to keep the panic from weakening her hold. Rachel funnelled magic towards the faint cut on her leg. A blue glow flooded out of her hands, displaying the horn-shaped rock sticking out of the cliff wall less than a foot down.

“Bloody damn hell! Hold on!”

“That was the plan,” she panted.

His head appeared over the side. “Just look at me.”

Rachel stared at his perfect face. High cheekbones, a slender nose with just a small bump like it had been broken once. He probably knew the date, place and person who had broken it. His jaw was square and strong. His perfectly formed lips pinched tight with thought. Wet hair framed his face as he leaned over. A clean soap scent mixed with the smell of the dank earth before her face.

Alec’s chin nearly touched the rock to which she clung. His hands encircled her wrists and he began to pull. But before she could even let go of the rock, the ties holding her long sleeves ripped. A small scream flew out of her as she felt herself begin to slip out of her sleeves. She dug her toes in and stilled, her nose smashed into the dirt covered rock.

A string of curses, most in Gaelic, echoed. “I need to pull these bloody sleeves off so I can grab yer arms. Who bloody wears long sleeves in the summer?” She didn’t answer. “Are yer feet on a rock?”

“My toes.”

“One hand at a time.” He tugged gently on her right sleeve and Rachel released her fingers. The sleeve ripped out of the bodice, and Alec was able to slide his hand around her bare wrist. “Now the other.” Rachel felt the tug but couldn’t seem to let go. It was as if fear had captured her muscles and they no longer obeyed her will. She shook.

“Rachel.”

Rachel blinked, her gaze moving back up to Alec’s face. “I have yer wrist now.” He squeezed her right wrist gently. “Ye’re not going to fall, but to get ye up easier, I need both of yer arms.”

Rachel blinked. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

A lopsided grin broke along Alec’s face. “Ye jumped into battle, yanked an arrow from my bloody chest, rode with a horde of hostile Macbains, and escaped Druim on yer own, lass. And now ye’re afraid to give me yer sleeve.”

Rachel’s pinched lips relaxed as she breathed. “I’m ready.” He nodded. As soon as she released her grasp, the sleeve whooshed from her arm and Alec’s other hand caught her wrist. He dragged her up. Rachel’s toes dug at the side of the cliff. “Ahh!”

“What?” He froze.

“My dress, it’s caught.” Rachel felt the snag. She tried to kick a foot at it and began to slip. She gasped and Alec pulled hard.

Rrrrrip!

Rachel’s feet churned up the vertical granite and dirt wall until her knees found the edge. She let her light go out as she scrambled up, climbing into Alec’s lap.

Rachel wrapped trembling arms around his warm, hard chest. She burrowed her face into his skin, and inhaled his fresh scent. Alec gently moved her arms up over his shoulders. Some part of her realized that she straddled his lap. Her thin chemise seemed to be the only material between them and it rode up high around her thighs. But at the moment she didn’t care, didn’t care about anything except that she wasn’t falling into an unmarked grave on a remote Highland mountain.

Alec’s arms remained strong and unmoving around her waist. He neither pulled her closer nor let her go. Rachel sat in the dark listening to their shallow breaths. She rested her cheek on his chest and filtered her senses through his body. She glowed softly, piercing the shadows with her magic.

“Your blood is flowing so fast,” she whispered, her lips brushing the skin over the scar he’d earned that day. “Your heart is racing like you’re in battle. Your muscles hold so much excess energy you could probably lift a horse right now.” Rachel pulled back enough to look at him – and forgot to breathe.

Alec’s eyes were black in the deep shadows of the cave; only the light from her body illuminated them. They were piercing, smouldering as he stared at her. Rachel swallowed hard, her own heart fluttering like a bird. So slowly that she couldn’t be sure which one of them moved first, Alec’s face was before her own. And then he kissed her.

Rachel let her light fade, giving into the rush of sensation flooding her body. Heat – a giddy churning, a burning pool of desire – poured through her blood, her muscles. Alec tilted her face to slant against his lips. When she felt the tip of his tongue touch her lip, she groaned and opened her mouth to taste him fully. Alec drew her into his lap and her legs hiked up around his waist as the two of them sat on the cave floor. He pushed intimately against the scrap of material separating them. Rachel’s flush burned across her skin. She should be shocked, repelled at the carnal exposure, but instead her thrumming body gripped him tighter, her own blood begging for more. He shifted her against him and a deep growl climbed up through his chest. He pulled back.

The cool air pressed against Rachel’s scorching cheeks. She took deep breaths to clear her head. Alec’s body was throbbing as fast and hot as her own.

He cleared his voice. “Ye’re welcome.”

“What?” Rachel gasped as Alec cupped her backside and rose, her legs still around his waist. He walked to the front of the cave.

“If that indeed was ye thanking me.”

Rachel’s blush intensified to a point near pain. Did he think this was how she thanked a man? As they stepped into the firelight, she struggled to get him to put her down. He lowered her slowly, letting her slide down his nude body. Rachel kept her eyes centred on the small scar on his forehead.

“Do you usually kiss your prisoners? Because there is a word for accosting young maids,” she snapped.

His grin hardened as his eyes turned to ice. “It seemed a mutual response.”

Rachel glanced down at her white cotton shift, careful to keep her gaze away from Alec’s body. He didn’t seem to mind being totally naked in front of her. Was he used to parading around women naked? The thought twisted her stomach. Alec snatched up the wool blanket and tossed it to her as he strode to the mouth of the cave. He came back tucking his kilt into place around his narrow hips.

Rachel draped the blanket around her shoulders, pulling the ends together in front of her barely concealed breasts. She collapsed into a sitting position before the fire. Her body still trembled from the near fatal fall. And the kiss. Rachel kept her eyes on the fire. Alec removed the hare from the spit, cut off some of the warm, delicious-smelling meat and handed it to her. She barely stifled her automatic response of “thank you” as she took it. Anger and embarrassment made the meal tasteless, but it stopped her stomach from growling.

“I have no sweets to finish the meal,” he said with a half grin. Was he trying to dispel the thick unease between them?

“Raspberries sweetened with honey,” Rachel murmured.

“Raspberries?”

“’Tis my favourite,” she mumbled but her mortification wouldn’t allow her to look him in the eye. He walked around her to place another blanket out on the ground furthest from the rain misting into the cave. Rachel stiffened as he neared.

Alec squatted down, his eyes level with hers. “I doona rape, Rachel. So ye can sleep soundly knowing that I willna kiss ye again.” A small grin played at the corners of his mouth. “At least not until ye ask me to.”

Munro Keep surged out of the cliffs as Alec’s horse loped through the tall pines. Relief relaxed his face. He inhaled, craving the fresh heather-scented air off the moor that stretched before the village encircling his home. The flowery scent that flowed into him, tangling his thoughts, though, was not of the field before him, but of the silky, dark tresses feathering against his face.

Alec frowned and purposely opened his mouth to breathe without being tempted by the lass’s sweetly edible scent. He’d been riding since dawn with her lovely, barely-concealed backside pressed against him. Her warmth melted into him each time his mount surged forward. And her damnable curls teased him ceaselessly. He’d stopped counting the times he almost buried his face in her hair. What the hell had he been thinking, telling her he wouldn’t kiss her again? Every inch of his body rebelled against his oath.

His captain of the guard saw him coming and raised the thick iron-toothed gate. Alec clopped into the bailey, dismounting before the horse completely stopped. He lifted Rachel from her seat. She followed him with downcast eyes like a dutiful prisoner.

“Phillip.”

His friend and second-in-command leapt from the table in the great hall. “Bloody hell, am I glad to see ye,” he greeted and grabbed Alec in a thumping hug. Alec smiled at the obvious worry in his friend. “We found Macbain bodies and ye were gone.”

“Someone was praying for me,” Alec quipped, his glance catching Rachel’s wide eyes.

Phillip’s gaze turned to her, his smile becoming predatory. Alec frowned. “I take it, William Brindle and his other daughter made it here?” Phillip nodded without taking his eyes off Rachel. Alec walked over to stand in front of her.

Phillip’s eyebrow rose at the show of protection. “Aye. They are in the dungeon.”

Rachel gasped.

“Ye placed a woman in the dungeon?” Alec shouted.

Phillip shrugged. “I meant to put her in Dugger’s room, but she wouldn’t leave her father and he deserves the dungeon.”

Alec rolled his eyes at Phillip. “What?” Phillip asked, eyes innocent. “I made sure the lass had plenty of blankets, food and water.”

Alec caught Rachel’s wrist and towed her behind him. He grabbed a torch from the wall as they descended to the cells. Phillip followed. The smell of rotting food and animal waste permeated the air. Alec shook his head. This wasn’t endearing Rachel to him.

“Isabelle! Father!” Rachel called when she spotted them in the dim cell. Alec released her and unlocked the bars. Rachel flew inside, her blue light glowing faintly. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he’d barely notice.

“Good God,” William Brindle rebuked. “Where are the rest of your clothes? Your mark is visible! Cover yourself.” He threw his blanket over the birthmark Alec had noticed on Rachel’s wrist. “And stop that …” he swatted at her and Rachel dutifully let her light go out. She hugged her sister.

“We’re fine, really,” Isabelle said. “What happened to you?”

“I got lost.”

“And ended up nearly naked, out in the night with …” he indicated Alec.

Alec crossed his large arms over his bare chest. “Alec Munro, the chief of Clan Munro and yer captor.” Alec glanced at Rachel. Her eyes seemed large in the darkness. Was she surprised at his title?

William’s lips pressed tight. “You cannot hold an English subject,” but the force had left his voice.

“Ye are charged with thievery and trickery for deceiving my father over the last decade.” Alec watched guilt flash in the man’s watery, weak eyes before Brindle turned them towards the filthy straw floor. “We will discuss this matter after ye’ve had a chance to think.” He motioned to Rachel where she clung to her sister. “Come, we’ll give ye a room above stairs.”

Rachel shook her head. “We stay with our father.”

Alec waited for Brindle to insist they go above, but the coward kept his mouth clamped. The man gave no comfort to his daughter, who could have died or been attacked during their night apart, yet he let her protect him. Alec stalked past Phillip, almost out of the hearing of the prisoners.

“Place William Brindle in Dugger’s old room. See that his daughters are given my sister’s quarters. Have Maddie bring them some of Catherine’s dresses.” Phillip nodded to each instruction. “Warm baths for the ladies, and Phillip …” Alec paused without turning.

“Aye?”

“Doona touch her,” he said in Gaelic. He switched back to English. “She is mine.”

“Which one?” Phillip asked, but Alec just stalked away.

Five

She was his? What did that mean?

Rachel mulled over the three simple words that had captured her more firmly than the iron bars she’d stood behind just an hour ago.

Now bathed and dressed in a blue gown, Rachel waited with Isabelle for an escort to the evening meal. She and her sister were now guests. Their father was housed in one of the cramped servant’s quarters, but he probably deserved worse. Rachel sighed. Her father’s morals had turned dark ever since their mother had died. His whole life now centred around material wealth and finding a higher placement in the hierarchical ladder at court.

“So he’s the chief,” Isabelle commented, her raised eyebrows adding unspoken questions. The edges of her mouth turned up subtly. Rachel nodded with a meek shrug. “And he captured you outside the Macbain’s castle.” Isabelle already knew this from her sisterly inquisition earlier so Rachel didn’t feel the need to respond. “And you spent … a whole night together in a cave wearing only your shift.” Rachel ran her fingertip absently along the beaded pattern embellishing her snug velvet bodice. A long pause stretched. “Did you kiss him?” Isabelle whispered. Rachel snapped a look at her sister.

Isabelle laid her hand on Rachel’s wrist where the bruise from her rescue in the cave shone. A faint light gave Rachel’s skin a bluish tint as Isabelle dissolved the pools of blood beneath her skin. Rachel was certain that her sister could also detect her deep blush and the way her heart raced. Isabelle smiled broadly at the unspoken admission. “He’s quite handsome in a robust, wild type of way,” Isabelle commented.

“It wasn’t like that,” Rachel defended. “Thank you,” she whispered as Isabelle smoothed her now healthy-looking skin.

“So, how was it then?”

“He’d just saved me from certain death. I was panicky, grateful, overwhelmed.”

“Hmm … ‘overwhelmed’,” Isabelle said, as if understanding, even though Rachel knew her sister had never been overwhelmed in that way before.

A sharp rapping on the door made them both jump off the bed. A smiling face peeked around the frame. “Time to sup.” A little grey-haired lady with more wrinkles than last year’s apples beckoned them.

Rachel and Isabelle grasped hands as they followed the maid down the winding steps. They walked on silent slippers under an archway into the great hall. A churning tide of deep, guttural voices ebbed, slowly fading to silence as all eyes turned towards them. Isabelle nearly squeezed the blood from Rachel’s hand. The only other women in the room whisked around with platters of meat and baskets of bread. Two long tables with short benches held tankards and bread trenchers along their polished surfaces. Their father was absent.

Rachel spotted Alec easily by the hearth. His height and breadth set him apart. Even with the loose linen shirt covering his chest, the broad strength of his form could not be concealed. Rachel swallowed as she recalled the smooth, hot skin of his stomach, the soft sprinkling of hair across his chest, the thin lines of scars giving evidence of his continued survival in this harsh land. Her inhale cut off when she met his smouldering gaze. She couldn’t look away. It was as if an invisible tether tied her. Isabelle tugged her to a table and Rachel had to break the connection, else trip over her own skirts.

Dinner dragged as Rachel endeavoured to make pleasant talk in broken Gaelic. Only a few of the Munros spoke English. Rachel had expected hostility from them because of the fact that she and her sister were English and that their father was imprisoned above stairs. But the Munros only smiled and patiently corrected her pronunciation.

Alec remained on the far side of the room throughout the meal. Towards the end, he walked over. “Chief Munro,” Rachel began formally and lowered her eyes.

“Alec,” he corrected with the hint of a grin in his voice. He waited until she looked up. “Aye?”

“We would know what you have planned for our father,” Rachel said.

Alec’s grin turned to a wry frown. “He’s admitted his guilt.” Alec looked only at Rachel. “He’s willing to trade one of ye for his freedom.” Rachel swallowed hard and felt Isabelle grasp at her arm, but she nodded. It didn’t surprise her. She was certain which one he’d likely give up. Alec looked away as he spoke. “I told him that I doona take slaves as payment, and a person given away without their consent is a slave.”

Rachel wet her dry lips. Her heart beat hard, the edge of alarm making it hard to speak. “If,” she squeaked, “you have my consent, will you release my sister and father?”

Alec’s gaze swung back. Anger muted the shock cut into his features. “Ye would surrender yerself to save that man?”

“And my sister,” Rachel added.

“No, Rachel,” Isabelle whispered.

“Yer sister is not in jeopardy,” Alec said.

“She will be if you send her back to England without a protector, a father to see her supported and married well.” Determination straightened Rachel’s spine. “And regardless of his crimes, I am loyal to my family.” Alec must understand clan loyalty. The silence was uncomfortable. “I could stay on as a servant.” Her gaze trailed one woman carrying two tankards to the far table.

“Ye are no servant, slave, or prisoner. Ye are free to do as would make ye happy,” Alec murmured. “This I promise.” Rachel’s pulse fluttered and her stomach tightened at the kindness in his vow. Before she could respond with more than wide-eyed surprise, the door banged open and a man strode across the rushes towards Alec.

“A message from The Macbain.” He handed over a sealed missive. Phillip flanked Alec as he broke the seal. The room hushed, waiting. Alec thumped his fist down on the table making the wooden bowls wobble and Rachel and Isabelle flinch.

Alec looked up with a mischievous grin. “It seems that the great Macbain has misplaced the daughter of a wool merchant visiting our Highlands.” Rachel felt the eyes in the room turn from Alec to her. “Seems he’s willing to give over quite a reward for her safe return to Druim.” Phillip translated in Gaelic and soon the whole room was laughing, deep guffaws. Rachel and Isabelle looked at one another. Rachel watched Alec as he read the rest of the missive. His smile turned stony. He eyed the messenger.

“Tell The Macbain and this Angus Riley that Rachel Brindle is a guest of Munro Keep and will soon be a permanent member of Clan Munro. I doona trade women for cattle.” He snorted as if offended.

Rachel’s fingers curled in her lap at the word “permanent”. Hadn’t Alec just sworn that she could do anything that made her happy? Happy as long as she remained with the Munros. Isabelle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She leaned her head against Rachel’s neck. “I will stay with you,” Isabelle whispered. Rachel just shook her head. She rose from her bench, Isabelle next to her. Linked arm-in-arm, they turned to the steps.

“Where are ye going?” Alec’s question boomed across the murmurs in the room.

Rachel paused but didn’t turn around. The room quieted. “It would make me happy to retire to my pen.” She glanced back at Alec, her eyes piercing. “It’s on Munro land so I assume it’s within my allowed territory.” He looked confused for a moment at the cattle reference, but then his face hardened. Rachel didn’t wait for a nod but walked out of the room with Isabelle.

Rachel curled on her side next to her soundly slumbering sister. Sleep, sleep, she repeated, to dam the swirl of thoughts flooding her mind. But they tumbled over. It was even difficult to close her eyes, because every time she did she felt Alec’s hard, warm chest under her cheek, his hips clenched between her thighs, his strong hands holding her face as he kissed her in that black cave. Sleep! She shouted in her head and squeezed her eyes shut, replacing the carnal picture with one of fluffy sheep roaming the green fields before Munro Castle.

Rachel’s ears caught the thud of footsteps up the narrow stairway. The tread slowed, grew softer as it neared her door. It stopped. Rachel pushed up in the bedcovers, glaring. “He posts a guard on us,” she whispered. So she wasn’t a slave, wasn’t a prisoner anymore? Ha!

Anger, fuelled by irritation at her own rampant musings, propelled her from bed. She yanked a blanket around her shoulders and threw the door open. Her lips parted to insist to the guard there that she wasn’t going anywhere in the middle of the night. She froze.

Alec stood in the low light of the lighted sconce along the stone wall. His gaze slid from her bare toes, up her form, to her bewildered expression. “Alec?”

“Ye left before the final course. I’m also partial to sweets.” Rachel realized he held a wooden bowl.

He placed it in her hand. “Raspberries?”

“Sweetened.” His voice was soft in the dark. “I saved ye some.” He indicated the door. “I thought to leave it.”

He remembered her favourite sweet. “I … I,” she tripped over her words. “Thank you.” Rachel tipped her head to the side and studied the tall, brawny warrior. He’d been demanding, booming, boastful down in the great hall, but then he brought her this wonderful surprise. “Alec Munro,” she spoke softly in the small space between them as she met his eyes. “You are by far the most thoughtful barbarian I’ve ever met.” She allowed the grin she felt growing to relax along her face and popped one of the delectable berries in between her lips.

Alec leaned forward, his stare intent on her mouth as if following the path of the sweet fruit. He splayed one hand against the wall on either side of Rachel, trapping her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. She inhaled and was assaulted by his clean, masculine scent. His dark eyes watched her savour the berries. She swallowed the sweet treat. His face moved closer and Rachel felt her heart beat a rapid song. She held her breath as the rough pad of his thumb traced her full bottom lip.

“Ye’re welcome,” he murmured. The silence stretched as if he waited for her to reply, but all the clever quips flew from her head as she memorized the pressure of his thumb that moved against her cheek. “Good eve.” Alec pulled away and clipped down the hall, leaving Rachel breathing heavily, clutching the wooden bowl of sweetened raspberries.

“Why the hell is he riding here?” Alec grumbled in frustration. The last thing he needed was the priest’s suspicions and hell-burning sermons.

“Father Daughtry rides with Colin Macleod of Lewis,” Phillip supplied with a shrug. “I think he was visiting The Macbains for a baptism.”

“Let him know we are without any bairns to bless,” Alec said as he watched the stairs. It was well past dawn and Rachel still hadn’t emerged from her chamber. Would the lass hide away from him all day? “Phillip, have Fiona check on our lady guests and encourage them to come break their fast.”

“Ask her yerself. I’ve a priest to thwart.” Phillip slapped Alec on his shoulder and trudged out the door.

“I’ll run up,” Fiona called from a corridor near the stairwell.

“Thank ye,” Alec called and drank some clear spring water as he contemplated exactly what to demand from William Brindle. The man had seemed more eager to leave behind a daughter than to pay the shillings he owed. Alec frowned over his tankard until the sound of slippers on the stairs pulled his gaze.

Rachel wore a pale blue dress that sculpted against her lush figure, displaying all the ripe curves just perfect for a man’s hand. The dress stood in lovely contrast to the dark curls shrouding her slim shoulders. She was petite but her stance was strong, making her seem taller, sturdy. Her long lashes were as dark as her hair and lay against her moonlight pale skin. She smiled in greeting.

He stood, inhaling fully. “Good morn.” His gaze flicked to Isabelle and he bowed his head to her as well.

“And good morn to ye, old friend,” came a booming voice from the doorway. Alec’s smile froze and tightened. He pivoted on one heel to face Colin Macleod. Tall and considered handsome by the lasses of Lewis and beyond, the man exuded a gentle strength that he usually held in reserve. Father Daughtry stood beside him glancing around the hall. The ordained man was not much more than a score and ten years but had already started to develop the paunch of a well-fed clergyman. He’d recently fled the manic climate of England.

Someone clomped in from another corridor. “Good morning, father,” Rachel called.

“And to you,” William Brindle replied as he sat down at the table and began to devour a small loaf of oat bread.

“And good morning to you, Father,” Isabelle called to the priest.

Two fathers, neither of them wanted. Alec’s forced smile soured. Phillip came in behind Colin and Daughtry, and Alec threw a stoic glare his way. Phillip shrugged and indicated the letter that Colin held.

“Which one is Rachel?” Father Daughtry asked, his gaze perusing the rolls on the table.

Rachel stepped closer, but Alec held up his hand. She actually stopped. He almost smiled. “What do ye want with Rachel Brindle?”

Colin passed him the missive with the Macbain seal. “The Macbain is looking for her.”

“I know that. He sent a man last night and I replied.” Alec unfolded the paper.

The priest frowned. “Your reply is the problem.” His gaze fastened on Rachel. “You need to give her back.”

“And why would I do that?” Alec’s scowl intensified.

“Because,” Father Daughtry reprimanded, “she’s handfasted to Angus Riley.”

“What?” Rachel exploded.

Colin looked from Isabelle to Rachel. “Ye’re married to Angus, lass, at least for a year and a day.”

Six

“But I barely spoke to the man,” Rachel fumed where she paced by the empty hearth.

“You spent the night on Macbain land,” Father Daughtry replied and took a sip of ale.

“In a cave on the mountain,” Rachel nearly yelled, but reined in her hysteria when Isabelle touched her arm. “Without Angus Riley,” Rachel added in a firm but softer tone.

“You are but a woman,” the priest continued and Rachel clamped her teeth shut. “A man must have been with you. How else did you escape Druim?”

“I escaped by using my brain,” she responded evenly to the insult.

“Rachel was with me.” Alec’s granite-edged words filled the room. It was a simple statement but easily misinterpreted. Phillip smiled roguishly. Colin merely glanced at her from where he sat staring at Isabelle who tried to pretend she wasn’t staring back at him. Confirmation of Rachel’s wickedness flared in the eyes of Father Daughtry and her own father.

“Whore,” her father hissed low, condemnation in his wild eyes.

The twang of steel sliding free broke through William’s sputtering. “Shut yer thieving, lying mouth else I cut yer tongue from it,” Alec growled, his sword a natural extension of his arm as he moved into a battle stance. Rachel stood rooted to the stone floor. Concern for her father’s life warred with fury that he’d judged her without any evidence or defence.

“Rachel Brindle is as intact as when I found her on the mountain outside Druim,” Alec gritted out, his stare taking in the witnesses to her humiliation. “And if she says she was untouched at Druim, she was untouched. Angus Riley lies.” Alec held his sword until Father Daughtry finally nodded.

“He comes here to claim her from ye,” Colin said. “Noon, Elspet’s meadow.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” Alec said and sheathed his sword. “We’ll finish this.”

“No,” Rachel exhaled. “I will not have blood spilled over me.”

Alec’s eyes turned to her. They still held fury, but their blue depths softened. “It’s our way, lass.” He indicated the large tapestry hanging on the wall depicting the death scene that had started the feud a hundred years ago. “I willna have ye slandered, and I willna give ye up to those lying bastards.”

She stepped closer to him, her eyes and face as hard as his own. “Then I’m coming.” Her voice dropped. “To clean up whatever mess you all make.” If she couldn’t stop them from fighting, she could stop them from dying.

Rachel inhaled the light fragrance of heather and gorse on the summer breeze. The sun beat hard against the low clouds, breaking through to touch the bright green field. Elspet’s meadow – the place where Macbain and Munro had battled for a woman. Blasted dramatic Highlanders. Rachel frowned at the powerful man who slid from his horse. Angus’s eyes sought hers and his easy smile faltered at her fury. Did the man honestly think she welcomed his slander?

“Are ye well?” Angus called across the space where wildflowers danced in a swirling frenzy.

Rachel tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I did not handfast with you, Angus Riley. I don’t even know you. Withdraw your ridiculous claim and walk away from this cursed field.”

Another man, taller and broader, dismounted. He had the conceited look of authority.

The Macbain.

“Whether ye are aware or not, Angus Riley claimed ye when he brought ye to my castle. He took ye without force. Ye went along willingly.”

“I was unconscious,” Rachel snorted.

“When ye woke, ye did not ask to turn around.”

She threw up her hands. “I did!” Isabelle placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was his word against hers.

Alec stepped before her, sword in hand. Angus’s sword sang out as he strode forward. A ray of sun broke through the clouds to shine down between the enemies as if Elspet herself tried to bar them from making the same mistake they did a century ago. Rachel’s fingers dug into the back of Alec’s shirt. When he turned towards her and lowered his sword, Angus lunged.

“No!” Rachel screamed and twisted to defend Alec. But Angus’s momentum was too great. The point of his sword lowered from his strike but he couldn’t stop the thrust in time. Rachel gasped as hot pain ripped through her middle, piercing her intestines, slicing arteries, veins and muscles. The solid blade tore back out of her as he withdrew.

Alec roared and caught her wilting body, cushioning it as she crumpled to the sunlit wildflowers. “Rachel! Nay!” His exhales were fierce pants. “Doona not leave me.”

Alec’s words swam in her head, mixed with the clenching pain and spreading numbness. The tang of blood and bile obliterated the subtle aroma of summer. Rachel gasped, straining for air, and shivered.

On the next ragged inhale she felt warmth. Heat wrapped around her middle and she blinked her eyes open. Alec stared down at her. Deep emotion turned his blue eyes darker, more intense. A brilliant array of lighter blues shot out from his pupils. She reached a blood-streaked hand to his face. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

“Hold on, Rachel,” he pleaded and rubbed her hand along his warm cheek.

Pain ebbed as warmth woke Rachel’s senses.

A startled gasp came from Father Daughtry and several others gathered around. “She’s glowing.”

Rachel glanced down her body where Isabelle rested her hands near the wound. Her sister’s eyes were closed in concentration as she fed her magic into her.

“Isabelle?” William choked.

Rachel reached for Isabelle’s hands, at the same time feeding her own magic, now revived, throughout her body to knit the worst of her wounds.

“No, father. It is me.” Rachel met Isabelle’s eyes and she nodded, a smile touching her lips. Isabelle removed her hands but the glow continued. “I am the one who glows, not sweet Isabelle.” Rachel continued.

“Witchery!” Father Daughtry clutched his heavy crucifix.

Rachel heard murmurs around them, but Alec’s face blocked the men’s view. “I’m sorry I distracted you again,” Rachel whispered to Alec.

He rolled his eyes and exhaled in a gust. After a full breath, his worry relaxed into a broad smile. “Bloody hell, thank ye Lord for magic.” Rachel smiled at his blasphemous prayer. His eyes closed for a brief moment as he shook his head, his smile turning grim. “I swear, Rachel, I’ll never let ye near danger again.” With that oath, Alec lifted her into his arms. She let him carry her, her strength depleted. Rachel glanced at Isabelle where she leaned against Colin. Colin nodded to Rachel, subtle appreciation and respect in his gaze.

“We shall not suffer a witch to live,” Father Daughtry recited and clenched his rosary.

“I would keep yer name calling to yerself,” Colin advised when Alec’s hard stare shot across the distance to pierce the cleric. Rachel glanced over Alec’s shoulder at the flabbergasted Macbains. Angus’s sword sagged, its blade dark with her blood, the tip lost in the green grass.

“Go home Macbains,” Alec growled without turning. “No one believes yer lies.” He paused, turning to stare hard at Angus. “Rachel Brindle is mine.”

Rachel’s healed stomach fluttered with Alec’s words and she found it difficult to inhale fully. She could easily read the energy surging through Alec, muscles contracting with power, heart thudding in time with his footfalls. Rachel’s pulse surged as she replayed his words.

Rachel Brindle is mine. Did that make Alec Munro hers? Her hands slid to his well-muscled biceps.

“Ye are well?” he spoke low. She nodded. They rode back to the keep in silence. Rachel leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum. Alec’s essence enveloped her – his clean masculine smell, his heat, his corded arms pulling her into the shelter of his chest. Even his legs braced around her, supporting her easily without complaint.

Rachel insisted on returning to the great hall after changing yet another ruined gown. Between Father Daughtry’s condemnation and her father’s spluttering, she wasn’t about to sit above in her room while they slandered her.

“Never seen anything like it,” Father Daughtry shook his head. “Must be from the Devil.”

“She prays.” Alec’s voice sounded annoyed. “’Tis a blessing from God. She saved my own life that day Angus stole her.”

Rachel and Isabelle stepped into the great hall. Father Daughtry stared directly at Rachel, his cross held tightly. “Have you fornicated with the Devil?”

“I am a maid,” she replied, eyes wide.

“With healing magic you could remake yourself a maid every day,” her father said and Rachel gasped at his crudeness.

Alec’s sword rang with promise as he levelled it at William’s throat. “The only reason yer heart does not bleed itself dry on the end of this blade is because it would distress yer daughter.” William’s eyes bulged and he backed away. Alec brought his sword around to point at Father Daughtry. “She is not a witch and the only devil she will be consorting with is me.” Rachel opened her mouth and shut it. At least he hadn’t said fornicating.

“The church may want to investigate this further,” Father Daughtry mumbled.

“The church will need to go through me,” Alec said, his scowl so murderous it made the priest cross himself.

Phillip stepped beside Alec in front of Rachel. “And every warrior belonging to Clan Munro.”

Colin left Isabelle’s side to stand on the other side of Alec. “And Clan Macleod.”

Rachel blinked several times. Never before had anyone defended her besides her sister. And now it seemed she had the protection of two whole Highland clans.

After a battle of stares, Father Daughtry nodded and kissed his cross. “What then would you have me do? It is my duty to fight for your souls up here in this heathen land.”

“Then bless us,” Alec said. “Our union.” Rachel turned to stone.

“What?” Her father’s face flushed.

Alec sheathed his sword and pointed at him. “Ye, William Brindle will give yer daughter, Rachel, to me.” He pointed to Phillip and Colin. “Ye two will witness.” He swivelled back around to Father Daughtry. “And ye will sanctify our marriage with yer bloody blessing.” For another long moment it seemed everyone had been frozen, until Phillip slapped Alec on the back, a smile on his roguish face.

“And what would you have me do?” Rachel’s voice seemed small compared to Alec’s mighty roar – small but strong. She held her gaze steady as he turned to her.

His face was chiselled, jaw tight, eyes sparking. But his voice was gentle. “Ye will say ‘I do’.”

Rachel met him with her own spark. “I haven’t heard a question.” With that she walked away through the maze of statues to the doors and stepped into the summer breeze.

Indignation warred with hope. Marriage? She barely knew Alec Munro. All the reasons she should be furious and appalled tumbled through her head. But … the thought of Alec, his warmth, his strength, his easy acceptance of her powers, fluttered within Rachel’s stomach and squeezed her heart.

Rachel’s feet brought her to the stables and she entered, breathing in the pungent smell of fresh hay. The large lashed eyes of several mares turned her way as they munched, tails swishing. Rachel leaned against the wooden wall. She barely had time to think before she heard Alec’s footfalls grinding into the pebbles of the bailey. They paused outside the stable doors and she closed her eyes. The man could obviously track.

The light crunching paused before her and she smelled the clean male scent that was all Alec. “Rachel.” His voice started a shiver that catapulted through her body. She slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the massive Highland warrior. “Life flashes by too fast up here to waste time courting.”

Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “Too fast for a simple question?” She propped hands on hips. “Let me teach you a little something about women, Alec Munro,” she leaned forward to stare up into his face. “You men may dream about your first battle, mentally preparing for it from the moment you can walk. Well, women dream about …” she suddenly felt foolish. Her hands slipped from her hips.

Alec caught her chin. “What, Rachel, what have ye dreamed about since ye were a wee lass?”

She pursed her lips and ignored the sting of moisture in her eyes. “The bloody question! Delivered reverently by a gallant knight.”

Alec ran his thumb over her cheekbone and grinned. “I’ll never be a gallant knight, Rachel.”

“Agreed,” she sniffed, her eyes looking to the ceiling before meeting his again. She huffed, “Delivered, then, by a stubborn, domineering, overbearing mountain of a man.”

His grin increased. “And here I was afraid ye would say ye didn’t even know me.”

She glanced down. “I don’t.”

His voice softened. “But I know a lot about ye.” He ran fingers through her curls, encouraging that shiver to the tips of her toes. She braced her trembling legs against the wall. Alec’s dark blue eyes focused on hers. “I know ye are the bravest woman I have ever met.”

He closed the scant distance between them. Rachel tried to breathe evenly. “I know ye trust me.” She frowned at his arrogance. “In the woods ye didn’t sound an alarm.” When she didn’t refute he continued. “Ye possess magic and it’s a blessing, but it should only be used when necessary because it tires ye.” He raised her wrist and traced the wings of the brown dragonfly mark.

Alec’s nose skimmed the pulse of her neck, his lips hovering up to her jaw. Rachel’s heart pounded. “I know yer scent.” He inhaled and goose bumps rippled along her arms.

His hand moved to her chest, palm against her heart, fingers stretched up along her collarbone. “I know the sound of yer heart racing and how yer sky blue eyes turn darker when I am close.” She would have denied it but guessed it was true.

“Ye like sweetened raspberries and are exceedingly clever.” His palms cupped her cheeks and Rachel’s lips opened on their own accord but he held himself apart. She almost groaned in frustration. “And I know ye meddle and get into trouble when ye think ’tis the right thing to do. We’re certain to yell a bit at each other. For ye have spirit, lass, to match my own.”

His nose touched hers and she hardly breathed. Several heartbeats passed. His heat scorched her. His scent filled her every breath. His strength radiated outward, encompassing her, making her weak and mighty at the same time.

Rachel cleared her throat. “But there’s more to me.”

“And we have decades to learn the particulars,” he whispered so close to her lips she felt the breeze of his words. She nodded, brushing his forehead. He lowered his hands and straightened, a look of mild disappointment tightening his face.

“And what do ye know of me, besides the fact that I’m stubborn and a mountain of a man?” He flexed his thick biceps as if proving her physical description.

She smirked. “You forgot domineering and overbearing.” He tipped his head in acceptance and a small laugh broke from her grin. “Well … you are kind to let my father live.” He nodded vehemently. “You have a good sense of direction and know how to cook a rabbit.”

“And find raspberries,” he added.

“Charming” – she could add that. Charming when he wanted to be. “A leader of a great clan.” He nodded. “And I think … honourable.”

“I always keep my promises, lass.”

“You are good with a sword and you smell clean and wholesome,” she added quickly.

He flashed white teeth. “Because I am clean and wholesome.” He stepped close again. “But ye forgot a most important part of me, something that I’ve recently stumbled upon.” His face grew serious, almost pained for a moment, as he caught a curl and tucked it behind her ear with a caress. “When that bastard Macbain stabbed ye –”

“Because I was meddling.”

“Aye,” his quick grin faded just as fast as it was born. His gaze moved to the ceiling. “Let me back up.” He paused until he looked her in the eye again. “I hate the Macbains.” Pure loathing shook his voice. “They killed my father, my two brothers, and would have killed me.” He took a large breath of air. “But when Angus Riley,” he nearly spit the name, “stabbed ye, all I could think about was saving ye, holding yer warm body against mine again, kissing ye.” Rachel felt her blush but couldn’t look away. “I could have turned and killed him there, possibly killed The Macbain himself, but,” he shook his head, “they meant nothing.” His eyebrows rose as if surprised. Alec’s fingers brushed her cheek and she suddenly realized a tear had trailed down it. “All I could think about was Rachel Brindle and how much …” his lips tightened as if he were about to say something foreign. “How much … I love ye.”

Rachel’s breath caught. Alec took her hand in his and his voice deepened with his oath. “Tha gaol agam ort, Rachel. Gu bràth, forever.” He leaned in so close, his bottom lip brushed hers. He waited. “I doona break my promises.”

Rachel moved her lips against his but he held still. The memory of his oath in the cave surfaced. He’d kept his promise not to kiss her until she asked. This wild, headstrong barbarian was her gallant knight. “I love you too.” She took his face in her hands. “Kiss me, Alec Munro.”

As if her words broke through a dam, Alec’s entire being swamped her. His lips, hot and urgent, melded with her own. His arms caught her up, fitting her into the shelter of his body, pressing her tightly to his muscled form. The physical difference between them sent a giddy rapture spiralling through Rachel. She let him hold her up as sensation after sensation washed away everything but his taste, his scent, his touch. The rough board at Rachel’s back that Alec pressed her against faded from her consciousness, as did everything but their hearts racing together. Alec’s kisses trailed down Rachel’s neck and she moaned softly. Only then did she hear the polite cough.

She stiffened and Alec growled. “Be gone, Phillip.” Alec’s hot lips feathered back up to Rachel’s and she relaxed as his hands ran caresses down her arms.

A deep chuckle. “It’s customary for the bride to say ‘I do’ before …”

“I do,” Rachel breathed against Alec’s lips. He paused and she blinked open to see his broad smile. His blue eyes shone bright and he threw back his head and laughed. She couldn’t help but join him. Alec picked her up. Rachel gasped on a giggle and clung hard to his neck as he carried her towards the altar.

“I do, too,” Alec said against her ear. The heat in his words scorched her. “Let us tell the good father quickly then. I have a desire to learn everything about ye. From the curls of yer lovely head to the tips of yer wee toes, and everything in between.” He paused to seal his oath.

Rachel’s blood surged with the promise in Alec’s kiss, a promise of adventures and passion, a promise of a lifetime of love.