3

As soon as they crossed over the border

onto McCabe land, a shout went up that

echoed through the hills, and in the distance,

Mairin heard the cry taken up and relayed.

Soon, the laird would know of his son’s

return.

She twisted the reins nervously in her fingers as Crispen all but bounced off the saddle

in his excitement.

“If you keep gathering those reins, lass,

you and the horse are going to end up back

where you came from.”

She glanced guiltily up at Alaric McCabe,

who rode to her right. His admonishment

had come out as a tease, but God’s truth, the

man scared her. He looked savage with his

unkempt, long dark hair and the braids

dangling on each side of his temples.

When she’d awakened in his arms, she’d

nearly tossed them both out of the saddle in

her haste to escape. He’d been forced to pry

both her and Crispen from their perch

against him, and he’d put them both on the

ground until the entire thing could be sorted

out.

He hadn’t been pleased by her stubbornness, but she had Crispen solidly on her side,

and having extracted a promise from Crispen

to tell no one her name, they’d both stood

mute when Alaric demanded answers.

Oh, he’d blustered and waved his arms.

Even threatened to choke the both of them,

and in the end he’d muttered blasphemies

against women and children before resuming their journey to bring Crispen home.

Alaric had then insisted she ride with him

at least another day, because he said, in no

uncertain terms, the likelihood of her sitting

a horse by herself in her condition was nil,

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and it was a sin to abuse a good horse with

an inept mount.

The journey that would normally last two

days took them three, thanks to Alaric’s consideration of her condition and their stopping frequently to rest. She knew Alaric was

considerate because he told her. Numerous

times.

After the first day, she was determined to

ride without Alaric’s assistance, if for no other reason than to wipe the smugness from

his expression. He obviously had no patience

for women, and, she suspected, with the exception of his nephew, whom he obviously

loved, he had even less patience with

children.

Still, given the fact that he knew nothing

about her, only that Crispen championed

her, he had treated her well, and his men had

been politely respectful.

Now that they neared Laird McCabe’s

stronghold, fear fluttered in her throat. She

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would no longer be able to keep silent. The

laird would demand answers, and she would

be obligated to give them.

She leaned down to whisper close to

Crispen’s ear. “Do you remember your promise to me, Crispen?”

“Aye,” he whispered back. “I’m not to tell

anyone your name.”

She nodded, feeling guilty for asking such

a thing from the boy, but if she could pretend

to be of no importance, just someone who

happened upon Crispen and saw him safely

back to his father, perhaps he would be

grateful enough to provide a horse and

maybe some food, and she could be on her

way.

“Not even your father,? she pressed.

Crispen nodded solemnly. “I’ll only tell

him you saved me.”

She squeezed his arm with her free hand.

“Thank you. I could ask for no better

champion.”

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He turned his head back to grin broadly at

her, his back puffing with pride.

“What are the two of you whispering

about?” Alaric demanded irritably.

She glanced over to see the warrior watching her, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“If I wanted you to know, I’d have spoken

louder,” she said calmly.

He turned away muttering what she was

sure were more blasphemies about annoying

females.

“You must make the priest weary with the

length of your confessions,” she said.

He raised one eyebrow. “Who says I confess anything?”

She shook her head. The arrogant man

probably thought his path to heaven was

already assured, and that he acted in accordance to God’s will just by breathing.

“Look, there it is!” Crispen shouted as he

pointed eagerly ahead.

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They topped the hill and looked down at

the stone keep nestled into the side of the

next hill.

The skirt was crumbled in several places,

and there was a detail of men working steadily, replacing the stones at the wall. What she

could see of the keep above the outer walls

looked blackened by an old fire.

The loch spread out to the right of the

keep, the water glistening in the sunlight.

One of the fingers meandered around the

front of the keep, providing a natural barrier

to the front gate. The bridge across it,

however, sagged precariously in the middle.

A temporary, narrow path over the water had

been fashioned to the side, and it would only

allow one horse at a time into the keep.

Despite the obvious state of disrepair to

the keep, the land was beautiful. Scattered

across the valley to the left of the keep, sheep

grazed, herded by an older man flanked by

two dogs. Occasionally one of the dogs raced

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out to herd the sheep back into the imaginary boundary, and then he’d return to his

master to receive an approving pat on the

head.

She turned to Alaric, who’d pulled to a

stop beside her. “What happened here?”

But he didn’t answer. A deep scowl creased

his face, and his eyes went nearly black. She

gripped the reins a little tighter and shivered

under the intensity of his hatred. Aye,

hatred. There could be no other term for

what she saw in his eyes.

Alaric spurred his horse, and hers followed

automatically, leaving her to grab onto

Crispen to make sure neither of them fell.

Down the hill they rode, Alaric’s men

flanking her protectively on all sides. Crispen

fidgeted so hard in the saddle that she had to

grip hisarm so he wouldn’t jump out of his

skin.

When they reached the temporary crossing, Alaric halted to wait on her.

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“I’ll go in first. You follow directly behind

me.”

She nodded her understanding. It wasn’t

as if she wanted to be the first into the keep

anyway. In some ways, this was more frightening to her than arriving at Duncan Cameron’s keep because she didn’t know her fate

here. She certainly knew what Cameron had

in mind for her.

They rode over the bridge and through the

wide, arched entryway into the courtyard. A

great shout went up, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Alaric who’d made

the sound. She looked over to see him still

astride his horse, his fist held high in the air.

All around her, soldiers—and there were

hundreds—thrust their swords skyward and

took up the cry, raising and lowering their

blades in celebration.

A man entered the courtyard at a dead

run, his hair flying behind him as his stride

ate up the ground below him.

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“Papa!” Crispen cried, and scrambled out

of the saddle before she could prevent him.

He hit the ground running, and Mairin

stared in fascination at the man she assumed

was Crispen’s father. Her stomach knotted,

and she swallowed, trying not to allow herself to panic all over again.

The man was huge, and just as mean looking as Alaric, and she didn’t know how she

could think it, when there was so much joy

on his face as he swung Crispen into his

arms, but he frightened her in a way that

Alaric did not.

The brothers were very similar in build

and stature. Both had dark hair that fell below their shoulders, and both wore braids.

As she looked around, though, it became apparent that all his men wore their hair the

same way. Long, wild, and savage looking.

“I’m so glad to see you, lad,” his father

choked out.

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Crispen clung to the laird with his small

arms, reminding Mairin of a burr stubbornly

clinging to her skirts.

Over Crispen’s head, his gaze met Mairin’s, and his eyes immediately hardened. He

took in every detail about her, she was sure,

and she twisted uncomfortably, feeling horribly picked apart under his scrutiny.

She started to get down from her horse because she felt a little silly when everyone

around her was dismounting, but Alaric was

there, his hands reaching up to effortlessly

pluck her from the horse and set her down

on the ground.

“Easy, lass,” he cautioned. “You’re healing

well, but you need to take care.”

He sounded almost concerned, but when

she looked up at him, he wore the same

scowl he always wore when he looked at her.

Irritated, she scowled right back. He blinked

in surprise, then pushed her toward the waiting laird.

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Ewan McCabe looked a lot more threatening now that Crispen was out of his arms and

back on the ground. She found herself backing up a step only to collide with the mountain that was Alaric.

Ewan looked first at Alaric, bypassing her

as if she were invisible, which was just fine

with her.

“You have my thanks for bringing my son

home. I had every confidence in you and

Caelen.”

Alaric cleared his throat and nudged Mairin forward.

“You have the lass to thank for Crispen’s

return. I merely provided the escort.”

Ewan’s eyes narrowed as he studied her

further. To her astonishment, his eyes weren’t the dark, fierce orbs she’d thought, but

rather they were an odd pale green. When he

scowled, though, his face darkened to a thundercloud, and who could possibly think his

eyes were anything but a matching black?

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Startled by this revelation—and if she were

avoiding the inevitable confrontation with

the laird, who could blame her?—she turned

abruptly and stared up into Alaric’s eyes. He

blinked then glared at her like he thought

she was daft—and she was pretty sure he did

think so.

“Your eyes are green, too,” she muttered.

Alaric’s scowl turned into a look of concern. “Are you sure you didn’t suffer a blow

to the head you didn’t tell me about?”

“You will look at me,” Ewan roared.

She jumped and whirled around, taking an

instinctive step back and landing once again

against Alaric.

He muttered an expletive and hunched

over, but she was too worried about Ewan to

see what Alaric was cursing over.

Her courage had run out, and her determination not to feel pain, not to allow her

spine to wither, promptly died a brutal

death.

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Her legs shook, her hands shook, and pain

speared through her sides, making her gasp

softly with each breath. Sweat beaded her

forehead, but she wouldn’t allow herself to

back down any further.

The laird was angry—at her—and for the

life of her she couldn’t discern why.

Shouldn’t he be grateful to her for saving his

son? Not that she’d really done anything

heroic, but he didn’t know that. For all he

knew, she could have battled ten men on

Crispen’s behalf.

It wasn’t until he stared back at her in astonishment that she realized she’d babbled

her entire thought process aloud. The entire

courtyard had gone silent and looked at her

as if she’d pronounced a curse on all of them.

“Alaric?” she murmured, not turning away

from the laird’s gaze.

“Aye, lass?”

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“Will you catch me if I faint? I don’t think

a fall to the ground would be good for my

injuries.”

To her surprise, he grasped both of her

shoulders and held her tightly. His hands

trembled the slightest amount, and he made

the weirdest sound. Was he laughing at her?

Ewan advanced, his astonishment replaced by that dark scowl again. Did no one

in the McCabe clan ever smile?

“Nay, we don’t,” Alaric said in amusement.

She snapped her lips shut, determined she

wouldn’t say another word, and prepared

herself for the laird’s censure.

Ewan stopped a single foot in front of her,

forcing her to crane her neck upward to meet

his stare. It was hard to be brave when she

was sandwiched between two hulking warriors, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to

throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy.

Even if she currently thought it was the best

idea. Nay, she’d faced down Duncan

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Cameron and survived. This warrior was bigger and meaner, and he could probably

squash her like a bug, but she wouldn’t die

like a coward. She wouldn’t die at all if she

had anything to say about it.

“You will tell me who you are, why you’re

wearing Duncan Cameron’s colors, and how

the hell my son came into your possession.”

She shook her head, backed up against

Alaric, only to hear him curse again as she

stepped all over his feet, and then quickly

stepped forward again, remembering, belatedly, her vow to be courageous.

Ewan frowned even harder, if that was

possible. “You defy me?”

There was a note of incredulity in his voice

that she might find amusing if she weren’t

bathed in pain and about to shake right out

of the gown that offended the laird so.

Her stomach boiled, and she prayed she

wouldn’t throw up on his boots. They weren’t

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new and shiny like Duncan’s, but somehow

she thought he’d take great offense anyway.

“I don’t defy you, Laird,” she said in an

even voice that made her proud.

“Then give me the information I seek. And

do it now,” he added in a deadly soft voice.

“I …”

Her voice cracked like ice, and she swallowed back the nausea that rose in her

throat.

She was saved by Crispen, who could obviously stand still no longer. He burst forward,

inserting himself between her and his father,

and wrapped his arms around her legs, burying his face in her bruised abdomen.

A low moan escaped her, and she reflexively put her arms around Crispen to pull

him away from her ribs. She would have

slithered straight to the ground if not for

Alaric grasping her arms to steady her again.

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Crispen turned in her grasp and stared up

at his father who looked to be battling extreme shock and burning impatience.

“Leave her alone!” Crispen exclaimed.

“She’s hurt, and I promised you’d protect

her, Papa. I promised. A McCabe never

breaks his word. You told me.”

Ewan looked down at his son in astonishment, his mouth working up and down as the

veins in his neck bulged.

“The lad is right, Ewan. The lass is sorely

in need of a bed. A hot bath wouldn’t be

remiss.”

Surprised by Alaric’s support, but more

grateful than she could possibly express, she

chanced another look at the laird only to see

him gape incredulously at Alaric.

“Bed? Bath? My son has been returned to

me by a woman wearing the colors of a man I

loathe more than life, and all anyone can

suggest is that I give her a bath and a bed?”

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The laird looked precariously close to exploding. She stepped back, and this time,

Alaric accommodated her by moving aside so

she could put distance between her and

Ewan.

“She did save his life,” Alaric said evenly.

“She took a beating for me,” Crispen

shouted.

Ewan’s expression wavered, and he stared

again at her as if trying to see for himself the

extent of her injuries. He looked torn, as if he

really wanted to demand that she cooperate,

but with both Crispen and Alaric staring expectantly at him, he snapped his lips shut

and took a step back himself.

His muscles bulged in his arms and neck,

and he took several breaths as if he were

working to keep his patience. She felt sympathy for him, she truly did. If it were her

child, she’d demand, just as he had, every detail. And if it were true—and Ewan had no

reason to lie—that Duncan Cameron was his

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mortal enemy, she could well understand

why he looked at her with such mistrust and

hatred. Aye, she understood well his dilemma. It didn’t mean she was suddenly going to cooperate, however.

Gathering her nerve, and hoping she didn’t

sound boastful, she looked the laird in the

eye. “I did save your son, Laird. I would be

most appreciative of what aid you could

provide. I won’t ask for much. A horse and

maybe some food. I’ll be on my way and no

longer a bother.”

Ewan no longer stared at her. Nay, he

turned his face heavenward as if praying for

either patience or deliverance. Maybe both.

“A horse. Food.”

He said the words, still looking up at the

sky. Then he slowly lowered his head until

those green eyes scorched the breath right

out of her.

“You aren’t going anywhere, lass.”