Iain took the stairs two at a time, the recollection of Victoria during dinner driving him to close the distance between them. The smile she had given in response to one of Liam’s comments had captured his attention during the meal. She had incited his lust when she licked the wine from her lips.

He quickened his pace in response to her rushed steps along the corridor, then halted behind her where when she hesitated at the door. He reached past her, shoved open the door and urged her inside. She flinched with the scrape of the door as he closed it. A tide of primitive emotion swept through Iain, thick and hot. It mattered not if she was unable to decide between him and Hockley. She belonged to him.

“Do what you will, my lord,” she blurted. “I have had worse.”

The unexpected image of the beating she expected snapped Iain from the fury that had begun when he learned of her assignation with Edwin. Even desire evaporated as his mind raced with memories of promises to protect her, and the vow—privately made—to show her that she would never again suffer at another man’s hand, least of all his. Iain shook off an uneasy tug to his gut.

“I have no intention of beating you.” he said.

“You might as well. This is no better.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders as though to ward off a chill in the warm room. “You think yourself better than those men you hold in contempt for mistreating women?”

He stepped toward her, but she shook her head.

“What would you have me say?” he asked.

She blanched as if struck physically. “What did you say when I saw you with Madeline?”

The veracity of the question startled him, but it was the hurt in her eyes that roused a whisper of dread in his soul. “It is not the same.”

“Of course.” She gave a grim nod. “A man’s logic.”

“Nay.”

“But it is. You say I should trust you, that I need not fear you. Yet, with the first rumblings against me, you send me to the gallows a condemned criminal. Aye, you will not beat me—nay, not Iain

MacPherson—you are too civilized for that. But the condemnation is there in your voice, your eyes—” She halted, fighting tears that pooled in her eyes.

Iain grasped her shoulders.

Victoria shoved his arms away. “You think those rebukes hurt any less than the ones I received at Richard’s hand? You condemn me just as Jillian’s clan did her.” She swiped at the tears that slipped past her eyelids. “They were judge, jury, and hangman. How is this any different? Even Jillian was allowed to know who condemned her, but not I.”

“I did not think it of any consequence. You confessed to the meeting.”

“I confessed no such thing.”

Iain narrowed his eyes. “You did not deny meeting him.”

“Aye, we spoke. Surely your spy could tell you that—as well as the fact that he followed me there.” “’Twas not my spy,” Iain responded with heat. “Hockley followed you? By God.” Iain clenched his hands in an effort to keep from grabbing her. “What did he want?”

“He insisted I return home with him. Where I belong.”

Iain stopped cold at the realization that this moment was the first time she wondered if England, along with Edwin Hockley, might indeed be where she belonged.

Victoria stared. “You thought I planned to return with him—and less than a day after we wed? Who told you this lie? Who holds such power over you?”

The question stood between them as wide as any chasm, and Iain realized what the truth would do to her. But to refuse an answer meant sure death for their union. Fool, he cursed. Why hadn’t he seen it? The informer had gone out of her way to set him against his wife and, as Victoria pointed out, with little resistance on his part.

“’Twas Madeline,” he said.

Victoria stared in stunned silence. He stood, unable to move as the distance between them widened with every passing second. All those years he had arrogantly believed that the ghosts haunting his father couldn’t touch him. But they had. It was true. The sins of the father were visited upon the children. Odd, that this realization should bring understanding of his father’s obsession with his mother.

The face of every MacPherson sacrificed in a feud waged to wreak vengeance on God and mankind slammed Iain’s senses. And to think he believed himself above the chaos, thought to avoid his part in his father’s battle. Never would he forget the woman who rocked him when he cried, or sang him to sleep despite the tears she shed. Only a lad of twelve when his mother had died, he had been old enough to understand his father had killed her with his jealous and possessive nature.

The realization brought Iain to his knees before Victoria.

“Nay!” She stepped back, but Iain caught her, pulled her to him, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“My wife,” he whispered against her body.

Victoria stiffened, but he held her, until, at last, he felt a teardrop fall on his arm. He rose and led her to the bed. She stood motionless while he methodically untied the lace on her bodice. He slipped the dress from her shoulders, then pulled back the covers and laid her between the cool sheets. Stripping off his own clothes, Iain crawled in beside her, wrapped his arms around her, and did the only thing he could: held her close, knowing the tears she shed this time were his doing.

* * *

Iain awoke in drowsy arousal and reached beside him in the bed. His fingers closed around cool linen sheets. He came fully awake and turned to confirm that he was alone.

“No less than you deserve,” he muttered, but in the next instant was standing and wrapping his breacan around himself. Then he was out the door in search of his wife.

Iain paused in the great hall at sound of her voice among the other women in the kitchen and gave thanks she could partake in so mundane a daily exercise. The deadly quiet that ensued when he crossed the line between the province of men and that of women brought with it the inescapable feeling he was to suffer the rest of his life in celibate solitude.

“Good morning, love,” he smiled at Victoria, then made greeting all around. Cool civility. Iain sighed. “I will be in my study.”

No comment followed. He nodded and, with a final glance at his wife, made his way to the study.

* * *

Iain’s attention riveted onto the pounding of boots in the hallway headed toward his study that afternoon. He was on his feet even as the warrior appeared in the doorway.

“Thomas said I should tell you laird,” he panted, “you might want to come to the courtyard. ’Tis your mist—er, Madeline. Your wife and her are having—”

“Christ.”

Iain glanced at the clock as he rounded the desk. Two o’clock. Madeline should have been gone long ago. What sort of fool had he been to allow her the privilege of leaving Fauldun Castle as any free woman? He pushed past the warrior and raced down the hall to the steps, taking them two at a time. Across the great hall in an instant, he flung open the postern door and rushed out into sunlight. Madeline’s gaze tore through the crowd as Iain shoved through the throng.

“You would take her in as if she were kin?” She pointed at Victoria. “Traitors!” Her mouth contorted into a snarl. “She is Sassenach.”

Victoria’s calm voiced stopped him. “Sassenach, aye.” She looked around as more than a few people lowered their gazes and a brave soul or two nodded. “I know some feel I have no right to be here. But, remember, it is not a Sassenach who bears the guilt in this deception, but one of your own.” She turned and the crowd parted for her.

Madeline gave a scream of fury and leapt forward.

Iain lunged for her, but skidded to a halt when

Victoria whirled and swung her fist into Madeline’s jaw. Blood spurted from Madeline’s lip and she stumbled backward. The crowd backed up, allowing her to fall to the ground. Iain took two steps, seized her arm, and yanked her to her feet. Ignoring her surprised snarl, he held her as he marked Victoria’s steady stride toward the castle. Today, his wife had become the true mistress of Fauldun Castle.

* * *

Victoria ceased playing the harpsichord and glanced toward the window of the north tower. Waning rays of sunlight poured through the stained glass and cut in translucent color through the room. The evening meal would soon be served. She rose, knelt beside the music bench, and opened the top.

One by one, she lifted the thin books and sheets of music inside, examining each, then leaning them against her abdomen before going on to the next. Pausing to look closer at a piece of handwritten music, Victoria ran her fingers across the faded paper.

“Thirty years old, if a day,” she murmured.

She grasped the papers and leaned on the bench lid, shoving to her feet. The lid creaked and a loud crack followed as it broke free of the bench and crashed to the floor. She fell to her backside, sending papers sliding across the floor.

“Sweet Jesu.”

Victoria scrambled to her knees and began gathering the music. Once the sheets were piled beside her, she picked up the lid with the intention of fitting it back into place, but halted at sight of papers visible from inside the broken lid. She tugged the first sheet from between the crack and stared at the handwritten sheet of paper.

I believed I could keep the secret. I see now, Eric has always known. Fool that I am, I took his disdain of Iain as his way of punishing me.

Victoria stopped reading the journal page and tilted the subsequent pages toward the candle she had lit when the sunlight gave out an hour ago. She shuffled through the papers until finding the desired date, June 1482, and compared the page with the one she had been reading.

“Tell me why the boy’s eyes are brown,” was Eric’s demand. “My father has blue eyes, I have blue eyes. But the—” the text ended and Victoria turned to the original page she held in her hand “—boy’s eyes are brown.” Foolish as his reasoning was, I could not deny it. I have seen it myself. Perhaps it is just a mother’s fancy, wanting to see the father in the son. But I can see all of my beloved in Liam, and none of Eric. I wonder, does Liam know? He has never seen Iain. Yet, how can he not know?

A quick calculation told Victoria Iain would have been about four years old at the time of the entry in his mother’s diary. Tears rushed to the surface. Only a babe, yet his father didn’t want him. But Eric MacPherson wasn’t his father. What did that mean for Iain…for the clan? Victoria brushed tears from her cheeks and continued reading.

I grow more weary by the day. Eric returned today from a raid on a Fraser village. The death toll in his holy war increases with each ride he makes from Fauldun Castle. I was in the great hall when he entered. His look of triumph was undeniable. At first, I felt only relief that Iain was not present to witness the homecoming. But my prayer of thanks had but passed my lips when he appeared. I did not see him; it was Eric who gave away his presence behind me. Even as I watched Eric’s eyes darken, I knew why. I turned, saw Iain turn his back to him and leave.

The lad’s open rebuff enraged Eric, as it always does, so I sent Iain to Dawilneh. At first, he refused to go. He is already too wise. He understands why I wished him away from here. Thankfully, he is still too young to refuse his mother, and—the writing grew unsteady and Victoria was forced to slow her pace and read he went. A silly sense of relief rushed through her at the picture of the boy giving into his mother’s wishes, and she took a steadying breath before going on.

Iain no longer cries. The sentence, written in a flourish, startled Victoria, yet she recognized the need Lily must have had to compose her chaotic thoughts. How I wish he would, she went on. It is preferable to the resentment I know festers inside of him.

Victoria paused in reading, struck by the realization that she hadn’t seen any of the resentment in Iain that his mother spoke of. Had he come to terms with Eric’s actions? Did he know Liam was his father? Did the recent peace with the Frasers have anything to do with the possibility he might know? Another thought struck. Maude had said there was no likeness between Victoria’s situation with Iain and that between Eric and Lily. Yet Eric couldn’t forgive Lily for loving another man, and less than a day into their marriage, Iain believed she wanted another man. A chill swept through her. How alike were father and son? Victoria reread the last of line she had just read…the resentment I know festers inside of him. The resentment that had festered inside the child had transformed into a man’s suspicion. Her gaze caught on the next line. He is still a boy. He tells me he is a man, but what does the world hold for him as a man? Victoria traced a finger across the words what does the world hold for him as a man? Had the father poisoned the son?

The door to the north tower swung open.

With no time to hide the tears rolling down her cheeks, Victoria stared at Liam, whose dark expression was the Devil come to do battle with the angels of heaven. He scanned the room as if he expected to see some sort of specter. His eyes came back on her, and they stared at one another for a dozen heartbeats before she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“The music,” Liam whispered, again glancing around the room as if in anticipation of the imminent swoop of a ghost. “It was so much like—who was playing?” he demanded, his eyes back on her. “I heard it earlier. Started to come up when—” He stopped, the already familiar frown creasing his brow. “What is amiss? Has the scoundrel hurt you that badly, lass? What a shame the son so easily follows in the father’s footsteps.”

Victoria couldn’t halt a gasp at how closely the old chief had hit the mark.

His expression further darkened. “Tell me what he did and I swear it will be set right. Even if it means beating it into his stubborn hide.”

Liam took a step inside the room, hesitated, then strode toward her. The papers lying beside Victoria rustled when he dropped to one knee in front of her. His fingers closed on a single sheet, then froze, his gaze fixed on the feminine script.

“Where—” his voice cracked and he tore his gaze from the papers to look at Victoria. “Where did you find this?”

“Mixed with the music.” She pointed to the broken hinge of the bench.

Liam ran a hand across the page. “It never occurred to me Lily might keep a journal. She was a sentimental woman.” The soft look turned grim. “’Tis like seeing a ghost.”

Victoria watched with mixed emotions as he gathered each page, then took those she still held and began to read.

With each passing moment, Victoria grew tenser. She knew Liam must be left to read in silence, but the quiet bore down on her.

At last, he spoke without looking up from the paper. “You cannot imagine what it is like for a man to love a woman, knowing she loves another.” Liam ran fingers across the sheet he’d been reading. “Even after all these years, I can still remember the feel of her hand in mine, the taste of her sweet—” His head snapped, his bearded cheeks red. “Well, the memories lasted a lifetime. Do not misunderstand, I have a fine wife.” He smiled again, a fond expression in his eyes.

“I suppose it is my own fault as well.”

Victoria frowned. “I do not understand.”

A smile twitched his mouth. “Iain and I are more alike than you know.”

She stared, unable to say a word.

“You do not understand,” he said. “I stole Lily from the people who trusted me.” Victoria blinked, and he laughed. “Course, there was a bit of difference.” He winked. “She knew I would come for her, and I believed her father would understand.”

Victoria visualized him as a young man, the same determination she had seen in his son when he had taken the woman he wanted. Her heart pounded. Why had Iain wanted her? Liam knew Lily. She had been a complete stranger to Iain.

“He did understand,” Liam went on. “But Eric threatened war. I went to him, but he refused to release her from the promise of marriage. In the end, it was Lily who stopped us from killing one other. I see now why she chose him.”

“I do not see,” Victoria said with a surge of passion. She would have chosen the man she loved.

Liam shook his head. “If Eric had been the victor, Lily would have been forced to wed the man who killed the father of her child. If I had won, it would have meant war. The tender heart of a woman.” He sighed. “Her efforts were for naught. Eric’s anger festered into a thirst for revenge that reached even beyond the grave. In a way, I cannot blame him.”

Victoria gave him an incredulous look. “How can you say that?”

Liam shrugged. “A man cannot live with a woman if she loves another. I was half out of my mind when I found out Lily had wed, but it was done and there was nothing going to change it.” His hands bunched at his sides. “Had I known about the lad…” He closed his eyes, whether to gather his emotions or caress an old memory, Victoria couldn’t be sure, but when he opened them again, he smiled wistfully.

“Poor Iain, the man he called father treated him with less respect than a common guard. It was well known the lad wanted nothing to do with the feud.

After Lily died, he openly refused to be part of it.” Liam gave a harsh laugh. “Eric called him a coward. When Eric died, Iain had to fight. There was too much bad blood between us and,” Liam paused, “I didna’ give him a choice.”

“A terrible reason to spill so much blood,” Victoria said.

“Aye,” he answered. “Eric ought to have let Lily go. Instead, he was willing to sacrifice her on the altar of his pride and keep a son he was not willing to claim.” Liam’s fist came down hard on the harpsichord. “If I could raise the bastard, I would run my sword clear through his hellish soul.”

And what would she do now that she had glimpsed inside Iain MacPherson?

* * *

Iain’s hand stilled on the goblet of ale he reached for at sight of Victoria, followed by Liam, emerging from the stairs into the great hall. Liam took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. His fingers covered hers and he murmured something to her as they approached. Iain’s heart leapt at the soft smile she bestowed upon him. Liam nodded to him as she seated herself, then he took his seat next to Thomas.

Iain looked at Victoria, whose somber expression sent a rush of fresh alarm through him. “All is well, lass?”

“Aye,” she murmured into her dinner plate.

Iain reluctantly shifted his attention to Liam. “I expected you would have returned home by now.”

“You tire of my company already, lad?”

“Nay.” Iain gripped his mug. “I find your company most stimulating.”

A short while later, Victoria said, “If you do not mind, my lord, I will retire for the evening?”

Iain nodded. She rose and bid good night to Liam and Thomas, then started toward the stairs. Iain watched until she disappeared up the narrow staircase.

Some time and a fair amount of ale later, Iain made his way to his chambers. He arrived to find the bath that had been prepared for Victoria cold and the bed empty. His quick return to the great hall clearly surprised Thomas and Liam.

“My wife is not in our bedchambers.” Iain looked at Liam and caught the startled flicker in the old chief’s eyes.

“Mayhap she is in the north tower.” Liam gestured in the direction of the staircase. “She was there earlier. The room seems to hold some comfort for her.”

Something in the Liam’s voice, coupled with the suspicion that this man, a veritable stranger to his wife, knew more about her than he did, haunted Iain as he made his way through the labyrinth of hallways and stairs to stand before the telling quiet of the north tower.