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

He knelt down and brushed aside the hair from her face and realized she was unconscious. There was a bruise on one cheek, but otherwise she didn’t look injured.

“Where is she hurt?” he asked Crispen.

Tears filled Crispen’s eyes, and he wiped hastily at them with the back of his grubby hand.

“Her stomach. And her back. It hurts her fierce if anyone touches her.”

Carefully, so as no to alarm the boy, Alaric pulled at her clothing. When her abdomen and back came into view, he sucked in his breath. Around him, his men alternately cursed and murmured their pity for the slight lass.

“God in heaven, what happened to her?” Alaric asked.

Her entire rib cage was purple, and ugly bruises marred her smooth back. He could swear one of them was in the shape of a man’s boot.

“He beat her,” Crispen choked out. “Take us home, Uncle Alaric. I want my papa.”

Not wanting the boy to lose his composure in front of the other men, Alaric nodded and patted him on the arm. There would be plenty of time to get the story from Crispen later. Ewan would want to hear it all.

He stared down at the unconscious woman and frowned. She had offered her body for Crispen’s, and yet she wore the colors of Duncan Cameron. Ewan would be beyond control if Cameron had any involvement in Crispen’s disappearance.

War. At long last, war would be declared.

He motioned for Cormac to tend to the lass, and he reached for Crispen, intending that the boy ride with him. There were several questions he wanted answered on the ride home.

Crispen shook his head adamantly. “Nay, you take her, Uncle Alaric. She has to ride with you. I promised her that Papa would keep her safe, but he’s not here so you have to do it. You have to.”

Alaric sighed. There was no reasoning with the boy, and right now he was so glad he was alive, he’d cede to his ridiculous demands. Later he’d bend the brat’s ear about not questioning authority.

“I want to ride with you, too,” Crispen said, his gaze nervously going to the woman.

He inched closer to her as if he couldn’t stand the idea of being separated from her.

Alaric looked skyward. Ewan hadn’t taken a firm enough hand with the boy. That was all there was to it.

And so Alaric found himself astride his horse with the woman draped across the saddle in front of him, her body shielded in the crook of one arm, while Crispen sat on his other leg, his head nestled against her bosom.

He glared at his men, daring even one of them to laugh. Hell, he had to relinquish his sword for the duty of carrying the two extra persons, never mind their weight didn’t equal that of a single warrior.

Ewan just better be damn grateful. He could decide what was to be done with the woman just as soon as Alaric dumped her into Ewan’s lap.

CHAPTER 3

As soon as they crossed over the border onto McCabe land, a shout went up that echoed through the hills, and in the distance, Mairin heard the cry taken up and relayed. Soon, the laird would know of his son’s return.

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

“If you keep gathering those reins, lass, you and the horse are going to end up back where you came from.”

She glanced guiltily up at Alaric McCabe, who rode to her right. His admonishment had come out as a tease, but God’s truth, the man scared her. He looked savage with his unkempt, long dark hair and the braids dangling on each side of his temples.

When she’d awakened in his arms, she’d nearly tossed them both out of the saddle in her haste to escape. He’d been forced to pry both her and Crispen from their perch against him, and he’d put them both on the ground until the entire thing could be sorted out.

He hadn’t been pleased by her stubbornness, but she had Crispen solidly on her side, and having extracted a promise from Crispen to tell no one her name, they’d both stood mute when Alaric demanded answers.

Oh, he’d blustered and waved his arms. Even threatened to choke the both of them, and in the end he’d muttered blasphemies against women and children before resuming their journey to bring Crispen home.

Alaric had then insisted she ride with him at least another day, because he said, in no uncertain terms, the likelihood of her sitting a horse by herself in her condition was nil, and it was a sin to abuse a good horse with an inept mount.

The journey that would normally last two days took them three, thanks to Alaric’s consideration of her condition and their stopping frequently to rest. She knew Alaric was considerate because he told her. Numerous times.

After the first day, she was determined to ride without Alaric’s assistance, if for no other reason than to wipe the smugness from his expression. He obviously had no patience for women, and, she suspected, with the exception of his nephew, whom he obviously loved, he had even less patience with children.

Still, given the fact that he knew nothing about her, only that Crispen championed her, he had treated her well, and his men had been politely respectful.

Now that they neared Laird McCabe’s stronghold, fear fluttered in her throat. She would no longer be able to keep silent. The laird would demand answers, and she would be obligated to give them.

She leaned down to whisper close to Crispen’s ear. “Do you remember your promise to me, Crispen?”

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

She nodded, feeling guilty for asking such a thing from the boy, but if she could pretend to be of no importance, just someone who happened upon Crispen and saw him safely back to his father, perhaps he would be grateful enough to provide a horse and maybe some food, and she could be on her way.

“Not even your father,ȝ she pressed.

Crispen nodded solemnly. “I’ll only tell him you saved me.”

She squeezed his arm with her free hand. “Thank you. I could ask for no better champion.”

He turned his head back to grin broadly at her, his back puffing with pride.

“What are the two of you whispering about?” Alaric demanded irritably.

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

“If I wanted you to know, I’d have spoken louder,” she said calmly.

He turned away muttering what she was sure were more blasphemies about annoying females.

“You must make the priest weary with the length of your confessions,” she said.

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

She shook her head. The arrogant man probably thought his path to heaven was already assured, and that he acted in accordance to God’s will just by breathing.

“Look, there it is!” Crispen shouted as he pointed eagerly ahead.

They topped the hill and looked down at the stone keep nestled into the side of the next hill.

The skirt was crumbled in several places, and there was a detail of men working steadily, replacing the stones at the wall. What she could see of the keep above the outer walls looked blackened by an old fire.

The loch spread out to the right of the keep, the water glistening in the sunlight. One of the fingers meandered around the front of the keep, providing a natural barrier to the front gate. The bridge across it, however, sagged precariously in the middle. A temporary, narrow path over the water had been fashioned to the side, and it would only allow one horse at a time into the keep.

Despite the obvious state of disrepair to the keep, the land was beautiful. Scattered across the valley to the left of the keep, sheep grazed, herded by an older man flanked by two dogs. Occasionally one of the dogs raced out to herd the sheep back into the imaginary boundary, and then he’d return to his master to receive an approving pat on the head.

She turned to Alaric, who’d pulled to a stop beside her. “What happened here?”

But he didn’t answer. A deep scowl creased his face, and his eyes went nearly black. She gripped the reins a little tighter and shivered under the intensity of his hatred. Aye, hatred. There could be no other term for what she saw in his eyes.

Alaric spurred his horse, and hers followed automatically, leaving her to grab onto Crispen to make sure neither of them fell.

Down the hill they rode, Alaric’s men flanking her protectively on all sides. Crispen fidgeted so hard in the saddle that she had to grip hisarm so he wouldn’t jump out of his skin.

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

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

She nodded her understanding. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be the first into the keep anyway. In some ways, this was more frightening to her than arriving at Duncan Cameron’s keep because she didn’t know her fate here. She certainly knew what Cameron had in mind for her.

They rode over the bridge and through the wide, arched entryway into the courtyard. A great shout went up, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Alaric who’d made the sound. She looked over to see him still astride his horse, his fist held high in the air.

All around her, soldiers—and there were hundreds—thrust their swords skyward and took up the cry, raising and lowering their blades in celebration.

A man entered the courtyard at a dead run, his hair flying behind him as his stride ate up the ground below him.

“Papa!” Crispen cried, and scrambled out of the saddle before she could prevent him.

He hit the ground running, and Mairin stared in fascination at the man she assumed was Crispen’s father. Her stomach knotted, and she swallowed, trying not to allow herself to panic all over again.

The man was huge, and just as mean looking as Alaric, and she didn’t know how she could think it, when there was so much joy on his face as he swung Crispen into his arms, but he frightened her in a way that Alaric did not.

The brothers were very similar in build and stature. Both had dark hair that fell below their shoulders, and both wore braids. As she looked around, though, it became apparent that all his men wore their hair the same way. Long, wild, and savage looking.

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

Crispen clung to the laird with his small arms, reminding Mairin of a burr stubbornly clinging to her skirts.

Over Crispen’s head, his gaze met Mairin’s, and his eyes immediately hardened. He took in every detail about her, she was sure, and she twisted uncomfortably, feeling horribly picked apart under his scrutiny.

She started to get down from her horse because she felt a little silly when everyone around her was dismounting, but Alaric was there, his hands reaching up to effortlessly pluck her from the horse and set her down on the ground.

“Easy, lass,” he cautioned. “You’re healing well, but you need to take care.”

He sounded almost concerned, but when she looked up at him, he wore the same scowl he always wore when he looked at her. Irritated, she scowled right back. He blinked in surprise, then pushed her toward the waiting laird.

Ewan McCabe looked a lot more threatening now that Crispen was out of his arms and back on the ground. She found herself backing up a step only to collide with the mountain that was Alaric.

Ewan looked first at Alaric, bypassing her as if she were invisible, which was just fine with her.

“You have my thanks for bringing my son home. I had every confidence in you and Caelen.”

Alaric cleared his throat and nudged Mairin forward.

“You have the lass to thank for Crispen’s return. I merely provided the escort.”

Ewan’s eyes narrowed as he studied her further. To her astonishment, his eyes weren’t the dark, fierce orbs she’d thought, but rather they were an odd pale green. When he scowled, though, his face darkened to a thundercloud, and who could possibly think his eyes were anything but a matching black?

Startled by this revelation—and if she were avoiding the inevitable confrontation with the laird, who could blame her?—she turned abruptly and stared up into Alaric’s eyes. He blinked then glared at her like he thought she was daft—and she was pretty sure he did think so.

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

Alaric’s scowl turned into a look of concern. “Are you sure you didn’t suffer a blow to the head you didn’t tell me about?”

“You will look at me,” Ewan roared.

She jumped and whirled around, taking an instinctive step back and landing once again against Alaric.

He muttered an expletive and hunched over, but she was too worried about Ewan to see what Alaric was cursing over.

Her courage had run out, and her determination not to feel pain, not to allow her spine to wither, promptly died a brutal death.

Her legs shook, her hands shook, and pain speared through her sides, making her gasp softly with each breath. Sweat beaded her forehead, but she wouldn’t allow herself to back down any further.

The laird was angry—at her—and for the life of her she couldn’t discern why. Shouldn’t he be grateful to her for saving his son? Not that she’d really done anything heroic, but he didn’t know that. For all he knew, she could have battled ten men on Crispen’s behalf.