One

Scotland, Inner Hebrides,1587

The bastard was finally going to kill her.

Sorcha trembled inside her wool mantle as icy wind thrashed strands of brown hair over her face. The rope binding her wrists stung, and her battered legs ached where Hector had pushed her down the steps of the keep. But none of it compared to the fear clutching her insides. She craned her neck over her shoulder and gawked wide-eyed at the white waves pummelling the base of the cliff.

“Ye destroyed my crops with hail, infested the clan’s meat with maggots, and set the outbuildings afire. ’Tis August, yet snow blankets my land.” Hector pressed her closer to the pebbled edge with his dark glare and intimidating size. He stood a full head taller and easily outweighed her by ten stone. “And now this.” He held up his sword arm covered with lesions of oozing pus. “Ye give me a whore’s disease!”

“I did naught, m’lord. I swear it,” Sorcha pleaded between chattering teeth. She considered reminding him that he hadn’t come to her bed in over two years, but knew ’twas useless to defend herself. Hector had blamed her for every misfortune that befell Clan Ranald since he’d taken her to wife four years past.

“Ye lying bitch!” He struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand.

Sorcha twisted at the waist and landed on her knees and elbows. The pain stinging her cheek was soon forgotten when Hector kicked her in the side. She heard her rib crack just before an unbearable streak of pain shot through her very core. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The coppery tinge of blood spread over her tongue as she rolled on to her stomach. She spit a string of crimson and pulled herself forwards by her bound hands.

“Think ye I dinnae hear ye chant your spells in the old language?” Hector wrenched her back to her feet.

If she were half the witch he accused her of being, then she might possess the power to save herself. She wished da hadn’t ousted grandmum from the clan before she taught Sorcha the Pagan ways.

“Ye have cursed me and my clan for the last time,” he bellowed over the howling wind.

“If ye kill me,” she panted through the pain, trying to draw upright to stare him in the eye, “my kin will avenge me.” ’Twas a false threat, but she was desperate.

A deep throaty chortle burst from Hector’s pocked face. “Your da died before naming a tanist to reign in his stead. The MacNeils have no chieftain, no bloodline, save for a sixteen-year-old girl. And your sister will be easy to break.”

Sorcha’s heart lodged in her throat. The horrid images of what Hector would do to her sister erupted in her mind’s eye like a nightmare. Peigi would be powerless to defend herself against Hector and his men.

“As soon as I send ye to your Otherworld, I’ll be claiming the Isle of Barra as my own.”

Sorcha looked to the grey sky and pleaded with the king of her gods. Thou Christ of the cross, snatch me from the snares of this evil demon so I might protect my kin.

A bird cawed overhead, circling them. ’Twas a falcon – a white falcon. Mayhap the Goddess Cliodna had come to escort her to the afterlife.

“Fare thee well, Sorcha of Barra. I’ll see ye in Hell.” Hector raised his foot high and drove the sole of his boot into her stomach, sending her reeling over the edge of the cliff.

Shock numbed her insides. She wanted to hold on to something, to scream, but she could do neither. Her body seemed to fall faster than her soul, and for one breathtakingly frightening moment, she felt as though her physical being separated from her spirit.

Through it all, she kept her eyes fixed on that white falcon following her downward to her death.

“Heave!” Keiran of Barra bellowed the order to his kinsmen pulling on the oars as he cursed Sorcha’s grandmum for not sending him sooner. They were close, but were they close enough to save her?

Standing at the bow of a three-masted carrack staring into thick grey mist, Keiran held fast to the magick thread connecting him to his animal spirit. Through his falcon’s eyes, he watched Laird Ranald strike Sorcha. When the poxed pig kicked her, Keiran’s fingertips dug into the wooden rail. Get up! Crawl away from him.

His falcon, Tàiseal, cried a warning above the scene, just before the cur pushed Sorcha over the cliff’s edge.

Keiran’s heart jumped against his ribs. “Bluidy-faugh!” He snapped his chin over his shoulder and ordered the MacNeil warriors again, “Heave! Heave!”, louder this time.

Two heartbeats later, the bowsprit broke through the thick mist. He pushed the falcon’s aerial view from his head and watched as Sorcha disappeared into the white waves.

Gasps issued overhead from the topmen perched like gulls in the rigging.

“Oh, Brigid, protect her,” Keiran begged the High Mother Goddess as he unsheathed his weapons – a broadsword, two daggers, and a sgian dubh – tossing them to the deck. His entire body shook as he heeled off his deerskin boots. He couldn’t let her die. Aside from being the queen of his clan, she’d held the key to his heart since she was but ten and six.

“Have ye lost your wits, mon?” Sileas stepped on to the prow, pulling a fur cap tighter over his bushy copper hair. “Ye cannot swim faster than they can row. Besides, you’ll freeze to death afore ye reach her.”

“If they keep rowing, the bow will splinter on the rock. Stop the starboard rowers and turn the Cerridwen around.” Keiran pulled his plaid over his head. “Send a long boat. I’m going after her.” He stepped up on the rail and dived headlong into the frigid water.

His eyes pinched tight. Tiny needles of ice pricked his body, seizing his muscles, but his spirit urged him on. He burst out of the water and spun in circles, searching for her, but could see naught through the mayhem of rolling foam. Tàiseal screeched overhead, and Keiran immediately tapped into the falcon’s vision.

Sorcha clung to the edge of a rock nigh ten feet away from him. A swell broke over her, mocking her efforts to survive, but she was alive. Hope gave him the strength he needed to close the space between them. He kicked and pushed the water behind him until he could see her with his own eyes. Keiran reached for her just as another swell crashed over and pulled her beneath the surface.

Sorcha! He dived deep, refusing to return to the surface without her. Salty brine scoured his eyes, but he dared not close them and lose sight of the dark silhouette descending into the abyss. Pressure squeezed his chest. Just as he feared he would fail, a powerful force clutched his back like a sorcerer’s claw and pushed him deeper.

Sorcha’s hair feathered across his fingers. He kicked his feet and hooked his arm beneath her breasts. His legs burned with the added weight, but having her in his arms gave him the strength he needed to haul her back to the surface.

Air. Sweet, cool air. He gasped for it, choked on it as he wrenched Sorcha out of the water. Holding her lifeless body against his chest, he located the long boat only feet away. Within seconds, the hands of his kinsmen grasped at him and Sorcha, heaving them over the edge of the boat.

She lay still as stone in a bundle of sodden wool. Her dark hair coiled in a web around her face. An ashen tint darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and her lips were quickly turning blue.

“She is dead,” Sileas announced as the others rowed them towards the Cerridwen.

Keiran cleared the hair from her mouth, refusing to believe Sileas’s words. Her memory had kept him alive all those years he’d spent on the battlefield. She’d been his light of hope and he’d be damned if he would let that light be doused forever.

He flattened his hand over her chest and used the healing technique Magda had taught him to move the water out of Sorcha’s lungs.

She convulsed – thank the gods – and spewed salt water from her lungs like a geyser. She gasped for air, choking, coughing, gagging. Blood raced through her veins, turning the hue of her skin from pale grey back to creamy white in an instant.

Relief swept through Keiran as did a smidgen of arrogance. He grinned at Sileas. “She is alive.”

Sorcha opened her eyes. Her irises were not the bright blue-green he’d remembered. The colour had dulled, become distant. Confusion wrinkled her delicate brow and tore at his heart. Did she not know him?

Shivering, she clung to him with her bound hands, clawed at his undertunic like a frightened kit, then twisted to look up at the cliff where her husband stood watching. “Help me,” she whispered, then collapsed in Keiran’s arms.

Two

Sorcha decided the Otherworld was blessedly warm and smelled of sweet spices and leather and brine. A gentle to and fro sway rocked her body like she was a babe in arms. She wiggled slightly, searching for injuries, but nothing hurt, save for a faint pinch in her ribs. Aye, she was definitely dead.

She remembered falling, remembered her spirit reaching up towards the white falcon. Mayhap the goddess had taken her spirit before Sorcha’s body hit the rock, saving her from the pain of death. Regardless of how it happened, ’twas a relief to be on the other side and free of Hector’s abuse.

She snuggled deeper into a cocoon of furs and wrapped her arms around the warm body stretched out alongside her.

Warm body!

Her eyes snapped open. The warm body belonged to a man – a verra naked man. Her breasts smashed against his finely chiselled chest and the hairs on his thighs tickled hers. His clean scent told her he wasn’t Hector as she briefly feared, but she knew not who he was. She tried to inch away from him, but he circled her small frame with thick-muscled arms.

“Be still and rest, Sorcha,” he murmured in a deep husky voice then kissed the top of her head.

She sucked in an audible breath and looked up into amber eyes flecked with gold. She recognized those eyes. “I know ye.”

His smile was familiar as well – crooked with a single dimple set in the right cheek. “Aye. Ye do.”

He’d been two years her senior when he crawled over the curtain wall of Kisimul Castle to give her a satchel of eiderdown feathers for her sixteenth birthday. He’d been known by her kin as the Falconer of Barra. They were worlds apart in station: he, the son of a crofter, and she, the eldest daughter of the chieftain. He’d always reminded her he wasn’t worthy of her affections, but that didn’t stop him from seeking her out in secrecy the summer before he went to war.

“I taught ye how to skip a rock across the loch,” he reminded her when she didn’t respond. “And showed ye how to gig a frog,” He held her chin and traced her bottom lip with the tip of his thumb. “And I gave ye your first kiss when ye were just a wee lass.”

The memory of that kiss exploded in full colour in her head. She’d been so young, so naïve to believe they could have a future together. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but had only been seven years.

“Ye do remember me, aye?” He lifted her chin higher so she might study him better. He had a man’s face now – a long lean nose, thick black brows, a high forehead. A coarse shadow darkened his strong jaw beneath sharply angled cheekbones.

“Keiran.” She touched a bruise colouring the side of his face, not yet believing him real. Then her gaze dropped to his lips, so perfectly thick and lush and kissable. Her belly filled with sensations, like a school of minnows flipping and flopping on dry land. When his privy parts hardened against her thigh, she became very aware of their state of undress. “I remember ye with more clothes on.”

He chuckled, but made no attempt to separate himself from the intimacy of their embrace. His hand slid over her hip and cupped her backside. “’Tis good to see ye again, Sorcha.”

Mayhap he never returned from war. Mayhap the sea goddess sent him in her stead to collect Sorcha. “Are ye dead?”

“Nay.” His chest bounced with laughter.

“Am I?” Her questions sounded foolish, but given the circumstances she felt justified. She couldn’t have survived the fall, and if she did, she would have been bruised from head to toe at the very least. Yet, she felt right as rain.

“Ye almost died, but I saved ye.” Pomp and pride lined his expression, but his arrogance was of little import at the moment.

She frowned, confused. Why had he been there? How had he known Hector was going to push her off the cliff? And why wasn’t she in pain?

“Ye are safe now, Sorcha.” He trailed the tips of his fingers up and down her spine, tickling her.

It felt good to be coddled, to be caressed. She’d longed for tenderness the whole of her life and could easily remain in his arms forever. Keiran had been the only person who’d ever made her feel like she was more than a piece of property. He’d vowed to protect her, but those had been the words of a boy who also promised her the moon for a kiss. The undeniable strength of his erection told her his desires were no longer so innocent. “Where are we and why are we naked?”

Keiran’s grin was only half as wicked as his roaming hands. “We are on a ship bound for Barra, and we are naked because I had to warm ye, else ye might have froze to death.”

“Thank ye for saving me.” Sorcha sat up, pulling the furs with her, worried her gratitude wouldn’t be enough payment for his heroics.

“’Tis a vow I made long ago.” The light pouring into the small cabin showed her his muscular torso. Battle scars crisscrossed his abdomen, but what caught her attention more were the Pagan symbols covering his left arm like a decorative sleeve. The blue-black markings formed a design that wrapped over his shoulder and around a crucifix over his heart. Many of her kin had been raised as Christo-Pagans, but Keiran and she had both been forbidden by their Christian fathers to practice the Pagan ways.

When he reached for his undertunic, she saw a bruise wrapped around his wrist. Blue ovals tinted his forearm much like the ones Hector had given her when he’d dragged her to the cliff. She looked down at her own wrists where Hector had bound her hands. Not a smidgeon of colour tinted the skin. “Why am I not hurt?”

She caught Keiran wincing as he pulled on his undertunic and spun out of the small bed built into the bulkhead. “Because I took your pain.”

Her brows popped up. Obviously, Keiran had gone against his father’s wishes to practise the Pagan ways, which meant he was most likely dead.

“Dinnae look so surprised. I’ve spent the past nine months with Magda.”

Sorcha eyed him curiously. “My grandmum is dead.”

Keiran shook his head as he draped a blue and yellow plaid over his shoulder and began fingering the pleats into a thick leather belt. “Your grandmum is verra much alive and once again living at Kisimul Castle.”

“’Tis not possible.” Sorcha had been first in line to offer Grandmum a gift to take to the afterlife. “Ye were at her burial. Ye placed a feather on her grave.”

“I know not who we buried that day, but ’twas not Magda.” He tied the laces of his deerskin boots. “When I was at war on the mainland, I suffered from what should have been a fatal wound to the side. I was left for dead, but awoke some weeks later in your father’s solar at Kisimul Castle. I have no memory of how I came to be there, but Magda nursed me back to health and taught me the Pagan ways while I was abed. Three days past, she sent me to collect ye.”

Sorcha struggled to believe his tale, but found herself weakened by the hope that Grandmum was alive and protecting Peigi.

He handed Sorcha a dry undertunic. “Magda is waiting for ye to come home and lead the clan.”

“I cannot lead the clan.” Sorcha shook her head adamantly. The man was a dunderheid if he thought her capable of such a task.

Both Keiran’s brows slid up. He set himself in front of her, then ran his fingers up and down the column of her neck. “Then ye will name a tanist to reign in your stead.”

His intentions suddenly became very clear. Had he cared for her at all, he wouldn’t have waited til Da died to save her from Hector. He’d always been determined to change his stars. An invisible wall of protection wrapped around her heart as she realized he’d saved her now because he wanted her title. No man had ever wanted her for herself. Da had traded her for an alliance. Hector had married her for land. And now Keiran intended to seduce her with gentle caresses for the power of the chieftainship.

She jammed her fists into the sleeves of the tunic. “I suspect ye think I’ll name ye tanist.”

“’Tis my hope that ye will find me worthy of the position.” His smug grin set her teeth on edge.

S’truth, other clans had named tanists outside of their chieftain’s heirs. However, Clan MacNeil had remained true to its bloodline for generations. Regardless of her viewpoint on the matter, she intended to refuse him simply because he’d hurt her. “Unless the laws of our clan have changed, there are only two men who can lay claim to the chieftainship: my husband or Peigi’s.”

Keiran stared at her, head shaking slightly, lips parted to protest, but she didn’t give him the opportunity to sway her with words.

“If the chieftainship is what ye desire, then mayhap ye should set your silver tongue loose on Peigi. She’s of marriageable age now.” Pent-up anger made Sorcha spout such foolishness.

Keiran’s amber eyes darkened, his brows pinched tight in the middle. “I dinnae want Peigi. I want ye.”

“I already have a husband,” she hissed, knowing hurt drove her words now. Hector never loved her, nor had he been kind by any stretch of the word. S’truth, he’d been a wretched husband, but he taught her one thing during their marriage. “If I live long enough to become a widow, I can assure ye, I’ll never take another husband.”

Keiran stared at her for long moments before he sheathed his weapons and strode towards the door. “Should ye have need for anything, m’lady, I’m here to serve ye.”

Everything Keiran had done in the past seven years had been for her. He’d trained to be a warrior, for her. He’d fought and killed for the clan, for her. He’d learned her religion, and the foolish wench couldn’t see that he’d done it all for her.

The afternoon air did nothing to ease his frustration as he paced the quarterdeck, all the while cursing the tenderness in his side. He’d taken her pain away. He’d saved her life. And she accused him of doing it all for the chieftainship.

“Ye seem to be frettin’ over a’thing.” Sileas descended the steps of a companionway, then leaned against the rail. “Has your woman fallen ill?”

“Nay, she is well. But she is not my woman, nor is she keen on naming me tanist.”

“She remains faithful to the old laws,” Sileas guessed and rolled a slender piece of wood from one side of his mouth to the other.

Keiran nodded.

“Then we go back and make her a widow,” Sileas suggested without pause.

Keiran hadn’t raised his broadsword since Leckmelm. His sword arm shook just thinking about what he’d done. “She will think I killed her husband for power.”

“The cur pushed her off a bluidy cliff. Ye would be avenging her.”

As much as Keiran relished the idea of seeing the man dead, his main goal was to get Sorcha to the stronghold where she would be safe. “We need to be patient. Give her time to see how things have changed.”

“The clan has been without a chieftain for too long, and the kinsfolk living on Barra support ye.” Sileas retrieved a flask out of his plaid and tipped it to his cracked lips. “What ye did in Leckmelm was foolish, but it earned ye the respect of the clan.”

“What did he do in Leckmelm?”

Startled, Keiran spun on his heel. “Sorcha.”

“M’lady.” Sileas bowed as if she were the bluidy queen, which in all manner of speaking, she was. “’Tis good to have ye aboard. We should have ye safe at Kisimul Castle come the morrow.”

“Thank ye.” Sorcha offered Sileas a small smile, then redirected her gaze at Keiran. The fury that had fired her blue-green eyes earlier that morning seemed to have softened. Mayhap she regretted the heated words that passed between them.

Keiran now realized he’d been overzealous to think she would be the same person he’d known seven years past. She’d been beaten and used and thrown away like rotted meat. ’Twould take time to gain her trust again.

“Might I offer ye my sympathies regarding the loss of your father.” Sileas kept his head lowered and his eyes on his boots. “He was an apt leader.”

“My father was a pig,” she snapped back. “He married my mother because she shared blood with the chieftain, and then he sold me off to further his gain. Ye need not glorify his name on my behalf.”

“Forgive me, m’lady.” Sileas side-stepped around the woman and gave Keiran a sympathetic look as he took his leave.

“Think ye I am like your father?” Keiran reached for her, but she angled her body away from him.

“Ye want the chieftainship. I suspect it is something ye have craved since we were in our youth.” Her matter-of-fact tone scraped over his nerves like screaming gulls.

Keiran blew air out through his nostrils and shook his head in objection. “If ye think my affections for ye are part of some plan to acquire the chieftainship, then ye are wrong.”

The irritable woman obviously needed more time to think. He pushed past her and dropped down the afthatch. He stalked across the gunnerdeck, down another two ladderways, and into the storage chamber where he’d left his satchel of spices. By the time he heard the swishing of her skirts, he was grinding coltsfoot, comfrey and garlic cloves with a stone pestle and mortar.

“I wasn’t finished speaking to ye.”

“Ye always were one to argue a’thing to death.” How had he forgotten that annoying trait?

“’Tis not true.” Sorcha rounded the barrel where he worked, her eyes wide, innocent.

“Nay?” He stopped crushing the herbs. “Ye once argued with me for a sennight that the puffin stayed with a single mate for life.”

“The puffin do stay with a single mate for life.” Her small chuckle washed away the tension. “Forgive me. I’ve not had anyone to toss barbs with in quite some time.”

“Nor I.” Keiran broke the connection between them. Being with Sorcha was like taming the falcon. It required devotion, finesse and patience. He then reminded himself of the reward. The thrill he’d experienced the day Tàiseal returned from her first hunt was immeasurable. He drew a pentacle atop the barrel with a piece of coal and prayed Sorcha would one day find her way back to him.

“What are ye doing?”

“I’m about to cast a healing spell so I might rid myself of your wounds.”

“’Tis something Grandmum taught ye?”

“Aye.”

“How does it work?” As she watched him, he remembered that young curious girl who’d once looked at him like he was a king.

“On faith.” He placed a silver coin in the northern direction of the five-pointed star, then offered her a mischievous smile just before he yanked out a few strands of her hair.

“Ow!” She rubbed her scalp. “What did ye do that for?”

“’Twill strengthen the spell.” He lit the wick of a red candle on the southern tip of the star, then burned the ends of her hair and laid the remains on the eastern point. After adding water to the herbal mixture, he closed his eyes and focused on cleansing his spirit.

“What are ye doing now? Are ye praying?”

Damn distracting woman. He opened one eye momentarily. “I am attempting to free myself of negative energy. ’Twould be helpful if ye did the same.”

“How?”

“Close your eyes and visualize the things that are sacred to ye. Use them to eliminate the burdens darkening your heart.”

Less than a minute passed before Sorcha once again interrupted his meditation. “What do ye think of?”

He didn’t open his eyes, focused as he was on the memory in his head. “I think of a lass with long sable hair racing across a meadow towards me. Her arms are open and her bright blue-green eyes are filled with a trust that brings light into my heart.”

“Ye think of me?”

He nodded and hoped she believed him. Sorcha fell silent while he pushed his plaid and undertunic to his waist. He spread the herbal mixture over the bruises circling his wrists then proceeded to do the same for his rib. “I know ye dinnae trust me, but if ye are still in pain, I can help ye.”

She lowered her eyes and contemplated his offer for long minutes before she finally admitted, “My side is tender.”

’Twas a small victory, but a victory just the same. His hands shook as he pushed her kirtle off her shoulders and hooked the draped wool at her elbows. She turned her head and closed her eyes when he released the ties of her tunic and lowered the garment to her waist.

He swallowed hard, momentarily mesmerized by creamy white skin. Saliva pooled in his mouth as he watched her soft coral-coloured nipples harden into tight little buds. Then her heart began to visibly pound behind her breast.

Bluidy-faugh! He should have bound his cock to his thigh. He ignored the blood rushing to his groin and quickly spread the mixture over her side. Regardless of how desperately he wanted to take her into his mouth, he resisted the temptation, knowing lust would taint the spell.

Keiran flattened his palm over her rib and felt her tremble when he pulled her into his embrace. “I beseech Thee, Brigid, to help heal your kin.” Sorcha’s fingers curled around his forearm as he called upon the Great Goddess. “Surround us in Your radiant light, magick power pure and white.” He began the chant:

He repeated the incantation two more times and after the spell had been cast, he held Sorcha for long moments, wanting to bind her heart to his.

“Is it done?” she whispered, but remained firm in his hold.

“It is.” He still didn’t release her. “’Twill take some time for transfer.”

“Keiran.” She traced the blue-black designs marking his skin. “Is there a spell ye can cast to earn someone’s trust?”

“Aye, but I would rather earn someone’s trust without the aid of magick.”

She looked up at him. The tears filling the rims of her eyes hurt him more than any blade ever had. “I have never been held by a man who didn’t want something from me. My father wanted an alliance. Hector wanted my land. ’Tis difficult for me to believe ye are different.”

He covered her breasts with her undertunic and pulled her plaid back in place on her shoulders, then he leaned in and pressed a kiss against each of her eyes. “The only thing I ever wanted from ye was your heart.”

Three

Fear no longer owned her, and she was grateful to Keiran for setting her free of its binds.

Sitting on hillock surrounded by sweet-smelling orchids, Sorcha leaned back to let the summer sun warm her face. A dozen passing gulls flew overhead to the nearby sea, but the white falcon that had followed her home to Barra remained on guard atop the thatch roof of Keiran’s childhood home. For the first time in four years she felt free.

Upon her arrival at Kisimul Castle a sennight past, she’d been greeted by her people with open arms – some she recognized, most she’d never seen before – but none had been more welcoming than her sister. Peigi had grown into her curves over the past four years, but was still very much a child in so many ways. It was upon seeing Peigi that Sorcha gathered the leaders of her clan into the council chamber and informed them of Hector’s intention to seize Barra. The elders had respectfully waited for her to advise them, but she knew nothing of warfare. She knew not how to save Barra from the invasion that was coming, nor could she raise a broadsword to protect her land or her people.

But Keiran could.

She’d watched him aboard the Cerridwen with the MacNeil kinsmen and known he’d somehow earned their loyalty. They obeyed his commands without question and showed him the respect that was due a born leader. And he’d treated her with equal respect since the day he rescued her from Hector.

None had questioned her when she called Keiran out of the shadows of the council chamber and assigned him the task of protecting Barra. The following days, she watched him take command of his duty with vigour. He summoned tacticians and gathered the leaders of the mesnie in the Great Hall where they spread maps overtop the trestle tables and strategied a plan. Sorcha had kept Keiran’s goblet filled and from time to time she nodded her approval for no other reason than to see him smile at her.

He didn’t need noble blood to lead the clan, nor did he need her to name him tanist. He was already playing the role of chieftain, and he did it while paying her the respect of a queen. He walked behind her, bowed to her, and referred to her by the epithet deserving of her status. Come eventide, he would escort her to her solar, bid her good night, and leave her to seek her slumber alone.

Last night, she’d wanted him to stay. She wanted him to hold her like he’d done that first night on the ship. She wanted to feel his strong arms around her and know the tenderness of his touch. But she’d been a coward and said naught to draw him into her chamber.

Sorcha lay back in the cool grasses, splayed her arms out, and inhaled the floral scent that was Barra. She must have dreamed of this place a thousand times while living under Hector’s thumb. In her mind’s eye she saw herself standing in the open doorway of the croft-house with her and Keiran’s bairns tugging at her skirt.

The image warmed her heart. She could have been happy here in the valley, tending a family and loving Keiran. She wished her life had been different. She wished she’d been born a peasant and could have chosen her own husband. She would have chosen Keiran and given herself to him willingly.

The memory of her first coupling with Hector forced its way into her head. She’d been too fearful to fight him. She’d laid in her marriage bed like a cold fish the first time and every time thereafter. Fortunately, Hector had turned to the whores to tend his needs very early on in their marriage.

Making love to Keiran would be different, she decided. No doubt he would be a gentle lover, one who would kiss her with passion and touch her with tenderness. She imagined making love to him beneath a canopy of stars. ’Twas an image she wanted to burn into her memory, even if it was a fantasy. She needed something to push Hector out of her head.

“M’lady.”

She opened her eyes to find her dream lover peering down at her. Unfortunately, his pinched expression was far different from the one he’d been wearing behind her closed eyes.

“Keiran.” She smiled up at him, excited to have him near, but her good mood didn’t smooth the harsh lines carved into his cheeks.

“Ye should be at the stronghold. Ye must remain guarded at all times.” He squatted beside her, still scowling.

“My guard is perched atop the croft-house.” She continued to grin.

He rolled his eyes and exhaled a heavy breath. “Why did ye come here?”

“I needed to fill my heart with positive energy.”

“Are ye ill?” He set the backs of his fingers over her forehead. “Ye are hot. We should seek out Magda.”

Sorcha eyed him warily. She had hoped to reunite with Grandmum, but she hadn’t been at Sorcha’s homecoming, nor had the woman shown herself at the council meeting. Although later Keiran had sworn on his life that she’d been present at both. Sorcha held no desire to argue with him again on the subject of her Grandmum, be she dead or alive.

“I’m not ill.” She sat up. “On the ship, when ye were casting the healing spell, ye asked me to visualize the things that are sacred to me. I had none, save for Peigi.”

Keiran gave her a sidelong glance. “And ye came here to …”

“I came here to remember.”

Keiran unsheathed his broadsword and stretched out his long lean legs beside her. He gestured towards the croft-house. “Ye wanted to remember a raw-boned woman who feared her abusive husband so much that she starved herself to death?” He snorted. “These are the things I try to forget.”

Sorcha knew Keiran struggled with his upbringing, but it shaped him into the man he was today. His desire to protect made her trust him. “Do ye still live here?”

“Nay. I guard Kisimul now.” Keiran curled her hair over her ear. “And my queen.”

“I am no queen.” Sorcha hugged her knees, her insides swirling.

“Ye are to me.”

The energy igniting between their locked eyes was a force she could no longer deny. It made her scalp tingle and her body hum. She wanted him to touch her again, but he lowered his eyes and tore a buttercup from its stem. He leaned back on his elbows and studied a pink and yellow horizon. “We are ready for him. I have ships positioned in the bay and men walking the parapet atop the keep.”

“It won’t be long now.” Hector was coming. She could feel it in her bones. Every day they awaited his arrival was one day less she had with Keiran. “Ye might think yourself prepared, but Hector is conniving.”

“I have no fear of him, nor do my kinsmen.”

A small smile touched her lips. “The warriors of Barra respect ye as their leader,” she pointed out, hoping he would tell her why. Unfortunately, he held tight to his tongue. Curiosity got the better of her. “What did ye do at Leckmelm?”

“I fought.” He watched the puffins gathered on the shore.

“Ye did more than fight. I wish to know how ye earned the respect of my clan.”

“Your clan?” He looked at her then and raised both brows. “I mean no disrespect, m’lady, but upon your return, did ye recognize all the members of your clan?”

Though she didn’t appreciate his sardonic tone, she shook her head and waited for him to explain.

“Your da decided we needed to offer our support to our neighbouring clans so we sailed to the mainland to fight for the Kingdom of Ross. Battle after battle, we remained unconquered for we were a unit of five clans in all. After we defeated Clan Gunn at Leckmelm, we followed a group of MacLeod warriors into a village to reap the rewards of our victory. We were told to lay claim to anything we wanted and given orders to kill anyone who attempted to stop us.”

“And someone did?” Sorcha’s pulse kicked up a notch.

Keiran nodded, his eyes became distant. “Our enemy’s womenfolk. We murdered their husbands and brothers and sons on the battlefield, and they had naught more to lose. Your da was eager to prove his prowess in front of the MacLeod chieftain and drove the kinsfolk out of their cot-houses with fire.” He paused, his head shook slightly. “Their screams wake me at night even still.”

Sorcha wanted to console him, but he held himself aloof.

“The bairns huddled in clusters and watched the curs beat their mams into submission. Then they separated the women into two groups: the ones they would kill and the ones comely enough to take with them.”

Sorcha’s breathing escalated. War was an ugly thing, and her heart wept for these women and their bairns. But her pity was not nearly as intense as the anger pushing her fingernails into her palms. She expected nothing less from her father, but Keiran must have done something to prevent it. “What did ye do?”

“I wanted no part in it, but your da ordered me and the other MacNeil warriors to take the women to the docks. We were expected to distribute the comely women equally on our allies’ ships, and the older, less appealing women – whom your da conveniently deemed Pagans – were to be tied to the oars of the ships.”

“Oh Christ! Stop. I dinnae wish to hear more.” Sorcha felt ill. Shame washed through her. How could she possibly share blood with such a heinous man? She regretted pushing Keiran. There was nothing noble about what had happened in Leckmelm, nothing honourable, nothing worthy of respect.

“Ye wanted to know and will allow me to finish.” Keiran grabbed her wrist when she tried to stand and continued without her consent. “We loaded the women aboard the Cerridwen – all of them, then Sileas and I went back for their bairns.”

Tears rolled down Sorcha’s cheeks. Her heart swelled into her throat. Partly because Keiran had proven himself a champion and partly because she feared the words he’d not yet spoken. “Did they all survive?”

Keiran nodded and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Sileas brought home sixty-seven women and one hundred and twenty-four bairns. Some of their men – the ones that survived – have since joined the clan.”

“What happened to ye?”

Keiran only stared at her for long moments, a mixture of panic and resolve lined his worried face. His chest heaved. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The upset in his eyes sent spirals of icy fear coiling around her spine. She held his hand in both of hers and asked again, “Ye said Sileas brought them back to Barra. What happened to ye?”

“Your da and six of his loyal kinsmen caught us on the docks. I held them off until Sileas could escape out the inlet. I cut down my own kinsmen – your kinsmen – to protect my enemy.” The tendons in his neck bulged. “Your da called me a traitor and ran me through with his sword.”

Sorcha swallowed a gasp. Her unblinking eyes burned as unexpected fury roiled through her stomach.

“I should have died. I was choking on my own blood, when he spit on me, and proclaimed himself the victor. But he didn’t defeat me, Sorcha.”

She heard Keiran’s next words in her head before he ever spoke them. “I killed him.”

The world stopped for a moment. Her pulse pounded like a drum between her ears. She was stunned, but felt no anger towards Keiran. Had Da loved her or treated her with the slightest amount of dignity, she might have given over to rage. Instead, she felt vindicated.

A flash of unexpected lightning startled her and the boom of thunder that immediately followed sent her into Keiran’s arms.

“Come quickly.” He pulled Sorcha to her feet, and they raced to the croft-house in front of a sheet of rain.

This storm was Magda’s doing, Keiran decided as he watched the steady downpour out of a small window of the croft-house. His auld friend had done her best to force him and Sorcha into seclusion since their arrival, but her conjured rainfall couldn’t have been more ill-timed.

He’d been patient with Sorcha, resisted the urge to kiss her every night, resisted the need to touch her, but most of all, he’d resisted the desire to tell her he loved her. And now, she had even more reason to think he only wanted her title. What could he possibly say that would convince her otherwise?

“Keiran.” He felt the heat of her body before she touched his arm.

“I did not kill your father for his title,” he blurted out. “Ye have to believe me.”

“I believe ye.”

Surprised by her quick response, he spun around to face her. “Ye do?”

“Ye are Clan MacNeil’s champion.” She rose up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “And mine.”

Her words and her kiss crushed the last of his resistance.

Keiran claimed her mouth with a fierceness he couldn’t control. And Sorcha matched his intensity without a morsel of timidity. Tongues and teeth met, hands searching – he revelled in the reality of what had been a fantasy for far too long.

Desperate for air, he pulled away from her lips and slid his mouth down the column of her neck. She smelled like a shower of floral mist and tasted of sweet clover. Everything about her ripened his senses and heated his blood, especially the way she eagerly tugged at his garments.

His cock jerked beneath his plaid. Knowing his need would soon control him, he stilled her hands on his belt. “Are ye certain this is what ye want?”

She nodded, her eyes nigh shimmered with trust. “I want to know what it feels like to be touched by a man who loves me.” When she threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him back to her mouth, a shudder ripped through him.

Her acceptance was the greatest victory he’d ever known. His chest burned. His heart rejoiced. And his body demanded he claim her once and for all … and for ever.

His lips never left her mouth as they disrobed and fell atop the bed in a frenzy. He caressed her arms, her breasts, her hips, and kissed her from chin to navel. His body hummed with desire, thrilled at the sound of her whimpers as he stroked her silken flesh, preparing her for what was to come. Then at last, he settled between her thighs. With his manhood poised at her entrance, he asked the gods to bless their union then committed himself to her spiritually.

“Keiran.” She cupped his jaw with both hands, her knees tightened against his hips. “Ye do love me, don’t ye?”

If it took the rest of his life, he intended to erase the doubt furrowing her brow. He gently pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love ye more than Morrigan loves Her warriors.” He kissed her chin. “I love ye more than Cailleach loves the earth.” He bent low and nipped the hardened tip of each breast. “I love ye more than Brigid loves Her daughters.” He then laced his fingers in hers and entered her.

She squeezed his hands as she cried out like a virgin on her wedding night.

He bore the ache seizing his loins and waited for her to adjust to him. “Like the puffin, I am now your mate for life.”

She smiled then and arched her pelvis when he initiated the rhythm. With each thrust, she spread her legs a little wider, accepting him an inch at a time. She was tight and hot and slick and rippling along his length. She felt good, too bluidy good.

Sweat poured down his chest. His seed boiled in his groin, but he refused to seek fulfilment without her. He reached between their bodies and stroked that swollen pebble hidden inside her curls.

She stiffened. “Keiran, please stop. Something’s wrong.”

“Naught’s wrong. In fact, ’tis verra right.”

The first wave of her climax gripped him like a silken fist.

“Oh, Keiran!” she cried out her pleasure, dug her fingernails into his hand, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Hot liquid cascaded over him and triggered his own release.

After the last of his seed left him, he rolled to his back, taking her with him, not yet willing to break the connection between their bodies. Skin to sweat-slicked skin, he held her close in his embrace and waited for their hearts to slow. He kissed her hair and tickled her back while he listened to the dwindling patter of raindrops. A grin played at the corner of his lips. He would have to thank Magda for the rain.

Long minutes passed before Sorcha stirred to life. She lifted herself up and the look she wore was not one he’d ever seen on her before. ’Twas a saucy, mischievous expression. “I know not what ye did to me, but that was incredible.”

“Aye. That it was.” His body still tingled in the aftermath. His muscles were weak and sated, yet he felt invigorated knowing he’d been the first to ever satisfy her.

“I wish to do it again.” She flicked his sensitive nipple with the tip of her tongue and rolled her pelvis round his groin.

“Now?” he questioned even as his cock responded to her movements.

“Now. Tonight. On the morrow …” The last of her words were drowned out by Tàiseal’s cry.

“Wait.” He stilled her rocking hips, closed his eyes, and flew with the falcon over the sea where he saw six ships on the horizon.

“What is it?” Sorcha asked, no doubt reading the worry on his face.

His eyes sprung open. “Your husband has arrived.”

Four

“Heave!” Sileas ordered the rowers the moment Keiran stepped aboard the Cerridwen. “Did ye not hear the alarm, mon? Where the bluidy hell have ye been?”

Not even a war could lessen Keiran’s spirits. He felt invincible, like he could rid the world of his enemies with the flick of his finger. He swaggered towards Sileas and assisted him with the rigging while the topmen overhead raised the canvas. “I’ve been … about.”

“About? We’re on the brink of battle and—” Sileas paused, stood upright, and scratched his thick copper beard. “Ye bedded her.”

Keiran’s grin was his only response.

“’Tis about bluidy time.” Sileas smacked Keiran on the back then tied off the rope dangling from the yardarm. “The way the gods cling to your shoulders, she is likely already with child. And if she’s anything like my Maura, then …”

With child. Keiran froze. The merriment fled from his person behind a rush of worry. Of course he wanted bairns – hordes of them – but he didn’t want a single one born a bastard. He raked his fingers through his hair and surveyed twelve MacNeil ships forming a V on either side of the Cerridwen. “Send a signal to the fleet to take down all but the flagship. I’ve a personal vendetta to settle with Laird Ranald.”

“I hope that vendetta involves making our queen a widow?”

Keiran bore his glare into the approaching ships. “Aye. That is does, my friend. That it does.”

As the distance closed between the fleets, Keiran prayed to Morrigan to watch over him and his kinsmen and offered a similar prayer up to Brigid to protect Sorcha until his return. He then soared over Kisimul with Tàiseal and watched Sorcha pace the stone walkway behind the parapet. Be safe, my love.

“Load the cannons!” Sileas bellowed the order, drawing Keiran out of his thoughts.

Fully armed for combat, Keiran prepared himself mentally for hand-to-hand warfare. For the first time in his life he anticipated the battle with enthusiasm. He welcomed the moment he would slide his sword between Hector’s ribs.

A dark cloud settled over them. Lightning ripped through the sky like clashing swords of gods in battle. He should have known Magda would play her part. Knowing she was with him empowered him all the more.

The first cannon fired with an announcing boom, and the battle began.

Hector’s ships stood no chance against the MacNeil fleet. Soon, five of his six vessels were afire. The sea bawled with the oaths of dying men, but Keiran blocked out their pleas and prepared to invade the flagship. The air filled with clouds of acrid stench, scorching Keiran’s eyes and lungs. Grey smoke enveloped everywhere, making it difficult to see when he tossed a four-hooked grappling iron over the wooden rail of the enemy ship. Keiran wrestled the ropes alongside his kinsmen until the two vessels sat abreast– bow to bow, stern to stern.

Planks dropped on to the rails of the two ships and the MacNeil kinsmen swarmed the flagship, but there were no men aboard to greet them. No clash of swords. No enemy hanging from the halyards or hiding below deck. And no Hector. The flagship was abandoned save for a terrified boy squeezing the tiller that guided the ship.

“’Tis a ruse,” Sileas announced what Keiran already knew.

Trembling, he climbed a companionway at the stern of the ship and gawked at Kisimul sitting unguarded in the bay. “Sorcha,” he whispered as fear clutched his entire being.

Paralysed with worry, Sorcha hugged herself around the middle and watched the battle through the crenellated stone work atop the stronghold. The explosions had dwindled, leaving behind an infernal sea of smoke and belching fire. The waiting had soured her stomach hours before, but questions now left a metallic taste on her tongue.

Was Keiran safe? Was he suffocating, drowning, burning? The worst possible scenarios escalated in her head. Had he faced off with Hector? Had he won?

She hated this helpless feeling shredding her insides. She hated the regret eating a hole in her chest. She should have told him how she felt about him before he boarded the ship. Her emotions seemed to attack her all at once as she watched the burning vessels sink. Tears burned her eyes and convulsions rolled through her gut, but she quickly collected herself. She would not show weakness in front of her kinsmen.

“M’lady, ye are needed at once in the Great Hall.” The woman who’d been Peigi’s wet nurse since her infancy stepped up behind Sorcha.

“What is it, Edina?”

“I cannot say more.” Edina clutched the sides of her soiled kirtle and lowered her eyes. “Please, come quickly. ’Tis Peigi.”

Sorcha didn’t wait for further explanation before she raced down the spiral stairwell of the north tower. She might not be able to raise a broadsword in battle, but she could protect her sister. Her confidence fell to her toes when she entered the Great Hall.

Warriors lined the perimeter the room, weapons drawn. For a fleeting moment she felt guarded until she realized they were not her warriors. Icy terror froze her feet to the floor when she laid eyes on Hector sitting at the high table shouting at Peigi to refill his drink.

The scene was surreal, shocking, familiar. His dark soulless eyes found Sorcha’s from across the hall, then his lips curled into a threatening snarl. “Good den, wife.”

A mixture of fury and fear numbed Sorcha’s limbs as she watched Peigi pour ale into his goblet. Peigi shook, she cried, she lifted her red swollen eyes to Sorcha in a silent plea to help her. Sorcha bit back the urge to scream at Peigi to run, knowing Hector wouldn’t hesitate to give the order to kill her. She was his captive, as was every wide-eyed woman in the hall filling his warrior’s troughs.

“Have ye no greeting words for your husband?” Hector emptied the contents of his goblet in a single swallow. His arms were wrapped in soiled bandages, no doubt hiding his disease. Unfortunately, it hadn’t killed him yet.

“Ye are unwelcome in my home.” She wanted to lunge at him and choke him and watch him die while she strangled the last breath from his lungs.

He held his chest in a mock display of hurt. “I expected a grand celebration to honour my new position.”

“Ye have no position here,” she snapped back. “I am chieftain over Clan MacNeil.”

“Ye are my wife. Everything in your possession is mine – the stronghold, the land, the chieftainship.” As fast as a whiplash, Hector threw a dagger that pinned Sileas’s wife to a trestle table by her skirt.

Maura screamed and dropped the pitcher she’d been carrying.

The crash of ceramic ripped through Sorcha’s ears like a hot blade. She lurched forwards to aid Maura, but caught herself when Hector rose from the table. His dominant stance bound her in invisible shackles. For four years she’d tiptoed around him. She knew his moods, his warning looks, his gestures, and felt defeated to be submitting to him again.

He stalked towards Maura, retrieved his blade, and threatened her with the tip. “Go to the docks and await the arrival of your kinsmen. Tell them I have their chieftain, and if they wish to keep her alive, they will abide by my instructions.”

“What are your instructions, m’lord?” Maura choked out.

“Have them board a single ship – all of them. Tell them to toss their shot into the water and return to sea.”

Maura’s fair skin turned ashen against her flame-red hair. She glanced at Sorcha, awaiting approval, which Sorcha gave without pause. Sorcha knew what Hector was capable of and she had no intention of defying him. For now.

The instant Maura was out of earshot, Hector summoned a dozen of his warriors. “Gather the men off the western side of the isle and board their ships. Go after them, surround them. When the sun breaks the horizon at dawn, load the cannons and blast them to kingdom come.”

The kinswomen’s sharp gasps hissed through the hall.

Horror gripped Sorcha with sharp claws. She had to do something to save them. To save Keiran. Pleading with Hector was futile. Cursing him would gain naught. Her surrender was what he wanted and exactly what she would give him if it meant protecting her people.

“More ale!” Hector shouted at a serving maid.

Sorcha grabbed a nearby pitcher and hoped her kinswomen followed her lead. They were hesitant at first, but once she informed them of her plan, word travelled quickly. Getting Hector and his kinsmen blootered was the only way the women would ever be able to fight them.

“We will slit their throats in their sleep. Every last one o’ them,” one woman whispered to another in the cellar as she popped the lid open on another barrel of mead.

“Nay. There are some I want unharmed.” Sorcha had spoken very little to Hector’s men in the four years she’d been married to him, but she’d known all their wives. “I’ll tell you exactly which ones we shall save.”

The next few hours proved to be excruciating, but soon Hector’s men succumbed to the drink. One by one, they fell upon the floor rushes to seek their slumber. But not Hector.

“Stay with the girl.” He issued the order to his seneschal standing beside Peigi, then latched his thick fingers around Sorcha’s wrist and dragged her out of the Great Hall. “Your sister will remain untouched as long as ye continue to behave in the manner expected of a wife.”

“Where are ye taking me?” Her heels dug into the floor. Her stomach roiled with fear. And her heart beat out of cadence waiting for him to respond. He remained silent as he dragged her up the stairwell and into her father’s solar.

“Think ye I am ignorant?” He backhanded her across the face, flinging her into the bedpost. “I know what ye and your kinswomen are doing.”

Sorcha clutched the wooden post and readied herself for his next strike, knowing it would come.

“Did ye cast one of your spells on the drink?”

“I am no witch,” Sorcha insisted for what seemed the thousandth time.

“Nay?” Hector fisted her hair and wrenched her head back. “Then why was it the moment I pushed ye off that cliff did the sun shine over my head? Green clover blankets my land now.”

A screeching caw sounded outside the arrow-slit reminding her of the last time Hector tried to kill her. “Ye are greedy. If all is right on your land, why did ye even come here?”

“Because of this.” Hector pushed his plaid and undertunic to his waist, exposing a chest covered with pus-filled boils. “’Tis because of ye my kin fear breathing my air and my mistresses willnae lay with me.”

Sorcha stared at him, repulsed. “Think ye I can heal ye?”

“Ye cursed me!” The veins in his neck protruded. His nostrils flared. “My patience for your lies has worn thin. Ye will remove this damned spell or I’ll kill your kinswomen one at a time, starting with your sister.”

Fury unleashed a strength in her that curled her fingers into her palms. She reared back her fist and threw a punch at him.

He easily caught it. “Ye are a foolish woman.”

’Twas as if something snapped inside her. “I hate ye,” she screamed at him and reared back her other fist, but before she could follow through, Hector spun a half circle away from her.

He unsheathed his dagger. “What was that?” He jerked as if he’d been pushed from behind. “Who’s there?” His stance widened. His eyes frantically searched the empty chamber. He’d gone completely mad.

Sorcha raced out of the solar and was caught mid-flight around the middle by a thick-muscled arm covered with Pagan symbols. Relief washed through her with such intensity she nearly swooned.

“Ye are safe now,” Keiran whispered and squeezed her tight, but only long enough for her to inhale the scents of smoke and sulphur and sea.

“The others. Hector is going to—”

Keiran pressed his finger against her lips. “Magda summoned a gale-force wind that is blowing most of the Ranalds back home. But I’m going to need her help to get our ships back.”

He pushed Sorcha behind him, then entered the solar, sword drawn. “This is my quarrel, Magda. Ye are needed back at sea.”

Confused by his words, Sorcha stepped beneath the doorframe and bore witness to a phenomenon like none she’d ever seen. Smoke curled around a figure standing in front of the window. Long white hair framed a face as familiar to Sorcha as her own.

Hector unsheathed the sword at his hip and circled Keiran. “Who the bluidy hell are ye people?”

“I am the witch who cursed ye and your clan.” Grandmum smiled at Hector with glittery blue-green eyes, then pointed at Keiran. “And he is your wife’s next husband.”

“And the future chieftain of Clan MacNeil,” Sorcha added with pride, knowing all would be right.

No doubt stunned by her announcement, Keiran’s attention shifted away from Hector. A whirling sound echoed through the chamber, then Hector’s blade sank into Keiran’s chest clean to the hilt.

Time slowed, nearly stopped along with Sorcha’s heart. He sank to his knees, then his strong body fell to the floor.

“Nay!” Sorcha screamed and rushed to him. She held his head as he struggled to draw air through the blood pooling in his mouth. Pain scalded her chest, her throat, her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped on to his. “Dinnae die,” she cried and brushed his brow with a shaking hand. “I love ye.”

He went still in her arms the same instant Hector’s boot tips appeared beside her. “The same fate awaits the rest of your kin, lest—”

“Ye bastard!” Sorcha yanked the blade from Keiran’s chest, fully prepared to stand up to Hector once and for all. She reared back, but an invisible force snatched the dagger from her hand.

“Wait!” Grandmum shouted and snapped her arms towards Hector, throwing him against the stone wall. “I need him unharmed.” Grandmum raised her arms above her head. “I beseech Thee, Morrigan, and the trinity. Thrust your power upon me.” A howling wind erupted inside the chamber. Thunder rolled, vibrating the floorboards. “The pain and grief he is quick to give, must be returned so Your son might live.” Mist coated Sorcha’s face and bright strikes of lightning blinded her in bursts. “Magick meld love and hate. Reverse the past. Reverse their fate.”

A high pierced screech scraped through Sorcha’s ears followed by a hoarse wail. Between the flashes of light, she watched with unblinking eyes as the face of the man she loved transformed into the face of the man she most hated.

A steady rain fell inside the chamber, soaking the carpet where Hector now lay dead on the floor. Confusion was one of many emotions spinning inside her head as she looked to Grandmum for explanation.

“Be well, Sorcha. I’ll be watching ye,” was all Grandmum said before she transformed into the white falcon and flew out the window.

“Mayhap your Grandmum is dead.”

Sorcha whirled and watched Keiran pull himself off the floor. The pain of having lost him still clung to her every nerve.

“I was not aware Magda and Tàiseal were one in the same.” The man acted as if he’d not been lying dead in her arms only moments earlier. Grandmum’s magick might be commonplace to him, but Sorcha didn’t trust any of this to be a reality.

“If this is a dream, promise me you’ll be beside me when I awaken.” She trembled as he approached.

He circled her with his arms. “I promise to always be there to protect ye in this life and the next.”

“As my chieftain?” she asked, worried he’d not heard her profess her love for him.

“As your husband.” He cradled the nape of her neck. “Your lover.” He lowered his head to hers. “And your friend.” His lips feathered over hers once, twice, three times. “I fear ye are stuck with me for life.” He swallowed her quiet laughter inside a kiss that felt like Heaven, but ended far too quickly.

“Come.” He scooped her off her feet and carried her out of her father’s solar. “I want to know what it feels like to be touched by the woman who loves me.”