2

Mairin gazed wearily at the looming keep

as they rode through the final stone skirt and

into the courtyard. Thoughts of escape deteriorated as she stared helplessly at the

massive holding. It was impenetrable.

Men were everywhere, most of them training, some tending to repairs on portions of

the inner wall, others taking a rest and

drinking water from a pail close to the steps

of the keep.

As if sensing her fatalistic thoughts,

Crispen looked up, his green eyes bright with

fear. Her arms were looped around his body,

her hands tied together in front of him, and

she squeezed him to try to reassure him. But

’twas God’s truth, she was shaking like the

last leaf in autumn.

The soldier leading her horse pulled up,

and she had to fight to stay in the saddle.

Crispen steadied them by grabbing onto the

horse’s mane.

Finn rode up beside them and yanked

Mairin from the horse. Crispen came with

her, screeching his surprise as he tumbled

from her grasp to the ground.

Finn lowered her down, his fingers bruising her arm with his grip. She wrenched

away and reached with her bound hands to

help Crispen stand.

All around them, activity ceased as everyone stopped to take stock of the new arrival.

A few of the keep’s women stared curiously

at her from a distance, whispering behind

their hands.

She knew she must look a fright, but she

was more concerned with what would happen when Laird Cameron arrived to view his

captive. God help her then.

And then she saw him. He appeared at the

top of the steps leading into the keep, his

gaze sharp as he sought her out. The rumors

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of his greed, of his ruthlessness and ambition, led her to expect the very image of the

devil. To her surprise, he was an exceedingly

handsome man.

His clothing was immaculate, as though it

had never seen a day on the battlefield. She

knew better. She’d mended too many soldiers who’d crossed paths with him. Soft

leather trews and a dark green tunic with

boots that looked too new. At his side, his

sword gleamed in the sunlight, the blade

honed to a deadly sharpness.

Her hands automatically went to her

throat, and she swallowed rapidly against the

knot forming.

“You found her?” Duncan Cameron called

from the top of the steps.

“Aye, Laird.” Finn thrust her forward,

shaking her like a rag doll. “This be Mairin

Stuart.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned

as though he’d suffered disappointment in

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the past. Had he been looking for her for so

long? She shivered and tried not to allow her

fear to overwhelm her.

“Show me,” Duncan barked.

Crispen moved toward her just as Finn

hauled her against him. She slammed into

his chest with enough force to knock the

breath from her. Another soldier appeared at

his side, and to her utter humiliation, they

tossed up the hem of her dress.

Duncan descended the steps, his face

creased in concentration as he neared. Something feral sparked in his eyes, and they

lighted in triumph.

His finger caressed the outline of the

brand, and he broke into a broad grin. “The

royal crest of Alexander,” he whispered. “All

this time you were thought dead, Neamh

Álainn lost forever. Now you are both mine.”

“Never,” she gritted out.

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He looked startled for a moment and then

he stepped back, scowling at Finn. “Cover

her.”

Finn yanked down her clothing and released her arm. Crispen was back at her side

immediately.

“Who is this?” Duncan thundered when he

laid eyes on Crispen. “Is this her brat? Does

she claim him? It cannot be!”

“Nay, Laird,” Finn was quick to say. “The

child is not hers. We caught him trying to

steal one of our horses. She champions him.

Nothing else.”

“Get rid of him.”

Mairin wrapped both arms around Crispen

and stared at Duncan with all the force of her

hatred. “You touch him and you’ll regret the

day you were born.”

Duncan blinked in surprise and then rage

suffused his face, flushing it to near purple.

“You dare, you dare to threaten me?”

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“Go ahead, kill me,” she said calmly. “That

would serve your purpose well.”

He lashed out and backhanded her across

the cheek. She fell to the ground, her hand

snapping up to cup her jaw.

“Leave her alone!” Crispen cried.

She lunged for him, pulling him down until he was cradled in her arms. “Shhh,” she

cautioned. “Do nothing to anger him

further.”

“I see you have regained your senses,”

Duncan said. “See to it they don’t leave you

again.”

She said nothing, just lay there on the

ground, holding Crispen as she stared at

Duncan’s unmarred boots. He must never

work, she thought. Even his hand was soft

against her cheek. How could a man who

rose to power on the broken backs of others

have such strength?

“Take her inside and give her to the women to bathe,” Duncan said in disgust.

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“Stay near me,” she whispered to Crispen.

She didn’t trust Finn not to hurt him.

Finn hauled her to her feet and half

dragged, half carried her inside the keep.

Though the outside gleamed, the inside was

dirty and musty and smelled of days-old ale.

Dogs barked excitedly, and she curled her

nose as the odor of feces assaulted her

nostrils.

“Upstairs with you,” Finn snarled, as he

shoved her toward the stairs. “And don’t be

trying anything. I’ll have guards posted outside your door. Make it quick. You don’t

want to keep the laird waiting.”

The two women given the task of seeing to

Mairin’s bath viewed her with a mixture of

sympathy and curiosity as they briskly

washed her hair.

“Do you be wanting the lad to bathe as

well?” one asked.

“Nay!” Crispen exclaimed from his perch

on the bed.

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“Nay,” Mairin echoed softly. “Leave him

be.”

After they rinsed the soap from Mairin’s

hair, they helped her from the tub and soon

had her dressed in a beautiful blue gown

with elaborate embroidery around the neck

and sleeves and again at the hem. She didn’t

miss the significance of being dressed in

Duncan’s colors. How easily heconsidered

her his conquest.

When the two women offered to arrange

her hair, Mairin shook her head. As soon as

it was dry she’d braid it.

With a shrug, the women departed the

room, leaving her to await her summons

from Duncan.

She sat down on the bed next to Crispen,

and he snuggled into the crook of her arm.

“I’m getting you dirty,” he whispered.

“I don’t care.”

“What are we going to do, Mairin?”

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His voice shook with fear, and she kissed

the top of his head.

“We’ll think of something, Crispen. We’ll

think of something.”

The door flew open, and Mairin instinctively shoved Crispen behind her. Finn stood

there in the doorway, his gaze triumphant.

“The laird wants you.”

She turned to Crispen and cupped his chin

until he looked directly into her eyes. “Stay

here,” she whispered. “Don’t come out of this

room. Promise me.”

He nodded, his eyes wide with fright.

She rose and went to where Finn stood.

When he reached for her arm, she yanked it

away. “I’m capable of walking unaided.”

“Uppity bitch,” he bit out.

She preceded him down the stairs, her

dread growing with each passing second.

When she saw the priest standing next to the

fire in the great hall, she knew that Duncan

was taking no chances. He’d marry her, bed

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her, and seal her fate and that of Neamh

Álainn.

As Finn shoved her forward, she prayed

for strength and courage for what she must

do.

“There’s my bride now,” Duncan said, as

he turned from his conversation with the

priest.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes, and he

studied her intently, almost as if he were

warning her of the consequences if she

refused.

God, help me.

The priest cleared his throat and focused

his attention on Mairin. “Are you willing,

lass?”

Silence fell as all awaited her response.

Then slowly, she shook her head. The priest

swung his gaze to Duncan, a look of accusation in his eyes.

“What is this, Laird? You told me you both

wished this marriage.”

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The look on Duncan’s face had the priest

backtracking. The priest hastily crossed himself and positioned himself a safe distance

from Duncan.

Then Duncan turned to her, and her blood

ran cd. For such a handsome man, he was, in

that moment, very ugly.

He stepped toward her, grasping her arm

above the elbow, squeezing until she feared

her bone would snap.

“I’ll ask this only once more,” he said in a

deceptively soft voice. “Are you willing?”

She knew. She knew that when she uttered

her denial, he would retaliate. He might even

kill her if he saw his path to Neamh Álainn

shattered. But she hadn’t stayed sequestered

all these years only to yield at the first sign of

adversity. Somehow, someway, she must find

a way out of this mess.

She lifted her shoulders, infusing the steel

of a broadsword into her spine. In a clear,

distinct voice, she uttered her denial. “Nay.”

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His roar of rage nearly shattered her ears.

His fist sent her flying several feet, and she

huddled into a ball, gasping for breath. He’d

hit her so hard in the ribs that she couldn’t

squeeze breath into her lungs.

She raised her shocked and unfocused

gaze up to see him towering over her, his anger a tangible, terrible thing. In that moment, she knew she’d chosen right. Even if

he killed her in his frenzy, what would her

life be like as his wife? After she bore him the

necessary heir to Neamh Álainn, he’d have

no further use for her anyway, and he’d just

rid himself of her then.

“Yield,” he demanded, his fist raised in

warning.

“Nay.”

Her voice didn’t come out as strong as before. It came out more of a breathy exhalation than anything, and her lips trembled.

But she made herself heard.

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In the great hall, the murmurs rose, and

Duncan’s face swelled, his cheeks purpling

until she thought he might well explode.

That shiny boot kicked out, connecting

with her body. Her cry of pain was muted by

the next blow. Over and over, he kicked, and

then he yanked her up and drove his fist into

her side.

“Laird, you’ll kill her!”

She was barely conscious. She had no idea

who uttered the warning. She hung in his

grasp, every breath causing her unbearable

pain.

Duncan dropped her in disgust. “Lock her

in her chambers. No one is to give her any

food or water. Nor that brat of hers. We’ll see

how soon it takes her to yield when he starts

whining of hunger.”

Again, she was hauled upward with no regard to her injuries. Each step up the stairs

was agony as she bounced against the hard

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stone. The door to her chamber opened, and

Finn threw her inside.

She hit the floor, battling for consciousness with every breath.

“Mairin!”

Crispen huddled over her, his little hands

gripping her painfully.

“Nay, don’t touch m” she whispered

hoarsely. If he touched her, she was sure

she’d faint.

“You must get to the bed,” he said desperately. “I’ll help you. Please, Mairin.”

He was near tears, and it was only the

thought of how he’d survive in Duncan’s

hands if she died that prevented her from

closing her eyes and praying for peace.

She roused herself enough to crawl toward

the bed, each movement sending a scream

down her spine. Crispen bore as much of her

weight as he could, and together they managed to haul her over the edge of the bed.

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She melted into the straw mattress, hot

tears slipping down her cheeks. Breathing

hurt. Crispen settled next to her, his warm,

sweet body seeking comfort she couldn’t

offer.

Instead, his arms went around her, and he

hugged her to his little body. “Please don’t

die, Mairin,” he begged softly. “I’m scared.”

“Lady. My lady, wake up. You must wake

up.”

The urgent whisper roused Mairin from

unconsciousness, and as soon as she turned,

seeking the annoyance that disturbed her,

agony flashed through her body until she

gasped for breath.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said anxiously. “I

know you’re badly injured, but you must

hurry.”

“Hurry?”

Mairin’s voice was slurred, and her brain

was a mass of cobwebs. Beside her, Crispen

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stirred and gave a start of fright when he saw

the shadow standing over the bed.

“Aye, hurry,” the impatient voice came

again.

“Who are you?” Mairin managed to ask.

“We haven’t time to talk, Lady. The laird is

in a drunken sleep. He’ll think you too badly

hurt to escape. We have to go now if you are

to make it. He plans to kill the child if you

don’t yield.”

At the word escape, some of the cobwebs

vanished. She tried to sit up but nearly cried

out when pain knifed through her side.

“Here, let me help you. You too, lad,” the

woman said to Crispen. “Help me with your

lady.”

Crispen scrambled over the bed and slid

off the edge.

“Why are you doing this?” Mairin asked

when they both helped her sit up.

“What he did was a disgrace,” the woman

murmured. “To beat a lass as he did you.

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He’s mad. You’ve been his obsession. I fear

for your life no matter whether you yield or

not. He’ll kill the boy.”

Mairin squeezed her hand with the little

strength she had. “Thank you.”

“We must hurry. There is a bolt-hole in the

next chaber. You’ll have to leave alone. I

can’t risk taking you. At the end, Fergus

waits for you with a horse. He’ll put you and

the lad on it. It’ll pain you, aye, but you’ll

have to endure. ’Tis your only way out.”

Mairin nodded her acceptance. Escape in

agony or die in comfort. Didn’t seem like

such a difficult decision.

The serving woman cracked open the door

of the chamber, turned back to Mairin, and

put a finger to her lips. She motioned to the

left to let Mairin know the guard was there.

Crispen slid his hand into hers, and again

she squeezed to comfort him. Inch by breathless inch, they crept by the sleeping guard in

the darkness of the hall. Mairin held her

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breath the entire way, afraid if she let out so

much as a puff, the guard would wake and

alert the keep.

Finally they reached the next chamber.

Dust flew and curled around her nose as they

stepped within, and she had to squeeze her

nostrils to keep from sneezing.

“Over here,” the woman whispered in the

darkness.

Mairin followed the sound of her voice until she felt the chill emanating from the stone

wall.

“God be with you,” the serving woman said

as she ushered Mairin and Crispen into the

small tunnel.

Mairin stopped only long enough to

squeeze her hand in a quick thank-you, and

then she urged Crispen into the narrow

passageway.

Each step sent a fresh wave of agony

through Mairin. She feared her ribs were

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broken, but there was naught that could be

done about it now.

They hurried through the darkness, Mairin

all but dragging Crispen behind her.

“Who goes there?”

Mairin halted at the man’s voice but remembered that the woman had said Fergus

awaited them.

“Fergus?” she called softly. “ ’Tis I, Mairin

Stuart.”

“Come, Lady,” he urged.

She rushed to the end and stepped onto

the cold, damp ground, wincing when her

bare feet made contact with rough pebbles.

She gazed at their surroundings and saw that

the bolt-hole exited the back of the keep

where there was only a skirt between the

keep and the hillside that jutted skyward.

Wordlessly, Fergus melted into the darkness, and Mairin ran to catch up to him.

They moved along the bottom of the hillside

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and headed for the dense population of trees

at the perimeter of Duncan’s holding.

A horse was tied to one of the trees, and

Fergus quickly freed him, gathering the reins

as he turned to Mairin.

“I’ll lift you up first and then the lad.” He

pointed into the distance. “That way is north.

God be with you.”

Without another word, he lifted her, all

but tossing her into the saddle. If the s all she

could do not to fall off. Tears crushed her

eyes and she doubled over, fighting

unconsciousness.

Help me please, God.

Fergus lifted Crispen, who settled in front

of her. She was glad he wasn’t riding behind

her because, God’s truth, she needed

something to hang on to.

“Can you manage the reins?” she

whispered to Crispen as she leaned into him.

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“I’ll protect you,” Crispen said fiercely.

“Hold on to me, Mairin. I’ll take us home, I

swear it.”

She smiled at the determination in his

voice. “I know you will.”

Fergus gave the horse a slap, and it started

forward. Mairin bit her lip against the

scream of pain that battled to erupt. She

would never make it even a mile.

Alaric McCabe drew up his horse and held

his fist up to halt his men. They’d ridden all

morning, searching endless trails, tracking

hoofprints to no avail. All were dead ends.

He slid from the saddle and strode forward

to view the disturbance in the soil. Kneeling,

he touched the faint hoofprints and the

flattened grass to the side. It looked as

though someone took a fall from a horse.

Recently.

He scanned the immediate area and saw a

footprint in a patch of bare soil a few feet

away, then lifted his gaze toward the area the

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person had headed. Slowly he rose, drew his

sword, and motioned for his men to spread

out and circle the area.

Carefully, he stepped through the trees,

watching warily for any sign of ambush. He

saw the horse first, grazing a short distance

away, the reins hanging, the saddle askew.

He frowned. Such disregard for the care of a

horse was surely a sin.

A slight rustle to his right swung him

around, and he found himself staring at a

small woman, her back wedged against a

huge tree. Her skirts jumped like she had a

litter of kittens hidden underneath, and her

wide blue eyes were full of fear—and fury.

Her long black hair hung in disarray to her

waist, and it was then he noticed the colors

of her tunic and the coat of arms embroidered at the hem.

Rage temporarily blinded him, and he advanced, his sword held in an arc over his

head.

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She flung an arm behind her, shoving

something farther between her and the tree.

Her skirts wriggled again, and it was then he

realized she shielded a person. A child.

“Stay behind me,” she hissed.

“But Mair—”

Alaric froze. He knew that voice. His fingers shook, for the first time in his life his

hand unsteady around the hilt. Hell would be

a cold place indeed before he ever allowed a

Cameron hand on his kin.

With a snarl of rage, he charged forward,

grasped the woman by the shoulder, and

hurled her aside. Crispen stood against the

tree, his mouth open. Then he saw Alaric and

all but leapt into his arms.

The sword fell to the ground—another

sin of neglect—but in that moment Alaric

didn’t care. Sweet relief staggered him.

“Crispen,” he said hoarsely, as he hugged

the boy to him.

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A shriek of rage assaulted his ears just as

he was hit by a flying bundle of woman. So

surprised was he, that he stumbled backward, his hold on Crispen loosening.

She wedged herself between him and

Crispen and landed a knee to his groin. He

doubled over, cursing as agony washed over

him. He fell to one knee and grabbed his

sword just as he whistled for his men. The

woman was demented.

Through the haze of pain, he saw her grab

a resisting Crispen and try to run. Several

things happened at once. Two of his men

stepped in front of her. She halted, causing

Crispen to slam into her back. When she

started in the opposite direction, Gannon

raised his arm to stop her.

To Alaric’s astonishment, she swiveled,

grabbed Crispen, and fell to the ground, her

body huddled protectively over him.

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Gannon and Cormac froze and looked to

Alaric just as the rest of his men burst

through the trees.

To further confuse the hell out of all of

them, Crispen finally wiggled out from underneath her and threw himself on top of

her, scowling ferociously the entire time at

Gannon.

“Don’t you hit her!” he bellowed.

Every one of his men blinked in surprise at

Crispen’s ferocity.

“Lad, I wasn’t going to hit the lass,” Gannon said. “I was trying to prevent her from

fleeing. With you. God’s teeth, we’ve been

searching for you for days. The laird is worried sick over you.”

Alaric strode over to Crispen and plucked

him off the huddled woman. When he

reached down to haul her upright, Crispen

exploded again, shoving him back.

Alaric stared at his nephew with an open

mouth.

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“Don’t touch her,” Crispen said. “She’s

badly hurt, Uncle Alaric.”

Crispen chewed his bottom lip, and it

looked for the world like the lad was going to

break down and cry. Whoever the woman

was, it was obvious Crispen didn’t fear her.

“I won’t hurt her, lad,” Alaric said softly.

He knelt down and brushed aside the hair

from her face and realized she was unconscious. There was a bruise on one cheek, but

otherwise she didn’t look injured.

“Where is she hurt?” he asked Crispen.

Tears filled Crispen’s eyes, and he wiped

hastily at them with the back of his grubby

hand.

“Her stomach. And her back. It hurts her

fierce if anyone touches her.”

Carefully, so as no to alarm the boy, Alaric

pulled at her clothing. When her abdomen

and back came into view, he sucked in his

breath. Around him, his men alternately

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cursed and murmured their pity for the

slight lass.

“God in heaven, what happened to her?”

Alaric asked.

Her entire rib cage was purple, and ugly

bruises marred her smooth back. He could

swear one of them was in the shape of a

man’s boot.

“He beat her,” Crispen choked out. “Take

us home, Uncle Alaric. I want my papa.”

Not wanting the boy to lose his composure

in front of the other men, Alaric nodded and

patted him on the arm. There would be

plenty of time to get the story from Crispen

later. Ewan would want to hear it all.

He stared down at the unconscious woman

and frowned. She had offered her body for

Crispen’s, and yet she wore the colors of

Duncan Cameron. Ewan would be beyond

control if Cameron had any involvement in

Crispen’s disappearance.

War. At long last, war would be declared.

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He motioned for Cormac to tend to the

lass, and he reached for Crispen, intending

that the boy ride with him. There were several questions he wanted answered on the ride

home.

Crispen shook his head adamantly. “Nay,

you take her, Uncle Alaric. She has to ride

with you. I promised her that Papa would

keep her safe, but he’s not here so you have

to do it. You have to.”

Alaric sighed. There was no reasoning with

the boy, and right now he was so glad he was

alive, he’d cede to his ridiculous demands.

Later he’d bend the brat’s ear about not

questioning authority.

“I want to ride with you, too,” Crispen

said, his gaze nervously going to the woman.

He inched closer to her as if he couldn’t

stand the idea of being separated from her.

Alaric looked skyward. Ewan hadn’t taken

a firm enough hand with the boy. That was

all there was to it.

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And so Alaric found himself astride his

horse with the woman draped across the

saddle in front of him, her body shielded in

the crook of one arm, while Crispen sat on

his other leg, his head nestled against her

bosom.

He glared at his men, daring even one of

them to laugh. Hell, he had to relinquish his

sword for the duty of carrying the two extra

persons, never mind their weight didn’t

equal that of a single warrior.

Ewan just better be damn grateful. He

could decide what was to be done with the

woman just as soon as Alaric dumped her into Ewan’s lap.