Chapter Two

A few days later

The foggy shroud suffocating Duncan’s mind and body slowly ebbed. He blinked until his eyelids loosened. Weak dawn light surrounded him, filtering in from the narrow slit in the wall above. His room. His gaze darted leftward. And an aching loneliness pierced him. An unreasonable loneliness. But why had he expected someone there?

He was alone. As always.

As expected.

Then why did a soft womanly presence—always hovering, always watching—tease his memory? Tease the senses in his body?

He shifted under the covers, the rough wool brushing his skin. His limbs felt heavy, stretched.

Holy Mother. How long had he lain abed like some weakling? This memory, though…’twas not some long-buried memory surfacing. Of that he was certain, for the one time he was truly laid up and still young and weak enough to wish for a mother’s healing touch, his own had never been there.

He must still be fevered.

The lonely ache persisted. Dug inside until it uncovered a deep, long-buried need. A need rarely admitted—when he allowed himself to become too still. A need, for a sliver of a moment, to have someone care enough to watch over him.

He growled—low, deep, frustrated—and shoved that need, that weakness, back into the farthest reaches of his soul.

Enough. He was a valued and trusted warrior for his chieftain. Such thoughts were unwelcome.

Such thoughts were folly.

More memories surfaced, and he bolted upright, his breath sawing in and out from just that puny effort, because that “womanly presence” that he inexplicably ached for and missed had a shape. Had a name.

Fiona.

But she couldn’t be at Dungarbh. Could she?

Another realization hit him. He looked down.

He had a rising bod.

Groaning, he flopped back onto the hard mattress and eased a hand under the rough blankets. “O mo chreach sa thàinig,” he muttered.

Only one woman stole his control to such a degree. Fiona.

The next day

Duncan gritted his teeth and eased onto the oak bench at the great hall’s long table. At last, he was joining the others for a meal, and he’d be damned if he revealed his lingering weakness.

He must regain his strength. Fast.

He heaped his plate full of collops and other favorites and dug in. The strong and varied tastes burst on his tongue and slid into a belly used to only oatmeal gruel during his illness. His stomach contracted. And growled. Criosd, he had a powerful hunger. He heaped his plate higher.

Once he was done eating, he’d see if any were game for sparring. He peered down the length of the semi-crowded hall. Other warriors were arriving as well, partaking of the main meal. A harpist set up in the corner, strummed a testing note, and began a low, haunting lament. Beyond, wide open doors framed a gray drizzle, bringing in the scent of damp earth and stone. Well, he’d battled in worse weather. It’d have to do.

“Great it is to have ye back amongst the living, Duncan.” Lochloinn’s meaty hand met Duncan’s back between his shoulder blades with a dull thud, jarring him. Lochloinn settled beside him, blocking his view of the outside. Duncan dipped his chin in greeting and stopped—the man joked not.

Duncan set down his eating knife. “I’m well,” he countered, his words clipped. He pulled his lips into a smile, though—Lochloinn was usually eager for a sparring match, whatever the weather.

“So ye say, but ye gave us all a scare, I tell ye.”

Duncan waved him off and surveyed the great hall filled with laughter, jostling, and bouts of singing. A surge of pride filled him, lifting his shoulders—the members of his adopted clan were safe and seemingly content. He watched more closely, searching for what felt different. A…feeling permeated the air, unlike in times past. Lighter. The absence of their erratic former chieftain, he suspected.

Doubt of his memories, his senses, filled him. “He’s dead, the old chieftain?” he murmured to Lochloinn.

“Aye. Ye don’t remember? You’re the one who was telling Iain at the Battle of Killiecrankie.”

He fingered his eating knife. “It’s all…vague.”

“Aye. Died a warrior’s death, he did, and Iain elected to replace him several days past. Ye missed the ceremony. Of a certainty, he’d have rather you have handed him his father’s sword at the ceremony than Gavin.”

Damn. He would’ve liked that honor too. This clan—’twas the only place he’d ever felt welcome. At home. When his fosterage with them had ended, he’d returned to his family. One year with their cold formality, however, had been enough to remind him what he hadn’t been missing. Afterward, he’d pledged himself to Iain’s clan and changed his name to MacCowan.

A delicate laugh twined through the noise in the hall. It didn’t eclipse the noise or pierce through it, but somehow threaded its way to his ears and settled in as if by some kind of magic. Duncan’s head arced upward of its own accord, as if pulled by the laughter’s magic, bringing his gaze unerringly to its source. His chest tightened.

Fiona.

Mo Chreach. She was beautiful. And she was here. Which meant the flashes of memory from the night of the battle were not an illusion. He frowned. More memories teased him, just out of reach.

She sat beside her sister, and though the two couldn’t be any more different, ’twas obvious in their features they shared similar blood. Where Traci was tall and substantial, her red hair unmistakable, Fiona was a wee thing, blonde and delicate.

However, Fiona’s spirit was anything but delicate. Inside her beat a warrior’s heart. He could feel it. ’Twas that very contrast with her outer delicacy that drew him that night.

Lochloinn’s elbow nudged his midsection. “She never left your side, I heard.”

Duncan frowned. “I woke up alone.”

The bugger laughed, the raucous tones drawing smiles from those nearby. “And ye sound right upset about it too. Aye, she was there. Iain insisted one of the kitchen maids be with her, but she was by your side all the same.”

The tension in Duncan’s chest eased as an emotion he’d rather not examine flooded him. The teasing memories flickered and finally surfaced. So she had been there by his side.

Criosd, why did he care?

Lochloinn might assign meaning to the event. But Duncan knew otherwise. Whenever he closed his eyes, her look of dismay that night at the inn plagued him.

The contentment borne of being with the clan members soured. He’d rather eat in peace, but Lochloinn’s usual inane chatter filled his ears. Duncan tuned him out. He sought to do likewise with Fiona, but the woman was in his damn line of sight. Whenever he sipped his wine, there she was, laughing one moment, another with her head bent, listening to her sister.

Muffled shouts of greeting and heavy steps at the door made Duncan lift his head. “What now?” he muttered.

“Aren’t we ill-humored.” Lochloinn went back to eating. “Ye act as if there’s been naught but disturbances the whole meal.”

Duncan just looked at him.

Lochloinn quickly swallowed a bite and grinned. “Och, I see.” He lifted his goblet, pointing it toward Duncan. “Am I disturbing ye?” He took a hearty sip, his eyes merry.

Duncan just tipped his head toward the door in query.

“ ’Tis the MacLeods of Skye.” Lochloinn set down his goblet. “Word arrived just before ye came down that they were at our gates. Permission was granted to ferry across. That’s them finally arriving, I suspect.”

The MacLeods. Here?

Lochloinn leaned closer. “Worry not,” he said, his voice low, “I wasn’t seeing her in the party.”

Her? Duncan stared at the man until comprehension dawned. Margery. Iain’s sister. The one all assumed his heart still wept for. As if pulled by some cord, Duncan found Fiona’s bright face. She glanced over, their gazes collided, and a strange warmth swelled in his chest. Though it flashed to an icy emptiness when memory and reality caught up. So this was how it would be from hence forth? His body and soul reacting to her as if they shared an intimate connection, only to be slapped hard by reality? He could only hope it would even out in time, for to believe anything could be between them was folly.

She smiled, the edges tentative and shy, and gave a funny little wave.

None of this escaped Lochloinn’s notice. He nudged him again. If the man wasn’t careful, he’d lose that elbow. “Just as well Margery’s not in the group. You’ve moved on, I think.”

Duncan speared him with a hard stare until the man snapped his mouth shut. Only then did Duncan say, “You’re mistaken.”

A hush blanketed the hall, taking their attention, as the MacLeod contingent worked their way up the center, some calling out greetings to clan members with whom they were acquainted.

About one thing Lochloinn was correct—’twas good Margery wasn’t among the party. He didn’t need two reminders of his foolhardiness.

By now Iain was standing at the head table, with Traci by his side, excitement and nerves animating her features. Confidence marked Iain’s stance, more than Duncan ever remembered noting, and it made his heart proud. Iain had doubted his worth to the clan, but Duncan never held those doubts. Iain was exactly where he needed to be, leading this clan.

Iain caught Duncan’s eye and gave a subtle signal. Join me.

Duncan nodded, rose, and strode through the crowded space as the lesser members of the MacLeod party sought hospitality at the tables. Duncan settled in a chair near Iain, with Gavin betwixt them. The main emissary finished his introductions.

“Torquil.” Duncan dipped his chin at the man. He looked much the same, hair dark red, his widow’s peak made more prominent by the tight queue at the nape of his neck. The last two years had been easy on him. Perhaps too easy, for he seemed thicker around the middle.

Odd—Duncan felt nothing as he beheld the man responsible for the scar Fiona found so abhorrent. The man who’d married Margery. For the good of the clan.

Well, that was an improvement now, wasn’t it?

Torquil held his gaze for a moment, eyes hard and assessing, and nodded. He shifted his attention to Iain. “The MacLeod sent me on his behalf. He wishes to formally congratulate you on your new position as chieftain of the MacCowans and to seek assurance that our alliance from my marriage still holds.”

To be here already, they had to have left immediately upon hearing word.

Iain grinned and lifted his goblet. Some would mistake that grin for weakness, but they’d be unwise to do so. “Welcome to Dungarbh.” He waved a hand to the empty chairs opposite. “Please sit. Make yourself comfortable. The hospitality of our clan is yours to enjoy for however long you remain. You may relay back to your chief as well that I still value our alliance.” He turned to the side. “May I present my lady wife, Traci?”

Once everyone settled, talk shifted to the topic uppermost at any Scottish holding, both Lowland and Highland: the revolt against the usurper King William of Orange. Duncan soaked it in. For too long, he’d been without news.

“Have you word of Dundee?” Iain asked Torquil.

“We do. Dundee won a strategic victory at Perth, seizing it before MacKay and rebuffing him. The Williamites are well and truly scared now. Are ye still with Dundee? ’Tis our visit’s other purpose. Your clan withdrew after the Battle of Killiecrankie, and the MacLeod is curious to learn if you’ll remain neutral like him.”

Iain set down his wine goblet, placing it with precision next to his plate. “We had losses and wounded to attend to after that battle, including that of our chieftain.”

Duncan glanced sharply at Iain. The cub was learning. While he was all affability, that smile still in place, it didn’t escape Duncan’s notice that he didn’t quite answer Torquil.

Torquil nodded, his eyes grave. “Sorry we were to hear about the loss of your uncle. A great warrior, he was.”

Iain skillfully diverted the talk to reminiscences of his uncle’s exploits and those of his father.

And because Duncan was a fool thrice over, his gaze strayed to Fiona’s spot along the table, on Traci’s far side. From this angle, he could only glimpse her pale, delicate hand reaching for her wine goblet.

Only her voice’s low tones reached his ear as she conversed privately with her sister. He leaned toward her. And halted.

Criosd, he was more interested in what they were discussing than the talk of cattle raids around him.

Clearly he’d been laid up like a swaddled babe for too long.

One of the MacLeod warriors dragged his chair down the table until he was directly opposite Fiona. He shoved aside several empty plates and leaned across the cleared space, speaking in an undertone.

Duncan couldn’t see Fiona to gauge her reaction, but her low laugh tugged at the lonely part within, which he’d only recently discovered existed. Duncan clenched his jaw, for ’twas not a welcome discovery.

He turned his attention to Torquil, who was now telling Iain the state of affairs between the various island clans. Fractious as always. The power dynamics had never been the same since the elimination of the Lord of the Isles. Duncan would not be distracted by another woman. But then he snorted in disgust with himself—he’d just adjusted his chair so it appeared as if he was concentrating on the arrivals, but which gave him a clear view down the table.

He shifted uncomfortably. He was only keeping an eye on her because she was Traci’s sister. Nothing more. Iain and Traci were occupied entertaining their guests. His watchful vigilance was natural for any in the immediate family. So naturally, he did so for her as well.

“Excuse me.”

A moment passed before Duncan realized the words were addressed to him. Across the table, one of the MacLeods regarded him expectantly.

“Aye?”

“May we talk in private?” the man asked, voice lowered. He stood tall and proud, but his lanky body, soft features, and guileless eyes marked him as a warrior only lately made.

“Who are you?” Suspicion laced his words.

“Alexander is my name.”

Duncan stood, his sore, weakened muscles protesting, and motioned to the far end of the head table. Once there, he crossed his arms and leaned against the stone wall, the movement stirring the banners on either side of him. His chosen position served two purposes—Alexander would not be able to lean against the banners without causing disrespect, and it gave him a direct line of sight to Fiona and the MacLeod warrior. Who was definitely flirting.

Alexander stepped to his side. “More private than this.”

Duncan tore his gaze from Fiona and directed the full force of his glare on the man. “What is this about?” Frustration clipped his words. “I have no business with you or your clan.”

Alexander eyed the crowd and leaned in, careful not to touch the banner or him. “I have a message from Margery. For your ears alone.” He moved until he stood in front of Duncan.

Resentment so strong it nearly buckled his knees washed through him, clearing away his frustration.

That meddlesome woman. What could she possibly have to say? After two years? Had she not done enough damage?

Over Alexander’s shoulder, Duncan saw her husband, Torquil, still conversing with Iain. Duncan craned his neck until Fiona came into view.

While he had no desire to relinquish his vigilance, he sure as hell had no desire to allow this woman’s message to be overheard.

Curse the woman.

After two years, still meddling with his life. And at a distance, no less.

He nodded gruffly at Alexander. “Follow me.” He pushed away from the wall, and if he clipped the young warrior as he passed, what of it?