Safe in her Highlander’s arms!

After discovering her role in her father’s plot to destroy another clan, Sorcha MacMillan risks her life to go into hiding. Her safety relies on her disguise, but she is drawn to a man who could see through her...

Unknown to Sorcha, Alan Cameron has been sent to track her down. He’s attracted to the woman in disguise. Even after learning her true identity, he can’t overcome his instinct to protect her. No matter the danger, he will keep Sorcha safe...and claim her as his bride!

Sorcha could not explain her reaction to Alan Cameron.

Of all the men here, he was the most dangerous to her. God forbid she should slip up and err in front of him. What had James said about him? Ah, aye, that he was a tracker. He found and sorted clues to find missing things and people.

All the enjoyment she’d felt during the last few hours soured as she realised he was the worst possible man for her to spend too much time around. Her inexperience with men while under her father’s protection had left her with little knowledge of how to protect herself from him.

Sorcha understood the danger of him. Of his appeal. Of his smile. Of the way he met her gaze and stared back. But for tonight she would allow herself the weakness of savouring those few special moments during which he’d been with her.

Author Note

While I was researching I came across information about the three-centuries-long feud between two powerful Scottish clans–the Mackintoshes and the Camerons–and knew I’d found a wonderful source of stories. That’s how A Highland Feuding began–as a way to share many generations, many locations and a lot of history with my readers.

Alan Cameron appeared in the first book in this series, Stolen by the Highlander, as a young man, and he even tried to be the hero in the most recent one, Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue. I took that as a message that Alan needed to be a hero in his own right. So here is his story. Though you will find some familiar faces, there are some intriguing new ones that might show up in their own stories, too.

Sorcha MacMillan is a woman lost–and she must not be found. Of course there’s nothing more enticing to a man experienced in finding things than that. Drawn in by her vulnerability, Alan discovers many of his own secrets in this story as he seeks out Sorcha’s truth.

I hope you enjoy Claiming His Highland Bride!

PS–I’ve just got home from a wonderful trip to Scotland, where I had the chance to visit Cameron lands and the Clan Museum. Let’s just say that my visit and my sightseeing and research have inspired many stories. See you soon!

Claiming His Highland Bride

Terri Brisbin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TERRI BRISBIN is wife to one, mother of three, and dental hygienist to hundreds–when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. She was born, raised, and is still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs. Terri’s love of history led her to write time-travel romances and historical romances set in Scotland and England.

Books by Terri Brisbin

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks

A Highland Feuding

Stolen by the Highlander

The Highlander’s Runaway Bride

Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue

Claiming His Highland Bride

The MacLerie Clan

Taming the Highlander

Surrender to the Highlander

Possessed by the Highlander

Taming the Highland Rogue (Undone!)

The Highlander’s Stolen Touch

At the Highlander’s Mercy

The Highlander’s Dangerous Temptation

Yield to the Highlander

Linked to The MacLerie Clan

The Earl’s Secret

Regency Candlelit Christmas

‘Blame It on the Mistletoe’

Highlanders

‘The Forbidden Highlander’

Visit the Author Profile page

at www.millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

This last year I have been very busy with the two very special girls I call the ‘Brisbin Princesses’–Alexis and Sydney, my first two granddaughters. Watching them grow has been amazing for me. Now, with more grandbabies expected in 2017–just around the release of this book–I’d like to dedicate this book to them.

To my grandchildren Alexis and Sydney–and the new ones coming–I wish you happiness, health, success and lots of friends and family around you at all times. But mostly I wish you lots of love and books!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Castle Sween, Lands of Knap, Argyll,

Scotland—summer, ad 1370

‘Sorcha, come and sit with me a while.’

Sorcha glanced over at her mother’s companion for permission before approaching her bed. Anna nodded, so Sorcha climbed up on the high rope-strung mattress, having a care not to sit too close. Her mother had been ill and failing for years, but the last few weeks had brought a sunken and grey look to her face. From Anna’s grim expression and her mother’s glassy, weak gaze, Sorcha understood that Erca MacNeill had little time left living on this earth.

Sliding a bit closer and reaching out to touch her mother’s hand, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. Her throat tightened and clogged with tears as she understood this might be their last conversation. With a slight movement of her eyes, her mother dismissed Anna and soon the silence was disturbed only by the sound of laboured breathing.

‘Honour,’ her mother whispered before coughing. When she regained her breath, she struggled to say two more words, two words Sorcha knew would follow. ‘Loyalty. Courage.’ More rough, deep coughing that produced blood filled the chamber. Even when she tried to hush her mother from trying to speak, the woman shook her head and forced herself to continue.

‘Mother, I pray you, do not speak,’ she urged, as she leaned closer. Careful not to press against her mother’s frail body, Sorcha felt the tears tracking down her own cheeks.

‘Honour. Loyalty. Courage, Sorcha,’ her mother whispered, tugging her hand to bring her closer still. ‘Women know it. Women live it.’

‘Aye, Mother.’ She nodded and promised, hoping it would quiet her mother’s spirit and struggles. ‘I will live it. As you taught me.’

‘You father has none. He follows a path that will lead to our destruction and your death.’

Her mother’s gaze cleared then and Sorcha saw a strength there she’d not seen in years. Her father made certain his wife was obedient and biddable, if not with harsh words and commands, then with his fists and other punishments. Yet just now Sorcha recognised something in her mother’s eyes that had been long gone—defiance.

‘Mother, you should rest now,’ Sorcha began. The tight squeezing of her hand stopped her.

‘I will not go to my death without protecting you, Sorcha. I will not allow him to sell you into a life of suffering and pain and destroy the rest. Not as I was. Not for gold. Not for power. Nor for this castle. I will not.’

The words admitted things that her mother had never spoken of between them. Everyone knew the laird was a rough man, with little tenderness or mercy within him. Everyone whispered behind their hands that he beat his wife. Everyone guessed Erca MacNeill would die soon and that her daughter would be married off and gone soon. With that, his claim on Castle Sween would weaken. He had needed a son off Erca MacNeill and she’d denied him that.

What most were not privy to was the fact that her father was in talks with a powerful chieftain in the Highlands for Sorcha’s hand in marriage. One who was surely powerful enough to shore up his claim against anyone who tried to push him out. But that was not the disturbing part of the rumours. Nay, there was something more. Something worse and more frightening to her.

She’d heard the gossip about the harsh lord whose past wives had met unhappy ends, but they’d only been rumours. As a dutiful daughter who understood her place and her value to her clan, she’d wait on her father’s word about her future. Though now, with her mother’s warning and declaration fresh, she wondered if the stories were true and if there were more to this than she knew.

One glance at the frail and failing woman on the bed told Sorcha that refusing her mother’s attempts to speak about it would exhaust her mother and upset her even more. So, Sorcha stroked her mother’s hand and nodded.

‘Tell me, Mother. What would you have me do?’ She expected some ramblings about a woman’s place and the choices ahead of her, but instead her mother spoke with clarity.

‘You must be ready. It may be before I pass or just after. Someone will come in the light of day or dark of night. Someone you know I trust will bring you word.’

‘Mother! I pray you not to say such things. You will recover...’ In that moment, the sadness that entered her mother’s eyes then, making them appear grey rather than blue, forced the truth upon her.

‘Courage, Sorcha. You must be ready.’

‘Ready for what? What do you wish me to do?’

Small beads of sweat gathered on her mother’s brow and her upper lip. Her grip on Sorcha’s hand tightened more than she thought possible with her mother’s waning strength.

‘You must run...’

Her mother collapsed then, releasing her hand. Sorcha called for Anna. The woman rushed into the chamber and brought a cup of something steaming and aromatic to the bedside. Sorcha slid away to give her room to minister to her mother. As she watched the servant tend to her, Sorcha thought on her mother’s odd and disturbing words.

And how she had spoken them. Her mother had shown no such fortitude for weeks, not rising from her bed for over a fortnight. Yet her words and her grip revealed strength hidden somewhere deep within her and now coming out.

She must run?

As Anna assisted her mother in drinking some of the concoction, the words, a warning in truth, swirled inside her own thoughts. Run from here? Run to whom or where? When Anna stepped back, Sorcha understood her mother would and could answer nothing she would ask. The grey colour spread through her neck and face and she lay listlessly on the pillows, seeming now even smaller and frailer than just moments ago. But she must try.

‘Where would you have me run, Mother? I know no one outside of our kith and kin here and none would help me and face Father’s wrath.’

‘My mother’s family would aid you. One of my cousins is an abbess in the north, if you can reach her,’ she managed to whisper. ‘And I have other cousins, MacPhersons, who would give you refuge.’

‘You would have me take holy vows?’

‘It is one escape.’ Her mother pushed herself up to sit then and waited as Anna arranged pillows to support her. ‘Once done...’

Sorcha understood that not even her father could unravel vows taken to enter the religious life. Was that a better life to face than marriage? Staring at her mother’s worn face and knowing her beaten-down spirit, Sorcha had to accept it might be.

‘Anna.’

At her mother’s whisper, her companion left her mother’s side and walked over to a place behind the door. She touched and searched along the stones until she pulled a small one free. A small leather sack came free and Anna held it out to Sorcha.

‘For you, my lady. Put it with the others and be ready as your mother instructed,’ Anna said softly.

Sorcha could feel several pieces within the sack, more jewellery from the size and shape of them. Her mother or Anna had been giving her such things for the last several months with some plan in mind. Though she wanted to press both of the women for more knowledge of whatever they planned, the grim expressions of determination that now met her own gaze told her they would reveal nothing for now. She walked back to the bedside to take leave of her mother.

‘Rest well, Mother,’ she whispered, lifting her mother’s hand and kissing it. ‘I will see you on the morrow.’ The only response was a single tear that trickled out of the corner of her mother’s eye and down her face.

Sorcha nodded to Anna as she passed her and tucked the small sack up into her sleeve, hiding it from anyone who witnessed her outside this chamber. Once in her chamber, she dismissed her own maid and hid this sack with the other parcels and bundles her mother had given to her over the last months.

As night fell and the keep and the MacMillans there settled into their sleep, Sorcha could not find rest. Her mother’s words and the other hushed words she’d heard whispered about Gilbert Cameron repeated in her thoughts, keeping her awake and adding to her confusion. Giving up the battle, she rose, lit a small tallow candle and brought out the things her mother had given her. If she organised and assessed them, mayhap she would find sleep?

She’d not kept a count of how many times her mother or Anna had given these to her, so Sorcha was surprised to discover fifteen such gifts. Though most contained small trinkets or coins, bits that could be used without drawing much attention, one ring was costly enough to raise concerns from anyone receiving it. Her mother had not worn it in years, but Sorcha remembered it as a gift passed down from her mother’s mother. A thick and wide gold band covered in precious stones and gems. Something like this would be worth...a small fortune.

* * *

Stunned by this small treasure, Sorcha had found that sleep eluded her long after she’d bundled the items up and placed them back in their hidey-hole. As the sun rose and her sleepless night ended, Sorcha prayed that her mother would not die and that word of a need to flee would not come for a long time, if ever.

* * *

‘If ever’ did eventually come for Sorcha.

It did not come when her father approached her with the news of her betrothal to the chief of the Camerons. It did not come when she dared to utter her refusal, nor did it arrive when her father punished her for her disobedience in the matter of marriage.

It did, however, come in the dark of night.

Chapter One

Achnacarry Castle, Loch Arkaig Scotland

‘It took you long enough to answer my summons.’

Gilbert Cameron’s voice echoed from where he sat—at one end of the large hall—to the place where Alan stood near the entrance. Enough arrogance and anger filled that voice that anyone not needing to be in the hall for duty or interest scurried out through every possible doorway. No one wished the chieftain of Clan Cameron to turn his eye or his ire on them. As it now was on Alan.

‘Uncle, I came as soon as I received word,’ Alan said, walking forward. A few who yet remained nodded at him, careful not to let his uncle see their greeting. When he reached the place where his uncle sat, at a long table and in the high chair of the chieftain, Alan stopped and bowed. ‘My lord.’

Alan detested his uncle, though he’d made a vow that not through word or deed or curses whispered under his breath would anyone know. The curses now were aimed at his own stupidity for, indeed, delaying before answering the call when it did come. No encounter between them ended well and probably never would. Not since his uncle had become chieftain. Truly though, not since Agneis had married Gilbert Cameron.

‘Did The Mackintosh have you dancing to his tune then, Nephew?’ Gilbert sneered out the words. ‘So that you could not answer the call of your kin and chief in a timely manner?’ A few snorts and chuckles echoed around them as some of his kin joined in his uncle’s scorn.

‘I was not in Glenlui, Uncle,’ he explained in a half-truth. ‘As soon as I received your message, I rode.’ Alan watched his uncle’s reaction to his softened and almost respectful tone and saw the moment that the man decided to move on from scorn to...

‘I require your presence,’ he said, tilting his head towards the small chamber near the corridor. ‘Come.’

Alan followed his uncle and two others into the chamber used by the steward of Achnacarry Castle and waited for his uncle to sit. From the continued silence, he suspected the subject would not be to his liking.

‘I need you to accompany me south towards MacMillan lands.’

‘Knapdale is about four days’ ride, when I travel alone.’ He always travelled faster and better alone. Several questions sat on the edge of his tongue but he held them back, waiting for more about the task. Then Alan realised his uncle’s words—towards MacMillan lands. ‘Towards their lands or to them?’

‘It seems I must go to meet my betrothed,’ Gilbert said. Alan let out a breath and shook his head.

‘Betrothed, Uncle? I did not ken you were marrying again.’

The thought of it roiled in his gut. Another woman put to the not-so-tender mercies of a cruel man who ruled with cold regard for anyone but himself. The icy gaze that felt upon Alan then told him he had overstepped once more. The only thing he could do was draw Gilbert’s attention from his anger or sense of insult to the matter before them. ‘As I said, four days.’

‘Then, since I had to wait on your arrival, ’tis a good thing we will meet them halfway.’ Gilbert nodded at the others. ‘They should be near Ballachulish now and we can reach there in two days.’ Gilbert paused when someone knocked on the closed door. ‘Come.’

‘My lord, they are ready.’ The servant delivered his message and tugged the door closed behind his interruption.

‘We leave now,’ his uncle declared. ‘Fill your skin and get some food.’ With nothing else to say, Gilbert left the chamber. Alan stood for a moment as the surprising news sank in.

His uncle, the widower of two very young and now dead wives, had sought yet another. In secret. For, if The Mackintosh had known this news, he would have shared it or asked after it with Alan. And that sent a shiver of foreboding down Alan’s spine. The old laird had been fierce and ruthless, but never had Alan not trusted him or his word. As he left the chamber and walked to the kitchen to replenish his supplies, he realised that was the problem now.

He did not trust his uncle.

Not for a moment.

Not to keep the clan’s interests placed before his own.

Nor did he trust any young woman to his care.

Alan had not known Gilbert’s first wife, Beatha, but he had known Agneis. They’d run the forests and swam the lochs together as children when she would not be left behind by the lads seeking childhood adventures. Mimicking their every action, she boldly claimed her place among them...until she reached the time when it was clear she was a young woman.

As she’d blossomed in body, Alan had even had a wee dream of marrying her, but their bond was too deep to allow him to think of her as anything but a friend. When news came that she was to be Gilbert’s second wife, he was forbidden to speak to her again.

Agneis had not wanted to marry Gilbert, but since he was high in the esteem of the clan elders and his brother the chieftain, her father forced her to it. Two years, she’d lasted. The subtle marks of abuse became more blatant but no one took her husband to task for it. Alan had not been here, had not been here for her, and he blamed himself even now for her eventual death.

Turning the corner into the corridor that led to the kitchen, Alan nodded to several people along the way, trying to make the grim smile he kenned he wore into something less threatening. He yet had many friends among the kith and kin of Achnacarry Castle and did not wish to frighten them away during this short and rushed visit.

With his uncle waiting for him, Alan did not dawdle too long in the kitchen or in the chamber he used when here.

* * *

A scant quarter-hour later, he mounted a horse and rode out with the chieftain and his men. All were warriors and accomplished at travelling hard and fast and Alan’s estimate of his own travelling time was not increased by much by their company.

* * *

Alan kept to himself during the two days on the road, as he always did around his uncle. His father’s presence could have a moderating effect on the animosity between them, but Gilbert had made certain his father was away from Achnacarry as much as Alan was. By placing him in charge of Tor Castle in the southern part of their lands, it kept his father out of sight. As they crossed out of Cameron lands his uncle approached him.

‘You will speak of this to no one,’ Gilbert said. ‘Nothing you hear or see. To no one. Unless I give you leave to do so.’

‘Certainly, Uncle,’ Alan said, nodding in agreement, still not sure of his purpose here. He was not high enough in the clan to need as a witness and not liked at all by his uncle. So, why had he been summoned then?

‘Not even your beloved Mackintoshes.’ There was so much more than disdain and dislike in his tone. Something else deeper and darker echoed there.

Alan nodded again. His uncle turned and walked away as quickly as he’d approached. Clearly, his task was done and he felt no need to speak to Alan otherwise. The comment, or command as it more felt to him, about the Mackintoshes worried him.

Something about this whole situation—a secret betrothal to the MacMillan heiress—did not feel right to him. There was no love lost between the MacMillans and the Mackintoshes or others in the Chattan Confederation. Or with the Camerons for that matter. So, why would his uncle tie himself and their clan to them? There had to be some benefit, even if just for himself and not the clan. Right now, Alan could not see it.

His father had been banished to Tor Castle though his uncle couched it in terms of loyalty and defence. When they passed by Tor without pause, Alan knew there was no one to question or from whom he could seek counsel. So, he would have to wait and see what happened when his uncle met with his betrothed. Would they return to Achnacarry or travel back to Knapdale? Would the marriage occur soon? He had many questions he dare not speak.

* * *

Any hope of getting answers were dashed the next morning as they reached the encampment of the MacMillans. A huge man wearing a grim, dark glare stood waiting for them as they approached. They drew to a stop a few yards from him and all remained mounted while his uncle climbed down and strode to the man.

There were no pleasantries spoken between them. No greetings exchanged or signs of familiarity or friendship. His uncle matched the man’s stance, feet spread wide and arms crossed over his chest, and they spoke in tones so low no one could hear. Tension rippled in the air around them as the two chieftains spoke for some time, each one’s voice getting more strident as the conversation continued. Alan studied the two men and realised that, of the two, his uncle was more at ease. Calmer. More focused. The MacMillan, who it surely must be, was agitated. Angry. Worried.

‘Alan!’

He threw his leg over the horse’s back and dropped to the ground. Well, if nothing else, he would now discover what had happened and his part to play. He strode to the two and bowed. ‘Uncle. My lord.’

‘It appears that there is a problem with The MacMillan’s daughter,’ his uncle said. Alan remained silent, for his uncle wanted to control how he spoke of this problem. And he had no doubt at all that whatever had happened was no surprise to Gilbert Cameron. So he waited. ‘She has disappeared.’

Of all the things he could have dreamt of hearing that was not one of them. Alan glanced first at his uncle and then Lord MacMillan and knew one thing. His uncle was not surprised by this news. That played into the reason for his summons, Alan knew.

‘How can I help?’ he asked, carrying out the role he was meant to have.

‘Your uncle speaks highly of your skills in finding those lost. She has been missing for nearly three days.’

There were many questions he wished to ask, all of them would be deemed impertinent or too personal, so he asked for that which he needed to begin his task.

‘When did she go missing? Where was she?’ Alan looked back at the encampment. They’d chosen a place by the river, on high enough ground to stay dry.

‘She was seen last after we had our evening meal, three nights ago. She retired to her tent and her servant saw to her. The next morning, when she was called to break her fast, the tent was empty.’

Alan nodded. ‘Take me there.’ At the surprise on the chieftain’s face at being given an order, Alan added, ‘If you please, my lord.’

With a huff, the MacMillan laird turned and walked towards the tents and the river. They passed by several larger ones, reaching the last one that lay closest to the river. The noise of the rushing river grew as they approached it. How had the lady slept with this much noise? ‘This one?’ he asked in a near shout. ‘Has anyone touched or moved anything? You have searched the area?’ he asked, believing that the laird would have done that first.

‘Aye, my men searched along the river and back to the last village. No sign of her.’ As Alan lifted the edge of the tent’s flap, the laird continued. ‘Her maid said nothing is missing from her belongings and nothing seemed awry when my daughter retired for the night.’

‘And no one else went missing at the same time? Could your daughter have gone off with one of your kin or other servants?’ Alan asked.

He paused and stood blocking the entrance for he did not wish the laird to follow him inside. He wanted a chance to search for himself. A chieftain’s daughter, a wealthy heiress, did not simply walk away from her father. There was every possibility that she had been kidnapped.

‘Have you received any demands for her return?’

‘You think she was taken?’ his uncle asked before the other could. ‘Who would do that?’

From his uncle’s expression, he’d not thought of that possibility. Why not? The MacMillan’s daughter stood as his only heir and would be worth a huge ransom. Alan narrowed his gaze, watching his uncle’s eyes. His stomach clenched then, making him certain his uncle both knew more and was more involved than the woman’s father might be.

Though he wanted to understand his uncle’s part in this, right now he needed to look for signs so he could track the woman. Good God, he did not even know her name!

‘My lord, what is she called? Your daughter? How many years has she?’ he rattled off the questions quickly. He needed to know certain things now. ‘How tall is she? Her hair and eyes—what colour are they?’

‘Her name is Sorcha,’ Hugh MacMillan said. There was no hint of affection or concern in his voice. ‘She has ten and nine years and stands to my chest.’ The chieftain marked her height on his chest then. ‘Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue mostly.’

‘I need some time to examine her belongings. How far downriver have your men searched?’

‘Storms raged until late last night, so not far yet.’

‘There were storms the night she disappeared?’ Alan glanced at the swollen, raging river and suspected something other than kidnap then.

‘Aye. Heavy rains, lightning.’ The laird pointed over towards the river. ‘A bridge upstream washed out yesterday. Some farmers said they’d never seen such storms or such a flow as it is now.’

Alan was filled with a strange sadness then, for he suspected the lass was not just missing but was, indeed, dead. If she left her tent for any reason and lost her way or her footing, she would have been washed away in a moment.

‘I want to search her things,’ he said. ‘If you will gather the searchers, I would speak to them as well, my lord.’

* * *

Alan spent the next hours examining the woman’s belongings, questioning her maid and the men who’d gone off searching for her and walking the course of the river for several miles himself. His uncle stood with a knowing look in his eyes and The MacMillan glared at him the entire time, giving no hint of warmth or true concern over his daughter’s loss.

From the few bits of conversation he’d overheard between the two chieftains, Alan wondered which one was the more ruthless man. He also came to realise that the lass mattered not to either of them, but the marriage and the alliance did. That was all that seemed of importance to them.

* * *

By nightfall, Alan had finished his work and stood before the chieftains and their men to tell them what he’d discovered. The conclusion was not difficult—Sorcha MacMillan was dead. Something bothered him about it though. Though the others had missed the signs, he’d found them easily. Torn scraps of the gown she’d worn to bed. Bits of ribbons she used to tie her hair in braids. He’d even discovered one small braid of her hair entangled in the bushes near the river. Almost as though a path had been laid out before him there, leading him to one conclusion.

As his uncle and her father stood waiting on his words, Alan understood that less experienced searchers might not consider the signs he’d seen as easily found. Even without finding her body, for the strength and flow of the river might have carried that miles and miles down through the glen, he was certain of his findings.

‘My Lord MacMillan,’ he said quietly, holding out the ribbon he’d found, ‘I fear that your daughter is dead.’

If Alan had expectations of an emotional display or even a few kind words expressed over the loss of a beloved daughter, they did not come to fruition. If anything, the hard man turned harder still with an iciness in his gaze that had nothing to do with the chill weather around them. At his uncle’s nod, the chieftain followed him away from their gathered men to a place a short distance from the tents. Although they turned and left quickly, it was not so quick that Alan missed the knowing smile on his uncle’s face.

Gilbert Cameron was not displeased by this death.

Once more it would seem that his uncle would be the one benefitting by a young woman’s death. As he waited on his uncle’s orders, he offered up a quick prayer that this lass, like the ones before her, was in a better place than she would be as Gilbert’s wife.

Chapter Two

Two weeks later—near Glenfinnan

Weariness and cold unlike anything she’d ever experienced sank into her bones and her soul. She’d followed Padruig for days and days, into the dark storm and away from her father. She had followed him across lochs and around them. Followed his unrelenting steps towards freedom.

And now she watched as some villagers buried him in the ground.

Sorcha had held on to hope, even in the terrible days after her mother’s passing. Even when her father had forced her to accept the betrothal to the ruthless and brutal Cameron chieftain. Her mother had sworn there was a way to escape it, but now, at her weakest moment in the last two months, Sorcha was not able to find the strength to cling to that hope.

Tears she’d held in for so long threatened to spill and yet she could not allow the weakness to gain control over her. Sorcha knew that holding in her fears until she was safely at her destination was the only way she would survive. The burial completed, she nodded to those watching. They thought he was her father. She would not cry over her father, but they did not know that.

‘What will ye do now, lass?’ the miller’s wife asked as she stood by the grave. ‘Do ye hiv kith or kin nearby?’

‘Nay,’ she whispered as she shook her head. ‘My mother’s kin is out on Skye.’ Padruig had revealed her mother’s plan to her within hours of their escape from Ballachulish and it included fleeing to her mother’s sister on Skye—and life in a convent. But she must not reveal that to anyone.

‘Is that where ye were journeying to when he passed, then?’ the woman asked. The concern lacing her tone and words removed some of the chill on Sorcha’s heart. Coming from a stranger, it surprised her.

‘Aye.’

‘This road is the way there, so if ye bide awhile ye might find someone travelling there and go wi’ them.’ The woman, Coira, nodded and smiled. ‘Ye wouldna want to travel on alone, lass.’

Sorcha shook her head and shrugged. She must decide how to proceed, but right now, it seemed any decision was not within her power to make. She needed to rest and clear her thoughts before taking another step towards...anywhere.

‘Is there a place where I could stay here? Or nearby? I have some coins and could pay.’ That did not include the fortune sewn into the hem and lining of her gown. She knew better than to reveal that kind of wealth to anyone, be they beneficent strangers or kin.

‘Och!’ Coira said, sliding her arm under and around Sorcha’s then. ‘Ye can stay wi’ us, lass. There’s always a place to sleep and a crust of bread to share with someone in need.’

‘Your husband will not mind?’ she asked. That husband had helped bury Padruig when Sorcha had discovered him dead this morn. ‘He and the others have helped so much already.’

‘Nay, Darach is kind-hearted under that gruff manner. Something about ye touched him, lass. Our first daughter would have been yer age now and I think he sees her in ye,’ Coira admitted. So many bairns died too soon and theirs had been one. Her own mother had lost six bairns during carrying and their first years, so Sorcha understood the loss.

Sorcha followed the woman away from the graveyard to a small cottage that sat next to the millhouse there on the stream. Coira opened the door and bade her enter. Peat burned there in a hearth built into the one wall and she appreciated the warmth it gave off. Too many days on the road, exposed to the Highland winds and rain, had left her cold and damp. She moved to stand nearer to it and watched as the woman retrieved a pot from over the fire and poured some of its contents into a cup.

‘Here now, lass,’ she said. ‘This will warm ye. Have ye eaten yet?’

‘My thanks.’ Sorcha accepted the cup and sipped the warm brew within. It was hot enough to spread the warmth through her and sweet, too. ‘I did eat something.’ She put the cup on the table there. ‘I should get my bags and bring the horses here.’

As she turned, she lost her balance and swayed. Coira grabbed hold of her and guided her to a stool. Pushing her hair from her face, Sorcha fell hard on to it.

‘Dinna fash, lass,’ Coira said, bringing the cup to her. ‘Drink and take a bit to rest.’ The woman walked to the door and called out to someone. ‘Kennan! Fetch the lass’s horse and bags. See to them!’

‘Kennan?’ she asked, drinking down the last of the cup.

‘Our son, the youngest,’ Coira said, never pausing in her work as she moved from one task to another in the cottage. Folding this, pouring that, and so on. ‘So, was yer father ailing for long?’

For a moment, Sorcha was confused, thinking of her true father instead of the man who’d been her mother’s servant for decades. Then she shook her head. ‘Nay, not ailing at all.’

She thought on the last days of their journey and realised Padruig had been tired. He’d complained of his arm and shoulder paining him yesterday and laughed about being an old man to ease her concern. Then last night before they slept, he mentioned that his stomach was unsettled. But those things could have been anything and she’d not connected them with an illness. The journey had been long and filled with tension and fear over being found and returned to her father. Her own stomach had been unsettled for days. Her arms ached from hours of controlling her horse on unfamiliar paths.

‘Well, lass, sometimes the Almighty is being merciful to take someone quickly. ’Tis still quite a shock.’

Sorcha murmured some reply, unable to think of what to tell this woman who clearly only wanted to help her and offer her some measure of comfort over losing her father.

* * *

As the next hours passed, Sorcha realised that she’d never spent this much time with the common people who lived their lives outside her world of comfort and wealth.

Other than those who served them within Castle Sween, Sorcha never had much to do with people who did not live in the keep. Nor had she seen how they lived. Oh, she’d seen and passed cottages in the village before, but had not spent any real time there, observing their tasks and speaking like this. Her father had forbidden all but the most casual of conversations or visits, deeming them beneath the dignity of his daughter.

She watched as the others in the family arrived back after their chores and duties and greeted each other warmly. Though she’d done nothing to help, their hospitality was freely offered and gladly accepted. Coira brushed off any gratitude she tried to express. Soon, it was the darkest part of the night and Sorcha lay awake, considering her plight and the possibilities before her.

* * *

The next dawn found her still awake and with no firm plan of what to do. For now, she could remain here but that could not last for long. It would not take long before her inexperience at working or seeing to herself became apparent even to those people who were not looking too closely.

Sorcha walked along the river, trying to sort out her thoughts when the question occurred to her. When Coira came out to hang wet garments to dry, she approached and tried to help, following the woman’s example. After twisting and then shaking out a few pieces of clothing, she asked her questions.

‘How far are we from Skye?’ she began. ‘How many days to reach there?’

Coira paused in her work, placing her hands on her hips and staring off to the west as though she could see it from where she stood now.

‘’Twould take about three days to reach the shore. Then, across to the island and to your destination.’ She turned and looked at Sorcha. ‘Where on Skye do ye go?’

‘Nigh to Portree.’

‘Then add another day, and two if a storm blows in off the sea.’

Sorcha then thought on her other choice. Rather than rushing to the refuge of a convent, her mother had mentioned another cousin who’d married into the Mackintoshes. Mayhap she should go there and seek counsel about her choices?

‘Do you know far it is to the village of the Mackintosh clan?’

‘In Glenlui? Near Loch Arkaig?’ Sorcha nodded. There were other Mackintoshes further north, for they were a large clan with many septs, but that was the one she needed to find. ‘Not too far. Two days up the glen. Longer if ye go back out the way ye came in.’

She could not go back the other way. Padruig had explained that the Cameron lands sat between them and both the MacPhersons to the northeast and the Mackintoshes to the northwest. They had quickly, and with care, made their way around the Cameron lands to avoid any chance of her capture. Disguised as a merchant travelling with his daughter had shielded her from much scrutiny. The other factor that protected her was that no one knew The MacMillan’s daughter or, if they did, they did not expect to see her here or now.

‘Does anyone travel there?’ she asked. ‘My mother always spoke of her cousin who married a Mackintosh of Glenlui.’ She needed an escort, for truly there was no way for her to make it there alone. Although Sorcha might be tired and heartbroken and losing hope, she was not so lacking in wits to try such a thing. ‘I could hire them. Or exchange their escort for my father’s horse.’

She saw the interest spark in Coira’s gaze. Sorcha knew the importance of a horse, even if this one was a bit old and worn.

‘Aye, I may ken someone,’ Coira said.

* * *

Someone, indeed, for three days later, Sorcha bid farewell to the helpful people here and to Coira and rode north following Coira and Darach’s eldest son Tomas. The woman had promised to have the priest say prayers over Padruig when next he passed through the village and that gave Sorcha some comfort knowing his soul would be blessed even if he’d not been shriven before his death. He’d been a good man, a faithful servant to her mother and a brave friend to help her escape, knowing his fate if they’d been captured.

* * *

Just over a week after Padruig’s death, two months after her mother’s and three weeks after her own, Sorcha arrived in Glenlui and stood before the cottage of her mother’s cousin, Clara MacPherson, wife to James Mackintosh. After watching Tomas ride out of the village towards the glen, Sorcha knocked on the door and found Clara tending to her bairns inside.

At first, before Sorcha even had a chance to speak, Clara stared and blinked at her. Then she shook her head and examined her from head to toes before canting her head and shaking it once more.

‘For a moment, I thought ’twas my mother’s cousin Erca standing before me.’ Clara studied her closely and laughed. ‘You have her hair colouring and the shape of her face, but that chin is certainly not hers. Those eyes are a bit of both, are they not?’ It took but a moment more for her expression to grow guarded. ‘Why are you here, lass? Where is your mother?’

So, word had not spread yet? Out through the MacMillans to the MacNeills and MacPhersons? The Camerons surely knew it. Sorcha drew in a breath and tried to speak, but the words came not. The tears she’d somehow managed to control did though, breaking free and pouring down her face. Clara, bless her, did not need the words to understand. She drew Sorcha into her embrace and rocked with her, all the time murmuring words of sympathy and comfort.

‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘We can speak of her and the reason why you are standing at my door.’

It took some time to calm the torrent of tears once it had begun. Sorcha sat in a chair in the corner while Clara made some tea and tended her three bairns. Wee Jamie, Wee Clara and Robbie clung to their mother’s skirts, peeping at her from time to time as Clara gathered them together and led them into the chamber off this one for a nap.

This cottage was bigger than Coira’s, having three rooms that Sorcha could see. Clara’d taken the bairns into one of those and Sorcha listened to the soft words of love and comfort between Clara and her children as they went off to sleep. Memories of her mother’s voice, soothing and loving, echoed over her then. As her words did in that moment.

Honour. Loyalty. Courage.

Sorcha swallowed against the sense of loss and emptiness and searched for the courage she’d always sworn to her mother she would demonstrate. Sipping the fragrant brew, she let the warmth wash over and through her. She’d survived her father. She’d survived her mad flight into the night and the journey to this place. With several deep breaths in and released, Sorcha gained control over herself then and by the time Clara joined her there, she was ready to speak about her mother and her own future.

‘When did she pass?’ Clara asked. ‘I have not seen her since I was a lass, when she lived at Cluny Castle.’

‘She passed two months ago,’ Sorcha said. ‘She had been ill for some time.’ Sorcha frowned then. ‘So my mother was your mother’s cousin? I thought she was yours.’ Her mother had spoken of Clara in the last weeks of her life and Sorcha had thought their connection was closer.

‘Aye, our mothers were cousins and your mother stood as godmother to me,’ Clara explained. ‘Though your mother often spoke of you in her letters to mine, we never had the chance to meet you.’ Clara stood then and brought the pot of tea closer to fill her cup once more.

‘And your mother? Does she yet live?’ Sorcha asked. She had too little knowledge of her distant kin and needed to know it.

‘Nay,’ Clara said with a slight shake of her head. ‘She passed some years ago. Just after I married James and moved here.’ Clara smiled then. ‘I came to visit my brother here and met James. I never left.’

‘Ah, so your brother lives here as well?’ Sorcha asked. She’d had so few kin in Knap, mostly her father’s, and no siblings to call her own. How might it have been if she’d had brothers or sisters?

‘There was trouble here—the clan split in two as Brodie battled his cousin,’ Clara explained. ‘Conall died in the fighting. But his widow still lives here.’ Clara drank down the rest of her tea and put the cup down on the table. ‘I could spend hours telling you the Mackintosh and MacPherson clan histories and lay out all our relatives on either side,’ she began. ‘But that would simply give you more time to avoid telling me the truth, lass. How did you come to be standing at my door, more than a hundred miles away from your home?’

Sorcha saw the strength of will in Clara’s gaze. There was no way to avoid it any longer. Truth be told, the sooner she had things arranged, the better she would feel. On the last part of this journey, she had accepted that the convent on Skye would be the best place for her. Other than embroidery and prayer, she had few skills to offer as a man’s wife. The jewellery and coins she carried would make the perfect offering to allow her entrance—no one would recognise them or her.

‘I am journeying to a convent on Skye to seek refuge there.’ It sounded reasonable when spoken calmly in spite of the pounding beat of her heart and the tightness in her throat. She clasped her hands together on her lap to keep them from trembling as she revealed the next bit. ‘My father believes me dead, so he will not be an impediment.’

Her words met sheer and utter silence. Clara’s gaze did not falter even then and Sorcha thought she might have stopped breathing. Then her cousin’s lips moved but no sounds came forth.

‘’Twas my mother’s plan, truly,’ Sorcha added. ‘To protect me from him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I have no skills or talents to offer for my keep anywhere else.’ Just the few days spent with Coira and Darach proved how ill prepared she was for a life outside that of a noblewoman.

Clara shook herself free from the hold that the shocking news had caused and stood. After checking on the bairns in the other room and pulling the door closed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. Her intense stare worried Sorcha.

‘Tell me the rest of it, Sorcha. We must have our plan in place before the bairns wake and James comes home.’ Now it was Sorcha’s turn to be surprised. ‘I think that Saraid fits you well as a name. Saraid MacPherson, my cousin whose betrothed died and who has come to visit with me for a wee while.’

Whatever she had expected, this was not it. Her cousin listened to her explanation and did not take long to come up with a story, a whole life in truth, and all before the three children woke. By the time James, the village blacksmith, arrived at the cottage, Sorcha allowed herself to hope that she was on the right path.

And she doubted not that if she needed guidance Clara would be the one giving it now.

Chapter Three

Alan noticed her first when he entered Brodie’s hall.

She stood near to James and Clara, but not with them. It was almost as though she was trying to stay out of sight. She nodded if they spoke to her, came closer when they beckoned and then crept ever so slowly back away. She seemed to prefer the shadows over the light.

He strode past her and the others and climbed the steps up to the chieftain’s table. Waiting for Brodie’s nod, he glanced once more over to the corner and noticed she yet remained there.

‘You know that is not necessary,’ Brodie called out to him. ‘Come. Sit. Eat.’

‘I would not wish to abuse my welcome here,’ he said, the sarcasm coming easily between him and the mighty Brodie Macintosh.

It was always good to have one of the most powerful men in the Highlands beholden to you twice over. No matter his uncle’s demeanour or behaviour, Alan Cameron would be welcome here at Drumlui Keep and any place that Brodie controlled. He knew it and mayhap that was why this place felt more like home than Achnacarry or Tor did.

Servants served him from platters and filled his cup with a fine red wine. He nodded to several there in greeting, knowing he would speak with them later. The meal was pleasant, the company more so, but his gaze kept returning to...her.

It was not that she was a spectacular beauty that drew his eye. It was not that he recognised her, for indeed he did not. So, what did draw him to her?

‘I see you have noticed our newest guest there,’ his cousin Arabella whispered to him while Brodie’s attention turned elsewhere. At first, he was tempted to deny it. Why bother when his cousin was right?

‘Aye. Who is she?’ he asked.

‘Clara’s cousin, recently widowed,’ Arabella explained. ‘Staying with James and Clara and helping her with the bairns.’

As Alan watched, the woman under discussion lifted her head and smiled. Though it was too far for it to be for him, he smiled as though remembering her. He could not help himself. He reached for his cup and drank deeply from it, swallowing the rest of the wine down. He could not see the colour of her eyes nor hear the tone of her voice, but the need to know both of those things and more about her nearly forced him to his feet. Only the soft chuckle from Arabella brought him under control.

‘She is lovely, is she not?’

‘Other than Clara’s cousin, what do you know about her?’ He tried to say the words calmly—hell, he even tried to convince himself it mattered not. The feeling in his gut and the way it was hard to take a breath said otherwise. What the hell was happening here?

‘She is called Saraid MacPherson. That is all I know. Clara brought her here to make her known to Brodie and me a few days ago,’ she said. ‘Why do you not speak to her yourself, Cousin?’ Arabella gave him a puzzling smile before nodding in the direction of the woman. ‘She is, after all, a widow.’

His body understood what Arabella was saying even if he was tempted to scoff at the remark. A widow had certain freedoms that a married or unmarried woman did not. Good God, what had his expression been to give Arabella the idea that he wanted this woman? But then, Arabella never needed a reason to meddle in his life. For the last several years, she’d taken it upon herself to seek out a possible match for him.

Like Fia...

He cleared his throat and turned to face her then.

‘There is no need for this, Bella,’ he said softly. ‘I know you wish me well, but there truly is no reason for you to be involved.’ Tears glimmered there in her eyes and Alan felt her concern. ‘Surely you understand that our uncle expects to dictate that choice and not allow me that choice by chance.’

The change in her demeanour was so quick and clear that it even drew Brodie’s attention. The chieftain stiffened in his chair and slid his hand over to cover his wife’s where it lay between them on the table. A quick frowning glance at Alan, then one filled with concern at Arabella was followed by a tense silence.

‘All is well, Brodie,’ she said quietly, stroking his hand until he nodded and turned back to the conversation he’d been having before he’d sensed her discomfort. Once more looking at Alan, she nodded. ‘All will be well, Alan. I think things will work out, somehow, regardless of what Gilbert Cameron wants or how he acts.’

‘Brave words, Cousin. Especially from someone who knows him as you do.’

They’d both grown up with the current clan chief, though Arabella’s father had occupied the high chair before their uncle. In spite of the difference in their ages and their gender, each had witnessed many examples of Gilbert’s true nature and temper.

‘Well, I was not suggesting you marry the widowed Saraid,’ she said then. ‘I thought you might be interested in the company of a young woman.’ She let out a breath then and shrugged, sadness and something uncomfortably close to pity entering her pale blue eyes then. ‘I want you to find the happiness I have, Alan.’

It was not pity there, he realised. Arabella was more like an older sister to him than a cousin. She was having a care for him and it felt strange to him because no one else did. Here they sat, two Camerons amongst the Mackintoshes, welcomed more by this clan than their own.

‘Is aught wrong, love?’ Brodie leaned over and spoke to his wife. ‘The two of you have the makings of some tragic story in your expressions.’ Brodie’s astute dark gaze met his own then. ‘Something I should know?’

‘Nay, Brodie,’ he said, shaking his head. There was nothing about which he could or would speak to The Mackintosh, so he smiled. ‘Arabella is simply...’ He paused, searching for the best word to use, but Brodie beat him to it.

‘Meddling? Overstepping? Controlling?’ Brodie asked, moving his intent gaze now to his wife, who blinked several times at his words. Then, the chieftain lifted his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, softening what could have been insulting words. ‘Bella likes everyone’s lives to be orderly and has a way of trying to make that happen.’

‘Brodie, I would never...’ she began.

‘Never meddle, my love?’ Brodie kissed her hand again. ‘Overstep?’ Another kiss, this one on the inside of his wife’s wrist. ‘Control?’ Alan watched, waiting as his cousin clearly did to see where the next kiss would be. Instead, Brodie laughed loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. ‘Give over, Bella. You know you do all those things. It is part of you and you could not stop even if you tried.’

Arabella opened her mouth to argue with her husband and found herself being kissed, thoroughly by the looks of it, into silence. Alan sat back, giving them some bit of privacy and looked out at those yet eating and drinking in the hall of The Mackintosh.

With unerring and yet alarming accuracy, his gaze found that of the widow Saraid MacPherson. This time, she was staring back at him. Catching her, he nodded and smiled. Mayhap he should meet the widowed Saraid MacPherson after all?

‘If you will excuse me,’ Alan said as he rose from his chair. When Brodie waved him off without breaking the kiss he was giving Arabella, Alan considered himself free to leave.

He fought off the growing anticipation within him, now that he’d made the decision to meet the woman. He forced his feet to slow and greeted several people along the way to where she sat. When he realised he was counting the number of tables between him and her, he stopped and turned away. Reaching for an empty cup, he filled it from a pitcher and then drank half of it down in the first swallow.

Bloody hell, but what was happening to him?

He was not some untested, untried youth. He’d experienced first love and lost it and survived. He’d bedded a number of women. And yet, the way his gut threatened to heave, one would think he was a virgin. Alan forced a laugh at someone’s words and tried not to glance over at her.

Three damned tables away, she spoke with Clara.

Standing next to each other, heads together, speaking together, they were a contrast in appearance. Clara stood tall and lush with dark auburn hair and a full smile that she used often and well while the cousin was shorter and dark-haired. As he’d watched, she smiled little and when she did, those seemed shy and tentative. But then one was kin and known to all in the hall and the other was a visitor and a stranger, which could account for the reticence in her demeanour.

Somehow, as he’d been watching and comparing the two women, his feet had led him right to them. Lucky for him, Clara’s husband took note of him before they did.

‘Alan,’ James said, nodding to him. ‘You’re back from your travels then?’ The blacksmith had been a friend for years now. They had both been close in age when they’d met during the struggle between the Mackintosh cousins that ended with Brodie’s ascension to the clan’s high chair.

‘Aye,’ Alan said, accepting more ale from the pitcher that James lifted off the table. ‘Done travelling for a while, I suspect.’

‘Well, you ken I would gladly accept your help, if you are looking for something to fill your time,’ James offered. Alan glanced over his shoulder as the man spoke. ‘She is rather fetching, is she not?’

Alan could have ignored the question or tried to laugh it off. He decided to do neither.

‘Aye.’

It was the only word he could utter as he took his first close look at the widow Saraid MacPherson. If he had thought her unremarkable, he’d been very, very wrong indeed. Alan blamed the distance that had separated them for the mistake. Now, as he walked with James towards Clara and her cousin, Alan could see that her eyes were an interesting blend of blue and gold.

Interesting? Hell, they were beautiful. As was the rest of her, from her heart-shaped face with full lips that begged to be kissed to the creamy skin of her graceful neck that led to... Hell! He was damned now! Worse, he’d been so entranced by the sight of her that James had continued speaking while he gawped and Alan had no idea what the man had said.

Yet Saraid had not even looked at him. Alan gathered his scattered wits and tried to follow James’s words. The knowing sparkle in his friend’s eyes told him that James was enjoying his discomfort. He would pay for that.

‘My wife’s cousin is visiting to help with the bairns,’ James said, kicking Alan’s foot to gain his attentions. ‘Saraid, may I make you known to Lady Arabella’s cousin, Alan?’

‘My lord,’ she said quietly, lowering her head respectfully and dipping into a curtsy.

‘Nay, Mistress MacPherson, not a laird nor nobleman,’ he said, shaking his head and watching a lovely blush creep up into her cheeks. ‘Just Alan Cameron.’

While James laughed at his words and Clara smiled, the woman had a different reaction. The pink in her cheeks left abruptly and was replaced by a pallor that reminded him of...fear. What had caused that?

* * *

Sorcha fought the urge to clutch at Clara for support when the man spoke his name. She’d noticed him when he’d entered the hall and walked to the raised table in the front, joining those closest to the chieftain. What woman alive and breathing would not notice a man like him? Tall and muscular with his long, dark-brown hair gathered back behind his head, he strode through the place with the lethal grace of a natural predator and the confidence of one who knew his place and liked it.

She must have been too obvious in staring, for he’d looked in her direction several times through the meal. Sorcha tried to concentrate on Clara’s words and introductions and to play along with the story of her that they’d created to cover her identity. In changing the detail of her betrothed dying to her husband dying, it had made some men here a bit bolder in their introductions. As she watched his approach, she wondered if it made a difference to him.

She’d seen men like this in her father’s hall and noticed the way women watched them with hunger in their gazes. These same men never slept alone or wanted for companionship. As he came closer, it did not escape her that many women in this hall did not miss a move he made.

Now, as he stood before her, his blue gaze almost glowing as he stared at her, her mouth went dry, her palms sweaty and she lost her ability to think. Until she misspoke and he revealed his name—his full name.

Cameron.

Alan Cameron.

Cameron.

Her first instinct was to run. The urge came over her so quickly and strongly that she almost ran. But she’d not survived so far by acting on fear alone. No, she must control her fears once again to survive this situation. Sorcha coughed to make herself breathe and turned away to give herself a moment to gather her control. After smoothing her gown down, she faced James and Clara and...him.

‘Your pardon,’ she said, nodding to Clara first. If there was a small pause in the conversation, James had not noticed for he stepped right into the gap.

‘Alan may be a Cameron, but we try not to let that colour our regard for him.’ The smile that accompanied the mild insult told her that there was true affection between these two.

‘My thanks, friend,’ Alan said, aiming a mock punch at James’s shoulder. ‘And I try not to forget that you are a Mackintosh, Jamie.’ Then, when a most mischievous and alluring smile lifted the corners of his mouth, he winked at her. ‘But I am but one among many and must have a care.’

A wave of heat passed through her then, teasing and tickling its way through every bone and muscle in her. She did not know why he affected her so, but it could not go on. With his gaze on her and James and Clara glancing her way, they were waiting for her to speak. A question—she should ask a question. With no understanding of his place here and worried over revealing too much of her own, she must tread carefully.

‘Do you visit Glenlui often, then?’

‘I do,’ he said.

‘He does,’ James and Clara said together.

‘That much, then?’ she offered, catching the humour in their tones.

‘Since the truce has held between our clans, I split my time between here and Achnacarry, my uncle’s seat.’

Gilbert Cameron was his uncle. Luck was on her side for now because she’d met or seen so few of The Cameron’s men when he’d visited Sween Castle. And this one had not been one of those few. Alan did not react as though she was familiar to him, so she let out her breath and she nodded politely ‘So are you from Cluny?’ he asked.

For a fleeting moment, she thought on the story of her background they’d created and shook her head. With a shrug and then a nod, she sought to clarify it to him.

‘Originally, aye, my mother’s family lived in near Cluny. But my husband...’ She paused and took a slow breath. ‘My husband was kin to the MacNeills.’

‘MacNeills are allies of the Mackintoshes,’ he said, looking around the hall then. ‘I am certainly outnumbered here.’ His laugh made her insides melt a little. Deep and full, it resonated through her. ‘That was unseemly, Mistress. My condolences on your husband’s passing.’

She did not speak, but nodded at his kindness in spite of the false need for it. Clara’s knowing gaze flashed a warning to her. Had she sensed the growing weakness in Sorcha at keeping up the pretence? She’d been introduced to so many people, both tonight in the hall during this gathering as well as in the village over the last weeks. And each one asked after her husband and her grief, expressing what felt like true concern and sympathy.

From what Clara had told her, all of them had dealt with death and loss over the last decades as war waged between their clan and the Camerons. Only the strength of will of their present chieftain and the powerful love of his Cameron wife brought it to an end with their marriage and a lasting truce. Which made it possible for this Cameron to be standing here in their midst without fear.

‘I thank you for your kind words,’ she said. Now it was James’s turn to bat at his friend and laugh.

‘Alan is many things, but kind is not usually his manner,’ James jested.

She expected Alan to reply to his friend’s jest, but another man approached just then and interrupted.

‘Brodie wants to speak with you.’

This man was tall and very attractive. Were none of the Mackintosh men here plain of face? Though his tone of voice was mild, there was an undercurrent in his words and something more in the expression on his face. Sorcha had seen this man several times, in the village and here in the keep, but had not been introduced to him.

‘Rob, have you met Clara’s cousin yet?’ Alan asked.

Rob. Rob Mackintosh. Commander of the Mackintosh warriors. A formidable fighter and most loyal man to his cousin Brodie. All those things Clara had mentioned now made sense on seeing the man. But not once had she spoken of his rugged attractiveness.

‘Eva told me of you,’ Rob said, nodding to her. ‘Saraid?’

‘Aye, Saraid MacPherson,’ she repeated. Each time she spoke the name it felt easier. ‘I met Lady Eva earlier,’ she said, making the connection between this husband and his wife whom she’d met before. As she watched, Rob glanced over towards the lady at the mention of her name, his gaze filled with an expression of such complete and utter love that it made Sorcha’s own heart pound.

‘Alan,’ Rob spoke his name and canted his head in the direction of his chieftain. ‘Now, I think.’ Walking off without another word, the man stopped and gathered a few others as he made his way to the front of the hall.

‘I will see you in the village?’ James said to his friend.

‘Aye. In the morn if Brodie has no use for me,’ Alan answered. Turning to face her, he smiled again. ‘I hope to see you again, Mistress MacPherson.’

She said nothing, could say nothing to those words, but she did smile and nod. Then he walked in that same predatory gait away from her. Sorcha could not move her gaze from him and part of her hoped he would turn back once more.

Clara spoke to her and yet the words mattered not. James’s voice entered the conversation with his wife and still Sorcha heard nothing and saw only Alan as he moved in purposeful strides away from her. Then as he reached the steps and climbed up them, he stopped and did turn, meeting her stare with one of his own. A smile followed and Sorcha could not stop herself from returning it.

With a word from Brodie, he was gone, off to some chamber behind the table with the others and she was left with what must be a silly smile on her face. She faced Clara then, finding her cousin and her husband gawping at her, open-mouthed and slack-jawed in astonishment.

‘I thought you said she was going to a convent on Skye,’ James whispered loud enough for them both to hear.

Clara grasped her arm and pulled her close. ‘I think we need to talk, Sor... Saraid.’ As they took a few steps towards the doorway, Clara whispered again, ‘About that convent.’

James burst out in laughter as they walked away, not even trying to be subtle about it. The Mackintosh’s hall was a rather boisterous place so it did not seem awkward. Clara glanced over her shoulder, gifting her husband with a threatening look that quelled him a bit.

Sorcha could not explain her reaction to Alan Cameron. Of all the men here, he was the most dangerous to her. God forbid his uncle come here and recognise her. God forbid she slip up and err in front of him. What had James said about him? Ah, aye, he liked to find things. He found and sorted clues to find missing things and people.

He’d found Lady Arabella when she’d been kidnapped by Brodie. He’d tracked another of their kin when outlaws had attacked the village and taken her. He found people...

All the enjoyment she’d felt during the last few hours soured as she realised he was the worst possible man or person at that for her to spend too much time around. Her inexperience with men while under her father’s protection left her with little knowledge of how to protect herself from him. She would need to rely on Clara for guidance in this. When she let out a sigh, Clara held on to her tighter and walked faster away from the keep and back to the village.

Sorcha understood the danger of him. Of his appeal. Of his smile. Of the way he met her gaze and stared back. But, for tonight, she would allow herself the weakness of savouring those few special moments in which he’d been with her. The cold light of day and the reality of her situation would be forced on her soon enough.

Worse, in the dark of that night, Sorcha dreamed of the one man she could never claim as hers.

Chapter Four

Alan followed Brodie and the others closest to him in loyalty and kinship out through a doorway to a chamber off the kitchens where they would have a measure of privacy. Though he did not ken the subject to be discussed, Alan suspected that word of his uncle’s actions had gotten back to Brodie through a means other than himself.

And Brodie would ask for his opinion on the matter.

He exhaled as he considered what his words might be and what they must be. No matter how much he liked and admired Brodie or disliked his uncle, he was first a Cameron. Entering the surprisingly large chamber, he walked across and stood, back against the wall, waiting for Brodie to begin.

Rob, as always, stood at his side. A few of the elders were here as well. Alan recognised Grigor, the man Brodie thought would lead the clan after the in-fighting that nearly destroyed them. Magnus, a warrior married to Rob’s sister, now served on the council of elders. He smiled then, remembering Magnus’s reaction to being called an ‘elder’—no one did that after the first time. Fergus, Brodie’s steward here at Drumlui Keep, was the last man to enter and one he had not expected to be present. He closed the door and stood in front of it, waiting on his lord’s words.

‘I have received word that Gilbert met with Hugh MacMillan near Ballachulish recently,’ Brodie began. The chieftain’s dark gaze did not leave Alan’s face as he spoke. ‘They met for the purpose of a betrothal.’

Though the others were surprised by this news, Alan did not, by word or look, feign ignorance of the event. He owed Brodie his honesty even if he could not disclose what he knew of the matter.

‘Who was to marry whom?’ Rob asked. Since both The Cameron and The MacMillan were widowed, either could have been seeking a bride. Alan almost smiled at the astute question from Brodie’s friend.

‘Apparently The Cameron went seeking a bride,’ Brodie answered.

‘Who is he to marry?’ Grigor asked, crossing his arms over his massive chest. ‘How many daughters does The MacMillan have?’

Though older than any of them, the man seemed to grow in robustness as he added years to his age. Having taken Arabella’s aunt to wife recently, he was both strong and content and Brodie always counted on him for his support and knowledge. Alan waited to see exactly how much Brodie knew about The MacMillan’s only daughter.

‘He had one,’ Brodie said, again staring at Alan as he spoke. Alan gave a slight nod, confirming his knowledge.

‘Had?’ Rob asked. ‘What the bloody hell happened to her?’

Alan wanted to laugh at the way Rob managed to curse in almost every sentence he uttered, but this was not the time for levity. The lass’s demise bothered him still. Brodie watched him, waiting, so Alan stepped away from the wall and crossed to stand before the chieftain.

‘The MacMillan’s only daughter apparently fell into the rain-swollen river in the middle of the night and drowned.’ Silence lay heavy over those present for a few moments and Alan added nothing more.

‘Better a quick death in the river than a slow one married to Gilbert.’

Alan whirled around to see who had spoken those words, both shocked and intrigued that someone else had come to the same realisation that he had. But, of course, he had never said it aloud. Magnus met his stare and nodded.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Alan?’ Brodie asked, drawing Alan’s attention back. Not ‘want to tell us’. Brodie understood his predicament, for he was a man caught between honour and loyalty.

‘Nay, my lord,’ he said, bowing then to the powerful man.

‘Then I pray you to seek out your cousin and escort her to our chambers.’

Without another word, Alan accepted the dismissal and walked to the door. Fergus stepped aside and opened it for him. It closed behind him and he’d taken only two paces when the uproar within the chamber erupted. Between the deep distrust that yet ran deep between their clans and that which they held for Gilbert, the shouting and arguing did not surprise him. Knowing Brodie, he would allow each man a say before coming to any conclusions. And before coming back to Alan.

He walked back to the hall and found Arabella deep in conversation with Rob’s wife and sister. When they all looked up at him at the very same moment with their gazes narrowed, a strange fear shot through him. Oh, he’d faced death and dismemberment in his life already, but the thought of being in the aim of these three women terrified him...as it would any sensible man who had even a bit of self-preservation in his blood.

‘Is the discussion finished then?’ Arabella asked first.

‘Nay, it continues without me.’

‘If it involves the Camerons, why are you not there?’ she asked, probing into uncomfortable matters as she always did—with a remarkable sense of what would be best left untouched. He did not question how she knew Brodie discussed the Camerons, for she had as many sources of knowledge and gossip as her husband did, possibly more.

‘The Mackintosh dismissed me.’

The three let out gasps as one and leaned back in their chairs, surprised by this news.

‘And you know not why?’ Eva asked.

Rob’s wife was no stranger to the machinations and manipulations of clan chiefs. Her own father had forced her into marriage with Brodie’s closest friend for his own benefit. For them, though, the marriage had turned out for the best.

‘I am not privy to Brodie’s reasons,’ he said. Not exactly the truth, but close enough for now. ‘Mayhap Arabella can discover it when he returns to their chambers?’ Alan held out his hand to his cousin. ‘Which is where he’s asked me to take you.’

The women looked one to the other before looking back at him. He continued to wait for Arabella to take his hand. Arabella took pity on him and rose from her chair then, accepting his arm and nodding to Eva and Margaret. From the expressions on those two faces, Alan understood that they expected that she would reveal the reason he was expelled from Brodie’s gathering and what was truly happening.

She remained silent as they walked through the hall, up the stairway that led to their chambers. But he knew that restraint would not last long once they reached the privacy promised in her room. Tempted to leave the door ajar, he waited for her to enter before standing before it.

‘Oh, do close the door, Alan. You know that will not stop me from having my say or asking my questions of you.’

He did as she ordered and watched as she crossed the room and poured wine into two waiting cups. She carried them to the small table in the corner and sat, arching a brow to give him another order without words. Alan sat and accepted one of the cups.

‘So, Brodie truly dismissed you? What were his words?’ she asked, taking a sip from her cup.

‘He simply bade me to bring you here.’

Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor between them. Arabella would think on this until she was ready to pounce. Or until her husband arrived.

‘You will not reveal to me the purpose of calling you all together?’

‘I will say it involves the Camerons and the Mackintoshes.’

Alan waited for the explosion of temper from his cousin, but none came. Instead, she pursed her lips and looked over his shoulder towards the door. He turned and saw Brodie standing there.

‘Come now, Bella,’ Brodie said, walking to where they sat. ‘Abusing your cousin will not loosen his lips. You should know that by now.’ Alan tried to stand, as he should in the presence of the chieftain, but Brodie’s hand on his shoulder kept him sitting. ‘He has been in this same situation before and he is now and always be loyal to his clan first.’

Somehow, when Brodie spoke those words, ones that echoed his own thoughts and vow, guilt washed over him. And he had no reason to feel that at all. He’d helped the Mackintoshes a dozen times over and would again if he could. He would not, however, betray his own clan or disobey a direct order from his own chieftain. He did stand then, pushing free of Brodie’s hand to look him in the eye.

‘Aye. I am loyal to the Camerons, Brodie.’ Anger built in his gut then and he wanted to rage. The strange thing was that he was not certain who his target should be.

‘Hold,’ Brodie said, putting his hand up between them. ‘I meant nothing more by my words. And I ken that your uncle’s actions will cause strife between us.’

‘My uncle’s actions?’ Arabella rose now and approached her husband. ‘What has he done now?’

‘Gilbert has been negotiating with Hugh MacMillan of Knap for his daughter’s hand in marriage.’ Brodie’s gaze never left his own.

‘Another marriage?’ Arabella gasped at this news. ‘How old is she?’ she whispered. The words lashed out at him and Alan could not help but flinch. How old?

They’d never spoken of Gilbert’s penchant for young women openly and it should have surprised Alan to hear it from her, but somehow it did not. Arabella missed little, whether here in Drumlui Keep and village or at the home of her childhood Achnacarry. She’d learned early in life that she would be the wife of a powerful man with many under her control and supervision and had learned the skills needed to live that life. Breaking from Brodie’s stare, Alan looked at his cousin.

‘It matters not for The MacMillan’s daughter drowned on her way to the betrothal.’

Arabella began to say something, but she pressed her lips together and swallowed. He could guess that her words would be close to those uttered by Magnus just a short time ago in a different chamber.

‘God rest her soul,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to her head, chest and shoulders in the gesture that usually accompanied such prayers. A few moments passed before she reached out to touch her husband’s arm. ‘There must be more to this if you are so concerned. Tell me the rest of it, Brodie.’

‘I suspect there is more to this than a simple betrothal, Bella,’ Brodie said. ‘There have been whispers for months about dissatisfaction with the treaty between our clans. But nothing more. Nothing substantial. Nothing I can prove.’

‘Alan, do you know of this?’ she asked him next.

‘In all candour, Arabella,’ he said, glancing first at Brodie, then back to her, ‘I know nothing of plans to undermine or weaken the treaty.’ He took a breath in and let it out. ‘As to the other, I know only what Brodie told you.’ He looked at Brodie once more. ‘In either of these, though, my uncle does not keep my counsel or invite me to share in his, Brodie.’

‘I wanted to tell you that you have a place here, Alan,’ The Mackintosh said. ‘No matter what actions your uncle carries out or treachery afoot, you are one Cameron that will always be welcomed here and in the Chattan Confederation.’

Tears had begun trickling down Arabella’s cheeks at her husband’s words. A sick feeling flooded him for, by those words, Brodie had confirmed one thing and, at the same time, hinted at so much more.

‘What do you know? What treachery do you speak of?’

‘Brodie. Alan. Can we three not speak plainly here together? We have given ourselves into this treaty and have seen too many die before it was in place to want it weakened. We are more than allies here,’ she pleaded. Her eyes bright with tears, she touched both his and Brodie’s hands. ‘We are kin. We are family. We are friends who have protected each other and even saved each other’s lives when we needed saving.’

Her soft words crushed his pride and the tension in Brodie eased as well. He stepped back and nodded at his wife.

‘You are right in this, my love.’

Brodie walked to the pitcher and brought it to the table with another cup. Pouring a generous amount in each of the three there now, he drank deeply and Alan wondered if the news Brodie would share was so bad he needed the fortification of strong wine.

‘First, word came to me that The Cameron has sent and received many messages to Alastair MacDonald of Lochaber in recent months.’

Feeling somehow responsible to defend Cameron honour, Alan was tempted to offer some sort of explanation. Instead he waited to learn more about Brodie’s suspicions and whether they were groundless. Alastair MacDonald had been behind attacks on Mackintosh holdings, and villagers, a few years back. He’d deflected his guilt on to the Camerons until Alan had discovered the truth of it. Would his uncle truly be contemplating some sort of alliance with the MacDonalds of Lochaber now?

‘More recently I received reports about this betrothal with The MacMillan’s daughter. His claim on Castle Sween is tenuous at best now that his wife is dead. But if his daughter married the Cameron chieftain, he might be amenable to defending her father’s claim.’

‘How is that trouble for the Mackintoshes or the treaty? The MacMillans are long-time allies to the Chattan Confederation. Would that not bind the Camerons more closely to your side?’ he asked Brodie.

Brodie’s smile then was stark and devoid of mirth. Alan tried to think of all the ramifications of the match that had almost happened. There were so many bonds and feuds between this clan and that one all over Scotland that he found it impossible to see all the strands in the spider web of connections. Clearly, Brodie had been thinking about this for some time.

‘Hugh MacMillan is an upstart who claimed Castle Sween from the MacNeills. He would change allegiances if it benefitted him.’ Brodie crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I will be watching to see their next moves.’

‘If I learn anything that I can tell you, I will,’ Alan said. ‘You ken that I will, do you not?’

He would. He could not let this honourable man face destruction or mayhem without warning, if he knew about it. There were ways to walk that narrow path between friendship and betrayal and Alan had been learning that well these last years since he first met Brodie Mackintosh.

Alan drank down the last of his wine, realising how late it was, and bade them both farewell. As he reached the door, he needed to ask something of Brodie.

‘’Tis clear that your spies are effective, my Lord Mackintosh,’ he began, bowing his head in a mock salute. ‘I would ask the same of you. That you inform me of anything you believe I should know.’

Arabella smiled then, for the first time since their earlier discussion at supper about the attractive widow Saraid MacPherson. She wanted peace between all of them, all her kith and kin, and trouble and discord tore at her heart.

‘And you as well, my Lady Mackintosh,’ Alan said, nodding at his cousin. He rarely used a title when addressing her. ‘I ken that some of your sp...inform...sources ken as much as your husband’s and would appreciate being told what you discover.’

Thinking that was the end of their discussion, he lifted the latch and pulled it open. As he tugged it to close behind him, Arabella called out to him. He slowed to hear her words.

‘My informants have told me that the widow Saraid MacPherson plans to enter a convent on Skye when she leaves here.’

The door was closed with some force so Alan knew there was no chance of saying anything back to her. Or asking her any questions. He walked away, listening to the laughter coming from inside the chamber—his cousin’s and Brodie’s, too. He thought about his experience with women and let out some words that would rival even Rob Mackintosh’s best, or rather worst, efforts.

He’d searched for his cousin and found her, but got captured, too.

He’d fallen in love with Agneis, but lost her to Gilbert.

He’d searched for, found and lost Fia Mackintosh, who then turned down his offer of marriage.

He’d searched for the MacMillan girl and found that she’d died.

Alan shook his head and let out an exasperated breath then as he realised that even showing interest in a woman seemed to move them out of his reach. As Saraid MacPherson would be when she left Glenlui and travelled on to Skye.

A nun.

A bl—

Alan stopped at the blasphemous words he almost thought and laughed at the irony of his situation instead.

The man known throughout the Highlands as the best tracker of all manner of things seemed to lose the women he wanted to find and find the ones he could only lose.

As he made his way to the chamber he used here, he could almost hear the Fates laughing at him.

Chapter Five

Sorcha followed the two older children out of the cottage, carrying Robbie on her hip in the way she’d watched her cousin do. The bairn was a happy one, content to gurgle and drool and smile most of the day. This morn, while the weather was clear and brisk, Clara announced it was a good day to walk to the baker’s and miller’s cottages and see to some other errands.

So, while Clara finished up inside, the four of them followed the path from Clara’s cottage back towards the road leading to the village’s centre and then the keep in the distance. Wee Jamie and Wee Clara chattered and called out to children along the way. Sorcha had met many of those who lived here over the last weeks.

With Clara’s introduction, no one thought she was anyone but the widowed MacPherson cousin. Even James had not been told the truth and, for that, Sorcha felt guilty for asking her cousin to keep it from him. But, until she left, she wanted no one else privy to her true identity. If they knew not her true name or what she’d done, they could not be punished or be held responsible. Clara assured her it would all work out, though Sorcha was not so certain. She’d almost reached the first place on her list when Clara caught up with her.

‘I finished sooner than I thought,’ her cousin said, holding out her hands for the bairn. ‘Was he fussing?’

‘Nay,’ she said. As it turned out, there was little demand in their household for the fine embroidery skills of which she could boast. Of all the tasks she’d tried to help Clara with, seeing to the babe was the most pleasant and one which she could claim she could do. Or at least until he was hungry.

That happened the moment he saw his mother. As though the sight of her reminded him that he had not eaten for several hours, Robbie scrunched up his little face and cried out his displeasure. Clara just smiled and shrugged since this happened several times each day.

‘If you will see to getting the flour from the miller and collect my loaves from the baker, I will take him home,’ Clara said. ‘And bring the other two along with you, if you would?’

Sorcha smiled and nodded, trying to exude confidence when she really wanted to beg Clara not to leave her alone in the village with the children. The bairn was easier in that he did not yet walk on his own. The others, well, they had a habit of scampering off so quickly she could hardly keep up with them.

That had been the latest in her series of discoveries of her lack of experience and knowledge on the simple matters of living. She’d been brought up in a cocoon, surrounded by servants instead of friends and kept apart by her father’s orders and mandates. In her early years, she’d run playing with some of the servants’ children, but her father stopped that.

And with just that moment’s inattention, Wee Jamie and Wee Clara ran off. Sorcha chased them towards the miller’s and caught up with them, taking the little lass’s hand in hers to keep her near. The miller handed her the sack of flour and she walked over to another path and down it, the smell of baking bread leading the way. No sooner had the man offered them each a piece from a fresh and hot loaf then the children both took off running. By the time she gathered up Clara’s bread and the flour and stepped outside, they were gone.

Turning this way and that, she listened for the sound of their laughter. Nothing. The area was silent but for the sound of winds flowing through the trees around her. Glancing in as many directions as she could, she could not see them. A noise caught her attention and she ran off in that direction, calling out their names. Another noise took her down another path and then another until she realised two things—she was well and truly lost and the children were nowhere to be found.

Her chest tightened with fear and worry and it became hard to breathe. The weight of the flour and the loaves made her arms shake and her legs felt wobbly and weak. She put the bundles down on the ground and shook out her arms to make them stop trembling as she tried to come up with a plan. The sound of a horse’s approach made her turn and run towards the road there. Mayhap whoever was coming could help her?

A dark horse trotted closer as she ran out into the road and threw up her hands. Its rider cursed and pulled up hard, bringing them to a stop before her and scaring whatever breath she still had right out of her.

‘What kind of fool...?’ he yelled first. ‘Saraid MacPherson?’ She sucked in a breath and met the angry gaze of Alan Cameron.

‘The children,’ she gasped.

He jumped from the horse, landing so close to her she could feel the heat of his body. Clutching her shoulders, he pulled her up and searched her face.

‘What children?’ he asked. Looking past her and into the distance, he shook his head.

‘Clara’s wee ones,’ she forced out, her lungs finally able to take in air. ‘I’ve lost them.’

A myriad of expressions moved quickly over his face, from surprise to confusion to disbelief. ‘How did you lose them?’

‘I was running errands for Clara,’ she said. She remembered the dropped bundles off the road and ran to retrieve them, calling back to him. ‘I turned my attention from them for but a moment and they ran.’ Grabbing up the sacks, she ran back to where he stood watching her. ‘I just pray that nothing has happened to them. I could never forgive myself...’ He took the items from her as though they weighed nothing and checked inside the sacks before shaking his head.

‘The miller’s is on the other side of the village. How did you get here?’ he asked.

‘I did not pay heed to where I was running. I only followed the sounds I thought were the children.’ Then, she whispered her most embarrassing admission. ‘And, as you can see, I am lost.’

He walked back to his horse and climbed up on the massive animal. Leaning over, he held out his hand to her.

‘Come. I will take you to Clara’s,’ he offered. ‘The children know their way and are probably there already.’

Sorcha looked up into his eyes and saw compassion and not pity or mocking. In the light of the sun, those eyes were a blend of blues and greens and greys and not the pale blue she’d thought. Much as some described the mixed colour of hers, too. Taking his hand, he guided her to step on his foot as he lifted her up and guided her behind him. He gave her a moment to settle and then touched his legs to the horse’s sides. Unused to riding this way, she grabbed at his plaid to keep from swaying too much and unbalancing both of them.

Still, this close, she was overwhelmed by him. His size. His nearness. His scent. Him.

‘You made only one bad turn,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If not for going in the wrong direction right there...’ he pointed off to his left ‘...you would have circled right back around.’ When she leaned over to look past him, she began to slide off the horse. ‘Hold tight now.’ Without thinking, she reached around his waist and held on.

Because of his size, her hands barely made it around him. And the action forced her to rest her face against his back. His muscles rippled under her cheek as he controlled the horse. His long hair, pulled back and tied with a strip of leather, tickled her nose as she rested there. When she realised what she was doing, she eased her grip on him, sliding her hands back to rest on his hips.

‘I am sorry to take you from your own tasks,’ she said.

‘Since my destination is yours, you are not.’

Sorcha remembered his offer of help last night to James. What was the nephew of the Cameron chieftain doing working with the Mackintosh’s village blacksmith?

‘Have you known James a long time?’ she asked, trying to understand his connections to this place and these people.

From his place at the chieftain’s table and the call for him to speak with those closest to Brodie—a call delivered by the man known for his loyalty to the laird—he was well known and well regarded here. Was he to the Lady Arabella as Padruig was to her mother? One of her kin who stayed on for years as a faithful friend?

‘Aye, for years.’

Uncertain if his curt reply was due to the riding or not, she held any other questions she would have asked back. But her curiosity got the better of her as they rode through the centre of the village and many called out greetings to him. Especially the women.

‘Are you a blacksmith then?’ she asked when they slowed and he would be able to hear her words. The question she truly wanted answered involved personal details she would ask of Clara and not dare to speak to the man directly.

‘Och, nay!’ He laughed and it made her blood heat. The deep tones of his voice echoed through her. Again. ‘I am a tracker.’

‘Tracker?’ Her blood, heated just a moment before, ran cold then at the reminder of his skills. ‘What do you seek?’ How could she have forgotten such a critical part of him? His answer chilled her even more.

* * *

‘Whoever or whatever is lost.’

They arrived at Clara’s cottage and, just as he’d predicted, Wee Jamie and Wee Clara were there waiting. Relief poured through her as they discovered the children were well and not lost.

‘Your bairns gave Mistress MacPherson quite a scare, Clara,’ he called out as he reached back to help her down. With a strong grip on her arm, she slid over the side of the horse and stood as Clara came out, carrying the youngest one. Sorcha noticed the loss of the warmth of his body as soon as her feet landed on the ground there. ‘I found her over near the stream on the other side of the village.’

‘I lost them and feared they would find harm,’ she said. ‘One moment we were all enjoying a bit of warm bread and then next, they were gone.’

Clara laughed as she approached Sorcha. Throwing her arm around her shoulders, her cousin pulled her close. Alan climbed from his horse then and stood watching.

‘They are fast ones,’ Clara agreed. The woman released her when her husband came around the side of the cottage from the building where he worked. ‘Jamie, the wee uns gave Saraid quite a scare.’

James smiled at her and nodded. ‘You are not the first one to find them gone.’ He walked over and extended his arm to Alan in greeting. ‘But I see the Cameron tracker found you right quick. He is skilled at finding things and people, too.’

A wave of warning unlike anything she’d ever felt passed through her at those words. Another reminder that she could not let this attraction to him go any further than it had since she doubted she could stop the physical reaction of her body to his strength and his heat. But she needed to be circumspect and not give someone like Alan Cameron a reason to look more closely at her. She swallowed the ever-present fear and nodded at James.

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