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  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 toward 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 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 toward 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 tunic 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-colored nipples h
arden 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:

  “Fire flame and fire burn, make the mill of magick turn.

  By all the power of three times three, transfer her pain into me.

  Pains and aches and evil things, fly from us on rapid wings.”

  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 the 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.”

  Chapter 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 toward 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 vigor. He summoned tacticians and gathered the leaders of the mesnie in the Great Hall where they spread maps overtop the trestle tables and strategized 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 swore 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 toward 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 th
e 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 puffin 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 neighboring 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.”